"ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇʟʟ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱᴏᴜʟ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴀꜱɪᴇꜱᴛ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ. ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏʙᴏᴅʏ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ʜᴏᴜʀ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ʟɪꜰᴇ. ɪꜰ ɪ ᴀꜱᴋᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱᴏᴜʟ - ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ʜᴀʀᴅᴇʀ?"
― ᴀʏɴ ʀᴀɴᴅ, ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴛᴀɪɴʜᴇᴀᴅ
Chapter Eleven: All Sorts of Ultimatums
Voldemort held the curtain aside. From here, the very top room of the manor, he could see the distant figure of Lucius Malfoy striding down the cobbled driveway framed by the sunset, black cloak billowing in the bitter wind.
The vantage point was almost worth the constant annoyance of the owls flying in and out to hunt. At the very least, few nosy people (Narcissa) strayed up here due to the draft.
Wormtail should have left by now. Black's headstart was sufficient.
He should probably find out what Lucius had been up to at the Ministry during the past eighteen hours. This hiding irritated him deeply, but it was the best assurance of victory, victory which would come soon.
Fools. Voldemort began to make his way downstairs. Dumbledore was the only one who could make resistance anything more than a fool's errand. They are fools. And they will lose.
Narcissa stood behind Lucius's chair as they discussed something in whispered tones in the drawing-room, the pipe organ at the back of the room casting strange shadows onto their faces; Lucius got to his feet as the Dark Lord entered.
"The '04 is not your usual taste, Lucius," he observed, fingertips skimming along the rim of a crystal decanter set on the shelf. The Malfoy home, though it was always made welcoming and comfortable for his presence, never failed to fill him with jealousy. What had his legacy been? A locket, and a ring that had been lost to the ages? A dirty shack? Filthy Morfin? He felt his lip curl at the thought as he recalled coming upon the shack, of his uncle, an ignorant waste of pure, magical blood, telling him that he was the spawn of a Muggle and a whore—
"The Minister's favourite, My Lord."
"How... thoughtful."
He had always admired the paintings. Perhaps he would have paintings commissioned, but only of his worthy ancestors. Salazar Slytherin, Cadmus Peverell, Corvinus Gaunt... but quietly, in a secret room, so that no one whispered about a Gaunt bastard behind his back...
"Though the Dark Lord prefers sljivovica," Narcissa interjected quickly, her fingers tightening on the back of her husband's chair. "Which he discovered in his travels in Eastern Europe, prior to the first blood war."
"Bella has told you."
...But even if they knew of his blood, would they not be too deep in the quagmire to care? People did not so easily change their convictions.
And after all, why have an ancestral home at all? He would not being dying anytime to consider leaving a legacy. Besides, his Muggle father's blood was strong. A child would remind him of it, and then he would have to dispose of it, and then it would be time invested for no gain...
"Yes, My Lord."
Enough of this. He already knew Narcissa was skilled enough at verbal badminton.
"News, Lucius?"
Lucius, who had not looked directly at Voldemort since he'd walked in the room, looked up in surprise. Voldemort held his tongue. Perhaps he had sounded a tad too... desperate. He was usually so careful about keeping his voice as level as possible.
"Things are coming along nicely, My Lord," said Lucius, and Voldemort could hear the excitement in his voice, the relief in his posture. "As you expected, Thaddeus and I have found Dolores Umbridge most... helpful. Narcissa has reached out to parents, who have been remarkably cooperative in building a case against Dumbledore. We may even have Harry Potter's testimony within the week."
"Good," he said, quietly. "Very good, Lucius."
Narcissa could not hide the smile tugging at her mouth.
"There is one more thing, My Lord," added Lucius. "There is the matter of the Mudbloods."
Yes, thought Voldemort, that remains a problem without a solution.
"Yes, yes, take the hostages," he said, sounding as offhand as he possibly could.
It can only worsen the situation, after all.
"Anything we could help with, My Lord?" asked Narcissa as he turned to leave.
He paused on the threshold, considering this. There was one variable yet left undefined.
"Silence Benjamin Goldstein. That will be all."
"Ill?" asked Bellatrix haughtily, daubing a potioned handkerchief at the purple skin under her eyes. "I am hardly ill, Cissy."
"You are only slightly less starved than you were a few months ago," Narcissa insisted, her arms folded as she stood by the window, watching Lucius's white peacocks stride across the grounds. "The Dark Lord would not have you injured. He is only a government official. All that is needed is an undetectable poison from Severus."
Bellatrix crumpled the handkerchief in her frail fingers and turned towards Narcissa, the weight of her black robes seeming to weigh down her spider-delicate limbs. She stepped forward towards Narcissa, the latter startled by her sister's still imposing, taller frame.
"All poisons are detectable. But people will not learn from violence they cannot see or hear. Your husband is no assassin."
"Lucius has killed before."
"But has he murdered?" Bellatrix let the suggestion linger, before she turned and sunk into a chair. "Hear me well, Cissy: when the Dark Lord wants something done, he wants it done properly."
Narcissa, too, looked exhausted. She adjusted the ivory comb holding her long hair away from her face and sighed.
"You don't even have a wand."
"Lend me yours, then," said Bellatrix, her eyes glimmering with a greedy light.
Narcissa's hands trembled. "What if you are caught again?"
For a moment, Bellatrix was silent. Then, her twig-like frame shuddered under an onslaught of coughing.
"There is Polyjuice left in your stores, yes?"
"Yes," said Narcissa. "It will be adequate for four hours at least. But who—"
Bellatrix snapped her spindly fingers. "It would be wise to appear to be an insider. One of Goldstein's underlings, perhaps..."
"Yes," said Narcissa again, and at Bellatrix's shrewd look, hurried to Lucius's office, where she wasted to time in unlocking one of the drawers, sorted through the immaculately-organized contents, and hurried back with a manilla folder marked 'D. of Magical Creatures: Pest Advisory Board.'
Bellatrix fell silent again, the only sound in the room the rustling of the parchment.
"Him!" she said suddenly, pointing at a picture of a man with a ruddy face and a sparse brown beard.
"Amos Diggory," Narcissa read the scribble under his picture. "Bella, are you sure this is wise?"
Narcissa's play at being the elder sister did not come to fruition, for at once there was a knock on the door, and the house-elf creakily letting them know that Master Lucius had returned.
Bellatrix and Narcissa did not recall Lucius leaving. The sisters exchanged a tense look, and Narcissa ordered Dobby to bring him up immediately.
The creak of feet on the stairs could be heard a few minutes later, and the door creaked open, Lucius emerging from it, with his cloak still draped about his arms. He looked a little shaken, as if he might have caught wind of a Dementor or two on the way back. Everyone knew they lingered about the Ministry of Magic as a dark, hungry pestilence.
Narcissa stood at her husband's entrance, hastily clearing the papers from the table and out of sight.
"You have been discussing Benjamin Goldstein."
"Of course not," said Narcissa, although she had gone pink at the tips of her ears and her nose, the manilla folder behind her back. She gestured to the marble chessboard halfway through a game.
"And what of it?" asked Bellatrix, still lounging in the burgundy armchair with the stately air of a mummified Egyptian cat.
"You needn't worry about the Dark Lord's charge, if that was indeed the subject of discussion." Lucius draped his cloak over the chair, inspecting the arrangement of the chessboard. "Narcissa, where is that useless house-elf? Dobby? DOBBY!"
"It is hardly your concern what I worry about!" said Bellatrix.
"It is no longer a concern," Lucius responded evenly, as Dobby appeared with a loud pop. Two bandages were hastily wrapped around each ear, both blistering red underneath. He took Lucius's cloak, disappeared, and reappeared with three glasses of mead.
"Madam Rosmerta's." The apprehension in Narcissa's voice was palpable. She eyed the glasses with a suspicious look. "Lucius. Have you been to Hogwarts?"
"Of course not," said Lucius, echoing Narcissa's earlier faux-innocence. "Dolores, admirable though she is in many ways, is not so skillful at manipulating wards to permit my person through them. No. Instead, I have merely reminded Benjamin Goldstein that I have agents in Hogwarts, agents with access to a storeroom full of high quality ingredients, and that it used to be commonplace at Hogwarts a mere few centuries to poison your competitors. What if we decided to rekindle that tradition? In fact, Benjamin and I discussed that possibility over a glass of mead at Rosmerta's fine establishment."
"You fool!" Bellatrix bolted upright, despite Narcissa's entreaties. "So you have all but revealed yourself, and let him leave with his life! Fool! The Dark Lord gives you undeserved praise, and you reward it with failure!"
"This is the new age, Bellatrix!" Lucius countered. "We have moved on from torture and killing! This is the age of fear and manipulation. Diplomacy."
"Fool!" A menacing growl reverberated in Bellatrix's throat.
"No one asked your opinion, barren bitch," snarled Lucius.
Narcissa looked torn between defending her sister or her husband, who was inches from the point of Bellatrix's wand, her bony, frail arm stark and pale against the dark wood.
"Kill me now," whispered Lucius, his hands raised in surrender, "and displease the Dark Lord. Remember, I was his right hand—"
"Our merciful lord may forgive me," Bellatrix responded, equally delicate in tone and manner, "and if I shall be punished, I will accept my fate."
"I only hope your nephew will find this reasoning sufficient."
"Your son is a Black." Bellatrix drew herself up to her full height. "We understand that our tree requires pruning from time to time."
"Bellatrix, enough!" snapped Narcissa. "You've been through an unimaginable ordeal, yes, but you've threatened him long enough."
Bellatrix turned to her sister, a wan smile on her lips. In a melodramatic fashion, she let her wand arm fall to her side.
"Very well, Cissy. Rodolphus is the barren one, you know. Never could get it up."
And with that, she left the room and the Malfoys in stunned silence.
The Gryffindor common room had been thrown into a flurry of activity. Remus Lupin stood, inches from the portrait hole, attempting in vain to organise the chaos before him.
Dolores will announce the deportation of all Muggle-born students from Hogwarts by the end of the day. If they can make their way past the Dementors, Ministry officials are waiting in Hogsmeade to arrest them.
Lupin's news still rang in Harry's ears. He lifted the velvet curtain, his stomach flip-flopping as the Dementors outside swooped and dove, howling with vile joy at the prospect of a meal.
"Now," he whispered, "it's got to be now. It's a death sentence, going out there!"
"Flitwick's with us... Sprout, too. Professor McGonagall is keeping Umbridge occupied—"
"What about Snape?" Ron interrupted.
"It presents a complication," said Lupin tapping his foot impatiently, "but we won't run into him."
"How can you be so sure?" Harry countered.
"HURRY!" barked Percy, who was standing on a table and, without his badge, had unofficially resumed his place as Head Boy. "WE'RE MISSING TWO! GRANGER! CREEVEY! SOMEONE GET BOTH OF THEM!"
Harry turned to see Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil shepherding Hermione down the stairs to the girls' dorms towards where the rest of the Muggle-born students were all clumped in a loose huddle.
The plan was simple enough. Cloak the students in a Disillusionment Charm, and sneak off to the seventh floor in the dead of night, hoping that neither Umbridge nor the Inquisitorial Squad would intercept them. There was no Plan B.
There had been suspicions that the Muggle-borns were going to be secretly moved, Harry knew. He'd found that out when Ginny had found both Hephaestus and Crookshanks acting rather strange yesterday, and subsequently discovered that someone had laid a trail of catnip leading towards Umbridge's office, an obvious ploy to divert cats used as messengers in place of owls.
It had reminded him, with a sudden jolt, of Ruby's handiwork.
Umbridge will be out there. Harry was absolutely certain of it. The knowledge was a bubbling pit of anxiety at the bottom of his stomach.
"This is it," said Ron, draping an arm around Hermione's shoulders.
"You're coming?" asked Hermione, rather breathlessly. One of the things Harry admired most about her was that she wasn't prone to being weepy, but her eyes looked red and her face was stained with tear tracks.
"Of course we're coming," said Harry, gesturing at the Invisibility Cloak tucked under his arm.
Lupin was moving through the throng of students now, tapping his wand to each person's head, muttering Dissimulare repeatedly as each students became a faint shimmer. Ron squeezed Hermione's hand as Harry watched her disappear.
"Good-bye, Ron. Good-bye, Harry."
"We're coming with you," Harry insisted, trying not to think of the Dementors' scabby, scaly nails scraping against the walls of the castle, how Hermione and Colin must be thinking of them too.
Percy rapped on the back of the portrait hole, and it swung open. He and Lupin stood at the entrance, heads cocked towards the outside, listening intently.
"All clear," said Lupin solemnly. He straightened up, smoothing the front of his shabby robes and attempting to muster a comforting demeanour. "Time to go."
A faint shimmer moved forward. It was very good spellwork, Harry could tell, but up close and in good lightning, it would never be anywhere near enough to avoid suspicion and nothing like the total occlusion of his Invisibility Cloak.
He nudged Ron, and the two of them slipped under the Cloak and went out into the hallway after the last Disillusioned student. Lupin glanced anxiously around and waved his wand to dim some of the torches lining the halls. The shimmer began to move, too.
"Think McGonagall'll be able to keep Umbridge occupied for the next half hour?" whispered Ron.
"I hope so," said Harry. The sick feeling was in his throat now, and his wand was in his hand, too. If not, we're all doomed.
For the most part, it seemed to be going well as it possibly could.
Until Harry caught Theodore Nott's gleaming, pale blue eyes peeping curiously out from around a suit of armour, and a pile of dark, shiny hair wrapped around rollers behind him that could only belong to Daphne Greengrass.
The Hermione-shaped shimmer passed so close to the suit of armour that Theodore could have reached out and brushed her arm. At that range, they would have seen her for certain, and go immediately to Umbridge's office.
Why does everything have to go wrong? Harry seized Ron's arm, stopping him from going any further; but with his momentum from trying to keep up with the group of Disillusioned students hurrying towards the seventh-floor room, he tripped over Harry's feet, sending them both to the ground and pulling the Cloak off, revealing them both.
Before he could free himself from the tangle of limbs, two sets of dragon-leather shoes came to rest inches from Harry's face; he groaned, and not just because Ron had accidentally elbowed him in the stomach. He followed the pair of shoes to two triumphant faces.
"If you've got any more exotic hexes up your sleeve, this would be a good time, Ron!"
"Actually, maybe you'd better not, Weasley," said Daphne, her Inquisitorial Squad badge glittering on her nightgown. Harry noticed, somewhat ironically, that Theodore wasn't even an official member of the Squad. "We've got your card marked."
"Come on, Harry!" said Ron, scrambling to his feet. "Two against two."
"I won't be fighting in the hallways, thanks, and certainly not after curfew," sniffed Daphne, but the choice was not hers to make, because Ron was circling her, wand drawn. Harry leapt to his feet, too, with the full certainty that they were all that stood between the other two alerting Umbridge as to what exactly was going on.
Daphne's aim and footwork were decent, as far as Harry could tell, but she struggled with actual spellcasting. Nonetheless, Ron still got caught on the wrist by a Stinging Hex, although he seemed to generally have the upper hand.
He wasn't particularly versed in duelling, but was of the mind, from watching Dudley fight other kids at school, that if you didn't know much about your opponents, you should act swiftly and drastically. The kids who got a few good early punches in tended to get away with less bruises.
But it was Theodore who'd cast first, something at his head — what was that spell Cedric had used to deflect his jinx in the dormitory?
"Protego!" he stammered out, jerking his wand in something approaching the right motion. For a moment, it seemed like it was about to work; but then the jet of blue light hit him squarely in the stomach and sent him flying.
"You won't win, Harry!" Theodore taunted. "My father — Everte Statum! — taught me how to duel — Rictusempra — the moment I could hold a wand!"
Harry, doubled over in a painful and humiliating fit of laughter, didn't like his chances either. He'd have to ask Lupin to teach him how to properly conduct a wizards' duel, granted that he managed to get out of this one. But in the pocket of his robes was a half-decent potion that he'd brewed in Myrtle's toilet a while ago to work off the infuriation from one of Umbridge's particularly nauseating lectures.
Weedosoros. Poisonous only if ingested, but if he could manage to splash it over Theodore, enough would get absorbed through the skin to cause convulsions. Desperate times, desperate measures.
Harry pretended that Theodore's tickling spell was still very much working, as he snuck a hand into the pocket of his robes, wrapping his hand firmly around the neck of the vial. He flicked the cap off, the blood thumping furiously in his veins, and he leapt to his feet and surged forward even as Theodore cringed back.
"Wingardium Leviosa — Confringo!"
Theodore had clearly only been taught to defend himself from a casting attacker, not one aiming several feet above his head at a floating bottle. Glass dust and violet liquid rained down on him; Harry only saw Theodore stumble and fall before he heard Ron's yelp and the sound of feet racing down the corridor.
"She's gone towards Umbridge's office!"
Like any Slytherin who had had enough forewarning of their impending defeat, Daphne had slipped away.
Harry, without a glance spared at Theodore shuddering on the ground, and forcing the tiny, guilty voice to the back of his mind, took off after Ron. He ran faster than he'd ever run, faster than if Dudley and all his gang were behind him, the image of Hermione and all those ravenous Dementors outside seared behind his eyes.
But it was too late; Daphne was tall for their age and swift on her feet, and as he stumbled into the last corridor, he heard voices around the hall.
"We're too late," said Ron grimly, panting for breath.
"No... we can still stall her," said Harry, feeling very determined. "Stay here and make sure no one comes in. Do you trust me?"
"Of course," said Ron, but he looked eminently confused.
He checked his pockets, and let out a relieved sigh. What he had planned just might work. Despite Ron's protests, he marched into the office behind Daphne and on the tail end of Professor McGonagall's exclamation at her sudden appearance.
Umbridge stood with a smile. The pit of anxiety in his stomach burned with cold, steady hatred.
"Mr. Potter."
"Professor Umbridge."
"Potter, it is well past curfew," said McGonagall, with a sort of twitch. This was not the plan. She looked suspiciously from Daphne to Harry and back to Umbridge.
"I wanted to see you, Professor Umbridge," said Harry.
"Excellent," said Umbridge with a simpering smile. "Minerva, if you'll escort Miss Greengrass to her common room?"
"I am certain Miss Greengrass is capable of finding her way," said McGonagall, without the intent to move an inch.
"But Professor Umbridge," Daphne began, clearly aching to tell her what had happened in the hallway.
Umbridge's smile grew wider. The black velvet bow wobbled.
"Oh, I insist."
Wobble.
McGonagall pressed her lips into an almost non-existent line.
"Unless you have something to hide, Minerva?" Umbridge's voice swelled into its sweetest register.
"I will take Miss Greengrass and return directly." She gave Harry a tense nod, then swept out of the office, Daphne following behind.
For a full minute, neither Harry not Umbridge moved, each regarding the other warily.
"Please take a seat, Mr. Potter."
He glared down the length of the office at her, and began to walk, one foot in front of the other.
For the first time, Harry smiled at her. He couldn't help it; the corners of his mouth began to lift quite unbidden. It might have looked a little menacing, because the smile Umbridge returned was uneasy.
He withdrew a folded-up piece of parchment from his pocket, and, without the slightest flourish, handed it to Umbridge, who, still regarding him as if he were a live mine, began to read.
"Dumbledore... witnessed... dangerous mismanagement.. exacerbated... the Chamber of Secrets... utter foolishness... senile old fool... " Harry saw her eyes start to grow wide with excitement, her fingers clutching at the precious parchment as if she could barely believe it was real. He saw her mouth each word as if in a trance, tracing his signature at the bottom with utter reverence.
She had forgotten all about the Muggle-borns for the moment, just as he'd hoped. Harry stared down at his shoes, hoping the excitement in his expression at finally getting the better of her wouldn't betray the ploy.
Penelope Clearwater, the Ravenclaw prefect, had told Anthony about a recent fad that was being passed around by the upper years; if you were willing to sacrifice some powdered moonstone from your allotment, a pinch added to regular ink would make a sort of reverse invisible ink that began to fade once it was exposed to heat and light. Umbridge hadn't noticed yet, but it must be just starting to fade by now.
Harry, of course, had written the entire letter in the tainted ink as added 'insurance' should Umbridge ever pressure him about the statement. He'd imagined it would keep Ron out of detention, at least until Umbridge realised she'd been had, and never anticipated that it would come to such dire circumstances.
He coughed, his heartbeat in his ears. Theodore might have been found by now. Had the Muggle-born students had enough time? The cat clock suggested that they had. But the signal...
Umbridge set the parchment down, regarding Harry with the sort of simpering look that she might give Daphne Greengrass.
"Very good, Mr. Potter," she said lightly. "Very good. I did so hope we would be friends, and you seem to finally have come around to the idea. Aren't things just so much easier when you cooperate?"
Harry forced an another smile.
Just then, there was a loud scuffle at the door.
Ron!
Harry got to his feet, despite whatever Umbridge was saying to him, but just as he reached the door, it banged open, to reveal the Slytherin boy who'd threatened Cedric in the corridor, holding Ron in a vice-grip by his collar. He breathed out; Ron looked furious but unharmed.
"Found this one lurking outside the door. Likely up to no good, Professor."
Ron made an insulted noise and made to escape from the hulking Slytherin's grip.
"Yes, I see. Thank you, Mr. Flint." Umbridge smiled at Ron, her hands folded in front of her. The Slytherin finally let go of Ron and left, and he wrinkled his nose, looking disgusted.
Just then, a loud boom shook the castle.
"That's the signal!" Ron excitedly whispered in Harry's ear. "They're safe inside!"
Umbridge quivered, and the bow on her head did, too. Clearly, she suspected something.
Ignoring both of them, she stepped outside of the office.
"Where's she going?" whispered Ron, but Harry could guess; the Ravenclaw dormitory, which was also the closest and quite conveniently, had no password.
"It's fine," said Harry, still shaking with relief. "She won't find any Muggle-borns."
"But she'll find students! Punish them using that bloody quill! Someone will crack! Think about it, Harry, she'll go after the first years!"
"If she gets past the riddle. She wasn't a Ravenclaw, was she?"
Ron was silent for a minute. "How long do you think it'll take for Greengrass to get Snape?"
Just then, they both heard a very high-pitched yelp, and then saw Umbridge take what must have been a painful tumble down the stairs leading to Ravenclaw Tower. She lay on her back, twitching, like a turtle turned on its shell.
Harry looked up and realised instantly what had happened; the stairs had turned into a chute, making it impossible to get up; one of the Ravenclaw Muggle-borns, possibly Penelope, must have jinxed the stairs as a good-bye present.
He tugged on Ron's arm and gestured for them to make their way back to Gryffindor Tower.
Umbridge would surely be furious in the morning; Harry's witness statement would have vanished, along with every single Muggle-born in Hogwarts.
Do you think he'll come for the rest of us, now?
But Harry, as he climbed the stairs behind Ron, glancing around every few seconds, did not dare to voice this fear.