“I’m serious, James.”

“No, you’re not, you’re Lily,” the young man answered, laughing out loud. The girl was not impressed. “Come on, it’s a joke.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, that it was all a joke! When you asked Severus for a truce, I thought you meant it, that you were acting mature and not just saying it for my benefit,” she huffed, scuttling out of reach when he tried to put an arm around her.

“I meant it,” James stated feebly.

“Is that why I heard you tell your dear friend, Sirius, that you hoped I bought your act?” Lily’s lips pinched into a hard line, her eyes furious.

Potter froze in place, his mind reeling, trying to remember saying it. Sure, he still despised Snivellus, but he didn’t feel the need to seek him out or anything, and he’d be true to his word not to attack in the unlikely event they did ever meet again. When had he said—then it hit him and he laughed again, this time from relief mingled with amusement. “Lily, that was something totally different.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t think now is the time to tell you.”

“Fine,” she clipped, striding to the door. Her hand rested on the knob. “When you grow up, let me know.”

“Lily!” James bolted across the room to slam the door before she could escape, then he stood in front of it to block her way. “Please trust me.”

“Why should I? You won’t trust me enough to tell me what all this nonsense is about.”

In a fit of agitation, James fumed inside. It was a surprise and she was ruining it! Okay, if that’s what she wanted, he’d give it to her. “I didn’t realize you considered a proposal of marriage to be nonsense.”

“Pro—proposal?” she stammered, utterly floored.

“I sneaked out and bought a ring. Sirius was helping me find a romantic hiding place where I could spring it on you when you overheard us,” James said, expecting an apology.

What he got was a thudding, pounding knock on the door, making both of them jump. He turned around to answer it. A fellow with dark, curly hair and a most peculiar expression on his broad face, surly and haughty at once, stood waiting outside.

“Yes?” said James.

“You are James Potter?” the man drawled, as if he only required confirmation of what he already knew.

“Yes,” James repeated. “Do I know you?”

“No, but I wish to speak to you.” He glimpsed Lily in the room beyond them and added, “Alone.”

“Whatever you have to say, you can say it in front of her,” James replied, beckoning him in. This would show Lily he had no secrets from her. Although visitors were not uncommon at the Potter home, he was certain he’d never laid eyes on this stranger before, yet there was an air about this man that seemed familiar. Whether that familiarity was good or bad had yet to be determined. Those piercing blue eyes…why did they remind him of something in the back of his mind, something just out of reach?

“I’ll get right to the point, Potter. It’s come to my ma—my attention that you’ve been invited to join Dumbledore’s little group crusading against Lord Voldemort. Have you enlisted with him?”

James tried to surreptitiously wave Lily away when she came over to stand beside him. Already he didn’t like the bent of the conversation. This odd person knew things he shouldn’t know, but how? “Why would that interest you? Are you a member of the Order?”

The dark-haired stranger let out an involuntary snort, then sneered. “Hardly. I’ve come to offer you something better. You’re a pureblood, albeit a blood traitor, but you can be redeemed by fighting for what’s right, for pureblood supremacy. When we overcome, you’ll hold a position of power over the riffraff beneath us.”

“How dare you come into my house, calling me a traitor?” James exclaimed.

“And what ‘riffraff’ are you speaking of?” Lily demanded.

The man cast a disparaging glance at the girl. “That would be you, Mudblood.”

James pushed her aside to stand in front of her. “Get out of my house.”

With a shrug, the man remarked, “I suppose if she’s that important to you, the Mudblood could sign up with the Dark Lord, too, if she keeps her place and does what she’s told. As long as she’s willing to dispose of her own kind, there’s hope for her. This is your only chance to fight on the winning team, Potter. I’d consider very carefully if I were you.”

“You’re not me.” James went for his wand, but the Death Eater, anticipating it, was quicker. His own wand, steady in his hand, pointed at them as he backed toward the open door.

“I’ll give you one more opportunity—will you enlist with us?”

“Never!”

A blast from the intruder’s wand struck James in the chest—not a killing blow, only enough to drop him to his knees, wheezing. “Are you sure?”

Suddenly Lily had her wand out, casting a spell at the Death Eater. It grazed his back, sending him pitching against the door frame, giving James time to recover sufficiently to draw his wand. Two hexes flew at the man together, propelling him spinning and stumbling onto the porch, where he Disapparated.

Lucius Apparated outside Voldemort’s castle, his back aching from a searing burn, his chest and side throbbing from a double Stun not cast powerfully enough to knock him out. Silently he cursed the Mudblood bitch as he removed the enchantments on his appearance. He should’ve taken Bellatrix with him; no one was better at dueling, and he wouldn’t have been outnumbered. Then again, she would have killed them both without offering Potter a spot on Voldemort’s team as the Master had ordered, although why the Master had ordered it, he had no idea. At the moment he wouldn’t care if Bella murdered them viciously.

He entered the castle to find Bellatrix, as usual, waiting for him. The Master must command her to wait for those he sends out, he decided. Either that or she simply enjoyed the look of defeat on their faces when they returned. That seemed more likely.

“Well?” she asked.

“Well what?” he retorted, hoping she didn’t notice the slight limp. To say he was not in good humor would be an understatement.

“Limping? Little Potter-baby hexed Lucy-wucy?” she cooed, then burst into cackles.

“I hate you,” he muttered. “It was two against me. That redheaded Mudblood was there.”

“I guess I didn’t train you right,” Bella said, sighing and shaking her head. “I assumed that when you got good enough to duel against me, you could handle two pathetic nobodies.” She sighed again, long and loud.

“I could have!” Lucius snapped back. “I left because Potter refused to join us! I saw no reason to stick around while more of them showed up!”

Bella rolled her eyes, which infuriated him even more. Damn it all, if he hadn’t been blindsided he’d have easily beaten both of them! They took advantage when he was unable to fight! Good sense overtook a rush of pride that compelled him to prove himself to Bellatrix, which was not a position he wanted to be in. She’d taught him to duel, and she could still wipe the floor with him, regardless of how skilled he’d become.

“Bella, is the Master in there? He expects me to report in.”

She nodded slowly, almost as if—no, it couldn’t be—as if she didn’t really want him to go in, which of course was ridiculous. He’d failed, he would be punished…she lived for that. Lucius swept past her into the larger room.

“Master, I’ve returned from…” His words petered out. There was no one there. He did a full circle, looking around. “Bella, I thought you said he was here!”

She was in the doorway now, watching him with those heavy-lidded eyes that most men found sultry and he found malevolent. “He’s still busy with something you wouldn’t understand.”

Lucius cocked his head, raising his eyebrows. While he’d not been the most exemplary pupil at Hogwarts, Bella had certainly not outshone him. “And what, pray tell, might you understand that I don’t?”

“Horcruxes,” she smirked. Her smug expression grew wide as she studied Lucius’ bewilderment. Few witches or wizards had ever heard of a Horcrux, let alone had them explained by the greatest Dark Lord ever to live.

“What is that?”

“When he’s ready, he’ll tell you…or not,” she answered.

In that instant Lord Voldemort Apparated opposite Lucius, drawing his attention away from Bella. The young man fell to his knees for the hem-kissing routine, then rose, ready to explain his actions. He didn’t get the opportunity. The Dark Lord gripped his chin as he stared into his eyes, and Lucius dared not use Occlumency on anything that had happened this day. He felt the Master probing his mind, violating his memories, but he stood solidly, enduring.

At last Voldemort let go, his red eyes slits of rage. “So, Potter declined to enter my service, did he?”

“Yes, my Lord.” Lucius wanted to justify himself somehow, yet he deemed no words adequate.

“He dared defy me! He would choose Dumbledore’s wretched group over ME!” bellowed Voldemort in his high, terrible voice that made the other two in the room quake. “And you, Lucius, dared offer a filthy Mudblood the chance to become one of my Death Eaters?”

“Well, no—I said she could work for you, Master, I didn’t mean as a Death Eater.”

Voldemort apparently wasn’t listening. He’d seen the memory, that was enough for him. “And that piece of garbage turned you down—a Mudblood turned you down!” he screeched.

“No, Master, she didn’t! Potter was the one—”

“Crucio!”

Lucius fell to the floor, his limbs flailing wildly, the screams that tore from his throat echoing off the walls to resound in his ears. The pain went on at length, ripping through every cell of his body until he was sure he was shredding into pieces.

Voldemort lifted his wand. “Why didn’t you kill them, Malfoy?”

Panting, trying to calm the sobs enough to talk, Lucius moaned, “They hexed me at once, my Lord. It set me off guard. I thought it prudent to leave.”

“Crucio.”

He writhed in agony for what seemed eternity, until nothing existed in the past or present, nothing but this hellish torment as his only companion. His throat was raw from screaming, yet still the screams came, barking out in rough, tortured gasps. Every so often Voldemort lifted the wand to berate him, only to slap him with yet another Cruciatus, delighting in the anguish before him. Nothing compared to the pleasure of feeding off another’s suffering; nothing tasted quite so sweet.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

It was an unpretentious Potions shop in Diagon Alley that he’d passed a hundred times and been in dozens of times in his life. Severus hadn’t ever dreamed one day he’d work here. He checked the sign above the door once more to be sure it was the right place, then went on in. Just as he remembered, the place was dark and smelled of dried fungus and herbs, a pleasant enough odor.

The proprietor, an elderly woman with long white hair pulled into a ponytail, came out of the back room, where Severus spied a cauldron bubbling. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, ma’am. Albus Dumbledore sent me. He said you have—”

“Oh, you’re the lad Albus told me about! Stephen, is it?” She came forward to get a good look in the dim light.

“Severus,” he said, feeling silly for correcting her.

“Well, come on back. I can’t hire any old Joe Blow off the street, so I’m hoping Albus wasn’t exaggerating. Claims you’re a genius, you know.”

“Does he?” Severus blinked in surprise. He peered into the cauldron, noting the odor, the color and texture, the ingredients on the table. “Morning sickness remedy?”

The woman smiled. “Good eye, Sebastian.”

“Severus,” he whispered to no one, for she wasn’t listening.

“My name is Philana, but I suppose you already knew that. I’ll need to test you out before I hire you, so I’m going to ask you to make a potion for me.” She pursed her lips, gazing heavenward. “Something not too hard.”

“I’d appreciate a challenge, Miss Philana. I don’t mind difficult work.”

“Don’t be so formal, Sylvester. Call me Philana,” she encouraged with a kind smile.

Maybe I should call you Phyllis, he grumped inwardly. How hard could it be to get his name right? On the plus side, eventually she’d run out of names or hit on the correct one. “Yes, ma’am.”

“How about a remedy for an elevated heart rate? I’ve got books for you to refer to, don’t be shy about using them.” She pointed up at a shelf a good eight feet off the floor where only levitation would suffice to bring one down.

Severus glanced at the books, then back at Philana. “Would Stuppa Palpare be alright? Or Sleeuw Hairto?”

“Yes,” she answered, obviously surprised. “Either one is fine. You’ll find the recipes in the manuals.”

“I don’t need the formula, thank you,” said Severus, already getting his bearings, searching out the ingredients from labeled jars, bins, and bags lining three walls. Quickly he gathered everything he’d need, double checked by running down the list in his head, then set a clean cauldron in front of him.

Philana observed him in silence, impressed by his familiarity with the subject. She’d decided on the heart potion only seconds before saying it; there was no way the boy could have prepared in advance, yet there he was carefully measuring, cutting, weighing as if he’d done it a thousand times.

“Selwyn, why are you bruising the hawthorn berries?” she asked. Not that she necessarily disagreed, she merely wanted his opinion.

“They’re green on one side, not fully ripe, probably picked in the early season; they’re not as strong, so this releases more of their essence,” Severus explained. She ought to know this, shouldn’t she?

“Just so,” she smiled, nodding.

So she’s quizzing me, Severus thought, not averse to the idea. Frankly, he found it stimulating to be in the company of someone who understood and appreciated subtle differences—hell, who appreciated potions at all! Professor Slughorn was the only other person he knew with as much skill, unless he counted Mr. Malfoy, and he wasn’t entirely sure how far the man’s knowledge went. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I said, I noticed you added the water after toasting the berries. I’ve never seen that done.” Translation: you screwed up and put the fire under it before adding liquid.

Severus’ head bobbed in agreement. “It forms a slight charcoal coating that helps with any stomach upset, and also to pull out toxins. It doesn’t affect the potency.”

Philana made a mental note to ask the boy’s professor from Hogwarts. He was a renowned Potions master; he’d know if Sewell was fibbing, though from the intense look on the young man’s face, she didn’t believe he was. Charcoal did have a soothing, calming effect on nausea, and it was used for removing toxins. It was easy enough to see he enjoyed what he was doing; by the care he demonstrated, one could deduce he took pride in his work. She pulled up a stool to sit while watching him, certain this was the lad to hire.

XXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOOXXXOOO

Hours had passed between the time Lucius left home and the time he arrived back, hunched over, unable to stand alone, leaning heavily on Bellatrix as they Apparated together on the porch. She barely managed to hold him upright long enough to knock on the door; it opened and he fell inside. Bella took out her wand to levitate him into the first parlor, where she dropped him unceremoniously on the couch with scarcely a whimper from him, his voice too far gone to make a sound.

Sisidy squealed at the horror of seeing Master Lucius in this state. She popped out, returning momentarily with Master Malfoy, who took in the scene at a glance. He hurried over to his son. “What happened to him, Bellatrix?”

For once she had nothing snide to say, perhaps because this wasn’t Lucius, it was his father. She’d grown up hearing about Abraxas Malfoy, the strict, cruel Master of the manor. As such, she’d learned to respect him, even fear him the tiniest bit, while finding his persona undeniably attractive. Not like the Dark Lord, of course! He was everything, he—

“Bella! What happened?”

“He was Crucio’d,” she said, sitting down daintily and crossing her legs. “He failed in his assignment, so he was punished. Repeatedly.”

Listening as he worked, Abraxas was in the process of feeling his son’s bones and muscles for signs of trauma. Discovering the burn across his back, he chanted a healing spell over it. “Do you know of anything to reverse the effects of the Cruciatus?”

“No. The Master knows, but he doesn’t ever speak it, so we can’t use it,” she admitted ruefully. It amazed her to realize she really did wish to help Mr. Malfoy, though if she were honest with herself she’d acknowledge it was not altogether for Lucius’ sake. “His throat is raw from screaming, maybe you can do something for that. The Cruciatus pain wears off over time.”

Neither one had noticed Narcissa standing next to Sisidy in the doorway—not until she cried out in distress and ran to her husband’s side. Before she formed a single word, she clung to him and burst into weeping.

Appalled to have his wife see him in this condition, Lucius managed to whisper huskily, “Honey, don’t look at me like this.”

“Lucius, what did they do?” she sobbed. Her tight embrace made him wince and pale.

“Narcissa, you’re hurting him,” said Abraxas softly, gently pulling her back. “I need you to help me. Go to my wife’s study, bring the potion marked Mucous Membranes. Hurry.”

Narcissa Disapparated, grateful to be of some assistance. Abraxas continued to recite incantations over his son, with some success. Lucius roused and moved his arms without the accompanying grimace of agony.

When the young woman returned, Abraxas uncapped the vial and held it up for Lucius. “Drink this. It’ll soothe your throat and help heal it. I’m doing the best I can to counter the curse.”

Lucius nodded and sipped at the liquid, one that astonishingly didn’t taste like muddy brine a leper had soaked his feet in for two weeks. In fact, it was rather fruity. In a matter of minutes he felt the pain lessen substantially. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely. At least he could speak now.

His father gave a tight smile, trying to hide his outrage. He didn’t dare risk speaking ill of that devil-bastard Voldemort with Bellatrix here to carry word back to him, earning Lucius more torture. How he wished he possessed the skill to defeat that heinous, wicked shadow of a man! All he could do was focus on helping his son.

Lucius motioned to Narcissa, who came forward, unsure whether to touch him. He painstakingly sat up and opened his arms for her; she flew to him, to be engulfed in his love. “I’m okay, sweetheart. It’s just pain, it’ll go away.”

“Why, Lucius? Why?” she insisted.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Here Bellatrix threw in her two cents’ worth. “Buck up, Cissy. At least it wasn’t the Killing Curse like the one that almost hit you at that café.”

“How did you—Lucius, did you tell her?” No one answered. No one needed to. The answer crystallized in her mind before she’d finished asking the question. Bella knew because she’d been there, she’d helped kill Edgar Bones and his family! The shock of the revelation made her want to throw up, yet she couldn’t let Bella see her disgust. “Did you cast that curse at us, Bella?”

Her sister wiggled uncomfortably. “Not on purpose,” she replied. “It kind of slid past when he moved…and anyway, it didn’t hit you, so what are you complaining about?”

“It was you?” Lucius choked out roughly, angrily. “All this time you knew I was trying to find out who did it! You could’ve told me!” One hand went to his neck, massaging to no effect.

“Stop being a baby. It was an accident; get over it,” sniped Bella. She rose from the chair. “I need to get back. Next time the Master gives you a task, Lucius, don’t screw it up. Goodbye, Cissy. Abraxas.”

“Bellatrix,” said Abraxas curtly.

“Bye, Bella,” Narcissa intoned, wishing she’d leave already. As soon as she’d gone, Narcissa turned to Lucius. “Bella was there murdering that family! Is that what you were doing today?”

“No, Narcissa,” he answered truthfully. “I told you I’m not like that. I was ordered to try to recruit someone who didn’t want to join. When he refused, as we all knew he would, I got punished.”

Sitting beside him, Narcissa buried her face on his chest. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right that he should suffer so much! There was nothing she could do to alleviate his pain, nothing to end this life of misery caused by the Dark Lord. All she could do was love him, which to her mind was precious little, not nearly enough to stop the sobs wrenching from her throat.