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The Art of Self-Fashioning	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 26077 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 3
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Chapter Thirty—Severus’s Trap

            “What Death Eaters will you take with you, Severus?”

            Severus kept his head bowed and tried not to breathe in the odor of aconite that hung around his Lord. Lately, it was there all the time. He thought the Dark Lord was researching certain potions that could give a powerful protective effect for precious artifacts and books—if one could reach the final stages. The aconite, along with other ingredients, was so powerfully poisonous that most of the people who tried to brew them ended up succumbing to the fumes.

            “I will take only one, my Lord. Walden Macnair.”

            There was a long silence. The Dark Lord was displeased. On the other hand, it wasn’t the sort of displeasure that immediately exploded in pain curses, so Severus silently balanced on his heels and waited for him to speak.

            “Why Macnair?”

            Severus breathed again. That he had asked about the identity of the Death Eater instead of why Severus was only taking one argued that he was, at least, willing to listen. “Because he has experience with physical weapons, my Lord. I want to create a few diversions before the final trap that centers on Potter’s parents. It will be more frightening for the victims if he uses an axe instead of his wand.”

            The Dark Lord made a sound like a snake’s dried skin rasping along the floor. Severus recognized it as laughter, but it was still an effort to keep his face still. “You do not think that others will suspect Macnair once they see axe wounds?”

            “Is he the only wizard in the world who uses one of them, my Lord?” Severus asked mildly. “Of course, Macnair will have alibis for all the nights that I need him.”

            “What alibis will those be?”

            Severus accepted the extra responsibility easily enough, although he knew that the Dark Lord would have been less than impressed if he’d offered to devise those excuses. The difference between those who died and those who survived in the Death Eaters’ ranks was having three different plans ready for every contingency. “That he was dosed under the Draught of Living Death, my Lord.”

            The Dark Lord leaned so slowly back that he reminded Severus, not for the first time, of a snake moving in water. “Then explain to me how you will effect that, Severus.”

            “Gladly, my Lord.” From the slight hiss to the side of the throne, that was the limit of the insolence Severus could use at the moment. Severus inclined his head, reminded himself to steady his breathing and appear calm, and continued, “I plan to stage an attack on Macnair, one that should also help with the suspicions in the Ministry that he belongs to us. He will be left, apparently, under the Draught of Living Death, and I can assure you that no Potions master exists in the Ministry who can brew the antidote quickly. That will be an alibi for the attacks.”

            The Dark Lord considered that for some time. Then he said, “A doppelgänger, of course.”

            “Yes, my Lord.” Severus was skilled enough to conjure the body that would look like Macnair and need do nothing but lie still and breathe softly. The simpler a doppelganger’s actions needed to be, the easier it was to create one.

            Unlike some, I do not specialize in Transfiguration, but that is no reason to limit myself.

            “I am well pleased, Severus.” The Dark Lord sat back up and spoke briskly now, in the way that told Severus his plan had been accepted, although of course the Dark Lord would not be crude enough to say so. “You will go and put this plan into action at once. And make sure that you bring me Potter alive. You said he was a close friend to Longbottom.”

            Severus shivered as he stood. Such hatred permeated that one word that he couldn’t help it. “Yes, my Lord, he is.”

            “Good,” said the Dark Lord, his eyes distant. “I will want to have Weasley and Granger before the end, of course. But another friend will do now—just as well.”

            Severus turned and strode away. He kept his face and mind still as he moved, and did not allow himself to consider whether he was going to play a part in killing his best friend’s son.

            He would not let it come to that. He only knew, for sure, that Potter had to be punished. For hurting Severus himself, for somehow guarding such incredible secrets in his mind, for helping land Lily in St. Mungo’s. If he had not been alive and a target of the Dark Lord’s wrath for the same incredible reason that Longbottom was, Lily would be well and laughing.

            I will decide what to do with the brat once I have him in my possession.

*

            “Do you always open an owl the minute you receive it?”

            Harry looked up from his side of the table, where a small owl had just fluttered to a stop in front of him and extended its leg. Black was watching him with a faintly disgusted expression. Since he was the one who had just smothered his eggs with what Harry thought was ketchup, Harry didn’t see how he had any room to complain.

            “I’m casting the detection spells,” Harry said patiently. “And you didn’t look out the window.”

            For a long moment, Black seemed like he wouldn’t look out the window, just to be contrary, but he did a minute later, and grunted. Yar was waiting on a branch in the garden, delicately balanced, her head bowed so she could keep a single glinting eye on the owl. If it tried something, it was going to get a face full of talons.

            “Very well,” said Black, and spread something that looked like a mixture of bread and marmalade on a piece of toast. “Perhaps creating animals that only serve you has some merit to it.”

            Harry was tired of arguing about that particular thing, so he didn’t answer. He cast the final detection spell, and the letter remained simply a piece of paper without enchantments on it, while the owl was still an owl. Harry took the letter and opened it with the sides of his hand, holding it so that anything that sprayed out of the envelope wouldn’t hit him in the face.

            “I take it back. There’s justified paranoia, and then there’s the simple kind.”

            Harry thought about explaining how someone had sent Bubotuber pus to Granger in an envelope last year, when they suspected her of dating Neville, but he didn’t see why Black needed the explanation. He spread the letter out and read it.

            Then he read it again. The handwriting was unfamiliar and the contents inexplicable.

            You will be responsible for the fate of your parents if you cannot prevent an attack on them. The disappearance of the Lestranges has been noted. The Dark Lord is enraged at the loss of his most faithful servants, particularly when the people those servants were condemned to Azkaban for tormenting are still alive. He intends to attack St. Mungo’s at midnight on the first of November, when most of the Healers will be away attending Halloween celebrations.

            The note was unsigned.

            Harry laid it down in front of him and looked at it thoughtfully. It was either a Death Eater or someone who had appreciated their goals, given the way they called Lord Dudders “the Dark Lord.” That didn’t argue much for the message’s sincerity.

            “Harry?”

            No matter how long he looked at the words, Harry couldn’t reach more than the conclusion he already had from the letter. He shrugged and passed it over to Black.

            Black read it once, then again. Then a twisted smile crossed his face, and he laid his wand beside the letter and whispered an incantation Harry couldn’t make out. He thought Black was probably keeping his voice low on purpose, the way he often did when he cast a Dark Arts spell in front of Harry.

            Harry didn’t see the point, since he’d never told Black that the problem with him was his Dark Arts. But he kept his peace, waiting to see what the spell did.

            Dark flames poured from Black’s wand. When they touched the letter, they changed color to twisting grey, with black serpents caught inside them. Black continued to watch them. Two of the serpents finally rose to the top of the flames and twined together.

            Black laughed, but Harry could see his eyes and knew it was as insincere as the warning. “I knew it.”

            “You know who wrote it?”

            “You’re smart when you want to be.” But Black’s voice held no teasing, for once. His eyes were locked on the letter, his fingers tight and quick as they clenched on the edge of the table. “Yes. When I used to communicate with other Death Eaters on a regular basis, they used charms to disguise their handwriting. We used them, rather. We didn’t want to be implicated if someone intercepted the letter.”

            He looked up, his eyes still blank. “The charm doesn’t make the handwriting distinctive. Anyone could have written this. We were supposed to use code words to signal our identity. But I got fooled by one Death Eater who wanted to trap me—well, it doesn’t matter. After that, I developed a charm that would tell me who had written the letter out of a limited number of candidates. If it didn’t work, that just meant someone who wasn’t on my short list wrote it.”

            “Does it work by showing a symbol for each person in the flames?”

            That brought some of the life Harry was used to back to Black’s eyes. He cocked his head and raked his eyes over Harry’s face. Then he nodded once. “Sirius would have been proud of you, you know,” he added. “You would have been a good one for setting up and figuring out pranks, with a brain like that.”

            Harry had to pause to soak in the praise, which was at least part of the reason Black had said the words, he was sure. Nonetheless, he pressed on. “So who does the symbol of snakes entwining show?”

            Black’s mouth twisted to the side. “Snape.”

            Harry did blink. He would have thought any of the other rumored Death Eaters before him. Snape was more likely to be helping Dumbledore in his search, probably, than trying to trap Harry. Unless this was his way to trying to find him, and he just hoped Harry would rush into hospital and he could scoop him up there.

            After a moment’s thought, Harry decided it didn’t matter. Whether Snape was working for Lord Dudders or Dumbledore, the idea of the trap was the same.

“So we need to find some way to impale him on his own hook.”

Black’s eyes returned from whatever distance they’d been staring into, and his mouth was twisted with something like humor as he stared at Harry. “What a darling child you are,” he said. “With a great taste for metaphor.”

Harry shook his head, not understanding what Black was going on about this time. “I just think that we need to find a way to take him down. It doesn’t matter who he’s working for. He threatened my parents.”

“He probably did it hoping you would rush off in terror,” said Black, settling back into his chair. “I’m curious why you’re not.”

            Harry blinked. “If part of the trap is actually trying to hurt them, then I won’t allow it.”

            “But you aren’t raging.”

            “What’s the point of showing the rage? Snape’s not here to see it and be frightened out of doing something like this again.”

            Black tossed his head back, laughing aloud. Harry continued to stare at him, and knew he probably looked stupid. However, he honestly didn’t know what Black’s problem was. Harry didn’t think it was a particularly feral or animal thing to say. An animal would probably be all about striking as soon as they could, or wouldn’t understand the concept of Snape writing a letter that tried to trap Harry in any case.

            “You are a charming child,” said Black. “By which I mean practical. I imagine my mother would have liked you.”

            “You said your mother was mad, so that’s not a compliment.”

            “Before she went mad.” For a moment, Black looked wistful, and then he shook his head and stood up. “She was intensely practical. But yes, we do need to decide what we’ll do. Do you want to take Minerva or any of our other allies with us?”

            Harry waited, thinking about it, then shrugged. “No. It would probably be hard for Professor McGonagall to get away from the school.”

            “But not hard for Snape?”

            “He probably comes and goes a lot,” said Harry indifferently. “I think Dumbledore would have to be stupid not to know he’s a Death Eater, so he probably thinks he’s reformed and he can trust him completely.”

            “And you think he’s not reformed? That he’s actually working for the Dark Lord?”

            “The motive doesn’t matter. We know what it is. To trap me. I’m just saying that either Dumbledore knows or he trusts Snape enough to let him get away with something like this, so we don’t have to worry about Dumbledore watching Snape the way he would Professor McGonagall.” Harry wondered why he had to use so many words to explain a conspiracy to Black. He was a Black. Conspiracy ought to be his lifeblood, at least from the histories of the family Harry had read in the library.

            Black ended up smiling a little wistfully at him. “I agree with you, at least to the extent that we need to take account of Severus’s motives. But I hope you won’t prevent me from coming with you.”

            “No. If only to avoid harm to my animals.” Harry had trained Yar carefully, but she wouldn’t be maneuvering at her best within the confines of a hospital. And Cross wasn’t as battle-trained as she was, and Harry had no idea what Spellmaker was capable of yet. She sometimes seemed inclined to obey him, and sometimes not. Harry wasn’t about to trust her against Snape until he knew.

            “There’s that practicality, again.” Black stilled for a moment, watching Harry, and Harry stilled out of habit from being around dangerous adults. Most of the time, Black was always in motion, pacing back and forth and waving his hands and shouting. When he did something out of character, it was probably dangerous, the way it always had been when Uncle Vernon did.

            “I don’t think I could have come to care for a child who had none of the Slytherin virtues,” Black said quietly. “No matter how impressively he managed his own defenses.”

            Harry blinked at him. Then he said, “But you kept telling me that I didn’t have anything like that. That I was a feral animal who would probably be better off dead.”

            “I never mentioned that. Only that you would die if you kept up your present course.”

            Harry shook his head a little. He didn’t know what to say, because he had been certain of the sense that lay behind Black’s words, and it was disorienting to be told he had misunderstood. However, he was certain it wasn’t worth arguing about.

            “What kind of counter-ambush are we planning?”

            Black studied him some more, than gave a noiseless sigh and nodded. “If that’s the way you want to handle it,” he said, which made no sense again. That had been the way they were discussing handling it, before Black’s strange mention of Slytherin virtues had interfered. “I think we should assume that Snape will have at least one other person with him. Most likely a Death Eater loyal to the Dark Lord.”

            “Why?” Harry asked in interest. He hadn’t been able to discount the theory that Snape was acting for Dumbledore; he wondered what theory Black had that let him see through the deceptions swarming around Snape.

            “Because even if Snape intends to take you back to Hogwarts, he would plan this thing under the auspices of the Dark Lord, for fear of what would happen if he did not and it was found out. And the Dark Lord trusts none of his Death Eaters to act alone except on missions that might kill them.”

            Harry considered that, and then nodded. It was nice having an ally who knew the Death Eaters, he had to admit, as deeply obnoxious as it was that Black couldn’t trust Harry to work on his own. “Then how does that change our strategy?”

            Black’s smile was as sly as the ones Harry had seen in pictures of Sirius. “Trust one who knows the layout of St. Mungo’s when I say that we can change things so as to turn their trap back on them.”

*

            Minerva smiled as she unrolled the first scroll Harry had sent her. She’d asked him for both an explanation of why the Wild worked so well for him and why he had so much difficulty with object-to-object Transfiguration. He’d done the second one first, because he said he would have more trouble writing about the Wild.

            Minerva didn’t mind. She was just thrilled that Harry was communicating with her again, and even sending letters to Neville’s grandmother that she would then redirect to him, filled with suggestions for spells that Neville’s Defense group could learn. The more they could offer friendship and caring as a lure to Harry, the less likely he was to turn away and become consumed by whatever goals had driven him out of Hogwarts in the first place.

            And someday, I’ll get him to tell me about those, too.

            The scroll talked about a little of the theory on Transfiguration and imagination that Minerva was already familiar with. She cut through that part impatiently, looking for the one where Harry’s original thoughts began.

            And there it was.

            I think objects are less interesting than animals. And they can’t help me much in my goals. The magic only works for me when I’m creating gifts for people who like objects. I can create gifts for people I care about or want to please.

            Minerva let out a little sigh. No saying which category she fell into for Harry, then, if it was true of both.

            On the other hand, perhaps you actually fall into both.

            Minerva read through the rest of the scroll, nodding. Based on that opening, Harry integrated his explanation with the theory he’d already quoted, and Minerva had to admit it made sense. Harry could imagine an animal having an independent life beyond him (no matter how little that was actually true of his Transfigured creatures). He couldn’t imagine much purpose for an object.

            If I had to create a knife to defend myself with immediately, maybe I could do that. But most of the time, I just prefer to change an object into an animal. Either it’s going to help me or I’m going to get it out of the way in battle.

            Minerva underlined that last sentence. Harry had told her about Transfiguring Bellatrix Lestrange’s wand into a cat. She supposed that it didn’t matter to Harry what the cat did after that, as long as it didn’t leap on him and try to claw his eyes out.

            And made with the Wild, could it even do such a thing? When Minerva came to think things over, she had to admit there was honestly little difference between Harry’s Transfigurations and the ones she made to help her or show off to students. They were still for a purpose, not natural creatures. Harry’s just lasted longer.

            Perhaps it isn’t so horrible after all that he creates animals to be loyal to him or other people, as long as he can be conscious of what he’s doing.

            Minerva finished annotating the scroll and glanced at the clock. There were a few books in the Hogwarts library she wanted to complement her studies of Harry’s methods, and she doubted Madam Pince would have closed the library yet. She liked to linger among the smells of old ink and paper as much as Minerva had when she was still a student, and her living quarters were nearby.

            Minerva did cast a Disillusionment Charm on herself as she walked, though. Just because she was out on another errand didn’t mean she couldn’t catch students sneaking about after curfew.

            She had almost reached the main staircase that led from her office to the library when she saw a dark shape gliding beneath her. Minerva narrowed her eyes and hurried a little. A student, of course, but on the other hand, it had looked too tall for a student…

            And it was. When Minerva rounded the corner and found the shadow standing in the middle of the corridor, casting charms on himself, her glasses almost slid off her face in her shock. It was Severus.

            Going where in the middle of the night?

            Of course, it could be a mission for Albus. Minerva knew as well as anyone that Severus spent some time on missions that might include spying on You-Know-Who, and it could be more than awkward if a student saw or questioned his preparations.

            But with the instincts of a Gryffindor prefect who had once had to avoid more than her share of Slytherin pranks, Minerva thought this was something more than that. Severus would normally make the preparations outside the school or in his office, not in the middle of a corridor. And he was capable of setting most students to the rightabout with a scowl.

            Now, he was also checking the inside of one pocket, and he held up a glass vial to the light for a moment before he cast the Disillusionment Charm. Minerva wanted to gag when she smelled the fumes that leaked to her nose.

            That was a drug that acted as a sleep aid. Minerva narrowed her eyes. Madam Pomfrey used it in the hospital wing, and most of the time, she would have assumed Severus was taking it there. But now he was a shimmer of motion in the air, since he had cast the Disillusionment Charm, and he was walking briskly towards the exit.

            Why would he need that potion for associating with Death Eaters? They would use spells to Stun someone and wake them up again.

            There was probably a reasonable explanation. You-Know-Who could want it to torture someone in a new and inventive way. Or Albus could have asked Severus to test a new potion for the sake of the Order of the Phoenix.

            But Narcissa still went after him even though it might not be any of her business. Some of her instincts were still banging their wings against the edges of her skull, and even if she was wrong, she would rather be wrong and chastised than right and of no help.

            If he has to torture Muggles or something like that, perhaps I could even stage a rescue without compromising his cover.

            Severus did glance over his shoulder, once. Minerva paused and let him get ahead of her, around a corner, and then she concentrated and assumed her Animagus form without releasing the Disillusionment Charm, stretching luxuriously as her newly expanded vision revealed scurrying mice and scents poured into her nose.

            She followed Severus with an even softer tread. She could Apparate in this form, if she had to, but she would much prefer to get so close to him that she could lean against his robes and be taken along. She could easily spring aside once they arrived at the destination—Death Eater or otherwise—and she could hide.

            Then the real fun can begin.
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The Art of Self-Fashioning