Better Angels

Better Angels

Chapter Three

Death Eater Revels

Warning: Snape witnesses and participates in some Seriously Bad Things in this chapter.

Draco's Quidditch practices were going well. After a month of weekly practices, he decided that the better players were ready for a scrimmage. Neville had bumped two of his beginners up to the main group, which gave them enough people for two sides if they played Bludgers-and-Quaffles. He'd set the scrimmage for Sunday morning, so more of the players' friends would be free to come watch.

He spent the Friday afternoon History of Magic lesson trying to draw up a roster that would create two evenly matched sides. Giving each team enough weak players wasn't a problem, but divvying up the stronger players was more of a challenge.

He had been planning to play as a Chaser, but he did have two half-decent Chasers--Granger and a boy called Knotroach. The Grumbine girl would Keep for one side, and a boy called Neddington would be al right for the other. Beaters were the weak point--Zenobia was the only decent one.

She was, in fact, the best player on the team, apart from him. So if he wanted even sides, he'd have to oppose her as a Beater.

Once he'd decided that, the roster fell into place. Granger, Zenobia, and Grumbine for one side, and himself, Neddington, and Knotroach for the other.

There was something about that....

After a moment, he realized that he'd made the teams boys-against-girls. Someone was bound to object to that. He switched Granger and Knotroach. He wasn't wild about having Granger on his side, but it did make the teams look more balanced. Filling in the rest of the slots and balancing weaknesses between the two teams was fairly easy, since there were plenty of weaknesses to go around.

He left History of Magic with a completed game roster, and no particular understanding of the events leading up to the Banshee War of 1834.

As soon as he reached the corridor, Professor Snape appeared out of somewhere, grabbed his arm, and dragged him into a stairway.

"Draco. I've been called away, Business."

He nodded; he knew what kind of business. "Okay. I wish you didn't have to, but..."

"I'll be away for two or three days. You're not to worry. If you need anything, talk to Dumbledore."

"Two or three days? You'll miss my game." What a stupid thing to say.

"I know. I don't have any choice. I'm sorry."

"I know. Be careful, okay?"

"I will." Snape hesitated, then put an arm around him, briefly. "I'll come back. Don't worry."

He hadn't been worried until the second time he was told not to be. "Is this business--"

"You know I can't tell you. Goodbye."

" 'Bye."

The Professor thumped him on the shoulder and was gone.

Draco went to his next class--Care of Magical Creatures--but was so distracted he fed his Capra the parchment he was supposed to be sketching it on, and drew on a kale leaf for several minutes before he noticed the mistake.

After the lesson, he decided to go to the Headmaster's office instead of heading to his rooms to study. Maybe he'd be more communicative about where the Professor had gone.

"Draco," Dumbledore greeted him. "Was Severus able to find you before he left?"

"Yes." He accepted a cup of cocoa. "He told me not to worry. Twice."

"Oh dear."

"Is he--has he gone somewhere especially dangerous? I know you can't tell me any details, but..."

"It's the sort of mission he goes on all the time. He should be fine."

Draco still wasn't convinced. "He hasn't been away for a few days at a time before." He'd have noticed.

"During the summer, he was. One can't help worrying, but...it's better not to anticipate trouble."

"I guess."

"There's always danger in the sort of work he does, but there's no cause to believe he's in any particular danger this time. Now--I'll have to attend your Quidditch match, and tell Severus everything. Tell me about your players, so I know what I'm seeing."

He did.

#

Severus leaned his forehead against the cold glass of the window, staring out into the Raigiers' darkened garden. Voldemort had left, after hearing reports and issuing orders for the next week's actions, but the party was just getting started. It was going to be a long weekend. It was times like these, in the old days, when he'd have slipped off into Draco's nursery. There was a flouncy, painted-wood rocker there, and after seeing that Draco was fed and changed, he'd sit, with the baby on his chest, and rock until he felt he could face his brothers-in-arms again.

"Severus, are you smearing up my windows with your greasy head?"

He raised his head and glared at Nathan Ragier. He'd glamoured himself into something approaching unrecognizability, but the old crowd knew his habits.

"Well--anyway, the entertainment's about to start. Wouldn't want to miss that, would you?" He clapped Severus on the shoulder and grinned like an idiot. Ragier's eyes, however, were completely empty. His hearty bonhomie ill-concealed a complete spiritual emptiness.

Severus wondered what the other Death Eater would say if he admitted that he wanted, more than anything, to miss the entertainment. "Of course not," he murmured, and followed Ragier to a large, unfurnished room with a dais at one end. It was, in other times, a ballroom. Now, it was rapidly filling with men, and a few women, in dress robes, some masked, some not.

All of the places near the stage were taken, so Ragier hopped up onto a wide windowsill, and extended a hand to pull Snape up after him. "Should be able to get a good view from here, what?"

"Indeed."

Two Death Eaters in full regalia--robes, hoods, and masks--led in a muggle family. Mother, father, a young girl in a flowered dress, and a boy who looked a little younger than a Hogwarts first-year. The muggles were bound and gagged, and their eyes above the gags were wide with terror.

As they watched, the woman managed to work her gag down over her chin. "Please! Do what you like to me and Mathew, but spare the children! I'm begging you--"

The crowd laughed.

"Silencio." One of the men on the stage waved his wand at her. The woman's mouth kept working, but no sound came out.

The Master of Ceremonies dragged the little girl away from the rest of the family group and beckoned to an individual in the crowd.

Pansy Parkinson--her face concealed by neither mask nor magic--climbed into the stage, smiling broadly. At the crowd's cheers, she tossed her hair and curtsied.

The muggle mother's silent hysterics became increasingly frantic. She threw herself toward her daughter, sobbing. The Master of Ceremonies lazily cast a full-body bind, and left her where she was, laying on her belly on the stage.

Parkinson raised her wand. "Crucio!"

The little girl screamed behind her gag. The whole crowd leaned forward, unconsciously, drinking in her pain.

"Try Imperius." Snape recognized Mr. Parkinson's voice.

Pansy nodded, and raised her wand again. "Imperio." Nothing seemed to be happening, so she repeated the spell. "Imperio."

The girl, still sobbing, got to her feet and began to tap-dance around the stage.

Tat held the crowd's attention for only a short time. The MC held a short conference with Pansy, and then the girl got down on her knees and began smacking her head against the floor with sickening thumps, like a pumpkin being hit with a stick. Soon her face was a mess of blood, but she kept on banging her head.

Finally, she stopped, and Pansy left the stage looking exhausted but exhilarated. One of the Death Eaters kicked the girl to the side.

A young man Snape didn't know--it could have been Goyle or Zabini, disguised, but he wasn't sure--went up on stage next, and the boy was pulled away from his father to center stage. The young man asked the MC something, and he nodded, and took off the muggle boy's gag.

The boy didn't beg like his mother had. He clamped his jaw shut and tried to hold his tearstained face in a mask of impassivity.

"Crucio!"

The boy screamed, and a dark stain spread over the front of his jeans.

Before Severus was able to stop himself, he had stumbled off the window ledge and was being sick into a potted ficus.

The boy had the right to have his torment noticed for its own sake, but all Severus could think was that Draco had been about that age when he first felt the Cruciatus curse. He had probably faced it with the same innocent determination.

He understood now. They always tortured the children first, because it upset the parents so, and made their suffering--and eventual deaths--so much more piquant. He had known, intellectually, that humans had a natural drive to protect their children, and perverting natural human drives was what Dark magic was all about. But now he understood. If he was forced to watch while someone did that to Draco, and was powerless to stop it, it would destroy him in a way that nothing they could do to him would ever do.

"Had too much to drink, old chap?" Ragier asked him, with an expression of vague concern.

"Must've." In fact, he'd taken a potion to neutralize the effects of alcohol.

"Well, go outside if you're going to be sick again. Honestly, at your age..."

Severus wiped his mouth, and fished a piece of ice out of his glass, to take the sour taste of vomit out of his mouth. "I've not been well lately."

"Oh." Ragier thought about that. 'I know what'll put the spring back in your step. I'll let you deliver the coup de grace to one of them" He nodded towards the stage.

He shrugged. "All right. Which one? Can I have the mother?" He didn't think he could handle killing the boy, not without showing his discomfiture. And by the time the mother had seen her children killed, death would come as a mercy.

"She's the best one," Ragier protested. "Oh, all right, since you're sick."

Ragier went up to the stage to arrange the change in plans, and Snape resumed his seat on the window ledge.

Now the boy was being made to kick his unconscious sister. That was clever--he probably had wanted to kick his sister before. Just not to do so until her head caved in.

The mother was next, and after the initial crucio she was made to perform a striptease. The muggle man made a desperate lunge for the Death Eater who was guarding them, and was promptly stunned for his troubles.

The show went on for quite some time. Snape watched, hiding his revulsion beneath a mask of bored amusement. These spectacles were really for the younger members, who needed to work out their squeamishness about torturing innocent people under controlled circumstances. Wouldn't do to have anyone getting cold feet in a real combat situation.

The muggle family was lined up doing chorus-line kicks when Ragier returned. "It's all set up, old man," he said cheerfully.

"Good," Snape said vaguely.

"You all right? You still look a little green around the gills."

"I'm fine," he snapped.

Ragier shrugged. "Suit yourself."

"I'll feel better once I've done her," he amplified. "It's been a while." The hell of it was, he would. Feel better.

"Righto. Must be hard for you, locked up in that school."

"I don't get out as much as I'd like," he agreed. That, at least, was true.

"Oh, look at that! He's using the Tarantella Jinx. Good show, man!" Raiger applauded the young man who was up on stage. "I'm getting a sandwich. Want me to bring you one?"

"If you're going anyway, I wouldn't mind." A sandwich might settle his stomach, and he could hardly go without eating for the entire house party weekend. Someone would notice.

Ragier came back with a napkin-wrapped bundle. "D'you want chicken salad or salmon paste?"

"Chicken salad."

He shrugged. "Okay."

Ragier cheered with his mouth full, scattering crumbs down his front, when a young woman started the muggle father fondling his daughter.

"Could you at least swallow? You're disgusting."

"Sorry, old salt. Just got a little excited."

Indeed.

After another interminable hour and a half, the children were done playing with their prey, and he and three other senior Death Eaters assembled on the stage, wands out.

When the daughter fell lifelessly to the stage, the woman--still under a silencing spell--fell on her knees at Snape's feet, clasping her hands in front of her chest, gesturing at her son, and pulling at the hem of his robe.

He wondered if she knew, somehow, that he was the only one here inclined to pity her suffering.

She couldn't. He had been doing this for years.

He curled back his lip and aimed a kick at her. "Get on with it, Cowle," he said to the man assigned to kill the boy.

"Be patient, you'll have your turn." But he leveled his wand at the boy and said, "Avada Kedavra."

The woman collapsed, sobbing silently.

Finally.

He aimed a halfhearted kick at the woman, and rolled his eyes at the audience. "Wouldn't you rather die on your feet, you pathetic cow?"

She threw herself on her son's body.

Apparently not.

"Avada Kedavra."

A tingling warmth spread up from his wand as the woman died, growing in intensity until he was filled with something like ecstasy.

He was vaguely aware of the crowd cheering, until he and the others stumbled off the stage in a euphoric haze.

#

Even though he wasn't really expecting him, Draco couldn't help hoping Professor Snape would return in time to see his Quidditch game. He wasn't at breakfast, but Draco still scanned the stands for the familiar black-robed form.

He wasn't there, but a good many of the teachers were, along with a sizable crowd of friends and siblings of the squad. He hoped no one was expecting to see great Quidditch. He'd consider the day a success if no one fell of their broom.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," he began his pre-game pep talk. "Let's get out there, have fun, and try not to humiliate ourselves." He distributed armbands of red ad blue. "Put these on, that way we can tell who's on what team." He kept blue for his team, and everybody helped each other tie them on.

"Teams, five minutes to talk strategy, and then we play."

The red team huddled around Zenobia, who started issuing instructions. Draco gathered his Blue team around. "All right, men. And Granger. We're going to win this thing, hear me? Concentrate on scoring goals. Zenobia's going to be hell on that Bludger, but don't worry about her. I'll take care of it. Neddington--Knotroach favors the far left hoop for scoring goals, so concentrate on that one. Granger, try to put the Quaffle through one of the side hoops from time to time--you favor the center one, and Grumbine will have noticed. Norwich--" he addressed his other Beater "--remember when you hit the Bludger not to hit it toward our people. Send it away from play if you're not sure what to do, I'll round it up. Everybody else, score if you can, but when in doubt, pass to Granger. Got it?"

Everybody nodded.

"Then let's go kick some ass."

The game got off to a fast start. Granger took possession, but tried to pass to Longbottom, who fumbled the Quaffle and lost it to Knotroach. Knotroach scored off of Neddington, who appeared not to have quite noticed that the game had started. After the goal, he started circling the hoops frantically, as if to make up for his lapse by appearing extra-attentive now.

Zenobia, who clearly knew where the team's strength was, his the Bludger toward Granger. Draco swatted it back at her by way of Knotroach.

Hillwood, on Draco's team, gained possession of the Quaffle (and looked incredibly surprised about it). He went to pass to Granger, but Zenobia hit the Bludger into the Quaffle, sending it toward one of his players.

He decided to stop watching the game, and start fighting Zenobia for control of the Bludgers.

They'd decided to play to 200 points, with a break when one team scored ten goals. Goals came fairly regularly--mostly because the Keepers weren't any better than the Chasers--and the score stayed fairly even, showing Draco he hadn't made and terrible mistakes in drawing up the sides. Red was in the lead when they broke.

"Everybody's doing really good," he lied, when they assembled on the ground. "Hillwood, that was a good goal you made, but you missed an easier one when Grumbine wasn't even looking."

"I got nervous." He dug his toe into the ground.

"Well, it's only our friends watching. Don't worry about it. Concentrate on your game. Granger, you've got to take some risks. Go ahead and put the Quaffle toward the hoops even if you aren't sure you'll make it. The Quaffle won't score any goals sitting in your pocket. Neddington, you're looking good, but don't get distracted." The Keeper had let several easy goals get in while he was, apparently, watching passing butterflies no one else could see. "Everybody ready to go back in?"

"Yes," Blue team chorused.

"Then let's go." Before mounting his broom, he spared at a glance at the stands for the Professor, who wasn't there.

#

In the end, Blue team managed to squeak a win by ten points. All of the kids were excited and happy, even the Reds, who had lost. The house elves--led, no doubt, by Dobby--provided a picnic lunch on the grounds for the squad and its supporters, so they could continue hashing over the game instead of separating out to their separate tables, where the vast majority of the students had no idea a Quidditch match had even been played.

"When are we going to play a real game, with the Snitch?" one of the younger kids wanted to know.

"Maybe in a month or so," Draco said. "When we have enough decent players to make up two full sides."

"Are you going to play Seeker?"

"Of course, Don't know who the other one will be yet."

"Violet caught it last time we practiced with Snitches," one of the boys pointed out.

"Only because it flew into her hand," Draco pointed out, with some annoyance. He took Seeking very seriously.

After lunch, he made his way up to the Headmaster's office.

"The Professor isn't back yet," he said accusingly.

"I don't expect him before late tonight," Dumbledore said mildly. "Maybe even tomorrow."

"He said two or three days. It's been two."

"He doesn't have much control over his schedule, I'm afraid. Lemon drop?"

Draco took one. "I suppose he'll report to you first thing when he's back?"

"Yes, he will."

"Can you tell him I'd like to see him, even if it's late? Just to know he's all right."

"Of course."

#

Severus trudged through the dungeon corridors, his overnight case slung over his shoulder. He toyed with the idea of having a wash before he went to see Draco--but he was so tired, he'd want to sleep right away once he'd bathed, and it wasn't as though the contamination of what he'd spent his weekend doing would actually come off with soap and water.

He let himself into the Assistant Potions Master's quarters--Malfoy House, as the plaque said now. The candles were lit, but they had burned low in their holders, and Draco was asleep on the sofa. Severus extinguished a candle that was threatening to burn straight into the wood of the shelf it sat on.

Draco was half sitting up, with a book open in his lap. Severus picked it up, marked the page with a scrap of parchment, and closed it, then brought a blanket from the bedroom.

He arranged Draco in what looked like a more comfortable position, and covered him with the blanket. Had he sat up, waiting for Severus?

He shouldn't have, but it was touching, nonetheless.

Severus regarded him for a moment, and he stretched and opened his eyes. "Professor?"

"Yes, it's me. I'm back," he said, unnecessarily.

"You okay?" Draco asked fuzzily.

"Yes. I wasn't hurt, this time." Not physically, anyway. He wasn't sure that the Muggle woman's death wouldn't sit on his soul, even though she'd have been killed anyway if he'd never been born.

"Good." He yawned.

"Go back to sleep. I'll see you in the morning."

" 'kay. Good night, Professor."

"Goodnight." He was asleep again before Severus had finished extinguishing the candles.

#

Severus went next to his own rooms, and poured himself a glass of sleeping potion.

Dumbledore had assured him that night, as he did every time, that the unspeakable acts he was forced to perform wouldn't be held against him.

He had complete confidence in the Headmaster's ability to shield him from the legal consequences. He supposed it was asking too much for anyone to be worried about his soul, if he had one. Or his conscience, which he wasn't sure he had either. He knew he was supposed to feel bad about having killed, but he was unsure if there was a difference between that and actually feeling bad.

He suspected, on nights like these, that if he was good person, he'd not be able to do the things he did.

So a few murders more or less probably didn't make any difference.

"Someone else would have killed him anyway," while in its own way a compelling argument, didn't change the simple fact that someone else hadn't. He had.

With a flash of irritation with himself, he gulped down the potion. He usually had an easier time dismissing these doubts. He knew what had changed.

His affection for the boy, changed now from a distant yearning to a day-to-day fact of his existence, was a massive weakness. A weakness a muggle could drive a lorry through. It was possible he could hide the source of his weakness from the Death Eaters--he was doing everything he could to do so--but they had the predatory instincts of a pack of werewolves. They'd notice, eventually, that he had gone soft. He'd hesitate, when a real Death Eater would act. Or he'd be sick all over himself again, and someone a bit brighter than Ragier would notice, and start to wonder. And then they'd kill him.

If he was lucky.

The sensible course of action would be to put some distance between himself and Draco. Safter for both of them. But he didn't think Draco would let him. Nor Dumbledore. And even if he did, he wasn't sure simply keeping himself away from the boy would get rid of the--shudder--feelings.

The conflict was still unresolved when the sleeping potion crept up behind him and clubbed him over the head.

Metaphorically, of course.