"If you'll follow me, Miss Gree— my Lady," said Professor Snape, offering a slight bow before casting a handful of powder into the fireplace in the mansion's foyer. The flames flared emerald. "There is a Pensieve in my office at Hogwarts."
According to the Carrows' report, Hogwarts had fallen easily, which was surprising considering the strength of its teachers. They hadn't even tried to put up a fight— perhaps they'd seen that the tides of fate had turned in the Dark Lord's favour and decided to go along with the flow. After all, they were sworn to teach all students who presented themselves to Hogwarts's hallowed doorstep, whether they were evil or not.
"I never imagined I'd set foot in Hogwarts again after what I've done," Daphne murmured, stepping out of the roaring green flames, Professor Snape close behind. "I daresay you thought the same, Professor?"
"I never doubted the success of your plan— nor the Dark Lord's— my Lady," said Professor Snape coolly. "If you'll permit me, I'll prepare the Pensieve."
Daphne rolled her eyes behind his back as he strode off, his black robes swishing around his legs.
Professor Snape, Bellatrix, Yaxley, the Carrows… Sycophantic fools, the lot of them, desperate for the Dark Lord's favour. They would say anything if they thought it would please their ears or lower their rivals' standings.
She hated them all, but she hated Professor Snape most of all, as all of this could have been prevented if he'd just told Dumbledore about her plot. Spies, double agents… they were all untrustworthy, in her opinion, and when it came to selling information to the enemy, there was a very fine line between triple agents and traitors. She would never trust him again.
While she waited for Professor Snape to pour the memories— extracted from the wedding-goers unfortunate enough to have been captured by the Death Eaters— into the Pensieve's basin, Daphne let her eyes wander around the Headmaster's office. It seemed much the same as when Dumbledore had occupied it, with its gleaming silver instruments, rows of bookshelves, and portraits glaring down at her with unmistakeable disapproval.
"Ah, there's our new headmaster," a voice rang out from one of the portraits. "About time we had someone worthy of the title, if you ask me."
The only portrait not whispering conspiratorially to its neighbour or shaking its head in disapproval was that of Professor Phineas Nigellus Black, which hung above the glass case containing the red-and-gold Sword of Gryffindor. The former Headmaster was another one of her distant ancestors— and come to think of it, hadn't she seen that very same portrait at 12 Grimmauld Place, in Harry's room?
"You approve?" Daphne asked the man in the portrait.
"Well, more or less," spluttered Black. "I suppose some might find the Death Eaters' methods distasteful— not I, naturally— but as I am duty-bound to help the current Headmaster, no matter whom he himself might serve, you can see how difficult it is for me to…"
Daphne turned away, uninterested in hearing any more… and that's when she saw Professor Dumbledore's portrait, hanging above Professor Snape's desk. Those electric blue eyes… Daphne suddenly felt sick to her stomach.
"The Pensieve is ready," came Professor Snape's voice.
Temporarily excising memories had helped him deceive the Dark Lord, but now that he had gained his full trust, there was no need to keep them stored in the Pensieve. It brimmed with his own experiences, and the last thing he wanted was for the Dark Lady to see them.
Daphne tore her gaze from the mournful elderly man in the portrait and approached Professor Snape, who stood over what resembled a marble birdbath filled with wisps of translucent, silvery white clouds. Brief flashes of images flickered within like lightning.
"Simply immerse your head in the basin," Professor Snape instructed.
The instant the tip of her nose touched the silvery substance roiling within, Daphne felt a lurch as the world spun around her, pulling her into a whirlpool of what felt like icy water— and then the spinning suddenly ceased. Suddenly, she was no longer in the Headmaster's office, but standing before a white-and-gold marquee gleaming brilliantly in the sunlight, surrounded by smiling faces.
"You're looking for the red-headed girl in the gold-and-lilac robes, standing before the Weasley brothers at the tent's entrance," Professor Snape's disembodied voice echoed around her. "That's your sister. Do you see her?"
Daphne recognised those dress robes. Though the colours were wrong, she remembered Oleandra parading before her in them at home, shortly after buying them. Her feather-brained sister had meant to wear them to the Yule Ball, but the idiot had forgotten them at home, forcing her to wear her combat robes to the dance.
Knowing her sister, she'd probably completely forgotten all about it by now.
"I don't see you on the list," said someone's memory of Ronald Weasley. "What did you say your name was, again? I didn't quite catch it."
"That's because I didn't," replied the red-haired girl, her voice echoing oddly. "Why don't you look again? I shouldn't be too far down from my Great-Great-Grandaunt Muriel."
The memory faded as the person whose point of view Daphne was reliving stepped into the marquee. The world dissolved into a blur of colours while Professor Snape poured another memory into the Pensieve— then, slowly, it settled once more.
This time, Oleandra sat alone across a table from an old man, her back to Viktor Krum, Loony Lovegood, Ron, Hermione, and a chubby, red-haired boy.
"We believe Harry Potter is the red-headed boy," Professor Snape's voice echoed once more. "After investigating, we discovered a Muggle in the nearby village who looks exactly like him."
Daphne didn't ask what had happened to the Muggle. She listened intently, watching her sister's expression as she eavesdropped on Harry's friends. Oleandra seemed oddly… frustrated, but Daphne couldn't understand why. Her sister also looked slightly miserable, but she hid it well.
…
Snape watched the back of Daphne's head intently.
He had pored over the memories again and again, trying in vain to understand why Oleandra had taken the risk of walking into the dragon's den alone. When he failed to produce an answer, Voldemort passed the matter to the person closest to the girl— his own, precious Dark Lady.
…
Back in the memory world, Harry's friends were still gossiping.
"That's the sign of the Deathly Hallows," said memory Loony. "Daddy and I are Questers."
One of Oleandra's eyebrows suddenly rose, and her eyes widened slightly.
"The Deathly Hallows?" murmured Daphne. "That fairy tale?"
The sun in the memory world was beginning to set.
At some point, Krum invited Oleandra to a dance, and together with Cedric and his dance partner, they disappeared together into the throng of dancers.
"Cedric Diggory is one of ours," came Professor Snape's voice. "The next memory is his."