3. Black Cherry

He was invited to dinner at the Malfoy's the very next evening. He'd known this to be true even before opening the letter declaring it so, simply because he recognized the origin of the ebony-black owl immediately upon seeing it; also because it didn't swoop down to deliver its message to Draco, who in turn didn't look at all surprised that he was not receiving it.

All this lead up to him carefully opening the letter, skimming it briefly and slipping it without relish into his pocket. It needed no further examination; dinner ,as usual, would begin at an absurdly and fashionably late hour (9:00, on most casual occasions) and probably last until 10:00 or 10:30, whereupon he and Lucius would adjourn in the study/library for wine and cigars. They would then begin to chat about rather boring subjects that would then lead to a deep discussion about most urgent and distressing matters. Then, as conversation dwindled or came to an abrupt halt altogether, he wold stand either graciously or gravely, make his adieus and by-your-leave's, and depart a little before or after midnight. Yes, rather unexciting and predictable.

There was, he supposed as he wandered amongst his students, bent fearfully over their cauldrons, both something pleasing and something undesirable in his monthly formal visits to the Malfoy estate. Pleasing, because it showed that he was in the good graces of and played a severe but aptly agreeable guest to one of the wealthiest, oldest pureblood families in Britain. Undesirable, because while Draco made an interesting study at mealtime and Lucius could carry an entertaining (if sometimes grotesque) conversation when he endeavored and Severus never lied when he commented on the delicious food, he certainly hated getting dressed up and being that agreeable guest. It was boring, made him asphyxiate in his austere attire and reservedly charming manner, under which he kept tightly bottled annoyance. It was especially difficult when talking with Narcissa; obviously quiet by nature, having to play hostess brought out her social awkwardness. Lucius, rather than rescue either Severus or his wife, watched with amusement over his wineglass as Narcissa's ineptness caused her to babble and simper, trying to interest him with subject matter even she lost track of.

Muffled chatter in several places on all sides of the classroom broke into his thoughts. Snapping back into the present, his attention spun and zeroed in on the pair chatting most obnoxiously; he found no astonishment in the realization that one of the prattling students was none other than Pansy Parkinson, "whispering" into the ear of another Slytherin boy.

Suddenly overcome by an unfathomable irritation, he barked out a terse, "Quiet!" and stormed up to the front of the class; he picked up a stack of graded tests from his desk, turned around, and glared at them all furiously.

With instructions to collect their test once they heard their name called, he began summoning apprehensive student after apprehensive student up, handing them their tests menacingly.

When she walked slowly up to him, she didn't meet his eyes, which was unusual; she merely accepted her test and turned back, walking with equal self-assurance back to her seat.

It was only when she actually sat down that she bothered to read the comment carefully calligraphed in stark red at the top of her paper and proceed to give him a smoldering glare.

He returned her gaze levelly, thinking back to two minutes before class with his grading quill hovering over the freshly written words, glistening like blood on the page:--

Ms. Parkinson: If you cannot refrain from using that insufferable whine, then I must ask you not to speak at all.

He paused for a moment to openly consider her outraged hostility; then he looked unconcernedly away and called the name of the next student.

At 8:00 that evening , Severus Snape stepped out of his private quarters clad in stately black dress robes with the traditional white shirt and bow tie, the odor of rue with an undertone of nutmeg only just evident about him. It was the same outfit and cologne that he always wore to the Malfoy's dinners, and while the clothing was no more or less uncomfortable to him than on any other occasion, use and familiarity allowed him to move about effortlessly and silently. He arrived at the edge of the school grounds just inside of fifteen minutes, and as soon as the great iron gates closed behind him, he apparated, vanishing on the spot.

It took him another fifteen minutes to aptly maneuver the various wards and sinister safety measures that were all part of the mansion's ostensible and meticulously thought-out security system; in this manner, he arrived exactly thirty minutes early. This was entirely appropriate, as it would hardly do to make an entrance just when dinner would be starting and it was well-known to him that Lucius required at least twenty minutes to enjoy a cocktail. That evening's pre-meal indulgement turned out to be a rather disgusting concoction that Lucius called an "Orange Tuscan." By Carrying a lively conversation with Lucius on the price and limited quantity of certain poisons, he was able to avoid having any more to do with the drink until Draco, dressed to perfection, stepped into the room, announcing the start of dinner.

Dinner, for Severus, did not bring anything unforeseen. There was no grace said, as any form of religion, however orthodox, never coincided perfectly with Malfoy morals and was therefore obsolete. Lucius, however, did make a customary preliminary toast in Severus' honor, and when Narcissa, though beaming, failed to make any little anecdote of her own, Severus had the fleeting hope that she might keep her banter to a minimum this visit. He was disappointed thoroughly when, on his second bite of the appetizer, she pounced on him by initiating what turned out to be a long string of questions concerning Dumbledore's latest DADA professor. She continued her eager prattle on this and other such subjects well into entre; much to Severus' displeasure, Lucius (as usual) had little interest in helping his socially challenged wife. It was Draco who took part in conversation, Draco who would momentarily distract his mother's attention, Draco whom Severus shot looks of thanks before scowling lightly at Lucius. Throughout the meal, Mr. Malfoy spoke little, merely content to be a spectator, cold grey-blue eyes unusually amused as they darted between the trio of conversationalists. It wasn't until dessert that he actually began taking part. By the time Lucius announced that he and Severus would retire to the den for wine and cigars, the latter man was sorely relieved.

Once in the study, Lucius invited Severus to choose the wine whilst he himself found the cigars. True to form, Severus chose the driest beverage he could find and had just finished pouring two glasses when Lucius approached him, offering a box of rather costly-looking cigarettes.

Even though Lucius had said they were to have cigars, he used the term loosely or in total reference to himself, for he knew well that Severus smoked nothing if not cigarettes. Still, he look he cast towards the ones Lucius held out to him was not one of appeal.

"You know I hate luxury cigarettes."

"I wanted to surprise you."

"And we both know how much I love surprises."

Lucius rolled his eyes in exasperation, reminding Severus of the blonde in his school days. "You'll like these," he declared.

Much in the same way he liked the Orange Tuscan, no doubt. "I'm sure."

Eyebrows fixing bemusedly, Lucius slid into the nearest chair. He was not backing down completely; after all, no one refused a gift from a Malfoy.

Idly, he watched his comrade sink languidly in the seat on the other side of the coffee table. He gave a peeved sigh.

"Honestly, Severus," he said, setting the box on the glass surface of the coffee table between them. Holding up his cigar, he searched in his vest pocket for a lighter. "What gives you the impression that because a thing is expensive it is therefore bad?"

Seeing Lucius' vain attempts to find a lighter, Severus politely pulled out his own. Lucius took it with tacit thanks, lit up, and handed it back. The first puffs of smoke were instantly heady.

Severus took up his wine, allowing himself a small sip; he didn't appreciate drinking much, but the wine was good, and the sensations it left in his mouth and throat soothed him deeply.

"In answer to your question, you do," he replied, grudgingly picking up the box and sliding it open: four packages of pricey luxury cigarettes glared up at him.

Lucius gave a short laugh and looked on with intense interest as Severus lit up. "I resemble that remark. How is it?"

Severus inhaled, holding the smoke in his lungs while he contemplated his judgement. He probably wouldn't admit to it, but he was rather pleased. Not only that, but the scent was oddly familiar, and he exhaled with some amount of genuine pleasure.

He chose to ignore the Cheshire grin that Lucius was oh-so-subtly shooting him, removing the cigarette and suspending it between his index and middle fingers for scrutiny, asking casually and uninterestedly:—

"What is the brand?"

"It's Russian," and then Lucius said something in the aforementioned language that made Severus cough and choke, and ask to be pardoned.

Lucius smiled wickedly. "Otherwise called, 'Chernyee Vishnja'— 'Black Cherry'" he continued, watching Severus hack and recover.

Severus coughed once more and snorted upon hearing the alternate name. He held up the cigarette in front of Lucius.

"How expensive are these?"

"Very."

"May I torch them?"

"Please don't."

But it was still Lucius who was handing out self-satisfied grins as Severus brought his hand back down, tapping the ashes out into the smoking dish on the coffee table. "'Black Cherry'," he repeated, and he brought it to his thin lips, inhaling again, this time with some amount of prudence. "Amazing; even without that previous little elucidation, it still has potential to sound pornographic."

"No. I imagine it sounds that way only because you are the one smoking it."

After this, more coughing ensued, followed by a small tirade of grumbling from Severus, while Lucius decided ti was time to stop pestering his friend if he wished for the man to stay much longer. He instead turned the topic of conversation to his only son and heir, the pretentious-prat-shaping-up-to be-a-well-rounded-aristocrat that was Draco Malfoy. When Lucius asked for a general analysis of the boy's current state, Severus responded dutifully:

"Let me see: Head Boy this year and captain of Slytherin's Quittich team— but you know about that. As far as classes go, he exceeds in all except arithmacy, where he maintains a B average, though it seems this is due more to a lack of interest than anything else."

"Lazy brat," Lucius mumbled affectionately. "He should pay more attention; if he intends to uphold the Malfoy name, he shall require those skills. They'll be invaluable to him."

"Undoubtably," Severus agreed, "if he weren't already such a good judge of character. He's found quite a niche for himself; the network of allies and associates he has created is astounding, considering his general aloofness."

"Good, good. And what else? Any romantic interests?"

Severus shook his head, taking another sip of wine. "Too many. Your son has made heart-breaking into a sort of whimsical sport."

"That bad, hm?" murmured Lucius, grey-blue eyes shining gleefully.

"Quite. His intention seems to be to bed every single female student before the year is out— though I suspect that this is only to make jealous Ms. Parkinson, with whom he has recently fallen out of favor."

Lucius puffed thoughtfully on his cigar. "Ah, yes. Miss. Parkinson. Pansy." Cigar a few careful inches from his mouth, he gave a high and mighty sigh.

"Pansy," he repeated. "Such an unfortunate name," and Severus was secretly astonished to hear a tinge of actual remorse in Lucius' voice. He took a quick drag from his cigarette. True enough, their conversations rarely ever turned in the direction of the opposite sex (unless, of course, Lucius was complaining about Narcissa), simply because in the case of most there was little to be said. Somehow, though, Severus knew that Lucius would talk about Pansy Parkinson, and th is assurance coupled with his own morbid, self-destructive curiosity spurred him to question:

"Unfortunate? How so?"

Lucius took a moment to consider how best to answer the question, or whether or not to answer at all.

"Quality," Lucius replied at long last. "It says nothing about her quality. She is a fine young woman and the name is a disgrace to her. It is bland, common, deceptive to her true self . . . " he trailed off. Then, eyebrows shifting loftily, he gave Severus a look, a strange mixture of cunning disapproval.

"But I shouldn't have to tell you that," he drawled, implication drizzled delicately over his words.

Through a thick veil of smoke, Severus narrowed his black eyes. For the first time in a long while, he was feeling a certain animosity towards the ordinarily pompous-but-tolerable Lucius. But it was a low blow he'd delivered, to be sure; oh yes, a fine time to bring up his eye for quality.

"If the name is deceptive, then it suits her perfectly," Severus intoned, carefully removing his eyes from Lucius' unwavering gaze and drained the last of his wine.

From where he sat, Lucius puffed at his dwindling cigar, tilted his head, and looked at Severus with a curiosity that hampered his cunning air, hemming it to a bearable level.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean that her manner changes drastically depending on the company she finds herself in. She is something of a chameleon among socialites."

"Hm." Lucius stared at the carpet contemplatively, tapping his foot as he took in this new revelation.

Patiently, Severus surveyed his mildly pensive friend. It was a clandestine operation to be certain, but he hoped that by giving Lucius such tidbits of information the other man would, nonchalantly, return the favor. What exactly it was that he wanted to know, he wasn't entirely sure. Rather, he knew the question he would have answered; it was the response itself that he was undecided in his desire for.

Regardless, the ability to choose was taken from him when Lucius' voice, hazy yet sharp and adroit, floated over to him:

"And you've taken special care to observe this, have you?"

He should have been relieved at the obvious tease in his tone; at the very least, should have acted like it. The most he could manage, though, was to sound unmoved and surly. "If you spent as much time around adolescent brats as I do, you would notice such things too."

Severus didn't have to even look to know that a Cheshire grin had spread across Lucius' lips. "So, do you think— ?"

"That was not a recommendation," Severus cut him off sharply. "In any case, as head of Slytherin House, it is my duty to keep a close eye on my more . . . bellicose students. Miss Parkinson runs with a rather pugnacious crowd."

"Does she, now? She always struck me as a model of amenity. But," he said, sighing easily, "I suppose you are right, as usual. As such, I am not surprised that a girl like her has lost what little interest she had in Draco."

Severus felt something shock through his brain like an electric current; his eyes darted over to Lucius suspiciously. It was uncharacteristic of the man to speak such a way about his own flesh and blood— there were, after all, suggestions here that were hardly praising. Perhaps he could toss around such comments about Narcissa, but never his beloved miniature, the son who meant something to Lucius even when nothing else did.

Feigning salty amusement, Severus gave a soft snort and inquired,"What makes you say that?"

Staring unconcernedly at a space on the far wall, Lucius smiled softly and shook his head, blonde locks shifting in the candlelight. The look in his eye was disturbing, the unkind product of cooled greed and coy triumph.

"While faulted with a fancy," he drawled, "or a moment of weakness or two, our young coquette isn't drawn to boys her own age— or even girls, for that matter." Lucius made to seemingly suppress a delicious smile. "I daresay that her taste runs more towards those who are, ah, experienced . . . more refined, if you will. . . ."

"Men."

Lucius cast his grey eyes towards Severus, giving a solemn nod. "Yes. But, more specifically . . . married men."

The end of the cigarette flickered, its embers swayed by an unseen wind or perhaps just his breath, which was let out in a shallow exhale, shaken by the disgust worming in his stomach he had not missed the insinuation in Lucius tone, nor the way it hung thick in the air, like a heavy layer of dust or smog. He knew, though, that he didn't need to hear this.

More importantly, he didn't need to hear this in so watered-down a form from Lucius' lips, all the frankness of the sin hidden behind his couth appearance and carefully placed words. He didn't need the truth read to him, stamped across his forehead, put in words on pretty paper. And it didn't take a voyeur to know that the very chair he was sitting in was probably a prop to some ecstatic act. If he sat back, closed his eyes, and listened, he would still hear her voice as it echoed in the room, her moans embedded in the walls; he would smell her sweat, her scent seeped into the furniture— all of the furniture. No man in an acceptably sane frame of mind would have the audacity to bring a young woman such as her into this particular study and not make use of every blood scrap of furniture, every wall, every little bit of floor he could get to—

Severus squirmed. All this thinking was making him uncomfortable.

From somewhere far away, Lucius asked:

". . . Do you like your cigarette?"

Severus blinked and cast his eyes to the crumple cigarette in his hand. It had somehow gone out. "Yes," he responded.

Overcome with an immense need to calm down, he ditched the cigarette stub in the dish on the coffee table, then hastily pulled another from the box. To hell with Lucius and that shit-eating smile Severus knew was being sent his way; he brought the new bud to his lighter and ignited the tip, feeling nearly instant gratification upon the first inhale.

Enlivened, Lucius recovered from the rest of his meditative stupor and smirked ferally. "So: my gift was acceptable?"

Deciding to play along and indulge Lucius' teasing tone, Severus threw his cold black eyes at his blonde friend; sneering deliberately, he exhaled through his nose in answer.

In a distinctly crude manner that would have made dead aristocrats roll over in their graves, Lucius soured and made a face that clearly said, "eww".

"I hate it when you do that," he vocalized.

Severus took another toke and set his wrist down on the chair's arm, keeping the cigarette suspended. "Why?" he asked, tone both challenging and mocking. "Because it is bad smoking etiquette?"

"No; because I am always forced to picture the insides of your nostrils turning black, much the same way as your lungs. . . ."

And so conversation moved on. By the time Severus left at 12:06 A.M. he had gone through but half a pack of his new luxury cigarettes and two glasses of wine were sitting in his stomach. Pansy Parkinson had not come up again.

A/N: there you go. Now i've only got one more chapter.