Chapter 19: Surrounded by Snakes and Snapes
The old oak clock hanging near the fireplace against the exposed brick wall dings three times on the fifteenth hour of the day. Cressida stands in front of the bedroom mirror. She looks over herself, eying her wavy brown hair that continues to frizz around her scalp. Dark brown eyes that look like planks of wood most days. A partially gangly figure, but lean from years of consistent Quidditch training.
She's going to miss James' twentieth birthday. Maybe she could find a way to at least send him a letter.
Rather than Muggle clothes that she never escaped from even in the height of her exposure to wizarding fashion, Cressida has dressed herself into the ensemble of her enemy. A dark tunic-like cloak with swirling patterns embroidered under the collar. It doesn't suit her face. Not that she'll have it for much longer.
A vial sits in a very small compartment near her breast that contains the Polyjuice potion. She will drink the entire thing, then cast a small spell and the vial would refill itself from the stock that she has still inside her trunk. Cressida designed the spell herself. A simple mix of transfiguration and displacement.
Slipping the vial from its compartment, Cressida unscrews the lid, throwing her head back and gulps the contents down in one movement. "Never get's any better," she utters, slipping the vial back in as the vile taste travels down her throat.
The effects are instantaneous. Her hair grows longer and darker and more voluptuous. Her legs shrink at least an inch, taking away her lean height but replaces it with a curvaceous body that adds a few years of maturity. Her skin doesn't change other than moving to a flatter pale with red undertones instead of yellow. Her eyebrows thicken and darken with her hair. The most obvious change is her face which widens at the jaw and becomes less pointed, yet sharp in its own way.
The face suits the ensemble.
"Rowena," she says allowed to the mirror. It doesn't match at all. Coughing and tucking her chin closer to her chest, she repeats, "Rowena," in a clear and darker tone. Scrunching and stretching her fingers, Cressida tips her head from side to side. "I could get used to it."
A loud 'dong' echoes from downstairs. Her brows pinch, wondering if it is a noise that the clock makes until realising that it is not the clock, but a doorbell. With wide eyes, Cressida pats away the invisible wrinkles on her robes and heads back downstairs.
Her fingers curl around the wooden railing of the stairs, watching the shadow through the front door's frosted glass. Lines of greeting run through her mind with the speed of the latest broom model. There are no second chances.
Cressida stands in front of the door, hands still by her side. The doorbell rings again. Giving herself one final moment of being Cressida Hawthorne, she breathes out with a relaxed expression before tightening the skin and sharpening her eyes.
In one swift motion, she grasps the silver handle and swings the door open. "Sn-Severus," she says. The man in front of her is the opposite of unfamiliar. He looks no different from the day she last saw him in 1978. His black hair hangs around the collar of his robe of the same colour, shiny and slick. "I was expecting someone else," she adds to cover for her stammer.
Snape huffs through his nose but it is lighter than anything he would have given her in her true form. There's even a hint of amusement in his lips. "Rowena Tether," he gauges, not entering her new home despite the open door. "What a delight."
Still just as obnoxiously sarcastic. A flare of annoyance ignites. Her friends, and admittedly herself, spent years in a feud with him and she would have happily continued that feud if they met in a battle. But now she has to play nice, and it feels like she's letting him win.
A promise is solidified in that moment. One to herself, that no matter what happens over the next three months, she would ensure that Snape is in some way, shape or form, humiliated because of her. "I should say I was expecting someone else, because I did not realise that you have been granted a Dark Mark. I thought it was an earned honour." A sly smirk slips onto her now thin lips. The taunting could begin now, she points out to herself. She doubts all Death Eaters get along, anyways.
Snape's amusement disappears, replaced by the typically cynical expression. She wonders if it would change if he went on a rollercoaster. "Yet I received mine before you. This is your first council, is it not?"
Cressida doesn't formulate a response to that. "You're early," she says instead. "It does not start until four."
"Are daft or just simply an idiot?" he scoffs. "The meeting with the Dark Lord begins at four. We arrive early. Especially you. Or do you not wish to meet those you will be fighting alongside?"
Cressida pauses as she thinks of another answer. Very Cressida responses come to mind, but that is no longer her name. What would Rowena, a newly ranked Death Eater say? "Will there be food?"
Snape rolls his eyes, cheeks sucking in as he visibly withholds a rude remark. "We're not savages," he grumbles. She barely holds the scoff. "But you will eat before the Dark Lord arrives. It is rude to eat in front of him when he does not." Cressida holds her hands in surrender, stepping out of the door. Snape is already walking down the few short steps back onto the street, so she begrudgingly trudges back up to his side. "You will only speak when spoken to, you will sit where there is a seat left for you. You will treat your superiors with respect and bow at the Dark Lord's presence. And you will answer any time he calls upon you. And you will only call upon him in the greatest need."
"I can call upon him?" she questions without thought.
Snape halts suddenly, spinning around with enough speed and ferocity that she takes a step back not to be hit. "Has nobody taught you anything?" he hisses between his teeth. Without waiting for an answer, he spins back around, turning down an alleyway.
While his back is turned, Cressida scrunches her nose at him, thinking of twenty different spells she could use against him. Of course, that would blow her cover and prompt a very mad Moody, but it might just be worth it.
Then he grips her forearm and she is pulled through the thin pipe of apparation.
The mansion in front of her is very much alike the Riddle Manor; only the garden is exceptionally well-trimmed and the building looks alive, sitting on a small hill. It is squarish in style, classically built but with a gothic undertone with gargoyles and dark accents. The property is lined with a hedge fence with large iron gates at the centre.
Snape marches forward and Cressida follows silently, shivering as they pass through the magical barrier. The gate opens by its own accord, allowing the two guests inside as though the mansion itself is welcoming them.
In truth, she hadn't prepared for this at all. She said her goodbye and had her trunk and the information Moody gave her. But she hadn't prepared herself to be walking towards a single building that contains the people most set on killing her.
If she let her mind control her body at this point, it would be frozen in spot. But Cressida severs the tie between them, allowing her body to work without instruction. Instinct comes from the gut, not the head.
Would there be some sort of security test she has to pass?
They don't stop marching up the inclined gravel path until they reach the front doors, situated on a stone porch. With the same nonchalance that he always pretends to carry, Snap swipes his wand through the air, opening the door moments before they reach them.
A man is already at the door to greet them. A man of age, with short and neatly cut grey hair. It is shorter on the sides and slightly curling on the top. He wears the same robes as Snape. "Severus, always a grandmaster of entrances," he chuckles. The man's brows perk as they travel to her. "Rowena," he nods his head in a short bow. "We met at your inauguration. Congratulations."
"Yes," she agrees swiftly. "Your face is familiar, but you must forgive me if you told me your name. It was all so overwhelming that most of the day is blank to me."
The man chuckles, the sound tainted with a cruel ring. "Quinton Lestrange. We haven't been introduced properly. Nobody got more than three words out of you. Hopefully you'll find today's company a bit more your style."
Cressida forces a smile with a faint smirk. Rowena was a quiet woman? That would play in her favour very well.
Snape turns back to her. "It is at Lestrange's generosity that we are given this space to use," he growls.
Quickly taking the hint, Cressida bows her head to the older man. "A great generosity, of course." He takes her 'kindness' with a deep chuckle, extending his arm to urge her into his home. Quinton Lestrange seems the type of man who would hand children lollies that are filled with poison. A killer in the costume of a clown.
Snape disappears within seconds into another room. Guess I'm on my own, she thinks to herself sourly. Pulling her chin closer to her chest, setting her eyes forward, Cressida strides forward into the room where chatters emit from.
It is long and wide with an exceptionally high roof. In the far end, a fireplace with a single green lounge in front of it. Along the middle of the room is a rectangular table with only a head seat only at one end. She doesn't yet dare imagine the man that will sit on it.
The room is filled with perhaps fifteen or so other men, and two women. One she recognises instantly from the wavy head of hair. Bellatrix Lestrange. Sirius swore up and down that he would be the one to murder her. Her dark robe is similar to Cressida's, only opened and revealing a dark underdress laced with a black corset. The tip of her crooked wand pokes against her cheek as she displays a thrilling smirk, cackling at something a man with long blond hair says. A Malfoy, she guesses from the colour. But she couldn't put a name to him.
A few glance in her direction, but most remain uninterested. And like Alastor Moody had pointed out, she wants to remain an observer. That is, until, she spots a face she does recognise with some delight. She hadn't even thought of him being here. She doesn't quite know what to think about him being here.
Regulus Black, in all his pride, stands near the fireplace. His hands are folded by his front, his pale hands contrasting the black robe that he wears.
Would he become a risk to her? His allegiance never switched to her or the Order. He told her that himself. Would their odd friendship be overridden by his loyalty?
Cressida glances around the room desperate, looking for something to do that would make her look like she is fitting in. No other Death Eater comes forward to introduce themselves. And she'd rather eat slugs than join Snape's side once more.
She looks back at Regulus reluctantly. She could at least be brave enough to engage him in civil conversation so she is not standing there like a fool. She knows how to talk to him. With a slow inhale, Cressida exuberates a flare of confidence and serenity, striding forward towards the fireplace.