Harry Potter
and the Death Eater Menace
Harry Potter and all associate characters and situations are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no claim to ownership.
CHAPTER 31: Blackest Day pt. 3 (The Women)
The Leaky Cauldron
Diagon Alley
4:45 p.m.
Ted Tonks grimaced in pain as he flexed his wand hand and ruefully examined the vivid red scar that cut across it. It was an ugly burn mark that stretched from the base of his palm halfway up his fingers, a curse scar that would never fade. Nor, it seemed, would the pain it caused – pain that, according to the best Healers at St. Mungo's, would rob him of nearly 40% of the mobility in that hand. He could still use a wand for most spells that were OWL-level and below. He was still a wizard, and one exceptionally knowledgeable in the healing arts. But he would never again have the manual dexterity for the ultra-delicate healing spells that were a professional Healer's bread-and-butter.
Of course, all things considered, Ted had still gotten off easy. It had been Fiendfyre that caused his injuries, after all. As such, it was utterly miraculous that he'd gotten away with just a curse scar and a loss of manual dexterity in one hand – such an injury should have rotted his whole hand off within minutes of receiving it and then killed him painfully in less than a day. As far as the St. Mungo's curse specialists knew, only phoenix tears (and in extraordinary quantities) administered immediately after the injury could have saved his life, but there were no phoenixes around that day. Accordingly, his survival relatively unscathed was a topic of great interest to the St. Mungo's spell-damage specialists. And also, he suspected, to the Unspeakables.
Even then, he'd spent weeks in a healing coma at St. Mungo's, followed by several more weeks spent under close medical observation. He'd only been released a few days earlier to find that not only had his home and clinic been burnt to the ground, but the smoldering earth itself was also tainted by the Fiendfyre that had destroyed it. Wizards, for the most part, had nothing comparable to Muggle homeowner's insurance since they normally could simply use magic to repair even the worst damage in the blink of an eye. Apparently, however, that was not an option for Ted and his family, as the land upon which the Tonks Clinic stood was so contaminated by Dark Magic that the Ministry would not permit them to even try to rebuild for at least five years.
For the foreseeable future, the three Tonkses would be staying in a two-bedroom suite at the Leaky Cauldron, accommodations that had the benefit of being in London and thus close to St. Mungo's for outpatient therapy. But every day spent here was a day neither he nor Andromeda were practicing medicine, and Ted knew all-too-well that his and Andi's savings were limited. He would have to find work soon, some job that paid well (or as well as could be expected given his current disabilities). Just then, the door to their suite opened, and Andromeda Tonks herself entered bearing a furious expression and a crumpled copy of The Daily Prophet. Ted suspected the two were connected somehow.
"Oh hello, luv. Been out shopping?" he said amiably.
"Shopping?" she snapped. "Don't be ridiculous! We can't afford such extravagances!"
He nodded. "Yes, I was just thinking along those lines. I think I've basically completed as much of a recovery as can be expected, so perhaps we should take stock and decide what employment options are available to us. Perhaps hit up old Dewey Crenshaw at the Children's Wing of St. Mungo's?"
She scoffed. "Oh yes, I'm sure St. Mungo's would be thrilled to have us. A Muggleborn Healer and his wife, the sister of Bellatrix Lestrange, both of whom fostered the infamous outcast, Theo No-Name! And whose house was recently burned down with Fiendfyre in the middle of the first Death Eater attack in over a decade, one led by Sirius Black, another Death Eater member of our extended family! I'm sure new patients will be lining up for treatment!"
"Now, now, darling. I'm sure things aren't as bad as all that," he said before she whirled around on him in a fury and slammed the Prophet onto the table.
"DON'T PATRONIZE ME!" she shrieked loud enough to startle the man. "There's an article in there by Rita Skeeter about us! Just full of snide innuendo and dark insinuations! I won't have it, Ted Tonks! I won't! I won't! I WON'T!"
Ted's eyes grew wide at his wife's outburst. "Of course not, dearest," he said gently. "But what do you propose to do about it?"
"Kill the bitch," Andromeda said flatly and without a hint of irony.
Ted blinked twice. "Well … that seems a bit … excessive, Andromeda. Perhaps I should read this article myself before we make any … permanent decisions." He opened the paper and pretended to look for Skeeter's article.
"By the way, dearest," he said as casually as he could, "have you taken your pills today?"
She didn't answer. After a lengthy silence, he looked up at the witch. "Andromeda …?"
"No, I haven't!" she spat angrily. "I've run out."
"Oh," Ted said softly, as if he'd just realized a predator had entered the room and he didn't wish to startle it. "How long ago did you run out?"
She looked away and absentmindedly started wringing her hands. "Since the fire," she finally said. "They were all burned up. And while you were in hospital, I was … distracted. I … I just forgot for a while."
"Oh, well, that's certainly understandable," Ted replied nonchalantly even as he moved his hand closer to the pocket where his wand was located. "We can just pop over to Lennie's shop in South Croyden. You remember Cousin Lennie, don't you dearest?"
"Of course I remember your idiot Muggle cousin, Ted!" she said irritably. "But that's not important now!"
"It's not?" Ted's hand moved slightly closer to his wand. He wondered if he could still cast a Stunner with his injured hand. It would be quite embarrassing if he accidentally dropped his wand while trying to cast a Second-Year spell. Perhaps fatally so. "So, what is important to you right now?"
She looked at him as if he were an idiot. "Why, killing Rita Skeeter, of course! I was thinking manticore venom. What do you think?"
"Well, it's certainly a painful way to … Oh, hello Dora!" he loudly exclaimed as their daughter, Nymphadora Tonks, entered the suite. Andromeda turned around quickly, but before she could even say anything, Ted whipped out his wand.
"STUPEFY!"
Andromeda slumped in the ground.
"DAD! WHAT THE HELL?!" Nymphadora Tonks exclaimed in shock.
Ted didn't answer at first. Instead, he rose and scooped Andromeda up in his arms before moving her to a nearby couch. Then, he conjured a Muggle-style pen and a surprisingly Muggle-looking pad of paper onto which he quickly scribbled two notes.
"Dora, listen to me carefully. I need you to go to this address. It's a Muggle chemist's shop in South Croyden owned by my cousin, Leonard Tonks. Give him this and tell him I sent you and that it's for Andromeda."
The girl shook her head in exasperation, and seemingly in response, her hair turned peppermint green. "Dad, what's going on?! Why did you stun Mother?!" She glanced down at the second note. "And who the hell is Lithium Haldol?"
"I stunned your mother because based on past experiences, she was a few minutes away from having a violent episode where she might have hurt herself, us, or all the above. And Lithium Haldol isn't a person, Dora, it's a thing. Or rather two things. Lithium and Haldol are both Muggle pharmaceutical drugs used to treat mental illness."
She looked at him in confusion. "I don't understand. If Mother is sick, we should take her to St. Mungo's!"
"St. Mungo's can't help her!" he said angrily. Then, he dropped down into the easy chair next to the couch. "Believe me, we've tried."
He rubbed his hand over his face and gently took his daughter's hand into his own. "Magical healing can do amazing things, Dora. We can instantly heal even the deadliest physical maladies; regrow organs, skin tissue, and bone; and perform what Muggles would call miracles. But despite all that, there are still many areas where, as much as wizards don't want to admit it, Muggle medicine gets better results than our best efforts."
"Like what?" Dora said nervously as she looked down at her unconscious mother.
Ted sighed resignedly. "Like … the treatment of congenital mental illness. Mind Healing in Wizarding Britain is focused entirely on curing Dark Arts-related maladies that affect the brain, but they have no spells that address mental ills that aren't magical in nature … and worse, they don't even see the need to. If we carried your mum to St. Mungo's and described her symptoms, they'd have either prescribed a Calming Draught and sent her home … or they'd have locked her up in a padded cell for Merlin knows how long. It's well-known that a variety of psychological disorders run in the Black Family, so much so that any British Mind Healer would just dismiss it as 'the Black Madness' and not even bother with treatment."
"The … Black Madness?" the younger Tonks said uncertainly.
He looked down fondly at his wife. "We never told you how one of the Black Sisters, the Three Furies of Slytherin House, could have ever ended up marrying a Muggleborn, did we? Your mother was ashamed of what happened to her, though she had no reason to be, and I respected her desire for privacy … until now. But I think you deserve to know, particularly since Andromeda may be … difficult for the next few days."
He reached over and brushed the hair from Andromeda's forehead. "When we were in Fifth Year, I came across her completely by chance in an empty classroom late at night … cutting herself. She refused to go to the Infirmary – said she'd curse me if I told anyone. So, I stayed with her and healed her injuries myself as best I could. We stayed up all night talking. And we continued talking in secret for weeks to come. She was in a state of severe depression over an arranged marriage to Rodolphus Lestrange, but it was clear she had other issues too. When she wasn't depressed, she was manic and prone to violence against people who angered her. At one point in our Sixth Year, I narrowly interrupted her attempted suicide. And that was the last straw. Over the summer, I talked her into running away to join me in London and meet my dad."
"Your dad? But he was just a Muggle. What could he have done?"
"Oh, you have no idea what Muggles can do, Dora. It's my fault, I suppose – as a Muggleborn, I was so enamored of the Magical world that I neglected your Muggle education. Anyway, your granddad passed away before you were born, but back then, Jeffrey Tonks was nothing less than the Chief of Neurology for Maudsley Hospital in South London. In no time flat, he diagnosed your mother as suffering from clinical depression, bipolar syndrome, and mild schizophrenia. And he also prescribed a regimen of Muggle psychotropic drugs that successfully treated her issues. As much as we came to love each other back then, I still think the only reason she defied her family to marry me is because if she'd married a Pureblood bigot instead, she wouldn't have been allowed to take Muggle drugs, and she couldn't bear going back to the way she'd been pre-medication. We eloped at Christmas during our Seventh Year because it was the only way to both break up the marriage to Lestrange and ensure that she could continue treatment."
He sighed deeply again. "Which, I'm afraid, she ceased to keep up with while I was in a coma and then in convalescence. The drugs are out of her system and she's having a relapse." He looked back up at Dora.
"Which is why I need you to apparate to that chemist's shop, Dora. I'd go but I need to stay and look after your mother. The shop's run by a cousin of mine. You've never met him because technically he's not supposed to know about magic. And also because, for some damned fool reason, wizard-folk getting Muggle pharmaceutical prescriptions filled by Muggle chemists is considered a violation of the Statute of Secrecy." He gave her a firm look. "So don't get caught."
Nymphadora took the two notes dumbly and headed for the door before turning around. "The Black Madness," she said again. "Am … am I at risk for it?"
He smiled at his daughter. "I don't think so. To be honest, I've been quietly watching for signs of any form of mental illness practically since you were a baby and never noticed anything that gave me pause. Your mother insists that because you've got a Muggleborn father, any hereditary madness has skipped you. Maybe she's right."
The young Auror-trainee nodded and then quickly left the room. Her thoughts were troubled and distracting as she headed down the stairs, so much so that she wasn't paying attention and passed right by a familiar figure without even noting her presence. Of course, the other woman didn't notice Nymphadora either.
Augusta Longbottom had a lot on her mind.
Moments later…
It was a rare thing indeed for Rufus Scrimgeour to be truly surprised. Sometimes, he gave the appearance of surprise, but that was usually just anger that someone had done something incredibly stupid. In such cases, what appeared to be surprise at an unexpected situation was actually exasperation over something that was foreseeable but only likely to happen as a result of shocking idiocy. But actual genuine surprise was a rare thing for him.
At 5:00 p.m. on the dot, there was a knock at the door to the room he'd reserved at the Leaky Cauldron. Specifically, he'd reserved Room 13, a room which was often rented out for meetings of a most sensitive nature because it had an unusual number of specialized wards permanently erected on it specifically for private and highly sensitive meetings (and which consequently cost a pretty galleon to rent out even for a few hours). Not that Rufus didn't add his own temporary wards to those venerable spells, of course. Only a fool placed his trust in even the most immaculate wards that he didn't place himself. He took a moment to double-check those wards one final time and then limped over to open the door… and was genuinely surprised.
For on the other side was not Lucius Malfoy who he'd been expecting, but rather Lady Augusta Longbottom, who he knew quite well from their school days, but who he had not been social with in decades. For a good three seconds, the normally unflappable ex-Auror simply forgot how to speak. Then, the moment passed, and he gallantly invited Augusta into the meeting room.
"Well, well, well," he said as he walked with his guest over to the meeting table in the center of the room. "This was … most unexpected, your Ladyship."
Then, he smiled and wagged his eyebrows. "Or, in light of ancient history, may I call you Gussie once more?"
She sniffed. "If it will facilitate things, I suppose you may, Rufus. But we are here on business, not to give you a chance to relive our school days in any sense of the word. You had your chance in 1947, and Archie was quick to take advantage of your lapse in judgment."
"True, true," he said with a regretful sigh. "But that does not prevent me from regretting my mistakes, Gussie."
"Regret it on your own time, Rufus." She sat at the table and regarded Scrimgeour imperiously. "You know why I am here?"
He stared at her intently for several seconds. He knew the purpose of the meeting, of course, but why Lady Augusta Longbottom was involved in the Azkaban conspiracy let alone its representative to this meeting was a mystery. But then, in a flash of intuition, the answer came.
"Ahh! The Lestranges. The opportunity for revenge for your son and daughter-in-law brought you into the Azkaban affair. Tragic business that, made more so by the intrafamilial nature of the feud. You do have a measure of Black blood in you, after all."
Augusta didn't rise to the provocation. "My mother, Charis Crouch was born a Black, but my connection with Bellatrix is remote. I believe she is a Third cousin twice removed, hardly close enough for me to feel any sense of … affection. But Black blood does flow in my veins, and when one of us is wronged, even by another of the family, our blood calls out for vengeance. Does that answer your unspoken question?"
"That question being 'what are your feelings about the Azkaban escapees?' It does, dear lady. I find that I am more sanguine about joining your conspiracy now. Indeed, I find the thought of joining forces with you far more inviting than with some I could imagine. Speaking of which, what brings you here in place of that paragon of virtue, Lucius Malfoy?"
She gave him an imperious glare. "I shall tell you nothing about my … associates until I am sure of your intentions."
"You wish to know if my intentions are honorable?" He said with a laugh while making his way over to the little bell sitting on the mantle. "Are you quite sure you do not wish to relive our school days, Gussie? I had planned on waiting until after this meeting for supper, but since the company is much more charming than I'd planned, perhaps we could order now. My treat, of course. And then, we would have time to discuss both our school days as well as our … future partnership."
As Rufus rang the bell to order dinner, Augusta crooked a suspicious eyebrow. She was beginning to wish she'd worn the vulture hat that her Great-Aunt Belvina Black had given her as a wedding present. It always had the admirable quality of putting would-be suitors in their place.
12 Grimmauld Place
5:40 p.m.
Harry Potter stared up at the ceiling pensively and for what he thought might be the last time. He was having a lie-down in the bedroom that Sirius and Regulus had provided for him while he tried to recover from the panic attack that he'd just triggered by impulsively trapping Sirius and Snape in a room together. He'd expected to spend of the holidays at Longbottom Manor until Sirius's physical breakdown the previous day changed his plans. Now, he wondered if Sirius would ever want to see him again. Regardless, he decided that he should probably join Neville soon or his friend might get suspicious. Neville had not treated Harry noticeably different as a result of his discreet friendship with Theo, but the Gryffindor seemed almost paranoid about the possibility that Harry and Theo were meeting behind his back. Of all the reactions to the Ultimate Sanction that Neville could have displayed, jealousy was the last one Harry had suspected.
Suddenly, Dobby arrived with a soft pop. "Libations have been delivered to Lord Black and Professor Snape, sir, as promised."
"What did you send them?" Harry asked.
"A magnum of Ogden's Finest, sir," the elf replied.
"And … you really think that will help?" the young Slytherin asked dubiously. Being only 13, he was not yet aware of the medicinal properties of firewhiskey, to say nothing of its usefulness for resolving seemingly intractable personality conflicts. Dobby looked supremely confident.
"Dobby assures his young master. Nothing can better persuade two adult wizards to resolve their differences than getting intoxicated together. It works for them just as well as," Dobby thought for a moment and then smiled, "as well as fighting a mountain troll in a lavatory does for First Year students."
Harry did a double-take. "How did you know about that?"
"When Dobby first entered the Great Master Harry's service, naturally, Dobby made … inquiries. The tales of Master Harry's exploits at Hogwarts are well known to the house elves who serve the school."
"Uh-huh," Harry said, filing that insight away for later. "Speaking of house elves, I asked you to distract Kreacher so Sirius couldn't summon him, but it occurs to me that I probably should have been more precise. What did you do to Kreacher?"
Dobby smiled with quiet satisfaction. "The Great Master Harry need not concern himself with the Kreacher elf. It will suffer no lasting harm. House elves are durable creatures … no pun intended, of course."
"Right," Harry said sardonically.
"So Kreacher isn't dead," he thought. "That's good. Well, for Reg anyway. I doubt anyone else alive cares about him that much."
"Okay then," he continued aloud. "I guess you can go back to monitoring Sirius and Professor Snape to make sure they don't kill each other. Let me know if they do." He paused and shook his head. "Strike that – if they try to kill each other, intervene and then come let me know. If nothing's changed in a few hours, I will probably Floo over to Longbottom Manor for the evening and check back tomorrow."
"Understood, sir." Dobby bowed respectfully and then disappeared. After he was gone, Harry laid back on the bed.
"Okay," he thought. "That's dealt with. Now to item #2 on my agenda – Sirius said something about Remus Lupin that ties in with his 'Secret,' but what was it?"
Harry frowned at his inability to recall exactly what Sirius said earlier that nearly made the boy cry out in surprise before he was distracted by Regulus's own (and far less pleasant) reaction. By this point in his Occlumency training, Harry should have had a nearly perfect memory recall. He was now able to clearly remember incidents from his time at the Dursleys going back to age 4 and earlier with absolute clarity … which was not necessarily a good thing considering what sorts of unpleasant memories those were. But oddly, though, they gave Harry a strange sense of pity for the Dursleys. Viewing the circumstances of his abuse objectively, the Dursleys weren't bad people so much as were cartoonishly evil people, so much so that it should have been patently obvious to any witch or wizard who observed them for more than ten minutes that they were under a curse.
To his own surprise, Harry had come to have some sympathy for the Potters' initial decision to foster him out. If they truly believed him a squib, leaving him to be cared for in a loving home (which could have been confirmed by any number of non-invasive methods that complied with the Statute of Secrecy) was probably the kindest decision. His problem with the Potters was their decision to abandon him completely outside of setting up the crazy squib cat-lady in a nearby home to "watch over him" (and he also made a mental note to check into Mrs. Figg at some point and find out exactly why she'd acted as she had all those years). It would have been child's play to have someone more reliable check inside the house and even interview young Harry, perhaps under the pretext of the interviewer being "the trustee of the late Mr. Potter's estate." If nothing else, he wouldn't have grown up thinking his parents were a drug-addicted pimp and his prostitute.
Ultimately, though, Harry now believed that the Potters' actions were not malicious, though they were grossly negligent, so much so that he still occasionally flirted with the idea of taking revenge against them. Not violent bloody revenge; he'd promised Neville, after all. And nothing that would make Jim too upset with him, as he had come to enjoy his strange but increasingly warm relationship with his twin. In any case, as angry as he was with his birth parents, he wasn't going to burn any bridges any time soon. If nothing else, there was his share of the Potter fortune to consider. It wasn't as big as the Malfoy, Black, or Selwyn estates (or another one he could name), but 25-million galleons plus real estate and entailed property was nothing to sneeze at. And if he and James could come to terms on how many galleons it would take to make him happy, Harry might actually be willing to forgive his grossly negligent parents after all.
"Always forgive your enemies," he thought to himself with a laugh. "Nothing annoys them so much." For a brief moment, he wondered where he'd heard that before. Then, his eyes widened as he remembered.
It was from Oscar Wilde.
Harry shivered. After his Mysterious Muggle-Repelling Aura and his disturbingly large vocabulary, the boy often thought that his strangest quirk might well be his extensive and preternatural knowledge of the works of Oscar Wilde. He'd never actually read a single sentence by the author, but that didn't stop situationally-appropriate quotes from regularly popping into his head. And it was always disturbing and frustrating whenever any thoughts popped into his head that were not his own.
Then, he froze in shock a second time as his thoughts about Oscar Wilde transitioned to darker thoughts regarding his mild phobia about being tampered with mentally – something he suddenly realized had just happened! He'd just set himself to reviewing the conversation that took place in Sirius's bedroom looking for clues as to what Remus Lupin's magically-concealed Secret was. And almost instantly, despite his rigorous mental self-discipline honed by years of Occlumency training, his mind had immediately started wandering into memories of the Dursleys, the Potters, and eventually, Oscar Wilde. The insidiousness of the psychic diversion reminded him of his earliest sessions with Mr. X, back when his Occlumency was weak and he felt helpless before his teacher's Legilimency.
"I am really starting to hate the Fidelius Charm," Harry said to himself ruefully. He reached down for his bookbag and pulled out some parchment and a pen that he used to write some notes before he could be distracted again.
Sirius, James, Peter, and Remus were part of a group/gang called the Marauders.
Sirius and James (and possibly the other two) discovered and befriended a werewolf that the Headmaster for some mad reason allowed into the school as a student.
Sirius nicknamed the werewolf Moony.
Remus Lupin (aka Wolfy McWolferson) was also nicknamed Moony.
"Okay, I understand all that," Harry said aloud. "And if the werewolf and Wolfy McWolferson had the same nickname, there must have been a connection between them."
He slammed the pen down on the paper in frustration and anger.
"But what was it?!"
And so the mystery continued.
Nott Hall
6:00 p.m.
Tiberius Nott was practically jumping up-and-down as he waited impatiently by the Floo for his guest to arrive. He'd received the request to visit Nott Hall only two days earlier, and he'd immediately sent word for his Heir, Alexander Nott, to stay at Durmstrang over the Christmas break. He was conflicted over the decision. On one hand, he was proud of Alexander's progress at Durmstrang and thought the boy's success would reflect well on him in his guest's eyes. On the other, the boy, sadly, was weak-willed in many ways. And while Tiberius had successfully caused a rift between Alexander and the Outcast, that fact did nothing for the likelihood that the Nott Heir might say or do something to embarrass his father in front of their guest. That was particularly true if Alexander somehow learned of Tiberius's vague hope that said guest might someday soon become Alexander's step-mother.
"Well," he thought distractedly, "someday, anyway ... after his first step-mother meets a tragic accident in a few years."
The Death Eater glanced down at his house elf Rogo and grimaced. Rogo looked as pitiful and beaten down as normal, but Tiberius was suddenly conscious of the elf's hump that Tiberius himself had given it. It was an unattractive elf even by the standards of its wretched species, and the Death Eater was beginning to regret not having killed Rogo and replacing it with a younger healthier model before now.
Suddenly, the fire flared up and turned green for a few seconds as she passed through. Tiberius gasped despite himself. She was somehow even more beautiful in person than she had been in the old Death Eater's most fervid dreams. She wore a sheer white hooded cloak over ultra-chic robes that would have cost Arthur Weasley a year's salary. Her hair was done in a meticulous braided updo, and Tiberius noted that it was now the color of spun straw but with a silvery tint. He was somewhat surprised. Lord Nott would have expected her to celebrate her recent divorce by dying her hair back to the midnight black for which the women of House Black were famous, but she instead seemed to have dyed it entirely blonde, albeit a prettier and more vivid shade than her popinjay of an ex-husband's coif.
"Narcissa Black, I bid you welcome to the House of Nott!" he boomed pompously. She curtsied delicately and then whipped off her cloak before tossing it casually to Rogo, who caught it with as much grace as his infirmity would allow.
"My Lord Nott, I am honored to be here in the hall of your ancestors. And I am more grateful than I can express that you responded so quickly to my entreaty."
"Nonsense, dear lady!" he answered gallantly. "You sent me an owl asking if I could provide lodging for you for a time without any outsiders knowing of your presence here. I understand your need for discretion and am happy to provide for you."
He took a step forward … and then reeled slightly as her scent briefly overpowered his ability to think.
"Indeed, I would be happy to … provide for you … in any way you desire," Nott said in what he thought was a sensual manner but which was better described as "pathetic."
Nevertheless, Narcissa seemed pleased with his offer. In a slight breach of decorum which he definitely did not mind, the witch reached up and caressed his cheek with her hand. A visible shiver passed over Nott's body. She leaned in to whisper to him even though no one else was there.
"I am so glad you feel that way, Tiberius." He shuddered again as she said his name. "For I must ask something else of you."
"Anything."
She smiled. "Forgive me, but I must ask you to swear an Unbreakable Vow that you will reveal nothing of my presence here, nor anything you learn about any secret activities in which I have been engaged."
For a brief moment, he looked offended and slightly hurt that she would ask for an Unbreakable Vow, and she placed her finger over his lips before he could speak to gently shush him. He shivered again.
"It is not for my benefit, Tiberius, I promise you. I know all about the honor of House Nott, and for me alone, your word would be more than enough. But we live in dangerous times, Tiberius. And I simply must ask this … for his sake."
Nott was puzzled. "For … his sake? Who are you talking about?"
She leaned in close as if she was about to kiss his cheek. But she whispered softly instead. "Tiberius, you know who."
For a second, he was still confused. But then, realization set in, and he became visibly frightened.
"You mean …?"
"He lives, Tiberius," she said intently while holding his hands tightly. If she was secretly disgusted by their sweatiness, her face did not reflect it. "The Dark Lord lives and has need of us. Will you help me and prove your worthiness to sit at his right hand?"
He nodded mutely.
"Then swear the oath, Tiberius."
He swallowed deeply and agreed. "I will, I promise. But … we need a bonder. Shall I call my solicitor…?"
Narcissa smiled and his heart melted a bit. "No need, Tiberius. I have someone at hand who can act as bonder."
With that, she turned back to the fireplace and threw in some Floo powder. At her direction, a man came through the Floo. Tiberius gasped. The figure wore Death Eater robes. He did not know the person's true name. But his bone mask, marked as it was by a strange black-and-red design that an educated Muggle might have called a "yin-yang symbol," identified him well enough.
"Mr. January, I presume," Nott said, as he desperately tried to conceal his fear. This was not how he'd expected the evening to go.
The Death Eater said nothing but simply nodded. Seconds later, Nott had his own wand out to swear the oath: that he would not reveal the presence of either Narcissa nor her "guest" to anyone else, that he would do whatever it took to preserve the secret of their presence at Nott Hall, and above all, that he would die rather than reveal any other secrets related to the Dark Lord or any of his servants that he learned while Narcissa and Mr. January stayed with him. There was a brief instant of panic at the realization that Mr. January would also be a guest in addition to Narcissa, but the witch put a hand back on his shoulder, and his weak resistance dissolved completely.
When the oath was completed, Narcissa turned to face Mr. January.
"Show him," she said.
Mr. January threw back his hood and peeled off his bone mask. Nott did a double-take.
"But … aren't you dead?" he asked. The other man snorted in contempt.
"Congratulations, Mr. Nimrod," replied Barty Crouch Jr. "I really do think that's the stupidest question I've ever been asked."
Narcissa merely laughed.
12 Grimmauld Place
7:40 p.m.
After puzzling fruitlessly over the Remus/Moony connection for a while followed by an hour working on a rune scheme for the flying broom he was supposed to design and enchant over the holidays, Harry finally packed up his bag to head over to Longbottom Manor. Dobby had returned at 6:00 p.m. to say that Sirius and Snape had neither tried to kill one another again nor opened up a dialogue. Instead, they just glared at each other from across the room. On the bright side, neither had any idea how to escape the bedroom, so eventually, they would have to talk if only to escape boredom.
As he stepped out of his bedroom, Harry was suddenly distracted by shouting from somewhere in the house. It was not coming from the master bedroom, and it was definitely not a male voice either. Curious, he took a few steps down the hallway towards the noise. Then, he froze. He recognized the voice now, even though he'd only heard it once before.
It was the portrait of Walburga Black, Sirius and Regulus's mother, now screaming loud enough to wake the dead.
Unfortunately, Harry was rather more worried about her waking Kreacher, which was what she was screaming about. And since Harry's already-tenuous plan for Snape and Sirius would fall apart completely if Kreacher was able to answer Sirius's summoning, he decided to ascend to the attic and see if the mad painting could be placated somehow.
"KREACHER! KREACHER! COME HERE AT ONCE, I SAY!" the woman in the portrait shrieked. "I COMMAND IT … DON'T LEAVE ME ALONE!" She added tearfully.
"Madam Black?"
Harry stepped cautiously into that part of the attic that had been cleared of debris to make room for a 5×10 stretch of wall that Dobby had renovated out of the foyer, the only way to remove Walburga's portrait from its former resting place.
"WHO'S THERE!?"
He took a few steps closer. "I don't suppose you remember me, Madam, but we met very briefly when Regulus first returned here a few months ago. My name is Harry Potter. I'm the son of James and Lily Potter and also Sirius's godson."
The woman sneered. "I don't recall you, brat, but I know your miserable excuse for a father well enough. It was he who turned my eldest boy against me. Against me and against everything our House has ever stood for!" She turned up her nose at him.
"Why are you here?!" she shouted. "WHERE IS KREACHER?!"
"Kreacher has been detained, Madam Black," the boy said calmly. "He will return to you soon, I believe, but he cannot come right now."
She practically hissed in anger. "If you are the spawn of James Potter and that filthy Mudblood he married, then you are naught but a Half-blood yourself. You have no business in the House of Black, you filthy little mongrel!"
Harry's eyes narrowed. Then, he flicked his wrist, and the Black Wand popped out of his holster and into his hand. She gasped in offended surprise.
"I think my being able to hold this wand in my hand, let alone being able to work magic with it, proves my right to be in this house, Madam Black. I'm the son of James and Lily Potter, but I'm also the grandson of your late aunt, Dorea. That makes us first cousins, once removed, does it not?"
She growled angrily. "Dorea should have been blasted off that tapestry when she married that blood traitor, Charlus Potter!"
"Right. Toujours Pur and all that."
"Our family's devotion to purity is our greatest strength, mongrel. It is what led the Dark Lord himself to invite so many of us to join his cause. Bellatrix and Regulus both rose meteorically among his followers, as Sirius would have had your wretched Muggle-loving father and grandparents not seduced him into degradation."
She gave a sickening leer. "I remember when I first heard that Charlus and Dorea had been slain by Death Eaters. It thrilled me!"
Harry's expression darkened in anger, but then, suddenly, his eyes lit up with inspiration. He remembered briefly discussing with the Headmaster how portraits interacted with the Fidelius Charm. Perhaps it was time for him to run some experiments of his own.
"Madam Black, by any chance, do you recall a fellow student from your Hogwarts days by the name of Tom Riddle?"
She narrowed her eyes and curled her upper lip at the change of topic. "I vaguely recall the Mudblood. He was a year behind me. A jumped-up little teacher's pet who became a Prefect and later Head Boy despite his inferior breeding. I never understood why Slytherins like Boruslav Lestrange and Augustus Rookwood and so many others from good families followed him like loyal hounds. It was sickening!"
Harry smiled almost mischievously. "Would you like to know a Secret, Madam Black?"
He gestured with the Black Wand, and burning letters appeared in the air spelling out Tom Marvolo Riddle. Then, he slashed the wand, and the letters rearranged themselves to spell out I am Lord Voldemort. Walburga was speechless.
"… impossible," she finally gasped.
"What, that the Great and Terrible Lord Voldemort was the impoverished Mudblood son of a squib and a Muggle? Oh, I assure you that it's a lot more than possible. I learned it from the man himself. So, if I'm a mongrel, what do you have to say about the wizard whose blood is less pure than mine and who you wanted your whole family to grovel before?"
She shook her head and glared at Harry.
"It changes nothing, boy! Serving the Dark Lord was always but a means to an end for me. As powerful as he was, his blood could never have been as pure as that of House Black. Orion and I followed him and encouraged our sons to do likewise because he promised to restore Pureblood supremacy over the Mudbloods and blood traitors who wanted to pollute our society, to infect our culture. But more than that, I followed him because under his regime, the House of Black could have completed the Great Working and forged the final link in the Unbroken Chain!"
Harry blinked. "Nope. Sorry. I've no idea what any of that gibbering nonsense means."
Her eyes lit up madly. "The Unbroken Chain, mongrel! The ultimate expression of our devotion to Pureblood ideals – a wizard whose power would outstrip all others, including the Dark Lord! And it was to be Regulus's destiny to bring forth that transcendently pure wizard – Merlin Reborn!"
Harry stared mutely at the deranged woman for several seconds before bursting into laughter. "Merlin … Reborn?! What are you talking about?! I mean, yeah, Regulus is a powerful wizard, although, to be honest, I think he only became a great wizard when he got the hell away from you! So how exactly was he supposed to bring forth the Merlin Reborn?"
In response to Harry's mockery, Walburga bared her teeth like a wild animal. But then, she did something that Harry had never seen before in a moving portrait. It was common for portrait subjects to move around inside a frame or even to exit the frame to the left or right, usually to transition into another frame hung in a different location. But Harry had never seen a portrait subject move forward within a painting towards the one viewing it. And that was what Walburga Black was doing now – moving forward towards the frame, her body taking up more and more of the portrait's surface as if she were preparing to crawl through the frame and out into the attic with Harry. He barely fought down the urge to step back away from her.
"How, mongrel? How does anyone bring forth new life into the world except through childbirth! You have told me a secret I did not know. So, tell me, do you know Regulus's secret?"
"Which one? I imagine he … has … several …." Harry's snarky comment died on his lips as he suddenly realized the significance of the mad woman's words. "Childbirth…. Regulus is … I know he's a secret Metamorphmagus. Are you … are you suggesting…?"
He stopped, unable to complete the thought. And so Walburga finished it for him. By now, she was close enough to the surface of the portrait that Harry could see the sickly yellow of her teeth.
"When the time was right, when the stars were in the most propitious alignment to facilitate such an … unusual conception and pregnancy, Regulus was to assume a female form so that she might later become the mother of the greatest wizard ever born."
Silence reigned for nearly five seconds before the boy exploded.
"YOU'RE UTTERLY INSANE!" Harry shouted. "I mean, I knew that already, but to hear out loud how sick you really are …! And you thought Regulus would go along with this?!"
She shrugged diffidently. "If he was truly loyal to the ideals of our family, he would. And if not? Well, I was always quite proficient with the Imperius Curse!"
Harry stood slack-jawed as he tried to process through the horror of the woman's rantings. For the first time in his life, he considered the idea that his own childhood with the Dursleys might not have been so bad. Then, he swallowed painfully, as another (and even more disturbing) thought popped unbidden into his head.
"If Regulus was meant to be the mother of your wizarding Messiah or whatever … who was going to be the father?"
She leaned forward and seemed to press her hands against the inside of the portrait. This time, Harry could not resist taking a step back – her hands seemed to flatten, as if the surface of the portrait were nothing but a pane of clear glass that might give way if she pressed too hard and allow her passage into the real world.
"Who would have been pure enough to sire Merlin Reborn, you mean?" She began to laugh maniacally. "Stupid mongrel child! There was only ever one choice! Why do you think, even after his betrayal and expulsion, that I never had Sirius killed!"
Then, she began to laugh louder and more hysterically. Harry's nerve finally broke, and he turned and fled the attic with the sounds of Walburga Black's madness still ringing in his ears.
Longbottom Manor
8:00 p.m.
Alone in Longbottom Manor since returning from King's Cross, Neville Longbottom had allowed himself to stay engrossed for hours in a book about the more obscure uses of Mandrake roots that Professor Sprout had given him for extra credit work. It was only when his stomach growled loudly that he realized how much time had passed. The clock on his bedside table said it was eight o'clock, and neither his grandmother nor Harry had returned to the Manor. Neville decided to have a light supper in his room rather than sit alone in a big empty dining room, and so he called out for the family house elf.
"Hoskins?"
There was no reply. Surprised, for there had never been a single prior occasion when the house elf had not instantly answered his summons, Neville called again and then a third time. Curious now, the boy made his way downstairs to the kitchens. Not only was the family's chief house elf not around to answer his call, but there were several dirty dishes in the sink, a sight Neville had thought impossible in a household with an elf as competent as Hoskins.
Now both confused and exasperated, Neville did the only thing he could think of.
"Lumpen!" he called. Almost instantly, the decrepit elf appeared, although he was facing the wrong way, and it took him a few seconds to realize where Neville was.
"Oh, my goodness!" Lumpen stammered in excitement. "Master Nicholas, er, that is … Master … Nigel?"
"Neville," the boy said gently. "I'm sorry to bother you so late, Lumpen, but do you know where Hoskins is?"
"Hoskins, Master Neville? Oh, let me see, let me see." Lumpen closed his eyes and stood still for nearly ten seconds. Neville was concerned that the elf had fallen asleep while standing up (possibly had died while standing up) and was just about to call his name again when the creature opened his eyes excitedly.
"Oh, yes, yes, yes, Master Norville. Lumpen is not sure but thinks that Hoskins is somewhere down in the dungeons."
"Oh, okay," Neville said before pausing in surprise. "… the dungeons?"
Five minutes later, after being persuaded by Lumpen that Longbottom Manor did, in fact, have its own dungeons, Neville found himself in the side corridor that connected the parlor and the conservatory. Following Lumpen's rather confusing instructions, Neville twisted a particular wall sconce, and to his amazement, a section of the wall slid aside to reveal a hidden staircase that he'd never known about despite living in this house his entire life. Somewhat nervously, the boy cautiously made his way through the secret passage and down a dark stairwell that led to a sub-floor of the Manor, one that apparently contained dungeons dating back to Longbottom Manor's 13th Century origins. As he descended, wall sconces every few feet suddenly lit up with white flames that illuminated the area.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs (some forty feet below the lowest level of the house – as far as he knew before today, anyway), he found a long corridor, with heavy metal cell doors every ten feet or so.
"Hello?" he called out nervously. "Hoskins? Are you down here?"
There was no answer at first. But then, faintly, he could make out a beaten rasping voice that called out: "Please … help … me…."
Alarmed, Neville rushed forward, ignoring the first three cell doors (although as he ran past the third door, he bizarrely thought he could hear strange music from inside).
"I'm coming!" he called out. "Hang on, Hoskins!"
Inside the fourth cell, Miss Demeanor sat on her knees on the far side of the cell, as far from the door as she could get. Between her and the door was a long series of carefully inscribed runes that she had painstakingly scratched into the floor with her own blood as well as that of the unconscious house elf that lay beside her. She focused on the magic that she would have to cast without a wand, magic cast solely through incantation and an elaborate runic array, while she did her best to block out the excited chittering of Bellatrix Lestrange, the madwoman with whom she shared co-ownership of this body.
As Neville drew near, Miss Demeanor took the knife she'd Transfigured for herself out of a metal buckle and used it to slash both her palms. A few seconds later, she could hear her "rescuer" just outside the cell door, and she could see the face of a vaguely familiar boy look through the grate in the door right at her. His face immediately registered his shock and horror at the sight of her. Miss Demeanor screamed a single word at the top of her lungs and then slammed her bloody hands down on either side of the nearest rune.
"BOMBARDA!"
Immediately, that first rune lit up. Then the next one. Then two more. It wasn't as fast as casting via wand, but it was fast enough. Neville turned to run, but he made it less than ten feet when the door blew off its hinges. A terrible concussive force picked him up and flung him down the corridor. He bounced off a wall and then landed on the floor, stunned and bleeding from his broken nose.
Seconds later, Miss Demeanor ran out of the cell straight for him. Neville tried desperately to pick himself up — even stunned by the explosion, there was a part of him screaming that "Bellatrix Lestrange is coming!" But it was too late. The escaping prisoner ran up to him and kicked him in the head, ending all resistance. She searched him quickly and found the wand he'd never even bothered to take out of its holster for fear he might be tempted to violate the rules against underage magic.
Miss Demeanor held the wand aloft and concentrated. It was not a compatible wand, but her will was strong enough to make it work. After a few seconds, angry red sparks shot from the tip, as if the wand was offended to be held by her but unable to do anything about it. She pointed it down at Neville's prone body.
"INCARCEROUS!" she growled. Instantly, thick ropes appeared and slithered over the boy's body. His arms were cinched tightly behind his back, with the rope leading up to wrap around his neck in a fairly tight noose. It was the perfect rope formation for keeping a prisoner contained and under control … and choking him to death if he presented any difficulties.
"Why are you wasting time with ropes and knots?!" The woman's rasping voice echoed down the corridor as the mind of Bellatrix Lestrange briefly seized control of their shared voice. "Kill him! Kill him and be done with it!"
She took a deep breath, and Miss Demeanor regained control. She looked back down upon her captive. "Kill him, Bellatrix? Nonsense! Where's your sense of creativity? We can come up with options far more amusing than that!"
To Be Concluded in "Blackest Day (Bella Unchained)."
AN 1: Milestones! Over 11,000 reviews! Approaching 12,000 followers! Over 1300 Discord followers!
AN 2: The Sinister Man's first original novel, Strangers In Boston, is complete and is waiting only on finished cover art before publication on Amazon. Right now, I'm planning on releasing on or about May 5th. Stay tuned for more info!
AN 3: Thanks as always to the eagle-eyed reviewers on the POS-Editorial channel of the Sinister Man's Discord server: FeatheryMinx, patronus, MihelRika, pizdets, liquorice-woofbeast, sfu, burnfiddlers, Prince of Conspiracy, chinmayee_1992, TrendyTreky, JTR, and BlueWater5.
AN 4: Tentative update – Next POS chapter on May 5, 2019!