Lucius Malfoy, though considerably frustrated, was in no hurry to surrender to Hagrid's mercy and turned out to be quite a tough nut to crack. Yes, this was nothing like Snape and his "anything you ask!" The letter of intent had stalled somewhere in the middle of the text, and moving it forward was proving rather difficult. A genuine gift from the universe, then, was the news that the "Gloves" artefact had been completed, the dryad approved, and she was ready to begin work this very moment—winter in the forest held so little of interest!
It was worth taking a look at the gloves themselves, which were somewhat different from what one would ordinarily expect to pull over a lady's hands. They were more like carnival claws of indeterminate origin—with long, dangerously glinting sharp talons and a fancifully curved frame, such that between the long, impossibly slender fingers what appeared to be semi-transparent membranes seemed to quiver. The movement had a strange, almost hypnotic quality, so that even experienced wizards found the sight rather arresting. Andrei decided not to ask what the purpose of all this was—he wasn't planning a career in artefact-making and hoped the gloves wouldn't start appearing in his dreams. And in any case, if Lady Walburga said it should work, one simply took it and got to work. The main thing was that Ninochka liked it.
While the dryad tried on her new acquisition with undisguised pleasure, Severus could not conceal an expression that read, clearly and entirely, as: "She's depraved." Catching his eye, Andrei realised he himself looked no better, and redirected the young man's attention with a conversation about Malfoy. Because Malfoy certainly wasn't going to slip away now… his gaze drifted involuntarily to the gloves on the dryad's hands, which had just left quite deep furrows in a fragment of old dry timber. He wouldn't slip away. No.
What am I thinking, Andrei checked himself. As if I haven't seen her crushing stones with her bare hands? I wonder if Snape has any idea about his… hmm… friend's capabilities.
He asked—he wasn't one for false tact, and Severus both exemplified that quality and accepted it directed at himself. What came back was Snape's pronouncement that sex was no impediment to good friendship, but that one no longer particularly wanted to spend time on it when life offered so much else of interest, and that Ninochka was to him something like a sister. An elder one. And yes, the "older sibling" was indeed aware of her named brother's talents—and mentioned a couple that even Hagrid hadn't yet worked out.
Ninochka herself, a truly remarkable child of Nature, was flattered by all this attention but appeared to have disclosed rather less than the full extent of what she was actually capable of. Well… on balance, quite right, Andrei thought, and caught her answering delighted smile, accompanied by a pleased laugh inside his own head.
"Severus—did you actually teach her Legilimency?"
"I had to practise with someone!"
"And what range can she read at?"
"The same as us—requires direct eye contact. But we're working on it… She has a remarkable aptitude for mental techniques!"
"Perhaps you should think this through properly first."
"Hmm… all right, you've convinced me. Shall I drop by yours tomorrow evening with my thoughts?"
"Fine," Hagrid sighed. "Though probably better if I come to you. After midnight, as usual?"
What a dryad with Legilimency might become capable of, once that gift was developed, didn't bear thinking about. Though… at least the Forbidden Forest would never need Greenpeace.
* * *
The letter of intent had still not been finalised when Lucius Malfoy received an offer he could not refuse.
"You've learned to remove the Mark?" he exclaimed, boring a look into Snape. "And you're now—"
"Not me," Snape sighed, restraining himself from glancing at Hagrid. Using the half-giant as cover was convenient in every respect, but knowing he was making use of someone who was almost a friend weighed on Severus's conscience considerably.
"Did he drink your potions as well? Something like Sense-Sharpening?"
"Do read about giant maturation," Hagrid said, with a condescending nod. "You'll learn a great deal."
Malfoy went red and ground his teeth—to receive such advice from a dim half-giant was simply intolerable. First he'd been poorly educated at school, and now this—suddenly literate and lecturing everyone! But… the Mark. Or rather, its absence on Severus. The certainty that Snape had never once deceived him. Hope. All of this added to his reserves of patience and restraint enough to keep him silent, even if his snobbishness remained entirely intact. The pause stretched.
"When, where, and what will it cost me?" Malfoy, being the most interested party, broke the silence first. "What do you want? Money? Artefacts? Books?"
"Your loyalty," Hagrid tried one more time. On the off chance.
"Trading bad for worse?" Malfoy raised an eyebrow that outclassed even Snape's.
And, frankly, he was right. What was the point of removing the Mark only to swap one master for another? No—Lucius was not going to sell himself again. Once had been more than enough.
"My apologies," Andrei replied with equal calm, having been prepared for Malfoy to refuse. "That was a test. I apologise again. I have some experience of the matter. There is naturally no reason, having just been freed from one master, to seek another—that would be unworthy of any adult wizard who fully understands the consequences of such… oaths. Would you not agree?"
Malfoy watched Snape look away, and allowed himself a thin smile at the corner of his mouth—he knew whose particular unedifying experience the half-giant was referring to. He wondered: had the gamekeeper also managed to free this Gryffindor—clearly placed in Slytherin by some administrative error—from oaths to Dumbledore? If so… it was decidedly worth drawing this gamekeeper closer. And reading everything available on giants first. Yes.
"In that case, I propose we add to the mutual interest agreement…"
The discussion resumed, and at the end Hagrid suddenly proposed removing the Mark tomorrow, which surprised everyone present considerably. Malfoy was naturally all for it—but it seemed too simple. After all, without the Mark, what could this extremely peculiar company possibly want from him?
"Why are you proposing this? Is it dangerous?"
"Because I don't want someone we're interested in disappearing back into Auror custody."
"But I've already—" Malfoy began, then caught himself quickly. "You know something?"
Hagrid nodded.
"I can't disclose that information," he added, watching with quiet enjoyment as Malfoy's expression shifted.
Obviously he'd buy his way out again—but there was a limit. In the end, one ran out of things to sell, and the wealthiest manor in Magical Britain, as everyone knew, required maintenance regardless of how gifted a wizard you were—even Merlin himself couldn't avoid the bills. So the respected lord's inner Scrooge had every full and uncontested right to exist. Especially given that the Malfoys also had a small heir to consider.
Malfoy, for his part, perfectly understood: this was another test. He'd been offered a more than generous proposition, but if he gave nothing in return, who could say how the Mark-removal ritual would go—and he wasn't in the habit of taking unnecessary risks.
"I swear on my magic that I will sign the agreement and accordingly provide fair payment for the service you have specified." He produced his wand, and threads of light flared in the air and closed around his wrist. Done. He had done what was required.
Andrei nodded. Malfoy was genuinely not a fool, and by most indications a fairly decent person—when one happened to back him sufficiently into a corner.
* * *
The removal of the Mark was a fairly businesslike affair—conducted in the part of the Forbidden Forest nearest Hogsmeade, so that neither the school nor the Auror Office would register anything. The Forbidden Forest was not a quiet place by nature, and against the backdrop of the natural magic that periodically flared there, a surge from removing another Mark ought to go unnoticed—as it had with Snape.
Everyone assembled quickly and efficiently; Ninochka in her "humanised" form did rather surprise Malfoy, but he quickly forgot about feminine beauty—the Mark-removal process had not, unfortunately, become any less painful. If anything, judging by Lucius, the reverse.
Snape ended up escorting him home and didn't return until evening.
The following day Lucius Malfoy had recovered sufficiently to be himself again—which was to say, not a villain exactly, just a man very much unto himself. Very much. Completely, one might say. And so draft agreements flew back and forth via fireplace communication under house-elf supervision, and time passed.
Hagrid's bluff, incidentally, turned out to be rather prophetic: the Ministry had tightened measures against Death Eaters, the Auror Office launched a new wave of searches that spared no one—and most significantly, Severus Snape was apprehended. The Potions master had let his guard down. He appeared in his own face at Malperber's apothecary, and was neatly bundled up on the spot.
Hagrid's lessons had not been entirely wasted, however: Snape didn't think to resist, and even managed not to respond to the insults while being hauled to the Auror Office. The young Aurors were perhaps disappointed that no opportunity to clip the suspect round the ear—or some other location—presented itself, but Severus now held an entirely different view of the matter.
They dragged him to the interrogation room immediately, where he was charged with being a Death Eater and, practically, the Dark Lord's right hand.
Snape recalled his conversations with Hagrid about Malfoy, exhaled slowly, repeated to himself three times that he was calm as a boa constrictor, and politely requested the grounds for this charge. The investigator—an Auror no longer young—rattled some papers, while his partner made the mistake of seizing the left sleeve of the suspect and yanking it back. He nearly sat down on the floor.
The completely clean forearm was examined by everyone present in turn, until Severus himself suggested involving the Department of Mysteries—if they couldn't sort it out, then… he would be filing a claim for emotional and material damages (he adjusted his torn sleeve), either against the Auror Office staff who had clearly exceeded their authority, or against whoever had written this idiotic tip-off. After which he requested fireplace access to contact his solicitor.
The appearance of the Black family solicitor in response to the summons of the halfblood Snape produced a devastating impression, and Snape was shortly holding both tip-offs.
"Karkaroff…" Severus said, frowning with performative displeasure. "I believe I recall this Slav. I prepared potions for him on a few occasions."
"Which ones?"
"I'd need to check the records," Snape shrugged. "Likely a Blood-Replenishing Potion—one of his relatives apparently has magical anaemia. Or possibly a Strengthening Solution. Though I believe I'm entirely within my rights not to answer that question at all, am I not?"
The solicitor confirmed this and looked at the Aurors with patient expectancy.
"Cooperation with the investigation mitigates—"
"Do you still believe I have anything to mitigate?"
Snape turned to his solicitor and coughed, and the man finally got to work.
"Unlawful detention, physical contact—was there? Good, we'll note that. Warrant issued on the basis of tip-offs… Dumbledore—well, I never! Who would have expected that! Ah, you also didn't expect it? Then someone will have to answer for defamation. Karkaroff has left Britain? What a pity. I have colleagues in Europe—Eastern Europe, even. We'll find him."
He spoke that last phrase in a tone that made the senior investigator go pale. The solicitor was already drafting counter-claims in rapid succession. Take that.
"Should we open a case now?" the senior Auror asked Snape, without much hope.
"Well—" Severus shrugged—"not necessarily. As I understand it, your office is currently somewhat occupied with other matters, and I have no plans to go anywhere, so there's no hurry. How long do you need—a month, three, six?"
The Aurors collectively opened their mouths. Nothing like this had ever happened in their experience. Either people demanded everything at once, or they kept silent, or they wept and confessed, or they denied everything, offered bribes and inducements—but to respond with such indifferent calm? Even the innocent didn't act like this. The guilty, needless to say, even less so. And Snape continued, as though thinking aloud:
"Of course, I would be interested in a personal word with the esteemed Headmaster on the subject of"—he looked at the Dumbledore-signed envelope with distaste—"this. But I imagine no one would prevent me from doing that regardless. And there's really no need to stage this particular scene in the Auror Office, is there? Mr Bullstrode here will pursue Karkaroff if he wants his fee. And I imagine it would be sufficient to provide Madam Longbottom with the details of your colleagues' conduct…"
"What could we offer to prevent you doing that?" the investigator asked, his voice strained—his favourite nephew happened to be one of the team that had been sent to arrest Severus Snape.
The Slytherin in Snape finally awoke completely, and he surveyed the dingy interrogation room walls with a bored eye. Money was always useful, of course, but he found himself with rather different ideas.
"Tell me—where does one obtain an official permit for… hmm—" he made a show of deliberating before continuing—"working with basilisk anatomical components?"
"But—" the senior Auror nearly choked—"there are none!"
"A matter of classification," Snape said, with the merest lift of an eyebrow. "You see, in the potionmaking community, it's customary to take pride in such… rarities. Unique specimens, if you will."
"But working with basilisk parts is prohibited!"
"Well—there aren't any."
At this point the junior Auror, without further hesitation, bolted to find the Head of the Auror Office—such questions could only be resolved at that level. Fortunately, Rufus Scrimgeour was in.
Needless to say, a document of the relevant content, signed and sealed, left the Auror Office in the company of a theatrically bored Severus Snape. Though Scrimgeour did feel compelled to ask, by way of a final enquiry, whether Snape actually intended to work with the specified components.
"Are you asking whether I could locate a basilisk and milk its venom?" Snape sighed. "I see you do love a fairy tale. First you consider me the Dark Lord's nearest confidant, then a Parselmouth—I suppose I should start taking pride in my reputation. But seriously: I swear on my magic that I personally am incapable of any such thing. Lumos. Nox."
"Then what do you intend to do with this?" Scrimgeour looked baffled at the parchment.
"What? Frame it. In the room where I take potion commissions, naturally. I estimate my income will increase by at least ten percent on standard orders and twenty or more on complex ones."
* * *
"At last I'm seeing the real Slytherin in Snape," Tom declared, the first to emerge from the Pensieve, beside which a queue had formed of those wanting to immerse themselves and watch their beloved Potions master's performance in the Auror Office.
Hagrid and Tom were first, and watching their satisfied expressions, even Walburga decided to look for herself. Later, once everyone had dispersed.
Snape, for his part, had possibly never in his life felt quite as pleased with himself. Sirius, naturally, did not forget to present him with a lemon—which, thanks to Kreacher, turned out to be entirely real, and was shortly thinly sliced, dusted with sugar, and consumed with a well-known Muggle spirit.
Severus had never in his life received so many approving looks. Even the "canine Black" acknowledged the prank had been "absolutely first-rate"—earning himself another clip round the ear from his mother, which, to judge by his expression, he barely felt.
Who it was who first remembered that the Headmaster had a fondness for Muggle sweets, Andrei never worked out. But he was curious about the Director's most recent gastronomic enthusiasm—partly because he wanted to know, and partly because Severus, offended by the tip-off, had put forward certain proposals, some of which definitely warranted acting upon. At least exploring.
The proposals took on quite concrete shape, the assembled company turned them over several times, tried calculating some aspects using numerological tables, and the evening was declared a resounding success—Andrei very nearly forgot that sleeping at home was probably advisable.
And in the morning, a Malfoy owl flew in through the cabin window—a modest, inconspicuous bird, kept for "sensitive" correspondence. Reading yet another elaborately worded letter, Andrei finally decided he needed another head—one versed in wizarding law. Because without one, he was practically helpless.
I wonder—is young Barty home by now or not? And if he is, has Azkaban and his father's Imperious curses left him sane? Actually—I should check whether Mrs Crouch is still alive. And that's a job for… of course. Madam Longbottom might want to consult a specialist on something. And enquiring about a colleague's wife is not in poor taste—quite the opposite, in fact. Just showing an interest.
Andrei sat down at the table, and half an hour later despatched an owl—the birds clustered around his cabin constantly these days, angling for work and the treats the gamekeeper never stinted on afterward.
And so began Operation Crouch and Crouch.