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Summarized at end.
CH 4. Salon Morbide
Earlier that evening...
"I'm telling you, there won't be anybody there!"
"And I'm telling you, of course there will, you idiot."
In the intervening silence, you could have heard a Biting Fairy sigh.
"What did you call me, Dolohov?"
"You heard me."
"I don't believe I did, because it sounded as if you were insulting me, but that would be impossible."
"D'you really think they'd just leave Potter's Mudblood in an unprotected house, a sitting target?"
"And I suppose that being a Half-Blood makes you more qualified than the rest of us to extrapolate on the what-passes-for-logical processes of the blood traitors?"
Dolohov's anemic face undertook a feral aspect as he lunged forward; his advantage in height and mass made the struggle which ended with Lestrange pinned to a bookshelf by the scuff of his robes brief.
"Do not provoke me, Lestrange," Dolohov snarled, projecting globules of spit onto the other's disgusted face. "You know perfectly well that I could kick your scrawny arse in a duel."
Fighting the urge to reach for his handkerchief, Rodolphus reached for his wand instead.
For better or for worse, the impending duel was interrupted by the entrance of Bellatrix Lestrange, who barreled into the room at a remarkable speed, wand clutched in her fist. These days, her wand never left her fingers: she held it in one hand, and a fork in the other, at dinner; she clutched it in her sleep; she took it into the bath.
"Kindly unhand my husband, Antonin," she said, and when he failed to respond, she cast.
A blast of blue light cut between the struggling figures, wrenching Dolohov away from his adversary and projecting him ceiling-ward. He landed near the bookshelves on the opposite wall, groaning when he collided with a heavy reading table.
It took Dolohov considerable effort to prevent himself from lashing out, as he would have done with anyone else, but experience dictated that in one of her "moods", Madam Lestrange behaved very much as a rabid animal, unpredictable and dangerous, best left well alone. If only alone could mean a bloody padded cell, he'd be a happy man.
So, he simply watched her with weary eyes as he levered himself off the ground, nursing little in the way of damage except a bruised ego.
Parts of hair stuck out at strange angles from what had no doubt been meant as an attempt at an up-do, and the dress robes she wore, ancient black lace patched in spots with dust and white filaments of spider silk, though hardly an improvement from her usual ilk, indicated that an effort had been made for an event of some importance.
She walked across the room in which they congregated daily to plan the Mudblood Operation, (the lower library of the Riddle House, assimilated for the purpose), the shredded hem of her dress clearing lines on the dusty floorboards.
"While you two have been quibbling like infants, I've just come from the Dark Lord's private chambers." She said the words 'private chambers' in a breathy tone, and while she and Pettigrew were the only two favored with the privilege of entrance, as the most trusted, the invitation was precious to Bella for an altogether different reason. He, Lord Voldemort, was always the epitome of decorum, but hope sprang eternal in a breast otherwise withered of sentiment.
Muttering indecipherables to herself, Bellatrix rifled through the maps and parchments on the bureau as the men deliberated whether on not an interruption would provoke attack.
Summoning courage, her husband began: "What did -"
Only to be cut short by: "What in damnation are you waiting for? I expect you ready in an hour."
Bewildered, Dolohov inquired: "For what?"
She pinned him with a glare.
"Oh, you useless creature. The Dark Lord plans for us to attack the Mudblood tonight!" She turned to rifling through a casket which held an assortment of spindly magical instruments, intently studying and then discarding each.
"Mad as a loon," Dolohov said, too quietly to be overheard by either Bellatrix or her spouse, who stood behind her, catching the gadgets as she tossed them over her shoulder, responding with crooning reassurances to her agitated murmurs.
Dolohov felt the beginnings of a migraine coming on; he eyed the liquor cabinet speculatively, decided that alcohol wouldn't make the situation any less insufferable, and continued the train of conversation that had been interrupted by the woman's entrance.
"What about the Aurors?"
"There will be none," Rodolphus snapped."Will there, darling?"
He turned to his wife, who was preoccupied with a pair of thumbscrews rusted into ineffectiveness. With a whispered spell, the implement morphed into a long-legged spider, shiny and black. She seemed pleased with the transformation, and with a small smirk, squished the insect between her fingers.
"Those were my favorites, years ago. And no one bothered to use a rust-repelling charm. Typical, really." She sighed. "Call him immediately, and inquire into the issue. Although I am of the opinion that anyone they may have watching those animals will be simplicity itself to eliminate."
"Call whom, the Dark Lord?"
"Ah, you would disturb him over this? Does the Dark Lord benefit from such a servant? You must aspire to be worthy, boy," and he, only ten years her junior, the wretched hag. "Severus Snape. Who else? That treacherous, shifty little thing...summon him!"
"Certainly, your Ladyship," Dolohov muttered as he walked toward the fireplace.
The words pierced through Bella's fragile facade of calm, her concentration. Your Ladyship...could they know, these unexceptionals, the fondest, most closely cherished secret of her heart? Impossible!
"I beg your pardon?" It was an acid whisper, leaving no room for doubt that it was unquestionably he who should be begging her pardon on bended knee.
Dolohov stopped short. He had not counted on her being quite so lucid this evening; typically, the preoccupations of madness left her insensible of her surroundings, but tonight, her seeming distraction was deceptive. Since their escape from Azkaban, Bellatrix was more vicious, more resourceful, and, apparently, more powerful then before The Fall. And utterly, utterly unhinged.
"I said nothing."
But she had seen the flicker of fear in his mind. Also, she had seen disgust, and it enraged her.
"How dare you mock your superiors, Half-Blood scum? I'll take your vile tongue right out!" The tip of her raised wand glowed red.
"Bella, dear, really..." Rodolphus made a half-hearted attempt at intervention, though he was not specifically averse to the prospect of a tongueless Dolohov.
Dolohov moved with the reflexes born out of a lifetime of criminality, both petty and dreadful, throwing powder into the hearth and leaping into the flames just in time to avoid a curse that shattered the mantle above the fireplace into a coarse dust.
A year ago, Death Eater agents within the Floo Network Authority had mounted a covert operation to remove the fireplaces of Voldemort's supporters from the general Floo and connect them via a secret, insular network, inaccessible to anyone who did not bear the Dark Mark. Since no more than three dozen fireplaces consolidated within the web, Dolohov's journey to Spinner's End was over in seconds.
The room which greeted him upon arrival appeared uninhabited. The floors were grimy with many years of neglect, spiderwebs glistened in shadowy corners, and a solitary light bulb glared upon furniture covered with sheets yellow from age. The desolate, dilapidated surroundings unpleasantly reminded Dolohov of his youth, spent living by his wits, flitting between the cruel, gray cities of the Continent. But...somewhere in the depths of the gloom, he heard the noises of life and decided that the house, dark and cave-like, suited its inhabitants well: a rodent and a bat, afraid lest their ugly forms see the light of day. Probably buggering each other silly, Dolohov thought with disgust. There had always been this soiled, smarmy air around Wormtail, and a blind man could see that Snape pranced around as if he had a broom shoved up his arse and liked it.
Downstairs, the basement, unlike the rest of the place, bore signs of use: scattered books and quills, unfinished meals uncleared and left to rot, towels, clothes, thrown on the floor, and the cloying smell of sweat.
Out of the chemical haze that shrouded one corner of the room, emerged the Potions Master; behind him, Dolohov perceived the outlines of a workbench, cabinets, and several cauldrons.
"Ah. I was wondering who that could be," Snape drawled. It was a lie, and both knew it; Snape warded his worthless hovel as though it were a veritable palace. How it must chafe to have so little and be constantly confronted with the likes of Malfoy, who probably used gold plated paper to wipe his poncy behind. But Dolohov knew all about that, of course. That was why they hated each other, really, him and Snape; they were too much alike. Not that he'd admit it under torture, mind you.
Projecting his voice so that it carried through the wide space, Snape called, "Your presence is required, Pettigrew."
A wand in one hand, and a lowball in the other, he approached a round table in the center of the basement. Gesticulating at the books, the stacks of notes, the bottles that littered the surface, he said: "I hope you will forgive the mess, but the again, I'm sure you won't mind. The help has been remiss in his housekeeping duties, but what can one expect form a creature which has such a limited understanding of personal hygiene? Won't you sit down?" The last, with poisonous mockery.
He fell heavily into a chair, but Dolohov remained standing, narrowing his eyes at his...host, for lack of a better word. He could never pin Snape down, could not figure out if all his ironic sarcasm was meant to get under his skin or if the man had just been born a wretched blighter and couldn't help it. Hadn't said anything rude, it was just that tone...Dolohov decided to volley back.
"Drinking on the job, Snape?"
Snape snorted into the very drink in question, considered chucking the glass in the general direction of Dolohov's forehead, but was unable to gather enough enthusiasm to actually lift his arm, oddly heavy as it seemed to be. Funny enough, he couldn't actually remember a time when he had not been drinking on the job. The job practically demanded it, whether one meant the spying or the crowd control and damage mitigation lovingly referred to as 'teaching' by the ignorant and the malicious. Whether one meant life, and wasn't that reason enough? The very fact of his existence made Snape want to drown in all his fucking father's liquor. Inebriation always did make him unnaturally sentimental, he thought with disgust.
And, more to the point, who the hell was Dolohov to cast aspersions when they all knew about his little issue with Muggle narcotics?
"I'd offer you a glass, Antonin, but this is a rather rare draft, and it would be a shame to waste it. Besides, this isn't really your poison, is it? You were always one for mindless, cheap gratification, no matter how far down the gutter you had to burrow to get it."
"Speaking of burrowing down the gutter, d'you ever manage to ram it up that Mudblood of yours? You-." The rest was drowned in violet light as Dolohov hurtled against a wall for the second time that evening. And Merlin, if it wasn't his sodding luck to hit the exact same painful spot on his hip.
"Crucio."
Blindsided, Dolohov began to choke on his tongue, emitting gurgling noises, trying not to bite through his lips. A trail of saliva dribbled down his chin and fell to the floor.
Snape held the curse for a lot longer than Dolohov had expected he would. Finally, the pain receded. Dolhov wiped his mouth with the back of one trembling hand.
"How DARE you even think, let alone speak of her, you worthless excuse...." Dolohov struggled to tune him out, but Snape was advancing, demented rage rolling off him in waves, eddying, and lapping at Dolohov's ankles like a sewage overspill. He had figured, all things considered, that either Lestrange or Snape would be the death of him, and now spared a tiny moment of regret that it wouldn't be her to do him in, after all. Nimue knew she was easier on the eyes, and he'd carried quite the torch for her in his time.
Snape was sputtering and incoherent, seemingly torn between dismembering him right then and dragging it out. Out of nowhere, Dolohov realized that he didn't give a damn either way, and that unsettled him a little. He would die right there in a filthy Muggle basement and couldn't bring himself to care less. In a way, it was a relief. Self-preservation was just so exhausting, and if there had ever been a purpose to all this, he had long ago lost sight of it. But Dolohov was almost glad that Pettigrew entered just then.
Almost.
Snape shut down so fast it was frankly scary. In the blink of an eye, he went from murderous to calmly disdainful, eying Wormtail like a bit of grime on the side of his workboot.
"You wanted me?" he asked Snape.
"Certainly not, Wormtail. I simply enjoy watching you scramble to attention like a house elf."
Snape turned an impassive face to Dolohov, who had managed to pick himself up.
"My business is with the Professor, Wormtail," Dolohov's intonation was ironic, "so you can run along."
Wormtail, the Death Eater of lowest rank, who also happened to be the only Death Eater skilled enough to accomplish full animagus transformation, made a show of noting the time and the visitor's identity in a small notebook.
"Ah, yes, the memory is the first to go with age, is it not?" Snape drawled, enjoying Wormtail's ineloquent anger.
"We were in the same year, you git!"
"But I did not spent a decade in a Weasley's pocket. Clearly the experience has addled whatever brains you claimed to possess before the fact. The stench of blood traitor never does go away, does it?"
You would know, Pettigrew thought. But he prevented himself from voicing the remark. It would not do to provoke Snape now, while his plans were so tentative. But he was certain the time would come when he would worm his away out from under the boots of these glorified thugs.
Transforming back into his animagus form, Wormtail scurried into the darkness.
"Is he gone then?"
"A talent for eavesdropping is just one of the many fine skills Wormtail has to offer our Master."
All in all, Snape thought, that was a rather good barb with the minor exception that the majority of his own usefulness to the Dark Lord comprised largely the same thing.
"Can't you get rid of him?"
"As dearly as I would love to, I suspect it was not the Dark Lord's intention in...loaning me Wormtail to have me kill him."
"Ah yes, I'd forgotten that he's here to make sure you toe the line. Tell me, does he follow you into the loo? Warm your bed at night?"
Snape sneered.
"As charming as this undoubtedly is- for you- don't tell me you're here to make scintillating conversation, Dolohov."
"Oh, never that. She wants to speak to you."
"Well, you can tell her to go to hell. I'm busy."
"I'm afraid that she was quite insistent." Dolohov rubbed the ache in his hip, where her spell had blasted him into a table earlier."I don't think you want her to come here and get you herself."
Snape considered. He could refuse altogether, only to have that lunatic barge into his laboratory, wreaking unknown damage on his workspace, and possibly, his person. Or, he could obey the summons, leaving his potion at a most critical point in the process. Most likely, he would have to re-do the batch. Oh, how he wished the Dementors had sucked Bellatrix dry of whatever corroded essence still animated her nefarious person. Damn and blast!
He wanted to know what they were up to. He suspected that, for the past two weeks, the others had been hatching some sort of plan that was studiously being kept hidden from him.
Thus, as Wormtail peered on the scene with tiny eyes from underneath the sofa, Snape rose and followed Dolohov up the narrow staircase.
Although he would have rather pulled his fingernails out than admit it, visiting Spinner's End never failed to profoundly unnerve Dolohov, perhaps because it never failed to remind him of an Azkaban cell. The air, always still and cold enough to see exhaled breath, the utter silence, the smell of dirt and germinating moss, the atmosphere completely drained of color and feeling, all these things were the same. And Snape, his own Dementor, so much a part of the house that death had stained, that Dolohov could fancy him a ghost, prisoner of some gruesome history.
He reached for the tin on the fireplace, but it was empty.
"You're out of powder."
"Am I?" Snape lifted the sheet of a cupboard, and searched inside. "How fortunate that I keep a reserve. Otherwise, I would have had to refuse your invitation."
Dolohov glanced at the mirror above the mantle; its cracked surface reflected the room in shards, fragmentary and surreal.
"You know, it's bad luck to keep a broken mirror."
"Perhaps."
Snape returned with a cup brimful of ash-grey powder. Studying their distorted reflections, he continued: "But the dead are very particular."
Since Dolohov was second to step into the flames, he did not witness the beginning of the scuffle that ensued as soon as Snape arrived at the Riddle House. Bellatrix had taken advantage of the momentary disorientation that succeeds floo travel and, a long stiletto in hand, had leaped upon the Potions Master from behind and stabbed the blade into his shoulder.
Snape realized that the knife was seeped in a Veritaserum derivative when he felt the numbing effects of the potion permeate his system. He blasted the creature off him, but it was too late; the potion was created for instantaneous dissolution upon entry to the bloodstream. He had designed it himself.
Lestrange maneuvered his suddenly clumsy form into an armchair, digging her nails into his shoulders as she sat him upright. From the smirk on her face, he knew she intended to leave marks. With all the languorous grace her breeding afforded, Bellatrix leaned forward with her her hands on the armrests of his chair as she watched his symptoms. The pupils were dilated in her black eyes, which stared unblinking into his own, waiting for a mirror dilation. He noticed that one eye looked flat and dead, while the other glinted with moisture and was utterly mad.
And, despite his best intentions, Snape felt a tendril of fear knot in his gut... he looked away.
Bellatrix smirked and fingered a lock of his hair, scraping one pale fingernail against his neck as she tucked it behind his ear.
"Miss me, Severus?" She purred low enough that none but him could hear it.
Oh gods.
She hadn't been this way in years, and he had managed to banish the memory of that drugging tone from waking thought.
He breathed- long, hard- through his nose, and pretended he hadn't heard.
"Am I to surmise from that little demonstration that the Dark Lord has doubts regarding my information?" Snape asked, giving every impression of being utterly unaffected and totally unconcerned, even as he felt himself sinking into a deeper gradient of distortion. Although he had been purposely building a tolerance for the truth serum since Voldemort's return, this dose was very high, nearly toxic. He could resist the compulsion with Occlumency, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything. He shifted his head away from the suddenly blinding light of a table lamp...and there was the smell. Sulphur. So faint that he could not say whether it was there in actuality, or just a specter of his fear. He raised his hand across his mouth and breathed the pleasant smell of ethanol which lingered on his fingers...and the sulphurous stench was gone!
No...he caught another passing current, which irritated the filmy lining of his mouth, itched at the back of his throat ...
Why did it torment him?
Bellatrix looked momentarily worried, and Snape knew that she had not asked their Master's permission.
However, given Voldemort's inexplicable fondness for the twisted hag, it was likely that she wouldn't even be punished for it.
Snape had been spared the dubious pleasure of making Bella's acquaintance until the tender age of seven, at a pureblood banquet, the invitation to which had been the culmination of his mother's lengthy and humiliating campaign to re-insinuate herself into the good graces of her estranged family.
Like any Slytherin worth her salt, Eileen Prince had been a proud woman who knew that the ends occasionally required some groveling and begging. If only she had used that same prudent logic when it came to his father, and put him in his place with a well-appointed "Avada Kedavra" before they'd ever spoken their vows, things would have been much better. But then he would never have been been born. And that, Snape decided, would have be no great loss to anybody.
That night, their specious and condescending pleasantries had left a bitter taste in the young boy's mouth. If experience had not sensitized him to conversation full of veiled contempt, all of it would have gone right over his head. "So very glad he turned out well... so much like your father, Eileen, it's a relief...he'll be safe at Hogwarts before you know it...a child needs to be around appropriate role-models..."
All the while, his mother bobbing her head as if her cranium had disattached from her spine.
"Just a precaution, Severus, I'm sure you would have done the same."
"Mmm, but I would have used twice the dose, and put the rest of us out of our misery."
Rodolphus Lestrange emitted a snort from his perch in the corner. Letting Bella do the dirty work, as usual.
"Why, Severus, you're so much more pleasant when you're being sincere."
Feeling clean for the first time he could remember, little Severus had hovered around his mother's skirts all evening, assessed and found just barely acceptable by every pair of haughty eyes that slid across his washed but undernourished face, his spotless but threadbare robes. When they'd tired of him, he had been dismissed to the children's table, which was rather like being thrown from the frying pan into the fire, since pureblood youth within that circle had all of the bigoted arrogance of their parents and none of their restraint. Bellatrix presided over the kiddie corner, and, having just turned 17, was the eldest of the bunch. Seething with resentment after being relegated to babysitting when she'd finally earned her place with the adults, Bella had not made a favorable impression on little Severus. He'd found her egotistical, spoiled, and uninspired.
Bella, in her turn, had given Snape a disdainful once-over and found him stuttering, servile, and not nearly interesting enough to be much fun to taunt. He was, and always had been, an ugly, misbegotten little worm who was too smart for his own good.
The first demand assaulted his fraying senses:
"Tell me about the security measures that the Order uses to protect its members. Residences, specifically." She circled him like a carrion bird, pausing just behind his chair, out of sight. She could snap his neck if she chose to. And- the thought came unbidden, revolting him utterly- there was once a time when that had turned him on.
A synthetic desire to obey and speak was repressed with more difficulty than he showed.
"I believe the subject was well rehashed at Tuesday's meeting, or perhaps you've forgotten? I have read that dementia can have that effect on occasion."
Bellatrix studied him suspiciously.
"All, as I recall, based solely on your information. Of which you did not have much."
"What makes you think that they have changed their minds about what I am allowed to know?"
"Allowed to know, or choose to know, when it suits you to know it? The Dark Lord, he is merciful. He took you back into the fold although you abandoned him in his hour of need. Managed to convince him that you are necessary to the cause, when he would have killed you. He tolerates you, he gives you much license. But me, I doubt! Yes, I doubt your more than amiable relations with Dumbledore's teachers, with the Mudblood vermin that fester in the halls of Hogwarts."
"I don't think that I've ever been accused of being amiable before," he drawled, sneering. "I do what is asked of me, Lestrange, and I do it well. Which is more that certain others can say."
The strategy was to speak true statements without directly answering her questions, and to keep her talking for as long as possible, until the effects of the potion began to wear off. Or he passed out. Whichever came first. But most of all, he would absolutely not slur his words. That would be beyond toleration.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"I think you know perfectly well. You were, after all, there that night."
"Lucius was in charge! Not me! The Dark Lord has told me that he wishes he had allowed me to plan the attack. If it had been me, we would have that prophesy!"
"I was not speaking of you specifically, Bellatrix. However, it appears that you feel...dare I say, guilty?"
"Why you disgusting little..." Bellatrix raised her wand, and Rodolphus decided it was time to intervene. It wasn't that he cared for Snape, specifically- in fact, just the opposite- but he simply detested the sight of blood, and violence was so...undignified. For the victim, of course. Bellatrix was hardly capable of undignified, did not have an unrefined bone in her body, but she was a visionary, a believer in The Cause in a way he never could be. Some people said insanity; he said dedication.
"The time, Bella."
"Oh yes. Yes. Severus, clever boy, has been trying to distract me. Now why would he do that, hmm? I must ask myself these questions, as a faithful servant of our Lord. I must ask. You may have tricked our Master, but you cannot hide forever. All we have to do is...wait. But to return to the task at hand: there is an Auror watch on the Weasley shack?"
How he wished he could just get up and leave- provided that he could even stand upright, but that was another matter. He had fallen in the ranks this past year because he was not able to provide the Dark Lord with the information necessary to capture Potter, and she...well, she had always been the apple of Voldemort's degenerate eye.
"Really, Bellatrix, if you persist in asking that which you know already, I shall have no choice but to assume that a burning desire for my company is the actual reason for this rendezvous."
She tilted her head sideways, considered his words, found them patently ridiculous, and smirked. "Answer the question. I know how much you like to please."
She could not be bringing up...that. In public? Could she?
He successfully fought off a flush of humiliation, but conceded this one.
"Selwyn and Mulciber verified it."
She nodded.
"So, one may surmise, might one not, that some protections would be placed on the residences of other Order members?"
"One might."
"And if one were to surmise this, what may one proceed to surmise would be the kinds of wards that may or may not be placed upon these residences?"
"Well, that would depend on whether one thinks that it is likely that the wards that may or may not be placed on certain residences would be similar to the wards that are most probably placed upon residences on which wards are known to be placed."
Severus was in the middle of formulating the rest of this appropriately vague and convoluted reply, when he felt her tear into his mind... ripping, tearing, brutal. He was unprepared, carelessly, irresponsibly unprepared, for the intrusion, so when she wrenched out the information she needed, he could not hold on to it. Later, he would blame the toxins in his blood, he would tell himself that it was impossible to remain unaffected by that much Veritaserum, that Dumbledore would have understood.
Meanwhile, Bellatrix was wiping the sweat off his brow with her blood-stained handkerchief, leaving ruddy smudges across his face.
"Auntie Bella doesn't mean any harm. She never means harm, just help..."
In the single-mindedness of her madness, she had managed to breach his mental wards. Not even the Dark Lord had gotten that far. But of all the things he knew, why did she extract that useless piece? It could have been worse, really. Had she seen something compromising, he would have had no choice but to kill her, the useless husband, and the impudent Russian. And he really had no idea how he would explain away that mess.
Voices, overheard at headquarters a few days ago, naming the places that warranted a round-the-clock Auror patrol.
"Harry's, the Burrow, Bill and Fleur's, and the HQ is covered already. That it?"
"Wait, what about Emmeline Vance?"
"We just don't have the resources for another one, Tonks. Maybe she can move in with someone?"
"Hmmm? Now whom did you have in mind? Perhaps a certain tall, dark, and handsome Auror?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, come off it, Kingsley, I saw you making eyes at her at dinner."
"Can we focus on the matter at hand, please?"
Here, he had pushed her out of his mind. What followed in that conversation had been much more compromising.
What did this tell her? Surely they weren't planning an attack on Potter? Potter was under constant surveillance, by several Aurors, at all hours of the day and night. There were highly sophisticated wards on his person, his house, his street, and his neighborhood.
Did she care that Shaklebolt may or may not be exchanging bodily fluids with Vance?
Was she interested in the rather obvious fact that the Order considered Potter and the Weasleys most likely to be attacked?
But perhaps they were planning to attack someone, not Potter or the Weasleys, but someone less central to the cause, someone whose house would be less secure. Perhaps, they wanted to interrogate...or lure Potter. Maybe it was Weasley Elder and the French wife. Vance? Lupin?
And then it struck him. Granger. Hermione Bloody Granger. Why didn't he realize sooner? Why had those incompetents who Albus trusted to plan these things not foreseen this? One witch, barely of age, alone in an utterly Muggle area, would be a conveniently vulnerable target.
And, worst of all, not only were there no Aurors watching the house, as had been inadvertently revealed to Lestrange, there were no wards to speak of. Moody's rationale had been that a large amount of magical activity in a Muggle area would draw the attention of the Improper Use of Magic Office, which, Moody, that bloody paranoiac, suspected was full of Death-Eater spies. Potter's little suburb, through some careful maneuvering on Dumbledore's part, had been virtually taken off the Ministy's map, but this invisibility required the presence of at least three highly skilled wizards in the vicinity for its maintenance, and not a one could be spared from the crucial task of protecting the Boy Who Should Never Have Been Born. But it would be idiocy itself to go ahead with the assumption of no obstacles based on a shred of memory extracted from an Occlumens like himself.
Unfortunately, Bellatrix, against all previous tendency, had made careful, deliberate preparations for the success of the plot. Her husband had been dispatched to perform surveillance upon the Granger residence every day for the past week. His contact in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, a specialist in detecting fields of magical energy particular to wards, had set up equipment in the shrubbery of the house across from the Mudblood's and managed to discover absolutely nothing. For the sake of operational security, Bellatrix had him perform his experiments under the Imperius curse, and Obliviated him afterward. Twice.
Rodulphus had seen no one on his vigil, and therefore assumed that the house was unwatched by either Aurors or Order members. Dolohov had been less certain, and was unwilling to take the evidence of the thoroughly incompetent Rodolphus, or the notoriously shifty Snape, but Bellatrix was wearing an intractable look, and he couldn't quite figure out a way to get out of doing this intact.
Severus stubbornly clung to the notion that he had formed in childhood: that Bellatrix was simply not the type to employ foresight, or planning, or intelligent consideration, that she had an ironically Gryffindor propensity to rush mindlessly into action and accomplish her ends with brute force. Given his belief, Snape thought it more than likely that Lestrange and her two henchmen would simply invade the Granger house, wands ablaze, uncaring that the Order may be waiting for them inside, and Bellatrix would certainly not deny herself an opportunity to sharpen her skills with the Unforgivables. But they would find no one waiting inside besides two middle-aged Muggles and their know-it-all chit of a daughter.
A bright light was intruding on his field of vision, and Snape found it hard to see the figures moving in front of him. The realization that he was quickly descending into toxic shock brought not a quiver of emotion. It was too late for Granger, and probably for him as well; the three Death Eaters had already gone.
And the smell, that horrid maddening smell would not abate.
It was the stench of hell, of decay, of degradation, his own...
With a nauseating lurch, Snape fell out of consciousness.
Summary: Antonin Dolohov, Rodolphus, and Bellatrix Lestrnage plan the attack on the Grangers in the Riddle House. Dolohov raises concerns about possible protections on the house, and Snape is summoned to give testimony. Spinner's End, in decrepit condition, is introduced as the place where Snape has been living with Pettigrew, his assigned watchdog, for the past few weeks. Snape sustains Veritaserum poisoning at Bellatrix's hands, and inadvertently surrenders a memory which suggests that the Order has left Granger's house unprotected. Snape is unable to prevent the others from leaving with the information.