A Model

Chapter 9

I Would Prefer Not

The empty corridors that lead to the modeling room were thick with dust again. Since he'd only been absent for a few days, Remus had to assume that some student of centuries past had once thrown a dust spell around. It would explain why the place was abandoned. The Pulvis curse is nearly impossible to remove.

He stifled a sneeze as a cobweb caught him in the face and glanced worriedly around. A countess who had been famous for her wild youth snorted in her sleep but the other portraits remained silent. He shrugged off his nervousness. Most of them would be unable to break the sleeping spells that had been laid on their frames so long ago anyway.

Remus paused to glance down two side passages and tried to get his bearings. On more than one trip to the modeling room he'd ended up in another part of the castle entirely. He didn't want to be late because he had to spend twenty minutes trekking back from the North Tower.

The sound of hurrying feet made him whip around. Though he knew the area was nominally safe, he wasn't about to trust a part of the castle that contained, among other things, the only surviving portrait of Grindelwald, safely covered with a imprisoning curtain and saved for the sake of later historians or perhaps out of regard to Dumbledore.

A familiar figure in blue robes rushed towards him. Remus had to cover a pleased smile. It had made him happier than he cared to admit to see Atropos back on her feet.

He'd woken that morning with a pile of papers stacked next to his breakfast tray - the house elves had apparently forgiven her for the Bunkly incident.

Remus had quickly flipped through them and tried not dwell too much on the relieved feeling the familiarly annoying questions gave him. Even, "Which sock did the subject put on first every morning - left, right, or had no routine?" only made him snort into his teacup. Sirius, who'd been stuffing himself with rolls and complaining about the shortness of Remus's couch, had demanded to know what was so amusing...

Now he kept his expression neutral as she trotted forward. When she got closer, he raised his eyebrows. Atropos was clutching two bulky paper bags. He frowned. Her normally pale face was completely colorless except for dark circles under her eyes and she was gasping slightly. Remus quickly closed the distance between them opening his mouth to offer to take the bags from her. Before he could say anything though, she'd dumped them both into his arms.

While he juggled the packages, she smiled vaguely, saying over her shoulder as she continued down the corridor, "Thank goodness you're here Remus! I thought I was going to have to carry them the whole way." Her voice was light. It did not reflect her weary expression. He stared at her back and bent to pick up what looked like a rubber glove off the ground where it had fallen from the bags.

By the time he was certain he wasn't going to drop everything on the floor, she'd already reached the end of the corridor. She turned about. "Come along! I need to get started soon so the paint will have time to dry!" She sounded intensely annoyed.

Paint? He frowned into one of the bags, but decided he wasn't going to reach any conclusions on his own when he saw that they were filled with a mind-boggling collection of Muggle odds and ends. When he looked up he could see Atropos still waiting, practically tapping her foot.

He could feel his lips thinning. And now I am the footman? But he couldn't quell a somewhat contradictory rush of fond amusement. There was something remarkable about a person who could manage to be completely unaltered by a knife to the gut.

Hefting the bags, and resigning himself to not receiving anything in the way of a thank you, he rushed past a particularly unpleasant portrait of Yetac the Torturer and tried to avoid another thick cobweb.

When they reached the room, he carefully set the bags on the desk as Atropos inspected the model. She crouched down at one corner and absently tapped her wand on the floor. "It seems the same." She pointed towards the mirror. "And the Reading glass is still showing the same information so it looks like you didn't tamper with anything."

Remus stared at her. Sometimes he almost managed to forget Atropos's thoughtlessness and then she loaded him down with bags and implied that he would ruin something vital to the battle against Voldemort.

"Well I didn't exactly play with it while you were hurt, Academic Merriman," he said sardonically. "Though I admit that the horde of students I allowed in here might have scuffed a few of the chalk marks."

Her head snapped up and she scowled at him. Refusing to look away, Remus arched an eyebrow, which seemed to embarrass her because she immediately turned back to the reading glass. When the silence began to stretch out for an uncomfortable amount of time, he shrugged and began unpacking the bag. She might be within her rights to treat him like an idiot, but he was still allowed to avoid acting like one.

Atropos finally broke the silence. "I am sorry I ... suggested that you would harm the model." She sounded as if the words were being dragged out by wild horses. Remus carefully smoothed from his face the amused smile that was beginning to form. When he looked up again, he saw that he needn't have bothered because Atropos seemed to be directing her abject apology to a small pile of matchsticks. While he was watching, she knocked over the little tent of them, which she'd built so painstakingly before.

After carefully swallowing the laugh that was forming deep in his chest, Remus turned back to the bags and set himself to enjoying the contrite Atropos.

"I mean I know that you wouldn't harm it. I was just talking." Her voice rose slightly. "You should know by now not to pay attention to what I say!" The last made her blink and stop to restate her point which brought to her notice that Remus wasn't listening to her, but was frowning at a slip of paper he'd found in one of the bags.

"Remus!" She sounded intensely aggrieved.

Remus was looking at what he realized must be a Muggle receipt. It was dated. He'd assumed that the items in the bag had been purchased at some earlier time. Now he looked up and spoke softly, trying to keep his voice calm. "How did you get all of these things, Atropos?"

Atropos seemed confused by both the question and his demeanor and stuttered over the answer. "I ... I went to a shop." Remus could feel his eyes widening and wondered if he had understood correctly.

"You went to a Muggle shop?" he waved the receipt at her, "Today?"

When she nodded back, her expression completely mystified, Remus's anger was replaced by amazed frustration. He rubbed a hand over his eyes and prayed for patience.

Now he spoke slowly and carefully, measuring out each word. "Did you go alone?"

Atropos could now obviously tell he was angry about something and began to sound defensive. "Of course I went alone! I've been going to Muggle shops alone since I was twelve." She bent over the match-tent petulantly and began stacking again. "Why shouldn't I go alone?"

Remus had always cultivated self-control. But there were limits to the amount of obtuseness he could face with equanimity and poise. Did she somehow forget the multiple stab wounds?

He walked around the desk and stalked towards her. Atropos immediately jumped to her feet at his approach. Her mouth was set in a thin line and Remus assumed she was trying to come up with a suitably devastating response to his behavior.

He didn't allow her to speak. As close as he was standing, it was easy for him to use his height advantage to great effect. Remus knew that it was extremely difficult to harangue someone when you have to crane your neck to meet their eyes.

"Why shouldn't you go alone?" his voice was quietly angry. "Have you completely forgotten almost dying a few days ago?"

At this she backed up slightly and walked with great dignity over to the desk. "I was in a different part of England," she said stiffly and hurriedly began rooting around in the bags. "And I don't see what business it is of yours where I choose to go."

Remus gritted his teeth and tried to keep a hold on his temper. He followed her over to the desk. "It is all of our business, if there is a wizard out there trying to kill you."

Atropos's head swung up and she looked at him with wide eyes. A frown appeared between her brows. "You are worried about me!" It wasn't a question. She sounded amazed.

Remus's anger once more shifted to confusion. He ran a hand through his hair. "Of course I am worried! Some wizard disguised as a Muggle attacked you with a knife!" He stared at her helplessly. "Aren't you worried?"

Atropos was openly frowning at him. She didn't look interested in his question. She'd pulled out the rubber glove and a small sack. "Worried? I suppose so," she said dismissively. Her lips quirked up. "Right now, I am more interested that you believe me." All of her childish annoyance seemed to have evaporated. Pale eyes were fixed on his. "You do know that most people didn't believe me that the man was a wizard?" She waved a hand. "Well, Dumbledore believed me, but that hardly counts." Her eyes began to twinkle. "Dumbledore will believe the most outlandish things."

Remus stared at her and wondered helplessly how she had managed to completely rob of him of any desire to lecture her. When she shoved the glove at him he took it mechanically.

Atropos looked up at him and smiled approvingly, evidently unaware of his muddled feeling of having been tricked. "Hold the glove open so I can get the sand in," she instructed. The sack was shown to hold white sand, which she carefully poured into the glove.

As he stared down at her dark head, Remus finally allowed the situation to make him smile. He began to think of Atropos as a force of nature. Often annoying, but not worth railing against. Besides, she seemed to have gotten his point.

With her head still bent she spoke up and broke through these thoughts. "Tomorrow I will apologize for being foolish and rude."

Remus felt the last of his ill-temper melt away. His lips tilted up in a half smile. "Tomorrow?"

The glove was now filled with sand. Atropos stepped away from him. "Well I already apologized to you once today and I am not certain that my constitution would be able to stand another one," she said with a perfectly straight face.

Remus couldn't help himself. He let out a good and honest bark of laughter. Atropos's expression took on a pleased self-mocking cast. She took the glove away and tied it closed. She pulled out an aerosol can from the pile of Muggle purchases on the desk.

"Take this and cover the glove with the paint." After handing him the can of spray paint, she turned back to the desk and gathered up several of the items.

Reading the label on the paint can, Remus's eyebrows lifted and some of his good humor faded. "Silver?" he said expressionlessly.

Atropos sighed. "It was the most obvious symbol for the subject's Wormtail ... incarnation." She spread out what looked like several hand mirrors. "Can you think of anything else that would define him better?" Atropos asked dryly.

Remus snorted in agreement and, frowning at the instructions, vigorously shook the can. "Not anything that would be fit to say in polite company, certainly."

Atropos giggled and pulled out a tube of glue. Remus noticed that she seemed comfortable with the Muggle product. She didn't even bother reading the instructions. And she'd recognized that the wizard assassin was disguised as a Muggle. I would never have thought that Academic Merriman would be so familiar with Muggles. He's rather imagined that she came from a long line of snotty wizards and witches.

He voiced the more polite thought aloud and she shrugged slightly. He looked up from spreading out old Daily Prophets to see her smirking at him. "Actually I am half-Muggle. My father works for the Muggle government and my brother is about as unmagical as you can get." It was his turn to look uncomfortable because he sensed that she knew what he had been thinking. "I had wizard tutors, but my family lived ... Muggle fashion." She returned to making a cube out of the mirrors. "It was a good time for it," she said obscurely.

Remus sat back, understanding instantly. When Voldemort seemed to be taking over everywhere, it had often been considered good practice for mixed-Muggle families to vanish into the anonymous mass of the non-magical. The people who had done so had bowed out of the fight but had also been spared the constant fear of attack. Voldemort may have been attacking Muggles, but there were lots of them and far fewer of the mixed families. Those that had remained had been easy targets for his hatred.

As he flipped the glove over, Remus could feel Atropos staring at him. He looked up to meet her measuring gaze. She wants to know what I think about her parents' decision.

Atropos's eyes seemed slightly nervous. Though she may have had good reason. There had been some resentment of the people who had chosen to hide instead of fight back. But Remus, who had lost more than he cared to dwell upon in the war, also knew that a witch with a husband and children to protect from the most evil wizard of all time had valid cause to choose to take cover instead of fight. Small strikes against evil were bitter consolation for a dead family.

He shook off his thoughts when he saw that Atropos was still waiting for him to say something. Remus gave her a small smile. "That does explain why you don't know your way around Hogwarts doesn't it?" he said neutrally.

Atropos looked intensely relieved. "Yes. And why I know to wear a mask when using spray paint." She pointed at a white paper bowl with strings on either side that he had ignored. "It keeps the paint out of your mouth and nose."

Remus's lips twitched. She couldn't have set herself up better. "So does the spell I cast on my face."

Her face contorted into a picture of chagrin and delighted amusement. He decided to take pity on her for a moment. "Your brother's a Muggle?"

Her voice was choked with smothered laughter, "Yes. David became a doctor. My father was very proud and my mother ... vaguely confused."

David? Is Atropos some sort of family name?

She clearly understood the expression on his face because she answered sourly, "I know. Atropos is a nasty sort if name. My mother got to give us our first names and Dad got the middles. But I think David would have his tongue torn out before he would introduce himself as `Gyrus David Merriman'."

Remus was rather alarmed to discover that his mercy had limits. "And Atropos ...?" he pressed.

"My middle name is worse."

* * *

While she wryly answered Remus's amused questions, Atropos was shocked to discover that one could actually enjoy being laughed at. Though she didn't see what right he had to be so entertained. Remus Lupin isn't exactly John Smith.

But when she felt an answering laugh bubbling up in her throat she carefully smothered it and hid the smile by scowling at her mirror cube. She was willing to stand only so many blows to her dignity after all. Though her composure was threatened again when she realized that she'd dripped glue in her sleeve. She grimaced in distaste at the glob on the blue cloth. The mess could have been avoided if she'd cast a similar spell to Remus's.

She glanced at Lupin again. Remus was waving his wand over the newspapers to clean them up. He already knew not to cast any spells on items to be used in the model so he was allowing the glove to dry naturally. Dripping glue all over herself was the sort of mistake that Atropos usually avoided. Well the whole being assaulted in a shop probably unsettled me, she thought firmly. Banishing a niggling feeling of foolishness from her mind she carried the cube over to the model.

She'd calculated the angle of placement the night before. It had to be able to connect to about a third of the model because the mirror-cube was to be the Scabbers part of the Pettigrew model. When the silver hand was placed at Wormtail's portion and with Remus's ... doppelganger at the third Peter-prong, she hoped to solve both the problem of the slippery Foundation and Pettigrew's many names.

Atropos nodded her head in intense satisfaction as the Foundational lines appeared around the cube and connected to Lupin's chalk footprints. Unless she was hugely mistaken, and she rarely was, the silver-rubber-hand should finish the Foundation perfectly. And Remus didn't have to find out that the first Foundation wasn't complete.

The end result was almost worth being stabbed.

Remus's voice came from across the room. "I suppose that is a good sign?" She looked up, thinking he was referring to the glowing lines on the model, but realized he was pointing to the reading glass. She followed his finger and positively grinned with delight. Now that the model was being fed more than a few drips and drabs of information the glass was running with words. They were rippling by too quickly to be read. I'll need to start thinking about the biograph cover. Maybe moleskin? Silver plate?

Remus's face was curious so she waved her wand, whispering the word that would stop the glass at one point for a few moments. The resulting words made them both blink and then snicker:

Percy Weasley, after reading a book about rat nutrition, fed the subject on nothing but barley water and cabbage for two months.

Lupin pulled out a questionnaire that he hadn't finished and began idling flipping through the pages. "I am afraid you'll have to ask Ron about that. I didn't get a chance to discuss his diet with Peter when we met in the Shack."

Oh no doubt! Atropos hadn't had a chance to read over his description of that meeting, but she was wildly curious to see how the events had played out. Coming up with a sub-model for that is going to be very interesting.

She frowned at the model. With the Foundation set, she needed to start planning out the design in earnest. Atropos had originally intended to follow the basic idea of her Black model with alterations being allowed for the differing subjects, but the more she learned about Pettigrew the more she decided that such a design would be unworkable. Black, even a falsely evil one, had been boldly obvious. Even when she thought he was a spy, he was one who was begging to be revealed. His model had been convex. Pettigrew flitted from master to master, never wanting to be noticed.

I wonder if I could use a shadow and light basis? Pettigrew is constantly hiding behind someone or another's shadow. She grimaced. Since Remus had effectively forbidden her from leaving the castle alone, she would need to send him out to get the necessary items.

Or maybe David would send me some cardboard boxes and I could get paints from a Muggle-born student.

She said this to Remus who frowned slightly. "I would prefer that anything you get for this model be kept from the students." He paused. "Someone told this assassin that you would be in London and it certainly wasn't me."

Atropos stared at him and suddenly felt terribly out of her depth. It had never really occurred to her that her being attacked had implications for the security of Hogwarts. Frankly, she'd never had to think in terms of her own security before. The Academy was responsible for the safety of its people and had an entire department whose task it was to guarantee it. Now, as she went over his words again, she felt a coldness settle in her stomach. Remus suspected a student - it was the only option that made sense. But it somehow seemed far more upsetting that one of the immaculately uniformed children had coolly told a Dark wizard that she was vulnerable, than the fact that a Dark wizard had tried to kill her.

A horrifying thought struck her. "Are you saying that one of my students ...?"

Remus lifted a hand to silence her and spoke soothingly. "One of them almost certainly mentioned that they weren't meeting with you because you were going to be in London. All that means is that whoever told is living in Hogwarts." His mouth twisted. "But we knew that already."

Atropos allowed the words to calm her. This isn't my job anyway. I need to build the model and live long enough to interpret it. Shifting her shoulders she pulled out several old Daily Prophets and began making Jack o' Lantern cutouts. They would be the same as in the Black model but be placed in a double betrayal angle instead of a single one. Build the model and beat the bastard. And do it quickly.

* * *

"The Dark Lord, he is out, Mr. Macnair."

If the situation hadn't been so dire, Walden would have been amused. The soft-voiced house elf managed to give the impression that Lord Voldemort was off running errands. Unfortunately his fear was stifling his sense of humor.

He'd abandoned the harpy he was supposed to be decapitating to one of his subordinates as soon as he'd received word from the Malfoy's assassin. Merriman was safely in the hands of the Academy and, if Voldemort discovered that they had disobeyed him to so little effect, Macnair knew he would find himself dealing with Nagini even more intimately than usual. With an excuse for his visit safely in mind for the possibility that the Dark Lord was ignorant of his involvement, Walden had hurried to Voldemort's headquarters. There was no point in flight and the chance to completely reveal Malfoy's part in the debacle might offer some hope of revenge at the very least.

The house elf seemed to be waiting for something. "Out?" he asked. He winced at the unsteady tone his voice. It was humiliating to think that he'd sunk far enough to lose his composure in front of the creature.

The elf nodded vigorously, ears aflop. "Yes sir. Out sir. But sir is still expected." The elf's voice grew hushed. "Expected by Mrs. Lestrange." The name was said with deep reverence.

The executioner swallowed around a suddenly dry throat. The Lestranges had been welcomed with as much fanfare as could be allowed in a secret headquarters. Fresh from Azkaban, with their loyalty set in stone, they were as close to Voldemort as his cringing rat and his hungry snake.

Walden had avoided the frighteningly devoted Lestranges when they didn't have fourteen years in Azkaban to erode their sanity and he wanted a private talk with Locusta Lestrange the same way he had wanted to help Lucius Malfoy deliberately disobey the Dark Lord.

When was the last time I did what I wanted?

Barely in control of his facial expressions, Macnair didn't try to further embarrass himself by speaking and merely gestured for the elf to lead the way. As he walked through the halls, he tried to figure out how he'd gotten himself into such an unsalvageable situation.

When he reached his destination, the elf disappeared with a faint pop - probably wanting to avoid being questioned.

It was another grim commentary on his state of mind that it took all the courage he had to pull open the heavy oak door.

When the door swung open he squinted his eyes. After the dark corridor the brilliant light of the room was almost blinding. There were windows from floor to ceiling on three of the walls, the view one of an improbably sunny day even though it had been raining when he arrived. Bright carpets were scattered about the floor. A small end table held brandy in a crystal bottle. The fireplace had been enchanted to put out an oppressive amount of heat.

Macnair understood why when he saw Lucretius Lestrange draped in blankets and facing a window. Walden had been seated near enough to Locusta at their welcoming ceremony to be frightened by the fact that the woman was utterly unchanged by Azkaban. The cold beauty, cool voice, and fanatical devotion was unmarked by her time on the frozen rock surrounded by dementors. Even her skeletal thinness had seemed like a mere choice of fashion.

But if Mrs. Lestrange was frightening in her resilience, Mr. Lestrange was terrifying in his alteration. Once a man with a glittering and often employed smile, now his lips were pulled tightly shut as if to hold back a wail. His thick curly hair was completely white. The man's eyes, which used to reflect his genius, now showed a lost confusion. It was as if Azkaban had sucked out whatever it was that made Lucretius Lestrange human and left a jittery and nervous husk in its place.

Tearing his eyes from the silent Lucretius, Macnair took in the rest of the room. Mrs. Lestrange was bent over a table with her back to him. He could see a complex collection of beakers and tubes and assumed she was preparing some sort of potion. The final two occupants made him stop and stare. Lucius Malfoy, his face so expressionless that he was either furious or terrified, was seated across from a tiny old woman who was dressed in the robes of an Unspeakable.

Macnair knew Keziah Mason by sight. With her gray hair in a bun and her venerable wrinkles, she looked like someone's kindly grandmother. That she wasn't any such thing became clear from short acquaintance. Macnair knew it and he had never even been required to speak to her.

All told, there was a collection of people in the room who Macnair had a policy of avoiding.

Locusta slowly turned her head about. She blinked slowly and then waved a hand to a chair near Lucius. "I thought you'd come, Walden. It is why Keziah had Lucius send the ... killer to report to you."

The implication that he was an errand boy obviously upset Malfoy, whose lips thinned angrily. But he offered no disagreement.

Mason laughed as he sat down, the sound surprisingly girlish. "Don't look so worried, Macnair! The Dark Lord doesn't know about the assassin." She rested her chin on her hand and fixed him with a bright birdlike look. Rather as if he was a particularly succulent looking worm. "And he won't need to. From what I understand no harm was done on either side."

Malfoy let out a wordless noise but was silenced by a sweet smile from Locusta. She had lovely, white, even teeth. It was once said of Mrs. Lestrange that she was the most unattractive beautiful woman alive. And Macnair had never felt this so keenly.

Seeing an answering smirk on Keziah's face, Walden knew that he was about to be blackmailed. All that remained was to find out how much trouble - no how much more trouble he would find himself in as a result of it.

After the two women outlined what they wished Malfoy and himself to do, Walden was only able to weakly hope that his death would be a clean one. At the rate he was going, there would be a line of horrible people waiting to imaginatively murder him.

* * *

When Macnair and Malfoy had left, practically dragging their feet like reluctant schoolboys, Locusta finally allowed some of the strain to show on her face. From the wonderful smell coming from the beaker she could tell that her potion was finished. She poured off most of it bringing a steaming mug to Lucretius. The warmth and sun had brought some color to his face; she hoped the ultra-purified chocolate might help maintain his progress.

She turned to Mason, carefully framing her next words. Locusta bore no ill will to Keziah for escaping the prison. An old woman like her would have died there and the Dark Lord needed Mason to be alive for his return. But she still was uncertain of the course they had taken. "Do you truly believe this is necessary? If the Great Lord finds out, he will be ... unhappy with us." She firmly placed the mug in Lucretius's hands and was happy to see that he drank it on his own without encouragement. "If Crowlet succeeds, this will have been rather a dangerous waste of time."

Keziah walked over and poured out a glass of brandy for herself. Like her laugh, her voice was younger than the rest of her, tender and sweet. "Crowlet won't succeed. He was born a failure." She sipped from her glass. "A bit unfortunate for so brilliant a man, but there it is."

Locusta had to agree. Even Lord Voldemort seemed to be viewing Selim Crowlet's attempt jadedly, choosing to rely on alternative plans if his renegade oneiromancer failed.

"And the Dark Lord will never be able to kill Harry Potter. But he will keep trying until he destroys himself," Keziah continued, the gentle voice lending strength to her statements. "Which is why we make our alterations to his original plan." She gazed into the false sun that hung unchanging outside. "Or why I make my alterations." She finished the brandy with a gulp. "If I fail, it will be your task. Lord Voldemort must not be allowed to face Potter again."

Locusta nodded and carefully adjusted her husband's blanket. When Keziah had first approached her, she'd been hesitant to challenge what she considered the Dark Lord's prerogative. But, upon examining the history of his dealings with the Potter boy, she found she had to agree. Potter needed to be removed for Lord Voldemort's sake. It was the only way that he could move forward with his great purpose. And if that requires certain sacrifices on our part. Then so be it.

Lucretius had finished his chocolate. The mug hung limply in his hand. She felt a great stirring of rage when she looked at him. In her chambers she had several potions brewing, potions to be used by the Dark Lord. Lucretius should have been by her side, making suggestions and changes. Instead he was barely aware of the room around him. He could not stand the slightest chill and became agitated in dark places.

They had ruined her husband, those Ministry fools.

Keziah's voice sounded across the room. "He may recover, you know. He has only been returned for a few days."

"What if he does not?" Locusta was shocked by her hoarse voice. She'd wept when the Dark Lord had been reported dead. Now the thought of Lucretius being taken from her like this brought tears to her eyes as well.

It seemed like a long time before Keziah answered her. "If he does not, it will not be so difficult to keep him comfortable." Locusta turned to look at the older woman. Mason had another glass of brandy in her hand and was swirling the glass. "And the Dark Lord will avenge him."

Locusta stiffened her back and moved to refill his mug. Mason was right. The Dark Lord would see him avenged many times over. It was her task to make certain he lived long enough to do so.