The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 38 (Murky Futures)

October 11, 2000

For some reason, Severus had become enthralled with reading those parts of the diaries relating to himself. Not that he didn't find the rest riveting as well, but—simply put, he was very curious to see what spin Voldemort's batty mind would put on an activity or gathering that Snape had been party to, and could therefore gauge from his own perspective. Here he'd found several entries in a row, so he naturally began to peruse from the start.

Sept. 2, 1980

The prophecy Severus brought me troubles me greatly. I can think of only one wizard powerful enough to challenge me, yet it cannot be Dumbledore…the prophecy says a child born at the end of July. It is a relief, yet an annoyance. Dumbledore cannot defeat me, but another is coming, or rather has come. I must find out who it is and eliminate the brat before he or she grows into a true threat.

I have set my men in the Ministry the task of finding out who this child is, and when I know for sure, I will kill him and be done with it. I will rule Britain, and eventually the world. No upstart little bastard will deter me.

September 2, 1980

Cautiously eyeing the men idling about to his right, Severus made the long march across the stone floor. The master was troubled—huge-ass problem number one. He wanted to hear the prophecy again—potential problem number two. Lord Voldemort was no fool, he surely had the prophecy memorized, so why had he called Severus here to 'recite' it for them?

Perhaps he fancies my suave baritone voice, came unbidden to his mind, and in spite of himself he let out a barked guffaw, which he covered by pitching into a fit of coughing. Dropping to his knees, he murmured, "Forgive me, my lord." He shuffled forward to kiss Voldemort's robes, then edged backward once more. "May I ask why you wish to hear it again, master?"

"Because I wish it," answered Voldemort in what was a surprisingly non-threatening tone. Snape had anticipated something a bit more…villainous, maniacal even, circumstances considered.

Drawing in a deep breath, he spouted, "'The one with the power to vanquish the dark lord approaches…born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies.'" Only after he'd finished did he subversively muse that he should have utilized mystic, guttural speech for effect. And even as he thought it, he wondered what in bloody hell was wrong with his mind, pondering such a reckless, rash act. Not that he'd have dared do it…

Fortunately for Snape, Voldemort wasn't paying him any attention, he was looking over his head at the three men clustered off to the side. "My Death Eaters, how do you interpret this?"

No one appeared anxious to put forth an opinion, let alone hazard a guess at a prophecy that could shape the future of their lives forever. Rookwood stared at an imaginary stain on the floor, lightly kicking the toe of his shoe against it. Yaxley glanced around the room as if hoping someone would magically materialize to elucidate the answers for him.

At the risk of misspeaking, a risk he was prepared to take if it elevated him above the dimwit level of his comrades, Lucius said smoothly, "It means precisely what you've already told us it means, my lord. There is a child born at the end of July to parents who have defied you; this child—forgive me, I'm only quoting—possesses the power to vanquish you."

"Very good, Lucius," replied Voldemort. "Now explain to me how this interpretation differs from the Smythe squib."

Smythe squib? Severus furrowed his brow. That was a new one. He backed off gradually while Lucius spoke, until he was far enough away to stand up without fear of angering the dark lord.

"The Smythe boy was born July 12, not at the end of July," answered Lucius, feeling a sudden compulsion to defend himself. "But he was the only one at all born in July, my lord, and you yourself ordered us to kill him."

Severus rocked on his heels, stunned. Had he just heard what he thought he did—Lucius had finally done the unconscionable and committed murder? Then a recent front page of the Daily Prophet flashed through his mind: 'Smythe Family Obliterated by Death Eaters'. His stomach contracted into a tight ball.

Voldemort gave an indifferent shrug. "I thought it prudent to hedge my bets, as they say. I never seriously took the boy as the fulfillment of the prophecy, and as time goes on I continue to have a growing, unsettled feeling."

"Of course, my lord, with no magic the child couldn't have any power to defeat you," Lucius agreed, gritting his teeth in annoyance. This was exactly what he'd tried to tell Lord Voldemort when he commanded them to dispose of the squib to begin with!

The dark lord lowered his voice to downright ominous. "The prophecy says 'as the seventh month dies'. Not died. The prophecy was made in early July, the end of the month had yet to come. Your new task is to discover if any magical children were born on July 31 of this year."

It seemed the temperature in the room plummeted. The nauseated feeling Lucius had experienced at being ordered to kill Devon Smythe came rushing back in quadruplicate. Not only had the boy and his family been murdered for nothing, now the dark lord was concentrating on a baby, of all insane notions! If a squib of fourteen was helpless, how much more so was a child only a few weeks younger than his own tiny son?

"As you wish, my lord," Lucius uttered, bowing.

Voldemort pointed at Rookwood and Yaxley. "This is your assignment as well. Find the names and any information available about them."

"Yes, my lord," they answered together.

"You may go."

The three of them trooped out as Snape held back, not sure he'd been dismissed. In yet another show of obvious madness, he ventured to ask, "My lord, do you truly believe an infant is capable of vanquishing you?"

His answer came in the form of a high cackle, then Voldemort said with disdain, "Of course not! But the child will grow up to be a thorn in my side. Better to pluck him out and be done with it." He made a shooing gesture with his hand. "Leave me now, I have thinking to do."

Here the vision ended, but Severus wasn't finished. He'd been there, he recalled all too well the horror of believing his best friend had sunk to the level of a murderer, and the disgust that a helpless infant was now the target of the madman in charge. His mind wandered to his own memory of that night.

Homicidal reflections take no holidays, thought Severus as he bowed. When he exited the castle, he noticed Lucius a short distance away, bending over as if he were—and then a stream of vomit came hurtling from his mouth. Snape averted his face. He waited to approach until the man was through retching and had straightened up in embarrassment.

"Are you alright?" Severus asked.

Lucius nodded as he wiped a sleeve across his mouth. That action alone told Snape he most certainly was not alright, because a Malfoy would never behave in such an uncouth manner without grave reason. Lucius' eyes were glassy from watering; he spit into the grass again.

"Lucius, I have to ask. Did you kill that Smythe family?"

There was a moment's pause. "No. Rookwood and Yaxley did, but I was there." He looked like he wanted to scream with frustration. "It was all for nothing, and now we'll have to kill a baby. A baby, Severus!"

"Maybe there won't be any born on July 31," offered his friend.

"There will be, I know there will, I can feel it. If this prophesied child could destroy everything we've worked for all these years, it's probably best to be rid of him, but—he's a baby!" he reiterated, his voice raising to an unhealthy volume. "Younger than Draco! There is a line you just don't cross…"

There are no lines for Death Eaters, Severus thought dejectedly as he regarded his friend. What was there to say? If Lucius was ordered to murder an infant, he'd do so or be murdered himself. Yes, it was nasty business, but who's to say this kid wouldn't grow up to be a pain in the arse for them all? Evidently this war would go on until the one capable of conquering the dark lord was himself conquered. It shamed him to think it, but maybe it was better to kill him now, get this war over with. In the long run, wasn't that for the best?

He gave an encouraging grin that came off looking sickly. "Maybe Rookwood or Yaxley will be given that mission."

"Maybe." Lucius didn't look in the least convinced. "I feel like shite, I should go home." Without even saying goodbye he disapparated.

Snape shut the diary and sat quietly, reflecting. He had been so relieved to hear Lucius hadn't killed the Smythe family, and now, with two tiny boys of his own who were roughly the same age as Draco had been at that time, he fully understood Lucius' reaction. Malfoy had just become a father, he couldn't help but compare his own newborn son to the one targeted for death. Whether it would put a swift end to the war and save countless lives was not the question, it was purely a matter of sensibilities.

That child had been Harry Potter, and he'd been right—the kid had grown up to be a pain in the arse. On the other hand, he'd got rid of Voldemort, so all in all it was a fair trade off.

He turned his head at the sound of a sharp crack like a cork pulled from a champagne bottle. There stood Winky in her frilly pink skirt and sweater, smiling broadly. "You calls for Winky, Master Headmaster. Winky comes right on time."

Severus glanced at the clock on the wall. Could elves tell time? She was a good half hour earlier than he'd requested. No matter. "I'd like you to come with me to Prince Manor, Winky."

The elf's forehead wrinkled, attesting to her labored ruminations. "Why, Master Headmaster?"

"You'll see." As usual he maintained a blank façade, giving away nothing, though his stomach heaved giddily. He felt oddly like Scrooge in A Christmas Carol, waiting somberly for his clerk to arrive, letting him become anxious, while plotting inwardly to raise the clerk's salary. He guided the elf to the floo, took a pinch of floo powder from the brass vase that always reminded him of a cremation urn, and in a flash of green fire they were in the Snape living room. "Aline, we're here!"

In the distance he heard the sound of crying babies, and suddenly his wife rushed in with a bawling infant in each arm, tears streaming down her face as well. "I can't make them stop," she sobbed, even as Severus plucked the nearer child from her and put his arm about her waist. "I don't know what's wrong. When I get one almost quiet, the other starts up."

"Shhh," he soothed, whether to Aline or the tyke was unclear. Holding her tight and bobbing Aidan up and down, he said gently, "It's alright."

"Winky can helps," said Winky, extending her arms up to Aline. "I is good at making babies happy."

Aline relinquished Adriel to the elf, who immediately checked his nappy, felt his forehead for fever, and then began to rock him very slowly in her spindly arms, singing a tune in a language the humans were not acquainted with. The tot, enthralled by her grotesquely large head, her overall strange appearance, and squeakish voice, calmed almost instantly, his eyes round with interest.

"That's astounding," Aline whispered. She looked at Aidan, whose gaze was also locked on the elf, his mouth hanging open in fascination.

"Perhaps they were bored," said Severus. He winked at Aline. "Winky, I think this is the perfect time to ask you if you'd like to live here and be our family house elf. We understand if you'd like to think it over."

"Family house elf? Snape family?" Winky uttered, not quite sure she believed her enormous pointy ears. Her squeaky voice rose in volume with each subsequent word. "You wants I to be your elf? For real?"

"Yes, we'd like that very much, if it's what you want," Aline confirmed.

For a long moment the elf gaped back and forth between the adult humans, then all at once burst into rapturous wails. Tears freely washed down her cheeks. Within seconds, both boys had commenced to screaming at the top of their lungs, making a cacophonous riot.

"Master Snape, Mistress Snape, you makes Winky so happy!" She threw herself at their legs, rubbing her head on them while rocking Adriel again. "Winky bes the best elf ever! I helps you with young masters and cooks and cleans—I so happy!" She kissed their legs over and over, then proceeded to kiss the baby on the cheek as she cooed, "Master…"

"Adriel," supplied Aline.

"Master Adriel, Winky is here." She looked up adoringly at Severus and Aline smiling down at her. Her family. Her real, true family. She couldn't wait to get out of these awful, shameful clothes and into a proper pillowcase or tea towel.

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"Do you mind if I snap a few pictures before we begin?"

Already Theo had his heavy, cumbersome camera leveled at Charlie, who shrugged one shoulder and shook his head as if it didn't matter one way or another to him. Theo studied his living room briefly, gauging the best backdrops and lighting, and went to work doing what he'd grown to love, what he excelled at.

"Let your hair down," he said after taking a few photos. "That glossy red hair against the muscled chest will make a great shot. You're a good looking bloke."

Charlie started to comply at the first command, but hesitated as Theo went on, his hand frozen in place, holding onto the band that had partly loosened. "Um…Theo, I'm not into that."

"Into what?" Theo peered over his camera, puzzled. All he'd asked him to do was take the strap from his hair, not do a belly dance.

"I mean, you're fit and all, but…I like women," Charlie murmured self-consciously.

Theo felt the blood rushing to his face in a warm rush of intense heat that reached the very roots of his hair. He was beginning to understand what Blaise meant when he said his cousin was sometimes clueless and naïve! "No! I didn't intend it like that! I like girls, too—I have a girlfriend." Merlin, now he sounded like he was protesting too much. Still blushing furiously, he tried to explain. "I've been doing this for a few years now. I've got used to telling people what makes an eye-catching shot for the public—in your case, the ladies. They love strong, handsome men…and I will shut up now." If there'd been a hole to crawl in, he'd be there.

Chuckling softly, Charlie dragged the leather strap free of his ponytail. If Theo was hitting on him, he was pretty bad at it, and he seemed genuinely embarrassed at the miscommunication. "Go ahead, take your pictures."

"I've already interviewed Draco for the article," Theo said as he snapped one photo after another. He didn't think it relevant or necessary to mention that this was his very first story as a journalist, and he'd only been chosen for it because the Malfoys refused to permit anyone else in to see their son. Sure, as a camera man he was always in demand, but thus far no one had seen fit to give him a chance at an actual story. "People are fascinated by dragons, especially when murder and intrigue are involved."

Theo set the camera down, summoned his pad and quill, and sat on a stool facing Charlie. "Why don't you tell me in your own words what happened that day, what you saw, what you thought? I'll ask any questions I have when you're finished."

Charlie leaned back in his chair till the front legs lifted up off the floor, and he rocked the chair to and fro, gazing at the ceiling as he spoke. "I had gone to train Omen, the black dragon—over there, they consider the black ones bad luck or something, hence the name. His pen was open and he was missing, and at first I thought someone was riding him, which would be very foolish. I smelled an awful odor and turned around; that's when I saw the charred body…"

Twenty minutes later, there was a sharp rap on the door, which opened before Theo had time to respond. In walked Blaise Zabini. "Oi, sorry! I thought you'd be done."

"Just about," answered Theo. He motioned toward the intruder. "Charlie, this is my cousin Blaise. He thinks my house is his."

The two shook hands, and Blaise slapped Charlie heartily on the back while stating, "I can't even imagine working with dragons. It must be riveting."

"It has its moments," Charlie answered pleasantly.

"Well, don't let me interrupt. I'll be on my way." Blaise headed back through the door, calling over his shoulder, "Talk to you later, Theo."

"Is he always so flaky?" asked Charlie with a grin.

Theo grinned back. "He has his moments."

Outside, Blaise sauntered off Theo's porch and disapparated. He reappeared in Knockturn Alley and strolled along whistling to himself as he examined the long red hair in his hand. If he recalled correctly, there was an apothecary shop nearby where he could purchase a nice Polyjuice potion. "Phase one in progress," he murmured, sliding the hair into his pocket.

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On the floor of his bedroom, Draco sat cross-legged opposite his baby sister, holding a medium-sized stuffed green dragon in his hand. He'd purposely chosen this one because it resembled Dragomir, floppy ears, stumpy legs, and all. The dragon pranced in circles over Khala's body as she giggled.

"And the dragon's name was Dragomir, a fearsome force of nature capable of setting bushes on fire and—"

"Draco, look at me!" Ladon squealed. He'd grown weary of watching his little sister get all the attention, and had begun running in rings around the two on the floor, chasing the miniature metal dragon Draco had gifted him as it buzzed about their heads.

"I see you, Brax," Draco answered, feeling a wee bit sad and disappointed. While he'd been in Bulgaria, Ladon had learned to say his name properly…and the kids had grown so much. He wasn't quite sure why it bothered him—yes, he was. He was missing them grow up, and it wasn't a good sensation. He held out an arm, and Ladon jumped right in for a hug.

"Day-co," Khala cooed, pounding her teeny fist on the stuffed animal.

"No, I'm Draco," he laughed, pointing a finger at himself.

Khala obligingly smacked her palm on his leg. "Day-co."

The young man smiled as he gazed dotingly at his sister. Certainly she was a genius—she was a Malfoy, after all, and the best sister in the world. And to think, he'd been upset upon learning Mother was pregnant with her. Had he really been as much a spoiled prat as he remembered?

"The dragon's name is Dragomir," he repeated, pronouncing it in the Bulgarian fashion.

"Dah-go-meed," Khala echoed, flashing him a smile showing all four of her front teeth.

Draco scooped her up in his free arm and clung to both of the children until they began to struggle for liberty. "I love you both so much."

"Draco?" The witch's voice came from the doorway.

He whipped his head around, stunned. "Astoria. Hi." He let Ladon loose and got up with Khala in his arm, gawking over his shoulder and chewing on his lapel.

"Tori! 'Member me?" Ladon scampered to her and collided with her legs, making her wince.

"Hi, Ladon. Of course I remember you." She picked him up to give him a good squeeze, and he crushed her head against him. Tori looked past him to Draco. "Your mum said it was alright if I visit for a few minutes."

"Okay," he said, not knowing what else to say. You broke my heart and made me look like a fool? Not exactly a pleasant conversation starter.

"Draco gave me," Ladon broke in, pointing to the metal dragon flying around Astoria's knees. He leaned over so far trying to reach it that the girl had to put him down before he fell headlong.

"It's lovely. He's a good brother." She straightened up self-consciously. "I've missed you, Draco."

The young man started to speak, reconsidered, and stopped. On his second attempt, he said, "I saw you in Sofia."

"You were there? Why didn't—you should've—" She broke off with a sigh. Draco wouldn't have gone alone, now would he? He'd probably been with that woman, the one the murder revolved around, the one who'd almost got Draco killed!

"What are we doing, Tori?" asked Draco quietly, ignoring Khala's busy hands fluffing his hair as she laughed.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't want to play games. If you were curious about my health, you could have asked my mother how I am, but instead you came up yourself. Why?" Steely grey eyes pinioned her to the spot.

"Why do you think?" she retorted, her cheeks turning pink.

"I want you to tell me."

Pink became red, and the blush spread over her face. "Because I've been worried sick over you, and afraid for you. The paper said you'd been accused of murder and had run off with that hussy—"

"You have no right to call her that," he interrupted, his tone cold. "You don't even know her."

"Is it true? Were you carrying on an affair with her?"

"No. And even if I was, it wouldn't be your business since you jilted me. I'm free to do as I like." Several seconds passed as he drew in deep breaths through his nose, forcing himself not to say the terrible, hurtful things he'd dreamed of saying to her when at last they should meet again. "Thank you for coming by." It sounded ominously close to a dismissal.

Tori's violet eyes registered a wounded look that made him cringe inside. "I never stopped loving you," she said, barely above a whisper.

"Does that make everything else go away?" he asked softly, easing backward to sit on the edge of the bed, with Khala tugging joyfully at his locks, and poking her fingers at his eyes and nose. He gently pulled his sister's hand away. "You can't just walk out of my life, then waltz back in. You can't."

"What do I have to do?" she pleaded.

Draco shrugged helplessly. "I wish I knew. I plan on going back to Bulgaria, and I know you don't like that. You want me to propose, but you're not ready for marriage…neither am I."

Hesitantly, almost fearfully, she ventured, "Do you love me?"

He looked up at her, at those sorrowful eyes he adored, and he couldn't lie. A slew of visions, memories of holding her, kissing her, snogging her silly ran through his mind in quick succession. He'd never felt with anyone how he felt with her. As much as it would probably make it easier in the long run to be done with the whole relationship, he just couldn't lie. At this point, he wasn't sure he wanted to. He nodded slowly. "Yes."

"Then we can work it out," she answered, not moving toward him despite the overwhelming desire to do so. "I know I was bossy and bratty, and I'm sorry. I should have been thinking of your future, not just my own, but we can start over, can't we?"

"I need to think." The death knell sentence. Rushing right back into the same situation definitely seemed like a bad idea, yet he loved her. She admitted she was wrong, and if she was willing to change, there was hope, right? "I need time to think," he repeated.

"I should go. Take care of yourself." Astoria backed out the door, waved to him, and fled down the hall before the weeping overtook her.

Ladon raced to the doorway and peered down the hall at the retreating figure. "Bye-bye, Tori!" He ambled to his brother and looked up at him. "Why Tori cry?"

Draco smiled wanly. "She's sad."

"Draco sad?" Ladon petted his brother's leg in empathy.

The elder wizard lifted the boy onto his lap, where Khala still stood on one of his legs, braced by his arm. Her grey Malfoy eyes lit up at the prospect of two blond heads to toy with. "Yeah, Draco's kind of sad," he confessed as he held the children in another fierce embrace. "But I'm so glad to be with you both. Let's go to the playroom where you have loads of stuff to do."

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George bid Regulus a good evening, then proceeded to double check the store to make sure no urchins had stowed away in a bin of pygmy puffs or were snarfing down the joke candy meant for serious situations like exam day, or impressing your mates. Satisfied that everyone had gone, he fished the key from his pocket and headed to the door. It swung open a split second before he got there, and Charlie walked in. He glanced at the portrait of Fred prominently displayed in the foyer and raised a chin in greeting.

"What brings you here, bro?" asked George.

"I was doing some shopping, thought I'd drop in."

George sized him up and smirked. Likely he'd come for complimentary samples of some of the latest materials! "I don't see any purchases."

"Didn't find anything I liked," replied the other, smirking in return. "Which brings to mind a question: what's up with you and Jacinta Snape Mulciber?"

Startled, George missed the opportunity to make a lewd comeback; instead he stared at his brother. "That came out of nowhere."

"I heard you fancy her," persisted Charlie. "What're you doing?"

"I'm not doing anything yet," George retorted, snickering. "Give me some time and opportunity—"

"She's seeing that Nott fellow," Charlie interrupted.

"Not for long," said George, nearly doubled over at his own joke. "Get it?"

Behind him, Fred laughed in his portrait. "Brilliant one, George."

Charlie appeared unimpressed. He crossed his arms, showing off his buff biceps. "I'm trying to be nice and advise you as a brother—"

"I don't recall asking for advice," the younger redhead shot back, smiling in a way that made Charlie want to whack him in the head.

"Well, I'm gonna give it anyway!" snarled Charlie, glaring at his brother. "Let me break this down for you: Nott is the son of Professor Snape's old friend—"

"Who is currently dead and no longer a threat."

"Would you stop interrupting?" Charlie barked.

"That wasn't me, it was Fred!" George cried, looking offended. Fred smiled brightly and waggled his fingers at the older wizard.

Charlie narrowed his eyes. "Anyway, Jack Mulciber was good friends with the dead man, and he wants his daughter to marry Nott. As far as I can tell, Snape agrees. Do you honestly want to get mixed up in that?"

George shrugged, the epitome of unconcern. "It's not so much I want to as I have to."

"What?"

"It's a challenge, Charlie. Do we have to spell everything out for you?" said Fred. "George here, being the handsome stud he is, would have no trouble finding another woman, but this one is different. Ergo, she must be pursued."

George high-fived the portrait. "Thank you, Fred, you summed that up nicely."

"I did, didn't I?" Fred concurred, smiling. He reached an arm back to pat himself on the shoulder.

"Different how?" asked Charlie. He didn't deign to acknowledge their mutual admiration.

"She's not falling all over him—"

"—or lavishing me with pity—"

"—and she's got a delicious strong-willed streak—"

"—that beckons me like a siren," finished George. He found it amusing to watch Charlie's head swiveling back and forth as the twins finished each other's thoughts. "I can't help myself."

It looked for all the world like Charlie wanted to smack his brother hard enough to knock him into next week. His arms twitched, but remained firmly across his chest. Through tightened jaw he uttered, "I think you'd better try, because if Jacinta ends up getting hurt, I'm afraid you'll end up hurt, and I'm not talking emotionally. Do I need to remind you that Snape cut off your ear? And that was an accident—imagine what he'd do on purpose."

George let out a cross between a raspberry and an exasperated puff of air. "Turns out Snape was on our side, or didn't you get the memo?"

Charlie threw up his hands and stepped back, noting that George also took a few paces back as if anticipating a blow to the head. "Fine. I'll not harass you. I won't even mention it again. Just think about what I said."

"Yeah, will do," George said, shaking his head and giving an exaggerated eye roll. "You going to the Burrow?"

"Not yet, I've got something to do." Charlie flung open the door and left, disapparating out of Diagon Alley.

He apparated to the back garden of the Zabini home, where a glass top table and several chairs set on the cobblestoned patio. On the table was a pitcher of beer and two glasses. He settled into one of the lounge chairs to wait, and transfigured his clothing back to their original robes. Soon enough this nasty potion would wear off and he'd be himself again; till then, he may as well have a drink.

Blaise poured himself a glass of beer and toasted the empty air. "Phase one complete."