Rosura, Part Two

Snape walked down the slope of the hill to the Hogwarts gates. The sun was setting - its rosy glare was hitting him full in the face - and he would have to be back in the Slytherin common-room soon, or Argus Filch would have him scrubbing the Gryffindor Team’s Quidditch boots again (that had been a particularly cruel punishment, and it still rankled with Severus. As soon as he was done revenging himself on Potter and Narcissa, he was going to turn his attentions to Filch).

To his surprise, Lucius Malfoy was standing on the other side of the gate, gripping the bars and gazing plaintively through them like a penitent criminal. His face seemed even paler with the plum-coloured evening light behind him, pouring over his shoulders.

“Do you often spend your evenings here?” Snape asked, as soon as he’d got close enough for Malfoy to hear him.

“I had a feeling about tonight,” Malfoy said fiercely, his dark blue eyes glittering. “I knew something was going to happen.” He hesitated slightly. “I’ve had the same feeling for the past five nights, actually, but it’s been growing stronger all the time, and I just know it’s going to be tonight that she changes her mind about me.”

Snape leaned his back against the bars, looking up at the castle’s lighted windows. The sky was pink behind the Astronomy Tower, and the evening star had just begun to glimmer: Venus, he thought lightly - how ironic.

“You could be right,” he said.

“Has she spoken to you about me?”

Snape suddenly remembered that he would bleed to death if he lied to Malfoy - it was a charm placed on trainee Death Eaters, to ensure their allegiance: if they lied to another Death Eater, their nose would start to bleed, and it wouldn’t stop until they told the truth. It wasn’t like him to forget something like this: the desire for revenge was making him reckless - like some kind of uncontrollable Gryffindor.

“Yes,” he said; then, after a moment’s thought, he added. “She’s still quite upset with you.”

“I can’t wait any longer, Severus,” Malfoy said. Snape turned to look at him, and noticed that he was unshaven: his hair was so light that this made him look as though slightly discoloured snow was clinging to his face. There were dark circles under his eyes and he looked as though he hadn’t changed his magnificent robes in days. Snape could smell the distinctive odour of sweat-soaked velvet. He had never known Malfoy to let his appearance go like this. He suddenly had misgivings about letting this man loose in the castle.

“Where are you sleeping?” he asked thoughtfully.

Malfoy gave a hollow laugh. “I’m not sleeping anywhere, but I stay at The Hog’s Head. It is, for all its unpleasantness, near Narcissa, which makes it more luxurious than the grandest mansion.”

“And you’d know,” Severus added, quite unhelpfully.

“You are going to let me in, aren’t you?” Lucius prompted.

Snape thought about what Narcissa had said to him in the Slytherin common room. For a moment, the sound of her cold voice resounded in his ears, reminding him about his cruelty to Lily, calling him pathetic. His insides were still crawling with hatred.

“You know,” he said, forcing himself to be calm, “I never had the advantages that Potter had in life. That arrogant, pathetic,” Snape screwed up his face, as though there were no words hateful enough to describe what James Potter was, “brat - he was born with people fawning all over him. And then, when he went to school, Dumbledore protected him - made sure he got away with everything, made sure he could bully his way to the top of every class. He’s always had everything he ever wanted thrown in his despicable, smug face. But arrogance is going to be his undoing, you’ll see - people like that don’t watch themselves - or they’d be sick, probably. ”

Lucius was squeezing the bars with impatience. “What are you getting at, Severus?” he asked, through gritted teeth.  

“I’m just saying that when something useful fall into my hands, something Potter’s always taken for granted, I make the most of it.”

“And when something falls into Potter’s hands that you’ve always taken for granted, no doubt he’ll make the most of it,” Lucius muttered in an undertone.  

Snape stopped dead. “What are you talking about?”

“The filth you used to associate with. Your mudblood friend. Potter likes her, doesn’t he?”

The world lurched for Snape, as anger and panic blurred his vision, knocking him off balance. He almost reached out to steady himself, but a glimmer of rationality remained. Lucius couldn’t know; nobody knew. He’d been so careful. He had to be testing him, blundering into the accusation out of the desire to keep Severus down-trodden and obedient; it was random fire that had unwittingly struck home.

Well, Snape knew he was more than a match for this stolid, spoilt, long-haired pretty-boy. There were skills that only being a deprived outcast could teach you, and one of them was quick-thinking.

He had one decisive advantage: Malfoy thought he couldn’t lie to him.    

“You heard what I said to her that afternoon by the lake,” Snape said with a fierce, forced calm. “You were there. It wasn’t easy to make you out while I was hanging upside down, but you were there: I saw you. Didn’t I make it clear then who my real friends are? Haven’t I made it clear since?”

Malfoy bristled. Snape was staring straight at him - his black eyes looking both angry and expressionless, hard and yet bottomless. People didn’t often make eye contact with Lucius Malfoy: they usually quailed under his stern, self-righteous gaze. There were rumours - Malfoy had put them about himself - that he was a peerless practitioner of mind magic: there were stories that he could send you mad with a single glance, that he could have you spilling your innermost secrets before you’d even shaken hands with him. But he withered beneath Snape’s pitiless stare: it was like smacking into a brick wall that you had mistaken for an immensity of darkness. Lucius looked away.  

“But, for the record,” Snape said, his voice softer this time, but no less fierce, “even the mudblood is too good for Potter.”

Lucius settled into resentful silence; his thoughts had already begun to wander past the wrought iron gates and up to the castle. It was one of the strengths of the Malfoys that they didn’t dwell on defeat unduly. “I‘m sorry, Severus,” he muttered, “you were saying?”

Snape tried to think his way back to the emotional state he’d been in before Malfoy had mentioned Lily. It wasn’t easy.

Yes, there it was: cold, writhing hatred, and a determination to do something about it.   

“I can’t let you in through the gates,” he said. “Hagrid’s the only one who can unlock them: that’s what it means to be Keeper of the Keys at Hogwarts - you are the keys - only your hands can break the locking charm. I suppose he was chosen because he’s not easy to curse,” Severus mused, forgetting for a moment that his companion was rattling the bars in his impatience, “most spells just bounce straight off him - or because he isn’t a fully qualified wizard, so he can’t do that much damage: Dumbledore’s got this thing about setting defences that can only be broken by harmless people.”

“So how am I going to get in?” Lucius asked furiously.

Severus toyed with the idea of letting him wait a little longer, but dismissed it. Lucius was a valuable friend: a pure-blooded Death Eater with unlimited gold did not beg you for help every day.  

“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” he said. “When something useful falls into my hands, I make the most of it.” He held up a piece of parchment that, at first, just appeared to be badly ink-stained. But then Lucius realized that the dots of ink were moving, and that there were lines around the dots, to mark out rooms and staircases: it was a map.

“This is a map of Hogwarts,” Severus explained, “showing where everyone in the castle is at any one time. It’s Potter’s. I expect Dumbledore helped him make it - he pretends not to know what Potter and his sycophantic idiots get up to, but he knows. If you’re caught, you tell them you got in using this map, and that you found it in the Three Broomstick after Potter and his gang had been drinking there on Saturday. Have you got that?”

Lucius nodded and reached his hands through the bars hungrily, grasping for the map. Snape let him have it. “Use one of the secret passages into the castle from Hogsmeade,” he said. “There’s one in the cellar of Honey dukes.”   

“But how do I get into the Slytherin common room?”

“I know the password, remember? It’s dragon‘s-blood.” He threw a shirt and Slytherin tie at Lucius. “Put those on,” he said, “you need to look like you belong here. And try not to stare at anyone: the best way to be inconspicuous is to look as though you accept things.”

“I’ve been looking as though I accept things for my entire life,” Lucius muttered.

“I’m sure it’s been terrible for you,” Severus said sarcastically. “Now, this is as far as I go. I’m not helping you once you’re in, so don’t get caught. And if you do, remember you got that map from Potter.”

“Thank you, Severus,” Malfoy said eagerly and, with a swish of his cloak, he was off up the road to Hogsmeade.

Severus watched him go for a little while, torn between feelings of gloating enjoyment and prickling uneasiness. At least Lily would approve of this idea - or, at any rate, a milder version of this idea - one that didn’t run the risk of ending in murder. It was as close to Lily’s approval as any of Snape’s ideas had ever come, so he wasn‘t too bothered about the particulars. It taught everyone a lesson they badly needed to learn: Narcissa, for the first time in her life, would learn the meaning of need; Lucius was already learning the meaning of humility and, if he was caught, Potter would learn the meaning of pain (an education that would last the rest of his life, if Snape had anything to do with it)

All told, he couldn’t understand why he was feeling so anxious.


Narcissa bottled the potion she’d been brewing, and held it up to the light of the candle on her dressing-table, letting the fire-light filter jewel-like through its black-red depths.

She hadn’t expected it to be red. Perhaps it was the effect of the Armadillo Bile. If Severus Snape was good for nothing else, he knew his Potions. What a perfect specimen he was: how could anyone be easier to manipulate? Completely alone in the magical world, without friends or family; desperate for glory and approval; clever, without the inconvenience of scruples. And he looked so… interesting.

Narcissa was so used to beholding beautiful things that she found Snape’s greasy-haired, hook-nosed, sallow-skinned, stringy-limbed appearance fascinating - almost appealing, in a way she didn’t want to acknowledge. The idea of beauty being peripheral to attraction unsettled her. Beauty was all she had - and, if it wasn’t enough, then the road to power would be more difficult than she’d initially thought.  

There was just the matter that her perfume - her favourite invention, the wonderful mixture of Hemlock and Vanilla that befuddled men’s wits - didn’t work on him. He was the first man she’d ever encountered who was immune, and she wondered how she could find out why. Dissecting him was an appealing idea; but magic didn’t always work visibly. She would have to talk to him, gain his trust, and then, if that didn’t work, dissect him. Or, at any rate, have him dissected for her. Narcissa was indolent even in her passions; she enjoyed the sensation of having things done for her.   

Well, now there was the matter of testing the potion. In the dream-like state she often entered when gazing in her mirror, the state she liked to think of as listening to the promptings of her noble blood, she had thrown random ingredients together, and now she wasn’t entirely sure which ones she had used. It would be better not to drink the potion herself; she would have to find some mudblood to test it on. They were expendable; and, if the potions made the creature beautiful - well, Narcissa didn’t begrudge them that - the effects were only temporary, and it would be sweet for them to taste the thrill of being wanted, for once in their pointless lives. In fact, in a spirit of generosity, she frequently tested her potions on Mary MacDonald. That girl needed all the help she could get.

She threw on her cloak, fastened with the silver insignia of the Blacks, and went in search of mudbloods. Lamentably, the castle was swarming with them these days, and they did not keep to themselves in a shabby corner of their common-rooms, withdrawing into the shadows whenever a real witch or wizard passed them, as they used to. Narcissa’s mother had told her that, when she was at Hogwarts, before Dumbledore had corrupted the place, the mud bloods had had to sit at the back of the class, and were put in detention for daring to speak to their betters.

She entered the Great Hall and cast around the Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Gryffindor tables for the filth. She had not expected to find one sitting at her own table.

But there she was. The red-haired Gryffindor was brazenly sitting at the Slytherin table, talking to Narcissa’s unruly sister, Andromeda. The girls were sunk so deep in conversation that they didn‘t notice that the other Slytherin students had cleared a wide circle around them, or that the entire table was alive with outraged mutterings and angry stares. The two of them had their heads very close together, the mudblood’s red hair mingling with Andromeda’s chestnut; they were whispering and laughing, hardly noticing what they were eating. The Slytherin table were not the only ones staring in disbelief. James Potter was watching sullenly from under his untidy bird’s nest of jet-black hair (it was looking more untidy every day - Narcissa found this disregard for personal grooming highly offensive), and Sirius Black was muttering darkly to Lupin.

The atmosphere in the Great Hall was thick with resentment - Narcissa got the feeling that violence might break out at any moment, and the only ones who seemed unaware of it were the chattering girls at the Slytherin table who had caused it.     

Narcissa, who couldn’t imagine being unaware of the gaze of others, looked at them for a while: she was shocked and even a little beguiled by that kind of independence.

But she was also worried for her sister. Andromeda had always been prone to these kind of defiant spectacles; she had talked too much with their blood-traitor cousin, Sirius. And the world was starting to grow intolerant of her eccentricities. Didn’t she care that that filth was sitting at the same table at which their female ancestors had sat for generations, plotting revolutions and securing husbands?

Narcissa’s worry turned to anger and she went over to them, the thin bottle of potion hidden up her sleeve.  

“I hate to interrupt this charming little gathering,” Narcissa muttered, sitting down opposite them, and making sure the rest of the table noticed the reluctance with which she did this, “but I would like to let you know, Andromeda, that, if you continue to disgrace us with this filth, I’ll tell father how little you care for his name, and he’ll cut you off without a Galleon.” (A Galleon was the lowest amount of money Narcissa could imagine; she had never so much as seen a Knut).   

Andromeda stared at her sister. “What filth?” she asked angrily.  

Narcissa was astonished to see that the mudblood was smiling mischievously. “I think she means me, ‘Dromeda.”

“She wouldn’t be that thick,” Andromeda said with quiet fury. “Would you, ‘Cissa?”

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Narcissa went on, not deigning to reply, “the entire school is staring at you. I’m ashamed of you.”

Andromeda was still staring at her sister, as though she had never seen her before. “Not half as ashamed as I am of you,” she said quietly.  

Lily was still smiling. “It’s alright, ‘Dromeda,” she said. “You’re not actually surprised, are you? Let’s let the little princess get back to her nail-filing. Why don’t we go eat over there with Sarah?” she nodded towards the Ravenclaw table where a frizzy haired girl was watching them, her mouth a curly line of sympathy.  

“We‘re not going anywhere,” said Andromeda angrily. “Narcissa, this is Lily. I don’t think you’ve been properly introduced before.”

“How dare you?” Narcissa growled. “That’s like trying to introduce me to a rock.”

“I’d like to introduce her to a rock,” Lily muttered, and Andromeda giggled.   

“How dare you?” Narcissa said again. “My family have sat at this table for five hundred generations!”

“What an achievement!” Lily exclaimed. “How I wish my family could master the art of sitting at tables!”

Andromeda grinned. “Oh, it’s not just the sitting,” she added sarcastically, “they also managed to pick up knives and forks, and eat with them.”

“And it only took them five hundred generations?” Lily asked, with mock astonishment. “Good heavens! Your family really is superior, Narcissa.”

Narcissa’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “Do not speak to me,” she warned. “Do not soil my name with your filthy muggle lips. My ancestors could have crushed yours into the dust. You were only allowed to be born because of their forbearance.”

“Well, what’s done is done, and here I am,” Lily said quickly, her eyes bright with amusement. “What are you going to do about it, Narcissa?”  

“There’s more magic in my little finger than you have in your entire body!” Narcissa hissed, starting to lose her icy composure now.  

“Why don’t you prove it?”

“How about I prove it?” said a voice. All three girls looked over, to see the smouldering black eyes and twisted mahogany wand of Bellatrix directed at them. She was leaning a careless elbow on the table and her heavy eye-lids were drooping lazily; she was talking in a deadly whisper, yet it carried as though it had been magically magnified in the suddenly-silent hall. “How would that be, mudblood? I have the same ancestors as Narcissa - why don‘t you let me prove how much better they were than yours?”

Lily didn’t flinch; she simply raised her eyebrows. “In front of all these witnesses?” she asked. “Go ahead. I’d love to see you expelled.”   

“You won’t be able to see much after what I’m going to do to that pretty little face of yours,” Bellatrix answered in a sing-song voice. “I’ll hurl more than a cauldron at you this time, mudblood.”

Lily narrowed her eyes. “What did you say?”

Bella seemed to realize that she’d said too much, but she went on anyway, because she scorned to display fear, or even prudence, in front of a mudblood.

“You heard me. Snape covered up for me, because he’s my devoted little half-blood these days, but I did it, and I’m only sorry that it didn’t kill you.”  

Her smile was so wide and so humourless that it appeared to be a snarl; just an excuse to bare her teeth. She was gazing at Lily with pure, inveterate hatred, but Lily didn’t look away. Narcissa was starting to feel a grudging admiration for the girl. There were not many people who could look into Bella’s ferocious eyes without turning to look for an escape route, but this creature was managing it. Still, her admiration did not stop Narcissa from taking advantage of the distraction in order to empty the bottle of potion into Lily’s pumpkin juice.     

“Bella, don’t be an idiot,” said Andromeda.

Lily had folded her arms and narrowed her eyes to two deadly slits. “Go ahead, Bella,” she said. “Nobody’s stopping you.”

Bella raised her wand but Narcissa put a hand on her wrist to restrain her. “Don’t, Bella,” she said calmly.

Even in the midst of her fury, Bellatrix was startled. This was the first time Narcissa had spoken to her since her affair with Lucius Malfoy had been discovered.

“This piece of slime isn’t worth getting thrown out of Hogwarts for,” she said. “Anyway, I have a feeling that, outside of Hogwarts, when her teachers aren’t there to molly-coddle her, she’s going to get taught a lesson soon enough - and it’s one lesson she won’t be able to boast about her marks for.”  

Grudgingly, Bella put her wand back in the pocket of her robes, and allowed Narcissa to lead her away from the Slytherin table. Heads turned to watch them as they left the Hall - even the teachers up at the staff table seemed to be following their progress. Professor McGonagall never took her eyes off Bellatrix - cool and professional as she usually was, the sight of Bellatrix always made her nostrils flare and her mouth compress itself into a very thin line.   

Once outside in the cool, shady marble Entrance Hall, Narcissa released her sister’s hand and tried to walk back to the dungeons, but Bella held her back. “Why did you do that, ‘Cissa?”

“Why did I stop you from getting yourself expelled?” she asked coldly. “Because you are family. And family is everything. Why do you think I poisoned Malfoy and not you? Because he made a fool of both of us, and Black women avenge their wrongs; they do not squabble amongst themselves, and certainly not over men. My loyalties are to my blood, Bella, always.”  

Bella, for all her ferocity, seemed slightly in awe of this kind of cold resolution. Narcissa was smaller than her; all her limbs were delicately framed, where Bella’s were bulky and muscular; Bella’s eyes were a fiery, incandescent black, like glowing coals, where Narcissa’s were a placid grey, yet the little, ice-pale creature with the dead grey eyes was suddenly awe-inspiring to Bella.

“You poisoned Malfoy?” she whispered.

“You do not need to thank me,” Narcissa replied. “That is assumed.”

“Is he dead?”

“Not yet. I didn’t see why I should get my hands dirty, when there were potions that could make him kill himself, and in very interesting ways.”

Bella suddenly seemed abashed. “I’m sorry, ‘Cissa,” she murmured. “It’s these filthy mudbloods swarming over the castle, they get me worked up, and I…”

“There is no need,” Narcissa interrupted, “to apologise. I‘m going to make him pay, Bella. Nobody will ever disrespect our family again.”

The two girls embraced with an odd, jerking motion; they were not used to showing affection this way. In fact, they had been encouraged to compete against one another remorselessly, but somehow, against all their conditioning, they had developed a bond; it was true that it was a bond based on their mutual distrust of anyone who didn‘t share their noble blood, but it was the only bond either of them had ever known - and, even if it was for the wrong reasons, it had the right effect. They would always look out for one another

Across the room, in the shadows of the marble staircase, Lucius Malfoy leaned his back against the cold stone banister and closed his eyes, trying to master the anger than was rising up inside his chest. It was a battle he knew he was going to lose, but he tried, all the same. For Narcissa.