Chapter Fifty-Seven

Harry couldn't stop thinking about it.

It had been two days since he had fallen into Professor Dumbledore's pensieve.

Two days since the truth – a slither of it, anyway – had been revealed to him; the reason Voldemort had been so determined to kill him, that night he had told his Uncle Sirius to stand aside and allow him to do so.

Snape had known of it.

Of course, he had, Harry thought, bitterly; he always knew.

He knew everything. Held everything back.

At least, from Harry, he did.

Because whichever way Harry turned it over in his mind, he could not help but be certain that Voldemort knew the prophecy, too. He had certainly known that Harry was – he had to keep himself from scoffing – the great threat that had come for him, or was supposed to, eventually, at some point.

But there were only two people there that night – for Professor Trelawney didn't seem to realise or remember what had happened – and they were Dumbledore and Snape.

And Harry knew what Snape had been.

There was only one person who could have told Voldemort what had been said that night.

Harry tried to deny it to himself at first – not wanting to believe it, no, not now, not when things were finally good – and thought, maybe, it had happened again, sometime afterwards. Maybe Professor Trelawney had continued to make the same pronouncement. Even just to one more person would let Snape off the hook.

But Harry knew that was stupid.

Snape had been a Death Eater.

Harry didn't know when or why he had turned to Dumbledore or what had made him a spy, but he certainly hadn't been one of Dumbledore's men that night.

And so Harry spent the days brooding, turning it all over his mind, counting down the days until Snape would be back at the Castle – five more days to go – and he'd finally learn the truth of it once and for all.

Determined, that this time, Snape would tell him everything.

There was a stir in the quiet.

The quiet was always suspect. When the followers were not summoned before their Dark Lord, on their knees before him in open worship or writhing in agony, it meant that the wheels were in motion.

The wheels of a plan that only a select few knew the details of.

Severus was not one of those few.

Not this time.

Instead, he had been dispatched, with a scroll of requested potions, down to the basement of the Manor.

That would not do.

Severus spent the few days following entirely engrossed and up to his eyeballs in brewing – knowing better than to not turn in his best work – as he considered what measures could be taken to ensure that his rank was elevated, further, so that he would be privy to whatever was unfolding upstairs.

As far as he knew, only a small handful of followers were in this case.

Bellatrix.

Lucius.

Barty.

The Carrows.

And, if Severus' suspicions were confirmed, the mysterious Ministry contact who had been in and out of the Manor, several times that week.

There was a knock at the door to the basement, before it opened, and Narcissa walked in, a tray of refreshments held in her hands.

Severus fought to keep from frowning at the sight; "Narcissa."

He did not move from his spot behind the cauldron, as she put the tray down upon the desk in the corner.

"I thought you might be hungry."

Severus didn't point out that she was doing the work of a house elf, only inclined his head in thanks; "It is much obliged. Thank you."

Narcissa glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the door, before going on; "I also wanted to thank you. For all that you've been doing for Draco these past few years."

She stepped towards where he was standing and her behaviour was so odd, so out of place, that Severus knew there was something amiss.

"Only what is expected, of a Head of House towards one of his students," Severus stated, turning his attention to the brew before him; "He is a gifted student. Indeed, one of the most capable within his year."

A bit too soft, Severus did not say aloud, a bit too much like a certain cousin of his, at that age. Much too eager to please and to bend to the will of his parents which, in the case of Narcissa, may not prove to be too much of an issue.

His father's return, however, would not be without effect.

"Well, I'm glad to hear he's thriving. In that environment, at least," Narcissa said, and Severus glanced at her, briefly. Regulus had been right when he had said she was entirely readable – not at all suited to the role the Dark Lord had granted her with, when sending her back to the Foundation – and Severus shook his head ever so slightly, so that she might realise and change tact.

She didn't.

"He has struggled, I think, with the busyness of the Manor during his times here – particularly with the frequent inspections by the Ministry, much too close a call on each account – I had wanted to keep him at Hogwarts for the holidays but his father insisted…well. He misses him, of course."

Severus gave a nod, carrying on with his work.

"But I thought in the summer, I'd take him away. If the Dark Lord should grant us leave, of course. Allow him to be a boy for a little while; I'm sure there will be a number of assignments – an honour of course – placed upon him on his return to school in the September."

Severus glanced at her, wondering if Narcissa was trying to get him on board with convincing the Dark Lord to let Draco off the hook – not that he had been assigned a particularly grievous task – and surely she knew he could not get involved in such matters.

No one had that kind of influence – certainly not him – and even if he did, he would not exert it over something so minor as to absolve a child from merely reporting on what he could see with his very own eyes happening within the school.

"My sisters and I, we have fond memories of time spent at the beach as children. So, I had been looking along the coast. Wyndman's Brae or Rockley Mor –"

Severus glanced at her, at the drivel she was spouting, wondering when she would just get to it. He was so baffled at the words coming from her mouth that he almost missed it – almost – when the word slipped from her mouth.

"- Crail –"

Only years and years of carefully fostered control over himself and his emotions stopped him from dropping the entirety of the ingredients held within his hand into the cauldron it was suspended above, as his eyes snapped back to Narcissa's.

Her eyes were on him, even as she carried on speaking her utter nonsense – "…but, of course, the natural beauty of these areas are not enough to make up for the entirely repugnant presence of…" – and he nodded, slightly, so that she might understand he knew what it was she was trying to say.

She cut off, with a smile; "Forgive me, Severus. I quite got away from myself for a moment. Don't let me keep you from your brewing."

"No harm done, Narcissa."

She headed for the door, eyes glancing back at him, briefly, when she reached it before she slipped from the room.

Severus drew in a breath, unconsciously carrying on with the task at hand, even as his mind raced.

Crail.

The Dark Lord had found them.

It was Wednesday.

Harry and Grace would be – should be – back at the Castle, for he had arranged their visit only for the weekend, prior. Though the possibility that they weren't was not a risk he was willing to take.

And, even if Harry and Grace were safely back at Hogwarts, Regulus and Malachi most certainly wouldn't be.

There were few – very few – things that Severus might risk blowing his cover for. A fact that caused frequent tension previously – and was likely to continue to do so, in times ahead – between himself and Harry.

But this was one of them.

Kissing was easy once they'd done it a few times.

Malachi was careful not to press too close.

To 'be a gentleman' as his dad had insisted, during his mortifying speech last summer on how to conduct oneself when getting 'familiar' with the opposite sex.

It was a bit difficult, though, when they were lying down where they were on the grass in the park.

"There's a fair coming into the village over this weekend," Emma told him, as she drew back a bit; "You wanna go?"

It was a stark reminder of his impending departure.

"Oh," Malachi glanced down, "I can't. I…I have to go back to school tomorrow."

"Oh."

She sounded disappointed, drawing back from him a bit more to look at him at the – probably completely unexpected - statement. He was disappointed. He'd quite happily just stay here and be Max for the rest of the year.

"Yeah, it's…it's a boarding school," Malachi explained; "I won't be back for a while."

Not until the summer.

And Emma would have long forgotten him by then.

Malachi was sure he'd never forget her.

"Well, you could call," she suggested.

Malachi gave a small smile, wishing that were true; "They're kind of anti-technology over there. It's all quills and parchment and, what do they call it, snail mail?"

He said it as if it were a joke and she grinned, raising her eyebrows.

"Write me then. You can show off all those impressive calligraphy skills they must be teaching you."

"Alright," Malachi agreed, wondering if that was something he could actually make work. There was a ton of underhanded exchanges and favours like that going on under the professors' noses – well, maybe not quite like this particular situation – but he was sure he'd be able to find someone to make a trade off with. Obviously, not in Slytherin; they'd need to be a muggleborn, with links to the muggle world. Maybe the Ravenclaws would have someone.

"And I'll write you," Emma said, complicating the situation further – that'd be a bit harder to navigate – before she asked; "Which school is it?"

"Oh, I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"It's top secret."

"Top secret?" she repeated, with a laugh in her voice; "Sounds awfully mysterious."

"That's right," Malachi was grinning as he said it; "You could even say other worldly."

"Oh my, I had no idea you were so special, Max," Emma tilted her head to the side and Malachi chuckled, leaning in for another kiss.

"I'll write you first," Malachi told her when he drew back, a bit more confident that he'd be able to find someone to sort this out with; "Return address will be on the letter. I won't know it until I get back."

"That right?"

"Would I lie to you?" Malachi countered.

"Oh, I'm sure you wouldn't dream of it, Son."

Malachi spun to look over his shoulder, beyond horrified to see his dad standing on the grass just a few feet away from them.

He quickly sat up; "Dad."

His dad's arms were crossed and he was eyeing him where he sat and he looked mad.

"Well. You certainly are enjoying yourself, aren't you?"

"I…"

Emma sat up beside him, looking between them at the obviously less-than-warm exchange and lifted a hand, giving a small smile; "Um. Hi Mr. Smith –" Malachi could barely keep from cringing at the name he'd plucked from thin air when she'd asked his surname; " – I'm Emma."

His dad's expression softened slightly under her smile and he gave her a small one in turn; "It's nice to meet you, Sweetheart. Do you mind if I borrow my son for a moment?"

Emma raised her eyebrows, glancing between them and shaking her head; "Uh, no. Sure."

His dad turned and strode several meters away, to the edge of the trees that lined the clearing they had been lying in, and Malachi reluctantly got to his feet and followed.

His dad was glowering into the woods when Malachi reached him, not meeting his eyes.

"You have two minutes –" he said, lowly; " – to say goodbye to that girl."

"Dad –"

Furious eyes met his then.

"Don't tell me that's not generous."

Malachi didn't have to be told twice.

He turned and hurried back, getting to his knees at Emma's side; "You got a…a pen?" He hoped that was right, what it was called, but Emma knew what he meant, even if it was wrong, and reached into her back jean pocket.

"I have an eyeliner pencil."

"Here, write your address on my hand," Malachi whispered, careful to keep his back to his dad and his hand low so that he wouldn't see.

Emma grinned, leaning in close and quickly scribbling it onto his palm.

Malachi looked at the scribble, committing it to memory, when she was done and raised his eyes to hers, giving her a warm smile; "I'll write you," he promised.

Her smile widened; "You better."

Malachi hesitated, aware his dad's eyes were upon them, and Emma looked uncertain, too, that they actually had an audience. But then Malachi smirked and leaned in, kissing her deeply, and she laughed into his mouth, her hands coming up to either side of his face, kissing him back with the same enthusiasm.

Emma was blushing when he drew back and got to his feet.

He gave her one last smile, turned and made his way in the direction of his dad.

He did his best not to physically shrink under the weight of the disappointment that was clearly visible in his dad's eyes but he didn't have to look at it for long as, once his dad was sure he was coming, he turned his back on him and walked ahead.

They walked back in the direction of the cottage, his dad a few steps in front.

"Thought you said you wouldn't be home 'till lunch," Malachi finally said, already beginning to regret his behaviour when his dad's silence stretched. He never did well under his dad's censure.

His dad's head turned slightly, as if to look at him, but he didn't, stopping himself, and instead opted to carry on walking when he answered; "With it being your last day I thought you might want the company. Though you seem to have taken good enough care of that yourself."

Malachi glowered, bristling under his dad's disapproval; "You shouldn't have bothered."

His dad spun round – obviously that was enough to ignite the fury that Malachi had noticed brimming – and Malachi froze in his steps.

"Have you lost your mind?" his dad's voice was low, but just as livid as if he had bellowed; "Bad enough to be sneaking out at all, but to be with this girl?"

"She's a nice girl, Dad. You'd like her."

"She's a muggle."

"So? Julia's muggleborn."

His dad – if it were possible – looked even more furious at the comparison; "Muggleborn, Malachi. But still a witch. You know Wizarding Law; the Statute prohibits this."

Malachi shook his head – he knew the Statute inside out – and said; "That's not true. Wizards can be with muggles."

"Under the bonds of marriage. You're a fourteen-year-old boy."

"I haven't told her anything."

"You think I didn't hear what you were saying to her?"

"I was joking, Dad. She knew it was a joke."

"No, Son, she thought it was a joke."

Malachi gave a shrug; "Well, I don't believe in the Statute of Secrecy, anyway."

His dad's eyes closed, utter exasperation replacing his fury for a moment; "Malachi. Don't start."

"It should be abolished. I don't recognize it."

"This is not a joke, Son!" his dad snapped, his voice rising for the first time during their exchange; "This is not some political statement, this is your life. Do you know what they do to underage wizards who breach the Statute of Secrecy? Malachi, they could expel you for this."

"Good. I hate it there, anyway."

"Since when?"

"Since always. I'd rather just stay –"

His dad grabbed him, suddenly pushing him down, his wand drawn in a flash and a spell was quickly – barely – deflected and struck a nearby tree.

"Wha –"

More spells were fired their way and his dad scrambled to throw up a shield charm; "Malachi, Malachi, the portkey –"

Malachi reached into his pocket, frantically, while attempting to duck the spells that were firing at them from all sides – the ones his dad couldn't deflect – and he got a hold of the portkey but as he tugged the fabric that covered it, he was knocked to the side by his dad as he struggled to deflect another shot of light and the notebook fell to the ground, tumbling a few feet away.

"Get you wand out, Son!"

Malachi drew it and fired a spell at one of the masked figures – the Death Eaters, Malachi realized with rising panic – that was gaining on them – but it was, obviously, deflected immediately – and the Death Eater he had aimed for cackled with laughter as he felt his dad grab him and throw him behind himself.

"Aww, look at little Reggie protecting his itty baby Black," a horrible voice purred from behind the mask; "Oh, he does look like us, doesn't he?"

Malachi gripped his wand tight and deflected another spell that fired their way from the left – another and another – but it was less ferocious than when they had first attacked, having quickly managed to surround them.

"Let him go and I'll come with you."

"No. Dad!"

There was another cackle of laughter from behind the same mask that spoke; "Do you think this is a negotiation, baby cousin? Dream, dream, dreamer, that's what me and my sisters always used to call you -" she twirled her wand between her fingers, up next to her face; "- head always up in the clouds."

His dad looked down, gripping his wand tight, before he glowered at the masked woman before him. There were five of them, Malachi counted, and he felt his dad's hand on his arm, squeezing it tight, his voice a whisper; "Son. Get to that portkey."

That was the rule.

It was always the rule.

Malachi was to run and he was to leave his dad behind.

Let them take him.

But now that it was actually happening Malachi couldn't move from his place behind him.

He couldn't.

The masked woman swiped her wand past her face, revealing herself to them. She looked so much like his Auntie Andie that Malachi couldn't look away from her for a moment.

And then her eyes glinted in a way that his aunt's never had, as she snarled and lifted her wand and shot spell after spell after spell after spell at his dad, with a speed and a ferocity that made the combat training they'd been engaged in at the Duel Club look like a complete and utter joke – it didn't even come close to preparing them for this – and his dad struggled and struggled and struggled to deflect the attack until, finally, one got him and he hit the ground.

It took all of ten seconds for it to happen, the woman – his Auntie Andie's sister – was so fast. So fast that Malachi only just registered that his dad was still conscious and breathing before he, himself, was hit with something so excruciating that he hit the ground screaming.

"Crucio!"

"No! Bella! NO!"

He could only just hear his dad's voice past the agony, past his own wails, the burning and the coiling and the searing and the throbbing and the piercing – it was every kind of pain imaginable, worse than what was imaginable, rolled into one – and he sobbed and screamed and begged for it to stop.

He twisted and writhed and turned and moved every which way, any way he could, for relief, just to make it stop but the searing pain only increased with each passing second and he screamed and screamed and screamed; it was torture. But even that word didn't do justice how it felt.

He would surely die.

He wanted to die.

He screamed for it to stop. Begged them. Begged them.

Or maybe it was his dad who was begging for it to stop. His voice was so faint and Malachi was lost in his own torment.

And, then, abruptly, it ceased and there were spells being fired from everywhere above him, all of a sudden, and there were screeches and yells and the scramble of battle all around him where he lay.

His dad skidded to his knees beside him, looking at him for a second with his hand on his cheek – "Malachi" – and then he was back up on his feet but his dad didn't leave his side as he continued to duel the Death Eaters that had come for them.

Malachi tried to clutch for his wand, tried to get his own heaving breaths and the twitch of his limbs under control, but his arms and legs wouldn't move the way he wanted them to and little spasms of pain kept firing through his veins and he was just uselessly lying there, his eyes darting back and forth among those who were fighting and he realized, then, that the Order had come.

Dora was there.

And there were others – more than enough to outnumber the Death Eaters – and he heard the sound, the pops of the disapparating Death Eaters begin to join the dimming sound of battle, as he drew in a trembling breath and his eyes drifted closed.

Regulus stood at the door to his son's room, watching as Julia moved around his unconscious form, lifting his eyelids and checking his vitals and holding various phials and goblets of potions to his lips, before waving a lit wand over his small frame.

He looked so small, so fragile where he lay upon the bed.

If Regulus had thought he was beside himself when he had returned home early that morning – with the intention of surprising his son with a trip into muggle Manchester for the afternoon – then he had been in for a rude awakening.

He had stalked the winding streets of the village – quickly deducing from the absence of his son's muggle jeans and jacket, that his son had blatantly disregarded the rules and had left the house willingly – for a good half hour before he'd finally caught sight of his son fooling around – so visibly that Regulus had almost convinced himself that it couldn't possibly be him – in the park with a girl.

To say that Regulus was furious was an understatement. But, of course, that was not the worst of it.

There was then the overhearing of the comments his son was making – flippantly – about other worlds and quills and parchments and a vow to actually continue a communication with this girl beyond his current – entirely unacceptable – behaviour.

And then came the attitude.

And then the Statute disregard.

And, then, the worst of it.

A thing of his worst nightmares.

Death Eaters turning up on their doorstep – how on this Earth had that happened – and his sociopathic bitch of a cousin brutalizing his boy right in front of him as he lay bound on the grass helpless to do anything but beg for his son's life, and Regulus was entirely convinced that that had been the plan – the ferocity of his cousin's magic leaving no room for doubt – that she was either about to kill his son right in front of him or drive him to madness before Dora had turned up along with others from the Order – the Ministry branch – and saved their skins.

He surely had Severus to thank for that.

Julia approached him, leaving Malachi where he lay on the bed, and Regulus straightened up.

"Is he…"

"He's going to be fine, Regulus."

He felt the tension – most of it, anyway – leave him at her assurance.

"It was a lot. Especially for a kid. But he's tough. He'll be a little weak for a few days – he's probably not gonna be ready for school - and I've given him something to keep him under, at least until the morning. Most of the aftershocks will have subsided by then."

Regulus nodded, glancing in his son's direction. He'd be happy to keep him home a little longer, not quite willing to be parted from him any time soon after what had just happened.

"There's Elmaroot –" Julia went on, placing the phials on the top of the dresser at their side; "And sycamore bark – they'll keep the tremors at bay. They can't be prevented, completely, they'll need to be ridden out. But his pupils, his brain function – there's nothing to worry about there."

Regulus gave her a small smile, his voice quiet, grateful; "Thank you, Julia."

Julia's eyes flickered between his for a second, as if she were reading every thought and fear going through his mind. So much so that he almost looked away – to shield either her or himself from it, he wasn't sure – and then she stepped in further and wrapped her arms around his waist, holding him close.

Regulus didn't even realise he'd needed it.

Not until he was held in her arms.

But when he did, he leaned on her, face burying into her shoulder as his own arms came up to hold her tight.

He had to let her go, treacherous reality reminded him, but the thought only made him hold on tighter. Did so until Julia drew back to look at him, their arms still wound round one another.

"I could stay," she suggested; "In case he wakes in the night and needs something."

Regulus frowned, glancing at his son with concern; "Oh. Do you think he will?"

She had just said he'd be fine and out until morning.

When Julia didn't say anything, he met her eyes once more, and she got a wry smile, shaking her head; "No. No, probably not."

Regulus chuckled and leaned his forehead to hers.

At her unspoken offer to stay to tend to his frayed nerves.

He had to let her go.

He could never do it. He could never say no to the people he loved. He could never turn them away.

Regulus pressed his lips to her temple.

Julia drew him closer and, of course, he went.

Telling himself it'd just be one more night.

Malachi felt like he had slept for an eternity, so groggy was he when he had finally woken, and there was a lightness in his head and a spinning of the ground beneath his feet when he tried to get up.

His dad was at his side, instantly, Julia not too far behind and they had ordered him bedrest for the rest of the weekend.

So, in bed he had stayed.

He lasted until Sunday morning – a full two days – before he grew restless and pushed off the covers and made his way to the kitchen.

He didn't feel as bad as Julia had warned him he might.

Maybe she'd just had a feeling about what was about to come next.

"What's going on?" Malachi frowned, upon entry to the kitchen, when he saw his dad and Julia in deep conversation – obvious concern in both their expressions – but his dad's concern about whatever it was they were talking about quickly became concern for him when he noticed him up.

"Malachi," he walked up to him, placing a hand on his shoulder; "You shouldn't be up. Did you need something?"

"Uh, yeah. To get out of bed," Malachi said, glancing between him and Julia, clearly picking up on the fact something was definitely wrong; "What is it? What happened?"

His dad shook his head, releasing a breath; "It's nothing you need to worry yourself about right now, Son."

"So, there's something then," Malachi's eyes went to the table, where two newspapers were strewn, and he quickly caught sight of the Dark Mark, suspended in the air in a moving swirl, and there was a picture of Crail beside it.

He looked back at his dad, quickly; "The Death Eaters. They…they're still here?"

His dad gave a reluctant nod, sharing a look with Julia; "Yeah. There was an attack on the village last night. One of the families by the park."

Malachi stepped by him and lifted the newspaper, the muggle one, slowly, a feeling of dread coming over him as he glanced at the words beneath the headlines.

Mysterious circumstances…four dead…no survivors…local fisherman, Malcolm MacLean, his wife, Mary, and two children, David, aged seventeen and Emma, aged fourteen.

"So, that's his plan? Attack the villagers until you give yourself up?" Julia was saying, past the ground disappearing beneath Malachi's feet.

"No," his dad said, his voice sounding far away; "It'd be too much of a breach; put the muggles on their guard. He enjoys his games, messing with the Ministry, but an entire village? This…this is –" his dad seemed to struggle to make sense of what it was Voldemort had actually been trying to accomplish in this.

But Malachi knew.

"Dad," Malachi's voice was a hoarse whisper.

"Malachi?" his dad's hand was on his arm, his face immediately concerned; "Son, what is it?"

"It's…it's them, the MacLean's…that's…"

"The muggles? You know them? How –"

Malachi met his dad's eyes but he couldn't see him, couldn't make him out through the blurriness of his vision, past the tight knot that was forming in his stomach; "Dad."

"Oh. Son."

His dad realised, then, it was there in his voice. Still, Malachi found the words pour from him, almost in a stutter.

"I…I never told her anything. She didn't…she didn't know anything. Why…why would they –"

His words ended on a sob.

"Shh. Shh. I've got you," his dad pulled him close, holding him tight.

Malachi clutched at him, his eyes squeezed shut, as he sobbed into his dad's chest; it couldn't be true. It couldn't be true.

Emma couldn't be dead. Not because of him.

"Shh. I've got you, Son."

She couldn't be.

She couldn't.