Two

Voldemort Plus 10: 2008

The Time: Breakfast time, Wednesday

Lucius stood at the window of the smaller breakfast parlour, cradling a cup of Lapsang Souchong in his long fingers and inhaling the smoky fragrance. The remnants of his breakfast were scattered across the impeccable linen of the tablecloth, along with the Daily Prophet, which he had as usual skimmed, sneered at, and tossed aside. He was currently indulging in the guilty pleasure of the Times cryptic crossword, despite the frustration of having to keep the answers in his head. The shoddy blotting paper it was printed on spread the ink too much to let him fill it in.

It was a perfect early autumn morning. The sun was taking the chill off the air, birds were singing, light was sparkling on the ornamental ponds, and one of the peacocks added a perfect accent to the smooth expanse of lawn. He winced as it shrieked. He'd only ever kept them to annoy Narcissa – the pinched look she got when they screeched or crapped on the terraces was most entertaining – but now she was gone he found they annoyed him just as much.

He sighed. What to do? What to do? It was all very well being rich enough to do whatever he wanted without reflection, but being spoilt for choice had spoiled him for choosing. He was not in the mood for reviewing his investments and other business projects, none of his usual hobbies held any appeal, he wasn't allowed to crush any minions these days (especially with the introduction of Elf unions), and Draco, spending a year or two on the Magic faculty at Harvard while overseeing the spread of the Malfoy empire in the Americas, was unavailable for either argument or condescension. Time was, he would have donned his cloak, picked up his cane, and gone to London to stir up a little excitement at the Ministry or the club, but ever since the War, Lucius Malfoy had been persona non grata. True, he had been able to present evidence that during the Dark Lord's final year he had leaked as much information as he dared to the Order, but as far as social acceptance was concerned, fence-sitting cut no mustard.

Bored, bored, bored. He contemplated Narcissa's empty place at the table, imagining a willowy redhead or lush black-haired beauty there, but in his extensive experience, such women came with a retinue of shrill voices, demands, stupid but plentiful conversation, and shoes. Endless bloody shoes. He was still finding them after seven years, and was convinced that Narcissa had Charmed the house to keep producing them. When it came to being irritating, her magic could be very inventive, at times.

He looked at the crossword again and found he had lost his thread. With a snarl that might have been familiar to Harry Potter in his second-worst nightmares, Lucius threw the newspaper into the fireplace and sent his cup crashing after it.

And where the bloody hell had Severus been yesterday evening? They always played chess on Tuesday evenings, no matter how late.

He clicked his fingers for the dogs and stalked out to the stables.

*

"Good morning, Miss Granger!" said Arthur Weasley, Order of Merlin Second Class, and Minister for Magic.

"Good morning, sir," said Hermione, bracing herself for the oncoming bear hug. This was Arthur's way of compromising between being her boss and being her surrogate dad.

For once, she didn't really mind. She had had an unexpectedly good night's sleep rather than a tumble into black oblivion; she had spent a highly enjoyable couple of hours with someone whose company she had long wanted to enjoy; he had been, in his own taciturn way, quite kind; he apparently wanted to see her again; and she had arrived in her office that morning to find a bouquet of flowers from Ron, a box of Honeyduke's chocolates from Harry, and an invitation from both of them to go out on Saturday night. Presumably, their perception that she was desperate enough to socialise with Snape had tickled their consciences.

"So – what do we have on our plates today?" enquired Arthur, gesturing humorously with the plate of buttered toast whose consumption her arrival had interrupted.

Hermione went to his desk and opened the enormous diary that lay there.

"Revelio," she commanded, and the list of meetings and engagements seeped into visibility for her eyes and hers alone. Security measures were still tight, ten years on.

"Full session of the Wizengamot at ten, to discuss... let me see..." She consulted her own notebook. "...pensions, new legislation on the use of time-turners, policy concerning prisoners' parole, licensing of certain new potions and charms..."

"Yes, yes," said Arthur. "What else?"

Hermione sighed. Arthur would go in and wing it, as usual. He did that very well indeed, paying close attention to all the arguments, engineering some sort of compromise that left nobody satisfied but him looking good and fair-minded, and sauntering off to the next appointment. It was her job to tie up the loose ends.

"Lunch with the Department Heads, followed by planning for the Year Ten ball, and then the half-yearly budget meeting, which will probably run over, so you'd better let Molly know you might be late."

Arthur looked shifty.

Hermione sighed again. She knew very well that the budget meeting with its attendant arguments and headaches would be dumped on her. He would be called away to look at some misused Muggle artefact or other that absolutely had to have his attention, and somehow neglect to come back.

She popped into her office for the files she had been working on the previous night. It made her smile to see all the rude inscriptions on the sticky notes.

As predicted, Arthur was delighted with them, and even more so with the biros. Hermione had to clear up the mess after an Engorgio and a Dismantling Charm released a large splat of sticky ink. Helpless bloody men.

Finally, she forced Arthur to pay attention and the day's work began.

*

At Number Ten, Downing Street, Severus went about his work cheerfully at first. Miss Granger had smiled at him. She had talked to him. She had shared dinner with him. She had laughed with him. She had accepted his help.

Even as he focused on the pages of the folder he had appropriated from the PM's desk, he remembered how Miss Granger's hair had tickled his cheek when she bent to look at his sketch.

Damn – this was going to be complicated. Far from being the "bollocks" he had marked it with, the folder – a proposal for changes to the funding procedures of the armed forces – was a very subtle piece of sabotage that had "Voldemort" stamped all over it.

She came out with me.

He would have to ferret out the lines of communication behind this document.

She was probably just hungry.

Usually, there would be one or two junior clerical staff who had been Imperio'd to insert some subtle twists into the statistics.

She'd have gone with anyone. She said herself she was starved of conversation.

Although this looked more like the work of one of the highly-placed Squibs who had proved so difficult to track down.

She could have dealt with Potter and Weasley with or without my intervention.

So – first things first, he'd better contact the MoD to find out exactly who was responsible for preparing the figures.

She didn't say whether she would come out again.

And there were probably some visits to be paid to the various Quartermasters' departments.

She's a former student twenty years younger than me who probably still superimposes that bloody teaching robe every time she sees me.

So he would have to get some of the Dept. of Mysteries staff and a few of the cleverer Aurors (that ruled out Potter and Weasley) to do the leg-work – which would need careful planning – as he couldn't be out of Number 10 too much.

Fuck – she made me forget Lucius!

Severus thrust the file away from him and pushed back from the desk. He couldn't concentrate! Bloody Granger girl, interfering with his work!

And where the hell is my cup of tea?!

He left the room, forgetting to cancel the subtle misdirection charm he habitually set on his office door when he wanted to be undisturbed.

*

He was in such a bad temper that he risked Disapparating within Number 10 itself. There was a quiet corner under the stairs which could be used when nobody was passing through, and one little crack wouldn't cause much excitement.

The wards at the Manor usually let Severus pass without a problem, but it seemed that he was in deep disgrace, which was why he found himself teetering on the edge of a bramble-lined ditch running along the side of an obscure country lane. This was the public face of Malfoy Manor. It was really very good. He scribbled a note on a piece of paper, folded it, and sent the little aeroplane to find a way through.

Twenty minutes later, a small lych-gate grudgingly inched its way into existence amongst the brambles. Evidently, Lucius was sulking, but amenable to placation. Severus still got rather badly scratched, but there were some fat and juicy blackberries in compensation. He Transfigured a twig into a basket and busied himself with the collection of fruit while he waited for the master to appear. When Lucius was in a snit it was never wise, even for friends, to go far onto the Malfoy land without express permission.

"Scrumping, Severus?" Lucius' voice came from above. Severus turned unhurriedly, concealing his start of surprise.

"Have you taught that horse to tiptoe?" He adopted a tone of amusement.

"Elementary magic, dear boy. Though I wouldn't expect you to know a Charm when you see it."

Oh, dear. It was one of those days.

"And what persuades you to grace me with some of your precious time today, Mr Snape? Are you adding skiving to your list of schoolboy misdemeanours, now that you are so much a part of the Muggle world that you forget your obligations in this one?"

"Lucius," said Snape evenly, "I came to apologise. Something came up."

"Then you shall tell me all about it." He turned the horse's head and kicked it into a canter. "Up at the house," he threw back over his shoulder.

Severus frowned. If he didn't know very well how much Lucius relied on him these days, he would be sorely tempted to pay him back for such rudeness. However, he did know it. And in any case, it was a pleasant walk up to the Manor and would give the master time to change and wash off the stink of horse before Severus' delicate proboscis had to come too close. He Summoned a load more blackberries into his basket so he could munch them on the way and still have enough to give to the kitchen elves for a pie, and set off, enjoying the warm autumn day. He usually came in via the manicured front lawns, but he much preferred the artistically "wild" landscape on this side.

A forty-minute amble brought him to the point where the woods opened up to a vista of wide, sloping lawns where an occasional ancient and stately tree stood sentinel over the Manor itself. "Manor" was actually a bit of a misnomer, if truth be told. It was a little more discreet than Chatsworth, but not by much. It was such a perfect day that the elegant façade was seamlessly reflected in the ornamental ponds, accented by lilies and the occasional flicker of koi carp undulating beneath the surface. He wasn't sure he cared for the grace note of two wolfhounds munching on the bloody carcass of a decidedly ex-peacock, but it was a very Malfoyesque touch.

Lucius must have hurried. He was pacing peevishly when Severus found him in the library. The chess board and decanter were set up as they always were for Tuesday evenings, and Severus felt a fresh pang of guilt at the sight. Really, Lucius might be an arrogant git at times, but he was an arrogant git starved of company, and just about the only person who ever actually talked to him like a normal human being.

Apart from one....

"Do sit down, my friend," said Lucius with studied courtesy. "May I offer you a drink? Or is it too early? Tea, then?"

"I'll have the tea, thanks," replied Severus, dredging up the nearly-forgotten remains of his Yorkshire accent in riposte. "But don't bother getting all hoity-toity with me. I came to say sorry as soon as I realised I'd stood you up." He flopped inelegantly into an armchair and stuck his legs out.

Lucius' lip twitched.

"Very well, Severus. Much though I adore your music-hall northerner act, I believe you may desist. On condition that you tell me all about what kept you away from my riveting society."

He rang for tea and then proceeded to wring more from his friend than his friend really wanted wrung.

How interesting, he thought after Snape took his leave. Severus has quite a tendre for the Granger girl. More, perhaps, than he realises... He laughed out loud. The Granger girl. He had some clear memories of her from the War and its aftermath, and was interested to hear that she had grown into a woman who might even be worthy of... He laughed again.

*

Downing Street was in uproar when Severus returned. Apparently, a gunshot had been heard – "Actually inside Number 10!" an anxious secretary squeaked to him, clinging to his arm until an expressionless black stare made her remember to whom she was speaking – and the whole building had been turned upside down by armed and armoured policemen and SAS troopers for three hours before they decided it had been a mistake. Passing a loud argument that was taking place between the head of the household staff and the police commander about damage to government property, he made a mental note to not Apparate within earshot of any Muggles again. And where the bloody hell had his office gone?

"Ah – Mr Snape," came the PM's unusually jovial voice, interrupting his search. "There you are! Come with me, would you? I have an idea I want to run by someone I can trust."

Bulling his way past a bevy of civil servants and giving them hearty reassurances which nobody believed, the PM ushered Severus into his office, locking the door behind them. He saw the look of surprise.

"Don't worry!" he said. "Don't worry! It's just to make sure we aren't disturbed."

The man was fairly humming with excitement. It was unnerving. He was usually the very soul of gloom.

"Don't you think the staff will be more worried if they can't get to you?"

"Never mind that. Sit down. No – come over here!"

He led Severus over to the far corner of the room and caused him to stand in front of the small, dingy portrait of a toad-like individual in an unflattering long wig.

"What do you think of that, eh?"

Severus, with a very bad feeling burgeoning inside him, affected mild puzzlement.

"It's probably late seventeenth-century, looks like one of the minor English artists. The brush-work is fine, but the painting is badly in need of cleaning. Why, Prime Minister? Are you thinking of having it sold?" He turned away from the picture. "I shouldn't think you'll get much for this, except maybe from some fan of the grotesque."

"Look again – tell me if you see anything unusual."

Snape obeyed, catching the tail end of an 'I'll get you for that' expression on the little man's face. He pretended to examine the painting again, all the while trying his very hardest to make Legilimency work on oil paint. It didn't. But the expression of suppressed anxiety was clear. Snape sympathised. He was beginning to feel like a dyspeptic frog himself.

"Nothing, sir."

"What if I were to tell you that that frame was empty last night?" the PM was almost bouncing. Severus had to shake the image of a shimmying bloodhound from his mind.

"I would probably put it down to bad light and overwork, Prime Minister. Perhaps you should take a little time off."

"No! No!"

The PM took a calming breath.

"Mr Snape, I am about to tell you something which is usually only revealed to the incumbent Prime Minster of this land. Something you may find very difficult, at first, to accept."

He paused, dramatically.

"Magic is real. There are real witches and wizards living in Great Britain today!"

Snape feigned incredulity. The PM, encouraged by the fact that both eyebrows had climbed, not just the one, said, "Do you want me to prove it?" And with that, he spun and shouted "BOO!" right in the face of the portrait, which flinched and squeaked, then looked abashedly at Snape, who was stony-faced.

"What do you think of that, then?" the PM exclaimed triumphantly.

Snape took the picture from the wall and examined it, as if looking for trickery.

It's clever, I'll give you that," he said grimly. "But I'm not convinced that it proves the existence of a whole magical counter-culture."

"Well, I will prove it to you in a day or two, Mr Snape – I will."

"Oh? And how, sir?"

"Don't consign me to the loony bin just yet. Wait until Friday evening. My opposite number will be paying us a visit."

"And what significance, if any, sir, does all of this jiggery-pokery have for the job we have in hand – which is running the country?"

Even blatant disrespect couldn't burst the PM's bubble.

"Well – keep all this strictly to yourself for the moment, for God's sake – but your little book of sums last night gave me a chance to think, and to put together some of the information I have now as PM with some of the information I had as Chancellor. There's a whole section of society out there that nobody knows anything about, and I've checked the records..." His voice dropped portentously as he continued:

"And they have never... been... taxed!"

*

Author Note:

Chatsworth House, in Derbyshire, is the home of the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire. It is big.

http://www.chatsworth.org/