Twenty-Four: Malfoy Manor to Hogsmeade
Music flutters in the air. Glasses clink and dessert forks are still scraping, but the noise is subdued, like a whisper, like the few guests who remain are already half-asleep.
Severus waves off the house elf trying to pull on his coat and ventures toward the dinner hall. His footsteps are loud on the marbled floor. Just looking at the pattern reminds him of all the times he's been here before. It has been years. He remembers fighting each time the childish inclination to slow down and mind not to step on any of the black squares.
'—and so I told her, not my problem, because it wasn't, see? I never used those blasted spells, only of course the little brat broke my wand, so they couldn't check. And if she's getting demoted, or, what, not getting promoted, I don't even know what it was anymore—'
Severus has frozen by the door jamb. Lamotte is sitting sprawled in a soft chair, amber liquor tipped dangerously close to the edge of his glass. The crystal glimmers in the light from the fire. Of course: where there is a banquet, there is Quentin Lamotte. But it doesn't much matter anymore if he recognizes Severus from Berlin, does it? This in an old fear, a habit to lose.
'It was likely the fact she's not a complete idiot,' a woman snorts. She is sat on the wide arm of the chair, one elbow resting on Lamotte's head. They are the both of them drunk beyond repair. 'Oh, who's that, Narcissa?'
Narcissa turns. She looks just the same as she did in youth: her cheeks have hollowed, her chin has sharpened, and still Severus could recognize her from a mile away. 'Severus,' she says, and he barely hears it over the music and the caving distance. He holds in the shudder: there is, still, that same thing wrong about her.
'Severus? Mr S. Snape?' Lamotte squints. They are all of them wearing rich, lavish fabrics, mulberry silks and baby cashmeres and rubies glinting off fingers and ears, but Lamotte outshines them all. His cloak glitters like something from another plane of existence, and drips heavily onto the floor at his feet. Another old habit—Severus wants to walk up to him and lift the hem so it doesn't dirty. 'Mr S, how long it's been! Well, come in, don't just hover at the door—Lucius, you've never told me Severus was coming tonight!'
'I did not think he would accept,' Lucius lies smoothly, too polite to out him. 'Severus is a very busy man, and I'm afraid he doesn't match your appetite for lights and liquor, Quentin.'
'Yes, well, who does,' Lamotte smiles with all his teeth. They are each of them so white, they could be precious stones. 'Do you like the robe, Severus? Demiguise threading—Gertrude bought it for me in Japan. But I was just telling the story of the duel—surely you've heard? Do you realise I still cannot walk properly? Nnene—the girl, Adeyemi, her name is, she is not from these parts, of course, so likely she didn't even know what she was doing, but the nerve! Challenging a Lamotte to a wizards' duel—oh, I didn't think I'd see the day. It was invigorating.'
'Quentin finds failure terribly exciting,' the woman at his side says. 'Nothing like a spot of public humiliation, is there?'
Now that he's come closer, he recognizes the Gertrude Lamotte he knows concealed within her features. The last time he'd seen her, she was but a girl, shy and undignified. Now, she holds herself like a queen; Severus feels horribly underdressed and under-refined.
'I wondered if I might have a word, Lucius,' he says before the worst of the embarrassment shows through his face. The Malfoys are busy filling up glasses, but both the Lamottes notice: she hides her reaction in a sip, he smiles in ugly delight.
'Heavens, Severus, it's too late to talk business,' Lamotte exclaims. 'Come drink with me. I haven't seen you in years, what a shame—'
Lucius has the good sense to ignore him and takes Severus by the arm. He leads them through the echoey hall and the art-choked couloir into the study. A house elf pops into existence and flings logs into the cold fireplace, pouring magic until the blast of warm air colours Severus's cheeks.
'I have not heard from you in a while, Severus,' Lucius admonishes softly. The decanter clinks under his careful ministrations; the firelight reflects off his cufflinks and draws a fluttery shape on the wall. 'And then you appear out of nowhere, wearing muggle clothing of all things—it's a relief that most of the guests have left, and Quentin is too fond of you to notice.'
Severus is too old for this, he realises.
'The blood wards on Privet Drive have fallen,' he says without preamble.
Lucius sets down the decanter. He doesn't turn. 'And how has that come to pass?'
'I am not at liberty to say.'
'Why should I believe it then?'
'If the Ministry is so incompetent that they do not realise by tomorrow morning, send someone in to check as a precaution. Final day of the trial after all: every little thing counts. And you don't seem to be doing well, do you?'
Lucius glares. He's never handled failure well.
'I know where the boy is now,' Severus tells him. 'I know where he's been, why the wards have fallen—If I so pleased, I could give you this information and more. More than enough to sway the jury in your favour.'
'It is not my favour, Severus. I am merely a representative of the Ministry—'
'I assure you it does not please me to waste my time listening to lies.'
Lucius's lips quirk. He takes a sip of wine. He doesn't offer Severus the other glass.
'The reason you are currently in possession of this allegedly priceless intelligence,' he says, 'is that you have been at the beck and call of dear Headmaster Dumbledore, doing everything in your power, I imagine, to aid him in crawling his way out of this mess. And the circumstances are utterly disgraceful. I hope you know I mean no offense, Severus, but I don't see why I should trust you for a single second.'
'I have helped Dumbledore,' Severus admits, 'because he has been able to give me several things I want. What can you give?'
Lucius arches an eyebrow. 'That depends. What would please you?'
Severus draws a breath. 'The boy.'
'What of him?'
'He's mine,' Severus declares, trying to believe it himself. 'You name me guardian. The Ministry maintains custodial control and you maintain access, but I deal with the day-to-day.'
Lucius eyes him for a moment, seeking the clarification Severus will not allow him to find: he makes his mind a dark well, enchanting to gaze into but perfectly void.
'Our Severus,' he drawls. 'Never boring.'
His neck has felt hot since seeing Lamotte, and now it is positively burning. This is not a part of his life he ever wishes to step back into, but his body does not care. 'I will allow you time to consider.'
'And where might I find you once I have?'
Severus chuckles. 'I will find you, Lucius.'
An incline of the head. Severus has been dismissed.
He exits the study on shaking legs, the vices of control loosened now that no one can see. Stupidly, he wants to go back into the dining hall and accept that drink, and stay until the sheer humiliation of it is unbearable—he wants to feel, he supposes, like he's nineteen again.
The hint of a sound. He spins around so fast he surprises himself, wand at the ready. In its light, he makes out a small figure on the stairs, suspended in the shadows.
'Evening,' Draco whispers. 'What's the big secret?'
'It would not be very secret if I told you, would it?'
'Shhh,' he chides. 'Not so loud.'
The study door opens again. Draco scuttles up the stairs, the hem of his sleeping gown disappearing behind the corner. Severus decides to follow his example and makes his own escape.
He didn't think to check whereabouts in Hogsmeade the Floo had brought him, so he must now wander aimlessly, kicking stones and watching the clientele of pubs and bars grow thinner and thinner. It is so much more convenient to be able to Apparate wherever he pleases: he has covered more ground tonight than he'd ever manage it with muggle transportation. But there's a lack to it, too: a part of him misses the strain of his neck, the pain in his thighs, the legs falling asleep. Perhaps if he were properly exhausted with travel, he wouldn't be thinking of the confrontation ahead.
He tells himself it is alright. He tells himself he has made his choice and there is no point now to feel anything much about it. Even if it were not too late to change his mind, he wouldn't do it; so does he have any right to ache?
It has been hours. Maybe. Time slips through his fingers, insignificant.
'Severus.'
Albus stands in the circle of light from a sagging lamp post. His eyes are perfectly emotionless.
With his left hand, he invites Severus to follow into the cul-de-sac. This is the final item on Severus's agenda for the night. After this, he can sleep.
But he finds he cannot move. Could he pretend, perhaps, that he hasn't seen him in the dark?
'I am not inclined to wait for you, Severus.'
He swallows.
They enter The Hog's Head together. Inside, it is exactly the kind of place in which Severus's father would have tarried his nights, only with a splash more magic. The kind of place, perhaps, that Severus would have ended up in, if he hadn't taken the Mark.
Albus is well-acquainted with it, too: he nods at the bartender and proceeds confidently upstairs, until they're opening a Do Not Enter door and situating themselves on the balcony across the cluttered storage room. Albus pulls the doors closed and spells wards into the splintering wood. The balcony overlooks the bins. The rising sun is cutting through the fog.
'I have just been to Privet Drive. It appears the wards are well and truly down.'
'Good,' Severus tells the cigarette stain on the railing.
'You have secured what you wanted, I suppose: he's not going back,' Albus isn't looking at him either. His voice cuts deep into something fragile and unnamed in Severus's chest. 'And what now? Where do I send him, what do I do to keep him safe? You have wrought chaos and now I must tidy the mess?'
'I have been to see Lucius. He has promised he will name me the boy's guardian in exchange for information that will win him the trial.'
Silence.
'And what information is that?'
The old anger rises to the surface. 'Oh, I've been involved in this mess long enough to think of plenty if I need to. The fact you've left him in an abusive home and lied about it will make for a good opening statement.'
As always, Albus sees straight through Severus's outrage. 'If you need to.'
He clenches his hands. 'If I need to.'
'I have to admit, Severus, I am impressed,' he says, sounding the opposite. 'If I promise you Harry and convince you not to go to Lucius, that will put an end to any hope I might have for future intelligence. But as matters stand, the only way to preserve your cover is to allow you to go to Lucius and give him control over Harry—which I cannot do. I am well and truly caught.'
'I am not trying to blackmail you, Headmaster. But we each have our own goals we must strive to attain, and if you cannot give me what I want, then I must take it.'
He's looking at him now. It's worse.
'And if I did say no, would you truly go to Lucius?' he asks softly. 'Would you steal the boy away and run, and never, I assume, speak with me again?'
He is unlikely to speak with him again either way, Severus thinks; not after this.
'If you force me to, then yes, I will go to Lucius. But I cannot keep the boy from you. He needs you. Alive and best able to face the challenges ahead—that's your job, isn't it?'
Albus doesn't answer. He is staring straight at the sun now. It's very bad for his eyes—Severus wishes he could tell him to look away. 'I understand you are—disappointed,' he says instead.
The Headmaster's lip quirks, but not in a nice way. 'Disappointed,' he repeats, like he's trying the word on for size. 'That is one word for it, I suppose. I am disappointed, though not, I imagine, in the way you think. Not with the goal you are striving to attain. How could I begrudge you wanting such a thing? But the way you've done this—as if our friendship meant nothing to you, Severus, that I cannot—'
He trails off. Friendship is the completely wrong word, Severus thinks. It suggests equal standing. To him, the gorge between them is unforgettable; he wonders if perhaps it doesn't seem so to Albus.
From the very moment he first hatched this plan, in the attic stroking Harry's hair, he has understood this was it: his relationship with Albus had to end. It is unsalvageable, it must be laid to rest, he's known all along. But he doesn't want it.
'I know I have made promises to you,' he says, trying not to choke. 'I know I am breaking them, but—'
'Your promise to protect Lily's child has always been vague, has it not?' his voice is too level, too devoid of feeling: Severus despises him. 'I imagine you do intend to fulfil it, if in a way that I do not agree with. As for your promise of service to me—'
'I would fulfil it, only—'
'You have fulfilled it.'
Severus stares at him in shock. He has to argue. He doesn't know how.
'You've given me a full year. You risked your life every day,' Albus continues, ignoring him. 'And if that weren't enough, you then gave me another ten, ten years of accommodating my failures and following my orders. I had planned to get every last drop of what you had to give, and I know there is much left that I've yet to tap, but I cannot bring myself to force you. I wish I could use your guilt against you, because you are one of my chief assets—my greatest champion, Severus. But like a fool, I've grown to care for you. A terrible weakness, perhaps. So, if you wish it, your duty to me is over.'
'I don't want it to be over,' he says. Begs.
'I release you, Severus.'
'I want to be your asset,' he grasps. 'I know my actions do not reflect—whatever you need me to do to stop him coming back, to fight against him when he does—I will do it, and not out of duty or whatever promises I have made—but that moment when you have true need of me again, that might be tomorrow or it might be twenty years from now. I am willing to give my life up for the cause, but—'
'But you are not willing to give it up waiting for it.'
Their eyes meet.
'No.'
Severus isn't occluding and Albus isn't either. Neither attempts to breach the other's mind, but just knowing this is enough.
For a quiet moment, they only hold it, the understanding, this thread of perfect honesty. An owl perches on the railing, its big dark eyes bearing into Severus as it hoots curiously.
'I wish we could have spoken like this earlier,' Albus says. He pets the owl with gentle fingers, overly respectful. 'Your interference with the wards, that I will not argue about—there is no point. We will not agree. But this ruse with Lucius. I wish you'd never felt such a thing necessary. It makes me feel—' he purses his lips. He gives Severus a weak smile. 'Well, no matter. What's done is done, hmm? Come back to Hogwarts with me, Severus. Get some sleep before you go back to Inari. Then speak with Harry. If he agrees, you will have my full support.'
The weight of it: like Agata's magic, pinning him to the floor, pushing air out of his lungs.
He must draw two wheezed breaths before he manages words. 'Thank you,' he whispers.
Albus is already taking the wards down. The balcony doors creak when he pulls at the frame. 'I have assumed your goals were mine, Severus, merely because you never argued otherwise. A careless mistake.'
Severus has always assumed that, too. Maybe it bears more reflection. But at the moment, he is too shaken by what he has done, what he's going to do. The night is over and he is here: the bins smell in the heat, the bakery on the other side of the road is opening its doors. He has done it. He's doing it. What is he doing?
Albus touches his shoulder to signal that he should stand up now.
Startled, the owl flies away.
We are in the final stretch now! Thank you for all your comments on the last chapter.
On Wednesday, we are back to Inari and Harry's POV.
