The Serpentine Chain Part 1 - Year Of The Snake

Chapter Eleven – The Danger Within

Sunday evening, and the owls were restless, some circling aimlessly, others flapping their wings and shifting on their perches. As if Constance’s presence in the Owlery made them uncomfortable, somehow. Ignoring the offended hoots of several tawny coloured birds, she made her way over to the window where her own eagle owl was sitting in aloof isolation.

"Hello, Janus," she greeted her pet amiably, ruffling the owl’s feathers as she did so. Janus, managing to maintain a form of owlish dignity, nipped her hand playfully. "No letters today," Constance said. "Or parcels," she added, remembering the DictaQuills. "But I brought you something to eat."

As she fed her owl, she glanced out of the window at the cold grey October skies above. Marcus should be here soon, she thought, running the events of the day through her mind again. Her dreams that Sunday morning had indeed been strangely vivid, and Tom Riddle a cool presence throughout them all, although she hadn’t mentioned that to either of her friends. He’d been with her in the Forbidden Forest, his words from their conversation by the portrait echoing beneath the trees, under the stars as the dark haired centaur gazed in silence, above the unicorn sleeping on the grass, along with words she’d never heard him speak but seemed somehow fitting.

"Would you. If you had the chance?"

"Against a peer? Never."

A word, slight emphasis. A pause. A smile. Eyes like leaves, or rare stones, turquoise and green meeting over her head, and to whom is he speaking as he continues in a low, half whisper? She knows the words are not his, but cannot place their source.

"Such a mutual pair." A deep thrill in his voice, something pleases him. "We stand up peerless."

She’d lingered between sleep and wakefulness for a long time, as other dreams she wouldn’t remember until much later played themselves out for her. When she finally awoke, her resolve to question her brother had crystallized. She’d decided against joining Aurelius and Richard in the library that morning, and had gone to the common room, in search of her brother. Learning from a tired looking seventh year that Marcus, Tom and the head boy had headed to the library themselves only a few minutes earlier, she changed her mind again, and hurried off through the corridors and stairwells of the castle. An idea had formed during the night, and she intended to put it into practice as soon as possible.

Sitting with Aurelius and Richard, she watched as her brother discussed something with Felix, and Riddle noted something down in a small black book. The sixth year didn’t look up, but she did not presume that he was entirely unaware of her regard. She was fully aware of Aurelius looking at her, although she did not show it. Let him think what he wants, she thought, aware of the interpretation her friend would place upon her actions. Aurelius could be remarkably sentimental where some things were concerned. There are more important things to do. Riddle’s words exactly, although about Quidditch. She remembered.

She took the brief opportunity offered her as Riddle and DuPré entered the Restricted Section, to request something of her brother. For once, Marcus proved amenable, and had acquiesced, with only a raised eyebrow to indicate any visible reaction.

"The Owlery, seven o’clock," he’d said indifferently. "We can discuss the details there."

She’d set off for the Owlery early, leaving Aurelius and Richard battling it out over a game of chess in the common room. The sudden string of expletives as she’d slipped out of the door implied that Richard was losing. And not particularly liking the experience. She didn’t need to look back to see the satisfied smirk on Aurelius’ face – it was the one he wore whenever he slaughtered her at chess. Which occurred rather more frequently than she’d like. Chess wasn’t her strong point.

The creaking of the door as it opened caused several of the owls to flap their wings in indignation, but Constance was pleased to see that Janus remained composed. She turned to face her brother, smiling a greeting.

"I might have known you’d be early," he said, somewhat ungraciously.

"So are you, technically," Constance pointed out. "It’s only five to seven."

"True," Marcus conceded. "Obviously I misjudged the depth of your desire for a spot of familial bonding."

Constance sighed dramatically. "Is it so wrong to want to spend quality time with one’s older brother?" she said.

"You’ve never been particularly keen on spending quality time with me before," Marcus said dryly.

Not entirely true, brother dear,

Constance thought. She and Marcus had been fairly close, up until her first year at Hogwarts. Although it was an unwritten law that family came first, Marcus hadn’t wanted his little sister tagging along with his friends. And it wasn’t as if she particularly wanted him mixing with Aurelius and Richard, for that matter. The arrangement suited everyone concerned. She decided to get to the point.

"Needs must," she said, dropping any attempt at subtlety. Family was family, after all.

"You need me, little sister? I’m touched, truly."

Constance rolled her eyes. "No need to rub it in," she murmured. "But as I said earlier, I do need your assistance."

"You want me to give you dueling lessons," Marcus said, repeating what she’d asked him earlier in the library. "Why?"

She raised an eyebrow. "The same reason you have extra tuition with our uncle, no doubt," she’d said by way of a reply, taking care to keep her voice neutral. Take that any way you like it, brother dear. "Throwing the odd hex at the Gryffindors never fails to amuse – but it’s hardly the cutting edge of magical warfare. It’s not real magic."

"Planning on joining the Aurors?" her brother asked, a hint of amusement in his voice that only another Malfoy would notice. For all intents and purposes, his expression and tone were deadly serious.

"Oh, definitely," Constance said, a trace of scorn in her voice. "I’ve always wanted to work for my living."

Her brother smiled slightly, but didn’t press her for a clearer answer. Nor did he ask why she’d come to him instead of their uncle – something that partially confirmed her suspicions about the relationship between them. She was aware that Marcus and their uncle had been discussing Aurelius behind his back – the scene in the library had made that clear – and had guessed that Octavius Malfoy would have also relayed the details of the scene with Seraphim to Marcus. Moreover, her uncle was not the type of man who would have allowed Seraphim to hint at such things in front of her without a good reason. And Marcus hadn’t been surprised when she’d made her request in the library, either. There was a reason for everything a Malfoy did, no matter which member of the family it was.

She was being tested.

Both Marcus and her uncle wanted her to do exactly what she was doing – trying to find out if Seraphim’s accusations had any basis in reality. And Constance had realized a few days ago that not only was she fairly sure they did, she wanted it to be so. Because the excuse she’d just given her brother was true – she wanted to be more than just a Slytherin with a nice command of irritating hexes. She did want to extend her knowledge, and badly. Her uncle had given her enough clues, it was up to her to follow them. It was part of the test. To see if she had potential.

Real magic

. She was aware of the contempt with which people viewed practitioners of the Dark Arts. It was a fairly recent prejudice, based upon the actions of Grindelwald and his followers and one that she didn’t share. True Dark Arts masters were rare, nowadays. The legislation passed by Ferdinand Flay, the then Minister of Magic, in 1919 carried very harsh penalties against what was deemed to be improper use of magic. Dark magic is anything that contradicts the status quo, Aurelius had said during the History of Magic lesson in which they’d learned about the 1919 Agreement. Anything that makes people think for themselves, about how to improve their lives, their family prospects. Still, it keeps the plebes in line, he’d added, sniggering. Constance had agreed with him. She didn’t think that magic, in itself, was dark or light. It was neutral. Despite what people like Seraphim thought, a Dark witch or wizard wouldn’t necessarily be a conscienceless, remorseless killer in league with Grindelwald. The Ministry’s view of Dark wizards as people who were solely bent on destruction and chaos was ridiculous. It was about personal ambition. Family ambition. Ambition wasn’t a bad thing, and it certainly didn’t make you insane. The will to power was the motivating factor behind everybody’s actions, after all.

And if her uncle was willing to teach her, as she was sure he was teaching Marcus, it was all to the good of the family. She was under no illusions as to her eventual fate – she knew what was demanded from the children of aristocratic families. The continuation of the bloodline was essential. Marcus would have a suitable wife selected for him to produce an heir. Constance herself would be married off to another wealthy pureblood. If Tom Riddle had been a full-blooded Zalaras, Constance thought, Father would have sold his soul to marry me off to him. The Zalaras family dated back to the time of the Founders – Constance wasn’t sure what had possessed Styliane Zalaras to marry a Muggle, but she’d seriously damaged her son’s chances of success in aristocratic wizarding society. She could just imagine her father’s reaction to the prospect of Muggle blood infiltrating the Malfoy family, and it wasn’t pretty. She felt a more than just a twinge of sympathy for Tom.

But the world being what it was, and judging by her father’s long interest in the Snape Pharmaceutical Company, she’d probably end up with Aurelius. The fact that they’d known each other since birth was a strong case for this alliance. And if she had Dark skills, she’d be able to offer more than just the Malfoy family name as part of the wedding bargain. After all, a powerful wife would make her husband a powerful ally, would be better able to further the interests of the family, and she’d be more likely to be able to choose for herself which alliance she wanted to make.

If indeed, she wanted to make any alliances.

She didn’t mind marrying Aurelius, but that wasn’t the point. She remembered only too well what the Hat had said to her during her Sorting. She did want to prove herself, to her family and as an individual. Ironic how her complaints to Seraphim – that girls from old wizarding families were often seen as ornaments – had actually been based on truth. But throughout the history of the Malfoy family, there’d been women who’d proved they were otherwise, and most of them had been Dark Witches. Elaria and Ember Malfoy, known as the Dark Twins to the fifteenth century wizarding world, had been her childhood heroines. She’d daydreamed about being the most powerful witch since she was very young – hadn’t she and Marcus had played at being Salazar Slytherin and his Heiress ever since they’d been able to read Hogwarts: A History?

The aura of power she craved clung to her uncle. He wore it like a caged tiger, stalking the Hogwarts corridors. Her father had it too, but in a different way. He had the power due to him as the firstborn, the heart of the family. Her mother lacked it, but then, her mother was only a Malfoy by marriage. Constance knew full well that, married or no, those born Malfoys stayed Malfoys. Although they were loyal to the families they married into, their first priority would always be to the blood ties. It was all about survival. Blood will tell, she told herself firmly.

Her brother cleared his throat, bringing her back to the present with a jolt. "So," Marcus said, patting her owl on the head. "You want your first lesson after the Halloween feast? Tomorrow night?"

Constance nodded. "Where, though? The common room’s nowhere near private enough, and I don’t want the world knowing."

"That won’t be a problem," Marcus said, looking strangely satisfied. "Trust me."

Constance looked at him, quizzically. "Well?"

Marcus smiled secretively. "After the Halloween feast," he said. "Wait until then."

*

Although Aurelius usually gave his full attention to his food during the lunch hour, his thoughts that Halloween afternoon were elsewhere. As Richard rambled on about the velocity of various Unforgivable Curses that he’d been researching in Arithmancy, Aurelius’ mind was on the lesson he’d just had earlier that morning with his cousin. Only an hour earlier, he’d been in the dungeons with the other the sixth year Slytherins and Gryffindors. Constance, his usual partner in Potions, had been late to the lesson, giving Richard time to usurp her place next to Aurelius. The brown haired boy had claimed to need Aurelius’ skill in Potions far more than Constance did, and anyway, the blonde girl looked rather pleased at being able to work with Tom Riddle. Looks as though the feeling’s mutual, Aurelius had noted, watching as the usually reticent halfblood cleared a space on his desk for Constance’s things.

Whilst they were brewing a relatively simple Numbing Draught, his cousin handed back the essays they’d just done on Anaesthetizing Potions, murmuring the occasional appreciative remark to a few students as he did so. Aurelius had gained an A, as usual, but there were a few written comments at the bottom of his essay that had nothing to do with Anaesthetizing Potions. As Richard scowled at his uncompromising C grade, Aurelius watched Quintus’ elegant script shimmer and vanish as he read. He’d been turning the words over in his mind ever since. Ten-thirty tonight, if you can make it. See me for a corridor pass at the end of the lesson. The Slytherin frowned slightly, as he wondered why his cousin needed him so soon after they’d finished brewing the Nox Mirabilis. At least I won’t miss the feast tonight, he’d thought. The Halloween feast usually finished around nine-thirty – it’d give him an hour to sort out that night’s homework. He’d wondered hopefully whether Quintus had more work for him.

But it wasn’t just the potions making he enjoyed during his sessions with his cousin, although that was the reason Quintus had requested his assistance in the first place. Aurelius found the news his cousin gave him about the war, about Grindelwald, fascinating. He knew that no one else knew about the missing Unspeakables, and no one yet knew about the Ministry’s plans for retaliation. Knowing things that other people didn’t appealed to him immensely at the best of times – and knowing things of such importance to the wizarding world appealed even more. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that his admiration for his cousin had increased dramatically since he’d learned that the quiet, bookish Quintus had secret links to the Ministry – but he also wondered how much Quintus had been told, and how much Quintus himself had withheld. Because he was holding something back from Aurelius. Even though the Slytherin as a rule distrusted his instincts, he knew himself well enough to know that they were often right. He’d caught his cousin regarding him speculatively from time to time, as if weighing up how much to tell him and how much to conceal. And during the conversation they’d had about the Nox Mirabilis, Aurelius had felt that Quintus was somehow searching him, trying to take his full measure. He’d had the distinct impression that he’d somehow disappointed his cousin with his response, but he didn’t quite know exactly what Quintus wanted from him.

A sudden pain in his side brought him to himself again. Aurelius glared at Richard, who’d just jabbed him with his elbow.

"You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve been saying, have you?" Richard asked.

"No," Aurelius confessed. "My thoughts went off on a tangent some time ago, I’m afraid."

Richard scowled at him. "I can pardon the action," he said, "but not that pathetic joke."

"It was quite weak, I admit," Aurelius said, sheepishly. "Not one of my better efforts. What were you talking about, anyway? The velocity of the Killing Curse, wasn’t it?"

His friend rolled his eyes. "That was about ten minutes ago," Richard pointed out with exaggerated calm. "I was actually trying to show you this." As he spoke, he thrust a copy of that morning’s Daily Prophet in front of Aurelius’ eyes. "Look at the trash they’re employing nowadays – I can’t believe they allow these people to breed."

The heir to the Snape fortune stared at the newspaper in surprise. FORMER MINISTER OF MAGIC MURDERED, screeched the front page. Underneath the overly large headline, the article continued in only slightly smaller print: Dark League Symbol Carved Into Dismembered Corpse! Retired Unspeakables Missing! Grindelwald suspected! Beneath that was a picture of the dead Minister – a tall, gaunt looking man with shadows under his eyes – and several paragraphs that were punctuated intermittently with exclamation marks. Somewhat perturbed by the rather hysterical tone of the usually serious newspaper, Aurelius checked the identity of the reporter. Anita Skeeter, of course.

"You’re right," Aurelius said, reading the article quickly. "I don’t think the Daily Prophet’s going to have much of a future if it continues to employ such dismal plebes. Figg’s okay, but this Skeeter person should have her heart cut out with a spoon."

Richard gave him a curious look. "Why a spoon?"

"Because it’s blunt, you twit," Aurelius murmured. "It’ll hurt more."

"Of course," Richard said, grinning. "Why didn’t I think of that?"

"Because you’re stupid, as I keep telling you," Aurelius replied absently. He was somewhat taken aback by the article, and not just because Anita Skeeter’s spelling mistakes had escaped the notice of the editor. How on earth had the likes of that woman gotten hold of information about the missing Unspeakables – and then wondered how in the name of Salazar Slytherin had somebody as well protected as an ex-Minister had been murdered. And why a retired Minister, he mused, glancing at the dates that had been printed under the picture. Did this new development have anything to do with the fact that Ferdinand Flay, the late Minister had been the one to authorize the Department of Mysteries to conceal any living visionweavers from Grindelwald, years ago? It’s the only connection, he thought. No doubt this is what Quintus wants to see me about. "Why didn’t you show me this earlier?" he demanded.

"Because I left it behind in Divination and I had to go back and get it," Richard explained. His eyes were gleaming with excitement. "The Ministry can’t take it lying down this time, can they?"

"I doubt it," Aurelius said, thinking hard. Although they’ve not been entirely inactive up until now.

"Do you think we’ll go to war?" Richard asked, wide-eyed. "Properly?"

"Don’t worry, Marlowe, I think we’re too young to enlist," Aurelius replied dryly.

Richard scoffed. "Thank heaven for small mercies," he said. "But you know what I mean – do you think Copernicus will do something, now?"

"I – expect so," Aurelius replied, evasively. He’ll have to, now the whole world knows about this.

Constance, who’d been sitting across the table from them as she talked to Teresa, leaned across to read the paper upside down. "Flay’s dead?" she asked incredulously. "How?"

Aurelius scanned the paper, wincing at Skeeter’s irritating penchant for treating her readers as though they were mentally defective. "I shouldn’t say," he said, "it’s too disgusting for the fairer sex. You might faint," he added, grinning.

"Oh just bloody well tell me," Constance snapped. "I’m tougher than you think."

"He was hacked to bits," Aurelius said ghoulishly. He was mesmerized by Skeeter’s lurid description of Flay’s corpse. "One of his house-elves found his fingers shoved inside the taps in his bathroom at home in Surrey – and they had to search the entire house twice before they found the rest of him –"

Richard continued, ignoring Teresa’s faint protest. "Apparently they found his head hidden in a plant pot," he announced, "and you don’t want to know what they did to his eyeballs."

"Yes I do," Constance said quickly. "Tell me!"

"Oh that is so revolting," Aurelius said, pretending to read the section Richard was pointing to. "But quite imaginative, I admit."

"What?" Constance asked, fascinated. "What did they do?"

"They stuffed them," Richard said, beginning to snigger. "With peas!"

"Oh ick," Constance said. "I hate peas."

"And then they fried them," Aurelius added. "Ten points for ingenuity."

"That’s absolutely foul," Teresa said, grimacing. She pushed her Brussel sprouts away. "I’ve lost my appetite now."

"Foul yes, but decidedly stylish," Richard said. "Murderers with culinary flair – you don’t get too many of those nowadays."

"You’d know," Teresa said acidly. "Weirdo."

Aurelius took pity on her. "They didn’t really cut out his eyes and fry them," he said, smirking. "We made that bit up."

"How charming," the auburn haired girl said. "You bunch of degenerates."

"Falsified culinary eccentricities aside," Constance said, rolling her eyes at Richard, "do they know who killed him?"

"They found the Dark League symbol carved into his forehead," Aurelius said. "So it was probably Grindelwald’s lot."

"What symbol?" Teresa asked curiously. "I’ve never heard of any symbol."

"That’s because you don’t pay attention in History of Magic," Richard said righteously. "You should take a leaf out of mine and Aurelius’ book."

"There’s no way you pay attention to Binns," Constance interjected, smilingly.

"True, my fair friend," Richard admitted, "but we used to, during the turbulent, tempestuous, tumultuous days of youth."

"I remember them fondly," Aurelius said, in mock sadness.

"And according to Binns," the brown haired boy continued, ignoring Aurelius, "Grindelwald adopted a big hairy spider as his official insignia about two years ago."

"I hate spiders," Teresa said. "They have too many legs and they scuttle."

Richard leered at her. "I’ll protect you from spiders, my dear," he offered gallantly. "Whether they’re Acromantulas, tarantulas…ah, bugger, I can’t think of anything else that rhymes."

"Why thank you," the auburn haired girl said, smiling flirtatiously. "It’s the thought that counts."

Aurelius and Constance exchanged weary glances as Richard clasped Teresa’s hand affectionately.

"However, if Grindelwald comes after you, you’re on your own," Richard added, grinning as Teresa scowled at him.

"Ever the gentleman, Richard," Constance said, smirking. "Sure you shouldn’t have been a Gryffindor?"

"Ah, don’t remind me of what could have been," Richard said sadly. "I could’ve been sleeping in the same room as Potter if the damn Hat had just seen sense and taken my bribe! Imagine the possibilities!"

"But a true Gryffindor wouldn’t have tried to bribe the Hat," Aurelius said sanctimoniously. "So you can’t keep Potter’s bed warm at nights, unfortunately."

"Never mind," Richard sighed. "Your bed is just as good, Snapikins."

"If I find ever find you within five feet of my bed, I’ll have your eyes stuffed and fried before you can say le vice anglais," Aurelius said, as Constance sniggered.

"I think Flay’s death’s given you ideas," the blonde girl grinned. "You’ll end up in Azkaban, mark my words."

Teresa sniffed. "Doesn’t the fact that a man’s dead mean anything to you?"

"Not really," Richard said lazily. "Fact of life, isn’t it?"

"Death’s the one thing we all have in common," Aurelius agreed. "And it’s not as if we knew him personally."

"Well, actually," Constance said, "my father met him a couple of times – but he was the idiot responsible for half the laws that father’s always complaining about – so it’s not like he’ll miss him."

"God, your father probably bumped him off," Richard said grinning. "Never interfere with the way a Malfoy runs his business, that’s my motto."

"A wise motto," Constance said serenely.

"But he didn’t just die," Teresa insisted. "He was cut up and squashed into plant pots and things."

"Yep, and the Ministry’s testing the remains of his body for the presence of any potions as well," Richard said, rereading the article.

Aurelius blinked. Nox Mirabilis, maybe? Quintus might know.

"Ha," Constance said smugly. "I bet Aurelius’ father was in on the act too. We’re all a bunch of natural born killers."

"You people are horrid," Teresa said haughtily. "I think I’ll go to the library." She paused, obviously waiting for Richard to either stop her going or offer to accompany her.

"See you after the feast, then?" Richard asked cheerfully. "You, me, moonlight – the Quidditch field – don’t be late. I’ll be the Quaffle and you can be the hoop."

"Young love," Constance said sentimentally. "It’s so sweet."

"Indeed," Aurelius said. "I’m touched."

The auburn haired girl blushed as Richard waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Honestly, just cheapen everything why don’t you?" she sighed. "Death - love - it’s all a big joke to you, isn’t it?" And without waiting for an answer, she headed out of the Great Hall.

"She’s very sensitive today," Richard said, staring after her. "But if you can’t laugh the absurdity of the world, what else can you do?"

"True, oh so true," Aurelius agreed. "Life is quite absurd, and death’s the final word."

"Always look on the bright side of death, say I," Richard continued.

"It was pretty sick though," Constance mused, obviously considering Flay’s untimely death. "Fascinating. But sick."

"And I don’t know what she was talking about love for, either," Richard carried on, outraged. "Godric’s tiny balls, I’m sixteen! What does she expect?"

"Maybe it’s that time of the month," Aurelius said wisely, lowering his voice for emphasis. "Girls can get unduly emotional then."

Richard looked confused. "But she’s not a werewolf," he said, and then his eyes grew round. "Oh," he said as the light dawned.

"Lycanthropy," Constance said sternly, "is something men invented to trivialize the suffering of women."

Aurelius smirked. "I’d like to see you try writing that in one of your uncle’s essays," he said.

Constance sighed. "As would I," she said. "But he really didn’t take too kindly to Arya’s idea about vampires, so I’d better not. Family ties can only tolerate so much."

"What idea was this?" Richard asked incautiously.

Oh don’t get her started

, Aurelius begged inwardly. Please. Constance and Arya had been known to go on for hours about the feminine aspects of the moon, and other lady things.

"Well," Constance said, "in all the literary sources, the bite of a vampire has been depicted as the ultimate sexual experience," she paused, smirking. Aurelius looked away as she continued, "and Arya elaborated on this quite a bit, as well as describing the female victims as "happy bleeding women" because they’ve accepted their femininity – and I don’t need to go on, do I?"

Both the boys shook their heads vigorously.

Constance grinned wickedly. "Anyway, my uncle wasn’t impressed."

"I can imagine," Aurelius murmured. "Puts an entirely different slant on Defence against the Dark Arts, anyway."

"Hasn’t your uncle met vampires?" Richard asked. "Didn’t he used to live in Transylvania, or something?"

"He did indeed," Constance said lightly. "No doubt he got up to stuff that’d make even you blush. Although I prefer not to think of him in that way. He being my uncle, after all"

"Yes. Well," Richard said. "Suddenly I feel less hungry."

"Funny how you can handle dismembered corpses with aplomb, but at the first mention of female things you boys go all squeamish," Constance said tartly.

"Actually, it was the thought of your uncle having sex that really put me off my food" Richard said bluntly, causing Constance to shoot him an unbelievably filthy look. "I guess I’m just odd like that," he added innocently.

Aurelius looked at the remnants of his dinner and discovered that his appetite had gone as well, although he hadn’t been particularly hungry to begin with. He glanced at his watch, wondering how much time they had left. The newspaper article had increased tenfold the usual anticipation he felt before a meeting with his cousin – he felt sure that Quintus, having read the papers first thing that morning, would have something to say to him about this new development. War is coming, he thought, and felt a cold tingling run down his spine.

"What time is it?" Constance asked, noticing his action.

"Half one, nearly," Aurelius answered. "Hadn’t we better go?"

Richard sighed, pushing his plate away. "Another thrilling lesson with the delightful Professor Haven," he said, with only a trace of his usual sarcasm in his voice. "My poor brain can’t handle philosophy."

"Your poor brain can’t handle work," Constance corrected him, as the three Slytherins headed for the door.

"There’s no need to rub it in," Richard said sorrowfully. "See you in Charms, Aurelius?"

Aurelius nodded. Because he wasn’t a Divination student, he had a gap in his timetable on Monday afternoons. Although it was ostensibly for study purposes, he usually used it to catch up on missed sleep. As he felt the corridor pass in his pocket, however, he thought he’d visit the library. The connection between Flay, the missing Unspeakables and the visionweavers was puzzling him, and he wanted to do a little extracurricular research.

*

The Halloween decorations this year weren’t too bad, considering that Albus Dumbledore had been in charge, Quintus noted as he looked at the hovering pumpkins that lit the Great Hall with flickering orange light. Shadows danced across the faces of the teachers and students alike, creating a rather pleasant effect that partially compensated for the general aura of gloom that had been hanging over the school all day. Quintus wondered if the unusual sobriety of the décor this year was related to the shocking news that had been in the papers that morning – news that was going to make a lot of people extremely concerned about the possibility of outright war. The death of Aurors in the field was one thing – the murder of a retired man in his own English house was another. And with the missing Unspeakables publicized, Quintus felt sure that the Ministry would have no choice but to retaliate in full force. And if he remembered correctly, Armando Dippet had known the late Mr. Flay quite well. They were roughly the same age, and had gone to school together. For that reason, presumably, the Headmaster had obviously been able to reign in the Transfiguration teacher’s eccentricity this year, because there wasn’t a single dancing skeleton in sight. So there’s a positive side to everything, Quintus thought callously, casting his eye over the staff table. Albus Dumbledore had many gifts, but good taste wasn’t one of them. In fact, he was fairly sure that the Transfiguration professor had been responsible for the orange and green pumpkin flavoured cakes last year – they’d tasted worse than a Purging Draught, according to Lydia Grey. The Potions master had tactfully refrained from asking her how she knew what a Purging Draught tasted like, and had also decided against trying the cakes in the first place. He didn’t trust food that was adorned with moving marzipan goblins. As if in protest against last year’s excesses, Quintus bit into an innocent looking apple – only to gag as he received a mouthful of something that tasted exactly like fairy wings. Sugary, saccharine sweet – everything he hated.

Across the table, the culprit beamed jovially at him. "Nice, isn’t it?" the Transfiguration professor asked merrily, waving his fork in the direction of Quintus’ apple. "My own family recipe! Made it myself!"

"Lovely," Quintus replied weakly. Just – lovely. As soon as Dumbledore turned his attention elsewhere, the Potions master dropped the apple discreetly behind a large dish of potatoes. Octavius Malfoy gave him a very superior look from his position a few seats down, causing Quintus to feel momentarily foolish.

The Potions master was usually fond of Halloween. It was, in his opinion, the first true day of winter, as well as being the Celtic New Year. Quintus wasn’t overly concerned with the Celtic way of things, but it was a nice concept. Winter was his favourite time of year, too, for in spite of his status as a Potions master, he’d yet to find a potion that successfully tackled the hay fever that plagued him during the summer months. This particular Halloween, however, was a distraction he could have done without. He needed time alone to think before his meeting with Aurelius – although his classes had been quieter than normal thanks to the bloody reminder of the threat of war, he needed solitude to clarify his thoughts. But although he could have found some excuse to avoid the feast, he’d felt he had to attend. The Headmaster wasn’t an easy man to refuse at the best of times – and Armando Dippet had said only that afternoon that he expected all members of the faculty to attend. A show of solidarity in the face of recent events, he’d said. From that, Quintus had inferred that the Headmaster would be making a speech.

Christopher Cale’s quiet voice broke into his thoughts. "It hasn’t changed much since we were students, has it?".

The Chantwork teacher looked considerably better than he had last week, Quintus noted. Christopher had gotten very drunk that night at the Three Broomsticks, and had had to be supported back to his room by Quintus and the Flight instructor – the two Slytherin alumni had returned to the castle much earlier. Although Christopher knew about the death of Flay and the missing Unspeakables, Quintus had taken steps to unsure that his friend remained unaware of the more sensational details. His friend had an over active imagination, and he didn’t need a reminder of what Grindelwald’s forces were capable of. With a grimace of distaste, Quintus recalled the description of Flay’s corpse. He hoped that John Cale had met with a cleaner end. Remembering Christopher’s brother, Quintus realized that he hadn’t yet had a reply from his Ministry contact regarding John’s death. It had been three days since he’d sent his tawny owl Fennel off – and his owls were usually answered immediately.

"Not really," Quintus agreed, in response to Christopher’s question. "But then, it wasn’t that long ago since we were students – and I joined the staff straight after graduating, of course."

"This is your – twelfth Halloween feast in a row?"

"About that, yes," the Potions master said, thinking about the conversation he’d had with his uncle five years ago, just before he’d accepted Dippet’s offer of a job. He’d been briefly surprised at how readily his uncle had accepted his plan to take up the position of Potions master – but his carefully trained mind hadn’t taken long to work out why. The heir to the Snape fortune had been about to start Hogwarts – with Quintus on the staff, Valerius Snape had ensured that his son was trained properly at home and at school. Trained in more than just the subtle art of Potions making. The after hours lessons he was giving Aurelius ensured that. And when he was ready, it was understood between Quintus and Valerius that Aurelius would be Quintus’ apprentice. Just as Quintus himself had been Valerius Snape’s apprentice. He felt reluctant to dwell on that subject at the minute, though. You coward, he rebuked himself as he said aloud, "I went straight from the student tables to the staff table."

Christopher Cale looked thoughtful. "I always thought I’d end up teaching, if not here, then elsewhere – but I didn’t imagine it’d be so soon."

"You didn’t have any other plans after you finished at the Conservatory?" Quintus asked, mostly to take his mind off his family. "Didn’t you tell me that the Durmstrang Philharmonic Choir wanted you?"

Christopher smiled ruefully. "I could’ve joined them," he said, "if I’d been more of an ambitious person. But I didn’t want to move so far away, and, well," he shrugged helplessly. "I always wanted to teach, so I took Dippet’s offer instead."

"We’ve never really been out of school, have we?" Quintus said, looking at his glass of wine somewhat regretfully. He was one of the best in the Potions field, naturally, by virtue of his blood – but he’d never really wanted to exploit his talent. Possessing no real personal ambition, he’d never really wanted anything other than the chance to make potions. And besides, when it came down to it, he rather enjoyed teaching. "I really can’t imagine what my life would be like away from Hogwarts now."

"Less safe," Christopher said, bitterness in his voice. He didn’t need to elaborate. "Something bothering you?" he asked, more gently.

"No," Quintus said, with a sigh. He looked away, to where Octavius Malfoy was deep in conversation with an unusually exhausted looking Elspeth Haven. Quintus had often wondered what had driven Octavius to leave England and his family at the age of eighteen, and why he’d stayed away for nearly ten years. Second son syndrome, he thought, gazing at the tall blonde man curiously. Quintus’ own father had suffered from that, the only Gryffindor in a long line of Slytherins and Ravenclaws. Antonius Snape had not had the best relationship with his elder brother, and the two branches of the family had not been especially close. And although Quintus didn’t have any brothers, he could understand the desire to get away from one’s family, from endless centuries of almost overwhelming tradition, breeding, control. It would be enough to drive anyone mad, Quintus thought. Sometimes he almost envied his Muggle born friend his lack of heritage.

Second son or no, just as Octavius Malfoy had returned to England at his brother’s bidding, so too had Antonius Snape had obeyed Valerius’ various requests. Although Quintus had been a fair bit younger than his cousin when he’d brewed his first killing potion, it had been in very similar circumstances. Draught of the Living Death, for the benefit of the Ministry. To be used to carry out the execution of dangerous prisoners. Well, he supposed it was painless enough – and anything was better than the Dementor’s Kiss. Valerius Snape had instructed him personally, during his summers at their family home. His father had either never known, or never objected. Loyaultie me lie – the Snape family motto, and it was just as valid now as it ever had been. I really am my father’s son, aren’t I, he noted sourly. Then he rebuked himself for his self-pity. He remembered the message he’d left for Aurelius on his Potions essay. Only an hour or so until he’d be doing unto Aurelius what had been done unto him. And all at Valerius’ command. Of course. Strange how you asked things of your family that you would never ask of a friend.

He became aware that Christopher was looking at him in concern, and realized he’d been frowning. Cursing himself for allowing his thoughts to distract him from the present, he made a conscious effort to relax. "Long day," he said, by way of explanation. "And I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep."

"Tell me about it," replied the Chantwork teacher, smiling. "I thought my workload would get easier as I got used to it – and then I decided to start offering piano lessons to the first student who flutters his overly long eyelashes at me."

"You do it to yourself, you do, and no one else," Quintus snorted. "When do they start, anyway, the lessons?"

"Wednesday nights," Christopher said. "The boy came back to check it was all right with me earlier today. He seemed very keen."

"I wish I had such dedicated students," Quintus said enviously, gazing over to the Slytherin table, where the student in question was sitting in between his cousin and Constance Malfoy. As if aware of his regard, his cousin turned to face him. Their eyes met, for a moment, as if some silent communication flowed, then Aurelius looked away. "And not just the one who’s related to me."

"Isn’t it odd, teaching a member of your family?" his friend asked, with no small amount of interest.

"It was unnerving at first," Quintus replied honestly, "but it’s actually quite useful. It means I don’t get any trouble from the Slytherin students – and that’s definitely an advantage."

The Chantwork teacher nodded, his eyes on Octavius Malfoy. "It’s no fun being on the bad side of an angry Slytherin, take it from me," he said sheepishly.

Quintus was about to reply, but was interrupted by three loud and ponderous knocks on the table. As Armando Dippet rose slowly from his chair, the Great Hall, which in any case had been less noisy than was usual for the Halloween feast, fell silent. Out of habit, the Potions master glanced around the staff table; taking in the solemn expressions on various teachers, Octavius Malfoy’s discreetly bored air, and the Divination teacher’s sudden interest in the contents of her silver goblet. Looking at the woman closely, Quintus noted that she looked deathly pale, although the low lights in the Hall did much to conceal her unusual pallor. He wondered if she was ill, and then, remembering that she was a friend of the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher, realized that there was a more likely explanation. Another person who can’t handle their drink, he thought smugly. One of the good points about being a Snape was that he had a very good head for spirits. Hangovers were rare, and seldom lasted long.

"You are all no doubt aware," Dippet said heavily, looking at the assembled students, "that the tragic events of today are very likely to lead us headlong into war. Some of you in this hall have already suffered directly as a result of Grindelwald’s Dark forces – and it appears that even we in Britain are no longer safe from his evil."

There was a soft murmur from the Ravenclaw table, where Amelie Piaf, one of the Beauxbatons students, was crying quietly. As he watched Amber Vetinari’s attempts to console her, Quintus remembered that Dark wizards had killed both the French girl’s parents a few weeks prior to her arrival at Hogwarts. Now, he supposed Britain was looking less and less the safe haven it had been only a few months ago.

Dippet cleared his throat, and continued. "We are all living in dark, difficult times, but I would like to say to you all upon this Halloween night that we at Hogwarts will do whatever it takes to secure the safety of our students."

Whatever it takes

, Quintus thought. Three words that would do just as well for his family motto – Valerius Snape had been particularly fond of them. You will do whatever it takes to train my son. You will do whatever it takes to ensure that Aurelius learns what is required of him. Because the Snape family will do whatever it takes to uphold the vows we made. In an hour’s time, when Aurelius came to his classroom, he’d continue carrying out Valerius’ wishes.

The Headmaster was still speaking. "Although war is undoubtedly coming, Hogwarts School will remain as it has always been – a stronghold." He paused, looking around the Hall. "You are safe here." His words rang out into an uncomfortable silence, as the students stared back at him.

Albus Dumbledore took the opportunity to raise his glass. "I propose a toast," the auburn haired Transfiguration teacher said soberly. "To Hogwarts!"

Everyone in the Hall stood, including the Beauxbatons students, and raised their goblets, echoing Dumbledore’s words with one voice. The cynical expression on Octavius Malfoy’s face hadn’t lifted, Quintus noted, but the blonde man murmured the words along with everyone else. Upon impulse, the Potions master glanced towards Matthew Seraphim. The Flight instructor was also looking at Octavius Malfoy – and Quintus was shocked by how much hatred burned in his eyes.

*

"Hogwarts," said Constance, and sat down as soon as possible. As Aurelius and Tom sank back down on either side of her, she looked at her empty plate longingly. School pride was all very well, but she needed her food. She had a busy night ahead of her. Thinking of that, she looked over to where her brother was sitting near the head of the table next to Felix DuPré, apparently deep in conversation. She hadn’t had any second thoughts regarding the decision she’d made earlier, despite Teresa’s long-winded diatribe against the Dark Arts in Charms that afternoon. She felt that if Grindelwald was really planning to invade Britain, she’d have a much better chance of survival if she could fight back. Ministry rules and regulations crippled the Aurors, talented as they were. You had to fight fire with fire. Anyway, if my uncle’s really in with the Dark Arts, I might not have to worry, she thought, gazing at the staff table. Grindelwald might like our family.

"Honestly," Tom Riddle murmured softly into her ear, "the way those two go on about Hogwarts you’d think they built the place."

"Hah," Constance replied, equally softly. "Dippet’s old enough. And surely I don’t detect a hint of disloyalty in your voice?"

The half-blood smiled. "Certainly not," he said. "I am loyal to my castle." He paused. "After all, we are safe here." There was a distinct trace of mockery in his voice.

Constance looked at him. "You don’t agree?"

"I’m sure they think we’re safe," Tom said, neutrally. Just like they thought Beauxbatons was safe, was the unspoken implication.

"So young and yet so cynical," Constance teased. "Have you no faith in our illustrious professors?"

The dark haired boy looked at her, his turquoise eyes inscrutable. "I don’t have faith in anybody," he said simply. Then he added, with an air of seriousness, "Except Binns, for his limitless capacity to inspire."

Constance grinned at his sarcastic remark. Then she realized something. "You don’t normally turn up for the Halloween feast, do you?" she asked. As far as she recalled, he’d skipped every one since their first year.

He shook his head. "Suffice it to say I was moved to display my devotion to Hogwarts tonight," he said smiling slightly.

"Oh?" she asked, laughing. "I hadn’t had you down as the sentimental type."

"A Riddle by name, a riddle by nature," Tom answered lightly. "I am, of course, enigmatic to the last."

Constance looked at him, at the unreadable turquoise eyes, and remembered her dreams of the night before. "Yes – I rather believe you are," she said, still smiling. "The Zalaras Riddle," she added, liking the phrase.

Tom looked at her strangely, an eyebrow half raised. "Yes," he said softly. "That’s it exactly. "

The intensity of his gaze unnerved her, and she glanced away. From further up the table, her brother nodded to her, dispassionately. She wondered yet again what Marcus had planned for that night – he hadn’t spoken to her since their meeting in the Owlery, and she still wasn’t sure where he wanted them to meet later on. Trust me, her brother had said, and, of course, she’d have to. She turned back to Tom, only to find that he was still looking at her. Their eyes met, and this time she didn’t look away.

Riddle was the first to break the sudden stillness that had fallen between them. "You see?" he said, very quietly. "Your blood knows."

Constance’s brow furrowed. "What do you mean?" she asked, half-sorry, half-relieved that the moment between them – whatever it was - had been lost. "Knows what?"

Tom Riddle looked away from her, over to the staff table. "No matter," he said blandly. She was about to probe further when she noticed his eyes narrow. The boy leaned forwards slightly, staring more closely at the staff table.

"What is it?" Constance asked curiously. Her gaze followed his to the staff table, alighting on Professor Haven. The Divination teacher looked as though she was about to collapse, swaying backwards rather noticeably. Even from a distance, her disorientation was obvious. "Is she drunk?" she asked, surprised.

"Not drunk, no," replied Tom with an air of certainty. "But she really shouldn’t be here tonight – not like this –" he broke off, watching the Divination teacher intently. "Unless –" he broke off, sharply.

"Unless what? What’s wrong with her?" Constance demanded, her insatiable curiosity never far from bubbling over. Up at the staff table, she saw her uncle place a steadying hand on Haven’s back. Several of the staff had noticed the Divination teacher’s behaviour, and were wearing expressions of varying degrees of concern. As they watched, Professor Haven suddenly started shuddering, her hands clenched so tightly around her goblet that her knuckles turned white. Wine splashed onto the table as her shuddering increased in violence. It looked for all the world as though someone had put her under the Tremens hex, Constance thought. There was a growing murmur of anxiety as the other students in the Hall took in the Divination teacher’s apparent sickness.

"What’s wrong with her?" Richard asked, turning from Teresa and Aurelius to stare at the shaking teacher.

"I think she’s going to See," Tom answered, his voice barely above a whisper. There was a distinct note of excitement in his voice, causing Constance to look at him closely. Riddle’s expression was rapt as he watched the Divination teacher’s eyes roll back horribly in her head. Professor Dumbledore had obviously reached the same conclusion, and was clearing a space in front of the red haired woman, removing breakable objects, whilst Octavius Malfoy shot vicious glares at the various students who were beginning to laugh nervously.

The Headmaster rose to his feet again. Probably about to dismiss us, Constance thought sourly. She was suddenly very eager to know what Haven would See. Before Dippet could say anything, though, another voice sliced through the air. It silenced everybody immediately.

"The danger comes from within."

Constance flinched involuntarily – although it was Professor Haven speaking, the voice was not her own. It was flat, metallic, harsh. Grating, and oddly disjointed, as though many voices were speaking as one. Looking around the Hall, she saw frightened expressions on many of the younger students’ faces. And the teachers didn’t look much better - Professor Bloom looked petrified. Although Constance prided herself on self-control, for once she didn’t blame them – reading about the experiences of Seers didn’t really prepare one for a live performance. Her uncle, on the other hand, was displaying the kind of scowl that would have beaten a Basilisk into submission.

"It comes from within," the Divination teacher continued, speaking into the deathly silence of the Great Hall, her distorted voice echoing horribly. "Old blood calls to young, and the faithful servants will keep their ancient promises."

The voice paused. There were several anxious giggles from the first years, but these died away quickly in the face of the overwhelming tension. Constance herself hardly dared to breathe. Next to her, she sensed the utter rigidity of Riddle’s posture. Even he can’t deny the drama of the moment.

"The Lord of Webs sends out the Call, but it is the other who oversees the Forging." The Divination teacher’s eyes had rolled right back into her head, only the whites visible. Her face contorted into a hideous grimace of agony as she continued. "The Day of the Lords approaches. The Dark is rising…but the danger is within…"

The room was completely still as the harsh voice faltered. There was a moment of total silence, and then an awful wail burst from the Divination teacher, an inhuman keening that rose steadily in pitch until it was almost too much to bear. Her body started to jerk and flail wildly, until both Octavius Malfoy and Albus Dumbledore restrained her. Several students clasped their hands over their ears as the wail continued. The noise ended only when Professor Haven’s entire body slumped forwards. Supporting the Divination teacher with his arms, Constance’s uncle exchanged a few inaudible words with both Dippet and Dumbledore. So that is what it is to See, she thought. Not an easy gift at all.

As the Great Hall erupted into frantic chattering and wild speculation, the Headmaster begged for silence. He had to amplify his voice to cut across the noise. He looked fairly shaken by what had just happened, Constance saw, but the calm presence of the Transfiguration teacher seemed to reassure him. Not for the first time, she wondered about Albus Dumbledore. The power behind the throne, she thought, and had to resist the urge to scoff. Although Dippet was pretty ineffectual at the best of times, he didn’t share any of Dumbledore’s eccentricities. For which small mercy she was truly thankful.

As the Headmaster urged the students to remain calm, and quietly return to their common rooms once they’d finished eating, Constance exhaled deeply. She realized that she’d been holding her breath for quite some time. Aurelius, sitting on her right, did the same.

"That was freaky!" Richard whispered in awe. "You’d never see Lockhart doing that!" he added, appreciatively.

"We’re all doomed," Teresa said, her voice anxious. "You heard what she said. We’re completely buggered."

"You still think Divination’s a load of crap, Aurelius?" Richard asked, turning to the other boy, but Aurelius was silent, staring as his cousin helped Octavius Malfoy carry Professor Haven out of the Hall. His black eyes were unreadable as he stood up, preparing to leave.

As the prefects began to lead their Houses out of the Great Hall, Constance looked sideways at Tom Riddle. Although he was usually a conscientious prefect, he appeared completely oblivious to the chaos of the departing students around him. Like Aurelius, the half-blood had been watching Haven’s departure, yet unlike Aurelius, Riddle looked animated by the scene. His lips were parted slightly and a deep, thoughtful crease marked his brow. His hands were clasped tightly before him, as though he was praying, and his cheeks, usually pale, were flushed. His vivid eyes gleaming – he looked suddenly vibrant, very much alive. Sensing her gaze, he turned to her, and treated her to a genuine smile. It made him look a lot younger, she noted, although she wasn’t sure exactly what he was so happy about. She had to admit that it had been exciting, seeing a true Seer in action at last. A once in a lifetime experience, no doubt.

"Hadn’t we better leave?" she asked, in answer to his raised eyebrow. The majority of students had already left – the teachers too were beginning to file out, deep in conversation. Her brother was nowhere in sight. And I’ve still got no idea what he’s up to, she thought ruefully. "We have to get back to the common room."

At that, the dark haired boy rose gracefully from his seat. "Have you got a good memory?" he asked.

Taken aback by his apparent irrelevance, she blinked. "For some things, yes," she replied, mystified. "What do you want to know that for?"

"Then do you remember what Haven said?" he continued. "The exact words?"

She frowned, considering this. "Yes," she said. "I do."

"Good," the halfblood said, satisfied. "That’s very good."

"Why do you want to know?" Constance asked, tired of beating around the bush. She had to catch up with her brother and find out what was happening. She glanced around the Great Hall, and saw that they were the only two people left. So much for Marcus’ efficiency, she thought, with some annoyance.

"Because I have a message for you," Tom Marvolo Riddle said softly. "From your brother. And I’m only going to repeat it once."

Her eyes widened in surprise as she waited silently for him to continue. Marcus trusts him with this? Her surprise grew even more, as, in a voice so low as to be almost inaudible, the dark haired prefect told her something very important about one of the corridors on the third floor. Refusing to answer any of her startled questions, he simply told her that Marcus would expect her at eleven thirty that very night. Salazar’s Heir, he knows more about my affairs than I do, she realized in amazement. She watched in fascination as Tom Marvolo Riddle swept out of the Great Hall, leaving her alone with her thoughts, in the light of the flickering candles, under the enchanted sky.

*****