Promises Unbroken

Promises Unbroken

Chapter Twelve: Taking Chances

"Little rat!"

"Muggle-loving scum--OUCH!" The blonde boy clutched his broken left arm to his chest, struggling not to double over in pain. His wand lay on the ground several feet away.

"Serves you right for what you did, Malfoy!" came the snarled reply. "Are you going to cry, now, Draco? Run to your Death Eater father for help?"

Gray eyes flashed angrily, and Malfoy straightened, stepping menacingly towards his opponent. "You want to find out, Weasley?" he demanded. "Would you like to know what happens to people who anger a Malfoy?"

"Give it your best," Fred sneered, staring down at the Slytherin. He was so angry that he could hardly breathe; the edges of his vision were threatening to go red, and all he could think about was how wonderful it would be to smash the arrogant little prat's face into goo. Heaven knew, he deserved it...

"You'll regret this, Weasley!" he hissed painfully.

"You think so? At the moment it's you who's--"

"Weasley! Malfoy!" Mundungus Fletcher's voice suddenly roared over Fred's taunt. "What the hell is going on here?"

Both turned; Fred was tempted to hex Malfoy first (preferably with something else nasty and excruciatingly painful), but he knew better. His fury didn't cool, but he struggled for calm. Professor Fletcher wasn't exactly the forgiving type, and Fred knew from experience that it was best to shut up and let him speak. Malfoy, however, did not share his view of the head of Gryffindor House.

"It's his fault, Professor!" the Slytherin first year spat. "He hexed me! I was only trying to defend myself--"

"Be quiet."

"He ought to be expelled!" Malfoy snapped importantly. "A third year attacking a first year. Why--"

"Silence!" The bellow startled the boy into silence, and Fred resisted the urge to smirk--until Professor Fletcher's angry green eyes burned into his own. He shivered, unable to help himself, as Fletcher growled, "Explain."

There was nothing to do but tell the truth. "He attacked Angelina."

"I did not!" Fletcher's scarred face swung around to stare at Malfoy once more. Infuriated, the blonde boy snarled, "He's lying!"

"And I suppose she's lying on the ground over there for fun!" Fred's temper boiled over, and he stepped towards Malfoy once more, no longer caring that a professor was watching. He just needed to pound the little brat into goo. Fred didn't even want to use magic anymore; he just wanted to make Malfoy hurt--but Fletcher stepped in between them, his face tight with anger.

"You stay where you are, young man!" he thundered. Fred froze, and watched his head of House wheeled back on the Slytherin boy. "Now, Malfoy, you're going to tell me the truth, or we'll go take this up with the headmaster right now."

The look on Malfoy's face said that he was anything but afraid of Remus Lupin, but as Fletcher's green eyes burned into him, and the Slytherin realized he had much more immediate problems than the headmaster--like and ex-Auror who wasn't exactly happy at the moment. However, Malfoy remained stubborn, even if his reply was a bit less arrogant. "He attacked me."

"Weasley?" Fletcher must have realized that he wasn't going to learn anything more from Malfoy, because he looked at Fred once more. "The truth."

"We were coming back late from Care of Magical Creatures--Angelina and I stayed back to help Professor Kettleburn--and Angelina bumped into Malfoy by accident. She said excuse me, but he called her...well, he called her something nasty, and when Angelina told him to grow up, he hexed her." The words had all come out in a rush; Fred had to take a deep breath when he'd finished. He hoped that Fletcher believed him. There were times that being a prankster wasn't to your advantage, especially when you wanted someone to trust you.

"What did you call her, Malfoy?" Fletcher's voice was hard.

"I didn't call her anything." There was clearly no give in the boy's gray eyes; he wasn't going to tell. Fletcher hadn't even bothered looking at Malfoy. He had probably expected this, after all.

"Weasley?"

Fred sighed. His mum would kill him if she ever heard him say the words, but obviously Malfoy's mother wasn't so strict. "A Gryffindor bitch, sir."

Fletcher's eyes flashed. "And then what happened? What did he hex her with?"

"A Fully Body Bind, Professor," he replied. "But then he started to say something else. It started with 'Cruc--'." And Fred really didn't want to think of the only curse he knew with that beginning.

The professor's face tightened, and he spun around to face Malfoy, fury etched into every line of his scarred features. The look in his angry eyes told Fred that, no, he hadn't been mistaken--and now he didn't regret breaking Malfoy's arm one bit. The Slytherin boy's face tightened under Fletcher's relentless gaze, but he still clutched at his broken arm. There was pain in his eyes, but Fred didn't care--besides, that was what happened when your arm got hit by a rather large rock.

"I'd like to go to the Hospital Wing now, Professor. Do I really have to listen to this?"

"Ferula," Fletcher snapped, jerking his wand in the direction of the boy's broken arm. Bandages and a splint quickly worked their way around Malfoy's arm, but Fletcher snarled all the while. His patience (never available in large quantities) was obviously wearing thin. Then he gestured edgily at both boys. "Come with me. The Headmaster needs to hear of this."

------------

James had never heard so many curse words strung together coherently in one sentence.

It was hard not to laugh. Arabella Figg had woken up, opened her eyes, and started to swear. Violently, dirtily, and with ten times the amount of salt employed by a veteran sailor. His boss took one look at his face, and her lips curled into an ugly snarl, her eyes flashing, and then flickering rapidly around the room. Once Weasley had brought her back, James had immediately transferred her to the cot he kept in his office--Lily hated for him to even have it, because she said it encouraged him not to come home on late nights, but it was turning out to be rather useful at the moment. 'Bella immediately recognized her surroundings, though, and turned her gray-eyed glare on James.

"What the hell happened?" she demanded.

"You were stunned," James explained as levelly as possible. Lord, he'd seen her angry before, but this ranked right up with that mission he and Sirius had shared, when they'd managed to destroy an entire building. They'd brought the suspects in, of course, but that hadn't mattered to Arabella Figg. Innocent little things like mistakes never had. He took a deep breath and prepared to continue, but his Mentor cut him off.

"Of course I was stunned!" she snarled. "What the hell else happened?"

"Well, things went downhill, and I ordered a Plan Zulu--" Just like I was supposed to, he added mentally--"And Weasley here double-Apparated you back."

Arabella's eyes filled with gray fire. "What?" She snapped her head in Bill Weasley's direction, seeming to notice him for the first time. Faced with her full fury, all the poor kid could do was look back with confusion; James understood that Weasley had been trying to do the right thing. In any other circumstance, he would have been doing the right thing--been acting heroic, even--but dammit, 'Bella was supposed to be caught! There were some things that simply weren't covered in the manual. "What the hell were you thinking, boy?"

"Easy, 'Bella," James cautioned as Weasley gaped. "He doesn't know."

That clamped her mouth shut in an unhappy line, but the Minister still glared. "Dammit!" she swore. "All that goddamned work for nothing. Fucking Murphy. Goddamned Death Eaters. Goddamned Aurors with hero complexes--"

James' laughter cut her off. Some people didn't change, even when you made them wear the cloak of responsibility, and Arabella's language could still make a Drill Sergeant blush. But then she turned the angry glare on him.

"What the hell is wrong with you, James?" Arabella spat. "Don't you realize how much work has just gone to nothing? In one goddamned moment of misguided heroism, this boy has just managed to through Operation Icebreaker right down the fucking drain!"

Sighing, James sat down in his desk chair after dragging it over next to the cot. "I know, 'Bella," he said quietly. "It's been my brainchild, after all. But that's for another time--are you feeling all right?"

"Of course I'm all right."

"I'm glad. Contrary to popular belief, I don't relish the thought of you in Azkaban," James admitted.

"We've all ready gone over that ground," his boss glared. Then Arabella relented, and shrugged slightly, sitting up as she did so. "And it's a moot point, now, anyway."

"True." She swung her legs over the side of the cot, and reheated the glare as James opened his mouth to protest. "Don't you start with me, boy. Someone has to go explain to Dumbledore why this fancy plan of yours failed, and I think that had better be me."

He could have objected, but disagreeing with Arabella Figg was like arguing with a brick wall. So James shrugged, and rose, opening the door for her like a proper young gentleman. "Talk to me when you get back?"

"Of course. How else are we going to resurrect this mess out of the ashes?"

And then she was gone, leaving James alone with a very confused Bill Weasley. The younger Auror had remained respectfully silent throughout the exchange between his superiors; in retrospect, James supposed that he should have sent him away. But he hadn't, and confusion still colored the other's face. James knew Weasley well enough--not enough to call him a friend, but enough to know that he was a powerful wizard and a talented Auror. To survive as long as Bill had, talent and power were necessary; so was a great deal of luck. Luck...luck like his brother Charlie, one of the few Aurors James had ever mentored, did not have. Charlie's death still hurt when he stopped to think about it, but he pushed it aside. He didn't have time to think of that. Not now.

"Sir, if I might ask, what in the world is going on?"

James sighed. He supposed that he did owe the kid some explanations, especially after 'Bella had yelled at him that way. "Let's just say that things didn't exactly go as planned."

"I gathered that much," Bill replied dryly.

An uneasy silence passed, in which James studied the younger man. An idea was starting to form in his mind--a dangerous, stupid, and probably insane idea, but one that might just work. Possibly. If they were lucky. The question really was how much Weasley had caught on in those few seconds of unguarded conversation. Quickly, he ran over what he knew of Bill Weasley, calling up a mental picture of the other's service record in his mind. Quidditch player for one year. Head boy. Mentored by Alastor Moody. Lived through the failed Mulciber raid back in 1989, when so many others did not. Oh, yes. He was good. Probably one of the best--and irrelevantly, James realized that he'd probably have to talk to the kid about Mentoring someone soon. Influence like that needed to spread. Finally, the younger Auror continued.

"Is this something you can tell me, or should I not ask?"

Smart, too, James added to the mental list. "Probably not--not yet, anyway," he answered. "But if there's anyone who deserves and explanation, it's you. Ask me again sometime."

"All right."

------------

The door slid open, but Remus consciously did not rise. Spells woven into the castle itself had warned him of the visitor's approach; Snape's use of this certain password merely confirmed it. Long ago, Remus had discovered that it was useful to have "special" passwords, which worked only once and then only for certain individuals. Snape, of course, ranked highly on his list for such entries. After all, he had a habit of causing emergencies.

Remus drummed his fingers lightly on his desk, exchanging a grim smile with the portrait of Albus Dumbledore hanging on the far left wall. This would not be fun--in fact, any mistake on his part could prove to be downright dangerous--but a little care would probably make the situation bearable. He had already dealt with one set of parents, who were noticeably relieved that their son had escaped with a couple dozen detentions. The second pair of concerned parents had been notified as well, but their daughter had not been punished. Reassured that Angelina would be fine, the Johnsons had coped very well. However, it was the third set of parents that worried the headmaster, and their child had certainly been the most guilty.

Lucius Malfoy strutted into his office, and Remus fought the urge to snarl. The wolf in him wanted very badly to do so, but he restrained himself, aided by long years of practice. Although everyone knew Malfoy was a Death Eater, there had never been any proof. He was as slippery as the mascot of his old school House, having been charged several times but always coming up smelling like a rose. Part of that, the headmaster knew, was due to his massive fortune and the excellent lawyers it enabled him to buy. The rest, though, came from the fact that Lucius Malfoy was ruthlessly intelligent and wielded his power well.

Remus just wished that the bastard wasn't on his school's Board of Governors. Unfortunately, only testimony from spies like Severus Snape could tear him out of that position--and the Order just couldn't afford to burn their best. The sad but true fact was that, even though Albus Dumbledore knew that Malfoy sat at Voldemort's right hand, they could not prove that to the law's satisfaction without risking more than it was worth. Their adherence to the law was what separated them from the Dark, and there were some lines that could not be crossed. Spies like Snape had bigger fish to fry, anyway. In the end, taking Voldemort down would prevent even the likes of Malfoy from taking his place.

Besides, the headmaster had his own hole card on the Board. The other Governors might be bullied by Lucius and this threats, but James Potter would only laugh in the Death Eater's face. Remus' best friend had as much back down in his body as a centaur when it came to Malfoy--much like his son when it came to that family's heir. Come to think of it, the werewolf mused, he was surprised that Harry wasn't mixed up in this mess.

"Lucius," he greeted the Death Eater with a smile the fooled neither one of the wizards. "Do sit down."

"I prefer to stand, thank you," Malfoy replied haughtily, and once again, Remus was struck by the similarities between this arrogant face that the permanent sneer etched into the features of the son.

"Very well." Remus did not stand. If Malfoy thought staring down at the headmaster lent him power, then so be it. He did not care. "What brings you to Hogwarts?"

Severus, he noticed, was gone. Smart man. He obviously did not want to be stuck between his old friend (and the loyalties inherent in his status as a Death Eater) and his role as the school's deputy headmaster, duties for which he took very seriously. This was one battle that even Malfoy would see the sense in keeping Snape out of. In truth, Remus was very grateful for that, even if not for the reasons Malfoy envisioned. The werewolf did not relish the idea of a final confrontation between Severus and his Death Eater brethren--he knew that Snape's betrayal of his oldest friends had been a complicated and guilt-ridden matter, and while he trusted Severus completely, he preferred to save him the pain his inevitable unmasking would bring. Remus knew he could not protect him forever, but he'd take every moment that he could beg, borrow, or steal.

"I have come to speak with you about yesterday's...incident." Lucius' upper lip curled into a very familiar sneer. "It is my understanding that the boy who attacked my son has not been expelled?"

"He has been properly punished for his actions," Remus replied levelly. He very purposefully did not say how.

"Has he?" Lucius asked sarcastically. "Then you of course believe that my son's punishment was appropriate as well?"

"I do."

"Indeed." The sneer grew in force. "I am afraid, Lupin, that the Board of Governors does not agree with you."

"Oh?" Remus let his eyebrows arch innocently. This wasn't the first time he'd dealt with Lucius Malfoy, but as always, he devoutly hoped that it would be the last.

"Yes," Lucius snapped, irritated by Remus' calm. "I, for one, am very intrigued by why you have not expelled the Weasley boy for his unprovoked attack on my son. Understandably, your sorry lack of control over the school, and your failure to properly punish those responsible has made the Board of Governors very concerned about your capability to handle the vast responsibilities of Headmaster."

The other's voice was dripping with contempt.

"Speak for yourself, Mr. Malfoy--do not speak for the others," Remus replied in clipped tones, fighting to keep his temper in check. That wasn't as hard as it once had been, though. "And as for your son--I would hardly call Weasley's attack unprovoked. Your son had already assaulted a third-year Gryffindor, Angelina Johnson, and was in the process of casting another curse when Weasley intervened." Remus' voice grew very, very cold.

"And if I were you, Lucius, I would count myself very lucky that Weasley acted when he did. Your son was in the process of casting something...Unforgivable."

Dangerous gray eyes widened in shock, but Malfoy gained control quickly. His previously cold gaze then became heated with anger. His voice was stiff. "I cannot believe that."

"Nor can I," Remus gave him a frosty smile. "After all, I can't imagine where he could have learned such a thing."

------------

"Tell me what you've heard about Operation Icebreaker."

"Operation what?" Bill echoed, staring strangely at his superior. The two of them were locked in a very small room that he'd never even known existed; they had gained access to it through James Potter's office, and he strongly suspected that the one and only other door led to Arabella Figg's private domain. The entrance had been carefully concealed behind a bookshelf, and Bill was smart enough to realize that he was one of the very few Aurors who had ever been in this gloomy and windowless hole. There wasn't even any magical lighting; a few candles were scattered on shelves or the table in the center of the room, but they were definitely of the Muggle kind and were busy dripping wax all over the polished oak tabletop. That alone was enough to tell Bill that this abode was a closely held secret--there was no magic present, save for the silencing charms he had heard Potter enact upon entry. There was nothing for anyone to trace.

Not for the first time, he wondered why he was here.

"Good," Potter smiled. Something mischievous flashed in his hazel eyes. "Azkaban, I presume you have heard of?"

A heated reply came immediately to mind, but seeing the grin, Bill knew he was being teased--and gently, so far. "Once or twice," he replied dryly. "Perhaps."

Potter chuckled briefly, but then his expression sobered. "You were in the Aurors before Voldemort took the prison, correct?"

"I was." He well remembered the Dementors, and struggled not to shudder at the thought. Like many of his fellows, Bill hated the creatures.

"Have you ever been there?" the leading Auror asked. "Delivering prisoners or the like?"

"Twice," Bill replied honestly. Didn't much enjoy it, either. "With Moody."

Thinking of his mentor hurt. Alastor Moody, who had been waylaid by a dozen and a half Dementors. Bill could picture it in his mind, even though he had not been anywhere near his mentor that day. Alastor Moody, who had fought them off successfully, but had been greatly weakened in the process. A desire for revenge still burned strongly within him--Yet another thing for which Voldemort must pay! Alastor Moody, who had been slain by the Dark Lord himself.

"Good," Potter replied after a moment. His face had become grim. "I assume, of course, that you are aware of the Ministry's efforts to retake the prison?"

Bill was still trying to figure out where this was going. "I am." He frowned. "If I may ask, sir, what does that have to do with this 'Operation Icebreaker'?"

"Everything, in that Icebreaker is the best chance we have to crack Azkaban open and take the first steps towards winning this war."

Bill felt something snap and twist inside his gut. He knew all the reasons for taking Azkaban back, for the possibility of doing so was a constant topic of discussion within the Aurors, but this was different. Potter wasn't trying to belittle the importance of Azkaban; his not mentioning those reasons only underlined how crucial it was to take the island back. Ever since its loss, Azkaban had been Voldemort's throne and base of operations; it was the one place that the Ministry's spies had never been able to breach. It was also, in short, the Dark Lord's private little hell, and the Wizarding public knew it. Azkaban was the most potent symbol of Voldemort's power. But Bill wasn't surprised by those facts, or the Ministry's desire to regain the prison. What shocked him was Potter's words.

There were few who dared to speak of winning the war. Merely surviving seemed enough for everyone else... Bill tried to frown--optimism, in his experience, was overrated--but it was hard. Something about Potter's words had struck a cord inside him. Here was hope. "So what you're saying is that Azkaban is the first step toward the end?"

"Yes. Or it can be, anyway," the other Auror replied. "The Ministry has been trying to penetrate the island for years, but I don't have to tell you what the result of those efforts has been."

The hope threatened to plummet, overcome, as always, by reality. Bill answered grimly. "Nothing."

Potter nodded. "The Ministry's security leaks worse than a sieve."

"Is it that bad?" He had to ask, but then something clicked. "This isn't a Ministry operation, is it?"

"No, it is not," his boss replied. Suddenly, his hazel eyes settled on the younger man with startling intensity, acknowledging the perceptiveness of Bill's question even as they drilled down into his soul. "Tell me what you know about the Order of the Phoenix, Bill."

His heart did a stutter step and then a back flip in his chest. "It really exists?"

Potter nodded silently. His eyes were still focused unerringly on Bill, who had to take a moment to sort the facts out in his head.

"Mostly what the rumors say," he admitted. "It is a secret organization that stands against the Dark Lord, but no one really knows who the members are..." There was an unspoken question that Bill did not dare ask.

"If you choose to accept this mission, you will be one of them," was the quiet reply.

"What is it?"

This was the only thing left to ask, really. He knew he would accept. While many would spend time considering the risks involved, Bill could only think of the good witches and wizards were left trapped inside Azkaban, tortured for information until Voldemort had drained them dry and left them to rot in the Dementors' tender care. The Dark Lord's servants made no secret of what happened in the prison or of the horrors the inmates faced. First and foremost of those horrors, of course, were the Dementors, but worse still were the Lestranges, Voldemort's pair of "specialists." Rodolphus and Bellatrix Lestrange had been rather twisted before they were sent to Azkaban in 1979, but when the Dark Lord had taken the prison seven years later, they had not been amongst the sanest of the released Death Eaters. What little sanity they had ever possessed seemed to have left them, and they now rarely left the island. Azkaban had become their private playground to implement sick and twisted tortures in service of the Dark Lord.

And Bill wasn't a fool. He knew that everyone broke eventually.

"Operation Icebreaker," Potter continued without preamble, "was originally intended to be the infiltration of Azkaban by a member of the Order's inner circle. The idea was to send someone who was too tempting of a target for Voldemort to kill right away--someone who knew secrets that the Dark Lord could not resist. However, your unexpected...interference changed that."

Now he understood Arabella Figg's anger! "The Minister," Bill said with surprise. "She meant to be caught?"

"Yes," the other replied dryly. "But unfortunately, that ruse won't work twice, even for another member of the inner circle. So now we must improvise."

"Why me?"

"First, because of your talent at curse-breaking. Once you reach Azkaban, if you choose to accept this mission--and make no mistake, this is voluntary--you will be on your own. There is nothing we, as in the Ministry or the Order, can do to aid you once you are inside. Second, you already know of the operation's existence, thanks to Arabella's ill-timed outburst.

"However, the first one is the most important of our reasons. Whomever we send will be supplied with two transfigured items: their own wand and a Portkey to a predetermined safe location. The spells used to transform each item are old and complicated magic, and should be undetectable, even for Voldemort. They are also time specific, and neither the Portkey or the wand will appear until a certain number of days have passed." The older man paused for a moment, letting Bill contemplate what he had said. It was a good plan, even if it was completely insane and incredibly dangerous. But then again, when could walking into the lair of the Dark Lord ever not be so? When Bill nodded, Potter continued.

"At that time, the agent will have three options. The first is to simply escape, hopefully brining with them essential information that will allow us to crack Azkaban once and for all. Second is to attempt a rescue of other inmates before making their own escape. The third, and most dangerous, is the option of opening the Portkey to allow others to use it as a reverse beacon, thus clearing the way for an all-out assault on the island."

Bill could have done a little soul-searching, could have considered the possibilities and the risks involved. But in the end, there was only one answer he could give, and it would not change over time.

"When do I start?"