Acheron

Chapter One: Gaia

Who first seduc'd them to that fowl revolt?
Th' infernal Serpent; he it was, whose guile
Stird up with Envy and Revenge, deceiv'd
The Mother of Mankinde, what time his Pride
Had cast him out from Heav'n, with all his Host
Of Rebel Angels, by whose aid aspiring
To set himself in Glory above his Peers

It was no earlier than two in the morning when the Potters stepped through The Mansion's threshold: Clarissa was levitated in first, with the House Elf behind her acting like a leprechaun who had found his long lost gold. James could never figure out why he was so excited to be doing this- house elves, while generally happy about doing their job, were not generally elated about moving humans through midair. James figured the creature was brainwashed- he wouldn't doubt it, knowing his grandmother.

Jeanna, hand wrapped around her sister's wrist, and dragging her half-conscious body in, skipped with just as much spring as the House Elf. James could barely keep his eyes open to observe it all, coming in after The Lady and leaving the door to shut itself.

The Lady had turned his mother's funeral into a grand social event, setting up tables and hiring workers to manage their Leprechaun Gold Hogwarts Fund outside of the St. Dymphna's Cathedral and serving cocktails at the burial. The pouring rain had hardly kept The Lady and friends from drinking their way through the afternoon. He cringed to remember the expression on the priest's face when a colleague of The Lady's had stumbled into the grave.

Which was why, glass in hand, she shrilled that it was time for the children to get ready for bed--except for James, whom she needed to see in the sitting room immediately.

"Jamesssweet," she slurred, sliding into the chair and then plopping against the cushions. Her presence filled the room even in her drunken state- she looked like a queen, royal and stern, wooden chair shining beneath the hazy lamplight as if they would merge at any given moment. Or maybe it was just James's drowsiness that made it seem so. "You aren't too upset-t ab-bout Nora Annne, are you?"

Of course not. He slammed his teeth against each other to keep the words from blasting off his tongue. She was only my mother. Pressure expounded his insides, threatening to burst in the form of tears. It was only through adrenaline that he fought them down, and the cost of the action was great: his eyes drooped even further and his body swayed, daring him to fall sleep.

"I thought you should kn-now the truthhh about your mother, Jamess." She certainly looked drunk, with her head rolling around repeatedly and drool dripping onto the seat. "She wasn't the wom-man you thought you knew."

James, suddenly awake, had no qualms about defending his mother. "She was perfectly normal." He felt a slight tremor of fear, conversing with a drunken woman.

"Oh, yes," said his grandmother off-handedly. "She was p-perfectly normal, on there wedding d-day, an' afterrr. Then, your father, Yeshan--the talent-ted Auror that he was, or is, dont know, got caught up in the Ministry defenses against Voldermort. Do you know about him?"

He nodded slowly: yes, he knew. The rumored Dark Lord was the reason his mother had never managed to pay her bills on time. The Ministry, in their paranoia, had been raising taxes at an alarmingly ridiculous rate, in order to pay for the 'necessary defense services'.

"Yes."

Due to her present state it couldn't be confirmed, but her expression fell. Her head stopped rolling, at least. "Well, your mother went mad, not being the center of your father'sss attentions anymore. She started doing anything and everything she could for the wand light. She cheated on your father, she--"

"Wouldn't do that." James's voice box quivered in his throat: a sure sign that he wasn't retaining his calm as well as he would have otherwise hoped.

"Of course she would, and she did." It was the clearest statement she'd made since before the cocktails, and the one that most made James want to leap from his chair, grab onto his grandmother's tight skin and wring that neck of hers as tight as he possibly could. "Ever wondered why you lived in poverty? Your father inherited a fortune from your grandfather. It should have gone to your mother after Yeshan disappeared four years ago--but it didn't, because your mother was a cheating, conniving little sorcièr, who sure got your father's attention by sleeping with Art."

Art, her 'lover'? James scoffed at the notion. His mother wouldn't have had the nerve, let alone the desire, to cheat on his father.

"Not only that, but she got him to leave, forever. People don't just disappear, James--they don't vanish into thin air. He was chased away by his own despair after your mother broke his heart, and I refuse to let her get her grimy hands on the one thing he has left. It shall go straight to the heir." Her voice was stone cold, and her slur reduced to an occasional hiss, but those green eyes of hers continued to gaze into space: a space within his general proximity. "You--" her lips kept moving but her voice broke, something shaking beneath the folds of her collar. A silver chain soon arose from the depths of her robes, unclasping behind her head and floating up and into the air, pendant swinging as if to a low-pitched rhythm, a rhythm too low for any of them to hear, and only to feel, if they would listen carefully enough. Eying his grandmother's shaking hands and tapping feet, he fought the pull of the orb until he could no longer. An opal--it was an opal-like orb, glowing a swirl of green, purple and white: the same white hazing over his grandmother's eyes at this very moment.

He felt his insides expand and reduce, pulling the orb towards him without the thought entering his conscious: it was simply too absurd, too abnormal, even for a boy born and raised as a wizard. He wasn't realizing anything--the idea of thought didn't even occur to him as his mind wrapped around the checker-sized sphere, making a connection with it that could only be engraved by the touch. There was chaos, and the chaos lived not in the events but in the air: the tiny particles about him were buzzing to the beat of The Lady's shakes. Their speed quickened; their sound accelerated as it fell over his shoulders. The dense air that had previously filled the room seemed to. Pushing him back in his seat, they pressed against his neck.

He felt a clasp sound behind his neck.

The Lady, who was no longer shaking, was slumped in her chair.

-*-

"Hey, what's that?" Nodding to James's chest, he nodded to the sphere hanging from James's neck. "Aren't you a little old for dress-up?"

James glanced down at it. "Oh, that? Oh, it's nothing." He hadn't said a word about what had happened with his grandmother the other night--he just felt he shouldn't, for some reason. The next statement slipped off his tongue before he could acknowledge its presence. "It's my dad's."

"Whoa, really?" This, unfortunately, had only succeeded in intriguing Sirius further as he leaned in for a closer look. "Why didn't you tell me? Your grandma give it to you before you came?"

Sirius's unintended reference to The Lady struck a slight nerve of James's. "Grandmother Frances, yes."

His short stay with his paternal grandmother had already been abridged to a blurred set of images in his mind, and he fully intended on keeping it that way. She'd been eager enough to get rid of him, having sent him off a week or so after the funeral: to Sirius' house, which just went to prove her desperation - The Lady and the Blacks had never been the best of friends. Jeanna had been blessed with the same fate, but with the Longbottoms, last he'd heard.

"Don't touch it!" Whipping his arm out, he kept Sirius's wrist at bay.

"All right, mate," he stepped back. "If you're that touchy about it..."

James shook his head. "No--no--it's not that. Don't know what it is, actually..."

His mind had just latched onto something when Sirius shrugged. "Whatever it is, it doesn't matter. You're it!" Tagging James, he cannon-balled into the pool.

After a game of Marco Polo, Sirius and James laid on the hard concrete next to the pool. Sirius immediately fell asleep, and James lay on his towel, staring at the darkening sky.

He had been like that for some time, when he heard a small voice from the chair next to him. "James?"

James started. "Achilles?"

The boy lit a candle, and James could easily see the distinctive freckles lining the boy's cheeks. Achilles sat, gazing at the sunset.

"It's amazing."

James shrugged. "I suppose. Nothing special."

Achilles sighed. "It is special... if you think... every sunset is special. It's the end of another day. Another twenty-four hours has gone by."

James stood up, and wrapping his towel around his waist, turned his back on Achilles to go inside. "It isn't special. All it means is that you are twenty-four hours closer to your death."

-*-

The room's white walls were covered in paintings of flowers; the flowers matched the pattern of the bedspread, and the white of the bedspread was the same shade as the white of the carpet. It was certainly one of the prettiest sights Jeanna had ever set eyes on, experiences with The Mistress included. She wouldn't have wanted it for herself, of course, but Gwen was too good a friend of her to say so, no matter how likely it was that the eleven year-old would have said the same. The room didn't suit her, Jeanna decided. It was too delicate for a girl like her.

"Have either of you ever met Sirius Black?" Gwen asked Jeanna and the muggleborn beside her, snapping them both to attention.

Shrugging, Lily shook her head. "Who?"

"Sirius Black," Gwen repeated. "He's a half-blood--very rich, Grandmum says. Couldn't tell it from the looks of his house, I say. How about you, Jeanna?"

Adjusting her glasses she, too, shrugged. "Loads of times, being my brother's best mate an' all."

"Oh, that's right--totally forgot. Well, anyway, Lily, he'll be in our year at Hogwarts, and he's coming to the dinner get-together tonight with his parents. Want to see what we're doing, since the apartment burned down."

Jeanna cringed: that was a sensitive subject. Word was, the Ministry had accused Mr. Longbottom of starting the Daily Prophet fire, which had practically burned the entire village down, the Longbottoms' own apartment above the Daily Prophet offices included. He and Mrs. Longbottom had both been taken in for questioning, despite the fact that neither of them had been present at the time--luckily, they'd been out of harm's way, at dinner with their 'Adopt A Muggleborn' program family, the Evans, and Jeanna with them. All of the Longbottoms, Jeanna, and Lily each had separate rooms for the first time in ages, now, in Grandmother Longbottom's mansion, with the Evans looking at schools for Petunia, and Jeanna's family was less than available at the moment.

Jeanna only hoped everything would work out for Gwen and her family.

"Is he bringing James along?" she inquired. Jeanna hadn't seen her brother in a good three weeks, now, and was naturally curious as to how he was holding up. She didn't doubt he was all right--maybe it was because they were the older ones, but she had always held it in opinion that she and James were more capable than Clarissa and Susanna--most especially Susanna. He was with Sirius, which was even better--he would sure take James's mind off of things.

Her? She was always thinking about it, like a part of her brain had stopped all other functions in order to devote itself to making Jeanna want to throw her books down in rage, rip off her glasses and ask why through her tears.

"Guess so," replied Gwen "He staying with him?"

Jeanna nodded, and the doorbell rang.

"Don't worry, Lily, you'll like him," Gwen reassured her as they tried not to race out the door, down the hall, through the back door, around the house and into the front lawn. "He's not so bad, once you tie him down and tape his mouth shut."

-*-

"James?" Sirius's head appeared, leaning over the top bunk.

James looked up at the top bunk from his--yes, truly his--bunk down below.. "Yes?"

He shifted beneath the covers, night quite sure how to put it. "Are you... you know, all right?"

James pulled his white cotton sheets and hand made blanket to himself.. "I'm as all right as I can be, I guess. I mean, I'm not about to throw up or cry or anything." He took his glasses from his tennis shoes (the only item of clothing he'd managed to sneak away from The Lady, with the help of a shrinking spell in her book, Hiding Spells, Charms, Curses and Hexes from Ministry Radar by Lady Vye) and stuck them back on his face. "Why?"

"Well, you know," he glanced at the framed poster of Martin Miggs, Mad Muggle on the opposite wall. "Your nightmares. I just thought, maybe..." Shaking his head, he wondered if James was as hot as he was. Maybe they should open a window or something."You'd tell me if they were, wouldn't you? Or my mum, if you'd rather talk to... or my dad. He's not like my mum about this sort of stuff, but your mum was his best friend, he'd listen. Achilles would, too--Nora being his godmother and all. Or, even, about anything, really--not just about your mum. They're worried over you, James, and your sisters. Jeanna especially. And you can bet they're steaming mad at your grandmum about kicking you out--you just don't do that to family. You know?"

James's entire body softened, and he nodded. "Yeah, I know. Sirius?"

He grunted, and turned on his shirtless back. "Huh?"

"You think we can open a window?"

Sirius felt his face glow, but not due to the temperature. "Sure, mate," he grinned, climbing down the ladder three rungs at a time and unlocking the window.

"Thanks."

Neither of them said a word for a while after that, Sirius glancing at the notes and doodles he'd done up for himself on the ceiling, since Josephine, the maid, had cleaned up there last. James's eyes followed the swirls in the wood above him. "Sirius?" He asked, once the pleasant feeling had subsided.

"Yep?"

"Do you believe in heaven?" he began tracing the largest swirl with his index fingertip.

Sirius fidgeted, then relaxed. It was starting to get cold again. "James, your mum--she was a good person. She was practically my favorite grown-up in the world, next to my mum and dad. She always had healing charms when I needed them, she always let us watch her work--my mum and dad won't allow it, say they can't concentrate--she always had good advice, and she treated us, you know, like people. Remember when her artist friends used to come over, and they let us pose for them?"

James gulped, then nodded. "They said the hardest part was making us stay still."

He laughed, "Yeah. And Dad, he always took me over there, no matter what time it was, when he needed someone to talk to when Mum was at work or asleep--I remember he'd always get me out of bed and drag me over, so that he could always tell Mum that I 'wasn't feeling well' and 'needed Nora to take a look at me.' He loved talking to your mum--he said she 'had a knack for making you feel better without even saying anything', and when she started talking, you forgot what your problem was in the first place." He added, "And when Nora was at work or not there, one of your mum's friends always was--they always said that it was to watch you guys, but Dad said it was because your house just felt so good--that it felt like her." Tears were freely flowing down his cheeks; he could only imagine what James was going through. "People like that don't just die, James. They've got to go somewhere. I don't know where, but... somewhere."

"You boys asleep?"

Sirius jumped. The door creaked open, and his father's shadow elongated across the hardwood floor. "You boys need to get some sleep, now." Eyes squeezed shut and playing opossum, he couldn't see the door shaking furiously, or his father's firm grip on the brass handle. However, he did hear the uncontrollable choke in the middle-aged man's voice, and the instability of his steps as he shuffled over to the bunk; felt his trembling hand clear straightening the sheets, and his father's lips kissing his cheeks.

Sirius's eyes shot open to watch his father squat down beside the lower bunk. It looked like he was removing James's glasses. "I called her 'the angel without wings,'" he murmured, "because, while she was so much more wonderful than the rest of us, you never doubted she was human--never, in a million years, did she seem like anything but home. I suppose she's gotten her wings, now." He bent over further, and Sirius guessed he had kissed James on the cheek.

"Goodnight, sons," he said to them both as he stood and left the room.

-*-

There were no nightmares that night nor were there any the night after, and by the third night, Sirius guessed that maybe it hadn't been because of Nora, after all. Secretly, it offended him when James hadn't said anything. Which is why, though he never admitted it, he was happy to hear James mumbling to himself in his sleep, again, waking him up as it had before. Sirius wasn't a light sleeper by any means- the phrase "dead as a doornail" would be quite fitting in this situation- but he had developed a sixth sense, he was able to identify James' mumblings from kilometers away. He reasoned, of course, that it had more to do with the fact that the nightmares always started at 3:00 in the morning and continued to 5:00, but he preferred to believe in his own psychic abilities.

With the pattern as it was, Sirius developed a new sleeping schedule- he would go to sleep between nine and ten thirty, depending on what time his mother sent them to bed, and whether the beat Achilles to the bathroom. Then he would sleep from eleven to two-forty five, when he would sneak in the bathroom, prepare three wet rags, and return to his room. He would kneel beside James on the bottom bunk and wait for the dreams to start, which they always would. When they did, he would place one rag after another on his forehead, wiping the sweat from his brow.

On the second night that James had been at his house, he'd noticed that the gem in his necklace would glow green and burn at the touch. Sirius' had heard of necklaces that people wore that started vibrating and changing colors when people weren't feeling well and such. They were used at St. Mungo's, mostly, so the medi-witches or wizards knew what was going on. Sirius thought that James' grandmother had given one to James since they were thought to have calming properties, and shrugged it off. It apparently had never hurt James, even at it's hottest, but Sirius' had wrapped a wet rag around it just in case.

Sirius never was bored watching James at night--he may have been tired, before he got used to the odd hours, and restless later, but there was too much to do during the two hours at night: if the washcloths were becoming too dry, he changed them, if James's legs were shaking, he held them in place, if his mumbles started coming too fast or his head started shaking, Sirius was holding his hand and telling him all sorts of useless information- what a toaster oven was, why they got so hot and bothered over what sort of clothes they wear in France, how NASA got those men to the moon. Subconscious James took quite an interest in space travel, so Sirius stole some of Achilles books on it and read them aloud- anything, really, to revert James' attention from what was going on inside of his head.

The third towel he left floating in the bucket until after James' nightmare ended and he'd thrown everything back into the bathroom closet, when he would crawl back into his bunk, and, in the light of morning, place them behind his back and use for himself.

Because of this, it was Sirius that started showing signs of sickness instead of James.

The two of them knew what was going on. James didn't know about Sirius waking up to take care of him, and Sirius hadn't told anyone about that. He'd come close to telling his dad, multiple times, but he was either reading The Times or in his office. That's where he was, most of the time, if not all of the time, for about a month a two, and once his mourning period had switched gears, keeping the whole thing a secret was natural.

Just as James was unaware of his early-morning medi-wizard, Sirius hadn't the slightest idea what James' dreams were about. James' mumblings were indecipherable as a whole and Sirius had never felt comfortable asking about them. He'd thought to owl Jeanna a couple of times, but he'd have to ask his parents for permission first, and he couldn't lie about his intentions.

So, being the ten-year-old boys they were, they came to the most obvious solution--kept their mouths shut and tried not to think about it.

-*-

"So, this is it," Jeanna sighed.

James nodded. "Yep." Looking her over, he decided that Mrs. Pettigrew had been right: though they had the same black hair, light skin and glasses, they were opposites in disguise. "Where are you going to be staying? Not at--"

"No, not at The Mistress's." Merlin, though, did they have their similarities. "She hasn't asked for me, and none of the parents have dared to bring it up. Like it our not, our grandmother has connections with half of wizarding society, and keeps the other half under her thumb. Mrs. Longbottom--grandmother Mrs. Longbottom, not Gwen's mum, has agreed to keep me until April, but after that she's got to go to Greece or something. From there it's to the Blacks until who knows when, and after that... well, they're still gambling on where to send me after that."

"Are you going to be okay?" James could only imagine what must be going on behind those square spectacles of hers. She was, to put it frankly, unwanted by her guardian, being left at the mercy of others' good fortune and pity, and about to be abandoned by yet another family member.

"Yes," she sighed. "We both are. You've still got your friends, and I've still got my books."

-*-

"Watch it."

Gwen's breath caught in her chest. Had someone asked her to recite her ABC's right then and there, she probably wouldn't have known where to begin.

It was the sort of reaction Lucius Malfoy relished in. "A female Longbottom--hasn't been one of you in Hogwarts since Kathryn back in '42. Ever hear about her?"

It'd taken three hours of looking, but he'd done his research. There was this game the upperclassmen played, called 'Puffing the Firsties.' Making bets about it over the summers prior, Slytherins, especially, enjoyed it. The rules were fairly simple: scare the first years into Hufflepuff. Lucius brought new meaning to the game, however, there would be no Puffing this year.

"Your father's the one who burnt the Daily Herald offices to a crisp. Am I right?"

"It's the Daily Prophet, she half-breathed. "And your father would kiss a muggle before mine would do a thing like that."

"Oh," circling her,. "What a sense of humor. I think maybe we'll keep this one for ourselves. Don't you, Snape?"

For the first time, she turned to face her aggressor. He was... not what she expected. At an inch or two taller than she, he was much smaller than she'd imagined him to be--scrawnier, too. And she hadn't pictured glittering black eyes: she'd seen cold, gray eyes, more like....

More like the ones standing beside him, staring down at her, dancing in satisfaction. This one, she knew, was a Malfoy.

"Stupefy."

-*-

"What happened?"

Gwen blinked her heavy eyelids open.

"Gods, I have no idea."

Groggily Noticing the two lovely Slytherins above her, she tried to get up as inconspicuously as possible...

...And failed. Not only was she unable to lift herself from the ground, but she made a most charming 'oof' sound when her head hit the cement, as well.

Glaring at Snape, Lucius disregarded it. "You said the hex would only paralyze her, Severus, not leave her completely helpless. We can't use her in this state."

"You asked for the best hex available, and I gave it to you," shrugging, the fifth year scooted forward on his heels. "Unexpected side-effect."

A snake slithered around her ankles. Gwendolyn groaned, and Lucius turned to her again. "You'll soon learn, Snape," sensing the crowd to his left, he cleared the hair from her face. She willed her leg to kick him for it, but it wouldn't comply. "That half of being a Slytherin is forming a reputation."

A light flickered in his head, alighting his entire expression. This was the sort of thing he was interested in. "And the other half?"

"Manipulating it in very way possible." He slipped his arms under her torso. "On the count of three, help me get her up. Then, you go and get her trunk. We'll take her into the Slytherin compartment with us."

Obviously confused, the robed Slytherin did as was ordered.

"The hell you will," she moaned as he lifted her up.

"Good, she's up," said the accomplice. "Maybe she can walk on her own, then."

Wondering how he was going to make it through the year with such an idiot, Lucius shooed him away and back to the trunk. "Not keen on the Slytherin crowd, are we?" he hissed in her ear, smiling at the old ladies and lifting her up. "Don't worry, you'll get used to us. We're just like you... except smarter, of course, and craftier. You'll fit in. Eventually."

Gritting her teeth and noticing that the tips of her white tennis shoes were only scraping the platform, she used the only means of attack she had, grabbing a piece of skin at the back of his neck, digging her nails into it and twisting it furiously.

His facial expression immediately reminded Gwen of a wolf regarding his prey. "Feisty, are we? We're going to have to do something about that."

"I'm going to get you for this, Malfoy," she threatened. "I'm going to kill you."

"You want revenge. You're already one of us." Smirking, he couldn't help but mention it.

Her attempt to kick him in the shins was again a failure, and again he took liberties with her, just because he could. This time he didn't lift her off the ground but cleared her hair, and stared into her eyes long enough to make her quiver.

"Stop that," she whispered, diverting her attention to the warning bell as it sounded.

Reveling in his own power over her Lucius grinned, grabbed the metal railing of the compartment entrance with his free hand, and hauled her into the compartment. "Stop what?"

She replied, too far after the fact. "Looking at me."

"Remember, young Slytherin," he advised in a murmur, "reputation. You don't want to be known as the little first year who dueled with Lucius Malfoy before even learning how to hold a wand, do you?"

"I don't want to be known as anything at all, you git," she elbowed him, and found herself toppling to the train compartment floor.

"You'll soon find," he kicked her, "that what you want makes little difference." Stepping around her sprawled figure, he addressed his audience. "Slytherins."

It was only then that she realized the number of students in the compartment--two dozen of them, at least--and the oddity of it. The rows weren't set up row by row, two by two, as if on a school bus or in other trains she'd been in: it was like a boxcar, with one bench across the wall, two aligning the two sides, separating at the side doors, and one along the back wall, bench ending when it reached the steps to the outside. On the benches in front of her and behind were about a dozen students each and a near six on the others, somehow comfortably packed into the seats and clothed in black robes. The leering faces were all older than her, she knew, except for a few--Severus Snape, now without her trunk, being one of them, and she supposed a few others could have been first years, as well. She was sure to note that each and every one of them was extremely unattractive--but, at this point, she would have said the same of Paul McCartney, had he been Sorted into this horrible house.

"Feast your eyes," he sneered, "on Gwendolyn Longbottom. We had a most pleasant encounter on the Platform just now." There was silence; it was evident that, while the ages of the robed boys and girls were questionable, the order of power was not. Lucius Malfoy had the floor and was clearly in charge, and the boy now sitting across from him; at the bench in front of her was second in command. The boy and girl on either side of him came next, followed by the boys on either side of them, then those two girls, so on and so forth. Gwen was satisfied to see Severus placed in one of the very last seats beside the railing and the door, though she didn't know whether or not her spot on the floor was a good thing or not. It surely meant that she was too low to even be considered part of the food chain, but it indicated that everyone else was above her, as well.

She shook her head. What did she care if they were all superior to her? She wanted nothing to do with this. She would have nothing to do with this. She was going to be a Gryffindor, just like her mother's family, or even a Hufflepuff, like most of her father's. Even Hufflepuff was better than Slytherin. Hufflepuff really wasn't all that bad, come to think of it.

That was why she felt a drift of hope when a boy near the corner of the 'Top Bench', as she'd christened it, asked, "She the one you're Puffing this year, Malfoy?"

If what he said were true she'd be going into Hufflepuff, not Slytherin. No, she'd be going into Hufflepuff no matter what the case. This was simply a confirmation of the fact.

"You know," another boy started, further down the row. "Charaund's not going to be happy when he hears about this. He thought you were going to go for a real challenge this year, Malfoy. A Potter, maybe, or that Black kid we keep hearing about, or maybe even a Bulstrode, if there's one in this year. But not a Longbottom--everyone knows how easy it is to turn one of those. You said it yourself, this summer at the meeting: chances are she'd have ended up in there, anyway."

"Let Lucius finish," ordered the second in command, holding his hand up in the air. Immediately quieting, the speaker slid back in his seat, letting the second in command return his focus to her captor. "Continue, Lucius. Or shall I assume the worst?"

"Do not underestimate me, Durantaye: sitting on the throne does not make you king." Durantaye nodded, but did not slide back. A mutual understanding passed between them. "Karakoff, Boot, call Crabbe and Goyle in: tell them to guard the doors from the outside. Have Pratt and Danonè guard these two exits here." The slim boy and girl on opposite benches nodded, and exited.

"What, may I ask, is the meaning of this, Malfoy?" The boy on the very end of the Top Bench asked.

"You will see, Parkinson," he sneered. "You will see."

The sound of the two side doors opening and shutting simultaneously marked the ending of Lucius' 'idle conversation.' All hope of escape vanished, meaning that Gwen was now officially alone.

She had tried her utmost to be invisible, and she'd succeeded, for the most part. With all eyes on Lucius there hadn't been a chance for any of them to pay her specific attention, and those who did hadn't found anything remarkable enough to keep them intrigued.

"The doors are guarded, Lucius, and the lady with the tray hasn't stepped into this compartment in over twenty years. We're perfectly secure, unless you feel the need to lock the windows, as well?" Smirking, he wasn't the only one amused by his comments.

"No, but this would be much easier with the blinds shut. Severus?"

The Top Bench snickered, and the students at the other three sat up.

Looking royal himself he stood, muttered something only the Top Bench with their raised eyebrows seemed to decipher. The blinds cluttered shut, blocking out the drizzling rain of the outside.

"In answer to your question, Michael," he started. "No, Gwendolyn is not who I will be Puffing this year. In fact, I will not be Puffing anyone at all."

The Top Bench leaned forward in such interest that she, herself, automatically leaned back; the room held an air of alarm. "I have, instead, decided to start this year with an even greater challenge." He eyed one Slytherin in particular and began. "Back in Slytherin's glory days, it was traditional for one Slytherin entering into his fifth year to, on September First, choose a muggleborn--muggleborns, as I am proud to say, would have otherwise been Sorted into Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, or Gryffindor--and Initiate him or her into our House prior to the Sorting. If the Slytherin was a witch she chose a wizard, if the Slytherin was a wizard he chose a witch, and in both cases they took the muggleborn into the thirteenth compartment, stripped him or her of their clothes and snatched their virginity."

Gwen's supporting arm shook beneath her.

"Though this practice was abandoned over two hundred years ago," he shared a grin with the girl beside Durantaye, "It is being reinstated for this year only. Due to the change of times, however, I have selected to do things differently. I picked a Longbottom, which is just as good as any muggleborn anyway," snickers arose, "and is hardly shaggable. She will, instead, be branded."

A tumble of anger and relief released itself in a knee-shaking gasp at the verdict. Aiming to kick his shin for the third time, she got him square in the ankle. It was, however, something comparable to kicking stone, and had no effect other than irritating him, which was a minor victory in itself.

"But before we do," he said, "it is customary to hear a few words from our specimen. Gwen?" The attention shifted from Lucius to herself. "Stand and be judged."

Her mind raced. She needed something--anything--to say to them: something coherent and, with any luck, something nonabrasive. It was horrible enough to be a Slytherin, but to have to spend the rest of her years serving them... the possibility made her nauseous.

Brushing her violet robes she stood, grateful that her grandmother had forced her into them, despite her parents' dissent. They brought unnecessary attention from muggles; it was common knowledge that only the richest of pureblood families wore them and Mr. And Mrs. Longbottom hadn't wanted it to seem that they thought themselves elite.

"State your name," the blonde beside Durantaye ordered. She kept herself from jumping, barely: Lucius hadn't suggested any sort of dictation. Fuming, Gwen figured that had most likely been the point. Dangle the innocent little girl over the Top Bench and wait for the wolves to bite.

"Gwendolyn Emmilia Kathryn Longbottom." Figuring they sought her full name, she expected one or more of them to snort at it, and prepared herself to defend it. Luckily, it wasn't necessary, as the female touched wands with the boy to her right.

"What is your day of birth?"

"April twenty-fourth."

"Your day of birth was requested, not the date."

Kicking herself stolidly as she'd kicked Lucius, she told herself to calm down and think about her answers, instead of blurting them out. There was obviously a thing or two behind this, twisted and appalling though they may be.

He touched wands with the boy beside him, and Gwen had a sinking feeling that she'd lost credibility with the previous inquiry. Though, she sufficed, for that to be true, she had to have had some in the first place.

Two wands touched, and the next speaker asked, "What did you get for Christmas?"

Quite simply, it was a question and answer session. She didn't do particularly well on the whole, having to be amended on five questions of the next however many, but, Gwen determined through her lies (and there were lies--many of them, to cover up what she knew would displease), it could have gone much worse.

It was when the last question had been asked and answered, ("What House would you have been placed in if not Slytherin?" "Gryffindor,") the train came to its third and final customary stop in the journey. Wizarding travel, though wonderful, had not yet been perfected, and for students to descend from the mountains and travel to King's Cross in due time was not to be expected.

No student had stepped into compartment thirteen during the last two stops, but this time there was one who could have been mistaken for a dementor in whistling black robes.

Nodding to Lucius upon his entrance, his large black hands reached to remove his hood. "This is she, Lucius?" Not a glance had come her way as far as she could see, and because of an unknown rationale it angered her. "I thought you were going with that one boy... Lupin, I believe his name was. He would have been useful to our cause, and easily turned."

"There has been a last minute change of plans." They passed for two adults now, in their conversing: powerful adults, with authority. "I'm sure you understand about those, Rouge?"

The strong bloke grinned. "Very well, Lucius. We'll see what your change of plans brings about, shall we?" and walked directly to the girl and Durantaye, both of whom scooted over on the bench to make room. To Gwen's surprise, there was much of it to spare. His wand and Durantaye's tipped: he was evidently up to speed on what was taking place.

The fifth? Sixth? Seventh? Year lifted his wand, glowing silver, pointing it at her chest. It was all she could do to keep from edging into the growing shadows.

"Are you a Slytherin?"

She was nothing until after the Sorting, she knew, but the croaking voice of the Sorting Hat didn't hold much weight when man- boy?- and the voice that forced her to tremble beneath its weight, nor did it match the eerie comfort she had begun to feel within its warmth.

"Yes," she said, as if the words were both the easiest and hardest things to speak: a solid truth in an unidentified language.

Durantaye's eyebrows raised, Rouge's features were showing signs of a softened grin; the girl smirked. Lucius bore a combination of the three, and an underlying gleam of victory.

"The Initiation Begins."

-*-

Gwen Longbottom was one of five. Philomena Rose Longbottom, reigning eldest and the only sibling to be a parent to date, was a member of the Department of Change, a Department in the Ministry which oversaw the development of magic throughout the world with tools only they could read and measurements only those who had been members of their staff could decipher.

Following her was Andy, nineteen and currently on contract as Keeper for the Ballycastle Bats; after him came Paul, who was working as 'transporter' for Bertie Botts' Every Flavour Beans Company. In other words he was a delivery man, and Gwen's favorite brother of the three. Of course there was Frank, entering into his fifth year and overly enthusiastic about his new position as Prefect.

Each and every one of them had been Initiated; it was one of those things the Professors knew about but didn't regulate. Smiling to themselves as they made bets on the students across the Head Table they had a general idea of what went on, as they, themselves, had all been through one variation or another of it during their time at Hogwarts, and were smug in their belief that this was what made a 'proper Hogwarts education.'

None of them had been Initiated quite like this.

Gwen's case notwithstanding, Slytherin Initiations tended to be different from those of the other Houses. In Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Gryffindor, the Initiations were about becoming part of a family; joining together as brother and sister in loyalty, bravery and cleverness. In Slytherin it was about entering a royal dynasty and befitting the position to which the student was best suited as King, Queen, Princes, Princess, Advisor, Duchess, Duke, Earl, Earless, Count, Countess, Lord, Lady, Joker, Manservant... Tom Riddle had been a Lord in his day--Lord Voldemort, to be precise, and one of the few Lords to sit upon the King's throne. They didn't go by these names anymore: Lord Voldemort, Duke Ellidis, and Queen Restuita. They'd gone out of style for most obvious reasons, but the titles themselves were still used throughout the royalty, and everyone else knew where each person stood. It was impossible not to.

Lucius having taken his place between the standing Rouge and Durantaye, Gwen was left before them, head in the air and toes crossed for good luck in her shoes. The benches themselves, it seemed, had disappeared. To where, she couldn't imagine: wherever the compartment doors had gone, most likely. In all fairness, the doors could have been present, in the smoke of the just-extinguished torches and the shadows she couldn't be sure, but the room had become much more spacious than it had been prior, so something must have gone. It wasn't until after the Initiation had ended that she had learned of the Lower Slytherins' exits.

"Look down at your feet," a male voice spoke from the circle formed around her. "See that you stand not in a rectangle, but in a cluster of rectangles, each of which stands upon thousands of others, overlapping. Notice that, because they are on top of the others, they seem to be darker."

Feeling a rise in the calmed obscurity about her, she looked to see what on earth he was referring to: what she was standing on, or, rather, what she was standing in, and be amazed. It had all happened so fast, so quickly, that she couldn't have and hadn't noticed the vast change. Never again would she take the torch light for granted; it had brought about a protective heat that she no longer felt. Her awareness heightened and her consciousness accelerated to the point that everything she saw was outlined with lead, so heavy and fluid so it accentuated the blacks of the compartment--for there were only blacks in the compartment, except for... oh, except for the white of the boxes. For they were boxes, more than she would even dare to count, floating over and circling her in a multi-pointed star.

She had a good many thoughts through those next few minutes, including what the boxes were, how on earth she was going to explain this to Lily, and whether or not the Slytherins were just a bunch of insane role players who took 'playing house' just a bit too far. Because, simplistically speaking, she was standing in an extremely complex hop-scotch board, surrounded by about a dozen kids ranging from a fourth year to seventh years, most of whom needed to cheat in order to pass their classes, didn't fit under the label of 'virgin', and were led by a bloke who needed to defer to a first year for hexing information.

She laughed. There was absolutely nothing to be afraid of. She was bigger than this. She was human. They were not.

Or so she thought.

Something burned in the small of her back.

"You don't take the Initiation seriously." Durantaye. "I'm not surprised. It takes a true Slytherin to appreciate such a thing."

"To be afraid of it, you mean." Had she just said that? She hadn't thought it, she knew that much. It bewildered her, and sure turned a few heads in the circle.

Durantaye growled; Lucius laughed. She felt a figure overcome with surprise and, looking at each of their hooded heads, found the source: the girl who'd sat beside Durantaye. Gwen giggled. So they used sorcery, as well.

Since when did people 'feel' figures overcome with surprise?

"Relax, Carrie," The girl. Taking another look at Gwen, Lucius was coming to a conclusion. She wondered at herself, but had yet to take it in earnest. "Fine, then: we'll skip over the ceremonial crap and cut to the main event."

Dropping their jaws, they looked horror-struck. Or, rather, they felt horror-struck. This was edging on strange.

"Choose a box on the Slytherin Constellation."

Gwen raised her eyebrows.

"Had you sat through the Introduction like a good little Slytherin, you'd have known about that." It was some boy, one she hadn't heard a lot from: Michael Parkinson, or something similar to it.

"Choose wisely." Advising her, it veered closer to a command. Then again, that's how it must have always been, with Lucius.

Gwen bet that, had she not laughed at the ridiculousness of it all, she'd have picked up a little bit more on the decision she was making, as well.

It would be explained to her, later, that she was choosing her fate in placing her finger on that three yard-long rectangle.

"Don't choose the boxes: let the boxes choose you." Some girl, not held in very high respect by the others.

Shrugging, Gwen tried to step out of the circle of boxes only to have them follow her, and the Slytherins along with it. Eying a box floating to her at a faster rate than the others, she indifferently touched its corner. It and the one beside it glowed green, then purple: she wondered if it had something to do with the color of her robes, or--

"Royalty," Carrie muttered.

Or something else.

"Pick a title."

The boxes merged with the floor, and spinning around she was faced with a list of titles, glowing silver and sending off green smoke. The part of her still cooperating with this thing was confused--these titles were symbols, not names. Simple ones: a fountain, a flame, a jewel, a leaf, a whip, a crystal glass, a hand, a pillow; a balance.

Her finger was on the glass of wine before giving it a second thought.

How she knew it was a glass of wine she never even considered.

Lucius looked at her--or felt her--or she felt him looking--curiously.

Rouge, too, looked up at her, but in knowing and slight wonder: it was just like Lucius to pull something like this off. "Queen."

"Wait," Panicked and angry, Carrie held her hand up. "The process is not yet complete--it can still be overturned." Calmly, "Choose a box."

Returning to the cluster, she gasped at the freezing heat that surged through her arm. The boxes--oh, the boxes, they'd risen from the floor into three-dimensional shapes and placed themselves around her standing figure and over her head. She had time only to wonder at it when she saw the one she was looking for.

The box. The one box.

Needless to say she was slightly more fascinated in the whole thing, now.

It spoke to her, in that same language she was already discovering, telling her to come to it, choose it, make it her own...

Catching her breath without perceiving that she was doing so--she wasn't detecting anything at this pinnacle of time--she went to put her index finger to it.

It was already sitting in her hands.

The box had a lock, and the lock had a key, and the key was inserting itself into the lock, turning it, opening it and displaying a ring, two earrings and a chain, all made of misty white gemstone, all outlined in the thin black line, remnants of her the boxes' earlier transition. Picking up the ring, small and dainty, and sliding it on her finger she heard something click and followed in suit with the necklace and earrings, despite the fact that her ears were not pierced. The only pain she felt was when she put the last earring in and the jewelry began to wilt, diminishing into particles; clouding into her skin.

It burned.

"Who are you?" Durantaye was more afraid than she. He had to have been: he was witnessing something he had never seen before; something he hadn't expected; something bigger and better than him, for all of his stature. He must also have had more fear, too, because she wasn't afraid: awed, yes; frozen and burning all at once, ambitious and curious and dancing, yes, but not scared. Terrified, even, but her terror wasn't out of fear.

"Gwendolyn Emmilia Kathryn Longbottom."

Carrie's sudden hope was only a flake in what Gwen was now experiencing, but her fingers reacted to it anyway, by snapping. A choking noise came from Carrie's place; then quieted.

It burned still.

"Who are you?" Rouge... no, he wasn't afraid. He was excitedly lustful of the power he could taste with his jaws but not his tongue.

"A witch."

The fire, the flames, the burning, it all soared through her skin, moisturizing her insides while burning them away.

Lucius was the gas to the flames. He caused them to soar, to rise within her throat, raging in the small of her back and above. "Who are you?"

Tears came to her eyes. "Queen Narcissa of Slytherins."

She had never heard the name, but it came from somewhere and was spoken before thought. Gwen didn't realize what was going on or who she had become, but she would eventually learn the legend of Narcissa, Queen of Slytherins, wife of Salazar, and even sooner she would create her own legend to carry on for centuries more.

The only evidence of her fading pieces of jewelry were the scars that remained on her ring finger, neck, and ears.

-*-

The torches flickered and switched on, filling the compartment with light and reminding Gwen of exactly what it was: a compartment, on a train with wheels and an engine that could now be heard as they rolled along.

"You will take your position as Countess," Carrie spoke as if it was her rightful position, and harshly, so that none of the others were tempted to argue. "The Council will watch you for the continuity of this semester, at the end of which we will determine whether or not you are worthy of being queen. If not--"

"You will take your position anyway." It became apparent to her then, more than ever, why Lucius was King. He left no room for discussion in his orders. "It is not she who chooses the position, but the position which chooses her."

Wondering how this tied in with the ever-Slytherin phrase, 'You choose your own destiny,' she blinked.

"Those of us in Slytherin royalty know that better than anyone."

Then she understood: it was their justification for taking advantage of the 'lesser Slytherins', though she doubted most of them even needed it.

"She will be Countess until Christmas." Gwen couldn't say she wholly appreciated being referred to as if she weren't there. "After that, she will take her place among us." She felt some of their protests: she was a first year, she was a Longbottom, she wasn't even going to be a Slytherin, what of the present Countess, will the Princess not inherit the throne... none of which were voiced. Lucius, still beneath his black cloak, nodded to the figure directly to her left.

Gwen wasn't surprised at how the girl looked, but tried not to stare: her eyebrow was as thick as a horse's mane, her nose exceptionally large, and her jaw jutted considerably. Had she grunted, Gwen may have mistaken her for a boar. The girl's voice, however, was quite lovely. "Moira Krum."

The titles didn't come until further into the circle, and when they did, they came in opposite order of power. Sarah Perkins, fourth year, Lady (with shocking blue eyes, long lashes, and silky brown hair); Roch Avery, second year, (gave her the creeps) Lord; Rochelle Mauri, Earless, sixth year; Michael Parkinson, Earl (already she was annoyed at the Slytherin chauvinism); Angela Parkinson, 7^th year (redhead) Duchess; Blaise Zabini, 7^th year, Duke (resembled a monkey); Carrie Empiral (blonde, brown eyed, average sized) Princess, 6^th year; Morius Boot, 7^th year, Prince; and, of course Rouge Marina, 7^th year, and Durantaye McNair, 7^th, as advisors and

"Lucius Malfoy," his face danced with a combination of a sneer, smirk, and grin. "Fifth year. King."

The train pushed forward and pulled back, making a full and ungraceful stop; voices could be heard outside as the students unloaded.

"After you, my majesty," Lucius indicated the door, and the others smirked. My majesty.

Resisting the urge to stick her tongue out at them and rub her new (and extremely odd) status in their faces she bowed to him, lifted the skirt of her robes and skipped daintily off, smiling all the while to herself. Lucius, she knew, was incredibly amused behind her, and planning his exit--last, just to irritate her.

"What just happened in there?" She started on the fifteen year-old as soon as his foot hit the platform, cutting off whatever heroic display he'd had in mind.

"Your Initiation--and a damned good one, at that." Eyes narrowing through the crowds he walked straight ahead, leaving her to quicken her steps to keep up. "Hasn't been that much of a stir in the Council in years: not since my own Initiation."

"Did you go straight to King?"

"Prince," he replied. "But the King was in his seventh year, so I was King by my second--new record, by the way. Don't expect that sort of thing from any of this year's riffraff: they're all going straight to the eleventh."

The eleventh compartment, she guessed. Up until that point she'd forgotten what Paul had said about the compartments: Prefects and the Head Boy and Girl in the first, Gryffindors in the next three, Ravenclaws in five, six, and seven; Hufflepuffs usually claimed eight, nine, and ten, while the Slytherins always, always arranged themselves in the last three. Not that any of the other Houses were tempted to have the Unlucky Thirteen, anyhow.

She didn't mention that she was a part of 'this year's riffraff.' "But how do you choose? I mean... the box things."

"The Slytherin Constellation?" He smirked. "You know, if you weren't such a--"

"Oh, stop it with that," she huffed.

The transition in Lucius was remarkable. His entire composure switched from amused to incensed in a sliding snap. "If any other Slytherin dared say that to me, they would be in very, very deep water, Gwendolyn Longbottom," he hissed, squeezing her elbow so a pain ran directly up her arm. "Each box is said to be a piece of a Slytherin graduate. The person chooses you, you take their compartment; the symbol chooses you, you accept that role, and all of the abilities you need to fulfill it. You choose their box again; you accept their fate."

"But what if--"

His robes swept against her and he was gone.

-*-

Lily Evans's eyes widened: she couldn't believe what she was seeing. That was Gwen. And she was talking to Lucius Malfoy. By choice.

She may have been a muggleborn, and she may have been on the naïve side of things, but Gwen had told her all about the myths, reputations, and stereotypes of wizarding society when she had stayed with her in the Adopt-A-Muggleborn Program, and, from the sound of things, Lucius Malfoy wasn't the most pleasant of characters. It didn't seem as if Gwen's opinion could have changed that quickly.

There had to be a reasonable explanation for this.

"What's she doing, talking to that slimy git?" In frustration, Sirius slapped the side of the boat.

Frank and Achilles soon found out: and oh, had they been upset when they'd found. Lily had to take the blame for that one: it was her big mouth that had opened and poured the story out like boiling ink at a factory. If it weren't for Peter telling them about Gwen's disappearance they would have been toast.

In fact... Frank and Achilles were on their way to face Lucius, and from the look of things...

"Five knuts says they pound him to the ground." James was the first one to pull out the money pouch, but the rest of them soon followed.

I have to make some new friends--some new girl friends, Lily decided.