Bohemian Rhapsody

moment thirty-two: mad about you (January 6, 1980).

The house-elf almost trembled as he walked, leading the guest from the front door to the Master's inner sanctum, his study. Dobby was not liking this. No, Dobby was not having one bit of fun. He knew he was a bad house-elf - wicked Dobby! - for having such thoughts, but he could not escape them. Nor could he escape the Master's wrath when something went wrong, and the Master had been in a foul mood the entire week, prone to fits of anger, and a great all consuming rage that he directed at any he found wanting - and he found the house elves wanting, no matter what they did. Dobby could not dare to think what may have set the Master off, although one of the gossiping laundry elves had told him that the Master had gone into his rage after reading the paper that Sunday, but he knew better than to believe an elf who was only good enough to clean clothes!

Still, Dobby would try his best to keep the Master happy, and perhaps his guest would improve his mood. This particular guest had visited the Master several times in the past nine months, Dobby knew, and the Master had usually emerged pleased, and satisfied with himself after their meetings. He could only offer up a humble offering to the Great God of Socks in the hope this would be so.

He knocked gently at the study door, and tried not to squeak when a low grunt gave him permission to enter. "A guest to see you, Sir," he chirped, and almost ran out of the room as soon as he could, leaving the Master and the guest to talk as they will.

"You don't look happy, Lucius," Peter observed, casting a look across the pale, sallow face and sunken eyes. Lucius had obviously been finding no refuge in sleep. "I trust you've heard the news, then?", and there was a hidden grin in Peter's question. He bore no great love for Lucius Malfoy, and competed with him for the affections of the Lord they both served.

Lucius glared at him, his lips thinning and tried not to grind his teeth together. "Of course I heard the news, you fool," he hissed.

Peter sat down opposite him without being asked, and smirked. "I wonder how. They certainly didn't make a fuss: just one small notice in the Sunday Prophet. 'Marriage of Lily Evans to James Potter.' Were you looking out for it, or something?"

The thinner man chose not to reply. "Oh, and I suppose you were best man?"

"No, they left that to Sirius," Peter parried back. "I was a special guest, though, due to my close and long-standing friendship with the pair."

Lucius let that be. "You have any further news?"

Peter leaned forward, conspiratorially. "Lily is giving up Auror training."

Now, that was something. Lucius arched an eyebrow. "May I enquire why?"

Peter grinned, and Lucius could almost feel the sudden nausea pool itself in the pit of his stomach. "Lily Evans is six weeks pregnant."

"What?" Lucius hissed, and there was no mistaking his fury, hands clenched so tight the nails bit into his palms.

"Six weeks pregnant. You heard me. Apparently James knocked her up before they even wed." He paused, and there was malice in his eyes. "I heard about the ceremony last month, although I couldn't be present. Is that what it took to get Narcissa pregnant? Couldn't do it by yourself?"

"Get. Out."

"And yet Lily and James had no trouble. I guess life's like that sometimes."

"Get out!" Lucius roared, and Peter chuckled to himself, rising.

"No need to show me the way, Lucius, I can find the door myself." He made his way towards the doorway, and paused, looking back. "Oh, and don't worry. I'll keep my eye on the happy family for you. Say hello to your wife for me."

Then he was gone, and Lucius was left in his chair, bereft of anything to say. A few hours later Narcissa found him there, and immediately clutched him to her bosom like the child she had so dearly wanted, trying to offer what support she could, trying to reassure him that it was alright to let go. She stroked his hair, and whispered, gently, "I heard."

But he never shed a tear, not for her.

---

moment thirty-three: finally facing my waterloo (march 4, 1980).

Severus Snape sat awkwardly in the chair, trying to pull down the robe that had seemingly ridden up his chest as he fidgeted, waiting. He could be killed just for being here, let alone for what he was about to say. It had not been an easy struggle, first admitting that he had strayed in false vanity and pride, then admitting that he needed something to do about it. Then he had somehow managed to find the strength to push a distance between himself and Lucius, although considering Narcissa's condition (she was after all, nearly four months pregnant) it has been easier to cancel meetings, and rendezvous, and become accustomed to the absence of Lucius' touch.

It had been quite difficult to find an excuse for coming here, in case his movements were tracked, and even more difficult to take those steps from his apartment in the morning, knowing they would lead here.

He heard the dratted bird gently chirp to itself, one more minor irritation on top of many, and heard a section of the wall slide aside, and someone walk briskly to the desk. Severus watched as Albus Dumbledore eased himself into the chair opposite, smiling softly at his visitor.

"I apologise for keeping you waiting," he murmured, and Severus waved it away. He was already damned, for selling his soul in the first place, and then coming here, but still he found his mouth was dry with fear, and he could not speak.

"So," his ex-Headmaster began, reclining back to examine Snape over his half moon glasses, and Severus was starkly reminded of the way he had dissected things in Potions, under that familiar gaze. He was still a student, here, and had much to learn. "Severus Snape, formerly of Slytherin House. Completed schooling in nineteen seventy-eight, and perhaps the best Potions student we have seen in a decade." He leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. "And we must not forget, a Death Eater who bears the mark of Voldemort upon his wrist."

Snape stiffened in his chair. He could not deny it, but how did Dumbledore know?

"What brings you here?" Dumbledore prodded gently, and Severus swallowed, trying to find some moisture so he could speak, and say the most difficult thing of all.

"I have come, because," Snape paused, "I wish to help you."

And Albus nodded, once. "Good," he murmured.