This is fan fiction.

The settings and most of the characters are property of J K Rowling.

I am making no profit on this material - all of this is written just for fun.

Dedicated to:

Lady Silvrene

This is a completed work, a novel-length adventure commencing in the summer following Harry's fifth year at Hogwarts. It has been rated "R" for Language, Violence, and a Death Eater Revel's debauchery. I will be posting the story in segments in order to provide myself time to format it properly. However, the story has been finished and will, eventually, make it to this site in its entirety.

I hope you enjoy it.

Yagr of Nar

Harry Potter and the Butcher of Hogsmeade

Chapter One

When his fifth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was complete, the last thing Harry Potter wanted was to return to his aunt and uncle's home in Little Whinging. But it looked as though there would be no other choice for him.

Classes were over, exams finished, the final projects for the year turned in. A grand banquet had been held, the first years congratulated on surviving... or on something... Harry had been unable to pay much attention to the whole banquet-speech-presentation brouhaha, it had seemed like a lot of rot at the time. In retrospect, it still seemed like a lot of rot. He couldn't have even honestly said which house had won the House Cup. Had anyone won it? He wasn't sure. The entire year behind him seemed a blur of punishment, humiliation and horrible, horrible loss.

It hadn't been nearly as bad for most other students. He had seen many smiling faces and laughing, congratulatory conversations as he had made his way through the ancient stone corridors of the building. But the school's population had already dropped precipitously from what it had been only three days previously. The students who had been given permission for early departure were already gone. Most of the children of the most prominent families of wizarding Great Britain had been walked off the school grounds and apparated home by parents eager to have their precious offspring back. Malfoy was already gone, and most of Slytherin House was empty, its students, by and large, taken away in exactly that manner.

'Maybe the brats have summer jobs, and their folks can't wait to see the little monsters working their fingers to the bone,' Harry thought bitterly. But he knew it wasn't true. Even Malfoy, leaving the building on his way to the nearest apparition point, walking solemnly next to his scowling mother, had seemed excited and proud to return to his family, despite the chaos of legal wrangling that must be tormenting that household.

Harry climbed several staircases until he faced the hidden staircase to Headmaster Albus Dumbledore's office. Instead of a passageway there was a gargoyle, the very picture of guardian demon, challenging any who would dare come this way. So as not to confuse the stone beast, Harry pronounced the password very carefully. "Divinity."

The gargoyle seemed to bow its head and slink backward as it turned to clear the passage. The solid marble column behind the thing began to turn in place, stairs protruding from its smooth surface. Once the transformation was complete, Harry could take the stairs to the Headmaster's office. He paused for a while to consider the arrangement before him.

Those who lived exclusively in the wizarding community had missed out on quite a lot of what made a man literate in the rest of the world. Devils below implied angels above. A stairway to heaven was the most natural connector. 'Divinity,' indeed. When wizards heard the word, they thought of the fluffy white candy. Dumbledore was more sophisticated than that. Harry knew that the stairway's security terms were changed every few weeks. But he noted that this particular password had only been adopted when most of the student population was already gone or in the process of leaving. Well, Dumbledore had always claimed to be on the side of the angels. Perhaps that was all the meaning that should be ascribed to the word. It was just a key to make the stairs work, anyway, no more significant than a combination to a muggle safe. Harry laughed suddenly, recalling that every bicycle lock his cousin Dudley had ever had bore one of two combinations. Each one was either 36-24-36 or 69-69-69. Dudley still couldn't understand how his bikes were consistently stolen whenever one of his friends needed a ride. He'd never even twigged that it was his own cronies who were taking the bikes. Since the stolen bikes were usually found within a day of going missing, tossed over somewhere in Little Whinging, there had never been that much trouble about the thefts. And Dudley had never changed his combinations, either.

Harry mounted the stairs and emerged in the cluttered, oversized office of the Headmaster. Dumbledore never seemed to be surprised in his own lair. Certainly, the creaking and groaning of the column-to-stairway transformation would have awakened even a sound sleeper, but Harry suspected it was more than that. Every time he had ever entered this office, the Headmaster had been comfortably composed, patiently waiting as though every unexpected visit was the most important item on his agenda.

The Headmaster rose from his seat behind his wide desk, his white robes, white hair and beard all flowing with the motion. He picked a delicate glass dish from among the riot of items that crowded his desktop, and held the dish out toward his visitor. "Sugar ribbon?"

"No thank you, sir," Harry replied nervously. The Headmaster popped one of the brightly colored, twisted ribbons of hard candy into his mouth and held the dish behind himself at approximately desktop height. He released the delicate candy holder and Harry winced, waiting for the crash. Instead, the dish floated lazily back to its place on the desk. The old wizard never seemed to notice the magic that had saved his candy dish. But Harry suspected that the levitation - like so much of what Dumbledore did - was very deliberately presented to add to the mystery and aura of immense power the Headmaster carried with him. The old man had an undeniable presence, Harry admitted to himself. He was, close up in person, awesome - in the old sense of inspiring an almost overwhelming sense of amazement and... what else could Harry call it... worshipfulness. The Headmaster was powerful. One could almost sense the magic crackling about him even when he was simply standing about. But there was something more. A piercing intelligence that remained constantly at work behind even the most rambling and unfocused of Dumbledore's public façades. The old wizard could afford to appear sleepy and absent minded simply because he never truly was either of those things.

With a start, Harry realized that Dumbledore was waiting for him to speak. The boy cleared his throat and began his appeal with an apology. "I searched for the proper way to do this, sir. But I was unable to find one. So I find myself having to come to you, directly." He felt like kicking himself. He was already botching his pitch. He had practiced an elegant speech - something that he imagined Malfoy might say. But when it came to actually spitting it out, here was plain-spoken Harry Potter again, sounding particularly whiny and rambling. He meant to continue, but Dumbledore was already waving a hand toward him, lazily indicating he should remain silent.

"It's ... hrrmm... not all that ... ahhh ... staying at Hogwarts over the summer .... is it?" The old wizard wheezed and whined his way through the question as though searching for a polite way to tell Harry that his robes were covered with animal dung and both his shoes were untied.

"That's precisely it, Professor," Harry said, worried at the way his request had been anticipated. "My muggle relatives do not now, and have never wanted me..."

Dumbledore's voice was quiet, but he effectively cut off Harry's rehearsed appeal. "Your aunt Petunia, in particular, does care for you."

Harry was immediately angry at hearing that. What right did this old recluse have to make such a statement, when Harry had years of experience to contradict it? "I used to fantasize that she did," he spat. "I used to imagine that when Vernon was gone and their little spy, Dudley, was out, that she might show me some kind of sign that would have said 'we're blood relatives, we're in this together.' No, sir. If anything, she hates me worse than Vernon. And I'm nothing but a punching bag for their son."

Dumbledore looked at the boy with a sad but kindly expression. "Among adults," he said, apparently ignoring Harry's outburst. "Coercion takes many forms. Have you ever considered that your aunt may be as much a prisoner of her husband - and of the obligations she feels to her marriage and to her own offspring - as you feel yourself to be a prisoner of 4 Privet Drive?"

"I did once," Harry replied sourly. "When I was still too young to attend school. Since then, my aunt has instructed me very fully in the way of things among proper, normal people. She values her husband and is proud of him. She is glad she married him and is happy with the 'offspring' they produced. What she feels a prisoner of is her obligation to care for me. And how you managed to coerce her into doing it is... it's a testament to your own power as a wizard. I imagine it took a powerful curse to force that service from her."

"Oh... My dear boy..." Dumbledore said mournfully. "Nothing could be further. I did not curse your aunt. It would have been... she's a muggle, you see - or a squib, more properly. It would have... It just wouldn't do, you understand."

"What I understand," Harry said, summoning all his courage to face the wizard before him directly. "Is that - no matter how it may have been started, my staying at Privet Drive has long outlasted its usefulness. I need to study - I don't think any of my professors would argue with that! Ask Professor Snape if a little more work wouldn't help..."

Once again, Harry found himself shouted down by a voice that was barely raised above a whisper. But this time, Dumbledore's rebuttal was not reassuring. If anything, it was cause for further worry. "As you must know... after the events of the past term... I am under a great - and increasing - deal of pressure from the Ministry of Magic. Hogwarts is a school." Dumbledore stared pointedly at Harry until the boy nodded slightly in agreement. For his part, Harry felt stupid even nodding in acknowledgement of such a stupidly obvious statement as that one. Of course Hogwarts was a school. 'School' was even in the complete name of the institution. Nevertheless, Dumbledore waited until he had seen that nod before he continued. "As such, we are obligated - by government decree - to provide a safe environment for our students." Dumbledore waited once again for Harry to nod his understanding of that statement before going on. "During the regular school term, our entire staff works very hard to ensure that each student remains safe. Often, we fail." Harry saw, as clearly as if a movie of the scene had been projected, the death of Cedric Diggory. 'Kill the spare.' He shuddered, and as he did, Dumbledore drove home his next point. "Each failure only increases government pressure on us, and allows more and more Ministry intrusion in every aspect of our operations." Harry could feel the scars on his right hand inflicted by the Ministry-mandated punishments of last term and he wondered how much more intrusive the Ministry could be. Thinking about the independence of his beloved school, Harry was completely surprised by Dumbledore's conclusion. "Frankly, dear boy, not to put too fine a point on it, but we do not have enough babysitters to allow you to stay at Hogwart's over the summer."

Harry's face reddened. His ears pounded with his pulse. His fists clenched at his sides. He replayed the Headmaster's last statement over and over in his mind, trying to tell himself he had misheard, that the man had said something else. It was a useless exercise. He had heard perfectly clearly. 'Babysitters.' 'Not enough babysitters.' He stared at the old wizard, and at least some of the debilitating awe dropped away. He took a deep breath, intending to sound reasonable, but when his voice emerged, it was a deep growl. "Not to put too fine a point on it, Professor, but you forget who I am. I hardly knew myself for the past five years. I heard 'boy who lived' and thought that referred to something in the past. Now I know. Now that I have defeated your greatest nemesis, Lord Voldemort, five separate times; now that I have seen your 'Order of the Phoenix' that has been raised against the Dark Lord's return; now that I have witnessed the puerile stupidity of the Ministry of Magic first hand; now I know. I am your primary weapon. I am the point of your attack. I am your only hope of defeating your worst enemy. Let me get something in return for that for once. Let Professor Snape be right this one time, let me get special treatment because of who I am. Do you fear the Ministry? Do you believe you will have to declare a proper 'babysitter' for me? You have Hagrid. He would be delighted."

Dumbledore's expression had not changed throughout Harry's diatribe. At the end of it, he simply raised his eyebrows and calmly said, "Hagrid has a myriad of magical creatures that he must see to. He will not be able to spare a minute for you all summer, and no one... from the Ministry, for example... who might investigate our premises between terms would believe that he would be able to."

Harry stared back at the old man in amazement. "You have Filch," he insisted.

Dumbledore sighed. "As much as it seems as though Argus spends his time looking after you children during the school term, he is in fact a caretaker. And Hogwarts has a great deal of care that must be taken to keep her functioning properly. The summer is a very busy time for Mister Filch - busier even than the regular term, since there are no students to get in the way of his work during the summer months. And that is a very important factor in the decision to keep all students out of the school between terms. A moving staircase... or, hrrmm... a sliding wall that was... as it were... being realigned by the caretaker could easily... ummm... crush a student who was wandering the halls."

"Give me a job, then," Harry demanded, stung by how little effect his words had on the Headmaster. "Everyone else in the castle over the summer has a job. Hagrid cares for the creatures, Filch cares for the castle... who cares for the plants? Professor Sprout can't spend all year here, can she?"

"Hmmm... well, no," the Headmaster mumbled. "Professor Sprout has... as you might expect... her own life... quite apart from the castle and the students and the like. But she is... how shall we say... very... urm... dedicated to her plants. She wants only the finest care for them. Which is why, I believe, she recommended your classmate, Mister Longbottom, for the position. Young Neville has coveted the position all term, I understand. And he is quite... ahhh... intuitive with the plants, wouldn't you say? Yes, indeed, quite... erm... quite a natural with the nature... uh... botanics... ahh... Herbology. Yes. But Professor Sprout made it quite clear to the boy that hiring was not done by her, and that the job was not hers to give. Neville knows that the decision is up to me. So. I could put you in. Give you the job. Instead of him." The old wizard steepled his fingers and stared at the boy over their tips.

"I couldn't do that to Neville," Harry complained.

"Hrmm?" the Headmaster prompted.

"I mean... if he's wanted it all term, and Professor Sprout has recommended him and all, and you say he's the best candidate for the job." Harry had a brief vision of Neville's imposing grandmother, with whom the boy would have to stay if he were sent home, standing implacably in her ridiculous stuffed-vulture hat. In fact, Harry realized that he had never heard Neville's grandmother speak in any way other than snapping commands - or stand in any way other than implacably, for that matter. He felt a rush of pity for the boy. "It wouldn't be right, me taking away his chance and all."

"Really," Dumbledore replied suspiciously. "Harry... it has been my experience that in the world of adults - and by adults I mean anyone who does not require a... babysitter - in that adult world, there is little that is ever gained that comes without a price. In this case, you wish to defy Hogwarts tradition, my best advice, and Ministry decree. Your justification for this is your advanced maturity, as evidenced by your success in not being killed by a weakened, crippled Lord Voldemort." Dumbledore saw the look of defiance cross Harry's face, and his sudden wrathfulness was truly shocking to the boy. "Yes!" the Headmaster thundered. "I said weakened and crippled! Before you tell me what a great warrior you are, recall that your fat, stupid cousin Dudley can still beat you like an old pillow any time he cares to!" Suddenly, Dumbledore the sympathetic old man was back where the wrathful patriarch had stood only an instant previously. "So, you want to stay here, you claim you are mature enough to make the decision to do so. The price is your friend's summer job. Is that really so much to pay?"

"It is when I'm not the one paying it," Harry insisted. He raised his chin in a pose that was pure Gryffindor. "I can't take Neville's chance from him. But I shan't be returning to the Dursley's either. You can put me on the train, I can be forced to go to London, but I won't be going back to Little Whinging!" His face fell as uncertainty returned to his demeanor. "I'm not even certain I could if I wanted to."

For once, it was Dumbledore who looked confused. "What's that, boy? Can't? Your uncle. He'll pick you up at the station, and back you'll be. Hogwarts Express to your uncle's car to Privet Drive. What could be simpler?"

"No," Harry insisted with genuine annoyance. "My uncle will not be at the station. He told me last year when he dropped me off. He's convinced that I have money here. He can't imagine any other kind of money than pounds. I couldn't explain a galleon or a sickle to him if I tried. He thinks I have money - because I got the robes, and the wand and things - so he told me: 'No more free rides.' If I wanted to ride home from London, I could bloody well hire a taxi. If I was too stingy with my own cash to pay for a ride, I could walk. I have no muggle money, Headmaster, and I will not be walking to Little Whinging to satisfy my uncle's cheapness."

"Well... that's irregular." The Headmaster walked back behind his desk and began to rummage through several of its drawers. "By all means, I can change a sickle or two for you... I believe I have some muggle money around here somewhere... let's see... pound notes, is it? Yes. Here we go. This should exchange very neatly for a galleon."

"I won't be needing it," Harry proclaimed.

"You just said you would need to hire a taxi..." the Headmaster sighed, and was cut off by Harry's tart rejoinder.

"I also said I'm not going back to the Dursley's. I'll go to Diagon Alley. I'll sleep behind the Leaky Cauldron if I have to... but I don't think I will have to. I do have wizarding money in the bank. I can live for a season - especially the summer. I might even get some other summer job. But I'm not going back to the Dursley's."

"Harry," Dumbledore said sadly, his eyes full of sympathy. "You said you were my weapon, my point of attack against the darkness that threatens us all. Do you think I would surrender my weapon so easily? If you do not go to your family's home, Death eaters will take you within a week. They might merely kill you. I believe that would be a mercy. They would more likely capture you. And that would give our mutual enemy an advantage that I will not allow him to have. So you are left with two choices. If you leave Hogwarts, you will return to your aunt and uncle's home - if I have to send dementors along with you to ensure your arrival. If you do not leave Hogwarts, you will take your classmate's summer job."

"And what about Neville?" Harry demanded, shaking with rage - and with fear. The dementors alone were enough to frighten anyone. And the threat of being delivered into the hands of the Dursley's by the soul-sucking monsters was enough to leave Harry trembling.

"What about him?" Dumbledore murmured with a shrug. "He will doubtless get some more experience by working in the greenhouses next term. And he will probably take next summer's job - if one is offered by Professor Sprout, of course."

"And next year, Neville will hate me for taking his job," Harry said bitterly.

"Oh, no... that problem is completely circumvented by the manner in which the employment is granted." Dumbledore smiled absently, staring off into space. "Professor Sprout will explain to Neville - before he leaves the grounds this year - the truth. That I decided to keep the... boy who lived... on Hogwarts grounds. For safekeeping. And that I... also decided to... ummm... kill two birds with... as it were... one stone. By having you serve the Herbology professor during your time... on campus. And - unless anyone were to tell Mister Longbottom differently - that makes it all... my fault. In which case, Neville should hold no animosity toward you."

"That's rather selective truth," Harry replied.

"All truth is selective," Dumbledore stated. "The muggle scientists have a principle. They call it - rather inaccurately - 'uncertainty.' It is a principle by which, they state, that if you know one quality of a thing, you cannot simultaneously know another quality of the same thing. Now, the quality you do know is sure. You are absolutely certain of it. But you can only know one thing at a time. That is not uncertainty - that is selective truth." The Headmaster looked over the rims of his crescent moon glasses, eyes sparkling. "And that, my boy, is science. It's not even magic."

Harry stood speechless for a long moment. Having Albus Dumbledore suddenly quoting Heisenberg to explain the Headmaster's own brand of politics was so far removed from anything Harry could have expected, he was unable to formulate any response at all. When it became obvious that the old wizard was not going to say anything further, Harry stammered, "So, I'll stay at Hogwarts. And you will force me to take Neville's job away from him."

Dumbledore smiled. "Good lad," he said encouragingly. He reached absently toward his desktop and the candy tray floated up to meet his hand. "Truffle?" he offered vaguely. The hard candies were gone, replaced by chocolate covered bonbons. Harry shook his head weakly and Dumbledore selected one of the sweets for himself. He dropped the dish unthinkingly and it floated back to its place, landing with a gentle click.

Dumbledore remained silent for a long while, and Harry wondered if he had been dismissed - or merely forgotten. He took a step backward and Dumbledore suddenly looked up and met his eyes. In that moment, Harry could see that the old Professor was hardly the sleepy, absent-minded ancient that he often pretended to be. His gaze was intense, and he locked Harry's eyes with his own. Ominously, he said, "Just because you are on Hogwarts grounds does not mean that our enemies remain idle. While this building may well be the most magically-warded edifice in the world, and whereas our grounds may constitute the most magically-protected piece of property on the planet, your safety is hardly ascertained if you are alone. A truly determined enemy might eschew magic altogether, and simply walk up to you and bash in your head with a hammer. Don't look so shocked! Such things do happen in the world, I can assure you. When you have had your... adventures... in the past at this school, you have had your friends at your side. And your safety has always been a priority of our staff. There will be fewer allies to call upon during the summer months. Despite your claims to maturity, I will have a babysitter for you. A lifeguard, if you prefer."

Under the unwavering gaze of the Headmaster, Harry felt that facing Dumbledore would be a greater threat than battling Voldemort had ever been. But the old man was waiting for some sort of acknowledgement of his statement. Harry didn't want to merely nod again. He felt enough like a puppet already. It took a bit of searching, but Harry finally found his voice. "If you insist," he squeaked, sounding more like a little boy than the mature adolescent he had claimed to be.

"I do," Dumbledore said, once again lapsing into his wispy, old man's voice. He settled into his desk chair and selected another candy from his dish, neglecting to offer Harry one. This time, the sweet was a powdery peppermint. "I will be assigning Professor Snape to keep a close watch over you, and to make sure you remain safe. Please cooperate with him in any way that will make his job easier and more efficient."

"Snape," Harry yelped, and Dumbledore's piercing gaze pinned him once again.

"Professor.... Snape. Is quite uniquely qualified to keep you from certain kinds of harm, perpetrated by certain kinds of enemies. He may require assistance. I would suggest that Professor Snape call upon your one-time Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, Mister Lupin. He, too, is uniquely able to see certain dangers to which many of us would be blind."

"Profess..." Harry began, and then corrected himself, privately adding a curse against the Ministry officials whose decrees had driven the werewolf from the teaching profession. "Mister Lupin would be.. um..."

Dumbledore waved a hand in a vague dismissive gesture. "Yes, yes. You quite like him. And he quite likes you, and that is exactly the problem. I fear that Mister Lupin would allow you to get away with certain actions that might endanger your life. He was quite an... active... student in his own time here at Hogwarts. I'm sure he would applaud your adventurous nature, and would encourage it - to your detriment. So. Mister Lupin will assist Professor Snape in... lifeguarding you. And you will receive your assignments from Professor Sprout. You may retain your current lodgings - no need to move you around for just the summer. And you needn't worry about any of this until after the Hogwarts Express has departed with the last of the other students. Let Professor Sprout take care of informing Mister Longbottom, and let Professor Snape finish the last of his year's labors before taking up this new burden, hmmm? That way, you can seem to be as ignorant of the particulars of the situation as you wish. That should keep any bad feelings from developing between you and any of your classmates."

Harry had no idea what to say. In a way, he had gotten what he wanted. But he felt as though he had lost. He stood speechless once again, staring at the Headmaster, wondering what had actually just happened.

"Well? That's it." Dumbledore said, rising and moving across the room to show Harry out. The marble column behind the boy began to transform into a spiral staircase once again with a creaking and groaning that inspired no confidence in the stability of the stairs. "Go and enjoy your last day of freedom before we put you to work for your keep, hmmm?"

Harry felt that he should argue, shout, protest. He felt as if he should tell the old wizard that he would be better off sleeping in Diagon Alley than taking this offer. But he couldn't put his objections into words. He only knew that he felt bad about Neville, and worried about being under the direct supervision of Snape. "Yes, sir," was all he said, and descended the stairs away from the Headmaster's office.

--- --- ---

The room was lined in stone. A grey stone floor lay coldly under a high stone ceiling. The heavy blocks that made up the walls could have been set in place centuries ago. Their worn appearance suggested extensive use over a great many years. There was not a crack between them that was not stuffed with a heavy, opaque mortar, yet little of the mortar could be seen. The blocks fit together so precisely that it seemed they would remain permanently fixed without any mortar at all. Black iron sconces were set into some of the blocks at about the head height of a tall man. There were eight of them, each with a wooden torch held upright and alight. The room was quite large, and even eight flaming torches could not banish the shadows from the corners, or clearly illuminate the ceiling. There was nothing else on the walls. No decoration, no hanging tapestry, no paintings obscured the surface. Neither were there windows. There was a door, though set so precisely into the wall that it was not immediately apparent. The room was, upon first inspection, perfectly sealed.

Near the center of the room was a raised stone dais. Upon it sat an immense stone chair. The seat could not possibly have been warm. The stones of the floor were cold to the touch, and there was a definite chill in the air. The symbolism of that heavy piece of furniture could not have been missed, however. It was a throne, raised up above the level of those who might stand on the floor before the dais, oversized to represent the superhuman power of its proper occupant.

The room was nearly silent. The burning of the torches made a very slight hissing, a faint crackle. There was also the wheezing, labored breathing of a single occupant. Nothing more.

The sharp, piercing crack of apparition broke the silence, admitting two figures who kept the quiet from returning. There was a rustling of robes as they appeared, and scuffing of shoe soles against stone. A tall, thin man and a beefy boy, already nearly as tall as the man beside him, stepped forward from the apparition point toward the throne. Still more than a dozen steps from the dais, they stopped to stand shoulder to shoulder.

Severus Snape made a deep, full, formal bow, his black robes swirling to follow his motion, emphasizing its fluid grace. Vincent Crabbe, standing next to Snape, tried to imitate the move, but his attempt was stiff and jerking, clearly an unfamiliar and uncomfortable exercise. His own belly seemed to get in his way, and his bow stalled before it was even half complete. He stayed in that position, partly bent over as though he were a balloon only half-inflated, with his eyes focused on the ground. Thus, he missed Severus' smooth return to an upright position and his immediate assumption of a nearly military posture of attention. A quiet chuff of a cough caught the boy's attention. Vincent glanced to his side, expecting to see Snape's bowed head. Instead he saw nothing beside him. He quickly looked back and found himself staring at his professor's knees. With a gasp of embarrassment, he pulled himself upright and stood silently red-faced, watching the man on the throne.

Severus did not watch the throne. Had Vincent looked toward his teacher, he would have realized that Snape's gaze was focused quite fixedly on a point on the wall directly in front of his eyes. "My Lord." Severus announced clearly, as though the room were filled with attendants, each of whom needed to hear his words. "The initiate is here, as you requested, my Lord."

From his throne, Tom Riddle, the Dark Lord Voldemort, regarded his visitors. He had gone to a certain amount of trouble to create this particular scene. This room, for example, was far too impractical to use for any regular business. It really was as completely sealed as it appeared, for one thing. Back when Voldemort had enjoyed a much larger contingent of followers, it had been someone's regular assignment to apparate air into the room. As simple as the task sounded, it was really a very tricky task, requiring some skill to accomplish properly. The old air, heavily laden with carbon dioxide and usually laden with the smell of human perspiration, would have to be exhausted, and replaced with fresh air, containing plenty of oxygen. Times were not what they once were. There was no one Voldemort could spare from more important duties simply to keep an audience chamber prepared. So the perfectly good room, with its complex magical wards and nearly perfect physical defenses, went generally unused. Another waste brought about by his failure to seize power over magical Britain. A failure caused, in part, by the ineffectiveness of his followers. Ineffectiveness which he would have to overcome by recruiting new volunteers. Volunteers such as the boy Snape was now presenting.

Voldemort nearly smiled, even though he had learned that a smiling Dark Lord did not inspire the necessary levels of fear to insure quick responses by his followers. Leading people had turned out to be a much more paradoxical exercise than he could ever have imagined before experiencing it. His original plans for the conquest of the wizarding world had included detailed guidelines for bestowing rewards upon those of his minions who proved most useful. He soon learned that what the majority of his followers wanted was something quite different. It was not titles and prestige that they craved, but structure and discipline. And power, of course - but power which was held by a strong central authority, that they could experience through being the instruments of that authority. That lesson had led directly to most of Lord Voldemort's style and methods of leadership, including the title 'Dark Lord,' and the designation of his troops as 'Death Eaters.' Those people who flocked to his banner wanted their Lord to be terrible of visage as well as terrible in wrath. They wanted him to mete out severe punishments for failure, and base humiliation for lack of foresight. In return for this, they wanted to wage war without quarter, where surrender was not an option. They wanted to crush their enemies utterly and lay waste to their works. They wanted prisoners, resisters and especially traitors to be killed - not ransomed, and especially not punished and released, deemed to have been rehabilitated. His followers also wanted to be able to evoke the terror inspired by their leader when they did his bidding. The masks for his Death Eaters was one way that Voldemort made this possible for them. Theirs was an absolute, draconian, severe philosophy which led to an absolute, draconian, severe way of ruling. But if those qualities led to a rigid system that could stifle creativity and inventiveness, those very qualities also gave an absolute security that no more fluid system could ever match. It may have been a security based entirely on a particularly severe form of discipline, but such discipline could lead to pinnacles of excellence.

A perfect example of which was Severus Snape. The grim potions master was one of the finest examples of Voldemort's system creating excellence through extreme discipline. Effective. Intelligent. Powerfully magical. And such a good potion maker that the Dark Lord had never needed to order anyone else to brew a single potion. If Voldemort needed veritaserum, or polyjuice, or any one of a wide range of poisons, he had the best there was, because it was made by Severus Snape. One of the reasons Voldemort had charged Snape with bringing the young Crabbe here tonight was to impress the boy with the kind of achievement his future Lord demanded.

The boy, however, had probably missed the lesson altogether. His father was a thug with a slow mind and merely adequate magic. But the elder Crabbe had blood on his side! He was descended from an ancient magical family. Voldemort had been certain that with a good education, the son would turn out to be an excellent example of what he sought in his servants. Unfortunately, Vincent was, instead, turning out to be a thug with a very slow mind and barely adequate magic. The boy would have to be encouraged to apply himself - and he would apparently need quite a bit of help - if he were to fulfill any of the potential the Dark Lord had seen in his breeding.

Vincent stared at the creature seated on the throne in disbelief. Could this possibly be the Dark Lord, his father's master, the scourge of the world? He was small. Frail. Burnt. Or at least, he seemed to have gone through a series of horrible accidents. His skin, or as much of it as Vincent could see - hands and face mostly - was pink and smooth. But not like a baby's. More as though he were completely covered in scars. Most of the features that communicated feeling from a normal face didn't even exist on Voldemort's. There were no discernable lips, just scarring all around his mouth. There were no eyebrows, it was as though those had been burned away. His eyes looked lidless, like a snake's. The smooth pinkness that surrounded them was stiff, not sufficiently mobile to convey the subtle signals that made eyes expressive. Vincent had tried to prepare himself for his first meeting with the Dark Lord. He had imagined someone huge, bulging with muscles, bursting with energy, the proper military leader for the army of Death Eaters that would take over the world. Vincent had steeled himself against quaking in the presence of the leader's might. He had schooled himself against flinching from the leader's powerful voice. He had practiced maintaining a confident expression so the leader would not see his fear. He had never expected anything like this.

Vincent waited for a word, a motion - some sort of command. The Dark Lord simply sat and watched him in silence. Snape was absolutely motionless, as though he had been turned to stone. Crabbe wanted to turn to see if he actually had been turned to stone, but he was unable to force himself to do so. He was afraid. The man on the throne had terrified the entire world, once. He still terrified the toughest men Vincent had ever met. And he especially terrified Vincent's father. If the elder Crabbe could fear this shriveled figure as much as he clearly revered him, then - frail or not - the Dark Lord must be extremely powerful. And he was famous for having short patience and dealing out horrendous punishments. So VIncent stood and stared, afraid to move. And as he did, he felt as though he could see past the outer layers of scar. Or perhaps the Dark Lord was reaching out to him. Whichever it was, as he stood there, Vincent felt something happening to him; something that affected him very deeply.

To his horror, Crabbe felt his eyes begin to water. There was a twitching high up on his cheeks. His breath caught. Terrified, Vincent realized that he was going to cry, and he had no idea why. All he knew was that he was not thinking of how disgusting Voldemort's face was; he was not thinking that he should feel sympathy for a man who had been through horror that would leave such scars; he was not thinking of how afraid he was of the magical power the man before him wielded. He was feeling all of it, deeply and profoundly. Pit of the stomach, roots of the teeth deeply. His anus clenched, his testicles rose to meet his torso, his hands and feet became cold and a wave of dizziness washed over him as his blood left his extremities. He felt disgust. He felt sympathy. He felt fear. He would have run if there had been any avenue of escape. Had he been able to apparate, he would have been away from this room in the time it took to think it. He would have left the country, changed his name, dyed his hair and lived as a muggle if he could just have been away from here. But there was nowhere to run. And he could not yet apparate. He was trapped. He felt his mind receding, his thoughts fading. He had already accepted his own death. He would be run down by the train, eaten by the snake... whatever it was, it had already happened, and there was no need to be conscious for the last horrible moments of his own destruction. It had been good to be Vincent Crabbe. But that time was over. Strangely, he still felt ashamed of crying. His cheeks felt dry, he knew he was not sobbing. None of that mattered. He had felt it happen. He had cried. And then he had died. Simple. His vision narrowed to a pinpoint of flame-illuminated stone. The minimal sounds in the room faded below the threshold of hearing.

"Approach me, lad," the Dark Lord commanded, and watched as the boy seemed to awaken and take several hesitant steps forward. Voldemort had never believed in hypnosis. He consigned the supposed proofs of the phenomenon to the same realm as the stage magic muggle entertainers used to amuse the witless. But the Dark Lord was a pragmatic leader and a frugal ruler. He would not waste a perfectly good effect if it happened to occur fortuitously. And Voldemort had long known that something very like what hypnosis was supposed to be occurred when he faced those who were weak of mind. He was sad to see the effect displayed so clearly in the young Crabbe, but it was not any worse than he had anticipated. The boy's mind was as weak as his actions had led the Dark Lord to believe.

Still, there were always uses for a slow - but strong - minion. In this boy's case, his usefulness would begin with recruitment. His school was filled with potential Death Eaters. But even the oldest Hogwarts students thought of volunteering for Voldemort's service to be something associated with their parents' generation. Many of the young witches and wizards in the school had stories about 'what Mom and Dad did during the war.' Or worse, 'what Grandmom and Granddad did during the war.' These children had to be introduced to a new idea: that serving the Dark Lord was something for them to do. Someone had to propagate the concept, had to spread the encouragement: 'Do it together!' 'Join with your friends!' 'Come en masse - there's room for all!' There were plenty of hooks to add to those lines. The chance for rebellion. The opportunity to overthrow the established order. The promise of a good fight. The prestige of being part of the most feared magical organization on earth. And who was better placed to deliver such enticements than one of the school's premier bullies? If Victor Crabbe was going to join up, the Dark Lord's army must really be bad-assed. Or so Voldemort hoped. If he continued to rely on his current minions bringing in their offspring, he would have insufficient numbers to make any significant attempt at wresting control of the magical world away from the Ministry and its toads, not to mention the powerful wizards who had opposed him in the past.

Crabbe's hesitant steps brought him to the edge of the dais, and it appeared that the boy would step up and continue walking all the way to the throne. That was not such a serious error. Voldemort had commanded him to 'approach,' and the Dark Lord would rather see a servant obey an order until commanded to stop than see one leave an assignment uncompleted. Voldemort held up a single warning finger and the boy halted immediately. "It is so good of you to come," Voldemort said with a saccarine smoothness. "Your father served me..." he paused, trying to recall the approximate date on which the elder Crabbe had entered his service. To his surprise, Vincent interrupted his musing.

"He still does, Sir," the boy said earnestly.

Voldemort stared at the young Crabbe with exasperation. He reminded himself that the boy did not know the proper way to behave in his Master's presence. But something other than the boy's insolent interruption galled him. It was the poor thinking. "How do you know?" the Dark Lord demanded.

"He told me. Last time I saw him. He said so."

"And when was that?" Voldemort inquired lightly. He enjoyed watching the effort Severus had to expend to keep from squirming. Snape knew what a fool the initiate was making of himself, but the man was helpless to do anything about it. Very amusing.

"Last Thursday," Vincent replied promptly. "He left the house - just after dinner, it was - and he said that he was proud that I got to come meet you, and that he wished he could have brought me here himself, and he reminded me that he was loyal in your service. Sir."

"And where did your father go after that?" Voldemort's question was still light, his tone bantering, almost playful. With a thrill of glee, he noticed that Severus was beginning to sweat. In this chill air, that betrayed a great deal of stress.

Crabbe's face fell. He had no idea how to answer that. He waited, but the Dark Lord was looking at him expectantly, so he tried the technique he used when he was stumped at school: he began talking, hoping to gain some clue as to whether he was on the right track by watching his interrogator's face. Given Voldemort's scarred mess of a face, that would be a good trick in itself. "I... can't say. Sir. He doesn't tell us where he goes. Often, I mean. Like, so that it's regular - a habit, like - so that if he ever did have to go someplace... you know, secret, I mean... that..." he shrugged as though the conclusion of his comments should be obvious to anyone.

"But you said 'Still,' Vincent," Voldemort said with a kindly tone. "The word 'still' implies as of right now. You don't know where your father is, now, do you?" The boy shook his head, obviously confused. "You don't know what happened to him since Thursday night, do you?" Vincent shook his head again, looking somewhat alarmed. "In fact, you don't know whether your father was killed fighting one of my enemies, or whether he was killed in a senseless accident."

Crabbe's jaw dropped, his eyes opened wide. "My dad's dead?" he squealed.

Severus slumped. The change was not much, but his shoulders drooped and he nearly closed his eyes, breaking his rigid attention for the first time since he had announced the initiate's arrival. Voldemort caught his eye, and Snape knew that he had been caught. That was enough. Snape knew that he had been wrong, and he knew that his Master knew. He would be perfectly aware that he deserved punishment for his transgression. And Voldemort knew that the resulting feeling of inadequacy in a man who so strove for perfection would be an exquisite punishment. Holding Severus's eye with his own, he grinned and asked, "This is what we have to work with?"

Snape was back into perfect form immediately. "This is but one of our many resources, Lord. We have many others of great quality..."

Voldemort waved a careless hand to silence his servant. "I well know your feelings toward your students, Severus," the Dark Lord said dismissively. "Especially your own Slytherin House. But this one is a product of that House, isn't he?" A glance was enough to inform Snape that no reply was called for. Voldemort turned his attention back to the boy. "No, your father is not dead. So far as I know." He watched Crabbe's uncomprehending face with disappointment. "The lesson you were to have taken from that exchange is that you must never assume what you do not know for a fact. If you have not seen your father, you do not know what your father may be doing, where he may be, or how he may feel. No, don't reply. Just... think about it."

"Yes, My Lord!" Crabbe agreed enthusiastically.

Voldemort sighed. "'Sir' will do fine at this time, Victor. I am not 'Your Lord' quite yet."

The boy's eager face shone with zeal. "I am ready to take the Dark Mark, Mmm... Sir."

Voldemort pursed his lips. He waited to make sure no further boasts were coming, then very deliberately told the boy, "No. You are not. You are not ready to take the Mark. You are under age for one thing. You have at least two years of schooling during which your left arm may be easily exposed to unwanted observation. And most importantly... you have done nothing for me."

The boy's face fell into an expression so miserable it was nearly a parody of disappointment. He looked like a child who had awakened on December twenty-fifth, only to be told that Christmas had been cancelled at the last minute. His suffering was so pathetic, he did not even ask the obvious question, inquiring as to what he could do to be considered worthy.

Voldemort waited a while, then very gently explained what he expected. It took a while, and he found himself backing up and even starting over when he had given Vincent too much to think about at once, but he finally got the main ideas across... he hoped. "Bring me a convert," he concluded. "I expect you to spark interest among many, and to inspire a few to seek me out. But one thing I require of you is this: bring me someone who is not the child of a Death Eater, who has no connection to my operations at all. Someone that you might even think of as being opposed to me. A convert."

"Like Harry Potter," Crabbe suggested without a hint of irony.

Snape visibly winced, but Voldemort had no attention to spare for the man any more. "Yes, Vincent. Like Harry Potter. He would be ideal. Bring me a convert. Someone surprising. Like Harry Potter. Yes. Perfect. Then we will talk again."

"But how do I..." Crabbe protested.

Voldemort glared at the boy, and he froze in mid-syllable, terrified. "Professor Snape will make the arrangements for you. IF you are able to accomplish the assignment. Now go!"

Crabbe began to turn, trying to keep himself from running. A chuff of throat clearing from Snape's direction reminded him, and he backed away from the Dark Lord, as quickly as he could without tripping over his own robe. Once he was shoulder to shoulder with the Professor once again, he made one of his stiff, clumsy bows as Snape executed another of his graceful, elegant ones. Then a crack of displacement signalled the disapparation of the pair.

The Dark Lord sat slumped in his throne for a long while. He had expected little enough, but the young Crabbe was an idiot. He was an inspired idiot, though. 'Like Harry Potter,' indeed. As idiotic as the idea seemed at first, there was something to it. Potter may hold a grudge against him, may even think he felt true hatred for him. But what had Potter ever gotten from the rest of the world? The Boy Who Lived might welcome the chance to rebel, to upset the established order. 'Like Harry Potter,' eh? The Dark Lord wished Vincent Crabbe all the luck in the world.

--- --- ---

The sharp crack of apparition announced the arrival of a man and a boy in the darkened sitting room of a comfortable, rambling two story home. The moonlight streaming through the back windows and the streetlamp light filtering in through the front curtains gave enough illumination to show a gently curved archway leading to a tile-floored living room raised a half-step above this one, and a wide, straight staircase leading upward against one wall. The lower halves of the sitting room walls were wood paneled, and there were small reading lamps set on delicate wooden tables next to a pair of well-padded armchairs at one end of the room, and on either side of the couch set at the other. The low table in front of the couch and the hard-backed chairs that completed the set were very plain. This was the place Vincent Crabbe called home.

Snape paused after the apparation for only a moment, but that moment was long enough to listen carefully. He sniffed, quickly dismissing the scents left behind by furniture polish, air freshener and potpourri. He looked sharply around for telltale shadows. Within instants, he had satisfied himself of what most people would have taken for granted upon their arrival - except for Severus and Vincent, the house was deserted.

Crabbe did not hesitate for any longer than it took him to get his bearings after apparating. His first stop was going to be the kitchen, and he had already taken his first step in that direction when Snape's voice stopped him cold.

The Professor spoke quietly, but his voice carried an intensity of emotion that gave it a terrible power. "Stupid, stupid boy."

Crabbe turned to face his Head of House, hurt and confused. "Wha...?"

The corners of Snape's mouth turned downward in disdain. With melodramatic overstatement he clearly enunciated, "Whaah?" Then turned the full power of his glare onto the boy before him. Crisply, he spat, "What," with a hard snap to the 't.' He paused only long enough to make sure he had Vincent's undivided attention before completing the question. "Were you thinking?" He paused for a second that seemed to Vincent to stretch interminably. Snape appeared to be waiting for an answer, but Crabbe had no idea what the man was even angry about. Snape proceeded to inform the boy. "The rightful Lord of all wizarding Britain offered you a great opportunity tonight. He himself handed you a chance to help us raise our society from the mediocrity in which it is mired. It seems to me that the very least you might have said was 'Yes.' If you had wished to seem a little more intelligent than your average village idiot, you might have completed the thought with, 'Yes, I will.' If you had wanted to show that you had some concept of the magnitude of the boon being granted to you, you might have included 'Thank you,' somewhere in your statement. And if you had thought it proper to acknowledge that you are an unproven, unmarked Pre-Death Eater being treated to an audience with your rightful King, you might have tagged on a 'Sir,' or 'My Leader,' or two. Listen to the complete statement I have just outlined: 'Yes, I will, Sir. Thank you, Sir.' It is simple, it is succinct, it communicates your willingness to participate in the suggested program, your gratitude at being allowed to do so, and your respect for the leader of the organization which made you the offer. In fewer than ten words, you could have communicated all that, and shown some sign that you possessed at least the potential for intelligence. If you had to improvise - if you felt you absolutely had to offer up the name of a potential recruit for discussion - you could have mentioned someone whose candidacy showed that, first, you were thinking of the Dark Lord's needs. And second, that you realize which people you have some chance of actually recruiting - and which people you have no chance of influencing at all.

"You could have offered the Dark Lord a child from a ministry family. There would be many advantages to having such an ally. A Weasley, perhaps. Merlin knows there are enough of them. Or you could have offered your rightful lord someone who possesses strength and agility. A Quiddich captain, for example. Oliver Wood comes to mind. Or you might have suggested someone clever. Offhand, I can think of several. Cho Chang would be one. A Ravenclaw, with great intelligence, and an athlete as well.

"But no. You had to mention the one name that represents the single stupidest choice you could possibly have made. 'What about the Boy Who Lived Through Your Curse of Death?' That is what Potter's ridiculous title actually stands for, you know. The 'Boy' 'Lived' when Lord Voldemort cast the killing curse on him. It is famously the only time in his life that a Voldemort curse failed. And he suffered deeply from the effects of that failure. I was surprised that you stopped there, to tell the truth. Why not really rub it in while you had the chance? You could have gone on: 'What about the Boy Who Snatched the Philosopher's Stone From Your Very Grasp?' and: 'What about the Boy Who Killed Your Basilisk?'

"Why didn't you simply wear a T-shirt that read "Lord Voldemort is a Miserable Failure" and make your feelings clear? 'Like Harry Potter?' you asked him. As though you could deliver the Boy Who Lived. I had thought you two weren't on the best of terms. Why didn't you offer him Albus Dumbledore?"

"Dumbledore's not a student," Crabbe pouted.

Snape pressed his eyes shut, unable to bear the sight of the stupid lad. "Give me strength," he muttered, and forced his eyes open once again. "I suppose you did not notice any of the exchanges that passed between the Dark Lord and myself before we left?" Crabbe's blank expression was all the answer he needed to make. "I will tell you, then, Mister Crabbe. I lost honor in the Lord's eyes this evening because of your stupidity. Don't think I won't remember that - and reward it properly when the opportunity presents itself. I will also tell you this: if you expect to have any future in our world, you will need to get yourself into the Dark Lord's graces. To do so, you will have to fulfill the mission he assigned you. My suggestion to you is to forget about the Boy Who Lived and think about the alternatives I mentioned. Work. Accomplish what you have been assigned. Do that and you will have some success. Fail, and you had best concentrate hard in muggle studies. There won't be a place for you in magical Britain if you antagonize the Dark Lord. Goodbye, Mister Crabbe." The crack of apparation rang through the house as he departed.

Vincent turned and went to the kitchen to get something to eat. He still didn't understand why Snape was so upset. The burnt old bugger on the throne had seemed to like the suggestion to snag Potter for the Death Eaters. One thing was sure, it probably wasn't a suggestion he heard very often, and that had to count for something. The longer Vincent thought about it, the more the convinced himself that Snape was too uptight to be a proper rebel. Being a Deatheater was all about doing your own thing and saying to Hell with the rules. That wasn't how Vincent's dad put it, of course. The old man went on and on about duty and obligation. But the elder Crabbe had been doing the same thing for so long that he had grown old in the harness. He had forgotten how to cut loose and raise Hell. That's why Voldemort wanted young people for his army - they would have the spirit he wanted.

Vincent could hardly wait to tell Goyle about tonight. Gregory'd shit himself when he heard that Vincent had offered to bag the Boy Who Lived for Voldemort's service. Gregory may have lost his virginity first. But it was Vincent who had first met the Dark Lord. 'Let's see who gets farther on the basis of that,' Crabbe smirked. He made himself a sandwich and headed for the fireplace, grabbing some floo powder from the mantle. Time to start bragging.