Disclaimer: JK Rowling demands satisfaction! (Or hopefully not.)
Chapter 8
"Are you sure about this, Harry? It is possible to have an allergy to that stuff, you know," Hermione said.
"Mione, if those two were allergic to anything, they'd have been dead years ago," Harry said. "Besides, you're the one who said I shouldn't duel them."
"Yes, but now I'm wondering if that was the wrong idea."
"What's the worst that could happen?"
"Harry, don't jinx it!"
But Harry wasn't swayed. The next morning at breakfast, he walked up to the Gryffindor Table and stood in front of the Weasley Twins, trying to look intimidating. He stood there without speaking until the pair looked up.
"What's up, Harry?" asked Fred.
"Frederick and George Weasley," Harry said. "Yesterday, you perpetrated a prank against me that made me look like a fool and also revealed a weakness of mine that I wanted to keep hidden. Now, I could challenge you to a duel for this offence." At the mention of the word "duel", the Great Hall quieted as people listened in closer. "However, I know that you could declare the duel to be a prank war, and with you being you and I having two of the Marauders at my back, I'm not sure the castle could survive that."
"Oh, Merlin, no," Professor McGonagall said loud enough for the students to hear.
"So what are you going to do, then?" George asked.
Harry grinned and said, "I decided to skip straight to 'Turnabout is fair play.' Bombs away, Peeves!"
"What?" Fred and George looked up, but before they could react, Peeves appeared and dropped a water balloon on each of their heads. Except these balloons weren't filled with water, but with concentrated Alihotsy Draught.
Unfortunately, there were no (legal) potions that induced the hallucinogenic display the catnip did for Harry, but Alihotsy Draught was enough for the Twins to make fools of themselves, mainly by laughing until they passed out. Most of the Great Hall laughed along at them, and a few of the people nearest to them caught the fumes, but weren't incapacitated.
"Mr. Potter!" McGonagall cut in, having quickly descended from the High Table. "I dislike catnip as much as you do, but this is not the appropriate way to respond to the prank they played on you. Twenty points from Gryffindor, and be glad they didn't make a mess like you did, or it would assuredly be worse."
Harry accepted this and muttered to himself, "Worth it."
After that, the school year went smoothly. The Quidditch season was off to a solid start. Harry was looking forward to his Hogsmeade date with Luna (and Hermione with Neville). Rumours about more mundane things became the centre of gossip, along with the war and some rather interesting ones regarding the Diagonal Theatre's Christmas play. Meanwhile, the most interesting things to happen were the new seminars given by the visiting Grand Sorcerers.
Professor Grayson's wandless magic seminars were the biggest hit, as expected. Fan Tong's divination seminars hadn't started yet, but there were a lot of rumours going around about her and Professor Trelawney. Harry and Hermione, though, were rather interested in Old Coyote's seminars on wandlore. This seminar was more populated by Ravenclaws, but several of the professors also turned out to see it. Even Ollivander and Dumbledore were there to watch.
"Good afternoon," Coyote greeted the audience. "As most of you will know, I am Shomihkasi, or as I am better known, Old Coyote, and I hope I am not boasting too much to say that I am regarded as the finest wandmaker in the Americas."
He might have been a little, but it was also true.
"Wandmakers are a famously secretive guild," he continued. "Wandcraft is complex and subtle and takes a lifetime to master, and a good wandmaker is extremely valuable. It is for that very reason that Master Ollivander is keeping safe here at Hogwarts this year. However, I prefer to moderate that position of secrecy. It is my belief that an understanding of the basics of wandlore will make one a better witch or wizard. It will hardly take business away from the experienced wandmakers, but it just may save your life in a pinch."
Harry and Hermione noted that both Dumbledore and Ollivander were frowning a little. They both had a hunch that wouldn't really jibe with Dumbledore's philosophy, and Ollivander was the more traditional sort.
"Now, obviously, things are a little different in the Americas. Just as magic developed differently in North America than in Europe, wandcraft did likewise. Staffs are still more common there than they are here." He raised his own staff as an example. "And many other traditions of magical totems developed among the various tribes. My own success has come through extensive study of these traditions and incorporating those parts I could into my own craft. You see, by blood, I am a mixture of Osage, Cherokee, and the white men who lived in northern Oklahoman after the Civil War, but in my travels, I have studied every tribe from the Inuit of Alaska, who had no wood and cast magic with seal bones, to the Seminole of Florida, who did not use woody plants at all, but instead used stiff grasses like reed, sawgrass, and cattail.
"The reason for this is that while wizards across North America were in contact with one another, magic was not standardised until European colonists arrived. Before that, loose associations of what the settlers called 'medicine men' taught their children magic through what amounted to apprenticeships, and many different styles of magic were developed. Even where something like traditional wands were used, they were made differently, carved differently—some intricately carved with animal motifs recalling the totem pole, and others made from the raw branches, unmarred."
Old Coyote's whethered staff was obviously of the latter category. Harry remembered Voldemort's new wand, with its intricate carvings. He hadn't got that close a look, but it was definitely an American style. He wondered what difference that might make.
"My own staff," Old Coyote continued with a smile, "is something of a style all its own. My finest work. The wood is a branch broken from a bristlecone pine of the Great Basin of Nevada. The tree was long dead when I found it, but still standing, the wood still strong and unyielding. I estimate the tree it was taken from sprouted over seven thousand years ago. The core is twined hair from the ghost deer of California, a rare and elusive beast similar to your thestrals and possessing a legendary power."
At this point, Dumbledore coughed and interrupted the lecture. Old Coyote stared at him, waiting for him to speak. "I am surprised you are being so open with this information, Master Coyote," he said.
"Oh, the design of my staff is little secret, Headmaster," he replied. "Few others could even attempt to make its like, after all. The secrets of where to find the ancient trees, how to snare the ghost deer, how to mate the parts into a powerful whole—those are things that I guard carefully."
"Certainly," Dumbledore replied, "but to announce that you possess such a powerful staff…"
Old Coyote gave Dumbledore an intense stare that seemed to be looking through him into the depths of his soul. Without taking his eyes off him, he said, "It matters not, Headmaster. This is from another technique that is more common in America. Wands are an intensely personal thing. Even here in Europe, wizards are often buried with their wands. Some of us in America take it a step further. I would not be so open about my staff had I not ensured that it would work only for me."
Dumbledore looked very thoughtful.
"You have to be aware of your surroundings in a fight," Edward Grayson called out to his students lined up on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. "This is a lot more than knowing where your opponent is and watching out for obstacles. That's just common sense. So's diving for cover and keeping mobile. Now granted, some people don't get it at first if they're green enough. In European-style duels, the duelling wards are pretty narrow and don't give you a lot of room to dodge, and someone who's only combat experience is duelling might make the mistake of not getting the hell out of the way when people start shooting curses at them, but they'll learn fast. Of course, in Australia, the rules are looser, so we don't have that problem. I'd advise you to keep that in mind today."
The Gryffindors and Ravenclaws looked around at the "battle ground". A long, narrow section along the edge of the Forest had been marked off all around by a lavender ribbon that resembled a wizarding version of caution tape. "Today is going to be about learning by doing," Grayson continued. "We're setting up a simple game that is in many ways worst-case scenario: the classic 'every wizard for himself' situation. Picture this: you're on a battlefield. The whole area is in chaos. Imperius Curses, Confundus Charms, Legilimency, and all manner of disguises have been thrown around all day until you don't know who to trust. Even your best friend may turn on you at a moment's notice. Your only chance is to be the last person standing and sort it out afterwards. It sounds terrifying, but I've been in fights like that."
The class shuddered at the thought. They'd heard horror stories from the last war, including people who were Imperiused and attacked their friends and families, but never a free-for-all like that.
"So you can probably figure out what we'll be doing today," Grayson said. "Everyone into the trees, and when I give the signal—only when I give the signal—start duelling. Anything goes; the aim is to be the last person standing. The only rules are that you may not use illegal spells, you may not seriously injure your fellow students, and you may not cross the lavender ribbon. No instructions for the first game. I just want to see how you do. Once I know where you all stand, I'll teach you some basic tips for this kind of fight."
Everyone looked around nervously. Most of the class had duelled in the Duelling Club, but they had never been in an all-out fight like this, game or no (not to mention such was usually discouraged in the school). Harry had been in an all-out fight for his life against a couple of dozen dark magic wielding wizards—a fight he lost, in fact. Voldemort had killed him. (He got better.) That didn't make him any more confident.
"Harry, are you going to be okay with this?" Hermione asked him quietly.
Harry looked around at the rest of the class: Gryffindors and Ravenclaws—no Slytherins—and limited to not injuring each other. It was a completely different situation, he told himself. "Yeah, I think I can handle it," he said.
Grayson gave the class a minute to get into the trees and find cover, and then started the battle. It was complete chaos. Jinxes and hexes flew fast and furious as people ducked in and out of trees and tried to hit each other. Harry cringed at the noise and flashing lights. He thought he was ready, but the sheer volume of spells being thrown reminded him a too much of the fight in the graveyard. He crouched down behind the strongest shield he could put up and took a few deep breaths. It's okay, he told himself. Just students. Nothing worse than Stunning Spells. I need to learn to handle this.
Once he did that, he was in better shape. He looked around, sensing with his eyes, ears, and his excellent sense of magic. That gave him an advantage, as he could usually tell when someone was attacking him from behind, even through the haze of spellfire. He successfully stunned Lavender Brown followed by Michael Corner. He made pains to stay far away from Hermione, whom he didn't want to try facing any way but one on one in that mess. However, he soon ran into a snag as Seamus Finnigan was showing a level of competence far greater than he ever had in the Duelling Club, using literal fire as cover fire to keep anyone from coming near him.
Several people engaged Seamus, including Harry, with little success. His habit of accidentally blowing things up in class was finally helping him, and he had a wall of fire protecting his back while took potshots at anyone coming at him from the front. Harry ducked behind a tree to rest, trying to think of a way to flank him. Then, it came to him.
He's intelligent, but not experienced. His pattern indicates two-dimensional thinking. Harry smiled. Changing to cat form, he climbed a tree. Struck from above, Seamus went down before he knew what hit him. Harry made sure the fire was cleared away at a safe distance around him and went on to pick off the others from above. That is, until he sensed a spell incoming and narrowly avoided a Stunning Spell cast from above him. He spun around, expecting to see Hermione, but instead, he spotted Ron.
"Quidditch, right?" Ron said. "Shoulda thought of that sooner."
Harry changed to cat form and scampered down the branch to the next tree. He heard Ron shout, "Hey, no fair!" behind him.
In the end, it was Harry's greater mobility that had him winning the free-for-all mainly through attrition—basically the same strategy he'd used against the Death Eaters, he thought uncomfortably. When he was the last one standing, Grayson went through and revived everyone, making sure they weren't seriously injured, and called them back out to the grass.
"First of all, I want to commend all of you for following the rules," he said. "It's easy to have accidents with this kind of game, even with me watching everything. This bodes well for the future of this class. Second, I want to commend two students who put in a particularly good performance. Seamus Finnigan made excellent use of battlefield control via fire magic. In a fight, one of the most important tactics is to use the terrain to your advantage, and if you can't use it as is, you make it work for you, and fire is a good way to do that. It's difficult to do on a large scale, but if you've got it, use it. And Harry Potter was the first person to think of attacking from above, in the trees. Failing to watch for attacks from above is one of the most common mistakes, and even when people do keep an eye out, they usually aren't as attentive to what's above them. If you can attack from an unexpected direction, that's a big advantage. Thirty points to Gryffindor for that showing by the two of you. Now, let's talk about some basic battlefield tactics…"
"That was really cool," Ron said after the class ended. "I didn't think I'd ever have that much fun duelling—or, you know, sort of duelling."
"I agree it was really useful," Hermione said. "I'm just a little worried. You could really make the case that Professor Grayson is trying to turn us into soldiers."
"Worry about that when the war is over," Harry said. "I know I need this practice. And besides, muggles have paintball and stuff. It's not like these kinds of games are completely unfamiliar to us."
"Well, that's true."
"I loved it," Seamus said. "For once, I wasn't the one gettin' burnt." Several people rolled their eyes. "Say d'you think Lupin would let us do something like that in the Duelling Club?"
Harry slowed and thought for a minute. "I bet he would if I asked him," he said. "It would give us more practice, and with a greater range of opponents. Hey, Seamus, you could team up with Justin and give us a real challenge."
Hermione squeaked in horror: "Harry, are you nuts? Justin's almost as bad with fire as Seamus is. I don't think the school can survive that!"
"Oi! I can make it work," Seamus said. "Let's do it."
"We're doomed," she groaned.
"The Knights of Walpurgis originally claimed to be a pagan religious movement," Remus told the History of Magic class. "Knights of Walpurgis, named for Walpurgis Night—the thirtieth of April, opposite on the Druidic calendar from All Hallows' Eve, also an important pagan festival. In addition to separating from muggles and muggle-borns, the Knights wanted to separate from muggle religion—from the Christians who hunted down witches and wizards in the time of the Inquisition—and to bring back the Old Ways. Of course, some wizards still celebrate the Old Ways today and get along quite well, but the Knights of Walpurgis proselytised aggressively for everyone to return to them. However, their recruiting during this time was actually not very good—certainly not compared with the success of the Death Eaters a decade later. Why was that? Why did they fail as a religious movement before succeeding as a political one?"
To the surprise of many, it was Blaise Zabini who had the right answer: "I'm guessing too many wizards were Christians for it to stick."
"Correct, Mr. Zabini," Remus said. "A majority of wizards in Britain today would call themselves Christians. Even though Christianity was nearly stamped out in wizarding Europe during the witch hunts, it slowly came back in the ensuing centuries. You see, each generation, more muggle-borns entered the magical world—muggle-borns who were mostly Church of England members even to this day. They married witches and wizards who at the time were more likely to be non-religious than anything else, and the faith spread. Simply put, by the late twentieth century, the Knights of Walpurgis found themselves without a receptive audience.
"Now, the second point is that You-Know-Who was known and even spoken of by name during this time, but he kept a low profile. The name 'Knights of Walpurgis' was far better known than that of…'Lord Voldemort'. It was only when the Knights became the Death Eaters, when the Dark Mark first appeared in the sky, and when the religious movement became a political one centred around purity of blood, that his name became known and feared."
Elizabeth Runcorn raised her hand: "But didn't the Knights also advocate for blood purity, Professor?"
"Yes, Miss Runcorn, but that wasn't their primary advocacy for many years. Remember Mr. Potter's expose that You-Know-Who is in fact a half-blood?" There were still angry murmurs every time he mentioned that, but the Slytherins had learnt not to question it by now. "The Knights' 'advocacy' was about building up the strength of and segregating the wizarding world and culture, not the bloodlines. It wasn't until the sixties that the political divide in Britain crystallised in its current state. The election of muggle-born war hero Nobby Leach as Minister in 1962 gave the Knights and the simmering blood purist movement a political cause to rally around, one that garnered considerably more support for the newly rebranded Death Eaters than the Knights ever received.
"Once again, you may find it surprising to hear the war discussed in such mundane political terms. The terror of the seventies made many people forget about the Knights of Walpurgis and how the movement started, but the records are there. And you shouldn't just take my word for it. Read the back issues of the Prophet from the sixties in the library. Ask your parents or grandparents, if you can, about what it was like back then. The perspective of someone who actually lived through the events is worth ten books written about it a generation later."
Draco Malfoy considered this, as did many of the others. A year or more ago, he probably would have dismissed much of it. But with the research he'd done into his own family history, he'd gained a newfound appreciation for political pragmatism. As a religious movement, the Knights of Walpurgis would have been a brilliant move in the 1700s, but it had lost its lustre by the twentieth century. Still, the Dark Lord had started out not leading a blood purist movement? Well, it wasn't as unthinkable as it had once been. Even today, from what he was hearing second- and third-hand, the Dark Lord wasn't exactly admitting he was really a half-blood, but he was apparently talking less about blood and more about things like power, tradition, a stronger government, and restoring respect for the Dark Arts.
Power was always what it really came down to. Draco knew that well as a Malfoy—perhaps better than his father, he dared say, as his father seemed more and more caught up in the blood purism the more he looked. Obviously, there were differences in philosophy. Dumbledore embraced muggle influence in the magical world. The Dark Lord opposed it. Dumbledore despised the Dark Arts. The Dark Lord believed there was a healthy place for them in society. But at the end of the day, it was about power.
The problem was—though he hardly dared think it—he wasn't sure if the Dark Lord's kind of power was the one for the job anymore. It had certainly looked like it was in the seventies, when the Ministry was on the ropes, and if Dumbledore would hurry up and die, he'd probably agree now. But Dumbledore could keep on kicking for another twenty years, and the Dark Lord had been defeated before. Plus, this was gearing up to be an international conflict, and that changed things.
What would Grandfather have done? Draco wondered. He'd idolised his father for so long that he'd thought him the perfect role model, but now, he wasn't so sure. He'd asked about Grandfather, and he was starting to notice the difference between Lucius and Abraxas. Abraxas Malfoy had worked with Dumbledore against Grindelwald, and with good reason; the maniac had wanted to do away with the Statute of Secrecy. He'd worked with Dumbledore, even though he hadn't liked him.
What would Armand Malfoy have done? What would the first Lucius Malfoy have done? What would Brutus Malfoy have done? Those weren't questions Draco would have asked himself a year ago, and yet, as he'd tracked down the old books that recorded the marks his family had made on history, he was paying more attention. The answer for each man was different, as each of their situations were different, but what was the right answer now? What would a smart Lord Malfoy do, unfettered by prejudice?
Dangerous questions. He shuddered. He didn't even dare to ask Mother some of them, even though she was also of the mind that the Dark Lord wasn't the best way to go. But what way should he go? That he wasn't so sure about.
Not that it wouldn't stop him from annoying Potter, though. That was just too much fun to pass up.
Halloween came too quickly that year, not least because Harry was dreading it. Something bad had happened every Halloween he was at Hogwarts, and with Voldemort out in the open again, he was sure this year was going to be so much worse.
"Come on, Harry, you have to get up," Hermione said, smacking him on the shoulder.
"Don' wanna," Harry mumbled into his pillow.
"We have class today, you know."
"Don' care."
"Yes you do, Harry. You know what Professor McGonagall will do if you miss Transfiguration."
"Tell her I'm sick."
"I'm not going to lie for you."
Harry pushed himself halfway up and glared at his sister. "Hermione, it's Halloween," he said. "Besides being the day my parents died, something bad always happens on Halloween. It's bad enough what Voldemort's probably gonna do out there tonight, and the castle's not much better. I don't care if Snape's subbing for McGonagall today. I'm staying in bed where it's safe." He flopped down onto his pillow again.
"Harry—" Hermione started for her wand.
"Don't try it," he said without looking. "You know I can beat you in a duel."
Hermione sighed sadly. "I'm sorry, little brother," she said. "I know how hard this day is for you. I'll…I'll bring you up some food and do what I can to get McGonagall off your back."
She turned to go, but Harry briefly clasped her hand, "Thanks, Mione," he mumbled.
"No problem, Harry."
She let him be through breakfast, lunch, classes—but to Harry's dismay, he didn't get a peaceful day, and to his shock, the trouble came from a completely unexpected direction. It was just before dinner when Hermione burst into his bedroom, sounding frantic: "Harry, you have to come down right now."
"Why?" he groaned.
"Dumbledore's down there. Filch is spitting mad about something, and he's threatening to drag you out by your thumbs if you don't come down right now, and Dumbledore's backing him up."
"Huh?" Harry said, confused. "Dumbledore's backing up Filch?"
"Well, I don't know the exact situation, but he told me to bring you down sort we could sort it out."
Harry pushed himself up with concern. Anyone else, even Snape, he would have blown off, but it wasn't a good idea to keep Dumbledore waiting. He stumbled down the stairs to meet them, his school robe pulled on over his pyjamas and his hair uncombed. When he got to the Common Room, he saw the stares on him already. "I've got a bad feeling about this," he said.
"Just go, Harry," Hermione nudged him.
They climbed out of the portrait hole, and…
"There he is! There's the filthy pervert!" Filch spat at Harry. "I want him out! He's not fit to be in this school!"
"What?" Harry said stupidly.
A small crowd of teachers and students had gathered outside the Common Room. Professor Dumbledore looked unhappy, while Professor McGonagall was clearly trying to figure out what was going on. "Mr. Filch, please control yourself and explain," she said.
"Potter! I want him expelled! He's not fit to be around man nor beast! He's a filthy, perverted, little freak!"
Automatically, Hermione stepped in front of Harry. "Don't call Harry a freak!" she snapped.
"Stay out of this if you know what's good for you, girl," Filch said with spittle flying, stepping towards her menacingly. "How do I know you're not one, too?"
"One what?" Hermione said.
Harry placed himself in front of her. "Don't talk to Hermione like that," he said.
"Shut up, Potter! You don't get to talk to me after what you did."
Harry drew himself up and got right in Filch's face. "Mr. Filch, what on Earth are you talking about?" he demanded.
"Mrs. Norris's kittens!"
"…What?"
"What? What?" he mocked. "You know what you did!"
"Um…no, I don't know what I did."
"Thought you had something to prove after those rumours?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh? You seduce so many innocent cats you don't remember—"
"WHAT?!" Harry and several of his friends shouted.
"Argus, that's quite enough!" Dumbledore cut in thunderously. "You may not like Mr. Potter, but I will not permit you to tell such scandalous lies about a student."
"Lies are they, Headmaster?" Filch said, his mouth quivering. "Then how do you explain this?" And suddenly, Filch pulled a tiny tabby kitten out of his robes and held it up. Harry could see it was too young to even have its eyes open, and it had a little white lightning-bolt mark on its forehead.
"What?" Harry repeated in utter confusion.
The kitten mewed pitifully as Filch waved it around, and the other students got a good look, a storm of whispers started and rapidly grew in volume. Professor McGonagall hurried over and began inspecting the creature, while Harry's ears picked up words like "Potter", "kittens", and "Mrs. Norris". Suddenly, it broke when a third-year Slytherin boy called out, "I don't believe it! Potter went and had kittens!"
CRACK!
Harry wandlessly generated a burst of electricity that lanced out far enough to strike the torch brackets, silencing the mob before they could really get going. "Next person who repeats that sentence, we duel, even if it's a teacher," he snarled. "Same goes for whoever thought this would be a funny prank. This is a slander of the worst kind, Mr. Filch." God, I'm starting to sound like an aristocrat. But too late to back down. "Let me explain it for those who don't get it. One: eww, gross! I can't believe anyone would think I would do that. Two: this—" He pointed to his forehead. "—is a curse scar. It's not inheritable. Three: cat pregnancies are two months, and it was only been a month and a half between those rumours and that kitten in your cockamamie theory, Mr. Filch. And four: I'm Harry Freakin' Potter! The day my only option is a cat is the day Voldemort waltzes down Diagon Alley in a ballerina's tutu!"
"Mr. Potter!" McGonagall said, scandalised.
"Erm…sorry, Professor."
"Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter, and please stand down. I would very much like to resolve this without wands drawn. And do put that poor kitten down, Argus. You're frightening him." She carefully took the kitten in her hands and lightly prodded him with her wand. "I promise all of you I will do my utmost to see that the perpetrator of this scandal is properly punished. And I assure you, Argus, that this kitten is not Mr. Potter's progeny. Animagi cannot breed with true animals…We don't like to advertise the fact, but several animagi have tried in past centuries." This provoked a general chorus of "Eww!" from the student body. "But in any case, it appears that this kitten has had a Hair-Bleaching Potion applied to his fur in an ill-advised prank," she concluded, "something that should not be done to a cat, especially one this young."
A wave of relief washed through the crowd, along with indignation on the kitten's behalf. Harry was still practically in duelling mode, but with a deep breath, he sheathed his metaphorical claws, relieved that the scandal had been stopped before it could be properly started. He then noticed his vision was brighter and sharper than usual, and he reversed the cat eye transformation that he had unconsciously done. That probably hadn't looked good for him. He looked around and was relieved to see that Luna wasn't present, although Malfoy was, which made him suspicious. Per Professor McGonagall's wishes, he wasn't going to call anyone out unless he absolutely had to, but he nonetheless turned and stared intensely at the third-year Slytherin who had shouted earlier.
The boy got the message immediately and said, "I apologise for my outburst, Lord Potter. I was poorly-informed."
Harry nodded and turned back to Filch. However, in this case, it only resulted in a stare-down. Harry didn't back down.
"It would appear you were both played by a particularly vicious prank, Argus," McGonagall said softly. "I suggest you resolve this amicably."
Filch glowered and growled a little bit. Harry was running through the unwritten rules of social protocol to figure out whether he was honour-bound to call him out if he didn't relent. Fortunately, he didn't have to make the decision. "Fine, I should have got the facts first," Filch grumbled. "You're clear, I guess, Potter."
"Um…thanks, Mr. Filch," he mumbled. He then turned again and glared at Malfoy.
Malfoy looked like the cat that got the canary.
"Potter suspects Draco of being behind both this prank and the earlier rumours, my Lord, but he has no proof," Lucius reported. "However, McGonagall was able to quickly confirm the nature of what was done to the kitten."
"Not terribly useful, but amusing nonetheless," Voldemort replied good-naturedly. "With luck, your son will be as effective with more important work. What was Potter's reaction?"
"According to Draco's letter, he threatened to duel anyone who accused him of such depraved acts, even if they were a teacher. He also provided four reasons why he could not have done it. First: the disgustingness of the alleged act, second: that curse scars are not heritable, third: the length of feline pregnancies, and fourth—" He choked when he read the last line. He really should have cleared this before reading it aloud.
"Yes?" Voldemort said. "Speak up, Lucius."
"Fourth…Potter claimed—and Draco assures me this report is accurate—that the day his only option is a cat is…is the day you, my Lord, waltz down Diagon Alley in a ballerina's tutu."
Voldemort hissed while his Death Eaters tried not to laugh. Such disrespect! But La Pantera had no such reservations. She cackled loudly and said, "Oh, that is rich. You should do it just to mess with his head!"
The Dark Lord glared at her, wondering if he could invent a spell that would kill with his eyes like a basilisk. "My colleague's dubious advice aside, Potter must be made to learn the cost of such disrespect," he said. "He has followed Dumbledore's insolent habits from the start, and he has grown far too cocky. It is time we struck back. Reach out to your contacts at the Ministry, Lucius, see if you can turn up any information about people who are close to him who would be accessible to us."
"It will be done, my Lord."
"Now, for our next order of business, Dolohov has brought us a special guest. Bring him in."
Antonin Dolohov entered the room. He had the look of someone who had been on the road for a long time. Although he had cleaned himself up, he had lost weight, lost sleep, and let his hair grow out. Yet that was nothing compared with his "guest". The man was hooded with his hands bound; he stumbled forward with a limp when prodded, and he had several large tears in his clothes with recently-healed wounds beneath them. Dolohov forced the man to his knees before Voldemort and removed the hood. Cold blue eyes filled with terror when the man saw his master, and the other Death Eaters jeered and cursed at him when they saw his face. But Voldemort raised his hand for silence.
"Igor Karkaroff," the Dark Lord said. "My most fickle follower—and that is saying a lot. You could have been one of my most faithful, enduring Azakaban as Dolohov and others did, but instead, you turned traitor and sold out your fellow Death Eaters for your freedom—" There was another brief round of jeers. "—and now you are too cowardly to return to me except when bound hand and foot. What do you have to say for yourself, Karkaroff?"
"Master, I—"
"Crucio!" Voldemort shouted, sending Karkaroff sprawling to the floor. "On second thought, I do not care. This was not mere unfaithfulness. This was betrayal, Karkaroff, and it will not be forgiven. Were you no longer useful to me, I would make your death slow and exquisite. However, my current position has bought you a few more months of life. No, my Death Eaters, we will not be killing Karkaroff tonight. That festivity will wait until our glorious conquest of Britain. I have another purpose for him tonight."
Through this entire speech, Karkaroff was on the ground, screaming. Voldemort had surreptitiously cast a quieting spell so that he could be heard without totally drowning out the melodious sound. He finally released the curse, leaving Karkaroff lying on the ground, gasping for breath and not even trying to get up.
"Imperio! On your feet, slave," Voldemort said. Karkaroff stood up at a speed that must be causing him further pain, but he didn't complain. "Your betrayal makes you valuable only as a puppet, but your political position means I cannot discard you out of hand. Dolohov!"
Dolohov bowed: "Yes, my Lord."
"You have done well in bringing the prisoner to me so quickly. For this, you will be rewarded. Your next step will be to return Karkaroff to Durmstrang. Reinstall him as Headmaster…and install yourself as his Deputy. Use Imperius, Polyjuice, and any other methods you deem fit, but I want the two of you in place by the end of the year. Keep Karkaroff under your direct control. That will give us the resources we need for our spring offensive…And when we are through with him, you will take his place as Headmaster of Durmstrang."
The other Death Eaters were quietly awed at Dolohov being promised such a prestigious position—all according to plan, of course. Slowly dribbling out plum assignments like this would serve to motivate the others all the more.
Yes, things were going very well, indeed.
"Malfoy!" It took Harry until the next day to actually corner his quarry after the kitten incident, and even then, only with Hermione's and Neville's help.
"What, Potter?" Malfoy said, looking thoroughly unconcerned.
"I've seen some dirty pranks before, but that one took the cake."
Malfoy grinned: "I'll be sure to pass that along if I find out who did it." He started to walk away, but Harry stepped in front of him.
"Don't play dumb, Malfoy."
He snorted. "You've got nothing on me, Potter."
"No, but we both know you did it."
"You keep telling yourself that Potter." He tried to leave again, but Harry still blocked him.
"I'll make this quick, Malfoy," Harry said. "You need to decide which side you're on."
"Excuse me?"
"This is about a lot more than a prank, Malfoy," Harry said. "We both know your father was in that graveyard, Malfoy. You don't have to admit it. I just want to make one thing clear to you: it takes a special kind of evil to see a human being writhing on the ground, screaming in agony…and laugh at him…Your father is that kind of evil. You need to decide whether you are while you still can."
At that, he stepped aside, but Malfoy kept staring at him, only gradually realising that his path was clear and moving on his way.
That was…oddly unsettling, Draco thought.
It wasn't something he'd thought about, for all the other things he'd been thinking about, but when he forced himself to confront it, he realised that the idea of torturing muggle-borns didn't…excite him—in either sense of the word (he shuddered)—like it did for people like Marcus Flint—or even for Crabbe and Goyle, to hear them talk. Even Potter and his know-it-all mudblood sister…he wasn't interested. Kick their arses and stomp their faces into the dirt, sure, but torture? He was almost surprised to realise that it held no appeal for him.
Plus, kicking their arses might actually be something he could do. Potter consistently beat him in duels, but Professor Grayson was teaching them how to fight, and that gave him a lot more room to use that Slytherin cunning. Grayson wasn't stupid, so presumably he (and Dumbledore) believed that teaching the "good" students how to fight properly was worth the cost of picking up a few Death Eaters' children along the way. So much the better.
But what Potter had said? It shook him, especially after the kitten prank. Had that been out of line? Suddenly, he wasn't sure what to think. And then there was Father. Torture held no appeal for Draco, but for Father? He didn't talk about it much, but he knew that Father had done his share of torturing in the last war, and he'd probably enjoyed some of it. That was a hard truth to reconcile with the caring man who had raised him.
As much as he couldn't stand the git, he had a bad feeling that Potter was right: he needed to decide whether he was okay with that.
