I know, I know… IT'S LATE! But this chapter has been exceptionally
stubborn to write, so…
A word to the wise before we start in on Chapter 5. You'll notice that I have written from Voldemort's point of view for the second time this story. That isn't a coincidence; I love writing the bad guys. (I also wrote an interior monologue called "And In The End" that is also from Voldemort's POV, and for Lord of the Rings fans I wrote a piece from Sauron's POV, if anyone is interested.) Expect to see more of that. Call me evil if you will, but I really get a kick out of these guys. They're just so… well… evil! Seriously, though, Voldemort's character is an odd combination of malevolence and childishness that I think is absolutely fascinating; writing him makes for very interesting character study.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. I belong to me. Trees belong to the ground. Get the picture?
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Chapter 5: Blood And Herring
The rest of the summer passed without incident – very strangely, mind you, but without incident. If Harry hadn't known better, he could have sworn that Fudge was right, that Voldemort hadn't actually risen again. Oh, the Dursleys were still acting oddly, but Harry couldn't complain, since this new behavior was definitely preferable to the old. And if Ron sent odd messages and behaved as though he was keeping secrets, or Hermione was sounding downright defensive about Ron nowadays – well, he had had suspicions about how his two best friends felt about each other for quite a while, and he reckoned that they were probably entitled to behave somewhat differently. All in all, a quiet, uneventful summer.
That is, until the dream.
He had gone to bed early that night after a dinner of blanched cauliflower with chocolate syrup. He was dozing peacefully when…
"Potter? Potter!"
Harry opened his eyes, and knew immediately that wherever he was, it certainly wasn't his bedroom. He was sitting in what looked like Uncle Vernon's office at Grunnings, looking at the tall woman behind the desk who stared at him critically. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The woman's gaze made him feel like an insect under a Muggle microscope.
"Well, finally," she said briskly. "Honestly, Harry, you're the most stubborn mortal I've ever met. It's taken me all summer to chip through your mental defenses enough to talk with you."
Harry looked at her, not sure whether he was being complimented or insulted – and he definitely didn't like the sound of "chipping through your mental defenses." Still, she didn't seem to want to hurt him. "Er – do I know you?" he asked quizzically.
The woman grimaced. "Look," she said. "Like I was telling your friend Ron the other day, I'm on a tight schedule, so don't ask unnecessary questions, okay?"
"You've talked to Ron?"
"Obviously," the woman said acidly. "Now, let's get down to business. Has Ron passed on my message to you about the Doom Carrots?"
"You mean the one about knitting?"
"Bingo." It was said in the same acerbic tone as before, but Harry thought that he detected a faint note of relief in her voice. "I can't say too much now, but remember that, or you don't have a chance of surviving this year."
Harry shivered in spite of himself. "What's going to happen this year?"
The woman grimaced again. "You never make things easy, do you?" she murmured as though speaking to herself, and then held up a hand to forestall Harry's response. "Never mind, don't answer that. I can't say anything directly, but I'll give you a hint. What comes to mind when you think of knitting?"
Harry thought about it. "It makes sense," he said finally. "All the stitches make sense."
The woman closed her eyes in relief. "Thank God for small favors. Yes, Harry, all the stitches make sense. Keep that in mind when you learn what Voldemort is up to." Suddenly her head cocked to one side as though she was listening to a voice that nobody but she could hear. "Oh," she said finally, as though as an afterthought, "I almost forgot. Here." She tossed him a… was it a fish? "You'll be needing this."
Harry stared at the pure white herring in his hands. His head was swimming with questions, each more confused than the last, but what came out of his mouth was, "Er – why is this herring white?"
The woman sighed. "It's a long story. Suffice it to say that I will never, ever eat fish again." There was an awkward pause. "Well," she said finally, "you'll be needing to go to sleep for real now. Goodnight!" And with that, Uncle Vernon's office vanished, and Harry had once again lapsed into blessedly dreamless sleep.
In the morning, as he yawned his way out of bed, he was tempted to think that the dream was simply a bizarre mental reaction brought on by a combination of anxiety about Voldemort and many strange meals. After all, how could knitting possibly defeat evil or the Doom Carrots – whatever they were? All in all, the whole thing seemed absurd.
But he kept the pure white herring that he had found on his pillow, just to be on the safe side.
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At the same time that Harry Potter was debating the merits of whether or not to believe in the power of herring, his mortal enemy was debating the merits of whether or not to throttle Lucius Malfoy.
"Soooo," Voldemort said, drawing out the moment for as long as possible, "tell me again why your alcohol expenses are so high."
Malfoy shifted nervously. He seemed completely sober right now, but Voldemort took a certain vindictive pleasure in noticing that the other man's eyes were distinctly bloodshot. "Well, er, that is – "
"I thought so." The Dark Lord watched his servant through slitted eyes. "Now let me make something clear to you – unless, of course, such a task would be too difficult for your diminutive brain." Oh, what he would give for a loyal, intelligent pureblood to work with. Years of observing various pureblood families had brought him to the conclusion that while some were worth the breathing space they took up, the vast majority were completely worthless.
Not that he would ever admit that to anybody out loud.
"I – I'm listening, My Lord," Malfoy stammered.
"Good boy," Voldemort drawled, observing with great interest as Malfoy's face alternated between terror, indignation, and an expression that could only be called constipated. Hmm. Now that would be an interesting art project once the man had died, as he inevitably would – preferably messily. Perfect an embalming spell so that his death mask shifted through the various Malfoy Expressions: Enraged, drunk, terrified, constipated… oh, the possibilities were endless!
Noticing Malfoy watching him attentively, he pulled his attention away from the flowing of his creative juices and said, "You're aware, I believe, that the recipe for the Cake requires the sacrifice of a pureblood wizard?"
"Yes, My Lord," Malfoy replied, sounding puzzled. "You said that you would be using Harry Potter."
"Yes." Oh, he would be looking forward to that day. "However, Lucius, the recipe does not specifically call for Potter. Before the actual sacrifice took place, it would be simplicity itself to substitute another wizard."
He could not suppress a faint smirk as that statement began to sink in. "M-My Lord," Lucius stammered. "Surely, you aren't suggesting that – "
"No, Lucius, you are quite safe. I still have use for you. However, your son Draco – who, as you've taken such trouble to inform every living organism on the planet, is a pureblood – carries no such guarantees. Now, I would truly hate to lose such a promising young Death Eater. However," his voice had now sunk into a whisper, "do not mistake me, Lucius. If I learn of even one more drop of alcohol passing through your lips between now and the final stages of creating the Cake, Draco will take Potter's place."
"My Lord – "
"You heard me, Lucius." Voldemort paused, drinking in the terror in Malfoy's face. "You have your duties. Now go."
After the man had left, the Dark Lord leaned back, satisfied. He did not expect to have to carry out his threat – Malfoy, being the shrinking coward that he was, would probably make absolutely certain that every drop of liquor within a ten-mile radius of Malfoy Manor was eliminated – but even so, as much as he hated to waste a potentially useful servant, nothing could jeopardize the creation of the Cake. Besides, once he had succeeded, he could do quite well without servants.
A sudden pain in his hands made him look down, and he realized that he was clenching his hands so tightly that his nails had pierced the skin, but somehow he didn't care. He closed his eyes, savoring the anticipation of power. Soon. The Cake would be his, and Potter would be destroyed. Soon. Soon.
A word to the wise before we start in on Chapter 5. You'll notice that I have written from Voldemort's point of view for the second time this story. That isn't a coincidence; I love writing the bad guys. (I also wrote an interior monologue called "And In The End" that is also from Voldemort's POV, and for Lord of the Rings fans I wrote a piece from Sauron's POV, if anyone is interested.) Expect to see more of that. Call me evil if you will, but I really get a kick out of these guys. They're just so… well… evil! Seriously, though, Voldemort's character is an odd combination of malevolence and childishness that I think is absolutely fascinating; writing him makes for very interesting character study.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. I belong to me. Trees belong to the ground. Get the picture?
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Chapter 5: Blood And Herring
The rest of the summer passed without incident – very strangely, mind you, but without incident. If Harry hadn't known better, he could have sworn that Fudge was right, that Voldemort hadn't actually risen again. Oh, the Dursleys were still acting oddly, but Harry couldn't complain, since this new behavior was definitely preferable to the old. And if Ron sent odd messages and behaved as though he was keeping secrets, or Hermione was sounding downright defensive about Ron nowadays – well, he had had suspicions about how his two best friends felt about each other for quite a while, and he reckoned that they were probably entitled to behave somewhat differently. All in all, a quiet, uneventful summer.
That is, until the dream.
He had gone to bed early that night after a dinner of blanched cauliflower with chocolate syrup. He was dozing peacefully when…
"Potter? Potter!"
Harry opened his eyes, and knew immediately that wherever he was, it certainly wasn't his bedroom. He was sitting in what looked like Uncle Vernon's office at Grunnings, looking at the tall woman behind the desk who stared at him critically. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The woman's gaze made him feel like an insect under a Muggle microscope.
"Well, finally," she said briskly. "Honestly, Harry, you're the most stubborn mortal I've ever met. It's taken me all summer to chip through your mental defenses enough to talk with you."
Harry looked at her, not sure whether he was being complimented or insulted – and he definitely didn't like the sound of "chipping through your mental defenses." Still, she didn't seem to want to hurt him. "Er – do I know you?" he asked quizzically.
The woman grimaced. "Look," she said. "Like I was telling your friend Ron the other day, I'm on a tight schedule, so don't ask unnecessary questions, okay?"
"You've talked to Ron?"
"Obviously," the woman said acidly. "Now, let's get down to business. Has Ron passed on my message to you about the Doom Carrots?"
"You mean the one about knitting?"
"Bingo." It was said in the same acerbic tone as before, but Harry thought that he detected a faint note of relief in her voice. "I can't say too much now, but remember that, or you don't have a chance of surviving this year."
Harry shivered in spite of himself. "What's going to happen this year?"
The woman grimaced again. "You never make things easy, do you?" she murmured as though speaking to herself, and then held up a hand to forestall Harry's response. "Never mind, don't answer that. I can't say anything directly, but I'll give you a hint. What comes to mind when you think of knitting?"
Harry thought about it. "It makes sense," he said finally. "All the stitches make sense."
The woman closed her eyes in relief. "Thank God for small favors. Yes, Harry, all the stitches make sense. Keep that in mind when you learn what Voldemort is up to." Suddenly her head cocked to one side as though she was listening to a voice that nobody but she could hear. "Oh," she said finally, as though as an afterthought, "I almost forgot. Here." She tossed him a… was it a fish? "You'll be needing this."
Harry stared at the pure white herring in his hands. His head was swimming with questions, each more confused than the last, but what came out of his mouth was, "Er – why is this herring white?"
The woman sighed. "It's a long story. Suffice it to say that I will never, ever eat fish again." There was an awkward pause. "Well," she said finally, "you'll be needing to go to sleep for real now. Goodnight!" And with that, Uncle Vernon's office vanished, and Harry had once again lapsed into blessedly dreamless sleep.
In the morning, as he yawned his way out of bed, he was tempted to think that the dream was simply a bizarre mental reaction brought on by a combination of anxiety about Voldemort and many strange meals. After all, how could knitting possibly defeat evil or the Doom Carrots – whatever they were? All in all, the whole thing seemed absurd.
But he kept the pure white herring that he had found on his pillow, just to be on the safe side.
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At the same time that Harry Potter was debating the merits of whether or not to believe in the power of herring, his mortal enemy was debating the merits of whether or not to throttle Lucius Malfoy.
"Soooo," Voldemort said, drawing out the moment for as long as possible, "tell me again why your alcohol expenses are so high."
Malfoy shifted nervously. He seemed completely sober right now, but Voldemort took a certain vindictive pleasure in noticing that the other man's eyes were distinctly bloodshot. "Well, er, that is – "
"I thought so." The Dark Lord watched his servant through slitted eyes. "Now let me make something clear to you – unless, of course, such a task would be too difficult for your diminutive brain." Oh, what he would give for a loyal, intelligent pureblood to work with. Years of observing various pureblood families had brought him to the conclusion that while some were worth the breathing space they took up, the vast majority were completely worthless.
Not that he would ever admit that to anybody out loud.
"I – I'm listening, My Lord," Malfoy stammered.
"Good boy," Voldemort drawled, observing with great interest as Malfoy's face alternated between terror, indignation, and an expression that could only be called constipated. Hmm. Now that would be an interesting art project once the man had died, as he inevitably would – preferably messily. Perfect an embalming spell so that his death mask shifted through the various Malfoy Expressions: Enraged, drunk, terrified, constipated… oh, the possibilities were endless!
Noticing Malfoy watching him attentively, he pulled his attention away from the flowing of his creative juices and said, "You're aware, I believe, that the recipe for the Cake requires the sacrifice of a pureblood wizard?"
"Yes, My Lord," Malfoy replied, sounding puzzled. "You said that you would be using Harry Potter."
"Yes." Oh, he would be looking forward to that day. "However, Lucius, the recipe does not specifically call for Potter. Before the actual sacrifice took place, it would be simplicity itself to substitute another wizard."
He could not suppress a faint smirk as that statement began to sink in. "M-My Lord," Lucius stammered. "Surely, you aren't suggesting that – "
"No, Lucius, you are quite safe. I still have use for you. However, your son Draco – who, as you've taken such trouble to inform every living organism on the planet, is a pureblood – carries no such guarantees. Now, I would truly hate to lose such a promising young Death Eater. However," his voice had now sunk into a whisper, "do not mistake me, Lucius. If I learn of even one more drop of alcohol passing through your lips between now and the final stages of creating the Cake, Draco will take Potter's place."
"My Lord – "
"You heard me, Lucius." Voldemort paused, drinking in the terror in Malfoy's face. "You have your duties. Now go."
After the man had left, the Dark Lord leaned back, satisfied. He did not expect to have to carry out his threat – Malfoy, being the shrinking coward that he was, would probably make absolutely certain that every drop of liquor within a ten-mile radius of Malfoy Manor was eliminated – but even so, as much as he hated to waste a potentially useful servant, nothing could jeopardize the creation of the Cake. Besides, once he had succeeded, he could do quite well without servants.
A sudden pain in his hands made him look down, and he realized that he was clenching his hands so tightly that his nails had pierced the skin, but somehow he didn't care. He closed his eyes, savoring the anticipation of power. Soon. The Cake would be his, and Potter would be destroyed. Soon. Soon.