CHAPTER I:
Hermione didn't get any sleep that night. Her mattress was determined to make her even more miserable than she already was. It wasn't hard to figure out that the Death Eaters would lining up to win the best friend of Harry Potter as their unwilling bride, and she really didn't want to think about what that would entail. She moaned and flipped her pillow over to the cool side.
Two days ago, she had been thrilled to be named Head Girl. Two days ago, her main concern was her over-the-break Transfiguration essay she was doing for extra credit. Two days ago, she had been happily thinking about an easy future with a loving husband...and that was one of those "someday" things that she would occasionally ponder, not an actual plan.
Now? Now she was doomed.
The Ministry letter had been crumpled into a ball, and Crookshanks was happily batting it across her bedroom floor. Good riddance, she thought. She wasn't sure if this was a legitimate act of the Ministry or if Voldemort and his minions had leaned on the wizengamot enough to make them pass the law. Neither one would surprise her. What would she do?
Her first option, of course, would be to marry one of the Weasley boys. They were pure-bloods, after all, and would be more than willing to help her. Unfortunately, she doubted any of them would be able to survive the machinations of the Death Eaters. They would be dead before the honeymoon.
That thought pulled her up short. She had studied the details of the law in depth, and was well aware of the consummation and conception clauses. She had never gone that far with anyone. She had gotten close with Viktor, and closer with Peter Gambol, a Ravenclaw one year older than she was whom she had dated toward the end of last term. She had discovered, however, that boys her own age were always thinking about sex, no matter what they were doing. It was obnoxious.
She sighed and sat up, giving in to the fact that she wouldn't get any sleep tonight. As soon as she shoved her feet into her fuzzy purple slippers, she heard a tap-tap-tap on her window. A handsome screech owl fluttered in and settled on her desk, offering her the letter tied to his leg. She didn't recognize the bird at all, but she fed it an owl treat from the tiny bag she kept on hand for Hedwig's occasional visits and took the letter. The bird didn't leave.
"Are you waiting for a reply?" she asked. He simple resettled himself and perched on the back of her chair. "I'll take that as a yes."
The seal on the letter was silver wax and had an elegant "S" surrounded by ivy. It looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn't place where she'd seen it. The parchment was dry and expensive, and once she saw the spiky handwriting, she nearly gasped.
Dear Miss Granger,
No doubt the arrival of a personal letter from your Potions Master is causing you no small degree of confusion and anxiety. Rest assured, this is not my intention. I am writing instead to inquire whether you have received one of the ridiculous letters from the Ministry. If you have, your over-active mind has already made the connection to the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters.
It is true that you are in grave danger. The Death Eaters have been given a direct order: whoever can secure the "Mudblood friend of the Boy-Who-Lived" will be elevated among our ranks to the Inner Circle. I cannot give you a lesson on the rank system of Death Eaters now, girl, so bite your tongue and let me finish.
She found herself smirking, because it just occurred to her to ask how prestigious a position that was, exactly. She read on.
Suffice it to say that any of the Weasley children would be woefully inadequate to protect you, and even if they did, it would all be for naught because they would simply bore you to death. If it is amenable to you, I shall send a petition for your hand to the Ministry. Before you protest, Miss Granger, let me remind you that this is by far one of your best choices for several reasons.
I can hear your hot-headed protests even now, Miss Granger. Cease them at once, and reply as soon as you finish reading. I wish to meet with you at your earliest convenience to discuss details. Erebus will wait for your return letter.
Regards,
Severus E. Snape
She sat heavily on her bed. Crookshanks hopped up beside her and mewled for attention, so she scratched him absent-mindedly as she thought. When she glanced up, the owl was still waiting patiently. "Erebus, eh?" she said. Typical of Snape to name his owl after the Greek god of darkness. He was very well behaved, though, and very elegant for such a large bird.
She picked up a quill, grabbed some parchment, and penned a reply. As Erebus flew away, she wondered if it was too cruel to wish for lightning to strike him down before he reached his owner.
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Malfoy Manor was full of the opulence of several generations' worth of undeserved wealth. The polished black marble floors gleamed in the torchlight as cloaked figure after cloaked figure apperated into the foyer. The low murmur of voices came from an adjacent ballroom.
Snape headed that direction, for once grateful for the white mask he wore. His cheek was blistered and it itched madly. When he had returned from his meeting with Dumbledore, he had gone immediately to his desk to write a letter to Hermione Granger. It wasn't until he had finished that he remembered the unsupervised and untested potion still brewing in his lab. In his haste, he banged open the door far too forcefully, unsettling the volatile concoction. The explosion would have injured him far worse had it not been for the self-preserving damping spells surrounding his lab.
He took his place among the assembled. His particular rank left him halfway back from the Dark Lord's throne, but directly in front rather than to either side. He sank to his knees and waited.
Beside him, Macnair wheezed, "Any ideas?"
Snape didn't have to ask what he meant. No one knew the reason their master had called this meeting, and no one had the courage to ask. "I'm sure we shall find out momentarily."
As if Snape's words had summoned him, Voldemort himself strode through the room to his throne. Even with his long and powerful stride, he radiated a snake-like grace. His red eyes scanned the room in silence for a long minute. Every Death Eater had his or her head bowed in respect. Those in front knelt on one knee, while those in the middle (like Snape himself) were on two knees. In the back of the room and on the fringes of the group were the lowest ranked, either because they were new or because they were untrustworthy. These were forced to stay prostrate, face to the floor, until the conclusion of the meeting. Snape remembered those days, and his knees ached in memory.
"Thertius!" Voldemort's voice was so sudden that his followers flinched as one entity. To Snape's left and slightly back, a man stood.
"My lord." He sounded nervous.
"Gregory Thertius, you have failed to attend these meetings for over a month. When we are finally graced with your presence, I learn that you have not completed your assignment. What have you to say?" Voldemort's eyes never wavered from Thertius's. It was an unsettling feeling, leaving your mind open to the most evil and vile creature to walk the earth. Snape didn't pity the man at all.
"My lord," the Death Eater knelt again as he attempted to avert as much pain as possible. "Your law has passed, and the Ministry is playing directly into your hands as we speak. I'm afraid I don't understand."
"Choice, my dear Thertius!" the Dark Lord bellowed. "You failed to complete your assignment. The petitioned mudbloods have a choice in whom they can marry. Are you so completely incompetent as to allow this? You gave them a means of escape!"
"M-m-my lord..."
"SILENCE!"
The only sound for a long, tense moment was Nagini's scales sliding over the marble floor toward her master. Voldemort stroked her long body as if she were a lover before smiling widely. Thertius whimpered.
"Since I'm feeling just as generous as you are, Gregory..." he said, tapping his wand contemplatively against his thin white lips, "I'll give you a choice."
He called forth Macnair and Eric Normand, both of whom had reputations for being utterly vicious in completely different ways: Macnair loved to let his victims bleed to death from hundreds of mild slicing hexes; Normand got his thrills from the screams of his victims as he violated them before cutting their throat (he had no preference when it came to gender, either).
"You're going to die tonight, Gregory." Voldemort delivered this news in the same tone he might use to discuss quidditch scores. "But you now have a choice. Do you wish to die by Macnair's wand, or by Normand's knife?"
Thertius was trembling at this point. "M-m-my l-l-lo-lord...please!"
"I'll give you thirty seconds to decide."
The man was sobbing now, and his shallow breaths echoed in the large ballroom.
"Twenty seconds. Tick-tock, Mr. Thertius. Don't worry; we'll send your body to your family straight away."
Thertius muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Dear God, save me."
"Ten."
More sobs.
"Nine."
He began to beg aloud.
"Eight."
Macnair fingered his wand.
"Seven."
Normand licked his lips.
"Six."
Finally, Thertius deflated. "Alright!" he shouted, "Macnair. I'll take Macnair. Please, just get it over with."
Disappointed, Normand took his place in the crowd once more.
The screams of Gregory Thertius echoed through Malfoy Manor until the small hours of morning.
