A Dish Served Cold

Chapter 24 – Plotting

Severus arrived at the apparation point with a mixture of relief and foreboding. Relief, because the lengthy time between summonses had ratcheted his nerves to the breaking point; foreboding because no one sane would ever look forward to the interminable ramblings of the self-proclaimed Lord Voldemort.

The room was obviously a basement; probably far out of London, away from the prying eyes of Aurors and Muggles alike. A long table filled up the center of the room and torches hung in brackets along the bare walls. Voldemort, his hood pulled low over his face, sat at the head of the table, Nagini’s head resting on his shoulder. The basement was all stonework and plaster so Severus deduced it was some crumbling farmhouse or old public building.

“Are all assembled?” Augustus Rookwood’s brisk tone seemed terribly out of place amongst all the robed and masked figures huddled together in the icy basement. He pulled a parchment from his sleeve and looked around impatiently. “Where are Nott and Mrs. Lestrange?”

“Here.” Bellatrix’s voice always sounded like fingernails on a blackboard to Severus. He hated the fact that he could feel himself stiffen just knowing that she was in the same room with him. Nott waved a hand from somewhere in the back of the group and they all moved to sit down.

It was funny, Severus thought, watching them all maneuver. Everyone wanted to sit close to the Dark Lord, but not too close. No one wanted to look like they were avoiding their master, but neither did they want to be close enough to receive his wrath if something went wrong. It was juvenile and Severus sighed at the sight of grown men and women jostling each other like children as they fought for the middle chairs.

He edged past them all and took a place next to Bellatrix who had seated herself at their master’s right hand like a good dog. He hated Bellatrix with a passion, but she was the most likely to be caught up in a burst of revolutionary fervor and spill some interesting tidbit of information, so he endured her company with gritted teeth.

Sitting there next to someone else’s wife, it occurred to him that he almost missed his own wife’s company. She was, if nothing else, preferable to Bellatrix Lestrange as a companion, which probably wasn’t saying much. Still, he felt strange being somewhere without her. He put it down to nerves brought on by his precarious position and shoved her out of his thoughts. He had to keep his mind on what he was doing.

“Rookwood, would you read the minutes of our last meeting?” Voldemort hissed and Rookwood nodded, pulling another parchment from his sleeve.

“The minutes of the October 5th meeting of the Knights of Walpurgis. Secretary Rookwood took attendance and the first piece of old business, the search for confirmation of the whereabouts of Igor Karkaroff was discussed, Mr. Nott indicated a lack of success in that area and it was decided to move on to the next piece of old business…”

Severus prepared himself for several hours of pure tedium as another Death Eater meeting came to order.

Lucius pasted a look of parental concern on his face and kept one hand on Draco’s shoulder. He knew full well that the idiot boy would try to bolt once he knew what Fudge, Umbridge and his dear father were up to.

For all that Draco was his heir and only child, Lucius had to work hard to dredge up any affection for him. He knew that he did love the boy, but it wasn’t the fierce, burning adoration he felt for his wife. It was almost academic, something that he knew without really experiencing it.
Narcissa’s only real flaw was the dreadful way she spoiled that spineless bit of evidence that Darwin wasn’t infallible. All her practicality and keen insight deserted her where Draco was concerned and turned her into a simpering moron. All Draco had had to do throughout his life was pout to get anything he wanted instantly. All that whining made it hard for Lucius to relate to him. Lucius’ own childhood – the cunning games he had played with his own father, the hunting and sporting they had shared – was so diametrically opposed to how Narcissa had coddled Draco that he found himself repelled by his own offspring.

Studying the handsome face with the brows drawn down in confusion, Lucius could see his error in judgment. He shouldn’t have allowed Narcissa such leeway with the brat. There was still too much softness in the child, moments of weakness and foolish sentimentality that irritated Lucius no end. There was much about Draco that he was uncertain about.

The spell should prove … interesting.

Draco watched as Minister Fudge and Miss Umbridge pored over the ancient parchment with concentration and interest. His father had his hand clamped on his shoulder and the cold breath of the prison sent chills across his flesh.

It was his first time in Azkaban and he was bound and determined that it would be his last as well. The Dementors that terrified Potter merely disturbed Draco, but they weren’t the sorts of creatures he would willingly spend time with either.

The visiting room was stark and barren: a single wooden table with scarred benches and a few sputtering candles. It was like something out of a gothic horror novel. Or one of those Antigone-what’s-her-face books that all the girls read. The walls were dripping-wet, gray stone and the cold was biting through even his heaviest robes.

Fudge was mumbling as he read and his lips moved. Draco wanted to make a snide comment about the man’s lack of proficiency as a reader, but the iron grip of his father’s hand kept him immobilized and he knew better than to show any sign of rebellion where outsiders could see it.

“Right then. I think I have it.” Fudge lifted his round face from the parchment and smiled benignly at Draco through his spectacles. Still entirely uncertain about exactly what was happening Draco merely nodded politely at the older man. “Then let’s get on with it shall we?” Fudge rubbed his hands together briskly and pulled out his wand and a piece of parchment.

Draco cocked his head and caught a glimpse of some very complex runes and figures that looked vaguely familiar. Fudge started speaking, his wand tracing out the pattern on the parchment and suddenly Draco understood. He tried to escape, but his father’s hand was still clamped on his shoulder and it occurred to him that he was well and truly trapped.

The only question though was why? His father had told him that the Marriage bids had been for show; that he hadn’t really intended to marry Draco off, or at least not to leave him married for very long. But this was an entirely different matter. What had changed his father’s mind and why?

These questions slowly faded from his thoughts as he lost consciousness and fell into a deep sleep.

Susan Bones was walking through the library with a pile of books in her arms when a wave of drowsiness came over her. She found herself moving in slow motion and watched as her books tumbled from her hands. She saw her body fall over and yet she was still standing there staring down at her own limp form.

Her friends rushed over to her and someone was calling out for Madam Pomfrey.

“But you’re a Hufflepuff!” came an aggrieved voice from somewhere nearby and Susan spun around.

Standing before her was Draco Malfoy, looking rather wispy and transparent, like one of the ghosts.

“So?” Susan put her hands on her hips and stared him straight in the eye. “What has that got to do with anything?” He opened his mouth and then shut it again.

“My father is going to kill me,” he answered finally and there was something in his voice, a tremor that told her that he was being utterly serious.

“Why?” She moved towards him and found that she had walked straight through a table. Looking down at her body where it stuck out of the surface disconcerted her.

“Because you are my other half.” Susan blinked in confusion. What on earth was the ferret boy talking about? “If my other half is a Hufflepuff, what does that make me?” He sounded genuinely upset, as though he figured out that he was gay or something. The words finally registered though and a flash of illumination filled in the blanks for Susan.

“You did a Soulmate spell?” She was shocked to her core by the very thought of it. Draco Malfoy was her Soulmate? What did that make her?

“Actually, Minister Fudge did the spell.” Susan stared at him for long moments, trying to digest the information.

“Which one?”

“Mirror of Dreams, I think.” Malfoy frowned in thought. “I only glimpsed the parchment.” Susan swallowed and tried to keep herself calm. There were several different varieties of Soulmate spell; after all, the two most common types of spells were love spells and protective spells. The Mirror of Dreams spell was a powerful one that provided an actual astral bridge between the two bound souls, giving them access to each other’s dreams and memories.

“I thought that one was proscribed.” She kept her voice calm and even, which was pretty darn impressive she decided.

“So did I.” Draco sounded angry and there was a wave of pain and regret coming off of him that almost hurt her.

“Now what?” she asked, sobered by the reality of what was happening to them.

“Now we get married, I suppose.” There was a fury in his eyes that made her take a step back.

“What?” Her voice came out far more upset then she liked. She had always prided herself on her practical and phlegmatic nature.

“My father will be sending a bid. You had better just sign it and be done.” Susan was left standing in the library alone with her mouth agape and then she was lying on the floor with her friends all around her.

She couldn’t get out the words to explain why she crying. It was all she could do to keep from screaming.

Hermione paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, with its carved snakes and ivy. Salazar’s library was her favorite room in the whole sprawling mess of chambers and normally the books were soothing companions. Right now though, her mind was racing with terrible images and all she could think of was Severus and the terrible dangers he was facing.

Professor Dumbledore was sitting in one of the plush green chairs calmly sipping his tea as though nothing of any great moment was happening and Hermione was getting more and more irritated with him by the minute.

“How can you be so calm? He could be being tortured!” she finally snapped and the white-haired old wizard looked at her in surprise through his spectacles.

“What precisely do you think happens at Death Eater meetings, my dear?” The calm, compassionate voice halted Hermione’s pacing and she frowned at him.

“Well, Harry said that Voldemort tortured his followers.” Dumbledore sighed and shook his head with a rueful expression.

“What Harry saw was rather atypical for such gatherings. Tom had just returned and needed to reassert his dominance over his followers. He was also rather upset at their lack of faith in him.” Hermione tried not to point out the extreme understatement of that last sentence and instead set herself to really listening to what Dumbledore was saying.

“Okay, so what is typical?”

“Have you ever sat on a student council?” Came the next question. Hermione blinked at the apparent non sequitur.

“Yes, of course.” Hermione had been on the student council of her previous Public School, before her transfer to Hogwarts.

“Then you have a pretty good idea of what Death Eater meetings are like.” There was a decidedly humorous look in Dumbledore’s eyes and Hermione was tempted not to believe him.

“Wait, no torture or anything?” Hermione wasn’t sure what she was feeling, there was a strange sort of anticlimax to it all.

“Well, if someone has been particularly incompetent, Tom will express his lack of patience, but mostly its minutes, old business, new business and reports.”

“What does ‘lack of patience’ mean?” Hermione asked with a frown.

“Cruciatus, normally.” There was something like pain in his eyes now and Hermione could suddenly see the years pressing down on Dumbledore, the immense pressures that would have crushed a lesser man. The tension in his shoulders and the lines in his face became obvious to her and it was as though between one breath and the next, she herself had aged a decade.

It hit her that he was merely human; fallible, tired, devious when he had to be, evasive at times, and with an agenda she wasn’t certain matched her own exactly. He was the leader of the opposition to Voldemort so she was bound to follow him, but he wasn’t the all-knowing being of her childhood. She knew him to be a good man, an honorable man, but she also knew that he had killed a dark wizard before and she could see that blood on his hands must have changed him.

Dumbledore might be the most powerful wizard in existence right now, but he was also a worn-out old man who had already fought too many battles. Hermione sat down hard in another of the ornate chairs and dragged her own teacup towards her. Lifting it with shaking fingers she tried to absorb the sudden shift in perspective that was leaving her feeling insecure and off-balance.

Suddenly, it was as though all the sureties were being swept aside. It was like realizing that your parents had sex. Dumbledore was, in the end, just as human as anyone else, plagued by doubts and uncertainties and equally as worried as she was.

“Hermione?” The soft calling of her name jerked her attention back to the Professor who was studying her with shrewd eyes.

“I’m sorry, Professor. I am just worried about Severus.” She heard her own voice and thought that it sounded different somehow. There was a maturity in it that hadn’t been there a moment ago. It was the voice of a wife, not a student and not a teenage girl thrust into a situation far beyond her ability to cope. She reached down and found her mother’s strength, her father’s passion and she grabbed tight to them and felt her spine stiffening, her will strengthening.

“I understand, my dear,” Dumbledore replied and there was something in his voice, some understanding of what had just happened to her. Something profound had touched her and when she looked into those blue eyes she saw him with real clarity and he nodded slowly in acknowledgment of the moment.

“More tea, Professor?” she asked him with a steady voice.

“Yes, please, that would be delightful, Mrs. Snape,” he responded and Hermione rose to get the teapot.

Tonks stepped out of the fireplace with a weary sigh. Three raids in as many days had left her exhausted and she was looking forwards to a quiet evening at home catching up on her reading.

“Dora?” Percy’s voice called her from the kitchen and she stopped to dump her things on the coffee table before responding.

“Coming,” she finally answered and headed into the kitchen with a dragging step. She pushed open the door and found herself staring at a sea of red hair. It took her a moment to grasp what she was seeing and then the colors and forms resolved themselves into Molly, Arthur, Fred, George and Percy. They were seated around the tiny kitchen table grinning and laughing.

“Hey Tonks!” Fred, or maybe it was George, called out to her.

“Your timing is perfect, dear, dinner is almost ready,” Molly chimed in right after and then everyone started talking at once.

Tonks’ first instinct was to flee the room. After the long day she had just had the last thing she needed was half the Weasley clan in her kitchen. As much as she respected Molly and Arthur, she wanted dinner and a bath and to collapse into a bed. As she stood there feeling like she wanted to cry, Molly’s sharp eye fell on her.

“That’s lovely,” Tonks choked out, not wanting to be rude. Molly was obviously not fooled, because she gave Percy a sharp look.

“Poor darling, you look entirely done in!” Molly exclaimed and suddenly Tonks was being hustled upstairs and into a bathtub. “I will bring you something to eat and then have Percy tuck you in right after your bath.”

Tonks was so weary she could hardly speak, but Molly simply set about taking care of her and took her small wan smile for an assent.

Fifteen minutes later she was soaking in a tub with a hot bowl of stew and some crusty bread. She ate it ravenously and then slid deeper into the bubbles.

It occurred to her that there were some real benefits to being a Weasley. Molly’s cooking was certainly one of the plusses.

“Sorry, Dora, I tried to floo you that they were coming over tonight,” Percy murmured and dropped down onto the bathmat. Hot food and hot water had mellowed Tonks to the point of blissful generosity so she merely smiled.

“It’s fine, Percy. I don’t mind.” She realized that she meant it. Her family’s quiet gatherings were utterly antithetical to the chaos of the Weasleys’ household, but she found herself growing used to them rather quickly.

“I’m under strict orders to get you into bed, Dora, so don’t get me into trouble with my mother,” he teased her and she found herself grinning at him.

“What? Go against Molly Weasley? I am too much of a coward for that,” she teased him back. Percy tilted his head and studied her in all seriousness.

“I think you are very brave, Dora,” he finally said after a long pause. Tonks wasn’t sure how to respond to either his words or the funny look in his eyes so she just reached out her hands to him so he could help her out of the tub.

“I’m really tired, Percy.” She felt suddenly rather unsure and a little shy under his gaze and she couldn’t for the life of her figure out why.
What was wrong with her?