moment twenty-five: goodbye yellow brick road (July 13, 1978).
Severus Snape sat on the bed, absently petting at the man who lay asleep in his lap, his thin fingers smoothing the pale blond hair. He looked around the small cramped apartment, located above the squalor of Knockturn Alley, and wondered why in Merlin’s name Lucius chose to come here, and why he himself chose to stay.
It was one month since he had graduated, and Severus had immediately moved in here, rather than go back to his parents in East London. His past was littered with the claustrophobic recollections of those days: his parents had made themselves a small livelihood out of running a combined Muggle and Wizard bookshop, and lived in the floorspace above it. The magical section had been concealed behind a charm to keep them safe, and Severus had been forbidden to read the Muggle books. He’d never known the reason. But he had taken up residence in the magical section and his childhood was spent amongst the stacks, reading of spells and potions and charms, idly helping his parents’ keep an eye on the customers who browsed through the shelves, as Severus breathed in knowledge from the musty pages.
For his eighth birthday, his parents had saved up to give him a beginner’s Potions Kit, and there had started the infatuation which had shaped his life. In Potions, there were only rules, and clear predictable outcomes for every situation. In Potions, he could excel. He’d done it not to make his parents notice or love him anymore: he was constantly aware they had, but he’d done it to fuel dreams of glory, and escape. His family was treated with contempt by the local wizard community for selling to and for Muggles, while the Muggles treated them as an odd lot, and the shop was usually graffitied on or broken into several times a year.
Severus had watched them pick up the pieces every time, with no hope, or even expectation that things would get better, so trapped were they by their own mediocrity, and he had sworn he would get out, and leave it behind, and never look back. It was one of the reasons he attached himself to Lucius, he supposed: a need to be taken out of himself, to forget his past, to scrub it out by creating a new present.
He absently scratched the raised flesh of the Dark Mark, shivering slightly at the touch. He had received it from the Dark Lord the night of his graduation, and it still itched, sometimes. That night he and Lucius had made love, over and over again, Lucius burying himself so deeply inside Severus’ body that he was amazed he could walk the following day. Severus was under no illusions: he knew that Lucius would have merely said they fucked, but it was better than nothing, he supposed. In Lucius’ eyes it was a political alliance, tempered by sex: the two of them supporting one another against the backstabbing mass of the Death Eaters.
The dingy flat was filled with the detritus of his life thus far: books everywhere, in boxes and on chairs. He was reduced to learning, to words on a page. On the small desk, a few Potions ingredients were set out, an urn bubbling slightly – there was always something new to research, something more he could find out, another way of exerting his control on an unruly world. He worked freelance for a middle-of-the-run apothecary’s in the alley below, mixing up dubious Potions from ingredients past their use by date. The work insulted every fibre in his body, but it paid the rent. Outside, the dawn was breaking, although the window, smeared with dirt and soot from outside, barely let the light in. Severus moved imperceptibly, ready to open the window and let some fresh air in.
And just then, Lucius stirred in his sleep, nuzzling against the younger man’s leg. “Please,” he murmured, half asleep, “please, James, don’t leave me.”
Severus swallowed, and fought back tears. It was not the first time this had happened, and he doubted it would be the last. Lowering his head to Lucius’ ear, he stroking the back of his neck softly, and forced his voice to remain steady, and not break. “Of course I won’t leave you,” he whispered softly. “I love you, Luce.” He continued stroking Lucius’ pale skin, the expression frozen on his face. He wouldn’t have left you, you fool, Severus thought, he only did because you pushed him away.
Lucius smiled and returned to dozing, curling one free hand around the other man’s back.
Severus sat there on the bed, and felt his heart break yet again. He wondered if this time, it would set properly when it mended.
moment twenty-six: like old times (December 9, 1978).
James sat at the café, stirring sugar into his coffee, absently noticing the punks who walked down the Soho street, the Mohawks and ripped clothing, the piercings and leather. Not his scene, really. He sighed, and wondered if he’d always been so mainstream.
He heard a quick “Sorry!”, and suddenly a redheaded cannonball was sitting in the chair opposite him, her handbag on the table. Lily fumbled for her purse, picking her way through bills and assorted junk: her compact, various charms, some more bills. “I just got off from lunch. You know how it is.”
James nodded, and sipped his coffee, grimacing slightly. It was now too sweet. “I do indeed.” Setting it aside, he looked at her, noticing for the first time the small changes in her face that had been right in front of him for so many years. Her emerald green eyes still sparkled, and smiled back at him, but there were bags under the eyes, and she looked tired.
Lily summoned a waiter over to their streetside table, and ordered a cappuccino and piece of cheesecake, not pulling away when James gave her hand a friendly squeeze. “You look tired,” he commented.
“Well, I should, the hours I’ve been putting in!” she commented, laughing. “Work is a nightmare, but it pays the bills. Some of them, anyway. How’ve you been?”
“Oh, doing alright, I guess. How are you managing study and work?”
Lily grimaced. “Badly. I might have to go part-time next semester.”
They sat there in silence for a while, before Lily shook her head. “Did you ever think it would be like this?”
“What would?”, James asked, curious.
“The real world.” Lily replied dryly. “Back at Hogwarts, all we heard was about the War, and now we’re in it, getting the laundry done seems more important than the latest attack.”
James thinned his lips. He didn’t like to think about the War, or rather, who might be involved with it, but Lily continued on regardless, unknowing.
“Did you hear who was killed on the weekend?”
The young man shook his head. “No.”
Lily sighed. “Professor Linitus. He was on long service leave.”
He whistled softly under his breath; he’d never liked the Deputy Headmaster, although there was a grudging respect. “Merlin. Who’s taking over as Deputy?” he asked, moving his copy of the Daily Prophet off their small wrought-iron table as the waiter brought Lily’s order to the table. Digging into the cheesecake with her fork, she mumbled through a mouthful, trying not to spill. “McGonagall.”
James nodded. It seemed a sound choice. “So, what happened with that bloke of yours?”
Lily took a gulp of her coffee, clearly in a rush to finish before she had to return to work. “Never called me back. All men are bastards. Well. There might be one exception.” She looked up at him, a twinkle in her eyes. James knew better than to trust that look. “What about you? Any girls on the horizon? Or guys?”
He squirmed, suddenly on the spot, and adjusted his glasses. “No,” he replied.
“Why are you nervous?”
“Who says I’m nervous?”
Lily looked at him. “You adjusted your glasses. You always do that when you’re nervous. It was one of the first things I noticed about you.”
James blinked, taking in the idea that Lily had noticed things about him. It made sense. They had flirted outrageously during the early stage of Fifth Year, and James had been certain something would have happened, had not…other people gotten in the way. “Dare I ask what else you filed under ‘James Potter’ in that copious brain of yours,” he asked, teasing.
Lily giggled on cheesecake, and hid her mouth behind her hand, finally managing to swallow. “Oh James,” she said fondly, gesturing with her fork, “I doubt you could cope.”
She stood suddenly, fishing some loose change out of her purse and dumping it on the table. “I have to run,” she apologised, tossing her long red hair out of her face. “Work and all.”
James reached over to place his hand over hers. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay for it.”
Startled by both the offer and the contact, she looked at him quizzically. “You sure?”
He nodded, and pressed the change back into her hand, curling the fingers around the coins. “Meet you at the same time next week?”
Lily nodded once in return and then bit her lip. “Look” she said, finally, brushing her hand through her fringe – something James had always noticed she did when she was nervous – “Do you want to go for a drink sometime?”
James pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Yeah, that’d be great,” he managed to get out. Lily bent down, kissed him on the cheek and turned to leave.
Then she was gone, lost amongst the crowd, and James was left with his tall black coffee, and a rapidly beating heart.
moment twenty-seven: ways and means (December 24, 1978).
“Are you loyal, Lucius?” Voldemort asked quietly, an innocuous cup of tea at his lips, the saucer in his hand. He could feel the fear instantly radiate from the man sitting opposite him, and delighted in it. This is his house, his realm, and I still turn him into a quivering wreck with a carefully worded phrase. Pretty good to be me, really.
Lucius swallowed, his own cup of tea lying now forgotten at his feet. “Of course I am, my Lord.”
“Didn’t stop you from being fucked by that Potter boy, now did it? You loved spreading your legs for him.”
Lucius cleared his throat, and buried the temptation to lash out at the mention of James. “My Lord-”
“What is it with you and black-haired boys, anyway? That Snape you brought into the fold, he follows you round like a puppy. Although I do get the feeling you’re the man this time round.”
Lucius bit his lip, and sat there, frozen by his inability to protest.
The Dark Lord trailed one finger around the edge of the teacup, marvelling at the patina of age the china exuded. “I offered you a great honour, Lucius. To help bring my child into this world, and you seemingly frustrate me at every turn. First by developing an affection for one of my enemy’s greatest supporters – and I admit, I indulged it, because I love you, Lucius, but in the end it had to end. As must this obstinacy of yours if you wish to truly serve me.”
Lucius breathed silently into the still room. “What does my Lord wish me to do?”
“Find yourself a wife, Lucius,” Voldemort informed him. “I don’t particularly care who, as long as her blood’s pure and her family’s powerful. She could be the most air-brained bitch in the wizard world and I would not care. All I want is a strong child, seeping in old magic, born of old blood. The woman is immaterial beyond the bringing to term of that child. You can divorce her then, or keep her round for appearance’s sake: it doesn’t matter. If the idea of having sex with a woman so disgusts you, well – you only have to do it once.”
He set the teacup at his feet, and rose. “It’s always good to talk with you, Lucius,” he said, fondly. “Oh, and lovely tea.”
moment twenty-eight: a gilded cage (February 4, 1979).
It was waiting for her when she got home from work. Lying innocuously in her mailbox, linen paper and gilt edging, the Malfoy family crest stamped in wax on the back. Narcissa picked it up, closed her mailbox, and made her way upstairs to her apartment, absently dumping her keys and bag on the sideboard once she entered. She gratefully shook off her heels, dumping them on the rug and sat on the couch, taking a few moments to pick the hairpins out of her hair, and using her hands to tease the long mass free. Settling back, she looked at the envelope on the cushion next to her, and wondered if she dare open it.
She’d managed to make herself a good life since graduating from University. Her parents had set herself up here, just off from Diagon Alley, and she worked at Gringotts’ Bank, forecasting stock futures in their Financial Investments department. She was one of the more accurate Seers they had, so she got paid a very nice amount of money – not that she particularly needed it. But it gave her something to do, and kept her from the luxurious idolatry of the rich.
Seized with a sudden impulse, she grabbed it in shaking hands, and tore away the envelope to reveal an embossed invitation.
Lucius Malfoy requests the company of Narcissa Morgan to dine with him at his London townhouse, on the evening of February 21. There was an address at the bottom, and a date by which she had to R.S.V.P. Narcissa was glad to see the address was for somewhere old and moneyed, but not too fashionable. It fitted in nicely with all her concepts of what had to go into Lucius Malfoy.
But why now, and why her? They barely communicated during school – what could he remember of her, and what would he be expecting her to be? Well, she thought, tapping the invitation against her knee. I’ll find out soon enough.
moment twenty-nine: a little case of history repeating (April 1979).
Lucius sat at his desk, idly tapping his quill against the parchment. Taking a few more moments, he wrote out a short note in a long flowing hand, thanking Narcissa for her company at the opera the previous night, and assuring her he enjoyed himself a great deal. Stamping it with the Malfoy crest, he placed it in the box of things that needed to be sent, and sat back, hands pressed together, reflecting upon the situation he’d gotten himself into.
Narcissa Morgan was a beautiful, intelligent passionate woman. She came from an old family, and the blood of high wizards ran through her veins: indeed, her pedigree was one of the best in England. He had courted her for nearly two months now, and he was aware he was increasingly fond of her. It wasn’t like James, no, but would it be enough? He was also painfully alert to her obvious feelings for him – Narcissa was clearly besotted, and so Lucius felt a pang of guilt at dragging her into all of this.
There was a knock at the door, and he pushed such thoughts from his mind. The maidservant was there, waiting to be acknowledged. In the London residence he employed human servants, and reserved the house elves for Malfoy Manor. “What is it?,” he asked, more brusquely than he meant to.
She curtsied, and begged his pardon. “There’s a gentleman here to see you, Sir.”
“Well, send him in.” Lucius had no time for foolishness. The main quickly turned, and soon Lucius found himself looking at a young man with tufty, straggly hair – already balding despite the fact he had to be Severus’ age. He narrowed his eyes. “I know you don’t I?” It was a statement more than a question.
The young man nodded, and shuffled inside. “I hung out with James and his friends.”
Lucius smacked his hands together sharply, causing his guest to jump, startled. “That’s right! Patrick, isn’t it?”
“Peter.”
“Oh, sorry. Peter then.” He gestured to a seat, and Peter promptly sat down, Lucius swivelling in his own chair to face him. “So what brings you to visit me?”
Peter hunched his body forward, and cautiously looked around, as if checking for eavesdroppers. Lucius resisted the temptation to laugh. “I…could be of use to you, and…certain interested parties.”
“Really?” Lucius’ face betrayed no emotion.
“I am still close friends with James, and Remus and Sirius, and through James Lily. They trust me.”
“And you would be willing to sell them out to an unknown party?” Lucius sneered. “How noble of you.”
Peter smiled thinly. “I think it’s pretty well known where your loyalties lie, Malfoy.”
“If you’re right, the Ministry hasn’t been able to prove it yet,” Lucius parried, leaning back in his chair.
“Perhaps so. But they trust me, and through them, I am privy to some of Dumbledore’s thoughts, and plans. Surely this could be valuable to you…and the people you represent.”
“Say I say yes,” Lucius proffered, leaning forward, cupping his hands together. “What’s in it for you?”
“I’ve been taken for granted all my life,” said Peter softly. “Always dismissed as trustworthy, or reliable, or if neither, too weak to do anything in any case. They just assume I’m on their side, because Peter does what he’s told, good old Peter.” He took in a deep breath. “I want them to fall, and I want to be the reason for it. I want them to finally realise that they can’t just use me, and that it’s all their own fault.”
Lucius smiled. “I think that they’ll have difficulty forgetting you, Peter, once we’re through.”
moment thirty: sgt. pepper’s lonely hearts club band (May 13, 1979).
Remus was reading through a book, which in itself was not uncommon. The pages were old and musty, like many of his books, and the leather bound abridged edition of Gibbon’s Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire would have been at home amongst his shelves, as indeed it was. And the most common of all things was the gentle rustle just behind his right ear, and Remus felt himself smile when he could feel the presence of Sirius Black perched upon the back of the chair, casually attempting to read over his shoulder – although right now he seemed more concerned in casually blowing just across Remus’ ear, and his scent wasn’t particularly conducive to dedicated study, either.
He may have been familiar with the distraction that Sirius now presented to him, as he often did, but that did not mean it distracted him any less. Or even that he disliked the distraction – which he didn’t, not exactly. “Whatcha doin’, Remy?” he burbled, and Remus was suddenly reminded of a five year old.
“Reading,” he murmured, almost imperceptibly. “Or trying to, rather.” His tone was supposedly reproving, but even he could hear the fondness that ran through it. “Don’t you have work tonight?”
Sirius mock sighed, and reached across to turn the page, his lips upturned in a grin. “Yes, yes,” he admonished, as if it was too difficult a burden to inform Remus of his whereabouts. Remus turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised and this time Sirius could not help but grin. “I’m just reading,” Sirius protested.
Sirius worked as an assistant manager full-time in Sainsbury’s department store in Diagon Alley, selling magical household items, in addition to foodstuffs, to the large part of the London wizard community. For his own part, Remus worked during the week at the Ministry, as a Junior Archivist, researching old charms. But now, he had the weekend off.
The shorter man smiled, and leaned forward to press his lips against Sirius’. “Of course you are. But this was my birthday present from Lily, so.”
Sirius got up from off the chair, and padded round the small living room, making his way into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. “Oh?”, he called out, body bent inside the refrigerator. “When did she stop by? She couldn’t come to the party, as I recall.”
“Last night while you were at work,” Remus responded, his fingers still tracing the lines of faded print on the page. “We had a cup of tea, chatted a bit.” He moved in the chair, attempted to get more comfortable, his neck was aching from the hours of reading. Sirius was still sipping his water, leaning against the kitchen doorway.
“What did she have to say?” he asked, and Remus didn’t need to look to tell he was waggling his eyebrows. “How is everything going in Sappy Heterosexual Land?”
The comment was met with a ‘tsk’. “Really, Sirius, if you can’t be ‘serious’, then I don’t know why I keep talking to you, honestly.”
Sirius’ voice was a low rumble in response. “Because you love me?”, and a familiar hand caressed his shoulder, Remus reaching up to pat it.
“Oh, you think just because we live together, share each other’s lives, and share my bed I must love you. Awfully presumptuous of you, Padfoot.”
The soft touch of a kiss in his hair. “Ah, but you know I’m extremely presumptuous when it comes to you.”
“So it would seem.” Finally, Remus decided to lay his book on the small table next to his chair. “I think Lily’s going to ask James to marry her, you know.” He could sense Sirius stiffening in surprise, and he looked up at him, unequivocal.
“Really?”
“Yes. She would perhaps prefer him to pop the question, but after Lucius…” He smiled sadly. “I think James is afraid of taking responsibility. Not that he doesn’t want to marry her. He just doesn’t want to be the one to ask-”
And Sirius completed it for him, as he commonly did. “In case something does go wrong, and he gets the blame.”
Remus nodded, a smile in his eyes. “A sound judgement.”
Another kiss to his hair, and a chuckle. “I’m so glad you think I’m worthy.”
moment thirty-one: desecration of the temple (December 21, 1979).
Narcissa Morgan stood on the rise of the small hill, amongst the sprawling gardens of Malfoy Manor, her body clothed in twilight, a sheet tightly wrapped around her. Underneath, she was naked. She did her best to ignore the spectacle she must be, tried to ignore the cloaked figure that stood a small way off, his wand raised, his red eyes gleaming in the night sky. Or perhaps worse, the ring of garbed Death Eaters that encircled her, softly chanting under their breath.
This was certainly not how she had imagined things to turn out. Lucius had been attentive and considerate – the perfect gentleman, but she had known that he still pined after another, and on her wedding day just a few months ago she had come to accept that the man she loved than life viewed her rather as little more than a fond convenience; a companion and friend, but no lover. There was no passion between them. Even on their wedding night, Lucius had taken her almost too tenderly, as if he viewed women as porcelain and liable to break if he tried too hard. There had been something mechanical in his love-making, a feeling he was ticking off boxes in his head. Although whatever manual he had garnered his knowledge of heterosexuality from, it was clearly lacking. Narcissa was no blushing virgin, and as Lucius had collapsed on top of her, spent, she blinked her tears away, and made excuses for him, lightly ruffling her hand in his pale silken hair. Women had probably been a non-entity for him, or alien creatures at best. He had never needed to know how to pleasure one before: he had probably never even considered it to be necessary.
In the ensuing months, he had blocked all conversations that veered in that direction, leaving Narcissa not a little hurt and lost. She had tried to be the good wife, but fondness, friendship, consideration – these were not strong enough holds on a man like Lucius, who locked his heart behind an iron cage. She decided she had to bind him to her, and the only way she knew how was to give him an heir, so she could be the mother of his child, and perhaps find a reason to keep going in that.
Three months later, and nothing. She had been to see the healers, and had been told there was a problem, that she had a ‘lazy ovary’. What then was there for her, stripped of both sexual consummation as wife and the capacity to mother. And then Lucius had sat her down, and quietly told her desperation of a ritual that was almost guaranteed to conceive a child. She was shocked, at first. Narcissa had known of his political affiliations from before their marriage, and despite her private misgivings she had not said anything, and considered herself lucky that she had not. She was merely the wife: what protection did she have, if she spoke out? Voldemort had made that very clear, and her husband had not allayed her fears.
And so she had assented, because really what did it matter? She was virtually a whore anyway, throwing herself at a man who could not love her? Who cared how many people saw her fuck? She would have a child, at least, be wife and mother finally.
She saw a garbed figure detach itself from the circle and move towards her, standing on the small rise and stripping until he too, was naked. Lucius Malfoy was lean, not especially muscular, but lean. To Narcissa he looked like some kind of sun god, his pale flesh almost glowing in the twilight.
From the circle Severus Snape watched, sick to his stomach. This was a farce, a crime against nature and most of the gods. He didn’t particularly care that Lucius was married – it certainly hadn’t stopped them fucking, but to be used in this way, for other reason than the Dark Lord’s whim, and to use his wife as well…this was not the world he’d dreamed of building. There was no order, only power run mad.
With a start, Narcissa realised that the only thing Lucius was waiting for was her. She trembled slightly, then grew angry at herself. Her family had a direct line of descent going back night on fifteen hundred years; the blood of wizards immemorial ran through her veins. She was young, and beautiful, and unashamed of her body, and anyone who thought so could be damned.
She dropped the sheet, and stood there, naked, for all to behold. No Morgan was ever a coward.
Moving into Lucius’ embrace, she tried to forget the prying eyes as he wrapped his arms around her, laying her down on the ground to kiss her breasts. Narcissa tried to ignore the tears that ran down her cheeks, or the steadily increasing chant of the circle, and Voldemort’s own voice, like death.
“…Ixiptla…Ixiptla…Ixiptla…”
moment thirty-two: mad about you (January 6, 1980).
The house-elf almost trembled as he walked, leading the guest from the front door to the Master’s inner sanctum, his study. Dobby was not liking this. No, Dobby was not having one bit of fun. He knew he was a bad house-elf – wicked Dobby! – for having such thoughts, but he could not escape them. Nor could he escape the Master’s wrath when something went wrong, and the Master had been in a foul mood the entire week, prone to fits of anger, and a great all consuming rage that he directed at any he found wanting – and he found the house elves wanting, no matter what they did. Dobby could not dare to think what may have set the Master off, although one of the gossiping laundry elves had told him that the Master had gone into his rage after reading the paper that Sunday, but he knew better than to believe an elf who was only good enough to clean clothes!
Still, Dobby would try his best to keep the Master happy, and perhaps his guest would improve his mood. This particular guest had visited the Master several times in the past nine months, Dobby knew, and the Master had usually emerged pleased, and satisfied with himself after their meetings. He could only offer up a humble offering to the Great God of Socks in the hope this would be so.
He knocked gently at the study door, and tried not to squeak when a low grunt gave him permission to enter. “A guest to see you, Sir,” he chirped, and almost ran out of the room as soon as he could, leaving the Master and the guest to talk as they will.
“You don’t look happy, Lucius,” Peter observed, casting a look across the pale, sallow face and sunken eyes. Lucius had obviously been finding no refuge in sleep. “I trust you’ve heard the news, then?”, and there was a hidden grin in Peter’s question. He bore no great love for Lucius Malfoy, and competed with him for the affections of the Lord they both served.
Lucius glared at him, his lips thinning and tried not to grind his teeth together. “Of course I heard the news, you fool,” he hissed.
Peter sat down opposite him without being asked, and smirked. “I wonder how. They certainly didn’t make a fuss: just one small notice in the Sunday Prophet. ‘Marriage of Lily Evans to James Potter.’ Were you looking out for it, or something?”
The thinner man chose not to reply. “Oh, and I suppose you were best man?”
“No, they left that to Sirius,” Peter parried back. “I was a special guest, though, due to my close and long-standing friendship with the pair.”
Lucius let that be. “You have any further news?”
Peter leaned forward, conspiratorially. “Lily is giving up Auror training.”
Now, that was something. Lucius arched an eyebrow. “May I enquire why?”
Peter grinned, and Lucius could almost feel the sudden nausea pool itself in the pit of his stomach. “Lily Evans is six weeks pregnant.”
“What?” Lucius hissed, and there was no mistaking his fury, hands clenched so tight the nails bit into his palms.
“Six weeks pregnant. You heard me. Apparently James knocked her up before they even wed.” He paused, and there was malice in his eyes. “I heard about the ceremony last month, although I couldn’t be present. Is that what it took to get Narcissa pregnant? Couldn’t do it by yourself?”
“Get. Out.”
“And yet Lily and James had no trouble. I guess life’s like that sometimes.”
“Get out!” Lucius roared, and Peter chuckled to himself, rising.
“No need to show me the way, Lucius, I can find the door myself.” He made his way towards the doorway, and paused, looking back. “Oh, and don’t worry. I’ll keep my eye on the happy family for you. Say hello to your wife for me.”
Then he was gone, and Lucius was left in his chair, bereft of anything to say. A few hours later Narcissa found him there, and immediately clutched him to her bosom like the child she had so dearly wanted, trying to offer what support she could, trying to reassure him that it was alright to let go. She stroked his hair, and whispered, gently, “I heard.”
But he never shed a tear, not for her.
moment thirty-three: finally facing my waterloo (march 4, 1980).
Severus Snape sat awkwardly in the chair, trying to pull down the robe that had seemingly ridden up his chest as he fidgeted, waiting. He could be killed just for being here, let alone for what he was about to say. It had not been an easy struggle, first admitting that he had strayed in false vanity and pride, then admitting that he needed something to do about it. Then he had somehow managed to find the strength to push a distance between himself and Lucius, although considering Narcissa’ condition (she was after all, nearly four months pregnant) it has been easier to cancel meetings, and rendezvous, and become accustomed to the absence of Lucius’ touch.
It had been quite difficult to find an excuse for coming here, in case his movements were tracked, and even more difficult to take those steps from his apartment in the morning, knowing they would lead here.
He heard the dratted bird gently chirp to itself, one more minor irritation on top of many, and heard a section of the wall slide aside, and someone walk briskly to the desk. Severus watched as Albus Dumbledore eased himself into the chair opposite, smiling softly at his visitor.
“I apologise for keeping you waiting,” he murmured, and Severus waved it away. He was already damned, for selling his soul in the first place, and then coming here, but still he found his mouth was dry with fear, and he could not speak.
“So,” his ex-Headmaster began, reclining back to examine Snape over his half moon glasses, and Severus was starkly reminded of the way he had dissected things in Potions, under that familiar gaze. He was still a student, here, and had much to learn. “Severus Snape, formerly of Slytherin House. Completed schooling in nineteen seventy-eight, and perhaps the best Potions student we have seen in a decade.” He leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. “And we must not forget, a Death Eater who bears the mark of Voldemort upon his wrist.”
Snape stiffened in his chair. He could not deny it, but how did Dumbledore know?
“What brings you here?” Dumbledore prodded gently, and Severus swallowed, trying to find some moisture so he could speak, and say the most difficult thing of all.
“I have come, because,” Snape paused, “I wish to help you.”
And Albus nodded, once. “Good,” he murmured.
moment thirty-four: the winner takes it all (August 8, 1981).
Voldemort sat, squalid, watching the fawning sycophants of followers who paraded in front of him with stories of their kills. He felt nauseous, and limited by the spectacle. The faces taunted him, with their gloating and insipid devotion. They lusted after power, and saw him as the most desirable way of achieving it.
They were punch-drunk on their own deviousness, on the thrill of their chase, the scent of blood on their skin. In a sense, it was his fault - he had bought them to his cause with dreams of glory, and he should have known that their dreams would blind them even then. And he was under no illusion of what they saw when they looked at him. He could barely remember what he used to look like, back when he was merely Tom, except he knew this could not be it. Hair, long turned grey and brittle. Skin, pale and wrinkled, peppered with liver spots. Eyes, the green hue consumed by a dark crimson. He looked old, old beyond his years; he was barely fifty, and already Time clawed at him, dragging him down and ravaging his body because it knew he could not die.
Voldemort would endure a living agony as his form decayed and he was refused release. He knew that nature would turn against him, the unnatural, and so he had prepared. Ixiptla he had created, when no-one had even attempted such a thing in five hundred years, let alone succeeded. Even the Mexica themselves had been wary of using that ceremony, too afraid of the potential backlash. What backlash did he fear, he who already defied Heaven, and brought bloody vengeance to God’s creation? Yet still Time clawed at him, Time and the uncertainty of fate.
The fools in front of him were too busy wondering about the next attack, or the petty glories of murder and theft to consider the wider perspective. They would sate themselves in the borrowed finery of the world; gold, and possessions, and power. The Death Eaters followed him because they believed that in his brave new world they would be the ministers and judges, lords temporal upon all they surveyed. True, he had promised them such power, if only because that was all their petty, narrow little souls understood. But he had greater plans. He would not be satisfied with merely changing the names and faces who ran the world; he had to tear the world down around him, break the structures it was founded upon and remake it in his own image.
But there was always the threat of failure. That prophecy haunted him. He had split the couple apart that was certain, and both were now married, with families of their own. Yet there was always the threat of renewed acquaintance, even if both James and Lucius were too proud, too stubborn, to consider it now. There was only one way he could be certain that Potter or Malfoy would not be able to align and destroy him, as was foretold. It would be difficult. The Potters had been minor targets for some time, due to the woman’s Auror status and their own close affiliations with Dumbledore. So far, they had escaped. But they couldn’t run forever, and he had many weapons to array in the fight.
Voldemort gestured with a crooked finger over to one of his brood, and summoned him before the throne. The cloaked figure bowed rather ornately, and Voldemort reminded himself to have this one killed at some stage: he didn’t need people consumed by their own self-importance flooding the ranks. Well. He didn’t need any more, anyway. “Get me Pettigrew,” he murmured, his voice sounding like ash. The Death Eater disappeared amongst the similarly attired brethren, presumably padding down the warren-like corridors in order to see if Wormtail was here, or if he would need to be summoned to their Lord.
Pettigrew would give him the latest information regarding the happy family – the man was so inane sometimes. Did Voldemort need to know that baby Harry was teething now? No! But he would be told such things anyway. Then, he would choose a time to strike. In order to eliminate the prophecy, he would have to make sure there could no further rapprochement. Which meant that one of them would have to die, and he still had a use for the Malfoys.
Voldemort sat on his decaying throne, and wondered if the Potters would scream when he killed them.
moment thirty-five: rock and a hard place (October 23, 1981).
Sirius blearily wiped his eyes, and staggered down the concrete path to the front door of the small semi-detached flat he shared with Remus Lupin, after having parked the motorcycle on the curb, locking it safe with a charm. Work today had been rather busy – well, abysmal actually. He’d been run off his feet all day, and then he’d had to race over to meet Lily and James, and discuss exactly how they were going to protect themselves, and his godson. In the midst of conversation, Sirius had had a brainwave, and luckily, his brainwave had been agreed on.
It had been relatively easy to contact Peter, and he had apparated over immediately, signalling his own agreement. As far as the world would know, Lily and James Potter, plus their infant son, would disappear off the face of the earth within the next few days. The majority of the world would also know why: the Potters had been very strident in their support of Dumbledore, and as such, they’d received death threats. A detonating charm had been found just two weeks ago at their last house, and to avoid further detection they had moved four times in the past twelve days. In addition, Voldemort and his Death Eaters were getting more personal, attacking specific ministry officials or wizards with a connection to Hogwarts and Dumbledore, as if to undermine his reputation, and cruelly mock the protection Dumbledore had offered whilst they were at school.
The Potters’ location would be known only to a select wizard, known as the Secret Keeper. Thanks to the Fidelius charm, which altered the sight of any wizard not enacted within it, no-one but the Secret Keeper would even be able to recognise Lily and James’ location, much like Muggles who walked past the entrance to Diagon Alley every day, unknowing. Of course, the vast majority of the world would believe that Sirius was the Secret Keeper: this was certainly the original intent, and the one Dumbledore knew about. But they had decided this evening to throw Voldemort off the scent by choosing as Secret Keeper the last person anyone would suspect: an old friend of James and his from school, Peter Pettigrew. Peter was widely thought to be too easy a target, too weak and liable to snap. It was like hiding out in the open: a desperate measure, certainly, but these were times of desperation.
Sometime over the next few days, the Charm would be enacted in secret by James, Lily and Peter, with his parents acting in Harry’s stead to involve him as well, and then all any of them could do was to wait it out. No-one would suspect Peter, chiefly because the other people who knew of the plan, Dumbledore, and dear Remus, still believed that Sirius held the knowledge within him.
Sirius turned the key in the lock and staggered inside, dropping his satchel, and was immediately overwhelmed by a man nearly half a foot shorter than him. “Missed me, I see?” he managed to choke out.
Remus nuzzled against him, lightly curling his lip along Sirius’ firm jawline. “Boring day at work. Missed you horribly. Started getting jittery because I needed this. Needed you.”
Sirius chuckled, somewhat cautiously. Remus could very well get like this, he knew from experience. Remus would survive forcing the wolf down every minute of every day for months, save only when the full moon came, and then one day, he would just no longer be able to win, not entirely, and the hunger of the wolf would take him. And from what he could feel, the hunger of the wolf was very much alive now, and the wolf wanted his mate.
“Had to go see Lily and James,” he said, excusing his lateness, feeling Remus almost rip his shirt out from his trousers, the other man still continuing to nuzzle and lick against the pale flesh of Sirius’ neck.
“Hmmm”, Remus responded, somewhat distracted, forcing Sirius’ legs apart with one of his knees, gently sliding his leg against the taller man’s crotch. “They’re well, I trust?”
Sirius gasped at the sudden contact, and Remus chuckled throatily in response. “Yes, they’re fine,” he managed to stammer out, feeling the wind being driven out of him as he was knocked up against the wall, Remus’ nimble fingers attacking his buttons, dragging his leather jacket off.
Smoothing his hands across Sirius’ chest to rub his nipples, Remus started sucking wetly at the pulse point on the other man’s neck, flicking it with his tongue, the iris of his eyes dilated to a point where they looked almost black with pleasure. “And the Fidelius charm?” he asked, somehow managing to maintain some semblance of his composure.
The taller man groaned, and ran his hands down Remus’ back, along his shoulders, arms, anywhere. “It’s in hand,” he said. “I’ll be their Secret Keeper, and then they’ll lay low until this bloody War is over,” he continued, lying, desperately hoping that Remus was too distracted with lust to notice the falsehood that must tinge his scent.
Remus had now expertly stripped his lover to the waist, and was firmly gripping Sirius’ leather-covered arse, still growling softly as he marked the man’s neck. “Good,” he said huskily.
Sirius arched his neck up, offering more skin, his eyelids fluttering softly at the stimulation. “Sure…you don’t want to take this into the bedroom?” he asked, panting.
He was greeted with a wicked grin. “Takes time to get to bedroom. Time that could be far better spent fucking you.” Remus bent his head to lick along Sirius’ collarbone in one swift sweep, and lowered his body so that he could suck one of Sirius’ now painfully hard nipples into his mouth, teasing the nib with his tongue.
Sirius arched into the touch with a cry, before sinking back against the wall, feeling Remus scrabble at his trousers, rubbing his erection through the leather. He sighed, and closed his eyes, willingly submitting to his partner’s slightly rough affections. He knew he would wake up tomorrow with bruises, and marks, and possibly even worse. And Remus would look at him with his sad gentle eyes, and damn himself for it.
But right now, they both needed to lose themselves in the other, and tomorrow was a distant possibility.
moment thirty-six: sacrifice of angels (October 31, 1981).
Albus Dumbledore sat at his desk, and quietly sipped his tea, letting the words flow over him. Sitting opposite was the source of the babbling brook of language, Sibyl Trelawney.
“Headmaster, some of the students do not seem to recognise the esteemed wisdom and respect that they must hold for the Prophetic Arts and their practioners,” she intoned, her gaze diffused by the large spectacles she wore. “I find it most unsatisfactory when I foretell a student’s likely run-in with detention because of their doubting, and then even when my predictions come true, they continue to question the validity of the subject. It will not do at all.”
Albus sighed gently, and looked over at Fawkes, not entirely sure if he should be gladdened or saddened by the unrelenting predictability of his Professor of Divination. In response to his questioning glance, the phoenix preened itself, removing a few moulting feathers from under his left wing. He only turned back when amazingly, he heard her voice stop, and found her manner quite distracted, her look solemn and unfocussed at the same time. “Sibyl?”
The teacup she was holding dropped from her hand, and crashed to the floor. Shards of china lay all over the carpet, its brilliant hues muddying to the dull brown of the tea. Albus may have been prepared for a lot of things, but this was not one of them.
Her gaze still curiously unfixed, she spoke in a low calm tone most unlike her normal voice. “The serpent’s heir will walk the grounds of the lion; betrayal leads him onto hallowed ground.”
Albus blinked, and quickly reached for quill and parchment, trying to jot it all down. It seemed that, miracles of miracles, Sibyl Trelawney was having a true vision.
“Deathless, forsaken, he shall bring death to the leaders of their time. Tonight he stalks, and tonight they shall die, for the lion’s den cannot protect them.”
Lion’s den? Albus’s eyebrows twitched irritably. That could only mean…But Severus would have told me, surely? And the cold, painful realisation that followed. Not if he didn’t know. Dumbledore jumped from his seat and ran to the portal that lead outside his office, opening it to bellow out “Minerva! Hagrid! I need you, now!”
Behind him, the woman continued, her voice rising in emotion. “Look to the son, old man. For only one who could not be killed can defeat the one who cannot die, and the vessel shall be his undoing, as he who spurns Creation will be spurned by his own making. The sun will be blinded by a green light, and all shall change. The rules will be broken, and the final door shall be shattered.” Her voice was feverish now, almost shrieking. “Look to the son! Only he can save us now! LOOK TO THE SON!”
If you looked very hard at the London skyline that night, you might have been forgiven for imagining you saw a motorbike flying through the air – except of course, motorbikes don’t fly. On this impossible motorbike, a young man sat, his face torn with fear, his straggly hair flying in the wind, beseeching the bike to go faster due to sheer force of will. He had felt the sudden lurch in his soul whilst on shift, and muttered some excuse about a family emergency and immediately taken to the sky. Sirius had never felt anything like it before: this terrible, wrenching pain but he knew what it had to be. He could almost point to a location on the ground and say: this is where the pain comes from, so strong was the attraction, so hollow the break in his heart. He wept, alternating between a frenzied lament and a bitter curse. “James, oh dear God, James, please don’t be dead, please don’t”, continued on throughout the night, followed by a single, whispered, “Merlin Peter, what have you done?”
Remus Lupin sat in their dining room, sipping a cup of tea, the light still on overhead, and waited for his partner to return home after work. He needed to calm his nerves after he’d come over all strange during archiving, as if something had been lost, or torn. He’d chalked it up to the stuffy air in the archives, and the lack of ventilation. After a few hours of waiting, he turned the light off, and curled up in a cold empty bed, keenly aware of the absence the hollow on the other side of the sheets made. It was an absence he would grow to hate.
And in Malfoy Manor, Lucius Malfoy crept through the household, a lamp raised in his left hand. Narcissa was asleep in her bedroom, as was his infant son, Draco, and he knew from Draco’s past behaviour that there will little chance he would awake. Draco was a strangely silent child: content seemingly to watch the world around him, with eyes that seemed too old and too hungry. Lucius made his way through the deserted wing, up the wrought-iron staircase, and along the passageway into a small room, where belongings where stacked one on top of one another, and everything was covered with sheets.
He set down the lamp, and reached out to pick up a painting that lay face against the wall, turning it over to gently wipe the dust off the surface, and set it back so that he could see it. Taking a fobwatch out of his coat pocket, he squinted at it, in the half light, and nodded sadly at the time. Turning his attention to the painting, he smiled fondly at the image: a young man, standing in casual clothes, his square-jawed face crowned with black hair that defied combing, and black-framed glasses balanced precariously on his nose.
For the second time in his life, Lucius Malfoy broke down and wept, stretching his hand futilely out to the painting, as if he could recapture the lost past. “I used to say you were a weakness, James,” he said softly. “And now, now that you must be gone, I wish that I’d been weak enough to keep you.”
SPECIAL NOTE FROM THE WEBMISTRESS: This incredible story is not yet over. This is only a teaser (well, it teased me) -- Act One of Five. If you enjoyed this, please go to Abaddon's site and read the other fics in this series (Into The Woods). You won't regret it! Some are in progress, so check his site often.
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