Refuge

Chapter 3: The Prisoner

Rosmerta paced fretfully around the large bedroom. It was located on the third floor of the Applethorn mansion, and had apparently not been used for many years. From what she had glimpsed of the rest of the house, the Applethorn estate was large and vastly wealthy. Gleaming mahogany woodwork, teak furniture, rich oil paintings, and fine cloth decorated the lower floors.

She had no doubt that Draco Malfoy had been shown to an elegant bedroom where servants would wait upon him hand and foot. She was sure that he would while away the hours of his exile pursuing the pleasures of aristocratic boredom. The idea made her want to grind her teeth.

Snape had vaguely introduced Rosmerta to Charles Applethorn as a servant. Applethorn was different than she had imagined him. Young and tanned, with stylish Muggle clothing, he had slyly offered her more comfortable quarters, but Snape had insisted on her being removed from the rest of the household. That had been irritating enough, but now they were making her wait in a hot and stuffy attic room. She had become even more infuriated upon realizing that Snape had locked her in.

Rosmerta initially passed the hours by trying to date the objects in the room according to the thickness of the dust layers coating them. Two threadbare chairs and an old Victorian-looking ottoman had been placed in the center of the room; Rosmerta speculated that nearly fifty years of dust covered them.

Several broken tables lurked in the far corner, where a large framed canvas stood half-covered by an old blanket. The grime layered over these indicated that they had been discarded more recently. Beside them there was a dressmaker's dummy, which was draped in red, rich-looking cloth. It was the only object in the room that was clean.

The carpet on the floor was filled with holes, although it looked as though it had been beautiful at one time. The windows were bare. A film of filth covering the panes made the world outside look rusty and depressing. Rosmerta had quickly lifted the window sashes as high as they would go, which improved the air in the room as well as the view of the outside world.

There was a bed in one corner, with faded blue velvet hangings. The ornate bedstead was layered with at least one hundred years' worth of dust and was chipped in places. She had tested the mattress and found it comfortable enough, so she allowed herself to sleep. The sea journey had been difficult and exhausting, although, try as she might, all she could really recall of it were distant impressions of waves and sky.

The interruption of memory troubled her the most. The weeks she had spent under the Imperius curse were like a vague dream. At times she could remember certain details, but for the most part it felt like an extended hiatus between mind and body. The most vivid detail she could recall was coming to in the cold waters near the marsh and hearing the dead men singing. The strange music had chilled her bones, but it had helped her regain enough presence of mind to start swimming for shore.

She could not guess at the exact moment when the evil connection between herself and Draco Malfoy had been severed, but she imagined it was the moment the boy had nearly drowned. And he should have been left to die, she thought bitterly. He should have drowned like the little rat he was. But Severus Snape had taken care of that.

When she had awakened earlier that day, the light streaming in the dormer window told her it was past noon. Her skin itched with the dust. She tried the door once again, but it was just as locked as before. Rosmerta could not honestly say what she would do if she escaped, anyway. Dumbledore was dead. From what Snape had intimated to her, half of the British wizarding world believed she had gone bad.

Rosmerta had been friendly with Cornelius Fudge after a fashion, but she didn't fancy a Ministry hearing under Rufus Scrimgeour to prove her innocence. Scrimgeour had brought her in on charges of abetting a Dark smuggling ring at her pub, the Three Broomsticks, during his stint as Head Auror. Rosmerta had ducked the accusations with alacrity, and had covered up for Aberforth Dumbledore's rather dodgy back-room operation in the process.

She doubted that Scrimgeour would let her off again; she guessed he wouldn't hesitate to lock her up on principle, as he had done with poor Stan Shunpike. As far as she knew, the only two people in the world who knew that the Imperius Curse had been placed on her were Draco Malfoy and Severus Snape--a young Death Eater and a very public murderer.

These thoughts and others like them swirled through her tired brain as she methodically paced the floor of the bedroom. She was acutely aware of the fact that she had lost her wand, and had no weapons or money. She had no friends in Salem. She had no idea what evils were coming to pass at home.

Occasionally she would sit in one of the threadbare chairs and cry softly, thinking of Dumbledore and what the future might hold. A few times she attempted to find some way out of the room, unable to stand the loneliness anymore. There was one door in the corner that she tried without success. She guessed that it led up to the widow's walk at the top of the house. The windows offered no escape; the eastern dormer looked out over the rooftops of Salem toward the harbor. The far window offered a view of the Applethorns' slightly overgrown but aggressively elegant courtyard garden, which led her eye back into the depths of the estate and out across the water.

She soon grew tired of these views, but restively returned to them as the sun tracked its way over to the western windows. There the unobstructed light flooded the room with a warm red glow. Rosmerta dreaded the coming evening; there was no magical light in the room--no lamps or candles, either. She had no idea what had happened to her wand, and did not relish the idea of another dark night spent alone in this place. From the half-covered canvas in the corner she could hear an occasional low giggling noise. It did not help her to rest her mind.

As the last of the sun's rays stole across the floor, she heard the door creak open. Snape entered. There was no sign of Draco.

"I hope you've been more clever about hiding Draco than you've been about hiding me."

Snape assessed her coldly. "His fate is not your concern, although I have come to discuss a few matters relating to my mission with you."

He looked a bit better than he had when they arrived at the mansion the night before. Then his clothes had been ragged and torn, his cloak missing, and his black hair straggling down the sides of his narrow face. This evening he was wearing clean black robes and a hooded cloak that swept the floor. Rosmerta was suddenly conscious of her tattered blue rags and grimy skin.

"I don't recall your 'mission' being any of my concern. You've murdered Albus Dumbledore. That means we're not on the same side, Severus." She tried to keep her voice cold and passionless.

"It isn't your concern that I want. It is your silence."

She wrapped her arms tightly around her body, remembering the anchor and the cold, dark water. "My silence?"

"You know too much, Madam Rosmerta. You know I have been helping Draco, and I cannot allow word of young Malfoy's whereabouts to get back to...certain parties."

"You mean your master, the Dark Lord?" she spat. "What does he know of all this, anyway? How much is my silence really worth to you?"

Snape pointed his wand at one of the chairs, clearing it of dust. Seating himself, he gestured to Rosmerta to join him, but she remained standing near the window.

"Come here."

"I've been ordered around enough lately," she returned.

"You dare disobey me? After all I have done, and with all I could do to you now?" In spite of his questions, Snape's voice sounded flat and unsurprised.

Rosmerta tried not to think of what he could do to her as she swiftly moved to the far side of the attic.

"I am losing patience, Rosmerta."

"You will have my silence," she said finally, "but I need a guarantee from you as well."

"You are in no position to ask anything of me."

At that moment, there was a knock at the door. It opened slightly, and Lionel Skerritt poked his head in. "Master Applethorn would like to see you, Mr. Snape." He glanced curiously at Rosmerta, who stared back defiantly.

"Thank you, Skerritt. I will be down directly." Snape gazed thoughtfully at the floor for a few seconds after the valet retreated. Then, as if reaching a decision, he stalked toward the door, turning to address Rosmerta before leaving.

"We will dine together tonight. You will have a chance to convince me of your 'needs,' but I guarantee nothing. Be ready by eight." With a swirl of his cloak, he was gone.

Rosmerta flew at the door, but he had locked it again. If she only had her wand... "Blast!" she screamed, slamming her fists against the wood.

"There's no need for that language, Madam!"

Rosmerta whirled, but no one else was in the room. "Who is it?" she called. Her heart felt like it was going to burst from her chest. Then she remembered seeing the gilt-framed edge of a painting in the corner. Running to it, she yanked off the dusty old blanket. Staring back at her from the canvas was a beautiful teenaged girl with waist-length blond hair.

"He's not much to look at, is he?" the young woman asked. She sounded amused.

"He's completely evil!" Rosmerta blurted out. It felt good to shout that at someone else, even if it was just a portrait.

The girl flashed a sultry smile. "We're all a little bit evil. At least he's always right where I want him." She looked vaguely familiar, but Rosmerta could not remember how she knew the girl.

"Who are you?" she asked.

The girl arched an elegant eyebrow, speaking in the long-suffering manner of the rich and cultured. "Narcissa Black, of course. Can you believe they've stuck me in this dusty place? I should be hanging in the grand ballroom."

Her voice had an arrogant and aristocratic tone, and Rosmerta wondered why she hadn't immediately recognized Draco Malfoy's mother. The girl seemed so different from the woman she would one day become. Lucius Malfoy's wife had a reputation for being quiet and aloof; this Narcissa was vivacious, spirited, and outspoken. Rosmerta guessed that she was addressing the portrait of Narcissa Malfoy's American debut, and wondered why it had been abandoned in the Applethorns' attic.

"Oh, yes--you should be right in the entrance hall so everyone can see you," she hedged.

Narcissa's face lit up. She had clearly been lonely. "I'm glad you see things my way. Let's chat awhile, unless you're still intent on pacing and kicking up great clouds of dust all over the place."

Rosmerta awkwardly lifted the large painting and placed it gently in one of the old chairs, seating herself in the other. "What did you mean when you said that Snape is always right where you want him?"

Narcissa laughed. "Oh, Severus has been wild for me ever since First Year at Hogwarts. A useful boy in many respects--he spent a great deal of time helping me with my Potions homework. So easy to manage him, if you know how to do it. Hideous to look at, of course, but sometimes brains matter more than appearance, you know."

Narcissa's voice had taken on a nasty, gossipy quality that Rosmerta had grown used to among some of the clientele at the Three Broomsticks. She held her head at a haughty angle, as though daring the other woman to disagree with her.

"Oh, I know!" Rosmerta replied, with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. She had quickly decided that any information was good information, and was determined to get as much of it as she could. "He's simply horrible. But how on earth could anyone control such a man? He's cold as ice." She shook her head in a scatterbrained manner, hoping that Narcissa's natural sense of superiority would lead her to reveal something important about Snape: something she could use against him. She was tired of being powerless.

The girl appraised Rosmerta for a few seconds. "Well, I daresay the first thing you need to do is clean yourself up." She laughed with a sound like the tinkling of bells. Rosmerta rubbed ruefully at her face and found a dark streak of grime on her hands.

"Then, of course, you could try that," Narcissa purred, inclining her head toward the nearby dressmaker's dummy. The red cloth draped around it shimmered faintly in the fading light. Rosmerta moved toward it as though noticing it for the first time. She tentatively reached out to touch the fabric. It seemed to throb softly under her touch, and smelled faintly of roses.

At that moment she knew that, more than anything else in the world, she wanted to wrap the material around her body and breathe that scent forever. She wondered why she hadn't spent her time in the attic sliding her hands through the cloth; that would have been more productive than pacing and looking out windows.

Suddenly, the room seemed to tilt, and Rosmerta grabbed the edge of one of the chairs to keep from falling to the ground. "What is happening to me?" she mumbled. Her tongue felt thick and heavy.

"You want to wear it, don't you?" came the sultry voice of Narcissa Black.

"More than anything," Rosmerta murmured. She twined a dirty hand through the silken fabric and brought it close to her cheek.

"Now, now, that won't do! You'll soil it!" Narcissa scolded. The sharpness of her voice brought Rosmerta back from the hazy edge of unconsciousness. She dropped the cloth and moved away, but did not take her eyes off it.

"I must...get clean."

"That's right," soothed Narcissa. "I'll send for Skerritt; he'll bring you soap and warm water. Don't move from that spot until I return." She walked out of her frame.

It seemed that she was only gone a few seconds when the door creaked open and the blond valet appeared, bearing a steaming ewer, a towel, a basin, and a cake of soap. He left them just inside the door and retreated in silence.

"Now, have a good wash and then you can put it on."

Without taking her eyes from the red fabric, Rosmerta obediently stripped off her blue rags and washed with the clear, warm water. The soap smelled wonderful, and the towels were soft. Must be nice to be wealthy, she thought distantly.

She stared at the red dress as she dried herself; she hadn't remembered it to be a dress before, just a length of fabric. But now it had become the most beautiful gown she had ever seen: sleeveless and simply designed, with a dramatically low-cut back.

"Made just for you," whispered Narcissa.

"For me," Rosmerta repeated. She slipped the gown over her head; it fell to the floor, caressing her hips and clinging to her skin. Her body tingled pleasantly wherever the fabric brushed against her.

"He'll do whatever you say," came the giggling voice from the portrait.

"Mmmm," Rosmerta mumbled. The room had grown completely dark, except for a faint glow and sheen that seemed to be coming from the gown. "Wish I had a light," she said plaintively, but Narcissa merely laughed again. Rosmerta thought about how pleasant the young woman's voice had become.

"It's nicer in the dark, my dear. I wore that gown to my debut here in Salem; it is an old tradition for the Black women when we come of age. Oh, how I made Nat Applethorn desire me! He died that night, you know. Hanged himself from the old oak at the back of the garden, beyond the terrace. You can see the ocean from there, and the lights from the boats in the harbor. These wealthy Americans think they know how to entertain, but they know nothing about throwing a proper feast. I was the grandest guest that night, you can be sure! Poor Nat," she said, grinning.

"Poor Nat," Rosmerta nodded. Narcissa's words seemed to be tumbling out of her mouth without much order; it was hard to keep them straight. She wondered faintly how old the girl in the portrait was. Sixteen, maybe?

As Narcissa prattled on, Rosmerta suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired and dizzy. Falling to her knees, she swayed slightly on the bare wooden floor. It looked so comfortable to her that she lay down, drawing one arm behind her to pillow her head.

"You'll have him when he comes," Narcissa reassured her. Her voice made Rosmerta feel as though she had all the answers; a sensation of wellbeing flooded her body and mind like a pint of honeyed mead.

"I'll have him," she repeated as the room faded to darkness around her.