The Coast Road

Lily peered over the top of the chess board, surveying a game she was rapidly losing, and then glanced up at Severus.

"All I'm saying," she said, picking up a Rook, tapping it against her cheek, and putting it down again, on exactly the same square, "is that I could help you."

"Without magic?" he snapped, and then watched wretchedly as her face fell. That stung her, but he couldn't take it back. It wasn't nice, pointing out how helpless she was, but she was contemplating something much more foolish – and much more final – than despairing.

He looked back at the board, in an effort to avoid the agonizing spectacle of her disappointment. The Slytherin part of him wondered whether she'd started this conversation just to distract him from the game.

Sitting with her, in one of the vaulted, marble parlours that the Valance House was so rich in, reminded him of playing wizard's chess with the Boggart-Lily in that tumble-down classroom back at Hogwarts. The shadows around her eyes even reminded him of the Boggart's thick, dark eye make-up.

She was still a long way away from that nightmarishly gorgeous creature, of course – a long way away from cynical smiles and bitter sarcasm. At the moment, she was still glowing with the after-effects of the Liberus Charm, even though Severus's last remark had chased away her habitual smile.

But misery didn't harden her; it tenderized her. And the difference in conversation was still vast. The Boggart Lily had talked at length about the horrible, disfiguring curses she had used on her enemies. Jesus, she had talked about using the Cadwallader Curse, which literally turned you inside out, until you were a dripping configuration of veins and intestines. He was certain this Lily – the one sitting in front of him, chewing her lip as she contemplated her next move – had never even heard of it, but how long would her ignorance last? And, if you were a Slytherin, could you ever really pray for the preservation of ignorance?  

And then there was that other thought, never really far away from his mind when he remembered the Boggart-Lily. It orbited her like a satellite. The memory of a fresh start – a blank slate – which only lived for three days.

But it wouldn't happen this time. There were differences. The Boggart Lily's husband had never had the Light Mark. Severus usually had a fatalistic imagination, but he just couldn't despair when it came to Lily. The condition of hope was built in to his feelings for her. He knew he was being stupid. If he could achieve the right kind of psychological distance, he would be disgusted at this kind of senseless optimism. But he couldn't. You couldn't step back from something like love; you had to make sense of all the blurry shapes without the help of perspective.

He had expected her to be silent for the rest of the game. He had expected those feelings of uselessness to keep her under for a long time to come, but she was resilient. He supposed it was the lingering effects of the Liberus Charm.

"I've been reading about Occlumency," she said slowly, picking up her Knight and examining it, as it flailed its sword wildly in anticipation of the coming attack. "Since you – you know – since you started working for Dumbledore."

"I never said - ,"

"You didn't have to." The knight's sword was snipping the stray ends of her hair now, and she wasn't even noticing. Severus felt his heart sink with dread. She was obviously thinking about how to phrase an idea he really wouldn't like. "And you can do it without a wand, right? Maybe you could teach me how. I mean, it's just misdirection and mental discipline, isn't it?"

"Just mental discipline?" Severus shook his head in disgust. "You are such a Gryffindor. And, anyway, no. It isn't just misdirection and mental discipline. It's like Potions. It doesn't look like magic until you try it."

"Teach me the muggle parts of it," she said firmly. "Teach me to clear my mind and things like that. I'm sick of assuming he's got me beaten before I've even tried."

Severus looked at her. He wanted to shake her by the shoulders and kiss her. Simultaneously. God, why did he find her Gryffindor qualities so frustrating and yet so irresistible? That senseless, bloody-minded defiance was precisely what he hated in people like Potter. It was willful stupidity to think you could beat someone that nobody else had ever been able to beat – especially without magic.

But, coming from Lily, it was an important kind of willful stupidity. It was the kind of stupidity you had to cherish, because it was tied up with life and hope, and all those other treacherously unreliable things. As a Slytherin, he had never thought he would learn to see any breed of stupidity as beautiful, but Lily Evans could bring out the beauty in anything.

"We all do it without thinking," she went on, putting her knight back on the board and watching it plough through the ranks of his pawns. "Everyone says he's the most powerful wizard alive and it's pointless trying to fight him. But how do they know if they haven't tried?"

Severus frowned. "He just is."

How could he explain it to her? Voldemort had everything on his side. He was the last descendant of Salazar Slytherin. He had been top of every class at Hogwarts. He was charismatic and persuasive, and master of just about every branch of magic you could think of. He even looked like the personification of dark magic. He didn't look like a man, who could make a mistake, but an apocalyptic, elemental force, who'd come to punish humanity for its pride and corruption. You couldn't fight a story like that. It was just too compelling.

All those beguiling narrative devices worked in his favour. These things exercised a hold over the imagination, but not a misleading hold. His superiority was just a cold, hard fact. Even if nobody believed in it, it would still grab you by the throat and beat you to death. You couldn't stick your fingers in your ears – you couldn't negotiate with that kind of power. It was just there, the way gravity was just there.  

"Listen, even Dumbledore knows this," he said urgently. "He's too powerful. You can't beat him by just brandishing a wand in his face. If he's going to be beaten, we'll have to be clever about it. Or really lucky."

But he had given up hope of that. It was horribly easy to envisage someone like Potter being lucky in the face of Voldemort's skills – he was lucky in the face of everything – but Severus knew it would never happen that way for him. Luck hated him. It still hadn't forgotten about that unicorn.

"Well, what's Occlumency if not being clever?" she demanded. "Occlumency is about as clever as you can get."

Severus didn't say anything. He liked that she thought that. He wanted her to go on thinking it. So what else could he do? It wasn't as though she was a muggle, as such. All those qualities which underpinned magic – the self-confidence and imagination – were abundantly present in her. They just weren't plugged in.

He sighed, and said that he would try. He was always saying that these days. He didn't want to promise her he would try; he wanted to promise her he would succeed spectacularly – and he could do it in the face of the Boggart-Lily's cynicism, but not in the face of his Lily's dewy-eyed trust. The Boggart-Lily couldn't be disappointed, after all – she always expected the worst of him – but this girl could be shattered. He was amazed it didn't happen every day.


And it was that thought which scattered his common-sense when Voldemort arrived. There was only time to save one of them, and it was always going to be Lily.

Severus's hand reacted without the intervention of his brain. His brain would probably have agreed with his hand, even if there had been time for him to process the horrific consequences of what he was about to do. But there wasn't time. There was only a shadow on the horizon, and a brief scuffle in which he managed to stun Lily and push her into the bushes. And then he and Elsa were staring up into the red eyes of Lord Voldemort. She didn't help matters by gawping at him, with her head on one side, and saying: "What's the matter with your face?"

It had seemed like the last place in the world you could expect to meet Lord Voldemort. The Valance estate was protected by seven centuries'-worth of enchantments, stacked up by paranoid, battle-scarred wizards, who didn't want goblins or Slytherins getting onto their land. And Bruiser had only sent them down the coastal road to the village to buy vegetables.  

Severus had wanted to be alone with Lily, but Elsa insisted on going with them as far as she could. She wasn't allowed outside the grounds of the Valance House, but she skipped along beside them while they walked down the gravel drive. The road to the village hugged the railings that bordered the Valance grounds, so she stuck with them – much to Snape's annoyance – almost all the way to the village, even though she had to walk on the other side of the railings, ducking under pine-branches and skipping over thistles. She chattered erratically, and didn't require much of a response, although Lily was too warm-hearted to refrain from making sympathetic noises. She said her brother teased her. She said she wasn't allowed to meet any children her own age – and you ran out of things to say to Uncle Max, because there were only so many goblin rebellions to talk about.

Severus let her prattle on. He couldn't feel too sympathetic towards a girl who was imprisoned in a mansion, surrounded by loving family members. She ought to try Spinner's End for size.

And, all the time, he kept his eyes on Lily, drawing the blood to the surface of her cheeks with his gaze. It felt like so long since he had seen her, and even longer since he had seen her happy. Of course, there was more giggling, and more praising of idiots like Mary MacDonald and Meg Valance, when she was happy, but, on the whole, it was worth it. You were reminded of how perilously trusting she was – but also of how formidably energetic. She had enough spirit to spare for the idiots.  Those electric-green eyes were practically crackling.  

And Severus felt him riffling through his head before he saw him. There was always a questing, prickling sensation when Voldemort detected another mind nearby.

How many of them had he detected? But there wasn't even time to despair. You couldn't assume that everything was lost, not when you were standing beside Lily, and she was helpless without your skills. He took out his wand, and used a non-verbal stunning spell to incapacitate her. Then he caught her elbow as she fell, and lowered her to the ground between the hawthorn-bushes.

And that was it. End of thinking-time. He didn't even get to check that she was properly covered. A figure in a black cloak was making its way round the bend in the road, treading with the confidence that absolute, tyrannical power tends to give you.

Underneath the blurring panic, Severus felt the Occlumency state yawn, stretch and smile. It loved moments like this. And, when he was handing over the reins to it, with a deep-seated sense of unease writhing at the pit of his stomach, he couldn't help feeling just a tiny bit liberated. The joy of the Occlumency state was so uncomplicated. It didn't entail any responsibilities or disappointments. It was just tearing along at the speed of thought, looking down at all the pitiful things that used to matter to you, and laughing at how small they seemed from up here.

For just the briefest of moments, his heart reared up in his throat, as he saw Voldemort's eyes flick downwards, to the clump of hawthorns at Severus's feet. If even a lock of hair or a fold of fabric was showing… And, God, if the branches covered her, what was to stop them twisting themselves around her? Hawthorn bushes had vicious thorns.  

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He was awake. Thorn bushes didn't curl their branches around unprotected young women when you were awake.

He took a shuddering breath, and forced his eyes upwards. Voldemort was looking at him, and the Occlumency state slammed down on these sentimental thoughts like a portcullis. If he didn't clear his mind, she'd be dead anyway. Dittany could make scratches – and even gouges – disappear, but there was no potion on earth that worked on a victim of the Avada Kedavra curse.

He felt his heart sink and settle back into its moorings, where it proceeded to beat with a muffled, clockwork sound.

"Severus," said the Dark Lord, with a slight inclination of his head. "You do keep impertinent company these days."

He flicked his wand towards Elsa, and her eyes slid out of focus. Her skin took on a glazed, bluish look, as though she'd been coated with a thin layer of ice. "You may speak freely now," he added. "The girl cannot hear us."

"My apologies, my Lord," said Severus. "She's an insolent child."

"Oh, I daresay it is the fault of the parents. A muggle and a cannibal can hardly be relied upon to raise well-balanced children." Voldemort took a deep breath through his slit-like nostrils. It was a mannerism that usually indicated deep contentment. He repeated it whenever he was talking to his snake, Nagini. But Severus had to rein-in those thoughts, because they were starting to make the back of his neck prickle, and it was imperative that he concentrated.   

"I'd received word you were working for that shameless muggle who calls himself master of the Valance House," Voldemort went on softly. "I'm surprised the stones do not rise up in protest at his presence. When I have a spare moment, I'll see if I can't make them."

"I thought it would be useful to gain his trust, my Lord," said Severus steadily. "The house will become a stronghold for blood traitors in the future, I'm sure of it. And I can learn a lot about its defences from the inside."

"I daresay," said Voldemort. "I daresay it also pays to be seen in the company of a muggle when the Aurors are investigating every Slytherin as a potential Death Eater."

Severus didn't say anything, which turned out to be the right move.

Voldemort smiled. "We'll say nothing of your ingenuity at present, Severus. I always knew it was there and, believe me, I intend to make full use of it. I am not here to make war on the brainless muggle. There will be plenty of time for that. I am here to find a cave I once visited as a boy. It is so important – don't you find, Severus? – to keep one's memories fresh."

"Yes, my Lord," said Snape, who'd never had any trouble keeping his memories fresh.

"Will you introduce me to your impertinent little friend before I go?"

The wrecking ball of realization slammed into the back of Snape's head, ten minutes too late. For one horrifying moment, it made his Occlumency state slip, and he stood, naked and terrified, before Voldemort's red eyes. But, fortunately, they were focused on Elsa. He took a steadying breath, and tried to hitch the Occlumency state back in place. One piece of luck – finally – but it didn't counterbalance the disaster that was about to come crashing down on him.

"Of course, my Lord," he said, without a tremor.  

He turned to Elsa, who was starting to un-glaze. She was blinking up at them with the habitual suspicion of an eight-year-old.

"Elsa, this is a friend of mine," he said levelly. "My Lord, Elsa Valance."

Elsa, suddenly afraid that she might have been rude when she asked this 'Lord' what was wrong with his face, gave a clumsy curtsy.

"Delighted to meet you, my dear," said Voldemort, and – with a snakelike movement that would make Snape shudder later, when he was at liberty to shudder – the Dark Lord reached through the railings and shook Elsa's little hand. "I will be watching your career with interest. Your mother fought dragons, I understand?"

This raised a faltering smile, but Elsa was too nervous to go into details. She just nodded mutely.

"Excellent," said Voldemort. "I hope you have inherited her tenacity. And just about everything from her side of the family."

Then he turned on his heel with a flick of his cloak, and headed down the coast road to the sand-dunes.

Severus breathed out. It was a while before he realized that what he was breathing out were swear-words.

"What are you talking about?" Elsa demanded, gripping the railings a fraction too tightly. "Also, you're not supposed to be swearing around me! Even dad doesn't swear around me, and he spent thirty years fighting in wizard-bars! You're lucky I'd never tell on a friend, or - ,"

"You think I could be in worse trouble?" Severus snapped. "You've just met Tom Riddle!"

"Well, so what?" she said. "He seemed OK. A bit creepy, maybe, but I live in a house with Silversmith - ,"

"You see the nightmares of everyone you meet," Severus explained, passing a sweaty hand across his forehead.

"Well, maybe this guy doesn't have any nightmares," Elsa reasoned. "He doesn't seem like the type."

Snape ground his teeth. "You don't understand. If you turn up in his nightmares, he'll find you there. He's the most powerful Legilimens there's ever been. He'll make you take him through other people's nightmares. He'll make you take him into Madam Pomfrey's coma. Are you following me?"

"What are you talking about?" Elsa repeated, rubbing her elbow in agitation. "You're scaring me! Who was that guy? Why did you push Lily out of the way?"

"Anyone who can solve the riddle of that dream will awake to immortality, remember?" Severus went on, ignoring her. "The only thing he wants is to be in that coma."

"Stop it!" Elsa shrieked. "Stop saying things! Or I'm telling dad!"  

"Telling him what exactly?" said Severus irritably. "That I can speak?"

"Is that - ," she faltered. "Was that…. him?"

"Who did you think it was?"

"Some aristocrat with a funny face!"

"You were partially correct," said Severus. "He is the last descendent of Salazar Slytherin. But most of the people who are familiar with his face don't find it funny anymore."

"What are we going to do?" she demanded.

"Keep you awake? I don't see what else we can do."

"But what if Madam Pomfrey needs us?"

"She won't need us as long as we don't lead him to her."

"But I can't stay awake forever!" she wailed.

"You'd better hope you can, Elsa Valance, or we're all dead."

She settled into mortified silence, while Severus tried to think. But he couldn't think while Lily was submerged in tangled thorn bushes, so he pulled her out, propped her up against the railings, and tried to master his breathing, until he got to the stage where he could make out individual heart-beats, as opposed to the constant flat-line drone of panic.  

At least Lily was safe. That gave him a kind of freedom. It was like taking out your heart and locking it in a cupboard before you went into battle. You could risk all the slings and arrows then. But, if he wasn't careful, his bleeding chest would leave a trail leading all the way back to her. And who would really be safe if Voldemort gained immortality?

In a way, it would be nice to have the world's greatest dark wizard pitting his wits against this curse too. Severus wouldn't exactly be cheering for him – in fact, in this situation, it would probably be better if the curse won – but it would be interesting to see Voldemort try to unravel this riddle. How quickly would he get at the truth? How subtle would his methods be? If there was a possibility of just watching him without being discovered. But there wasn't. He always knew. He could always see you watching. It was just about possible to hide your thoughts from him, but you couldn't hide your presence.

He would have to think of a plan. And, technically, there was a plan now – although Merlin knew where it would lead. He had both the Light Mark and the Dark Mark, just like the Boggart Lily. He could tell Voldemort he was trying to retrieve the prize for him – to make up for his failure in losing the Boggart.

Because they couldn't keep Elsa awake forever. She looked as though she was teetering on the brink of unconsciousness right now.


Narcissa slipped out of the Slytherin common-room after sunset. She was dying, and she wanted to be with Lucius as she did it. In that respect, she was almost glad she was invisible. He couldn't see the indignity of her position; he couldn't see her strength failing and the molecules of her body drifting apart. She could be with him without having to endure his sympathy.

It was surreal, to walk down the corridors of Hogwarts without causing a stir – barely stirring the dust-motes in the air as she passed. She was used to inspiring fearful and admiring glances. But, tonight, that MacDonald mudblood was daring to laugh in front of her. They usually dropped their gaze and shuffled aside, staring meekly at their cheap and unfashionable shoes.

When she was gone, who was going to teach them to respect their betters? Who was going to make pure blood look achingly and exclusively good?

Perhaps it was only outrage keeping the molecules of her body together. Perhaps, when she got to Malfoy Manor, with its ancient stones and elegant fountains, the trappings of pure-blood respectability would simply soothe her into non-existence. She didn't care if they did. It would be a good way to die.

And that was all she cared about now: making a suitable end for herself. A daughter of the House of Black would not suffer herself to die in some stuffy, mudblood-infested castle, no matter how ancient it was. She would die in the house of which she had dreamed of being mistress. No – 'dreamed' was too weak a verb for all her plans and skilful maneuvers. She would die in the house that she had fully intended to be mistress of, before insolent mudbloods and upstart half-bloods had robbed her of her rights.  

She couldn't open the door of the Entrance Hall, but she waited, struggling for breath, until the Gryffindor Quidditch team trooped up from the pitch, flinging the doors wide and laughing at one of Potter's fabulously inane jokes. Narcissa didn't even have the energy to sneer. But she had to have the energy to get to Lucius; that part was non-negotiable.

She slipped out of the open doors, avoiding the clumps of mud that the Quidditch-morons had shaken off their boots, and began to drift laboriously down the lawns to the school gates. She was more visible at night. Sunlight tore straight through her, but starlight settled on her insubstantial skin like talcum powder. She wondered if Lucius would see her. She wondered if she wished he would.

If someone made you a promise with the Unbreakable Vow, you would always be able to find them. Their whereabouts was forever lodged in your chest, like a splinter. It was beneath thought, though – or perhaps above it. She would just have to Apparate and let the instinct guide her.

Of course, if she Apparated, she wasn't entirely sure she would be able to rematerialize. But she would have to risk it. There was simply no other way to get to him. The Floo Network would tear her apart like a tissue, and she couldn't even think about getting on a broomstick. If she didn't slip right through it and fall to her death, the high winds would scatter the atoms of her body like confetti. One last push, and then it would be over.

With every last shred of concentration, she drew her wand – which was heavy as a pair of dumb-bells – up to her chest, and whispered the incantation.  


Lucius had left his cloak at home, without really knowing why he'd done it. Only a thin layer of cotton stood between his skin and the malevolent cold now, but the shivering invigorated him. It made him feel alive. Perhaps he was trying to recreate the sensation of biting ice-crystals he felt whenever Narcissa slipped her tiny hand into his. He couldn't be with her, but, in these pitiless, sub-zero temperatures, it felt as though she was near.

And it was important to remember how cloying, how sickly, the easy life was. Warmth would only remind him of the perfumed, powdery air which had clogged his lungs in Magi's dressing-room. He wasn't going back to that. He wasn't going to forget the chill of his winter goddess. There was weakness and corruption in everything else.

Life had always been easy for Lucius Malfoy – he was seldom hungry, or cold, or out of options. And, when you lived that way, what was there to remind you that you were still alive? How could you feel pride in your muscles, or your wits, if everything was laid out for you, picked up for you? He was in love with this shivering sensation. He was in love with the bare, frugal self-sufficiency of thinking.

There was a fierce joy in actually doing something for his Narcissa; not ordering it done, not paying for it to be done, but doing it himself. Everything else was… decoration. Of course, as a well-brought-up pure-blood, he knew that decoration had its place, but he had never realized, before tonight, how often it stood in the way of essentials.

Tonight, he was earning his pleasures. He couldn't stop imagining her, solid and cool under his fingers, that delicious metallic scent emanating from her skin, as it always did when she angry, or passionate, or excited – and it didn't matter which.

He was being too confident, of course. He didn't have a plan. How could you plan, when you were facing Magi? You never knew which of her many personalities you'd be dealing with. He only knew that he was more intelligent than Magi, and that there was nothing he wouldn't do to get the coronet from her. In these certainties, there was… not comfort, because comfort was no longer comforting, but excitement. He knew with every fibre of his being that he wouldn't let Narcissa down.