Suspected

Chapter Two: Residual Resentment

The Quidditch World Cup was one of the highlights of the Wizarding World. Everybody who was anybody wanted to witness the spectacular event of the different Wizarding Nations coming together in one united front to face off in the brutal sport, Quidditch. As Rita appreciated the sport as much as anyone else who had Magical blood running through their veins, she wasn't the biggest fan of any particular team. Severus and Minerva might have tried to battle out who had the best Quidditch team while attending Hogwarts during the year; and Rita appreciated the rivalry when Slytherin and Gryffindor would go head-to-head—Draco Malfoy vs. Harry Potter was a fine sight to see. However,…

Rita shook her head when Severus approached her in the living room; she rose to her feet, a half-empty glass of wine clutched loosely along her gray-kissed fingers as she strode into the kitchen. She had an idea of what he was going to propose; but lackluster friendship between she and Lucius Malfoy and his beautiful wife and bratty son hadn't flourished since the eldest Malfoy had been responsible for the intended death of the escaped hippogriff, Buckbeak. The beast somehow escaped, along with Sirius Black from the North Watch Tower; but it hadn't tarried Rita's growing resentment toward him.

By all rights, he was Bellatrix's brother-in-law; but he, above all Death Eaters, technically renounced the old ways, even denied most of the dark things that he had done, but admitted the most obvious by excusing it by 'being under the influence of one powerful Imperious Curse'. All that aside, Lucius had bragged last year to young Draco Malfoy over the course of summer about the good old days, and the year previous to that, he had informed his twelve-year-old son about the Chamber of Secrets and what laid to rest (or what everyone, including Rita, had believed to be laid to rest) within the belly of the chamber itself: a basilisk; and as much as Rita could resound her understanding about the lure of the Dark Arts, she had a different idea of what defines the strength of a Wizard other than how terrible can a person torture another to assert dominance. Draco didn't understand the extent of what a person had to do in order to receive the Dark Mark; and Lucius was filling his head about the grandiose results of having one. And yet he denied his involvement when the Dark Lord vanished.

Lucius Malfoy had been a very good friend to Severus whilst the whole gang had attended Hogwarts, but as the man had gotten into his finest years, Rita's opinion of him differed between dumbfounded interest and incredulous disbelief with the circumstances that they seemed to rendezvous at the Malfoy manor. He could talk a good game, but something in Rita's gut told her that for all his devotion to pureblood supremacy, she wondered to what lengths he would go to prove his loyalty to the Dark Lord. For all his ambition to prove that he was one of the Darkest Wizards of all time, two years ago before the chamber had been opened, she knew that he had visited Borgin and Burkes to sell some of his more interesting Dark artifacts. The fact that he had decided to hoard some of them after the Dark Lord fell stumped Rita—But everyone had their own idea of trophies from the good old days: Rita visited hers once a year before the start of term.

"I'm not," said Rita slowly, angling a curt expression toward her husband, "going to the Quidditch World Cup on the arm of your former mate."

"There comes a point in one's life where you should put your childish grudge aside," said Snape, striding into the kitchen, leaning against the threshold of the archway that led into the kitchen. "Your resentment is over a beast that escaped; it's infantile." The delivery of his words hitched on his strong jaw; with every word, Rita heard his impatience, and she frowned at him. "You've spent the last three summers indoors. I might be able to manage it, considering my sour deposition toward people; but you're a social butterfly. Socialize. You enjoy those soirees that Lucius holds in his manor—"

"Mm," Rita took a sip of the glass of wine, held a finger to pause him mid-sentence; she gulped and turned to correct him, "I enjoy the ménage a trios of booze that your dear friend provides at those soirees, my love. He's a prat, Severus; but he has a refined taste for sweeter things in life. The company he keeps are politicians, bureaucrats, and governors, using old money to—"

"Rita, Darling," Snape said tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose, a solid effort to find some patience, "I understand your outrage with him squandering his funds to reach high places with his lowest of 'friends'; but it's no different than when you and I used the Dark Lord's name in order to intimidate people in our youth to get what we want—"

Rita frowned, "We are different now."

It was Snape's turn to frown. He strode toward her, pried her fingers from her glass, and held up her ashened, cursed fingers pointedly.

"Different, are we?" Snape said. "You're hypocritical. We established that last year, didn't we? Go to the Quidditch World Cup with Malfoy, Rita. It'll be good for you."

"The Ministry of Magic will be there," said Rita. "I despise them."

"That has never stopped you before," said Snape. "I've seen you confront Cornelius Fudge as if he were any other man off the street: marred by your renowned sense of self-righteousness, angry, confrontational, impulsive, with absolutely no filter."

"I'm not worried about that old slag, dear," remarked Rita with an empty laugh. "The man's as daft as can be. He holds Lucius in the highest regards, believes that Sirius Black is a criminal—you know different, Severus"—Rita said over Snape's very loud, cynical facial expression—"He thinks that Dumbledore is off his rocker, that Potter is a fragile boy, and that I—"

Snape shook his head, stopped her from speaking, withdrew the glass of wine from her entirely and placed it in the sink calmly before turning back to look at her plainly. "That's enough…"

"Stopping me from drinking now, Severus?"

"When you start ranting like this," he said, still irrevocably calm, "that means you've had too much. You'll say something that you will regret."

Rita frowned. "Once upon a time, my love, you liked that about me."

"That was about fourteen years ago, Rita," said Snape. "I can understand your frustration with what the past three years have brought to our attention; but numbing it with alcohol isn't going to make it go away."

"And what exactly am I trying to numb?" asked Rita, prying her hand out of his grasp with finality.

"Pain," said Snape.

Rita cast a cold look in his direction, but owing to the fact that he was right, she turned her attention away from him and focused on something else—or tried to, and she might have been successful if his baritone hadn't softened slightly due to his wife's shift in body and expression.

"I have been sympathetic to your plight"—he indicated Rita's hands, in reference to mending her body from the frequent practice of the Dark Arts—"discovering Bellatrix's Curse and the inevitable return of the Dark Lord, the future of whomever is supposed to take the position as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher; and, no doubt, the pending arrival of the two other schools at Hogwarts for the upcoming Triwizard Tournament. The danger has increased dramatically…"

Rita clicked her tongue in an attempt to switch the subject delicately, "I don't suppose anything too bad would take place at the Quidditch World Cup."

Snape shrugged, "Why are you hesitant to go?"

"Lots of people there, Severus," she answered. "Lots of Muggles. A bunch of wizards and witches mingling with the lot of them—What?" Rita's voice cut sharp when she noticed a strange look on Snape's face.

Snape indicated a hand to her as he walked out of the kitchen, "Everyday you sound more and more like your mistress, Rita."

"What?" Rita repeated loudly, hands held out in annoyance. "All I said was—"

"I know what you said, Darling," remarked Snape from the living room decisively, sitting in his armchair, "but I know that tone better than anyone. Even after all the growth that you claim that you've gone through, you still hold such a superior complex toward Muggles. That blood purity, Rita."

"We are a lot stronger than they are," said Rita arguably, shrugging her shoulder.

"I'll stop you right there," said Snape, holding up his hand. "Anymore into this conversation, and I'll hear verbatim why the Wizarding World should scour the earth for all those who do not know how to practice magic. I don't love them like Mr. Weasley allegedly does, but I have a fair respect for them."

A pause.

"You know how they take care of business back in their world?" Rita said idly, pouring another drink in the kitchen. "They use this object that spits fire from the opposite end of a trigger…"

"It's called a gun, Rita," remarked Snape. He opened a book in his lap. He sometimes had forgotten that Rita Dolohov was raised by both a magical father and mother. While he held his own contempt for one very angry, dead Muggle father, Snape knew the tenacity of some Muggles. Their avarice could be more powerful than any wand wielded by any witch—except for the Killing Curse.

For all of Rita's love for Hermione Granger, a Muggleborn, there would be moments just like this where her upbringing with pureblood supremacy ideals and the residual disgust for the simple way that Muggles lived would show just exactly how dark Rita was. It was this side of her that made Snape believe that when the Dark Lord returned, it wouldn't take much for her to return at His side, where the Dark Lord believed that the world would be best lived if it were purged of non-magical blood. The hatred hadn't actually left Rita after all these years; it had simply lain dormant in her heart, repressed by Bellatrix being imprisoned, her assisting the DADA teachers in Hogwarts, and her marriage to Snape—a Half-blood who harbored a forlorn heartache that had carried on for years for Muggleborn Lily Potter.

"I won't go to the World Cup," said Rita lightly, changing the subject, "but if Lucius would like a get-together, I wouldn't mind having it at his place. You are right, Severus: I probably should let go of the issue with Buckbeak. He is free now, after all…"

"Oh," Snape agreed with dubious consent, "if it means that you should stay away from the herd of Muggles outside of the Quidditch field, by all means."

Rita chose not to reply, owing to the fact that Snape was right about one more thing: the amount of alcohol that she imbibed would definitely lead to an argument where she would probably say something that she would regret.