3: The First He Couldn’t Keep Safe

Chapter 3: The First He Couldn't Keep Safe

He was waiting for her in his study, already wearing his travelling cloak and under it a pair of his finest black robes. Lucius Malfoy had told him to look his best as there would be other guests at the manor, and Snape had obliged. Despite what his students and colleagues thought, he knew how to dress and did own some very nice, tailored robes. Malfoy had seen to that years ago.

Snape always looked his best when he was summoned by the Dark Lord. Nowadays, he never wore his Death Eater robes. First and foremost because he hated them, just about as much as he hated the damned Mark on his left forearm. But he couldn't let Voldemort know. Instead, he claimed that he could not afford to be caught with compromising robes in his current position. He was a spy now. And the Dark Lord had agreed. What his fellow Death Eaters thought of him and his outfit, Snape didn't care. He assumed that most of them hadn't noticed or didn't bother. Of the few who had noticed, most weren't dumb enough to ask about his reasons. Only Avery had dared once. And Snape had not even had the time to explain himself before the Dark Lord himself had thrown a curse at Avery.

But maybe tonight, wearing his Death Eater robes would be appropriate, Snape mused. After all, he was about to bring one of his students to the Dark Lord, and it was crucial that the girl understood that it was Snape, the Death Eater, and not Snape, the Hogwarts teacher, who was bringing her there and that he was only carrying out orders. Maybe, if he wore the robes tonight, the girl would not hate him – her Head of House – the next day. Maybe, if he wore the robes, she would be able to forgive him. And maybe, just maybe, he would be able to convince himself that he had no choice.

He didn't want to be the one to bring the girl to the Dark Lord. He wished for nothing more than that he could spare her. But he knew that if he refused, he would be punished and the girl would be accompanied by someone else. And that someone could be just anyone. Dolohov maybe, or even Bellatrix. And what they would do in order to get the girl to the Dark Lord as quickly as possible, Snape did not even want to imagine. If he was the one to bring her, then he would at least be able to deliver her with her dignity still in store. That he couldn't protect her, he knew only too well. But it was what Dumbledore expected from him and what he himself had sworn to do. How he was going to do it, however, he had no idea. If the Dark Lord decided to brand the girl tonight and make her one of his followers, Snape would not be able to do anything. And if the Dark Lord refused the girl and her father saw her not taking the Mark as her breaking her vow, Snape would be able to do even less. All he would be able to do would be to stand by and watch. So he prayed for a miracle.

He had worked with the girl over the last couple of weeks, tutored her and shown her as much white magic as he had dared. It had been far less than he had wanted to, but he had been forced to be careful. If she knew too much white magic, more than could be expected from a sixth-year, the Dark Lord would grow suspicious. And for the girl's sake and his own, Snape could not let this happen. So he had taught her just enough for her to realise that she could do white magic. Hopefully, it was enough to save her, too.

She knocked on his door half a minute to eight and entered upon being told to do so, closing the door soundlessly behind her. She, too, was already wearing a travelling cloak.

'Good evening, Professor.'

'Good evening, Miss McKibben,' Snape replied, inwardly rolling his eyes at the turn of phrase. This evening was bound to be anything but good for either of them. But still, one could always hope.

He eyed the girl intently. Her cloak was tailored and not part of the average student wardrobe. It also looked brand new. Most probably, it was a birthday gift from her father. The gloves she was holding in her clenched hand were of the finest leather and so were her boots that stuck out from under her cloak. She carried herself tall as usual. And as always, she had her eyes cast chastely to the floor.

The image of a pureblood witch, ready to be launched into society, Snape thought, barely able to avoid a sneer. The girl was not going to dance with nice boys tonight and sip on her first glass of goblin-made champagne. Instead, she was about to take her first steps on the road that led to nowhere else than hell.

She should be in her common room, drinking butterbeer directly from the bottle, eating cake and celebrating her coming of age with her peers, Snape thought bitterly. Just like any seventeen-year-old did. But then again, he hadn't done that either. On his seventeenth birthday, he, too, had for the first time met the Dark Lord. But Snape doubted that he had looked quite as miserable as the girl in front of him did. For him, meeting the Dark Lord had been an honour, and he had looked forward to joining his ranks. Today he knew better, and he cursed the day he had agreed to carry the Mark.

Wordlessly, he picked up the box of Floo powder that was standing on his mantlepiece and held it out towards the girl. There was neither need nor time for pleasantries. She knew where they were going, and she knew why they were going there. She didn't need to be told.

As his fingers closed around a handful of powder, Snape paused in mid-movement and looked at the girl. To his surprise, he found her green eyes already looking at him. Green as spring clover, almond shaped. And for the first time, Snape saw a flicker of fear in them.

'Tonight, I will not be your teacher, Miss McKibben, nor will I be your Head of House,' he explained in a grave tone. 'Tonight, I will be a fellow Death Eater, a follower of the Dark Lord. And whatever happens at Malfoy Manor will stay at Malfoy Manor. The moment we return, the moment we are back in this office, I will not know anything about what has happened to you tonight or what choices you have made. I will once more only be your teacher and your Head of House. I will not know whether you took the Dark Mark tonight, and your decision will have no effect on how I treat you as a student. Do I make myself clear?'

The girl nodded, and Snape gestured towards the fireplace. 'After you.'

She took a step forward but froze, and her green eyes once more sought her teacher's dark ones.

'I'm scared, Professor,' she whispered.

'You should be,' Snape simply stated and then watched her disappear in a sea of green flames. 'You should be terrified, Nadezhda.'

~ ~ ~

One had to hand it to the Malfoys, Snape thought as he let his gaze wander through the ballroom of Malfoy Manor some hours later. They knew how to throw a party and who they had to invite to make a good impression.

There were about fifty guests. Ministry employees, members of the Wizengamot, patriarchs of old Wizard families, landowners and politicians, one more influential than the other. And carefully strewn into their midst, one here, one there, were the followers of the Dark Lord. Crabbe and Goyle were standing at the buffet, Avery, Macnair and Nott were each engaged in conversation with some influential person, and Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange played hosts together with the Malfoys – they were family, after all. And there – right beside Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy – was Duncan McKibben, dressed in his best robes, beaming at his daughter.

Snape's eyes came to linger on the girl, and he couldn't help but admit that he was impressed with her. Back at Hogwarts, right before she had Flooed to Malfoy Manor, terror had been etched into her very face. She had even admitted that she was scared. But now, she was once more showing off the impeccable façade that was to be expected from a girl of her status. She stood at her father's side, shook hands and smiled sweetly and accepted everyone's birthday wishes with a tiny nod. Nothing betrayed the fear Snape had seen in her eyes.

When the music started, she danced first with her father, then with Lucius Malfoy. Of course, she would dance with her host. After all, he had spent quite some money on her party. Not that he didn't have more money to spend than what was good for him, but still. Then she was approached by a young man with milky white skin and straw blond hair.

Snape sneered. Barty Crouch, Junior. How many of the guests knew that the young man, whose father was the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, had been carrying the Dark Mark on his forearm for almost two years now, that he was Bellatrix Lestrange's lapdog and capable of horrid deeds his poor father couldn't even imagine in his worst nightmares? Not many, Snape concluded. The Death Eaters knew, of course, but none of the other guests. And the McKibben girl had most certainly no idea. Otherwise, she would not have granted Crouch a second dance, and a third, and a fourth. Snape scowled. As much as he tried, he could not explain to himself why the girl's choice of dancing partner annoyed him so much.

The hours went by, and one by one, the guests started to take their leave. The highly regarded members of the Wizarding world thanked their hosts for their hospitality and once more wished the McKibben girl all the best. Soon, the only ones left in the ballroom were the Death Eaters.

And when Narcissa Malfoy left and the curtains magically drew themselves shut, Snape knew that it was time.

Like one man, they all sank to their knees as the Dark Lord entered. There wasn't a sound to be heard except the rustling of his robes. It seemed almost as if everyone had stopped breathing. Voldemort paused for a moment, letting his gaze wander over his subjects as if to choose who to address first. His choice fell on the master of the manor.

'I hear the party was a success. Is that so, Lucius?'

'My Lord, I certainly hope so,' the blond wizard replied, rising but keeping his head bowed. 'We have once more established our place in the Wizarding society.'

The Dark Lord nodded, obviously pleased, and continued his round. Some of his followers, he simply told to rise, with others he exchanged a phrase or two. Snape, he thanked for coming. As if there had been a choice.

In the end, he paused in front of father and daughter McKibben. The father was told to rise but wasn't spoken to otherwise. Instead, Voldemort focused on the girl.

'Welcome,' he said, in a tone that could almost have been interpreted as sweet.

He took the girl's right hand and pulled her up, considering her with narrowed eyes as if she were a present which he wasn't sure whether he liked yet. And the girl stood tall, her eyes respectfully on the floor.

'I hope your passing into adulthood has been a pleasant one.'

'Yes, my Lord,' the girl replied quietly. 'Thank you.'

My Lord. Snape felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. She wasn't supposed to call Voldemort 'my lord' just yet. But then again, what else should she call him?

'Tell me, Nadezhda,' the Dark Lord continued, 'what do seventeen-year-old girls wish for their birthday nowadays? Surely, you are too old to play with dolls. Jewellery, perhaps? Silver and precious gems?'

Out of thin air, a bracelet appeared, coiling around the girl's left wrist like a snake.

'My Lord,' she gasped.

'Silver and emerald,' the Dark Lord explained. 'Your House colours, I believe. And the gems look just like your eyes. Just as green, just as cold.'

Snape felt a shiver go down his spine. The girl had not looked up at Voldemort once. And still he knew.

'Tell me, Nadezhda,' the Dark Lord continued. 'Do you hate Muggles?'

There was collective intake of breath, and everyone's eyes came to rest on the girl. None of them had ever been asked this question by their lord. To hate Muggles was expected from a Death Eater. Did him asking the girl mean that the Dark Lord had his doubts?

The girl hesitated for a moment, but then she raised her head. Once more, the Death Eaters gasped, but this time, not all for the same reason. Snape's sharp intake of breath was due to the coldness in the girl's eyes. Looking into them generated the same feeling as being doused with a bucket of icy water. The others, however, were shocked that the girl dared to look the Dark Lord straight in the eyes.

'My mother died only hours after my birth because a Muggle had infected her with a deadly disease which had not taken a single life among witches and wizards for decades,' she said in a low tone. 'My brother I never even got to know. I believe that Muggles are a threat to our kind.'

Voldemort smiled, sneered, grimaced, Snape could not really decide on which. But the play of muscles around the Dark Lord's mouth made his stomach clench.

'I should know better than to expect a straight answer from a Slytherin, shouldn't I?' Voldemort asked, and ripple of laughter went through the group of Death Eaters. Obviously, they thought that the Dark Lord had been amused by the girl's answer. Snape, however, doubted it.

'If you truly believed that Muggles are a threat to wizardkind,' Voldemort continued, 'then your best friend wouldn't be Muggle-born. Or would he, Nadezhda?'

Snape could see the muscles in the girl's jaw had tightened, and he did not miss how her hand cramped around the fine fabric of her skirt. And he was certain that the Dark Lord had noticed, too.

'An answer, please, Nadezhda.'

Please? The Dark Lord never said please. He certainly never meant it.

'Muggles are a threat to wizardkind,' the girl repeated, her voice now trembling slightly. 'They are inferior to us. They are jealous of our powers, and they try to steal our magic.'

'Do you really believe this?'

'These are the beliefs I was raised with, my Lord.'

'Do you believe it?' Voldemort asked once more, stressing each syllable.

The girl remained quiet and lowered her eyes.

'Your father is an embittered man, Nadezhda.' The Dark Lord's tone was so unnaturally sweet and understanding that it made goosebumps erupt on everyone's arms. 'Not only did he lose his beloved wife due to a Muggle disease but also his son, his first-born. And he directed all his bitterness and anger towards Muggles. Do you know what happened to the boy who infected your brother?'

'I supposed he died,' the girl replied. Her voice was thin now and her eyes firmly on the tip of her shoes.

'The boy did die,' Voldemort affirmed, extending his pale hand to cup the girl's chin in order to make her look at him again. 'But not of meningitis. He was given treatment and survived. But three weeks after he had been released from the hospital he was found dead, in his room. The Muggle doctors were unable to determine a cause of death. In their eyes, the boy should still have been alive. But he was not. Neither were his parents or his baby sister.'

Snape didn't even listen to the Dark Lord. Instead, he studied the girl's face carefully. She had paled considerably, but otherwise her face did not betray her emotions. Her eyes did, however. They reminded Snape of the eyes of a little animal, a rabbit maybe or a mouse, caught in the shadow of a bird of prey, unable to move, unable to run away and aware that they were doomed. And who could blame the girl? Voldemort had just told her that her father had wiped out an entire Muggle family. Her father had killed to avenge his wife and son. If she let him down tonight, would he hesitate to do the same to her?

'You are not yet ready, Nadezhda,' the Dark Lord suddenly announced, letting go of the girl's chin as if burnt. 'You are too young, and your thoughts are still far too innocent. But this can be remedied. You need proper guidance. You need someone who can teach the proper way for a Death Eater to think.'

He turned around, searching the room with his cold, cold eyes. They first fell on Snape, and the Potions master felt a wave of panic wash over him. How could he teach the girl the 'proper way for a Death Eater to think' when all he wanted was to protect her from the dark?

But Voldemort didn't call for him.

'Bartemius,' he said instead.

From Snape's left, Barty Crouch, Junior, detached himself from the semi-darkness of the room and submissively fell to his knees beside the Dark Lord. He was, however immediately told to rise again.

'I have no need for you by my feet, Bartemius.' Voldemort chuckled. 'I want you to stand beside your bride.'

It was hard to say who looked more surprised, the girl or the boy. For a boy was exactly what Barty was. Barely two years older than his so called bride and – just like her – far too young to be in this room.

'The girl might be of age now, but she is still a Hogwarts student,' Voldemort started to explain, responding to all the puzzled looks around him. 'Old Dumbledore would not approve if she were called here, to Malfoy manor, every Friday night, for example. But if she's to visit her fiancé, Dumbledore will not object. Fool as he is, he believes that love is a gift that must be cherished. He will willingly let the girl leave the castle every weekend. And you, Bartemius, will await her with open arms and teach her what she needs to know.'

The plan was ingenious, Snape had to admit that, but already, he saw a flaw and with it, his chance. After all, he was the girl's Head of House. He would make sure that she, for some reason or another, would not be allowed to leave the castle the next weekend, or the one after that. And when the Dark Lord questioned him, he would blame everything on Dumbledore. Yes, it would work. He was certain of that.

But he had not taken into account the sick and twisted mind of Bellatrix Lestrange.

'My Lord,' she breathed, falling to her knees. 'If Dumbledore is to believe that the girl is in love, then she has to believe it, too. If he questions her ...'

'What do you suggest, Bellatrix?' Voldemort asked, gesturing for her to rise. And she rose, taking his pale hand and kissing it, her back still bent.

'My Lord,' she replied, her eyes glittering madly as she looked up at her lord. 'There are spells to ensure the girl's love and loyalty. All we need is for Barty to make her his tonight.'