THE LONG ROAD TO
DAMASCUS
by Morrighan
DISCLAIMER: The
Harryverse belongs to J K Rowlings, however much I covet it. I have added all
manner of weird and wonderful things to it.
CENSOR: R
Friday February 21,
1975, evening.
There was nothing at all remarkable about the man who entered the Wand and
Winkle just before six o'clock. He was short, but not particularly so, stocky
and muscular, wearing smart - but cheap - business robes, and carrying a glossy
dragonhide briefcase. Just another travelling salesman, and since the Wand and
Winkle was situated at the heart of Aberdeen's business district sales reps
were hardly a rare sight.
In fact it is doubtful
whether anybody would have noticed even if there had been anything unusual
about him. The Wand and Winkle was the only wizarding pub in Aberdeen, on the
crossroads between Fine Alley and Turm Inn Alley, and at six on a Friday
evening it was packed, as all the workshops, warehouses and factories turned
out their staff for the weekend. The man bought a pint of malmsey from the bar,
and then glanced round as if looking for a free table. There wasn't one - the
pub was full of wizards and witches in their work robes, laughing and talking
and generally letting off steam after a hard week's work.
He saw what he was
looking for almost at once. The young man (more of a boy, really) was sitting
alone at a corner table, an untouched tumbler of nettle wine in front of him,
ignoring the chatter around him and absently making a rayed sun out of a ring
of spilt butterbeer on the table.
"Mind if I join
you?", the stranger said, and sat down, ignoring the unfriendly look the
boy gave him. Examined at close quarters, the child was a distinctly
unappealing sight. His skin was pale and waxy with a slightly yellowish tinge,
his black eyes, permanently wary, darkened into hostility at his approach. His
hair was slightly too long, limp and greasy, as though he used too much
Sleekeazy and not enough shampoo. The stranger held out his hand. "I'm
John Travers, commercial traveller for Gladrags Wizardwear."
The boy gave him a look
which said very clearly 'go away and leave me alone', but shook the
outstretched hand and answered: "Severus Snape. I'm at Mrs Skower's."
Travers nodded. Nothing in his face showed that the boy's name and trade were
already known to him.
"Skower's! So
you're a bit of a whizz with potions, then." The boy nodded sullenly.
"That's quite a coincidence, you know, Severus. A mate o' mine's looking
for a potioner to do some freelance work for him on the side. It'd be lucrative
work. You wouldn't be interested, by any chance?"
"What kind of
work?" The boy was suspicious. Nothing wrong with that, these were
suspicious times.
"Oh, just a bit of
specialised brewing - it's nothing mysterious. He's after a couple of quite
rare preparations you can't find in most potions shops."
"He should try
Madam Zabini's in Knockturn Alley. She stocks most of the more unusual stuff.
And what she doesn't have, she can make." Travers made no indication of
his satisfaction. Knockturn Alley! So his sources had been right. The kid may
have been just nineteen, but he had one foot in the shadows already. This was
going to be easy. Sweets from a baby.
"Nah - my mate
prefers to deal privately." He leaned forward, looked the boy straight in
the eye, noting the way he baulked from his gaze. "So, what do you say?
Interested?"
"I might be,"
the boy said warily, "but I'd want to know more first." Gotcha,
Travers thought.
"Like I said, just
some of the more unusual brews. Just for private use, and not in large
quantities.."
"Such as?"
"Oh, he gave me a
list," Travers said, carefully casual. He searched various pockets,
finally producing it from a pocket in the sleeve of his robe. The boy took it
and read it through. As he read the list his eyebrows shot up so much that they
almost met his hairline. Many of the potions were on the Ministry's
'Controlled' list, and several were 'Class A' illegal. But he didn't try to
raise the alarm or get his wand out, merely handed the parchment back to
Travers. Deliberately misinterpreting the boy's dumbfounded expression, Travers
added "He said many of them are a bit on the tricky side - that's why he's
willing to pay so high. But maybe he'd be better with someone more
experienced." The nettled look on the boy's face told him the shot had hit
home.
"Oh, I can do all
these, no sweat," the boy said. "Tell me more."
* * *
Letter, dated Wednesday
February 26, 1975, from Ezekiel Porlock, Head of Security to Electra Nott, sent
through the usual channels.
Madam,
I received
with interest your letter of the 22th inst., and can certainly give
you the information you require.
We have
investigated your potential recruit, and our findings are as follows. L.M.
tells me that his father was Tiberius Caligula Snape (now deceased), of whom
you know, and his mother was born Kezia Salomon, of a prominent Israeli
pure-blood family (a Benjaminite, according to the genealogies). The subject is
the second of three siblings. He has an older brother, Nero, who has recently
started his own business in Carne Alley. He is known to pay us a protection
fee, but otherwise takes no interest in our activities. There is also a younger
sister, Agrippina, currently a sixth-year student at Durmstrang. I.K. does not
consider her a possible candidate for us. The subject lives alone and, as far
as we can tell, is not in contact with any members of his family.
My own newest
student was a close friend of the subject at Hogwarts, and considers him to be
a potentially valuable recruit. In addition to his expertise with potions, he
has by all accounts an encyclopaedic knowledge of hexes and their uses. He is
considered to be intelligent and self-disciplined, but not particularly
sociable. As for other qualifications, my contacts at the Ministry tell me that
he has a clean Apparitions Licence and no criminal record or outstanding debts.
He is an Associate Member of the Institute of Brewers, Potioners and
Apothecaries.
There are a
few possible difficulties that I would ask you to bear in mind. There is a
history of mental instability on the mother's side of the family. The subject
has apparently shown no sign of it, but it is well that you be on your guard.
There is also by all accounts a marked obsessive streak in his character:
again, a potential matter for concern. Most worryingly, my student tells me
that the subject had a brief liaison with a Mudblood girl at Hogwarts when he
was fourteen. Though he apparently exhibits the proper contempt for
I trust that
you will inform me if you and Travers decide to go ahead with this recruitment
so that we can make the necessary arrangements.
I hope this
is of use to you, and I remain, dear madam, your most attentive servant,
Ezekiel
Porlock
Sunday January 31,
1976, dawn, somewhere dark.
The boy stood at the
entrance of the cavern, tense as a bowstring, adrenalin racing through him. The
chamber before him was huge and echoing, hewn out of black rock. A row of torch
brackets lined each side, two dotted lines of light in the blackness, but their
flickering light merely served to intensify the shadows they created. Not
that there's much to see anyway, he thought, in a poor attempt at
nonchalance.
He stared hard at the
circle of dark figures before him. All robed in black, masked, hooded. The boy
wore no mask or hood, and it made him feel naked, vulnerable. That, of course,
was what they wanted. It was very cold, and he was nearly shivering. No doubt
that, too, was deliberate.
The circle parted, and
two figures walked towards him. Electra Nott, John Travers. He recognised them
even under the hoods and masks. His mentors.
When they reached him,
they bowed to him, and he returned it, a little more awkwardly than he'd meant.
"Ready?"
Electra asked, almost silently. He nodded slightly. Travers clapped him lightly
on the shoulder.
"Go on,
then." Travers muttered.
And as they fell into
step, he walked hesitantly towards the circle, where for the first time he
would meet Lord Voldemort. It seemed to take aeons.
There had been tests,
of course, of knowledge, of skill, of reflexes, and other tests more subtle for
purposes he could only guess at. If he had not passed them he would not be here
now. But then, Electra Nott had been a very thorough teacher, and her pupil
extremely keen.
He was within the
circle now, and the distance that had seemed so great was now too little. Within
a very few steps he was standing before the Dark Lord himself, and prostrating
himself before him.
"Rise." He
did, and behind him heard Electra and Travers do the same. He looked carefully
at the floor. "So," the voice was a gentle sibilant hiss. "You
crave admittance to the circle of the Death Eaters."
"I do."
"Has he passed the
assigned tasks?"
"He has."
Electra's voice. Flat and emotionless.
"Does he meet all
our requirements?"
"He does."
Travers, stolidly.
"Good. Look at me,
child. Look into my eyes."
The boy looked up,
hastily suppressing a moment of dread, and met the Dark Lord's eyes. His gaze
was held for a few seconds. "Well enough. Then you are ready to be
branded, if you have the nerve."
For the first time, the
boy noticed the brazier that stood behind Lord Voldemort, next to a long oak
table. It burned with pale green flames. One of the circle broke ranks, and
walked to the brazier, carrying a long-handled implement with the symbol of the
brand at its end. The boy saw it thrust into the brazier, saw the brief burst
of silver sparks as the brand touched the flames. He watched in silence,
forcing himself to remain motionless.
The brand was removed
from the fire and held out to the Dark Lord. The boy watched him bring out a
knife, and press its blade slowly into the pad of his thumb, reaching out so
that a single drop of blood fell on the surface of the brand. The blood sizzled
on the heat of the surface, loud and strident in the silent hall, like the
hissing of a thousand snakes. The head of the brand started to glow a vivid
white, and as he watched, green and silver sparks flew from it.
For the first time, he
doubted; for the first time could not control his suppressed fear. This would
be irrevocable. What was it going to do to him?
"If you wish to
withdraw, this is the last point at which you may do so," Lord Voldemort
said smoothly, as if he read his thoughts. "If you do not wish to join us,
speak now, and we will let you go back. Think carefully: this is the last chance
you have to change your mind. Are you willing to continue?"
"Yes," he
answered aggressively, and in defiance of all propriety looked the Dark Lord in
the face, uninvited. "Only a fool would go back when such things lie
ahead. Count me in."
In the silence that
followed he could almost feel Electra and Travers exchanging glances behind
him, and the sudden stillness of the Death Eaters in the circle around them.
The Dark Lord held his gaze with unblinking intensity, and he could feel his
heart thumping wildly. Well that was stupid, wasn't it, Severus? he
thought to himself.
And then, into the
silence, Lord Voldemort started to laugh.
"Most impressive.
We can surely expect great things of this one, Madam Nott. Let him be
branded."
Electra and Travers led
him to the table, and sat him down in the only chair, at the table's head.
Electra rolled up his left sleeve to the elbow, and she and Travers held his
arm flat to the table, palm upwards, exposing the soft, pale skin on the
underside of the forearm.
The boy watched nervously
as the Death Eater who held the brand moved forwards, until he held the glowing
thing poised above his forearm. If you scream or faint or anything I'll
never speak to you again, he told himself fiercely. He set his teeth
firmly together, just as the man thrust the brand down onto his bare skin.
The white-hot metal of
the Dark Lord's symbol bit painfully into the soft skin. The boy gave a cry,
quickly stifled. He tried to flinch away from the heat, but Electra and Travers
were holding his arm so firmly that it barely moved.
The brand was pressed
deeper, and the sinews and muscles of the arm burned like fire. He clenched the
muscles of his jaw more tightly. I've had worse, he reminded himself.
When he'd been thirteen he'd had a scrap with Nero, who had ended the fight
triumphantly by throwing him into the fireplace. Now
The brand was still
pressed into his arm, still cutting down into the flesh. He shut his eyes. It
would surely -
As the brand hit bone,
fire flooded through him, body, soul and mind. For an instant he was
the brand. He would have screamed now if he could, but he could not even
breathe as the heat of the brand consumed him.
He felt the brand
withdraw, and as if a light had been extinguished the pain vanished. He felt
his mentors release his arm, and let himself open his eyes to stare blankly at
the dark mark on his forearm. He was - everything felt - different. Clearer. He
could see clearly around him, in spite of the dark, and if the hall was still
bitterly cold he could no longer feel it. He carried on staring at the dark
symbol on his arm, until some slight sound behind him reminded him that the
ritual was as yet uncompleted.
The boy rose stiffly
from the chair, cautiously unclenching his aching jaw muscles. He turned
cautiously to the Dark Lord and made obeisance to him.
"You are now a
servant of Lord Voldemort, and a part of the fellowship of the Death Eaters.
Welcome. I trust you will serve my cause faithfully."
The boy prostrated
himself on the floor before his new master, and thanked him with an unfeigned
sincerity, before taking his place in the circle among his new colleagues.
* * *
"You did it very
well, you know. You impressed him," Electra said to him afterwards.
"That's not necessarily a good thing."
"Oh?" He was
startled.
"You've caught his
attention. He'll be watching you now. I hope you can carry on impressing
him."
The boy smirked, and it
was not a nice smile. "If I can, I will."
In the years to come
some of his comrades came to call him 'the perfect Death Eater'. Most of them
never discovered how wrong they were.
Thursday November 27,
1980, 11PM. McKinnon's Cafè, Fine Alley, Aberdeen.
Ailsa McKinnon leant
against her sitting room wall, wondering whether the scene before her would go
away if she closed her eyes. She did not try it: she suspected that if she did
something terrible would happen. They're going to kill us, she thought
dazedly, George and me and the bairn. She put one of her hands on her
stomach, and felt her unborn baby kick. Hush, Flora, keep still, and
everything will be all right. We're just waiting for the Hit Wizards to come
and rescue us. Everything will be fine. We'll be okay.
How had it come to
this? It had been such an ordinary day. The café had been busy, as usual, with
the usual crowd of workers from the nearby businesses and workshops, craftsmen
talking shop, secretaries swapping gossip, salesmen comparing sales targets.
Everyone was talking as though You-Know-Who couldn't touch them. It was as if
by pretending everything was normal that the chaos and disorder of the world
would magically vanish. Until tonight she and George had been able to connive
in the deception. But not now, oh, not now.
It had been a normal
evening, too. They'd talked over dinner about the baby, made plans for the
future: where the nursery would be, how they would be able to look after her
and carry on running the café, which of them she would look like. They'd fallen
to arguing about possible names for the child when she came (they knew it would
be a girl). George had a superstitious fear of giving a child a name before its
birth; Ailsa had privately already named her: Flora, for her grandmother. A
sweet name, and it felt right.
She'd gone to bed
early, tired out by the day's work, and by the extra weight on her feet, and
slept like the dead, while George had stayed up to do the café's accounts, when
she'd been awoken suddenly by a loud crash from the living room.
She'd looked up from
the bed to see a robed, masked figure aiming a wand at her. That had cleared
her head quickly enough, and she had reached instinctively for her own wand on
the bedside table, just as a second masked figure apparated beside her, its
gloved hand closing firmly about her wrist, as it casually pocketed her wand
with its other hand.
"Bring her
through," the first figure had said tersely. Ailsa had noticed with a jolt
that it was a woman's voice, and thought irrelevantly: they sent a woman?
Does the Dark Lord observe the niceties when waking women at midnight, then?
The Death Eater who
stood next to her had pulled her roughly out of bed, and followed her out of
the room, his wand held to the side of her head, his arm crooked around her
throat, half choking her. Everything happened with a kind of awful clarity. She
noticed the quiet hissing of his breathing, the way he was forced to shorten
his steps to accommodate her pregnant waddle. She could feel the leanness of
the arm around her neck, the way the sinews cut into her throat even through
the thick robe, and the faint chemical smell that hung about him, as though he
worked in an apothecary's shop.
He had released her in
the doorway of the sitting room, carefully keeping her covered with his wand.
"Stay there. Don't move." His voice was cold and passionless.
And so here she was,
watching her life spin out of control as she leant against the wall, forcing
down the scream that wanted to escape her.
Their tiny sitting room
looked as though a whirlwind had swept through it. The writing desk in the
corner had been overturned, and one of the masked figures, a short squat
figure, was flicking methodically through the papers in it, crouched on his
haunches beside the mess. The chair that normally stood beside it was also on
its side, one leg wrenched off. The remains of a vase lay shattered in the
hearth, and the freesias that had filled it had been scattered amid the broken
china. She itched to go and sweep up the broken pieces of china, as if by that
simple action she could restore some sense of order and balance to her invaded
world.
There were four of
them. Four. To kill a pregnant woman and a crippled man. Cowards.
The man who had woken
her, the apothecary, was standing in the doorway to the sitting room, blocking
the room's only exit. His wand was still pointed at her, even though she was
unarmed and, at eight months pregnant, no threat to anyone. The crouching
figure discarded the papers and stood up, bringing his wand out. He was the
shortest of the four, but thickset and muscular with huge fists - a Quidditch
Beater's build, Ailsa thought. The woman was standing by the fireplace, close
to another man, the tallest of the four, who hung back slightly. All of them
had their wands out, and aimed at her husband, George McKinnon, who was
standing in the middle of the room, leaning heavily on his crutches, his face
chalk white and terrified as he stared from one to another of the creatures who
had taken over their world.
"Ailsa! Are you
okay? They haven't hurt you, have they?" His voice was panicky.
She assured him that
she was fine, wondering how she could sound so calm.
"Silence."
That was the woman. "Are you expecting any visitors this evening? Any
disturbances?"
"N-no,"
George had quavered.
"Are you
sure?" The apothecary, his voice smooth and suave.
"No. There's
nobody."
The Beater laughed.
"What's a couple more corpses between friends, anyway? It's all the same
to us."
"Oh, I wouldn't
say that. I wouldn't say that at all," the apothecary said. There was a note
of sickening enjoyment in his voice that made Ailsa shudder.
"What do you want
from us? We're no threat to you."
"No? Yet little
birds have been telling us that you are in with the Dumbledore crowd."
She'd watched her
husband swallow nervously. Stay calm, George, she had implored
silently. Don't let them under your skin. He swallowed nervously
again, but said nothing.
"Perhaps you'd
care to tell us about it, Mr McKinnon." That had been the woman again.
She'd watched him take
a deep breath, and lean more heavily than ever on his crutches. "I'm
saying nothing," he said, with a kind of pathetic bravado.
Oh George, don't be so
stupid. Prevaricate, play for time, tell them half-truths. Anything to buy us
time.
"Very well. Crucio."
She watched the
crutches slip from his hands, and he fell, awkwardly, hitting his head against
the desk. He was screaming, writhing on the floor. Ailsa started towards him,
and the apothecary shoved her roughly back towards the wall, jolting all the
breath out of her. Someone must hear, she thought desperately as she
gasped for breath. There must be someone out there. Someone who
can help. But there wouldn't be. Fine Alley was the industrial area of
Aberdeen, and only a handful of people lived there after office hours. None of
them near the McKinnons' café.
The woman stopped the
curse; George stayed where he had fallen, shaking uncontrollably, and looked up
at Ailsa with tears in his eyes. She'd looked back down at him, willing him to
be brave, knowing that it would probably be futile.
"So. How about
telling us about Dumbledore, then?" That had been the Beater.
"'S nothing to
tell," he said, shakily. "He's a headmaster, not an Auror."
"Come now, Mr
McKinnon. You know better than that. We know you're passing him
information, and we have a pretty good idea what else you're up to. It wouldn't
hurt to tell us a few things. Wouldn't you rather have a quick death than a
slow one?"
"I don't know
anything. Nothing at all."
The woman had nodded
her head towards the fourth member of the party, and he'd hesitated, and then
stepped forwards, towards Ailsa. The apothecary stepped away from her, just as
the fourth man said the single word: "Imperio."
It felt strange; it
felt very strange. Some part of her mind was still watching as she obeyed the
his instructions. The apothecary handed her back her wand, and she took it,
weighing it in her hand, before speaking the single word "Crucio",
and watching as her husband began to scream again. She could feel some part of
her mind bewildered, aware that something was wrong, but it was powerless -
most of her mind simply followed the instructions, couldn't, or wouldn't
disobey. Just obey orders and everything will be fine.
And it would have been
fine, until he lowered his wand and the world suddenly became real again.
George was lying on the floor, in a curious twisted position, trembling. Blood
was pouring from his nose and ears, and he was looking at her with hollow,
horrified eyes. Accusing eyes.
"Ailsa?" he'd
whispered, and she'd covered her face with her hands and started to cry, tried
to turn away from him. "It's okay, Ailsa, I love you. I know it's not your
fault." He grasped his crutches, and somehow forced himself onto his feet,
even though he was still pale and shaking. He nearly collapsed as he stood up,
and had to put all his weight on the battered wooden crutches to keep himself
upright.
"So are you going
to tell us about Dumbledore, then?" The apothecary, standing in the
doorway again.
"Never!" he
shouted. He was crying. "Damn you, what have you done to us? Leave us
alone, we'll tell you nothing."
"Maybe you'd like
us to start torturing your wife, then. I'm sure that would jog your memory. We
could even get you to do it for us," the Beater taunted him.
"Damn you!" he
shouted again, although there were still tears running down his face. He
grabbed one of his crutches with both hands and swung it at the Beater like a
club. The Beater evaded it easily and then casually pulled the crutch out of
his hands. His withered legs, unable to support his weight, gave way under him,
and he collapsed onto the floor again. The Beater kicked out viciously at his
ribs.
She felt the apothecary
grab her by her hair and pull her forward until she was standing almost over
him. "Tell us, McKinnon, or I swear I shall torture your wife." He
laughed, a hollow, snide laugh. "I expect it will be most instructive:
nobody's ever researched the effect of the Cruciatus curse on foetuses
before."
"No!" Ailsa
would have given anything to unsay the word, to keep her fear hidden from her
tormentors, and more importantly from her husband. Oh, no. No. Oh
my child, I'm so sorry.
George met her eyes
again, and there was defeat in them, and bitterness, and a terrible darkness
she'd never thought she'd see there. She felt as though some deep part of her
had just died. "Okay. I'll talk," he said dully.
And he had talked: told
them everything he knew, in a dead, miserable voice that made Ailsa's heart
ache, and she wept silently for him as he told all their carefully buried
secrets. We mustn't blame him, Flora. He loves us. He doesn't want to see
you hurt. The baby moved restlessly inside her, and she put her hand on
her stomach again. Keep still, little one. Don't be afraid. Everything will
be all right. The Hit Wizards will come and rescue us. Everything will be all
right. She repeated it like a mantra but it didn't seem to help. Everything
will be all right.
George's voice was
droning away: she didn't want to hear it, tried to force her attention
elsewhere, and it fell on their four tormentors. When the Hit Wizards
arrive, they'll want to know who they are. They'll need descriptions.
The woman. She seems to
be in charge. How tall? Six foot? No, less - but not much less. She's English,
but Northern, I think. Maybe Lancashire. She doesn't talk like a young woman,
but she's not old. Forties, fifties maybe. She speaks like she expects to be
obeyed.
The Beater. He's my
height, so five-eight, but very muscular. He walks around in a kind of
half-crouch, like he's ready to attack at any possible moment. He talks like a
Londoner.
The apothecary - Six
foot tall, very thin, with a cold voice. He's got this weird stalking walk. And
that smell, like an apothecary's shop. I'm sure I've seen him before.
And there's the other
one, the one who made me- No. Don't think about that. Look at him. Describe
him. She looked more closely at him, trying not to
hear her husband. He's the tallest -- much taller than the others, he
slouches slightly. He acts like an outsider. It was true. The other three
had acted like a long-established team, instinctively picking up each others'
cues. But he wasn't part of it - a cat on strange territory. He wasn't even
English - she remembered the voice that had given her instructions in her head,
and it had sounded East European - Russian, or possibly Polish.
She turned her
attention back to the apothecary. Where have I seen him before? He doesn't
work at West's or Cauldwell and Smethley. Where else. Maybe a hospital or a
potions workshop. Potions- Oh my God, I know him, I know who he is.
She looked at him
again, and it was so clear, now that she could see it. He worked just round the
corner from the café, at Skowers on Turm Inn Alley - something in Research and
Development, she thought. She remembered that he'd even come into the café that
lunchtime to buy a drink and a sandwich. To see the lie of the land, no
doubt.
Other memories. He'd
been in George's year at Hogwarts, in Slytherin, a year above her own. He was
part of Lestrange's crowd, and kept getting into fights with Sirius Black and
James Potter. She still couldn't remember his name, but when the Hit Wizards
came, they'd be able to find it out. It gave her a fragile kind of confidence,
knowing that she had something to tell them.
The sudden silence
forced her attention back to George and his tormentors.
"And is there
nothing else?"
"No.
Nothing."
"Sure?"
"Yes." Poor
thing, he sounded desperate. If there was only something she could do-
"Perhaps this
might jog your memory." The Beater raised his wand again. "Crucio."
No. Not again. Haven't
you done enough to him? She moved impulsively towards him, and
this time the apothecary did not stop her. George was not screaming any more,
but convulsing, shuddering, and as she reached him when he grew still, and she
watched his face pale from a flushed red to dull grey.
"Looks like it
didn't work," the apothecary remarked.
"Weak
ticker," the Beater agreed. He kicked out again, this time at George's head,
and Ailsa heard the dull snapping sound as it broke his neck. Ailsa stared down
at his body, feeling empty and drained and hopeless.
"Forget him. We've
still got another one here." The woman was facing her, now, looking
straight into her eyes. "And perhaps you know something your
husband forgot to tell us."
She faced Ailsa across
George's body. Her voice was low and soft, almost intimate. "So what do
you know?"
Ailsa said nothing. The
men were also silent, as if by some unspoken agreement they had decided to
leave her to their leader.
"Tell me. It'll
make things easy for you. We might even let you live." The woman's voice
was deceptively gentle.
Another silence. Ailsa
looked down at George, the pitiful broken body, and remembered his compassion,
his gentleness and his humour, and felt suddenly calm and strong. This is
for you, George. She looked straight up into the eyes of the tall woman
facing her and began to speak.
"All I know, that
you do not, is the difference between right and wrong. Torture me, kill me if
you like, it doesn't matter, because I will still be a greater person than you
- however poor or low-born I am. Even a happier person, because I have done the
best I can for those around me. I have loved, and have been loved, I have given
generously, and others have given to me. What is right is important to me, more
important than danger or pain."
"These are tired
cliches," said the woman, sounding bored.
Ailsa turned to the
three men. The outsider turned away to avoid her gaze, looked out of the
window, as one might turn from an embarrassing beggar. "And you. How can
you do these things and live with yourselves? How can you look the world in the
eye, knowing what you are? Give it up, for your own sakes. Nobody is forcing
you to do evil, or to be evil, except yourselves-"
The apothecary
interrupted her first, his voice low and angry. "You dare say another word
- !"
The beater laughed,
unworried. "Keep your breath to cool your porridge, girlie. Not that
you'll be needing it much longer."
The outsider
interrupted from beside the window. "Hit Wizard patrol. Four men. They're
just passing the Wand and Winkle, coming this way."
The woman turned and
looked towards the window, and Ailsa grabbed the sudden, unexpected chance.
With a wild, uncoordinated swipe she knocked the woman's wand out of her hand
and ran for the door.
She was within two
paces of it when the apothecary neatly kicked her feet from underneath her. She
fell heavily, sideways, the fall knocking the breath out of her.
"Just get rid of
the little cow and let's get out of here." the apothecary said harshly.
"Yes." The
woman picked up her wand calmly as the apothecary hauled Ailsa roughly to her
feet, and she watched in disbelief the last moments of her life. It all
happened so slowly - the woman approaching her, wand outstretched, the three
men watching silently, the wand - the tip of the wand coming to rest against
her swollen stomach, and the words, the two softly-spoken words that she knew
would kill her.
"Avada
Kedavra."
For an instant, there
was a flash of blinding brilliance - light and motion and sound and pain - and
the scene around her shone with frightening vividness, burning itself on her
retina. And yet by some miracle, in the millisecond before the curse struck she
had time to think perfectly clearly: I'm sorry, Flora. I love you.
And then there was
nothing.
PERPETRATOR'S NOTE:`
Reposted to take
advantage of the new chaptering system, with Prologue & Part 1 combined. It
means that I've had to lose the reviews I originally got for Part 1 (though
I've kept copies of them, & continue to be eternally grateful for them.)
This all started way,
way back when I made the mistake of writing down a rather nifty idea for the
conversation between Snape and Dumbledore when Snape switches sides. It got a
bit out of hand & before I knew where I was I had about 50 pages of
incomplete and rather sketchy Snapefic. Then the thing got into difficulties,
and I started another fic (Staff Meeting) by way of distraction, and
then another one, and another one... Still, at least this one's now going
somewhere.
I've corrected the date
thing since the 1st posting - for which many thanks to Doc
Cornelius.
A few notes:
Electra Nott is my
invention - the Nott in GoF is her brother. Electra, of course, was the woman
in Greek mythology who incited her brother Orestes to kill their mother and her
lover in revenge for murdering their father (which was partly in revenge for
his having killed Electra's older sister). Sounds like a proper Slytherin family
to me.
The name Kezia (Snape's
ma) was the name of one of Job's 3 daughters in the Bible. (Be grateful: I
could have called her Jemima or Kerenhappuch instead.) The other Snapes are all
Roman Emperors, except Agrippina, who was an Emperor's wife. There are no
prizes for guessing what kind of business Nero Snape owns.
The woman, the Beater,
the apothecary and the outsider are, respectively, Electra Nott, Travers, Snape
and Karkaroff, in case I've been too confusing. It's not exactly relevant any
more, but Ailsa and George McKinnon were a Gryffindor and a Ravenclaw
respectively. I can't write any of the Scots accents but they're supposed to be
Scottish.
Oh, and if I've got it
right, Koyaanisqatsi is the Navajo word meaning 'world out of balance'.