December 21, 1976 – Malfoy Manor

The Dark Lord was often absent from the Malfoy home in the days preceding the Yuletide celebrations, but his followers only arrived in greater numbers: one or two showing up every day on the Manor's front steps.

On the outside, they seemed as entirely normal visitors, most of them older men, in their thirties or forties, dressed respectably, and with a distinguished, fanciful air around them. They were typical people, who – every once in a while – would casually bring up the necessity of pruning out the polluting taint of Muggle influence.

It was astonishing how easily they saw themselves as the misunderstood heroes – some of the younger recruits found lamenting that their girlfriends could never grasp the appeal of murdering Muggleborns. It was disturbing, in a way almost entirely new to her.

Even Black and the others, no matter how vile of people, had never discussed how appealing exactly it would be to steal Death Eater infants, and raise them to service and slave for the Order.

When that idea had been shot down harshly by Nott, it had revealed an underlying division – mostly, it seemed, between the utterly insane devotées, and the newer, perhaps still a little unsure recruits.

She stoked the fire – made it her mission whenever the Dark Lord was away. The younger men were approachable enough from the surface – less likely to curse her for suggesting the idea – so she talked with them, sometimes joined by Severus. Confided her unease with magical blood being spilled, swathed with enough hateful rhetoric to remove entirely the idea that she might be a sympathiser with 'the other side.'

She had no idea whether her efforts had any effect, but it was through speaking with them that she was able to at last grasp the fear and uncertainty that cloaked most of them. It was almost pitiable, how desperately these barely-adults sought validation, sought escape, sought to prove their worth in the worst possible source.

They were fanatics, but she pitied them all the same.

None more than Augustus, however, who arrived on the twentieth of December, his expression blank, and his father's hand heavy at his back.

It was also then that she received confirmation of what she'd suspected, of what she'd been dreading. The Yule celebrations were not only an excuse to recruit. They were an excuse to brand.

She watched now, from the fray, how the chosen twelve knelt at the newly-arrived Lord's feet, and how intently he would press his ivory wand into their flesh, his hand entirely still as they trashed and screamed from the pain, as the magic bled into their skin, forming that awful silhouette.

It was the first time she saw the image up-close, when Severus and she picked up a trembling Augustus from the floor, the others having left the agonised and exhausted followers in the chamber while they went off to celebrate.

He stumbled when they helped him upright, leading him to his rooms at an impossibly slow pace. As she supported his weight with her own, her eyes kept returning to the skull and snake, the design raised and irritated as though Augustus' body was rejecting – or attempting to reject – the malevolent magic.

They helped him into bed in an undignified scene, each mired in their own thoughts. When she glanced up at Severus, he was looking at the now-sleeping Augustus with something like regret.

"It was supposed to be the summer," he said flatly, turning away from the bed.

"Plans change."

"Not without a reason. I want to know if this is a celebration of victory, or compensation for losses."

Information. They needed information they could trust. The Death Eaters rowed about their successes, but concealed their disgraces in the darkest of depths.

"I'll talk with Minerva."

Later that evening, when she was enclosed in her own room, she summoned Tully, greeting her with a semi-smile.

"I have a mission for you. You cannot tell anyone."

Away from the Hogwarts wards, Minerva was easily accessible through the elf, who relayed information between them, short notes passed back and forth, kept as vague as possible.

Have you been successful?

Not formally yet, but soon. Before February, I think.

Have counter-attacks been undertaken?

Something happened a week ago. Three people were hurt, but they seemed happy. We're planning again.

Good. Good work.

It felt strange to be the one praising her Master's performance, but she was greatly satisfied with how the plan was going — at least for now.

Tomorrow, with the Dark Lord hopefully in a good mood from the revel, she would implement the second phase.

December 22, 1975 — Malfoy Manor

"My Lord."

She had stood waiting outside the door as he gathered his Inner Circle, the discussion lasting longer than she would have expected.

She's been about to leave — going on a walk to stretch her aching legs before returning to her post — but the door had suddenly opened, releasing with it a great cloud of white cigar smoke.

Despite herself, she wrinkled her nose, surprising the urge to cough as six older men emerged from inside, most glancing at her with unconcealed curiosity and — she grimaced. Nott had apparently not gotten over her rejection of his marriage proposal.

When they had walked away, she entered the large office, thankful that most of the smoke had cleared, though leaving after it a distasteful odour.

"Cassiopeia," the Dark Lord greeted, giving her an approximation of a warm smile, though it looked ungainly on his new face. "What brings you here?"

"Certainly not that disgusting habit," she retorted, pulling forward a chair.

It was a calculated move, and she kept careful watch over the amused glitter in his odd-coloured eyes.

"My new followers wouldn't dare," he hissed slightly. "Much less would they enter the room without kneeling at my feet."

"But I would. And you like me for it."

"Careful, little girl," he snarled. "You're treading on dangerous ground."

"I fear you, my Lord, and I respect you. But I think you are also logical and fair. I do not think you will strike me on a whim. If you do so, it will be because I justly deserved it."

He evidently enjoyed her praise, for he settled himself on his own armchair, pouring a glass of amber alcohol from a carafe on his desk.

"Why did you come to see me?"

"I have a proposal, my Lord, that I think will benefit you immensely."

"Go on."

"I wish to claim two seats. On the Wizengamot."

December 27, 1975 — Malfoy Manor

Their relationship was subdued at the Manor, limited to careful, reassuring touches, and perhaps a kiss in the morning, when he wandered into her room after waking up, climbing into bed beside her to catch a few more moments of respite.

They took comfort in each other, releasing the constant stress of the day with physical reassurance that they were there, they were alright.

"I think you'll be good for her," Lucius had said, pulling him aside after breakfast into an empty room. "She trusts you. I don't know why she does — " here his tone had hardened a little, and Severus glanced down, reminded of his past betrayal, "— but she does. Do right by her."

"I will."

"I know."

He had been embraced, the hug a little stiff, as though Lucius was unused to the gesture, but his eyes had been sincere. It felt — good.

"Augustus is feeling better."

Cassiopeia broke his musings, coming into the room. Her hair done up in traditional braids, and her robes modest, it was clear she had just returned from a recruitment session.

"Good to hear," he responded, pushing himself more upright on the bed. He set aside the medical journal he'd been reading, and cocked his head at her. "Did you want something else?"

Of course she did, or she wouldn't have come to deliver only those news.

"To see you."

She closed the door behind her, kicking off her flats near the entrance before crawling into the massive four-poster, laying on the pillow next to him.

"I'm exhausted, honestly," she muttered, meeting his eyes. "Even being in a room with them makes my skin crawl, and I haven't even been to a proper revel."

"Fortunately," Severus sighed. "Has he been wanting anything else from you?"

She shook her head, accidentally breathing in Severus' scent from the pillow. She paused for a moment, her eyes fluttering shut. Sage, bergamot –

"Cas?"

"Sorry. You smell nice," she said lightly. It seemed to amuse her to keep him off-balance. "He hasn't gotten back to me on the Wizengamot, but he did ask further about the poisoning. What it felt like, mostly. I think he wanted to figure out what was used."

Severus' expression soured slightly, his lip jutting out in frustration. He had worked on-and-off for about two weeks, trying to puzzle it out, before giving up.

"He won't be able to figure it out. If I can't – "

"You certainly have a high opinion of yourself, Severus," she said teasingly, and Severus lifted a brow, giving her a dark, yet alluring expression.

"Is it unwarranted?"

"'Course not," she replied, and slowly reached up, until she could press a kiss to his lips.

He broke away, giving her a look. "What I meant was, if he does figure it out, we'll have... many more questions on our hands."

"Such as the reason why he wanted to kill me," she finished his thought. "Let's hope it's not that."