Dear Severus,
I realize school will be starting soon. If at all possible, I’d like you to visit before such time.
There’s someone I’d like you to meet.
Your friend, Lucius

Severus read the note again, his interest piqued. Who might Lucius want him to meet? Not a girl, certainly, since he was happily married. For the briefest moment he let himself think Lucius had found a girl for Severus himself, then the delusion melted away. Pureblood, high society, rich people had no interest in making acquaintance with half-blood poverty cases like him. If circumstances had been different, he doubted Lucius would have given him the time of day on their first encounter. And anyway, Lily was the only girl he cared to know, even if she insisted on hanging around with that despicable Potter and his group of moron friends.

He put on the best clothes he had, ashamed to think they’d come from the donation box at a local church. While tempted to blame his father for drinking the money away, he couldn’t in good conscience do so. Tobias worked hard at a low-paying, dead end job; with his lack of proper schooling, it was the best he could get. As much as Severus hated the drinking, he understood it for what it was—an escape, the only escape available short of abandoning the family or suicide. He wholly empathized with the desire to flee from a painful existence, yet be helpless to do so. Let the rest of the world think what they would, Severus respected the choice to fulfill duty, despite its lack of material reward.

It was time; Lucius would be expecting him. He peeked into the kitchen. “Mum, is Dad gone to work?”

“Yes, why?”

“I’m going to visit Lucius Malfoy.” He watched her face for reaction, noticed the faint knitting of her brow at the mention of his name.

“Be back before your father gets home,” she said, staring at the pot she was stirring.

“I will.” In the living room he took a handful of Floo powder, stepped into the fireplace, and said, “Malfoy Manor.”

Lucius was indeed waiting for him. He arose from his chair with a smile, extending his hand. “Severus, how have you been?”

“Just fine,” he lied, shaking the offered hand. “And you?”

“Likewise.” A twinkle of excitement in Lucius’ eyes made him seem younger than the inscrutable, stony man he showed to the world. “I’d like you to meet my son.”

Severus, who prided himself on his own control over his emotions and expressions, gaped like a simpleton. “Your son! You never told me Narcissa was pregnant!”

“No, no, no,” Lucius shushed him, waving a hand. “I’m—we’re going to adopt an heir.”

Puzzled, Severus asked, “Why? You’re only twenty, you have plenty of time to have a son.”

Lucius’ good mood evaporated in a flash and he dropped his head, shaking it sadly. “We found out a few weeks ago that Narcissa can’t bear children. She’s infertile.”

“Oh.” What could he say to that? “I’m sorry.”

“So am I. But we do what we have to do, right?” His cheery attempt to lighten the mood failed miserably.

“Don’t you think it’s a little soon to be adopting after just finding out? I mean, how is Narcissa taking it?” asked Snape.

“The infertility or the adoption?” said Lucius snidely. “The answer to both is ‘very poorly’.”

“Is she taking anything, any medicine or potion?”

Lucius nodded and sat down, gesturing for his friend to do the same. “My father is giving her Origo Concipere. Unfortunately, although it’s the best available, results are rare.”

“Hmm.” Severus closed his eyes, silently running through every potion he knew relating to fertility in any way. This one was purported to be the best; Abraxas was right in trying it. If it didn’t work—and it likely wouldn’t—Lucius would have no choice except adoption. Or… “Lucius, have you thought to use a substitute?” he proposed delicately, using the euphemism for ‘concubine’.

“No,” Lucius answered curtly.

“It’s permitted in the wizarding world to produce an heir,” Severus continued doggedly.

“Malfoys do not use them,” Lucius insisted, taking on an affronted air.

“Why, because they’re so much better than everyone else?” Severus taunted, feeling slightly guilty for provoking him at a time like this.

Lucius didn’t seem to notice. In fact, he seemed a bit confused. “You were at our wedding, Severus. Which part of the Unbreakable Vow of fidelity didn’t you understand?”

Completely deflated, Severus sheepishly hung his head. “I forgot about that. It’s not exactly common, you know.”

“For Malfoys it is. It’s required at all Malfoy weddings, probably to insure the heir really is an heir, and not some bastard child,” he explained with a wry grin.

Snape nodded. It made perfect sense. “If it weren’t for the vow, would you sire a successor that way?”

“No,” answered Lucius without hesitation. “I don’t need a vow to make me want to be true to my wife.”

A new respect for his friend shone in Severus’ eyes. Of all the men he saw in his neighborhood, he doubted more than a tiny percentage were faithful. He liked to think his father was one of the few. He found it encouraging to know Lucius differed from the majority of the stuck-up, aristocratic wizards.

His ruminations were interrupted by Lucius inquiring, “Severus, could I ask you a favor?”

“Of course.”

“You’re as good as Professor Slughorn at potion-making, maybe even better. Could you… would it be possible to make Narcissa a more effective potion?” Lucius’ gray eyes locked on him, imploring in a way he’d never permit himself to ask outright.

Flattered, but abashed, Severus uttered, “You may be asking for a miracle, which I’m not in a position to provide.”

“I’m not asking you to be God, Severus, I’m just asking you to try to invent a better potion. I’ll pay for whatever you need.” The steady gaze had not wavered, the flicker of something primal resting just out of reach of scrutiny.

“I,” Severus began, ready to say it was an impossible quest, and how could he be expected to succeed? Looking at his friend, he perceived two things he couldn’t bear to extinguish, not without a fight: belief in Severus, and hope. Lucius was his best friend in the world…possibly his only real friend…and he was lowering his defensive shields to beg for help. How could Severus dash his hope without even attempting this task?

On the other hand, he couldn’t very well let Lucius get too excited over something that wasn’t likely to materialize. “I’ll try, Lucius, but concocting new potions is tricky and time-consuming, even dangerous. Finding one that works without poisoning your wife will be difficult, and there’s no telling how long it might take.”

Tight-lipped, Lucius nodded his understanding. “We have nothing but time.”

“This boy you’re adopting… what becomes of him if you do have a son?” Severus queried.

“He’ll still be my heir—or joint heir,” he conceded with a mirthless laugh. “I couldn’t very well throw him out or slight my own.” Then he added quietly, “Narcissa so very much wants a baby.”

As if you don’t? Severus thought. Despite the fact that he’d been practicing Legilimency for years, he’d never used it intentionally on his family or friends… well, Lucius. He honestly couldn’t count anyone else as real friends. He didn’t need his skill to read between the lines, to see the heartache this news of infertility had brought.

“Come on, Severus. Come and meet Damien.”

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Forty minutes. That impudent child had spent forty minutes squatting on the floor at her feet staring up at her while she read. It was enough to drive her mad. Pretending he wasn’t there hadn’t worked; gentle hints to be on his way had been ineffective.

“Damien, must you stare at me?” asked Narcissa, trying not to look at the lad.

“No, Mother,” he answered, eyes never wavering.

“Then why are you doing it?” she clipped, teeth beginning to clench.

“I’m bored, Mother.”

“Call me Miss Narcissa,” she instructed, laying aside her book. She’d not grasped a single page she’d read anyway.

“Father said to call you Mother,” he replied, his lips curling into a typical, obviously genetic Malfoy sneer she wanted to smack off his face, and felt guilty for wanting to do.

“My husband does not speak for me. When he gets home from work, I’ll have a talk with him.”

“You mean you’ll fight with him like you did yesterday and the day before?” Damien asked, looking ever so innocent, not fooling Narcissa. The only way he could have known they’d been fighting was by sneaking about outside their bedroom door.

Eyes narrowing, Narcissa bent down face to face, speaking in a low, menacing tone. “I suggest you mind your own business, Damien. Little boys who creep around where they shouldn’t can get into quite a lot of trouble.”

The child scooted away from her, his expression one of utter terror. “I’ll be good, Mother, don’t hurt me!”

“I didn’t say I’d hurt you,” she gushed, feeling guilty all over again. She reached out a hand, prompting him to throw his arms in front of his face for protection.

“Don’t, Mother!”

“Narcissa, what is going on?” demanded Abraxas from the doorway. He still had on his work robes, and he looked sincerely perturbed, even outright concerned for the boy.

She turned toward him, feeling blood rising in her cheeks. “I don’t know. I didn’t do anything to him,” she replied defensively, standing up. Damien scuttled back a bit more.

Abraxas shot her an odd look. He motioned with his cane to the boy. “Come along, Damien.”

The lad hopped up and raced to the doorway to be nestled under the protective arm of the patriarch. He gazed up adoringly at the man, who said curtly to Narcissa, “As Damien’s mother, it’s your responsibility to see to it he has a good tutor and a flying coach. Perhaps tomorrow you might busy yourself with this chore.” Before she could respond indignantly to his veiled command, he spun around and guided the child out. Damien glanced back at her, smiling triumphantly.

“That little brat!” she seethed to herself. On more careful reflection, she noted how Damien had a perfect view of the doorway from where he sat. The whelp had seen Abraxas come in and deliberately made out that she was abusing him! “You vile wretch,” she muttered.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

“Narcissa, we need to talk.” Lucius pulled off his gloves and cloak and dropped them on one of the chairs by his fireplace.

His wife noticed with distaste the fact that he hadn’t taken them off downstairs as he was accustomed. Apparently Abraxas had waylaid him on the way in to express his dissatisfaction with Narcissa’s presumed behavior. “Have you got another order for me, master?” she questioned sarcastically. “Or maybe you’ve brought another snot-nose home to torment me.”

“That’s enough!” he barked, startling her with his ferocity. He tossed his loose blond hair back off his face, more clearly showing the ire simmering behind his controlled countenance. “I will not allow you to mistreat my son, Narcissa! Nor will I permit the way you speak of him!”

“He’s not your son, Lucius,” she clipped back. “And I did nothing to him.”

“My father saw him cringing from you. Care to explain?”

“Your father has no right to judge anyone where abuse is concerned! You, of all people, know what he’s capable of,” she retorted, bristling.

Lucius took a step closer and, for the first time since she’d known him, he frightened her. “We’re not discussing Father. What happened with Damien?” Lucius pressed.

“Nothing!” Narcissa shrilled back. “He feigned fear so Abraxas would see it.”

Lucius rolled his eyes and let out a disgusted breath. “Why would he do that? He’s ten years old, he has no concept of deception.”

Narcissa barely caught herself from uttering a rude snort. “Oh, really? That brat has it in for me, Lucius. I don’t know why, but he does.”

“Do you know how ridiculously lame that sounds?” he answered, shaking his head. “I thought, perhaps too optimistically, that you were mature enough to mother a child. It looks like I’ll be needing to hire a nanny.”

“Don’t you speak down to me! I’m not a house-elf, and I’m certainly not a wicked woman!” she shrieked at him. “What is wrong with you? You used to listen to me and believe me!”

“Calm yourself, Narcissa,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders in such a condescending manner she wanted to slap him. “I think you need to rest, you’ve evidently been under a strain. Maybe tomorrow you’ll feel better.”

“Lucius, why can’t you believe me? I—” She stopped mid-sentence as a sudden look of pain flickered in his eyes and he looked down at his left forearm, covered by his sleeve. She knew what it meant before he said it.

“I have to go.” All animosity seemed forgotten.

“Do you know how late you’ll be?” She dared not ask what this meeting might entail; she honestly didn’t think she wanted to know.

Lucius shook his head. “I have no idea why I’m even being summoned.” With a flick of his wand his robes changed to the black Death Eater hooded robes. “I love you.” Another flick of the wand placed the grotesque mask over his face. He Disapparated to the front door, walked outside, and Disapparated once more.

Up in their room, Narcissa collapsed onto the bed. How she despised those robes, that hideous mask that symbolized his enslavement to Lord Voldemort. Only in the past year had Voldemort come up with the idea to cloak his followers thus in order to not only hide their identities, but also to elicit more fear from the community. It sickened her to know Lucius liked the concealment, enjoyed the feeling of power their reign of terror inspired. At least before, when he left and when he returned, he was Lucius; now he was a horrifying thing.

Death Eaters were responsible for Muggle, Mudblood, and even pureblood torture and death. Everyone knew it. They were so brazen as to send their Mark into the sky to announce to the world they’d murdered again. When Narcissa had asked Lucius if he’d ever killed, he’d looked her in the eye and denied it. She wanted to believe him, with all her heart she wanted that, yet he’d been changing over these three years, becoming colder, crueler. He couldn’t see it, but she could. Was it possible he could now lie to her without her realizing it? She desperately hoped not.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Lucius Apparated in a meadow near a rundown farmhouse. He looked around, wondering where in the blazes he was. All he knew was that he’d followed the Master’s call, and it always led to wherever Voldemort was. Momentarily, numerous other hooded and masked figures began appearing all around. Clearly he was in the right place.

Voldemort appeared in front of them, a frightening sight to behold even without a disguise. What had, only a few years ago, been a relatively attractive man had become mutated; his ghastly white face resembled a taut balloon with vaguely human features, as if stretched over a skull, and the whites of his eyes were now permanently red as blood.

Without a word the Death Eaters lined up, approaching on their knees one at a time to kiss the hem of his robe. He stood like a king, his proud eyes observing each one, disdainfully reveling in their groveling. A pang shot through him on detecting that this routine didn’t humiliate them as it once had; it had become…well, routine. He’d have to think up another way to amuse himself at their expense.

When the last Death Eater had taken his place in the circle, Voldemort extended his hands to them as if he were chatting benevolently with chums. “My friends, how good of you to come.” As if they had a choice. “Some of you I’ve not seen for months.” His glance touched on Lucius and a few others. “I’d like a report of your activities.”

His unsettling gaze drifted back to Lucius, who bowed before speaking. “My Lord, I’ve been promoted to second tier at the Ministry of Magic.”

Something resembling a smile passed over Voldemort’s contorted features. “Excellent. At this rate you’ll be at a powerful level before too long. I can assume you’re making the appropriate connections along the way?”

“Of course, my Lord,” Lucius assured him quickly. “My father’s friends and acquaintances have become my own as well. I strive to ingratiate myself with anyone of consequence.”

“Have you made any new followers for your Master?”

Lucius swallowed a lump of bile, glad his mask hid the disconcerted set of his face. “No—not yet, I mean. It’s a sensitive topic, Master, and if I speak too much to the wrong people, all our work could be dashed. They’d sack me.”

“We couldn’t have that, could we?”

The way he said it, Lucius honestly couldn’t tell whether he was serious or mocking him, so to be on the safe side he responded, “I wish only to please you.”

Voldemort merely waved a hand in dismissal and went on to the next person: Mr. Avery’s son, who’d been a year behind Lucius in school. He boasted of taking part in a Muggle torture with Dolohov, joyfully going into great detail. Lucius studied Lord Voldemort from the shelter of his concealment, noting how the wizard’s eyes lit up and he almost seemed to inhale the words, to feed on the misery.

Although Lucius found it repulsive to relish suffering so, he shielded his thoughts as the Dark Lord had taught him. Occlumency definitely had its uses. At the same time, he felt like a hypocrite, for he’d tortured Muggles himself, first on command of the Master, later as a vengeance of sorts for his sister’s death. Bella had been with him that day, she’d killed the Muggle he couldn’t bring himself to murder. There had also been others since that day, when the Dark Lord brought the followers together to either witness a torture/murder session, or to participate in one involving a known enemy of Lord Voldemort. Declining to partake was not an option, not if he wished to live through the night. Feelings were irrelevant; he did what he must do to survive.

The circle had fallen silent. Apparently the Dark Lord had finished questioning the rest while Lucius dwelt on his thoughts. He quickly brought his mind back, hoping he hadn’t missed anything crucial. His glance shifted to a point off in the field where the others were focused: a man in Death Eater robes walked toward them, his wand pointed up into the sky. Suspended high in the air, wriggling frantically, was a man.

“Travers, bring him into the center,” Voldemort instructed.

Travers did as ordered, walking between two Death Eaters who parted the circle to let him through. When he was inside, he suddenly dropped the man, who screamed as he plunged toward the earth. A quick flash of his wand caught the prisoner inches from the ground. He laughed, a guttural, cruel sound, and the rest of the Death Eaters laughed with him.

“Enough play, Travers,” said Voldemort, waving him off. Travers lifted his wand and the man smacked into the dirt. “Who have we here?” he asked the circled group.

They all stared intently at the man now crouched in terror, staring back at the hooded figures. To his credit, he made no sound, refused to plead for himself.

“Dearborn,” one of them said finally.

Grasping on the name, another excitedly added, “One of that filthy group forming against us and our cause!”

“Yes,” agreed Voldemort, drawing out the ‘s’ into a hiss. “Caradoc Dearborn, professed member of the illustrious Order of the Phoenix.” His voice oozed contempt.

Several Death Eaters cursed Dearborn in the most profane language, reviling him as a Muggle-lover. Ignorant of his parentage, they labeled him as a Mudblood, a halfbreed, and a blood-traitor to cover all bases as they ranted about his unfitness to live. Had the Dark Lord been absent, their wands would have made short work of him.

Grinning sadistically, Voldemort pointed his wand and Dearborn’s body convulsed and jackknifed as it jumped in the air and slapped onto the ground. “I’m not greedy, my followers. “I’ll allow each of you some sport—without the Killing Curse.”

One finger pointed to the figure beside Voldemort. The delighted laugh and filthy language spewing forth made no bones of the fact that it was Bella. A thrust and twirl of her wand sent the poor man spinning end over end, barely missing the heads of a few Death Eaters on the other side, who protested loudly. She unceremoniously told them to cram it.

Next came Rodolphus. His curse, while unimaginative, brought the majority of Death Eaters great glee: the simple Cruciatus.

It was Lucius’ turn. Even if he hadn’t believed Dearborn deserved what he got for not recognizing pureblood superiority, for actively working against it, he didn’t dare hesitate. His wand aimed at the earth all around Dearborn as he mumbled an incantation, then he pointed at the fellow with a final command. Rocks of various sizes, some as large as a fist, worked themselves free of the dirt to slam into the man from all angles. He moaned and dropped, his head beginning to bleed from several lacerations.

“Nice one, blondie!” Bellatrix crowed. If Lucius possessed one ounce of caring what she thought, he’d have been pleased at her compliment. They were incredibly rare.

One by one the Death Eaters tortured the man until the circle came back around to Voldemort. By this time, Dearborn was scarcely conscious. “You see what becomes of those who oppose me?” the dark wizard sneered. “But I can be merciful even to an enemy. I shall end your suffering by ending your pitiful existence. Avada Kedavra!”

The familiar green jet shot from his wand, killing Dearborn instantly. Voldemort looked around at his followers, then delivered the lofty announcement, “If you wish to mutilate the body, feel free, but dispose of it when you finish. If not, you may go. Bellatrix, I trust I’ll see you shortly.” He Disapparated.

“Where’d he go, Bella?” asked Rodolphus.

Bellatrix pointed to the farmhouse. “After we finish with Dearborn, I’ll be home late.” One would be hard pressed to determine whether her mad smile of anticipation was for the corpse mutilation to come or the celebration afterward.

Rodolphus shrugged indifferently. He’d known about his wife’s affair with the Dark Lord for over three years; it didn’t bother him at all, as long as she made time for him now and again. Lucius, on the other hand, shuddered to think of her with the Master, although he had to admit her personality suited Voldemort perfectly. Who cared anyway? He needed to get home to his own wife.

By the time he arrived home, supper was already underway. He removed his robes and mask and proceeded to the table. The smell of roast beef and potatoes made a pleasing odor, and he felt his stomach rumble.

Without a word, the look on Narcissa’s face said she desperately wanted to know why he’d been called and what he’d done. Instead she gave a weak smile. “Hello, Lucius.”

“Hello, my love. He wanted to know how my work is progressing,” said Lucius truthfully, even if he was omitting a huge part of the evening. “Hello, Father. Damien.” He pulled out his chair and sat down to eat.