Bustle and noise — that was how Hogwarts students gathered, piling into sledges that would carry them down to the Hogsmeade platform. The weather permitted it, and more than that — the route would cut across the frozen stretch of the Black Lake. Nobody knew whether it had frozen on its own or with a little help, but every student understood one thing: they were in for a wide, sweeping arc at full speed.
On the open balcony above Hogwarts' main entrance stood Professor Snape in his customary black robes. He pulled his cloak tighter and watched the noisy students below, doing his best not to wince too visibly at the headache. One thing gave Snape some comfort — this endless horde of pupils would vacate the castle for nearly a fortnight, which meant something approaching peace within these walls, at least for a time.
He winced again. A lingering gift from a pair of Cruciatus curses, and one that couldn't be treated with potions without the accompanying temporary... fog. Better to endure it.
The thestrals drew the sledges away one by one, carrying their passengers toward the white expanse of the frozen Black Lake.
"Admiring the view, Severus?"
Snape disliked being approached from behind. Dumbledore had a particular fondness for appearing at one's side without warning. It was, needless to say, not a quality that endeared him to the Potions professor.
"Cooling my head," Snape replied curtly, without turning.
Dumbledore took his place beside Snape and, like him, turned his gaze toward the snow-covered hills.
"So," the Headmaster said, drawing a hand along his silver beard. "He has shown himself."
"Your perceptiveness, as ever, knows no bounds."
"There's no need for sarcasm, Severus," Dumbledore said, with a mild reproachful tilt of his head. "Would you tell me what happened? Beginning, perhaps, with why you were subjected to the Cruciatus?"
"Few weren't, thanks to his generous nature." Snape's smile was a crooked thing.
A few seconds of silence settled between them, broken only by the fading noise of the last sledge carrying students away.
"I expect Tom has made himself comfortable at Lucius's," Dumbledore mused aloud, a note of concern entering his voice. "Was it wise to allow young Draco home for the holidays?"
"You're mistaken," Snape said, glancing at the Headmaster. "The Lestranges dealt with their manor. That is now the Dark Lord's base of operations."
In Snape's mind, the memories surfaced — vivid and immediate. And as they did, not for the first time, he was grateful for the level of Occlumency he had worked so hard to master.
. . . . .
A grey English morning. He and the other Death Eaters stood outside the Lestrange estate, unmasked, undisguised — there was no longer any need for such things. All pretence had collapsed in the early eighties. Now they stood, those who had survived to be here at all, and they looked up at a balcony on the second floor. Or rather, at the point where the first floor ended and the second began. The reason was somewhat extraordinary.
Voldemort stood on the balcony in black robes and a black cloak, and he too was looking at the source of everyone's attention.
"A curious installation..." the Dark Lord said. "Perhaps someone might see fit to remove it? It is rather distracting."
His voice was soft, slightly sibilant, but no one was especially surprised by that — he had hardly seemed human before his disappearance either.
"At once, my lord," the Lestrange brothers said in unison, moving toward the wall of the house, wands working in frantic zigzags.
Snape glanced at the Dark Lord, then once more at it, and couldn't help noticing the bloody smears across the sloped roof below. It appeared that Greyback's body had been dropped from a considerable height — the werewolf was badly broken from the impact against the magically reinforced roofing. More extravagant still was what had happened during the fall: the body had caught on one of the iron spikes along the balcony's edge, snagged there by its own intestines, and now hung slowly rotating in the breeze. Below it, on the ground, a foul dark puddle had spread — made of everything.
The assembled Death Eaters stood with bowed heads, performing contrition. Not all of them, of course. Bellatrix stood grinning, displaying the sorry state of her teeth, full set notwithstanding. Snape caught a glimpse of Lucius — a pale mask of submission, but still standing with his spine straight. For now, anyway. Snape was quite certain of that, just as he was certain that today many of them would not escape the Cruciatus. Or at minimum, something comparable administered through the Dark Mark.
"Those wizards..." Voldemort spoke of no one in particular, but each man present understood whether the words applied to him. "...returned to the camp of our enemies, swearing their innocence, claiming ignorance, claiming enchantment. And I find myself wondering: how could they have believed I would not rise again? Those who knew how I had protected myself from death? Those who—"
The speech was interrupted by a wet, heavy smack. Greyback's body had come loose and hit the ground squarely in the puddle of blood and other matter. Voldemort's face shifted. He turned sharply and raised his wand.
"Crucio!" The curse struck Rabastan — held for only a second, no more than a formality. "Crucio!"
Then Rodolphus. Neither managed to fall before it was over — the burst of pain was too brief to send consciousness adrift. Brief, but sharp enough to make the eyes go clear very quickly.
"Azkaban has, of course, taken its toll on your spellwork," Voldemort said quietly to the Lestranges, "but I had allowed myself to hope that so simple a task might be within your capabilities."
"We are at fault, my lord," the brothers said, bowing — slightly spattered with the foul substance into which Greyback's body had fallen.
"Indeed."
Voldemort turned back to the gathered Death Eaters and began to pace slowly along the line — nearly two and a half dozen wizards, many of whom did not dare raise their eyes. Weak-willed, came a thought from some deep corner of Snape's mind. On the surface, there was only what needed to be there.
"Perhaps these wizards now pledge their loyalty to another? Perhaps... to Dumbledore? That defender of Muggles and Mudbloods?"
Avery, as Voldemort passed him, dropped to his knees. Snape knew precisely what was coming.
"My lord!" Avery said, loud enough to carry. "Forgive me! Forgive us all!"
What brought that on? The thought surfaced in Snape's mind, and judging by a few faces — Bellatrix's among them — it was not his alone.
"Crucio!" Voldemort's wand snapped toward Avery, the red thread of the curse striking clean. This time he held it longer. Avery convulsed on the ground, his mouth open in a silent scream.
"Stand up, Avery," Voldemort said, his tone calm again. "Stand up. You asked for forgiveness? I do not forgive. And I do not forget. Fourteen years of faithful service — and then, perhaps, I will forgive you. Nott, at least, has begun to repay his debt."
Voldemort moved quickly to stand before Nott Senior, who dropped to one knee without hesitation.
"Yes, my lord," Nott said, quite steadily. "I am your most loyal and devoted servant—"
"Are you? I am perfectly well aware of the rather absurd chain of events that led you to find me. You found me, you helped restore my body... But not out of loyalty. I have said this to you before, and I will say it again before all present — your difficulties are so trivial that I find myself torn between tedium and pity at the sight of your helplessness."
"Yes, my lord."
"Nevertheless, you did help me. And the Dark Lord does not forget those who help him. We shall think on how your problem might be resolved."
"I am glad to hear it, my lord."
Voldemort resumed his pacing, cataloguing each man's failures, dispensing formal Cruciatus curses and, occasionally, rather thorough ones. Almost everyone received something. Very few were spared — among them Lucius, most of those who had escaped from Azkaban, and Snape himself.
When Lucius asked — or rather, humbly beseeched the gathered company to be enlightened on the matter of how exactly the Dark Lord had managed to return — Snape had sharpened his focus to its utmost, determined not to miss a syllable. But—
"That is not important at present," Voldemort said, waving Lucius aside. "We have far more pressing matters. For instance..."
He turned to the Lestranges, who had at last dealt with Greyback's remains, leaving no trace of the corpse or anything else.
"Rabastan, Rodolphus — my two rather clumsy friends," the irony was unmistakable, and only Bellatrix allowed herself a completely unhinged smile. "Is the manor prepared to receive us all? Can you offer appropriate hospitality?"
"At present, my lord," Rabastan said, bowing his head, "the house is not in order."
"And yet you summoned us all nonetheless." Not a question — a statement. "The desire to please is admirable in itself, but haste in the service of that desire produces poor results."
"We humbly beg forgiveness."
"Your error is not so grave. You, like the other Azkaban prisoners, spent years walled up in that place and came looking for me at the first opportunity. You kept faith, choosing Azkaban over freedom bought by denouncing me. Since the house is not yet ready..."
Voldemort turned again to the assembled Death Eaters, who had now composed themselves after their recent corrective doses of the Cruciatus.
"...We shall speak here, in the fresh air." The irony was not lost on anyone — the grounds around the Lestrange estate were a wasteland, beginning to stir back to life perhaps, but still hollow, dark, and joyless. "To begin with..."
He turned to a wizard who had somehow managed to retain a slight plumpness despite Azkaban.
"Jugson."
"Yes, my lord?"
"Go to the werewolf camp. Deliver the unfortunate news of Greyback's untimely passing. Tell them to choose a new leader and send him to me."
"Is there a possibility," Jugson said, tucking back a long grey strand of hair — grey, like most of the former Azkaban prisoners — "that they will refuse to come under your command?"
"Impossible," Voldemort said flatly. "Our valiant Ministry, with its decrees, has driven werewolves into conditions worse than animals. Yes — despite my rather diminished circumstances these past years, I am more than adequately informed of the current state of affairs in this country."
"As you wish, my lord."
"You may go."
Jugson became black smoke and was gone.
"Macnair."
The Ministry's executioner — as grim in face as in spirit — looked to the Dark Lord with barely concealed eagerness.
"I am aware of your appetite for destroying difficult opponents. You are presently destroying dangerous creatures on the Ministry's orders?"
"I am," he rasped, twisting his face into something like a grin.
"You will soon have far more interesting prey. But for now, there is an important task. Destroy the means of controlling the Dementors, held in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. You are dismissed."
Macnair bowed, became black smoke, and vanished into the grey morning sky.
"Lucius." Voldemort approached Malfoy, who had managed — not entirely gracefully — to navigate the earlier exchanges, preserve something of his dignity, and avoid the Cruciatus. "My slippery friend. It grieves me that you, like so many others, were not quick to come to my aid..."
It was a preamble, and Snape heard it as such. Lucius, however, had never been distinguished by his Occlumency, and missed the cue — launching into another round of justifications.
"If I had seen any sign, any hint of your presence, I would have come immediately, nothing could have—"
"There were signs enough, and hints in abundance, but that is not the matter at hand. In future, I trust you will once again have no objection to leading those who enjoy a spot of Muggle-baiting?"
Snape knew Lucius well enough. He remembered — and it was difficult to forget — how the man had beaten his chest over leading that particular party, doing so for one reason only: to avoid getting his hands dirty. A precaution. Lucius wanted to be certain that if it ever came to it, he could state under Veritaserum that no deaths were on his hands.
"Of course, my lord," Lucius said, with a small bow of his head. "I shall be glad to shed the mask I have been forced to wear."
"That is commendable, Lucius, but it is not what I am here to discuss. It is unfortunate to see that those who chose to play innocent — to hide, to retreat, to renounce me — proved incapable of maintaining and growing the resources we all require to achieve our purpose."
"It is no secret that you, my slippery friend, are capable of great things in this regard. For the time being, you will continue to present the world with the face of a respectable wizard, while working to increase our capital."
"Yes, my lord," Malfoy said with a bow. "I accept this burden gladly, on behalf of us all."
"Splendid."
Voldemort continued distributing smaller assignments, partly, Snape suspected, simply to keep the Death Eaters occupied. Every man should have something to do — Snape himself believed this. His own assignment came after a pair of formal but painful Cruciatus curses: he was to prepare potions for restoring the Death Eaters' health. Understandable enough. Despite the conspicuous vigour the escapees had displayed, their physical condition remained wretched, and their magical strength with it.
. . . . .
The memories dissolved.
Standing beside Dumbledore, Snape looked at the Headmaster and waited for his reaction to the news about Voldemort's establishment at the Lestrange estate.
"Is that so?" Dumbledore said, with some surprise. "I had assumed that after their imprisonment in Azkaban, various... well-wishers had made liberal use of the Death Eaters' properties. Couldn't get inside, so they cursed them from without."
"Quite right. But a wizard — known in certain circles — undertook the removal of those curses. For a fee, naturally."
"Is there reason to expect this wizard will side with Tom?"
"One might expect anything. I haven't seen him personally, never met him, never spoken with him — I can draw no conclusions. As far as his actions go, he appears to be simply a wizard carrying out specialist work for payment. Nothing more."
"Well then..." Dumbledore nodded. "Your judgement is something I value greatly. Is Tom taking any significant actions? Anything that particularly warrants attention?"
"The Dark Lord does not announce a specific end goal — as you well know," Snape replied neutrally, turning away from the Headmaster to look out into the distance. "One can only speculate. At present I can say only that the Dark Lord requires money, that he intends to recruit werewolves again, and possibly other creatures. He is certainly moving to bring the Dementors over to his side."
"On the subject of other creatures — you are right, Severus. He has already enlisted giants. Or what remains of them. They've always been too aggressive for their own good." Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "They've very nearly wiped themselves out."
"The Ministry shares some blame for confining them to a single reservation that is far too small," Snape said dismissively.
"Regrettably, you are right. Is Tom paying any attention to the Department of Mysteries?"
"Nothing I am aware of."
"That is troubling. We need him to reveal himself to the world. We need to know his plans and intentions in advance, in order to respond to them in time."
"I'm not sure that line of thinking serves any purpose."
"Would you care to elaborate for an old man?"
"There's no need to play the doddering fool, Headmaster," Snape said flatly. "Surely the rumours have reached you — about who is being proposed as Minister after Fudge's impending departure."
"Ah, so that's where you're going," said Dumbledore. He smoothed his beard and leaned back against the column of the archway. "Bartemius Crouch. You're right that he would not deny Tom's return — that much is true. However, Severus, his tendency toward severe, uncompromising decisions could prove a double-edged blade. Society may greet his pronouncements with scepticism. I remember what happened with his own son."
"Society will greet any given question in precisely the way the Ministry and the Prophet present it, and you know that perfectly well."
A gust of cold winter wind swept across the balcony, lifting the hem of Snape's cloak and sending Dumbledore's beard sideways.
"One more thing," Dumbledore said, looking at Snape carefully — and Snape felt the weight of that look and met it in return. "I am troubled by young Harry's dreams. He sometimes feels Tom's emotions, and at times sees through his eyes — though only while sleeping. If my suspicions are correct and their minds are somehow connected..."
"We ought to use that to our advantage," Snape finished. "It's a unique opportunity."
"You are right, but you above all should know what Voldemort is capable of where minds are concerned. I fear he will discover the connection — if there truly is one — and understand it long before it yields us any benefit. I want you, Severus, to teach Harry Occlumency."
Snape kept his face still.
"Has it not occurred to you, Headmaster, in your considerable wisdom, that Potter — by virtue of his temperament — may simply be incapable of mastering that skill? He is impulsive, shallow, restless. I have personally watched him suffer in genuine distress whenever any task requires sustained mental effort. If he isn't waving his wand at something, he isn't learning. If you happen to know a method of teaching Occlumency through wand movements—"
"We have no other choice," Dumbledore said quietly. "The boy is too important. We cannot allow Voldemort to enter his mind. Only Merlin knows what Tom might do with that access. Do your best to impress this upon Harry. There is no one else I can trust to teach the boy so delicate a discipline."
"When?" Snape asked, accepting the inevitable, and turned his gaze to the furthest hill he could make out.
"After the holidays. As soon as the second term begins."
"You are aware that my time is not unlimited."
"Just as you are aware of how important Potter is to us. Protecting his mind takes priority over teaching Miss Greengrass and Mr Granger. Incidentally — how are his lessons progressing?"
"More than adequately," Snape said, in the tone of a man giving away as little as possible.
"Gratifying to hear. I recall suggesting you hint to Mr Granger about the importance of Occlumency — particularly in regard to preserving one's mind when working with Dark Magic. Might it be worth beginning his instruction and Harry's simultaneously? I'm quite certain Mr Granger's progress would have a positive effect — appealing to the competitive instinct that runs so strongly in young wizards."
"I'm afraid," Snape said, and something almost like amusement crossed his face, "that the opposite might occur, given Mr Granger's rather overwhelming advantage. You have your certainties, Headmaster, and I have mine — and I am quite certain that Mr Granger's progress would prove thoroughly demoralising."
"Is that so..." Dumbledore considered this, though only for a moment. "Nevertheless — consider the option. It is vitally important for all of us that Harry is motivated to study Occlumency, and that his progress is meaningful."
"I'll think on it."
"Please do," the Headmaster said, with a nod — and left the balcony, leaving Snape to his headache and the solitude he valued above most things.
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