To avoid confusion about the timeline here : The first two scenes are in reverse order, as obviously the trial happened after the crime.
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Chapter 12 : Promise of a Murderer
The Russian Wizengamot was a somewhat tacky looking baroque building with shiny wooden floors and gaily coloured, gold embroidered walls, crystal chandeliers and pastel portraits. The double doors of the court rooms opened, and people poured out of the wizengamot, dissatisfied and aggressive murmurs hung over the crowd.
Finally, the pair of judges and two other men made their exit. The judges bid goodbye, one coldly, one kindly, and left. Albus Dumbledore turned towards his protege, the defendant.
“Time to cheer up, Severus,” he said in a somewhat strained cheery voice. “We’ve gotten away with it. It’s time to go home, I guess.”
Snape didn’t answer to him. His anaemic face was shrouded in a dark, deathly silence. It wasn’t so much aggressive as it was impassive and cold. This had been his trial “ not his first “ for the supposed murder of Igor Karkaroff. Additionally he had been accused of the usage of several unforgivables and of being a Death Eater. Once more, Albus’ pledge had rescued him. But this time, Albus had lied to the judges.
They slowly left the building, walking down a green and lovely park that surrounded the Wizengamot. At the bottom of a long slope, he looked back at it.
“When it is all over, and surprisingly we’re both still alive, will you let me be judged for my crimes?” he asked quietly.
“Normally, people shouldn’t walk over a freshly planted flower bed. We agree on that. But if someone is hurt and the flower bed is the shortest way to the hospital “ wouldn’t you forgive the person who tramples the flowers to rescue a life?” Dumbledore asked gently.
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It was a small, wooden cabin in the woods of Siberia. This was a place where the wolves howling were real wolves, where the trees hadn’t ever been touched by a human hand. It was silent as a grave under the black shroud of the starry sky.
No light was in the windows, no smoke came from the fireplace. And yet, a human being was cowering inside the cabin like a trapped animal, a trembling rabbit in a sling.
It was a warm summer night in Siberia, and yet the flies had stopped buzzing.
Snape stood at a secure distance from the cabin, like a beast in the forest hiding in the dark. He wore his black robes, but neither his hood nor his silver mask. He would look into Karkaroff’s eyes while he did it, a last tribute to a friendship that had always been weak and superficial. He’s an idiot, a coward, he told himself. He’s a murderer, too.
Slowly, he closed the distance, feeling like a vulture that soundlessly sweeps closer to a dying animal. Then he knocked at the door. Nothing answered him.
“Keep your dignity, Igor,” he said, barely loud enough for somebody inside to hear him. “Open up before I do it.”
Complete silence, for a while, then the door swung open. A sharp stench of fear and stale alcohol met Snape’s senses. He grimaced, and silently congratulated himself for his almost complete abstinence. From inside the cabin, Igor was looking at him.
“As if dignity mattered to the dead, Snape,” he slurred, his Russian accent thick. Snape remained silent, and he could see the other wizard’s leg shake.
“How .. how about you join me for a drink? A last ..?”
“No,” was his flat answer. “I don’t drink on a mission.”
“You could plead for temporary ir-irresponsibility due to alcohol, when ““Karkaroff was more than nervous, he was practically begging for a reprieve.
“I wouldn’t.” Hanging his bearded head in defeat, the Durmstrang ex-headmaster stepped aside and let Snape in. He lit a small gas lamp that emitted a far more terrible odour than its feeble light justified.
“How could you be so stupid?” It was the only question Snape would ask, the last admission to their friendship.
“How could you go back to him?” was the accusing answer. Then Karkaroff clamped his eyes shut for a moment and drained the almost empty bottle of vodka on the table. Finally he laid his wand next to the empty bottle.
“That’s it then?” he whispered to himself, and then said something in Russian. Finally he turned around for the patiently waiting Snape.
“Get it over with.”
Snape nodded and drew his wand, but then Karkaroff suddenly dropped to his knees and Snape hesitated. This reminded him too strongly of the situation that had made him change sides : the first time he had to kill a man he knew, pleading to him on his knees. Murder wasn’t the problem. But whenever Snape saw a person on their knees, pleading for mercy, he was reminded of his mother. And when it happened for the first time, he had realised what he had become : a man like his father. He had had to kill that person, just like he would now kill Igor, but then he had changed sides.
The only reason he was doing this now was necessity. And the fact that if he didn’t do it, somebody else would. It was only a matter of time. And maybe Igor would appreciate being killed for the cause of general good.
“Stop the nonsense,” he snarled. “Get up.” Slowly, Karkaroff got up again. He stared at the potions master with mad eyes.
“You have left the Dark Lord,” Snape said with a stony voice, staring back with a steady glare and mustering all the darkness inside him. He thought of all the hateful things he knew, of the Dark Lord and Potter and his father. “Crucio.”
Karkaroff groaned and almost instantly dropped to his knees, shuddering in the spell’s painful seizure. Snape held it as long as possible, until finally: “Finite incantatum”, he said. Karkaroff’s heaving breath filled the silence of the cabin.
“Get up,” Snape commanded and waited for Karkaroff to struggle back on his feet. A trickle of dark blood ran from the Russian’s hooked nose over his purple lips.
“You defied your master. You cowardly fled, trying to hide with his enemies.” His words were hollow and pale, ghosts of his past, present, and future, containing none of his usual venom. Even while he said them, he could picture another scene, a scene in which he was Karkaroff and another person was saying this.
“Crucio.” Again, repeat. This time, the tortured wizard screamed, and writhed on the ground at his feet, screamed and desperately tried to clutch his executioner’s feet.
“Stop .. it ... finish me..”. When he said the words, Karkaroff was barely aware that the curse had already been lifted. Slowly, Snape kneeled beside him. He bent closer, until the smell of drunk and early decay became overwhelming, and then some. Slowly, Karkaroff opened his eyes just a tiny bit. They were swollen with red, burst little veins, but they had been grey once.
“They’ll win,” Snape whispered, barely audibly, as close to his ears as possible. “They’ll kill the bastard and his bloody Death Eaters.”
For the fraction of a second, comprehension dawned in those tortured eyes, and as his features relaxed, Karkaroff was hit by the green light of the final curse. Snape got up, dusted off his robes and left the cabin without a second glance, walking off into the woods, then disapparating.
He was the first to find Karkaroff, because he knew him best. Now he’d return to Voldemort, bringing him the news, and hopefully regaining the trust of the Dark Lord. This was his offering, by this he hoped to regain the dark Lord’s trust. It was not Voldemort who had given him the order to do so. It had been Albus Dumbledore.
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Remus, who had felt torn and miserable about trying to tell Harry how it had been for Sirius, felt the first dewdrops of relief trickle from that great icicle of fear to say something wrong. He knew how delicate the matter of Sirius’ death was to Harry. He knew it because he felt guilty himself. It had been his task to keep Sirius from leaving Grimmauld Place and he had failed. And then there was the problem of discussing a death wish with an emotionally unstable teenager. He didn’t want Harry to get the wrong ideas.
There was a fine line between welcoming death and being suicidal. It was the last thing he would ever have told that Harry: that Sirius had been suicidal. He hadn’t. He had been reckless out of boredom and hurt pride, and he had been less than stable, but it wasn’t the same as suicidal. Remus remembered thoughts of ending his cursed life during his youth and many years later; they were idle, stupid, and mostly not very serious thoughts, that would now and then befallen him.
But he had always been much too rational, much too responsible to really act out on them. And Sirius had been too stubborn and too proud to do something like that.
But how do you tell a teenager something like that?
It had made him nervous and he had hesitated a lot. He wouldn’t let Harry get the wrong ideas, or the wrong image of Sirius. He certainly knew how dangerous it would be to tell a youth that their admired and beloved relative had willingly chosen death. He didn’t need muggle psychology to know that, although he had in fact prepared his engagement as Hogwarts teacher by reading books on children’s psychology.
But he could see now that Harry had understood him. He could see the dawning understanding on Harry’s face, a face that was growing older with every week, that was now at the brink of maturity. He could see now, that the bitterness and shock about Sirius’ death was replaced by real grief and sadness. The first step into the right direction was made.
“There is something else I need to talk to you about,” Remus said into the thoughtful silence. Harry looked up at him. There was a strange gleam in his green eyes, a gleam of pity and compassion, of love and understanding, that Remus had seen before, and it momentarily rendered him speechless. For a very short moment, Lily had been looking out of those eyes.
“What is it?” Harry demanded.
“It’s “ it’s Sirius burial. And his last will.”
“Oh, yeah. I guess ... I guess I won’t be able to attend it.” Harry stared down at his feet, looking frustrated.
“Why is that?”
“It’s ... I’m practically hiding from Voldemort, aren’t I? I can’t just go attending burials. They’ll be looking out for me. Especially there.”
“It’ll be a private affair, Harry, I’m sure it will be just as safe as being here in the castle.” Harry looked dubious, yet hopeful.
“And it won’t be a cemetery. Sirius had ... he wrote in his last will that he would want to be buried wherever James and Lily were buried.”
“And where is that?” Harry demanded rather unhappily. The realisation that Harry had never been at the Potter’s grave hit Lupin with full force. He hadn’t thought about it before ... but wouldn’t it have been their duty to at least show him the grave once? It made him wonder about Dumbledore, but also about himself. Why had they never bothered to tell Harry more, to show him more? Why had Harry never asked to see the grave?
“At Godric’s Hollow. It’s the place where ““
“It’s the place where my parents were killed.”
“It’s also the place where they lived. It’s the place where James grew up. Sirius liked it there very much. He used to camp in the Potter’s garden when he was sixteen and had run away from home.”
“Wasn’t it destroyed?”
“Well, we’re wizards. There are means to restore buildings. Actually, Godric’s Hollow is one of your properties, Harry.”
“I didn’t know that. People never tell me anything until ...”.
“They won’t do that anymore,” Remus suddenly promised. “You can ask me anything, Harry. Anything. I promise I’ll answer.”