A Matter of Black and White

DISCLAIMER: This story is based upon the works of JK Rowling. Anything you recognize is hers. I’m making no money off of this. I’m just having some fun adding my own little corner to the amazing world she has already created.

WARNING: Violence ahead. If you’re squeamish and want to avoid it, the gory part in the middle is set off by + + +. The first and last bits are safe and have some important details you might still want to read. It's also worth repeating from the opening chapter that there are HBP spoilers ahead.

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CHAPTER 14—THE OTHER MASTER

It was a Saturday night during the summer holidays, and all around Britain handsome young men were slicking back their hair and putting on their party shirts, hoping to draw the attention of all the prettiest girls. Down in the dungeons of Hogwarts Castle, however, one hook-nosed man who was never quite young and whose hair needed no more grease than it already had was buttoning up his blackest robes and hoping to remain inconspicuous to one skull-faced arch-villain.

Of course, there were advantages to drawing the attention and favor of the Dark Lord, but after this afternoon’s meeting with Dumbledore, Snape felt it was best to lie low at tonight’s Death Eater gathering. Being a double agent was like juggling two dragons at the best of times, but recently said dragons seemed to have morphed into extra-spiky, atomic-breathed Hungarian Horntails. He expected a level of paranoia from the Dark Lord, but now that the ever trustful Dumbledore was questioning the amount of information he was sending back to the Death Eaters, Snape found himself getting forever burnt on one hand or the other.

With the impeccable timing with which he prided himself, the mark on Snape’s left arm started to burn just as he was fastening the top button of his cloak. Brushing a fleck of lint off his sleeve, he swept out of his chambers and Apparated to the summons the moment he stepped onto the road outside Hogwarts.

In general, Apparition was Snape’s preferred mode of transportation. Trains took too long; the Floo left you looking like a street urchin; and broomsticks…well, Snape wasn’t about to favor the one form of movement in which he had absolutely no grace. The only problem with standard Apparition was the first “D” in the three D’s of the spell—Destination. Unless you were well-acquainted with where you were going, your others D’s—Determination and Deliberation—were likely to be shot to hell and you’d end up splinched over a railed fence in Derbyshire.

Voldemort, however, had managed to sidestep this flaw in the spell when he summoned his Death Eaters to unknown locations. One only needed to Apparate toward the Dark Lord, and the Dark Mark—the link between servant and master—would do the rest. In general, this was a far more efficient system than normal Apparition. No Death Eater ever had the excuse of being unable to find the Dark Lord when he or she was called, but no minion could ever break down to an Auror and reveal Voldemort’s latest hideaway.

On the other hand, the greatest drawback to this kind of honing Apparition was that the traveler never quite knew where he or she was going to end up. No doubt the disorientation of the arrivals served as yet another calculated advantage in the Heir of Slytherin’s power plays. Moreover, Snape was quite certain that if the Dark Lord had had the capability of summoning Death Eaters individually, he would have called some of his least favorite servants to blindly Apparate somewhere over a frozen sea or a pit of boiling lava…all for a bit of nefarious villain humor and the chance to strike a bit more fear into his followers.

Though Snape was (fairly) confident that the Dark Lord was not going to summon his entire army to the throws of death, it did not make the reality of Apparating into the center of Merlin-knew-where any less disconcerting. He had only just lurched out of Apparition’s corkscrew spin when already he was set to rewind himself back to the Hogwarts gates and away from the looming creature into whose shadow he had just materialized. It stared at him with empty gray eyes as it reached its cold stone hand toward him, its broad razor wings blocking any chance of escape. Instinctively, Snape went for his wand and aimed a flash of menacing red light. There was a blast, followed by the sound—like far-off thunder—of crumbling marble as the haloed head of the statue rolled to Snape’s feet.

Bloody angels.

The pupilless stone eyes of the seraph looked blankly toward heaven, a view which was unimpeded by any sort of ceiling above. The head lay there like the remains of some half-digested prey, discovered in what had once been the stomach of a much larger animal that now too was just a decaying ribcage, a gray skeletal structure of columns and buttresses. To the west, most of a wall still stood, though the colored glass windows were broken out and were now edged with just jagged bits of red. There was nothing but a pile of rubble where an opposite wall should have stood. Just beyond this mound of rock and mortar, the smaller stones of the graveyard were taking their cue from the great fallen blocks of granite nearby and were gradually toppling back to the earth as well. The only thing still truly standing was an ancient oak tree, in and out of whose broad-reaching limbs myriads of bats were flapping. The outstretched hand of the decapitated angel now seemed to point at Snape, accusing him of the destruction of the long-ruined church.

“Severus,” a voice said from behind. “I knew you would appreciate the setting.”

So much for remaining inconspicuous. Snape turned and knelt, landing his knee on the sharp metal point of what turned out to be a crucifix lying in the dust and rubble. (Damn, he hated churches.) “My Lord,” he responded through gritted teeth that turned his satiny voice to velvet.

“You and I must chat later,” the skeletal figure drawled with a regal gesture that set Snape on his lordly to-do list.

Snape didn’t bother trying to mask the twinge of apprehension that flicked through even his well-trained mind at this unexpected appointment. The Dark Lord was a fickle master at best, and anyone with a Sickle of sense knew to be wary of his sudden attention. Snape also knew that Voldemort fed on this anxiety and would become truly fearsome to anyone who tried to mask their trepidation completely. Where the Dark Lord was concerned, a hint of fear was a sign of respect; it was as much a part of the Death Eater routine as bowing before one’s master.

Other hooded Death Eaters were Apparating in now, completing the circle around a sunken altar of marbled red stone in front of which their Lord had positioned himself. To Snape’s deepest disgust, the empty spot to his left became occupied by a tall and thin figure with sleek black hair cascading out from under her hood.

Bellatrix Lestrange—irrefutable proof that God really had left this empty carcass of a place.

“Drink any good poisons lately?” she hissed at him.

“Perhaps you’d care to help me test them first?”

The Witch Bitch didn’t have the chance to respond because the Dark Lord had raised his skeletal hand for silence. Whatever enmity she felt toward Snape was trumped by her drooling awe for the black-robed figure at the center of the circle. She groveled extra low to the ground, sneaking hungrily worshipful glances at her master.

“Draw the circle close, my chosen ones.” In the straining silence of his followers, the Dark Lord’s rasping instructions carried clearly, causing the ring of Death Eaters to contract as if by a Shrinking Spell. “Indeed, each of your places is a coveted one. We have some tonight who have come all the way from Azkaban to reclaim their right to stand in this circle.” The Dark Lord’s wraithlike figure glided over to three of his followers who were now kneeling before him. “Jugson, Yaxley,” he said with a nod, “I trust you will not be taking any more holidays, fond as you seem to be of the Dementors?”

Jugson and Yaxley babbled “no, sirs,” grateful not to receive further punishment for having gotten caught by the Aurors in the first place.

“And Antonin,” the Dark Lord came to the stocky man still kneeling, “they can’t seem to keep you in prison, can they?”

Dolohov looked up, his long, pale sideburns widening to frame a broad grin. “They say you can’t imprison an innocent man.”

Snape rolled his eyes. Dolohov had been making the same joke for almost a year now, ever since his first escape from Azkaban. That time around, he had been imprisoned for the murders of Fabian and Gideon Prewett, deaths for which he was about as innocent as Nagini was for the demise of lots of small, furry animals. When Dolohov had been captured in the Department of Mysteries, Snape had thought he was finally going to be spared from further repetitions of that tired joke.

Unfortunately, the Ukrainian was back, and his master was encouraging his lousy sense of humor. The Dark Lord graced him with a breathy chuckle and shook his follower’s hand in a most unlordlike manner. “Welcome back, old friend.”

To Snape’s left, Bellatrix was seething in a black ball of angry jealousy. “Why does he encourage him?” she growled.

For once, Snape had to agree with the Bellatrix. Humor was far out the Dark Lord’s character, yet he was always amused by Dolohov’s little feigns of innocence. Of course, Bellatrix’s lack of amusement was simply due to the fact that she begrudged anyone even a pixie’s breath of the Dark Lord’s favor. All the same, Snape would’ve happily joined her in providing Dolohov with a little Unforgivable lesson in comedy.

“In addition to those who have braved Aurors and seas to return to my presence,” the Dark Lord continued, now inspecting the rest of the circle, “we have someone tonight who wishes to join our ranks for the first time.”

Hooded heads turned to look at the newcomer, a husky young man with cropped russet hair. Despite his massive Beater frame, the initiate was doing his best to look inconspicuous standing behind a lumpy wizard who, even hooded and standing on the opposite side of the circle, Snape recognized as Amycus Carrow. Snape knew the youngster as one of his own Slytherins—a recent graduate by the unoriginal name of Derek Derrick. (It took about two minutes of suffering through Derrick’s uncle Amycus’s wheezy and inexplicable giggles and his mother Alecto’s blank stares to understand why the family had lacked any sort of imagination in the naming of the boy. As for Derek Derrick, Snape had always been reasonably happy when the Bludger-brained Slytherin managed to spell both halves of his name right.)

“But now that our friends from Azkaban have returned,” the Dark Lord continued, “it appears our little circle is full.” His voice rang with feigned surprise that boded disaster. “How ever shall we make room for the lad? Perhaps there is an opening?” Voldemort snapped up his arm, and in an instant a hooded figure to Snape’s right came hurtling toward him like a magnet, the Death Eater’s throat suddenly between his long, bony fingers. “Dalziel, perhaps you would care to offer up your place?”

+ + +

“My Lord,” the old Death Eater croaked, dangling just above the ground in the Dark Lord’s grip. “It has always been an honor serving you. I would never give that up.”

The translucent skin on the bone where Voldemort’s right eyebrow should have been twitched. “Then perhaps you would care to explain what you were doing when you leaked our plans for an attack on the Ministry to a certain someone last week?”

Under Snape’s carefully trained exterior, he listened for Dalziel’s answer with interest. He had fed Dumbledore information about a plot to topple Scrimgeour’s new government, but before the Order of the Phoenix could raise a finger, the Aurors had already had the Ministry in full lockdown mode.

“Only told…my daughter, sir,” Dalziel gurgled in a strangled defense. “Had to protect her…from the fighting.”

“Ah, allegiance to family…very noble,” the Dark Lord answered, momentarily letting his captive’s toes touch the ground. “Unfortunately, your daughter does not share that allegiance, Dalziel. She did not follow family tradition when she was invited to join our circle. She did not care about family enough to fight for the values of her Pureblood ancestors. And now she has forgotten the importance of family again, wouldn’t you say, Dalziel?”

Dalziel knew better than to say anything.

“…For surely if she had remembered the importance of family, she would have considered the price of announcing the attack to the whole Ministry.”

“The price, my Lord?” Dalziel stammered.

“Why, the price to be paid by her dear, loving father.” In an instant, Dalziel was back off the ground, dangling a few feet above the Dark Lord by an invisible cord. “I believe the Muggles once considered hanging a traitor’s death. Since you don’t seem to care about the magical ways anymore, perhaps their practices would suit you best.” With a flip of his hand, Voldemort cast the man out of the circle, propelling him across the church and out into the graveyard, just under a thick branch of the black-leafed oak tree. “Oh, dear. I don’t seem to have a rope. Dalziel,” he called out, “did you happen to bring a rope?”

Dalziel was too busy turning a violent shade of puce from the effects of his invisible noose.

“Ah, well. We’ll have to make do,” his executioner sighed.

Dalziel let out a breathless wail powered more by blood than oxygen. It accompanied a ripping noise that came from his very gut as his torso turned itself inside out and his bowels began unraveling. This bloody cord wove in front of its owner’s stricken face and coiled round his neck, then looped itself over the tall sturdy tree branch, creating a warm, living noose.

“Lucky man, Dalziel,” Voldemort shrugged, turning back to the circle. “His death has a touch of magic after all.”

+ + +

Derek Derrick’s initiation played to the soundtrack of his uncle-sponsor Amycus’s compulsive giggles and the distant gasping, squelchy noise of death coming from the oak tree. When the Dark Lord burned his mark into his new servant’s arm, the boy’s scream seemed to channel the last agonizing breath of the Death Eater who had given him his place.

And then it was business as usual—a lot of perfunctory kowtowing and more of the Dark Lord’s overarching plan to increase the size of his army. The Dementors had come over easily, and Greyback already had a large portion of the werewolf population. Meanwhile, progress was being made with the goblins and the giants. Once these reports had been made, he dismissed the meeting and sent Dolohov to lead some of the brawn of the organization to a new Muggle theme park in Windsor where the Death Eaters could amuse themselves with some mindless mayhem.

“Severus, you may speak with me now.”

Snape felt Bellatrix’s withering glare as he followed the Dark Lord toward the graveyard. He stepped widely over sandstone headstones smoothed into anonymity and did his best to avoid the grisly sight of the cemetery’s newest resident. Though accustomed to dissected bits of flesh from his work with potions ingredients, Snape had to command his stomach to keep from turning. The Dark Lord circled round the oak tree, idly regarding the swinging corpse with about as much interest as one would a plastic rubbish bag caught in the branches.

“It’s a difficult thing to earn my trust.”

Snape let his mind go numb. “Yes, sir.”

“It seems that not all of your companions believe you are worthy of service to me, Severus.”

“I rarely bother with other people’s beliefs, my Lord.”

A pair of spidery lips twitched. “No, you wouldn’t, my antisocial friend. Unfortunately, what Bella believes has gotten you into a fix, has it not?”

Snape had an instant to decide how much of his hand to reveal before he felt the Dark Lord slip into his mind like a shadow. Now was not the time for bluffing, though; it sounded as if the Witch Bitch had already made that play useless.

“You realize, of course,” the Dark Lord hissed, “that the task was meant for Draco. He will only redress his father’s failure by killing Dumbledore himself.”

“As I tried to remind Narcissa, my Lord,” Snape said coolly.

“You should have known better than to get caught up in Bella’s little games, Severus. I have…reminded…her that she gets carried away sometimes.”

Ha, Bellatrix had gotten a bit of what was coming to her.

“Really, Severus,” the Dark Lord went on. “The Unbreakable Vow? I thought you had more cunning than that, my sly friend.”

“I believe, my Lord, that it is in…everyone’s…best interest to see Draco’s mission succeed.”

“True, but I am not happy with how you have become involved in this task, Severus. I had other plans for you. However, we may find that things have worked out for the best if we’re to have Dumbledore dead once and for all. Never send a boy to do a wizard’s job, as they say.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Snape answered, bowing his head toward the untended graves at his feet.

“We shall not speak of it again, Severus,” he said, grinding some blood-clotted leaves stuck to the heel of his boot into the ground beneath Dalziel’s mangled body. “I trust you have enough incentive to see to it that you carry though with your vow?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Snape responded with another bow. For once, the Dark Lord’s implicit threats were secondary. Should he fail, Bellatrix’s Unbreakable Vow would kill him before even the Dark Lord could seek his vengeance.


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AN: The new theme park in Windsor is an allusion to Legoland, which opened in 1996. Can’t you just see some brawny Death Eaters enjoying toppling Lego cities like they were Godzilla?

Also, I usually choose my characters’ names quite consciously to match their personalities. In the case of poor Dalziel, his name actually came before his story and ended up inspiring the means of his unfortunate demise. In reality, the name Dalziel comes from a parish in Scotland and means the “dale church.” The etymologically incorrect but nevertheless more interesting legend about the origin of the name says that the first Dalziel went to rescue the body of the king’s favorite, who had been disgracefully hanged by the Picts. According to the story, the gentleman who volunteered said, “Dalziel,” which was supposed to have meant “I dare.” (It doesn’t, but feel free to overlook that point for the sake of the story.) Afterwards, his descendants used a body on the gallows for their crest. Guess the wizarding branch of the family didn’t get the memo saying they were supposed to be rescuing hanged bodies, not becoming them. They should’ve gone to this website for more information: http://www.last-names.net/surname.asp?surname=Dalziel;Dalyell. You can also see the coat of arms on the Dalziel info page: http://www.coldal.org/dalziel.htm.

And what is up with Snape and that angel?