Postal

Snape flung open the vast doors of the Entrance Hall, his dark shadow slicing across the red-orange sunlight on the weathered stone floor. He had just completed the long uphill march to Hogwarts from his Apparition point at the edge of Hogsmeade. He was worried. Frustrated. Short of breath. He should have captured Rosier. He wanted his wife back. Yet his immediate desire was to see the faces of his students. After an entire day of intimidation and condescension—all directed at himself for a change—the Potions Master’s ego craved the gratifying reassurance of still being able to make students jump. He glanced around hopefully for Neville Longbottom, but found the hall quite empty. Only one or two coats of armour on the mezzanine above bothered to cock their helmets in his direction before resuming their customary pose. Dammit. They’re all at dinner.

Snape was not hungry in the least. But as the din of youthful voices wafted over from the threshold leading to the Great Hall, he hesitated for a few seconds, wondering whether to embark upon a therapeutic rash of House point deductions in the dining hall, or sulk in the privacy of his dank, subterranean refuge. Either action would have been typical of the Snape of 48 hours ago. But he simply no longer felt like the same man and those impulses now seemed petty, and strangely, foreign. He raised his eyes to the tall oak doors of the Great Hall as they opened with a creak.

“Ah, Severus. Just the man I was hoping to see.” The royal blue of Dumbledore’s crescent moon-patterned robes slipped through the doors at that moment, accompanied by the familiar cacophony of children’s conversation. Closing the doors firmly behind him, the Headmaster approached Snape.

The Potions Master wearily racked his brain for a feeble excuse to escape to the dungeons for some solace. He wanted to collect his disparate thoughts. But the Headmaster proved too quick for him.

“Severus, I have been contacted this afternoon by Cornelius Fudge,” he said. “It seems the Ministry has news of Esmerelda.”

Severus’s brows flew up expectantly, the ebbing fire of hope rekindled. “Is she all right?”

“She is… alive.”

He noticed that the Headmaster spoke slowly, carefully choosing his words. What is he not saying? Snape had known Dumbledore long enough to interpret his caginess, but this time, the vagueness of the Headmaster’s response—or lack thereof—was killing him.

“How is she?” The Potions Master’s voice was earnest.

Dumbledore’s face creased into a look that suggested the answer was not a simple one. “Come with me and I shall tell you what I can.” He smiled placidly. From behind the curtain of his beard, he drew out a large white paper bag. “I anticipated your return this evening and asked the house-elves to see to your dinner. It seems they have decided to supply individual meal requests through the International House-Elf Outsourcing Network. I hope you have no objections to”—he squinted curiously into the bag through his half-moon spectacles—“blackened Cajun swordfish, cous cous and”—here he sniffed—“dill, peach and lemon chutney. Aaah. A most intriguing culinary combination.” Severus half-thought he glimpsed small black letters spelling out the words “Dean & Deluca”.

“Yes, yes.” Severus nodded impatiently, straining to keep his poise. “Thank you. But what of Esmerelda? If we must, I would prefer simply to proceed to your office.”

“Very well,” sighed Dumbledore. “This way.” He offered his hand to the Potions Master, as if he were a child. Snape merely blinked at the Headmaster’s outstretched hand. Without waiting for a response, Dumbledore grasped his hand as if to shake it. Immediately upon contact, the walls of the Entrance Hall, the four sets of double doors vanished into a swirling blur. When the bands of colour reassembled, Severus found himself in the centre of Dumbledore’s circular office. The portraits of past headmasters and –mistresses nodded absently at them before returning to thumbing through their books or scratching away at epistles below the gilded frames.

“Please be seated, Severus, I won’t be a moment.” Dumbledore gestured vaguely at one of the leather club chairs by the hearth as a rustle of feathers announced the arrival of a messenger at the open window. He turned his attention to a letter delivered by an official-looking owl the colour of grey-dappeled rust that had alighted on the sill. The amber beginnings of twilight brushed against the tree line of the Forest below and a soft autumn breeze filtered into the chamber as the owl took flight, vanishing into the dusky firmament.

Snape twisted impatiently in the leather armchair as Dumbledore read in silence, leaning against the elaborately carved white oak desk. The old wizard’s expression was serious, but otherwise gave nothing away. After a moment, the blue eyes behind the half-moon spectacles flicked up at the Potions Master’s stricken countenance. Again he hesitated, as if not knowing quite where to begin.

“Esmerelda is currently at the Ministry undergoing tests administered by a team from St. Mungo’s and is otherwise under the care of Alastor Moody.“

Moody! he thought with alarm. What matter is it of his?! Although Snape had only known the real Alastor Moody by name, his fragile rapport with the ex-Auror’s impostor last year was enough for him to suspect that the genuine article was one who jumped dangerously to too many conclusions and who would have precious little patience, let alone a little lenity, for erstwhile Death Eaters, or their spouses.

“The efforts of Sirius Black and our three students led to the capture of Alphonso Wilkes and the discovery of Esmerelda’s whereabouts,” continued Dumbledore. “They alerted the Ministry earlier this afternoon and in cooperation with the French Ministry of Magic, Alastor’s team recovered Esmerelda in a town house in Paris less than two hours ago, where she was being transported by Lucius Malfoy and Peter Pettigrew—“

Pettigrew! Snape had barely registered the implications of this statement before the Headmaster continued.

“She was in a weakened but semi-conscious state, but I am given to understand that she is now perfectly stable. You will be able to locate her through Alastor Moody’s office at the Department of Mysteries.”

At these words, Snape sprang urgently to his feet. But Dumbledore stayed him with a hand on his shoulder. “Wait, Severus,” he said, “there is something else you must know.”

Snape’s wild eyes darted to the Headmaster who stared back gravely. “It concerns Draco Malfoy.”

* * * * *

In the windowless interrogation room at the Department of Mysteries, two rusty wrought iron chairs stood out against walls the mossy brown tinge of dragon excrement. Not very welcoming, this colour scheme, Draco thought wryly. He flinched as the old man across the room fixed him with his alarming eyes, one a normal brown and the other much larger eye, a brilliant blue. Alastor Moody’s Magical Eye tracked him from wherever Moody stood around the room, even when his normal one was fixed on the circular thread of questioning, scripted on a wad of regulation Ministry parchment, that they had embarked upon before Dracco was forced to drink from a noxious-smelling flask of pumpkin juice. It was only when he had finished more than half of the little beaker that he recognised the faintly pungent aroma of… could it be… Veritaserum? The acute contractions in his lungs and the blinding pain in his head swiftly followed as if to confirm his theory. Since only the day before, he had seen the potion work firsthand for the first time, as administered by his father to the Dark Lord’s prisoner. Waves of nausea coursed through him and he doubled over, wretching into the pail set beside his chair.

His bloodshot eyes cut angrily at Moody as he croaked, defiantly jutting out his chin, “Use of Veritaserum is illegal. I could have you arrested for this.”

Moody raised his sparse salt and pepper brows. “You’ve got cheek, boy.” He promptly sat down across the tiny table, propping his wand hand on his good knee and leaning in so close that Draco twitched involuntarily. Moody cracked a grin, baring uneven, discoloured teeth. “Spunk! I like that. Yes, the serum’s outlawed… unless administered by special permission from the Ministry… as in this case.”

Draco coughed hoarsely, his eyes narrowing with both pain and suspicion. The challenge on his lips died weakly as his voice cracked. “Whose authorization did you have to use this on me?”

Both of Moody’s eyes squarely met the boy’s. “Mine.”

Scared as he was, Draco was still Malfoy enough to be outraged. “WHAT! I’ve already told you everything I know.” He faltered, cursing his bloody voice which was sounding less resolute and more plaintive by the minute. “I told you where to find them, didn’t I? They were there, weren’t they! You can’t—“

Moody’s hand came crashing down on the table, rocking it on its feeble legs and sending a tympanic tremor through the chamber. “I will do as I see fit, boy!” he barked. Draco’s eyes widened; he was startled to remark that, in his fury, Moody resembled a much older and less attractive version of his own father Lucius. The instant both his brown and his blue eyes softened, the resemblance was lost. Yet, oddly, the old man’s gaze became unfamiliarly paternal, like his voice. “But it’s just a placebo, in case you end up in the Other Side’s hands and… interrogated, Merlin forbid.”

Draco was silent as he digested this. They had only skirted placebos in Potions class. These mimicked only the ancillary physical side effects of the true potion. Which essentially meant… that he wouldn’t be compelled to tell the truth. Draco blinked his surprise. Moody was taking him at his word? It wasn’t often that a Slytherin was bestowed that kind of trust. Let alone a Death Eater’s son who was a turncoat to boot.

“And yes,” Moody continued, “all three were there. Esmerelda Plofufnik, Peter Pettigrew and your father.”

“Three?” Draco started in his chair. His blinking eyes widened underneath the tousled platinum fringe. “You mean, you didn’t find the other…?” The boy’s brow wrinkled in confusion. And then, with mounting fear. His mind immediately conjured the image of the grey serpentine ghost whom he had heard plotting his future as a Dark wizard. The same creature to whom he had sworn allegiance the night before and then betrayed hours later. Merlin, was it only 24 hours ago? In that short time, he had seen so much, so much that had sent his childhood dreams of glory and allegiance to the legendary Dark Lord dashing to the rocks of bitter reality.

* * * * *

Draco had awoken from sleep to a discreet scraping. Claws on glass. At the tiny window at the top of the dungeon wall, he spied the silvery wings of his family’s owl, Scrooge. It hooted snootily before dropping the summons and the portkey (a pair of fifty year-old flying goggles) into Malfoy’s hands before it was dismissed. A self-satisfied smirk twitched at the corners of his mouth and he eagerly threw on his robes, not even stopping to think there might be a dress code for the first of his Initiation Rites with the Dark Lord.

Draco was now awake enough to be congratulating himself. After he had sent word to his father about the appearance of that stranger in Snape’s quarters, Lucius had broken a cold four-month silence, proudly, if not warmly, congratulating Draco for finally finding a task worthy of proving himself to the Dark Lord. His father had promised that with the war efforts demanding more of the depleted Dark Army, he would soon announce that his son had been singled out by Lord Voldemort to be called early into service. Draco had boasted of his eventual intiation to Goyle and Crabbe, only to be met with the same empty, insipid stares, as if he’d been talking to a pair of marsupials. (In fact, he thought, he probably was. It wouldn’t have made much of a difference if he’d said he was going to run away and join the Muggle circus.)

But that night he was high. Excited. Expectant. He puffed his chest out flamboyantly, reaching for the goggles as if to grasp a trophy. As Crabbe and Goyle’s snores filled the fifth year Slytherin dormitory, he cast one last disdainful look at his dim but faithful companions (each drooling sloppily onto his pillow). Imbeciles. At last, he had his passport to the glorious adventure he had long since anticipated from a childhood when he dreamed of what it would be like to be the most valued knight in the Dark Lord’s Army. A little Arthur in command of his own Round Table. He would finally have a place. Belong. Be someone in his father’s eyes. And his own, of course, he added to himself hastily. And then we’ll see what’s so great about Potter. All he’s got is a scar, Mudblood-and- that-Weasel and a bloody Quidditch Cup. He grimaced. Nothing so terribly special about that. Draco had been saying it for four years. Now, he’d show them all. Yes. He would. And with that, he braced himself and gripped the goggles tightly.

The gravitational force that tugged at his waist catapulted him through the clusters of shapeless swirling masses more forcefully than he had expected. Draco found himself thrown violently forward, nearly landing face first onto a grease-stained concrete floor. Urrrgh! The pain seared through his knees as they skidded across the ground and his hands defensively flew forward to cut short his trajectory, resulting in his undignified, half-prostrate position, teetering on all fours. The lengthy scrapes on the heels of his palms were bleeding and he wasn’t entirely sure if he could stand. The chamber was dark, despite the best efforts of two ebbing torches whose dying jaundiced flames licked the walls.

What greeted his ears was an amused, high-pitched cackle. “Excellent! Excellent, Lucius! The boy knows the proper way to greet his Master!” Again the malicious hag-like laugh.

Draco winced, falling back on his haunches. He pushed away his windswept fringe, streaking blood and grit across his forehead and temple. With a start, he perceived the small cluster of figures from which the voice had come. Four figures. A tall man in front in hooded black robes and an eerie silvery mask nodded, eyeing him coldly. Father. Of the other two, the shorter cradled a heavy-looking, shiny silver hand that glowed, even in the dim torchlight. But his breath caught in his chest at his first view of the laughing man. If a man is what one would call it. A decayed skeletal figure with narrow, livid red slits for eyes, colder and more cunning even than his father’s. It stretched out a gnarled grey hand, covered in warts and scabs, tapering into blackened fingernails.

“Come forward, Heir of Malfoy,” it said, the voice almost a sqeak, “and greet your Master, Lord Voldemort.”

The Dark Lord? It can’t be, was his first coherent thought. Stunned, Draco remained dumbly on his sore knees, unmoving for a moment. Apparently too long a moment for Lucius who leapt forward, grasping Draco’s left arm in a bruising pinch.

“If Lord Voldemort wants a demonstration of your respect, boy, you give it to him.” Lucius’s steely eyes flashed behind the mask. It was a look Draco knew well; it meant. Embarrass me and suffer the consequences.

Draco, ever his father’s son, coolly returned the glare and his father’s grip grew deceptively slack. Draco shrugged his arm free, gasping as he crawled up from his lacerated knees. Mechanically, he turned to submit to the malignant, vermilion appraisal of the creature. The leathery, almost blue-grey skin sagged across the bony planes of his monstrous visage. No eyebrows to humanize the red eyes, no eyelashes, no lips—just a severe crevice drawn into a thin grey line. This. This was the Dark Lord. Draco’s mind was spinning, as if still caught in the transit vortex. Unbidden, a series of insane urges hurtled through the transom of his mind. Scream. Spit. Run.

But his muscles, as if leaden, moved slowly and of their own accord. Like a spectator in his own body, he sensed his own deep bow and felt himself press the scaly coldness of the withered hand to his forehead.

“Welcome, Heir of Malfoy,” screeched the voice above his head.

“My Lord,” squeaked the silver-handed man from the side with an obsequious bow, “the witch has been prepared.”

“Excellent, Wormtail. You and Wilkes have done well,” said Lord Voldemort. “Now the Malfoy Heir shall have his turn.” He nodded at Lucius who stepped forward with the curled loops of a whip.

Lucius pressed the cords roughly into his son’s hand, causing Draco to wince again at the abrasions on his palm. “Do not disappoint me, boy,” he hissed spitefully into his ear.

Lord Voldemort, followed by Wormtail and the other Death Eater led a small procession down a dark passage toward what appeared to be the cold metallic expanse of an airplane hangar. His father brought up the rear, forcefully prodding the small of his son’s back with the butt of a heavy, studded club. And in the company of his new comrades, Draco, with each painful step, was certain that he had never felt more alone in his life.

* * * * *

The woman’s head hung dully, dark waves limply cascading from a smooth bluish-white neck. Her body had been stretched in four directions, with her ankles chained to iron rings mounted on the floor and her wrists shackled to the rafters. Even with her eyes closed, Draco could see she was uncommonly beautiful. Not in a conventional way, but… he couldn’t explain it, this fleeting observation. The woman’s face, in repose, was beatific, despite her injuries which would surely have been intolerable had she been conscious. The horrifying epiphany descended upon him in that instant that this had all been his doing. He had turned her over to his father and the Dark Lord. This woman, whoever she was. He hadn’t minded playing with Muggles at the Quidditch World Cup the year before. In fact, he’d been highly entertained. But levitating Muggles upside down to display their underpants in public was a far cry from… this. And she was a witch. She was one of them. An uncomfortable writhing sensation began its slow convulsions in his stomach. Is this what Death Eaters do? Even Diggory’s death had been accidental. In Draco’s mind, Cedric’s had always been a simple case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But now he paled, noting the blue-black welts and blood-caked stripes on the exposed flesh of the inside of her forearms. His doing. He tried hard not to visualize the damage done to the rest of her body, but his imagination got the better of him and he turned away, slightly nauseated. That was his first mistake.

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed and the cracked skin of his forehead creased into a frown. Lucius scowled, deeply shamed by the lily-livered cowardice of his son. Draco watched his father’s eyes blaze for a fraction of a second under the mask. Lucius rushed forward and pushed Draco stumbling toward the woman.

Lucius then turned to the captive, viciously tilting her head back from her chin with the end of the club. He left her head to swing back down, knocking lifelessly against her chest. “Pity our Esmerelda’s stamina seems to have run out.”

“Master, perhaps the boy may nevertheless take a few practice swings,” suggested Wormtail, his beady eyes glinting eagerly. If the man had had both hands, he might have been rubbing his palms together expectantly, perversely like a toddler anticipating a birthday cake or a pony ride.

“An inspired suggestion from you, Wormtail. How very… unusual,” jeered the Dark Lord. “Young Malfoy, you may proceed.”

Beneath lowered lashes, Draco’s eyes flicked to where his father and Voldemort waited expectantly, then down to the whip, coiled weightily in his hand, like a vicious serpent. He let its length drop to the cold floor with a soft smack… hesitated… and then, abruptly turned to face them.

“What did she do?”

Draco heard his own voice echo across the acoustic space even before the words had fully materialized in his head. He suddenly needed justification. To feel that any pain he inflicted was somehow well-merited by this woman. To absolve him of the guilt he knew he would feel—that he was already feeling.

“Do?” echoed Voldemort darkly. The Dark Lord now eyed him with disdain, evidently taken aback by the Malfoy Heir’s impertinence.

A strangled cry came from the side and Lucius’s mask was off in a second. With a single stride, he cornered Draco, his shoulders shaking with rage and a livid pulsing at his temple. He had just opened his mouth for a scathing rebuke when he was halted by the commanding hiss of the Dark Lord.

“NO, LUCIUS!”

Lucius froze abruptly, almost cowering as the Dark Lord’s thick black robes circled round them both like a shadowy predator. “Well, well. It seems our young, unschooled… apprentice, your…heir”—this time Voldemort managed to imbue the word with palpable derision—“sees fit to question our purpose here. How very… curious, is it not, Lucius?” If Voldemort had had an eyebrow, he might have crooked it malevolently. Lucius flinched.

“Master… he is… young, as you say.” He bowed his head with studied reverence, but his unctuous voice shook slightly nonetheless. “And, yes, he has much to learn. But he shall be taught.”

Although these last words were directed to the Dark Lord, Lucius had turned emphatically toward his son. In the half-light of the steel cavern, Draco saw his father’s eyes flash with fury, frustration and something else,…fear.

It was a hell of a time to reduce the situation to its bare bones, but in that moment, Draco realized that his father was afraid of looking bad in front of the boss. True, that this boss wielded more unconventional punitive measures than most. But that did nothing to shield him from the observation that Lucius Malfoy, his father, was afraid. And the next word that flashed in Draco’s mind was…weak. Which in his mental vocabulary perched perilously close to pathetic.

But before Draco’s train of thought accelerated to the next adjective, Lucius had swung the club in a great arc, the metal studs glistening in the artificial light before colliding forcefully into his ribs. The boy sprawled back from the blow, hearing his skull crash against the concrete wall and he doubled over, gasping feebly for the breath knocked from his lungs.

“Take a lesson, boy,” spat Lucius. “Now keep your eyes open and watch carefully.” Breathing heavily, Lucius retrieved the whip from where it had fallen and struck at the unconscious woman. The body lurched sideways and sprang back with the chains. Drained of the energy to turn away, Draco shut his eyes and heard five or six more swift cracks of the whip before the Dark Lord finally intervened.

“Enough, Lucius. Enough. Your son will do well to follow your example.” A grunt of amusement issued from his scaly throat. “As we still have much use for our… guest, I would like to see her kept alive… for the moment.”

Draco caught his father’s eyes casting about feverishly, as he reluctantly finished with his sport. His father. The man, whose poise Draco had been proud to think of as genetic, reduced to nothing more than an animal. He wanted to close his eyes but couldn’t. He was trapped in a nightmare from which he could not walk away.

Voldemort crooked an imperious finger at the other Death Eater. “Wilkes, later you will see to those wounds. And no drinking! I cannot afford to have her lose any more of her blood. We shall need it all.” Wilkes stared unblinkingly with cold, fathomless eyes. Voldemort then wasted no time in beckoning them with an imperious gesture. “Come, my faithful disciples. The initial rites must be prepared.”

Lucius hurled one last threatening glare at his son before turning on his heel. Draco watched the Dark Lord and his acolytes vanish into the long dark corridor, dragging away the hems of their blood-stained robes, the tools of their treachery and his innocence.

SEVENTEEN

Unsurprisingly, the Department of Mysteries was a tough place to find. Unplottable, of course. But Snape knew where it was. While the Ministry of Magic kept its main bureaux in Central London for the most part, the Department of Mysteries was housed in a single octagonal building of immense size concealed beneath a body of water. A Scottish lake, to be precise.

With the Ministry’s endorsement, it had become a wildlife preserve for endangered aquatic beasts ill-suited to captivity by conventional magical means. Ministry-fuelled rumours of a prehistoric sea serpent in the lake had effectively deterred unsuspecting Muggles for centuries without the aid of spells. However, despite the Ministry’s best efforts, in the latter half of the century, Muggles had grown fearless and, worse still, infuriatingly curious. Some had even gone so far as to adopt a fond nickname for the “creature”. To Fudge’s horror, each year the height of mid-summer yielded tour buses of camera-toting Muggles flocked to the lake, hoping to catch a glimpse of “Nessie”. This new development, posing the greatest breach of security to date, prompted the Ministry into back-pedaling, setting Concealment Spells and other wards on the building entrances, but more specifically, issuing a series of well-placed Muggle press reports that the creature’s existence had been a mere hoax. In any event, Snape fervently hoped that at night there would be little risk of running into anyone at Loch Ness.

His boots crunched along the gravelly shores of the lake where he had been deposited by the portkey. Tossing aside Dumbledore’s empty Ribena carton, he heard it splash a few feet to his left. Even with his bat-like night vision, cultivated over years in dim dungeon light, the Potions Master could barely discern shapes through the fog in the near distance. And with the moon slipping behind a cloud, he failed to notice the long, moss-coloured log in his path until his boot crushed down on it with a… squish?

The log swiftly recoiled into the water with a noisy splash. He jumped back quickly. But not quick enough to avoid the clammy vise that had taken hold of his left leg and was dragging him down across the muddy banks. Small, sharp pebbles nicked at his face and hands as he jerked about, vainly groping for an anchor, until his torso and head finally disappeared, enveloped by the bone-chilling blackness of the lake.

* * * * *

By the time young Malfoy had been dispatched back to Hogwarts in the custody of two of the DoM’s field agents, the ex-Auror instinctively craved something stronger than a mug of the Ministry’s tepid black tea. With a weary sigh, Moody closed his office door, warding it several times and chuckling as he set a nasty little Hinkypunk Harpoon, before sinking with a creak into the pine chair behind the battered oak desk. He ran both his eyes over Draco’s affidavit which ended almost abruptly when he’d confirmed the capture of Lucius Malfoy and Peter Pettigrew. At that point, the information flow had ceased, like a tap turned off. The boy merely refused to speak, but not out of impertinence. Out of fear. Moody sighed again. The boy had been through enough, of course, and it couldn’t have been easy implicating his own father. Black and young Potter had requested that he be detained in a cell until he revealed everything he knew. Arthur Weasley’s youngest boy even eagerly suggested some undoubtedly effective, if unorthodox, methods of interrogation—what was that he’d said about lowering him into a pit of six-foot tall hairy black spiders? (Moody grinned and made a mental note to tap the boy for the Unspeakables upon his graduation. That fresh-faced boy-next-door look would have made him an unlikely candidate, but Moody was happy to detect in young Ronald the clear influence of his older siblings, Bill and Charlie.) But Moody, who’d accepted the veracity of Draco’s story, felt that Hogwarts was the best place for him for the time being. Perhaps Diggory or even Lupin would have better luck with the boy once he found himself in more familiar surroundings.

Ducking beneath the waves of loose parchment overflowing from the in-tray on the blotter, Moody rummaged in his drawers for the bottle. Twenty- to thirty-year old quills (useless), a half-empty packet of Bolivian Guanoflower Chewing Tobacco (illegally confiscated, highly potent) and a small plastic vial of blowing-bubbles (approximate vintage: 1988; from his then young niece’s visit to the Ministry) was all he could unearth. Not a single bottle of Old Ogden’s Firewhisky. Dammit. His Magical Eye darted around searchingly. Ah, the trunk.

Moody pushed himself up with his gnarled walking stick. Snatching a jangling brass hoop of seven keys from his desk, he set to work on each of the seven locks on the large trunk in the corner. Let’s hope old Crouch didn’t manage to pilfer all the spirits last year as well, he thought. Turning the first lock, he sighed impatiently to see his untidy, unalphabetized mound of second-hand spellbooks and dust-covered DoM training manuals. Dropping the lid, he undid the second lock and flipped open the box again, this time to reveal a disorganized drawer of stationery supplies and a set of broken sneakoscopes. Moody grunted irritably. Damn that Crouch! Must’ve broken every last one of them! Hmmph. Bet the bastard’s not even insured. The Invisibility Cloak he’d bought as a first-year-qualified Auror rippled like cascading stardust deep in one corner, still good as new. Thank Merlin for small favours. Moody draped the rich translucent folds over his shoulder as he replaced the lid and fumbled with the seventh and last lock.

This time, he peered down into a deep torchlit chamber, which by all accounts last year resembled more a tomb than a vintage wine cellar, where Moody had lain unconscious while Crouch impersonated him with draughts from a hip flask of Polyjuice Potion. The Department of Mysteries had celebrated Moody’s return to civilisation with a marzipan-covered orange chiffon cake shaped like a megaphone (charmed to bellow “Constant Vigilance!” at regular intervals) and a spot of redecoration. The DoM had outfitted the cellar with a large squashy sofa, a woven Yetiskin rug and rows upon rows of rosewood wine racks with printed brass labels classifying his extensive wine and spirit collection by geographical region and type of plant base.

Climbing down the ladder, Moody’s boot and the stub of his artificial leg reached the sandstone floors. He browsed along the rows of Bordeaux reds and then stretched a hand behind the 1986 Chateau d’Yquem tapping his wand at four bricks in the wall. The middle brick slid forward, yielding a dusty bottle of Old Ogden’s Firewhisky. Moody’s alternative first aid kit.

No sooner had he hoisted himself onto the floor level of his office and set the bottle next to the contraband tobacco, than there came a loud drumming at the door.

* * * * *

Snape rapped his knuckles against the door three times. The spray of water from his dampened robes shot across Moody’s office door, drenching the parchment notices about Continuing Stealth and Surveillance Training. Bugger.

He drew his damp wand and gave it a shake. “Secculum,” he whispered, feeling a puff of warm dry air as his robes and hair instantly lightened in the absence of the water weight. He smoothed a hand across the front of his robes and realized with some irritation that they had shrunk slightly, and the tip of the Death Eater Skull on his arm peeked out indiscreetly from his left sleeve.

“Yes, who is it?” Moody’s gravelly voice through the door sounded peeved.

But no more so than he was, having wrestled with a sea serpent he’d mistaken for a fallen tree and which turned out to be a DoM sentry. It deposited him at a security desk manned by Merpeople clearly too preoccupied by administrative matters of compulsory trident-sharpening to trifle over a little thing like Snape’s inability to hold his breath underwater indefinitely. He coughed. His lungs were still raw from water burn where he’d reflexively inhaled a moment too soon.

“Severus Snape,” he replied, straining to keep his voice polite. On the other side of the door, after all, was the legendary Alastor Moody, who put more Dark wizards in prison than Severus had ever known. He had decided to take a softly-softly approach with Moody; which in part entailed putting him on a need-to-know basis. There was no point in telling him he used to be a Death Eater; he probably already knew. But if he didn’t, Severus wasn’t about to tarry over the details. Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus. Thathad been Snape’s motto ever since he’d privately disavowed the Death Eaters.If Moody wanted that information, surely it must be in some file.

On the other hand, Severus was not a stranger to sacrifice. He desperately needed to see Esmerelda, know that she was alive. Needed it like it was air. To hear her soothing voice, fall into the warmth of her brown eyes, have the sensation of her arms around him again, an embrace that said I love you for who you are and who you will be, the breath in his hair and the tender hands that said I’ll never leave you—no matter where we are; we’ll never truly be apart, for you and I are one. He had gone for so many years without her that the void inside had become familiar, a part of him, like the curve between his thumb and forefinger. So familiar that he almost believed the completion he sought was a dream. But now that she was with him again, he knew he could never let her go. Not again. Not unless it was over his dead body.

He wasn’t sure how much Moody knew about his past. And he didn’t relish being confronted with it. But if that was the price he had to pay to get his wife back, so be it. Snape held his breath, listening to the last droplets of lakewater slide quietly from his wand onto the stone floor.

After a few muttered incantations from behind the oak door, he ascertained the muffled series of Latin declensions which lifted the wards and left the door slightly ajar. Snape paused for a polite second then strode over the threshold into the disarray of Moody’s office. The ex-Auror stood in front of his desk, a grizzly grey mane tumbling across his shoulders. His brown eye glanced edgily at something off to the side, while the blue brilliance of his Magical Eye settled on the professor. There was a light coating of dust in his hair, Severus noted, as if he’d just emerged from a cave, trolling for hidden treasure. That, and a slight but almost guilty flush to the old man’s face… but maybe Snape was just imagining it.

Moody cleared his throat. “Snape. How can I help you?” He gave the professor’s hand a perfunctory shake.

Snape nervously tugged down on his left sleeve, not failing to notice Moody’s hand surreptitiously pushing what appeared to be a compromising packet of Guanoflower Tobacco under a pile of St. Mungo’s pathology reports. Snape arched a long thin brow, filing away the information—not necessarily for blackmail, or for any purpose, for that matter. The observation of potentially scandalous data was simply a Slytherin reflex.

Quickly averting his gaze, he found himself disoriented by the man’s eyes. The brown eye glanced down toward the path reports while the blue held his unblinkingly. Snape didn’t know which one to look at, so he settled for the broken bridge of Moody’s nose.

“I’m here—“

“—about Callum Rosier. I know,” interjected Moody with a banishing wave. “So, did you get him? Where is the bugger?”

Oh. Snape blinked at him in genuine surprise. After his conversation with Dumbledore, he’d nearly forgotten all about Rosier.

“Well, no. In fact, I was instructed to leave,” he replied, “although perhaps you knew that.”

“Leave?” Both of Moody’s eyes swiveled to fix him with a level stare. “Who told you to leave?”

Snape looked put out. “Someone named de Sauveterre. At Rosier’s firm.”

“Who?” Moody’s eyes were wide now. “Never heard of him.” He was thoughtfully rubbing the grey stubble on his jaw now. It made a resonant scraping sound in the small cramped room. “And just what reason were you given?”

Closing the door behind him, Snape recounted the arrival of Tom Riddle and his review of the Provision of Services contract that related to Rosier’s position in the Dark Army. He omitted discussion of Veniat Eques Malus. For the moment, Snape wanted to puzzle out for himself how Voldemort would plot the procedure. The spell required both his and Esmerelda’s blood, and he didn’t want that dangerous correlation to damn either of them, particularly given his present audience. In addition to the blood and the essential catalyst, Voldemort would need a few other ingredients, the most difficult to come by being a type of corpus resurrectus known in certain Muggle cultures as a Golem. It would take time and the expenditure of more magical energy than Voldemort was currently able to wield to successfuly create such a creature, fashioned from earth and Dark magic, in the image of Death.

“…immediately knew something wasn’t right,” Moody was saying, apparently having changed the subject. “Once I had my assistant dig these out, I didn’t know what to think.”

Snape’s head jerked up attentively. “About what?”

“How Wilkes, who we apprehended this afternoon—at least we think it’s him—and Rosier, or whoever he is—how they could have come back from the dead.”

Snape gaped at Moody. “What exactly do you mean, from the dead?”

Moody lifted an old Daily Prophet clipping from a file which Snape took with an uncertain hand.

The article dated to the days shortly before the fall of Voldemort. His eyes scanned the article: “DEATH EATER DUO FALLS TO AUROR SQUAD. Barking, Herts. Despair and shame have once again cast themselves upon the now darkened halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A mere two weeks after the incarceration of their schoolmates Romualdo and Porphyria Lestrange in Azkaban, two more Hogwarts graduates, discovered to be in the service of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, died at the hands of an Auror patrol unit on the Highway in the town of Bishops Stortford. Callum Scyllo Rosier and Alphonso Janus Wilkes, known in the Dark Lord’s service as the Pernicious Pair, had been traced to the site of a large conflagration in the town centre. According to Auror Chief Bartemius Crouch, Sr., evidence clearly tied both Rosier and Wilkes to the destruction of six Muggle homesteads in which the mutilated bodies of their inhabitants were found. ‘After spotting the pair attempting to gain access to a deserted outbuilding at the edge of Friar’s Farm,’ Crouch reported, ‘the Auror squad gave chase and managed to apprehend the suspects, at which time, both Rosier and Wilkes performed Autoimmolation Hexes on themselves.’ By all accounts, the suspects perished as a result of the flames. Their charred remains have been taken into the custody of the Ministry. An inquest is being held to ascertain the objectives of the two malefactors and the whereabouts of the Dark Lord and his Circle…”

Above the article glowered two prominent photographs of the men. Snape recognized both from the class pages in his Hogwarts Annual. Staring particularly hard at the one of Rosier, he felt a sick, cold feeling fill his stomach like liquid nitrogen. It was the same man he had seen earlier that day in the corner office—the features were unmistakably identical: the same square jaw, the bulbous nose and the beady eyes obscured by the thick, fatty folds of his eyelids. It was Rosier. But it couldn’t be. Could it?

“How is this possible?” asked Snape aloud, almost to himself. “I met with Rosier earlier this afternoon, and he seemed …very much alive.” Unfortunately. He frowned, feeling an agitated throb at his temple. “And Wilkes? Dumbledore said the Ministry had managed to—“

“Wilkes is here in a holding cell under surveillance,” replied Moody, clunking over to a nearby cabinet with his stick. Lifting a small glass sphere from the shelf by his shoulder, he passed a wand over it. A SpeyeGlass. Reflected in the crystal were the slate grey walls of a windowless cell with a man, propped against one wall, staring blindly ahead at nothing. Unblinking.

“He’s asleep,” said Moody. “With his eyes open, if you can believe that. Like a bloody fish.” Severus could believe that. Anyone who knew what Voldemort was capable of knew to keep his eyes open. Even in sleep.

Wilkes, thought Severus, clearly recognizing the profile of his old classmate. “That’s him, no question,” confirmed Moody. “Sirius Black said he’d recognized him straight away.”

But how…? An unexpected chill swept through him as his eyes lit on the man’s neck. No. It’s not possible… As if drawn, Snape moved forward until his nose stopped barely an inch from the glass. “Has anyone examined him?” he asked Moody. “What are those?” He rested the tip of a long finger on Wilkes’s reflection on the crystal sphere.

“What’s what?”

“These marks here, on his neck,” said Snape, swallowing hard. “Have you… identified those?”

By now Moody had drawn the SpeyeGlass level with his Magical Eye, which seemed to fix steadily on the image. Snape anxiously watched the dark pupil ringed with brilliant blue feverishly dilate and contract as it adjusted its magnification. After a moment, Moody put down the crystal and blinked.

“Curious. Very curious,” he said, rubbing his Eye. “I’ll be damned. I hadn’t noticed them before.”

“What are they?” Snape asked. He had a terrible feeling in his gut that he already knew what they were, and fervently hoped that he was mistaken.

“It’s a serpent and a dragon.”

Severus closed his lids, suddenly heavy with the pounding in his head. He wasn’t mistaken.

Snape stood awkwardly transfixed with his arms crossed rigidly across his chest. If what he feared was true, the Dark Lord would be much closer to completing the Dark Knight Spell than he’d supposed. And if that were the case, he needed to keep Esmerelda as far away from his grasp as possible. Unless it was already too late… Only after a few moments did he realize that Moody was watching him silently, curiosity brimming in each eye.

Moody met his gaze. “You have a theory you would like to share, professor?”

Snape blinked, pausing cautiously to choose his words. “Not exactly. But I will need to do some background research once I get back to Hogwarts. I have some ideas in mind, but at this stage, they’re no more than baseless conjecture. If I come to any conclusions, you will be the first to know.”

The old man’s eyes grazed Snape’s face as he considered the proposal. “You do that, Snape. I’d be grateful for any light you can shed on this case.” Dropping his eyes, he turned to the half-forgotten Firewhisky on his desk. “I was just about to pour myself a drink, professor. Would you care for a drop yourself?”

Snape was about to shake his head when he heard himself say yes. Moody nodded mutely, summoning two glasses with a wave of his wand. He tipped the neck of the bottle into the first, pouring two fingers of Firewhisky before holding it out to a grateful Severus. Moody poured the same for himself and drained half of it in one gulp.

Severus raised his glass, welcoming the searing sensation of the liquid as it slid down his throat. But his mission wasn’t yet complete.

“Moody, Dumbledore said that you have a woman by the name of Esmerelda Plofufnik in your care—“

The old man rolled both of eyes, shaking his head at himself. “Of course!” exclaimed Moody. “Of course you’d be wanting to see your wife.”

Snape was aware that he looked fairly astonished.

“Oh, yes, I know,” said Moody, waving a dismissive hand as if to banish Snape’s stunned expression.

“Professor,” said Moody, setting down his glass next to the path reports, “our job is information. We’ve known about your marriage to Esmerelda for years, laddie. Oh, and there’s no point in hiding the Mark from me either; I know it’s there.” Moody’s Magical Eye traveled across the black sleeve on the inside of his left arm as if it could see through the fabric. Snape suppressed the urge to cringe.

“Some marks don’t ever come off,” the old man said gravely, “even long after their significance has gone forever.” But Snape thought he saw a faint twinkle in Moody’s eyes. The old man drew up his left sleeve, turning the inside of his arm towards Snape.

Along the man’s wiry bicep was the faint outline of an old tattoo, still legible after several inexpert attempts at an Erasing Spell. Alastor & Minerva.

Minerva? Snape’s eyes flew open wide. That shock was almost enough to make him forget about Rosier and Wilkes. “You don’t mean—“

“That was long before your time, laddie. All water under the bridge,” said Moody calmly, lowering his sleeve and reaching for his whisky. He raised the glass, but stopped halfway, placidly tilting his head at Severus. Grinning now, he winked, tapping a finger to the side of his nose. “Still, let’s just keep this our little secret, shall we, professor?”

Snape blinked dumbly, torn between gasping and laughing out loud until he decided on a third option. “Agreed,” he said. Then as an afterthought, he held out his glass. “If you wouldn’t mind, might I… trouble you for a top-up, Moody?”

EIGHTEEN

Open your eyes. Open your eyes. Open your eyes…

Her eyes flickered open for only a moment before being blinded by a piercing blue-white glare. Esmerelda reflexively shielded her weary pupils with her leaden lids and immediately cried out as excruciating pain ripped through her lungs like a sharp, white-hot spike. With her sudden gasp, her eyes flew open.

Better.

“Ms. Plofufnik, you’re awake!” The light, sweet voice of a young woman met her ears from somewhere to her right. Squinting, though taking care not to blink, Emerelda angled her head off the pillow to turn, but a pair of hands firmly pressed her shoulders back down onto the canvas backing of a makeshift cot.

“Sorry,” apologized the girl. “Didn’t mean to startle you. We just hadn’t expected you to wake quite so soon.”

The girl’s shadow eclipsed the lamplight, framing her short brown curls with an amber halo. She smiled warmly, blue eyes crinkling behind round horn-rimmed spectacles. She wore white medi-robes and a little blue badge.

Esmerelda’s dry lips cracked as the question escaped her mouth. “Are… you… a doctor?”

The girl’s smile widened in amusement. “Oh, no! I’m just here at the Ministry for a two-week internship.”

Opening her mouth again, Esmerelda winced at the pain in her throat. It was difficult simply to draw breath.

“No, don’t speak, if it hurts. It’s just the Restorative Salve working,” she said soothingly. “I’m Natalya Ivanova Moody. But call me Naja, it’s simpler.” As she spoke, the girl turned to an empty hearth and began to pack things into a large black satchel. “Doctor Reverte just stepped out to owl St. Mungo’s for your results—“

An abrupt knock on the door startled Naja into clattering against a tray full of strange, sharp instruments beside a mound of multi-coloured healing crystals on the mantelpiece. Drawn by the movement, Esmerelda’s eyes followed the girl’s fingers as she meticulously repositioned the glittering steel instruments.

“I’ll be back in just a minute,” she explained, giving her patient a reassuring smile before slipping out the door with a soft click.

Dropping her head back, Esmerelda sighed, closing her eyes. Aaarrgh! The pain convulsed through her torso, propelling her into an upright position.

Now. Take the knife.

Startled, she brown eyes opened wide. She blinked. No.

Take the knife. TAKE IT!

No! She screwed her eyes shut, weathering the piercing torture, this time accompanied by a gut-wrenching twist that felt like a little porcupine burrowing into her abdomen. She opened her mouth to scream, but her voice failed her. Then, unexpectedly, the pain receded until she no longer felt as if she’d been skewered and twisted on a stake. Her breathing came in uneven, irregular gasps.

Now. Listen. Obey. Take the knife.

She shook, watching her hand, pale and trembling, reach across the open space. A few inches and three quick breaths and the cool, sharp steel edge grated the underside of her fingers. But what she felt was… a pleasant floating.

Now shrink it.

A raspily whispered “Reducio” issued from her throat and she watched helplessly as the knife shrank to the size of a small needle. Her fingers no longer trembled, but they no longer felt her own. They moved jerkily but assuredly, like string-less puppets, tucking the tiny blade into the folds of her medical robe’s sleeve.

Falling back onto the cot once again, she felt drained. Beads of perspiration trickled from her forehead across her temples, by-products of her failed efforts to resist. The only thing that felt good was to obey. And somewhere, in the distance beyond the puppet stage, she sensed the one true thing she could call her own. Terror.

With a long creak, the door swung open reluctantly, unleashing a cold gust of recirculated air. Naja stepped inside, followed close behind by the face of a man who seemed vaguely familiar.

Naja approached the table, regarding Esmerelda solicitously. Without breaking eye contact, the girl spoke slowly, deliberately, as if brusque speech might cause some damage to her patient. “Ms. Plofufnik, I’d like to introduce you to someone in the Department. This is my colleague… erm, my uncle’s colleague, rather… Remus Lupin.”

At the name, Esmerelda blinked, her eyes darting searchingly toward the man on the other side of the cot. A boy’s face jumped out at her from the depths of an unfamiliar memory. He had the same long thin nose, cleft chin, prominent Adam’s Apple, warm brown eyes and short-cropped hair. But whereas the boy’s had been the colour of sunlight on wet sand, this man’s had streaks of grey. Yet, as he smiled, it was evident that he could not have been over forty.

“Hello, Esmerelda.”

She blinked at him in silence until he shot an awkward glance to the girl at his side.

But at that moment, a name bubbled up to her lips and she surprised herself by uttering it.

“M-Moony.”

Naja looked at Lupin inquisitively, but his eyes held Esmerelda’s, translating his surprise.

“Hello, Esmerelda,” he repeated. “How do you feel?”

I want to die, she thought. Yet what tumbled from her lips sounded oddly like, “Better. Thank you.”

“Good.” He sounded relieved and gently rested a fine-boned hand on her arm. “You had us all quite worried. But, I’m glad you’re all right.” Again that smile. His gaze hunted across her face searchingly. And for reasons she could not explain, an image flashed in her mind of a boy, bent over sickly, hobbling down a hill into the dense, shadowy curtains of a willow tree.

Naja’s voice chased away the vision. “You have a visitor, Ms. Plofufnik. In my uncle’s office.” She nodded at Lupin. “If you feel able, Remus will show you the way.”

The shaking of her head succumbed to a nod. It wasn’t at all what she meant, but it just… felt better.

* * * * *

In the few minutes it took for Remus and Esmerelda to reach Alastor Moody’s office through a series of identical, twisting granite corridors, Esmerelda was valiantly multi-tasking. She was preoccupied with walking. And trying not to faint. Or vomit. She even fielded Remus’s well-meaning questions about her health, a few interjected queries about where she had been before her appearance at Hogwarts and avoiding his mute, but inquisitive, stare—a fragile barrier between her and the questions she either did not want to, or to which she did not have, the answer. She tried to keep her responses to the monosyllabic variety. Without being pushy, his curiosity unnerved her.

But she was grateful for his arm as it wound round her shoulders, steadying her in front of the low, worn wooden door bearing fresh watermarks across a few continuing wizards’ education announcements.

“Are you all right?”

She managed a nod.

He raised his other hand and rapped sharply on the door.

It promptly swung open and the gruff voice of the ex-Auror sailed out jauntily to meet them. “Do come in, Remus. Ms. Plofufnik.” The old man beckoned to them from behind his desk, setting his wand down next to an empty whisky glass. Esmerelda felt too faint to be alarmed by the large blue eye in the weathered face—even as it was rolling every which way and had at that moment tipped back into his head. Her eyes slid wearily around the room.

Across the shambolic office in a battered armchair sat Severus. He had been about to take a sip of the glass in his hand, but set it down immediately, forgotten on the table by his side, as his steady black gaze drifted to Lupin’s arm round Esmerelda’s shoulder. His eyes narrowed, glinting darkly. He didn’t look happy.

Esmerelda, on the other hand, had never been so pleased to see anyone in her life. “Oh, Severus!”

Suddenly no longer fatigued, she gently withdrew from Remus’s arm and rushed toward the Potions Master. They collided in a fierce embrace at the centre of Moody’s threadbare kilim. His arms and hers, clutching, hands stroking, holding on for dear life. She drew back slightly and gave him a smile. This felt right. His hand cupped her chin, his thumb gently stroking her flushed cheek. His lashes twitched upwards and the black pools of his eyes filled with warmth and mirth, as he bent towards her, capturing her lips with his. Her eyes closed reflexively from the pleasure of the sensation she had feared she might never experience again. Another image surged forward from the shadow lands of her memory, of looking into the same eyes, feeling the tenderness, the awe of the same lips… in a spring garden surrounded by a crowd of cheering friends… while a tall man with long white hair presided over them with a twinkly smile…

After some lost moments, the whirlwind subsided and she became vaguely aware of someone clearing his throat.

The old man behind the desk shot the breathless Severus and Esmerelda a crooked grin that might have been frightening had it not been for the cheeky gleam in his normal and Magical eyes. The latter swiveled in amusement between the couple and the stunned face of Remus Lupin, transfixed in the doorway, his lips parted in shock.

“Come now, laddie,” Moody said to Remus, “it’s not every day a man is reunited with his long-lost-then-kidnapped wife.”

Remus’s eyebrows sprang up at the word “wife”. A steady reel of unspoken questions trailed speedily across his face—Like tickertape, observed Esmerelda, her head slowly clearing.

“I… I’ll… erm…” began Lupin awkwardly, his thin face taking on a rosy tint. “I’ll just see to… that… uh…”

“Supplementary affidavit,” supplied the old man, still grinning from his chair.

“Yes, of course.” Remus looked grateful. Then, confused. “Supplementary affidavit?”

“That’s right. Young Malfoy’s just gone back to Hogwarts, but I was hoping we’d be able to get more from him once he’s more relaxed in familiar surroundings. I want you and Diggory to head out there tomorrow morning.” He raised his wand and smoothly levitated a pile of papers at Lupin. “Copies of Draco Malfoy’s affidavit from this afternoon. Contact Madeleine Sassoeur at the French Ministry and see if you can find a recent blueprint of that Paris townhouse. We need to see all modes of access in and out, particularly those inaccessible to Muggles. Diggory knows to circle back here to see the two of us before you leave tonight.”

Remus nodded, unable to resist sneaking another disbelieving glance at the embracing couple.

“Well, get on with you!” chastised Moody cheerfully. “Duty calls!”

Lupin straightened, nodded at them and disappeared down the corridor.

“I want to thank you for all your help, Moody,” began Severus, “Esmerelda and I—“

“Are not going anywhere,” said Moody, deftly sliding what looked like his Guanoflower Tobacco into a drawer. “At least, Esmerelda isn’t, for the moment.”

Severus looked dismayed.

“We’re still awaiting her blood analysis from St. Mungo’s. I’m afraid the Ministry can’t release her until she’s been cleared of any residual symptoms of the Unforgivables.”

“Of course.” The Potions Master nodded grudgingly. “But I would nevertheless like to have a few moments with Esmerelda.”

“Yes, of course,” agreed Moody obligingly. “I’m afraid I’ll be needing my office, but if you two would like some privacy, you’re more than welcome to use the wine cellar—“ Esmerelda frowned. Wine cellar?—“It’s just through here.”

Moody lifted the lid on the trunk, which he hadn’t had the opportunity to lock, and watched as Esmerelda and the Potions Master climbed awkwardly into the little chamber. “If it gets a wee bit draughty, there’s a little fireplace in front of the couch there.”

Esmerelda smiled up at the ex-Auror. “Thank you,” she said.

“It’s my pleasure. Now, as for me, it’s Nature that calls,” he said, mumbling something about too much Firewhisky. And with a parting wink at Severus, Moody closed the lid behind him, muttering a few wards. They heard the rustling of papers, a few drawers slammed shut and then the clunk! of his artificial leg as it faded into the distance.

In the soft orange glow of the torchlight, Severus drew Esmerelda against him, half-smiling contentedly as he cradled her in his embrace. She had had the impression before, and it occurred to her once again, that this was not an expression often seen on this man. Severus. The name she had called out in her sleep these past years—something she had remembered only recently in the presence of that serpentine creature, his lackeys and the blond youth they called Draco. In his arms, Esmerelda shivered beneath the thin fabric of the institutional robes.

Without pulling away, Severus drew his wand from his robes and pointed it at the hearth that came alive with the warmth of dancing flames.

“Better?” he whispered hoarsely into her hair.

She nodded, feeling her muscles relaxing for the first time in two days. She felt him draw back and was about to protest when he brought his fingers to her lips.

“I don’t… expect you to talk about what happened. Not right now. I need only be certain that you’re all right.”

You’re fine.

“I’m fine, Severus. I am,” she replied, brushing her lips against his fingers, tilting her face up to his. “Really.” She held his gaze until he relaxed, exhaling a long overdue sigh of relief.

“Thank Merlin.” A whisper of a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “You’re really fine?”

She grinned, starting to feel a pleasant floating. “Never better.”

Her eyes never left his, nor his hands her body. And she smiled triumphantly at the flicker of arousal in her husband’s eyes as she molded herself expressively against him. He shuddered deliciously. Severus cleared his throat, as if to clear his head as well.

“Nevertheless, I… really should go. You need your rest,” Severus said reluctantly. Her grin broadened. He was trying to be heroic, flustered and speaking fast as if a mass of words was all this knight had for a shield. “Albus has been very concerned about you as well and he’ll now be wondering what’s become of—“

“Severus. I don’t want you to leave,” came her gravelly whisper, as she felt her fingers teasing their way beneath the folds of his traveling cloak. It was again his turn to shiver. Her eyes darted playfully between the fire in his black eyes and the inviting velvet sofa. “…yet.”

* * * * *

Remus Lupin was not a man to talk on corners. Being forced to keep his werewolf transformations a secret these past thirty-two years ensured that he kept well away from gossip himself. But he knew a story when he saw one. Esmerelda Plofufnik. Married to Severus Snape. Padfoot was going to howl at the moon when he heard that one. Sirius never did get over the fact that Esmerelda had agreed to a date with Remus in their seventh year while she had flatly declined—“spurned” was the word Sirius had used—his invitation to the Yule Ball.

He had easily procured the blueprints of the Paris townhouse and reviewed Draco’s affidavit. No harm in stopping to use a fireplace for a minute. On the other hand, the entire building was under Loch Ness. Finding a fireplace in the subterranean DoM headquarters was no easy task. Unless you knew exactly where to look.

Just as he lifted his hand to knock on the door, Naja Moody swung it open. Seeing Remus, she flushed prettily, discreetly flipping over in her hand what looked like a letter, wrapped in the transparent protective coating of a Waterproofing Spell. As she nervously turned it over, he smiled as he caught the name “Alexander” written in large, loopy script.

“Hi, Naj,” he said, hoping he sounded nonchalant. “Just wondering if I might borrow the fireplace for a minute…?”

“Oh, sure,” she breathed. He detected a note of relief in her voice. “I’m off to the sea serpent pen for posting, as I’ve missed the last owl post collection. Feel free. There’s plenty of powder in the ashtray.” She gestured behind her at a porcelain container on the mantelpiece.

“Thanks.” He watched her back retreat into the shadows and slipped into the intern’s office.

Throwing a handful of powder into the hearth, Remus enunciated clearly into the blue-green flames. “Sirius Black.”

There was no response other than the scraping of a chair and the light clink of glass.

“Hey, Padfoot,” he called, leaning closer to the empty fire. “Are you there?”

“Hi,” came Sirius’s voice as his head made its weary way into the centre of the flames.

Remus bent down excitedly, staring into the fire. Without the yoke of a Hogwarts professorship, he felt he could indulge in this one instance of regressive schoolboy behaviour. “Padfoot, I haven’t got long, but I’ve just heard something you’ll never believe.”

“Don’t tell me,” Sirius said dramatically, raking a hand through his dark hair. “I can’t take any more surprises.”

Remus straightened a little, looking put out. “Oh. All right then,” he said. “The next time I have some good gossip, I’ll be sure not to share it with you.”

Sirius arched a curious eyebrow. “You never gossip.”

“That’s right. Which would make you think if I had any interesting news to tell you, it might actually be… interesting, right? Well, nevermind. I’ve got a meeting with Moody in a minute anyway—“

“Oh, all right,” succumbed Sirius repentantly. “What is it then? Spill. Only, please don’t tell me that Snape’s married to Esmerelda Plofufnik, because I already knew that.”

“Oh.” Lupin was now officially deflated, in an utterly juvenile sort of way. “You knew?”

“Yeah. Sorry, Moony,” he sighed. “It’s been hectic today, or I’d have told you. Then you could’ve joined me in a drink. Actually, you still can.” Sirius held up a decanter of Laphroaig through the flames. “Would you like some? It’s an excellent vintage.”

Remus shook his head, dismissing the bottle with a little wave. “Thanks, Padfoot, but I’m still at work, remember.” He sank despondently into a nearby chair and sighed, suddenly world-weary and melancholy. “Wow. Severus Snape. Married.”

“Mmm hmm,” said Sirius, pausing contemplatively to look at his friend. “So, why the doom and gloom?”

Lupin cringed a little. That his friend could read him so well after all these years apart was a little unnerving. And oddly comforting at the same time.

“It’s nothing.”

“Nonsense, old man,” chided Sirius. “It’s never nothing. And it’s not even your time of the month.”

“Ho ho ho,” laughed Remus without much mirth. Sirius, never completely comfortable with his function as pop psychologist to the werewolf, was always ready with a handy joke.

Sirius grinned, despite himself. “All right then. What is it?”

“I don’t know. It’s a little… surprising isn’t it?“

“Surprising,” Sirius echoed. He snickered ironically, arching a dark brow. “You could say that.”

But Remus wasn’t laughing. He was feeling something he hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge in the past few years. Loneliness. And later he would blame it on the late hour and a string of all-nighters at the DoM, but before he could stop them, the words were already out of his mouth. “Even ‘Slimy Git Severus’ is married now… What’s wrong with us?”

Sirius paused. His head tilted to peer into his glass, as if the answer were on the bottom. “Well, I was locked up for 12 years in a tiny windowless cell with only soul-sucking Dementors for company,” he said finally. “What’s your excuse?”

* * * * *

Moody was nowhere to be found in his office. But in the armchair previously occupied by Snape sat a woman waiting patiently and leafing through a few papers that looked like Draco’s affidavit. Her dark green robes revealed just a glimpse of steel body armour and black Doc Martens. As Remus entered the room, she glanced up disinterestedly, her grey-green eyes passing over him with a closed expression, as if her mind were focussed on something else, somewhere else. A few errant curls of long honey-coloured hair escaped from where she had haphazardly pinned it back. She made no attempt to restrain them, just bit her lip and went back to the wad of parchment.

Remus relieved a little wooden chair of its files and folders, clearing his throat as he sat down a few feet away from her. “Remus Lupin,” he said, extending his hand.

She looked up, blinking distractedly, taking then dropping his hand with a careless “Caro Diggory. Hi.”

Caro. She was quite arresting in her own way, he thought. But only for a moment.

“Any idea where Moody is?” asked Remus.

“Damned if I know,” she replied flatly, not looking up from her papers.

Remus blinked at her politely for a few seconds, in case she suddenly decided to converse freely, but eventually gave up and began making notes on the affidavit.

They sat in relatively companionable silence. Ignoring each other.

Until the noises started.

They seemed to issue from the large trunk on the floor between them. A low, muffled feminine moan, the slow, measured rocking of metal springs, a few gasps increasing in pitch, the feverish groaning of springs, more gasps, springs now wildly swinging, a Single Loud Gasp—almost a scream, more belaboured breathing, more rocking—urgent, faster and frenzied… until finally punctuated by a long, heavy, distinctly masculine sob.

The pulsing heat rose through Remus’s face and he knew instantly that he was now the colour of his old Gryffindor tie. Involuntarily, his eyes shifted and met hers. He was alarmed to discover that the woman had been watching him, as if considering him for the first time. As a man. At that moment, Caro flushed a telltale vermilion, throwing her hands up to her cheeks.

They both sprang to their feet simultaneously, nervously averting their eyes. Moody’s office was feeling suddenly too small.

“Erm… maybe get some… tea…” sputtered Remus.

“Just…check on…er… that thing…” sputtered Caro.

Then the awkward double- and triple-stepping dance of the man reaching the door a moment before the woman, each recoiling from the electric shock of the unintentionally intimate brushing of their arms. Remus stepped back at last, graciously allowing her to pass. And both leapt from the room fleeing in opposite directions down the corridor like scared young panthers.

* * * * *

Afterwards, completely spent, Severus was caught up in a pleasant floating. His naked chest quivering as his breath slowly returned, he felt the languid brush of her hand, tracing the line from his lips, down to his chin, across his torso and down, resting casually on his thigh. At that distance, even with his eyes closed, he could still smell her skin, vanilla, salt, heat and a musky fragrance that was uniquely hers, that he had conveniently filed away in the cavity of his forsaken happiness until last week. A whispered breath beside him now in that caressing voice and he was reliving the last few hours in his mind’s eye. Firelight flickering along her body, pressed against his. His hand, traveling the once-forbidden distance of the graceful curve of her hips, down to her legs, lean and slender, peppered with fading bruises that his tongue gently explored as if to heal. Her dark hair forward, teasing his sensitive flesh, then thrown back as she moaned, her body glistening with the sweat of their labour, pinning his waist to the sofa with her naked thighs. Ragged gasps as his tongue lapped at her moist skin, mouth, the curve of her breasts, sex, thighs, her long neck, chin, and mouth again, eliciting a desperate moaning, thighs open again, begging for completion, an end that she needed, craved, and at the same time not wanting it. Ever. Seconds, minutes, hours passed and the end came crashing about them in one shattering climax, long and fierce by the light of the dying embers of the fire as he drove deep into the cavern of temptation, seeking the answer to the mystery of death and life.

Severus sighed, for the first time his smile lighting unchecked in the darkness. The rustle of discarded robes and a tiny draught of cold on his skin where she had withdrawn made him open his eyes. And only then did he see her trembling, the absolute terror in her eyes and the glint of the knife in her hand. A fraction of a second before it drove downward, swift and sure.

To Be Continued…