The following evening found Marquas in his dimly lit office, the scratching of his quill against parchment providing a rhythmic counterpoint to the occasional crackle from the small fire warding off the dungeon's perpetual chill. The scent of sandalwood incense, chosen specifically to mask any unusual potion ingredients he might be working with, hung in the air as he graded third-year essays with half his attention while the other half monitored the specialized tracking charm he'd placed on Fenrir Greyback during their interview. The charm was minimal, designed only to provide general location and basic activity level rather than detailed surveillance that might be detected but sufficient to confirm whether his potion had achieved the desired effect.
As the full moon rose over the Scottish Highlands, painting Marquas's office window with silvery light that seemed to make the potion bottles gleam ominously on their shelves, the tracking charm indicated that Greyback remained stationary in what appeared to be a remote cabin, not prowling forest edges or approaching settlements as was his usual pattern. Activity levels showed calm, measured movements rather than the frenzied aggression typical of his transformed state.
"Werewolf tea party indeed," Marquas murmured with satisfaction, a rare hint of genuine accomplishment warming his typically guarded expression as he made a final notation in his observation journal before removing the tracking charm entirely to eliminate any evidence of his interference.
The next day, a sharp knock at his office door startled Marquas from his concentration. With practiced efficiency, he closed the journal and swept his desk clear of anything suspicious, composing his features into their customary impassivity before calling, "Enter."
Minerva McGonagall swept into the room, her emerald robes rustling softly against the stone floor. The tight lines around her mouth betrayed a curious blend of confusion and what appeared to be, most unusually for her, cautious relief.
"Severus, have you seen the morning edition of the Prophet?" The faint scent of Scottish breakfast tea and ginger biscuits accompanied her words.
She handed him the newspaper without waiting for a response. The headline immediately caught his attention, the bold black letters seeming to leap from the page:
WEREWOLF ATTACKS FAIL TO MATERIALIZE: MINISTRY PUZZLED BY PEACEFUL FULL MOON
The article went on to report that despite intelligence suggesting planned werewolf activity in three different regions, no attacks had occurred. Ministry officials were quoted expressing cautious optimism while acknowledging they had no explanation for the unexpected reprieve.
"Most curious," Marquas commented, keeping his expression neutral despite the inner satisfaction that coursed through him like a warming draught. "Perhaps the werewolf packs are changing tactics."
"Perhaps," McGonagall replied, her Scottish brogue becoming more pronounced as it always did when she was skeptical. She peered at him over her square spectacles, clearly not entirely convinced. "Though it seems a rather dramatic change, doesn't it? Fenrir Greyback has never missed an opportunity to cause suffering during a full moon. Not once in all these years."
"People can surprise you," Marquas offered with a delicate arch of his eyebrow, returning the newspaper. "Even monsters occasionally reconsider their methods. Or perhaps something... interfered with their usual activities."
McGonagall studied him with that shrewd, penetrating gaze that had intimidated generations of students. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft bubbling of a cauldron in the corner where a mild Calming Draught simmered for the hospital wing.
"You wouldn't happen to know anything about this unexpected development, would you, Severus?" she asked finally, her tone suggesting she already suspected the answer.
"Me?" Marquas raised an eyebrow, the picture of innocence though his obsidian eyes glittered with the slightest hint of amusement. "I'm merely a Potions Master and professor, Minerva. My influence on werewolf social behavior is regrettably limited. Though I will admit, the timing is... fortuitous."
"Hmm," she responded, the sound somewhere between a snort and a chuckle. She adjusted her spectacles, clearly unconvinced but apparently deciding not to press the issue. "Well, whatever the cause, or whoever might have caused it, it's a welcome respite for the communities that live in fear of these monthly attacks. Particularly the children."
"Indeed," Marquas agreed sincerely, his mask slipping just enough to show genuine sentiment. "A night without innocent victims is always worth celebrating, regardless of how it came about. Some battles must be fought quietly, with subtle weapons rather than grand gestures."
McGonagall's eyes widened fractionally at this unusual glimpse of sincerity from her typically guarded colleague. She opened her mouth as if to pursue this rare opening, then seemed to think better of it, nodding instead with something like respect in her gaze.
After McGonagall departed, her footsteps fading into the dungeon's ambient dripping and creaking, Marquas allowed himself a moment of genuine satisfaction. His intervention had worked precisely as intended, lives had been saved without compromising his cover or leaving evidence that could be traced back to him. It was a small victory in the greater scheme of the war, but sometimes those small victories were what kept one going through the darker moments.
The pleasant warmth of accomplishment was a rare visitor to his chambers. Savoring it briefly, he made a mental note to refine the potion formula for future use. A more stable version with longer-lasting effects could potentially neutralize Greyback as a threat for extended periods, significantly reducing Voldemort's influence over the werewolf communities.
••••
The momentary satisfaction of his werewolf intervention was short-lived. Three days later, Marquas stood before Voldemort in Malfoy Manor's study, the cloying scent of magical incense doing little to mask the underlying smell of fear that permeated any space the Dark Lord occupied for long. The ornate room, with its heavy velvet drapes and ancient tomes, felt suffocating as Marquas presented the results of his investigation into the suspected Death Eater traitor.
The Dark Lord listened with unnerving stillness as Marquas methodically outlined the evidence against Avery, the timeline discrepancies, the financial irregularities, the pattern of "coincidences" that collectively painted a damning picture. Only the slight movement of Voldemort's pale fingers against the armrest and the occasional flicker in his crimson eyes indicated he was absorbing every calculated word.
"Most concerning is his unexplained absence during the Bristol planning session," Marquas concluded, indicating the relevant documentation in his report with a precise gesture. "He claimed illness, yet was seen at Gringotts that same afternoon, appearing perfectly healthy. The next day, Aurors somehow knew precisely when and where our team would emerge from the designated apparition point."
Voldemort's red eyes narrowed slightly as he absorbed this information, the temperature in the room seeming to drop several degrees.
"You are certain of these findings, Severus?" Voldemort asked, his high, cold voice barely above a whisper. "Avery has been among my followers since the beginning. His family has served my cause for generations."
"I have verified each element personally, my Lord," Marquas confirmed, maintaining eye contact despite the unsettling sensation of Voldemort's passive Legilimency brushing against his mental shields. "While any single inconsistency might be explained away, the pattern is difficult to dismiss. If not deliberate betrayal, it indicates at minimum a concerning level of carelessness and indiscretion."
"Indeed," Voldemort murmured, his long, pale fingers tracing the edge of the financial records Marquas had compiled. The soft rasping sound was somehow more menacing than any shouted threat. "And these transactions? You believe they represent Ministry payments?"
"It's one possibility," Marquas replied with calculated precision, the weight of his words measured precisely. "The timing aligns suspiciously with several compromised operations. However, I've also uncovered evidence suggesting gambling debts to certain goblins, which could provide an alternative explanation, one that might make him vulnerable to blackmail or coercion rather than indicating willing treachery."
This strategic approach was deliberately crafted. Presenting Avery as potentially compromised rather than willfully traitorous gave Voldemort options in how to respond, options that might not necessarily end with Avery's immediate execution, though his future would certainly be unpleasant regardless.
Voldemort fell silent, his serpentine features unnervingly still as he considered the information. The only sound in the room was Nagini's occasional soft hiss and the ticking of an ancient clock that seemed to mark the potential end of Avery's life with each movement.
"Interesting," Voldemort said softly after what seemed an eternity, his expression unreadable though a calculating gleam had entered his crimson gaze. "You've been most thorough, Severus. I am... pleased with your diligence in this matter."
"Thank you, my Lord." Marquas inclined his head, keeping his relief carefully hidden behind his Occlumency shields.
"There remains the question of how to address this situation," Voldemort continued, rising from his chair to pace the study with predatory grace, his bare feet making no sound against the expensive carpet. "A public example would discourage others from similar weakness, yet might alert our enemies that we've identified their source."
Marquas remained perfectly still, knowing that any movement during Voldemort's deliberation could be interpreted as nervousness or impatience, potentially fatal mistakes.
"If I may suggest an alternative approach, my Lord?" he ventured carefully when Voldemort's pacing brought him near again. When Voldemort nodded permission, the slight tilt of his hairless head almost gracious, Marquas continued, "Perhaps Avery could be more valuable as an unwitting conduit for misinformation. If he is indeed passing intelligence to our enemies, controlling what information he has access to would allow us to mislead them strategically."
Voldemort paused in his pacing, his lipless mouth curving in what might have been appreciation. The expression was more terrifying than his anger, somehow. "Clever, Severus," he said, the sibilant quality of his voice more pronounced. "Using their own tool against them... Yes, I find that approach elegant in its irony."
He returned to his seat with fluid grace, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he expanded on the concept. "We could feed him information about planned attacks that will never materialize, drawing Auror resources away from our actual targets. Perhaps even create the impression that certain Order members have been compromised, sowing distrust within their ranks."
Voldemort's eyes gleamed with malicious pleasure at the prospect of such manipulation. "Avery will be kept within our ranks but fed carefully curated information. When the moment is right, this deception will cost our enemies dearly. And when his usefulness has ended..." He left the sentence unfinished, but the implication hung in the air like the blade of a guillotine.
"As you wish, my Lord."
The meeting concluded with Voldemort assigning Marquas a new task, developing the framework for this misinformation campaign while promising to "address Avery's carelessness personally." The casual way he stroked Nagini's massive head while speaking these words left little doubt about the nature of this "address."
It was, Marquas reflected as he strode away from Malfoy Manor, the gravel crunching beneath his boots and the evening air a blessed relief after the stifling atmosphere inside, about the best outcome he could have hoped for. Avery would suffer, certainly, but would likely survive and more importantly, Voldemort's suspicions about internal treachery had been redirected away from other potential targets, including Marquas himself.
The moral calculus remained uncomfortable, settling in his chest like a cold weight. He had effectively framed an innocent man (or at least innocent of this specific betrayal) to protect his own cover. Yet that cover allowed him to continue working against Voldemort from within, potentially saving many more lives than would be lost if his true allegiance were discovered.
"The lesser evil," he murmured to himself as he apparated back to Hogsmeade, the familiar discomfort of magical compression a momentary distraction from the ethical compromise. "Cold comfort, but comfort nonetheless."