Chapter 18: Dirk Pierced
PRESENT: EARLY DECEMBER
Harry's scar had been burning all day, giving him a low-level headache that had blossomed to a full-out migraine by the end of his final class. He could barely move, much less walk a straight line without a hand on the wall. Ron and Hermione helped him back to Gryffindor Tower, and it did not require much effort to convince him to lay down.
He'd had no intention of falling asleep, but somehow it happened anyway. The pain followed him into the darkness of sleep . . . and then, as a picture resolved in his mind, it exploded into an excruciating agony, compared with which a migraine was nothing.
The scene he now saw was outdoors in a darkened clearing or field covered in snow. There were people everywhere—over a hundred people—all cloaked and masked; this was a gathering of Death Eaters.
Voldemort stood a little apart from the hoi polloi, and near him stood an aloof group that probably comprised his inner circle. The rest of the Death Eaters milled around, their demeanors indicating nervousness and uncertainty.
"Dirk Pierce," Voldemort called out, his voice immediately silencing all present. The lower-level Death Eaters parted to make way for one of their number, who all but swaggered forward.
Harry watched, trepidant, as Voldemort looked evaluatively at Pierce, as if assessing the best and most painful way to kill him. Pierce's posture did not change, and, masked as he was, Harry couldn't tell if the Dark Lord's displeasure was at all felt by the Death Eater in question.
"Tell me about Crimson Fell," Voldemort ordered silkily.
The one in the Daily Prophet, Harry thought. She's the one they just found dead—
His reflections were cut short by Pierce's answer. To judge by the Death Eater's tone, he was completely unaware that he treaded on thin ice; indeed, he was smug, even arrogant, as he gave his reply.
"Phamelia Marvolo's bane was to see the suffering of those close to her," he sniffed. "Crimson Fell was one of her best friends at Hogwarts. Whose death could hurt her more?"
To judge by the look on Voldemort's face, Pierce had so far not revealed anything earth-shatteringly new. It seemed that this particular Death Eater very much liked hearing himself talk, and that Voldemort was willing to let him—doling out just enough rope for Pierce to hang himself. Had Pierce been cowering, Harry might have pitied him; as it was, though, he was simply horrified at the other's blind stupidity.
Pierce continued: "I spent seven months tracking her down; she hid herself quite well. I murdered her as per your orders, Master."
This revelation also surprised no one, least of all Harry, who had needed little help to piece together the clues. Voldemort, too, was well aware of the facts, and probably of a few more besides, for anger, not approval, flashed through his deadly eyes.
"I understand that you also carved a Dark Mark in her arm," he stated dangerously.
Pierce at last understood, or began to, the nature of his predicament. He gulped, then replied more or less steadily, "Yes, Master."
Voldemort continued silkily. "Did you not carve your initials into her arm, as well?"
Harry watched with a growing trepidation as Pierce started shaking and paled to a shade lighter than the snow. The Death Eater must reply, however, so he stammered painfully, "Y-yes-s, s-sir."
Voldemort caught a hold of Pierce's chin and forced his head up, making it impossible for him not to look the Dark Lord full in the face. "Phamelia is supposed to think of me and rue the day she betrayed me whenever her friends die," he hissed poisonously. "You made this personal, Dirk Pierce, for now she will think of you instead of me. I am your master; you used my Mark for your petty revenge. That displeases me greatly."
Now Harry did feel a slight stirring of pity for Pierce. Whoever Phamelia Marvolo might be, and whatever the significance of her bane and of Pierce's fouling it up, it surely didn't warrant the painful and nasty death Voldemort doubtless had in store for him.
Pierce's thoughts had undoubtedly taken a similar course. His tone turned plaintive. "Master—"
"SILENCE!" Voldemort roared. He took a step backward, then lowered his voice. "Since Phamelia would no doubt take great joy in hearing you scream, I will not curse you."
Pierce, having missed the implicit message entirely, slumped in relief.
Bloody fool! Harry thought, and sure enough, Voldemort turned to the other assembled Death Eaters with a derisive smile.
"Sorenson, Avery, McNair," he called. "You will do the honors."
Pierce started shaking again, quite violently as three Death Eaters stepped forward. They paused a moment, toying with him, then aimed their wands and one by one initiated the Cruciatus. Their curses reinforced one another, more than tripling the torture. This continued for a seeming eternity before Voldemort called a halt, at which point they lowered their wands, pulled Pierce back into a kneeling position, then returned to their places.
Harry's stomach roiled, and he wondered sickly what more Voldemort had in store for the wayward Death Eater.
The answer was not long in coming. The Dark Lord regarded Pierce through slitted eyes, then said coolly, "You seem so fond of carving, Pierce. I believe you should have one of your very own as a reminder."
Wake up, wake up, wake up! Harry thought desperately, but the dreamscape clung to him and would not release him. He could not go away, nor could he look away; he was forced to watch it play out, down to the last bloody detail.
Voldemort turned abruptly to look at one of the Death Eaters, who stood a head taller than the others present. "Zarekael!"
Harry's stomach stopped roiling as the bottom of it dropped out like an express lift. The Death Eater's posture, the grace with which he stepped forward, the intonation and accent with which he said, "Yes, milord"—all belonged to the Potions apprentice. Harry was mortified and felt his hope bleeding slowly away.
"You have a mark on your left collar bone," Voldemort stated. "What is it?"
"My House symbol, milord," Zarekael replied, quite calmly.
"I wish to see it."
Zarekael bowed. "As you wish." Without the least bit of hesitation, he shed his robe and handed it to another Death Eater, then he similarly shed and handed over his black frock-coat. This revealed a white linen shirt, the back of which was spotted with crimson; he removed it, and Harry caught his breath. Zarekael's back was covered in horrific wounds like whip-lashes; they were healing, but the motions involved in removing his outer garments, and perhaps a rubbing from the straps of a knife harness he wore on his torso, had broken open the scabs, leaving him to bleed anew. An uneasy rustling rippled through the Death Eaters' ranks at the sight, and Harry's view of Zarekael as a traitor was temporarily put on hold in a wave of pained sympathy. The students had been told that the apprentice had been badly hurt in a brewing accident, but this was evidence of deliberately inflicted punishment.
Zarekael, apparently oblivious to his fellows' reaction, turned and approached Voldemort with a bowed head. By the time he knelt before the Dark Lord, his unquestioning humility had dissolved through Harry's momentary pity.
Voldemort regarded the kneeling Death Eater for a moment, then arched an eyebrow. "Zarekael," he said, a note of curiosity in his voice, "I would have thought that these wounds would have been healed."
Zarekael looked up sharply in surprise. "You did not give me permission to do so, milord," he replied, evidently puzzled. Seeing that Voldemort was likewise confused, he wend on. "Severus taught me that if you saw fit to punish me, then I must bear the pain as the lesson and reminder they were intended to be, unless you grant me leave to heal myself fully." He once more lowered his head, this time in shame. "I failed you, milord, and you specifically said that these were to remind me of my shame and to warn me of the perils of failure. If I misinterpreted your intent, forgive me please."
Far from being offended, Voldemort preened in the wake of this explanation. He turned an approving eye on the Death Eater who held Zarekael's robe—Snape, Harry soon surmised. The Potions master drew himself up proudly, demonstrating his own approval of his son.
And what did Snape do to train Zarekael that way? Harry wondered, feeling ill.
With an affirming nod to the father, Voldemort returned his attention to the son. He ran his hand through Zarekael's hair and down to his chin, which he then lifted. He looked Zarekael fully in the eye, as interested in the possible presence of deception as Harry himself was. The inhuman blue eyes held nothing of the kind, though; there was only unresisting surrender.
He really is loyal, Harry thought miserably. He seemed such a decent fellow, if a bit creepy, but he's really and truly loyal to Voldemort.
The Dark Lord, coming to the same conclusion, smiled reassuringly—a chilling sight, to be sure. "You did not misinterpret me, my loyal young servant," he said in a tone that bordered on fatherly. "Quite the contrary. Stand up so that I may see this mark more clearly."
Zarekael stood obediently, not even flinching when Voldemort traced the scar on his collar bone. It was a depiction of a bird of prey, Harry saw—the very bird, in fact, that had been emblazoned on the armor that Snape and Zarekael had worn at Halloween.
"What is this creature, Zarekael?" Voldemort asked.
"I'm afraid it does not exist on this plane, milord," he replied apologetically. "It is a particularly vicious bird of prey, known for its slyness and cunning, as well as its unusual intelligence. The closest comparison would be a bird with the speed of a falcon, the coloring of a raven, and the size of an eagle."
The Dark Lord seemed slightly amused. "So these are the qualities exemplified by your House?"
"Yes, milord."
Voldemort lowered his hand. "Then it is no wonder you're a Slytherin," he remarked, to appreciative laughter from the Death Eaters.
"I suppose not," Zarekael rejoined dryly.
Voldemort nodded his approbation, then stepped around Zarekael to look again at Dirk Pierce, whose plight Harry had momentarily forgotten. Pierce had stopped blubbering to stare at Zarekael's back, first in awe and now in abject terror. If that had been done to one so favored, what must be in store for him?
The Dark Lord watched him stew for a moment, then smiled dangerously. "Severus, Lucius, Zarekael, come here."
Zarekael turned and was joined immediately by two others from the inner circle.
Voldemort drew and waved his wand. "Tabula rasa," he said, then started to sketch lazily, with his wand, in thin air. The track of his wand remained, though, leaving the glowing green outline of a basilisk rearing itself above a cowering adder. He then turned back to the summoned threesome. "I want you three to carve this into Mr. Pierce's chest." He looked sidewise at Zarekael's harness. "I'm sure Zarekael would gladly lend you some knives."
"You honor us, Master," Lucius Malfoy said obsequiously. At Voldemort's nod, he looked expectantly at Zarekael, who drew two very long, very wicked knives, handing one each to Malfoy and to Snape. The trio looked ponderingly at the design, then Malfoy turned to the others. "You two are better at the fine, detailed work," he sniffed haughtily, "so I believe it best if I start by carving the general outline, and you may fill in the details."
Zarekael looked to Snape, who silkily replied, "That is acceptable." He cast an eye at Pierce, who was whimpering again, then his voice hardened. "Enough chatter."
Without a word, Zarekael stooped and hauled Pierce roughly to his feet. He slipped his own arms between Pierce's arms and body, then pulled them backward, effectively bracing Pierce's arms behind his back. Then he placed his hands against the back of Pierce's head, pushing downward to force the unfortunate man to watch Malfoy's handiwork. Pierce did not take it quietly, but his violent squirming and inarticulate terrified utterances were to no avail as Malfoy cut away his shirt.
Zarekael apparently tired of the noise, however, for he abruptly straightened, lifting Pierce completely off of the ground, thereby forcing the pitiful man's full weight onto his already uncomfortable arms. "Stop struggling," the Potions apprentice snarled. "This is a lesson; learn from it." He returned Pierce's feet to the ground, then looked apologetically to the others. "Forgive the interruption if you would, Malfoy."
Malfoy shrugged and flippantly waved his knife. "No trouble," he assured him, then set to work, using long, slow strokes to create an outline on Pierce's chest.
Pierce never made even a token effort to remain either silent or still as the blood flowed freely to streak his body and stain the snow. He had no pity from any present; his torturers were contemptuous, the Death Eaters, amused. Their jeers grew even louder when he stained the snow yellow and started begging for mercy.
Malfoy finished his task with a vicious dig from his blade. "You truly are pathetic," he muttered, then backed away to catch Snape's eye. "All right, Severus, I believe it's your turn."
Harry was now visited by a hopeful, though irrational, thought: Maybe Snape'll find a way to get him out of this—or at least he'll put him out of his misery.
Snape raised his eyebrows expectantly at Malfoy, who did not at first move. "It would be helpful if you would relieve Zarekael of his burden," he said pointedly.
With a disdainful look at Pierce, Malfoy handed over his blade to Snape, then moved to switch places with Zarekael. The Potions apprentice dropped Pierce, stepped over his prone form, then pulled him back up again so that Malfoy could restrain him once more. When he stepped back from Pierce, his entire chest and abdomen were smeared with blood, a development that seemed not to bother him at all.
"You first, Father," he said calmly, accepting his blade from Snape.
Snape stepped forward and forced Pierce's head upward so that the victim had to look his tormentor in the eye.
"Please," Pierce begged hoarsely. "Stop."
"It was so much easier with three others bearing the consequences with you, wasn't it?" his former teacher taunted. "Whatever happened to your belief that no one can make you miserable unless you permit it?" His tone turned contemptuous, dashing the last of Harry's irrational hopes. "You never could survive on your own, you weak pathetic man. Now stop sniveling!"
He and Zarekael then, without another word, picked up the bloody task Malfoy had begun. Neither seemed in the least bothered by his work—And why should they be? Harry reflected bitterly. Zarekael obviously had no conscience, and Snape, whatever his loyalties, evidently had a nasty history with Pierce. It was only logical, however wrong, that both should be pleased with the task at hand.
When the work was at last finished, father and son stepped away, leaving Malfoy to drop Pierce to the ground one final time. The disgraced Death Eater curled up in the fetal position, shivering in the snow and whimpering in pain.
This apparently annoyed Zarekael. He stalked over to Pierce, grabbed him by the back of the neck, and dragged him over to Voldemort, at whose feet he roughly dropped him. "He has been merciful," the apprentice hissed. "Show your gratitude, you swine." When Pierce made no move to do anything of the kind, Zarekael kicked him viciously in the side.
Voldemort lay a restraining hand on Zarekael's arm; the Death Eater went suddenly very still. "Forgive me, milord," he said softly. "I have overstepped."
You overstepped long ago, you sick freak, Harry thought coldly.
Voldemort was far more understanding. "I will overlook it this once," he replied magnanimously, then turned venomous eyes on Pierce. "Carry my new Mark, Pierce, as a reminder: Don't ever raise yourself above me again."
Now the Dark Lord looked at the rest of his followers. "Let tonight be a lesson to all of you, as well," he said dangerously. "All except Malfoy, Snape, and Zarekael, leave me now."
There was a series of pops as the Death Eaters obeyed and disapparated. When Voldemort spoke again, his voice was beginning to fade, and it seemed to Harry that the clearing was darkening around him.
"Lucius," the Dark Lord began, "I understand that you have found another most interesting
target . . ."
His voice faded to a murmur, then disappeared entirely as the scene melted away and Harry awoke. He did not notice that the pain in his scar was fading; he was distracted by any number of other, more important vexations. Zarekael's loyalty to Voldemort, his obvious cruelty and sadism, Snape's disregard for Pierce, Malfoy's new target—all crashed around in his mind until he didn't know what to make of any of it, except to say that none of it was good.
He noticed suddenly that he was actually out of his bed and standing beside it facing the door. Ron sat up in his own bed and stared at him in alarm.
"What is it, Harry?" he whispered, mindful of their still-sleeping roommates.
"I have to go see Dumbledore now," Harry replied tersely, pulling a jumper on over his pajamas. He started to the door, followed soon after by Ron, who grabbed a jumper to put on en route.
"What happened?" Ron asked quietly, once they were past the Fat Lady. "Another dream?"
Harry nodded. "Yeah," he answered. "And it's really not good." He rubbed at his scar, which still hurt a bit. "Not that it's ever good," he added ruefully.
They went the rest of the way in silence, Harry mulling over what he'd seen and Ron making sure that Harry got to his destination in more or less one piece. On arriving at the statue guarding the entrance, Ron stayed long enough for the two of them to figure out the password ("Fizzing Whizbee"), then excused himself, knowing he'd be unwanted and that, in any case, he'd learn soon enough what Dumbledore said.
Harry proceeded up to the headmaster's office and was not at all surprised to find Dumbledore there; he privately doubted that the headmaster ever slept.
Dumbledore seemed equally unsurprised that Harry had come. He invited the boy in, offered him a biscuit, and poured out a cup of tea, all as though Harry's coming was by invitation. Only when Harry was seated, with the tea turning cold on the desk in front of him and the biscuit growing soft in his clammy palm, did Dumbledore raise inquisitive eyebrows. "And what brings you here tonight, Harry?" he asked.
"I had another dream," Harry told him. "Or vision or . . . whatever they are." He trailed off, not sure exactly how to go on. He came as the bearer of unpleasant tidings . . . but there were also a number of questions to which he wanted answers. Which were best given first, the tidings or the questions?
Dumbledore, fortunately, was able to navigate any muddle by asking questions of his own. "Where was Voldemort?" he inquired, almost gently.
"He was outside," Harry replied. "In a forest clearing. There was snow on the ground and trees behind him."
"Who else was there?"
"A lot of Death Eaters—not just the high-ranking ones. One was named Dirk Pierce. And Lucius Malfoy and . . ." He swallowed. "Sn—Professor Snape and Professor . . . Zarekael."
The headmaster did not appear surprised at any of this. Before he could ask another leading question, though, Harry added, "He's loyal, Professor. Zarekael is loyal to Voldemort. The way he was acting—" He squeezed his eyes shut. "How could he not be loyal?" he finished, speaking more to himself than to the headmaster.
Dumbledore paused, but when he spoke again, there was no trace of dismay in his voice. "What did Voldemort do?" he inquired calmly.
Harry looked up. "He called Pierce forward and asked him to tell about someone named Crimson Fell," he answered.
That, at least, sparked Dumbledore's interest, though the flicker in his eye was quickly buried. "What did Pierce say?"
Harry briefly recounted the conversation, up to the point just before Voldemort had called Zarekael forward.
His abrupt halt was not lost on Dumbledore. "What happened next?" he prompted, not unkindly.
Harry swallowed. "He—he called Zarekael," he replied. "And asked about a scar on his collar bone. Zarekael took off his shirt and—" He swallowed hard. "His back was covered in barely-healed lashes. I think Voldemort's the one who whipped him because he was only surprised that they weren't healed yet."
"And," Dumbledore said, leaning forward a bit, "how did Professor Zarekael explain them?"
Harry felt sick. "He said Professor Snape taught him that he wasn't to heal anything Voldemort gave him as a punishment, unless Voldemort gave him permission to heal it," he answered.
"I see." Dumbledore smiled encouragingly, and Harry wondered suddenly what such an expression cost him. It could not possibly be easy to smile in the face of such news, but he managed it anyway, for Harry's benefit. "What happened next?"
Harry took a deep breath, then carefully described Voldemort's design and the joyous manner in which Snape, Zarekael, and Malfoy had engraved it into Pierce's chest. He capped off the whole with Zarekael's vicious manhandling of the wayward Death Eater and Voldemort's hint of an upcoming mission of some sort.
He at last fell silent, allowing Dumbledore a chance to ponder briefly before he launched into his questions. His pause lasted perhaps a full minute, though, and then the questions poured forth.
"How could you know Snape was a Death Eater and not Zarekael?" he began. "And how could someone who seems so decent turn out to be a complete sadist? If Snape's on our side, how come he didn't seem to mind punishing Pierce?" He hesitated, then set his jaw and let the other shoe drop. "And how, exactly, did Snape train Zarekael to take severe punishments that way?"
Dumbledore held up a restraining hand. "First of all, Harry," he said firmly, "except when Voldemort forced him to do it—and that has only been once—Professor Snape never raised a hand against his son. You may put your fears to rest on that count.
"Secondly, I am well aware that Professor Zarekael is a Death Eater, but," he added, with a silencing look to Harry, "I am likewise aware that he is not in the least loyal to Voldemort, whatever appearances he may give."
Harry shook his head. "That was more than just an appearance," he stated firmly. "He enjoyed what he was doing."
"Yes, Harry," Dumbledore replied. "As far as Voldemort is concerned, he did." He raised his eyebrows. "But a spy who does not wish to be caught will never permit his true feelings to be known."
"Which I suppose explains Snape?" Harry said skeptically.
"Professor Snape, Harry," Dumbledore chided mildly. "And yes, it partially explains his behavior, though not entirely. Crimson Fell, you see, was one of his students." He looked knowingly at Harry. "As you may know, teachers sometimes befriend their pupils; Miss Fell was one such pupil for Professor Snape. Her death impacted him much the way your death would impact Professor Lupin, for example. So you see, it is entirely possible, and quite understandable, though not at all right, that Professor Snape's feelings in the matter did influence his behavior toward Pierce tonight."
That was certainly food for thought, and it gave Harry pause, but only until his mind returned to Zarekael. "I still don't trust Zare—Professor Zarekael," he said stubbornly. "He was just too perfect to be entirely acting."
Dumbledore looked thoughtfully at him. "You mentioned seeing the wounds on his back," he remarked quietly.
Harry nodded.
"He's had those for nearly a month," the headmaster continued. "He received them the night after Voldemort tried and failed to kidnap you. You woke up before it happened, but he was beaten, flogged, and put under the Cruciatus numerous times that night." He raised his eyebrows. "He and Professor Snape were punished because they intentionally bungled the kidnapping attempt in order to keep you safe. Professor Zarekael didn't have to fail; if he were loyal to Voldemort, he would not have failed. Instead, though, he risked his life, and indeed almost died, to keep you safe."
Harry swallowed again. Put that way, it made sense . . . but if that were so, Zarekael was a disturbingly good actor. "He did that . . . for me?" he asked. "He was in the hospital wing for a fortnight—he could have died?"
Rather than answer directly, Dumbledore offered a compassionate smile. "I have no doubt as to where Professor Zarekael's loyalties lie," he quietly declared.
Even had Harry been so inclined, he could not have kept his nightmare or his talk with Dumbledore to himself; there was no way he could keep them from Ron and Hermione. As soon as an opportunity presented itself, he took them aside and told them the entire story.
"I know who Crimson Fell is," Hermione said grimly. "Her murder was all over yesterday's Daily Prophet." She shook her head in disgust. "No one knew any possible motive—who's Phamelia Marvolo?"
"The motive, apparently," Ron grumbled. "Dumbledore never said anything about her?"
Harry grimaced. "I forgot to ask," he confessed.
"Well, do you think she's any relation to Tom Marvolo Riddle?"
Harry swallowed. "That's what I was thinking," he replied. "Crimson Fell went to school with her. Hermione, did the paper say how old she was? I never got past the first paragraph."
"Twenty-seven," Hermione answered. "I remember noticing she's the same age as Ebony."
"Ebony," Ron repeated. "Well, now that we know that both Snape and Zarekael are Death Eaters, are there any more theories on her seizures?"
Harry shook his head. "I can't honestly believe he's still loyal to Voldemort," he said reluctantly. "I'm not ever sure about Zarekael. With Snape's past, though, Dumbledore would be keeping an extra-close watch on him." He thought on it, but firmly shook his head again. "No, he's taken punishment for Dumbledore—he's a spy. He . . . and Zarekael," he added hesitantly, "kept me from being kidnapped last month. If they were loyal, they wouldn't have."
"For not being loyal, though, Zarekael sure is a brutal git," Ron commented darkly. "Set Snape aside for a minute—I suppose he's capable of having friends and being upset when they die. But did Zarekael even know Crimson Fell?"
Hermione shook her head. "He's too young to have known her as a student," she replied. "And he's been at Hogwarts ever since he came here. Unless they ran into each other on Diagon Alley, they probably never even met."
"So what's his stake in it, then?" Ron asked. "He didn't know her, she wasn't his friend—"
"But Snape is," Harry realized. Ron and Hermione stared at him, but he persisted. "Think about it. Snape's his father, but they get on better than a father and son—they're friends. And if one of you had a friend killed, even if I'd never met him, I'd have a stake in it because he's your friend, and you're mine."
"That . . . makes sense," Hermione conceded. "But would it make a sadist of you?"
Harry nodded slowly as he finally understood something Dumbledore had said. "With Voldemort watching?" he countered. "Who knows what I'd do?"
"That doesn't make it anymore comforting," Ron said. "The fact remains that we thought Zarekael was a decent chap, and he's got a dark side that's really pretty disturbing."
To that Harry had no defense, nor did he feel terribly inclined to create one. Silence reigned for a moment, ending with Hermione clearing her throat.
"Well, if you want to do some research on Phamelia Marvolo," she said, "we'll have plenty of time to do it over Christmas holiday."
Ron rolled his eyes. "Oh, and where do you suggest we start on that?" he asked.
"In the library," she replied acidly. "In the Hogwarts yearbook archives."
Harry made no effort to curb his staring during Potions. He was torn over what Dumbledore had said the evening before, and it seemed that Zarekael was determined not to help resolve the confusion. The Potions apprentice was as calm and polite as always, challenging what Harry had seen without so much as a spoken word, but at the same time, he was well aware of Harry's surveillance and made no effort to make a lie of what Harry had seen. Indeed, Zarekael seemed wary, more than anything—and, most condemning of all, he gave no sign of penitence.
At last the bell rang.
"Wait for me in the corridor," Harry said under his breath. "I want to talk to him."
Ron and Hermione nodded, then left without a word. Once the classroom had emptied, Harry went forward to the front of the room, where Zarekael stood waiting for him. His intention was obviously known, for the apprentice, with a motion of his hand, closed the door behind the last of Harry's classmates. As if to deny that knowledge, however, he raised unconcerned eyebrows. "A question, Mr. Potter?" he said mildly.
"No, sir," Harry replied. "I just . . . I wanted to say think you for saving my life. Dumbledore told
me—"
"It wasn't me," Zarekael interrupted quietly. He looked genuinely surprised at Harry's words, and Harry couldn't really fault him; he wasn't exactly famous for being grateful to Death Eaters. "It was Severus' task to see that it came off without a hitch; it was he who kept you safe."
His humility and civil address took Harry off-guard. Snape (he thought) would have taken credit and summarily thrown him out of the room for broaching a taboo subject. At the very least Zarekael should have bristled at Harry's implication that he had witnessed the events of the previous evening . . . but there was no denial, no self-protective anger, no reaction more remarkable than surprise and polite correction.
Harry's own surprise must have shown, for Zarekael sighed. "What?"
He was not thinking clearly, so he should probably have kept quiet, but instead he blurted exactly what was in his mind: "It's just—I didn't expect—You're acting almost like the decent man I thought you were."
That was, of course, exactly the wrong thing to say. Even before Harry shut his mouth, his eyes were wide with horror at what he'd said and in anticipation of what must surely be a violent reaction from the Potions apprentice.
Zarekael closed his eyes—a reaction that was not at all comforting. Harry had heard that the apprentice sometimes had either physical or magical rages, which always started with his eyes changing color from blue to green. He dreaded a reopening of those eyes and the violence it would hail.
The eyes opened blue, but Harry was already babbling in a vain attempt to explain away his hasty words. "I'm sorry, that came out wrong. That's not how I meant it—not what I meant to say, I mean—"
"Stop." Zarekael gave the command in a weary voice.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it," Harry finished lamely.
"Never apologize for the truth, Mr. Potter," Zarekael told him. He sighed and looked very old. "Please, just go."
Harry just went. Ron and Hermione met him in the corridor, but he was at a loss for what to tell them. He wasn't sure he'd been supposed to see that aspect of Zarekael, and he was certain that what he'd seen wasn't meant to be shared. At last, in reply to their pressing inquiries, he said, "I just wanted to thank him for what he did last month."
Ron gulped. "How'd he take it?"
"He was . . . surprised," Harry replied truthfully, then let the subject drop.
Two days after identifying Crim, Meli's temper had cooled, giving way to a dull ache that she carried always with her but could soon adjust to—she hoped. She even found herself somewhat regretting a few of the words she had spoken to Pierce on Diagon Alley, though she hadn't the supernatural grace that would allow her to forgive him without further reflection and grappling.
Part of that grappling required her to test her own reaction to a description of Pierce's punishment. She strongly suspected that she would feel a swell of satisfaction at the news . . . but there was no way to know for certain until she heard it. A part of her hoped that she would instead feel revolted.
When she judged by Snape and Zarekael's demeanors that something had been done (Snape was slightly less uptight, and Zarekael looked, to the trained eye, almost smug), she took aside the former and made a discreet inquiry.
The question obviously did not surprise Snape. His mouth quirked sardonically, and he crossed his arms. "The Dark Lord, as you doubtless predicted, was not amused," he replied. "He thought that the punishment should fit the crime . . . so Pierce is now nursing an impressive wound."
Meli's eyes widened. "He carved him?"
"Pierce was carved," Snape allowed. "The Dark Lord specified the design, and others carried it out."
"What design?" she asked. "Where?"
"It's a detailed rendering of a basilisk towering over a cowering adder," he replied, a touch of disdain creeping into his tone. "And it covers his chest and part of his torso."
"Who did it, if not Voldemort himself?"
Snape cleared his throat. "Lucius Malfoy, Zarekael . . . and me," he answered.
She ended the conversation shortly thereafter and locked herself in her office to think.
Her sense of justice did not feel satisfied, nor was its appetite whetted. Indeed, had her sense of justice possessed a stomach, that organ would be roiling as if seasick. Justice and vengeance, it would seem, were not one and the same.
Stupid child, her grandfather's voice whispered in her mind. Of course they're different. Justice is the invention of those who foolishly believe that there is any authority higher than themselves. Vengeance is the right of those who recognize the truth that they are the highest authorities of right and wrong. If it benefits you, it is right; if it harms or insults you, it is wrong and must be avenged.
"There is an ultimate Authority, old man," Meli whispered viciously. "Higher than me, and higher than you. Your riddles no longer confound me."
It was, in fact, belief in an ultimate Authority that had allowed her to keep her sanity after falling from grace. Had she believed for even a moment that there was no Sovereign Intelligence that directed the course of her life (miserable as it sometimes seemed)—that there was, therefore, no purpose at all for her suffering—she would have killed herself long ago.
Just as she could not give up her belief in a Sovereign God, she could not long bear a grudge against anyone save herself without consciously expending the effort to do so; it was simply not in her nature. Now that the initial rage of her grief had dissipated somewhat, she was forced to face the question of what to do about Dirk Pierce.
Sharpie was dead—as dead as was the man who had once been her grandfather. Both had faded away, supplanted by the power-hungry self-idolaters that they now were.
Grandfather didn't kill Crim, she reminded herself, but she cut that argument short with another: He killed my parents, and he abandoned me to Voldemort's wrath.
She had never known her birth parents. At her request, Dumbledore had told her what little he knew of them and the ways in which they had died. Meli's grandfather, it appeared, had personally murdered his own teenage daughter and the lower-level Death Eater he had allowed to rape her. His offenses were far worse than Pierce's . . . and yet she had, as much as it was really possible, forgiven him.
His treatment of her parents was abstract, though; since the offense was only hazily perceived, it was easily forgiven. Far more real to her were the twisted training he had attempted to ingrain in her that even now made sugar a nauseating substance, the abuses she had suffered from him when she had publicly rejected her upbringing, , and his final rejection of her that had allowed Voldemort to punish her so severely that she still bore the marks of his curse to this day.
For those offenses, those abuses, those scars on her heart and soul, she had forgiven her grandfather. For the curse and the bane, she had even forgiven Voldemort.
Could she forgive Pierce his betrayal?
Forgiveness was not forgetfulness or naïveté; it would not require her to trust or befriend him again . . . and yet there was still the desire for justice.
No, she thought firmly. If being slowly carved by three Death Eaters, and bearing the pain of healing and then the permanent scars, isn't justice enough, nothing, not even his death, ever will be.
She would treat Pierce as she treated every enemy: only when the alternative was allowing herself or someone under her protection to be killed would she herself kill him. After his recent shenanigans, though, she highly doubted that Voldemort would allow Pierce the honor of coming anywhere near Harry Potter, and Pierce was far too intelligent to make a move against Snape or Zarekael, even if he did suspect them of being spies.
Refusing to forgive did no harm to Pierce, and it did Meli the harm of keeping her from moving on. It would be difficult enough to adjust to Crim's being really gone, without coupling remembrances of her with a hatred for Pierce. She had to let it go, or she would lose her focus and herself.