Thanks to all new reviewers, and all the old ones who are still with me. I'm trying to incorporate all the excellent suggestions I've gotten, and here's Snape and Cissy. I'm working on Neville/Luna, Bill/Fleur, and a few brief scenes for Ron/Hermione and Harry/Ginny. I'm also bringing in an OC for Draco, Ixchel.
I'm thinking about a possible resurrection of one of my favorites, Sirius, though I understand if people object. I have in mind a partner for him, so if anyone if interested, I would appreciate your thoughts on whether to include a Sirius subplot or not. Thanks and enjoy! P.S. Still looking for a beta!
The white haired man, shrunken and pale, his eyes aching hollows, called out to him, beseeching him to help. "Severus, please…."
The red-haired witch stood alert, her green eyes wide open in alarm, guarding a crib against an approaching monster. She glanced at him as he stood frozen, an observer to a scene he had not witnessed in person. She whispered, in a voice hopeless and sorrowful, "Severus, please…."
Crack. With a thud, the thin, black-haired woman landed on the floor, and backed away on her hands from the drunken brute whose slap had put her there. She looked up at the stairs, and saw the small boy watching, terrified. "Severus, please..."
Crack. With a thud, the tall blond woman was thrown back against the wall, and she clutched her swollen abdomen protectively. She looked away from the icy blond man who had struck her, and toward the observer, again frozen at the scene. "Severus, please…."
Severus Snape snapped open his eyes with a curse, and tried to rise, though his body ached in protest. He lay on the pallet, closing his eyes again. It was utterly dark in the hut, the only noise the sound of insects trying to break through the shields on the door and windows. The heat was intense, the humidity immense, as though one were in the midst of a permanent rain shower.
He had forgotten the Dreamless Sleep, for the first time in a long time. He had been to tired. Sleep was to be avoided at all costs regardless, he had too much to do. After having sent the damned poison with macaw off to the dratted boy, hoping at least the Insufferable-Know-It-All would be able to figure out its use, he had gone to his hut, and exhaustion had overtook him.
Memories assaulted him in the dark. Bitter memories that accused and taunted him. In his thirty-odd years, there had been only four people he loved. One was dead because he'd ever been born, one was dead by his negligence, one was dead by his own hand, and the last had suffered for 17 years, more really, because he didn't have the courage before then to rescue her. His mother had died because of his father's endless abuse had sapped her will to live. Lily had died because he had brought the prophecy to his Master. Albus, Albus had begged him to kill him, begged him because he was already dying, begged him to save the boy. He knew he would be hunted, hated.
He had run. Albus had given him a plan, should it come to pass that he must be killed to satisfy the Unbreakable Vow. Snape hadn't wanted to listen, but Albus had given him no choice. Snape had taken Draco, who was still in shock, and Apparated to Malfoy Manor. Narcissa had been there, waiting nervously for news of her son. She had taken one look at them, and she had come, no questions asked.
Bellatrix would reveal all to the Dark Lord, that was certain. Snape might have been rewarded, but Draco would be tortured or killed. Narcissa, she would have been dead that very night. They had Apparated to countless locals, making a trail across Europe that would be nigh on impossible to trace. Until they had Apparated to the one place no wizard, even the most cunning, was likely to look. Heathrow Airport.
The plane ride had been long, and Draco, his hair black now, had stared out the window at the clouds, and had not said a word. Narcissa had always had the most amazing talent for glamours, and her own hair was short and ginger-colored. Perhaps the Metamorphagus skill in her young niece Nymphadora was somehow manifest. Narcissa had not spoken, simply stroked her son's hair through most of the hours long flight. He himself had watched the two, and tried not to think that the man he had loved with such fierceness was dead, and by his own hand.
It was obvious now, now with the darker hair. Draco had spoken very little to him in the five months they had spent in the Amazon. He had seemed to withdraw from the world, doing nothing for weeks, until, with black hair and darkened skin, he had joined the young men and women of the village, and had begun to learn what he could of hunting, of stalking in the forest. Snape didn't think Draco had done any magic at all in five months. It was a problem, but Snape could not spare the energy to think of it.
The village, Ch'en Itza was a special place, in the most isolated part of the forest, unknown to Muggles and hidden from their satellites. It had been a refuge for Maya wizards fleeing the dark magic of the Inquisition, and they had traveled two thousand miles from home in order to set up a legendary center of learning. Albus Dumbledore had been the first English wizard to find the place, and he had sent a broken Severus Snape their to mend once before, after Lily Potter had died, and her son had made the Dark Lord fall. The three of them had traveled for days, from airport to train to ferry, always with non-Magical means, until the had started into the deep jungle by canoe. Narcissa and Draco flinched the first time the canoe had risen up through the canopy of trees when the waterway became impassable, but soon become used to the novel form of travel.
Finally, exhausted physical and mentally, they had arrived before the great pyramid of Itzamna, rising through the jungle like a red mountain. Snape had walked forward, and bowed to the great Ahau Xiu, the Lord of Ch'en Itza. "We request sanctuary, oh Great One."
Xiu, was older than seemed possible, his wrinkles etched deep within his face; his white robes falling in folds around his shrunken body, held in place by the jaguar skin pelt of office, which rolled its feline eyes at the three strangers with an appraising look. The ancient man had smiled sadly. "Then Bright Eyes has passed, Grey One, as he foretold?"
Snape had closed his eyes with pain. "Dumbledore…Bright Eyes, has left us, at my hand, as he foretold."
Xiu regarded Draco, who had stiffened with Dumbledore's name, and refused to raise his eyes. "And you have saved this boy, Grey One?"
Snape nodded. "And his mother."
Xiu had looked at Narcissa, and returned his gaze to Snape. "What of Stricken Dog? Did his pain ever ease?"
Snape clenched his jaw. Not even in death could Sirius Black not torment him. "He has died. Gone beyond the Veil."
Xiu was still for a moment, communing with what, Snape had known not. "The Veil does not always mean death, Grey One. Only waiting."
Xiu had had them shown quarters. Snape had seen little of Draco and Narcissa since then. He buried himself in work. Here, he had access to ingredients impossible to get in England. He had sacrificed everything to come here, to protect Draco and Narcissa. He might have been able to turn Voldemort's anger at Draco into some kind of advantage for himself, but he was not willing to risk that much. Instead he was trapped here, halfway round the world without any news of events in the wizarding world, for the first time free of Voldemort and Dumbledore both.
But he had not been idle. Albus had been wounded badly in destroying the Marvolo ring. Something, something capable of sapping the soul from a Horcrux, must be developed. And if Dumbledore had been right, if Nagini had been made a living talisman for the Dark Lord's survival, then it would take a dire poison indeed to kill the monster. After five months, he was close to the Horcrux potion, and he had sent the poison off this morning to the damnable Potter, if the idiot was still alive to need it.
There was a noise, so slight that no one but a man who had been a spy for both sides of a war would notice it. He sat up, alarmed, grabbing for his little used wand. "Who there!" Snape said in the little Quiche language he had picked up while there.
"Cissy, Severus. Only Cissy." She walked into the little bit of light that filtered in the door. Snape had no idea how long she had been standing there, watching him sleep. Her face as unreadable in the low light, but his acute nose could smell her, the subtle scent that he had tried his best to forget for more than 18 years.
His first memory of Narcissa Black had been when he was first seated at the Slytherin table, so many years ago. She had been beautiful, ethereally beautiful, and icy cold. A fourth year, she sat, unattainable, next to the king of the table, Lucius Malfoy, a sixth year who ruled the house with an iron hand. Their marriage had been arranged whilst they were both infants, a perfect pureblood union. No boy had dared to even look at Narcissa, though Snape had stared at her in awe and fear when he had sat down, before one of the old boys had kicked him under the table. The tiny smile she had gifted him, almost so subtle he had imagined it, had fed his fantasies for years.
He had loved two women, craved them, and both of them had been untouchable. Lily Potter had been all that was good and noble and kind, a light shining from her that was too strong for him not to adore. But she was not for him, and he knew it. James Potter, the brave, the bratty, the perfect James Potter had claimed her, long before she would even acknowledge it. Narcissa Black, destined to be a Malfoy for her entire life, was the paragon of untouchable beauty, power and pureblood status that a tormented half-blood in Slytherin could only dream of. She was the queen to Malfoy's king, though she was already too old for his tastes by his seventh, her fifth year. Malfoy had simply chuckled when the sad announcement had been made that a first-year Hufflepuff had jumped to her death from the Astronomy tower. There were those in Slytherin who had their suspicions that Malfoy had been involved, but no one said a word. They were all very well trained.
Perhaps it was knowing that he would be close to Narcissa as he could never be to Lily that was the subtle deciding push on the scales of his decision to be a Death Eater after Hogwarts. His brilliance had been useful to the Dark Lord, even if he still had to endure the sneers of people like Malfoy and Narcissa's sister Bellatrix. He did not want to think about the number of people, both magical and non-magical, who had been harmed through potions he helped to invent. And he had reveled in the power, the sense of revenge again a world that had not treated him kindly.
He knew, after two years, that Malfoy beat his wife, but it had never been in front of him. Malfoy seemed to treat him as a kind of pet sometimes, a half-blood performing monkey. He even stayed in Malfoy Manor from time to time. One such time, some two and a half years before Voldemort's fall, Malfoy had left, off on a mission or torture for their Master, or of indulging in his own sick pleasures. There had been a knock at his door, and Narcissa had stood there, as she stood now, as though waiting for something.
Back then, so many years ago, he had done the unthinkable, he had reached out and touched her face, which sported a fresh bruise that she had not covered up with her many glamours. She melted, falling into his arms. He had closed the door, and set up warding spells to keep the house-elves and others away. And he had worshiped her.
She had never had anyone touch her with affection, so even in his inexperience way, he taught her that pleasure existed, that there was more than the brutality she suffered with Lucius as he tried, and failed, to beget a pureblood heir to the Malfoy name. In the morning, she had disappeared, leaving him questioning everything, including his allegiances. He almost wondered if he had dreamed the entire thing. He wondered if he was dreaming now.
She took a step closer, her hair, now a deep mahogany, blew in the slight breeze. "Severus," she whispered. In the months she had been here, she too had barely seen him, barely looked at him. She had sat staring into space, spending time with her son, or, gradually, she had begun to smile and talk halting Quiche to the women who gathered to cook in the large communal kitchens in the main square. He had watched her, unobserved, and he had remembered how much he had wanted her. How much he still wanted her.
"Narcissa." He whispered back, his wanting could not be kept from being heard. "Where's Draco? Is something wrong?"
"Draco is off with Ixchel, running in the woods. He'll be gone for days." She said no more, merely waited. Snape did not dare to hope that she was here for him. The disappointment would be too great. She knelt on the floor, only a few feet away, and yet still untouchable, unreachable.
She stared at him, her eyes intense and palest grey, like storm clouds. "Our son is happy with her, Severus. I think she has let him heal. Her great-grandfather has told me it is her power, to heal." He closed his eyes. It was the first time she had ever admitted what he had known for years. Draco was his son.
For Draco, and for Narcissa, he had made the most radical changes of his life. When Narcissa was seven months pregnant, he had witnessed Malfoy strike her with enough force that she had almost had a concussion. The image was too close to the way his father had beaten his mother. He had admitted to himself finally that the Death Eaters were not fighting for some pureblood cause, for a stronger wizarding society. They were simply evil. And so, for this child, who might be his, or at least could have been, he when to Dumbledore, and offered to spy.
Little had he known that with his revelation of that blasted prophecy, he had both condemned Lily Potter, and Lord Voldemort. But Lucius had escaped, after the fall of the Dark Lord, and the blond boy had been raised to emulate his evil father, and Narcissa had become an icy shell. Until she had risked everything to ensure that her son would not die, that Snape would protect him with his life. Snape had known then that Draco was likely his son, and the first time the glamour of his white-blond hair had been removed, the truth had been revealed.
"And you, Cissy? Have you healed?" Her scars were greater than Draco's. greater even than his own. She had had to live with a monster for so many years.
"Not completely, Severus. I need to remember." She moved closer.
"To remember?" He could not stop his hand from rising, to touch her face, still unlined and lovely, as he had so many years ago.
She trapped his hand with her own. "This. To be loved. To be cherished. To be me, not what I'm expected to be."
And then, there were no more words. She turned her head, and kissed his palm. He did not dare move, fearing to break whatever spell had called her to him when he needed her so very much. She bent forward, and touched her lips to his, and he sighed. His hands wrapped around her lightly, gently, as though she would break.
The kiss deepened, and he groaned with his need for her, need suppressed, altered, dampened with other women, paid companions, that could never match the real thing. She lay atop him, and he let her lead, knowing that she needed this, to be in control, after having no control in her life. He needed nothing but her.
Her hands, long and perfect fingers grown browner in the tropical sun, worked their way down his body, loosening the buttons on the black shirt he still wore, despite the unwavering heat. She placed kisses down his chest, and he buried his hands in her hair. Though a different color, the long strands still felt like the finest silk, still smelled like some unidentifiable mix of flowers that was Narcissa.
She moved back up to his lips, and her hands reached behind her neck for something, he didn't know what. She sat up, supported on his upper thighs, his erection straining against her through his pants. Her hands fell to her sides, releasing the ties of her garment, which fell forward, revealing beautiful breasts. He gasped drinking in the sight of the pale bounty before him. His hand reached up to brush against her, but he stopped, and looked up into her eyes.
She was unreadable, but she nodded, and with the softest touch, his calloused fingers brushed against the side of her breast, bringing shivers. His fingertips grazed along each breast, meeting each nipple with infinite tenderness, infinite patience that he did not know he possessed. She whimpered, and his eyes shot again to hers, assuring himself that she wanted this, wanted him.
He saw hunger, insatiable hunger. Hunger for a lifetime of pleasure denied, happiness unattainable. She demanded it now. "Severus." It was not a request, it was a demand.
He pushed himself up on his elbows, taking a puckered nipple into his warm mouth. Her hands clutched his head to her, escape was impossible. She pushed her hips against his in time to the movements of his tongue, the gentle sucking pressure he applied. It was torture for him, but he deserved no better.
The other nipple received attention, and leaning as best he could on one elbow, his other hand traced its way along her thigh, finding the hem of the Maya wrap dress that Cissy had taken to wearing. He pulled the fabric up slowly, hoping that he wouldn't alarm her, but needed desperately to touch her, to assure himself that her body wanted this.
Soon enough, she had grabbed his hand, and thrust it between them, demanding that he touch her, that he bring her again to heights that she had only known with him. His fingers slipped between her folds, finding her warm and wet, his cock jumped at the knowledge. The back of his hand brushed against his arousal as his clever fingers found her clit, rubbing with unbearable gentleness that gifted him with her moan. The pad of his thumb stayed happy at this nub, while one finger and then two penetrated into her moist depths, and she bucked against him at the welcomed invasion. Suddenly, she reared back, and his stomach dropped at the thought she would run, would not let him give her the please he longed to, would not let him give somebody something other than pain.
But no, instead, she was tearing at the waistband of his loose pants, pulling, releasing him from his prison. He was still trapped, pants around his knees, as she gripped him and positioned herself over him, impaling herself on him.
"Cissy, let me…" She put a finger to his lips, and he watched, breathing heavily, as she began to move, to ride upon him, finding the rhythm and position that suited her best. She eyes closed, she searched for something, her bottom lips clenched between her teeth. Faster, harder. He could not help but raise his hips to meet hers, to help her somehow in her quest, he felt too much not to act. She was like fire. A burning, cleansing fire that he needed to go on, to burn the past to cinders and begin again.
She was there, and she keened the softest cry as she came, her muscles clenching around him, causing him to lose his precious control, to shatter and break as he had not allowed himself to do at any other time. He poured himself into her, his sorry, broken, double-crossing, half-blood self. This time, afterward, either he would be whole, or he would be nothing.