Heirs and Graces.
“Do you take sugar in your tea?” Narcissa’s cool tones greeted Maeve as she stepped into the kitchen of Grimmauld Place after a restless night’s sleep.
The kitchen was looking perkier than it had for weeks, with its cheerfully boiling kettle and the warming smell of golden toast filling the air. Narcissa even looked agreeably non-confrontational, as she turned to Maeve with a half-smile.
“I don’t even take tea with my tea,” Maeve replied ungraciously. “I’ll make some coffee.”
“No need. I’ll get it for you.”
The recently-awoken witch glared at her blonde companion and wondered what mischief Narcissa was fermenting now.
“Is something wrong?” Narcissa asked, with another of those not-quite smiles. She was dropping a spoonful of instant coffee into a cup while turning her nose up at the bitter smell. She had never liked the earthiness of coffee; it reminded her of home and her father, who had always drunk the stuff strong and without the added frivolity of milk or sugar.
“I’m wondering what you are plotting behind that fake sweetness.” Maeve skirted around her and took the cup, filling it herself from the hot kettle. “It’s not normal.”
Narcissa feigned a wounded attitude and placed her dainty tea cup on a saucer before sitting down at the table and delicately buttering some hot toast. “Normal or not,” she said, “it’s better to be polite while we are cooped up here.” And now that Narcissa had made her mind up about her life and her errant son, she found she was able to slip back into her old attitude of sociability, even with someone she loathed. She had been pretending all of her life in social situations, and this was nothing new to her.
“It’s better to keep well away from each other,” Maeve mumbled, helping herself to some toast, which drew a satisfied smile from Narcissa. She appeared to have traded a husband for a viper in the guise of a social butterfly and she couldn’t help wondering what he would make of it when he got back. But then, she reflected, as she choked on a piece of crust, it was his bloody fault the woman was here.
“What are your plans for the day?” A thin sheen of lipstick glistened on Narcissa’s well-rounded lips as she spoke.
“Oh, you know,” Maeve said idly, “a little shopping, maybe lunch at a nice restaurant, meet up with a few friends for afternoon drinks… perhaps see the latest show at the Wizarding Playhouse…”
Narcissa bore a look of pleased surprise. “Really? That sounds almost appealing.” But before she could suggest that she tag along Maeve broke the spell with incredulity.
“Of course not, you half-witted woman! What would the respectable witches and wizards of the world make of that? Wife of a notorious murderer seen flouncing down Diagon Alley without a care in the world. Sometimes you really do surprise me with the depths you foolishness can plumb.” She flicked her crumb-encrusted fingers over her plate, picked up her cup and made to leave the table.
“Of course,” Narcissa said, chastened by Maeve’s scorn. “Although there’s nothing to stop me going, is there?”
“Be my guest.” She walked towards the door. “But don’t do anything that could jeopardise the security of this place. And use the front door, next time.”
“I can’t,” she sniffed. “Severus only made the Floo network available to me. He wouldn’t tell me where the place actually is. If I try to leave by any normal exit, the doors and windows will not open.”
Maeve laughed then, a happy sound that made Narcissa frown. “He trusted you a little, but not quite enough, didn’t he? Not to worry, maybe one day you’ll do something to earn his trust.” And with that she slammed the door behind her, still not quite forgiving her husband for setting this little arrangement up.
“That,” Filch said, “was a little too close for comfort.”
He was sitting in the quietest corner of the Hog’s Head with a hood pulled over his face, only half-hiding his identity. The plan to replace the ruby in Godric Gryffindor’s sword was not going quite as smoothly as they had anticipated. He had collected the jewel yesterday as arranged. Severus had been reckless “ in Filch’s opinion “ by turning up as himself in the streets of Hogsmeade, a situation made even trickier when the Potter boy had almost caught up with them. Filch was pleased to see that the man appeared to have learned a lesson and was now disguised, using Polyjuice no doubt.
Both men had a glass of foggy liquid in front of them, a strange brew known locally as Hog’s Breath and generally regarded as a sure-fire way to induce a stomach upset. Neither of them were overly concerned about their stomachs as their heads bent over the filthy table.
“You will have to try again today,” Severus hissed from between the forest of his beard and moustache. It had been most unfortunate that the man whose hair was providing his disguise had had a beard. Severus couldn’t understand how men coped with such unnecessary face furniture. “I need to return as quickly as possible.”
“Missing your bit of fluff, are you?” Filch leered at him. “Bit of all right between the sheets I should imagine.”
Severus tensed but ignored the remark. “It should not be beyond your capabilities to provide some sort of distraction to get McGonagall out of her office. You are the caretaker, after all.”
“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” he grumbled in response. “But the old woman thought she saw Dumbledore wake up the other night and now she’s spending a lot of time watching him, waiting for the old coot to talk to her again. I’ve tried telling her it takes some time, but she’s having none of it. All them kids have turned her head soft, if you ask me.”
“Just find a way,” he spat, frustrated at being in Filch’s hands. “And I want Potter to find out about it.”
“Why don’t you tell him yourself then? Make for an interesting bit of entertainment that would. I’ve heard him, wandering the corridors with them friends of his. He’s after your blood. Wouldn’t want to be you when he does catch up with you.”
“But you would, wouldn’t you, Mr Filch.” Severus stressed the “mister”, and glowered at the scruffy caretaker. “You would give anything to be in my position, with an attractive wife and magical abilities.”
Antagonism filled the air between them and Filch pulled his head back, preparing to walk away. “You’ll regret that,” he warned.
“And you might regret the fact that I can prove you knew about the killing of Regulus Black. Fancy a stint in Azkaban, Filch?”
“You’d be coming with me, and they’d do you for more than knowing about a killing.”
“They’d have to find me first and, as you can see, they have made a pitiful job of it so far.” Severus’ eyes, made blue by the Polyjuice, glinted in the gaslight and Filch found that they made him uncomfortable. He was used to the closed blackness of the professor’s eyes, but these were open and yet still revealed nothing.
The low hum of the other clientele had stopped and Severus was suddenly aware that attention was drifting their way as the pub sensed the tension coming from their table.
“Sit down,” he instructed in a low voice. “You are drawing attention to us.”
“You watch your mouth,” Filch growled. “If you want this thing put back then you’d better learn a bit of respect.”
“Respect has to be worked for. Perhaps when this is done you will have earned it. So, I propose you try again this afternoon while the students are in their classes. A suitable distraction will draw McGonagall out into the grounds and you will be able to go in to her office on the pretence of some cleaning. House-elves can occasionally miss things, after all, especially that drunkard Winky.”
Filch nodded his head slowly, turning to look as the door opened to admit the unsurprising figure of Roderick Rampton. Severus sucked in his breath with annoyance. “Shouldn’t he be teaching?”
“Classes are less now,” Filch said. “Lots of the students have left so the professors get to do half the work they once did. And that one likes a drink.”
“Does he indeed?” Severus watched Roderick purchase an amber glass of Firewhiskey and groaned inwardly as the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor approached their table.
“Mr Filch!” the newcomer exclaimed. “How unusual to see you here.”
“Same thing could be said about you,” he grumbled. “I’m chatting with my friend here, so you can find yourself somewhere else to drink.”
“Now, now, Mr Filch, remember who you are speaking to.” Roderick completely ignored him and sat on the spare chair that faced the two men.
“I’m not in school now, Rampton. I can do as I please.”
“Well,” Roderick grinned, “I suppose that’s true.” He turned to Severus and winked a slow, knowing wink that made Severus shift uncomfortably in his seat. “And how’s the missus?” he asked.
“Do I know you?” Severus asked coldly, trying to maintain the pretence.
“You certainly do.” Another wink. “Arbuthnot Grimshaw, if I’m not very much mistaken. I’d recognise that beard anywhere.”
Trust bloody Rampton to know the unfortunate man whose hair Severus had borrowed. The man had been supplying hair for Severus’ Polyjuice for years, all from the same crop harvested from the barbers in Diagon Alley.
“My wife is very well, thank you,” Severus replied, trying to be deliberately vague. He turned back to Filch and was about to make his excuses, but Roderick wasn’t quite finished with him.
“And how’s the job going?” His dark eyes sparkled with interest as he leaned forward to sip his drink.
Severus turned back to him slowly. “My job is perfectly adequate. How about yours? Weren’t you an Auror?”
“Slight career change, old chap,” Roderick said cheerfully. “Had a bit of a problem with the Ministry. I’m teaching at Hogwarts now.”
“How fascinating,” Severus said. “I wish I could stop and exchange more banality with you, but I must leave. I’m sure Mr Filch here won’t mind keeping you company.”
He stood up and nodded to Filch, who grunted and took as a sip of his cloudy beer. “Be seeing you,” the grizzled caretaker said. “I’ll let you know about that thing we were discussing.”
Severus left the pub with what Roderick thought was rather indecent haste. “Funny, old Grimshaw was always up for exchanging a yarn or two. Marriage must have gone to his head a bit.”
“He’s busy at work,” Filch said, hoping that the man would let the matter drop.
“Hmm.” Another sip of his whiskey seemed to trigger something in Roderick’s brain. “Now hang on a minute…” he looked towards the door with a startled look on his face. His brow knitted together as he realised that Arbuthnot Grimshaw’s obituary had appeared in the Daily Prophet just three weeks ago, another casualty of the war. But if Arbuthnot Grimshaw was dead, then what was he doing drinking what appeared to be pond water in the Hog’s Head? “I don’t know what you’re up to, Filch,” he said, looking at the caretaker through narrowed eyes, “but I’ll be watching you. That wasn’t Grimshaw. I know you aren’t going to tell me who it was, but rest assured, I will find out.” He threw the remains of the whiskey down his throat and left the pub quickly, his brain tugging at the new mystery he had just discovered.
The babble in the room rose and fell depending on the point that was being debated. Black-robed figures crowded round a table as they tried to give one voice to what it was they were trying to say.
“It’s too much,” one said, his thins lips barely opening as he spoke. “We can’t win like this. He’s attacking too many people and a lot of us are getting killed. Foster and Gilfoyle were hit by Aurors last night.”
Doubt was voiced from the opposite end of the table. “People are bound to get killed. This is a war.”
“But what have we actually achieved?” the first speaker asked. “Apart from spread a little well-deserved fear. What’s a few deaths here and there? We are no closer to achieving our aims.”
“But the Dark Lord has plans,” a female voice chirped. “We know he has something up his sleeve.”
“How do we know?” a sallow-faced youth said, standing up and beginning to pace the gloomy room. “Who has actually seen him recently? I’ve been taking orders from that oaf Goyle, and he doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence. Let’s face it, if Malfoy can die then we’re all in trouble. Malfoy was one of his favourites.”
“He has other favourites.” A dark-featured man stood up, tall and lean with deep-set eyes and a vengeful air about him. “These new princes I have heard about. They are the ones causing the most trouble. And Snape, Snape is undeniably his favourite. And yet there are doubts about him. He’s married to one Potter’s friends and one of Dumbledore’s supporters. How can we be sure of him?”
“That’s ridiculous, Jacob.” The thin-lipped Death-Eater spoke up again. “We know that Snape is a spy working for us. That woman was the perfect cover while he was spying last year. And if the Dark Lord believes him, I don’t know why we shouldn’t.”
“Edward, you are so naïve it’s almost painful. Have you never heard of a double-agent? How do we know he isn’t working for the other side?”
“I’m not naïve. I just happen to believe that Snape is trustworthy. He’s done a damn sight more for our cause than you have. Everyone knows you hated him at school just because he didn’t let you get away with murder.”
“There was more to it than that,” Jacob started, but he wasn’t allowed to continue. A woman with dull brown hair, scraped back painfully into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, had risen and was looking at them with a penetrating stare.
“You are both missing the point,” she said, scorn in her voice. “The Dark Lord is losing some of his focus. I fear for what will happen to us if we continue the way we are. This is not the way to achieve our aims. The Ministry is weak but their Aurors are not; they are fighting us well. The Dark Lord is spreading us thinly and the Muggles are becoming more aware of the little accidents. Cornelius Phillbody was killed by a Muggle, for goodness sake.” She paused and was pleased with the effect her words were having. “I firmly believe that Severus Snape is on our side, and, furthermore, I think he would be the ideal man to bring some cohesion to our little group. He is not without ambition and I believe he could be persuaded to lead us if it was pitched to him in just the right way.”
“Are you mad!” Jacob glared at her, his face pink with anger. “If he is not a traitor then he is loyal to the Dark Lord. If you approach him, you will expose us to danger. If he finds out about us he could well act and have us all killed. The Dark Lord will show no mercy to any dissenters. We are already taking a risk by existing. Any one of us could turn the rest in at any time.”
“You know that’s not true,” the woman said in modulated tones. “Everyone here is under an oath. There will be no breaking ranks. If any one of the eleven here tonight betrays us, he or she will die.”
“Miss Fitzwilliam, if you will allow me to interject on your behalf.” This was an older Death-Eater, ragged-looking with greying hair.
“Certainly, Rodolphus,” she agreed, surprised to be receiving support from this ageing Death Eater. His wife’s death had hit him hard and she had been initially reluctant to allow him into this group, fearing he might be unstable. But she had recognised the light of hatred in his eyes, hatred reserved for the man he blamed for his wife’s death, and she felt she could use that hatred for their own ends.
“Snape is weak now,” he said slowly. “He has a wife and it must have changed the way he thinks about the Dark Lord.”
So much loathing when he mentions the Dark Lord, she thought. But she did not say anything and listened carefully.
“He will be influenced by the woman, no matter how much he would like to pretend he is not. His loyalty will not be completely to the Dark Lord now; some of it will be directed towards his wife. This will make him unsure of our leader, make him want to be a leader himself so that he only need be loyal to his wife. No one should underestimate his abilities as a wizard, and I believe that if anyone can lead us away from the disastrous course that we now seem set on, it would be him.”
“I don’t see Snape as a natural leader,” Jacob interrupted. “He’s too much of a solitary man for that. And isn’t that why we are dissatisfied with the Dark Lord? Because he has distanced himself from us.”
“No,” Rodolphus replied, “you are mistaken, Jacob. We are dissatisfied because we feel that he is taking unnecessary risks and is not taking the best route for us to achieve our aims. He has become increasingly self-interested, with this search for immortality and the increasing desire to rule all. What makes you think we will be any better off with the Dark Lord ruling the wizarding world?”
“I agree,” Jacob said, feeling frustration mount. “But my problem is appointing Snape as a leader. He would not be agreeable to me; I can’t speak for others.”
“We are deviating from the point of the meeting,” Jenny Fitzwilliam once again interrupted. “Rodolphus has clarified our problem, what I want to do is move towards discussing how we will achieve our aims. I propose that Severus Snape is approached in a very tentative manner and we see how he feels about this organisation.”
“It’s your funeral,” Jacob shrugged. “But I’m not doing it and I want to register my objections to the plan.”
“Very well,” Jenny looked around table. “I have no problem approaching him, so shall we vote?”
The sight of his Death Eaters holding a democratic vote would have filled Voldemort with mirth had he seen it, so completely at odds, as it was, with his own modus operandi. But he could not see, fortunately for those involved. And as the meeting broke up, each leaving at a different time and by different means, Jenny allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction. With Snape in their ranks they would be much better placed ”she would be much better placed ” and perhaps Darkacre could still be hers. After all, it was a small price to pay in return for being given a place at the head of the new government, when it happened.
Maeve was becoming increasingly bored. Narcissa had gone out, dressed in a long silk robe that flattered her slim figure and a smile that made Maeve believe she was recovering from the loss of her husband rather too quickly. How could a woman whose son was after murdering one of his peers and whose husband had died in Voldemort’s employ be so jovial? She had even been humming softly to herself as she threw the Floo powder into the fire. Maeve tried to push the thought of Narcissa spending Lucius’ money in a subdued Diagon Alley from her mind, but found the whiff of freedom hard to ignore. Severus could be gone for days and she would be stuck in the house alone, or even worse, with Narcissa for company.
As she tidied her bedroom, which really didn’t need tidying, she began to wonder about the rest of the house. It was old, she knew that much, dating from at least the seventeenth century. A house like this would contain many secrets, she was sure. What better way to pass the time than explore the nooks and crannies? Severus had forbidden her from leaving the house, but he hadn’t forbidden her from exploring inside it.
She started on the third floor, walking along the corridor and poking her nose into the rooms that branched off from it. It was dusty up here, the rooms having sat undisturbed for a good while. Apathy reigned, as even the doors seemed reluctant to open, sitting stiffly on their hinges. The furnishings were old and Victorian in appearance, heavy and ornate, constructed from dark woods. A large mirror dominated one room and Maeve thought she saw something shadowy in its shiny surface. She backed out of that room quickly and moved on to the next. This one was equally dark and she didn’t even bother to go in. What sort of people lived in such a heavy, oppressive atmosphere? Surely even the Blacks must have longed for lightness and air now and again. All of these rooms appeared to be bedrooms and she reached the end of the corridor to be faced with one last door. She rattled the handle to no avail and withdrew her wand.
“Alohamora!” she called, and watched with satisfaction as the lock clicked. There may have been charms on the house, but once you were inside it seemed happy enough to allow you access to its nether regions.
The door opened smoothly to reveal a smaller staircase than the main one. It was well lit by a window that she sensed rather than saw at the top and the paint was white, in marked contrast with the rest of the house. Had this been a normal house then she would have assumed this was the staircase that led to the servants’ quarters, but the house-elves had lived below stairs in the Black household, a fact she had gleaned from one of the journals in the study. She moved upwards, holding onto the banister as she ascended the polished stairs.
The landing at the top opened onto another corridor, although she could sense the eaves above her head now, the ceiling bowing upwards slightly where it joined the walls. The first door she opened revealed an empty room, devoid of any furnishing or adornment. Her footsteps echoed in the emptiness as she stepped in and moved around. A window offered a view of the street below, a different aspect from the front of the house. Here was a main road bustling with traffic, and people dashing past in an attempt to get out of the rain that had begun to drizzle down onto their heads. She hoped that Narcissa had received a drenching too, peevishly imagining the fine silk rain-spotted and ruined.
Leaving that room, she made her way to the next, mentally noting that there were just three more doors on this corridor. Two proved to be bedrooms, whilst the third led to another staircase, dingy now, and forbidding. But she had come this far and wasn’t about to give up now, so she put her foot on the first stair and shivered in the chill that filtered down from up above. Moving swiftly, she found herself facing another door, unlocked and inviting her in.
This, then, was the attic. Maeve was pleased to find that it had been fully boarded out, the roof joists hidden safely from view. A skylight prevented the space from being saturated by darkness, but she needed her wand to provide enough light to examine her surroundings properly. Chests formed a boundary for the floor space, old wooden containers that she wasn’t sure she wanted to open. Stacked up in one corner were toys, children’s toys, and she could imagine the young Sirius or Regulus playing with the rocking horse, generations of Black children holding onto the flying mane as the horse rocked itself free of its runners and took them on a ride round the house. She had had a similar one that her father had accidentally broken one day… Although looking back she wasn’t sure how accidental it had actually been. A small box lay open, its springy mermaid’s head lying prone next to it, the hinges that kept her secure long since bent and broken.
She always felt vaguely uncomfortable in the rest of the house, but the attic was free of the general malcontent of the other rooms in the building. Dust filled the air, dust that she had disturbed, and she moved through it, allowing it to settle back down in her wake. A pile of magazines had fallen over, splaying their covers out for all to see, society journals that featured witches and wizards in old-fashioned costumes, dating from well before Sirius and Regulus’ time. She felt sadness then, as she thought of the two sons of the house who had both met with disastrous fates of their own making. There would be no other Black children to play with these neglected toys, unless Harry one day decided to live here… but her mind rejected that possibility. Harry would never come and live here permanently, no matter how much he respected Sirius.
She reached down and picked up a book, its spine slowly detaching from the body. Sirius’s book ” his name was scrawled in blue ink across the flyleaf. Placing it down she picked up another, again, his name was written, this time in a slightly more mature hand. The next she reached for had his name, but it was scratched through with black ink, scratched again and again. The next, the scratching had formed into words, ‘traitor’. She winced and stopped looking; wondering if that had been his brother or his mother. Even Kreacher would have had access to this part of the house; although she had no idea how well developed Kreacher’s writing skills were.
Looking round she realised that this could have been any attic, any forlorn space whose family had been changed beyond all recognition. She wondered what Harry would do with it eventually, whether he would allow it to go to another of the Black family. Maeve sat down on one of the chests and wondered what memories Abbeylara had clung onto in its attics. What had she truly lost in that fire? Houses were seductive things; they held on to you with memory and nostalgia. Looking at the lost things from Sirius’ life she was glad that her own forgotten things were gone. She would not miss what she had not even known was there. She remained there for a little while, enjoying the break from the rest of the house and letting her mind wander where it wished.
It was only when Maeve felt herself jerk, did she realise that she had fallen asleep. The atmosphere up here had proved more soporific than she had first thought. She had no watch on and couldn’t even guess at the time, so she staggered up on stiff limbs and prepared to make her way down the stairs back into the main house. As she closed the door behind her the first scream carried up the stairs and she recognised the sound of Narcissa shrieking in distress. Pulling her wand free of her robes, she dashed down the stairs and raced along corridors that felt like they had doubled in length since earlier.
Narcissa stopped screaming abruptly and this filled Maeve with even more dread as she pushed open the kitchen door, bracing herself for the worst. And the worst was far more horrific than she could have imagined. She looked to Narcissa first and saw the older witch speak to the figure by the fire.
“Lucius!” Narcissa wailed, pointing unsteadily. “You are dead… You should be dead!” And then her face changed to one of puzzlement and horror.
Maeve turned slowly, fully expecting to see the spectre of Lucius Malfoy in the kitchen, but what she actually saw sickened her. Severus stood by the fire, blood coursing down his face, and a wound spilling his life force from his chest. His face was snow white and looking towards her with a beseeching expression that was fading fast. Maeve found herself rooted to the spot, frozen with the horror of what was transpiring before her.
She fought the bile that had risen in her throat as she looked back to Narcissa, whose face was as white as Severus’. Her legs began to free themselves from self-imposed immobility, and Maeve realised something was not quite right. Looking back to her husband she realised that the blood appeared to be flowing, but it wasn’t pooling anywhere, his face was frightened, but unchanging. And wasn’t there a blonde highlight in his hair? The closer she got to him, the more she could see a sluggish change on his face and he began to look more like Lucius, a smirking, blood free Lucius. But now he was changing back and Narcissa looked completely flummoxed.
It dawned on Maeve what the creature before them was. She raised her wand again and looked squarely into the bleeding face of the man before her. “Riddikulus!”
With a gasp, she watched as he vanished into the ether to be replaced by another version of the same man wearing a comical pair of glasses and false nose; it was the resemblance to his own nose that made her laugh. To her side she heard Narcissa laugh too, and the confused Boggart was defeated.
Neither woman could move for a minute, allowing the distress to slowly leave them along with the Boggart, but when they did it was to turn and walk into each other’s arms. Their mutual fear had undone the hours of sniping and dislike, allowing them to take the only comfort on offer.
“I thought he’d come back,” Narcissa mumbled into Maeve’s shoulder. “I really thought he had come back.”
“You saw Lucius?” Maeve asked, seeking confirmation. They separated and Narcissa nodded.
“He was there, ready to take me back. It was like being back in a nightmare. Not that you would understand the pain of a marriage that is empty. I loved him… Or I thought I did. I didn’t though, did I?” She looked to Maeve, who shook her head.
“If Severus died I would welcome his return. I would give everything to have him back.” She broke eye contact and bent to pick up the bags that Narcissa had dropped in her fright. “It’s not something that would have frightened me. Strange, that your Boggart didn’t involve Draco.”
“I am alone now,” the other witch said with an elegant shrug. “One hardens one’s heart when necessary.”
Maeve placed the bags on the table and looked at her carefully. “You don’t mean that. Draco will see sense, surely?”
“You know my son, so you know what he is capable of.” Narcissa moved to open the bags. “I bought us some wine for dinner. I thought I could make something to lighten the rather nasty atmosphere.”
Maeve couldn’t believe she was actually entertaining warm thoughts about the pale witch standing before her. She still fundamentally mistrusted her motives, but one dinner with wine and a cessation of hostilities couldn’t do any harm.
The shadows crept over Grimmauld Place, and Maeve moved through the house drawing the curtains. From the kitchen she could hear the Wizarding Wireless playing and she allowed Narcissa to wallow in her unexpected domesticity alone. She was more shaken by Severus’ dying form than she dared admit and was busy trying to flush the image from her mind, but it was tenacious in its horror. The streetlamps cast an orange glow over the square beyond the house and she lingered a moment, watching a couple hurrying home with their baby tucked away in its pram. Home to safety and the promise of a quiet evening in, with no worries about what tomorrow may bring. She quickly yanked the curtains across the scene and tried to shake the melancholy that this house made her feel.
She walked into the corridor and from the kitchen she could hear Narcissa’s voice raised as she sang along to the tune that was playing. Narcissa had a surprisingly light and pure voice, making Maeve wince to think of her own clumsy one. Her grandmother had the gift of song but it wasn’t one that she shared.
Deciding that Narcissa had had enough time to herself she wandered down to the kitchen in search of something to disperse the sadness that she was feeling.
Filch was rather proud of his diversion. Bribing a sixth-year to perform the spell that would summon the Kraken from the lake had been a masterstroke and he caught a brief glimpse of the mayhem from a window as he hurried to tell Professor McGonagall. She immediately tutted and cast a glance at the snoozing Dumbledore, who snored a little louder than usual but kept on sleeping. Gathering her skirts about her she hurried from the room, leaving Filch in the perfect position to reunite the stone and the sword. He looked towards the fireplace and saw the gleaming weapon hovering in its case. Moving quickly, he lifted the glass and watched the sword with admiration for a few minutes before reminding himself what it stood for and how he would never be able to be a part of the magic which had helped create the school. Slipping his hand into his pocket, he pulled the small ruby out and held it towards the metal. He didn’t quite know how to do this, and hoped that magic wouldn’t be involved. The sword glowed with inherent power for a few moments, perhaps sensing a part of it was being returned, but as Filch moved the Ruby nearer to the small indentation on its side, he felt a force pushing it away. The harder he tried to make it connect with the metal, the stronger the resistance became. Frowning, he reached out to touch the metal and was rewarded with a sharp pain in his fingertips for his trouble.
“Ah, Argus, always the one to try and use force to make things bend to your will.”
He whiled round to see the pale blue eyes, which had twinkled at him so often, looking down from their portrait. He dropped the ruby in his surprise and immediately bent down to retrieve it, looking back up to the portrait of the former headmaster as soon as he had the jewel back within his grasp. “Headmaster?” he queried, not quite able to believe the older man was awake.
“Argus.” The voice was dulled slightly, as if coming through another source rather than directly from his mouth. “You can’t do it. It is for others to return what was lost to that sword.”
“But I’ve promised,” Filch said, flustered at the prospect of failure and wondering what Severus would do when he found out. He looked at the portrait with a sneering look; his grudging respect for the headmaster had died with Dumbledore. “I’ll manage it. I don’t need your poxy advice any more.”
“Very well, Argus, have it your way. But I shall not expect any results. It is for the heir of Gryffindor to do.”
“What do you mean?” Filch growled. “Gryffindor had no heir.”
“One of the advantages of having passed beyond is that you are privy to information you would not normally have access to. That is all I can say on the matter.” His blue eyes looked tired, the effect of his awakening from his oil-induced slumber taking its toll. “Good night, Argus.”
“Now hold on a minute…” Filch walked over to the painting and raised his hand to touch the shoulder of the now quiet wizard.
“MR FILCH!”
The commanding voice made him drop his hand immediately and he turned with a guilty expression on his face.
“I don’t know what you think you were doing, but I’ll ask you to leave my office immediately.” Professor McGonagall had left Professor Grubbly-Plank and Hagrid dealing with the Kraken and was astonished to find the school caretaker attempting to touch Dumbledore’s portrait.
“But he was awake,” Filch spluttered, before realising he should have perhaps kept that to himself. It wouldn’t do to have to explain what he had been talking to Dumbledore about.
“Nonsense!” Professor McGonagall snapped. “He hasn’t woken yet and I hardly think he would rouse himself to comment on the state of your mopping, do you? Now, I’m sure you have plenty to keep you occupied so off you go.”
“Right.” Filch seethed quietly to himself at being spoken to in such a manner. He hated the lot of them with their airs and graces and their clever way of making themselves seem better than him all of the time. He’d show them, the lot of them, including Snape. They’d all regret treating Argus Filch so badly.
“I’m telling you,” Harry said to Ron and Hermione, as they made their way to their common room, “it was Snape.”
“It can’t have been, Harry,” Hermione countered. “What would he be doing roaming round Hogsmeade in broad daylight? Even Snape isn’t that stupid. Oh, good evening Professor Rampton.” She beamed as Roderick nodded to her and hurried past, although he didn’t get far as he came to a dead halt.
“Snape?” he said, causing Hermione to stop. “Did you say Snape was in Hogsmeade?”
“Harry thinks he saw him there yesterday, but it’s ridiculous. He couldn’t possibly have been.”
“Unless it was really important that it was worth taking a risk for.” Ron was tempted to give his friend the benefit of the doubt. Harry could spot Snape ten miles away.
“Harry wants to see Professor Snape,” Hermione said. “He’d give anything for the chance to have a go at him.”
“What did you see, Harry?” Roderick looked at the boy’s green eyes and shuddered.
“I saw Snape with Filch. I’d bet all my money on it… Actually, I’d bet my life on it.”
“I wouldn’t fritter away your life on foolish bets, young man.” And with that Roderick turned tail and left them alone again, happy that he had solved the mystery of Grimshaw’s mysterious appearance earlier.
“He’s weird sometimes,” Ron observed. “I don’t trust him much, even after what’s happened.”
Harry looked bitterly at Hermione, wishing that just for once she’d agree with him about Snape. “Your support would be good right now,” he snapped.
Filch’s scruffy figure hove into view, his head bowed and muttering furiously to himself. He didn’t register he wasn’t alone until he was almost level with the students and when he did notice the three students, he ignored them, a fact that immediately alerted Harry to the possibility he was up to something. As the caretaker disappeared into the murk, he turned to Hermione and Ron.
“I’m going to follow him. He never misses the opportunity to have a go at students and he just walked past without saying a word.”
Ron nodded sagely. “Definitely something up with him.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, it could be anything.” Hermione watched as both Harry and Ron abandoned all plans to go to the common room and headed off in the direction Filch had gone.
“Coming?” Ron called over his shoulder.
“I am not. I have homework, and if you think I’m going on a ridiculous chase through the castle just because Filch happens to be a bit preoccupied then you must be ma…”
But they had stopped listening to her and were halfway down the corridor. She fired an impotent look of annoyance after them and continued on her way to the common room. They’d be more than sorry when the realised they had a test in Charms tomorrow.
Filch was heading for the main doors and Harry exchanged a worried glance with Ron. Whatever they had expected, it hadn’t been that Filch would leave the castle. If he was planning on leaving the grounds then that would make life difficult. But they were never destined to get as far as the doors. As Filch freed the locks and slunk out into the night, Remus stopped them, his face beaming with happiness.
“Harry, Ron, what are you two up to?” Remus was no fool and despite the glow of contentment that softened his features, he knew that he had to keep a keen eye on Harry, who had the look of a hunter about him.
“Er, just off to see Hagrid,” Ron said quickly, his face scrunching into a hopeful look. “We promised him we’d have supper with him.”
“With Hagrid? You’d have to be a braver man than I to face his rock cakes. But I think not. Hagrid knows full well that you should not be out of the castle after dark. I suggest you occupy yourself with your homework. You have something to hand in for my class tomorrow, I believe. Is it done?”
Harry and Ron knew when they were defeated. Filch would be well on his way to wherever he was going by now and they had no chance of catching up with him. Still, it fuelled Harry’s theory that the odious caretaker knew more than he was letting on.
Filch hated the Shrieking Shack. He believed the stories in the village and had a look of sheer terror on his face when he approached it. There was no light on and he hoped that the man he had come to meet would be lurking in the shadows so that he didn’t have to go inside. Dealing with Death Eaters was one thing, dealing with ghosts was quite another, and one he didn’t want to get involved with. He crept up the path to the front door and paused for a moment before reaching out to open it.
“Over here.” The voice was low and Filch sighed with relief. He moved to the side of the building, where Severus’ cloaked figure skulked. “Did you do it?”
“Not exactly.” His hand was reaching for the jewel in this pocket.
“What do you mean, not exactly? You didn’t fail again?” Severus’ disbelief was evident from his tone.
“I think it’s going to be trickier than we first thought,” he admitted. “The thing has a force around it that won’t let me stick the bloody ruby back on.”
“A force? But there was no force when I removed the jewel. Are you sure you had the right sword?”
“Of course I’m sure.” The caretaker was livid now. If one more witch or wizard cast doubts on his capabilities, he wouldn’t be accountable for his actions. “I’m telling you…And Dumbledore was the one told me I couldn’t do it.”
“Dumbledore? What do you mean? Dumbledore is dead.” In the darkness, Severus paled at the mention of the man he had killed.
“His painting’s woken up.”
There was a silence in the air that felt colder than anything nature could produce.
“And what did it say?” Severus asked, unsure of how he felt about Dumbledore waking.
“That only Gryffindor’s heir could put it back. So you’d better take the bloody thing. I can’t do it. And good luck to you finding the heir.” He snorted with amusement, shoved the ruby at his cohort and shuffled off down the path, leaving Severus alone with the glittering object in his palm.
Find the heir, indeed. No one even believed there was an heir. He groaned inwardly as he silently Apparated away from the village and back to London, defeat clinging to him. He wasn’t looking forward to telling Maeve he still had the Horcrux. Although at least he had managed to remove it from the necklace; perhaps he would get away with not telling her he still had it after all.