Devils and Angels

Look to Thy Self




That same morning, in a spacious room that nearly equalled the splendour of any found inside Malfoy Manner, four influential men sat silently around a table that gleamed in the candlelight, and they were waiting for the arrival of a fifth man. No one but these few elite men knew of this secretive meeting, and no one but these few knew of the many plans that had been, and would be made around this table. They had met covertly in the same manner for several months plotting the course of Magical government, and eventually the fall of the Minister. Everything hinged upon their leader’s successful campaign against Rufus Scrimgoer. The heavy velvet drapes were pulled shut against the bright morning light, plunging the room into near darkness. The fire crackled and popped within the ornate grate causing bizarre shadows to dance about the room giving it a surreal atmosphere. An uneasy tension filled that room as they waited, and every so often, someone would suddenly fidget, cough, or loudly exhale causing the rest to visibly flinch.

The door abruptly opened and admitted a harsh slice of light that slashed through the darkness then just as quickly, the one they were waiting for stepped inside, closed the door, and the room once more grew dim. The opulent chair at the head of the table silently glided back and the tall ruggedly handsome man sat down.

“What do the survey’s indicate?” The question was put without the amenities of greetings.

“The populace tires of these random Death Eater attacks and the threat of a prolonged war – they wish for a speedy end, and they have lost confidence in Scrimgoer’s abilities to make that happen,” Elger Glick spoke in a pleased manner hoping this bit of information would improve their leader’s mood.

“Have you implemented publishing the stories in The Prophet yet?”

“I did so this very morning,” Glick said with a compact smile. “Needless to say, once everyone reads about Scrimgoer’s liaison with Miss Burkett, his credibility will plummet considerably even more.”

Early on, Scrimgoer’s marriage began with a rocky start; both he and his wife argued constantly. They had separated, and were on the verge of a divorce, and so he had a minor fling with Emmaline Burkett in an effort to try to forget. The problem was he couldn’t forget, and soon found himself back with his wife, and the affair was quickly ancient history. What the readers of The Prophet wouldn’t know was Scrimgoer never attempted to see Emmaline again, or any other witch for that matter over the following twenty-five years of his marriage. What they also didn’t know was that Hardcastle had found out and had twisted the tale to fill his own agenda.

“Excellent,” Hardcastle summoned a decanter of wine and several glasses. As he poured the rich red liquid he asked, “Any other news?”

They all knew what news he was referring to, and everyone shifted slightly hoping it would not be their turn to speak first.

Swallowing hard, the wizard sitting to the right of Hardcastle relieved the other men’s anxiety by speaking first, “We’ve been following the Death Eater Randall, and our efforts have resulted with an unexpected payoff.”

“Explain yourself Tyndale, I do not have the patience for guessing games,” Occum Hardcastle, in whose mansion they were meeting in, lowered his voice dangerously.

Tiberias Tyndale, who had been his mentor’s aide for the last seventeen years, cleared his throat, “We’ve been following him the last three months, and this morning he met in secret with Snape and Malfoy – the boy Draco was there as well.”

The men around the table looked at one another, as this was a surprising report indeed. It had been a point ever since the night on the Astronomy Tower to find the fugitives, and now they awaited the decision from their leader.

“Was the meeting overheard?”

“Yes, our operative was most thorough. They are seeking Dumbledore’s artefacts; most specifically the one that holds the key to the truth, yet it is doubtful they will find them,” Tyndale explained sombrely.

“Ahhh... but this is where you underestimate them. Snape and Malfoy both are extremely talented and quite self-sufficient wizards, and they are expert in adaptation and improvisation. It would be most prudent to move Dumbledore’s trinkets to another - more secure location,” he pointedly looked into the face of each man seated around the table. “And of Potter’s whereabouts?”

“He was last seen leaving the Burrow as you well know, after that, we have had no further news,” Tyndale looked uncomfortable to be giving this piece of undesirable information.

“Suggestions,” Hardcastle’s voice clearly showed his displeasure, and definitely indicated it was not a request.

Galen Hutchison spoke up, “I’ve had Grimmauld Place watched twenty-four hours a day since Potter left the Burrow, and recently I’ve added surveillance to the Weasley home should he choose to return.”

“Honestly,” Antoine DeGasperis interjected. “Potter is not going to return to the Black Mansion, or re-join the Weasley’s hearth and home.” He paused since he now had everyone’s attention then continued, “If you remember, there was unrest among the wonderful Weasley’s over his prolonged stay, and it is highly unlikely that Potter would wish to be found in a location they have been known to frequent.”

“What do you have in mind?” Hardcastle enquired as he replaced the sparkling glass stopper in the decanter.

“Place Hogwarts, and Snape’s abandoned house under watch immediately,” answered DeGasperis without the slightest hesitation.

“Hogwarts - at the moment is a moot issue,” Hardcastle mused as he raised his glass and sniffed the bouquet of the wine. “He will only go there to confront the Dark Lord.”

Tyndale queried, “Your orders then?”

His steely eyes looked piercingly over the crystal goblet at his aide, “Continue to trail Randall as he may eventually lead us to where they are hiding. If so, kill them, and anyone else who gets in the way except Snape. I will personally deal with him myself.” With a wave of his hand, the other filled goblets rose and drifted to wait floating in front of each member of this privy group. “Until then, do nothing. Once the election is over, and I am assured of the office – naught will stand in my way. Not even the ‘Saviour of the Wizarding World’ will emerged unscathed once I push to pass The Hardcastle Principle into law making that perverse relationship he had with Snape, and any other sick co-habitation in our realm illegal. As for Potter, I want Spinner’s End monitored night and day – yet no harm is to come to him. He will be taken care of once he defeats You-Know-Who.” Occum Hardcastle sat back in his chair and swirled the ruby red liquid in his glass. A smug smile twitched the lips below his dangerously determined eyes, and he was looking forward to the day when he would finally become Minister of Magic.

Later that morning in Manchester, Harry sat at his own table in the house at Spinner’s End. He had decided to approach the situation the way Hermoine would, and that meant to sit down and make a list of all the possibilities as to where his lover could be hiding. Numerous balled up and shredded parchments lay scattered about his feet, and he was in the middle of yet another revised list when he heard a slight shuffling sound followed by rather subdued whispers.

It couldn’t be Abergail, she never said, or did a subdued thing since he had met her; in fact the old woman wasn’t even subtle in her appearance. He located his wand hidden under the scattered papers, and he quietly rose from his chair. The noises had come from the cooking area, and he wondered if he had forgotten to reset the wards that morning after he had returned from the market.

His hand was a mere fraction from the swinging door that led into the kitchen, he paused to centre himself, and suddenly he threw open the door startling the intruders. The second he was through the entrance he fired a spell at the first person he saw, “Expelliarmis!”

A blur of orange, red, and brown went flying back through the air and collided into the cooking pans hanging upon the wall. The body crashed heavily to the floor followed by the clattering and banging sounds of pots falling from their hooks and landing on top the prone figure. Harry drew back his wand and whirled at the same time to face the other person who had invaded the house.

“Harry, no!” Hermoine Granger shrieked as she put her hands up defensively as if hoping to push away the spell that was seconds from erupting from Harry's wand.

Checking the momentum of his wand arm, he stumbled slightly and stared at her with wide disbelieving eyes, “Hermoine?”

“Yes, Harry it’s me,” she clasped her hand to her chest as if to calm her racing heart, and propped herself with the other against the counter.

“Who’s...?” Harry turned to the heap on the floor that had begun to stir.

As if to answer the question, pots and pans rolled off the body with more clatter, “Bloody hell, mate.” Ron Weasley shook his head and sat up trying to stop the room from spinning. “You really should watch where you point that thing.”

“How’d you get past the wards and locking spells?” The surprised young wizard asked of the witch.

Instead of speaking, she gave him a look of impatience and moved to help Ron to his feet.

“Really Harry,” Ron said as he got up. “Look at who you’re asking.”

Harry stared at them both, and without a word left to return to the task he had recently abandoned. Astonished at his reaction, his friends followed him with questions already forming on their lips, and before they could ask them he said, “You two really should go.”
“Harry,” Hermoine began.

“Look,” he turned in his chair to face them. “For whatever reason you came here, you need to leave. I don’t need any more lectures, and I’m certainly not going back to the Burrow and listen to how dangerous it is to have me around!”

“No, you look. We’re here to help, and that’s all – we miss ya mate. We really do,” Ron, explained, as he stood there with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans.

“He’s right, Harry.” Hermoine piped in before their friend could object, “We miss you, and we’re worried about you.”

“Thanks, but no thanks, I can worry about myself.”

“We know that mate; we all can worry about ourselves, what the difference is – is who we have to worry with. We just thought it would make things easier if we worried with you.”

“Harry please,” she pleaded softly.

He looked from one to the other, and for the first time in many months, he felt the familiar old warmth of their friendship flowing out to him. His eyes began to pool, and blinking rapidly he quickly looked down at the scattered parchments, “Yeah – yeah...I guess you’re both right – I suppose I could use a little help.”

By the time Harry had acquiesced to Hermoine’s fervent plea, the meeting had quickly ended, and the participants had gone their separate ways leaving Occum Hardcastle to glare sullenly into the fire. The muscles in his jaw tensed and relaxed repeatedly as he brooded over the singular reason behind his secretive campaign of terror. Those that had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time would fall along the wayside as he sought his revenge and he cared not who he used to gain that end.

His sculpted lips curled back ferally to reveal perfectly even and flawless teeth as his hand constricted around the crystal goblet. The knuckles whitened and stood in stark contrast to the healthy tan of his skin, and suddenly the crystal shattered. His fist tightened, encapsulating the shards remaining in his hand, and the wine was not the only ruby liquid that dripped to the floor.

Hardcastle stared at the blood, and he bared his teeth once more, but this time it was a smile so sinister that it would have chilled even the most hardened of hearts as he said to himself, “Within a fortnight, this won’t be the only blood spilled.”