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I, Too, Shall Follow by notwolf [Reviews - 4]

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He’d always had greasy hair. From the time Severus was a toddler, his mother had complained about it; she’d wash it, only to find it stringy by the next morning. The teenage years had been less than kind, what with adolescent oil glands multiplying like rabbits in an enclosed pen. Severus glanced at his reflection in the mirror as he lamented the oily strands he’d washed not two hours ago, framing his pale face. It was useless—completely, hopelessly useless! It was the first day of class of his last year at Hogwarts, and he’d hoped to make a good impression on Lily. So much for that!

His second-hand Potions book sat on his bed, taunting him. With the money Lucius had been paying him since April of last term, he could have afforded new books and robes, had he not given the bulk of it to his parents for paying overdue bills and buying luxuries like new clothing for the twins instead of hand-me-downs. He didn’t regret his contribution to the family—it made him quite proud, as a matter of fact. If that meant looking shabby himself, so be it. It wasn’t as if he weren’t used to it.

With a deflated shrug, he picked up the book and headed out to class. Why he even bothered to attend was a mystery to him, since even in this most advanced class the potions were absurdly simple. Then again, Slughorn graded on attendance, too, not just capability. Severus smirked. If the professor didn’t give the rest of the students free credit for showing up, they’d all receive the Troll level marks they deserved.

He strode into the Potions room and stopped cold. James Potter! Next to Lily, of course. Severus gritted his teeth and walked up to his place. “Apparently they let anyone buy their way into this class,” he griped to the Slytherin girl next to him.

The girl swiveled her head to look where Severus was staring. “Yeah, I can’t imagine that Gryffin-dork earning a high enough mark to be in here.”

“I guess if you have money, you don’t need brains,” Severus agreed.

His partner giggled. “You’re so funny, Severus.”

Funny? Severus raised his eyebrows, then furrowed his brow. He’d been called a plethora of things in his life, but never funny. Funny looking, maybe. Whatever, he didn’t have time to wonder what she meant, class was starting.

All was going well, Severus had completed and bottled his brew before class hit the midway point, and he was looking forward to kicking back and glowering at the golden couple across the aisle. His comrade had other ideas, much more annoying ones, like idle chitchat.

“What did you do this summer, Severus?” she asked.

Severus mumbled something unintelligible.

“What was that?”

“I said, I almost got killed by an intruder,” he replied clearly, staring past her at that despicably messy head of James Potter. How dare that oaf ever make fun of Severus’ hair when his own was so outlandish? And the way Lily was ignoring him as if he weren’t on the same planet! The wench!

“Oh, no! Are you alright?”

“Yes, Glenna. It’s astonishing what master Healers and two months’ time can do,” he said, still not glancing her way. Oh, lean over and brush against her chest, you pervert, he seethed as he watched James do exactly that.

“What happened to the intruder? Did the Aurors catch him?” Glenna persisted.

Reluctantly Snape turned to face her. “He was a Muggle, and he’s dead. Look at your potion! You forgot to add the toad wart!”

“Dead!” the girl echoed. Suddenly her voice hushed to a whisper at the sight of everyone in the vicinity gawking their way. “Did…did you kill him?”

Severus shoved her aside, crushed the dried wart with his palm, and scooped it into the pot. Immediately the concoction turned deep purple with a slick oiliness on top. “Just barely salvaged that,” he mumbled.

“Severus!” Glenna whispered urgently, poking him in the side. “Did you?”

“What if I did?” he whispered back defiantly.

The girl’s green eyes widened not with shock, but with approval. She smiled and chewed her lip self-consciously as she edged closer to him. “I think it’s wonderful. Wizards shouldn’t have to put up with Muggles.”

“I didn’t exactly kill him on purpose,” Severus admitted in a low tone. He didn’t like to think about it, let alone talk about it. The fact that the Dark Lord had seen it and brought it up was sickening enough. The Master had been—as Lucius put it—quite lavish in his praise of the event, unfocused magic or not, but he’d still rather forget about the whole incident.

“Severus, what are you doing tonight?”

“Studying,” he retorted as if she were an idiot. “What do you think?” Once more he added an ingredient to her cauldron and gave it three precise stirs counterclockwise. “Your potion is coming along dismally, Glenna. Perhaps you ought to exert some of your energy toward your own classes.”

“You’re doing a wonderful job,” she cooed at him.

“I’m not doing your work for you.” He sat back on his stool, crossed his arms, and returned to scowling at Potter and Evans.

Glenna sighed heavily, tossed her auburn hair back, and proceeded with her chore, every so often stealing glances at Severus, then past him at the Evans bitch. She snickered to herself as she envisioned what a ‘shame’ it would be if something happened to the redheaded Mudblood.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Lucius stood silently in the doorway to the music room, listening to Narcissa play the piano as he studied her lithe form swaying with the intensity of the piece. She looked so lovely in her pale blue robes he’d bought her for Christmas—almost as nice as she looked out of them. He chuckled softly. He could watch her all day, the way the curves of her body filled her clothes in quite the right way, her tiny frown of concentration. Her sheer beauty enthralled him.

Narcissa glanced up and caught sight of him over the piano. She stopped playing and waved a hand for him to come in. He stepped toward her, smiling--or leering as the case may be-- hoping she’d play a tune on him. The sight of his father relaxing in a chair off to the side brought his fantasies to a screaming halt.

“Father, I—I didn’t know you were in here,” he stammered like a child.

“Evidently,” Abraxas drawled. He tried to muffle a snicker and looked away.

Lucius’ face burned red and his hand flew down to cover his crotch. His green silk robes did a poor job of hiding the excitement and passion he felt as his licentious daydreams struck him. “I was just—she—”

“She’s your wife, Lucius, there’s no need to explain.” Abraxas was suddenly busy conducting a careful inspection of his fingernails.

“Would you two please refrain from talking about me like I’m not here?” Narcissa asked sweetly. “Honey, come play with me.”

Another wave of scarlet rushed over Lucius’ face, sending his father into a rare fit of hearty laughter. “Go on, Lucius, your wife wants to play with you.” He guffawed so hard he actually snorted.

“What’s so funny?” demanded Narcissa. From her vantage point, she’d been unable to witness her husband’s inopportune arousal.

“Nothing, dear.” Lucius cast a scowl at his father, then came around to sit on the bench beside her.

Abraxas, elbow propped on the arm of the chair and forehead resting on his fingertips, steadfastly kept his eyes down and murmured, “My apologies, Narcissa. Please do continue.”

Together husband and wife positioned their hands over the keyboard. Narcissa whispered something to him, he nodded, and the pair began a hauntingly slow rendition of Fur Elise. Lucius had no need of watching the keys or a music sheet; his eyes danced over Narcissa’s countenance while he played. Sensing his adoration, she peered over at him and smirked. When they’d completed the work, Lucius launched immediately into a lively Marriage of Figaro, with Narcissa easily keeping pace. After the music ended, Abraxas clapped in genuine admiration.

“Excellent! It’s good to see those years of piano lessons weren’t wasted on you, son.”

“I took all the lessons you paid for to heart, Father,” said Lucius smoothly. “Father kept me very busy as a boy, Narcissa—piano, ballroom dancing, horseback riding, Quidditch, tutoring sessions. It’s a wonder I had time for anything else.”

“A Malfoy must be well rounded,” Abraxas defended himself. “Besides, giving you free time was asking for trouble.”

Narcissa leaned over against Lucius and squeezed his thigh. “I do believe you were a mischievous child.” At his sudden tensing, she said, “Don’t be upset, we’re only teasing.”

“I have to go,” he answered in the telltale deadpan voice. His gray eyes swept over her as he stood up, bent over, and kissed her. “I love you.”

“It’s him, isn’t it? The dark wizard,” said Abraxas.

“Yes, Father. I can’t dawdle or he’ll…” He hesitated to tell the whole truth with Narcissa here, that he’d likely be subjected to the Cruciatus again. “He’ll be angry.”

Abraxas merely nodded. There was no point in making his son’s life more miserable in the end by denigrating the evil bastard when there was nothing Lucius could do except respond to his call. He already knew the torture Lucius had suffered to date, he didn’t plan to add to it. “Be careful, son.”

Lucius attempted a grin that came off as a grimace. “I’ll do my best.” He extended his hand with a silent Accio command, summoning his robes and mask.

“Don’t put them on in here,” Narcissa pleaded softly. “I don’t like to see you that way.”

“I love you,” he said again, walked out to the foyer, donned his disguise, and was gone.

In the distressed hush following his departure, Abraxas cast a pitying glance at his daughter-in-law, who sat forlornly at the piano, head down. While he worried about his son, his heart ached for her, the reason for and victim of Lucius’ decision to join those wicked Death Eaters. He got up, made his way to the bench, and eased himself down beside her.

“I’m no stranger to lessons myself,” he said, trying to be chipper. “Shall we?”

Narcissa’s head lifted, turned to him, and graced him with a surprised smile. “Indeed we shall.”

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

The farmhouse was quiet, as always, when Lucius drew near. Not knowing whether anyone else had been summoned, he didn’t bother to wait around outside. Upon entering, he almost wished he’d waited. Bellatrix, Rodolphus, Rabastan, Dolohov, and several masked Death Eaters huddled around a kitchen table that wobbled every time one of them touched it. Quick inspection showed one leg to be broken off near the floor.

“None of you could fix that?” Lucius drawled in feigned shock, with a sneer they unfortunately missed due to his mask. “Reparo,” he said, lazily waving his wand. The leg snapped into place, whole once more.

The group paused their chatter to stare at him. It took only a moment for Bella to regain her composure. “Show off all you want, blondie, it’s just a stupid table. What’s on it is the important thing.”

Lucius waved his wand to remove his mask, then he cautiously approached to see what was fascinating them all. They moved aside to let him into the circle. On the table were two large moving photos, men who strongly resembled one another. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to deduce why they were here.

In case any doubt remained, Bella cackled, “The Master has a mission for us! It’s time for these Order of the Phoenix prats to go down!”

“If that’s what the Master wants,” Lucius uttered without a twinge of facial expression.

“It is what I want,” said Voldemort as he strolled casually in from the adjoining room. He halted amid the cries of ‘Master’ and ‘My Lord’ to permit the Death Eaters to line up to perform their fawning duty. Bella elbowed her way to the front, threw herself down, and repeatedly kissed the hem of his garment.

“My Lord, pick me,” she begged as she knelt up, eyes sparkling with bloodlust bordering on madness.

“Let’s not be greedy, Bellatrix,” he admonished, secretly pleased with her enthusiasm. He’d reward her later for that, in their own special way. “Move aside now.”

Resentfully she did as ordered, though the idea of hexing several of her companions to keep them out of the running crossed her mind. The rest completed their groveling and stood up in a semi-circle around Lord Voldemort. It bothered Lucius that he couldn’t be certain if one of the hooded figures was Severus. He thought it unlikely, since Severus would have greeted him—at least he assumed so. He didn’t dare call out the name.

“Fabian Prewett and Gideon Prewett,” Voldemort spat out with a gesture toward the pictures on the table. “Blood traitors, brothers, brothers-in-arms against us, forever meddling! It’s time to bring their presumptuous lives to a fitting end.”

The Death Eaters roared their approval, Lucius right along with them. Even if he didn’t care to do away with them himself, blood traitors had no place in the wizarding world. They tainted it for the loyal, they gave jobs and rights to Mudbloods, even expected purebloods to honor their ridiculous ideas of Muggle equality! It was sickening.

“Lucius,” Voldemort purred like a cat which had caught a snake in its mouth, the ‘s’ drawing out.

This wasn’t good, it couldn’t be good. Lucius straightened, ostensibly in anticipation.

“As a reward for bringing me another follower, you will have the privilege of leading the squad. You may choose four Death Eaters to accompany you.” A buzz of disappointed discontent ran through the group. “Do I detect dissention?” Voldemort said softly. “Is there one who thinks me mistaken in appointing whomever I desire?”

“No, my Lord,” they answered almost in unison.

One of the masked figures added tentatively, “It’s just that we all hoped to go…” The others nodded and groused their agreement.

“Five should be more than sufficient,” Voldemort said tightly. The voices ceased instantly.

“You do me a great honor, Master,” Lucius murmured, eyes down. Oh, God, this can’t be happening! He’d agreed in principle, but—to lead the charge? His sole consolation consisted in knowing he could select four to go with him, to perform the actual murder. “Will Severus be one of the five?”

“Snape? The boy?” Voldemort started to laugh, prompting the flunkies to join in. “He may have killed once, accidentally. It hardly makes him ready to take on experienced adult wizards. No, he remains at Hogwarts for now. Death Eaters, remove your masks so Malfoy can see your faces.”

One by one Lucius regarded them: Rookwood, Yaxley, the junior Avery, Travers, Macnair, and a tall man he didn’t know…but he’d seen him once, in the crystal ball, had seen him murdering Narcissa’s fiancé. His skin crawled to remember it.

In addition to the ones he’d recognized upon entering the house, that made ten from which to choose. Bellatrix had fixed him with a pick-me-or-I’ll-make-your-life-a-living-hell look, Rodolphus seemed almost bored, the rest exuded varying degrees of eagerness. Rapid cogitation on his part assured him that it was in his best interest to select those who could get the job done without requiring his direct participation, thereby pleasing the Master and keeping himself from becoming a murderer. It was a fine line he despised walking.

“Bellatrix,” Lucius said at last. She leaped in the air with a howl of glee and continued to hop up and down in a distracting fashion. “Dolohov, Travers, and Macnair.”

The hatchet-faced Yaxley glowered at him. “Any reason you didn’t choose me, boy?”

Lucius returned the hate-filled glare. When he’d been a mere seventeen, this scoundrel had petitioned the Master for permission to molest Lucius. Lord Voldemort had decided on a dueling tournament which, if Yaxley won, would grant him one-time access to the boy. Only Bella’s superior dueling skills had saved the young Lucius, who had never forgotten or forgiven the episode.

“We’re going to eliminate them, not rape them,” Lucius snapped, his eyes set like flint.

A number of the Death Eaters smirked, recalling the incident. Bella laughed out loud. “He’s got your number, Yaxley!” The affronted man drew his wand; Bella whipped hers out and took a step in his direction. “Anytime, Yaxley,” she cooed, praying fervently he’d take the bait. “Don’t forget what I did to you last time.”

“Enough!” Voldemort barked. “You five be on your way. Report back here when your duty is complete.”

The death squad bowed to the Master and filed outside, masks and robes disguising their features. They slowly drifted across the field, all but one of them excited to be chosen for this task, a task designated by Lord Voldemort himself. Freelance work, while always appreciated, may or may not garner the expected rewards, while to succeed at an appointed undertaking could only yield praise and reward.

Lucius, his heart thudding rapidly in his chest, cleared his throat and put on his self-confident, authoritative voice. “At the risk of sounding foolish, does anyone have an idea where we are to find these Prewetts? I saw no indication on the photos, nor did the Dark Lord make mention.”

Apparently none of the others had thought that far ahead. They halted and looked around at one another in obvious bewilderment. Lucius heaved a frustrated sigh. It was bad enough to be in charge of murdering those wizards; to have to search for them first was blatantly outrageous.

“Bella, Dolohov—any ideas?” The other members of the team didn’t appear to mind being excluded from of this particular activity.

“We don’t know where the Order of the Phoenix headquarters is,” Dolohov said.

“Bravo. One more thing we don’t know,” replied Lucius nastily.

“I think they’re in London,” offered Bella.

“Oh, good. Maybe if we walk really fast we can canvass the entire city in a month or two!” Lucius fumed. “The Master will absolutely love us for that!”

“Sarcasm isn’t going to find them,” said Dolohov in a less than helpful manner.

Helpful or not, he was right. As leader of the group, it was Lucius’ responsibility to come up with a plan. They could (A) ask Lord Voldemort if he happened to know their preys’ location and risk severe punishment on general principles, (B) stumble around like idiots trying to find the location, and risk severe punishment for not finding it, (C) stumble around like idiots, accidentally find the location, and complete the mission—which seemed highly implausible, or (D) contact someone who might know where to find the Prewett brothers, complete the mission, and receive accolades instead of death for failure. For obvious reasons, (D) seemed the best choice. The nagging question: who to ask? Father might know, he knew loads of people…but Lucius could not—would not—involve him in this.

Travers interrupted his ruminations. “Bella, aren’t the Blacks and Prewetts related somehow?”

Indignant, she lunged at the man with a volley of shrieked curses, claws bared, ready to tear him apart without aid of a wand. The two were tussling when Lucius noticed Augustus Rookwood sauntering across the field toward them. Lucius hissed an order for them to knock it off, then faced Rookwood, who wore an extremely smug expression.

“Rookwood,” he said simply.

“Malfoy. We’ve been betting on how long it would take you to realize you didn’t know where you were going.” He sneered and let out a harsh laugh. “I won. I said you were too proud to come back and ask.”

Unable to completely refute his statement, Lucius drawled, “And did you bring said address with you?”

Rookwood held out a crumpled piece of parchment. Lucius took it and read the address, then passed it to Dolohov, who likewise passed it to Macnair.

A sudden, discomforting thought struck Lucius. “Is the Master watching us?”

“You’re still alive and not squirming under the Cruciatus. What do you think?” Rookwood laughed again. “Don’t worry, though, I’m sure Yaxley will tell him at the first opportunity.”

Bella, who’d finally disentangled her fingers from Travers’ hair after having ripped his hood off, strode over, snatched the paper from Macnair, then faced Rookwood with her own wicked brand of sneer. In a sneering contest, she would definitely have been victorious. “You can tell that troglodyte from me that if he intends to cause trouble, he’d best prepare for war. I don’t easily forgive.”

Lucius wisely said nothing.

Macnair echoed, “Troglodyte?” No one bothered to explain it to him.

Rookwood shrugged as he prepared to return to the farmhouse. He didn’t give a rat’s rear end whether Yaxley tattled or whether the Master punished them or not. “I’ll tell Yaxley what you said,” he promised as he turned away. Now another good duel between those two—that he’d like to see!

Lucius gathered the squad around him, repeated the address, and together they Disapparated. Outside a small cottage in a sparsely populated area they reappeared. The frightful shrieks from a Muggle watching them materialize in all their Death Eater glory gave them a twisted thrill, although when Dolohov raised his wand to attack the fleeing woman, Lucius slapped it down.

“We have business here,” he clipped. If he’d wondered how to go about drawing the Prewetts out, he needn’t have bothered. The Muggle’s screams had brought the heroic men rushing to her aid—and straight into the Death Eaters.

As one, Fabian and Gideon raised their wands just in time to defend against four green curses hurtled their way. Scattering in opposite directions with the reflexes of a jaguar, they narrowly avoided the deadly curses, then shot back hexes of their own, one of which rebounded off Dolohov’s Protego and slammed into Macnair, who collapsed in a heap not a meter from Lucius.

When Travers’ eye caught Lucius, the latter threw a red stream at Fabian, which he easily pushed aside. Compelled to at least pretend to engage in battle, lest his own comrades report him to Voldemort, Lucius cast one after another petty charms incapable of actual harm, though unless they connected no one would know the difference. Colors aside, one curse resembled another flying from the end of a wand.

Except bats! Damn it, one of the Prewetts let loose a storm of bats on them! A horde of them flew directly at Lucius, blocking his view; an instant later a horrifically hard Stupefy tore into his chest, throwing him onto his back, slapping his head on the pavement. He lay still.

Above him the battle raged on, with Bellatrix growing more intense, her hexes flying from the wand as fast as she could think them up—which, truth be told, was incredibly fast. It would have been so much less fun to simply go for the kill, when playing with the ‘mice’ first made the kill all the more sweet.

No slouch himself, Dolohov ducked and weaved, deflected and cursed with the best of them. Together they cornered Fabian, leaving Travers to take on Gideon. Bella threw an Expelliarmus half a second before Dolohov cast the Killing Curse; in deflecting Bella’s hex, Fabian lost the time advantage to avoid Dolohov’s, and the Avada Kedavra struck him squarely in the chest. He dropped to the ground.

Travers, meanwhile, had gained no ground with Gideon until Macnair staggered up to take some of the focus off him. With the two Death Eaters flinging spells his way, Gideon had his hands full. When Dolohov and Bella joined in, he succumbed shortly, unable to defend against all of them. The credit for his death went either to Travers or Macnair, who stood arguing over his corpse as to whose curse hit first.

Dolohov, noticing the disturbingly motionless body of his companion, went over to Lucius and knelt down while Bella shot a triumphant skull into the air. “Lucius,” he muttered, shaking him. He felt the man’s throat for a pulse. To the group he said, “Come on, we have to get out of here, the Aurors will arrive soon!” He took hold of Lucius and Disapparated.

The Death Eaters returned to the farmhouse in elation—except Lucius, who was still unconscious and carried by Travers and Macnair. They’d argued that levitation was simpler, but it seemed so impersonal to Dolohov, who’d taken control of the situation. Besides, as long as he wasn’t the one doing the labor, he didn’t mind delegating it out. They deposited their incapacitated leader on the floor, to be crowded around by the Death Eaters left behind earlier, all jostling for position to see if he was dead or how badly hurt.

“Where’s Bella?” asked Dolohov, looking around.

The tall man with a goatee pointed in toward the fireplace, indicating that she’d gone to fetch the Master. While the death squad waited for him to make his appearance, they regaled the others with their take on what occurred, with each man butting in to correct or contradict what another was saying, making the room quite cacophonous.

“Bloody f—king hell,” moaned a voice from the floor.

Those nearest Lucius gazed down at him with only mild curiosity; once they’d ascertained he wasn’t dead, they’d lost interest. Eventually all eyes were on him as he struggled to sit up, clutching his aching chest and the back of his head at once. He’d never known a Stupefy could hurt so badly!

“How did I get here?” His hood had been removed and he felt something warm and sticky in his hair. He hoped it was only blood.

“I brought you,” Dolohov replied. “You got hit pretty hard.”

“And the Prewetts…”

“Dead,” he answered blithely, grinning. “I got one, Macnair got the other.”

“I got the other!” Travers protested, which reignited the argument anew.

Lord Voldemort’s entrance silenced them all. Even when he was in a spectacular mood, like now, he was utterly intimidating. “Congratulations, my friends,” he said in his high, smooth voice, his use of ‘friends’ rather disingenuous, as if they might be fooled into believing that’s what they really were. “You have successfully rid your Master of a loathsome pair, for which you shall be rewarded.”

The Dark Lord’s red eyes flicked over to Lucius, who fumbled to stand up, only to find himself pitching over from dizziness. He tried again with identical results. A few snickers from his so-called comrades didn’t make the situation any better.

“I’m sorry, my Lord, I seem unable to stand,” Lucius mumbled shamefacedly.

“He got Stupefied, Master,” Dolohov explained. “Cracked his head, knocked him out.”

“The bats,” Lucius protested from a kneeling opposition. “I couldn’t see.”

To Lucius’ great shock, Dolohov went on, “Those bats all flew right at him, my Lord, there was no avoiding them. The curse hit a second later, but up to that point he was doing great.”

Was he hallucinating? Was Dolohov defending him…and complimenting him? Why? Death Eaters, like most Slytherins, rarely aided anyone unless it would benefit them. The pounding rush of blood in his ears refused to let him think clearly. Even Bella, glued to Voldemort’s arm, seemed to have nothing disparaging to say. Highly unusual. He had to exert all the control he could muster to keep his face unreadable.

Voldemort continued to study Lucius, then said curtly, “Well done, Malfoy. Perhaps it would behoove you to return home. Your father is a Healer, is he not?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Pity you’ll miss the celebration.”

“Forgive me, Master,” he intoned from habit. He wanted nothing more than to be gone from here. The Dark Lord waved him off and, only too happy to comply, he staggered to his feet, leaning heavily on the table. Macnair offered his shoulder to help him outside, from where he Disapparated.

To the house-elf greeting him at the manor door he ordered, “Get my father, tell him I’m injured.” Then he dropped to his knees and tipped over onto the cold marble floor.





I, Too, Shall Follow by notwolf [Reviews - 4]

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