Part Third: The Hart Subvertant, Chapter 28, Part 1

Chapter 28, Part 1:

After pronouncing her benedictions upon those who had aided her that year, Emily spent some time wandering around London, her face veiled under her usual Muggle Glamour, revisiting a few of her old haunts from her days as a Cambridge student and lecturer. She thought about having tea in her favourite little teashop near King's Cross – but then changed her mind, as that had been where she had taken Professor Snape for tea on the night she met him, and she already had enough to feel guilty about at this point. Instead she spent some time browsing through the cosy bookshops in Charing Cross, then treated herself to a lunch of lamb curry at one of London's many excellent Indian restaurants.

She lingered a long time over lunch, thinking about the reception she was likely to get at Malfeasant and how to react to it. They had invited her to this party as though she was still a long-time friend of the family, which had to mean that Lucius had found some way to ensure Menzentius's silence regarding their affair. How much did it cost to persuade a brother-in-law to tolerate infidelity going on in their family home, she wondered grimly.

But then there was Druella Black to consider as well, she thought, nibbling at the last of the savoury meat and vegetables and basmati saffron rice on her plate. Professor Snape had told her a great deal about Lucius's mother-in-law during their moonlit walk amongst the turrets – Don't let her fool you, her mind is still sharp as a tack. She's more or less the family loan shark, and her largesse always comes with strings attached. Both the Crabbes and the Goyles owe her money, so they'll repeat anything she wants them to as surely as if she had her hand up their backs working their mouths like some bloody ventriloquist with a dummy. But my advice to you is to steer far clear of her – if she wants someone out of the way, she knows who to hire to see it done. That frail old woman has probably had more people killed or violently intimidated than anyone else in the group besides Lucius, and she loathes part-humans almost as much as she loathes Muggles and Muggle-borns. She's also intensely protective of all of her children – well, all of her children but her daughter Andromeda, who married a Muggle-born fellow and who was then summarily disowned – so don't let her find out about your, er, connection to Lucius, or you'll have another assassin after you before you have time to blink. From that description, she decided that it was highly unlikely that the news that Lucius's dear old friend Emily was also his mistress had gone any farther than Menzentius.

If Narcissa was still allowing her in the house, then no doubt she still didn't know, and Draco had given every indication of being entirely oblivious to his father's womanising as well. She thought about Draco's plea for her sponsorship as a Tithe page at the end of the school year, and sighed – given the circumstances, there was no way she could comfortably recommend him now, or ask anyone else to recommend him. In all likelihood, Draco would be expected to follow in his father's footsteps as a Death Eater – and given the way the boy parroted everything his father said and emulated everything about him, Emily thought Draco would probably jump at the chance.

Ah well, she had only pledged to "see what she could do" regarding Draco's inclusion in the Tithe – and now she had seen what she could and should do, which was of course to keep any members of a wizard extremist group who used organised crime tactics well away from her King's Court, thank you very much. There was no way she would be instrumental in bringing a known Death Eater to stay at Court; it was bad enough that they had harboured one unknowingly in the form of Mr. Lucius Malfoy back in 1978.

So on to her objective. She was to find out what she could about the Death Eaters' plans for Professor Snape – whether they thought him dead or alive, if they knew his whereabouts, if any more assassination attempts would be forthcoming, and what exactly they knew about his involvement in the resistance organised against them. Also, if it were at all possible to get into Lord Voldemort's presence again, she wanted to find out what he knew about Snape's activities since his first fall, and gauge for herself whether or not it was possible for Snape to wheedle his way back into the Death Eater fold, as he hoped. However, Professor Snape himself had told her that he thought it was unrealistic to expect her to be able to ferret out that information.

"First and foremost, you are not to take any foolish chances with your safety or in any way risk exposure, do you hear me?" Snape had said, just before he took his leave of her during their walk on the turrets. "I absolutely forbid it. If word gets back to me that you've started to fancy yourself some sort of daring heroine of the resistance and have started behaving as such, don't think I won't use every means in my power to halt such a descent into idiocy. Just remember, these are all very vain, greedy, and corrupt men, and the wives and children are all desperate for a bit of sympathy for their real and imagined troubles. You'll do far better to smile prettily, keep your mouth shut, be blonde and female, and listen while they all get drunk and blab every damned thing that pops into their heads to you."

"Oh," she had replied sarcastically, "is that all I have to do."

Snape just gave her another one of his patented Professor Snape Looks, and said, "I'm sure you're more than up to the task."

Bastard. Emily scowled down at her curry.

All this effort, all this risk – for a man who regarded her about as highly as a case of cholera.

But the clock was drawing inexorably toward three p.m. As Emily finished her meal and signalled for her check, she for a moment regretted that she hadn't been born into some boringly nice farm family somewhere out in the middle of Second Kingdom Bugfuck Nowhere two thousand leagues distant from any disputed border or portal into the Second World, where she could have had a lusty beer-guzzling husband and a nice garden and a lot of horses, dogs, and cats, and would never have heard of any such fantastic beast as a wizard Potions master from Scotland.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Back at Hogwarts, the weekend of Draco Malfoy's fifteenth birthday party loomed long and empty for Professor Snape.

He and Argus Filch were the only two people staying at the school at that moment, what with Professor Swain at the Malfeasant party, Hagrid off negotiating with giants, and Albus off doing some reconnoitring with old cronies in London. There was a time when Snape would have found the prospect of three days alone at Hogwarts with no obligations to fulfil very pleasant and restful – but now the extreme quiet and the absence of any other person was unnerving. It would have been an excellent opportunity for him to catch up on his sleep, but somehow morning found him restlessly prowling the corridors, as per his usual habit. He even struck up conversations with one or two of the castle ghosts while rambling around the castle, just out of pure ennui, and spent well over an hour of the Friday forenoon encouraging the Bloody Baron to elaborate at length on the lurid histories of various Slytherin Heads of House, even though he had heard most of them often enough over the last twenty-five years to be able to recite them in his sleep. But eventually the Bloody Baron had curtly taken his leave of Snape (as apparently even a centuries-dead bloke has more important things to do than chat with bored, worried apostate Death Eaters) and melted away into a dungeon wall.

Snape then went back to his apartments, took a seat in his favourite armchair, and opened a volume of Paracelsus, but he had only been reading for about quarter of an hour before his head inclined forward and he dozed briefly in his chair, falling into that strange sort of sleep that is half-unaware that the mind is not still alert. He proceeded almost straight into dreaming – and his dreams were just as disconcerting as his waking thoughts, full of images of battle and warriors in armour.

The Death Eaters were all ranged on one side of a battlefield in black plate mail, all helmeted and visored save for Lucius Malfoy. He led the Dark Lord's forces on a heavy war horse, carrying a shield emblazoned with the Dark Mark – all of them confronting Professor Swain in her feathery silver armour, Orcleofian in hand. The horns were blown and the enemy charged, and she waded into them alone, blade and hooves moving at blinding speed. But the enemy was just too many and too persistent, and in the end, they dragged her down like a pack of foaming dogs on a doomed doe. She was lying bloodied on the ground when Malfoy stalked up to her, betrayed and furious – "Don't lie to me!" he snarled, raising a sword above her head –

The blade descended – and Snape jerked awake with a vertiginous jolt, his heart pounding.

He straightened up, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes. Bloody hell, this was getting ridiculous. If he was going to be cursed with so many extra hours of wakefulness, he might as well do something productive with them. He got up, put the Paracelsus aside, sat down at his desk, and started a letter:

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Dear Dr. Orson,

I've been examining your notes on the hypothetical chemical composition of Faery blood and tissue for some time now, and truthfully, I have to admit I'm as stumped as you are regarding a chemical reason for such an extreme toxic reaction upon contact with forged iron.

This has led me into a new line of thought – could iron's toxicity for the Fae somehow not be chemical in nature, but supernatural, or metaphysical, instead? Could something in the very nature of a Faerie's existence be somehow magically incompatible with the existence of forged iron?

From what I've read, the Fae seem very elemental creatures, still very much a part of the natural world. They find, and sustain, the source of their magic within themselves. It has not escaped my notice that Trolls, whose race comprise the royal family and majority population of the Fifth Kingdom, whose economy depends upon mining and metallurgy and who are hence the most industrialised of the Nine Kingdoms, are known to have the greatest resistance to iron, according to the accounts in Swain's Encyclopaedia. I have also read that any sort of changeling, probably the most overtly supernatural beings among the Fae, are known to be highly sensitive to iron exposure. Additionally, pixies and nixies, whose people have traditionally been thought of as prodigious users and creators of magic, and who comprise the majority races of the Fourth and Seventh Kingdoms, that is, the two least industrialised of the Arcadian realms, seem to be notably sensitive to it as well.

It is on the above observations that I base the following theory. Could it be that cold iron – with its unrefined stolidity, its drab, dull colour, its connotations of factory mass manufacture and faceless, joyless industry, and its complete lack of beauty, wonder, magic, or glamour of any kind – is so antithetical to the existence of the Fae that they simply cannot exist in the same place where it does? Could it be that the flesh of a Faerie, of a creature deeply and inherently imbued with magic, reacts to iron as would matter to antimatter, cancelling out and negating each other?

I also note that there is no corresponding Faerie sensitivity to gold, or silver, platinum, or titanium, or any other of the metals considered "precious" for their rarity, beauty, and/or tensile strength. The reaction to steel, a highly refined iron alloy, is also markedly less than that of ordinary forged iron. Your friend Professor Swain regularly wears a wristwatch or jewellery of what appears to be platinum or gold, and takes her meals from gold table services here at Hogwarts, and seems to have no adverse reactions to either.

Please let me know what you think of this theory, and don't hesitate to tell me it's complete rubbish if you think so.

Regards,

Severus Snape

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

The dream of Professor Swain falling in battle against the collective might of the Death Eaters was not, unfortunately, one of those dreams that mercifully fades from memory shortly after the sleeper awakens. That brief experience of sharing her memories of battle just days earlier had left more of an impression on Professor Snape than he cared to admit, and now he found his attention returning to those images and impressions over and over during the day. In a castle like Hogwarts, where he passed any number of suits of armour and paintings of mounted knights on his way up to the Owlery to post his letter to Dr. Orson, it would have been hard not to be reminded of the Wizarding world's violent past.

For some reason, he was dwelling most on the very last part of those shared memories more than any other; specifically the moment when Professor Swain and her husband found each other alive after the battle. Although it had been only a small, insignificant part of what she had hurled at him – probably a slip-up on her part in letting it leak at all – something about that scene snagged in him like the keen edge of a fishhook. They had just been so damned glad to see each other, so overcome with joy and relief as they fell all bloodied and world-weary and exhausted into each other's arms. To the two of them, no matter what had happened that day, all was right with the world because they were both alive and together again.

Dorien Tumnus may have been murdered when he was twenty-six, but there had been at least one moment of his brief life that Severus Snape genuinely envied.

Bloody hell – Snape had now been so long without real sleep that this continuing wakefulness had gotten to the point of physical pain and maudlin emotionalism, neither of which he could tolerate. He finally locked and warded his door, undressed, got into bed, allowed himself the luxury of a dose of Dreamless Sleep potion, and let mindless exhaustion roll over him.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

When Emily arrived at Malfeasant, the family was sitting outside together at an impromptu picnic on the green plot amidst the rose garden. Of course to them, an impromptu picnic meant tables draped in white linen and set with china and priceless antique silver, with champagne and carafes of fresh orange juice icing in silver tubs, silver platters full of exotic fruit and cheese and baguettes set about in luxurious profusion, and a retinue of house-elves in white linen pillowcase togas hovering about to attend them. Draco was throwing a ball for Lady, his big Newfoundland, laughing and petting her when she brought it back to him – "Good girl, Lady, that's a good girl, want to fetch it again? All right then, go!"

Narcissa was presiding over the table in embroidered white linen robes, her blonde hair in a thick, soft plait down her back, cutting up a mango for her elderly mother, who sat beside her under a black lace parasol, a mimosa in hand. Lucius was sitting beside his wife having a jovial chat with his brother-in-law, both of them dressed in open-necked white linen shirts and summer-weight linen robes. The sun bathed everything in golden light: the roses, the manicured lawn, the glistening fruit and silver on the tables, and the various shades of the assembled company's silver and gold and platinum hair.

"Emily, there you are," Lucius called when she appeared in the garden. "Come join us, my dear."

Oh, fuck me, she thought. She said, "Hello, everyone! How have you all been?"

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

The repast was of course delicious, and the mimosas free-flowing. The conversation, however, was perhaps less than scintillating, although Lucius was his usual effortlessly charming self, and Draco as usual jumped in with all sorts of questions about fencing the moment Emily sat down. She concentrated on keeping her manner pleasant and demure, even as Menzentius kept slanting knowing looks at her from beneath hooded eyes, Narcissa took every opportunity to get in precious little left-handed compliments, and Druella acted as though their guest was not there at all.

Perhaps an hour after she arrived, Draco asked Emily if she would like to get in a bit of fencing before supper, and she nodded graciously. "Of course, my boy, always a pleasure to bout with you." Draco grinned.

The two of them headed briefly back up to the house to change into white fencing knickers, heavy canvas fencing jackets, and trainers. Emily rejoined the group with a leather and metal mesh fencing mask under her arm, and carrying a long, narrow box of elaborately carved pale wood. "This seems like a good time to give you your birthday present," she said, holding out the box to Draco.

The boy's face lit up as he took the box from her and set it on the picnic table – and then he grinned even more when he opened the hinged lid and lifted out a light, supple fencing foil, with a straight, thirty-six-inch blade and small round bell guard, both of a gleaming, silvery metal engraved with an intricate pattern of Faery knotwork. "Cool!" he cried. "This is brilliant!"

"It's a Third Kingdom duelling foil – unhoned, and with a safety tip, of course," she said in the direction of Draco's parents. "If you were a young nobleman at Court, that's what you'd practice with for those all-important duels over pressing matters of honour."

"Like when some bratty teenage girl sends swarms of bees after you – a fellow's got to have some recourse when that happens," Lucius remarked pleasantly. He caught Emily's eye and winked.

Draco turned to her, his eyes widening. "All right, what's that all about?" he asked, chuckling.

Emily blushed. "Tell you later."

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Draco was eager to try out his gleaming new foil immediately, so a group of house-elves hurried forward to lay out and stake down several panels of polished wood on a garden path, forming an impromptu fencing strip. Emily pulled on a gauntlet and, taking her paper of swords from a pocket of her breeches, took up a foil similar to the one she had just given Draco, but much more weathered and used.

They saluted each other from opposite sides of the strip, and both assumed fencer's first position as Lucius watched with interest, Narcissa leaned close to her husband in concern, and Druella Black seemed to ponder what tortures she would mete out on this Faery harlot if she harmed one white-blond hair of her grandson's head. Menzentius, however, was nowhere to be seen.

"Ready?" Emily called to Draco, and the boy nodded. "Fence."

As usual, Draco segued into action with a great deal of natural grace and growing expertise – spoiled and overindulged though he was, the boy really did have talent. As usual, her sessions with him were a simultaneous duel and lesson, as she pushed him to a higher level of expertise and experience, throwing out new attacks for him to counter, and making him work to the utmost in order to try to score points from a wily opponent. She called encouragement and suggestions to him as they continued – "Nice, that parry third of yours just comes out of nowhere. I can see you've been working on your footwork, that's great – remember, about ninety percent of this is being fast on your feet. Watch for those low-line attacks, don't let them throw you. Good!"

They passed a pleasant hour in such exercise, as Lucius called encouragement to both combatants and Narcissa winced now and then when her son's opponent landed a point on him or gave him languid little rounds of applause when she could discern that he had done something right.

During a short break in between bouts, while the two of them downed ice water offered by the hovering elves and mopped their brows with clean white towels, Emily looked up to see Menzentius Black approaching her – dressed in impeccable fencing whites; knickers and canvas jacket, his long ash-blond hair pulled back at the nape of his neck. He carried a practice foil in one gauntleted hand and a fencing mask under the other.

"Got time for a bout?" he asked, grey eyes blazing with challenge.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Emily looked at him warily, then nodded. "Well, I suppose." She turned toward Draco – "Let's have a round-robin tournament, then. Your uncle and I will have a bout, and then you take on the winner."

"Oh my, the Hogwarts fencing mistress is going up against my brother-in-law, how exciting," Lucius drawled. "Do let's put a little wager on the outcome. What do you say, Menz?"

"What do you have in mind?" Menzentius asked.

Lucius fixed Emily with a conspiratorial look and smiled. "A case of Armagnac on the girl to win," he drawled.

"Yeah, I'll take that bet." He gave Lucius a curt nod of acceptance.

Emily turned toward Draco. "Would you like to direct? It would be good practice for you."

Draco nodded and stepped between the two of them, holding his hand up between them. "Fencers ready?"

Emily and Menzentius both assumed fencer's first position on opposite sides of the strip.

"Yes," he said, leering at her.

"Yes," she said, scowling at him.

Peripherally, she half-glimpsed something moving in a high window of the house before them – a curtain being brushed aside, to allow a dark figure to peer out. It leaned closer to the glass, interested. Despite the warmth of the summer afternoon, she shivered.

Draco dropped his hand. "Fence."

And then they had at each other.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Then – something happened during the first forward action of that bout, something that takes time to describe in detail, but that actually occurred in seconds. Emily advanced at half-speed on her opponent, her foil at the ready, elbow slightly bent, intending to get in a few preliminary feints and lunges just to gauge her unfamiliar opponent's level of ability – but she never got the chance. Menzentius's first action was to advance on her with a blindingly quick lunge, then aim an attack at her right shoulder – moving with the kind of streamlined authority that bespoke far more mastery with a blade than she would have previously imagined from him. Such was her shock at seeing such skill emerge from Menzentius Black, of all people, that she was given pause for one, crucial second – so when she instinctually moved to parry his attack, it was just one instant too late. His sword beat hard against hers, then disengaged in a single fluid motion – then his point had slammed hard into her left shoulder, which had only just healed from having been stabbed. The blow stopped her in her tracks, actually half-dropped her to one knee with a sharp gasp of pain.

"Halt," Draco called, stopping the bout, and rushed to Emily's side. "Professor – are you all right?" he asked, catching her right elbow and steadying her.

"Oh, no." Menzentius smirked at her down the strip. "Damned clumsy of me." Behind him, a thin, satisfied smile hovered on Druella Black's face, while Narcissa tutted with insouciant concern, and Lucius scowled.

Emily yanked off her mask and glared at him – the attack hadn't been clumsy at all, far from it, and he had to know that. Truth be told – she had let the fact that she had thus far found no equal opponent in the Second World make her complacent, and had come to assume that she never would find one here. Additionally, the hard hit to her barely healed shoulder not only hurt a great deal, but seemed calculated to bruise her ego as well as her flesh – and Commander Swain-Tumnus, Knight of the Morrigan, had also had her effortless superiority as a master of the sword reinforced so often that she could be rather a sore loser when that superiority was challenged. During their fistfight in the Malfoys' grand front hall, Menzentius's final attack had been on her wounded left shoulder – and Emily, knowing herself to be in a weakened state, had broken his arm to keep him from continuing with such attacks. Now – it seemed as though he had sought to complete the attack he had committed to earlier; and in doing so, finally injured her where she was vulnerable.

"I'm sorry, love, did I hurt you?" he asked with elaborate solicitousness, holding out a gallant hand to help her up.

"No, I'm all right. You just... happened on an old injury," she said, getting up by herself and ignoring his proffered hand. She left the strip for a moment, unbuttoned the neck of her fencing jacket, and slid a hand inside her clothes to massage her shoulder. It still seemed sound, and there was no bleeding – just sensitive tissues protesting the hard hit. She flexed it for a moment, waited for the soreness to subside, then refastened the jacket and took her place opposite him on the strip.

"All right then – point right. The score stands at zero, one." Draco held his hand up to mark the distance between them, glancing from uncle to teacher with a trace of nervousness. "Fencers ready?"

"Yes," Menzentius said, with a snide little laugh.

"Yes," Emily replied tightly – and thought: I am going to kick your arse all the way out to Antarctica and back again, you little Aryan fuck.

From then on, the onlookers were treated to the kind of ferocious bout that only occurs when high-level fencing champions who share a bitter rivalry face each other on the strip. Romeo Montague might have fought Tybalt Capulet like this after watching his friend Mercutio bleed to death in the street; or an American facing a Soviet athlete in Muggle international competition at the height of the Cold War might have brought this kind of anger and cunning to the contest. The feints and parries, attacks and counterattacks came on in a lethal mosaic of metal rasping and mutual dislike; both of them moving so fast that Draco was having a difficult time calling the action as he directed the bout. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy and Druella Black were not experts on the sport, but even they were flinching and gasping when one opponent came on with a savage attack or managed a split-second parry. Draco Malfoy, who knew considerably more about fencing than his parents or grandmother and who knew what kind of skill and effort went into swordplay of this calibre, looked almost awed. Out of the corner of her eye, Emily could see the dark figure at the window still closely watching the proceedings.

Ten or fifteen exhausting minutes later, Draco awarded a fourth point to Emily, while Menzentius had not managed to score again after his initial hit to her shoulder. Menzentius was good, she'd give him that, better than she'd ever have expected from him previously, but now after that first hit, he didn't have the element of surprise any longer, and he was duelling an opponent whose wiles had been honed in mortal combat. While he was capable of challenging her, and made her work for the victory, harder than anyone here in the Second World had, he was no Fianna knight. In her estimation, he could have beaten Draco easily, and could probably have beaten her best human student, Professor Snape, four times out of five. He would have achieved the rank of a journeyman squire at home, and probably would have been knighted after his first battle. But she knew for damned certain that his Mum wasn't the greatest knight of them all, thank you very much, and Emily had been hammering arrogant aristocratic dilettantes with the sword since she was a teenager.

"Looks like you might have finally met your match, Uncle," Draco said as they assumed positions on opposite sides of the strip again.

"It's not over yet," Menzentius snapped at him.

"Fencers ready?" Draco asked, to affirmative nods from both combatants. "Fence."

Emily watched Menzentius with coldly appraising eyes as he advanced quickly toward her – all right, now he was angry, and getting angrier, which would make him overcommit to attacks and would make his movements get looser and more emphatic. She let her own fury dissipate and forced all her concentration into keeping her movements precise. She let her manner become insolent and despising as she feinted to his right shoulder, then disengaged around his parry to drop her point toward his right hip. Like most men of his kind, attacks near the level of his beltline made him anxious, so his return parry was wide and sloppy. He only got angrier as she withdrew with a little chuckle. He glared at her through the fencing mask, and she saw his lips silently spit the word Bitch. She gave him a very twinkly fuck-you kind of smile in return.

A second later, it was over. Menzentius had lowered his head and practically pawed the ground, then drove everything forward in another punishing blow aimed at her left shoulder – but before he could straighten his arm completely and take right-of-way, she had thrown her shoulder back and evaded his attack with one of what Severus Snape would have called her boneless wonder sort of dodges, and then extended her right arm and drove her own point hard into his left shoulder, right into the little pocket of skin just above his collarbone. She was instantly rewarded with the sound of a grunt of pain – Yes, I hope that hurt, you lack-witted Neanderthal.

"Point left," Draco called. "Five, one. Bout left."

Lucius gave Emily a blasé round of applause while Narcissa looked concernedly at her brother, and Druella scowled. Emily pulled off her mask and raked her forearm over her sweaty forehead. Peripherally, she glanced up at the window again – but the dark figure had vanished.

"Good bout," she said, coming forward to shake Menzentius's hand. He pulled off his mask and accepted the handshake decidedly sulkily, still twitching his shoulder as though it hurt.

"So tell me, how long have you been fencing?" she asked. "I'd guess fifteen, twenty years? Probably got a wall of trophies and ribbons somewhere?"

"Twenty-one years," he muttered, accepting a glass of water from a hovering house-elf. "Since I was seven. What, are you impressed?" He fixed her with a long, challenging sideways glance.

"You're not bad – for a civilian hobbyist," she said with a nonchalant, one-shouldered shrug. "You've got what, a B rating in foil?"

"B in foil and épée. A in sabre."

"All right, I believe it." She regarded him with an appraising look. "Although it doesn't surprise me that you're the sort who favours the sabre," she added with a delicate sniff.

He sneered at her down the strip. "Let me guess, you're one of those sanctimonious épéeists who's now going to come out with a long, pissy diatribe about how it's the only historically accurate sport weapon," he said witheringly.

"It is," she shot back. "I should know."

"Ye gods, spare me," he said, rolling his eyes.

"So Menz, when can you deliver my brandy?" Lucius asked drolly.

"Tomorrow. Knock it off, Luce, that last point hurt, you sod," Menzentius retorted irritably.

But Draco had taken up a mask and the court foil Emily had given him for his birthday, and was asking for another turn against his teacher, so Menzentius grudgingly stepped between the two of them as bout director.

"Fencers ready? Fence."

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Menzentius's fit of bad temper persisted as Emily continued to bout with Draco. "Come on, Draco, try harder – you're letting her win every time," he shouted irritably, then took a seat by his sister's side, and she patted and fussed over him and generally tried to soothe his ruffled feathers. He turned to Lucius, who was still smirking at him. "Oh, look, Lucius's gloat is all clogged with smug."

"Behave yourself, Menz, or I'll tell everyone at the club our champion athlete was soundly trounced by a slip of a girl," Lucius said drolly. Menzentius scowled, and Narcissa gave her husband a reproachful look and continued her fussing and patting.

"Don't feel too bad – my mother started teaching me the sword practically the moment I was big enough to hold one," Emily told the group as she and Draco took a break between bouts. "Her idea of mother-daughter bonding is a good afternoon's bout, put it that way."

"How exhilarating," Narcissa said in that sniffy voice of hers. Druella Black grunted disdainfully.

Late that afternoon, Lucius glanced at his gold antique pocket watch, and said it was about time to head back up to the house and dress for dinner. The house-elves scrambled to pull out Mrs. Black's chair, and Draco took his grandmother's arm and helped her up, then began walking with her toward the house. Lucius offered his hand to his wife, and the two of them sailed off in a rustle of expensive tailoring.

Emily glanced at Menzentius as she gathered up her foil and mask. "You were holding back when you fought me that time, weren't you," she muttered, out of the others' earshot. "The whole thing was staged."

"I was there to show off what you could do – er, He already knows what I can do," he replied. "Besides... " he ran an appraising eye over her body in the close-fitting white athletic jersey and fencing knickers – "I'm not Barty Crouch. I think it would have been a shame to damage the goods... too much." He nodded toward her left shoulder – "Can I get you a bit of ice or a drop of Healing Potion for that?"

Emily smiled sweetly at him. "Oh, fuck you," she said in a pleasant undertone. "If I was at one hundred percent, I could break you in half even in this form, and you know it."

Menzentius just smirked at her again. "But you're not at one hundred percent, are you, sweetling? Nasty old iron, that shite hurts you even in your other form, doesn't it? So I guess you people aren't as totally invulnerable as you make yourselves out to be, are you," he chuckled. "'If you prick us, do we not bleed?'"

She scowled. "Your average iron knife will prick a human too, my dear," she shot back. "And I don't recall ever telling anyone I was invulnerable."

"Oh, come, you two, still squabbling? Perhaps you'll have to give him a rematch later, Emily," Lucius called back to them.

"Anytime, anywhere," she muttered in Menzentius's direction.

He glanced at her, his grey eyes gleaming ferally. "I'm going to hold you to that," he said.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Emily, Draco, and Menzentius had left off fencing just after six p.m. that afternoon, and shortly after seven, the group assembled again in the great main hall for a cocktail before supper.

Emily had chosen demure amethyst-coloured robes with elbow sleeves, and thrown a light shawl of black crocheted spidersilk over her shoulders, recalling Narcissa's complaints about Does she ever wear anything on her arms? Nonetheless, her hostess and hostess's mother, both resplendent in high-necked and very Victorian blue silk robes and sumptuous black mourning, respectively, darted discreetly disapproving looks at her when she appeared.

One of the house-elves approached and offered her a glass of wine, which Emily accepted with the tiniest of scowls. Oh, by the Mother, it was summer for pity's sake. At home, she'd be skipping about in a light frock, camibloomers, and perhaps a bodice, with just little flat slippers on her feet if she wore shoes at all. Really, she reflected, it would seem that nothing short of a boned collar up to her earlobes, buttoned sleeves to her knuckles, a cathedral-length train, opera gloves, and a full-face ski mask would be covered up enough for these women. It didn't seem to be her exposed skin they objected to so much as the fact of her existence.

Friday night's supper was held in the smaller dining room, seeing as how there were only Lucius and Narcissa, Menzentius, Draco, Druella Black, and Emily present. Lucius and Narcissa again presided at the head and foot of the table, with Emily at Lucius's left hand and Draco on his right. Menzentius was seated on her left side, and although he kept up a steady stream of garrulous conversation with his mother and sister at their end of the table, Emily felt the weight of his eyes on her face for most of that meal and during the quiet hour the group spent in the main hall before retiring. Lucius said his good-night to her with a tiny but infinitely suggestive little half-smile and eyebrow quirk that let her know that the evening's festivities were not quite over yet – and a chill formed in her stomach despite the two after-dinner brandies she had drunk that night.

She caught Menzentius's eyes as they all headed up to bed – he was still staring brazenly at her, both menacing and inviting.

Although she knew he probably couldn't have taken her in a real confrontation unless perhaps she was in some way incapacitated, it was still a tremendous relief when she was alone in her guest bedroom, with a three-foot sword within easy reach.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Despite the day's physical exertions, it took a long time before Emily could relax enough to even think about sleeping. Lucius had implied that he might be paying a visit to her room that night, so she washed her face, daubed violet oil on her neck and wrists, put on a helplessly gossamer little silk chemise, and generally made ready to welcome him like the proper little courtesan he expected.

The hour grew very late, and she got into bed and turned out the light, lying nervously in the dark. She wanted to get up and put the strongest Wards of Impassability she could on every entrance to that room, every door, every window, every ventilation shaft and heating duct, but she didn't dare. Somehow she finally managed to fall into a light doze, but even her sleeping mind remained listening, in the manner she had learned while camped near disputed borders waiting to be ambushed at any time.

As such, she was awakened back to full consciousness by the sound of a doorknob turning, and her bedroom door opening and closing. Flash of a man's white-blond hair in a shaft of moonlight, and the sound of stealthy footsteps approaching her bed. She made herself remain silent and motionless, feigning sleep.

There came the sound of a robe being untied and tossed aside – and then a hand slowly drew the coverlet off of her motionless form. Fingertips outlined her lips, the curve of a breast, then lifted the hem of her silk chemise... a creak as someone slid into bed with her. She stirred gently; a woman roused from sleep by the carnal attentions of an incubus.

A hand caressed the inside of her right knee, gently drew her legs apart; breath on her inner thigh, moving upward... a long, gloating moan... then for one heart-stopping second it occurred to her that there was more than one blond man in this house who might like to slip into her bed, and she tensed, gasping. Lucius?

Lucius's voice whispered Sssssh... lie back, and she relaxed, nervous but compliant.

His hands curved around her hips, and then his tongue was bathing all her most sensitive pleasure centres with velvety warmth in that patient, expert, diabolically sensual way of his. She tried to remember everything horrible this man had done, what a monster he was, what he would do to her if he found her out – but then she was arching up toward him, melting into that devious mouth, taking a handful of blond hair and crushing him down harder as her orgasm neared. The raw greed of the gesture only seemed to excite him the more.

He stretched himself out over her afterward, luxuriously thrusting into the body he had just rendered trembling with heat. Yessssss... I missed you... and you missed me, didn't you...

She only sighed in answer.

Again, he knew her body too well, was a scholar of what she needed in bed – she felt feverish, weak; as if she had been infected with some virulent disease from which she hadn't quite recovered. As always, it never seemed to matter how he wanted her, somehow her body still craved him – he wasn't human, he was a drug. She felt the orgasm rising half against her will, but knew that if she suddenly ceased taking pleasure in sex with him, he would suspect something, realise that something was different. Closing her eyes, burying her face in his neck, she tried to let herself enjoy this act purely as a female mated to a sexually desirable male might enjoy his attentions, no more emotional involvement than physical response. But then that insinuating drawl was whispering luscious obscenity in her ears – This is how I wanted to fuck you the first time you were here... I was upstairs in my room, thinking about you lying in bed all alone – and the scent of illicit lust washed over her, and all she could do was writhe under him with the joy of an addict relapsing.

And of course he had to be in one of his tender, gentle moods afterward, when all he wanted to do was hold her, stroke her hair, and kiss her adoringly, like a lazy golden lion purring over his mate. He seemed very happy, just like he had after their first Beltane together.

Oh my love, he whispered. I can hardly believe you're mine again.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

It was, as could be imagined, difficult for Emily to sleep that night – sharing a bed with a man she now acutely distrusted and even feared, was not entirely conducive to relaxation. She lay motionless beside him and drifted in and out of a light doze, returning to awareness every time her bed partner stirred or rolled over. Finally, as the sky began to pale outside, he got up and kissed her softly, then reached for the robe beside the bed and silently made his escape. After he was gone, she got up and warded the doors and windows, then went back to bed.

One thought came to the fore – I'm in. He thinks I've finally missed him enough, or gotten desperate enough, to come back into the fold for good... He doesn't suspect me of anything.

With that knowledge, she finally crashed into a profound, exhausted sleep.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Emily was awakened sometime later by a light but persistent knocking on her door – a high tremulous voice was squeaking, "Miss Professor, please? Miss Professor... please? Good morning, please? Breakfast... please?"

It now appeared to be about mid-morning – so of course a house-elf would be coming up with a breakfast tray, as per Malfeasant routine. Emily quickly put on her robe and raked a brush through her tousled hair, then went to the door, laid a hand on it, and muttered Ende Stoppian and her True Name. "Yes, come in," she called.

The door opened to admit a little house-elf in a white toga made from a lace-edged pillowcase, carrying a breakfast tray – a house-elf Emily recognised, with huge, soulful brown eyes and a sharp, foxy little face. "Good morning, Cecile," she said after a moment desperately recalling the elf's name.

Cecile greeted her with an absolutely enormous smile. "Good morning, Miss Professor Emily Swain, miss! Cecile has brought breakfast!" The elf crossed to the round, velvet-draped table and cushioned chairs near the hearth, and set down a large silver salver absolutely laden with food – a steaming teapot, a crystal carafe of fresh orange juice, a platter of exotic hothouse fruit, whole-wheat scones with butter, honey, and a variety of preserves. In a blink, she had set the table with napkin and silverware, a crystal stemmed glass, and monogrammed china teacup and plates. She poured out the tea, then produced a large vase of fragrant yellow roses and heliotrope from somewhere in her uniform and set it beside the breakfast tray, finishing up with a curtsy. "Good morning!"

Well, Emily thought, watching this performance with a growing smile, it looks like someone remembers me.

She crossed to the table and took the chair Cecile pulled out for her, then began buttering a scone and added a drop of honey to her tea. The simple pleasures of steaming tea, fresh fruit, and hot bread were a welcome distraction after the tensions of the previous day and night.

Cecile remained close by, smiling broadly and all but bouncing on the balls of her feet with the desire to be helpful. "Please, Miss Professor, can Cecile be helping? Be you wanting anything?"

"Yes, dear, can you tell me what the plans are for today, again? Narcissa mentioned them yesterday at dinner, but I was a bit distracted – when are we meeting?"

"Yes, Miss Professor. It being quarter to ten now, we has the morning time for breakfast and getting ready, and the getting ready be for when at noon the young Master Malfoy is to be greeting his young-people-friends and the young-people-friends' parents in the big green hall." The elf illustrated all the points on her agenda with earnest, animated little gestures – Emily had to hide a chuckle in her teacup. "When the guests is all here, there is lunch in the garden and games on the green, and then there is cocktail hour at six, dinner at seven, dancing at nine. On Sunday there is noontime family tea and then all is going home." Cecile followed up with a little curtsy, like a schoolgirl after a recitation.

"Ah, yes, of course, dear. Thank you for reminding me." Emily ran a covert eye over the elf – no bandages on her hands, no signs of injury, so she appeared to be keeping herself out of trouble and hadn't been punished recently. A second later, Cecile spied the unmade bed, and began making it up again, after excusing herself with another desperate little curtsy. Emily watched as the elf went to work with marvellous speed and efficiency – in no time at all, Cecile had the bed made up to perfection, had gathered up the silk chemise from the previous night and yesterday's clothes from the chair beside the bed and hung them in the wardrobe.

When the work was finished, Cecile bounced up to Emily's side at the breakfast table again – she was briefly reminded of Lady the dog running eagerly back up to Draco during their game of fetch the previous afternoon. "Please, Miss Professor, is there anything else I can be doing, a bath I can be drawing, clothes I can be pressing?"

"Certainly, dear... er, could you perhaps hang up the clothes in my trunk, if it's not too much trouble?" Emily asked almost guiltily – it was one thing to come back to her rooms and find evidence of the elves' work, but it was quite another to actually watch one of them work and give her orders. "Not everything, just what you think I'll need for today and tomorrow, a couple of day frocks and some dress robes for the dinner tonight, maybe some outdoor things for the afternoon. I'm sorry, I didn't get back up here till late – "

"Of course, Miss." In another instant, Cecile had her Holding Trunk open and was traipsing down the spiral staircase into it, then making trips back up with folded dresses and robes and stacks of shoeboxes in her arms, which she neatly arranged in the closet. A second later, Cecile's head popped up from the trunk's hatch, ears a-flop and her eyes wide – "And Miss Professor, what should I be doing about the metal pullover and all the pointy knives?"

"Er, leave the metal pullover and the pointy knives alone – you shouldn't touch those, they could hurt you. I'll look after them," Emily said quickly.

Cecile nodded, and her head disappeared back into the trunk's interior, then popped out again a second later. "Miss Professor? There be a basket here with buttons to be sewn on and things to be mended, can I be doing that for you, please?"

Emily looked at the elf, distracted. "Well yes, that's my mending basket, I was going to get around to all that with Reparo spells... er, don't you think that's a little above and beyond what you need to do, dear? I'm just a guest, dear heart, not your Mistress."

"I is not minding, I is wanting to help you," Cecile said, nodding so vigorously that her ears quivered.

Emily sighed, watching Cecile's face. There were any number of reasons why the elf might be trying to prolong her time helping Miss Professor – the guest who had done her a good turn on her previous visit. Perhaps she felt safer here than she did anywhere else in the house; perhaps she was indulging in a few moments' escapist fantasy of having a nicer mistress, one who wouldn't make her iron her hands – or perhaps she was just grateful. But at that moment it seemed cruel to refuse her offers of help and to send her away.

"Well... that would be all right, but only if it doesn't take you away from your other work," Emily said. "Don't spend more than a few minutes on it."

"Oh no, it is all right." Cecile was up and out of the trunk in an instant, with the mending basket in her hands, then sat herself cross-legged on the hearth rug beside it and, producing a little needle and thread from somewhere in her tunic, began reaffixing some loose buttons on a black lambswool cardigan. "Cecile has the whole morning to help, and the Miss Professor took barely no time at all for her hair and clothes last visit. Why, when Cecile was the Mrs. Rosier's maid before, it takes longer to do up the Mrs. Rosier's hair and pluck out all her silver hairs and pull really hard on her corset ropes than it does to help Miss Professor do everything," the elf said earnestly, nodding.

Emily bent over her teacup, not quite stifling a spasm of irrepressible laughter at the image of Cecile tweezing Mrs. Rosier's grey hair and yanking heroically on her corset strings. "I see," she said.

"When I has been maid for the Missuses Crabbe and Goyle and Bulstrode and the Miss Wilkes, they is wanting more more more breakfast all the time, so I keeps running running running all morning, and the floor and tablecloth and bed sheets is all with crumbs – yuck!" said Cecile, making a face as she continued stitching. "Mrs. Parkinson, it is not so bad to be her maid, but she is always wanting more sherry at night, and I is having to wake up when I hear her bell."

Now this was getting interesting – and disturbing. It sounded as though some of the women were taking refuge in overeating – and at least one in drink – and it also looked as though the Malfoy house-elves could perhaps use a sympathetic ear as well, which she might be able to turn to her advantage. "Well, I hope that the Mistress Malfoy doesn't make you run up and down with breakfast trays and sherry bottles, and pull hard on her corset strings," Emily said pleasantly. Cecile started mending a torn black chemise – and Emily remembered how it had gotten torn, during a particularly athletic tussle with Lucius in a hotel bedroom some months earlier, and blushed hotly.

The elf went on with her quick, precise little needle, oblivious – but at the mention of Narcissa, her floppy ears drooped. "I is not really the Mistress Malfoy's maid, she says I is too young and clumsy and had to throw so many slippers at me that it made her arm tired. And I is not allowed to serve at meetings anymore because I was getting tired and fell asleep when I is supposed to mind the fire last time. But I is much better about that now," she said, looking up with a little, meek smile.

Emily's attention pricked forward intensely. "Why did you get so tired at the meeting, dear?" she asked.

"Well, the meetings, they is all very long, and late at night, when I is used to be sleeping," Cecile said, very apologetically indeed.

"Really?" Emily asked. "Why do they hold meetings so late at night?"

"Because they have important things going on, that not all the guests can know, it is... " But then she broke off, and her shoulders hunched and her eyes got wide – "Oh... I is not supposed to tell about meetings, I... "

A second later, to Emily's utter horror, Cecile had jabbed the sewing needle into the back of her hand, whispering Bad Cecile, bad Cecile! I is not to be telling, bad – ! Emily darted up from the breakfast table in a clatter of china and caught the elf's hands, immobilising them, and slapped the needle out of her hand and away from her.

"Stop that, stop that now," she ordered, giving the elf a shake. "Don't you ever do that in front of me, do you hear me?"

Cecile looked up at her, ashamed and a little frightened. "But Master Malfoy said – "

"Master Malfoy isn't here, and Master Malfoy told you to serve me while I'm here," Emily said sternly. "And I don't want you to hurt yourself, not now, not ever, do you understand?"

"Yes," the elf quavered in a tiny voice. "Cecile is not to be hurting herself... when she is serving the Miss Professor and when the Master Malfoy is not here."

"Good," Emily said, letting go of the elf's hands with a severe look. She then looked over the fat droplet of red blood welling up upon Cecile's pricked hand with a concerned eye. "Oh, bloody hell, you stabbed yourself pretty good there, didn't you. Now you stay put, I'll be back in a moment."

She went into the bathroom and found the small, incredibly expensive vial of Healing Potion she had bought some weeks earlier in Diagon Alley, then knelt down on the hearth rug and applied a bit to the back of Cecile's hand with a ball of cotton wool. The pinprick healed over instantly.

"There you go," Emily said, swabbing up the last of the blood. "You'll be fine."

Cecile sat very still while these ministrations went on. Afterward, she glanced up at Emily with big, scared eyes. "Is Miss Professor going to be... telling the Master Malfoy Cecile blabbed? I is not meaning to blab... I is just talking to the nice Miss Professor... "

"Cecile... I'll tell you the truth," Emily said, leaning down to look her in the eye. "I'm not going to tell him you said anything. I'm not going to try to get you in trouble with your Master and Mistress, not ever. Even if you did get into some mischief, I'd probably still not tell him. I'd rather that you weren't punished even if you did blab, because I think your Master and Mistress Malfoy discipline their elves too harshly, and it does not make me at all happy to see you suffer, do you understand?"

Cecile listened to this speech in frank, open-mouthed astonishment, as though she could barely comprehend one of the Master and Mistress Malfoy's guests saying such a thing. "I... is... thanking you," she finally said, then got to her feet and made a curtsy.

"You're very welcome," Emily said. "Now, promise me you won't tell anyone about what I just said, then? If your Master and Mistress thought I was undermining their authority, they'd probably not be very happy with me, either."

"No, no," Cecile cried. "I is not going to be getting you into trouble, not for nothing."

"Thank you, you're very kind to me," Emily said, smiling.

Cecile shyly smiled back. "Please, miss, can I be getting you anything else? Can I be drawing your bath for you?" she asked with another curtsy.

"No, I'll draw it myself. Just... " Emily glanced around for something for the elf to do, just to keep her in the sanctuary of her guest room for a few more untroubled minutes. "How about you finish the mending, and lay out my black voile day robes, then, would you?"

The elf nodded excitedly. "You can be considering it done, you can," she chirped.

"Thank you."

As Emily turned toward the bath, leaving Cecile to her mending, it occurred to her that she might have made a very important blunder in talking so candidly to Cecile, and more or less openly undermining Lucius's authority over his house-elves... but she might have made an important ally, as well. At any rate, coming to someone's aid the way she had now twice done for Cecile couldn't help but create some kind of bond between them. Now, when she left Malfeasant, she was going to have to leave someone she knew and liked behind, in a position of total dependence on people who forced her to injure herself if she failed to carry out their orders. Concerned as she was about Draco's welfare, Draco was the Malfoys' only heir, and thus valuable to them. Cecile was just one powerless little elf among many and was, as such, replaceable and expendable.

As she left Cecile contentedly mending clothes on the hearth rug, Emily wondered how much a young, clumsy house-elf cost, and how much cajoling it would take to convince Lucius to sell her.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Later that day, Emily made her way down to the Malfoys' main hall, where Draco would shortly be greeting his friends and their parents at a few minutes past noon.

She looked particularly well-turned-out that day, as when she had emerged from the bath, combed, oiled, powdered, and dressed in stockings, chemise, and a robe, she found that Cecile had not only laid out the light, sleeveless robes of lacy black voile she had requested for the day, but apparently finished the mending, and now was in the process of cleaning and polishing every bit of jewellery and pair of shoes Emily owned. The elf had gone on to style Emily's hair into a sleek bob, then took perhaps five minutes to give her a flawless manicure as well before going back to her boot-polishing. Emily got the feeling that Cecile probably would have stayed in Miss Professor's guest room all day and cleaned and polished and pressed everything in sight if it was at all possible. (Had Emily not known how insulting your average house-elf found such consideration, she probably would have left Cecile a tip the size of Gringotts.)

Lucius, Narcissa, Druella, Menzentius, and Draco were all waiting in the main hall when she arrived, all of them posed about the room in various armchairs, chaises, and settees, dressed in expensively casual day robes and generally looking like a gracious country living pictorial spread from Witch Weekly. Lucius and Narcissa were cosily taking tea side by side in a pair of matching black leather armchairs when Emily arrived – their host immediately got up and greeted her when she came in. "Good morning, my dear, I trust you slept well? How was breakfast?" Draco loped up and asked if she wanted to do a bit more fencing when the others got there, in addition to the badminton and croquet that was planned.

"Yes, breakfast was marvellous, thank you. And yes, if anyone wants to go a few bouts, I'd be happy to join in." She took a seat on the green velvet chaise before the great hearth, daintily arranging her skirts and trying not to remember all the various lewd and lascivious ways Lucius had taken her on this same chaise Beltane night. A house-elf in a starched black pillowcase uniform was immediately beside her, offering a delicate china cup of herbal tea. "Thank you."

Draco perched himself on the end of the chaise beside her, talking about how he still hoped to organise inter-House fencing teams at Hogwarts for the coming year, and Emily held her teacup demurely in her lap, smiling and making the appropriate sounds of acknowledgment at the appropriate times. Her eyes were drawn to the great antique mirror near the hall's entrance, a mirror larger than most doorways. It reflected the lot of them in the luxuriously decorated hall like the cast of some sweeping family drama: an elderly, white-haired matriarch in sumptuous black, holding court like an empress; three handsome blond gentlemen, the suave patriarch of forty, the hellraiser of an uncle, twenty-eight, and the golden son of fifteen. Rounding out the list of players were two lovely, tastefully dressed blonde women, both somewhere in their thirties, each primly holding a teacup in her elegant white hands.

It occurred to Emily with disturbing clarity just how well she herself seemed to fit into the tableau of the perfect Malfoy family... how much she already seemed one of them.

But then she made herself look away from the mirror, and just waited for whatever would come next.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Draco's party guests began arriving at quarter past noon.

Emmitt and Beatrice Parkinson and their daughter Pansy arrived first. Emmitt proudly squired his lovely wife and pretty, petulant daughter into the main hall to greet the assembled company as the house-elves dealt with their mountain of luggage. The three of them made an impressive picture together: Mr. Parkinson looked craggily autocratic and disdainful as always, and Mrs. Parkinson and her daughter were both very handsomely dressed. Pansy looked charming in summer robes of blue organdie, white gloves, and a diamond locket, but Emily thought she looked downcast and even sulkier than usual.

None of the Parkinsons had been spared during the briefing Professor Snape had given Emily during their late-night walk on the turrets, and she recalled now what he had said regarding them: To his credit, Parkinson is one of the few who still surprises me with something resembling a decent streak now and then – he'd rather hand someone a bribe to secure his compliance than torture him for it, rather negate an enemy's threat through cleverness than just have him killed. His business practices are corrupt as all bloody hell, of course, but I've never seen him use an Unforgiveable. After his marriage, to my very great surprise, Parkinson also turned out to be the last word in faithful husbands – to my knowledge, he's never made use of any of the, er, paid entertainment Lucius sometimes provides at parties, nor does he keep a mistress that anyone knows of. He's extremely possessive of his wife, granted, but he's not a hypocrite, at least when it comes to her. The way to his heart is to get into Beatrice's best graces, and flatter him as to what a devoted model wife she is – he enjoys that. It wouldn't hurt to tell him what a brilliantly clever little angel his selfish brat of a daughter is, either.

The Parkinsons were now making the rounds of the room, smiling and shaking hands and kissing cheeks. "Mr. Parkinson, what a pleasure to see you and your family again," Emily said when his attention lighted upon her. "Pansy was such a pleasure to have in class, and your wife is always so charming," Emily said, smiling.

Parkinson smiled back. "Hello, my dear, how lovely to see you too." He greeted her with a warm handshake. "Please, do call me Emmitt."

"Of course. And you must call me Emily as well."

Beatrice Parkinson sailed up a moment later and shook Emily's hand, looking very pretty as always in embroidered violet-blue robes, her wavy black hair blowing around her shoulders. "Why hello, Emily, how lovely to see you again. I must say, poor Pansy was so upset that you're not staying for another year – and everyone knows it's so difficult to find a really qualified teacher for the Defence Against the Dark Arts job at Hogwarts. Are you sure there's no way we can tempt you to stay on?"

Beatrice is without a doubt your best hope for an ally amongst the women, Professor Snape had said. She's terribly lonesome, you see. She's always been an outsider because she's the youngest and most attractive amongst them, and what's more, she married above her own station financially and is one of the great few with a faithful husband as well – which of course means that all the women hate her with a passion. Mrs. Rosier and Druella especially are always trying to undermine her socially in some way; Druella because Emmitt preferred Beatrice to one of her daughters, and Felina because Felina does that to anything female.

But you have to remember that Emmitt doesn't tell Beatrice anything whatsoever about his shadier pursuits – doesn't want to bother the little woman's pretty head with boring business and politics, of course. But she's far cleverer and more observant than he realises, so as a result, she knows just enough to be dangerous, and it's easy to wheedle it out of her by lending a sympathetic ear. On the other hand, though, while Emmitt might spend some time in Azkaban for racketeering, blackmail, extortion, and conspiracy, Beatrice doesn't have a mark on her.

"Well, as it turns out, I don't need to rush right home," Emily said breezily. "Perhaps Dumbledore will be hiring, if I'm still in England at the end of the summer."

"Oh, good, good!" Beatrice said with a brilliant smile, then leaned close to Emily's ear for a little aside. "I must say, it's so pleasant to know someone who can talk about something other than shopping and redecorating. Do let's sit together at lunch."

"Of course." Emily smiled back, thinking: Oh, you dear thing, I do hope I don't end up giving evidence against your husband.

The Crabbe, Goyle, and Bulstrode families appeared soon afterward, accompanied by their respective children (Dumb as bricks, tractable as sheep, and incapable of formulating an original thought – don't count on a great deal of dissembling from any of them, in Professor Snape's estimation), followed by Walden Macnair in khaki sportsmen's robes with his grey-haired, pudding-shaped wife on his arm (Walden married Laeticia for her fortune, pure and simple; she adores him helplessly and is completely oblivious to the rate at which he spends her money chasing other women.) Marcus Flint, Sr. and Jr. and Mrs. Flint arrived not long afterward (Think of the Flints as being quite like the Crabbes, only with more cunning and a sadistic streak.) Next, the group greeted Mr. Nott and his son, Theodore (The Notts are very nearly as rich as the Malfoys, and their pedigree is centuries older. Their major point of contention with the Malfoys is that Theodore the Elder is as conservative as Lucius is... self-indulgent, and Theodore the Younger refuses to toady up to anyone, including Draco.)

Last to arrive was Mrs. Felina Rosier, who again ignored Emily completely. Professor Snape had remained strangely reticent on the subject of Mrs. Rosier, despite the fact that Emily knew he disliked her as much as she herself did. Felina is... troublesome, he had said. Think of her as an incorrigible antagonist, similar to Druella. If I were you, I would steer well clear of her.

All of the guests had arrived by one o'clock. The adults lounged about in armchairs and settees, sipping tea and engaging in genteel, jovial conversation, while the young people, Pansy Parkinson, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, and Millicent Bulstrode gathered in an admiring knot around Draco, hanging on his every word and laughing boisterously now and then. Theodore Nott and Marcus Flint stood a little ways off by themselves, animatedly discussing the Falmouth Falcons' chances in the next Quidditch World Cup.

A big, furry someone approached Emily's seat and lay down on the rug beside her – Lady, Draco's Newfoundland dog, was still on her ceaseless quest to find someone willing to pet her. She leaned her big jowly head against the side of Emily's knee, looking up at her face with searching brown eyes. Emily stroked the dog's head, and Lady's eyes closed in contentment.

"What troubles you?" she murmured to Lady, then silently spoke a word.

Lady's eyes widened, and she looked anxiously into Emily's face, whining – and through the first form of Deceivre, the whining formed a question. Not words, strictly speaking, but easily understood feelings and impressions – unsatisfied wondering, unhappiness at the absence of a loved one, sense impressions of a human being: *Where BlackCoat-SoftVoice-KindHands?*

Emily sighed, knowing exactly who the dog meant. "He's safe," she replied quietly. "He couldn't come this time."

Lady whined again, leaning her head against Emily's knee. Attitude of disappointment.

"I'm sorry you're unhappy," she whispered, accompanying the words with a gentle ear-scratching. Lady draped her head over Emily's knee and closed her eyes.

"No, no, Lady, bad girl, you'll get dog hair all over the Professor's lovely robes." Lucius appeared beside her seat, gently chastising the dog. "Come here." Lady reluctantly got up from her cosy recline beside the chaise, and went to Lucius's side. "Good girl," he said, patting her head. "Now go on, go play in the garden."

Lady made her rather downcast exit, and Lucius held out his hand to Emily. "Come, dear, could I speak to you for a moment?"

She took his proffered hand and rose, brushing off her skirts. "What is it?"

"Have I shown you the sketches for the new family portrait I've commissioned, dear?" he asked pleasantly. "No? Well, you must see them then. Come along into the study... "

He led her up the gallery steps and into the study that had been his father's, and was now his own. But the moment they crossed the study's threshold, he had pinned her back against the wall just inside the door, kissing her ravenously and pressing himself against her, barely fifty feet from where his wife and son were holding court amidst all the guests in the main hall.

"You were wonderful last night," he purred in her ear. "You can't imagine how much I missed you." His fingers slid down her back, slithering down her hips to squeeze her rump with both hands. An instant later, he had a hand beneath her helplessly gossamer voile skirts, fingers caressing her inner thigh, tracing their way northerly.

"Lucius, come on," she whispered, glancing nervously toward the open door and trying to pull away from him. "Someone might come in – "

But the testosterone haze around him only spiked upward at the suggestion – apparently the idea of getting caught only excited him further. He pressed her back more firmly against the wall. "You remember what I showed you, what I told you, that night when we were so deep into each other's minds I could barely tell where I ended and you began... "

"Yes," she said in a breathless whisper.

"And?" he prompted. Clever fingers slid beneath her knickers, drenched themselves in her fluids. One slick fingertip found the most sensitive kernel of flesh between her thighs and circled it. "Have you thought about it since? Given any more thought to what I offered you... ?"

"I can't stop thinking about it," she gasped. It was true, his offer of marriage to Draco had occupied much of her thoughts ever since the idea was proposed. She had mostly thought about how impossible it was to accept such an offer and how disgustingly corrupt he was to even suggest such a thing, but the words were true on their face. But his tongue was still on hers, every delicate caress echoed by the movements of his fingers... the tension hardening, rising...

"Let's talk more about this tonight in your room, shall we?" the insinuating drawl purred in her ear.

"All right," she gasped, writhing half-voluntarily against him – but just as her excitement became undeniable, just as she had ceased caring who saw them, so long as he just didn't stop... he let go of her and stepped back, making her gasp with disappointment.

"Just wait until tonight after the ball," he whispered. "Then I can give you my... undivided attention."

He stepped back, gave her a gracious smile and nod of farewell, and was gone, back into the crowd of his guests.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Lunch was another elaborate picnic at many white-draped tables out on the lawn, tables groaning with delicacies and iced tubs of wine. Emily sat beside the merry, vivacious Beatrice Parkinson, who was very pleasant company, and Mrs. Bulstrode, whose powers of conversation seemed limited to smiles, nods, and grunts of acknowledgment now and then. Emily noticed that the Malfeasant green was all set up with a badminton net, croquet hoops, a shooting trap with clay pigeons, and three of those impromptu fencing strips like the one they had used the day before.

In the mid-afternoon, many of the guests had changed into more casual outdoor clothes, and games were starting up on the lawn. Mrs. Macnair, Mrs. Rosier, and Mrs. Bulstrode had started up a ladylike game of croquet, as house-elves hovered about them with trays of iced tea. Both Flint père and Flint fils were practicing golf putts on a smooth carpet of green lawn with Lucius and Mr. Parkinson, and Millicent Bulstrode and Pansy Parkinson were energetically batting a badminton birdie between them. Draco had of course prevailed upon Emily to join the fencing, and Beatrice had surprised her by appearing in spotless fencing whites and trainers, saying that she hadn't crossed swords with anyone since she was a teenager, and that she would rather like to take it up again.

"Splendid," Emily said, smiling. "Which weapon do you favour, épée, sabre, or foil?"

"Oh, the foil, definitely," Beatrice replied. "Épée hits are just vicious, and the sabre goes so fast I'm quite afraid of it."

The two of them spent a quarter hour in a refresher course sort of lesson, as Beatrice got the feel of the sport again – and Emily noticed that Lucius was getting so absorbed in watching the two of them that Mr. Flint had to nudge him when they came to his turn on the putting green.

Peripherally, Emily noticed a group of guests off to one side taking turns shooting at targets with their wands – Messrs. Crabbe and Goyle and Menzentius Black were spiritedly egging each other on while Narcissa sat placidly nearby with her mother, sipping tea and watching them, now and then roused to blasé applause for a good shot. Menzentius seemed to be prevailing upon her to join them, and after several minutes of such blandishments, Narcissa acquiesced, got up, and drew her wand.

Pull, she ordered, and a clay disc went skittering up in the air, only to fall back to the grass as dust motes. This was not beginner's luck by any means – every other target Narcissa set her sights upon fell to the grass in the same condition, even the really tiny ones that were scarcely bigger than an aspirin tablet.

Well well well, Emily thought, her eyes widening with surprise and admiration. She wouldn't have imagined it in a million years, but damned if Lucius's placid porcelain doll of a wife wasn't one hell of a shot. But now Pansy Parkinson had joined the fencers, and Beatrice extended a playful challenge to her daughter. "Emily, would you mind directing the bout?"

"No, I'd be happy to. Fencers ready?"

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

The company whiled away the afternoon in such pastoral diversions until most of the adults had gotten tired and gone into the main hall to talk business and politics and things sold and things acquired over cups of tea. Emily wanted to go in and listen to the conversations, but the birthday boy was politely adamant about his wish to get in some more fencing with her, and she had little choice but to humour him. "You don't mind, do you? It's just, you're fun to bout with, and it might be the last time I get to see you before you go home, you know?" the boy said.

"No, I don't mind," she said, smiling.

But then the afternoon was over, and it was nearly time to go upstairs and dress for supper and the dance planned for that evening. The two combatants finished their last bout and scrubbed off their faces with towels. The house-elves made haste to offer them glasses of water.

Draco lingered by Emily's side, drying his damp forehead. "Hey, I wanted to ask you, Professor... do you know where Professor Snape has got off to, that he couldn't come this weekend?" he asked, looking troubled for a moment. "I mean, he's never missed one of my birthday parties before – it's just not like him."

Emily paused, turning casually back toward the boy. "Oh, someone told you he couldn't come this weekend?" she asked, airily surprised.

"Yeah, Mother said he was really busy and couldn't make it," Draco said, shrugging. "Do you know if he's working on his place in Orkney again, or did he have Potions stuff to do, or something?"

Emily's brows creased. "Draco... I'll tell you the truth. Professor Snape and I may have worked together, but we aren't exactly what you could call best friends, and he's never really kept me apprised of his comings and goings. So really, I can't tell you," she said, shrugging. "It's odd to me too – I thought before that your parents invited him to everything." Her tone invited the boy to elaborate on this topic if he so desired.

"They do – that's why it's weird not to see him," Draco said, his pale face pinching slightly with concern. "He and Father have been thick as thieves since they were kids, everybody knows that. That's why I wasn't at all nervous about going to Hogwarts when I got my letter – because my Head of House was one of my father's best friends, who I'd known since I was little, you know?"

"It must have been reassuring," she said, patting his shoulder.

"Yeah, it was," Draco said, nodding. "He's the only teacher at school who really looks out for me – the Headmaster and McGonagall were both Gryffindors, and they favour their own House so much it's just disgusting. If it weren't for my father and Professor Snape, I think the Slytherins would get the shaft from the administration every time, they're all so bloody unfair."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Emily said gently.

"So if you see him, you know, tell him to write me or something, all right?" His grey eyes sought hers.

"If I see him, I will," she said, her tone indicating how very unpredictable was the likelihood that she would be able to deliver this message.

"Just, you know, if you get a chance," the boy persisted. "Just if you're ever in the same place, the Three Broomsticks or something."

"All right, I will," she replied. "If we ever happen to be in the same place."

Draco smiled. "Thanks, thanks a lot."

Just then, a meek little elf came out with the message that Narcissa wanted Draco to start getting ready for the dinner dance to be held that evening, and the two of them shook hands, congratulated each other on a bout well fought, and headed back into the house.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

As per Malfeasant custom, the guests assembled for a cocktail hour in their best evening finery before supper.

Emily had chosen deep green robes of beaded and embroidered spidersilk, selected more or less because they covered her arms to the wrist, and had mused over what jewellery to wear for a good few minutes. Her very best jewellery would have been appropriate for an elaborate ball like this, but her favourite glimmering double strand of Arcadian pearls made Narcissa feel competitive and thus were right out, and she couldn't wear the diamond collar or diamond earrings Lucius had given her because they were made by the Malfoy family jeweller and Narcissa might recognise his work... bloody hell, but this business of spying on one's married lover and his family required a lot of forethought. Finally, she decided on a dainty little emerald and diamond pendant her father had given her upon finishing at Beauxbatons, and tied it around her neck on a narrow black satin ribbon.

When she came down to dinner, Emily was again seated at Lucius's left hand, across from Draco and with Walden Macnair on her left, although Felina Rosier seemed to have been relegated to a seat farther down the table this evening, and Pansy Parkinson took the seat beside Draco. The meal was the usual sort of sumptuous feast she had come to expect at a Malfoy party: salad of exotic spring greens and herbs, roast pheasant, haricots verts, a savoury mushroom tart, and all the usual sort of extravagant luxury Lucius liked to parade before guests. The adults were offered a different vintage with each course, while the young people watched enviously over glasses of tea and juice.

After the last course was finished, the house-elves bore in an enormous birthday cake full of strawberries and whipped cream, and everyone applauded as Draco blew out the candles. When the last morsels of cream, fruit, and angel food cake were consumed, the guests lingered at the table with snifters of brandy and cognac.

Unfortunately, to Emily's mounting impatience, the conversation at her end of the table was largely about work at the Ministry and the last days of term at Hogwarts – nothing incriminating was said or even hinted at. But then she supposed she couldn't expect everyone to fall all over themselves telling her about their most illegal private pursuits and how best to get themselves thrown in jail.

She glanced discreetly at her watch – it was nearly time for the cotillion to begin. Perhaps someone would get in his cups and spill something interesting to her on the dance floor. One could only hope.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

The sun was setting over Hogwarts when Professor Snape finally awoke from his much-needed nap early Saturday evening, to the sound of a bird's claws persistently scratching against the transom window of his dungeon bedroom. He sat up groggily, shaking his dishevelled dark head to clear it. It took him a few moments to remember that he had sent Catherine Orson a letter and was waiting for her reply.

He got up, put on a robe, then went to the window and collected her letter:

Dear Severus,

For heaven's sake, do please call me Catherine. When I get a letter addressed to "Dr. Orson," it's usually got "Please Remit" on it.

You know what – after reading your last letter's hypothesis, I really think you might be on to something there. Perhaps by looking for a chemical or physiological explanation for the toxicity, I've been thinking too much inside the Muggle-doctor box, if you'll forgive me.

Your theory about supernatural toxicity is interesting – I've got the day off today, so I've gone back to my old books of folklore and the Internet for more on Faeries and iron. As you might already know, iron cannot be enchanted by any kind of magic, either human or Faerie. It has little or no effect on human magic, but it actually weakens and repels Faery magic. It used to be widely known that carrying an iron nail, or cow bell, or some other bit of forged iron in one's pocket made a human being less susceptible to Fae enchantments. (Although all that stuff about Faeries not being able to stand church bells or holy water or not being able to take Communion is pure horseshite – the Church's only threat to the Fae was the old-school witch-burning sort of clergy. Not only that, but the Fae are so universalistic about religion it's ridiculous.)

As to your questions about whether human blood is toxic to Faeries – my research into the interaction of Faery blood and human blood has been extremely interesting. My experiments with Fae blood have indicated that it has an entirely neutral reaction to human blood – I have so far found no proteins or antibodies within Fae blood that negatively interact with human blood at all. When Fae blood is injected into a human being, it serves almost all the same functions within the human body as human blood with no ill effects – no clotting, no infection, nada. (Well, at least there aren't any negative effects in me, but I admit that I might be a special case, given that me Mum has pointed ears and all.)

The Fae have cells in their blood that bond with and carry oxygen the same as we do. I've theorised that I could literally replace your or my entire blood supply with Fae blood (supplemented with human white blood cells for immunological purposes), and we would carry on as before. (So imagine my chagrin at discovering that there is an entire race of potential universal blood donors out there, and I can't set up a blood drive to collect their blood or let anyone in the Muggle medical establishment know about them – !!!)

We humans have no negative reaction whatever to iron unless we ingest poisonous amounts of it. Lack of iron in our diets gives us anaemia and weakens our immune systems. We require iron to produce red blood cells; we are chemically bonded to it. So if your theory is correct and the toxicity has a supernatural cause, I would postulate that iron and magic are just essentially incompatible – iron is magic's Kryptonite, to quote an old Superman comic. Iron is anti-magic. Perhaps the presence of iron in human blood is the reason why Muggles are the dominant race on Earth, and magic-using humans are so rare. Perhaps if we explored a lot of other dimensions where magic-using civilisations are in existence, we'll find that the Fae reaction to iron is the typical one, and magic is common amongst life forms without iron-based blood. Magical humans would then be even more rarefied statistical outliers than we already know ourselves to be – if this theory is correct, then we magic-using humans are a unique sort of hybrid creature, adapted to both the magic and anti-magic contained within us. To paraphrase Neal Stephenson, we're a right lot of evolutionary badasses, we are.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Snape smirked – Dr. Orson had a colourful writing style, and she often alluded to Muggle idiom, authors, or medical authorities he had never heard of. He had no idea who Neal Stephenson was, and had never seen a Superman comic, but the good doctor's points always came across.

Her letter continued:

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

The Fae can also come in contact with human bodily fluids containing iron without ill effects – if a Faerie comes in contact with human blood, or a human man ejaculates inside his Faerie partner's body, the concentration of iron within the blood or semen is too weak to cause a toxic reaction. I've just had a bit of a brainstorm on this the other morning, in the bathtub no less: What if we introduced non-toxic levels of red blood cells from magic-using humans into a Faerie for an extended period of time – desensitised them with an inoculation of magical humanity, for lack of a better description – could we perhaps allow that Faerie to lose much or all of the sensitivity to iron?

At any rate, regarding our iron burn healing potion, I got a letter from Laurent this morning. He suggested that if we perhaps added some human t-cells and white blood cells into the mix, and then added some more magical-potency activator sort of ingredients, we might be able to lend Fae tissues the same healing ability as human tissues. (Clever bloke, Laurent is – you'd like him.)

With his idea in mind, here's an idea for chemical composition. It's a bit rough and rushed, but we can refine it later...

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Snape got dressed, then took Catherine's letter and notes down to his office and spent some time looking them over, and then experimenting with the new Healing Potion variant she described, incorporating Collier's suggestion. As he worked, the creativity and sophistication of their ideas for the compound amazed him – Muggle or no, help from a wizard healer friend or no, she had a truly admirable grasp of theoretical potions-making. He knew any number of witches and wizards who didn't have her intuition into the science. For a long moment, he wished he could send this work in to Alchymia et Potio Diurnalis, the Potions scholar's journal that published his academic articles, as an example of innovative new research in the field, then cursed the fact that he couldn't.

Instead, he took up a quill, and started another letter:

Dear Catherine,

Are you absolutely certain you're a Muggle? After reading the notes you sent on the potions formula, I'm now half-convinced that your Hogwarts letter somehow went missing.

I've spent much of this evening experimenting with the compound, as much as I can without having ready access to white blood cells and t-cells (could you perhaps send me some samples?) Your formulation has prompted me to have a bit of a brainstorm as well – please let me know what you think of the following idea. If we added the human cells you suggested, plus some fluxweed, activated with stewed lacewing and knotgrass infusion (the basis for Polyjuice Potion, a flesh-transformation potion, if you aren't already familiar with it) – I think it might be possible to briefly transmogrify a Faerie's flesh into a substance that reacts the way human skin and muscle does to regular Healing Potion. The extra magical-potency activator sort of ingredients you suggested might indeed work in a brute-force sort of way, but I'd worry about negative side effects such as extreme skin sensitivity and depressed immunological function following treatment...

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

When his letter was finished and he could no longer lose himself in work, Snape glanced up at the tiny clock on his office desk – it was now nearly nine p.m. on Saturday night.

Snape leaned back in his chair, imagining the situation at Malfeasant. The Dark Lord himself was probably upstairs in the velvet-curtained darkness of some sumptuous guest suite, sequestering himself in luxurious solitude to reflect on whatever thoughts occupied such a personage in his moments to himself, and now and then allowing private audiences to hear the petitions of the guests. Voldemort had a taste for the finest food, drink, and comforts the world could offer, having been deprived of so much while living in a Muggle charity orphanage as a boy, and his long incorporeal existence would have sharpened his already voracious appetites for the pleasures of the flesh all the more. He would be dining alone on the choicest delicacies Lucius's kitchen could offer, drinking the Malfoys' French brandy from a crystal glass and serpent venom from a silver goblet, with that grovelling idiot Pettigrew and a giant poisonous snake coiled at his side for company.

Lucius's cadre of Death Eaters and their wives and children were all now probably assembled at Malfeasant as well, no doubt just heading to the cotillion if Narcissa adhered to her usual rigid schedule. Druella, Narcissa, and Felina would again be looking at Professor Swain as though they would like to see her hanging from a meat hook, each with her own combination of bigotry and sexual jealousy, and Beatrice would be hovering about her, longing for just one real friend. Most of the men would be wondering how to get her into bed, a few would be actively trying to do so, and Lucius would be –

His mind rejected the image – he didn't even want to think about Lucius and Professor Swain at that moment. She had said to him, So now you know the whole story – I do hope you're glad of it, and now, he had to admit, he wasn't, not at all. Everything in him resisted the image of Lucius touching her; he wished someone would Obliviate the fact that it had ever happened from his mind.

There had been times since the evening of the explosion that he wished he had taken his cue from Barty Crouch, Jr. while he had Professor Swain's Stunned body in his arms – and simply kidnapped her, spirited her away, and arranged for her to wake up alone in some pastoral country inn in Arcadia with all her possessions beside her, with no way to get back to the Second World for months.

He folded his letter to Dr. Orson and then reached into his office desk for an envelope, seal, and wax – and in doing so, his eyes fell on another letter in that drawer... a letter addressed to Miss Emily Swain, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hogsmeade, Scotland... a letter that he had written on the night the Fusilier was destroyed, had carried in his pocket all that evening, and that had ended up going undelivered.

His hand hovered over that letter, now a bit crumpled and the worse for wear, and for a long moment he thought about re-addressing that letter to Green Guest Bedroom Window, West Wing, Malfeasant, Wiltshire, and sending it to her that evening, that instant – and then he thought about lighting a fire and casting the bloody thing onto the hearth, where it could join his 22 September 1994 journal entry in the Hogwarts ashcans.

Instead, he took up a fresh envelope, wax and seal, and closed the drawer, leaving the letter untouched. Then he sealed his letter to Dr. Orson, and headed up to the Owlery.