Thursday, 9 August 1973

"Bonjour, Miss Black." For a moment, Narcissa did not recognize the man standing in the doorway of the parlour, hat in hand. He was tall and fair, with black curling hair and a round, gentle face. Neither thin nor stout, he had a rather average build that gave him an overall impression of softness. Instinctively she knew that when he smiled he'd have a dimple on each cheek, and when she reached his most distinctive feature, glacial blue and sparkling eyes fringed by thick, dark lashes, she realized at once who had come to call.

"Dieux," she breathed, rising to her feet. "Surely not… Michel Perrot? Is that really you?"

In reply, his face split into a brilliant beam, and he swept across the room to take her hand in both of his own. "Ma chère, lovely Narcissa Black. I haven't seen you since we were children, summers spent amongst the wild flowers on the banks of the Loire, hunting for bowtruckles in the woods—"

"—sneaking into the stables and riding your mother's Aethonans," she added with a delighted laugh, laying her free hand upon his. "I still remember the scolding I received for that! What trouble we were." Grinning in earnest now, she gestured that he should sit and poured him a saucer of tea.

"We were," he affirmed. "I only returned from abroad two nights past; imagine my delighted surprise to learn that you had decided to take up residence here once more. I knew I must call at once, but I confess, I rather wished to surprise you. Your elf remembered me, and she told me you were in here alone so I asked to enter unannounced. I hope I have not been an intrusion?"

"You are a most welcome surprise indeed. Tell me, how are your parents? Your sister?"

He showed true warmth and affection when he assured her they were all well. "And yours? Is Bella still as wild as I remember? Annie still lost in watercolors and fantasy?"

Narcissa stiffened slightly. "I'm surprised you haven't heard," she began delicately. "Andromeda… well, several years ago she embarrassed us all by running off with…" Narcissa found she could not even bring herself to say the word. "She's no longer a part of the family."

Michel's brow creased in concern and he opened his mouth, but she pressed on before he could make any inquiry for further detail. "Bellatrix has been married for some time now, to Rodolphus Lestrange."

"Ah yes, that I did know, now that you say so. My parents attended the wedding, the Perrot and Lestrange families have ties, but decided Faustine and I were too young to join. A shame— it would have been a pleasure to see you. I suppose I was only, what, fourteen at the time? I recall I was angry but in retrospect, who wants children at a wedding?" He chuckled and shook his head wistfully, taking a sip of tea. At the mention of weddings, however, Narcissa felt her own smile fading; a fact that did not go unnoticed by her companion.

"I suppose I spoke in error earlier," Michel began again, his voice rather more sober, "when I called you 'Miss Black.' I must extend my congratulations on your nuptials. Your husband— is he here?"

It was several long moments before Narcissa could manage a reply. "No, he is not. He was called away on urgent business."

His dark brows rose in surprise. "So soon after the wedding?"

Despite herself, a short, bitter laugh escaped her lips. "During the reception," she confessed coldly, without really meaning to. At once she flushed and set down her tea, lacing her fingers neatly and staring into her lap. "You must excuse me for speaking so bluntly. I fear I'm rather overtired, it's been a tumultuous few days."

She was only slightly taken aback when one of Michel's hands appeared in the narrow line of view, curling gently around both of hers. "Ma chère," he murmured, tone sympathetic and soothing. "He is a fool to have walked away from such a beautiful bride."

Narcissa knew she should brush his comforting touch and words aside, but found she could not. "He's… very busy. He has many important business ventures." The words sounded empty even to her own ears, but she could think of no more salient defense of his behaviour when the pain was still so raw. Michel made a disbelieving sound and drew away to settle back in his chair— she felt an unbidden pang at the withdraw of his caress.

"He's the wealthiest wizard in Britain. Perhaps in Europe. Perhaps even the world. Surely he can afford to take a loss on a deal that interrupts his own wedding?"

Narcissa had no reply. The record she had been listening to when he had come in had reached its conclusion, and the silence was punctuated only by the soft, persistent, whirring scratch as it continued to spin on its turntable. Michel rose to change it, gracefully spending several moments sorting through the albums and giving her a chance to dash the tears from her cheeks and compose herself once more. There was dry shuffling as he drew a new disc from its sleeve and placed it carefully on the turntable, followed by a brief hiss as the needle sought the grooves of the vinyl. And then— her breath caught in her throat as the instantly identifiable opening bars filled the study, and a rich tenor began to sing:

"O soave fanciulla, o dolce viso—"

Tears threatened once more and her eyes were incredibly blue as she stared up at Michel with something between wonderment and shock. "I can't believe you remembered..."

"How could I forget?" He held out his hand once more, drawing her to her feet but not relinquishing his grip once she stood. Instead, he pulled her into his arms; it was not music to dance to, but they swayed gently as the aria soared around them. It felt so good to be held. She'd hidden her hurt from all her family and friends beneath a façade of indifference, but she could feel her callousness begin to unravel when confronted by this compassion.

"Your love of Puccini, while I always preferred Verdi," he continued with a smile she could not see, since her head rested on his shoulder, but could hear in his voice. "I always thought you would come to see my point of view— Puccini is… flamboyant; Verdi tells better stories."

"We were both wrong," Narcissa sighed, letting the familiar music fill her; fill the void left by her husband's abrupt abandonment with Rodolfo and Mimi's hopeless but passionate declarations of adoration. "It's Wagner."

"Wagner, the very epitome of opera," he agreed. The music wrapped around them for several moments more before he spoke again. "But his works are epics. They touch the soul and the mind. Puccini and Verdi merely engage the heart."

"The mere heart," she echoed listlessly, and her voice cracked.

"Ma chère," he sighed sadly, stroking her long blonde locks tenderly. "Dear Narcissa." But he could offer her no more platitudes; he could not assure her that her husband would realise the error of his ways or that matrimonial bliss was imminent. Instead he held her, long after the song had finished and moved to the next, and even after this record too reached its conclusion, still they stood with her in his arms, her head on his shoulder, his hand running comfortingly through her hair.

Tuesday, 13 November 1979

If Lucius had given it any prior consideration, he would have hoped to never end up in this pub again. He'd once frequented it without shame— it was a Wizarding bar of decent reputation, but he never had to worry about seeing anyone he knew well and he never visited often enough to become a regular. When he had come in the the past the clientele was young, recent Hogwarts graduates mostly, and he was rather dismayed upon arrival on this night to see that it was still very young while he was not any longer. In the two years he'd lived in London after his wedding as a pseudo-bachelor, he'd found it unnecessary to venture anywhere else to meet women for the night. No respectable Pureblood witch would come here but there'd always been plenty of attractive and willing half-blood girls that he felt no qualms about dismissing the following morning. That wasn't why he was here tonight though. At least, he was fairly sure that wasn't why he was here.

He was here to drink. Normally he would have preferred to drink at home, and his own stock was of higher quality than anything served here, but he did not want to be alone with his thoughts. It had been two weeks and he still hadn't spoken to her. She didn't come down for meals and was sleeping elsewhere. The Manor was vast, it was not difficult to live completely separate lives within it. He was somewhat confident she had only moved across the sitting room to her own suite but was in equal measures too proud to check and too filled with terror of what he might find out if he did so.

Even if he had spoken to her, he was not certain what he could say. He was still furious. She had made a fool of him countless times over— each new realization made him sear first with mortification and then rage. Their first time together he should have recognized that she was too eager, too unafraid to be as unexperienced as he had assumed. And after all, what woman unacquainted with pleasure would have even known enough to accuse him of being passionless after that first year?

He tossed a handful of galleons on the bar and took the entire bottle of firewhisky with him to a darkened table in the corner. From the shadows his eyes flickered resentfully over the youthful witches and wizards who were laughing and generally enjoying the company of one another. A pretty girl with brown curls noticed him staring and offered a tentative half-smile, and he returned his gaze to the glass in front of him. Even if he'd been even remotely interested, she was far too young, probably only recently legal.

Lucius, on the other hand, was twenty six today.

All day he'd been haunted by thoughts of his last birthday; it felt like a lifetime ago. He rubbed his jaw as the memories flashed through his mind, wondering if he could ever again hope to be woken in the morning by his wife's soft lips on his temple. His fingers met with rough stubble, and he suddenly recalled the time she'd shaved him in the bath— how he'd tried twice to ask her where she'd learned to do it, and how she'd nimbly evaded the question. Fury flooded him once more as the now-obvious answer came to mind, and he threw back the rest of his drink and poured another.

How many people knew, he wondered bitterly, that he'd been played for a fool? Rodolphus had been the only one to try to warn him (though not very hard, he thought with acid), so Bellatrix naturally knew as well. Likely Ari Parkinson, and she seemed the type to share everything with her husband. If he was lucky the list ended there, but Rabastan lived with Rodolphus and Bellatrix, and he'd long been involved with Ghada Shafiq… in the worst case scenario, anyone in society could know, might be sneering behind their hands at blind, ridiculous Lucius Malfoy, who couldn't even keep his wife under control… he gave up on the glass and took a deep slug of whisky directly from the bottle. It was not making him feel better, but that did not stop him from drinking more of it. He was confident that if he had enough, he would stop feeling anything at all, and that would be a welcome relief.

The pretty brunette was looking at him again. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and tried to recapture his own mindset five years prior. He would have smiled back, bought her a drink or three, danced with her, and invited her back to his house. It was nearby and far more appealing than the shared flats most of the rest of the men in this pub called home.

But he didn't want her. Not even slightly. His tingling fingertips fumbled slightly as he lifted the bottle and took another long pull. When had his desires so drastically altered? This carefree, grinning girl likely had none of his wife's compunctions. She would probably take him in her mouth, or let him have her from behind while she was bent over the bed. Frankly mild fantasies, but she found even these to be base and so he'd not indulged for years now. But he did not miss them, really, or at least wouldn't if he had her back.

But she had made a mockery of their marriage. She had cuckolded him and he could not forgive her for that. For her he had censored his sex drive and poured forth emotions he'd never even known he possessed in hopes of winning her affection and goodwill, and what did he have to show for it? A hard road paid at the end with a false coin.

It was not late but the bottle of Ogden's Old was empty. When he stood, the whole room shifted and he threw his hand out on the table to brace himself. He swore; under his breath he thought, but several people nearby shot him alarmed glances so perhaps not as quietly as he'd intended. Time to leave then— but where to go next? No matter, he'd figure something out. He dumped a few more galleons on the table, fairly sure he'd already paid his tab but reckoning it would not hurt to ensure he was welcome should he decide to visit in the future. Once he managed to weave through the other patrons and reach the crisp autumn air beyond, he sucked in several quick lungfuls.

"Lucius?"

It took several seconds for him to place the slight, hooded figure just emerging from a shadowed lane nearby. He blinked to be sure and placed a hand against the stone exterior of the pub to steady himself.

"Severus?" he asked, too loudly. The younger man gestured that he should keep his voice down and swiftly approached. "What in Merlin's name were you doing in Knockturn Alley at this hour?" Lucius continued at the same volume. By the time he'd reached him, Snape looked furious.

"What's wrong with you?" he spat, seizing Lucius by the sleeve and pulling him away from the busy entrance of the bar.

"Just wanted a drink, no law against that." Words felt unwieldy in Lucius's mouth and he knew he should speak fewer of them but seemed unable to stop himself. "Thought it'd be nice to have a whisky somewhere I wouldn't be judged or made a fool of."

"You're making a fool of yourself, Lucius," Severus hissed, guiding him swiftly through unfamiliar and winding back alleyways. "You're far too recognizable to indulge in this sort of juvenile behaviour."

"Juvenile," Lucius parroted with a scoff. "Are you even out of school yet?"

"For over a year now," he snapped back impatiently, pushing Lucius through a gate onto a bustling street. However, it was not populated with witches and wizards— he'd taken them through a back exit of magical London into the Muggle sector of the city.

"Fucking scum," Lucius snarled as a burly Muggle teen shoved past him, and began to reach into his robe for his wand. Fortunately his reflexes were slowed and Severus managed to pull him away towards the curb as the boy vanished into the crowd. Looking desperate now, Snape stuck out his hand, waving frantically at a black vehicle that zipped by without even slowing. "What are you doing?"

"Hailing you a cab," he replied through gritted teeth, trying once more with the same ineffectual result. Lucius rolled his eyes.

"Just call the Knight Bus if you need to get home." He spoke slowly as if to a particularly dense child, and reached for his wand once more.

"Stop it!" At last a car pulled up in front of them— Severus yanked the door open and shoved Lucius inside. "Will you take him to Chesterfield Street?" The man behind the wheel nodded, and Severus glanced at Lucius. "What's the number?" he prompted.

"Seven," Lucius mumbled, looking around the interior of the cab in repulsed fascination. The driver frowned.

"'S no number seven on Chesterfield."

"Of course you wouldn't think so," Lucius sneered, and Severus seemed to realize the impossibility of leaving him alone with a Muggle in such a state and got in the car as well.

"Just take us to the corner of Charles and Chesterfield, we'll manage from there," Snape sighed.

"I hate that house," Lucius groused as the vehicle took off. "I never wanted to stay in it again after we moved to the Manor. I don't even know if it's currently fit for habitation. Dobby!"

An elf appeared between the two men— the cabbie gave a shout of alarm and nearly swerved into oncoming traffic. Snape muttered a string of expletives as he whipped out his wand and pointed at the Muggle. "Imperio. Take us to Charles and Chesterfield Street," he repeated. The man nodded in dreamy contentment as Severus furiously rounded back on Lucius, who was lazily giving the elf instructions to prepare his study and bedroom and make sure there was plenty of scotch on hand. "Getting drunk in the middle of London wasn't bad enough? Now you're violating the Statute of Secrecy?"

"That Statute is a farce," Lucius ground out bitterly as Dobby vanished to complete his tasks. "If it's so important to keep hidden from Muggles, why do we allow Mudbloods to have wands and attend Hogwarts? Hm? It doesn't make any sense at all."

Severus rolled his eyes— as though he needed yet another lecture from Lucius Malfoy on the importance of keeping those of non-magical heritage away from the Wizarding world. Inebriated slurring certainly did not improve his usual allocution on the topic. However he allowed the other man to continue to rant in the same vein to prevent him from hexing the driver, his own mind wandering.

When he'd first met Lucius Malfoy, Severus had been certain that he was everything he himself could ever want to be and never achieve— handsome and well-liked by peers and professors, obscenely wealthy, and, perhaps most importantly, of a long and unquestionably pure heritage. First prefect and later head boy, Lucius was never bullied and rarely even spoken ill of; and those who did criticize were often merely envious. After all, weren't arrogance and cool condescension simply indicators of good breeding and old money?

Even by nineteen, however, Severus had begun to realize that much of the glamour surrounding Lucius Malfoy was something of an illusion. First of all, Snape noticed quickly that his supposed academic brilliance was in fact the result of many, many hours of revising— while Lucius had been at the top of his year in almost every class, the success was not accompanied by creativity of thought or natural inclination towards any subject. Second, he soon realized that something he'd envisioned as one of the main appeals of a long pureblood line— namely, a strong sense of family— was absent in Malfoy's case. Lucius made little secret of his resentment towards his father occasional derision towards his mother, and he had no siblings or apparently even cousins of whom to speak. Moreover, despite his many admirers, he fostered few if any close friendships, and his romantic relationships were even more superficial. Severus could not help but view this a something of a deficiency of character— as though no one could bear to spend enough time around him to get to know him well, or perhaps that he was unable to open up to anyone. Either way, a deep lack of trust or trustworthiness was implied.

They'd reached Mayfair at last, and when they came to a halt Lucius struggled briefly with the unfamiliar latch on the door before spilling onto the street with an absurd grace. Severus paused to pay and obliviate the hapless driver, despite Malfoy's loud suggestions that he simply end the man's life (not considering, of course, the implications of a dead Muggle in front of his doorstep). Not really wanting to, Severus trudged up the steps after him into the townhouse.

Lucius was still complaining about mudbloods as he strode into his study and threw his cloak aside. Dobby had made quick work of removing dust cloths from the furniture and lighting a fire in the hearth, but Lucius noticed only that a decanter of scotch and two tumblers had been placed upon a side table and went to these at once. After pouring a glass, he tossed himself onto a settee, expostulating to the ceiling. Severus considered taking the drink away but after a beat of hesitation decided that doing so was not his problem— he walked instead to the mantle and found a pinch of floo powder in an ornate snuffbox.

"Who are you calling?" Lucius demanded at once as the flames blazed green, sitting up with a suspicious frown.

"Your wife," Severus replied irritably.

"If you dare," he growled, suddenly more coherent than he'd been for some time, "you alone will be responsible for her fate."

Snape hesitated, gathering at last that marital strife might be behind this binge. Lucius sighed and flopped bonelessly back onto the couch. "You're a smart man for not marrying, Severus. Wives are not worth the frustration and at the end of the day, they'll betray you just as easily as anyone else."

"I'm sure that's not true," he argued haltingly. Snape was hardly one to speak about what made a successful marriage. "Narcissa is a… a gracious and considerate person." This he knew from experience. "I'm sure she loves you and would never betray you." This was a wild extrapolation. Lucius snorted and swallowed a deep gulp of scotch.

"She doesn't love me. She loves some French wizard from her childhood, she said so herself. She's never said that about me." He paused, scowling into his glass before adding quietly, "She wants a baby, but doesn't even care if it's mine. She said that too."

"And…" Despite himself, Snape felt a vague tug of curiosity. "Do you love her?"

Lucius frowned again. "What sort of stupid question is that?" he sneered, without answering it. Severus, reaching the end of his patience, turned back to the fire.

"If you don't want me to call Narcissa, is there anyone else that can keep you company?" Someone else to be your childminder for the night?

Lucius considered this for a moment, finishing off his drink before declaring, "Rodolphus."

"No," Snape answered swiftly and with finality. There were few situations he could think of that would not be made tenfold worse by the presence of Rodolphus Lestrange, and this was not one of those rare occasions. In the best case scenario, Rodolphus would goad Lucius into a dangerous fit of drunken rage for his own amusement; worst case, the pair would head back out into town and burn down half the city. "Why don't you have your elf help you get ready to go to sleep?"

"I'm not tired and I don't need help," Lucius protested, sounding like a petulant toddler. "She said she loved him, Severus," he repeated, as though Snape might have somehow missed it the first time. "She's never said… Do you know what she's said about me? That I don't see or care for anyone apart from myself. That I didn't care about the children she's lost— our children! Three of them, and she made me believe it was my fault— and do you have any idea what I was prepared to do if it had been?" he seethed. Snape did not want to know, and fortunately Lucius did not elaborate. "She finds me unbearable, she's all but said it in so many words." Many of these were old hurts, brought to the surface by his intoxication.

Lucius flung an arm over his face and groaned, perhaps a bit melodramatically. Still, Snape mused as his eyes wandered from the meticulously tailored cuff of his robe to the opulent study (in a house which, by his own admission, Lucius purportedly hated), some of the aura of Lucius Malfoy had not been exaggerated. He had more money than anyone Snape had ever met or would meet in his life. For reasons unbeknownst to him, Lucius had always shown him an almost uncharacteristic kindness. He'd introduced Severus to the Dark Lord. Of course he could not stifle small measure of resentment— if he'd been wealthy and good-looking and Pureblooded like Lucius— like James Potter— perhaps things might have turned out differently with Lily. But while he could never entrust Lucius with his own secrets, he felt a deep sense of obligation towards him.

"I'm sure she'll forgive you in time," Snape offered uncomfortably, and Lucius sat up once more, eyes blazing.

"Her, forgive me? She should be begging for my forgiveness on her knees— that's not a sight anyone is likely to see… except apparently for her French lover. Holier-than-thou, just like all the Blacks, as though any of them have earned the right to moral superiority... I called her a whore and I meant it, no action on my part can justify her running into the arms of another man. It just isn't done. I left the night of our wedding at the summons of the Dark Lord, I didn't have a choice— she did."

"You called her a…" he echoed, aghast. "Enough, Lucius. You don't mean this and you won't thank me for hearing it once you've sobered. Where to do keep your potion stores?"

Lucius waved vaguely in the direction of an elaborately carved chest and poured himself another drink. Severus was to relieved to see that, while lacking fresh ingredients, it contained a variety of dried ones with which he could cobble together a Sleeping Potion. Or at least a Calming Draught that should be sufficient to make him fall asleep given his current level of inebriation.

"It seemed as though things were finally going well," Lucius went on without prompting. "Not so well that she had a baby yet, of course, but she was starting to…she seemed happier, most of the time…" he broke off, looking distraught. "Why hasn't she had a baby yet?"

"Erm…" Severus cleared his throat uncomfortably as he splashed a measure of hellebore syrup into the cauldron. "If you need a fertility potion I'd be glad to—"

"No, no," Lucius waved the offer aside impatiently. "It isn't that. I've no problem getting her pregnant—" Snape colored slightly at his friend's matter-of-fact tone on the subject, "— it's getting her to stay pregnant. I'm utterly useless when it comes to that part and it's driving me mad." He paused. "You know what the worst part is?" he asked, sounding morose rather than angry once more.

"The fact that you won't stop talking?" Severus guessed under his breath as he crushed some chamomile flowers and dumped them into the brew. Lucius did not appear to have heard him.

"I think she may have told me about this other man because she had finally come to trust me. And now I've gone and ruined everything." He rubbed his eyes, and was quiet for a long stretch of time while Severus stirred diligently. "I'm going to floo her," he announced suddenly, having finished off another glass of scotch.

"You will quite literally lose your head if you attempt to do so in this state." Snape had finish concocting the draught at last and poured it into a glass vial. "Here, drink this."

Lucius pushed the proffered potion away, reminding Severus once more of a finicky adolescent. "I just need to make sure she's at the Manor and hasn't gone back to France."

Severus poured the vial into the tumbler Lucius still held and added a splash of alcohol on top. Lucius, staring pensively at the fireplace, did not seem to notice the unusual color, consistency, or taste of his drink as he took a thoughtful sip. "She's threatened to leave before, you know."

"Purebloods don't divorce," Severus countered drily. Lucius shook his head, looking stricken.

"That doesn't mean she can't leave me." His voice sounded strangely constricted. "It just means neither of us could remarry. She has her own money, and house. There are ways to stop her, of course, but… I don't want to keep her by force." Lucius dragged a hand down his face. The potion was working quickly; his eyelids were growing heavy, he sank back into the couch cushions, and the tumbler slipped forgotten from his fingers, spilling its contents across the rug. "She said she loved him," he repeated for the third time, scarcely more than a whisper as his eyes closed at last. "She's never said that about me."