Jailbait
1977
The sea was violent, tossing the ferry left and right like it was little more than rubber duck keeping afloat in a hurricane. Torrents of water crashed up from the sides and showered down like rain, pelting harshly and freezing cold. Verena managed to shield herself with a bubble charm, but that did nothing for the pervasive chill in the air. There was no way to get warm, for her shivering had nothing to do with the poor weather.
Azkaban blended in with the dark water and sharp rocks, an island of pure misery and isolation of no known origin. It seemed likely to Verena that the devil had formed it, built the cursed tower brick by black brick as some sort of jutted monument to evil and despair. Small dots stood out against the dark grey storm clouds, the wispy tendrils of the Dementors’ inky robes just barely visible at this distance. They convened upon the prison like a swarm of ghostly locusts, sucking all happiness out of the air for miles around.
When the ferry finally docked, Verena was approached by four Aurors wrapped head to toe in water-proof ponchos. It was the middle of the day, but not a ray of sunlight managed to break through the clouds. Lightning provided her an illuminated glimpse of the main prison, a giant triangular prism, which seemed to disappear into the fog the higher up she looked. Thunder roared close by. It was loud enough to drown out whatever the head Auror was shouting at her.
“What?!” She yelled, dragging wet tendrils of her hair out of her face.
“Identification!” The Auror ordered again, his voice just barely successful at carrying over the howling wind. The ferry blew its horn to signal its leave, making Verena jump.
While holding onto her documents with a death grip, Verena fumbled with one hand for her ID card around her neck, holding it up for the Auror to see. He squinted at it, then her, and nodded his head. He turned to his three subordinates and made a directive motion with his hands.
“They will take you to the interrogation room! Stay close! Under no circumstances should you go off on your own! You will surrender your wand at the entrance for security purposes! No weapons of any kind allowed!” The Auror informed her.
“You don’t have wands?!”
“No! None of the guards bring them to the island! It is too much of a risk!”
Verena already felt nervous enough to throw up. This assignment was akin to hazing, she was meant to buckle under the enormous pressure and make a fool of herself. Her boss, the bastard, wanted to knock her down a few pegs. It was bad enough knowing she would have to interrogate a suspected domestic terrorist, but to do so without any protection whatsoever? The thought made her sick to her stomach.
The three Aurors escorted her into the prison, two leading and one following behind her. As the head Auror had said, she was forced to turn in her wand before she was led through the first gate. The female guard on duty was shoved into a little box of a room, just barely big enough for her, some papers on a desk in front of her, and a chair. She glared at Verena before wrapping some sort of tag around her wand and putting it in a cubby at knee height.
It was quiet when they entered the actual prison, except for the sounds of the storm and the group’s wet footsteps. It felt like walking through a graveyard. As she passed cells, Verena peaked inside to see bodies curled up in dark corners, unmoving. It was odd, the sort of maze they were leading her through. She thought it would make more sense for them to follow a passage straight to the center. Even if the prison is hollow, a few seconds of rain wouldn’t hurt them. But, instead, they led her around the triangular base, every extra second sending another wave of panic through her.
They finally reached an enclosed portion on the complete opposite side of the prison where the hallway opened up, revealing each level of the tower, all the way to the top. It was dizzying. Verena was taken over to a cell marked with a rune she did not recognize. It was shaped like three vertical lines with a slash all the way through. The door was unlike those of the cells. It was solid wood, with only a small cut out window about standing height with little crisscrossing bars. Through them, she could see the form of a man sitting at a table, illuminated by the light of only a few candles along the walls. He wore an Azkaban uniform, which is basically a collection of rags. His wrists were cuffed, connected by quite a long, cumbersome chain. But, that did not stop him from folding his hands on the table in a business-like manner. She could not make out any other features except dark hair and pale skin, as his head was bent down.
“One of us will remain posted just outside the door,” one of the Aurors told her.
“Only one?” Verena asked nervously.
The Auror rolled his eyes, and the others snickered to themselves. “This is Azkaban, you fetus. This interrogation is only a formality, we don’t even do trials in these times. No one escapes. This one’s already been here for 12 hours, those creatures swarmed him like lions to fresh meat. I’ll be surprised if he has the energy to speak a word to you, let alone give a whole confession. Not that it matters anyway.”
“O-Okay.”
The Auror narrowed his eyes, scanning her shaking form. “What did you do to get this shite job, anyway? I mean, I’ve been through the training days, too. Superiors can be real arseholes. But, the worst I got was a mile-high stack of paperwork. Seems to me they’re trying to scare you to death, or get you to quit.”
Verena swallowed. “The Boss doesn’t like me, I guess. I only met him in person once, and it was when he gave me this assignment, so I don’t know what I could’ve done wrong, but…” She meekly shrugged.
The Auror hmph-ed. “Well, life sucks, and then you die. Try not to die, though. I don’t want to do the paperwork.” He unlocked the door with a giant, metal key and practically pushed her inside. She tried to shove down the panic when she heard the door lock behind her.
On shaky legs, Verena crossed the dingy room and sat in the chair across the table from the suspect. A mouse scurried from beneath the table to a hole in the wall. Verena laid out her reasonably dry files, all while trying her best to suppress the tremor in her hands.
The suspect finally lifted his head, and Verena almost gasped. The man’s eyes were bloodshot, and his stare held a dark intensity that made her instantly want to run away screaming. She couldn’t tell at first if he was thirty-five or fifty, his features were somehow warped and obscured to betray both ages, but the grey hairs gave away the truth. There was a ghost of handsomeness to him that she couldn’t quite explain, like time—or something else—slowly chipped away at Adonis, but left quite enough behind to clearly identify. He was tall, lithe, definitely a physical threat to a witch without a wand, but he also seemed weakened. Maybe it was his paleness, but she could almost say he was sickly. The Dementors did do a number on him.
Verena swallowed, struggling to find a voice as she stared for much too long at the man who claimed to be the Wizarding World’s most high profile threat. “M-my name is Verena Warwick—”
“—You’re a child. They sent a child to interrogate me?” His voice was lighter, and much more pleasant, than what she imagined it would be. But, the way he was glaring made her quake in her seat. “Surely, your superiors know who I am?”
Verena looked down at the file. Her department had little information on him. No background, it was basically a useless collection of papers on the details of his supposed crimes. Filling in the blanks seemed like an impossible task at that moment.
“You are…” A murderer, a demon, the one whose name no witch or wizard has the guts to say out loud. But, she has to. Verena looked back up, stealing all of her courage for the next word. “…Voldemort.”
He almost looked amused for a second. “Well, aren’t you a brave one…Brave little eagle trying to keep up with the lions.”
Verena frowned. How did he know she was in Ravenclaw? “Did someone tell you about me?”
“Lucky guess,” Voldemort replied. He was clearly toying with her, judging by the smirk on his face. She didn’t think much of his ‘guess’. One of those arsehole Aurors probably told him, just to get her to freak out.
“And you were in Slytherin,” Verena said carefully.
Voldemort tilted his head slightly, the action somewhat reminiscent of a curious predator looking at its prey in a new light. “How did you come by that information?”
“Lucky guess.”
Voldemort smiled now, incisors oddly sharp. “I will allow our conversation to continue, if you would be so kind as to loosen these manacles.” He reached forward, so Verena could see how the cuffs were put on so tightly, the skin on his wrists was pinched and puckered. “They are quite uncomfortable at their current setting.”
She panicked. “But, I can’t take them off, I—I don’t have that authority, or a wand—!"
“—I did not say to remove them, I said to loosen them. Look carefully, girl. They have a mechanical function, not magical. All you have to do it place your fingers there and there,” he instructed, twisting his wrists to reveal little release buttons, “to give an extra notch of room.”
Verena remained still and quiet for a few seconds, in contrast to how fast and chaotic her mind was moving. What he said was correct, she could clearly see that the release buttons controlled a mechanism that could either tighten or loosen the cuffs, bit by bit, and they were out of reach of his own hands. It was obvious that the Aurors wanted him in pain. She, too, wanted him in pain. But, she wanted to succeed in her assignment even more.
“Okay,” she eventually relented with a sigh. Voldemort extended his arms further across the table, and Verena carefully wrapped her fingers around the metal, placing her thumbs at each button. His hands were as cold as ice, and it took much effort to keep a neutral face and not show how bothered she was by the contact. Verena pushed, and the metal contraptions inside made a clinking noise. The cuffs jutted out slightly more, to where the metal was no longer squeezing and pinching the skin on his wrists.
“A good decision, girl,” Voldemort sighed, clenching and unclenching his hands, as if he could not feel them previously. “You are a fresh graduate, I presume? A few months at most into Auror training?”
She nodded, aware that he could have heard as much from her conversation with the Auror outside. “How about you? When did you graduate Hogwarts?” She asked, keeping her tone light and conversational, just as she was taught to do.
“1945.”
She instantly wrote that down. “During the War? A bit ironic…”
Voldemort narrowed his eyes. “How so?”
Verena put down her magically refilling quill, satisfied he took the bait, but she was careful not to show it. “You graduated during a war, and, because of you, I had to do the same. You know just how difficult it is.”
His smirk disappeared. “If you intend to find any sympathy from me, you’ll be very disappointed,” he said coldly.
“No, I don’t intend to find any.” She shivered again, looking into those dark, bloodshot eyes. “I’m just trying to make an assignment we both know is pointless into something halfway meaningful.”
“Don’t you dare attempt to lie to me,” he growled, making her jump in her seat. “You are employing what pitiful tactics you’ve learned to get me talking, so you can deliver back those files with an approximate birth year, all the while hoping such flimsy information is sufficient to prevent you from being fired.”
It was eerie how well he was reading her. In part, that was exactly her goal. But, Verena didn’t have any hope she would reach it. “You know as well as I, it makes no difference what you tell me,” she said, her voice carrying a disheartened lilt. “That’s why they sent a trainee.”
“Yes, a witch with no wand, no means of defending herself. A curious move, practically akin to putting a mouse in a snake pit.”
Verena purposefully missed the point. “Are the guards not feeding you?”
Voldemort actually laughed, a singular sound followed by more bearing of unnaturally sharp teeth. “Witty girl.” His smile vanished in an instant. “Verena. From Latin ‘verus’, yes? If you want information from me, you will have to stay true to your name. No lies. I will answer your questions, excluding any identities, and you will answer mine, with the complete and honest truth. Deal?”
Verena did not anticipate making a deal with the devil that day, but she tentatively nodded her head.
“Good. Begin.”
Verena was caught off guard. She didn’t think it would be that easy. And, in a way, it wasn’t. She wanted to know his real name, for starters, as that was the first line on a blank background information sheet, but he clearly said he would not betray identities. She would have to be clever about this.
“Where were you born?”
Okay, her Ravenclaw intellect was failing her.
“South London,” Voldemort answered flatly. “And for your next dull questions: no, I did not grow up with a furry little pet, my favorite course was Defense Against the Dark Arts—and, yes, I do see the irony there.”
Verena glanced lamely down once again. “Do…Do you speak any other languages? Besides English and Latin?”
Voldemort regarded her with a look of slightly less contempt. “Better. And, yes, I do know another language. A very special language.”
She waited… and waited. “Which…is?” She probed, when he failed to continue.
“It is a language akin to a whisper. To fully appreciate it, you must come closer.” He didn’t smile, didn’t even smirk at her. Voldemort actually looked sincere. Somehow, that was more frightening.
Verena hesitated for a good long while, but she eventually stood. She walked slowly around the table, pausing when Voldemort also rose from his seat. He was a head taller than her, broader and stronger. She thought of changing the subject, leaving, doing anything that did not include standing within grabbing distance of a cold-blooded murderer. But, she was curious. And she was brave. And she really, really wanted to become an Auror.
So, Verena took one more step. And another. She flinched, ready to turn and flee when Voldemort raised a hand, but it wasn’t in attack. She stayed frozen, eyes as spread wide as the moon, as he barely touched her, brushing a chunk of hair aside from her ear with his cuffed hands. He leaned toward her, his bloodshot eyes commanding her attention. For one terrible moment, Verena actually thought he would kiss her. He didn’t. His lips ghosted past her cheek, and he whispered—no, hissed something unintelligible into her ear. The sounds felt like silk, a shiver ran through her. Her body was still oddly thrumming when he stopped and straightened back up, looking her right in the eye. He was still so close, she had to tip her chin up to meet him.
“That’s…Parseltongue,” she managed to say, her voice almost as quiet and wispy as his was before.
“Do you want to know what I said?”
Verena nodded, not trusting her voice.
“'You bleed the sun.' A rough translation for warm-blooded prey. Imagine a snake sinking its teeth into a little mouse, the gush of warmth...” He curled a chunk of her damp hair around his finger momentarily. "Wet...And delicious."
Her cheeks flushed as she immediately thought of the indecent double-meaning. A feeling pooled into her abdomen, she had only a moment to recognize that it was desire, but the shame and horror hit her so hard that the feeling vanished within a moment. Verena backed up from him and returned to her seat on weak legs. He mirrored her as she sat, both of them staring once again.
Voldemort broke the stalemate. “Seems I’ve rendered you speechless for the moment. No matter. My turn. Tell me, why do you want to be an Auror? You can take your time to answer."
As she struggled to forget the poem, her addled mind instantly jumped to her rehearsed answer for interviews. “I want to help make the Wizarding World safe again.”
“And do you think Aurors are good at that?”
“Yes,” Verena answered instantly.
“Then, tell me how it is possible to imprison the right people if no trials are being held.”
She opened her mouth, and then slowly closed it again.
“Well?” Voldemort questioned her.
“If you are caught doing dark magic, it is fairly obvious, isn’t it? Plus, there is the Prior Incantato,” she answered lamely.
“Fairly obvious, you say?” He teased her. “Of course, why does any governmental body have trials at all, if it is so fairly obvious who is bad and who is good?”
“Are you telling me you are innocent?”
“Oh, no, Miss Warwick,” he said darkly, absolutely devoid of all the humor from before. “I am not innocent. But, I want you to think about all those here who could be. All those who have had no trial and were thrown in here by your fellow Aurors who settled for a guilty wand without caring much about the alternatives. Planted evidence, an Imperius Curse…Tell me, how would you tell a liar apart from an actual victim of the Unforgiveable?”
She thought hard. “Their memories?”
“Are alterable.”
“Their…routine. Friends and family, jobs, if there was a sharp and obvious change in their behavior, people would notice.”
“People can also lie, be forced to lie, or have their memories altered, as well.”
Verena frustratedly sighed. “And who would be so talented as to alter someone’s memory so seamlessly that an investigator would not notice a change from…being a normal person to a hateful, blood supremacist murderer? A whole life would have to be fabricated. All of the feelings and beliefs in a person.”
“I can do it easily. I have done it. Many times.”
Verena shuddered, silence stretching on with the occasional mice squeak breaking it.
“Who did you do that to?” She eventually got the nerve to ask.
He clicked his teeth, as if scolding a small child. “Remember, Miss Warwick. I said I would not reveal identities.”
“Are they here?”
“Yes.”
Verena swallowed a lump in her throat and took in a shuddering breath. “So…the night you were arrested…you admit to murdering those muggle-borns?”
“Yes, I killed them,” he said, almost bored.
Verena should have left then. For some reason, she didn’t. “Why them? And why didn’t you get away?” She asked.
“I believe I get to request some answers from you, first,” he replied evasively. “And, again, you must tell me the truth, Miss Warwick.”
Verena nodded cautiously.
“What is your blood status?”
A wave of terror washed over her. She remained quiet for several seconds, but she could tell Voldemort was getting impatient. She could try to lie, but she was sure he would sense it, just like before. It was a catch-22.
“I’m…muggle-born,” Verena admitted.
To her surprise, he did not become angry or insulted. “Good girl,” he said softly, almost impressed. “I thought you would lie.”
Verena’s face felt hot. She looked down, really anywhere but him. But, then the obvious hit her. “Oh, God…” She looked at him in terror. “You’re reading my mind.”
Voldemort answered her with a single smirk. “I wondered if you would ever realize. Clearly, your teachers have not yet trained you in Occlumency. Who was it you compared me to? Adonis?”
Her face was beet red with mortification.
“One more question, Miss Warwick, and the floor is yours.” He leaned forward slightly, as if to intensify his already scalding, scarlet stare. “What is your darkest secret?”
Verena remained stunned into silence.
Voldemort gave her an impatient nod. “Well? I know you know what it is. It was recent. Yes, I can see it,” he said, looking in her eyes as if the answer was written there for him.
“Then, you already know. There’s no point in me saying,” she said, her voice cracking under the pressure of the moment.
“Oh, there is a point. A very important point. Tell me, now. What is it you have yet to say to another soul?”
Verena gripped the arms of her chair, looking anyway but him. “A…small part of me was looking forward to this. To coming here.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to meet you.”
“The whole truth, Verena.”
She finally collected enough courage to meet his eyes, again. “I wanted to understand you.”
“But, why?” He asked again.
Verena didn’t know. She blinked, shook her head slightly. No words came.
“Come now, Miss Warwick. You are just scraping the surface. What is it that drove you to seek such a thing? What is it that stopped you from immediately quitting when your boss gave you this task?”
She tried remembering where it started. When was it she first experienced the desire to uncover the secret of Voldemort? In school? During training? She supposed it came on gradually, a morbid fascination at first, and then a calling, a mission. To understand is to predict, to predict is to effectively capture. And when you can capture, you can suppress the next terrorist who would hope to exterminate her kind.
Voldemort looked disappointed. “Maybe you will realize it. Another day. But, do you think you have been successful?”
Verena blinked, coming out of her deep, cyclic thoughts. “In what?”
“Understanding me.”
Verena shook her head slightly. “No,” she mumbled.
“You still have time.”
She realized that was an invitation. It was finally her turn. After the mental games, all the dread, maybe she can still get something out of this. That gave her the courage to ask what she really wanted to know, from the moment she learned of Voldemort’s arrest. “Why did you kill those people?”
“I think that answer should be obvious, given my reputation.”
“Right, I know your stance on muggle-borns, but why them specifically? Mr. and Mrs. Baluer? Did you know them?”
“No. There was nothing particularly special about them,” he said flatly, in a way only a complete psychopath could answer.
A random attack? That didn’t seem right. It didn’t mesh with what little she knew about the man. He was calculated. Not random and impulsive. Verena was left with the sense that he was lying, but what could she do? Call him on it? Definitely not. So, she moved on.
“Why didn’t you get away?” She asked.
“There was a patrol of Aurors in the area. It should say as much in those documents of yours,” he answered vaguely, peering at the words upside down on the page.
Verena nodded her head slowly. “Yes, it mentions that. But, like you said before, you are a talented wizard. You have evaded seasoned Aurors for years. And, one night, for seemingly no special reason at all, you murder two muggle-borns and are caught by four junior officers.”
She thought he would get angry. It scared her that he was not.
“Ask what you really want to ask,” he instructed her.
Verena hesitated. She didn’t want to say it out loud, because she feared the consequences of being right.
“I…I should go.” She shuffled her papers into a messy stack and closed the folder, not caring about dog-earing the pages. She heard a clink of chains, and she froze.
Voldemort stood, hands completely unbound, and he had a wand.
It was her wand, still with the little tag wrapped around it.
“Guards!” Verena screamed, but no sound came out of her mouth. She pushed over her chair, sprinting for the door. She tried yanking it open, but it was locked, so she banged hard on the wood with her fists. “Help! He has a wand! Help—!” All screamed while mute. She gasped. The back of her head felt hot. Then, blackness rushed in. She thought she saw, before she fell, a mouse turn into a shaggy-haired bean pole of a man in prison greys.
And she recognized him.