| send an owl to grindylowe
| Fic: Death Eaters At The Malfoy Estate
| Fic: Not Death Eaters At The Malfoy Estate
| fan art
| links
| The Lab Message Board
“Jesus Michelob Christ,” Severus said softly. “You’re responsible for the Tokyo Falls massacre?
Myra nodded.
He swallowed and wrung his hands, casting sideways glances at her. She looked at the floor.
“So why would we return to Nebraska? Isn’t that a bit scene of the crimey?”
Myra looked up, eyebrows raised. She began to say something, stopped, and said something else.
“Well..that’s the beautiful part. See, it was an Attillas’s Serum.”
“Ohhh.....” He paused. “You gave that to your parents? You must have been bloody serious. Why I bet they didn’t have an inch of skin left on them by the time-”
At Myra’s look he thought better of what he was saying. “Continue.”
“I had to improvise at one point. I was at home in the States with no way to get to a Wizarding shop, and I hadn’t thought to bring any Replicating Essense home in my kit. So I did a substitution.”
“With?”
“My blood.”
“What!?”
“I know the Replicating Essence is what makes the reaction keep happening, so I thought, well, blood cells make more of themselves, right? So I did a little charm work, and everything seemed to hold together. But for a while now, Severus, I’ve been doing a little backlog, and I found an interesting side effect.”
“I imagine you would!”
She grinned.
“Oh hell! Go on now, I have to hear this.” He lit a cigarette.
‘We partly have the Dark Lord to thank, seeing as he made me...you know. But since all those people died by ingesting what was essentially my cursed blood, I have...something of a power net to fall back on once I get to Tokyo Falls.”
Severus’s mouth drooped. “The Web of Aftermath.”
“Precisely.”
“The W.O.A. of the deaths of seven thousand people, and it would be attuned...directly to you, wouldn’t it?”
“Yep.”
‘So, when you go back to Tokyo Falls - “
“I have a nearly infinite amount of power.”
Severus checked the calculations over in his head. “Holy shit.”
She nodded, gave a cocky grin, cracked her knuckles. “Yeahp. If the Dark Lord really wanted to come after me he’d be in for a hell of a fight. But the way I see it he’s not going to want to travel all the way to the States to bother with us, especially after all the Death Eaters he sends come back to him in shoeboxes.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “He’d get us eventually.”
“Only if he wins.”
“What do you mean if he wins?”
She shrugged.
“Myra,” he said after a moment. “Why are you so intent on me coming with you?”
“Well I can’t just leave you here, can I?” She pointed to Cauldron C. ”How long till that mixture is done fermenting?”
“Hm? About six hours.”
“Good.” She held out her hand and he helped her to her feet. “Come on.”
“Where are going?”
She turned to him with a grin and opened the door of the boiler. Coins spilled out
“Shopping.”
***
Half past three rolled around and Barty Crouch Jr. toddled down to the parlor for his daily appointment with Lucius. He’d doused his face in cold water to ease the redness of his crying but he still sniffled. He urged himself to maintain his composure. Lucius must not know how upset he was.
What use was crying after all? Lucius had to marry Narcissa, it was important for the Malfoy family. He couldn’t very well go against his father’s wishes. Lord Malfoy knew his son was nancy as a daffodil but that was of little consequence to blood politics.
But, oh, the secret desires of a sweet young boy’s heart, mostly, in this case, to be a sweet young girl, one of good blood and name. Lucius may come to Barty for comfort in the future, true, but now he would never really be his. Forever after Barty would be kissing, sucking, stroking someone else’s rightful property.
It was almost more than young Barty could bear.
He softly shut the parlor door behind him. Lucius hadn’t arrived. Barty sat in a squashy armchair and waited, shoulders hunched, knees pressed together. He realized he looked like the anxious boy he was so he forced himself to relax, leaned back, a wanton knee over the arm of the chair, inching up his shorts to expose a smooth white plane of thigh. He considered fetching himself a wine cooler before Lucius slammed into the parlor in a white-blonde fury.
His cloak was drawn about him, covering something on his chest. The cloak threatened to blow aside as though a wind were coming directly off Lucius's body. He yanked it across his torso, stalking across the room to the stack of Bloodworth and Blackchurch catalougues. He began to dig through them.
“No, not November, not October....” he muttered, throwing booklet after booklet on the floor. He glanced up at Barty. “Oh, it’s you.”
Barty gave the coyest smile he could manage and twisted a lock of blonde hair around a shaky finger.
Lucius glared at him. The side of his cloak flew up and hit him in the face. He jerked it back down. “Not today, Crouch. I’m not in the Goddamn mood. If you want to be of use help me find the gray sealskin shirt in these old B&B’s.”
Barty jerked. The words hacked through him like a meat cleaver through veal but he knelt down to help.
“G-getting a new shirt?” Barty asked.
“Yes. No. I’m replacing an old one. Where the hell is it?”
Lucius bit his bottom lip, hands shaking with frustration. He tossed his hair out of his face. Barty was unsure what to do. Lucius tended to furiously catalogue shop when something was upsetting him. Or on rainy days, or partly cloudy days, but mostly when something was upsetting him.
Barty’s maternal instincts kicked in. “What’s wrong LuLu?”
“Shut up and help me look!” Lucius turned to him and Barty was distracted by something bright and flashing on his shirt. His gray sealskin shirt.
It was a letter “T” flashing all colors of the rainbow. Underneath it letters began to flash, one after another, T-E-A - a gust of wind burst out of it, billowing Lucius's cloak. He grabbed it and pulled it over his chest.
“Don’t look at that!” Lucius hissed, and slapped Barty hard across the face. “I told you to find the shirt, so find it! This one is ruined, thanks to bloody fucking Severus!”
Barty’s lower lip quivered. He dug through the stack, one hand on his cheek.
“Oh what, are you going to cry now, you nancy little shit?”
“N-no.”
“Would you like an apology?”
Barty looked up hopefully.
‘Well you’re not bloody getting one! You know why? Because I’m not sorry! All you bloody oversensitive faggot gits, I’m so sick of your simpering! Between you and Severus it’s like raising a couple of teenage girls! Musn’t upset you lest your periods get irregular!”
Lucius stood now, arms akimbo, cloak flying out behind him in pulp superhero fashion. On his chest was the rainbow T, underneath it flashing letters, T-E-A-S-E, T-E-A-S-E, T-E-A-S-E.
“I said stop looking at it!”
Barty cringed, holding his arms over his face.
Lucius sneered. “You disgust me,” he said, and swept out of the parlor.
Barty waited until he heard Lucius's footsteps slam down the hall before releasing a wail of despair. He heaved as hot tears spilled down his cheek, still bright from Lucius's hand. He rubbed the cheek in disbelief. Lucius had struck him before, but it was always in the spirit of play, followed by petting or kisses or nipple clamps.
But this...this....
Barty wailed again, and threw a catalogue cross the room. It landed at the toes of a pair of gigantic platforms. The tallest platforms in all of Wizarding Britian, in fact, inside which thrived an entire seamonkey ecosystem. Only one wizard would have shoes that fabulous, and Barty regarded him with tear-fogged eyes.
“My boy?” the Dark Lord purred..
***
Dobby, clutching the reluctantly recovered love-hat, delivered the last reminder to a jowly woman who worked in the Taskmaster’s office. He hoped against hope that she would not ask for the hat, and she didn’t; she accepted the reminder with a noncommittal grunt and shut her window for the evening.
Dobby sighed and rubbed his eyes, one of which was swelled and sore from where Master Malfoy had kicked him. Dobby hadn’t even hit the wall of the executive lounge before realizing he was ten times as doomed. He knew Master Snape’s words weren’t nice. They rarely were.
Resigned to his fate, Dobby made his way back to the Malfoy’s private suite to return the suit and hat. He wondered if Mistress Vontaine would be there. He hoped she wasn’t. He was tempted to shut his head in a door for wishing his Mistress gone but was too tired for more self-flagellation. He put it on a list of things to do, perhaps after he said his goodbyes to the other house elves and had one last butterbeer.
At least, he thought as he opened the door to the Malfoy’s suite, his name would go down in legend.
His hopes were dashed when he heard Mistress Vonatine humming softly in the adjoining room where he’d left her debauched this morning. She sounded content enough. Dobby made his way to the armoire. He’d just fold everything up and leave quiet as he came. She didn’t even need to know he was there.
He took off the hat and placed it in the armoire. He wondered of she could use it once it was out of his possession, but decided it didn’t matter since he’d be dead. He took off the jacket, dusting off the tails. He undid the bowtie and let it hang about his neck as he unfastened the first two buttons of his dress shirt. In the adjoining room, Mistress Vontaine’s light humming turned into a sob.
Dobby’s hands froze. His listened for a moment. Yes, Mistress Vontaine was most certainly crying. He stood there at a loss for what to do.
“M-Mistress Vonatine?” Dobby asked after a long moment.
“Hellluuuuuew?” she croaked, her voice deep as the bowels of a cane toad.
“Is me, Dobby.” He crept into the adjoining room. Thre was a pungent smell of feces. Mistress Vonatine lay on the floor, her head propped up against the leg of armchair. She wore only one of Master Malfoy’s dress shirts, yellowish from days of her sweat. Her cheeks were sallow, lips chapped, eyes a dull yellow. Crust had formed at the corners of her mouth.
“Mistress Vontaine! You is sick!”
“Oh gawwwd,” she moaned and performed a dry heave.
Dobby ran up to her and put the back of his hand against her forehead. She didn’t feel warm .Her dull eyes met his, pleading, and Dobby felt something hot rise in his chest. When he drew his hand away his fingertips brushed her hair. She reached up, cupped her hand around the back of Dobby’s round head, and drew his face down to hers.
“More,” she whispered.
“What?” Dobby whispered back.
“Get me more!”
“More what, Mistress?”
She coughed once and dug around underneath the armchair. She produced an empty vial. There was a thin film upon it, the remnants of something vomit green and sparkly. She shoved it into his hand.
Dobby blinked. “W-where?”
“Downstairs,” she croaked. “The girl. With the glasses...ugh.”
“Mistress, perhaps a warm bath-”
“Shut your mouth and do as I say!”
Dobby jumped. “Yes Mistress, I is going, I-”
He turned, and ran right into a pair of shins.
He looked up into the angry face of Master Malfoy.
“You,” he hissed, and picked Dobby up by collar. Dobby shrieked. His time had come.
“So you’re the one getting this shit for her! Who’s behind it, Dobby? Who’s selling it? Hm? I’ll have their head on a pike!”
“I is not knowing, Master! I is never seen it before!”
“Bullshit!” Master Malfoy slammed Dobby’s face into the wall. “Tell me!” Slam. “Tell me!”
“Lucius, stop!” Mistress Vontaine cried out from the floor. Lucius dropped Dobby at the sight of her.
“My my, Narcissa,” he said. ‘How you’ve let yourself go.”
He lower lip quivered. She wailed. “I hate you! I’ve always hated you! Why don’t you ever shut up, you, you, you baggy old queen! I’d rather marry Dobby! At least he knows how to treat a lady!” She thrust a long nail at Dobby, who was recovering on the floor.
Lucius balled his fists and took a deep breath. “Narcissa...I’ll let that go, only because I know you’re an idiot. But this behavior has got to stop. And you,” he said to Dobby, “are going to stop it.”
“M-master?”
“You got her on it, you’ll get her off it. This...sweaty, shit-soaked cow is to be a presentable bride in three days or I’ll mount your head on the wall, elf. Understand?” He kicked Dobby into Narcissa’s lap, and spun on his heel out of the room.
***
In Knockturn alley, Severus Snape, sitting in private booth at a very swank joint, sipped a 1936 merlot. His elbow nudged the toes of Myra Psue, who sat across from him picking at truffles and fois gras. The candelight flickered.
“What are you thinking about?” Myra asked.
“I’m thinking I should have gone with the studded pants instead of the plain.”
“That’s what I told you!”
“I know, but they seemed so flashy....”
‘Eh. Tell you what, after we’re done with our snack we’ll go back and get them, okay? And I think I’ll get that snow tiger pelt corset too. It was adorable.”
“Where would you wear that?”
She shrugged. “Around the lab, you know...oh, hold on.” She reached into her pocket. Someone walked by, quick as a specter, and joined hands briefly with Myra. When he was gone she unfolded the hand to reveal a bag of galleons. Smiling, she reached across the table and took a sip of Severus’s merlot.
“Hey! That’s mine!”
She threw the bag at his chest. “Go buy yourself the cellar, darling. Chug a lug.” She threw back the rest of the wine.
He rose from the booth. “I think I will. Want anything?”
“Everything.”
“Done.” He tipped his new dragonhide sombrero and headed towards the bar. Allowing Myra to buy him things had made him uncomfortable for the first ten minutes or so, but, he thought as he clicked open his emerald-studded cigarette case, he could get used to a little sugar now and then.
He sat down at the bar, plush leather seat sighing beneath him, and the bartender stopped dead in the middle of constructing another guest’s drink to attend to him. Severus ordered a red, and it was before him so fast he actually heard the crack of the sound barrier breaking.
Yes, he could get used to this.
Someone sat down next to him. Severus took a sip of his drink, and a familiar old voice said, “Nice hat.”
Severus glanced over and nearly spat out his wine.
“Prof- Professor McGonagall!”
She smiled thinly. “Hello Severus. You’re looking well. And please, call me Minerva.”
Severus looked around as if looking for support, as though he needed someone to confirm that he was indeed sitting in a very expensive bar with what was indeed his old Transifiguration professor who did indeed appear to be flirting with him.
“You always were a bit nervous, weren’t you?” she said, a touch of humor in her voice. She took a sip of her wine.
“I’m just - surprised to see you here, is all. Do you...come here...often?”
“Not often enough, I’m afraid. Such a fine selection. Puts the Hogwarts cellars to shame.” She glanced over the menu. “What are you having?”
“The 1915.”
She flagged down the bartender. “The 1915 please.” And smiled coyly, a smile that made Severus’s stomach turn with wierd.
“So,” she said, “what have you been doing with yourself these days?”
“Oh. You know. Keeping busy.”
“Really? With what?”
“Oh. You know. The here and there, the this and that. Such and such.”
“I see. Not...running with a bad crowd...are we?”
Severus straightened. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean.” He took out a cigarette and out of courtesy offered one to Minerva, who accepted. Severus lit her up, leaving his inner fourteen year old awestruck.
“Severus, if you were perhaps running with a bad crowd-”
“I’m not.”
“But if you were,” she continued, “somewhere down the line, there very well may be great consequences. Great prices to pay for such misbehavior.” She took a deep, impressive drag.
“I’ll be sure to tell that to the next urchin I see,” Severus said. He finished off the rest of his wine in one go.
“As well you should,” Minerva began. The bartender, upon seeing Severus’s empty glass, dropped everything once more to serve him.
“The 1915, on me,” Minerva interjected. The bartender nodded, poured.
“Professor McGonagall!”
“Minerva.”
“I simply can’t allow you to me buy drinks, it’s not-”
“Back to the subject at hand,” she said, in the tone she used to quiet unruly children. “As I said, great prices to pay. But there would be a way, theoretically, to avoid such punishment, for one involved.”
Severus didn’t respond.
“Any insight,” she said, “into the activities of the bad crowd, for example.”
Severus rolled his eyes. “I told you-”
“And I’m telling you,” she said. She looked him up and down, her face full of disdain and pity. “I see it. I smell it, Severus. I know what it’s taken from you. We’ve had others come back.”
“I don’t know what you’re on about.”
She rose, giving him a knowing look. “Of course you don’t.” She opened her purse. From it she retrieved a gold envelope. “Open this when you’re ready.” She thrust the envelope into his hands and walked out.
As he watched her leave he felt arms encircle his waist and a wine-y breath in his ear. “I thought I told you I wanted everything, “ Myra Psue slurred.
“Unhand me, wench.”
She didn’t. “What did that old hag want?”
Severus looked down at the gold envelope, turned it in his hands, and tucked it away into his robes.
“To buy me a drink.”
***
It was three in the morning before they stumbled back into the lab. Severus knew they had a lot of work to do but he was much too drunk and weighed down with bags to care. Myra, half falling out of her tiger pelt corset, fell off his arm and giggling onto the couch. He sat down heavily beside her, and set the weightiest parcel down between his knees - a huge bag from Mogwot’s Precious Posions containing hundreds of vials of hundreds of things Severus always wanted. He peered into the bag, a vision of tiny noxious heaven.
He dug through his other bags. Cuban cigars, rich old rum, the studded pants, a bunch of new music, shoes shoes shoes, a couple new eyepatches for Jackson....
“Sev...” Myra said.
....a brand new codex, a zen alarm clock, back silk shirt with red trim, red silk shirt with black trim, silver skull ring, silver skull ring with green glass eyes, silver skull ring with claw....
“Sev?”
...german chocolates, gold pocketwatch, fine tobacco, self-rolling papers.....
“Hm?”
“Did...did you not feed him?” Myra asked, voice edged with panic. “Tell me you didn’t feed him.”
Severus looked up. Myra held a hamster in the palm of her hand.
It was Mr. Rigsby.
And he was dead.