Hermione watched fearful as Isadora ran up the staircase. She had heard the words clearly even though they whispered to the ground. She looked around to see if anyone else had heard, too. If they had, no one was showing it…

OoOoO

Isadora clambered the stairs all the way to the top floor where her bedroom was. It was only a matter of time before her grandfather would be coming and as soon as he did she knew he would come for her. He would be mad. He would slaughter like he did her father.

She threw herself on the purple sheets of her bed, the ghosts of her past playing tricks with her mind. The sound of running water and the smell of lavender came to her. She slowly sat up and saw through the doorway on her left. She walked over and found herself in her old powder room. Standing in front of a drawn bath was her personal house elf. She wiped her tears away and stared at Idris, her elf, as she got out fresh towels and set them on the black marble countertop. Idris looked up at her and without saying a word grabbed her hand and led her to the bath.

Isadora just stood, ultimately falling prey to apathy. Idris frowned and started to take off Isadora's smelly clothes. Even the house elf looked upon her with disdain. Isadora reached out to strike Idris, but her hand froze in the air. She lamely replaced it by her side again and climbed into the bath, let the warm water engulf her body. Most of the dirt rose off her body like magic, but the house elf propped herself on the side of the tub to help anyway. Grabbing a bar of soap and something to scrub with, Idris set to work cleaning her master. Isadora closed her eyes and fell asleep.

Isadora awoke back in her own bed. For a second she thought it was her own nightmarish screams that had caused her to open her eyes, but realized it was someone else in the manor. Isadora sat bolt upright as she suddenly remembered where she was. She wore a long nightgown, courtesy of her house elf, and the sheets around her were drenched in sweat. She clumsily clambered out of the bed and stumbled over to the wardrobe.

She pulled open the wooden doors and blinked at the reflection. The girl staring back was cool, clean, and confident. It couldn't be her. No way. She placed a delicate hand onto her cheeks. It was a wonder what a bath could do for a person. Another scream shook her from her thoughts. She blinked hard and tried not to look at the mirror as she grasped vainly at the cloth in her closet.

She pulled out a black dress and put it on. Quickly she grabbed a red cloak and slipped that on over. She didn't bother to do her hair or make-up and ran out the door without putting on any shoes. She went over to the stairs, double-checked to make sure she had her wand and tiptoed down the stairs to the foyer.

She stopped dead when she saw Hermione lying on the ground, bloodied and crying. Bellatrix loomed over her, knife in hand and smirk on her face. Isadora suddenly became faint again. She had seen plenty of people being tortured and worse, but never had she really felt such a connection to the victim. Never had she felt a connection to anyone really.

Bellatrix still didn't look up. Isadora decided to silently creep around the room. She hugged the walls for dear life and made her way over to the East Wing Hallway. She quickly ducked inside and ran and turned until she reached the basement doors. More cries rang in her ears and she quickened her pace. She opened the door and padded down the cold stairs. About halfway through she saw Wormtail sitting in a chair on the landing. He was facing the heavy door at the bottom of the stairwell. She walked behind him, pointed his wand at his neck and whispered a quick spell. He fell asleep instantly.

She grabbed his keys knowing that 'alohomora' would not work on a door like this and she inserted the largest key into the hole under the knob. She let the door roll open, but used her strength to keep it from slamming against the wall. The lights were off and she couldn't see anyone inside, but once the door was open she head voices.

"It's Isadora, turn the lights back on," Harry whispered and a ball of light made its way from Ron to the small lantern sitting on a crate. Harry and Ron weren't the only ones in the dungeon. A small elf, a goblin, an old man, and a blonde girl all stood in the small room. Isadora ran over to Harry and Ron and they all embraced in an awkward group hug. She pulled back and looked around.

"My god, is that Ollivander?" She whispered as she approached the old man, guilt welling up in her stomach. The man nodded his head and Isadora gasped.

"They've kept you here all this time?" She asked him. When the wand-maker had been brought to the manor, she had no problem with it. She watched as Voldemort and the others tortured him for information. They had even sent her to learn about anything he had to say. What an interrogation that had been.

Isadora fastened her black robes, pleased to finally be allowed to do some work on her own. Her heels clacked on the floor beneath her as she descended down the basement stairs for the first time. A sense of pride welled up inside her as she held out her hand for the keys. The masked Death Eater dropped them in her hand and she opened the door and stepped inside. Taken aback by the darkness, Isadora lit up the tip of her wand. The man sitting on the ground before her was gray, bloody, and clearly broken.

If the others had not gotten the information desired by making him look like this, then how did they expect her to do any better. Something clicked in her head. Oh, of course. They wanted her to use… different methods. She spoke quietly, but her voice was strong.

"Look up," she demanded and he complied. His face was old and worn. His expression begged for death.

"Are you the one they sent to kill me?" He asked, his hoarse voice barely a whisper. She chuckled.

"I won't be letting you off that easy," she said, trying not to change her tone.

"Of course," he looked back down.

"Look up," She demanded again, harsher this time. His head snapped back up.

"Look at you; Just a child, thrown into this lifestyle. I don't recall selling you that wand," he eyed the stick in her hand, the light still emitting from the top of it, "Thirteen inches, beech wood," he reached out and wrapped a wrinkled hand around it. His words took her by surprise and he was able to lift the wand out of her grip. The light went out, but an old oil lamp lit itself.

"Dragon heartstring," he continued and bent the wand a little in his hand, "Reasonably supple."

She took it back from him quickly, "It is not information on my wand that I require."

"I know what they seek, but I cannot help," he put his hands up defensively.

"They?" She asked him. She didn't want to seem curious, but her eyes betrayed her.

"Surely you are not one of them? The Death Eaters have no ranks for a child," his eyes flickered to her right arm and she caught him looking. She pulled the sleeves of her robe down more to cover up the fact that there was no branding.

"I am not a child," her voice darkened and she clenched her wand.

"No. Not on the inside," he kept a wary eye on her as she circled him. Her tough act was deteriorating around her.

"Stop!" She demanded as she struck her hand across his face. His head was swept to the side, but he didn't seem fazed. She turned and left in a huff. Charging up the stairs and into the meeting room.

"He didn't tell me anything," she grumbled as she bowed her head at her grandfather.