The Serpentine Chain Part 1 - Year Of The Snake

The Serpentine Chain Part One

Chapter Eight -- Family Affairs

After the successful completion of the Impervio potion, Aurelius' extra-curricular work with his cousin had increased -- Quintus had required his assistance several times in the last week alone. Not for the first time, Aurelius was glad he'd dropped out of the Quidditch team the year before. Even so, it was almost impossible fitting in all his regular work around his covert work with Quintus. He'd had more than one sleepless night catching up on missed assignments. Although his cousin had said something about putting his NEWTs first, they both knew there was no way Aurelius Snape was going to miss out on the chance to brew potions such as the Impervio or Veritaserum -- potions he had never been allowed to brew at home. His father was strict about such things.

"You look terrible." Quintus' blunt, yet unconscious echoing of his own thoughts. "Did you sleep last night?"

"Well enough," Aurelius replied neutrally. He looked closely at his cousin. From the dark circles under Quintus' eyes, Aurelius guessed he wasn't the only Snape suffering from sleepless nights and overwork. He wondered if his cousin had been taking on private orders as well as those from the Ministry. It wouldn't be the first time the Snape family had bent the regulations in that area. Then he wondered if there were other Ministry orders that he knew nothing about. Probably, he thought. By rights I shouldn't know about any of them.

The Potions Master looked slightly abashed. "I didn't mean to sound insulting," he said belatedly.

Aurelius shrugged. A youthful complexion and shiny glossy hair were not high on his list of priorities right now. There were more important things to think about. "I was up rather late last night," he offered.

Quintus looked at his cousin, expressionlessly. "Lots to do?"

"The usual." Aurelius met his gaze directly. "Nothing I can't handle."

The determination in the Slytherin's dark eyes, so like Quintus' own, seemed to convince the teacher. Yet -- "I demand a lot from you, don't I?"

Aurelius' gaze swept over his cousin's face, lingering on the shadows under Quintus' eyes. "No more than from yourself, surely."

"Deadly Nightshade," Quintus said abruptly, tone suddenly that of the demanding, precise teacher that he had so quickly become. "What do you know about it?"

Aurelius' well-trained mind instantly sought and retrieved the plant's details from an extensive mental catalogue. His response was textbook perfect. "Deadly Nightshade is also known as Belladonna, Devil's Cherries, Naughty Man's Cherries, Divale, Black Cherry, Devil's Herb, Great Morel, and Dwayberry. It is widely distributed over Central and Southern Europe, South-west Asia and Algeria; cultivated in England, France and North America --"

"Medicinal uses," Quintus interjected.

Aurelius drew a deep breath. "Narcotic, diuretic, sedative, antispasmodic, mydriatic. Belladonna is a most valuable plant in the treatment of eye diseases, Atropine, obtained during extraction, being its most important constituent on account of its power of dilating the pupil."

He paused, watching his cousin. Quintus nodded for him to continue.

"As an antidote to Opium, Atropine may be injected subcutaneously, and it has also been used in poisoning by Calabar bean and in wormwood poisoning. It has no action on the voluntary muscles, but the nerve endings in involuntary muscles are paralyzed by large doses, the paralysis finally affecting the central nervous system, causing excitement and delirium."

Aurelius halted, aware of his cousin's close scrutiny.

"Good," Quintus said, seemingly satisfied. "Now, in brief -- thresher's root."

"Some use it to make an ointment for sore shoulders and backs. That's where the name comes from," Aurelius said, eternally grateful for his good memory. He carried on, watching Quintus as he quoted from the first herbal he'd ever studied. "But if you distil a tincture from it and mix it well in wine it's never tasted, and it will make a grown man sleep a day and a night and a day again, or make a child die in his sleep."

Quintus Snape nodded, his eyes suddenly veiled.

Aurelius ventured further. "Thresher's root and belladonna, when prepared correctly, form the Nox Mirabilis potion, which can inflict complete paralysis upon the subject, bringing him or her into a semi-comatose state. Hallucinations may occur, depending on the strength of the draught."

His cousin was silent for a moment. "Nox Mirabilis is a potent interrogation aid," he informed Aurelius. "Not used by the Ministry," he added swiftly.

"Grindelwald?" Aurelius asked, not needing the nod of assent from his cousin.

Quintus sighed. "The bodies of three Aurors were found in Belgium last week," he said. "Traces of Nox Mirabilis were found in their bloodstream."

"I thought our Aurors had been taking the Impervio as protection?"

Aurelius' cousin looked vaguely sickened. "The Impervio builds upon the body's natural resistance. The bodies -- what little was left of them -- indicated that the Aurors had been weakened by starvation for an indefinite period. No doubt they'd been in captivity for some time."

Aurelius looked at him shrewdly. "I suppose the Minister is under a lot of pressure to retaliate?"

"The dead Aurors have been listed as "missing in action" -- the Ministry does not want this to become public knowledge. However, the Minister is considering allowing the Aurors greater powers, yes," Quintus said delicately. "Powers that will enhance their ability to incapacitate, and to interrogate suspects."

"He's not going to authorize the use of Unforgivables, is he?" Aurelius asked in surprise. Andrew Copernicus, the Minister of Magic, was a hide bound traditionalist through and through.

Quintus smiled tiredly. "He'd never keep something like that quiet. The liberals in the Ministry would have a field day."

"Professional suicide," Aurelius murmured. "And Grindelwald hasn't threatened us directly yet."

"He will," Quintus said quietly.

Aurelius looked at him. "What do you mean?"

The Potions Master glanced away; over to where Kirilov's ship brandished a wooden axe in fierce joy. His voice was almost inaudible. "You'll have learned from History of Magic, no doubt, about the years of Grindelwald's rise to power?"

"Of course," Aurelius said, and began to rattle off the contents of one of Professor Binns' many lectures. "Taking advantage of the Muggle World War, he established a power base in Albania in 1915, during a time of civic upheaval and social unrest. In 1917 a skirmish between Romanian wizards and Grindelwald supporters left 150 dead. Reports of disappearances in and around the Black Forest caused concern in the 1920s --"

"Yes, quite," said Quintus hurriedly, stopping his cousin before he could continue. "During any Dark wizard's rise to power, Grindelwald, Richelieu, Skryabin, whoever, there have always been disappearances. Key government officials, public figureheads -- the pattern is always the same."

"Well?" Aurelius said, as his cousin paused.

"Two retired ministry workers -- ex-Unspeakables -- have disappeared," Quintus said, his voice hushed. "They'd been living under false identities in the north of England for their own protection, but it wasn't enough."

"Why retired ministry workers?" Aurelius asked. "And why Unspeakables? They're not public figures, I'd be surprised if anyone had heard of them."

"They retired fifteen years ago," Quintus said, black eyes distant. "Shortly after the death of the last known visionweaver -- Althea Trell. Their department was responsible for the protection and concealment of visionweavers from Grindelwald during the Early Years."

"Could be coincidence," Aurelius said, chewing his lip.

Quintus shook his head. "Unlikely," he answered. "Certain -- elements -- are exactly similar to the original disappearances in Germany."

Aurelius looked at him curiously. "How do you know?" he asked.

"My dealings with the Ministry are ambiguous," Quintus said flatly. "If they ask me to brew a potentially lethal potion, I have the right to know what it is for."

"So you've been asked to brew Nox Mirabilis," Aurelius guessed. "For the Department of Mysteries, for purely research purposes of course," he added ironically.

"Of course," Professor Snape agreed.

"And you want me to assist."

"You know that research subjects," he hesitated slightly upon those words, "will undoubtedly succumb to high concentrations of this potion?"

Aurelius nodded.

"And you are prepared to accept your indirect responsibility for this?"

"Is the Ministry aware of my role in this?" asked Aurelius suddenly.

"The Ministry is officially unaware of all our actions," his cousin replied. "And that wasn't what I meant."

"I know what you meant," Aurelius replied. Black eyes met black as a gold-skinned woman shouted something inaudible from the decks of the Paragon. "Why did you tell me? About the Unspeakables?"

Quintus did not look away. "You have to know," he said. "If you are to assist me, you have to know exactly what you're doing, why you're doing it, and what the consequences will be. In brewing certain potions, we come very close to the Dark arts -- I need to know you understand why this is necessary."

Aurelius was silent for a moment. Then -- "The Ollivanders don't stop making wands out of fear of what we may do with them."

"True," Quintus admitted. "Wands are neutral, whether they kill or heal depends entirely upon the wizard. But you know as well as I that certain potions lack that neutrality."

"We aren't responsible for the actions of others," Aurelius insisted. "If I brewed a simple Sleeping Draught, and someone used excessively large doses in order to kill, I would not be responsible for it. If I made knives, and one was used to commit a murder, I wouldn't be responsible. What the Aurors do with the Nox Mirabilis is their own responsibility."

Quintus said nothing, his eyes hooded.

Aurelius continued, prompted by the silence. "Learning is never wrong. Even learning how to brew poisons, potions that kill, isn't wrong. Or right. It's just a thing to learn."

"Good," Quintus said, but he didn't seem as pleased as he might have. "That's well enough, then," he added, so softly that Aurelius almost missed it.

*

Constance hadn't even been born when her uncle left England in June of 1927. He'd remained in Europe for the best part of a decade, returning to teach at Hogwarts when she was nine. For most of her childhood, her knowledge of Octavius Malfoy had been limited to the brief, occasional letters that had been owled to her father, and the irritable comments with which Julius Malfoy had embellished them.

Her father was a staunch traditionalist. He'd inherited the family fortune upon the death of their grandfather Caecilius in 1918, and since then had devoted himself to increasing Malfoy prestige, firstly through marriage to Cecilia Zabini, then later through careful involvement in the Wizarding Stock Exchange. He was careful not to involve himself too closely in trade, deeming it "common", yet had sharp business acumen. The same could not be said for his brother.

Octavius Malfoy, it seemed, was the closest her family had ever come to a black sheep. Remaining steadfastly unmarried, unattached and uninterested, despite the repeated exhortations from his brother and father, Octavius had headed for the dubious glamour of Europe shortly after graduating. At the age of twenty, he'd been involved in the fourteenth Transylvanian Civil War of 1929, at twenty-three he was participating in the Siberian War of Independence. A hastily scrawled note, arriving at Malfoy Manor one sunny morning in 1933 informed his relatives that he'd been mingling with Romanian vampires, werewolves, hags "and other unsavoury types," Julius Malfoy had snorted, reading the letter to his wife. "Dabbling in subhuman politics is all very well for people without family names and reputations to uphold," he'd informed the family over the dark mahogany breakfast table. "He'd better be damned well careful he doesn't embarrass us further."

Gallivanting around the seedier areas of Eastern and Central Europe -- Transylvania, Romania, Albania -- and the glamorous -- Berlin, Paris, Vienna -- Octavius seemed hell bent on becoming some form of international playboy. The Malfoys could do without that kind of behaviour, and Julius had decided to ignore his wayward brother's existence as best he could. Constance and Marcus were forbidden to mention his name, despite their curiosity. The letters Octavius sent his brother were read, but unanswered. Eventually they became even less frequent. This ploy worked up until December 1935, when the large peregrine falcon that arrived, bearing a large letter with an official seal, all but dashed Julius' hopes for a peaceful life. It transpired that Octavius had been arrested by the Societe -- the French magical community's equivalent to the Aurors. He was charged with unlawful possession of three Manticores, the attempted smuggling of said Manticores across the Spanish border, and the unlawful use of Memory Charms upon various French officials.

Julius Malfoy had been absolutely livid. Constance and Marcus, eavesdropping, had heard it all. Their father had had to bail his troublesome brother out of the Bastille for a very large amount of money. A further, sizeable amount had had to be spent on bribes -- Julius did not want the knowledge of the unrepentant Octavius' exploits brought into the public domain. Finally resolving to settle Octavius down once and for all, he'd convinced Armando Dippet to take him on as Defence against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts, using his brother's misspent years as proof of relevant experience. The board of governors offered no objections -- those who weren't related to the Malfoys in some way were employed by them. Octavius' objections had been effectively silenced by Julius' threat to cut off all his financial allowances.

That had been in 1936, two years before Constance had started Hogwarts. She and Marcus had had a definite advantage over the other students, receiving tuition from their uncle before they received their welcoming letter. Once they'd started, they were given extra help during the summer holidays, Octavius teaching them certain things that would only be found on Durmstrang's curriculum. Curses, for example. It was tacitly agreed between the three of them that what Julius Malfoy did not know, wouldn't hurt him.

That's it

, Constance had thought ruefully. She didn't really know anything more about her uncle. She'd considered simply owling her father with a few carefully phrased questions about Octavius' European sojourn, but had rejected that very quickly. Even if her father accepted that her sudden desire to write was purely down to filial love, it was highly unlikely that he'd be able to satisfy her curiosity. If Seraphim's insinuations were true, and her uncle had dabbled in the Dark Arts, she would never get a straight answer out of her father. He wouldn't want to admit his own lack of knowledge, to begin with -- it wasn't likely that Octavius would have told him something of that ilk anyway.

It was strange. She'd thought she was supposed to be surprised, shocked at the possibility that her uncle might have had something to do with the Dark Arts. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized it was probably true. He'd been in areas of Europe with noted Dark activity, he'd knew curses and spells that he'd certainly never been taught at Hogwarts, he had not been against a little rule-bending in France, as he'd put it to her irate father. She had been deliberately avoiding probing too deeply into her uncle's past. Marcus wouldn't have, she thought suddenly. Then --

Marcus will know

.

The thought had struck her suddenly, although she wondered if it, too, had been something she'd been repressing. Her uncle and her brother had long conversations together during the summer just gone, conversations ostensibly about his forthcoming NEWTs. Intense looking conversations that ended when she approached. His Defence against the Dark Arts marks, always high, had skyrocketed recently -- she knew he'd been practicing privately with her uncle during lunchtimes. She'd been suddenly convinced -- Marcus knew.

I should ask him. But will he tell me the truth?

As she pondered the decision she'd made the night before, she let out a sigh.

"Sickle for them?" Aurelius murmured softly, breaking into her thoughts.

"The thoughts of a Malfoy are worth far more than that," she replied automatically.

Aurelius, teasing. "Because they're so rare?"

"Quality's better than quantity," she said, taking comfort in their familiar routine. "Surely a Snape should know that."

Professor Cale had assigned the class work at the beginning of the lesson -- simply copying notes from one of their textbooks upon the properties of Illusory Chants -- so that he could get on with marking seventh year essays about cyclic form chants. Yet as she glanced up at him, he was staring absently off into space, Constance noted, looking even more distracted than she had. He was drumming his fingers to some imaginary music on the desk. Looking at his thin, elegant fingers, Constance thought he must be tapping out some sombre funereal composition.

Aurelius followed her gaze, misinterpreting it. "Oh Gods, Constance, not again!" he sighed, eyes bright with amused malice.

She looked at him in surprise. "What?"

"Lockhart was one thing," he said, yawning, "but Cale? He's not as dim as your uncle likes to make out, you know -- he's bound to notice you swooning and sighing all over the place --"

"I am NOT swooning," Constance said, more loudly than she'd intended. Several people looked around curiously. She carried on in a lower voice. "He merely happened to be in my line of vision, thank you very much."

Aurelius looked highly doubtful, but noting the murderous glint in Constance's eyes, let it go. He turned back to his parchment and began to scribble on it furiously.

She returned to her thoughts. She hadn't told anyone what exactly had gone on in Professor Seraphim's office almost a week ago. The Slytherins had quizzed her mercilessly during Divination, whilst Stuart Coombes, both shaken and stirred, had glowered at her in a manner that was decidedly lacking in chivalrous impulses.

"Well?" Richard had demanded. "What happened?"

"Oh," Constance said. "Seraphim just ranted at me a bit -- told me that I'd behaved appallingly, that I was evil, that Slytherins should be made to pick mandrakes without ear muffs -- the usual stuff. You know, I think he's got a real chip on his shoulder about something -- he seems very bitter towards people who are better off than him."

"Working class hero," Richard nodded wisely. "Some Gryffindors are like that. They have rights, and by GOD they're going to stand up for them!"

Constance smirked at the irritated look on Stuart Coombes' face. He didn't dare say anything in Professor Haven's lesson, but he could undoubtedly hear everything that was said.

Tom Riddle had been listening intently. "I assume Professor Seraphim didn't take kindly to being interrupted?" he said.

"You mean, by my uncle?" Constance asked unnecessarily. "They don't like each other, that's for certain."

"So what happened?" Richard asked eagerly. "Will it be wands at twenty paces at dawn tomorrow?"

"Sorry to disappoint your insatiable bloodlust," Constance said wryly, looking at Richard's war wounds with some amusement. "But they just seethed and snarled at each other. Seraphim technically outranks my uncle -- but he's head of Gryffindor. Whereas my uncle may not be head of our House, but he is a Slytherin and therefore I should be his responsibility, not Seraphim's."

"What's happening to you then," Tom asked. "I take it your punishment's the same as everyone else's?"

He was looking at her shrewdly, his piercing turquoise eyes meeting hers. She had the distinct impression he knew she was holding something back.

Constance nodded. "Seraphim got so annoyed with my uncle that he ordered us both out of his office, forgetting to add to my punishment. It's just detention for two weeks, like the others. And the points are for all of us, but it won't take long to get them back."

"Your uncle gave me ten at the start of his lesson anyway," Tom said. "So we're only forty down."

"Forty points is nothing," Richard proclaimed confidently. "With Tom by our side, we'll do battle as we ride, 'gainst the foe that would lead us astray!" he caroled in an incredibly tuneless whisper.

Both Constance and Tom looked at him.

"Richard, I sincerely hope you die soon," sighed Constance. "In the most painful, humiliating, undignified fashion imaginable."

"That's a Muggle hymn -- how on earth do you know it?" Tom asked.

"Quiet over there," Professor Haven called mildly, ending their conversation. The Gryffindors had scowled at Haven's distinct lack of point taking, but remained silent.

The bell rang, bringing Constance back to the present with a jolt. Professor Cale seemed as disconcerted as she, glancing down at the large amount of paperwork on his desk, but recovered quickly and dismissed them without homework. As they left the classroom, she noted he was already lost in his thoughts again.

Marcus

, she thought, incongruously.

*