Death Eater No More—Chapter Fourteen (Difficult Choices)
Well, they'd seen him. So much for furtively slipping out and asking Minerva to get rid of the nasty brats. Severus attempted to force a smile at Harry and Hermione, who were grinning like village idiots. It came out as more of a disgusted sneer.
"Hello, Professor," they chorused.
Snape grunted something under his breath that sounded remarkably like a four-letter Muggle expletive. He traversed the room, robes swirling majestically, to halt at his desk, arms crossed, facing the pair. Perchance if he looked intimidating they'd take the hint and leave. Like these thickheaded dolts could take a hint? At least they hadn't brought the redheaded clod with them.
"Miss Granger, Mr. Potter. To what do I owe this…" Try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to choke out 'honor'. "This…unexpected visit?"
"We heard you were interviewing for new teachers," said Hermione.
"That is correct. If you two would kindly vacate my office, I will continue to do so," returned Severus smoothly, congratulating himself on so speedily exploiting an opening to rid himself of the pests.
"But, sir," interrupted Harry. "We'd like to apply."
Snape's scowl deepened until he looked like his cheeks would implode. "Apply…for the job?" he asked tentatively, fearing he may have misheard. Potter couldn't apply himself to anything deeper than a car park puddle, surely he wasn't here to beg for a job!
That mane of spiky, uncombed hair was bobbing at him as if to assert that yes indeed, Potter fancied Snape flinging all expectations of excellence into the waste bin for his convenience. How typical. And knowing his luck, the rest of the faculty would rally around their savior demanding he be hired. Hell, they'd probably crown him King of Hogwarts!
Severus thought perhaps he ought to sit down, the horror of the situation making him feel a bit faint. He collapsed into his chair, still glaring at Harry. "What exactly is it, Mr. Potter, that you propose to do? Your potion making skills are abysmal, to be kind. As for Defense Against the Dark Arts, in spite of your defeat of Lord Voldemort, I dare say students ought to learn more than expelliarmus."
Harry flushed. It wasn't the first time he'd been criticized for his lack of variety in spell casting. "Well, Professor, Hermione and I would like—we haven't finished—that is—"
"We'd like to come back to school for our N.E.W.T.S.," declared Hermione, giving Harry a pitying glance. "And…we'd like to team-teach Muggle Studies."
The corner of Severus' mouth twitched in amusement. "So you'd like to be both student and teacher, Miss Granger?"
"Yes, sir. Before you say no, please consider it. I can study independently from the books for all my classes except Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts. I'd be able to teach most of the Muggle Studies classes while Harry attended his classes, and we were both raised as Muggles so you can't find anyone more qualified."
Damn that Granger and her logical arguments! "Perhaps I've already hired a Muggle Studies teacher." Ha!
"Have you?" asked Harry point-blank.
"No," Severus scowled, wanting to reach across the desk and smack the brat. "But I've also not interviewed for it. I can't very well hand you the position without giving others the chance to apply."
"That sounds fair," said Hermione, her own lips quirking up at the thought. When in her life would she have ever expected to hear that Professor Snape was fair from her own mouth? "But we'll still be allowed to return for our N.E.W.T. classes, won't we?"
"I suppose," he grumbled. School was set to begin in a couple of weeks, which didn't give a lot of time to find a suitable teacher. What if—God forbid—no one else applied? No, no, that can't happen! Breathe. Breathe. "I'll let you know if the position is available."
"Thank you, Professor. Come on, Harry, Professor Snape has work to do." Hermione got up, whipped a thick folder out of the bag beside her chair, and laid it on his desk. Before he could ask she said, "My application, complete with a seventeen foot parchment detailing my qualifications, what I'd teach to each level, my grading methodology, and so forth. Where's yours, Harry?"
The young man grinned sheepishly and shrugged. "I didn't bring one."
There's a shocker, Severus thought. Wouldn't want to create undo expectations by coming prepared, would we? "Good day," he said, more by way of dismissal than hopes for either of them to have a good day.
As they were leaving, Minerva poked her head in, greeted the duo, and made a gesture to Severus. "There's another wizard here to apply for a position," she pronounced in an excited tone. The old witch seemed almost giddy.
Severus waved his hand in the manner of a bored aristocrat. "Send him in." He can't be any worse than Potter.
An ordinary man of about thirty entered and came over to extend a hand to Snape, who shook it reluctantly. Without waiting for Severus to bid him sit, he snuggled down in one of the recently vacated chairs.
"Hello, Headmaster, my name is Darrigan Halloway. I'd like to apply for Muggle Studies—to teach, that is."
He laughed nervously. Snape merely stared, his black eyes piercing through to the back of the man's head. Life had taught him not to expect much, because that was generally what he got. Life was quite wise.
"Shall I tell you about myself?" asked Halloway.
"I'd prefer you didn't. What qualifications or experience do you possess?"
"I received a very high mark on my N.E.W.T. in that class," bragged Halloway.
Severus waited. Nobody—not even Harry bloody Potter—walked into his office asking for a job with absolutely no experience, so there must be more. His stare appeared to be unnerving Halloway, who squirmed slightly in his chair.
"And I, uh, knew some Muggleborns in school," offered the wizard. "We were friends."
In a bland drawl Severus said, "Tell me, Mr. Halloway, what is the Internet?"
Like a deer caught in the headlights, Halloway stared back before mumbling, "I don't know."
"A computer?"
"Something that computes?" replied the man in a small voice.
"You may leave now." Severus got up and swept past him on the way back to the dungeons, griping under his breath the whole way. If this was to be the caliber of applicants, the students could look forward to a very uninspiring year. For the love of heaven, the idiot actually was worse than Potter! Severus didn't consider himself an expert on modern Muggle appliances, but he knew the basics, and any Muggle Studies teacher he hired should know more than that!
His only consolation was that tomorrow was another day for interviewing, there may be others—others who weren't his former pupils, who weren't know-it-alls and show offs or mediocre dimwits desperately craving attention to the point of risking their lives on a semi-yearly basis. He could always hope.
He stormed into the Potions lab, his joy at testing these two considerably diminished. One might even say his mood had become downright pissy. Moving over to peer into the wizard's cauldron, he gave a disdainful snort. Of course he'd picked the simplest formula, hadn't he? What ever happened to pride in one's work, in doing an exceptional job for the sake of excellence?
"Explain," he ordered.
"Cwellan for epileptic seizures," said the man, picking up on Snape's foul mood and instinctively backing away a touch.
"Standard, unimaginative, and single-purposed, albeit adequate," growled Snape. He billowed over to the woman to glare down into her cauldron.
Not accustomed to waiting for a surly man to give her permission to speak, she volunteered, "It's cessare convellere. Useful not only to quell epileptic seizures, but any serious nerve or muscle disturbance."
"I know what it is and what it does," retorted Snape nastily. He poked his wand into the deep purple liquid and inhaled deeply. The smell was right, the color was—again—spot on, though he'd examine it in full light later to be sure. Even that one whiff had been potent enough to relax his distraught, frazzled nerves just a little, though he'd hang himself by the thumbs in the dungeon before admitting it. "Not a complete waste of ingredients," he pronounced.
"Excuse me, Mr. Snape, but that potion is flawless," the witch shot back, her flaming eyes not flicking away from his for a second.
"Oh, excuse me," simpered Snape, right before barking, "I believe I am the one who makes that determination. If you have a problem with that, the door is over there."
To his irritation, the woman smiled tightly, crossed her arms over her chest, and said in an obviously forced agreeable tone, "My apologies."
Good grief, if that was the way she apologized, he'd hate to see her let loose with a curse! That was a blatant lie. It might be quite interesting to see how talented she was at dueling. All he'd have to do is goad her enough—Stop it, Snape! he ordered himself. Delectable daydreams of hexing the bitch down to size didn't belong in a potions interview.
"Your next task is a fertility potion to overcome physical defects in the woman. You'll have as much time as you need." He smirked at the quiet groans from both participants.
"Mr. Snape—"
Merlin's beard, why did his name sound so blasted grating coming from her mouth?
"—those potions have to brew for days," stated the woman, careful to keep her desire to kill in check. She wondered idly how good he was at blocking curses thrown his way. Though from his demeanor, she imagined he'd had plenty of practice. Why was it she wanted this job again?
"True, but I'm looking for preparation techniques and choice of potion," he answered smugly. He'd riled her; good. Maybe she'd mess up and be compelled to drop out. If not, this chore would still keep her busy for hours, then he could blithely tell her to piss off and go home. He actually chortled, startling himself. His features blanked again instantly. "You may begin."
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A farmhouse situated a good distance from any other homestead, plenty of room to grow vegetables, away from prying eyes. Dolohov surveyed the place from beside an ancient oak and smiled to himself. The perfect hiding place, and it all belonged to him—oh not legally, of course. Pureblood rules of conduct dictated discretion, his wife couldn't be made fool of. He'd put the house in his mistress' name twenty years ago when he bought it, but he'd visited as often as he could when he wasn't in Azkaban. He felt a stir in his loins at the prospect of seeing her again.
He approached the house cautiously in the event new wards had been put up; they had not. He was able to pass through easily, up the stairs of the side porch, and without knocking he let himself in. The kitchen smelled of bacon and fresh bread, and rapid foraging through the pantry led him to the bread wrapped in a towel. Oh, it tasted delicious!
Munching on a large roll, he walked out of the pantry and straight into a blond boy of seventeen coming in from the living room. The boy yelped in alarm and literally jumped back two feet, struggling to pull his wand from his pocket. Dolohov watched him in amusement, even chuckled out loud.
"You'd dare use that on me, boy?" he asked, knowing full well the answer.
The lad lowered his arm as recognition struck, though he seemed very ill at ease. "I—I didn't know you were coming. Sir."
"You should've figured it out when you heard I escaped Azkaban," said Dolohov in a matter-of-fact tone. "Where's your mother?"
"She went grocery shopping." The boy started maneuvering back into the living room, not unnoticed.
"Where do you think you're going, Bayly?" The boy halted and began to fidget from one foot to the other, staring at the floor. "Give me your wand."
Bayly's head jerked up in astonishment, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. His automatic response shot out before he could censor it. "No!"
As if anticipating his answer, Dolohov barked a quick, "Accio wand!" It flew obediently into his palm; with the other hand he slapped the boy hard across the face. "When I tell you to do something, you do it."
"Why should I?" snapped Bayly, his features contorting with suppressed rage.
A backhand landed him on the floor. "Who am I, Bayly?"
"Antonin Dolohov," the lad ground out through gritted teeth as he wiped at the blood streaming from his nose.
A kick between his shoulder blades caused him to grunt in pain. Dolohov peered down at him and said, "Let's try this again. Who am I?"
"An escaped convict."
Dolohov viciously kicked him again, his lazy attitude gone. By Merlin, the whelp would fall in line if he had to beat him half to death! "Don't get smart with me, you little bastard!" He sneered at his unintentional pun—the kid truly was a bastard child. "Who. Am. I?"
"A murdering Death Eater who deserves to rot in hell!" screamed Bayly as he tried to wriggle off so he could get up and bolt away.
"I see your mother has been very lax in your discipline." Dolohov aimed the wand. "Crucio."
The sight of a mere boy thrashing and shrieking under his curse had no effect whatsoever on Dolohov, who gazed upon the sight with relative indifference. He'd tortured too many people to recall them all, some of them children much younger than this; what was one more? At last he lifted the wand.
"Why must we do this silly dance, Bayly? I am your father and you will respect and obey me. Have I made myself clear?"
Bayly uncurled a bit from his fetal position, his fists still clenched in agony, his lungs gasping for air. "Knocking up my mum doesn't make you my dad! You've been in prison for most of my life, I don't even have your name, I have mum's—why should I respect you?"
"Crucio." Again Dolohov observed his son writhing and screaming, his own eyes angry slits of wrath. He'd never seen the boy so defiant, and he didn't care for it one bit. He held the curse until only hoarse croaks came from the boy's mouth. "Are you through with your tantrum?"
A full minute of wheezing cries passed before the lad could answer, which he did with little conviction, "I could turn you in."
"Assuming I didn't kill you first, I suppose you could," snarled Dolohov, who bent down over him, his hot breath so close to Bayly's ear it seemed to burn the delicate, agonized flesh. "Did you forget you were a Death Eater, too? With any luck, you'll have a cell right next to mine."
Bayly's chin began to quiver with terror and despair. He'd joined Lord Voldemort only because Dolohov had dragged him there and presented him to the dark lord—the offering of his son. Out of fear he'd taken the Dark Mark two months before the battle at Hogwarts, a battle he'd run from the moment nobody was looking. No one knew him as a Death Eater, he'd worn his mask whenever others were present…no one knew except Dolohov.
"I didn't hurt anybody!" he cried, pleading.
"Of course not, you coward! You ran away to save yourself instead of fighting for pureblood superiority and our lord!" bellowed Dolohov.
"Your lord, not mine!"
Dolohov whacked him on the back of the skull, cracking his forehead on the wooden floor. When he'd heard no news of Bayly in Azkaban, he'd rightly assumed the wretch had deserted the cause. There was no point in arguing over the dark lord, he was gone. Now all that remained was vengeance…then maybe later they could search out another leader. He stood up to glower at the boy.
"You'll be attending Hogwarts this year," he said brusquely.
"Why?" Bayly managed to prop himself on hands and knees before sinking back onto his rear. A trickle of blood from a cut on his forehead snaked along the side of his nose to mingle with the blood there. "I've gone to Durmstrang for six years, why can't I graduate there?"
"Because our old friend Snape is Headmaster at Hogwarts. It seems he was turncoat scum after all. You're going to keep an eye on him, find a chance to give him what he deserves."
Bayly's eyes had grown larger and larger as his father spoke. "I—I can't kill anybody."
"Yes, I know," sneered the man. "You're pathetic and weak. However, you can notify me when an opportunity arises and get me into the school—or get Snape out of it. I'd much prefer to kill the traitor myself."
"I don't want to—don't make me do this!"
"Crucio." He smiled cruelly as his son sobbed and twisted before him, his voice taking on a condescending croon as he said, "It doesn't matter what you want, does it?" He lifted the curse and Bayly shook his head slowly as tears coursed down his cheeks.
"Tell me what I want to hear, Bayly."
"I'll obey you…Father." His voice cracked and he started to sob anew.
"Good boy. Tomorrow you can go to Ollivander's and get a new wand, tell him you broke the old one. Then you can buy your books and supplies for Hogwarts."
He whirled, wand at ready, at the sound of the door opening. A dirty blond woman of about forty bearing a striking resemblance to Bayly entered carrying two bags of groceries. The shock on her face was evident, as was the joy. "Antonin!"
She dropped the bags and ran into his arms where he clutched her tightly. Unlike his marriage to his wife—a stagnant, arranged affair that had failed to produce even one child—his mistress was hot blooded, made him feel alive…and she'd given him a son, pitiful as he was. Now that he was out of prison, he had time to properly teach the boy, train him up as a pureblood ought to be raised.
"I've missed you, Livonia," he whispered.
"I missed you, too." She looked beyond him to her son, who was struggling to his feet, his face bloody, in obvious pain. "What did you do to Bayly?"
"Just teaching him his place." He turned to stare down the teen. "We won't need to do this again, will we, son?"
"No, sir," murmured Bayly, lowering his eyes and feeling every bit the coward he'd been accused of being.
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Lucius apparated outside the Lestrange home and stood there for several seconds debating within himself. The last time he'd come he'd sneaked inside to get Draco and had ended up badly injured in a duel. Perhaps it was better to notify the occupants of his presence.
"Rabastan! Rodolphus!"
Silence, still and chilling. What if that creep Percy Weasley had killed the Death Eaters, including Rodolphus? He'd been hoping that wasn't the case… When he'd begun to think they weren't here, the door flung open and Rodolphus came traipsing down the stairs clomping slowly and smiling broadly. A twinkle in his brown eyes said he was glad to see his brother-in-law.
"Lucius Malfoy, you look fit as a fiddle and dapper as can be," grinned Rodolphus, striding over to him.
"I must say, you look the worse for wear," Lucius returned, his face split in a similar contented grin.
Rodolphus laughed as he threw his arms around the other man, who reciprocated with hearty slaps on the back. Because of their shared history as childhood friends, their marriage relationship, and Rodolphus' easygoing personality, they'd become quite chummy, closer than Lucius felt to Rabastan, though the latter was nearer his own age. How long had it been since they were free to be friends without the business of the Death Eaters hanging over their heads?
Lucius pulled back, still gripping Rodolphus' arms as he surveyed him critically at arm's length. "I swear, Roddy, I was afraid I might never see you again. When Rabastan came to me with the idea of breaking you out, I can't say I believed he'd succeed."
"He's a smart one," Rodolphus answered, involuntarily glancing up to the house. "Been acting bloody strange, though."
"What do you mean?"
"He and Uncle Varden used to be inseparable, I guess because Varden protected Rabbie from my dad when he got too violent." Feeling a flush of shame, he averted his face and stepped away. Regardless of the fact that he was only two years his brother's senior, he should have been the one protecting Rabastan.
"Yes, I remember my father telling me I wouldn't think he was so cruel if I had Claudius Lestrange for a father," Lucius said, trying to lighten the mood and failing miserably. More than once he'd noticed Rabastan returning to Hogwarts after holidays or summers with unexplained bruises and injuries.
"I should've looked out for him," said Rodolphus solemnly. "Instead I got married when he was sixteen and left him there with dad."
"As I recall, Bella refused to move into the Lestrange manor," Lucius replied. "You didn't have much choice."
Rodolphus shrugged heavily. "Water under the bridge. Rabbie never blamed me, I know. Anyway, he's been a real shit to my uncle since I got here, but he won't tell me why, and Uncle Varden will only say they had a falling out after dad died."
"That's like twenty-five years ago!" exclaimed Lucius. "Rabastan sure can hold a grudge."
"Tell me about it," mused Rodolphus with another covert glance at the house. "I could be wrong, but I'm starting to wonder if Varden had something to do with dad's death—that's when the whole thing started."
As tactfully as he could manage, Lucius responded, "No offense intended, but I should think Rabastan would thank him if that were the case."
A hint of a smile lifted the corner of Rodolphus' lips. "So, I hear you're going to be a father again…"
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It was half past midnight when Severus strolled back into the Potions lab after a brief nap. Feeling refreshed and chipper—as much as Snape was capable of 'chipper'—made him all the more gung ho to find fault with the two applicants' work. They'd had hours to formulate something—or make a horrific mess, as the case may be.
He slithered up next to the witch, observing at a glance the ingredients on her table, the height of the flame under her cauldron, the earthy, grass-like scent of her potion. Damn it all, everything was exactly as it should be!
"Are you sure you wouldn't like to add the dittany now?" he asked, using the smooth, authoritative voice that would have sent his students into a panic to fling the dittany into their brews.
The sidelong look she shot him dripped with venom. No potions master could be that stupid, which meant he was deliberately provoking her, trying to rattle her so she'd make a mistake. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to hover somewhere else?' she retorted.
"I'm quite comfortable here," said Snape, prodding a finger at the herbs on her table. "Is this fresh nightshade?"
"Yes. I went into the woods to get it. It's not precisely the full moon, but it was the best I could do." She didn't bother to look at him as she spoke, as she was certain he'd disparage her 'pitiable efforts'. In her mind she chanted Go away, go away. If it weren't such a prestigious job, working at Hogwarts under one of the nation's renowned potions masters, she'd have told him in a less than polite fashion what he could do with his snarky comments.
She'd gone into the Forbidden Forest for the nightshade? Severus was almost impressed, until he realized she was foreign to the area, she likely had no clue how dangerous the forest could be. She had known, however, that the herb needed to be picked on the full moon, which forced him to give her grudging points.
With a grimace he stomped across the room to view the wizard's potion. The first thing he noticed, nightshade being on his mind, was the small pile of ground herb that looked and smelled like dried nightshade. "Is this what you're using?"
"Yes, I found it in the cupboard," responded the man, stirring his potion gently.
A litany of obscene curses ran through Severus' mind. Dried nightshade for a fertility potion? Why didn't the wizard simply strip down, paint his body, and dance around a pole while singing to the moon? It would have as much effect!
By default the choice of a new Potions instructor had been made, and he wasn't the slightest bit pleased about it.