Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

Hogwarts becomes a refuge for the disaffected.

Chapter 13: The Uninvited Guests


"Narcissa!"

The shout startled Narcissa Malfoy out of her luxurious, lonely bed. She was sure it had been a dream. She often heard his voice in dreams, and it was hard to tell the difference between sleeping and waking in the darkest hours of the night.

"Narcissa!"

She stood in the darkness, groping for her wand.

"Lucius?"

The bedroom door slammed open, and he was silhouetted against the glow of the hall chandelier. "Lumos!" he shouted impatiently. "We're leaving!"

"Lucius!" She flung her arms around him. "Are you all right?" She looked him over, and decided he could not be. Bruised, dishevelled, and blood trickling from his temple, he was in that dynamic state of intense concentration that she had seen only a few times in their life together.

"Lucius! You can't be here! Everyone's looking for you---"

He snarled a laugh, and looked about the room, going over to the hiding place in one of the bedposts for some items he thrust into his soiled cloak.

"You're too bloody right everyone's looking for me. That sister of yours has convinced the Dark Lord we're plotting against him!" He looked her over, dressed as she was in her filmy, transparent night-dress. "You have your wand? You'll do! Come on!" He grasped her by the hand and pulled her out into the broad tapestried hall. "Accio Nimbus!"

Within seconds, an expensive broomstick had appeared, flying directly toward them. Malfoy caught in expertly and pulled his wife against him with an arm about her waist. Outside, there was a clamour as their household wards wailed in protest.

"He's here!"

The first popping noises were already sounding around them, when Malfoy Apparated them both away. In a split second, Narcissa Malfoy found herself standing barefoot on wet grass, in a cutting wind spitting cold rain. The forested landscape seemed familiar. Hastily, she cast a warming charm on herself, and wished she had taken a moment to don slippers.

"I can Apparate myself, you know," she pointed out, rather huffily.

"Yes, yes, yes, of course, you can, my love," he replied impatiently, mounting the broomstick. "Just get on the broomstick like a good girl, and we'll be off."

"Off where?" Running away was something for teenagers, not pillars of British wizarding society. Especially a pillar as inappropriately garbed as herself. Somewhere warm, I hope.

He shouted, at the end of his tether. "Get on the bloody broomstick!"

She obeyed instantly, gathering up her already sopping night-dress to straddle the broomstick. Instantly, painfully aware that she was wearing no undergarments, she cast a cushioning charm; and indignant, heard her husband's snigger. He took off abruptly, with a jolt that forced her to hold fast to him.

The cold wind rushed past them, whipping Lucius' hair into her face. "Where are we going?" she asked again.

"To Hogwarts!"

It was their only real chance, he had reasoned. His bolt holes in Malta and Bali would do no more than delay the inevitable; or at best, give him a disgraced and diminished existence, far from everything he valued. He had information. If he could strike a bargain with Dumbledore, he could yet save himself, save his family, and still have a life worth living. Going to the Ministry was out of the question: it was riddled with the Dark Lord's minions, and he would only be cast back into Azkaban, this time with Narcissa for company.

He pushed the broomstick to its limits, with some of the panache of his old Seeker days. His impromptu plan was working perfectly: to Apparate to the Hogwarts boundary, then to fly to the castle as quickly as possible. His ties to the Dark Lord were irreparably severed, and he was possessed with a glorious feeling of freedom. After all, a wizard—a powerful wizard, like himself--really needed very little. He had his wand, his broomstick, and his witch: he could charm, summon, transfigure, or conjure anything else. Slicing through the wind, Narcissa's warm arms wrapped about him, he could make out—dim at first, but growing brighter—the luminous towers of his destination.

-----

"Oh, damn, damn, double damn!" The slimy pulp escaped her again, plopping wetly to the stone floor. Hastily, Hermione retrieved it, hoping that Snape had not seen her fumblings. She glanced over to his workbench, where he was stirring patiently. He had not rounded on her for her clumsiness, but she thought she could detect the faintest twitch in the corner of his mouth.

"Language, Miss Granger."

"Sorry, sir."

She would have to peel another quarbarl—the mess before her was now unusable. Peeling the mushy pods left her with a substance like melting grape jelly. How was she supposed to dice this? The protective gloves only made her more awkward. She needed to have another look at the instructions, but dared not touch her notes or her wand with purple goo dripping from her fingers.

He was definitely smirking. Insufferable man. He had finished stirring, and was decanting his perfect potion with the virtuous air of genius enduring ineptitude.

There must be an easier way to do this! Jaw clenched, she cleaned her work area, snatched up another pod, and readied her knife. A deft cut, just so—

A jet of viscous purple juice struck her in the eye. She gave a little shriek, and ran to wash her face.

Snape was at her side in a moment, tilting her head back. "Let me see." He held her firmly, and opened her flinching eye. "No damage, but you'll have a radiantly purple iris for a few days."

He was inches away, examining her carefully. She was familiar enough with his scent. He had been looming over her for years; and she could identify the sharp-herbal-oil-alkaline-Snapeness with her eyes closed. His nose was even larger, seen close to. She carefully repressed a giggle at the vast caverns of his nostrils.

"Oh, joy."

He released her and smirked slightly. "A very striking feature." He retrieved a book from his desk. "Read the chapter entitled: 'On the flaying of the quarbarl.' You may find it illuminating."

She stripped off her gloves and took the volume, laying it with her other belongings.

"No," Snape objected sharply. "Do not add it to your mountain of books. Read it here. It's very rare, and I don't want it out of my keeping."

"It must be rare. I'd never heard of a quarbarl before today."

"An obscure but useful plant, found only in the Comoros Islands. Hardly a potions maker in a hundred has heard of it, but it's a very serviceable substitute for the euphorbias, and without all the toxins."

"It merely turns one purple."

"There is that."

She had adapted. First she had endured these Fridays; then she had found them stimulating. Now she looked forward to them as a highlight of the week. Snape occasionally rowed her if he thought she was being impossibly obtuse. Generally, though, she made a thorough effort to eschew obtuseness and prepare herself for the Friday evening efforts.

How proudly she had presented this month's batch of Wolfsbane Potion to Professor Lupin. "Your work?" he asked, and she nodded, unable to hide her triumph. He had looked at her with such gratitude and respect, and thanked her so sincerely, that any amount of criticism from her Potions Professor seemed worthwhile. Professor Lupin drank it down immediately, thought a moment—and said, "I do believe you've managed to make it less foul. But don't worry, I won't tell Severus!"

She had laughed a little, and it had seemed that nearly all their old ease was restored.

She put such thoughts aside and read the text Snape had given her. Within minutes she was protesting indignantly.

"You should have told me not to use a knife—"

Snape was smug. "You will never, until the day you die, forget to use magical means in dealing with these plants. Skin it using 'Pellem detrahe,' and then dice it with a standard 'in tesseras.'" He added inconsequentially, "Much like preparing an avocado."

She growled and read the rest of the passage. Sneaking a look at the rest of the book, she discovered that it had been written by an 17th century wizard explorer by the name of Boethius Lestrange. His style suggested that he had been a fairly odd fellow, but he certainly knew his potions ingredients. It also appeared to be a personal journal of his adventures, and Hermione thought it looked extremely interesting.

"It's quite remarkable—a study of the flora and fauna of the Indian Ocean. I'm surprised I haven't seen it in the Hogwarts library." She began thumbing through it, when Snape came over and took the book away, looking oddly embarrassed.

"It is a remarkable work, but it has never been published. This is the only copy, and it came to me through my mother's family. Some of the material is unsuitable for students." He paused, and grew uneasy. "The Headmaster would have my ears if you were exposed to some of Lestrange's more exotic escapades."

Now tremendously curious, Hermione wondered how she could persuade Snape that she was mature enough for anything a 17th century wizard might have experienced. Marshalling her arguments, she had drawn a deep breath, when her professor clutched his arm and hissed.

Mouth open and eyes wide, she asked, "You're being called?"

Snarling, "Get back to work!" he strode over to the fireplace. "Headmaster!"

"Yes, Severus?"

"I find it necessary to take my leave rather suddenly."

Even distorted by flames, Dumbledore's expression was evident. "Not surprising. Come on through to my office, and bring some Veritaserum. This should not take too long."

Hermione jumped up and ran to the storeroom. She plucked a small phial from a rack, and brought it back to Snape, who grunted in lieu of thanks. He issued a series of crisp orders. "Finish the Aglanoema, and bottle it. Check on the progress of my Wit-Sharpener, and set it to simmer. Clean the place up and set the wards before you leave." He took another look at her and snorted. "You may want to use some quarbarl pulp on the other eye for a matched pair. Who knows? You could be the envy of Miss Brown and set a new fashion!" He plunged through the flames and was gone.

"Good luck, sir," said Hermione to the empty hearth.

Worrying was unavoidable, but useless. I'd do better to show him that I can be relied upon to follow his instructions.

She went quickly to work. The quarbarl was flayed and diced within seconds and blended into her potion. Whilst that finished, she attended to the Wit-Sharpener, and then began tidying. Within minutes, she was bottling her thick purple cream. She checked the small mirror above the sink and jumped in alarm at the sight of her left eye, glowing –yes, lavender. Perhaps having only one is more disturbing. I look like Mad-Eye Moody! She thought a moment, and with a sigh, flayed another quarbarl. A few drops, and she took another look in the mirror. Perhaps not such a good idea. I scarcely look human, and now Professor Snape will think me an idiot. She groaned. It was done, and she didn't want to go to Madam Pomfrey and confess. She would brazen it out somehow.

She brightened, remembering the book. She dared not remove it from the dungeons, but there was no reason not to indulge herself now. She finished the washing up, and carefully dried her hands before handling the precious volume. It was thick, and she could not hope to get through all of it tonight, but she would give it her best.

-----

They had met in the Reading Room for an evening of stories and pictures. Harry had brought his precious album, and had shown Lily herself as a grown woman holding Baby Harry. There she was, happily in love—with James Potter. Shaking her head in amazement, Lily leafed through the volume slowly, and then backtracked.

"Well," she said dryly. "You certainly were an adorable baby."

Harry grinned, and turned the page. Christmas at Godric's Hollow. She remembered that was the name of the Potter family home. It was disconcerting, but good in a way. The pictures gave an intermediate stage between the teenaged Remus she knew and the prematurely middle-aged Remus she had suddenly been presented with. She wished there were pictures of Severus. The photographs of Sirius Black were disturbing. Aside from his harassment of Severus, he had always been a dreadful tease, and she had not particularly liked him. Yet here she was, one arm around Potter, the other around Black. Remus and Peter were behind them. They were all waving at her, obviously caught in a high-spirited moment. She pushed the book away.

"Let's go to the library sometime, and find all the yearbooks. I'd really like to see my seventh year." She drummed the worktable idly. "Actually, I've been thinking quite a bit about those yearbooks. They could tell us a lot about the past. I'd like to do a little research for the years around 1938 to 1945 or so."

Harry looked at her, interested. "That's about the time Voldemort was here! What do you think you could find out?"

"Oh—who went to school with him—who was in Slytherin at the same time—I have a theory about him. I haven't had time this week to look into it."

"Let's go now!"

"Not a good idea." She shook her head. "It wouldn't do to be seen together in the evenings, much less studying together in the library. Not good for your image, or mine."

"No one needs to know. We'll use this!" He got up and shook out his invisibility cloak. He often used it to slip into the Reading Room, and Lily was not surprised to hear that it was a Potter heirloom. No wonder that lot got away with so much!

"Are you sure there's room for both of us?"

"Of course! Hermione and I use it all the time! Come on! No time like the present."

Lily took parchment and quill in case she needed to make notes. Harry flung the cloak over the two of them, and they crept cautiously from the secret room, cracking the painting open a little to see if anyone was standing in the hall. It was only a few short steps to the library.

Lily felt horribly exposed. The quiet of the library, a soft hush of occasional whispers and scratching quills, was unnerving. Her breath was loud in her ears, and she nearly stumbled over Harry's big feet. She felt, rather than heard him laugh silently. Madam Pince was surveying the room with her usual suspicious contempt. Oh, God! There were Theodore and Daphne sitting only feet away, looking right at her! Slowly they crossed the library, heading to the far wall. A second-year Hufflepuff stood suddenly, and nearly ran into them. Harry expertly pulled Lily aside, and the Hufflepuff girl paused, puzzled for a moment, as a mysterious breeze from a fold of the cloak fanned her.

They were finally out of immediate danger, hidden behind a comforting wall of books. Lily had a good idea where the yearbooks were; but when located, they were inconveniently placed. The volumes for 1935 through 1949 were high on a top shelf, and had the air of books that knew no one cared about them anymore.

"I'll have to accio them," Lily murmured.

"No, I'll do it," Harry whispered back. "I'm fairly good at catching things. Which one first?"

Lily chose at random. "1942."

"Accio Hogwarts Yearbook 1942!" The volume shot out from between its fellows and smacked softly into Harry's hands, cushioned by the invisibility cloak. Quickly, he fumbled it under the cloak, and they sat on the floor together, book on his lap, and paged through it in the dim light.

Harry recognised Headmaster Dippet, his mild, rather ineffectual face peering at them benevolently at the beginning of the book. He turned to the staff section. "I want to see Dumbledore."

Dumbledore was there: younger, but still an old man in Harry's eyes. The future Headmaster looked at them in amusement, and actually gave them a wink. Harry snorted and turned the pages toward the student section. The liberal use of green signalled that they had found Slytherin House. The students eyed him suspiciously. A few of the older boys leered at Lily, and she glared back at them, much to their amusement. Amongst the fourth years was the thin, attractive face of Tom Marvolo Riddle.

He's really good-looking! Lily thought unwillingly. Tom's picture looked back at them rather pleasantly. He seemed a nice sort of boy—well mannered, quiet, serious about his studies. He gave Lily a courteous, reserved smile as he noticed her continued scrutiny. Very disturbed, Lily forced herself to study his housemates. There were eight other Slytherins in his year.

Harry scowled at Tom Riddle, who seemed a little hurt at Harry's hostility. After a moment, his face hardened into a cool, expressionless mask. Harry was also disturbed by the picture. I was never more wrong about anyone that I was about him. I thought he was really all right. I thought he was a friend from the past. I thought he was going to help me save Ginny. Hatred and resentment surged in him, and it was all he could do not to slam the volume shut.

He studied the names of the housemates: Mulciber, McKinnon, Flint… they were familiar names…No, there's a Spellwell. I've never heard that name before…Greengrass…hmmm.

Lily got out her parchment, and began writing down the names. When she had finished, she whispered, "Let's look at the fifth years."

And so it went. Names, known and unknown; faces, many resembling those he knew. They both stopped and gave each other a look when they found the sixth year prefects. Amongst them, blond, handsome, and arrogant, was a pale, pointed face that gazed approvingly at Lily and ignored Harry altogether. Apollonius Malfoy.

A real sorcerer's name, Lily admitted. Like Apollonius of Tyana. I wish I could ask you what you think of Tom Marvolo Riddle. Quickly she added him to the list. They were other well-known names: two Goyles, a Nott, a curiously long and lanky Crabbe, a good-looking Avery, and a Perseus Black. Harry wondered if this was Sirius' father or uncle. He could be either. Dark hair, obviously blue eyes, and a striking air. He gave Lily a little smile that was so like Sirius' that a pang of loss twisted through Harry.

Hurriedly he began to close the book, but Lily whispered, "We need to see the sevenths and then the first through third years, too."

Madam Pince was closing the library. The students filed out, and began talking in normal tones as soon as they reached the hall. Madam Pince did a quick check of the library; peering around the shelves and staring at them, blind to their presence. She extinguished the light, and locked the door behind her. After a moment. Lily illuminated her wand under the cloak and they continued their reading.

It got no better. There was a Roderick Lestrange in seventh year. There was another Black in second year—Antares. He was a handsome little fellow with a pugnacious air. He made such outrageous faces that they nearly missed the dark and sulky little first year at the bottom of the page. Too much nose for the small face, and the makings of a permanent sneer. Tiberius Snape.

"At least Snape comes by it honestly," Harry observed.

Lily elbowed him, and jotted down the rest of the names. Harry looked them over. It was practically a playbill of the Death Eaters.

"They haven't changed much."

"I don't know." Lily tapped her quill thoughtfully. "I think Severus isn't the only Slytherin who's never let go of schoolboy grudges."

"Against the other Slytherins?" Harry thought a moment, and simply said, "Oh."

He could picture it. If Malfoy could be miserable to the Weasleys about their lack of funds, he could imagine the treatment the orphaned halfblood Tom Riddle would have suffered. And they left him in that orphanage, year after year. The way they left me in the cupboard.

They paged through the rest of the book. There were pictures of the students together and pictures of the Quidditch teams. The Slytherin team was particularly interesting. Apollonius Malfoy, Diotimus Nott, Gregory and Gerald Goyle, Roderick Lestrange, Perseus Black, and Caradoc Avery. The young men in it all displayed a certain elegant languor that reminded Lily irresistibly of male models in a magazine fashion layout. The reserve players were not as polished, but equally sure of themselves: Little Antares Black was there, smirking at them, along with Mulciber, Flint, the long, tall Crabbe, and an attractive young girl named Electra Rosier.

"Now," said Lily, "let's find out more about these people."

Who's Who Amongst British Wizards and Witches listed them all, naturally. The article on Apollonius Malfoy was particularly long. He had been well on his way to a spectacular career in the Ministry when he died in a tragic accident in 1971. Strangely enough, the entire team had died fairly young, all in mishaps, or of unusual wizarding ailments. Not one was still alive after 1973, with the possible exception of Electra Rosier, who disappeared under mysterious circumstances in 1954.

Lily shivered. "When we have more time, we should check on the rest of the Slytherins. And not just for the year 1942."

Harry was thinking. "We should check the back issues of the Daily Prophet to find out more about the deaths."

"Right, but not tonight. I can't take anymore." She finished the parchments, rolled them up and thrust them into a pocket. "He killed them all and then made slaves of their children. I think it makes Severus look remarkably forgiving." Draco needs to know about this, she thought. Blaise, too. Perhaps Dumbledore himself has not connected the dots. Everyone needs to know.

They left the library, locking it after them. The castle was full of strange sounds after curfew. Huge shadows danced across distant walls. The castle's many familiars scurried restlessly, claws scratching on stone. They had to pass the entrance hall to get Lily back to her dormitory. As they reached the adjoining hall, they saw Hermione trudging back from the dungeons. Harry grabbed Lily's hand, and they ran, absurdly on tiptoe, to catch up.

Hermione was deep in thought, and seemed totally unaware of her surroundings until Harry hissed, "Oi! Hermione!"

She whirled, and at the sight of her both Harry and Lily jumped back. Lily tripped, and was tangled in the cloak. She fell to her knees, pulling the cloak with her and revealing them both.

"Crikey, Hermione! What happened to you?" Harry wondered for moment if this was Hermione or some Polyjuiced version of her gone horribly wrong.

Lily stared up from the stone floor, and smothered a laugh. "Do you know your eyes are purple? More a bright lavender, really," she amended.

"Potions accident," Hermione curtly explained. "Don't sneak up on me like that. You scared me to death!"

Voices echoed from the end of the hall that led to the Headmaster's office.

"Someone's coming!" Hermione snatched frantically at the cloak. Harry, with more presence of mind, hauled Lily up and deftly covered the three of them. It would hide them, but it was now absolutely impossible to move in a normal human manner. They found they could walk in lockstep, taking tiny steps with the same feet: right, right, right, or left, left, left. Lily felt ready to burst out laughing. "It's like dancing," she muttered, "only much sweatier. No music either."

"Shh!" Harry was watching the shadows coming their way. He nudged the girls (right, right, right) behind a statue of Virgilius the Sorcerer.

The voices came closer. Dumbledore's soothing tenor was unmistakable. Two other shadows were accompanying him.

The shadows resolved into human beings. A woman was speaking in hushed tones. "Is it really not possible to let Draco know?"

Lily clutched at Harry's arm. He mouthed a name at her, and she nodded. Mrs Malfoy! Cautiously, they peeked around the statue, and Harry drew a quick breath at the sight of the man beside her. What was Lucius Malfoy doing in Hogwarts, talking seriously with Dumbledore? More secrets! He had a sudden, ghastly notion that Malfoy was a spy for the Order, and he had never been told. No, that can't be right! And yet he knew Dumbledore had secrets that he entrusted to no one.

He pulled the girls back behind the statue. Dumbledore could see through invisibility cloaks. He hoped that the Headmaster was too engrossed with the Malfoys to look deeply into the corners of the hall. He was saying, "You should be perfectly safe here, in the meantime. It is essential that your presence be kept a secret from everyone, and that must mean Draco as well. Therefore, please stay in your quarters, unless you are summoned by Severus or by myself. You can then go through the fire directly to us. With any luck, Voldemort thinks you have fled the country. It would be best if he thought so as long as possible."

He dared another quick look. Mrs Malfoy's long blonde hair was down, nearly to her waist; and she had a man's long, black cloak wrapped around her. She turned, as she walked along beside her husband, and the cloak opened a little, revealing that she was wearing a nearly transparent night-dress. Harry goggled, and blushed, and realised he was ogling Draco's mother's –very nice!—figure.

Lily leaned over to look, too; and Harry tried unsuccessfully to push her back. He knew she was smiling, and he knew that she and Hermione would have plenty to say later.

Hermione leaned out from the other side, wondering what they were staring at. She pursed her mouth disapprovingly. So much for the Hogwarts dress code! Lucius Malfoy seemed completely unembarrassed, and his conversation with the Headmaster was inaudible. The Veritaserum! Dumbledore had wanted Professor Snape to bring it to the office. He must have questioned the Malfoys. They had evidently abandoned Voldemort and were taking refuge at Hogwarts. Meanwhile, what is happening to Professor Snape? Voldemort must be furious!

Lily's thoughts were quite different. So that's Draco's father! What a handsome family. Evil, of course, but quite nice-looking. Draco resembles his father a good deal. So they're going into hiding here at Hogwarts. Pretty cool of Malfoy, after all he's done. I shall remember in future to place no limits on the impudence of an impudent man. She remembered the parchments in her pocket. Not tonight, but sometime this weekend she would find an opportunity to share this information with her Slytherin friends. It wasn't proof, but it was suggestive circumstantial evidence of Voldemort's malice toward them.

Dumbledore and the Malfoys vanished up a staircase. The three students were silent until the last footsteps faded.

Harry was horrified. "What are they doing here? How can Dumbledore trust them?"

Hermione put a calming hand on his arm. "I was with Professor Snape when his Dark Mark burned."

Lily looked worried, and Hermione told them the rest. "He firecalled Professor Dumbledore, and was told to bring some Veritaserum to his office first. Dumbledore must have had the Malfoys drink it before questioning them."

"Malfoy probably knows Occlumency," Harry nodded, with a look of distaste.

"Anyway, whatever they said must have satisfied him, if he's going to let them stay here."

Lily was thinking. "I know it's for their safety, and I know the Aurors would be rounding them up in a moment if they knew they were here, but it's a shame Draco and the rest of the Slytherins can't know about Malfoy Senior's defection. A lot of them aren't sure what to do, and this would give them a good hard push over to our side."

Harry shrugged. "If they're so undecided, they're really of no use to us."

"Well, they might be useful to Voldemort," Lily retorted.

Hermione agreed. "It's true, Harry. All this secrecy makes people think Voldemort has more support than he does." Her chief worry surfaced. "And now Professor Snape is with Voldemort. He's probably going to ask him if he knows where the Malfoys went, and try to get him to look for them. He must be terribly angry."

Sobered, they each took a breath. Harry changed the subject. "Anyway, let's get Lily back to the dungeons, before they send a party out looking for her!"

-----

Narcissa Malfoy sat at on the edge of the ornate four-poster, diligently brushing out her wind-tangled hair. She suspected that they were locked in for the night. It could be worse. At least she was locked in with Lucius, and no one was dragging them off to Azkaban yet. The familiar routine of undressing and preparing themselves for bed was comforting, but also strange, in such a different place. She had not slept at Hogwarts since the last day of her seventh year, when she had left with such hopes for the future.

She looked at Lucius, now bathed, and relaxing gratefully on huge bed beside her, one knee bent. She could not begin to imagine what was going through his mind. She had given up long ago. She loved him, but he was still a stranger in many ways. She refused to blame him, preferring to hold others responsible; most particularly Bellatrix, her sister, after whose name Narcissa had silently appended the description, the crazy bitch, for many, many years.

It had not been enough that Bella had made her childhood a misery of bullying and petty torments. Bella had made herself the axis of the family: her temper, her strident opinions, her neediness had occupied much of her parents' time. And finally, when Bellatrix had concluded the mad drama of her many courtships and actually settled on that slavish Lestrange, Narcissa had hoped that she would be rid of her. They would gradually see less and less of each other, and Narcissa would finally have to endure only the annual agony of the holiday family dinner.

She had been so happy in her first years with Lucius. She had a lovely husband and a lovely home; but ruthlessly and inexorably Bellatrix had inserted herself into their private paradise.

"Lucius, there's a wonderful wizard you simply must meet." So it had begun. Bellatrix had sunk her claws into Lucius: not with sex, but with politics. She became a fixture in their lives. They attended meetings together. They had secrets together. Even in the early bizarre days when that Lord Voldemort had been living with Rodolphus and Bella—apparently on the most shockingly intimate terms with both-- Lucius had made excuses for them, entranced by Lord Voldemort's charisma and plausibility. Narcissa had listened silently and agreed to none of it, but they were all too strong for her. Later, she had had Draco; and Bella had hung over his cradle, giving Narcissa inappropriate and overbearing instructions, trying to take Draco away, too. Narcissa had hated her and resented her, and had never been as happy as the day her sister was put away in Azkaban with the rest of the rubbish.

Now Bellatrix wanted more than control of their lives. She wanted them dead. Narcissa understood, she imagined, better than Lucius. Bella never could endure competition. She wants her Dark Lord all to herself. I pity the rest of them.

Lucius suddenly spoke up.

"What's this Dumbledore said about Draco and some Jones girl?"

"Oh, yes. Draco's found himself a little girlfriend here at school. They went to the Halloween Ball as Oberon and Titania and sent me the loveliest picture—I have it somewhere… Anyway, my dear, he's so touchingly proud of her. Her name is Lily. She's quite pretty and charming, and he found her all by himself. I took them to lunch the week after the ball to see if she were impossible or not. I rather liked her." She stopped the interminable hair brushing and turned to her husband, a smile on her lips. "She has the most adorable dimples, and she has Severus' colouring of all things! Black hair and eyes, and a very fair complexion. Mind you, it looks better on her than it does on him! Of course, one never knows with Joneses----there might be a good reason for the resemblance…"

"What do you know about the girl?"

"I pulled a few strings and got her school records from that ridiculous Medicine Hat place. She was their prize student, evidently."

Lucius snorted.

"Well, yes. Obviously that's nothing to boast about. There can't be more than thirty students there! Quite gifted in Charms and History, it seems. Draco says she's been doing well at Hogwarts: she was Sorted into Slytherin, and she's taken that horrid mudblood down a peg or two. Anyway, the Bloodline goes back to their exile in 1652, so that's all right, if not very impressive. The girl has no family left, except a reclusive and repulsive great-uncle who hates witches and sent her out the country to be rid of her. The parents are dead—harmless eccentrics who travelled constantly and got themselves blown up by a Muggle bomb. Yes, yes, I know. Nothing to boast of there, either, and no money to speak of. Pansy told Olivia Parkinson that Lily has some nice old jewellery, some decent clothes, and a few good heirlooms—a toilette set with an 18th century Silverthorn mirror, in fact. Not much else, though. Still, the girl is pretty, and clever, and all in all—I think she might do. The lack of family is something of an advantage, since we won't be bothered by backwoods relations, or have to share any potential grandchildren. Draco's quite besotted. The girl herself, I think—not so much. She's very earnest about her studies and her future career."

"She sounds like someone I know."

"Yes, she does." Narcissa looked at herself in the long mirror opposite the bed, and wondered what had become of the girl who had dreamed of being Minister of Magic. We are talking together as if we have a future. Oh, please let it be so!

Lucius lazily stroked down the length of her spine. "Does she have any politics?"

"If she does, she's not telling; but I think that's all to the good, don't you?---Oh!"

"Nox," her husband whispered.

-----

Professor Snape was not at breakfast. Hermione came down early, and looked anxiously at his empty place. He often skipped breakfast, especially on weekends, so his absence was not particularly ominous. Lily was at her own house table, demurely framed on either side by Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini, as usual. Hermione tried to catch her eye, but Lily was staring at her plate and playing with her breakfast, oblivious to the blandishments of her companions.

Ron appeared, sat beside Hermione, and threw himself on the food before him. He was shovelling down his eggs, when he managed to mumble around them, "Come out and see the team practice, 'Mione! You've been down in the dungeons with the old bat so long you're looking a bit pasty yourself."

"Ron," said Hermione wearily, "you have a silver tongue."

Harry reached around Hermione to give Ron a warning shove.

"What? What'd I say?"

"I'll try to come out later," Hermione surrendered, "but I've got to stop by the dungeons and check on a potion."

Ron made a face, and then turned and caught sight of her.

"Bloody hell, Hermione! Do you know that your eyes are purple?"

Hermione and Harry answered simultaneously, "Potions accident."

Hermione added primly, "And they're not purple: they're lavender."

Ron grimaced sympathetically. More curious stares were directed her way from dozy, bleary-eyed housemates.

Harry nodded, understanding her. "Go on then. Ron, you know she won't be happy until she sees it's perfect! Give her some space."

Hermione got away then, hurrying past the other students, eyes discreetly cast down. She had to know if Snape had returned unharmed. If Voldemort had the slightest suspicions of him, Snape would be killed, and a powerful weapon lost to the Order. She had a secret, selfish interest herself. If anything happens to Professor Snape, my Friday nights with him will be over. It was shamingly mean and petty, but her special relationship as Snape's assistant was becoming important to her. Not often, but now and then, he would remark on a book, or on his research in a way that made her feel like a grownup colleague. Gratifying, yes: it made her feel validated as a serious student. There was no hope of such behaviour in their class, for a variety of reasons; but when they were alone, there was always the chance of that magic moment of harmony.

She also might get another glimpse of Lestrange's Around the Ocean of Ind. She blushed. Professor Snape had not been exaggerating when he said the book had inappropriate material. Lestrange's explorations of the people, animals and—even plants—had sometimes been on the near side of sick-making. No one could describe his research as incomplete!

She stood before the door of his office. It was early Saturday, and even if he were back, he might not be answering. She drew a breath, and knocked anyway. A minute passed slowly, and she knocked again.

The door abruptly opened inward; and Professor Snape, in his long white shirt sleeves, half of his buttons undone, stood before her. He looked quite awful: bed-hair sticking out oddly, dark shadows under his eyes, and acid on the tip of his tongue.

"What do you want?"

Meekly, she replied, "I was wondering about the Agla—I wasn't sure--." She heaved another breath and spilled it. "I just wanted to see if you were all right."

He stared at her suspiciously; then focusing, he barked a laugh. It took Hermione a moment to process it, as she had never heard Snape actually laugh before.

He sneered, taking in her extraordinary appearance. "Not even I would have credited that you would actually dye your other eye purple."

Hermione cleared her throat, and tried to put the best face on it. "It's more a lavender, really. It seems to me there might be commercial, cosmetic applications---"

He snorted. "Never, Miss Granger, and I mean never experiment upon yourself. I want two feet from you by next Friday detailing the reasons why it is a foolish and ineffective practice. And now, go away, you silly girl! You've seen me, I'm fine, the potion's fine, the dungeons are under control without your interference, it's Saturday, and I'm not supposed to have to put up with you!"

Rather dashed, she turned to go, as the Slytherins began returning from breakfast. Lily saw her, and then saw Snape. She gave the Potions Professor her nicest, most relieved smile.

"Good morning, Professor."

The others with her made their own salutations. Snape grunted at them, and shut the door with a bang.

Hermione found herself moving against the flow, hindered by students who did not appear to see her.

She ran full against Draco Malfoy, and looked fixedly at his chest, not wishing to raise her eyes.

"It's Professor Snape's Muggleborn assistant," he drawled. "Can't stay away, even on a Saturday, you fawning little swot?"

Hermione felt hot with fury, and flashed him a glare.

The eyes seemed to work. Malfoy jumped back, surprised, and then laughed.

"Do you know your eyes are purple?"

Lily interposed. "Leave her alone, Draco! You know what Professor Snape said!"

Blaise, with a courtly gesture but a widening smile, waved her off.

Lily added, dimpling helplessly, "Besides, they're not really purple---they're more a—hmmm---lavender!"

Fuming, Hermione stamped away, ears ringing with uproarious, intolerable laughter.

-----

Notes: The Silverthorn mirror is a tribute to a favourite story, Mirror of my Dreams, by Lady Jenilyn. Lily's thoughts about Lucius Malfoy's impudence are from Pride and Prejudice.

Next chapter—The Sacrificial Lamb: Voldemort seeks revenge, and we discover what Lucius Malfoy offered in trade.
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