The Serpentine Chain Part 1 - Year Of The Snake

The Serpentine Chain Part One

Chapter Sixteen - Fidelius Familia

Up the rotating spiral staircase that had been proven to be the exact mathematical centre of the castle, through a series of small yet impressive portrait galleries, into the Lily Chamber. Along with Malfoy Manor's Rose Room, this was one of the seven wonders of wizarding architecture. Peleus Snape had built it in the mid-sixteenth century, for his wife Ophelia. Improbably large, and filled with lilies that would never wither, or die, the majority of the room was composed of water. Slender bluestone paths decorated with pebbles criss-crossed the chamber, and the precise depth of the ponds created had not yet been ascertained. Within the branches of the giant willow tree - which grew from the centre of the room and provided a ceiling for the room, concealed wind chimes sang gently, although no wind was blowing. The walls were mirrors. Waterwheels and weeds gave the room a green shimmer.

The Lily Chamber, and Ophelia Snape's death, were, as family legend had it, the inspiration for certain characters and events in a supposedly Muggle writer's tragedy. Ophelia Snape, never strong, had not lasted long as mistress of the island. She'd drowned herself, here, in the Lily Chamber, after less than a year as Peleus' wife. Of course, it was pure speculation to wonder whether Christopher Marlowe - Richard's family's black sheep - had ever introduced Peleus Snape to William Shakespeare, just as it was pure speculation to wonder whether Shakespeare himself had been a Muggle-born wizard.

He had never spent much time in the Lily Chamber - it was traditionally the province of the family's women. Melora Snape had taken to it, in recent years, despite Valerius' silent disapproval, and it was an unspoken rule that the Chamber was out of bounds to all others. He was only there now to greet her, after having made the journey home. She'd given him permission for that.

She was sitting on the small green bench under the willow tree. He picked his way through pebbles and overgrowing weeds, wondering whether the house-elves too had been banned from the room. The flora and fauna of the Lily Chamber seemed a little too unruly for his liking. It suited his mother, though, perfectly.

"Maman," he said, bowing his head slightly. His mother's language. Melora had her own family heritage too, as well as her husband's.

Melora Snape, formerly Dubois, stretched out an extremely thin arm, extending her hand for him to kiss. Suppressing his impatience, he did so, wondering as his lips brushed her fingers whether she'd been ill recently. Never especially robust, she looked a lot paler than was usual. Perhaps her sudden fragility was deceptive, though, as her voice when she'd greeted him had been as composed as ever.

"Tout bien?" she asked, referring to a number of things.

"Tout bien," he answered, with no qualms whatsoever at the minor distortion of the truth. All was well, academically and socially - he'd offended nobody important and the Constance situation was not, he felt, going to be something he would tell his mother.

The customary formalities thus attended to, Aurelius decided to voice what had been annoying him ever since his train had arrived at platform 9 and ¾ and he'd found no one there. Not his father, as was usual, to take him on the usual trip down Knockturn Alley to purchase certain potions ingredients that could only be bought by a leading member of their family, not even his uncle. No one.

He'd made his way along Diagon Alley, to pick up his own essentials, contemplating whether or not to owl home. He'd decided not to - coming to the conclusion that his father expected him to make the Knockturn Alley purchases by himself. After all, he'd have to do it someday and it was hardly his father's style to inform him of this new development beforehand. It was a simple initiative test.

"Where is my father?" he asked, slipping out of the ritual French.

She flashed him a disapproving glance before replying. "You may well ask," she said, coolly.

"He's not here?"

"Evidently not, Aurelius," his mother said, with some impatience. "He has been away for three days, now. I expected him back yesterday."

"Have you sent an owl?" Aurelius asked, suppressing his annoyance. Sometimes his mother could be deliberately infuriating.

This time his mother looked more irritated than impatient, her mood echoing her son's. "Yes," she said. "He has not seen fit to reply."

"Well - what about my uncle? Or Quintus? They might know -"

"I doubt it's the crisis situation you're imagining, mon fils," his mother said dryly. "This is not the first time, and it is extremely unlikely to be the last."

"What do you mean?" Aurelius asked, his mind rapidly flitting through various possibilities. His father could have been detained longer than expected at one of his meetings with the Ministry, old business contacts might be proving particularly troublesome, what with the war, or, and here Aurelius grimaced slightly, his father might have taken a mistress. Angels and ministers of grace defend us, he thought.

"Don't be a child, Aurelius," Melora Snape returned sharply, almost as if she'd read his thoughts. "I would have thought your cousin had taught you better than that," she added snidely.

He was used to his mother's rapid mood swings, but was still not entirely comfortable with them. "I presume his - meeting - has been somewhat prolonged, then?" he asked calmly. "Considering the current political situation..."

"No doubt you presume correctly," his mother replied, sounding bored. "What would I know of that?"

More than you're letting on, I imagine

, Aurelius thought, seeing as you deal with our business matters whilst he's away.

"I would have written to you during the term," Melora Snape said then, suddenly changing the subject. "If I had not been otherwise occupied."

"Oh?" Aurelius asked, mostly out of politeness. His mother's letters, rare as they were, were usually only concerned with how well he was doing in school subjects. Then again, things had happened this term regarding his mother's old school.

"The Beauxbatons students," she said, confirming his guess. "Which of them do you know?"

"Surely," Aurelius replied with a slight smirk, unable to resist trying to disconcert his mother, "my cousin has already told you which students have been Sorted into Slytherin?"

"That isn't what I asked," his mother answered. "As you very well know."

"I know none of them especially well," Aurelius responded, with a shrug. "Out of the Slytherins, Remy Flaubert and Camille Chirac prefer to stick together, although occasionally they mingle with Paul Tudor and Simon Harper. Jacques Sarrassin keeps company with the Lestranges - out of the Ravenclaw lot, I've only actually spoken to Philippe DuPré - he does Divination with Constance. I'm not on especially close terms with any of them."

His mother nodded thoughtfully. "Interesting," she said. "That might be best, yes."

Aurelius raised an eyebrow, although he wasn't really expecting a straight answer from her. It was, as was quite obvious to him now, past time he began to think for himself. He felt sure he knew where she was coming from, too. What with his family's close association with both the Ministry and the Malfoys, it would only complicate matters further if he were to become close friends with a Beauxbatons student. Especially when so little was known about their background - the supporters of Grindelwald amongst the French were legion. The Snapes did not wish to be tainted by association. Considering his family were working closely with the Ministry at present - perhaps it would be advisable to maintain his distance from the new students.

"Go and prepare yourself for dinner," his mother ordered, ignoring the query in her son's eyes. "I shall see that the new Potions ingredients are stored correctly."

"Done already," Aurelius said with a touch of smugness. He had been expected to do the Knockturn Alley trip himself. "I took care of that before I came to you."

"Then what are you waiting for?" Melora Snape answered, her sharpness returning. "Go and change."

*

With hands that were not, perhaps, entirely steady, Matthew Seraphim lit his cigarette. A long inhalation, then a wreath of smoke issued from his lips.

"You don't have to tell me anything," Christopher said then, thinking that he'd never seen his friend smoking before.

"No," Matthew replied, his voice steady. Christopher wasn't sure whether it was a denial, or agreement, until the Flight instructor continued. "You probably should know the kind of person we're dealing with. To be fair."

"I've seen enough to know what he's like," Christopher said truthfully. "You don't need to tell me any more."

"What you saw at the pub," Matthew began, and then paused. "That isn't - that wasn't - all of it. It wasn't simply a matter of personal betrayal. It wasn't quite as it seemed."

Christopher was silent, partly because he couldn't think of anything to say, partly because he felt certain his friend would continue without prompting.

"I wouldn't have lost it like that if it had been," the Head of Gryffindor said, without looking at Christopher. "What he did in the pub was malicious, and deliberate, but that wasn't the half of it."

"There's history between you, isn't there?" Christopher asked, even though he knew the answer. He couldn't help remembering the exchange between his friend and the Divination teacher. The words, unbidden, sprang back into his mind.

I didn't think you cared.

But there's the rub - you

did.

He'd not wanted to hear more, then. He'd wanted to leave, to get away from something so personal that had had no business in such a public place. So he'd gone to the bar, hoping that Quintus would join him, and that they could give Matthew the privacy he needed. But the Potions master had stayed - and it hadn't taken a genius to work out why. Blood mattered, didn't it?

"Does it bother you?" Matthew replied, steadfastly not looking at him. "My - preferences?"

Despite himself, Christopher had to smile. "I went to the Conservatoire," he said. "Although not mine personally, such preferences might as well have been entry requirements. So no, it doesn't bother me."

"It bothers me," his friend said softly. "I'm not a bohemian musical revolutionary, or a writer, or anything that would make it acceptable. It's - not what I want. But it is what I am. He knows that, and so does she."

"It's not wrong," Christopher said, trying to reassure him. "It's -"

"It is," Matthew interrupted. "When it causes you to place your trust - your affections - in someone who cares nothing for them, uses them for their own ends - it's wrong."

"That's not your fault," the Chantwork teacher said, his brow furrowed. "It's not wrong to trust people, surely - you can't know whether you'll be let down or not."

The Flight instructor smiled bitterly. "Now you sound like Albus."

"I don't think it's wrong to trust," Christopher agreed. "But - I believe you are right about Octavius Malfoy. I don't know what happened between you, I don't need to know, but what I saw that night convinced me. He's not to be trusted."

"He hates us," Matthew said, breathing out cigarette smoke. "Or - worse - he doesn't actually hate us, because that would mean he sees us as people. We're just things to him."

"I know," Christopher said. He remembered Octavius Malfoy's remarks very well. He also remembered the way Quintus had tried to persuade him that not all purebloods felt the same way. Just as he remembered the way Quintus had refused to leave the table that night. He didn't blame Quintus, as such, but just at present he didn't particularly feel like talking to him. The Potions master, for his part, had seemed to accept that. Since the term had ended, and the students had gone home, the two hadn't really spoken, apart from the odd word at mealtimes.

The Head of Gryffindor was silent for a while. Then - "I met him in Siberia. In 1933 - the War, you know."

"You fought?" Christopher asked, surprised. Matthew had never mentioned anything about that before - although, given the circumstances, it was understandable.

"On the side of the Separatists," Matthew answered. "Fighting for their independence against the Russian Wizarding Federation."

"I know very little about Russian politics," Christopher confessed, thinking that his brother would have had a much better grasp of the situation. Should've paid more attention to Binns, he thought ruefully. "But I would have thought you'd have been on the other side - Communism, and so forth."

"What the Russians are doing isn't Communism," Matthew replied. "The Separatists had a much purer form of it, and the Siberian wizards just don't want to be part of the Federation - but that's beside the point. When I met Malfoy, he was apparently on the Separatist side. We - worked together."

"Malfoy?!" Christopher asked. He couldn't see it. Not at all.

"Oh," Matthew said, laughing bitterly. "Don't be fooled - he wasn't fighting for anybody's independence. He wasn't even bothered about the outcome of the war. He worked for whoever would pay him the most, and as it turned out, that was to be the Federation. Only he was very good at pretending otherwise."

Christopher thought he could see where this was going. "Oh dear," he said softly. "He used you?"

"He had me completely fooled," Matthew said bleakly. "I genuinely believed he was the exception to the Malfoy rule - the wanderer, you know, cast adrift from his family - the one who actually believed in something, in equality. He was laughing at me all the time, and he told me so at the end."

"What happened? I don't know the details - I only know that the Separatists lost their bid for independence - but wasn't there some way of proving him guilty? Even if he had to be held to account here?"

"He covered his tracks too well. We didn't lose because of him - but he made it more personal. For me. Besides, there's nothing that could have been done here. It wasn't our war."

"I see," Christopher said. "It must have been - very difficult, working with him these past years."

Matthew shrugged dismissively. "I haven't exactly tried to hide my dislike. I'd hoped that the Headmaster would have seen through him by now, especially with Grindelwald threatening Britain now - but he won't do anything. But Albus has helped."

"But surely you were right - he shouldn't be teaching, not here. Not after what happened at Beauxbatons."

An odd, almost closed expression crossed the Head of Gryffindor's face. "I would have agreed," he said slowly, "but Albus has convinced me that the best way to keep an eye on him, is to keep him here. Where his actions can be - monitored."

"With or without the Headmaster's knowledge?" Christopher asked, suspecting the latter.

Matthew looked decidedly shifty. "Dippet is a good man, and a good teacher, but he's not infallible. And Albus' connections at the Ministry - go somewhat further than one would expect. If -"

"If?" the Chantwork teacher prompted him.

"If Malfoy's found doing anything," Matthew Seraphim said, "anything that will link him to Grindelwald, the right people at the Ministry will be informed. Then, hopefully, they can trace others through him."

Christopher was silent for a moment, thinking. "What part do you play in this?"

"A minor one," the Flight instructor replied swiftly. "He - Malfoy - knows I suspect him. He's not likely to do anything in a less than circumspect fashion if he thinks I'm watching." He hesitated. "He might try to act through another."

"But surely she would be too obvious?" Christopher asked, then realised who his friend meant. "No."

Matthew's brow was furrowed in what seemed like genuine concern. "You must have noticed," he said, "both Malfoy and Haven have been very close to Quintus recently. You saw it for yourself, the other night."

"Quintus wouldn't," the Chantwork teacher protested, although he had, in fact, noticed. He'd also noticed the discomfort in the Potions Master's face when his path had crossed the Divination teacher's.

"Malfoy is very good at manipulating people - I don't mean to cast aspersions upon your friend."

"He wouldn't do anything to help Grindelwald. I know it. I know him," he ended, with more certainty in his voice than he felt. He could not quite erase the feeling of betrayal he'd had, when Quintus had stayed to watch the scene between the others that night. It had felt as though Quintus had made his choice - but it didn't mean he'd work for Grindelwald.

"He might not even be aware of it," Matthew said carefully. "I wasn't."

That was true. "What should we do?" Christopher asked, heavily.

"The only thing we can do," the Head of Gryffindor replied, his eyes sympathetic. "You know him better than I do - watch and wait."

Whether Quintus had let him down or not, Christopher did not want him getting into trouble. He knew his friend; he knew that any challenge presented by Octavius Malfoy would intrigue him. And he wasn't sure just how levelheaded Quintus would be, when faced with something that provoked his curiosity. Furthermore, he didn't want to sit and watch whilst the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher used his friend. He wanted to ignore the little voice that told him they were at war - that others could be traced through Malfoy's actions. He wondered what his brother would have done - but he knew the answer to that already. Professionalism is paramount.

"I don't want him getting caught up in something like this," he said, aware that it was probably too late. I certainly don't want him used as bait. Whatever happens, he's still a friend.

"Keep an eye out for him, then," Matthew replied, after a pause. "Try and make sure he doesn't get himself too involved with Malfoy's affairs. But -"

"But what?"

"Everybody knows that the Snapes and Malfoys are on good terms," the other man replied, as tactfully as possible. "And you know how seriously purebloods take the matter of family."

He did, only too well. And that was something Christopher Cale didn't really want to think about - not at length, and after the other night, not at all.

*

Aurelius had hardly expected his father to provide an explanation for his absence, and so he was not surprised to find none immediately forthcoming as Valerius Snape gave him a brief yet concise summary of the family's business dealings over the past few months. This was customary at the end of each term. Routine work pure and simple - later he would no doubt have to study various accounts and ledgers in order to familiarize himself with the financial side of the business. Knowledge of one's finances was simple common sense, even if he wasn't expected to carry out all the menial work himself. That was left to the few carefully chosen men his father had handpicked, years ago. It just wasn't the done thing to actually be seen running one's own business. That implied one needed to work to survive - and his family certainly didn't. They upheld their business because they were good at it, because very few others could produce certain potions with the necessary skill, and because they enjoyed it. And it paid off.

Although the seventeen year old usually enjoyed these meetings with his father, his precise mind revelling in the minutiae of major contracts, he was for once anxious to get it over and done with. He had learned enough from his cousin, however, to appreciate that what his father was telling him now was entirely superficial. There were other, more important matters to be dealt with, and Aurelius was firmly convinced that his father would soon be continuing where Quintus had left off. He was aware of a strong sense of anticipation, for several reasons. Firstly there was the intellectual pleasure he felt at the prospect of what he could only term as scheming at the highest level. With the Ministry, no less - and all that entailed. The further complications provided by his family's association with the Malfoys, the possible shifting of allegiances and redefinition of loyalties. This was what he thrived on, it was what he had been trained to do. Then, and he didn't feel especially guilty for admitting this, there was the baser glee in the confirmation that he was the family's heir, and he, not Quintus, would be privy to his father's knowledge. For the past term, it had been Quintus who had possessed information that he himself had not - although Aurelius was not petty enough to resent this, he could appreciate the turning of the tables. It was all in the way of things. His cousin had begun his education; his father would complete it.

"For the duration of nine years," his father ended with considerable severity, and Aurelius realised with a sudden start that although he had taken everything in, he hadn't been paying as close attention as usual. His father had noticed, of course, but would undoubtedly know why.

"With the possibility of renewal at the end of that period?" Aurelius asked, mostly to prove that he had been listening. The detail of the contract with St. Mungo's was interesting, after all. After a fashion.

"Quite," his father said coolly, without even the slightest glint of amusement in his dark eyes. "After this, you can read the terms of the contract yourself."

Oh, for pity's sake,

Aurelius thought without any true irritation. He could accept his father's rebuke. Even when there were matters of great importance to be attended to, it was still necessary to maintain total control over other areas. For appearance's sake, if nothing else. Crushing the desire to sigh, he prepared himself to wait. He knew his father far too well to expect anything now.

Nevertheless, Valerius Snape had not lost the ability to take his son aback. "Although I can see you are clearly bursting with enthusiasm," he said, "there are other more pressing matters to be attended to."

"Such as?" Aurelius replied, his eyebrows raising - the only sign of surprise he permitted himself before his father.

"Your activities with Quintus are all very well," the older man began, turning the full force of his gaze upon his son. "But it is past time I began teaching you myself."

Aurelius nodded, more as a means of acknowledgment than assent, uncertain as to what he should say.

"As you are fully aware, we are providing the Ministry with very valuable potions," Valerius continued, "as part of an agreement I reached with them a good few years ago. In return, we gained a certain amount of immunity from the varied security checks carried out by the government upon operations such as ours. You will no doubt have noticed the decrease in official visits to our laboratories."

As Valerius paused, his son nodded thoughtfully, his mind mulling over what had just been said. A good few years ago - Quintus had no doubt been carrying out such work long before Aurelius had been aware of it. And perhaps not just for the Ministry, he thought, with sudden interest. The Ministry, of course, had very simple motivations where the agreement was concerned.

"A way of securing our loyalty?" he wondered aloud.

"Our loyalty cannot be bought," his father replied sharply, "although you are quite correct. We were being - placated - in this way, as the Ministry knows full well how restricted our work has been by certain legislation."

"And they wish to persuade us that looking elsewhere would be less profitable," Aurelius said, bringing out into the open what his father had as yet left unspoken. Valerius Snape often appreciated this forthrightness in his son, as long as it was tempered with a modicum of caution. Which Aurelius could do, quite easily.

"Now more than ever," his father answered, the slight dip of his head the only real sign of satisfaction his son had ever seen. It was enough, though, and Aurelius felt a sudden glow of pride. He would not disappoint his father when his time came. "It seems the Ministry is somewhat less than certain about the outcome of this war. They need our loyalty. My recent meetings with them convinced me that they seem willing to do anything to ensure it."

"Are we bound, then?" Aurelius asked shrewdly, thinking of his family's motto. Loyaultie me lie. If his father had made an agreement, signed and sealed in the traditional fashion, there was almost nothing on earth that would prevent him from keeping his word.

"We were," Valerius Snape replied, with sufficient emphasis upon the last word to indicate that this was no longer the case. "I do not break my word lightly," he continued, "and nor have I done so. Yet."

There was only one possible reason for a Snape to even contemplate breaking an oath. "What has happened?"

"I should not need to tell you that our family kept our side of the agreement faithfully."

"No," Aurelius agreed. It went without saying. "They broke it? Why would they be so stupid, if they need us so badly?"

Valerius Snape smiled coldly. "The Ministry is no longer what it used to be," he said. "Our word would once have been enough - true wizards would have known and accepted this. Unfortunately, certain officials do not seem to share the sense of honour held by old families - understandable, of course," he added with what could almost have been described as a sneer, "when one considers that these wizards have no reputable backgrounds whatsoever."

Aurelius understood what his father was saying. There was a considerable amount of distrust amongst the members of the Ministry - purebloods whose families had traditionally held governmental posts for centuries - and the recently admitted Muggleborns. Distrust on both sides, for although the Muggleborns felt that their rights would be overlooked if they did not push their cause, the purebloods believed that without a respectable wizarding lineage, there could be no true understanding of wizarding culture. It had not been an easy decision, the admission of non-purebloods into the Ministry, and it still rankled.

"I presume these wizards want us investigated then," Aurelius mused. "In order to heighten their sense of security. But are we really expected to keep our word if they do not keep theirs?"

"No," his father said simply. "They have made it quite clear what the penalties will be if we do not conform to their wishes - but what they fail to understand is that our loyalty cannot be bought and will not be coerced."

There was a tightly controlled anger in Valerius Snape's voice, and with that Aurelius could empathise. Not only was this breach of contract insulting in its implications, it simply revealed a total lack of understanding upon the part of the Ministry. Oaths of service, oaths of loyalty - these were not to be broken. If one party did break such a mutual agreement, it was nullified. Everybody knew that. It was why his family made very few oaths. Those that were made, were kept with almost religious devotion - but it was an oath that worked both ways. Nobody would keep a bargain after it had already been broken, and threats would only compound the insult. It was amazing that the Ministry had not seen this.

"When you were away," Aurelius began, "was this the reason?"

His father nodded curtly. "They were courteous enough at least to warn us in advance," he said, his lip twisting with sarcasm, "A delegation from the Department of Hazardous Substances will be arriving at the beginning of January - ostensibly to see if our laboratories conform to health and safety regulations."

"Subtle," Aurelius commented dryly. "I take it we're to give them full co-operation?" Adding injury to insult, he thought. Of course our laboratories conform to those regulations. We bloody well helped to write them. And that had been dull, tedious work. Aurelius was of the opinion that regulations were only there to stop idiots from blowing themselves up. Potions-work should be left to those who were capable, and if you were too stupid to know what you were doing, you got what you deserved for meddling in things beyond your ken.

"Naturally," Valerius Snape replied, and so bland was his tone that Aurelius wasn't sure, at first, what to make of it.

A thought struck Aurelius then, as he remembered the conversation he'd had with his mother earlier. She'd warned him away from the Beauxbatons students - but if the Ministry had broken their word to his family, perhaps certain of the French students would have connections that could be exploited. Interesting indeed, he thought, but probably too obvious. No. He would not go down that avenue - not until his father made his stance on the matter quite clear. There was too much at risk.

*

Her sleep hadn't been peaceful, not since she'd come back home for Christmas. Her dreams were disturbing, filled with images she couldn't cling onto when she'd awoken, images that dissolved without a trace leaving only a profound sense of unease. Fear? Almost. She'd asked Tom to share her bed, earlier that night, hoping his presence would calm her, somewhat. They were far enough away from the heart of the Manor for no-one to notice him slipping into her room, up here in the turret that she'd loved since childhood they were safe. Almost completely cut off from the rest of the world, it felt. Safe enough, safe from discovery. Not that her uncle would care, and Marcus had made it quite clear that he approved. Her parents, on the other hand, were probably better off not knowing.

Besides. She hadn't exactly done anything yet. She and Tom had slept together, curling up in the Zalaras Wing, and admittedly, they hadn't been altogether pure in their intent - but technically, she was pure. He had been reluctant to stay with her that night, three nights before Christmas Day, not wishing to do anything to disturb the perfect balance of his stay with her family. For it was, surprisingly, perfect. Her father had treated Tom well. As if the matter of his Muggle heritage was irrelevant. Which, in his case, was true.

But she'd persuaded Tom to stay, and if she'd had any secret hopes of something else happening that night, they were dashed. He'd simply turned back her duvet, naked apart from the dressing gown that was becoming a second skin to him, and lain down silently. She'd lain beside him, and waited for the dreams she knew would come. As far as she could tell, Tom had gone straight to sleep.

Except, as things turned out, he hadn't.

Halfway through the night, or thereabouts, she woke suddenly, shocked out of sleep by some nameless, voiceless fear. This terror, a residue from a dream, deepened as she found that there was no-one beside her. Had he gone?

She sat up abruptly, to find moonlight streaming into her room, casting a pale shimmer over all she could see. And Tom was there, on the window seat, staring out into the dark. Sitting so still, even though he must have heard her move, even though he must have been freezing. For half a moment, she caught herself wondering whether he'd frozen, he seemed so marble-still in the ethereal light - then she shrugged the thought away, irritated with herself.

"Can't you sleep?" she asked him.

"I prefer not to," he replied, not turning away from the window. There was no inflection in his voice, no hint as to what he might have been feeling as he continued. "You were dreaming again."

"Yes," Constance said, trying to shake away the lingering fear that remained. "I can't remember what it was about. But - it wasn't pleasant."

"I heard," he told her, staring at the moon. "You cried out, several times."

"What did I say?" Constance was amused, as well as a little embarrassed. At least he didn't say I snored.

"Nothing that made sense. Are you nervous?" he asked suddenly, taking her by surprise with his swift change of subject.

He would be able to see right through any pretence at ignorance. It would insult them both. "About Christmas?" she asked baldly. "Yes. A little."

"So was Marcus," Tom murmured, mostly to himself.

"But he went through with it," she said, simply. "As will I."

He still would not look at her. "It hurts."

"I know."

"And the blood."

"It's the way it's done. And it's worth it, isn't it?"

"Afterwards," the boy said, softly. "Oh yes."

"Yes," she said, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. "Afterwards. I want to do this, Tom."

She could see his shoulders tense at the sound of his name. But he did turn to her, then, his features obscured by shadow. Waiting.

So Constance went over to the window, ignoring the chill, wrapping her arms around her for warmth. The pale blue silk nightdress was no protection against the cold wood of the window seat, against the frigidity of the glass.

"The Rose Room," Tom said, moving to allow her space beside him. His arm slipped around her, reassuringly warm. In fact, she noticed, he did not seem cold at all. His face was almost flushed, and she could feel heat radiating from him although his feet were bare.

"What about it?"

She'd taken him there, on his first day at Malfoy Manor. Marcus had gone off to his room, shutting himself up to write lengthy love letters to McGonagall. A sad task, but someone's got to do her, he'd said to his sister. You must keep our guest entertained. And in truth, there was a lot to keep even the most flighty of minds interested - not that Tom was in any way flighty. He'd spent hours just looking around the grounds, quietly, alone, whilst Constance had been kept a virtual prisoner by her well meaning but usually misguided mother. Finally released from her mother's ideas for personal improvement, Constance had taken Tom indoors, to the Rose Room. The pride of Malfoy Manor.

He'd been entranced, completely and utterly so. Even Constance, familiar with the room for at least five years now, never ceased to be captivated by its overpowering beauty. Roses, and so many of them, of the rarest, most beautiful types - somehow growing up the walls. Petals everywhere, underfoot, mid-air, or frozen and shaped around tiny glow-worms to create strange night lights. And the delicate interplay of shading, between white, light pink, and so many shades of red! The great Rose Window cast its light upon the room, traditionally at its best at sunrise or sunset - Constance herself preferred the moonlight, silver kisses on rose petals, turning the room into a nightscape of flowers and scent. It was sensuous. Romantic. Designed for a purpose Constance did not know, and, curiously enough for her, had never wanted to know. The human reason for its conception would not have added anything to its beauty.

"It should be done there," Tom informed her, every inch of him assured. "It is fitting."

"It's out of bounds, during the Ball," she said thoughtfully. "After Pronobius Tilliticus saw fit to throw up in there years ago. So if there won't be any interruptions -"

"We can use it," Tom finished for her, filled with certainty. He stood up, smoothly and swiftly, then took her hand. "There will be no-one there."

"The Rose Room it is, then," Constance agreed, letting Tom lead her to the bed.

"The fairest rose in the Malfoy garden," he said, his smile genuinely wicked. "She'll be plucked before long."

And, despite all her worries, she was glad.

*

"You disapprove of me. Don't you?"

He hadn't expected that, or the frank challenge in her eyes. He knew what she was talking about, of course. He just hadn't expected so direct a reference to the incident she'd helped to set up in the Three Broomsticks that week before the end of term.

"It's none of my business," he said calmly. Which, in the narrowest possible sense, was true. He really didn't care about Matthew Seraphim's private life, not enough to formulate approval or disapproval anyway.

Elspeth Haven smiled dryly. "Isn't it?"

Quintus turned away, to glance at the simmering cauldron he'd been keeping under close observation for the past few hours. Nothing too complicated - in fact, had the term not ended, he would have had some of his students produce it instead. An Anaesthetizing Potion, one of the simplest, to replenish school supplies.

"What Matthew Seraphim does is not my concern," the Potions master replied indifferently. There had been more to it than that, but he was not planning to address it outright. Not with her, not with anyone. Perhaps not even Christopher - although he felt he owed his friend an explanation of some sort. He did not want to leave things the way they were - not after the way Christopher had left that night at the pub.

"But you do disapprove," she said, and it wasn't a question.

He did not want a confrontation, and nor did he want to be drawn into whatever was going on between Octavius and Elspeth. The example that had been made of Matthew Seraphim that night had shown him that he'd have to be very careful when dealing with the two Slytherin teachers. Seraphim had been played for a fool, that much was obvious. Although he rated his own intelligence far more highly than the Head of Gryffindor's, he would still need caution. Fools rush in, he told himself. Tread lightly.

"Of what, exactly?" he asked, warily.

"Me," she said simply, and he hadn't expected that either. "You disapprove of what I helped Octavius to do."

"As I said," Quintus replied, enunciating his words clearly, "it's none of my business."

"You think me cruel, perhaps," the Divination teacher said, ignoring him. Her voice was soft, contemplative as she continued. "And I shall grant you malicious - for I do enjoy stirring things - but do you think me entirely heartless, Quintus? Ought I to have shown some feminine compassion?"

"Why does my opinion concern you?" he asked her, bluntly.

"A woman likes a man to think well of her," Elspeth replied, her green eyes widening artlessly. "Unless she's been very bad."

Don't start this now

, Quintus thought, very much aware of his predicament. But it was that, he thought, that distinguished him from Seraphim, who undoubtedly had not known what type of situation he had got himself into. He was not as innocent as the Head of Gryffindor, and Quintus could not resist the response that came, unbidden, to his lips. "Moths flutter into candle-flames," he murmured, "but can the candle help it? What you and Octavius have done with Seraphim does not concern me."

"Not at all?" she asked, amusement in her voice.

"I wouldn't have expected either of you to show Seraphim pity," Quintus said truthfully. "And I believe you made your position quite clear," he added, thinking of the predatory way in which Elspeth had marked Octavius as her territory.

At that she smiled, suddenly. "I see," she said, and he was instantly even more uncomfortable than he had been before.

"That's what you're paid to do," he replied, wishing he could have thought of a better response. "It's in your job description."

Choosing to overlook his rather paltry witticism, the Divination teacher continued. "We weren't warning you off, Quintus - surely you know that?"

"Just Seraphim?"

"Just Seraphim," she confirmed. "Octavius is no longer of the inclination to lower his standards like that."

And that came very close to home. Perhaps because of the guilt that he already felt about Christopher. He would not accept this. Seraphim he could ignore - Christopher he could not. "You forget," he said coolly, "that Christopher Cale is my friend. Is that a lowering of standards?"

Despite - or perhaps because of - the warning in his voice, she came closer. "Are you very close to him, then?"

The implication disturbed him. As did she. "No," he said, beginning to grow angry. With all of them - Elspeth, Octavius, himself. "Not everything is as sexually charged as you'd no doubt like to make it."

"And now you're cross," she said triumphantly. She was far too close to him for comfort. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to throttle her, or -

"Yes," he said, instead. He was deeply irritated, and suddenly sick of the whole game. "Congratulations are in order," he added, weighting his words with sarcasm.

"Indeed," she replied, matching his tone, "I've finally aroused something in the chaste Potions master."

Her superior, amused smile, the way she glanced him up and down, quite familiarly, her very words - it was impossible to interpret them any other way. This, said the cool, rational part of Quintus' mind, is quite enough. You have work to do. Get rid of her, now.

And Quintus was, at heart, a rational person. He knew that. The wisest course of action would have been to get rid of her, to have done this the moment she'd walked into his room, failing that, to do it now, now before her suggestions, taunts, took him somewhere he did not want to go, before she pushed him to his limits.

But what she'd said didn't just aggravate him. It cut quite deeply - it wasn't as if he'd had any kind of choice in his dealings with her, for pity's sake. She was not his, she had no right to behave like this with him, she had no right to drag him into the games she was playing with Octavius. She had no business trying to arouse anything in him, and certainly no business insulting him when she failed. And - this was particularly infuriating - it simply wasn't true. She hadn't failed, and she must have known that. He found her attractive, too much so for comfort. But he was cautious, he had to be, was it his control she found so annoying? How arrogant - assuming she could just waltz in and he'd be so flattered he'd pay no heed to the consequences.

And he certainly wasn't chaste.

The irritation he'd felt had blossomed into full fledged fury, overriding his natural impulse to prudence. He wanted to turn the tables, make her feel as awkward. "And why," he said, his voice low and rough, the way Flavia had liked it, "would you want to do that?"

"I like you," she said, and it was that simplicity that was his downfall, after all, not her convoluted scheming, not his anger, not any of that, just the simple stating of those three words, by a woman with green eyes and red hair.

It took him aback. And worse. The disarming frankness that was a weapon with her, that she used whenever she wanted to disconcert him, it was far too successful. She glanced up at him through half-lidded eyes, savouring her victory. She didn't promise kindness, but she did promise honesty. Of a kind. And it was very, very appealing. And there was a danger there -

- but she was everywhere, before he had time to formulate a response. She'd moved, into his arms, filling his senses, before he could voice what was troubling him. And then he no longer cared, and was pressing her back against his desk, the brew in his cauldron entirely forgotten, the mountains of paper on his desk unimportant, meaningless compared to the scent and taste of the woman with him, to the surge of desire, the intensity of a feeling he'd only ever had with Flavia, it has been quite a while, he found himself thinking as his fingers fumbled with the buttons of her robes, as her hands slipped from round his waist to unfasten them for him, Elspeth, he thought, seeing her beneath him, lying half-naked upon his desk, the strange, unfamiliar expression she wore, something glistening in the corner of her eyes -

And suddenly, with a dizzying sense of reality, he became fully aware of what he was about to do.

"Don't," she said, with more than a little urgency, raising herself to pull him closer to her. He hadn't even been aware that he'd moved away. "Don't stop. Don't go."

The warmth of her skin against his - when his robes had been loosened he could not have said - the scent of jasmine. It was a heady combination. But there was a certain nervousness to her, and he found it surprising, after the play she'd made for him. He could not, in all good faith, ignore that.

"Are you sure?" he asked, brushing her hair away from her face.

Something hard to read flashed across her face, a look of gratitude, almost, then she ran her hand along the length of his back, trailing her fingernails across his flesh, never taking her eyes from his. "Quite sure," she murmured, and pulled him down into a kiss.

He tried to please her then, making more effort with her than he'd ever made before, delaying his own pleasure as long as possible, gratified by her sharp intake of breath, her soft, very soft cries as he moved within her, rewarded as she reached her climax and then oblivious as he reached his own, his eyes closed and his face buried in her neck.

The memory of that single tear, however, stayed with him for a very long time. When the world changed around them all, he would remember it, and wonder.

*

Looking at the silver decorations that adorned her family home, the fragile and elaborately woven silk cobwebs that graced the high ceilings, the as-yet-unlit white candles that floated mid air waiting for nightfall, the large crystal balls that would, when darkness fell, reveal the fireflies trapped inside and cast light over all, looking at all that her family had carefully prepared for that night's Christmas Ball, Constance felt again the cold claws of anxiety gripping her.

It was close. She was close. To whatever would happen that night, whilst the festivities carried on down in the Hall, whilst her parents socialized, it would happen, away from the music, noise and laughter, away from all that was familiar. She'd be taken a step further, all would be revealed to her, she'd be finally, irrevocably involved. It was the kind of adventure she'd only dreamed about, when little - but now it was finally here she could not help but feel, not frightened, exactly, never that she told herself, but what? Worried, anxious, expectant. On edge. She needed to calm her nerves, a drink, perhaps, or better still, a walk around the gardens. Just to clear her head.

"Not long now," her brother said softly, from behind her.

She hadn't heard him come in, but did not turn around. "No," she replied, chewing her lip as she stared up at the ceilings. "Not long at all."

"Mother's certainly outdone herself this time," Marcus continued, commenting on the decorations.

"It is beautiful," she said, turning to look at him. "But I expect father had a hand in it - I wouldn't trust mother's sense of co-ordination."

"Oh Merlin," Marcus said, suppressing a grin. "Remember last Christmas?"

They were beating about the bush, and they both knew it. In a way, she was grateful for this comfort, the sense of ordinariness her brother had brought with him - the memory of her mother's previous attempts at decoration and her father's utter horror at the results could not have been further away from her thoughts of only a moment ago.

"Only too well," she said ruefully. "If you remember, it was me that had to take charge of all that mess. It was me that had to waste my afternoon shouting at incompetent house-elves, and why? Because somebody wormed his way out of it."

"Not my responsibility, sister," Marcus replied swiftly, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "It's the province of women, that is. Sad but true."

"So men say, when they want to get out of something," Constance remarked dryly. "The eternal excuse for laziness."

"We can't concern ourselves with such menial tasks," her brother said, with a lofty air. "We have higher matters to attend to."

"Of course you do. Speaking of which, is the lovely Minerva coming tonight? And I mean that in a strictly innocent sense, obviously."

"Mind your own business, you unwomanly wench," Marcus said, not looking too happy. The copious letters he'd sent off to Minerva McGonagall over the past few days had been unanswered - as Constance knew perfectly well.

"Don't say she's turned you down?" she asked, grinning. "Well, I did try to warn you."

"The nun will see sense," Marcus replied serenely. "She's a bright girl. As I said before, she'll come round to my way of thinking."

"You know," Constance said innocently, "there are times when you sound awfully like Richard."

He glared at her.

"Richard scowls like that, too," she said helpfully.

"That boy," Marcus said coolly, "doesn't pull it off nearly as well. Now, you irritating blood-of-my-blood, go and get ready."

"It's nowhere near time yet," she protested. "People don't even think about arriving until about eight, eight-thirty -"

"And you'll need until then to make yourself presentable," her brother said, blandly. "Your hair's disgusting, there's dust on your clothes - and to be frank, you could really do with a bath."

She threw a bauble at him, but, disappointingly, he dodged it.

"You need to make an impression tonight." Marcus' eyes were deadly serious. "It's important for all of us."

"Alright," Constance agreed. "And - I know it is."

"As I told you before, the Snape family aren't to be taken lightly."

"Of course not," the blonde girl said calmly, hoping she'd managed to hide her surprise successfully. She'd thought Marcus had been talking about the blood ritual, it was all she could think about at the minute despite her best attempts to divert herself - and had almost put Aurelius out of her mind. Apart from owling him and Richard, inviting them as usual to the Ball and moaning about the amounts of work they'd been set, she hadn't seen either of them since term ended. And tonight, she'd probably have to - before -

"All right?" Marcus asked, oddly gentle. "Go. Get changed."

Grateful, but not overly thrilled for the reminder of her other tasks tonight, Constance went. She did indeed have a lot to prepare.

*

The Malfoys had many talents, and putting on a good show was certainly something they excelled at. Although he should have been used to Constance's family's aesthetic sense, Aurelius was always impressed - and this year was no exception. The grounds of the Manor, not exactly what anybody could call unattractive, were quite simply stunning. The snow working in true harmony with the decorations, silver and white everywhere. As though nature itself had conspired to make the Malfoy Ball a success.

It reminded Aurelius a little of the stories his mother had told him, very long ago, about the Dubois family ice palaces. The old ice hotel his mother had stayed in, for her sixteenth birthday. They were designed to dazzle and were ultimately successful.

"Très jolie," his mother said wistfully, echoing the gist of her son's thoughts in her own language. "Comme les chateaux des montagnes..."

"Indeed," Aurelius replied, sincerely hoping she wouldn't be speaking French all night. Then he relented a little. It had been rather a long time since his mother had set foot in her native land. "La gloire de la neige éternelle."

Melora Snape smiled indulgently at that. "One wonders what they've done inside," she said, "although truly, I cannot imagine it being more beautiful than this."

Surprisingly, then, Valerius joined in the conversation, or rather - murmured something almost inaudible to his wife. Aurelius, concentrating hard, could only make out a brief scatter of words. La reine d'hiver. Strangely romantic for his father - and as ever, Aurelius felt slightly odd at the thought that his parents had ever felt desire, and worse, might still do so - but appropriate for his mother. Melora had spent most of her childhood by the snow-capped peaks of the Alps. She had not had high hopes of the Snape family home, on the unpromising-sounding Summerisle, until she'd seen it for herself. Summer did not touch their island, and, Aurelius thought, the craggy exterior and rough landscape had its own beauty. Queen of winter indeed, he thought, watching his mother step gracefully over a bridge of ice. Fitting for Constance, too, he thought, and wondered at himself.

"We should go in," he said to his parents then. "If not to be too late."

*

Yes

, Aurelius thought, mother was right. The interior of the manor was undoubtedly beautiful - but he shared his mother's tastes, preferring the wilder glory of the frost and snow outside, the ice sculptures, the colour of the glowing sky to the carefully cultivated delicacy of the inside. It was cold, though, and he took a glass of spiced wine from the floating tray beside him.

He couldn't see Richard anywhere, although they'd arranged to meet in the main hall at nine. Perhaps he's not coming, he thought suddenly, and felt disappointed. Quintus hadn't come either. He hadn't even come home for the day as usual. All they'd had from him was an unusually subdued letter, claiming he had too much work to organize to make leaving Hogwarts feasible, even if it were just for the night. Valerius hadn't said much, whilst reading the letter, but had simply passed it over to Aurelius, who'd wondered whether Quintus' organizing skills were being used for school purposes, or for the Ministry.

And there was no sign of Constance anywhere. It was a pity - after all, Richard's prompting and hints had spurred Aurelius on. If he were, not to put it too crudely, to stake his claim, it would have to be soon. With Riddle here, in Malfoy Manor, there was no time to waste. He wondered just what on earth he was expected to do, and was beginning to feel profoundly uncomfortable when a low-pitched voice greeted him politely.

Despite his growing dislike for the halfblood, Aurelius grudgingly noted that the boy even made the correct bow. Somebody had been teaching him the correct etiquette. And somehow, Riddle had managed to dress himself decently. Interesting. Aurelius had thought the boy was penniless. Suppressing a decidedly malicious urge, Aurelius bowed back. Best not to insult a Malfoy guest in the Malfoy home, after all.

"Where are the others?" Aurelius asked. "Have you been abandoned?"

Riddle smiled. "Far from it. Marcus is a very skilled host - rather too skilled, I'm afraid. Look."

He looked, his eyes following Riddle's subtle gesture to where Marcus Malfoy stood, talking in what seemed a remarkably cozy fashion with one of the last people Aurelius would've expected to see here. Until he remembered the rather gleeful nature of Constance's last letter.

"Oh," he said, genuinely amused. "Minerva descended from the heavens, then. Interesting."

"She turned up earlier," Riddle said quietly. "Without an escort. She caused rather a stir. I thought it best to beat a tactical retreat."

"Wise of you," Aurelius replied, turning back from the distant couple to look at Tom. The boy's face was, as ever, unreadable. "Three's a crowd, isn't that what they say?"

"So I've heard." The halfblood's reply was so smooth, so unruffled, his eyes completely guileless, that for a second, Aurelius wondered whether he and Richard had not been entirely mistaken. Just for a second, though. "Constance is with Richard, if you were wondering."

"I see," Aurelius said, looking over Riddle's shoulder to where the blonde girl and Richard had entered the hall, laughing about something. Richard saw him too, despite the crowd, and began to steer Constance in their direction. Aurelius, scrutinizing them closely, noticed her stiffen almost imperceptibly when she spotted him and Riddle together. He wondered how he could tactfully extricate himself from Riddle's presence when the boy solved the problem for him.

"Well," Tom Marvolo Riddle said calmly, "I believe Regal is expecting me elsewhere."

And with a courteous inclination of his head, the halfblooded Slytherin was gone, plucking a glass of bright green liquid from the air as he went, over to where Regal Rosier was indeed waiting. With the Head Boy, no less. Watching him go, Aurelius marveled at the way Riddle had managed to ingratiate himself with the most influential of people. Especially when, strictly speaking, the boy did not have that much to offer. Oh, he was skilled enough at magic, often quite brilliant. There was no doubt about his wizarding ability. But he brought nothing with him. It was a wonderful example of social climbing. Quite admirable, really.

"Felicitations of the season to you," Richard, clearly somewhat inebriated, greeted him with a large grin. "Nay - felicitations of the epoch, and what a wondrous one it is at that!"

Constance and Aurelius exchanged glances. "He knocks the stuff back like water," the blonde girl said, trying to sound disapproving but breaking into a giggle. "But I'm not entirely sober myself, so drink more. Both of you."

"We must keep the lady company," Richard urged, presenting Aurelius with a bottle of clear liquid. "It would be most ungallant not to. Some might even say rude."

"Well," Aurelius said, beginning to smile himself, "I should warn you - I could drain this room dry and still be on my feet whilst weaklings like you are fast asleep and all undignified."

"Give dignity a day off!" Richard's face was alight with unholy glee. "We're going elsewhere. Where nobody will see Constance when she passes out."

The blonde girl didn't appear to have heard that, but was scowling at the bottle in Richard's hand. "You never offered any of that to me," she said reprovingly. "Really charming, aren't you?"

"You've had quite enough, my dear," the brown haired boy told her. "There's nothing more unattractive than a drunken female. Especially if she's blonde. It's positively vulgar!"

"You cheeky sod," Constance exclaimed. "You were practically pouring wine down my throat earlier - vulgarity didn't come into it then!"

"Now, now, play nicely children," Aurelius scolded, taking the bottle from Richard. "Where are we supposed to be going, anyway?"

"Into the Pit," Constance said, beginning to laugh again. "As Richard so politely put it."

"There is no polite way of putting it," Richard said, taking both of them by the arm and guiding them - somewhat unsteadily - out of the hall. "Your home is lovely, your gardens are lovely, you're all very lovely people, but your dungeon is nothing more than a shithole. And that is as polite as it gets."

"It's supposed to be horrible!" she protested. "What do you expect a dungeon to look like? It just wouldn't work if it had ensuite facilities, would it?"

"She's got a point," Aurelius said. "Dungeons are not supposed to be welcoming."

"I wouldn't know," Richard replied loftily. "I live in a normal sized house with normal rooms. I don't hold with all these crazy ideas."

"They've only just put doors on your house, you horrible little pauper," Constance smirked.

"True," the brown haired boy agreed, leading them down a small corridor. "We had to sleep in rolled up copies of the Daily Prophet, it was that cold. Never," he said sagely, as Constance pressed the carved snake that opened up a downward stairwell, "never underestimate the importance of a good set of doors! A greater gift to wizardkind I cannot possibly imagine. Just knowing that doors exist - it restores my faith in life."

"Oh for Merlin's sake, do shut up," Constance said with mock exasperation. She took the steps two at a time, her laugh floating upwards to where the boys still stood. "If I fall, I'll hold you both responsible!"

Aurelius took a sip from the bottle, then glanced at Richard in surprise. "Water?"

"You need a clear head, my son," Richard said. "Mark my words, no good will come of alcohol. For what hath it brought mankind? Naught. Naught but grief, and a bitch of a headache in the morning - and the horror when you wake up next to that particularly gruesome fifth year -"

"You're not drunk in the slightest, are you?" Aurelius asked quietly.

"Sober to the n^th degree. Or thereabouts, and by such I mean not in the slightest." Richard beamed at him, then bounded down the stairs after Constance, screeching at the top of his lungs as he did so. "ALCOHOL - helping ugly people get laid ever since the Gryffindors discovered it!"

Aurelius gazed after him for a moment, then followed. It never did to underestimate Richard Marlowe. He really should have guessed that his friend would do something like this. Feigning drunkenness - quite convincingly as well - whilst getting Constance well on the way to intoxication. No doubt Richard would find some plausible excuse to leave the two of them together. Oh, it was unscrupulous really, if you took it to the logical conclusion - and entirely Richard in its conception. The only question now was how long would it take Richard to leave. No doubt he'd already prepared an excuse -

An almighty crash sounded from further down, followed by a muffled expletive. Quickening his pace, Aurelius was impressed. He hadn't expected Richard to go that far!

"What's happened?" he asked, quite pointlessly of course, as Richard was crumpled up on the floor at the foot of the stairs, clutching various parts of his anatomy.

"Ow," his friend said weakly, and then with considerably more force, "fuck. That hurt."

"It's your own fault," Constance said. She was inside the nearest cell, sitting on a small wooden stool and taking ladylike sips from a glass of wine. "Nobody bounces down dungeon stairs unless they want to get hurt."

"Pathetic. Even by your standards," Richard said, surprisingly sharply.

He did look remarkably pained, Aurelius noted. Perhaps his accident hadn't been entirely faked. "Need a hand?" he asked.

"No," his friend replied, getting slowly to his feet. Gingerly, he tested his left foot. "Oh, bugger."

"It can't be broken," Aurelius said, "or you wouldn't be standing."

"Bruising and battering is pain enough thank you. But I believe I shall survive. If I'm strong of heart."

"Pity," Constance said, then drained her glass in a swift movement. "There hasn't been a death down here for about a century."

"That can be arranged, you vicious little wench," Richard mumbled, taking a few careful steps. Removing his wand from his pocket, he murmured something and a cloud of pink light enveloped his leg. "Should really have paid more attention in Charms. That isn't going to last."

"We can get someone to look at it, if you like," Aurelius offered.

Richard gave him a scathing look. "Because that'll make me look clever, won't it? Drunken idiot falls down stairs, and can't remember how to fix a simple sprain. And by the way, I'm not impressed with your lack of knowledge in that area either."

"Oh, sit down and shut up," Constance said unfeelingly. "Your leg won't drop off, and alcohol will numb the pain. Besides, I've got to go in an hour, and I'm not wasting what time I've got left listening to you crying."

"What're you going for?" Aurelius asked curiously. The Malfoy Ball ran on until the late - or early - hours of the morning.

"I'm not telling you," Constance said, looking uncomfortable. "You'll laugh. And then I'll have to kill you."

Richard looked ecstatic, his pain seemingly forgotten. "You've got to go to BED, haven't you? Aww! That's tragic, and I am going to have to laugh."

"You're joking," Aurelius exclaimed, shocked.

"Shut it," the girl said warningly. "Fags. Just cause you two have been dragged up doesn't mean we're all allowed to run wild."

Aurelius was going to laugh, he felt sure of it. "Don't tell me your mother's trying to turn you into a proper young lady again!"

"A lost cause, I'd have thought," Richard chipped in, perkily.

Constance sighed. "She thinks I'm too young - and, well, undisciplined to stay until the end. It's not funny Richard, so take that smirk off your face."

"Can't you sneak back down later? We're not leaving for ages," Aurelius said.

"No," the girl replied, glumly. "I think she's planning on warding my room. It's very sad. I'm sixteen, for pity's sake."

"She knows you too well," Richard said, grinning. "And she's got a tough job on her hands, if she's trying to bring decorum into your life." Then he groaned. "I knew that stupid charm wouldn't last. That's it. I'm going to find myself a house-elf and get it to sort me out." Scowling, he got to his feet, making his way to the stairwell with what seemed to be, to Aurelius' eyes, rather an exaggerated limp. "Your house is a health hazard, Constance, seriously. You want to get it sorted out, love."

"You're just drunk and incredibly less than ept," Constance retorted, refilling her glass from the bottle on the cell floor.

Aurelius decided that Richard's plan had been successful. Constance was flushed with wine, and her eyes sparkled with artificial delight. Yet there was a distinct edginess about the way she was sitting, the way she was twiddling with her hair - and that, he told himself, counts as over analysis. She's probably just vexed with Richard.

"Drink piss and die," Richard said, tottering up the stairs. "And in case I don't see you before your bedtime, sleep well and don't let the bedbugs bite. Baby."

"We don't have bedbugs here, you peasant," Constance said swiftly, but her parting shot was wasted as Richard had already closed the stairwell door behind him. He'd moved surprisingly quickly for someone supposedly in pain.

"I really hope we can get out of here," Aurelius remarked casually, although he was by no means blasé about the prospect of spending a night in a dungeon. He put Richard's bottle of water away, within his robes. He didn't want Constance to ask for it.

"It's all right," she said, her eyes vague and unfocussed. "You just press the snake on the inside, and the thing opens up."

"Not very secure, is it?"

"I took the Incarceration Charms off earlier tonight," she replied, absently.

She did seem subdued, now that Richard had gone, although she was by no means sobering up. He wondered if she guessed why Richard had truly left, then felt himself flush as she looked directly at him. He'd been staring. Fuck you Riddle, Aurelius thought, realizing that whatever happened that night, something had changed irrevocably between himself and Constance. The easy familiarity that they'd had since childhood would never be quite the same. There would always be an edge - a heightened awareness, self-consciousness. Awkwardness. He could taste it in the back of his throat, like ashes. Or bile.

She seemed to feel it too, and turned her attention away, to the glass she held in both hands.

"Remember the Yule Ball?" she said, very softly.

He waited. He couldn't make her features out clearly in the dim light. He wished to the heavens he was the drunken one.

"Don't you remember? I do."

Yes. He remembered. He would never have brought it up himself, though. Had never spoken of it since their tacit agreement that night - it would remain between them, buried. It should have done.

"You kissed me," she said, not looking at him. She'd raised her head slightly and he could see the heightened colour of her cheeks.

"I did."

"And never since."

"No."

"Why?" She did turn to face him, then, her eyes distant, hands tightly clenched.

"I couldn't," he said, truthfully. He cursed himself immediately afterwards, for her startled expression told him that she'd misunderstood.

"Was I that bad?"

"I didn't mean that," he said hastily. But he'd offended her, he could tell. He sighed. "Constance - you must know that I, of all people, can't judge in that area. I couldn't compare you to anyone. It wasn't supposed to sound the way it did."

Enlightenment dawned. "You haven't - no-one else?"

"No." But obviously you have. He left that thought where it belonged. It didn't need saying.

"Why didn't you - with me - again?"

"I don't know," he answered, almost honestly. And, truly, he couldn't quite have put his reservations into words. He just couldn't. It wasn't that he didn't find her attractive. He did. Anyone would. It was just that the thought of anything physical was, quite frankly, terrifying. It implied so much. He couldn't tell Constance that.

"It doesn't come easily to me," he said, choosing his words carefully. "That kind of thing. And we never spoke about it. How was I to know whether you wanted it, or not?"

She put her glass down. "You never asked."

"Neither did you."

"You're not the most approachable of people, Aurelius," she said gently. "Certainly not in matters like this."

"But you approach me now," he pointed out, well aware that Richard would be splitting his sides if he could hear this. He was the one supposed to make the first move, for pity's sake. "What is it you want from me, Constance?"

"What you can give. No more."

"Why?" He was genuinely interested, although he would much rather not have been having this conversation.

Her voice was very low. "You're going to be my husband, one day. I thought - it'd be easier, better, for both of us - if we got used to the idea now. In every aspect."

It shocked him, in a way. He'd known Constance since they were babies. It wasn't right. She wasn't to be touched. He feared it would sully her, in some way. Which was ridiculous. She was no more innocent than he was, probably less so in fact. He could not have said why he felt that. He was aware it wasn't logical. But he couldn't help it.

Aurelius took a deep breath. Never had he been so aware of himself, of her. It was so unnerving - and was it this, this loss of certainty that he feared? Being completely out of his depth? He put the thought to the back of his mind. "It means this much to you?"

It seemed unlikely. But she surprised him. "Yes," she said. "It does."

What she'd said had been true enough. They'd need an heir, one day. Aurelius was quite prepared to think about what that would entail much later, not now, not here, not in the dungeon of her home. It was too sudden. Would it be so bad, he thought, if she was with Riddle? As long as she came to me when the time was right? And it ended, after we were married? But even that solution irked him. How odd, that he could not bear to think of Constance with anyone else, but he could not touch her himself. How pathetic.

"I can't pounce on you, Aurelius." She sounded strangely sad.

He came to a decision then, and stood up, taking her hand. Drawing her to her feet. She wasn't tall. She barely came up to his shoulders. Her eyes were fixed on his, wide and almost disturbing in their intensity. Trying not to think too hard, Aurelius brought a hand up to cup the side of her face. She didn't flinch, didn't look away. Her gaze didn't waver for an instant.

"Are you sure," he started to ask, when she stepped up on to the tips of her toes and kissed him.

He felt her lips against his, the not-unpleasant sensation of soft, warm skin. He felt the delicate intrusion of her tongue, the gentle pressure of her hands upon his back. He felt her tremble as he wrapped his arms around her.

It didn't feel bad. It didn't feel especially good, either. It was nice, in a way. He might have enjoyed it more if he hadn't been watching himself, his actions, from a distance. He couldn't lose himself in this. That was the problem. He was analyzing it, as it happened, and, he felt, that was fatal.

And then she moved her hand downwards.

No, no, no!

Without thought, without intention, he pulled back slightly, breaking away from her. She stopped dead, looking at him uncertainly. He tried to smile, moved closer again.

"You really hate this, don't you?" she said. "Tell me."

"No," he replied. "Just - not now. Not here."

She was silent, then nodded, slowly. "There's no rush."

He wanted to crawl away and die in a hole. The humiliation was bad enough, but it was the look in her eyes. Disappointment. Maybe even a trace of pity. Gods. It was so embarrassing. "You don't mind?"

Constance looked at him thoughtfully, chewing her lip as she considered something. Then her face cleared, and she shrugged. "There are more important things in life."

"Quite," Aurelius said, stiffly.

Constance smiled. She suddenly looked very tired. "You're my best friend, Aurelius. That's what counts here."

He nodded. "There's a delicate balance between the personal and the political," he said, "and this might be too much."

"Do you think our parents made a mistake," she asked, thoughtfully, "letting us grow close this way?"

"No - not at all. We'll do well together, someday."

She waited, hearing the slight hesitation in his voice.

"But we can postpone certain things until then," he said, coming to yet another rapid decision and determined to get this said before he faltered again. "Whatever you want to do before - I will accept. Do you understand?"

Constance looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"

He did not have time for games. Not now, with what he had to do. "You know what I mean, Constance," he said, his hands tightening. Then, to ensure she got his meaning, he continued. "Do what you like. With whoever you like. But - be discreet."

Constance exhaled slowly. "Do you know what you're saying? The Bridal Rites -"

"I wouldn't invoke them. I never planned to," he said. Then, quite conscious of the irony, "I trust you to be careful."

Her eyes widened. "Aurelius, I -"

"You should go," he said quietly, wanting nothing more than to be left alone. To take the sting from his words, he tried a feeble joke. "Find some entertaining company before your bedtime."

"It will be all right, though? Between us?"

Aurelius smiled, injecting some lightness into his voice, although it was a conscious effort. "You're still a daft blonde bint, and I'm still me. Sod off, and leave the bottle here."

Constance looked at him searchingly, but she knew him well enough to know that things would carry on as before, and whatever secrets she had would go unmentioned. She reached out then, to hug him - it was a farewell and welcome both, Aurelius thought. Farewell to a little of whatever innocence they possessed. A welcoming into an adult world of compromise and bargaining. The world that they'd both been born to. He didn't feel regret, he told himself, because this was what they wanted.

In truth, what he'd just done - or rather, not done - would have met with scorn and derision by any right thinking Slytherin. And Constance knew it. What he'd offered her, however, through the turning of a blind eye, had bought her silence on that matter. The equilibrium had been restored - but it would never be the way it had been before any of this Riddle business had occurred. This balance had been paid for.

Moved by an impulse he didn't want to think about, he clasped her tightly, just for a moment. Then he kissed her cheek - and let her go.

*

Suddenly drained, she slid the stairwell door shut behind her, and leaned against it. She'd had so much energy, earlier, and she needed so much more! The night was young, as she very well knew, and she'd bought her freedom with the lie she'd told the others. She would be in the Rose Room before midnight. Even though she'd not accomplished all she'd set out to do that night, she had, in a way, succeeded. Aurelius had given her what she needed - after a fashion. But how, Constance asked herself, was I to know he would react like that? Her friend had been genuinely terrified, and she didn't think his fear was simply a response to her, but to women in general. To touch, to pleasure. He'd always been a bit of a cold fish - as Richard had pointed out many times, but still. She'd never thought it ran so deep.

"There you are," Marcus said, startling her. She hadn't seen him approaching.

"Where's your wench?" she asked swiftly, to delay any questions about Aurelius. She'd keep the truth about their encounter to herself, secret even from Tom. She owed him that. "She hasn't gone already, has she?"

"Oh yes," her brother replied, looking remarkably smug. "I introduced her to a few people, got her disgustingly drunk - to the point where she would have done anything -"

"I don't believe you. McGonagall's not the type to get shitfaced."

"Not intentionally, I agree," Marcus smiled. "She had very little choice in the matter. It's amazing what a little alcohol did to her inhibitions."

"Then what happened? Why did she go?"

"I sobered her up, making sure she'd remember everything - how she threw herself at me, how I declined most respectfully and genteelly - and then I put her in one of our coaches and sent her home."

"And what was the point of that?" Constance said, exasperated. "You don't do yourself any favours!"

"The point, you fool, is that once she's had time to let the crushing embarrassment of her situation sink in, I can tell her how much I want it to be a beautiful thing when it does happen, and how I could never have taken advantage of a drunken woman - I want her gagging for it by the time I'm through," he ended, satisfied. "I want compensation for all the effort I've had to put in."

"Such a gentleman," his sister said, dryly. "But it's good you got her out of the way. For tonight. If you're going to be there."

Marcus' grey eyes swept over her. "Why do you think I'm here now? It's certainly not for the company."

"Oh," Constance said, ignoring the insult. She could feel her stomach slowly knotting. "Where is he?"

"Where do you think?"

"Alone?"

Her brother shook his head impatiently. "Octavius is here too. He came back earlier. To help prepare."

How much preparation is necessary

, she wondered uneasily, then shrugged away the thought. It wasn't worthy of her, this anxiety. The worst part of the night was over. What was to come - well, she'd been waiting for it for far too long. "Am I to go up now, then?"

Marcus nodded. "Come with me."

He led her to the Rose Room, without saying any more than was necessary. In truth, she was glad. Glad for the silence, the time to consider her own feelings carefully, to suppress any last minute nerves she might have. This was the time, this was the hour. As much as she could describe anything of what she was feeling then, Constance was gripped with what could only have been a growing sense of awe. She looked at her brother, walking beside her, and wondered. How did he feel, when he was in my place? And then she squared her shoulders, raised her head a little higher. I can't let them down. I have to be worthy of this.

Without intending to, she quickened her pace to match her brother's. It was almost eleven. They would be ready, now, Tom and her uncle. They would be waiting. With whatever they'd prepared.

She found out soon enough, when they entered the Rose Room. At a gesture from their uncle, Marcus turned to the door to cast an Unbreakable Locking Charm. Constance, in the meantime, took a few steps into the room, taking in the sight before her. It was not quite what she had expected.

Not that she was sure as to what it was, exactly, that she had expected. Something a little more impressive, perhaps, than a bed. Positioned in the exact centre of the room - presumably for her to lie on during the ritual. It wasn't particularly impressive, or awe-inspiring, for what was to be one of the most important experiences of her life.

And then she saw the vibrant gleam of Tom's eyes, and realized that nothing else mattered.

He took her by the hand, with no word of greeting, and led her to where she'd have to lie. His hands were dry and cool, his grip firm. She noticed it then, the red glow in the room. A subtle red mist that had no warmth to it. The result of a protective spell - whatever magic went on in the rest of the manor would not affect them here. Of course, Constance thought, this is dangerous enough as it is. She felt the presence of magic already, tingling through her veins. A forewarning.

"Are you ready?" her uncle asked, as she lay back upon the bed. It was, thank gods, comfortable.

She nodded, wordlessly, her gaze fixed on Tom. He looked tense. Although he'd done this before.

Unsmiling but with surprisingly gentle hands, her uncle rolled up her sleeves and stepped back, to the side of the bed. It was Tom who was to cut her, she guessed, and was proved right. He held a knife that looked terrifyingly sharp, a beautiful, bright blade that could kill. That could kill me, she thought, then forced herself to relax. She did not take her eyes off Tom, who held her arm tightly as he began to cut. She understood the lack of obvious ceremony then, as she felt the cold silver blade bite into her wrists. Only blood was needed, Malfoy blood, and Tom's presence. This was, after all, the purest form of magic. Whatever pain she might feel - and she did - could only serve to enhance the ritual. It was supposed to purify, after all.

As the sheets on the bed turned scarlet - far too quickly for comfort - she saw with increasingly blurred vision the other three roll up their own sleeves. Scars that had, until then, been invisible, began to glow silver then red. Drops of blood rolled down Tom's arm - she couldn't see the others anymore - and with a swift movement he let them fall. To where her own bleeding wrists waited. Constance felt the mingling of blood like a physical blow, and then, as her family began to chant slowly, her sight left her and she felt herself slipping. Slipping somewhere else...

And, for a very long time, there was nothing but red.

Red roses. Red blood. And so much of it! More than she'd imagined, more than she'd thought she was capable of losing - and gods, it hurt. Magic ran like fire, like acid through her veins. She couldn't survive this - nobody could survive this - it was too much. Magic this pure, this vital, wasn't kind - it ripped, burned, tore at the very essence of one's being with its ferocity - she could feel it burning years off her life. This could damage her permanently, it had to, pain like this would leave its mark. She'd promised herself she wouldn't scream, she wouldn't let herself do that, not in front of her uncle and brother, not in front of Tom - it was too much, though, she wanted to scream so badly, oh gods, she did, but the magic wouldn't let her. She felt it bubbling in her throat, choking her, she couldn't breathe -

Dimly she felt the cold stone floor against her back, and took heart. It wouldn't last much longer. It couldn't. She heard Tom begin to speak - in a language she didn't understand, one she'd never heard before - a thin, whistling noise that dipped and slurred and seemed to float on the very air -

And, as the pain grew even more intense, she began to understand.

Images welled up, from somewhere far below consciousness....

A red haired girl and a blond boy sat wrapped in sheets on a bed in a Slytherin dormitory. A woman with eyes like Tom's stared up at the sky, standing on the turret of a house in flames. A woman's eyes closed as a baby started to wail. A young boy curled up in a room she didn't recognize. Turquoise eyes blazed from under dark hair, and his mouth formed soundless words. Tom. A diary flew through the air, and fell into water. A white face, half human, with eyes of a deeper red than that all around her. The sound of a woman sobbing. Then Tom again, bright, glorious and nothing less than terrible as she saw him for the first time with full knowledge of who and what he was. The truth burned into her soul, so blindingly obvious she couldn't believe she had not seen it before.

Tom Marvolo Riddle. The son of Styliane Zalaras.

The Heir of Salazar Slytherin.

***********