"Rosemary" by InFabula
Disclaimer: these wonderful characters belong to JK: I just borrowed them for a bit.
A/N This is a companion piece to "Time": these are two alternatives, both of which will be gloriously AU after 21 July. A large piece of werechocolate to those who work out the title.
For the umpteenth time, he pushes greying hair from his eyes and studies the bricks in the wall opposite. Sitting slumped in the corner, he has already memorised his surroundings till he feels he could accurately draw them with his eyes closed.
Harshly lit - he still hasn't figured out how - the cell is brick on three sides with no window and little by way of facilities. The fourth side comprises solid iron bars from floor to ceiling. Beyond the bars lies a wide, stone passage which disappears down to the left towards, he imagines, further cells. Straight ahead of him and to the right lie black marble stairs - thirteen, he reminds himself - sweeping up to a wooden door and freedom.
There are no hopes for rescue. After Azkaban's fall, the members of the Order were simply overwhelmed. Kingsley killed in a full-on attack of the Ministry; Minerva, Alastor and Hagrid entrenched at Hogwarts to defend the school; Molly persuaded to leave the Burrow and stay with Fleur's parents; Arthur rebuilding the Ministry following Rufus's murder. Still no news of Harry, Ron, Ginny and Hermione.
Intent on keeping a low profile, he has buried himself underground with the werewolves, hoping for information to help if he can ever find someone to tell. And then he hears that she has gone missing and he has to come out into the open. Has to, has to, has to.
He waits till after the full moon and then ventures out, desperate for word of her but there is none. As soon as he starts asking questions, he's picked up and brought here.
Unconsciously, he fingers the large, iron collar locked tightly around his neck. He knows its purpose just as he knows the reason for the bowl of water on the floor, the scraps of leftover food and the straw bedding. To dehumanise him, to remind him of his other self, to make him beast.
Crabbe and Goyle come to collect him. So supreme is Voldemort, the Death Eaters don't bother with masks any more. They are sure their time has come.
A long hall. Door after door after door. They stop in front of one and Goyle knocks.
"Enter!" comes the crisp instruction.
Floor-to-ceiling bookcases; deep pile carpet against his bare feet; a room flooded with early morning sunlight. A long table and at its head sits Lucius Malfoy, in the middle of breakfast.
"Ah, Lupin," he says brightly as he sips tea from a fine china cup. "Do have a seat."
A chair is pulled out.
He stares at the chair and then at Lucius.
"Thank you, but I prefer to stand."
Lucius looks amused.
"Not keen on sitting down with the enemy?"
"Something like that."
"I can assure you I find the prospect of having filthy vermin at my table equally unappealing. But since I don't plan on having a crick in my neck, I'm afraid I must insist."
Still he stands.
Lucius sighs.
"My toast is getting cold," he says peevishly and draws his wand. "Do you know, when we first took you, I was looking forward to invoking the Imperius Curse. What a fine battle of wills that would have been. But to allow for others," here a glance at Crabbe and Goyle, "I altered my original plans. And I have to say it is a convenient shortcut. Accio collabris!"
The iron collar takes on a life of its own and pulls him forward and down into the chair.
Lucius runs his eyes over his unshaven, dirty face and then reaches for a piece of toast buttering it lavishly.
"After you've been in Azkaban, you find delight in every little thing," he said, biting into the bread. "I don't even trouble with jam any more."
As he watches, Lucius chews the toast, wiping away a little dribble of butter that escapes down his chin.
"I feel I should offer you something, Lupin. I don't expect you've had much to eat."
Stretching his arm out, he beckons to someone sitting by the window. A woman in her fifties with straggly brown hair stumbles forwards, clutching a shawl around her shoulders, keeping her head low in deference.
"Ophelia, my dear, we have a guest. Please would you organise something special for him?"
Ophelia gives a little giggle.
"It's an ill moon that blows no good," she confides to no one in particular, then giggles again, drops a curtsey and wanders from the room.
"My wife's known her since she was a child," Lucius explains. "A little distracted now, poor thing, but we keep her occupied."
"What do you want from me?" he asks hoarsely. "What do you imagine you're going to get?"
Lucius leans forward.
"For a start, I know I'm going to get intelligent conversation. That's such a rarity around here."
"I have nothing to say to you."
"We're in control," Lucius says quietly. "The Dark Lord's rise to power is assured."
He smiles in spite of himself.
"In a moment, you're going to say resistance is useless."
Lucius returns the smile.
"It is."
The silence is broken by Ophelia's return. She carefully places a plate in front of him. It contains a pink velvet hair ribbon, three bay leaves and a handful of uncooked rice.
"Thank you, Ophelia," he says gently and the woman grins, still avoiding eye contact, bowing her head and backing away.
"Many a mickle makes a Muggle," she laughs and sits back down by the window, gently rocking.
Lucius crunches another piece of toast.
"Do you know, during the First War, when we were looking for a spy, I thought of you. Dark Creature, shunned by society…you seemed to be tailor-made."
"You never approached me."
"Oh, Severus advised against it. Too noble, too honourable, too grateful for the pity and kindness of others, he said. Aim for the weakest link."
"Peter," he whispers. He can't block out the words to come so he drives his nails into his palms, hoping the pain will distract him.
"Pettigrew," Lucius acknowledges. "As easily led as you could hope for. As feeble and cowardly as you could dream of. So eager to tell us secrets. So impatient to bask in the glory of being centre-stage."
He says nothing, trying not to think of the betrayal and deceit and treachery and death.
"The First War seems so long ago, now, doesn't it?"
Silence.
Then:
"I'll see you tomorrow for breakfast, Lupin." And he waves a napkin in dismissal.
In the cell, he remembers the First War and the Order and the suspicion which ate away at them like a cancer, growing and growing until it was all they could think of, all they could talk about. Fabian and Gideon dying like lions…and then when they thought it was all over, Frank and Alice, tortured into madness. Peter responsible, Sirius blamed. And that leads him on to relive Sirius's death and the ache inside consumes him.
The next day, Ophelia sits opposite him at the table, head bowed low, threading a daisy chain. Lucius is halfway through a plate of bacon and eggs.
"We might have some company tomorrow, Lupin. I think Severus may be joining us. I believe he is quite anxious to see the last of the great Marauders at bay. I'm not sure what you did to him at school but he seems to have a problem letting go."
He thinks briefly of the days at Hogwarts, the feud, the hexes, the jinxes, the pranks, the humiliations: a lifetime ago but never forgotten and, by Snape, never forgiven.
"He loves me, he loves me not," Ophelia starts to sing, plucking daisy petals. She choruses to herself a little and then descends into a quiet hum.
"You will be pleased to hear, Lupin, that I can see no point in torture. I can't imagine that there's much we can do to you that would compare to the pain of transformation," Lucius allows himself a small smile. "Though I'm sure Severus will try to change my mind. What do you think?"
"It's possible," he agrees.
Dismissing him, Lucius finishes the last piece of bacon with relish and he tries to disregard his hunger pains.
Ophelia stands up and trips round the back of him and crowns him with a daisy chain.
"Thank you, Ophelia," he says gravely and ignores the sniggers behind him from Crabbe and Goyle.
----
Sitting on the straw bedding, he wonders what Snape will have dreamt up. Having accepted him as one of the Order, he still finds it difficult to think of Snape as one of the bad guys. If he is working some kind of double bluff, then there is still a chance for release and escape and a chance to find Tonks. If he is a Death Eater through and through, then he knows he will take the opportunity to make him suffer for everything he and Peter and James and Sirius did.
He recalls the night at the Shrieking Shack and the vicious delight on Snape's face as he sent snaking cords to bind him fast. Even if he is against Voldemort, Snape might still take the opportunity for a little private revenge. He lies down and shuts his eyes against the bright light and tries not to think of what Snape has planned.
As he enters the room the next morning, Ophelia runs up to him and head bowed, clutches his arm.
"Poor thing, poor thing," she says plaintively, picking at his sleeve. Then her voice rises with unease, "Bricks and bones, bricks and bones, bricks and bones!"
He puts his hand on hers to calm her and hears Lucius saying:
"You'll have to excuse Ophelia. She is a little unsettled today. Visitors make her nervous."
And then he sees there are two extra guests at the breakfast table: next to Lucius sits Snape, cold pleasure in his eyes. Next to Snape, cramming a forkful of scrambled egg into his mouth is Peter.
He swallows and moves to the empty chair opposite Snape. Ophelia pulls free and curls up in the chair by the window, continuing to mutter agitatedly.
Lucius raises his wand but Snape interrupts him.
"Let me," he says and stares at him with fierce glee.
He stares back and his mouth fixes in a hard line as he remembers that Snape killed Dumbledore.
Before Snape can force him, however, he sits down in the chair. Snape lets out an involuntary hiss of disappointment.
"Severus and I have been discussing what to do with you," Lucius says and he notices at once that Peter is not mentioned.
He hopes against hope that they have not thought of the same thing he has.
"I won't tell you anything," he states and is rewarded with a squeal of laughter from Peter.
"Oh, Remus, what can you tell us that we don't already know?" his former friend snorts.
"Peter has a point," Lucius says mildly. "Your value to us lies only in your value to Potter."
He goes cold with the thought that he might be used as bait to capture Harry.
"Not his only value, Lucius," Snape corrects. "I, for one, am looking forward to seeing how long he takes to break."
His black eyes glitter as they lock on his, searching for fear and anticipation. He refuses to give Snape satisfaction.
Lucius cuts in:
"Our plans for you are quite simple, Lupin. We wait a fortnight. Full moon. A little company for you in your room downstairs."
Lucius picks up his cup and sips his tea watching as the colour drains from his face.
"And a month later, we do it all over again. And again. And again. That's all it will take."
"Severus was thinking of the Cruciatus Curse," Peter pipes up and the other two look annoyed. "But I told them physical pain means nothing to you."
"Unlike others," Snape says cryptically.
Mind full of his worst nightmare, he only half-hears him.
"Oh, that's right," Lucius agrees, nodding. "We had some exercise the other week. Didn't we, Ophelia?"
Frowning, he turns to the window and sees Ophelia clutching her arms about herself. And then she looks at him and he sees her eyes for the first time and he hears a cry of anguish and realises it comes from him.
He runs from the table to gather her up in his arms and hold her tightly to him, part of him hearing Lucius say:
"It took two days to fracture her into Ophelia."
Two days of Cruciatus Curse; two days of unending pain; two days for her to be lost to him.
"She called for you," Peter adds, "towards the end."
He does not remember Crabbe and Goyle pulling them apart, dragging him away as he swings impotent punches at them, at Lucius, at Snape and Peter.
He comes to back in the cell. He rolls on to his back and then he remembers and his heart creases up with grief, his thoughts full of a heart-shaped face and a shock of pink hair.
"Please don't think I'll be able to save you, even if I wanted to."
Snape is standing outside his cell.
"I don't," he answers honestly.
"You showed weakness upstairs."
He knows this.
"Now Lucius knows a way to hurt you. Don't imagine he won't use it."
"I won't."
"Up until now, he's kept her for effect. Now, her life will be unbearable."
He says nothing and forces back the anger and the tears.
Snape crouches down so that he is closer to him.
"I rather think Lucius is looking forward to having you as a pet. An exhibit, if you will."
He tries to control the inner shudder.
"I can provide true potion for you, you know. Or not."
He is silent, picturing the agony each month of not knowing whether he will have control. They will want him to beg. And, however much he hates the thought, he knows he will oblige.
"Of course, I may be able to adjust the ingredients," Snape says silkily. "Something lethal might find its way in."
He looks through the bars: is Snape offering a way out? If he accepts, what will happen to Tonks? But if he's no longer around, Lucius will have no reason to hurt her.
"Severus…"
"The thing is, Lupin, I don't believe I shall tell you when I do it. I shall just make sure I can see your face as you realise."
He brings his face right down to the bars.
"And I'm not in any hurry. It could be months from now. Because whilst I am looking forward to the moment we arrive at your death, I intend to enjoy the journey there immensely."
He breathes out slowly, watching his world crumble in the spiteful vengeance of Snape's eyes.