Title: Bonds (12/?)
Author: Sonya
Rating: R (Deals with issues of abuse. You guessed it, Narcissa's in this chapter.)
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.
Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.
Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.
Summary: Love hurts. Sometimes even strong like hurts.
Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?
***
"I'm forgetting something," Willow insisted dejectedly, flopping down to the floor in a billow of skirts, somehow folding her legs beneath her in the process. It was one of the many idiosyncrasies Severus found himself noting in the last several days; it was only because of the number of times she had collapsed on him, run into him, and otherwise collided with his body that he knew that her body actually contained bones. She moved . . well, oddly. She wasn't graceful, but there was something about the unaffectedness of her movements that was compelling.
There's something about all of her that's compelling.
Odd, a little disturbing, but compelling.
The floor around her was color-coded, annotated chaos. She carried around six different pots of ink, all in vibrant jewel tones. They were all spread out before her, along with pages upon pages of brightly hued notes on parchment, stacks of books, and a disconcerting assortment of weapons.
And for some utterly inexplicable reason, this fascinating, obsessive little creature has spread her madness out over my office floor.
It had been a week since the tea incident. He still wasn't quite sure what had possessed him. It certainly hadn't been her stricken expression when she'd thought he was turning down her offer of coffee. He was used to stricken expressions; in the right circumstances, a good stricken expression could be quite amusing.
But I am not used to being asked out for coffee. Not used to people wanting to . . make friends.
Which is evidently a far simpler process than I'd ever imagined, considering she hasn't left me alone since.
I ought to mind that. No one simply barges into my office, several hours after dinner no less, and drops a pile of cudgels and demonology texts in the middle of my floor without receiving, at the very least, a scathing remark. I enjoy my solitude. I do not enjoy the company of presumptious, interfering little do-gooders who need constant reassurance of their own perfection.
I most especially do not enjoy the company of people who feel the need to make lesson plans in a minimum of three colors. It's insipid.
"I am, aren't I?" Willow insisted, biting her lip. "You're giving me that 'you bloody little twit' look again. I'm forgetting something really obvious, right? Like, duh, how could I possibly forget that?"
I do not find pitiful insecurity or babbling to be endearing traits.
I do not.
"Yes, you are," he responded drily. Her face crumpled. He resisted the urge to smirk. She's far too easy a mark.
"What?" she asked dejectedly.
"You are forgetting that it's just a bloody lesson plan," he retorted smoothly. She scowled.
"Ass," she snapped. He stiffened momentarily, but she was half smiling, her lips twitching upward even as her brow was furrowing accusingly.
She's teasing.
I don't like teasing.
Who's the easy mark now?
"Joke! It was a joke!" she said placatingly at his offended frown. "Sheesh!"
"I am not accustomed to allowing others to make me an object of fun," he replied stiffly, crossing his arms. It usually worked to intimidate students. She snorted.
"Well get used to it," she retorted, seeming not the least perturbed. "But seriously, can you think of anything I'm forgetting? You know way more about this dark wizardry stuff than I do." She paused a moment, and her eyes went wide. "I mean, you know, academically. With the study, and – nothing that would be accusing you of anything or implying knowledge of personal things that I don't know because I shouldn't know them and I should just shut up now, should I?"
He blinked at her.
I believe this would be the perfect excuse to fly into a rage and order her out of my office.
"Albus told me what Mr. Potter told you," he answered instead, feeling increasingly off-balance.
"Oh," she sighed. "You don't mind?"
Shouldn't it be me asking that of her?
Doesn't she mind sharing the room with someone who made vows of eternal allegiance to the most evil wizard alive? Who contributed to the torture and slaughter of innocents? She's concerned for my feelings?
Why isn't she concerned that she might be contaminated by breathing the same air?
She has her own darkness, yes. But cranking doesn't compare. The worst I can think of that a junky might do for her fix doesn't come even close.
She can't really understand. She wouldn't be here if she did.
And yet, I cannot picture Mr. Potter painting an overly charitable account of my past.
"If I minded, I suppose you would volunteer to be placed under a memory charm just to spare my delicate feelings?" he asked drily.
"Well, um, no," she responded awkwardly. "I know, and I'm gonna keep on knowing, and memory charms kinda give me the heebey-jeebies these days, but – I don't want you to mind."
"You were just calling me an ass," he pointed out.
"That's different," she said, in a tone that suggested that should have been obvious.
Of course. Randomly insulting one's friends is acceptable. Knowing the past histories and weaknesses of one's comrades at arms, however, is evidently awkard and deserving of apologies.
She's mad. Interfering, babbling, colored-ink-carrying mad.
She brushed a strand of coppery hair out of her face. The heel of her hand brushed across her cheekbone in the process, leaving a smear of emerald ink. It should have looked ridiculous, childish; he should have been laughing at her expense.
He wasn't. The wash of bright color so close to her eyes made them fairly glow.
And whatever the reason, she doesn't want me to mind.
He had the sudden urge to kneel beside her and kiss her ink-smeared cheek. Of all the things his brain could have pulled from past experience, it was an almost shockingly innocent impulse. He just wanted to reach out and touch that brightness.
"I just smeared ink all over my face, didn't I?" Willow asked, grimacing. The moment broke.
And you would be worse than a fool to presume that because she seeks your casual company she would ever want your touch.
She's alone here, no matter how friendly she seems with the students. Alone, and recovering, and you would be taking horrible advantage.
She's probably let worse things touch her. Junkies aren't picky.
But she isn't a junky now. And it's not entirely certain that there actually are worse things than you, not least because you just thought that.
She was still staring up at him expectantly.
"Not all over," he said with a smirk, trying to hide the muddle of his thoughts behind his usual biting humor.
"Bite me," she snapped back, but she was smiling.
Don't tempt me, he thought, but he just wordlessly handed over his handkerchief.
***
Narcissa eased the door closed behind her, stepping softly into the kitchen from the servants' entrance. It was as dark inside as out, but far quieter. Outside on the grounds there had been the hooting of owls, the brush of the wind over the grasses and among the trees, the faint crunch of frost under her boots. Inside was nothing but stillness.
She paused, back to the door. It was too still. There should have been house elves, if not up and about at this time of night, at least sleeping in the corners, making those tiny sounds that all creatures make just by existing. She could hear no one and nothing alive in the room save for her.
"Hello, dearest," Lucius Malfoy stepped out of the shadows. Narcissa jumped, hands clenching, heart leaping into her throat before she could control herself. She went very still then, arms at her sides, just watching him, barely breathing as he stalked towards her.
Give him nothing, no movement, no sound, nothing, nothing that might make him angrier.
Oh god, oh god, oh god . .
"And where have been at this late hour?" he enquired silkily. He reached out, pushing her cloak aside over her shoulder, taking her left hand. She didn't react. His hands were warm despite his surroundings, despite the fact that he must have been waiting motionless in the dark for some time. He pulled her arm out towards him, twisting it carefully so that her palm faced up, and rolled the sleeve upward. Neat, tidy, without feeling.
"Diagon Alley," she answered truthfully. Always better to tell the truth at first, as much truth as you dare tell, he always knows when you lie, always knows, oh god, he's going to know –
He examined her wrist, then the inner bend of her elbow, then lifted the loose-fitting bell sleeve high enough to peer at the underside of her upper arm. He let her hand drop, and the sleeve fell down around her fingertips again. He pulled the cloak back into place, and reached for her other hand. She let him move her limbs about as if she were a doll, as if she felt nothing.
He's being gentle. He hasn't hurt me.
And you always fall for that . . always think it'll last, think because he's being quiet it means he won't strike . . always let him lull you . .
And it was still working, even now, when she knew better. His fingers on her skin were careful, precise, soothing. Her drumbeat pulse was slowing.
Because it's soothing not to move. Not to think. To let someone do whatever they wish.
Her gut was twisting in revulsion as he examined her right arm, but her breath was coming deeper now; she didn't have to breathe so shallowly to keep from panting in fear. It was an automatic reaction, habit long ingrained, and she hated herself for it.
"And what is in Diagon Alley this time of night?" he enquired mildly, running a finger over the slightly pebbled skin of her inner arm. She shivered involuntarily, and bit her tongue to keep from answering.
I want to answer. Gods help me, I know it would ruin everything, I know he would kill me, but I want to answer. I don't want to defy him.
Why did I think I could do this? What made me think a pathetic little whore like me could do this?
Draco. Thumbs in jars. The crutiatus, which doesn't leave marks oh god he'll use it on me again it's been years I can't, I can't, I don't even have anything stored away to numb me after anymore I'm so fucking stupid I thought he never would again oh god I have to answer have to, no, no, can't, Draco, thumbs in jars, he could put my thumbs in a jar, could put Draco's thumbs in a jar, Draco, must think of Draco, can't tell, can't answer, oh god CAN'T –
She sucked in an audible breath, but it was the only sound to escape her.
That brought his eyes up to her face.
"No needles," he remarked, settling her clothing back into place over her right arm, approving in a way that said she'd made a narrow escape. "That's good. You used to embarrass me so, with that muggle filth."
She didn't respond. Her heart was like something trapped and desperate beating on the cage of her chest, trying to escape.
"I asked you a question," he reminded her calmly, voice like the creeping chill of winter that still clung to her skin. It was cold in the kitchen, his breath leaving whisps like ghosts to float in the air between them. Her breath left no mark, too shallow and her body too chilled.
If he kills me now it will have been for nothing. No one knows. All his secrets will sit in the Black family vault until some distant cousin of mine thinks to check on it and by then we might all be long dead and gone, dust in our graves, oh god I don't want to die, I don't want him to hurt me, it's been too long, I don't know how to survive it anymore –
Draco. Thumbs in jars. Draco. Draco. Draco, she chanted her son's name silently, like a litany against her terror, against the roiling nausea, against the thing in her gut that said Cissa doesn't do this, Cissy isn't a hero, she's not good, she's a stupid fucking little whore and what the hell are you playing at? Do you think you can save him? Do you think you can save anything? You can't save your own pathetic self.
Just answer, the voice hissed. Just answer, tell him you never meant to go through with it, tell him you were angry he'd been ignoring you, and he'll curse you and he'll torture you and then it'll be over and you can find someone to crank you up so good you won't even remember . . you don't even have to remember it really if you don't want to –
- but there are memories, shards of memories, worse than having it all, no images, no sounds,just my skin trying to crawl away and oh God I can't let this happen to Draco, I can't, I can't -
He trailed one finger along her jawline, just the edge of a neatly trimmed nail touching her skin, letting her feel the faint sharpness. It wasn't painful but her body wanted to twitch away. It almost stung all by itself, just in the threat it whispered.
"I could give you veritaserum," he murmered, as if he were suggesting she order venison for dinner in place of beef.
No! Answer him! Just answer him you stupid little whore, answer him so at least you can lie a little, at least he won't know what you meant to do, if you have to tell the full truth he'll kill you, he'll kill you slow, they'll never even find your body, you're going to be a shelf of little jars down in that dank little place with the walls closing in and -
"I could kill myself first," she answered, barely audible. She didn't know where the words even came from. He blinked. She almost giggled, it was so unexpected, so unlike him.
"Wouldn't that be embarrassing," Lucius answered, in the shrewd, low voice she'd only ever heard him use with other Death Eaters. Other Death Eaters who'd displeased him, but whom he needed still. Hearing it used with her made her stomach lurch in open rebellion. I'm just his wife. His showpiece, his toy. He's never looked at me like that and I never wanted him to, I don't *do* things like that, it'd gotten bearable, he was just leaving me alone, why am I doing this?
Draco. Draco. Must think of Draco. Draco on his first broomstick, look Mum, I'm flying! These school robes make me look silly, Mum. I'm in Slytherin, Mum, they barely even had to put the hat on my head! Oh stop *sniffling* Mum, they're just dress robes.
Lucius was watching her, eyes narrowed.
"Who is it?" he asked, finally, after a moment in which Narcissa thought she almost felt herself age.
What?
"Do you think you'll make me jealous?" Lucius enquired, voice silky smooth and deadly. "Have I been *neglecting* you, dear?"
Oh god he thinks I was meeting with a lover! He thinks I'm cuckolding him!
For the second time in minutes she nearly laughed out loud.
"Is it Severus?" he asked, tilting his head, sneering at her. "You always did have a soft . . spot, for him, didn't you?" His meaning was obvious and obscene. She didn't flush. She was almost too shocked to react at all at how wrong, how completely, utterly, pitifully wrong he was.
"No," she whispered, because there was a part of her that did feel vaguely fond of poor pitiful Severus. Fond enough that she wouldn't wish Lucius' anger on him.
I can't think of anyone alive I'd wish Lucius on. Only himself, himself and his master.
And he hasn't a clue. He was wrong. The great and terrible Lucius Malfoy, and he doesn't even suspect.
All he can think is that I must be lifting my skirts for someone else. It's all he can imagine I'm capable of doing.
Oh Lucius, you fool, she thought, with something cold and sharp and terribly vindictive making her chest tighten. For the first time she thought of him wasting to nothing in Azkaban, fading into nothing but a memory of terror and misery, and she didn't have to summon up Draco's face to steel herself, because she wanted it. She wanted him to suffer. She wanted him to pay.
"Not Severus?" he quirked an oh so elegant eyebrow, and it was fuel to the fire. She hoped she got to see the dementors drag him off. She hoped she got to hear him scream. "Are you sure? You used to find him so entertaining. He was so earnest. So naïve."
She didn't answer. His eyes bored into hers.
"Very well," he conceded, almost carelessly, dropping his hand away from her face. "You should know better than to think you could bait me this way. Fuck whomever you want. Fuck all of England for all I care. But you had best be discreet in your rutting, or I will kill you both, whomever he is."
She nodded agreement, swallowing hard, feeling sick not with fear but with triumph.
You blind, pitiful fool.
He turned to walk away from her, and paused. She hadn't moved. She knew better than to move before he'd actually gone from her sight.
"Oh, and Narcissa, darling?" he called over his shoulder, and she tensed at his tone, all her malicious vindication melting away. He spun back around, wand aimed at her chest. "Don't refuse to answer me, ever again."
He has to be melodramatic, even standing in his own kitchen, she thought innanely, before the pain of the Crutiatus swept over her like a thousand stinging insects all burrowing into her flesh, and she fell to the floor screaming, all coherent thought vanishing in a white-hot haze.
***
He was playing Quidditch against Slytherin. It was a warm fall day and the sun was so bright it hurt his eyes, and he could barely see the bludgers that kept flying towards the center of the field. There were at least seven or eight of them, all dark green, and they hissed and muttered when they flew by. He couldn't see George, couldn't see any of the rest of the team, it was too bright.
"Mr. Weasley," said McGonagall's voice. He looked around for her, and almost missed a bludger. He dove, panicked, knocking it aside with just the tip of his bat only moments before it would have struck its target.
He sighed in relief. Angelina floated peacefully in the center of the field, arms crossed over her chest, dressed in robes of vibrant red and gold that spilled off the sides of the platform she lay on, fluttering in the breeze like wings. At the four corners of the platform that held her were real, swiftly beating wings of filigreed gold, like those on the snitch.
Where was the snitch, anyway? Harry needed to catch it. He needed to end the game soon or a bludger was going to hit Angelina.
"Mr. Weasley!" McGonagall's voice came again, more insistent this time, and sounding like it came from everywhere at once. Three more bludgers were hurtling towards them. He moved inhumanly fast, faster than he knew he could possibly move, swatting them aside. He caught a glimpse of Harry, silhouetted against the blinding brightness of the sky, sitting slumped on his broom, head down on his his chest, not even looking for the snitch. Fred didn't know why he wasn't falling off his broom, sitting there, looking almost dead like that.
"Mr. Weasley!" McGonagall's voice insisted, right in his ear, and hands were shaking his shoulders, and just like that the dream burst. He sat up abruptly, almost crashing his forehead into McGonagall's glasses as he did so.
"Wha?" he muttered dumbly, blinking in the darkness. He glanced around, trying to orient himself. George was sitting up in the bed next to him, looking like he'd had at least a few moments to wake up.
"About time!" McGonagall snapped crisply.
"Wha's wrong?" Fred asked, rubbing his eyes. He glanced at the wall clock over her shoulder. It said 'much too early, go back to bed'.
"I need you to come down to the hospital wing," McGonagall said. Fred was suddenly wide awake. He didn't think he'd ever been so wide awake in his life. George grunted in surprise. "Both of you, if you like," McGonagall amended, nodding to George.
"Is she okay?" Fred demanded, not caring that he was speaking to a professor. "Is she awake? What's happened?"
"Uh? Wha's goin' on?" muttered a sleepy voice from across the room.
"We're waking your dorm mates, Mr. Weasley," McGonagall said primly, going on before Fred had time to make the indigant retort that was on the tip of his tongue. Who *cares* if we're waking the buggers up! Just tell me if she's okay! "It really would be best if you could just come with me."
TBC (aren't I evil?) . . .