Chapter 15
Terrified, despairing screams filled the air, and white hot flames roared hellishly, sending sparks up into the night as the roof collapsed in on itself, as the stone walls that had endured for centuries beyond counting cracked from the intensity of the heat – no ordinary fire, this – and the eldritch green glow in the sky above sent an unequivocal message across the countryside as far as the eye could see in all directions…
Harry jerked awake, screaming; his lungs heaved as he fought for breath, fought the pain of his scar burning, throbbing in sickening waves. He could still hear the screams; still hear the fear and the pain, see the scene in vivid technicolour, etched in poisonous acid and forever burned into his memory…
Ron stirred, rolled over, and regarded him through bleary, dazed eyes. His hair shot up in all directions like that famous muggle scientist – Einstein? – but there was no real irritation in his scowl, which faded to concern once he realised that something was very, very wrong. “Wzzgoinon?” he mumbled, not quite capable of much more at this hour of the night.
Harry looked at him with wide eyes, a little unfocused without his glasses. “A…a nightmare,” he breathed, heart still racing, hands trembling from the overload of adrenalin. “A vision…it was burning – it was all burning, even the sky…and he was laughing…”
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The house was burning.
That was an undeniable fact, as undeniable as the fact that he was also here, participating in the act of burning the house down, of terrorising, torturing and killing its inhabitants, and of fawning on the unholy abomination who had ordered it done, as if the abomination was worthy of such flattery, as if It was worth his loyalty and the faith that he had once – once, long ago – invested in It and Its cause.
Because he had believed, once. Others had joined for power, for ambition, for the thrill of flirting with the forbidden, but he had joined because he had believed the man once known as Tom Riddle could teach him, could show him truths that those who dwelled in the light could never, ever have dreamed of. He had never believed in their simplistic view of the world, never shared their trite sentiments; had always been drawn to the shadows, to uncertainties, to powers that did not fit into the nice, safe, blinkered reality that had been crafted for the majority of the wizarding world.
In his youth, he had not thought that there might be a reason some things should be forbidden, had not thought that some knowledge might be better off forgotten. Always the avid scholar, the academic, he had been arrogant – so arrogant in his naiveté…
And he was still paying the price of that, would pay for it until the day he died. Every time he lied, prostrated himself before Abomination in the name of the greater good, in the name of the great Cause and the Order, in the name of Albus Dumbledore, and, lately, in the name of the Malfoy, he lost another little bit of his soul.
At least it was for a good Cause. Albus had told him so. Lucius had told him so.
But it was hard to convince himself of that, when he watched the family that had been pulled from their beds and dragged out into the garden cling together, the father (he refused to think of him as William Harcourt) giving what comfort he could to his wife and two small daughters, while pretending not to be terrified of what was going to happen all too soon. Snape was glad for the concealment of his mask, because there was no way he could have hidden the expression on his face, not when faced with the grim reality of just how little help he could provide, how little he could do in the real world.
He was one of Voldemort’s inner circle, but that didn’t mean he had any real power at all – not with the Dark Lord’s suspicious eyes on him, watching, evaluating, only waiting for a sign that he was more loyal to Albus Dumbledore than to his sworn Lord. Not with Alexander Nott’s eyes on him, watching for any sign that he was more loyal to Draco Malfoy than to any of his other masters.
He was under suspicion, his every movement watched, judged, analysed; there was nothing he could do to help. All he could do was watch and Witness their deaths…
“Severus…” Abomination, prompted by naked Ambition, hissed out his name in malicious amusement. “You do not seem to be looking forward to the festivities…”
He froze, and turned around with agonising slowness to face his Lord, and the man who now stood behind him. Their eyes watched him, cruel feline eyes, as he scrambled to find an answer. But Voldemort forestalled him. “Perhaps you are…offended by the thought of serving your Lord in this manner? Hmm?”
He licked his lips, bowed his head in resignation. “My Lord, my life is yours to command.”
Voldemort’s hissing laugh grated against his ears, froze him to the spot. “I wonder if it is…” Snape looked up into the red, inhuman eyes, and saw his death written within them. Perhaps not now, not tonight, but some day soon – it was only a matter of time, and of how much of amusement they derived from taunting him.
But, just as he was powerless to save this family from hell, he was powerless to save himself from the inevitable price of his arrogance and his treachery. Perhaps, deep down in the most secret depths of his soul, he had no wish to save himself. He had played the game, and one day it would be time to pay the price… In some ways, it would be a relief.
But then Nott looked straight at him, smiled, and said something that made his blood run cold. “We are all yours, Lord, even those who may seem to be beyond your reach…”
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Albus Dumbledore stood staring blankly out of the window in his office, ignoring the moonlit grounds of Hogwarts spread out before him, focusing instead on Harry’s disturbing midnight vision. The boy, dishevelled and distraught, had believed that the vision had not happened yet, but was only a product of Voldemort’s imagination – a fantasy, if you will. If one wanted to know what that abomination fantasised about.
Which place had Harry seen? At nearly sixteen, he had not yet seen much of the wizarding world beyond the main centres in London, Hogwarts and its environs, the Burrow, and the arena where the World Quidditch Cup had been held. He had not recognised the place. Ron, raised in the wizarding world, had not recognised the description. And Albus himself, with considerably more experience, who had seen and travelled most of the world, had not recognised it – a revelation that carried quite disturbing implications. If Voldemort attacked and destroyed one of the hidden places of the world…
He understood the urgency of Harry’s vision, but at the moment there was nothing he or anyone else could do. Not all dreams and night terrors were true visions, and even if this one was, there was little that could be done until and unless they understood where it was going to take place. At the very best, this vision was a glimpse of the Dark Lord’s next move; at worst, it could be a deception, a false messenger…
There was too much to lose, if they misinterpreted this vision. At the moment, more could be served by waiting, watching, analysing, and worrying about the here and now rather than the uncertain, shifting future.
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Arthur Weasley had grown rather used to frequent visitations from Dane Harcourt, used to seeing the High Clan Auror – so graceful in his perfectly draped robes and so arrogant in his self-assurance – watch him with those assessing eyes; used to hearing the man’s rather unconventional opinions on current events and political machinations. He had found the man’s advice invaluable, after he had, for the first time in his life, pulled strings and called in all the markers he could in order to get himself onto Nott’s special committee in charge of assessing and investigating Malfoy property.
So when, for the first time in months, he went through a whole morning without one sign of the man, he grew a little worried – it was always a bad sign when an Auror disappeared, especially such a high profile, controversial figure as the Lord of Clan Harcourt, especially now, when they were up to their necks in such a delicate, dangerous game. Harcourt had made damned sure Arthur understood the stakes of this game they were playing – this was not office politics, or Ministerial rivalry, this was the Game, the notorious, infamous Game that had turned so fatal during Voldemort’s first rising and after his resurrection.
By midday, the whole of the Ministry was buzzing with rumour, and he was beginning to be seriously worried, not just for Harcourt but for himself as well. If they could take out Harcourt, then what would they do to him…? The approaching figure of Alexander Nott, not usually a visitor to this part of the Ministry, did nothing to allay his fears.
“Hello, Weasley,” Nott said smiling, the smile never reaching his hard, cold eyes. “How are you?”
Briefly, Arthur wondered what prompted this civility when prior to his joining the Committee, the other man had never before acknowledged him in the twenty years they had both worked at the Ministry. But he had learned something of discretion, in his dealings with Harcourt. “Nott,” he said agreeably. “I’m quite well…” he paused. “But what brings you here? Surely you didn’t come all this way to exchange greetings with me.” Perhaps the lessons had not rubbed off as well as they should have.
Nott’s smile lost any semblance of joviality and became almost vicious. “No doubt you’ve been wondering why Harcourt hasn’t come in today.” His eyes were cold and cruel, watching and analysing every tic, every blink, and every facial expression that crossed Arthur’s face. Pinned by those eyes, Arthur could only wonder how Nott had found out.
“I think everyone is wondering,” he said cautiously.
Nott laughed – a horrible laugh, a soft, amused, indulgent chuckling that destroyed any confidence Arthur might ever have had that he could hold his own with such an opponent. The man was worse than Malfoy had ever been. “I fear that Lord Harcourt was called away on a family emergency very early this morning,” he said, his voice rich, cruel and filled with amusement. “A random attack, they say, an act of violence against a prominent Auror’s family…” Nott paused to savour Arthur’s sudden fear. “You remember his younger brother William? He had a wife – Anne, I believe her name was – and two small children…”
Arthur suddenly felt sick, but beneath the sickness was a growing resentment, an anger that Nott would toy with him in this fashion. He stared at the other man with loathing, heard the taunting voice continue, ram its message home so that no possible question could remain in Arthur’s mind. “If they could attack Harcourt himself, then who else will they target? Who will be next?” Nott’s words and face were concerned, troubled; his eyes were gleeful and vicious.
Mechanically, Arthur nodded. He said something suitable, went through all the courteous motions, and then when the other man was gone, went to sit down at his desk, mind chaotically swirling with thoughts, emotions and fears. If they could attack Harcourt himself, who else will be next?
The message had been all too pointed. Running his hands through his hair, rubbing at his face to alleviate the tension and stress, he wondered just when the world had stopped being simple and straightforward, and when he had stepped over the line into such recklessness and arrogance that he would risk his family for the sake of a matter that had absolutely nothing to do with him…
What, in Merlin’s name, was he doing? Draco Malfoy was no concern of his, or even of the Order’s. In fact, why was he trying to preserve the paramount position of the Malfoy when, if they fell, it would send the whole of the High Clan and therefore most of the Dark Lord’s power base into disarray…
He had no right to risk his family in such a manner. Not after such a pointed warning, and such an illustrative example.
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Azkaban had always been a depressing place, a dark, dreary and soul-sapping hell that Dane Harcourt would go far out of his way to avoid. The Dementors brought far too many memories back to the surface of his mind, dredged them up out of the deepest, darkest part of his subconsciousness where he had worked so hard to bury them; faces of William and his family, of fallen comrades and enemies alike; flashes of vicious, bloody skirmishes and raids, ambushes and outright battles – all the horrors and outrages of a guerrilla war fought by unseen, anonymous terrorists who had no clear aim and no real purpose but to kill, and to benefit from it. Oh, Gods, how he hated them…
There were no Dementors on guard anymore, and no memories rose up to choke him, to give him pause as he walked swiftly through the halls – hurrying, because the prison’s aura was still black and rotted with horror and despair – towards a cell that had seen much traffic lately, and an inmate who was, despite his incarceration, still a very useful pawn.
He wondered how Lucius Malfoy liked his change in status.
Heading through the door that the filthy, leering gaoler so mockingly held open, he had one hand gathering his robes and the other as close to his body as possible, and with the sudden change from torch-lit corridor to the much darker, danker cell, he was lucky that Malfoy harboured no intentions of escape; it would have been all too easy to catch him off guard at that moment. Dane Harcourt, for all his heritage, skills and authority, was still only mortal – something he had been brutally reminded of last night – he could still die, and death could be granted by a desperate prisoner armed with a sharp tool just as easily as by an enemy’s curse in heated combat, or a terrorist’s vicious, twisted whim. So he drew in a soundless, displeased breath when he saw Lucius Malfoy seated on the bed, his long white fingers loosely holding a ladies’ hatpin filed to a vicious point.
Silver eyes rose slowly to his, but they were somehow empty, as if the vital force that had animated them had gone…elsewhere. For a moment Dane feared the worst – the Kiss, or some other kind of torture that had finally broken Malfoy’s mind – but no, awareness was slowly spilling back into his eyes, they were slowly filling with intelligence, and sardonic humour, and arrogance, and everything else that made up the man – the Death Eater – known as Lucius Malfoy. It was an unsettling process to watch, seeing someone come back to awareness from a deep, deep trance state – to watch the self return from the Void, or from wherever it went during meditation.
The door swung shut behind him with a tangible thump; Harcourt fought not to jump at the sound and all that it implied. Had it been any other man, any other prisoner, he would not have been afraid – he was an Auror, a fully trained, lethal killer, what could they possibly do to him? But this was Lucius Malfoy, strong in both body and mind, exceptionally ruthless when he felt himself threatened, and with an almost sickening capacity for cruelty if and when he thought it necessary. He ignored everything he knew of Malfoy’s record as he met his eyes, ventured forward into the centre of the cell and seated himself, unbidden, on the only chair.
He pretended not to see the barest tilt of a white brow at this small piece of insolence.
“Harcourt,” Malfoy spoke first, his tone a pleasant, civil drawl as his fingers stroked and caressed the sleek, vicious hatpin. Dane wondered how and where he had come by it, and why he was playing with it; it was almost obscene, the way he flirted with it, tempted it, and pressed the point against his flesh until it almost – almost – drew blood.
Dragging his eyes away from those white, white fingers, Dane fought to match his tone. “Malfoy.” He opened his mouth to say more, to think of small talk, inconsequential patter – that was, after all, the correct manner to begin a conversation – but closed it, because he could not think of anything to say. His brother had been murdered, his sister-in-law and young nieces tortured, raped and killed. He did not feel like playing games.
Malfoy stopped playing with the pin, slid it – quite deliberately, watching him as he did it – up his sleeve, concealing it like a deadly weapon. Dane said nothing. Finally, as the silence grew and Dane grew more and more impatient, unwilling to play this game, Malfoy spoke, and it was not an opening gambit, nor even a taunt. “Why did you come here, Harcourt?”
Slowly, Dane shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know.” His eyes slid away from Malfoy’s, crept slowly back, unsure. “I wanted…” he stopped, drew breath, “I wanted to know if I was doing the right thing.”
Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Dane spoke slowly, putting vague, insubstantial doubts and thoughts he had never truly examined into words. “When I became an Auror, I embraced the Ministry’s creed, the Order’s beliefs, made them my own in the hope that they would replace all that I had given up.” He shrugged. “And they have served me well enough, over the years. But it seems,” he paused, considering his words, “that some things cannot be so easily laid aside.” He smiled mirthlessly. “I cannot bear the thought of Nott standing in your place.”
Lucius raised his brows and deliberately misunderstood. “I do not think,” he said slowly, cruelly, “that you would see much difference between Nott and myself.”
Dane flinched; he knew exactly what Malfoy had done, the list of atrocities, but before last night he had been able to keep an objective distance. Now, it all came home to him, the human reality of what the Death Eaters had done. He had known, but he had not wanted to understand, and with understanding came the certainty that most High Clan scions avoided. “I was not talking of your standing in the Death Eaters. I was referring to –“
“I know what you were referring to,” Lucius cut in softly. “What is it that disturbs you about your conspiracy with Weasley?”
Dane drew in a breath. This was blunt indeed… “Your son,” he said, his voice very soft, very forceful, “is, at first impression, a thoroughly unpleasant, horribly spoiled troublemaker. And yet I find myself going to extraordinary lengths to help preserve his paramount position among the High Clan, simply because he is a Malfoy. I would like to know whether my faith is justified, and he will be everything that Snape and Dumbledore believe he can be. I would like to know if he will follow in your footsteps, make the same choice you did, or whether he will have the strength to take the harder path.” He drew in a harsh breath, spoke around the pain and grief choked in his throat. “I want to know if my brother and his family died for a good reason, or for no reason at all.”
For the first time, Malfoy smiled. A small, sad smile that Dane had never seen before. “Do you think that bowing to Voldemort was the easier path? I, too, turned away from a creed, from a set of beliefs. I, too, gave up expectations and laid aside things that cannot be so easily discarded.” He paused. “I, too, searched for justification – but it is only now that I find it has been in vain…”
“I think,” Harcourt said softly, “that your son will have the hardest choice of all. And that he is the least equipped of all of us to make that choice.”
The sad smile turned sardonic. “And yet you still back him. There are other contenders, my dear Harcourt.”
He shook his head, dismissing the jab. “He is the only one who can generate enough support to maintain true control. I – we – would do much to see him regain his position, make the correct choice.”
Once more, Malfoy’s eyes rose to his, clear and open and completely unreadable. “You would do…much?” he asked, dangerously soft. “I think, my dear Harcourt, that the key to your problem lies in the question, would you do everything?”
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Theodore Nott gestured to Crabbe and Goyle, who obediently held the small, wildly struggling figure still, presenting it so that Nott’s wand could focus on it and he could work the spell that would bring High Clan Malfoy down now and forever. With a flourish and a dramatic gesture, the solid boy whispered a single word, and the captive figure stilled, limbs frozen into an unnatural position.
He bit down gently on his lip, concentrating, focusing everything he had into this spell he had practiced again and again at his father’s behest, and whispered it into the silence, not concerned about consequences or reprisal. His face exultant at his success, he put his mouth close to the frozen figure’s ear and whispered clearly and unmistakably. And then he worked one last spell, just to cover all the eventualities, in case someone did credit the figure’s story.
After he had finished, his two bodyguard/henchmen released the figure – now unfrozen – into the corridors again, where it awoke, shook its head, looked around in puzzlement and frowned as if trying to remember something, but then shook its head in dismissal and went on its way.
Theodore laughed, and his two so-loyal followers laughed with him, secure in the knowledge that soon, they would not only be on the winning side, they would be on the only one.
Terrified, despairing screams filled the air, and white hot flames roared hellishly, sending sparks up into the night as the roof collapsed in on itself, as the stone walls that had endured for centuries beyond counting cracked from the intensity of the heat – no ordinary fire, this – and the eldritch green glow in the sky above sent an unequivocal message across the countryside as far as the eye could see in all directions…
Harry jerked awake, screaming; his lungs heaved as he fought for breath, fought the pain of his scar burning, throbbing in sickening waves. He could still hear the screams; still hear the fear and the pain, see the scene in vivid technicolour, etched in poisonous acid and forever burned into his memory…
Ron stirred, rolled over, and regarded him through bleary, dazed eyes. His hair shot up in all directions like that famous muggle scientist – Einstein? – but there was no real irritation in his scowl, which faded to concern once he realised that something was very, very wrong. “Wzzgoinon?” he mumbled, not quite capable of much more at this hour of the night.
Harry looked at him with wide eyes, a little unfocused without his glasses. “A…a nightmare,” he breathed, heart still racing, hands trembling from the overload of adrenalin. “A vision…it was burning – it was all burning, even the sky…and he was laughing…”
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The house was burning.
That was an undeniable fact, as undeniable as the fact that he was also here, participating in the act of burning the house down, of terrorising, torturing and killing its inhabitants, and of fawning on the unholy abomination who had ordered it done, as if the abomination was worthy of such flattery, as if It was worth his loyalty and the faith that he had once – once, long ago – invested in It and Its cause.
Because he had believed, once. Others had joined for power, for ambition, for the thrill of flirting with the forbidden, but he had joined because he had believed the man once known as Tom Riddle could teach him, could show him truths that those who dwelled in the light could never, ever have dreamed of. He had never believed in their simplistic view of the world, never shared their trite sentiments; had always been drawn to the shadows, to uncertainties, to powers that did not fit into the nice, safe, blinkered reality that had been crafted for the majority of the wizarding world.
In his youth, he had not thought that there might be a reason some things should be forbidden, had not thought that some knowledge might be better off forgotten. Always the avid scholar, the academic, he had been arrogant – so arrogant in his naiveté…
And he was still paying the price of that, would pay for it until the day he died. Every time he lied, prostrated himself before Abomination in the name of the greater good, in the name of the great Cause and the Order, in the name of Albus Dumbledore, and, lately, in the name of the Malfoy, he lost another little bit of his soul.
At least it was for a good Cause. Albus had told him so. Lucius had told him so.
But it was hard to convince himself of that, when he watched the family that had been pulled from their beds and dragged out into the garden cling together, the father (he refused to think of him as William Harcourt) giving what comfort he could to his wife and two small daughters, while pretending not to be terrified of what was going to happen all too soon. Snape was glad for the concealment of his mask, because there was no way he could have hidden the expression on his face, not when faced with the grim reality of just how little help he could provide, how little he could do in the real world.
He was one of Voldemort’s inner circle, but that didn’t mean he had any real power at all – not with the Dark Lord’s suspicious eyes on him, watching, evaluating, only waiting for a sign that he was more loyal to Albus Dumbledore than to his sworn Lord. Not with Alexander Nott’s eyes on him, watching for any sign that he was more loyal to Draco Malfoy than to any of his other masters.
He was under suspicion, his every movement watched, judged, analysed; there was nothing he could do to help. All he could do was watch and Witness their deaths…
“Severus…” Abomination, prompted by naked Ambition, hissed out his name in malicious amusement. “You do not seem to be looking forward to the festivities…”
He froze, and turned around with agonising slowness to face his Lord, and the man who now stood behind him. Their eyes watched him, cruel feline eyes, as he scrambled to find an answer. But Voldemort forestalled him. “Perhaps you are…offended by the thought of serving your Lord in this manner? Hmm?”
He licked his lips, bowed his head in resignation. “My Lord, my life is yours to command.”
Voldemort’s hissing laugh grated against his ears, froze him to the spot. “I wonder if it is…” Snape looked up into the red, inhuman eyes, and saw his death written within them. Perhaps not now, not tonight, but some day soon – it was only a matter of time, and of how much of amusement they derived from taunting him.
But, just as he was powerless to save this family from hell, he was powerless to save himself from the inevitable price of his arrogance and his treachery. Perhaps, deep down in the most secret depths of his soul, he had no wish to save himself. He had played the game, and one day it would be time to pay the price… In some ways, it would be a relief.
But then Nott looked straight at him, smiled, and said something that made his blood run cold. “We are all yours, Lord, even those who may seem to be beyond your reach…”
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Albus Dumbledore stood staring blankly out of the window in his office, ignoring the moonlit grounds of Hogwarts spread out before him, focusing instead on Harry’s disturbing midnight vision. The boy, dishevelled and distraught, had believed that the vision had not happened yet, but was only a product of Voldemort’s imagination – a fantasy, if you will. If one wanted to know what that abomination fantasised about.
Which place had Harry seen? At nearly sixteen, he had not yet seen much of the wizarding world beyond the main centres in London, Hogwarts and its environs, the Burrow, and the arena where the World Quidditch Cup had been held. He had not recognised the place. Ron, raised in the wizarding world, had not recognised the description. And Albus himself, with considerably more experience, who had seen and travelled most of the world, had not recognised it – a revelation that carried quite disturbing implications. If Voldemort attacked and destroyed one of the hidden places of the world…
He understood the urgency of Harry’s vision, but at the moment there was nothing he or anyone else could do. Not all dreams and night terrors were true visions, and even if this one was, there was little that could be done until and unless they understood where it was going to take place. At the very best, this vision was a glimpse of the Dark Lord’s next move; at worst, it could be a deception, a false messenger…
There was too much to lose, if they misinterpreted this vision. At the moment, more could be served by waiting, watching, analysing, and worrying about the here and now rather than the uncertain, shifting future.
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Arthur Weasley had grown rather used to frequent visitations from Dane Harcourt, used to seeing the High Clan Auror – so graceful in his perfectly draped robes and so arrogant in his self-assurance – watch him with those assessing eyes; used to hearing the man’s rather unconventional opinions on current events and political machinations. He had found the man’s advice invaluable, after he had, for the first time in his life, pulled strings and called in all the markers he could in order to get himself onto Nott’s special committee in charge of assessing and investigating Malfoy property.
So when, for the first time in months, he went through a whole morning without one sign of the man, he grew a little worried – it was always a bad sign when an Auror disappeared, especially such a high profile, controversial figure as the Lord of Clan Harcourt, especially now, when they were up to their necks in such a delicate, dangerous game. Harcourt had made damned sure Arthur understood the stakes of this game they were playing – this was not office politics, or Ministerial rivalry, this was the Game, the notorious, infamous Game that had turned so fatal during Voldemort’s first rising and after his resurrection.
By midday, the whole of the Ministry was buzzing with rumour, and he was beginning to be seriously worried, not just for Harcourt but for himself as well. If they could take out Harcourt, then what would they do to him…? The approaching figure of Alexander Nott, not usually a visitor to this part of the Ministry, did nothing to allay his fears.
“Hello, Weasley,” Nott said smiling, the smile never reaching his hard, cold eyes. “How are you?”
Briefly, Arthur wondered what prompted this civility when prior to his joining the Committee, the other man had never before acknowledged him in the twenty years they had both worked at the Ministry. But he had learned something of discretion, in his dealings with Harcourt. “Nott,” he said agreeably. “I’m quite well…” he paused. “But what brings you here? Surely you didn’t come all this way to exchange greetings with me.” Perhaps the lessons had not rubbed off as well as they should have.
Nott’s smile lost any semblance of joviality and became almost vicious. “No doubt you’ve been wondering why Harcourt hasn’t come in today.” His eyes were cold and cruel, watching and analysing every tic, every blink, and every facial expression that crossed Arthur’s face. Pinned by those eyes, Arthur could only wonder how Nott had found out.
“I think everyone is wondering,” he said cautiously.
Nott laughed – a horrible laugh, a soft, amused, indulgent chuckling that destroyed any confidence Arthur might ever have had that he could hold his own with such an opponent. The man was worse than Malfoy had ever been. “I fear that Lord Harcourt was called away on a family emergency very early this morning,” he said, his voice rich, cruel and filled with amusement. “A random attack, they say, an act of violence against a prominent Auror’s family…” Nott paused to savour Arthur’s sudden fear. “You remember his younger brother William? He had a wife – Anne, I believe her name was – and two small children…”
Arthur suddenly felt sick, but beneath the sickness was a growing resentment, an anger that Nott would toy with him in this fashion. He stared at the other man with loathing, heard the taunting voice continue, ram its message home so that no possible question could remain in Arthur’s mind. “If they could attack Harcourt himself, then who else will they target? Who will be next?” Nott’s words and face were concerned, troubled; his eyes were gleeful and vicious.
Mechanically, Arthur nodded. He said something suitable, went through all the courteous motions, and then when the other man was gone, went to sit down at his desk, mind chaotically swirling with thoughts, emotions and fears. If they could attack Harcourt himself, who else will be next?
The message had been all too pointed. Running his hands through his hair, rubbing at his face to alleviate the tension and stress, he wondered just when the world had stopped being simple and straightforward, and when he had stepped over the line into such recklessness and arrogance that he would risk his family for the sake of a matter that had absolutely nothing to do with him…
What, in Merlin’s name, was he doing? Draco Malfoy was no concern of his, or even of the Order’s. In fact, why was he trying to preserve the paramount position of the Malfoy when, if they fell, it would send the whole of the High Clan and therefore most of the Dark Lord’s power base into disarray…
He had no right to risk his family in such a manner. Not after such a pointed warning, and such an illustrative example.
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Azkaban had always been a depressing place, a dark, dreary and soul-sapping hell that Dane Harcourt would go far out of his way to avoid. The Dementors brought far too many memories back to the surface of his mind, dredged them up out of the deepest, darkest part of his subconsciousness where he had worked so hard to bury them; faces of William and his family, of fallen comrades and enemies alike; flashes of vicious, bloody skirmishes and raids, ambushes and outright battles – all the horrors and outrages of a guerrilla war fought by unseen, anonymous terrorists who had no clear aim and no real purpose but to kill, and to benefit from it. Oh, Gods, how he hated them…
There were no Dementors on guard anymore, and no memories rose up to choke him, to give him pause as he walked swiftly through the halls – hurrying, because the prison’s aura was still black and rotted with horror and despair – towards a cell that had seen much traffic lately, and an inmate who was, despite his incarceration, still a very useful pawn.
He wondered how Lucius Malfoy liked his change in status.
Heading through the door that the filthy, leering gaoler so mockingly held open, he had one hand gathering his robes and the other as close to his body as possible, and with the sudden change from torch-lit corridor to the much darker, danker cell, he was lucky that Malfoy harboured no intentions of escape; it would have been all too easy to catch him off guard at that moment. Dane Harcourt, for all his heritage, skills and authority, was still only mortal – something he had been brutally reminded of last night – he could still die, and death could be granted by a desperate prisoner armed with a sharp tool just as easily as by an enemy’s curse in heated combat, or a terrorist’s vicious, twisted whim. So he drew in a soundless, displeased breath when he saw Lucius Malfoy seated on the bed, his long white fingers loosely holding a ladies’ hatpin filed to a vicious point.
Silver eyes rose slowly to his, but they were somehow empty, as if the vital force that had animated them had gone…elsewhere. For a moment Dane feared the worst – the Kiss, or some other kind of torture that had finally broken Malfoy’s mind – but no, awareness was slowly spilling back into his eyes, they were slowly filling with intelligence, and sardonic humour, and arrogance, and everything else that made up the man – the Death Eater – known as Lucius Malfoy. It was an unsettling process to watch, seeing someone come back to awareness from a deep, deep trance state – to watch the self return from the Void, or from wherever it went during meditation.
The door swung shut behind him with a tangible thump; Harcourt fought not to jump at the sound and all that it implied. Had it been any other man, any other prisoner, he would not have been afraid – he was an Auror, a fully trained, lethal killer, what could they possibly do to him? But this was Lucius Malfoy, strong in both body and mind, exceptionally ruthless when he felt himself threatened, and with an almost sickening capacity for cruelty if and when he thought it necessary. He ignored everything he knew of Malfoy’s record as he met his eyes, ventured forward into the centre of the cell and seated himself, unbidden, on the only chair.
He pretended not to see the barest tilt of a white brow at this small piece of insolence.
“Harcourt,” Malfoy spoke first, his tone a pleasant, civil drawl as his fingers stroked and caressed the sleek, vicious hatpin. Dane wondered how and where he had come by it, and why he was playing with it; it was almost obscene, the way he flirted with it, tempted it, and pressed the point against his flesh until it almost – almost – drew blood.
Dragging his eyes away from those white, white fingers, Dane fought to match his tone. “Malfoy.” He opened his mouth to say more, to think of small talk, inconsequential patter – that was, after all, the correct manner to begin a conversation – but closed it, because he could not think of anything to say. His brother had been murdered, his sister-in-law and young nieces tortured, raped and killed. He did not feel like playing games.
Malfoy stopped playing with the pin, slid it – quite deliberately, watching him as he did it – up his sleeve, concealing it like a deadly weapon. Dane said nothing. Finally, as the silence grew and Dane grew more and more impatient, unwilling to play this game, Malfoy spoke, and it was not an opening gambit, nor even a taunt. “Why did you come here, Harcourt?”
Slowly, Dane shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know.” His eyes slid away from Malfoy’s, crept slowly back, unsure. “I wanted…” he stopped, drew breath, “I wanted to know if I was doing the right thing.”
Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Dane spoke slowly, putting vague, insubstantial doubts and thoughts he had never truly examined into words. “When I became an Auror, I embraced the Ministry’s creed, the Order’s beliefs, made them my own in the hope that they would replace all that I had given up.” He shrugged. “And they have served me well enough, over the years. But it seems,” he paused, considering his words, “that some things cannot be so easily laid aside.” He smiled mirthlessly. “I cannot bear the thought of Nott standing in your place.”
Lucius raised his brows and deliberately misunderstood. “I do not think,” he said slowly, cruelly, “that you would see much difference between Nott and myself.”
Dane flinched; he knew exactly what Malfoy had done, the list of atrocities, but before last night he had been able to keep an objective distance. Now, it all came home to him, the human reality of what the Death Eaters had done. He had known, but he had not wanted to understand, and with understanding came the certainty that most High Clan scions avoided. “I was not talking of your standing in the Death Eaters. I was referring to –“
“I know what you were referring to,” Lucius cut in softly. “What is it that disturbs you about your conspiracy with Weasley?”
Dane drew in a breath. This was blunt indeed… “Your son,” he said, his voice very soft, very forceful, “is, at first impression, a thoroughly unpleasant, horribly spoiled troublemaker. And yet I find myself going to extraordinary lengths to help preserve his paramount position among the High Clan, simply because he is a Malfoy. I would like to know whether my faith is justified, and he will be everything that Snape and Dumbledore believe he can be. I would like to know if he will follow in your footsteps, make the same choice you did, or whether he will have the strength to take the harder path.” He drew in a harsh breath, spoke around the pain and grief choked in his throat. “I want to know if my brother and his family died for a good reason, or for no reason at all.”
For the first time, Malfoy smiled. A small, sad smile that Dane had never seen before. “Do you think that bowing to Voldemort was the easier path? I, too, turned away from a creed, from a set of beliefs. I, too, gave up expectations and laid aside things that cannot be so easily discarded.” He paused. “I, too, searched for justification – but it is only now that I find it has been in vain…”
“I think,” Harcourt said softly, “that your son will have the hardest choice of all. And that he is the least equipped of all of us to make that choice.”
The sad smile turned sardonic. “And yet you still back him. There are other contenders, my dear Harcourt.”
He shook his head, dismissing the jab. “He is the only one who can generate enough support to maintain true control. I – we – would do much to see him regain his position, make the correct choice.”
Once more, Malfoy’s eyes rose to his, clear and open and completely unreadable. “You would do…much?” he asked, dangerously soft. “I think, my dear Harcourt, that the key to your problem lies in the question, would you do everything?”
*********************************************
Theodore Nott gestured to Crabbe and Goyle, who obediently held the small, wildly struggling figure still, presenting it so that Nott’s wand could focus on it and he could work the spell that would bring High Clan Malfoy down now and forever. With a flourish and a dramatic gesture, the solid boy whispered a single word, and the captive figure stilled, limbs frozen into an unnatural position.
He bit down gently on his lip, concentrating, focusing everything he had into this spell he had practiced again and again at his father’s behest, and whispered it into the silence, not concerned about consequences or reprisal. His face exultant at his success, he put his mouth close to the frozen figure’s ear and whispered clearly and unmistakably. And then he worked one last spell, just to cover all the eventualities, in case someone did credit the figure’s story.
After he had finished, his two bodyguard/henchmen released the figure – now unfrozen – into the corridors again, where it awoke, shook its head, looked around in puzzlement and frowned as if trying to remember something, but then shook its head in dismissal and went on its way.
Theodore laughed, and his two so-loyal followers laughed with him, secure in the knowledge that soon, they would not only be on the winning side, they would be on the only one.
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