Depths of Despair ✶ Theodore Nott

forty six. web of lies

     A door creaking, footsteps echoing.

  Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk, glasses at the edge of his nose, a book in hand. Without even looking up did his eyes twinkle, not with interest, but with suspicion. How come? Even the universe lacked answers.

  A deep sigh, chair screeching against wooden floorboards. "Good evening, miss Leclere."

  Rain made noise against the small windows separating them from the unpleasant outsides. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Valerie swore she was driven crazy by the noise, yet nodded respectfully. "Evening, professor." 

  Silence. Unspoken inquiries. Rage. Valerie Leclere was in battle with her mind, enraged of even having been summoned to the old man's office. Schemes on her conscience, legilmency within reach for utilization. Recollection replaying the words of a man too cruel (from now on, you're a spy, Leclere). She wished to turn around and walk right out the door she just arrived through, but she knew Dumbledore would not allow her. It would ultimately, no matter her unfiltered regrets, result in information being leaked to the lair of death eaters that was her mother's home.

  "How have you been, miss Leclere?" Although never able to get through to the teenager, Albus Dumbledore already knew the answer. Bruises upon her skin, left hand refusing to let the fabric of her left sleeve go (afraid of having it slip, afraid of the mark imprinted on her skin). She'd lost the battle of her own morals contra duty that was expected of her, and the Headmaster was aware being in the same room with her was a risk. Hence, he spared no doubt in barricading his mind, avoiding eye contact. Not that his efforts would matter, anyway.

    Knowing she could likely pry into his every memory, every fragment of his brain (perhaps even compel the answer to the surface) was an issue, for he had secrets of his own, secrets regarding her. Disastrous would be the result were she to find out, for Valerie Leclere despised broken promises, and Albus Dumbledore the promises he once made her a long time ago.

  She said nothing for a few short seconds, expression as if molded from stone. "Splendid."

   Her tone dry, void of emotion; he expected nothing else, for her hostility toward him was growing more prominent as he had done nothing to help (rather the opposite).

    "Hm," was all the Headmaster said; finally daring to lift his gaze off the floor — finally meeting the teenager appearing so alike her father, yet having been forcefully pulled to the opposite side of war for abilities she never chose to have.

    Do it, compelled Valerie's subconsciousness. Do it, do it, do it, do it. She thought of her father. She thought of Kieran. She thought of Theodore. Hell, she even through about Draco freaking Malfoy for the sake of it, because were she to fail her task, lives would be taken, blood would be spilled. Do you want your friends to die, Valerie?

  No, and so she concentrated without showing it, pinpointing her mind without appearing disassociated with her surroundings. It was as if Albus Dumbledore was expecting her to do it — his occlumency shields irrationally reinforced (she tried not to take offense, but the man expected atrocity of her, and it did indeed sting). No longer remained any struggle with poking at his defenses, escaping through without being noticed, and the elder man did not even flinch when she was rummaging through his mind only seconds thereafter.

   "Is there any reason you booked this meeting, professor?" she spoke simultaneously, wishing not to appear suspicious. Never had she been able to break through to his mind, never before had she been able to perform both mind reading and formulate perfect sentences all at once.