Chapter Eighteen: Worth the Risk
The incessant tapping of Sirius’ fingers against the smooth grain of the desk was starting to seriously annoy James, but the numerous glares he sent towards his friend where either ignored or simply missed. And Sirius seemed too much in thought to care that he was irritating James. The expression on his face was one of deep contemplation, and it was so out of place that it was starting to worry James as well.
Then Sirius suddenly stopped, and the quiet startle James so much that he dropped the quill he was holding and smeared black ink along the parchment unraveled before him.
“Sirius?” James asked tentatively.
Sirius frowned at James, his eyes darkened with something like disgust. “I was thinking about Lestrange,” he explained.
“What about him?” James asked curiously.
“Well… we haven’t really talked about the obvious conclusion that should be drawn,” Sirius replied, tilting his head forward and letting his hair flop lazily into his eyes.
James waited for more of an explanation, but got nothing except silence and a meaningful look from Sirius.
“I’m not a Legilimens,” he said finally, “so you’re actually going to have to tell me what you’re thinking.”
“We believe that Lupin’s death was ordered by Voldemort,” Sirius said. “Your mysterious informant told you that. And we know that Lestrange is working for Voldemort. So… Lestrange probably knows who killed Lupin. Maybe he even killed Lupin himself. He certainly doesn’t have a problem committing murder if Alice Longbottom is any indication.”
James opened his mouth to say something, and then snapped it shut, realizing he had no idea how to respond. It was true, he hadn’t thought about that particular implication of all the clues. All this time, he had viewed Lestrange’s actions as those of a man desperate to regain his reputation. But what if it was more than that? What if Lestrange was also trying to protect the real murderer?
What if Lestrange was the real murderer?
But then James shook his head. “No… No, I don’t think Lestrange killed him.”
“You think he suddenly grew a conscience?” Sirius asked disbelievingly.
“Lupin was stabbed, and the Aurors said that it looked as though there had been a fight. Maybe a fist fight of some kind. I just… I can’t imagine Lestrange resorting to Muggle ways of killing people,” James answered. “I actually don’t know why any of Voldemort’s followers would do that if they’re so set on ideas of blood purity and the substandard nature of Muggles.”
“The guy who attacked us at Evans’ place didn’t have a problem with it,” Sirius pointed out.
James rubbed his jaw gingerly at that reminder. A few well-placed healing spells on Marlene’s part had gotten rid of the bruise, but there was a lingering tenderness from where he had been punched.
And his ego had been hurt a little.
He couldn’t argue with Sirius about this because he couldn’t quite put into words why he was so convinced that Lestrange wasn’t behind the murder. But he was absolutely sure that, even if Lestrange had known about it ahead of time, had supported it, had wanted it, he still had not committed it.
Not this way. Not with a knife. Not with a fight.
And, anyway, his involvement in Lupin’s death wasn’t the only remaining question, and for James, it wasn’t even the most important one.
It was a thought that had come to him during his questioning of Dumbledore, and one that he wanted to discuss with the Headmaster at some point. He needed to hear the old wizard’s opinion of his suspicions before he made any decisions on how exactly to address the issue: namely, whether or not to confide his worries to Lily.
But he was starting to think that her presence at Lupin’s house shortly after he had been killed was not an accident or a coincidence of any sort. After all, if she had killed Malfoy “ and he still had no idea what to think about that “ then she had played a major role in thwarting Voldemort’s plans. And her subsequent escape from Lestrange’s clutches and avoidance of Azkaban had only made things worse.
So what if she had been set up? What if, all along, Lestrange had planned for Lily to be the culprit in this murder?
If Lupin had been followed, Voldemort and his followers would have known that he had visited Lily. They could only assume then that she would try to help him. Killing Lupin after he visited her would allow Lestrange to make an argument for her guilt. And the fact that she had actually gone to his house and discovered his body… well, that was just icing on the cake for him.
If Alice Longbottom had been murdered as a way of getting revenge against her husband, then no doubt they wanted Lily dead as well. And for more reasons than just her blood status.
So even if she escaped Azkaban this time, would she really be safe?
James looked again at Sirius and debated revealing his concerns. But before he could say anything, Sirius had started speaking again.
“We need to know more,” Sirius said angrily, shoving his chair backwards and scraping the wooden legs across the floor. “We need to know what’s actually going on now. All we’ve got are guesses.” His voice was filled with frustration and his eyes were filled with fury. “I want to do something.”
“We all want to do something,” James said reasonably.
But he and Sirius clearly had very different ideas of what doing something would entail, and it worried James. Sirius had always been more prone to actions than words, and the actions didn’t always accompany actual thought. A predisposition towards reckless behavior was usually not such a bad thing, but the idea that his best mate might decide to start a fight with Lestrange or “ even worse “ Voldemort in some misguided sense of doing the right thing…
Well, at least they could console themselves with the fact that they had no idea where this Voldemort was, how to find him, or how to even recognize him if they did find him.
Which, upon further reflection, was not actually much of a comfort.
“I wish we knew more about the guy who attacked you,” Sirius muttered.
“Which one?” James asked wryly. “The one in the alley or the one at Lily’s home? And why am always the one to get attacked, anyway? The wizard at Lily’s home went for me before he even reacted to your presence.”
“They don’t want to mess up my devilishly good looks unless absolutely necessary,” Sirius replied with a smirk.
James rolled his eyes.
“I meant the one in the alley,” Sirius answered. “I mean, what kind of person joins up with a Dark wizard at then has second thoughts? And why? And how come he couldn’t be more detailed in everything he told you?”
James stared at Sirius for a long moment and said nothing. But then he forced himself to look away so that the other wizard wouldn’t see the guilt in his eyes.
All he had were suspicions, but he was fairly certain he was right about them, and he didn’t like keeping them to himself.
Dumbledore waited quietly as James stumbled through an explanation of everything that had occurred in the past few days, clearly doing his best not to leave out any details. That had surprised the Headmaster because although he knew that James respected him, he had not been expecting so much trust. But the young Potter was full of surprises, even if he was not currently being particularly eloquent.
“…and then he just… left. And Sirius and I couldn’t quite figure out… I mean… he doesn’t have this thing… whatever it was… and we don’t have it… but someone has it. Someone who isn’t us and isn’t Voldemort and… is it you?”
Dumbledore shook his head gravely. “No, it is not, however much I wish it was.” He rose to his feet and walked around his small desk, studying James thoughtfully. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Fawkes stretching his long neck and fixing James with a beady stare as well.
“So we have no idea who has this object, or what the object is,” James said glumly. “All we know is that it is important enough to kill for, at least to Voldemort.”
Dumbledore hesitated, then nodded. He had his suspicions about what the object could be, but without further proof, he was not going to share them. At least not yet.
“And this man who attacked you,” Dumbledore said quietly, “can you describe him?”
“Um… he was a bit taller than me. And he had whiskers and his hair was matted. He had these sores at the corners of his mouth and… and his teeth were pointed. And a bit yellow,” James said, struggling to describe the wizard. “And Sirius said he smelled funny. Like sweat and… blood. And dirt. If that makes sense.”
Dumbledore nodded. “And he attacked first without a wand?” he murmured. That was unusual, he knew of very few grown wizards whose first inclination was to forgo magic.
He rose to his feet and crossed over to one of the many cupboards in his circular office. Opening the door, he pulled out the large stone basin that sat on the middle shelf and carried it back to his desk. Inside, the silver almost-liquid of his thoughts swirled gently, catching the light in odd patterns.
He set the pensieve down on the table. “Would you be able to recall the memory of his face?”
“I think so,” James answered, and he sounded both awed and nervous. “I’ve never used a pensieve before.”
Dumbledore smiled. “They are rare,” he agreed. It was unusual for most people to own a personal one, and even rarer for them to have any reason to need it. Even a family as old and privileged as the Potters would not be likely to have a pensieve. They were far more common at work places, particularly in certain departments at the Ministry were sifting through complicated or convoluted thoughts was necessary to completion of specific tasks.
He walked around the desk again and settled himself back into his seat.
James eyed the basin warily, then pulled out his wand.
“Just concentrate on the memory,” Dumbledore coached, “and when you place your wand at your temple, try to force the memory out of your mind.”
James followed those instructions, and a moment later was withdrawing a thin strand of silver from his mind. It floated in the air like a single thread of a spider’s web caught on the end of his wand, and then he haphazardly shoved the wand into the basin.
Dumbledore chuckled. “There’s no reason to be quite so rough with it,” he said, but made no further admonishments. Instead, he looked at the silvery substances and waited.
A moment later, a face swam into view.
He inhaled sharply.
James caught the sudden breath and looked up in surprise. “Do you know him?”
Dumbledore nodded gravely. “I’ve long had reason to believe that he was the one Lord Voldemort had personally requested to contact the werewolves that he was interested in recruiting. Remus confirmed this for me once, although he did not know all the details of this man’s loyalties.”
“The details? Is he one of Voldemort’s followers or not?” James asked, sounding confused.
“Oh, he is certainly under Voldemort’s control, whether he knows it or not. I doubt he will ever count himself fully among Voldemort’s ranks “ he is not likely to consent to being willingly subservient and Voldemort is not likely to sully his beliefs by accepting a half-breed “ but he is a powerfully strong wizard and too valuable an ally for Voldemort to ignore. His name is Fenrir Grayback. He’s a werewolf.”
“Nothing wrong with being a werewolf,” James muttered, and Dumbledore could not help but smile. The smile did not last long, however, as his mind wandered to the deeds he knew Grayback had committed.
“He bites children,” Dumbledore said softly. “If their parents don’t agree with whatever it he wants, he positions himself near their homes at the full moon…” He trailed off and shook his head, feeling suddenly very old.
He looked over at Fawkes. The phoenix ruffled his wings and gazed back at him, his own eyes strangely expressive.
James’ face twisted into a look of disgust. “Merlin, that’s… that’s horrible.”
Dumbledore nodded in agreement. There weren’t words to properly describe just how much he despised Grayback’s tactics.
“If Grayback is indeed involved in all this, then this is more proof as to why Remus was killed,” Dumbledore said heavily. It was his mission, his orders, that had put Remus in danger and ultimately gotten him killed.
James didn’t appear to have anything to say to that, and Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment and allowed himself to feel regret.
“Sir… uh… Albus?” James said after a lapse in the conversation. “Why is Voldemort waiting so long to attack? I don’t understand why he would have spent seven years doing nothing.”
“He wasn’t doing nothing,” Dumbledore replied. “He was recruiting. He was building his army, growing stronger.” He leaned back in his seat and stared at James through his half-moon spectacles. “Voldemort is intelligent. Brilliant, even. He attended Hogwarts years ago “ not, of course, under the name Lord Voldemort “ and was then of the brightest students I have ever had. But he was also cunning, ruthless… and he did not take risks unless he was convinced that there was a high likelihood he would be successful. His plan was so completely destroyed seven years ago.”
“But if it is true that Malfoy was going to be Minister… well, why didn’t Voldemort just find someone else to do the job?” James demanded. “Why put everything on hold just because one person died? I haven’t gotten the impression that he really cares about his followers.”
“No,” Dumbledore said flatly, “he doesn’t.”
“Then why…?”
“He had no way of knowing how much we knew,” Dumbledore replied. “Lucius Malfoy was killed and Lestrange’s reputation suffered a severe blow. That was two of the three most important followers Lord Voldemort had. He knew I was suspicious, knew that there were a handful of people fighting against what he was doing. He must have assumed that we knew more than we did, and was not about to start a war if he did not have the upper hand. And keep in mind, James, that even if he did not attack outright, these past four years, he has been active. Recruiting, and probably making plans.”
“It’s still a long time to wait,” James protested.
“I do not believe time matters to Voldemort quite the way it matters to the rest of us.”
James blinked. “That’s what my uh… informant… said,” he muttered.
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “Your informant?”
“The one who Sirius told you about. The one that gave me all that information about Voldemort. I asked him the same thing, why Voldemort would wait so long. He said something about time not mattering to the Dark Lord.”
Dumbledore leaned forward eagerly. “Did he say anything else about that?”
James shook his head. “No. Why? Is it important?”
Dumbledore nodded. “Maybe.”
He knew James was hoping for more, could see the expectant expression on his face. But Dumbleodre only had suspicions, and though he was convinced that they were at least partially correct, he had no desire to share them until he had more information. Still, James’ comment meant that at least a few others were aware of the things Voldemort had done.
Including this stranger who had accosted James.
“Do you have any idea who this… informant.. of yours is?” Dumbledore asked.
James shifted uncomfortably. “I… sort of. I thought I recognized his voice and… there was just something very familiar about him, but I couldn’t quite place it. And then… the more I thought about it, sir… I think it might have been Regulus Black.”
Dumbledore accepted this in silence. Then he said, “Be careful, James. This is dangerous, and I fear it is getting more dangerous every day.”
James shrugged. “I know. But if Voldemort is as bad as you and everyone else keeps saying, then stopping him is worth the risk.”
“I’m nervous.”
James was so stunned to hear the admission that he simply gaped at Lily, eyes widening. It took him a moment to recover his wits, and he reminded himself firmly of all the other times a client had said the exact same thing to him. There might be much more at risk this time than there ever had been before, but that did not change how he was supposed to act when faced with such a comment.
“There’s no reason to be nervous,” he said, struggling to sound warm and encouraging. But he couldn’t quite manage it, and somehow, the reassurance sounded far more useless now than it ever had in the past.
Lily gave him an incredulous look. “I’m not a fool, Mr. Potter,” she said pointedly. “Your empty assurances won’t work on me.”
James sighed.
“Just be honest,” he advised. “When I ask you a question, answer it truthfully.”
“And what do I do if they ask about all the times I’ve lied?” she demanded.
He reached out and touched her arm gently. “I’m the one you’ve lied to the most, remember?” he answered. “And I won’t ask you about that. And I won’t ask you about Malfoy. We will stick to Lupin’s death.” She didn’t look convinced, and he said, “Lestrange doesn’t know about most of your lies. He can’t ask you about them, Lily. He can’t ask you about things he doesn’t know.”
She nodded. “And if he asks about Malfoy?”
“I’ll object. I will argue that it isn’t relevant.”
Lily rolled her eyes. “Yes, and I am sure that Bones will agree with you as he always does,” she replied sarcastically.
James hesitated, knowing that he couldn’t really argue with her about that. Bones would ignore his objections and allow Lestrange to ask anything he wanted about Malfoy. And those were not questions he wanted Lily answering. In part because he was afraid she might confess to the murder and in part because he still had no idea what had actually happened that night and he didn’t want any surprises.
“Legally, I cannot advise you to lie when you are under oath,” he said slowly.
Lily’s mouth dropped open in complete surprise. “But you are,” she whispered. “You want me to lie, to stick to my earlier story, my fake alibi… You want me to tell Lestrange that I didn’t have anything to do with Malfoy’s death.”
James turned away and didn’t answer. All of sudden, he was struck with the memory of Longbottom’s conflicted face as he explained that he had committed perjury to keep Lily safe.
And now James was doing the same thing. Well, he himself was not lying under oath but he was advising one of his clients to, and that was tantamount to breaking the law himself. But what other choice did he have? If he told Lily to tell the truth when Lestrange asked about Malfoy “ and he would undoubtedly ask about Malfoy “ she would admit to his death and ruin any chance she had at being cleared of these charges. And how long would it be then before Lestrange was poised to take over the Ministry or the Wizengamot, to further Voldemort’s plans?
It left him feeling dirty and uneasy. This wasn’t justice. It was something different, something so much harder to swallow. Sirius, he knew, wouldn’t care. He’d say that Malfoy got exactly what was coming to him. And, as James himself had pointed out to Marlene, he or Sirius would have killed Malfoy to protect her from meeting the same fate as Lily nearly had. But did that make it okay?
What did Narcissa and Draco Malfoy think?
When did everything change from back and white to shades of gray?
He sank warily into his chair, and after a moment, Lily followed suit.
“Remus was always so angry at Frank,” Lily said quietly, “because Frank wouldn’t stand by me after the trial. Because he suspected…” She paused, ran a hand through her wild hair. “I was never upset with him for it. How could I be? I had already asked so much from him and…” Again, she trailed off. “But Remus didn’t know the truth, and so he didn’t understand why Frank was so reluctant to champion me as Narcissa tried to ruin my life.”
“You killed her husband,” James said bluntly.
Lily flinched, but otherwise did not react to his comment. Instead, she continued, “Even after Alice died… I never told Remus the truth. So he couldn’t understand how my friendship with Frank had fractured so much. He couldn’t understand… and he couldn’t excuse. I’m not sure he ever forgave Frank for the perceived slights against me.”
“Why didn’t you tell Lupin?” James asked, repeating a question she had not answered the first time he asked.
“I didn’t want him to know I was a killer,” Lily answered. “I didn’t want him to know the truth. He… he didn’t see my faults, he never saw them. He thought I was perfect and I… I didn’t want him to know what I had done. I didn’t want him to know that I wasn’t perfect and that… it was self-defense, but still…”
James swallowed uneasily. “Lupin hid the… object… in your living room,” he said.
Lily gaped. “He… what? Did you find it?”
James shook his head. “It was already gone by the time that we got there. Someone had taken it. Do you know who?”
Lily stared at him with an oddly calculating look in her eyes, but then shook her head. “No. I don’t even… I don’t know who would have even thought to look there. Does… does Voldemort have it?”
“No,” James answered. “Someone else does. We just don’t… we just don’t know who.”
There was a long silence.
Finally, Lily asked, “When did you discover this?”
“A day and a half ago,” James answered.
“And you’re only telling me now?”
“It seemed time to get rid of some secrets,” James answered. “Any you would like to share?”
Lily didn’t reply, and James rose to his feet. “I should go,” he said, starting towards the door. “The Wizengamot will arrive shortly and someone will escort you to the courtroom. Your testimony will begin as soon as court is in session.”
“Mr. Potter… James…”
He paused at the door and looked back. She was sitting at the table still, and her eyes were filled with tears. Her red hair hung limply over her pale features, accentuating the weariness in her face. She looked so exhausted, so worn, that James could not help but wonder what kind of toll keeping these secrets for seven years had taken on her.
“I knew about Malfoy.”
“What?” James asked, not comprehending.
“I knew he was going to be Minister. Or… well, I knew he was going to be something important. Maybe not Minister, but… I knew that Voldemort had plans for him. He told me… when we argued at St. Mungo’s, when I threatened him. I told Dumbledore about it… and I told Narcissa. That’s what he was so upset about the night I… the night he died. Narcissa hadn’t known about the plans before that, and he didn’t like that I had told her.”
James dropped his hand from the doorknob. “You knew?” he breathed. Somehow, that seemed to change everything.
But Lily somehow guessed his thought and said, “It doesn’t change anything, it really doesn’t. I kept hoping it would. For seven years, I kept thinking that maybe I could justify everything by… We’re fighting a war, a war that threatens to destroy everything and everyone I love. A war launched against people like me. And war is fundamentally dark… and I kept hoping that… but nothing changed. Sometimes I think that’s why I never fought against Narcissa as hard as I could have, why I never tried to get Frank to trust me again, why I didn’t ask Dumbledore for help or assistance of any kind… Because didn’t I deserve their hatred or contempt? I wanted to believe it was for the greater good… Seven years, Voldemort didn’t do anything. Seven years, and I thought that maybe part of it was because of me. But now… now that I know for a fact that I played a role in delaying an all-out war… It doesn’t make anything easier.”
“Why are you telling me this?” James asked.
Lily shrugged. “You said you wanted to share some secrets.”
Narcissa will not listen. She’s shaking her head, blonde hair falling in front of flashing eyes, anger causing her fair skin to turn pink. She’s backing away, and Lily wants more than anything to stop her, to force her to listen. But she can’t. She can’t do anything, and the space between her and her one-time friend grows.
“Cissy?” a voice says, and Malfoy is suddenly there, at Narcissa’s side. He wraps and arm around her and slides himself into the space between the blonde witch and the redhead. There is another man with him, one that Lily vaguely recognizes as a high-ranking Unspeakable at the Ministry… Rookwood, maybe?... and he gently takes Narcissa by the hand.
“Come, Mrs. Malfoy,” the Unspeakable says with a smile, drawing her away. Away from Lily.
“Cissy, wait!” Lily cries out, one last attempt. But Malfoy closes his hand around her shoulder and drags her backwards and Narcissa walks away and doesn’t look back.
“Don’t cross me, Evans,” Malfoy snarls, his voice low and threatening. “You’ve been a thorn in my side for far too long. Don’t tempt me to crush you.”
She looks up at him, and she knows she should be afraid. He is powerful, magically, politically, physically. He could crush her without much effort on his part. But Narcissa is her friend, and she doesn’t want to believe that the blonde is past saving. Even though she has been making excuses for Narcissa for years, even though Remus, Alice, and Frank don’t understand, even though all logic would tell her that they have each chosen their paths and it is time to stop pretending that anything can change.
She doesn’t feel fear. She feels anger, because this is Malfoy’s fault. He has done this, he has taken Narcissa away from her. He has ruined this friendship and knocked her down over and over and Lily is just so tired of it all.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she says.
Malfoy smiles cruelly. “Oh? Then wait a week, Mudblood, and you will be.”
“What happens in a week?” Lily asks.
Malfoy leans close, smiling malevolently . “One week, and your kind will be where they truly deserve. One week, and I promise you, the Dark Lord will make sure you know your place. And perhaps, just for fun, I will make sure Lupin knows his place as well.”
Lily’s breath catches in her throat. “Remus?” she whispers, horrified. “What do you…?”
“I’ll be in a position to do something about scum like you and half-breeds like him,” Malfoy continues in his malicious tone. “I’ll be able to get rid of you lot and nothing will stand in my way. Nothing.”
“How did you know…?”
“About your pet werewolf?” Malfoy asks softly. “Does it matter? All that matters, Evans, is that in one week I will have control, I’ll have power, and then you’ll learn the penalty for crossing me. I’ll ruin you. And I’ll destroy Lupin. He’ll never find work again. He’ll never live among witches and wizards. I’ll send him out with the rest of the werewolves to live in the woods like the beast that he is…”
She doesn’t know what she is doing, hasn’t though through any of the consequences of her actions. All she knows is that she is furious and terrified and it isn’t until she hears the resounding crack of skin hitting skin and feels a tingling in her palm that she realizes she has slapped him.
The words pour from her, loud and angry and filled with fire, “If you do that, I will make you regret it!”