Animalexus

Marie bit back a snarl of frustration. She was quite certain that growling was not going to solve her problem, though if she thought there were half a chance that it would, she'd try it in a second. It all might have been amusing in a different place, at a different time, but not here, and not now. If someone were to come in...

She tossed her cloak onto her bed and stalked across the cell, stopping with her face just centimeters from the candle in the wall. Marie had been so sure she'd mastered this small thing, at least, this lighting and snuffing of the candle. She'd practiced it dozens of times over the last few days with no difficulties. And yet, she now had a very bright, very green flame burning in her cell, and when she tried to put it out, it simply changed color. To pink.

Marie was furious with herself. She must have gotten careless. It was the only explanation, and it stood to reason that the consequences with wandless magic would be more dire than normal. After all, it seemed that most wizards had some capacity for wandless magic, or there wouldn't be so many incidences of Muggle-born wizarding children under duress smashing things from halfway across the room; it was the intent and control that were impossible for most to master. Make a mistake with a wand, and the spell might be cast with less impact, or directed elsewhere than intended, or simply not work at all. Make a mistake in wandless magic, and it was anyone's guess what might happen.

She had already tried everything she could think of to fix this. She tried Nox. She tried repeating the Lumos spell. She tried them in the opposite order, and in quick succession. She'd even tried Reparo, but all that did was make the rivulets of wax running down the sides of the candle build themselves back up into the taper. And she still had a green flame. If her wandless magic continued to progress at this rate, Marie figured she just might master that scarf-to-tortoise transfiguration McGonagall had taught her around the time she hit, oh, forty.

Brisk footsteps in the hall brought her attention back to her surroundings. The Dark Lord had sequestered Marie away very securely, and very remotely. She rarely heard footsteps unless they were coming for her. It was quite late--or early, rather; Marie was fairly sure she lived on a nocturnal schedule here--and that alone made her apprehensive. This was not normal, and that was never good.

As she had predicted they would, the footsteps abruptly halted outside Marie's cell, and the series of locks on her door began to grind and turn. The lengthy process gave her a few moments' warning--no mere "Alohamora" would ever open this door--but not long enough to do anything about the candle. She cast a frustrated glance at it and tried one last wave of her hand before giving up and turning to face the door.

It flung open violently, and the silhouette of Bellatrix Lestrange's wiry form appeared in the doorway, her wand already drawn and aimed in the direction of Marie's throat. It took a significant effort on Marie's part not to shrink back against the wall--Bellatrix was unequivocally insane; even Lucius Malfoy seemed wary of her--but she forced herself stand her ground, albeit in as submissive a manner as she could manage. Bellatrix stepped into the tiny room, and Marie saw beads of water spill down her robes onto the floor. Rain, she realized, belatedly. It must be raining outside.

"What is this?" Bellatrix demanded curtly, jerking her head towards the candle, her wand unwavering.

Marie's mind completely failed to come up with a plausible explanation on the spot, so she stayed silent. Bellatrix took another step towards her, and it was all Marie could do not to crawl under the bed. Snape, like most of his fellow Death Eaters, approached the...messier...aspects of his job with a stiff-upper-lipped aura of necessity, brutally efficient but little else. The Lestranges, on the other hand--especially Bellatrix--took a distinct and definite pleasure in inflicting pain and terror on others. And 'Bella', as Marie had heard the Dark Lord call her, was a true believer, heart and soul. Bellatrix had been there the night Marie's first life ended, one of the three specters that changed her conception of evil forever. Abruptly, Marie remembered what Snape had asked her that first night at Hogwarts...about whether she should be grateful for her parents' swift deaths...

Bellatrix took another step towards Marie, and the green light from the flame fell across her features. There was a fanatical spark in her dark eyes, and her hair had twisted into black ropes around her face. She looked like a Gorgon, Medusa's twin. "I asked you a question, Marie."

"I don't know."

"You don't know," Bellatrix repeated flatly, her bottom row of teeth glinting as she spoke. "And yet," she mused, moving back towards the opposite wall, much to Marie's relief, "I do believe that this," she nodded to the flame, "generally looks more like this ." A single flick of her wand, and the candle was back to normal, green no longer. So easily. "Am I mistaken?"

"No."

"No. So." She spun on one heel and faced Marie again. "You wouldn't happen to have come across a wand, would you?"

"No."

Suddenly Bellatrix was right there in front of her, close enough that Marie could feel her breath on her face. "No wand?"

Marie tilted her head away. "If I did have one, I wouldn't waste my time redecorating," she hissed, her eyes so narrow with loathing that she was quite sure Bellatrix knew exactly what she would do with a wand.

Malfoy would have hit her for such insolence. Bellatrix simply allowed a small smirk to form itself on her face. "So you can string more than two or three words together at once. I've wondered about you sometimes." She straightened and lifted her wand. Beyond its tip, Marie could see the tendons on the back of Bellatrix's hands press against skin, the veins crossing them an inky blue. Bellatrix's eyes flicked briefly back to the candle, and then she arched one thin eyebrow. "Out. We need to use you."

***

Snape waved his wand slowly over his cauldron, and the brewing potion within stirred itself in response. Veritaserum was not an easy substance to brew; it had to be kept at a very precise temperature for nearly an hour. Any fluctuation would result in two things: first, the uncompleted potion would become suddenly volatile and caustic, and two, the cauldron would explode. Not a good combination. Even so, the process relaxed Snape. So few wizards in the world could brew Veritaserum at all, and fewer still could do it and consistently produce something of quality.

This was what Snape loved about potions: the prestige of being a master. He knew potions, and knew them well. People relied upon him, and a few even aspired to his level of mastery, but fewer still ever approached it. The potions themselves...they were not what he loved.

If they were, he would not have applied for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position every year. Snape snorted. The Headmaster had made a mistake in sending Marie Llewellur back to the Dark Lord--Minerva was right about that--but he had made an even larger mistake in repeatedly refusing Snape the teaching position he wanted. After all, no one could deny that Snape knew what he was doing. And if the students of Hogwarts had him as their professor for the subject, maybe they would have learned something of use by the time they graduated. Maybe every student would have some experience with Occlumency. Maybe dueling would not be a silly, short-lived club but would be a subject approached with great seriousness. Maybe the likes of the Dark Lord would not have so easily gained power and the followers that came with it. Maybe people like Ayeforth and Sanja Llewellur would not have felt that their only chance at protecting their child was to completely exclude her from the world of wizardry.

Snape held his hand at the edge of the fire beneath his cauldron and made a slight adjustment with his wand. This was the tedious part: waiting for the bulk of the potion to burn off--at that same steady temperature--leaving behind only the concentrated formula that was Veritaserum.

There were no chairs in his laboratory; potions were not something to be approached with a leisurely mindset. Snape did allow himself to rock his weight back on his heels, though, and he set his wand next to the cauldron on the countertop. It was some hours past midnight, and he couldn't stop his body feeling weary. Once this was finished, he'd grant himself a drink before retiring. One had to take pleasure where one could find it, after all...

"You knock."

"I don't want to knock. What if he's hexed his door?"

Snape snarled at the closed door of his workroom. He couldn't recognize the voices, disguised as they were in whisper, but there were only a handful of students still in the castle over break, and far fewer still whom Snape could imagine approaching his door.

Maybe if he ignored them they would go away.

"Harry! I don't think 'alohamora' is going to work on Snape's door!"

Ignoring them never worked.

He made one last adjustment to the fire beneath his cauldron, stormed to the door, and yanked it open.

"It is 'Professor Snape,' Miss Granger. Ten points from Gryffindor."

The girl seemed about to protest but shut her mouth quickly. Hmm. Seemed she had learned something besides potions from him in her time at Hogwarts.

"Mr. Potter, do put that away."

Harry scowled but tucked his wand back inside his robes.

"Very good. Now leave."

They looked at each other. "But sir--"

Snape drew himself to his fullest height and put on his best scowl. "Mr. Potter, Miss Granger," he said, in his most dangerous, softest tone, "It is well past midnight. You have no reason to be anywhere but in your dormitories, and yet here you are, at my private workroom. I, contrary to what you may believe, have not been sitting here twiddling my thumbs, just waiting for you to appear at my door so that I might indulge whatever idiotic scheme you have come up with this time. So, leave." They still hesitated, and Snape arched an eyebrow. "Before I decimate your House points entirely."

Granger seemed to steel herself for a moment, then took one step forward, thrust her chin out, and said, "But it's much more important than House points, sir!"

He crossed his arms. "With that attitude, I should hope so."

Harry elbowed her in the ribs but, Snape noticed with some amusement, she elbowed him back harder. "She's, uh, right, Professor Snape. It's important."

"Has Peeves set the dormitories on fire?"

"Um, no, sir."

"Is the Dark Lord invading the grounds at this very moment?"

They exchanged glances. "No..."

Snape's lip curled. "That werewolf isn't here, is he?"

"Lupin? No, sir."

"Then it is not important enough." Snape slammed the door and turned back to his cauldron, which fortunately had not yet splintered into a dozen flying shards.

Several minutes later, Snape cocked his head. He no longer heard voices in the hall, but nor had he heard retreating footsteps. He stalked to the door and flung it open again, too irate to take even the slightest pleasure in witnessing the frightened expressions on the Gryffindors' faces. "Explain yourselves."

Hermione recovered first. "It's about Marie Llewellur, sir."

Snape crossed his arms. "And what makes you think I have any interest in Miss Llewellur?"

"You know where she is," interjected Harry.

Snape almost denied it, simply out of reflex, before deciding that such a rebuff would probably only encourage the likes of Harry Potter. "And if I told you exactly where she was? Mind you, I'm not about to do any such thing. But if I did?"

Both Harry and Hermione shifted nervously.

"This is not a midnight trip to Hogsmeade, Mr. Potter. If you walk into the Dark Lord's lair you will die."

"There's always a way," Harry protested.

"No, Mr. Potter," Snape hissed, distantly aware that his own frustrations were coming through in his tone, "there is not 'always a way,' as you so naïvely phrase it. If you walk into the Dark Lord's lair, you will die. And so will Miss Llewellur." Hermione was close to tears. "I won't tell you to forget about her. But I will tell you to pretend that you have."

He shut the door.

***

Marie had tried to refuse, once. It was several months after her first arrival, and she'd grown weary of watching the animals she spoke to tortured and killed, time after time. And so one day she had refused to translate the questions the Death Eater asked, had refused to say anything at all. She supposed, in retrospect, that she hadn't expected anything to come of it. She'd expected them to use Imperius, to take away the option. Instead, the Dark Lord had taken the opportunity to issue an object lesson.

Marie had almost died. That wasn't what had changed her mind, though. The Dark Lord wasn't about to actually let her die, of course, so the Death Eaters had abducted a mediwizard from St. Mungo's to heal her, a rail-thin, older man whose words had been soothing despite his obvious terror. And then, once the mediwizard had done enough to ensure that she would survive, they had killed him. That was not something Marie wanted on her conscience ever again.

So when Bellatrix brought her into the room with the owl, Marie sat where she was told to and she waited for the questions.

It was just a plain barn owl, neither expensive nor flashy. They were a dime a dozen in the wizarding world, from what Marie had seen. This one was frightened, as he well should be, and he beat his wings frantically, fruitlessly, trying to escape the perch to which he was tethered.

There were two other Death Eaters in the room, and Marie knew them both. Malfoy stood against the opposite wall, and Gavin Welton, who often presided over animal interrogations, stood just to Marie's left. "Miss Llewellur," he greeted her, with a deceptive casualness. Welton always addressed her by her last name, and with such formality, as if theirs were actually a civilized situation. He even issued curses and hexes in a polite tone of voice. Marie had become used to his manner, but he still didn't fit her image of a Death Eater. With his short graying hair, plain features, and small hoop earring, he might have easily been mistaken for a Muggle. More than once, Marie had wondered what had drawn a man like this to the Dark Lord's world.

He clamped a broad hand down on her shoulder, and she shoved aside her ruminations. "We are in a bit of a hurry tonight, Miss Llewellur, and I would most appreciate it if you would cooperate with me."

She managed a resentful nod.

"Tell that bloody bird to calm down," Malfoy said suddenly, through clenched teeth. Marie had been avoiding his face, but she glanced up at him now, and noticed that, like Bellatrix, he looked slightly disheveled, as though he had been called here unexpectedly.

"It's scared, not stupid," Marie told him, before she could stop herself. "Telling it to relax is not going to help."

He took an angry step towards her. "You insolent little--"

Welton stepped smoothly between them. "Lucius. We cannot afford to waste time tonight." He turned back to face Marie. "Perhaps you've forgotten, Miss Llewellur. You do as you're told."

"No. I haven't."

"Excellent."

Most of the Death Eaters were undeniably self-conscious when they spoke to an animal through Marie, and tended to address her directly, phrasing their questions in an "Ask it if ________" format. Welton, on the other hand, was quite comfortable with the process and regarded Marie as he might any other interpreter under any other circumstances, always directing his questions to the animal, taking for granted that Marie would translate. He matter-of-factly began his interrogation now, behaving no differently than she would have expected him to if his subject had been human rather than avian.

The matter at hand was the destination of the letter the owl had been carrying when it was captured. It was what Marie had expected; owls were rarely questioned for any other reason. Their status as messengers of the wizarding world left them in a very vulnerable position.

What surprised Marie was how resistant this particular owl was to the questioning. In general, owls were highly intelligent and not particularly loyal. Marie preferred it that way; she had nightmares about interrogations involving dogs, who by and large held out until the last to protect their owners. Owls, on the other hand, tended to realize their predicament fairly quickly and offer up any information they could in order to spare themselves from the harsher sides of the Death Eaters.

Not this one. It stood resolutely on its perch, its eyes set on the floor. It had offered one insult near the beginning of the questioning and had stayed silent since.

"If you do not begin answering my questions immediately," Welton said, appearing at Marie's side but keeping his eyes fixed on the owl, "I can assure you that you will regret it."

Marie recoiled at the words, even though they weren't meant for her. She pushed a hand back through her hair--she'd gotten used to tying it back; she didn't like wearing it loose all the time--and cleared her throat. The owl glanced up. "Look," she told it, "You are not in a good situation here. Not to be unsympathetic, but that's just the way life works out sometimes." She saw the owl's sharp golden eyes flick briefly to her arm, where the edge of her Mark was visible, protruding from the edge of her sleeve. "This is over. You cannot help whoever sent that letter or whoever you were delivering it to. Refusing is only going to--"

Beside her, Welton shifted to face her, and that minute movement was enough to shut her up. She stared resolutely at her hands.

"Those are rather more words than I should expect to be necessary, Miss Llewellur." He paused for the briefest of moments. "Please do keep in mind that while our Lord would prefer that you not be placed under Imperius, he has not forbidden it."

Marie forced a deep breath into her lungs and concentrated on keeping her outward appearance calm. "I'm sorry."

"I can ensure that you are."

She lost her battle with herself and flinched. "No, I--it won't happen again."

"I should hope not."

"1411 Ladensbury Lane," the owl said, miserably.

Marie shook her head, tried to shift her attention back to the interpretation at hand. "What?"

"The letter. It was going to 1411 Ladensbury Lane," the owl repeated, shifting again from one foot to the other. "In Reddenton."

Marie breathed a sigh of relief. She had learned to read Welton's tone of voice well, and he'd been very close to getting his hands bloody. She passed on the address, and tried not to let her face reflect her dread of what was about to happen.

Malfoy felled the bird with a single, casual curse.

Marie knew he'd seen it coming.

The owl dead, Malfoy turned his attention immediately to Marie. "Not that we don't trust you, my dear..." he said, pulling a tiny jewel of a vial from his pocket and holding it in front of her.

Marie took it, grimacing. It wasn't unexpected--of course they weren't going to take her word for anything anymore--but she didn't have to like it. Praying that none of the Death Eaters asked about anything other than the owl, she swallowed the few drops of liquid inside the vial and waited for the dizziness that always accompanied Veritaserum.

It didn't come.

Marie glanced surreptitiously at Malfoy, but he seemed unaware that anything was amiss, impatiently waiting the minute or so that it took to ensure that a person had succumbed to the potion. Behind him, Bellatrix pulled a feather from the dead owl's wing and held it up to the light.

Snape, Marie decided. He must have substituted something more benign for the Veritaserum. It made sense; he had to know that he was under the scrutiny of the Dark Lord, and he couldn't let Marie give his secret away. Just maybe, she thought, Snape's actions could protect her, too. If she could pull this off.

Welton planted himself directly in front of Marie. "Miss Llewellur, what did the owl tell you when you asked where he was taking the letter?"

Don't screw this up, Marie. She held her eyelids at half-mast and did her best to affect the deadened, matter-of-fact tone she knew she usually took on under the influence of Veritaserum. "He said that he had no intention of giving up that information to thugs like yourselves."

Welton's mouth twitched, but Marie knew she'd done right. Total honesty. Respond to the question exactly as it is asked. Don't interpret and don't elaborate. Wait for them to get the question right.

The Death Eater tried again. "To what address did the owl tell you he was taking the letter?"

"1411 Ladensbury Lane, Reddenton."

Welton nodded, then took a step back and picked up his cloak. He was satisfied, at least.

Malfoy stepped in front of her and sneered. Marie had been half-expecting it, but she still started. "Is Severus a traitor?"

Marie suppressed a shudder and tried frantically to formulate a reply that wouldn't give away her lucid state. Apparently Malfoy mistook the hesitation for the confusion that Veritaserum could cause when a subject was faced with a too-vague question. "Have you witnessed any behavior on Severus' part that would indicate that he is not loyal to the Dark Lord?"

Careful here... "He sometimes meets with Albus Dumbledore. In the Headmaster's office."

"Is that all?"

"Yes."

Welton appeared next to Malfoy, looking vaguely irritated. "You're interrogating Marie Llewellur, Lucius. Severus killed her parents and kidnapped her twice, all on the orders of the Dark Lord; as far as she's concerned, he's the right hand of the devil. This is pointless."

For a brief moment, Lucius' face registered nothing at all, as though he were deciding whether to challenge his fellow Death Eater or not, and then he allowed a small, humorless smile to cross his features. "Yes, I suppose you're right," he said, not taking his eyes from Marie's.

"Do you have a wand?" Bellatrix.

Marie did her best not to panic. "No."

Welton threw his cloak over his shoulders hurriedly. "We do not have time for this tonight."

Bellatrix ignored him. "How did you change the color of the flame in your cell?"

Now Marie had everyone's attention. "I didn't change it," she said, as straightforwardly as she could.

"It changed colors by itself?"

"I don't know how it happened."

Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Marie," he asked, drawing out the syllables of her name, "have you ever tried using wandless magic?"

She almost vomited. "Yes."

Welton's turn. "With any success?" he demanded, one eyebrow arched skeptically.

"No."

Welton crossed his arms, apparently satisfied by her answer. "Lucius, please. Wandless magic? It's ludicrous."

Malfoy gathered his cloak and lifted his chin. "I know what I saw that night, Gavin. Ayeforth had mastered it."

Bellatrix moved into Marie's field of view, eyeing her suspiciously. "They say every practitioner of wandless magic has a blood connection to the Llewellur line," she mused.

Welton straightened. "Yes, and that particular rumor cannot be proven because there are no verified practitioners of wandless magic currently living and there haven't been for hundreds of years."

Malfoy scoffed. "Just because it isn't in the Ministry record books doesn't mean it doesn't exist, Gavin."

Welton matched Malfoy's sneer. "She's had no formal magical schooling, with a wand or without. She couldn't possibly control it if she were even able to summon any magic by hand. Which, by her own Veritaserum admission, she isn't."

Marie did her best to look suitably dejected. It didn't take much effort. For all the good her practice had done her, she might as well have been telling the truth. She was no threat to anyone.

"Leave her here," Bellatrix said, finally. "We need to move on that address."

Welton swept past her out of the room, his interest in Marie gone now that she had served her purpose. Bellatrix followed. Malfoy lingered, watching Marie with a calculating eye as he fastened the clasp of his cloak. He moved towards the door, too, finally, but not before flashing a very brief smile in her direction.

***

Albus Dumbledore searched the dark skies, squinting against the rain. Atnair wasn't coming back; he knew that. His owl was gone, probably dead already. Albus glanced down at the copy of the letter he held in his hand. He'd composed this only this evening, but it seemed long ago already. The magical ink stayed firmly etched into letters and words despite the heavy raindrops falling onto the parchment:

You will have heard about Reylock. Stay where you are until you receive word from the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office at the Ministry. They will aid in your relocation. You have protected Hogwarts well; we will protect you.

It was risky to send the letter at all, of course, but Kerry Kensington had an excitable personality; it wouldn't do for him to panic and draw attention to himself. Not that Albus would have blamed the man for panicking; his partner in designing the reinforced ward system around Hogwarts had met a grisly end at the hands of Voldemort. Reylock hadn't been able to give up the key to the wards--their design had been a collective effort on the part of he and Kensington--but if Voldemort had the opportunity to interrogate Kensington as well...

Albus had just sent Arthur Weasley and Kingsley Shacklebolt to Reddenton to retrieve Kensington, if possible, but Atnair's continued absence made Albus quite certain that Kensington would no longer be in Reddenton to retrieve. Another soul he'd failed, condemned to Voldemort.

He found himself at the edge of the grounds, grounds that might soon be far less secure than they were tonight. The stables stood staidly before him, a soft glow emanating from each of the three main buildings. He smiled to himself, a small, joyless smile. Fitting that he would end up here.

Most of the horses were asleep in their stalls, heads and necks low, one hind foot cocked so that only the toe rested on the ground. One or two looked up at him as he moved down the aisle, speaking to each other in low nickers and mutters. In the stall nearest the stairs leading to the loft, Severus' gray horse stood with his haunches to the aisle, his head bowed low, inches from the rear wall. Something about his posture made Albus certain the horse wasn't asleep, but he didn't move as Albus moved past the stall and began to climb the stairs.

Marie's apartment was as she had left it, spare and largely empty. Albus wondered briefly if it had seemed that way to her or if the contrast to her quarters as Voldemort's slave had lent it a warmth he couldn't see. He passed a hand along the back of one of the two large chairs, glanced down at the small silver book on the end table. The cover was blank. Marie's riding boots stood next to the table, one of them folded over at the ankle. They were the only thing in the apartment to reflect anything of their owner; the leather was well-cared for and supple, the insides of both boots worn and scuffed. A pair of silver spurs sat next to the boots, tangled in their own leather straps.

The 'if-only's were going to haunt him again tonight, Albus knew. If only Marie Llewellur had come to Hogwarts as a child. If only she had not already been scarred so deeply by her years as Voldemort's slave. If only he had not had to choose between her and Harry Potter. If only he could believe he had done the only possible thing...

Finally, Albus came to stop in front of the large mirror. He'd had it moved here earlier. It needed a new home anyway--Susan Bones had found it just before the holiday and had barely passed her exams--and this had seemed appropriate.

Albus smiled briefly at a memory that flickered briefly through his mind. It had once been suggested, in a wry tone, that Albus was the legendary man who could stand in front of the Mirror of Erised and see only his own reflection.

If only that were so...

If only it were...

He had looked into this mirror once when he was a boy, many, many years ago. It had been so important at the time, but now he could not even remember what he had seen, what his heart's desire had been when he was thirteen years old. Albus had had occasion to glance at this mirror since then, now and again, and he knew what he would see in it tonight. He had seen it before.

Slowly, Albus raised his eyes. The mirror was as imposing as ever, solid glass and metal. Reflected in it Albus saw himself, some years ago, though he doubted his reflection would have looked very much younger to any observers. He seemed content in the reflection, and perhaps he would have been, had what the mirror showed him now come to pass in life. For in the Mirror of Erised, Albus had taken Tom Riddle under his wing. He had taken care to get to know the boy when he first arrived at Hogwarts, had not allowed him to be sent back to that Muggle orphanage every holiday, had not given him the benefit of the doubt quite so often. In the Mirror of Erised, Albus stood with his hand on Tom Riddle's shoulder, and Tom offered a smile that reached his eyes, and Voldemort was nowhere in sight.