Chapter Sixteen
Harry buckled in agony. He hadn’t seen Hermione point her wand at him, but now he could feel his face swelling rapidly under his hands.
Heavy footfalls surrounded him and Harry felt rage and bile burn up the back of his throat as a voice snarled, “Got ya.”
Harry was dragged from the tent, clutching at his face, which now felt unrecognizable beneath his fingers. His glasses slid off his face, and his mind cried out in fury at the hands on him: Greyback was here.
“Get off her!” Ron was shouting, and Harry squinted, making out his best mates blurred shapes in the darkened clearing beside their tent.
There was the unmistakable sound of knuckles hitting flesh and Hermione screamed, “No! Leave him alone!”
Greyback snarled by Harry’s ear, “Delicious girl…what a treat…I do enjoy the softness of skin…I’ll make it slow; I swear…”
Harry felt as if his stomach were about to betray him.
“Now let’s see what we’ve got,” Greyback snarled, throwing Harry onto the ground and then rolling him onto his back. A beam of wandlight fell onto Harry’s face and Greyback laughed—if it could be called that.
“I’ll be needing Firewhiskey to wash this one down. What happened to you, ugly?”
Harry did not answer immediately. He was staring at Fenrir Greyback’s face. So Greyback had become a Snatcher after Remus’ pack had destroyed his own. That was where he had gone.
A child tormentor. A child murderer. A cannibal. A sadist.
Greyback’s eyes were sickly yellow, burning as bright as a coal. His face was mostly covered in dark grey hair, his elongated canines dripping with saliva. His long, dirty nails dug through Harry’s jumper. There were scars on Greyback’s neck, pale lines in which the hair (or was it fur?) could not grow. Harry prayed those scars were given to him by Remus.
Harry shook—a shiver coursed down his spine and through his limbs. But not from fear. A storm of violence and venom scourged in his blood. Voldemort may be the most soulless and power-hungry being alive…in the sense that he was 'alive'…but Greyback was savagery incarnate. The fact that he was a werewolf just enabled him to act on his inherent depravity more efficiently.
“I said,” Greyback snarled, his jaws quivering before he landed a blow to Harry’s diaphragm that sent him doubling over in pain, “what happened to you?”
“Stung,” Harry managed behind gathering his breaths and controlling the tempest of hatred and disgust within him, “Been stung.”
“Yeah, looks like it,” the man holding Ron growled.
“Your name?” Greyback snapped.
“Dudley. Vernon Dudlely.”
t was the first name Harry could think of that was connected to no one in the Wizarding World. For a brief moment, the Dursley’s flashed through his mind. Were they still in Surrey? How easy would it be for Greyback and these Snatchers to track them down? Would they get the Dursley surname from the names he had given them? It didn’t seem likely…no one knew he had ever lived with them except members of the Order...
The Dursley’s were their own form of banal evil but they didn’t deserve to suffer at Greyback’s hands. Harry wasn’t sure anyone deserved such a fate—except maybe Umbridge. And Bellatrix. And Snape. And Voldemort.
“Check the list, Scabior,” Greyback growled, and he released his hold on Harry to turn towards Ron, “And what about you, ginger?”
The fact that Greyback had deemed to call Harry (even with his swollen face) ‘ugly’ and Ron ‘ginger’—it almost brought Harry to maniacal laughter.
“I’b Bardy,” Ron said, and Harry could tell his mouth was full of blood from the punch he had receive seconds before, “Bardy Weadley.”
“A Weasley?” Greyback rasped and Harry felt a new surge of hatred at the joy in the monster’s voice, “So you’re related to blood traitors even if you’re not a Mudblood. And, lastly….your pretty little friend…”
The relish in Fenrir Greyback’s voice made Harry’s skin crawl. He could barely contain his shaking.
“Easy, Greyback,” Scabior said.
“Oh, I won’t bite her just yet…” Greyback said, and Harry wanted to scream. It wasn’t even the Full Moon! It was March 17th…the Full Moon was the next night…
“Who are you, girly?” Greyback said. His voice was so Dark…so vile and shameless…
“Penelope Clearwater,” Hermione whispered. Her voice did not waver; she sounded defeated and terrified. It was convincing.
“Your blood status?” Greyback snapped.
The irony of blood purity hit Harry harder than it ever had before. He clamped his teeth together to keep himself from screaming.
“Half-blood,” Hermione answered.
“Easy enough to check. But you lot all look about ‘Ogwarts age,” Scabior said, “And you thought, just for a laugh, you’d use the Dark Lord’s name?”
“It was an accident,” Hermione said.
“We’ll see. Bind them up with the other three prisoners.”
Someone yanked Harry up by his hair—not Greyback, he could tell by the lack of the stench—and dragged Harry a short way, pushing him into a sitting position before starting to bind him with other people. Harry was still half-blind, barely able to see out of his puffed-up eyes, barely able to contain his rageful fury. Harry heard the footsteps over bracken as the man tying him had walked away and then Harry whispered, “Anyone got a wand?”
“No,” Ron and Hermione answered from either side of him.
“Harry?” A voice said.
It was familiar and it came from directly behind him, from the person tied to Hermione’s left.
“Dean?”
“It is you!” Dean breathed.
“Oh no…” another voice whispered and Harry gasped.
“Mr. Tonks?”
“How’s Andy?” Ted Tonks said so very quietly.
“At Headquarters,” Harry whispered back, “She’s safe.”
But Greyback was speaking nearby, “Not a bad haul for one night. A Mudblood, a runaway goblin, the husband of one of the worst blood traitors of all, and three truants. You checked their names on the list yet, Scabior?”
“Yeah. There’s no Vernon Dudley on ‘ere.”
“Interesting…” and a second later Greyback was crouched in front of Harry. He was so close that Harry could see through his swollen eyelids the sores on the corners of Greyback’s lips. Could fully appreciate his stench of dirt and sweat and blood.
“Hey!” A voice called from inside the tent. The third Snatcher. He had been ransacking it. The dark figure came bustling toward them, and Harry saw a glint of silver in the faint light of the man’s wand. He had found Gryffindor’s sword.
“Looks goblin-made, that. And look at the hilt…” Greyback’s voice became low, excited.
In the dark, Greyback’s werewolf senses allowed him to see the name etched there in a tiny scrawl.
“Godric Gryffindor…” Greyback rasped.
A stillness settled over the scene. Greyback crouched before Harry again, “What is that on your forehead, Vernon?”
“Don’t touch it!” Harry yelled. For at the moment his scar burned savagely. He saw a towering building, a grim fortress, jet-black and forbidding and Voldemort was gliding toward the gigantic building with a sense of calmly euphoric purpose…
“I thought you wore glasses, Potter?” Greyback breathed. His breath wafted in Harry’s face: it was thick with carrion and old blood.
“I found glasses!” The other Snatcher yelped, “Wait—”
And then Harry’s glasses were rammed onto his face.
“It is Potter…” Greyback rasped, and then he smiled. In the dark, behind his glasses and his swollen eyes, Harry saw the yellow in Greyback’s eyes flash like lightning, “Oh how the Dark Lord will reward us…and oh how Remus Lupin will howl…”
Harry bite his lip to keep from shouting. And his scar burning, fragmented visions were breaking through the surface of his mind….he was flying, looking up to the topmost window, the highest tower of that dark building…
“We’ll take him straight to You-Know-Who,” Greyback was growling.
“Will you summon ‘im ‘ere?” Scabior said, sounding both awed and terrified.
“No. I haven’t got—we’ll take the boy to the Malfoy’s place.”
Greyback did not have a Dark Mark, Harry realized. The irony washed over him again. And the Malfoy’s….
Luna.
“We’ll take the boy and the whole lot. The sword too…” Greyback was saying.
And then the prisoners were dragged to their feet.
“Grab hold and make it tight!” Greyback growled, seizing Harry’s arm, “On three! One…two…three…!”
As they Apparated, Harry’s scar burned more painfully still—he was landing inside a cell-like room…
The prisoners and their captors landed on a country lane, and leering before them were a pair of wrought-iron gates.
“We captured Harry Potter!” Greyback yowled into the night air.
The gates swung open.
Harry was being led to Malfoy Manor. His heart thudded—Sirius and Remus…they had to know Greyback would take them here…
Harry was staggering sideways down the long gravel drive, tied back-to-back with Ron, Hermione, and Dean. Tied together on Harry’s right side was Ted Tonks and the unnamed goblin, who had not yet spoken.
Closing his puffy eyes, Harry allowed the pain in his scar to overcome him for a moment, wanting to know if Voldemort knew yet that Harry was caught….
An emaciated figure stirred beneath a thin blanket in the cell. The frail man then sat up, great sunken eyes fixed upon him, upon Voldemort, and then he smiled…
"So you have come, I thought you would…one day. But your journey was pointless. I never had it.”
"You lie!”
Harry wrenched himself back into his own body.
Light spilled out over himself and the other prisoners and through his puffy eyes Harry saw Narcissa Malfoy scrutinizing his swollen face. She was thinner than the last time Harry had seen her, her eyes shadowed by purple. She raised her eyebrows, “Bring them in.”
Harry and the others were shoved and kicked up the stone steps and into the entrance hall of Malfoy Manor.
The entrance hall was lined with portraits—Harry gaped at the sight of Sirius’ parents: Walburga and Orion Black. He recognized them from their features alone: the dark eyes, the black locks, the angular and striking jaw, cheek, and brow bones. Walburga sneered down at the prisoners, her lips curling, while Orion looked on loftily; his nose wrinkled as his eyes fell on Greyback.
“My son, Draco, is home from Hogwarts for his Easter holidays,” Narcissa said, leading the way down the hall, “He will know if that is Harry Potter.”
Narcissa led them all into an enormous ballroom. Above their heads, light fractured off a gargantuan crystal chandelier and shone upon black polished tiled floor. Two figures rose from chairs in front of an ornate marble fireplace as the prisoners were forced into the room by the Snatchers.
“What is this?” Lucius Malfoy drawled. Though Harry’s eyes were still quite swollen, he noted Lucius’ long pale fingers squeezing the arm of his chair tightly.
“They say they’ve got Potter,” Narcissa said, her voice cold, “Draco, come here.”
Draco’s face was paler than Harry had ever seen it—almost grey.
“Well, boy?” Greyback rasped, forcing the prisoners to turn so Harry faced Draco directly.
Above the fireplace behind Draco, there was a gilded mirror. Through the slits in his eyes, Harry saw his own reflection: his face was huge, shiny, and pink, every feature distorted by Hermione’s brilliant jinx. His black hair now fell to his shoulders and there was a dark shadow beneath his jaw.
Draco approached. He walked slowly; hesitantly. His hands hung limply at his sides. Harry realized there was not a trace of arrogance in Draco Malfoy’s body as he neared him. Still, Draco would not get too close, his eyes darting from Harry’s face to Greyback and away.
Draco seemed scared; scared to look at Harry, and scared to be near Greyback…well, for that, even Harry could not blame him…
Harry saw then a flash of memory. He saw Draco’s wand dipping downward on the Astronomy Tower, and heard the tremor in Draco’s voice that night. That night he did not kill Dumbledore.
“Well, Draco?” Lucius said, his voice sounding revived, avid, “Is it? Is it Potter?”
“I can’t be sure,” Draco said quietly. His eyes would not rest on Harry’s, or meet his father’s.
“Look carefully! Come closer!”
Harry had never heard Lucius Malfoy so excited.
Or was it desperate?
Harry saw Draco’s face up close now. He looked reluctant and afraid. His white-blond hair hung around his thin grey face. Was he truly only seventeen? Harry’s own age?
“What do you think?” Lucius pressed his son.
“I don’t know,” Draco said, and at last his eyes locked on Harry’s own. And then there was a fleeting second where Harry was sure that he saw pain—trauma and scarring—within Draco’s soul, within those cold, troubled grey eyes.
Draco turned away, and walked back to his mother’s side, wrapping his long, thin arms around himself. His shoulders protruded; bony and sharp.
And for that moment, Harry felt pity for Draco Malfoy. And understanding.
It was strange, it tasted sour on his tongue and screamed of wrongness…but then…rightness. And some semblance of sweetness. For wasn’t that what Remus had said of forgiveness? That it was a sweet fruit...
Wasn't Draco just as trapped as Harry in this moment, right now? And was he not exercising his small slice of freedom to avoid making a clear identification...?
“We had better be certain, Lucius,” Narcissa called to her husband in her cold, clear voice, “Completely sure that it is Potter, before we summon the Dark Lord…”
“What about the Mudblood? And the Weasley?” Greyback snarled, swiveling the prisoners again.
Hermione and Ron now faced Draco. Hermione’s chin was lifted, her fists clenched at her sides. Ron spit blood onto the obsidian ballroom floor.
“Look, Draco, isn’t that the Granger girl? And the Weasley boy?” Narcissa insisted of her son.
Draco swallowed, his throat working. His eyes were on Hermione’s, for she demanded his attention.
“I….” Draco said, his eyes locked on Hermione’s.
“It’s Potter’s friends!” Lucius crowed, “Aren’t they, Draco?”
Draco wrenched his eyes away, turning back toward the fireplace, and said, “Maybe.”
The ballroom door opened behind Harry and Bellatrix Lestrange said, “What is this, Cissy?”
She walked slowly around the prisoners and stopped at Harry’s right, in front of Hermione, staring at her through her heavily lidded eyes.
Bellatrix smiled slowly and then she said quietly, “But this is the Mudblood Granger, is it not?”
"Yes, it is!” Lucius cried, “And beside her, we think, is Potter! Potter and his friends, caught at last!”
“Potter!” Bellatrix shrieked, and she turned to look closer at Harry.
The woman who would have killed Sirius. The fanatic; she reveled in pain and cruelty. Her eyes were sharp despite her lack of conscience.
“Well then we must call the Dark Lord at once!” Bellatrix crowed and she pulled up her left sleeve and Harry saw the Dark Mark burned upon the flesh of her arm…
“NO,” Lucius snarled, “I will be calling him, Bella!” And Lucius threw up his own sleeve…
But Bellatrix’s eyes had darted behind Harry, toward where Greyback stood, and she screamed, “NO! We all shall perish if we call the Dark Lord now!”
Lucius froze and Bellatrix strode toward Greyback, “What is this?” she whispered.
“The Sword of Godric Gryffindor,” Greyback snarled back, greed heavy in his voice.
“Give it to me.”
Greyback did, a snarl ripping out of his throat even so. He would yield to one of Voldemort’s Inner Circle, it seemed.
“Where did you get this sword?” She asked, her voice dangerously quiet, “Snape sent it to my vaults in Gringotts.”
“It was in their tent,” Greyback rasped.
Bellatrix suddenly flicked her wand—it was so clean, so smooth…it reminded Harry of Sirius’ skill. Greyback’s arms became strapped to his sides. The same for the two other Snatchers.
And then Bellatrix whirled on her sister, “The situation is graver than you can possibly imagine, Cissy! We have a very serious problem!”
She looked down at the sword in her hand, panting slightly, “If it is indeed Potter, he must not be harmed. The Dark Lord wishes to dispose of Potter himself…but if he finds out…I must…I must know…”
She whirled toward her sister, “Place the prisoners in the dungeon while I think of what to do!” She turned back to Harry and he saw that she looked more frightening than he had ever seen her—truly and utterly mad.
Bellatrix reached into her own robes and withdrew a small silver knife. It glinted under the light of the enormous chandelier and with the soft flames in the fireplace.
Greyback let out a sharp snarl, his head twisting away from the silver. Harry found himself relishing that at least Greyback also possessed that same weakness of all werewolves; if only Remus did not…if only silver could not touch Remus…
“I’ll release you from the magical bonds, Greyback,” Bellatrix said, her eyes flashing wildly, “and then you will take the prisoners down to the dungeon. All except…except for the Mudblood.”
“No!” Ron shouted, “You can have me—have me!”
Bellatrix did not even bother with flicking her wand; she opted for her own hand. She hit Ron across the face with the back of her palm and the blow echoed across the ballroom.
“If she dies under questioning, I’ll take you next,” Bellatrix Lestrange said.
Sirius and Remus! Harry’s mind screamed—SIRIUS AND REMUS WE’RE AT MALFOY MANOR! BELLATRIX IS GOING TO TORTURE HERMIONE!
Harry felt his chest heaving, the bile in his throat, the rage and malice roaring within him…but there was no proof at all that his wordless, wandless begging would come to anything.
Even if Sirius and Remus received the Patronus message and guessed where Greyback would have taken them—Malfoy Manor—how would they enter? How would they get through the wards?
Greyback stepped back slightly as Bellatrix lunged forward, cutting Hermione free from the other prisoners with that short silver knife.
Then she dragged Hermione by her long curly brown hair into the middle of the ballroom, directly under that ridiculously magnificent chandelier. Greyback, now distant from that silver knife, forced the rest of the prisoners to shuffle across the sleek, shining black floor to another door, to another hallway and then stairs…into a dark passageway…
“Reckon she’ll let me have a bit of the girl when she’s finished?” Greyback crooned as he forced them down the dark corridor, “I’d say I’ll get a bite or two, wouldn’t you ginger?”
Harry could feel Ron shaking beside him.
Harry, Ron, Dean, Ted, and the goblin were all forced down a steep flight of stairs, still tied back-to-back. At the bottom of the staircase was a heavy door and Greyback withdrew a short, black wand from his mangy dirt-laden robes to tap the door—it opened and he forced them into a dank and musty room.
Fenrir Greyback slammed the door behind him, and left the prisoners in total darkness.
The echoing bang of the slammed door had not yet died away before there was a terrible, drawn-out scream from directly above them.
“HERMIONE!” Ron bellowed, writhing and struggling against the ropes binding him, “HERMIONE!”