January 5, 1976 - Malfoy Manor

"Cassiopeia…"

The Dark Lord's tone made her shiver in dread, but he seemed to be in a good enough mood. Settled in his armchair, framed by the golden rays of the sun, he looked regal, and her breath caught as his eyes lazily turned to settle on her. Their weight settled on her shoulders as he stared.

Being the focal point of his attention had not become easier - even if she'd become somewhat accustomed to seeing traces of him around the Manor. There was something arresting about his presence - a sense of power that she'd never felt around anyone else. It was intoxicating, and the snake in her yearned to clutch that power close to her chest, to feed herself with his presence; to flee lest she be consumed by it.

The Dark Lord smirked, as if sensing the direction in which her thoughts had gone.

"I was wondering when you'd next come to see me," he drawled lowly. "How unfortunate you've tired of my… presence… so quickly it would be me who'd be forced to take the first step."

"I - apologise, my Lord. I did not think - " she said, trying not to stutter in fear.

"You didn't think." His words were threatening, but his languid manner did not change. "Pity."

"I'll attempt not to do so again, my Lord," she apologised quickly.

"It is of no matter," he shrugged lightly. "At least you are not like Bella... constantly weaving between my legs like a servile dog." The disgust was present on his face for mere moments, before it cleared again. "Tell me, then, have you appraised my collection?"

"It was informative," she nodded.

"Good. I thought to bring you downstairs for our… midnight celebrations on Yule, so you could observe… but perhaps that would not have been the most conducive decision."

"I'm... not really one for bloody displays," she said carefully.

"How unfortunate. Perhaps I shall introduce you to dear Bellatrix soon - if there is one thing she is useful for it is dispelling those asinine notions of… squeamishness," he sneered as he said the last word in distaste.

"I'm not sure…"

"It is not the only thing we did," he said lightly. "I would not have allowed such a night to go to waste on mere bloodsport… although I must say it was greatly amusing."

"Healing and power-strengthening rituals, then," she said, thinking back to the books she'd been given, and especially Rituals for Every Season, a Malfoy family grimoire dating back to the Middle Ages.

"Yes," he said softly, the word nearly a hiss. "We have consolidated our power - strengthened our connection to the Earth. Do you know, how much potential would have been wasted had we allowed these traditions to be forgotten, like the feeble, uncultured masses desire?"

"A considerable amount," she answered, and his eyes flashed.

"More than that," he snapped, standing from his chair, and beginning to pace the room. "Do you know what Dumbledore's plan is, little girl? He desires to weaken the Wizarding race - to pull us away from the roots of our magic. Already, he is succeeding - only the pure know now of our ancient rituals and traditions, and the filth has been convinced it is in their interest to see them erased. But he? No, he will keep his connection, and rule over the crumbling ashes - powerful amongst the lame and incapacitated remnants of wizardkind. Do you see why we must prevent him?"

"I do - I always have."

"Good," he said, his tempestuous anger settling. "Do not allow yourself to stray from the Old Ways. It is a difficult path, but it is the only path to absolute power. To unadulterated life."

She was unnerved at his passion, at the fire in his eyes when he spoke. "And what exactly is the cost of pursuing them?"

"Of achieving perfection?" he asked with a smirk, his shoulders lifting in the barest facsimile of a shrug, as he replied mysteriously. "It is a price I am willing to pay."

January 12, 1976 - Hogwarts

Severus couldn't help but allow a certain sense of smugness to fill him as he stepped into the Great Hall.

Arriving at Hogwarts late yesterday evening, there had been little time to realise the implications of the tumultuous winter holiday. Frankly, he had done little more than greet Aurora and Augustus, before collapsing into his bed. Today, however, even glancing towards the locale of red and gold, it was evident that some... incident...had taken place.

He smirked.

Sirius Black had been all-but-relegated to the corner of Gryffindor table, glaring sulkily into his plate like a particularly insufferable toddler. On either of his sides sat Lily and Potter, seemingly willing to withstand the social condemnation, if it meant soothing the boy's shattered ego. Fools.

Lily.

He mulled her over as he wandered to his own table, nodding at Avery who handed over to him a platter of toasted sandwiches, of which he partook eagerly.

The thought of her should have hurt. Somewhere inside him it seemed like a fundamental truth; Lily was his first love - thinking of her angelic face and beatific smile turned towards another should sting. And yet, looking at this girl - who had abandoned him over a mistake, and who was currently fawning over his greatest bull - he could not summon the feeling.

Instead, a deep sense of resignation settled over him. Perhaps things could have gone a different way, but looking back on it now, he could not help but be relieved things had ended when they had.

He could not imagine himself being happy with her forever - the crushing feelings of inadequacy and casual disregard that had permeated their every interaction still fresh on his mind. The way she could make him feel like the unsightly weed in a bed of immaculate flowers.

Spirits thoroughly drenched, Severus made to push away his breakfast when the owl post arrived - one of the first birds that had drifted in through the rafters landing directly before his plate.

Scowling in irritation, Severus untied the letter, scanning it over quickly with little regard. It was a note from Dumbledore - asking him to please visit the Headmaster's Office tonight. Glancing over to the High Table, he met the wizard's eyes for a second and nodded, before crumbling the paper in his hands.

It seemed innocuous, but Severus couldn't help but be filled with the growing feeling that something wasn't right.

"Mr. Snape."

The dread that had swirled through his stomach throughout the day did not quell with the sound of Dumbledore's voice. Quite the opposite, his body seemed to fill with tension, as though about to snap at the merest tremor, and he stiffly took a seat in the gaudy armchair, feeling deeply that he should not have come.

"Headmaster."

"Tea?"

No. "If you'd like."

It took Dumbledore mere moments to prepare the drink, but it seemed like an eternity as he sat in the oppressive silence, thrumming with apprehension. Finally, he brought the cup to his lips, and as the distinct, sweet aroma flooded his deeply sensitive nose, a barrier in his mind seemed to snap.

In seconds he was flooded with memories - thoughts and images sweeping into his mind in a disjointed way that he could barely make sense of, especially as he fought to keep his features perfectly schooled, and his mind completely locked, under the Headmaster's watchful eyes.

They swirled through his consciousness; undecipherable, except for the absolute certainty he felt regarding the cloying drink that almost obscured his vision. Do not drink the tea.

He set the cup down, swallowing for Dumbledore's benefit. He must have done something right, for the man immediately relaxed and leaned forward eagerly, staring deeply into his eyes.

"Mr. Snape, did your friend correspond at all with the Dark Lord over the holidays?"

Fuck - this was bad. He froze as his mind quickly ran through all possibilities regarding the implications of such a question, the Headmaster's brazenness, and what he could do next. He felt Dumbledore's mental presence like a weight over his mind, enveloping it with a suffocating pressure, but too broad and indelicate to delve too deeply into his consciousness.

He couldn't lie - any deliberate attempts would be detected. Half-truths and deflection would have to be his tools until he could understand just what the hell was going on.

"No, she didn't," he responded carefully, watching with fearful, baited anticipation for a reaction from the presence in his mind. There was no sign.

Good - as long as the Headmaster did not use her name, he could easily deflect the question to Aurora.

"Are you certain? She sent no letters, she did not meet with him?"

"I saw no owls, and to my best knowledge she has never met him face-to-face."

Dumbledore looked immensely disappointed, and a lick of satisfaction curled up within him.

"Do you know of any plans she has to further communicate with him, at least?"

"No."

"Inform me of any she makes as soon as possible then," he said, unconcerned with concealing his annoyance as he abruptly dropped his grandfatherly mask. "Go on… obliviate."

The spell hit him as he was turned towards the door, the normally fog-like spell becoming burning and acidic as it encountered his shields. He felt as though he were stumbling, though he knew his stride to be even as he descended the stairs. The almost debilitating pain lasted only moments more, but he still felt the urge to prostrate himself against the wall to calm his breath, and chase away the sensation of liquid fire flowing through his brain. His memory was intact, however - that was all that mattered. Still, even knowing that the spell had dissipated unfulfilled, he kept his shields tightly locked as he walked through the corridors.

Dumbledore could still be watching.

It was only in the silence and darkness of his own bed - curtains drawn tightly around the frame - that he freed himself from the shields, his head pounding as the memory formed itself again, and took its rightful place in his consciousness.

Gods. He rested his head against his hands. He felt ill.

He hadn't thought the Headmaster would dare to go so far, but it had been a mistake - a grave, stupid mistake - to underestimate his capability for such casual cruelty.

He was angry with himself - if he was a better Occlumens, he'd have been able to prevent Dumbledore's intrusion in the first place - would have kept the secret of Cassiopeia's correspondence with the Dark Lord away from him.

There was a knock on the door, and his visitor did not bother to await an answer before they entered inside, padding over to his bed, and pulling open the heavy curtains.

"Severus. I saw you coming in, and you looked a bit…" she frowned, "...ill. Are you alright?" she said, concern clearly expressed across her face.

The very thought of keeping this from her was unimaginable. "Cassiopeia - Dumbledore - " his words were stumbling as he attempted to express this all to her, " - Dumbledore has been performing Legilimency on me - invading my mind. He could be doing it to you too."

He watched as the colour drained from her face. "He can read minds?"

His heart stuttered as he realised he'd never told her of his suspicions - too angry with her last year to even consider it. "Yes, he can. But - there's a way to stop him. Occlumency. I know it."

Cassiopeia grabbed his wrist, digging her fingers into his skin. "Severus," she said, voice deadly serious. "You have to teach me."

•••

Thank you for reading, and to SilentMayhem and Stephanie MRV for helping. This story would not be what it is without them. Have a lovely week, all of you.