CHAPTER 10
To Catch a Death Eater
That January would go down in Muggle history as one of the snowiest ever seen in England, even as far north as Hogwarts. Many of the teachers were heard to say it was a good thing the school did not rely on electricity, as the Muggle world did. All that was required was a plentiful supply of candles and wood to keep the castle light and, if not exactly warm, at least warmer than outdoors.
Hagrid could frequently be seen hauling large trees out of the forest, and the ring of his axe was heard whenever he could spare time to chop wood, day or night. Firenze, permanently ostracized from the centaur group living in the Forbidden Forest, often helped with this task. They burned the smaller branches full of pitchy needles in an ongoing bonfire outside Hagrid's hut; the two bizarre figures chopping and heaving chunks of wood made weird shadows against the background of flames at night.
Since by now the snow had reached a depth of nearly four feet out in the open and was considerably deeper in some of the drifts, Hagrid's Care of Magical Creatures classes had moved temporarily to an unused classroom on the first floor. After an unfortunate incident involving fire lizards and a valuable tapestry that had hung in that room since the castle was built, Dumbledore had prevailed upon Hagrid to teach from books until conditions outdoors should improve.
Harry's term project in Potions had turned out well, much to his surprise. Snape had assigned him the anti-aging potion Vigoro. It was very tricky and required a number of rare and expensive ingredients, which Snape guarded jealously, so Harry had redoubled his efforts to research the potion carefully before attempting to make it himself. He had turned in the requisite six feet of parchment and presented Snape with a neatly labeled vial of completed Vigoro that he was sure was perfect.
Snape had sneered, "How many times did you have to start over with this one, Potter?" But he had given Harry one of the top marks in the class. It wasn't quite 100, but when Harry inquired as to why, Snape merely snarled, "Penmanship." Harry thought it best to leave it at that.
One very blustery Sunday at breakfast the owl post arrived, dropping off Hermione's usual copy of the Daily Prophet. She tucked a coin into the owl's tiny pouch and fed him some bacon to give him an excuse to linger and warm up a bit. Ron glanced at the paper, which was lying with the back page facing up. A small article off to one side caught his eye. He read:
Muggle Deaths on the Rise
Over the past year and a half, Muggles have been disappearing from homes, automobiles, and places of business. The disappearances have increased in frequency in the last few months. Although the cases were at first believed to be unrelated, Muggle law enforcement officers, or "policemen", now believe that many of them may in fact be connected. Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, could not be reached for comment. His assistant, Percy Weasley, told this reporter, "We think this may be the work of You-Know-Who. Muggle witnesses have reported seeing flashes of green light in the vicinity of some of the murders, which is the signature mark of the worst of the Unforgivable Curses." Weasley declined to comment on any possible cooperation between the Ministry of Magic and Muggle law enforcement. Watch this space for further reports.
Ron muttered, "Well, of course he declined to comment. The stupid prat doesn't really know anything, himself. He just likes to talk to reporters--thinks it makes him sound important."
Percy Weasley was something of a disappointment to his family. Oh, he had a good job, right enough--he had by now risen to the post of assistant to the Minister of Magic himself--but he was the worst kind of toady, agreeing with everything his superiors said no matter how self-serving or blind to reality they were.
Harry reached for the paper. "Wonder why they put something like this way at the very back," he said.
Hermione shrugged. "Obviously Fudge is still having trouble dealing with the fact that Voldemort is back," she said. Hermione was the only student other than Harry who had screwed up enough courage to call Voldemort by his proper name. Harry had always done so, having been told by Dumbledore his first year at Hogwarts that "fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself."
Harry had personally witnessed Voldemort's return to human form and full powers two summers ago, but the Ministry's official position had been that Harry was overwrought by the stress of the Triwizard Tournament, in which he was participating at the time. They foolishly refused to countenance any suggestion that Voldemort was at large once again. Percy had refused right along with them, loudly denouncing his family for their steadfast belief in Harry and even going so far as to leave home over the matter. The resulting estrangement was especially hard on Mr Weasley, who also worked at the Ministry and saw Percy there frequently. Mrs Weasley still got suspiciously moist around the eyes whenever Percy's name was mentioned.
"But after last year, how can Fudge possibly get away with ignoring Voldemort?" asked Harry. There had been a violent confrontation the previous school year, deep in the recesses of the Ministry of Magic itself, between Voldemort's Death Eaters and a group that included Harry, a few other Hogwarts students, and members of the Order of the Phoenix. Voldemort's followers had come out of it rather the worse for wear, but the event served as a forcible reminder that he was back, more powerful than ever and bent on Harry's destruction. Needless to say, Fudge was finally given no choice but to admit that Voldemort had indeed returned from exile and was once again throwing the wizarding world into chaos. This newspaper article, however, showed that the Minister had no wish to discuss the matter, instead leaving Percy to answer questions as best he could on his own.
"Honestly, Percy'll say anything to suck up," Ron said morosely. "A year ago it was, sorry, Mum and Dad, you're idiots to believe You-Know-Who has returned, and now the wind has changed and it's oh, yes, the Minister says You-know-Who is not only back but he's on a killing spree, murdering Muggles left and right." He shook his head in disgust. "But has he apologized to Mum and Dad? Ha! He has not."
Hermione leaned closer to Ron and he moved the paper closer so she could see the article. "This bit about the green flashes--Harry, didn't you say you had some memory of that from when you were little? When your--your mum was...you know...killed?" She winced as she said it.
"Yeah. It's pretty vague, though. I remember hearing someone scream--my mother, I guess--and then a flash of green light." He snapped his fingers, remembering something else. "And when Voldemort had Cedric killed during the Triwizard Tournament, it happened then, too. One of his Death Eaters used the Killing Curse on Cedric, and there was that same green flash."
"So why are Death Eaters running around all over England killing Muggles?" mused Hermione. "It says here that Scotland Yard--that's the Muggle police--have determined that the murders are connected. Well, at least as far as Death Eaters being responsible for them, I suppose they could be. But what else do they have in common? Anything?"
The three of them sat and pondered. Gradually the Great Hall cleared around them until only a handful of students remained, writing letters or waking up slowly over their morning newspapers.
"I've got it!" Hermione exclaimed. "Rita Skeeter! She can find out for us. She's bound to have sources who know about this sort of thing." She looked pleased to have thought of it.
Harry grunted. "She'd probably make up most of whatever she told you. You can't believe a word she says--it's all exaggeration and lies with her."
"Oh, I don't know. I still have some--influence--over her, you know," Hermione said loftily. She looked smug. Two years previously she had found out that Rita was an unregistered Animagus, and ever since then Hermione had not scrupled to use the leverage this gave her to good advantage.
"Come on, Hermione," said Ron. "How long d'you think Rita's going to let you blackmail her? I mean, what's the worst that would happen if the Ministry found out about her--they'd slap her hand and make her register? Besides, I agree with Harry. You never know how much of what she says is true. That Quick-Quotes Quill of hers makes stuff up as she goes along, I swear it does."
"Well, it's worth a try, at least," Hermione said. "It's not like we can just ask your father, is it?"
Ron sighed. "Nope. Not without him asking about fifty questions--why do we want to know, don't we realize this doesn't concern us, run along and play, kiddies--blah, blah, blah." He yawned widely. "Harry, Quidditch practice is in half an hour. Want to get in a bit of extra flying before everyone else shows up?"
Harry agreed, and he and Ron ambled off to get their cloaks and gloves. Hermione gazed at the newspaper for a moment longer, then rolled it up, stuffed it into her book bag, and headed for the library to work on Herbology homework.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Kingsley Shacklebolt sat in his office at the Ministry of Magic, feet up on his desk, hands clasped behind his head--a far cry from the professional image he presented to the public. However, today was Sunday and his co-workers were still at home enjoying their weekend leisure.
By coincidence, his thoughts that morning ran along similar lines to those of Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Kingsley too was puzzling over the Daily Prophet article even though, being an Auror, he knew more of the story's background than they did. He was very worried, and a more than a little disgusted that none of his Aurors had managed to get anywhere with these Muggle killings. It was proving to be impossible to keep up with the Death Eaters, let alone stay one step ahead of them. They appeared to be amusing themselves at the expense of the entire Auror division--not to mention the dead Muggles--by leaving cryptic clues behind at the murder scenes that only ended up leading the Aurors in circles. There wasn't a scrap of real evidence that could be used against any of the Death Eaters in a wizard court. It was maddening.
Sometimes Kingsley almost--almost--wished the Dementors were still under the control of the Ministry (if, indeed, they ever really had been) so the Death Eaters could be rounded up and subjected to the Dementors' "kiss". Nice and clean, and voila! no more Death Eaters. But Voldemort would recruit new followers...and the whole thing was moot anyway while the current Death Eaters were proving so elusive. Make a surprise raid on Malfoy Manor--and lo and behold, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were gone on a second honeymoon somewhere in France. Show up unannounced in the dead of night at Crabbe Castle in the hopes of catching Mssrs. Crabbe and Goyle plotting nefarious deeds--and wasn't it an odd coincidence that they had departed earlier that very day for parts, and reasons, unknown?
The Death Eaters were like wisps of smoke, there one moment and gone the next. Something more than surprise alone obviously would be needed to catch them, Kingsley mused. Some kind of...trap, perhaps? A trap. Ah, now there was an interesting thought. What kind of bait would one use for a Death-Eater trap? he wondered. The obvious answer was Harry Potter, but that was unthinkable. As unscathed as Harry had managed to come through past confrontations with Voldemort and his Death Eaters, he was after all only a student and should never be deliberately subjected to such great risk. Kingsley did not precisely think of Harry's victories as "dumb luck", the way Snape did, but nevertheless he saw no point in tempting fate.
No, the bait would have to be something else. Something Voldemort really wanted.
Suddenly Kingsley's feet fell to the floor with a thud. He sat bolt upright in his chair. He knew what would work--or more precisely, who.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Number Twelve Grimmauld Place in London was Sirius Black's family home. It had also been, for several years, the unofficial meeting place of the Order of the Phoenix. Even with Sirius gone, the house was still used by members of the Order and bore a variety of enchantments that hid it from Muggle eyes.
The portrait of Sirius' mother that had hung in the entrance hall for years, shrieking and raving about her ungrateful son and Mudbloods and traitors every time a sound woke her, had finally been freed of its sticking charm and removed to the root cellar where no one ever went. It was a decided improvement. As well, the Blacks' house-elf, Kreacher--who it was believed had left the house regularly without express permission from Sirius and had reported Order doings to the Death Eaters--had never returned to the house following Sirius' death. His whereabouts were unknown, but all the same, Dumbledore had warded the house so Kreacher could no longer gain access to it to continue his spying and eavesdropping.
Mrs Weasley had commandeered her own children, as well as Harry and Hermione, to clean the house from top to bottom the year before. That, along with the absence of Mrs Black's portrait and Kreacher, rendered the big house almost comfortable, if a bit deserted feeling.
Snape used Number Twelve occasionally as a place where he could get right away from the school and the students when he needed a refuge. He could travel there via the Floo network from his own fireplace in the Slytherin dungeons at Hogwarts. It was really quite handy.
On this particular day he had chosen to Apparate from Hogsmeade instead. He had gone to the village to purchase potion ingredients for his classroom as the supplies in his cabinet were dwindling. But instead he found himself strolling through the village streets and paths restlessly, observing the villagers and the odd Hogwarts staff member here and there as they went about their business.
It occurred to him, as he watched the townspeople call friendly greetings to one another, that he was...tired. He examined the thought. Yes, that was it--he was tired. Of waiting for the inevitable confrontation with Voldemort. Of always missing out on the Defense Against the Dark Arts teaching post. Of people avoiding him. Of not having any kind of real life. He might as well be invisible--life flowed around him while people looked past him, through him. It was unbearably lonely.
Knowing that it was all his own fault didn't help matters. He knew--who better?--that when he had faced that long-ago fork in the road and chosen to follow Voldemort, he had chosen badly. Of course he knew that--now. But at the time, the lure of great power had been more than he could, or had wanted to, resist. Power would change his life. Dreams of exacting vengeance on those who had wronged him--James Potter heading the list--had seduced him, and he had surrendered his conscience to the Dark Lord with barely a murmur.
Remembering that now, however, only fueled his self-disgust and, it must be said, his self-pity. He closed his eyes and fervently wished himself in the safety and solitude of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place.
He Apparated in the kitchen. It was very cold and nearly dark there in the basement, so he set about starting fires in the enormous kitchen fireplace and in the library and the bedroom he habitually used during his visits, lighting candles as he went, until the rooms took on a semblance of warmth and looked a bit less gloomy.
A short time later Snape had concocted an omelet out of ingredients someone, probably Molly Weasley, had thoughtfully stocked. He enjoyed cooking and thought of it as a sort of extension of potion-making, but this was the only place he really got to indulge in it. The one and only time he had cooked a meal in his own rooms in Slytherin, a house-elf had appeared at his door and reproachfully reminded him that "that wos wot they was there for, sir, and wos sir wanting to do all of them right out of their jobs, sir?" Snape had fumed at the elf and even thrown a pot at him to make him leave, but the creature had stood his ground, steadfastly "offering" to be of service, until Snape had given up in disgust, continuing to eat his meals at the staff table with the rest of the faculty from then on.
He savored a mouthful of egg and mushroom and stared vacantly across the table, imagining Trillium Lovejoy sitting across from him--talking, laughing, perhaps sharing a private joke that only the two of them understood.
Lost in this pleasant dream, it therefore came as something of a shock when Tonks Apparated with a crash directly behind him, knocking the skillet off the cooker with an almighty gong. Snape leaped from his chair and whirled around in a single motion, Trillium and his omelet forgotten.
"What on earth--" he ground out, heart pounding.
"Sorry, Severus," said Tonks. She grinned unrepentantly. "Really have to work on my aim. Quite graceful, that move of yours." She picked up the skillet and put it back on the counter. "Mmm, something smells good," she exclaimed. She spied his omelet on the table and looked from it to the skillet and back again, surprise evident on her face. "I never knew you could cook, Severus. D'you suppose there might be--ahem--more where that came from?" she asked hopefully.
Snape rolled his eyes. "Retensio," he said, waving his wand toward his plate. The steam rising from the omelet froze in midair; the omelet would stay hot until the charm wore off in a few minutes. In resigned silence, he prepared and cooked a second omelet and smacked the plate down in front of Tonks ungraciously.
"Gee, thanks, Sev," she said cheerfully. He winced at the nickname.
"To what do I owe the--pleasure--of this visit?" he asked sarcastically.
"Well," Tonks said through a mouthful of omelet--Snape had to look away as this was more than he wanted to see-- "I was talking to Kingsley and he reckoned you might be here since Albus said you weren't at the school. He asked me to find you and tell you he wants to talk to you. Wants to meet you here--are you staying the night, then?"
Snape nodded unwillingly. "I had planned to," he said grumpily.
"Great." Tonks beamed. "You stay put, then, and he'll be along as soon as he's done with his--er--errand. He's got something quite urgent to discuss with you." She scraped the last bits of egg from the plate and popped them into her mouth, then closed her eyes and sighed loudly, a look of complete bliss on her face. Snape watched this performance in silence.
"Ah, well. Places to go, things to do, people to see," she said sunnily. "Thanks for the meal, Sev." She rose and clapped him on the back. As he was drinking from his goblet at the time, this resulted in much choking and ill-advised whacking on the back by a helpful Tonks. Snape recovered enough to glare at her and she patted him one last time.
"I'll just be off, then. Don't go anywhere," she repeated. "Kingsley should be along soon." She smiled with irrepressible good spirits and Disapparated. Snape wondered idly where she planned to Apparate next, and what she would break there.
Damn. What the devil did Kingsley want? He stared gloomily at the fire. Really, was one evening to himself, without half the members of the Order popping in and out, so very much to ask? A peculiar thought struck him: this was his social life. He snorted. Now that was sad.
Well, he didn't have to sit in this hard wooden chair while he waited. He got up and waved his wand over the plates and skillet. "Scourgify," he muttered, and they gleamed as if food had never touched them. He sent them back into their cupboards and walked upstairs to the library. The fire had warmed it considerably by now. He pulled a chair close to the hearth and slouched down in it, wondering when Kingsley might show up.
Some time later--it could have been minutes or hours--he jerked awake to the sound of someone stamping their feet down in the kitchen.
"Severus? You here?" called Kingsley's deep voice.
"In the library," Snape said. There was much blowing and panting as Kingsley mounted the stairs. He came into the library, the icy cold of the night seeming to cling palpably to him. Snape edged away, shivering, and turned back to the fire.
"Well, sit down," he snapped irritably. "You've brought the cold in with you."
"Indeed," said Kingsley. His face was red with cold. He pulled off a large pair of fuzzy purple mittens and caught Snape staring at them in horrified fascination.
"Rather awful, aren't they?" he chuckled. "Tonks made them for me for Christmas. Wanted to try her hand at knitting--Molly Weasley's teaching her." He laid the mittens on the back of the other armchair, across from Snape, and stretched his hands out to the fire.
"Ouch--burns a bit, eh? I'll need to put a warming charm on those before I end up with frostbite." He slung his cloak across the divan and sank into the armchair with a groan. The silence stretched out while Kingsley got his breath back, Snape too disgruntled by the unwanted company to make an effort to speak.
Finally Kingsley stirred. "Well, Severus," he said. "You're probably wondering what this is all about. I've spoken to Dumbledore, and he thought I should ask your opinion of a certain idea I've had." He leaned closer and lowered his voice, although they were the only ones in the house.
"These Muggle killings must be stopped, Severus. Voldemort can't go on like this. Do you realize just what it is that he's doing?"
Snape glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. Taking this for encouragement, Kingsley continued.
"Not only are all of these murders related--of course they've all been ordered by Voldemort. We're sure of that much. But recently we've realized that there's more to it than that. They aren't as random as they might appear. All the Muggles who have been murdered have one very important thing in common: they are pillars of society--the backbone, if you will, of the Muggle world. Look at who they've killed--politicians, judges, clergymen, heads of corporations, doctors, scholars, inventors, teachers. Many of them are of minor importance, taken singly, but together they represent the underpinnings of Muggle society. And we're not just talking about a few scattered people, Severus. Hundreds--we're talking hundreds of murders.
"Only think: it's the perfect crime. None of us have ever been fingerprinted, we haven't any of their driving licenses or passports. The wizarding world is not generally known to even exist. With the Death Eaters' ability to Apparate, murder, and then literally disappear afterward with nothing to connect them to the crimes--and not being traceable in the Muggle world--well, it's perfect, isn't it? The Muggle police haven't a clue. They'll never stop it." He looked Snape in the eye.
"Only we can do that."
"We?" Snape said. "And just who might we be?"
"The Ministry, of course. With a little help." Kingsley paused. "Severus--will you help us?"
"Ah," purred Snape. "At last we get to it. What, exactly, do you mean by 'helping'?"
Kingsley smiled. "Oh, I've thought of an excellent plan," he chortled. "Best one yet: we set a trap for the Death Eaters! Simple but effective. There's a chance it could even get us Voldemort himself. And the best part is--well, you know the saying "it takes a thief to catch a thief"?
Snape narrowed his eyes, not sure he liked where this conversation was going. "So?" he said dismissively.
Kingsley grinned. "Well, guess what we use for bait? Give up?"
A sinking feeling was settling into the pit of Snape's stomach. The omelet protested loudly.
"What?" he finally managed.
Kingsley clapped his hands together with an air of one presenting a wonderful surprise.
"Why--you, of course, Severus."