Harry Potter and the Carrot Cake of Doom

Chapter 1: Cooking Lessons

Severus Snape was not amused.

He was pacing up and down the hallways of Malfoy Manor, looking like a large, disgruntled bat. A very dangerous large, disgruntled bat.

Passing the study door for the twentieth time that afternoon, he glowered at it as if to make the locking spells that Lucius had placed on it evaporate by the sheer force of his glare. During his tenure as a professor at Hogwarts, he had used that glare on students many times, and to great effect. The door, however, was unimpressed.

Giving up, he called, "Lucius?"

There was a muffled sound from within.

"Lucius?"

"Go away."

"Ah, it speaks." It occurred to him after he spoke that sarcasm might not be the best option in this case, but it was too late to retract what he had already said.

And besides, Severus Snape was never wrong.

"Are you coming out, or do you want me to break down your door?" He winced inwardly; here was one of the many side effects of too much time spent with that idiot Gryffindor, Sirius Black. Black might not have been either a Death Eater or a mass murderer - a pity, really, as either condition might have improved him - but in the far-too-numerous conversations they had had since Dumbledore had foisted their companionship off on one another - all three of them - Severus had long since come to the conclusion that Black was still the same foolhardy jackass with all the subtlety of an enraged volcano who had thought it would be amusing to feed a "Slimy Slytherin" to a werewolf.

Giving himself a mental shove, he pulled himself back to the task at hand. He had better things to do than consider that... that... Gryffindor. "Lucius?"

The door opened.

Had Severus not kept complete control of himself, he would have gaped at Lucius' appearance. His normally sleek hair was disheveled, his robes were wrinkled and spotted with - well, whatever it was - and he looked as though he hadn't shaved since he had shut himself in his study several days ago when faced with the rather bizarre prospect of "getting in touch with his inner child" - whatever that was supposed to mean.

"Sheverush," he said in a slurred voice, breath heavy with the scent of alcohol. "What're ya doing 'ere?"

"You invited me here, Lucius," Severus replied as though speaking to a very young child. "Remember?"

The other man blinked owlishly. "Did I?" He shrugged. "Well, come in. The floor ish til - hic! - tilting shomeshing awfuh, buh I feel wunnerful."

Severus followed him into the study, stepping over several empty brandy bottles, and cursing whatever divinities might be listening for putting him in this situation. Whatever atonement he owed the world - and he owed plenty - surely it could not be as harsh as trying to teach a very drunk Lucius Malfoy how to bake.

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Five hours, three more bottles of brandy, and twelve sacks of upturned flour later, a very disheveled Severus Snape had Apparated to Remus Lupin's somewhat ramshackle house in the countryside. Given its secluded location - monthly werewolf transformations weren't exactly conducive to an active social life - the house had been deemed the perfect location of the headquarters of the Semi-Official League Of Wizards Fighting Against Voldemort. (Nobody could be bothered to think of a better name.) Walking from the Apparition point to the house - Dumbledore had set up anti-Apparition wards around the place as an added precaution - he was greeted by the sight of Sirius Black in his Animagus form... frolicking.

"Enjoying yourself?" Severus called acerbically as he passed.

With what could only be called a doggy shrug, the dog changed into his usual form. "You could say that," he replied with an insouciant grin. "You seemed to be doing well enough with Malfoy. Doesn't have too much in the way of talent at cooking, does he?"

Severus stopped dead in his tracks. The only possible way that Black would have been able to witness that scene was if...

"That... woman... isn't here, is she?"

The grin grew, if possible, even wider. "Right on one." They started walking toward the house. "She came by this morning. Said she missed the unique atmosphere."

Severus snorted in spite of himself. If one could say anything for the mood of the house when that... that... woman was there, one could certainly say that it was unique.

And noisy. Very, very noisy. He recalled with a shudder that awful scene involving the jar of paint and the smoked herring.

Trying to keep an optimistic outlook and failing miserably, he walked through the door, a still-smirking Black following close behind. Probably didn't want to miss any of the show, the miserable cur.

"Miss Mafinki-Phurphenblossom," he said, throwing the first punch. "It's so utterly delightful to see you again. I've grown weary of the tedium of being able to hear myself think."

"Nice to see you too, sweetheart," she snapped. She looked at him speculatively. "Tell me, is that your hair, or did something crawl on top of your head and die?"

"Oh, brilliant comeback," he sneered. "I'm quivering in awe of your genius."

"Elba, Severus," a quiet voice interjected from the living room doorway, "would you mind waiting until later to behave like children?"

"Aw, c'mon, Moony," Black said mock-plaintively. "Think how much more space we'll have if they kill each other off."

Stepping into view, Remus Lupin gave his longtime friend a very long look. "That's not funny, Padfoot."

"Oh, don't worry on my account," Severus drawled. "My life's ambition is to be insulted by an unwashed Azkaban escapee."

Black grinned wolfishly. "You mean your old friends have never insulted you?"

"Probably not," that insufferable woman cut in. "Since our greasy compatriot here doesn't have any friends, he can't very well be insulted by them, can he?"

"No," Black said thoughtfully, "that's not true. I'm sure that the fungus in the Hogwarts dungeons will always be there for him."

That woman nodded sagely. "Yes, you're probably right. He probably has a very nice relationship with the pickled crocodile livers as well."

"Very funny," Severus said scathingly. "If you've finished admiring your comic wit, would you mind it terribly if we actually do something constructive with our time?"

"Thank you, Severus," Lupin said gravely. His face was expressionless, but there was muffled laughter in the werewolf's eyes.

Damn him.

"Well, then," Severus said as professionally as possible under the circumstances - Black and that woman were making faces at each other and gesticulating wildly. Severus looked at them briefly, decided that he was better off not knowing, and turned his full attention on Lupin. "Voldemort has decided to move his plans for the Cake forward," he began.

"Well, obviously," that woman snapped. "Details, Snapiekins, details. What exactly is Voldemort doing?"

Severus clenched his teeth at the sound of another one of that woman's ridiculous appellations - an appellation that would undoubtedly be repeated many times, from the gleeful look on Black's face - but managed to say, "The Dark Lord has not chosen to confide in me, but he did instruct me to increase the pace of Lucius Malfoy's training, which indicates that he has some definite time constraints. Bear in mind, though, that what lesser Death Eaters are doing is only the first stages of creating the Cake. That's all that I can glean for now." He glanced at that woman. "Unless our resident quasi-deity would like to shed some light on the subject?"

Frustration filled that woman's face. "I told you, I'm not capable of giving you any specifics that you don't already know." She shrugged. "Believe me, if I could be more direct, I would."

Black raked his fingers through his hair in frustration. "I don't believe that there's nothing we can do," he muttered. "Isn't there, Elba?"

That woman shrugged again. "Like I said before, we can't do anything until the school year starts - and then it's up to Potter."

"Oh, wonderful," Severus groaned. "Excuse me while I go reserve a coffin for myself."

That woman stared at him coldly. "Don't judge what you don't understand," she snapped. "The boy isn't all-powerful, but for this task he is more than capable."

Severus arched an eyebrow. "We'll see."

There was a brief, awkward silence. "So," Black said brightly, "has anyone come up with any ideas for a name? Arabella spent the whole morning chasing me with her broomstick when she heard what we had." He rubbed his head. "For an old woman, she's the most athletic person I've ever met."

"What about the Order of the Phoenix?" Lupin suggested, ignoring the last comment. "It's an appropriate name for a group that's fighting the Dark Arts."

Black considered it. "Nah," he said finally. "It'll never catch on."

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The rest of the summer passed without incident - very strangely, mind you, but without incident. If Harry hadn't known better, he could have sworn that Fudge was right, that Voldemort hadn't actually risen again. Oh, the Dursleys were still acting oddly, but Harry couldn't complain, since this new behavior was definitely preferable to the old. And if Ron sent odd messages and behaved as though he was keeping secrets, or Hermione was sounding downright defensive about Ron nowadays - well, he had had suspicions about how his two best friends felt about each other for quite a while, and he reckoned that they were probably entitled to behave somewhat differently. All in all, a quiet, uneventful summer.

That is, until the dream.

He had gone to bed early that night after a dinner of blanched cauliflower with chocolate syrup. He was dozing peacefully when...

"Potter? Potter!"

Harry opened his eyes, and knew immediately that wherever he was, it certainly wasn't his bedroom. He was sitting in what looked like Uncle Vernon's office at Grunnings, looking at the tall woman behind the desk who stared at him critically. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The woman's gaze made him feel like an insect under a Muggle microscope.

"Well, finally," she said briskly. "Honestly, Harry, you're the most stubborn mortal I've ever met. It's taken me all summer to chip through your mental defenses enough to talk with you."

Harry looked at her, not sure whether he was being complimented or insulted - and he definitely didn't like the sound of "chipping through your mental defenses." Still, she didn't seem to want to hurt him. "Er - do I know you?" he asked quizzically.

The woman grimaced. "Look," she said. "Like I was telling your friend Ron the other day, I'm on a tight schedule, so don't ask unnecessary questions, okay?"

"You've talked to Ron?"

"Obviously," the woman said acidly. "Now, let's get down to business. Has Ron passed on my message to you about the Doom Carrots?"

"You mean the one about knitting?"

"Bingo." It was said in the same acerbic tone as before, but Harry thought that he detected a faint note of relief in her voice. "I can't say too much now, but remember that, or you don't have a chance of surviving this year."

Harry shivered in spite of himself. "What's going to happen this year?"

The woman grimaced again. "You never make things easy, do you?" she murmured as though speaking to herself, and then held up a hand to forestall Harry's response. "Never mind, don't answer that. I can't say anything directly, but I'll give you a hint. What comes to mind when you think of knitting?"

Harry thought about it. "It makes sense," he said finally. "All the stitches make sense."

The woman closed her eyes in relief. "Thank God for small favors. Yes, Harry, all the stitches make sense. Keep that in mind when you learn what Voldemort is up to." Suddenly her head cocked to one side as though she was listening to a voice that nobody but she could hear. "Oh," she said finally, as though as an afterthought, "I almost forgot. Here." She tossed him a... was it a fish? "You'll be needing this."

Harry stared at the pure white herring in his hands. His head was swimming with questions, each more confused than the last, but what came out of his mouth was, "Er - why is this herring white?"

The woman sighed. "It's a long story. Suffice it to say that I will never, ever eat fish again." There was an awkward pause. "Well," she said finally, "you'll be needing to go to sleep for real now. Goodnight!" And with that, Uncle Vernon's office vanished, and Harry had once again lapsed into blessedly dreamless sleep.

In the morning, as he yawned his way out of bed, he was tempted to think that the dream was simply a bizarre mental reaction brought on by a combination of anxiety about Voldemort and many strange meals. After all, how could knitting possibly defeat evil or the Doom Carrots - whatever they were? All in all, the whole thing seemed absurd.

But he kept the pure white herring that he had found on his pillow, just to be on the safe side.

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At the same time that Harry Potter was debating the merits of whether or not to believe in the power of herring, his mortal enemy was debating the merits of whether or not to throttle Lucius Malfoy.

"Soooo," Voldemort said, drawing out the moment for as long as possible, "tell me again why your alcohol expenses are so high."

Malfoy shifted nervously. He seemed completely sober right now, but Voldemort took a certain vindictive pleasure in noticing that the other man's eyes were distinctly bloodshot. "Well, er, that is - "

"I thought so." The Dark Lord watched his servant through slitted eyes. "Now let me make something clear to you - unless, of course, such a task would be too difficult for your diminutive brain." Oh, what he would give for a loyal, intelligent pureblood to work with. Years of observing various pureblood families had brought him to the conclusion that while some were worth the breathing space they took up, the vast majority were completely worthless.

Not that he would ever admit that to anybody out loud.

"I - I'm listening, My Lord," Malfoy stammered.

"Good boy," Voldemort drawled, observing with great interest as Malfoy's face alternated between terror, indignation, and an expression that could only be called constipated. Hmm. Now that would be an interesting art project once the man had died, as he inevitably would - preferably messily. Perfect an embalming spell so that his death mask shifted through the various Malfoy Expressions: Enraged, drunk, terrified, constipated... oh, the possibilities were endless!

Noticing Malfoy watching him attentively, he pulled his attention away from the flowing of his creative juices and said, "You're aware, I believe, that the recipe for the Cake requires the sacrifice of a pureblood wizard?"

"Yes, My Lord," Malfoy replied, sounding puzzled. "You said that you would be using Harry Potter."

"Yes." Oh, he would be looking forward to that day. "However, Lucius, the recipe does not specifically call for Potter. Before the actual sacrifice took place, it would be simplicity itself to substitute another wizard."

He could not suppress a faint smirk as that statement began to sink in. "M-My Lord," Lucius stammered. "Surely, you aren't suggesting that - "

"No, Lucius, you are quite safe. I still have use for you. However, your son Draco - who, as you've taken such trouble to inform every living organism on the planet, is a pureblood - carries no such guarantees. Now, I would truly hate to lose such a promising young Death Eater. However," his voice had now sunk into a whisper, "do not mistake me, Lucius. If I learn of even one more drop of alcohol passing through your lips between now and the final stages of creating the Cake, Draco will take Potter's place."

"My Lord - "

"You heard me, Lucius." Voldemort paused, drinking in the terror in Malfoy's face. "You have your duties. Now go."

After the man had left, the Dark Lord leaned back, satisfied. He did not expect to have to carry out his threat - Malfoy, being the shrinking coward that he was, would probably make absolutely certain that every drop of liquor within a ten-mile radius of Malfoy Manor was eliminated - but even so, as much as he hated to waste a potentially useful servant, nothing could jeopardize the creation of the Cake. Besides, once he had succeeded, he could do quite well without servants.

A sudden pain in his hands made him look down, and he realized that he was clenching his hands so tightly that his nails had pierced the skin, but somehow he didn't care. He closed his eyes, savoring the anticipation of power. Soon. The Cake would be his, and Potter would be destroyed. Soon. Soon.

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When Lucius Malfoy arrived at Malfoy Manor, he didn't stop to speak to Draco, didn't ask Narcissa how her day had been, didn't do anything that he normally did upon arriving at home. He simply went straight to his study and braced his head in his hands, wishing as he had never wished before that he could have a drink to calm his nerves. Maybe then he could forget the Dark Lord's ultimatum. Maybe then his hands would stop shaking.

And the fact that having something to drink was what had put him in this position in the first place was not lost on him.

When he had become a Death Eater after graduating from Hogwarts, he hadn't regretted it then, and he still didn't regret it now. At his full strength, Voldemort was a leader who anyone in his right mind would be proud to follow, and Lucius was a firm believer in the pureblood cause. He would always be loyal to the Dark Lord, and gladly. He shouldn't balk at any of Voldemort's orders.

But Draco...

The mediwitch had been clear on that score the day of Draco's birth: Narcissa would bear no more children. Lucius hadn't been allowed inside the birthing room, but the blood that had streaked the witch's robe had spoken for itself. Even magical healing could only do so much. Both Narcissa and Draco had survived unblemished, thank Merlin, but since that day there had been the tacit but absolute expectation that neither childbirth nor Draco's conspicuous lack of siblings would ever be discussed in the Malfoy household.

And now this.

The implication in Voldemort's command had been absolutely clear: Draco was expendable. Oh, there might not be any danger in this case - Lucius would make sure of that - but there was no guarantee for the next time that his son was used as a prod. Or the next time. Or the time after that.

He would never betray his master, but he wouldn't let his son and heir die because of the father's indiscretions. Clearly, Draco was in need of some outside protection. Someone who was powerful, yet totally unaffiliated with the Death Eaters. Who could possibly -

Well, the answer to THAT was obvious.

Lucius' lip curled at the thought of his son under the thumb of a Muggle-loving fool like Albus Dumbledore, but there was no help for it. If Draco was to avoid having his chest split open on an altar block, he would need powerful allies other than his father's contacts. And Dumbledore, much as Lucius hated to admit it, was certainly a powerful wizard. Powerful enough, perhaps, to stay the hand of Lord Voldemort.

But how to get Draco under the Mudblood-lover's protection?

Well, that was simple. It might be suspicious if Draco approached Dumbledore directly, but Potter, now... In addition to being the Golden Boy of the wizarding world, Potter was widely known around the school to be one of the Headmaster's favorites. If Draco appealed to Potter, perhaps spouting some drivel about a change of heart, Potter, being an idiotically noble Gryffindor, would undoubtedly leap at the chance to redeem a "Slimy Slytherin." And as to explaining his son's sudden "redemption" to Voldemort, it was reasonable - no, understandable - for Lucius Malfoy, the perfect Death Eater, to want to place a spy in the enemy's camp. And if Draco was corrupted by the influence of Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers... no, he was being foolish. His son would never become a Muggle-lover. He was sure of that. Draco would live - he would! - to become a fully-fledged Death Eater and Dark Wizard, and would eventually sire heirs of his own.

Ideologies might change, but Malfoys were forever.

Feeling more lighthearted than he ever had since coming home, Lucius lifted his head out of his hands, and set out to owl his proposal to Lord Voldemort.

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Three Weeks Later

Grumbling inwardly about stupid Ministry regulations that wouldn't let him use a Levitation Charm outside of school, Draco Malfoy trudged along platform Nine and Three-Quarters with his trunk in tow. If either Vincent or Gregory had been there, he could have dragooned either of them into hauling his trunk for him, but neither Vincent nor Gregory were anywhere to be seen. Normally, he wouldn't have minded all that much - growing up as an only child had made him relatively solitary by nature, and neither of the two hulking idiots were much good for anything beyond heavy lifting or agreeing with everything he said - but getting on the Hogwarts Express without his two sycophants made him feel oddly exposed.

Particularly in light of his father's request.

He still wasn't too certain how he felt about it. Oh, he would do it - he respected his father too much to do otherwise, and it would be worth it to stick it to those self-righteous Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers - but the thought of even pretending to be friends with Potter and his cronies made Draco's stomach turn.

Perfect Potter.

Potter, who was adored for no better reason than having a stupid scar on his forehead. Potter, who was favored by nearly every teacher in the school right up to Dumbledore. Potter, who had broken nearly every school rule in the book but had never gotten more than detention. Potter, who had refused Draco's friendship on the very first train-ride but still expected Draco to be civil. Potter the Triwizard champion, Hogwarts' star Seeker, Champion of the Oppressed, and general all-around Hero with a capitol H.

He wasn't even all that good-looking or even all that powerful, Draco thought, giving his trunk a vengeful tug. A scrawny little boy with perpetually messy hair and a voice that still sounded like it had at eleven, Potter was generally unimpressive. Hardly the kind of wizard you'd expect to save the world.

Draco's thoughts were disturbed by the brief sensations of tripping and falling before landing flat on his face, the momentum causing the hood of his brand new robes to fly up and land messily on top of his head. As he started to get up, footsteps sounded nearby, and an all-too-familiar voice said, "Need help?"

Freezing in shock at the sound of Potter's voice - oh, Father, I wasn't prepared for this - Draco accepted Potter's help, making a mental note to wash his hands afterward, and casually said, "Thanks."

He waited for a response, enjoying the other boy's shock. Finally, Potter said, "Er - you're welcome," before turning and stepping onto the train.

When Potter had gone, Draco stood still for a moment, silently willing his head to stop spinning. He could do this. He was a Malfoy, he was a wizard, and he was a pureblood. For his father's sake, he could do this.

He was sure that he was only imagining that he had actually enjoyed that one brief, civil exchange.