Fidelius Week

Fidelius Week

by Weaver

Part Five of Seven

Starring Broken!Peter, Scheming!Voldemort, Decided!Findabhair, and Splinched!Sirius
In which Voldemort, Elaine and Lucius begin some serious plotting, Fin makes her excuses and leaves, a random Auror's day is made, a Muggle screams and Sirius is taken to St. Mungo's.

"There will be no light; there will be no heat; there will be no life; only the corpses of dead stars and galaxies, ever expanding into the endless darkness and the cold recesses of space... The entire universe marches irreversibly towards its grave."

SUNDAY: OVERCAST

Mrs Porkins of 6 Stellamort Street was awakened very early by a horrified scream, right outside her bedroom window. Grumbling, her old bones creaking, she wrapped a dressing gown around herself and made her way to the window to see what was going on.

One glance was all she needed; some poor fool had splinched himself outside that nice boy Pettigrew's home, and a Muggle teenager out for a jog had almost tripped over him. Muttering dire imprecations, Mrs Porkins hobbled outside, wishing her husband were still alive to deal with this sort of thing.

"Calm down, dear," she said to the hysterical girl. "It's nothing big - come over this way and have a cuppa -" The girl looked at her blankly, shivering, and didn't even move when Mrs Porkins cast the Memory Charm. "Now you keep on jogging. It's just been a lovely run, nothing unusual, but you've had enough for today, you won't come back this way, will you dear?"

"No, I've had enough for today," the girl repeated sleepily. "I'll just keep on jogging?"

Mrs Porkins nodded and sent her on her way before turning to the splinched man. She cast a quick Concealment Charm over the two of them; this looked like it could take a while.

The poor dear had done quite a thorough job; all that was left here was his torso, left arm and head. He'd somehow managed even to lose one eyeball, the opposite eyebrow and half his hair. The eye that was left looked desperate, frantic, almost wild - she could understand that, considering he must have been out here all night, but he looked almost on the edge of sanity and surely that wasn't right?

She drew her wand and laid it on his temple, concentrating - it was definitely the worst case of splinching she'd ever seen, she decided. The poor, poor boy! He must have been in an absolutely terrible state of mind when he Disapparated, to end up scattered as widely as this - it was beyond her reach. Sighing, she took back her wand.

The magic fire was easy to call up, once you had the knack of it; a lot of youngsters found it hard to do, but Mrs Porkins had never had a problem. She filled her wrinkled old palm with purple flames and put in a direct call to the Ministry, hoping they could get somebody out here quickly. It looked like being a big job.

*

Lord Voldemort had only had one wing of the derelict mansion he used rebuilt, but that one was bustling with activity. The attack on the Potters was going to be the final stroke in a war that was already won; with the posterchildren for the Light taken out in one stroke, the Dark Lord's victory would be complete, and he intended to make it a decisive victory. All around Fin, Death Eaters were rushing frantically back and forth, planning, preparing, and plotting.

Fin felt like a stone in a sandstorm. She sat perfectly still, in the centre of the hall, an odd heaviness weighing down her limbs, unable to tear her eyes away from the Showstone in front of her - a large crystal globe, supported on a lattice of woven magic, capable of showing any scene the Dark Lord or his helpers directed it to. It was Voldemort's most valued tool, despite Dumbledore's many wards against it. Right now, in the centre of the globe, Elaine was giving Peter a thorough beating. Fin watched the scene over and over again.

Elaine didn't ask any questions, and Peter didn't volunteer anything - it was just pain, sharp blows to the kidneys and back, kneecap-shattering kicks, the kind of sadism Elaine was famed, respected and feared for. Fin watched, almost unseeingly, feeling parts of herself tear loose from their moorings. Her world was collapsing slowly but surely around her ears, and in the rubble she could see only one thing - Sirius.

A sharp tap on her shoulder startled her out of her reverie, and she turned - Elaine was standing there, immaculately dressed in a white gown with her thick dark hair piled artistically on the top of her head, looking very elegant and very dangerous. "Do you like the display?" she asked mildly, as if it was really no more to her than that -- a display.

"You look like you had fun," Fin said non-commitally. "Did he talk?"

"Not yet, but he will, oh, he will," Elaine said. She rubbed her gloved hands together happily. "But why are you not busy, Findabhair? Tomorrow night we move."

"Tomorrow?" Fin squeaked, taken aback. She had expected more time to resolve the half-formed ideas drifting around inside her head.

"Yes," Elaine told her, raising one elegant eyebrow. "Tomorrow at midnight. I trust you will be ready?"

"Oh, I'll be ready all right," Fin made herself say. It was true, too, even if she didn't know quite what she'd be ready for. "You're going out?"

"Naturally," Elaine said. "I have to meet with Lucius."

Fin nodded, carefully not saying what she thought. Elaine was married to Armand Lestrange, true, but it was very commonly known that she and Lucius Malfoy - who was also married - were rather more than just friends. Armand was a rather quiet man with a nervous disposition; it was obvious who wore the pants in that marriage - and Lucius's wife was a pale little wreck of a girl called Narcissa.

Sighing, she watched Elaine glide away, and forced the idle gossip out of her mind. She had done so little thinking for two years now that she was having trouble making herself concentrate - and gossip was safe, reassuring, comforting.

In the Showstone, Elaine carefully and precisely broke Peter's right little finger, laughing.

Coming to a decision, Fin got up and walked resolutely out of the Hall.

*

Through a haze of blood and pain, Peter realised that someone was standing near him. Groaning, he tried to open his eyes - he managed to see, through the puffy slits that was all he could manage, a pair of sleek black riding boots and a whip being leisurely tapped against one ankle.

"Awake, Wormtail?" Lucius Malfoy's familiar sneering voice asked, and one shiny boot connected with his side, hard enough to roll him over onto his back. The Death Eater was dressed immaculately in riding clothes, his fine blonde hair fringing his face and giving him an angelic look. "The Dark Lord wants to speak to you."

"Dwnatalkt'him," Peter mumbled through lips so swollen and bruised he could barely move them. "G'd nothnto sy."

"Oh, I think you do have something to say, I really do, Wormtail." Was the man laughing? Peter had never heard him laugh, even cruelly as he was doing now. Something stirred in alarm inside him. "You see," Lucius continued, "you have a secret that needs to be told. The Dark Lord is your friend, Wormtail, he wants to take this burden away from you."

There was no saliva in Peter's mouth; he made the gesture of spitting anyway. "Fuck you," he mumbled.

Lucius's voice hardened. "Of course, if you choose not to let him help you, we may have to try... other means of persuasion."

Peter didn't bother trying to spit again. "Wha' more c'n you do?" he forced out, realising as he did that he'd lost several teeth. And that was by far the least of his worries.

"Oh, plenty, plenty. For example, this lovely young woman here - I believe she is your wife, yes?"

A lightning bolt of cold, cold fear struck Peter. "'F'you hurt her," he grunted impotently, but let the sentence trail off. He closed his eyes so as not to see Lucius, or the cold, grey stone roof that hung so cheerfully above him.

"We haven't hurt her yet, Peter," a new voice cut in. He jerked reflexively, recognising Elaine's deceptively gentle tones. "We won't, unless you prove difficult."

Lucius kicked him again, forcing him onto his side, from where he could see the hem of her snow-white dress skimming the dust and dried blood of the floor. She stooped down. "You will tell us the Secret, Wormtail. We really do have far too much power over you for you to do anything else, you know."

"I will not."

"Yes, you will." Lucius sounded supremely satisfied. "Come, Elaine, we must be off. Wormtail, I suggest you reconsider your decision, I really do."

"Fuck you," Peter grunted. "Fuck you."

"Oh, come now, there's really no need for that," Elaine said over her shoulder, sweeping out of the room. Lucius held the door for her, and left Peter with a single smug smile.

Peter curled up into a ball on the hard dungeon floor, and the icy stones weren't the only things striking cold into his heart.

And then Voldemort returned, and began to torture Anne...

*

"Yep, you're sure in a bad way, mister!"

"Don't worry, we'll have you out of this and right as rain..."

"Just a couple nights in St. Mungo's and you'll be all fixed again!"

"A couple of nights?" Sirius spat, struggling against the friendly Ministry workers. It was amazingly difficult to struggle when you didn't have your legs.

"Oy, oy, settle down, mate! Merlin, he's in a state!"

"You don't understand - I have to get to James! I have to warn them!"

Well-meaning hands pushed him back down. "Mate, stay still or we'll end up stickin' ya legs on ya head." He felt the almost indescribable crunching sticky feeling that meant they'd retrieved one of his legs and reattached it. It was humiliating. And Fin was out there somewhere - and Peter - and the Death Eaters - and Lily and James...

"Just let me up!" he begged, uncomfortably aware that his voice was skirting the edge of sanity. "Please!"

The bulkier official exchanged glances with the younger ones. "Mister, you got to stay still while we put you back together. You ain't goin' anywhere like that."

"Then hurry up, for fuck's sake!"

"Mate, it makes no difference. You'll be flat on ya back for a couple days either way." The skinniest one patted him on the shoulder. "Think of it as an 'oliday."

"No, you don't understand! I have to go! Fin's out there - she's alive!"

The bulky one spoke again. "Sounds like a good thing, mister. Everything's okay. Now go to sleep. Stupefy!"

*

The morning had stretched into late afternoon when Fin found herself emerging from Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn Alley; the light was dimming rapidly and the Alley was all but deserted. She knew it wouldn't last for long - at nightfall Knockturn Alley was at its busiest - but for now, she was alone. Which made her duty much easier.

Nobody knew quite where the Ministry of Magic's headquarters were, apart from possibly those who worked there; Fin was no exception. She did know that Aurors regularly patrolled Diagon Alley after dark; she'd spent enough time dodging them to know their exact routines. It was odd to be waiting for them - to not be a fugitive any more, to wear her own face and to walk unhidden in the middle of the street. She wished she'd never given it up. What had the hiding and the darkness brought her? Nothing - nothing but ashes and cold, dusty death. An old Muggle phrase came to her - "It is a far, far better thing I do than any I have done before." She whispered that to herself, unsure if she was mutilating the original saying or not, but finding comfort in the words however they went.

The bench she chose to wait on was cold, but no colder than her limbs. When the first blue-robed pair marched down the street, she lifted her hands to put her hood back, but made no other movement. They slowed in front of her bench.

"Ma'am, you shouldn't be out here alone after nightfall," one said, his brow creased slightly. The other one looked at her, looked away, and then did an almost comical double take.

"Findabhair Danaan!" he exclaimed.

"It is I," Fin said, keeping her voice formal and steady. "I give myself up into your hands."

The first Auror was looking quite puzzled, while the second one looked just shocked. "Findabhair?" he asked. "Aren't you dead?"

She shook her head, brushed her hair out of her eyes, and pushed her sleeve up her arm to show them the Dark Mark staining her skin. That got them moving. She was at wandpoint almost before she could blink, both of them focused and deadly all of a sudden.

"I surrender to you," she repeated, and let them take her away. One word hovered in her mind, blanketing her emotions: Sirius.

*

Sirius was, at that moment, unconscious in the Splinching Ward of St Mungo's, entirely unaware of the time ticking past like an irreversible river of death. And Sunday slipped away, and midnight came, and so began James and Lily Potter's last twenty-four hours of life.

*

Revised 11th January 2003

Author's Notes:
I apologise for the long delays. Personal problems, blah blah, you all know how it goes. But now that I've revised this and fixed up a few small things, it really shouldn't be too long until Chapter Six arrives. Thank you everyone for your reviews and comments and suggestions - every single one is treasured. (Who, me, a feedback whore?) I think that's all for now - but I'll see you again at the end of Chapter Six: Monday: Breaking Point.
Much love, Weaver.