From Hell

Chapter 10

By Pigwidgeon37

Where the colour red plays an insignificant, but highly irritating part.

The assembly was in confusion: Some were shouting one thing, some another. Most of the people did not even know why they were there. (Acts 19:32)

No one at Hogwarts had ever seen Albus Dumbledore in moments of desperation. Or rather, no one could even imagine the venerable Headmaster to ever be desperate.  Staff and students alike knew him to be mostly good-humoured, sometimes divinely mad, and very seldom furious. But there was always that underlying strength, that note of adamant power radiating from the ancient wizard.

Very early in his life, Dumbledore had discovered that this was what people expected of him. Somehow, he had always been the one who supported all the rest, regardless of how he felt. And at a certain point—not even he was able to exactly locate it—it had become second nature to him. Back in those times when his hair and beard were still auburn, he had been hired by Armando Dippet, the then-Headmaster of Hogwarts, as Transfiguration teacher and Head of Gryffindor.  He hadn’t been a young man then—seventy-three wasn’t considered as one’s prime, not even by wizarding standards—but strong and at the height of both his physical and magical power. Then, he had defeated Grindelwald. A triumph, yes.  At least to judge by what was written under his portrait on the chocolate frog cards. But he had paid for it, in more than one sense. One single night had been enough to turn his hair from auburn to silver-white. It had taken him months to regain his strength. And he had been convinced of his own infallibility.

Only the wisdom of old age had made him realize this. Previously—and he was ashamed to admit that now—he had made some dramatic mistakes. Mistakes that he could have avoided. Mistakes that had ruined, or at least changed for the worse, more than one life. He had foregone the chance of dampening the recklessness of Sirius Black. He had wasted the possibility of refraining James Potter’s ego from swelling to more than just impressive dimensions. He should have seen the potential of people like Lucius Malfoy or Severus Snape and given them a purpose, instead of leaving this task to Tom Riddle. And, last and worst of all, he should have recognized what kind of person Tom Riddle was. How many would live today, had he fulfilled his responsibilities? Thousands. Many thousands.

And last night, he had probably committed another unpardonable error: he had sacked Severus Snape. Only this time, he had wanted to protect the man and give him another chance. But how could he have done it? In his heart of hearts, he believed everything Severus had uttered in his defence. This conviction notwithstanding, he was also the Headmaster of Hogwarts, and thus accountable for his actions not only to the Minister of Magic and the Board of Governors, but also to his students and their parents. Not to mention the whole faculty.  Therefore he had to abide by certain rules and could not, much as he would have wanted to, let a faculty member off the hook when every single bit of evidence pointed at him and screamed Guilty!

This was the part of his responsibilities he truly despised: the part of cool logic, the politician part, that forced him to weigh one man’s destiny against his school’s future and to decide that the latter was more important. He wasn’t under the illusion of being infallible anymore; and in this particular case, it had been impossible to take The Right Decision. He knew that. And he loathed it.  And hated himself for having a conscience that forbade him to just shrug off what he had done to Snape, to rationalise his way out of the dilemma by telling himself that the end justified the means. He had sacrificed Severus Snape.  Practically signed his death sentence, or a life sentence to Azkaban—he wasn’t sure which one was the more desirable option. Probably death, although, where Voldemort was concerned, death never came without torture.

Dumbledore slowly raised his face from his hands where it had been buried, and looked at Fawkes. The phoenix seemed to understand that his master was being devoured by guilt and in need of consolation. With a piercing trill, the bird spread its magnificent wings and sailed down from its perch to land on the Headmaster’s desk. There, it slowly strutted across the wooden surface, until its head was almost touching Dumbledore’s wrinkled cheek. For a brief moment, age-lined skin made contact with warm plumage, and the old wizard drew a deep breath.

He would have to go on. Back to business. Hogwarts needed a new Potions Master, Slytherin needed a new Head of House, he had to talk to Miss Granger—the poor girl had to be thoroughly shocked, and he did not reproach her this morning’s violent reaction in the least. Most of all because she had been right. Without Severus, there was no way they could free her of the Coelibatus Spell. Poor girl indeed.

“Well, Fawkes,” he said to the phoenix, who tilted his head and gave him an expectant look, “I guess I’d better have some tea now. Afterwards, we shall have a word with—”

Both bird and Headmaster jumped when the door to Dumbledore’s office was pushed open so violently that it ricocheted off the wall with a loud ‘bang’ and nearly hit Professor McGonagall on the nose. She was not the one who had made this spectacular entrance; it was Ginny Weasley, who had apparently taken the spiral staircase at a run, for she was panting heavily.

Momentarily closing his eyes at the horrible clash of reds produced by Ginny’s carrot hair and Fawkes’s scarlet plumage, Dumbledore said, “Miss Weasley, what—” but was immediately interrupted.

“She’s gone, Headmaster! She’s gone! She’s nowhere in the castle, and I asked Hagrid, and she isn’t there either, and we have to search the grounds immediately, please Headmaster—”

“Miss Weasley.” When Minerva McGonagall decided to use this tone of voice, nobody was immune to its icy impact. “You will kindly leave it to me to refer to the Headmaster what happened. Sit down.”

Her mouth still open, Ginny obeyed like a well-trained dog.

Dumbledore looked from one to the other, still distracted by the battling reds—it was more disturbing now, because Fawkes was standing exactly between him and Ginny. “I would be very glad indeed to hear what happened,” he said amiably, “And preferably in a few short, intelligible sentences. Who is gone?”

“Miss Granger is gone,” McGonagall clipped, “And there is no way of telling since when. Miss Weasley last saw her before in the late morning—it seems that they had a slight altercation, because Miss Granger was behaving oddly. Miss Weasley’s portkey to The Burrow arrived an hour ago, and she wanted to say goodbye to Miss Granger. Who was neither in her room, nor in the library, nor at Hagrid’s, nor elsewhere on the Hogwarts grounds. I ascertained as much by performing a location spell.”

By now, Ginny was crying silently, and Fawkes moved over to her, uttering strange, cooing sounds not too different from those of a dove.

Dumbledore’s heart sank. First Severus, and then Hermione Granger. This was bad indeed.

With a deep sigh, he said, “Well, in that case I’d suggest another search of the grounds. After all, we are four faculty members and ten students. That should be sufficient. Please Minerva, tell everybody to be down in the entrance hall in exactly fifteen minutes.”

“As you wish, Albus,” his deputy said, “but I am sure—”

“I know, Minerva. I know. But let us try all the same. And if we really don’t find her, we’ll have to inform her parents.”

<><><>°<><><>

What nerve, Lucius Malfoy thought, what utter nerve that girl possessed. To simply walk into his house and demand an interview with the Dark Lord.

He was in his study, several pieces of parchment spread out on his desk, a dictoquill poised above one of them. He had to dispatch the letters to his contacts before he could deal with the Mudblood’s crazy request. There was something about the girl… for a moment he stood and tried to catch the fleeting impression. It was tickling his consciousness but too fast to capture. Probably he simply had too much on his mind. So he’d better get over with it.

Lucius straightened his shoulders and dictated:

This is a matter of utmost urgency. The Master needs you to find and capture—if possible, alive—Severus Snape. Ollivander wand, mahogany, 13,5 inches, core: Lethifold hide. In case of successful arrest, Apparate immediately to Malfoy Manor together with the prisoner.

Yours sincerely

He then drew his wand and, by performing a Duplicatio spell, transferred the text onto all the other, still-blank parchments. Tapping each of them with his wand, he muttered various translation charms, so that ten minutes later all he had to do was fill in the addressees’ names and sign the letters. When he had carefully rolled up and sealed them, he summoned a House Elf and told it to owl them immediately.

“And now to our little Mudblood,” he murmured to himself.

After putting triple wards on the door, he rolled up his left sleeve, thus uncovering the mark on his forearm. When Voldemort did not use the Dark Mark to summon them or communicate with them, it was almost skin-colour, a little darker, like scar tissue, with slightly puckered outlines. It was basically conceived as a one-way communication device, but there was a spell to activate it in case of emergency, enabling the Death Eaters to contact their Master. If possible, the sensation of actively using it was even more unpleasant than that of being ‘called’, which ensured that Voldemort wasn’t disturbed unnecessarily. 

With a smirk, Lucius thought that the Dark Mark was to senior Death Eaters what the Sorting ceremony was to the older Hogwarts students: An excellent means of teasing and intimidating newcomers. He remembered how he had mercilessly gibed trembling initiatees, just as he and his classmates had done on every journey—except for the first one, where they themselves had been the victims—on the Hogwarts Express, inventing terrifying stories about the Sorting procedure.  The Dark Mark was not as harmless as Godric Gryffindor’s old hat, but very similar in nature: all it did was establish a telepathic connection, so that Voldemort could enter his faithful servants’ mind. There were a few weaker individuals among them, whose feeble powers allowed for the link to remain permanent, much to their discomfort, as Voldemort did by no means respect their privacy and delivered his prep talks whenever he felt like it. Not with Lucius Malfoy, though. Lucius had enough power, and then some, to rigorously protect the privacy of his own mind, safe for the moments when the mark turned black.  Then, probably not even Dumbledore himself could have prevented Voldemort’s voice from resounding through his head.

Lucius pointed his wand at the Mark and muttered a complex series of incantations. Slowly, as if the skin were in contact with an invisible source of heat—and the physical sensation was exactly the same— the mark turned first read and then black, its outlines becoming more defined in the process, until the skull stood out clearly against its milky-white background.

‘My Lord,’ he thought, ‘May I speak to you for a moment?’

His face was rigid with concentration—being an essentially irreverent, not to say sarcastically anarchic, person, Lucius had to keep a close watch on his thoughts while communicating with the Dark Lord.

‘Lucius,’ the voice hissed through his head, ‘unless you have very important news you are going to regret disturbing my afternoon nap.’

‘If you decide that what I have to tell you is not sufficiently important to justify this intrusion, My Lord, I will gladly accept my punishment.’

‘No more niceties, Lucius. Come to the point.’

‘Of course, My Lord. I have Hermione Granger.’

‘ Granger? Potter’s Mudblood friend?’

‘The very same, My Lord. May I take her to you?’

‘Lucius, I believe that we repeatedly discussed and discarded the possibility of luring Potter out of Hogwarts by abducting one of his little sidekicks, as it would merely serve to bring every Auror on the British Isles down upon us.’

‘That was not what I had in mind, My Lord. I would never disobey your orders.  But I think that Miss Granger might have to reveal some interesting details about Severus.’

‘Whom you have not found yet.’

Shit. ‘Whom I have not found yet, indeed, My Lord.’

Voldemort cackled. ‘Lucius, Lucius. You must be desperate indeed to think that my wrath can be tempered by bringing me a little Mudblood witch. But, considering that I have no plans for tonight, you may take her to me. Be here at five o’clock.’

‘Yes, My Lord. Thank you, My Lord.’

‘Are you sure this is not a trap, Lucius?’

‘Yes, my Lord. I am sure.’

The connection was broken, and slowly the Dark Mark returned to its former innocuous appearance. Lucius let himself fall heavily into the chair behind his desk. Of course Voldemort had immediately perceived his insecurity. On the other hand, this was not entirely a disadvantage. When the Dark Lord felt superior, he was more easily amused and less likely to ladle out generous portions of punishment. And if that obnoxious girl kept playing the proud Gryffindor, he might just be angry enough to take his anger out on her. Which was exactly why Lucius decided to cajole her as much as possible and to make her feel really smug. If she got the impression of having one-upped the notoriously dangerous and cruel Lucius Malfoy, she might just get into the right mood to give Voldemort some insufferably snotty answers.

Lucius nodded agreement to his own thoughts, a sly smile playing around his lips. He was going to leave her as she was, in her school robes and with that impossible hair. He himself, though, might add a little touch of colour, a subtle hint at his superiority. Dark red robes, then—they would make him more intimidating to the girl, and Voldemort would appreciate the allusion to an executioner’s costume. The Dark Lord had a predilection for red, in spite of being an ex-Slytherin. Or maybe he was colour-blind. Lucius sniggered at the blasphemous thought. Time to freshen up a bit and change into the red robes. And then he had to succour poor Narcissa—probably that Gryffindor brat had already driven her half mad with her senseless blabbering.

<><><>°<><><>

There were times when Draco definitely hated his good looks. Not often; very rarely in fact, but now was such a time.

His father’s plans had obviously worked without a hitch, for there was no trace of Professor Snape, and now the Granger Mudblood had gone missing. Draco was very conscious of having been instrumental in this favourable outcome, and felt understandably proud of himself. This well-being hadn’t been daunted by McGonagall’s announcement that they all were to search for Miss Granger. Nor had the fact that he was one of those who had to comb the grounds overly annoyed him. He had begun to fell a tad exasperated when they were paired up, and Hannah Abbot had volunteered—in a less than discreet way—to be work together with him.  Until now, he had successfully eschewed her attempts at joint Aritmancy study sessions. But now she had trapped him. Still more unfortunately, they had been assigned the greenhouses and the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest.

At greenhouse one, she had stumbled and clung to him, so as to steady herself.  At greenhouse two, a flesh-eating Paracolypia had lashed out at her, and she had flinched back, right into his arms. At greenhouse three, she had pretended to see something and stopped walking so abruptly that he had run into her. At greenhouse four, he had scratched his right hand with a thorn, and she had insisted on tending to the wound. And when they had come near the Forbidden Forest, she had taken his arm to better ‘feel his calming presence’. Not that he was immune to female charms. On the contrary. He could feel her left breast pressing into his upper arm and sensed, with increasing horror, that she was stroking his wrist. But it utterly failed to inspire anything but annoyance.  Yes, the breast was firm and of quite impressive dimensions; yes, she was blonde, and yes, she adored him. All this was not sufficient, though, to make him forget how completely boring and insipid she was.

Out of the corner of his eye, he looked down on the red-mittened hand—why red, he thought, she was a Hufflepuff and should wear yellow mittens—that moved over his sleeve like a chubby spider. A spider that left tiny red hairs on the impeccable black cashmere of his cloak. The awareness that this was partly his fault—after all, he had been the one who used the massive charm-overkill to get the information he wanted—didn’t exactly lighten his mood, and he became angrier by the second.

When Draco became angry, his face had the annoying tendency of flushing scarlet.  Usually a master at hiding whatever emotions he had, Draco was unable to control this particular reflex, just like his father. Only in this situation, his reaction could be easily mistaken. Which was exactly what Hannah did. So quickly that she caught him completely off-guard, she had him with his back against the rough bark of a pluricentennial elm, the red spider and its twin took an astonishingly strong hold of his head, and Draco found himself being thoroughly kissed. And he didn’t like it, not one single bit.

He was saved—ironically enough, but he didn’t yet know his saviour’s identity—by Minerva McGonagall. What he knew now was, that to his immense relief, a shower of red sparks erupted high into the darkening afternoon sky. He was facing it directly, but the changing quality of the light didn’t go unnoticed even by Hannah Abbot, whose reaction was diametrically opposed to Draco’s. Her eternal pigtails visibly sagging with disappointment, she released him and muttered something about continuing later. Draco smiled as politely as he could and followed her stomping through the snow towards the castle, where McGonagall was awaiting them in the entrance hall.

The Mudblood wasn’t there, and the Weasel was wailing—so maybe the former was dead? Draco began to feel slightly uncomfortable and started searching his mind for suitable Gods he might implore to let his involvement in the affair remain undiscovered.

Her voice even sharper than usual, McGonnagal announced, “The search is hereby officially ended. We have not found Miss Granger but know that she is safe and sound. To your dormitories. Now.”

This was strange, Draco thought. Surely there was more to it than the old hen had let on, and he most certainly needed to tell his father. So he followed in Crabbe and Goyle’s wake and, once in the Slythering Common Room, wrote a letter to Lucius Malfoy—one of the  most redundant missives in epistolary history but, to do him justice, it has to be said that he couldn’t know this.

<><><>°<><><>

More or less at the same time, but many miles away from Hogwarts, Hermione Granger mentally apologized to Harry for every time she had, in- or outwardly, rolled her eyes at him when he talked about Lord Voldemort’s horrible, snake-like red eyes. He had been right. They were truly, truly horrible.