Cowboys and Angels

moment six: in the light of purgatory (November 1982.)

There was a heavy clunk as the key turned in the door, the heavy iron swinging inward to let some light in, highlight the man sitting on the small bunk bed. His legs were pulled up, and he was hunched over, head between his legs. A voice growled, "visitor," and a shadow in the doorway turned, indicating whoever it was was now facing the other way.

As if only just awakening from his seclusion, the figure on the bunk stirred, lifting his head. He'd clearly seen better times: his hair, once gleaming, was now limp and dirty, messy beyond repair. His skin was grimy, and his lips were cracked and dry. Red rims surrounded his eyes, suggesting a lack of sleep, which was reinforced by his slightly dazed appearance, and there was an ugly bruise on his right cheek. The effect was topped off with stubble, the aftermath of several days not shaving.

The man who stepped into the room was the complete opposite: a cool example of self-possession. Sallow skin, shoulder length black hair, and dark eyes, gleaming with a barely suppressed satisfaction at the sight in front of him, and then as he took one more step inside, and the door clanged behind him, they were tinged with a bitter regret.

"I'm amazed I've been allowed to speak to you without a guard," Severus murmured. "Don't they consider you dangerous anymore?"

Lucius straightened, lifting his head in an echo of that once-proud pose, and looked straight in front of him. "Ah, but I am no threat to anyone," he responded. "Merely a poor wizard who was cruelly used by He Who Must Not Be Named to commit foul and unspeakable deprivations upon this world of ours."

The man looked at him for a moment, and then he chuckled. "Of course." Reaching out, he pressed his fingers against the wall, and pulled back slightly, smearing the traces of grime and blood between his fingers, his nose wrinkling.

"Neither you nor the cell look in the best condition," he observed, clinically.

It was Lucius' turn to chuckle. "The Aurors have been very diligent in their pursuit of the truth." He pointed to his cheek. "This is actually the least of what they've given me, in their quest."

"This is monstrous! Your wife doesn't complain?"

"Oh, she complains, but no-one listens. I am, at least in rumour, as they cannot prove it in actuality, one of the Dark Lord's greatest lieutenants. Certainly none of them, sitting on their righteous thrones, would care if a little damage was done to such."

Severus blinked, and attempted to speak, still not quite getting it. "But there are laws against this!"

Lucius let his head rest back against the wall, and sighed. Severus had always been very fond of law, and structure, he'd remembered. That might have been why he'd turned, as Voldemort himself knew it had all turned to chaos in those last few months. "There are laws," he admitted, grudgingly, "most of which have been abrogated by the state of emergency imposed by the Ministry. Suspected Death Eaters are considered exempt, and besides-" and at this he had to grin "-Wizards aren't party to the Geneva Convention."

There was a long pause, and finally Lucius shifted his head to gaze at the younger man. "I hear you're Potions Master at Hogwarts, now, Severus."

"Snape," the man muttered, "I wish to be called Snape."

Lucius' eyes narrowed, and then his head tilted as if acknowledging subservience. "Whatever my Potions Master commands," he agreed. "I suppose this is your way of disassociating from your past," he mused. "Severus no longer exists, therefore the guilt has been likewise expunged. Is that it?"

"Perhaps it is not guilt I am evading," Snape responded, "but rather the simple awareness itself."

"Whatever." Lucius brushed it aside as if it were of no importance. "Still, Dumbledore protects you...which is the only reason you're still alive. How many Aurors are waiting to apparate you back to Hogwarts? I would think two, at a minimum. To keep you safe from...mutual friends."

Snape let his breath out in a rattle, irritated. "Is there nothing you know, even from here?"

"I know your hearing was little more than a show trial. Barely lasted a day and you were back into the loving arms of academia. You didn't even to spend any time in this stinking place."

"Jealous?" Snape's tone was amused, but he was not prepared for what was to happen.

Lucius leapt from his bunk, all too quickly for someone so seemingly sluggish and emaciated, pinning Snape quickly against the wall. He could have spoken, shouted out, screamed for help - but Lucius' eyes pinned him like a vice and yet he knew Lucius would hurt him.

"In between beatings," Lucius hissed, "they interrogate me. Do you know what they say?"

Snape shook his head, frantically.

"They tell me to be like you. To admit my crimes, the great stain on my soul and provide information. In turn, I will be resanctified by the Ministry, held up as an example of civic duty. A pillar of society in this brave new world."

"You don't fancy being a pillar?" Snape choked out, determined not to let the conversation run away from him. "How unlike you."

"I think I'd rather have sex with my wife." Lucius moved closer now, and Snape could feel that warm breath, familiar, ghosting against his mouth, and all he could see were grey eyes. "What made you do it, Snape?" He hurled the name like an insult. "Jealousy, for what you could not have? Or was it a simple lust for power, or your own self-preservation?"

"I need not beg for your approval, Lucius," Snape assured him, bitterness tainting his tone. "Not anymore. I found nothing there: it was empty, hollow, meaningless. Dangerous."

"Dangerous?" Lucius asked softly, his lips tracing the curve of Snape's jaw, causing him to shudder. "This, dangerous?" He raised his face, looking into those dark eyes. Snape swallowed, but did not look away.

Then Lucius kissed him, softly but firmly, one hand cupping the back of his head, deepening the kiss as Snape opened his mouth to protest. Lucius made sure it was good, and true enough, it elicited the reaction he deserved. Snape moaned. Lucius pulled back after a time, his eyes unreadable, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

"Do you know what made that bearable?" he asked the other softly. "What made you bearable?"

Snape did not answer.

"The power I have over you - it was quite intoxicating, really." His eyes flashed in the darkness. "Of course, every time I imagined I was with him, rather than bear your repugnance."

Snape was quite proud of the way his voice didn't quaver. "Such a pity he was killed then, or I might be witnessing quite the touching reunion."

However, despite his best intentions, he wasn't prepared for the sudden backhand that left him reeling, or the barely concealed emotion in Lucius' frame. The very fact he'd resorted to violence spoke volumes, but Snape didn't want to go into the ramifications, not now.

Stepping aside, he banged three times on the door, and called for the jailer. Lucius' eyes followed him, glaring and his chest heaved, as if he'd been in a fight. After a few moments that seemed like an eternity, Snape could hear the heavy footsteps of the jailer coming closer, and soon enough the heavy clunk of the key in the lock repeated itself.

He stepped closer to the light, and the jailer looked at him quizzically. "What happened to you?"

"I fell," responded Snape, curtly, and although the jailer's eyes flickered over to Lucius, and back again, he didn't protest.

Standing in the doorway, Snape didn't turn back. "Remember your wife and son," he said softly. "See how they have been scarred by your past."

He left soon enough, and the door clanked back into place. Lucius was left on his own, in the darkness, with only the light from the small hatch in the door shining in.

moment seven: sympathy before the thaw (December 1982 - January 1983.)

In those carefree months, the world seemed quite open to Narcissa, bright and inviting. Once she was allowed to, she visited Lucius every few days, mostly to check his condition whilst in remand, and file a complaint if needed. Certainly, some aspects of his (and by association her) power had been cut off thanks to recent events, but it freed both Narcissa and Lucius from the fear of failure, and most of all, it gave her hope for her son.

She revelled in the freedom, the contact, honing her business skills. Following Lucius' arrest, the Aurors had swooped on every known Malfoy business and company, searching for anything hidden, anything that could be used in conjunction with the Dark Arts. Within days, she had letters of resignation from most of her (their) managers and business chiefs, wanting well out of a family dispute with the Aurors.

Narcissa had visited each and every one of them herself: the Malfoy whiskey distillery on Islay, the family vineyards in Provence, and more. She'd begged, pleaded, cajoled and even threatened. She'd personally assured the manager of the Malfoy Quidditch supplies factories (one just south of Birmingham, the other in Manchester) and checked on the offices of Stonehenge Investments, in which the Malfoys had a 45 percent stake.

In the end, not one of them had resigned.

Her confidence assured, she had turned to taking care of her (their) son, and thrown herself into the matter with the same passion she'd done in all her dealings. After a time, Narcissa had taken to exploring the Manor: no longer a symbol of her own folly, it had a nobility and a heritage she could take pride in, and Narcissa loved to lose herself amongst the history kept within the walls.

To avoid the present, she lived in the past, and began work on reconstructing several of the old wings of the household. If nothing else, it gave her a further purpose, and infuriated those who gossiped of Lucius' downfall. She held parties as well, apologising for his absence as if it were a momentary thing, and perhaps they even believed her.

She visited Lucius once she was allowed to, of course, and kept him updated, shocked at the ravages his incarceration had left upon him, telltale traces of his suffering. He complimented her as best he knew how, and only gave her one command: do not enter the east wing.

It was curious: Lucius had never attempted to control her, at least not so openly, and so she instinctively bucked the command. The East Wing was in fact the oldest part of the Manor left standing, and the first to be built. For several decades it had been closed up, and Narcissa had made little attempt to enter into it - Lucius had told her there were safety reasons, and certainly she hadn't seen him go into it himself. Her curiosity aroused, she took a candlestick late that night, and trying to make little noise as possible, used an Alohomora charm on the solid wooden door that barred her entrance. The charm spluttered and died, having come up against a ward. Biting her lip, Narcissa considered her next course of action.

Fortunately, Lucius had forgotten to physically block the door, and so it was with a stiff shoulder she prised it open on the third attempt, wincing at the groan it made. No house elf came to check, however, and so, slowly, Narcissa entered, closing the door behind her, and gasped.

The only word she could use to describe what lay before her was magnificent. Tapestries hung of the walls, faded and dusty, but still indicative of wealth in times past. Statuary and paintings lined what free space there was, and stained glass filled the windows, signs perhaps of piety, a token to old gods. The scale of the place was immense - this chamber she now stood in had to encompass what would be three or four floors of rooms in the rest of the house. Moving slowly, not daring to touch anything, but simply gaze, she noticed that the Malfoy sigil was placed at intervals, in stone, in glass, or in carpet. At times it was entwined with runes of power, and magic hung heavy in the air, almost oppressive.

There seemed to be less dust than she would have expected, having been closed up for decades, but perhaps Lucius aired it out every few years.

Taking one last look behind her, she ducked back out the way she came, and resolved to come again the following night.

* * *

This time she held the candlestick in one hand, and a fine glass of red in the other, taking time to savour the experience. At the end of the hall, there was an antechamber, and in it a staircase rose in wrought iron, curling around itself. There were two floors leading off, and they each contained many smaller rooms. Narcissa made sure she thoroughly explored each and every one, in time claiming entire wings back from the anonymity of ages past.

About a week later, she discovered the painting.

It sat in a little room at the highest floor the staircase could bring her, and at the end of the corridor, about as far as one could get from the rest of the Manor. Dusty sheets covered most of the items stored there, and there was a small bed made up in one corner. But leaning against the wall was a painting, and it drew her attention as unlike anything else, it was free of dust. Looking down, she saw footprints in the dust. Someone had been here, and recently.

The painting itself was nothing special: the work of a fair talent, it captured a young man, stocky but not overly so, with black-framed glasses and smiling dark hazel eyes. The young man's hair was black, and made vaguely acceptable, although it still seemed on the verge of tufting, and he had his hands in his pockets.

Narcissa's blood ran cold at the sight of it. She had heard the rumours surrounding her husband before and after she'd married him, and although she had no idea what James Potter looked like, she had an unbearable suspicion the painting gave her an idea.

He'd all but promised her he was hers. Or at the very least, he would maintain the illusion, so she would not have broken herself for no reason. And yet he had created this place for himself, for his dreams and his loves, and he had broken the illusion that bound them together.

Abandoning the East Wing, she made her way back to her rooms, and downed two glasses of red before she even felt vaguely calm, her fingers tapping in a nervous pattern against the crystal. The following morning she rose, threw herself into motherhood, and attempted to forget all about the secrets of Malfoy Manor, but she did not rest easy.

Why he had been invited to call at Malfoy Manor, he had no idea. Especially considering who had called him here. Lucius was still awaiting trial, and from all reports his wife was managing quite capably without him. Severus exhaled in the cold Yorkshire air, seeing it mist in front of him, and rubbed his hands together, placing them under his arms. It was damnably cold here, even colder than the Slytherin dungeons. He was fortunate he had time to pay such social calls, with the school holidays in session. The house elf opened the door, informing him that the Mistress would see him in the parlour, and ushered him inside, leading him swiftly down a confusing succession of corridors, twisting and turning. Severus kept stride for stride, wondered briefly if he'd preferred to have stayed at the safety of Hogwarts, even with all the children underfoot, rather than come here.

He knew all too well that Narcissa Malfoy had no reason to love him.

Their first meeting was brief, and to the point. She looked him up and down, and ordered him to "follow me". He did so, having little choice in the matter, and Narcissa lead him through even more corridors - Merlin, was this place a rabbit warren? - through a solid oak door, along a musty corridor, up a staircase and finally into a small room.

With a portrait of James Potter leaning against the wall. He looked at it, and cursed under his breath, momentarily forgetting that Narcissa was there.

"It is him?" she asked soon enough.

"Yes," he responded, still somewhat shocked.

"I thought so." Her voice was tight, and Severus was struck by exactly how much they had in common. He reached forward, to touch the canvas, and his finger came back clean and devoid of dust.

Severus' voice was almost shaking. "Does he come here often?"

"I do not know. I was told this wing had been closed for safety reasons, but evidentially I was misinformed." She sounded as if she wanted to weep, and yet she held herself straight and proud as any. For a moment, Snape was reminded of her husband, and reflected that perhaps the match had been more suitable than either of them had realised. He did not respond; there was nothing to be said.

"And what of you? When exactly did you and Lucius stop?"

He couldn't say anything. He couldn't not say anything, and so trapped between two impossibilities, he closed his eyes, and spoke. "Shortly after your wedding, although Lucius didn't realise it at the time. It was my choice."

"Ah." Her next question came out of the blue. "Why did you change your allegiance, Snape?"

He needed time to think of the right answer, and so he delayed as best he could. "Please, call me Severus, Madam."

Her eyebrow raised; he'd spent enough time with Malfoys to know when it happened. "The times my husband had referred to you, he calls you 'Snape.'"

He nearly smiled. Nearly. "'Severus' is how I choose to be addressed by my close associates."

"Your friends?"

"I do not have friends," he assured her. "Merely close associates. The others..." he trailed off.

Her eyes widened suddenly at the gift he'd bestowed upon her, for no apparent reason, and she briefly wetted her lips, and then her eyes narrowed again, wise. "You didn't answer my question," Narcissa observed, as if stating obvious fact.

"No, I don't think I did." He sized up his chance of evading, and sighed, committing himself to an admission he didn't want to make. "I was there, at Yuletide. I saw the man I loved break himself, and prostitute his wife, for a hollow victory."

There was a sharp intake of breath, and Narcissa strode away again, imperiously gesturing for him to follow. Sighing, he followed her, musing that if nothing else, the day would give him a good workout. Soon enough, there were in another part of the Manor - the Nursery, and Severus instantly recognised the pale features of the toddler that lay in the crib. This, then, was Draco.

Ixiptla.

"A hollow victory?" Narcissa demanded, hefting the child into her arms, cradling him against her. "My son is neither hollow nor a trophy. He lives, because of what we did, and he has a glorious future ahead of him."

"Glorious, yes," Severus admitted, looking at the child, before raising his gaze to Narcissa. "But for who?"