Disclaimer, Credits and Thanks:

I acknowledge J. K. Rowling as the sole creator of the Potterverse and thank her for allowing us to play with her creation. I make no money from this work.

The phrase, “if he’d had the benefit of a nose,” was admittedly inspired by Manohla Dargis’ comment—in a review of the GoF film—about Ralph Fiennes’ excellent performance “without the benefit of a nose” (The New York Times, November 17, 2005).

The beta crown (and my sincere gratitude) goes to Vaughn. All errors are my own. Feedback is always welcome.

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Insidious

by Grainne

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Chapter 5: Treachery


“Ah, Severus, fashionably late? That has become a nasty habit with you since my return.”

Snape knew that his best bet was to remain silent. The Dark Lord knew perfectly well that he couldn’t always get away immediately, but if the tyrant was intent upon making an example of him, it was no use defending himself. Snape lowered his head even further and, as he was already crouched down on one knee, added a little trembling for good effect. It wasn’t difficult, given the icy temperature of the stone floor.

“After all, Wormtail managed to be on time. Didn’t you, Wormtail?”

Snape stopped trembling. He lifted his head just enough to see a familiar pair of scuffed brown shoes peeking out from behind the Dark Lord’s chair.

“Yes, Master,” came the high-pitched, whiny voice. “Always, always I wait for your summons; not an hour goes by that I do not wish to be called to your side.”

Snape sneered, although the effect was largely wasted on Wormtail’s shoes. Not an hour goes by, he thought, that you don’t whinge about doing your chores and try to pinch all my biscuits, more like.

Wormtail shuffled forward a bit more, until his trouser cuffs as well as his shoes were visible to Snape. “But, Master, it is as I said; he has not travelled from the house with me. He has been—”

“Silence!” Voldemort cried. “You forget yourself, Wormtail. Severus may suffer your insolence, but I will not.”

Snape bristled at that. He kept Wormtail bound to the house (except when summons came directly from the Dark Lord), dictated the man’s daily regimen of chores, and frequently employed verbal abuse, threats, and mild hexes to keep him in line. He’d hardly call that suffering the pathetic creature’s insolence, but then, the Dark Lord had peculiar ideas about manners. No doubt he was meant to be torturing the miserable rodent for speaking out of turn. Not a bad idea, in theory, but the Cruciatus Curse left one with terrible shakes afterward—not at all convenient if one was meant to be doing the washing up—and there was the problem of escalation. If Snape used Crucio on Wormtail for a bit of cheek, what would he have to do in the instance of burnt toast, broken glassware, or biscuit pinching? Why, he’d be forced to kill the twat by teatime on an average day.

Snape used Wormtail’s ensuing cringing and snuffling and litany of devotion to raise his head and have a look around. He noted that, apart from Nagini—who watched Wormtail’s performance with a beady eye from a rug near the fire—the Dark Lord was unattended. Apparently, the summons had only been sent to Wormtail and himself.

Snape found this curious—curious and disturbing, for the implications of the Dark Lord’s placement of Wormtail had not been lost on Snape. The Dark Lord didn’t entirely trust either of them, and setting those with proven turncoat tendencies to keeping an eye on one another was an age-old strategy. Was the Dark Lord waiting to see who would betray whom first? Worse yet, had the betrayal already happened? Snape couldn’t sort how Wormtail could have managed to see or hear anything incriminating, but perhaps it was the mere fact that the sisters had visited? Or perhaps Bellatrix had found a way to pour her poison into their master’s ear and get them all into trouble? Snape didn’t care to think on the Dark Lord’s reaction had he been told of Narcissa’s visit and the Unbreakable Vow.

“Speaking of insolence,” Voldemort hissed, pointing his wand at Snape.

Snape felt a crushing weight on his neck and back, and he sprawled forward, face squashed against the cold, rough stone. He tensed in expectation of a curse, but none came.

“Now, you may rise,” Voldemort said coldly, “and tell me what Dumbledore has you doing in Surrey.”

Oh, bugger, Snape thought. Double bugger…no, triple bugger. How in Merlin’s name...?

“My Lord,” Snape said slowly, risking a glance at Wormtail, who wore an odd smile. “My Lord, with all due respect, you have been misinformed.”

“He lies!” Wormtail squeaked in protest.

Voldemort gave a short, high-pitched laugh, which caused Wormtail to shudder. “Well, there you have it, Severus! Never mind my own modest talents in detecting falsehoods, the rat insists that you lie.”

“Forgive me, Master. I did not mean to question your powers.” Wormtail quailed as Voldemort’s red eyes bored into his own. “But, I have…evidence.”

Voldemort stared at the little man for a long moment. He laughed once more, this time a sort of wheezy hiss, and turned back to Snape. “Your humble origins will be the death of you, Severus. If you’d grown up, as your friend Lucius did, in a house full of nosy servants, you would have learned to empty your pockets of anything incriminating.”

Snape started at this seeming non sequitur. What had his pockets (or, for that matter, his upbringing) to do with this?

“Well, go on, Wormtail.” Voldemort made an impatient gesture with his hand. “I can see you’ve nearly wet yourself with anticipation. Show us what you found in Snape’s dirty Muggle laundry.”

Bouncing on his heels with excitement, Wormtail drew forth from his own pocket a crimson matchbook, which he held up triumphantly before offering it to Voldemort. “The Woolley Arms Hotel, Uppityton, Surrey,” he announced.

Voldemort took the small square of red cardboard and caressed it between pale fingers, his nostril-slits flaring. His eyes, however, remained trained on Snape.

“Master, I sincerely hope that Wormtail has not been troubling you with every scrap of parchment or ball of lint he finds in my pockets,” Snape ventured at last, mentally condemning the overly friendly (and evidently sly) waiter at the Woolley Arms to the very deepest level of Muggle hell. “I don’t deny that I’ve been to the hotel. I don’t deny that I’ve been spending some time passing as a Muggle in Surrey, but it has nothing to do with Dumbledore. It is on that point that you have been misinformed.”

Snape knew that he was taking a chance—the Dark Lord had made it abundantly clear at their last encounter that he was growing weary of Severus’s “twisty” way of speaking. Snape couldn’t help it though; it was second nature to him. Another one of his personal mottos was, “Never say anything you can’t talk your way out of later.” Of course, he had gone against that motto only a little over a month ago, in his very own sitting room, but that was no reason to abandon the saying altogether. One sometimes had to make exceptions for tearful blondes and their suspicious, psychotic sisters.

“Is that so? I wasn’t aware, Severus, that between serving two masters you had time for leisure pursuits amongst Muggles.”

“I have only one true master,” Snape murmured, “and it is for his cause that I have been visiting Surrey.”

“I don’t recall giving you any such assignment.”

“No, My Lord, you did not. I acted on my own initiative.”

“You’ll want to be careful there, Severus,” Voldemort said quietly. “Unlike your old friend Karkaroff and good Wormtail here, you’re entirely too intelligent to be taking initiative. It is tantamount to insubordination.”

Wormtail stopped bouncing on his heels and shot Voldemort a sidelong, wounded look. Snape hid his smile at this by bowing and scraping some more. He muttered platitudes and honorifics until he was fairly certain the Dark Lord wasn’t going to kill him without first listening to an explanation.

“Forgive me, My Lord. I should have come to you when I first realised the possibility; only, I thought to spare you false hope.”

“You wanted to spare yourself my displeasure if you failed!” spat Voldemort.

“Master, I wanted to be certain. For if I fail, it is only my time wasted, and no inconvenience to yourself; however, if I succeed, I will be able to offer you something that you have long desired.”

“You presume to know my desires, Severus?” Voldemort rose up out of his chair, his face an inscrutable mask. He took a step toward Snape’s bowed form. “No, no more cringing; no more boot-licking. Leave that to Wormtail. Stand and come closer, yes. Now, look into my eyes, and tell me what you think I…desire.”

Snape stared, as he had so many times before, into those eyes. They had been hypnotic once—charming, sly, almost flirtatious. Now they were inhuman.

“Harry Potter, My Lord, free of his family and Dumbledore's protection. As naked, magically speaking, as he was on the day he was born.”

Voldemort exhaled a great, hissing breath. His tongue darted out from his mouth; his red eyes bored in Snape’s. He stepped closer, so close that, if he’d had the benefit of a nose, it would have been touching that of his minion.

“Fashionably late again, Severus. You offer something that is all but within my grasp. What a pity you never offered this before.”

“Master, you know that Dumbledore—”

“Dumbledore is an old fool whose power wanes every day. At least, that is what you tell me. Regardless, he cannot live forever. All creations of flesh and stone have their weaknesses, and all must one day fall…with one exception, of course.” Voldemort gave a small smile, raised one alabaster hand and looked at it with ill-concealed admiration.

“But I have discovered, My Lord, that even if something should happen to Dumbledore, there are protections surrounding the boy.”

“You speak of his mother?” Voldemort snorted and moved away. “I don’t know why you would have had me spare her, Severus. Her talents were corrupted by her disgusting self-righteousness. It is true that, in rejecting my mercy, she caused more trouble for me than I would have expected, but I’ve already got around her by taking the boy’s blood, haven’t I?” He drew near to Snape once more and whispered, “You’re still a step behind, my slippery friend.”

“My Lord, there is more to it than that,” Snape said fervently. “Yes, you can touch the boy, even enter his mind, but the ancient magic still protects him and will, for a while longer. With all due respect, I think you discovered that for yourself at the Ministry, yes?” At Voldemort’s hiss of displeasure, Snape rushed on, “Now, you could simply wait until he comes of age, but what if I told you that there is a way to turn this ancient magic against him? What if I told you that there might be an opportunity to snatch Potter, helpless, from the one place Dumbledore thinks inviolable?”

“Are you referring,” Voldemort said, voice trembling with excitement, “to number four, Privet Drive?”

*******

Dudley had fortified himself for the walk home from the Polkisses’ with a can of lager. He’d decided that tonight would be the night—tonight he would walk through the alleyway between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk on his own, in the dark, without getting sick or shaming himself in the pants department. He’d tried before on several occasions, but had always veered away at the last moment, weak-kneed and sweating.

As Dudley approached the entrance to the alley, he drained the last few drops from the can, crushed it in his massive fist, and tossed it into a nearby hedge. If he had been capable of recognizing and appreciating irony, he might have laughed at the fact that his gang was responsible for a great deal of the rubbish that BADLAD sought to prevent from marring the suburban character of Little Whinging. But Dudley had never been one for humour of any sort other than the most blatant and crude (and all the better if it was at someone else’s expense and involved silly props, like cream pies or whoopee cushions).

Dudley took a deep breath and stepped into the alley. He held still for a moment, just listening and peering down the dark passageway. Someone was watching a sitcom with a raucous laugh track in a house nearby; someone else was playing that awful plunkety-plunk music with no words. A rustling sound from a nearby bin made him jump, but then he saw that it was just a cat. He aimed a kick at it as it sauntered by, whereupon it let out an indignant, “Mrowwwl,” and streaked away. Dudley took another deep breath and started down the alley, arms akimbo, eyes straining in the dim light, head swivelling left and right like someone watching a tennis match. He’d only taken a few steps when he saw a figure slide into the alley from the opposite end. It was tall, shadowy, and most definitely not just a cat. Dudley blinked once. Then he spun on his heel and ran home the long way round, not stopping until he was on his front step.

He received his second great shock of the evening when, panting, he opened the front door. His father and mother were standing in the hall, clutching one another, and his father was smack dab in the middle of planting a sloppy kiss on his mother’s cheek.

“Dudders!” Vernon cried, releasing Petunia with a grin.

“Darling!” Petunia cried, blushing and holding her arms out to her son. “Come in, come in—oh, you’ve just missed him. He would have so liked to meet you, you know, but I suppose there’ll be other occasions.”

“Wha—who?” Dudley stammered.

“Mr Prince,” Petunia said, “of the Royal Horticultural Society.”

“He’s going to help make your mum famous,” Vernon said.

“Vernon!” Petunia said, turning even redder. “Don’t get carried away; it’s just a flower show.”

“But when you win they’re bound to send photographers round—newspapers, ladies’ magazines and the like. From there it’s only a small hop to being asked onto one of those gardening programmes. Why, Sahara Vern will probably want to have you on 'Fancy Plants.'"

“Ooh!” Petunia squealed. “Do you really think so?”

Dudley stared at his parents, bewildered. He’d seen his father run mad before, but this didn’t seem like mad; plus, whatever it was, his mother was just as affected. He’d never seen her so excited over anything other than himself. He wasn’t sure he liked her like this.

“Indeed, indeed,” Vernon enthused. “And I also think, my dear, that Mr Prince is going to help make me very rich. We’ll be house hunting in Majorca by Easter. What do you think of that, my boy?”

Dudley thought that house hunting sounded as dull as old paint, but he did understand the word “rich” and all its implications.

“When you’re rich, can I have a Vespa?” he asked cautiously. “And one of those helmets with a torch attached, like they use for caving?” He’d never have to worry about walking home in the dark again.

“Of course, of course,” Vernon boomed. “I’ll have a new car myself, and Petunia shall have…well, whatever she likes.”

Petunia gazed at her husband with tears in her eyes, thinking of new carpet for the lounge, the latest whisper-quiet dishwasher model with special racks just for wineglasses, and shopping sprees in London. “Thank you, dear,” she said, reaching out and giving his hand a squeeze. “You’re so good to us.”

“Nonsense—we’re family,” Vernon said, turning a bit pink himself. “In fact, I move that we have a family toast. Everyone into the lounge for one final drink; Dudley, I think it’s high time I introduced you to fine brandy. ”

“Oh, Vernon, do you really think it wise?”

“Course I do,” Vernon said. “Dudders is nearly a man. It is time he learned to drink like one. Besides, he looks a bit pale—you all right, son?”

Dudley nodded. He sensed that now was not the time to mention that he’d nearly wet his pants running away from a strange figure in the alley.

“Well, the brandy will do him no harm, at any rate,” Vernon said and clapped an arm around his son.

“There’s chocolates as well,” added Petunia, as Vernon steered Dudley into the lounge.

When everyone had a drink in a hand (and, in Dudley’s case, several chocolates squirreled away in his cheeks), Vernon lifted his glass. “To the Dursleys,” he cried.

Dudley repeated his father’s words, but they came out more like, “Ooh ah urslish!”

“To us!” Petunia said, smiling fondly at her husband and son. As an afterthought, she said, “And to Mr Prince.”

Vernon chuckled and winked at his wife. “Indeed. To Mr Prince…for recognising quality when he sees it!”

“Ooh mitha pinth,” Dudley mumbled, chocolate spittle foaming at the corners of his mouth. He was reserving final judgment, but he was willing to drink to any man who might be responsible (however indirectly) for setting him up with a Vespa and a caving helmet.

They all three clinked glasses and drank.

And so it happened that right around the time Severus Snape was offering up the sanctity of the Dursley’s home as a potential boon to the most terrifying Dark Lord the wizarding world had known in recent times, the Dursleys themselves were toasting Snape’s health (or that of his alias, at any rate) and feeling like all of their worries would soon be over. Surely even Dudley Dursley could have spotted such an irony, had he been privy to the facts.

*******

After the toast, the Dursleys lingered in the lounge, grinning stupidly at one another over the rims of their glasses. Their collective euphoria could not last, however, eroded as it was by individual and more immediate compulsions. Petunia noticed that a few of the photographs on the mantel had been replaced higgledy-piggledy, and she could not resist the urge to put them back in their proper positions. Vernon decided that he would feel much more comfortable (and stable) in a horizontal position. He slapped Dudley on the back, advised him to sleep well, and mumbled, “I’ll leave you to it then, dear,” to his wife (who was now lovingly wiping down the photo frames with a cocktail napkin). He then proceeded to stumble up the stairs, out of his suit, into his pyjamas, and onto the bed. Dudley, meanwhile, realised that he desperately needed the toilet—lager and adrenaline apparently not mixing well with brandy and chocolates—and the less said about that, the better.

After attending to the mantel, Petunia crouched to the floor, where chocolate crumbs (dropped by the men, no doubt) were threatening to melt into the carpet fibres. She followed the trail of chocolate to the sofa, where she thought she could see a grease stain left by Mr Prince’s hair. She rushed upstairs, exchanged her dress for a housecoat, and was soon happily immersed in her evening ritual of tidying, wiping, scrubbing, and generally making the house inhospitable to anything that didn’t walk on two legs and share Petunia’s household aesthetics.

Her mind, fuelled by all that unfamiliar brandy, kept churning as she worked. At first she kept to small fantasies—winning at Todmorden, having her picture in a gardening magazine or two, being recognised personally by Cornelia at the annual BADLAD luncheon—but soon she was imagining herself appearing on “Fancy Plants,” co-authoring books with Sahara Vern, and having to decline requests to guest judge summer flower competitions because she would be too busy supervising the efforts of the hired help at the Dursley villa overlooking Alcudia Bay. By the time she reached the counters in the kitchen, she had even decided on, “Petunia’s Blooms,” for the name of her own gardening programme.

There would be as little dirt and sweat as possible; Petunia saw no reason why gardening programmes had to focus on soils and fertilisers and vigorous spadework. Rather, Petunia imagined the programme being set in a conservatory full of exotic pot plants, or perhaps on a terrace screened by rose-covered trelliswork. There would be tubs filled with her namesake surrounding her painted wicker chair, and the floral cushions would be selected to coordinate with her summer suits (no straw hat, clogs and old trousers for Petunia Dursley). She’d have a variety of celebrity guests on to discuss their favourite flowers. There would also be a spot where Mr Prince (or perhaps some other more photogenic member of the RHS) could offer tips on plant-buying and garden design and the like, and she herself would dispense her valuable opinions and the occasional tasteful botanical witticism. Her only other rules were that there would be no lilies allowed on the set, and that any celebrity with a suspected affinity for lilies would be stricken from the guest list. Petunia loathed lilies. She admitted that this was a somewhat obvious prejudice, but she would not be persuaded to change her mind.

“Oi! Evans! What’s this your sister says about a special school? I thought you were joining us at effing Effingham this year.”

“Sorry, Gavin. Petunia’s right. I’ve got a place at a school up north.”

“What do you want to go up there for?”

“To fully develop my specialness.”

“Oh, ha-ha. No, but seriously, we could use you.”

“Oh, yeah? How’s that then?”

“Our year is sadly lacking in the talent department. We were hoping that the first years—OW! No need to get violent, Evans. Sure it isn’t Holloway they’re sending you off to? KIDDING! Just kidding, really. It’s just that, well, I was kind of looking forward to seeing your face every day.”

“Sorry, Gavin. You’ll have to muddle along without me. Besides, I expect I’ll be back most holidays. I’ll see you around the neighbourhood.”

“Yeah, all right. It’s not the same though, is it?”

“Say, Gavin, why don’t you ever ask Petunia out?”

“Your Petunia?”

“Who else do you think I mean?”

“Why would I want to ask her out?”

“She’s your year, and you must know that she’s been keen on you for ages.”

“Er, to be honest, Lily, the lads can’t stand her. She’s a misery-guts. And a snitch.”

“Gavin!”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it? Once, Davey sent a free kick over the fence—purely by accident, of course—into the playground where she and her friends were standing around, and do you know what she did? Wouldn’t give us the ball back. She threatened to bin it.”

“And did she?”

“No, worse. She handed it over to Ms Brennan and complained that we were causing a disturbance. A disturbance! By playing football, during break time, on the bloody school football pitch.”

“That doesn’t…well, all right, that does sound like Petunia. But she’s—”

“Everton says she reminds him of a hobby horse—great long head perched on top of a stick. Says he’d rather—”

Petunia had stopped her ears up then. She’d turned right around and walked very fast until she’d found a gap in the hedge that ran alongside the pavement. She’d squeezed into the gap and had hid, tears welling, until Gavin had passed by. Then she’d cried her heart out, cursing Lily for her betrayal and cursing thirteen-year-old boys—especially the wiry, bright-eyed, freckled ones like Gavin—for their general awfulness.

For the first time in her young life, she’d been late home for dinner, but she hadn’t been scolded. In fact, despite her puffy face and the bits of twig and leaf stuck in her hair, her family had barely shown any interest in her at all. No, they had all been much too excited by a letter that had arrived via afternoon post from Lily’s new school, providing instructions (for “Muggles”) on how to obtain all of the bizarre school supplies listed in her acceptance letter.

Their mother had been in raptures over the idea of a heretofore-unknown shopping district in London. Their father had been enthralled with the idea that accessing said shopping district was going to be like something out of one of his spy novels. “A hidden pub—imagine!” he’d said delightedly.

Their mother had reminded him that they were only to pass through it, and then a lively discussion had ensued on what witches and wizards ate and drank and whether Lily would have to wear one of those pointy hats and what sort of topics would be covered in The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1. Numb with rage, Petunia had excused herself and locked herself in the bathroom, where she’d done her level best to use up all the hot water in a marathon skin-shrivelling soak.

Petunia had barely spoken to her sister the rest of the summer. Just before Lily went off to school, though, they’d had a huge row. Lots of horrible things had been said, and when Petunia had brought up the overheard conversation with Gavin as evidence of her sister’s treacherous nature, Lily had replied that she’d only been trying to help Petunia’s cause. Petunia had tried to slap her sister, and Lily had shouted that maybe Gavin had a point—that maybe Petunia was a misery-guts and a snitch, and that she’d probably never get around to making anything of herself because she was too busy disapproving of everyone else.

Shows how much she knew, the freak, Petunia thought as she rubbed viciously at the gunge lurking around the edge of the sink.

Petunia didn’t know why she was having these memories—why, she hadn’t thought about Gavin Raikes in years—but she wasn’t about to let the past spoil the present, not when she was so close to having all of her life’s choices vindicated. She already had a normal, respectable husband, a darling son, and a nice home, but soon she would be looked up to and envied in her own right. And they’d be rich.

Petunia smirked as she peeled off her rubber gloves, hung up her housecoat, and prepared for bed. Once she was tucked under the duvet next to her snoring husband, she allowed herself a little fantasy. She pictured Gavin Raikes—never having amounted to much—sleeping rough on park benches and in pedestrian subways. He’d have to scrounge newspapers from bins to keep warm at night. One day, he’d look down at his would-be blanket with bleary eyes, recognise Petunia’s photograph (the one of her and Sahara Vern and her prize-winning James Mason) and weep with regret. And Lily? Well, Lily had already got what she’d deserved, hadn’t she?

“Yes,” Petunia whispered into the darkened bedroom. But her subconscious was apparently not finished with the question, as it plagued her with uneasy dreams as soon as she fell asleep.

*******

After dealing with the Dursleys and the Dark Lord in the course of a single evening, Severus Snape desired nothing more and nothing less than tea, a bath, and total solitude. He Apparated into his old neighbourhood and hurried toward the house. The Dark Lord had dismissed Severus, but detained Wormtail, which meant that the toadying telltale might be along in a few seconds, a few minutes, a few hours, or never. Snape was hoping for the last scenario, but he wanted to reach the house first, just in case. If Wormtail did make it back alive, he would be spending the night al fresco.

Tea. Bath. House to myself, Snape thought as he walked briskly down the narrow cobbled streets. The sound of his boot heels striking the stones provided a natural rhythm for this mantra, and soon Snape was chanting, “Tea and a bath and the house to myself,” under his breath as he strode along.

So intent was he on this vision of respite from his somewhat unusual social life that he nearly collided with a hooded figure waiting underneath a broken streetlamp in Spinner’s End.

“Sever-OUF!” the figure cried, stumbling backward. Snape’s last-minute effort to withdraw his wand had involved the application of a sharp elbow to the figure’s thoracic region. Before Snape could add Incarcerus to injury, the figure gasped out, “It’s me, Narcissa.” Still clutching her chest with one hand, she used the other to pull her hood back just enough for Snape to see her face and a sliver of pale hair.

“No one was in,” she went on, still a little out of breath, “but you said last time—as I left—you said that if I had any concerns…and as I’d already come and wasn’t expected back just yet, I waited. Severus—”

“Not here,” Snape growled, seeing his fantasy evening dissolve before his eyes. “Inside.” He gestured at the house and, when Narcissa made no move toward it, he grabbed her hand and pulled her after him, as gently as he felt capable of at that particular moment (which could not have been all that gentle, as Narcissa’s “damsel in distress” look took on a whole new dimension).

Once they were in the house with the door locked behind them (and protected by a new password), Snape released Narcissa’s wrist and muttered, “It isn’t safe to speak in the open,” by way of apology. Narcissa rubbed her wrist and glared at him in such an aggressive manner that, for a moment, Snape thought he might actually be dealing with a Polyjuiced Bellatrix. But then she broke down into tears and shoved a knuckle in her mouth, and Snape didn’t think Bellatrix physically capable of the embarrassing behaviour that followed. Narcissa snuffled and sobbed and generally leaked fluids from most of her facial orifices, all the while blubbering on about how difficult life was at Malfoy Manor without her husband.

“Calm yourself!” Snape said. “What would Lucius say if he saw you like this?”

Narcissa gasped as if Snape had slapped her, but she ceased her wailing and slowly turned around.

“Please, do sit down,” Snape said between gritted teeth, holding his hand out toward the threadbare sofa. “Take off your cloak. I’ll get you a drink, shall I?” Without waiting for her reply, he waved his wand at the door to the kitchen and went on through. He fetched a bottle of the elf-made wine and a clean-ish glass and plunked them onto a tray. He stood for a moment, contemplating the tray, then added a second glass. If he couldn’t have his tea and a bath and the house to himself, then he might as well have a proper drink.

Once Narcissa was settled with her drink, Snape seated himself in the armchair, took a large swallow of wine, and said, “I’m sorry if I seemed…a bit rough…just now.”

“No,” Narcissa said quietly, slumping back into the cushions, “you were right to be angry. I wasn’t thinking, and then I...I lost control. You must forgive me. It’s just so hard without—” She broke off and looked guiltily at Snape before taking a sip of her wine. “Have I come at a bad time?”

“You’ve caught me at the end of a very busy day,” Snape said gruffly.

“Oh.”

“Meetings and such.”

“Ah.”

“Rather important meetings.”

”Oh!” Narcissa sat up straight. “Do you mean…?”

Snape locked eyes with Narcissa and gave a brief nod. He took a perverse pleasure in the mingled look of fear and admiration that crossed her face. “It is always an honour to be summoned by our master,” he murmured, “and to be able to serve him through my counsel, but it can be, as Lucius has likely told you, a somewhat exhausting experience.”

“He punishes us all,” she whispered sadly, staring down into her wineglass.

“What was that?”

A look of terror came over Narcissa. “And rightly so,” she said loudly, eyes darting about. “For we failed him before, and he showed us mercy. We must not expect—”

Snape chuckled. “Relax, Narcissa. You need not profess your loyalty to me, and the rat is away for the evening.”

But no sooner had he uttered the words than a tentative tapping sounded at the front door.

“Would that be your delightful sister, by any chance?” Snape said sharply.

Narcissa shook her head emphatically. “No,” she whispered. “I made certain that she was busy elsewhere before I came.”

Snape sighed. “Ah, well. In that case, I think I know who it is. Would you excuse me for a moment?” He received a gracious nod in reply, and he did his best not to roll his eyes as he set his glass on the table and extracted himself from the armchair. After all, he was only crossing from the chair to the front door, a distance which, given the size of the room, could only be considered significant by something the size of a Chizpurfle. In fact, unless he whispered, Narcissa would be able to hear every word he uttered. Snape stole a glance at the blonde (who appeared to be inspecting the cleanliness of her host’s glassware) and cast a quick Muffliato. He leaned in toward the door.

“Yes?” he said.

“Er, it’s only me. I can’t seem to—that is, the password isn’t working. Can you open the door please?”

“Oh, I can,” Snape said viciously, “but I won’t. And the password works very well indeed; I used it myself not so long ago.”

“You’ve changed it, haven’t you?” came the pathetic whine.

“Right in one. Now go away.” There was no immediate reply, and, for one gleeful moment, Snape thought that Wormtail had obeyed orders. Then the tapping recommenced, louder and more urgent.

“Come on, Snape. Please let me in? We should discuss this.”

“Discuss this?” Snape said indignantly. “You’ve been enjoying my protection, my hospitality, all summer and then you go sneaking off to our master, trying to paint me as a traitor?” You, Snape thought, the worst traitor of them all!

“Hospitality? I’ve been treated better as a stray rat.” Wormtail’s’ voice started to take on a high-pitched, hysterical tone. “Always, ‘Fetch this,’ ‘Clean that,’ and ‘Go to your room.’ Never letting me go anywhere, never letting me in on your plans, treating me like a servant in front of the lovely sisters, whose company—”

“Be careful what you say, vermin,” Snape broke in. “When it comes to the Black sisters, you are a servant. They are your betters. They’ve certainly been brought up to think so, and the Dark Lord obviously agrees with their assessment. Really, what could the likes of Narcissa Malfoy possibly have to say to you? You should thank me for saving you from embarrassing yourself.”

All was silent for a moment, and then, suddenly, there was a crashing thud. The door vibrated. Snape pressed his face close to the door and snarled, “Oh, well done, Wormtail! Only a gormless Gryffindor would attempt a rude physical assault on a wizard’s front door. Your prized prosthetic is no match for my power, so bugger off and find an old boot to curl up in for the night. We’ll see how I feel about letting you back in in the morning.”

“He…he will not be pleased,” came the sobbing reply.

“If I’m not mistaken, he is already displeased—with you, for wasting his time! Unless that was gratitude I saw on his face?” There was another sob, and then a squeak, and then nothing. Snape stood with his ear to the door a moment longer. When he was satisfied that Wormtail had, in fact, scampered off to wherever it was the rats of the neighbourhood betook themselves of a Friday night, he returned to his guest. She was rubbing at her ears with a perplexed look on her face.

“Nothing to worry about,” he said, resuming his seat and snatching up his wineglass. “We shall not be disturbed again. Now, what is it that’s troubling you?”

“It has to do with Draco.”

“Ah, I thought as much.” Snape took a sip of the wine. “You fear that he is…changing?”

“Well, yes. Toward me, at any rate. But—”

“He is nearly a man in the eyes of wizarding society, Narcissa,” Snape broke in.

“I know he’s not a little boy anymore,” Narcissa said passionately, “but that hardly makes him a man.”

“He has been given a man’s task,” Snape said softly. He twirled the stem of his wineglass round in his long, pale fingers, watching Narcissa closely. She met his eyes for a moment, then looked away. “Perhaps, it would be best if you at least pretend that you think him capable. Don’t fuss over him—simply let him know that he has your support, that you are proud of him, and that he can confide in you if—”

“That’s just it!” Narcissa broke in. “He no longer confides in me—oh, I know there are things a boy doesn’t tell his mother, but he has always come to me about important things. He’s become very secretive, Severus. And my—”

“A wise—and necessary—move for one engaged on the Dark Lord’s behalf,” Snape said. “Still, you are his mother, and he can hardly think you disloyal. Does he never speak of his plans to you?”

Narcissa shook her head. “No,” she said, angrily wiping a fresh tear from her cheek. “What’s more, he’s lying to my face. He slipped away from me while we were shopping the other weekend; he told me he’d forgotten some things at the apothecary’s. I tried to tell him that you would lend him whatever he needed when he got to school—I was late for an appointment at Avedacadabra—and do you know what he said? ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mother. I can’t rely on Snape. Go on; I’ll meet you at the spa when I’ve finished.’ And off he went.”

“Hmm. And he…he did not go to the apothecary’s?”

“Well,”—here Narcissa paused and took a sip of her wine, blushing as she did so—“I don’t know, actually. I didn’t follow him, as perhaps I should have. I was suspicious, of course, but I couldn’t miss my appointment. Avedacadabra’s booked solid for months, you know, and it’s the only place left that maintains the old standards. The other day spas allow Muggle-borns and half-breeds, can you imagine?” Narcissa wrinkled her nose. “How could I possibly relax, knowing that some Mudblood was in the chair before me? Speaking of which—guess who came barging into Madam Malkin’s?”

As Snape was fairly certain that Narcissa was going to answer her own question, he merely drained his glass and looked at her expectantly.

“Potter,” she spat. “With the youngest Weasley boy, of course, and that beastly upstart of a Mudblood.”

Snape leaned forward. “Did they cause any trouble?” He knew he wasn’t allowed to take House points during the holidays, but he could always complain to Dumbledore.

“They would have if I hadn’t been there,” she said darkly. “Ready to attack Draco three on one. I cannot believe Potter’s arrogance! Why, he even pointed his wand at me and insulted Lucius to my face; Severus, I don’t see how you keep from murdering the boy at school.”

“It requires,” Snape said, reaching for the bottle, “a great deal of self-restraint. More wine?”

Narcissa nodded absently and held out her glass for a refill. “I don’t know what they all see in her,” she muttered. “Acts common as dirt and looks like she comes from goblin stock.”

“Ah—who?” Snape said, puzzled.

“That Granger.” Narcissa wrinkled her nose again. “Yet Potter and friends defend her honour; teachers trip over their robes to sing her praises and do her favours.”

“I,” Snape said with a pained smile, “do nothing of the sort, Narcissa.”

“I didn’t mean you, of course,” Narcissa said quickly, waving her free hand in a dismissive gesture, “but—”

“Granger,” Snape went on firmly, “is a bossy, interfering, lying little swot who thinks she is special because she’s friends with Potter and has nothing better to do in her free time than read spellbooks. I’ll tell you what I’ve told Draco countless times: Don’t bother about her. She will get what is coming to her soon enough.”

“But—”

“Narcissa, not to put too fine a point on it, but it has been a very long evening, and I do not think you came here to ask for my help in ridding the world of Hermione Granger. Or to tell me that Potter is after a new set of robes. Or to discuss day spas. Or even just to drink my wine, unless your sister has gone on a mad rampage in the cellars of Malfoy Manor.”

Snape was teasing about the last, of course, but Narcissa’s face grew agitated. She abandoned her glass on the table and pulled her hands into her lap, clenching and unclenching her fists. Could he be right? For one wild moment, Snape entertained the thought, imagining Bellatrix smashing one hundred-year-old bottles of Elveaux and Côtes-de-Ruin. But then he saw how pale Narcissa had become, and how she would not meet his gaze.

“That’s…that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you since I arrived,” Narcissa ground out, now clutching her elbows. “Not about the wine, of course, but Bellatrix—” Narcissa broke off and stared at Snape imploringly.

Snape leaned back in the armchair. He took a breath, exhaled slowly, and steepled his fingers in front of his chest.

“Narcissa, has Bellatrix—is Bellatrix doing something that is causing you concern?” Narcissa bit her lip and looked down at her lap. “Something to do with Draco?” She slowly raised her eyes to his. Snape waited out the silence, the stillness that followed, and at last, he was rewarded. Narcissa gave a slight, almost imperceptible, nod and immediately looked away.

“She is…helping him, perhaps?”

“I don’t know that ‘help’ is the word for—” Narcissa clapped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide.

“Narcissa, I have sworn to protect Draco. You must tell me if Bellatrix is harming him in some fashion.”

“She knows I’ll kill her myself if she harms a hair on his head,” Narcissa said with a very unladylike sneer. Then she moaned, clasped her head in her hands and cried, “Oh, Severus, I don’t mean to speak ill of my sister, but she doesn’t know what it is like to be a mother! She’s—well, she’s…”

A dangerous fanatic who shouldn’t be allowed near anyone’s children under any circumstances, Snape thought, but all he said was, “Very opinionated.”

Narcissa nodded vigorously, hands still covering the sides of her head.

“And a bit pushy,” Snape ventured.

Narcissa dropped her hands back into her lap and nodded again.

“And—if I may say so without impertinence—often misguided in some of her assumptions.”

Narcissa sighed. “She still doesn’t trust you, Severus, and I fear she may be giving Draco an earful along those lines. Why else would he say those things about not being able to rely on you?”

“She has been spending a good deal of time with him, then?”

Narcissa cast her eyes upward. “I can’t seem to get rid of her! She’s forever ‘just popping round to see her darling nephew.’ Always whispering with Draco in corners or dragging him off to the grounds for long walks.”

It was very clear to Snape that Narcissa considered long walks on the grounds roughly equal to climbing Mount Everest without magic or being banished to a dragon preserve in the Outer Hebrides.

“And does he ever mention what they do on these epic journeys?”

Narcissa glared at him. “Haven’t I just told you that he doesn’t confide in me anymore? Whenever I ask, he tells me I’m not to trouble myself about it. That, for my own good, I’m to keep right out of it. He’s starting to sound just like—” She gasped, and Snape mentally winced, bracing himself for the tears and sloppiness that were sure to come. “Oh, if only Lucius hadn’t been taken!” she wailed, and promptly fulfilled Snape’s expectations.

Drawing on hitherto undiscovered reserves of masculine fortitude (or rather, threats, pleas, and the remainder of the wine), Snape managed to calm Narcissa to a point where he could question her further about Bellatrix and Draco’s activities. She couldn’t tell him much. Bellatrix visited. Draco didn’t always seem happy about it, but he never tried to excuse himself. He was always exhausted when he returned from walks with his aunt. He was increasingly testy—berating servants, abusing house-elves, and arguing with his mother about how he chose to spend his summer holidays.

Snape was troubled by this news, but he tried to reassure Narcissa, reminding her once more that Draco was a sixteen-year-old wizard who faced a daunting task without the benefit of his father’s guidance.

“But he has you,” Narcissa said, eyes shining.

“Er—yes,” Snape said stiffly. “And you were right to come to me with your concerns, but now it is late. You must leave before you are missed at home.” He handed Narcissa her cloak. “We can only hope that your sister has not poisoned Draco against me. Do not challenge her openly until Draco is safely back at school, but do whatever you can to counter her lies.”

Narcissa smiled prettily and promised to try, but Snape got the feeling that she wasn’t going to take up rambling round the manor grounds just to put in a good word for him. Citing security reasons, he hustled her through the kitchen and out the back door. “And beware of rats,” he said in parting.

When Narcissa had gone, Snape flung himself into a kitchen chair, his legs sprawling out in front of him. "Accio tea tin!" he said, pointing his wand at each of the cupboards in succession. Wormtail was forever hiding it in odd places and, at the moment, Snape didn’t feel up to rummaging for it. Tonight it came flying out of the cupboard nearest the window, shoving aside several tins of beans and an unopened jar of salad cream. The kettle was already on the hob, and, with another flick of his wand, Snape set it to boiling.

As soon as the tea was steeping in the little blue and white pot, Snape tucked his wand away, put his elbows up on the table (just like his mother had always told him not to) and rested his chin in his hands. The pattern on the teapot featured a ship in full sail, which seemingly glided along in a world filled with perpetually fair winds, tame waves and harmless wisps of white cloud. Snape scowled at the teapot. Why couldn’t his fortune hold out like that? Why, just when things seemed to be going so well on the Petunia Dursley front, did that dratted Vow have to come back and haunt him? For whatever Bellatrix was up to, Snape was certain that it was not going to make his job any easier in the coming term.

It was past midnight by the time Snape poured himself the long-awaited and much-deserved cup of tea. He took it into the sitting room, removed his boots and stretched out on the sofa. He attempted a sort of self-debriefing of the evening’s events, but it was no use. The tea was soothing, but it couldn’t possibly be expected to bring clarity to such an array of falsehoods and machinations. Snape settled for reminding himself to (1) pick up Mrs Dursley’s rose cutting, (2) talk Dumbledore into providing a personal secretary for Mr Dursley, (3) always triple-check his Muggle pockets and beware of friendly waiters, (4) make nasty insinuations about Bellatrix the next time he was in the Dark Lord’s presence, and (5) put a large crack in the cheery little teapot and blame it on Wormtail. He then promptly fell asleep on the sofa, one long arm trailing on the floor, the other flung up over his face. Unlike Vernon Dursley, he did not snore, and if—like Petunia—he dreamt, his conscious mind was kind enough not to remind him of it in the morning.