CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

LAST NIGHT HAD BEEN DANGEROUS, and a honey infused reverie, all at the same time. It was startling how fleeting it seemed now to me as I stood in the forest, our campsite the size of my thumb perched on the rock plain we had ground our heels down and set ourselves up in. My eyes remained fixed on the campground, my heart dreading and hoping for movement at the same time. 

The first light of the new day had peaked, a ray tearing through the pitch darkness of the sky, eliciting feelings of relief and terror in me all at once. I had gotten up, knowing that the while I had closed my eyes with my head on Viktor Krum's chest had been a very brief while. The Durmstrang was plunged into his own slumber, his body shut off from the weights and the walls it had faced in its waking hours. 

Leaving Krum's side had been terrifying, as though he was a ghost I was afraid that distance would sever my connection with him. I was afraid that as soon I left, he would float away and become a figment of my imagination—and I his. 

I still had to leave, despite my heart jabbing protests like knives in its own soft flesh—making itself bleed profusely just so that I would notice its agony. I did notice it, I did feel it. But somehow my mind helped me battle the pain, and I thought then with slight tears in my eyes, that my strength really did come from a deeper within and not solely from the heuristics weaved in the red of my blood. 

I had left the campsite, dressing myself and offering my sanity one last look at Viktor Krum's muscular slumbering form. Everyone else was also deep in their sleep, having put themselves down promptly in the night perhaps, after Viktor and I had taken to a side. Harry Potter was also sleeping, the boy's face calm except for a faint tightness in his eyebrow. He was dreaming, and thankfully the reverie was not a wretched one. 

I had had a sudden strong urge to see the dream he was having. Perhaps he dreamt of victory, or of something else entirely—a mere pointless yet exuberating human moment that would mean nothing when he would open his eyes and take in his situation and his surroundings. 

Without disturbing him and pushing my urge away, I had left. Flora Fischer had been summoned then, as I stood in the cold and remotely damp forest while the sun slowly shook itself out of its isolation—not yet hearty enough to conquer the darkness entirely. 

The dwarf witch had found me reserved yet direct, as she had stood in front of me, collecting instructions like heavy pebbles in the cup of her chubby thick hands. I had let her know that I was to be facing Voldemort myself, I had let her know that she was further assigned to protect the slumbering wizards in the campsite I had just left with aid of other acolytes. 

My eyes had narrowed on her form, clad in a sparkly red sequin dress, the witch was startled and her manner etched in embarrassment at the sudden summon which had led her to be seen by me in her present state, while I wore my nearly dirty linen dress which had seen more than just a battle with death eaters in midst of a castle ruin. 

The irritation didn't come to me when faced with the stark contrast of our present states. I had long since realized the deep rooted obsession the dwarf witch had for glamour. As long as she was doing what needed to be done, I realized I didn't much care for her other pursuits in between the summons. As long as she bled when I asked her to, it didn't matter to me what wrappings she used. 

"Yes, my lady," Had been the prompt reply, a humiliation still swirling her form, restricting her from inquiring on further questions that were rising undoubtedly on the tip of her tongue. 

I waited for her still, giving the little time that I could afford. 

"What afterwards, my lady?" The dwarf witch took the sign to draw on her courage. 

"I will defeat him," I spoke, silencing all her other questions with a single factual answer. "I am merely giving you and the other acolytes a task, while I am at it. Until I return." 

"But could we not help.. you?" Her large shallow green eyes held a certain defiance, a miniscule anger that she tried to hide. "We are your acolytes. Why should we not—"

"You are," A vein throbbed in my jaw. "You are helping me by doing this. Keep them all safe, hide your presence. Do not let anyone—death eaters, Voldemort—associate you with Grindelwald or with me." 

The dwarf witch had swallowed, before she dropped slowly to her stout knees on the forest floor, her head bowed low. I blinked, my hands fisting at my sides as I maintained my resolve. Then the witch disappeared, chilly air mixed with the scent of damp moss and the sickly floral perfume she had been wearing, left in her wake. 

Now I stood, taking my one last fill of the campsite, imagining all my friends—the wizards who hadn't really thought about anything at all before they mutually agreed to be here, in my presence and facing the consequences of their decision on each turn—sleeping inside for the moment of peace the night had allowed them.

I thought of Bridgette then, only briefly. If she had been alive, I would've done this still. I would've left her sleeping in the campsite alongside everyone else, for there was nothing she could've suggested that would've been a choice for me. Bridgette Monet's idea of options was embarking on a safe zone, finding alternative ways to conduct things that would result in less loss. But she didn't realize that sometimes safe was a dead end.

And now she was sleeping somewhere else—embedded in the warm ground six feet deep—instead of in the coolness of the air flushing through the campsite both our boyfriebds had set up on a rock plain high in the middle of a forest, somewhere in the depths of Northern Ireland.

I drew my rune, swallowing reluctantly as I pushed thoughts of her out of my mind. I loved her, but at present it were the living that held precedence.

I pictured Hogwarts in my head and suddenly realized how hazy my plan was. I intended to barge into the school I had narrowly escaped from. I intended to ask for an attendance with Voldemort, from the new headmaster.

I couldn't—despite how much I wanted to—show up directly at the Malfoy Manor. That would give my already hazy and not quite thoroughly inspected plan away. I intended to make it seem as though I had had no choice but to surrender. I intended to make it seem as though I had no place else to go and no other threshold to cross in face of defeat and compliance with a power I feared was bigger than me.

Exhaling, I reminded myself that I had no choice but to go with the said plan. Perhaps Sirius Black, in all his knowledge, could help me polish it, I thought to myself, scoffing at the statement.

The ground was a mere second away from swirling away from my feet when I heard a succession of twigs snap in my periphery and I was grabbed suddenly, two remotely slender and dark skinned hands wrapping themselves around my waist as I hurtled through the air. Translocation was air weighing like lead on your shoulders, so I couldn't turn my head to look at the face of the infiltrator who had decided to barge in on my journey without my permission.

Irritation and anger throbbed in me, and before a change could occur, my feet met the ground. Except, the infiltrator had pounced on me in a rather tottering manner—deeming their own feet not likely to meet the ground in the preferable angle from the start.

This caused the both of us to lose our balance, and my body careened out of control after that brief steady meeting with the ground. I landed hard on my knees, my dark hair falling over my face, the skin at my knee joints burning as a result of the friction with the hard ground.

I caught my breath, quickly picking myself up and whirling around, only to face perhaps the most likeliest interloper of all.

Yordanka Hristova stood, dusting her dark clothing off before running a hand over her thick brown hair—piled atop her head like a halo, unperturbed by the journey. She slapped her tan brown hands together, taking her time in the endeavor as I folded my arms across my chest and waited—my fury bubbling inside me.

Then she turned to look at me, meeting my eyes with the barest hint of amusement in them. She moved on from my glower quickly, surveying are arrival destination with a plain scrutiny.

The Hogwarts castle could be seen towering in the distance, its peak tearing amongst light clouds that huddled right at its top—as though pinned in place by the British wizarding school.

The giant lake that faced the school was to our left, still and not a single ripple being induced because of the lack of winds blowing. The ground we were standing on was sparse, and hard. The thin grass covering it had not masked the impact my knees had faced, and as I removed the skirt of the dress a little, one of my skinned knees popped from under—the blood a stark contrast to my olive skin tone, while the other suffered no such thing. 

It was darkly amusing, that after every scrape I had been through in these past few months, this was the one that bled. A mere skinned knee. 

"What do you mean by this?" I was the first to speak, channeling my anger into my words as the Durmstrang witch's nonchalance spiked at my core.

My sense of caution overtook my anger bit by bit as I realized that we could easily be spotted against the plain, should anyone venture out of Hogwarts on foot for an early morning stroll.

"What do you mean by leaving without telling anybody where the fuck you are going?"

The Durmstrang's words were unflinching, her dark eyes bearing into mine before she looked at the castle looming in the distance amongst peaks.

"Hogwarts, huh?" The witch folded her arms. "This isn't a normal visit considering the fact that Wood informed us the school was overrun by death eaters."

She looked at me, scrutiny marring her face.

"As I recall, Grindelwald, you were present too. Or am I mistaken?"

"You are not," I repelled the urge to clench my jaw. I needed to conserve my energy and arguing with Durmstrangs seemingly always took huge chunks of it away.

The girl's eyes narrowed on me as I looked away, my eyes focusing on the castle figure. From this distance it looked entirely harmless. Castles outside of France were utterly deceiving it seemed, Hogwarts and Ilvermorny—even the Schalun ruin—were all treacherous in that way. They looked harmless one minute and then felt entirely daunting the next, with their colorless auras and coldness seeping into dark corridors and hallways. With their threats that never really announced their arrival properly.

The Beauxbatons castle had only ever offered everything you could assume when you looked at it from the outside. It had offered color, beauty, and the extravagance of expression and impression.

"Why did you come here?"

Yordanka asked then, nonchalance evaporating from her tone as she demanded an answer that the witch was already aware of.

"I came to face Voldemort," I offered the response, inhaling the still fresh air and avoiding her gaze.

I didn't require any reaction. I searched for no validation or disapproval. My words were but a set intention—a path that I was taking of my own accord and required no outside agreement for.

To my surprise, the Durmstrang witch exhaled a small laugh. "You have got to be kidding me."

It made me look at her in a new light, this tendency she had that I had never really noticed before. Hristova didn't cower. Hers was a demeanor that was well armed with every weapon she might need for any sort of encounter. Her resolve was a shed a blacksmith might add to and carefully lock up at the end of each day—a shed filled with a variety of tools to cater to any task a hand of flesh could not manage on its own.

The possession of that shed alone gave her the confidence, and though she might disbelief or glower when faced with a challenge, she was well armed enough to make it through.

"I am not, actually," I managed, not knowing what else to say.

We stood in the silent air, a distant chirping of wild birds emanating from a decidedly ugly looking tree at the feet of the castle. It looked as though a cactus had evolved in a distinctly disturbing way—afflicted with perhaps every plant disease at once.

"I can't send you back," I spoke then, breaking the silence and looking at Hristova.

"Sending you back solo would drain me a little, and I'm on a conservation stint at present, considering I aim to face an evil wizard a few hours from now. I won't be letting a Durmstrang dull my chances."

Yordanka scoffed. "You are fucking crazy."

"So are you," I offered her a passive aggressive smile. "Else you would not have harassed me like that and forcefully accompanied me just to satisfy your curiosity."

"I heard what you said to the dwarf," She snapped. "It wasn't my curiosity, only my irritation at you for being so fucking stupid."

"Couldn't the campsite have offered a stable ground to marinate in your irritation? I'm sure you could've pulled out a few yoga poses specifically to cater."

Yordanka exhaled, her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose as she fought to ignore my apathetic responses.

"You cannot be facing that fucker alone," She raised her head then, her eyes meeting mine in fury and degradation alike.

"I intend to," My words were plain, simple.

"Fuck your intentions," The Durmstrang witch seethed then. "We all joined on this fucking thing together. We fought death eaters together for fuck's sake. Why then would you choose to do this alone when you have the fucking help?"

I looked away from her, eyes setting on the castle again.

"Because I lost someone recently," I cursed, hatred for her resistance thick in my throat. "And I would much rather not see anyone else lost."

Hristova didn't speak anything, letting a swift silence stretch on before she shuffled and produced a glistening transparent thing I knew well, from her person.

"The Invisibility cloak," I sharpened my gaze onto her—indignation flooding me in face of my—perhaps not so carefully crafted—sporadic plans fraying. "I thought I had left the remaining deathly hallows with Viktor."

"Oh you did," The Durmstrang smiled passively. "But I snagged this one for use last night, just in case. You can say that I suspected you would pull something like this after Sirius Black requested that secret audience with you. Besides, Krum appeared to be busy and could not be consulted. I don't suppose he would mind."

"It belongs to Harry," I asserted, fighting the heat on my neck at her statement, irritation coursing through me. "I left it with Viktor for Harry. It isn't to be used frivolously."

"Are you sure?" The witch put a brown finger to her chin. "I don't remember reading either of those things on the manual."

"Yordanka," I badgered, my hands fisting at my sides.

She dropped the petulant demeanor then, looking at me with a resolved expression.

"There is no fucking way you are facing Voldemort alone," She reiterated the words clearly, as though they were law—something she believed in and lived for. "I'm going to wrap this thing over me and stay out of sight for as long as you want me to. But I'm joining in at the first strike. It is not only you who's got a thirst to see that fucker put down. This is not only between you and him. There are rest of us too. It doesn't make a battle with no army. Zubair told me that Voldemort killed Igor Karkaroff, he told me that Black had brought the news. Karkaroff was killed while Fontaine and your Madame were merely imprisoned. He didn't deserve to die."

"Nobody Voldemort and his death eaters have killed deserves to die, Yordanka," I seethed. "Nobody my great uncle killed deserved to die. But it happens doesn't it? It is show of power—a sick obligation on their part. But the rest of us? We can't pick just a single person to avenge because that is cruel and heartless in more sick and derogatory ways to every other life lost. Going up against wizards like Voldemort means you do it for them all, no less." 

She didn't respond, her gaze breaking from my own as she looked at the castle. A distant wind blew, gently moving her thick, curly piled up hair only barely. 

"I'm going to be dueling him," I spoke after a pause. "There is no third person in a duel."

"You will stay out of it entirely, Yordanka. I need to defeat him in the duel. That is the whole plan."

The Durmstrang girl looked at me a moment.

"So what, you're going to waltz in there, demand to be taken to him and challenge him blatantly to a duel?"

"No," I straightened myself. "I plan on fraternizing first. I'm not just a witch who has The Elder Wand. I'm a heuristic witch who happens to also have The Elder Wand. He isn't going to want to duel me instantly. He will want to find ways to weaken me first, or convert me entirely to his side if I'm obliging."

"You intend to be fucking obliging don't you?" Hristova pursed her lips, eyeing me.

"I do."

She shook her head in disbelief, a frozen laugh on her face. "This is fucking insane. You are fucking insane, Grindelwald."

"I may be," I turned away from her, planting my hands on the sides of my waist. "Cover yourself with that thing and stay in the shadows. I don't have much time to spare dawdling here with you. Do not butcher this, Hristova. I will not have you butcher this."

─── ☾ ───

Hogwarts was erupting in a melodrama that weighed heavy in the air. As though the theatre stage was lit up yet there were no enthusiastic actors to volunteer, and a crowd of thousands silently perched in the audience, waiting for something to happen.

Students stood about in pairs of threes or twos in most every corner my periphery caught onto in the courtyard. Their animate yet careful voices strewn about engaged in different topics of hushed discussion—a certain caution and fear in their manner. I watched from a safe, undiscerning distance, Yordanka Hristova standing right behind me.

It felt darker than it had felt the last time I was here. It had been a fool's thought to assume that I would never cross the threshold of the British wizarding school again, for here I was, all on my own will.

The ploy of just walking in and making my way to the headmaster's office didn't appeal to me now, perhaps, that had been an impulsive plan on my part. I wanted to make my presence known—of course, I hadn't come to Hogwarts to hide from Voldemort—but there were a multitude of ways I could reveal my form, instead of sticking to the most daring and anxiety driven one. I never really did like unnecessary attention. 

Early morning classes had caused a rush of activity—though by subdued and fearful looking students with pale faces and dark under eyes—on the premises. My plans had been admittedly laid slightly awry, since I now had the form of Yordanka Hristova tailing all my moves for sake of inducing some sort of vengeful satisfaction the Durmstrang witch seemed to be selfishly yearning for. But she was foolish, and I had no choice but to detach myself from her folly and to forge on.

Discreetly, I drew the required rune at my front—barely managing to hide its glow from Hristova with my form. I was determined to go forward with my plans regardless of the Durmstrang presence behind me.

Well aware that my magic had probably instantly been sensed now, considering I took no pains to hide it, I needed to move fast and reveal myself before my path was blocked. There was conviction in showing up for myself, it would weigh well in front of someone like Voldemort. 

"Keep to the shadows, Yordanka," I orated, my words plain and resolved. "If you get caught by any of the death eaters on the premises, it is only yourself you will endanger." 

"What—," Her words were cut in half as the ground hurtled away from my feet and I translocated with no arms foolishly wrapped around my stomach this time, no flailing foreign arms using me as a mode just for inclusion. 

Hristova hadn't suspected it, else she wouldn't have let me get away. Another folly to assume that she could chastise me when it was she who needed to be yanked back to the campsite in Northern Ireland—the fact that she and the others were safe now that I was doing what needed to be done myself, yelled in her face. 

Now she was on her own and so was I. 

The vision in front of my eyes sprouted in dull colors once the darkness faded and my feet met the ground. I was in the polished headmaster's office, dark mahogany furniture that appeared almost black was positioned in the room lavishly. Albus Dumbledore's table—or rather—the present headmaster's table was adorned with pristine items that appeared expensive and extensive at the same time. A gleaming wood writing box, a statuette of what looked to be a miniature of the disastrously ugly tree perched on the ground that the castle shared. 

A glittering glass bottle carrying dark red wine topped the table juvenilia off, a smaller crystal accompanying it. 

My fingers absently trailed the wooden table edge. The smooth hardness felt strange under the tips of my calloused fingers. I had been starting to forget what normal luxury felt like in life. The empty office was instantly shifted when the door opened and someone barged in. Clad in dark robes that seemed to blow behind the man's form, his black hair falling to his shoulders with a neat middle parting that exposed an inch wide of his white scalp underneath, and an expression on his face that bordered that of someone who had been given far too much work the very hour they awoke that morning. 

The notorious new headmaster of Hogwarts, Severus Snape, was startling unlike how Oliver Wood had described him casually to us before Sirius Black's visit. I had gotten the impression that the man was cruel and grim—vicious even. But the man in front of me—as he halted in his spot when his eyes found me and I intertwined my fingers and the base of my stomach—looking merely a bothered old specimen. A stuffed puppet, being made to work as a house elf. 

"And you might be?" The man spoke, his tone was a stone lodged deep in his throat. I didn't particularly care for his baritone. 

"I think you know who I might be," I managed, keeping my expression neutral. 

The wizard had taken quite a while before speaking and his eyes had taken their time in their scrutiny of me. I had used a rune on castle grounds, I had the stench of heuristics about me—of course he knew who I might be. 

The man's thin eyes dropped to my form, before resting on my face as he made his way towards his desk and slowly took his place behind it, without seating himself. I could tell the position gave him a realization of his power. 

"I must admit," The words came through his teeth as his jaw barely moved. "You are not quite what I imagined." 

"Well," I raised a brow, tightening my hands together to keep from losing my composure. "That is flattering, I suppose. Since I'm not sure death eater imaginations are much to revel on."

His eyes sharpened slightly on me before the door to his office burst open again and two death eaters barged in, their wands instantly pinned on me as they exchanged a hard glance with Severus Snape. 

My skin twitched, having two death eater wands pointed at me was a feat terrifying, considering I had walked into enemy territory to submit and would likely not be able to fight them all off and escape if things got out of hand. For me to achieve that, I had to be quicker than I was, and they slower. 

Snape raised a hand to them, and one of the men, his hair a silver platinum streaked with black, bore his gaze at the headmaster's audacity. The fury seemed to churn in him, and it made me realize that Severus perhaps was not cable of pulling all the strings that Oliver Wood had attributed to him. 

"She's the heuristic witch," The silver black haired man seethed, briefly looking at me with a vicious disgust before he directed the same look on Snape. 

"I am aware, Yaxley," Snape responded in his low tone, the reserved clam to his voice was a stark contrast to the death eater—Yaxley's—menacing voice. 

"He is," I agreed. 

"Then what in hell are you doing?" Yaxley ignored me, his eyes hard on Snape. "Put her in the dungeons and inform The Dark Lord." 

Dungeons. The word made me exhale in irritation, my eyes sharpening on the death eater.

"Inform your Dark Lord," I let out. "I came here of my own accord. I am willing to cooperate with him, no dungeons need be involved." 

"Of your own accord?" The headmaster repeated before Yaxley could say anything. 

The dark robed man trailed out from behind his desk and approached me, until he was only an arm's length away. I hadn't realize that the man's height mirrored my own, and it looked as though he hadn't either, as the effect he had hoped on achieving instantly simmered and took time. 

"I have a proposition for him," I managed, disgusted by the man's gaze and the scarcity of the distance between us. But I didn't want to back away, my feet wouldn't let me cower. 

"Proposition?" The wizard raised an unruly and thin brow, as though I had uttered a word he didn't teach in Hogwarts anymore. 

"The Dark Lord does not consider propositions from mere girls," His eyes bore steadily into mine. 

"Is that what you told yourself after he made you his house elf?"

My hands fisted at my sides, ready to put him down. This is not what I wanted to deal with, these other adversaries were just the front pieces on the chess board. I needed to get to the king. 

The man's face hardened and I had a split second of regret pulse through me then as I read the menace in his eyes and interpreted it all too well and felt the sharp point of a wand pointing to my stomach, but it was too late. 

He pierced into my mind, like an arrow stabbing straight through the soft flesh as I let out a scream of agony and clamored to put up my walls and protect myself from the infiltration. The death eater's presence in my mind was like hot fire scorching my head from the inside. The man sifted through my most recent memories and thoughts as I barricaded him for my older ones. First, he had tried to burst through the barricade and failed, the pressure of it was so intense I felt as though my head would explode. This infiltration was strong, practiced. The infiltrator had done this to many, and was skilled at his legilimens.  

My scream seemed foreign to my own ears as I faintly felt myself crumble onto my knees on the ground, desperately trying to hold my barricades up. But some of my recent memories and thoughts were exposed, and I couldn't find the strength in me to make individual barricades to protect them too.

Severus Snape shot out of my mind then, an arrow piercing away. My eyes opened to the sight of the ground as my breaths came in ragged, my heart pounding as I tried to catch my rattled psyche and arrange it all into resolve. I held the ground with both my hands, panting. Mental intrusion was painful than death it seemed to me. Even my occlumency could not protect me from the agony of it. 

"Inform The Dark Lord that the heuristic witch wishes to submit herself to him," Severus Snape's voice tore into my periphery. 

"Oh and—"

My heart constricted inside my chest. 

"She has a friend lurking on the grounds. A Durmstrang witch. Find her." 

The death eaters lowered their wands and hurried away. I gathered my courage then, tilting my head upwards to look at the pitiful excuse for a headmaster. 

"Are you offended?" The man inquired, amused. "I wonder what causes more offense, the idea that your friend—should I call her a friend? Your relationship seems to be just a tad dysfunctional to be referred to as that." 

"Or, the fact that I just tried to mentally rape you." 

I blinked at the word. Harsh and cruel. Oliver Wood was right, I supposed. People could be cruel but not entirely look as though they might be. I had been a fool to underestimate the man. Dressed a balck robe and with a plain typical wizard face, I had resorted to my assumptions. 

"You countered my legilimens well though, I have to admit," The man frowned. "I'm a professor, and I can't resist." 

"But what is it that you hide so desperately that you would give your friend away for it?" 

I looked away from him, blinking as I slowly lifted myself off the ground. It wasn't that I had given Yordanka Hristova away. It was just that I had made more effort to protect things inside my head that would cause more destruction if they were revealed.

My connection to Gellert Grindelwald, Harry Potter's location, my true intentions behind my ruse to mimic a submission, and even Sirius Black's dodgy order's aspirations and building resistance. There was so much I couldn't give up, and Hristova had now suffered for it. If only she hadn't been foolish to follow me. I only hoped she could run, or outsmart the death eaters. She had deathly hallow, that should count for something shouldn't it? 

"I suppose all that is The Dark Lord's concern," Severus Snape eyes me tactfully. "Now that you're his piece of thread to play with." 

The door to his office opened then, this time a softer entrance that made me turn to look at the person. I was greeted by a very distinct sight. 

A stoutly framed woman walked in, clad in a blush pink woolen pencil skirt revealing her thick calves and pointy black heels, a matching thick pink blazer cloaking her upper form. A giant pearl necklace shone out at her neck, her brown hair done up in a polish do, lips painted the color of wine that adorned Severus Snape's table. 

"Severus," The woman spoke, a sickly smile on her face as she addressed the man as though he were her lover. 

Snape turned his face slightly in disgust at the woman. 

She looked at me, her smile turning brighter and wider as she stepped closer and surveyed me. 

"Is this the infamous heuristic witch?" The woman beamed, addressing me and the headmaster at the same time. 

"My," Her brown eyes landed into mine. "You are a beautiful girl." 

She raised her hand slowly, a pink nail polished finger barely touching my chin as I ground my heels and maintained my resolve. 

"I can't help but feel flattered," The woman said in a fascinated whisper, eye irises resting on the tiny moon shaped birthmark on my cheekbone. "That a beauty can hide such power." 

She blinked and focused out of her reverie. "It empowers me somehow. Like electricity running through my veins." 

"Umbridge," Snape muttered the woman's name, as she slightly stirred but did not turn to face him. 

"Did you bring them?" He asked, referring to something unspoken. 

Umbridge scoffed daintily. "Of course I did, Severus. I had a hold of them as soon as Yaxley informed me." 

Then without another word spoken, the woman raised her wand and produced two copper plated manacles from the thin air. Before I could blink, there shot towards me, enveloping each of my wrists. 

A sudden rush of pain flooded my body as I crumpled to the ground. It felt as though my bones had increased tenfold in their weight, and were now being pressed harder in between iron—an attempt to turn them to dust. 

My form shook as I cried out, tears burning in my eye sockets, but I refused to cry. Submission to an evil wizard construed of such things did it not? The endeavor was composed of mind searching, objectifying, torture and degradation. In the depths of my thoughts, I had somehow expected entirely this. 

The red agony of the pain I was in turned my mind to my heuristics, and briefly forgetting that I needed to submit in order to put up a believable front, I tried to draw on a rune with my fingers. But no glow appeared, the air remained as empty as it had been, deeming my gesture that of a mime's. 

"Oh, these suppress your magic dear," The woman added as though she had merely forgotten to tell me an ingredient of a recipe. "They are lined with part of your blood. They use your own strength to suppress that very strength. I didn't suppose it would work at all, considering we didn't really have exactly your blood." 

Exactly my blood? I thought wretchedly, my mind fighting to work through the searing pain. I had stopped crying out, only rushed breaths and groans were now escaping form between my lips. 

"It will hurt briefly only, then it will be bearable, I gather." The woman directed a smile to Snape who looked at her plainly.

"Where did you get part of my blood?" I managed in between my the agony.

"Why," Umbridge appeared startled that I would ask such a question. "Your dear mother of course. It was easy to find her since that foolish woman came to us herself, claiming that her daughter was the heuristic witch The Dark Lord was looking for." 

Tears fell from my eyes then, as I shut them tight and counted in French. The pain would cease, she had said. I tried to focus on that and not the blatant deception of my mother. 

I hadn't spoken to my mother in so long. She had embarked on her life solo after I had started at Beauxbatons. I had barely had any contact with her in years. I supposed it was alright, since she had spent so many years under the degradation of my great uncle and the humiliation of my father's departure. Grindelwald had repeatedly tortured and threatened her, his value for me turning her into someone he could lash onto. She must've been repulsed by me then, and even after all the distance put between us and Grindelwald's death, her anger must've caught up and directed itself towards me. 

It was a pity, for I remembered loving her once. 

"Don't be sad, dear," Umbridge looked down at me, the sickly smile on her face not budging. "Would it be a comfort to know that her corpse is rotting in a cell in the castle dungeons? We hadn't had the opportunity to dispose of her yet. Perhaps you'd like to see? Pay your respects?" 

I flinched away from the cruel sarcasm, the agony slowly subsiding but leaving me partially weak. It was a raging feeling of terror knowing that I could not perform heuristics in the manacles around my wrists.

But the copper plated things told me something. Voldemort knew more about heuristics than I did. He knew what it took to suppress the power, so he must know more. It dawned on me then, how brutal it would be to go up against someone who knew more of your power than you did.  

I had to find a way to get rid of the manacles. The feeling of being estranged from my magic was humiliating and terrifying all at once. I felt hollow, like the light inside me had been blown out by a harsh wind and the space had been replaced with molten iron yanking me down. My wands, both The Elder Wand and my own were concealed with heuristics. If I can't use my magic, I would be able to bring them back. 

My entire defense had been stripped to the core. 

"When will I see your Dark Lord?" I asked, my voice weak and the effort to maintain a semblance of my strength draining me viciously. 

"Right away," Umbridge smiled, and it was then that I saw a shining badge pinned to the chest of her blazer. She worked for the British ministry of magic. I recognized the symbol but I couldn't read the tiny cursive font of her employment title. 

"But we can't have you all fiery in front of him, can we?" 

With that she gently pointed her sleek wand at me. "Crucio." 

My back revulsed, my body twisting backwards as I screamed. My spine bent backwards like a horse shoe, and I screamed for the agony of it—for the terror of breaking in two like a doll. The pain intensified throughout me, hot knives stabbing my every vital organ—searing through my consciousness. My screams sounded foreign to my own ears then, and I wondered briefly if the students distributed in the castle could hear me, pity me. 

I had chosen submission as a ploy, as a pretense. This was what it was costing me. If only to emerge victorious by the end, I found myself willing to pay this hefty price. 

***

A/N:
Sorry if this chapter isn't that good, I've been having a bad week and I can't focus, though working on this book is a good distraction. Also, we're nearing the end of this book soon and then I have a sequel in the works too. <3