Chapter 52

ASSURANCES

The second that Harry caught her eye, Professor Daine's expression switched to appropriate indignation and dismay. But I saw what I saw, Harry told himself. Could Ariel Daine have been the Death Eater's agent all along, bait to lure his uncle back to the Dark Lord?

"Kill Dumbledore?" Voldemort shrugged. "I expect no less. You kill him, or I kill. . . ." He tilted his head meaningfully toward Professor Daine. "Obeying my ultimatum is not the same as earning back my trust."

Snape exhaled slowly, as if giving himself time to choose the right words. "It's true that I've declined previous summons. I had become disillusioned with grand causes—even yours. I cherished my detachment. But now that you have forced me out of seclusion, you must see that the favor you ask means more than bartering for a woman I fancy: it means taking sides. Irrevocably. If I do this thing, I need—"

The Muggle girl, still writhing from the Cruciatus curse, moaned.

Snape glanced at her, snapped his wand, watched her crumple to the metal deck, then turned back to the Dark Lord. "As I was saying—"

"Severus." Voldemort waggled his fingers in the air. "If we must delay the Ceremony of the Dark Mark yet again, that's no reason to delay the after party as well. I, for one, am famished." He shook his wand a couple of times, and his red velvet sitting room materialized behind him. Another flick of his wand, and the tea table appeared, this time displaying a cold midnight snack.

Voldemort settled himself comfortably, then patted the cushion next to him. Snape's black eyes flickered, taking in the situation. Then he accepted the invitation to sit at the Dark Lord's right hand. The Death Eaters fidgeted. Finally, Malfoy sniffed through his thin, patrician nose and glided around to Voldemort's other side. The rest took the hint, shuffling about until they'd each found a place. Wilhelm skulked over to a footstool near his father.

Slowly, Harry turned his eyes to the Muggle, afraid of what he'd see. After a moment of scrutiny, he assured himself that she was not dead, only deeply asleep. That was a comfort, anyway. Glancing in the other direction, he was surprised to see that although Ariel Daine still lacked control of her limbs, she was now seated on a red velvet loveseat—courtesy of his uncle? Or of Voldemort?

Assured that no one was paying attention to him, Harry took a deep breath. Then he concentrated all of his heart and soul on the Djinn ball still nestled in the Lockit Pocket against his side. His distress calls stretched far and wide: Dobby, can you hear me? Crookshanks, where's your mistress? Bête Noire, find Dumbledore!

"Unicorn black pudding, my favorite."

Harry looked back to see Voldemort add a slice to his croissant.

"Roddy, I think you'll enjoy the roast borogrove. Severus, will you have some flank of faun?"

Harry grimaced at the list of beasts slain to satisfy the Dark Lord's appetites. So much for preservation of endangered magical creatures.

Snape waved his hand in refusal. "First things first. I need assurances. If I do what you ask, my place in your inner circle must be restored. I need to know that if my role in the Headmaster's demise is suspected, I won't be left twisting in the wind."

"Before we have that discussion, I need my assurances." Voldemort's cultured university accent was light and reassuring, but his icy blue eyes made clear who was in charge. "You said the wheels have been set in motion?"

"Earlier this evening, yes. Very well, then. Your assurances first." Snape trained his dark eyes on Harry. "If Potter will hand over the Djinn ball with which he is fruitlessly trying to raise an alarm, I will show you Dumbledore."

Harry's last shred of hope withered under the glares of the twelve—or was it thirteen?—Death Eaters arrayed against him.

"That's right," Snape continued. "Whoever searched him was negligent. He failed to consider that Potter might be carrying an exostantial means of portage. A common Lockit Pocket. Available for a handful of knuts at half the shops in Diagon Alley."

Avery's son stared at the floor, avoiding his father's glowering disapproval. Voldemort pursed his lips, as if annoyed at a piddling dog. Evidently, welcoming the not-so-apt pupil into his coven was looking more ill-advised by the minute—and reconsidering his errant Potions master less so. It would have been better, Harry thought, if I hadn't beaten Wilhelm in the maze.

Snape pointed his wand, and Harry felt his no-longer-secret pouch open of its own accord and his Djinn ball slide out. It bumped around under his armpit a moment, then maneuvered its way out of his robes, straight into the Potions master's outstretched palm. When Snape unwrapped the instruction sheet, the martinet voice piped up as usual.

"Lesson Seven: Prospection of Personally Significant—"

"Enough," Snape growled, crumpling the paper. "We're not schoolboys." He stuffed it inside his black robes, stifling the wadded up instructor's protests. At his command, the Djinn ball rose into the air, stopping just above the snack table. With a muttered incantation, he expanded its size until even Harry—from his position against the cat walk's railing—could clearly see Hogwarts's Great Hall. The supper had been set hastily. Instead of ranging evenly down the length of the High Table, the chairs were pulled together tightly at one end. Several students stood, nibbling sandwiches and leaning toward the staff to catch the latest news. Hagrid was there, back from visiting his mother in the Carpathian Mountains. Snape's presence indicated that the Djinn ball was showing them earlier this evening.

Between efficient bites of boiled beef, Headmistress McGonagall said, "The castle, grounds and environs have been extensively searched. We must resign ourselves to the likelihood that the three have been kidnapped."

Next to her, Dumbledore's face looked pasty. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow. The crisis was apparently taking its toll.

Madame Pomfrey spoke to him quietly, gesturing toward his bowl.

The Headmaster shook his head slowly as if the movement pained him.

Taking a sip from a tankard, the Snape in the Djinn ball glanced at him sidelong.

"High time to contact the Ministry," McGonagall said.

"Not . . . the Ministry," Dumbledore replied weakly, then wiped a shaking hand across his forehead.

"I agree," Snape said. "Instead—"

Without warning, Dumbledore fainted, falling face forward into his soup. Teachers and students gasped—as did Harry and Professor Daine watching the scene.

Is Professor Daine faking? She sounds sincere, thought Harry.

"Albus!" McGonagall grasped his shoulders and pulled him upright. Broth dripped from his white beard. His head lolled to the side. Harry held his breath until he saw the Headmaster take one.

"If I can lie down a moment…" Dumbledore rasped feebly.

McGonagall and Pomfrey, one on each side, began gently helping him to his feet. Then Hagrid pushed in and scooped him into his arms as if he were a child.

"Thank you," Dumbledore murmured. "My chambers. The rest of you . . . finish your meal. I'll be fine . . . Severus? Let me . . . speak to you."

Snape rose from the table. McGonagall looked concerned but stayed with the students and staff. Madame Pomfrey bustled to keep up as the Djinn ball followed Hagrid, Dumbledore and Snape out of the Great Hall.

"Coritoxia?" Voldemort asked the Snape sitting next to him, then patted his knee. "Kudos. They'll think it's his heart. Few wizards could manage that potion."

"A variation of my own, actually," Snape replied. "Coritoxia Alternatus."

"Indigestion, more like," Avery Senior mumbled.

The Snape in the Djinn ball caught up with Hagrid's long strides at the gargoyle that guarded the door to the Headmaster's quarters. Out of breath, Madame Pomfrey trotted up a moment later.

"Severus . . . Severus?" Dumbledore's voice sounded achingly old.

"Yes, Albus," Snape soothed. "I'm here."

"You must . . . go . . . . If He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has taken them . . . you're the only one who can . . . find them."

Snape clutched his own arm. "Yes. The Dark Mark. It calls me."

"You're the only one . . . who can save them."

The Imperius Curse couldn't keep Harry from growling deep in his throat.

"But Albus, you're ill. You need me."

"I'm old . . . . They're young . . . ."

Before Snape could argue further, Dumbledore went limp in Hagrid's arms.

"You must honor his wishes," Madame Pomfrey said. "I'll do what can be done."

Snape hesitated, putting on a great show of indecision and concern. Harry felt colder than the death he could see creeping over the Headmaster's ashen face.

"As you wish," Snape said at last. "I'll make preparations to depart. There's nothing more for me to do here." He pivoted on his heel and strode out of sight.


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