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12/14: Black Robes
Title: Black, in the Smothering Dark
Chapter Title: Black Robes 12/14
Words (this chapter): 7,035
Rating (this chapter): R
Story Info/All Chapters: HERE
Author's Notes: I'm half-way finished with my fic-exchanges. I swear I'll never sign up for another one again. I think this is the part most of you have been waiting for.
Beta’d by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
maybe_someday8 and amelancholykiss. (Possibly the best betas in the world.)
-x-
Black, in the Smothering Dark
-x-
Chapter Twelve
Black Robes
-x-
When he arrived in Voldemort’s study, his wand was still out, but he kept it at his side for the moment. The Vow would protect him, but there was no sense in being foolish. Voldemort sat behind a wide, mahogany desk and regarded Harry curiously.
“You may leave us, Severus,” Voldemort said without looking at the Death Eater. Snape gave a bow and left the room, closing the door behind him. “The Polyjuice?” Voldemort asked, waving Harry to a chair.
Harry sat, and retrieved the potion vial from his cloak. He held it up for Voldemort to see—not quite trusting that he wouldn’t slip something in it if Harry passed it over—and waited. Voldemort nodded, and lowered the hood of his cloak, which he had been wearing up the entire time. Harry couldn’t help his eyes going wide when he saw the Dark Lord without his cowl. He actually had hair now, and it was frightening.
Voldemort’s skin was still white and clammy-looking; it even looked a bit translucent, and his eyes were still gleaming red, his nose still flatter than it should have been, and his lips still thin and stretched.
Harry knew that Voldemort had once been a very handsome man, and he wondered what could make a man like this: what could convince a man to give up such good looks? Power, he supposed. He comforted himself with the knowledge that it would never happen to him. Before Voldemort’s first downfall in 1981, he’d still been relatively attractive. He still looked human at the time, anyway, or so Harry had heard. Except for the eyes and sunken cheeks—which could have been the result of malnutrition—Voldemort had remained handsome in a gruesome sort of way until he tried to kill Harry.
The ritual in Harry’s fourth year had made him look the way he currently was. But he had hair now—thick, black, sinister looking hair that fell straight down on either side of his face. Harry wondered, if Voldemort’s hair had grown back, what else would realign itself into its natural form? He didn’t think much, if anything, else would.
“I have it,” Harry said, after the fact.
Voldemort nodded, reached up and plucked a single hair from his head. He passed it over to Harry and Harry, cringing, dropped it into the potion. “You will use Severus to call the others,” Voldemort explained, all business now. “To do so, you will need to touch me while pressing the tip of your wand to Severus’ Mark and concentrating on the Death Eaters coming to you. Unless you think of someone specific, they will all come.”
“Why do I have to touch you?” Harry asked.
“Because the Mark is linked to me and not you,” Voldemort said flatly.
Oh. Harry felt a bit stupid, but shook it off. “Then why don’t you call them yourself?” he asked.
Voldemort gave him a patient look. “Because they will begin apparating in immediately, and I do not want to take any chances that I am seen.”
“Alright,” Harry said, nodding slowly.
Voldemort stared, as if waiting for Harry to continue interrupting him. When he was sure that Harry was going to remain quiet, he continued, “I will be in snake form next to you. Nagini is already under a Disillusionment charm and will be patrolling to gauge reactions. I often speak to her during meetings, so no one will question if you speak to me.”
“Right,” Harry said again, feeling very overwhelmed. “And what, exactly, am I supposed to do?” he asked.
Here, Voldemort smiled nastily. “The purpose of this experiment is to assess how well you lead, how well you deal with certain situations and what kind of decisions you make. You will open the meeting by welcoming them, and then ask for any new developments. I might remind you that anything you hear will not leave these walls. Is that understood?”
Harry thought of Snape, and of what he would be bringing back, and nodded. He could agree to that; he had agreed to that.
“Will I have to torture anyone?” he asked.
“If you feel they deserve it,” Voldemort said easily. Harry frowned, and Voldemort continued, unconcerned, “I will speak up if I feel there is anything you need to know, but otherwise, I will leave you to your own devices. Do not disappoint me.”
Harry shuddered. “Yes, sir,” he said automatically, and then scowled. He did not want to acknowledge any sort of honorific with Voldemort. Voldemort smirked.
“We will have one hour to do this. I expect that we will finish with time to spare. Horvitz!” he called. Then Voldemort stood, and as he did so, melted into his animagus form. A large black snake—that looked remarkably like Nagini—slithered around from behind the desk and up Harry’s leg, depositing itself around his neck. A house-elf, Horvitz apparently, appeared next to Harry and then stared at the snake wrapped around his shoulders. He noticed, quite belatedly, that it did not hurt when Voldemort touched him this time.
“Summon Severus,” Voldemort hissed from around Harry’s neck. To his surprise, the house-elf nodded and disappeared. Harry had not known that house-elves understood Parseltongue. “Now drink the potion,” Voldemort instructed Harry.
Harry did so, cringing at the taste and shivering at the uncomfortable feeling of his body changing into a much taller, much thinner, much frailer one. He adjusted his black robes to fit, and pulled his cowl up. His fingers felt strange on his hands, but he ignored it as he waited patiently for Snape to arrive, assimilating himself to a new body.
Several moments later, there was a knock at the door, and Harry, unsure of his voice, called for Snape to enter. He was unsurprised when it came out as a high, hissing command. Snape came in, looked around, noticed Harry was not there, and looked at the snake. He, too, seemed to be waiting for the command from his master. Harry cleared his throat and beckoned Snape forward.
As instructed, he slipped his fingers up Snape’s sleeve, which he’d automatically held out for Harry, and tried to call for the Death Eaters. He could tell when Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly in pain that it had worked. Nodding, Harry removed his hand. “Lead me to the meeting area,” Harry said, and then added because it was habit, “Sir.”
Snape gave him a half-amused, half-fearful look, and nodded. He was led down at least five corridors that turned and twisted so often he was almost sure he was going to end up back where he started, when Snape stopped in front of two huge, wooden doors. “Milord,” Snape said, bowing and opening the door for him.
Harry barely restrained a wince, managed to nod back to Snape, and walk into the room. He realised that with this body, it was much easier to walk smoothly. He felt almost as if he was gliding, and hoped that he would eventually grow out of his own ungainly walk.
He was in a room dimly lit with wall sconces and filled with Death Eaters. Voldemort hissed for him to walk to the front of the room, and he did so, noting with amusement that the crowd of wizards parted for him like water. He paused once he’d made it to the front, turned, and looked over at the crowd of Death Eaters who were looking back at Voldemort expectantly. The Vow should protect him, but he couldn’t place all of his faith in that. He would not be surprised if Voldemort found some way around the wording.
Carefully, he scanned the room, looking for any threats. All of the Death Eaters were wearing their usual black robes and white masks, but a lock of blonde hair slipping out of a hood in the front row caught his eye. He sneered at Lucius Malfoy.
Malfoy immediately dropped to a bow. Near his ear, Voldemort hissed out the equivalent of a chuckle. “They all should have bowed by now,” he said with some disappointment. Harry raised an eyebrow and watched the rest fall to their knees. “Your body language is different,” Voldemort decided.
Harry nodded, both in twisted pleasure that Death Eaters were actually bowing to him, and in agreement to Voldemort’s observations. He couldn’t deny that he felt a sick sort of satisfaction at the sight of over a hundred Death Eaters on their knees in front of him. He felt his lips stretch into a pleased smile when he spotted Snape near the front and to his left. No threats that he could see. “Rise,” he said. It was not said very loud, but it was enough. Every wizard in the room rose as one, almost as if it were a practiced motion, as soon as he said so. He liked that, too. On his shoulders, Voldemort was quiet, watching.
“Welcome, my Death Eaters,” he said, acting off both instincts and instructions. His voice was still Voldemort’s, but his mind wasn’t—so why was he enjoying this so much? He decided that it was because it was Death Eaters submitting to him, and wasn’t that ironic?
They all murmured back greetings that ending with ‘my lord’ or some derivative, and fell silent again. Harry scanned the crowd, and his eyes landed on Lucius Malfoy again. “Which ones should have news?” he asked Voldemort.
“Each of the Inner Circle,” Voldemort said. “Elliot Parkinson, Bastian Zabini, Mercy Sinclair, Lucius Malfoy, Severus Snape, Andre and Harvey Beauvais and,” Voldemort paused for effect and hissed, “Yasmin Smith.”
Harry jerked. “Yasmin Smith…” he hissed back, barely believing his own words. She’d eaten at his house. He’d spent time with her son. He had considered the possibility that one or all of the Smiths might be Death Eaters, but…he could have been killed—no wonder Voldemort knew everything. He had spies everywhere.
To cover his reaction, Harry moved his gaze to Snape, deciding to start with someone easy. “Severus,” he hissed. “Come forward.” He could feel Voldemort nodding against his neck in satisfaction.
“What news have you for me?” he asked once Snape had dipped his head and stood again.
Snape removed his mask and looked at him calculatingly, flicked his eyes to the snake, looked back and said, “Milord, Dumbledore is confused. The news with the Potter boy has caught him off guard. He was unaware that Black was the boy’s father, and is now in a state over it. He is afraid that the boy will acknowledge too much of his own history. Dark magic and bigotries, especially.” Here, Snape gave an ironic little twist of his lips.
Harry cackled, though he’d meant it as a laugh. “And does he think that the boy is so easily swayed?” he asked Snape.
Snape smirked. “He feels it is possible, Milord.”
Voldemort hissed a laugh from his shoulder, and Harry shook his head minutely in exasperation. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. “That is something I would like for you to follow up on,” Harry said, going on instinct. “It could lead to a very interesting development. Anything else, Severus?”
Snape cleared his throat. “Yes, Milord. Dumbledore has been searching for something. He has found a ring in Little Hangleton that he wants to destroy, but he doesn’t know how. He is looking for a way to do so. I do not know the significance of the ring, Milord, but it seemed important.”
There was an angry, startled hiss from Harry’s shoulder. “That old fool,” Voldemort hissed-snarled. “Tell Severus to ask to help him research it and bring me any news of progress.”
Harry relayed the message and dismissed Severus back to ranks where the Death Eater replaced his mask. “Mercy,” he called, deciding that Voldemort probably called all of his Inner Circle by their first names. When Voldemort did not contest this, he felt the tension in his shoulders slip a bit. A tiny woman in the front row ambled forward and removed her mask. She was black-haired and pink-cheeked, a bit like Hestia Jones from the Order, but much more innocent-looking. Harry never would have suspected this woman to be a Death Eater.
“Milord,” she said, curtseying. Harry nodded for her to continue. “I was hired as the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts. I will start in September.”
Harry barely restrained from rolling his eyes. Would Hogwarts ever get a decent Defence teacher? He would have to watch her, he supposed, but by now, he reckoned he should automatically watch every Defence teacher. Because he couldn’t help himself, he asked snidely, “And do you think that you will be able to teach the children well, Mercy?”
She smiled innocently. “Of course, Milord. I am confident in my skills.”
Harry nodded, and said, “Very good, Mercy.” She smiled, curtseyed again, and returned to her place.
“Yasmin,” Harry said, moving on. The blonde Death Eater his father had unknowingly had for dinner several weeks ago walked forward and curtseyed. “You have news?” Harry asked.
“Yes, Milord,” Yasmin said in her usual lovely voice. “Bellatrix and Rodolphus’ twin daughters, Alsace and Lorraine, will be transferring to Hogwarts. Now that the Ministry has frozen most of their assets, they’re grandmother can no longer afford to send them to Beauxbatons. They will be in their sixth year.”
“And?” Harry prompted.
Yasmin blushed. “The Ministry, and most likely the Headmaster, will be keeping a very close eye on them. If I may make a suggestion, Milord, I would not call them to be Marked until they have graduated.”
Harry nodded slowly, completely surprised that some students had been Marked prior to leaving school. He dismissed her, and, deciding to save Lucius for last, called Bastian Zabini—an Obliviator—and Elliot Parkinson, who worked as an advisor for the Minister. Neither of them had anything of interest to report, but Harry didn’t think it was worth torturing them over, so he didn’t. Voldemort did not complain.
The Beauvais brothers, who he called together since they both worked in the Muggle Liaisons Office, were young with blonde hair and blue eyes. Harry, oddly, found that he liked them. They reminded him a lot of Fred and George Weasley, and, apparently, were muggle computer geniuses. In their spare time, they enjoyed hacking into the Muggle Ministry database—completely without magic, Voldemort told him. It was hard not to laugh at that.
“Lucius,” he finally called, feeling a lovely surge of spite well up in him. He hated this man. He hated him nearly as much as he hated Bellatrix, who thought she’d willingly killed her own cousin. He didn’t think she’d had much sense of honour, and was delighted that Voldemort had rescued neither her nor her husband, Rodolphus, from Azkaban. Still, he realised with a small frown, he had no idea how Voldemort had managed to get Lucius out without alerting the Ministry or the papers. There were some things that Voldemort was very closed-mouthed on.
Lucius sauntered forward arrogantly, and Harry felt his hate rush to new levels. “You have news?” he asked.
Lucius dipped his head slightly—almost insolently, Harry realised—and smirked. “I do, Milord,” he said. “I have brought my son to take your Mark.”
“I have not requested that,” Voldemort hissed indignantly. Lucius glanced warily at the snake, and then back to Harry. Harry frowned, and decided to go with it.
“I have not requested you to do so, Lucius,” Harry said. Lucius opened his mouth, but Harry, feeling very pleased with himself, waved him silent. “If I didn’t know better, Lucius,” Harry continued slowly, “I would think that you have only brought him to take notice away from the fact that you have no news for me. You have made no progress with your mission, have you?” he asked, going out on a limb. He wasn’t even sure that Lucius indeed had a mission to make progress on.
To his relief, and Lucius’ misfortune, he shook his head, looking at the floor. Voldemort hissed in amusement. “He never does,” Voldemort explained.
Before Lucius could open his mouth and protest the difficulty of his assignment, Harry snarled and whipped his wand out, pointing it at Lucius. Lucius dropped to the floor in subordination. Still, Harry was not looking forward to torturing, even if it was Lucius Malfoy. He looked down at the bowed blond head and sneered. “Bring him forward,” he directed.
Lucius jumped up and scurried away—much less arrogantly than he had come forward—and returned with Draco Malfoy. Malfoy’s head was bowed, and Harry watched as it lifted. He saw grey eyes and the wildness in them that spoke of exhilaration and anticipation—waiting for the kill. The first kill. Harry sneered at Malfoy, just because he could.
He had no doubt that Draco Malfoy would one day be Voldemort’s most ruthless assassin, but today was not that day. He could see it already. Even if he did know how to Mark someone, Draco Malfoy would not be that person. Malfoy wasn’t ready—even by Harry’s standards.
He might not agree with it, but he understood Voldemort more than even he would like to admit. It wasn’t about good and evil—even if everyone else wanted to paint it that way because in the end, Voldemort was fighting for what he believed in, just as Dumbledore was, and just like Harry wasn’t because all he’d ever fought for was his own life.
And Draco Malfoy was fighting for the kill. He was fighting for the taste of blood on his tongue and ragged, dying breaths whirling like poetry in his ears. He was fighting for the last faint tremor of a heartbeat under the pads of his fingers and the exhilaration of taking another life. He wasn’t fighting for Voldemort, and Harry didn’t have to believe in it, and he was disinclined to interrupt his enemy when he was making a mistake, but he needed to do this, so he was going to do it.
“You are not ready, Draco Malfoy. You want the blood more than you want the cause,” Harry said slowly and rejoiced in the shocked look both Malfoys gave him. “But do not fret,” he added quickly. “I will make sure you are. When you return to Hogwarts, you will be approached by someone who can teach you, and if you are ready to accept that training, do so. If not, then you are not necessary to my cause.”
Malfoy looked at him warily. “How will I know who it is?” he asked.
Harry sneered. “You will know.”
On his shoulder, Voldemort hissed-cackled. “You will teach him?” he asked in amusement. “Oh very good, very good. This is excellent.”
“I have not said that,” Harry hissed back, still staring at Malfoy kneeling on the floor.
“You did not have to,” Voldemort said, and Harry dismissed both Malfoys.
“Does anyone else have news?” Harry asked the room at large. He did not expect anyone to, and was surprised when an older man—at least eighty years of age from the way he walked, but with the appearance of a forty-year-old wizard—wandered forward and dipped his head to him.
“That is Edward Yaxley,” Voldemort explained, and even though it was a hiss—which did not offer the normal inflections of voice—Harry got the feeling that there was something off about this man, Yaxley. He filed the information away for later, and nodded to the old man.
“Yaxley,” he greeted.
“Milord,” Edward Yaxley replied. “I have heard word that it will soon be time for the Dementors to breed. Their breeding season only occurs once every five-hundred years or so, but they will become restless soon, and when they do, they will begin Kissing without discrimination. Muggle and wizard alike,” Yaxley continued. “They need souls to breed; it will be a disaster if they are not fed before this happens.”
“What do you suggest?” Harry asked, feeling his pulse speed up.
Yaxley gave him a faint smile. “We feed them, Milord. If we feed them before they go hunting, perhaps we can head them off. If they are satiated, they will be able to breed without unconcerned hunting.”
“And who do you suggest we feed to them?” Harry asked, expecting a single-worded answer of ‘muggles’ or ‘mudbloods’.
“If I may, Milord,” Yaxley smiled, “I would like to suggest that we do not kill any captives we may acquire. We can store them until it is time for the feeding. Stun them, and then drop them off in front of the prison. Or,” Yaxley continued as an afterthought, “we could try to persuade them to feed on only the prisoners.”
Harry, feeling very nauseous suddenly, nodded jerkily. “I would like for you to create a proposal for me. We must deal with this before it becomes a problem. How much time would you say we have?”
Yaxley shrugged slightly. “Perhaps a year, if we’re lucky.”
Harry nodded, and took a deep breath. “Very good, Yaxley,” he said, and Yaxley nodded, and returned to his place. With Voldemort’s permission, Harry dismissed the meeting
-x-
The Polyjuice wore off not even five minutes after Harry returned to Voldemort’s study with the Dark Lord still twined around his neck. Feeling very tired, he dropped into a chair across from Voldemort’s desk, and put his head in his hands, absently running his fingers through the reddened tips of his hair.
“That man,” Harry said into his hands once Voldemort had returned to human form and deposited himself behind his desk. He accepted the tea Voldemort offered him without thought, confident now that the Vow would protect him from the temptation of cyanide, and cleared his throat. “That man,” he said again. “Edward Yaxley. You reacted strangely to him. What’s his story?”
Voldemort, who was again sipping from his usual pewter teacup with two handles, regarded him carefully. “He joined my ranks in autumn of 1951. He was my first Death Eater.”
Harry felt his eyebrows shoot up. This was certainly interesting. “Your first?” he asked, hoping for an elaboration.”
Voldemort nodded and blew on his tea. “Yes,” he said. “He was the one who came up with the name.”
“'Death Eater', you mean?” Harry clarified.
“Yes—he says he got it from a muggle poem…Her eyes burnt by cigarettes as she eats betrayal like a slice of meat. I must not sleep for while I’m asleep I’m ninety and I think I’m dying,” Voldemort recited dully.
Harry looked at him questioningly, and Voldemort continued, “His sister was my lover. Calixta Yaxley—she was…murdered by someone who proclaims to be against such acts. It was a betrayal of the worst kind, and…” Voldemort paused, considering. Harry could think of no other time that he’d seen the Dark Lord uncertain. He kept carefully quiet while he drank his tea.
“Edward thought it fitting,” Voldemort finally said with a harsh laugh. “To eat betrayal like meat—we would do that, he had said. We would eat the betrayal of her death, and make the world better for it. Retribution. Vengeance.
“It was my madness that changed our course,” he finished in a breath. “I have never denied being mad. I have always been mad—always—since then, anyway.”
Harry exhaled slowly, unsure of what to say. He felt—sad, and he had no idea why. Surely, there was no excuse for feeling pity for a dark lord. Uncomfortably, he changed the subject slightly. “And the Dementors?” he asked.
Voldemort was staring into his cup, and he didn’t look back up for several seconds. When he did, Harry couldn’t tell that they had ever had the previous conversation. He looked evil again—fierce and malicious.
“You did well,” Voldemort said, nodding. “You asked the right questions. This is certainly something that has the possibility of becoming…a catastrophe. I’m certain that neither the Ministry nor your precious Order,” he sneered half-heartedly, “will do anything about it—if they are even aware.
“Edward Yaxley is an expert on dark creatures—something that neither the Ministry nor the Order of the Phoenix puts any stock in. He knows what he’s talking about.”
“What will you do about it?” Harry asked.
Voldemort looked at him. “Exactly what you suggested,” he said. “Yaxley will bring the proposal, I will look over it, and if it is worthy, we will make arrangements to feed the Dementors.”
Harry felt an angry flush creeping up his cheeks. “You’ll just grab people and decide that we can do without them, and…what, feed them to Dementors?” he asked harshly.
Voldemort sneered. “Would you rather the Dementors Kiss anyone they come across—including those muggles you’re so fond of—or would you rather we choose people who are dangerous?”
Harry nearly quelled under the force of Voldemort’s voice. “But it’s only your definition of dangerous,” he growled, sitting forward.
“Yes,” Voldemort replied softly. “But better my definition of dangerous than children and muggles who could not perform the Patronus, wouldn’t you say?”
Just as Harry was about to make another angry retort, there was a knock at the door. Both he and Voldemort turned their heads, and Voldemort called for whoever it was to enter. Snape walked in, bowed quickly to Voldemort, and said, “Milord, may I speak with the boy?”
Voldemort raised his eyebrows. “By all means,” he said sarcastically, waving Severus in. Severus paused, gave Voldemort a slightly fearful look, and then shook it off. He strode forward and stared down at Harry with glittering eyes.
“You are like Brutus,” Snape whispered, knowing that Voldemort could hear him, “like Judas.”
Harry looked at him, utterly exhausted from not only the meeting, but also from the conversation he was having before Snape came in. He looked questioningly at Voldemort, wondering how in the world Snape could do this without being seen as a traitor, and shrugged. “Who meant well,” Harry said.
“I beg your pardon?” Snape hissed.
Harry nodded uselessly. “Yes—like Judas…who meant well.”
Snape scoffed. “This war is over before it’s even begun,” he said, and behind his desk, Voldemort scoffed. He, apparently, had had enough for the night as well.
“Always the optimist, Severus,” Voldemort drawled. “I fear that you are disappointed for it.”
Snape looked at Voldemort carefully. “It is anticlimactic,” he finally said, and Voldemort cackled.
“Indeed,” Voldemort said, nodding. He waited, but Snape still did not leave. “Do you not have an Order meeting to attend, Severus? A report to make?” Severus, obviously, knew when he was being dismissed. He bowed once more and quickly left the room.
Harry looked back to Voldemort, aghast. “Do you never worry that Snape is, perhaps, adding more to his reports than you have authorized?” he asked carefully. Surely, with the way Snape was acting, it would be impossible to miss.
Voldemort merely smirked at him. “Severus is a thrice-turned-traitor,” he explained patiently. “He always has been and he always will be. He will play both sides—never giving either side enough information to be useful but always enough to keep himself safe—until one side eventually wins. He has never truly been true to my side, and he has never truly been faithful to the Order of the Phoenix. He fights to win, and only that.”
Harry gaped at him. “And you don’t care?” he asked.
“The difference between Dumbledore and me is that I am aware of the situation and value Severus for his other qualities. It is better to have Severus at least partially on my side than not at all. He is a dangerous man. Dumbledore thinks Severus completely faithful—it is, ultimately, one of his biggest flaws.”
“Snape’s flaws, you mean?” Harry asked.
Voldemort shook his head and took another sip of his tea. “No—Dumbledore’s. He trusts too completely.”
Harry nodded slowly. “And you don’t worry that he’s giving away too much information?”
“No,” Voldemort said. “If he had it his way, this war would continue for the rest of time. He does not want it to end because then he will have to choose a side. He will never tell anything that could change the tides, and if I ask him specifically not to say something, he will realise that it is something that could change the tides. He will not talk because he doesn’t want to sway the balance.”
“That’s fucked up,” Harry breathed.
“Indeed,” Voldemort confirmed. “And now, I believe that you need to get home. I think that you will have an Order meeting to attend very soon.”
Harry looked up sharply. “I’m not a member of the Order,” he said.
Voldemort smirked. “You will be.”
“How do you know?” Harry asked.
Voldemort gestured towards the door. “My thrice-turned-traitor has told me so.” He looked at Harry as he stood to walk him out, and added, “And do not forget to give due consideration to my offer, Mr. Black. I will visit you soon for an answer.”
Swallowing, Harry nodded, and followed him to the door.
-x-
Sirius was sitting on his bed when Harry apparated into his bedroom. “Where have you been?” his father asked wearily. It looked as if he’d been sitting in that same spot for hours—perhaps he had, Harry realised, ashamed.
“How did you know I was gone?” Harry asked instead of answering.
Sirius gave him a blank look. “The wards,” he said. “You’re not the only one linked to them.” Harry winced. His father’s words were flat, emotionless, and only added to the awkward feeling of the conversation. They had not spoken more than three words at a time to each other for the past fortnight, and this sudden confrontation was not something Harry was ready to deal with.
“Sorry,” he said. He was rooted to the spot he’d apparated to, almost afraid to move—afraid to disturb the delicate atmosphere. His father looked up at him, and Harry saw dark smudges of exhaustion underneath his eyes. Suddenly, his guilt tripled.
“Where were you?” Sirius asked again.
“He came,” Harry said slowly, knowing that his father would understand. “He wanted it done tonight.”
Sirius nodded slowly. “And you didn’t see fit to let me know that you’d left?”
“I…” Harry said, and then hesitated. “I didn’t think about it.” He walked forward carefully and sat down on the bed, pulling his cloak off and tossing it on a chair. “I’m sorry,” he added.
Sirius nodded. “No worries,” he said quietly. Harry winced again, feeling guiltier than he ever had before. The article in the Daily Prophet was nothing compared to how he felt now. “How was it?” Sirius asked after several minutes of silence.
Harry leaned against one of the posters on his bed, and pulled his knees up to his chest. He shrugged. “Alright,” he said. “It wasn’t too hard.” He paused, and when he figured that Sirius wasn’t going to reply, he added, “Snape said something to me while I was there.”
Sirius snorted humourlessly. “I bet,” he said.
Harry ignored him. “Why—what was your mission? The one to America that you took in my fifth year?”
Sirius looked up sharply, now fully alert. He seemed to be considering whether or not Harry needed to know, and decided, finally, that he did. “Officially, I was to try to recruit assistance from rogue light wizards in New England.”
“Rogue light wizards?” Harry asked dubiously. It seemed to almost be an oxymoron.
Sirius nodded. “Wizards who only use pure light magic but disagree with their Ministry.”
“And unofficially?” Harry asked. Sirius, he realised, had not expected him to catch the wording.
His father frowned. “Unofficially, I believe it was a suicide mission,” he said slowly, carefully.
Harry’s eyebrows shot up and his mouth dropped open. “You’re joking,” he said.
Sirius shrugged. “Not joking, but I’m probably wrong…those light wizards are notorious for ‘exterminating’,” he finger quoted, “anyone who uses dark magic or has used it in the past. They claim that they’re cleaning the world of taint.”
Harry laughed. “You can’t be serious—that’s…that’s over half the wizarding population of the world!” he exclaimed.
Sirius shrugged. “They certainly didn’t take well to me—said they could smell it on me, the magic I mean, and that I smelled rancid,” he added indignantly.
Harry considered that. “You’re not joking,” he said slowly, almost unbelievingly. Then, “Why did you stay so long then? Didn’t you communicate with Dumbledore during that time? Tell him what was happening?”
Sirius shook his head ‘no’. “Dumbledore said it would be too dangerous to communicate,” he explained. “Any letters could be intercepted by the Ministry and they would arrest me—I’m not known in America, so I didn’t have to hide. He just told me to come back when I’d either convinced them to help the war effort or exhausted my resources and contacts.”
“And that didn’t happen until this June?” Harry asked.
Sirius shrugged. “There’re a lot of wizards in New England. It took a while.”
“But Snape said you came back in March,” Harry hedged insistently. “He said that you came back after two months and went back to Grimmauld Place. And that you stayed there until that June when you went to the Ministry.”
Sirius shrugged. “I didn’t,” he said, “and I don’t know who did.”
Harry gaped and pulled hard on his hair to release some of his frustration. “And you aren’t worried about that? You aren’t concerned?”
“Not really,” Sirius said easily. “I’m alive. Dumbledore has his secrets, and I doubt I’ll ever learn many of them. There’s no point in even asking.”
“But…” Harry stuttered, “but what about…” He paused, and changed directions. He could already tell from his father’s expression that he would get no more answers from that line of questioning. “Then why didn’t you tell Dumbledore where we were going?” he asked instead.
Sirius only looked at him. “Do you really think that he’d have let me take you if I’d asked first?”
Harry couldn’t argue with that, and it did fit with Sirius’ personality and everything Snape had said. He sighed. He would get no more answers tonight. They sat in an awkward silence for several minutes, and then Sirius cleared his throat.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
Harry looked up. “Me too,” he said, and that was the end of that. He had to admit that it was much better than having to ‘talk out their problems’ before they came to an agreement. He smiled broadly at his father and scooted closer so that they were both leaning back against the headboard.
“We should get your school supplies tomorrow,” Sirius said. Harry nodded. That sounded like a good idea.
-x-
The next morning, Harry woke up on something lumpy and with a crick in his neck. He lifted his head slowly and twisted it, trying to ease the kinked muscles. Looking down, he realised that whatever lumpy it was that he’d slept on had actually been another body. His dad’s body, to be precise. He supposed they’d fallen asleep; they had spent a long time talking, after all. Harry wasn’t entirely surprised.
He felt better, though, he realised—even if he did have a crick in his neck. After two weeks, everything was better between them, and it couldn’t have come at a more opportune time: school started back in two days. Harry would have hated to leave for Hogwarts without having made up with his father. The talking had done them good, he decided.
He stretched and rolled off the bed, trying not to wake up his dad, but had somehow tangled himself in the sheets and fallen to the floor with a loud thump. He looked up, and Sirius’ sleepy face was staring down at him curiously.
“You didn’t sleep down there did you?” he asked.
Harry scowled and rubbed his bottom. “Of course not,” he said indignantly. He tried to stand and his legs, still tangled in the duvet, betrayed him. He fell again. Sirius laughed.
Harry scowled again. “Stop laughing and help me you git!”
His father rolled his eyes and exited the bed on the other side, walking around and staring down at Harry in obvious amusement. Sirius cocked his head to the side innocently and put his hands on his hips. “What do I get out of it?” he asked.
Harry looked at him sadly. “My love.” He felt like he was trying to untangle a thin-linked necklace that had been stored away for decades: he was getting more and more tangled the more he tried to untangle himself.
Sirius grinned brightly and reached down to help him. A few minutes later, he was free, and he gave Sirius a determined sneer before he padded off to the toilet for a shower. “We have to get my school supplies today,” he reminded his father over his shoulder. “And Ron, Hermione and Ginny’s as well.”
He heard a grunt of acknowledgement and then the sound of his bedroom door shutting behind him. Turning on the tap, hot steam filled the room and Harry sighed happily. It was going to be a very good day.
-x-
After breakfast, all five of them left River House and headed for Edinburgh. They were walking, mostly because Harry and Sirius both wanted to see Hermione’s reaction to the shady bar they would have to cross through.
“Head Girl!” Hermione was squealing happily as they walked down the gravel path leading away from River House. She waved her school letter, which had only come that morning for some odd reason, in the air and smiled brightly. “I just can’t believe it. I’m ever so pleased, but who’s Head Boy?”
Harry exchanged a weary glance with Ron, who was still only a prefect. “Not me,” Ron said.
“Nor me,” Harry added unhelpfully. Of course, Hermione already knew this. Ron had shown her his own letter when it arrived at breakfast, along with Ginny’s, and Harry had explained that he’d gotten his earlier in the summer. There had been no Head Boy badge in it.
“It’ll probably be Anthony Goldstein,” Hermione mused, unconcerned.
“Nah,” Ron interjected. “It’ll be our luck that it’s Malfoy.”
Harry, Ginny and Hermione all sent Ron a withering look. Harry certainly hoped it wasn’t Malfoy; he was bad enough as a prefect. Ginny, who had been made prefect the year before, was one again, and Harry had been made Quidditch captain. That suited him just fine—he got to use the prefect’s bathroom, and that was good enough for him.
“Do you all have your lists?” Sirius asked. He was walking between Harry and Ginny and trying to keep out of the conversation as much as he could, but he really didn’t want to have to walk all the way back to the manor if one of them had left it behind. Everyone nodded.
“Yeah,” Harry said. “I’ll need extra books,” he added thoughtfully. “I’m taking beginning Arithmancy this year.”
Hermione squealed again. “Oh Harry, that’s wonderful! You’ll have class with me, you know, and you’ll need the same book I have. We can study together.” Harry cringed.
“I’m taking it too,” Ginny added, and Ron frowned.
“Am I the only one not taking that class?” he asked disgustedly. “Why in the world would anyone want to take that class? I heard it’s terribly difficult.”
“Seemed interesting,” Harry shrugged. “And better than Divination.”
Ron could not argue with that. Instead, he pulled a Chocolate Frog—which Harry suspected he’d nicked from the supply he and Ginny had sent Harry for his birthday—and unwrapped it carefully. He shoved the chocolate in his mouth and frowned down at the card. “I still don’t know what to do with these cards,” he said around a mouthful of frog. “I’ve got another Glenda the Good. Anyone need that one?”
“Oh, I do,” Ginny said, snatching the card away and tucking it in her pocket. “Did you finish your set?”
Ron nodded. “Yeah, I got Ptolemy the other day, and now I don’t know what to do with them.”
“Maybe you should write in to the company and suggest new cards for them to make. Then you would have more to collect,” Sirius suggested blandly, shrugging. Hermione looked at him quickly.
“That’s an excellent idea!” she exclaimed, turning to Ron. Ron licked some chocolate from his lips and looked thoughtful. “Think of all the wizards and witches who aren’t on the cards but deserve recognition! Oh—they could even turn it into a charity drive of some sort; a portion of the proceeds from the new set could help less fortunate wizards! Do you know who makes them?” she finished in a rush.
Harry stared at her with his eyebrows raised and Sirius nudged him playfully in the ribs. They shared a quiet snicker and turned back to her. “The Chortling Chocolate Company,” Sirius finally said, clearing his throat.
Ginny nodded. “Yeah, but who would you suggest they put on the cards?” she asked.
Hermione bounced. “Oh—we could send in Professor McGonagall and Mad-Eye Moody and…”
“Death Eaters,” Harry interrupted. Everyone looked around quickly, suspiciously drawing their wands, but when they saw no Death Eaters, they turned back to him in confusion.
“What?” Ron asked bemusedly.
“Death Eaters,” Harry repeated, looking at each of them. “They could put Death Eaters on the cards.”
“Oh Harry,” Hermione sighed. “Death Eaters don’t deserve recognition.”
Harry waved her off. He had an idea—and it was a good one. They were going to hear him out. “No, it’s brilliant,” he insisted to their shocked faces. “They might not deserve good recognition, but they’re still important figures in our society. The cards could work as identification…so that children recognise them if they see them. It could be like a public service announcement.”
Sirius raised his eyebrows. “Interesting,” he mused. “Macabre, but interesting none the less.” Hermione seemed to be considering it now, too. She gave Harry a curious look.
“That is a good idea, really,” she said slowly. She would have said more, but they arrived at the shoddy bar, The Burning Man, and Sirius gestured them towards the door.
-x-
A/N:
1. The line Voldemort recites—that he says his Death Eaters are named for—is part of a (very long) poem called “Briar Rose (Sleeping Beauty)” by Anne Sexton. I realise that it was not published until 1971, so I like to think that the Death Eaters weren’t named until then.
2. I think Voldemort was born in 1929, so that would make him 32 when Calixta died, if anyone cares.
3. Glenda the Good (Witch of the North) is from the Wizard of Oz. Duh. :)
NEXT CHAPTER
Chapter Title: Black Robes 12/14
Words (this chapter): 7,035
Rating (this chapter): R
Story Info/All Chapters: HERE
Author's Notes: I'm half-way finished with my fic-exchanges. I swear I'll never sign up for another one again. I think this is the part most of you have been waiting for.
Beta’d by
maybe_someday8 and amelancholykiss. (Possibly the best betas in the world.) -x-
Black, in the Smothering Dark
-x-
Chapter Twelve
Black Robes
-x-
When he arrived in Voldemort’s study, his wand was still out, but he kept it at his side for the moment. The Vow would protect him, but there was no sense in being foolish. Voldemort sat behind a wide, mahogany desk and regarded Harry curiously.
“You may leave us, Severus,” Voldemort said without looking at the Death Eater. Snape gave a bow and left the room, closing the door behind him. “The Polyjuice?” Voldemort asked, waving Harry to a chair.
Harry sat, and retrieved the potion vial from his cloak. He held it up for Voldemort to see—not quite trusting that he wouldn’t slip something in it if Harry passed it over—and waited. Voldemort nodded, and lowered the hood of his cloak, which he had been wearing up the entire time. Harry couldn’t help his eyes going wide when he saw the Dark Lord without his cowl. He actually had hair now, and it was frightening.
Voldemort’s skin was still white and clammy-looking; it even looked a bit translucent, and his eyes were still gleaming red, his nose still flatter than it should have been, and his lips still thin and stretched.
Harry knew that Voldemort had once been a very handsome man, and he wondered what could make a man like this: what could convince a man to give up such good looks? Power, he supposed. He comforted himself with the knowledge that it would never happen to him. Before Voldemort’s first downfall in 1981, he’d still been relatively attractive. He still looked human at the time, anyway, or so Harry had heard. Except for the eyes and sunken cheeks—which could have been the result of malnutrition—Voldemort had remained handsome in a gruesome sort of way until he tried to kill Harry.
The ritual in Harry’s fourth year had made him look the way he currently was. But he had hair now—thick, black, sinister looking hair that fell straight down on either side of his face. Harry wondered, if Voldemort’s hair had grown back, what else would realign itself into its natural form? He didn’t think much, if anything, else would.
“I have it,” Harry said, after the fact.
Voldemort nodded, reached up and plucked a single hair from his head. He passed it over to Harry and Harry, cringing, dropped it into the potion. “You will use Severus to call the others,” Voldemort explained, all business now. “To do so, you will need to touch me while pressing the tip of your wand to Severus’ Mark and concentrating on the Death Eaters coming to you. Unless you think of someone specific, they will all come.”
“Why do I have to touch you?” Harry asked.
“Because the Mark is linked to me and not you,” Voldemort said flatly.
Oh. Harry felt a bit stupid, but shook it off. “Then why don’t you call them yourself?” he asked.
Voldemort gave him a patient look. “Because they will begin apparating in immediately, and I do not want to take any chances that I am seen.”
“Alright,” Harry said, nodding slowly.
Voldemort stared, as if waiting for Harry to continue interrupting him. When he was sure that Harry was going to remain quiet, he continued, “I will be in snake form next to you. Nagini is already under a Disillusionment charm and will be patrolling to gauge reactions. I often speak to her during meetings, so no one will question if you speak to me.”
“Right,” Harry said again, feeling very overwhelmed. “And what, exactly, am I supposed to do?” he asked.
Here, Voldemort smiled nastily. “The purpose of this experiment is to assess how well you lead, how well you deal with certain situations and what kind of decisions you make. You will open the meeting by welcoming them, and then ask for any new developments. I might remind you that anything you hear will not leave these walls. Is that understood?”
Harry thought of Snape, and of what he would be bringing back, and nodded. He could agree to that; he had agreed to that.
“Will I have to torture anyone?” he asked.
“If you feel they deserve it,” Voldemort said easily. Harry frowned, and Voldemort continued, unconcerned, “I will speak up if I feel there is anything you need to know, but otherwise, I will leave you to your own devices. Do not disappoint me.”
Harry shuddered. “Yes, sir,” he said automatically, and then scowled. He did not want to acknowledge any sort of honorific with Voldemort. Voldemort smirked.
“We will have one hour to do this. I expect that we will finish with time to spare. Horvitz!” he called. Then Voldemort stood, and as he did so, melted into his animagus form. A large black snake—that looked remarkably like Nagini—slithered around from behind the desk and up Harry’s leg, depositing itself around his neck. A house-elf, Horvitz apparently, appeared next to Harry and then stared at the snake wrapped around his shoulders. He noticed, quite belatedly, that it did not hurt when Voldemort touched him this time.
“Summon Severus,” Voldemort hissed from around Harry’s neck. To his surprise, the house-elf nodded and disappeared. Harry had not known that house-elves understood Parseltongue. “Now drink the potion,” Voldemort instructed Harry.
Harry did so, cringing at the taste and shivering at the uncomfortable feeling of his body changing into a much taller, much thinner, much frailer one. He adjusted his black robes to fit, and pulled his cowl up. His fingers felt strange on his hands, but he ignored it as he waited patiently for Snape to arrive, assimilating himself to a new body.
Several moments later, there was a knock at the door, and Harry, unsure of his voice, called for Snape to enter. He was unsurprised when it came out as a high, hissing command. Snape came in, looked around, noticed Harry was not there, and looked at the snake. He, too, seemed to be waiting for the command from his master. Harry cleared his throat and beckoned Snape forward.
As instructed, he slipped his fingers up Snape’s sleeve, which he’d automatically held out for Harry, and tried to call for the Death Eaters. He could tell when Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly in pain that it had worked. Nodding, Harry removed his hand. “Lead me to the meeting area,” Harry said, and then added because it was habit, “Sir.”
Snape gave him a half-amused, half-fearful look, and nodded. He was led down at least five corridors that turned and twisted so often he was almost sure he was going to end up back where he started, when Snape stopped in front of two huge, wooden doors. “Milord,” Snape said, bowing and opening the door for him.
Harry barely restrained a wince, managed to nod back to Snape, and walk into the room. He realised that with this body, it was much easier to walk smoothly. He felt almost as if he was gliding, and hoped that he would eventually grow out of his own ungainly walk.
He was in a room dimly lit with wall sconces and filled with Death Eaters. Voldemort hissed for him to walk to the front of the room, and he did so, noting with amusement that the crowd of wizards parted for him like water. He paused once he’d made it to the front, turned, and looked over at the crowd of Death Eaters who were looking back at Voldemort expectantly. The Vow should protect him, but he couldn’t place all of his faith in that. He would not be surprised if Voldemort found some way around the wording.
Carefully, he scanned the room, looking for any threats. All of the Death Eaters were wearing their usual black robes and white masks, but a lock of blonde hair slipping out of a hood in the front row caught his eye. He sneered at Lucius Malfoy.
Malfoy immediately dropped to a bow. Near his ear, Voldemort hissed out the equivalent of a chuckle. “They all should have bowed by now,” he said with some disappointment. Harry raised an eyebrow and watched the rest fall to their knees. “Your body language is different,” Voldemort decided.
Harry nodded, both in twisted pleasure that Death Eaters were actually bowing to him, and in agreement to Voldemort’s observations. He couldn’t deny that he felt a sick sort of satisfaction at the sight of over a hundred Death Eaters on their knees in front of him. He felt his lips stretch into a pleased smile when he spotted Snape near the front and to his left. No threats that he could see. “Rise,” he said. It was not said very loud, but it was enough. Every wizard in the room rose as one, almost as if it were a practiced motion, as soon as he said so. He liked that, too. On his shoulders, Voldemort was quiet, watching.
“Welcome, my Death Eaters,” he said, acting off both instincts and instructions. His voice was still Voldemort’s, but his mind wasn’t—so why was he enjoying this so much? He decided that it was because it was Death Eaters submitting to him, and wasn’t that ironic?
They all murmured back greetings that ending with ‘my lord’ or some derivative, and fell silent again. Harry scanned the crowd, and his eyes landed on Lucius Malfoy again. “Which ones should have news?” he asked Voldemort.
“Each of the Inner Circle,” Voldemort said. “Elliot Parkinson, Bastian Zabini, Mercy Sinclair, Lucius Malfoy, Severus Snape, Andre and Harvey Beauvais and,” Voldemort paused for effect and hissed, “Yasmin Smith.”
Harry jerked. “Yasmin Smith…” he hissed back, barely believing his own words. She’d eaten at his house. He’d spent time with her son. He had considered the possibility that one or all of the Smiths might be Death Eaters, but…he could have been killed—no wonder Voldemort knew everything. He had spies everywhere.
To cover his reaction, Harry moved his gaze to Snape, deciding to start with someone easy. “Severus,” he hissed. “Come forward.” He could feel Voldemort nodding against his neck in satisfaction.
“What news have you for me?” he asked once Snape had dipped his head and stood again.
Snape removed his mask and looked at him calculatingly, flicked his eyes to the snake, looked back and said, “Milord, Dumbledore is confused. The news with the Potter boy has caught him off guard. He was unaware that Black was the boy’s father, and is now in a state over it. He is afraid that the boy will acknowledge too much of his own history. Dark magic and bigotries, especially.” Here, Snape gave an ironic little twist of his lips.
Harry cackled, though he’d meant it as a laugh. “And does he think that the boy is so easily swayed?” he asked Snape.
Snape smirked. “He feels it is possible, Milord.”
Voldemort hissed a laugh from his shoulder, and Harry shook his head minutely in exasperation. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. “That is something I would like for you to follow up on,” Harry said, going on instinct. “It could lead to a very interesting development. Anything else, Severus?”
Snape cleared his throat. “Yes, Milord. Dumbledore has been searching for something. He has found a ring in Little Hangleton that he wants to destroy, but he doesn’t know how. He is looking for a way to do so. I do not know the significance of the ring, Milord, but it seemed important.”
There was an angry, startled hiss from Harry’s shoulder. “That old fool,” Voldemort hissed-snarled. “Tell Severus to ask to help him research it and bring me any news of progress.”
Harry relayed the message and dismissed Severus back to ranks where the Death Eater replaced his mask. “Mercy,” he called, deciding that Voldemort probably called all of his Inner Circle by their first names. When Voldemort did not contest this, he felt the tension in his shoulders slip a bit. A tiny woman in the front row ambled forward and removed her mask. She was black-haired and pink-cheeked, a bit like Hestia Jones from the Order, but much more innocent-looking. Harry never would have suspected this woman to be a Death Eater.
“Milord,” she said, curtseying. Harry nodded for her to continue. “I was hired as the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts. I will start in September.”
Harry barely restrained from rolling his eyes. Would Hogwarts ever get a decent Defence teacher? He would have to watch her, he supposed, but by now, he reckoned he should automatically watch every Defence teacher. Because he couldn’t help himself, he asked snidely, “And do you think that you will be able to teach the children well, Mercy?”
She smiled innocently. “Of course, Milord. I am confident in my skills.”
Harry nodded, and said, “Very good, Mercy.” She smiled, curtseyed again, and returned to her place.
“Yasmin,” Harry said, moving on. The blonde Death Eater his father had unknowingly had for dinner several weeks ago walked forward and curtseyed. “You have news?” Harry asked.
“Yes, Milord,” Yasmin said in her usual lovely voice. “Bellatrix and Rodolphus’ twin daughters, Alsace and Lorraine, will be transferring to Hogwarts. Now that the Ministry has frozen most of their assets, they’re grandmother can no longer afford to send them to Beauxbatons. They will be in their sixth year.”
“And?” Harry prompted.
Yasmin blushed. “The Ministry, and most likely the Headmaster, will be keeping a very close eye on them. If I may make a suggestion, Milord, I would not call them to be Marked until they have graduated.”
Harry nodded slowly, completely surprised that some students had been Marked prior to leaving school. He dismissed her, and, deciding to save Lucius for last, called Bastian Zabini—an Obliviator—and Elliot Parkinson, who worked as an advisor for the Minister. Neither of them had anything of interest to report, but Harry didn’t think it was worth torturing them over, so he didn’t. Voldemort did not complain.
The Beauvais brothers, who he called together since they both worked in the Muggle Liaisons Office, were young with blonde hair and blue eyes. Harry, oddly, found that he liked them. They reminded him a lot of Fred and George Weasley, and, apparently, were muggle computer geniuses. In their spare time, they enjoyed hacking into the Muggle Ministry database—completely without magic, Voldemort told him. It was hard not to laugh at that.
“Lucius,” he finally called, feeling a lovely surge of spite well up in him. He hated this man. He hated him nearly as much as he hated Bellatrix, who thought she’d willingly killed her own cousin. He didn’t think she’d had much sense of honour, and was delighted that Voldemort had rescued neither her nor her husband, Rodolphus, from Azkaban. Still, he realised with a small frown, he had no idea how Voldemort had managed to get Lucius out without alerting the Ministry or the papers. There were some things that Voldemort was very closed-mouthed on.
Lucius sauntered forward arrogantly, and Harry felt his hate rush to new levels. “You have news?” he asked.
Lucius dipped his head slightly—almost insolently, Harry realised—and smirked. “I do, Milord,” he said. “I have brought my son to take your Mark.”
“I have not requested that,” Voldemort hissed indignantly. Lucius glanced warily at the snake, and then back to Harry. Harry frowned, and decided to go with it.
“I have not requested you to do so, Lucius,” Harry said. Lucius opened his mouth, but Harry, feeling very pleased with himself, waved him silent. “If I didn’t know better, Lucius,” Harry continued slowly, “I would think that you have only brought him to take notice away from the fact that you have no news for me. You have made no progress with your mission, have you?” he asked, going out on a limb. He wasn’t even sure that Lucius indeed had a mission to make progress on.
To his relief, and Lucius’ misfortune, he shook his head, looking at the floor. Voldemort hissed in amusement. “He never does,” Voldemort explained.
Before Lucius could open his mouth and protest the difficulty of his assignment, Harry snarled and whipped his wand out, pointing it at Lucius. Lucius dropped to the floor in subordination. Still, Harry was not looking forward to torturing, even if it was Lucius Malfoy. He looked down at the bowed blond head and sneered. “Bring him forward,” he directed.
Lucius jumped up and scurried away—much less arrogantly than he had come forward—and returned with Draco Malfoy. Malfoy’s head was bowed, and Harry watched as it lifted. He saw grey eyes and the wildness in them that spoke of exhilaration and anticipation—waiting for the kill. The first kill. Harry sneered at Malfoy, just because he could.
He had no doubt that Draco Malfoy would one day be Voldemort’s most ruthless assassin, but today was not that day. He could see it already. Even if he did know how to Mark someone, Draco Malfoy would not be that person. Malfoy wasn’t ready—even by Harry’s standards.
He might not agree with it, but he understood Voldemort more than even he would like to admit. It wasn’t about good and evil—even if everyone else wanted to paint it that way because in the end, Voldemort was fighting for what he believed in, just as Dumbledore was, and just like Harry wasn’t because all he’d ever fought for was his own life.
And Draco Malfoy was fighting for the kill. He was fighting for the taste of blood on his tongue and ragged, dying breaths whirling like poetry in his ears. He was fighting for the last faint tremor of a heartbeat under the pads of his fingers and the exhilaration of taking another life. He wasn’t fighting for Voldemort, and Harry didn’t have to believe in it, and he was disinclined to interrupt his enemy when he was making a mistake, but he needed to do this, so he was going to do it.
“You are not ready, Draco Malfoy. You want the blood more than you want the cause,” Harry said slowly and rejoiced in the shocked look both Malfoys gave him. “But do not fret,” he added quickly. “I will make sure you are. When you return to Hogwarts, you will be approached by someone who can teach you, and if you are ready to accept that training, do so. If not, then you are not necessary to my cause.”
Malfoy looked at him warily. “How will I know who it is?” he asked.
Harry sneered. “You will know.”
On his shoulder, Voldemort hissed-cackled. “You will teach him?” he asked in amusement. “Oh very good, very good. This is excellent.”
“I have not said that,” Harry hissed back, still staring at Malfoy kneeling on the floor.
“You did not have to,” Voldemort said, and Harry dismissed both Malfoys.
“Does anyone else have news?” Harry asked the room at large. He did not expect anyone to, and was surprised when an older man—at least eighty years of age from the way he walked, but with the appearance of a forty-year-old wizard—wandered forward and dipped his head to him.
“That is Edward Yaxley,” Voldemort explained, and even though it was a hiss—which did not offer the normal inflections of voice—Harry got the feeling that there was something off about this man, Yaxley. He filed the information away for later, and nodded to the old man.
“Yaxley,” he greeted.
“Milord,” Edward Yaxley replied. “I have heard word that it will soon be time for the Dementors to breed. Their breeding season only occurs once every five-hundred years or so, but they will become restless soon, and when they do, they will begin Kissing without discrimination. Muggle and wizard alike,” Yaxley continued. “They need souls to breed; it will be a disaster if they are not fed before this happens.”
“What do you suggest?” Harry asked, feeling his pulse speed up.
Yaxley gave him a faint smile. “We feed them, Milord. If we feed them before they go hunting, perhaps we can head them off. If they are satiated, they will be able to breed without unconcerned hunting.”
“And who do you suggest we feed to them?” Harry asked, expecting a single-worded answer of ‘muggles’ or ‘mudbloods’.
“If I may, Milord,” Yaxley smiled, “I would like to suggest that we do not kill any captives we may acquire. We can store them until it is time for the feeding. Stun them, and then drop them off in front of the prison. Or,” Yaxley continued as an afterthought, “we could try to persuade them to feed on only the prisoners.”
Harry, feeling very nauseous suddenly, nodded jerkily. “I would like for you to create a proposal for me. We must deal with this before it becomes a problem. How much time would you say we have?”
Yaxley shrugged slightly. “Perhaps a year, if we’re lucky.”
Harry nodded, and took a deep breath. “Very good, Yaxley,” he said, and Yaxley nodded, and returned to his place. With Voldemort’s permission, Harry dismissed the meeting
-x-
The Polyjuice wore off not even five minutes after Harry returned to Voldemort’s study with the Dark Lord still twined around his neck. Feeling very tired, he dropped into a chair across from Voldemort’s desk, and put his head in his hands, absently running his fingers through the reddened tips of his hair.
“That man,” Harry said into his hands once Voldemort had returned to human form and deposited himself behind his desk. He accepted the tea Voldemort offered him without thought, confident now that the Vow would protect him from the temptation of cyanide, and cleared his throat. “That man,” he said again. “Edward Yaxley. You reacted strangely to him. What’s his story?”
Voldemort, who was again sipping from his usual pewter teacup with two handles, regarded him carefully. “He joined my ranks in autumn of 1951. He was my first Death Eater.”
Harry felt his eyebrows shoot up. This was certainly interesting. “Your first?” he asked, hoping for an elaboration.”
Voldemort nodded and blew on his tea. “Yes,” he said. “He was the one who came up with the name.”
“'Death Eater', you mean?” Harry clarified.
“Yes—he says he got it from a muggle poem…Her eyes burnt by cigarettes as she eats betrayal like a slice of meat. I must not sleep for while I’m asleep I’m ninety and I think I’m dying,” Voldemort recited dully.
Harry looked at him questioningly, and Voldemort continued, “His sister was my lover. Calixta Yaxley—she was…murdered by someone who proclaims to be against such acts. It was a betrayal of the worst kind, and…” Voldemort paused, considering. Harry could think of no other time that he’d seen the Dark Lord uncertain. He kept carefully quiet while he drank his tea.
“Edward thought it fitting,” Voldemort finally said with a harsh laugh. “To eat betrayal like meat—we would do that, he had said. We would eat the betrayal of her death, and make the world better for it. Retribution. Vengeance.
“It was my madness that changed our course,” he finished in a breath. “I have never denied being mad. I have always been mad—always—since then, anyway.”
Harry exhaled slowly, unsure of what to say. He felt—sad, and he had no idea why. Surely, there was no excuse for feeling pity for a dark lord. Uncomfortably, he changed the subject slightly. “And the Dementors?” he asked.
Voldemort was staring into his cup, and he didn’t look back up for several seconds. When he did, Harry couldn’t tell that they had ever had the previous conversation. He looked evil again—fierce and malicious.
“You did well,” Voldemort said, nodding. “You asked the right questions. This is certainly something that has the possibility of becoming…a catastrophe. I’m certain that neither the Ministry nor your precious Order,” he sneered half-heartedly, “will do anything about it—if they are even aware.
“Edward Yaxley is an expert on dark creatures—something that neither the Ministry nor the Order of the Phoenix puts any stock in. He knows what he’s talking about.”
“What will you do about it?” Harry asked.
Voldemort looked at him. “Exactly what you suggested,” he said. “Yaxley will bring the proposal, I will look over it, and if it is worthy, we will make arrangements to feed the Dementors.”
Harry felt an angry flush creeping up his cheeks. “You’ll just grab people and decide that we can do without them, and…what, feed them to Dementors?” he asked harshly.
Voldemort sneered. “Would you rather the Dementors Kiss anyone they come across—including those muggles you’re so fond of—or would you rather we choose people who are dangerous?”
Harry nearly quelled under the force of Voldemort’s voice. “But it’s only your definition of dangerous,” he growled, sitting forward.
“Yes,” Voldemort replied softly. “But better my definition of dangerous than children and muggles who could not perform the Patronus, wouldn’t you say?”
Just as Harry was about to make another angry retort, there was a knock at the door. Both he and Voldemort turned their heads, and Voldemort called for whoever it was to enter. Snape walked in, bowed quickly to Voldemort, and said, “Milord, may I speak with the boy?”
Voldemort raised his eyebrows. “By all means,” he said sarcastically, waving Severus in. Severus paused, gave Voldemort a slightly fearful look, and then shook it off. He strode forward and stared down at Harry with glittering eyes.
“You are like Brutus,” Snape whispered, knowing that Voldemort could hear him, “like Judas.”
Harry looked at him, utterly exhausted from not only the meeting, but also from the conversation he was having before Snape came in. He looked questioningly at Voldemort, wondering how in the world Snape could do this without being seen as a traitor, and shrugged. “Who meant well,” Harry said.
“I beg your pardon?” Snape hissed.
Harry nodded uselessly. “Yes—like Judas…who meant well.”
Snape scoffed. “This war is over before it’s even begun,” he said, and behind his desk, Voldemort scoffed. He, apparently, had had enough for the night as well.
“Always the optimist, Severus,” Voldemort drawled. “I fear that you are disappointed for it.”
Snape looked at Voldemort carefully. “It is anticlimactic,” he finally said, and Voldemort cackled.
“Indeed,” Voldemort said, nodding. He waited, but Snape still did not leave. “Do you not have an Order meeting to attend, Severus? A report to make?” Severus, obviously, knew when he was being dismissed. He bowed once more and quickly left the room.
Harry looked back to Voldemort, aghast. “Do you never worry that Snape is, perhaps, adding more to his reports than you have authorized?” he asked carefully. Surely, with the way Snape was acting, it would be impossible to miss.
Voldemort merely smirked at him. “Severus is a thrice-turned-traitor,” he explained patiently. “He always has been and he always will be. He will play both sides—never giving either side enough information to be useful but always enough to keep himself safe—until one side eventually wins. He has never truly been true to my side, and he has never truly been faithful to the Order of the Phoenix. He fights to win, and only that.”
Harry gaped at him. “And you don’t care?” he asked.
“The difference between Dumbledore and me is that I am aware of the situation and value Severus for his other qualities. It is better to have Severus at least partially on my side than not at all. He is a dangerous man. Dumbledore thinks Severus completely faithful—it is, ultimately, one of his biggest flaws.”
“Snape’s flaws, you mean?” Harry asked.
Voldemort shook his head and took another sip of his tea. “No—Dumbledore’s. He trusts too completely.”
Harry nodded slowly. “And you don’t worry that he’s giving away too much information?”
“No,” Voldemort said. “If he had it his way, this war would continue for the rest of time. He does not want it to end because then he will have to choose a side. He will never tell anything that could change the tides, and if I ask him specifically not to say something, he will realise that it is something that could change the tides. He will not talk because he doesn’t want to sway the balance.”
“That’s fucked up,” Harry breathed.
“Indeed,” Voldemort confirmed. “And now, I believe that you need to get home. I think that you will have an Order meeting to attend very soon.”
Harry looked up sharply. “I’m not a member of the Order,” he said.
Voldemort smirked. “You will be.”
“How do you know?” Harry asked.
Voldemort gestured towards the door. “My thrice-turned-traitor has told me so.” He looked at Harry as he stood to walk him out, and added, “And do not forget to give due consideration to my offer, Mr. Black. I will visit you soon for an answer.”
Swallowing, Harry nodded, and followed him to the door.
-x-
Sirius was sitting on his bed when Harry apparated into his bedroom. “Where have you been?” his father asked wearily. It looked as if he’d been sitting in that same spot for hours—perhaps he had, Harry realised, ashamed.
“How did you know I was gone?” Harry asked instead of answering.
Sirius gave him a blank look. “The wards,” he said. “You’re not the only one linked to them.” Harry winced. His father’s words were flat, emotionless, and only added to the awkward feeling of the conversation. They had not spoken more than three words at a time to each other for the past fortnight, and this sudden confrontation was not something Harry was ready to deal with.
“Sorry,” he said. He was rooted to the spot he’d apparated to, almost afraid to move—afraid to disturb the delicate atmosphere. His father looked up at him, and Harry saw dark smudges of exhaustion underneath his eyes. Suddenly, his guilt tripled.
“Where were you?” Sirius asked again.
“He came,” Harry said slowly, knowing that his father would understand. “He wanted it done tonight.”
Sirius nodded slowly. “And you didn’t see fit to let me know that you’d left?”
“I…” Harry said, and then hesitated. “I didn’t think about it.” He walked forward carefully and sat down on the bed, pulling his cloak off and tossing it on a chair. “I’m sorry,” he added.
Sirius nodded. “No worries,” he said quietly. Harry winced again, feeling guiltier than he ever had before. The article in the Daily Prophet was nothing compared to how he felt now. “How was it?” Sirius asked after several minutes of silence.
Harry leaned against one of the posters on his bed, and pulled his knees up to his chest. He shrugged. “Alright,” he said. “It wasn’t too hard.” He paused, and when he figured that Sirius wasn’t going to reply, he added, “Snape said something to me while I was there.”
Sirius snorted humourlessly. “I bet,” he said.
Harry ignored him. “Why—what was your mission? The one to America that you took in my fifth year?”
Sirius looked up sharply, now fully alert. He seemed to be considering whether or not Harry needed to know, and decided, finally, that he did. “Officially, I was to try to recruit assistance from rogue light wizards in New England.”
“Rogue light wizards?” Harry asked dubiously. It seemed to almost be an oxymoron.
Sirius nodded. “Wizards who only use pure light magic but disagree with their Ministry.”
“And unofficially?” Harry asked. Sirius, he realised, had not expected him to catch the wording.
His father frowned. “Unofficially, I believe it was a suicide mission,” he said slowly, carefully.
Harry’s eyebrows shot up and his mouth dropped open. “You’re joking,” he said.
Sirius shrugged. “Not joking, but I’m probably wrong…those light wizards are notorious for ‘exterminating’,” he finger quoted, “anyone who uses dark magic or has used it in the past. They claim that they’re cleaning the world of taint.”
Harry laughed. “You can’t be serious—that’s…that’s over half the wizarding population of the world!” he exclaimed.
Sirius shrugged. “They certainly didn’t take well to me—said they could smell it on me, the magic I mean, and that I smelled rancid,” he added indignantly.
Harry considered that. “You’re not joking,” he said slowly, almost unbelievingly. Then, “Why did you stay so long then? Didn’t you communicate with Dumbledore during that time? Tell him what was happening?”
Sirius shook his head ‘no’. “Dumbledore said it would be too dangerous to communicate,” he explained. “Any letters could be intercepted by the Ministry and they would arrest me—I’m not known in America, so I didn’t have to hide. He just told me to come back when I’d either convinced them to help the war effort or exhausted my resources and contacts.”
“And that didn’t happen until this June?” Harry asked.
Sirius shrugged. “There’re a lot of wizards in New England. It took a while.”
“But Snape said you came back in March,” Harry hedged insistently. “He said that you came back after two months and went back to Grimmauld Place. And that you stayed there until that June when you went to the Ministry.”
Sirius shrugged. “I didn’t,” he said, “and I don’t know who did.”
Harry gaped and pulled hard on his hair to release some of his frustration. “And you aren’t worried about that? You aren’t concerned?”
“Not really,” Sirius said easily. “I’m alive. Dumbledore has his secrets, and I doubt I’ll ever learn many of them. There’s no point in even asking.”
“But…” Harry stuttered, “but what about…” He paused, and changed directions. He could already tell from his father’s expression that he would get no more answers from that line of questioning. “Then why didn’t you tell Dumbledore where we were going?” he asked instead.
Sirius only looked at him. “Do you really think that he’d have let me take you if I’d asked first?”
Harry couldn’t argue with that, and it did fit with Sirius’ personality and everything Snape had said. He sighed. He would get no more answers tonight. They sat in an awkward silence for several minutes, and then Sirius cleared his throat.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
Harry looked up. “Me too,” he said, and that was the end of that. He had to admit that it was much better than having to ‘talk out their problems’ before they came to an agreement. He smiled broadly at his father and scooted closer so that they were both leaning back against the headboard.
“We should get your school supplies tomorrow,” Sirius said. Harry nodded. That sounded like a good idea.
-x-
The next morning, Harry woke up on something lumpy and with a crick in his neck. He lifted his head slowly and twisted it, trying to ease the kinked muscles. Looking down, he realised that whatever lumpy it was that he’d slept on had actually been another body. His dad’s body, to be precise. He supposed they’d fallen asleep; they had spent a long time talking, after all. Harry wasn’t entirely surprised.
He felt better, though, he realised—even if he did have a crick in his neck. After two weeks, everything was better between them, and it couldn’t have come at a more opportune time: school started back in two days. Harry would have hated to leave for Hogwarts without having made up with his father. The talking had done them good, he decided.
He stretched and rolled off the bed, trying not to wake up his dad, but had somehow tangled himself in the sheets and fallen to the floor with a loud thump. He looked up, and Sirius’ sleepy face was staring down at him curiously.
“You didn’t sleep down there did you?” he asked.
Harry scowled and rubbed his bottom. “Of course not,” he said indignantly. He tried to stand and his legs, still tangled in the duvet, betrayed him. He fell again. Sirius laughed.
Harry scowled again. “Stop laughing and help me you git!”
His father rolled his eyes and exited the bed on the other side, walking around and staring down at Harry in obvious amusement. Sirius cocked his head to the side innocently and put his hands on his hips. “What do I get out of it?” he asked.
Harry looked at him sadly. “My love.” He felt like he was trying to untangle a thin-linked necklace that had been stored away for decades: he was getting more and more tangled the more he tried to untangle himself.
Sirius grinned brightly and reached down to help him. A few minutes later, he was free, and he gave Sirius a determined sneer before he padded off to the toilet for a shower. “We have to get my school supplies today,” he reminded his father over his shoulder. “And Ron, Hermione and Ginny’s as well.”
He heard a grunt of acknowledgement and then the sound of his bedroom door shutting behind him. Turning on the tap, hot steam filled the room and Harry sighed happily. It was going to be a very good day.
-x-
After breakfast, all five of them left River House and headed for Edinburgh. They were walking, mostly because Harry and Sirius both wanted to see Hermione’s reaction to the shady bar they would have to cross through.
“Head Girl!” Hermione was squealing happily as they walked down the gravel path leading away from River House. She waved her school letter, which had only come that morning for some odd reason, in the air and smiled brightly. “I just can’t believe it. I’m ever so pleased, but who’s Head Boy?”
Harry exchanged a weary glance with Ron, who was still only a prefect. “Not me,” Ron said.
“Nor me,” Harry added unhelpfully. Of course, Hermione already knew this. Ron had shown her his own letter when it arrived at breakfast, along with Ginny’s, and Harry had explained that he’d gotten his earlier in the summer. There had been no Head Boy badge in it.
“It’ll probably be Anthony Goldstein,” Hermione mused, unconcerned.
“Nah,” Ron interjected. “It’ll be our luck that it’s Malfoy.”
Harry, Ginny and Hermione all sent Ron a withering look. Harry certainly hoped it wasn’t Malfoy; he was bad enough as a prefect. Ginny, who had been made prefect the year before, was one again, and Harry had been made Quidditch captain. That suited him just fine—he got to use the prefect’s bathroom, and that was good enough for him.
“Do you all have your lists?” Sirius asked. He was walking between Harry and Ginny and trying to keep out of the conversation as much as he could, but he really didn’t want to have to walk all the way back to the manor if one of them had left it behind. Everyone nodded.
“Yeah,” Harry said. “I’ll need extra books,” he added thoughtfully. “I’m taking beginning Arithmancy this year.”
Hermione squealed again. “Oh Harry, that’s wonderful! You’ll have class with me, you know, and you’ll need the same book I have. We can study together.” Harry cringed.
“I’m taking it too,” Ginny added, and Ron frowned.
“Am I the only one not taking that class?” he asked disgustedly. “Why in the world would anyone want to take that class? I heard it’s terribly difficult.”
“Seemed interesting,” Harry shrugged. “And better than Divination.”
Ron could not argue with that. Instead, he pulled a Chocolate Frog—which Harry suspected he’d nicked from the supply he and Ginny had sent Harry for his birthday—and unwrapped it carefully. He shoved the chocolate in his mouth and frowned down at the card. “I still don’t know what to do with these cards,” he said around a mouthful of frog. “I’ve got another Glenda the Good. Anyone need that one?”
“Oh, I do,” Ginny said, snatching the card away and tucking it in her pocket. “Did you finish your set?”
Ron nodded. “Yeah, I got Ptolemy the other day, and now I don’t know what to do with them.”
“Maybe you should write in to the company and suggest new cards for them to make. Then you would have more to collect,” Sirius suggested blandly, shrugging. Hermione looked at him quickly.
“That’s an excellent idea!” she exclaimed, turning to Ron. Ron licked some chocolate from his lips and looked thoughtful. “Think of all the wizards and witches who aren’t on the cards but deserve recognition! Oh—they could even turn it into a charity drive of some sort; a portion of the proceeds from the new set could help less fortunate wizards! Do you know who makes them?” she finished in a rush.
Harry stared at her with his eyebrows raised and Sirius nudged him playfully in the ribs. They shared a quiet snicker and turned back to her. “The Chortling Chocolate Company,” Sirius finally said, clearing his throat.
Ginny nodded. “Yeah, but who would you suggest they put on the cards?” she asked.
Hermione bounced. “Oh—we could send in Professor McGonagall and Mad-Eye Moody and…”
“Death Eaters,” Harry interrupted. Everyone looked around quickly, suspiciously drawing their wands, but when they saw no Death Eaters, they turned back to him in confusion.
“What?” Ron asked bemusedly.
“Death Eaters,” Harry repeated, looking at each of them. “They could put Death Eaters on the cards.”
“Oh Harry,” Hermione sighed. “Death Eaters don’t deserve recognition.”
Harry waved her off. He had an idea—and it was a good one. They were going to hear him out. “No, it’s brilliant,” he insisted to their shocked faces. “They might not deserve good recognition, but they’re still important figures in our society. The cards could work as identification…so that children recognise them if they see them. It could be like a public service announcement.”
Sirius raised his eyebrows. “Interesting,” he mused. “Macabre, but interesting none the less.” Hermione seemed to be considering it now, too. She gave Harry a curious look.
“That is a good idea, really,” she said slowly. She would have said more, but they arrived at the shoddy bar, The Burning Man, and Sirius gestured them towards the door.
-x-
A/N:
1. The line Voldemort recites—that he says his Death Eaters are named for—is part of a (very long) poem called “Briar Rose (Sleeping Beauty)” by Anne Sexton. I realise that it was not published until 1971, so I like to think that the Death Eaters weren’t named until then.
2. I think Voldemort was born in 1929, so that would make him 32 when Calixta died, if anyone cares.
3. Glenda the Good (Witch of the North) is from the Wizard of Oz. Duh. :)
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I particularly liked how we see Harry posing as Voldemort, and Voldemort sort of testing Harry out as a kind of potential Dark Lord.
I particularly liked Snape's comment, too. It just occured to me that Snape and Harry are very much alike, in the way they have their alliances. Except, of course, Harry will end up committing himself to a side.
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It was a very sad joke on NCIS. Still, I love it!
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I love how Harry's such a good fake!Voldemort, and how well Voldemort understands Snape... Are we going to find out more about what Hermione thinks of Harry's chocolate-frog-cards idea? ;)
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Keep up the lovely writing.
Charming Marauders (on HPF)
ps: is it okay if I friend you?
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