Lucius had already finished a glass of wine tonight. Still, when he returned to his own study he sat down before his fireplace and poured himself a tumbler of scotch on ice by habit.
Tonight was… an interesting experience. He would even say that something felt different from the moment he set foot in that ballroom. In all the years of his adult life, in every gathering he'd attended, people came to him. He could fix himself to one place in the room, and by the end of the night he would've spoken to everyone of significance without moving an inch. Tonight, not so. Unless he approached them first, people now only greet him politely on their way to someone else. In fact, if not for Avery and later Slytherin deciding to sit at the same table, Lucius doubted that anyone would have come his way at all.
It was a little disorienting to be at once in the center of attention and not. People did not seek him out, but he was still the target of their speculative glances. Well, he and Nott both. Everytime he moved, especially after Slytherin so casually sat down beside him, their eyes followed him as if waiting for something.
Lucius had a good idea what that something was.
He had to admit, it was irritating to find that he had been relegated to the periphery while Avery had taken up his former mantle as an anchor of the group only because the other former Death-Eater had made the neutrality oath while Lucius had not. Lucius had planned to demonstrate himself so invaluable that they would count him a member without the oath. Nevertheless, while he'd been mostly successful in reminding people of his worth, it was also clear that they would not trust him without the pledge. Borgin even half-jokingly asked if any Malfoy gold went to fund the attack on his shop. As if he would stoop so low! That petty plot was all Aaron Pike, although Lucius figured that Pyrite may have encouraged him a little.
Lucius knew without a doubt that had he committed himself to the neutral-dark faction at the same time as Cassius Avery, it would be he who stood at the core of the faction as commander of Slytherin's small but growing standing army. After all, while they were both high-ranking, influential former Death Eaters, Lucius was still better entrenched where the new Madame Slytherin cared most. Salazar's sake, if he'd pulled out a quill and signed the oath tonight, Slytherin's breathtaking Nocturne performance would have only been a passing footnote. Everyone wanted him to join the faction so that they could seek benefits from his resources, his connections, and his wealth.
Lucius held the tumbler in his palm and watched the firelight dancing in the amber of the whiskey. All he had to do to gain a place of prominence in the faction was commit. He knew this was Slytherin's message to him tonight.
"Why don't you just sign the neutrality agreement already, Lucius? You're missing out!"
Should he do it? Perhaps this was the right moment?
He smiled. While the offer was tempting, the only path he was committed to was his own. What kind of Slytherin would he be if he merely stopped at what he could take by simply reaching out?
Draining his tumbler, Lucius stood, and silenced the small, uncertain part of him that wondered if his choice was wise. The tiny, impressionable part that trembled in beat with each note of Slytherin's inhuman Nocturne, and urged him to either march abreast of this newly-arisen force or get out of its way.
He was a Malfoy, for Merlin's sake. His value meant that he would be granted more leeway than most. It would be up to him to capitalize on this fact and use it to maneuver himself into an unassailable position. It was his kind of game.
And while he might not share their family name, thought Lucius to himself, both head and heir of Slytherin would soon find that he was no less a serpent than they were.
"That was a lovely dinner," commented Alessandra Greengrass to her husband Darius.
As something of a connoisseur of parties herself, Alessandra felt that tonight's dinner was rather reflective of Slytherin's style overall. Comfortable but not lavish. Delightful but not ostentatious. There were no white peacocks prancing in the yard, no gold leafs in the food, no elf waiting at every table. Slytherin did not care to dazzle with every detail, but instead made sure that the night was memorable where it mattered: the guestlist, the discussions, and the magic.
Alessandra approved. The faction could do worse than a practical witch for a leader.
Darius hummed. "Nothing tonight was showy except that Nocturne," he appraised, "it's as if it was deliberately written to include all the toughest musical techniques into one composition! I mean, who would even think of changing timbre while playing counterpoint? Only an extremely confident mage, I should think."
"I figured you'd appreciate the technical details," smiled Alessandra, leaning on his shoulder. Her husband was a Ravenclaw to the core. "I've always wondered how that Nocturne was supposed to sound in full. There's just something unique about magic that no instruments can replicate."
"Well, she didn't entirely go by the score," said Darius, "the original composition as written in the book of Nocturnes only specified the notes, not the timbre or the way it's meant to be played. And, of course, all of that cadenza with the glissando sequences is improvised. Which just backs my point," he chuckled, "it's like she took one look at her ancestor's already insane composition and decided, 'nope, I can do better than that'!"
Alessandra laughed at his exaggeratedly snooty voice. "She's a proud mage with all the right to be."
"Point," acknowledged Darius with a fond look at his wife, "why, that's a tall praise coming from you!"
Alessandra swatted him. "What's that supposed to mean? I'm just saying it like it is. Even among purebloods I've never met another mage who's so immersed in magic and so in tune with its possibilities. This is how we all ought to be. And besides,"
She let a small, mischievous smile play out at her lips. "She's not the only one who plans to one day surpass Salazar Slytherin."
The night wind blew, soft, whispering. Tristan opened his eyes when he felt the pressure drop that came with a successfully completed apparation.
He'd fled, fled like a coward. He was on his own terrace now, overlooking his own land. The climbing roses replaced by weeping willows. The happy ballroom gone, traded for silence. The greenlit path lingered for a while as an afterimage at the back of his eyelids.
He rubbed at them with the palms of his hands. Slowly, even it gave way to total darkness.
He knew why he'd fled, of course. If he hadn't, he might have given in to the temptation and done something exceedingly rash. Like actually signing the oath of neutrality.
He wished he could articulate the source of his apprehension. It was not that he didn't believe she could follow through. The Venerable Mme. Slytherin had a way about her that radiated omnipotence - in this sense she and the Dark Lord he'd followed since childhood were strikingly similar. She revealed prodigious power with each casual flick of her fingers. She drew up blueprints for the entire society like it was the natural order of the world. She invited people to question her with the quiet confidence of a teacher, welcomed it even, like she was merely waiting for her pupils to come to the right conclusion for themselves. Tristan would never dare question the Dark Lord, but if the Dark Lord was ever to have a contender it would be her.
It was not that he found her insincere. Simple logic proved the truth of her vision, her motivations, her grand design: if she had not believed in what she said, then she would not have wasted so much time on one insignificant wizard well past his prime. If anything he was flattered that she was giving him so many chances at all.
Could he really do it? Everytime he spoke to Selaine Slytherin, she'd make him feel as if anything was within reach so long as he took a leap of faith and tried. Were he thirty years younger - no, twenty years younger, even - and still full of ambition, he would have signed that damned oath at the first meeting. Now, with sixty-five years under his belt, Tristan simply could not summon up the will to take that critical step.
No, she could point him toward the most beautiful vision of a garden, and it would be no more than a mirage to him. It was too late to try for the Elysian fields instead of Tartarus when one already had half a foot in Charon's boat. For Tristan, his destination was already written in the past sixty-five years of his life. All that was left to do now was to complete the journey.
If only she was here twenty years sooner. Perhaps that was Mme. Slytherin's only fault. She appeared twenty years too late.
But then she spoke of his son.
Tristan took one last look into the tenebrous night before he would retreat for the warmth of his manor. The willows billowed in the wind like sprawling ink blots. Theodore used to make a game out of running under those willows when he was just learning to walk, stumbling from one tree to another as his mother cajoled him with encouraging arms. Such fond memories. Tristan was already greying at the temples when he met his wife Clariss. They'd married late - him at forty-three and her at thirty-one - but they'd been so ready to take on the world. They'd redecorated the whole manor, cleaned up the landscaping, and had little Theodore. If he'd known then that they only had three years to spend with each other before she would fall casualty to the war, perhaps he'd have appreciated those days more.
But now Clariss was gone, and Theodore had grown from a giggling toddler into a bright, ambitious, intellectual young man. Such was his son's clarity of perception, Theodore had sent him an entire dissertation in their latest correspondence, detailing all the information he'd managed to piece together regarding an entity named S. He'd even included a thoughtful assessment of the reliability of the rumours from which each bit of information was extracted. Thus it was with careful consideration, wrote Theodore, that he would venture to advise his father to choose the neutral-dark faction over the Dark Lord.
Tristan was proud of his son if only for his daring. At Theodore's age, Tristan remembered himself quavering at the thought of having to persuade his own father to let him date a half-blood girl, let alone advising on a literal matter of life and death! The boy had always been the best of both himself and Clariss. After all, the most powerful force on earth was a learned, ambitious mage with the guts to act. In this sense, perhaps Theodore had already surpassed him. Nevertheless, as head of family it was Tristan's responsibility to make a safe choice on behalf of them both, however dirty, unheroic, and unseemly it may be.
'Your reasoning is sound,' Tristan had replied to his son, 'but you are missing one vital piece of information. You were too young to remember the war. You do not know the Dark Lord's terrible power like I do, or the wrath he unleashes upon his enemies.'
Cease your speculations, he'd told his son, and guard yourself well. Because the bloodbath that approached would not only be unkind, it would be inevitable.
Tristan laughed bitterly all the way to the thick glass doors of his veranda, a sound that no one could hear but himself.
There was one silver lining to the whole miserable affair. Tristan saluted the Venerable Mme. Slytherin by raising his hand skyward in a random direction.
'Whatever happens, Selaine Slytherin, I wish you all the best. Whatever happens, meeting you has been a comfort.'
If the Dark Lord fails and both he and his son perish in battle, at least he could die knowing that the world would be in excellent care.
"What's this?" asked Severus, staring at the small memory phial that Hermione Granger had slapped down on the desk with some force.
"The answer to everything you want to ask me."
Seeing his confusion, the girl elaborated. "Well, I figured that the moment I get back from that dinner you'd want to cross-examine me about every minute of it, so I decided to save us both time. Here's a memory of the event. Feel free to pick it apart as closely as you please."
Severus raised an eyebrow. That was very… forthcoming of Salazar's protegee. Memories were not to be given out lightly, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't want to see. The better he knew what she had to deal with, the better he could help her. "My pensieve is in the corner." With a wave of his wand, he summoned it to the desk. "Ready?"
Grabbing his hand, the Gryffindor witch dove into the memory with him. Severus guided the both of them to land neatly at the front of what looked to be a stately ballroom. This, he supposed, was Castle Slytherin.
Hermione's memory-self was standing slightly in front of them with her back turned. As befitting of her purported station, she was dressed in a set of green light battle robes. Her hair was pinned up and seemed to have been coloured a different shade of brown. She had a glass in her right hand, which she raised to address her guests. "To new friendships!"
"To new friendships!"
Even her voice was modified to be subtly different. A good precaution. The less similarities between the Ven. Mme. Slytherin and the fourth-year Hogwarts student, the better.
Severus circled around Memory-Hermione and crossed the floor to the back of the room so that he could watch from the vantage point of her guests. He was somewhat impressed by the amount of details in this pensieve memory. Due to the dependence of memories on the perception of its supplier, many pensieve viewings tended to be a blurry mess with patches of clarity where the subject's attention was focused. To retain such a comprehensive memory, Hermione would have needed to scan each side of the room periodically and actively observe her audience. Severus knew from experience that it was not a simple skill to learn.
The table he'd stopped at was occupied by Montressor Selwyn and four mages who he did not know. The two wizards among the four were in the motion of giving each other congratulatory claps on the back at something that Julius Borgin was saying. Severus assumed this would be the neutral-dark faction's standing defence team. "... If you come across anyone dimwitted who looks like they're looking for them, could you let them know I dropped them in a gutter somewhere? Thanks!"
"Borgin's shop was attacked?" asked Severus.
"Yup, it happened earlier this week," confirmed the real Hermione, who'd followed him across the room, "It was no biggie. They handled it well. I didn't have to go at all."
"And thank Merlin for that," muttered Severus.
The next time, though, they might not be so lucky.
"Professor," said Hermione, "the sooner you accept that I'm in this for the long haul, the easier it will be for us to work together."
Severus sighed. It was true, and he was already resigned to the fact that she was permanently entangled into this mess of a situation months ago. Moving again, he continued his circle around the other half of the ballroom until they were once again standing at the front of the room. "You've handled your faction well," he noted. "Your guests seem pleased with their choices so far. That's good."
"Two have not chosen yet," corrected Hermione, "but on the whole, yes."
Severus looked about, and easily followed the evaluating glances of the other guests to the table where Lucius Malfoy and Tristan Nott were sitting. Ah.
Hermione had taken a risk in inviting the two, but it was obvious that her motivation this time was selfish. For her friends, she was mobilizing Salazar's resources to try to save their fathers.
Not that she could not do a good job of looking after the faction's interest simultaneously. Severus watched Memory-Hermione smoothly pick up from Borgin's taunt to give a short speech that gently removed any confusion regarding the meaning of the two wizards' presence. This would warn the others not to be too trusting with the two Death Eaters during the free-for-all session that was dinner.
Food appeared then. How did she manage to prepare this whole feast? He presumed she must have had some help from the castle. Memory-Hermione now began a circuit around the room as well, stopping at each table to politely inquire after each guest with the air of a practiced socialite. Her guests seemed to have accepted her entirely as one of their own. It was odd, realized Severus. He barely recognized her in the memory. He'd never seen her in costume until now, but with that filigree silver mask on she truly presented as a different person. For the first time he could actually imagine her as the imperturbable Mme. S. Slytherin, a mastermind who held many strings. A basilisk among serpents. A proud lord, even, returning to claim her rightful place.
It was an exceedingly convincing act. Even with her memory and physical self standing side by side, there was no resemblance between the masked, green-cloaked witch and the wide-eyed girl in school robes. If Severus had not been in the know, he would never have believed this memory came from her at all.
Severus mentioned this to Hermione. This provoked a small chuckle from her. "Are you satisfied at last that I might be able to survive a den of snakes, Professor?"
"Make no mistake," he warned, "it's still a dangerous game that you're playing. But you might not be as badly off as I feared."
Her mask had certainly grown strong. Stronger than he'd thought possible. It gave him hope that she just might be able to survive this crazy plan of Salazar Slytherin's after all.
To ensure that he did not miss anything, Severus was content to watch silently through the rest of dinner, and she obliged him. They listened through the meaningless small talks and the diplomatic compliments. They followed along for the surprisingly substantial discussion about progressivism. They followed once again when Memory-Hermione left the table and crossed to the other side of the room where Memory-Lucius was doing his best to act nonchalant. Memory-Cassius did an admirable job of poking at him at every opportunity. Memory-Emmanuel was silent but engaged - a learned response to having a friend who liked to run his mouth, he supposed. Memory-Nott was simply silent.
Hermione looked to him. "You know Lucius Malfoy and Tristan Nott better than I do. What do you suppose they're thinking right now?"
Severus deliberated. "Assuming that your memories are accurate?"
"Of course."
"Lucius is jealous, and Nott is regretful." assessed Severus. Indeed, Lucius looked like he'd just been passed over for Head Boy in favour of another prefect. "Overall they're impressed. And tempted."
"And what would that translate to? Do you think their disposition toward the neutral-dark faction has changed?"
"Lucius will either play hard-to-get and angle for a better deal from you, or try to string you along so that he can have his cake and eat it too."
"That does match my expectations for the wizard," she snorted. "And Tristan Nott?"
"That's harder to say," he told her honestly, because false hopes would do her no good here.
"Fair," nodded Hermione, her expression perfectly neutral. "I was hoping to earn his trust, but I'm not sure that I've had much success. Time will tell, I suppose."
Severus opted to tactfully change the subject. "What's after desserts?"
"Ah, my grand finale," she smirked. "You'll see."
Severus turned back just in time to catch the beginning of a Nocturne performance that could only be described as astoundingly ambitious. Two simultaneous melodies, with three variations on her off hand and smooth, flying notes up and down the score on her wand hand that he didn't even think he could manage! He quickly began to understand Hermione's pride at being able to make it work. Such a display of simultaneous casting, wandless magic, and spell-joining typically was the marking of a very deadly mage, and wasn't that exactly what the faction needed Mme. Slytherin to be?
They didn't need to know that their leader's weakness happened to be the fourth ingredient that would have completed the lethal combination: raw magical output, which she lacked due to her age. It would be Severus's job to ensure that this fact stays hidden from her enemies until it would no longer be an issue.
But still, what a mage she'd become! He'd known already that she was a good duellist and a better occlumen than most. Now she's proved to be a good diplomat, a charismatic leader, and an able actor. Up to now he'd thought of her as his student, but perhaps that was his mistake. He ought to be thinking of her as he would a young Auror or cursebreaker. Merlin knew she was more mature in mind than some of them, despite being still two years from majority - well, one year if he counted the time-turning.
As the last notes of music faded away, Mme. Slytherin bowed and glided gracefully toward their table. The physical Hermione beside him grabbed his hand and pulled the both of them out of the pensieve. "Well, Professor, do I pass muster?"
Severus turned to face her properly. "Perhaps I've underestimated you, Miss Granger,"
"Why, thank you my dear Professor! I thought you'd never notice."
"It's clear to me now that you are a master of your own craft," he admitted.
He still thought Salazar Slytherin a bastard for putting her in this position just as he still couldn't help but resent Dumbledore's influence in his own, but it was time that he recognized her as what she was: a contemporary. Especially considering the role that she'd valiantly chosen to take on.
"Excellent," said Salazar's protegee with a small, cheeky smile, "Will you finally stop having a fit every time I go out as Slytherin?"
Severus snorted. "I am still concerned for you, but I'll trust your judgement and your ability to take care of yourself."
A full smile lit up her face then, so genuine and unguarded that it took Severus aback. "Thank you, Professor Snape. To be honest, you were the second person whose trust I hoped to earn tonight. I'm glad. After all, we will be working together."
What a duo they made. Two pieces dancing in this game between giants. One a double agent - triple agent now, perhaps - and the other the frontman of an open mutiny. Extraordinarily, Severus found himself smiling too. "To partnership?"
"To partnership."
'Headmaster,
Your dedication to the safety of your students is admirable. As long as you are looking after Mr. Potter, I am glad.
I will take you up on that offer of further correspondence, Albus Dumbledore. It's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance albeit in writing. I believe we may hear from each other again quite soon.
Looking forward, and all the best to you in the meantime,
S.'
Albus reread the short reply a second time to ensure that he'd caught any double meanings, then set it aside to be filed away.
He was fairly certain that the hand he'd tacitly extended had been received and understood. S did have more to discuss with him, but they did not seem interested in asking for assurances or promises. Rather, their reply seemed decisive and confident that they would soon be entering into a partnership of some sort. It was very interesting.
He had revisited the precautions for the Triwizard Third Task as he was warned. As with the Second Task, each champion's immediate surroundings would be broadcasted on three independently-cast magical projections for the whole audience. He'd even convinced the other headmasters to independently cast alert wards for unauthorized presence in the arena as an anti-cheating measure. Once the Task began, no human, part-human or house-elf should be able to get into the maze without one of them noticing.
The apparation wards will remain up for the duration of the Task. The outbound portkey wards must come down and stay down until the last spectator departs. This could not be helped - the Ministry would not budge on the necessity of an evacuation plan, and further arguing might actually make the issue politically sensitive. His workaround solution was a ward that physically expelled all portkeys within the arena except the authorized one. There would simply be no way to plant a portkey in the maze without it being expediently catapulted over the walls. This way, the only portkey that any Champion could contact would be the trophy that would pull them out of the arena.
For all of the Third Task Albus would be personally in attendance. However, there was a high chance that he might be tied up in conversation by the Minister or one of the ministry's many VIPs. To compensate, Alastor Moody would be watching to apprehend any suspicious persons found around the arena and audience stands. Albus figured that between the two of them all contingencies would be covered, whether his anonymous informant had written good faith or not.
His attention was drawn to the domed roof of his round office when he felt a cool draft. One of the small, high windows had been left open slightly from earlier in the day, and now the night breeze was pouring in. Albus shut it fully with a thought, leaving the wind to whistle restlessly outside. The imaginative part of himself would call this an omen. The night was changing.
The news that flowed into his office each day all pointed to it. Mundungus Fletcher's reports of multiple recruitment drives in Knocturn Alley. The momentous vote to install a Dark mage in the DMLE leadership, followed by blatant foul play when said position failed to materialize into a Death Eater foothold. And, just this evening, Severus's mention of rumoured meetings between former Death Eaters and Dark-sympathizers and an unknown mage who was very keen to maintain their mystery. It was, once again, an interesting development. Leadership among Dark-Traditionalists had been strange since last year, but Albus had always thought that Lucius Malfoy would have been the one to try this sort of thing, not a masked stranger. And certainly it was not Voldemort himself, because Tom would never have hid his face.
Still, this hint of discord among their ranks was a silver lining to the unfortunate eventuality that they would have another war. Ideally there would even be a breakaway cell that could be persuaded to see reason.
If not, Albus had always maintained that two divided enemies were better than one.
'The board has been laid. The pieces are set. What will be your opening move?'
