Disclaimer – I don't own Harry Potter. Don't sue me.

CHAPTER 9 - THE DANGERS OF EMOTION


Far, far away from Hogwarts, in the deepest shadowed depths of the fens, the Dark Lord summoned his loyal servants to do his bidding and to hear his words. They came from all four corners of wizarding Europe - from England to Russia to Albania - and from all classes and walks of life.

And first among them all was Lucius Malfoy - by virtue of his own power and ruthlessness and the status he enjoyed within the wizarding world. Voldemort would never have gained the following and the credibility he had enjoyed at his height had it not been for the support of the Malfoy - reluctant on the part of Marcus Malfoy, and wholehearted from Lucius. But that had been then, and this was now. He had no liking for Peter Pettigrew, who even at Hogwarts had been a snivelling coward, but it gave the Dark Lord much amusement to hold him above his former, most faithful servants. He encouraged division and quarrelling within the ranks - he fed on hatred and fear the way the Malfoy fed on lust...

And Pettigrew, despite his privileged position, was completely terrified...terrified of Voldemort, terrified of the Death Eaters he so sneeringly lorded it over, and terrified of his former friends, Black and Lupin, who were just as hungry for his blood as the slighted Death Eaters. But Pettigrew, even in his fear, retained the native cunning of the rat he was in truth - he sat at Voldemort's side for more than just pettiness. He could evaluate and judge his peers - this one was too insolent, this one was too weak...this one was lacking in zeal.

This one was disloyal...his gaze fell upon a proud, arrogant figure standing with all the confidence and sangfroid of the aristocrats Pettigrew despised but secretly emulated. He hated, yet he lusted after that white skin, that silver blonde hair and the scent, the maddening scent of sandalwood, always so tantalizing and elusive... He wanted to smash those silver eyes, which had mocked him ever since their first year at Hogwarts...

Malfoy.

Only the Lord had come - the other, the bastard, had turned traitor and run to shelter behind Dumbledore at Hogwarts. If Lucius thought the fact that he had stayed loyal would save his treacherous brother...Pettigrew giggled to himself, rocking back and forth beneath his master's stroking hand. Proud Lucius. Arrogant Lucius, who would never turn against his brother, no matter how vehemently he swore loyalty. Dangerous, intelligent, independent Lucius, who was a High Clan Lord before he was a Death Eater - Pettigrew knew how he thought, what he valued; well, well, well, they would test Lucius' loyalty, and see what there was to see.

Loyal or disloyal, Lucius was bound by his own actions, by his own choices - and the Malfoy, the strong, powerful, influential Malfoy, would fall; one way or another, he would see them broken. Maybe then he would be able to exorcise those silver eyes, finally capture that elusive sandalwood scent...

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Lucius was extremely aware of Pettigrew's manic, intent gaze, penetrating even through the ivory mask and the hooded robes. Normally the thought of the rat, lost in the maze of lust Lucius had trapped him in long, long ago, which had been the last straw pushing him to betray the Potters, would have made him smile in malicious amusement. But that had been before the Dark Lord had returned, before Pettigrew had been placed above them - with power to dominate the Death Eaters not dominant enough to refuse him. He had never caused Lucius any direct trouble, but he had felt those eyes, watching him, following him, weighing him…just waiting for him to trip up and make a mistake.

His instincts were screaming warnings at him, and had been ever since Luc had openly declared his loyalty. Now that everything was out in the open, their hands could be forced, and now, if he didn't take extreme care (and even, he believed, if he did) no matter which way the cards fell, House Malfoy lost...

He cursed Voldemort. He cursed his father. He cursed himself, and his brother, and his ambitious ice-bitch of a wife who valued power and money above all else, who had been growing restless lately - and most of all he cursed Augustus Antoninus Snape, whom he blamed for anything and everything that happened since his father, so opposed to upsetting the status quo, had been persuaded to change his mind.

He and Luc should have taken longer killing him. Six hours had not been nearly enough...

He had the feeling that everything could soon begin tumbling down around him while he watched helplessly, and that Pettigrew would somehow, somewhere be watching him, giggling and stroking himself, feeding off the sight of the mighty bought low so that the pettiest of scavengers could tear them apart.

And enjoying every minute of it.

But that would not happen as long as Lucius could prevent it. He still had some power, some choice - he was still the first, the most cunning, the most powerful, and he would never, ever bend his head to Peter Pettigrew. Still less would he allow...that...to ever destroy his family. Not while he was still alive.

And perhaps, if he was willing to pay the price, not even after his death...

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Severus Snape glided back into Hogwarts, a silent, ghostly shadow, black robes seeming to float around him, rather than billow as they did in the daytime, his ivory-masked face inhumanly impassive in the silver moonlight. He made no sound as he passed, but the corridors seemed a little bit colder, and a silent, wholly instinctive sense of danger accompanied him like an invisible cloak.

This was not Professor Snape, snarky and sarcastic Potions master - this was the Lord of High Clan Snape, the Dark Lord's Chief Inquisitor, the merciless, conscienceless murderer who could and would kill cold-bloodedly for the sake of power and ambition. He didn't enjoy killing - that smacked too much of baser, vulgar animal desires which offended his academic sense of aesthetics. To him it was an intellectual exercise, which was perhaps more dangerous that animal passion. He was not emotional like the Malfoy – who, despite all their claims of complete impassivity, were in reality rather passionate beings who quite often felt all too much - he, as a Snape, could focus entirely on an intellectual goal and carry through with it no matter what it took.

The Malfoy tended to bring emotions into it - such as hatred, pride, love, (yes, they believed in love) and all too often, this clouded the issue, leading them to overreact. Yes, they were quite remarkably controlled, quite strictly disciplined – but their very nature was passionate, intense, and they burned all too brightly, often burning themselves out with the strength of their intensity.

His father had told him this, long ago, when he'd first met the two Malfoy brothers, and he'd seen the truth of it for himself over and over again. Marcus Malfoy had allowed himself to be forced into servitude to a half blood wizard because of his love for his sons. Lucius Malfoy had followed in his footsteps out of a desire for revenge against the Ministry, and his brother Luc out of desire for a lost lover, rather than for the ambition he claimed was the sole reason.

The Malfoy, the oldest, supposedly coldest, most intelligent and politically savvy Clan of them all, could be manipulated through their love for their family and for their estate. It was all too easy, if you know which buttons to press. And having gone to school with two of them, having known them as intimately as it was possible to know another human being, male or female, being bound by them and binding them in turn – he knew exactly which buttons to press.

Not that he ever would. Not now.

Entering Dumbledore's office he found the headmaster and his senior staff gathered around him, awaiting his return eager for the news he brought; perhaps even one or two had been concerned for him as well. If so they hid it well - only Dumbledore's blue eyes, so wise and all knowing, and yet so clear and reflective, showed any concern or any relief at all. Luc had not even turned at his entrance, and was still leaning against the window embrasure and looking out into the night at Gods only knew what.

Yes, Severus knew both Malfoy brothers intimately, knew their minds, their thought patterns and the way they played chess. Knew which buttons to press to get a knee-jerk reaction; but he didn't know the first thing about the deepest emotions of their souls, or what could make such an intelligent, analytical, brilliant mind stare off into the night absently, almost wistfully. He'd never been able to understand, beyond the love for family and estate and subjects, what emotions seethed beneath the calm, impassive exterior.

But the Lady had known he'd wanted to, long ago...

He made his report. Who had returned, who had refused the Call, who had hedged their bets, who had remained neutral. He mentioned the plan to liberate Azkaban, high on Voldemort's list of spectacular, demoralizing plans, and of Pettigrew's obsession with the Malfoy, and what exactly it might mean. He spoke of Voldemort's plans for any de Sauvigny caught in the open without protection – oh, Voldemort planned to make of his former favourite assassin a most educational example – and he spoke of Lucius Malfoy, who had been given the splendid chance to demonstrate his loyalty by bringing his erstwhile brother back into the fold, and his son too while he was at it.

Watching quite closely he hadn't even seen the muscles in Luc's back flinch, or even react at all to the news that he had dragged two whole Clans into an all out vendetta with a Dark Lord; he hadn't even turned around. In fact, there was no indication at all that he had even been listening. That was the problem with the Malfoy - even knowing that they could be manipulated, knowing their weak spots, it was so damned hard to know when you'd hit a nerve...

They had such good masks. He'd only ever seen unfeigned, spontaneous emotion when they'd given over all control and let the ardeur ride them; in fact, there had been one memorable occasion in third year, after their Head of House had been called away, and the Slytherin students had come out to play. Sex, drugs, alcohol and classical music...and crisp linen sheets, with cool limbs intertwined so completely they hadn't known where Luc and Lucius and Severus ended or where they began...the scent of sandalwood had hung in the air like a drug all of its own, intoxicating, provoking...maddening…

They were generous lovers, both of them - the only thing Luc hadn't shared had been Kate. Muggle born, she'd been vulnerable in Slytherin; with a sister in Gryffindor and dating James Potter her position had been even more precarious. Only the protection of a Malfoy had kept her safe all those years; that and her natural charm and charisma - everyone in Slytherin had loved Kate, and they had every one of them mourned her loss.

Even Severus, intellectual creature that he was, had missed her a little. He regretted her absence, as he regretted few things in life. She'd been so bright, and when she'd gone, she'd taken all the light with her.

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Luc dared not turn around to acknowledge Severus face to face. The emotions Snape regarded so scornfully were stirred up dangerously, clouding his reason and his ability to think at all clearly; oh, he knew well the dangers of giving into passion. They'd been drummed into him, as they were drummed into every passionate, intense Malfoy child who learned that it was not at all desirable to burn so brightly and so powerfully that one burned oneself out.

Emotion clouded judgement. But emotion was the spark that made us all human; not enough and life was not worth living, too much and life was far too much. Emotion intensified power. A known fact - and the very basic premise behind the Malfoy cool mask; they never, ever became angry or enraged without the strongest possible shielding. It was far, far too dangerous to anyone around - the ardeur boosted by cold rage was bad enough, even if it was controlled. But boosted by uncontrolled, hot, mindless rage such as that of a young child – it lashed out anywhere and everywhere.

There had been a Malfoy once, whose mother, while pregnant, had married another man, and the child had been raised as a Warwick, a prominent Gryffindor family. Not having had the proper training, he had allowed his emotions free reign, and just coming into puberty, when his body was changing and his magic with it, he had gotten very, very angry... Rage was a very, very dangerous thing. It destroyed composure, will, judgement, control, and it played havoc with one's life – it was far more trouble than it was worth.

And this rage was beyond anything he had ever known.

Imagine his surprise when, this afternoon, during the Friday 5th year Gryffindor/Slytherin lesson which focused on the practical rather than the theoretical, he'd felt the faintest stirrings of the ardeur. At first, taking it for Draco using wandless power rather than his wand, he'd sent a mild warning look his way. But no, Draco had been behaving himself; and there was no one else of Malfoy blood in this classroom, was there? Surely there was no one else of Malfoy blood in this whole school, let alone the classroom.

Apparently not.

Ignoring it, dismissing it, he'd gone on teaching, until he'd felt the faint scent of sandalwood again, felt the slight subliminal hum. Concentrating this time, he'd tracked it back to...Brandon Greyson. The American boy, whose mother was a Muggle and whose father was a stiff- necked fool who thought he could fight evil without getting his hands dirty. The black haired, grey-eyed boy who could use the ardeur...and yet, and yet, he was fifteen years old.

Kate had died in their seventh year, when they'd been seventeen. Brandon would have been born when they'd been twenty or twenty-one, surely. Logically, Brandon couldn't be his son. The facts were too skewed. But the emotion that he'd been trained to ignore surfaced, raised its head. Instinct, which was more acceptable, screamed out in recognition. Like calls to like, blood to blood. Even Draco recognized it, taking Brandon under his wing and into his confidence in an astonishingly short time.

Under the guise of helping with concentration, he'd held up his palm and told the boy to match and fit his own palm against Luc's. A fully mature man, Luc's hand was bigger, longer than the fifteen year old boy's, but the hands themselves – the fine, elegant shape, the long elegant fingers – were like younger mirror images. And more than that, there was a...buzz, a reaction when Luc fed ardeur out through his open palm into Brandon's hand. A recognition, a welcoming.

Blood calls to blood.

This boy was his. His mother, so Draco had said, was an English Muggle who'd gone to Hogwarts from 1971 to 1977 – her name was Kate. She'd been Kate Evans, once, of Slytherin house...and she had green eyes.

But that was impossible. Kate was dead. He'd felt her die. He'd felt the soul bond snap.

And then he thought back to That Night - the night when his whole world had shattered...and found a discrepancy.

The sudden, rising force of the rage, coming up from his soul, from his memories, caught him by surprise, taking him unawares and almost breaking through the relaxed control of Friday afternoon's last lesson. His eyes had probably gone completely silver, feral in their intensity, his face rigid and masklike, and he'd almost crushed the boy's hand; from the look on his face, he had indeed noticed the sudden change of demeanour and been just as surprised by the cool, amused cynicism changing to fierce intensity as Luc himself had been.

Only for a moment, but a moment was enough to shatter illusions, trust and a sense of security – Brandon had seen the darker side of his soul, and had been frightened to the very depths of his being.

And that had only enraged Luc further.

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Snape mistrusted the way Luc accompanied him back to the dungeons. He mistrusted the cool nonchalance with which the tai-pan had acted all night, and he mistrusted the way the very air seemed to cool around him and begin to hum.

Very definitely a Malfoy in the grip of some strong emotion. Not to be trusted.

This was borne out when, as he made the fatal mistake of turning his back on the other man, an all too tangible force picked him up and slammed him into the door, hard enough to split his lip and cause his ears to ring. He felt the power, shaped by experienced will, craft aural, magical and visual shields around his quarters, blocking out any possible help from the outside. His door was hidden under layers of nasty warding spells already - Luc added a few of his own and activated them all on full strength. Slumped dazedly against the wall, he saw Luc squat down just out of arms reach, felt the invisible fist close against his windpipe and begin to cut off the air. Despite himself, he almost grinned.

After they had gone to see the muggle film Star Wars as teenagers, on Kate's birthday, Luc had tried to figure out a way to strangle people with only magic, as they had all seen Darth Vader do; it had taken the combined expertise of all of the Lords of Slytherin nearly two weeks to figure out how it was done. After that, though...they'd lost nearly four hundred points that week alone. At the time, they'd all felt it had been worth it.

Unfortunately, they'd developed the technique further, Luc especially, but Snape had never thought he would see it used on him by his best friend.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing?" he tried to snarl, but could only croak. The invisible hand didn't budge.

Luc smiled coldly. "Tell me what happened to Kate," he all but crooned. Oh dear, that was a bad sign...but what was he saying?

"Kate died, remember? Black," he all but spat the name, "hit her with a bludger, and she never woke up."

His eyes blazed silver, and with a wordless whisper the world exploded in pain. He would have screamed if he could have breathed at all. "Liar," he heard softly, the only thing in a world of pain.

"It's true," he breathed, lungs heaving. "You were there when she died."

Pain exploded again. This was far, far worse than the Cruciatus; he knew what this was, if he could just get a slight respite to think...

"Tell me," the voice repeated.

"She died! You felt the bond snap yourself!" he choked it out desperately.

"Then why is she still alive in America? Why does she have a fifteen year old son?" Again, the pain, but old training kicked in, and he ignored it.

"I don't know what the hell you're thinking, Malfoy..."

Standing up, Luc crossed over to Snape's own potions cabinet, selecting a vial of clear, transparent liquid.

Veritaserum.

Holding the potions master's nostrils shut he poured the potion down the man's reluctant throat, forcing him to swallow or choke.

"What happened that night, Snape?" Oh, his voice was so very, very soft: not a good sign. Not at all.

Overcoming veritaserum needed a cool, clear and collected mind - he was very, very good at it - but not when pain was constantly flooding through his veins like acid, and not when insidious whispers in his ear repeated the question endlessly, triggering the impulse to tell the truth, and not when the teasing tendrils of the ardeur tugged at his brain with sandalwood strings...

He opened his mouth and just barely stopped everything from spilling out. "Bond...snapped," he gasped, almost hyperventilating.

"Not good enough," came the voice, and the agony doubled in intensity. The voice was angry with him, and it reflected in the ardeur...images of pain and blood and torture flooded his mind - not his thoughts, not his memories. He tried to close his mind off, but magic forced it open, and an Other intruded, sifting through his mind, through his memories... Oh, it was so cold, he was shivering...where was Luc? Where was his friend, his companion, his lover? Why was Luc angry with him? What had he done? What was wrong? Oh, oh, it hurt...

The voice came again, insistent, enraged, ringing and echoing in his head. "What happened that night?"

As he braced himself for one last resistance, the pain peaked to an unbelievable high and his concentration was lost. He opened his mouth, and the truth came tumbling out.

"My father…" he whispered hoarsely. "He wanted her out of the way…"

Luc's face froze. "And did you always follow his orders so faithfully?"

The hoarse, bitter chuckles were terrifying. "In this, yes…"

"Why?"

The laughter intensified, rising until Luc slapped him hard, bringing him back. But even then, Snape's black eyes were filled with terrible mirth. Everything Luc had always known and never acknowledged about his relationship with the other man was contained in that look.

Snape was almost gleeful as the past finally came out. "She woke up while you were sleeping..." he smiled nastily at Luc's dismay. "I told her that you were going to join the Death Eaters, and that you wanted her safe, somewhere far, far away – she was only too eager to sacrifice her happiness for yours..." He managed to sneer disdainfully even in his drug induced haze.

And then came the cold, cold triumphant smile. "A little asphodel, a little wormwood…the Drought of Living Death was more than enough to simulate real death, and a conscious will snapped the bond - freely given, freely accepted, freely returned – and then a masterful illusion, if I may say so myself; and voila! Luc Malfoy, in his grief, turns against all that he could have been to wreak revenge and pain and death on his tormentors..."

Luc's heart actually stopped beating, for all of five seconds or so. The tension stretched unbearably, and he struggled to hold back the rage so he could ask one more question. "Then how is that Brandon is my son?" He saw Snape slipping towards unconsciousness and repeated the question harshly. But Snape only smiled in feral mockery, laughed and said, quite distinctly, "All are punish'd", before relaxing, and fainting.

For the space of about ten seconds, Luc remained still, on his knees beside the slumped figure of the man he had thought of as his best friend, while his whole world shattered around him and reformed crazily. Then he snapped, and the rage he had been holding in check for hours broke free of the chokehold he'd been keeping on it. The whole world went blind.

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Two minutes later the red haze cleared from his eyes, and he looked about him bewildered at the complete and utter destruction of Snape's rooms. There was nothing, nothing that had been left whole - the potions cupboard was smashed, the potions leaking together on the floor, some hissing in reaction. The panelling was scored and splintered, and the furniture was shattered into small pieces of wood and material. The books had exploded; the smell of burning parchment reeked in the air, competing with the chemical smell of the spilled potions. All the glass had melted and had been reformed into crazy, unrecognisable shapes, and the only thing that hadn't been touched was the sprawled body on the floor, still lying where he had lost consciousness.

Holding his hands to his face in shocked horror, Luc actually saw them tremble, felt them quivering as he clenched them into fists and pulled himself together. He hadn't done this since the night Kate had d- since Snape had persuaded her to leave. It was the very reason why the Malfoy never, ever gave into temper. It blinded them, took them over completely...turned them from thinking, reasoning men to beasts and animals that were a danger to everything and everyone around them.

Just like he'd been tonight.

At least he'd gotten part of what he came for. She was still alive. He smiled, slowly, dangerously. Very soon, she would be his again. Forever, this time.

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** "All are punish'd" is from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. I thought it appropriate.