Trapped

Chapter 6: The Parcel

As every Monday morning, there was a lot of commotion when the flock of owls flooded into the Great Hall to deliver the mail. The joyful noise, however, died down abruptly when a gigantic black eagle owl came flying into the room. Like a looming shadow against the gloomy November sky displayed on the enchanted ceiling, it circled the Hall, then, with a sudden cry, swooped down on the High Table. Glasses, forks and spoons dropped to the floor as scared staff members ducked to avoid the charging bird of pray, however it did not attack. Flying low above the teachers' heads, almost brushing their hair with the tips of its ink-black wing feathers, it dropped an oblong box in front of the headmaster, swerved, and, emitting another eerie cry, gracefully disappeared through the open window. Dumbledore paled under his silvery beard as he stared at the parcel. There were dark spots on the wrapping that looked suspiciously like blood.

"What ... what in Merlin's name was that, Albus?" asked an equally shocked Minerva McGonagall.

"I don't know, Minerva. But this doesn't look good," the headmaster answered quietly. "If you ask me, this reeks of Voldemort."

After the headmaster and his deputy had left with the grisly parcel, the deadly silence that had followed the arrival of the dark bird gave way to nervous whispering. With the exception of Crabbe and Goyle, who continued shoveling great amounts of porridge down their gullets, everybody had lost their interest in the food. The name of You-Know-Who weighed heavy on the minds of the assembled students and teachers like the black breath of a fatal disease. If even the headmaster looked scared, the twinkle in his eyes lost to an expression of frightful trepidation, things must be bad indeed.

"Harry, this would have something to do with your scar hurting the other night, wouldn't it?" Hermione asked breathlessly when she had gotten over the initial shock.

"I don't know, really," Harry answered, contemplating the possibility. "It's not that I had a vision or something. It was just that I woke up because my scar was hurting like hell, but only for a brief moment, and then I felt a sudden glee that somehow didn't belong to me. I have no idea what might have happened."

"One thing is obvious, though. Voldemort must have experienced something that made him extremely happy. And whatever makes Voldemort happy is bad news for us ..." Hermione continued her reasoning.

"Wonder what that could have been?" Ron interjected, rolling his eyes. Of course, it had to have something to do with Muggle torturing, or a new plan how to kill Harry Potter, or a revelation about how to finally destroy Hogwarts. Something in that line in any case. "Too bad Dumbledore didn't open that box while still in the Hall so we would know what was inside. Must be something really gross from the looks of it ...."

"The headmaster surely had a good reason for not opening the parcel in front of all the students," Hermione lectured. "Probably you wouldn't want to know anyway," she added, shuddering.

At the High Table the remaining teachers were engaged in discussing the very same questions, or, at least, some teachers were. Professor Trelawney was animatedly talking to the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, a young and rather bookish looking man who had been the only applicant for the job - besides Snape. His lessons, so far, were not exactly exciting - rumors had it that his lecturing style strikingly resembled Professor Binns's - but, at least, he seemed to know what he was talking about. Obviously, Professor Smith had not yet learned to not take the Divinations professor's ramblings too seriously.

"But, dear Sibyll, this is really horrible. Are you sure the emergence of a black eagle owl announces the downfall of the school and impending doom for the entire Wizarding World?" he asked nervously.

"There is no doubt about it, dear Anthony, the day of doom is near," Trelawney sighed, clapping her overlarge aquamarine eyelashes. "I saw it in the tea leaves, and those never lie. But, alas, as is the fate of the true descendants in spirit of Cassandra of Troy, nobody will listen to predictions of doom. Nobody but you, dear Anthony." Another sigh from the depths of her heart. "Take the Potter boy, for example, how often have I warned him of the terrible fate that is awaiting him, but would he ever listen ...?"

"Snape!" Harry suddenly exclaimed. "This has something to do with Snape! Look at the Slytherin table. The snakes are not half as scared as the rest of us. And Snape never turned up for breakfast!"

"But, Harry, Snape never has more than tea and toast for breakfast, anyway, if he comes at all. He's just not much of a morning person," Hermione argued.

"No wonder! The greasy git spends all night prowling the school. And it's not that he is more of an afternoon or evening person, either," Ron said with unconcealed loathing. "Bet he's having pickled leaches or Flobberworm brains for breakfast down in his dungeons."

"Flobberworms don't have brains, you dolt," Hermione scolded. "You should know this by now. Anyhow, Snape's in the Order. Why should he have anything to do with that parcel, if it's really Voldemort who is behind it? We have suspected the man often enough and he always turned out to be innocent in the end. And Dumbledore trusts him."

"I wouldn't exactly use the words 'innocent' and 'Snape' in the same sentence," grumbled Ron, "but you have a point here, Mione."

"Snape is up to something, I tell you," Harry insisted. "Dumbledore did trust Quirrell and the fake Moody, too. He's a trusting man. But I won't make the same mistake, not after what happened in the Ministry."

"Harry, you can't honestly blame Sirius's death on Snape. He did what he could to ..." But Hermione's words were lost, as Harry had already left the Great Hall.

* * *

"Be careful, Albus," McGonagall cautioned. "If this indeed has something to do with Voldemort, it might be a trap of sorts."

"Precisely why I brought it to my office, Minerva. We'll do a thorough check for hexes and Dark magic before opening the parcel." The headmaster took several curious items from one of the many spindle legged tables and placed them beside the bloodstained box on the desk. One instrument resembled a metronome and produced regular ticking sounds, another one was a crystal octagon filled with a swirling golden gas, and the third object looked like a tiny Muggle humming-top. A soft buzzing emanated from the little instrument as it rotated around the parcel on an invisible orbit, spinning around its vertical axis at the same time. McGonagall watched fascinated while Dumbledore plopped a lemon drop into his mouth. Obviously, this helped, since the old man regained some color as he gazed intently at his precious playthings.

"No signs of magic around this box, Minerva," the headmaster finally observed. "As long as the crystal stays clear, the Dark magic ticker ticks regularly, and the hex scanner circles smoothly, it should be safe to open it." He carefully put away the invaluable instruments, and then proceeded to undo the wrappings. This done, Dumbledore carefully opened the lid. He blinked. All color was draining from his face again, leaving a sickly tinge of green. He swallowed hard to not gag.

"Albus, what ...?" Then, McGonagall saw what was inside the box. Her stomach turned, and she gave a strangled cry. In the parcel lay an arm, a human forearm, covered with drying blood, a fading skull and serpent imprinted on the ghostly white flesh. Voldemort's Dark Mark.

"Gods, Albus ..." she whispered softly, her eyes wide with shock.

"Minerva, have you seen Severus at all this weekend?" the headmaster finally asked, his voice as dead as the twinkle in his eyes.

"No, but that's nothing unusual. He's not exactly the most sociable person and cherishes his privacy a lot, as you know," the witch answered almost automatically and then her eyes grew even wider. "Albus, you don't mean ...?" However, the headmaster had already walked over to the fireplace and was throwing some glittering powder into the merrily dancing flames.

"Severus Snape," he called out. Nothing happened. No answer.

"Shouldn't he be in class right now?" Minerva asked hopefully. "Double Potions with the sixth years?"

"He should, Minerva. However, I fear the very worst." Dumbledore walked over to his desk again, and, with an expression of utter sadness, gently closed the lid over what he thought was his Potions master's limb.

"Let's go to the dungeons," he then murmured. It was obvious, however, that he didn't expect to find his teacher and friend down there.