Author's Notes: Wow! Thank you so much to the reviewers for your wonderfully encouraging responses to Chapter 1! I hope you'll find the rest of this story just as compelling.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is copyrighted to and belongs to JK Rowling. I'm just playing in her sandbox and own none of her associated characters.
Chapter 2
"Man is not what he thinks he is; he is what he hides."
—Andre Malraux
Late Summer, Circa 1980
Severus Snape's stride slowed amidst the array of bushy Mme Plantier white roses, now charmed to bloom in the ghastly summer heat, that were nestled within the Malfoys' lavish garden, wishing to school the repulsed expression that inwardly mirrored his thoughts. His biting cringe couldn't be averted, however. Thorfinn Rowle's hairy, bare arse peeking through the brush was a sore enough sight that any wizard might flinch.
Repulsed, Severus redirected his path. He swerved sharply to the left and headed back in the direction from whence he had come, the wretched moans and squeals of Rowle and Alecto Carrow in the heavy midst of their beastly copulation trailing after him towards the manor. He was grateful when the noises faded; the repugnant image imprinted on his mind was exacerbating enough to shake off.
Severus detested parties, and Lucius's garden soirees in the spring and summer were no exception. Rather, any social gathering involving this particular lot of benefactors to the Dark Lord were none too enjoying for the young, un-notable Death Eater. Few of his fellow like-minded comrades provided Severus the private entertainment he sought from their company anymore (and without their knowledge, naturally). He was cleverer than most, and that seemed to be keeping him alive and on good terms with the majority of them.
Lord Voldemort's inner circle, as Severus had gathered rather quickly on his way up the leader's ranks over the past two years, were sloppy drunks at best. Not only were they messy in their inabilities to hold their liqueur but they were stupidly loose with their tongues. Dangerously loose, to be frank.
His hosts, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, were, perhaps, an exception to such regular shambolic conduct, and were the singular reason that Severus tolerated showing his face at these invitations at all. Of course, if the Dark Lord was to be in attendance, Severus's presence, like his comrades, would have been mandatory. On a too muggy August evening such as this, however, and without his lordship expected to make an appearance, Severus would have gladly steered clear of Malfoy Manor had it not been at his host's overbearing behest that he show up.
They were toasting the Dark Lord's latest victory: several hundred new recruits. Some twenty-one new members had taken the Dark Mark in the past month alone. The Malfoys' party was an elaborate excuse for another drunken charade in a long list of celebrations that had been provided in Lord Voldemort's honour; but their leader was apparently too preoccupied to turn up tonight.
In this particular instance, Severus envied his master. Pretending to be cheerful, making merry with his clumsy followers, and watching them, as the night worn on, reduce themselves to a pitiful, slobbery swarm of sex-crazed lunatics wasn't Severus's idea of a good time. His Lordship might feel likewise; or, perhaps, it was on account of the compromising information Severus had provided him recently over a certain prophecy from that crazed Sybill Trelawney that suggested the Dark Lord may be defeated that had his lordship so preoccupied.
Severus understood, without needing to think too hard on the reasoning, why Lucius had insisted on his attendance: to supply more juicy details on what he had overheard about the prophecy. This normally would not have fazed Severus, for Lucius was a stickler for snooping and prodding wherever his own interests might benefit him most. The man's conceit and over-confidence got under Severus's skin once in a while but only if he was intoxicated to a point that the blond's arrogance sparked his temporary will to care. And Severus rarely allowed himself to become that inebriated. Alcohol, as had been proven with fellow Death Eaters, could make for a life-altering error in the tricky circles in which they navigated.
Thus far, Severus had graciously accepted each glass of Elderwine Lucius poured him, making certain to cleanse his glass of all contents once his host wasn't looking, and had fended off his former housemate's probing questions; but he supposed Lucius hadn't yet exhausted all methods of extracting information, leaving Severus to be on his guard and make himself scarce at every possible turn this evening.
As Severus reached the French-style doors that led to the back of the estate, their portals open to allow for the scantest respite from the uncomfortably thick summer heat, he thought better of walking in on what was in play: a serious game of Wizarding bets. The game was at its height and a brawl was apparently stirring between players Rolland Mulciber and Evan Rosier, each of whom was accusing the other of cheating them out of the tempting pile of coinage at the centre of their table. Alonso McNair's wife, Eleanor, a brute of a witch and a perpetual flirt, particularly towards whomever possessed the upper hand, was sandwiched in between them and egging the men on towards a duel. A collected Lucius was trying to diffuse the situation with more brandy, so Severus left the pathetic lot to their idiocies and strolled onward towards an elaborate maze at the far northwest side of the property.
The setting sun tinted the clouds in a dreamy multitude of pastel pinks and golds, shrouding the grounds in unusual warmth. One could almost feel at peace here. Severus understood its draw for the Malfoy family. He had been to this part of the manor many times before, though normally in the company of Lucius, but rarely ventured too far inside the extensive maze which had been expanded by Lucius's pureblood forebears over the centuries. If one had something to hide, the Malfoy Maze was an eerie, opportune spot in which to safeguard secrets.
Despite the uneasy feeling of the place, it called to Severus on this sweltering summer eve, its silence and detachment from the rest of the connecting landscape, which overflowed with flowers, pebbled walkways, marble statues and a magical fountain, welcoming to the solitude Severus craved. He ambled inside the entrance—the hedges charmed into a cathedral-type archway—and wove his way towards the closest stone bench, unsurprised to find it deserted. Severus thanked Merlin for small favours, seated himself comfortably, and, at last, permitted his mind to wander towards thoughts which he had been suppressing all evening.
A growing knot was welling in the pit of his stomach and had been for the past week. Ever since that ruddy prophecy...
He hadn't felt this out of sorts since the beginning of the year, and not being entirely in control of his emotions was never without its share of personal horrors. His conscience evidently didn't appreciate the reminder of certain news which had reached his ears on that unforgettable, frigid January night at The Hog's Head: 'the Potters were expecting.'
Severus clenched his jaw to ward off the acute pains in his gut. He made useless annoyance of digging his fingernails into his thighs, clawing and scratching and seething. Physical pain that he could control felt much better.
Lily had given birth since then. The child would be a few weeks old now; a 'boy', if the news was correct. A distracting image of the Potters came to fruition in Severus's mind. He wanted to lean over the bench and retch all over the Malfoys' perfectly cut grass, but he willed himself to ignore the knob prodding at the back of his throat.
"Are you feeling unwell, Severus?"
Severus startled and snapped his head sideways. There, only a few feet to his left, stood a quietly observing, refined-looking Narcissa. But then...when was she not sophisticated, if even at a distance? The champagne dress she wore fanned outward at her knees like a mermaid, accentuating her fine curves and slender physique. She may have birthed her first child—a son, Draco—at the beginning of the summer but one would not have known it except for the witch's rather well-endowed breasts. The delicate, laced trim woven across her chest made her features all the more feminine and fragile and accentuated her new motherly 'glow'. Severus had always thought that whole idea of motherhood bollocks, but with Narcissa, there was most certainly a certain...affect.
She was exceptionally beautiful—a stunning illumination amongst the earthly trappings of hers and Lucius's green labours—even whilst casting Severus an almost knowing look over that he found disquieting. She wasn't alone either. Her sister, Bellatrix Lestrange, stepped forward from behind a tall hedge and Severus had to force down an inappropriate noise that would have surely passed for callous laughter.
The two sisters side by side were an oddball configuration, like that of a lioness standing next to a hyena, in Severus's view. Bellatrix held no competition against her sister's royal-like beauty—or sane mind, most would agree—but, to a lot of wizards (and some witches), she wasn't unattractive; but Bellatrix was superior in brains and in her brandishing of the Dark Arts, neither of which left Severus particularly comfortable in her presence. She was unstable, unpredictable, and nothing was too perverse or beneath the blood-thirsty witch's wandwaving, nor that of her deranged husband, Rodolphus, the only other wizard alive (aside from, perhaps, the Dark Lord himself) who successfully matched her gross classification for malice.
"I'm fine," Severus asserted, making a small correction of his slumped posture.
"No pussy worthy enough for you to take this evening?" Bellatrix taunted, with a sinister wag of her tongue. One of the loose sleeves of her crimson-coloured dress conveniently slid down her shoulder, nearly revealing a perky breast and a nipple beneath. "I can fix that for you."
Severus didn't miss Narcissa's fleeting flinch, as if she was privately mortified by Bellatrix's lack of decorum. Yet, it wasn't unlike the loose woman to offer herself freely to ruffians within their circle.
Severus washed the abhorrence from his face and softly answered, "Not tonight," knowing the smile he flashed Bellatrix would unhinge her. She wasn't accustomed to being turned down, particularly by any of their kind and certainly not by a man much younger than her.
Bellatrix scowled, wrenched her sleeve back into place on her puny, bony shoulder, and stalked forward. Her dark eyes were suddenly livened, enraged. "You're going to have to prove your loyalty soon enough, Severus, one way or another!" she declared, flaring her nostrils as she stared him down. "And you may not have your slim pickings when the time comes!"
"Tragic as that may be, I've had my share," he replied flatly.
"That's a lie!" she cried, a creepy, red-blood smile twisting her lips. "You will prove that you're worthy of us, Severus! The Dark Lord shall make certain of it, especially if I make such a request!"
Severus threw her a measured but inscrutable glare. "Go ahead, if you must."
Giving a determined throw back of her feral mop of black curls, the shifty witch took off towards the maze's entrance, flicking at Severus's arm and relishing in his knee-jerk reaction of reeling backward to avoid physical contact. She cackled, loud and satisfied, and sauntered off to re-join the others.
"You'd do well to take my sister up on her offer," Narcissa surprised him moments later by expressing. He quirked an eyebrow at her. She had taken a few steps closer to him, with her hands knotted together in front of her. She now appeared composed and unaffected by her sister's behaviour. "Bella's not one to make empty threats."
"I know she's not," Severus concurred, though no less dissuaded. He wiped some non-existent debris off of his trousers and stood. "But I'm willing to take my chances."
Narcissa's bright blue eyes flickered beneath the gentle light of the fading sun as she stared at her younger company. "Do you have a type, I wonder?"
Severus's eyebrow rose higher on his brow. "Are you interested in my 'type', Mrs Malfoy?"
"Forgive me," she hastened in response, lowering her gaze a fraction. A small, hardly noticeable blush flooded her cheeks. "I didn't mean to pry. It's just... There aren't many who would refuse my sister."
A corner of the wizard's mouth gave a slight upward curl. "I'm not like, as you say, 'many', Mrs Malfoy."
"No... I reckon you're not."
There was something both daunting and fascinating in Narcissa's softness. Severus couldn't quite put his finger on why her gaze this evening rattled him more than usual, for she acted as radiant and meek-minded as she ever was. In fact, Narcissa Malfoy was one of only a handful of the Dark Lord's followers whom Severus didn't much mind; or give thought to. She hadn't taken the Mark as many of the others had and presented no real threat to anyone, so Severus hardly felt one way or another about her rather removed, quiet demeanour; but, like him, she was a surprisingly difficult read and that tended to put Severus on his guard. He hadn't yet worked out if Lucius's pretty trophy wife had an agenda of her own as the rest of them did; or if she was as simple, seemingly dim-witted, and as devoted a companion to her husband as she portrayed herself.
As with most matters involving his personal welfare and that of looking out for the underlying motivations of others, Severus could exercise patience in his assessment of Narcissa Malfoy. For the time being.
"I should get back," she said, terminating the short bit of silence that transpired. "I'm afraid I haven't been a good hostess. I'm much more suited to the company of my two-month old son than a room full of adults these days. Would you care to escort me back, Severus?"
"If you'd prefer."
"I would, thank you."
Severus politely offered the Malfoy matriarch his arm and they left the maze together without speaking. Halfway across the lawn, Narcissa punctured their quiet interval again. "I only meant to advise you before," she spoke plainly, the sincerity in her voice not withheld.
Severus chanced a curious glance down at the soft-spoken witch. Her eyes were not as lukewarm as they usually were. It might have been a reflection of the light, the last of the sun's warmth projecting onto them a certain depth of expression almost always reserved for her husband alone.
"I know," he replied, returning her regard with an unreadable gaze of his own.
Narcissa shot him a faint but happy smile. "I sense you don't care for anyone's counsel. You're a lone wolf, aren't you, Severus?"
Severus's eyebrows shot together. "A recluse I may be, but a werewolf I'm most certainly not."
Narcissa giggled and leaned on his arm. "I hope you realise that I meant no disrespect." Then her tone turned serious. "My sister's right, however unfortunate it may be: you should take someone, and soon. Surely, you do realise what the Dark Lord and the others expect of you?"
Severus slowed his gait as they drew closer to the back of the manor and Narcissa matched his rhythm. "I'm well aware of the terms, Mrs Malfoy."
"Narcissa, please," she requested gently. "In that case, I shan't stress them to you anymore." She bowed her head and unfurled her arm from around his. "Again, my apologies. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Severus."
Narcissa sauntered ahead of him into the house, where the growing unrest between Mulciber and Rosier could no longer be seen or detected. Either their argument had ended peacefully (unlikely) or it had been hexed into silence. None from the party were present and the back room was empty.
In silence, Severus followed Narcissa into the house, though he kept a considerable distance. He eyed her graceful silhouette as she flowed from room to room, in search of her husband and, no doubt, the rest of their vanished company.
They discovered most of her guests had retired to the drawing room, including Lucius, who had miraculously separated Mulciber and Rosier from one another. Both wizards occupied opposite sides of the room and were engaged in private, separate conversations. Rosier, more particularly, had a hand shoved up Eleanor's dress and was groping her openly. She, in turn, sucked his face, as if she was extracting every last bit of juice from a lemon.
Time to go, Severus determined, with an aggravated roll of his eyes. He had no wish to prolong his stay. He would offer his compliments about the party, say his goodnight to his host, and be off at last.
Narcissa had made her way over to her husband's side by the fireplace, where Lucius was in the midst of what appeared to be a rather hush-hush conversation with Rodolphus Lestrange. Her delicacy and dignity made her, to Severus, look entirely out of sorts amongst their unseemly guests, all of whom she either ignored wilfully or with obliviousness.
Unexpectedly, from across the room, she turned her gaze on Severus. The same uneasiness from earlier rushed at him, for there was an awareness he sensed in her scrutiny. It propelled his need to make his exit all the faster.
Perhaps all his reeling about the prophesy was driving him mad; or, perhaps, Severus saw something in Narcissa he hadn't perceived before: insight.
That was unacceptable.
A Few Months Later
Severus plopped himself down in his mother's favourite wingback chair by the hearth, a bit of nostalgia tugging at the back of his mind. The green and purple patterns had long ago faded and were considerably worn and fraying along the seams. It needed reupholstering—the entire house could do with a great deal of work after all of his parents' neglect—but Severus was still in the early midst of settling into newfound homeownership.
He hadn't expected to inherit Spinner's End from his estranged father upon the old man's demise. In fact, at first, he had thought it some grave miscalculation read in Tobias Snape's will. Somehow, through some unexplainable turn of events, his father had showed his only son a snippet of decency, even if it was at the end of his miserable, wretched existence. It was more likely that his father hadn't gotten around to updating his and Eileen's will before his passing, however.
Considering he would no longer have to worry about providing a roof over his head, Severus was pleased. The mortgage was less than the rent he had been paying to live in that crummy flat outside of London. It hadn't taken him long to charm the small rooms and add his personal touches everywhere, with the intent of turning the source of his childhood trauma and suffering into a cosy abode he might actually come to enjoy retreating to.
In three to four days he had converted his parents' bare, lifeless sitting room into a library piled high with books. A mixture of wizarding, muggle, and Dark Arts tomes lined the walls, with considerable room to grow his humble but substantial second-hand collection.
Books had long provided Severus the consolation he couldn't find in people. Of course, there had been one person in his youth who momentarily changed all of that—Lily Evans, now Potter—but their friendship had been rocky and, perhaps, doomed from the start. Severus couldn't have dreamt that just a few short years ago he and Lily would wind up on opposing sides of a wizarding war, and all over the magical superiority of bloodlines.
She had thought ill of him by their fifth year at school; he couldn't begin to imagine how lowly she must think him now. Then again, Severus thought with a pang of regret, she probably never gave him a second thought these days, whilst his thoughts, even amongst the comforts of his books and a strong glass of Firewhiskey, still bent to her—always those wondrous green eyes and vibrant red hair—and the painful reminders of a dear friendship lost to wizarding warfare.
She was right, he lamented, alone, shifting in his mother's chair and swigging back a large gulp of his drink. It burnt like an Unforgivable Curse as it seeped down the back of his throat. She was right about everything...
Wearing a pensive scowl, Severus studied his half-empty cup at length, his pale fingers curling tighter around the glass. There was another avenue he could pursue. Of course, it would mean risking not only betraying the people he no longer considered his friends (with the exception of, perhaps, the Malfoys), but hadn't choosing the path of a Death Eater basically marked him for death?
Pun intended, he snorted into his glass, though the heaviness marking his face didn't cease. There's still one option left. It might not work—you might even wind up dead—but he just might listen to you, and he just might be able to keep them safe. Dumbledore.
A/N (cont.): Thank you for reading. Reviews are always greatly appreciated.
