Promises Unbroken

Promises Unbroken

Chapter Fourteen: All that Remains

"Damn."

The muttered curse made James look up from the letter he was reading to the person across from his desk. Distantly, he noticed that the Daily Prophet delivery owl was flying out the window once more, having dropped the paper in his visitor's hands. "Read the front page, did you?"

"Yeah," Bill Weasley replied glumly. "Damn!"

"I know," James replied quietly, wishing that he didn't feel so drained. James wished he could feel the pain that Bill felt, that he could still experience that burning desire for revenge--but he could not. It had been too long. "I know..."

"Liz and Roger..." Bill said softly. "And their kid. Bastard."

James sighed. He agreed, of course, but there was nothing else to say. And there were statistics to add up in his head. Another Auror had gone down.

"How did you know?" the other suddenly asked.

"You know I can't tell you that, Bill." But he had known; James had known of the attack at the Woods' home in the early hours of the morning. He also knew that Oliver Wood had been a school friend of his son's, and that the fifth year Gryffindor had been the Quidditch captain for Harry's team. He knew that Elizabeth Wood had been an Auror, experienced and solid--one of the few famed "old timers" left. Her husband Roger had worked in the Department of Magical Transportation. Both had been good people, James knew.

And both had died hard.

Damn.

"They didn't deserve that," Bill remarked quietly, fingering his ponytail absentmindedly. In the two months that James had been working closely with the younger man, he'd come to realize that was a habit Bill had when he was worried. Or depressed.

"No, they didn't," he agreed. "No one does."

Bill looked up from the paper. "The Prophet says they were tortured. Tell me that's wrong."

"It's not. Mulciber and Flint were responsible."

Bill's green eyes went dark. "Someday, those two are going to pay."

"For that amongst many other things," James agreed, leaving many words unspoken, but both Aurors heard them anyway. Scott Mulciber and Lloyd Flint were the Dark Lord's bounty hunters, experts at finding and killing anyone. The only black mark on their record, so far, had been James Potter...and even he wasn't such a fool to think that would last. But then again... He sighed quietly. "There's something I ought to tell you, Bill."

"What?"

"You know they killed Charlie." He hated to ask, for it hurt them both, but...

"Yes." The other's voice was tight.

"Do you know why?"

Bill blinked. "No. I've tried to guess, over the years, but I can't imagine why. I mean, Charlie was a good Auror, but..."

"He was working on the Azkaban Project with me, Bill."

"He was?" Weasley asked with surprise, and James nodded. He took a deep breath before replying:

"I've been trying to crack Azkaban for years," he said. "We thought we had it, then--we had a source who was willing to help us, one of Voldemort's inner circle who had seen something that sh--they claimed to have turned them against him. Charlie met with the spy, and was killed on his way back to headquarters. Whatever he knew, Voldemort could not afford to let out."

"So the spy turned out to be a double agent," Bill snarled.

"It appears so," James replied quietly, wondering why that didn't sit well in his mind. "I've always thought, though, that there was something more to Charlie's death, something that doesn't quite meet the eye."

Something dangerous flashed in Bill's eyes, but he obviously knew better than to ask for the spy's identity. Personal revenge was not acceptable; Aurors were held to a higher standard. Instead, the other asked, "Something about Azkaban?"

"I think so," James allowed. "But it's just a hunch."

"Well, we'll find out soon, won't we?" Bill asked, smiling bloodlessly.

There were few things left to say, and nothing left to ask, for he knew the answer before the question could be formed. "Are you ready?"

"Tomorrow," Bill nodded confidently. There was just enough fear in his eyes, though, to reassure James. "I'm ready."

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Footsteps echoed on cold concrete. It had been some time since Severus had visited Azkaban--although visiting was a rather inappropriate word. At any rate, though, he hated the place. At the very least, he hated Azkaban for the cold and the dark; he might have been a Slytherin (and lived down in Hogwarts' dungeons, to boot), but the black nature of the island was enough to quell his spirit. Despair was heavy in the air, enough so that he could smell it with every step he took. Somewhere along the way, Snape had lost the ability to revel in others' pain and sufferings--or perhaps he had never quite had an aptitude for that. Much of his youth, after all, had been the life of a lie.

Especially to himself.

He scowled, taking care that his features betrayed none of his inner feelings. Snape knew that his face was grim and not a little bitter, but that was to be expected. The others feared him, he knew, nearly as much as they feared Lucius Malfoy or Voldemort himself. He was practically a legend amongst the Dark Lord's followers: the sarcastic and bitter Severus Snape, whom Death Eaters crossed only once. If they survived the experience, not a one of them had been stupid enough to do it twice. Such risks were not worth the pain, and Voldemort wasn't likely to discipline the man who stood at the third place in his circle. Unless, of course, Severus thought ironically, he realizes that I have been spying on him for twelve years.

How he had lived so long, Snape would never know. That he would eventually be found out, and thus die a very painful death was a given, but the gamble was worth the price he would someday pay. Although Severus still grated under the weight of his nightmares--hardly a night passed when he did not dream of the atrocities he had committed; he could remember every murder, rape and torture session with no effort--at least he did so on his own terms. He was dammed, true, but at least his soul was his own. His choices were his own, and he had chosen, once and long ago, to go to Albus Dumbledore, seeking not forgiveness, which even Albus could not grant, but a way to atone for the horrible things he had done. He would never be able to fully do so, of course, but he wouldn't have been much of a man if he hadn't tried.

But no matter. Every day was another step in that effort, and so was today's call. Severus glanced half-heartedly around himself and felt his scowl deepen as he viewed the finery of the Dark Lord's inner abode. Azkaban, he knew, had not always been this way. The chief warden's house hadn't been so luxurious, but on the other hand, the atmosphere inside it had never been so dark. Then again, the house--it was more properly called a palace--had also been expanded right up to the prison itself. Snape snorted quietly to himself. He would never have been able to live there, because it didn't take much effort to hear the screams coming out of the prison, no matter where you were in Voldemort's palace. The Dark Lord, however, seemed to view it as paradise.

Severus stepped through the door to--well, calling the room anything but the Dark Lord's throne room would have been an exercise in futility. Personally, he found the use of a throne just a bit presumptuous, but Snape was certainly not stupid enough to tell Voldemort that. He hadn't lived so long by being stupid, after all, and had no desire to hasten his own demise.

The Death Eater strode forward and knelt at the Dark Lord's feet. "My Lord."

"Severus," the hissing voice replied coolly. There was a moment, and then another, and for a moment Snape wondered if he had done something wrong. He kept his head bowed, waiting, and finally heard the distant command. "Rise."

He did so, noticing the pinched expression on Voldemort's face, and taking a careful mental note that the Dark Lord was not happy. In fact, rage was dancing behind the red eyes, and Severus sincerely hoped that he hadn't been the one to so anger his master. He had plenty of experience at the receiving end of Voldemort's wrath, and had no wish to repeat the process. Still, though, he did not speak. Snape's patience was also a legend amongst the Death Eaters. He'd wait for Hell to freeze over if he had to, and judging from the temperature at the island in that dismal January, that wouldn't be long in coming.

"What have you learned?" Voldemort finally asked.

"My Lord, it seems that Rosier has not yet cracked," Snape replied immediately. "He remains true to you, despite being in Ministry custody. However, even without a confession, there is ample evidence against him, and he is sure to be executed soon."

The words threatened to stick in Severus' throat. Rosier had once been a friend, and a good one, back at Hogwarts in a life long passed.

"Potter..." the Dark Lord hissed quietly, rising convulsively from his throne. Anger radiated off of him in waves, and Severus was very glad not to be the object of his fury. He knew, too, that he was somewhat privileged (albeit in a odd way) to see Voldemort's frustration. Usually the Dark Lord kept it hidden from his subordinates, but Snape hadn't risen to the forefront of his peers for no reason. Voldemort did not precisely trust him (the Dark Lord trusted no man completely), but he knew that Snape had more to lose than any other Death Eater aside from Lucius Malfoy. The crimes he was wanted for were worthy of a millennium in prison, and those were only the ones that the Ministry knew of.

In his time he had done much worse.

Voldemort paced forward several steps, and finally halted, skewering Severus with a cold and angry gaze. "He must die."

"Yes, My Lord." Snape pulled in a deep breath, and then took the plunge. It was a gamble, but... "If you would permit me, I could--

"No," the monster cut him off with a wave of the hand. "I would willingly entrust you with this mission, Severus, but you are needed elsewhere. Quirrell is too much the fool to trust alone at Hogwarts."

Thank God. "Mulciber and Flint, then, My Lord?"

"Yes." Red eyes flashed, but the anger was directed at James Potter, who had captured yet another Death Eater who had been sent to kill him.

"I will notify them, My Lord." Severus bowed his acquiesce, but did not leave. To do so before dismissal would be the ultimate foolery.

"See to it," Voldemort snarled. "You have the potion?"

"Of course, My Lord." Snape felt a flash of irritation, and let it show on his face. Rare was the occasion when he failed to deliver as promised, and he had never neglected to provide a potion when so commanded by the Dark Lord. But he withdrew the vial from within his robes without having to be told, and handed it over.

His irritation gave way to a tinge of regret. Evan Rosier had once been his friend, but it was just like Voldemort to demand Snape's deadliest potion to give to a man who was doomed anyway. There would be no effort to rescue Rosier from Ministry captivity; there never was for Death Eaters who were caught and could not save themselves. And the fact that Rosier would inevitably be executed did not matter--the Dark Lord took no chances, and Rosier would be expected to take the potion and die before secrets could be forced from him. It was a cold outlook, but accepted. Voldemort took the vial without a word. However, when Snape expected dismissal, there was suddenly:

"Walk with me, Severus."

"Yes, My Lord." Without any hesitation, he fell into step at the Dark Lord's left. What Voldemort wanted, he did not know, but it was sure to be interesting.

"You are dissatisfied, Severus," Voldemort hissed.

His heart thundered in his throat. "Forgive me, Master. I am--"

Again, Voldemort waved off his response. "Your enmity with Potter is well known, but it will not interfere with my plans."

"Yes, My Lord," Severus breathed, trying to hide his relief. For one moment, he had thought... But that no longer mattered. His secrets were still safe, so he concentrated on looking like the loyal Death Eater the entire Wizarding world assumed he was.

"I trust there will be no...problems?" the Dark Lord pressed threateningly.

"Never, My Lord."

Together, they exited the throne room, walking down the long and silent corridor. However, Severus was surprised when they took a right at the end of the wide hallway and passed through the entrance to the prison itself. Azkaban was the Dark Lord's private playground, and Death Eaters seldom entered that domain, save for the likes of the Lestranges, both of whom lived in the prison itself and only left the island in Voldemort's service. Severus, because of his position at Hogwarts, rarely came to the island, save when summoned. And he hadn't been in the prison for years.

"The werewolf," Voldemort said suddenly.

"No progress." Snape scowled. "The fool will not change allegiance, no matter what the offer--and the only way to kill him discreetly would surely point directly to me."

"Then do not do it. Quirrell I will sacrifice, but your removal would only place Hogwarts in Sprout's hands, for which I have no use," the Dark Lord replied.

"Should I give Quirrell the order?" Severus asked, dreading the answer.

"Not yet. Potter first...then Lupin."

"Yes, My Lord."

"And as for Quirrell--"

"My Lord!" Rodolphus Lestrange's voice cut Voldemort off abruptly, and both Dark wizards swung to face the approaching Death Eater, who hurriedly knelt at the Dark Lord's feet while Severus resisted the urge to step away from Voldemort's anger--and the wand that was suddenly in Voldemort's hand.

"What is it?" the Dark Lord demanded angrily, and Severus estimated that Lestrange had fifteen seconds before he was in a world of pain.

Lestrange flinched. "Forgive me, Master, but the experiment has...failed."

"What?"

"Yes, Master," Lestrange responded very quietly. "The--"

"Crucio."

Severus watched impassively as the Death Eater screamed and twitched on the floor. He had no idea what 'experiment' that Lestrange was talking about, but it hardly mattered. Failure carried a very high price in their world, and he felt no pity for those who incurred the Dark Lord's wrath. They had chosen their own paths.

Finally, Voldemort released the other from the curse, and after a moment of panting on the floor, Lestrange clambered back to his knees, shaking.

"Why?" Voldemort hissed.

"The prisoner resisted too long, Master," Lestrange replied timidly. "He is now unconscious... Further attempts would probably kill him."

Severus filed those words away for future reference. Anything that earned Voldemort's fury was certainly worth watching, and he was indeed furious--within seconds, Lestrange was screaming again.

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

Arthur answered the knock on his office door with a shouted "Yes!" He was knee-deep in paper work, thanks to his new promotion--Addams had retired just two days before, and Arthur already swamped. However, he did spare a moment's worth of attention to look up at his visitor, and his blood ran cold. It was Arabella Figg.

He and the Head of the DMLE were old friends. In fact, they had dated once, back in their early years at Hogwarts, and the relationship had managed, somehow, to end on good terms. But 'Bella was a busy woman, and not prone to making social visits in the middle of the work day--which could only mean one thing. His heart racing, Arthur tried to stand up, but found his legs would not work. Something had happened, and her voice only solidified that suspicion.

"Sit down, Arthur," 'Bella said quietly. She came around the side of his desk and faced him squarely. It took him a long moment to find his voice.

"It's Bill, isn't it?" Arthur finally managed.

"Yes, it is," 'Bella replied. She wasn't the type to mince words, and Arthur felt like someone had knifed him in the gut. His breath was coming short, suddenly, and all he could think was that it couldn't be true... Arthur blinked hard, and swallowed even harder. Not another one, he thought desperately. Please not another one. Not now. Not Bill--Arabella took his hand gently.

"I know what you're thinking, Arthur," she said softly. "But he's not dead."

"Not...dead?" Hope seized up inside him, but 'Bella shook her head slightly.

"Bill's in Azkaban, Arthur," she said gently. "He was captured two hours ago."

Azkaban. The very mention of the word made Arthur go cold. His son. In Azkaban. God, no. Not Bill. He was shaking, but Arthur was unable to care. Bill was in Azkaban.

'Bella squeezed his hand. "We'll go everything we can for him, Arthur, but..."

The unspoken words left a hole in his heart. But. But no one had ever made it out of Azkaban alive. But the Ministry's former prison was the Dark Lord's throne world. But there was no hope.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

Visions of all the horrors Bill had to be experiencing swam before Arthur's eyes. It was hard to breathe. First Charlie, and now Bill...he swallowed. The news was going to hit his family very hard. Molly... His mouth suddenly very dry, Arthur swallowed again. "Does my wife know yet?"

"Not yet. I thought you would rather be there for it."

Arthur nodded woodenly. "Yes."

"We can use the fireplace downstairs." Very gently, 'Bella pulled him to his feet. "Let's go."

Arthur followed her mechanically. Oh, Bill... In Azkaban. His son was going to die in hell. Only Arabella's hand on his arm kept him walking straight, and Arthur stumbled more than once going down the stairs. It was hard to care. Bill had been captured... Mixing with the horrible visions now were the memories of all the good times. He wanted to hate someone, anyone, for his son's capture, but there wasn't enough emotion to feel angry. He felt drained. Bill was gone. Arthur bumped into a doorframe along the way, but he couldn't care. He'd lost another one.

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"It's done?"

"Yes," James said quietly. "Early this morning." Part of him felt guilty over sending another man into danger, and there was nothing anyone could say to make him feel better about this. Risks, James knew, were necessary, especially in his line of work, but sometimes he wished that he could have become a professional Quidditch player instead... Life certainly would have been a lot easier, then--but there was no fooling himself. Life would have meant less if he had taken the easy way out, and James knew that he'd chosen the right career path. There were just moments when it was hard. Like now.

He could only imagine what Bill might face in Azkaban. They had sent him with every possible warning, and had tried to give him every advantage they could--but in the end, James knew that his friend would face torture. Voldemort did not just lock up Aurors, even those who, like Bill, knew very little that could help him. Torture, James knew, was standard operating procedure. Bill knew it, too, and he'd said he was ready, but James wouldn't wish that on anyone. Especially a volunteer...

"One week, James, and then we will know," Dumbledore said quietly, reading his mind.

He sighed. "I wish it could be sooner."

"As do I. But you agreed that a week was the least amount of time we could wait," the old man pointed out.

"I know." James shrugged. "I just hate doing this... I hate watching them die."

"Perhaps Peter is right, then. Perhaps it is time for you to leave the field," Dumbledore suggested gently, but James shook his head.

"Not until he's gone," the Auror answered grimly. "I can't stop until Voldemort goes down."

The old man smiled ever so slightly. "I knew you would say that," he replied, much to James' relief. "But I had to offer."

"Thanks," James said quietly, meaning it. Then he forced a smile. "You know, it might not be much longer...this could be it."

"The chance to break open Azkaban, you mean?" Dumbledore's blue eyes found James' brown. His voice was grim. "Don't fool yourself, James. You and I both know that Azkaban won't end this."

Something cold and angry flared inside him. "Oh, I know," James admitted. "But it might start something. And then, at the very least, we'll know what he's been hiding in there all these years."