Smoke & Mirrors

Disclaimer The characters and sheer genius belong to J K Rowling. Any smut is mine, but I don't make a penny/eurocent/cent from my warped imagination.

Chapter 13 Unlucky for Some

"So, did you get the Pensieve last night? And what do you want it for, anyway?" Ron sat down opposite Harry, eager to know what was going on.

"Want some coffee?" Harry asked. Dobby had delivered a delicious hot breakfast to the cabin a few minutes before Ron's arrival; Harry had made short work of the bacon and eggs but plenty of coffee, toast and marmalade remained.

"Yeah, go on," said Ron. "I already had breakfast, but it's bloody cold outside, I could do with some nice hot coffee."

Harry filled a mug and passed it across to Ron, who took a huge gulp. "Mmm, that's better. Anyway, you didn't answer my question. Did you get the Pensieve last night?"

"Yeah, I got it," Harry said, and hesitated. He really didn't want to explain any more. Luckily, Ron had thought of a new question.

"Was Malfoy there?"

"He was when I got there... he didn't see me though, I'd got my Cloak."

"Ah, good thing he still doesn't know you're around," Ron said, grabbing a slice of Harry's toast and coating it thickly with butter and marmalade. "Only I saw him limping this morning, I wondered if you two had a fight."

"Nah, he got a door knob up his arse," grinned Harry.

"Huh?" Ron gaped at him, the toast halfway to his mouth. A dollop of marmalade dropped off onto the table.

"Severus had put a locking spell on his office door – well, lots of 'em, actually, but Malfoy had got through all but the last one. It was, er, a bit unusual." He wriggled in his chair, remembering the sensation the transfigured door knob had produced as it penetrated him.

"No need to go into details, mate," Ron said hurriedly, through a large mouthful of toast and marmalade. He swallowed. "So what's the Pensieve for?"

Harry was saved from answering this by the arrival of Hermione; she clattered into the hut, out of breath, a heavy book bag slung over her shoulder. "Can't stay long," she gasped. "Just got a quick break in between classes. Come on, Harry, I'm dying to know what's been happening!"

Harry paused for a moment to order his thoughts. Several things had happened lately that he hadn't yet told his friends about. Some of them, he didn't intend to, not if he could help it. "Well, it's like this..." he began slowly.

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"Oh, poor Kreacher!" exclaimed Hermione. Ron gaped at her, shaking his head in disbelief.

Harry thought back over the account he had just given them of his conversation with Professor McGonagall. Had he missed something out? "No, Hermione, you don't get it," he said. "Kreacher made sure he was seen spying; he wanted to drop me in it."

"I know," Hermione said. "But what we have to ask ourselves, is what drove him to it? A lifetime of enslavement and ill treatment –"

"Oh, not fucking SPEW again," Ron said impatiently. "Give it a rest, Hermione, can't you?"

"That's all very well for YOU to say," snapped Hermione. "You've never given Kreacher a fair chance."

"A fair chance?! Come on, that elf is EVIL. Look how he managed to betray the Order. And you didn't see Harry fighting the goblins' dragon. I did. He could've been killed, easily. Your beloved Kreacher set him up for that, you know."

Hermione tutted, looking unconvinced. "Look, Ron, have you ever really thought about what Kreacher's life must have been like with the Blacks in that horrible house..." Harry tuned out the sound of his friends quarrelling. He really didn't need to be reminded of number twelve Grimmauld Place and Kreacher's part in his godfather's death. He lapsed instead into a happy daydream about Severus Snape, who seemed suddenly closer to him again after the previous evening's door knob incident, and the particularly vivid dream he'd had last night.

He came back to the here and now with a start: Hermione and Ron, quiet for once, were staring at him expectantly. Oh shit, what had they just said?

"Why is Dumbledore's old Pensieve so important?" repeated Hermione.

"And why are you wriggling and grinning like a loony?" Ron asked.

"Erm..." said Harry, trying desperately to think of a way to change the subject. "Well, never mind that just now. I'd like to know a bit more about Mr Diggory's motivations. And who in the Ministry of Magic might've been getting at him. How's your research coming on, Hermione? Have you found anything tying Death Eaters to anyone still in the Ministry?"

"It's difficult," Hermione said. "I've been through the library here, of course, but there isn't anything of much use – oh, apart from this – " she delved in her book bag, and laid a fat leather-bound tome on the table "– really, I need to get access to the Ministry's own records."

Harry turned the book over and looked at it curiously. "Know Your Wizarding Families?"

"Yes, it's really interesting," Hermione said. "It's got a complete genealogy of the main wizarding families in the UK; who's related to who, that sort of thing. It gives a bit about their occupations in some cases, too. Did you know that Gilderoy Lockhart's brother keeps a flower shop?"

Ron sniggered and muttered something about 'pansies' which Harry didn't quite catch. Hermione frowned at him.

"But as I say," she continued "I really need access to the Ministry's own records, and I can't think of anyone who can help me get them... maybe Tonks? Hmmm, I'll have to have a word with her..." and Hermione fell silent, frowning in thought.

Ron finished the last of Harry's toast and leaned back in his chair with a loud belch.

Hermione looked at her watch and gave a sudden exclamation. "Oh no, I should have been back quarter of an hour ago: I'm supposed to be standing in for Professor McGonagall." She jumped to her feet, grabbed her bag and yanked open the door. "I'll catch up with you later," she called over her shoulder as she hurried off along the path leading to the castle.

Ron grimaced after her. "I dunno, finishing her NEWTs not enough, she's got to take on teaching duties as well. I can't keep up with her, Harry." He glanced sideways at his friend. "Er, Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"When Krum was here – did he – well, you know – did he shag her?"

"I dunno, mate," Harry said honestly. "He went outside with her for a few minutes when we got back from the match, that's all I know – said he was saying goodnight to her."

"Then he did shag her!" Ron said, his face turning ugly. "I know what saying goodnight means!"

"Maybe it means something else in Bulgarian," said Harry, trying to make his friend laugh. He failed.

In her haste, Hermione had left Know Your Wizarding Families lying on the table: Ron picked it up and leafed through it, scowling. "Don't know how she has the patience to read all this rubbish." He closed the book with a bang and dropped it back on the table. "There's a quicker way of finding out exactly what Kreacher told Diggory, anyway." He turned towards the door.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked. He had a nasty suspicion that he knew what Ron intended.

"I'm going to beat the crap out of that little toerag until he tells me."

Ron stormed out and strode furiously off towards the castle. Harry shrugged, donned his Invisibility Cloak and followed. There were times he'd felt like beating the crap out of Kreacher himself, but now he felt oddly protective towards the unlovely house-elf. With Ron in his present ugly mood, who knew what he might do.

There had been a sharp frost in the night, and parts of the path were covered in ice. It crunched under his feet as he walked up to the castle. The air was chilly, and the Cloak didn't provide much protection against the cold. It was with relief that he crossed the Entrance Hall and plunged down into the relative warmth of the stone corridor leading to the kitchens. Ron was already standing in front of the large painting of a bowl of fruit which concealed the entrance. Slipping off the Invisibility Cloak, Harry joined him. Ron reached up to the painting and tickled the big green pear, which promptly giggled and turned into a door handle. Harry couldn't help a furtive wriggle as he was reminded yet again of Snape's door-locking talents. Ron eyed him suspiciously, but didn't say anything.

Harry started to fold up his Cloak as small as possible so he could tuck it into a jacket pocket, but Ron stopped him. "Better put that on, you don't want all the house-elves knowing you're back."

"But I'm the one who should be questioning Kreacher," Harry argued. "I'm his master: he's supposed to obey my orders. He won't tell YOU anything."

"You don't want that little shit knowing you're here, he's bound to find some way to let it slip to his beloved Malfoy –"

"You just want someone to beat up 'cos you're pissed about Hermione and Krum –"

They scowled fiercely at each other.

"I could just beat you up instead," growled Ron.

"Just try it, mate," Harry growled back, reaching for his wand. "You're not the only one feeling frustrated. And I'm not letting you hurt Kreacher."

Ron took a step back. "Hey, mate, let's not us quarrel too. It's bad enough with Hermione. I won't hurt your precious elf."

"He won't tell you anything; you're not his master. Oh, hang on, there is something we could try," said Harry, pulling an unused slip of parchment out of his pocket and tapping it with his wand. A few lines of writing appeared under an embossed Black family crest.

"There you go," said Harry, holding the parchment out to Ron. "A letter of authorisation, signed by me, telling Kreacher to give you every assistance."

"Wow," said Ron, impressed. "Snape used to do stuff like that."

"Yeah, he's taught me a lot," said Harry.

"I bet," sniggered Ron, taking the parchment, then coughing and looking unnaturally serious as Harry glared at him.

Harry shook out his Invisibility Cloak and carefully draped it over himself. "I'll be right behind you," a voice hissed in Ron's ear. "So mind you keep your temper."

As Ron stepped into the kitchen, he was greeted by a happily-smiling Dobby. "Dobby is glad to see a weasley in the kitchen again. Would sir like more cakes?"

"Er, no thanks, Dobby," Ron said, frowning. He held out the parchment. "I'm on important business, um, on behalf of Harry Potter who isn't here." He scowled meaningfully at the house-elf. Dobby looked offended. "Of course Dobby knows that Harry Potter is not here, sir," he squeaked, taking the parchment.

"Yeah, well, could you show that to Kreacher?" asked Ron. "And bring him to me. Make sure he knows Harry orders him to answer my questions." Dobby nodded, and trotted off into the depths of the kitchens. The sounds of a heated altercation came to Ron: evidently Kreacher was unwilling to obey his summons. But eventually a triumphant Dobby reappeared, dragging a reluctant Kreacher behind him. They came to a halt in front of Ron and Dobby pushed Kreacher forward.

"Ah, one of the blood-traitor brats," Kreacher muttered furiously to Ron's shoes. "It wants to talk to Kreacher and Kreacher must obey his master's orders, but oh the shame of belonging to a shameless half-breed pervert, what would my old mistress have said..."

"Screw your old mistress," Ron said loudly. "I want you to tell me about Amos Diggory."

Kreacher glanced furtively up at him. "Amos Diggory?" he repeated, as if he'd never heard the name before.

"Yes, Amos Diggory," Ron said. "Stop playing silly buggers, Kreacher. We know you helped him set Harry up for dragon-baiting goblins. But why would he want to? Is it all about Cedric? Did someone put him up to it? I want some answers!"

"So many questions, poor Kreacher's head is spinning," the house-elf muttered evasively. Ron reached down and grabbed its big bat-like ear. "Okay, we'll take them one at a time," he said, giving the ear a twist. "Who put him up to it?"

Kreacher glared at him with huge bloodshot eyes and stayed obstinately silent.

"Kreacher, your master ORDERED you to help me," said Ron sternly. "So come on, I want a name."

"Kreacher's master is disgraced," Kreacher sniggered, "and so everyone shall know before long, his paramour shall see him for the slut he is, encouraging the attentions of other wizards..."

"Huh?" Ron stared at him. "I don't believe you! You're just trying to distract me – so come on – it's an order – who put Diggory up to it –"

Kreacher's face screwed up even more, he seemed to be trying to clench his jaws together.

"The name, Kreacher," said Ron.

Kreacher made an explosive, half-choked sound: afterwards Harry and Ron disagreed about what he'd said – or rather, was trying not to say. But then Kreacher continued, very rapidly. "It will do master no good, no good at all, soon everyone will be able to see what master has been doing, willingly ravished by dozens of dark wizards, flaunting his naked body for all to see." He glanced slily at Ron. "Just like the Mudblood witch Granger..."

"Liar!" Ron shouted; transferred his grip from Kreacher's ear to his scrawny throat and began to squeeze violently. Kreacher turned purple and his big bloodshot eyes seemed in danger of popping out of their sockets.

Harry, who had been standing motionless under his Invisibility Cloak watching and listening to all this, realised that he had to act quickly before his friend killed the hapless house-elf. Whipping out his wand he pointed it through his Cloak at Ron's hand and thought 'Petrificus Totalus' as hard as he could. But non-verbal spells had never been his strong point and all he achieved was to lock Ron's hand more immovably about Kreacher's neck. The house-elf emitted an ominous rattling sound.

Harry was in a quandary. He didn't want to reveal his presence to Kreacher, but he had to stop Ron. Fortunately Dobby now took a hand. He snapped his long bony fingers and a big bowl of trifle rose from a nearby table and shot through the air towards Ron. Harry was irresistibly reminded of Dobby's antics with Aunt Petunia's fancy dessert at Privet Drive. Clearly confectionery was Dobby's weapon of choice. In this case, the trifle emptied itself over Ron's head with a loud splash. Temporarily blinded, Ron released Kreacher and staggered back, slipping on a stray glob of trifle and crashing heavily to the stone floor. Kreacher shot off and disappeared into a store cupboard.

With some surreptitious help from Harry, Dobby managed to help a limping Ron out of the kitchen. He leaned against the wall of the corridor, his face white and tense with pain. "I think I've broken my leg."

"I'll help you up to the hospital wing," Harry said crossly, "but then you're on your own; the fewer people know I'm at Hogwarts the better. You'll have to tell Madam Pomfrey you slipped on an icy path or something."

***********************************

Ron lay propped against his pillows in the hospital wing, looking disgruntled. "I thought I'd just be in overnight," he complained "but since it's been broken before, she wants to keep me in for a whole week – just to be sure there aren't any complications, dear!" His voice rose to a falsetto in ludicrous imitation of Poppy Pomfrey.

"Better safe than sorry," Hermione said annoyingly. "Anyway, it really serves you right for trying to strangle Kreacher!"

Ron shot an accusing glance at Harry, who shrugged with a 'she made me tell her' gesture.

"And did you learn anything from him?" asked Hermione. "Harry seemed to think you forced a name out of him, anyway."

"Nah, I think he just said 'nix'" said Ron. "You know, meaning he was telling us nothing."

"No, I'm sure it was a name," Harry said.

"Nick, maybe?" asked Hermione.

"Yeah, old Nicolas Flamel coming back to haunt you Harry," Ron said sarcastically.

"It sounded more like 'Vic' to me," said Harry.

"Heh! That'd be Viktor Krum, arch-villain, then," said Ron, with a spiteful look at Hermione. "I always thought there was something a bit dodgy about him."

As another quarrel threatened to erupt between Ron and Hermione, Harry got hastily to his feet. "Well, I'm heading off to the cabin. Let me know if you think of anything sensible"

"You'd better be careful to obliterate your footprints on your way back, Harry," Hermione said, looking out of the window. "The snow's starting to settle."

The weather worsened steadily over the next week. Harry stared glumly out of his cabin window at the swirling snow. Where the fuck was Snape? That Durmstrang wizarding moot must have ended ages ago. Had Viktor Krum even given him the message? He refused to believe all that crap about Snape researching a 'cure' for the Essences potion. Severus just WOULDN'T.

He hadn't seen much of his friends, either. Ron was still stuck in the hospital wing, and visiting him was difficult since he'd been joined by a bunch of injured Quidditch players following a particularly dirty match between Ravenclaw and Slytherin. Hermione had immersed herself in her NEWT studies and taken on yet more extra teaching duties into the bargain, although she had promised to visit Tonks the following weekend to try and gain access to the Ministry of Magic's employment records. Harry had been left to search through Know Your Wizarding Families for any likely Nicholases or Victors, but so far without success. He'd just spent one more evening poring over its tiny, closely-spaced print and had developed a raging headache in consequence. At last he sighed, blew out his candle, and went to bed.

Harry opened his eyes with a start. It was still night – dark except for the cold glimmer of moonlight reflected from the snow outside the window. A black figure loomed briefly between him and the light, then stumbled onto the bed, seized him and kissed him hungrily.

At first Harry thought he was dreaming; how many times had he held Snape in his arms at night only to wake alone? But this was undeniably real – Snape's unique smell, the feel of his cloak button digging into Harry's bare skin, the urgent groans, the heavy body on top of him pressing him to the bed, the impatient fingers ripping off his boxer shorts and turning him over... He was speared by sudden pain as Snape entered him clumsily with minimal preparation and none of his usual skill. Harry's face was pushed further into the pillow with each short, violent thrust into his arse.

It was soon over. Harry felt raw and shitty and sticky, but he didn't care; he was so happy his lover was back. But as Snape continued to lie sprawled on top of him, a dead weight, Harry began to realise something was wrong. He dabbled his fingers in the liquid flowing freely down his leg and squinted at his hand by the cold frosty light of the moonlit window. Surely it was too dark and the wrong consistency to be spunk. With an exclamation, Harry wriggled free of the heavy weight holding him to the bed. He groped for glasses and wand, and muttered "Lumos!"

Sudden light flooded the scene. Harry stared, aghast, at the blood dripping from beneath Snape's cloak, and slowly pooling onto the floor.

TBC >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>