Chapter Two: Justice Met

Narcissa is practically glued to my side as we leave Spinner's End. I don't feel ready to leave, not by far, but she has forced an out-of-date bottle of Pepper-Up potion down my throat, discovered at the back of my bathroom cabinet, and blasted me with another cheering charm, so I don't feel quite so bad as I did.

Though I feel a sense of guilt: I should feel …. No, there is not a word for what I should feel, not a word good enough, or bad enough.

Anger: no, too soft. Fury? Too expressive. Anguish? Perhaps. Resentful? Yes, possibly. But none quite fit.

Her hand is small and soft in mine. I marvel me how soft women's hands are; like children's, kept like children's hands with lotions and care. But she is no child. I glance at her as we pass quietly through the streets. I took out my impotent feelings on her, I used her, and I almost feel like I could again. Push her into a dark doorway and use her. Defile us both.

There: a small spark of shame. So, I can still feel normal feelings. Lust, shame. Need.

I feel so alone. It was Dumbledore who saved me from this, last time: this poor woman does not match up at all. It will end badly. The aloneness washes through me, a cold tide. I break into a shivering sweat.

She drags me onwards. "Draco," she says over her shoulder. "I don't want to leave him for too long."

"I'm sure he'll be fine," I say. My voice still doesn't sound like my own.

"I've left him in Bella's care," she replies, in a tone that said it all.

"Narcissa." I drag back. She stops and turns, a whirl of black and a hint of gold. "You realise that if the Dark Lord wishes to punish Draco for failing, I am powerless to intervene."

She looks at me, in a way reminiscent of her son: measured and openly calculating. "Then he's insurance for both of us," she whispers, almost gently.

"I mean it."

She drops my hand and turns, walking off again. "So do I."

I'm almost impressed by her coolness. She's a hysterical mother one moment, and a blackmailer the next. It isn't the first time I've seen her play these roles, of course, but what really catches my attention is the clarity with which she is using them.

I realise I am beginning to feel the effects of her cheering charms and the potion. I'm feeling more in control, certainly.

My thought turns to this party. I can't possibly have alcohol, despite the Pepper-Up, which was past its best anyway. And I have no more.

We reach the black, still ribbon of the canal. Away from the Muggles. Narcissa has her wand out. She eyes me confidently, but I can feel her trepidation. I say, "Close your mind. He'll see right through you."

She stares at my chest, blankly, and nods. "And you," she says.

She's right: what am I doing? It will all be over tonight if I don't pull myself together.

But I can't pull myself together. I have no way of telling, yet, where the frayed ends of my composure are. I feel rising panic, guilt, fear –

"I can't," I say, and turn on my heel back towards Spinner's End.

"He will come to you, if you don't come now!" she shrieks at me.

"Keep your damned voice down!" I hiss, turning.

"You must come now," she insists, reaching into her cloak. "Look, I brought these! I don't know what they are – I thought – they might help."

From her pretty hands to the unkempt grass fall potions from my cabinet; tiny phials and larger bottles. I drop to my knees and examine them, even though my sense of despair tells me it is useless. Narcissa, never having been one for either potions or long words, wouldn't know what was for an in-growing toe nail and what was life-saving. I sort them into piles: useless, useful and probably too old to be safe.

There are only two piles when I had finished. After all, potions didn't last forever, and for 15 years I have only lived at the house during the summer holidays.

I glance back across the wet roofs of the parallel streets, and idly wonder if I will ever see them again. I did not particularly care if I did not, only if I did not because I was dead.

I stare down at the too-old-to-be-safe collection. If the Dark Lord doesn't get me, the after-effects of any of these just might, if they have degraded beyond hope. Regardless how I might currently feel, the forgetfulness potion is out of the question. I set it to one side; ditto the elixir to induce euphoria: hysteria was all I needed right now.

I am left with half an egg-cup full of the Draught of Peace, and a thimble-full of wit-sharpening potion. To my knowledge they do not react against each other, and there are no dangerously volatile ingredients in either. But I have never taken both at the same time, and this does not seem like the ideal night for experimentation.

…. coward ….

I don't think I have much choice. There is too little of either.

… please, Severus ……

Narcissa is looking down at me with a 'did I do right' expression on her face. I push the larger pile towards her. "Hide these. In a hole, not the canal."

She makes herself busy as I un-stopper the part-bottle of Draught of Peace and take a sniff. The date on the label indicates that I made it two years ago, but it smells normal. I take a sip and run it around my mouth. I drop a little of the other onto the centre of my tongue and wait.

"Can we go now?" asks Narcissa.

I drink the potions in their entirety: she's right, it simply has to be done. I straighten and look at her. She looks moderately composed, but it is spread too thinly over the sheer terror.

I have not said sorry to anyone for 15 years. Now, when it matters least, the word is on the tip of my tongue, but I stop it.

"I regret tonight," I said, thinking about the feel of her.

"Which part?" she asks.

I start to laugh. I find I can't stop. Tears well in my eyes, I'm laughing so hard, almost barking, and the tears spill onto my cheeks. Then I realise it's because I'm crying.

Narcissa looks very concerned. She wrings her hands around her wand. She's not as concerned as I am.

I feel …. Strange.

"Time to go," I sob.

"Merlin," she whispers, aghast.

The light-headedness passes, quite quickly, and all of a sudden I feel good. I stop crying and wipe my face. My throat hurts, so I say carefully, "Well, I'm not dead. Let's go."

"Severus …."

"I'm fine," I say, surprising myself with my confidence. I brush a strand of hair from her cheek. She is wide-eyed. "I must just say one thing. You must remember it, whatever else happens tonight."

"Yes?"

"You must trust me."

She simply stares at me.

"Say it," I order.

"I trust you," she whispers. "Or I wouldn't be here."

I feel for my wand and place my other arms around her slender shoulders. She smells sweet and clean. I don't care now that I was rough and unfair. "Tell me," I say into her hair, "have you ever Apparated whilst kissing? I've heard that strange things can happen. It's that fuzzing of boundaries, not knowing where you end and the other person begins."

And, with a crack, we arrive at the party.

Naturally, as I am probably being hunted the length and breadth of Britain right at this moment, and as the Dark Lord himself is here, my colleagues have commandeered a premises for the occasion, and it has been rendered temporarily unplottable. I stare at the large, dark, silent warehouses stretching out before me. Narcissa hands me a small piece of paper, and I read:

"The party to celebrate the murder of Albus Dumbledore will take place at

Fireworks R Us,

11 West Road,

Nouvelle Industrial Park,

Cumbria."

The fireworks depot unfolds out of the night, squeezing between the other buildings. Someone has decorated it all over with tiny green lights. Candlelight flickers through the windows – a good mix, fire and fireworks – and I can hear music, Wagner, vibrating softly down the road. And laughter.

The hairs all over my body bristle with expectation. I realise that I am strutting a little. I smile to myself. This is one party I think I am going to enjoy.

"Are the potions working?" Narcissa whispers.

"Oh, yes," I smirk. "Yes indeed."

Avery is on the door. He looks jealous that I'm with Narcissa. His thoughts tell me of his fantasies. I block them out again: distasteful and crude. There is the scent of roasting meat in the air. It occurs to me this might not be meat for eating, but for sport, but I don't feel overly bothered by it. The warehouse is large, lined with crates and boxes and the scent of gunpowder tickles my nose.

Everyone falls silent, except Wagner. Then someone aims a hex, and the house elf orchestra falls silent. The crowds part before me, and I see that the Dark Lord is holding court in the centre, sitting on an old, oak chair upholstered in green velvet. Bellatrix is seated at his feet. There is no sign of Draco.

He watches me as I walk towards him; he is inscrutable, could well be planning to hug me or Crucio me. I kneel at his feet and touch my lips to his hand. As I raise my head, I catch Bella's dark eyes on my face, and I feel an uncharacteristic twitch below my belt: she is looking at me like I'm someone, like I'm famous, like I'm a hero.

Which, of course, I am; though they do not yet know why.

I meet the Dark Lord's red gaze without flinching. I know his eyes are not his most dangerous weapons. And my mind is filled with almost boyish cockiness as he lifts from my mind my knee-jerk fantasy of Bella taking me in her mouth, of me pushing Narcissa against the books and fucking her, of Dumbledore pleading.

Ah, he probes that memory, the fury I feel. And he smiles, and holds out both hands. "My prince," he says. He rises and kisses me, and the crowd claps and caterwauls.

I have passed the test.

"I have a gift for you," he says, softly, coldly, his thin arm draped around me shoulder. He clicks his fingers, and a small, pale figure is thrust as if from nowhere into our midst.

Draco.

Despite my absurd sense of well-being, caution hooks my attention, a warning born of years of paranoia. I am careful of broadcasting my emotions to him, but an intellectual part of me ticks the box beside the item for this evening that says: test part two – justice to be meted out on those who failed to please.

There are currently three people in this room who believe I will do anything for them. Each of them is wrong.

…. Please, Severus …..

Draco regards me with total fear and some anger. I stole his glory, after all. He wanted to supplant me at the Dark Lord's side, or at least he thought he did. He thought, at half my age, he was the more powerful. I've had the applause he should have had, and now he's not only embarrassed after so much posturing and juvenile pride, but he's in fear of his life. He knows.

Narcissa's terror claws at my attention. I give her a cold look in passing and step down from the dais and approach the prisoner, looking him up and down. He is unmarked apart from a facial scratch I saw him sustain as we fled under fire from Hogwarts. Sweat glistens on his face, on the boyish fluff on his top lip. He'll never make it to being a man if he continues like this. He simply has no comprehension of power or strength or bravery, of morality or selflessness or –

The fury wells in me, and I raise my wand and lash invisible cords at him. Blood rises in welts across his chest, soaking through the linen of his expensive shirt as it had when Potter cursed him. He turns paler, but doesn't move, I'll give him that, though it might look better if he fell to his knees.

The Dark Lord says, "You failed, Malfoy."

"May I say, I'm not too disappointed, Master," I smirk. From the corner of my eye, as I slowly prowl around Draco, I see Bella standing beside Narcissa.

"Nevertheless," the Dark Lord replies, his voice tinkling in the steel rafters above, "he failed me. Had you not been there, Severus, the entire operation would have been a catastrophe."

"You know you can rely on me, Master," I say.

"You interfered!" Draco exclaims, his pale eyes blazing at me.

"Do you hear that, Severus? You interfered."

"The boy doesn't have the power, Master." I smile at Draco. "We suspected as much."

"I think, perhaps, he just didn't feel he had it in him," the Dark Lord, replies, and suddenly I get a hint of something else, another hidden danger. "I understand. To kill, in cold blood, takes something, Malfoy. You just have to take a little, sometimes, the first few times, in order to get there. Perhaps Dumbledore hadn't …. made you angry enough."

Ah.

"Master," Draco says, earnestly, "Snape always wanted this for himself -!"

I'm sure he will say more, and so I indulge myself with a muscle-cramping hex. Draco cries out between gritted teeth and slips to his knees.

"I trust Severus Snape," the Dark Lord says. "His judgement is beyond reproach. However, if I am to believe this, I must take him at his word that you are too weak to be useful to me."

Draco glances beseechingly towards his mother. This annoys me tremendously, it is completely against grown-up rules. Spoiled brat: and I am as culpable as anyone. I rip at his back with my invisible whip and he groans, head bowed to the floor.

"Answer your Master," I hiss in his ear.

Something clatters onto the floor. "Yes," the Dark Lord says, almost sickly-sweet, "do it, Draco."

It is Draco's wand, lying beside his clenched hand.

Nobody in the room moves.

Then Draco rises with his wand in his hand and points it at me. I smirk at him, lowering mine, because I know that the Dark Lord is right: using the killing curse on cats and rats is one thing, using hate to fuel it is another, but Draco just doesn't quite hate me enough.

I'm still smirking when the curse hits me and lifts me off my feet. The crowd scatters and I hit the hard floor. My shoulder cracks, sickeningly. My sight is blinded by green light …

He used the killing curse!

After a moment, I sit up. My would-be murderer can just be seen though green-blotted vision. He's standing at my feet, but his wand is by his side. He knows he can't do it.

Remarkably, perhaps, I feel quite proud of him. And relieved.

The Dark Lord's laugh peals around the warehouse. "Full marks for effort. Help him up, Mr Malfoy."

For one shocking moment, I think he's talking to the man whose wife I have been fucking – but, no, it's Draco that moves. Mr: he's been promoted to manhood. He offers his hand to me and helps me stand. Through my clearing vision I scrutinise his expression, but he's wearing that closed, stubborn bottom lip. I gently probe his thoughts, but he knows me by now and is closed there too. I can't break in without really upsetting him.

"Well," I say, "I didn't think you had it in you."

He smirks back at me.

"And you don't." I turn my back on him, brushing myself down one-handed and calling for a drink: the pain of my arm has completely cleared my head, which isn't a good thing.

"I knocked you off your feet," Draco whispered at my shoulder.

"Well done," I drawl, unconcerned.

"You'll stay, for now, Mr Malfoy," the Dark Lord said, losing interest, returning to his chair. "Severus, he's yours. Train him well."

"Thank you, Master, I shall." I gesture to where I know Pettigrew is sitting without even looking at Draco again. "Sit with Wormtail. Where's my drink?"

Bellatrix brings it to me, a large glass of red wine. She says nothing, but her eyes don't leave mine.

The Dark Lord says, "Let there be music!"

"Narcissa," I say, quietly to Bellatrix.

"Puking out back," she says, and smiles.

I follow a corridor of crates towards the back of the warehouse. I can guarantee that by morning these will be ash spread over a large area. On the way I stop and relocate my arm. I feel sick afterwards and slug back half the wine.

I find Narcissa in a dingy washroom. Her eyes are red and puffy. She is still sobbing and smells sour.

Finally, she says, "I trusted you."

I click my tongue in annoyance.

"I trusted you!"

"Well done," I snap, and turn on my heels.

She pulls at my bad arm and I wince and fall against the door, swearing.

"What have I done?" she asks, concerned, motherly.

I narrow my eyes at her. "Exactly when did you rush out to be sick?"

"No," she says, lowering her eyes, "I saw him use the killing curse."

"Try to use it."

"I'm sorry," she says, "I'm sorry … I know you had to do what you did."

I turn and lean my head against the cool tiles. I stare at the tiles. I remember my nails. The weight of what I have done tumbles without warning into my present.

I don't know how I am going to live with this. And not just live, but win. And how can I win, if I have already killed Dumbledore? Even if the Dark Lord is vanquished, even then ….

Narcissa takes my hand, and touches her wand to my shoulder, and murmurs something. The pain goes, and I know I will now be able to get drunk.

As if Narcissa can read my mind, she smiles, and leads me back towards Wagner, and the red wine, and my new servant boy who wants to kill me.

To be continued: don't forget to sign up for email alerts!

IMPORTANT NOTES AND NODS:

'Fireworks R Us' is a name used many times in real life and all over the world, but in this instance does not refer to any real existing company or location in Cumbria, UK.

I think it's worth mentioning at this point that there will be no Draco/Severus sex in this fic; not the right time or place, despite the fact that 'servant boy' does sound a tad kinky.

If you do want some testosterone-pumped m/m action, turn to my fic 20/20, though it's not a pleasant story so far and contains scenes of male rape, so beware.

Lizella – there's less party in this than I originally anticipated – but if you like the thought of a DE party, then 'Party Night' (see menu) will be right up your street.

Thanks to Thirteen Ravens for her supreme editing and proof-reading skills ;-)

And last, but not least - thank you for reading, and I hope you can take a moment to review!