Part Third: The Hart Subvertant, Chapter 30, Part 1

Chapter 30, Part 1:

It couldn't be true.

It simply could not.

The Death Eaters' meeting continued around her, but Emily sat in her chair with her mind in a whirl. Lucius was making a report about his efforts in creating a Department of Interdimensional Magical Cooperation, and she barely heard a word of it. When it came to an end, she excused herself as quickly as she could and left without a private good-bye to Lucius. She never even noticed him scowling as he watched her leave.

She made her way back to Hogwarts, numb to everything except the possibility Voldemort had held out to her. Previously, she had always believed that nothing and no one could bring the dead back to life, it was impossible. Faery magic couldn't do it, European Wizarding magic couldn't do it, the ancient Babylonian mage lords couldn't do it, Native American shamans couldn't do it, the life adepts of ancient Egypt couldn't do it, Qabbalistic magicians couldn't do it, the Persian Ahrimanes couldn't do it, the dread Mystai Ourobouros of Greece couldn't do it; there was no magical tradition on any dimension anywhere that had ever managed to bring a long-dead person back to life, ever. It was hard, inalienable fact that such magic was impossible.

But since Dorien had died... the hope that he still existed somewhere had always clutched at her, and had never quite let go. And he had looked at her so longingly from inside the mirror... as though he had missed her for such a long time. He looked exactly the way he always did just before the two of them were separated – his face would be stoic, but something in his eyes always let her know how much he hated to be parted from her.

Perhaps Dorien was out there, and he still loved her and wanted to get back to her. Maybe she could have him back again.

She had, after all, been made the offer by someone who by all rights should be dead, who managed to preserve himself in a spirit form for over eleven years after what was purported to have been his final demise... and that someone was certainly solid enough and alive enough, judging from the way he had spoken to her, and touched her, that evening. They had told her Voldemort was cruel, and evil, but no one had ever told her how compassionate he could be – that he could look into someone's very heart and offer her what she really wanted, even if it ran counter to what some high muck-a-muck in his organisation like Lucius wanted. Oh yes, the fact that the Dark Lord was capable of kindness and understanding had been conveniently overlooked by those who didn't know him, hadn't it.

Emily suddenly noticed that she was back at Hogwarts, having found her way there by rote – and Hogwarts, of course, had a huge collection of books on magic. If there was any possibility that what the Dark Lord had said was true, she was going to find out. It couldn't hurt to judge all the facts of what he had offered for herself, and see if there was any possibility... if there was a chance...

A moment later, she set off for the great Main Library at a run.

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The library section on magical biology and life magics yielded a few interesting tomes, as did the Magical Metaphysics section, and the Egyptology section and parapsychology sections had some interesting volumes as well. Before long she had perhaps a dozen books open on one of the library tables, searching for documentation for the ritual that Voldemort had described to her.

The resurrection rite was both new and ancient, taken piecemeal from many sources, most of them forbidden and long discredited by those too short-sighted to seek real power, he had told her. And oddly enough – when she researched his sources, she found that much of what he had said had quite a bit of foundation to it. The author of Egyptian Resurrection Magic – Fact or Fiction? referred to an accursed but highly effective rite, the only known instructions for which had been inscribed on papyrus made from human skin and stored in a vault guarded by thirteen poisonous snakes, and as it turned out, there was an account of that rite contained in a volume by the same author in the Restricted Section. The book started to writhe and shriek in protest when she took it out of the Restricted stacks; she gave it a cuff and snapped, "Shut up, I'm a Professor," and the book fell silent with a little shiver.

She took that volume back to her little cache and pored over it, her eyes feverishly scanning its description of Dark magic thousands of years old. The stack of books on the table grew as the clock above her ticked from three a.m., to four, to six a.m., unnoticed.

Some time later she turned and reached for Theories of Theosophical Self-Substantiation again – and ran headlong into Professor Snape, who had apparently come into the library and had been approaching her from the left.

She bounced off of him as fast as she could. "My word – do you ever make any noise when you walk? Honestly!"

"I beg your pardon," he said stiffly, obviously taken aback by the vehemence in her tone. "I wasn't trying to be quiet. You seemed... distracted when I came in."

No answer. She rifled through the book and bent over it as though he had ceased to exist.

"Have you been to bed yet?" he asked, glancing at her rumpled clothes, the violet kirtle unceremoniously discarded near the door. She continued reading, as though he had never spoken at all.

Professor Snape moved closer to her, taking up a position perhaps six inches off her left ear. "Am I disturbing you?" he asked in a louder voice.

Emily never even looked at him. "Yes, you are. Go away." She riffled to the index, finger scanning down entries, then paged furiously.

He blinked, as if taken aback by this uncharacteristic rudeness. "That must be some awfully important research," he said archly.

"It is."

"So I see, if it takes precedent over briefing me on the Death Eater meeting you attended," he prodded.

She finally paused, her fists flexing at her sides. "Do I bother you when you're working?" she snapped. When he paused before answering her, she demanded – "Well? Do I?" in an even harsher tone.

"No, you don't," he admitted.

"Then why the sudden interest in what I'm reading? You spent an entire school year acting like I didn't exist, so why don't you just go back to doing that, all right?"

He just looked at her silently, eyes narrowing in surprise and incredulity. "Again, I beg your pardon," he said, very stiffly indeed. "I merely wanted to know what went on tonight."

"It was fine," she said, distracted, bending over another book. The Dark Lord already having proved that it was possible to keep a spirit preserved even after the death of the physical body, it would be a matter of finding where Dorien's spirit had gone following his death and getting in contact with him –

Behind her, Snape bent over the pile of titles littering the table. Egyptian Resurrection Magic – Fact or Fiction? Beyond the Veil. Conversations with Spectres. After Life. Summa diabolica. Both eyebrows went up in alarm when he glanced over her selections from the Restricted Section.

"Who was there?" he asked.

"Macnair, Parkinson, Lucius, You-Know-Who. You know, the usual suspects," she said impatiently. They would need a host body for Dorien's spirit while he got strong enough, material enough, to be properly resurrected – he could certainly share hers, willingly, the Mother knew she wouldn't mind that one bit, it might even be rather nice, she'd thought they were like one soul in two bodies half the time anyway –

"The Dark Lord was there?" His eyes were fixed on the side of her face. "Did you speak to him?"

"Yes, yes, we talked." She put Theories of Theosophical Self-Substantiation aside, and reached for Summa diabolica. Yes, here it was, he was right, two different sources, even. It would be easy enough for her to obtain Dorien's father's bone, she knew where he was buried, and she wouldn't even need to disturb his grave to obtain it. No one would even need to know she'd been there anyway –

"May I ask what you talked to him about?"

Bloody hell, what was with all these questions! Emily thought, harassed. He acted like he was going to write the event up for the gossip column of The Quibbler or some such nonsense. Why would he not just leave her alone, damn it... !

"No one you know." She paged frantically – fuck, this book had been written before indexes were invented, one ended up having to scan for what one wanted, what a bother. But wait, here it was – Flesh of the servant or the slave, freely or voluntarily given – Cecile was such a dear, adoring little thing that she would probably part with a bit of skin if asked, perhaps a tiny bit of one of those big droopy ears of hers, the castle physicians could always grow it right back for her, and under some local anaesthesia the removal wouldn't hurt a bit –

Then, from behind her, someone's hand firmly descended on her shoulder – which surprised her enough to penetrate though her obsessive reverie for a second.

"Who was it that he offered to bring back from the dead for you?" Professor Snape asked in a very deliberate voice, close to her ear. "Your grandparents? Someone who died under your command?"

She stopped, her hand arrested in the middle of turning a page; took a laboured breath, and let it out very slowly.

"Or was it your husband?" he asked quietly.

"I said, No one you know," she repeated.

"Professor – "

"This is none of your business," she whispered – and there was a dire warning edge in her voice that she had never used with him before.

"It can't be done," he said. "It can't. He claims that he can raise the dead, but there has never been any proof. It's just a lie that he uses to secure his followers' compliance."

"What do you know about it?" she flashed back at him.

"Professor." From behind her, she felt his hand press her shoulder, with what she would later recall was great gentleness. "I know you loved him. I know you still grieve for him. But it can't be done," he said again, with finality. "He's lying to you."

She turned on him, eyes blazing and self-control breaking. It wasn't fair to vent one's frustrations on the bearer of bad news and she knew it, but at that moment, she hated Severus Snape in the way we only ever hate those who dash the deepest, most desperate desires of our hearts.

"And why should I listen to you, pray tell?" she snapped. "Are you an expert on resurrection and regeneration of living creatures? Are you?" Suddenly that imperturbable demeanour of his was loathsome to her; she wanted to rake her nails across his face, just to see the son of a bitch react to pain, show a flicker of emotion – just once.

"No, I'm not. That's a job for the Department of Mysteries, if anyone – "

"Then why should I believe you?" she almost shrieked. "It's all very well for you to say it can't be done, since you don't actually care about anyone. Everyone you know could probably die tomorrow and it would barely register with you. But some others of us out there who aren't monks to academia require a little more than a new crop of dunderheads to terrorise in order to feel content with our lives. Did that ever occur to you?"

He stared at her, outraged, a hectic flush rising high on his cheekbones. "How dare you," he whispered. "I cannot believe that you would be so selfish and unfair – "

"Don't you dare lecture me about what's unfair! Do you have any idea what it is to watch someone totally blameless die horribly? By all that's holy, have you ever felt anything, or loved anyone, in your whole life?" A tear slipped down her cheek, and she clawed it away. Not in front of him – never in front of him.

"Yes, I have," he said, and there was something in his voice when he said it; an unending pain that she recognised immediately. Then – because we always remember such things the second after cruel words have irrevocably been said – she remembered that Irma had told her that Professor Snape's mother had died while he was a boy at school, and how bitter he had become afterward.

For a moment, she just stared at him, stricken, hovering on the verge of any number of reactions – I'm sorry and Shut up and Please forgive me and I hate you and Leave me alone, and underlying all of them was I hurt, and it will never end.

Then she couldn't have hoped to hide the tears. She threw down the book in her hand, and left him alone in the library.

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Emily fled back up to her room, then flung herself onto her bed and into a short, cathartic crying jag that quickly led to a dreamless, exhausted sleep.

She awoke early that evening, and spent a long hour lying in the dark, thinking about all that she had read, and all that Professor Snape had told her.

Faery theology had never contained any version of the Christian concept of soul, the immortal part of humankind, a separate body of luminous energy inhabiting the material flesh – many centuries earlier, this difference in Arcadian and Christian spiritual philosophies had led to the accusation of soullessness being levelled at the Faery people by the early Christian church. The Arcadian religion did not separate flesh and soul – Faeries believed that their physical selves and the spark of the divine animating them were indissoluble. Most Faeries believed that they would rejoin the Mother Goddess after death, their life force returning to the source from whence it came. The human concept of going on to a better life after death, and especially of earning the right to that paradisiacal afterlife through the practice of asceticism and self-sacrifice, was not popular in Arcadia; to a Faerie, the real sin was failing to celebrate and enjoy the life one had been given. Emily had once heard a visiting Seventh Kingdom Druid scoff to a Roman Catholic Tithe page, her Muggle friend Kevin Patrick – "You human beings practice your religion – we Arcadians live ours."

But even if Voldemort had been right, and she could bring him back... Dorien had been a devout follower of the Goddess, and if he had gone back to the bosom of the Mother after his death, it was possible that he wouldn't even remember that he had once been alive and had a wife who loved him, any more than sunlight can remember from whence it came, or fire is aware of itself. And if the human theologians were right and deserving souls went on to paradise, Dorien might not want to be taken out of his final rest and reward, even if it was to be reunited with the person he had loved most during his life. All of the sources she had read early that morning were very clear that the transcended departed never returned willingly and had to be violently wrested back by means of necromantic ritual magic. Yes, well, she probably wouldn't want to be dragged out of heaven either, come to think of it.

Plus... even if he did come back to her, what kind of life would await him here? How would he be received by those who had known him, seen him die, been to his funeral? How would she explain his sudden return to her family, their friends, the King? The Arcadian religion worshipped Nature – what would they make of a man returned unnaturally to life? Would they revile him, drive him out, call him a lich, a vampire, or worse? Would the Mother accept him back, or would She see his existence as blasphemy? Would all of Her creation turn against him, the way it did against Name ghouls and the worst of oath breakers? Dorien had loved Arcadia so much that he had devoted his life to its protection – how would he feel if he was rejected by the land he revered?

Even if they remained here in the Second World, what kind of future could they expect? She had read the account of the resurrection of Lazarus by Jesus Christ in the Christian Bible as part of her Classics education – but that story ended after Lazarus came out of his tomb. She now wondered what happened to him afterward... what place a man returned from the dead could have among the still living. Would it be possible that by allowing all natural law to be defied in order to bring her husband back, that she might make the two of them outcasts in both the worlds they had known?

Even worse – if she allowed Voldemort to grant her this boon... what would she owe him in return? This Dark Lord being who he was, the favours he would demand might make her wish that she had joined her husband in death, rather than ante up the reparation for his return. Worst of all, what if Dorien was required to become this man's creature after his resurrection? She imagined Dorien, who had always been so noble and pure-hearted, first drawn unwillingly out of his final rest, at the request of his beloved wife, no less, then forced to repay her debt to the darkest wizard of the modern era through servitude... the very idea was so horrific she could barely imagine it.

No, the choice was clear – there was no way she could do that to him, or to herself.

She thought back to what Professor Snape had said in the library – (It can't be done – he's lying to you, it's just a lie that he uses to secure his followers' compliance) and realised, she had been about to give Voldemort substantial power over her due to that lie. If she let him extend such an offer, based all her hopes on such a possibility, what could he force her to do, in order to earn it? Did she want him to have that much power over her?

No. Never.

She sighed, holding a pillow tenderly to her chest, now grown more accustomed to the hollow within her that seemed to burn with emptiness. His loss was now so much a part of her that she was starting to be able to confront it without tears, only resignation.

Maybe... much as she missed him and would always love him, it was for the best if she declined Voldemort's offer, and let Dorien rest in peace.

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Some time later, Emily began formulating a proper apology for Professor Snape.

Now that she was better rested, with her fit of high emotionalism spent, she realised that she was guilty of the worst case of shooting the messenger she could have dreamed of, and ordinary decency dictated that anyone who has borne the brunt of such a rage must be apologised to – properly, and immediately.

She quickly showered, brushed her teeth and combed her hair, then threw on a plain black frock and shoes, and went in search of her offended colleague. The dread of what he would have to say about being so abused slowed her steps, but her sense of justice demanded that she could not let her cruelty go unaddressed.

Professor Snape wasn't in his office, or his classroom, or the library, and the Slytherin dungeon guard painting said that he wasn't in his apartments. "You might want to leave him be – he's in rather a low mood today, madam," the painting warned her.

"Yes, I imagine he might be," she replied grimly. "Thank you."

Finally, on a hunch, she went up to the tower walk amidst the highest turrets of the castle, and spotted a thin figure in a black cloak hunched against the low stone wall, his head propped morosely on his hand as he gazed out over the lake. He looked like someone who felt very ill-used indeed.

Emily took a deep breath and went to join him, leaning against the wall of the turret walk a few feet away from him. " 'Evening," she said hesitantly. "I thought you might be up here."

No answer, not even an acknowledgment of her presence. If anything, he seemed to be trying to turn as much of his back in her direction as possible.

"Yes, I get that you're furious, and I know you deserve to be. Look... I'm really sorry about what I said earlier today," she said. "I shouldn't have shouted those things at you. I've no excuse other than I was having a horrible time of it. While I was at Malfeasant, Mrs. Rosier started in on me about – started taunting me about – what happened to my husband Dorien. That set me off like you wouldn't believe. I hadn't really come down from it yet when you came into the library, and after what You-Know-Who offered me I was... I was really in a state."

No answer. She might as well have never spoken to him at all.

"I know none of what happened was your fault, and I'm sorry I took it out on you. I know you didn't want me to get involved in this. But I'm really in the thick of it now, and you have to know better than anyone what it's like. It was just coming at me on all sides yesterday, like being on a battlefield with antique furniture and better catering, and I'm fighting on it with words, which are not my weapon of choice – I think that by comparison to diplomatic negotiation, swinging a sword is bloody easy. You were right before – when you know who's the monster and who's the knight, it's so simple. But evil can look and sound awfully kind and understanding... it's so bloody confusing. I couldn't tell last night if I was getting the better of them, or if they were getting ready to kill me next second. The uncertainty is like to drive you mad."

He remained silent. The wind was blowing his hair around his averted face, which lent an odd vulnerability to him that she had never seen before. The set of his shoulders seemed so tired and deflated.

"And it's just... I wasn't ready to lose him. And I miss him so much." Her voice broke, and she took several deep breaths before continuing. "When You-Know-Who said he could bring him back for me, I wanted it to be true."

Still no response. His hands tightened on the wall in front of him.

"You probably think I'm pretty horrible, don't you," she said, resigned. "And if you do, you're probably right."

She turned away, and started to leave him alone – but then she heard his quiet, hoarse voice behind her.

"No, I don't," he said. "When he said he could bring my mother back, I wanted it to be true as well."

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Emily turned back to him. "You must have cared very much for her," she said softly.

"I did." He still wouldn't look at her.

"How old were you when you lost her?" she asked after a long, gentle pause.

"Sixteen." He shrugged. "It was inoperable cancer. She was only thirty-six at the time, so it came as a surprise. I'd... rather thought I'd have more time with her than that."

Thirty-six. Only one year older than Emily was at that moment.

"Yes, somehow we always do think that, don't we," she said, with a grim little chuckle. Then, before she thought, and just for a second, she laid her hand over his with infinite delicacy and deference.

I'm sorry, sir, she whispered, toward the side of his averted face.

"It couldn't be helped," he replied curtly. Then, to her great surprise, he half-turned toward her and said: "And I was sorry to hear about your husband. By all accounts, he appeared to have been a brave soldier."

"Yes, he... " She swallowed hard. "He really was."

"I do wish that when Lucius decided to tell me about his fate back in November, that I had the presence of mind to urge discretion, rather than allowing him to gossip on the way he did."

"Well, none of us have much influence over Lucius anyway, when he wants to say something. I shouldn't have blown up at you like that when you came to talk to me the next day, you weren't at fault."

"Thank you," he said quietly.

They were both silent for a long time, bound by the loss of the one person they had each loved most, and then by the betrayal of someone who had played on that grief in order to manipulate them. Oddly enough, Professor Snape could probably empathise with how she had felt that morning better than anyone, which was why she was so ashamed immediately after she had spoken cruelly to him. But perhaps that understanding was why he seemed able to forgive her, at this moment.

He was standing a pace away... and it occurred to her that all she really wanted was to let her head sink onto his shoulder and wrap her arms around him, to comfort him and be comforted herself. But she had already offended him enough today, and she didn't want to undo this fragile truce by clumsily importuning him with unwanted intimacy.

Then, the clock tower in the courtyard below struck once. Emily glanced down to discover that it was much, much later than she had thought, half past eight p.m. And then she remembered – Lucius was expecting her that night at nine p.m.

"Oh no," she whispered.

"What is it?"

"I just remembered... I'm supposed to meet someone tonight. I have to go," she said, with a long, bone-weary sigh. "But, there's a lot I still need to tell you about the meeting. Before I got, er, distracted, I'd heard all about their Ministry contacts and plans for the future. I promise I'll make the full report to you and the Headmaster as soon as I get back, but now I really have to be on my way."

"Of course," he said, and turned back toward the lake, as though to let her go to Lucius without the indignity of being observed doing so.

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It was perhaps nine-twenty p.m. when Emily appeared in Lucius's luxurious suite at the Cockatrice Inn, carrying an overnight bag and full of apologies for being so late. She hadn't had time to do herself up to the usual sleek, glossy style in which she usually greeted him. Instead she wore just a simple, loose black gown and kidskin slippers, her hair down and her face only very lightly made up. She had thought she looked a bit peaky, and had a story ready about how she had perhaps picked up a touch of the white fever from somewhere, and wasn't feeling her best.

Lucius didn't seem too inclined to rage at her for keeping him waiting, however. He was sitting in an armchair with the Daily Prophet when she arrived, dressed in dark trousers and a soft white linen shirt, and he got up and greeted her warmly and at length when she arrived.

"There you are, my love," he whispered, holding her very close, running his lips over her hair. "You had me so worried – after last night, I was wondering if you would turn up at all."

"Of course I would, darling, don't be silly. I told you I'd come, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did, but after we had that ridiculous argument about Felina, and then she interrupted us right afterward, and then went on to have that screaming fit at you... I still can't believe how vulgar she was. Then afterwards, you barely spoke two words to me all night. During the second part of the meeting, I felt as though you were looking right through me," he complained, in an unusually peevish tone.

I was, Emily thought. "Oh, my dear, don't be silly," she said, patting him.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, stroking her cheek. "You're looking a bit fragile again. Couldn't you sleep after the meeting? Are you a bit tired?"

"I feel tired. Perhaps I'm a bit under the weather today."

"Have you eaten? Can I order you some supper from room service, perhaps?" he asked, elaborately solicitous. "Would you like a drink? I've a spot of brandy here, or I could have them send something up from the cellars."

"You know what, that's probably it, I haven't eaten anything today," she said truthfully. "I'd love a bit of supper, maybe just some soup and bread and a glass of cold wine. No brandy, though, I don't think I could take it on an empty stomach." Ever since the night she had been introduced to Voldemort, she had hated even the smell of Lucius's favourite rare French brandy. To her, its scent was now the scent of treachery.

"Of course, dear." Lucius Flooed a note down to the kitchens, and a few minutes later, they were sitting down to supper – a covered tureen of rich partridge and mushroom bisque, hot wheat rolls, and bottles of chill, tart white wine in a silver bucket. He sat her down in the chair opposite him, ladled out a plateful of soup and poured a glass of wine for her with great care. After a few spoonfuls, her hunger awoke, and then she was polishing off a third helping and soaking her bread in the dregs in a manner that probably would have horrified Narcissa Malfoy, all amidst liberal quaffings of wine.

Lucius was still talking to her, his cultured drawl going on and on. He was not quite finished with voicing his misgivings about the way her first meeting had gone, and her uncharacteristic behaviour following. There was a dull acid tinge of self-consciousness to his personal scent, and perhaps his smooth, confident voice was not as assured as it usually was. Peripherally, she saw him watching her carefully.

"It was really so good of our Lord to go in and comfort you himself, after what Felina said," he was saying. "I was going to follow you, but then he said, I will speak to Lady Swain alone, and went in after you." He sipped from his wineglass, with a studied air of casual brightness. "What did the two of you talk about, if you don't mind me asking? I could see you two through the drawing room windows for a bit, and it looked like a very serious chat indeed."

"Oh... he just tried to comfort me, was all," she replied. "He had some truly inspiring things to say." What he had said inspired a great deal of anguish and false hope, but yes, it was entirely true that it had all been... inspiring.

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After supper was over, Lucius insisted on bringing her to bed so she could rest, cradling her against his side. After some time the candles began to dim, and he began to engage her attentions; subtly at first, then more insistently. Before long the room was entirely darkened, and she was embracing him, her lips open under his. Lying in bed, a man holding her tenderly in the darkness; but the comfort she had once felt in his arms was forever ruined. I loathe you, why are you touching me?

Then he was helping her out of her dress, practiced hands unfastening her brassiere, and delicately lifting the lacy straps off her shoulders. His fair hair brushed her shoulders as he put a long, tender kiss on her neck. He unbuttoned his shirt and drew her into his arms again, her bare back against his chest. "Are you still upset with me about the ball?" he asked softly.

"It was... the meeting was just tiring, that's all. I had so much to think about afterwards that I had a hard time getting to sleep."

"Yes, I know, love, the first few meetings can be unnerving, I felt that way when I first joined too," he said, in a voice that understood everything. "Plus it must be even more difficult for you, what with Druella giving you all those dirty looks."

"Not to mention Walden Macnair and your brother-in-law looking at me like I was a juicy side of beef," she complained. "And I won't even get started on that Rosier woman."

"No need, my angel, no need. You certainly made your displeasure known – I don't think she'll dare even look at you from now on," he crooned, lowering his lips to the nape of her neck. "I am afraid I have a confession to make, though... you were right about how she may be a bit unwarrantedly attached to me. Back before I was married, before I ever met you, Felina and I had a very brief sort of summertime involvement back when I was very young, just a boy, really... she'd always been after me since we were in school, and it's terribly difficult for me to say No when a woman wants something from me. It started with my own mother – all she had to do was look at me a certain way and I'd apologise for the sky being blue." He heaved a lengthy sigh, holding her close. "I know I shouldn't try to be all things to all women, but at times I do feel as though I should, and it's enough to leave a bloke tired at the end of the day. That's why you've always been such a revelation to me, my love – you've never made any demands at all. At times it's a challenge to figure out what you would like for me to do for you, but I'm happy to make the effort, really."

Please, holy Mother, make him shut up, Emily thought.

Lucius was in an intensely passionate, almost grasping mood that night, as though he felt the need to reassert himself as her mate, to lay claim to her again. She barely needed to respond at all as he lowered her to the pillows and covered her body with his own.

"Gods," he gasped in her ear, drawing a line of greedy kisses down her throat – "I want to eat you like chocolate, drink you like brandy. I want to keep you in a solid-gold cage on my desk... I want you lying naked in my lap with "Property of" on your collar... "

Despite her lover's intense arousal, Emily was starting to find herself unable to concentrate, unable to respond to him. He was waiting for her, waiting to feel her orgasm before he took his own and she knew it, but somehow, the excitement wouldn't come.

"Is something wrong, darling?" Lucius asked, lightly kissing the corner of her lips.

"I'm sorry, I'm just too tired. Too much wine, I think. But that's no reason for you to hold back," she encouraged.

"Oh, love, I understand completely," he crooned in her ear. "You're far too generous with me. But I can't stand the idea of just enjoying you without doing anything for you in return... would you permit me to try something that might make matters easier for you? It'll be lovely, I promise."

"I'm not drinking any aphrodisiac potions," she said instantly.

"Of course not," he said reassuringly. He then disengaged himself from her and got up, opened a drawer of the bedside table and retrieved something, then slid back into bed again.

Emily heard the sound of perhaps a container being opened, scent of clove and ginger and several other ingredients, both floral and herbal. Then his fingers slid gently between her legs, covered with some silky substance – and the touch of that substance sent an instant wave of liquid warmth and heat spreading through her. "Oh my," she gasped, "what is that?"

"Just an old wives' remedy for when one has had... a bit too much wine, or needs some help relaxing," he replied with a little laugh. "The creator called it the Marital Bliss ointment – quaint name, isn't it... I should rather call it the Lover's Best Friend, myself. Don't worry, it's nothing near as intense as Carnalis. This is only meant to be pleasant, not mind-altering."

Pleasant it was... incredibly pleasant. Whatever this ointment was, it made you feel like a teenager again, when the feel of a lusty boy was better than honey cake, everything between one's thighs turning to liquid, one's vaginal opening running wet and afire with longing – Ah yes, he sighed as his body covered hers again, there's the girl who seduced me at Beltane...

Then they were just surging against each other, bodies in a sweaty tangle but hearts and minds uninvolved; as happens so often in the heated embraces of lovers, both were seeking solace for needs and appetites neither one was truly aware of. Dimly, Emily was aware that Lucius was whispering something under his breath, she couldn't quite make out the words, but then she wasn't listening very closely to him, either. He spent so much time talking, pontificating, holding forth that it was becoming very easy for her to ignore what he said when she was distracted, and that Marital Bliss ointment made it easy to get distracted – oh, yes – she hadn't felt like this in so long, not since –

since that damned fecking callbox.

She blushed horribly, hiding her face in Lucius's shoulder.

Then she felt something cold against her shoulder, something metal, on the tip of his finger. A razor-sharp point resting against her skin, then parting it with a delicate exertion of pressure, a whisper of pain registering through the haze of arousal. Then his lips left her neck, and went to her shoulder... he was still murmuring something, words in Latin, as his body surged inside hers, reaching his climax a moment later.

Emily gasped – with the rush of his satisfaction, a wave of intense heat teemed under her skin like the hottest fever she had ever endured; but then it broke an instant later when he collapsed gasping over her body, leaving her limp and weak beneath him. She felt oddly clearheaded afterward, like some virulent infection had finally been baked out of her after a long illness, and felt lucid again for the first time in days. A single thread of wet warmth slipped down her shoulder, not enough to even form a drop, and she smelled her own blood mingled with the strong scent of their post-coital sweat and satisfaction.

"I love you dearly, you know that, and I can't stand it when you ignore me," her lover was saying, holding her very close. "Don't let's ever keep secrets from each other, love."

"Oh darling, I've never meant to make you feel ignored," she said, kissing him sweetly.

He tensed for a long moment, his hand curving hers around his cheek. "Oh you – you're an absolute brick, dearest, I knew I could count on you. Tell me, when you talked to him last night, did our Lord tell you he was upset with me in any way? Was he disappointed?"

"No, he didn't say anything of the sort," she said.

"Good, good," he purred, caressing her shoulder. "I've said it before and I'll say it again – satiety is so becoming to you. Of course I couldn't just take you without satisfying you first, I wouldn't hear of it."

"Thank you, dear, you're very kind to me," she simpered.

"And long to be kinder, every minute that I know you. Which reminds me... "

He reached for his wand, lying on the bedside table, and lit a single candle on the table beside it. Then he reached again into the drawer, coming out with a tiny box covered in rich black velvet, which he put in her hands.

"Oh my word – darling, you just gave me the best little ladies' maid in the world, you don't have to – "

"I know I don't, but I like to give you things... indulge me, please." He caressed her shoulder again as she bent over his gift, and she felt him discreetly flick a moistened fingertip over a tiny soreness in her skin, catching a subtle whiff of the astringent-floral scent of Healing Potion. Apparently, he thought she hadn't noticed the subtle bit of carnal bloodletting during her physical transports that evening, and intended to keep it that way. She wondered briefly what his intentions had been in doing so – doubtless he had worked some bit of magic upon her unawares, but she couldn't seem to detect any lasting after-effects. Probably some sort of aphrodisiac charm, a bit of sex magic intended to increase their enjoyment, but curiously though, it didn't seem to have had any effect on her, other than to raise her body temperature for a few seconds. Perhaps it felt wonderful to whomever happened to be making love to her once it was invoked? Either way, it didn't seem to have affected her very much at all.

But perhaps Lucius simply enjoyed the sense of power and intimacy it gave him to taste of her blood, as he had that year at Beltane. She had heard now and then of people who took a fetishistic delight in consuming the blood of their lovers, and having their own blood shed, and would not have put such depths of perversion past him for a second.

Then she opened the black velvet box – and gasped. "Is this... is it a sapphire?" she asked.

"No, love. A diamond. A very rare, perfectly black diamond."

That very rare, perfectly black diamond was the largest gem she had ever touched, a jewel to rival those owned by Queen Dahlia. At least ten or twelve carats of pure, scintillant black, cut in the shape of a heart, and surrounded by a frame of tiny white diamonds no bigger than grains of sand, set on an intricate platinum chain. "It's... it's lovely," she whispered, holding up the box so she could watch the candlelight play amidst those velvet-black facets.

"Here – " He slipped the gem out of its box and fastened it around her neck with a deft, practiced gesture. "Ah, I do dearly love hanging diamonds around that throat of yours, dearest. There, lovely." The necklace was a cool, surprisingly heavy weight as it rested in the hollow of her throat.

"What's the occasion?" she asked him, covering the black heart with her fingers.

"Your initiation into yet another incredibly important part of my life," he told her, bending to kiss the white cusp of throat just above where the diamond nestled. "I've thought for most of this year that you were the only woman I've known who could share every part of my life – no other woman I've ever met has known me like you do."

"Thank you," she said. "I'm terribly flattered, darling."

"And I wanted to give you just a small token of my affections, after you let me know that you had misgivings about my regard last night – I can't tell you how much it disturbed me that you thought I might have allowed Felina to come between us. So I thought, after you left last night – what better way could there be to show you once and for all who is first in my heart, and to stop that awful woman from baiting you, than to offer you another gift to go with this black, black heart... a very, very special gift."

"What's that?" Emily asked, not at all sure as to what he was getting at.

"Would you like to be rid of Felina... for good?" came the insinuating whisper. "I'll give you that, if you like...you can even be the one to pour the poison in her wine."

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"No," she said, firmly, instantly. But some treacherous little part of her wanted to ask – What kind of poison? Will it hurt very, very much? If not, can you find me one that will?

"Or would you like something a bit more hands-on, my love? Would you like me to give her to you tied to a table, and give you a pretty dagger to open her veins, would that be more your style?" he asked, gently stroking her cheek.

"No, no." She tensed; attitude of denial. "I couldn't do something like that to a bound opponent, that's just not what a knight does. It's a fair fight or we can't even begin it."

"Of course, of course," Lucius said understandingly. "Then how about this... throw down a glove and challenge her. I'll make certain she gets to the proper place at the proper time – and then you can take her throat out, neat as you please. All in strict adherence with Arcadian law, as is only right and proper."

All in strict adherence to Arcadian law – but highly illegal in the Wizarding world, and she had given her pledge to abide by the laws of this world while she lived here. "No," she said again. "I'll... just... give me some time to decide."

"Of course, dearest," he whispered. "Just sleep on it tonight, and then you can tell me what you'd like in a day or two."

He stretched comfortably, drawing the counterpane up around her shoulder, then fell asleep a few moments later, his arms still clasped around her. As always, how he could be who he was, guilty of all he had done, and still fall asleep like some pure innocent with a spotless conscience was a complete mystery to the woman lying cold and nervous beside him, naked but for the precious jewel around her neck.

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Lucius was still in the same irritatingly snuggly mood the next morning, lying cosily beside Emily as they shared breakfast in bed, looking like an angel with his hair freshly washed and his skin delicately flushed from the bath. Nothing in his manner indicated that he had just given his mistress a queen's ransom in jewels, or offered to arrange the death of that mistress's rival the previous night as a special gift to her.

He didn't want to let her very far out of his sight that next day – Emily only caught a moment of alone time when she went to the bathroom. She checked herself over with magic-detection charms, curious as to what magic had been worked on her when Lucius had shed her blood the previous night, but found nothing. As far as she could tell, she was under no enchantment of any kind. It was just... odd.

The two of them spent that Saturday talking about his plans for the Department of Interdimensional Magical Cooperation over more leisurely, decadent, wine-soaked meals. The more time she spent hanging on his every word, encouraging him to expound upon who was loyal to him, and who was obviously currying his favour by going along with his plans, the more he glowed with self-satisfaction – and the less he seemed to notice that she hadn't committed herself to anything.

"I'm really delighted that you're taking such an interest, my love," he said, drawing her onto his knee. "Forgive me, but I thought you were resisting me a bit before... ?"

"Well, it took me awhile to get used to the idea, I admit it," she said. "I'd never really thought about having a job in the Second-World government before."

"I certainly imagined you working with us," Lucius averred. "When I thought, who would be the perfect face of the new department, you were the first and only candidate I even considered. What with your impeccable connections and your military service – not to mention your stunning good looks, my darling – if anyone could persuade the Fae community to become full-fledged members of our world, it's you. Can you imagine how liberating it will be for your country folk when they can easily acquire work permits and visas, and when they can enjoy protections from persecution if they decide to go for a stroll without hiding under Glamours some afternoon?" He sighed, pulling her close into his arms. "I can just imagine it, love, and what a beautiful thing it will be when it all comes to fruition."

Yes, she thought, what a beautiful dream it would be – if anyone other than Lucius Malfoy was undertaking it. Emily thought about what such a Department of Interdimensional Magical Cooperation could be like, if it was headed up by Albus Dumbledore, or... or just about anyone other than Lucius Malfoy or one of his associates. But when she tried to think of anyone who could have headed up such a department, any Ministry employee who would have wanted such a job, she couldn't. Percy Weasley, Bartemius Crouch's successor, was clearly suspicious of all Fae in general, Fudge's undersecretary Dolores Umbridge liked Faeries even less than Weasley, and Lucius's friend the Honourable Tibernius Solon was so clearly in Lucius's pocket that there was no point in even asking. Nymphadora Tonks was a sympathetic Ministry employee, but she was so young and inexperienced, with a background in law enforcement, not international relations. No, it was a beautiful dream... but like most offers made by Lucius and his Dark Lord, it was as without substance as shadows and smoke.

As night came on, and after a luxurious, wine-soaked supper, her lover seemed satiated with the delights of hearing his own voice hold forth, and seeing himself reflected twice his size in the lovely eyes of his audience, and began coaxing her back into bed. As before, he seemed much inclined toward reasserting his claim to her, re-establishing himself as the dominant male entitled to her favours – but again, she simply couldn't concentrate, couldn't become aroused. After a few long, self-conscious moments, she closed her eyes tightly, and let her mind wander –

a cold ledge beneath her thighs, cold glass at her back, a painfully aroused black-eyed man kissing her and holding her like she was the source of the only pleasure or joy he'd ever felt, ragged baritone gasps of mythic ecstasy as he devoured her lips and neck and cleavage; his voice, hands, and just everything about him left her melting with lust, until she was so eager for him that it only took a few long strokes before she was clutching him just as tightly and coming like –

An instant of that made her breathe shallowly, then a few moments more brought sweat out on her brow, and then the climax was upon her so strongly that it was both pleasure and agony. The disappointment came afterward, when she heard someone else's voice whispering to her.

"Oh my love, you are on fire tonight," he crooned in her ear, as they lay entwined afterward. "But I can see how perhaps you needed to vent some... frustrations."

"I'm... yes, I've been feeling rather frustrated lately. It's just that... some people I know have made me feel frustrated," she said glibly. She patted him gently and waited for him to get off of her.

"And you'll be rid of that frustration as soon as you give the word." He kissed her tenderly, one of those kisses she used to find so indescribably luscious. "Now... I need to talk to you about something rather serious. My Lord has a favour to ask of you."

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"What is it?" Emily asked.

"Well, the group is exclusive, you know that. Usually, a new member becomes familiar with all the usual sorts of customs... the ritual homages, the taking of the Mark." He took her hand and brushed her fingertips over the Dark Mark branded into his own pale, elegantly modelled forearm. Emily did her level best to keep her hand relaxed and not to shrink away in revulsion.

"Milord doesn't require the obeisance of you, as you've made it so clear it goes against your own loyalties, and he seems to be holding off as to the matter of when you'll take the Mark. But... he isn't willing to waive another aspect of the initiation required of all newcomers. It's nothing to worry about – just a custom, really. In order to prove one's worthiness, one's commitment to the cause, one has to perform a task for him. He devises each task with a careful eye toward what would be most advantageous for the group, and the most enlightening for the new recruit in question – he's wonderfully clever that way."

"I see," Emily said, listening and observing closely. Lucius's scent had filled with both anxiety and excitement as he explained these conditions to her; clearly he was both worried as to how she would take this announcement, and thrilled at the prospect that she might obey it. "Go on," she whispered.

"There is a fellow employed by the Ministry who has been a real thorn in the organisation's side for some time now – he seems intent on persecuting us in our own homes, and has no respect whatsoever for personal property and a man's right to decree what goes on within the borders of his own land. In centuries past, this sort of fellow would have been a poacher or looter, interfering with what wasn't his, and hanged – but in this day and age, he's got powers of search and seizure for some absurd reason. He's really just a jumped-up newcomer who wants to make the established families bend to his will for some neurotic reasons of his own, and the group of us really thinks he needs to be taught a lesson."

Emily listened closely – this speech was starting to sound as though it had something to do with Arthur Weasley, the director of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts department. Professor Snape had told her that Weasley's department had the legal power to conduct surprise inspections – raids, really – of those suspected of keeping Dark Magical items, illegal weapons, or controlled substances in their homes.

"What kind of lesson do you mean?" she asked warily.

"My Lord is starting to believe that direct action may be necessary to negate the fellow's threat – to knock him off the board, if you will," Lucius said confidentially, threading his fingers through hers. "And, he's absolutely convinced that with your gifts for such – that you're exactly the woman for the job."

"What do you mean?" She could feel herself beginning to sweat.

"Oh come, dear. You could Apparate in, Obscured, take the target down before anyone could blink, and then Apparate away faster than they could react. Don't tell me you've never done that before?"

"No, I haven't. You know Apparition isn't possible at home. It just doesn't work."

"But it does work here, conveniently enough. You don't realise just how effective you could be in this conflict, darling, what with the might and magic of your world and mine combined... before long you could have the fear and respect of our entire bloody world, and I'll applaud you every step of the way. Not only that, but the rewards would be beyond your imaginings, of course," he said, his voice a smooth, silken drawl.

"You expect me to simply go into this fellow's home, and kill him?" she whispered.

"No, no, not kill him. Killing him wouldn't teach him anything, now would it? And it certainly wouldn't stop those surprise inspections. But the removal of someone he cares for...well, let's just say that it would be a much more effective warning for him, you see." Lucius whispered soothingly.

"Oh," Emily whispered. "Oh... of course. It's just a warning. I see."

"And in return... I could give you whatever you want, my love," he breathed in her ear. "Do this one thing for my Lord, and you can name what you would have of me, whether it's Felina's head on a charger, or for us to restore the Fae to their deserved place as our natural aristocracy again. Or bloody hell, I'd give you all that and my son and heir's hand in marriage besides – there's nothing I wouldn't do for you, you know that. You've always known that."

"Yes," she whispered dully. "I know."

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Emily fell heavily asleep after talking to Lucius that night, into such a deep, numbing slumber that she never heard him get up, bathe and dress, and leave her alone in their hotel room very early that morning. He kissed her and murmured good-bye on his way out, but she never remembered it.

When she finally awoke, she glanced around for him for a moment, then realised he had already gone – but he had left a letter for her on the night table.

As she opened that letter, a bit of folded newsprint fell out. She opened the paper and found a picture of a family clipped from what had to be the Daily Prophet, a family she recognised. Six sons and a daughter, one boy with his pet rat looking up from his shoulder, and a father in shabby tweeds and pleasant, chubby mother, all waving happily and innocently from in front of one of the Great Pyramids in Egypt. Around one of those gaily smiling faces, a red circle and slash had been drawn.

The letter read:

Darling ~

Report to me at home this Monday at half-past seven p.m. for specifics. Be sure to dress appropriately and bring the proper equipment.

You'll recognise your objective from this photograph. With any luck, you'll be back to receive our congratulations before the clock strikes eight.

Words can't express how much faith I have in you, my love – I can't wait to raise a glass to your success, you great Orc-cleaver, you.

Emily dropped the letter and photograph back on the night table, with shaking hands. She had read any number of descriptions of people's skin crawling when they experienced pure horror, and thought it to be a melodramatic exaggeration – until now.

She threw on another plain black dress and shoes, without stopping to bathe or brush her teeth, only raking her fingers through her hair, and hastily throwing all her things back into her overnight bag. But she did remember to take off the black diamond around her neck – at that moment, even such a gorgeous jewel as that diamond only felt like a fetter. She threw it into her bag amidst her toothbrush and crumpled clothes, and Apparated out of the hotel with sharp crack.

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Upon arriving back at Hogwarts, Emily discarding her overnight bag just inside the great front doors and immediately made her way toward Dumbledore's office at a run.

She passed Professor Snape on the way up, heading through the main foyer landing, and apparently on his way toward the dungeons – "I need to meet with you and the Headmaster immediately."

He stopped dead at the urgent tone of her voice, glancing at her warily. "What's happened?" he asked, falling in step beside her.

"Just come on. Hurry."

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Dumbledore was sitting at his desk reading when both professors hurried into his office – and glanced up in alarm at both of them. "Severus? Emily? What's happened?"

Emily paused in front of his desk. "Lucius told me that in order to be a full-fledged member of the group, I have to carry out a mission for his Lord. In short – I've been assigned a murder victim," she told him.

Peripherally, she saw Snape pale white as paper and grip the edge of the Headmaster's desk. Dumbledore dropped his book with a thump, staring at her in horror. "Who is it?" they both asked.

Emily fell heavily into one of the armchairs in front of his desk.

"Molly Weasley," she said, and lowered her head into her hands.