Springfic: "The Life Test" for leni_jess
Title: The Life Test
Author: Dognmonkeyshow
Recipient: leni_jess
Character(s): Draco, Snape, McGonagall, Pansy
Rating: PG
Wordcount: ca. 6,500
Summary: Draco hates being tested, especially when it comes to his family.
Warnings (highlight to view): None
Author's Notes: The character Olivia Ames was created by dbassassin and is used with permission. For some reason I was obsessed with the idea of the new Chief Auror being an older woman, had no canon candidates, and was much too lazy to create one of my own.
Betas: The ever-fabulous M, who deserves multitudes of cookies, both real and virtual, for her help taming my demon spawn, and oddnari for braving the horrors of the wonky timeline. All remaining errors/idiosyncrasies/Americanisms are mine alone.
The Life Test
~ + ~
I’ve done a lot of things in my life that have got me called a traitor. But I never felt like one until I signed away my family’s home and future.
Mother defined calm and collected, as always, but I sensed that she felt the same way. I think the only thing that had kept her going through all those months of wrangling with the Ministry was the hope that Father would be home with us again one day. But what home does he have to come back to, now?
~ + ~
The Ministry’s games had been going on for months before it seemed like-finally-our solicitor, Flyte, had come to terms with his opposites in the Ministry. The most recent Ministry idiocy was Shacklebolt’s new Chief Auror insisting on meeting before any signatures were put to parchment. Mother, of course, had refused from the beginning to have anything to do with the negotiations, so as head of the family pro tem, I trotted off to London like a good little boy, metaphorical cap in hand.
A few months before, I’d had the pleasure of the hospitality of her staff, in keeping with my status as a former Death Eater, and I can’t say the experience left me craving a repeat. Not that I’d been mistreated. No, that sort of thing doesn’t happen under a Gryffindor’s Ministry. Heavens no.
Even though the Mark on my arm had disappeared after Potter’s freakish annihilation of the Dark Lord, the Aurors never forgot about it. It was like the damned thing had been transposed to the middle of my forehead. So I wasn’t favourably disposed to the idea of another round of Aurorish attentions.
The only contribution Mother made to my preparations was to warn me to be cautious with the woman. As if I wouldn’t. Olivia Ames was not only an Auror of considerable vintage, but a Slytherin to boot, I was surprised to learn. Mother knew her from Hogwarts, where Ames had taken the cursed Defence post for Mother’s seventh year. But when I discreetly prodded her for information about the woman, she deflected me with her usual polite disregard for anyone else’s problems. I sensed there was a story there, but I wasn’t in the mood to go chasing after it. And I’d learned long ago that if I wanted something from Mother, the best strategy was to get her to want to give it to me.
By the time the day of the meeting arrived, the only preparation I’d managed was to spend half an hour in front of the mirror, rehearsing contrite. I didn’t think I’d managed to pull it off, so I thought I’d best stick to my tried and true funeral face: serious, thoughtful, restrained. The kind of face you’d trust your family fortune and youngest daughter to. The key was forcing yourself to believe, for at least a few hours, that you actually thought the people around you weren’t your inferiors and their opinions-no matter how ludicrous-were of some value. Not the easiest job when dealing with Ministry types.
I didn’t imagine the “interview” would take long. After all, she had a bureaucracy of oppression to rebuild; she had better things to do with her time than waste an afternoon on me.
While I wasn’t surprised by the Auror escort, I did think four of them was a little excessive. I'd have thought Shacklebolt wouldn’t want to draw attention to my presence, but that’s Gryffindors for you: everything has to be made into a melodrama.
After all the mystery and Mother’s secretiveness, Ames turned out to be a bit of a disappointment. While she sported the standard assortment of senior Auror disfigurements, she seemed pretty much harmless. After all, she'd been appointed by Shacklebolt. How dangerous could she be?
The uncomfortable chair and the unblinking glower were supposed to intimidate me, I know, but anyone who’s survived Christmas holidays with the Dark Lord is harder to unnerve than your average villain.
“Mr. Malfoy.”
No, you’ve got him in Azkaban, I’d wanted to reply. Adult, Draco. Adult. “Yes.”
“I imagine you’re wondering why I asked to see you.”
I don’t remember any asking being involved.
She clasped her tiny, wrinkled hands over the little lump at the front of her robes. For a second I imagined her pregnant and the grotesquerie of it distracted me for a second.
“This proposed agreement between your family and the Ministry--”
“Where we give you every knut we have in order to save my father from the Dementors--”
“Yes.” At least she was honest. But then, she was a Slytherin and so knew that honesty could be just as much a weapon as a lie. “There are a number of people here who are not happy with this. On a conceptual level.”
“They won’t be happy until our heads are carried through Diagon Alley on pikes.”
The mangled face was even more frightening with a smile. “Something like that.”
“But you don’t want that.”
“Right now the Ministry needs gold more than pikes.”
“You could still go with the pikes. Then the gold comes to you anyway.”
She drummed her fingers on her stomach. “Let people get accustomed to pikes and they tend to get pike-happy. And weaning people from pikes is usually more trouble than avoiding the pikes in the first place.”
“And trouble costs money.”
“Yes. A lot of other things, as well.”
“And the Ministry would prefer to impoverish us with as little trouble as possible.”
“It’s more efficient in the long run.”
“Despite the people who have a problem with it on a conceptual level.”
“Yes.”
This was really not what'd I expected from a conversation with a Chief Auror. “So, you felt you needed to explain this to me?”
She settled back in her chair and I began to suspect she was in some sort of unhealthy relationship with it, based on the disturbing look of satisfaction on her face. “No, no.”
There didn’t seem to be an actual explanation forthcoming, but I didn’t know how far or in what direction I could push her without endangering what little ground I held.
“How do you think the Ministry functions? How it really works?”
I didn’t think that My father gives money to the Minister and the Minister does what he’s told was an answer that would help my cause much. “I’m not a politician.”
“You’re Narcissa Black’s son, so you’ve got to have some political sense somewhere.” She leaned forward into the small pool of light and the shifting shadows had made her scars even more freakish. “This Ministry works on persuasion.”
“Persuasion.”
“Yes. Persuasion.”
I got the feeling she was waiting for me to say something or perhaps for me to figure out the great mystical significance of what she’d said, but I just stared back at her until she decided to let me in on the secret, as I knew I wasn’t going to figure it out on my own anyway, and this would likely save time.
“Let me give you an example. Let’s say I want to do something that’s going to be, mmm, unpopular in certain Ministry circles. Now, technically, I have the authority to do what I want with my department, within the bounds of the law and broader Ministry policy, which I may be more or less able to ignore on certain issues. But in order for me to bring about this circumstance that I want, I have to get another department to help me.”
“Another department such as, for example, the Inquisitor’s Office.”
“For the sake of the discussion let’s say it is the Inquisitor’s Office. That’s where the persuasion comes in. I have to convince the head of that department to do something that they may not necessarily want to do. Perhaps this thing is seen as contrary to their own objectives, maybe they risk some of the grannies on the Wizengamot getting their knickers in a twist and asking pointy questions and making their lives difficult.”
About halfway through this little speech the knut finally dropped, and the clang was practically audible in the tiny cesspit she called her office.
“And this persuasion would take the form of some sort of deal.”
She’d smiled again and there was a very Slytherin twinkle in her eyes. “We may make a politician out of you yet.”
“No, thank you. This deal. I’m assuming it involves payment of some kind?”
“Not in the way you’re thinking--“
“Good. Because based on the terms the Ministry’s proposed you’re going to have all our money and I don’t think my broom would bring in enough for whatever it is we’re not really talking about here.”
“Payment can come in many forms.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not sleeping with the Chief Inquisitor. Or anyone else in this god-forsaken place.”
She chuckled in a way I found most unpleasant. “Don’t flatter yourself, boy.”
I noticed that the calm, mature, restrained expression on my face had degenerated into a scowl, but I didn’t care. I was tired and didn’t think a little petulance was going to harm my case at that point. Childish of me, I know.
“I’m going to have to get up to some considerable verbal gymnastics to get this deal of yours approved by the people that matter. That’s going to take time I can’t spare and energy I could better use elsewhere. So you’re going to do something for me to make it worth my while.”
“I’m not sleeping with you, either.”
“You’re going to get Minerva McGonagall off my back.”
“What?” Where the hell did McGonagall come insto this?
“Something wrong with your hearing, boy?”
Boy? “You’re not making me much inclined to help you.”
“Well then, I’m sure the Chief Inquisitor will be glad to consider the proposed arrangement on its own merits.”
It appeared my original assessment was a little hasty. Turned out she was one of those tiny old women who seem harmless enough, until they try to hex your balls off for stepping on their lawn.
~ + ~
How do you behave toward the portrait of the man you tried to murder, not once, but three times? He (it?) was twinkling at me, which was disturbingly nostalgic, but thankfully it kept silent.
While McGonagall fussed with the tea things, I looked around the room. It was as spare and tidy and mundane and revoltingly middle class as its newest occupant. Something was missing.
“Where’s Professor Snape?”
Hovering the teapot over a cup, McGonagall fixed me with a stare over the rims of her glasses.
“Olivia has spoken to you about it, then.”
Olivia? Oh, she meant Ames. “Not really.”
She sat back in her chair and tried her old classroom glare at me. “I wrote to Madam Ames about just that. Professor Snape. His portrait is missing.”
“Missing?”
“Yes, missing. Are you in the habit of repeating everything said to you, Mr. Malfoy?”
Annoying old cat. “No, I’m not in the habit of repeating everything said to me, Headmistress.”
Why do Gryffindors always think glaring is an effective strategy when dealing with Slytherins? Have you ever tried to outstare a snake?
She eventually figured out the stare wasn’t getting her anywhere. “As I was saying, Professor Snape’s portrait did not appear after his death, as it should have."
“I didn’t know he’d had one done.” Considering the panic and upheaval that year, I couldn’t imagine Professor Snape wasting his time sitting for a portrait. That kind of vanity wasn’t in his character.
“Of course he did. He understood the school’s traditions better than you, young man. All headmasters and headmistresses have their portraits done almost as soon as they’re appointed.”
“Even Umbridge?”
The glare become positively poisonous.
“Dolores Umbridge was never headmistress of this school. She was ‘appointed’ by the Minister, who had no authority to do so. Consequently, the school refused to acknowledge her.”
“Which was why she couldn’t get in here.”
“Precisely.”
“As Professor Snape could.”
“Yes. When a head dies, the school’s magic transfers their portrait here, to join their predecessors--”
“And his didn’t.”
“Obviously not.”
I had a sinking feeling I was going to regret this, but had to ask. “Why?”
“That’s what you’re going to find out.”
What?
I must have goggled at the woman, based on the smug Gryffindor look on her face. She drank her tea and watched me absorb this.
Where the hell was I going to find the time to go off on some wild goose chase around this bloody massive castle looking for a painting? What if I didn’t find it?
“You’re going to let me wander around the school looking for a painting? Does the Board know?”
“Oh, the school has been searched quite thoroughly. It’s not here.”
She was starting to really enjoy this, and that wasn't a good sign.
~ + ~
I wasn’t thrilled about anyone knowing my situation. But when it came to sorting manipulative, overbearing females, I figured I’d best fight fire with fire.
I called Pansy.
“What are you going to do?”
My cup clattered on its saucer. “I don’t know. Why do you think I called you?”
“Why me?”
“Uh, female intuition?”
“Draco. Really.”
I was used to Pansy jumping like a well trained dog when I snapped my fingers. The decline of my family’s fortunes had brought about almost as much change in her as it had me; I got the feeling I was seeing the real her for the first time in ten years, now that I was no longer the target of her (and her mother’s) matrimonial ambitions. In a way it was kind of refreshing; I think I liked her better now that there was no chance in hell I might have to marry her.
But at the moment this Whole New Pansy was damned inconvenient.
“So, McGonagall said the school had been searched?”
“Yes.”
“Probably had the house elves do it, so God only knows how thorough they were.” She paused and stared out the window into the rose garden. “I wonder if she’s lying.”
“Who?” She glared at me. “Oh. I don’t know. Why would she?”
“Who knows. Why do Gryffindors do anything they do? They’re all bonkers.”
I joined her in staring out the window. I’ve never dealt well with threats to my family and I was starting to get sick and tired of feeling anxious about our situation. I had to figure this out, and soon.
“I have to assume she’s telling the truth.”
“True. Even if she isn’t, it’s not like you can go snooping around the school, anyway. So we assume there’s no portrait at the school. Now what?”
“We assume it’s somewhere else, of course.”
She generously ignored my snit. “Okay. What do we know?” She counted off on her fingers. “One: there is supposed to be a portrait of Professor Snape as Headmaster out there somewhere. Two: the school’s magic didn’t bring it to the head’s office when he died. Three: the portrait isn’t in the school. Each of these is based on a piece of information that we can’t confirm.”
“Other than two. I was in her office and the portrait wasn’t there.”
“Unless it was there and she moved it.”
“Or someone else did. Not that that makes any sense.”
“No, you’re right. I think we have to assume that she’s telling the truth and the portrait didn’t appear. She was probably in there moving his stuff out ten seconds after the battle was over, too.”
“She seemed pretty sure there actually was a portrait painted.”
“Then we’re back to three: where is it?”
“Or two: the school’s magic isn’t working properly, at least for moving heads' portraits around.”
“The Headmaster’s office wasn’t damaged in the battle.”
I fiddled with my teacup, twirling it on its saucer. “No, it wasn’t. Maybe it’s more than one thing: the magic’s not working properly, and the house elves didn’t search the castle properly.”
“Which brings us back to the problem that you can’t go search the castle anyway.”
Bugger, bugger, bugger. The talking in circles was making me dizzy.
“I think you have to assume the portrait’s not in the school.”
“Which gets me right back where I was before. Thanks a lot.”
“My god, did no one ever teach you how to think for yourself?” She grimaced and I wanted to smack her. “No, of course not. You were rich so you never needed to learn how.”
“Thanks ever so for the ‘were’, Pans.” Even if it was true.
“The only way we can sort this out is to find out which bit of information is incorrect.”
“Or there’s something else going on that we don’t know about.”
“If that’s the case, you’re probably doomed.”
Not me. Father.
I refused to let her see me get all teary and it was none of her damned business and who was she to see me like that? And my shoes were in need of a good looking over anyway.
“Well, we’ve covered all the possibilities. Unless--”
“Professor Snape’s not dead,” we said in unison.
“Oh my god,” she whispered, eyes wide. “Do you think--”
“We never found his body, you know. Father always assumed the Aurors took it back to the Ministry. No one would say. And he--” was arrested twelve hours later and to be honest I haven’t been able to think of anything but trying to survive and keep Mother sane since.
“Wouldn’t they have taken him to the school with the rest of them?”
“I don’t know. I guess he never--” How the hell could I explain that day and night to her? “I--. I don’t know what happened. We were in the forest after Father came back from Hogsmeade. Then in the school. It was--.” Chaos. Sheer bloody, terrifying chaos.
“I know. And Vince--”
I felt her small hand on mine. Thank god she didn’t make any of her usual ingratiating sympathetic noises. I couldn’t have borne that.
“Do you think--?” The hope in her voice was almost painful to hear, perhaps because I felt the same and didn’t want to. It was ludicrous to even think about.
“Maybe.” I didn’t want to hope. Not now. I didn’t have time to waste hopes on Snape. But the irony of it would be gorgeous, especially after what Potter had blathered on about that night in the Great Hall. That Snape had defied the Dark Lord. That he’d given Potter the information he needed to defeat him. But the idea that he might have somehow survived, I didn’t want to hope for that because if I did and I was wrong I don’t think I could have coped.
“If he’s alive--.” Pansy turned to me and I could tell she didn’t want to hope either, but she did and it made me both sad for her and kind of happy, because if my hopes were dashed hers would be too and I wouldn’t be alone with it. “Where would he be?”
“Mother would know. She went to his house once.” And who else could I ask? Potter? Like he’d tell me even if he knew.
“If he were alive would she know?”
“She would have told me.”
“Wouldn’t the Ministry have taken it? They think he’s dead.”
“To them he is dead. But it’s a Muggle house. If the Ministry didn’t tell the Muggles he’s dead he could still be there.”
“Why would he stay? Why would he even stay in England? He could be anywhere in the world. Australia. Canada. China. Who knows?”
Bugger.
It had seemed like such a good idea. She was right, though; he could be anywhere.
Was anything holding him in England, much less to his family’s home? On the other hand, Professor Snape had never seemed like the adventurous type to me. And Father had remarked often what an old stick he was. It was strange to think I knew him so little, even though he’d been a part of my life as long as I could remember.
“What do we do now?”
“I guess I need to ask Mother where his house is. Somewhere up north, I think. Seems the best place to start looking.”
“Assuming we’re right.”
“What else can I do? I can’t go snooping around the school. And we have to assume McGonagall’s right and there was a portrait painted; and it’s not like we could prove otherwise anyway.”
“Right.” She smiled. “Strange to think he might have been alive all this time. Hiding out from the Ministry.”
“Hiding from Potter, more like. And he’d have to be hiding as a Muggle, too.” What a horrifying thought. “The Ministry would know where his house is and they’d have searched it after the battle.”
“Poor Professor Snape, stuck hiding away, can’t contact his friends or anyone else.”
I didn’t point out that all Professor Snape’s friends were dead or in Azkaban. And I certainly didn’t have anything to add to her sentiment, seeing as I felt exactly the same.
~ + ~
The next day I tracked down Mother, house-hunting in London. She was strangely unsurprised by my questions. After she gave me directions, I headed out right away. No time like the present, right?
My first thought when I saw the neighbourhood where the professor had supposedly grown up was: what a tip. My second thought was that the thoroughly depressing street with its shabby, abandoned looking houses explained a lot about him. Who wouldn’t have become a Death Eater to escape this shit hole?
I wandered the labyrinth of identical streets to find the one Mother had named: Spinner’s End. It looked like the end, all right. Abandon hope all ye who might have the gross misfortune to have to live here.
In the fifteen minutes or so it took me to find Snape’s house, I hadn't seen a single person, not in the street, not in the windows of the houses. Not a single car had driven by. An eerie, heavy silence seemed to press on my back like two hands pushing me forward into the dismal town.
Snape’s old house was the last one on the block, next to a twenty foot high brick wall that loomed over it. From the sidewalk it was no different from all the others around it; there was no more sign it was occupied and it was just as grotty as the rest of them.
I stared at the little box with its tiny, filth-choked yard for a few minutes. I couldn’t tell how long I’d been there because time seemed to be doing strange things, which I found kind of irritating, actually. I was just about to turn away and head back to the riverbank to Apparate home when the sun peeped out through a small hole in the clouds. For a fraction of a second the light shimmered over the house.
Guardian spells. A wizard lived in that house. Because they couldn’t have been left behind by Professor Snape; they would have fallen when he died, like any other spell cast in his life. So either he was still alive, or another wizard was living in that house.
But why would any other wizard live in such a Muggle neighbourhood? And why was I so obsessed with the idea that Snape was still alive, despite all evidence to the contrary?
Now I had to find out.
When I stepped through the low gate I felt the protective enchantments slide over my skin, rough like a cat’s tongue, and my jaw dropped. The disguises on the house and yard were fantastic. It was still the same small house, but transformed: neat, obviously occupied. The yard was tidy and I recognised some of the plantings. Potions ingredients, many of them.
My heart raced as I looked around me and realised he had to be here. I could sense him. I spun around, almost expecting to see a familiar scowling face in the window.
Well, there was nothing for it; I was going to have to knock on the door. It wasn’t as if he was going to appear by sheer force of will.
The front door was only two steps up, but it felt like my heart rate doubled in the time it took me to get there. There was no knocker so I rapped with my knuckles, the sound echoing in the quiet street.
I waited a minute, but there was no answer. I tried again and strained to hear any sound from inside, but there was nothing.
By this time I was feeling a little more myself and disappointment was beginning to temper my former excitement. I couldn’t decide if I should wait or leave and return later.
What if it wasn’t the professor who lived there? What if it was his mother (I had no idea if she was still alive or not) or someone completely unrelated who’d moved into the house. Even if he was still alive, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t have abandoned the house after the war to escape the Ministry.
My guts were feeling as if I’d spent the last few hours on an out of control racing broom. I felt nauseous and exhausted and wrung out. But I had to know. The coincidences were too great.
The duelling halves of my brain were giving me a headache.
I decided to wait five more minutes and see if whoever lived there returned.
After five minutes I decided to make it ten.
Thirty minutes went by with so sign of anyone.
I was not going to allow myself to feel disappointed.
No, I was not going to start behaving like a spoilt child, whining that the world wasn’t bending over backwards to my wishes. Definitely not. That didn’t mean I didn’t want to sit on the stoop and scream in frustration. No, instead I behaved like a Malfoy; I pulled myself together, and left.
He could be anywhere, I said to myself as I retraced my steps to the river. He could be out for the day. Best to go home and get some work done. Come back tonight.
Come back tomorrow.
Come back every damned day--twice a day if need be--until I damned well found out what was going on.
When I reached the spot where I’d arrived, I realised I still hadn’t seen or heard a single person in the town. The town itself was dead: the roads, the buildings, the air, the chimney stacks in the distance. The perfect place for a “dead” man to hide.
And then I heard them. Footsteps. If the silence hadn’t been so perfect I wouldn’t have heard them at all. They weren’t even all that loud, just ordinary shoes on pavement. I turned back and saw a man appear out of a narrow alley and turn the corner into Snape’s street. My heart jumped until I noticed he was quite short, with brown hair. But I told myself that a child could make Polyjuice Potion if he had access to the ingredients, so I followed him.
By the time I reached the corner the man was halfway down the block. Before he’d taken four more steps I knew it was him. Polyjuice disguises the surface, but there was no mistaking that walk: the stooping shoulders, the quick strides that seemed awkward with shorter legs, the head tilted ever so slightly to the left because his father had struck him when he was a child and he’d lost part of his hearing in that ear, and he always favoured it to compensate.
He made to turn into the small gate, then hesitated when he saw it was slightly ajar. Any doubts I might have had evaporated; only a spy would have noticed such a tiny detail.
I was close now and said his name, just loud enough for him to hear. He started a little but didn’t turn when I stepped up behind him.
“You sound more like your father every day.”
I thought I was going to pass out from excitement.
I followed him through the gate and up to the house. His walk was stiff, as if he were hurt. It wasn’t until we were in the house and he finally turned to face me that I saw Snape was afraid. Of me. Which was so bizarre I thought for a moment I was imagining it. But I wasn’t and I realised that he must be wondering why I was there. He probably thought Mother had sent me on some sort of revenge, or worse.
But of course, “or worse” was why I was there.
He dropped his bags on the floor and I followed him into a dark, book-lined room. Sitting, he gave an irritated wave for me to do so as well. His other hand covered his eyes for a moment, then he quickly rubbed them before facing me.
For a minute he just stared and I imagined I could hear the wheels of his mind whirring away. Then he sighed and relaxed a little.
“Why are you here?”
“McGonagall sent me.”
He didn’t seem surprised, which surprised me more than it should have, I suppose. “Why?”
“She wanted me to find your portrait. Or so she said.”
He made a dismissive sound in the back of his throat. “The portrait’s in the castle. As she well knows.”
“She lied.” Now, this didn’t shock me at all. Gryffindors like to pretend they’re above the sort of things that Slytherins are tarred for, but they’re worse than us because they pretend to be so righteous about everything. Liars and hypocrites, all of them.
“She wants you to find me. Send a thief to catch a thief, so to say.” He leaned back in his chair and while he was still looking at me I could tell his thoughts were far away. “I’m the only known Death Eater unaccounted for. Ames must be off her nut. She never could stand loose ends.”
“She told me McGonagall was hounding her about it.”
Another snort. “Other way around, I’d bet. Ames understands the value of information and knows how to get people to get it for her.”
“She’s having me chase you down so she doesn’t have to.”
Snape gave me his “I know you’ll get there eventually so get on with it, boy,” expression.
“And if I find you I have to choose between you and Father.” And whichever I choose she gets what she wants. “Do you think she’s been planning this since we first starting talking to the Ministry to try to get Father out?”
“Possibly. Probably.” There was the slightest flicker of warmth in his eyes for a moment. The crooked smile that used to terrify me as a child made a brief appearance. “The woman’s had a century of practice using people, Draco. She’s a professional.”
While the words were kindly meant--well, kindly for Snape--I still felt like a monumental fool. If I wanted Father free I had to give up Snape; and if I protected him Father stayed to rot and go mad in Azkaban.
I could feel a rising wave of panic crawl up my chest. All of a sudden I was short of breath. The stress of the last week had ground me down and with this, I didn’t even want to try coping any more. My vision narrowed and for a moment I thought I was going blind.
The room was silent while I pulled myself together.
I was so tired. Sick and tired and sore and I had a headache from the excitement and disappointment and I just wanted to go home and crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head. But it wasn’t going to all go away and I knew I was the one who had to fix it.
After a few minutes, I asked the question that had been nagging at the back of my mind since I’d found him.
“How did you manage to keep this place? Doesn’t the Ministry suspect anything?”
“Long ago, I created a false identity for myself, a foreign cousin. Charles Prince.” Another brief flicker of a smile, but I didn’t get the joke. “I left the house to him in my will.”
“Oh.”
Snape always did like to think he was cleverer than anyone else, and he got few chances to show it was mostly true. I guess he was amused by how easy it had been to get one over on the Ministry. Not that that was difficult, but I couldn’t blame him for wanting to gloat a little. I’d figured out long ago that foresight and being prepared for anything were essential for a good spy. His being alive was proof positive at just how good he’d been.
I was feeling a bit deflated. Okay, more than a bit. I was bloody miserable. What was I supposed to do? He didn’t bother asking the question; he never wasted words and I like to think he thought enough of me that he knew I’d figure out what the situation was on my own.
By all the rules I’d been raised under, by the power of any kind of logic, there was no choice: I had to get Father out of Azkaban. But it was easy to choose to pay a price when the price to pay was money or a house and not literally staring back at you, fully aware of what it was you were about to do and why.
This was turning out to be one of those Life Tests, like when Potter and the Mudblood and the Weasel had suddenly appeared in our drawing room and Mother demanded I identify them. Would I fail this one as well? Was this even a pass/fail situation? And if so, which was which?
~ + ~
I couldn’t believe the amount of paperwork involved in releasing him. They’d spent all of ten minutes putting him away; negotiating world peace would have involved less bureaucratic faffing about than getting him out did.
In the end it was almost anti-climactic: a door opened, an Auror stepped aside, and there he was. I could feel Mother trembling beside me and I probably wasn’t in much better shape. He stepped into the tiny room and Mother was in his arms and I felt like I could draw breath freely for the first time in over a year.
He was thin, pale, somehow smaller than he had been. Or maybe I’d grown; I don’t know.
After a minute or so, he whispered something in Mother’s ear and she drew away, wiping her eyes. The expression on his face might have been anything. For some reason I couldn’t see properly. And I almost didn’t want to look at him; fear and shame and happiness battled it out in me and I still couldn’t believe it was over, now. He drew me to him, a hand at the back of my neck in an intimate gesture that I didn’t understand because it was so out of character for him. His hands were dry and rough and strangely gentle and it was the most I could do to not start crying, too.
“Father, I--”
“No, Draco, it doesn’t matter.”
His voice brought on a fresh wave of guilt. Not for the money. Not even for the Manor.
Yes, it does matter, Father. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive myself.
~ + ~
I waited three days after the Prophet’s sensational headlines to die down before returning to the little house. They hadn’t said that the Ministry had actually caught him, so for a few days I allowed myself to swing on a pendulum between guilt and elation. But I had to see for myself, so late one Sunday afternoon I Apparated north.
It was raining and the filthy stream was noticeably higher on its banks, threatening my shoes when I appeared. Again, I saw no signs of life as I walked the narrow streets to Snape’s house.
The disguising spells were down and I feared he might be dead after all. Fighting a rising tide of anxiety, I walked up to the house. The door was locked, but not magically, so I regained some hope that the Aurors hadn’t been there, which made no sense at all. A quick spell, a glance around to be sure no one was watching, and I was inside.
It was empty.
The cloak and coat on the rack behind the door were gone. The thousands of books in the small study were gone. I found not so much as a dropped sock in any of the bedrooms upstairs. I couldn’t decide if that meant the Aurors had taken him then cleaned the place out, or if he’d done it himself and scarpered before they’d arrived.
I wanted--really, really wanted--to believe it was the latter. So I did. And it didn’t quite feel like a lie.
~ + ~
the end.
Author: Dognmonkeyshow
Recipient: leni_jess
Character(s): Draco, Snape, McGonagall, Pansy
Rating: PG
Wordcount: ca. 6,500
Summary: Draco hates being tested, especially when it comes to his family.
Warnings (highlight to view): None
Author's Notes: The character Olivia Ames was created by dbassassin and is used with permission. For some reason I was obsessed with the idea of the new Chief Auror being an older woman, had no canon candidates, and was much too lazy to create one of my own.
Betas: The ever-fabulous M, who deserves multitudes of cookies, both real and virtual, for her help taming my demon spawn, and oddnari for braving the horrors of the wonky timeline. All remaining errors/idiosyncrasies/Americanisms are mine alone.
The Life Test
~ + ~
I’ve done a lot of things in my life that have got me called a traitor. But I never felt like one until I signed away my family’s home and future.
Mother defined calm and collected, as always, but I sensed that she felt the same way. I think the only thing that had kept her going through all those months of wrangling with the Ministry was the hope that Father would be home with us again one day. But what home does he have to come back to, now?
~ + ~
The Ministry’s games had been going on for months before it seemed like-finally-our solicitor, Flyte, had come to terms with his opposites in the Ministry. The most recent Ministry idiocy was Shacklebolt’s new Chief Auror insisting on meeting before any signatures were put to parchment. Mother, of course, had refused from the beginning to have anything to do with the negotiations, so as head of the family pro tem, I trotted off to London like a good little boy, metaphorical cap in hand.
A few months before, I’d had the pleasure of the hospitality of her staff, in keeping with my status as a former Death Eater, and I can’t say the experience left me craving a repeat. Not that I’d been mistreated. No, that sort of thing doesn’t happen under a Gryffindor’s Ministry. Heavens no.
Even though the Mark on my arm had disappeared after Potter’s freakish annihilation of the Dark Lord, the Aurors never forgot about it. It was like the damned thing had been transposed to the middle of my forehead. So I wasn’t favourably disposed to the idea of another round of Aurorish attentions.
The only contribution Mother made to my preparations was to warn me to be cautious with the woman. As if I wouldn’t. Olivia Ames was not only an Auror of considerable vintage, but a Slytherin to boot, I was surprised to learn. Mother knew her from Hogwarts, where Ames had taken the cursed Defence post for Mother’s seventh year. But when I discreetly prodded her for information about the woman, she deflected me with her usual polite disregard for anyone else’s problems. I sensed there was a story there, but I wasn’t in the mood to go chasing after it. And I’d learned long ago that if I wanted something from Mother, the best strategy was to get her to want to give it to me.
By the time the day of the meeting arrived, the only preparation I’d managed was to spend half an hour in front of the mirror, rehearsing contrite. I didn’t think I’d managed to pull it off, so I thought I’d best stick to my tried and true funeral face: serious, thoughtful, restrained. The kind of face you’d trust your family fortune and youngest daughter to. The key was forcing yourself to believe, for at least a few hours, that you actually thought the people around you weren’t your inferiors and their opinions-no matter how ludicrous-were of some value. Not the easiest job when dealing with Ministry types.
I didn’t imagine the “interview” would take long. After all, she had a bureaucracy of oppression to rebuild; she had better things to do with her time than waste an afternoon on me.
While I wasn’t surprised by the Auror escort, I did think four of them was a little excessive. I'd have thought Shacklebolt wouldn’t want to draw attention to my presence, but that’s Gryffindors for you: everything has to be made into a melodrama.
After all the mystery and Mother’s secretiveness, Ames turned out to be a bit of a disappointment. While she sported the standard assortment of senior Auror disfigurements, she seemed pretty much harmless. After all, she'd been appointed by Shacklebolt. How dangerous could she be?
The uncomfortable chair and the unblinking glower were supposed to intimidate me, I know, but anyone who’s survived Christmas holidays with the Dark Lord is harder to unnerve than your average villain.
“Mr. Malfoy.”
No, you’ve got him in Azkaban, I’d wanted to reply. Adult, Draco. Adult. “Yes.”
“I imagine you’re wondering why I asked to see you.”
I don’t remember any asking being involved.
She clasped her tiny, wrinkled hands over the little lump at the front of her robes. For a second I imagined her pregnant and the grotesquerie of it distracted me for a second.
“This proposed agreement between your family and the Ministry--”
“Where we give you every knut we have in order to save my father from the Dementors--”
“Yes.” At least she was honest. But then, she was a Slytherin and so knew that honesty could be just as much a weapon as a lie. “There are a number of people here who are not happy with this. On a conceptual level.”
“They won’t be happy until our heads are carried through Diagon Alley on pikes.”
The mangled face was even more frightening with a smile. “Something like that.”
“But you don’t want that.”
“Right now the Ministry needs gold more than pikes.”
“You could still go with the pikes. Then the gold comes to you anyway.”
She drummed her fingers on her stomach. “Let people get accustomed to pikes and they tend to get pike-happy. And weaning people from pikes is usually more trouble than avoiding the pikes in the first place.”
“And trouble costs money.”
“Yes. A lot of other things, as well.”
“And the Ministry would prefer to impoverish us with as little trouble as possible.”
“It’s more efficient in the long run.”
“Despite the people who have a problem with it on a conceptual level.”
“Yes.”
This was really not what'd I expected from a conversation with a Chief Auror. “So, you felt you needed to explain this to me?”
She settled back in her chair and I began to suspect she was in some sort of unhealthy relationship with it, based on the disturbing look of satisfaction on her face. “No, no.”
There didn’t seem to be an actual explanation forthcoming, but I didn’t know how far or in what direction I could push her without endangering what little ground I held.
“How do you think the Ministry functions? How it really works?”
I didn’t think that My father gives money to the Minister and the Minister does what he’s told was an answer that would help my cause much. “I’m not a politician.”
“You’re Narcissa Black’s son, so you’ve got to have some political sense somewhere.” She leaned forward into the small pool of light and the shifting shadows had made her scars even more freakish. “This Ministry works on persuasion.”
“Persuasion.”
“Yes. Persuasion.”
I got the feeling she was waiting for me to say something or perhaps for me to figure out the great mystical significance of what she’d said, but I just stared back at her until she decided to let me in on the secret, as I knew I wasn’t going to figure it out on my own anyway, and this would likely save time.
“Let me give you an example. Let’s say I want to do something that’s going to be, mmm, unpopular in certain Ministry circles. Now, technically, I have the authority to do what I want with my department, within the bounds of the law and broader Ministry policy, which I may be more or less able to ignore on certain issues. But in order for me to bring about this circumstance that I want, I have to get another department to help me.”
“Another department such as, for example, the Inquisitor’s Office.”
“For the sake of the discussion let’s say it is the Inquisitor’s Office. That’s where the persuasion comes in. I have to convince the head of that department to do something that they may not necessarily want to do. Perhaps this thing is seen as contrary to their own objectives, maybe they risk some of the grannies on the Wizengamot getting their knickers in a twist and asking pointy questions and making their lives difficult.”
About halfway through this little speech the knut finally dropped, and the clang was practically audible in the tiny cesspit she called her office.
“And this persuasion would take the form of some sort of deal.”
She’d smiled again and there was a very Slytherin twinkle in her eyes. “We may make a politician out of you yet.”
“No, thank you. This deal. I’m assuming it involves payment of some kind?”
“Not in the way you’re thinking--“
“Good. Because based on the terms the Ministry’s proposed you’re going to have all our money and I don’t think my broom would bring in enough for whatever it is we’re not really talking about here.”
“Payment can come in many forms.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not sleeping with the Chief Inquisitor. Or anyone else in this god-forsaken place.”
She chuckled in a way I found most unpleasant. “Don’t flatter yourself, boy.”
I noticed that the calm, mature, restrained expression on my face had degenerated into a scowl, but I didn’t care. I was tired and didn’t think a little petulance was going to harm my case at that point. Childish of me, I know.
“I’m going to have to get up to some considerable verbal gymnastics to get this deal of yours approved by the people that matter. That’s going to take time I can’t spare and energy I could better use elsewhere. So you’re going to do something for me to make it worth my while.”
“I’m not sleeping with you, either.”
“You’re going to get Minerva McGonagall off my back.”
“What?” Where the hell did McGonagall come insto this?
“Something wrong with your hearing, boy?”
Boy? “You’re not making me much inclined to help you.”
“Well then, I’m sure the Chief Inquisitor will be glad to consider the proposed arrangement on its own merits.”
It appeared my original assessment was a little hasty. Turned out she was one of those tiny old women who seem harmless enough, until they try to hex your balls off for stepping on their lawn.
~ + ~
How do you behave toward the portrait of the man you tried to murder, not once, but three times? He (it?) was twinkling at me, which was disturbingly nostalgic, but thankfully it kept silent.
While McGonagall fussed with the tea things, I looked around the room. It was as spare and tidy and mundane and revoltingly middle class as its newest occupant. Something was missing.
“Where’s Professor Snape?”
Hovering the teapot over a cup, McGonagall fixed me with a stare over the rims of her glasses.
“Olivia has spoken to you about it, then.”
Olivia? Oh, she meant Ames. “Not really.”
She sat back in her chair and tried her old classroom glare at me. “I wrote to Madam Ames about just that. Professor Snape. His portrait is missing.”
“Missing?”
“Yes, missing. Are you in the habit of repeating everything said to you, Mr. Malfoy?”
Annoying old cat. “No, I’m not in the habit of repeating everything said to me, Headmistress.”
Why do Gryffindors always think glaring is an effective strategy when dealing with Slytherins? Have you ever tried to outstare a snake?
She eventually figured out the stare wasn’t getting her anywhere. “As I was saying, Professor Snape’s portrait did not appear after his death, as it should have."
“I didn’t know he’d had one done.” Considering the panic and upheaval that year, I couldn’t imagine Professor Snape wasting his time sitting for a portrait. That kind of vanity wasn’t in his character.
“Of course he did. He understood the school’s traditions better than you, young man. All headmasters and headmistresses have their portraits done almost as soon as they’re appointed.”
“Even Umbridge?”
The glare become positively poisonous.
“Dolores Umbridge was never headmistress of this school. She was ‘appointed’ by the Minister, who had no authority to do so. Consequently, the school refused to acknowledge her.”
“Which was why she couldn’t get in here.”
“Precisely.”
“As Professor Snape could.”
“Yes. When a head dies, the school’s magic transfers their portrait here, to join their predecessors--”
“And his didn’t.”
“Obviously not.”
I had a sinking feeling I was going to regret this, but had to ask. “Why?”
“That’s what you’re going to find out.”
What?
I must have goggled at the woman, based on the smug Gryffindor look on her face. She drank her tea and watched me absorb this.
Where the hell was I going to find the time to go off on some wild goose chase around this bloody massive castle looking for a painting? What if I didn’t find it?
“You’re going to let me wander around the school looking for a painting? Does the Board know?”
“Oh, the school has been searched quite thoroughly. It’s not here.”
She was starting to really enjoy this, and that wasn't a good sign.
~ + ~
I wasn’t thrilled about anyone knowing my situation. But when it came to sorting manipulative, overbearing females, I figured I’d best fight fire with fire.
I called Pansy.
“What are you going to do?”
My cup clattered on its saucer. “I don’t know. Why do you think I called you?”
“Why me?”
“Uh, female intuition?”
“Draco. Really.”
I was used to Pansy jumping like a well trained dog when I snapped my fingers. The decline of my family’s fortunes had brought about almost as much change in her as it had me; I got the feeling I was seeing the real her for the first time in ten years, now that I was no longer the target of her (and her mother’s) matrimonial ambitions. In a way it was kind of refreshing; I think I liked her better now that there was no chance in hell I might have to marry her.
But at the moment this Whole New Pansy was damned inconvenient.
“So, McGonagall said the school had been searched?”
“Yes.”
“Probably had the house elves do it, so God only knows how thorough they were.” She paused and stared out the window into the rose garden. “I wonder if she’s lying.”
“Who?” She glared at me. “Oh. I don’t know. Why would she?”
“Who knows. Why do Gryffindors do anything they do? They’re all bonkers.”
I joined her in staring out the window. I’ve never dealt well with threats to my family and I was starting to get sick and tired of feeling anxious about our situation. I had to figure this out, and soon.
“I have to assume she’s telling the truth.”
“True. Even if she isn’t, it’s not like you can go snooping around the school, anyway. So we assume there’s no portrait at the school. Now what?”
“We assume it’s somewhere else, of course.”
She generously ignored my snit. “Okay. What do we know?” She counted off on her fingers. “One: there is supposed to be a portrait of Professor Snape as Headmaster out there somewhere. Two: the school’s magic didn’t bring it to the head’s office when he died. Three: the portrait isn’t in the school. Each of these is based on a piece of information that we can’t confirm.”
“Other than two. I was in her office and the portrait wasn’t there.”
“Unless it was there and she moved it.”
“Or someone else did. Not that that makes any sense.”
“No, you’re right. I think we have to assume that she’s telling the truth and the portrait didn’t appear. She was probably in there moving his stuff out ten seconds after the battle was over, too.”
“She seemed pretty sure there actually was a portrait painted.”
“Then we’re back to three: where is it?”
“Or two: the school’s magic isn’t working properly, at least for moving heads' portraits around.”
“The Headmaster’s office wasn’t damaged in the battle.”
I fiddled with my teacup, twirling it on its saucer. “No, it wasn’t. Maybe it’s more than one thing: the magic’s not working properly, and the house elves didn’t search the castle properly.”
“Which brings us back to the problem that you can’t go search the castle anyway.”
Bugger, bugger, bugger. The talking in circles was making me dizzy.
“I think you have to assume the portrait’s not in the school.”
“Which gets me right back where I was before. Thanks a lot.”
“My god, did no one ever teach you how to think for yourself?” She grimaced and I wanted to smack her. “No, of course not. You were rich so you never needed to learn how.”
“Thanks ever so for the ‘were’, Pans.” Even if it was true.
“The only way we can sort this out is to find out which bit of information is incorrect.”
“Or there’s something else going on that we don’t know about.”
“If that’s the case, you’re probably doomed.”
Not me. Father.
I refused to let her see me get all teary and it was none of her damned business and who was she to see me like that? And my shoes were in need of a good looking over anyway.
“Well, we’ve covered all the possibilities. Unless--”
“Professor Snape’s not dead,” we said in unison.
“Oh my god,” she whispered, eyes wide. “Do you think--”
“We never found his body, you know. Father always assumed the Aurors took it back to the Ministry. No one would say. And he--” was arrested twelve hours later and to be honest I haven’t been able to think of anything but trying to survive and keep Mother sane since.
“Wouldn’t they have taken him to the school with the rest of them?”
“I don’t know. I guess he never--” How the hell could I explain that day and night to her? “I--. I don’t know what happened. We were in the forest after Father came back from Hogsmeade. Then in the school. It was--.” Chaos. Sheer bloody, terrifying chaos.
“I know. And Vince--”
I felt her small hand on mine. Thank god she didn’t make any of her usual ingratiating sympathetic noises. I couldn’t have borne that.
“Do you think--?” The hope in her voice was almost painful to hear, perhaps because I felt the same and didn’t want to. It was ludicrous to even think about.
“Maybe.” I didn’t want to hope. Not now. I didn’t have time to waste hopes on Snape. But the irony of it would be gorgeous, especially after what Potter had blathered on about that night in the Great Hall. That Snape had defied the Dark Lord. That he’d given Potter the information he needed to defeat him. But the idea that he might have somehow survived, I didn’t want to hope for that because if I did and I was wrong I don’t think I could have coped.
“If he’s alive--.” Pansy turned to me and I could tell she didn’t want to hope either, but she did and it made me both sad for her and kind of happy, because if my hopes were dashed hers would be too and I wouldn’t be alone with it. “Where would he be?”
“Mother would know. She went to his house once.” And who else could I ask? Potter? Like he’d tell me even if he knew.
“If he were alive would she know?”
“She would have told me.”
“Wouldn’t the Ministry have taken it? They think he’s dead.”
“To them he is dead. But it’s a Muggle house. If the Ministry didn’t tell the Muggles he’s dead he could still be there.”
“Why would he stay? Why would he even stay in England? He could be anywhere in the world. Australia. Canada. China. Who knows?”
Bugger.
It had seemed like such a good idea. She was right, though; he could be anywhere.
Was anything holding him in England, much less to his family’s home? On the other hand, Professor Snape had never seemed like the adventurous type to me. And Father had remarked often what an old stick he was. It was strange to think I knew him so little, even though he’d been a part of my life as long as I could remember.
“What do we do now?”
“I guess I need to ask Mother where his house is. Somewhere up north, I think. Seems the best place to start looking.”
“Assuming we’re right.”
“What else can I do? I can’t go snooping around the school. And we have to assume McGonagall’s right and there was a portrait painted; and it’s not like we could prove otherwise anyway.”
“Right.” She smiled. “Strange to think he might have been alive all this time. Hiding out from the Ministry.”
“Hiding from Potter, more like. And he’d have to be hiding as a Muggle, too.” What a horrifying thought. “The Ministry would know where his house is and they’d have searched it after the battle.”
“Poor Professor Snape, stuck hiding away, can’t contact his friends or anyone else.”
I didn’t point out that all Professor Snape’s friends were dead or in Azkaban. And I certainly didn’t have anything to add to her sentiment, seeing as I felt exactly the same.
~ + ~
The next day I tracked down Mother, house-hunting in London. She was strangely unsurprised by my questions. After she gave me directions, I headed out right away. No time like the present, right?
My first thought when I saw the neighbourhood where the professor had supposedly grown up was: what a tip. My second thought was that the thoroughly depressing street with its shabby, abandoned looking houses explained a lot about him. Who wouldn’t have become a Death Eater to escape this shit hole?
I wandered the labyrinth of identical streets to find the one Mother had named: Spinner’s End. It looked like the end, all right. Abandon hope all ye who might have the gross misfortune to have to live here.
In the fifteen minutes or so it took me to find Snape’s house, I hadn't seen a single person, not in the street, not in the windows of the houses. Not a single car had driven by. An eerie, heavy silence seemed to press on my back like two hands pushing me forward into the dismal town.
Snape’s old house was the last one on the block, next to a twenty foot high brick wall that loomed over it. From the sidewalk it was no different from all the others around it; there was no more sign it was occupied and it was just as grotty as the rest of them.
I stared at the little box with its tiny, filth-choked yard for a few minutes. I couldn’t tell how long I’d been there because time seemed to be doing strange things, which I found kind of irritating, actually. I was just about to turn away and head back to the riverbank to Apparate home when the sun peeped out through a small hole in the clouds. For a fraction of a second the light shimmered over the house.
Guardian spells. A wizard lived in that house. Because they couldn’t have been left behind by Professor Snape; they would have fallen when he died, like any other spell cast in his life. So either he was still alive, or another wizard was living in that house.
But why would any other wizard live in such a Muggle neighbourhood? And why was I so obsessed with the idea that Snape was still alive, despite all evidence to the contrary?
Now I had to find out.
When I stepped through the low gate I felt the protective enchantments slide over my skin, rough like a cat’s tongue, and my jaw dropped. The disguises on the house and yard were fantastic. It was still the same small house, but transformed: neat, obviously occupied. The yard was tidy and I recognised some of the plantings. Potions ingredients, many of them.
My heart raced as I looked around me and realised he had to be here. I could sense him. I spun around, almost expecting to see a familiar scowling face in the window.
Well, there was nothing for it; I was going to have to knock on the door. It wasn’t as if he was going to appear by sheer force of will.
The front door was only two steps up, but it felt like my heart rate doubled in the time it took me to get there. There was no knocker so I rapped with my knuckles, the sound echoing in the quiet street.
I waited a minute, but there was no answer. I tried again and strained to hear any sound from inside, but there was nothing.
By this time I was feeling a little more myself and disappointment was beginning to temper my former excitement. I couldn’t decide if I should wait or leave and return later.
What if it wasn’t the professor who lived there? What if it was his mother (I had no idea if she was still alive or not) or someone completely unrelated who’d moved into the house. Even if he was still alive, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t have abandoned the house after the war to escape the Ministry.
My guts were feeling as if I’d spent the last few hours on an out of control racing broom. I felt nauseous and exhausted and wrung out. But I had to know. The coincidences were too great.
The duelling halves of my brain were giving me a headache.
I decided to wait five more minutes and see if whoever lived there returned.
After five minutes I decided to make it ten.
Thirty minutes went by with so sign of anyone.
I was not going to allow myself to feel disappointed.
No, I was not going to start behaving like a spoilt child, whining that the world wasn’t bending over backwards to my wishes. Definitely not. That didn’t mean I didn’t want to sit on the stoop and scream in frustration. No, instead I behaved like a Malfoy; I pulled myself together, and left.
He could be anywhere, I said to myself as I retraced my steps to the river. He could be out for the day. Best to go home and get some work done. Come back tonight.
Come back tomorrow.
Come back every damned day--twice a day if need be--until I damned well found out what was going on.
When I reached the spot where I’d arrived, I realised I still hadn’t seen or heard a single person in the town. The town itself was dead: the roads, the buildings, the air, the chimney stacks in the distance. The perfect place for a “dead” man to hide.
And then I heard them. Footsteps. If the silence hadn’t been so perfect I wouldn’t have heard them at all. They weren’t even all that loud, just ordinary shoes on pavement. I turned back and saw a man appear out of a narrow alley and turn the corner into Snape’s street. My heart jumped until I noticed he was quite short, with brown hair. But I told myself that a child could make Polyjuice Potion if he had access to the ingredients, so I followed him.
By the time I reached the corner the man was halfway down the block. Before he’d taken four more steps I knew it was him. Polyjuice disguises the surface, but there was no mistaking that walk: the stooping shoulders, the quick strides that seemed awkward with shorter legs, the head tilted ever so slightly to the left because his father had struck him when he was a child and he’d lost part of his hearing in that ear, and he always favoured it to compensate.
He made to turn into the small gate, then hesitated when he saw it was slightly ajar. Any doubts I might have had evaporated; only a spy would have noticed such a tiny detail.
I was close now and said his name, just loud enough for him to hear. He started a little but didn’t turn when I stepped up behind him.
“You sound more like your father every day.”
I thought I was going to pass out from excitement.
I followed him through the gate and up to the house. His walk was stiff, as if he were hurt. It wasn’t until we were in the house and he finally turned to face me that I saw Snape was afraid. Of me. Which was so bizarre I thought for a moment I was imagining it. But I wasn’t and I realised that he must be wondering why I was there. He probably thought Mother had sent me on some sort of revenge, or worse.
But of course, “or worse” was why I was there.
He dropped his bags on the floor and I followed him into a dark, book-lined room. Sitting, he gave an irritated wave for me to do so as well. His other hand covered his eyes for a moment, then he quickly rubbed them before facing me.
For a minute he just stared and I imagined I could hear the wheels of his mind whirring away. Then he sighed and relaxed a little.
“Why are you here?”
“McGonagall sent me.”
He didn’t seem surprised, which surprised me more than it should have, I suppose. “Why?”
“She wanted me to find your portrait. Or so she said.”
He made a dismissive sound in the back of his throat. “The portrait’s in the castle. As she well knows.”
“She lied.” Now, this didn’t shock me at all. Gryffindors like to pretend they’re above the sort of things that Slytherins are tarred for, but they’re worse than us because they pretend to be so righteous about everything. Liars and hypocrites, all of them.
“She wants you to find me. Send a thief to catch a thief, so to say.” He leaned back in his chair and while he was still looking at me I could tell his thoughts were far away. “I’m the only known Death Eater unaccounted for. Ames must be off her nut. She never could stand loose ends.”
“She told me McGonagall was hounding her about it.”
Another snort. “Other way around, I’d bet. Ames understands the value of information and knows how to get people to get it for her.”
“She’s having me chase you down so she doesn’t have to.”
Snape gave me his “I know you’ll get there eventually so get on with it, boy,” expression.
“And if I find you I have to choose between you and Father.” And whichever I choose she gets what she wants. “Do you think she’s been planning this since we first starting talking to the Ministry to try to get Father out?”
“Possibly. Probably.” There was the slightest flicker of warmth in his eyes for a moment. The crooked smile that used to terrify me as a child made a brief appearance. “The woman’s had a century of practice using people, Draco. She’s a professional.”
While the words were kindly meant--well, kindly for Snape--I still felt like a monumental fool. If I wanted Father free I had to give up Snape; and if I protected him Father stayed to rot and go mad in Azkaban.
I could feel a rising wave of panic crawl up my chest. All of a sudden I was short of breath. The stress of the last week had ground me down and with this, I didn’t even want to try coping any more. My vision narrowed and for a moment I thought I was going blind.
The room was silent while I pulled myself together.
I was so tired. Sick and tired and sore and I had a headache from the excitement and disappointment and I just wanted to go home and crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head. But it wasn’t going to all go away and I knew I was the one who had to fix it.
After a few minutes, I asked the question that had been nagging at the back of my mind since I’d found him.
“How did you manage to keep this place? Doesn’t the Ministry suspect anything?”
“Long ago, I created a false identity for myself, a foreign cousin. Charles Prince.” Another brief flicker of a smile, but I didn’t get the joke. “I left the house to him in my will.”
“Oh.”
Snape always did like to think he was cleverer than anyone else, and he got few chances to show it was mostly true. I guess he was amused by how easy it had been to get one over on the Ministry. Not that that was difficult, but I couldn’t blame him for wanting to gloat a little. I’d figured out long ago that foresight and being prepared for anything were essential for a good spy. His being alive was proof positive at just how good he’d been.
I was feeling a bit deflated. Okay, more than a bit. I was bloody miserable. What was I supposed to do? He didn’t bother asking the question; he never wasted words and I like to think he thought enough of me that he knew I’d figure out what the situation was on my own.
By all the rules I’d been raised under, by the power of any kind of logic, there was no choice: I had to get Father out of Azkaban. But it was easy to choose to pay a price when the price to pay was money or a house and not literally staring back at you, fully aware of what it was you were about to do and why.
This was turning out to be one of those Life Tests, like when Potter and the Mudblood and the Weasel had suddenly appeared in our drawing room and Mother demanded I identify them. Would I fail this one as well? Was this even a pass/fail situation? And if so, which was which?
~ + ~
I couldn’t believe the amount of paperwork involved in releasing him. They’d spent all of ten minutes putting him away; negotiating world peace would have involved less bureaucratic faffing about than getting him out did.
In the end it was almost anti-climactic: a door opened, an Auror stepped aside, and there he was. I could feel Mother trembling beside me and I probably wasn’t in much better shape. He stepped into the tiny room and Mother was in his arms and I felt like I could draw breath freely for the first time in over a year.
He was thin, pale, somehow smaller than he had been. Or maybe I’d grown; I don’t know.
After a minute or so, he whispered something in Mother’s ear and she drew away, wiping her eyes. The expression on his face might have been anything. For some reason I couldn’t see properly. And I almost didn’t want to look at him; fear and shame and happiness battled it out in me and I still couldn’t believe it was over, now. He drew me to him, a hand at the back of my neck in an intimate gesture that I didn’t understand because it was so out of character for him. His hands were dry and rough and strangely gentle and it was the most I could do to not start crying, too.
“Father, I--”
“No, Draco, it doesn’t matter.”
His voice brought on a fresh wave of guilt. Not for the money. Not even for the Manor.
Yes, it does matter, Father. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive myself.
~ + ~
I waited three days after the Prophet’s sensational headlines to die down before returning to the little house. They hadn’t said that the Ministry had actually caught him, so for a few days I allowed myself to swing on a pendulum between guilt and elation. But I had to see for myself, so late one Sunday afternoon I Apparated north.
It was raining and the filthy stream was noticeably higher on its banks, threatening my shoes when I appeared. Again, I saw no signs of life as I walked the narrow streets to Snape’s house.
The disguising spells were down and I feared he might be dead after all. Fighting a rising tide of anxiety, I walked up to the house. The door was locked, but not magically, so I regained some hope that the Aurors hadn’t been there, which made no sense at all. A quick spell, a glance around to be sure no one was watching, and I was inside.
It was empty.
The cloak and coat on the rack behind the door were gone. The thousands of books in the small study were gone. I found not so much as a dropped sock in any of the bedrooms upstairs. I couldn’t decide if that meant the Aurors had taken him then cleaned the place out, or if he’d done it himself and scarpered before they’d arrived.
I wanted--really, really wanted--to believe it was the latter. So I did. And it didn’t quite feel like a lie.
~ + ~
the end.