To Dare

A/N: Lots of stuff in this one and it goes by fast, so stay alert and keep all appendages within the car. You only think you've seen evil cliffies...

To Dare

Chapter Twenty-Two

George smiled as he counted out change for the last customer in line, a china doll of a girl with devilry in her blue eyes and a slight smirk playing about her rosebud lips. He’d been surprised at the Hufflepuff patch on her cloak. A loyal, hardworking prankster? The future of mischief making at Hogwarts seemed secure. As she left, a raven flew through the open door and landed on the counter. Who used a raven as a messenger? The birds had a nasty reputation as ill omens, the ravens at the Tower notwithstanding. He took the parchment it offered him and broke the seal. A silver key fell out and hit the countertop with a clink. The raven croaked once and departed in a dark flutter of wings.

George suppressed a shiver as he unfolded the message and read the few sentences scrawled there. The parchment contained another item, the sight of which chilled him to the marrow of his bones: a lock of blonde hair.

“Bloody fucking hell!” he swore. “Fred!” With a sharp jab of his wand, he locked the front door and changed the sign in the window from ‘open’ to ‘closed.’

“What is it?” Fred came out of the back room, tucking the trick wand he’d been enchanting into his pocket. “Ginny just called through the Floo asking if Thalassa was here. Something about an appointment with the midwife.”

Wordlessly, George handed him the parchment. Fred scanned the note quickly. He paled, and when he looked up once more, his eyes blazed with fury. “Let’s go,” he said.

There was no need to discuss the plan they’d both formed in those moments. Each of them picked up a few items from the shelves or storeroom and then they Apparated directly to the corridor outside their flat, just out of range of the anti-apparition charms. It was a risk, but they had larger concerns than startling the neighbours. Once inside, Fred began casting spells to block any methods of magical surveillance that weren’t already covered by Thalassa’s security measures.

George went to the owls’ perch and called softly to Ixchel. She hooted sleepily in reply. How much would she understand? The owl had proved unusually intelligent and resourceful, but this task was outside the usual duties expected of her. “That’s a good girl,” said George, stroking the bird’s golden-brown head. “I need you to find Thalassa. No, I don’t have a parchment for you,” he said when the owl offered her leg. “It’s too dangerous. Just find her and then come get me, or Fred, and lead us to her. Do you understand? Find Thalassa, get us, and show us where she is.”

The owl nodded.

“Brave, smart Ixchel,” he praised. “Be careful, please.” He opened the door to the balcony and let the owl into the greenhouse. If she left through the cat-flap set in one of the windows it would appear as if she were only out to hunt, unusual in the daytime but not completely unheard-of. They couldn’t discount the possibility that the flat was being watched.

George glanced around the empty balcony. He and Fred had finished the greenhouse on the roof of the apothecary and moved all Thalassa’s plants last month. The tiny space smelled of stale, dry dirt. His breath clogged in his throat at the thought of Thalassa, helpless and alone in the hands of a killer. Not helpless, he told himself. She was talented and quick thinking. She’d find a way to survive. She’d done it before.


Thalassa forced herself to breathe steadily. She was angry and more than a bit scared, and she didn’t like feeling helpless. You’re not helpless, she unknowingly echoed George’s thought. You’re choosing to co-operate and staying alive long enough to escape or be rescued.

When he’d taught Defence Against the Dark Arts, Remus Lupin had spent over a fortnight on techniques for surviving a hostage situation. Some of the other students had disdained the lesson, saying he was trying to undermine their magical skills by teaching them Muggle theories. Though she’d applied herself in class, as she had to all the lessons he’d taught that year, Thalassa hadn’t believed, deep down, that she’d be given the opportunity to put what she’d learned into practice.

So far, she’d neither given up hope nor provoked Rookwood into killing her. She’d learned not to appear too inattentive to his ranting. He seemed to be reluctant to do her any real harm for the time being, but a black eye, bloody nose, and split lip were the evidence of her learning curve. He’d already thoroughly covered how improper it was for her, a Gryffindor, to excel in an endeavour such as Potions that he considered the exclusive preserve of subtle Slytherins. Currently, he was raging over, “those weasels, interfering at every turn…no idea of the things that could be accomplished with the material in those books. With the proper planning, a wizard could build a power base to rival the Dark Lord’s.”

“Oh, and he was such a sterling example of success,” the sarcastic retort slipped out before she could stop it.

“He maintained a reign of terror that lasted over twenty years. Even now people fear to speak his name.”

“Voldemort!” she spat, daring to say it for the first time in her life. “He was weak, a coward. So afraid of death that what he brought upon himself was much, much worse. All his power, his all-consuming ambition, his noble, Slytherin bloodline, none of it saved him in the end.”

“He was no coward! He wagered everything for no less prize than eternal power. He had the wit to conceive of what no other wizard could envision, and the daring to make what sacrifices were necessary to achieve his goals. And you!” He lurched to a halt in front of her. She cringed, fearing she’d gone too far, but Rookwood merely grabbed her chin and forced her head up. “Throwing away your proud heritage to play the whore!”

“Don’t tell me you care,” she protested wearily. “I’m hardly your type.”

“Oh, when Mother first suggested I court you, I was appalled, I admit. But your dowry would have sweetened the deal and the thought of you as my obedient little wife had its own sort of appeal. She almost talked me 'round to it, not that it matters now, of course. Even your pure blood can’t make up for the fact that you’re damaged goods.” He let go of her and wiped his palm down the side of his robes. “You’ve proved to be too much of a nuisance anyway. It would take more than two wizard lifetimes of your misery to make up for all the time and Galleons I’ve had to spend simply trying to acquire those notes.”

“Not to mention the high cost in pain and death.”

“Who? That Mudblood that rented from you?”

“And my downstairs neighbour.”

“Oh, I thought you said people. The Mudblood barely counts. The Muggle was only useful as a distraction to get you out of your flat in a hurry and he couldn’t even get that right. It took Pureblood wizards and your own stupid Gryffindor bravery to do that.”

This time, Thalassa bit her tongue. The point of this conversation was to uncover anything that might help her escape and to keep Rookwood distracted in case rescue arrived, not to get into an argument over his bigoted views. She only hoped rescue would come soon. The babies hadn’t moved much since she woke up and she was afraid they’d taken some harm from the drug Rookwood had used to subdue her.

It wasn’t fair. All the tests the midwife had done showed a perfectly normal pregnancy, with two perfectly healthy babies. Two. Two reasons to stay alive until—Her thought shattered as a violent cramp seized her. Not now. Not now, she begged. She couldn’t go into labour now. She had to stay focused, alert. The cramp worsened and she bit her lip to keep from whimpering. Sweat beaded on her brow and upper lip as she rode the wave of pain in silence.


Gringott’s proved problematical. The goblin in charge of their vaults didn’t want to send them down in a cart, even though they had all three keys.

“Where is Miss Hartwell?” he wanted to know.

“Miss Hartwell is eight months pregnant. It is inconvenient for her to come down here today,” George answered impatiently.

“Our brother, Bill Weasley, works in the Curse Breaking department,” Fred interjected. “He can confirm what George said is true.”

The goblin sent an assistant scurrying to fetch Bill. Only years of practice playing innocent allowed George to stand without fidgeting. Every minute of delay now was another minute of Thalassa in danger. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he encountered the ransom note. He crushed the parchment in his fist.

“Fred! George! What is this?” Bill looked bothered. The goblin must’ve interrupted something important. “Where’s Thalassa?”

“She’s at home,” Fred lied smoothly. “Tripped and nearly fell yesterday, so the midwife put her on two days bed rest as a precaution.” He shrugged. “She wants to use the time to do some research, so she sent us to get her books.”

George could almost see the gears turning in Bill’s head. He could tell there was something not right with what Fred said. They needed Bill to be alert, but not too suspicious. It wouldn’t do for him to decide they were Polyjuiced impostors. “It might help her feel better if you came to dinner tomorrow. I think she feels you’re avoiding her because of the row you two had.”

Bill frowned. “I’ll have to check my calendar and get back to you.” He glanced at the goblin. “I’ll vouch for them.”

“This is highly unusual…” the creature began.

Bill spread his hands and shrugged. “Suit yourself. I wouldn’t want to deal with Miss Hartwell when she’s able to come down here herself. Women in their eighth month of pregnancy aren’t noted for their understanding and patience.”

The goblin nodded and summoned a guide to take them to the vault. As they turned to follow, George took his hands out of his pockets, letting the ransom note fall to the floor and pretending not to hear the goblin call after him that he’d dropped something. Bill took the parchment and offered to give it to them when he saw them next. George could only count on Bill’s natural curiosity to make sure his older brother read the note.

Ixchel was waiting for them when they left the bank. She landed on George’s shoulder and gave a low, mournful hoot.

“Did you find her?” he asked quietly.

The bird made a chattering cry that George took to be an affirmative answer.

“Show us. We’ll do our best to keep up.”

The owl flung herself skyward and the twins followed the direction she took.


Bill went back to his office and gathered his things. “Hold my calls and reschedule everything that someone else can’t handle. I’m taking the rest of the afternoon off,” he told his assistant.

“Poets day come early this week?” the younger wizard joked.

“Family emergency and not a word of that to anyone or you’re sacked.”

“Not a word of what?” the man asked as Bill stalked away.

Bill used the Floo in the lobby to travel directly to Auror Headquarters at the Ministry of Magic. He strode to the counter, shouldering aside an irate witch complaining of “Quidditch hooligans tearing up my garden—“

“I need to see Auror Nymphadora Tonks right away,” he told the wizard behind the counter. “It’s an emergency.”

Bill supposed he must have been a bit wild-eyed because the Auror summoned Tonks immediately.

“Come back to my desk,” she told Bill. He nodded once and followed her.

“So what’s up?”

“Fred and George came to the bank today to get Thalassa’s books out of her vault. They said she was stuck at home on bed rest, but then George dropped this.” He handed Tonks the ransom note.

“Damn,” Tonks muttered after reading the few lines. “Go home, Bill.”

“Not on your life.”

“This is Auror business.”

“This is family.”

“Go home,” Tonks repeated. “Fred and George have already made our job harder by going after her themselves. We could’ve used their blood to track her. Now we’ll have to use Ron’s”

“’Used their blood’, how? And why can’t you use mine?”

“A variation of the Point Me spell. Like attracts like. It’ll guide us to the baby and her. I’m sorry, Bill. When Greyback mauled you, it changed your blood. The spell might still work, but Ron’s a better choice. Now go home. The fewer of you Weasleys running about in different places, the fewer targets to confuse the spell.”


Ixchel had led them to an abandoned warehouse. George pulled a butter knife out of his boot, ran his thumb along the edge of the blade, and then slapped the flat against his palm. It glowed blue-white for a brief moment then he pointed it at the building. Words appeared on the blade, listing the spells active in the building.

“Colloportus, a Disillusionment Charm, Imperturbable Charms, Muggle-Repelling Charms, various booby traps, oh and you’ll like this: the whole place is Unplottable. Only three points of entry, all with Alarm Spells: roof, front door, and back door.”

“So, front, back, or roof?”

“Oh, front door, I think.” George’s eyes glittered dangerously.

Fred considered that a moment. Would Thalassa’s kidnapper assume they’d try the less-obvious entrances? Should they split up and try more than one? The hell with it. They weren’t Gryffindors for nothing. He nodded and took out his wand.

The alarm spell on the door was ridiculously easy to disarm, the trap only slightly less so. Not all of the items he and George developed made it to the shelves of their shop. A tiny bit of the sand used in Time-Turners mixed with pixie dust slowed the springing of the trap and shorted the alarm like dumping water on one of Dad’s circuit boards. They entered the warehouse cautiously, wands out. At first glance, the place seemed deserted. All was silent save for the skittering of tiny paws in the shadows.

“Rats,” George whispered disgustedly. No one in the family had any fondness for rats after learning that Percy’s old pet was actually an Animagus.

Fred shrugged. Once they had Thalassa home safe, they’d bring the owls down here and let them feast.

Squatters and vandals had left their mark on the interior. Broken glass made constellations on the floor and graffiti crawled over every vertical surface. The whole place stank of rubbish and rats, urine and vomit. Bay doors led into the back and a crumbling staircase could be seen through the centre opening. He and George advanced slowly.

Fred adjusted the strap of the satchel across his chest. If—when—it came to a fight, he didn’t want the bag getting in the way. When he got his hands on whoever had taken Thalassa, he’d make that someone suffer in ways that hadn’t even been invented yet. Fred had a very creative mind.

He had a moment of disorientation as he crossed the threshold from the large front area of the warehouse to the smaller area that obviously led to the old offices. He faced the room he’d just left. “What the bloody hell?” he hissed. He’d gone in the centre door, but stepped out the opening on the right.

“Clever,” George commented, having gone in the same opening as Fred, and come out the door on the left.

“Not clever enough,” Fred muttered. “Not enough by half.” He walked up to the stretch of wall between two of the doors and took what looked like a yo-yo out of his pocket and rapped it with his knuckles. “George, if you would…”

George took hold of the string and pulled. He crouched, put the end against the corner where wall met floor and held it there with his toe. Fred played the string out and used it to define a vertical line against the wall. George reached up to hold the string in place at the second point, about six feet directly above where he held the string with his foot. Fred continued, marking off a horizontal line and George held the string in place at a third point, about three feet to the right of the last one. Fred knelt to place the plastic, neon green yo-yo on the floor straight down from where George held the string with his right hand. When Fred slid the yo-yo into place against the wall, the string turned black. George let go as Fred stood. The wall looked no different than before, but George walked straight at it, and then on through. Fred followed right after, looking around alertly.

They proceeded more cautiously now, listening carefully for any sign of Thalassa or her kidnapper. They heard nothing but their own crunching footsteps. The floor felt slightly uneven, as if it were covered with fine gravel. Suddenly, George tripped and fell to one knee.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. Something grabbed me. It…” George’s voice trailed off as he tried to rise and found his leg pinned to the floor.

Fred whispered a curse. The floor had sprouted little hands that clutched at his trouser legs.

George struggled to pull a package out of his jacket pocket as the floor succeeded in dragging Fred down. The stone hands didn’t seem to be satisfied just holding onto his trousers. George felt several sharp jabs as tiny stone fingers gouged holes in his shin. Fred cursed again and George assumed his twin was receiving the same treatment. The parcel wrapped in brown paper finally popped out of his pocket and he set it on the floor. “That’s right, grab hold of that, you greedy little…,” he said and tapped the bundle with his wand. It burst open and with a sound like a toilet flushing backwards, the floor transformed into a swamp. The hands trapping him and Fred melted just like the witch in one of Thalassa’s movies. The only problem was that now the two of them were covered in muck and they had half a Portable Swamp to slog through to get back to solid floor.


Gaius Rookwood paced angrily. The slut was unconscious, depriving him of the pleasure of gloating. He debated the merits of recasting the Ennervate he’d already cast twice unsuccessfully. He’d wait, he decided. Too many repetitions could kill her and he wasn’t ready for that yet. A lump of crystal on the desk glowed orange and he smiled, revealing crooked, yellowing teeth. The weasels had taken the bait and soon, soon, all his efforts would be rewarded. Let that Hartwell bitch sleep for now. She’d be awake and begging for his nonexistent mercy before long. Once he owled his employer…Rookwood gritted his teeth. Taking orders from an anonymous voice wasn’t what he’d envisioned, but at least the voice came with sacks of Galleons. He’d never have been able to afford all the charms, hexes and traps on the building with the pittance his grandfather had left him. And hiring a troll for an entire year would have been completely out of the question. It would be worth it, he told himself. He’d have his revenge, finally, and he’d be rewarded handsomely for his efforts. It was a pity about the dowry, though.


Fred cleaned swamp sludge off his arms and the satchel. The books appeared undamaged when he checked. He heaved a sigh of relief as he shook his hair out of his eyes. George tapped him on the shoulder and gestured to the stairs. Fred would have preferred that they search the ground floor thoroughly first, but he nodded his agreement. George led the way and Fred followed, turning every few steps to check behind them.

Halfway up the neglected concrete stairs, they heard it: a low, bubbling moan that sent them sprinting the rest of the way up to the second floor. The cry was repeated, unmistakably Thalassa’s voice, coming from behind the first door at the head of the stairs. Fred raised his wand to blast the door off its hinges, but George grabbed his wrist, preventing him.

“What if she’s right on the other side of the door?”

Fred jerked his arm out of George’s grasp and rapped the door handle with his wand. The door scraped open a few centimetres. George pushed it the rest of the way. He and Fred rushed forward, but only took a few steps into the room before they halted, unable to move further. The air in the room felt thicker than jelly. Fred couldn’t move his mouth, but he and George had mastered non-verbal spellcasting well ahead of anyone else in their year at school. Finite Incantatem, he thought, willing energy through his wand.

There was no perceptible effect and Fred realized his wand felt heavy and inert in his hand. Oh bloody hell, no. They were caught in an Anti-magic Field. Not only were their wands useless, but none of the other items they’d brought with them would function until they’d worked their way out of the range of the field. Now that he could look properly at the room, he could see where the floor had been painted thickly with what he could only assume was Medusa Potion. He could also see that the room was empty but for a conch shell on the floor, just past the glistening puddle they were standing in. From the opening of the shell came the sound that had tricked them into throwing aside all caution.

A giant fist closed slowly over the end of his wand and pulled it from his grasp. Out of the corner of his eye, Fred could see George similarly relieved of his wand. Then he felt the satchel of books pulled from him. Damn. Bloody fucking hell. Stupid, sodding…he would have continued with his silent litany of curses, but the same hand that now held his and George’s wands between two, huge, wart-encrusted fingers closed on his shoulder and pulled him backwards out of the immobilising field.

George fully expected to be crushed to a pulp, but the troll merely threw him to the floor and held him there with one foot. The troll shook Fred a couple of times and then subjected him to a rough and hasty search. What few items Fred had left in his pockets, the troll threw aside, except for the trick wand Fred had been working on when they’d received the ransom note. Then, before he could catch his breath, George was hauled up by one arm while the troll pinned Fred to the wall with a knee to the chest. When George had also been divested of his stash of makeshift weapons, the troll pushed him and Fred towards the end of the corridor.


Thalassa swam in a warm dark sea. Red waves of pain crashed into her at ever-shorter intervals, carrying her toward a lighted shore. She resisted their pull as best she could, but she was tired. She longed to let go, slip beneath the surface where the pain couldn’t reach her. She couldn’t give up just yet. The babies needed her.

She came to gasping for breath. Icy water dripped from the end of her nose and ran down her neck.

“Amazing. You resisted an Ennervate spell.”

“I’d be more amazed if I couldn’t resist one of your spells, Rookwood.”

His backhanded slap nearly took her head off. In her exhaustion, she’d forgotten to bite back the snide comment that sprang to her lips.

“Don’t be in such a hurry to die. You won’t want to miss this touching reunion. Your lovers have gone to a great deal of trouble to come to your rescue.” He cut the ropes holding her in the chair, leaving her hands bound, and dragged her to her feet.

“You’re lying. Fred and George are much too clever to fall into your trap.”

“See for yourself.” He turned her so she faced the door, one of his arms clamped around her chest and his knife to her throat.

The door swung open and Fred and George stumbled into the room, sent sprawling by a shove from the biggest, ugliest troll Thalassa had ever seen. They were a little bruised and dishevelled and they were coated with muck and green slime from mid-thigh down. Otherwise, they seemed unhurt.

“Did you get their wands?” Rookwood demanded.

The troll grinned horribly and held up its fist. The wands looked like three toothpicks stuck in a ham.

“And the books?”

The satchels dangled from the troll’s other hand.

“Good.” Rookwood nodded his satisfaction. “Once again, cunning and treachery triumph over bravery and honour.”

“You’ve got what you wanted. Let her go.” Fred’s voice was surprisingly level. The sight of Thalassa’s battered face and the blade gleaming at her throat kept George silent.

“I think not,” Rookwood replied. “Over against that wall, the both of you.” He pointed with his chin. “You!” he snapped at the troll. “Put the books and wands on the desk.”

The troll lumbered over and did as ordered, then took up a spot completely blocking the door.

“What now, Rookwood?” Fred asked.

George wanted to kick his twin. Belligerence wasn’t going to help the situation. Then again, he thought as Rookwood shifted nervously. Was the murderous bastard actually sweating? “We did what you said. The books are all there. We didn’t call the Aurors.”

Rookwood’s eyes darted wildly from George to the satchels to Fred and back to the satchels. He licked his lips as if his mouth had gone dry and frowned slightly with indecision. It would be funny if not for the fact that he held Thalassa hostage. Her posture showed her exhaustion and her face, where it wasn’t bruised, had a greyish tinge. They needed to get her out of here, quickly. George flinched as she groaned and nearly doubled over.


Thalassa gave a small cry as the pain rolled through her. Oh Gods, she didn’t want to give birth here in this filthy room with a troll and a murderer for midwives. She felt a warm gush down her thighs and she stumbled. Apparently she wasn’t to have a say in that. Rookwood’s grasp slipped as Thalassa fell to her knees. He scrabbled for some hold on her and caught the shoulder of her robe, tearing it. Time stretched impossibly. Thalassa twisted her head around as far as she could to touch the very top edge of her tattoo with her chin.

“Anima Tatau!” she shrieked. The snake stirred and came to life, rising from her skin with a sound like ripping silk.

Rookwood screamed and back-pedalled toward the desk, reaching for a wand. He snatched the first one his fingers touched and pointed it at the jewel-coloured, winged snake. “Finite Incantatem! Finite Incantatem!” The wand changed into an ice cream cone that dripped over his fingers. “No! NOOOO!” he howled as fangs pierced his shoulder, injecting venom that burned swiftly though his veins.


Fred lunged for his and George’s wands, ducking the whipping tail of the snake that had been a tattoo mere moments before. Snatching them up, he tossed one to George. The snake finished with Rookwood and arrowed toward the troll, spitting venom. It battered the troll about the head with rainbow-hued wings and tried to find a spot on the troll’s hide soft enough to bite into. The troll roared in confusion and flailed about wildly. One swipe of its tree-trunk arm clipped Thalassa and sent her tumbling across the room to fetch up, hard, against the wall.

“No!” he heard George shout. And then…

“Reducto!” one cry torn from two throats. Two spells sizzled through the air and the troll’s midsection disintegrated. Its torso crashed to the floor first, the legs toppling slowly after.


George didn’t remember crossing to Thalassa’s side. Her snake tattoo hovered over her limp form protectively for a moment. It hissed once at him weakly and burrowed into her robe through the rip at the shoulder, returning to its dormant state. He reached out a shaky hand to Thalassa where she lay against the wall like a broken doll. There was blood everywhere, on her face, in her hair, and a rapidly spreading pool from somewhere underneath her. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t… Her abdomen moved. Or were the tears in his eyes making his vision blur and ripple? He let his fingertips brush her unconscious form gently. That was definitely movement.

“Fred! She’s alive! We have to get her to—“

“Here.” A freckled hand thrust a crushed lager can in front of George. “Emergency portkey,” Ron’s voice explained tersely. “Take you to St. Mungo’s in three…”

George took the portkey.

“…two…”

He set it carefully against Thalassa’s belly.

“…one…”

Fred’s hand covered his and George felt the tug behind his navel as the world slid sideways.