Chapter 7 – At What Cost

Albus Dumbledore stepped out of a darkened shop, turned up his collar to the stifling wind and headed down Knockturn alley. He well understood wizards' fascination with dark and dangerous antiquities, but he sorely wished stronger laws were in place to police stores like Borgin and Burkes. The shop always dampened his mood, an icy finger always seemed to cling to his spine as he perused the store's wares.

The shop's staff had gone from unhelpful to downright hostile in these troubled times; what he wouldn't give to have a quick glimpse of the shop customer list for the past year, to be able to track the thousands of galleons that passed through the store's coffers on any given month.

As he rounded out of Knockturn alley and headed towards the Leaky Cauldron, Dumbledore noticed he wasn't being stopped as often as he had in the past. He had just turned down the opportunity to become Minister of Magic for the second time and was quickly becoming one of the most well-known wizards in all of Britain, if not the world. In previous years, it would have taken him hours to make his way through Diagon Alley, stopping to speak with everyone that hailed him.

"But times, they are a changing" – people scurried about their business like skittish animals, no one stopping to linger or chit chat. Dumbledore had once read a muggle book describing a police state created during one of the muggle wars, the claustrophobic air of suspicion and mistrust that hung over that society had seemed so unbearable to him. It now felt as if the wizarding world was headed dangerously close to that type of oppressive environment.

Outside the Leaky Cauldron, Dumbledore stopped a newspaper boy and purchased a Daily Prophet. Another troubling headline – Bones Family Murdered, Ministry has More Questions than Answers. Scanning the article to read about what he already knew, Dumbledore felt weary, deep down in his bones. He had passed the century mark some time ago and this war was finally starting to make him feel his age. He still maintained his light, airy attitude in the presence of others, but found his disposition turning sour whenever he found himself alone, with just his thoughts for company.

The Leaky Cauldron was a shabby pub and inn, located on Charing Cross Street. It had a large open bar area, a communal dining table and small parlor rooms on the first floor, with rooms for rent occupying the next two floors. It had been established to act as a comfortable gateway between the muggle world and Diagon Alley, and had faithfully served its purpose for decades.

Dumbledore entered a small garden and tapped on the pub's back stone wall, with a loud click several bricks slide aside to create a doorway. He stepped through the wall, past a little courtyard and found himself inside the pub.

"Hello Tom, how are you?" asked Dumbledore. He ran a skinny finger along the bar, dragging an inch of dust with it. "I see you're keeping things tidy as usual."

"People don't much like to stay for a drink nowadays. I'll be out on the street soon, this keeps up," replied the dour faced barkeep.

"Sorry to hear it Tom, but don't fret. Amazing location you've got here, you'll always be in business. I wonder if I could trouble you for a brandy and the use of one of your rooms upstairs, just for an hour or so?"

"Don't rent em by the hour."

"Very well, I'll give you a night's rent for an hour. Sound good?"

Dumbledore placed several galleons on the grimy bar, dust flaked off the stained wood and rose into the air. The gold seemed to lift Tom's spirits, as he quickly measured out a generous thumb of brandy, tossed Dumbledore a numbered key and pointed towards a staircase in the back.

Tom turned away, biting down on the galleons and then quickly adding the golden coins to his till; he didn't notice a dark shadow at one of the back tables silently rise and slink after the headmaster. The stranger quietly crept up the stairs and spied Dumbledore entering a room at the end of a dimly lit hallway. He moved soundlessly down the hall, surprised to find the door ajar. He slipped inside and hurriedly shut the door, his wand gripped tightly in his hand.

"Hello again Severus, care for some brandy? Contrary to the ragtag appearance of this establishment, the alcohol is quite strong."

Snape sheathed his wand and slumped down on a moldy chair, causing dust mites to mushroom into the air from the upholstery – the young man looking like he had aged a lifetime since that clandestine hilltop meeting a short while ago.

"I didn't come here for a bloody drink, what do you want from me?"

"I summoned you days ago Severus, having second thoughts about keep your word? Was I wrong to strike a bargain?"

"I sent you messages, you haven't received them?"

"I have. A rally at your Dark Lord's castle, another hasty warning about the danger the Potters face; but I feel as if you're still withholding key information from me. You never mentioned a second boy with regards to the prophecy."

"Lies! I've told you everything of significance. The Longbottom boy isn't of any consequence, the Potter child is the true prize for Him. He's convinced the prophecy refers to Lily's child."

"So the Longbottom's safety means nothing? I should focus only on keeping Lily safe and eschew the welfare of others?"

Snape opened his mouth to object, but remained slack jawed. "No…of course not. You're right, I should've mentioned the other child as well…how did you discover about the Longbottoms?"

"Never hold back from me again, ever – I alone decide what's important and what isn't. You swore me an oath, promised me a life for a life. You gave me your word! Should I have asked for an unbreakable vow? I thought you truly loved her."

"I do love – I didn't think – I've kept my word! I'll make the vow, right here, right now! I didn't think mentioning the second child was important! He's obsessed with the Potters and no one else!"

"Tell me where the Death Eater castle is!"

"You know I cannot! I'm not the Secret Keeper!"

"Why didn't you come at once when I called for you? Does your word mean nothing?!" The hidden fury of Dumbledore was threatening to appear, his gray-lined face twisted in an angry snarl.

"Of course it does, but I can't just go traipsing off whenever you summon me! Sometimes I'm…indisposed."

Dumbledore tossed him the Daily Prophet, its headline shouting right at Snape.

"Indisposed indeed. Your last message spoke of a rally deep within the castle bowels, a new direction you and your friends were moving in. Tell me Severus, what have you been up to these past few weeks?"

Snape looked hard at Dumbledore, his black eyes flashed red with indignant anger…and then shame. Without taking his gaze from Dumbledore's vivid blue eyes, Snape raised his wand to his temple and placed its tip into the greasy roots of his long, dark hair. When he withdrew his wand a silvery substance came away, stretching from temple to wand like a thick gossamer strand. It was white and translucent, a flimsy strand that threatened to break apart at any moment. Longer and longer it stretched until finally it broke off at the temple, swinging from the wand like a small pendulum.

Dumbledore reached out and wrapped the silvery substance around his finger.

"Is this a reflection or the original memory?"

"The original of course," replied Snape. "What's a reflection? A copy of one's memory?"

"Something like that…"

"Did you bring a pensieve? How will you see?"

Dumbledore drew his wand and waved it over his silvery finger, muttering ancient words Snape had never heard before. The silvery strand wrapped around Dumbledore's finger gave a quick shiver and then a white mist rose from it, as if it was shedding its skin.

Dumbledore reached out and cupped the semi-solid mist that had risen from Snape's memory strand. He then held out his finger and Snape reached out with his wand to take back his memory. Snape touched his wand back to his temple and the strand slowly wriggled back into his mind like an angry worm. Dumbledore then held his hand over the brandy and gently guided the silver mist into the alcohol.

"How did you do that? What was that mist?"

"Memories always taste like their original owner. Please don't take offense Severus," Dumbledore said with a wry smile, "But I believe I'll need alcohol to keep you down."

Unlike viewing memories in a pensieve, ingesting memories was an uncomfortable, discomfiting experience. Dumbledore would feel queasy until he had experienced the memory in full and it had passed through him. But an advantage was that he would be able to completely immerse himself in the memory and experience it firsthand, rather than merely being an outside observer during the process. Dumbledore would be able to sense everything Snape had felt during the memory, all his emotions would be laid bare.

Withdrawing and ingesting memories was a tricky business; it could have serious deleterious effects on both parties. The original owner could lose the memory completely, causing the empty space left behind to damage to his mind. And the transient owner could begin to confuse and destroy his own memories, with an alien one permanently residing within him. Powerful incantations and spells in the hands of wizards not capable of properly implementing them was a recipe for disaster, as Dumbledore himself had discovered first hand over his many travels.

Dumbledore swirled his cup and watched the dark red brandy mix with the silver mist. Then, with a quick wink to an anxious Snape, he gulped it down in one long swallow…

…Snape sat cross-legged in a wooded enclosure, tending a small fire pit. An amber potion was bubbling in a small cauldron hanging from a wooden spit in front of him, smoke lazily drifting up from the hot brew. He was surrounded by a few vacant tents and sleeping bags, men in dark robes idly chatted nearby. Clearly some kind of encampment ensconced deep within a forest.

Snape picked up some brown leaves at his sides and crushed them in his palm before dropping them into the cauldron, he then began stirring the simmering potion with short, clipped strokes. The surrounding conversation grew louder, a restlessness sounding in the voices.

"I'm tired of waiting," snarled Igor Karkaroff. He was a tall thin man, with closely cropped salt and pepper hair. He had a gaunt, spindly look about him, eyes darting to and fro. He walked towards Snape, with Avery and Mulciber a step behind.

"Is it ready yet Severus?" asked Mulciber. "The other two have arrived, it's time to go."

"A few more minutes. Who was sent?" asked Snape.

Avery gestured behind him.

Snape saw Walden Macnair striding towards them; he had been one of the very first Death Eaters and was fiercely loyal to the Dark Lord. Macnair had long grey hair that framed a weathered and lined face – one could tell he had been very athletic as a younger man. And behind him – it couldn't be!

Shock coursed through Snape and he gripped his wand tight, ready to send a curse flying. It was Bartemius "Barty" Crouch, the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He was known to be as vicious and cruel as the Death Eaters he had been appointed to capture – but somehow he seemed different, younger almost.

"Relax," said Macnair as he reached the group, sensing the tension growing in Snape. "Allow me to introduce the newest member to our cause…Barty Crouch, Jr. – the Head of Magical Law Enforcement's very own namesake."

At this introduction, Barty took a wide bow and the rest of the Death Eaters started laughing, Snape included.

"The ministry, a bunch of clueless mugs."

"We'll have 'em all, soon enough."

"Severus, the potion?"

"It's ready, everyone grab a cup."

Snape ladled out cupfuls to his companions, then poured himself a measured dose from a long wooden ladle. The amber brew shone in the dark shadows, with the consistency of creamy tomato soup. They all quickly drank it, save for Barty – he sniffed at his cup suspiciously.

"What's this then?"

"It's chicken broth, now shut up and drink as you're told," barked Macnair.

"It's an old potion, from Albania. I don't know its name, but it provides energy bursts over a short period of time. More adrenaline, more dopamine, your senses sharpen, increased tolerance to pain and so forth," explained Snape.

The others stalked off, a bounce in their step, towards a wooden house standing solemnly in the distance, leaving Snape alone with Barty.

"I don't like have my senses dulled or changed, I want to feel everything that happens."

"It might give you a bolt of courage, Bones is a tough wizard."

"I'm no coward, I won't drink a potion you don't even have a name for!"

"Suit yourself," replied Snape. He got up, stamped out the fire and headed off towards the others. "Even the Dark Lord takes it."

Barty stopped himself from pouring out the potion and then, deciding the Dark Lord knew best, gulped it down. The amber potion tasted salty and he felt it slide down this throat and settle deep in his gut, sending a jolt of energy through him. Neurotransmitter fired up throughout his body, his endorphins kicking into overdrive. Barty's eyes flashed with nervous anticipation as he licked his lips and hungrily thought about the destruction that lay ahead…

"Edgar Bones! Come out now! We only want you, we've no interest in your family!" bellowed Macnair. He and the other five Death Eaters stood side by side outside a large wooden home, on the sandy beach of a small blue lake. The Bones' summer house was soon to become the family's tomb.

"We've removed your magical defenses!" yelled Avery.

"And placed a Sanctum charm!" screamed Mulciber. "No apparition, no floo network, no portkeys!"

Snape, Karkaroff and Barty broke off from the pack and slowly moved towards the back of the house.

"Watch the windows," hissed Karkaroff. "They may try to fly off on brooms."

When the Dark Lord wanted someone dead, he got his wish – there was no hope for Bones outnumbered and alone. Snape knew four of the assembled Death Eaters better than he cared to. They were nasty, controlling men who all shared a penchant for violence, but they had been through enough missions to realize the Dark Lord was only interested in Edgar. These veterans were experienced in restraint and limiting collateral damage, and although the Dark Lord had no real concern for the rest of the Bones family, he had cautioned his soldiers against unnecessary brutality. Slaughtering women and children never made for good recruiting headlines and the Dark Lord was no fool.

Snape was glad for this edict, for he saw no reason for additional pain and loss of life, especially of children. In his private moments, Snape had admitted to himself that he was unsure the direction the Dark Lord's holy war was heading, doubt and regret had begun to seep more steadily into his mind, like a steady drip from a leaky faucet.

But what really concerned Snape today was the unfamiliar member of their attack party. Barty Crouch was an unknown. He was young, impetuous, itching for a chance to prove himself. Snape had seen that fanatical gleam in others' eyes before and that look normally accompanied wanton violence and death.

"Stay behind me," whispered Snape. "Watch my back."

"I'm here to help kill the old man, not play lookout. I don't take orders from you!"

"Disobeying a superior during a raid, ignoring the Dark Lord's rules already?"

"Fine, fine, just get on with it," snapped Barty. "Come out and play Bones!"

The Death Eaters waited but there was no movement…then a loud bang sounded, screams echoing from within the house.

"What the bloody hell was that?" snarled Karkaroff.

"One of them tried to apparate. The Sanctum charm probably caused a painful splinching," answered Snape.

"We're going in, watch the cross fire!" came a yell from the front yard. "Reducto!"

The front of the house exploded, showering the beach with bits of wooden hail. Snape, Karkaroff and Barty could hear yells and screams rattling from inside the home as the Death Eaters and Edgar dueled.

Barty was heaving, his breath coming in excited gasps – he longed to get inside and wreak havoc. "What the hell are we waiting for?!" he yelled, red-faced and barely able to contain himself.

"Okay," said Karkaroff, "It's time!" He pointed his wand at the back door and it flew inward, smashed off its ball bearing hinges.

Snape was the first through the splintered door and spied Edgar down a long hallway dueling with Macnair, while Avery lay prostrate on the ground and Mulciber was nowhere in sight. Snape pointed his wand at Edgar's back, but before a spell left his lips, he was roughly pushed aside. "Out of the way!" Barty yelled as they both tumbled to the ground.

"Stupefy!" yelled Macnair and Edgar ducked. The spell flew past him, over the fallen pair of Snape and Barty, and hit Karkaroff square in the chest. The grizzled Death Eater let out a grunt as he was lifted into the air and slammed down, stiff as a board.

Barty scrambled over Snape and began indiscriminatingly firing off spells at Edgar, but his aim was all over the place. The wayward spells flew haphazardly around, hitting every inch of the house – bits of furniture were scorched and walls were blown to smithereens.

Snape struggled to his feet and pushed forward, close behind Barty. "Enough! Drop your wand Edgar or I swear to God we'll burn this goddamn house to the ground, with your family still inside!" bellowed Snape.

Edgar kept his wand in front of him like a sword, slowly backing into a corner – indecision plastered across his ashen face. Blood splatters dappled his cheeks and a deep gash shone bright red on his forehead like macabre war paint. The poor man slowly began to accept his fate, hoping against hope that his family could somehow remain unscathed, as his house lay ruined right before his eyes.

Just as Edgar was lowering his wand, heavy footsteps pounded from overhead – his wife and their two young sons charged down the stairs, screaming like banshees. They were brandishing their wands wildly above their heads in frantic desperation; the Bones family decided to not go gently into the night, they refused to stand idly by while their loved one met a violent end.

Barty slashed his wand in a violent arc, causing a loud explosion on the stairs – one of the boys disappeared in the fiery blast. With an earsplitting shriek, Edgar's wife pointed her wand at Macnair and fired off a stream of metal spears.

"Protego!" yelled Macnair as he rolled out of the way.

Edgar turned and yelled "Incarcerous!" at Barty, who ducked immediately. Thick black ropes sailed through the air, past the now prone Barty, and struck Snape with a heavy smack. They wrapped themselves tightly around him and he fell to the ground, a useless doll relegated to the sidelines. His wand clattered away from his grasp, and lay inches from his now binded hand. Snape scrunched up his eyes, frowning in concentration.

"Accio wand!" Snape yelled. "Accio! Accio wand!"

The wand wiggled slightly, but moved no closer to him. He was no Lord Voldemort. He was no Dumbledore. Wandless magic was not yet in the young man's repertoire.

"Accio wand!" Snape let out a frustrated yell and the ropes cinched tighter around him. They began to pulse like angry black arms, crushing his ribs and slowly squeezing the breath out of him. Angry yells and screams of pain danced in the air as stars began to pop in Snape's eyes. As he lay gasping on the floor, listening to the explosions and frightened yells, Snape found himself silently rooting for the Bones family.

"Please! Not my son!"

"Run baby run!"

"Damnit Barty, control yourself man!"

Snape lay helplessly on the ground as duels raged around him, bits of debris and splinters of wood flying around and slamming into the ground all around him – he was right in the eye of an angry hurricane.

Snape could barely turn his head, only able to catch glimpses of the wild fight being waged in the broken house. His breathing became more ragged, his lungs burned as if alight from a hot fire – the ropes squeezed ever tighter, crushing his ribs to their breaking point.

Finally, the screaming and explosions stopped and Snape felt the thick ropes choking the life out of him vanish into thin air – the original caster was either incapacitated or dead. Snape rolled onto his back, coughing violently as he tried to suck in mouthfuls of precious air.

Snape found himself being helped to his feet by a battered Macnair. Looking around, the house was in complete shambles, total destruction evident – a tornado had passed through the home. But the most unsettling thing was the empty silence – no screams of pain or anger or desperate pleading, just a yawning emptiness. Bloodied bodies lay silent and unmoving, alongside wrecked furniture.

Snape stumbled out of the destroyed foyer, through a massive hole that had been blown through the front door. Hot disgust and shame welled up inside of him. He feel to his knees on the beach and puked out his repulsion.

He could hear the other Death Eaters straggling out of the house behind him and tried to control his breathing, taking deep breathes to compose himself. Weakling! Stop it! What will they say if you start crying!

Snape had been part of attacks before, had even found them thrilling at first. But those battles had been waged against trained aurors, the missions made sense back then – they had a clear and direct purpose. Attacking one lone wizard, with his family nearby…this was not what he had signed up for. How was murdering a pure blood wizard helping to advance the Dark Lord's vision of a safer and more secure wizarding future?

Snape turned around – Macnair was helping Karkaroff carry an unconscious Avery towards their makeshift campsite. Mulciber limped along behind them, holding a cloth to his bloody and broken nose. The house was in shambles – part of it was smoldering, angry flames licked the roof. Snape couldn't bear to watch it anymore – he trudged off after Avery, pondering the decisions that had led him to this very moment.

The only sound behind Snape was Barty's heavy panting, but it didn't sound as though the young Death Eater was tired from the fight. Rather, it sounded as though Barty was thrilled, in the final throes of ecstasy and Snape had to swallow down another wave of revulsion…

…Snape stared at Dumbledore – it had been almost an hour since the headmaster had gulped down Snape's memory. The headmaster sat peacefully in a leather chair, slowly breathing, his eyes fluttering every once in a while. Dumbledore was in a deep trance, completely unaware of his surroundings. Is he able to see everything that I did? He looks so helpless, so unguarded – I wonder if he can sense me right now…Snape's mind jumped to the Dark Lord, who would have given anything to be here in this room…right now…with Dumbledore's guard completely down…

Suddenly, the bright blue eyes fluttered open as Dumbledore let out a shocked gasp and then began sucking in air as if he had been underwater for a long minute. He then sat up in his chair and stared hard at Snape.

There was no shock, no anger, no repugnance, no loathing in the old man's face – just a look of empathy with a twinge of disappointment.

Dumbledore's piteous look stung Snape more severely than the young man thought possible.