Murder at Malfoy Manor

Chapter 14

We've Got to Get Organised

'Oh, look,' Hermione said. 'Snape is dead.'

'Hmm,' Voldemort said. 'It certainly appears that way.'

Hermione approached the prone body of her Potions professor. Somewhere over the course of the weekend, she had lost her hesitancy about examining dead bodies. Her fingers explored along Snape's cooling neck, feeling for a pulse. There was none. 'No pulse,' she reported to Voldemort.

'Mmm,' he said. When she turned to face him he smiled, thin lips over white teeth. It made him look less human, somehow.

Not that Hermione minded.

'What's this?' she said to herself, kneeling down once more. Her fingers brushed the small round hard thing. 'My Lord?' She picked it up and showed it to Voldemort.

Voldemort's eyes flared up like crimson burners. 'It looks like a lemon-drop,' he said. 'Snape assured me he'd kicked that habit.'

Hermione met Voldemort's gaze as she brought the tiny candy to her mouth and darted her tongue out to taste it. A sweet, tangy citrus flavour assaulted the tastebuds at the end of her tongue. She nodded. 'It's a lemon-drop.' She put it back where she had found it, on the floor next to Snape's hand.

'Perhaps it's evidence,' Voldemort said. 'Perhaps old Dumbles isn't as snow-white as everyone seems to think.'

'Ohh,' Hermione said. 'Do you really think he'd kill a fellow professor?' The idea of Hogwarts teachers engaging in such nefarious actions was disturbing to her. Hermione naturally gravitated toward authority, and found it difficult to wrap her mind around the fact that teachers were human, too.

'Yes,' Voldemort said.

Despite the distressing image of Dumbledore murdering Snape in cold blood, Hermione was glad that Voldemort was talking again. Ever since her suggestion that Bellatrix had committed suicide, the Dark Lord had been cold and brooding. The silence put Hermione's nerves on edge; she had gotten used to his smooth, compelling voice accompanying her thoughts.

House-elves, poisonings, hanging by rope...it was getting to be a lot to keep track of, even for Hermione's categorical brain. She sighed, and sat back on her heels. 'My Lord?'

'If you have something to say, then say it, girl!' The Dark Lord looked annoyed. Hermione could not tell if he was vexed with her, or with the situation that stole the glory of Snape's murder away from him.

'Maybe,' she said, 'we ought to make a list!'

'A list?'

Lists were one of Hermione's favourite things. They were so useful, and she made them for every aspect of her life: books to read, homework to do, things to buy, ways to improve herself, pros and cons of kissing Ron Weasley...rhymes and reasons to put order into her day-to-day existence. Now, she thought, a list would be most beneficial. 'Yes, sir,' she said. 'With some parchment and a quill, we could get this thing organised. We'll make three categories, one for each of the deaths so far...or perhaps four, counting Mrs. Malfoy's near-death. We'll write down the probable causes of death, motives, opportunities...I could make a graph! And perhaps a matrix!' Hermione became more animated as she rattled off the ways in which a list could help them solve the mystery.

Voldemort regarded her with an unreadable expression. 'A list,' he repeated.

Hermione nodded eagerly.

'I think,' said Voldemort, 'that it was you Snape had in mind when he used to complain about his students, and how some did not know when good enough was enough.'

Hermione's eyes widened in embarrassment. Great, she thought, Snape even complained about me to the Dark Lord. She set her shoulders in a motion of defiance; so what if she was organised? Better than some people, who let life float them along, out of control and aimless. She could not resist throwing a sour look at the dead professor on the floor. He never did appreciate her brilliance.

'Very well,' said Voldemort, rising with the air of someone indulging a child, 'let's find you some parchment, Miss Granger.'

Mollified, Hermione forced a smile and got up to follow him. Voldemort led the way to an upstairs reading room, with comfortable velveteen sofas and great stacks of books that rose to the ceiling. Her spirits lifted at the sight, but she felt disappointed to see they were mostly novels and books of poetry. Narcissa's touch. However, there was a small secretarial desk with a stack of fresh quills, pots of ink, and some fine parchment. It was this that Hermione gravitated towards, her fingers itching to write.

Voldemort sat in the centre of one of the plush sofas, leaning back as though it was a throne, and he gestured at the floor in front of him. 'Sit,' he said.

Hermione brought over the stack of papers and knelt at Voldemort's feet, spreading out her work materials. 'Now,' she said, nibbling the feathery end of the quill. 'From the beginning.' She wrote Lucius Malfoy at the top left of the parchment. 'Location: drawing room. People present: everyone. Murder weapon: revolver or knife. Attempted poison, and candlestick and rope in the room, as well. Motives: hmm.' Hermione stopped and looked up at Voldemort. 'Pretty much everyone had a motive, didn't they?'

'Yes,' said Voldemort. 'Lucius had many enemies.' He sounded entertained by the notion. 'Write down infinite for motives.'

Hermione did. She knew that the key to Lucius's murder must lay elsewhere; with Bellatrix or Snape or some other roundabout clue. 'Right. Now, on to Bellatrix.' She wrote Bellatrix Lestrange at the top next to Malfoy's name. She paused; it was a sensitive subject with the Dark Lord. She did not know what kind of relationship he had had with 'Bella', and his fury at her death had been palpable.

'Location: parlour,' Voldemort prompted. He leaned over, seeming interested in the chart in spite of himself.

'Right,' Hermione said again, writing it down. 'People present: unknown, correct? At least, you and I were in the library.'

'Draco Malfoy and the Weasley girl were there,' Voldemort said.

'Oh, yes, Ginny screamed, didn't she?' Hermione frowned. 'I don't think they killed her. They wouldn't have drawn attention to it if they had.'

'I suppose,' said Voldemort. 'Yes.' He scowled.

'Besides,' said Hermione, 'based on the evidence from the house-elves, no one necessarily had to be with Bellatrix to be the murderer. It could have been committed in absentia.'

'So write down house-elves, then,' said Voldemort.

'Murder weapon: hanging by rope. Circumstantial evidence for house-elf collaboration,' Hermione scribbled. 'Motives: well, quite a few for her, as well.'

'Dumbledore, Potter, the Weasley offspring...it was most likely one of them,' said Voldemort. His eyes glowed with wrath. 'It will not stand.'

Hermione did her best to look sympathetic. Bellatrix Lestrange had been an evil woman, and probably more insane than Voldemort himself, if that were possible. With a peculiar twist of satisfaction, Hermione thought of the murder as retribution for wrongs committed. Bellatrix had gotten exactly what was coming to her. However, it would do no good to voice these thoughts to Voldemort. 'Motives,' she said. 'Simple retribution, perhaps? She had enemies, as well.'

'Fine,' said Voldemort. 'Write down the name of everyone who was in the Manor, and cross off the names of it could not have been. Process of elimination.'

Hermione nodded. 'Who did not murder Bellatrix? You, of course, my Lord.'

Voldemort made a noise of agreement.

'And not Draco Malfoy or Ginny Weasley, I don't think,' said Hermione. 'There's not enough for them to gain by it. Malfoy's a coward, he wouldn't take the risk. And Ginny was with him.' She paused, and took the Voldemort's silence to mean agreement. 'And what about Harry? He would've been with Pansy Parkinson.'

'Oh, I suppose,' Voldemort said, sounding disappointed not to put the blame on Potter.

'That leaves us with Dumbledore, Ron, Snape, and Narcissa,' said Hermione. 'Cut down to four. Not too bad. Unless,' she took a deep breath, her voice becoming small, 'it was suicide.'

'It's a possibility,' Voldemort said quietly. 'Bella was not always stable. But I refuse to believe she would have dared to commit suicide without consulting me first.'

Hermione gulped. Voldemort would want control over everyone's life decisions like that. Once again, a wave of relief/fear passed over her. She wanted this man in charge of her, taking away the burden of decisions...but what if she ever wanted to follow her own way? Did she regret the fuzzy, warm darkness that her loyalty brought? No, she thought. She refocused on her list. 'Now, what about Narcissa Malfoy and the poisoned cactus juice?'

'That has me baffled,' Voldemort said. 'The first guess would be Snape, but it could have been house-elves acting again. They can be induced to poison their masters, under the right persuasion.' A glint passed through his eyes, as though remembering something pleasant. 'Or, it could have been a pure unlucky accident. You know that Atacama cactus juice is a dangerous delicacy, and has been known to kill by incompetent handling and preparation.'

'Like the Japanese and their puffer-fish,' said Hermione.

'Put a question mark next to Narcissa for now, since we aren't sure if it was attempted murder or an accident.' He leaned over further, and his face was close to Hermione's head as he scanned the growing chart. 'And Snape...'

Hermione wrote Severus Snape in its allotted space at the far right side of the parchment. 'Location: guest bedroom. People present: unknown, but lemon-drop found at the scene of the crime. Murder weapon: also unknown.'

'It looked like poison to me, but Snape is an expert at detecting foreign substances,' Voldemort said. 'He would never consume an untested beverage, especially not after the incident with Narcissa.'

'His face wasn't contorted or afraid,' said Hermione. 'That rules out a violent struggle, don't you think? It couldn't have been strangulation or something like that.'

'Hmm,' said Voldemort. 'He's too young to have died of natural causes.'

'Perhaps a slow-acting poison, from something he ate before? Although I don't know what,' Hermione said. 'The lemon-drop?' A horrible thought, that; Hermione herself had tasted the candy. Stupid, she thought.

The fact did not escape Voldemort, either. 'If it was the lemon-drop that was poisoned, we'll know soon enough,' he said, peering closely at her.

Hermione felt her heart leap into her throat. She did not want to die of poison. Her tongue felt funny, tingly, like a contaminant was seeping its way into her bloodstream. It was her imagination, she knew; still, the psychological effect was enough to make her mouth go dry. A sudden exhaustion poured over her. This was too much for her to handle. The words on her precious chart went blurry until she blinked several times, bringing water back into her eyes.

'I'm awfully tired,' she whispered.

'How do you feel? Strange? Anything neurological?' Voldemort stared at her as though she were a specimen in a jar.

'No,' she said, 'no, I don't think so.' When questioned by an external source, Hermione knew that the lemon-drop effect was in her head. She was tired. After a long day, a previous night of little sleep, and her decision to follow Lord Voldemort, it was a wonder she was still on her feet.

'Back to your room,' Voldemort ordered. 'You're no good to me exhausted or dead.'

'Yes, my Lord,' said Hermione, happy for someone else to order her to give it a break. She needed that; otherwise she was known to push herself to extremes. Gathering her parchment, she stood and so did Voldemort. His hand pushed between her shoulder blades, guiding her out the door. She closed her eyes as she walked. Had it only been twenty-four hours since they had come this way before? Now, Hermione wanted to become a Death Eater. He's very persuasive, even when he's not trying to be, she thought. She allowed Voldemort to steer her through the halls toward her bedroom. In her fatigue, she felt relief that she had found a challenge, a home for her questing mind, a place of power in the ranks of Voldemort.

Hermione stopped short, as did Voldemort, when they came round the corner toward Hermione's bedroom. Standing in the hallway, looking furious and self-righteous, stood Ron Weasley. Behind him was Harry Potter. Oh, yes, she thought hazily, my friends. But why am I friends with them again? She could not remember.

'Potter,' Voldemort hissed behind her.

'Voldemort,' Harry said, setting his face into brave lines.

'Hand her over, you!' Ron said, glaring at the Dark Lord's tall frame.

'Why should I?' Voldemort laughed. 'She's safe, isn't she? She's not the one sprawled dead on the floor like your Potions professor... Ah, you already know about that, I see. Was it you who finally bumped off your despised teacher?'

'Enough talk!' Harry said, stepping forward. 'Hermione, come with us. You don't have to be around him anymore.'

Hermione was confused. All she wanted was to crawl into the shadows and sleep, but now she was faced with a premature confrontation between her old loyalties and her new ambitions. 'Harry,' she said. 'Ron. I'm really fine. We've just been working on the mystery. I'm going to sleep now.'

'Hermione, don't you see it!' Ron shouted. 'You-Know-Who,' (Voldemort crowed softly at Ron's fear of his name) 'is trying to turn you to his side!'

Ron's words hung in the hallway, speeding toward Hermione's guilty face.

'No,' Harry said, narrowing his eyes. 'She's already turned. Haven't you, Hermione.'

Hermione did not respond. The soft choice to fall into Voldemort's power now seemed much more difficult when faced with her two best friends, the boys who cared about her, the companions with whom she had been through so much.

'Are you going to betray all of us, then?' Harry asked. 'Throw in your lot with him? Turn your back on everyone who cares about you? Hermione, ARE YOU GOING TO PULL A WORMTAIL?'

'No!' Hermione gasped.

'Wormtail!' Harry growled.

'Wait just a minute,' Voldemort said. 'Let's not bring Wormtail into this. For the record, I don't think it's very nice of you to compare the lovely Miss Granger to that creepy little rodent.'

'Is there anyone who actually likes Wormtail?' Ron wondered aloud. Then he shook his head as if to clear it. 'Never mind. The point is, Hermione, you have to come with us!'

She sighed, and glanced between Harry and Ron making their noble stand in the hallway, and Voldemort, who stood calm and thin and white, his red eyes penetrating into her mind like hard gems. 'Can I sleep on it?' she finally said.

'What?' Harry and Ron said together.

'What?' said Voldemort. He dropped his voice to a whisper, a warning. 'Hermione...'

She looked away from all of them, and focused on the pattern in the carpet runner. 'My brain is worn out,' she said. 'I'm too tired to think, and way too tired to deal with all of you. I need sleep.' She crossed her arms in resolution.

'I think she needs to sleep,' Voldemort said, undoubtedly trying to win brownie points by looking after her well-being.

'Hermione, why don't you get some rest,' Harry said, not to be outdone.

'Have sweet dreams, Hermione,' Ron added, giving her a significant glance, and Hermione could tell he was emphasising himself as a subject of sweet dreams.

'Goodnight. Try not to kill each other while I'm gone,' Hermione said, stepping forward and slipping into her room, closing the door with a thud.

***********

Narcissa sat on the cold marble floor in Severus Snape's guest bathroom. She pulled her knees to her chest and tried to think straight, but thoughts flitted in and out like hummingbirds' wings, too fast to keep track of. It was like being drunk. Narcissa was intoxicated not on alcohol, but on sorrow; she wallowed in self-pity.

No one had thought to check the bathroom. Narcissa had listened as first Dumbledore came in, with Potter and Ron Weasley. They had left. Then, it was the Dark Lord and that Muggle-born Granger girl; Narcissa had listened to their conversation with interest for a few moments, noting the strange rapport between the two, the callous disregard of Snape's death. It held her focus for a few moments, and then her head collapsed back onto its armrest, her thin blonde hair falling like a curtain about her haggard face.

She had done her best, she really had. Her plan had worked at first: she approached Snape with words of contrition, they drank tea; his cup had the addition of Veritaserum. Narcissa found out about the contents of her husband's last will and testament, changed only days before his death. It had thrown her for the kind of loop she hated: an overturning of all she had believed. Her position was dangerous, insecure; with Lucius's death, the precariousness of her situation only increased.

Narcissa found out from Snape that Lucius Malfoy had bequeathed the entire Malfoy estate to the Dark Lord Voldemort. Its enchantments and powers would be used toward Voldemort's cause. Narcissa and Draco would be allowed to live in the Manor, but trusteeship would pass to Voldemort. In his last moments, Lucius had shown his true colours, trying to do in death what he had failed in life: given the Dark Lord true loyalty.

It was a terrible risk Narcissa took, burning the will. If Voldemort ever found out, he would kill her. But it was not to be borne! She did not marry Lucius Malfoy to be a slave to his political persuasions. When she watched the offensive document go up in smoke, Narcissa felt a surge of triumph. She would protect her family, her name. She had one better on Lucius, for the last time.

Then she had run back to Snape's room, ready to apologise sincerely, ready to suggest that he give up his triple loyalties and stay with her. That was when she discovered his body.

At the sight of it, Narcissa had panicked. She had run to Draco's room, desperate to see her son alive and well (and in the arms of Ginny Weasley; for all his rapid-fire excuses Narcissa could tell Draco liked the girl). That new development had distracted her only for a moment, then she had instructed Draco to keep his doors locked and stay safe.

Soft tears seeped out of Narcissa's eyes and plinked down on the bathroom floor. It was so unfair. What had happened to her house, her life? No one would ever visit her after this weekend; Malfoy Manor was deadly. And every man she touched turned up murdered. 'It's like I have the kiss of death,' she whispered morosely to herself.

Could it be that she had grabbed the wrong vial from the potions storeroom? What if it was not Veritaserum, but some deadly poison? What if Snape had told the truth of his own accord, and she had inadvertently killed him? She sniffled loudly, wiping her nose on her sleeve. Only deep emotional trauma could have induced Narcissa Black Malfoy into such an undignified motion. She got onto her hands and knees and crawled across the cold floor, her hands slapping on the chill stone. She peeked through the door into Snape's bedroom; it was empty.

Narcissa's eyes widened. It was empty. There was no one there, not even Snape's lifeless form. The body was gone.

'What?' she said to herself. 'Severus!' she called out. As she had expected there was no answer; still, Narcissa stared at the spot in front of the fireplace where he had lain so recently. What had happened to him? Corpses do not get up and walk around! Narcissa thought. Well, unless the Dark Lord turned him into an Inferi. But I was listening when he was here, and no such spells were cast. It was as though the house itself had gobbled up Severus Snape's cadaver.

Narcissa choked up again at this last dishonor, the disappearance of Snape's body, the object of her mourning. I've been doing nothing but cry all day, she thought, disgusted with herself. But the tears kept flowing. Narcissa left Snape's room and ran through the halls toward her own chambers, occupied with the notion that she might lock herself in and drink herself unconscious until this unspeakable weekend was over. She reached her room safely, threw off her silk robe onto the floor, and collapsed into bed.

A footstep sounded on her floor.

A breath, drawn through the nose, not belonging to Narcissa.

A clearing of the throat.

With a rush of terrified adrenaline, Narcissa looked up and let out a mangled cry of superstitious fear. The dark figure of Severus Snape stood in front of her, a ghost to haunt her forevermore. 'No,' she whispered. 'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.'

'Don't cry, Narcissa,' said Snape's voice.