Rufus' Siege

It was terribly disappointing that at a time when danger and excitement abounded I should be so completely free from fear that I couldn’t enjoy it. A good siege was what Hogwarts had needed for years. It livened up the corridors no end and, of course, Filch was in his nasty element. I never thought the disadvantage of being a Slytherin would be exclusion from the threat of a delicious death during an attack by Dementors and Death Eaters. I know I should have anticipated it but when you are a callow youth you just don’t think about these things, do you?

Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself — Rufus Norton. I work for the Ministry now, damn dreary job that involves sucking up to people all day and generally pacifying bruised egos. Trust me, you don’t want to know any more about it; you would be bored to tears. Truth be told, Father got me this job. Father got me most things in life until he found out about my... well… my lifestyle choice, as he would have it.

So were where we? Ah yes, Hogwarts. It had been coming for a long time as Dumbledore gradually grew more barmy and decamped to London on an almost permanent basis. He used the war as an excuse but I was never convinced. Dumbledore was trying to keep his fingers in too many pies and had to be in London. Whether he ever gained personally from this exposure, I never found out; he died soon after the siege anyway and that was that.

We students knew there was something growing in the Forest, mainly because several of the boys had fathers who were Death Eaters and liked to brag about things. Slytherin honour meant none of these hints and insinuations would ever be relayed outside of the common room. Even old Snape didn’t get wind of most of them, not the ones that mattered anyway. Funny thing was, I always liked Snape. He had an – how shall I put it – attitude of monumental proportions, but he was a good teacher if you knew how to approach his lessons. He had his favourites, but then didn’t everyone? When it all came out it turned out he had good reason for choosing that little runt Malfoy as his favourite but at the time we thought it was just dashing Draco’s good looks that got him the attention. Never was too keen on blondes myself.

So there I was, in the library looking for a book to help me with the three-foot parchment we had been set for Charms homework. What did I know about advanced charms for the depressed witch or wizard? Nothing, that’s what! And did Madam Pince think to make it easy for us poor students to find things? No, she did not. So I was on my knees, scrabbling around on the floor like a rat, looking at the bottom shelf of books, when I saw these feet enter the library. Now, at first I thought they were Snape’s — they had the same tight-laced, glowering look about them. Then I heard a squeak of horror from one of the Hufflepuff girls who had been waiting to have her books stamped out and I’m pretty sure it’s Snape so I got up. I’d been wanting to ask him something about the potion we had been making in class the previous day and if he was in a reasonable mood this seemed like a good opportunity.

It wasn’t Snape. It was a tall, dark-haired man with a triumphant expression on his face and a long, black wand in his hand. Behind him there were another three black-robed figures, all grinning in the same maniacal fashion, clearly pleased as punch about something. What I didn’t know at the time was that 175 Death Eaters had taken the school while the Dementors were busy preventing escape. It was audacious, I’ll give Voldemort that, but then he was always a lover of the grand gesture.

They instantly rounded up the inhabitants of the library, a risky task given all those convenient bookshelf hiding places. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on whose side you flipped your coin, there weren’t too many people in the library. It was a nice day; anyone with any sense was outside being rounded up like cattle on the lawns. Madam Pince stood behind her desk, opening and closing her mouth like a ventriloquist’s dummy that had lost its owner while one of the Death Eaters took her wand and used it to create a rope to bind her with. That’s just degrading, being bound using your own wand. No wonder she looked as if she had just popped an acid drop in her mouth.

Saskia Lenahan, Jill Mountford and Peter Dillon were bound together while Philippa Hughes and that straggly-haired girl whose name I always forget were forced to sit at a table together and told not to move. Clearly the Death Eaters felt that Ravenclaws were in need of binding while Hufflepuffs were not. That left Ron Weasley, Neville Longbottom and me standing free and glaring at them with annoyance.

The main Death Eater — let’s call him Short-Arse on account of him being so tall — pointed his wand at Neville and asked his name. Neville, being Neville, muttered something under his breath and the Death Eater got all impatient and poked Neville’s cheek with his wand. So Neville repeated his name, only louder this time, and the Death Eater caught it and immediately smiled even more.

Turned out they knew all about Neville’s actions at the Ministry the previous year. Ropes went straight around his legs and hands and he toppled over like a great piece of lumber in a slowly sickening forest. Weasley seemed to anticipate what came next because he got his wand out and started acting the hero. Now the Cruciatus curse isn’t nice, not at all, but Weasley really should have known better. They’re Death Eaters, for Neptune’s sake, big ugly ones at that, and they are armed and excited. Weasley’s just a sixth year with his head full of valour and a wand he can’t control properly.

So he was writhing on the floor and I couldn’t help but feel a little admiration for him. I freely admit that I would never have had the guts to do that. I’d have just allowed myself to be bound, or whatever the hell they wanted to do to me. But then he’s a Gryffindor and they’re traditionally brave and wilful. (If you can just picture me rolling my eyes at this point it will add to the mental picture you already have of me.) And I’m Slytherin. Power-hungry, single-minded and downright nasty Slytherin. Except I’m not. I’m not overly bothered about power; it’s vastly over-rated when compared to a good meal and a nice show at The Wizarding Playhouse. Single-minded? Well I can be, but only about things that matter, like good clothes and making sure all my work is very neat. Nasty, moi? I think not, well, not unless you attempt to deprive me of a good bottle of wine. So why the hell was I in Slytherin? Because I asked to be and because I do have one Slytherin trait. I’m rather good in a tight spot; cunning could be my middle name.

Take the siege, for instance. The Death Eaters took one look at my robes, Short-Arse pulled out a parchment and then asked my name. He ran a well-manicured finger down the list – who’d have thought Death Eaters took such care of their nails – and nodded. He told his chums that I’m okay and not to be touched and then gave Weasley a top-up on the old Cruciatus front. Well, I don’t particularly like Weasley, but the admiration for his sudden stab at bravery was still fresh in my mind so I had to step in and say something. And what gem of wisdom uttered forth from my mouth? What incisive and withering comment did I make?

“If you carry on like that you’ll kill him.”

There were blank looks all around, and then a slight titter from one of the nameless.

Well, you couldn’t blame them really, could you? Even Weasley, in his agony, looked vaguely perturbed that the only person who would leap to his defence should come out with such an inane comment.

“We’re more than likely going to kill him anyway,” Short-Arse growled. “What’s it to you?”

“My father works with his father,” I said, lying through my perfect teeth. “They’re working on something important.”

“What?” This is from the shortest one. As he spoke I noticed he’s got the makings of a fluffy beard on his chin. He’s young and he’s nervous, but I could tell he was fairly pumped up with this whole macho thing.

“I beg your pardon?” I was being deliberately obtuse as I tried to think of something that would perhaps alleviate some of Weasley’s suffering though Jupiter alone knows why I should have bothered. That red hair and those boggling eyes are enough to make anyone want to put him out of his misery without further ado.

“What they working on?” Beardy repeated.

“It’s a secret.” I now sounded like a schoolgirl with a crush rather than a mature Slytherin with Death Eaters breathing in my face.

Beardy looked to Short-Arse for leadership and he delivered in spades.

“So, what does that have to do with this boy… what did you say your name was?” He turned to Weasley, who was too busy writhing to answer.

“That’s Jameson,” I said, before Neville can open his thoughtless mouth. “And his father works with mine at the Ministry on something very, very important that could be quite useful for certain Dark Lords.” I was really over-egging the pudding now by bringing Voldemort into this, but it’s the only language they understand. Death Eaters usually have a love/hate relationship with the Darkness himself…. They love his power and want his praise but they hate the fear he has the power to instil in them. It’s an age-old problem for followers of raving lunatics and one they have to learn to live with.

“Really?” Short-Arse was having a real mental tussle with himself now because he knows I’m a Slytherin, he knows that I am on their list of people-who-shall-not-be harmed and he knows that to risk going against me or my father could mean trouble. Even more so if this little project my father is working on could aid Voldemort in some way.

Madam Pince looked like she was about to open her mouth to do something more than gulp air and I started to feel my insides freeze at the possibility she’ll say something honest. All one of them had to do was call Weasley by name and I would have been in serious trouble. But she never got the chance to say anything because the door crashed open and in staggered Professor Snape, his hands clutching his head in a very awkward way. It’s only when he reached Madam Pince’s desk that we can see why. There is blood flowing fast from a gaping wound on his temple and it wasn’t hard to see that he wasn’t a well chap at all.

Short-Arse turned to him with his wand outstretched and gave the world a really sickly smile. And I mean sickly. That smile was so sickly that it made a pink blancmange look like finest malt vinegar.

“The traitor himself,” said Short-Arse, while the rest of them simmered with pleasure at the thought of bringing in the head of someone Voldemort wanted killed so badly.

“Leave the… the students… alone…” Snape was really trying to stay upright but I could see it was a massive struggle for him and I found myself moving forward to lend him a hand but one of the Death Eaters blocked my path. They might not be about to kill me but they obviously have their limits when it comes to letting me have the run of the place.

“Sympathy for the children now?” Beardy sniggered at Snape. “Gone off your head, have you?”

“They… have done… nothing…leave them be.” His face had gone a very nasty shade of white and the blood was still dribbling down onto his robes, blending with the black into invisible patches of drained life.

“You’re not going to live long enough to find out what we do with them, so why should you care about their welfare?” Sour-Breath smirked. (I know, but have you any idea how hard it is coming up with names for people that you don’t know. Anyway, he did have exceedingly bad breath and he was in my way and breathing all over me.)

Short-Arse opened his mouth and started the first line of the Killing Curse while his mates began to drool at the possibility of all that glory when they haul Snape’s body back. They’re all too busy with the dying man to even notice the wand that’s just been slithered across the floor from the now pain-free, but still slightly stunned, Weasley. They never even noticed the fact that a whispered charm from Weasley has unbound Neville. Dear Mercury, Snape’s last moments are in the hands of Nutty Neville, Merlin help him.

Actually, Merlin help us all, because before Short-Arse could finish the curse Neville had disarmed him with a quick Expelliarmus and now we were really in the mire. But Neville hadn’t quite finished and before any of the other Death Eaters could react he had hit them all with an Expelliarmus and I was left wondering just what sort of incompetents Voldemort is employing these days. Cue the scene from a Muggle farce as legs entangled and three of them collapsed in a heap as Neville hit them with a Stupefy. This only left Sour-Breath, who was still on the floor trying to recover his wand. Ron’s struggling to his feet and I realised that my notion that I’m good in a tight spot is restricted to quick talking because I was frozen to the floor as Sour-Breath found his wand and aimed it directly at Snape. Neville looked like he was going to make it in time but, just as he started to say Expelliarmus, Sour-Breath had screeched, “Avada Kedavra!” at the top of his voice and the green flash shoot from his wand and straight into Snape’s chest.

For all his misery and carping at the students it was deeply unpleasant to see the former Potions master lying in an ever expanding pool of his own blood. Neville gave a cry of horror and Weasley had recovered himself enough to stagger to his feet and throw himself at Sour-Breath with a roar of anger. They were fighting, I mean real fighting. None of the wand waving that makes life so easy. Weasley was pounding his fists into the Death Eater’s face and I was standing there looking like a spare groom at a wedding. Funny, I never thought Weasley liked Snape that much.

I supposed this was my cue to do something. Even the Hufflepuffs were scrabbling around trying to find the Death Eaters’ wands before they came round. I hate killing people — it’s so vulgar, but there was really nothing else for it. I was taking a risk, because Weasley was still tussling with Sour-Breath and the curse could hit either of them if one made the wrong move. I was lucky. I didn’t kill a student but I managed to get myself crossed off Voldemort’s Christmas card list for a few years. You can’t expect to kill one of his followers and get away Scot-free.

So, that was that. The siege ended shortly after, once the Aurors arrived with the goblins as back-up. I had lots of congratulations heaped on me for actually popping off one of the bad guys but it was hollow praise. Both I and every other person who had been in the library knew who the real heroes were. Weasley and Neville showed more bravery than I had with my cold-hearted, easy curse. They had more fire in their veins than I had in my Slytherin-chilled ones. For once I felt genuine admiration for two Gryffindors of whom I had previously thought little.