Chapter 9: Her Father's House
Josephine stared haughtily above the heads of the Death Eaters assembled before her, her imposing profile highlighted in the dim room. She stood alone at the front of the room (Snape had joined the ranks of the Death Eaters), awaiting Lord Voldemort. Behind her back, where no one could see, her hands twisted and fretted, her knuckles sore from clenching her thin fingers together.
It won't work, she thought. He knows evil backwards and forwards—how could I do anything he hasn't expected?
Josephine pinched the back of her hand with her nails to stop herself from jumping in fright as a door she hadn't seen slammed open behind her. She made herself take two deep breaths before turning slowly. She kept her face bored and her eyes high.
Voldemort inhaled with a happiness/fury that made Josephine's hackles rise. "My daughter," he said, his mad red eyes glinting, "I am so delighted that you've decided to return to me." He had Satan's eyes: black cat-pupils expanded and contracted with a life of their own, and their glassy red irises had taken over the whites of his eyes, so that the hard cold jasper of eyes stopped at the edges of his lashless lids and was surrounded by the hard white skin of his face. The bones in his cheeks were so pronounced that he seemed skeletal in appearance, and yet the skin seemed like it was scaly.
"Dear father," Josephine said clearly, taking three steps forward so that she stood in front of him. "I am delighted at your invitation." Next she was supposed to bow—the Death Eaters held their breath, Voldemort bore down on her with his eyes—but Josephine kept Toad's broken body in her mind and gave Voldemort stare for stare. He waited for a few seconds, and then smiled. The malicious crescent of his lips shone out over the Death Eaters like a dying moon.
"It is my wish that all of my Death Eaters recognize that this girl is my right and lawful heir, bound to me by my blood and the blood of Salazar Slytherin. You will pay your respects to her, or you will be killed." Voldemort laughed like an out-of-tune violin: a skittering of the bow on the highest strings—then silence. "Now, if you please."
One by one the Death Eaters approached and kissed the hem of Josephine's robes. She watched their genuflecting impassively. There was a thrill behind it—would these men have bowed to her before they knew who she was? —but a terror as well. This blind obedience was frightening, this total devotion to Voldemort. He said to kiss her robes, and they did, without hesitation or doubt.
She glanced down to see Snape crawl forward and reach for her hem. Without changing her expression she twitched it out of his grasp. Josephine didn't want him to show this kind of respect to her. He didn't know what she was about to do… Snape bowed his head low—he didn't meet her eyes. As he went back to his place in the semi-circle, she could see that his face was twisted in pain; he had not received his payment for bringing her back to Voldemort.
"Dear daughter," Voldemort said, staring deep into her eyes, "We must discuss the future." He grabbed her arm with long fingers—his hand was nearly doubled up around her upper arm—and guided her into the next room.
This room was also paneled with dark wood, but there were subtle differences. The floor was cold stone, without a rug or carpet to warm the feet. The enormous fireplace held a fire that crackled and snapped high above both of their heads, and there was a long black table that held at least five hundred bottles. A log in the fireplace snapped, showering the floor with a fine carpet of orange sparks. Voldemort slammed and locked the door.
"Those are mine," Josephine said. She moved her eyes toward the bottles on the table, keeping her hands clasped in front of her.
"Not anymore," he said, smirking at the table. "They have been useful to me."
Josephine turned away from his cold gaze to stare into the fireplace, and she nearly gasped aloud when she saw her enchanted rose in a vase near the hearth. It was framed in its perfect red glory by the towering flames. It was preserved by the potion of Eternal Sleep that Josephine had painted on it the day she had found out that she was the daughter and heir of Voldemort.
"That rose is also mine," she whispered.
"Not anymore," Voldemort replied. He placed a hand on the table, his eyes narrowed to bloody slits. "Why did you come back?" he asked. "Tell me the truth or you'll be sorry."
Josephine clasped her hands behind her back. Does he know the rose is enchanted? "I had plenty of time to think when I was locked up inside Hogwarts," she began slowly, infusing her voice with the same mixture of hate/fear she had first felt when she awoke in the Hospital wing. "Dumbledore only wanted me dead—he wasn't interested in me, just in my bloodline." She moved toward the rose; traced a circle around the lip of the vase. Voldemort watched her impassively. Does he know? "I knew that when I ran from you on Diagon Alley, I had run away from ruling the world. So I've come to take my seat as your heir."
Voldemort chuckled. His voice was like pebbles hitting a tin bucket. "And the fact I poisoned Snape has nothing to do with it?"
Josephine forced a laugh. "Please, dear father. He is a man—and men are disposable. You could find another with his talents without effort." She lightly brushed the petals of the rose with her fingertips.
--
Neville burst into Dumbledore's office. "Where did they go?" he gasped. "Josephine and Snape?"
Dumbledore blinked in surprise. "Mr. Longbottom," he said slowly. "It really isn't any of your concern—"
"I think—know that she's going back to Voldemort, and you're just letting her go?" Neville asked, lowering his voice so that he was talking normally. "You can't just let her go back…he'll kill her!"
Dumbledore sighed and folded his hands on his desk. "Mr. Longbottom, I do not believe that Voldemort will kill her or I wouldn't have let her go. She's going to save Snape's life." He pulled open his desk drawer and handed Neville three pictures: Josephine's Mona Lisa shot, his mother's Quidditch picture, and Tom Riddle's school picture. "I want to give you these. You may do with them as you wish."
Neville was silent as he gazed at each picture in turn. He glanced from Josephine to Jolene several times, but stared at Tom Riddle's the longest. Without speaking he got up and threw the photo into the fireplace. He pocketed Jolene's photo and handed Josephine's portrait back to Dumbledore. "If I had a choice I would want her to come back, but I don't think either of us will see her again," he told Dumbledore.
Dumbledore watched the pattern of branches outside the window. "Neither do I, Mr. Longbottom."
"I wish her luck where ever she is. She was a decent sort."
The old Headmaster smiled. "So are you, Neville."
--
Josephine picked up the rose and ran her fingertips down the sides, careful not to prick her finger on one of the wickedly sharp thorns. "This is the most beautiful thing I have ever made," she said blandly, glancing sideways at the skeletal man across the room. The silence in the room was oppressive, the waiting was becoming unbearable.
"Beauty is useless," Voldemort replied. Josephine stifled a smirk as she surveyed the hairless skeleton leaning on the table. She schooled her expression to blandness immediately, but Voldemort saw. He stalked across the room and grabbed the front of the girl's robes. "Don't you think for a second that your magic will ever be as strong as mine!" he spat, his breath so rancid Josephine could nearly taste it.
The girl shrugged eloquently. "Dear father," she said quietly, clasping her hand around his, "The thought has never crossed my mind." Which was true—Josephine's magical education in areas other than Potions was strictly practical. She shivered as he withdrew his hand from her throat. His hands were like ice.
Voldemort paced moodily in front of the fireplace. Josephine traced designs on the rose petals. She had to wait, for the time being, wait until the Death Eaters could see, and wait until the door was open.
"For your personal insignia: Should we combine the serpent, rose, and skull or leave it with the serpent and rose?" he asked, apparently out of nowhere. Josephine had seen the skull and snake motif on the arms of the Death Eaters and in the crest above the fireplace, but she had thought nothing of it.
"I don't think I like the serpent. I was thinking that the rose could be rising from a bonfire or something," she replied, trying to sound like she'd been thinking it over.
Voldemort gave her a sharp look from the corner of his eyes. "There must be a serpent. You are the heir of Slytherin."
Josephine shrugged again. "Why not a lion? Father dearest, my mother was a Gryffindor…" she was cut off when he grabbed her by the hair.
"Gryffindor is not to be mentioned in this house! Never speak like that again, or I will be forced to kill you." He gave her a stinging slap across the face. "I will not have a sympathizing snit of a girl as my heir." He threw her across the room as easily as if she weighed nothing.
Josephine dropped the rose as quickly as she could, afraid that she would grip it too tightly and put herself into an almost-everlasting sleep. She spun on the smooth stones, her face pounding and her scalp trickling blood. For the first time since her arrival at the manor, she felt a shred of doubt. He would kill me without forethought, screeched a little voice in her head, the voice that felt the pain in her eye and saw the Devil in Voldemort's eyes.
"I don't believe in the Devil," Josephine mumbled to herself, sitting up with a hand on her bruising cheekbone.
Voldemort smirked at her, and bent to pick up the rose. Josephine held her breath as his long white fingers neared the poisoned thorns. "Do you think I don't know about this?" he asked, his evil serpentine grin wide and mirthless. "How stupid do you think I am?"
It was a rhetorical question. Josephine met his mad gaze and raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.
He petted the rose, smiling. "You thought you could get the better of me, didn't you?" The girl was silent. "I'll tell you what, girl! If you weren't my heir, you would have been dead the day we met. And before you count yourself fortunate, remember that all those who defy me as you have just now are dead!"
"Is that why you killed Emily?" Josephine asked, jutting her jaw forward.
"Yes, and that idiot Toad and the old woman who sketches. Emily tried to hide from my wrath, Toad was unfinished business. The old woman was a pleasure," he smiled and stroked the rose. "The way she tried to scramble away, the death rattle—it was pure art."
Josephine had to use every ounce of self-control she had to stop from flying at Voldemort. Her face flushed with fury. Not trusting her voice to speak, she got to her feet, smoothing her hair and straightening her robes, keeping her gaze locked on Voldemort's ruthless red eyes. After she had herself under control, she said slowly, "Killing for pleasure is an unwise display of temper."
Voldemort laughed so hard that he had to steady himself on the fireplace. "Ah, little Josephine, when you've seen as many years as I you won't begrudge me a little bit of pleasure now and then, will you?" When he received no answer, he advanced on her, his smile fading. "Will you?" he demanded, reaching for her.
Josephine didn't flinch as he slammed his right hand into the wall behind her; it was the other that made her eyes grow wide. Voldemort's left hand brought the rose to her throat, the poisoned spines tickling her throat. She held her breath.
"I could kill you," he said. "Remember that as we go out to speak to the Death Eaters. Be my heir…or be not at all." Josephine looked down in submission, thought she was laughing inside. You won't have a chance to kill me, father…I just might beat you to it. It was a variation on her original plan, but the more she thought about it, the better it seemed.
Voldemort stopped with his right hand on the doorknob. "Now, my dear girl, you will present yourself as my heir should be, and together we will rule the world."
"This world and the next, father," she said, smiling cryptically. Voldemort ignored her and pressed open the door, looking outwards to the Death Eaters, half who were looking at him and half who crowded around a huddled black figure.
"Death Eaters!" Voldemort cried, throwing up his arms in a magnificent flair of black fabric, flourishing Josephine's rose like a wand.
"He's dead!" said someone, "No, he's still breathing," replied another. "He won't wake!"
Josephine bit the inside of her cheek until it bled. She scanned the table, hoping that her guess at what Voldemort used was accurate enough to save Snape's life. The girl seized a small glass vial with a bit of clear fluid inside, and then, as an afterthought, smashed the container that held the antidote to the rose-spell.
She walked slowly out to the room. "Father?" she said, her voice pleasant. "Do you remember what they looked like?"
Voldemort didn't turn. His attention was fixed on the Death Eaters. "Who?" he asked irritably.
"Oh, I don't know…Toad? Emily? Sarah? Neville's mother?" On the last, nearly every eye in the room turned to Josephine.
The hard white skin on Voldemort's face seemed to grow whiter. "Dumbledore told you…" he hissed, his eyes fixed on the girl standing in the doorway. "No, I don't really remember what they looked like."
"We called him Toad because his eyes were green and they bulged when he was angry. Emily was pretty enough to be a model; she had beautiful curly hair. Sarah was beautiful many years ago, but now her skin is gray. We called her Charcoal Sarah because she was so coated in it." Josephine couldn't seem to stop herself. It was as if a spigot had opened, spilling out words when she should have remained silent. "Jolene Longbottom left behind a son, a man with the saddest eyes you've ever seen. Can you see them now?"
Voldemort shook his head, seemingly bewildered. Josephine advanced on him slowly, still talking.
"Emily wanted to be in movies, but she didn't have the talent or the accent, so she became a prostitute. Toad wanted to trust, but he couldn't, because he was too afraid that we would leave him as you left him—injured and alone, dying where nobody would see or care. Sarah wanted nothing more than food and drink and a package of cigarettes every Christmas, but you robbed her of that."
"Shut up!" Voldemort said, his voice soft. Josephine stopped walking, a bare three feet from her father, her eyes cold as blue diamonds.
"And me, father? What did I want? I wanted a potions shop of my own, a bed in my own house, and maybe someday a husband and a couple brats of my own, but now none of that matters. All I want now is death," she whispered. A draft from the open door caught her hair and sent it swirling over her head.
Voldemort reached for his wand with his left hand, holding the rose delicately in the right. "I'm happy to give you that, dear daughter," he spat.
Josephine smiled blissfully. She ran to Voldemort and grabbed him around the waist like a three-year-old. Looking up at his face, she grabbed his wrist and placed her left hand over his right. "But father, I wouldn't want to go anywhere without you."
She pressed their hands together with a force that drove the thorns deep into their palms. Blood, redder than the petals, dripped out from between their hands and spattered on the floor. For a bare three seconds, they rocked together in a silent waltz—Josephine smiling, Voldemort in shock—and then they fell to the floor, sprawling like disconnected marionettes.
The Death Eaters were dazed; they milled about uncertainly. One of the braver masked men approached the bodies, held a bare hand beneath Voldemort's flat nose. "He's not breathing," he hissed over his shoulder. "Neither is the girl."