Walpurgis Night

A/N: UPDATE: This story will officially be on hold until sometime in January. I am undertaking another writing project in the meantime. Thanks for the wonderful reviews too, my confidence almost overtook my paranoia. Anyhow, in the meantime you should check out www.geocities.com/grindylowe/fanfic.html. Its the funniest fan fiction I have ever read and it involves Severus in the late 70\'s. See ya.

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, character names, creatures, places, and other things from the Harry Potter books are not mine. I am not making money off of this.


Walpurgis Night

Chapter the First:

The Union of the Snake

A sputtering, brilliant red flame burned atop a patch of gray dirt in a clearing of the Forbidden Forest. It threw its angry red light onto the three faces of Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger. They all sat apart equidistantly, their cold lips shut tight in mutual misery, wrapped in layers of tattered cloaks, their faces no longer chubby with youth, but drawn and pale, their eyes sullen and ringed with darkness, except for Ron’s left eye, which was instead shrouded in a black eye-patch. Harry stared at the low fire, the demonic light making slashes of shadow where scars reamed his face. Hermione sat tensely, her back muscles locked up like a Gringott’s vault.

Neither Harry nor Ron appeared as burdened as Hermione did. Her face bore just one long, ugly, jagged scar, which ran crookedly from her forehead, across her eye and nose, and grazed her bottom lip. Her hair was messily cropped to chin-length, and shoved hastily behind her ears, although her hood was up, and low over her eyes. Her hollow cheeks held no smile, but culminated in a frown below the corners of her mouth and in a furious crinkle in her brow. Currently that brow was furrowed in wide-eyed concentration at the little fire she had made.

Ron watched her with his one eye, knowing the gears in her head were about burnt out from constant use. He scratched his red stubble and hunched over to get closer to the fire. Above, the black claws of deadened trees crisscrossed as they gripped at the dark gray sky. The forest was relatively quiet, and in the thick silence that pervaded the clearing like a choking fog, a grumbling suddenly rang out.

Harry and Hermione jumped to their feet, wands at the ready, the red fire blazing with heat and light. Nothing happened.

“That was my stomach,” Ron said, “Where’s dinner?”

Harry sighed as he and Hermione sat down. “Hedwig will be here any minute,” he grunted. The fire died down again as Hermione’s breath calmed. Ron scooted closer again.

“Can’t you get the fire going again Hermione?” he asked.

“No, I need to think,” she mumbled.

“We’re cold, Hermione,” Harry said.

“And hungry,” Ron said.

“He’ll be here, Ron!” Harry snapped.

“Why don’t you two make your own bleeding fire?!” Hermione shouted as the flame exploded into a red fireball, scorching Ron slightly. Hermione stalked off as the fire died completely.

“Where are you going?” Harry called after her.

“Going for a wee!” Hermione yelled with spite as she walked deeper into the forest. She was enveloped into the darkness. Ron patted out the smoking parts of his cloak, grumbling. Harry started another fire.

Fifteen minutes later, Hermione returned, looking a bit more relaxed, but still utterly haggard; she sat down at the crimson fire again.

“I’m sorry,” she told them. “This is all just doing my head in. We’ve been at this for four god-awful years, and things aren’t looking up. There’s only one horcrux left, and we’ve been looking for that for more that a year now. Face it, we’ve hit a wall. If we can’t find Voldemort, we can’t find Nagini.”

“That’s a perfect plan, Hermione, let’s just wave the white flag and let Voldemort burn the world down,” Ron said. “Perfect plan there.”

“Oh Ron,” she sighed, “it’s not that at all; don’t you wish you had a life, though?”

“We tried that, Hermione,” he glared at her pointedly. “Remember?”

“I try not to,” Hermione muttered bitterly, remembering their doomed and short-lived romance.

“What did you say?” Ron asked?

“I mean, we’ve sacrificed a lot. We never got to finish Hogwarts, we never got to pursue any apprenticeships, we never had careers, we never made friends of any kind, and in fact, we have never done anything but this!” She gesticulated with tired arms. “Hunting for the bric-a-brac of Mister Confetti-Soul.”

“You’re just thinking too much again, Hermione,” Harry reminded her. “After some proper food and sleep you’ll feel better. We’re doing this for the right reasons, and we’re doing this the right way. We’ll just have to keep looking for clues; we can’t just think our way through this.”

“Yeah,” Ron chimed in, “Something’s got to turn up sometime. We found all the other horcruxes, and we can find the last one.”

Hermione sighed with desolate raggedness, her breath condensing in a little gray cloud.

“I agree with you though, Hermione,” Harry said, “I do wish we didn’t have to do this. I wish I could go out and get a girlfriend, or at least just manage a good shag.”

Ron chuckled, and they smiled at Hermione, who managed to turn up the corners of her mouth. “You’re right,” she said, “I’m just being mad.”

“Food’s here,” Harry declared, as Hedwig swooped down through the branches with a sack tied to his legs. Harry untied the sack and took out three hot Cornish pasties, three bottles of Muggle soda-pop and three bags of crisps. They ate and chatted hopefully about the future as they wolfed down the nourishment, reviewing tomorrow’s plans and making uneasy small talk as they became sleepy and warmer, as the red fire burned brighter. When it was time for sleep, they all huddled around the fire and put their cloaks over their faces, and set out Harry’s Sneakoscope, and put up a water-repellant spell over their camp in case of rain.

Hermione lifted her hood a bit and continued to watch the little red fire for a few hours, as she found it hard to sleep, the crimson light dancing a depraved tango with deep black shadow. Hermione could never stop thinking.

‘Why did the Order have to fall apart? Why is it our sole responsibility to find Voldemort? What have I done with my life? Will I even get out of this alive? What will I do if I survive? How long will this go on for? How long until life can be normal again? How long until we destroy the last horcrux?’

Hermione shut her eyes and pulled her black hood over her face once more, and glowing green spots of light danced on her retinas, the memory of the fire fading already on her eyes.

‘Where is Voldemort?’

-O0o0oOo0o0O-

Vodka. Triple sec. Cranberry juice.

The Dark Lord enjoyed a good Cosmopolitan. This, Severus knew for certain.

Severus knew this for certain when he had to pull out the broken shards of glass from his pina-colada and blood splattered face.

The Dark Lord had yelled, that no, he didn’t like pina-fucking coladas, and no, he didn’t like getting caught in the fucking rain.

Since that night when Severus was young and naïve, and woke up to a rubbish bin full of bloody broken glass, he remembered that the Dark Lord enjoyed a good Cosmopolitan. Since that night, Severus knew for certain to Always Show Up With Vodka, Triple Sec, and Cranberry Juice.

It was part of the reason Severus had always been in such good graces with the Dark Lord, much to the dismay of Bellatrix Lestrange, to the former convenience of Albus Dumbledore, and to the murderous rage of Harry Potter and his little friends. It was however, fortuitous for Severus that he had learned of the Dark Lord’s cocktail preference early on; most fortunate that Severus was Voldemort’s Right Hand Man.

On this night, in the fifth bathtub of the luxurious Malfoy mansion, Severus knew not for certain that which he pondered as he scrubbed his hair halfheartedly.

‘Where is Voldemort?’

He submerged himself backward, reminding himself that he would find out soon enough. The water enveloped him in silence for a moment, a slow, long, lonely moment. He came back up, water rolling down his ample nose and down his thin lips and hollow face. He stood up, steam rising from his pale, rail-thin form. No matter how scalding hot he made the water, his tension would never leave his limbs. He got out, droplets of water streaming down his back and curving down the hollows of his buttocks. He reached out to the massive vanity mirror with his long white fingers, and rubbed the steam away to reveal his reflection. He stared at it for a moment.

He looked into his own black, hollow eyes, ringed with lines and shadows. He narrowed his eyes and took a breath. Time to do something absolutely dangerous.

A half-hour later, Snape strode silently down the ebony staircase, a rich green carpet stretched across the steps, cushioning the footfalls of his shiny black boots, secretly steel-toed and rising to mid-calf, under creased black woolen winter slacks, which he wore due to it being early April, underneath another layer of thick black robes, which although somewhat new, were too loose, despite the obviously tailored design. His large black cloak still billowed around him, even in such an uncomfortably warm house.

Click-clacking across the black marble hallway, Severus’ boots announced themselves to the Malfoys in the sitting room, who greeted him, made sure he had a glass of wine in his hand, and sat him down in an overstuffed armchair which threatened to devour his narrow body completely. Lucius sat in another, stiffer armchair across from Severus, his silver-blonde hair coiffed into a professional-looking arrangement, his voluminous, rich green robes clinging in all the right places. Narcissa sat to Lucius’ right on an adjacent sofa, bursting of throw-pillows with little tassels on the end. Narcissa’s white-blonde hair glowed on her black silk robes. Draco, now a tall young man of twenty, tossed his platinum tendrils from his pale green eyes, into which, like the eyes of Lucius and Narcissa, had crept the touch of tragedy and strife.

“I must thank you again, Lucius, for allowing me to use your facilities,” Severus murmured silkily.

“But of course, old friend,” Lucius smiled, “You looked absolutely ragged. Imagine, Narcissa, doing your own footwork for the Dark Lord.” She made a ‘tsk-tsk’ sound.

“Father arranged to have spy cells placed in key areas,” Draco interjected.

“Knockturn Alley, Diagon Alley, the Ministry, Hogsmeade, France, Luxembourg, Germany, Belgium, Sweden…you get the idea,” continued Lucius.

“Unfortunately, I do not possess obscene amounts of wealth,” Severus paused, as the Malfoys chuckled. “I intend to find Potter; the sooner the better.”

“What a delight that the Dark Lord has so many people with this same mission, and yet you run around the countryside, determined to find Potter first. I do say, Severus,” Lucius smirked, “It is almost as if you need the amount of glory that would get you.”

“One needs more than being a good bartender to impress Him,” said Severus, as the Malfoys laughed and drank.

“Isn’t it awful, though, Severus? Don’t you wish to give it a rest for a while?” Draco asked. “I mean, the Dark Lord’s been in hiding for going on two years. You really think if you take a vacation he’ll show up demanding you get back to work?”

“Can’t rule it out, Draco.”

“He didn’t fuss when Bellatrix went on that rampage,” said Draco.

“I suppose,” Narcissa chimed in, “he knew she would turn out mad in the end. I did.”

“It is probable, since he is usually quite astute about people in general,” Severus said, tapping his fingers on the chair in a very analytical way. “He trusts no one, and Bellatrix is one of the reasons why, I would venture to guess.”

“You have that right,” said Lucius as he got up and began to pace contemplatively, “not one Death Eater knows with certainty where he is hiding. Without a present leader, Death Eaters are becoming bored and lazy, and recklessly destructive. Not to mention that many of us who were imprisoned after the little incident at the Ministry were fired, of course,” grated Lucius, bitterness flowing from his voice. “Where was the Dark Lord then? His most loyal followers rotted in Azkaban for almost a year before the place was destroyed, not by him, but by Draco and Narcissa and other Death Eaters, and not on the orders of the Dark Lord, but by their instincts to preserve the tribe, if you will...”

“Sit down, Lucius,” said Severus, his voice just above a whisper. “Your pacing is nerve-wracking.”

“He has practically abandoned us, and not only that, he has insulted our family.”

Severus looked at the three perfect faces across from him. Lucius standing over him, Narcissa and Draco seated close together. An expression of mortal offence played across their features, giving Severus a chill up his spine, despite the suffocating warmth of the chair he was sunken into. Yet right now, it was time to do something dangerous.

“Is that why you are so reluctant to do footwork, Lucius?” Severus whispered.

“Why are you so eager to find Potter and his friends, Severus? Do you, perhaps, need to get to them first?”

Severus locked eyes with Lucius. An inscrutable expression played across both their faces, at once searching, simultaneously concealing. Severus felt strangely unable to move from his chair. His eyes flashed with fury as his head swam from the wonderful red wine. Draco and Narcissa sat on tenterhooks, white-knuckled, watching their patriarch’s silent battle with Severus. Lucius spoke first.

“You are a very cunning man, Severus. You know people – how they work, what they think, what they are capable of, why they do things – you know this very, very well. In fact, you probably know what I am going to say next.”

“I wouldn’t want to interrupt this pretty monologue, Lucius; it’s off to a beautiful start.”

Lucius chuckled mirthlessly. “Always clever. I am saying that you know full well the workings of the Dark Lord’s mind. I have watched you and the Dark Lord interact, for years, and you know what I think?” Lucius paused and turned to Severus. “I think you are far too intelligent to really believe those cosmos make you the Dark Lord’s best mate.”

Severus’ thin lips were shut tight. He had no way of knowing if they were baiting him to confess disloyalty, or if they were saying these dangerous things in hopes of getting him to join whatever plot they had, or just acting like they were disloyal in order to get him to confess. This was a rather uncertain, complex matter. He decided to wait and let them talk.

Severus’ eyes began to blur. This was rather strong wine. The Malfoys seemed to have pulled out their wands at him.

“Also,” Lucius continued rather casually, even sitting down, yet still watching Severus intently, “we slipped Veritaserum into your wine. There are things we must know before we can continue.”

This explained why the walls seemed to be breathing. Severus took a long breath, trying to clear his head.

“I trusted youuuse,” Severus slurred.

Severus struggled to get up, but the armchair actually tightened its grip on him. He jerked himself to and fro but the more he struggled, the tighter it held him. The Veritaserum was affecting him, pushing his inhibitive control down below his mind, until the world turned black and white, into truth and facts, and Severus had a lurching, drowning feeling as he lost control, and slumped deeper into the loins of the armchair. As if watching himself from outside himself, he saw Narcissa take his wand from his inside cloak pocket.

“We shall see if we can trust you, Severus,” Lucius said as he watched Severus. He didn’t seem to be fully under the truth-potion’s effects, so the Malfoys waited a few minutes before proceeding. Draco and Narcissa discussed what drapes might go with the ebony woodwork in the loft, which they had apparently converted to a bedroom. After settling inevitably on green, Lucius decided to begin questioning his old friend.

“Severus, we will have to kill you if you do not tell us what we wish to hear. Unfortunately, not many Death Eaters would miss you. They’re very jealous of you, Severus.” Lucius smiled at Severus. “But you know better, don’t you? Please tell us, old friend, how does Voldemort view his Death Eaters?”

“Voldemort has a classic narcissistic complex,” Severus droned monotonously, “In order to protect his shattered inner ego, he has created an alter ego that he puts forth to the world, one of a more powerful, successful and admirable wizard than his real weak self could ever be. He thinks that this wonderful mask deserves the utter adoration of everyone; consequentially, he views people as either means to achieve his ends, or obstacles in the way of his goal. Death Eaters are but tools to him.”

“You shouldn’t be so silent, Severus, you really have quite a head on those shoulders,” Lucius taunted him, causing a pang of fear to rise ineffectively in the back of Severus’ blank mind. “Another question, Severus: What does Voldemort think of you?”

“I am merely his most useful pawn for his ultimate goal. Voldemort does not view me as a friend, nor an equal, nor a colleague. My position means nothing except that I can perform assignments relatively efficiently and should not be discarded yet. I am not special, nor am I unique; Voldemort may see a little of himself in me, but I fail to live up to his idea of perfection. I know that I am his tool.”

“Most astute; quite impressive, really.” Lucius stated. He looked into Severus’ chillingly empty eyes, and his face broke into fiendish glee. He looked to Draco and Narcissa. Their eyes shone with hope, and they gripped their wands harder. Lucius turned back to the incapacitated Severus.

“Severus, what does Voldemort think of the Malfoy family?”

“Voldemort thinks they are a trio of buffoons. To him, Lucius is useful for using his monetary resources, although his loss of footing in the ministry renders him weaker than Voldemort should like; in addition, he was especially offended at the destruction of his diary, which is Lucius’ fault in Voldemort’s twisted mind.”

“Just as we thought, Father,” Draco angrily interjected. His former professor continued.

“Voldemort sees Draco as a useless pawn because of his current lack of proximity to Potter and his failure to complete his first mission four years ago.”

“Keep going, Severus,” Narcissa urged him.

“Voldemort thinks Narcissa has mollycoddled Draco, apparently because she failed to raise a killer. He cannot fathom the maternal concepts that cause Narcissa to protect her family, so he underestimates her as another rich wife.”

Lucius and his family exchanged looks. They seemed angry, yet validated at having their worst expectations come true. “Next question,” Lucius asked Severus, “Are you loyal to Dumbledore?”

“No. I killed Dumbledore.”
“Well that rules out a few possibilities…Are you loyal to the Order of the Phoenix?”

“No. It dissolved after I killed Dumbledore.”

“Are you loyal to Harry Potter?”

“No. Insolent brat.”

“Are you loyal…to Voldemort?”

“No. Insane.”

Lucius ran his fingers through his hair, letting out a relieved sigh. Narcissa smiled.

“Severus, whose side are you on?”

“My side…me…myself.” The Veritaserum was losing effect. Lucius had to be quick if he wanted straight answers.

“Do you plan to undermine Voldemort’s plans to kill Harry Potter?”

“Yesh….damn yyyouuu….”

“Would you like help?”

“Nooo…”

“Do you need help?”

“Yes…you toffee-nosed…bast…basttterd…”

“Do you want my help?”

“Fffeg….fuggg…fuckkkk….Fuck…you, Lucius,” Severus finally enunciated. The potion had finally faded and restored his control to his thoughts and mind. To a man so appreciative of subtlety, losing the gray areas between truth and lies greatly irritated Severus. He was still imprisoned in the Malfoys’ magical armchair, however, restraining him from hexing Lucius’ head straight up his arse and making a hasty escape. This had not exactly gone to plan for Severus. Instead, the Malfoys put down their wands, and regarded the furious man before them.

“You may be upset that we now know where you stand, but you won’t regret being outsmarted so much after we tell you our position on this matter. Voldemort has insulted the Malfoy lineage for the last time. We want this war to be over; we want our names to be cleared; to hell with bloodlines as long as Draco marries a pure-blood,” Lucius nodded to his son, who nodded back in agreement. “To hell with all the trouble Voldemort puts us through. You’re too smart to work so hard for someone else, old friend. That is how we put the pieces together that you were a free agent. You’re looking for Potter because you need him – we need him. We must pool our resources to do this, and I know you, Severus, and you won’t say no.”

Severus squirmed at being so predictable.

“You want this war to be over; you have hit a wall; you need our help,” Lucius continued, his eyes gleaming, “It’s why you accepted our invitation, Severus. That we know for certain. We can overthrow Voldemort, old friend. What say you?”

Severus stared hard at his old school friend. “Perhaps more Veritaserum is in order.”

“Oh Severus, do stop sneering,” Lucius said as he waved his wand and the armchair released Severus, “It was the only way to truly know.”

Narcissa handed Severus his wand. He hastily tucked it away in his cloak pocket, taking the conversational lull to process the fact that the infamous Malfoys had turned against Voldemort in secret and had been disloyal for nigh on four years. He analyzed his memories of that time period and their interactions with Voldemort, and how they treated each other; it was a most cunning and seamless performance for the most part, but subtle tones in their voices, the assignment of less important missions to the family, and simply the expressions on their faces while Voldemort’s back was turned had indicated to Severus that something was amiss. His notions of just what were absolutely correct.

The four people in the sitting room at the Malfoy mansion no longer felt old or bored or hopeless; in fact they felt about to burst with energy. They stared at each other for a few moments. Draco smiled his insolent smirk at Severus, and Narcissa plucked a piece of dust off Lucius’ shoulder. Severus’ eyes glittered.

“Well,” the former potions master asked, “What now?”

“We have dinner,” commanded Narcissa.

After a hot meal of roasted duck smothered in raspberry sauce, the four dissenters’ plates were cleared and they had a bottle of port. Severus was tense with excitement, almost giddy inside his stone exterior. He regarded the Malfoys intently, eager to finally form plans and put an end to the one thing that had dominated his adult life.

Severus spoke first upon this matter. “I assume that you all have a plan in order, which requires me in some way?”

“The old plan was quite simple,” Draco stated. “We find Voldemort. We kill Voldemort. But since we’ve been watching you, we seem to think that Potter is somehow useful.”

“Well…of course, you all remember the Prophecy?” Severus asked them; they nodded. “As you know, Voldemort does not know the whole of it. I, however, do.” The Malfoys arched their eyebrows, impressed. Severus recited the Prophecy:

“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches,
Born to those who have thrice defied him
Born as the seventh month dies
And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal.”

“Go on, you bastard,” Lucius said, his eyes gleaming with curiosity.

“But he will have power the Dark Lord knows not
And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies.”

A heavy silence followed. Narcissa’s tiny voice rang out in the dining room.

“So that is why you need Potter; he is the only one who can kill Voldemort.”

“Precisely. The problem lies in finding both of them and ensuring that they meet in conditions that are favorable towards the boy. Mind you, Potter has an absolute vendetta against me. There is no direct way to inform him even if we did know Voldemort’s location. To plant information among people other than ourselves would attract the attention of other Death Eaters, many of whom are in direct contact with Voldemort. If the information ever got back to him, it would obliterate Potter’s chances.”

“Indeed, this must stay between us and us only. I’m terribly afraid that none of us can approach him,” Lucius drawled, “He must never see our faces.”

“What about,” said Draco slowly, “Weasley, or Granger?”

Severus sipped his port. “I assume it is mostly the same. They disappeared around the same time as Potter, so if they aren’t dead or hiding, there is a solid chance they are all working together. According to other friends of theirs, they haven’t been seen at all since four years ago. No notes, no news, no bodies. Still, even if we were able to find them, it would be a job convincing any of them.”

“‘According to other friends?’ Well, Severus, you’ve done some work on this, haven’t you?” Lucius asked.

“But Severus,” countered Draco, “if we could convince just one of them, the others would follow right after.”

Severus made a sound of disapproval. “They cannot trust a former enemy unless we somehow prove that our information is valid. They need reasons, not just convincing. Obviously, they are at a loss as to Voldemort’s whereabouts, otherwise they would simply rush right in. We need to give them clues, but we need to buy time and make sure they will succeed.”

“However,” said Lucius, “what about after Voldemort’s defeat, gods-willing it happens? They will still view us as enemies and Death Eaters. We could be thrown in Azkaban again. We will have to prove ourselves somehow and show that we have assisted them the entire time.”

“Agreed,” Severus said.

“So then,” said Narcissa, “the first thing we need to know is where Voldemort is, how to access him, and what he’s up to. Once we have gained credibility in Potter’s eyes, we can give them the final pieces.”

Draco snickered. “They find Voldemort. They kill Voldemort.”

“And we walk away free,” purred Lucius, as he sipped his port, practically leering at Narcissa over the rim of his glass.

“There is still another variable in the equation,” stated Severus. He took another drink of the rich port. “The horcruxes.” The Malfoys were completely mute. Severus put his glass down on the dark green velvet tablecloth.

“Surely he told you, Lucius?” But the blond man’s hair shook along with his head. Severus was inwardly astounded.

“I thought when he told us of his secret to immortality…horcruxes…surely you do not mean more than just one?” Lucius stammered.

“Seven,” said Severus, “would be accurate.”

“How could he survive…such things?” Narcissa choked out.

“There are unimaginable, inhuman transformation that he has undergone in secret, that would allow him to survive a sevenfold split,” Severus answered her. “As such, Potter is surely seeking the horcruxes as well. Dumbledore certainly told him about how many and what sorts of objects to expect, just as he told me. The question which must be answered is how many horcruxes Potter and his friends have already taken care of. We know Voldemort’s diary and the Slytherin family ring have been taken care of-“

“Well,” Lucius interrupted, “that certainly explains his dissatisfaction with me. Peculiar I hadn’t thought of that until now.”

“Two other horcruxes are in the same place: Voldemort himself, and his blasted snake.”

“Nagini…” Draco murmured. “That still leaves three. Do you think Potter and the rest have taken care of them by now?”

“It is difficult to say,” Snape continued, “There is one chance that Voldemort did not make a seventh because he lost the object associated with the intended murder of Potter. Knowing our favorite Dark Lord, however, I estimate he would have remedied this sometime after his rebirth, albeit with a less ‘significant’ death. A seventh is not to be ruled out. The other two, however, are a Slytherin locket heirloom, and an ornate cup once belonging to Helga Hufflepuff. There is no guarantee in their destruction, though.”

The Malfoys took a moment to appreciate their port, although it seemed they should have appreciated that Snape and his intimate knowledge of Voldemort was on their side.

“I thought this would be simple,” Lucius whinged playfully. “Shall we find Voldemort first, or Potter? How do we make sure he has destroyed the horcruxes and that Voldemort is accessible at the same time?”

“Dear old friend,” grinned Severus, An ugly, crooked half-grin which revealed his jagged teeth and caused his eyes to gleam, “We must simply be in two places at once. I can search for Potter; I have already eliminated the places where he is surely not.”

Deep into the night the four Slytherins plotted. Every detail was picked over, every role defined, every scenario perused. This night had gone well for Severus, besides being drugged and having his life threatened.

That, Severus was certain of.

-O0o0oOo0o0O-

Hermione had finally managed to sleep that night. The delicious tiredness that had at last overcome her gave way to leaden unconsciousness, and for the first time in a long time, dreams rather than nightmares came to her, formless flashes of past faces at first, then slowly, sensations slithered on her skin, lightly creeping, caressing, up her legs and arms, across her back and belly. She could hear herself whimper in pleasure and realized the blackness facing her must be from her closed eyes. She could smell earthy loam and a distantly familiar musk, and wished hard that the dream would not fade. As she did so, she could feel that the sensations were from hands, slipping across her hip and around to her front, and down, to between her legs. She could feel breath in her hair and a pressing warmth behind her, a leg snaking between her legs and parting them slightly, so that the tickling spider of a hand could slip under her trousers, under her knickers. The cold fingers brushed her pubic hair, making her sigh and writhe and tingle; Hermione could hear a deep, murmuring voice in her ear, but could barely register that she was lying sideways on something flat and hard. The fingers prodded into her and found her clitoris, and circling it, sent burning pangs of pleasure through her, evoking an audible groan.

Hermione could hear herself. She desperately wished the fingers would thrust inside her and fill her, but her attempt at lucid dreaming failed. The voice changed. The manly smell changed to a sharper pungent odor. The fingers would not obey her. She was suddenly aware that the blackness before her was pulsating. It was the inside of her hood. Her eyes were open. She was awake.

The fingers and the body behind her were still there.

The voice was saying, “Ohhh, Hermione, get wet for me…”

Hermione scrambled up and pulled her wand out at the blob who she knew was Ron, who was lying sideways on the ground where she just was. The bright whitish light from the overcast morning pierced her eyes and she squinted furiously, her face screwed up in rage; the cold air penetrated her skin where Ron had parted her robes and unbuttoned her trousers. With her free hand she grabbed the side of her cloak and wrapped it around to cover herself.

“Just what the fuck are you doing?!” She shrieked at him. Sparks flew from the end of her wand.

“What do you think, Hermione?” Ron yelled back, wincing at the sparks, and holding up his hands. “You’ve been so tense lately; I just wanted to help you out!”

“Oh, how fucking generous of you!” Hermione screeched, her eyes wide with wrath, “I suppose you heard me begging you in my sleep!”

“Well you seemed to enjoy it!”

“Not when I realized it was you, Ronald!”

“Real nice, Hermione! What is so wrong with me? Is it because I don’t have an IQ of a million?!”

“No, you idiot-”

“What is it, my eye?!”

“Ronald, can’t you see that’s just ridiculous!” yelled Hermione, who put her wand down and watched Ron pick himself up. He stepped towards her.

“Why can’t we just be together, Hermione? It would be so easy!”

“There are more important things going on right now, obviously! If I can wait until all this is over, then you can.”

“No, it’s a lot different for women, isn’t it?”

“Not really Ronald, and you should know!”

“No I don’t! You didn’t seem to enjoy shagging very much!”

“Well not with you!”

Aware that underneath the red beard, the red hair, the red freckles and black eye patch, Ron’s pale skin was also becoming red enough to match his dark maroon cloak, Hermione turned on her heel and stalked off stiffly, her black cloak whipping around her bony legs. She brushed furiously past Harry.

“What the hell was all that about?” Harry asked, his dark eyebrows angry. He stood over the now sitting Ron, roughly scrubbing his wet black hair with a hand.

“Fuck off,” brooded Ron, “It’s none of your business.”

“It is when it’s bringing everyone down, Ron... Look, I sacrificed all my relationships and you should do the same. You’re not helping yourself or Hermione, or me. We need to focus on what’s at hand. This war has dragged on for ages, I know. It’s taken its toll on me, too.”

“Right.”

“Don’t bother her anymore. I don’t know what caused your argument, and I don’t want to know, but we all need our heads straight.”

“But we aren’t making any progress at all. Why can’t we just take a break?”

“The sooner this is over, the sooner we can lead normal lives,” Harry said as he sat down and opened his dirty canvas satchel. He took out a canteen of water and a huge canister filled with oatmeal. He took out a big metal pot and three big metal sticks; one had wooden handles on either end and the other two were pointed with forks on the opposite end. They were bigger than the bag itself, but the Magical Bag of Holding was enchanted to hold things as such and yet remain lightweight. The consequences were dire if one bag was put in another. Harry talked to Ron as he drove the forked stakes into the ground on each side of the fire and laid the third rod in the grooves of the forks, forming a spit.

“Anyway, I have a good feeling today.” Harry said as he poured water and oatmeal into the pot and hooking the crescent handle on the center horizontal rod, over the fire. “I think the Cobra’s Hood is our lucky spot.”

“Millionth time’s a charm,” Ron sighed.

-O0o0oOo0o0O-

Severus left the Malfoys\' home after only a few hours of restless, intermittent dozing and a scalding hot cup of dark and bitter Firewhiskey coffee, eager to get an early start on his part of the plan, the plan that he and the Malfoys had dubbed ‘The Union of the Snake.’ Severus was amused at the unanimous agreement, as the Malfoys weren’t familiar with the reference.

Not that Severus was a particular fan of Duran Duran, but one summer long ago he had heard it in passing on a muggle radio and liked the phrase, although if anyone asked him, he would deny it up and down that he even knew what one was talking about.

His boots clicked on the cobblestone path from the Malfoy mansion to the front gate. As the cobblestones gradually came to disappear and the path was no more than the uniform grass surrounding the place when Severus passed the gate, he looked back at where the Malfoy mansion had just been. There was no house, no gate, no indication anywhere that it existed; just a small patch of large gray rocks where one spoke a password to alert their house elf, who communicated through the rocks like a muggle intercom and enabled one of the rocks to become a temporary portkey inside. The Unplottable spell was quite ingenious.

Severus stopped and surveyed the tinges of red in the sunrise. The weather would be awful tonight.

With a loud crack, Severus Disapparated.

He appeared miles away on the far outskirts of Hogwarts, the momentum of the teleportation swirling his long black robes around his body. His dark eyes flickered around and took in his immediate surroundings. In the distance he could see the cubic dots that clustered around a road, the village of Hogsmeade. Around him were muddy-looking hills, culminating in an especially high hilltop in the distance, upon which loomed Hogwarts castle, all gray stone and narrow, spike-roofed towers with moldy black shingles. The shadowy place overlooked the lake, shimmering with the last of the blood red sunrise. Severus put up his hood and melted backwards into the shadows and bare trees of the Forbidden Forest.

He turned and then stalked off into the deeper parts of the forest, the red light turning gloomy and gray among the tree trunks and dead winter twigs and damp soil of the forest floor. He finally saw a bright blue fungus clinging to a tree up ahead. Stopping at the tree, he reached into a fold in his robes and withdrew a small, slim, silver whistle. He put it to his thin, angular lips and blew gently. Severus could not hear the whistle, but it was not designed for human ears. He put the whistle back into the abyss of his robes, and proceeded to wait.

The Forbidden Forest was the first of a small list of places in Britain that he had not searched lately. In four years he had covered all obvious ground in the search for Potter, interviewed and interrogated anyone even remotely connected with The-Boy-Who-Lived, inquired into all the residency records of the ministry, even looked into muggle public records. He broke into Hogwarts (of course without anyone knowing), he spied on former Order members, even attempted to find any horcruxes he could in hopes of Potter setting off a signal to show he had breached its sanctity, even kept an eye on the Quibbler and the third page of The Sun – all to no avail. The three school friends had literally disappeared suddenly, without warning, and although similar to the vanishing of some of the other schoolchildren, their disappearances were gradual, or turned up a very dead body at some point. Of course, Severus still kept in contact with the Bloody Baron, just in case anything funny happened at Hogwarts, and checked the Forest occasionally.

Now was different. Severus never actually combed the forest. Usually, he simply checked with the locals, who were approaching right now.

Two sleek centaurs approached him, their lean, gleaming, naked bodies seeming to absorb the misty morning sunlight. One had dark black fur, and impressive amounts of equally black and curly body hair covering every inch of his human half, with a broad, wide-set face. The other was a piebald mare, a lean, long-limbed female with long, wavy, multicolored hair. Severus would have had no difficulty in looking at her naked torso, had she not just a little more chest hair than her friend, plus a longer beard. Needless to say, such self-aware beings walking around unclothed always unsettled Severus. Besides, the stench was near-unbearable. Add unwashed human sweat-odor to a ripe equine smell, and such was Eau de Centaur.

Severus bowed deeply in response to their bows. “I am sorry to have disturbed you so early in the morning.”

“All is well,” the male centaur said dreamily, swishing his tail. “We foresaw your visit today.”

‘Bollocks,’ thought Severus. “That’s…good,” said he, “I was wondering if you had noticed anything unusual in the forest; say, three human companions staying in the forest overnight?”

“Perhaps,” said the male, looking fruitlessly to the overcast sky for some stars to comment mystically about. “Mars was bright…last night.”

“It is a simple question,” Severus tried to say with an inkling of civility. He looked to the female. “Have you seen Potter and his friends here?”

“We try to stay out of petty human affairs.”

“Bollocks.”

“Are we the Forest Patrol now?” the male centaur questioned Severus.

“Do you have it?” she simply asked.

At that, Severus procured a grubby black cloth wrapped into a bundle and handed it to the female centaur. She unwrapped part of it and poked her fingers into the folds, picking out a tuft of dried herbs, which smelled peculiar and pungent. She sniffed it, tasted it, and rubbed it between her fingers, then put the bit back and re-wrapped the cloth, then tucked it under her arm.

“Where?” Snape asked?

“We have observed a red glowing light and yelling voices coming from an area that is just over the Creek, a few minutes downriver from the Broken Oak.”

“Thank you, that will be all,” concluded Severus. “Also, you will want to keep that away from excessive moisture,” he said, pointing to the bundle in the female’s arm.

“As always. It was a pleasure doing business with you, Professor Snape,” she said. Then the two centaurs trotted away. Severus had not been called ‘Professor Snape’ in a long time; in fact, it had been four years since he had been a professor, when he abruptly left his position to pursue another occupation. The centaurs thankfully did not care that his letter of resignation was a killing curse that blasted the life out of his boss, nor that his coveted rebound career was that of a vigilante eugenics enforcement team member. Severus headed for the Creek. It would be a slow walk, as one had to be silent, alert, and stealthy. The forest was not a good place to die.

-O0o0oOo0o0O-

Through the woods, Hermione had stalked, the gray, gloomy light filtering through the jagged tree limbs, whose trunks were covered in dull brownish bark and dirt-colored fungus, through which Hermione walked a familiar path. She neglected to close her trousers back up, even until she saw the massive lightning-struck oak tree up ahead and arrived at the stream. It was a narrow rivulet that wound through the forest into the lake a great distance away. The trees were still thick on both sides of the creek, barely allowing the weak sunlight to filter through. Hermione undressed herself and set her clothes in a neat pile atop a rock, then picked up the metal bucket the trio always left there for washing, and emptied it, then filled it in the stream. She set the Sneakoscope nearby just in case, and put her wand with it. The air was bitter and cold on her scarred skin, but she worked quickly to bathe her self.

Severus stepped silently through the wood. He knew he was near the creek – he smelled and heard the trickling of water across rocks. Above the bare branches clamoring to the sky, Severus saw the charred, ghost-gray shafts of the Broken Oak. He slowed his pace slightly. He also heard a splash…then ruffling. He could smell something else on the wind, a creature of some sort.

With caution he approached, taking cover in shadows and behind lush green ferns. Up ahead in pale relief from the dark forest was a slender humanoid form. Severus walked forward.

It was a female. It could have been a wood nymph, but as Severus neared, the tone of the skin was far too pink, far too human.

It was a woman. A woman as naked as they could ever be. Severus’ body agreed. She was bathing herself, scrubbing far too hard, angrily. Her angular hips tapered down to skinny legs. Her small waist seemed to utterly justify the small breasts that jiggled with every angry scrub. Severus’ eyes were riveted. He was moving softly to a tree he could hide behind when he stepped on a twig.

As her face snapped up, Severus froze. Her roiling hair bounced with the instinctive movement of her head. He immediately noticed the long, pink scar cutting its path across her face. Then he looked at her face itself. It was weathered and thin with experience beyond its years.

For a moment, while Severus’ urgent loins burned, he forgot why he was even out in the forest in the first place. It was just him and some naked lady, rubbing herself with slippery, dripping water.

Yet, as Severus looked at her eyes, wondering if he had been seen, it hit him like a raging Hippogriff.

That was Hermione Granger.

He was mouth-breathing over Hermione Granger.

Severus had not even noticed when she picked up her wand. Her eyes searched the wood a little. Her eyes then flickered down to the Sneakoscope. It sat still, perfectly complacent with Hermione’s security. She relaxed, then put her wand back down, and continued to bathe.

Severus let out a slow breath. His heart was hammering. He tried to force himself to calm down, but she turned around slightly and the curve of her buttocks made him sweat inside his heavy robes. He turned away for a second to remind himself that he was here to spy on and manipulate her, not march over there, strip, throw her into the stream and fuck her until she broke.

A few more breaths of cold morning air later, and after he shook is head a bit, he looked back. She was kneeling next to her clothes, her ribs and spine taut against her skin, which bore many more long ribbons of scars. Living under the radar was taking its toll on her. She reached for a bag, out of which she took a towel. He watched as she dried off and dressed in conservative dark gray trousers and long side-split frock robes, a pair of waterproof military boots, into which she tucked her trousers, and covered everything with long black cloak. She left without her bucket.

Severus followed her at a distance, able to keep his head clearer now that her clothes were on.

Hermione arrived back at the camp. Harry and Ron were giggling about something and eating a breakfast of oatmeal. The red fire was extra low, and above it, a pot with a bit of oatmeal was left simmering for her. Harry heard her coming and began to scoop it into a bowl for her.

“The Creek’s free, Ron,” she announced mildly as she sat down.

Ron put one last scoop of the gruel into his mouth. “Good,” he said as he arose, “Now I can wash my hands.” He quickly walked away.

Harry handed Hermione her oatmeal and a spoon, noting her expression, which could be mistaken by some to be the expression one has when feasting on broken glass. “Do you want to talk about it, Hermione?”

“No. It’s over and that’s it. Whatever he does now doesn’t matter.”

“All right,” said Harry. He watched her wolf down her gruel for a moment. “I’ve got a good feeling about the Cobra’s Hood today. I was just telling Ron.”

“It’s somewhere, that’s for sure. For all the times we’ve gone, it’s been useless. I haven’t seen a single recognizable Death Eater in there, ever.”

“Well Voldemort hasn’t gone public in ages. They’ll get overconfident sometime, and go right back to their old hangout. It’s just a waiting game now.”

“We’ll see,” Hermione sighed uncouthly through a mouthful of oatmeal. “If we could just find one of them, we could get into Voldemort’s inner Death Eater circle and find him and Nagini. If only it were that easy.”

Severus heard the whole conversation. Not only were all three friends alive and well, but they were working together to find Nagini. It stood to reason that they were only going after the snake, who they knew was constantly at Voldemort’s side, because it was the last horcrux left. They were close and yet, there was no way they could find Voldemort through Death Eaters, unless they asked the Union of the Snake; not likely to happen at any rate.

Severus was certain that they had to intervene, and this was perfect. He stayed around for a while longer, until Weasley returned. Nothing else was said of importance, just tense small-talk and awkward silences. They used to be such friends, but four years constantly together must have grated all of their nerves. Hermione seemed especially changed. She had developed a thousand-yard stare. The two boys were essentially the same, except the ginger-haired one had lost an eye.

Finally, the trio Disapparated. Severus reached into his robes and withdrew a small mirror. He looked into it and spoke the name “Lucius”.

After a few seconds, His own dark image melted away into the angular face of Lucius Malfoy.

“Severus, what a delightful surprise at such an hour.”

“I found them, Lucius.”

Lucius’ face was suddenly awake. “Go on, old friend.”

-O0o0oOo0o0O-

The aroma of meat, bread and potatoes permeated the stones of the tiny, warm hut. Inside the kitchen, a stout woman in an apron bent over the hearth of the chimney where she stirred a steadily boiling pot with a wooden spoon. Below her on the threadbare rug sat a small child, playing with a stuffed dragon toy that looked homemade. Like the woman, he had white-blonde hair, blue eyes and the same small button-nose. He also had strange freckles in a band across his cheeks and nose – the freckles themselves were blue. His mother had these too. She seemed content with the potatoes, so she turned to her child. They did not speak English.

“My child, do you want to chop these carrots for mummy?”

“No,” he said, flapping the little dragon’s wings.

“Then get out of my way, yes? Go and talk to our guest.”

“No,” said the child again.

“Why not, my child?” the mother asked as she pulled out her wand and tapped the pot a little too harshly. The potatoes stopped boiling.

“He has an ugly nose.”

Like a leaf upon the wind, the mother’s wooden spoon silently and swiftly thwacked the child on the head. He gasped, his hand flew to his smarting head, and he looked to his mother with tearing eyes.

“Little boy, you do not speak of your elders in such ways! Now go and be a gracious host to him, and don’t cry at him either.”

The boy quickly ran to the living room across the rugs that covered the earthen floors. It was quite spacious, with a few blue-flamed lanterns hanging here and there, casting a pale blue light on his family’s faces. The little boy took a seat next to his two older sisters and his big brother on a wooden framed settee with straw-stuffed cushions. Adjacently to them and in a hard wooden chair sat their father, a tall, brawny wizard with wispy blond hair and piercing blue eyes. He was smiling with his teeth showing so that the little boy could see the little gap between his two front teeth. Next to his smiling father sat their guest in their most comfortable down-stuffed armchair.

The little boy could not help but stare as his father talked with their guest. He was tall, pale, emaciated and completely bald, clad in rich, deep-blue robes and sitting perfectly straight, with his long-fingered hands resting over the arms of the chair like white spiders, ready to jump. He had no eyebrows either, creating the most curious effect on the stranger’s expressions. He had no lips either, and when he smiled, he revealed small fang-like teeth. His nose was flat and broad, with tiny flaps for nostrils, and his eyes were a bloody red, that seemed to glow in the pale blue light.

The stranger laughed a high, raspy, cold laugh. His red eyes then rested on the boy. The boy looked away quickly. The stranger changed the subject. He spoke their language flawlessly.

“I found it a surprise that this village could exist among such a muggle-infested place. I am quite impressed.”

“Yes,” the father replied, “but it is a way of life we have had for many, many generations now. We were here first, so why should we move? We deserve this land more than they ever will. We are peaceful and pure to one another – they kill their own kind.”

“It is why Britain has become so corrupt. It is because muggle-borns constantly flood our school systems and bring their vicious cultures with them.” The stranger looked at the boy. “They infect our very children, and the Ministry allows it.”

“Why do not more British villages secede as we have?” inquired the father.

“The government is convinced that both muggles and wizards are somehow equal! The ministry has been poisoned with muggle rhetoric. They keep their wizards under invasive surveillance to assure that no wizards go unaccounted for, but it is ridiculous. It is more of the trickling of liberal muggle politics into ours. It has destroyed the traditional way of life for most pure-blooded wizards. Sooner or later they are corrupted with muggle tripe.”

“It is such a tragedy to hear! I could not bear it if my children ever had to look at those creatures. God-forsake them if they should marry one!” The father laughed a jolly laugh, combined with a threatening look at his silent daughters.

“Alas, very few pure-bloods are left because the ministry has propagandized our children to think it is acceptable. It is quite unbelievable. I envy this country’s light hand in wizarding affairs. You are truly fortunate.”

“Yes, we are,” the father said, “What is better than to raise your little wizards and witches in the peace of our own little world? If no one but a pure-blood can find us, then we need not worry about the world’s problems. I am surprised that Grindelwald was the last great wizard to stand up for pure-blood secession. Your country could use some backbone.”

“Indeed,” smiled Voldemort. They knew next to nothing about the outside world, but they would know the name of Voldemort soon enough. “I am quite interested in Grindelwald for this very reason; I have heard of his military accomplishments and his dream to create a pure-blood nation.”

“He was a great man, a strong leader. Many people of this village are his descendants, in fact. Of course, his wife and children were a great secret and always shall be.”

“Of course, I wouldn’t dream of mentioning it to anyone outside this home.”

From the kitchen stepped the matriarch of the family, who was rubbing her hands on her apron. “Excuse me, mister Valclive,” she said, the stranger’s name sounding foreign in her language, “Dinner is ready. Children, wash your hands. Please sir, sit here.” She motioned to the chairs seated at the large table. The mother went back into the kitchen as the children went outside. She came back with plates and a platter of sausages, and then ordered her children to bring out the rest of the food as she set places for everyone. Voldemort sat down at the head of the table facing the creaky wooden door, looking around at all the knick-knacks hanging on the walls, the homemade pottery, and handmade wood furniture. This was quaint.

After everyone was seated, they began to eat, the children in pleasant silence. Voldemort was served a heap of food which was more that he usually ate in a week. He was given a massive stein of beer, the sides of which were carved in a magical moving relief. Beer was certainly not Voldemort’s drink of choice, but he did not want to insult these people. The father turned to his wife.

“Mister Valclive tells me that he was an admirer of Grindelwald,” he told her as her face lit up. “I told him that his wife and children moved right here to our village.”

“That’s true, Mr. Valclive, although they barely did know Lord Grindelwald, as he was busy with building his dream and such. They did not even know where his fortress was, I am told. They did not live with him.”

“It is very sad.” The father took a swig of beer from his stein. “Do you have children, Mr. Valclive?”

Voldemort almost paused as he was chewing. “No, I do not.” The little boy saw Voldemort’s eyes flicker around.

“Ah,” said the mother, “Do you have a wife?”

“I do not.” Voldemort’s eyes seemed to glow redder. “Did Grindelwald do this for personal reasons or to keep up secrecy about his plans?”

“It is a combination, I suppose. He did not wish for them to know the details of his operations; he also wished to protect them from political enemies.”

‘How utterly weak,’ Voldemort thought. “Surely others know the location of an entire fortress?”

“It was evacuated when it became obvious that their side would lose. They hid in the mountains, thinking that the enemy would surely break the powerful charms that hid it from certain people,” said the father.

“Certain people?” Voldemort had forgotten about his food in his excitement. Outwardly he seemed utterly calm and mildly interested, if politely forgetful of his food in the midst of such good conversation.

“Well, here is where the rumors begin,” the mother said. “I have heard that only purebloods can see it, but none of the village have found it yet. I think that Grindelwald had something more specific in mind – someone to take power after him. Of course, it is more likely that it is simply hidden from everyone.”

“What about those who were evacuated?” Voldemort asked. He was utterly giddy. He could have jumped up and skipped with glee.

“They were adults at the time, surely they are dead by now,” said the father, watching his little boy eat with his mouth open. “Sst!” the father hissed at his child, flicking the back of the boy’s head. “What have we told you about eating with an open mouth?”

“Sorry father,” the child said in a small voice. His eyes looked to Voldemort. His face had a peculiar expression.

“Children,” sighed the mother. She pointed to her smallest son, “At this one’s age you cannot understand anything but a beating. Until they are good, or get older, you simply cannot reason with them. They come out all right in the end.”

“They learn their manners eventually, yes.” The father sat back for a moment and took a contemplative swig of beer. Voldemort took the opportunity to cut in and get the subject back on track. These people loved to talk of their family, too much for Voldemort’s liking.

“Is there perhaps an elder in the village I could speak to?”

“Which one? There are many elders here. It is the reason our village is so prosperous – lots of wisdom.”

“One that may have been to Grindelwald’s fortress.”

Everyone stopped eating. The room had become cold and silent. Voldemort’s crimson slits of eyes twitched back and forth between all of them. Voldemort nervously gripped his wand underneath the table, still inside his pocket. He waited. He was not going to burn a hole in these expensive blue robes for just anyone. The mother addressed him in a low voice.

“Are you searching for his fortress, mister Valclive?”

“Yes,” whispered Voldemort in his sibilant hiss.

Electricity seemed to rent the blue air, each witch and wizard around the table sending their excitement into the atmosphere. Even the boy was sympathetically excited, although he did not understand why.

“Are you going to…carry on…the power of Grindelwald?” asked the father, his face gleaming gold with fanaticism.

“No,” Voldemort hissed quickly. “I merely wish to research his facilities. It is an important part of history, absolutely invaluable to pure-bloods everywhere. I could not lead a pure nation…perhaps with the help of my work to inspire them; one could follow Grindelwald, and forever undo the liberal, homogenized, idealistic, contaminated culture with which Dumbledore has poisoned Britain.” He had them. Their eyes were on him. They would remember him, but only as an obscure researcher.

“Will you help me, please?” asked Voldemort, his eyes wide and fiery, and most definitely glowing in the pale aqueous light.

“Most certainly, Mr. Valclive, of course we shall,” nodded the father with a fervent gap-toothed grin.

“There is an old woman,” the wife told Voldemort, “in a vine-eaten cottage a minutes walk from here. She is dying and bedridden, but rumors are that she was a scribe and house maid for Grindelwald…in the olden days, in his fortress.”

Voldemort looked at the woman dead in the eye. He could have transfigured her family into money if she asked. She was better than his best Death Eater. He smiled a thin, toothy grin at her.

After he thanked her mildly, they resumed eating and talking, about Voldemort’s ‘research,’ the reign and fall of Grindelwald, and the beauty of the isolated little village in which they lived. Afterward, Voldemort tactfully and politely extricated himself from their home, insisting that he had to write down some research notes in relative privacy. There were no inns in this place – infrequent travelers – but he insisted that he had his ways of finding shelter. He stepped outside, and the little boy watched him go. Outside the stars were bright against the midnight blue sky, and a peaceful wind blew through the rows of snow-covered cottages. Voldemort turned around as a chiding voice yelled “Boy, you would do best to close the door!”

The door had closed. A second later, the boy appeared at the window, curious of the ugly-nosed stranger. Voldemort narrowed his eyes at the child, and they glowed through the dark gloom of the night, twin fires burning with blood red evil.

The boy ran away from the window in terror. Those eyes would haunt his dreams.

Voldemort reached the old cottage. It was indeed half-covered in vines that bore small blue flowers. The other half was rotted with mold or crumbling, as if neglected for years. Voldemort approached the door and knocked. There was no reply. He listened at the door, for a moment. He then entered the house.

It was cramped, smelly and dark in the hut. Rats squeaked back and forth to avoid Voldemort’s pointy leather shoes. From the starlight seeping in through the window, he could see the doorway to another room. He walked over, his wand ready.

As he came nearer, he could see the green light from a sconce being cast on the ceiling, creating a cool gloom that settled upon the bed in the center of the room. Voldemort’s eyes dilated quickly and he could see the bed perfectly, and the old woman sitting in it. She looked to be asleep, propped up on a few dirty-looking pillows. Her hair was a long, white beacon in the blackness of the shadows pooling around her. Her body was small and frail, and her skin looked dry and cracked like wrinkled paper. Voldemort was utterly disgusted.

As he stepped closer, the woman’s eyes snapped open. They were milky with cataracts, and she was obviously blind. Her eyes searched the room. Voldemort was now at the foot of her bed, aiming directly at her with his wand.

“Is that you, my son?” she said in a voice as old and broken as herself.

“Legilimens.”

Voldemort left the hut a very happy insane man. He knew where Grindelwald’s fortress was – or had a good idea – and had learned other interesting things about Grindelwald. Such as, the old lady had not only been his scribe and house maid, but his lover as well.

It was unfortunate that her son would never know his true lineage.

----------------------------

A/N: Because she’s dead! Get it?!

Magical Bag of Holding is an idea I borrowed from Dungeons and Dragons. It makes sense that the same sort of thing exists in the wizarding world.

I always thought “The Union of the Snake” was probably the Slytherin anthem in the 80’s. Or it should be.