WHO: Bellatrix Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy, Narcissa Malfoy and Scabior feat. Hermione Granger, Fenrir Greyback and Draco Malfoy with special guest Lord Voldemort WHAT: Letting down the Dark Lord WHEN: April 4, evening WHERE: A forest, Malfoy Manor WARNINGS: Death
Fenrir Greyback was a lunatic even for Death Eater standards, and spoken of among their number with even more of a sneer than Scabior himself. But as he was also a werewolf, Scabior minded his P’s and Q’s around him and didn’t try to push leadership issues. It may have meant that he’d miss out on the credit if they landed something fairly big—like he was certain(ish) they were supposed to—but it also meant that Greyback would land most of the blame if they effed up.
Fitted with Disillusionment glamours (and his second best scarf), his dark eyes discerned a glimmer of flame off in the distance. But Fenrir’s would be better.
“There,” Fenrir growled under his breath, as if on cue. He squinted in the dim forest light and tilted his head back to deeply inhale the scent of their campfire. After a moment, he turned to Scabior and their companions. “Four of them. We’ll surround them and take them all at once.”
Scabior’s eyes followed his, discerning not quite as well, but discerning enough. A lad who looked tall even when seated, possibly Hogwarts age - if only just. A man set in his middle years. A couple of goblins. The goblins would put up a fight and the two men looked harmless enough, but they wouldn’t have lasted on the run this long through sheer luck alone. Whatever respect he’d managed for this feat was tempered through the flush of delight at the achievement bringing them in would be.
But don’t count your mudbloods and dissidents before they’re caught.
“Dregs and Moxie,” he said, nodding his head towards the far side of the campfire. “Soft footed now.” Fenrir’s presence had added an extra boost to the boys’ performance, at least. They wouldn’t dare mess this one up in front of the Death Eater’s own chained wolf.
“Attack on my signal,” Fenrir instructed before he gave Scabior a nod and moved to take his position around the campire.
As he drew closer, he smelled their dinner cooking over the fire and immediately heard the sounds of hushed laughter coming from their encampment. Across the gathering, he watched the other Snatchers moving undetected. A beat passed before Fenrir raised his wand and cast a Dark Mark over the fugitives.
Then he attacked.
The scene erupted into chaos and Fenrir lunged for the goblins, slashing at the elder of the two while the other stumbled backwards. Scabior surged forward, tossing a flaring hex in front of the tall youth. They were good for temporarily blinding and disorientating your opponent, and he prefered live capture (and information) over death when possible.
If the beast at his side remained on his leash.
When the dust cleared Dregs lay prone on the ground—no great loss, but he confirmed there was a pulse at any rate. He tucked a Portkey into the folds of the man’s denim jacket, sending him back to his dear old mam in Knockturn, where a hag would no doubt be found to tend to him.
“Don’t piss me off,” he added to the remaining goblin, feeling the creature’s malevolent black eyes upon him. “I’m the nicer one here.”
A sound somewhere between a laugh and a growl sounded from behind him, and as if to demonstrate Scabior’s point, Fenrir said, “You don’t need to be alive for us to collect our rewards either.”
“My comrade speaks wisdom. Moxie-” a boot nudged the middle aged man’s body “-take this one back to HQ. You can pour one out for him later if you like. But a waste of good stout, if you ask me.”
“You-” the boy’s eyes burned hotter than the goblin’s, if possible “-you-”
“Me… me, what?” Scabior prompted. His wand moved towards the youth’s chest. “You got something to say? You going to make it difficult for my lads here to bring you in alive? Cos as said, it makes no difference to us either way.” Though the boy’s age, his defiance, was making a hunch unfurl in him. “Then keep your mouth shut.”
“Say,” he added, stepping back and dropping his voice for Fenrir’s ears, “this one’s of a liking to that Thomas profile.”
Fenrir lifted a clawed hand to scratch through his beard while he considered the boy. A smirk settling broadly across his face, he replied, “One of Potter’s little friends, ain’t he?”
“Oh yes.” A matching grin was stretching its way across Scabior’s face. “Indeed he is.”
“Someone'll have some fun with him,” Fenrir said with another raspy laugh. But it was cut short by a sharp, stabbing burn in his arm.
At once, he was on alert, holding his wand tightly by his side. Someone had broken the taboo. “Looks like we’re not going to the Ministry yet, boys. Clear out!”
With any luck, when they did, they’d have a few more bounties’ worth of heads on their hands.
“Harry —”
“Come on, Hermione, why are you so determined not to admit it? Vol —”
“HARRY, NO!”
“— demort’s after the Elder Wand!”
“The name’s Taboo!” Ron bellowed, leaping to his feet as a loud crack sounded outside the tent. “I told you, Harry, I told you, we can’t say it anymore — we’ve got to put the protection back around us — quickly — it’s how they find —”
But Ron stopped talking, and Harry knew why. The Sneakoscope on the table had lit up and begun to spin; they could hear voices coming nearer and nearer: rough, excited voices. Ron pulled the Deluminator out of his pocket and clicked it: Their lamps went out.
“Come out of there with your hands up!” came a rasping voice through the darkness. “We know you’re in there! You’ve got half a dozen wands pointing at you and we don’t care who we curse!”
“How did you steal the sword?”
But Bellatrix didn’t give Hermione time to answer before a shot of red magic flashed from the end of her wand. Even as the girl’s screams invigorated her, there was desperation in her actions. She’d been personally tasked with keeping the sword safe. If she couldn’t explain this to the Dark Lord, she knew there was no number of murdered mudbloods that would spare her the consequences.
They couldn’t fuck this up.
“Answer me!”
Tears streamed unchecked down Hermione’s face and she shook her head, over and over. “We didn’t steal it,” she whispered urgently. “I swear, we found it!”
“Impossible,” Bellatrix spat. “Only two people knew where that sword was being kept and neither of us would lose it.”
On the contrary, she seemed very close to losing it.
“You must need some more help remembering,” she said and lifted her wand again as another round of screams filled the room.
Harry’s scar was blinding him with pain. Dimly he knew that they had moments, seconds before Voldemort was with them.
“Ron, catch — and GO!” he yelled, throwing one of the wands to him; then he bent down to tug Griphook out from under the chandelier. Hoisting the groaning goblin, who still clung to the sword, over one shoulder, Harry seized Dobby’s hand and spun on the spot to Disapparate.
As he turned into darkness he caught one last view of the drawing room: of the pale, frozen figures of Narcissa and Draco, of the streak of red that was Ron’s hair, and a blur of flying silver, as Bellatrix’s knife flew across the room at the place where he was vanishing —
Tense and uneasy, Lucius felt like he was seconds away from jumping out of his skin. He forced himself to sit still, his back straight in the chair, his eyes turned down, focusing on the table instead of at the end of the table, where the Dark Lord was sitting. He couldn't turn his head to look at Narcissa, either, fearing any sort of movement. The Stunner he had taken had worn off by now, but he suddenly wished it hadn't; at least then he wouldn't have to sit here in total silence like this.
Only when Bunni came into the dining room, carrying the last plate of food did Lucius look up and dismiss her with a wave. She must've sensed the tension in the air because she was almost frantic as she left.
Though she held herself carefully aloft, there was the slightest tremor in Narcissa’s hand as she reached for her fork. She wasn’t a woman used to pain and the lingering memory of it made her feel seen in a way she didn’t care for. Like Lucius, she kept her gaze focused mainly on the table and the plate of food set before her. But she glanced once at Draco, catching his eye for a brief moment, and then once at the Dark Lord to see if they were allowed to eat yet.
He was. So it seemed they were, as well, so Narcissa took a small bite of her food that felt like sawdust in her mouth.
At seventeen, Draco wasn’t nearly as schooled as his parents in self-control. His eyes roved the table, from his father to his mother to his aunt and the Dark Lord before cycling through again. He tried to keep his thoughts in check because he knew the Dark Lord could and would pick them apart at any moment, but it was difficult not to think of how much he wished he hated Potter for ruining yet another moment in his life and how mostly he felt like he wished he’d never been born instead.
For her part, Bellatrix did well to keep her glances toward the Dark Lord at a minimum, considering he sat to her left. The deep set in the corners of her mouth betrayed fear — she’d seen the Dark Lord humiliate his followers for less. She had no expectation of this being her failure making any difference. Her loyalty counted for nothing if she couldn’t deliver, if even a mudblood and her teenage friends could out-maneuver her.
Yet beneath the fear of punishment, Bellatrix was furious. She’d killed Ted Tonks. She’d killed Gawain Robards. She’d done as she asked — she’d proven herself. He’d given Severus Snape chance after chance when he’d done nothing to help the cause. She at least deserved that.
The food on her plate looked unappetizing and she didn’t make a move for her silverware. After a long moment, Bellatrix cleared her throat. “My Lord —”
“Silence!”
Bellatrix stiffened in her chair and shot a look across the table at Narcissa, who gave her an infinitesimal shake of her head.
His reprimand made Lucius sit up even straighter, if that was possible, and even as he tried to keep his thoughts clear — certainly to mask his fear — he couldn't help but wonder what was going to happen now. They had been so close to capturing Potter and his friends; now, everyone had fled. He shifted just slightly in his chair but maintained his gaze on the plate in front of him.
Draco had started and his fork would’ve scraped the edge of his plate, if not for his thinking quickly enough to lift it at the very last moment. He stared openly at the Dark Lord, his mouth slightly agape. But he realized and quickly averted his gaze to his plate, sneaking a glance at his father and then his mother through his eyelashes.
It was the Dark Lord who eventually broke the silence but it wasn’t to offer relief. It was evident by the hiss in his voice that relief would be an experience of the past. “None of you leaves this house unless I say so.”
His glare fell on Bellatrix and her heart nearly stopped.