Part 1
In the garden of the Malfoy estate, Severus sat on an iron bench and stared at the small waterfall set in the rocky terrain, the stream magically cascading into a clear pond. Around him, low hedges framed simple topiary and the elegant stone paths long worn smooth from generations of use. Lush grass covered the lawn, dotted by white flowers of every shape and punctuated by trees that were deliberately planted but gave the illusion of growing wild.
Severus tried not to look at any of it.
His tailored outfit, a bit too severely cut for Lucius' taste, was a gift. Also a gift, his second wand lay hidden but pressed against his side. His first wand had been destroyed to hide the evidence of multiple Unforgivables. The book in his lap was ancient and heavy, filled with magic banned long ago, and like everything else, a gift.
Severus cherished each one, cherished living here, but he sometimes felt like he was an ornament as well, another piece for the garden. So much finer than his own home, the Malfoy garden made him feel like a trespasser, a beggar made king for a day.
He would never tell Lucius. He nursed a secret fear that Lucius would laugh, admit that the whole affiar was a grand joke played on a miserable mudblood and then watch in idle, aristocratic amusement as Severus broke apart, crumbled, and yet still followed Lucius like an obedient dog. He knew it wouldn't happen--he was sure of it--but the fear gnawed at him whenever they were apart.
The kitchen door opened and his lover came out, walking with the confident gait of someone who owns everything and everyone they see. As always, a black ribbon held back his hair, and he carried the snake-headed cane that had been his coming of age gift.
He would never tire of looking at Lucius. The youngest Malfoy cut an imposing, striking figure wherever he went. Severus had always admired him, first from afar as a younger student and then as his unlikely lover, and Lucius the boy had not been so enticing as Lucius the man.
The youngest Malfoy was also the last Malfoy. Abraxas had died only a few short weeks ago, drowned in dark magic. The official story was dragon pox, but Severus wondered if they really needed to cover his murder. Abraxas had been wealthy but reclusive after his wife's death, and no one complained about not being notified of his funeral. The disguised corpse in the closed casket had never been revealed, and all portraits of the man had been destroyed, replaced with empty frames.
Sometimes Severus wondered what it was like to drown in dark spells. Abraxas had writhed, thrashed in his dirt, glaring breathlessly at his son and his mudblood lover. The violence of darkness covering his skin like a plague, boiling out of his mouth, leaking from his eyes--Severus had turned from the horror and stood behind Lucius, who watched as his father died. Lucius made no complaint when Severus pressed against his back, even though the whip strokes had still been raw.
The pain of the whipping robbed any sympathy or feeling from Lucius, who watched Abraxas drown without a word. The sheer silence of it, the light sound of fingers scraping stone and the single cicada in the distance, was worse than any screaming.
Severus lightly touched his arm where the dark mark lay. Lucius had warned him to get used to hearing screams. He had his doubts about Voldemort's leadership, but if Lucius served the dark lord, then of course Severus would follow suit. If only to catch Lucius when it all went to hell.
Not that he thought Lucius needed catching. Even with fading welts across his back, Lucius still managed to run the estate, manage their finances, and keep up with the Ministry and the Governing Board for Hogwarts. And finalize the last details of his wedding to Narcissa.
From the first day, Severus had known about the marriage arranged years ago between the Malfoys and the Black family. He couldn't change that. When Lucius had protected him at school, had brought him to the manor and lavished him with tailored robes and gifts of rare books, eventually taking him to his bed, Lucius had never considered breaking off the arrangement. If Lucius wanted two lovers, that was his privilege.
Severus knew that he wouldn't have Lucius to himself, just as he knew that he could leave at any time. Lucius would follow for awhile, but he was no monster. He would let go if Severus truly wanted. They both knew that Severus wouldn't leave. Couldn't.
Lucius sat beside him and kissed his forehead, straightening a nonexistant kink in Snape's collar as an excuse to touch him. Smiling, he gently drew a dry leaf from Severus' hair, blown there by the summer breeze. Severus self-consciously ran his hand through his hair.
"She'll be here tomorrow," Lucius said, plunging straight into the matter. "You will try to get along with her, won't you?"
Severus nodded without a word. He had met her only once, silent at Lucius' side while the two purebloods signed a contract of marriage and discussed terms of properties. He had barely been mentioned, but her glance flinching at him had been cold, narrow. Lucius had behaved as if Severus was another bit of property to be declared, and Severus had not protested.
Narcissa worried him. Her eyes were quick and all-seeing, and the stiffness of her posture when she found out that he was a potions-master--
Severus breathed out.
"I should finish setting up the workshop," he said. "We'll need it soon."
"True," Lucius said. "I'm relieved that she was realistic about her own limitations. Some women become quite unreasonable when it's mentioned that they can't bear children."
Severus glanced at him from the corner of his eye. This was not the first time Lucius had praised Narcissa in such terms. For all his political insight, Lucus could be painfully naive about other people. Sometimes he wondered how Lucius had survived so long without him.
Some women hide it better than others, Severus thought, but he didn't speak it out loud.
"I saw the dragon's blood you left in my workshop," Severus said instead, giving Lucius a faint smile. "You're a godsend."
"Not at all. I just thought you might like it."
False humility. Severus didn't buy it for a moment. If he hadn't thanked him, Lucius would have sulked and felt anxious for days, wondering if Severus had grown spoiled or if the dragon blood had been useless or if Severus was angry with him.
"When will she arrive?" he asked. "Early?"
"I don't think so," Lucius said. "She'll likely come at mid-morning, no doubt with all her luggage and things."
Malfoy Manor was large, the largest building he'd ever been in aside from Hogwarts, but Severus wondered if they would have enough room for what she would bring. He knew from experience with Lucius how much property a pureblood could accumulate. It felt so extravagant, their abundance of clothes and jewels and furniture and other things, especially to someone who had never had more than enough to fill a suitcase.
"I'll see you at dinner?" Lucius asked, touching his hair again. "Shall I send for you then?"
"Please," Severus nodded. "I'm sure I'll be too lost in my work to remember."
"As you wish," Lucius said. "Just don't blow yourself up, that's all I ask."
Severus smiled and didn't reply. Lucius had never advanced far in potions, being much more adept at charms and curse, and several school accidents left him frustrated with cauldrons and ingredients. He could buy them, but only as gifts.
Always reluctant to leave Lucius' side, Severus forced himself to take his book and retreat into the manor, walking through the hall of family portraits. Most of them barely cast a look at him, returning to their whispered conversations. They were the ears and eyes of the Malfoy family, kept in offices where the family had donated money and gathering information for Lucius alone. Not that they would have refused to help Severus in an emergency, but tradition stated that only the patriarch of the family could demand answers of them, and Severus had never stepped over the boundaries of tradition.
Space remained along the wall for several more portraits, but only an empty frame hung where Abraxas Malfoy should have been. The portraits knew why it wasn't there. The whipping and the murder afterward had been clearly visible through the floor to ceiling windows on this side of the house.
Severus wasn't sure why the portraits never whispered slurs at him. The rest of the family was either too well brought up to sully themselves like that, or else they thought he was a useful tool. A potions master of his skill living at Lucius' beck and call? They understood having menials living in the house, and they understood that the master occasionally might indulge his baser needs with a servant.
He usually avoided the hall altogether, but it was the quickest route to the dungeon. Around the corner and down the east wing, the oak paneling and thick carpet stopped at the last door at the end of the corridor. The heavy brass key jutted from the lock and the door hung slightly ajar. There was no need to lock it, but he appreciated Lucius' overture. If Severus ever wanted privacy, he had only to close the door, lock it behind him, and he could disappear in his work.
There was no wallpaper beyond the door. Gray stone made up the walls and the steps. A few iron torches flared to life as he passed by, giving just enough light so he wouldn't fall. The stairs twisted to the right, taking him to a room about to overflow with corked bottles, broad jars and cabinets of poison vials.
His cluttered desk stood at the far end of the dungeon, covered in recipes, old books and pages he'd copied out of the grimoire. Sidestepping a stack of books and a box of empty bottles, he crossed the room and stuffed the papers he knew he wouldn't need into its drawers, putting the books in neat order and setting out the recipe he would be following for the near future.
Several copies already lay scattered about, but this parchment was the master copy, which he kept at hand in easy reach. He'd memorized it as well, but he wouldn't risk his lover's child to a fault memory. A baby made in a cauldron was the true test of any dark wizard's craft, and he wanted to present a perfect child and show he was worth all the attention Lucius had lavished on him.
He'd already cleaned and prepared his favorite cauldron, a cast iron size 40 that stood three feet high and three feet wide. He had the sage, feverfew and heather dried and measured to smoke the cauldron and prepare it for the blood and spells to come. Everything was ready except his nerves.
As always when he couldn't think, he sorted his ingredients. Peacock feathers, hen's teeth, catoblepas paws, peryton horns, human bones, a calcified fetus, and a mess of new supplies he hadn't had time to examine all needed sorting. Poisoned dragon liver, werewolf hearts, mermaid flesh that didn't rot, among a myriad of other delights--he had them organized by habitat, animal, plant, and rarity. Other masters would have killed for his collection. One had tried, which brought him to his most prized shelf, the jars that held human tissue and organs.
Abraxas was not on these shelves. As spiteful as Lucious could be, he would not allow his father to be used for parts. Severus had done his best to imitate surprise that his lover could even think that of him, and he thought he'd been convincing. Lucius had apologized for suspecting him, after all.
Instead he had the eyes, brain and other pieces of Caradoc Dearborn, a foolish member of the Order of the Phoenix who'd wanted his rarest specimens. He tapped the glass so the eyes would blink. Severus took some comfort in knowing how the slow attrition of their numbers left the Order in despair.
His hand dropped back to his side. Much like the loss of Rosier and Wilkes had struck him when he first heard. He counted very few friends for himself, and while they had not been close schoolmates, they had provided a measure of safety. No Gryffindors tortured him when he stood with another Slytherin.
Sometimes he laughed at the irony. Dumbledore claimed that there was no difference between half-bloods and purebloods, but Snape had never been brutalized by a pureblood.
He frowned. Except for Abraxas, and the old man didn't count. Not when he'd whipped his own son.
Severus sometimes thought that the scars on Lucius' back frustrated him more than Lucius. The marks hadn't faded, no matter what kind of salves or potions he tried. And while Lucius insisted it didn't matter, Severus noticed how he never exposed his back, even in the bedroom.
He shook his head.
The workshop was still disorganized and daydreaming did nothing to fix that.
Professor Slughorn had often moaned as if managing his ingredients was a chore, but Severus loved it. And since he never had money to buy ingredients, he learned to pilfer the best from Slughorn's poorly secured supply, easily creating acids from the materials in class that he used to burn the locks on his cabinets. If any Slytherins were punished with going into the Forbidden Forest to search for ingredients, he switched with them. If any were given detention in sorting Slughorn's stores, he put on a glamour or used polyjuice to take their place. As he increased his collection, he became indispensable to his schoolmates.
Lucius' first gift had been a small jar of dragon's blood. No more than a few ounces, it had sat on the shelf of Soulis' Potions Supply for months, for sale for more galleons than he'd ever have. He wondered how long Lucius had known he wanted it, if Lucius had watched him pass the display window with a longing glance. Dragon blood was some of the hardest for a potions master to get his hands on. The thimblefuls he received were difficult even for Lucius to buy.
Although Lucius thought that the dungeon was a gloomy, cramped place for a workshop, Severus thought it was convenient and wise to store valuable or dangerous materials in a dungeon where he could lock an imposing door of iron bars. He didn't need sunlight or any light beyond a few candles.
He had almost finished his work when Dobby appeared, summoning him to dinner. The elf gingerly held a hand against its side. No doubt Lucius had kicked it again. Severus waved it away before the clumsy creature could stumble into something delicate.
First a shower, then robes that didn't have dust all over them. And then he would savor this last night he had Lucius alone.
"""""""""""""""""""
The wedding went beautifully.
Severus made sure he wasn't anywhere near it.
Ensconced in his workshop, he touched the tip of a piece of ash tree to his candle until it smoked, then set the piece inside the cauldron. The gray smoke lay on the bottom, slowly curling up the sides. Once the wood was consumed, another piece would be set on top of it, and another, and another, until the cauldron was purified. The process was painfully slow, but the more thorough the job now, the better chance the child had to come to term.
It also gave him a good excuse to hide from Narcissa.
Her cold eyes had swept over the manor, the grounds and himself, calculating the worth of each. He was sure he came up lacking, the mudblood at Lucius' side like a loyal dog, to be tolerated and ignored at all times. He didn't think she remembered him from Hogwarts. She and the other older students had been idols to the rest of them.
Leaving the next piece of wood to burn, he went to his desk and picked up a hand mirror he had stolen from the attic. Made of brass, it looked like a cheap trinket that had somehow fallen in amongst someone's old clothes and jewelry. He would have felt guilty for using something of Lucius' without permission, but he needed comfort, even cold comfort.
He held it to his face. Instead of his reflection, he saw Lucius sitting side by side with Narcissa on the same garden bench, shaded by the flowering trees. They both held the knife blade in their hands, with blood trickling down the blade as they spoke their quick vows. Severus couldn't hear them. He was thankful for that.
They looked at each other awkwardly, their gaze flickering towards their faces before lowering again. The marriage had been arranged since they were children, but they had not been in each other's small circle of friends or accomplices. They had only a handful of play dates and a couple of shared classes between them.
He touched her face. She shied away out of surprise. His hand lowered, and Severus could tell that she was apologizing. Then Lucius shook his head with a smile.
"So you're giving her the 'only when you're ready' speech," Severus whispered. "And now the gift?"
Lucius was nothing if not predictable. He brought out a neatly wrapped box with a white bow and let her open it, revealing a necklace like a delicate spider's web, with crystal teardrops placed where the gold chains met. It sparkled in the sunlight as he set it around her neck.
Closing his eyes, Severus set aside the mirror. Tradition dictated the next part of the wedding, but either Narcissa would yield to Lucius' charms right then--which he did not care to watch--or she would shyly balk, and Lucius would then take her to dinner. Severus knew that his lover had reserved a place at the Wild Hunt in Knockturn alley. Either way, he didn't plan on seeing Lucius for the rest of the day. Perhaps the week.
The rest of his own day was spent cleansing the cauldron. Seated at his desk with his head propped on his arm, he drowsed until the clock on the wall chimed ten o'clock. He added the handful of milkweed, dandelion seeds and ground juniper berries, then covered the cauldron so the smoke would coalesce.
The next half an hour would be his only break for the next twelve, so he went upstairs and quietly made his way to the kitchen. A lone elf stood on a footstool washing dishes, and she cringed as he went by. As he opened the pantry, wondering what would make a good quick meal, he heard the soft clink of a plate being set on the counter beside him. He leaned back and saw a dish of roast duck and a glass of wine.
"Is this mine?" he asked.
"The master said to keep your plate ready," she nodded. "It's what they had for supper."
He schooled his face to remain impassive. So they hadn't gone out. He took the plate back to the workshop, murmuring "excellent service" over his shoulder as he went.
Three days passed the same way. Every few hours, sometimes every fifteen minutes, the clock roused him from his desk. A cup of spring water, a dash of snail shells, snips of a snake's tail, stir counterclockwise for five minutes, adding a half turn back for each full. He kept a wash basin in the corner and used it to rinse the sleep from his eyes, afraid he might forget an ingredient as he read and re-read the recipe between each step.
"Elf," he finally muttered as the clock struck three in the morning. There was no reply, but they sometimes took two or three calls to hear their summons. "Filly?"
She appeared with a small pop, carrying a tray that she set beside him, then looked up, expecting a command.
"That'll do, thank you."
Severus barely noticed her eyes widen as she made a quick bow and disappeared again. As he began eating, a fancy light soup that he barely tasted and that did little to ease his hunger, he realized his error. No one said "thank you" to elves except other elves. Grumbling at himself, he finished off the soup just as the clock ordered the next step.
No wonder he'd said thank you. As he added to his mortar freshly ground baby's teeth--naturally fallen from children's mouths, as any remains of dead infants were poison to this potion--he reflected that he felt a little like a house elf.
A week after the wedding, Severus slipped upstairs to the bedroom. He didn't know why he should walk so quietly, glancing into halls and up stairs before going on. Lucius had assured him that this was still his home. That he belonged in Lucius' bed.
When he walked into the master bedroom, he found Narcissa's dresses flowing out of the closet onto the chair and writing desk, covering the bed. He stared for a moment, and despite how he had prepared himself for this sight, he was amazed at how much smaller the room felt. He felt crowded, and for a moment he couldn't breathe.
His copy of Edeon's Treatise on Belladonna as Cure should still be beneath the bed. He didn't think either of them had noticed. Lucius tended to fall asleep quickly--he shoved the thought away and knelt at the right side of the bed, but when he raised the bedskirt, there was nothing. Standing slowly, he tried to remember if he'd taken the book with him.
"Oh!"
His heart froze. He turned his head just enough to see Narcissa at the door of the walk-in closet, one of her dresses in her hands. Neither moved.
"My apologies," he said without looking at her. "I thought I was alone."
"It-it's all right," she said, turning back to the closet. "It's your room as well. I assume you'll be returning each night now?"
With her surprise gone, there was only steel in her voice.
"No," he assured her. "I need to remain in the workshop. I only came up for my book, but I seem to have misplaced it. I'll leave you to your--"
"Book?" she asked. "Was that yours under the bed?"
"You found it?" he asked, his want for it overriding his nervousness and letting him face her.
"Yes, my first night," she said. "Were those your notes in the margins?"
At his quiet nod, she took a second look at him. He'd seemed no more than her husband's plaything before, pleasant to look at if he'd wash the smoke and residue from his hair, a little more talented than most at potions. But the notes in the book had been nothing short of inspired. She'd delighted in reading them, reeling at the possibilities they opened to her.
She set her dress down and went to the desk, pulling the small book from a drawer. Reluctantly she handed it over.
"Do you write in everything you read?" she asked.
"I'm afraid so," he apologized. "I've left my mark in most of Lucius' books."
"Really?" She made a note to visit the library and see exactly what he'd written.
"Forgive me," he started, "but while I'm here I should ask for a cup of your blood. The first offering of your blood needs to be soon, and--"
"Of course," she said, quickly turning and folding her dress. "I'll let Lucius know as well."
Her comment stung, even if she didn't mean it to. She would see Lucius first, wouldn't she? He was lucky to catch a glimpse of his lover in his mirror. Nodding quietly, he whispered his thanks and left the bedroom.
He decided he would not go back.
It was for the best, he thought, when he arranged the pillow and blanket in the corner of a dungeon cell. He'd had to move his smaller shelves of spider and insect parts, positioning it in front of his rarely used store of dried flowers, but the makeshift bed gave him a clear view of the cauldron.
It bubbled reassuringly now, swirling dark red with white streaks. The white never mixed into the red, never lightened the shade. Severus took heart at that. He'd never brewed a child before, and he shuddered at the thought of ruining Lucius' son.
Or daughter, he reminded himself, but he felt sure it was a son. He didn't know why. There was no way to know until the last moment of the process, when the infant would float to the surface and hold out its hands.
"Decided to remain here?"
Severus stood too quickly. He grew dizzy and put a hand on the wall to steady himself, and then Lucius was holding his waist, putting a hand behind his head.
"You look pale," he said softly. "More than usual, I mean. And your eyes..."
His thumb traced the circles under Severus' eyes, brushing his cheek. For a moment Severus allowed himself to indulge, forgetting only for an instant the wife upstairs. But then he gave a slight shake of his head.
"It's tiring, that's all," he said, taking a step back and slipping out of his hands.
He stood beside the cauldron, looking down. The white swirls were fading. It'd be time to add the blood soon.
"You should come upstairs when you need rest," Lucius said, but he sounded different than usual, confused and at a loss.
"It's best if I stay here," Severus said, busying himself in gathering a vial and his knife from the desk. "In case something happens."
Lucius came close again, standing flush beside him and touching the corner of his mouth, turning him to face him. Severus allowed himself to be moved, allowed the kiss that followed. He didn't push for more, and Lucius let his hand fall.
"Give me your hand," Severus breathed.
"I already have," Lucius said, confused. Then he noticed Severus' knife. "Ah."
Rolling up his sleeve, he presented his forearm, holding still as Severus made the cut. Deep, blood welled up and ran down into the vial beneath it. When it was nearly full, Severus charmed the wound to heal, adding a touch of dittany to stop any scarring.
"The next batch will be in a week's time," Severus said, corking the vial and setting it aside. "If you want, I could--"
"What I want," Lucius said, seizing his shoulders and making him face him, "is for you to take care of yourself. You'll make yourself sick--"
"I'm fine," Severus insisted. "And if I did fall ill, I can make myself well again down here."
"Severus--"
"Lucius, please."
Finally pulling free, Severus turned away and refused to look at him again. To his despair and his relief, Lucius did not press any further. He raised his hand, hesitated, and let it fall in defeat.
"As you will," Lucius said quietly and left the workshop.
Severus remained where he stood for several minutes afterward. Only when the clock chimed the half hour did he move, taking the candle from his desk to the cauldron. Careful to tip the candle and drain the melted wax first, he then touched the burning wick to the bubbling mix inside. The fire spread like a ripple across the surface of the cauldron, and the dark red color became amber.
He set the candle aside again. Barely a week into the process and he was already tired. He wondered what he would look like when the child was ready.
"You didn't use a wand," Narcissa whispered.
Severus froze. Was this what startled cats felt? If he'd had a tail, it would have puffed up three times its size. He really needed to put a bell on that door.
"I beg your pardon?" he asked when he'd recovered.
"The flame," she said, coming closer and standing over the cauldron. "You didn't follow the process, using mistletoe and your wand to transfer the flame. You just touched it and it went."
"Mistletoe isn't necessary," he said, feeling the need to defend himself. "Brewed children die most often because of cross-contamination, and if I can reduce the chance--"
"Where did you learn that?" she asked.
It was impossible to read her face. Severus had never been comfortable around women, or indeed most people, and he was still learning to read their emotions. Any time someone had looked at him so intently, they were angry and wanted something from him. But there was no anger in her voice.
"I was told it was impossible to transfer flame like that," she said, stepping so close that he could catch the scent of her rose perfume. "That it was just exaggerations the old masters wrote down in their journals to make themselves seem better."
"Who told you that?" he asked. In the midst of his confusion, it was easier to focus on what was familiar to him.
"All my tutors," she said. "And Professor Slughorn was rather adamant--"
"That self-important fool doesn't know half of what he thinks he does," Severus said before he could stop himself. "He thinks he has talent but he can't even read the damn formulas."
She backed away, surprised by his reaction. As she did, she noticed the labels on the jars on the nearest shelf. The amount of his supplies had seemed excessive to her when she first walked in. Most potion masters only used half the space he did, with their rarest prizes locked safely away in cupboards. But she saw poisoned dragon liver, sea serpent's fangs and Hungarian Horntail scales lined up beside wyvern claws and asp's venom.
She glanced around at his shelves again. Four rooms full, if the cells counted as rooms, and she suspected that the cupboards were less to hide away rarities and more to safeguard things that lost their potency in the light.
This was no vain wizard pretending to be a master.
"What do you mean he doesn't know anything?" she asked, carefully gauging his response. "He's the Hogwarts potions professor. That honor isn't offered to many people."
"If that's true, then it's a wonder anyone can make cold medicine, let alone something complicated," he said.
"His potions are successful more often than mine," she said. Hurt welled up in her voice. "I follow the recipes exactly but I still can't..."
She gazed at the cauldron and then closed her eyes.
Severus stared. Such a change appeared before him. This was not the pureblood that had sat across from Lucius to sign the marriage contract. There was no arrogance in her posture, no disdain or cruelty. She turned from him then, gazing at the ingredients along the walls.
"Fairy dust, pixie dust, vampire dust," she whispered. "No stores sell these. You gather your own. You really are like those old masters, aren't you?"
"My creations don't have poetic names," he argued feebly.
"But you can create your own recipes," she said without asking. It was obvious.
Her desire warred against the indelicacy of demanding to know how Severus did it. He could hear it. That, at least, he understood. He understood wanting to know and he understood the frustration when he could not.
And she was Lucius' wife. She was a part of his lover. To make her happy would make Lucius happy.
"I can show you," he said.
She drew back from the jars as if burned.
"I don't require pity," she whispered.
Severus also understood wounded pride. Lucius had worked to undermine his perverse pride in being poor, his refusal to accept gifts as charity, his belief that someone paying for him meant he owed them. Narcissa had never been poor in her life, but the frustration was the same.
"I wouldn't do it out of pity," he said. "But perhaps Lucius was right when he said I can't stay here forever. I can't take care of the child if I'm too sick. Your help would be appreciated."
She didn't speak, weighing his words. He knew why. Both of them were used to lies and manipulation, even in their own families. Especially in their own families. He imagined that the Black family simply kept their voices down and refrained from smashing each other into the floor when they did it.
"And you also are free from the responsibilities of being a knight," he added. "If we're called away, you have to stay here with the cauldron."
"I serve the Knights of Walpurgis as well as you," she said, putting her hand to her heart as if stung.
"I don't question that," he said quickly. "But I've practiced with Lucius, and I still feel like I weigh him down in a fight. Forgive me, as I have no idea how well you duel..."
Sarcasm was a risk. She stiffened, and for a moment Severus thought he'd have a demonstration of her dueling right then. But her mouth quirked into a strange sort of smile and she lowered her head, thinking. Nodding once, she looked back up at him.
"Very well. Teach me what you can, and in my spare time I'll continue reading your notes in the library," she said. Her smile widened. "And when you're attending the cauldron, I'll badger Lucius into improving my dueling."
When did he feel comfortable enough to smile in return? Not a true smile, not even a cocky smirk like the one she was wearing. A faint, indulgent upturn to his mouth--the same kind he was used to giving Lucius.
"You couldn't ask for a better teacher."
"In dueling or in potions?" she asked.
"Both." He picked up his knife and beckoned her closer. "Now you came here for a reason."
Grimacing, she pushed back the tight sleeve of her dress and offered her arm. As he held her arm to keep her steady, he was surprised at how soft her skin was, how warm she felt this close. He schooled his face not to react to the rough patches at her elbow, the evidence of scarring on her forearm. No wonder she wore long sleeved dresses.
He didn't hide his look well enough.
"No scars of your own?" she asked in clipped tones.
"None so easily visible," he answered. "Mine fall higher on my arms and along my back."
"As does...as does our husband's," she said softly.
Blood fell across on her skin like dark red lace. She held still better than Lucius had, and made no sound when he healed the wound. Taking care that no blood was left, she pushed down her sleeve and buttoned the cuff again, arranging the ruffle just so.
"He worries about you, you know," she said.
"I know."
He corked the vial and set it by Lucius'. Her gaze swept the desk, the poisons he kept there, the glass of water for his own use and the parchment and quill for notes and recipes. She wondered if the reason she found so little of his belongings in the manor was because most of them were down here.
"I don't suppose you might let me--" she started, but the clang of the doorbell interrupted her.
They both started and exchanged a glance, but they could tell neither expected anyone. Fear pushed out any other thought. Lucius had many acquaintances in the Ministry and the influential families, but he would have told them if he expected guests, and any of their fellow Knights would have announced themselves by floo. Narcissa put her hand into a concealed fold of her dress, grasping her wand but not yet withdrawing it. They hurried up the stairs and Severus sealed the door, locking it and camouflaging it to match the wallpaper.
As they came into the hall of portraits, the closest figure, marked "Jeannete de Malfoi," turned and whispered to them to ask if the workshop was concealed. At his nod, she turned and looked down the hall to try to glimpse their visitor.
Lucius was already at the main door. As the bell rang again, he spotted them and held up his hand, motioning for them to stay hidden. Narcissa moved behind the corner, careful to keep out of view from the nearby windows. Severus drew his wand and knelt behind the cabinet. They both held their breath as he opened the door.
TBC...