The Unspeakable plotline is fitting into the story really well, actually. (Suspiciously well).
Chapter Eleven: Unspeakables (and Slytherins) Play Chess
Snape came awake with a gasp that he could not control. At least the gasp was soundless, and he pinched his lips shut immediately after allowing that puff of diseased air to escape. Then he sat up, hand closing on the wand that lay close beside his head, and snapped, "Candela."
The candle sitting on the table near his bed burst into flame. Snape studied his bedroom, or rather, the room Harry had given him, carefully in the wake of the dancing shadows. He could see nothing. The strangest sensation that he felt, now that he was awake, was the tingling of remembered pain in his left forearm, and a half-smothered desire to call himself "Severus."
He sat back, slowly, against the pillow and closed his eyes. Just before he left Gollrish Y Thie to come to Cobley-by-the-Sea, Joseph had volunteered information, quite unexpectedly, on the dreams that the Sanctuary used to heal the minds of those who refused the Seers' help.
"Usually, the dreams last only as long as the guest is in the Sanctuary." Joseph had had his hands dancing over the powdered bicorn horn, powdering it further, and he hadn't looked at Snape even when Snape stared at his back. "But then, most of our guests remain until the healing is complete. If he leaves before it is, then the dreams may pursue him, adding themselves to his mind until he faces and acknowledges the buried memories and problems the dreams want him to acknowledge."
Snape laughed now, also soundlessly, and without amusement. What other acknowledgment can I give? I paid my penance for that mistake, that choosing of Dark over Light. I carry his brand and will for the rest of my life, and I served Dumbledore's cause until I saw how corrupt he was in his turn.
But, of course, nothing would ever be enough to pay for his mistakes. Snape had known that when he saw the pity in Dumbledore's eyes each time he returned from a spying mission to report, when he saw McGonagall watching him, when he saw the way his students shied away from him. It was the same as it had always been. Every time he reached out through the walls of bitterness, his hand was slapped away, and when he reacted with the defensive pride he had earned, then others accused him of unreasonable sarcasm or hatred.
That is not true, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Joseph's informed him. There is one exception. Harry.
Snape caught his breath, then nodded shortly. Yes, very well, Harry was not one who slapped his hand away. And Snape had decided to face the dreams in the first place because of Harry, and he had come to live in a house full of werewolves because of Harry.
And, at the moment, Harry had far more to worry about than Snape did. The Unspeakables were no enemy to disregard.
Snape stood, gathered up a cloak from the corner of the room, and went to the door. He had known almost at once that it was still deep night; his years as a Death Eater gave him a sensitivity to the hours. He was not likely to meet anyone as he walked the halls of Cobley-by-the-Sea and thought, and that was exactly the way he liked it.
He stopped at Harry's room first, of course. He was one of the few people who did not have to worry about the wards on the door, because Harry had tuned them to Snape so that he could bypass every one of them. He opened the door and looked in carefully, forcing his eyes to see past the tricky shadows the moonlight through the open window wanted to impose on them.
Harry lay in a jumbled bundle in the middle of the bed that at first made no sense to Snape, until he realized that the bundle consisted of two boys coiled around each other. He snorted and eased the door shut. That occurrence had become more common than not of late. Draco spent almost every night in Harry's bed rather than his own. Snape supposed that he did not mind that. If Harry had a nightmare—or, Merlin forbid it, a vision—then Draco would know at once, and could wake him up. If someone tried to attack Harry while he slept, Draco would be there to fight for him.
Of course, if Draco pushed too far and did something that panicked Harry unforgivably instead of amusing him, then Snape had his vengeance carefully prepared. One month of uncontrollably and wetly sneezing and vomiting every time he became aroused should make Draco reconsider before doing that again.
Snape eased into the kitchen and lit the candle waiting on the counter with a flicker of his wand, then drew out a kettle from the kitchen cupboard and set about making tea. He made the Muggle motions automatically, though he used his magic to prepare it. When he noticed, he scowled and made himself stop performing them.
Once, he had believed that he belonged nowhere, because there was nowhere a halfblood could belong. Then he'd accepted his place in the magical world, and that meant he struggled to reject everything that was Muggle about him.
From what he could remember, Dumbledore had once considered sending the Potters to live under Fidelius in the Muggle world itself, once Harry and his brother were marked. Snape was grateful that he had not. To have a son who thought of himself as part of that world would be intolerable.
A light step behind him warned him. He whirled about, wand raised, and just barely managed to keep from casting the curse on his lips. Amber eyes gleamed in the moonlight through the kitchen window, and a growl throbbed in the throat of the woman standing behind him.
She stopped, with a shake of her head, once she recognized him. "Professor Snape," she said shortly.
Snape inclined his head coldly back to her, and held up the kettle. The woman nodded. "Yes, please," she said, and then sat down on the other side of the table, still watching warily. All the werewolves, Snape knew, could smell his jumpiness around them, and this one—
Well, this one had a keen nose, and another reason altogether to want to avoid his curses. Besides, she was a Muggle. She knew she had no defense against his wand, other than a werewolf's innate resistance to direct magic, and that meant nothing if Snape cut down the roof and let it fall on her. Snape had observed the pack when they did not know he was observing them, and noticed those who had no magic automatically kept their subservience around the ones who did, unless they were mated. Harry seemed to think that the pack functioned smoothly together, without hierarchies except for the distinction between packmate and alpha. Snape knew better.
Power is always there, if one looks for it, he thought, and waited until the kettle began to sing before turning again to face this werewolf, a young woman who called herself Camellia. He was gratified to see that she had her arms folded. It made her look more like a sulky teenager, though he assumed she was in her early twenties, and less like the monster he had glimpsed looming ahead in the darkness in the spring of his sixth year.
"You have not yet told Harry?" he asked silkily as he poured the tea into two separate cups.
"He hasn't made a comment," said Camellia, watching the tea as if she wanted to be sure that he would put no potion into it. Snape concealed his amusement. If I wanted to do so, she would not see me do it. "I assume that he knows and just doesn't want to cause discord. I mean, how could he not know?"
"By that alone, you prove that you do not truly understand him," Snape said coldly as he levitated Camellia's cup across the table to her, and sat down on the far side with his. "If he knew, he would come to us and try to reason matters out. And he would feel far more anger for my sake than yours."
Camellia pulled her lips back from her teeth without a sound. As the moon turned towards the dark, that was less of a threat than it might have been if it were swelling, but it was a threat all the same. The whole pack could smell his fear, Snape knew.
He controlled that fear now, though. He knew that he had to, if he wanted to live and work in the same place that Harry was living. And the knowledge of the poisons—three separate ones now, not just the silvery one he had invented when he was brewing those months after the attack outside Hogwarts—lying in his trunk upstairs was one of the major things enabling him to control it.
"You are the one who does not understand what an alpha means to his pack," the girl said, spitefully. "It doesn't matter that he's not a werewolf. He's ours. Ours to protect, to love, to be led by, to guard. And he's sworn himself to be more than that. You will die if you touch him with hostile intent. I need no magic, not even the full moon, to kill." She lifted one hand as though to remind Snape of her more-than-mortal strength.
Again the terror tried to cry in him, and if he let it, the cry would turn to a remembered howl, the howl blowing down the tunnel out of the Shrieking Shack in the moments before James Potter had come hurtling towards him, shouting his name…
But he was master of that fear. He had subdued it so well for years that even Harry had never sensed it. Snape weighted it and threw it into an Occlumency pool, and said, "What you have yet to understand is that Harry must share himself with far more people than your pack. He is not just yours, for he is owed debts and has responsibilities in every direction."
Camellia showed her teeth again, but this time it was definitely in a smile. Snape watched in momentary confusion as she drank her tea, deliberately lapping it, and then put down the cup and stood.
"That is the place where you do not understand," she said. "None of us expected Loki to return us equal love to the love we had for him. We were too many, for one thing, and his bonds to all of us were different. And he loved Gudrun more than he loved us. He fulfilled his obligation to the pack by giving us a new, highly protective alpha. We accept that.
"But Harry is that alpha now. We love him that way. It does not matter if he also frees house elves, if he loves his mate more than he loves us, if he sides with you. He is still ours by virtue of our love for him."
She whirled and stalked out of the room, leaving Snape alone with his tea and his thoughts. He finished the first, carefully organized the second, and rose.
He did not think Harry had noticed yet that it was almost always Camellia who spoke with him, Camellia who took the lead when he planned something with the werewolves, Camellia who had detailed the way in which the werewolves would guard the festival being held two days from now and sniff over members of arriving packs. She was the highest-ranking of the pack after Loki, despite her lack of magic. She had power.
He was sure Harry had not noticed, did not remember, that it was Camellia who had seized his guardian that day by the lake and held him, her teeth pressed to his throat, while another of her companions seized Draco and a third went after Moody. If Harry knew, he would have reacted as Snape predicted he would, ironing out the problem. If nothing else, he would know now that he couldn't leave that animosity between Snape and Camellia simmering.
He did not yet know, and Camellia had not told him. She might be a werewolf, but she was no Slytherin.
Snape would keep the information silent until he could best use it.
Rufus was working early that morning, before even Percy Weasley had arrived. He had not been able to sleep, and of course the Minister Flooing to the Ministry was not something that anyone would question.
He did question the knock on his door, until he realized how soft it was, almost ghostly. He should not have been able to hear it across the office, and yet he did. And neither of the Aurors standing guard outside had raised any alarms. It was the way that the Unspeakables had contacted him before, when his first allies from the Department of Mysteries, swearing to back him against Amelia, appeared.
He responded as they had told him to, closing his hand around his wand and tapping his fingers on it three times.
The door seemed to become misty, and then two gray-cloaked figures appeared, walking through it. Wilmot still did not raise the alarm, and his wards didn't react, either. Rufus nodded, reluctantly impressed. The artifacts the Department cared for, those things too dangerous or Dark or cursed to be allowed into wizarding society, permitted them to do many things that other wizards would misuse—once mastered. It was, Rufus thought, and not for the first time, a good thing that the Department of Mysteries was loyal to the Ministry.
"Minister," said the first cloaked figure, the slightly taller one. His companion had taken a seat already; he bowed before taking one. His voice was calm and inflectionless. Rufus was sure he would not have been able to recognize it in a different context. "We bring you grave news."
You hardly expected good news, Rufus reminded himself, and inclined his head shortly. "What is it?"
"We have a division in our own Department," the Unspeakable said. "A few of our members think that our goals can best be met by aiding Amelia Bones. They have been feeding her information, and we believe that her sudden courage to pass new anti-werewolf laws and establish the Department for the Control and Suppression of Deadly Beasts may come from their backing."
"That would make sense," Rufus said slowly. In his last conversation with Amelia, he'd made a good deal of eye contact. Her own eyes were wide, graveyards where fear had gone to die, and she seemed constantly on the verge of telling him something. "She is, then, constrained to act against her will?"
"Not with artifacts," said the calm voice. "With terror alone. But yes, we think so."
Rufus leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. In the end, though, he had to shake his head. He simply knew too little about the Department of Mysteries to choose what the best course of action would be. But that was why he was lucky to have allies there, he knew. He could lean on their advice. The Unspeakables might rarely act in concert with other Departments, and then for motives as mysterious as their titles, but ultimately, they were chosen for their loyalty to the wizarding world as a whole. They would despise someone like Cornelius Fudge, who had only been in the office for his own good, but they had approached Rufus. They appreciated him, Rufus knew.
"And you do not think we can stop this influence as of now?" he asked.
"No," said the Unspeakable. "Until we know the reason our siblings think encouraging Madam Bones is an aid to our Department's goals, we cannot act. Keep it as a stalemate for now, Minister. The weight of the situation must be the only thing that changes it. Knowledge is a precious commodity."
I should have expected an Unspeakable to say that, Rufus thought, shaking his head again. The secondary purpose of the Department of Mysteries, besides making sure that wizarding society was cleared of anything intolerably dangerous, was to gain as much knowledge of those artifacts as they could, so they could be used to benefit wizards and witches when they were understood. Some of the greatest magical discoveries in the last two centuries had come from the Department of Mysteries. That an Unspeakable would counsel waiting until he had all the knowledge he needed was no surprise.
"There is one thing more," the Unspeakable said. "I would hesitate to mention it, Minister, but we know you as a man of duty, who does the right thing even when it does not suit his own convenience." He paused. "Alas, there are other people in the world who are not so dutiful."
Rufus's muscles tightened. He knew, somehow, what this was about, even before he asked for confirmation. "Harry?"
The Unspeakable's hood moved in a shallow nod. "Yes. We approached him yesterday, when we realized that he had come to the Ministry and used magic in the offices of the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures."
Rufus's hands clenched on the side of the desk. Would Harry have been able to resist the temptation, with the new anti-werewolf laws on the books? He knows what Department, other than the Department for the Control and Suppression of Deadly Beasts, is responsible for handling those laws. Amelia's pets only hunt. The Regulators take care of registered werewolves. "What did he use the magic to do?"
"Try to escape the notice of our wards, first of all," said the Unspeakable. "Then we felt his power flare. We are still not entirely sure what that meant, but we have noticed an unusual bustle of activity in one of the offices."
Rufus closed his eyes. He would not compel anyone. I could not believe that of him. But he did say the last time we met that while he hoped he would never have to use magic against anyone in the Ministry, he would do it now. Intimidating someone, as he did to Amelia? Clearing the way for a friend? Oh, yes, I can see it.
"Go on," he whispered, while his heart racked itself apart with bitterness for the necessities of war and revolution.
"We tried to talk to him, but he evaded us. We can only assume that he thought we were trying to hurt him, instead of have a private conversation. When we attempted to use one of our artifacts that would have established a privacy barrier, he swallowed the magic from it." The Unspeakable hesitated again, a minute pause hardly worth observing if all his other words had not come out so calm and steady. "We fear that he may consider our artifacts as sources of magic that would allow him to accomplish more and greater things."
Rufus swallowed. Harry drains magic from people with only the greatest reluctance. From objects? There were those stories of children whom Voldemort condemned to be Squibs in the attack on Hogwarts, whom Harry restored as wizards. He did that by draining Black magical artifacts.
But he's the heir of Black. What happens if he chooses to see the Department of Mysteries and its collections as acceptable prey, because they are not sentient?
Rufus could see him deciding that. And Harry was—well, not inclined to listen to advice, not all the time. Rufus could not see him deciding, now, to raid the Department of Mysteries and drain the artifacts there. But what if he decided, in the end, that it was the only way to make those he fought for safe? The anti-werewolf laws stood a good chance of getting worse, and before Harry would stand for werewolves being executed again or sent to prison, Rufus guessed, he would rise for them.
He remembered Harry's calm, stern face, and the magic that had flared around him. Harry had made his choice. He had used magic in the Ministry—Lord-level magic, against which ordinary wizards and witches didn't stand a chance.
And Rufus wanted the Ministry to be a place for ordinary wizards and witches, where they could get the help they needed and craved, and where the law, which was a tool that could work for anyone, not just those with enough power, was in effect.
It was, perhaps, a distant, foolish dream of his, the one that said, someday, the exceptions for Lords and Ladies that were built into wizarding law would be smoothed out. That everyone ordinary would learn not to live in fear of that powerful magic, that they would remember their numbers were as a great a force, in many ways, as that magic, and they would nod in approval as the last traces of a positively Dark Ages mindset were excised from the Ministry's records.
Harry had seemed to understand that, when Rufus warned him that he didn't want Lords mucking about in his Ministry. Dumbledore's magically compelled Order of the Phoenix had crossed the line. Harry using magic to aid his own supporters, if that was all he had done, did the same thing.
"I will have to contact Harry and tell him this," he said heavily, opening his eyes.
"He will probably write to you," the Unspeakable said softly. "Violent and—misunderstanding of our role as the former Mr. Potter seems to be, he is not dishonest."
Rufus nodded, appreciating that. It was true. Harry would probably realize their ways had parted already, assumed Rufus would find out somehow, from the Unspeakables or broken wards if nothing else, and know that all that remained was the formal apology.
"When he does, do not tell him of our role, though of course he may guess it," the Unspeakable cautioned, rising to his feet. "We must understand the divisions in our Department first. And, of course, the price of our aid remains the same as always: if you tell anyone of it, it will stop coming."
"I understand." Rufus leaned back and regarded them with bleak eyes. "Thank you for telling me the truth, gentlemen. I could only wish that everyone's loyalty to the Ministry was as great as your own."
The Unspeakables gave short half-nods, half-bows, then went fuzzy and vanished. A moment later, Rufus heard Wilmot's voice greeting Percy. Then the door opened and Percy entered the office, humming under his breath.
He stopped when he saw the expression on Rufus's face. "Sir?" he said hesitantly.
"I have a new task for you, Percy," Rufus said, trying to force his features into an expression of good humor. He could not allow himself to brood on this. He had known that his and Harry's paths would most likely separate one day. Harry was not a Declared Lord, but no one with that level of magic ever remained outside politics for long.
And Rufus could not sacrifice his dreams, his people, his Ministry for one person, however complex, however good an ally or leader he would have made.
"What is it, sir?"
"You have a training sessions coming up soon, I believe," said Rufus neutrally. "One in which you, as a junior Auror, are to observe one Department in the Ministry and see how it smoothly functions from day to day."
Percy blinked a bit. "Yes, sir."
"Make sure it's the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures," Rufus said. "Harry has been there, and he may have left some—traces of magical activity, or unnaturally fast help for an ally of his."
Percy's face cleared with recognition—and with an unexpected sadness. Rufus was forced to realize, once again, that he was not the only person who had valued Harry highly. "Yes, sir," Percy whispered, and then took his place at his usual desk, behind the thick privacy ward, in a thoughtful mood.
Rufus sat back in his chair and closed his eyes again. This seemed to be his morning for thinking.
Are we truly so different? Is there not something I could have done that would have made matters fall out for both of us? For that matter, is there some way that we can ally with each other even now?
But every road he turned in the maze led to a dead end. There was simply no way he could choose Harry over the Ministry. He was what he was: the Minister of wizarding Britain, responsible for the safety of many, not only a few, and not only those who had sworn oaths to him. There were hundreds of wizards who did things that Rufus disapproved of morally every day of his life. There were plenty in the Ministry, including Amelia, who had surrendered to fear. It was still his responsibility to see that criminals received a fair trial, that Departments went on functioning in spite of the fear, that the world spun on. He would do what he could for the werewolves, but he could not change his whole path to help them, as Harry had.
And while I am affected by Harry's story, and while he has helped me, there is a reason I never become his full-fledged ally. He is a revolutionary; I am a reformer. There it is, at the bottom of it.
I wish him well, I always will, but we cannot walk side by side.
He sat up and shook his head. Perhaps things would look better once he had his morning cup of tea.
And perhaps not.
Harry had almost finished his letter to Lucius, and the one to Fred and George to ask if they could establish some line of communication to Percy, when an unfamiliar owl swooped through the window of Cobley-by-the-Sea. He rose warily to his feet, especially when a pair entered a moment later, one flying to Connor, who was reading a book on Animagi on the other side of the room, and one to Draco, just glancing up from a letter to his mother. Since Peter had told him of Rosier's trick with the Snitch Portkey, Harry was paranoid about any letter that didn't come with Hedwig or one of the owls that the werewolves sent out.
Connor, though, had already opened his letter, and now he laughed—at the look on his brother's face, Harry assumed. "It's all right, Harry," he said, and waved the paper within around. "It's our OWL results!"
Harry blinked, then turned and accepted the parchment from the bird gently nudging at his shoulder. He scanned it for a moment, and then, in spite of himself, he began to laugh, too.
"I fail to see what is funny about one's OWL's," Snape remarked from the door. He never let Harry alone long now without checking up on him, as if he feared Harry would take belated offense from their conversation in Gollrish Y Thie and go to another of the Black houses. Or perhaps he's just avoiding the werewolves, Harry thought, as he grinned at his guardian.
"I got an Outstanding in the Divination practical," Harry said, and then began laughing all over again at the expression on Snape's face.
"How did that happen?" Connor demanded, sounding envious. "I was Poor at it!"
Harry shook his head. "Because I made up a load of bollocks, and the proctor accepted it." He returned to his parchment again. "That must be the reason I got Exceeds Expectations in the Astronomy theory portion, too. I can't remember enough of the bloody constellations."
"I can," Draco announced.
"Outstanding, right?" Harry asked him, and Draco nodded smugly. "Not my fault your mother's star-obsessed," Harry muttered, and went back to the parchment again.
"Outstanding in Potions, one would assume," Snape drawled, leaning against the doorway.
Harry smiled at him. "Both the theory and the practical."
He wondered if either Draco or Connor noticed the softening in Snape's eyes, or the tiny, tiny inclination of his head that he gave at that news. Harry felt a brief, flashing wave of pride lift him, as if he were a speck in a beam of sunshine.
It was replaced by a gnawing hunger. Sometimes, Harry's own yearning for a parent who acted like a parent surprised him. At least this time, he had expected it, and he could somewhat quell the hunger by telling himself sternly that Snape was proud of him and loved him. What more could he expect? It was better, far better, than the ultimately false love his mother and father had pretended to.
He distracted himself with the OWL results again. Outstanding in Defense Against the Dark Arts, both theory and practical—he would have been embarrassed to get anything less, especially with Acies as a professor last year. Exceeds Expectations in History of Magic. Whoever marked that must really have liked loads of bollocks. Exceeds Expectations in Charms, Acceptable in Transfiguration, probably because they'd made him use his bloody wand. The latter mark did worry him, though. If he hoped to become an Animagus, he needed to improve. At least he'd achieved Outstanding in the Charms theory portion and Exceeds Expectations on the Transfiguration exam.
Acceptable in Herbology, no surprise. Acceptable in Arithmancy, which he had no doubt Hermione had received an Outstanding in; he didn't have Hermione's head for numbers. Harry nodded. All right, then. He thought that was fine for someone with highly specialized knowledge, mostly wandless magic, and a Dark Lord after his head at the time, along with a battle he was planning for.
He started as he felt warmth drape around his neck, and then Argutus's head poked around his throat. "What did you receive?"
Harry shook his head. He had tried to explain to Argutus about OWL's before, and the Omen snake never understood, but that never kept him from asking. "Outstanding in all the subjects that matter," he told Argutus, floating the OWL results in the air beside him and scratching the serpent under the chin, "except Transfiguration, which is a problem. If I want to figure out how to become an Animagus, then I need to grow better at that."
He caught a glimpse of Snape staring fixedly at him from the corner of his eye. Harry frowned, though he made sure to keep it to himself. Why? It's not like he hasn't heard me speaking Parseltongue before.
"But you are going to be an Omen snake," Argutus said, sounding confused.
Harry blinked. "What?" He was actually fairly sure that his Animagus form, if he ever managed to achieve it, would be a lynx.
"Because I'm here, and I can show you how to manage it," said Argutus. "And because it's the only animal worth becoming, of course."
Harry chuckled and buried his face in the snake's scales. "I'm afraid it doesn't work that way," he said.
"So what way does it work?"
Harry began again to explain. At least there was the hope that Argutus might understand the Animagus form better than he understood OWL's, and Harry preferred arguing with his Omen snake to any other form of argument. Argutus's presence had been a comfort yesterday, when he'd told Draco and Connor about the Unspeakable attack and had had to endure both oaths of vengeance and Draco looking at him gently, tenderly, all over, as if he might have an invisible wound somewhere.
And then Draco had ended up sleeping in bed with him last night, and insisting on some lazy morning snogging.
Harry glanced up and met his partner's eyes from across the room. Draco raised one eyebrow and smiled.
He did say he was going to push. But then Harry let that part of his thinking, along with his explanation about Animagi to Argutus, lapse, because Draco was mouthing something.
It looked like, "Just wait for the festival."
Harry frowned uneasily, wondering what that meant, until Argutus nudged him again and demanded, "But why can't you just convince your soul that it looks like an Omen snake? Maybe it will listen."
Lucius enjoyed owls interrupting him at breakfast no more than he did callers using the spell Charles Rosier-Henlin had invented. He therefore finished his tea before he accepted the letter, for all that he knew it was from Harry.
It seemed that Harry had wanted to go formal for this request—or perhaps he had wanted to see if someone were watching his post and if Lucius actually received the letter—or perhaps Draco had told him that Lucius preferred to accept letters. He felt a small smile widen across his face as he fed the snowy owl bits of bacon from his own plate. Such a treat, to be able to wonder about many possibilities with this Lord, rather than only one.
He opened the letter, and the ambush came.
Dear Lucius:
As Draco may have told you, I am currently exploring legal options available to the Black heir in my handling of the anti-werewolf laws. I went to a certain office in the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures, which is now held by a man named Aurelius Flint, Marcus Flint's father. He seemed to know more than I would have given him credit for, especially because the old debt to the House of Black merely obliges the person working in that office to help; there's no reason he could have anticipated beforehand that I would choose that route or that I would want information about that particular problem. What do you know of Aurelius Flint? Is he a contact of yours in the Ministry? What are his political positions, his connections?
Thank you,
Harry.
Lucius put the letter down on the table and stared at it. The snowy owl hooted cheerfully, as if to say that any time he felt like writing a reply, she would carry it.
Lucius stared through her in turn. He was thinking.
He could see why Harry had not been afraid to trust this information to a letter. What he was doing was perfectly legal. That exception for the House of Black had been passed long ago, and anyone who wanted to look at the books would find it.
Aurelius Flint was the center of a vast network of favors owed and secrets possessed. Lucius knew him personally, and had done favors for him himself on several occasions. That, in and of itself, was something Harry could find out by asking someone else, and was not what had torn the ground out from under Lucius's feet to reveal the abyss hiding below.
No, there was the fact that Flint had worked through a network of favors that had resulted in Lucius being able to enter the Ministry undetected and torture the Potters. And he undoubtedly had the information, or could in a few hours' time, that would reveal that to Harry, even after Lucius had taken steps to have someone else, former Auror Fiona Mallory, take the fall for his torture, and then put her into a coma when she was sacked.
If Harry discovered that Lucius had tortured his mother and father, Lucius's power and favored position with Harry would come to an end. He had no illusions about that. Justified vengeance or not, acting on pureblood traditions or not, claiming the debt for child abuse that Harry never would or not, Harry would feel compelled by his morals to turn his back on Lucius.
He reached into his robe pocket and drew out another letter, this one on a simple sheet of gray parchment, with the seal of an hourglass, black on gray. That had come last night, by no visible means; it had been under Lucius's door when he went to bed. The parchment said only, We are in conflict with the former Mr. Potter, over werewolves. You will know your danger shortly.
And now he did. The message was from the Department of Mysteries, which Lucius had contacted for the Dark artifact that had put Fiona Mallory into her trance—irreversible save for the help of that same artifact. If Harry was in conflict with the Unspeakables, that made a second outlet by which he could learn about what had happened, and who was responsible for felling Mallory, and why. Lucius could not say he understood the Unspeakables, any more than most ordinary wizards could. They might tell Harry the truth for their own reasons, or to end the conflict, or to distract him by throwing him someone he could save.
And Lucius with her, but as someone to damn.
If Lucius did not want to lose his power in the Alliance of Sun and Shadow, he must move carefully. And the slight phrase "over werewolves" added to the Unspeakables' message had already given him an idea, even though he did not know why the Department of Mysteries would be interested in werewolves.
It could work. It could. But it would have to be done slowly, and secretly, and oh so carefully, because if Harry found out, Lucius was not sure that his claim on Harry's attention would be the only thing in tatters.
He had walked through barbed conflicts like this before—when unknown people within Hogwarts were threatening his son, and in his days among the Death Eaters. If, this time, he had more to lose, that did not mean that this walk was impossible, he told himself. He only had to watch for more thorns.
He would survive, and, more, he would thrive, secure his family's position closest to Harry's side, get rid of the danger, and bury his own past mistakes in one stroke.
Lucius relaxed enough to reach for more bacon and feed it to—Hedwig. A saint's name. A lovely owl, really.
He would achieve success where others would only see lurking failure.
It was what a Malfoy did.
