Part Third: The Hart Subvertant, Chapter 29, Part 2

Chapter 29, Part 2:

Later, perhaps at around eight o'clock that evening, Emily arrived in the Great Hall for a quiet three-person supper at the high table. Dumbledore and Professor Snape were already seated at the table, which was set with the usual golden dinnerware and covered with a small but princely feast: a tiny Chateaubriand, a whole roast squab on a bed of wild rice, wood ear and portabella mushrooms in a sauce of red wine, butter and herbs, fresh asparagus, potatoes lyonnaise, a tureen of rich duck and vegetable soup, a tiny wheel of ripe Camembert and hot, fresh-baked wheat baguette, and bottles of white Bordeaux in a golden bucket of ice. There was also a lush centrepiece of loosely arranged wildflowers and fragrant greenery, set about with bright little votive candles.

"Well, methinks I detect Miss Cecile's hand in tonight's supper," Emily said as she took the seat at the end of the table, beside Dumbledore. "She does like to show her gratitude by feeding a person well – one of her many attractive qualities."

Dumbledore smiled. "House-elves do take exceedingly good care of those they are fond of, and she seems very grateful after the good turns you've done her." He poured a crystal glass of white wine and passed it to Emily.

"Thank you, sir." She helped herself to some soup, vegetables, and potatoes, several slices of squab breast, and bread and cheese.

Snape was carving the roast beef for himself and Dumbledore. "Perhaps two thick slices, Severus. No, make that three. Wonderful, my friend, thank you." The Headmaster spooned large helpings of mushrooms, potatoes, and asparagus onto his plate.

"Still, this is a very handsome gift," Snape observed, putting some of the tender roast beef on his own plate. "Won't this, on some level, make you beholden to Malfoy, Professor?"

"Well... " She sighed, looking troubled. "In theory it would, but there are other factors at work here. To my mind, the obligation imparted by the gift is somewhat negated by the fact that her former masters were abusing her so hideously – Cecile's need to be out from under their oppressions trumps the obligations of hospitality, especially when the gift wasn't made out of charity or consideration, but as a bribe. As such, I would think that taking her on as my elf isn't so much the acceptance of a gift as it is the liberation of a captive. Granted, when I came here, it wasn't ever with the intention of adopting a very small person with a desperate need to serve someone – to be perfectly honest, the majority opinion of house-elves at home is that they're a bit weird," she said, with a reflective sip of wine. "The Fae for the most part look down on subservience – we've never kept slaves or bondservants, it's just not our style. However... I've wanted to get her out of there from the first day I met her, and I've no doubt she would have a better life with anyone other than the Malfoys. And I'm not in the habit of making people iron their hands, after all. And you both saw her today – she seems to think that changing a bad master for a better one is the best thing that's ever happened to her."

Snape leaned back in his seat, sipping from his wineglass. "All very well reasoned justifications," he observed acidly.

"Well, you're the one who's accused me of quixoticism, so I'll get her a little donkey and she can be my Sancho Panza," Emily snapped back, her voice rising.

Dumbledore glanced from one to the other with a faintly disapproving look, and they both subsided immediately. "What have you discovered from Cecile's memories of the Death Eaters' meetings, Severus?"

"She's given us hours of information – I'll probably need a week or so to go over it all," Snape said, forking into his supper.

"And, Emily, I wanted to ask you – Cecile mentioned that she brought a letter to you, from Lucius Malfoy. Was there anything in that letter we should know about?" Dumbledore asked.

"Yes. He invited me to the Death Eater meeting coming up this Thursday night at Malfeasant," she said.

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

There was a long pause.

"Are you going to go?" Snape asked.

"I was thinking I might," Emily said, her eyes on her plate.

Snape turned to Dumbledore. "Do you think she ought to go?"

"I believe Emily can decide for herself as to what she wishes to do in this situation," the Headmaster replied.

"Professor, just so you know, I'm no stranger to diplomatic negotiations," Emily told Snape. "I have to represent my government every time I'm out in the field, in uniform or not. Not only that, but I was part of the honour guard who attended Gwydion and Prince Corryn and my mother while they eked out the agreement for the 3022 Peace – stood there and heard every word of it. And this is who they were negotiating with – "

She waved her hand at the end of the table, silently speaking a word – and a hulking figure materialised from nothingness into the chair at the end of the table. Standing, he would have been immensely tall, close to seven feet, with massive shoulders and heavily muscled arms; three hundred fifty pounds would have been a fair guess at his weight. His skin was ash-grey, mottled about the shoulders and chest with large patches of dark green. His scalp was shaved clean, decorated here and there with raised tribal scarifications, and his ears came to a long, batlike point. One eye was large, deep-set, and calculating, of a pewter grey in colour – and the other eye socket was sunken and empty, the lid stitched shut with thick scar tissue. His lips were drawn back in a grimace, revealing long, prominent upper and lower canine teeth. The hands emerging from the sleeves of his leather tunic were huge, with scarred knuckles, and looked crushingly strong.

"Meet the Baalorite Orc Prince Cthroghokkk the Younger – not the most dangerous Dark Wizard alive, but still, quite a tough customer," Emily said matter-of-factly. "His father killed my grandfather in the first Defence of Rivendale, for which my mother rather spectacularly did his father in the next day. I'd... made the acquaintance of a few of his kinsmen on the battlefield, so you can no doubt imagine about how fond he was of the both of us."

"That green colour in his skin – is that normal?" Snape asked, surveying their Glamoured visitor warily.

"Orcs have chlorophyll in their skin – they can derive nutritional benefit from sunlight. Another reason why they're so damned tough, and hard to get rid of," she said. "So I had to stand guard as he and about twelve of his officers sat about telling us why we all deserved to be killed and eaten because we could do magic and weren't Orcs, and that all the compromises we offered were unacceptable. It went on for about three weeks until he finally deigned to be persuaded to stop trying to kill all of us, take his forces and a tremendous pacification offering and go home, which was all about as exhilarating as you're probably thinking right now."

She dispelled the Glamour with another wave of her hand, and turned back to Professor Snape. "So my point is, sir, perhaps I'm not going into this as completely unprepared as you seem to think I am."

"That enemy sounds only irrational and aggressive," he replied. "The Dark Lord is aggressive, treacherous, highly persuasive, completely unscrupulous, and much more rational than not. Not only that, but you would be negotiating with him alone, surrounded by a roomful of his allies, not surrounded by your family and fellow soldiers with an honour guard behind you."

"We had to talk the Orcs out of killing us, mind – and You-Know-Who wants to secure my cooperation. He wants something from me, so like you said, I'd be negotiating from a position of strength," she pointed out.

"Well, if you're bent on doing this, I do very much hope you're right," he said. "For your own sake."

"So perhaps I will manage to pull this off as becomes a soldier, instead of like some stupid little girl," she snapped, her eyes flaring angrily.

"I didn't say that – I said you were naïve, not stupid – "

"Professors, I think we'll all agree that this has been a trying day, so could we please not bicker over supper?" Dumbledore said, with just a touch of weariness in his voice – and they both subsided immediately.

"Sorry, sir."

"My apologies, Albus."

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

The time until Thursday night was marked by a palpable sense of nervous anticipation from both Emily and Professor Snape. Only Dumbledore seemed as confident and serene as ever, although he met frequently with both Professors, so that both he and Emily could hear Snape's reports on the enemy plans recovered from Cecile's memories, and so that both men could coach Emily on the best strategies with which to approach her appearance at the meeting.

"The Death Eaters view the raids that Arthur Weasley's Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Department has been conducting as a very real threat," Snape told them. "As you can both imagine, what with the amount of Dark Arts contraband and illegal weaponry your average Death Eater keeps about his or her manor, the idea of a Ministry-ordered search makes all of them very nervous indeed. Lucius was on the short list for a surprise inspection just over two years ago, and when he got wind of it through a few corrupt informants, he was furious. I heard all about how much that upset him, until he managed to buy his way out of it. He retaliated by planting a Dark Magical artefact on the youngest of the Weasley children – the damn thing nearly got the girl killed, back in 1993."

"He did this to a child?" Emily asked, horrified.

"Yes, to the Weasleys' daughter, who was all of eleven at the time," Professor Snape said grimly. "Arthur has many loyal friends at the Ministry, and his department has been gaining more wide-ranging powers of search and seizure in recent years, so I fear we haven't seen the last of Lucius's plots against Arthur's family. It's one of his favourite tactics to attack indirectly by killing, injuring, or corrupting an enemy's loved ones, and the Weasleys have so many children and close friends that there's a wide range of targets of opportunity." He turned toward Emily – "You'll want to pay close attention to any mention of actions against the Weasleys, Professor – I'm absolutely certain that feud isn't over."

"I shall be certain to keep an eye out then," she assured them both.

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

When she wasn't in tense meetings with Snape and Dumbledore, Emily had the more pleasant task of overseeing Cecile's integration into daily life at Hogwarts. Dobby had found Cecile a place in a cosy little bedroom in the house-elves' dormitory wing, and she had two new roommates whom she liked very much. There had been a big sewing party in the elves' common room on that Tuesday night – apparently a house-elf's idea of a rollicking good time consisted of singing elven folk songs, passing around homemade biscuits, cakes, and pies, and working on sewing projects and mending. Cecile thought it was all a great deal of fun, and she told Emily all about it in rapturous terms. She had also been given several tea towel uniforms bearing the Hogwarts crest, which she thought were just terribly elegant.

"But, Mistress, will you be giving me any special Swain family uniforms? Be it all right with you if I wear the Hogwarts crest?" the elf asked.

"Yes, dear, it's fine. I work at Hogwarts, so I'm... more associated with the school right now than I am with the Swain family, so don't trouble yourself about it. Wear whatever you like."

Even in the short time Emily had known Cecile, it was clear that the elf had not been given many opportunities to do what she herself liked before, and she found this newfound good fortune both exhilarating and a touch overwhelming. After being shown where Emily's apartments and office were, Cecile practically exhausted herself with keeping them clean and tidy. In those first few days, Cecile had unpacked nearly everything in her Mistress's Holding Trunk, which Emily herself had done only sporadically since her hasty session of packing up just before what she thought would be her final departure from Hogwarts. The towels and bed sheets were changed daily until Emily prevailed upon the elf that once a week would be often enough. Chide Cecile as she might, however, it really had been very pleasant to come back up to her apartments after a meeting with Snape and Dumbledore and find her closets neatly arranged with all her clothes and belongings again, and all of her books painstakingly organised on the bookshelves. Although Cecile had left all of her weapons and armaments alone, as per her Mistress's earlier orders, Emily had never seen all her belongings so well kept, or her quarters so lovingly tended.

But when all of her work was done, and any busywork that could have been invented was also done, Cecile still seemed nervous about proving her usefulness, to the point of trailing Emily around like a little towel-clad shadow practically waiting for her Mistress's skirts to gather lint or her shoes to get dusty. Now and then, it proved difficult to detach the elf long enough to get some private time to scheme with Snape and Dumbledore.

But one person in the castle could instantly make Cecile cease her hovering and turn tail for the kitchens in search of just about anything to scour or tidy. Professor Snape's temper had worsened as the Death Eaters' meeting approached, and the sight of him coming toward the two of them, scowling like a thundercloud, was usually enough to make the elf drop a desperate little curtsy and flee like a tiny mouse before a very big, angry wolf.

About the third or fourth time this happened, on Thursday afternoon, when the Professor approached the two of them as they strolled through the main foyer, Emily had had enough of it. "Would you stop scaring my elf, please?" she snapped, glaring at Snape.

"She does seem a timid little thing, doesn't she," he remarked. "Rather reminds me of Neville Longbottom."

"When she's with me, she's extremely cheerful – but yes, I've noticed she's a little afraid of you," Emily said tartly. "You are about three feet taller than she is and always looming over her, after all."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "I do not loom."

"I'm sorry – you loom. Deal with it."

He looked annoyed, but nothing further was said on the subject of looming. "Today is Thursday, isn't it."

"Yes. I'll be leaving at about half-past ten tonight."

"So... tonight you'll become the first Fae emissary to the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters," Snape said, pausing a moment to let the import of his words sink in. "And not only that, you'll be meeting with them with the intent of sinking their organisation. It's a tall order, madam – do you still think you can do it?"

"I fully intend to try, at least," she replied.

"At any rate, the reason I wanted to talk to you today is because I've had an idea – since Midsummer's Night, I've been aware that there is a not-insubstantial Faery community living in England, and you do seem to have close relationships with at least some of them. Have any of the other Fae ever expressed the desire to join the opposition effort against Vol – against the Death Eaters?" he asked.

"If they've ever thought of it, they haven't mentioned it to me," she replied. "I don't think the threat he represents has quite registered with them. You may recall that during his first rise, in the seventies and eighties, the Fae remained neutral. The general attitude was that we weren't really a part of Wizarding society no matter who was in charge, so why not let the wand-wavers fight amongst themselves."

"Ah, so you were rather like centaurs, then, but with Glamours and underground nightclubs."

"Well, have you ever heard of any centaurs taking a Killing Curse from some masked bloke in a black robe?" she countered. "You-Know-Who met young Mr. Potter on Hallowe'en night before the fight got big enough to affect centaurs in their forests, or the Fae in our underground nightclubs. So no, we were more concerned with things like restrictive Ministry rules designed to limit non-human rights than we were with just about anything else."

"Ministry rules that limited non-human rights in what manner?" he asked.

"Are you familiar with the Code of Wand Use? Its third clause prohibits non-humans from using wands. I quite recall how annoyed you were with me when the lobby security guard gave me a funny look because I didn't have my wand when we went to the Ministry Ball – but did it ever occur to you that if I had brought one, they might have confiscated it because I'm not human?"

Both his face and scent registered surprise – clearly that legality had never occurred to him. "But your father is human – the argument could be made that you're human enough for government purposes, couldn't it?"

"Sir, look at my eyes and ears sometime. You've seen the way I react to iron, you've seen me bleed, and you've seen my hooves," she retorted. "Do I seem at all human to you?"

"Well... " He crossed his arms in front of him in his usual contentious posture. "Ultimately, what difference does that make? You've told me you prefer using your True Name to do magic anyway."

"Yes, that's true – but why is there legislation prohibiting me from using a wand if I choose to, and if I can do it? There aren't any such laws on the French or Irish law books, why is that?"

"If the point you're making is that the Code of Wand Use is overbroad, badly written and non-specific, madam, then I agree with you," Snape insisted. "However – "

"Overbroad, badly written and non-specific or not – it's still on the books, isn't it?" she retorted. "And no one's challenging it, not even Dumbledore."

"Have you ever mentioned to him, or to any Ministry officials, that you think it should be amended or overturned?" he challenged back. "I don't think any witch or wizard would deny that the Fae qualify as beings under the Ministry's criteria, or that your people are powerful users of magic – if the Fae were to form their own activist groups or government lobby agency, wouldn't that be more effective than simply hiding yourselves under Glamours and skulking about pretending you don't exist?"

"That's a wonderful idea and I agree completely – but you do realise you're talking to the only Faerie in the U.K. who's ever been granted a work visa by the Wizarding government, and that had everything to do with Albus Dumbledore's influence," she replied scathingly. "Look, I can see why you'd want to bring more Fae members into the Order of the Phoenix, sir, and again, it's a wonderful idea – in theory. However, this isn't a matter of only Dumbledore against You-Know-Who – there's a big, slow, crushingly stupid bureaucracy with powers of deportation that's at least nominally supposed to be in charge of your society – and it doesn't like people like me, don't you understand? What if some other Faerie joins the Order and does something that comes under the Ministry's notice? They would be just as likely to deport such a person for not having work papers as they would be to hand her the Order of Merlin, First Class."

"Nothing will ever change if you don't undertake to change it," he snapped.

"Look, I'm already doing the best I can here, all right?" she flashed back, her voice rising. "I can only do so much, and I'm already neck-deep in this spy game that you keep telling me is so fecking dangerous – and now you expect me to organise an Arcadian-rights lobby on top of it all?"

"No, of course not – but if this conflict escalates into a point of crisis, wouldn't you agree that perhaps it would be in the best interest of all wizards, witches, and Faeries to oppose him together?" he demanded.

"This, from the man who thought my father was naïve," she said, with a cold little laugh. "Here's my final word on the matter, sir – I'm willing to volunteer my own aid in this conflict, but that's where it stops. I'm doing this so I can help take down the man who first ruined my father's reputation, and then tried to have him killed. If any other Fae decide to commit to this cause, they'll have to do it of their own volition, because I can't in good conscience urge them to do so, knowing what could happen to them if I do, can't you see? If they don't get it from the Death Eaters, they'll get it from the Ministry, and I'm not about to ask anyone else to subject themselves to that."

"Well then, I suppose I have my answer," he said, and took his leave of her with an ironic bow. "Good evening, madam."

He turned and headed back in the direction of the Slytherin dungeons, and Emily headed back up to her own apartments to finish her preparations for what lay ahead that evening.

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

Bloody hell. What to wear to a Death Eater meeting, of all things.

Emily thought about appearing in her formal dress uniform, complete with chain mail, sword, cloak and plastron embroidered with Third Kingdom colours – but then thought the better of it. Military dress seemed too overt of a gesture; she neither wanted to appear hostile, an armed enemy stalking in to issue a challenge, nor did she want to appear like an obedient soldier reporting for duty.

Lucius had said elegant business attire, but mindful of this first Fae emissary business, she looked through her closet for something in the Arcadian style, not an Arcadian-made approximation of Wizarding dress robes. How about something in the Third Kingdom's colours, and that revealed her Fianna insignia, just to remind them all who she was and where she came from – yes, that might work. She finally decided on a sleeveless black gown of finely pleated spidersilk embroidered with a delicate pattern of silver grapevines at the neck and hem, with a long flowing kirtle of deep violet; the sort of thing she might have worn to a diplomatic reception for visiting dignitaries at Court. Her Arcadian pearls, definitely; and then she added a Glamour to her Fianna tattoo – an extremely subtle low-light effect that outlined its intricate pattern with glimmering silver, just to make it all the more eye-catching. Next, she slicked her hair back from her ears, and darkened her brows and lashes to play up those uncanny eyes. Finally, just because she trusted Lucius Malfoy and his Dark Lord about as far as she could have chewed and spit a brace of African elephants, she threaded a miniaturised rapier and twelve-inch hunting dagger under her lapel.

Well then, she thought, standing back and examining the effect in the mirror. Quite the drawing-room warrior indeed.

"My my my," her mirror said, as she surveyed herself before going out. "Who is it you're going to see tonight, dearie, the Queen, or the Minister of Magic?"

"Would that it were either," she sighed.

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

No matter how impressive her mirror thought she looked, when Lucius's Portkey deposited her in the rose garden terrace just outside Malfeasant at just after half-past ten that night, Emily could only hope that she appeared more confident than she felt.

A wretched little house-elf in a black pillowcase uniform came to meet her in the garden, and then led her through the corridors to a familiar foyer and richly decorated entrance hall located in an east wing of the house... a receiving room just outside a conference hall that was now disturbingly familiar.

"Darling, so good to see you. You look lovely." Lucius appeared from a shadowy knot of men in black robes, and first pressed a fervent kiss to her cheek and then a glass of brandy into her hand. "We're all so pleased you could join us."

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

At perhaps five minutes before eleven p.m., the assembled guests filed into the east wing conference room. Emily immediately recognised the interior of the room she had spied upon on the previous Saturday night – glancing right, she espied the courtyard where she had observed the earlier meeting. Lucius motioned Emily to the foot of the table, and took the seat at her right hand. Walden Macnair took the seat to her left.

And of course Lord Voldemort himself was already seated at the head of the table, resplendent in flowing robes of elegant black velvet, a cut crystal glass of fine brandy dangling from his long white fingers. He reclined in his seat with perfect insouciance as everyone in the room greeted him with deep bows.

That is, everyone but Emily.

Druella Black turned a scandalised look at her as she remained upright, drawing the attention of their dread Lord, who regarded her with an indulgent look. An obeisance is customary upon entering and leaving my presence, Voldemort told Emily, just for her own information.

"I see," she said politely. "Then I do beg your pardon, sir, but thousands of years of Faery custom dictate that a Fianna knight pays homage to no one but Arcadian royalty, and her Goddess."

An instant silence fell – and the ticking of the clock in that room suddenly seemed very, very loud. Several members of the company looked nervous, while Druella Black looked outraged, and Lucius glanced toward his Lord with anxiety in his eyes. Voldemort remained silent, looking penetratingly at Emily – and her palms dampened as she wondered if perhaps this show of loyalty to Gwydion would be her last ever. Nonetheless, she held her head up and maintained a proud, at-attention stance. Finally, his posture relaxed, and he motioned her to the chair at the foot of the table. Please, won't you join us, he said, with icy cordiality.

"Thank you, sir," she said, and took her seat.

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

Despite your insistence on such separatist gestures, our organisation remains committed to that which we have promised to your people, Voldemort said, by means of an opening salvo. As you recall, we fully intend to support the Fae in your ongoing quest for freedom from Orcish persecution –

"Yes, I recall your remarks at our first meeting, and the offer was indeed an extremely generous one," Emily said, with a warm smile. "Now, however, I would like to perhaps move into the more concrete and practical terms of that offer – if I could ask you to be a bit more specific?" She may have been a newcomer to this conflict, but in mentioning aid against the Orcs, Voldemort was talking about her war, her field of expertise, and she was not about to let him soft-soap her there. She was calling his bluff, forcing him to commit himself.

Voldemort seemed to be given pause for just an instant. I beg your pardon? he asked.

"I'll level with you, sir. I can hear my mother's voice now – 'Who is Lord Voldemort, and how many divisions does he have?'" Emily said, looking into the Dark Lord's eyes. "What shall I tell her, sir? Your average large-scale confrontation between Orcish forces and the Fianna is a matter of thousands against thousands. It seems to me as though your forces are comprised of about thirty or forty aristocrats with wands – and you do realise that ours is a culture of wandless magic. Those who can only do magic with wands are considered... a bit limited," Emily said pleasantly, by means of a first forward action. At her right hand, Lucius's scent suddenly infused itself with a great deal of acid nervousness – perhaps he hadn't expected his little blonde pixie to sashay prettily in and serve up a game of political hardball.

Voldemort's deliberate gaze met Emily's across the table. Perhaps, he said. But as you already know, my Lady, our magics are formidable. It has come to my attention that the Fae magical canon has no analogue of the Killing Curse, after all. Parry, riposte.

"Yes, you're right, of course. But somehow I can't see the sublimely dignified Mrs. Black there, or the redoubtable Mr. Malfoy here, dashing onto a battlefield, wand at the ready," she said, with a faint, challenging smile. "I'll not sugar-coat matters for you, sir – the scope of the Faerie-Orc conflict is tremendous. This is a millennial land war – it has been going on since before Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff were born, since before even the Merlin's time."

Voldemort paused – did he actually look a bit defensive? Perhaps we should discuss my ideas for domestic policies benefiting the Fae community before we touch on the subject of military aid to foreign lands. Disengage, retreat.

"That sounds like a fine idea," Emily agreed, with a gracious smile, knowing that the first point of this engagement had gone to her.

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

It was funny, when she asked the Death Eaters what they could do for her people, they always seemed to bring the conversation back around to what they expected the Fae to do for them. It was really becoming quite predictable.

Voldemort had just proposed that they should discuss his ideas for domestic policies benefiting the Fae community, yet somehow he seemed a great deal more interested in attempting to pick her brain as to how many Faeries were currently residing in Europe and the British Isles. "Perhaps a thousand in England and Scotland, perhaps three thousand in Ireland, and probably two thousand on the Continent, according to our estimation," Emily said.

And what percentage of those, would you say, have trained in the Fianna?

"I would say that ten to fifteen percent of those have some military training," she replied after a moment's thought. Those sovereigns who sent sentries out to observe the Wizarding and Muggle communities and recruit for the Tithe tended to send either highly capable royal servitors with political influence, like Lord Malabar Puck, or Fianna soldiers with Second World ancestry, like Emily herself and her friend Alain Collier.

Voldemort very briefly exchanged a look with Malfoy – Lucius was giving his Lord a very See what I mean? sort of smile, and Voldemort was nodding sagely. Emily of course knew that the likelihood of even the most disgruntled Fae soldier actually paying homage to Voldemort was virtually nonexistent, but as the possibility of such was the cornerstone of all her bargaining power here, she was now concealing that with almost the same ardour as she would have safeguarded her True Name. Now, all she had to do was make the assembled company offer her as much information as they could about themselves, their aims, their goals, their assets, and their plans for the future, while revealing as little about herself and her own goals as possible, and given the megalomaniacal nature of both Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy, they would no doubt greatly enjoy an opportunity to expand on the topic of themselves before a fascinated audience.

All of which meant, of course, that she was in her element.

Emily leaned forward with a warm, sympathetic smile and said: "You mentioned in our earlier talk that you had quite a few ideas for change in the Wizarding community. Your vision sounds absolutely fascinating. Please, won't you elaborate on that?"

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

Some hours later, Voldemort and Lucius had been talking in turns for so long that they called for a half-hour's break, and Emily was thinking that her next report to Dumbledore would be a juicy one indeed. She had just been given a thorough briefing as to who was funding their organisation, and had an excellent idea as to the structure of the Death Eaters' network of contacts throughout the Ministry. She also intended to bring their plans to exploit the power vacuum created by the death of Bartemius Crouch, Sr. to Dumbledore's attention the instant she returned to Hogwarts. It was also intensely heartening to know that in the Death Eaters' opinion, the students of Slytherin House were not proving to be the eager and tractable recruits as they had been in the seventies, a development for which she no doubt had to give credit to Dumbledore, Professor Snape, and the resultant notoriety from the incident with the Potters in 1981.

She stood with the others when Voldemort called a temporary adjournment to the meeting, nodding respectfully while the others all bowed to him, then followed as the guests moved onto the rose garden terrace, where uniformed house-elves immediately began taking drink requests.

"Emily, how lovely to see you." Emmitt Parkinson appeared at her left shoulder. "Please, can I get you a drink?"

"Good evening, Emmitt, always a pleasure. I'd adore a glass of champagne – " It seemed that she had no sooner spoken the words than a house-elf had scurried up, bearing a cool fluted glass on a silver tray, which Parkinson handed to her. "Lovely, thank you."

"I must say, I'm so pleased to see our... Women's Auxiliary expanding, if you will," Parkinson said with a conspiratorial little smile. "Back in the eighties we had a wonderfully capable lady working with us, but alas, she's been out of commission for some time. For so many years now, it's just been Felina and Druella – stalwart supporters, both of them, but it's nice to see some new blood joining the ranks."

"Yes, poor old Bellatrix, goodness, how I miss her." Walden Macnair approached the two of them from the right, and Emily turned and included him in her smile of greeting as well. "Never a dull moment when she was about, dear thing, quite the star of the show. And capable describes her – almost as much as it does you, Lady Swain." Emily's nose twitched for an instant – yes, that was Walden Macnair for you, tall, dark, strapping, and stinking of the rut from two feet away.

"Capable, and lovely," Parkinson put in, clinking his glass against Emily's.

"Oh, you two silver-tongued flatterers, I shall never stop blushing tonight, at this rate," she said, with a girlish laugh, smiling warmly at both Parkinson and Macnair. The two of them were clearly enjoying her attention, although Parkinson's scent remained neutral instead of suffusing with lust, like Macnair's – it really did seem as though Professor Snape was absolutely right in thinking that Emmitt Parkinson only had eyes for his wife.

"Emily, my dear – do you think I could have a word?" Lucius had appeared at her elbow. "Emmitt, Walden, might I borrow the Professor for a moment?"

"Of course, Lucius," Parkinson said, with a gracious nod.

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

"Darling, was there really a need to be so contentious during the meeting?" Lucius asked, after he had taken her into a secluded rose-covered loggia for a private aside. His voice was the usual cultured drawl, but there was still an acid tang of nervousness under his ineffable demeanour. "I had rather thought you were more sympathetic to the cause than that."

"I was contentious?" Emily asked, the picture of innocence.

"Well, I had hoped you would be more agreeable, more open to new ideas, than you proved to be tonight," he said, a note of gentle reproving in his voice.

"I thought I was perfectly agreeable," she replied, smiling.

"Yes, you were charming – but did you really need to start by bringing up his martial shortcomings, first off? That was a bit tactless, my love – "

"Oh, Lucius... " She put her arms around his neck and drew him in for a long, explicit kiss – and he rather reluctantly let himself be distracted. "I've let you have me in every way possible, darling, you know that. But, you see, in matters of my homeland's politics – you're just going to have to expect me to be a little contentious, as you put it. Surely you realise there's a great deal more at stake in that conference room than there is when I'm... lying beneath you in bed?" She smiled appealingly up at him, stroking his silvery hair.

"Well, yes, of course," he said. "However – "

She laughed softly. "My dear, surely you realise you can't expect the King's entire army to be as eager to get into bed with you as I was? Rome wasn't built in a day, you know. I remember when you knew how to... take your time about matters... ?" She slanted a look of gentle reproach up at him.

"Ah... of course," he said, perhaps a touch sulkily. He had clearly expected her to be as sensual and tractable at this meeting as she had been in the past, and was finding this new combination of sensual and obdurate somewhat inconvenient.

"Anyway, why don't we talk about this later, at the Cockatrice – that is, if you still want to meet up this weekend," she said, allowing a bit of sulkiness to creep into her own voice as well.

"Yes, I do want to meet up this weekend, the arrangements have all been made – I'm looking forward to that," he said, his arms tightening around her. "Why on Earth would you think I didn't want to?"

"Well... I probably shouldn't even say, it's just... "

"Please, tell me, I insist, darling," he said, bringing her hand up to his lips and kissing it.

"Over the weekend, at Draco's party... well, I just felt rather elbowed out of the way by that... Rosier woman, is all. During the ball, she was all but hanging around your neck the entire night, while you let me be pestered by a lot of clumsy teenage boys. Would you mind telling me what, exactly, is going on between you two?" she asked, pouting at him.

Surprise registered on Lucius's face for the space of about one split-second, and then drew her close into his arms, oozing reassurances. "Nothing, nothing, my dear, really. I don't even like her, truly – she's an old school friend of Narcissa's, and lost her husband so young, you see, and – "

"Please, dear, you don't need to tell me about how fond you are of comforting widows," Emily said, with a harsh little laugh. "I'm not a little girl, Lucius, I know how the world works. If the two of you are finding that you can't live without each other these days, I can always step aside, get out of your way – "

He hesitated for a long moment, and Emily hoped against hope that he was about to take her up on that offer, and not come out with a lot of protestations of his love and devotion – but a second later, of course he had to do just that. "No, darling, no! Please, no – I can't think of anything more awful – don't you have any idea how desolate you'd leave me?"

"Lucius?" They both looked up to see Felina Rosier approaching them with a look of annoyance on her face. "There you are... you'd been away for so long that everyone was rather wondering where you'd gotten to." She looked at the two of them embracing, with clear annoyance and distaste.

Emily gave Lucius a long look of reproach, and then pulled away from him and stalked off into the rose garden, feigning a high dudgeon of jealousy and leaving Mrs. Rosier to deal with whatever Malfoy-ish bad temper resulted therefrom – and privately feeling quite satisfied at the havoc she had wreaked so far that night.

My word, what fools these mortals be!

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

Emily made her way into a secluded corner of Narcissa's formal English rose garden after leaving Lucius and Felina Rosier alone. The promise of a few minutes' private respite from the others' agendas was an attractive one – but a second later, someone spoke to her, sending her sense of sanctuary into cureless ruin.

My Lady Swain, came a high, cold, sibilant voice. Good evening.

Emily turned hard to her right, to see a tall, dark figure standing silhouetted among the deep red roses along the path. He appeared to be having a stroll amidst the lush delights of the garden, enjoying a private moment to himself, his long, bleached-white fingers now and then curving around a particularly well-shaped blossom.

"You're fond of roses, sir?" Emily asked, to cover the nervousness she felt at his proximity. It was one thing to face him across twenty feet of conference table, but quite another to be standing close enough to him that he could have touched her.

I prefer the meanest pleasures of this world to whatever sweet ambrosias could await in the next, Voldemort said, raising a dark red blossom to his slitted nose.

"I quite understand," she said. His gaze was lingering on the side of her face – and she felt immobilised under his scrutiny.

You drove a hard bargain, during our negotiations, he said softly, perhaps with a touch of admiration in his voice. I am surprised. Lucius has described you as an admirably... physical creature. He had not mentioned that you were a capable diplomat, as well. Peripherally, she felt his cool gaze still taking in every inch of her.

"It's a poor soldier who knows nothing of politics," she replied, desperately trying to keep her voice neutral.

I wonder in what other ways Lucius has underestimated you, the insinuating, sibilant voice went on. You are Buckminster Swain's daughter, after all – I have long been one of his greatest admirers. He is in all ways a man ahead of his time, in my opinion, and it is a shame that his work has been so underappreciated in our world.

"I very much agree, sir," Emily replied, quite truthfully.

I did dearly wish to be able to work more closely with your father, years ago... I would still welcome the chance to talk with him now.

Said Emily: "I know he's always thought of you as a very motivated and dynamic person, sir." Thought Emily: And he's paid for that opinion so dearly that if you think I'm going to ever let you anywhere near him, you're madder than a dozen March hares.

He came closer to her, pausing perhaps a pace away – his nearness made her heartbeat accelerate madly. Might I ask you a question, my Lady?

"Of course you may, sir," she answered.

Why are you so afraid of me? he asked. He reached for her hand and held it gently between both of his, like a very good friend looking to make amends for some coolness that had come between them. Emily trembled.

"You... you do have to realise that your reputation is formidable, sir," she stammered. Despite the chill of his skin, she could feel her hand beginning to sweat in his.

As is yours, he said mildly. Yet, I would not judge you based on the ill-informed opinions of others, who do not know you. He looked into her eyes, and she thought she would faint under the intensity of his gaze.

"That is... very generous of you, sir," she replied.

I am pleased that you accepted our invitation tonight... and pleased that you have proved to be more than I was told you were, he said. Perhaps later, there will be more time for us to talk privately – ?

"Perhaps there will be," she said faintly. Faced with all that incredible charisma and personal glamour bearing full-force down on her, she barely knew what she was saying to him. Her will seemed to be draining quietly away.

Good, he said, and then he had released her hand – but not without giving it another conspiratorial little squeeze. A second later, he was silently moving away along the garden path.

Emily barely managed to make it to a low stone bench before her knees had completely turned to water.

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

It took several minutes before Emily trusted her knees to hold her up with perfect steadiness again. Holy Mother in heaven, they had told her that he was a force to be reckoned with, but they hadn't told her that he was such a force to be reckoned with. She thought back to her angry words to Professor Snape on the parapets of Hogwarts Castle on the night he had shown her the Dark Mark on his arm – and then thought for a long, painfully truthful moment about what she might have become, had she been an orphaned nineteen-year-old subjected to such influences as Lucius and the wizard she had just spoken to, before Voldemort had given any indication of his true aims, before the notorious incident with Harry Potter and his parents, and without Gwydion and her parents supporting her.

Bloody hell, she really might have judged Snape far too quickly – and it was a shame that he would never accept an apology from her, even if it was sincere.

But then she recalled that she was here on a fact-finding mission, and she had probably taken quite enough time away. The other guests were still clustered about having intense conversations, and surely there was some titbit she might be able to pick up in one of them.

She got up and was heading back across the garden green, but before she had gone ten paces, Mrs. Rosier's cold voice came from over her shoulder.

"Yes, I see you're up to your usual tricks, chatting with our Lord," she snarled. "That's how you work, isn't it – always cosying up to the most powerful men in any given group. You do realise how transparent you are, don't you?"

Emily's nose twitched – obviously Mrs. Rosier had been well into the wine again all that evening, and from the amount of anger and upset she was exuding, Lucius had had something scorching to say about the way she had interrupted the two of them earlier. "Good evening, Mrs. Rosier. What a joy and a pleasure to see you again," Emily said sarcastically. She started to quicken her pace, hurrying back toward the group assembled on the terrace just outside the drawing room.

"Yes, you may be able to make the men jump, but I know what you really are," came the icy voice from behind her. "Just a skinny dandelion-eating little foreign upstart, and a Mudblood at that. If you think you'll ever be anything more than an outsider here, you're very much mistaken."

Emily stopped, turning coldly back to her. "Madam. You do realise that when you and all your little pureblooded matron friends refer to yourselves as bluebloods, you're invoking my people's past glory," she said, in a polite, crushing tone. "The Fae were living to be well over one hundred, and had germ theory, antibiotic potions, and an infant mortality rate comparable to the modern average back when human life was often described as nasty, brutish, and short, did you know that? Whatever you may think of my Muggle grandmother, she married a prince whose family tree can be traced back to before your Merlin's time. As such, I would say that my pedigree more than passes muster for all purposes here, so do please kindly keep your opinions to yourself."

She turned around and started to walk away again, but Mrs. Rosier followed her, her voice rising angrily. "Ah, yes, the royal connection, how nice. Lucius does just love to trot that out for everyone to see – my friend is related to a King, isn't that special. But that didn't stop you from marrying the penniless son of a farmer, now, did it?"

"Everyone in Arcadia is penniless, madam – we don't mint currency," Emily said gently, as though addressing a very small and very dim child.

Mrs. Rosier's face turned scarlet. "Really, is that so? Well, I've heard that before he joined the service, your precious Dorien was shooting rabbits for the family stew pot. Started out as an illiterate peasant lad, didn't he?"

Emily stopped and turned around again, and this time, her eyes were lit with fury. "Don't you dare say that name," she whispered.

"Oh, don't threaten me, you little changeling cow, everyone knows about you," Mrs. Rosier said with a cruel, knowing laugh. "Why don't you tell us what really happened, eh?"

Peripherally, Emily could see the men on the terrace looking up, surprised by Felina Rosier's raised voice and the argumentative stances of both women. "Ladies? Is something wrong?" Walden Macnair's voice called.

"It would appear to me that you already know quite well what really happened to Dorien," Emily said. "But I still don't know what happened to Evan – why don't you enlighten me? How exactly did he die?"

"Evan was a traitor," Mrs. Rosier snapped. "He wanted to pack up and leave everything we worked for behind – "

"Evan was your husband," Emily snapped back. "And why did he turn traitor, may I ask? Why did he want to leave here? Let me guess – did he join up because he wanted to impress you, and then he found out that no matter what he did, no matter what agenda he advanced or how wealthy he became, you still didn't love him or respect him? Is that why he wanted out?"

Mrs. Rosier's voice was now loud enough to be heard all over the garden, and she looked as though she would have escalated into hair-pulling and eye-clawing any second. "You don't know what you're talking about," the other woman spat, all the colour draining from her face. "Why don't you tell us why that Robinett fellow decided to kill your precious Dorien, eh? What exactly was going on between the two of you, anyway? Was he your lover, maybe? Did he get jealous? Did you lead him on because you'd had enough of poor dear Dorien, the callow farm boy, and wanted him out of the way?"

"Jayson was never my lover," Emily said through gritted teeth. "I would never have wanted my husband out of the way. Never."

"And then the local laws let you call the second fellow out and kill him – how awfully convenient. All in a day's work for you, eh, my Lady of the Blade? What a dreadfully becoming nickname that is."

"Felina, that's enough," Lucius's voice ordered from behind them, but Emily never heard him. All she could think of was that the evil bitch before her had betrayed her own husband to his death, and now she dared imply that Emily had done the same, that she had played the leanan in Dorien's murder – that she had somehow provoked his killer – she dared –

Emily lowered her head and raised her hand before her, palm up and fingers spread, and began to speak very fast and very softly, words that no one around her could have understood –

and Felina Rosier began to put forth leaves.

A moment later, bark was growing up to cover her hands and feet, growing up arms and legs toward her chest. She tried to run away, but roots broke through her shoes and were stabbing into the ground, anchoring her to the ground where she stood beside the rose garden. She then reached for her wand, but a moment later her fingers were too stiff to close around it, and it fell to the grass. And then the screaming started, and before long the pleading, and then the gibbering. Then the bark closed over her mouth and she could not be heard at all.

"Fuck... me," Menzentius Black whispered, sounding both horrified and fascinated.

"Emily, my dear, you really might want to stop that now," Lucius said, his voice half an octave higher than it usually was.

How intriguing, Voldemort's voice breathed from Emily's left. Can you completely transform her? Permanently?

Emily's only answer was a giddy, deranged little laugh – clearly, she could, and was relishing the idea of doing so. Peripherally, she could see him watching the proceedings with detached, almost scholarly interest. In another moment, Felina Rosier's arms were branches six feet long, her fingers stretching grotesquely into twigs, her hair disappearing in a thick foliage of leaves. But her eyes were still recognisable, staring straight ahead in stark, nightmarish horror, and from the rictus-like jerking of her body, this transformation seemed a painful one indeed.

"Stop it," Lucius ordered, but his scent, like those of the men around him, was deeply coloured with rank fear. She ignored him, as though he had never spoken at all.

After a long moment, Voldemort seemed to have seen enough. You should release her, he said to Emily, almost conversationally, as though offering her a bit of neighbourly advice.

Emily waited for a few, excruciatingly long heartbeats, then muttered: "As you wish." She made a slashing motion with her arm, like a conductor silencing an orchestra – and then Felina Rosier was herself again, her clothes tattered, and her face covered with sweat and tears. She stood for a moment, screaming all the screams that had been suppressed before, then tried to fling herself into Lucius's arms for comfort. He brushed her off onto Menzentius with a look of distaste.

Yes, Lucius, Voldemort remarked. You were right. Lady Swain does rather remind one of Bellatrix.

Emily turned and silently left the garden, heading back inside to the drawing room – and everyone stood aside and let her pass.

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

Alone in the drawing room, Emily had finally gotten her breath back, and had stopped shaking, and was now mulling over the idea that perhaps what she had just done had not been a good idea. Not a good idea at all.

Holy Mother – she'd been doing so well that night, and then she'd gone and completely lost it in front of Voldemort and all the Death Eaters, no less. Every one of them was now probably convinced that she was raving, barking mad, not to mention dangerous, and she'd probably just made Mrs. Rosier a dedicated enemy for life. If Professor Snape ever heard about this, he was going to absolutely kill her.

But even the breath of an implication that she had been at fault in Dorien's death was enough to send Emily's already volatile temper into overdrive. Perhaps slow transformation into a tree had been sadistic... but there was no denying that it had been satisfying.

But the worst part was that there was no escaping the truth of what Mrs. Rosier had said.

Not about how Dorien had supposedly been illiterate – although he hadn't been taught to read until he joined the Fianna at twelve, he had then become such a voracious reader that he was more literate than many courtiers by the time he was twenty-two. As for callow, Dorien had been so interested in every facet of Court life that he absorbed its etiquette and customs very quickly. After a year at Court, he could have comported himself admirably just about anywhere, and his quiet, courteous demeanour and sincere admiration for everyone else's accomplishments had earned him quite a few friends. Indeed, despite his humble beginnings, Sir Dorien Tumnus's company and counsel was soon being sought more often than that of some of the more haughty nobles, such as the Lords Robinett. Perhaps it hadn't only been jealousy over Sir Tumnus's wife that had launched Robinett's arrow, but jealousy of his growing influence in Court politics as well.

No, the hard, cruel truth was – had she not fallen in love with Dorien, married him, and brought him to live at Court, Jayson would probably never have taken much notice of his existence. Even though she had always made her absolute refusal to Jayson's advances known, there is simply no way that a woman who has been the motivation for one man to murder another can ever again lay claim to an unstained character. The suspicion would now follow her forever, and there was no escaping it.

The murder and trial by combat were now, and might always be, the defining events of her life, the one episode in her biography for which she was most notable. A lifetime spent in distinguished service to the Crown, in standing against oppression wherever she found it – and all of that might still be overshadowed by a murderer impulsively launching a crossbow bolt during an afternoon's hunt.

But even if no one else ever thought she was complicit in Dorien's death... no matter what she had done to right the wrong done to her, there was no way to right what had happened to Dorien. She might have been able to punish Jayson, but nothing would ever be able to give Dorien back his life.

The door opened and closed behind her. Emily looked up, expecting to see Lucius coming to see if she was all right, or perhaps to chide her for terrifying Felina so badly. But it was Lord Voldemort who had followed her. He seemed quite unperturbed, his arms folded in front of him.

"I beg your pardon, sir," she said hesitantly. "I was overwrought."

Felina was quite aggravating, he graciously replied.

"I... " she stared at the floor, blushing; the last thing she expected from Lord Voldemort was sympathy. "I shouldn't have lost my temper and made a scene like that. It was... extremely disrespectful."

I actually found it quite entertaining, came the sibilant whisper. And... enlightening.

"Enlightening – ?" she repeated, turning back to him in surprise.

In my counsels with Lucius, he has warned me about you, and about your people. 'Faeries can be difficult to negotiate with, and for this reason – it can often be deucedly hard to figure out what a Faerie really wants,' Voldemort mused. But now... I think I know.

The back of Emily's neck prickled.

Lucius is susceptible to you, perhaps more than he wishes to be, the Dark Lord went on. You know this, and you use it to your advantage, but you do not return his regard. You enjoy the pleasure he affords you, but you are not his creature. You feel no devotion to him. You do not love him.

"He knows it," Emily said quietly.

But what if I were to offer you someone... more to your liking? Someone you do care for?

Voldemort turned toward a large, full-length antique cheval glass hanging on the wall, one of the ever-present large mirrors Narcissa favoured in her décor. From far away in that looking glass's horizon, a dark figure had appeared, was coming closer – a tall, thin, pale man, black hair past his shoulders, in a sweeping black cloak –

No, she thought, he can't know, he can't have heard, I never told anyone, I won't have him like that, I won't have him any way at all unless he wants it too –

The black silhouette in the mirror drew closer, and she saw not the first tall, thin, pale, and black-haired man that came to mind, but another -

Dorien.

Her late but still so much beloved husband was facing her in the mirror.

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

Emily put her hand up, palm flat on the mirror, and Dorien also put up his hand and sealed it to hers.

She wanted to reach through this glass and touch him, hold him, feel his heart beating again. If she could only have that moment back, four years ago, that moment before that cruel arrow had entered his back and torn open arteries, liver, lungs; when he was whole and healthy and she could still save him. Jayson was gone; she had killed him. He could never harm Dorien again.

Oh, his face, that imperfect, exquisite face, those endlessly intense black eyes... he had loved her from the first with a wild, non-judgmental, unswerving devotion; he had told her in his wedding vows that his only wish was to always live his life as her knight. Although he was never easily led, always insisted on making up his own mind and refused to subvert his own will to hers sight unseen – had even defied her outright on one memorable occasion – she had never worried for a moment that he was not listening to her, or that he didn't respect her wishes.

Dorien. I love you. I miss you so much. I had to remind myself to feel anything at all for so long after you died. Just come back, and I'll never let anyone hurt you, ever again.

Her fingers curled against the mirror, nails rasping against the glass as though to tear through it and feel him warm and alive again.

So, the high, cold voice said, is this someone that you would like to have returned to you? From behind her, a long-fingered hand descended delicately onto her shoulder.

"Yes," she whispered. "Oh, please, yes."