Refuge

Chapter 4: Persuasion

Steamed clams, fresh boiled lobster, and a rich chowder stood on the sideboard in the informal dining room of Applethorn mansion. The food was nothing Severus Snape would ordinarily eat. The scent of warm bread was tempting, but he knew that the rest of the rich food would play havoc with his digestion. Such cuisine always did.

He watched a silent and rather heavyset maid set the table for two. A couple of harried-looking house elves scurried in to help as she laid the second-best silver plate on the table according to a science that Snape remembered from his childhood. Both settings included some strange-looking tools that he could not put a name to, apparently made for extracting the meat from a variety of shelled sea creatures. They reminded him of instruments of torture.

Charles Applethorn poked his head in the door. "You're certain you do not want to dine with us in the blue room, Severus? I've invited such amusing people, and they're all dying to meet the man who...well, who has become so infamous! And it's so dreary in this old place. But of course, you British seem to like that sort of thing." His hearty tones subsided as he added confidentially, "If you don't mind, I'd love to take that little servant of yours out for a stroll by the water one of these nights. You'll have to fetch her down for me." He finished by winking in a most appalling way.

Snape decided at that moment that he didn't care at all for Charles Applethorn. The previous night he had been indifferent about the master of the mansion, although he had felt a twinge of gratefulness at the man's offer of shelter for Draco. He only had a passing acquaintance with Applethorn, who had been a correspondent and business associate of Lucius Malfoy since the first war.

Charles knew of Albus Dumbledore's reputation, and of his death, of course; such news traveled like lightening in the wizarding world. But since Albus Dumbledore had never given him investment advice, or sold him a polo pony, or taken a ride on his yacht, he was as indifferent to the killing as he was to the appointment of Rufus Scrimgeour to the post of Minister of Magic. Applethorn's supreme self-satisfaction, coupled with his well-bred sense of blood loyalty, made him the best solution that time could afford.

In spite of the logic behind his choice, Snape could not help but find Applethorn dangerously irritating as he leaned against the doorway with a studied grace and a complacent grin. The man had obviously never wanted for anything. His crisp Muggle shirt was finely creased, with the collar standing up rakishly yet artfully around his neck. His wand was stuck in the back pocket of his designer jeans; it was crafted from what looked like fine teakwood. Snape wondered whether he ever used it, or whether it was as ornamental as the rest of him.

"Madam Rosmerta is a simple woman, Charles. She would hardly be satisfying company for the likes of you." Snape found it difficult to keep from gritting his teeth as the man's face split into a grin of cocky self-assurance.

"It's not the conversation I'm interested in, old boy," he laughed. "Perhaps Lucius never told you I have a way with the fairer sex. Stay here long enough, and I'll teach you a thing or two about women."

"And your wife?" Snape asked in a cold voice, picturing the distant, harried-looking witch he had met in passing the night before.

"Drunk. She'll never notice." He left the room with a wink and a whistle, pinching the bottom of the slab-faced maid as she arrived with candles for the table.

The maid looked for a moment as though every spell in Basic Hexes for the Busy and Vexed was passing through her mind at once, with each one found wanting. Snape felt a grudging stab of pity for her, but it was quickly overcome by his own brand of indifference. He had enough problems without interfering in the romantic entanglements of the Applethorn household.

The foremost of his troubles was Rosmerta. He had been taken off guard by her demand for a guarantee, but he had no intention of granting her anything. Snape had humored Draco by allowing the woman to accompany them, although he had been slightly concerned by the boy's pathological need for power over her. Perhaps it was a side effect of the Imperius curse on one too young to properly control it.

But now he needed Rosmerta, too, and for more than her silence. He hoped she was not immune to his brand of persuasion, so different from Applethorn's; yet he knew that she would most likely refuse to cooperate with him.

He approached her room, but hesitated before entering; from the crack beneath the door there was a strange red glow. Frowning, he drew his wand from his sleeve and slowly turned the key in the lock. The room appeared dark and empty at first.

"Madam Rosmerta?"

"I'm here."

"Lumos," he breathed, and the light revealed Rosmerta seated in the center of the room, her back turned toward him. "You recall that we are to dine together tonight?"

"What about Draco Malfoy?"

"He is safe--for now. Come, I need to discuss something with you."

"And I with you, Severus."

Snape frowned; there was something in her voice that he didn't like, although he couldn't quite place what it was.

"Let us go, then."

She rose and moved into the full circle of light cast by his wand. He stepped back inadvertently; her old blue robes were gone, in their place a simple red gown. He couldn't help but stare for several moments, and then grew angry with himself for gawking like a First Year student.

"Did he give you that dress?" Surprised at his own question, Snape found it difficult to keep a shade of bitterness out of his voice.

"Who?"

"Applethorn."

"No, I found it here. I haven't spoken to Charles since last night, when he so kindly offered me my own room downstairs. Thanks to you, I've been stuck in this dirty attic for ages."

"A night and a day, Rosmerta," Snape said dryly. "I can arrange for you to be here for quite a bit longer than that, I assure you."

"What is it that you love so much about thinly veiled threats, Severus?" she mocked, pushing her index finger against his thin chest.

Snape gasped suddenly as he felt his heart convulse. For a moment, he thought he was going to black out. The sensation was simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating; it took him several moments to recover. When his pulse began to return to normal he considered the woman before him more carefully. Rosmerta was not herself. She looked beautiful, certainly, but it was not like him to find such things distracting. There was no sign that she was under the Imperius Curse. Still, he could sense strong magic coming from her.

Snape experimentally extended his arm toward Rosmerta, and she laughed as she took it. He had half-expected another strong shock when she touched him, but this time he only felt his blood quicken slightly.

"Ah, only a true gentleman would offer his arm. Why not stand on ceremony?"

Snape only scowled at her in answer. His look was met with a sweet mocking smile that would have ordinarily infuriated him; however, her silence was a relief. His head was still not in order after the shock she had given him. He was greatly troubled by the effect Rosmerta was having on him. When she had touched him, it felt like falling off a broom, tumbling head over heels, but never hitting the ground. Dizzying.

The feeling redoubled when Snape seated her at the table. As he offered Rosmerta a chair, she smiled at him and brushed his cheek with the back of her fingers. At her touch his head swam once again and he needed to steady himself against the back of her seat. Looking down, he found himself staring at the smooth, lightly freckled skin of her neck and shoulders. A stray lock of gold hair curled down across her neck; he had to fight the urge to draw his fingers through it. A faint, delicious sent of roses met his nostrils. What was happening to him?

"Aren't you going to join me?" Rosmerta asked sweetly. Snape cursed silently as he noticed his hands were shaking.

At that moment, the granite-faced maid entered, and he was momentarily brought back to himself. He quickly moved away from Rosmerta, noticing as he did so that the maid was staring at the woman fearfully. Snape wondered what had disturbed the servant so. Before he could find out, the maid had served their food and fled the room. Rosmerta daintily took a bite of soup. She seemed not to care about the other woman's strange behavior. Snape left his meal untouched.

"What are your demands?" he asked, trying not to look directly into the grey eyes across the table. It seemed easier to breathe when he wasn't looking at them, and better to get straight to the point. He needed to regain control.

"Only three things, Severus: that you give me back my wand, that you get me passage back to Hogsmeade, and that you vouch for my innocence in the matter of Albus Dumbledore's betrayal and death."

"You talk like a solicitor, not a barmaid."

"Scrimgeour will lock me up if I appear out of nowhere after being seen over half of Hogsmeade with murdering Death Eaters. I can't let that happen."

"I don't have your wand. And I can't let you go home just yet," he replied, trying to keep his voice steady. He felt the strange dizziness again, and a sudden overpowering urge to give Rosmerta his own wand and let her Apparate wherever she wished. But no--he couldn't do that. Reaching for his wine glass, he fumbled it and splashed some of the liquid onto the white tablecloth.

"Clumsy!" Rosmerta laughed again. Beneath the clear laughter there was a harsh quality to her voice. She rose and began to walk toward him. He found her movement toward him simultaneously threatening and exciting.

"You have nothing to fear, Madam," Snape gasped. With each step she took, he found it more difficult to breathe. He gripped the edge of the table with whitening knuckles in an effort to regain his composure. "Everyone knows by now that I killed Dumbledore. Your name will be cleared quickly by your friends."

"That's not good enough," Rosmerta replied.

Snape dared not look at her; there was strong magic filling the room. He could feel the cold power of a spell binding him like chains.

"Finite Incantatum!" he commanded weakly, pointing his wand in her direction. His mind cleared a bit after doing so, but he still felt as though his will was not entirely his own. Heat seemed to radiate from where she stood, only inches away. Searching in vain for a distraction, Snape mechanically reached for the wine again.

"Where did you get that dress?" he asked for the second time.

"I knew you'd like it, Sevvie," she purred.

At the name, his hand froze with the glass halfway to his lips. He had not been called Sevvie for over twenty years, and he had only granted that privilege to one person.

"Narcissa," he breathed. He could sense Rosmerta's hesitation and looked at her face deliberately.

There was a confused, almost angry look in her eyes, and she was biting hard on her lower lip as if in intense concentration. "I'm not Narcissa Black," she said in a low voice.

"It's Narcissa Malfoy now," Snape replied, beginning to understand the nature of the spell. He had been under it enough as a teenager, but never with such force. The dawning knowledge gave him strength; if she was interested in playing this game, he would meet her challenge.

Snape stood and faced Rosmerta, reaching for her hand to draw her nearer to him. Her reaction was quite satisfying. For the first time since he had met with her in the attic, Rosmerta seemed at a loss. With her hesitation, the strange hold she had over him lessened, but he still felt an overwhelming desire for her. Perhaps it was a result of the magic, but there was something of sixteen years of loneliness behind it as well.

"I know your game, Narcissa," he whispered in Rosmerta's ear. The scent of roses seemed to waft directly into his brain, confusing him again. His vision began to blur. "This is not real," a strict voice intoned in his mind. "She doesn't really want you, and you would never ordinarily behave in this way."

While his mind sought control, his body seemed to behave independently. Closing his eyes, he slid one hand down Rosmerta's bare back and inhaled her scent deeply. A thrill rushed through him as he felt her trembling slightly in his arms, the top of her curly head just level with his chin.

"Do as I say," she murmured, pressing ghost-soft kisses on his neck. "Do what you desire."

A thousand thoughts and aching desires rushed into Snape's mind at that moment. Pleasures he had resisted for years were now offered to him without hesitation, and with little cost. He merely had to do what Rosmerta told him to.

He gasped suddenly as her cool hands slipped inside his robes, sliding down his chest and belly. Then her lips were hot against his, and he let them linger there for several seconds before pulling back.

"Enough," Snape said with an effort. "Let me be." Fighting back a feeling of intense pain that suddenly flashed behind his eyes, he pushed her away as she reached for him again. Instinct told him that magic would be useless against the power that sought to master him, and that there would have to be some other recourse.

Before Snape could stop her--and unsure of whether he really wanted to--Rosmerta tangled her fingers in his hair and drew his face down to hers. His eyes slid closed and confusion again clouded his mind as she kissed him for the second time. Then he realized that her hand was moving inside his robes. It closed upon his wand. A flash of insight struck him then; groping for his wine glass, he methodically poured the contents down the front of the red gown. He felt his will strengthen immediately, and the pain and whirring in his brain began to subside.

"No!" Rosmerta shrieked, and there seemed to be two voices chiming as one as she screamed again. "No! It mustn't be soiled"

A second later she was covered head to foot with clam chowder. The stolid maid had returned. It was one of the few times in his life that Snape felt completely surprised.

The lumpy woman sobbed as she dropped the empty soup tureen to the floor. "Blond hussy! She wore that dress, and Master Nat hanged himself from the oak. Dirty whore!" The woman collapsed fretfully on Snape's shoulder, soaking his robes with her tears.

Never having been in a situation like this before, Snape was unsure of what to do. He knew he had had a near escape, and the blood was still roaring through his body when he thought of how Rosmerta had touched him. The dress that had made her so alluring seemed dark and ugly now, and hung on her body like a becalmed sail. Its magical virtues were gone. She stood before him as though she was waking from a strange dream, dripping with fishy-smelling liquid, her hair a sopping mess. His suspicions were confirmed as a look of horror began spread across her face.

The maid clinging to his arm had subsided somewhat, and was now blowing her nose on the corner of her apron. "Nat," she murmured in a hiccupping sob. " My Nat."

"What in the fairying forest is going on in here!" bellowed Charles Applethorn from the doorway. He was carrying a fine linen napkin in one fist, and holding his intricately carved wand in the other. The sight of the strange trio cut him off in mid-bellow. "Hester, what is the meaning of this? Go fetch Skilly and Mab and clean up this mess at once!"

The quaking maid retired, presumably to search for the two house elves. Applethorn went to Rosmerta's side and took her hand solicitously.

"My dear, you will dine with me from now on. I can assure you that nothing of this sort happens at Charles Applethorn's table." He gave Snape a wondering look and shook his head. "I didn't expect this of you, Severus. From what Lucius used to tell me, you were of good family and had a head for important affairs. But this--my second best plate, man! And treating a beautiful lady like a common ragamuffin--I'm afraid I'll never understand you British."

As the master of the house gently led Rosmerta from the room, Snape caught her eye and saw that she was frightened and angry. He wondered whether she understood that she had been under a powerful curse. Even he was still not recovered from its effects, although he felt more of his strength returning after she had left.

He returned to her attic quarters, treating the place with a renewed sense of caution. The room was mostly empty, except for large amounts of dust and bits of cast-off furniture and junk. It was surprising that a dandified oaf like Charles Applethorn would keep Dark objects like the magic gown around his well-appointed mansion, but Snape knew that old families often inherited strange and dangerous heirlooms.

The dressmaker's dummy caught his eye immediately, eerie and quasi-human in the dimly lit space. Taking out his wand, Snape dragged it across every curve of the silent wire object, trying to read its secrets. His search revealed nothing; it appeared to be just a harmless form, and the bric-a-brac filling the rest of the room was equally uninteresting. It seemed an unlikely place for a dangerous Dark weapon to be kept.

As he was about to leave, a faint coughing sound froze him in mid-stride. It only took a few moments for him to find Narcissa's portrait, which had been hastily hidden between the mattress and the bed frame.

"Hello, Sevvie," the girl in the portrait simpered. "My, look how old you've gotten! Age has improved your looks, you know," she added quickly. Snape noticed that she was wearing an elegant red dress.

"You know that 'looks,' as you call them, have never been my concern," he said shortly.

"Well, you were always one of my favorites, dear."

Her coy laughter summoned the memory of a skinny, near-sighted, pale boy who was waiting near the Shrieking Shack. Narcissa had promised to meet Snape on that long-ago afternoon, but evening had come and she had never shown up. James Potter and Sirius Black had appeared, however. That had been the night he received his first serious beating at their hands. The memory brought a grim smile to his face.

Narcissa misinterpreted it. "I knew you'd remember the times we shared," she whispered.

Her voice and a glance of her sapphire eyes had once compelled him to do things he would never have ordinarily considered doing. His reward had been her favor, and one night, a few moments alone with her in the Slytherin Common Room. But that had been long ago. In the dusty attic, this thing of paint and canvas seemed only a mockery of sensuality. His cold resolve had returned, and he would not willingly relinquish it to her again.

"You told her to wear the cursed dress, didn't you? Why did you want control over her?"

"She's beautiful--not as beautiful as I am, of course--and I wanted to have some fun. Sevvie, I've been stuck up in this dreadful attic for so long." She put a whining emphasis on the last two words that made Snape want to slap her.

"Since they found out you'd killed Nat Applethorn?"

"Nat Applethorn killed himself," she said calmly. "And his death was never connected to me. No, Vera Applethorn was jealous of my beauty, and had me tossed up here. How Charles could have ever married her is beyond me."

Snape did not find it hard to believe that Charles's flirtations with Narcissa's portrait would have caused his wife to chuck the thing. He suddenly realized that there was a reason Vera Applethorn hired ugly maids.

"And so you poisoned Rosmerta's mind too?" He could see the girl begin to crimson with anger. It made her seem ugly to him.

"I didn't tell her to do anything she didn't want to do already," she snapped.

"You are interfering with something you do not understand."

"Wait until everyone finds out you're hiding that boy here," the girl hissed.

"He's your son, Narcissa."

Snape enjoyed the effect that statement had on the girl. Her fair, translucent skin blanched, then reddened with blotches. It was like watching a confused chameleon.

"But...but I watched him, in his room..." She looked like she was going to be sick, and then straightened and regained her haughty air. "Narcissa Black has no son," she said decisively.

Severus Snape bowed. "Then you know what I have to do." He ignored her pleas and threats as he carried the portrait out into the back garden.

A sliver of moon was beginning to show near the horizon, though the lights from the city overwhelmed the stars. Perched at the edge of town, the Applethorn estate was a tangle of ancient and rare trees from all parts of the world. Overgrown vines bordered the walk, which led toward a grassy area and one of the largest oak trees Snape had ever seen. Beyond the manicured lawn, wrought-iron bars fenced in the hunched and crumbling stones of the family burying ground. There were wild sea grasses, roses, and a slope that led down to the water.

As he walked, Snape remembered something Albus Dumbledore had once told him about his sense of justice. "You uphold righteousness without compassion, Severus. You are just at the expense of your humanity. It is a weakness, something the Dark Powers can easily exploit and twist to their own advantage." The old man's words, like many of his other statements, had been prophetic. Righteousness had turned into revenge, and indignation to narrow-minded vindictiveness.

He felt nothing as the beautiful girl in the painting begged him to release her. He pushed aside thoughts of Narcissa in her adult form, kneeling before him on the sitting-room floor at Spinner's End, pleading with him to save her son. His hands twitched slightly at the memory of her cheek pressed against his hand, and the touch of her tears against his skin, but his heart was not moved. His renewed sense of control reassured him. He felt powerful once again.

On a rocky outcropping Snape made his fire. He didn't need to use wood or oil to start it, but he did anyway; the cool spring night made it pleasurable to build the fire in the traditional way. The dry branches went up quickly, sending sparks flying high into the air. Narcissa Black made no sound as he methodically placed her portrait on top of the conflagration.

Above him, jutting majestically out over the edge of the outcropping, was the ancient oak; it seemed to be officiating an act of justice long overdue. Snape wrapped his cloak firmly around his body and sat in the shadow of the great tree. He watched in thoughtful silence as his fire mingled fraternally with the other beacons that were spread out along the marshy coast.