The Serpentine Chain Part 1 - Year Of The Snake

Quintus Snape had obeyed Octavius Malfoy’s peremptory request for aid in carrying the Divination teacher out of the Hall. Unconscious, she had been a lot heavier than she looked, but Octavius Malfoy had flatly refused to allow Quintus to conjure a stretcher. Loosening the collar of her robes, he’d explained why.

"After Seeing, the body is highly sensitive to magical vibrations," he’d said tersely. "She’ll be vomiting for hours if we cast any spells near or around her. So don’t." With that, he’d taken the Divination teacher out of Quintus’ grasp as if she’d weighed virtually nothing, and began to walk down the corridor as swiftly as possible.

"You’re not taking her to the Hospital wing?" Quintus asked unnecessarily, as the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher was heading in the opposite direction.

"I’m taking her back to her room," Octavius had replied shortly. The woman in his arms stirred, as if about to wake, but as the two men looked at her, she fell back into her stupor.

"Is that wise?" Quintus began, hesitantly.

Octavius Malfoy cut him off abruptly. "It’s what she’d want," the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher said. "I have done this before, you know," he’d added, less irritably.

"Ah," Quintus said. "What do you want me to do, then? I can fetch a couple of nausea relief potions, if it’ll help at all."

Octavius Malfoy hesitated momentarily. "No," he’d said finally. "She has her own supply of potions – but I believe they’re unlabelled. You can ensure she takes the right one."

The Potions master nodded, accepting that it was the closest Octavius Malfoy would ever get to actually asking for assistance, and followed the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher down a narrow corridor. He had to help support Elspeth Haven as they climbed several flights of steps and along a short passage that led to a small white door. Certain things finally fell into place for Quintus as he heard Octavius murmur the woman’s password – Tiresias – in order to open her chambers. Quintus had to suppress a smile. Octavius Malfoy wasn’t into public demonstrations of affection, and doubtless didn’t want the world to know about his relationship with the Divination teacher. It explained his irritability somewhat. The Potions master had been rather flattered to know that Octavius, and by extension, Elspeth, trusted him enough to keep quiet – even though it was only out of necessity.

He was smirking at the thought of what the likes of Seraphim would have had to say about the two teachers’ relationship when Elspeth Haven’s door slid open silently. Quintus blinked, taken aback by the overwhelming whiteness of the Divination teacher’s rooms. The stone walls had been covered with sheets of white fabric, the thick carpet on the floor was white, and even the furniture had been painted white. A large crystal ball stood balanced on a whitewashed wooden cube, in the centre of the room. The only colour in the room was that of the startlingly red flower petals in a wide china bowl on top of the chest of drawers, as well as the brightly coloured fish that swam in a clear glass case. He paused by the doorway, contemplating the austere purity of the room, until Octavius snapped at him to help. Together, they deposited the drowsy Divination teacher on her bed as gently as possible. And the bed, too, was white, with white blankets and a white headboard, Quintus couldn’t help but note. Her red hair fanned out across the pillows as they lay her down, in stark contrast with the pale fabric and her chalky skin.

"Where are her potions?" he asked quietly, feeling rather uncomfortable at being in Elspeth Haven’s bedroom. Although it was a beautiful room, its alien severity had unnerved him, and he thought wistfully of his own rather cluttered quarters, with the piles of books that lay scattered about his floor, the rugs and throws that kept out the cold. And he wouldn’t see his bed for another few hours – he’d still to meet with Aurelius in less than half an hour’s time.

Instead of answering, the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher strode over to the chest of drawers, and pulled a small box from the second drawer. His familiarity with the contents of Elspeth Haven’s room didn’t escape Quintus’ notice either, but he refrained from commenting upon this as Octavius removed several bottles from the box.

"Here," Octavius Malfoy said, holding out a number of unlabelled bottles to Quintus. "I don’t know what they are, and I don’t want to give her the wrong one."

Quintus held the bottles up to the light to check their colour before carefully uncorking the largest, which contained a sickly green fluid. The bitter scent of stipple leaf mingled with pennyroyal enlightened him. Contragravida. Of course. Stipple leaf and pennyroyal had various uses, but when combined they formed a rather powerful contraceptive potion. Although Quintus was certainly no prude, there were some things he didn’t want to think about when the two people concerned were present. Although being in a bedroom with the pair of them certainly made that a lot harder. He turned his attention to the other bottles, quickly.

There was a faint murmur from the bed as Elspeth Haven woke up. She looked decidedly hazy, her eyes unfocussed as she tried to sit up. The effort proved considerable, and she clutched her head almost immediately, wincing in pain. As she raised her left arm, the sleeve of her robes slipped down slightly. Quintus, looking up from the potions, saw an intricate pattern of what looked like spiderwebs decorating her arm – he couldn’t make out the details, but they looked beautiful, twining around her forearm.

Octavius Malfoy was by her side instantly, obscuring the strange design as he placed his arm around her shoulders. "Don’t even think about vomiting on my robes," he warned her, tilting her head slightly. "Are you going to be sick?"

"Bucket," she said, by way of an answer. "Now."

"Try this instead," Quintus said, as the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher grimaced. He held out a large bottle containing an unappealing dark liquid. Elfbark, ginger, nettle, diluted asphodel. "Four drops," he told Octavius, who took the bottle and removed the dropping pipette.

"Open your mouth," Octavius Malfoy said, and as the woman did so, he added, "You gave the entire school a very nice performance, in case you were wondering."

The Divination teacher glared at him with as much dignity as possible, considering her mouth was wide open and there was a dropping pipette inside it.

"And why on earth didn’t you label these? After what happened last time?" the blonde man continued, the sharpness of his words undermined by the sardonic amusement in his eyes. He put the pipette back into the bottle, and handed it back to Quintus with a nod of thanks.

"I forgot," Elspeth said, wincing at the foul taste of the potion. Her voice was somewhat unsteady, and her words slurred together. "I lead a busy life with many commitments, after all." There was a brief silence as the woman allowed the potion to take effect, then she added, "I didn’t predict anyone’s death, did I?"

The Defence against the Dark Arts teacher sighed. "No."

"Shame," the Divination teacher said. Quintus wasn’t entirely sure whether she was joking. She sounded slightly drunk as she added; "I haven’t managed that for years."

"You did, however, manage to terrify the entire school," Octavius said caustically. "Which is an impressive achievement in anybody’s book."

Elspeth Haven closed her eyes, a study in resignation. "Tell me all the gory details, then."

"Later," the blonde man said with a quick frown flickering over his patrician features.

"Perhaps you should try to sleep," Quintus suggested, just to remind them of his presence. He felt remarkably awkward in their presence. A sensation he wasn’t used to, and didn’t like.

The Divination teacher smiled, opening one eye to look at him. A lazy, languid hand trailed over her bed. "Unfortunately, that’s not possible now I’ve … woken up. Side effects of visioning." She turned her attention to Octavius, her voice low. "You know what I mean."

Octavius Malfoy’s smile was predatory. "Of course," he replied.

Quintus, his mouth dry, told himself that he really didn’t want to discover the side effects of visioning firsthand. Not in the slightest. Checking his watch – only ten minutes until his meeting with Aurelius – he cleared his throat. "I’d better go," he said, aware of the unnatural pitch of his voice, and deliberately not looking at the Divination teacher.

The Defence against the Dark Arts teacher gave him an amused glance, but simply asked him to replace the potion bottles in the box.

"Leave the green one out," Elspeth Haven said, smiling a very catlike smile at Quintus. He became aware that he was still holding the Contragravida potion, and even more aware of the physical presence of both Octavius and the woman.

As he left the room, he realized that he would find it incredibly hard to concentrate on his meeting with Aurelius. Quintus cursed himself for being so easily distracted. Although Octavius Malfoy and Elspeth Haven are enough to distract anyone, he thought ruefully. Grindelwald and the Ministry were the last things on his mind, now. Then he wondered whether that had not, in fact, been Octavius Malfoy’s purpose all along.

*

As she climbed swiftly up a small, little-used flight of stairs, she was aware of a slight sensation of unease within her. Constance quelled it firmly, an easier task than she’d expected – anticipation and excitement were running too strongly through her veins for anxiety to take a firm grip on her nerves. Malfoy business was usually conducted in secret at the best of times, and the dark hours created an air of secrecy and mystery that rather appealed to her more imaginative side. Constance wasn’t worried about being discovered. Octavius Malfoy had taught both her and her brother a dozen different Concealing Charms years ago – getting caught wouldn’t just be humiliating, it’d be an insult to their uncle’s teaching methods. Her safety was further guaranteed by the fact that Pringle had tended to concentrate mainly on patrolling the more popular forbidden areas of the school - the supposedly romantic areas such as the Astronomy tower, and, of course, the library. The disused corridors on the third floor were the first stage in her journey, though, and they weren’t of any real interest to the student body. Constance grinned inwardly. Tom Marvolo Riddle had told her otherwise, and the third floor suddenly seemed very interesting indeed.

Halfway down one of the corridors on the third floor, she paused; looking at a dusty old candlestick that had been placed in a small alcove in the wall. Chewing her lip thoughtfully, she glanced down the corridor in momentary indecision. But Tom Riddle’s instructions had been precise, and so she took hold of the candlestick with her free hand, and tapped it three times with her wand. He’d given her the password in the Great Hall, and as she murmured "Meursault" to the candlestick she wondered yet again what it meant. The Slytherin half-blood had just ignored her when she’d raised an inquisitive eyebrow. He hadn’t answered any of her questions, for that matter – she’d given into her burning curiosity and had asked him if he would be there at her meeting with Marcus, and why Marcus wasn’t telling her this himself – but Tom Riddle had just smiled faintly and carried on with his directions.

As soon as she’d spoken, the section of wall and floor where she was standing suddenly revolved, rapidly, causing her to clutch more tightly to the candlestick. Her stomach lurched unpleasantly, in a sensation not entirely dissimilar to that caused by Floo Powder. Steadying herself, she realized with a deep feeling of glee that she was now standing on the other side of the wall, in a corridor filled with rich, luxurious looking tapestries. She recognized one as being an early depiction of Merlin, and another as being a portrait of the Founders. Unlike the paintings in the castle proper, though, these ones didn’t move. Must have been done before they invented the Animus Charm, she thought incredulously. They must be so old…

Although she’d known about this for a few hours, now, she was still amazed to discover that she was in a completely secret area of the castle. Like a child with a new toy, she thought, not bothering to wipe the delighted smile off her face. She was well aware that Hogwarts was riddled with secret rooms and passages – according to legend, Salazar Slytherin himself had built his own Chamber of Secrets – but she’d never actually been in one before. How the hell did Marcus find this? And why does Tom know? For a brief moment, she wondered whether this was the legendary Chamber of Secrets, but decided against it. It wasn’t a chamber, for starters. It was too big. A secret wing, and it’s all mine, Constance thought gleefully. Well. Ours. She imagined it could come in very useful. In fact, she could see that it had tremendous potential. The prospect pleased her so much that she was actually in serious danger of laughing out loud. Secret things were always, always seductive. Glamorous. Part of the reason why being a Slytherin was such fun. Trading in secrets was the ultimate game.

Constance allowed herself a moment of sheer fantasy, then snorted at her juvenile behaviour. She was always letting her imagination run riot, just as Aurelius liked to put a romantic slant on everything. Flaws, she decided. Pragmatism and realism were what was needed in life, not fantasy. She needed to know who had built this secret wing, how Marcus and Tom had found it, and how many other people know about it. Octavius, maybe, she thought suddenly, and instantly remembered the real purpose of her desire to take lessons from Marcus. Her plan was paying off already, and they hadn’t even done anything yet. Screw you, Seraphim, she thought viciously, forbidden fruit tastes nicer. Bad blood be damned.

The room in which they’d arranged to meet wasn’t far, according to what Tom had told her. She had ten minutes before she was supposed to meet her brother, and so Constance decided to take her time, stopping and looking at various portraits and sculptures on the way. Occasionally, she reached out and touched one, reveling in the feel of the rich velvet that had somehow remained undecayed. She wondered if Marcus or maybe Tom had used Restorative Charms on them, but doubted it. The thought would never have crossed Marcus’ mind, and she didn’t really see Tom as the type to get overly sentimental about tapestries. She snickered at the mental image of Tom Riddle sewing, and then breathed in deliberately slowly, to calm herself. Giddiness would get her nowhere.

When she finally reached the room Riddle had told her about, she paused, suddenly uncertain. She adjusted her hold on her wand, gripping it tightly, relishing the familiar feel of the cool, polished wood. Yew and unicorn hair, nine inches. It was a good wand, even though she was naturally quite biased, one that responded swiftly to her commands. She’d need it to be good. With the shrug that was characteristic of her, she opened the door. Every nerve in her body was jangling, in anticipation of some violently painful curse or hex – it would be just like Marcus to attack without warning – and so it came as rather an anticlimax when nothing happened. Without lowering her wand, or her defenses, she looked carefully around the room. It appeared deserted – no carpets, furniture, no wall hangings, no windows. Just plain stone. It was how she imagined a cell in Azkaban would look.

The hearth, by the looks of it, hadn’t seen a fire for years – grey white ash was scattered on the cold tiles by the grate. Constance could feel goosebumps rising on her flesh, even the hair on the back of her neck prickled. It was freezing. Colder inside than it had been out in the corridor. It was the cold that warned her. This cold wasn’t simply the absence of heat, but a palpable presence that she could feel pressing down on her and causing her fingers to tremble with the sickening chill, all these were, of course, the classic indications of the presence of a Glamour, and if she was right, this one was deceiving the senses by emphasizing the cold, and if she concentrated, she could hear the sounds of flames crackling in the empty fireplace, and she frowned as she tried to remember the counter curse –

"Desere, umbra reproba visceris!"

A cheery fire burned brightly in the hearth. Books lined the richly decorated room, shelves reaching almost to the ceiling. A thick maroon carpet was underfoot, she noticed, and there was a desk on the other side of the room. It was covered in papers, and a thin black leather book lay to one side. A book that looked somewhat familiar, too, she thought, remembering the morning in the library. It was Tom Riddle’s – so he’d been here too, and recently. There was no sign of him, though. And none of Marcus. She cast a few Revealing Charms, to see if they were hiding, but to no avail. The room was empty.

She scowled, wondering why on earth they hadn’t bothered to turn up and moved over to the desk. Perhaps her brother had left her a note. Glancing at the papers, she saw that some of the scrolls were written in Ancient languages – she recognized a few as Chalcedean, others as Egyptian. There wasn’t anything that looked like a message for her, so she turned to Riddle’s black book. Lightly running a finger down the cover, she realized from the date that it was, in actuality, a diary.

A mischievous grin spread across her face as she wondered just what Riddle would write in such a book. Woke up. Was brilliant. Was enigmatic. Went to sleep. She couldn’t see him writing the kind of sentimental rubbish Teresa wrote in hers, and the thought of discovering the dark haired boy’s inner life was very compelling. I might be in it, she thought suddenly, and so, completely unfazed by her lack of scruples, she opened the book. It was disappointingly empty, and no spell she cast upon it managed to reveal the things she felt sure that Riddle had hidden. Clever git, she thought with admiration. Impulsively, she picked up a quill from the desk, wanting to mark the pure white paper in some way. It’ll teach him to leave things lying around where anybody can find them, she thought, conveniently overlooking the fact that not only was the book in a secret part of the castle, she’d not actually been able to find anything in it.

In her best handwriting, she wrote, "An inquisitive mind is a joy forever". After adding a flourish to the tail of the "y", she took the quill away, admiring her handiwork. Almost immediately, though, her eyes widened in disbelief as the ink started to reform, shaping words she’d certainly never written.

She recognized Tom Riddle’s neatly slanted handwriting. I might’ve known he wouldn’t have had a normal diary, she thought, smiling down at the page.

"I’m not a cat," she wrote back, for want of anything better to say. She wasn’t entirely sure of the correct etiquette in talking to someone else’s diary, anyway. And how did he know it was her?

She could almost hear Tom’s low voice as she read the words that had formed on the page. She was impressed – enchanting diaries wasn’t exactly something you’d learn in sixth year Charms. Constance wondered how he’d done it, and whether he’d know she’d been writing in it. It’ll probably tell him next time he uses it, she thought.

"How do you know who I am?" she asked, wondering whether it had been charmed to recognize her handwriting.

"Marcus wrote to you?" she wrote. Talk about stating the obvious, Constance, she thought.

"Do you know where he is?" Constance stared at the page, brow furrowed. Typical Marcus. Making it easy for her would probably have killed him. I really should have set off earlier, she thought.

"How so?" Constance asked. Had Riddle managed to put himself into the diary somehow? That wasn’t just remarkable, it was amazing. I wonder what it’s like writing to yourself, she thought, and then, talking to him this way is much less difficult. Although just as confusing.

There was definitely a hint of impatience in the diary’s response. I’m sure I’ll tell you in the flesh. I am in the other room with your brother, after all. Speaking of which, aren’t you late?

"True," she admitted. "I’ll see you later then."

There was no response, and so she hurried over to the bookshelf, Riddle’s diary tucked under one arm. It didn’t take her long to find the book – it was slightly out of place anyway, jutting out from the others beside it – Crime and Punishment, The Idiot, The Brothers Karamazov on one side, Dead Souls, Anna Karenina, and War and Peace on the other.

When she’d pulled the book out, there was a horrible grinding sound, and then the entire bookshelf swung backwards. The room before her was very small, cosy almost – several fat armchairs had been drawn up by the fire. Both her brother and Tom Riddle were there; sitting curled up by the fire with cups of tea. The dark haired boy looked at her piercingly, but didn’t speak.

"About time," her brother said sourly. "Could you have been any slower?"

"I wasn’t expecting cryptic clues in a magic diary," she replied, equally acidly.

Marcus snorted. "That much is obvious," he said.

She noticed that several spyglasses had been placed around the room – she could see the corridor where she’d disabled her brother’s charms, the room she’d just been in, and various other places around the castle. "You were watching me?" she asked. "All the time? That’s so rude!"

"Almost an invasion of privacy, wouldn’t you say?" Tom Marvolo Riddle asked softly, his eyes on the diary under her arm.

She was instantly embarrassed, realizing he’d seen her writing in his diary. "Erm. Quite." She offered him his diary, apologetically.

Tom stared at her for a moment longer, allowing an uncomfortable silence to build up. She shifted uncomfortably under his intense gaze, his eyes almost green in the firelight. The diary was still in her outstretched hand. Her brother looked away, into the fire, and she realized that for some reason, support from Marcus would not be forthcoming.

Then Tom smiled, relieving the tension. "It’s alright," he said, taking the book from her and putting it beside him on the chair. "We were counting on your inquisitive nature after all."

"She is a Malfoy," Marcus murmured, not looking away from the flames in the hearth. Constance remembered that he’d told the diary she was coming. "We’d expect no less."

Tom’s eyes darted away from Constance, to her brother. "Exactly," he said, and took a sip of his tea. "Do you want a drink?"

She realized he was speaking to her. "Yes please," she said, aware that she was actually quite thirsty.

Marcus turned away from the fire. "Pour it yourself then," he said, not unkindly, gesturing towards the teapot on the little bowlegged table. There was a plate of Rich Tea biscuits beside it. "And pull up a chair."

When she was comfortably seated, she watched the steam rising from her teacup for a few moments before speaking again. "Well," she said. "I have a few burning questions for you both and so, without further ado: where, exactly, are we in relation to the rest of Hogwarts, how did you find it, who else knows, and do you do anything other than drink tea in secret wings of the castle?"

"Sometimes we drink coffee," Marcus offered lightly. "Filthy muck that it is."

Tom nodded seriously. "There’s a war on, if you hadn’t noticed. Earl Grey tea is hard to come by."

She sneered in the general direction of them both, and took a bite out of her biscuit. "What is this place?" she asked, deciding that they obviously couldn’t cope with more than one question at a time.

There was a brief pause as the two boys looked at each other. She was disconcerted to realize that they were deciding how much to tell her, equally disconcerted to realize that Marcus’ loyalties appeared to lie with Tom rather than her. What is going on?

It was Riddle who answered, his face wreathed in the steam of his tea. "This place," he said quietly, "is mine. It was built for my family shortly before Salazar Slytherin left Hogwarts, and it’s been ours ever since."

"Your family? Why?" Constance asked, staring as the dark haired halfblood cupped his hands around his drink. "I take it this isn’t the Chamber of Secrets then?"

"He owed us a favour," Tom said flatly. "And you’re right, this isn’t the Chamber of Secrets. This is the Zalaras Wing."

Aware that she was probing, and aware that the Zalaras family did not need to spill their secrets to the Malfoy family, she asked anyway, "What kind of favour?"

Although her brother gave her a warning look, Tom Marvolo Riddle merely smiled serenely. "Curiosity killed the cat, Constance," he said delicately.

"So I’ve been told," she replied, grinning. "Then who else knows about this place – the Zalaras wing?"

"Apart from your brother and I?" the son of Styliane Zalaras asked. "Felix DuPré. Regal Rosier. Your uncle. And," he said, in rather different tone of voice, "Albus Dumbledore."

"Dumbledore!?" she repeated, incredulously, whilst noting that her uncle seemed to be involved with both Marcus and Riddle. She knew the other two boys only through Marcus - Regal Rosier and the Head Boy had been part of her brother’s elite clique of friends for quite some time. Although she liked Felix, Regal sometimes made her uncomfortable with the way he looked at her. Never blatantly enough to justify drawing Marcus’ attention to it, though. She returned to the disturbing thought of Albus Dumbledore being on friendly terms with her brother and Tom Riddle. "You have late night tea and biscuits with Dumbledore?"

Her brother looked at her seriously. "He prefers Chocolate Frogs, actually. He eats more than you do, and that’s really saying something."

"You are joking, aren’t you?" Constance asked, glaring at him but otherwise ignoring the gibe. "I mean - Dumbledore? The jocular, jovial, jesting, jolly old Gryffindor sage? Otherwise known as He Whose Eyes Never Stop Twinkling?"

"I said he knows about this place," Tom replied calmly. "I didn’t say he’d been here. He knows it exists, but I doubt he could find it, and I’m certainly not planning on inviting him in for tea any time soon. Or anything else, for that matter."

Constance breathed a sigh of mock relief. "You two had me worried, for a moment," she said. "I thought you were going soft."

"I don’t think that’s something you’ll have to worry about," Riddle said dryly. "Ever."

"How did you find it?" she asked then, aware that Riddle had never known his mother, having been raised in an orphanage. She wondered if she was touching on a dangerous subject.

"A long story," the halfblood said, in a tone that clearly said not now.

There was a momentary silence, during which Constance took another biscuit from the table. "Well. Although I don’t wish to seem pushy," she began, and paused, uncertain of how best to continue.

"Or greedy," Marcus sniped, giving the half-empty plate of biscuits a meaningful glance.

"Oh, just die," Constance said, smiling. "But lovely as tea and biscuits are, I’m sure we’d planned a little light exercise for tonight."

"You’re wondering about your lessons?" her brother said, all seriousness.

"Well, not to put too fine a point on it: yes," she replied. "I thought they’d be starting tonight."

"And they will be," Marcus said blandly.

"When?" she asked, looking uncertainly at Riddle. Would he be a part of these lessons? She wasn’t sure whether that would be a good thing – although she had to admit she was dying to find out what he’d be like in a duel. Although the halfblood had undoubtedly seen the curiosity in her eyes, he did not seem willing to assuage it, and she was reluctant to ask outright. "Now?"

Her brother smiled at her obvious impatience, then set his teacup down carefully upon the table. He shot a glance at Tom Riddle, but the dark haired boy was no longer paying attention. He’d taken a quill from his robes, and was writing in his diary. Constance was wondering whether he and his diary-self were talking about her, and was beginning to feel rather embarrassed, when Marcus stood up.

"Are you ready then, my stubborn sister?" he asked her, frowning slightly as he took out his wand.

Instead of answering, she put her cup down and stood up, the anticipation she’d felt earlier returning full force. There was no such sign of eagerness in her brother’s face, though. His face impassive, he looked rather grim as he headed over to a door that she hadn’t noticed until then.

Tom looked up from the diary, giving her a shrewd, critical glance before offering her good luck in a faintly ironic fashion. As she followed Marcus into what turned out to be a bare room with padded walls, she wondered just how much luck she’d need.

*

It turned out to be quite a lot, as she realized less than half an hour later. Her brother had just hit her full force with a series of incredibly painful and quite probably illegal hexes – the Heart Squeezing Hex and the Throat Contracting Jinx - and she’d been completely unable to block them. He’d only maintained the spells for a few seconds before releasing her, but it was quite enough. So this is what a heart attack feels like, Constance had thought just before collapsing.

It seemed that Marcus had improved drastically since they’d last fought, during the summer holidays. Then, they’d been on an almost equal footing, but his sessions with their uncle had obviously given him an edge. His defenses were impeccable; very few of the curses she’d flung at him had actually hit their target. He’d also picked up a lot of curses that she’d never learned, even after the research she’d done in preparation for this. A particularly unpleasant Egyptian Slow Strangling Curse - one that was often used in the pyramids, she remembered – had been the first curse he’d used. She knew perfectly well that that curse, along with some of the more familiar ones, had been outlawed in 1909. And Marcus knew that she knew this. Constance had wondered whether her less than scrupulous brother had ever managed the Unforgivables, if Octavius had taught him.

He’d tried before, when he was twelve. Their mother had caught him trying to put one of the house-elves under a very weak Imperius curse. Cecilia Malfoy, née Zabini, had responded to the situation with a typical lack of effectiveness, slapping Marcus about the head until their father, alerted by the screeches of Dobby the panicked house-elf, ordered them both into his private study. Even though she’d eavesdropped, Constance hadn’t been able to make out what had been said, and Marcus never told her.

"Enervate," her brother said, and Constance felt a surge of energy flood through her. She knew it was artificial, that it wouldn’t last, and she’d feel even worse once it wore off, but she was grateful for it anyway. She’d never been this badly beaten in a duel before, and hated it. She and Marcus had always been competitive – another reason they’d not stuck closely together at school. One Malfoy per Slytherin clique was quite enough.

"Do you want a rest?" Marcus asked her, his voice as entirely free from fraternal concern as ever.

Constance rolled onto her side, and decided that even though she hated losing, getting up was far too complex a process at that moment. She coughed, feeling sure that one of Marcus’ earlier hits had done something to her lungs. Hopefully, it had done no permanent damage. I’ll make damn sure I haunt him the rest of his life if I end up dying from this, she thought venomously.

"A rest would be nice," she admitted, the words almost choking her. "You utter bastard."

Marcus looked insufferably pleased with himself. "I don’t think our parents would like that sort of language, do you?"

Constance said something that would have had their mother covering her ears in horror. "I can see why your marks have gone up," she added.

"I’ve had lessons from the master," her brother said, almost pensively. He sat down beside her, spinning his wand in circles on the floor.

"I’m sure you’ve done him proud tonight," she said, wincing as she tried to sit up. "Oh bloody hell, that hurts."

Marcus sighed. "Stop whining, and stay still. It’s a lot less painful," he suggested. "I speak from personal experience," he added, his voice lowering as he contemplated some not so distant memory.

"Uncle Octavius got you good and proper, then?" Constance said with satisfaction.

Her brother frowned, and seemed about to say something but thought better of it as the door opened and Tom Riddle entered.

Constance noticed her brother’s face change subtly, but couldn’t say how, or why. She felt remarkably stupid lying on the floor under Riddle’s cool unreadable gaze.

"It’s quarter past one," the heir to the Zalaras Wing said, his voice expressionless.

Marcus nodded, then turned to Constance, hauling her to her feet as he stood up. "Time’s up," he said lightly. "I have other things to do tonight," he added. "I lead a busy life."

"Fair enough," she murmured, inwardly grateful. She ached everywhere, and Marcus, damn him, looked completely bloody unscathed by the experience. Standing up unsupported was rather difficult, she found, wondering how on earth she was going to get back to the dormitory.

"I can walk you back to the common room," Tom Riddle said, almost as if he’d read her mind. His turquoise eyes lingered on her, then turned to Marcus. "If you don’t mind?"

From another person, Constance thought, that could have been seen as a challenge. Her brother would not have permitted it from the likes of Regal Rosier – but Tom’s voice was carefully free from any inflexion, deliberately ambiguous.

Marcus addressed the dark haired boy quietly. "If you go, I’ll have to stay here tonight," he said. It was only half a statement. "I have work to do, and I’ll need to use some of the books you have here."

As Tom Riddle nodded, acknowledging her brother’s request, Constance gazed at him thoughtfully. It was odd to realize that Tom Riddle’s wizarding blood was just as good as her own family’s, Constance thought. For some reason, Marcus had decided to overlook Riddle’s Muggle father, and was treating the boy as an equal. She made a mental note to actually read her copy of Wizarding Families in England and Europe as soon as possible.

The two Malfoys followed Riddle through the chamber where they’d had tea, back into the book-filled room. Marcus seated himself at the paper-strewn desk, after picking a copy of Quidditch In Bed from one of the shelves.

"What’re you up to?" Constance asked, eyeing the book suspiciously. "Actually, I don’t want to know," she added hastily. Her brother’s sex life was not something she wanted to consider in great detail – but she could still tease him. "Just remember, Aurelius can whip you up a nice contraceptive potion if you ask him nicely –"

"Goodnight, Constance," her brother said, cutting her off mid-flow.

Sighing dramatically, she bid her brother goodnight in return and followed the unsmiling Tom Riddle out of the room. They passed along the corridors slowly, in silence, Constance watching the dark haired boy through her lowered eyelashes as he walked beside her. He’d offered her his arm, but despite her aching muscles, she’d refused, not wanting to appear completely useless in front of him. The fact that he’d seen her take a total pasting from Marcus wasn’t good. She hoped he’d keep his mouth shut – and then wondered whom, exactly, he’d tell, even if he were the talkative type. Tom Marvolo Riddle wasn’t known for his vast multitude of friends, and the closed expression on his face reassured her further.

Whilst they walked, then, Constance attempted to sort out what she’d gleaned from the night’s events. She now had several questions that she wanted answering. Firstly, why had Tom been involved in something that she’d intended to be just between herself and Marcus? Was it because he was involved with whatever it was that was going on with her uncle? Then, of course, there was still the question of all Seraphim’s accusations. Secondly, what was the relationship between Salazar Slytherin and the Zalaras family? Of course, it wasn’t any of her business why Salazar had had a wing built for Tom’s family. But Constance’s curiosity meant that she rather wanted to make it her business. There’s something important, there. Something that she couldn’t quite place, her mind refusing to make the necessary connection. And it wasn’t top on her list of priorities, she reminded herself, her family came first.

Lost in thought, she startled at Tom’s warning hand on her shoulder. They’d passed through the revolving wall on the third floor some time ago, and were almost into the dungeons. Almost on home ground, she thought.

"Quiet," Tom murmured, before she could speak. He pulled her into the shadows by the wall, ignoring her faint sound of protest. Instead of an explanation, he nodded in the direction of the corridor ahead of them, and she saw the silhouette of the Deputy Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. Although they were both concealed by one of her uncle’s charms, Tom obviously wasn’t planning on taking any chances. His face had gone very still, his eyes narrowed as he watched Dumbledore’s sweeping progress towards them. What’s he doing up so late anyway, she wondered, as the Transfiguration teacher paused, suddenly, cocking his head as though he’d sensed them. Go away, you selfish git. I want to sleep. She felt Tom’s hand tighten painfully on her arm, but did not dare flinch or make any sound. Not when Dumbledore was close enough to hear. He was the nosy type, too, and no doubt he’d start flinging Revealing Charms around at the slightest provocation.

As she noticed the auburn haired professor’s fluffy orange slippers, which were decorated with embroidered purple frogs, she suddenly remembered the image she’d had earlier of Dumbledore enjoying tea and biscuits with Tom and her brother. Constance had to bite her lip to prevent herself laughing – and consequently the whole situation just became even more amusing. Fortunately Tom noticed her inappropriate levity, and moved his other hand to cover her mouth before she could give them both away. His attention returned almost immediately to the Transfiguration teacher.

Albus Dumbledore yawned, and took out a large gold pocket watch. She could see a bored looking pixie inside the case, twiddling the minute hand into position. After several minutes that seemed to last forever, the Deputy Head began to move on down the corridor. With Tom’s restraining hand on her arm, she waited until Dumbledore had passed out of sight. Only then did Tom take his hand away from her mouth.

"We can go," she whispered, but Tom did not answer. As she turned to him, she discovered that once again she was the subject of his unblinking, oddly mesmerizing gaze. Perhaps it was tiredness, or her recent physical exertions that heightened her sensitivity, but despite her robes, Constance could feel the warmth of Tom’s hand on her arm. She could almost feel the heat radiating from his body, so close to her own, in welcome opposition to the cold of the stone wall behind her. Just as it had at the Halloween feast – only a few hours ago – a strange stillness enveloped them. As though they were in the eye of a storm, protected by the all-encompassing silence that had suddenly developed. Blue eyes met turquoise, and Constance realized that she did not want Tom to move away. We stand up peerless, we two.

Something of this must have registered in her face. Tom, who had been looking at her as though he had just solved a very great puzzle, inhaled slowly. She heard the unsteadiness of his breath. Saw uncertainty flicker across his face as she reached out a hand to his chest, just to push him away, that was all, because she could not allow this to happen, saw his doubt disappear with her own as her fingers played traitor, twining in the fabric of his robes to pull him to her. Let it happen, then, she thought. He wasn’t a riddle after all. It was really very simple. Forget Marcus, forget Octavius, forget everything. She murmured his name, watched his eyes widen with some dark emotion. Enchanting, bewitching.

His free hand moved up her arm, slowly, his fingers trailing over her neck to her face. As though he were somehow learning her appearance by touch alone, like a blind man. He paused for a moment as her lips parted at his touch, then, as she shook her head slightly in some inchoate denial, he slid his hand down her back to her waist and pressed her to him, hard. His wand hand was against the wall, steadying them both as Constance pulled him closer to her, as though she could somehow transcend the barriers of fabric and flesh and become part of him.

Annihilation of the self, she thought briefly, remembering the phrase from somewhere, just before his lips met hers – at first lightly, hesitantly, then, as she responded, with a growing sureness and passion that she had not expected from him. She couldn’t help comparing this to the halfhearted, almost obligatory fumbling she’d shared with Aurelius at their first Yule Ball, they’d been too nervous to relax and had never spoken of it again – but this was so, so different, Tom’s taste, his scent, the heat of his body hard against her, the tip of his darting tongue all combined to make her senses reel. The stones dug into her back as he pressed her harder against the wall, as if it would absorb them both, but the pain was nothing, a minor distraction, not even that when compared to the feeling of him, Tom Marvolo Riddle, his mouth on hers, his hand moving down past her stomach, to her, and for the first time in her life, her hands moving in his hair, her nails digging into his back, Constance Malfoy felt desire.

And remembered something.

"Wait," she gasped, her breath shallow and fast as she turned her head away from him, breaking the kiss. "Please. Stop."

The dark haired boy lifted his head slightly, his eyes questioning, wary. She was almost painfully aware of what his hand had just been doing, and the effect it had had on her. The effect it was still having on her. It was very difficult to say what she said then, but she said it anyway. She was a Malfoy.

"I can’t," she said softly, trying to ignore the treachery of her hands as they refused to let him go. "Not now, not here," she said, in answer to the question in Tom’s face. Not ever, she added mentally. Not with you. She knew only too well the constraints placed upon her, knew that she couldn’t let this go any further. She was the daughter of Julius Malfoy, and there were certain things required of her. Constance did not have the kind of freedom that girls like Teresa enjoyed. Or sons of the family, for that matter, she thought. Marcus could do whatever he pleased, as long as he was discreet. But whomever it was that her father eventually picked for her as a husband – Aurelius, no doubt – he would expect to be the first. It’s only natural to want a refund on damaged goods, after all, she thought, surprised at how bitter her resentment actually was.

But a fully trained Dark Arts Mistress can do as she pleases. The thought startled her, bringing a new dimension to the powers she could some day wield if she chose. Constance knew she had a long way to go. Her brother’s victory had left her in no doubts as to her current status. One step at a time, she told herself.

Tom did not press her for answers, but carefully extricated himself from her grasp, his eyes veiled once again. She didn’t think he was angry, but he had somehow distanced himself from her. His urgency, his desire from only a few moments ago – hidden behind the cool, composed mask he’d worn as long as she’d known him. As he inclined his head in gracious, mocking acknowledgement of what had just passed between them, Constance was dismayed to see how quickly he’d recovered his poise. Like Marcus, Tom Marvolo Riddle was several steps ahead of her in the serpentine chain they were forging.

He really is beautiful, she thought, as a sickening wave of exhaustion hit her. In the half light of the corridor his skin was almost translucent, a whiter shade of pale, his eyes gleaming dark red and weird, implacable and cold, unforgiving –

"Are you all right?" Tom asked, grasping her arm as she swayed. His turquoise eyes revealed a trace of concern, quickly hidden. "You look like you’re about to faint."

"I’m just so tired," she replied, rubbing her eyes. "It’s been a busy night." An understatement, that. But the mind could play strange tricks when it was tired, Constance thought. As can the flesh. She could still feel him, his touch, his scent, his taste. She wondered, slightly hysterically, whether she’d be able to look him straight in the eyes again.

As though to reassure her, the dark haired boy took her hand, lacing his long fingers through hers. A childlike gesture that was somehow comforting in its innocence. "Time to sleep, then," he said, smiling faintly as he led her back to the Slytherin common room.

*

The seventh year Gryffindor and Slytherin Potions students being blessedly quiet for once as they concentrated on their textbooks, Quintus’ mind was free to return to more important matters. His cousin had arrived at exactly ten thirty the night before, passing silently through the open door and into the Potions classroom to stand before the Potions master’s desk. Although he’d been expecting him, Quintus was still preoccupied with thoughts of the evening’s events, and was, therefore, slightly startled when his cousin’s low voice broke into his reverie.

"I know I’m not early," Aurelius said, "but you do seem remarkably unprepared for a Potions lesson."

Well, I have been rather busy, the Potions master had thought, doing his best to take his mind off the Divination teacher and Octavius Malfoy. He followed Aurelius’ gaze down to his desk, which was entirely free from the customary paraphernalia they used. The smooth wood had been recently polished, shining innocently in the candlelight. Then he’d looked back at Aurelius, meeting his cousin’s quizzical stare with a carefully neutral expression.

"Appearances can be deceptive," Quintus had said delicately. "And you assume I called you here for practical work."

Curiosity flickered in his cousin’s eyes, only to be replaced with a guarded expression that Quintus recognized only too well in him. They’d never been close, and at times like this, he regretted the awkward distance between them. But blood was blood, after all. He wondered whether he’d been so good at controlling his feelings at Aurelius’ age, or whether it was something his cousin had learned in Slytherin. Valerius Snape, after all, was a master in that art, whereas Quintus could read his Gryffindor father like a book. Had Quintus been less well trained, he’d have missed many of the tiny signs that indicated his cousin’s feelings. Not that he could ever say for sure what Aurelius was thinking.

"Oh?" Aurelius had asked, as the silence grew. Quintus thought he could detect a very faint trace of uncertainty in his voice as he continued. "Then why did you want me?"

"I thought we could go over the theoretical foundations of substitution techniques," Quintus said calmly, watching to see his cousin’s reaction. The almost imperceptible widening of Aurelius’ eyes – disappointment? He continued, slipping effortlessly into lecturer mode. "Certain potions require ingredients such as the hypothalamus, and other human body parts - these are, of course, illegal – but there are other substances which, when combined, can be substituted for these forbidden ones without any noticeable decrease in the potion’s efficacy –"

"I know what substitution is," Aurelius said flatly, his eyes dark. "And I don’t believe this is what you wanted to see me for."

Lacking the iron self control of Valerius Snape, Quintus had had to smile at Aurelius’ scowl. "I’d be disappointed if you had," he said mildly. "And, with that poor attempt at dissimulation out of the way – why do you think I want you here?"

Aurelius’ voice was cool as he answered, revealing nothing of what he might or might not have been feeling. "The article today. Flay. The Ministry. The Unspeakables. The prophecy, perhaps, has some significance."

Quintus had remained silent, watching his cousin closely. He felt sure that Aurelius was capable of getting a mathematically acceptable result by putting two and two together – and he was certain that Aurelius had the kind of nature that would drive him to pursue the various threads that had been dangled before him. He is Valerius’ son, he’d reminded himself, without the acidity with which he usually regarded his uncle.

Aurelius did not disappoint. "I went to the library this lunchtime," he said, taking a small red book out from the pocket of his robes. "I was reading about the visionweavers, and came across this book. It was Flay who authorized the concealment of the visionweavers by the Department of Mysteries, during the early years of Grindelwald’s rise to power. And there’s a detailed description of the theory behind the gift, and the hierarchy of the visionweavers. It was most – illuminating."

Quintus had looked at the book his cousin had pushed across the table. Taming the Tapestry: The Weaver at the Loom. So Aurelius had done his homework, after all. That book had been written during the 1920s, and was extremely rare. There were only three or four copies available, two of which were in the Hogwarts library. In the Restricted Section, naturally. He didn’t ask how Aurelius had come by it.

"He’s still after the visionweavers," Aurelius said softly. It wasn’t a question. "Althea Trell wasn’t the last, was she?"

Quintus had nodded slowly. "Some are still alive, yes," he said slowly. "I don’t know how many, and I don’t know where. But Grindelwald wants them, and somehow he’s found out that they still exist."

"All he had to do was read this book," his cousin said scornfully. "The number of living visionweavers was exactly thirteen at the time the book was written. Grindelwald had already killed a number of them, and all I had to do was cross-reference this with the death lists in the news archives in the library, from after the book’s publication, and it was obvious there were some discrepancies. Although there weren’t any names mentioned in the book, naturally, there are at least three unaccounted for."

"You did all this in your lunch hour?" Quintus had asked, dryly.

Aurelius was unabashed. "I’m a quick worker. You know Grindelwald took his spider symbol from the visionweavers?"

Quintus hadn’t known that. It was news, and, remembering the Divination teacher’s strange tattoo, he thought it could be rather important. He knew what Grindelwald’s emblem looked like, but he wasn’t sure about the visionweavers’ symbol. He hadn’t known they’d had one. Valerius Snape had made no mention of it in his last letter.

"Wouldn’t currently employed Unspeakables be aware of the visionweavers’ present locations?" Aurelius continued. "More so than the Unspeakables who retired years ago, and don’t have access to the same information anymore?"

"If they’d been informed that the visionweavers were still in existence, yes," Quintus said bluntly. "But they weren’t. Only a few people know that Althea Trell was not the last of the weavers, and most of those people are dead."

"Then how do you know?" Aurelius demanded. There was a speculative look in his eyes as he stared at Quintus; one that the Potions master was familiar with. Even though he knew only too well what the Snape family demanded from its sons, he’d never lost the secret thrill of anticipation at the thought of secret knowledge. And Valerius Snape had taught him the art of concealment well enough – the patriarch wore intrigue like a cloak. Secrets. They were seductive, Quintus knew.

"You know perfectly well I have a contact at the Ministry," Quintus said.

Aurelius did not seem particularly inclined to accept Quintus’ explanation. "Your contact told you something so potentially dangerous in return for your skills as a potions-maker?" he asked sarcastically, his lip curled. "Must’ve been quite some potion."

"There’s a strong cynical streak in you, isn’t there?" Quintus said mildly. He was amused, although he didn’t show it. His cousin wasn’t the type to accept any explanation at face value. "It rather suits you."

Aurelius half smiled, although he didn’t let it reach his eyes. "I am a Slytherin," he pointed out. "A curious one at that. And, if I may say so, a fairly intelligent one."

"I’ll grant you that much," Quintus allowed. Aurelius was living up to his expectations, although he couldn't really take any credit for it. It was, after all, in the blood.

"I know you’re keeping things from me," Aurelius had said softly, surprising Quintus with his sudden directness. "I know it’s necessary. I don’t want to endanger your position with the Ministry, or the school."

"But?" Quintus asked, as his cousin paused.

"But if I’m going to be asked to make a lethal potion, I think I have the right to know why." Aurelius’ eyes had held a silent challenge. "You said that to me, once."

It was true, Quintus thought as a ripple of laughter brought him back to the present. After deducting ten points from Slytherin and confiscating Regal Rosier’s rather explicit drawing of Verity Black and Minerva McGonagall, his mind turned again to Aurelius. His cousin did have the right to know why. Although he’d managed to evade the issue last night, Quintus knew he’d have to take the boy into his full confidence sooner rather than later. Especially if recent events are anything to go by, he thought, staring absently at the Gryffindor students. The death of Flay, combined with the death of the Unspeakables was enough to make Quintus Snape frown at the best of times - but Haven’s vision had perplexed him further. The faithful servants will keep their ancient promises. Quintus wasn’t superstitious, not in the slightest, and did not have the necessary arrogance to believe that the prophecy applied specifically to his family. But it was somewhat unnerving, to have such a timely reminder of his duty to Valerius and his cousin.

Aurelius had deliberately avoided pressing him for further information about his Ministry contact. Quintus knew Aurelius well enough to know that although such reticence would no doubt be frustrating, his cousin had obviously realized that it would count in his favour in the long run.

"Will it be war, then?" Aurelius had asked him, his face thoughtful as they’d discussed the ramifications of Flay’s death.

The Potions master had sighed. "I’m not sure," he’d admitted wearily, although he’d analyzed the situation in great depth earlier on. "There will undoubtedly be a push for a full military response – mostly from the rightwing elements in the Ministry – Wilkes’ circle, I expect."

"What will that entail?" Aurelius had asked instantly. "Copernicus was already going to give the Aurors more power, wasn’t he?"

"True," Quintus said. "Simeon Wilkes – he’s one of the top men in the Department of Defence – will probably demand the legalization of various potions and techniques that were banned in 1909. To give the Aurors more control during interrogations. It’s common knowledge that Wilkes wants his Aurors to have the power to imprison without a trial, too. And then there’s the Unforgivables – rather a sore point with him. "

"He wants them legalized too?" Aurelius guessed shrewdly. "It’s not going to happen."

"Not at this moment in time, no," Quintus replied. "Too controversial for our Ministry’s tastes, and it’d cause far too much trouble politically. Wilkes isn’t as influential as he’d like to think, and he’d be up against the likes of Sigmund Croaker and Philip Longbottom if he tried to get the Minister’s support."

"The conscientious objectors, I presume," Quintus’ cousin had said, disdainfully.

Quintus could understand Aurelius’ scorn. Croaker and Longbottom were well known for their anti-war stance, and had energetically opposed Britain’s sending any Aurors into Europe at all. He wondered whether they’d be such pacifists if they came face to face with Grindelwald’s forces. Although he felt somewhat uneasy about giving Aurors the power to kill, he could see the necessity. A Dark wizard wouldn’t hit you with the Jelly Legs Jinx, he thought. The only way to successfully block the Killing Curse was to make sure you cast it first. So Valerius Snape had said, anyway. And Quintus knew his uncle was speaking from experience.

"And there’s Edward Weasley’s bunch at the Department for International Magical Co-operation," Aurelius had said, thinking hard. "They’re the middle party – they want to form stronger links with the Muggle community and take a greater role in the war, but without "stooping" to Grindelwald’s level. I was reading an article about them in the papers last week."

"The great debate’s probably already started at the Ministry," Quintus said dryly. "We’ll sit around arguing whilst Grindelwald’s laughing."

"Will we?" Aurelius asked, his meaning obvious even without his raised eyebrow.

"I have no doubt we’ll be doing our best to aid the war effort," Quintus had said. "In our own fashion, of course."

His cousin had nodded slowly; aware that there were many things he hadn’t been told. And also aware that Quintus had as good as told him that they’d soon be busying themselves with potions ordered by the Ministry.

Soon, Quintus had promised him silently. You’ll know everything soon enough. The Snape family always keeps their promises. And as he remembered the words of the Divination teacher’s prophecy, Quintus felt a chill run down his spine.

*****