CHAPTER TEN:
A NEW YEAR
New Year's Eve Morning, 1996
(the present)
"Who's my brilliant kitty? Crookshanks is my brilliant kitty! Who's a smart boy? Who? Who is it? It's you! And so handsome! Who's so handsome? Crookshanks is so handsome!"
"You sound like me talking to Draco when he was a baby."
Hermione jumped. She had been so engrossed in playtime with her grumpy fluffball, she hadn't heard her aunt come down the stairs.
Narcissa, wearing a simple gray dress and low-heeled boots, looked tired. Her eyes were red-rimmed, she wore no makeup, and her hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, not at all her usual style. In her hands was a tray on which both Hermione's breakfast and the cat's bowl of fish and chicken were placed. Crookshanks apparently hadn't heard her either, but now that her presence was known, he shot her a disapproving look, flipped from his back to his feet, and hopped off the bed, his fur all puffed out.
His subsequent "Mrowwww" clearly meant, "My breakfast is late."
"One of the house-elves died last night," said Narcissa, even though Hermione hadn't asked any questions. "I fixed this myself. I apologize for the toast. It's burnt. I tried twice, then gave up."
"That's… alright. How did the house-elf…?"
"Old age, but now the whole lot of them are in mourning, crying and carrying on." She rolled her eyes. "They'll have a little ceremony for it later and be back to normal tomorrow. I'd punish them for neglecting their duties in the interim, but honestly, who has the energy? Let them have their day."
Hermione felt a surge of fury over this injustice.
"Have their day? Back to normal tomorrow? Expected to mourn only briefly and get on with work? Punishment for taking time to grieve?" Her hair fluffed out when she got angry; she greatly resembled the cat. "And why call the house-elf an 'it'? Surely it had a name! Was it male or female? Did it have a family?"
"Draco said you wouldn't take the news well." Narcissa tapped the lock with her elbow, using both wandless and nonverbal magic to unlock the door. She stepped inside, placed the tray on the desk, and used her wand to lock the door again before settling in Severus' usual seat. "He said you're fond of house-elves. You believe they're people… or something to that effect?"
"I believe they are living, breathing, sentient creatures with thoughts and feelings and hopes and dreams and pain and autonomy and they deserve the same rights and freedoms as-"
"That's nice, dear." Narcissa propped her head up on her hand as she had during dinner Christmas Eve. She sounded exhausted and drained and melancholy, and Hermione knew it meant she'd been drinking – probably up half the night with a bottle – and was still feeling the effects.
"Alright, Auntie?" she asked. Narcissa sighed.
"Has my sister spoken with you about Draco's task?"
"Task?"
"I'm forbidden to give specifics. But has she…?"
"She hasn't mentioned him at all, really."
Narcissa sighed again, more dramatically this time. She placed the little bowl with Crookshanks' food on the floor by the desk, and he immediately took to it, purring. "Tuck in, girl. The eggs will taste worse once it gets cold."
"Do you cook often?"
Narcissa shook her head. "Of course not. But, when I was a girl, before Hogwarts, my sisters and I were taught to bake, so I have a grasp on the basics. Mother thought it important. 'Even when you have others to serve you, a well-made cake, pie, biscuit, or tart is an excellent way to endear yourself to your future husband.' Everything we did in those days was with the intention of endearing ourselves to our future husbands."
Hermione sat on the edge of her bed and speared a bite of egg. The toast was indeed burnt, but the rest of the meal (eggs, beans, sausage) looked alright.
"Mother says she never loved her husband. Do you love yours?"
"That's a personal question." Narcissa reached over and took one of the toast triangles off her niece's plate, ripped off part of the crust, and began to nibble.
"I'm sorry."
"I was highly fortunate." Narcissa helped herself to tea. She'd brought down two mugs. "My parents arranged a good match."
"So your marriage was arranged, too. Are they always, with pureblood families?"
"Not always, and not anymore." She smiled, though the sadness lingered in her eyes. "I was three and a half when Lucius and I met. He was two. I am told I spend th entire afternoon bossing him about. After my family returned home from Malfoy Manor, Mother said, 'That's the boy you'll marry someday,' and I said, 'But he wears nappies!' I'd been out of them for nearly a year and I suppose I thought that made me quite grown by comparison."
"I assume he was out of them by the time you got married." Hermione cut into her sausage.
Narcissa laughed, a real laugh, perhaps the first truly genuine one Hermione had heard from her.
"Yes, thank Merlin, he was toilet trained by age nineteen. He could buckle his own boots and brush his own teeth by then, too, though when he wears Muggle ties, I have to tie them. But I like to think he continues to look to me for direction, as he did then. On our second 'date,' which happened to be my fourth birthday, I taught him a lovely game called 'brush Cissy's hair,' and he's still up for it whenever I ask."
Hermione giggled. She didn't like Lucius Malfoy, not a bit, but she could picture him as a tiny toddler, still in nappies, being ordered around by his much more grown up future wife, and the picture it made in her mind was an adorable one.
"But you do love him."
"Very much." The smile disappeared, her eyes went watery. "I love Lucius more than I love anyone else in the world, save for Draco. More than I do my father or sister."
"And he loves you?"
"So I'm told." Her head, again resting on her hand, began to droop.
"Why do you drink so much?"
Narcissa's icy blue eyes met Hermione's warm brown ones. "My husband is in Azkaban. My son may be marked for death. There's a madman living in my…" She immediately broke off. "I respect the Dark Lord, Hermione, but I fear him – as you should, too. I am afraid all the time. Afraid for my husband, for my son… for myself. The first war was…" She shivered. "Terrible things happened then, to people who didn't deserve. I still have nightmares."
She averted her eyes, and Hermione felt a surge of sympathy and protectiveness. Had anyone told her back in April she'd spend New Year's Eve in the presence of Narcissa Malfoy and want nothing more than to hug and comfort her, she'd have thought them mad. But now…
"Why did they do it?" she whispered. "Potter, Longbottom, and..." She couldn't bring herself to name Sirius.
Narcissa shook her head. A tear escaped down her cheek. "It was a long time ago."
"I'm sorry," Hermione said softly. "I'm so very sorry."
"You're reading Hamlet?" Narcissa rose, went to the bookshelf, and plucked it off the top. "It's a play about revenge, you know. Revenge… revenge makes otherwise good people do terrible things." She turned around, hugging the book to her chest. She faced Hermione, but still did not look at her. "They didn't come here looking for me that afternoon. They wanted Bella. They wanted to punish her for what her husband and his brother had previously done to Alice. And that had been retribution for what Alice had done to Rabastan's fiancee. On and on it goes. But when they came to the Manor, Bella wasn't here. I was."
Hermione gaped, horrified. "They did that to you to get revenge on Rodolphus? But... but... but you had nothing to do with anything he did!"
"In war, it doesn't have to make sense." Narcissa placed the book on the edge of Hermione's desk. "Your name comes from A Winter's Tale. Your parents read a lot of Shakespeare, did they?"
"They preferred to watch. They took me to many plays when I was younger."
"Lucius and I used to attend one show at the Globe each year, for our anniversary. My favorite was As You Like It. A comedy. Much less…" She tapped her fingers on the side of her mug. "Quite unlike Hamlet. Severus came with us several times, with his gir…" She again cut herself off. "It doesn't matter. She's gone now, Lucius is in prison, I am a prisoner in my own home, and you…"
"I've been living in this cellar since May."
"Draco's never been interested in theatre or literature, nor has Bella." Catching sight of the romance novel on Hermione's bedside table, she let out a disapproving 'hmn.' "Not decent literature, at any rate. All mysteries and romance for her. Shakespeare has mystery and romance, too, but…"
"I can't read that without blushing," Hermione confessed, touching the cover of the erotic pirate novel.
"I would have given Lucius half a dozen children, but after Draco, I couldn't have any more." Narcissa half-smiled at her. "I can't tell you how much it means to Bella to have found you. You cannot imagine the pain of losing a child. I know you hate being locked down here, but it's as much for your own safety as it is to keep you from escaping. She would have died to save you, that night she brought you back here. The Dark Lord recognizes how dangerous this is, to have such a faithful follower more dedicated to her child than to him. That's why Bella is so desperate to turn you into her perfect daughter, one the Dark Lord would be pleased with, proud of, confident about having around, so he won't be threatened by your presence. Some seven months ago, her primary goal was to help the Dark Lord defeat Potter. Now, that's secondary to keeping you alive and well."
"How could she love me so much?" Hermione felt a pang of guilt, for while she was growing steadily fonder of the woman – Mother – she honestly couldn't say she loved her, and certainly not as a daughter would typically love her mum.
"As I said, there's nothing worse than the pain of losing a child. To have experienced that, and to get another chance?" Narcissa shifted in her seat, tapping her fingernails against the mug. "Let's just say, I hope child loss is a heartache you'll never understand." Narcissa wiped away another errant tear with her palm. "At five-past eleven, meet me in the library. I'll find the play for you, if you're interested."
"I am."
"I have to tend to the house-elves, now. They requested a tiny coffin and a place for burial. Usually this would fall to Lucius, but…" As she so often did, Narcissa let the end of the sentence hang in the air. "Please bring up your breakfast dishes at eleven. They'll not be disappeared to the kitchen today."
Hermione promised she would. After her aunt left the cell, she picked at her food and pet Crookshanks, lost in thought, and more confused about her loyalties than ever.
-0-0-0-
New Year's Eve Morning, 1976
(twenty years ago)
Six weeks ago, her husband hurt her, left her crying and bruised, and he - the Dark Lord - held her through the night even though he swore he wouldn't.
He hadn't seen her since.
He hadn't seen her since because he'd made a terrible mistake that night – or, more accurately, the next morning.
But now it was his birthday, and… damned as it meant he was… he wanted to spend it with her.
"This is precisely why you've kept women away," he muttered, stepping into the shower. "It is potentially dangerous, letting them get attached."
(Letting himself get attached.)
He'd spoken with Rodolphus since, seen him four times in fact. Thrice on official business. Once to make clear what punishments he would face were she to be in that condition ever again.
"What condition, my Lord?" asked Rodolphus, genuinely obtuse. "With child? She lost it."
"Yes, with child," he'd replied, though that hadn't been what he meant. "You'll not touch her anymore. She is too valuable to me, too talented, too important to be wasted off gestating while we're fighting a war."
"I'll use protection in the future."
"You'll not touch her anymore." His eyes narrowed. Hadn't he already said that? Was the boy deaf as well as dim? "Not sexually, and not violently."
Rodolphus' eyebrows pulled together in the center of his forehead, creating a curved line in his skin, the only wrinkle on his young face. He didn't have the beginnings of crows feet yet.
"You left red marks on her throat, bruises on her arms and thighs. You'll not touch her again. Not sexually, not physically, you'll never again harm her in any way. She tells me your marriage contract forbids you from using magic against each other…"
"Yes."
"But not brute strength."
Rodolphus nervously cleared his throat. "Er… no."
"You'll not touch her again, understand?"
"Ever?" Rodolphus ran a hand through his stringy, oily black hair. He must use the same cheap shampoo as that new boy, Severus Snape. Both looked like they could use a good conditioner.
The Dark Lord ran a hand through his own hair. Brown. Silky. Well-coiffed. Though he felt the fade of his good looks with every newly created Horcrux, he was still an attractive man, and he wanted Rodolphus to see it – especially given the twenty years he had on the young man.
(He'd been vain in his youth.)
"I don't want her bruised; I don't want her pregnant."
"We'll use protect-"
He raised his wand, aiming it at the younger man's heart. "You'll. Not. Touch. Her. Again." A short jab sent a shock through Rodolphus' chest, causing his heart to miss two beats, and momentarily stealing his breath. "If you touch her, I'll kill you. Understand?"
Rodolphus was clutching his chest, breathing heavily. "Yes, my Lord. I'll not touch her again."
"Go home and apologize to her for your lack of good manners. And consider yourself lucky that I am the only one who knows what you tried to do to her. I Summoned her to me that night – I needed her for a mission she was incapable of carrying out, thanks to you."
(This was almost true. He'd Summoned her because he wanted to watch her play with herself why he stroked himself to completion, which was something like a mission, and she was indeed unable to oblige.)
"I… I am lucky she came to you?"
"Imagine if she'd reported your behavior to her parents. I cannot imagine Cygnus and Druella taking too kindly to a man guilty of abusing their daughter." He chuckled darkly. "I don't believe Aurors ever found the body of that Healer-in-Training who groped a teenage Andromeda when she was in St. Mungo's, and all he did was place a hand high on her inner thigh."
(Andromeda, the exiled Black sister, mother to a Metamorph - how he wished he could recruit her to their side, but alas… Bella assured him this was a lost cause.)
"I… thank you for not informing my father-in-law of my… indiscretion, my Lord. It was a momentary lapse in judgement, brought on by the pain of losing the child. It shall never happen again."
"Because…"
"Because I'll… not touch her again?"
"Very good. You may go, Lestrange."
"Yes, my Lord. Thank you."
That was well over a month ago, and just hours after his own… indiscretion.
He'd woken to find her back to his chest, the same way they'd fallen asleep, and his hand was on her abdomen, and her hair smelled of that lovely fragrant shampoo the Black women always wore, the one Druella had specially made from Sunsprite roses. He didn't know what had made him do it, but he pressed his lips first to the back of her neck, then to the crux of her neck, and then to her shoulder, and back again. She'd awoken, whispered "My Lord," and turned her head, and his lips had – completely of their own accord, with no direction from his brain – connected with the line of her jaw, moving down until his and hers were nearly touching.
"I want this," she'd whispered as she shifted onto her back beneath him, and though he wouldn't speak it aloud, he wanted it just as much.
It had been decades – decades! – since he'd last kissed a woman. While he'd continued having sex with beautiful, eager witches for years after leaving Hogwarts, kissing was of no use to him. No purpose.
But here he was, in mid-November, gently taking the lower lip of this far-too-young (for him) woman between his own, and applying slight pressure.
She sighed against his mouth, his lips parted, and he kissed her again.
And again.
And again.
And then he was kissing her everywhere.
Her lips. Her cheeks. He kissed over her eyelids, below her ear, the hollow of her throat.
He slipped off her shirt and placed a trail of kisses down the center of her chest, right over that angry red jagged cut left by her worthless husband's severing charm. Between her breasts. Down her midsection. All the way to her lower abdomen, just above the band of her knickers, where the line stopped. He held his lips there for a long moment as he pondered the fact that only two weeks ago, there had been a baby inside her. He did not want children, he had no need for an heir… but the intense swell of jealousy over having not been the one to give her that baby bubbled up inside him. He began the ascent again, taking his time, enjoying the way she arched her back as his lips again found the space between her breasts… He took one in each hand, kissing the soft curved flesh. He placed slow closed-mouth kisses over each of her nipples, then opened-mouth ones; he got the impression she hardly dared to breath, as her chest barely moved up and down. He kissed her throat, that delectable throat, and under her chin.
And then her hand was on the back of his neck, her nails lightly digging into his skull, and his hand was entangled in that frazzled mess of rose-scented hair, and her lips came up to meet his, crushing together almost painfully. Her lips parted, he tasted her tongue for the first time, and he felt himself harden when she moaned into his mouth. Fuck, he wanted her. But it could go no farther than this. This was already too far.
Hours must have passed while he was kissing her. Days, maybe. Months. Years.
When they finally parted, her lips were puffy and red – he'd kissed and licked and sucked and even lightly bitten them, and his own felt fuller as well. Both were breathing heavily, and when her heavy-lidded dark eyes met his, he nearly asked her to make love to him… he nearly asked her to stay indefinitely…
But common sense prevailed, and after a house-elf supplied breakfast in his room, the only room of this place she'd yet seen, he ordered her home.
"You are a married woman," he'd reminded her.
"I did not choose my husband," she reminded him.
"It does not matter." He'd gone to her, and grasped her bruised biceps, and kissed her forehead. "For now, return to Malfoy Manor. This afternoon, I shall Summon Rodolphus. When you go home to him is up to you – and, I suppose, your sister, as it is her home. But he'll not be hurting you again. You are too valuable to me." He stepped back, releasing her arms. "As a soldier."
"Yes, my Lord."
And then she was gone. And he was alone. And that was six weeks ago.
He tipped back his head, letting the hot water rain down upon his hair and back.
He had no need for a woman. None. Not at all.
But it might be a nice change of pace for them to spend his birthday together.
-0-0-0-
New Year's Eve Morning, 1996
(the present)
He was perusing the Prophet over breakfast, seated across from her at the small round table in one of the four rooms he'd taken over at Malfoy Manor. She was holding a page of the paper too, but not really reading. The house-elves were out of commission for the day, so she'd cooked for him. She wasn't much of a cook, but her mother had made sure all three of her daughters knew how to bake (oh, how young Bella had hated learning to bake!) so she had a general grasp of things around the kitchen.
"My eggs are too runny."
"Next time you can fry them yourself, then, my Lord."
"Such impertinence in your old age."
Her eyes narrowed. She hated being reminded of her 'old age,' and he seemed to be doing so with increasing frequency as of late. He insisted he hardly ever desired sex from her because he was "above the more banal and base desires of man, able to eschew physical pleasure in a quest for what really mattered – power," but the insecure part of her, the part that reared its ugly head every time she glanced in the mirror, wondered if he was simply disinterested in her. Perhaps a younger woman, a one less war-torn and weathered, one who hadn't spent more than a decade wasting away in Azkaban would be better able to entice him these days.
Alecto Carrow, perhaps, or Hilda Travers, or Primrose Parkinson…
"Phillipa Parkinson was here yesterday evening," she said casually, not looking up from the dull society page. "She brought her daughters, Primrose and Pansy. The younger one has been seeing Draco. The elder expressed interest in furthering our cause, according to Cissy."
"Good." He did not look up either. He was reading the international news section. "We could use young blood."
"But surely you haven't any interest in a girl that young, my Lord." She cleared her throat. "As a soldier."
"How old is she?"
"Twenty-one."
"Older than you were when you took the Mark."
Bellatrix bristled. "But I was exceptional! You said yourself, I-"
"I am trying to read, Bella." He turned the page. "Did you always talk so much?"
"You used to enjoy listening to me talk, my Lord."
He did not respond to that. He merely sipped his tea and nibbled toast and continued to read while she pouted at him across the table.
"I'm not hungry. Would you like me to bring your dishes to the kitchen?"
"Yes." He picked up the last piece of toast and pushed the plate away. "I cannot stomach runny egg whites."
Her eyes flashed again, but he did not see. She put his plate atop her own and gathered his silverware, leaving only the mug and saucer, as he always finished his tea.
"Happy to be your humble servant," she muttered.
"Hm?"
"Never mind." She started toward the door but paused, stepped close to him, and leaned down. She pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips (what lips he had left, anyway) and slowly straightened.
"What was that?"
"Happy birthday, my Lord."
"Ah, yes." He turned another page, still more or less ignoring her. "My birthday. Take those dishes down, now, then find Draco and tell him and the girl I'll be giving them a final Occlumency lesson this afternoon. He returns to school tomorrow."
Had he looked up, he'd have seen the intense hurt and profound disappointment on her face.
But he did not look up.
"Yes, my Lord."
-0-0-0-
Christmas Day, 1996
(one week ago)
"Usually Auntie teaches me, my Lord," said Draco, glancing nervously at Hermione.
"I want to see what you've learned, boy. Sit. Let us show your cousin."
Draco had barely managed to settle himself in the lone kitchen chair placed in the center of the drawing room when the Dark Lord pointed his wand at the boy and said, "Legilimens!"
Hermione watched, concerned, while Draco winced and twitched once, but steadied himself, never losing eye contact with the terrifying man before him. The blond boy's pale face was blank and expressionless – he reminded her of Snape whenever she was shouting at him – and aside from the way the fingernails on his right hand dug into his thigh, she could not tell he was in any distress. When the Dark Lord lowered his wand, Draco let out a loud exhale and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He looked as though he'd just run a marathon.
"I am more powerful than your aunt, boy."
"Yes, my Lord."
"Get up." (Draco obliged.) "Sit down, Hermione."
Hermione obeyed.
"I am going to ease into this with you. I am attempting to gauge your natural predilection for the magic of Occlumency. I will ask a few simple questions, and I would like you to lie to me some of the time, and tell the truth some of the time. I want you to close your mind as you do so – I do not want to know when you are lying." He chuckled. "I will know, of course, but I would like for it not to be obvious. After I've seen what I need to, I'll have Draco attempt it on you. His powers for Legilimency are rudimentary at best, but he inherited the Black family tendency to manage to harness such a power. Many cannot, no matter how much they study or practice."
Hermione sat up a little straighter. Surely one could learn anything through studying and practice. And if the ability ran in the Black family, she certainly was not going to be the one unable to perform… especially not when bloody Malfoy could manage.
"On three, Hermione. One… two…"
She felt him enter her mind on two.
Clear your mind, she thought. She learned as much from Harry, that clearing one's mind was key. He was supposed to have done it every night before bed, to keep the Dark Lord out. But damn, now she was thinking about Harry and the Dark Lord and bedtime and Snape and Hogwarts and Occlumency and Snape's classroom and Snape across the desk from her the other night and she wriggled uncomfortably thinking of Snape and FUCK she was not exactly adept at clearing her mind, not when there was so much going on in there. Had he asked something about Harry, or did Harry just hop into her mind?
"What is your full name?"
"Hermione Jean Gran… Black. Hermione Black."
"Age?"
"Seven…" Shite, she was supposed to lie sometimes. "Twenty."
"Seven-twenty?" She could hear the amusement in his voice.
Draco snorted.
"Seventeen, my Lord."
"What is your mother's name?"
"Bellatrix Black Lestrange." At least that one was easy, though a vision of Mrs. Granger – Mummy – flashed through her mind.
"What is your father's name?"
She opened her mouth, but then she heard the Dark Lord's voice again, and this time she knew it was coming from inside her head. Lie, the voice told her. Lie to me.
"Ro…dolph…us…?"
"Inhale, Hermione. Exhale. That's a good girl. Relax. How old are you?"
"Twenty." She lied easily this time, surprising even herself.
"I'm going to enter your mind now…"
"You mean you haven't already?!"
"One."
And then he was in her memories, sifting through, looking for Merlin-only-knows what. She saw herself at age thirteen, being protected by Snape while facing down a werewolf. She saw herself at age nine, being scolded by a teacher for talking out of turn. She saw herself at age five, petting the slick head of a little garden snake. She saw herself at age two, splashing gleefully in the tub. She saw herself as a baby, being cradled by a woman with thick dark hair, a woman who smelled of roses… a woman who was not her mother. Not either of her mothers.
And then it stopped.
She felt dizzy, but she had managed to remain in the chair. She closed her eyes, seeing stars, and willed herself to breathe evenly.
"Andromeda," said the Dark Lord. "I'd wondered."
"I wasn't a newborn in that memory," said Hermione. "I didn't even know I had that memory."
"You did not close your mind," chastised the Dark Lord. "You did not even try. You lied to me well enough about your age, the second time; I had high hopes."
"I had to be at least six months old in that memory. Why was I being held by Andromeda? If that was Andromeda?"
"I am going to start again. Close. Your. Mind."
"But, my L-"
This time, he did not count down. He was in her memories again. She was fifteen, gasping when Harry's name was pulled from the Goblet of Fire. She was twelve, hiding in the loo from a massive troll. She was eight, blowing out the candles on her birthday cake, flanked by her loving parents.
She was six and she had to use the toilet, but her teacher would not let her leave the classroom… She was going to pee her pants, to have an accident right there in the classroom… To end up standing in a warm puddle in front of everyone… It was humiliating.
"No!" she heard herself say aloud. He would not see that.
And then she was forcing him out, gripping the edges of the chair and forcing him away with just her mind, adamant that he not see her childhood shame. And then she was in his mind, and there was her mother, pregnant and beautiful and young and smiling up at him… and then it was over.
"Well done!" He clapped his hands together. "An Occlumens and a Legilimens."
He was pleased.
-0-0-0-
New Year's Eve, 1996
(the present)
"Something to drink, my Lord?" Bellatrix just wanted him to look at her. He'd hardly looked at her all bloody day. And she looked good today. (She hoped.) She'd gathered half of her wild hair, piled on top of her head and held in place with small silver combs; she knew he liked this style. Her makeup was subtle, save for the red lipstick, which she also knew he liked, and she was wearing a black and silver corset with a long, flowy black skirt. Just as she often did as a girl in her twenties hoping to be Summoned to his side in the middle of the night, everything she wore was purposeful, from the delicate, strappy high-heeled stilettos (she much preferred a lower-heeled laced-up boot) to the green and silver snake bracelet curved around her wrist and half up her forearm.
How could he not have noticed?
What if he did notice, and didn't care?
"Bella?"
"Yes, my Lord?" She rushed to his side, kneeling tall beside his chair, her folded hands resting on his thigh. He was seated facing the fireplace, staring into the flames, which made light dance across his eerie red pupils.
"I have been giving much consideration to the girl as of late."
"Yes, my Lord?" She was disappointed, but also curious… and nervous. "And…?"
"In May, she will have been here one year. I will therefore give her until May to be useful to us, and, more importantly, truly loyal to us. You have not done enough in the half-year she's been here. She still values her friends, Potter, Weasley. Dumbledore. She wants to see the good in them, she believes they are the good. You have done well at manipulating by feeding her bits of negative information about Potter's father and Sirius Black…"
Bellatrix scratched above her breasts, leaving faint red lines across the pale skin there. She hadn't revealed this to Hermione to manipulate her. It had just… happened.
"But it is not enough. She must see us as the only path to a sustainable future, and what's more, she must genuinely want us to win. The war is only just beginning, but it will get ugly, Bella. As it was before. This time, we shall win. And I want her to help us do it."
"I'm trying-"
"You're not. Not hard enough. You're busy enjoying her, plaiting her hair, dressing her up, telling her about your childhood and fantasizing about her future. You want her to be both your daughter and your best friend. You want her to love you, not to fear you. Am I correct?"
"I… I don't believe I can win her loyalties by making her fear me, my Lord."
"Make her fear them. Abraxas Malfoy had a Pensieve. Ask Narcissa where it's stored, use it to show her the memory of what they did to her."
Bellatrix breathed in sharply. She couldn't imagine her sister consenting to this, and would feel sick about forcing her, and she also couldn't imagine exposing her daughter to such an atrocity – it was one thing to hear about something in vague terms, and quite another to witness it. But…
"If that is your will, my Lord, I'll talk to Cissy and see that it's done."
"If I am not satisfied with her progress by the time we reach one year of having her here, Bella, she will have to be killed. You will have to kill her."
"But she's my daughter, my Lord. Our daughter. Our only-"
"When this war is over and I am victorious, Bella, I will no longer need you as my soldier."
"My Lord…"
"And I'll see that you are rewarded for your loyalties. For your actions and your successes."
"My Lord…"
"I'll give you another baby, Bella. When the war's over, when Potter is defeated, when Dumbledore is dead, and when the wizarding world is under our control."
"A baby, my Lord?" She didn't dare imagine it, didn't dare hope. "But when will that-"
"I am not a Seer, Bella."
Her eyes burned with furious tears. He was going to ease the pain of killing her daughter with the promise of another baby? Didn't he understand, being a mother didn't work that way! A child was not a pair of shoes or a house-elf, to be discarded and replaced without a second thought. Not to mention that she would likely be past child-bearing age by that time anyway; it was therefore an empty promise, one meant to placate her, as if she'd consent to having her daughter killed for the mere possibility of another in the future.
"I am not a young woman, my Lord. I shall turn forty-six later this year."
"Witches can produce children well into their fifties. You have another decade of fertility."
"Yes, because that's what I want, my Lord." She was still kneeling by his side, but she plopped down now, settling her bum on her heels, removing her hands from his thigh. "I want to be pregnant and nursing and changing nappies when I'm fifty-six."
"Do what's necessary with the girl, and you'll not lose her." He stroked her hair and despite her hurt and anger, she leaned into his touch, practically purring at the contact. "Perhaps, if you manage it well, in ten years, the nappies you're changing will belong to a grandchild rather than one of your own." He began scratching at the back of her neck, and her heart swelled with love for him. "Perhaps, if we win this war in less time than we fought in the first one, you'll be seeing your second child off to Hogwarts in twelve years, while your – our – elder daughter stands by your side.
"I'll make her loyal to us, my Lord." She rested her cheek against his knee, closing her eyes, and relaxing under his touch. "I promise, my Lord, no matter what it takes - I will."
-0-0-0-
New Year's Eve, 1976
(twenty years ago)
He Summoned her shortly before midnight. She'd been at a party. She was dressed for a party. A low-cut, fitted bodice. A long flowing skirt. Her hair half-up. Her makeup carefully done, a dark eye and red lips.
He hadn't even spoken, hadn't ordered her to the bed or questioned her about the time it took for her to arrive.
He saw her, and he wanted her.
She'd apparated into his room, he'd grabbed hold of her waist, and then he captured her lips with his own.
She'd be staying the night.
Happy Birthday.
-0-0-0-
New Year's Eve, 1996
(the present)
Severus Snape typically spent New Year's Eve alone.
Tonight, he was spending it teaching a frizzy haired know-it-all to brew Amortentia, because that was the next stupid potion on the Sixth Year syllabus.
"Mmm…" Hermione leaned over her cauldron, breathing in deeply. "It smells like freshly mowed grass, new parchment, spearmint toothpaste, salted caramel, the Hogwarts poti… er… Hogwarts! And roses… and…"
"That's… a lot." He typically smelled Lily's hair and licorice, though, oddly, tonight he also smelled roses, the thick pungent scent of Sunsprite roses. Strange.
They finished the potion at ten before midnight, he assigned homework, and then he was set to leave, but she begged him not to. Not just yet.
"It's New Year's Eve, Professor. Nearly midnight. Stay?"
Perhaps it was the heady smell still lingering in the air, but he was feeling less ornery than usual, and so he obliged.
For nearly ten minutes they discussed Hamlet and kept an eye on his pocket watch. Finally, there were only seconds to go.
"Ten, nine, eight…"
Damn, he should have brought a couple of bottles of Butterbeer down here with him. They could have toasted. To what, he did not know. But it seemed the thing to do on New Year's Eve.
"Seven, six, five…"
What was the rose smell? The potion had been bottled and Vanished, but the scent lingered in his nose. In the room. Perhaps it hadn't come from the Amortentia at all.
"Four, three, two…"
He kept his eyes on the watch. 1997 was upon them. What would this new year bring?
"One…"
He turned his head up, to say "Happy New Year," but the words were silenced by the pressure of her lips on his.
He stiffened.
No, more than that.
He froze. As if he'd been hit with Petrificus Totalis, he froze.
Her eyes were closed.
Her lips were warm.
And, for some strange bloody reason, those warm lips were on his.
She was kissing him.
She was kissing him?
She pulled away before he could manage to come up with a suitable reaction. She smiled apologetically.
"It's supposed to be good luck, I've heard." She twirled a lock of that frazzled brown hair around her index finger. "To kiss someone on New Year's, when the clock strikes midnight."
"Yes." He stood, his eyes never leaving her lips. Lips that had, a moment ago, been on his. "Yes, good luck, of course. But now, I must return to Hogwarts."
"Oh." She looked disappointed.
Truth be told, so was he. If kissing at midnight was good luck, taking a much younger woman to bed at sixty seconds past midnight must be luckier than Felix Felicis. And that was what both his body and mind wanted to do, to throw her down on that bed, to divest her of that plain yellow blouse and blue skirt, to kiss her back – more than kiss her – and have her, claim her, enjoy her…
But he was a grown adult in a position of power. A conspirator of her captors. Not her contemporary. Not her equal. Her professor.
And both his brain and his prick would do well to remember that.
He hurried to the door of the cell, whipping out his wand, not making eye contact with her.
"Happy New Year, Miss Granger."
"Happy New Year, Professor." She sat back down on the edge of her bed and fiddled anxiously with the hem of her skirt, clearly embarrassed. "Sir? I'll see you again on Mon-"
He was gone before she'd finished the sentence.
-0-0-0-
New Year's Day, 1997
(the present)
When Bellatrix reached Hermione's room – her cell – it was to find the girl still sound asleep. The cat was curled up beside her, his tail draped over her arm, and both were lightly snoring.
Bellatrix smiled.
It was a new day. A new year. A new beginning.
She had less than six months to turn the girl's loyalty from the Order to the Death Eaters.
Less than six months to save her life.
She would not fail.
Nothing hurt worse than the pain of losing a child, and it was a pain she'd lived with for far too long.
She would not lose her daughter. Not again.
A/N:
Note: Some readers like the hints while a couple don't want to see spoilers, so I'm going to put them down under review responses and/or author's notes, after a line break, to make it easier to skip them while reading. Thanks for the feedback! Also, thanks so much to everyone for reading, following, adding to faves, and especially for reviewing! To keep things short, I pretty much only answered a few Qs below, but I truly love and appreciate every comment, prediction, and response!
Review Responses
Yourwheezy – Percy isn't dead, but like in canon he's left his family in favor of the Ministry and at this point has not yet come back (I am skipping the Minister talking to Harry at the Burrow with Percy there 'visiting' since they're doing Christmas at Grimmauld Place). It'll come up again later but isn't a major plot point :)
Lilikaco – Poor Cygnus! I get what you're saying, though (lol). Glad you like him!
Viola – that will be explained more later, once he's out of Azkaban, so I can't say much yet.
FYI – Thank you, that flashback did have the wrong year but I've fixed it now. Oops!
ForsakenKalika – Holy cow. I'm sorry that happened. You have my sympathies. It's so hard.
Silver Orbed Lioness – I loved your Chap8 Qs, but can't answer them yet! :)
Thank you everyone for reading and reviewing!
-AL
UPCOMING:
Chapter Eleven: Hermione pushes Bellatrix too far and suffer for it. Severus Snape steps in.
Chapter Twelve: Skipping ahead in time a bit, and flashing back to an important past Easter.