Discussion of rape.
August 18, 1976 — Malfoy Manor
They stood in the darkness of the manor's laboratory, the cauldron in front of them glowing a soft, deep blue. His heart beat quickly — the deadly liquid in front of him not aiding in his concerns.
"Just a drop of your blood, Cassiopeia. It's the only way I can make sure it won't affect you."
He willed her to understand, meeting her blue eyes. He lowered his shields just slightly, allowing himself the vulnerability, and her eyes widened slightly, as she sensed just a hint of his desperation.
The reluctance was clear on her face, even as she took the sterilised knife from his hands. She held it to her thumb, her grip on the handle much too tight, her face turned away.
She shook her head after a moment, setting the blade back down. It made a noise against the dark countertops, falling heavily. "I can't do it, Severus. I can't hurt myself on purpose."
He wanted to tell her that he sympathised, to comfort her, but it was with stark clarity that he remembered the night Lily had left him, the night he'd severed himself from Cassiopeia. The night he'd taken this very same knife to his wrists, letting blood well up across his skin just to wrench himself from that horrific, cloying numbness that threatened to overwhelm him.
The incident had not been repeated — he was too much of a coward for that — but the reminder today had been unpleasant, as he'd let that single drop splatter into the flask.
"I understand," he said finally. Then, after a moment's hesitation, "Would you like me to do it for you?"
To his surprise, though he attempted to conceal it, she handed the blade over to him without a word, holding out her hand.
He grasped it, almost reverently, noting the softness of her skin — so different to his own, which was marred with cuts and calluses: evidence to his years spent in the lab.
"It won't hurt much," he heard himself murmuring, as he slid the knife across her fingertip. He wasn't sure why the comfort slipped so easily from his lips, when any other time he would be more inclined to dismiss a weakness such as this.
Her skin split open with ease, and he heard her let out a breath as her blood splattered into the flask he held, causing the potion to effervesce for a moment, before it became still.
He set it down before he turned to her, his eyebrow raised. He wondered if she would understand his question, because it was one he did not have the words to ask.
"I trust you — " she said after a moment, her gaze somewhere behind him, " — not to hurt me… physically, at least."
He accepted her answer with a nod of his head, understanding, even if it hurt him deeply.
Severus bowed before the Dark Lord, his pride compartmentalised in the back of his mind — unseen. In his hands — almost still now, though they'd shaken for hours beforehand — he held the phial of poison, the entirety of the brew reduced to barely more than a few drops.
"How can I be certain it has been brewed well?"
Severus kept his head lowered — deferential, on the surface, but he did not want to risk his mind. "My Lord, I assure you — "
"I am not a man who trusts mere assurances, Severus," the wizard spoke, his voice sibilant. "We must be certain — a Muggle, perhaps?"
"They are completely unresistant to the force of the poison, My Lord," Severus spoke slowly, a plan — a horrible plan, but better than anything else he could come up with — forming in his mind. "Even a wizard would succumb to it in mere seconds — their pain would be momentary. There would be little enjoyment in the act."
"Do you take me, Severus, as someone who revels in murder?"
A question with only wrong answers. He braced himself. "I do not know you well, my Lord, so I cannot be sure. I… do not think you are one to rejoice in the act itself, unlike Bella, but I believe there must be a certain appeal to it."
The wizard inclined his head. "You are broadly correct."
He did not elaborate further, and Severus dared to speak once more, the riskiest part of his gamble playing out. "My Lord… I would assure you, any Potion Master of calibre would be able to tell the accuracy of this brew — it is quite distinct. And furthermore, I think it would be a waste to use … so frivolously… such a potent potion."
The Dark Lord did not answer him, but instead drew from his desk a scroll. He gestured for Severus to open it, and he was struck by how similar the scene was to the one he'd had with Cassiopeia in days past.
"This is… a modified Draught of Despair?"
He nodded emotionlessly. "It has been created to... maximise the pain and the hallucinations. Make four recipes. That is the first step."
August 19, 1976 — Malfoy Manor
It would have to be today. Most of the manor's guests had been sent away on an assignment, and the house was as safe as it could possibly be, with the Dark Lord as its resident.
She held her breath as his violet eyes scanned over her proposal, carefully modified so as not to arouse his suspicions. For a tense moment, she thought he would reject her — a week's worth of planning gone to waste — but he accepted it with a nod of his head.
"Complete it before tomorrow — Lucius will have better things to do," he dismissed her, and she let out a breath, leaving his office in as composed a manner as she could.
It would be the raid on Dorcas Meadowes' home, a bright Hufflepuff girl whose name she only knew in passing. It had been discussed over dinner.
She pressed her lips tightly together — there was nothing she could do. At least he had given her permission.
She took out the original scroll from her bedroom drawer, admiring how the Arithmantic matrix grew, in size and in brightness when she replaced the first part of the ritual in its entirety, and considered in the second the ingredient she'd hidden from the Dark Lord's view — the unicorn blood.
She had considered adding the one other potent magical ingredient she had, which was sealed away in her bags, warded by both herself and Cailean into oblivion. It had been a difficult decision, but ultimately she knew such a rarity could not be wasted — though she hated to use the word — on a ritual such as this.
No, her virginal blood would remain untouched, awaiting a matter of life or death — the only reason she had consented to its collection in the first place.
Severus convinced Lucius, and she convinced Narcissa. It had taken some time, and more patience for Narcissa's misgivings than she thought she would have, but at noon they began to make their preparations, separating into two groups.
She had enlisted the elves' aid to clear out one of the seldom-used rooms on the third floor, separating it into identical sections. On the left, a stone bathtub — modelled after the one in the Prefects' bathroom, which Aurora so liked to talk about — was submerged into the floor. It was filled with heated water, a splattering of herbs and petals on its surface.
(Severus had instructed her as to which would be the best to use as they read over A Language of Flowers, huddled together on her bed.)
On the right, Dobby had created a stone fire pit, a collection of birch and applewood branches tied together with a cotton and wool cord at its centre. She thought that Tully would have enjoyed the work, but had decided against calling her, preferring to keep her safe at the cottage.
She heard the fire being lit on the other side of the room, and met Narcissa's eyes, giving her a smile. She attempted to project confidence, but although this project was not entirely original — merely a modified bonding and fertility ritual — the fear that it would fail was ever-present at the back of her mind.
She knew the others would forgive her even if it did not work — she just wasn't sure whether she'd forgive herself.
Silence was essential at this point, but she gestured for Narcissa to enter the water first. She averted her eyes as the woman stripped off her white robe, stepping cautiously into the pool.
It was only when the older witch was almost fully submerged that she too disrobed and joined her.
She met Narcissa's eyes, concerned when she saw pain in them. When she noticed her enquiring gaze, the woman only shook her head.
Cassiopeia was almost certain she knew what had disturbed her. The ritual required everyone to be free of magic, and the ugly scar across her abdomen, which was normally concealed beneath her clothes or a glamour spell, had been revealed.
They stayed in the water until, in the chamber across from them, the rope had burned away. They were free to speak now, and the four of them united in the centre of the room, each clothed in a new set of robes.
"We'll start with the bonding," she explained, her voice quiet. Still, it reverberated across the large room.
On the circular altar in front of them lay two pairs of leather bands, as well as the flask of Severus' potion, and the smooth, dark bowl of blood.
They fastened their wrists together in pairs, Narcissa's fingers intertwining with hers for a second in reassurance.
The next words they spoke she had rehearsed with them, and they flowed from their lips in unison, a deep, murmuring sound that was unlike any she had heard before. Through her bare feet, she felt magic race through her, electrifying and grounding, a powerful, intoxicating rush.
She felt a bond between Narcissa and her, so strong it felt almost real. It hummed for a second, thrumming with magic, before it was washed away, and the room slowly returned to silence, the quiet of it excruciatingly loud in her ears.
When she looked into Narcissa's eyes, truly unguarded for the first time since she had seen her, she could see only love: fierce and tender, protective. It made her heart ache for the years she had spent alone, without anyone to truly call family. It made her remember how Narcissa had taken her under her wing, guiding her as she imagined an older sister might.
And that was what she was now — a sister. Not by blood — such magic was virtually impossible. But the bond between them was strengthened and amplified, their magic mixing together as though they truly were family.
She felt it now, as she cut away the band, overcome by the experience. It was delicate yet steady, luxuriously smooth and robust. The sensation faded away as they were released, but the feeling of utter love, utter acceptance remained.
She would have thought it impossible for a person to have such feelings for another, were it not that she felt the same for Narcissa — could see that the woman had felt her own feelings of deep affection and warmth.
"Sister," she addressed her — and there was not even the glimmer of a fear that Narcissa would reject her.
"My darling."
Narcissa embraced her, and for a long time she could do nothing but revel in it, standing there, wondering what she had done to deserve this.
When they broke away, she took in a deep breath. Her anxieties threatened to return, but she bid them back, turning to Severus and Lucius. The two of them, seeming just as overwhelmed as she was, stepped away.
This part of the ritual, they would only observe.
There was nothing complicated to do now — it was Severus who had spent days creating the potion, modifying and re-creating it when things went wrong.
She let the blood flow into the flask, kneeling before the altar, and as soon as she had done so, Narcissa tipped it into her lips.
She set it down once she had done so, some combination of relief and thankfulness on her face.
"I am… unbelievably grateful, Cassiopeia," the witch murmured.
She made to respond, but at the moment her strength left her in a rush, and she fell to the floor, darkness overwhelming her.
August 20, 1976 — Malfoy Manor
He entered the girl's room.
She lay on the bed, clothed still in the brilliant, white robes she had used for her ritual — the childish yet skilful project which had left her magically exhausted, so vulnerable in her unconscious state. He did not know what to think of her: this fragile little thing, dominated by the size of the bed, her eyes closed and her expression blank, peaceful.
How easy it would be to snap her, to hold his hands to her pretty little neck and watch as her skin turned blue, growing cold. He was not often inclined to kill so… personally.. but for her he would make an exception — would bear the exquisite pain of his skin touching hers if only to feel those last few flutters of her heart, the final, rasping breath of her lungs.
His hand moved to his wand, but he stopped himself just as the words began to pass through his lips.
He loathed this control she held over him, but they were so alike — it was difficult to simply dismiss her. Of course, she could not hold a light to his brilliance, his skill, and they were so different in character, yet something bound them, and he thought that such an interesting toy, so different from the rest, should be kept.
Bella had been one of them, some time ago, but he'd bored of her when his physical urges had begun to wane, an unfortunate side-effect of the cleaving of his soul. He missed it, sometimes, if only for the power it allowed him to hold over his prey. The look of their suffering, of their pain and humiliation, was glorious.
He turned his gaze to the girl. Perhaps he'd take her for her own, in a few years — his own tastes did not lie so young. Would he make her feel pleasure, then, if he still could? Let her feel his gentleness, become enamoured with him? Or would he take his pleasure from her, leaving her ravaged, useless but beautiful in her shattered state?
He thought, at least, that he would like her to devote herself to him, so there could be no question as to where her loyalties lay. But she was still so delicate, so innocent of the Dark — perhaps it was necessary that he break her first, so he could then rebuild her in his image.
His hand touched his chest, curling around the locket that lay beneath the fabric of his robes, gleaming silver and emerald when removed from its glamour.
She could wear it around her neck — a piece of his soul, right against her heart. He would corrupt her then, slowly but surely, this little girl in white, and she would be oblivious to it all.
What a lovely irony it would be — she was so opposed to death, but she would so treasure her gift.
He stepped against her bed.
But no, he could not do it — too many plans were already in the works for this particular fragment of his soul. He would think on what he would do.
Taking advantage of her state — so powerless, so pathetic — he let his fingers trail the air over her cheek, almost feeling the warmth of her skin. Such a beautiful toy.
He let his hand rest against her for a half-moment, but when he pulled away she turned her head to him, pressing her cheek against his palm.
He smirked, removing the oppressing pressure from his hand. Already in her sleep, she was seeking him out.
August 24, 1976 — Malfoy Manor
She sensed Rodolphus' presence before she opened her eyes. She had set her wards to alert her to any intrusions upon her rooms, but had woven in a special charm to specifically identify him.
It seemed Severus and her had been right to worry.
She kept her breaths deep and her muscles relaxed, but her hand, beneath the royal-blue covers that enveloped her, gripped her wand. For some time, the wizard did nothing but stand at her door, but she did not let her guard down.
She was… if not exactly scared, then apprehensive. Should the worst come to pass, she had some advantages on her side, but she had no idea how magically strong Rodolphus was.
The man stepped closer to her bed, and she attempted to conceal the quickened beating of her heart. With quiet, minimal movements she pointed her wand at him, the tip just emerging into the outside air.
If he tried to touch her, she would curse him. It would be justification enough to serve the revenge she so wanted to see — to make him regret his actions without facing repercussions herself.
"Stupid, pathetic girl," he murmured. "You've already whored around, it won't hurt if I have my own fun, will it?"
She's such a slut, isn't she, Marlene? Just like everyone thought.
Dancing with the whore, are we? You've been propositioning half the school.
You know what I've heard? That you've been trying to stick your cunt onto Sirius Black's cock.
Her fear, her rationality snapped, and there was only rage on her mind as magic burst from her, her fingertips burning from the power of it, the blinding force which brought Rodolphus to his knees, screaming his agony.
There was no pretending now, even as her limbs shook with the effort of the magic — not a singular spell: simply the pure force of her core — but she could not — no, did not — want to stop.
She watched as he trashed, her expression set in grim determination. Never again.
She ended the spell when he vomited all over himself, his fear and humiliation clear.
"Get out," her voice was a deadly mask of calm. He did not hesitate, fleeing the room. He would have grieved it, if he had.
She... did not regret her actions.