Anomie

Chapter Ten: Monster

The Second to Last Day in August:

Fairfax had been acting oddly all morning. He'd nearly skipped up the steps from the Underground, and Rue had asked what had gotten into him. 'You'll see, you'll see,' he'd replied with a large grin.

It bothered her, so she watched him closely and waited for the reason to surface. It happened a few hours into their shift. Voldemort, not getting a rise out of him so easily as usual, went over the line with a particular remark at the expense of Fairfax's parentage.

But Fairfax didn't explode at all. His grin was predatory. 'The Doctor is coming today,' he told Voldemort with relish. 'I do hope you enjoy his company.'

'There's a doctor coming?' asked Rue. She knew what a doctor was, but why would one come here? Was Voldemort ill? Wouldn't they send a Healer? Her brow crinkled with worry - now that she looked, he was paler than usual, and his eyes were completely wrong. There wasn't anger or sarcasm or humour or coldness in them.

Fear, she realized just before those same eyes became inscrutable again. Her heart skipped a beat - she'd never seen him scared before.

He was an amazing man, one with stories and real life lessons and a voice that swayed her in every way. Yes, he was evil, whatever that meant. Lord Voldemort's reasoning had made her question that silly word - it was used against everyone and everything that didn't match the fickle values of society, he'd said. And he'd argued it well. The knowledge that he'd done terrible things was mixed day by day with a backwards sense of admiration for him managing to do all he'd done despite all opposition.

No one could face Dumbledore and the Ministry and everyone else without bravery, she'd decided. Yes, he was very brave - even braver than her father, who had been working within the system and received accolades, while Voldemort had received terror and scorn.

Seeing him afraid was frightening itself. She was so disturbed that she missed most of Fairfax's answer to her question.

'- and his Lordship here is very fond of his visits, aren't you?'

He was silent for a beat; then he came back with, 'One might wonder why you thirst to see me suffer.' His eyes fell on Rue.

Fairfax rolled his eyes. 'Because you deserve it.'

'People with far better reason to despise me than you have determined not to treat me cruelly. I know the human character well, and your meanness reflects poorly on yours,' he parried.

Rue watched Fairfax's eyes flash. He glanced at her and saw her disapproving look. Fairfax scowled at Voldemort very crossly. 'Whatever.'

Soon Ajit and Aeron came in to trade places with them. 'We won't have to see him again until after the Doctor visits,' Fairfax said with visible relief. He smiled at her tightly. 'I know you're prone to feel sorry for him, but you really shouldn't. He'll be fine - well, he'll be out of it for a while after the Doctor visits, wish I knew what he gives him, but after a couple days he'll be annoying us all to death as usual.'

'A couple of days?' said Rue with alarm, stopping dead in her tracks. Fairfax sighed quickly in a patronizing sort of way, which did nothing to appease her. 'Aren't we supposed to be protecting him from harm? Why is this "Doctor" allowed to see him?'

'I already told you,' he said, hand clutching futilely at his short hair in frustration, 'he's got Ministry authorization from the very top - even management can't stop the Doctor from doing exactly what he wants.'

Fairfax relaxed a little as they got moving again, and he put his arm around Rue's shoulders. 'But on the bright side,' he said deeply, 'the Doc brings his own people to handle Voldemort, meaning we have a few hours to ourselves.'

Rue knew that look. 'I don't see how you can expect me to be in the mood for that while someone we know is being tortured in the same building!'

'He isn't someone we know! He's someone we tolerate because we aren't allowed to wring his neck!'

Rue looked at Fairfax mutinously, not appreciating his tone.

He took a deep breath. 'Look, I'm sorry.' Fairfax took her hands in his and leaned in. 'How about we both try to forget about him for a while? He tends to bring out the worst in me.'

She couldn't help but smile. 'You know you're better than that. I've seen you do good things. You're no villain.'

He became unusually contemplative. It was several minutes before he broke his silence.

'I never try to be, but sometimes I am.'

***

Ajit's compassion was harder to take than Fairfax's schadenfreude. It seemed that the more Voldemort lashed out at him, the more understanding Ajit became. 'If it makes you feel better to take it out on me, go right ahead,' Ajit told him, 'but it won't change anything.'

Soon it was time for Ajit and Aeron to leave; the guards made themselves scarce while the Doctor and his cronies were present. They weren't allowed to be there, though Ajit had tried to remain in the room once. The attempt had made Voldemort feel something unusual, an emotion he barely recognized as nauseating gratitude.

'I'll be back to make you comfortable as soon as he's gone,' were Ajit's sympathetic parting words before he shut the door behind him.

Voldemort stared at the doorknob, waiting for it to turn again. His hearing sharpened in anticipation of footsteps. As he heard the Doctor approach, he allowed himself one shaky breath before settling on a bored expression and leaning back nonchalantly in his chair.

Appearance was everything. It was all he had in these encounters but for the comforting visualization of ripping the skin from the Doctor's bones at some undetermined future date.

The door opened. Four of the Doctor's men came in first; each settled into his usual position in one of the four corners of the room. He'd get them out of those corners soon enough.

Voldemort raised his chin as the Doctor himself walked in, hunched over his clipboard.

'Mr Riddle,' the Doctor finally said as he handed his clipboard to his trailing assistant.

So it begun.

Voldemort turned his neck slowly toward him and gave what he knew to be one of his disconcerting smiles. 'Dennis. It's been too long - visited any nice caves lately?'

'Have your magical abilities returned in any measure?'

'If they had, I assure you that you would be the very first to know.' Voldemort bared his incisors.

The Doctor's expression was blank and unchanging. 'Will you respond to my remaining questions willingly?'

'Denny, I'm shocked that you'd think otherwise, truly.'

Without turning away, the Doctor said, 'Note that the subject continues to be sarcastic and to make vague threats.' His assistant jotted this down. 'Have you experienced any physical discomfort?'

'The pains in my arse are legion at the moment.'

'The subject is evasive,' the Doctor remarked to his assistant in monotone.

Merlin, he was boring. Surely there was some technicality that made killing boring, predictable Muggles legal. Not that he cared about legality personally, but he couldn't be the only one who wanted the man dead.

'Legilimency will be required,' the Doctor stated.

One of the men in the corner stepped forward, and Voldemort crawled back into his own mind to prepare his best, pointless defences.

***

Every time this happened, Voldemort questioned whether he should make it easier on himself and cooperate. It was the rational thing to do to avoid being held down as he was prodded with needles and spells.

But some portion of him recoiled from the degradation of yielding to a Muggle he'd bullied as a boy. Each time he took the invasion and confinement instead. The Doctor - pathetic little Dennis - would always ask about his choice, and Voldemort would spit something insulting out along with his usual curses.

Ajit never invaded his mind this way with Legilimency; he skirted the surface like a rock skipping across a still lake, gentle and respectful. This man dove, and Voldemort's mind accepted it like water when it used to be made of stone. He shoved all his frustration and anger at the invader as furious little crabs nipping at his skin - it wouldn't stop him, but it would make his journey unpleasant.

Aside from that, all Voldemort could do was to consciously press against the bottom of the lake and stay away from the unknown man as he took what he came for - snippets of physical feelings over the past month or so. There was nothing special there; what saved him from worse was the Doctor's disinterest in his thoughts and actions.

He suddenly resurfaced, disoriented and shaking against his will.

'That will be all,' said the Doctor's voice; it rang in his ears like an explosion. He tried to cover his ears with his hands, but he couldn't move his arms at all.

'We will proceed with the sampling,' the voice boomed.

***

'Are you aware that you are a monster?'

Voldemort's throat was dry. It was almost over. 'You're one to talk,' he rasped.

The Doctor was standing exactly where he'd been when it started. How much time had passed? Minutes, hours?

'I don't speak of actions, though yours are worse than mine by any objective measure. You couldn't possibly understand.'

Voldemort hated that patronizing line. Though his throat pained him, he replied, 'I understand more than any Muggle filth.'

The Doctor's brows twitched into a frown. He smiled, and it was a frightening thing - Voldemort couldn't recall ever seeing him smile since that day in the cave, decades and decades ago.

'You aren't human, yet you are cognizant. You are a monster.'

The Doctor never spoke outside of what was necessary; Voldemort wondered what caused him to volunteer such information. How could a Muggle even reach that conclusion at all? Knowledge was one of the few powers Voldemort hadn't lost entirely, and gaining even a little more would make this tortuous experience more palatable.

He tried to draw him out. 'Muggles think all that is different is inhuman and wrong. They are weak-minded.'

He'd hoped for a rebuttal; the Doctor did not speak further. Voldemort was disappointed, but didn't let it show.

Instead, he focused on moving his left hand. With great force of will, he managed to scratch his fingernails against the fabric of the chair's arms.

Perfect.

Scratch. Scratch Scratch. Scratch scratch scratch...

Voldemort scratched at the chair, intentionally varying the intensity, speed, and rhythm. The Doctor looked up. No one else knew what was wrong.

Voldemort knew exactly how much he was bothering him.

'Stop that,' the Doctor ordered, his voice raised for the first time during the encounter.

'Stop what?' Voldemort asked in mock confusion, continuing to scratch against the chair.

'That noise...'

The Doctor's hand quivered.

Voldemort glanced over at him with the beginnings of a smile. 'What noise?'

The Doctor's right hand started to scratch on the clipboard with the same rhythm, or lack of, as Voldemort's left, preventing him from writing. But Voldemort knew he was varying it too much for the Muggle's hand to keep up, causing the scratching to sound more erratic than before.

'Make him stop it!' the Doctor barked, his glasses slipping down his nose as his body shook. His assistant grabbed his clipboard just as it fell out of his hand. Another spell stilled Voldemort's fingers.

The Doctor's legs gave way as the seizure intensified. His minions stared, not sure of what to do. Voldemort admired his handiwork.

Ah yes, the Doctor's preoccupation with symmetry. Voldemort had tried to replicate that particular side-effect of torture out of curiosity a time or two. But responses to trauma were many and varied, it seemed - the girl he'd tormented on the same day in a similar way had simply killed herself at the age of fourteen.

Alas, the Doctor's body gradually came back under his own control. 'We're finished here,' he choked out, tongue barely obeying its owner's commands. 'Mr Riddle.'

'Dennis.'

So it had begun, and so did it end.

***

That Evening:

During his first year of Auror training Ron had been told that the best time to attack an opponent was when he was at his mental worst - tired, demoralized, lost. If that was indeed the case, he decided that McLaggen, who was still furious with him for whatever petty reason, would be by to finish Ron off at any minute.

He had handed over the evidence, tapes and all, to McLaggen. And he'd felt like a fool.

But he - or rather Phi - had made copies. 'It's an archivist's compulsion,' Phi had explained to a grateful Ron ten days before. 'The others are always complaining that Aurors don't log evidence properly with the Archive, so I figured I should...I hope you don't mind, I know I should have asked permission. Sorry?'

So despite McLaggen's insistence that the case was closed, Ron was working on it on his own time. McLaggen would never know.

And furthermore, he was investigating McLaggen. He was sure there was a reason for McLaggen blocking progress on the case at every step aside from his disdain for Ron personally. And Phi was helping, though Ron insisted that he didn't have to. 'Of course I do. I can't stand not getting to the end of a good mystery, Mr Weasley, sir.'

Actually, Ron had been glad of Phi's help, so he hadn't worked hard to dissuade him. He'd needed all the Archive had on McLaggen for his investigation, and Ron couldn't have gotten at it himself without raising far too many questions.

'Fine, but if we're meeting after work, I'm going to need you to call me Ron. No more of this Mr Weasley stuff,' Ron had insisted.

'Oh no, sir, I couldn't -' Phi had started.

'It's a deal-breaker.'

Phi still slipped up and called him Mr Weasley more often than not, but he was gradually getting better. His help had been invaluable - he'd copied all the records on McLaggen, put the originals back in their proper locations, and smuggled the copies out of the building without anyone the wiser.

'You aren't doing anything illegal giving me these, are you?' Ron had asked seriously.

Phi had adamantly denied it. 'Oh no, sir, - Ron, sir. Aurors have full access to just about everything that isn't kept in the Department of Mysteries. I didn't record that I made the copies, but it would just get me a slap on the wrist from the Head Archivist if she found out.'

'Be sure she doesn't. I don't want you getting in any kind of trouble for this.'

But McLaggen's records had nothing. On paper, he was the model wizard from a good wizarding family with solid political alliances. Since he was a high-level Ministry employee, Ron even had access to his financial transactions. Ministry financial records could lie - but good luck getting the originals from Gringotts to check against.

Ten days with no progress. Maybe the case really was cold. Maybe there was nothing out of line about McLaggen.

'I'm giving up for tonight,' Ron announced to Phi around ten in the evening. They were working out of Hermione's office long after she had left; he just knew that tonight was the night she would say I'm sorry, Ron, really, about how things worked out with that case, but you're neglecting your responsibilities at home, and enough is enough.

Phi smiled up at him. 'Goodnight, Mr Weasley. I'll clean up here. See you tomorrow!'

They were storing the evidence in Hermione's office too. Ron wasn't sure how great an idea that was considering what had happened to the victim's office before - but he couldn't keep it at the Ministry, and he wouldn't keep it at home.

'See you tomorrow,' Ron ended tiredly. He didn't have the energy to quibble about the Mr Weasley reference or to tell Phi that this was probably the end of the road for their case.

Apparition within the building was made impossible in some way or other by Hermione - Ron thought she was a little paranoid about that - so he took the lift down to dimly-lit ground floor. He trudged toward the door with his head down, feeling awfully discouraged.

It was stupid, he knew - Ron had Hermione and two wonderful children, but he didn't have purpose.

It reminded him of Harry again. Ron had been deeply entrenched that night in McLaggen's files, and he supposed that some switch in his brain had been reminded of a late-night study session with Harry and Hermione over some mystery or OWL or Horcrux. Harry's name had nearly slipped past his lips twice when he was talking to Phi. There was even something about the shape of Phi's face when he smiled that reminded him of long-ago Harry.

A sudden surge of light registered in the corners of both Ron's eyes. It was coming from behind him. His body swivelled, but he wasn't fast enough to avoid being hit by the spell. Ron's limbs snapped into place, and he fell to the ground.

Ron was paralyzed from head to toe, his head twisted in such a way that he was staring at the wall. Light footsteps came toward him quickly; a hand grabbed his shoulder and turned Ron around so he was facing up. A man in a deep black shroud - aren't they all, he thought in the throes of shock - leaned over his prone form. Ron felt a wand digging into his temple.

'Obliviate,' the assailant spoke.

Ron immediately felt fingers plunge into his mind with grim efficiency. He steeled himself against the intrusion and put up thought-tight barriers as he'd been taught. He struggled and grunted - the assailant knew what he was doing, and it took all Ron's best efforts to hold him back - but his defences held firm.

Finally, after interminable minutes, the assailant withdrew, defeated. His face was so close that Ron could feel his heavy breathing. He wished he could move his mouth enough to spit.

'A pity,' pronounced the assailant in a guttural voice that sent prickles down Ron's spine.

I know you, he thought frantically, but he couldn't think of who the voice fit. Not McLaggen...not any Death Eater he could recall...

He has to be someone from the Organization, Ron realized instantly.

His thoughts ground to a halt as the assailant pushed himself to his feet and levelled his wand at Ron again.

'Sorry,' was the assailant's final word.

This can't be the end, thought Ron in disbelief.