Part Third: The Hart Subvertant, Chapter 28, Part 2

Chapter 28, Part 2:

At nine p.m., the guests at Malfeasant began to make their way toward the ballroom for the cotillion. Lucius offered his arm to his wife to escort her from dinner, as did the other husbands. Emily tried to make herself scarce behind a milling crowd of couples, hoping that Menzentius might just have forgotten her existence and not insist on escorting her to the ball, but then she looked up and found Draco Malfoy standing before her.

The lad looked very handsome indeed that night with his fair hair slicked back and in dress robes of a rich midnight blue. He was shooting up so fast that they were very nearly the same height now, his slim body acquiring some of the substance of adulthood. There was a faint sheen of golden down on his chin – Emily could tell from the sudden appearance of expensive shaving lotion in Draco's habitual scent that he had begun shaving sometime that year. Like his father, Draco appeared to grow only a scant beard and chest hair, and as such, needed to shave only once or twice a week.

"May I see you into the ballroom, Professor?" he asked.

"Yes, I should be honoured, thank you," she said, taking his arm. Peripherally, she saw Menzentius scowl at the two of them, then help Druella out of her chair.

As the cotillion began, Emily found herself very much in demand as a partner, as there were more male guests present than female, and no one seemed to be lining up for the privilege of dancing with Mrs. Rosier. Draco immediately requested the first dance, and as before at the Yule Ball, he was a light-footed joy as a dance partner. The birthday boy seemed rather reluctant to relinquish his former teacher as the first few waltzes were played, and Emily had rather hoped to get the chance to talk to some of the male guests during the dancing. She also noticed Pansy Parkinson watching them from the sidelines, looking decidedly sulky.

"I appreciate the escort in, but Miss Parkinson looks as though she'd like a turn with her boyfriend," Emily said tactfully to Draco as the third waltz began. "I do hope the two of you haven't fallen out a bit."

"No, not really, but Pansy's just being kind of annoying today," Draco muttered back. "Her cat died, and she can't stop whining about it. I mean, I liked Frost, he was a really nice cat, but I don't know what to say other than, 'Gee, Pans, I'm really sorry about your cat,' you know? Father said he'd talk to her. I think he's going to try to find out what breed of cat he was and get her another one. Father's an old brick like that."

"Yes, he's very thoughtful," Emily said, smiling. Her eyes went to where Lucius was now having a sympathetic chat with Miss Parkinson – and from the way the girl's eyes shone when they lighted on Lucius's face, Emily wondered briefly as to which Malfoy Pansy really wanted to be dancing with that night.

"And then we were in the village last weekend, and she wanted me to look at diamond rings with her," Draco complained. "Merlin's beard, what is wrong with girls? It's not even fifth year yet, and she's hinting about getting married."

"I can imagine getting married right out of school wouldn't be what you want right now," Emily said understandingly. "You might want to take some time to work and travel before you think about commitments like that."

"I wouldn't mind getting married right out of school, if it was... to the right person," Draco said. She felt his eyes on the side of her face... the same shy, but provocative look he had given her at the Yule Ball; the same overwhelmed, but still eager sort of look, like some yearling buck quivering to show off his new virility to an alpha doe. The healthy scent of his mild exertion was beginning to smell faintly of adolescent testosterone.

Oh no, this was a very disturbing development indeed – and Emily wasn't about to have her fact-finding mission sidelined by a teenage boy with a crush, especially when that boy seemed entirely oblivious to his father's scheming. Clearly, desperate measures were called for. She glanced over Draco's shoulder and caught Lucius's eye, giving him an instant's smouldering, come-hither smile – and sure enough, when the waltz ended, Lucius appeared at her side asking to cut in. The boy nodded a slightly wistful good-bye to Emily and went over to join the still-sulking Pansy.

"Good evening, my dear," Lucius said, slipping one hand into hers and the other around her waist, and sliding easily into the waltz. "I see you and the boy are still getting on famously."

Emily slanted a look at him. "What did you say to him, exactly?"

Lucius shrugged airily. "I just reminded him this afternoon that a man in his sort of social position has no need of committing to the first pretty girl who comes along in his year at school. I implied that he might be able to set his sights higher. Then later on at supper, I said it was a shame you weren't interested in his uncle, as it would have been such a delight to have you in the family." He chuckled, leaning close to her ear. "Trust me, love – when he proposes to you, he'll think it was entirely his idea. Oh, that reminds me... did I show you the sketches for the new family portrait I've commissioned?"

"No, you didn't," Emily replied with a little chuckle. "You were going to today around noon, but somehow we ended up getting a trifle distracted."

"Oh yes, so we did," he said, smirking. "Well, if you can excuse yourself and meet me up in my study in perhaps twenty minutes, perhaps I'll actually manage to do so this time."

"You are insatiable," she murmured, leaning close to his ear.

"And you are addictive, my love," he drawled back.

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Twenty minutes' time found Emily stealthily slipping off toward Lucius's study, unseen by anyone. Her heart hammered as she tiptoed back through the dining room and great main hall, and then up the gallery steps into the study. When she arrived, he was sitting alone in the near-dark with a brandy glass by his side, waiting for her. Perhaps a minute later, she was half-sprawled across a black leather sofa with her spidersilk formal robes unbuttoned to her waist, with Lucius devouring her lips, neck, and bosom.

"Would you like to make love right now, darling?" he asked, nibbling her ear. "Would you like to have me inside you, with all those fools downstairs all unknowing... ?"

"Let's wait until later tonight, when we can take our time about it in bed," she sighed back. "You are coming to my room again tonight, aren't you?"

"Yes, of course," he whispered. "I couldn't imagine anything I'd like more."

"Mmmm, darling." Her lips breathlessly caressed his cheek and ear. "You can't imagine how cold my bed has felt without you sometimes, when I was living in those chilly apartments at Hogwarts all by myself... "

"I can imagine." He put a lingering series of kisses on the swell of her breasts, lushly uplifted by a black lace brassiere. "Especially when the Head of Slytherin was doing his best to make you feel so very welcome every day... "

She closed her eyes and shuddered. "Please, darling, let's not even mention him, not when I've got the prospect of sleeping with you tonight," she breathed in his ear. "The further he is away from me, the better." Her tone invited her companion to elaborate on the topic of how reassuringly far away the good Professor was from her, if he knew.

Lucius laughed, slipping his hand under her skirts and stroking her gartered thigh. "Of course, darling, how clumsy of me. I can't blame you for wanting to be rid of him. So has anyone told you where good old Severus has holed himself up, lately?" he asked her, smiling. "I've been wondering where that miserable crustacean was, so I can avoid the place. He's always so mysterious about where he takes himself off to during his holidays."

Emily looked at him as though he had just asked her a very silly question indeed. "Well, no one's told me in the last few hours – I didn't know I was supposed to watch him," she said with a bright, teasing smile. "Honestly, after the school year ended I found it quite comforting that I'd never have to see him again, to be perfectly honest. I told you about how he used to make my life miserable while we worked together."

Lucius slanted an indulgent smile at her. "How could I forget," he crooned, brushing his lips over her forehead. "I'm terribly glad to have been able to comfort you after that bastard was so unpleasant all year – there's not an ounce of chivalry in the man, is there?"

"So, the last time I was here, you said you were going to talk to him about how he treats your dear friend Emily – how did that go?" she asked, snuggling petulantly against him. "I'd imagine you took him to task and then some."

She forced her body not to tense as she waited for a response – and Lucius seemed to be taking a long moment to formulate a reply. "Not to worry, not to worry, my love," he said soothingly, cradling her head on his shoulder. "My displeasure came across loud and clear."

"So tell me, what happened? What exactly did you say?" she asked, smiling up at him with smug admiration, like a young girl who wants to know all the details of her knight's victory. "I have to admit, I don't exactly mind it when someone manages to score a point on him. I'll bet you sent him off with a bee in his bonnet, all right."

"Oh, I did, believe me," Lucius told her in a frosty tone – but then his manner softened, and he kissed her again. "I can't really give you a play by play description, as we ended up cutting that meeting rather short, but trust me, it'll be awhile before crusty old Cousin Severus shows his face again. Your troubles with him are over, I promise."

She smiled gratefully at him, and kissed him back, and said nothing more than Oh, darling or something similarly inane and non-specific in reply.

"Yes, I thought you'd like that," he chuckled. "When I come up to your room tonight, you can be sure to thank me appropriately. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really should go remind everyone of what a good host and devoted husband I am... you know how it is."

"Of course, darling," she said, smirking.

He kissed her lips once more, lingeringly, then put a long kiss on the swell of her breast, then another on her palm, and left the room.

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Emily emerged from Lucius's study a few minutes after he made his exit, and made her way back toward the grand ballroom, intending to unobtrusively rejoin the party by the gallery entrance. But when she arrived, Menzentius Black was standing by himself next to the doorway, leaning on one of the massive stone pillars that lined the gallery, a cut-crystal hock glass in his hand. His eyes fastened on her face with a knowing smirk.

"Running off with your hostess's husband in the middle of a kid's party," he murmured, shaking his head. "You're a bad, bad little Faerie, my Lady, and that's for certain."

Emily planted herself in front of him, brazen as you please. "So how much did he have to pay you to keep quiet?"

He surprised her by having a good laugh at that. "No, what he paid me to do was come home and find you two compromising each other on the sofa, and then get into a good fight with you so he could impress the Dark Lord with the kind of new followers he can enlist for him. But I did make him throw in a little extra danger pay for the broken arm – that thing hurt like a right son of a bitch. You were right though – little Skele-Gro, and I was good as new in a couple of days." He flexed his arm, then gave her a little leering smile.

"Somehow it did smell like a set-up," Emily replied, keeping her voice calm with an effort.

"As for the fact that you two are shagging each other – that's old news to me, darling. I've known about the two of you since January," he said, grinning. "Lucius and I had a bet going as to which of us would end up in bed with you from the first weekend you came to the house. After he met you in that hotel room and shagged you silly, he rushed right off so he could collect his winnings and tell me all about it."

Emily's teeth clenched and her nostrils flared, but then she reminded herself that she was in the Malfoys' ballroom at a child's party and in the presence of any number of witnesses, and the smile stayed on her face with an effort.

Menzentius laughed again. "It was a great story, too," he said, leaning down to purr in her ear. "I especially liked the part about how he tied you up and went down on you – he said you yowled when you came. Made me hard just hearing about it."

"So you knew all that, and you were willing to marry me anyway?" Emily snarled. "The list of prospective brides must be a short one indeed."

He threw his head back and had a grand chuckle at that. "Darling, you look good, you can fence, you've got heaps of money, and Lucius says you're a great lay – that makes you my dream girl. Don't worry, you'd hardly be the first woman who'd been to bed with both me and Lucius – bloody hell, you'd hardly be the first woman who'd been to bed with both me and Lucius at the same time." He smiled at her, his voice dripping compassion, and added: "Yes, you probably know a lot of blokes who are scared of you because you could kick their arses – but you see, the men in this family tend to think that sort of thing is dead sexy."

His words were crude, but set off uncomfortable pangs within her (He doesn't seem like he'd be unnerved by competent women, but might that be the reason why he – ?) but she refused to let him see her discomfiture. "I said No, and I mean it. If you come near me again, I could always see about breaking your other arm," she snapped, then turned to walk away.

"And I could do... everything for you that Lucius does, and give you a good bout afterwards," the youth continued, undaunted. "Plus, I could actually hold your hand in public as well. If you ever get tired of him and all his dependents, my Lady, you've got a standing invitation to come see about me, eh?"

"I'd rather chew ground glass," she retorted sweetly, appropriating both Professor Snape's one-liner of months past and his habitual eyebrow gesture.

Menzentius smiled and shrugged. "Oh, I don't know... just look at him, would you?"

He nodded toward the ballroom dance floor below them – and they both glanced toward Lucius, who was talking to Emmitt and Beatrice Parkinson with Draco and Narcissa, his arm thrown casually around his wife's waist. The three of them together looked like an idealised Christmas-card picture of a lovely, happy family.

"I could see how you'd get tired of all that respectable-husband nice-daddy bullshite he presents to the world – I've been sick of him since I was a kid." He leaned down for another insinuating aside close to her ear – "Unlike my Mummy and Cissy dearest, and your darling brothers and sisters up in the Lakes, I'm not scared to expand the family gene pool. Come on, love, wouldn't you like to tell all these stuck-up bastards to go screw themselves, and just run off somewhere with your lover? Some nice bloke who just wants you – only you?" His fingers traced the curve of her shoulder with surprising delicacy.

She turned toward him, looking into his thick-lashed grey eyes, which for once were clear and unclouded by alcohol... breathed the lusty, testosterone-laden scent of him... and for the space of about one second, considered this man as her mate. But then the moment passed, and she was again disgusted by his lumpen, beef-witted mentality, and his dissolute ways, and the Dark Mark she knew he proudly bore on his left forearm.

"Yes, perhaps I would like that," she said. "But not with you."

Menzentius only gave her a knowing smile. "Never say never, love – I can wait. And he'll never divorce Narcissa, you know – Felina's been trying to land him for years, and everyone knows she's just wasting her time. Well, everyone but her." He gave her an insolent nod, then made his way past her and down the gallery steps.

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Back down in the ballroom, Emily was again beset with offers to dance, and spent much of the rest of the evening being squired about on the dance floor by various men, or rather, various teenage boys, as her former students seemed to be the ones doing most of the asking. The gentleman guests seemed rather inclined to be cliquish that night, spending much of their evening having private conversations in tight little knots and smiling and changing the subject whenever they were approached by one of their wives or children. Mrs. Rosier had taken up a seat between Lucius and Menzentius and seemed to have something very important to discuss with them.

As the dance's end grew nearer, Emily resigned herself to learning less than she had hoped and accepted yet another invitation to take the floor with Draco Malfoy. It might have been her imagination, but it was starting to seem as though the boy was already assuming a proprietary air toward her, as though he could expect to be her usual dance partner and expected to have his prior claim honoured above any of the other men present. She had also noticed about midway through the evening that there was a faint whiff of illicit brandy on his breath and that of Marcus Flint and Gregory Goyle, which they had tried to hide beneath some minty mouth cologne. It might have fooled their parents' noses, but not an Arcadian faun's.

"Sneaked off and had a birthday drink with your friends?" she murmured as the next dance began.

Draco's eyes widened. "Well, yeah," he admitted, averting his eyes. "How can you tell?"

"I can smell it. Don't worry, your parents probably can't."

"Don't tell them, come on," he said, his grey eyes entreating. "I'm really not some kind of alcoholic – "

"I know, I know," she said. "You're just a fifteen-year-old who sneaked some of his father's brandy. I have to admit, this whole legal drinking age rule is a bit odd to me. In Arcadia, if you can see over the bar and you can afford it, you can get a drink."

"So I bet the kids are getting pissed as newts every night, aren't they?" Draco chuckled.

"No, actually they don't. Children don't learn to like wine until they get into their late teens, pretty much. Before that, they usually want cider or tea with honey, or maybe some ginger beer."

Draco laughed. "Father's told me, "Never cheat a goblin, never taunt a troll, and never try to out-drink a Faerie."

She grinned impishly at him. "Good advice – and don't tell him I told you this, but the reason your father included that last bit of wisdom is because a bunch of Faeries drank him under the table the first night I met him."

He laughed again, momentarily forgetting his position as heir apparent to the castle and just guffawing like the teenager he was. "You're joking. Father never gets drunk. He thinks it's unseemly."

"Well, that was well before you were born, my boy, so perhaps he's more conscious of what is and isn't seemly at forty, with a wife and son, than he was at twenty-three," she replied, smiling. Or, she thought, perhaps he's just gotten better at hiding his unseemly behaviour from the likes of his teenage son.

The last dance of the evening ended, and both Draco and Emily applauded the musicians. The guests began to get up from their seats and collect wraps and evening bags and say their good-nights before bed.

"Well... good evening, Professor," Draco said, with a courteous little farewell bow, and holding out his hand. But instead of shaking her hand, as she expected, he raised it to his lips and kissed it – and with that kiss, came the shyest, most potent whiff of fresh male lust imaginable.

She paused a moment, watching his young, handsome face. Just like his father... but young, fresh, adoring, unencumbered, and oh so malleable. His nascent sexuality now left him helplessly inflammable in the mere presence of a desirable woman. So eager for adult experience, so absolutely aching to be toyed with. It briefly occurred to her that this boy would probably like nothing better for his birthday than to be unburdened of his virginity by his father's favourite mistress, just as Lucius had once confided he had been when he was a teenager.

For a single long moment, Emily wished that Professor Snape was there to air his own acerbic opinion of seeing Draco Malfoy flirting with her, like a breath of ice-cold conscience in the midst of all this temptation, lust, and indulgence. She never thought she would see the day when she missed Snape, but just for a second, she did.

"Good night, Draco," she said, patting his cheek. "Happy birthday."

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Back up in her guest room, Emily had slipped out of her dress robes and dancing slippers, put on a short robe of embroidered velvet over her stockings and chemise, and was now scowling disconsolately in the mirror as she powdered her face and touched up her lips. She was far from tired, having eaten some of Draco's sweet strawberries-and-cream birthday cake, knowing that the refined sugar within the confection would keep her alert for much of the night.

It was now Saturday night, and all she had done was confirm that Lucius was harbouring You-Know-Who himself at Malfeasant. She hadn't discovered anything new other than the fact that neither Lucius nor Draco seemed to know where Professor Snape was currently keeping himself, and that Lucius was indeed just as much of a corrupt, lecherous braggart as Professor Snape had told her he was. (Fancy having a ménage à trois with one's brother-in-law – now that was just twisted.)

This seemed like a rather poor amount of intelligence to have gathered in the well over twenty-four hours that she had now spent at Malfeasant. Truly, it seemed as though she was spending more time being sprawled over furniture in various states of undress than she was in convincing anyone to spill all their innermost secrets to her. Indeed, if she hadn't been briefed as to what was going on behind the scenes, she would have thought this event was truly nothing more than an innocent country weekend party. She had to hand it to the Malfoys – their illusion of respectability was nigh on seamless.

So Mata Fecking Hari I'm not, she thought sourly, brushing powder off her nose. Yes, it seemed as though more direct measures were called for.

She made a trip down into her Holding Trunk, coming back up with a bundle of chain mail, suede leather, and a sheathed hunting dagger in one hand, and a pair of high-heeled satin boudoir slippers in the other. Kneeling beside the bed, she stowed the metal and leather bundle under the bed, making certain that the bed skirts covered it entirely, then stood, and stepped into the heels. Then, she arranged herself most fetchingly in a velvet armchair with a volume of Ovid's Ars Amatoria, to wait for Lucius – It's not fair for armed men to battle with naked girls: that would be shameful, men, even if you win...

After perhaps an hour, there came a soft sound of ice shifting and crystal trembling – and she glanced up from her book to see a bottle of champagne, on ice in a silver bucket, and two fluted glasses appearing on the round table near the hearth. She approached the table, found a tiny card hanging from the neck of the bottle – I'll be there in a moment, my love.

Her eyes made a quick inventory of the bottle – vintage Pommery Brut Royal – which was still securely corked and looked untampered with. Both glasses smelled entirely clean, so it looked like there would be no more hidden aphrodisiac potions to worry about that evening. She opened the bottle and poured herself a glass, sipping it slowly in an attempt to calm her nerves.

She glanced up and set the glass aside a second later, as first her bedroom door silently opened, and then Lucius emerged from under a silvery cloak, dressed in a green silk robe, his blond hair loose and handsomely mussed. He wasted no time in tossing the Invisibility cloak aside and pulling her hungrily into his arms for a kiss. "Mmmmmm, you taste like champagne," he murmured.

"What's the occasion?" she asked, nodding toward the bottle and putting a glass in his hand.

"My reunion with someone I love – and thought I had lost," he said, gazing into her eyes and caressing her cheek. "You and the birthday boy looked as though you were enjoying yourselves tremendously tonight. So... dare I hope you've finally decided that perhaps life as my daughter-in-law wouldn't exactly be a fate worse than death?"

She averted her eyes, embarrassed. "Well, I never thought it would be a fate worse than death," she murmured. Yes, it would probably be more pleasant to be a Malfoy than to be painfully killed, she'd give him that. "I was just... I was just incredibly surprised when you presented the possibility, it was just... surprising."

"Yes, I can imagine," Lucius said, with a look that understood everything. "You wouldn't be the first woman I've known who was shocked at first, upon discovering that I wanted to fulfil all those corrupt, unacceptable, precious desires hidden away in her heart... but you'll always be the one of them most precious to me."

Thought Emily: I can't believe I used to fall for this drivel. Said Emily, "Oh, darling, kiss me."

He tossed off the last of his wine and put the glass aside, and wrapped his arms around her waist. "Yes, hugely enjoyable as it always is to talk with you, I think now I'd like to have lots and lots of sex. Who's with me?"

"What do you have in mind?" she asked with a provocative smile.

Lucius hooked a forefinger down into the loosely knotted strings of her silk kimono and slowly drew it open, brushing it off her shoulders to pool softly around her feet. A moment later, he had untied the satin ribbon drawstring of the chemise she wore beneath it and dropped it beside her robe, then unhooked her garters and brassiere and had her out of them. Then he brought her to face the dressing table mirror, looking at her nude and himself still clothed, one arm around her hips, the other around her breasts.

"Yes... damn it all, you're beautiful," he whispered, caressing her pale flank. "I won't lie to you – I simply can't wait to see our children. Just imagine what effect it'll have on those decrepit old spinsters up at Swaincroft when they see you out with your young husband, leading our little fair-haired son or daughter by the hand. Do let's invite them to all the christenings, just so we can see the looks on their faces."

The naked covetousness in the way he looked at her took her breath away. No king could have surveyed freshly conquered worlds with such rapacious satisfaction. "Now... you'll have to promise me something, on your word of honour," he breathed, "whenever you go into oestrus next, keep yourself far, far away from me, and don't let me get you into bed no matter how much I beg and plead, because if I do, I won't be able to stop myself." One hand trailed possessively over her belly.

"I promise," she said.

"And after you've married Draco, let's start trying right away... the first time it happens after the wedding."

Mmmm, darling, she whispered in reply.

"Now... I think tonight, I'll show you the way I'm planning on having you right after the engagement party... "

He lifted her in a bridegroom's carry and brought her to bed.

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"I'm curious... if you wanted more children, why did you stop at one?" Emily asked, as he sprawled her over the silk and velvet cushions of her bed, raising her face to his to be kissed. "The wife decided it interfered too much with redecorating?"

"No... we tried to have another for some time after Draco was born," he confided, with a rueful look. "Narcissa ended up having a miscarriage two years later, and after that, nothing. She won't see an infertility specialist, either, says it would be too embarrassing."

"Well... not to be indelicate, my dear... " Emily began, in a very tactful tone indeed.

"Yes, I know it's not always the wife's fault. That occurred to me too. But... " Lucius looked at her as though he was enjoying a delicious private joke indeed – "let's just say there's since been evidence that I am not the reason Draco is an only child... if you know what I mean."

Emily's eyebrows went up in surprise. "There has?"

"Well... yes," Lucius admitted, smirking. "One charming young lady I knew some years ago is now living in a lovely cottage in Dover with her adorable and extremely blonde seven-year-old daughter. And I count myself lucky that the wife of a certain tenant of mine down in the village gave birth to a cherubic little extremely blond son twelve years ago, because if he had been a girl and Draco ever took an interest in her, it would have been... awkward to have to explain to him exactly why the two of them were incompatible. "

"Awkward indeed," she said, wide-eyed.

"She and her husband had been trying for years, and no luck – and we were both so drunk that night." He drew her head onto his chest with a dark little laugh. "She was very happy about the child, though, it was really quite touching. And yes, I've done the honourable thing and made certain that both of their situations were secure. One simply has to take care of one's own flesh and blood, you know," he said reassuringly.

"Of course," Emily said, nodding her total understanding.

"Don't worry about a thing, my dear," he drawled, kissing her. "When the time comes, I'll be both ready and able, and exceedingly happy to welcome my first...grandchild."

"I'm sure you will be, darling," she said, smiling – and pausing an instant before his lips touched hers. "But if you want me by your side – you have to promise me something."

He seemed momentarily taken aback, then smiled. "Of course, my love. I wouldn't imagine you don't have your... conditions. Name them – I am entirely at your disposal."

"Good," she said. "I want your solemn promise that neither you, nor Draco, nor any member of your family, will ever seek to learn my True Name."

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Emily's request seemed to take her lover by surprise; the cosy smile faded from his face, replaced by a calculating look. "Er...now, Emily – "

"I'd have been much more impressed with an instantaneous 'Yes, of course I promise, dear.'" Her own sinister eyebrow quirked.

"Of course I promise, dear – it's just I thought we'd already been over this before," he said with a disarming smile. "Remember, in your hospital room, I apologised, and I said... "

"Yes, I remember. I just wanted you to promise me. And now you've done it," she smiled, her attitude softening. Then her arms twined around his neck, and she kissed him long and sensually, drawing the robe off his shoulders – distracting him, so that he wouldn't recall that while he had given her his promise, she had promised him nothing in return.

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Of course Lucius had to be feeling randy as a schoolboy tonight – most likely his schemes and plans were going very well. He felt like taking his time that night – not long after he had promised to respect the sanctity of her True Name, he had her sprawled on her belly over the many elegant cushions of her bed. He wanted to take a long, slow time about building to orgasm, his fingertips delicately thrumming between her thighs, his lips on her neck.

Yes, I know I shouldn't covet your True Name... but I wanted it because it's a part of you -

His teeth sank gently into the nape of her neck, but she could feel the coiled aggression behind it and remembered that this man had once bitten her hard enough to draw blood while in the throes of extreme passion. Nonetheless, the way he touched her felt sinfully good, she probably would have gotten excited with Voldemort himself working her and stroking her like that... yes...

– and I want all of you.

There was no denying it – her responsibilities had lain heavily on her for so long now that some dark, atavistic part of her wanted that too. Lucius was in top form that night – no doubt the circumstances of getting his way with a previously impossible woman, and of ravishing his mistress in his own home, while his wife and mother-in-law slept upstairs, stoked his particular kind of perversity. For one dizzying, obscene moment, as this dominant, adoring, endlessly seductive man surged hard and irresistible inside her, she wondered if it would be so horrible to just give in – to be made to bend to his will, if necessary, for the decision to be taken out of her hands. What if she was to just wake up some morning and find that years had passed and he still adored her, and everything was all right – It wasn't my fault, I had no choice -

But then the orgasm crested and was over, leaving her gasping beneath him, and horrified at herself, while Lucius kissed her and whispered profane endearments in her ear. "You won't regret this, dear hart," came the whisper. "He will make you such a good husband. You know I wouldn't let anyone treat you like anything less than a princess."

Emily scowled in the dark. Yes, he truly did want to treat her like a princess – like the kind of woman whose affections had political strings attached, whose love could be used to cement financial and military alliances. Clearly he thought himself on the level of a king, unbound by the laws governing the actions of mere mortals, and he was so willing and eager to elevate her to the same status that it made her fear to become completely lost in his worldview, even as she recognised the pure narcissism inherent in it. Perhaps she could play this game because she was so physically susceptible to him; a woman who couldn't feel weak with desire when he made love to her could never have gotten this far into his confidence.

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He only allowed himself his own climax after he had satisfied her a second time, after what could only be described as a long, highly athletic, very thorough shag, enough to leave her worn out and slightly sore – the kind of lovemaking that previously would have had her wrapping herself adoringly around her lover and crooning over him for hours. But instead, she was wishing she could go take a very long, very hot shower.

Unfortunately, however, afterwards Lucius wanted to cuddle and talk – why had she never noticed before that the man was such a cuddler.

"Don't worry, love, all this sneaking around will only be necessary while we're here at the house. In a few days I'll be back to London, and we can go back to spending nights together at hotels, and such. Would you like that?" he asked, delicately brushing his lips over her neck.

No, she wouldn't like that at all, but she would be happy to hear anything insanely incriminating he wanted to tell her – "Just let me know when you want me, and I'll be there," she simpered, brushing her lips seductively over his.

"But you know, the hotels wouldn't be necessary, if you would let me find you somewhere to live – that offer stands as well. Tell me, why are you still living at Hogwarts?" he asked, one hand languidly stroking her hair.

"Oh – mostly because I can, and because packing was such a bother, especially while my shoulder was the way it was," she said, with another airy nuzzle. "I talked Dumbledore round into saying that I could stay at Hogwarts until the summer was over. It's all right, I've practically got the place to myself, and it doesn't cost anything."

"Oh, you've practically got the place to yourself? Who all is still living there?" he asked, very casually indeed.

"The only person I see around every day is Mr. Filch and his cat," she said – which was entirely true, Dumbledore and Snape being too busy with their own business to visit with her every day. But Lucius nodded – he seemed to infer from her answer that she and the caretaker were the only residents at Hogwarts at the moment, exactly the deduction she wanted him to make.

"You must get awfully lonesome in that great castle all by yourself," he murmured, smirking. "I'll have to make more time to keep you... entertained." He drew his fingertips softly down the back of her neck, softly caressing her lips with his.

"I guess I'm just being lazy, but I've gotten completely spoiled by having that army of house-elves around to look after me. When the summer's over, perhaps I'll try to find myself a nice flat off of Diagon or Theatric Alley, some little bohemian loft or garden flat where I can keep you properly entertained," she said with a coquettish laugh.

"Don't worry about a thing, love, at the end of the summer I'll get you the prettiest little place you can imagine," he said indulgently. "And if you like having a house-elf around to do the housework, I'm sure I could arrange something. Every time we have a weekend party now, Cecile keeps asking Goliath if you'll be there and if she can be your maid – seems quite devoted to you."

"My own house-elf... that's overwhelming," Emily said. Previously, when she had thought about buying Cecile, it had been with the intention of giving her to the school, not owning her herself. There had never been house-elves living in Arcadia, and slavery had never been practiced there. Given the independent nature of the Faery people and the near-universality of magical power among them, the enslavement of Faeries would have been a task akin to herding cats or juggling butter. But then she also considered – it would get that innocent, beleaguered little creature away from the Malfoys' cruel punishments, and not only that, but Cecile had said that she had been present at past Death Eater meetings... who knew what she might be able to tell them about those meetings if she was safely out of the Malfoys' grasp? Plus, Emily thought, she could always still give Cecile to Dumbledore when she left the Second World – it was well known that Dumbledore took excellent care of the school elves.

Emily decided on a course of action in an instant. "Truthfully... I'd love to have my own house-elf, and that Cecile is a phenomenal ladies' maid," she said with a beguiling, doe-eyed look at Lucius. "I'd wondered here and there if you'd be willing to... perhaps sell her to me?"

Lucius smiled. "If you want her, then something will be arranged. And never mind the expense, my love," he muttered, stroking her indulgently. "I only ever want you to have the best, it's no less than you deserve. You've no idea how long I've wanted to find some lovely little out-of-the-way place where I could keep you all to myself... I think I've wanted to put you in a pumpkin shell and keep you very, very well since our first night together."

Oh, Emily thought, so I was in ecstasies at receiving the god, and you were thinking about what a nice kept tart I'd be – isn't that just lovely. She spared herself from having to say anything by drawing him in for a lusty kiss.

"You don't know what a trial it was to come back here and do what my family expected of me," he murmured, clearly fancying himself very noble and self-sacrificing indeed. "But now I've done my duty, the blooming fifteen-year-old heir apparent is fast asleep in his blue bedroom upstairs, and now, I don't see why we shouldn't finally be able to think of ourselves... don't you?"

She just kissed him again, even more heatedly. Let him read whatever he wanted into that.

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Not long afterward, Emily pretended to nod off to sleep on Lucius's shoulder, making sure to keep a little smile of beatific satisfaction on her face in case he happened to turn on one of the lamps. He relaxed beside her for some time, then gently eased her onto the pillow, and after a moment, kissed her forehead. She heard him put on his robe, reach for the Invisibility Cloak on a chair near the hearth, then quietly leave the room, carefully closing the door behind him.

As soon as Lucius had gone, Emily took a few seconds to don the garments she had left under the bed: black breeches, black tunic, and her chain mail shirt. (One of the advantages of the light, supple nature of Fae armour was that it was as easy to put on as a heavy pullover.) In anticipation of these kind of stealth movements throughout the Malfoy manor house, she had gotten some lampblack paint in Hogsmeade, and had painted her silver armour dark grey, for if her Obscurantis effect failed for any reason, she still had a better chance of being able to hide in the shadows if she wasn't wearing something that reflected every bit of available light. Lastly, she reached for a long rectangle of matte, opaque charcoal-coloured spidersilk lying on the chair beside the bed – what would have looked like a scarf to the casual observer was in truth an Arcadian archer's night-camouflage sniper veil, which hid the wearer's identity and negated the reflective properties of his or her hair and eyes from outside observers, while allowing an unimpeded view out. She covered her head and wound the ends loosely around her neck.

Thus veiled and armoured, a moment later she was standing behind her bedroom door, picturing the Glamoured appearance of a closed, undisturbed door, and then putting it in place with an utterance of her True Name for anyone lingering in the hallway. Then she slipped out, Obscured, buckling on a sword belt with a scabbarded eight-inch hunting dagger. She intended to keep carefully out of sight and didn't think she would run into any real trouble, but wanted to be prepared if she did. She set off down the hall, invoking the third form of Obscurantis with an invocation of her True Name, scanning the corridor for a male figure under an Invisibility Cloak.

A few moments at a swift, silent lope brought her to within five paces of Lucius as he made his way down the corridor. She stealthily followed him down the corridor, out of the west wing where most of the guest rooms and greenhouse were located, past the great main hall. He made his way toward and then up the stairs into his own master suite, then emerged back down perhaps ten minutes later, sans robe and Invisibility Cloak and dressed in sumptuous black business robes, his blond hair smoothly drawn back and secured with a black ribbon. He then consulted his pocket watch and set off down the corridor, strolling along at a leisurely pace, sighing to himself and stopping to inhale the fragrance of a vase of fresh red roses set on a little gilt side table – and generally behaving like a fellow who had just been well entertained indeed. Emily fought off the urge to make him smell irresistible to every flea and hair louse within a mile's radius.

She stealthily followed him down the corridor, past the main dining room, drawing room, and sunroom, past the staircase that led up to his wife's bedroom, into an unfamiliar part of the castle. Emily began noting the number and direction of turns they were making, so as to be able to find her way back in a hurry if necessary.

A door opened as Lucius proceeded down one corridor, and Menzentius leaned almost steadily against the doorway of what looked like a man's den or retiring room done in rich green brocade, a glass of claret in hand. "Evening, Lucius. Where's your little blonde pixie?" he asked.

Emily rolled her eyes at that – I'm a faun, you idiot, pixies are all about four feet tall with huge feet. And no, the two terms are not interchangeable.

Lucius paused for a confidential aside to his brother-in-law. "The dear angel is upstairs, sleeping the sleep of the well satisfied," came the purring drawl in reply. "I'll invite her to the next meeting, but for now, I'd like to separate business and pleasure for just a few more days. Let's let her cherish her innocence for just a little while longer, eh?" He glanced down at the glass of wine in Menzentius's hand – "Watch yourself tonight, you'll want to stay sharp in his presence."

At that moment, Emily heard footfalls behind her, and spun around to see a scowling Felina Rosier stalking down the corridor toward them, a glass of wine in her hand as well – and quickly flattened herself against the wall to let the irate woman pass. "And where have you been?" Mrs. Rosier snapped at Lucius.

Menzentius looked from Lucius to Mrs. Rosier, his eyes widening, then laughed. "I'll, er, let the two of you talk," he chuckled. "See you both down there." With that, he took himself away down the corridor.

Mrs. Rosier was glaring at Lucius and seemed very annoyed with him about something, but Lucius looked completely nonplussed. She also walked and smelled as though the glass of burgundy in her hand was not her first of the evening by any means.

"Felina... you know I don't like it when you drink to excess," Lucius said delicately. "And you know my mother-in-law will be at the meeting, so I sincerely suggest that you behave yourself in front of her, or I won't be at all happy with you."

"You went up to her room tonight, didn't you," Mrs. Rosier said hoarsely. She set her wineglass on an ornately gilded sideboard and approached him closely, in a manner that bespoke much prior intimacy between the two of them. One arm twined around his neck while she traced his lips with one fingertip. "You kissed her with that mouth... that lying mouth... "

"And you know I can't abide jealousy, my love. Monogamy is a luxury that people like us can't afford, dearest, not while there's a world that needs our guidance." His arms loosely encircled her waist, and his lips brushed her cheek. Emily forced herself not to groan aloud with disgust.

Mrs. Rosier shivered at the caress. "We used to have a lot of fun, didn't we... we've had such hot times, before. At that party in November, it was like the old days when you couldn't get enough of me."

"Yes, November was very beautiful, my dear," Lucius sighed in reply.

November? Emily thought. The only Malfeasant party she could recall from November had been the Hallowe'en Ball and boar hunt – had there been another party in November? Had Lucius been pursuing her during the day, and then crept up to Mrs. Rosier's room at night that weekend? No, it couldn't be, not even he was that corrupt... was he?

"Felina, you have to understand something. Like I told you before, Lady Swain is an important ally, and she has a long-term role to play here that ought to benefit everyone. I told you before that it inconveniences me for you to antagonise her any further, especially in front of Ministry officials, and that you would do better to turn your considerable talents toward distracting Severus... don't you remember?"

"I tried to distract him – it was like trying to flirt with a brick wall. If you hadn't told me about his affair with Bella, I would have thought he was a pouf," Mrs. Rosier complained.

Emily's brows instantly creased in hard dismay – Professor Snape had an affair with someone named Bella? Who in the flaming Christian hell was this Bella person? When exactly had this affair gone on, pray tell? How long had he been seeing her?

Then another even more alarming thought occurred to her – was Snape still seeing her? Was the affair going on now?

Had he been seeing this Bella individual last September? Or this June, for that matter?

"Well, you knew Bella. I think perhaps she left him a bit bitter afterwards; she has been known to do that to men sometimes. Once bitten, twice shy and all that, and believe me, Bella can bite quite hard. He's also probably still suffering from some misplaced loyalty to Evan – just wait him out, and don't give up," Lucius said impatiently.

All right, so this affair seemed to be over, and more than likely this wretched Bella creature had hurt Professor Snape deeply in ending it. Was that why he seemed so guarded and distrustful when it came to women – because some vampire of a female had callously cast him aside and broken his heart once?

Come to think of it, that would explain a lot.

But Lucius was still talking to Mrs. Rosier – "You know, darling, perhaps you could pay him a visit up in Orkney and see if he needs a bit of sympathy, someone willing to listen to his side of the story," he said, gazing tenderly into her face and caressing her hair.

"You just want to know where he is and what he's up to, don't you. Your little friend would probably be the one to ask, she bloody lived with him at Hogwarts all year," Mrs. Rosier pointed out.

"I did ask her – she said he's not at Hogwarts, so I suspect that he might have holed himself up in that old ruin in Orkney for the time being. But we can't really expect her to keep tabs on him for us – she loathes the man, he's beneath her notice," Lucius scoffed. "She'll probably go carousing on the day of his funeral."

Mrs. Rosier pouted. "Oh, yes, the high and mighty Lady Swain can't be bothered, but I can be. I see how you are. You've never cared if I had to sleep with him to get his side of the story, have you," she said pettishly.

Emily gave an almighty shudder, grimacing. Oh yes, that sounded exactly like what Professor Snape needed – a good, relaxing shag with everyone's favourite angel of mercy, Mrs. Felina Rosier, of all people.

"Well, you wouldn't have to do it very often – just long enough to flush him out," Lucius cajoled. "Then once he was out of the way, I could distract you afterward, the way I used to... remember?"

"How could I forget," Mrs. Rosier breathed – and then they kissed, long and sensually.

Oh, you whore, Emily thought. Both of you.

But then her attention was caught by something else – the loose, flowing sleeves of Mrs. Rosier's black velvet robes had slid down her arms when she put them around Lucius's neck, and Emily could just discern the black outline of the Dark Mark, seared into the woman's left forearm.

Lucius disengaged himself from Mrs. Rosier after what Emily thought were several long, oozing, thoroughly revolting moments and then graciously offered her his arm. "Come along, dear, it's almost time."

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Emily followed Lucius and Mrs. Rosier silently down the corridor. They were heading toward the eastern wing of the house, where Emily had never been before. After a few minutes' leisurely walk, they came upon another foyer and richly decorated entrance hall, though smaller than the huge main hall at the south side of the castle. Most of the light was coming from an open doorway at the far end of the hall, through which Emily could see the end of a large table surrounded by chairs – it seemed to be a conference room of some sort. A few of the Malfoys' male guests were lingering in the main hall, dressed in black robes, with glasses in their hands, talking in low, conspiratorial voices.

When Lucius and Mrs. Rosier arrived, the group began to make their way into the conference room. Emily followed on the heels of the final stragglers, intending to slip in behind them – but then, among the muffled susurrations of their conversations, she picked out a high, cold, sibilant voice – Yes, Druella, my dear, it is indeed a pleasure to be with you again – and that stopped her in her tracks, ears pricking up just in front of the doorway.

The door was open; she could potentially slip through unnoticed and overhear all that they were saying... but Voldemort had been able to see through her human Glamour and remove it. Clearly, the extent of his power was great, and she had no idea if an Obscurantis effect was enough to keep him from noticing her. She wanted to be in on this meeting... but she couldn't risk detection. And as before during her first visit to Malfeasant, she didn't want them to discover her spying on them at any cost.

For a long moment, she hesitated in front of the open door, but then after a moment's fist-clenched, heart-pounding deliberation, she turned away and headed swiftly back into her own bedroom upstairs.

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Once back in her own room, Emily closed and warded the doors behind her, then opened a window and dropped over the windowsill to the lawn below. She exited the window on soft bare feet, and made the landing on her hooves. It was a fall of about seven or eight feet, but absorbing the shock of that landing was nothing to her hoofed form, and springing back up to the open window would be equally effortless.

It was a cool, damp night, with a sheen of mist in the air, and the ground below the window was damp but not muddy, and the grass thick and springy, so anyone looking for tracks would need a ranger's skill to notice her passage in its broken stalks, and would have had to know to look for bipedal deer tracks rather than human footprints. She hurried swiftly around the side of the darkened house until she saw yellow rectangles of light shining from a set of double French doors just ahead. The doors led onto a little stone terrace raised a few feet from the surrounding lawns, and enclosed by a low stone fence. There was a flight of steps leading from the raised terrace down onto the grass – but this portal was closed by a small gate of what appeared to be ornamental wrought iron. She noted the gate as she approached and resolved to stay well clear of it.

Emily stealthily approached the windows, Obscured – yes, there they were. The group of Death Eaters was inside, sitting around a massive carved table and having what appeared to be some kind of late-night caucus.

The stone fence surrounding the terrace was a simple thing of polished stone slabs set on plinths at convenient bench level, no doubt meant to be a place for guests to sit and set down their drinks rather than any sort of real obstacle to an intruder; so she silently slipped through it onto the terrace floor, shifting from her hoofed form to soft, silent toed feet. Crouching down, she carefully peered through the lowest pane of the far right French door into the room.

Lord Voldemort was sitting at the head of the table in a large armchair, his back to Emily's vantage point. All she could see of him was a brandy snifter dangling from his long white fingers, from which he sipped now and then. There was a fat, watery-eyed, mousy-looking fellow Emily had never seen before sitting at his left hand, a man who had not been at Draco's party that day, and to whom she had not been introduced. He and the other Death Eaters were all wearing sumptuous black robes, and each of them stood up and bowed slightly as they were recognised to speak. The scene was strangely formal, like a king meeting with his knights and royal advisors.

Somehow, even Obscured, she was instinctually keeping out of Voldemort's line of sight, as she suspected that he might somehow detect her presence despite her Obscurantis effect, and with those eyes upon her, she didn't trust herself not to accidentally draw his attention out of sheer nervousness. Druella Black, Emily noted, was sitting at Voldemort's right hand, across from the mousy fellow. Lucius had taken the seat at the foot of the table, opposite his Dark Lord – now he stood up to make a long, impassioned, angry speech about something, looking both indignant and terribly righteous, and everyone was listening closely.

Emily pressed her ear to the glass – but damn, the windows were well-sealed, and not much sound was escaping, their words inaudible. She slid back into the courtyard's shadows for a view of the entire room, and tried to discern what was going on by watching the group of them.

She scanned the reactions of the others present – Macnair, Mrs. Rosier, Menzentius Black, and the mousy bloke were hanging on Lucius's every word, nodding in agreement, but Nott, Flint, and Parkinson were withdrawn, keeping their own counsel. Mssrs. Crabbe, Goyle, and Bulstrode looked dull and uncomprehending, their eyes now and then straying apprehensively over to Druella Black, who looked furious, murderously angry. Every so often she would interrupt Lucius with what looked like some sort of insult or vehement denial, and once or twice almost went for her wand after he said something she apparently found especially incendiary.

Lucius's speech went on for some time – he paced at his end of the table, the picture of nobility and impassioned concern. Finally, people began to raise their hands and ask him questions, and Druella Black kept interrupting him with angry protestations. After he had spoken for perhaps half an hour and the group had debated intensely for perhaps another quarter hour, they seemed to call for a break, and the group rose, bowed to Voldemort, and began to mill about the room, talking and refreshing their drinks. Lucius picked up a crystal decanter and hurried to refill his Lord's glass.

Then some of them headed for the French doors onto the courtyard, bringing cigars out of their pockets as they came – and Emily quickly scooted over the side of the fence, landing silently on the damp grass below.

The doors opened, and a group consisting of Parkinson, Nott, Macnair, Flint, Crabbe, and Goyle came out onto the courtyard. Lucius, Druella and Menzentius Black, Mrs. Rosier, and Voldemort remained inside. Through the open door, Emily saw Druella arguing vehemently with Lucius before Voldemort's chair – "You don't know what you're talking about, you fool – not my family, not my nephew. I trust Severus's loyalty more than I trust his, my Lord – he's always only been out for himself," Mrs. Black was saying, rheumy eyes blazing, her bejewelled finger pointing into Lucius's face – and then the door closed, and Emily couldn't hear anything further.

Damn, she thought, scowling. That exchange had sounded important.

Emmitt Parkinson had withdrawn to the far side of the courtyard, cigar in hand, close to where Emily was crouching just out of sight – "To be honest, I don't know what to think about what Lucius has been saying about Snape," he was saying – so Lucius's impassioned speech had been about Snape, then. More than ever, Emily wished that she had been able to hear what had been said.

"Well, why do we have any reason to doubt him?" someone else's voice said, a cool, rasping tone like sandpaper lightly scratched over the skin. Emily glanced up and saw Mr. Nott joining Parkinson at the terrace rail.

"I've known the man since he was five years old, Nott, and one of my rules of thumb is to pay no attention to all the hands Lucius Malfoy is kissing in public, no, you've got to watch for who and what he's ogling when no one's looking," Parkinson continued. "He may be known to all for his spendthrift ways – good lord, the man spreads himself around like a drunk whore, and always has. But when Lucius turns into a miser – that's when you've got to be careful. And he hoards the attentions of that little Faery friend of his very carefully indeed." He held the tip of his wand to his cigar tip and muttered Incendio – and a tongue of yellow flame sprang up to light it.

Mssrs. Crabbe, Goyle, Flint, and Macnair joined the group, availing themselves of Parkinson's flaming wand tip to light their own cigars. "Yeh, he's always got some fine bit of skirt on the side, that's how we know he's Lucius," Mr. Goyle chortled. "What's that got to do with Snape?"

"Our tow-headed pixie lives at Hogwarts," Parkinson said, again provoking an eye-roll from Emily (I'm not a pixie, you dolt!) "Has it escaped anyone's notice that Snape and Barty Crouch were the only men under sixty who lived at Hogwarts this year as well? And has anyone noticed how Snape treats her?" he asked his companions.

"Come off it, Emmitt, I'd sooner believe Sirius Black was shagging his cousin Bella," Walden Macnair chortled. "She and Snape get on like oil and water, everyone knows it. You should have seen him at New Year's, when he came in with her. I'd've thought he'd rather have escorted a gorgon."

Below them on the grass, Emily scowled in annoyance – oh yes, that sounded about right. Given how Snape had instantly abandoned her the second they arrived and stayed away practically all evening, he certainly had acted as though the sight of her would turn him to stone.

Parkinson gave an arch, disparaging laugh. "Yes, he moaned and complained about what a trial it was to have a fine-looking woman on his arm – doesn't it seem to any of you blokes that the gentleman doth protest a bit too much? Haven't any of you noticed the way he would bristle every time Menzentius made one of his usual sort of remarks about her?"

Emily sat up, her attention riveted closely indeed. Someone was curious about this Snapish bristling, sir, speak again.

"And did you notice the way he spoke to her after the hunt?" Parkinson pointed out. "Plus everyone's favourite black widow Felina did her best to make herself available all year, and he seemed about as interested as he would have been in shagging a manticore."

"Well, that's understandable – I think I'd rather shag a manticore than Felina," Macnair pointed out. Emily added her own silent chuckle to the laughter that followed.

Emmitt Parkinson sniffed. "Get your heads out of your arses, boys, don't believe only what's obvious and in front of you. No, I think Snape's not immune, especially when our little Faerie was constantly under that nose of his at work, and Lucius knows it. Did you notice how Lucius fell out with Barty right after that bright idea of his, as well?"

Emily crept closer, listening. She was now crouching right beneath them on the grass below the terrace, both ears pricked in the direction of Parkinson's voice.

"You're saying that Lucius might want Snape out of the picture because he thinks Snape's shagging his mistress?" Macnair asked, clearly not believing a word of it. Emily whiteknuckled her hands on her elbows – Oh no, please don't let them stumble onto the truth by accident, that we don't get along because we did shag each other once and it's complicated things immeasurably – no, Walden Fecking Macnair, shut up shut up shut up –

Instead, Emmitt Parkinson came out with just about the most extraordinary speech imaginable, which surprised Emily as much as it did any of the men listening to him – "No, no, you unsubtle dolt, I didn't say that. What I believe is that Snape wouldn't have been at all averse to shagging Lucius's mistress, his churlish protests to the contrary aside, and Lucius knew it. Truthfully, I don't think Snape has a snowflake's chance in hell of actually getting his way with her – with the personality he's got, he'll probably die a virgin. But just the fact that he would if given the chance is enough to get old Luce up in arms – and that's probably why he got so suspicious of Snape all of a sudden."

Emily blinked several times, just letting those remarks sink in. What?

"Are you sure of that?" Nott's sandpapery voice said. "Sure you're not seeing jealousy where there is none?"

"Yes, I'm sure of it. Have any of you noticed that Lucius's suspicions about Snape all started this year, when my Lady Swain abruptly arrived?" Parkinson pointed out. "Before that, Lucius trusted him above anyone, couldn't stop singing his praises. In all honesty, I think with this pub-explosion business, he was trying to serve Snape the way he did Elias Wilkes, and I don't think we've got the numbers to be able to cull the herd every time Lucius gets nervous that someone's got a mad-on for his latest flame."

"If he's still one of ours, then why didn't he come meet us all at the graveyard when they snatched Potter?" Flint asked. "Why did he stay away?"

"Oh come – if you were working for Albus Dumbledore, and everyone was milling about at some sporting event at school when the summons came, what choice would you have? What was he supposed to do, turn to Dumbledore and say, "Now if you'll excuse me, the Dark Lord is calling, I'll be back for supper right after we rid the world of that pesky Boy Who Lived?" " Parkinson retorted witheringly.

"Yeh know, he might have a point," Malcolm Bulstrode said. "I can't see what else might have gotten Lucius so angry with him – to me, Snape's the same old snarky bastard he's always been. My Millicent and her friends are always talking about how they've got the best Head of House you could want, that he's always looking out for them, not letting the Gryffindors hog all the glory."

"He's not changed at all in that, not for all the time he's been at Hogwarts," Mr. Flint said. "Marcus Jr. has been saying for years that Snape's a Slytherin to the core, since even before that Potter started at Hogwarts and all this trouble began."

"My daughter says the same – she's always saying that Hogwarts would be the best school in the world if only two things happened: if Snape became Headmaster, and they stopped accepting Muggle-borns," Parkinson agreed.

"I'll not pretend to any of you lot, I'd rather not lose him. He's already said he'll write recommendations for my boy, and what with Vincent's marks being what they are, he needs them," Mr. Crabbe remarked, to a muttered Hear hear from Mr. Goyle.

"Yes, Theodore thinks highly of him too," Nott said. "We've all thought for years that he was just biding his time at Hogwarts, maintaining his cover. Now, could it be that maybe his cover is so deep that everyone's forgotten it's a cover?"

"Precisely, well said," Parkinson assented. "Come on, lads – the Head of Slytherin paying fealty to that sugar-coated old fool Dumbledore? I'll never buy it."

"Snape's hated Dumbledore since he was a boy, and all the lads in our year knew it," Mr. Goyle averred. "Don't you all remember how bloody furious he was after Dumbledore didn't expel Potter and Black that time seventh year? Snape's always been a skinny chap, I could probably deck him with my eyes shut, but even I was scared of him then. The man was like a spitting cobra or something."

Emily's brows creased deeply. Snape's hated Dumbledore since he was a boy? Where was that coming from? As far as she could tell, Dumbledore was Professor Snape's closest friend and only real confidante. Dumbledore was also the only person she knew who made no bones about the fact that he not only respected and trusted Snape, but actually liked him as well. Perhaps that was a more complex relationship than she had originally thought.

Nott chuckled. "I'd always figured Snape was just waiting for those old fools Dumbledore and McGonagall and Flitwick to die, so he could get appointed Headmaster and change things back the way they used to be at Hogwarts. He's young enough still that he might yet do it."

"And still young enough that he might entertain the notion of courting some likely candidate for the job of Headmaster's wife, as well," Mr. Parkinson hinted, with a dark little chuckle.

All right, now that was just absurd – Emmitt Parkinson just couldn't get anything right – he imagined Professor Snape, the virgin, was hiding his desire to marry her under a prickly exterior – ? Pah, actually it was more like Professor Snape, he who could shag a lass like some Dionysian hierophant of sensuality, had had quite enough of her for one lifetime, thanks, but Parkinson was doing such a good job of deflecting blame off of the Professor by advocating this ridiculous theory that she let him carry on quite unhindered.

"Er, Emmitt, are you really trying to call some other bloke out for getting unsettled because someone fancies his lady?" Walden Macnair sneered. "Isn't that rather a case of the pot calling the kettle black?"

"I trust my wife implicitly," Parkinson said smoothly. "I just don't trust anyone with my wife. And at the rate you were sniffing around someone's airy spidersilk skirts at New Year's, Walden, you might want to watch your own back as well."

Macnair harrumphed and fell silent. A moment later, he began loudly talking about what a hoot it had been to turn all those Muggles arses over teakettles at the Quidditch World Cup, and withdrew off to the other end of the terrace, followed by the elder Crabbe, Goyle, Flint, and Bulstrode.

Parkinson and Nott remained at the other side of the terrace – their voices lowering to conspiratorial whispers. "You're right, it was a shame about Elias – he always seemed a decent sort to me," Nott murmured. "You know, I've never thought he had any designs on Narcissa either – and even if he did, she's the last person in the world who'd be interested. We knew Evan was a traitor, but I think Lucius jumped to conclusions about Wilkes."

"What I'm concerned about now, though, is how Snape can possibly stay loyal to us after Lucius tried to have him taken out of the game," Parkinson replied.

"I know, honestly," Nott agreed. "How would you feel if you found out one day that the lot of us had turned against you due to a lot of circumstantial evidence and tried to have you done in? Even if he hadn't gone over to their side before, good old Lucius may have given him the impetus to start working for Dumbledore, just to save his own neck."

"No, no, I don't believe that," Parkinson scoffed. "Can you even imagine Snape joining with the likes of Albus Dumbledore? He may be a Mudblood on his father's side, but the Princes were wizard tribal chieftains back before Hogwarts was built, before the Malfoys had even come over from Normandy. Snape's not one to brag about his family tree, especially now that the money's gone, but he's got as much right to call himself a Slytherin than any of us, when it comes down to it." He took a long drag off his cigar, shaking his dark head thoughtfully. "What I'd give anything to know is exactly why Lucius turned against Snape, and exactly where the Dark Lord stands on this, before Lucius's skirt-chasing makes us lose our one reliable source at Hogwarts. It isn't worth losing our only Potions expert over his latest mistress – Lucius's women come and go, but nobody's ever been able to even replicate some of Snape's potions. Come on, do the words Potio Carnalis ring any bells?"

Nott laughed dryly, as though embarrassed by the existence of such a concoction. "Could you believe what happened?" he said. "No matter what Lucius says, it sounds to me like Snape not only figured out their trap, but he evacuated all the Muggles somehow just to show off. Lucius says that's got to be proof that he's turned into a Muggle-lover, but I don't know – I think that might have been old Snape's way of rubbing Lucius's nose in it, of saying that he's got the wherewithal to thwart Lucius's plans any time he wishes. He's a deep one, Severus is, he's seen more than any of us will ever know – he's always got some new trick up his sleeve. And we all know how much he likes to serve someone up a nice cold dish of revenge."

"I do wish there was some way of getting his side of the story for myself," Parkinson muttered. "I didn't want to say anything before the Dark Lord himself, of course, didn't want to seem too sympathetic to either side – but I'd be eager to know from Snape himself what really happened."

Just below the two of them, Emily was hanging on their every word (Keep talking, you two, come on) but Parkinson unfortunately chose that moment to flick the inch of thick ash off his cigar – right down onto her head. The hot, reeking ashes tickled her nostrils with the uncontrollable urge to sneeze, but she buried her face tight in the crook of her arm and controlled it with a huge effort.

Thankfully, Menzentius Black came out to collect the group on the veranda a moment later – "Gentlemen, we're starting again," he called – and they stubbed out their cigars and headed back into the conference.

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Once they were all assembled in their chairs, Emily slid through the stone fence and positioned herself at the windows again. Now Druella Black got up to speak to the group – and oh, sweet Mother, the woman was angry enough to spit nails or start throwing random Crucios, and had drunk enough to leave her none too coherent as well. If she was speaking in Snape's defence, she was going to do more harm than good at this rate.

Emily debated a moment, then silently spoke a word, extending her hand in Druella Black's direction – and imbued her with the most subtle, gradual sort of Glamour, so that her sputtering outrage resolved itself into the appearance of righteous indignation, her ranting words became indicative of great affection and trust for her great-nephew. Slowly, she became less a spoiled old woman who wouldn't believe Snape had turned traitor because she was unwilling to lose a foot soldier of her own, and became a devoted great-aunt defending her oft-misunderstood and unfairly maligned kinsman out of love and family loyalty.

And, gradually, the group's mood seemed to shift – those who had acted as though Druella's protests were shrill and annoying an hour earlier began looking at her with new sympathy, perhaps even remembering their own great-aunts and grandmothers, and imagining their grief at losing such beloved grandchildren as themselves. Druella's growing success with the group seemed to unnerve Lucius a bit after some time, and he raised his hand to voice protests. But Emily turned her attention toward him with another utterance of her True Name and laid another extremely subtle Glamour on him as well. She recalled Emmitt Parkinson's comments about how Lucius must want Snape out of the picture due to (Oh, come ON) sexual jealousy over her, and allowed Lucius's self-indulgent cupidity to come to the fore. Slowly he began to look and sound less like the paragon of a loyal Death Eater expressing outrage because Snape had changed sides, and more like an insecure teenage boy whining because his prat of a cousin was out to steal his girl and spoil his fun – and slowly, the group began to look on him with scepticism. Emmitt Parkinson even raised his hand late in the evening and made some comment in Lucius's direction, a sly smile on his face – and the group actually gave knowing chortles at his remark, which made Lucius look discomfited for just a split-second.

Seeing this, Emily had to fight off the urge to increase the Glamoured effect, perhaps even throw in a little Deceivre to ensure the group would be fully convinced of Snape's impeccable character, but she didn't dare use magic too overtly, for fear that it would alert Voldemort to her presence. Instead, she contented herself with lending Druella Black's persuasive powers some extra oomph and diminishing the effect of Lucius's natural silver-tongued charisma – but it seemed to be working to some extent, and the effect grew more pronounced as she continued. Now that she knew who Professor Snape's supporters and detractors were, she was able to interfere just the barest amount in his favour.

The gathering seemed to end in the small hours of the morning, just past three a.m. by the large gilt clock on the mantelpiece. The group rose and bowed to their leader, then began to break up into small, cliquish groups for private conversations. Druella Black was still at Voldemort's side, sticking close to him with the persistence of a tick. She seemed very involved in a quiet, intense talk with him and the fat, mousy fellow, her eyes now and then going resentfully toward Lucius. Mr. Nott and Parkinson were talking to each other again, and Lucius seemed to be having a sulk on the opposite side of the room with Felina Rosier and Menzentius Black on either side of him.

Finally, Lucius got up, again bowed to Voldemort, and made his way out of the room, seeming rather deflated at his less than complete victory that evening. As he turned toward the door, a new thought seemed to occur to him, something that made his chin go up and his frown lighten slightly. Emily's eyes were riveted on his face – she knew that private little smirk, that lusty gleam in his eyes. She would now have bet anyone that he would be heading back to her room in another moment –

– and she was out under the courtyard, dressed for combat and with a dagger at her belt, with muddy feet and dusted with cigar ash.

Emily spun around, and a second later was rushing back to her room at a sprint.

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Lucius made his way back toward the west wing of the castle, moving at a quick, stealthy pace toward a cluster of guest bedrooms. He paused in front of a certain door, glancing up and down the corridor, then opened the door, and slipped inside.

"Emily? Darling?" he whispered.

No answer.

He approached the luxurious green velvet bed, but it was empty, the bedclothes thrown aside.

Then he noticed the glimmer of light under the bathroom door and, drawing closer, heard the rush of water in the bathroom, then quietly opened the door. "My dear? It's me. Where have you gotten off to?"

She was in a hot shower, naked amidst billows of steam, wet hair plastered to her head like a helmet of ruddy gold. "Mmmm, there you are," he said, leaning on the shower door. "I woke up and missed you."

She turned toward him and smiled sleepily. "'Evening, lover," she crooned, raking back her drenched hair. "Care to join me?"

"No, I'll just wait for you in bed," he drawled. "Don't be too long."

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After Lucius had left the bathroom, Emily finished her shower and towelled herself dry – then let the Obscurantis effect she had put on her tunic and breeches, armour, veil, and dagger belt fall away, and fished them out from under the bathtub. She quickly stowed them in the bathroom linen cupboard, to be retrieved tomorrow morning when she was alone. Then she combed her hair and checked herself carefully in the mirror for any leftover trace of ash or mud or grass before rejoining Lucius in her bed.

"Come here," he murmured as she slid between the fine cotton sheets. He gathered her into his arms, her head on his shoulder, his lips lowering to lightly brush her forehead.

"What would you like, darling?" she asked, nuzzling him suggestively – but he only sighed sleepily.

Sssssh... hold me, he said. Then he stretched comfortably, and fell asleep a moment later – no doubt all of his speechmaking and pyrotechnical argumentation of that night had been exhausting. The moon had risen late that night, and by its light Emily could see his handsome face on the pillow, serenely relaxed in sleep. His breath and heartbeat were slow and regular, but his arms held her close to his side.

Oh, bloody hell... watching him like this was like a tiny, sharp little knife turning in her heart. Could there be any more exquisite torture than to be held so tenderly by the man one intended to bring to ruin.

She sighed. Perhaps he had loved her once, more deeply than she had ever realised in her feckless, self-absorbed youth; perhaps she had come to be some elusive reminder of his carefree young manhood. It now seemed that his passion for her was more intense than mere lust or infatuation; there was something obsessive about it, something desperate and grasping. Love me, it insisted, love me no matter what I've become – and his need tugged at her so sharply that she almost wished she had it within her to fulfil his wishes.

Perhaps things might have been different for both of them, once; if he hadn't been so consumed by his fear and loathing of Muggles, if she hadn't always had so little parental feeling. If only he hadn't been engaged when he came to the Faerielands; if only she hadn't always been so absorbed in her academic pursuits and military career. Perhaps if he wasn't so much like his father, and she wasn't so much like her mother.

She lay awake for a long time, possessed with melancholy wondering as to what could have been different in both of them, that would have allowed them to truly love each other and be happy, instead of coming to this.

As it was, however, that night a corrupt bureaucrat slept with his arms jealously clasped around a woman who was now doing her best to see him sent to prison for the rest of his life.

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Lucius was gone when she awoke the next morning.

Cecile came in with her breakfast tray at about nine in the morning, but Emily was so tired from her previous night's meagre sleep that she barely roused enough to thank the elf, drink the pot of tea and nibble some fruit and a wheat scone before going back to bed and passing out for another few hours. She finally opened a bleary eye and noticed it was ten minutes past eleven – and there was a good-bye tea that day at noon. Reluctantly, she made her way into the shower, and when she emerged, Cecile had cleared the breakfast tray and laid out her comb and toilette things and day robes of navy-blue silk and matching flat kidskin slippers.

The Malfoys and their guests were just leaving the main hall for the sunroom when she arrived for tea, at perhaps five minutes past noon. Thankfully, Beatrice Parkinson immediately caught Emily's eye and waved her into the seat beside her when she came in, and as Narcissa, Druella Black, and Mrs. Rosier were all already seated at the other ladies' table, she was spared another genteel vivisection at this Malfeasant tea. The food as usual was excellent, and someone had again thoughtfully provided mint-tarragon herbal tea and whole-wheat tea sandwiches in addition to those on crustless white bread, so Emily let herself relax and listen to the talk between Beatrice and Pansy Parkinson, which seemed mostly to consist of Beatrice consoling her daughter for the loss of her white Persian cat, Frost, earlier that week.

When tea was over, everyone watched as Draco unwrapped a stack of birthday presents, and afterward, Emily looked up to find both Lucius and Draco before her. "Just look at you, lad, I think you're almost as tall as your old father, now, aren't you?" Lucius said, smiling, his hand on his son's shoulder. "Emily, I wanted to ask you, have you seen the sketches I commissioned for the family oil portrait?"

"No, I haven't," she said, smiling brightly at both of them. "Draco, your family's sitting for a portrait? How marvellous!"

"Yeah, the artist came out here a bunch of weekends, and we all got dressed up and sat for her," the boy said, grinning back. "Come on, Father, let's show her the sketches. They're up in your study, right?"

Lucius looked slightly deflated – apparently he hadn't expected his son to invite himself along on their latest errand up to his private study – but a few minutes later, the three of them were in the study off the upstairs gallery, admiring a series of small oil-on-canvas studies of Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco in various poses, spread out on Lucius's expansive desk.

"I like this one the best," Draco was saying, leaning over a sketch where Narcissa was seated on a carved armchair with her husband beside her and Draco standing between them with his arm around her shoulders. "Mother looks really nice in it, don't you think?"

"Yes, she looks beautiful," Emily said, leaning over the sketch as well. "That's a lovely frock she has on. The three of you all look awfully handsome together."

Draco gave her a very boyish and rather sweet smile in return – his usual response when anyone made an admiring comment about his mother. "She wanted to wear a green frock, but I always tell her I like her blue robes, so she wore this instead. That's what suits her best, I think – she has really blue eyes, Mother does."

"She does indeed. How lucky that you were there to give her advice," Emily said, grinning at the boy, and he turned back to the sketch with a little laugh.

A moment later, Draco turned back to her with a shy, questioning look. "Professor, Father was telling me earlier that he wants to put in a new department at the Ministry, you know, to help the Faeries out," Draco said, nodding in his father's direction. "I think that's a really good idea. It's not fair that you have to go about with Glamours on and didn't used to be able to get work papers, and all that."

"Absolutely, well said, my boy," Lucius murmured approvingly, patting his son's shoulder. Emily smiled at him, nodding.

Encouraged by this agreement, Draco continued on – "I could sort of understand if, you know, goblins went about with Glamours on so as to fit in, since they're sort of weird, but Faeries hiding, that's stupid. I mean, if you look like the Fae do, why should you have to hide it – " and then he realised what he had just said and fell silent. He bent very studiously over the sketch again, his pale complexion slowly turning scarlet.

"Well... I daresay goblins have their own standards of beauty," Emily said gently. "Perhaps they consider their own kind to be really handsome and think humans and Fae are all 'sort of weird.' And there are more sorts of Faeries out there than just fauns like me – perhaps you might find some of the other races kind of strange." She turned a satiric eye toward Lucius – "Spider pookas, for example. Some humans think they're sort of unnerving."

Lucius hid a smirk under his hand, but Draco only blushed the worse. "Right. Sorry," the boy said quietly, his eyes glued to the tips of his boots. Emily bent over another sketch and asked a few inane questions about what he thought of the pose depicted in it, by means of changing the subject, but Draco was so embarrassed that he excused himself soon afterward, saying he wanted to get back downstairs and see what his friends were doing.

After the boy had gone, Lucius turned to Emily with a very I-told-you-so sort of smile. "I think you'll agree that the boy is fast warming up to the idea," Lucius said. "Once I put the possibility of you in his mind, I can tell he's really gotten excited about it. So – I think you should start working with me once I've got the Department properly organised, which it ought to be by this spring." He wrapped his arms around her waist and put a lingering kiss on the back of her neck. "I think there should be some distance between you and Draco while he reaches adulthood, for decorum's sake. Then when he starts working at the Ministry after leaving school, you can be appropriately surprised and overwhelmed by what a handsome young man he's become – and then he can finally confess to you that he's been smitten with you for heaven knows how long. Then of course after a year or two, we'll start planning the wedding."

"Lucius, stop it, you're exaggerating." This talk was making her extremely uncomfortable – not in the least because the scenario he was planning was all too plausible to her.

"Oh come off it, love – surely you've seen the way he's always making eyes at you now, it's not like we'd be coercing him into anything. He's old enough to know which woman he wants, for heaven's sake – he's fifteen, he's a physical adult. In centuries past, he'd be considered a grown man and perhaps married by now." His voice was an insinuating whisper in her ear, in her head. "He's probably been having sexual fantasies for years – I know I did when I was his age. When he's lying in bed alone at night, surely you don't think that sour-faced Pansy Parkinson is the woman he's dreaming of, do you?""

Emily thought of the shrill little Pansy Parkinson as a romantic rival – and laughed before she could stop herself. "Maybe he does, you know, they do go everywhere together."

"I think I've instilled better taste in him than that," Lucius said, also laughing. "You do like him, don't you? You like having another handsome younger man looking at you like you were the only woman in the world, don't you."

Emily blushed. "I don't think there's any woman alive who wouldn't," she said, perhaps too defensively.

"It's all right, darling, I'm not jealous. I couldn't be more pleased, for both of you." Lucius caressed her cheek adoringly. "All I want is for the two of you to be happy. You know that."

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Emily and Lucius made their way down to the sunroom again not long after Draco made his exit – while her host wouldn't have minded lingering in his study, she herself was getting nervous that it might be noticed if the two of them were to disappear too often at the same time.

She arrived back in the sunroom as the assembled guests were saying their good-byes, shaking hands and putting airy kisses on cheeks, before making ready to leave. Emily only got away after promising Beatrice Parkinson that she would go to the next tea Beatrice threw for the Magical Zoological Gardens committee that summer. While Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson's good-byes were very pleasant, Menzentius Black then pressed her hand and put a rather less than airy kiss on her cheek, which made her want to go upstairs and scour both her hands and face with hot water.

A short time later she was packed to go and had made a grateful and very complimentary good-bye to Cecile up in her guest room, hoping that perhaps she would see the elf again rather sooner than later – then retrieving her breeches, tunic, armour, and weaponry from the bathroom linen cupboard after Cecile had gone. Finally, she went down to the great main hall, trunk in hand, to make her good-byes to the Malfoys.

Draco and Lucius got up from their seats as she arrived, leaving her luggage in the foyer. She thanked and bid farewell to Narcissa with a demure handshake; she let a nodded thank-you do for Druella Black, who grunted disdainfully in reply. Lucius kissed her cheek and shook her hand with a tiny conspiratorial smirk that said We'll be seeing each other soon, my love – and then, there was Draco. Young, fresh-faced, breathlessly handsome Draco, looking at her with those big, limpid grey eyes.

"Bye," he said, shaking her hand and putting a very different sort of kiss on her cheek than his father and uncle had. "Thanks for coming, thanks for everything. I hope you'll come visit again soon?"

"I will if I can," she said, smiling and warmly returning the handshake. Oh, the sight of him looking at her like that made her feel like the lowest bit of scum in the pond for ever allowing his affections to be trifled with in such a manner. The worst part was that while his father's wishes were the epitome of selfishness and corruption – the boy's intentions toward her did seem entirely honourable. There was such a sweetness in the way he looked at her, such a sincere, if unformed, sense of the ardent suitor in the way he treated her now.

Just like Dorien, when we first became lovers.

He made it so clear how he felt... the youthful desire, the open admiration... he was so ready to offer her everything that his father was too jaded, and too self-interested, ever to let himself feel for her. How far off were those emotions from love, really?

This wasn't going to be easy.

Please, dearest Mother, she thought, as Draco saw her to the door, please don't let this poor child be too badly hurt, when all this is over.