"No good sittin' worryin' abou' it," Hagrid said. "What's comin' will come, an we'll meet it when it does. Dumbledore told me wha' you did, Harry."
Hagrid's chest swelled as he looked at Harry.
"Yeh did as much as yer father would've done, an' I can' give yeh no higher praise than that."
-- Hagrid, in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
*
Disclaimer: Hoc non possideo et numquam possidebo.
A/N: Ah … ten-month delays in updates are perfectly normal, right?
I might as well point out that this story is now AU. Extremely AU. In fact, I wrote most of this chapter before OoTP even came out. Once it did, and once I actually got my paws on Book Five … well, I might as well say that I decided there was no earthly or unearthly way I could integrate it into NHP. Therefore, I will continue writing this as if OoTP didn't even exist. Just consider it … really, really, really alternate.
And now for a quick explanation of something that seems to be bewildering people:
James Potter is Voldemort's son. Dumbledore's explanation in Chapter Thirteen is merely Dumbledore's conception of reality. Dumbledore is, in fact, wrong. Or, at least, he's right in that James's mother wasn't descended from Slytherin, but he's wrong in thinking that was the link. As for why Harry's scar hasn't been hurting … let's put that down to the fact that Voldemort hasn't been particularly angry recently, shall we?
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
NO HIGHER PRAISE:
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"My Lord, I was constantly on the alert," came Lucius Malfoy's voice swiftly from beneath the hood. "Had there been any sign from you, any whisper of your whereabouts, I would have been at your side immediately, nothing could have prevented me -"
"And yet you ran from my Mark, when a faithful Death Eater sent it into the sky last summer?" said Voldemort lazily, and Mr. Malfoy stopped talking abruptly. "Yes, I know all about that, Lucius. . . . You have disappointed me. ... I expect more faithful service in the future."
~ Lucius Malfoy and Lord Voldemort in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
* * * * *
It was a tense moment. Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy looked at each other and Harry vividly recalled the last time they had come face-to-face: It had been in Flourish and Blotts' bookshop, and they had had a fight. Mr. Malfoy's cold gray eyes swept over Mr. Weasley, and then up and down the row.
"Good lord, Arthur," he said softly. "What did you have to sell to get seats in the Top Box? Surely your house wouldn't have fetched this much?"
Fudge, who wasn't listening, said, "Lucius has just given a very generous contribution to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Arthur. He's here as my guest."
"How - how nice," said Mr. Weasley, with a very strained smile.
~Arthur Weasley, Lucius Malfoy, and Cornelius Fudge, in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
* * * * *
The few remaining days of summer had slipped by all too quickly for Lucius Malfoy's liking. The Dark Lord's calls on his time were drastically complicating his schedule; he had been forced to skip various board meetings and had even missed his daily visit to the Ministry several times. Voldemort's demands that Malfoy produce a new plan for persuading the giants to give up their astonishing reluctance to aid the Dark Lord took up the greatest part of his time, and were the most vexing, as well. Somehow, Dumbledore must have gotten there first, but Lucius knew better than to suggest that criminal idea. Yet it had to be so. The giants had joined so promptly the last time, and now they were evasive in their clumsy fashion, stalling, wavering … not that Lucius himself particularly wanted the great foolish brutes on his side, but the Dark Lord had always found them useful. Now, he blamed Lucius for the continual failure to bring them back. If the situation got any worse, it would degenerate into curses, possibly even Unforgivables, and a further loss of status. The Dark Lord's moods had been frighteningly unpredictable since his rebirth. If it were not for the danger of such treasonous thoughts, Lucius might even consider doubting his sanity.
Some of the lost time might be Lucius's own fault, as he had continued to haunt Ottery St. Catchpole and the Weasley's pathetically run-down residence even after deciding on the best way to deal with the wards. He had no intention of taking the Rat's word for anything, not even the family's daily habits. Far better to go into a situation like this well-informed. The Dark Lord appeared to have gotten the ridiculous idea (probably from the Rat) that Arthur Weasley did not have to be taken seriously, which was absolute nonsense. The man might be a Muggle-loving fool, and was incompetent enough in private life, but he was also good at his job, and he could be a dangerous enemy, especially if he felt his damned family threatened. He'd certainly taken control at the Quidditch World Cup quickly enough when everyone else went to pieces.
On further consideration, it occurred to Lucius that he himself hadn't gone out of his way to convince Voldemort otherwise, but … by the seven hells, what right did he have – Slytherin's Heir or not – to go meddling in and mocking a Malfoy's private feud?
On days when he did make it to the Ministry, Lucius found himself either covertly watching or avoiding Weasley (Weasley senior, not his bespectacled, irritatingly industrious son, who worked at all hours, and actually sought out extra assignments. The boy would either die from overwork within five years or rise to become Someone Genuinely Important … provided he made it through the war, which didn't seem likely). Dear old Arthur was unquestionably involved in Dumbledore's annoying little resistance movement … probably his son as well, thought that was merely a hunch. Arthur did tend to direct glares of utter loathing in Lucius's direction whenever their paths crossed, but that was nothing new. Perhaps the glares were a little more potent than usual since the end of the Triwizard Tournament … but perhaps not. As only a limited amount of emotion that could be fitted into one face, even such a transparent, open face as Arthur Weasley's, it was difficult to tell whether the degree of hatred had increased or not since the whole incident with Riddle's diary two years before.
Riddle's diary. Now that had been a debacle of the highest order. It was all that stuttering idiot Quirrel's fault, Lucius thought irrationally. If Quirrel hadn't gotten himself possessed by the Dark Lord, Lucius wouldn't have realized that the Dark Lord was still around and still trying to come back. If Lucius hadn't realized that, he wouldn't have … oh, very well, he wouldn't have panicked and hastily looked around for something appropriately evil to do, to convince the Dark Lord that, yes, of course, Lucius Malfoy was still the most faithful Death Eater ever. If he hadn't panicked, he would not have thought of that damn diary, and if he hadn't thought of the diary, he wouldn't have remembered the Dark Lord's instructions to get it to Hogwarts if anything untoward ever happened to the Dark Lord in one of his immortality experiments. He'd been quite happy forgetting, thank you kindly. He knew who T. M. Riddle was. He could remember Riddle, drinking tea at Malfoy Manor and patting a seven-year-old Lucius on the head with infuriating condescension. He'd been much better-looking back then.
If he hadn't remembered, Lucius thought morosely, he could have found something else to do. Like, say, breaking the Lestranges out of Azkaban, or cutting Fudge's throat (now there was a pleasant thought). But, no, there was the diary, and the Dark Lord had said it would open the Chamber of Secrets if someone wrote in it. Lucius had the sneaking suspicion that the Dark Lord had envisioned Lucius himself writing in it, but he'd rather dance naked on the front steps of the Ministry singing the Death Eater Theme Song. And he wasn't about to give it to his son either.
So perhaps shoving it into the Weasley girl's textbook had not been his most brilliant plan. She was a Weasley, which automatically meant she was trouble, and she was too close to the Potter boy. But he'd had the book, and he'd just had that little scuffle with Arthur (a fistfight in a bookstore – the man had no sense of propriety), and the opportunity had just been too good to pass up … Damn, why the HELL hadn't he thought matters through more carefully? Just look how it had turned out. Being dismissed from the Board of Governors was one of his least favorite memories, right up there with that first time the Dark Lord hit him with the Cruciatus curse, and the time the Dark Lord was so stupid as to give the bloody Potter boy his bloody WAND back (why, why, WHY hadn't he just killed the boy and been done with it?), and the time back at Hogwarts when he and Narcissa had been engaging in a spot of harmless, not-completely-clothed kissing in the Prefects' Bath and Filch had decided it would be funny to steal their towels and lock them in … and that stupid, whinging ghost had been staring at him and giggling … and of course it had been Arthur Weasley who found them the next morning, gaping at them as if he'd swallowed a bludger and spreading the story to all his snickering friends… All right, so maybe that wasn't really one of his least favorite memories. There'd been some good parts, at least before the water went cold.
Arthur Weasley.
He had told the Dark Lord there was no competition between them. That, he could admit in the safe silence of his own head, was a lie. Of course they were rivals. They had been at Hogwarts together, where their competition could not have been more obvious. They had both worked at the Ministry, where, even though Lucius unquestionably had the edge in intelligence, influence, and persuasive ability, Arthur still occasionally managed to push his own Muggle-loving agenda through. Their children competed … in a manner of speaking. Clearly Draco was a more successful student than that brat Ronald … though two of Arthur's other sons had been Head Boys, and another Captain of the Quidditch Team … and, damn it to hell, why couldn't Draco catch the damn snitch? Arthur had always been full of "Gryffindor-Ravenclaw match last week, Malfoy. My son – Charlie, my second – caught the Snitch ten minutes into the game. We're going to win the Cup again. Ha! Up yours, Malfoy!"
Well, no, he'd never exactly said that, but the smug expression on his face always said it for him.
So, fine, there was competition. And now here he was getting ready to go carry out a spot of Burrow-breaking and Weasley-torture by the Dark Lord's orders, and he was finding a surprising lack of satisfaction in the thought. For one thing, it rankled that he, Lucius Malfoy, whose bloodline was older and stronger than any other's save perhaps Slytherin's own …
…and purer than that of Slytherin's Heir, he thought savagely …
…would be under the command of an idiot Gryffindor, an incompetent traitor. The Dark Lord had not explained why it was necessary that Pettigrew be recognized and be assumed to be in command, and that rankled too. Lucius had already determined to keep his own identity secret during the "raid" if at all possible. In the first place, it would be humiliating for Weasley to see him as a subordinate. In the second place, when he did choose to make his next move against Weasley, Weasley would jolly well know who was responsible and why. This raid … this was simply interference, an encroachment on Lucius's own personal property. Damn the Dark Lord and his irritating secret games! Why couldn't he confine them to his own enemies, instead of invading other people's domains? The feud with Weasley had been running for over thirty years, and if that didn't give Lucius the sole right to decide when, by whom, and by what means Weasleys should be harmed and harassed, then what could? If Voldemort had agreed to it when Lucius suggested it, and put Lucius in charge, it would have been different … but this … !
Hell's fury! The Dark Lord had been so amiable, so friendly, the first few days. Now he treated his "old friend" Lucius no better than any other of his sniveling, groveling toadies. Perhaps he now felt established enough that he no longer needed Lucius … damn him, he'd certainly gotten enough money out of Lucius's Gringotts account before he turned unpleasant …
In all truth, there was no question as to why. None of the Death Eaters would ever forget the night of the Master's return: not his words when they first came to him, nor the punishments he had meted out when the Potter brat escaped from them all.
"Surely, one of my faithful Death Eaters would try and find me. . . one of them would come and perform the magic I could not, to restore me to a body . . , but I waited in vain. ..."
"You ask for forgiveness? I do not forgive. I do not forget. Thirteen long years ... I want thirteen years' repayment before I forgive you."
He would not forgive. He would never forgive. And Lucius, the most powerful of those who had … yes, who had abandoned him, and willfully, at that, he would forgive least of all. Oh, but he was full of hatred, that man…
… which brought up another question. Why in Slytherin's name had he let the Potters go? He hated the Potter boy so much that he had forbidden anyone save himself to kill the brat at the graveyard in June, consequently losing him altogether. He had been fairly screaming with rage when the boy got away. Yet he had had him in his hands, and had let him escape. Why? Something had happened to change his mind, something that mattered to him more than the boy's immediate death, and the clues lay hidden in something he had said about James Potter. If only the elusive idea flitting about in his mind would take a solid form …
Damn, damn, damn. Why did he have to come back? Everything was going so well … and now I must crawl and grovel and kiss the hem of his robe and let him curse me if he's in a foul mood … World domination just isn't worth the daily humiliation.
"You're late, Malfoy," squeaked Peter Pettigrew.
And nothing at all is worth this.
Lucius assumed his best expression of cold arrogance. The Rat had been waiting in the shrubbery beside the road, and had transformed back into a man as soon as Lucius reached it. Now he stood on the edge of the muddy lane, a scowl disfiguring as much of his face as could be discerned in the darkness. The moon glinted slightly on his bare, balding head.
"Why, Pettigrew," Lucius said smoothly, casting disdainful eyes up and down the shorter, stouter wizard's form. "I almost didn't see you there. Been spending more time as a rat, have you? I daresay you feel more comfortable that way, hmm? Must be a welcome change for you, finally being able to feel smarter – if not stronger – than all the other creatures of your own type … finally being able to find a little female companionship … if it's even female companionship that you prefer."
Pettigrew looked torn between casting an Unforgivable on Lucius and cowering away in fear. He opted for a murderous glare, somewhat ruined by his twitching, frantic eyes. By Slytherin, Lucius thought in disgust, the Rat is even beginning to look like a rat while in human form. "You're late, Malfoy," Pettigrew repeated, a little more strongly.
"I am not late. I am early. I said that I would be here by eleven, and, if you observe the stars, you will see that it is not yet that time. Ah, wait, you failed Astronomy, did you not? Check your Muggle watch, then."
Pettigrew blinked spasmodically, and his silver hand clenched and unclenched, only half-hidden by his overly long robe sleeves. "You were supposed to be here by ten," he hissed furiously.
"That was not what we agreed," Lucius snapped.
"I'd like to remind you that the Dark Lord put me in charge," Pettigrew shrilled, trembling with a mixture of rage and fear.
Lucius turned his interest away from the former Gryffindor, and flicked a bit of dried mud off the sleeve of his robe. "I'm glad that you can remember that much, at least," Lucius murmured derisively, "even if you forget how to tell time. Speaking of which, we are wasting time standing about in this lane. Will you give the command to begin, or shall we wait until the moon goes behind a cloud, to appease your overly-developed sense of caution?" As Pettigrew scowled in consternation, Lucius added under his breath, "Or should I say, your under-developed sense of courage?"
Pettigrew half-raised his silver hand, then seemed to think better of it. "Get on with it, then," he snarled weakly. "Take Avery and start getting the wards down."
"Of course," Lucius answered, not even looking at Pettigrew, and pushed tranquilly by him, heading up the lane toward the dim, misshapen silhouette of the Burrow. Avery scuttled obediently after him when he gestured, and followed his terse instructions flawlessly. At least someone still knew his proper place. They saved the main ward for last, since Lucius was certain that it would set off at alarm the moment it was down. Chances were they'd only have a few minutes to wreak havoc before Aurors and, Slytherin forbid, Dumbledore started popping out of thin air and breaking up the party.
"Ready?" he asked, wand poised.
Pettigrew broke in sharply and squeakily. "Take the ward down on my command – and remember, the Dark Lord says they're not to be killed. One!"
"You sniveling, cowardly, misbegotten Gryffindor traitor," Lucius said pleasantly.
Pettigrew twitched. "Two!"
Lucius trained his eyes on the Burrow's battered front door.
"Three – NOW!"
The Death Eaters flicked their wands once; the ward shimmered into visibility and vanished. The air filled with sharp pops as the Death Eaters disapparated and reappeared in their designated positions around the Burrow. Inside the – house was probably too generous a word – inside the structure, someone was shouting. Lights came on. Chickens began squawking somewhere in the yard.
Pettigrew drew back his silver fist and smashed it into the front door, which shattered. All around, the crash and tinkle of breaking glass heralded the Death Eaters' entry to the Burrow. Lucius stepped over a pair of mismatched rubbers and strode in at Pettigrew's heels.
This is even worse than I thought it would be. Doesn't Weasley even have a proper parlor? Is this a KITCHEN? Good Lord.
There was a clock on the wall opposite him. Seven of the nine hands were spinning rapidly towards Mortal Peril. Under his mask, Lucius smirked.
"Through there and up the stairs!" Pettigrew shrilled, in spite of the fact that several of the Death Eaters already were upstairs. He pointed at a passage leading off the kitchen. Even as he did so, a red-headed figure brandishing a wand stumbled into the doorway. Arthur. Still wearing a nightcap. Of course. Arthur's first Stupefy! would have caught Pettigrew squarely in the chest if the Rat hadn't deflected it with his silver hand. Malfoy took advantage of Weasley's momentary consternation to toss a Body-Binding Hex back at him, but unfortunately Weasley wasn't quite disoriented enough to fall for that. He dodged.
Warned by some sixth sense (or maybe by the faint pop) Malfoy spun around. Another Weasley – the bespectacled Ministry arse-kisser – had just appeared behind him. His stunning hex (how unoriginal Weasleys were) was easily diverted.
"Expelliarmus!"
The brat blocked it and retorted with a blasting hex, which Malfoy contemptuously redirected into a cabinet full of cheap china. Then Macnair clattered into the kitchen behind the brat and clubbed him over the head with a poker.
That was Macnair all over – crude but effective.
Upstairs, someone screamed. The elder Weasley, momentarily distracted from his duel with Pettigrew, fell prey to Malfoy's second Petrificus Totalus, and Malfoy hurried past him for the stairs, gleefully kicking him the stomach as he passed. Sure, Weasley couldn't actually feel it at the moment, but it was the thought that counted.
The stairs were staggeringly crooked and implausible. Malfoy spared a moment to wonder who the architect of the place had been (probably another Weasley) and whether his sense of design would have been improved by an application of the Killing Curse. Probably so.
Crabbe's heavy form came lumbering down the stairs, clutching an unconscious Weasley brat by hair and collar. Lucius had to squeeze up against the wall on the narrow landing to avoid being crushed. The indignity was painful. To relieve his feelings, he blasted in the next door with a satisfying shower of dust and splinters, and stormed in like a demon out of hell.
The room was completely empty, even after he set fire to the bed, so the effect was spoiled.
He had better luck on the next landing; Molly Weasley was fighting like a tigress in the doorway, half shielded by an overturned wardrobe, holding off Avery and two others. She'd been a genuinely good dueler before she had seven children and put on about two hundred pounds – and it seemed she was still a genuinely good dueler. Damn. He clattered on up to the next level, and found Nott unconscious on the floor, and Goyle wandering in a circle, dazed and coughing. His face was blistered as if an entire pack of Exploding Snap cards had gone off while he was passionately kissing it. On the plus side, there was a Weasley limp and bleeding next to Nott. He dragged the boy back down the stairs.
Voice-disguising charm. Shoulder Avery out of the way. Duck slug-vomiting hex. Shove Weasley brat into view, emphasizing fact that said brat had wand digging into his vulnerable neck.
"Molly! Throw down your wand unless you want to hear your precious little whelp serenading you with the opening verses from Songs of Extreme Pain!"
"Malfoy?" she roared.
Damn. Even though he'd disguised his voice and everything.
"Now, Molly," he hissed, and let a few sparks jump from his wand, just for the fun of it.
The brat jerked, came awake, and drove an elbow violently into his stomach.
Clearly there was only one thing to do. He dropped the boy and jumped back out of Molly's line of fire. Then he leveled his wand at the boy. "Crucio!"
Molly screamed even louder than the brat. Her "Incendio!" hit the wall only inches from his face, and the flames licked greedily out toward his robes. He was forced to break his curse on the boy to extinguish the fire. Avery, showing an unusual glimmering of intelligence, bobbed up from his protective crouch and stupefied Molly. It was, however, only a glimmering of intelligence, for he stood still to gloat, and yet another of Arthur's loathsome offspring managed to disarm him. His flight backward would have been more impressive if the wall had been further away, but he still managed a respectable crash, and fell down on top of the weakly convulsing boy.
Lucius levitated the wardrobe, revealing two crouching, red-headed Weasley spawn. Both of them scrambled to get out of sight, but their distraction cost them. Another of the Death Eaters proved that Weasleys weren't the only ones who could use disarming curses. The brats' wands flew into his hand; the brats flew into the wall. Lucius sent the wardrobe smashing into a bookshelf, then stunned the children.
As far as he could tell, Pettigrew hadn't done a damn thing during the whole battle.
The Rat still did a sickeningly impressive job of being In Charge when the captured Weasleys and the Death Eaters congregated in the kitchen – less Avery, who had apparated away to deal with his cracked head as soon as they revived him, and Goyle, whom they had had to portkey home (what had he done, buried his face in a basket of Dung Bombs right before they went off?). They bound and revived the Weasleys, indulging in a spot of kicking, then let Pettigrew have his say.
"Now you see what comes of opposing He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!" the Rat squeaked, his face perspiring in the dim light. He had taken off his mask. "Now you will pay for aiding and abetting his enemies!"
One of the brats was struggling against his bonds. "You filthy traitor!" he shouted. "You betrayed Harry's parents, you – you rat! Scabbers! You're going to die! We should have killed you in the Shack, you filthy, evil, mangy, traitorous rat! You don't deserve to be alive!"
Not the most creative insults, though 'mangy' is good. And 'Scabbers'? I will have to find out about that.
Pettigrew's face went an unattractive shade of scarlet. He pointed his silver hand at the boy, who jerked like a fish on a hook, doubled up, and started retching helplessly. Molly Weasley's shrill voice broke into vituperations, far more creative than her son's. Macnair gave her a heavy-handed slap, only to be sent crashing to the ground as Arthur Weasley twisted around, impressively agile for a middle-aged man tied hand-and-foot on the floor, and knocked his feet out from under him.
"You won't get away with this," he rasped, glaring at Pettigrew. "Dumbledore –"
"Crucio!" Pettigrew shrilled.
Malfoy checked the time. He estimated that they had about three minutes before the Aurors started arriving. Gesturing to Crabbe and the others to follow his lead, he started in with a series of minor but painful hexes on the sundry red-headed nuisances, ignoring Arthur Weasley's gallant efforts not to scream. Well. Perhaps they weren't all that gallant. Pettigrew's Unforgivables were rather lamentable, really.
He had just hexed away Molly's mouth (an act which he derived an absurd amount of glee from) when Nott bolted into the room babbling about Aurors. Pettigrew shrilled the call for retreat, and even Macnair took the hint and vanished instantly.
Malfoy paused, waiting for the Rat. Pettigrew, sweating like a pig in autumn, pointed his wand at the ceiling. "Incendio!" he shouted. Flames, a fiery inferno. Pettigrew vanished.
The idiot. Was this his idea of an impressive parting blow? For an instant, Malfoy was tempted to leave things the way they were – chances were ten to one that the Aurors would be too late to save the immobilized Weasleys from a nasty, fiery death, and Pettigrew would be the one blamed if the Dark Lord's don't kill requirement failed …
He put out the flames, and disapparated.
* * * * *
Severus Snape knew, the moment he apparated into the front yard of Voldemort's ridiculous new meeting place – a little cottage with ivy growing around the front door? What could be less awe-inspiring? – that this would not be a pleasant meeting. He stalked up the neatly trimmed path to the neatly-painted front door, crunching a few early fallen leaves underfoot, and could almost feel the oppressive weight of impending evil pressing down on him. Two underfed cats darted out of the door as soon as he opened it, racing for the front gate. He spared a moment to envy them both their good sense and their freedom of movement, then slipped inside and closed the door. Quietly.
The outside of the cottage might look like a place where Albus Dumbledore would spend his summer holidays, but the inside was sufficiently grim and foreboding. An absence of natural light, a black carpet, and a dead, half-eaten cat in every corner did wonders for interior atmosphere.
Snape straightened his shoulders, twitched his robes into order, and stalked toward the parlor with his cloak flaring behind him. He looked, he knew, like a furious bat straight out of hell. Pure Death Eater. Completely loyal to the Dark Lord. Mudbloods? Less than dung beetles. He arranged a sneer on his face, and rapped briskly on the door.
The chill, rasping voice that bade him enter did nothing for his waning hope for a short, pleasant meeting. Couldn't they ever have tea and crumpets instead of veritaserum and hexes? Damnit, what would he have to do before the Dark Lord would trust him again, deliver Albus's head on a silver platter?
… That would probably do it, actually.
He crossed the carpet swiftly, and dropped to his knees, eyes trained on a pair of polished boots. "Master," he murmured, and bent to kiss the closer of the boots.
He hadn't really expected Voldemort to kick him in the head, but at least it made for a refreshing change. Of course, the Dark Lord followed it up with a short but undeniably painful application of the cruciatus curse, so perhaps it wasn't so much refreshing as … say … humiliating. Unsteadily, he pressed one of his sleeves to his bleeding nose and sat back up. Far too close for comfort, the Dark Lord's snake raised her head and hissed at him. He spared her a nasty glare. She didn't have to sound quite so amused about it.
"Ah, Sssseverus." He hated the way the Dark Lord said his name, that possessive, purring hiss, rich with amusement and knowledge. And with threats.
"Master," he mumbled, blinking away dark spots. Damn the world to hell. He had had a raging headache already. He didn't need this too. "I … I apologize humbly if I have offended you, if I have failed you –"
There was no-one else in the room. It was him, and the Dark Lord, and that huge bloody snake. In a way, that was reassuring. If the Dark Lord knew he was the traitor, he would certainly make a very public example of him.
On the other hand, the others could simply be waiting in the next room.
"Have you failed me, Severus?"
Snape took his hand away from his nose and let it bleed unhindered. Better to have blood dripping off his chin than to make the Dark Lord think he was trying to hide a guilty expression. "My lord, I –"
"Think carefully, Severus. You have but one chance to answer this."
Best to aim for injured, indignant anxiety. "My Lord, if I had known that James Potter had somehow returned from the grave, I assure you, I swear to you, I would have told you." Maybe shifting the blame somewhere else would help. "When Pettigrew told me –"
"Pettigrew told you."
"Yes, Master."
Silence. Maybe this wasn't about the Potter.
Ha! When is anything EVER not about Potter? One bloody Potter or another.
"If I had been aware that you meant to have the Weasleys attacked, Master," he said, faintly aggrieved, "I could have taken measures to disable Dumbledore's alarms. As it was, the Aurors were warned and summoned, and the Weasleys are all alive and now at Hogwarts or at St. Mungo's. When the term begins –"
"The Weasleys are not your concern, Professor. Tell me about James Potter."
"I know very little, my Lord – Dumbledore knows that Potter and I hate each other." At least that is the truth. "He would scarcely tell me anything. He was hiding Potter – I had to search him out myself." He felt the barest flicker of guilt. Perhaps Voldemort had not known that Potter was at Hogwarts … bah. Everyone ended up at Hogwarts. If the Dark Lord was not told now, he would find out from some other source soon enough.
For what seemed like hours, but probably was scarce twenty minutes, the Dark Lord grilled Snape on every detail of James Potter's appearance, of Black and Lupin's presence at Hogwarts, of Dumbledore's slightest look and word. He told the truth where he could, pled ignorance where he could not, and fabricated hints of disharmony everywhere else. By the time the Dark Lord sat back in his chair and stopped asking questions, the collar of Snape's robe was soaked with blood from his nose and his split lip, and he could feel sweat trickling down his face as well.
If Malfoy sees me looking like this, I will never hear the end of it.
He made a move to get to his knees, and the world spun dizzily around him. "If that is all, my Lord," he croaked, "the old fool Dumbledore might expect me –"
"Did I give you leave to rise?" the Dark Lord asked, soft and lethal. Snape sank back down. "Restrain your impatience, Severus. There is an old friend of yours here tonight. It would be most rude of you to depart without saying farewell to him."
Unease stirred in Snape's gut. "An old friend of mine, my Lord?"
Voldemort's thin lips parted in one of his humorless smiles, revealing those sharp, inhuman teeth. Snape would not have been surprised to see a forked tongue flicker between them. The Dark Lord raised a hand and snapped his long, white fingers. One of the doors opened, and Pettigrew scrambled in. Snape gave him one of the looks he usually reserved for Neville Longbottom, and was maliciously pleased to see the Gryffindor quail. Then he saw Crabbe and Goyle enter behind Pettigrew, saw the man they were dragging between them, and his heart fell in dismay.
"You remember our dear friend Igor, don't you, Severus?" purred the Dark Lord.
"Yes, Master," Snape whispered. More Death Eaters were filing into the room, lining up in a semi-circle behind the Dark Lord's armchair. Crabbe and Goyle dumped Karkaroff – bound in tight black cords, but very much conscious and clearly half-mad with fear – onto the floor between Snape and Nagini. Snape stared at Karkaroff for a moment, then remembered to sneer.
They had been friends, once. But he did not have a choice anymore.
"You caught him, then," he said, and heard his own voice full of smooth malice. "You did not run fast enough, Igor. You would have done better to stay."
The Dark Lord was twirling his wand between his fingers, a sure sign that he was thinking about doing something of a particularly disagreeable kind. "He certainly would have done better to stay. But Igor forgot to be loyal. He should have followed your example, Severus."
"Now there is a sentence I hear but rarely," Snape drawled.
"Go on, then." The Dark Lord gestured toward Karkaroff. "Set us all an example, Severus. What kind of treatment do you think a traitor deserves?"
Forgive me, Albus.
Snape rose to his feet, staggering only slightly, and wiped some of the blood off his mouth. He met the man's wide, bleary eyes, and did not even blink at the terror in them. "You should never have abandoned your Master, Karkaroff," he spat. With a steady hand, he withdrew his wand and pointed it at his erstwhile friend. His voice, when he spoke, was as cold and inflexible as the winter sky. "Avada Kedavra."
* * * * *
"Severus," said Lucius Malfoy, amusement rippling over his usual drawl, "that is Ogden's Firewhiskey, you know. If you continue to gulp it down like a Muggle stranded in the desert, you will be too drunk to floo back to Hogsmeade, let alone apparate."
Snape, who looked as greasy, undernourished, and ill-tempered as always, with the added novelty of dried blood all over his face, set the goblet down with more force than necessary. He glared at Lucius. "I have a potion brewing in my quarters. An experimental potion with exceedingly expensive ingredients. Is this meeting going to last all night?"
Technically, Snape probably could leave at any time. The Dark Lord was merely giving instructions to a few of his plants in the Ministry. However, he had told Lucius to wait for him, and Lucius had no intention of waiting by himself. "Are you short on money, Severus?" he inquired solicitiously. "You know I would be more than happy to lend you anything you may need."
Snape glared at him and took another gulp of the whiskey. Malfoy knew from experience that Snape had an even better head for alcohol than he did himself, but, good Lord, the man was swigging it down as if it were butterbeer. Had killing Karkaroff bothered him that much? Or perhaps it was the Potter affair. Everyone even remotely connected with Slytherin knew all the details of Severus Snape's feud with James Potter, Sirius Black, and their sundry hangers-on. No, Snape would not be happy that Potter was alive again.
"I neither need nor want your charity, Malfoy," Snape said coldly.
Lucius raised his own goblet, admiring the way the firelight flickered off the cut glass. "I said nothing about charity, Severus. There is no need to behave like a third-year … Weasley."
"A Weasley." Snape took another swallow. "If I were not half-drunk," he growled, "I might have to curse you for that insult."
"Please. You know you cannot take me in a fair duel."
"Slytherins don't play fair. And I have taken you before."
Lucius sniffed disdainfully. "After feeding me one of your damn experimental potions. I could barely see straight, let alone dodge your curses."
"That time in Paris –"
"I let you win," Malfoy said hastily, and took a sip of his own whiskey. "You ought to put something on that cut, by the way. Term starts in two days, and your students are going to wonder who has been smashing your face in. You don't want them to think you can't hold your own in a fistfight, do you?"
"I hardly think the Dark Lord would have approved if I had tried to hold my own," Snape muttered, but he pulled out his wand and gingerly cast a healing charm on his split lip.
"Did he hit you?" Lucius inquired, deeply interested. "I would not have expected –"
"He probably could not resist the temptation," Snape said. "If someone were attempting to kiss my shoes, I would find the urge to kick them irresistible." He swirled the small amount of liquid remaining in his goblet, staring down at it with his usual God-but-life-is-bitter expression. "There is something about groveling, servile sycophants that brings out the worst in all of us."
"Cheer up, Snape. Not everyone can say that they have been personally kicked in the nose by the Dark Lord."
"Thank you, Lucius. That silver lining had not occurred to me. You are right, of course. It will be an excellent tale to tell at tea parties. Or during dinner at Hogwarts. I am sure Minerva McGonagall will find it fascinating beyond words."
"Have some more whiskey," Lucius suggested. "Then tell me about Potter."
Snape's face changed from snarkily sarcastic to utterly expressionless without going through anything resembling a transformation. "I do not want to talk about Potter," he said flatly. "Any Potter."
Damn. He's not drunk enough yet.
"Black?" Lucius suggested hopefully.
Snape scowled. "The day that I see Sirius Black dead will be the day that I finally acquire a memory happy enough to conjure a Patronus."
"Told him that recently, have you?"
"No." Snape refilled his goblet with an abrupt hand. "I have caught only the barest glimpse of him in the past weeks. The old fool has some of the same protections on him as on the Weasleys." He paused. "Speaking of Weasleys – were you there?"
"Severus, Severus, Severus. We don't ask that kind of question. Supposing the Ministry captured you and put you under veritaserum? You wouldn't want to incriminate me, would you?"
Snape raised an eyebrow. "Do you really want me to answer that?"
Lucius smirked. "I suppose there's little danger of that happening. Fudge will not notice the Dark Lord has returned until the Daily Prophet reports that the Ministry has been exterminated."
"They will notice once they are dead," Snape agreed.
Lucius leaned across the table and topped off Snape's glass. "Going back to the Weasleys …"
"I am surprised they still live." Snape ran a finger around the edge of his goblet, produce a faint, high musical chime. "But perhaps those who have not had to suffer through fourteen years of teaching obnoxious, freckled, trouble-making Gryffindor brats do not share my dislike for anything red-haired that answers to the name Weasley."
"Hmm," said Lucius. He could hear voices – Macnair's, among others – in the next room. They seemed to be bidding the Dark Lord an obsequious farewell. "The Dark Lord did not wish the Weasleys killed. Merely … frightened." He smirked again. "Tell me, were we successful?"
"St. Mungo's rang from end to end with the hysterics of Arthur's woman," Snape said dryly. "I hear her children are suffering from dehibilitating nightmares. Hopefully they will ask me to make up the Dreamless Sleep potion which they will doubtless require."
"Good Lord, yes." Malfoy chuckled. "I remember – you came up with a way to make it taste slightly worse than dirt from a gnome-infested garden."
"That was the nice version," Snape said.
The door opened, and both men leapt to their feet. The Dark Lord, tall and terribly thin despite his voluminous black robes, looked at them both through his unreadable red eyes. Malfoy suppressed a shudder when they turned on him. "You may go, Snape," he said.
Snape bowed so low that his hair nearly touched the carpet. He swayed a bit as he straightened, clutching at his head, then swept out of the room with his usual impressively snapping robes. He took the rest of the bottle of whiskey with him.
Sly bastard.
"Lucius."
"My lord?" He tried an ingratiating smile. With any kind of luck, the Dark Lord would be in a better mood now that he had dealt with Karkaroff.
"Fetch your son," said the Dark Lord. Lucius stared for a moment, sure that he must have misunderstood. Draco? What could the Dark Lord possibly want with Draco? The boy was only fifteen, and not the most competent fifteen-year-old, either. Surely he could be of no use whatsoever. Impatience flared in the Dark Lord's white face. "Your son, Lucius. Fetch him here. At once."
He bowed wordlessly, and rushed out of the room. Snape was gone already; the front yard beyond the anti-apparition wards was dark and empty.
The Manor's front gardens were empty as well when he appeared in them, but there was a single light burning in an upper window. Lucius hurried up the path, his head spinning. He remembered, now, that the Dark Lord had mentioned something about having a task for Draco at Hogwarts. That had to be what this was about. His mind flinched away from the other, darker possibilities that flickered in and out of his mind.
Draco jumped like a frightened Muggle when Lucius threw the door of his room open, and made a reflexive attempt to hide the book in his hands. Why he thought he needed to hide his Charms textbook, Lucius could not imagine … unless he wanted to disguise the fact that he still had not finished his homework two days before the start of the term …
"Put your robes on," Lucius snapped, "and comb your hair. Is that shirt clean?"
He did not offer an explanation until Draco was relatively presentable, hurrying after him in a state of obvious agitation. "The Dark Lord wishes to me to bring you to him," Lucius said over his shoulder as he strode through the hallway. "Be on your best behavior. Be respectful. And for your own sake, don't speak unless you're spoken to. The Dark Lord will not put up with impertinent questions."
He thought Draco looked unnaturally pale, but perhaps that was just the dim lighting in the hallway. "Yes, Father." Silence, as they went down the stairs. "Do you know what he wants –"
"Were you even listening, Draco?" Lucius hissed. "Does the phrase impertinent questions bring anything to mind?" Draco mumbled an apology. He looked nervous.
Damnation.
Lucius paused in the garden and put a hand on his son's shoulder. He noticed that the boy was taller than he had been at the start of the summer. "Listen. The Dark Lord is … his appearance is … it can be startling. Do not stare, gape, gasp, or do anything else that might be considered rude." Draco nodded, wide-eyed. "Call him my Lord. Bow. If I motion for you to do so," he added, the words sticking reluctantly in his throat, "you had better kneel and kiss the hem of his robes."
Draco's jaw fell. Lucuis put a finger under Draco's chin and closed his mouth. He narrowed his eyes in his most intimidating cold glare. "Do you understand me?"
"Yes," Draco whispered.
He took his son's hand, and apparated them both back to the Dark Lord's cottage.
Ergh. Severus is right – this simply is not intimidating enough. Perhaps we can find an empty castle somewhere …
"Shut your mouth, Draco," he snapped. The younger Malfoy obeyed, but continued to stare around the garden of climbing ivy and wild roses with a bewildered expression. Lucius herded him into the house. At the parlor door, he paused to twitch his son's robes into order and charm his hair to stay in place.
The Dark Lord was back in his armchair when they entered. Lucius bowed, aware that Draco was hastily doing the same behind him. "This is my son, my Lord," he murmured.
"So I see." The Dark Lord crooked a finger. "Come here, boy." It was not so very different from the way he would call a dog … or, at least, the way he would call Pettigrew, which was probably the closest comparison. Lucius threw Draco a warning look. It seemed sufficient, for Draco paced forward without any noticeable sign of discomfort. He was paler than usual, but it was dim. No-one would notice. And, most importantly, he was not gaping at the Dark Lord's face.
He hesitated when he reached the chair, then awkwardly went down on one knee. He was very tense, Lucius realized. He was probably terrified out of his wits.
Good. It would keep him from being cheeky.
"You go to Hogwarts with Harry Potter," the Dark Lord purred.
Draco nodded. Then, seeming to sense Lucius's glare on the back of his head, he gulped and stammered, "Yes – yes, my Lord."
"I hear that you do not much like Harry Potter."
A little more confidence came into Draco's voice. "I hate him. He's a smug git. My lord."
"Indeed." Red eyes stared into gray, but only for a minute. Draco shivered, and dropped his head. The Dark Lord reached inside his robe and produced two folded parchments. Even from across the room, Lucius could see that they were sealed. The Dark Lord held them out.
When Draco did not move, he snapped, "Take them, boy!"
Draco jumped, and hastily put out his hands. He winced visibly when the Dark Lord's long fingers touched his. Lucius braced himself in expectation, but nothing happened. Perhaps he had not noticed.
"You will deliver these two letters to Harry Potter as soon as you return to Hogwarts," the Dark Lord's soft, cold voice commanded. "From your hands into his hands. No owls, no intermediaries. Let no-one see you deliver them. Do you understand?"
Draco jerked his head in a nod. "Yes, my Lord. I – I understand. My Lord."
"Good." Draco started to rise; Voldemort's hand shot out and caught his chin. Lucius took a step forward. "Two other things," the Dark Lord whispered. "Unless I give the word, you are not to curse, assault, or otherwise antagonize Harry Potter. Until I give the word, you are to report back to me on everything that Harry Potter does, on everything that happens in Hogwarts. If you disobey me or deceive me, you will be punished."
Draco looked on the brink of panic. Clearly, the time had come for intervention. "I assure you that he will not fail you, my Lord," Lucius said smoothly. The Dark Lord turned toward him, releasing Draco, who bolted to his feet and backed up far too rapidly for good manners. "He may look like a fool," Lucius went on, giving Draco a warning glare, "but he is trustworthy."
"Of course." The Dark Lord gave one of his flat, unamused smiles. "You may depart. Both of you."
Clutching the letters to his chest with both hands, Draco left the parlor with a speed that would have netted Slytherin the Quidditch Cup every year if he could just have shown it on the pitch. Lucius took the time to bow deeply, murmured a farewell, and close the door quietly behind him before following his son to the garden. Silently, he apparated them both back to the Malfoy grounds.
Draco was already examining the letters curiously as they entered the Manor. Lucius stopped him under the entryway light. "Hold them up," he ordered. "Let me see."
Draco obeyed hesitantly. "I don't think he meant for anyone else to touch them –"
"Did I say I was going to touch them?" Lucius examined the seals – black wax, marked with a simple curving snake – and the fronts of the letters – completely blank, and learned that the parchment was too thick to read through. He was agonizingly curious, but not to the point of attempting to open the Dark Lord's private correspondence. "Very well," he said shortly, and Draco tucked the letters away inside his robe. "You … did not do as poorly as you might have," he said. "Good night."
He watched as his son wandered toward the stairs and began to mount them. "Draco," he said suddenly. His son's pale, pointed face turned back toward him. Lucius raised a hand, dropped it again. "I do not know what game the Dark Lord is playing," he said harshly. "Be careful."
Draco's eyes widened a little. "Yes, Father," he said. "Good night." He vanished up the staircase. Lucius stood in the pool of lantern light for a long minute, looking at his own shadow, then made his way slowly to his study.
* * * * *
Heavy black seals and thick, smooth, unmarked parchment.
Draco sat on the edge of his bed, turning the two letters over and over in his hands. What did it mean? Why was the Dark Lord sending Harry Potter mail? Were they cursed to kill him as soon as he opened them? Didn't Dumbledore have some sort of ward up to prevent things like that? Would he find them as soon as Draco set foot on Hogwarts grounds? Was he going to end up in Azkaban over this?
He didn't even look human.
Why two letters, if they were both for Potter? What in Slytherin's name could they possibly be about? Really, what could the Dark Lord have to say to Harry stinking Potter, the Prat Who Lived Altogether Too Long? "You're going to die slowly and painfully," and a maniacal laugh? How would you spell a maniacal laugh?
His hand was as cold as ice.
Would Potter even be willing to take the letters from him? Quite frankly, if Potter were to come up to him and offer him a letter, he'd just hex Potter and incinerate the letter. Well, maybe not. But Potter was a good, noble, righteous Gryffindor, so he probably wouldn't offer anyone a piece of murderous mail. Whereas Draco was a Slytherin, and therefore everything he did was suspect.
Father was scared. Father was really, genuinely scared.
He pulled the candle closer, and ran a finger over the seal. There were spells on the parchment, he was sure of it, but this one felt a little different than the other letter. He did not get as strong a stinging sensation in his fingertips when he touched the seal. What would happen if he tried to open it? Would it go up in flames? Would he go up in flames?
He looked at me as if I were a disobedient House Elf.
What if he used a copying spell on it? No … surely the Dark Lord would have done something to prevent that. Draco got up and padded across to his desk, where he had left his Father's Illegal Charms for the Illegally Inclined, safely disguised as his Charms Textbook. It certainly was nice that Father had put up wards so Draco could practice magic in his bedroom without alerting those stupid idiots at the Ministry. Restriction of Underage Magic, indeed. That sort of thing was fine for Mudbloods and Weasleys, but a Malfoy could hardly be expected to live like a stinking Muggle for the summer just because he hadn't turned eighteen yet.
Does Father really have to grovel to him? Does Father have to call him 'Master'?
Probably the Dark Lord did not know that he could use magic over the summer. Maybe the letters were not too dangerously bespelled – maybe he didn't expect Draco to be able to open them, and doubtless the main charm on them was something to prevent other people from touching them. He flipped through the pages of the book, hunting for the chapter he had seen on correspondence – safeguarding your own, and getting into other peoples'. He had to know what was in the letter.
That wasn't how I thought it would be. I thought … I thought I would admire him. I didn't think I'd be so scared of him that I nearly puked. Merlin. I was so scared. I could FEEL the darkness rolling off him.
He sat up late into the night, hunched over the book. Sometime between three and four in the morning, he crept down the stairs and into his father's study, where he hastily copied the relevant portions of a larger and darker text. By the time a House Elf came to summon him for breakfast, he had determined that there were spells that could prevent people from touching someone else's letter, spells which clearly didn't apply to him. On the other hand, there were dozens of spells that did very nasty things indeed to those who tried to open other peoples' mail … not least of which were the ones that alerted the sender to what had happened. Dracoo briefly imagined the Dark Lord storming into his bedroom to take him to task for reading Potter's letter, then pushed the image away, shuddering.
Why didn't he tell us what's going on? Doesn't he trust us? I thought Father was his second-in-command
Not until the night before September 1st did he find the spell he wanted. Then, shivering with a mixture of terror and anticipation, he locked his bedroom door, sat on his packed trunk, held one of the letters over a cluster of lighted candles, and steadily chanted a spell. Letters, watery and wavering, drifted up from the paper, twisting through the air. They were caught in the pull of his second spell, and swarmed down to a blank sheet of parchment. They spread out across it – too dark here, too light there. Some words were washed out entirely, especially around the places where the original letter had been folded. But most of it was legible, and the original letter had not changed, and he, Draco, was still very much alive and unharmed. More confidently, he picked up the second letter.
A few minutes later, he finished stamping out the flames on the carpet, and conjured a bowl of cold water to stick his burnt fingers into. Apparently the curses on the second letter had been slightly different. Well. He didn't think any wards had gone off … and the second letter was still intact, even if his fingers weren't … hopefully the Dark Lord didn't know what he'd done …
Oh God oh God don't let him know don't let him know please don't let him know
He tucked the two sealed letters into his trunk, then artistically arranged his slippers over the scorched carpet. He'd leave for the Hogwarts Express the next morning, the House Elves would come in to clean, and with any kind of luck, they'd just fix the carpet without comment. Without telling anyone. His fingers were red and extremely sore, but he could just wear gloves in the morning. Professor Snape would let him have a salve for it. The Professor wouldn't ask any questions.
He realized he was shaking, and ate a Chocolate Frog to help himself calm down. Then he checked the locks on the door and the window, pulled the curtains around his bed, spelled them shut, pulled the sheets over his head, muttered "Lumos," and started reading the copy he had made of the first letter.
My dear grandson,
I hope this missive finds you in good health…
He read it through, went back to the beginning, and read it again. Then he read it a third time. After the fifth perusal, he got out of bed and crept over to his bookshelves, where he took down a copy of Names and Lines, the undisputed authority on wizarding genealogy. He took it back under the sheets, and pored over it until the alarm beside his pillow went off.
Gray morning light filtered through his window curtains, providing him enough illumination to dress and to locate a pair of thin black gloves that would not look ridiculous with his robes. He read the copied letter one more time, then lit a candle and burnt it to ash, ash which he pounded with a paper weight to break up and sent flying out the window with a light wind charm. He restored Names and Lines to its proper place on the shelf, and put Illegal Charms next to it, disguised to look like The Beater's Bible.
Everything was packed. His cloak lay on his bed, ready for travel; his trunk and broomstick stood by the door. The House Elves were in charge of getting his owl out to the carriage. He sat down at his desk and stared sightlessly at the wall, waiting. After a while, he blinked. "Bloody hell," he whispered. "Bloody hell. Potter is the Dark Lord's grandson."
END OF CHAPTER FIFTEEN
* * *
Coming up in Chapter Sixteen: A doubtless welcome change from all the Malfoy introspection that has been going on left, right, and center. Back to Hogwarts for the opening of a new year. Harry is reunited with his friends. Harry broods. Broodingly.
With any luck, the next chapter will take less than ten months to finish.
Many thanks to all my reviewers – especially to Myr Halcyon. You inspired me to go back to this and finish writing the chapter. Thank you. :^)