A/N: So sorry for the wait on this one! I got so wrapped up in work, and then Iacta and Ghost, and I didn't have time to edit this together. I did, however, find myself with an excess of Lavender energy upon completion of last night's chapter of Iacta, so here you go! I'll remind you here that this is a low-key parody of basically everyone (because let's face it, it's written from Lavender and Severus's point of view and neither of them are exactly loving).

I'm gifting this chapter to Salovi, whose interest in the Pack dynamic drove me through the first scene. I adore you!

In that vein, I'm considering making this a rare-pair series, all set in the same Universe. I'm considering Lumione, maybe Ron/Pansy (I'm not entirely sold on that one but at least their eating habits would somewhat align). Let me know if you have any thoughts!

Disclaimer: I do not own the works herein, all characters from the Harry Potter Universe belong to JK Rowling, and all characters, storylines, situations, plots and the like do not belong to me. I make no money from this work. The opinions expressed in this piece are not the authors own, simply written in for the character.

Warnings: Rated M for situations, LOTS OF swearing, possible violence, sexual scenes...


Alihotsy, Aconite and Amortentia

Chapter Four


"So."

"So."

Lavender, Remus and Pansy all stared at one another across the living room, the opened Ministry letter sitting between them like a giant pink elephant. Probably juggling.

"That was most unexpected," Remus observed, his eyes flicking to where Severus had stood moments before. Lavender shot him a dark look, unwilling to forgive his utter betrayal. Weren't dogs supposed to be loyal? Lavender was! Pansy was! Where did Remus fall off the cart?

"Highly entertaining, though," Pansy smirked, curling her tongue around the spoon she'd just used to dump ice-cream on her popcorn, much to the disgust of all those assembled. "You two have so much chemistry," she tittered, digging into the bag for a dairy-smothered kernel.

"Were you dropped on your head as a child?" Lavender snapped in her direction.

"Well, my mother wasn't exactly careful, if that's what you mean," Pansy said, tapping her spoon against her bottom lip. "I don't see how that relates to this situation, though. My mental problems are for my future husband to deal with, not yours."

"I don't see why," Remus said quietly, his hand creeping out to snatch a handful of Lavender's truffles away and hide them in his pocket. She pretended not to notice, because he might be her Alpha, but he was also so friggin' cute that it was almost worth having to put up with his cocoa-themed kleptomania just to get that fuzzy feeling inside whenever he shook his hair out of his eyes or scratched his nose or blinked slowly, and she just wanted to go awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww! and ruffle his hair. "We have to put up with it, why not Snape?" he muttered, then slipped a truffle in his mouth and blinked at Lavender with exaggerated innocence.

"Excuse me, Lupin, but who was it who asked me to join the Pack?" Pansy asked, stabbing the air with a spoon. "Who was it who grovelled – yes, grovelled! – on their knees for me to come to this godforsaken house and keep your murder dog company?"

"I'm a werewolf," Lavender sniffed in affront, scowling at Pansy. "You're the dog."

"I'm a jackal," Pansy replied with the same emphasis. "Not a dog."

"Demon dog," Lavender hissed, and Pansy rolled her eyes. "Scavenger!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. So I don't like to kill my own food. Big deal. In the human world, that's, like, civilised." She shrugged and dug deep in her bag of popcorn, then said through a mouthful of creamy half-masticated carbohydrate, "don't really need to with two murder dogs around, anyway, do I?"

"I do object to the wording," Remus said, but he didn't involve himself further. He knew better, after two years of trying to manage the both of them. Lavender thought he probably let Snape in in the hopes that he might be able to manage Lavender, half his stress a bit.

He loved them, though. That was important. They all loved each other like a family, so they could freely hate each other without any of those pesky abandonment issues they all suffered from coming to the fore. (Except Pansy. Pansy got separation anxiety, and it would be fucking hilarious if it wasn't so sad.)

"What's wrong with 'murder dog'?" Pansy asked with deliberate inanity. "It's accurate."

"So's demon dog but you don't like that, now, do you?" Remus reasoned, and Pansy stuck her tongue out at him but fell silent. Remus then turned to Lavender and raised an eyebrow. "Would you like to explain exactly what happened there?"

"Well Pansy-"

"Not with Pansy," he said sternly, his eyes turning disappointed. Lavender winced. She hated when he went all disappointed on her. It was like she'd kicked a puppy. A lethal puppy, but still a puppy.

"I just don't like him," she whined, kicking her legs in the air like a child. "He's old and weird."

"He's the same age as me," Remus said.

"You're old," Lavender told him, and Pansy snorted. "I don't care what anybody tells you, forty is not the new twenty."

"Darn," Remus said dryly. "Guess that's a no to the raves, then. Well, there's my weekend plans down the drain." Sobering, he leaned his elbows on his knees and looked at her closely. "That's not it, is it?"

"I…" Lavender scowled. "I don't want to talk about it."

"There's a change," Pansy muttered, ducking nimbly to a side to dodge the flying television remote.

"I'm going to bed," Lavender announced, standing and heading for the door. "Make sure you clean the place when you're done, damn scavengers!"

Even in her room, wrapped in blankets and snuggled in bed, she could hear the low murmur of their voices from her living room. They didn't leave. She liked that.


Severus, the next morning, found himself in the company foyer of Malfoy Manor, wondering at his choices of company. He'd slipped seamlessly from the world's most tasteless room to the world's most garish, and he was unsure which was worse. Surely 24-carat gilding had gone out of style centuries back?

What was wrong with a muted colour scheme, really?

He scowled at the walls, the floors, the absurdly fancy tables and chairs, and the marble fireplace. Marble fireplace. Why was he friends with these people?

Lucius had been his closest friend since school, but that didn't mean Severus was blind to his faults. In fact, most days, it meant they were all the more glaring. Especially this morning, as he attempted to make himself comfortable on a chair whose legs appeared to be crafted from matchsticks, the cushion of which, while pretty, provided but the least possible amount of protection for his arse. An elf had shown him in, letting him know that Lucius was on a floo-call but would be with him shortly. Shortly was running out, as was Severus's patience.

"Ah, Severus," Lucius's velvet voice drifted in as the man himself crossed the threshold of the room, a smile playing on his lips. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" He paused to click his fingers, at which another, different elf appeared. "Drinks," he ordered the elf, and it flickered back out of the room immediately. Lucius raised his silver eyes to contemplate Severus again. "Well?"

"Lavender Brown," Severus said shortly. "What do you know of her?"

Lucius shrugged fluidly, dropping himself into another spindly chair and spreading his legs out in front of him languidly, resting his cane against the arm. "Very little, I assure you. You'd be better off asking Draco. They did go to school together, after all."

"Is he available?" Severus asked, trying not to show his irritation. Lucius was in a playful mood, he could tell by the twinkle in his eye. Lucius in a playful mood was nigh on unbearable.

"Oh, I'm sure he's around somewhere," he replied in an airy voice, waving a hand in the air. The elf reappeared with a carafe of coffee and a tray of pastries. Lucius narrowed his eyes at the tiny creature. "What is this?"

The elf jumped, turning its lamp-eyes on Lucius. "Breakfast?" It squeaked nervously.

"I asked for drinks," Lucius sighed gustily. "Alcohol, Mimsy. Do you know what that is?"

"Yes, Master, Mipsy knows."

"Then where is it? No – don't tell me, just bring it through. And, Mimsy?"

"Yes, sir?"

Lucius frowned. "Please tell Draco his presence is requested."

Mipsy – or Mimsy, whatever her name was – bowed low and disappeared again. Lucius grunted. "Bloody things have been useless since Cissy passed." He sighed, laying a hand over his brow dramatically. "Ah, you can't possibly understand how difficult running an estate of this size is alone, Severus. At least, if this blasted Law will be good for anything, it will bring me some assistance." He paused, tilted his head. "And maybe some eye-candy. That is what the youngsters call it, these days, isn't it?"

Severus rather doubted, given the results of his own so-called 'Soul-Mate Test', that Lucius would be provided with the sort-of wife he desired. However, it wasn't his job to burst the man's bubble, so he'd keep his own counsel and simply endeavour to be around when his world view was shattered. That sounded like it might be entertaining enough to distract him from his own troubles, at least for a few hours.

"Now, Severus, why are you asking about young Miss Brown?" Lucius leered at him from across the room. "Lining up your mistresses already? Smart man."

"Have you even read the law, Lucius?" Severus asked in a bored voice. "Fertility spells, Fidelity spells."

A look of horror crossed Lucius's aristocratic features. "No… mistresses?"

"None," he allowed himself an evil smile as the news sank in. "It's not looking so very desirable now, is it?"

Stunned, Lucius simply stared off into the distance, a glassy look on his face. No doubt envisaging a future without a whole harem of mistresses at his disposal. For a man like Lucius, that must look rather bleak. Even Draco's entrance didn't bestir him from his daze.

"Father?" Draco shot a look at Severus, rather resigned. "Uncle Severus. Why is it this only happens when you're around?"

"He's getting old, Draco," Severus mocked with only a little malicious glee. "These things happen when a man passes his prime."

"Malfoys do not 'pass their prime'," Draco said snottily, because despite the significant amount of loosening up he'd done over the post-war years, some things were simply too ingrained to change. "We age gracefully after a significant number of years have passed – certainly more than forty-six."

"As you say," Severus taunted in an even tone, "but how else can you explain this?"

"Shock," Lucius's voice butted in as he came back to himself. He glanced up at Draco, apparently shocked to see him there. "Oh, hello, son."

"Father," Draco nodded. "You called?"

"Severus wishes to know about Lavender Brown."

Draco's eyebrows rose as he turned to look at Severus with contemplative eyes. "Lavender Brown?" He mused. "The blonde Gryffindor with the odd eyes?" Severus opened his mouth to respond, but Draco simply went on. "Yes, I remember her. Nice girl." He smiled dreamily, gazing off into the middle distance. "Truly impressive… she does this thing with her tongue-"

"Draco." Severus snapped. "I'll thank you to stop right there."

Rolling his eyes, Draco shut up momentarily. After a few seconds though, showing his youthful impetuousness, he asked, "Why do you want to know?"

"The Ministry has seen fit to match me with young Miss Brown, and I would like to be prepared before my wedding." There, he'd said it. It felt like ashes in his mouth, and the idea made him shudder with disgust, but he'd admitted to the truth. That felt like maturity, and progress.

"Really?" Draco looked stunned. "But nobody's really seen Brown since graduation. She's as much of a hermit as you, Uncle. I'd almost forgotten she existed."

Severus narrowed his eyes on his godson. "Really?" he asked, drawing out the word. "And yet I saw your friend Miss Parkinson there just yesterday."

Draco blushed, his eyes flickering away. "Okay, so I knew she existed. Pansy's protective of her, though. I haven't seen her in months, maybe years."

"I had the feeling she received plenty of visitors," Severus asked.

"Only over the past few months," Draco admitted. "She's a hermit, but she's a better source of gossip than Skeeter, and most of it's true."

"It is my understanding," Lucius interjected, "that your betrothed does a brisk trade in secrets."

Severus thought about that for a moment. The implications. "She must be cleverer than she looks," was his response, to which Lucius sent him a wry look, stroking his treasured blonde locks smugly.

"Aren't we all, Severus, aren't we all."


"Severus Snape is a good catch," Dahlia Brown nee Twittle hummed approvingly over a cup of dishwater-flavour swill, her beady eyes focused on her daughter. Her disappointment of a daughter, who had never been exactly what she'd wanted her to be, and then, to add insult to injury, had gone and become a werewolf, ruining any chance of a good marriage.

That was how she phrased it, too. As though her lycanthropy was something Lavender had done purposefully, to spite her mother; some meaningless teenage rebellion like dying her hair or sleeping with a lot of boys except this one was big, bad, and irrevocable. When her father had broken the news to lovely, maternal Dahlia, her response had been 'well, at least nobody knows'.

Both trite and untruthful, as it turns out.

Beside her, Poppy Twittle, nee Rosier, aunt to both Lavender and Pansy and Dahlia's sister-in-law, hummed approvingly. Her jowls quivered with the movement, slapping together beneath her chin. "A war hero," she said with awe in her voice.

"I'm a war hero," Lavender reminded them petulantly, because whenever she was around the females of her family she regressed into her five-year-old self. Both older women gave her pitying looks.

"Order of Merlin; Third Class," Dahlia drawled, an eyebrow cocked significantly. "Hardly anything to boast about, dear. They're ten-a-penny nowadays."

Well then where's yours? Lavender did not say, because she wasn't going to get dragged into this argument again.

"How on earth did you manage it?" Poppy asked, her voice snide with a touch of curious admiration. "Rigging the tests? You did rig the tests, didn't you?"

A snigger came from the fourth of their group, the unimpressive Thistle Twittle, Poppy's daughter and all around bane of Lavender's existence. She was two years younger than Lavender, best friend to Astoria Malfoy nee Greengrass, and had a betrothal contract to Blaise Zabini since birth, the two of them being the minor purebloods that they were. Lavender couldn't help but hope that Zabini turned out to have the same marital habits as his mother – that is to say, murdering his wives. Thistle could do with a good stabbing.

A Slytherin because there was nowhere else to put her, Thistle, in the grand tradition of most pureblooded families, was not, in fact, a pureblood. The Twittle family gained its name through marriage – the marriage of Cordelia Avery to the muggle David Twittle in the late thirties. They birthed three half-blood children; two girls and a boy, all of whom, apparently to spite those that would disown them for their 'murky bloodlines', went on to marry good pureblood stock. The muggle origins of their House were roundly forgotten in the light of such advantageous connections, but Lavender knew.

Lavender remembered because that made she herself a half-blood, or, at the very most, a seven-eighths-blood. And so it was that whenever Dahlia had instructed her on how a 'proper pureblooded lady' should act, Lavender would respond with a) 'how the hell would you know?' (being only a three-quarter-blood as she was) and b) 'I'm not pureblooded anyway so what does it matter?'.

Dahlia came to regret forcing Lavender to study the lineages of every pureblooded family in the country. Lavender took a perverse pleasure in making her mother regret things. Like, for instance, having a child.

"You shan't scare him away, will you, Lavender?" Dahlia asked, squinting at her slightly. She was going blind, but nobody mentioned it, because she refused to wear glasses or undertake corrective therapy. 'I have a reputation to protect, darling!' she'd gasped at Lavender's father when he'd mentioned the concept. Now, she appealed to her daughter, "I know how you get, but you musn't. You really musn't."

"I don't think even I can be an unappealing enough concept that a man would choose Azkaban over me," Lavender replied stiffly, ignoring their dubious looks.

"That's not what I heard," Thistle twittered, holding her teacup between two fingers while her pinkie stuck out so far that Lavender thought it might have been dislocated. Poor Thistle, Lavender might think if the girl wasn't such a cow. She'd taken Poppy Twittle's lessons to heart in her youth, but it hadn't stopped her being awful. "I heard from Astoria, who heard it from Draco, who heard it from Lucius -" everybody winced when she said his name. Referring to Lord Malfoy by his forename though never having been given permission was grounds for social excommunication. And despite Thistle's closeness to Astoria, the whole world knew the elder Malfoy would rather gouge his eyes out with sub-par cutlery than spend time with Thistle Twittle. You could say many things about Lucius Malfoy, but he was never one to suffer fools gladly.

"-that he's doing everything he can to escape your marriage! Draco told Astoria who told me that Severus was disgusted by your appearance, your lifestyle, and most of all your wandering eye!"

She grinned with evil satisfaction as Dahlia went into a flurry of disapproving clucks. "I told you, Lavender! I told you your promiscuity would come back to haunt you! No man will buy the spider if the silk's free!"

Lavender rolled her eyes at that complete butchering of that faux-proverb. "There are so many things wrong with that statement, I don't know where to begin."

"Oh, Lavender!" Dahlia gasped, going full Mrs. Bennett with a hand thrown over her forehead as she 'swooned' into the back of her couch. "When will you understand that when you shame yourself, you shame all of us?"

There was a snort from a chair a few feet away, and Lavender made eye contact with old Grandma Brown, glancing away quickly as the urge to laugh with her poured over her. Grandma Brown, her father's mother, hated these gatherings, but was forced to put up with them as Dahlia insisted on having them at her house – being so grand as it was, the centre of the Brown House. A bit of a loner, Grandma Brown didn't like to go out into public, instead receiving visitors at home; not that there were many of them, nowadays. Lavender came by with some frequency; not as much as she'd like, but often enough – she loved her Grandma with the same fierce protectiveness with which she loved her father, and would spend more time with both if she could. As it was, Lavender knew it was painful for her Grandma to spend too much time with her, what with her looking so much like her Aunt, who still resided in St. Mungo's on a permanent basis. If it hadn't been for the fact that her other grandchild saw so little of her, Lavender would give her a break from her presence just to spare her pain.

Despite all of this, however, Lavender and her Grandmother had similar personalities (family lore claimed that the first time she'd met Frank Longbottom as a prospective son-in-law, she'd plucked at his hair and demanded "why on earth are you marrying a blonde, Alice? For goodness sakes, where is your pride?") and as such, they got along very well. It helped that Grandma Brown observed Dahlia Brown with a sort of fascinated horror, as though she was wondering exactly where she had gone so wrong as to raise a child who could adore this woman. Granted, she had raised both of her children, and later Lavender, to be the sort of people who could appreciate what she called 'backbone' in their partners, even if it was displayed as meanness or, in Lavender's case, sheer bitchiness (Frank Longbottom had replied with "Better blonde than grey," with a pointed look at Grandma's prematurely silvered hair. Grandma Brown especially liked retelling that part of the story). The part her father missed, however, was that these mean, bitchy people should also have good hearts.

"Are you alright, Mama?" Dahlia asked now, without much concern, as she scooped more sugar into her tea. "Do you need to go to bed?"

"I'm old, not infirm," Grandma Brown told her daughter-in-law firmly, then snapped, "and don't call me that insipid name. You're nearing fifty, have the good sense to act like it."

"Yes, yes, mama," Dahlia said loudly and slowly, shooting the Twittles a humourous look. "She thinks she can still do everything she used to," she told them in a tone of manufactured, sickly pity. "Bless her. You mustn't over-extend yourself, Mama!"

Seeing the storm-cloud cross Grandma Brown's face, Lavender hopped to her feet, almost spilling her tea with the abrupt movement. Dahlia and Poppy sent her scolding looks, but she ignored them. "I know, Grandma, why don't we take a turn around the gardens? You can show me where you planted Neville's cuttings."

Her Grandma's face lit up, like it always did when reminded of the little gifts her other grandchild sent her every now and again. She treasured them inordinately, considering he never visited, having been inoculated against her since childhood by Augusta Longbottom. The two of them had a long-standing feud going over an insult Grandma had paid her in their childhood, and now Augusta referred to her as 'that old battleaxe', which Lavender thought hypocritical, but vastly more pleasant than Grandma Brown's nickname for her, which included several swearwords one would never expect to leave an old lady's lips, and one which Lavender herself never dared use, it was so offensive. She did, however, steal Grandma Brown's first love – the late Lord Longbottom – and so Lavender never corrected her.

Grandma Brown, like Augusta, still had full use of her faculties, and led Lavender around the garden under the swift power of her own two legs. Once they were far enough from the orangery where the other women gathered, Grandma Brown let out a relieved sigh and sank down into the grass. "That woman!" she snarled, glancing back at the distant house. "How you put up with her, I don't know."

"Why do you think I live in the forest?" Lavender asked drily, dropping down next to her and spreading her legs out, enjoying the feel of the soft daisies against her bare legs. "It's not for the company."

"I wouldn't blame you if it was," Grandma Brown sniffed. "They're enough to put anyone off the human race as a whole. Now, dear, tell me." She turned her head, the sunlight bleaching her tresses pure white, to peer at Lavender. "This Snape fellow. What's he like?"

Lavender tensed automatically, but couldn't deny her anything. "Tall," she said, deciding to keep to the minor details. "Clever, I think. He's a terribly skilled Potions Master. A Slytherin."

Grandma Brown nodded thoughtfully. "And of his person?"

"Abrasive," Lavender blurted, then winced when Grandma Brown shot her a wry look. "Yes, I know. But he's different. Cruel and insulting and… and…" she petered off, thinking hard. "Well, I don't know him that well, really, but isn't what I do know enough?"

"Not hardly. Not when marriage is the matter at hand," her grandmother said wisely, plucking some of the flowers from the ground and braiding them with nimble fingers. "Take it from one who knows, dearest. These might be projected traits. Of course, you believe they are real, and I think, knowing what I do of the infamous 'Professor Snape' - mostly from the Prophet, mind you – I agree. But there is more." She reached over to drape the flower crown over Lavender's curls and drew her hand down to tap at the braids Lavender had had a nurse do shortly after the Battle, and had never removed. "There is always more, sweet girl."

Lavender sighed, tipping up her face to the sun gently, breathing in the smell from her circlet and trying to sort through her muddled thoughts. "It's not just his personality I find objectionable," she drew out slowly, still unsure of where she was going with this. "Of course, if it were up to me, I wouldn't marry at all, but if I am to marry, I'd like there to be love involved." She squinted across at her grandmother. "Well, as much as anybody could love me, anyway."

She flinched back when Grandma Brown slapped her arm in chastisement. "I'll hear no more of that talk, thank you. You're perfectly loveable. Your wolf friend and the Parkinson chit love you, don't they?"

"Special circumstances," Lavender said dryly, feeling better just for the mention of her packmates. She twisted over onto her stomach, unaware of how the flowers seemed to part for her passage, and how she held her weight up so as not to crush them needlessly. Her grandmother noticed, though, smiling approvingly at the union between the earth and her favoured daughter. "And I'm sure that with any other man, given enough time and exposure, they'd come to love me and I'd love them. But with Snape…"

"Ah," Grandmother Brown nodded knowingly. "The dead muggleborn. What was her name again?"

"Lily Evans-Potter," Lavender informed her. "You've met her. Hundreds of times. She stayed here for three summers when she was at school. Don't pretend on my account, Grandma."

Grandma Brown scoffed. "Alice had lots of friends, as did your father. I can't be expected to remember every one of them. She wasn't all that special – beautiful, yes, but I was a happily married woman and not inclined to such desires. Intelligent, too. But she didn't have the Brown spirit, so I simply cannot understand how she had all of the men slobbering all over her while our Alice went unnoticed. Such is the core fault of men, I suppose, to be led around by their hormones while we women are the thinkers of the lot. If they didn't have brute strength over us, I'm sure…"

Lavender let the comforting sound of her Grandmother's voice fade into the background. She often went on rants like this, on the injustice of the world for their family, their Alice, and women as a whole. She was highly political, and had bred the same into her children and everybody else she could reach – one memorable summer, after reading the entire works of Simone de Beauvoir, she even set up a Feminist Existentialism Society for Modern Witches with whom she still corresponded; the ranks of which included the likes of Griselda Marchbanks and Minerva McGonagall (who was the baby of the bunch, which provided endless entertainment for Lavender – there was an entire society of pureblood women who still, to this day, referred to the terribly intimidating Professor McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, as 'Baby Minnie'.

Lavender had not yet considered that her problems with this whole marriage farce went beyond her fierce protection of her own life and her general distaste for Snape, but her answer to her Grandmother suggested otherwise. She knew with absolute certainty that she wasn't attracted to Snape, hadn't been nursing a burning passion for him these past ten years, and definitely didn't love him. She should have been happy with that, except that her exploration of her own thoughts showed that she wasn't as opposed to the union as she should have been. Instead of a solid steel wall of revulsion and righteous fury between her and Snape, she found a wavering wall of self-depreciation and vulnerability, laced with insecurity.

Huh. She'd wondered where that had gone.

She knew, with the certainty that had always surrounded her seductions, that with enough time and energy what she had said to her grandmother would be true – she could make any man fall in love with her, and in the doing, she would fall too. They would be happy, because in reality a man and a woman who spend enough time together and show enough soul will likely end up shagging.

Any other man. For Snape would not fall; he was distant, stoic, and staunchly in love with someone else. Worse, a dead girl. And one of the most solid truths of anybody's life was that you could never, in life, hope to measure up to someone's memory of the dead.

This was why she hadn't wanted to get involved, she knew now. The siren song that was her memories of other happy marriages was not enough to entice her into risking her heart – the only part of her that had survived Greyback's attack untouched, whole and pure.

Uncomfortable with all of this introspection, as she was a Gryffindor and therefore not particularly used to the examination of her own person, she locked the thoughts away for as long as they would stay out and instead suggested wine to her Grandma, who agreed readily. Good. Getting good and blathered would probably help.