The Sins of the Mothers

Chapter Three

The Mother's sin, or, What's your potion?

The manor, her home for these last seventeen years, had been the stage for many a drama during that time. The over-dressed theatricality of the house, the grounds with mazes, weird topiary and The Zoo, the people and their costumes and affectations, intrigues and scripts.

Narcissa, unlike many of her circle, was familiar with Muggle theatre. She had a particular liking for Shakespeare's Macbeth, and had seen the play six times. She was therefore acutely aware, as she made her way briskly through the manor grounds, that the night might have been a scene perfectly set for a drama: the full moon washed the garden with an unearthly silvery beauty, the ancient stars winked in the clear sky, trees laden with berries bowed down before her.

A fitting display for her last night as Lady Narcissa Malfoy, but the beauty of it was almost painful, and she did not linger to reminisce. Her shadow was cast long before her, inseparable from the dark of her cloak and her altered hair, its tresses falling close around the contrived olive of her skin that would not reflect the light. She wanted to remain unseen to her audience until it was precisely the right time to go on.

When shall we three meet again.... Well, with Andromeda gone, that wasn't likely, on this side of the Veil, anyway. And Narcissa was only able to bear Bellatrix's company because it was so occasional. Such as on nights like this, only Bella, strangely, wasn't at the manor yet.

Probably doing the Dark Lord's hair and make-up.

Far behind her, the manor bustled with people and house-elves, in preparation for the Dark Lord's appearance. They wouldn't miss her, she wasn't of the inner circle and had only minor organisational duties to perform, most of which she already had. Tonight was a celebration of his return, with a ceremonial power-giving and traditional blood-letting on the side. She'd slipped away under the excited commotion as Avery and Lucius had arrived bearing the - currently live - Muggle sacrifice.

Not before she'd noted the look of morbid curiosity on Draco's face, with a sinking of her heart.

She followed the path towards the west garden, wand in hand - because one never could be sure what one might meet in these parts. The sharp, sinister lines of the Malfoy family crypt stood out from the hectic fronds of the trees and undergrowth. But she veered on a path to the left, away from the building: she had hidden what they would need already, and she would be there again soon enough.

Freedom , within my reach ...

She ducked under low branches and dodged the undergrowth. Up close, the garden smelled damp and warm, sweetly past its best at the end of the summer. It ruled itself, here, where no-one came often. The path was all but concealed, the plant life dragged at the hem of her cloak and her gown. It curved around the impressive girth of an oak tree, and the crooked shape of a summer house came into view. It not quite been swallowed by the garden, standing slightly apart from the trees in a small clearing.

And quite alone.

Then, from its shadows a tall, thin figure in robes stepped.

"You're late." Snape's voice was hushed by the surrounding vegetation.

She walked towards him, pocketing her wand. The moon didn't flatter the hard angles of his features, but she found their familiarity was oddly welcoming.

Don't be sentimental, Narcissa.

She stepped nearer and a sudden animal noise nearby revealed a glint of his eyes as he turned his face slightly towards it. Then he glanced back at her, and there was an appraising silence.

Does he like brunettes?

Finally, flatly, he said, "It's disconcerting how like Andromeda you look with dark hair."

She smiled, closed her eyes, and washed the pale-blonde appearance back in. When she opened her eyes again, even though she was certain he was, he didn't look remotely impressed.

The animal, maybe a badger, made a brief dash through the undergrowth, and his head again snapped around.

He's such a pessimist!

Yet, quite controlled, he reached out and grasped the folds of velvet over her shoulders, pulled her to him and astonished her with a gentle but thorough kiss.

He's done this before ... well, possibly...well....

It was actually impossible to tell. Slightly baffled, but slightly more curious, she leaned into the kiss, sliding her palms over his linen ribs, over the hard line of his wand tucked beneath his jacket.

He quickly caught her hands, withdrawing from the kiss, his eyes glittering, his brow sparkling with sweat. He led her through the open doorway of the summer house and pushed it shut behind them with his boot.

She gasped, staring around her at a room bedazzled by slender moonbeams that poured though cracks and holes in the wood and the slats of the louvered window shutters.

"You may assume that was for appearance's sake," he said, his voice barely a tremor on the dry air inside the ruin. He had already moved twice arm's length from her.

"Shame," she breathed, "but I wasn't followed."

"You don't know that."

"I'm very discreet," she smiled, " when necessary."

"I haven't time for silly games," he whispered, testily. "I'm required for tonight's activities-" he broke off, staring past her as if he would see through the walls. Then he took a quick, light step towards her on the creaky floor, his weirdly illuminated gaze fixing onto hers. She heard him catch his breath, as if he would speak, but instead he raised his hand and, with the speedy dexterity worthy of a man with a more interesting reputation, opened the clasp on her cloak and flicked the garment aside. His fingers briefly pressed a warning to her lips, which were parted in query and surprise, and her question left her mouth only as a muffled, incoherent 'ah'.

He hesitated, then his hands went to where silken laces criss-crossed her bodice from waist to chest, and yanked the ties so the bow unravelled. His cheek brushed hers, his breath was hot on her ear. "I laid warnings - you were followed!"

He straightened and rapidly began unbuttoning his jacket, and threw that and his cloak onto the floor beside hers.

He's bluffing.

He kicked the pile of garments into shape, then crouched and tugged at them, making a .... bed?

He's not bluffing. Her hands scrabbled feebly at her bodice, her mind reeling, her senses trying to seek out the source of his panic. She still sensed nothing, except his fear in the sharp scent rising from his skin. Lucius? Avery? A house elf sent to spy?

"Get down on the floor," he suddenly said, his voice pitched normally, but which sounded so loud in the small, hot space, with someone listening outside. He snatched her wrist and pulled her down to the floor beside him. She landed hard on her knee and an expletive escaped her lips.

"That's the general idea," he growled.

She bridled. Was this his idea of what a romantic encounter with her would be like? That she would let him - Severus Snape, for Merlin's sake - order her around? As much as she had tried to lead him on, as much as she felt a curious desire to go where, reputedly, no woman had ever been before, this was not the way she had intended.

"No marks!" she snapped. "And this dress was very expensive!"

He bore her down to the uneven floor, leaning the length of his body against her, his face above her. His breath was quick, unsteady and soft on her face, and his heart was thudding against her arm.

"Who?" she mouthed into the shadow of his expression.

He shook his head very slightly, but otherwise did not move. She looked at a single beam of silver light that cut across the dark above his head, and listened to his breathing, the whisper of robes beneath her as she moved her foot slightly, the creak of old floorboards, call of a distant hunting kestrel.

How far will we have to go?

She got her answer immediately, as if her thought had been heard: her chosen moonbeam blinked.

Her hand shook slightly as she brushed a lock of his hair away from his face. His eyes gave nothing away, although the tightness of his lips did. It was one thing to simulate a lovers' clinch for the benefit of a casual observer, and another to ... well, she had flirted, teased and molested him, and he had not yielded.

How ironic he might now have to. Does he realise?

Her heart hammering in her ribs, she ran her palm down his ribs and found his wand, slid it out of the shirt pocket, and set it down quietly where he could reach it: hers was beneath them, lost among their cloaks. She felt the wood quivering as she handled it - a warning from the disturbed spells he had laid in the garden.

A shadow slid past the cracks around the door frame, and Lady Moon cast the flicker of movement onto the wall facing him, and his brow gathered like a sky of storm clouds.

But still he did not move. She tugged at the buttons on his shirt and breathed, "For pity's sake, fumble!"

He laid his hand over the curve of her stomach, but it was not a lover's touch and wouldn't have fooled anybody. Impatiently, she knocked his hand out of the way and wrestled with the ties on her bodice again, cursing her choice of attire, but then he surprised her by reaching for his wand, pointing it at her bosom, and murmuring, "Divello!" and the two halves of her bodice fell slackly apart.

Past him, moonbeams blinked rapidly from one end of the house to the other. Too tall for an elf. But no footfalls or rustling grass: he's using a silencing spell.

She gazed up at Severus. His eyes were shining, his nostrils flared. He laid his wand down again, not taking his eyes off hers. And she knew from his expression of grim resignation that he also knew exactly how far this would have to go.

And still he did not move.

Drawing upon her experience, she raised her knee and rolled over until he was beneath her. This had to look realistic, so it had to be real, and somewhere, hidden, was the key to this man's pleasure.

He doesn't much look like he wants to give it up.

Then - ah, inspiration!

"Severus," she commanded, narrowing her eyes, "Did you think my sister Andromeda was pretty?"

Finally, begrudgingly - beaten? - he nodded.

~~~~~~~~~~~

"He's gone -"

"No, he hasn't."

"He's - gone!"

"Yes, yes -"

"My arm - there isn't - time - for -"

"Ssh! Just enjoy it!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The silence in the summer house was absolute. At least, whilst the blood thudding through her head subsided, it was. Gradually she became aware of the soft catch of her own breath, the rasping breath of the man under her, the occasional creak of floorboards beneath them. Beyond the thin walls, a slight breeze combed the grass, swung boughs and ruffled leaves.

Truly. Unexpected. How. Increadibly -

Her hands rested on the very smooth skin of his chest as it rose and fell. He was damp with sweat. She pushed back tendrils of her dark hair, and let her gaze wander to his face: his expression was closed, his eyes half-lidded, his gaze turned inwards.

Somehow her unexpected victory did not feel quite right.

Professor Severus Snape, his iron resolve withered, his intellect overwhelmed... Death Eater Snape, his power and pride cast asunder, reduced to being merely a man ... Snivellus Snape with the bad manners and yellow teeth and big nose and lank hair ...

A sudden, slight feeling of revulsion washed over her, and she swayed a little, revealing a further small - or not so small - truth.

"You're still hard after -?"

"You flatter me."

"Did you not -?"

"Now you flatter yourself." His cold voice shook slightly.

"What?"

He was so still, his eyes lightless slits in the sickly pale of his face. Then a faint sneer curled his lips, humourless and cruel. The icy truth washed through her, then the blood rose to her cheeks, leaving her feeling sick. "You utter bastard," she whispered. She got off him, as gracefully as the situation would allow. He immediately rolled over onto his side and began to rearrange his clothing with his back to her. She stared at his back and thought about hitting him, beating her fists against him, the fury boiling inside her.

"How dare you," she whispered, bitterly.

"How dare you," he retorted in a low hiss over his shoulder, pulling his shirt straight.

She recoiled as if slapped. "I apologise," she said, making it clear that was the opposite of what she meant, "I had thought you were enjoying it."

He made no reply, buttoning his shirt.

"You were enjoying it. Not even you could fake such a physical response on the spur of the moment."

She failed to bait him, he remained silent.

"And it's just bloody-minded and cruel - and - masochistic to hold back like that!"

He glanced at her, and she realised there wasn't even a hint of victory anywhere on his face, and suddenly she felt as if she could cry, because if he hadn't done it to purposefully hurt her, there seemed to be no good reason why he should cause her such humiliation. She fought the sensation, and said, "Why Andromeda?"

"Because she is dead. Call it an inability to fantasise, a lack of imagination on my part, if you will. It was enough to provoke a physical response, but it was an incomplete illusion."

He controlled it from start to finish.

"Avery doesn't have that problem," she said through her teeth.

He looked at her, scrutinising her face. "Avery has problems with reality," he said, "I do not. The outcome, for me, might have been different had you remained yourself. That would have been real."

That almost sounded flattering.

"That almost sounded flattering."

"It was unintentional." He got to his knees and felt around for his wand. She picked it up and passed it to him. He sheathed it in his shirt pocket and got to his feet. He didn't look at her again, probably because she had not covered herself.

"There was a part of you that enjoyed it," she said, pointedly. "You did it to embarrass me."

"On the contrary, I didn't to it, and the intention was not to embarrass you." He shook the dust and garden detritus from his jacket and put it on. "I am not some idle conquest for your over-developed ego. Neither am I blind to the fact our lie would have been discovered. I suggest we both remember we were forced to do it, and forget it ever happened." With his clothes back on, he was beginning to regain his normal cool, haughty tone. "It was Avery."

"What was?"

He gave her a brief, withering look, and turned towards the door. She struggled to her feet and began to address her clothing.

"The reason we ...."

"Oh," she said. "Yes."

Moonlight poured into the house as he opened the door to shake out his cloak. Then he froze. For a long moment he stared, at nothing it seemed, then he said, "You let Avery know you were meeting me."

She stared at him open-mouthed. He turned his head and gazed back. Suddenly she realised that despite everything - the fact she didn't know him very well, the fact he slightly disgusted her and that she suspected he didn't like her very much either, and he would rather make her feel like a slut and a rapist than let himself enjoy her to its full conclusion - she was aware that after tonight, if he fulfilled his agreement, she would not see him again, and, oddly, she didn't like the thought of him thinking she was something she was not.

Which, judging by his expression, was exactly what he was thinking.

Does he think me that cold?

He judges me by his standards.

Who could break him down if I have failed?

He's one to talk about an over-developed ego.

"I must admit that in the past I have been known to have an audience," she said, coolly, recovering herself, "though in this instance, why would I want to jeopardise my plan?"

He glanced away, flicking his cloak once more and twirling it across his shoulders.

"I did want you," she said, watching his easy, cat-like movements as she drew the parts of her bodice together.

"Your aptitude for self-delusion never ceases to amaze me," he cut in, and she faltered at the look of disdain on his face. "You wanted to see yourself reflected in my eyes."

"Don't judge -" she began to protest.

" Don't offend!" he sneered, tossing his hair back from his face.

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. This what was he thought of her? No, no, he was embarrassed. She felt hot again herself, prickly, disorientated. She pushed her hair back from her face, fighting to find a thought she could mould into words, feeling her plan slip away from her. "Severus -" She drew a sharp breath " - I'm sorry."

"Indeed." He gave a slight, unreadable smile, a grimace, not at her, or anything she could see. Then it seemed to strike him that she was being sincere, and he became still, looking back at her. The frigidity of his expression eased a little, but she assumed he was lost for words, for he said nothing more.

She groped for her cloak and shoes. "You'll still help me? Draco and I?"

He hesitated. "There has been a slight change of plan."

"What?" she asked, quickly. "The potion -?"

"- is ready."

"Then what change?" She stumbled to him, grasping his arm, looking into his face. "What do you know that I don't?"

"Many things," he said, his lips curled and thin. "As to what concerns you, now, is that the party is being moved."

"Moved? Moved?"

He knocked her hand away and pulled his sleeve back to reveal the mark of his Master on his skin. "I've been called."

"When?"

He opened his mouth, closed it again.

"Whilst I was fucking you?" she demanded.

He nodded, once.

"That's why Avery left?"

"I expect so."

"But that's good news," she almost cried, relieved. "I can - and Draco -"

A frown rumpled his brow. He almost looked confused. "Draco has also been called."

She sank back against the creaky door frame.

"Lucius didn't tell you it would be tonight."

She stared past him, unseeing, numb.

"Narcissa." He touched her arm, and repeated, sharply, "Narcissa!"

She shook her head.

"I found out only tonight. I intended to tell you before ..."

She pictured her son as she had last seen him, his pale gaze on the Muggle girl they had brought for the blood-letting, the unchecked curiosity on his, oh, ever so young face.

After tonight, changed forever.

"I knew the Dark Lord wanted him," she breathed, "but not so soon. He's a boy. He's just a boy. He's still at school."

"Narcissa, he won't be marked tonight. He's too young. But the potion will be useless by morning, and he will be returning to school with me."

"But I have to leave tonight," she whispered.

"He will not be able to go with you."

I can't stay any longer, my plans, I've planned so long for this.

"It will be another month," she whispered. "I can't survive here for another month."

"But he will be invited to the gatherings from now on, every month, at the full moon."

She suddenly beat her fists against him. "Don't you understand? I don't want to go through this again! This obsession with death and power - the things He makes us do - we're all turned into dark shadows of ourselves - my friends and my family - there is no beauty in the world - in my life - because of Him - how can there be joy in the killing of another - the humiliation of another - I want my life back! I want to be myself, and happy again!"

He had caught her wrists, and her tears were spilling from her cheeks onto his fingers, and she looked at them, surprised that she had begun to cry. "You knew," she whispered, "you knew!"

"What would I have to gain by deceiving you?" he demanded.

"I don't believe you." She twisted her hands, and he winced and released her. The Dark Mark was bothering him. She wiped her cheeks, trying to clear her head, think straight. "Where is the potion?"

"Under a rock behind the crypt."

"There's enough for two?"

"Yes."

She turned away to metamorphose, staring up at the moon, that reflected light, that revealed everything in its starkest definition.

I cannot stay, I must go tonight, but I can't go alone.

She turned back to him. "Severus, come with me."

His expression of complete astonishment was almost comical.

"I can't go alone. I'd be useless alone." She wrung her hands, not entirely for effect. "I haven't been alone, ever." She paused. "I'm frightened."

"More frightened than maternally concerned, it would appear," he remarked, acidly.

"Draco has obviously made his choice," she shot back. "I've failed him, acted too slowly, and I'll live with that. But I cannot live here! Come with me, you know He will kill you, He even said so in front of the others!"

His lips looked almost as black as his eyes, his skin waxy and unearthly. He said, almost blithely, "I may die in His service. That is my choice, and His."

"You're in Dumbledore's service, you idiot!" she snapped. "And where is he when your Mark burns you? He sends you into the lair! I'm offering you a way out!"

He looked back at her without emotion, and it almost seemed to her, because she knew what his response would be, that he was already dead. "Do what you must, Narcissa. I am His. There is nowhere I can go."

They stared at each other and the moment stretched out, and something inside her snapped, and she knew that she had been beaten. Her legs folded beneath her and she sank onto the grass.

I can't go, I can't stay.

"How can I go on?" she said to herself. "How can I pretend I didn't glimpse freedom?"

The plotting, the tedious Muggle-baiting, the parties, the frenzy of the blood-letting, the long nights with Avery, the longer nights alone wishing Lucius would come, watching Draco move farther away and farther away, seeing my friends change, feeling the elegance of my life crushed under the skeletal foot of a madman...

It was only when he spoke again that she realised he was still there. "We live with it," he said. His tone was bitter and gentle.

Of course. He lives with this. Snape. With his intentional rudeness and his studied ugliness and emotional retardedness.

I will not turn into that!

But she met his eyes, and looked at him as he was, what he was revealing to her, almost the very truth of himself, that perhaps only mirrors and Dumbledore had ever seen before.

"He calls. I can't stay."

She nodded, but quickly added, "Severus, maybe ..." it sounded foolish, pathetic, but she said it anyway "... maybe we could meet, occasionally. For a drink."

"Tea?" he said, almost sarcastically.

" - I'm not propositioning you."

"How sensible of you."

"Can we?"

He restlessly shook the folds of his cloak. "You think that it would help," he said, "to have a friend. To drink tea and talk about - what? This desperate affair? Our miserable lives?" His carefully-toned voice cracked a little, he sounded angry and impatient again: of course, he had to leave. "I'll dispose of the potion, Narcissa."

She listened to his departure, thinking about the things she had hidden in the crypt for herself and Draco, that must also be removed.

Draco.

A pang of guilt. She had been hasty to abandon him; that had been wrong. It was right that she stayed. There were many things she could do to help her - help them both - to survive this, whatever else happened.

A shadow passed over the moon: a cloud. Narcissa struggled to her feet, time was getting on and she wanted to clean herself up before her family arrived back home. Draco would need to rest before he was returned to Hogwarts. No, no, Snape would take him straight back: that would be fine; he was safe with Snape.

Snape. She smiled to herself, recalling the scene. He had triumphed over her again, but her anger had subsided. He was at best an ally, albeit a blackmailed one - at worst an interesting distraction. She could tell that he was smitten with her.

There was much to do, and think about, but not whilst she was covered in dust, leaves and splinters of wood.

She felt for her wand, murmured "Lumos!" and, bathed in the golden light of her magic, turned onto the path home.

THE END