Chapter 4 -- Tracking the Prey
Title: The Devil's Due
Rating: NC17 (eventually)
Fandom: Harry Potter/Crow Crossover
Summary: Six months after Voldemort's victory and the Fall of Harry Potter, an angry spirit rises from the grave to wreak bloody vengeance.
Spoilers: HBP and the Crow mythology
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the mythology. Just my sick imagination.
Archive: At Twisting the Hellmouth. If you want it, check with me first.
A/N: Many thanks to my betas, Selenya and Bneuensc. Thanks also to Selenya, who helped me conceive this bunny. On the night before her wedding, no less. Let’s hear it for dedicated Goff Grrls!
Getting clothes for her had not been easy. It had taken several hours before the streets of Diagon Alley were deserted enough that he could slip unseen into an obscure little clothing shop at the end of the street. The proprietress had been happy (or rather, terrified) enough to close the shop for him, but she dithered forever over helping him, and he’d been forced to obliviate her afterwards. She was certain that he was buying the robes as some sort of sick game involving a poor, captured Muggle, and he couldn’t afford to have her gossip about her fears. The stupid woman hadn’t even considered that, were that the case, he’d have no need or reason to hide it. Hufflepuffs. It was a wonder any of them could manage to fasten their robes, much less work any magic.
Still, he’d succeeded in not being seen by anyone with more than two thoughts to rub together, who might wonder what exactly he needed the clothing for, and why he was acquiring it so secretively. Also, the complications were a useful distraction from the conflicting morass of thoughts and feelings that suddenly clamored for his attention. Now, as he made his way towards the Leaky Cauldron and the safe anonymity of Muggle London on the other side, the thoughts held in check began to break free.
She was alive, and she hated him, and just like her fool son she was going to make a suicidal attempt to destroy Voldemort, even knowing it was impossible to do so while the final horcrux remained out there somewhere. He had to stop her, somehow. Given his ‘druthers, he’d convince her to leave Britain and its problems far behind, but he already knew that she wouldn’t. He’d have to use guile and cunning, trick her into leaving for her own good.
He was almost to the front entrance of the Cauldron, taking his usual circuitous route through the shadows of the public room, when his scattered attention was caught by a whispered conversation between two patrons.
“-the Dark Mark, that as hasn’t been seen since His death, there as clear as anythin’, hangin’ above in the sky.”
“And Nott? I hear that what the Dark Lord did to ‘im…”
“T’isn’t right. Not ever, to die like that. There’s no-one as knows what he did to upset the Dark Lord, but it must have been somethin’, to kill a man like he did, and in his own home. Just t’isn’t right”
Snape halted and his eyes darted towards the two men as the subject of their conversation penetrated his awareness, but already they had noticed him and were circumspectly contemplating their drinks. If they’d started whistling, they couldn’t have looked more guilty. In the normal course of things, Snape might have questioned them, but a chilling suspicion had taken hold of him.
As far as he knew, Nott was still high in Voldemort’s favor. The revel he had hosted the night before, though not attended by the Dark Lord, had been fitting tribute to his reign. While none of the Death Eaters were unassailable, Nott came as close as one could.
And Snape had left an angry and self-righteous Gryffindor alone for several hours.
With growing unease giving him speed, Snape strode out of the Leaky Cauldron.
It took him several minutes to find a safe deserted alley to apparate from. He appeared in the old, abandoned mews down the lane from Nott’s mansion and made his way quietly to the rear gate. Letting himself in, he was already struck by the wrongness of the place. There should have been House Elves cleaning after last night’s revel, but everything at the rear of the house was still. He was only slightly relieved to note that no Dark Mark hovered in the sky. Obviously, the gossip he had overheard had been second- or third-hand.
Snape let himself in through the kitchens and made his way into the house beyond. Immediately the feeling of wrongness intensified. It was the smell…the distinct odor of charred meat, so out of place in the Georgian mansion. It seemed to be coming from the ballroom. He made his way to the servant’s entrance behind the musician’s alcove.
What he saw when he entered was enough to make even his hardened stomach turn, and he began to shake his head slightly in unconscious denial. She wouldn’t have done this. Not this. Whoever had done this, it couldn’t have been her.
The Nott family was an old Wizarding family, tracing their lineage back to the days before the Inquisition. In fact, they were quite proud of the way that their ancestors had become successful “witch hunters” during the Burning Times, tracking down and persecuting innocent Muggles for the sadistic irony of it.
Whoever had killed Nott had done so with similarly sadistic irony. The ballroom’s chandeliers had been lowered, probably for cleaning after the revel, but one of them was raised again. Nott’s charred corpse was chained to it, while underneath the remains of a bonfire made from broken chairs smoldered red amongst black ashes. Traced in black ash around the bonfire was a silhouette that looked something like a bird in flight.
“The fire was purposely constructed to burn slowly. He must have screamed for at least the first half-hour. It’s a wonder the House Elves didn’t take him down,” Snape jerked only slightly as Lucius Malfoy, ever cool and collected, strolled up to him. The pale, slender man arched one fair brow, then turned and looked up at the tableau of Nott’s murder. His attitude resembled that of a critic at an art gallery opening -- distantly appreciative, but still looking for something to disparage, “of course, with his tongue cut out, any commands he gave to them were probably unintelligible,” Malfoy tsked, and Snape got the distinct impression that the other man was clicking his tongue over the poor quality of servants, and not the death of their comrade.
“So, Voldemort did order this?” Snape’s voice, when he found it, was as cold and unaffected as his companion’s.
“No,” scorn shot through Malfoy’s denial, “Our Lord did not condone any such action. Though I imagine he would be impressed by the inventiveness of the execution, were he not livid about its occurrence. He sent me to investigate. But tell me Severus, what brings you here? It seems very convenient that you should be on the scene so quickly.”
“Rumors have already spread to Diagon Alley. I came here to investigate as well, and to report to our Lord any truth I might find.”
“Ah, yes. Ever the obedient lapdog.”
Despite the smug, knowing quality of Malfoy’s tone, Snape knew that the man was just baiting him, and that Malfoy had no real suspicions of his involvement. Still, it was always better to cut such snipings short before they grew into actual ammunition that could be used against him.
“Yes, Lucius. I have always been a loyal supporter of Lord Voldemort. And a competent one. No Snape has ever disappointed the Dark Lord, or failed to carry out one of his orders.”
It was a cruel blow, referring to Draco like that. Not only had the boy’s death devastated his father, but the younger Malfoy’s failures had diminished Lucius’ standing with Voldemort. At Snape’s words, Malfoy’s cool demeanor cracked; a sharp breath hissed between his teeth, and his eyes flashed with pain and hatred. His knuckles whitened around the head of his cane, and for a moment Snape thought the other man might actually strike him. Malfoy was cannier than that, however, and quickly brought himself under control.
“Of course,” the pale man smiled tightly, “No one would ever imply otherwise, Severus.” Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must arrange to have that removed,” he motioned towards Nott’s suspended and charred corpse, “and take my report back to our Lord.”
“By all means,” Snape turned to leave, not envying Lucius the report he would have to make, and the inevitable Crucio that would follow. Some remnant of pity made him turn again, “Lucius. Rumor on Diagon Alley is that the Dark Mark was seen floating above this place. That Nott was killed for slighting our Lord. I’m sure that with a bit of judicious tweaking, this…unfortunate circumstance could only further Lord Voldemort’s reputation and power.”
Malfoy didn’t say anything, but the look of relief that flashed across his features as Snape turned away again was acknowledgement enough. Whatever his flaws might be, Lucius Malfoy genuinely mourned his son’s death, and that honest feeling earned him a small bit of mercy in Snape’s eyes.
For you, Draco, he thought as he began making his way back to #12 Grimmauld Place, and a confrontation he was beginning to dread.
-------------
Lily watched from the shadows as Severus entered the Leaky Cauldron, shrinking back and pulling up her hood in case he might glance around and see her. He was too intent on staying hidden himself to notice her, however. So intent that he almost missed the buzz of rumor that already circled amongst the patrons. She saw him stop as he neared the door, a look of disbelief and annoyance briefly flashing across his features, then he strode out the door with renewed purpose, and looking very angry.
He knows, she thought.
Nott hadn’t been particularly forthcoming as she prepared him for death, even before she had sliced away his tongue. He hadn’t known anything about the horcruxes, or where she might find Voldemort. He’d even proven to be pretty useless in telling her where to find his fellow Death Eaters, though near the end she learned that one of them might have taken rooms in the Leaky Cauldron. That was after the tongue was gone, and she’d had to narrow down what he was trying to say by using the bonfire in a game of reverse hot and cold.
It hadn’t helped that he kept choking on his own blood.
She was jarred from her reverie when a black shape fluttered in through the entrance usually reserved for owls. It landed on a beam high above her and pecked lightly at the wood a few times with its hard beak. Glancing back at the entrance to the pub, she saw an oily, slick-looking wizard in a greatcloak sweep in, dragging a bruised and bound young woman, obviously a muggle from her clothing, in his wake. All of the patrons looked shocked at the unlikely couple, and Lily noticed that several faces tightened in despair, and several sets of shoulders sagged in defeat.
The oily wizard was making some sort of impromptu speech to the patrons about what happened to mudbloods who stood against the Dark Lord, but Lily was already slipping up the back stairs. She had her own assignation to keep.
Rating: NC17 (eventually)
Fandom: Harry Potter/Crow Crossover
Summary: Six months after Voldemort's victory and the Fall of Harry Potter, an angry spirit rises from the grave to wreak bloody vengeance.
Spoilers: HBP and the Crow mythology
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the mythology. Just my sick imagination.
Archive: At Twisting the Hellmouth. If you want it, check with me first.
A/N: Many thanks to my betas, Selenya and Bneuensc. Thanks also to Selenya, who helped me conceive this bunny. On the night before her wedding, no less. Let’s hear it for dedicated Goff Grrls!
Getting clothes for her had not been easy. It had taken several hours before the streets of Diagon Alley were deserted enough that he could slip unseen into an obscure little clothing shop at the end of the street. The proprietress had been happy (or rather, terrified) enough to close the shop for him, but she dithered forever over helping him, and he’d been forced to obliviate her afterwards. She was certain that he was buying the robes as some sort of sick game involving a poor, captured Muggle, and he couldn’t afford to have her gossip about her fears. The stupid woman hadn’t even considered that, were that the case, he’d have no need or reason to hide it. Hufflepuffs. It was a wonder any of them could manage to fasten their robes, much less work any magic.
Still, he’d succeeded in not being seen by anyone with more than two thoughts to rub together, who might wonder what exactly he needed the clothing for, and why he was acquiring it so secretively. Also, the complications were a useful distraction from the conflicting morass of thoughts and feelings that suddenly clamored for his attention. Now, as he made his way towards the Leaky Cauldron and the safe anonymity of Muggle London on the other side, the thoughts held in check began to break free.
She was alive, and she hated him, and just like her fool son she was going to make a suicidal attempt to destroy Voldemort, even knowing it was impossible to do so while the final horcrux remained out there somewhere. He had to stop her, somehow. Given his ‘druthers, he’d convince her to leave Britain and its problems far behind, but he already knew that she wouldn’t. He’d have to use guile and cunning, trick her into leaving for her own good.
He was almost to the front entrance of the Cauldron, taking his usual circuitous route through the shadows of the public room, when his scattered attention was caught by a whispered conversation between two patrons.
“-the Dark Mark, that as hasn’t been seen since His death, there as clear as anythin’, hangin’ above in the sky.”
“And Nott? I hear that what the Dark Lord did to ‘im…”
“T’isn’t right. Not ever, to die like that. There’s no-one as knows what he did to upset the Dark Lord, but it must have been somethin’, to kill a man like he did, and in his own home. Just t’isn’t right”
Snape halted and his eyes darted towards the two men as the subject of their conversation penetrated his awareness, but already they had noticed him and were circumspectly contemplating their drinks. If they’d started whistling, they couldn’t have looked more guilty. In the normal course of things, Snape might have questioned them, but a chilling suspicion had taken hold of him.
As far as he knew, Nott was still high in Voldemort’s favor. The revel he had hosted the night before, though not attended by the Dark Lord, had been fitting tribute to his reign. While none of the Death Eaters were unassailable, Nott came as close as one could.
And Snape had left an angry and self-righteous Gryffindor alone for several hours.
With growing unease giving him speed, Snape strode out of the Leaky Cauldron.
It took him several minutes to find a safe deserted alley to apparate from. He appeared in the old, abandoned mews down the lane from Nott’s mansion and made his way quietly to the rear gate. Letting himself in, he was already struck by the wrongness of the place. There should have been House Elves cleaning after last night’s revel, but everything at the rear of the house was still. He was only slightly relieved to note that no Dark Mark hovered in the sky. Obviously, the gossip he had overheard had been second- or third-hand.
Snape let himself in through the kitchens and made his way into the house beyond. Immediately the feeling of wrongness intensified. It was the smell…the distinct odor of charred meat, so out of place in the Georgian mansion. It seemed to be coming from the ballroom. He made his way to the servant’s entrance behind the musician’s alcove.
What he saw when he entered was enough to make even his hardened stomach turn, and he began to shake his head slightly in unconscious denial. She wouldn’t have done this. Not this. Whoever had done this, it couldn’t have been her.
The Nott family was an old Wizarding family, tracing their lineage back to the days before the Inquisition. In fact, they were quite proud of the way that their ancestors had become successful “witch hunters” during the Burning Times, tracking down and persecuting innocent Muggles for the sadistic irony of it.
Whoever had killed Nott had done so with similarly sadistic irony. The ballroom’s chandeliers had been lowered, probably for cleaning after the revel, but one of them was raised again. Nott’s charred corpse was chained to it, while underneath the remains of a bonfire made from broken chairs smoldered red amongst black ashes. Traced in black ash around the bonfire was a silhouette that looked something like a bird in flight.
“The fire was purposely constructed to burn slowly. He must have screamed for at least the first half-hour. It’s a wonder the House Elves didn’t take him down,” Snape jerked only slightly as Lucius Malfoy, ever cool and collected, strolled up to him. The pale, slender man arched one fair brow, then turned and looked up at the tableau of Nott’s murder. His attitude resembled that of a critic at an art gallery opening -- distantly appreciative, but still looking for something to disparage, “of course, with his tongue cut out, any commands he gave to them were probably unintelligible,” Malfoy tsked, and Snape got the distinct impression that the other man was clicking his tongue over the poor quality of servants, and not the death of their comrade.
“So, Voldemort did order this?” Snape’s voice, when he found it, was as cold and unaffected as his companion’s.
“No,” scorn shot through Malfoy’s denial, “Our Lord did not condone any such action. Though I imagine he would be impressed by the inventiveness of the execution, were he not livid about its occurrence. He sent me to investigate. But tell me Severus, what brings you here? It seems very convenient that you should be on the scene so quickly.”
“Rumors have already spread to Diagon Alley. I came here to investigate as well, and to report to our Lord any truth I might find.”
“Ah, yes. Ever the obedient lapdog.”
Despite the smug, knowing quality of Malfoy’s tone, Snape knew that the man was just baiting him, and that Malfoy had no real suspicions of his involvement. Still, it was always better to cut such snipings short before they grew into actual ammunition that could be used against him.
“Yes, Lucius. I have always been a loyal supporter of Lord Voldemort. And a competent one. No Snape has ever disappointed the Dark Lord, or failed to carry out one of his orders.”
It was a cruel blow, referring to Draco like that. Not only had the boy’s death devastated his father, but the younger Malfoy’s failures had diminished Lucius’ standing with Voldemort. At Snape’s words, Malfoy’s cool demeanor cracked; a sharp breath hissed between his teeth, and his eyes flashed with pain and hatred. His knuckles whitened around the head of his cane, and for a moment Snape thought the other man might actually strike him. Malfoy was cannier than that, however, and quickly brought himself under control.
“Of course,” the pale man smiled tightly, “No one would ever imply otherwise, Severus.” Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must arrange to have that removed,” he motioned towards Nott’s suspended and charred corpse, “and take my report back to our Lord.”
“By all means,” Snape turned to leave, not envying Lucius the report he would have to make, and the inevitable Crucio that would follow. Some remnant of pity made him turn again, “Lucius. Rumor on Diagon Alley is that the Dark Mark was seen floating above this place. That Nott was killed for slighting our Lord. I’m sure that with a bit of judicious tweaking, this…unfortunate circumstance could only further Lord Voldemort’s reputation and power.”
Malfoy didn’t say anything, but the look of relief that flashed across his features as Snape turned away again was acknowledgement enough. Whatever his flaws might be, Lucius Malfoy genuinely mourned his son’s death, and that honest feeling earned him a small bit of mercy in Snape’s eyes.
For you, Draco, he thought as he began making his way back to #12 Grimmauld Place, and a confrontation he was beginning to dread.
-------------
Lily watched from the shadows as Severus entered the Leaky Cauldron, shrinking back and pulling up her hood in case he might glance around and see her. He was too intent on staying hidden himself to notice her, however. So intent that he almost missed the buzz of rumor that already circled amongst the patrons. She saw him stop as he neared the door, a look of disbelief and annoyance briefly flashing across his features, then he strode out the door with renewed purpose, and looking very angry.
He knows, she thought.
Nott hadn’t been particularly forthcoming as she prepared him for death, even before she had sliced away his tongue. He hadn’t known anything about the horcruxes, or where she might find Voldemort. He’d even proven to be pretty useless in telling her where to find his fellow Death Eaters, though near the end she learned that one of them might have taken rooms in the Leaky Cauldron. That was after the tongue was gone, and she’d had to narrow down what he was trying to say by using the bonfire in a game of reverse hot and cold.
It hadn’t helped that he kept choking on his own blood.
She was jarred from her reverie when a black shape fluttered in through the entrance usually reserved for owls. It landed on a beam high above her and pecked lightly at the wood a few times with its hard beak. Glancing back at the entrance to the pub, she saw an oily, slick-looking wizard in a greatcloak sweep in, dragging a bruised and bound young woman, obviously a muggle from her clothing, in his wake. All of the patrons looked shocked at the unlikely couple, and Lily noticed that several faces tightened in despair, and several sets of shoulders sagged in defeat.
The oily wizard was making some sort of impromptu speech to the patrons about what happened to mudbloods who stood against the Dark Lord, but Lily was already slipping up the back stairs. She had her own assignation to keep.