I Was Right
Chapter 12: Slytherin to Slytherin
He sat, silent and watchful, looking at the door. He was only dimly aware of the rowdiness of the tables around him and the stale, smoky atmosphere. Lucius Malfoy would be late again, of course...He had met the man only once before but he knew the type-- well-blooded and well-moneyed, thinking themselves a notch or two above anyone else. Lesser mortals' waiting for him would be the least respect they should pay his lineage and influence, in his eyes.
When the gang had insisted, three months ago, just before the Christmas holidays, that he come with them to see the younger Malfoy at Hog's Head, he'd simply shaken his head and told them he had other things to do. Irritated by Dumbledore and Baddock's concern about his safety he'd vowed to stay out of anything resembling trouble, simply to be left alone. And while seeing a rich, uprising young wizard on a Hogsmeade visiting weekend might not qualify as trouble, seeing someone he would bet his life was a Death Eater certainly did. Worse since that Death Eater was likely a highbrow recruiter ready to harvest sixth year Slytherins who'd be graduating in a year and a half.
"But you've got to come," Wilkes had insisted. Snape didn't know what Baddock had said to them, but the Slytherins had actually been decent to him ever since his return from the Aurors' interrogations, and he had been quietly reinstated as part of the gang. Though he went along with it, the fact irked him to no end--he did not need Baddock's pity, on top of everything else. "Lucius actually mentioned you--all of us--by name!"
"Look," Snape lowered his voice, "don't talk about him like he's some kind of friendly young uncle. Have you lost all sense of caution, meeting an obvious Death Eater in the middle of Hogsmeade?"
"But what have we to be afraid of, Severus?" Mei-lin asked as innocently as Mei-lin could, her slight, mocking accent on the word 'afraid' making him flinch. "Mr. Malfoy comes from a prestigious wizarding family, and his record is quite spotless. What can anyone say about our having a few drinks with a Slytherin alumnus?"
"They can say it's suspicious, that's what they can say!" Snape hissed, her imperious tone ruffling his calm as it never failed to do.
Just then Lestrange dropped the quill he had idly been toying with, and leaned in to retrieve it. As he did so he murmured into Snape's ear: "He's in touch with your family, Severus."
Alan sat down calmly, giving no indication he had said anything out of the ordinary; and Snape gave no indication he had heard anything unusual.
"You can't miss this chance if you want a foothold...after graduation," Mei-lin went on without giving a second glance at Lestrange.
Oh, yes. After graduation. They talked about it in glowing, adolescent terms, how they'd join the glorious circle, cleansing the wizarding world of those unworthy of magic, what positions they would rise to, the endless power and wealth they would gain. More than once he felt like getting up and screaming at them for being such idiots, talking about what they knew nothing of-- but if he alienated them again there would be no coming back. And there was no other place in Hogwarts where he belonged.
So he sat for many evenings, eyes glittering and face expressionless, listening to the gang talking exultantly about throwing away the very things he had been forced to lose: The sense of security and control over life, a good night's sleep without the help of a stolen sleeping draught, human warmth, companionship without conditions or calculations, days free of fear and dread.
And all for what?
"Besides, there'll be books and potion ingredients Mr.Malfoy might procure for us," Avery was saying. "You're always talking about how inadequate the school's are.."
"All right, then, I'll come. Now will you stop pestering me?" He snapped.
If the others knew about what Alan had 'secretly' said, they had enough delicacy not to show it. And Severus himself had enough self-respect left to think it was because of Avery's mention of books and ingredients, and because he was tired of being badgered, that he had agreed to go.
Lucius Malfoy had actually been quite jovial in a condescending, sneeringly aristocratic way, humorous at the expense of others. He praised their academic achievements, especially Severus and Mei-lin's twelve O.W.L.s. He had seemed quite interested in their respective skills, Snape's in Potions and curses, Jin's in Charms and Divination, Lestrange's in Transfiguration, and so on. This confirmed in Snape's mind that he was a recruiter. What else was he doing, spending his precious afternoon with a bunch of seventeen-year-olds?
The others had crawled all over him like overenthusiastic puppies, peppering him with questions-- and Malfoy, while cagey over most of them, gave out a few choice answers with the air of one letting them in on great secrets, calculated to inspire awe and wonder in his young listeners. Even Snape had been drawn in momentarily as he talked in a low voice about 'branches' all across the British Isles, new recruits going on from France to Romania. He was faced with the prospect of a power that was spreading so widely and inexorably, of a conquest that seemed so inevitable that it was only a matter of time. The Lord, Lucius Malfoy's words promised, rewarded his followers richly, the most faithful beyond the wildest imagination...
And Severus saw in the faces of the others just how they longed to be that most faithful of servants, longing for such power and prestige as the man before them wielded. He saw, also, in Malfoy's cold gray eyes, a look of triumph--the triumph of a con man or a cheating gambler who had neatly taken in his clients.
Then Severus was afraid, afraid of something inside him that was all too ready to embrace this seemingly shining path to glory; afraid of the stupid idealism and faith that would surely be betrayed, as all faith was bound to be; afraid he might have no choice, and would have to go along willingly unless he wished to be dragged along.
Later, when it had become simply imperative that Mr. Malfoy leave (with many regrets) for other most pressing engagements, he had drawn Snape aside to hand him two envelopes.
"Your mother and brother send their greetings," he had said. "Happy holidays, Severus."
Their eyes met briefly, cold, shallow gray eyes and hollow, fathomless black ones; then Severus had turned away with a curt nod.
Later that evening Severus had waited for everyone else to go to bed before opening the letters in the common room. He had first read Mother's, then Septimius', then said "Incendio" and watched while the angry flames flared up to smolder for a long time afterward.
He had cleared the smoldering ashes away with a sweep of his wand and gone up to bed, thinking Lucius Malfoy had probably known what the letters were about. He wished never to see the man again, yet somehow knew he would.
And now, three months later, Snape could be almost glad of that previous meeting. It had certainly made setting up this one much easier. Other--developments had made it necessary that he meet Lucius Malfoy again. Only he would not be begging for favors, he vowed. This would be a deal between equals, whether such a word existed in Malfoy's vocabulary or not.
Malfoy finally made his appearance, looking distastefully around him, no doubt worried about the effect of his surroundings on his tailored cloak and impeccably fine boots. Snape inwardly snorted, and raised his hooded head to indicate his position. Malfoy's pale sneering eyes met his, and the young man made his way over. Snape hoped he was getting more grime on his robes than he liked.
"Mr.Snape," Lucius Malfoy slid into the seat across from him. "I did not recognize you at first." He glanced over the long cloak Snape wore, a black hood almost concealing his face.
"Forgive me, Mr.Malfoy," Snape said smoothly. "I thought it better if I was not recognized." It was unusually cold for March, so his choice of clothes had not drawn undue attention, though it was rather heavy. "It would be unwise to risk Dumbledore's hearing of this," he went on.
"I see," Malfoy said casually, but his outward calm didn't sit entirely comfortably on him. Snape knew the mention of Dumbledore's name had unsettled him, however slightly. "Now, I really don't have much time," he said after they had ordered drinks, the words 'for a kid' not spoken but evident in his finely sneering, arrogant tone. "May I know what pressing matters made you ask to see me?"
"It's about the Hostile Property Containment Act," he said, his lips curling in disgust, as did Malfoy's. "With my mother and brother under suspicion and in hiding, the Ministry has moved in on my family's property and other assets. I got a notice--" how he hated letters, they brought nothing but bad news-- "only three days ago, informing me I no longer had control over the family vault in Gringott's and that Snape Manor would be confisticated."
This was so acutely embarrassing that he had not told anyone, none of the professors, none of his friends. He was certain the Gryffindors would have a field day if they found out his worldly possessions had been reduced to the things in his dorm room, and that he no longer had enough money to buy a new set of robes, much less finish his last year of school.
"I am very sorry to hear that," said Malfoy, not sounding sorry at all. "I offer you my condolences."
"Which are received with many thanks," Snape said with perfect insincerity, "but perhaps you can give more than your condolences, Mr. Malfoy."
"Which means?" Said Malfoy, suddenly businesslike and distant.
"That you could use your--considerable powers of persuasion--to influence certain people in the Ministry. I am sure there are many there indebted to you, or who can otherwise be convinced." Meaning blackmailed or threatened, of course.
"Do you suppose," Malfoy was suddenly acting very busy, with the occasional glance at his watch, his fingers drumming the tabletop, "that I am entirely free of suspicion myself? Really, Mr. Snape.." He sounded distinctly annoyed that a schoolboy would ask something so dangerous of a great man such as himself.
"Surely they will not dare touch the Malfoy family," Snape said smoothly. He had expected this kind of reaction. He didn't think Malfoy would pull strings for him just because his future was forfeit: Lucius Malfoy wasn't the kind of man who would so much as lift a finger for anyone unless there was something in it for himself.
"There is no respect for pure wizarding blood anymore," Malfoy said petulantly, and Snape added another entry to his list of Malfoy characterization: A man who would whine about a pricked finger to someone who had lost an arm. "I really cannot take such risks..." Malfoy looked at his watch again, clearly wanting to say this meeting was over.
"Even to get rid of Poliakoff?" Snape shot before Malfoy could make another move.
Malfoy stared at him a moment. Then two spots of color appeared high on his cheekbones, and he leaned forward angrily. "Poliakoff? How do you know that? Have your little friends been talking to you again?" His voice was a dangerous hiss.
Snape just stared back with the beginning of a smirk. There had been little he couldn't draw out of Avery, Rosier, or Wilkes with some well-phrased questions and ego-boosting.
"Mr. Malfoy, I assure you the information is safe in my hands," he said silkily. Let Malfoy think the others untrustworthy-- it would make his own stance that much stronger. Not that Poliakoff's being a thorn in Malfoy's side was much of a secret, if one knew where to ask. "You may even be glad that I found out about this."
Without warning Malfoy plunged his hand inside his robes, but Snape was ready for him. He immediately said "Expelliarmus" without seeming to move a finger, and Malfoy's wand flew out of his hand, clattering across the table to rest beside Snape's glass.
"What-" Malfoy looked bewildered, then he looked at Snape's hands--the right one resting, empty, on the table, but the left had been under it the entire time. "You--had your wand pointed--"
"Under the table, since before you came in," Snape finished calmly. "Maybe you should learn to be on time for your appointments, Mr. Malfoy." He had learned the hard way not to trust Death Eaters. He could thank Mother and Septimius for that. "There was really no need to overreact, Mr. Malfoy. How would putting a Memory Charm on me have helped you?" He went on conversationally, picking up Malfoy's elegant, polished wand and handing it over. No need to make the encounter hostile. "I, however, have something that could help."
"Which is?" Malfoy was sullen, but he was listening. Cowards are quickly afraid once you've shown you're not afraid of them.
"The Silent Death," Snape said in a voice barely a whisper.
Then Malfoy straightened, and looked down his pale, long nose at the boy. "You're bluffing," he said triumphantly. "No student would have that in their stores." Snape nevertheless saw the slightly wistful look in his eyes, and knew he had hit the bull's eye.
"No," Snape agreed immediately, surprising Malfoy. "I don't have it on me. I have it in here," he said, tapping his greasy forehead, "and you have the tomes, ingredients and facilities I need."
Some of Malfoy's usual bravado returned to his face. "A seventeen-year-old boy," he sneered, "brewing the deadliest and most undetectable poison yet discovered?"
"No stranger than a seventeen-year-old boy brewing the most powerful Truth Potion in existence," Snape replied. Slowly he put his right hand into his robes and drew out a crystal vial full of--
"Veritaserum," he said, handing it to a skeptical-looking Lucius Malfoy. "Consider it a proof of my skills, Mr. Malfoy, or a gift from one--friend," an ill-concealed sneer escaped, "to another." The stuff was potent enough to make the Truth Potion the Aurors had used on him look like a miserable second-year experiment. Very few potion brewers were up to it, and the truth was he himself had not gotten it right without scores of failure.
Malfoy held it up to the light. Severus knew he would see no distortion, because true Veritaserum, unlike water or any other liquid, was completely clear and did not distort the light.
Still looking dubious, Lucius Malfoy put his wand tip to the side of the vial and said "Lumos!" The beam of light went through the liquid, entirely straight except where the crystal made it slightly crooked.
Incredulously Malfoy turned to look at him. "You brewed this yourself?"
"What point is there in my lying to you?"
"And you would concoct--the other--if I..."
"If you would be kind enough to work to return to me what is rightfully mine," Severus replied evenly.
Slowly Malfoy regained his composure, his eyes flicking over Snape in calculation. Severus watched him, inwardly nervous. Success with Veritaserum, while extraordinary for an underage wizard like himself, was by no means proof he could brew the Silent Death poison. He could only hope Malfoy had been sufficiently impressed by his cunning and potential to...
Malfoy held out his hand over the table. "All right," he drawled. "We have a deal, Mr. Snape."
Almost not believing his good luck, Snape reached out and took Malfoy's cold, weak hand. They shook on it briefly.
"After the decision to contain your assets has been reversed," Malfoy went on, "we will set a date for you to come to Malfoy Manor to work on it."
Snape nodded mutely. You didn't seem so sure of the outcome only five minutes ago, he thought nastily.
Malfoy then looked from the vial he still held to Snape. "And I shall use your--gift--well, Snape," he said in a lower voice. Snape could practically see the wheels turning in his head. He wondered what kind of uses Malfoy had in mind for it, then stopped the train of thought. He simply made a mental note not to drink anything at Malfoy Manor when he went there.
When, not if. He had confidence in the man, if virtually no other positive feelings.
Two weeks, twenty pieces of various broken glassware, a dozen dead mice, and fifty extremely frustrated hours later, Snape leaned over a cageful of frisky, squeaking mice to pull on a cord hanging from the dungeon ceiling.
Malfoy, evidently, had not learned his lesson on punctuality very well. As he waited for the arrogant fool to show up the intense cold and fatigue caught up with him for the first time. Suddenly shuddering uncontrollably he held his cloak more tightly about him with numb fingers.
For the past two days he had been a virtual prisoner in this dungeon lab in the Malfoy Manor underground. A week ago he had received the notice that he was in full control of his assets once more, and Malfoy had wasted no time in setting the date for him to visit a "relative" over the weekend-- not a complete ruse, since it turned out they were distantly related, much to Snape's disgust. Once he was brought to the brooding, unwelcoming mansion Malfoy had told him curtly that he wished the potion to be completed as soon as possible and that any delay would arouse suspicion. Snape, in turn, had informed his host in no uncertain (or pleasant) terms that he would brook no interruption of any sort.
And so, imprisoned by Malfoy's will, a nearly impossible time limit, and his own determination, he had spent the last two days sleepless and in feverish concentration brewing a potion that he soon realized was far beyond his capability.
Still, with a grim and slightly over-the-edge stubbornness he had kept on, one untouched, stale meal after another disappearing just as unintrusively as it had appeared while he bent over the cauldron experimenting, deciphering, calculating, and at times irately dashing vials and test tubes against the walls. Test subjects had been brought in by an extremely nervous-looking house elf when he called for them.
Those test subjects now floated around in formaldehyde bottles in progressively less lurid forms. The first of them did not look like rats at all, others were in, out, and around the line of grotesqueness, but the last few looked definitely like rats who had died before they'd known what had hit them. Snape looked at the last in line with something like fondness. He had failed to detect any sign of poisoning from the last one and the only cause of death he could find was a rodent version of cardiac arrest-- a sure sign of success.
The Silent Death. He had done it. After fifty straight, sleepless hours in the blastedly cold though equally well-equipped dungeon he had successfully concocted one of the deadliest poisons in existence, and its antidote. Though he was so tired he had to fight to stay upright, he actually smiled.
Just then the door creaked open and Malfoy strolled in in his elegant dressing gown and slippers, a carefully detached indifference barely masking his look of avid anticipation.
"Have you got it?" He asked with feigned disinterest, pale eyes darting around.
"What, you think I fell and grabbed at the bell cord for support?" Snape bit out, though at the moment he didn't feel too far from it.
"The test succeeded, then?" Malfoy looked at the row of preserved rats, carefully turning his eyes away from the other-worldly repulsiveness of the first few.
Snape put on an amused smirk at his discomfort. "Yes. The antidote, too." He pointed at the live rats in the cage. "Both work. No one will detect any poison, or attempt at poisoning. A sudden heart attack is what they'll say." He pointed at the row of three blue vials and three red sitting on the counter. "All yours. The blue are the poison, the red the antidote."
"Well," said Malfoy lazily, triumph finally creeping into eyes that had concealed irritated anxiety for too long, "about time, I should say--you took two solid days." He turned and went out, Snape trailing him.
As they left the dungeon Snape noticed Malfoy glancing at him sideways, scrutinizing him. More closely than he liked.
As they made their way out of the labyrinthine passages that lay under the Manor, Malfoy asked, "So, where do you plan on spending the summer, Severus?"
What was putting Malfoy suddenly in the mood for small talk? "At Hogwarts," Severus replied shortly. He was actually looking forward to summer for the first time-- he would be working as Professor Zabini's personal assistant, and besides earning some extra credits and a few Galleons, he couldn't wait to get his hands on the more advanced material he would surely learn under Zabini. His family should have done him the favor of going into hiding sooner.
"Hogwarts?" Malfoy's tone of voice made it sound like a penitentiary. "Why?"
None of your damned business, Severus thought, and said, "Albus Dumbledore does not trust me--he wishes to keep an eye on me and does not wish to turn me loose during the summer, now that he knows about my family." To each his own language, he thought. Lucius Malfoy would not understand a word if he said Dumbledore fears for my safety and integrity, and would sneer finely if he said The Old Fool has evidently made me one of his charity cases.
"Well, since it seems evident you have no place to stay," said Malfoy, smoothly ignoring the Hogwarts option, "let me extend to you a formal invitation to Malfoy Manor over the summer."
Snape gaped at him for a moment, astonished. Lucius Malfoy clearly didn't like him any better than he did Malfoy-- so why this sudden invitation to his own home?
There was only one way to find out. "Well, sir," he said, sounding flabbergasted. "I really don't--I thank--"
"No need to thank me, Severus," Malfoy interrupted smugly. "I simply think you would enjoy the stay, with your dear mother and brother abroad--" he made it sound like they were on a trip or something--"and our library and laboratory open to you..."
That's it...draw out your cards--let's see what you're about..."But sir, I couldn't. Albus Dumbledore...And I still have a year of school..."
Malfoy laughed; a short, harsh laugh that was somehow worse than a snarl. "Dumbledore? School? Why consider yourself with those, boy, when you have immense power just begging to be put to use? Why you could become a full-fledged wizard here, boy--" his voice lowered to a tempting whisper. They had stopped walking, and a chill draft swept by them from the foyer just around the corner as they stood, now facing each other. "Think of the unfettered research and learning you can get, away from the Old Fool's eyes and jealous restrictions. Under my protection the Ministry can't harm you anymore, nor can anyone else. My father is growing old and ineffective-- everyone knows I am the most important member of the inner sanctum. You will get a head start as no wizard of your age and station could ever dream of..."
Severus just stared as if petrified. Suddenly feeling dizzy and half-blinded by the brighter light outside the dungeon, he trembled to stay upright. He knew--knew not to trust a Death Eater. He knew Malfoy just wanted him around as his puppet, the brewer of his dirty little secrets, a shadow. Yet the horrible thing was, he knew that even in such an existence he could actually get the things Malfoy was offering him. No more restriction on his Dark Arts studies--no more harassment from the Ministry--power, if only a reflection of it... He couldn't immediately tell Malfoy where he could shove his offer, as Potter and Black would have. He was not what they were...
Neither can you run from what you are. You can only fight it, if you have the strength. Without warning the words seared through his head, leaving him reeling: The words Redwood had had the gall to say to him, the very morning after he had used the Crucio Curse on Snape. It may have been last November, but Snape had the revolting feeling as if the Auror were speaking right into his ear at that moment.
Bastard, he thought. You arrogant son of a bitch. Think the big tough Auror is the only one who knows how to fight, do you?
"Well, boy?" Prompted Malfoy, and Snape could see that gleam of triumph in his eyes again.
"I thank you for your kindness, Mr. Malfoy," he heard himself say coldly. "You are most generous. But I must respectfully decline." And he swept from the hallway into the drafty, darkly splendid vestibule, and his only thought was to get out of there as quickly as he could.
He was heading across the floor toward the forbidding double doors wondering where his broomstick was when Malfoy called him.
"Snape!"
He spun around coolly. Malfoy came up to him, a twisted sneer on his pale lips.
"The poison you left in my possession," Malfoy hissed, "it's a very clever piece of work. So clever, I am certain a number of people would be most interested. People like Dumbledore, for instance."
Snape laughed in the man's face. "Fine, go ahead. Try to get me expelled, or get me sent to Azkaban. I have my own story to tell, and you won't look very good in it, Malfoy." He watched as Lucius Malfoy's face contorted in anger and frustration. "What can you do to me? Ruin me? Control me? Torture and kill me? Be my guest--at least the killing part will be a novelty." He matched glare for cold glare, sneer for angry sneer. With a cunning beyond his years and the mad recklessness of a seventeen-year-old, he stared down one of the most influential Dark wizards in the wizarding world.
Calmly he watched Malfoy back down, as he knew he would. "Just remember, Malfoy," he said quietly. "I am far more useful to you on my own terms. Now, my broom."
Lips curling and looking confounded underneath the haughty, aristocratic mask, Malfoy barked for his guest's broom to be brought. He stepped outside with Snape, a servant unobtrusively coming over to drape a cloak over his dressing gown as they reached the double doors.
"Your mother and brother are doing well," Malfoy said abruptly as Snape mounted his old but little-used Mari Seven. "The Lord is most pleased with them. I must say, I never expected to meet a dull Snape." He had managed to slap his customary sneer back on.
"And I never thought I'd meet a Malfoy who didn't know when a deal is closed," Snape replied tersely. "Thank you for all you've done, Mr. Malfoy." Without waiting for a reply he took off into the night.
The warm night air flapped his robes about him as he soared through it and set the course for Hogwarts. If he hurried he would be in time for curfew.
A belated sense of elation welled up in him as the fact hit home for the first time--for once, he had tried to take charge of his life and succeeded. Where had all his twelve O.W.L.s, way above-average grades, his prefect's badge and determination to do the right thing led him? Murder and torture. But once he used his cunning with his considerable skills in the Dark Arts as a playing card, he could now finish school and take the N.E.W.T.s. He had secured his own future without Dumbledore's or anyone's help. And, he thought with an inward shrug, he had only sold a couple of potions, not his soul. Even if it meant he would need his sleeping draught if he ever heard that Poliakoff, or anyone else who Malfoy could reach for that matter, had died of a heart attack.
You can only fight it, if you have the strength.
The words were still fresh as a bleeding cut, and he scowled. So I am fighting, he thought. So I am. If he could have nothing else, he would not be denied one thing--control over his own destiny. He would no longer be dragged this way and that by the will of others--not the family that had disowned him, not Dumbledore, the Ministry, or Voldemort and his goons. It was all he had, that one basic dignity. To be left alone.
He was flying over wooded, mountainous ground now. The expanse of forest spread out below in shadows of impenetrable black and deepest blue, like a vast bruise. He checked his bearings and bore a little more to the east, wrestling the old broomstick into the change of direction.
Be my guest--at least the killing part will be a novelty. He had halfway meant those words, half hoped, in his mad self-destructive mood, that Malfoy would take him up on those words... His grip on the broomstick tightened a little as he remembered the letters Malfoy had given him. You are no son of mine--You are a traitor to the family name and no longer my brother-- Standard disownment fare, and he had watched them burn to ashes.
Why should he care what happened to himself when no one cared anymore?
Someone had cared once, and he had taken every measure to make sure she would no longer care-- and now, more than ever, he was glad he had done so. As long as she remained untouched by the darkness that pervaded his life, if she knew only light and joy-- then no matter what depths he plunged to, a small part of him would still remain untouched, untainted. He shook his head to clear the foolish notion away. Idiot, he thought angrily.
Malfoy Manor, with all its centuries of darkness and secrets and temptations, was far behind now. Ahead lay the towers and turrets of Hogwarts, the school, the fortress against the Dark outside.
Notes: Eternal thanks to Jedi Boadicea for reading this over and giving invaluable advice. Also, I drew inspiration from Eline's fic, "Sacrifice," where Malfoy is always fashionably late. The characterization of Lucius Malfoy draws heavily from Eline's fics. If you haven't read Eline's and Jedi Boadicea's fics, folks, you do not know what you're missing.