Posted 6/3/2014
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This is a work of fiction, based on the book series by J.K. Rowling. Neither do I claim ownership nor do I intend to.
Chapter Forty - The Dark Lord's Butcher
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Daphne didn't return to her room that night. She went to the drawing room and curled up in one of the armchairs facing the tapestry, wondering about Potter's story. She knew it had to be made up, or probably just wanted it to be, yet she also couldn't shake the feeling he had not only told her the truth, but withheld some parts of it. Her imagination filled the holes she thought she could see, and in her mind, the boy she called Jacob for lack of another name came to life. Struggling with something in his past, he was flung into a group of other children. Potter hadn't said how they had met; he had only mentioned a crowded house they were often in, apparently. And from what Daphne could tell, they were there at night as well. Remembering something Tracey had once said about Muggle children, she pictured it to be a boarding school like Hogwarts. She could imagine the apprehension Jacob would have felt when entering that new environment. Perhaps he had lived with his parents once. Perhaps he had been orphaned like Potter. Losing someone dear at a young age could leave scars on the soul and might have been difficult to deal with. But the boy she had dubbed Jacob hadn't found his place, and whatever had been troubling him and had made him jumpy and scared had kept him isolated. He had left, had gone down the river and to the sea, Potter had said, never to return and never to be found.
And Daphne's mind pictured it as well, the small boy standing on the riverbank. Did he jump in? Or did he slip and fall? She hoped it was the latter. Accidents happened, and as tragic as they might be, they were part of life. She hoped he hadn't jumped. What had the voice Potter had mentioned been telling Jacob? She could hear them – sweet words whispered soothingly, talking about eternal sleep and about leaving the troubles behind.
She welcomed the new morning. She had almost finished her breakfast when Weasley and Potter walked in.
"So," Weasley said, sticking out his chest, "I think I finally got it. You see, the secret seems to be to, you know, be very mindful whenever you put something in. If you do it too quickly, it'll just," he gestured something blowing up, "too forceful and crude and it'll be awful. I wish they'd have taught that at school, I'd have done way better if I had known how to do it right."
"Well, that's true," Potter replied, chuckling. "I think they expect us to pick it up from somewhere else, to be honest. Can you imagine them doing that? 'Ah, no children, don't do that or it'll be awful. Here, let me show you how it is done.' No, that's something they might think is obvious. Hermione probably told us a dozen times, but maybe that one thing you have to discover for yourself."
Weasley nodded, continuing with his previous statement and sporting what might have passed for a thoughtful expression. "And now that I've understood it and had time to practice, well, I can understand why Mum'd like it. Potions and cooking, they are similar, aren't they?"
Daphne choked on her bread she had been nibbling on. She couldn't help but imagine Professor Snape's face at the comparison.
But Potter just nodded. "Well, in a way, yes, although cooking doesn't usually carry such a high risk of poisoning. Well, unless you do it, perhaps, I'm not sure I'm daring enough to see what you can do. No wonder we were struggling to get it right all those years; how were we supposed to know about that?"
"Well, it's thanks to Hermione that I got it in the end. You should have seen her last night, she was dead tired, and I think she was happy when we finally came to an end."
"The poor girl," Daphne spoke up calmly, sending both a curt nod in greeting.
"None of your business, Greengrass," Weasley spat, blushing.
"If she doesn't want to, she can always stop tutoring him," Potter said with a shrug. "But then, with Hermione tutoring him, undoing Snape's damage and teaching Ron how to brew something properly, it might allow us to shift some responsibilities later on."
"No need to mention that," Weasley grumbled.
"It's a shame we never learned proper brewing in school," Potter continued.
Daphne rolled her eyes. "Well, you should have paid more attention to the books, then, instead of the lessons. Those explained it decently."
"Err, no they didn't," Potter told her with a slow shake of his head. "Unless you had drastically different books, all they did was repeating the same instructions from class. That's not a good explanation, that's just a recipe."
"And that's why you pick up the additional literature from your house library or bring them with you from second year onward. You know, Miller's Guide to Potions and Copperpot's Basics to Brewing."
Weasley and Potter stared at her.
"Oh, come on, even you can't have been so deaf as to not hear Professor Snape or one of the older students mentioning it," she pointed out fairly. Those books were rare, yes, and expensive, yes, and weren't sold anymore, shifted out of print without a replacement, but even Gryffindors had to have heard of them. She could clearly remember her Professor lending them in First year to every student in his house. Surely other professors had the same forethought?
"Never heard of them," Potter confirmed. "Where did you find them?"
"Professor Snape has a whole store of them, one for every student in his house. He hands them out every school year. That's how you learn and how you succeed in his class."
"Not to us," Weasley stormed. "How come we never got them?"
"Well, how should I know?" Daphne gave back. She did know; she had figured it out, of course. The professor had intentionally assigned a book without the basic explanations – thereby pushing a book he knew was inadequate without additional literature until other publications were no longer printed – and hadn't mentioned the annotations, so his Slytherin students would prove their superiority while others failed or struggled due to favouritism. But then, it wasn't her concern, was it? And her question wasn't lying, strictly speaking, so she had nothing to feel bad about.
"So to sum it up, he supplied you with books explaining the steps and the reasons for them? The explanations that were conspicuously missing from our assigned book?" Potter asked slowly.
"Naturally. Did you honestly think people like Gregory or Vincent would have managed as well as they did if they hadn't had help along the way?" She raised a challenging eyebrow. "And when the most prestigious school in Britain assigns a book, why would anyone print other school books for the subject?"
"And did you receive any other help from him over the years?" Potter asked with a raised eyebrow.
"He always had an open door for our troubles," she said, shrugging. Oh, they did have help. Without the explanations on nonverbal casting, how would they have achieved anything in Defence against the Dark Arts? That also didn't include his help with other subjects, or the spells that had been passed down from class to class over the years in his house – some funny and harmful, others boring, but most hard to track to the caster.
Weasley was about to blurt something out, very likely an insult about cheating Slytherins, when Granger stormed in. Daphne would have to thank the other girl sometime; she really didn't need to hear the redhead complain about craftiness from her house mates. Was it their fault the other Heads of Houses weren't so generous? She didn't think so.
"Oh, there you are, Harry," Granger spoke, slightly out of breath and carrying rolls of parchment. "I've figured it out. I had a brilliant idea last night; I think you'll see what I mean. I was rolling around in my bed, but something was bothering me. I guess it had been lingering in the back of my mind for quite a while, but I just didn't see it. And then, watching the shadows on my ceiling dance, it clicked. I went about it the wrong way; I looked at it from my perspective, from what I learned in the past, but this is beyond what we dealt with at school." She flung her parchment on the table, unrolling it and pushing dishes and cups away.
Daphne had expected some list or maybe a rough draft of a plan for Potter's strike against the Death Eaters. But no such thing was there; instead, the parchment looked almost black with ink.
"You see, you were right, at least partially," Granger continued, "although you still made a grievous mistake. See this here? Well, Stieger and Kurts had it all right, but they never thought to look at the flow they assumed would take place. It couldn't have led to anything other than a total collapse shortly after activation. It's laughably easy once you know where to look." She pointed to a spot on the parchment. "See here? Well, that's where we were stuck. You said it needed to be a secondary power source, I disagreed. But I was slightly off for once. It does need a source, at least if it is meant to work for a while, but it needn't be a secondary source. See here?" She pointed somewhere else. "So here's what I came up with. It doesn't need its own source, only power itself. So why not redirect some of the already collecting power to these runes over here? That's when these two come into play, see?" Again she pointed without hesitation. Daphne walked over, curious.
"Ah," Potter said, nodding slowly. "You think a transfer might work, if I read this correctly? Still a risk isn't it? The fluctuations..."
"Won't matter, they are outside this layer," Granger spoke happily, almost bouncing on her heels. "True, the actual power source can't be part of the main layout, but other than that, it could work. Funny, really."
"So where is the second one then?" Potter asked. "Where is the mirror for this one then?"
She pouted. "You know, you're no fun this way. I liked it when you didn't catch on so quickly. Well, fine, the mirror rune can be anywhere, but for safety reasons, it might be best if it weren't too close. And of course, the basic principle still applies – this layout needs at least two people working separately to set it up."
Daphne looked down on the runic arrangement Granger had apparently drawn. Blinking dazedly, she tried to make out the finer points, but she couldn't. Whatever the Muggleborn had written there, it was indeed far beyond anything taught at school.
Weasley shook his head. "Well, you lost me. I don't know how you can make heads or tails of this, so I'll just let the two of you blabber on. Don't mind me." He turned back to his breakfast, grumbling about madness and a waste of time.
Daphne was tempted to agree. She had taken Ancient Runes and wasn't that bad at it, actually. The longer she stared at the arrangement, they more she could understand of it. Someone – she assumed it had been the aforementioned Stieg and Kurdler or whatever they were called – had imagined a revolutionary approach to heating. Unless she read it wrong, part of the idea was for the runes to recognize specific people and adjust the temperature according to their liking. It wasn't impossible, just quite a hassle for something that could be done easier through other means.
Yet Potter seemed to think it over as if he, without ever visiting Ancient Runes, understood it. "Ideally though," he spoke up, stroking his chin with the back of his hand, "the mirror should be somewhere connected to it. Maybe on the ceiling of the same room or the one on the floor below?"
"That's what I thought too," Granger cheered, clapping her hands. "But either way..."
"It would need to be drawn to match this one in size? Yeah, I guess so," Potter agreed. "And it'd need some restrictions on the flow as well."
"So you knew this already?" his friend asked, slightly downcast. "I thought... why didn't you say so?"
"I didn't know, Hermione. I merely assumed based on what you just told me. It makes sense; only when they're the same size will the transfer work right. There has to be some form of control over when and where power flows. And this here reminded me of a layout I've learned about – granted, an anti-Apparition ward to restrict incoming traffic, but not outgoing." Granger blinked in surprise, and Potter shrugged. "Well, it would work in theory, but seeing as how it's already a layered ward, it doesn't mix that well with others. Just give everyone a Portkey or something and you don't need to rely on a tricky layered ward." He continued in what might have passed for a casual tone, "But this is as good a lead-in as any. I wanted to talk to you about an idea I had last night. I'd like your input."
Granger sighed. "Well, fine. Later, after breakfast, all right?"
Daphne didn't pay them much attention. She already knew it had to do with what Potter considered necessary in the war. She wasn't inclined to get involved in that.
"So this is it, then," Hermione stated. She didn't look happy, far from it. He wished he could have done it without her, but he had needed the second opinion. He had needed to be sure it could work, and her knowledge of the human body had been invaluable – neither Harry nor Tom had ever cared enough about the details of the human body to gain more than a basic understanding. He had needed someone to assist him in the tests.
"I think so, yes," Harry agreed with her. "I have what I'll need; I know what I need to know; I know how to get in and how to get out again. I'm sorry to have dragged you into this, but..."
"Stop," she ordered. "I told you I would help you, and I will. It was me who offered it. And I helped because I wanted to. If you want to do something for me, make sure it will not be in vain. Make sure you are quick about it, and make sure it doesn't hurt. They may be Death Eaters, but..."
"I will," he promised, looking at her sadly. "Do you think it will work?" he asked, ignoring the feeling his target hadn't shown the same kindness towards his victims.
She frowned, biting her lip. "I fear it will, yes. I didn't think so at first..."
"You called me mad," he reminded her with a laugh. "When I first told you about it, you said I was mad for even thinking of it. Especially when I told you it had come to me in a dream."
"And you are mad, Harry, you are, but still, I fear it will work, both the practical application and the..." She broke off, not wanting to voice it. Instead, she placed her hand on the table. "One last time? Please? Just to make sure we haven't forgotten anything?"
He sighed, tired of the endless repeats. It was times like these that he could feel the burden of the war on him. Without it, he could have spent his time at school, joking with his friends or complaining about assignments. Instead, he had dragged Hermione into a mess that might weigh heavily on their conscience for the rest of their lives, all because something needed to be done. But if it meant putting her worries to rest and distract her from the darker thoughts, he could talk it through once more.
"I will go to him. He shouldn't have all that much of a protection around him, he doesn't like hiding behind wards. Additionally, he won't expect an attack, so it should be relatively easy to get the drop on him. He might be a skilled fighter, but he's still someone who will feel safe with the protection of the Ministry backing him nowadays; I will have little problem subduing him – one of the advantages of him living alone. I'll go in and beat him before he even knows what is going on. Once that's done, it'll be child's play."
"What kind of child..." she began.
"You know what I mean," Harry interrupted, rolling his eyes. "The only part with any real risk is subduing him, after that, it's just a few minutes of transfiguration, healing, and obliviation. I'll remove any traces I've been there and leave without him knowing any better."
"Harry," she began, but he cut her off.
"No, Hermione. I know the plan. You know the plan. And we both know it will rely mostly on my quick thinking and a swift, clean strike. We've gone over it for days, but that's about as detailed of a plan as we can come up with. I need to adapt to the situation anyway, and I was always quite good at thinking on my feet. And before you start, yes, it has to be me. Again, I know this, you know this. I can trick the wards. For all intents and purposes, I can be Tom Riddle. I can use the back door to Walden's lair. And I'm fairly certain I can knock him out before he can call for help. And in the end, it was my idea. It was me who wanted to do something. It was me who came up with the basic idea and some crucial parts of the final plan, no matter how little there actually is. Or do you want to be the one?"
She avoided his eye. Both knew the answer to that. Planning it had been hard enough for her, especially once they had finished thinking about the theory behind it, but actually going through with it would be worse. Premeditated murder wasn't for everyone. "Fine. But be quick about it, all right? I... I hate you going."
"It's not as if I enjoy it, thankfully," Harry told her. "But war..."
"... is about what needs to be done, yes I know," she interrupted. She shook her head. "You know, I wish we could just lie back and let others do their part. Perhaps sit in front of the fire, read stupid stories... we could, I don't know, play a game of sorts. We could try teaching Ron Muggle games. It'd be more fun for us than him, true, but always playing Chess or Exploding Snap can get boring. And Christmas is drawing nearer, yet we're lacking the festive spirit right now. That'd be something I'd want right now, a fun evening with my friends."
"I know," he replied with a sad smile. "I'm..."
"Don't," she advised him. "It's not really your fault. You didn't start the war, and you're trying to do what you can to bring it to an end. That's more than you can say about other people. There's always a next year to have a fun Christmas."
He nodded slowly. "Do you remember our second year? That was fun, wasn't it? It was an adventure – thrilling, but still quite safe."
"What, our second year?" she snorted. "I was stuck in the Hospital Wing for weeks. I had a tail and whiskers. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to sleep with a tail? Especially one you can't control that well? No, Harry, no. For me, second year was bad."
"Third year then?" he offered. "That wasn't so bad, right? And there was no threat upon our lives."
"That was when you thought Sirius was after you," she pointed out, crossing her arms in challenge. "That put a damper on our moods. And you also thought it had been Sirius who had sold your parents out. No, that wasn't any fun either, not with your mood. And fourth year wasn't much better," she said before he could bring it up. "While the ball was very nice and fun..."
"Speak for yourself," Harry scowled.
"Well, I try to, but you interrupted. Anyway, Victor was certainly nice and a good date – don't tell Ron that, he's bad enough about that as it is," she added hastily, and he zipped his mouth shut, "the aftermath was a disaster. Ron and I probably woke up half the school with our yelling, Hagrid got in trouble, you were the target of much gossip in the dorm..."
"I was?" Harry interrupted once more.
"Not favourably," she told him with a shake of his head. "And I had to endure Parvati and Lavender yelling at me because I hadn't taught you to be a proper gentleman. And before the ball, I had to listen to them gush on about you." She half-heartedly mimed throwing up into her hands.
"Sorry about that," he said, fighting down a smile.
"The way they told it, you asked Parvati wearing a shimmering robe of woven light, sitting atop a noble steed you had somehow smuggled into the Common Room – Fred and George heard about that, by the way, and tried to smuggle one in just for fun, did you know? – and serenaded her while a soft wind ruffled your hair. Honestly, those two girls are..." She sighed, but there was a hint of fondness in her expression. "So fourth year was bad as well."
"First year wasn't so bad, although we were apart that year," Harry muttered. "But I found my parents."
Her hand twitched for a moment, but she didn't reach out to him again. "They are with you, Harry. Always. You didn't have to find them."
He sent her a sad smile. "If you say so. I'd have liked to see them alive once, though. Happy, I mean, not running in fear. That was the first time I could put a face to the names, and it was the first and so far only time I saw them looking at me. Well, I mean..."
"I know what you mean," Hermione told him. "There will be a Christmas next year, though. We will get together and have a peaceful time by the fire, all right? And you can have another merry holiday."
He tilted his head in question.
Hermione sent him a meaningful smile. "Our time at school might have been flecked with grim days, but you had your first year. That was nice, you said so, even if we were apart back then. And I'm sure your first Christmas was also wonderful, whether you were a baby or not doesn't change that." She frowned for a moment. "Harry, I've been meaning to ask you... are you sure you can do this? That you can go out and... I had hoped you would change your mind, but..."
"A month ago, I couldn't have done it. Today? Yes. It needs to be done. I know what I have to do. I know how I'll do it." He stared off into the distance. "I have what I need," he told her, patting his pocket. "I'll send word." He grabbed the cloak and the bag they had prepared and went to the door. Neither Ron nor Greengrass were there. He was glad; he wouldn't have wanted either to see him leave. Only Hermione and he knew of their plan. Only those that needed to know – a small group, a dedicated group for a grim task.
Business was roaring in the small corner of the street. People didn't like moving about, yes, and everyone with a less than proper background kept off the streets as much as possible, but in Knockturn Alley, the customers were not only almost unchanged, but also more numerous. It was fortunate for those who had their stores there, and the change in the Ministry had been the cause of many good deals. Without the ban on anything slightly less-than-light, stores were finally free to be, to buy and sell whatever took their fancy. Some customers had returned to their old habits and the honoured traditions – always welcome, always a good deal – some were looking for insights into the darker or older aspects of magic, and some wanted to blend in with the crowd. They were inexperienced when handling dark items; they were easy prey and very easy to trick, paying double or triple the actual price and not looking too closely at what they had actually bought. As long as they were told it was powerful and of the right kind, they didn't question it too much.
Then there were the entertaining people as well, Borgin mused, walking down the street. Run-down witches and wizards bringing in precious heirlooms, trying to make a bit of gold. Some had real treasures. Just the previous day, a girl barely over twenty had come in with a set of priceless books a friend had given her. Or so she had claimed, hiding herself from view. The pittance she had gotten for them might have been meant to buy herself her freedom, yet it had probably cost her dearly. It had likely made its way into the pockets of the cut-throats lurking around the alley, and she had perhaps ended up in a ditch – unless she was smart. He doubted it. She had been easy prey for him, she had likely been easier prey for the usual crowd around Knockturn Alley.
Customers like those were too desperate to care for what they got. Knockturn Alley was no place for them, but they had little alternative. Mr. Prancer with his store in Diagon Alley had tried his hand at it, even if he had previously dealt with antiques of less dubious origin. That had ended, naturally, when he had been arrested a week ago and had left his children to take care of the shop. When the daughter hadn't shown up the next day, the son had gotten the message. If not, there was little doubt he would get a few reminders by owl.
That left considerably more business in the shady alley off to the side, and all for just a bit of gold for the right people. Yes, the new rule had its advantages, one of them the corrupt Ministry, and having served Death Eaters for a while when it had still been frowned upon didn't hurt either. While they rewarded their new friends generously, they also didn't forget their old ones. And favours were more valuable than gold sometimes. Having the right contacts did pay off occasionally.
Walking over to the Leaky Cauldron for a drink, Borgin would have whistled a happy tune, but felt it unfitting. No matter how well the business was, whistling didn't fit a keen-eyed, slippery store owner. People came into the shop because they knew they would be well-taken care of or had no alternative. He nodded towards one of the passing purebloods. Alphert Moorlay, lanky and unscrupulous, replied in kind, both recognizing the other's worth in society. Borgin didn't mind him, not with the amount of gold the other man brought to the store. Who cared if Moorlay had a tendency to lose control once in a while with his conquests if he stayed as important in the Ministry as he had? With a bit of luck, Borgin would even make a good deal with Moorlay once he'd part with his possessions. It was no secret Moorlay wouldn't leave anything to his adulterous wife who preferred sullying herself with Mudbloods and even Muggles. No wonder the family was childless, Borgin reasoned. Such a dishonour couldn't be allowed, and certainly not bear fruit. Why Moorlay hadn't put a stop to his wife's behaviour, Borgin didn't know. Perhaps it was some kind of deal with both ignoring the actions of the other.
"Ah, Mr. Borgin," one of the peddlers whispered, bowing. "I 'ave somethin' mighty fine fer you. Jus' chanced upon it, my brother did, only he's in a bit o' trouble, an' so he asked me ta talk ta you."
Borgin looked the other man over. "And what could be so interesting to disturb me on my walk?" In truth, he had far better uses for his time than dealing with the rabble on the streets, but as a clever businessman, he also knew the crooks of the world occasionally did find something very nice. It was easy to see that whatever was offered to him had been acquired by less-than-legal means, of course, but that didn't say much or mattered any more for people like Borgin.
The seller made to answer, but just as he was about to, movement caught Borgin's eye. He turned his head up, watching in strange fascination as the lump fell from the sky and hit the ground with a crunch. People jumped away from it, but Borgin was far too used to carnage to mind. He walked closer instead, curious whether he could profit from the incident.
He knew the man; Mr. Goyle had sold many of his prized heirlooms over the years. Only the slow breathing told people that he was still alive, but most stared at the exposed arm and the dark mark branded into it.
A red envelope drifted down from above, thrown from somewhere to the left and above, if Borgin had guessed right. Everyone's eye followed it, but before it hit the ground, it opened, and a voice echoed through the Alley that sounded surprisingly pleasant.
"Now that I have your attention," the howler announced, "I present you Christopher Goyle, marked Death Eater." People shuffled away a bit, not wanting to be close to the follower of the Dark Lord who apparently hadn't fallen from the sky by accident, yet unwilling to leave completely. Running from the scene of crime wouldn't look all that good, after all, and drawing suspicion was not a good idea in the present climate. Meanwhile, Goyle had sat up and glanced at his hand in dazed amazement, almost as if he had never seen one before.
"A stain on wizardkind and worthless in general," the disembodied voice continued, "yet he has his uses as you have seen just now, even if they are few – I have your attention. So hear the words, people of Wizarding Britain. Corruption has spread, and evil roams the street. Cowards hiding behind their orders do the bidding of a self-proclaimed Dark Lord." People gasped and shivered, realizing the danger they were likely in just by being present and hearing the speech. Whoever was behind it seemed to challenge the Dark Lord, and that was bad news. But still, running away would draw attention; either way, those who heard were in trouble. "Filth has you cowered in your homes and in the streets. It is time to clean up.
"Today, we gave you Christopher Goyle to serve as a warning of the things to come. When the time comes, he too will have to answer for his crimes, but not today, not after he served so well as the messenger.
"Tomorrow at four past one, it will begin. Tomorrow at four past one, the first of his minions will receive the just punishment for his crimes. Tomorrow at four past one, Walden MacNair, you will meet your end." That brought another gasp, yet no one left. "Your services as your master's butcher are coming to an end."
In the silence that settled, only Goyle seemed unaffected. Drooling, he fell on his back, almost as if he couldn't remember how to sit.
The front door closed, and Hermione jumped to her feet, running into the corridor. He stood there, the cloak dropping off his shoulders, and she had half a mind to run to him and check him over. But she didn't, and she knew he wouldn't want her to. He looked worse than he had when he had left before the break of day.
Still, she had to make sure it really was him.
"The last words the Lady of the house said to you?"
The young man opened his mouth, blinking dazedly as if to decide upon his answer. "The true Blacks will find you and make you pay; rot as your parents do, filth," he told Hermione. It was him all right. It really was Harry. She also didn't have to ask the question. He added, "It is done. Message delivered. They might already know by now. I've... Tomorrow, we'll know for sure."
She didn't know what to say. Instinct told her the reply should be 'Good,' or maybe something about time to reconsider, but she didn't consider it an appropriate response at all. A man was about to die. It was anything but 'good'. So she kept quiet.
"I'll go upstairs," he said, "I'm tired. Would you tell Ron I'm all right?"
"I will," she promised and watched him ascend the stairs, hoping he'd find the sleep he had missed the last days.
When she reached the kitchen, she found Ron bent over notes and a meal. His head snapped up when he heard her.
"Is he back?" he asked immediately.
"He's back, and unharmed," she confirmed. "We'll see how he'll deal with it come tomorrow, but..." Silence settled as both stared at each other, unsure of what to do.
"He asked me to tell you," Hermione added after a moment. "You know, for all his talk, for all our time planning and preparing, I hadn't thought he'd really go through with it. I thought he'd..." She broke off, thinking about how she felt.
"He chose to do it," Ron spoke up. "It was his decision, even if we don't like it, wasn't it? That's what you said. And he might still not go through with it. Tomorrow, you said? Well, that's still some time away, isn't it? Time for him to come to his senses, time for something to go wrong. Who knows, maybe Riddle will die from the shock when he hears the challenge?"
She sighed heavily. His decision, yes, that was true. It had been his decision, and it had been hers to help him. He may have done it, but she had lent her help. If he'd have blood on his hands, then so would she. "Still, he can't. Not any more. If he... we stopped now, what message would that send? That no one seriously threatens You-Know-Who or his followers. Now it truly needs to be done. A grim day, Ron." For days she had kept the guilt in check, had told herself something would go wrong, or they would stop at the last moment. They hadn't, and things had been set into motion that couldn't be stopped any more.
"Are you all right?" Ron asked, rising to his feet.
"Do I look all right?" she replied, humourless laughter bubbling from her for a moment.
"Well, I..." he stuttered, scratching his neck and blushing. "You look... tired?" He didn't sound as convincing as he could have, but she didn't mind. She knew what he meant well enough and agreed with him.
"Tired?"
"Yeah. Did you sleep last light? I know you and you probably didn't."
She didn't respond, but her face probably told enough. He stepped closer, opening his arms. After a moment of hesitation, she closed the distance. For a while, they stood in the kitchen, taking comfort in each other's presence. It was nice, she knew, mostly because she didn't have to think about morality, about murder or war or death. For a while, she was herself, the way she should have been – a girl of eighteen. For a while, there were no worlds to save or condemn, and the most she had to worry about was her own life.
"Come on, then," Ron told her. "Go to bed, get some sleep. I'll do fine on my own for a while, and I'm sure the world will be there tomorrow. Or the day after that. Don't think about the future, Mum used to say. Granted, after the twins took that lesson to heart, she changed her mind, but still."
She chuckled, stepping away from him. "Don't you think about the future? About the time after all this madness? About what you want to do once the war is over?"
Ron sighed. "For a long time, as a child, I had dreamed about becoming a Quidditch star. Childish dreams, I know, but for some, it becomes reality. I doubt I'd be of much use, though. I love the game, but I'm no star material."
"You aren't bad," she told him loyally. "With a bit of work, you might make it, and if it's something you love, why not go for it? Didn't Charlie follow his dreams?"
"Thanks," Ron told her, turning to pacing, "and yes, he did. But that wasn't what I meant. As a child, I wanted to be someone. I wanted people to see me and say, 'Look, that's him, that's the Ronald Weasley. You know, the one from all those magazine covers? Did you hear how awesome he is?' I wanted to be noticed and acknowledged, but watching Harry, I saw what it would mean. I love the game, I love to play, yes. But I'm no star. I want people to notice me, not gawk wherever I go. I want people to talk to me, not adore me and stutter through half the conversation. Not anymore. Perhaps I could go for trainer; I do know a bit about the game, but as a player, I wouldn't feel at ease, sadly. It'd be either constantly dodging the wrong kind of attention or, you know, failing at the job so I won't get that attention in the first place."
"When did you grow up, Ronald Weasley?" she joked.
"I dunno," he told her over his shoulder. "Anyway, Auror did sound good for a time. Catching the bad guys, doing something worthwhile. But we're in a war, the one chance to do something, and all I do is read and work and train. And all I can think is, 'Thank Merlin, it's not me out there.' Yeah, catching the bad guys sounds awesome, but it's also very dangerous and difficult. I doubt I could do it well enough, you know? Only trouble is, I don't have the brains to do much else, do I? Well, Trainer might work, I already said that. Perhaps I'll wait for Hooch to leave. She's, what? A hundred?"
Hermione placed a hand on his shoulder. "You could become something else, Ron. There are other jobs. There are other opportunities for you. I don't know about Flying instructor at Hogwarts, but perhaps one of your brothers will know something?"
"What, helping around the store?" Ron scoffed.
"Or one day managing a branch of it," Hermione pointed out. "Or maybe you could work for the Ministry once it's been cleaned out?"
"Become like Dad?"
"Who is a nice man working hard for his family and well-liked among his co-workers," Hermione reminded him.
"I know that," Ron said, chuckling, "but he's also obsessed with Muggles; he'd pay the Ministry if they let him continue his work with their trinkets. He loved that dead-end."
"You needn't be stuck with office duties most of the time, or one office you don't like," Hermione replied. "Once the war is over, they'll need some people to fill spots in many departments."
"Magical maintenance?"
"Or guarding duties," Hermione pointed out. "Or maybe one of the more exciting offices? It would make your mother happy knowing at least one of her children isn't throwing him- or herself into danger at every opportunity. Perhaps you could indeed follow your father, though," she said, frowning. "In some way, at least. Why not petition to have a pureblood and a Muggleborn work together in something like a Liaisons office? One knows the magical world, the other the Muggle's. That might help avoid problems like the World Cup confusion."
"But still," Ron groaned, "Dad would never stop talking about that, then. And, you know, Percy's working there too. No, that'd be too weird."
It was not a good day for him, he thought grimly as he worked. People kept glancing at him, and he really didn't like that. Why had they stuck him with boring desk work? Didn't they know who he was? And yet he sat in the chair, obediently writing the stupid report while others were out and doing the noble work. They were probably laughing at him behind his back, MacNair just knew they were, and perhaps even calling him a coward. As if he had chosen to stay in the Ministry! And to think he had had to fight to be allowed that much. Minister Thicknesse had seen the incident as most troubling, had wanted one of the most reliable workers to go home or hide.
But MacNair wasn't frightened. So someone wanted him dead. Well, let them come, he thought, let them come and see what they would get. A bloody nose and their loved ones hanging from a tree, that's what. Or maybe put them to work like Mudbloods. Easy work to get that through most of the time, MacNair figured, even if wasn't his department. One wipe, a few spells, a bit of parchment work, maybe a bit of gold one way or another, and people could be useful all right. If he had his way, if it were his decision, they'd do that. Killing people was nice, yes, but so final. Having them work one way or another, now there was some gold to be made.
Placing another form aside, MacNair thought about the past day. About twenty-four hours earlier, everything had been fine. Mudbloods had been in their place, traitors were being rounded up, the Dark Lord had everything under control, and he had been a valuable worker for both the Ministry and his master. Of course, those were now one and the same, but that just made his job easier. No longer did he have to pay attention or hold back when doing his work for the former, he could finally kill when he felt like it without getting the clearance first. And then that fat lump had to fall from the sky, right in the middle of Diagon Alley.
A quick investigation had revealed the truth. Someone had grabbed Goyle right off the streets sometime during the night, it seemed. Neither his wife nor his daughter had seen him return. How the assailant had done it, no one was certain. On the other hand, Goyle's habits were no secret, and his visits to shady taverns late at night for one reason or the other made him an easy target, his already simple mind not complicating it either before someone had tampered with it. Yet he was still a tall man, and someone had to have seen something of the fight. But since no one had stepped forward, there had been little about it to be done.
The Ministry had been in upheaval, not over Goyle's fate, but over the threat on MacNair's life. And the Dark Lord hadn't been happy the previous evening. Where Goyle had been held for hours between his likely capture in the night until his unceremonious return as even more of a simpleton, the Dark Lord had asked, but no one had an answer for that. What the assailants had learned from Goyle, the Dark Lord had asked. No one had an answer for that as well. How they had made him gibbering lump of flesh who enjoyed picking his toes more than anything else, the Dark Lord had demanded to know. No one knew.
But the attacker had done a mistake, and one that had saved lives – Death Eater's lives, at least, and what else mattered? In their hubris, they had sent the announcement and made their intentions clear to the world; that had sealed their fate. Threatening people's lives couldn't be allowed and was something the Ministry could work against with full force and in the open. There was no need to bother the Death Eaters, no need to deal with it in person, he had explained. They had wisely agreed. Dealing with the upstarts, keeping people in line, that was Ministry work, the Dark Lord had pointed out, and since that was their purpose, the Ministry had been allowed to investigate. Thicknesse hadn't needed the orders, but they certainly helped, and as a result, it was only a question of time until those idiots would meet their end.
Yet Walden MacNair had had to fight to be allowed to come to work at all. Thicknesse had wanted him safe? Just what did they expect to happen? Wasn't he an even easier target sitting in one place? And anyway, killing him wasn't as easy as one might think. He wasn't some weakling. He was the butcher of the Dark Lord, they said. Let them speak, MacNair thought with a twisted smile. He liked that; he might not be from a wealthy family or of high renown, he couldn't deliver valuable information, but he could kill. He was good at it. So if they called him a butcher, he didn't mind. Calling him the Dark Lord's butcher even seemed like a compliment. He was the weapon of the Dark Lord, ready to strike wherever necessary.
Another form went to the stack of finished work. One day, he'd have to petition to have the paperwork lessened. What good did it do? Why all these additional statements when the truth was so simple? 'Didn't pay. Pet classed as dangerous. Split head. Owner complained. Prison sentence.' There wasn't really any need to go into detail, was there? Sometimes, MacNair wished he'd joined Umbridge's office. She seemed reasonable. 'Mudblood mouthed off. Split head, job done.' There, what more needed to be said? But no, instead form after form about one beast or another had to go over desks and then into files no one would ever bother look into.
The clock on the wall chimed one. Four minutes, MacNair thought to himself. Four minutes until the lie would be exposed. Five until he'd have proven them wrong. Kill him, as if. Let them try, Walden thought.
He pulled another parchment towards him, this time a proposal the department head thought important. MacNair didn't see why it would matter. He scratched a few lines on the parchment, adding his wisdom. Beasts were beasts, he thought, but they still had their uses. Going after werewolves wasn't all that wise at the moment. No, that would have to wait until the reformation of the Ministry was done. Once the Dark Lord had full control and had removed all those troublemakers, once Wizarding Britain and maybe the world were the Dark Lord's, then the werewolves could be dealt with without having to bother with pesky laws.
He grabbed the next form. A wild beast scaring a few children. The owners were impoverished. Since little gold was to be made from them, MacNair signed the execution order. One less problem in the future. Maybe he'd even get to do it himself.
Two minutes to go, he saw. Idiots, the lot of them. As if he didn't notice them staring at him. Did they expect him to fall over dead? He wasn't so old yet, and he had kept in form. He still had enough strength left to live a few decades at least. What had Thicknesse been playing at, giving him desk work for the day? What did that tell about the Ministry? It said they feared for their workers. It said the Ministry was weak, and worried they might not stop the attack. It also implied that he couldn't protect himself, and worse, that it was him that needed protection if it came to an attack.
And what had those useless Aurors done? Walked all around, bothering him for nothing. They'd checked his meals over, they had checked his mail, they had checked the entire office and everyone coming to work. That had caused more problems than it had solved. He was perfectly fine. Nothing would happen, they would see.
Maybe he should adopt that moniker? Walden MacNair, the Butcher of the Dark Lord. True, it was not the same as being the right hand, but it was better than nothing, and it did have a nice ring to it. It spoke of his accomplishments, for one.
One minute. People stopped their work, some striking up talks, covertly glancing his way, others not bothering to hide their interest. Fisk and Farley, the two guards posted at his side shifted nervously. Neither had what it took to be a Death Eater, MacNair thought grimly. Neither had the guts to do as ordered without thinking. All they had to do was stand around and stay awake. Yet both were thinking, something they weren't ordered to. And Farley looked as if he hadn't needed to before in his life. Fisk, rat-faced and crouched as she was, might have made a decent help for some jobs, but she too was too interested in her own safety to risk taking the Mark. MacNair had an eye for things like that. Years of dealing with death meant he could call them as he saw them. Neither was above taking the rewards though. Fisk had gotten a promotion just a few days ago, in fact, for helping to bring that oaf to justice.
Why had Thicknesse even decided to have him guarded, MacNair thought. He was perfectly capable of defending himself. He would have loved to see whoever had made the threat try something. What would they do, burst in through the door now? Where was the fun, where the thrill, if you weren't allowed to kill your own enemies? It also made revenge difficult if he could go after loved ones.
Ten seconds. Five. MacNair pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. The clock showed four minutes after one. He was still alive, yet it wasn't his accomplishment. They had taken that chance to prove himself from him, but he would be damned if he didn't use the opportunity to show them his courage. He didn't cower behind his desk. He was a Death Eater; he had gladly taken the Mark and the risk attached to it to do the dirty work for the noble cause. He was meant to face his opponents and kill them, he was meant to pay the occasional visits to dissenters, and he was glad to do the bloody work.
"So, anyone wants to try their luck?" he called out to the room. "Show yourselves if you are there! I'll even let you have the first strike!" No one jumped up, of course. All smoke and worries and stupid mind games. No one dared to go against Walden MacNair, the Butcher of the Dark Lord, he thought with a grim smile.
"Didn't think so," he yelled. Turning, he told his guards, "I don't think you are needed any longer. Go on, and tell the Minister I'm still here." He laughed, and others joined in nervously. One did not oppose a Death Eater, after all.
And then he felt it, a sudden pain before something travelled down and to his chest as if he had swallowed something too large; it was too sudden to stop it. His eyes bulged; he gripped his robes, stumbled. Too shocked to speak, he fell over the desk, dimly aware of people rushing around like headless chickens. He felt something was off and had trouble breathing, his heart hammering as he started to sweat profusely in panic, he saw the shadows moving, heard the hubbub, yet all he could do was wonder feebly how they had done it. He hadn't seen anyone. No spells had come his way, as far he had seen, so how had the attackers done it? How had they gotten in, where were they, how had they killed him?
His hands clawed into the parchment he had been working on moments before, and a burning pain started in his arms and legs, travelling up as the world drifted away from him. As he breathed his last, his eyes rolling up in his head, he felt like cursing, in part because he wouldn't get his professional interest sated. Felled, dying without a battle, but at a desk. He had brought shame upon himself and couldn't even take an enemy with him. A shame, not to have dipped his axe into some pretty flesh before he died.
With a last shudder, he passed away.
Meanwhile, in a hidden house in London, Harry Potter stared at his now empty hand and the wand in the other, as deafening silence pressed in on him.
Well, there you go. One dead Death Eater and another possibly taken out of the fight. I don't think 'Don't kill the messenger' is usually meant that way, but it does work. I for one am looking forward to many more scenes about the hilarious adventures of Mr. Borgin - far too few authors bother with him, making him unjustly overlooked in fanon.
