A/N: We're in 2020. Weird, right? I started writing this in undergrad, nearly seven years ago. And we're still rolling! This chapter is dedicated to new follower, MiaSlytherin! Welcome, and I hope you continue to enjoy!
-C
The room was dark, with tall walls, a large marble fireplace, and paintings she couldn't see in the low light. She didn't know it—it probably wasn't real—but it felt familiar, like a version of a place she'd been before. Perhaps something at James's childhood home. Lydia stood at the head of the long table and touched the fine wood of the armchair. Snakes were carved as the arms.
"When I pictured this," a semi-familiar voice said behind her, "it wasn't in this room."
Lydia both did and didn't want to turn and see who it was. Even the voice sounded like a combination of people she knew, like Lucius or Sirius or Rabastan Lestrange all rolled together in one person. A nameless, faceless pureblood Death Eater.
"Knees," the voice said, an order. Lydia didn't move. She felt a hand in her hair, squeezing tightly, rough nails scratching at her scalp. Lydia's body jerked backward at the pull, into someone's chest, and she felt her knees give out. When the man forced her to the ground, she didn't fight.
Her knees hit the ground with shocking force, but she didn't cry in pain. It was like she couldn't speak, couldn't open her mouth. His hand was still in her hair, and he told her to kneel. Lydia was confused, as she was already kneeling. He kicked her leg and pushed her head down, toward his feet. He let go of her hair, and her body followed the momentum he had begun, her face pressed against the inside his boot, her hands splayed on the ground on either side of his feet.
"Where you belong," he said, a snarl.
He said something she didn't know, like a language she didn't understand, and Lydia began to shiver, knowing that with every shake of her body, her head rubbed against the man's ankle like a cat acknowledging its master.
"When you've been trained," he said, "and you've been broken, I think you'll make a very nice gift for the Dark Lord. Don't you?"
No. No, no, no.
"Please," was the only word that escaped from her mouth.
"That's it," the man said. "That's an eager little pet. Beg for your place, beg for this."
No specifics, but she kept saying please, over and over, and the word felt foreign in Lydia's mouth, like someone else was saying the words, and Lydia was only mouthing it, hearing it, feeling it in all the parts of her body.
She was still on her face and knees in the room, but it was suddenly full of men. Some familiar, most not, figments of her imagination. Sirius was there, and Lucius and Rabastan and Severus, in the far corner, just watching. Sirius had a glass of some clear liquid in hand, in a gold-edged glass goblet. Lydia realized she was naked, bare before all these men. And Severus said nothing.
"She's ready," Sirius said, staring at her, but not addressing her.
"Please," Lydia was still saying, trembling.
"He'll be here soon," Lucius said, also watching her. They were all watching her, all except Severus. "She'll make an excellent gift."
As she shook, her hands and knees chafed on the stone floor. She was cold, she was afraid, and she couldn't stand. She wasn't sure if that was better or worse, not standing. If she stood, they'd see everything. But if she didn't, she'd stay down here, kneeling and suppliant, right where they wanted her. And Severus said nothing.
The door opened, and the room felt several degrees colder. Lydia didn't dare look up now, much less stand. She kept saying please, like her mouth couldn't stop, but it was softer now, like a prayer. The men were silent, out of respect or fear, she couldn't be sure. She didn't hear footsteps approach, but she could feel the cold approach her, like ice just inches from skin. The pleas came faster. A foot like ice settled on her back, pressing her harder onto the ground.
"For you, My Lord," someone at the table said. She couldn't be sure who said it, and the voice was like a mix of voices again.
Something was filling her ears, like a sound of scratching and hissing. Lydia felt something dry and cold slide over her body, twisting and writhing with its thin band of muscle and scale. She shook harder, unable to move, even if she wasn't terribly afraid. She didn't see the head of the snake, but the snake began to wrap around her neck, tight, like a kind of leash. Lydia was paralyzed. Tears went straight from her eyes to the stone of the floor.
And the strange thing was that a part of her ached, not like a pain, but like a hunger. Part of her was enjoying something about this, wanted something about this. And she didn't know what part of her or what part of this. And Severus said nothing.
Lydia sat up with a gasp. Her pulse was rapid and wild in her throat, her side of the sheets were drenched in sweat, and she was shaking. It was the worst kind of nightmare, and what made it perhaps worst of all was that so little of it was recognizable as any variation on her past. It didn't fit the pattern, and Lydia wasn't sure if that was good or bad. She both wanted to immediately tell Albus and was afraid for him to ever see whatever happened in the dream. She certainly was afraid to even think through the pieces. She tried to get her breathing and pulse under control and decided she needed a quick shower before starting her day.
Getting out of bed without Severus noticing was something she'd gotten much better at in recent years. She made the shower as hot as she could without hurting herself. Her skin went pink under the water, and her mind wandered as she tried to think of anything but her nightmare. She went through her shopping list, what she planned to have for breakfast, what her plans were for the Saturday.
As it happened, the only thing she had on her schedule that she couldn't move was meeting Narcissa in a nearby village for tea. They had discussed meeting at Hogwarts or even in Hogsmeade, but Narcissa wanted to give her son space, and Lydia was keen to not accidentally run into Remus while in Narcissa's company. Narcissa was curious enough to meet in a Muggle village, although she confessed she might not know all the customary differences.
Lydia met Narcissa in the small Muggle village and led the way to a nearby tearoom. Narcissa dressed as innocuously as she could, in robes that could pass for a dress with unknowing company. Lydia wore one of her handful of Muggle outfits that made it to Hogwarts each year. They were unwearable for most of the Scottish weather, but spring was fully out on this day, and Lydia was pleased to have a bit of sun to warm her on the walk.
The bell tinkled, and the proprietress told them she'd be with them shortly. Lydia selected a table by the window and the two women sat.
"How does this work?" Narcissa asked.
"I'll order and pay, don't worry," Lydia said with a wink. "They only take pounds sterling in a place like this."
"I suppose that's true," Narcissa said.
The proprietress, a stout woman with barely enough room to move through the shop without bumping chairs and tables, approached with a broad smile.
"What can I get you, ladies?"
"We'll have the afternoon tea, please," Lydia said.
"And what in the pot?"
"The British Breakfast."
Narcissa raised an eyebrow, but the woman said the order would be out shortly. When she went away, Lydia lowered her voice and said, "Best to call it British breakfast in these parts, as opposed to English."
"Ah."
The tea was simple, but Narcissa hardly minded. In fact, she seemed thoroughly impressed by the quality of the sandwiches, and she asked the proprietress where they sourced their salmon. The woman was happy to tell Narcissa about the local fishermen who had all the best salmon available, and Narcissa very graciously thanked her.
When they were dressing the last of their scones, Narcissa asked how Lydia was handling the year.
"Ah," Lydia said, smiling weakly. "Well, it has proved a different kind of challenge than I expected, having Harry at the school. I don't regret staying on, but I do sometimes think I underestimated how hard it would be to look a mirror image of my best friend's husband in the face for seven years. I imagine it will only be harder as he grows older."
"Perhaps not," Narcissa said. "Sirius and Regulus could have been twins as children, and by school age they were certainly brothers, but by adulthood, I would have thought perhaps they were reasonably close cousins."
Lydia hummed, trying not to wonder for the millionth time what Albus was learning about Sirius, whether he'd gone to see him, what Sirius would say if Lydia did ever make it to Azkaban to face him. The silence while Lydia tried not to wonder must have stretched longer than she realized, because Narcissa cleared her throat pointedly.
"You look positively ill," Narcissa said, "and I think that perhaps despite our ultimatum on truly discussing Sirius, you might need to."
Lydia hesitated, then set down her half-eaten scone.
"I talk myself around in circles about it all the time," she admitted.
"About what, exactly?"
"All sorts of things. I wonder when he turned back. I wonder what he knew when. I wonder whether he'd felt anything for me at all, or if perhaps he'd been turned in school and he only dated me for the sake of the Dark Lord. I wonder if he perhaps hadn't really turned but was trying to protect me. I wonder whether he hurt at all, betraying the people he loved. I wonder if I only survived because I was useful. I wonder if I'd be able to ask him any of this if I saw him now, or if he'd just charm me out of asking a thing. I wonder if I'd even recognize him, or if perhaps he's gone mad in there and is a totally different person—"
"Lydia," Narcissa said firmly, "I am saying this for your own good, so I want you to listen to me very carefully. None of it matters."
"But—"
"If Sirius knew what was going to happen to…was it McDonnelly?"
"MacDonald."
"Her. If he knew what was going to happen to her or not, the fact remains that she is dead. If he knew about other friends who died in the war, the same thing applies. Whether he kept you alive because he loved you or because he was ordered to, you are alive. And whether he hurt to do what he did, or whether he did it for noble reasons or to serve his master, the fact remains, he did it. Asking would do no good, even if you could trust whatever answer he gave."
She softened, then said, through twitching lips, "That said, I do believe he loved you, however long or for whatever impetus. As much as he loved anything in his life. That, at least, was probably real. I am afraid I don't know as much as Lucius or Severus about the rest of it, but things happened the way they did. The why matters less. The dead are dead, the gone are gone, and the living are still alive. Let that be enough."
Lydia really wished she could. She wished she could see the world so simply, so neatly, but Narcissa didn't understand. She was not an academic, and she didn't know loss anywhere near as intimately as Lydia did. She didn't realize that Lydia needed a why, almost as much as she needed the answer. Otherwise, the answer was nothing.
Lydia returned to her typical life shortly thereafter, settling in the staff lounge with a stack of fifth year essays. Penelope's was an infinitely pleasant read, but from there, it was a bit of a struggle. Acantha Leonard-Dawson's essay was so abysmal, Lydia almost wanted Severus to mark it so it was given its due. But he probably wouldn't realize just how poor it was in the first place. He understood some of her subject, but not to the O.W.L. level.
She took a break, poured herself some tea, and was surprised when Albus came in, a smile on his face.
"I did hope I would find you here," he said, looking at the stack of essays. "Ah, is Miss Leonard-Dawson below your standard once more?"
"Regrettably," Lydia said. "Tea?"
"None for me, thank you. I expect this to be a quick conversation." She did not flinch when he locked the door. "There was nothing useful in the files, Lydia. I may have to go to Azkaban for what I need."
Lydia wanted to ask again if she could go, but she practically hear Narcissa asking her why it mattered, saying it would be a bad idea. She resisted the urge.
"I won't tell you all of the conversation," Albus said softly, "but if there is anything I think you will need to hear, trust that I will tell you."
It was difficult to always trust Albus's judgment these days. Once upon a time, she agreed with her friends that Albus's judgment was practically infallible. Remus still seemed to think it was, most days. But she'd begun to trust Severus further than Albus, had begun to realize that where Albus made mistakes, she had a high likelihood of being on the wrong end of them. All she wanted was to know why.
"Albus," she whispered, "could you ask him…?"
"I can try," Albus said, frowning. "I can't promise we could trust the answer. I need to focus on the most important pieces. They may not even allow me the sort of access I desire. It would not be the first time, and he is considered in the highest class of dangerous prisoner." Lydia shivered. "But if there is an opportunity, Lydia, I will get your answers. I promise that much."
"I suppose that seems fair," she said, rubbing her eyes. "I do wish it didn't matter to know, Albus, I really do."
"Never wish not to care, Lydia," Albus whispered. "I believe, sometimes, that this sort of wish leads to the worst vices in mankind. You cared about Sirius Black once, and you should care to know why he broke your trust. If you didn't, I think it would say less about him and more about you. I wish I had all your answers, if only so that it was all clear to me as well. Many things from the war are clear to me now, good and ill. Unfortunately, Sirius's betrayal is still something of a mystery."
"And you don't like mysteries," Lydia said.
He surprised her by smiling, wand toward the door.
"Oh, I love mysteries," he said brightly. "They make such marvelous books, don't you think?"
She laughed a single, bitter, hollow chuckle, and she turned her attention to the essays once more. If she'd found it difficult to focus on Acantha's essay before, it seemed nearly impossible now.
Lydia tried not to, she tried so hard, but she found herself thinking back over all the years she'd known Sirius again, trying to find some clue to the puzzle she couldn't solve. She remembered him as a little boy on the train, nose in the air and not at all interested in her. She remembered him at Sorting, a little pleased and perhaps a bit afraid at his result, but certainly pleased to be sitting with James by the end of the feast. She remembered the time he put Droobles in Artemis's hair. She remembered the day in third year when he punched a much bigger, meaner Slytherin in the jaw for calling Artemis a slut. She remembered Sirius and James carrying her to the hospital wing after a painful Bludger hit in practice. He'd been so gentle with her, and unusually strong. She remembered when she saw his first drawing of her, when he first kissed her, when he first was inside her, the first time he said he was in love with her….
None of it made any sense. She knew he was dangerous, she knew he could be impulsive, but that was just it. Sirius didn't make grand plans, he wasn't the sort to play the long game, even with her. Even his feelings for her had been the accident of an impulsive decision to help his friend gone awry. She could almost believe that he made some terrible mistake at the last minute, or that he'd been tempted on short notice, but a Death Eater all along? Even back in school? Certainly not that. Could he have been turned when the Prewetts died? When he and Remus fought over her? When Bellatrix blew up his house? When Severus asked her to leave the country? When Artemis died?
She wanted to believe he'd had them all fooled, because that seemed easier. And he wasn't a bad liar, although she knew better ones. James was a better liar, and Severus an almost impeccable one. Sirius had never been that good. And at eleven, twelve, thirteen? It couldn't have all been a lie.
Lydia growled with frustration and tossed aside Acantha's essay in a small fit of rage. If she could just solve this puzzle, just this one thing, perhaps she could have some piece. If Albus could find her answers, maybe she could finally feel like she was living her life, maybe she would be free to do so. Maybe, she thought bitterly, she'd be able to look Harry in the eye someday and not feel a burden of guilt.
But then, that was probably too much to hope.
A/N: So Lydia's nightmares are sometimes soooo interesting. I'm writing a fun one right now, actually, so they don't disappear off the map. Understandably, for someone who goes through what she's going through. She struggles with the latest, she has tea with a supportive Narcissa Malfoy, and Albus is going to have to go to Azkaban to find his answers. For reference, I'm drafting the chapter with the 2nd year feast, flying car and all. I'm stoked!
Review Prompt: Narcissa and Albus give her some conflicting thoughts on the Sirius situation here. Who do you tend to agree with more, and why? Does it matter less why and more that it happened, or should the why matter?
-C