The cat was a tiger striped little tabby, black and brown. It had harvest moon eyes and drank from his teacup when it cooled. He did not remember how or where or even when he had acquired it as a companion.
-
-
-
In the morning, he entered the great hall at his accustomed time. It was Monday and classes had not been canceled, though there was a subdued air and many of children (though none, of course, were Slytherin) had red-rimmed eyes or frightened, furtive looks covering their faces. The majority of the Slytherins came from old blood families, many of whom were already indelibly tied to Voldemort. This would be viewed by their parents as a sort of coup, and they would be expected to be similarly pleased. Enlightenment by imitation, he thought sourly.
The young Malfoy in particular sneered at the Gryffindors. Potions this afternoon would accomplish precisely nothing beyond wasting two additional hours of his life. He was not entirely sure that he could bring himself to sympathize with Potter, who sat at his house table between two empty seats and stared into his pumpkin juice as if it contained the mysteries of the universe. Friends and close relations are a liability. His liabilities were the cat and the students as an entire body.
Perhaps he protected them because no one had protected him from himself and from too many nights spent alone and unwanted. Next year, half or more of the graduating class of Slytherins would have a dark mark emblazoned on their arms. It had slowly worsened each year. It had been a decision made because the alternatives were, at the time (still?), worse. Now it was a symbol of status. The Death Eaters had infiltrated the Ministry to the point that it seemed futile to rely on it as any sort of protection or even a proper governmental agency. Dumbledore had become, even years ago, the only thing the side of Light felt they could rely on, and now his children were being snatched from beneath his nose.
They were brought back in pieces. A good thing there are spells to identify bodies, though they had been kind enough to leave a lock of her hair bound with the same ribbon she wore to class. The boy was slightly more ambiguous, though there were not many children so unfortunate as to wear the precise shade of maroon sweater that found its way home with him; a frayed and burnt scrap to mark the end of a life too shortly lived.
Empty eyes; the children were empty eyed. Perhaps they had believed too much in the power of Dumbledore, and the untouchable sanctity of young things. Death is only common and a friend to those old and worn past completion. He had seen it too much, too often. He was only now their fathers' age.
This did not matter. The mark on his arm ached in a quiet and dull way. He found himself clenching his fist in the sleeves of his robes as he walked head down and silent. The world dwindled to pinpoints of action and reaction.
There would be a meeting in another night at the most. In this day, at the most inopportune time, the mark would flare and burn and brand his soul anew. He would excuse himself, though he rarely had a cause for excuses. Even as an adult, he was not well liked among his peers. He would don the robe, the mask; press his fingers against the mark. A ban on apparation, but Voldemort never needed such petty things.
Tiresome. The day passed more quickly than he would have expected. The children were distracted and he found himself largely ignoring his lesson plans. He rewarded and deducted points by default. He had been capricious enough with it in the past that it was unremarkable. He considered brewing dreamless sleep potions, then deadly concoctions, elixirs of forgetfulness. It had been a pity that there was no forgiveness to be found in a draught--nothing to cleanse the stains that remained upon his heart. In the end, it was something negligible: another round of healing potions for Poppy. He supposed she would need them.
-
-
-
He had found, accompanied by vague annoyance and the resignation that all things deserve ritual that magically heated water did not taste quite the same as something boiled properly in a kettle, and even then, that it was superior when heated over a fire. He did so, toward late evening, alone in his rooms. A trio of thick beeswax candles and the fire were the only light. This was his one luxury.
The pot was acquired quite some time ago, on an otherwise business trip to China. British tea, with its related memories of his aunt and her large and monstrous floral incarnation of a teapot, had never appealed to him. The concepts of teapots in China were small and elegant; molded in only the tones of the earth itself. Of the few that bore designs (carved with a careful hand into the clay itself), he was forced to note that the Chinese had a far greater sense of style than his aunt.
The one selected finally for himself was plain and fairly small, though somewhat more generous than many of those he saw. The man instructed him, in broken English and with a fair amount of gesturing, on the proper use of such a thing, and also provided him with a selection of Chinese teas.
It amused him, this tiny teapot, the careful explanations, the rosewood box full of tea. He opened the box now and took the scoop, measuring with the same careful eye he applied to his potions. Next the water, cooled slightly in the space of his reminiscence, enough to cover the leaves. It sat for a second or so, and he poured it off, adding more water and allowing it to rest. Less than a minute (the space of ten breaths) and then he poured it into the larger of the two cups, and then from that into the smaller.
He sighed, now, the aroma filling the room. Some tension, unnamed properly in his thoughts, though possessing white-blonde hair, slipped from his shoulders. He lifted the small cup to his lips, more comforted by the smell and the associated memories, than he was by the tea or the time taken. He raised his other hand to his face, brushing his fingers over the lines cut too deeply and too prematurely, the evidence of secrets and the perpetual scowl that was a varying portion true and the remainder a wall to stay behind.
He supposed he would be summoned soon. Until then: the tea.
-
-
-
Memories: the taste of the moon distilled suddenly; branches against the winter sky.
The Japanese were such fascinating people.
-
-
-
It was cold in the room Voldemort now occupied. It seemed almost futile to continue to follow a man (something once a man, at any rate) who seemed to be consistently stymied by a mere boy. Such a pity Potter had never been one to save anything other than his own skin, or to destroy anyone save those who came to care for him.
"Severus." Voldemort sat in a chair that one must assume should have been regal, were it not tattered. One must also wonder what Voldemort did with the money that should have been easily taken from the families he saw fit to unleash his frustrated ire upon. It certainly was not reflected in his sense of decor.
Checking both a sigh and a smirk, he approached the chair, bowing appropriately and murmuring the things one must say to appease those drunk on their own supposed power. He wondered if Voldemort could sense the lack of sincerity. He decided it was entirely likely. He was tired; this was not how he wished to spend his evening, and Lucius would snare him before he left, wrapping one perfectly manicured hand in the folds of his robes.
"What news?" Voldemort asked. "How do they grieve for their fallen?"
"Only what is to be expected, my lord. Dumbledore suspended classes briefly; the children are red eyed and decidedly lackluster."
"And?"
"And they clutch to one another in the hallways, between the classes-- the girls wailing and pleading with one another to avoid certain death, and the boys plotting your utter ruin."
"And Potter?"
"He looks as if he sees ghosts in every corner, every gesture."
"Excellent." Voldemort settled back into his chair, steepling his fingers and regarding Snape through the spaces. "My little spy," he said without affection, only a sort of proprietary pride and amusement.
Snape sighed; he could feel Lucius' eyes on his back. He sketched another bow, adding a flourish, and straightened. The mask hid nothing, none of the personality behind, none of the mood. As he forced his shoulders straight again, as he felt every glance in the room settling on him: shall we get through this one evening without another bout of crucio?
"You may go."
He turned and left, through the door. Voldemort sunk his claws in long enough ago; there was no longer anything left to guard. He did not need to turn around to see Lucius detach himself from the wall, nor did he need to listen to hear the quiet footsteps that trailed him the length of the hallway to the stairs and to the landing where he would always apparate. It was therefore no surprise to feel fingers wrap around his wrist, to catch and turn him. His shoulders were still bruised from the last time, and he felt them hit the stone with a pain still slightly sickeningly sweet.
He was tall, perhaps too tall at times, and Lucius, cut from a different cloth entirely was smaller and made of seemingly hollow bones. His mouth found the hollow of Snape's throat, Lucius' fingers digging into his sides as his teeth bit at the thin flesh. Snape could have lifted the other man and thrown him across the hall, but he moved his head to the side, and his hands rose to pull the absurd ribbon from Lucius' hair.
"At least you aren't wearing one of your bloody hats," he said. His breath caught when Lucius, faintly annoyed, bit down harder.
"It wouldn't quite fit beneath the hood," Lucius pointed out, tongue flicking against his skin. "Shall we go home?"
"Let's."
-
-
-
Sex with Lucius was only recalled later in moments of time, splintered into caresses and the rhythm of their breaths. They had been lovers in an assortment of senses since they were boys together. Mutual ambition, mutual respect at the time, though it became clear early one that neither of them were content to move in the same direction. When family duty required Lucius to wed Narcissa and produce an adequate heir, Severus felt something akin to relief. He had never been accustomed to the idea of love.
Lucius was a possessive man; the distance was never more than occasionally physical. School had ended and Lucius had inherited his father's estate (the elder Malfoy managing to get himself killed at such an appropriate time--then again, Malfoys rarely suffered from a case of poor timing). The wedding occurred in the fall, which some said was inauspicious. Late in October, the country side nonetheless managed to send a fine dusting of snow down to coat the leaves that rustled through the garden. Narcissa, dressed traditionally in sumptuous white, seemed to disappear in it, in the overcast sky and the flakes landing on her veil. Lucius was too much contrast, standing at her side in somber black, her arm threaded through his as they received their guests. Lucius met Severus' eyes over the head of his bride, and Severus knew that this would not be the close of their association.
It had been scarcely a week before an owl arrived, a typically unblemished white Malfoy owl, bearing a scroll and a portkey. A rather obvious invitation that he found himself unable to refuse. They had only rarely shared a bed to sleep, but still, he found that he missed the idle caresses, the interruption of his work. He took to spending much of his weekends in the portion of the Manor now known to be his.
She was jealous in the beginning, terribly jealous. She was frosty and rigid, and frequently attempted to bring ruin to their short-lived pleasures. Lucius plied her with cosmetics and expensive things, trips to the best parts of London, vacations in Paris, in Venice. It was not until he gave her Draco that he won her over and she left Lucius to his proclivities.
As Draco grew, he was nearly as hungry for his father's affections as Severus was. Lucius had little time for the boy-- little time for anything, really. Subverting the Ministry was busy work, after all. Then Draco was in school and regarding Severus over the beakers and vials of potions class, and knowing with all of the worldly wisdom of an eleven year old boy that Severus found himself trapped between his loyalties. The boy would smile. He had learned too much from his mother. Lucius was at least reasonably straightforward in his manipulations.
Severus wrote glowing reports of the fairly mediocre boy.
When he was fifteen, he had told Lucius that he wasn't a liar. It had been snowing and Lucius had laughed.
-
-
-
In the morning, he entered the great hall at his accustomed time. It was Monday and classes had not been canceled, though there was a subdued air and many of children (though none, of course, were Slytherin) had red-rimmed eyes or frightened, furtive looks covering their faces. The majority of the Slytherins came from old blood families, many of whom were already indelibly tied to Voldemort. This would be viewed by their parents as a sort of coup, and they would be expected to be similarly pleased. Enlightenment by imitation, he thought sourly.
The young Malfoy in particular sneered at the Gryffindors. Potions this afternoon would accomplish precisely nothing beyond wasting two additional hours of his life. He was not entirely sure that he could bring himself to sympathize with Potter, who sat at his house table between two empty seats and stared into his pumpkin juice as if it contained the mysteries of the universe. Friends and close relations are a liability. His liabilities were the cat and the students as an entire body.
Perhaps he protected them because no one had protected him from himself and from too many nights spent alone and unwanted. Next year, half or more of the graduating class of Slytherins would have a dark mark emblazoned on their arms. It had slowly worsened each year. It had been a decision made because the alternatives were, at the time (still?), worse. Now it was a symbol of status. The Death Eaters had infiltrated the Ministry to the point that it seemed futile to rely on it as any sort of protection or even a proper governmental agency. Dumbledore had become, even years ago, the only thing the side of Light felt they could rely on, and now his children were being snatched from beneath his nose.
They were brought back in pieces. A good thing there are spells to identify bodies, though they had been kind enough to leave a lock of her hair bound with the same ribbon she wore to class. The boy was slightly more ambiguous, though there were not many children so unfortunate as to wear the precise shade of maroon sweater that found its way home with him; a frayed and burnt scrap to mark the end of a life too shortly lived.
Empty eyes; the children were empty eyed. Perhaps they had believed too much in the power of Dumbledore, and the untouchable sanctity of young things. Death is only common and a friend to those old and worn past completion. He had seen it too much, too often. He was only now their fathers' age.
This did not matter. The mark on his arm ached in a quiet and dull way. He found himself clenching his fist in the sleeves of his robes as he walked head down and silent. The world dwindled to pinpoints of action and reaction.
There would be a meeting in another night at the most. In this day, at the most inopportune time, the mark would flare and burn and brand his soul anew. He would excuse himself, though he rarely had a cause for excuses. Even as an adult, he was not well liked among his peers. He would don the robe, the mask; press his fingers against the mark. A ban on apparation, but Voldemort never needed such petty things.
Tiresome. The day passed more quickly than he would have expected. The children were distracted and he found himself largely ignoring his lesson plans. He rewarded and deducted points by default. He had been capricious enough with it in the past that it was unremarkable. He considered brewing dreamless sleep potions, then deadly concoctions, elixirs of forgetfulness. It had been a pity that there was no forgiveness to be found in a draught--nothing to cleanse the stains that remained upon his heart. In the end, it was something negligible: another round of healing potions for Poppy. He supposed she would need them.
-
-
-
He had found, accompanied by vague annoyance and the resignation that all things deserve ritual that magically heated water did not taste quite the same as something boiled properly in a kettle, and even then, that it was superior when heated over a fire. He did so, toward late evening, alone in his rooms. A trio of thick beeswax candles and the fire were the only light. This was his one luxury.
The pot was acquired quite some time ago, on an otherwise business trip to China. British tea, with its related memories of his aunt and her large and monstrous floral incarnation of a teapot, had never appealed to him. The concepts of teapots in China were small and elegant; molded in only the tones of the earth itself. Of the few that bore designs (carved with a careful hand into the clay itself), he was forced to note that the Chinese had a far greater sense of style than his aunt.
The one selected finally for himself was plain and fairly small, though somewhat more generous than many of those he saw. The man instructed him, in broken English and with a fair amount of gesturing, on the proper use of such a thing, and also provided him with a selection of Chinese teas.
It amused him, this tiny teapot, the careful explanations, the rosewood box full of tea. He opened the box now and took the scoop, measuring with the same careful eye he applied to his potions. Next the water, cooled slightly in the space of his reminiscence, enough to cover the leaves. It sat for a second or so, and he poured it off, adding more water and allowing it to rest. Less than a minute (the space of ten breaths) and then he poured it into the larger of the two cups, and then from that into the smaller.
He sighed, now, the aroma filling the room. Some tension, unnamed properly in his thoughts, though possessing white-blonde hair, slipped from his shoulders. He lifted the small cup to his lips, more comforted by the smell and the associated memories, than he was by the tea or the time taken. He raised his other hand to his face, brushing his fingers over the lines cut too deeply and too prematurely, the evidence of secrets and the perpetual scowl that was a varying portion true and the remainder a wall to stay behind.
He supposed he would be summoned soon. Until then: the tea.
-
-
-
Memories: the taste of the moon distilled suddenly; branches against the winter sky.
Fuyu no tsuki (winter moon) has a pale tint that indicates a kind of coldness deep inside. Under that moon tea people deliberately break the thin ice in the tsukubai with the handle of the ladle; this solemn and clear frame of mind belongs only to them.
Karenu ho wa
Chasen no arite
Fuyu no tsuki
The Japanese were such fascinating people.
-
-
-
It was cold in the room Voldemort now occupied. It seemed almost futile to continue to follow a man (something once a man, at any rate) who seemed to be consistently stymied by a mere boy. Such a pity Potter had never been one to save anything other than his own skin, or to destroy anyone save those who came to care for him.
"Severus." Voldemort sat in a chair that one must assume should have been regal, were it not tattered. One must also wonder what Voldemort did with the money that should have been easily taken from the families he saw fit to unleash his frustrated ire upon. It certainly was not reflected in his sense of decor.
Checking both a sigh and a smirk, he approached the chair, bowing appropriately and murmuring the things one must say to appease those drunk on their own supposed power. He wondered if Voldemort could sense the lack of sincerity. He decided it was entirely likely. He was tired; this was not how he wished to spend his evening, and Lucius would snare him before he left, wrapping one perfectly manicured hand in the folds of his robes.
"What news?" Voldemort asked. "How do they grieve for their fallen?"
"Only what is to be expected, my lord. Dumbledore suspended classes briefly; the children are red eyed and decidedly lackluster."
"And?"
"And they clutch to one another in the hallways, between the classes-- the girls wailing and pleading with one another to avoid certain death, and the boys plotting your utter ruin."
"And Potter?"
"He looks as if he sees ghosts in every corner, every gesture."
"Excellent." Voldemort settled back into his chair, steepling his fingers and regarding Snape through the spaces. "My little spy," he said without affection, only a sort of proprietary pride and amusement.
Snape sighed; he could feel Lucius' eyes on his back. He sketched another bow, adding a flourish, and straightened. The mask hid nothing, none of the personality behind, none of the mood. As he forced his shoulders straight again, as he felt every glance in the room settling on him: shall we get through this one evening without another bout of crucio?
"You may go."
He turned and left, through the door. Voldemort sunk his claws in long enough ago; there was no longer anything left to guard. He did not need to turn around to see Lucius detach himself from the wall, nor did he need to listen to hear the quiet footsteps that trailed him the length of the hallway to the stairs and to the landing where he would always apparate. It was therefore no surprise to feel fingers wrap around his wrist, to catch and turn him. His shoulders were still bruised from the last time, and he felt them hit the stone with a pain still slightly sickeningly sweet.
He was tall, perhaps too tall at times, and Lucius, cut from a different cloth entirely was smaller and made of seemingly hollow bones. His mouth found the hollow of Snape's throat, Lucius' fingers digging into his sides as his teeth bit at the thin flesh. Snape could have lifted the other man and thrown him across the hall, but he moved his head to the side, and his hands rose to pull the absurd ribbon from Lucius' hair.
"At least you aren't wearing one of your bloody hats," he said. His breath caught when Lucius, faintly annoyed, bit down harder.
"It wouldn't quite fit beneath the hood," Lucius pointed out, tongue flicking against his skin. "Shall we go home?"
"Let's."
-
-
-
Sex with Lucius was only recalled later in moments of time, splintered into caresses and the rhythm of their breaths. They had been lovers in an assortment of senses since they were boys together. Mutual ambition, mutual respect at the time, though it became clear early one that neither of them were content to move in the same direction. When family duty required Lucius to wed Narcissa and produce an adequate heir, Severus felt something akin to relief. He had never been accustomed to the idea of love.
Lucius was a possessive man; the distance was never more than occasionally physical. School had ended and Lucius had inherited his father's estate (the elder Malfoy managing to get himself killed at such an appropriate time--then again, Malfoys rarely suffered from a case of poor timing). The wedding occurred in the fall, which some said was inauspicious. Late in October, the country side nonetheless managed to send a fine dusting of snow down to coat the leaves that rustled through the garden. Narcissa, dressed traditionally in sumptuous white, seemed to disappear in it, in the overcast sky and the flakes landing on her veil. Lucius was too much contrast, standing at her side in somber black, her arm threaded through his as they received their guests. Lucius met Severus' eyes over the head of his bride, and Severus knew that this would not be the close of their association.
It had been scarcely a week before an owl arrived, a typically unblemished white Malfoy owl, bearing a scroll and a portkey. A rather obvious invitation that he found himself unable to refuse. They had only rarely shared a bed to sleep, but still, he found that he missed the idle caresses, the interruption of his work. He took to spending much of his weekends in the portion of the Manor now known to be his.
She was jealous in the beginning, terribly jealous. She was frosty and rigid, and frequently attempted to bring ruin to their short-lived pleasures. Lucius plied her with cosmetics and expensive things, trips to the best parts of London, vacations in Paris, in Venice. It was not until he gave her Draco that he won her over and she left Lucius to his proclivities.
As Draco grew, he was nearly as hungry for his father's affections as Severus was. Lucius had little time for the boy-- little time for anything, really. Subverting the Ministry was busy work, after all. Then Draco was in school and regarding Severus over the beakers and vials of potions class, and knowing with all of the worldly wisdom of an eleven year old boy that Severus found himself trapped between his loyalties. The boy would smile. He had learned too much from his mother. Lucius was at least reasonably straightforward in his manipulations.
Severus wrote glowing reports of the fairly mediocre boy.
When he was fifteen, he had told Lucius that he wasn't a liar. It had been snowing and Lucius had laughed.