Disclaimer: All rights belong to JK Rowling.
Author's note: Hugs and kudos to Losille for being the wonderful and patient beta she is and to AnnieTalbot for listening to my ramblings when I need it the most and lending me the indispensable second set of eyes for this chapter. Thank you ladies, you are wonderful :o)
She was sure she would see the grain of Professor McGonagall's office door even in her sleep tonight. Ten minutes had been enough to burn it into her vision, ten minutes of staring at said door.
Well, it won't open until you knock, Granger, reminded the tiny voice in the back of her head. For the second time, Hermione raised her hand in a determined move, only to see it falter midair heartbeats later.
She bit her bottom lip, angry at her own hesitation. She had only half an hour before she was to meet Ron in the library to prepare another one of those useless essays Umbridge always assigned them. Hermione was convinced that Professor Umbridge's homework followed only one purpose: keep the students sufficiently busy so they don't have the time to question the sense of it all.
Lost your courage, eh, Granger, mocked the tiny, annoying voice as her eyes focussed on the door again.
Hermione sighed. Well, it wasn't the courage that deserted her, but her determination; if she knocked, if she stepped into the office to ask her Head of House for access to the school records, she would have made her decision. She would start her search for the identity of Professor Snape's Lily. But an awkward, nagging feeling made her wonder if she had the right to pry even further into the private life of the Potions master. A quite insistent part of her heart wanted—needed—this piece of information, needed to know—even more after today's event. Trying to keep her promise without knowing who Lily was felt like having to work with an Arithmancy formula without knowing the crucial variable.
After Madam Pomfrey had finally released her from her care, Hermione had chosen to spend the lunch break in the library, researching and plotting. It was quite clear that the only acceptable matter for her Head of House would be a reason that was somehow connected with her studies. However, since her schedule would not suddenly contain the topic "The Arithmetic of Hogwarts School Records", she had to come up with something extracurricular. A look into Hogwarts, A History. had revealed that all students were granted the option to do extra credit projects. This affirmed, Hermione had only needed to come up with a project that was based on data that only the school records could provide.
If she told anybody that it was Professor Binns who inspired her with the necessary topic, they would send her straight to St. Mungo's. But actually it had been Professor Binns and a statement he made during History of Magic today: Many social developments in the history of the Wizarding world are mirrored in a similar way in the Muggle world.
Hermione smiled pensively. Sometimes her Muggle parentage came in as a real favour. The idea had quickly grown in her mind.
It was flawless. It was perfect. And it would not only allow her access to the name of every witch who had walked these halls in the last fifty years, it would also accord her the possibility of earning back the house points her own foolishness had cost her today. Therefore, there was no real reason to hesitate. What was she waiting for? If she could keep an eye on Harry and knit elves' hats while preparing for her OWLs, then she had the time to do this small task as well.
Exhaling once more, Hermione straightened herself slightly before she finally knocked.
A brisk, "Come in!"floated immediately through the wood and Hermione opened the door, silently praying she was doing the right thing.
"Miss Granger!" Professor McGonagall rose from the chair behind her desk as she greeted her, giving her a tight smile.
"Good evening, Professor," Hermione said as she closed the door behind her, feeling her resolve faltering under the beady gaze of her Head of House.
"Sit down, girl. I take it Mr Potter and Mr Weasley have already informed you about next week's assignment?"
"Oh—yes, they did, Professor."
Hermione took the chair opposite to her teacher. At least, Professor McGonagall had not mentioned the loss of house points so far, so she would be able to approach the subject on her own.
"Good, good. So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"
"Well, I—I read in Hogwarts, A History. that there is the possibility for students of every year to do extra credit projects and … uh… I would like to do such a project in History of Magic, Professor."
"An extra credit project? What a splendid idea, Miss Granger, but won't this be a bit too much work with your OWLs coming? Such things are usually done by students in their fourth or sixth year."
Gritting her teeth slightly, Hermione straightened herself a bit. She had known that this objection would come; since her experience with the time-turner in her third year, Professor McGonagall was always annoyingly alert that she would not overdo herself.
"On the basis of the timetable I have made, I think the workload should be quite manageable. I have scheduled two hours per week for the basic research until the Easter break, so that it would not interfere with my regular studies and would be completed before the final revision phase. The analysis could be done in the free period after the exams. And—" She lowered her gaze, deciding to play her ace now. "—and the project would allow me earn a quite equal number of points to the ones I lost today."
"Nonsense, Miss Granger. As much as I appreciate your willingness to recompense your loss of points for our house, I would never expect you to redeem yourself for something Professor Snape called "ludicrously exemplary displays of Gryffindor behaviour"."
He had what?
Not knowing if she should feel flattered or insulted, Hermione was struck speechless and the Transfiguration mistress gave her an amused look.
"Nevertheless, your approach toward the project sounds reasonable, Miss Granger. May I ask what is going to be the subject of your research?"
Her composure returning, Hermione allowed herself a small, proud smile.
"The project would research the development of the higher education of young witches in the last fifty years."
Leaning slightly forward, Professor McGonagall folded her hands on the surface of the desk, unconcealed interest glistening in her eyes. "Please elaborate, Miss Granger."
"Professor Binns said today that it has happened that social phenomena and trends in the Wizarding and Muggle society have occurred in similar ways, sometimes even parallel to each other. I think the rapidly declining custom of arranged marriages or the importance of blood purity as sign for superiority among certain groups or even whole societies are good examples for his thesis," Hermione paused, kneading her fingers nervously.
"And you think such a social similarity has occurred regarding the higher education of witches, Miss Granger?"
"Yes, I think that would be highly likely. In the Muggle world it has been a quite common custom for a long time to provide women only with a basic education. Often families weren't willing to pay or deemed it not necessary for their daughters to pursue a higher education. Therefore, many left or were taken from school barely after their O-levels. But over the last decades the number of women who pursue a higher education is increasing rapidly. Uh… well, and I would like to research if there is a trend that shows that the number of witches who take their NEWTs has increased over the last fifty years as well."
There was a moment of silence as Hermione had ended her explanation, and she had the faint opportunity to see how the single elements of her reasoning worked behind the forehead of Professor McGonagall.
Eventually, her Head of House removed her glasses, cleaning them with a tartan handkerchief.
"Well, you would certainly need access to the school records for this project—"
"Only to the registration lists for the OWL and NEWT exams, Professor, and not to any more individual-related data," Hermione broke in, anticipating Professor McGonagall's concern about the confidentiality of the more sensitive student data like blood status or the names of the parents.
"I was about to suggest exactly this possibility, before you interrupted me, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall replied crisply.
Embarrassment rose hot in her cheeks. She had been so eager in her wish to counter any possible hurdle that she had not taken into account that her Head of House could be supportive of her project.
Maybe she wouldn't be if she knew the main purpose of this little endeavour.
A thought that struck her with remorse.
"I apologise, Professor."
"No need, Miss Granger. It's settled then. I will speak with the Headmaster about your project. He has to consent with my decision to provide you with the needed data."
"Certainly. Thank you, Professor."
They discussed a few more trivialities before Hermione finally bade her goodbye.
Once out of the office, she fell with her back flattened against the wall, closing her eyes and taking a deep, measured breath as her knees went weak.
She had deceived her teacher, her Head of House – had purposely deceived her to violate the privacy of one of her professors.
And had done so for nothing but her selfish need to know.
But seldom had something felt so right.
Snape swore, his fist hitting the surface of the desk hard.
Dumbledore was a fool; a fool to think he could teach Potter Occlumency in his place. This would never work. The insolent boy would rather chew on the hem of the Dark Lord's robe before taking a piece of advice from him, let alone follow his instructions.
Placing both hands—curled into fists—onto the cool wood, Snape rested his weight on his knuckles as he leaned over the Pensieve, gazing at the silvery liquid. His face twisted in agony.
Oh, how he had tried to reason with Dumbledore, tried to convince him to teach Potter himself. But the Headmaster—in all his wisdom—had insisted upon it, and, as always, had done so without sharing the reason for his persistence. Had the old man even known what kind of torturous task he had forced upon him? Snape bit back a heartfelt groan.
He may be able to extract the most miserable pieces of his own memory and could shield his emotions from Potter, but while probing the boy's mind, while looking into those emerald eyes, he had inevitably stumbled on the few, disgustingly precious visions of his parents. He had to see her, had to see his Lily, smiling, in the arms of another man. Insensible jealousy had raged in him for mere moments then, like a feral beast, eating at his soul.
Snape pressed his eyes shut, forcing his mind to focus on the growing ache in his knuckles.
Who was he to teach the boy to control his emotions, when he himself had failed to do so twice in one day? Hadn't he told Potter that only fools wore their hearts proudly on their sleeves?
Only fools. And he was the greatest fool of all.
Snape opened his eyes, looking at the Pensieve beneath him. He had to return the item to the Headmaster tonight. Inside, shimmering peacefully, floated still more evidence of his folly, the last one of those three memories he had removed earlier. While he had already taken back the two worst moments of his youth, those two moments he had lost her, first her friendship and then everything, every hope with...
Lily. Dead. Gone.
My fault alone.
Snape deepened the pressure on his knuckles. Thick streaks of black hair fell forward, shielding his vision and leaving nothing to his eyes but the silver maelstrom beneath him. Dumbledore would already be waiting for his report on the lesson with Potter.
"Don't be too hard on the boy, Severus," the old man had told him, as he had fetched the Pensieve.
Preserving precious Potter's fragile soul, his most important task, as always, while his own sanity was falling into pieces. Snape snorted, his gaze lingering accusingly on the lustrous substance in the stone basin.
The Crucio-induced hallucination of Lily haunted his dreams, and Miss Granger's presence in his classroom this morning had summoned the whole incident even more vividly to the surface of his mind; therefore it had been a prudent choice to remove this memory as well.
But while the removal of his old misdeeds felt like lifting a grey, crushing load from his shoulders, the preposterous event had left something behind that he refused to acknowledge as emptiness.
Emptiness. Utterly absurd.
Shaking his head, Snape brushed the thought away, reaching for his wand with a swift movement. He dipped the tip into the silvery liquid and was just about to scoop it out of the Pensieve when the now transparent, swirling surface caught his attention. He blinked. Blinked again.
It couldn't be.
The reflection allowed him a plain view down into the kitchen at Grimmauld Place and Snape starred at the scene disbelievingly. Beside his memory-self, slumped over the kitchen table, stood not his vision of Lily but Miss Granger.
Granger. What the hell was this annoying girl doing in his memory? She wasn't supposed to be there.
Snape laid his wand down, clutching the edge of the stone basin with both hands as comprehension hit him. It was part of the magic of Pensieves not to show the person's personal view of a memory, but the reality. And in reality, Miss Granger had been the one at his side and not Lily. Lily had only been a part of his imagination.
Up to now—in an act of utmost self-protection—he had refrained from challenging the fine line between reality and imagination of his foggy memory. He had tried not to dwell on what the girl could have told her little friends, could have told Potter to have a laugh at his expense. But right here in front of him, lay the answer to those questions he had not dared to ask, causing a sudden, burning need to contract his lungs. How much had he truly exposed himself in front of her? Or worse, what had he exposed?
Never tell, Dumbledore.
Snape swallowed. The Headmaster had kept his promise so far. But what if he himself had betrayed this secret—had disclosed it to Potter's little friend?
His whole existence consisted of a web of lies, half-verities and suspicions, fine-spun by two masters. There was nothing and nobody left for him to trust but his own judgment. However, even this last resort had betrayed him that night, but here—floating in this stone basin—was his chance to end all speculation, the chance to pursue the truth about the incident at Grimmauld Place—a truth his heart had neglected to share with him.
Overwhelming uncertainty suddenly drowned out what was left of prudence and reason. He needed to know. Without a second thought, Snape lowered his face into the silvery liquid.
His office dissolved immediately, and he fell—fell until he found himself standing behind his exhausted memory-self, still slumped forward over the kitchen table. He couldn't even remember how he had made it there. Seeing himself stir beneath the heavy black robe, he was sure the girl must have placed it around his shoulders. Even at his worst, he had always managed to free himself of every reminder of his Death Eater appearance.
His eyes travelled instantly to Miss Granger's fearful gaze as she withdrew her hand from his memory-self's face, frightened. But it was the girl's appearance that came as a little shock to him. A soft braid tamed her usually unruly mess of hair and the light blue pyjamas she wore for the night could not hide the outlines of already womanly curves. Instinctively, he lowered his gaze to the floor, cursing quietly. He wasn't to see her in such informal, revealing attire. Shifting uncomfortably, he already considered leaving the memory as one word stabbed his heart.
"Lily?"
Pain—hot and burning—rushed through his veins as he was left to watch his memory-self raise his head with a doubting, but hopeful, expression. He hadn't assumed that he had really pronounced her name in his delirious state. In his right mind, he never dared to speak it. Thought it, yes, but spoken, never, not since…
Brushing the thought away, he searched the girl's face again. A kaleidoscope of different emotions played across those lovely young features until her gaze softened. He vaguely felt himself inhale sharply as a small, slender hand touched his memory-self's wrist. It had been one thing to acknowledge in the safeness of his dungeons that it had been Miss Granger who had reached out for him, but seeing her actually doing it…
"Lily?"
Snape gritted his teeth. How much more of this could his dignity endure? Desperation flickered over the girl's face. But instead of backing away, fleeing from this degrading situation, she gave his alter ego a smile. A small, warm smile that found her eyes. Nobody ever smiled at him like that; nobody, not even Narcissa at her most charming.
"I am right here, Pr… Severus. But I need to go to inform Professor Dumbledore of your return... and that you are hurt."
"Don't leave me."
Shame burned in his stomach at the plea he barely remembered and began to sear his soul as he saw his memory-hand enfold Miss Granger's small one, bringing it to his cheek. She hadn't flinched from his touch, not even for a moment, the persistent little Gryffindor.
"I won't. All is well."
A lie, certainly, and she had known it; the regret was glittering plainly in those large hazel pools that would never be able to hide falsehood from him.
"I will leave now. I need to inform Professor Dumbledore and you need help, Severus."
"But you will come back?"
He turned away. His throat tightened. He remembered the exchange, remembered it and the unthinkable thing the girl had done and dreaded to search her eyes again, but did it nevertheless. He found nothing but tenderness in her gaze as she bent down to brush her lips against his forehead, a tenderness that warmed him to the core. And as he thought he could risk breathing again, she proved him wrong once more.
"Whenever you need me."
Solely a whisper—soft and earnest—but it left his marrow tumbling. He had known those words, had known that it had been she who had spoken them. But actually hearing her say them, seeing her as she said them, forced him to acknowledge the one thing he hadn't known before. It hadn't been a childish assurance to escape his presence, an act of deceit, as he had believed it to be. She had meant it, truly meant every word of it.
And while his memory-self succumbed to the comfort of her words, long, pale fingers reached out, desiring nothing but to brush those tears away that fell freely down her cheeks, but found once again nothing but thin air. Leaving him to watch, how she stumbled from the kitchen, fleeing into the dark hallway and out of his memory.
The scene dissolved and Snape was thrown onto the floor of his office. Turning to sit upright, he leaned with back against his desk, closing his eyes. It had been Miss Granger. Everything. Everything he had remembered. Everything he had felt. Unbelievable but true, unfortunately.
And the girl—this annoyingly compassionate creature—she knew it all, had seen him, had seen his weakness and hadn't said a word about it, hadn't thrown it right into his face as he insulted her today.
He groaned quietly. His chest ached. His mind spun.
And his Mark burned.
Stumbling, Snape rushed into his chambers, the pain in his left forearm increasing rapidly. The bastard had something urgent for them tonight.
Damn.
Calm. He needed calm. He needed to empty himself of these treacherous emotions, but instead his mind was filled with vivid images of Miss Granger as if burned into his vision.
"Dobby," he gasped as he stepped into his bathroom, throwing ice-cold water into his face by the time the house-elf appeared with a loud pop.
"Professor Snape has called Dobby, sir?"
"Go to the Headmaster," Snape commanded, splashing another wave of water onto his face. "Tell him I had to leave."
The elf nodded, observing Snape with his enormous eyes as he seized his Death Eater robe, throwing it over himself.
"Dobby will tell Professor Dumbledore, sir. And Professor Snape must be careful, sir," he said solemnly before he Disapparated.
Snape paused for a moment, his eyes lingering on the deserted spot where the house-elf had stood seconds ago. A cheerless laugh caught in his throat. There were truly dark times coming when the house-elves started fearing for his safety.
Clutching the abhorrent mask in his left hand, Snape forced air into his lungs. Taking a few more measured breaths, he concentrated on his Occlumency shields.
Weak. Vulnerable. Far too vulnerable. Damn. But a short glance at his darkening Mark told him, he couldn't keep the Dark Lord waiting any longer.
He slipped out of his quarters and into the darkness of the tunnel that would lead him directly to his Disapparation point.
Maybe splinching himself was worth a second thought tonight. But unfortunately, it was not an option.
"Severus." A quiet, hissing voice acknowledged Snape's arrival, as he stepped through the heavy leaf door of the Scottish country estate, the Dark Lord had deemed appropriate as residence. The real owners—Muggles—had been simply erased from the face of the earth.
"My Lord." With a few long strides, Snape moved forward, falling on one knee and bowing slightly in front of his supposed master.
Through the endless moments of silence that followed his greeting, nothing could be heard but the loud, rapid drumming of his heart while red, glowing eyes lingered on his head.
Forcing his breathing to remain even, Snape directed his concentration on his mental shields, dreading the Dark Lord's invasion of his mind.
But, to his surprise, the invasion never came. Only an unrecognisable shiver ran down his spine as a large, bony hand was laid on his head.
"Rise, my servant. Take your place beside your brother, Lucius."
Snape followed the order silently, moving next to Malfoy who sat left to the Dark Lord. His eyes travelled over the circle of hooded figures. Behind the iron mask, black eyes narrowed. Two empty chairs. Macnair and Nott were absent. This boded ill.
Meanwhile, the Dark Lord floated into the middle of attendant Death Eaters, observing his followers closely.
"I have called you, Death Eaters, because tonight, will mark another step on my way to victory," he announced, his voice a high, gurgling sound. "Tonight the gates of Azkaban will finally open for our brothers and sisters, who have been entombed there for far too long."
And I bet Macnair and Nott assisted a little with the opening, Snape thought acidly. And to make things could be worse, those two wouldn't be able to succeed without initial help from the Dementors. This meant those evil creatures were starting to cooperate with the Dark Lord. A sharp intake of breath next to him caught his attention and Snape cast a swift glance at Malfoy. The blond wizard's breathing appeared shallow and rapid. Maybe the announced return of his sister-in-law wasn't all good news.
As if right on cue, the Dark Lord turned to them, eyeing Malfoy calculatingly.
"I dare assume that the Lestranges will be most welcomed in your home, my dear Lucius."
"Narcissa and I will be delighted to be their host, my Lord."
"I expected nothing less from you, Lucius. I think our dear Bella—"
"My Lord!"
Red eyes flashed dangerously at the interruption, but the Dark Lord did not turn around to the paltry, trembling figure that had spoken up.
"Wormtail. I hope for you, my unworthy servant, you have a very good reason for this disrespectful behaviour."
"Forgive me, master." Wormtail lowered his gaze anxiously. "But they—they have arrived, master."
Every pair of eyes in the room was on the Dark wizard as he leaned his head into his neck, quietly and inexplicably slowly, one hand brushing over the hairless skull, before he spread both arms to his sides in a triumphant gesture.
For moments, heavy with silence, he simply stood like this, before laughter, solely laughter—high and inhuman—erupted from beneath the lipless mouth, filling each corner of the room.
Struggling against the chill that crept beneath his skin, Snape clenched and unclenched his hands at his sides, hoping that for once the insolent boy at Hogwarts had followed his instructions so that he would not have to endure parts of this insanity as well.
As abruptly as the laughter had come, it had abated again. Red eyes, glowing feverishly, travelled over the assembled attendants until they stopped on the rat-like creature next to him.
"Then, Wormtail, I think it would be rude not to attend to my guests."
The dark wizard turned around, striding away, only the hem of his long black robe and Wormtail twirling behind him as he stretched one hand out for a dismissive wave, announcing without a glance backwards, "Death Eaters, you are allowed to remove yourselves from my presence."
Stepping out into the darkness that enfolded the grounds of the country estate, Snape was already about to Disapparate back to Hogwarts as a hand was placed firmly on his shoulder. In a rush of black fabric, he spun around and met the serious grey eyes of Lucius Malfoy.
"I need to talk to you, Severus."
Inclining his head slightly, Snape gave him a questioning look. Malfoy cast a quick, almost haunted glance over his shoulder before he answered, tension radiating in waves from his being.
"Alone."
"Your Manor, than?"
Malfoy gave him a curt nod, Disapparating away.
Snape frowned. His head was throbbing, calling finally for a few hours of rest, but sleep would have to wait. Such an urgent request for a late-night talk was highly unusual for the blond wizard.
Well, let's find out what you have on your mind, Lucius.
Drawing his wand, Snape concentrated, Disapparating with a quiet crack.
Reappearing in front of the gates of the Manor, he saw that Malfoy stood there as well, apparently waiting for him. Sharing a short glance, they both removed their masks and walked in silence up to the entrance door.
Leaving it to his host to cast an Alohomora, Snape stood aside as the wood swung open and a concerned female voice floated from inside.
"Lucius? Are you all right, love?"
Narcissa's graceful form emerged out of the darkness in the entrance hall, worry evident in her features. Snape remained in the shadows as Malfoy rushed forward to reassure his wife, drawing her into a short embrace.
"I am fine. I told you not to stay up and wait for me," he said quietly, brushing her cheek.
"See, I brought a guest."
"Oh."
And unfortunately I won't be the last one tonight, my dear, Snape thought, and a frown crossed his face.
The announcement caused Narcissa immediately to find her composure again as she turned to the door, acknowledging Snape's presence.
"Severus," she said with one of those smiles that were never intended to reach her eyes. "It's good to see you again."
"Narcissa. What a pleasant surprise," he purred in return as he stepped up to the couple.
Black streaks of hair fell slightly forward as he took her hand for the imitation of a welcoming kiss.
They exchanged a few pleasantries, before Malfoy led Snape into his study, gesturing for him to take a seat in one of the armchairs as he poured finest Scotch into two goblets. A Muggle liquor. Snape chuckled inwardly. Malfoy was finally losing his edge.
"I hope you don't mind sharing a toast with me, Severus?"
The addressed arched a graceful eyebrow.
"Of course not. To what do you wish to drink?"
"To friendship." Malfoy rose his glass. "May it survive the hardships of life."
Spoken like a true Hufflepuff, my dear Lucius.
Hiding a smirk, Snape lifted his glass as well. However, it would be foolish to believe that Malfoy would lower himself to such an emotional declaration without purpose.
"To friendship then."
They both took a sip of the scotch and Snape savoured the burning, but calming, sensation the liquid caused in his throat and stomach.
"How long have we known each other, Severus?"
"For nearly 25 years, I would think."
"And for as long we remain friends."
"Not quite so long, Lucius," Snape corrected him dryly, scowling at the goblet in his hand.
During his days at Hogwarts, Malfoy had been far too pompous to associate with somebody so much younger and poorer than himself, even though they had belonged to the same group of Slytherins. But surprisingly, something similar to real friendship had grown between them after Snape had joined the Death Eaters.
However, the night he had gone to Dumbledore he had not only betrayed the Dark Lord, he had betrayed this friendship as well. In the years that followed the Dark Lord's demise, he had tried to ignore the knowledge that Malfoy had never broken with those old beliefs, like somebody would turn a blind eye to an old friend's bad habit.
During their occasional meetings, they had both carefully avoided all-too-slippery issues of the past. But as his Mark had become clearer and he had learnt that Malfoy had been responsible for the incident at the Quidditch World Cup, he had no longer been able to deny what he should have realised long ago—his friend would be his foe in the end.
"You are my oldest friend, Severus."
Snape eyed him questioningly, refraining from replying to his declaration.
"Bellatrix's return will change things, Severus. With her in my home and the task the Dark Lord has assigned me, my family will be even more exposed than we already are."
"Indeed."
"Draco… Narcissa. I fear for their safety."
"Surely the Dark Lord—"
Mafoy held up his hand, stopping him mid-sentence.
"Please don't, Severus. I wish to speak to my old friend and not to the fellow Death Eater right now."
"I apologise. Please go on."
Malfoy rolled his left sleeve up, revealing the Dark Mark. He held his arm out in front of Snape.
"I swore the same oath as you did, Severus, as I took the Mark, pledging my loyalty and unconditional obedience to the Dark Lord. And I believe strongly in his cause and the old ways."
And finally you reveal your true face, friend, Snape thought bitterly.
"But there is another mark that binds me."
Malfoy murmured something quietly and around his left wrist appeared a blue cord, the one he had received from Narcissa during their bonding ceremony.
"I vowed to my wife and my son loyalty and protection as well. They are my life, Severus."
Heartbeats of silence followed Malfoy's statement. Snape felt his chest tighten as the implied consequences of those words sank in. He lowered his gaze, regarding the gold-brown liquid twirling in his goblet absently.
"And your vulnerable spot should you disappoint him."
Glass met wood forcefully and Snape knew without looking that Malfoy had drowned his Scotch at his conclusion.
It'll always be the ones we love the most, Lucius.
"Severus, I am dreading the day when the Dark Lord could use … when I cannot—" Malfoy trailed off, a crack in his voice.
"I understand."
Snape took a large sip of his scotch as well, trying to wash the mouldy taste in his mouth away.
Narcissa.
Draco.
Always, when he had thought he had reached the final stage of hell, another trap door opened beneath him. And right now he was falling again.
If Malfoy failed the Dark Lord, it was highly likely that Snape had contributed in his failure: a failure that was essential to the Order, a failure that would cost the Malfoy family dearly. Hot waves of nausea, augmented with stinging guilt, washed over him.
"Severus, when this day comes, will you help me to keep them safe?"
Snape slumped forward in the armchair, curtains of black hair hiding his face as he squeezed his eyes shut. For moments he was back, back on that deserted hilltop, where he had knelt, pleading, so many years ago.
"Keep her—them—safe. Please."
"And what will you give me in return, Severus?"
"Anything."
But even anything had not been enough.
Lily. Dead. Gone.
His love for her meant nothing in the face of the Dark Lord, and this nothing had finally opened his eyes, brushing away the foolish juvenile desire for power and revenge that had clouded his judgment for so long. He had turned to Dumbledore in his desperation.
But Malfoy had not and never would. He had turned to him, to the false friend who had to betray him—even now.
Sometimes life had the cruellest sense of humour.
However, for now a grateful Lucius Malfoy was most useful for their cause. And grateful he would be.
Snape's head snapped up, night-dark eyes met foggy-grey ones in silent understanding.
"I will."
And he knew he would.
Somehow.
It was just before the dawn when Snape entered his empty quarters again. His report to Dumbledore had taken longer than usual. The old man still didn't trust him where Malfoy was concerned. And he probably wouldn't do so in his place.
Snape slumped on his bed, not bothering to remove his frock coat as he stretched out on the sheets, laying one forearm across his forehead. He had probably two hours of sleep left, three if he skipped breakfast, and too little time to use Dreamless Sleep and allow his aching body a period of undisturbed rest.
But as he closed his eyes, hoping that at least the nightmares would leave him alone this time, his mind was far too exhausted to fight the susurrus of a soft, female voice that found him and never left him alone until sleep finally claimed him.
He seldom slept so well.
Reviews are love :o)