A/N: Pretty sure there are a few typos. Ah well, I hope I didn't lose too many of you with the previous chapter!
Chapter 8
Severus left that night for Hogwarts. Upon arriving, he stalked straight into his office where he locked the door, pulled out the Pensieve that he had borrowed from Dumbledore and plunked down it upon his desk. His hands shook; he stepped back, pacing twice before coming back to stare at it once more. He couldn't understand why he had such little control around Beatrice. There was something about her that drove him to distraction, which infuriated him beyond reason, and yet drew him like a moth to a flame. Even now, when he had no right, thoughts of her still filled his mind. He stepped forward and pressed the tip of his wand against his greasy temple and began to extract strand after strand of misty memories.
He plunged his head into the Pensieve and viewed the memories. When he was done, he pulled his head out and snarled. There was no reason he should feel affection her! No reason! He was rude to her, taunted her, he did everything he could to find reason to despise her (and her to despise him)... and still something about her called to him. His body ached with irrational desire when he was around her, and instead of acting like a normal wizard and trying to woo her (not that even knew where to begin), he lashed out with anger instead. He gave a hollow, self-depreciative laugh and shook his head in disbelief.
And how, how did he still have (had?) Beatrice's trust? He didn't understand how she followed his every lead, and accepted his temper as if it were normal... the only sign of her distress being those blue eyes of hers.
He put the memories back into his head and sat heavily at his desk. Elbows planted firmly on his desk blotter, he rested his lips against his joined hands and worried at a knuckle with his teeth. His mind raced as he relived the events of that day. At least he had managed to suss out Voldemort's involvement in his situation; it had nothing to do with real interest, but rather it was the Dark Lord ensuring that he portrayed a proper sense of gratitude. It seemed that he had incurred the Dark Lord's wrath by refusing to "play with his toy".
He needed to go to Dumbledore with all of this before it got any deeper, but he knew he could never do that.
He swore.
His nails beat a rapid tattoo against the desk surface. Beatrice still believed him to be a loyal supporter, and she couldn't know any different. It would be disastrous if his real loyalties were to leak out. Severus looked down at the empty Pensieve. He couldn't apologize for his actions yesterday; that would be to out of character for him. No, he had a role to fulfil. He squeezed his hands into fists, cracking his knuckles and wincing when the split skin pulled taut, and then spread his palms flat against the desk, holding them perfectly still. His face smoothed into the expressionless mien that he so often favoured.
He had to be cool, collected, and utterly calm if he were to maintain this ruse. He simply hoped that he didn't lose his soul, or her, in the process.
"Good morning."
The sound of his cold voice froze Beatrice right in her tracks.
After a restless and sleepless night, Severus had returned to Spinner's End far before dawn. He had spent his time pacing in the small space of his sitting room, before remembering himself and sitting down. His posture reflected utmost control and his face betrayed none of the emotion he was feeling underneath. He was dressed in his heavy black teaching robes, (taken from his wardrobe at Hogwarts), and sat like a malevolent black cloud, facing the hidden panel covering the stairs. He was lucky that Voldemort felt more amused than anything by their situation, but he wasn't willing to take any chances. He had thought long and hard over what needed to happen next, and what needed most right now were memories that the Dark Lord would approve of.
Now that Beatrice had appeared on the stair, it was too late for him to take the coward's way out and disappear back to Hogwarts for the day.
There was no room for emotion here. He returned his gaze to the frozen witch in front of him who looked like a deer caught in the lumos light.
God, how he hated himself.
"Beatrice, come here."
He felt her hesitation. He knew the Dark Lord would find her, and therefore his, 'disobedience' unacceptable. "I said, come here!" he growled.
She entered the room slowly, cautiously, and her hands clutched the wall for support. "Yes, sir?"
Something inside of him clenched in pain at how carefully Beatrice was treating him. He hated to have to do this to her, but he tamped down those feelings behind an icy mask.
"Sir?" he mocked her. "I am not your professor."
"Husband," she corrected, licking her dry lips.
"Ah yes, husband, doesn't that word sound better?" he drawled. He beckoned her forward, but she refused to enter any further into the room. "Come here, wife." His voice caressed sibilantly over that last word, turning it into a taunting phrase. Beatrice took a few cautious steps forward. "Come sit on my knee." He pushed his voluminous robes aside and tapped his trouser-clad right knee in a condescending manner.
She looked as flighty as a spooked rabbit as she picked her way around the furniture. She finally reached his side and nervously wiped her sweaty palms against the folds of her skirts. "I don't think this is proper."
"Proper? I thought I was your husband. Surely you can touch my leg without being overcome with the vapours." She sat carefully, balancing herself on his leg, only to jump as he began to stroke her back with his right hand.
"How are you feeling this morning?" he asked with false politeness in his tone.
Beatrice looked at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. "You're joking."
He gave a dark, bitter laugh. "Never. Now, you didn't answer my question," he chided.
Her voice developed a barely perceptible tinge of anger. "I have a terrible headache... but you would know about that."
His lips curled into a half-smirk, but he declined to answer her accusation. "Tell me, wife. Do I frighten you?"
Her boldness left her when faced with his devilish leer. "Yes..." she admitted.
"I do?" he feigned surprise. "Why is that?" Severus brought his free hand to rest intimately close to her lap. He could see sweat gathering near her temple, and fought a wince when he saw the bruise where he had grabbed her.
"You are a Death Eater."
"Ah, but those loyal to the Dark Lord have nothing to fear from the likes of me. Besides, I am not all that bad." He stroked a little further down her spine. "I feed you, clothe you, and I haven't imposed my will on you..." He let his hand drift down to cup her bottom. "...yet."
"Unhand me!" Beatrice stood, throwing his hands off of her.
He laughed darkly and pulled her back into his lap. "Silly girl," he hissed. He placed his arm back around her and she turned her head away. His hand on her cheek returned her gaze to his.
"Kiss me," he challenged her. Beatrice tried to turn her head away and he tightened his grip. He saw her eyes widen when she realised that she wouldn't be allowed to escape. Severus whispered again, "Kiss me."
He saw her nod to herself, perhaps to gather resolve, before her face tilted toward his and he felt her warm breath in small, frightened puffs against his lips. Finally, he felt her lips make their first tentative caress against his own, and he held himself still, waiting until... yes! Her lips rested warm, frightened and tender against his, giving him leave to deepen the kiss. He felt a guilty thrill go through him at that first kiss, disgust at its forced nature, and a satisfaction at finally having what he wanted, no matter how deviant the circumstances. He brought his arms up and cradled her petite body against his, letting his robes wrap around them like a dark cocoon and delighted in every small noise she made, and how she had finally—finally relaxed into his arms.
Her arms slowly reached upwards, until she had one resting on his chest and the other wrapped around his neck. As a reward, he stroked his hands up and down her back with each kiss until he could feel her shivering at his touch. One hand crept forward to cup her breast, until Beatrice jerked back with surprise at his touch.
"Please," she whispered. "I can't..." She ducked her head as if she could hide from him by not meeting his eyes. "Please, I'm not ready for anything more. It's just that... I can't... I'm sorry!"
"Hush." He silenced her with a finger against her plump, moist lips.
Severus turned his hand to stroke the same finger down her cheek. He had been mulling about what to say, how to pull of his deception, but in that moment, he decided that he could not abide someone who was terrified of him. He had to tell her some of the truth—and by chance, he spotted the perfect opening.
He cleared his throat. "The Dark Lord is, ah—displeased with you and I." Oh, how he hated those doe eyes of hers, but at least they were filled with curiosity instead of fear. This may have been the first time he had been forthright with her since they made their acquaintance. "He feels that I have been too kind in my treatment of you, and wonders as to why you haven't fulfilled your," he paused with a sneer, "your duties towards me."
"Kind?" She scoffed, despite of her fear. "We must have different meanings of the word."
"Undoubtedly."
She tried to stand, but he held her firm. Confusion colored her eyes. "Wait… He knows that we haven't...?"
"Yes, he knows." He didn't have to feign disgust at this revelation.
He raised his hand to push her long, loose hair back from her face and noticed the small, finger sized bruises that formed a pattern from her jaw to the back of her neck. He gingerly touched them, and to her credit, she barely flinched. "I did this to you?"
Her eyes flashed with anger, but she only gave a silent, hesitant nod. Severus gestured for her to stand. "Come with me to the cellar and I'll do what I can."
She followed his wordlessly to the backyard and into the cellar, sitting daintily on a stool until he found his tin of bruise balm. He unscrewed the lid and gathered some of the lavender scented balm on his finger tips. He rubbed the balm into the darkened flesh and the bruises began to heal. Beatrice stood as he put away the tin, and let her hair back down.
When he returned, he saw that her eyes were full of unshed tears. He put his hand out to cup her face, and could tell she was struggling not to flinch away from his hand.
"Why did you hurt me?" she whispered as he carded his fingers though her black hair. "Have I not done all that you asked?"
"Hush..." She must have known how he wrestled with that question himself. He never meant to harm her, to leave her as this shattered shell of herself. If only he had better control over his anger! He didn't understand why he was able to control himself around everyone but her. "I do not wish to hurt you."
"Then, why?"
She was starting to weep again, and Severus felt far outside of his comfort zone. He awkwardly opened his arms and was surprised when she leaned against him. He could feel her tears soaking the shoulder of his robes. Severus tried to find a way to explain their terrible situation without giving away too much.
"The Dark Lord...has certain expectations regarding the behaviour of his followers."
She lifted her head from his shoulder. "You said he believes that you are too kind, so… he punished you?"
"Yes," he said bitterly. "He feels that his generosity towards me has been misplaced."
"I'm sorry," she said with all sincerity. "I did not mean to burden you so."
He was gobsmacked by her apology. She apologised to him. She apologised to him. Now he felt even worse, for she had done nothing wrong! It was all him and his blasted temper, the layers of manipulation and deceit that followed him, and she had the gall to apologise first. He marvelled at the creature she was to forgive his heinous acts, and then apologise for slightest errors! He began to doubt the fanaticism of his bride. Yes, she claimed to be a loyal follower of the Dark Lord, but with her personality...there was something that just did not follow. Perhaps there would be hope for them yet. If only there was a way to get her to the Order without rousing suspicion…
"But, why would he care?" Beatrice asked, interrupting his train of thought.
"Your guess is as good as mine," he grumbled under his breath. Louder, "Come. We shall talk no more of this."
Once Severus had walked her back indoors, Beatrice had begged off, claiming the need to wash her face and freshen herself before coming back down. He nodded in acceptance, and she fled upstairs to that small room and paced futilely those few steps before coming to stand in front of the tarnished mirror over the sink. She gripped the powder blue porcelain sink and gazed at her reflection. She noted that the bruise balm had completed its job and washed off the residue.
Merlin, she hated crying; every pureblooded witch knew it was a sign of weakness.
Things just didn't add up. In her mind swirled the events of last night, this morning, and the two months they had spent together. Who was this wizard, and what did he expect of her? The combination of cruelty, tenderness, compassion, and utter disdain had left her off-step and confused.
Beatrice turned on the tarnished tap and splashed water on her face before reaching for the hand towel draped on the nearby rack.
And then, he had kissed her...
As she dried the water from her lips and chin, she remembered the feel of Severus's lips against her own, his hard body pressed against her curves, and she shivered. She hadn't expected such warmth to flow from his thin, cruel lips, and didn't know whether to look forward or be wary of their next meeting. She now realised that all of the warnings her mother had given her were true: Death Eaters were cruel. She never had expected Severus to turn his rage on her, but he had, and he was truly a dangerous wizard.
Beatrice remembered back to how everything had started. When Lucius Malfoy had come to her parents to arrange the affair, he had intimated at the cold and aloof nature of her husband to be. Her father had fallen terribly ill months before, and was slowly deteriorating before her family's eyes. Silesius Dagworth had been an avid patron of St. Mungo's, yet they could tell them no more than to say it was a "wasting disease." The Dagworths had funnelled thousands of galleons into research, searching for a cure, before it had fallen neatly into their laps.
One day, her brother, Tiberius, had returned home with a triumphant stride, saying that he had found the cure for their father. He had opened the Floo connection and allowed Lucius Malfoy to step through, clutching an emerald green potions vial. Beatrice had helped her father stand and greet the Malfoy patriarch as was customary, though he had barely the strength to rise.
Once formalities had been met, the wizards had sat around the fire, and the witches had left the parlour. Beatrice had listened shamelessly at the keyhole.
What she overheard had turned her blood into rivers of ice. Yes, the potion Mr. Malfoy clutched would aid her father, but there would be a price required. In order to provide a continuous weekly supply, the Dark Lord required, no, demanded that she be married off like chattel to one of the Dark Lord's most faithful followers. She did not know who it was until she had shown up that night.
All she had known was his position as a favourite, magical prowess, how he had little patience for less than perfection, and how it would be in their best interest to comply. It was only the love of her father that kept her from bursting into the room and demanding another deal be struck. Her father had tried to bargain, but her cooperation was the only solution Malfoy would allow.
When she and her mother had been called back into the room, her first sight had been the nearly gleeful face of her brother, the sombre face of her father, and the aloof disdain of Mr. Malfoy. She had returned the look in kind and assumed the stance expected of a pureblooded maiden.
It was easier to hide her shock upon hearing the news for the second time, and she had curtseyed, nodded in acquiescence, and then gracefully fled the room before bursting into tears.
The entire experience had felt like a twisted fairy tale, and now she found herself locked in her castle and bound to the whims of her own personal beast. Severus had offered no apologies, no promises, only vague assurances that things would change between them. What she had not realised was how complicated the situation was for him as well. She had known from the beginning that she was unwanted, but she hadn't realised that he had flaunted the Dark Lord's wishes for her benefit. Now it seemed that her reprieve was over and she had to fully assume her role as wife to her Death Eater husband.
She had every right to hate him; both circumstance and his temperament were in her favour. His treatment of her would never be considered proper, no matter how lose of a definition one used. However, she kept finding excuses for the way things were.
He was kind, she thought, in his own twisted way. He may constantly gripe about how expensive she was, but he had never begrudged her any necessity nor confiscated her dowry, as was his right. He was good—alright, marginally bearable—company and he hadn't forced himself on her. Last night's violence aside, he hadn't so much as touched her, and even then he hadn't struck her as she fully had anticipated. Looking back, it was herself that had initiated contact of any type. She had rubbed his shoulders when he was tense from botched potions, touched his cheek when he was unsuspectingly kind, touched his hand in passing, and he had asked for nothing in return. She was sure he thought about more... he was a red-blooded wizard, wasn't he?
A shiver went down her spine as she remembered the feel of Severus' fingers combing though her hair, and how he had lingered there as if he had wanted to bury himself in her hair... Oh, he was a loathsome wizard! she thought. Why did her body react even as her mind revolted against him?
With one last look in the mirror, she smoothed back her hair and lifted her chin. If sacrificing her desires was what it took to preserve her family, then so be it. Witches had been doing so for ages.
