Chapter Text
Graihagh should've had a good reason for being out at 11 p.m when Thorfinn Rowle was after her, but she didn't. She was at a pub in Douglas getting shit-faced with her Muggle drinking mates.
"Last call," said the bartender. Graihagh downed one more glass and left with the others, hugging her arms to her chest to block the chilly night air and wondering what happened to her; last summer she'd danced under the stars and now all wanted to do was buy something to take the edge off and sleep.
A hand gripped her upper arm and she gasped and jerked herself away, reflexes still quick, though her balance was off and she staggered slightly, Doc Martens shuffling against the pavement.
"It's just me," said her friend and flatmate Milo Selwyn, her only contact with the wizarding world outside of another friend or two and her boss at the apothecary where she worked as a potioneer. He narrowed his eyes at her drinking mates and they shot her quizzical looks and piled into the car without her.
"Take this," he said, thrusting her wand to her chest with a force that said she'd been stupid not to take it with her. But she already knew.
Milo was braver than her. He could think about Thorfinn Rowle; he could own up to what the three of them had done at school. And it was Milo who realised that Rowle was likely looking for them, all over the Isle of Man, which wasn't a big place.
"Keep close to me," he said as they half-walked, half-ran down the narrow streets, arms raised and wands held tightly to their chests, Graihagh's bumping her cheek as she moved. Three-story terrace houses and shops rose up on each side of the street like a wall, fused together with no spaces between them, no alleyways for Rowle or his accomplices to hide in.
She didn't know where the voice had come from. She didn't understand what it'd said until she was slumped against a wrought-iron fence, bound in leather cords that made it hurt to breathe. She couldn't think, couldn't move. A lamp was on in the upstairs window of the house across the street, the gauzy curtains closed, a blue and white flicker like a television going in the room next to it. X-Files, maybe. The theme song played in her head, above the scuffle.
"Stupefy!"
She knew that voice--Milo. But that meant--Rowle hadn't gotten him, he was free, he could help her...
A jet of white light; Graihagh's throat was raw from screaming but Milo called out again.
"Relashio--"
"Incarcerous--"
Milo barely dodged the light.
"Stop" yelled Graihagh, straining to squeeze the words out of her dry, cracked throat, barely aware of what she was saying. "Just stop."
But Rowle wouldn't leave them. And so he and Milo dodged and scuffled and ducked, until someone shouted off in the distance--someone was coming.
Rowle muttered something and thrust a blue glowing garden glove in her hands, soft brown suede, hot to the touch. She yelled for Milo as everything blurred and she was thrust headfirst into a place she didn't know.
*
Dust dried her lips and worked its way into her throat, making her sputter and cough. Her face was in the gravel, sharp pebbles digging into her palms.
"Get up," said a voice, and someone's boot prodded her ribs.
It isn't him, she thought. It isn't Rowle, it's some bloke having a laugh. She turned her head but Milo wasn't there.
"Up," the voice said again, and two large hands pulled her up by the waist.
"Walk."
Shoes crunched against gravel. The night was milder than it'd been in Douglas and the countryside was black all around them, rolling hills just visible in the faint moonlight. Ahead was a wrought iron gate, and Graihagh stopped short and stared at it. She didn't know where she was, exactly, but those black iron bars were a trap, a giant spiderweb she couldn't escape.
Her arms were bound but her legs were free. She could run.
Rowle stopped at the gate and pulled down his sleeve and Graihagh burst through the opening, running for the squat scraggly hawthorn tree at the side of the road.
"Petrificus Totalus!" shouted Rowle, and she fell face-first into the branches, berries bursting against her face, twigs cutting across her neck and forehead. He pulled her from behind and stuck the tip of his wand into her back as he let her move again.
"Try that again and it'll be the last thing you do."
The gate swung open, creaking on its hinges, and there was nothing she could do but walk towards the many lighted windows of the manor house--
Malfoy Manor. She'd been here before, years ago, with Milo and Rowle. They'd spent the summer working for them, pruning shrubs and planting trees in their magnificent gardens. They'd remember her, they'd know she was alright, she could tell them she didn't mean it, she hadn't meant to get Rowle expelled, she'd been one of them all along. They'd believe her. They had to.
The fountain trickled and when Graihagh closed her eyes it was daytime, and Narcissa was lying on a chaise lounge with her robes flowing all around her, and Draco was flying his broom through the fountain.
She stubbed her toe on the step and lurched forward. Graihagh was so numb she could barely walk, but somehow she lifted her feet and climbed the steps. Two white cobra lilies raised their heads as she passed, and the windows in the front door were as alert and watchful as a clerk in a jewelry store. Rowle pushed the door open without knocking.
There was no elf to greet them this time, but the house was full of party sounds--bursts of laughter over buzzing conversation, voices coming closer and drifting further away as people walked through the front hall. The voices were loudest from the right and that's where he took her, into a spacious room with many tall windows and glowing chandeliers that threw multicoloured patterns on the wall and silent, watching figures embroidered into tapestries.
Something was wrong. There were a few blue or gold or silver dress robes but mostly everyone was dressed in black, with lowered hoods bunched up at the backs of their heads. The centre of gravity bent towards a high-backed chair near the fireplace, the black hole in the middle of the galaxy, a sliver of a bald head that made her numb.
The chandelier was pretty. The glass must've been multi-coloured because the marble floor was covered in purple rhombuses and blue diamonds and little white lights that reflected off it. The air smelled like wine and the apple blossoms and she breathed it in over and over and over again.
"My Lord," said Rowle, genuflecting like people did at mass that time she'd gone with her grandmother. She'd liked the way the candles had smelled when they'd put them out.
"What is it?" said a voice that froze her insides, made the base of her neck ache with the pounding, harder than she thought was possible.
"A half-blood, m'lord, one of Dumbledore's stooges. This was the one who got me expelled."
She stared down at the purple and blue rhombuses and remembered the stage lights at the Happy Mondays concert she'd gone to once, at the Apollo in Manchester.
"And?"
"I thought, m'lord...some entertainment for us. Cruciatus, maybe."
Say something, she thought, willing her thoughts to reach Narcissa or Lucius. Tell them.
"A half-blood," mused the voice. "Perhaps...unless she has some explanation for the shameful attire."
Someone said something, she didn't hear what, but she knew that cool, sardonic voice. Yet it couldn't have been, there was no way.
"Yes, Severus?"
Severus--was that Snape's name? She couldn't remember
"My lord," said this Severus person. "I know this woman. She's a potioneer of exceptional skill. It would be a grievous waste of talent, if we were to do away with her."
"But she was a traitor, was she not? Working for Dumbledore, did you say, Rowle?"
"She told him everything, my Lord," spat Rowle, with the force of someone holding something in a long time. "She acted like she was in on the plan and bailed at the last minute. I think it was a set-up."
The Severus person was watching her, she could feel it, but her face was too numb to move. There were coloured tiles on the floor in shades of turquoise and purple and silver--peacocks. Who had peacock mosaics on their drawing room floor? Then again, these were the only people she knew with an actual drawing room, so maybe it was a thing.
"A misunderstanding, my lord," said Severus. "You see, Rowle was involved in a foolish scheme to bring back some old wizard who'd gone missing years ago. She was merely trying to stop him bringing back a rival. She confided in me that she hoped you'd return. I covered for her."
So it was him, but why was he here, with them? He'd told her he regretted joining.
She stared at the floor, smelled the heady apple-blossom air. This was her chance, maybe. They'd been friends, he wouldn't let this happen to her.
"They never quite trusted her after that," Snape went on. "She was in Slytherin."
"Indeed," said the high voice, his delicately rising inflection suggesting interest, maybe, the barest thread she could cling to. "Well, then, Severus, what do you suggest we do with her?"
"My lord, if I may speak," said Rowle's voice, shaking with the effort of staying calm. "If all this is true why's she dressed in Muggle clothes?"
Another silence while she stared at those stupid peacocks.
"Let's wait and see what Severus has to say first. Severus?"
"If it pleases you, my lord, I think we ought to make use of her exceptional abilities. She's one of the few potioneers capable of creating a poison so difficult to detect that even Mad-Eye wouldn't know. I could supervise her if you wish, make sure she hasn't gotten any ideas since I last saw her."
Another silence. Dammit, why couldn't he just get it over with?
"Look at me," said a horrible cold voice like pale cold hands dragging her into the water. She couldn't move her head.
Warmth seeped through her body like a hot blanket after standing outside in the rain.
Lift your head and look at the Dark Lord. Act natural. You are nervous, but there is nothing to hide.
She looked at him, at that strange face, not quite human and not quite other, rocking back on the balls of her feet.
Picture yourself dressed in those clothes, befriending your neighbours and slipping poison into their coffee.
Such a stupid thing to think about, but whatever, she'd do it.
"Hmm," murmured the voice. "That would be acceptable. But do keep a close watch on her, yes? Anything less than full commitment and she is useless, don't you agree?"
"Certainly, my lord."
The warmth had gone away, she was rigid and hoped they wouldn't see it.
"You've been a most devoted servant, Severus. You've crowned yourself with glory. I'd say you deserve a reward, don't you think?"
A pause; someone chuckled and stifled it with a cough.
"I thank you very much indeed, my lord," said Snape, very quietly.
"She's all yours now, Severus. Do as you like with her."
A flash of black in her peripheral vision and then his hand was on her upper arm, gentler than she'd been expecting, not so much grabbing her as suggesting that they go.
"Come with me," he whispered, hot breath in her ear, and she followed him, no longer numb, but shaking. He'd just saved her life.
But why was he here?
Someone laughed. "Still got the bindings on, the kinky bastard."
Snape ignored him, and they walked on.