Broken

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing you recognize.

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VI. Riddles

Harry painfully clutched Ginny's shoulder and whispered urgently, "Wait! Don't go on. Something's moving inside."

Ginny took a hasty step back to take cover behind a wide maple tree. Warily she stole a look around the tree trunk and, in fact, there lurked a shadow behind one of the windows. She shivered involuntary. Ice crystals seemed to spike the air all of a sudden, needling her lungs with every breath she took. Something about the dark hulking silhouette, highlighted by a flickering greenish glimmer, was very... wrong. It looked as if it was twisted and somehow... misshapen. What was this thing?

Harry had crouched down to take cover himself, his wand held firm in his right hand. It was the third crime scene they had visited today; and with dusk approaching irresistibly, it was almost dark now. The first murder scene had been around Glasgow, the second near Edinburgh, and the third was right here, in the middle of nowhere. It was an old cottage surrounded by a primeval looking hawthorn hedge. For hundreds of years lords and peasants alike planted hawthorn around their dwellings to keep out evil spirits. This one had obviously not done its duty.

Not visible from the rutted track that led off the country road, the ancient building seemed almost to cower beneath heavy, low-sailing clouds. Overhead, a seabird cried out its loneliness in the empty vastness of the imminent night. Loch Voil was near.

Harry shuddered. He felt slightly nauseated. The moment they had checked on the first crime scene, a dull headache had slowly crept up behind his eyes. Now it had reached a level of intensity that nearly blinded him.

Meanwhile night had silently descended like a shroud. Only the razor-sharp crescent of the moon shed some bluish, cold light.

All of a sudden, the faint shimmer inside the cottage vanished. The two observers beneath the maple tree froze in fearful anticipation. Utter darkness and total silence now enveloped the inside of the small building. Some seconds, which felt like ages, elapsed. Nothing happened.

Ginny shifted nervously, rubbing her sweaty hands down her jeans-clad thighs. At that moment, the door swung open with a faint slurring sound.

"Harry, Harry!" Ginny exhaled in a whisper, "What's happening? Whatever it is, I hope it doesn't come our way."

And if it does, we'll surely mange. Not the first difficult situation we're in. But it's creepy... Feels somehow very wrong and profoundly... evil.

Ginny could not suppress another shudder that had nothing to do with the nightly temperatures.

A black shape, shadowy robes billowing around it, seemed to glide over the threshold, as if not touching the ground at all. Turning around, it closed the wooden door with a soft thud. Beneath the pulled-up cowl of the cloak, its face remained hidden in darkness. Was the mysterious figure malformed or was it carrying something or ... someone over its left shoulder? It was impossible to make out in the faint light of the moon. Nevertheless, the shadow's outline appeared to be human. Still staring at the closed door that was doused in frosty moonlight, the strange figure shifted the weight upon its shoulder. A faint sound came from the door, like a soft sigh. It felt as if the temperature suddenly dropped far below freezing.

O, Great Mother, both Dark and Fair, Divine Lady, be in all hearts and on the tip of every tongue. For your time has come again - as it does with the beginning of each moment.

The deep voice was booming inside Harry's skull, speeding up his pulse in a red rage of blood and violence. He had to balance himself with his hands on the cold ground, his head lolling, his mouth gapping wide open. Desperately he tried to suck in the chilly night air. Ginny fell to her knees next to Harry, attempting to steady him.

"What is it? What is it? Harry?" she whispered, holding Harry, her eyes yet drawn to the dark form in front of the cottage. It touched something at the door.

What is done cannot be undone!

From Harry's throat came a low, menacing growl. He was suddenly tense like a lurking panther, Ginny completely forgotten. Jumping up, he forcefully wrenched away her hands that clutched his jacket, trying desperately to stop him, and sprinted towards the cottage. Alarmed by the sudden sound of Harry's quick strides, the dark figure swirled around and Ginny glimpsed a jutting nose. A loud crack ripped through profound silence and where there had been deep darkness a second before, only glittering frosty moonlight was left behind.

Harry crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

*************

'The idea of a 'wickerman' is significant in both Irish legend and the second branch of the Welsh Mabinogion* to men being enticed into a house, built only for this purpose, which is then set on fire, thus immolating them as a sacrifice to the Gods. There is also a reference by Lucan, to three Celtic deities: Taranis, the God of Thunder, is said to have been propitiated by burning; Toutatis, the tribal protector, by drowning and Esus, the God of War, by hanging. Esus is mythologically similar to the Germanic/Nordic deity Woden/Odin, also associated with hanging from a tree.'

Professor McGonagall sighed and turned to another page of the ancient volume, which recounted the Roman attack on the Druid stronghold of Anglesey, where they had found altars "soaked with human blood". Boudicca, she read on, obviously had liked to impale her victims during her rebellion in 60 A.D.

Lots of blood here, she thought, but no real evidence of a link between those ancient incidents and the recent murders throughout the land.

She yawned; for hours on end, she had struggled through piles of ancient tomes. The muscles of her back cramped and burned like fire. It was definitely time to go to bed. However, something in the next paragraph suddenly caught her undivided attention all over again.

'Celtic human sacrifice becomes evident in the body of the man placed in Lindow bog in the first or second century A.D. The Lindow man was almost certainly a ritual sacrifice; he was strangled, hit on the head, and had his throat cut, in quick order, then surrendered to the bog. This pattern fits the "three-fold" death referred to in medieval Irish and Scottish tales.'

Three-fold death? That stuck a chord. What was it that Bill had told them about the murders? Yes, he had described them as particularly cruel. Professor McGonagall remembered him saying something about 'a lot of blood, cut throat, wound to the head'. However, there was more to come.

'As for the evidence of Welsh and Irish tales about human sacrifice, the second part of the Welsh Mabinogion tells of Efnisien jumping into the cauldron, which restored the dead to life.'

Oh.

That was bad, very bad. The entire wizarding world had eventually heard about Voldemort's "resurrection" out of a cauldron. Did this connect the Death Eaters to the murders? Or was it an indication of a union between the new cult-what ever its purpose-and the erstwhile followers of Voldemort?

Deeply troubled, Professor McGonagall slowly closed the large, musty-smelling book. What did all that mean? She sighed again. As soon as possible, a meeting of the Order had to be summoned. Perhaps Bill and Arthur Weasley had already had the chance to talk to the Aurors and could therefore supply further news concerning the murder cases. She expected Harry and Ginny to be back tomorrow evening too.

She stood up, stretched and doused the lamp at her desk. Better to go to bed now. Moreover, there was nothing useful she could do in the middle of the night. Most likely, this would be her last chance to get some sleep for a long time to come. Fleetingly she wondered where Hermione was. She should have been back hours ago.

As Professor McGonagall tiredly walked towards her bedroom, a sharp knock at the office door stopped her short.

Goodness gracious, who could that be? In the middle of the night?

With a distinct feeling of foreboding, she went to open the door.

*************

The map would not reveal its secrets. Ron grunted and turned the map for what felt as if the hundreds time. Neville had entirely given up on solving the riddles of the map long ago and had fallen asleep on the couch in the common room. Ron scratched his head, then his goatee, but still could not make heads or tails of the thing.

Bugger! Give in, you little shit!

He glared nastily at the map, but it was notably undaunted by his outburst. With a last contemptuous look at it, he leaned back and let his thoughts wander back to his conversation with Harry, after he, Ron, had, admittedly, very dramatically left Professor McGonagall's office. He had stormed off to the rooms he shared with Harry and Neville, slamming the door of their quarters shut behind him. Sometime later Harry had found him there still fuming, walking up and down the length of the room and kicking at various things that were scattered around the room. Harry had nonchalantly strolled in and walked over to the couch. He had sat down and begun to read a Daily Prophet he had picked up from the end table. Ron had continued to storm through the room, but almost imperceptibly had slowed down with every turn, throwing furtive glances at his friend all the while. Finally, he had stopped in the middle of the room, spreading his hands.

"OK, say it. I'm a complete arse, and I managed to make a giant fool of myself!"

"OK. If that's what you want: You're a complete arse and you managed to make a giant fool of yourself," Harry had replied without looking up from his paper. Ron's arms had dropped to his sides.

"But-who knows why?-even if you mess up like you did back at McGonagall's, you're still my friend," Harry had continued, still hidden behind the paper. "Is there a chance"-he had lowered the paper then and eyed Ron appraisingly-"you might tell me what's bothering you so much that you managed to make a giant fool of yourself?"

Ron's shoulders had sagged and he had grinned sheepishly. He had flopped next to Harry on the couch, and stretched out his long legs.

"Uh, dunno what's up with me. Just ... could strangle someone. See, Mum's crying all the time when she thinks nobody's watching. Fred's dead and all the others, Lupin and all ... and nothing's like before and then I hear Snape's alive, I mean, Snape of all people, and ... and then there's the thing with 'Mione ... we didn't even ... y' know ..." Ron blushed furiously and strangled a cushion for want of a real neck. "I just ... everything's a bloody mess ... it's ... I ... it's gotta be someone's fault ... and then ... this ... about Snape ... Ah, I really dunno ... just, just ... y' know," he had ended miserably.

Harry had nodded sagely. "Yeah. What a mess."

They had sat in companionable silence for a while, and then Harry had clapped his hand on Ron's back saying, "How about a pint or two in Hogsmead, giant fool?"

Yep, we really tied one on, Ron thought fondly.

His gaze returned to the map.

Wait. What's that? He sat up straight, all attention now. Looks almost like a circle... Just have to connect those places with a line... yes, definitely a circle. Glasgow ... Lammington ... Edinburgh ... Perth ... Inverlochlarig ... and back to Glasgow. Hmm. And if I connect the villages and towns ... no. But ... if I do it like this, then I get a five-pointed star inside the circle. I think, I've seen this symbol somewhere before, but can't remember... Better go to bed now. Could ask Harry tomorrow. He'll be back then.

************

A dark figure stood in the doorway.

"Minerva," said a once-familiar voice, now no longer smooth but ragged like broken glass.

"Severus."

McGonagall's inner conflict about how to face Snape pervaded even this one word. She supposed his eyebrows twitched and his lip curled. It was too dark in the hallway to be sure. However, that would be his most probable reaction to her curt greeting. Oh yes, she knew him well. She suppressed a sigh.

"What brings you to my office at this ungodly hour?"

"Won't you ask me in? That would be the polite thing to do. Or have manners at Hogwarts been lowered to such a ... regrettable standard since I ... left? What I have to tell you is nothing I care to discuss in the corridor. Furthermore, it is cold."

Stepping back, she opened the door wide.

"Severus, the polite thing to do would have been to wait till morning before you inflict yourself on an old woman." This time it was Professor McGonagall, who curled her lip.

Undaunted, he took three long strides into the room, and then turned, robes billowing, to face her again. Before he could utter another word, he heard her say, "I'm glad, you're alive."

Snape swallowed what he had been about to say, averted his face and closed his eyes. His shoulders sagged for a fraction of a second as he released a pent-up breath. Raising his gaze to hers again, he quietly said,

"I'm sorry, Minerva - and not only for disturbing you tonight."

Minerva McGonagall had known this secretive man for more than twenty-five years, and it had never happed before that he had lowered his defences far enough for her to get through to him. She caught her breath at what he let her see now if only for a fleeting second: a tortured man crucified inside his body. The moment flashed by so quickly that, afterwards, she was no longer sure it had truly happened. Snape had already drawn himself up again; the walls shielding his soul were as impenetrable as ever.

"However, there's no time for this now. Minerva, Hermione Granger has been abducted ... I fear the worst."

"What? No!" McGonagall interjected, lifting her hands to cover her mouth.

"We must act at once," he urged, clenching his fists. "I came only seconds too late. I could not prevent it."

Snape started pacing up and down McGonagall's office, tension radiating almost visibly from his body.

"I tried to follow them, but there was no trace left behind. They shielded their wand signatures."

"But what can we do then?" McGonagall asked, distraught.

"I fear that it already took me too long to act," he rushed on as if she had not said anything, "because first I had no idea what to do. But then ... You see, Miss Granger told me about the murders. So I finally Apparated to the murder sites she had talked about. I ... I guessed, no, hoped, one of these spots would be ... so remote as to provide a perfect hiding place... Minerva, I have the nastiest feeling the new cult is behind Miss Granger's abduction ... I'm just back from the most isolated spot in Granger's report. Alas, I did not find her, but what I found instead ... Look for yourself. I left it outside your door."

Snape strode back to the door, went out and came back in with a black, bulky bag. He began to open it.

"Severus, wait. I think it's high time we alert the rest of the Order. There's also something I have to tell all of you."

She saw him clench his jaws, but he nodded his agreement all the same.

"Be quick about it. I don't think we have much time left," he growled.

************

Hermione opened her eyes into total blackness. She tried to sit up, but discovered that her hands were bound in front of her body and her head banged against something that was at first soft, then solid. She tried to spit out the rag that had been put into her mouth, but could not, because an additional cloth covered her nose and mouth tightly. Nevertheless, she tried to cry out for help - but only a muffled sound escaped. Groping around with her bound hands, she found that she was in a very confined space with cushioned walls above and around her. The air was stale and it was difficult to breathe properly through the gag. A wave of panic washed over her. Where was she? She desperately tried to concentrate on her other senses, straining to hear something, anything. But she was surrounded by profound silence. She could only detect a sickening smell, like ... uh, congealed blood. She retched, fighting another panic attack, but did not succeed. Her heart threatened to burst, hammering inside her chest; her head throbbed and ached, and the skin at her sternum burned like fire.

Don't panic. Don't. Panic. Breathe. Breathe! She began to count backwards, again and again, frantically trying to control her heart: ten-nine-eight-seven-six... don't think, just breath, slow down, slow ... down.

Gradually the panic attack ebbed.

OK. Looks like I'm buried alive - no, do not panic again. Harry and the others will surely look for me when I'm not back at the appointed time. But ... will they find me? They won't know where to look. Nobody knows where I am. So - I've got to free myself...

A soft creaking sound interrupted her thoughts. She held her breath. Yes, there it was again. Like someone walking directly above her prison. She tried to scream through her gag and hammer with her bound hands against the ceiling of the box-coffin?-she was in. Hear me! Please, hear me!

Snape stopped short, straining to hear. Had there been a muffled sound? A rustling? He held up his wand to better see his surroundings. But the room was empty, except for a strong box at the back wall. He hesitated for a second, but then, with a smoothly flowing flick of his wrist, he cast a Homenum Revelio, just to be on the safe side. Nothing happened. Nobody there. He shrugged. Perhaps rats under the floorboards. He looked down and frowned. Something had disturbed the light dust on the wooden floor. He crouched to have a closer look. There was something dark, apparently a wide circle, drawn on the floor. He touched it with a tentative finger. Wet. Dark red. Sticky. Blood? He sniffed at his fingers and wrinkled his nose at the sickening sweet, metallic smell. Yes, this was blood. Still crouched down, he heard another thudding sound below. Sounded as if the rats were having quite a party down there. He stood up again and went to the chest. It was big, ironbound and made of dark, opulently adorned wood. The carvings seemed to writhe alive with the shadow play induced by the soft light of Snape's wand: Snakes that devoured each other or slithered out of gapping mouths of skulls; inhuman, contorted faces screaming soundlessly; broken, tortured bodies. Snape slitted his eyes in disgust. This was not exactly the thing to be used as a bedside table.

The lid of the huge box was closed and secured with a padlock. He snorted. Ridiculous. He muttered under his breath and the lock gave way. The lid opened on its own with a creak. Warily he stepped closer and peered in.

Hermione heard the sound of the steps fading away. Whoever it was was leaving the room underneath which she was confined. Please! I'm here! Don't leave me, please, don't leave me. However, it grew unbearably, inexorably silent. And except for her utter despair, nothing else was left behind.

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A/N My gratitude belongs to my diligent and thorough beta, Celta Diabólica.

*The Mabinogion is a collection of eleven prose stories from medieval Welsh manuscripts. They draw on pre-Christian Celtic mythology, international folktale motifs, and on early medieval historical traditions. (www dot sacred-texts dot com and Wikipedia)

To be continued