Disclaimer: See chapter 1.
Intelligence is gathered for the war, and Snape and Hermione find a weapon.
Chapter 15: The Blood Tie
The noise in the Great Hall was beyond belief. Whispers, gossip, strident debate rang from wall to answering wall. It was the noisiest breakfast in Hogwarts history. It proved impossible to keep the news of the attempted murder of Draco Malfoy within the bounds of Slytherin House. Too many of the students had siblings and friends in other houses: above all in Ravenclaw. Once the news had travelled abroad from the Slytherin table, it was rapidly the property of the entire school. Draco had not appeared at breakfast, and his absence contributed to every colourful speculation.
Most thought it was too good to be true. Draco Malfoy had received his well-deserved comeuppance. The story was that the worms had finally turned, and that there had been a fight, and Draco had been thoroughly trounced by his former henchmen.
Many were openly gleeful. Ron Weasley declared that he might actually owe a Wizard's Debt to Crabbe and Goyle for their efforts. He was surprised that Harry was not more pleased by the event.
"Come on, mate! This is a great day! I hope they rearranged his nose permanently!"
Harry smiled tightly. He was no friend of Draco Malfoy's and privately thought a little pain was in order. But the question remained: who was behind it? It was improbable that Crabbe and Goyle acted alone. The most likely figure behind the attack was none other than Voldemort himself.
Dumbledore, seated at the High Table, was keeping his counsel. Hermione and Harry caught each other's eye. Ron, seeing that they were looking at Dumbledore, understood that there was more here than a simple brawl.
"Reckon it was Death Eater business?" he whispered to Harry.
"Could be," Harry shrugged. "Dumbledore probably hasn't had a chance to question them yet. Not that he'd tell us what he found out."
Hermione looked across at Lily. Her friend was paler than usual, she decided. She gave Hermione a direct glance. Under her robe, Hermione's sickle lay hot against her chest. They needed to talk it all over as soon as possible.
Parvati came back from the Ravenclaw table, where she had been quizzing her sister.
"Padma says that Crabbe and Goyle tried to kill him in the Slytherin dormitory, but Blaise Zabini woke up and hexed them so badly they'll be the hospital for days."
"Too bad," grunted Ron, enjoying his sausages.
"Blaise is pretty quick with his wand," Harry said. "Looks like Malfoy owes his life to the D.A."
This drew some laughs. Ron snorted pumpkin juice out his nose. Hermione buried her face in her hands. Then remembering, she looked up through her fingers. Snape was not at breakfast. He's probably still trying to sort out last night. What will happen to Crabbe and Goyle?
------
"They should be killed," Lucius Malfoy snapped, pacing the Headmaster's office. Dumbledore watched him with a faint smile. Malfoy clarified, rather hopefully, "I'd like to kill them myself."
"No doubt, Lucius, no doubt," Dumbledore acknowledged breezily. "But Mr Crabbe and Mr Goyle have a story to tell that I need to hear."
"What story?" Malfoy stared out the window. A beautiful day, but not for me. "The Dark Lord set them on Draco to punish me for my fancied disloyalty." He paused and corrected himself. "My revealed disloyalty."
Dumbledore was too old and too experienced to utter the snort this bit of revisionism deserved. He knew that this was the way Lucius would play his cards: if Voldemort were destroyed, he would declare that he had been deep undercover, spying on Voldemort---even enduring prison to lull Voldemort into complacency. If all worked out as he hoped, Dumbledore considered letting him get away with it. Lucius Malfoy had been for many years a keen disappointment to Dumbledore. Such a handsome, talented boy: a natural leader, an accomplished wizard, a remarkably polished businessman and politician—wasting it all on a shabby, deluded creature more damaged than himself. He had appointed Lucius Head Boy in his year, hoping that responsibility would broaden his views, but it had only swelled his sense of entitlement. The few months in Azkaban, he hoped, had been salutary. Even more so, probably, was the recent, overdue epiphany that his Dark Lord was a gullible lunatic, living in a fantasy world of sycophancy and paranoia. Finally, the attack on his son surely had opened his eyes to the fact that Dark Lord respected none of his followers or their families: they were all so much meat to the grinder.
Dumbledore smiled again. Lucius had his part to play. "And how," he asked, "is the map coming along?"
Lucius stopped his restless prowling. "Well. It's coming along well. I'll finish it by tomorrow." He saw Dumbledore's raised brows, took the hint, and headed to the fireplace. "Oh, all right. But I expect a full report." He vanished, back to his own room.
Dumbledore waited a little before approaching the fireplace himself. Once there, he leaned in and said quietly. "Severus."
In a moment, the fire-wreathed head appeared. "Yes, Headmaster?"
"Are your two charges ready to talk, dear boy?"
Snape frowned. "Ready enough. I'm not sure how much information you'll get from them. I think they've been tampered with."
"Imperius was used?"
"Something was certainly done to them. Of course, they would be easy marks for any kind of magical coercion. But it's clear that they were also threatened. They haven't made much sense, so far."
"Poor boys," Dumbledore said feelingly. "Pawns of the most helpless kind, unaware they are even on the board."
Snape sneered. "Like all the rest of us but the chessmasters."
-----
Hermione and Lily had decided to approach Snape at the earliest possible moment. He was going past the library, later in the morning, when the two girls waylaid him.
"Professor Snape," Lily addressed him, in her most persuasive tones. "We'd like a word with you."
"No doubt," replied Snape, giving Hermione his haughtiest stare. She stared back pugnaciously, to his great annoyance. Gryffindors, he thought wearily. They feel they must always rise to the challenge. How predictable.
"What is it?" he asked shortly.
"We have some historical information that might be of some interest to you."
"History is Professor Binns' preserve. I suggest you bother him."
Lily did not move out of his way. She raised her brows meaningly. "It would be of some interest to you."
Snape forbore to groan. If Lily wished to speak to him, that was all very well; but why was she bringing in Granger?
Lily smiled sweetly. "If you prefer, you could speak to Harry. He's been investigating the issue along with us. You could have a man-to-man---"
"Thank you," Snape interrupted her hastily. "I am quite free at the moment. Come into my office and say what it is you have to say."
Their presentation was not lost on him. The two girls gave him a brief history of Hogwarts in the 20th century, recapitulating the more questionable events, and rather surprising him with their analysis of the fate of the Slytherins of '38-'45. He had been aware of the general unluckiness of members of the house in the past fifty years. He had never put all the events together, though. Seen as a whole, it explained many things that he had previously attributed to fate, including the rather ugly demise of his late, unlamented father.
He stared thoughtfully at the little picture of Tiberius Snape, who scowled back sullenly. "You think he's had his eye on us from birth, then."
"He 's not one to let go of a grudge," Lily observed. "It's been his life's work, ruining the families of his housemates: killing them, getting them condemned to the Kiss or to Azkaban, making them his followers and flunkeys."
Snape winced slightly at the word "flunkey." After a moment's reflection, he shrugged it off. Flunkey was a perfectly legitimate word to describe his relationship to the Dark Lord.
He leaned back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling. What better way to be the world's most powerful wizard, than by being the world's only wizard? To his knowledge, Voldemort had only a small group of Death Eaters—twenty at the most, and then an amorphous number of supporters and sympathisers. He did not need more to destabilise wizarding Britain. He had been temporarily stymied by the failure to retrieve the prophecy from the Department of Mysteries, and had withdrawn to regroup. Soon he would unleash a new reign of terror.
Snape had managed to mislead him somewhat, feeding him false rumours that Lucius Malfoy was in hiding in South America. As far he could see, Voldemort had not the smallest inkling that Lucius had done something as bold as switch sides and offer Dumbledore his services.
They knew Voldemort's location now. Lucius was engaged in drawing a detailed map of the Riddle House and the environs of Little Hangleton, complete with all the magically expanded rooms and the labyrinth of dungeons and tunnels the Dark Lord had created.
Once the map was finished, Snape supposed Dumbledore would send out Order members to scout the area. He had suggested as much, but Dumbledore had positively twinkled, and said that first, the map would be "enhanced."
-----
After class that afternoon, Harry received a summons to the Headmaster's office. He was still wary of these visits. He had largely worked through his anger and grief over the summer. Or more properly, exploding at Dumbledore at the end of last term had been a cathartic experience. Once his anger had been fully released and examined, Harry had been better able to direct it at the proper targets. The scouring of Grimmauld Place, his simple, elegant solution of painting over Sirius' mother (inspired in the last few days with the Dursleys, as he touched up the window trim), the knowledge that Kreacher had not survived his treachery: all these had done much to help him heal. Knowing that Umbridge would never set foot in Hogwarts again, and the equally welcome news of Lupin's return to the DADA position had also done their part. Still, his improved spirits since September or so were to a large extent due to the presence of Lily. She was his-mother-who-was-not-his-mother, she had been put in Slytherin House; but she was a friend, and even better, a constant reminder that anything was possible in the wizarding world. In the simplest sense, she was a symbol of hope.
Harry entered, and smiled to see Professor Lupin, seated opposite Dumbledore. That was always a good sign. They seemed quite relaxed, and were having tea together.
"Cup of tea, Harry?"
"Thanks." He decided that Fawkes' calm and the general atmosphere of the room signalled a positive experience. He sipped his fragrant, steaming cup of Dumbledore's favourite Earl Grey, waiting to see what would be said, when Lily entered, giving them all an arch look. She sat near Harry and gazed curiously at Dumbledore. She declined Dumbledore’s excellent brew, too impatient to know the reason she was there.
Smiling, the old wizard drew a roll of parchment from his desk, and spread it out before them.
Harry read an inscription. "The Riddle House," he whispered. His eye travelled down to the graveyard. Yes, that's the place. A brief chill made his hair prickle, as if it were standing on end. He finished his tea, glad to have its warmth inside him.
Lupin caught his eye with a compassionate glance. Lily was full of questions.
Dumbledore explained. "A map of the ancestral home of Lord Voldemort. His Muggle family's manor, now derelict since their murder at his hands." He leaned forward. "His hideout, so to speak."
"Lovely. There's no place like home," Lily quoted to no one in particular.
"I have brought you three here," said Dumbledore, "for a special purpose. Lily is extraordinarily gifted in Charms; and Harry here has long experience with another map that was created in part by you, Remus. That map can serve as a template for this undertaking."
Harry smiled slowly. "You want a new Marauder's Map."
Lupin grinned wolfishly. "A Marauder's Map of –" he peered at the name of the village---"Little Hangleton."
-----
His nose was still too painful for him to manage a proper sneer. Draco attended to his dinner, and refused to notice the inquisitive glances and whispers from the other tables. Crabbe and Goyle, fixtures in his life since he could remember, were being held in the Hospital Wing. No one had been allowed to see or speak to them. Draco would never have described his feelings toward the two great lumps as fondness, but their absence left an echoing hollow in a life that Draco now had to admit had not been exactly full of friends. "Slytherins don't have friends, we have temporary allies." What rubbish. He knew now that he did not want to live his life like that. Surrounded by classmates who had helped him, sympathised with him, and to whom (in Blaise's case), he now owed a Wizard's Debt, he felt friendship and support; and decided it was a very pleasant thing.
Lily had come to dinner positively glowing. She had been off somewhere by herself. Draco had begun wondering at her frequent absences. She certainly spent a lot of time in the library.
"You're in a good mood."
"Yes," Lily agreed, spearing some asparagus. "I've been given a fascinating special project in Charms. I'll be working on it this evening."
"I'd hoped you’d spend some time in the common room." He tried not to sound sulky and pitiful, and knew he had failed.
She patted his arm cheerfully. "I'll be in later. I have some things I want to show you. I found your grandfather in the Hogwarts yearbook."
"Apollonius? I never knew him."
"I know. I discovered that most of the Slytherins who went to school here around 1938 to1945 met untimely ends."
Blaise raised a quizzical brow. "Suspicious circumstances?"
"Hardly that. I am perfectly certain that most of them were murdered."
She had riveted their attention. "By—"
"Yes, it looks that way. He started with the Quidditch team. Oldyfart's not a sporting man."
Montague overheard them, and grumbled. "Too right he's not. He's taken out our beaters."
Draco eyed him coldly, and returned to dismembering his chicken. The talk turned to Quidditch, but Draco remained silent. He longed to tell Lily that his parents were at Hogwarts. He longed to introduce her to them, to show them that here was something of his they could find no fault with. He wanted to tell everyone that Lily was right: Voldemort was plotting their ruin, playing them for fools. So she had evidence that ---Oldyfart—had started killing them off in his grandfather's day? It was old news, and while Lily might find it interesting, it was academic now. Oldyfart had tried to kill him. That was all he needed to make it personal. Filthy halfblood. I've always heard you have to watch out for them.
Lily wished with all her heart that she could tell Draco that his parents were at Hogwarts, and safe. It would be such a comfort to him. Surely Dumbledore could trust Draco to that extent.
Instead, she whispered in his ear, "So, Draco—are you in for the next meeting of the Defence Association?"
He groaned. Not Potter. Please don't tell me I have to be polite to Potter.
She whispered even more softly, "And what if I tell you that Harry Potter will offer to shake your hand when you arrive?"
Hmmm. I could snub him. That might be worth my time.
-----
Hermione, her head full of Harry's news, hurried to her duties in the dungeon. A Marauder's Map of Oldyfart's family stamping grounds was all very well; even better was that a number of copies would be made. It did not solve the central problem. Even if they could use the map to track down and destroy all of Voldemort's Death Eaters, what would they do when they confronted Voldemort himself?
The words of the prophecy jangled in Hermione's head like a horrible tune. Prophecies were awful rubbish: they were twisted things that were hopelessly and needlessly obscure. They were invariably fulfilled in ways that completely confounded the interpretations of those who depended upon them.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches---"
Why doesn't it just say 'kill?'
"Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies---"
All right, that could certainly be Harry's parents—or Neville's—and the two of them were born in July.
"And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not---"
Harry's scar, it would seem…but what power? That could mean all sorts of things—mushy things like his mother's love, or his friends' loyalty, or some hidden power that hasn't manifested itself—or some sort of weapon that Voldemort won't know about and can't be prepared for----the map could be that. No, that's not enough.
"And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives."
Well, that's a depressing bit. Obviously, Harry can't live with Voldemort about, because Voldemort's always trying to kill Harry. So it's kill or be killed, but the prophecy never says kill. But it says die. Harry could cause him to die. At the hand? Harry killed Professor Quirrell with the touch of his hand, but I think Voldemort is tougher than that. And even if he's killed, like before, his spirit could take form again. Unless it's trapped somehow.
Or maybe Dumbledore's plan is simply to go in, destroy all of Voldemort's Death Eaters, and drive him from his base. With no supporters, his ability to harm people would be greatly reduced, and perhaps Harry would have time to grow up and develop that special power. But Voldemort has a mortal body now—it could be injured, it could be damaged. And what could trap his spirit? You'd need something tremendously powerful---
Like a god?
Shuddering, she remembered the Halls of the Dead. What would Ma'at make of Voldemort's shrivelled spirit?
She stopped a moment.
And then broke into a run.
Snape glanced up with a frown as she pounded into the room. "Miss Granger, impetuous as always…"
"The Seba potion."
He raised his brows.
"It opens a portal between worlds. What if we were to send Voldemort's spirit somewhere really, really secure? Some place he could never escape from, because something there would probably --" she gulped, "--eat him."
Snape looked at her, head cocked to one side, a thoroughly unpleasant smile on his face. She faltered, and then took another breath.
"The Book of the Dead. We found the spell that resurrected Lily, but it also has the incantations that-–go the other way."
"Miss Granger," Snape said dismissively, "I assure you the Dark Lord has a very fine copy of The Book of the Dead, and is quite familiar with its contents. There is nothing there that we could use to surprise him."
She ran into the storeroom, looking to see where he had kept the sample of her own, flawed version of the potion.
Her voice floated out of the room. "But the potion isn't in The Book of the Dead. It's in the Shrewsbury Codex here at Hogwarts, and as far as I know, no other copy exists."
Snape looked at her narrowly. "The potion only worked for Lily because you used Potter's blood in it. We have no one here at Hogwarts with whom Voldemort shares blood."
"Of course we do." She emerged from the room and stood there; potion phial in fist, eyes shining.
Comprehension struck Snape like a blow to the head. Voldemort's resurrection rite—'blood of the enemy!' Why, that over-achieving, crassly assertive little chit. It's inspired, really. Voldemort himself has given Potter the power to destroy him. It was gloriously ironic.
He headed out the door. She stared at him, mouth already open to protest.
"Come along, Miss Granger. I think we should share this with the Headmaster. Perhaps he knows someone with connections in Egypt who can find us some first-rate soil from the banks of the Nile."
Hermione followed in his wake, discreetly smug. "Perhaps he does."
-----
Next chapter: The Ancestral Home—in which a call is paid on an old acquaintance.