These characters and this entire Potterverse are the property of the incomparable JKR.
Chapter 10
Thou are not lovelier than lilacs, -- no,
Nor honeysuckle; thou are not more fair
Than small white single poppies, -- I can bear
Thy beauty; though I bend before thee, though
From left to right, not knowing where to go,
I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor there
Find any refuge from thee, yet I swear
So has it been with mist, -- with moonlight so.
Like him who day by day unto his draught
Of delicate poison adds him one drop more
Till he may drink unharmed the death of ten
Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffed
Each hour more deeply than the hour before,
I drink – and live – what has destroyed some men.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Snape sat with his fiancée in the sitting room at Grimmauld Place, his patience thrumming like the string of bow too tightly pulled. Fleur had unwittingly done herself damage in his eyes on the night of the Pick-Up Stix debacle, when she had spoken with such venomous derision to Miss Granger. Snape viewed his sisters and his charges at Grimmauld Place as children over whom it was his duty to watch; he did not consider them to be his contemporaries. To see his affianced wife engaged in battle with Granger put him in mind of the fact that Fleur was far more a member of their age group than of his, and this disturbed him. He had been telling himself for months that to marry a girl no older than his sister, Skye, was foolish in the extreme, yet here was a concrete reminder of how few years separated Fleur from Skye – or Granger, for that matter.
He was also quite unhappy with Fleur’s show of temper to Stormy; though he had not witnessed the incident, it had been related to him separately by both Skye and Shadow. Snape had a nasty temper himself and he was not a proponent of disproportionate courtesy in any situation – except when dealing with his sisters. Though he was incapable of identifying as affection the emotion he felt towards Sophronia’s daughters, he was easily able to recognize that his territorial instincts were thoroughly aroused by the three girls who shared with him the anomaly of the Snape bump.
Fleur continued prattling to him about the arrangements for their wedding, planned for September and approaching more quickly than Snape liked to remember. He was tuning her out quite efficiently when she caught his attention with a repeated mention of Granger’s name.
“…for he is an estimable young man, do you not think? He would be an excellent match for her; they are both very intelligent.”
Snape raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Of which estimable young man are we speaking?”
“Why, Percy Weasley, Severus, have you not been attending to me?” Fleur pouted at him prettily.
Snape seemed not to notice. “And he has expressed an interest in the Granger girl?”
Fleur’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “He has been here to see her every day, though she frequently avoids him. He is quite particular in his attentions.”
A Weasley courting Granger? What could be better?
Fleur chose this moment to move a bit closer to him on the settee, her silvery hair adhering to the black wool of his coat as she leaned up to whisper in his ear. “Very soon we will be married, darling. I can hardly wait.” The last words were only breathed, as her lips made contact with the skin just beneath his ear. Then she was speaking again, so softly the words were barely discernible. “We don’t have to wait, Severus.”
Snape went completely still when Fleur pressed herself against him; he could smell the scent she favoured, redolent of some heavily perfumed flower. He could feel her breasts, deliberately thrust against his chest. He was dimly aware that a beautiful, therefore theoretically desirable young woman, who would soon be in his possession, was making advances upon his person, and certain parts of him were acutely aware of the availability she was advertising to him. Even so, when he felt her warm breath on his ear, he could not prevent the wave of distaste which passed over him.
At that moment, Winky bowed her way into the room followed by Val Delacour, and Snape was on his feet in an instant, all thought of Fleur’s behaviour vanquished from his mind. The look that he directed at the younger wizard had frightened many men more courageous than Fleur’s invertebrate of a brother.
“Mère sent me to fetch you, Fleur,” Val said, keeping a wary eye on Snape.
Fleur was understandably annoyed. Trying to spark her icy fiancé to passion was going to be tough work, and Fleur was not accustomed to having to work to win the ardent admiration of men. Tossing her hair, she stood from the settee and made a production of straightening her robes, as if she had been fighting for her virtue when her brother interrupted them.
Had he any attention to spare for her indignation, Snape might have been amused by Fleur’s play-acting; as it was, the full force of his notice was upon Val Delacour.
“I just came up to get Fleur,” Val muttered, carefully not making eye contact with Snape.
Snape stepped closer to Val, startling the young man into scrambling backwards, into the corridor. Snape pursued him, his hands disposed negligently in his trousers pockets. Their progress out of the room had taken them out of Fleur’s hearing; Snape said menacingly, “I think the house-elf could have carried the message up, do you not?”
At Val’s frightened nod, he said, “Then next time you will not enter this house.”
He did not stay to see Val’s agreement; he turned to take his fiancée’s hand, and to press a rather intimate kiss to her inner wrist, as if in atonement for his previous lack of response.
“I will see you at Malfoy Manor, my dear,” he said, leading her down the stairway in the wake of her brother, who scuttled out the front door as if he were pursued by the hounds of hell.
Fleur was emboldened to stand on her tiptoes in the doorway and to press a kiss to his cheek. “I will look forward to going away with you,” she purred in a tone full of promise.
Lucius Malfoy walked into the room which had been prepared for Sophronia Snape and surveyed it critically. The vanity, the writing desk, and the bedside table each bore a crystal vase, tastefully arranged with white roses. The carpet on the floor had been charmed to the colour of summer bluebells, and it perfectly matched the paint on the walls, the upholstery of the furniture, and the duvet on the bed. His rather calculating grey eyes stopped on the elaborately carved headboard of the bed, contemplating the nymphs and dryads cavorting there. He considered for a moment the probable outcome of an attempt to join the Widow Snape in this bed. Lucius meant to win the gentle Sophronia for his wife; he was confident that, given the opportunity to make love to her, he could enthral her completely. If, however, she took exception to his seduction attempt, it would be a setback of considerable proportions for his plans. As much as he wanted to possess Sophronia, he was perfectly prepared to wait to bed her until she was legally bound to him.
He exited the guest bedroom and strode off to inspect the drawing room. The majority of his acquaintance would be astonished to see the drawling, lounging elder Malfoy moving with such energy. Those people had not, however, seen him when he was executing a campaign of strategy.
Hermione crept quietly down from the second floor landing and peeked over the bannister. She had witnessed from above the sensual kiss to Fleur’s wrist; now she saw how complaisantly the professor received the Frenchwoman’s salute to his gaunt cheek.
Her brow furrowed as her mind began to turn over the meaning of the scene she had witnessed. She was chewing on her lip and climbing back up to her room when she was hailed from below.
“Miss Granger?”
Hermione turned. “Yes, sir?”
“May I speak with you, please?”
Hermione descended the stairway to the corridor, then went into the sitting room, taking a seat upon the settee lately vacated by the professor and his inamorata.
Snape followed her into the room, a frown appearing between his brows as the girl sat down where Fleur had lately been – had lately been pressing herself up to him like a wanton, a part of him whispered. Shaking his head to rid it of the seditious voice, he said, “I wish to thank you for your kind attention to Stormy. She told me it was you who procured that game for her, which she enjoys so much. We are much obliged to you.”
“Pooh,” Hermione said, with a friendly wave of her hand. “I like Stormy quite for her own sake; she and I are good friends. Anything I have done has been for that reason – not to please –”
You, Snape clearly heard.
“…anyone else,” Hermione finished.
Somewhat taken aback by this statement, Snape found himself ignoring his previous resolution to thank the impossible chit without falling into an argument with her, and his evil genius prompted him to say, “You may be her friend, but you would do better not to let her, or any of my sisters, hear you say that Miss Delacour has a temper like a vixen!”
“But, Professor! I know that Miss Delacour cannot help her temper – for if she could, surely she would exercise some control over it – and I have always pointed that out to your sisters!”
Snape took a menacing step toward Hermione. “I consider Miss Delacour to be a sweet-tempered woman.”
“But I meant a particularly sweet-tempered vixen, sir. Truly!”
“What you meant, Miss Granger, is to disparage my fiancée!”
“No, honestly! I am very fond of foxes, and particularly of vixen!” Hermione assured him earnestly.
He was standing over her now with his fists clenched. “Stormy, however, is not partial to foxes, and –” the absurdity of continuing this line of discussion occurred to him and he stopped speaking.
“I’m sure she will be, when she has lived in the same house with Miss Delacour for a month or two,” Hermione told him encouragingly, darting a glance at his furious face from beneath her lashes.
Turning on his heel, he walked out of the room and down the stairs, away from his tormentor.
It was the laughter floating down from above that incensed him.
At the foot of the stairs he ran into Percy Weasley, who had just been admitted by Winky. Seeing how he might be a bit revenged upon Miss Granger, Snape greeted Percy with uncharacteristic cordiality.
“Do you mean to attend the ball at the Malfoy estate?” he inquired.
“Certainly!” Percy enthused. “I would not miss it for the world.”
Snape nodded. “Then you have come to secure Miss Granger’s hand for the first dance. An excellent scheme; I’m sure that she will be overrun with invitations. You’ll find her upstairs in the sitting room.”
And with a tiny, malicious smile upon his thin lips, Snape swept out of the house, heading for the quiet of his club.
Percy stood straight, glancing in the mirror to make sure that his appearance was orderly, and went up the stairs to claim the hand of his chosen lady for the prestigious first dance of the most prominent social event of the season.
“I’m sorry Percy, I’m already engaged for the first dance,” she presently told him in an apologetic tone, knowing that one or another of her friends would come to her rescue.
Percy looked somewhat offended. “But how can that be? When Professor Snape urged me to hurry to be the first to ask you!”
“Professor Snape?” Hermione said appreciatively, her spirits lightening. “Did he really? Well, he obviously did not know I was already promised. Perhaps we could dance another dance together at the ball.”
Percy was obliged to be content with this morsel. He then sat down and bored Hermione for thirty minutes with a long and tedious explanation of his exact situation and duties on behalf of the Ministry of Magic at the Salem Witch’s Institute, in America. Hermione gave the appearance of listening attentively to Percy’s discourse; in reality, however, she was acknowledging to herself the escalation of hostilities, and pondering how best to counter the upping of the ante.
Her memory stirred, and presented her with an appropriate plan of action.
Hermione stood before the looking glass in her bedroom at Grimmauld Place, staring at her reflection with an expression akin to wonder.
“Ma’am,” she said softly as she stared, “are you sure?”
Minerva McGonagall stood and twitched the skirt of the ball gown into place, pinching a tiny pleat between her fingers.
“It is not as if I were going to wear it again myself, Miss Granger,” she said briskly. She tugged at the seam where the bodice met the full skirt. “We’ll need to let out the bust a bit,” she murmured. “You have more on top than I ever did.”
Hermione pirouetted, noting how the fabric of the gown swirled and shimmered with her movement. The shade was as intense as a jewel tone, though no jewel of that hue appeared in nature. It was the colour of flame, a hot coral; just one shade to the orange side of scarlet.
“Please tell me about faerie silk,” Hermione said, captivated.
McGonagall gazed into the mirror from behind the younger witch, almost as if she were seeing a memory of other days.
“Faerie silk was very rare in my youth, even though one could still obtain the fabric, then. It was used mostly for items of clothing. It was far too dear to use for upholstery or draperies, though I did once see a honeymoon cottage with bed hangings of silver faerie silk.” A reminiscent smile tugged at her stern mouth. “I can imagine that some truly inspired marriages were consummated there.”
Hermione could scarcely have been more shocked than to hear her dry-as-dust, spinsterish teacher speak of marriage consummation in such a dreamy tone.
“The silk came from worm farms cultivated and tended by faeries. When it was harvested, it was stored in crystalline caves until the next full moon, when it was spun by faerie spinners on enchanted wheels, then woven in the dark of the moon. The fabric was used for evening gowns, negligees, fancy undergarments, things of that nature. In olden times, witches carried handkerchiefs woven of faerie silk and their wizard cavaliers would wear the handkerchiefs as tokens of their ladies’ favour during ceremonial duelling tournaments. The men also carried the tokens into battle as a reminder of those things for which they fought…”
Hermione’s eyes were now riveted on the older woman’s face as she spun her faerie tale. “What became of the faerie silk, ma’am? Why is it no longer used?”
McGonagall’s eyes came back to Hermione’s. “The allies of Grindelwald destroyed all of the faerie silk farms they could find during that war. The faerie magic was perceived by the Dark forces as a threat; it was too good, too pure, for the Dark to bear.” A shadow crossed Minerva’s face and suddenly she returned to her armchair and sagged into it. “After that, faerie silk became unheard of in Britain.”
The door into Hermione’s room cracked open and she could see her friends in the corridor. “Come on in,” she invited, turning to face them as they spilled into the room. “Isn’t it lovely?”
Tonks, Luna, Ginny, and all three of the Snape sisters approached with looks of reverent admiration in their faces.
“I’ve only seen a dress like this in a picture book, and it did not do justice to how beautiful it is,” Ginny breathed as she rubbed the ethereal fabric between her fingers.
Shadow glanced at Skye. “Remember the story Mum used to tell us about the princess in the faerie silk gown?”
“I know that one!” Tonks said. “If a girl who is wearing a faerie silk gown dances with her one true love…”
“They will know their hearts’ desire!” the Snape sisters finished with her.
“Oh, really girls,” Professor McGonagall said tartly. “What arrant nonsense!”
Stormy turned her limpid blue eyes to the face of the frightening old lady and went forward to tuck her little hand confidingly into that of Minerva McGonagall. “But it could be true, couldn’t it, Auntie Min?”
McGonagall’s former students watched this masterful wheedling of the strictest Head of House at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with respect and mild indignation. Skye and Shadow, however, were much too used to their baby sister’s cozening ways to be surprised.
McGonagall, rather than reprimanding the little imp for such a familiar form of address, stroked one gnarled hand over the corn-silk-fine hair and said, “I suppose anything is possible, Stormy. I do not think it is a good idea, however, to place too much hope in legends and old wives’ tales.”
McGonagall stood from her armchair, keeping Stormy’s hand and beginning to lead her from the room. “We had all best begin our packing if we’re going to Malfoy Manor for the weekend! Miss Granger, I’m sure that Sophronia will see to the alterations of that gown in two shakes. She is upstairs in the ladies’ sitting room.”
Hermione took a final look at herself in the full length mirror and nodded her approval. She felt that she needed a cunning weapon in her arsenal; the dress certainly fit the bill. She was not certain what the potency of veela magic might be, nor how it measured up against faerie magic. In the end, she decided to believe in the faeries – and she hoped against hope that the faeries would do her the honour of believing back.
With a sanguine heart, she headed up to the top of the house.
Late that night, Skye sat before the vanity mirror in the room she shared with Shadow, brushing her hair and humming to herself. Shadow sat on the window seat cushion, looking out at the back garden, and at the Phoenix House, across the low hedge.
“Skye?” she said, not turning her face from the window.
“Hmm?” her older sister answered, continuing her brush strokes.
“Who do you really like? Is it Harry? Or is it Viktor Krum?”
Skye smiled at her own reflection. “I like both of them, silly. Harry is so sweet, and he has such pretty eyes – and, well, he’s Harry Potter, you know. And Viktor is so charming, so smooth – and so famous! Harry is nicer – but Viktor is more exciting…”
Shadow turned her back to the window now, a troubled look on her face.
“You like them because they’re famous?”
Skye put the brush down and turned to face Shadow. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing is wrong, exactly – only – you can’t pick someone to marry because they’re famous!”
Skye stood and crossed the room, nudging Shadow to budge up so she could sit down next to her.
“You’ve really got it bad for Ron, don’t you?” she said, softly.
Blue eyes met blue, and Shadow leaned her head on Skye’s shoulder.
“Mum says I’m too young – and that I’ll get over him – but I won’t, Skye.”
Skye spoke hesitantly. “The Law makes provision for people as young as fourteen contracting legally binding engagements, Shay – maybe you could –”
Shadow uttered a low chuckle. “It takes the consent of your legal guardians. We might be able to convince Mum, but Severus? He treats me as if I’m in the nursery with Stormy -- and he hates Ron. He always has, because Ron is Harry’s best mate.”
“I’ll speak to Severus for you, Shay – if Mum and I both take your side, we can win him over.” Skye tried to sound hopeful.
Shadow sighed loudly. “Ginny said the Headmaster is permitting seventh years to be married and to live in a married students’ dormitory. But I’ll only be a sixth year – the best I can hope for is to have Mum and Severus consent to a binding engagement…” Her voice weakened and the tears started up again. “I’m so tired of crying,” she whispered.
Skye enveloped Shadow in her arms, crooning and petting her much as their mother would have done.
“Oh, Skye,” Shadow sobbed, sounding as if her heart would break, “have you ever loved a boy like this?”
Skye rocked her sister back and forth, stroking her hair, and gazing with unseeing eyes out at the dark night.
“No, Shay,” she whispered, almost as if to herself. “I never have.”
In the next room, Ginny and Luna each sat on their own beds, facing one another in the light of one candle, their feet tucked up beneath their nightdresses.
“Do you think you’d want to be married, and to live in the married students’ dormitory?” Luna asked, absentmindedly plaiting and unplaiting her long, dirty blonde hair.
Ginny placed her bare feet flat on the rug between their beds and leaned forward, her expression intense. “I would live in a barn, Luna – I couldn’t care less! – if I can marry the boy I want, I won’t care about anything else.”
Luna’s hands became still and she looked Ginny in the eye. “Does he know you want him?”
Ginny’s eyes clouded. “I thought he did – the night at the museum dedication, I was sure. But when I’ve seen him since then, I haven’t been able to tell.”
Luna’s feet now braced on the floor as she leaned towards Ginny, a question in her gaze. “But Draco danced with me that night.”
Ginny’s hands came out and grasped Luna’s wrists. “I don’t love Draco!” she said, giving the other girl a little shake.
Luna looked relieved. “Sometimes I thought you loved Harry – but Draco talked a lot to you, too.” The slightly protuberant blue eyes searched Ginny’s freckled face. “Are you sure you prefer Harry? Draco is so beautiful.”
Ginny’s hands slid down and clasped Luna’s. “I’m positive, silly. When you love a bloke, you can’t see why anyone would want someone besides your man. For me, it’s been Harry-Ruddy-Potter since I was ten years old.”
Luna nodded seriously. “But what about Skye?”
Ginny released Luna’s hands, swinging her feet up beneath the duvet and leaning to blow out the candle.
“I love Skye like a sister – but I’ll hex her nose off if she tries to take Harry away from me,” she vowed.
Across the hall, Nymphadora Tonks sat at her writing desk, finishing the report she was due to turn in to Kingsley Shacklebolt the next morning. Briefly, she pondered what type of husband the handsome, muscular black Auror might make.
Her eye fell on the little pile of notes she had accumulated over the last few months and she began to leaf through them. On top were a couple of scrawls from Viktor; next were a series of billets doux from Sirius, each more outrageous than the last.
On the bottom of the pile were the nine letters Remus had sent to her, during the time of their courtship. The first several were clever, even funny, with humorous drawings in the margins. The last few became more serious in tone; still warm, but increasingly intimate, his words promising more, each time they met again …
And now she had only to see how obviously he pursued Hermione, and how blatantly Hermione encouraged him.
Tonks left the parchment on the desk top as she turned to her bed. Tomorrow, she was leaving with the girls from Grimmauld Place to spend a weekend at Malfoy Manor. Perhaps old Lucius had a friend…
Lucius Malfoy inhaled deeply on the long, thin cigar between his lips, and gazed up at the star-filled heavens. By the end of this weekend, he would have the four-carat sapphire, currently residing in the underground vault, on Sophronia’s finger, and they would be planning their honeymoon trip around the world. Before long, his home would be full again of light and laughter – and even the sound of children’s voices. This time, he would not muck it up.
His pleasant cogitations were rudely interrupted as wands were thrust into his throat from either side, and a large shape loomed before him.
The cigarillo fell from his nerveless fingers; his other hand reached for his wand, and was seized and twisted mercilessly behind his back.
“How delightful it must be to grow comfortable and lax, now that our Lord is gone,” a disturbing voice hissed.
The dark figure moved closer, and Lucius clearly saw the familiar black robes, as well as the mask of the Death Eater.
“Mulciber, remove Lucius’ wand from his sleeve – yes, exactly like that, excellent. MacNair, release his arm – we are all old friends here, are we not?”
When Lucius recognized the voice of the masked man before him; the chill penetrated to his marrow, and involuntarily, he closed his eyes.
“Alverard,” he breathed.
“In the flesh,” the masked figure agreed.
A/N: I believe that the next chapter will bring us to the ball at Malfoy Manor, which will begin the downhill rush to the SS/HG union our hearts crave.
If you can find it in your heart to drop me a line and let me know what you think, it will mean the world to me.