Chapter 207 - Praeris's Letter

Snape's expression shifted in an instant, then snapped back to calm just as fast.

He couldn't understand it. If Sylvia had truly defected to the Death Eaters, why would Voldemort have only Peter Pettigrew greet her, without a single word about himself?

What baffled him even more: Winnie and Sylvia had fallen out precisely because Winnie had been lured into joining the Death Eaters. Why had Sylvia now walked the same road?

The newest Death Eater recruit was a Gryffindor?

No one dared say a word out of turn. But every pair of eyes in that room was deafening.

Voldemort had his subordinates' every thought well in hand. At precisely the right moment, he announced Sylvia Prince's crime before the assembled crowd: the praying mantis's sin. Husband-killer.

"Your new companion was once seduced by a Muggle and led astray. Now she has upheld the glory of pure blood by severing that temptation with her own hands. What — are you not welcoming her return?"

At that, everyone present fell over each other to pledge their loyalty. Someone even had the nerve to say that to err was human, to correct was divine.

Draco couldn't make sense of the situation, but he found the whole scene inexplicably ridiculous. As if "to err is human, to correct is divine" was something that existed among Death Eaters.

One Winnie had left. Now a Sylvia had arrived. Voldemort's die-hard loyalists Bellatrix and Dolly wore thunderous expressions, looking ready to eat her alive.

The meeting broke up. Sylvia was kept behind.

Voldemort walked slowly toward this gaunt, hollowed-out woman and lowered his voice. "Come. Tell me — where is the treasure your master, I, require?"

People turn superstitious when life goes badly enough, and Voldemort was no exception. He felt no shame in it. Wasn't Grindelwald a prophet? Besides, Voldemort himself had proven through lived experience that Divination and prophecy were not lies.

Now, without a single Horcrux on his person, his wand restricted by the twin-core limitation, he felt a vulnerability he hadn't known since the days he was still making Horcruxes.

It was then that Yaxley, who oversaw the Ministry of Magic, offered him Sylvia, compensation for the bad intelligence he had fed him from the Ministry.

This was a witch who had stumbled out in a daze during the Death Eaters' mass breakout from Azkaban. Per Yaxley's report:

"Master, in the Ministry's records she is listed as an exceptionally gifted Seer. During her imprisonment, extreme suffering stripped her of the ability to prophesy... When the Dementors abandoned their posts, they Kissed her. Your loyal servant has tested her personally — she has lost all emotion and all happy memory, yet her mind has grown purer for it, and her prophetic ability has greatly increased..."

What a perfect tool. No will of her own, and all useful faculties intact.

Voldemort would not take Yaxley's word on faith. He performed a deep Legilimency probe on Sylvia's mind himself.

If forced to describe it: her consciousness looked like a world divided by a bank of cumulonimbus clouds. Above the clouds, a vast and tranquil night sky scattered with stars. Below, a disaster zone torn apart by torrential rain. Half her memory was a wide, empty silence. The other half had collapsed into extreme chaos and dark. Completely fractured.

No sane person's mind looked like that. Voldemort was satisfied. This woman had gone thoroughly mad.

When she heard his command, Sylvia's face twisted with something like struggle. The left half remained utterly still, an undisturbed well. The right half looked as though it was being pressed into agony from the inside.

The Tarot cards on the table lifted into the air, caught by a wind that came from nowhere, tumbling in loose disorder. After a long moment, most fell face-down to the floor. Only two landed face-up, settling in front of Voldemort.

One was The Hermit: an old man holding a lantern, facing left. The other was the King of Swords, with no clear directional pull.

Voldemort had barely picked them up when Sylvia screamed. A sharp, tearing sound that cut worse than a Mandrake's cry.

She clutched her own head and pressed both hands over her ears. The scream was hers to make but Voldemort's alone to suffer, and it forced him to silence her with a spell, leaving him with a Seer who screamed without sound.

Southend-on-Sea.

Praeris sat bolt upright, stiff as a corpse, the hair at her temples plastered in damp strands against her skin.

She rarely forgot things. But waking just now, she couldn't bring back a single image from the dream. She only knew, hazily, that it had been a nightmare.

Maybe her childhood bed was too small. Or maybe it was because this was the same bed she'd been in when she was taken away from home, and that was enough to pull the nightmares in.

Praeris pressed a hand to her forehead, turned, and climbed out of bed. In the washroom she cupped water in both hands and splashed it onto her face, over and over, until the heat finally left her cheeks.

This young girl, just dragged through a nightmare, had no idea what her birth mother had endured. She didn't know that Sylvia had been forced to lay cards for Voldemort, cards that pointed toward the right answer.

If Praeris had seen those cards herself, she would have been stunned.

The elderly lantern-bearer on The Hermit card pointed unmistakably to Dumbledore. The sage faced left, indicating Devon, west of Wiltshire. And the old man standing on solid earth made one thing plain: Dumbledore was not dead.

The King of Swords was an air card. Air pointed east. The King of Swords meant a seat of authority. What lay east of Wiltshire? London. The British Ministry of Magic.

But Praeris knew none of it. She lay back down, let herself drift off, and saved her strength for the trip to Diagon Alley with Dumbledore.

Since Dumbledore's death, Diagon Alley had grown a little more chaotic with each passing day. Scrimgeour was still holding the line at the Ministry, at least. But Scrimgeour didn't trust Dumbledore, and spent his energy papering over the cracks, manufacturing a brittle illusion of peace for the wizarding world.

"You ought to go out with a grown-up!" Old Tom said, anxious. "It's dangerous out there now!"

"Tom," Praeris said, surprised, "I'm already of age. And besides, where would I find a grown-up?"

Old Tom paused. He scratched his thinning hair and only then remembered that six years had passed. In his mind, Praeris was still that small, unsociable girl who liked to startle people and rarely stepped outside.

Of age. He couldn't quite make the words fit her.

He started to mention Winnie and Plim, then remembered both of them were being hunted by Death Eaters. He started to mention Snape, who had brought Praeris into the wizarding world, then remembered what Snape had done to Dumbledore.

Fate had been brutal to this child.

"Then at least go with Heidi..." Old Tom said, trailing off.

"I'm not going alone." Praeris said evenly. "This is my friend, Mr. Wald."

"Good, then." Old Tom, not quite sure what else to do, offered Mr. Wald a glass of wine, and said it again: "Good, then."

Praeris plucked the glass out of his hands. "Mr. Wald can't drink right now. Old Tom, I need to ask you something."

At that, Old Tom seemed to shed a few years. He straightened his back and asked, "What is it?"

"I had a necklace. A gift from my boyfriend. Mundungus, that little thief, lifted it." Praeris lowered her head, voice heavy with sorrow. "You know how little I own..."

Old Tom slammed the table. "Damn that Mundungus, stealing from a child!"

"Old Tom, I want to know where Mundungus sells his things." Praeris raised one bent finger and gently wiped away tears that weren't there. "I want my treasure back."

Old Tom pointed outside. "Lately he's been setting up his stall in front of where Florean Fortescue's used to be."

Praeris got what she came for. She stayed and chatted warmly with Old Tom a good while longer before finally pulling up her hood and leaving with Dumbledore.

"I thought you could tell just from looking?" Dumbledore said, his blue eyes lit with quiet curiosity.

"The climate is tense everywhere right now," Praeris said, keeping her voice low. "Old Tom's business is slow. He's lonely. A bit of conversation doesn't cost anything."

For the elderly, loneliness and solitude are a slow poison.

Diagon Alley's streets were choked with unlicensed vendors, their stalls crowding the roads narrow.

Praeris found one with a particularly shifty look about him, crouched down to his level, and dropped her voice. "I've got a deal. Interested?"

"A deal?" His eyes slid sideways. "I don't do anything illegal!"

Praeris stood up cleanly. "Then I'll find someone else. There's always someone willing to make money."

"Wait, wait, wait!" He lurched forward to stop her. "What kind of deal?"

"You know Mundungus?" she said quietly.

He blinked. "There's nobody on this street who doesn't."

"There's a lady who had something taken from her by that man." Praeris dragged the words out, unhurried. "She's furious and wants him to answer for it. I'm here to find out what I need to know. If this goes well, there's a cut in it for you. Seven for me, three for you. How's that?"

The vendor's eyes brightened. He licked his lips. "Six and four. I'm the one taking the risk here, middleman."

Praeris shook her head repeatedly. "No. Six for me, four for you, or we're done talking."

He looked deeply pained, wrestled with it, and finally came down to a decision. "Deposit up front, information after. If you're satisfied with what I tell you, we split it even. Agreed?"

Praeris frowned, her disguised face pinching into reluctance. She gritted her teeth. "Fine. But if you try to play me, don't expect to keep your spot in Diagon Alley."

She dug through her battered bag, pulled out a small pouch, and tossed it to him.

The vendor introduced himself as Mark, called Gnome Mark by the street, on account of being short and not particularly easy on the eyes.

As Mark remembered it, Mundungus had come around with a load of goods to sell about a fortnight back.

"I spotted a pair of gloves in the lot." Mark rubbed his hands together. "Silk on the outside, lined with Leavers lace, gold thread worked in."

Praeris recognized that. Walburga's gloves had been among the missing things.

"Go on," she said.

Mark flashed her an ugly, ingratiating grin and rubbed his fingers together.

Praeris tossed him a few more Galleons.

"You won't regret choosing me!" He tore the pouch open and nearly put his nose inside it to count. Then he kept going: "That necklace you mentioned, though. I didn't see one."

Praeris raised an eyebrow. Her gaze sharpened. "Oh?"

"Don't get hasty!" Mark rushed to add. "On the very day he brought that batch in, Mundungus was complaining to everyone that some old Ministry witch had squeezed him dry!"

"All those people and she only grabbed me!" Mundungus had griped, furious.

Mark couldn't stand Ministry types who soaked up money and did nothing, but he didn't particularly like Mundungus either, so he'd twisted the knife: "Took a real beating, didn't you, Mundungus! Haven't even started selling and your coin's already flown — that's a terrible omen!"

The other vendors had piled on, laughing.

People in the trade can't stand hearing anything that curses their luck. Mundungus had gone red and fired back: "That's where you're wrong! I handed that old locket over to the pink toad and she took it like it was treasure. Didn't fine me a Knut!"

"It wasn't a necklace — Mundungus said it was a locket." Mark hurried to explain as Praeris's expression curdled. "But there's every chance the necklace is inside it!"

"Fine," Praeris said, in a tone that made it sound like anything but. "And you keep every word of this buried deep. If anyone else walks off with the reward because you talked, I won't forget it."

They settled up. Transaction closed.

Praeris had what she needed. Mark had made a tidy profit. He closed up his stall in high spirits and scurried off toward Gringotts, head low.

Praeris found Dumbledore and gave him the short version of what Mark had told her. "I think the locket is in Umbridge's hands. What if we have Harry approach her under the Weasley name?"

"The snake-venom dagger?" Dumbledore asked.

Praeris quietly rolled her eyes. "The venom's been used up, and the blade's contaminated by snake blood."

Either Harry went back into the Chamber of Secrets, or they used the Sword of Gryffindor. Either way, that wasn't Praeris's problem to solve.

She wrote a letter at the Owl Post Office and sent it to Harry:

"Puppy,

At a renowned sculptor we both know, I came across a piece from the collection your uncle was fond of last time. It's priced at 1248.84 Galleons. Please raise the funds quickly, before someone else buys it.

Thalia"

Praeris held the letter out for Dumbledore to read and asked, with some pride, "Well?"

"Forgive me," Dumbledore said cheerfully, "but I cannot connect what we just discussed to anything written here." He tapped the number. "Pounds sterling?"

"It seems it still falls a little short." Praeris sighed. "Though not everyone has your particular gift for this, do they?"

Dumbledore suspected the letter might be too artfully encrypted for Harry as well. But "renowned sculptor" might be something only Praeris and Harry shared, a piece of understanding that existed only between the two of them.

➤ Next: Crossing Blades