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Bellatrix knew at once that she could not tell her husband about this. Rodolphus would not care that their vassal had raped Adelaide, under these circumstances. Indeed, he would not even consider it rape if Adelaide had been tipsy at the Yule—the winter solstice party, Bellatrix corrected herself in thought. According to the Mudblood’s memory, Adelaide had muttered that the wizard thought he would get to marry her. Rodolphus probably would force it if he knew that she had been deflowered and had been pregnant, even if it meant breaking off the vastly preferable betrothal with Draco Malfoy. That was unacceptable to Bellatrix. It could not happen. She would not allow it to happen....
But simply murdering the rapist herself would not do, she thought. Well—it would have to be done, but she would have to cover her tracks and make him think someone else had done it. If she told Rodolphus that he had been a traitor, he still would not be satisfied. He had not "permitted" her to execute criminals without his formal approval, and he would demand evidence. Bellatrix would have to set up someone else, then.
Hermione at last cornered Adelaide Lestrange in a room—the very room where the potion-induced abortion had occurred, she thought with dark pleasure. She was not sure what she thought of this feeling of satisfied darkness. When she really focused on it, she felt as if something inside her, something beautiful and irreplaceable, had died—had been killed by the same metaphorical knife that stabbed her in the back—and this darkness had filled the hole. But it was a heated darkness, a red darkness of ruthless anger, not a cold and emotionless sort. It would have to do for now, then. Simmering in it, letting it fill her, she confronted Adelaide, who was obviously uncomfortable, wincing at the memories that the room invoked.
"You backstabbing liar," Hermione seethed, pointing her wand at Adelaide, whose own wand lay across the room where Hermione had caused it to fly with a disarming spell. "Why did you do it?" Without waiting for an answer, she cast a punching hex at her enemy.
Adelaide doubled over, wincing and swearing. She lifted her head to spit on the floor before Hermione. "I don’t answer to you, Mudblood," she got out.
"You had better. You owed me, and instead you compounded it by spreading a lie about me. Why? You didn’t even have to "save face,’" she snarled. "No one saw you. You had no reason to do it except spite." She glared down at the girl, who was still hunched. "That’s it, isn’t it? You couldn’t stand to accept help from a "Mudblood.’ You could not stand to owe me anything."
"I... don’t owe you anything," Adelaide snapped, clutching her abdomen.
"That will certainly be true in a bit," Hermione agreed. "I’m taking my payment this way." She cast another curse at the girl, this one causing her to fall to her knees with a cry. "I have already sent my memory to your mother," she said as she left the room. Adelaide looked up at her with horror in her eyes. "What comes of it is out of my hands now."
Hermione turned away coldly, opened the door, and pulled it closed behind her, making sure to lock it magically. Adelaide could get out eventually, but Hermione was not about to risk having a vindictive enemy sneaking up behind her. She stalked into the Slytherin common room, through the door to the girls’ dormitories, and into her own bedchamber, where she closed the door and warded it heavily.
As she gazed at herself in the mirror, the energy-sustaining hot darkness seemed to flee her body, leaving her feeling truly empty now. Seemingly of their own accord, tears formed in her eyes and flowed down her cheeks before she could stop them.
Castle l’Etrange.
Scabior dangled from the stone walls, his wrists chained just high enough that he could not touch the floor with his feet. He had long stopped straining against the pain. His wand lay at his feet, snapped into several fragments, and his mostly naked body bore the signs of magical torture—the bleeding cuts, the bruises, the burns.
"You may be a pureblood," Bellatrix hissed, prowling around him like a predator about to make its kill. "But you are a low one, unworthy of touching my noble daughter even with your hand."
Standing along the wall, Narcissa Black Malfoy gazed upon the proceedings, her gaze hard. She had not wanted to participate in the actual torture—she found it distasteful, albeit sometimes necessary—and she was not about to tell her sister some of her thoughts. It was a crime that this scum had raped Bella’s daughter, but in Narcissa’s opinion, it did mean that Draco should not marry the girl. It was a pity, but so it was. Of course, she could not tell Lucius that. Lucius thought that she was simply visiting Bella right now. Somehow, she would have to find another pretext for breaking off the betrothal without mortally offending her own sister.
Scabior glared back at Bellatrix. "You are a coward," he managed to get out. "A coward. Why not let your husband take his "justice’?"
"My husband has a false idea of justice," Bellatrix said. "And you know what he would have done. That is why you did it in the first place, scum."
He sneered back wordlessly.
"You do not deserve a painless death," she said, turning her wand around in her hands contemplatively, gazing up at him with a malevolent smirk on her face. "And I have plans for your corpse." She drew out the moment as long as she could wait, making sure that he flinched in dread before raising her wand to point directly at his neck. Then she slashed it through the air.
A stream of blood erupted from the gaping gash, bright red and stinking of iron and copper. Bellatrix stepped backward almost elegantly, avoiding the spatter. She watched in sadistic delight as he bled out his life, choking on his own blood as his skin quickly paled. At last, his body went entirely limp.
Bellatrix smiled and cast another curse, this one to release him from the chains. The body crumpled to the bloodstained stone floor with a thud. Bellatrix stalked over to a corner and took out a long, heavy bag. She turned to her sister.
"Let us do this, then."
Narcissa nodded, took a deep breath, and swished her wand through the air. Together the sisters magically slid the body into the heavy cloth bag. Narcissa cast a spell to lighten its apparent weight so that they could Apparate easily. With each of them holding one end of it, they linked their other hands together and Disapparated to Godric’s Hollow.
Bellatrix dusted herself off and took in her surroundings. A short distance away, the village slept. The imposing castle that used to belong to Gryffindor and now was owned by Lucius overlooked the town, but they were too far away, and their black cloaks blended in with the darkness of night. No one saw them as they dumped the mutilated body in the middle of the field and covered it haphazardly with dead leaves and snow. When someone found it and reported it to Lucius, it would look exactly as though the villagers had perpetrated the killing.
Godric’s Hollow.
Lucius Malfoy, lord of Godric’s Hollow, sat imperiously at the high seat as he considered what to do. A wizard’s body had been found on the outskirts of the town, half-buried in snow and debris, mutilated in a way that suggested torture. Generally, Lucius would care little about such matters; these villagers were mere commoners, and he still resented having been unable to identify the leaders of the failed rebellion sixteen years ago. If they wanted to kill each other in their petty disputes and brawls, let them! But in this case, the murdered man had been identified as a wizard of noble birth. His body bore the seal of House Scabior, a vassal of his kinsman by marriage, Rodolphus Lestrange. Lucius did not know all of the Lestrange vassals by sight, least of all if they had been dead for a while and found mutilated, but Narcissa confirmed the wizard’s identity. She was close to her sister and had recently visited Castle l’Etrange.
This... was a problem, Lucius thought in dismay. Scabior had not, apparently, been robbed. His coin was still on him, along with the family ring and other valuables, including his fine clothes. That and the strong signs of torture indicated to Lucius that the killer had murdered him not for such a low and common reason as to steal his baubles, but for far more personal reasons of some sort. It also implied that the killer was a wealthy person who cared nothing about the coin or valuables that Scabior carried. That could be very dangerous.
Why would he even be here? Lucius thought. It’s contrary to law and custom for one lord to send his vassals into another lord’s lands on the sly, without making a proper introduction to the ruling lord. This does not make sense. It would be no trouble for a wizard to travel magically. Just because the body was found here does not mean that the murderer was from this town. Either this killing has nothing to do with the villagers, or Lestrange sent him in secret, for some nefarious reason of his own. That could be. Narcissa and I certainly expected that we would land on his enemies list after he had my lord father killed. But why would the villagers kill Scabior, in that case? And why leave the coin? The valuables, perhaps, might be identifiable as his, and the family ring certainly would be, but why not take the money?
Could Lestrange himself have killed Scabior and set up this situation to cause unrest in my town if I punished the villagers indiscriminately? Or to see if I would react at all? If he did, Scabior must have fallen from grace already. Lestrange would not kill a loyal vassal of his.
Lucius rubbed his eyes in irritation. He would have to tell Lestrange about this, no question about that. He dreaded what would come of it. Sighing to himself, he rose to go to his private office to compose a letter.
Barely half an hour later, his house-elves were hurriedly announcing the arrival of Lord Lestrange himself, who was demanding audience with the lord and lady.
Lucius took in his brother-in-law’s beet-red face as he and Narcissa sat in their stately seats in the grand hall. The man was apoplectic. Lestrange can be deceptive if he wishes, but he cannot make himself look this angry, Lucius thought. If he did send Scabior to Godric’s Hollow, he was not expecting him to be murdered—and he certainly didn’t do it himself. That conclusion did not help much, though; Lucius had not considered that possibility very likely in the first place.
"I demand restitution!" Lestrange bawled, spittle flying from his mouth before Lucius and Narcissa, much to their disgust. "This is an outrage! These lowborn barbarian peasants must be punished for it!"
Narcissa and Lucius exchanged quick looks. "Your lordship, we will certainly punish the guilty," Lucius said, "but we must ascertain guilt first."
"They did it! They obviously did it!"
"With all due respect, sir, it is not obvious," Lucius disagreed. "A wizard or witch could have killed your vassal somewhere else and brought the body here by magic."
Narcissa shifted in her seat a bit at this, but neither her husband nor Lestrange noticed.
"I insist that they be questioned!" Lestrange exclaimed. "Your lord grandfather—I’ve told him too, and he agrees!"
"You told his high lordship?" Lucius exchanged another look with his wife. It was inevitable that Lord Malfoy would find out eventually, but it was offensive and troubling to Lucius that Lestrange was getting to him so quickly.
"Certainly! I’m surprised that you have not." Lestrange eyed Lucius suspiciously.
Affronted, Lucius huffed, "Narcissa and I have been busy notifying you and taking care of the body." It was not quite true; the elves were tasked with that menial job, but what was true was that Lestrange was being unreasonable to think it suspicious that they had not notified Armand Malfoy immediately. It was little to him. This was not one of his vassals.
Lestrange’s face turned sour and spiteful. "Very well—but I demand justice for this. I want every one of those villagers to be tortured until they talk."
Lucius’s temper rose further still. "Lord Lestrange, I assure you that I will uphold the law—but no one but his high lordship himself will instruct me in my own castle about how to administer justice."
Lestrange’s eyes popped. He was about to spout another burst of outrage, but Lucius continued. "The villagers revolted sixteen years ago. I will not risk a repeat of it by torturing those who were innocent in this. I will have every person of magic questioned, and if that uncovers the guilty, they will suffer the full penalty of the law."
Lestrange seethed but could not think of an argument to this.
"My lord," Narcissa spoke up, "I am by no means suggesting that your vassal was responsible for his own murder... but supposing that my lord husband’s questioning finds that villagers from Godric’s Hollow killed him, what was he doing here in the first place? We had no word that he was in my husband’s lands. What business had he here, if you know?" She managed an even look on her face, feeling proud for covering for herself and Bella so well.
"I don’t know," Lestrange spat. "What of it? Can a wizard not go where he pleases?"
"If a nobleman enters another lord’s lands, it is customary for him to announce his presence," Lucius said. Rather than sneaking about at night like a thief, he thought. "You definitely did not send him on business, then?"
"I did not. Lord Lucius, it hardly matters. The fact is, my man was killed in your lands, and I insist that the murderer pay the price for it."
True to his word, Lucius had his chief enforcers, MacNair and Dolores of Umbridge, summon every adult witch and wizard to the castle to be questioned under truth potion. They were feared in the village, Umbridge because of her proficiency at vicious torture curses, MacNair because of his knives and swords that he had magically enhanced on purpose to deliver a prolonged, miserable death. No one dared question either of them when they turned up at the villagers’ houses.
Lucius did not expect the questioning to uncover the killer. If a villager or villagers had killed Scabior, it made no sense that they would not have taken his money—and what possible reason would any of them have had for killing him, anyway, let alone brutally torturing him?
As Sirius Black was brought before them, his handsome face bitter with anger, Narcissa handed Lucius a goblet of potion, carefully keeping her own features as scornful as she truly felt for this black sheep, this traitor to his own kin—her kin. What a disgrace it was that he chose to live with the Potters instead of taking his place as the heir of the Black family. Narcissa was almost certain, too, that Sirius had been intimately involved in the rebellion in 1130.
"Should we question them about that, too, now that we are putting them under the influence of this potion?" she had asked Lucius.
He had considered it seriously before finally deciding against it. In other circumstances he would have; this was the very thing that he had been unable to do at the time of the rebellion because he did not have enough of the potion available, but he already felt under siege by Rodolphus Lestrange worming his way into his grandfather’s counsels, arranging for the death of his father, and pushing Lord Arcturus out of the picture. The last thing Lucius needed right now was for his own village to revolt, which they would certainly do if he executed the leaders of a rebellion that had occurred sixteen years ago—and if he executed everyone who was involved in it, he would have little magical manpower left. He might not have known who the traitors were behind their masks, but he had seen their numbers. If it came to a siege, or even a war, Lucius needed more than a town of Muggles behind him. Perhaps the wretches would even become more loyal to him if he showed magnanimity in not pursuing the matter further and not torturing them over the death of Lestrange’s vassal.
Sirius Black drank the potion reluctantly. His face settled, the anger dissipating from it, as Lucius asked him the same question he had asked everyone before him—to no avail. Sirius Black knew nothing of the murder.
After Lucius and Narcissa had finally summoned all of the magical residents of the town, Lucius’s suspicion—and, though he did not know it, his wife’s knowledge—that it would not uncover the killer had been borne out.
Lestrange was still deeply angry about the murder, but he could not question the evidence of truth potion. "It must have been those Riddles," he sniped the day after Lucius had finished the questioning.
Next to him, Armand Malfoy nodded gravely. "I saw the body. It was tortured, and I think that it was ritual torture."
Bellatrix’s eyes gleamed in relief and excitement at this.
"With all due respect, my lord grandfather, it looked like ordinary torture to me," Lucius said. "There did not appear to be any purpose or order to the markings."
"Ah, but you have not seen what I have," Armand said. He leaned forward in his chair. Narcissa and Lucius noted, with some disgust, that Lestrange was staring at the man as though he worshiped him. "My grandson, when I first sailed to this country, I accepted the oaths of many barbarian lords. One of them was the son of Salazar Slytherin, who chose to take his mother’s surname of Gaunt after his father left this country."
"The great-grandfather of the present Lady Riddle, then," Narcissa mused.
"Yes. I accepted his oath, and even chose to permit one rather... peculiar... practice of the Gaunt family, because it did promote magical blood purity—very much so. I speak of the fact that the man was married to his own sister, and that the family apparently arranged such matches every few generations for just that purpose."
Lucius and Narcissa suppressed their disgust. They had known of the marriage between Slytherin’s son and daughter, though they had not known that the practice of sibling incest went back further than that. Perhaps, Narcissa thought, Lady Riddle had debased herself with her elopement with a Muggle to avoid another such unnatural union. She was still a blood-traitor, but Narcissa could not much blame her for wanting to escape such a fate.
"But a custom of the Gaunts that I could not permit was the practice of pagan rites, including ritual human sacrifice," Armand Malfoy continued. "Now, I care little about religious worship as such—but I do care about practices that would have attracted the attention of the Muggle king, and invited Muggle interference with my rule of this country’s magical population... and I also care about stamping out the foul barbaric rituals of an uncivilized ancient culture. I ordered Gaunt never to practice such magic. He swore that he did not, that indeed, the family had not done it since the founding of Hogwarts, but they used to, so the lore must exist in their family library."
"Have you seen a description of such a ritual, then?" Lucius pressed. "Something that resembles the markings on Scabior’s body?"
For a moment Armand looked caught out, but then the mask of pride suffused his face once more. "I am quite certain that the markings are the result of a Celtic sacrifice ritual," he said, "and we know that the half-blood has defied one of my laws, the one about Celtic and Anglo-Saxon symbols. Furthermore, Lestrange tells me that Scabior was the vassal who went to Hogwarts to post my recent laws on the walls there. Riddle would have seen it. I think that either his mother, the half-blood Severus Snape, or Riddle himself did it."
"My lord, he is a pupil at Hogwarts," Lucius exclaimed. "How would he have left the school and captured one of your vassals—an adult wizard? And why would he have then brought the body to Godric’s Hollow?"
"Indeed," Narcissa agreed. "Draco has told us that Riddle, the Granger girl, and young Potter are a trio. Why would he do something that would cause problems for a friend’s family?"
"Perhaps he sees Potter as a rival for the girl," Lestrange said shrewdly. "But if it wasn’t Riddle himself, it must have been the mother or Snape."
"We do not know that these markings have anything to do with Celtic sacrificial rituals," Lucius protested.
"Well, I believe your lord grandfather," Lestrange said pointedly, his gaze drilling a figurative hole in Lucius’s. "He knows more about such things than we do."
A part of Lucius wanted to continue his objection. As far as he was concerned, their present problems ultimately stemmed from his grandfather’s determination to bully and antagonize the Riddle family. Lucius was ready to let it alone, let the blood-traitors have their fief and the disgraceful marriage to a Mudblood. He had come to agree with his wife’s family, especially Lord Arcturus—and he definitely did not agree that the torture marks on Scabior looked like anything in particular. His grandfather might believe it, but he saw exactly what he wanted to see. Lestrange was harder to read; it might be sycophancy, or it might be something else. Lucius was growing increasingly convinced that this murder was some sort of conspiracy, and not at all what it appeared to be, but he could not figure out what it was just yet. Lestrange had truly been angry—and surprised—to learn of Scabior’s death. If not for that, Lucius would have been certain that Lestrange had arranged for all of this in order to pin it on the Riddles. Someone else was involved, but Lucius had no idea who—and that unknown frightened him. What were they dealing with?
"I do not know about ritual sacrificial markings," Bellatrix said, "but it is certainly true that the Riddles have a motive." She shared a meaningful look with her sister. This wasn’t their intention, but if they could get the Riddles blamed for it, it would be a good thing. Bellatrix was surprised when Narcissa did not look as enthusiastic about that prospect.
"I have difficulty believing that the Lady Riddle would have done it... word is that she likes to keep her robes clean of blood," Lucius objected. Bellatrix shot him a hostile glare, and they both eyed each other with dislike.
Lestrange snorted. "Not too clean if she let a Muggle into her bed and has her son marry a Mudblood!"
Bellatrix laughed maliciously at that. "A fair point."
"I have heard it too, though," Lestrange said more seriously, "and that would include dispatching Severus Snape to do it for her. If any of them did it, it would have been the young wizard, pupil at Hogwarts or no."
Bellatrix’s dark eyes were glittering with glee.
"If it please your high lordship"—he glanced respectfully at Armand Malfoy—"I think someone should be sent to Hogwarts to interrogate the half-blood. It must be on your orders, though—no one else has the authority to overrule the High Master in his castle."
"With pleasure," said Armand maliciously.
Tom got himself ready for the day in his bedchamber, his thoughts swirling—as they often did lately—in inescapable vortices of frustration. The more he thought about—well—everything, the more frustrated he became. He was no closer to finding the Chamber of Slytherin and claiming his birthright. His friends had deceived him, he thought grouchily. They had led him to believe that they had knowledge of school history that they had acquired growing up as wizard noble lordlings, but it was not true. The real information just had to be in his home library—books that his mother had hexed. He was pretty sure that he knew most of what there was to know about his other great ancestors, since his mother had removed the hexes from the main books about Morgana and Arthur and their fellows, but if he wanted to ever stake his claim, he would need more than words to back it up. More, even, than magic. He would need the great weapon of Slytherin. That he had decided. It was a pity that he could not speak Draconic, the language of dragons, but so it was. Since he could not have a dragon, a basilisk was just about the most fearsome magical beast otherwise, and only Parselmouths could control it. He would not use the basilisk against... well... many people—Armand Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange excepted—but who would stand in the way of a wizard with such a creature by his side?
He was also irritated about Hermione. What had she been thinking? Tom supposed he could understand why she would want to make the potion for Adelaide, but why not swear the girl to secrecy? Why not use memory magic on her? And then she had apparently sent the information to Lady Lestrange! More was going to come of this, Tom had no doubt about it. But more than that, he was irritated because it appeared that Hermione would forgive that bitch before she would forgive him—and what had he done, really, in comparison? Adelaide Lestrange had harassed her for two and a half years. She had led many Slytherin girls in the shameful attack during Hermione’s first week. Tom’s mother had declared her family enemies of the Riddles! They had never been friends—and yet, because she was female, Hermione was willing to do something kind for her, and attempt to heal the wounds, as soon as she saw Adelaide in a hard situation. What about my troubles? Tom thought resentfully. What about being kind to me? It’s almost as if Hermione’s problem is with me alone.
He knew from Legilimency that she had not dallied with Potter or other wizards in their estrangement. There was that, at least—that noble honor that Hermione had so insisted upon when she was younger and their betrothal had just begun. Tom understood it now, at last. It was true that the idea of touching other witches held no appeal, but he also had quite a bit of pride. He was better than to feel that sort of weakness, let alone succumb to it. But that did not mean that he was not deeply annoyed with Hermione over the past year.
She seems determined to finish her schooling at the same time I do, he thought. That’s the summer after this one. The competitive jealousy, which he had felt when Hermione had advanced to three mastery classes this year, earlier than he had, had mostly vanished. He knew he could have advanced that quickly as well if he had been a swot like Hermione and focused on little except studies as she did. It was his choice to research "extracurricular" subjects as well. Does she not realize that if she does, she has little more than a year to make amends with me before we marry—and then she’ll have to let me touch her. We’ll have to live as husband and wife. Does she not even think about that? A year might seem like a long time for some things, but after their fight over a year ago, Tom had not expected for one second that they would still be estranged now. Hermione’s stubbornness had surprised him. If she could hold out for a year and a quarter already, why not two and a half?
Perhaps it is improving now, he thought, pulling on his outer robe—the dark green one with Celtic designs on the edges. Hermione had been almost civil with him when she had asked about protecting his mother’s castle from Malfoy’s tax assessors. And when she had confronted him and Potter over the ugly rumor, it could have easily escalated—but it didn’t. Perhaps things were about to change for the better. And I do have formal alliances—or my mother does—with my friends’ families now, he thought. Alliances that my friends’ parents made knowing perfectly well about Hermione. Maybe I should assure her that it won’t happen again, since there’s no reason for it to happen anymore. We need to be united again, so that she doesn’t do ill-considered things like her dealings with Adelaide and Lady Lestrange.
Tom finished his morning routine and headed down the boys’ corridor toward the Slytherin common room. He pushed open the door.
"And there he is right now!" crowed an unfamiliar male voice.
Tom immediately identified the speaker. A scruffy wizard dressed in fine robes that did not fit him very well was speaking with Master Slughorn, who bore an expression of mixed outrage and helplessness.
"My lord Carrow, this is all very irregular," Slughorn protested. "Lord Thomas is my pupil, and High Master Dumbledore presides here. How can you make such a demand?"
Carrow? Tom thought, anger suddenly flaring up inside him. He drew his wand and pointed it at the stranger. "Carrow, is it?" he said roughly. He sneered. "How dare you put yourself in my presence, traitor. My mother has you and your sister under a death sentence."
Slughorn winced. "Tom, don’t."
Amycus Carrow’s eyes glinted malevolently. "His high lordship Malfoy pardoned me," he said. He turned to Slughorn. "And this brat has already said it, old man. I will add that to the list of offenses. Furthermore, as I have said, and this scroll proves"—he waved a scroll in Slughorn’s face—"it was his high lordship who sent me here, not Lord Lestrange. Dumbledore must allow this, and so must you."
Slughorn looked helplessly at Tom. "I’m sorry, T—Lord Thomas."
"What is going on?" Tom said darkly. "What is the meaning of this?"
"You are suspected to have a hand in the murder and torture of Lord Scabior, who was in service to Lord Lestrange."
"What?!" Tom exclaimed hotly. "How dare you—" Instantly a suspicion filled his mind, one that vanquished all of his good feeling toward Hermione.
Carrow smiled. "Don’t worry—yet. I am here only to question you."
"Do it, then, filth. Question me. Right here." He glared at Carrow. "I will even take truth serum. I’ll tell you everything I know about Lestrange’s vassals."
"Oh, no," Carrow said. "Not here. You must surrender your wand to Slughorn, and you will come with me to a private location in the castle for it." He unrolled the scroll. "That’s authorized too."
Slughorn extended his hand shakily. "Please, Tom, just cooperate," he urged. "I’m sure you had nothing to do with that business, and it’s better just to prove it—"

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