Fic: Chosen (Draco, Harry, Voldemort, gen, PG-13)
Title: Chosen
Author: gehayi
Fandom(s): Harry Potter
Pairing/Characters: Draco, Snape, Wormtail, Harry, Voldemort
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,191
Warnings: One brief quasi-slashy moment. And, well, darkfic.
Recipient: mutinousmuse, for apocalyptothon
Request: Draco and snark. Lots of snark.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Summary: In which Draco has a special job among the Death Eaters, and Voldemort gets something he's always longed to have.
***
Endings are unpredictable.
One of the problems with endings is determining when they begin. For endings are not merely pastede on yay; endings are part of every story and every life, right from the beginnings of both. What we consider an ending has generally started long before, in ways that we can't even see.
People don't like that. They prefer to believe that the universe will give them advance notice of endings-as if the universe felt obliged to conform to mortal notions of fairness and justice. Moreover, people also choose to believe that the advance notice will be gaudy and melodramatic enough so that no one will be able to mistake the warning for anything but a warning...no one of the correct belief system, at any rate.
And yet...endings, or the beginnings of endings, are rarely that dramatic. The signs of coming disaster are rarely rains of fire or seas of blood; more frequently, the omen of catastrophe is a small, almost insignificant detail, as delicate and lacelike as a snowflake floating through the air and alighting on a dust of snow in the Alps.
No one notices the snowflake.
Everyone notices the avalanche.
***
The snowflake that started the avalanche that was to bury the wizarding world fell in John O'Groats, Scotland. There, after spending six months or so searching all over Europe for Horcruxes and battling with Death Eaters wherever he went, Harry Potter unexpectedly--and, as far as the wizarding world would later think, quite inconveniently--died.
What was worse, he didn't even have the grace to die heroically, defeating Voldemort for all time despite losing his life in the process. Instead, he died of ptomaine poisoning he got from eating spoilt chicken vindaloo he'd picked up a day or two earlier at a Pakistani take-away in Glasgow.
His death attracted very little attention. John O'Groats had a lot of craft shops and bed and breakfasts that were only open during the tourist season, which February most emphatically was not. Few of the Muggles who lived there realised that Harry was in town.
Nor were Ron and Hermione about. Ron was in Romania with Charlie, trying to track down Helga Hufflepuff's loving cup, while Hermione was blissfully ensconced in the ancient and well-protected Magic Section of the Bodleian Library at Oxford University, attempting to uncover the whereabouts of an illuminated manuscript that had originally belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw.
So Harry died alone in the northernmost tip of Scotland, without a soul taking note of his passing.
But one-seventh of a soul did.
***
"Dead?" Draco said, staring incredulously at Snape. "What do you mean, 'dead'?"
"Dead," said Snape, enunciating clearly. "Deceased. No longer among the living. Surely you do not find the concept that difficult, Draco."
No, I don't find the concept difficult, Draco thought at Snape, mentally mimicking his tone. I'm a Death Eater, after all. I may not be good at killing directly, but I'm awfully good at planning things that lead to others' deaths.
It's this death that I find inconceivable.
"I didn't hear anything about a battle," he said instead.
"That," Snape said, "is because there wasn't one." He paused, giving Draco a warning glance. "And in any case, we have no more time to discuss the matter. Your presence is requested in the Infirmary immediately. Follow me." So saying, he swept from the corner of the courtyard toward the southwest tower of Caerlaverock Castle, his cloak billowing after him, causing him to resemble a tall and rather irritated bat.
Draco followed, hoping he didn't look as sick as he felt.
The Infirmary. Now that was a joke, and a bitter one. Some healing took place there, yes, but most of it was secret and furtive. The Dark Lord's own experiences with death and the hideous dependent half-life he'd endured had only embittered him toward illness. Death was to be overcome and conquered. Wounds, disease, madness--these were weaknesses. Weaknesses were not to be pampered, but rooted out.
The Dark Lord had found a means of rooting out weakness and maintaining loyal service at the same time.
Draco was under no illusions about why he'd been chosen to supervise the Dark Lord's most loyal servants. He had fucked up, that was all. And the Dark Lord knew he'd fucked up. Never mind that he'd found a way for Death Eaters to invade Hogwarts that even the self-proclaimed 'wisest wizard in the world' hadn't thought of. Never mind that he'd put an adult and fully qualified witch under the Imperius Curse, and used her as his dupe and spy for nearly a year. Never mind that he'd attempted murder three times, and had held Dumbledore at wandpoint. He hadn't killed Dumbledore, and that made him a failure.
"It might have been worse," Snape had told him a few days after they'd fled Hogwarts. They'd been in the Black Forest by then, and had been travelling east. "You might have succeeded. Succeeding where the Dark Lord failed might be considered…unwise."
"He'll kill me for failing," Draco had said, his voice a monotone.
Snape had simply gazed at him, an unreadable expression in those beetle-black eyes. "Death is nothing. Pray that he never teaches you what is worse."
He'd thought back then that Snape had been talking about Crucio.
How stupid he'd been.
Well, he hadn't been killed, obviously. Nor had his parents. His successes had weighed in their favour.
Nevertheless, the Dark Lord hadn't been pleased. "You seem to have little talent for killing," he had said in a high, cold voice. "Perhaps you would do better if you were responsible for those already dead."
And as quickly as that, Draco had been given his current occupation. The one that had him scurrying up the tower stairs after Snape.
Wormtail was waiting with the body when they arrived. He was flanked by two Inferi, and looked as if he were trying valiantly to ignore both. Draco couldn't blame him. He'd seen enough of Harry Potter during his years at Hogwarts to recognise the thin build and black hair of the male Inferius, and the almond-shaped green eyes of the female.
Snape froze at the sight of them, and swore under his breath. "If this is your idea of a joke, Wormtail…"
"Pettigrew," said Wormtail wearily. "And no. They're here to…assist…you and the young Baron here. It's his idea."
"Don’t call me 'the Baron,'" Draco said, glaring at Wormtail. "I don't like that nickname. I've told you that before."
"I have a nickname," Wormtail corrected him politely. "You, lad, have a job title."
Draco didn't know who had started calling him "the Baron." He hadn't even known at first what it meant. Snape had been forced to explain about the half-recalled memories of Inferi that Muggles called zombies, and the voudon lord of the cemetery, Baron Samedi.
He hadn't liked it much; "Baron" was too reminiscent of the Bloody Baron for his taste. But somehow, it had caught on. And soon all the Death Eaters who controlled and maintained the Inferi were called "Barons" and "Baronesses."
But each of the others was simply "a Baron" or "a Baroness." Either because the Dark Lord had given him the task as punishment, or because he was the youngest of those who worked with the Inferi, Draco was "the Baron." The definite article.
"You've examined him thoroughly?" Snape was saying, as he gestured at the corpse.
Wormtail nodded. "Yes. Clear case of food poisoning. No concealed curses to overcome, no hidden damage to the limbs or the body that'll hamper his…future service."
That surprised Draco. Quite a few Light-side witches and wizards had curses cast upon them as a precaution. The curses had no effect upon a living body, but they reacted quite badly to re-vivification ointments and the re-animation ceremony, rendering the corpse paralysed or maimed and therefore unable to serve the Dark Lord. Some even went so far as to have Cremation Curses cast on them prior to death. Draco had seen two corpses and a fair number of Death Eaters go up in flames when one of the other Barons had been too impatient to wait for Wormtail's forensic examination.
Strange that the prophesied saviour of the wizarding world hadn't taken such precautions against a situation like this. Draco was surprised that the Mudblood Granger hadn't warned Potter, at least.
Snape snorted, as if this piece of stupidity were no more than he had expected. "I trust the soul is bound?"
"Need you ask? He did that, first thing. Even before I examined Har--er, the body."
"He's not Potter any more," Draco said in a lofty tone. "He's just an Inferius. Or will be, when the ceremony's done."
Wormtail gazed at him with cold dislike. "Really. And here I thought that Harry being Harry was rather the whole point of this."
"That will do, Wormtail," Snape interposed smoothly. "If you have nothing further to report, and no lack of potions or ointments that would make resurrection impossible, I suggest that you leave and let Draco, the Inferi and myself get on with it."
Draco expected the traitorous Healer to protest Snape's words, at the very least. But instead, Wormtail merely said, "No. I've nothing more to report," and headed for the door to the stairs. He paused there for one moment, gazing at Potter's corpse, his face filled with unspeakable pity. Then, abruptly, he was gone.
"Come, Draco," said Snape. "He'll want this done by sunrise."
The ceremony was fairly simple; the most important portion--the chaining of the soul so that it was linked to the dead body and bound to serve the will of the wizard who had chained it--was already done. Voldemort routinely performed that part of the ceremony himself, leaving the more repugnant physical details to the Potions Master and to the Barons.
Silently--for the ceremony had to be done in silence--Snape handed Healing Potion to Draco, who poured it over Potter's head. Not that Healing Potion was capable of healing the dead, of course, but it did permanently halt, and in many cases, reversed, decomposition. There was no point in creating an Inferius which would rot to pieces in a matter of days or weeks. Inferi, after all, were intended to be eternal servants.
Next came the revivification ointment, a nasty blend of valerian, sopophorous, the skin of a marine toad, the poisons of puffer-fish and tree frogs, and ground-up human bones. This was Draco's least favourite part, as it meant that he had to work with--and touch--two Inferi. Carefully, he anointed Potter's face, rib cage, hands, feet and penis, mentally reciting charms that would bind Potter to the Dark Lord bodily, mentally and emotionally. Draco had serious doubts as to whether Inferi were capable of thought or emotion, but it was part of the ritual, and Draco had learned that some things were best not argued about.
Once that was done, Draco, wincing inwardly, slathered the remainder of the ointment on the hands of James and Lily. It had to be done this way; two Inferi had to write words of power on the corpse's head, arms, legs and back, or there was a chance of the new Inferius becoming confused and attacking other Inferi. The words, written by other undead, welcomed him into the community of Inferi, telling him with unshakeable force that he was no longer human, and that this was where he belonged forever.
Draco would have been happier not to have to perform that part of the ritual, though. The hands of Inferi felt like resilient leather. Most unpleasant.
Next came the Enslavement Enchantment. Related to the Imperius Curse, it was the same spell that had been placed on house-elves so many centuries earlier. Draco thought of what the Mudblood would think about Potter being turned into an undead house-elf, and very nearly burst out laughing. Only his knowledge of how wrathful the Dark Lord would be if the ritual failed forced him to swallow his laughter.
The final part--the feeding of the new Inferius--was nearly as unpleasant as the business with the revivification ointment. Draco had complained loudly about this at first, saying that it was absurd for an undead corpse to need to eat anything. Snape had glanced at him sideways and reminded him that being an undead corpse had never stopped a vampire from being hungry.
Nevertheless, the unpleasantness of feeding an Inferius by hand was not why Draco nearly dropped the two silver bowls of food Snape handed to him.
He recognised the food in one bowl--a greenish-white paste of datura. Zombie's cucumber, it was called. It was supposed to compel obedience...just in case any of the other obedience spells failed.
That didn't surprise Draco; zombie's cucumber was given to every Inferius at the end of the ritual. It was standard practice.
It was the second bowl that made him stop and stare, although the contents of that bowl looked quite ordinary--white, crystalline and sparkling ever so slightly in the tower's torchlight.
Salt?
There was but one use for salt in the resurrection ritual. A particularly nasty use.
Salt restored the mind and memory of Inferi. Not their will, of course--Inferi had no free will, for they were wholly owned by the wizard who had bound their souls. But once an Inferius had eaten salt, it became aware of who he had been…and what it now was.
Draco stared at Snape, trying desperately to look a question at the man. Unfortunately, the human face is not nearly so eloquent or expressive as words are. Despite his best efforts at body language, Draco merely succeeded in looking slightly constipated.
Snape, noting Draco's hesitation, motioned him impatiently to continue the ritual. Slowly, as if in a dream, Draco placed the bowls on the table next to Potter, dipped his hands in the paste and shaped it like clay into a vaguely cylindrical form, rolled the cylinder of paste in the bowl of salt, and cast an unspoken Hisce!. Then he put the paste in Potter's slowly opening mouth.
***
As his body tasted the salt, the soul that had been Harry Potter woke up.
He didn't quite know where he was at first; he only had the sensation that he was supposed to be elsewhere.
When he looked at his body, he was sure of it. Unless the ancient Egyptians had been right all along, he really didn't think that he should be obliged to cart around his corpse for all eternity.
And, he thought as he glanced around the room, I haven't done anything bad enough to have to spend my afterlife with Draco Malfoy or Severus Snape.
He kept expecting Malfoy to utter some racist remark, or Snape to sneer and make a cutting comment. But neither spoke. He felt as if the volume of the world had been turned down, and he wondered if the problem was with him or the world.
He didn't notice the other two in the room at first. When he did, it was because he was confused by the sight of the young woman's red hair.
Ginny?
The young woman said nothing. She merely began tidying up the room, picking up potion vials, jars of ointment and a pair of silver bowls. Her movements were graceless. She didn't trip or bump into things, but her walk was awkward. It was like looking at a dancer who had suddenly lost all sense of rhythm.
Only when she turned to Malfoy as if awaiting instructions did Harry realise who she was--and then only because of her large green eyes.
She didn't look as she had in the Mirror of Erised, or as she'd appeared in Snape's memory. Her face was dull, slack and devoid of expression. Her eyes seemed glazed or filmy, and were flatter than Harry remembered, as if they had deflated somewhat.
Not my mum, Harry thought, sickened. Not in the least.
James, who was sweeping the floor, looked no better. Unlike Lily, whose face was expressionless, James was slack-jawed and gape-mouthed. He resembled nothing so much as a congenital idiot. He was not wearing glasses, and Harry thought that his father's face looked oddly naked without them.
All right, thought Harry, wishing that he had a body so that he could ball his hands into fists. All right. Obviously I'm here to save my parents from this…whatever it is…that Snape and Malfoy are up to. All I have to do is figure out what's wrong and how to rescue them. And then do it. Yes. Sounds like a plan.
A little voice deep inside Harry's mind interrupted. WHAT plan?
Harry was just about to start arguing with that little voice, whoever or whatever it was, when Snape glanced beside him at an hourglass--something Harry hadn't spotted before--and nodded to Draco. Draco scrutinised the hourglass for a minute, then removed his wand from his robes and waved it in an intricate gesture.
"Follow me," he said, and turned and walked toward the door.
James and Lily followed. Harry's body sat up, swung its legs over the side of the laboratory table, stood up, and staggered after them. Snape brought up the rear.
Stop! Harry yelled. Why are you--why am I--chasing after Malfoy, of all people?
No one replied.
Well, fine. I'll just sit here and wait. I'm not lurching all over creation after Malfoy, even if my body is…
Damn, that sounds dirty.
Harry settled in for what he expected to be a good long wait. It lasted all of two seconds. Then a sensation of burning, acidic pain seared through his soul. He would have shrieked in agony if he'd had a voice.
Scarcely aware that he was even doing so, he made his way through the still-open door and down the stairs, the pain abating a bit as he did so.
I wish, he thought as he--walked? floated? glided?--down the stairs, that someone would tell me what the hell is going on.
***
Once Draco, Snape and the Inferi had entered Caerlaverock Castle's Great Hall, the Dark Lord, who was seated on an ornately carved throne that looked as if it were made of onyx, took his time acknowledging his servants. This was typical--the Dark Lord was not overburdened with such trifles as courtesy and consideration for loyal followers--but it never failed to irk Draco to the point where he was forced to conceal his thoughts with Occlumency.
Common, he thought with a mental sneer. Common as pigs' tracks.
Nevertheless, he waited, and waited with some pretence to patience, as the Dark Lord tortured this minor Death Eater for bringing unfavourable news, and proclaimed that equally unimportant one to be in favour…at least this week. It was all quite spectacularly theatrical. Draco had a feeling that Merlin's Shakespeare Company had lost a potential star when Tom Marvolo Riddle had chosen politics over acting.
At last, however, the Dark Lord deigned to notice them. He greeted Snape with a regal nod and a small smile, like a king acknowledging a good and faithful knight. He favoured Draco with a stern gaze, and beckoned the young man closer with a flick of his white and spidery fingers.
Draco had learned by now that there were some things you didn't do, and walking up to the Dark Lord with proud bearing and unbowed head was just one of them. He knelt down, crawled forward, and remained silent till the Dark Lord spoke.
"Is the ceremony complete, my servant?"
Draco made a conscious effort not to grit his teeth--house elves are servants, NOT Malfoys!--and nodded. "Yes, my Lord," he said, trying to speak clearly and submissively at the same time. "It is."
Which, he reflected, the Dark Lord knew perfectly well. After all, Potter--or what had once been Potter--was standing right there in front of him.
Performance. It's all about performance.
"And is the latest of my warriors here?"
"It is, my Lord."
The Dark Lord nodded, bared his teeth in what was probably supposed to be a delighted grin, and raised his high, cold voice so that every Death Eater present might hear. "Harry Potter, come forward!"
The room filled with whispers--not all of them complimentary, Draco was sure. After all, Potter had had a nasty habit of overcoming their side by sheer blind luck.
Well, his luck had run out now.
The whispers turned to stifled exclamations and shouts when, without hesitation or the slightest sign of resistance, Potter's Inferius stepped forward. The Dark Lord gestured at the Inferius; a second later, it was facing His Lordship's audience, floating several feet above the ground so that everyone could see.
"Behold the Chosen One!" cried the Dark Lord. "My servant now, for all of eternity. This is what we do to our enemies!"
The cheers and joyful laughter of the Death Eaters filled the room.
"Of course," mused the Dark Lord as he lowered the Inferius to the flagstone floor, "it is not enough merely to have an Inferius. One must use it. Tell me, Draco, how soon can you mobilise the Inferi in your care for a mission?"
Well, there was only one answer to that.
"At once, my Lord." Knowledge of the Dark Lord's wrath should he not tell the whole truth compelled him to add, "But it will take me about an hour to get them ready."
Inferi, after all, were not swift creatures. And any magical skills they had once possessed--like flying brooms--had died along with their bodies.
"That," murmured the Dark Lord, "will be quite satisfactory."
"And the target, my Lord?" Draco disliked asking the Dark Lord questions--one never knew what would set off his mercurial temper--but sometimes asking was the only practical thing to do.
"You will be going to Devon. Specifically, a town called Ottery St Catchpole." The Dark Lord gazed at Draco, his snake-like eyes gleaming redly. "Level it. Leave not a single brick standing on another. Kill everyone. Let the Inferi feed, for a bit. Then bring the least damaged corpses back so that they can have the pleasure of joining us.
"And Draco," The Dark Lord said, smiling at him gently. "Do make sure that Harry Potter leads the way."
***
It had been two days since the Dark Lord's pronouncement. Two days since the invasion of Ottery St Catchpole had begun.
Harry was afraid he was going mad.
Between the Inferi, who had ripped half of the houses to shreds, and Malfoy's well-planned use of Incendio on the wreckage, there wasn't much left of the village by now. Chimneys and cellar holes were just about all that was left.
He knew no one had escaped. At the suggestion of Snape, who had accompanied them, Malfoy had cast Exploding Charms on every automobile in the village. And he was certain that he'd seen the Weasleys' broom shed go up in flames.
He wasn't sure if there were any survivors, or, if there were, what condition they were in. He thought he'd heard an appalled shriek of, "Harry?" at one point. He thought, too, that he might have later heard mad, empty laughter, and seen a flash of red hair.
He did know that the Inferi had been very hungry indeed. He'd tried to pretend that that was just his overactive imagination, but that notion had ceased working the minute he'd seen his own corpse gnawing on a human arm as if it were a chicken's drumstick.
He'd tried commanding his body to stop what it was doing, damn it, stop…but that wasn't working. The body of Harry Potter no longer obeyed Harry Potter.
He couldn't flee this horror, either. He'd tried that too, and earned a repeat of the unbearable burning, acidic pain he'd felt earlier. He was bound to his corpse, and that bond kept his body animated, if not alive.
He wondered if his parents' souls were enduring the same agonies his soul was, and fervently hoped they were not.
He'd tried screaming, praying and begging for release. He couldn't bear to be here, to witness what his mindless body was doing.
No one in the afterlife--or in Heaven--seemed to be listening.
He'd attempted to will himself into a trance or unconsciousness. Anything that would allow him to escape this, even for a little while. But this too failed. Apparently only bodies could experience unconsciousness; souls hadn't the privilege.
The hideous truth was beginning to bear itself upon him:
He was Voldemort's slave.
And he was going to have to watch himself destroy the wizarding world and kill his friends, and obey Voldemort's every wish, and Malfoy's every command, forever.
And he would never be able to free himself or his parents, or move on to an eternity of love and peace.
This is hell, he thought, following his body, which was shambling into the ruins of the Burrow, hunting--at Malfoy's orders--for survivors. This is hell.
And no one disagreed with him.
Finis
***
Author's Notes: Valerian and sopophorous are two of the canonical ingredients in Draught of the Living Death.
A marine toad, the poisons of puffer-fish and tree frogs, and human remains are four of the eight ingredients in what is called "zombie powder" in Haiti.
Datura, or "zombie's cucumber" is allegedly fed to nascent zombies by sorcerers in some voudon ceremonies.
Feeding zombies salt (or salty foods, such as ham) is supposed to make them aware of what's happened to them; the results, according to folklore--and this legend exists from the Caribbean to Appalachia, in the stories I've read--range from them turning on their creators and killing them to them trying to dig their way back into their own graves. Hence, all the spells of enslavement and obedience to prevent such minor difficulties.
The Inferi writing words of power on the head, arms, legs and back of the corpse is derived from the legend of the Golem, who was brought to life by an inscription. In this story, the inscription of God's name on a tablet placed under its tongue; in the variant I heard as a child, the Hebrew word for "truth" was inscribed on the Golem's forehead.
Caerlaverock Castle exists. It's largely a ruin now, albeit in the care of the National Trust…but since it's been established that Hogwarts is in fine shape, even though it looks like a ruin to Muggles, I didn't see why Caerlaverock shouldn't enjoy the same privilege. (And yes, there is a southwest tower, and it's still standing.)
The unspoken spell Draco uses, Hisce, is the vocative form of the Latin verb "hisco," which means "to open , split open, gape; to open the mouth." It's in vocative form because "hisco," which is first person singular, wouldn't make sense--"I open my mouth." Vocative is always addressed to another person--"O open your mouth!"
Author: gehayi
Fandom(s): Harry Potter
Pairing/Characters: Draco, Snape, Wormtail, Harry, Voldemort
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,191
Warnings: One brief quasi-slashy moment. And, well, darkfic.
Recipient: mutinousmuse, for apocalyptothon
Request: Draco and snark. Lots of snark.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Summary: In which Draco has a special job among the Death Eaters, and Voldemort gets something he's always longed to have.
***
Endings are unpredictable.
One of the problems with endings is determining when they begin. For endings are not merely pastede on yay; endings are part of every story and every life, right from the beginnings of both. What we consider an ending has generally started long before, in ways that we can't even see.
People don't like that. They prefer to believe that the universe will give them advance notice of endings-as if the universe felt obliged to conform to mortal notions of fairness and justice. Moreover, people also choose to believe that the advance notice will be gaudy and melodramatic enough so that no one will be able to mistake the warning for anything but a warning...no one of the correct belief system, at any rate.
And yet...endings, or the beginnings of endings, are rarely that dramatic. The signs of coming disaster are rarely rains of fire or seas of blood; more frequently, the omen of catastrophe is a small, almost insignificant detail, as delicate and lacelike as a snowflake floating through the air and alighting on a dust of snow in the Alps.
No one notices the snowflake.
Everyone notices the avalanche.
***
The snowflake that started the avalanche that was to bury the wizarding world fell in John O'Groats, Scotland. There, after spending six months or so searching all over Europe for Horcruxes and battling with Death Eaters wherever he went, Harry Potter unexpectedly--and, as far as the wizarding world would later think, quite inconveniently--died.
What was worse, he didn't even have the grace to die heroically, defeating Voldemort for all time despite losing his life in the process. Instead, he died of ptomaine poisoning he got from eating spoilt chicken vindaloo he'd picked up a day or two earlier at a Pakistani take-away in Glasgow.
His death attracted very little attention. John O'Groats had a lot of craft shops and bed and breakfasts that were only open during the tourist season, which February most emphatically was not. Few of the Muggles who lived there realised that Harry was in town.
Nor were Ron and Hermione about. Ron was in Romania with Charlie, trying to track down Helga Hufflepuff's loving cup, while Hermione was blissfully ensconced in the ancient and well-protected Magic Section of the Bodleian Library at Oxford University, attempting to uncover the whereabouts of an illuminated manuscript that had originally belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw.
So Harry died alone in the northernmost tip of Scotland, without a soul taking note of his passing.
But one-seventh of a soul did.
***
"Dead?" Draco said, staring incredulously at Snape. "What do you mean, 'dead'?"
"Dead," said Snape, enunciating clearly. "Deceased. No longer among the living. Surely you do not find the concept that difficult, Draco."
No, I don't find the concept difficult, Draco thought at Snape, mentally mimicking his tone. I'm a Death Eater, after all. I may not be good at killing directly, but I'm awfully good at planning things that lead to others' deaths.
It's this death that I find inconceivable.
"I didn't hear anything about a battle," he said instead.
"That," Snape said, "is because there wasn't one." He paused, giving Draco a warning glance. "And in any case, we have no more time to discuss the matter. Your presence is requested in the Infirmary immediately. Follow me." So saying, he swept from the corner of the courtyard toward the southwest tower of Caerlaverock Castle, his cloak billowing after him, causing him to resemble a tall and rather irritated bat.
Draco followed, hoping he didn't look as sick as he felt.
The Infirmary. Now that was a joke, and a bitter one. Some healing took place there, yes, but most of it was secret and furtive. The Dark Lord's own experiences with death and the hideous dependent half-life he'd endured had only embittered him toward illness. Death was to be overcome and conquered. Wounds, disease, madness--these were weaknesses. Weaknesses were not to be pampered, but rooted out.
The Dark Lord had found a means of rooting out weakness and maintaining loyal service at the same time.
Draco was under no illusions about why he'd been chosen to supervise the Dark Lord's most loyal servants. He had fucked up, that was all. And the Dark Lord knew he'd fucked up. Never mind that he'd found a way for Death Eaters to invade Hogwarts that even the self-proclaimed 'wisest wizard in the world' hadn't thought of. Never mind that he'd put an adult and fully qualified witch under the Imperius Curse, and used her as his dupe and spy for nearly a year. Never mind that he'd attempted murder three times, and had held Dumbledore at wandpoint. He hadn't killed Dumbledore, and that made him a failure.
"It might have been worse," Snape had told him a few days after they'd fled Hogwarts. They'd been in the Black Forest by then, and had been travelling east. "You might have succeeded. Succeeding where the Dark Lord failed might be considered…unwise."
"He'll kill me for failing," Draco had said, his voice a monotone.
Snape had simply gazed at him, an unreadable expression in those beetle-black eyes. "Death is nothing. Pray that he never teaches you what is worse."
He'd thought back then that Snape had been talking about Crucio.
How stupid he'd been.
Well, he hadn't been killed, obviously. Nor had his parents. His successes had weighed in their favour.
Nevertheless, the Dark Lord hadn't been pleased. "You seem to have little talent for killing," he had said in a high, cold voice. "Perhaps you would do better if you were responsible for those already dead."
And as quickly as that, Draco had been given his current occupation. The one that had him scurrying up the tower stairs after Snape.
Wormtail was waiting with the body when they arrived. He was flanked by two Inferi, and looked as if he were trying valiantly to ignore both. Draco couldn't blame him. He'd seen enough of Harry Potter during his years at Hogwarts to recognise the thin build and black hair of the male Inferius, and the almond-shaped green eyes of the female.
Snape froze at the sight of them, and swore under his breath. "If this is your idea of a joke, Wormtail…"
"Pettigrew," said Wormtail wearily. "And no. They're here to…assist…you and the young Baron here. It's his idea."
"Don’t call me 'the Baron,'" Draco said, glaring at Wormtail. "I don't like that nickname. I've told you that before."
"I have a nickname," Wormtail corrected him politely. "You, lad, have a job title."
Draco didn't know who had started calling him "the Baron." He hadn't even known at first what it meant. Snape had been forced to explain about the half-recalled memories of Inferi that Muggles called zombies, and the voudon lord of the cemetery, Baron Samedi.
He hadn't liked it much; "Baron" was too reminiscent of the Bloody Baron for his taste. But somehow, it had caught on. And soon all the Death Eaters who controlled and maintained the Inferi were called "Barons" and "Baronesses."
But each of the others was simply "a Baron" or "a Baroness." Either because the Dark Lord had given him the task as punishment, or because he was the youngest of those who worked with the Inferi, Draco was "the Baron." The definite article.
"You've examined him thoroughly?" Snape was saying, as he gestured at the corpse.
Wormtail nodded. "Yes. Clear case of food poisoning. No concealed curses to overcome, no hidden damage to the limbs or the body that'll hamper his…future service."
That surprised Draco. Quite a few Light-side witches and wizards had curses cast upon them as a precaution. The curses had no effect upon a living body, but they reacted quite badly to re-vivification ointments and the re-animation ceremony, rendering the corpse paralysed or maimed and therefore unable to serve the Dark Lord. Some even went so far as to have Cremation Curses cast on them prior to death. Draco had seen two corpses and a fair number of Death Eaters go up in flames when one of the other Barons had been too impatient to wait for Wormtail's forensic examination.
Strange that the prophesied saviour of the wizarding world hadn't taken such precautions against a situation like this. Draco was surprised that the Mudblood Granger hadn't warned Potter, at least.
Snape snorted, as if this piece of stupidity were no more than he had expected. "I trust the soul is bound?"
"Need you ask? He did that, first thing. Even before I examined Har--er, the body."
"He's not Potter any more," Draco said in a lofty tone. "He's just an Inferius. Or will be, when the ceremony's done."
Wormtail gazed at him with cold dislike. "Really. And here I thought that Harry being Harry was rather the whole point of this."
"That will do, Wormtail," Snape interposed smoothly. "If you have nothing further to report, and no lack of potions or ointments that would make resurrection impossible, I suggest that you leave and let Draco, the Inferi and myself get on with it."
Draco expected the traitorous Healer to protest Snape's words, at the very least. But instead, Wormtail merely said, "No. I've nothing more to report," and headed for the door to the stairs. He paused there for one moment, gazing at Potter's corpse, his face filled with unspeakable pity. Then, abruptly, he was gone.
"Come, Draco," said Snape. "He'll want this done by sunrise."
The ceremony was fairly simple; the most important portion--the chaining of the soul so that it was linked to the dead body and bound to serve the will of the wizard who had chained it--was already done. Voldemort routinely performed that part of the ceremony himself, leaving the more repugnant physical details to the Potions Master and to the Barons.
Silently--for the ceremony had to be done in silence--Snape handed Healing Potion to Draco, who poured it over Potter's head. Not that Healing Potion was capable of healing the dead, of course, but it did permanently halt, and in many cases, reversed, decomposition. There was no point in creating an Inferius which would rot to pieces in a matter of days or weeks. Inferi, after all, were intended to be eternal servants.
Next came the revivification ointment, a nasty blend of valerian, sopophorous, the skin of a marine toad, the poisons of puffer-fish and tree frogs, and ground-up human bones. This was Draco's least favourite part, as it meant that he had to work with--and touch--two Inferi. Carefully, he anointed Potter's face, rib cage, hands, feet and penis, mentally reciting charms that would bind Potter to the Dark Lord bodily, mentally and emotionally. Draco had serious doubts as to whether Inferi were capable of thought or emotion, but it was part of the ritual, and Draco had learned that some things were best not argued about.
Once that was done, Draco, wincing inwardly, slathered the remainder of the ointment on the hands of James and Lily. It had to be done this way; two Inferi had to write words of power on the corpse's head, arms, legs and back, or there was a chance of the new Inferius becoming confused and attacking other Inferi. The words, written by other undead, welcomed him into the community of Inferi, telling him with unshakeable force that he was no longer human, and that this was where he belonged forever.
Draco would have been happier not to have to perform that part of the ritual, though. The hands of Inferi felt like resilient leather. Most unpleasant.
Next came the Enslavement Enchantment. Related to the Imperius Curse, it was the same spell that had been placed on house-elves so many centuries earlier. Draco thought of what the Mudblood would think about Potter being turned into an undead house-elf, and very nearly burst out laughing. Only his knowledge of how wrathful the Dark Lord would be if the ritual failed forced him to swallow his laughter.
The final part--the feeding of the new Inferius--was nearly as unpleasant as the business with the revivification ointment. Draco had complained loudly about this at first, saying that it was absurd for an undead corpse to need to eat anything. Snape had glanced at him sideways and reminded him that being an undead corpse had never stopped a vampire from being hungry.
Nevertheless, the unpleasantness of feeding an Inferius by hand was not why Draco nearly dropped the two silver bowls of food Snape handed to him.
He recognised the food in one bowl--a greenish-white paste of datura. Zombie's cucumber, it was called. It was supposed to compel obedience...just in case any of the other obedience spells failed.
That didn't surprise Draco; zombie's cucumber was given to every Inferius at the end of the ritual. It was standard practice.
It was the second bowl that made him stop and stare, although the contents of that bowl looked quite ordinary--white, crystalline and sparkling ever so slightly in the tower's torchlight.
Salt?
There was but one use for salt in the resurrection ritual. A particularly nasty use.
Salt restored the mind and memory of Inferi. Not their will, of course--Inferi had no free will, for they were wholly owned by the wizard who had bound their souls. But once an Inferius had eaten salt, it became aware of who he had been…and what it now was.
Draco stared at Snape, trying desperately to look a question at the man. Unfortunately, the human face is not nearly so eloquent or expressive as words are. Despite his best efforts at body language, Draco merely succeeded in looking slightly constipated.
Snape, noting Draco's hesitation, motioned him impatiently to continue the ritual. Slowly, as if in a dream, Draco placed the bowls on the table next to Potter, dipped his hands in the paste and shaped it like clay into a vaguely cylindrical form, rolled the cylinder of paste in the bowl of salt, and cast an unspoken Hisce!. Then he put the paste in Potter's slowly opening mouth.
***
As his body tasted the salt, the soul that had been Harry Potter woke up.
He didn't quite know where he was at first; he only had the sensation that he was supposed to be elsewhere.
When he looked at his body, he was sure of it. Unless the ancient Egyptians had been right all along, he really didn't think that he should be obliged to cart around his corpse for all eternity.
And, he thought as he glanced around the room, I haven't done anything bad enough to have to spend my afterlife with Draco Malfoy or Severus Snape.
He kept expecting Malfoy to utter some racist remark, or Snape to sneer and make a cutting comment. But neither spoke. He felt as if the volume of the world had been turned down, and he wondered if the problem was with him or the world.
He didn't notice the other two in the room at first. When he did, it was because he was confused by the sight of the young woman's red hair.
Ginny?
The young woman said nothing. She merely began tidying up the room, picking up potion vials, jars of ointment and a pair of silver bowls. Her movements were graceless. She didn't trip or bump into things, but her walk was awkward. It was like looking at a dancer who had suddenly lost all sense of rhythm.
Only when she turned to Malfoy as if awaiting instructions did Harry realise who she was--and then only because of her large green eyes.
She didn't look as she had in the Mirror of Erised, or as she'd appeared in Snape's memory. Her face was dull, slack and devoid of expression. Her eyes seemed glazed or filmy, and were flatter than Harry remembered, as if they had deflated somewhat.
Not my mum, Harry thought, sickened. Not in the least.
James, who was sweeping the floor, looked no better. Unlike Lily, whose face was expressionless, James was slack-jawed and gape-mouthed. He resembled nothing so much as a congenital idiot. He was not wearing glasses, and Harry thought that his father's face looked oddly naked without them.
All right, thought Harry, wishing that he had a body so that he could ball his hands into fists. All right. Obviously I'm here to save my parents from this…whatever it is…that Snape and Malfoy are up to. All I have to do is figure out what's wrong and how to rescue them. And then do it. Yes. Sounds like a plan.
A little voice deep inside Harry's mind interrupted. WHAT plan?
Harry was just about to start arguing with that little voice, whoever or whatever it was, when Snape glanced beside him at an hourglass--something Harry hadn't spotted before--and nodded to Draco. Draco scrutinised the hourglass for a minute, then removed his wand from his robes and waved it in an intricate gesture.
"Follow me," he said, and turned and walked toward the door.
James and Lily followed. Harry's body sat up, swung its legs over the side of the laboratory table, stood up, and staggered after them. Snape brought up the rear.
Stop! Harry yelled. Why are you--why am I--chasing after Malfoy, of all people?
No one replied.
Well, fine. I'll just sit here and wait. I'm not lurching all over creation after Malfoy, even if my body is…
Damn, that sounds dirty.
Harry settled in for what he expected to be a good long wait. It lasted all of two seconds. Then a sensation of burning, acidic pain seared through his soul. He would have shrieked in agony if he'd had a voice.
Scarcely aware that he was even doing so, he made his way through the still-open door and down the stairs, the pain abating a bit as he did so.
I wish, he thought as he--walked? floated? glided?--down the stairs, that someone would tell me what the hell is going on.
***
Once Draco, Snape and the Inferi had entered Caerlaverock Castle's Great Hall, the Dark Lord, who was seated on an ornately carved throne that looked as if it were made of onyx, took his time acknowledging his servants. This was typical--the Dark Lord was not overburdened with such trifles as courtesy and consideration for loyal followers--but it never failed to irk Draco to the point where he was forced to conceal his thoughts with Occlumency.
Common, he thought with a mental sneer. Common as pigs' tracks.
Nevertheless, he waited, and waited with some pretence to patience, as the Dark Lord tortured this minor Death Eater for bringing unfavourable news, and proclaimed that equally unimportant one to be in favour…at least this week. It was all quite spectacularly theatrical. Draco had a feeling that Merlin's Shakespeare Company had lost a potential star when Tom Marvolo Riddle had chosen politics over acting.
At last, however, the Dark Lord deigned to notice them. He greeted Snape with a regal nod and a small smile, like a king acknowledging a good and faithful knight. He favoured Draco with a stern gaze, and beckoned the young man closer with a flick of his white and spidery fingers.
Draco had learned by now that there were some things you didn't do, and walking up to the Dark Lord with proud bearing and unbowed head was just one of them. He knelt down, crawled forward, and remained silent till the Dark Lord spoke.
"Is the ceremony complete, my servant?"
Draco made a conscious effort not to grit his teeth--house elves are servants, NOT Malfoys!--and nodded. "Yes, my Lord," he said, trying to speak clearly and submissively at the same time. "It is."
Which, he reflected, the Dark Lord knew perfectly well. After all, Potter--or what had once been Potter--was standing right there in front of him.
Performance. It's all about performance.
"And is the latest of my warriors here?"
"It is, my Lord."
The Dark Lord nodded, bared his teeth in what was probably supposed to be a delighted grin, and raised his high, cold voice so that every Death Eater present might hear. "Harry Potter, come forward!"
The room filled with whispers--not all of them complimentary, Draco was sure. After all, Potter had had a nasty habit of overcoming their side by sheer blind luck.
Well, his luck had run out now.
The whispers turned to stifled exclamations and shouts when, without hesitation or the slightest sign of resistance, Potter's Inferius stepped forward. The Dark Lord gestured at the Inferius; a second later, it was facing His Lordship's audience, floating several feet above the ground so that everyone could see.
"Behold the Chosen One!" cried the Dark Lord. "My servant now, for all of eternity. This is what we do to our enemies!"
The cheers and joyful laughter of the Death Eaters filled the room.
"Of course," mused the Dark Lord as he lowered the Inferius to the flagstone floor, "it is not enough merely to have an Inferius. One must use it. Tell me, Draco, how soon can you mobilise the Inferi in your care for a mission?"
Well, there was only one answer to that.
"At once, my Lord." Knowledge of the Dark Lord's wrath should he not tell the whole truth compelled him to add, "But it will take me about an hour to get them ready."
Inferi, after all, were not swift creatures. And any magical skills they had once possessed--like flying brooms--had died along with their bodies.
"That," murmured the Dark Lord, "will be quite satisfactory."
"And the target, my Lord?" Draco disliked asking the Dark Lord questions--one never knew what would set off his mercurial temper--but sometimes asking was the only practical thing to do.
"You will be going to Devon. Specifically, a town called Ottery St Catchpole." The Dark Lord gazed at Draco, his snake-like eyes gleaming redly. "Level it. Leave not a single brick standing on another. Kill everyone. Let the Inferi feed, for a bit. Then bring the least damaged corpses back so that they can have the pleasure of joining us.
"And Draco," The Dark Lord said, smiling at him gently. "Do make sure that Harry Potter leads the way."
***
It had been two days since the Dark Lord's pronouncement. Two days since the invasion of Ottery St Catchpole had begun.
Harry was afraid he was going mad.
Between the Inferi, who had ripped half of the houses to shreds, and Malfoy's well-planned use of Incendio on the wreckage, there wasn't much left of the village by now. Chimneys and cellar holes were just about all that was left.
He knew no one had escaped. At the suggestion of Snape, who had accompanied them, Malfoy had cast Exploding Charms on every automobile in the village. And he was certain that he'd seen the Weasleys' broom shed go up in flames.
He wasn't sure if there were any survivors, or, if there were, what condition they were in. He thought he'd heard an appalled shriek of, "Harry?" at one point. He thought, too, that he might have later heard mad, empty laughter, and seen a flash of red hair.
He did know that the Inferi had been very hungry indeed. He'd tried to pretend that that was just his overactive imagination, but that notion had ceased working the minute he'd seen his own corpse gnawing on a human arm as if it were a chicken's drumstick.
He'd tried commanding his body to stop what it was doing, damn it, stop…but that wasn't working. The body of Harry Potter no longer obeyed Harry Potter.
He couldn't flee this horror, either. He'd tried that too, and earned a repeat of the unbearable burning, acidic pain he'd felt earlier. He was bound to his corpse, and that bond kept his body animated, if not alive.
He wondered if his parents' souls were enduring the same agonies his soul was, and fervently hoped they were not.
He'd tried screaming, praying and begging for release. He couldn't bear to be here, to witness what his mindless body was doing.
No one in the afterlife--or in Heaven--seemed to be listening.
He'd attempted to will himself into a trance or unconsciousness. Anything that would allow him to escape this, even for a little while. But this too failed. Apparently only bodies could experience unconsciousness; souls hadn't the privilege.
The hideous truth was beginning to bear itself upon him:
He was Voldemort's slave.
And he was going to have to watch himself destroy the wizarding world and kill his friends, and obey Voldemort's every wish, and Malfoy's every command, forever.
And he would never be able to free himself or his parents, or move on to an eternity of love and peace.
This is hell, he thought, following his body, which was shambling into the ruins of the Burrow, hunting--at Malfoy's orders--for survivors. This is hell.
And no one disagreed with him.
Finis
***
Author's Notes: Valerian and sopophorous are two of the canonical ingredients in Draught of the Living Death.
A marine toad, the poisons of puffer-fish and tree frogs, and human remains are four of the eight ingredients in what is called "zombie powder" in Haiti.
Datura, or "zombie's cucumber" is allegedly fed to nascent zombies by sorcerers in some voudon ceremonies.
Feeding zombies salt (or salty foods, such as ham) is supposed to make them aware of what's happened to them; the results, according to folklore--and this legend exists from the Caribbean to Appalachia, in the stories I've read--range from them turning on their creators and killing them to them trying to dig their way back into their own graves. Hence, all the spells of enslavement and obedience to prevent such minor difficulties.
The Inferi writing words of power on the head, arms, legs and back of the corpse is derived from the legend of the Golem, who was brought to life by an inscription. In this story, the inscription of God's name on a tablet placed under its tongue; in the variant I heard as a child, the Hebrew word for "truth" was inscribed on the Golem's forehead.
Caerlaverock Castle exists. It's largely a ruin now, albeit in the care of the National Trust…but since it's been established that Hogwarts is in fine shape, even though it looks like a ruin to Muggles, I didn't see why Caerlaverock shouldn't enjoy the same privilege. (And yes, there is a southwest tower, and it's still standing.)
The unspoken spell Draco uses, Hisce, is the vocative form of the Latin verb "hisco," which means "to open , split open, gape; to open the mouth." It's in vocative form because "hisco," which is first person singular, wouldn't make sense--"I open my mouth." Vocative is always addressed to another person--"O open your mouth!"