Almost Human

Almost Human

Chapter 12

Remember Millicent Bulstrode

Term drew to a close. Gryffindor won the Quidditch cup, but Zenobia acquitted herself well. Draco managed to sound sincere when he congratulated her after. They sat exams. Nobody in their year cared much, since it was the off year between OWLs and NEWTs, but Draco felt he did well anyway. Potter grew increasingly tetchy the closer it got to the Leaving Feast; Granger said it was because Voldemort hadn't tried to kill him yet. Draco told him he wasn't missing much, but that just made him tetchier.

Draco was able to stand more often, and walked some, leaning heavily either on crutches or on Professor Snape and Madame Pomfrey on either side of him. He could manage a step or two more each day. Sometimes he felt pleased with his progress. Most of the time it felt frustratingly slow. He thought there ought to be some spell that would let him toss his wheelchair aside and walk like he had before.

The Professor invited carefully selected Slytherins to tea, a few at a time, until he had talked to everyone. A few--mostly those from the Darkest families--sent pointed regrets. Others attended, listened, politely, and left unconvinced. A small cadre--with Zenobia and Towrood at the core of it--met separately to continue the discussions that Snape started, urging the others to resist Voldemort. Being seen speaking to Draco became a mark of initiation into the circle, and he enjoyed a ghostly reminder of his old popularity when younger students stopped him in the corridors to say loudly that the weather was fine, they hoped he was well, and had he seen Zenobia at the Quidditch?

They didn't find out who had killed Millicent. Snape requested, and received, a list of people who had been near her cell in the few days before her death, along with reports from the Auror's questioning of those people. "It had to be someone in the Ministry," he said when the packet arrived. "Either Littlebourne, or Finkey--her superior, he saw Bulstrode that morning--or one of the guards. Maybe a guard was bribed to kill her, or did it on his own."

"Is the Ministry looking into them?" Draco asked.

The Professor sighed in frustration. "I don't know. I spoke to Moody, and told him I thought it likely Bulstrode's murder was a sign Voldemort had a mole in the Department, one we don't know about. He said not to worry, they're investigating all possible leads. I don't know if that means they are, or if it's a polite way of saying bugger off."

People, Aurors especially, didn't usually bother looking for a polite way to tell the Professor to bugger off. "What does Dumbledore say?"

"Nothing." Snape didn't seem about to say more, and Draco looked back down at the book he was reading while the Professor marked exams. But after three or four minutes he said, "I'm not sure whether Dumbledore thinks I'm jumping at shadows, or if he agrees that there might be something to my suspicions. He's not as free with information as he once was."

His tone couldn't hide how much that bothered him. The Professor was used to knowing most of what Voldemort was up to, and most of what the Order was, as well. Now he had to go to the likes of Moody for information.

"On the other hand, I'm not entirely sure I'm not jumping at shadows, myself," Snape continued. "So perhaps he isn't, either." He brooded a bit, then said, "I'd like to get my hands on the guard assigned to Millicent's cell block on the day she died. This report--" he waved it "--says he saw nothing, heard nothing. I don't buy it. At very least he heard her heaving her guts out, and I'd like to know why he didn't do anything about it."

"Probably couldn't be arsed," Draco suggested. "Millicent, you know."

"Possibly. But the Aurors have interrogation specialists who could find out for sure." He stared at the desk in front of him for a long moment. Then he picked up his quill, pulled the stack of exams closer to him, and there was no sound but the scratch of his pen on parchment.

#

"He must have seen something, Moody!" Severus leaned forward to shake a scroll at the Auror accusingly. A few of the Order members had met at Hogwarts. Snape was invited, probably more because not to do so would slight him in a way Dumbledore was reluctant to do than because he had any real business being there. The business of the meeting was finished, but Moody hadn't left yet. Dumbledore seemed to have some idea that they'd chat and settle their differences.

Snape took the opportunity to take Moody to task over the guard's report.

"Maybe he did. But what he didn't see was an outsider infiltrating the holding facility."

"So? I'd be happier if he had. Start by asking him why he didn't hear her heaving her guts out, or care if he did. See what develops. If he's been suborned--"

"He hasn't."

"He's lying! To his superiors. To you. To the Order. Doesn't that matter to you?"

"You know all that from a piece of parchment?" Moody asked. "You must be the greatest Leglimens in history."

"His story doesn't make sense! You can get a better one out of him, we both know that. Or if you don't like to get your hands dirty, I'm sure I can remember how it's done."

"Doubtless," Moody sneered. "The truth is, Professor Snape, we've more important things to worry about than who killed a Death Eater brat. She had plenty of enemies; one of them killed her. Her death isn't the key to some vast conspiracy.. We're not devoting resources to the investigation because it's not important."

Snape felt like hexing him, or striking him across the face--Alastor Moody, implying he was paranoid. It would be laughable if it weren't so offensive.

Dumbledore saw his anger, but misread it. "I'm sure you'll agree, Alastor," he said pleasantly, "That it's always tragic to lose someone so young."

Moody looked like he wanted to say it wasn't tragic at all, but instead he ground out, "I meant it wasn't strategically important."

Terrific. They thought he was pressing for investigation into Bulstrode's death because he cared. "It's not the least bit tragic. The cow needed killing. But if she was killed on The Dark Lord's orders--which is very likely given that she was testifying against the others, and he was planning to kill them all anyway--it just might be strategically important to find out how his orders got from his mouth to her cell inside the Ministry! And that god-damned guard knows how, whether he knows he knows or not!"

"If your Dark Lord ordered her killed," Moody countered. "We've no evidence of that. We think it's more likely that she was killed by a vigilante because she was the easiest Death Eater to lay hands on. And if that's what happened, the Prosecutor's office is hacked off because her death screws up their case against the others, but beyond that we don't give a damn."

"That's. Not. What. Happened," Snape said, through gritted teeth.

"We're a Seer now?" Moody asked sarcastically. "Or maybe you know something you haven't told Albus? I could show you I don't mind getting my hands dirty. Maybe you killed the cow, because she tried to kill your boy."

"Don't be absurd." He couldn't help muttering, "Amarylis. Honestly."

"You're evil, but you're not stupid. You'd guess we wouldn't look twice at Voldemort's chief poisoner if the girl was killed with something out of granny's front garden."

"Alastor, that's enough," Dumbledore said sharply. "Severus didn't kill Miss Bulstrode."

Severus and Moody looked at him in surprise. They both knew that; Moody'ss suggestion that he had had been a way of ending their argument, and Severus had just enough control over his temper to take it.

Moody took a pull from his hip flask and shrugged. "If I've the manpower to spare, I'll have it looked into. I can't promise more."

That was about the best he could hope for. "All right. If I were you, I'd make time," he couldn't stop himself adding.

"If I were you," Moody answered, "I'd kill myself. Really. I don't see how you stand it."

"Practice," Snape answered. "That's all."

#

The morning before the Leaving Feast, Draco was careful to sit with Granger and Longbottom. There was something he wanted to talk to them about. The rest of the Gryffindor boys weren't at breakfast yet. That suited him just fine.

"Harry's only staying with his Aunt and Uncle for a few days," Granger was saying as she buttered a roll. "I'm glad for him--they're quite awful. He's sure something terrible is going to happen this summer, and he doesn't want to be cut off."

"Mmm," Draco said, around a mouthful of toast and marmalade.

"I'm going home, of course, and Ron's going home for two weeks, then coming to stay at my house. My parents are quite eager to meet him. Mr. Weasley would like to come along--he's madly jealous of Ron getting to stay in a real Muggle house. But luckily my parents only have one spare room, and he has to work, anyway."

"Give them my regards," Draco said when she paused for breath. "Your parents, I mean." He had never met them, but they'd spoken on the telephone once.

"I will. What about you? What are you doing over the summer?"

"Going home, mostly. The Professor has to stay at Hogwarts for a week or so to finish some things, and then we'll go to the Manor. Probably I'll get a head start on my Seventh Year Project. If things stay quiet." Which he wasn't really expecting, any more than Potter was.

"You're lucky. With Professor Snape helping you, you'll be able to get loads done on your project. Since my parents are Muggles, all I can do over the summer is research. I've owl-ordered some books already, and Madame Pince is letting me take some out-of-print volumes home, but it's not the same."

"Yeah," Draco said. He'd have the Professor's help if he did a Potions project--which everyone seemed to be assuming he would. He didn't know how Snape would take it if he said he wanted to do something else. "You've decided on your subject, then?"

Of course she had. "It's an interdisciplinary project in Arithmancy, History, and Care of Magical Creatures."

"Sounds interesting," he said politely. Something to do with House-Elves, probably. He made a mental note to avoid asking Hermione any questions about her project unless he was desperate for a way to get her to go on at tedious length about a subject no one else cared about--something that wasn't usually difficult. "I guess you're doing Herbology, Neville?"

If it was anyone but Longbottom, Draco would have thought he looked annoyed. Draco thought about how he felt when people assumed he'd be doing a Potions project, and wished he'd just asked if Neville had decided yet. But then Neville just said, "Probably. I'm not really sure yet."

"Ron and Harry haven't decided yet either," Granger said. "I expect Harry will do Defense, but I don't think Ron has any idea what he wants to do."

"Maybe we'll all luck out, and Potter will finish his project over the summer," Draco suggested.

"I don't think that would count," Granger said severely. "I mean, planning ahead and setting up a research timetable is meant to be part of the project. He won't be able to do a timetable of killing Voldemort."

Draco thought privately that the Department of Magical Education was much more likely to bend the rules for Potter than Granger was. "You know I can walk now," he changed the subject.

"Can you? That's terrific."

"I'd like," he said quickly, "To walk into the Feast tonight. I know--" He held up his hands, "--I'm a miserable show-off. Bt would you two mind letting me lean on you so I don't fall over in front of the whole school?" He tried to sound like it was a casual question instead of a deeply humiliating one.

"Sure," Neville said. "I don't mind."

"All right," Granger said magnanimously. "If it's important to you. But I can't stop Ron from laughing at you, and I bet he will."

Draco shrugged. "I consider it a duty to bring some enjoyment to Weasley's pathetic life. I'll meet you outside the Hall at seven, then."

#

Outside the Great Hall, Draco parted with Snape and met Granger and Longbottom. He got unsteadily to his feet, and they each took one of his arms, holding him upright. They marched him toward the Gryffindor table, taking more of his weight than Draco thought was really necessary.

Until Zenobia, Towrood, and a few other Slytherins blocked their path.

All three of them reached toward their wands.

"Come and sit with us," Zenobia said.

"What?" Draco asked stupidly.

"Come on. You're as much a Slytherin as any of us." Zenobia edged Longbottom out and took his arm.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

Draco glanced at Granger and Longbottom. "Okay. Yeah." With their help, he shuffled over to the Slytherin table for the first time in what felt like years. The table was divided, with the Slytherin old guard, loyal to Voldemort and pure-blood supremacy at one end, and those who had attended Snape's teas and been convinced at the other.

The House Cup was awarded. Gryffindor won--no surprise there, but they didn't look very happy about it. Slytherin was last. Draco wondered if they had lost points for trying to kill him. The feast was served, and Zenobia and Towrood doggedly kept up a conversation about the last Quidditch match of the term, where Slytherin had lost, but with no blame attached to Zenobia's skills as a Beater. When that subject was exhausted, they talked about the exams results they'd just received, and their plans for staying out of trouble over the summer. Staying out of trouble had become a major area of concern for what people were now calling "Snape's Slytherins," and "Staying out of trouble" was code for "not getting killed."

"How often do you suppose You Know Who really puts the Imperius Curse on people?" Towrood wanted to know. "I know a lot of people lied about it, but..."

Draco shook his head. "I don't know. Some, probably. But not kids, I wouldn't think." Except that he was still after Harry Potter, and kids could get to Harry Potter without arousing any suspicions until it was too late.

"I was thinking about my parents," Towrood said. "They aren't interested in politics--" Where "politics" meant "Voldemort," "--but I have an uncle who is."

"If you think something's happened," Draco suggested, "You can owl me. I'll be with Snape, and he can get word to Dumbledore." He wasn't sure how much good that might do, but it was better than nothing. It would keep the kids from doing anything stupid, anyway, if they had somewhere to turn in an emergency. Even if all they had was him and Snape.

"Okay," Towrood said. "The rest of us, too?"

Where "us" meant Snape's Slytherins. "Yeah."

"We ought to come up with a code," Zenobia said, and then looked embarrassed. "Or is that silly?"

Draco thought. "No, it's probably not a bad idea. Your parents might intercept your mail." His own certainly might have done.

"His name, my uncle's I mean, is Marius. So we could say, Uncle Marius has been to visit," Towrood suggested.

"Sounds a little bit like having the decorators in," Zenobia said, "But okay."

When they had finished eating, Dumbledore stood to make the traditional end-of-term speech.

But all he said was, "Professor Snape would like to say a few words."

That was a surprise. The Professor hadn't told him he had anything planned. Zenobia looked a question at Draco; he shook his head mutely.

Snape was getting awkwardly to his feet. "Two years ago," he said, "Our Headmaster told you that Lord Voldemort had returned, and enjoined you to remember Cedric Diggory, the first--but not the last--of your classmates to be murdered by Lord Voldermort. This year, another Hogwarts student was murdered by Lord Voldermort. I speak of Millicent Bulstrode.

"Miss Bulstrode did not exemplify the best qualities of any house. She was venial, she was pathetic, she was physically unappealing, and she was stupid. It is unlikely that her life would have been distinguished in any way. However, she might have outgrown these flaws, and gone on to live an ordinary life. We will never know. She was persuaded by her more popular classmates to participate in actions that very nearly led to the death of another student. She died not because she was unusually evil, but because she was easily led.

"To follow the crowd and to do stupid things in the name of acceptance is not an uncommon mistake for those of your age. In ordinary times, such mistakes are usually forgiven. But these are not ordinary times.

"Millicent Bulstrode was no worse than most people. She did not deserve to vomit herself to death, alone in a cell in Azkaban, poisoned by an agent of the Dark Lord she had recently pledged to serve. But that is what she got." Snape occasionally swept his eyes over the other three tables, but he was speaking to the Slytherins, and they knew it. His dark eyes bored into them. "Voldemort promises each of his followers what he or she wants most. Power. Revenge. Triumph. Acceptance, as in Miss Bulstrode's case. But in the end, the only prizes he delivers are pain and ugly death.

"If ever you are tempted to join his service, remember Millicent Bulstrode. Who died because she was no better than any of the rest of us. Her death was pointless, and it was unnecessary. She was not liked, and she is not mourned." He looked around. "She should be." He raised his glass. "Millicent Bulstrode." He drank, then threw the goblet to the floor behind him, and strode out of the hall.

Draco thought later that it would have been something if the school had risen to its feet and drunk to the life and death of one of its least favored daughters. But it didn't. Draco didn't either. Like the others, he remained in his seat, looking around in embarrassment at everything except his goblet and his classmates' faces.

The moment passed, and the students resumed chatting and picking over the remains of their desserts.