Postal

Sixteen

Bang! THUD. THUD.

Snape flung open the vast doors of the Entrance Hall, his dark shadow slicing across the red-orange sunlight on the weathered stone floor. He had just completed the long uphill march to Hogwarts from his Apparition point at the edge of Hogsmeade. He was worried. Frustrated. Short of breath. He should have captured Rosier. He wanted his wife back. Yet his immediate desire was to see the faces of his students. After an entire day of intimidation and condescension-all directed at himself for a change-the Potions Master's ego craved the gratifying reassurance of still being able to make students jump. He glanced around hopefully for Neville Longbottom, but found the hall quite empty. Only one or two coats of armour on the mezzanine above bothered to cock their helmets in his direction before resuming their customary pose. Dammit. They're all at dinner.

Snape was not hungry in the least. But as the din of youthful voices wafted over from the threshold leading to the Great Hall, he hesitated for a few seconds, wondering whether to embark upon a therapeutic rash of House point deductions in the dining hall, or sulk in the privacy of his dank, subterranean refuge. Either action would have been typical of the Snape of 48 hours ago. But he simply no longer felt like the same man and those impulses now seemed petty, and strangely, foreign. He raised his eyes to the tall oak doors of the Great Hall as they opened with a creak.

"Ah, Severus. Just the man I was hoping to see." The royal blue of Dumbledore's crescent moon-patterned robes slipped through the doors at that moment, accompanied by the familiar cacophony of children's conversation. Closing the doors firmly behind him, the Headmaster approached Snape.

The Potions Master wearily racked his brain for a feeble excuse to escape to the dungeons for some solace. He wanted to collect his disparate thoughts. But the Headmaster proved too quick for him.

"Severus, I have been contacted this afternoon by Cornelius Fudge," he said. "It seems the Ministry has news of Esmerelda."

Severus's brows flew up expectantly, the ebbing fire of hope rekindled. "Is she all right?"

"She is... alive."

He noticed that the Headmaster spoke slowly, carefully choosing his words. What is he not saying? Snape had known Dumbledore long enough to interpret his caginess, but this time, the vagueness of the Headmaster's response-or lack thereof-was killing him.

"How is she?" The Potions Master's voice was earnest.

Dumbledore's face creased into a look that suggested the answer was not a simple one. "Come with me and I shall tell you what I can." He smiled placidly. From behind the curtain of his beard, he drew out a large white paper bag. "I anticipated your return this evening and asked the house-elves to see to your dinner. It seems they have decided to supply individual meal requests through the International House-Elf Outsourcing Network. I hope you have no objections to"-he squinted curiously into the bag through his half-moon spectacles-"blackened Cajun swordfish, cous cous and"-here he sniffed-"dill, peach and lemon chutney. Aaah. A most intriguing culinary combination." Severus half-thought he glimpsed small black letters spelling out the words "Dean & Deluca".

"Yes, yes." Severus nodded impatiently, straining to keep his poise. "Thank you. But what of Esmerelda? If we must, I would prefer simply to proceed to your office."

"Very well," sighed Dumbledore. "This way." He offered his hand to the Potions Master, as if he were a child. Snape merely blinked at the Headmaster's outstretched hand. Without waiting for a response, Dumbledore grasped his hand as if to shake it. Immediately upon contact, the walls of the Entrance Hall, the four sets of double doors vanished into a swirling blur. When the bands of colour reassembled, Severus found himself in the centre of Dumbledore's circular office. The portraits of past headmasters and Òmistresses nodded absently at them before returning to thumbing through their books or scratching away at epistles below the gilded frames.

"Please be seated, Severus, I won't be a moment." Dumbledore gestured vaguely at one of the leather club chairs by the hearth as a rustle of feathers announced the arrival of a messenger at the open window. He turned his attention to a letter delivered by an official-looking owl the colour of grey-dappeled rust that had alighted on the sill. The amber beginnings of twilight brushed against the tree line of the Forest below and a soft autumn breeze filtered into the chamber as the owl took flight, vanishing into the dusky firmament.

Snape twisted impatiently in the leather armchair as Dumbledore read in silence, leaning against the elaborately carved white oak desk. The old wizard's expression was serious, but otherwise gave nothing away. After a moment, the blue eyes behind the half-moon spectacles flicked up at the Potions Master's stricken countenance. Again he hesitated, as if not knowing quite where to begin.

"Esmerelda is currently at the Ministry undergoing tests administered by a team from St. Mungo's and is otherwise under the care of Alastor Moody."

Moody! he thought with alarm. What matter is it of his?! Although Snape had only known the real Alastor Moody by name, his fragile rapport with the ex-Auror's impostor last year was enough for him to suspect that the genuine article was one who jumped dangerously to too many conclusions and who would have precious little patience, let alone a little lenity, for erstwhile Death Eaters, or their spouses.

"The efforts of Sirius Black and our three students led to the capture of Alphonso Wilkes and the discovery of Esmerelda's whereabouts," continued Dumbledore. "They alerted the Ministry earlier this afternoon and in cooperation with the French Ministry of Magic, Alastor's team recovered Esmerelda in a town house in Paris less than two hours ago, where she was being transported by Lucius Malfoy and Peter Pettigrew-"

Pettigrew! Snape had barely registered the implications of this statement before the Headmaster continued.

"She was in a weakened but semi-conscious state, but I am given to understand that she is now perfectly stable. You will be able to locate her through Alastor Moody's office at the Department of Mysteries."

At these words, Snape sprang urgently to his feet. But Dumbledore stayed him with a hand on his shoulder. "Wait, Severus," he said, "there is something else you must know."

Snape's wild eyes darted to the Headmaster who stared back gravely. "It concerns Draco Malfoy."

***

In the windowless interrogation room at the Department of Mysteries, two rusty wrought iron chairs stood out against walls the mossy brown tinge of dragon excrement. Not very welcoming, this colour scheme, Draco thought wryly. He flinched as the old man across the room fixed him with his alarming eyes, one a normal brown and the other much larger eye, a brilliant blue. Alastor Moody's Magical Eye tracked him from wherever Moody stood around the room, even when his normal one was fixed on the circular thread of questioning, scripted on a wad of regulation Ministry parchment, that they had embarked upon before Dracco was forced to drink from a noxious-smelling flask of pumpkin juice. It was only when he had finished more than half of the little beaker that he recognised the faintly pungent aroma of... could it be... Veritaserum? The acute contractions in his lungs and the blinding pain in his head swiftly followed as if to confirm his theory. Since only the day before, he had seen the potion work firsthand for the first time, as administered by his father to the Dark Lord's prisoner. Waves of nausea coursed through him and he doubled over, wretching into the pail set beside his chair.

His bloodshot eyes cut angrily at Moody as he croaked, defiantly jutting out his chin, "Use of Veritaserum is illegal. I could have you arrested for this."

Moody raised his sparse salt and pepper brows. "You've got cheek, boy." He promptly sat down across the tiny table, propping his wand hand on his good knee and leaning in so close that Draco twitched involuntarily. Moody cracked a grin, baring uneven, discoloured teeth. "Spunk! I like that. Yes, the serum's outlawed... unless administered by special permission from the Ministry... as in this case."

Draco coughed hoarsely, his eyes narrowing with both pain and suspicion. The challenge on his lips died weakly as his voice cracked. "Whose authorization did you have to use this on me?"

Both of Moody's eyes squarely met the boy's. "Mine."

Scared as he was, Draco was still Malfoy enough to be outraged. "WHAT! I've already told you everything I know." He faltered, cursing his bloody voice which was sounding less resolute and more plaintive by the minute. "I told you where to find them, didn't I? They were there, weren't they! You can't-"

Moody's hand came crashing down on the table, rocking it on its feeble legs and sending a tympanic tremor through the chamber. "I will do as I see fit, boy!" he barked. Draco's eyes widened; he was startled to remark that, in his fury, Moody resembled a much older and less attractive version of his own father Lucius. The instant both his brown and his blue eyes softened, the resemblance was lost. Yet, oddly, the old man's gaze became unfamiliarly paternal, like his voice. "But it's just a placebo, in case you end up in the Other Side's hands and... interrogated, Merlin forbid."

Draco was silent as he digested this. They had only skirted placebos in Potions class. These mimicked only the ancillary physical side effects of the true potion. Which essentially meant... that he wouldn't be compelled to tell the truth. Draco blinked his surprise. Moody was taking him at his word? It wasn't often that a Slytherin was bestowed that kind of trust. Let alone a Death Eater's son who was a turncoat to boot.

"And yes," Moody continued, "all three were there. Esmerelda Plofufnik, Peter Pettigrew and your father."

"Three?" Draco started in his chair. His blinking eyes widened underneath the tousled platinum fringe. "You mean, you didn't find the other...?" The boy's brow wrinkled in confusion. And then, with mounting fear. His mind immediately conjured the image of the grey serpentine ghost whom he had heard plotting his future as a Dark wizard. The same creature to whom he had sworn allegiance the night before and then betrayed hours later. Merlin, was it only 24 hours ago? In that short time, he had seen so much, so much that had sent his childhood dreams of glory and allegiance to the legendary Dark Lord dashing to the rocks of bitter reality.

***

Draco had awoken from sleep to a discreet scraping. Claws on glass. At the tiny window at the top of the dungeon wall, he spied the silvery wings of his family's owl, Scrooge. It hooted snootily before dropping the summons and the portkey (a pair of fifty year-old flying goggles) into Malfoy's hands before it was dismissed. A self-satisfied smirk twitched at the corners of his mouth and he eagerly threw on his robes, not even stopping to think there might be a dress code for the first of his Initiation Rites with the Dark Lord.

Draco was now awake enough to be congratulating himself. After he had sent word to his father about the appearance of that stranger in Snape's quarters, Lucius had broken a cold four-month silence, proudly, if not warmly, congratulating Draco for finally finding a task worthy of proving himself to the Dark Lord. His father had promised that with the war efforts demanding more of the depleted Dark Army, he would soon announce that his son had been singled out by Lord Voldemort to be called early into service. Draco had boasted of his eventual intiation to Goyle and Crabbe, only to be met with the same empty, insipid stares, as if he'd been talking to a pair of marsupials. (In fact, he thought, he probably was. It wouldn't have made much of a difference if he'd said he was going to run away and join the Muggle circus.)

But that night he was high. Excited. Expectant. He puffed his chest out flamboyantly, reaching for the goggles as if to grasp a trophy. As Crabbe and Goyle's snores filled the fifth year Slytherin dormitory, he cast one last disdainful look at his dim but faithful companions (each drooling sloppily onto his pillow). Imbeciles. At last, he had his passport to the glorious adventure he had long since anticipated from a childhood when he dreamed of what it would be like to be the most valued knight in the Dark Lord's Army. A little Arthur in command of his own Round Table. He would finally have a place. Belong. Be someone in his father's eyes. And his own, of course, he added to himself hastily. And then we'll see what's so great about Potter. All he's got is a scar, Mudblood-and- that-Weasel and a bloody Quidditch Cup. He grimaced. Nothing so terribly special about that. Draco had been saying it for four years. Now, he'd show them all. Yes. He would. And with that, he braced himself and gripped the goggles tightly.

The gravitational force that tugged at his waist catapulted him through the clusters of shapeless swirling masses more forcefully than he had expected. Draco found himself thrown violently forward, nearly landing face first onto a grease-stained concrete floor. Urrrgh! The pain seared through his knees as they skidded across the ground and his hands defensively flew forward to cut short his trajectory, resulting in his undignified, half-prostrate position, teetering on all fours. The lengthy scrapes on the heels of his palms were bleeding and he wasn't entirely sure if he could stand. The chamber was dark, despite the best efforts of two ebbing torches whose dying jaundiced flames licked the walls.

What greeted his ears was an amused, high-pitched cackle. "Excellent! Excellent, Lucius! The boy knows the proper way to greet his Master!" Again the malicious hag-like laugh.

Draco winced, falling back on his haunches. He pushed away his windswept fringe, streaking blood and grit across his forehead and temple. With a start, he perceived the small cluster of figures from which the voice had come. Four figures. A tall man in front in hooded black robes and an eerie silvery mask nodded, eyeing him coldly. Father. Of the other two, the shorter cradled a heavy-looking, shiny silver hand that glowed, even in the dim torchlight. But his breath caught in his chest at his first view of the laughing man. If a man is what one would call it. A decayed skeletal figure with narrow, livid red slits for eyes, colder and more cunning even than his father's. It stretched out a gnarled grey hand, covered in warts and scabs, tapering into blackened fingernails.

"Come forward, Heir of Malfoy," it said, the voice almost a sqeak, "and greet your Master, Lord Voldemort."

The Dark Lord? It can't be, was his first coherent thought. Stunned, Draco remained dumbly on his sore knees, unmoving for a moment. Apparently too long a moment for Lucius who leapt forward, grasping Draco's left arm in a bruising pinch.

"If Lord Voldemort wants a demonstration of your respect, boy, you give it to him." Lucius's steely eyes flashed behind the mask. It was a look Draco knew well; it meant. Embarrass me and suffer the consequences.

Draco, ever his father's son, coolly returned the glare and his father's grip grew deceptively slack. Draco shrugged his arm free, gasping as he crawled up from his lacerated knees. Mechanically, he turned to submit to the malignant, vermilion appraisal of the creature. The leathery, almost blue-grey skin sagged across the bony planes of his monstrous visage. No eyebrows to humanize the red eyes, no eyelashes, no lips-just a severe crevice drawn into a thin grey line. This. This was the Dark Lord. Draco's mind was spinning, as if still caught in the transit vortex. Unbidden, a series of insane urges hurtled through the transom of his mind. Scream. Spit. Run.

But his muscles, as if leaden, moved slowly and of their own accord. Like a spectator in his own body, he sensed his own deep bow and felt himself press the scaly coldness of the withered hand to his forehead.

"Welcome, Heir of Malfoy," screeched the voice above his head.

"My Lord," squeaked the silver-handed man from the side with an obsequious bow, "the witch has been prepared."

"Excellent, Wormtail. You and Wilkes have done well," said Lord Voldemort. "Now the Malfoy Heir shall have his turn." He nodded at Lucius who stepped forward with the curled loops of a whip.

Lucius pressed the cords roughly into his son's hand, causing Draco to wince again at the abrasions on his palm. "Do not disappoint me, boy," he hissed spitefully into his ear.

Lord Voldemort, followed by Wormtail and the other Death Eater led a small procession down a dark passage toward what appeared to be the cold metallic expanse of an airplane hangar. His father brought up the rear, forcefully prodding the small of his son's back with the butt of a heavy, studded club. And in the company of his new comrades, Draco, with each painful step, was certain that he had never felt more alone in his life.

***

The woman's head hung dully, dark waves limply cascading from a smooth bluish-white neck. Her body had been stretched in four directions, with her ankles chained to iron rings mounted on the floor and her wrists shackled to the rafters. Even with her eyes closed, Draco could see she was uncommonly beautiful. Not in a conventional way, but... he couldn't explain it, this fleeting observation. The woman's face, in repose, was beatific, despite her injuries which would surely have been intolerable had she been conscious. The horrifying epiphany descended upon him in that instant that this had all been his doing. He had turned her over to his father and the Dark Lord. This woman, whoever she was. He hadn't minded playing with Muggles at the Quidditch World Cup the year before. In fact, he'd been highly entertained. But levitating Muggles upside down to display their underpants in public was a far cry from... this. And she was a witch. She was one of them. An uncomfortable writhing sensation began its slow convulsions in his stomach. Is this what Death Eaters do? Even Diggory's death had been accidental. In Draco's mind, Cedric's had always been a simple case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But now he paled, noting the blue-black welts and blood-caked stripes on the exposed flesh of the inside of her forearms. His doing. He tried hard not to visualize the damage done to the rest of her body, but his imagination got the better of him and he turned away, slightly nauseated. That was his first mistake.

Voldemort's eyes narrowed and the cracked skin of his forehead creased into a frown. Lucius scowled, deeply shamed by the lily-livered cowardice of his son. Draco watched his father's eyes blaze for a fraction of a second under the mask. Lucius rushed forward and pushed Draco stumbling toward the woman.

"Master, perhaps the boy may nevertheless take a few practice swings," suggested Wormtail, his beady eyes glinting eagerly. If the man had had both hands, he might have been rubbing his palms together expectantly, perversely like a toddler anticipating a birthday cake or a pony ride.

"An inspired suggestion from you, Wormtail. How very... unusual," jeered the Dark Lord. "Young Malfoy, you may proceed."

Beneath lowered lashes, Draco's eyes flicked to where his father and Voldemort waited expectantly, then down to the whip, coiled weightily in his hand, like a vicious serpent. He let its length drop to the cold floor with a soft smack... hesitated... and then, abruptly turned to face them.

"What did she do?"

Draco heard his own voice echo across the acoustic space even before the words had fully materialized in his head. He suddenly needed justification. To feel that any pain he inflicted was somehow well-merited by this woman. To absolve him of the guilt he knew he would feel-that he was already feeling.

"Do?" echoed Voldemort darkly. The Dark Lord now eyed him with disdain, evidently taken aback by the Malfoy Heir's impertinence.

A strangled cry came from the side and Lucius's mask was off in a second. With a single stride, he cornered Draco, his shoulders shaking with rage and a livid pulsing at his temple. He had just opened his mouth for a scathing rebuke when he was halted by the commanding hiss of the Dark Lord.

"NO, LUCIUS!"

Lucius froze abruptly, almost cowering as the Dark Lord's thick black robes circled round them both like a shadowy predator. "Well, well. It seems our young, unschooled... apprentice, your...heir"-this time Voldemort managed to imbue the word with palpable derision-"sees fit to question our purpose here. How very... curious, is it not, Lucius?" If Voldemort had had an eyebrow, he might have crooked it malevolently. Lucius flinched.

"Master... he is... young, as you say." He bowed his head with studied reverence, but his unctuous voice shook slightly nonetheless. "And, yes, he has much to learn. But he shall be taught."

Although these last words were directed to the Dark Lord, Lucius had turned emphatically toward his son. In the half-light of the steel cavern, Draco saw his father's eyes flash with fury, frustration and something else,...fear.

It was a hell of a time to reduce the situation to its bare bones, but in that moment, Draco realized that his father was afraid of looking bad in front of the boss. True, that this boss wielded more unconventional punitive measures than most. But that did nothing to shield him from the observation that Lucius Malfoy, his father, was afraid. And the next word that flashed in Draco's mind was...weak. Which in his mental vocabulary perched perilously close to pathetic.

But before Draco's train of thought accelerated to the next adjective, Lucius had swung the club in a great arc, the metal studs glistening in the artificial light before colliding forcefully into his ribs. The boy sprawled back from the blow, hearing his skull crash against the concrete wall and he doubled over, gasping feebly for the breath knocked from his lungs.

"Take a lesson, boy," spat Lucius. "Now keep your eyes open and watch carefully." Breathing heavily, Lucius retrieved the whip from where it had fallen and struck at the unconscious woman. The body lurched sideways and sprang back with the chains. Drained of the energy to turn away, Draco shut his eyes and heard five or six more swift cracks of the whip before the Dark Lord finally intervened.

"Enough, Lucius. Enough. Your son will do well to follow your example." A grunt of amusement issued from his scaly throat. "As we still have much use for our... guest, I would like to see her kept alive... for the moment."

Draco caught his father's eyes casting about feverishly, as he reluctantly finished with his sport. His father. The man, whose poise Draco had been proud to think of as genetic, reduced to nothing more than an animal. He wanted to close his eyes but couldn't. He was trapped in a nightmare from which he could not walk away.

Voldemort crooked an imperious finger at the other Death Eater. "Wilkes, later you will see to those wounds. And no drinking! I cannot afford to have her lose any more of her blood. We shall need it all." Wilkes stared unblinkingly with cold, fathomless eyes. Voldemort then wasted no time in beckoning them with an imperious gesture. "Come, my faithful disciples. The initial rites must be prepared."

Lucius hurled one last threatening glare at his son before turning on his heel. Draco watched the Dark Lord and his acolytes vanish into the long dark corridor, dragging away the hems of their blood-stained robes, the tools of their treachery and his innocence.