Avenging Fire

Early the next morning, Helena sent Queequeg back home after he spent the night in her quarters, fluffed up, pouting, and perched on the headboard of her bed. She had wanted to send him off the previous evening, but the owl apparently thought he deserved a little bit more pity and pampering after being zapped with a Petrificus Totalus by Snape and had refused to take flight.

“He’s not going to ‘get’ you again. Go on! Up you go!” she had urged, thrusting her forearm up in the air. Queequeg instead crawled back up her arm and snuggled against her neck. Helena ended up trying to sleep to the sounds of Queequeg grinding his beak over her head.

Sipping coffee and thinking, she watched Queequeg grow smaller and smaller in the sky as he flew away. She had approximately three months leave of absence from the clinic and had to figure out how to get back home within that time period. Dumbledore had given her no clues as to how long he intended to have her remain here, only that he ‘insisted’ that she stay ‘for the time being.’ Getting him to speak forthrightly and candidly had proven to be an exercise in frustration and futility. The man almost spoke entirely in allegories, metaphors, riddles, and circles.


“Time has a way of sorting things out, Helena.” he told her with his ever present beatific smile.


Maybe so but she didn’t have the luxury of time. The clinic was still paying her by using her accrued holiday and sick time. She rarely took anymore than a day or two off at any given time, so after five years she had built up quite a bit. Still, it wouldn’t last forever. After that, she’d have to dip into her savings but was unwilling to do that until she had a clearer understanding as to what her situation actually was and what she was up against. All she knew was that two Death Eaters tried to murder her, one was killed accidently, and now, if Dumbledore was correct, the whole hive was out for her blood.


Surely they don’t think I killed him. He was killed by magic and since I can’t do magic, that sort of rules me out. Unless…unless the other Death Eater told the hive that I killed his friend by other means. If so, then it would make sense why they’re after me because to them, the possibility that a Non-Magical killed a wizard, a Death Eater wizard to be exact, is probably so offensive to them that the only option is revenge of the permanent and terminal kind.


As for the twins? Apparently their less than pure blood is enough for these monsters to mark them for death, or as Dumbledore put it, ‘extermination.’



“Their words, Doctor. Not mine.”



But why us? And why now? Steffen and Mary, for whatever reason, had been targeted more than two years ago. Dumbledore said it was most likely because Steffen was considered a ‘Mudblood’ and had married a ‘Muggle,’ both of which were unacceptable to this lunatic fringe. But why exactly was Steffen specifically targeted? There are plenty of so-called ‘Muggle born’ witches and wizards. And why target his two children? How had they even known about the twins? When Steffen and Mary were abducted, they had been alone. For that matter, how did I even come into the picture?



A gust of wind blew and seemed to whisper to Helena.



Know thine enemies.



Movement in the peripheral distance caught Helena’s attention and when she turned, she saw Hagrid and Fang heading off to attend to some duty or another.



Hagrid.




Hagrid!!!



At that moment, her mind clicked and she rushed back into the castle, having determined the first step to take in what promised to be a long journey.


**


“’Allo again! Er…wot can I do for ya t’day, Doctor?” Hagrid asked as he stood perplexed in the doorway of his shack.


Helena had waited for him to return to his shack after attending to whatever duties he had that morning. Now that he was back, she hoped that he not only have a bit of time in which to talk, but that she could get the large bashful man to actually open up to her.



“Do you have a few minutes, Hagrid?”



“I was jus’ getting’ ready to have a spot of tea so I ‘spose I do. Wot’s on yer mind?”



“Did the Headmaster tell you why I’m here? At Hogwarts, I mean.”



Hagrid immediately began to look uncomfortable at which Helena took note.



“Er…well…yer, he did. He said you was...attacked…then had somethin’ of an accident. No. ‘Accident’ isn’ right. He said somethin’ ‘appened that changed you. No, that’s not right either. Er he said…”



“The last part isn’t important. Don’t worry about it. But did he specifically mention to you who attacked me? Or, even more specifically, what kind of wizard attacked me?” she asked pointedly.



Hagrid began twisting the bottom of his work-shirt. She hated forcing him to talk about issues that were obviously uncomfortable for him, but she suspected that he, rather than the obtuse Dumbledore, might actually give her a helpful clue as to where to start looking. After what he said about Sirius Black, or more to the point, how he had said it, Helena suspected that Hagrid knew a lot more than he let on. His body language alone told her that. Especially how he glanced at her guiltily and cut himself off when he mentioned how Sirius Black was suspected of murdering Muggles. To a psychologist, that spoke volumes. Yes, Hagrid definitely knew something.



Hagrid let out a deep sigh of resignation.



“If’n yer wantin’ ta talk ‘bout Death Eaters, ya best come inside, Doctor. It isn’ exactly the kind of conversation ya want the whole world to overhear ya havin’.”



Relieved, she stepped inside. She had worried that Hagrid would simply refuse to talk at all. At least now, albeit reluctantly, he indicated that he was willing to have a conversation. She didn’t get her hopes up over how in depth he was willing to go however. She would take whatever he gave her.



Hagrid nervously looked from side to side out of the door before he shut it. Then he peered out each of the windows before he sat down at his table.



“Tea?” he asked, holding up the pot.



“No, thank you.” Helena pulled a notebook and pen from out of the messenger bag she had slung over a shoulder. “But do you mind if I take some notes?”




“Notes?” He began to get nervous again.




“I just want to get everything down. You never know what might be important later. Don’t worry; this conversation will just be between me and you. These notes will only be to help me. I won’t even write your name down. I give you my word.”



Hagrid relaxed a little, but not much. He poured a cup of tea and looked towards a window with a faraway expression before he turned back to Helena.



“Right then. Where would ya like me to start?”



“I already know a few general things, but since the Death Eaters follow one particular wizard, let’s start with him. Tell me everything you know about Voldemort.”



At hearing the name of Voldemort, it seemed that Hagrid winced with his entire body and instantly tried to evade the subject.



“I’m not sure I’m the one ta be askin’ ‘bout ‘im, Doctor. Don’t even like sayin’ ‘is name to be honest. Dumbledore! Now there’s who you should be talkin’ to. Perhaps if…”



Helena put her poised pen down and looked at him.




“Hagrid, I’m going to be honest with you. The Headmaster hasn’t given me much to go on, and on top of that, seems unwilling to do so. I need this information.”



Hagrid sighed again and glanced about hesitatingly. When he did, Helena nonchalantly placed her hands on the table, palms up, and hoped the subtle gesture of benevolent entreaty would register in Hagrid’s subconscious.



Over the years, she had employed many tactics to get people to talk about that which is unpleasant and uncomfortable, or even self-revealing. Many of her patients did not like reliving traumatic experiences, or who were so deeply depressed that they felt they were worthless and didn’t want to share with her how deeply they thought as such. Still others, like the ones she assessed to determine competency after they allegedly committed terrible acts or crimes, she employed almost ‘strong arm’ tactics to get them to talk. At least in a subtle, psychological way.



With Hagrid, she knew he was a decent man with a helpful nature and a highly developed sense of morality. It was this that she appealed to now.



“I know that this is uncomfortable to you to talk about, but I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t so very important. I need to know the danger facing my niece and nephew and myself. We can call ‘V’ anything you like if it’ll make it easier. Please. Rubeus.”




The combination of her even tone, her palms up gesture of entreaty, and the use of his first name worked and Hagrid nodded. After a moment or two of thought, he began again.



“His name used ta be Tom.” he began.



**



Hagrid and Helena had talked for almost two hours and when she left his shack, she had several pages of notes and clues. With a restatement of her promise that their conversation would remain between the two of them, she returned to the castle to digest everything he had told her.



Tom Morvolo Riddle, offspring of a pure blooded witch who died shortly after he was born and a non-magical father who abandoned him and his mother while he was still in the womb, was who became the monster Dark Lord that was currently holding the entire wizarding world hostage. Over the years, Tom grew to loathe the ‘Muggle’ blood that coursed through his veins and then by extension, all ‘Muggles’ and ‘Muggle-borns.’



Hatred, if allowed to fester and putrefy, leads to all sorts of unspeakable crimes. Human history was rife with instances of this; genocide and ethnic cleansing were two very obvious examples. And, it seemed to be Voldemort’s primary motivation.



Genocidal madmen never seemed to be lacking for followers; individuals who for one reason or another, bought into the hatred, the fear, the scape-goating, or for the promise of power. The exalted position over another human being.



Helena knew however that ‘madman’ was a misnomer. Voldemort, along with every other genocidal leader either world had known, was far from being mad. No. He was cold, calculating, highly intelligent, filled with hate, extremely motivated, but completely sociopathic. One of the worst mistakes one could make was to dismiss these individuals as insane.



Another mistake was to underestimate just how easy it was to fall prey to these embodiments of evil. Simply by targeting the abandoned, the bitter, the disaffected, and the powerless with promises of salvation, one could assemble an army of followers, loyal even unto their very deaths.




It happened every day with cults, be they religious, political, or even cults of personality. These cults offered understanding, power, shelter, and acceptance to those who lacked it and who sought it. This is what Voldemort with his agenda of pure blood supremacy was, a cult leader. The Death Eaters, his devoted acolytes.



She wondered if there had ever been any defectors from Voldemort’s cult, and if there was, what sort of person might he or she be, and what had been strong enough to break through to reach them.



Hagrid mentioned that Tom Riddle had himself been a student at Hogwarts from 1938 to 1945. If he indeed he had walked the corridors and hallways of Hogwarts, then surely there were records.



Helena now had two bread crumb trails to follow; the longer one that led back to Tom Riddle, and the second that led to her brother and sister-in-law’s murder. At some point, somehow, these two trails crossed and it was at this figurative intersection that Helena suspected the answers lay waiting. Both would be easy enough to follow, providing Hogwarts’ library was as good as the Magicals in her family claimed it was.


**



Madam Pince was strict and imposing and reminded Helena of the librarian at her grammar school. As a child, she had earned a very unfair detention for sneezing during an episode of seasonal allergies. Pince promised to be no different and even though she wasn’t a student, she had the feeling that the strict librarian would not hesitate to bounce her out on her ear if she so much as set one toe out of line.



She had decided to start pouring through school almanacs from the years Tom was a student and newspapers from around the time of Steffen and Mary’s murder. It seemed as good a place as any to start.



“You want what?!” Madam Pince asked, somewhat incredulously when Helena had asked her for copies of The Daily Prophet from five years ago until now.


It had been two years since the murder so she figured three more years before that and she might find some more clues buried in the pages of the main source for wizarding news.



“Do you keep an archive of The Daily Prophet here in this library?”



“Yes, but what do you want with all those newspapers?” Pince asked with a fair amount of suspicion.



Not wanting to tip her hand, lest her amateur investigation find its way to Dumbledore’s ears, she presented a plausible reason to the librarian.




“I’m looking for old reports about members of my family. You know, awards, events, anything that might have had a relative’s name mentioned. I figure since I’m here, I might as well flesh out some of my family’s history.” she offered, smiling confidently.




“Seems like a lot of work just for a few articles.”




“Yes well, we have a long history of being somewhat obsessive chronologists.”




“Very well. This way.”




Madam Pince led her to a fairly large room off of the main library. Inside on the walls, row after row of miniaturized Daily Prophets hung on periodical rods.



“Five years you say?”




Helena nodded and with a swick of her wand, Madam Pince enlarged a few rows of periodicals.




“I’ll keep them enlarged for as long as you need, but you tell me the absolute instant when you’re done with your research.”




“It may take several days.” Helena said eyeing the sheer volume of newspapers in front of her.



“That’s fine. Just remember, the instant you’re done. I don’t want any of the students tempted to make flying origami out of newsprint. And be sure to close the door at the end of the day. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that.”



“Well, here we go.” Helena said to herself as she selected several newspapers from the beginning of five years ago and sat down at the table inside the periodicals room.



**



After the last class of the day ended and the last student was ejected from his classroom, Severus Snape locked the door, gathered up a stack of parchment essays, and retreated to his office to begin grading them. Based on the opening paragraph of the essay on top of the pile, he would surely have a headache when he was done.



Why was it that so woefully few students could compose a decent essay? For that matter, even a coherent sentence?! He had two hours, during which the students were restricted to their common rooms and out of his hair, in which to hack the essays to pieces with red ink and then get to the library to retrieve the book he requested through an interlibrary loan from Durmstrang.




He had been looking forward to reading the book on the spells and potion making of magical Roma gypsies. Even the Muggle portion of them had a sense and respect for the magical world and often assisted witches and wizards in their work by collecting rare potion ingredients or various magical objects through ingenious methods, including trickery, shrewd business interactions, even theft on occasion.




Generally, gypsies tended to be regarded with suspicion and often were marginalized. Their magic was said to be dark. As far as he could tell though, a lot of gypsy suspicion was the result of cultural misunderstanding and/or prejudice, but that only fueled his curiosity. Regardless though, books on their magic were generally restricted but with his credentials as a Hogwarts professor, he had no trouble securing the interlibrary loan.




When he was finished, the students’ essays appeared to be bleeding from all the red ink. He had as of late, begun to grow numb to the crestfallen expressions of his pupils, much to his disappointment. Time was that the dismay on a random face gave him a small amount of perverse satisfaction. But even that was losing its effect. Now he was just disappointed with his students’ academic performance.




Maybe Albus is right, he thought. The old wizard liked to say that over time, even a small trickle of water formed a great canyon and so, the small moments of life had a way of changing a person.




Pah!




Madam Pince nodded at him when he glided into the library and silently handed over the book. He and Pince had an understanding; namely, she didn’t question his reading choices in exchange for him keeping her well stocked with archival quality fixative and preserving potions.



As an afterthought, Snape decided to give a once through the Restricted Section to see if any of the familiar tomes warranted another read. He had probably read all of the selections offered in the Restricted Section at least four or five times over the years, but sometimes the best books were the ones you knew frontwards, backwards and inside out, like an old friend.



Nothing was jumping out at him however as he walked up and down the aisles and he was just preparing to leave when he noticed that the door to the periodical room was standing open.



Glancing back at the unconcerned Pince, he wondered who was in there. Generally, the periodical room was one of the more neglected areas of the library as very few students had an interest in ‘old news.’ Usually only faculty utilized the room.




Quietly walking up to the door and peering in, he was surprised to see Dr. Nyx surrounded by stacks and stacks of old Daily Prophets. By the looks of it, she had been in there for some time, perhaps even all day. The Paranormal was methodically scanning each page with an index finger as if searching for something. Every so often, the index finger would stop and Dr. Nyx would quickly read whatever article had captured her interest, sometimes even jotting something down in a Muggle notebook.



At one point, she must have sensed eyes on her as her head snapped around to look towards the open doorway. He quickly stepped off to the side to obscure himself from her line of vision, then quietly exited the library once he heard the rustle of papers recommence.




Later that evening when she surfaced for dinner in the Great Hall, Dr. Nyx looked to be deep in thought and ponderance. Even more interesting was when Hagrid bustled in and folded himself into his place at the table, he and the Paranormal exchanged silent but knowing greetings.




As Snape speared a roasted new potatoe, he was not yet prepared to admit to himself that his curiosity had been piqued, so he concentrated instead on the seasoning of tonight’s meal and reluctantly engaged in his colleagues’ idle chit chat when it was directed his way.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



A/N: Hello all!

Here we go. With a little bit of intrigue, the game is afoot.


Alabaster Princess: LOL! Yes, our Snapey probably could petrify with a well placed scowl. And yes, that’s why we luvs him!


Tambrathegreat: Girl, you’re too good to me! :)

I’m really enjoying Snape’s and Helena’s interactions with each other too. It’s fun giving Severus a completely different kind of person to interact with (than he’s used to at least). He tried getting snippy with her a few times, but as you’ve read, it didn’t really work out for him. Tee Hee!

Sure I’ll put it on fanfic.net if you think it’ll fit in for OC pairings with canon characters. It might take me awhile but I’ll get it there. I’ll be e-mailing you after a bit to ask a few questions since I’m new to HP fanfiction. Hell, ANY fanfiction for that matter.


Thanks again! :)