The Mystery Wife

Malfoy Manor, in the absence of the Death Eaters, had apparently been entirely set to rights by the house elves. Every available surface had been polished to a ferocious gleam, from the marble and alabaster-inlaid floors to the fine old Hepplewhite and Sheraton furnishings. The tapestries, portieres and Aubusson silk carpets had been mended, cleaned and aired, and every trace of the manor's use as the headquarters of the Death Eaters appeared to have been systematically eradicated, without even the necessity of the Malfoys' orders.

There was something satisfying in that much, at least. The house elves still feared them.

"Home," Narcissa breathed, lacing an arm around her husband's waist. "Ours again. Finally."

"Finally," Lucius agreed, the smallest of smiles finally allowed to touch his thin lips.

"Thank Merlin," Draco muttered mutinously. "I loathe houseguests. I vote we turn the next interloper into a Clabbert."

"I would be in favor of simply killing them," Lucius said coolly, considering his fingernails.

Unseen by any of them for the moment, the flames of the fireplace in the Great Hall flared to warm, golden life again.

"Simple murder is, on the other hand, too quick and easy," Narcissa said in a dieaway drawl. "I say the next person who sets foot in this house looking to stay for months on end gets boiled for pudding."

"Yes, darling, but then we would be forced to ingest them, and we don't know where they've been. They might have something catching."

"We could always feed them to the house elves. Or the peacocks, outside. Do peacocks eat human flesh, I wonder?"

"If not, the gardens outside are looking a bit peaky, and could undoubtedly use a spot of good guest-compost."

"Before you decide to play out the fourth act of Timon of Athens," said a dry, familiar voice from among the hearth logs, "perhaps you might reconsider the apparent new rule on houseguests."

Three white-blond heads whipped around at the same time, and Narcissa shrieked.

The recently deceased Severus-Literally-Bloody-Snape was in their fireplace. At least, his head was.

He looked positively awful, i.e. worse than usual, and curiously compelling and fascinating though he managed to be, Severus Snape was not winning any beauty contests anytime soon. His face and throat were spattered with blood, his hair soaked and matted in it on one side. His robes were ripped and skewed, what could be seen of them through the fire, at any rate. But his gypsy-dark eyes, perhaps the one legitimate claim to beauty he possessed, were gleaming in quiet triumph.

"Severus?" Lucius sputtered. "Severus Snape? I thought...that is to say, I'd heard..."

"That Voldemort had had Nagini finish me off?" the dark, classically Roman head in the flames said dryly. "Rumors of my death have been, I am pleased to say, greatly exaggerated. Might the late, unlamented Hogwarts Headmaster come over for a drink?"

He took in the shocked white faces of the Malfoys with evident enjoyment.

"Hoobah," said Draco, his mouth hanging open in a way that rather belied all those centuries of Wizarding pedigree.

"Whassahbibba," Narcissa agreed, flatfooted for once.

"Hoobah," Draco repeated. It apparently bore repeating.

"Please do come in," Lucius nodded, his own usual sang froid apparently admirably restored.

The flames flared cool and green, and Severus Snape stepped through them, covered in blood and pale as death, but looking rather insufferably smug beneath it all.

Professor-Literally-Bloody-Severus-Snape was alive, in their hall, and smirking at them.

And alive. That part definitely bore repeating.

He was probably getting blood and gore on the good Aubusson carpet, too.

There was only one sensible thing for a wealthy, pampered society wife to do when confronted by quite that much unpleasantness at once, and Narcissa did it.

She fainted.