Murder at Malfoy Manor

Chapter Thirteen

Snape Must Die

Voldemort's glee was on the verge of boiling over. He had a new follower! A Death Eater to be initiated. What was more, said initiate was one of Potter's Golden Trio. Hermione Granger was Voldemort's now, body and soul. Mwahahahaha, his malicious mind laughed. Sometimes he loved being evil, and this was one of those moments. Now he had only to test Granger's resolve, see how far she would go for him. The first pressing issue that sprung to mind was Severus Snape: Voldemort was sick of him. The man had lived on the edge of loyalty for too long. Besides, Voldemort thought, if Lucius and Bellatrix can die in the same week-end, why not Snape?

It neared midnight. After the conservatory, where Hermione had succumbed to the forces of the Dark (Voldemort felt another little squirm of delight), they had gone in search of Snape. That was two-and-a-half hours ago. Probably one of the house-elves had tipped off Snape that the Dark Lord was looking for him. House-elves. Voldemort despised the little creatures. They were untrustworthy as a general rule, and these Malfoy house-elves were something else. Tricked into murdering Bellatrix! What gross incompetence could have allowed it? More and more, Voldemort believed Hermione had hit the nail on the head with that theory. There was no other explanation for how his number-one Death Eater had gone so quietly...was there?

Beside him, he could feel Hermione's sharp, incisive mind whirring in circles between power and fear and horror and happiness. It was a common combination for new followers. He tried to ease her decision. 'What is it that you hate about Snape?' he asked in a conversational tone.

It turned out to be a common subject between them. 'I hate that sneering voice,' Hermione said. 'He's so rude.'

'I hate his nose,' Voldemort contributed. 'It's too large.' As he said it, the thought crossed his mind that he, Voldemort, lacked a nose entirely. Ah, well. Better no nose than a great hooked one, like Snape's.

'I hate the way Snape is unfair,' Hermione said. 'He's so biased, and doesn't even try to hide it.'

'I hate how he basks under the protection of Albus Dumbledore.'

'I hate his greasy hair.'

'I hate how he copied my gesture of swirling his black robes around in a menacing fashion.'

'I hate his disdain for the art of Transfiguration.'

'I hate how he lies,' Voldemort hissed. 'He's always telling falsehoods.'

'I hate Snape!' Hermione chanted.

'Kill the Snape, cut his throat, bash him in!' Voldemort and Hermione chanted together. They stalked along the upper corridor, the shadows moving out of the way for them. Nothing could stop them now, nothing, not even - Voldemort halted. Dumbledore was straight ahead; they had caught up with the old man's midnight wanderings. With a sigh, and a hand on Hermione's shoulder, Voldemort pulled her back from her rapid pace.

'Wait here,' he said.

'What is it?' she whispered.

'That great filthy Muggle-lover, Dumbledore,' he hissed.

A shadow passed across Hermione's face, and at first he took it for common hatred of Dumbledore...but then he remembered that she was a Muggle-born. Oops. He would need her to cut all ties to the Muggle world if she was going to be a Death Eater. Voldemort decided to make sure her parents, the elder Grangers, were killed. It would break Hermione, throw her into the only stable thing in her path: Him. Voldemort. The thought cheered him, and he hung back like a spider, waiting for Dumbledore to hurry along.

'My Lord?' Hermione said.

He looked at her, waiting to see the hurt of his insult against her birth, and the defense of her last idol, the Headmaster of her school.

'I think Snape is the only one who could have brewed the box jellyfish poison in Malfoy's tea,' she said.

Voldemort blinked in surprise. What a delight! When Hermione Granger was insulted, she retreated into intellectualism; her powerful mind was her defense. He filed away the knowledge of her character, unconsciously approving of it. 'The only one?' he said.

'Well, aside from you, sir,' she said.

Voldemort enjoyed compliments in spite of himself. Nothing like feeling a little superior on a rainy day... 'Yes,' he said. 'Snape probably murdered Malfoy. He put the poison in the tea, and either stabbed or shot Lucius... but he could not have done both. There must have been an accomplice.'

'Narcissa,' Hermione said. 'They're an item. Ginny said that she saw Snape and Narcissa kissing in the study last night, after the murder.'

'Aha!' Voldemort said. 'I thought there was something. That confirms it.' His red eyes twinkled in the shadowy hallway. 'It's the oldest story in the world. A woman and her lover, conspiring to kill off the hapless husband. And the simplest explanation, Hermione, is usually the correct one.'

Her eyes widened at the use of her first name, and she looked down at her toes.

'But what of Bellatrix?' Voldemort murmured. 'Where does she fit in? Did she discover the plot?'

'I've been thinking about that, too, my Lord,' Hermione said. She paused, as though debating whether to continue.

After several moments of impatient silence, Voldemort reached out a hand and jerked her chin up to face him. He did not take kindly to people withholding information. 'Yesss?'

'My Lord, please don't take this the wrong way, but,' she bit her lip, 'is it possible that Bellatrix's death was not a murder?'

He squinted at her, peering into her mind. Surely, the little chit was not suggesting -

'Perhaps,' said Hermione, 'it was a suicide.'

******************

A roll of thunder pounded through Draco's ears, matching the pace of his heart, the rush of blood in his ears. It was dark in his bedroom, and the wild colour of Ginny's hair faded to the soft tones of grey that characterised night-vision; only an occasional turn of her head, a glint of lightning through the curtains, revealed the fiery brilliant mane that tumbled down her shoulders.

They were on Draco's bed. Ginny straddled him, her legs clasping their bodies tightly together. Draco's hands wandered of their own accord, around her waist and then to cup her firm breasts through her silken shirt. Such a marvelous figure she had, toned muscles and womanly curves, a tight little rear that begged to be held. Her tongue was soft sugar in his mouth and she moved tantalisingly against him, her small hands flashing through space to unbutton his shirt, shrugging it off with expertise.

Draco decided that she had worn her top for long enough, and his hands rolled up the silky material of her shirt, going beneath it to feel her smooth white skin. Ginny raised her arms in obedience, and she lost the shirt. Then, Draco watched in shocked provocation as she reached around, bold-as-can-be, and unclasped her bra. She tossed it over the side of the bed and leaned down against Draco, skin on skin.

Bliss, he thought. Pure bliss. The blood rushed down, pooling in heat. He had never been this excited in his life, not with Pansy or any of the Slytherin girls. Everything fled his mind: the murders, the danger, the worry about his mother and his house and the Dark Lord. He never wanted this to end, this black hot sweetness with Ginny. All he wanted was to have Ginny in his bed, forever and ever.

'Draco,' she whispered against the skin of his throat, sending reverberations down his spine. 'Oh, Draco.'

'Ginny,' he gasped in return. He pulled her tight against him, then they rolled together so that Draco was on top, pinning her down and kissing her neck and moving his hands down, down, down...

She was the forbidden fruit, the youngest Weasley, Potter's girl, the red-haired lioness of Gryffindor, the most popular bird in school. It made her that much more gratifying to Draco, that this strong young thing would break herself for him. If he could win her, she might transfer that fierce loyalty to him...he kissed her harder, pouring out his desperation. She was boiling honey beneath him, soft and wet, with her gasping breaths drawing out the air between them.

In the end, they did not go all the way. It was by mutual agreement; it was too soon, too dangerous. Draco did not want to contemplate the reasons behind it, but he wanted to respect Ginny. He wanted her to be more than a conquest. He knew he could have taken her, and she was willing, but what then? No, Draco wanted Ginny to renounce herself to him, and it would take more than a one-night stand for that to happen. Thus with admirable self-control, they pulled back from the brink, holding each other in the sticky darkness.

They slept. As in the night previous, Draco pulled Ginny to him, but this time with permission. He dreamed of a field of grazing horses, whinnying and running about, free and fast.

It was the pounding on the door that penetrated Draco's fuzzy head, tearing him from the warm embrace that was Ginny. How rude. But he had best answer the door; a quick glance at the clock told him it was three in the morning on Sunday. Sunday, he thought. Has it been nearly two days already? This weekend felt like a time warp in which nothing existed outside of it. More had happened in the past thirty-six hours than in the rest of Draco's life put together, he felt.

The insistent knocking continued, and Ginny stirred next to him. 'What's that noise?' she mumbled.

'Someone's at the door,' Draco said. 'Wait here.' As he slipped out of bed, the cold night air hit his almost-naked body, nipping against his skin like cold knives. It served to wake him up fully. It was then he remembered the murderer on the loose, a murderer who kept killing off the Malfoy family. Draco first went for his wand, then thought better of it (this damned storm, he thought) and grabbed a large silver candlestick instead. He crept up to the door and pressed his nose against the doorjamb. 'Who is it?' he said.

'Draco!' It was his mother. 'Open up, please!'

Draco hesitated. What if she was under duress? What if the murderer had her, was using her as bait to get to him? What if, as soon as he opened the door, he would be killed? He growled. It was his mother, for the sake of Merlin! He threw open his bedroom door.

Narcissa stood in the hallway, her eyes wide and frightened. 'I had to make sure you were all right,' she said, falling forward to embrace her son. 'I had to check.'

'I'm fine, Mum,' Draco said, setting aside the candlestick. He patted his mother's shoulder awkwardly. He noticed that she smelled of smoke. 'What's going on?'

Narcissa pushed past him and entered his room. Draco opened his mouth in protest; the swooping sensation hit him that he was practically naked, and Ginny Weasley was in his bed. Oh, Gods... For all that he was close to Narcissa, there were some things that a man never told his mother. And the subject of Ginny Weasley was a little too raw to try to explain. Perhaps, in the darkness, Narcissa would not notice the human-shaped lump beneath his covers.

'Draco?' Ginny's voice came through the shadows, and he cringed.

'Who's that?' Narcissa asked. 'Is that Pansy?'

Oh, no, Draco thought again. The last thing he wanted was for Ginny to think that the norm for him was to have Pansy stay the night. In fact, Pansy had never slept with Draco in his bed at home. They had been in broom closets at Hogwarts, sure, and the Slytherin boys' dormitory, and Pansy's room at the Parkinsons' house...but his bedroom was his sanctum. 'Mother, can't we go out to the hallway?' he said in desperation.

'Mrs. Malfoy?' Ginny inquired.

'Ginny Weasley?'

'Uhhh...' Draco said.

Narcissa peered through the darkness, inching closer to Draco's bed and the incriminating girl resting there. 'What's going on here?' she asked.

'Nothing,' Draco babbled. 'It's just that we didn't think it was safe for Ginny to be alone, and I don't have a sofa for her to sleep on, and there's a murderer on the loose, and -'

'A murderer,' Narcissa said, and her voice betrayed something that Draco could not identify. 'That's why I had to check on you, darling. Because, you see...' she sniffled, and with a shock Draco realised she was crying.

'Mum?'

'Severus,' Narcissa said. 'Severus Snape has been killed.'

**************

Harry and Ron settled into their familiar night-stalking routine. It was not the corridors of Hogwarts, but it felt the same: running around under the noses of authority figures, solving mysteries, pulling friends out of danger. Now, Harry's mind was only on Hermione: he had to save her from the clutches of Voldemort! It had gone on long enough. He did not know what Dumbledore was thinking, letting Hermione go off with that evil creature.

Next to him Ron glowered in angry pursuit, not saying much. They had no rhyme or reason to their search; they had started at Hermione's room, which had been empty, and now they walked through the first floor of the mansion, peering into room after room. Their source of light was a portable witch-light; Ron muttered something about Dumbledore having given it to him. As for Dumbledore...

Harry shook his head. The old man had gone batty. The seriousness of this weekend's situation did not faze the Headmaster in the least and Harry thought he was crazy for it. One too many lemon-drops.

'Do you even like lemon-drops?' Harry asked Ron.

'Huh?'

'You know. The sweets.'

'I, erm, I guess so,' Ron stammered. 'Why do you ask?'

Harry heard a crinkling noise, like plastic, coming from Ron's pocket. He gave his friend a funny look. 'I just think Dumbledore's gone round the bend, that's all.'

'Oh, right,' said Ron.

'Look!' Harry said, noticing a glint of metal on the floor. He bent down. It was a small pearl earring. 'Whose is this?'

'Hey! That's Hermione's!' Ron took the earring from Harry and stared at it, eyes agog. 'They must have come this way.'

'Let's go,' Harry said. They picked up the pace, and followed the hallway straight into the main entrance with the fantastic chandelier. 'Great,' he said. 'Now where did they go?'

'I think they went upstairs,' said Ron.

Harry's eyes darted up the stairs. 'How do you know?'

'I don't know, I just think they did,' said Ron. 'From here, you can only go to the dining room, the parlour, or the drawing room. Or, upstairs. If I were them, I'd have gone upstairs.'

'But we started upstairs,' Harry said. 'At Hermione's room. She wasn't there.'

'Well, we've gotta go somewhere!' Ron said. 'Let's just have a peek into those other rooms, then go upstairs.'

'Fine,' said Harry.

Ron was right; the dining room was empty, the drawing room only contained Lucius Malfoy's cold corpse, and the parlour held Bellatrix Lestrange, hanging from the light in the centre of the room. Harry grimaced at the outline of it, though he was happy to see her dead. Take that, you evil hag, he thought with some malicious glee. Revenge for Sirius. They climbed the stairs next, hot on the trail.

Halfway down the right-hand corridor at the top of the stairs, near a pedestal with a crystal ball, Ron stopped. 'Do you smell that?' Ron said.

'What?' Harry said. He sniffed the air. It smelled like...burning. 'Uh oh,' he said.

'Smoke,' said Ron.

'Where there's smoke...' Harry said.

'There's fire,' Ron finished. 'C'mon!'

They took off down the hall, footsteps pounding past closed doors. Harry got disorientated with the turns they took. It was impossible to keep track of yourself in Malfoy Manor and Harry was quite convinced that the house had a mind of its own. The smell of smoke grew thicker as they ran, however, so they must be on their way to somewhere.

Then, one half-turn of a corridor later, Harry saw it: thick black smoke pouring out from beneath a heavy wooden door. It looked like one of the bedrooms. He rushed forward and grabbed the door handle, yanking it. It did not budge. 'Help me!' he shouted to Ron. Together the two boys slammed into the door, knocking it clean off its hinges. The smoke surged outward in dark clouds, searing Harry's lungs and making him cough.

'Hello?' Ron yelled, sooty tears streaming down his cheeks in reaction to the smoke. 'Is anyone in here?'

'Hermione?' Harry said.

With the door open, the smoke cleared fast, and left Harry and Ron standing in the middle of an empty room, looking at a pile of burning parchment in the middle of a large black cauldron. 'What's this?' Harry said, puzzled. The parchment had gone up in stifling clouds, but the inner fire was more of a damp smoldering.

Ron reached down, trying to get one of the undamaged pieces. 'Ouch!' he said, drawing his hand back. He blew into the cauldron, and ashy pieces of parchment flew up into his face, making him cough.

'Here,' said Harry. He took off his left shoe and used it to poke around the glowing orange pieces. There looked to be nothing salvageable, except... With care, Harry reached down and plucked out a flat yellow piece of parchment with browned edges. It was blank aside from seven words. Harry read aloud. 'The Last Will and Testament of Lucius M-- it stops there,' he said.

Ron's jaw dropped. 'Someone's burned Malfoy's will!'

'But why, I wonder!' Harry said. 'There must have been something about it that someone didn't like.'

'I bet it was Draco Malfoy that did it,' Ron muttered. 'His dad probably disowned him or something, and he wanted to destroy the evidence.'

'Yeah,' Harry mused. 'I'm not sure, but I think that without a will, the Malfoy estate would go to the next of kin. Narcissa.'

'So maybe she burned it,' Ron said.

'Dunno,' said Harry. He patted the title parchment to put out the embers, and folded it with caution, placing it in his pocket. 'I think we'd better find Dumbledore.'

Ron got a strange look on his face, but then nodded agreement.

As they walked through the upstairs of Malfoy Manor at a slower pace, Harry wondered what could have been in Malfoy's will that was so damaging. Surely Lucius Malfoy would have bequeathed his estate to his wife, or his son? Harry was not sure how wizarding law worked in terms of inheritance; his only experience with it had been his parents' savings at Gringotts Bank and the ownership of 12 Grimmauld Place after Sirius died. But there had been an explicit will in that case.

The pursuit of Hermione temporarily put aside, Ron and Harry focused on finding the Headmaster. Ron led the way, and Harry could not put aside the peculiar impression that Ron knew where Dumbledore was at all times. He shot a look at his best mate as though he did not know him at all. Sure enough, Ron gestured toward a blank wooden door. 'Let's try in there,' he said.

Dumbledore stood before a snooker table, ready to make the winning shot against himself. The games room at Malfoy Manor was well-appointed, with magical fairy-darts, Pisky-bashing tables, snooker, table tennis, and some other games that Harry did not recognise. 'Headmaster, sir!' he said.

'Oh, hello Harry,' Dumbledore said. 'Care for a game of snooker? I enjoy practising, of course, but it's always more fun to play against someone else.'

'No thanks,' Harry said. 'Sorry, sir, but something's come up.' He pulled the parchment from his pocket and presented it to Dumbledore. 'While Ron and I were looking for Hermione, we came across a room with a cauldron inside. Someone burned Lucius Malfoy's will.'

'Really!' Dumbledore's eyes glinted with interest. 'Let me see.' He glanced over the paper scrap, reading the words. 'Huh,' he said.

'I think it was Narcissa or Draco,' Ron contributed.

'Do you?' Dumbledore said. 'Was there anyone else in the room when you arrived?'

'Well, no, sir, but it only makes sense,' Ron said.

'Indeed,' Dumbledore murmured. He looked up at Harry. 'This will contained vital evidence: it told who stood the most to gain by murdering Lucius Malfoy. With the will burned, that information is lost. But it could not have been burnt by the murderer, because that would defeat the purpose.'

Harry tried to follow the Headmaster's thoughts. 'So, whoever inherited the Manor could have murdered Malfoy in order to get the estate and the money. But if the will is gone, so is their claim to it?'

'Exactly!' Dumbledore said. 'The will must have been burnt by someone who did not want its terms to be followed. As Ron suggested, that points to Narcissa or Draco as the arsonist, since in the absence of a will, they inherit the Manor under wizarding descendant's law. However,' he said, 'there is only one way to find out for certain what the will said.'

'How's that, sir?' Ron asked.

'Professor Snape,' said Dumbledore. 'He was the signatory on Lucius Malfoy's will.'

Harry stared. 'Right,' he said. 'I guess we better go find Snape, then.'

Dumbledore led the way out of the games room with a regretful look back at the snooker table.

It was not difficult to find Snape, in the end. The professor's guest room was just down the hall and Dumbledore gestured in that direction, twirling his beard with an idle thumb and humming some indefinable tune.

Snape's quarters were as opulent as the rest of the house. Priceless antiques, exquisite brocade upholstery, a huge medieval tapestry on the wall... Harry did not notice any of this. Instead, his gaze landed on the sprawled-out form in front of the fireplace, black-clad limbs splayed at unnatural angles, dark eyes half open and still.

Professor Snape was dead.

Next to Harry, Ron made a gurgling sound of incredulity. Dumbledore sprang forward and knelt on one knee next to the Potions professor, placing a hand on the forehead, leaning his head down to listen for a pulse. Dumbledore's beard shook back and forth.

'Is he --?' Harry said.

'I'm afraid so,' Dumbledore replied, pushing himself up to a standing position. 'Professor Snape appears to be dead.'

Harry could not believe it. All those years of bitter contention, mistrust, and hatred were over. Snape was dead. He would never look down his hooked nose at Harry again, would never take points from Gryffindor with that particular air of spite. Harry looked at Snape's hand, curled in limp repose. It was white and almost delicate, at odds with the man himself.

'Well,' said Ron, shrugging his shoulders. 'You knew that greasy git was never going to survive this story.'

Harry nodded. The double life of Severus Snape had finally caught up with him. As he stared at the body of the Potions Master, he noticed something strange. A little yellow lump rested on the floor near Snape's dead hand. How peculiar. Harry bent down, and when he picked up the thing and brought it close to his vision for inspection.

It was a lemon-drop.