Reconstruction of a Death Eater

Chapter 19 - Distrust and Diligence

Malfoy Manor never changed; it was timeless and stately, the golden stone façade looking more welcoming than the interior these days. Severus sighed as he leaned on the balustrade of his suite's balcony, looking out over the rolling gardens and forested precincts of the grounds. He had spent a lot of his youth in this place, carving out a niche for himself as the brewer of Abraxas Malfoy's potions and the lover of Lucius Malfoy. He and Narcissa had been not friends, but allies in the game of being pureblood aristocracy. Then the war happened and a baby boy had defeated their Dread Lord!

He snorted in disgust as he strolled back into the suite he had always used when at Malfoy. This was as close to a home away from Hogwarts as he had. The panic that Lord Voldemort's death had engendered amongst the loyal Death Eaters had been horrifying. Arrogant Aurors demanding and insisting on retribution, Ministry officials trying to confiscate anything not nailed down, and Azkaban had loomed large on the horizon. He'd had only a few hours to try and preserve some part of his life, and in those few hours he had managed to destroy more than he saved. Ironic really.

The potion had indeed been liquid Imperius, thought impossible to brew but he had done it, could still do it in a heartbeat - or a few weeks, because that was how long it took to brew. He had brought the only precious bottle he had left to Lucius and Narcissa, making them take it, then telling them they had only served their Lord because they were under the Imperius Curse. And that had preserved their lives, liberty and fortune, but it had shattered Narcissa's unsteady faith in him and his commitment to their Lord. Lucius had seen the reality and had complied immediately, the consummate politician, but Narcissa was a true believer and it had broken her in a fundamental way. She had taken the potion because Malfoys did not go to Azkaban, but she never really believed that their Lord was truly dead, and how right she proved to be, Merlin help them all!

A slight noise behind him made him turn and smile grimly as Lucius glided in and sprawled elegantly on the bed as he had twenty years before. Hard to imagine all that time passing really, Severus was only just beginning to assimilate its reality; the lines of dissipation on Lucius' handsome face were still a shock to his system. Hell, even looking in the mirror was something of a shock. Although, he had to say he had held up rather well against the ravages of time; good genes, those vampire ones.

Lucius smiled back, his polite society smile, not the one he used to have for 'Severo', his young lover. He studied the tall man carefully, noting that Severus was even thinner than usual and his robes were definitely shabby. Still, he had 'come through a terrible ordeal' according to his story, so a little wear and tear was acceptable. Although how acceptable his excuse for his absence would be to their Lord, was a very different thing. The Dark Lord did not suffer fools at all these days, would not tolerate anything but whole-hearted worship from his supporters. Lucius wondered if Severus was still the whole-hearted supporter he had been when he and the Dark Lord were lovers, or was Severus really Dumbledore's whore these days. Again, it was not his question to ask; it was their Lord's and he wanted to see Severus immediately.

~~*~~

As always, Severus fell to his knees as soon as the Lord turned toward him as was expected. He kept his head lowered and his voice soft as he answered the Lord's questions fully and wholeheartedly, speaking the implanted memories with complete conviction. After only a few minutes, Lord Voldemort seemed to grow bored with the polite answers Severus was giving him and simply reached out a long, thin hand and grabbed a handful of lank black hair dragging the man's head back and chin up. A flick of a finger removed the standard Death Eater mask, and the Lord surged into Snape's mind with all the finesse of a stampeding elephant.

Snape knew better than to tense or try to hide anything from his Lord, allowing the man to riffle through his mind at will, ignoring the discomfort such a brutal assault caused. When the Lord found a locked space he simply blasted it apart and physically staggered when the memories hit him. Two young men made love in front of a fire; the chessboard between them showing a hotly contested match; sharing a glass of fine firewhiskey at some function; kissing in the dark. Even the Lord stopped to watch the tender memories, a faint hint of wistful regret leaking over the Legilimens' bond.

"We were young and foolish, my Severus," the words echoed into his mind.

"We were happy," Severus murmured aloud, regret thick in his mind until the Cruciatus Curse threw him onto his back in shock.

"I will know the truth from you, Severus Snape, even if it kills you!" The Lord's smile was full of cruel promise, but the man writhing on the ground was incapable of responding.

~~*~~

Remus groaned as the last joint popped and the last muscle twitched. Transition had been hard, but not as vicious as it could have been without Wolfsbane. Still, the burden of sadness he carried in his heart had not helped, and he knew the wolf had howled loudly at the Mistress for most of the night, singing out his loss to the unseen who could understand him. His throat was still raw this morning and felt like he had been swallowing sand all night. Even as he drifted off to sleep again, the very last scene between Severus and himself played out in his mind, refusing to allow him to rest in peace.

Severus had held him tight against his chest, running his hands through Remus' unruly curls with a sad smile. They both knew that Severus' returning health meant the ideal world they had built in this small, dingy room was coming to a finish. They could no more stop time passing than stop the world they had to live in. The longer Severus put off returning to He-Who-Should-Not-Be-Named, the worse the consequences would be.

"But you will come back, won't you?" Remus asked anxiously, moon tides making him nervous and flighty.

Severus said nothing for a long time before he slowly shook his head. "I cannot risk you, Remus, or risk anything we have here. If he found out about you, he would dig and dig until he had all my secrets. Then it would be total disaster for the Order, the Light and eventually the end of all hope. You know that."

Remus stared up in horror. "But what about... this?"

"I am going to move anything and everything about my illness and our relationship into a safe place and wall it away until the end of the war. Remus! Stop that!" He pressed the werewolf's face into his shoulder to stifle the high keening note that heralded the avalanche of distress coursing through the slim man's soul. "Please, do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I like this solution? No, but I can't risk you, Remy, I can't! I have given almost everything I have to Tom Riddle and I will not give up this, not you, not the joy and love you have shown me nor the care and pleasure you have given me. He will rot in the lowest pits of hell before he takes even a second of our love from me. Nor will he use it to fashion a tool to strike at you. I will drink my own concoctions before I allow that to happen."

No matter how reasonably Remus had argued - or how unreasonably he had railed against fate - Severus was not to be swayed. Eventually, he had left 12 Grimmauld Place in a swirl of black robes, and that was the last Remus had seen of him. Gods above, he missed young Sevvy's presence, missed Sev the teen's horrible sense of humour and rather better than average singing. Even Tonks had missed the verbal sparring matches she and Severus had indulged in. Pre-moon stress had been even worse than usual, knowing what he was missing and knowing it would not come again. Gods, he hated the war, hated being separated from his mate, hated having to hide all the time. He just wanted Severus back to fill up the void in his soul, was that too much to ask, really?

He woke with a jump, something touching his still wolf-keen senses so close to moonset. There was another wolf in his territory, not a stranger but a pack mate! Rising quickly, Remus dressed in what he thought of as his wolf costume, Muggle jeans, leather jacket and Sirius' cycle boots before slipping out the back door and ghosting into the back lane. Raising his head, he tested the wind like his alter-ego then smiled slightly as a very familiar scent touched his sensitive nostrils. A pack mate was indeed hanging around, waiting for him to show.

"Alpha?"

Remus spun on his toes, crouching slightly before a smile lightened his features. "Gorum," he acknowledged the wolf with a quiet word.

The man grinned, his tongue hanging out slightly and his whole posture that of a happy wolf. Gorum was what people used to call simple, with a low IQ that had never been trained. As a human he was too like the wolf; as a wolf, he was a happy puppy, ready to join in any game with skill and expertise. He was one of the few werewolves who didn't entirely lose his humanity in wolf form, but he didn't entirely lose his wolfishness in human form, either.

"Alpha Prime wants you," Gorum said cheerfully, before sniffing deeply. "Your scent has changed; you have mated but... but it is not a happy thing for you. Why is your mating not happy, Alpha? I thought mates made us happy."

Remus sighed, patting the older man's shoulder reassuringly. "Mates make us happy, but circumstances make us unhappy. My mate had to go away into a very dangerous situation, and that makes me unhappy, especially as I could not go with him."

"Him? Your mate is a him? How you goin' to get cubs if it's a him?" Gorum demanded in exasperation, making Remus smile despite his pain.

"Good question, I'll have to think about that one." Remus chuckled then sobered. "Where is the Alpha Prime waiting?"

"At home, our den," Gorum added for clarification and Remus nodded, gripping his wand. "Are we going to apparate? I'll hold on tight," he promised when Remus nodded again. Gorum had never learned more than the most rudimentary wishcraft, and he found all aspects of real magic fascinating. His personal magic was reasonably strong but totally untrained; still, it gave whoever was casting over him enough of a boost to take Gorum with them.

Without even thinking about it, Remus tapped into Gorum's magical energy and apparated them both out to Ilkley Moor and the tumble of broken country that hid the small cave Remus had long ago converted into a cosy and weatherproof den for himself and any pack member who needed shelter. Gorum often stayed there having nowhere else to go.

A fire already burned in the grate, a cauldron full of stew simmering over the coals. An older man sat on the pile of rabbit skins Gorum had painstakingly tanned and thronged together, one of Remus' books in his hands. He looked up with a smile as the two newcomers pushed into the entrance, careful not to let the heat or light escape for more than a second. Gorum immediately hurried over and dropped to his knees, allowing the Alpha Prime to stroke his hair and scratch his neck before turning to stir the stew. Remus grinned at his old friend, offering his hand in a more conventional greeting.

"Hello, Jonathon. Gorum said you wanted to see me," Remus greeted and accepted the bowl Gorum thrust at him, blowing on the stew to cool it.

"I certainly did, Moony. Greyback is causing trouble again."

Remus stiffened, baring his teeth in a snarl. Gorum grunted, half whining an agreement to Moony's rage. Jonathon McCarthy, Hayborn, Alpha Prime of the packs of Great Britain snapped his teeth in censure, then chuffed to settle his pack members down. "I know you hate him, Remus, but don't let that hate cloud your judgement; I need you sane and reasoning when we go to deal with him for once and for all. It seems he is calling on various packs with weak alphas and blackmailing them into working with the Dark Lord. Some, he gives extravagant promises of freedom, cubs for all, and wealth beyond their wildest imaginings. One fellow told me he was also promising that, if a wolf didn't join, he would bite a nearest and dearest and make sure the dissenter was blamed for the conversion; you know how he works."

Remus rubbed his shoulder and nodded grimly. "Who has he gotten to?"

"He seems to be working down the Pennine Chain at the moment, and as far out as the midlands. Luna and Petal reported him in their vicinity, but he didn't attempt to corrupt their pack. He kept going down toward Middlesbrough. However, I believe he is going to address the Vitial Pack on the Romney Marshes tonight. Think you can keep a lid on your temper long enough to hear him out?"

"I can," Remus assured him grimly.

"Me, too." Gorum nodded, coming to sit on his haunches before them.

"Very well, Paddy O'Connell will meet us at the edge of Romney with the apparation coordinates for the meeting this evening. Let us eat our stew and prepare for an interesting evening then."

~~*~~

The flames were brilliant white, the smoke making strange shapes in the air, then a phoenix rose above them all, singing of triumph and joy. It swooped toward Harry, circling his head, the song changing to one of urgency before the marble tomb stretched out a heavy stone hand and encased the phoenix, silencing its plea instantly.

Harry woke with a jump and a shout, sweat dripping from his brow. He had not had such dreams for ages, not since he seriously studied the Occlumency Professor Snape had tried to teach him. Ron sat up sleepily, Neville grumbled as he turned over, but Harry had to sit up, scrubbing at his eyes to try and stem the tears. This was not a Voldemort-inspired dream, but something else. The phoenix around his neck seemed to be humming but as soon as he put his finger on it, it stopped, the last remnants of sleep dispersing.

Sighing, Harry allowed his body to relax and flop back against the pillow, a renewed sense of loss coursing through him. Professor McGonagall had wanted to close the school after the death of Dumbledore, but the School Governors had decided they needed the huge centre of magic that Hogwarts represented alive and functioning in the dark days after Lord Voldemort's supposed triumph. Most of the students had returned too, glad for a hint of normality amongst the terror and uncertainty all around. Harry had been determined to go and hunt down the five remaining Horcruxes, assuming that the Horcrux Dumbledore had died to rescue was still out there. A letter he had received during the holidays had persuaded him to forget that plan and return to Hogwarts, a letter from a dead man delivered by a very plain, brown-haired Tonks.

When he'd seen Snape smirking at them from the front of the DADA classroom, he had gone for his wand and he had scored a good hit with his hex before anyone could stop him. It had taken some fancy spell work from Madame Pomfrey to stop Snape bleeding to death from the very spell he had invented. He was still not reconciled to Snape being the Judas who had told Lord Voldemort about the prophecy, but he did understand having to do something abhorrent simply because of an order. After all, who had force-fed Professor Dumbledore a potion that had hurt him badly because he was under orders? As much as he hated to admit it at the time, he and Professor Snape had had that in common: orders they hated that simply had to be followed.

Still, there was something intrinsically disturbing about that dream, something banging on the walls of his subconscious, trying to get out and grab his attention. Harry didn't have a lot of experience with funerals, neither Muggle nor Wizarding, and had no real facts to base his uneasiness upon. Sighing he turned over and faced away from Ron, toward Neville who had gone back to sleep without really waking. Poor old Neville, fancy being forced to learn by rote how to conduct a funeral. Really, his Gran was the living end at times, the way she treated him, like he was an idiot or something.

"Neville!" Harry sat straight up, the shout echoing through the dormitory, making even Seamus grunt irritably.

Neville sat straight up, a yelp of fright breaking out as he covered his head with both hands. "Wasn't me! Wasn't me!" he yelled before he was awake properly and realised where he was. "Damn it, Harry. You nearly scared me to death!" Neville complained, still panting with the fright of his abrupt awakening.

"Neville, please tell me about burying people, you know, funeral arrangements," Harry insisted, kneeling on his bed, his glasses perched precariously on his nose.

Neville groaned and flopped backwards. "Who are you supposed to be, my Gran?" he inquired huffily, struggling to be awake enough to listen to his friend.

"Sorry, Neville, but it is important," Harry insisted, swinging his legs down and leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. "Do you remember the day in the Room of Requirement, you were telling us about funeral arrangements? I want you to tell me all about them, slowly but surely, okay?"

Huffing and puffing, Neville scrubbed his fingers through his hair, then sighed deeply. "Alright, Harry, here we go. First of all, once you discover the person is dead, that is, stopped breathing and the life spell registers nothing, then you have to call up the mortician or the family Master of Rites, depending on how important the death is. They bring out the Death Rites tray which has a number of crystal bowls, boxes and cups on it. You have to use the silver Kris to cut off a lock of hair, which must be placed in the square crystal box. Then, using the same silver Kris, you have to open a vein and draw blood which goes into the crystal cup. Last of all - and worst if you ask me - you have to cut a piece of muscle from either the arm or the leg and put it into the crystal dish. You must then take the tray and the body down to the bier and lay the body out. There should be some stone or metal blocks ready so that you can fashion the brazier, and you don't know which one will be most suitable until the last moment. Then you use the transfiguration spell to make the brazier. You put the kindling into the brazier, wood shavings usually, exotic woods from choice, and you get that alight. Then you add the piece of flesh all of a chunk. After the flesh is blazed away to ash, you add the blood one drop at a time. Once that is gone, then you add the hair, one strand at a time. It may take a day or more to do all this, but once it is done, then you just have to add the wood shavings to the fire to keep it alight until the funeral is called. If there are a lot of relatives, then it is fairly easy as you take turns. If there is just one, then you can use friends to help you out; either the deceased's friends or your own, or both. At the end of the week, you have the interment service where the body is either cremated or is interred whole in an impregnable tomb. That's it, end of an era." There was sadness in Neville as he described the funeral and Harry understood that this was what his Grandmother expected of him, his last service to his family.

"Thank you, Neville, I appreciate it. Now tell me, why was Professor Dumbledore's service so different? There was no brazier, there were no friends feeding wood shavings to the fire. I don't think they took parts of him and fed them to the flames, either. He was placed on a table, the Master of Rites...."

"That wasn't the Dumbledore Master of Rites, that was just a bloke from the Ministry," Ron put in, making his 'awake' status known. "My dad said it was odd, too," he added for good measure.

"Okay, there was no Master of Rites, no proper ceremony, just a marble table that was enveloped in a ring of fire that caused a marble tomb to be created around Professor Dumbledore's body. What does that tell anyone?"

"Someone screwed up?" Neville offered tentatively, apologetically.

"Someone was planning to take the body away?" Ron asked in a fierce growl.

"Or someone did not really bury a dead - as in never to be alive again - Dumbledore," Harry mused speculatively.

All three boys stared into space alone with their own thoughts.