The Prince in Exile

Disclaimer: The following applies to this and all of the following chapters of this story: I do not own the characters, situations, locations or any other aspects of these stories and do not make any money from them.


The Prince in Exile




Author\'s Note: Thanks again to lablanche, editor and friend.



Chapter One:  The Prince and His Palace





He was not a coward.

He was certainly not an imbecile. 

Nor was he inclined to act hastily or impulsively.

Oh, he might grudgingly admit, if pressed, that there may have been a
time
or two when his temper got the better of him.  Perhaps an
occasional
instance where he had spoken or acted too quickly in anger and had
later repented
of it.

\"Well, you didn\'t really feel any
remorse
over the gesture or the words, did you?  You merely lamented the
fact
that you had exposed your feelings so openly to others.  
\"Only
fools wear their hearts on their sleeves.\"  Isn\'t that what you
told
Potter?



At
any rate, he thought, sighing deeply and stretching out his long legs
toward
the meager fire, he had long since learned that in certain matters a
rash
decision often lead to regrettable and irreparable mistakes.  One
did
not, after all, succeed in making a perfect Wolfsbane or Felix Felicis
unless
he possessed an exacting eye for detail and an extraordinary amount of
patience.

He had known for quite some time that it was probably inevitable that
he
would have to perform the deed.  As the events of the past six
years
had unfolded, he would have been a fool to ignore the evidence that it
was
becoming ever more likely that he would be compelled to do something
that
would forever force him from his safe, protective
harbour.   


He was many things.  But an impetuous fool?  Never.
 Even
as he had spoken the words of the curse he had held no illusions as to
what
would be the consequences of his action.

He smiled grimly for a moment as he allowed himself to imagine what the
reaction
of his former colleagues had been to the news that Severus Snape had
cold-bloodedly
killed Albus Dumbledore.  

It had not required Legilimency to sense the general air of distrust
and dislike
which had surrounded him at Hogwarts ever since he had installed as a
member
of the faculty.  Not, of course, that he had ever required or
sought
companionship from any of them.  But in the past year he had been
especially
aware of the increasing amount of suspicious glances cast his way,
particularly
by those who were members of The Order.  Fortunately, they
had all allowed
themselves to be placated by the Headmaster\'s staunch, unwavering
confidence
in him.  Even the most clever and paranoid of the staff had
eventually
allowed themselves to be lulled into a state of dangerous complacency.
 

His sneer widened for a moment, a nasty gleam appearing in his dark
eyes.
 He would treasure forever the image of Flitwick\'s expression of
pure
astonishment as the Stupefyhex
had
flashed from the tip of his wand towards his forehead.  The tiny
wizard
hadn\'t even begun to raise his wand to protect himself.

\"Not quite the dueling legend you
thought
you were, old man?

Old man.  Old, broken, dying man. 

He shook his head and determinedly refocused his thoughts.
 The
Charms professor had probably sustained more of an injury from falling
face
down on the dungeon floor than from the actual spell.  With Madam
Pomfrey\'s
help he must have recovered quickly and was even now sighing, squeaking
and
surreptitiously wiping tears from his eyes with a revolting regularity,
mouthing
well-intentioned but ineffectual aphorisms.  

Hagrid, on the other hand, would be nothing but a blubbering mountain
of
grief, his eyes bloodshot and swollen, the bushy beard matted down with
tears
and mucous.   If he managed to articulate anything, it would be to
repeat
yet again, in a voice slurred with alcohol,  that Albus Dumbledore
was
the greatest headmaster that Hogwarts had ever known.

Even the greatest man makes a few mistakes, does he not?  The
greater the man, the greater the mistakes.



No doubt Trelawney was also anesthetizing herself.  The annoying,
self-proclaimed
seer had been perpetually marinated in copious amounts of cooking
sherry
for some time now.  She would be assuring everyone, between
hiccups,
that she (and not Firenze) had clearly predicted this very outcome all
along.
 

\"Beware a dark man.\" 



What an original thought.



He wondered idly which would be harder for Minerva to bear:  the
Divination
professor\'s selfish and theatrical hysterics or the genuine outpouring
of
grief from the others.

Ah, yes, McGonagall.  He had always suspected that her feelings
for
the headmaster were more than impersonal admiration.  Not that the
dried-up
old shrivelfig of a hag would have ever admitted it anyone, least of
all
to herself.  She would pretend to be bowed but unbroken by the
news. 


How very Gryffindor.



She would briskly and efficiently take upon herself the duties
attendant
upon her as the natural replacement for the Headmaster\'s
position.  But
he was sure that a cranky, elderly tabby cat in plaid would never prove
herself
a worthy successor to the cagey Gryffindor lion who had preceded her.

He took another sip of wine and stared down into the fire.  It did
afford
a grim sort of amusement to imagine their various reactions.  But
probably
the most ironically humorous aspect of it all was that he was certain
they
thought he was now ensconced quite comfortably at the right hand of
Dark Lord,
handsomely rewarded for his treachery and assured a place of honor and
trust
among the Death Eaters.

He laughed shortly and raised his eyes upward, watching the flickering
shadows
upon the stone walls as the echo of his laughter resounded through the
cavern.


One might have thought that eliminating one of their most powerful
enemies
would have allayed the Death Eaters\' suspicions.  But in the petty
and
competitive circle that surrounded their master, his deed had only
aroused
more jealousy and suspicion.  Before the joyous whoops of
celebration
had died away there had been whispers that this merely confirmed that
Snape\'s
true loyalty was only to himself.  He had acted as he had only to
save
his own skin, hadn\'t he?

The Dark Lord had been exultant, of course.  He had even gone so
far
as to murmur a quiet \"Well done.\"  High praise indeed from one who
was
quick to punish and loathe to reward.  But the truth of the matter
was
that Voldemort could not be expected to be entirely pleased that a
subordinate
had succeeded where he himself had failed.  Even though his old
rival
had been half-dead before the spell was cast and there was the element
of
surprise in the attack, it could not sit easily upon the Dark Lord\'s
mind
that the \'only one he had ever feared\' had been vanquished by another.
 Dark
wizards were hardly ones to welcome competition, after all.  In
the
end, it had not even really proven that he was a faithful servant.
 It
had merely illustrated that he was quite capable of betraying a man who
had
trusted and relied upon him for years.  

There had been a pretense of conferring great honor upon him.  The
other
Death Eaters were told only that he was being sent away into hiding for
his
own protection.  But that he would be utilizing his unique talents
to
perform another difficult task for his master.

So here he was, stuck in a dismal cave in the middle of the dreariest
part
of Transylvania.  The cold and damp did not bother him; he
actually preferred
such conditions after all those years of toiling away in the dungeons.
 The
relative solitude was likewise rather comforting.  He was used to
old
and flimsy furniture, so he felt no deprivation there. But it was the
lack
of his most treasured items that rankled him most, turning his supposed
sanctuary
into a prison.  The Dark Lord had supplied him most handsomely
with
large stocks of potion ingredients, even ones which were prohibitively
expensive
and dangerous, because of their association with the Dark Arts, to be
procuring
at the moment.  But only the most rudimentary texts had been
provided
for him, and his request for additional books had been pointedly
ignored. 
This only fueled his suspicions that Voldemort did not particularly
care
whether or not he succeeded with his mission, and in fact was hoping
that
he would fail.

Well, no matter.  As Potter had found, he was quite capable of
conducting
his own experiments and improving upon the feeble knowledge and
simplistic
directions of others.  But he did long to return if only for a
moment
to his home or his office that he might retrieve an interesting volume
or
two to fill the empty hours of the evenings.  Even the chance to
peruse
the books located in the unrestricted section of the Hogwarts library
would
be a welcome divertissement to him now.



Indeed, I think at the moment that I would jump at the chance to
purloin
the contents of Miss Granger\'s perenially-bulging backpack.



He stared back down at the wineglass and sighed once more.
 Throwing
back his head, he drained the glass and abruptly stood up, reaching
down at
the same time to grasp the back of the chair so that he could slide it
over
in front of the rickety table that served as both workbench and desk
for
him.  He seated himself and put the empty glass down, reaching out
instead
for his quill and some parchment and began to write down some final
notes
regarding the day\'s experiments.  The flames were ebbing even
lower
now, and he found himself bending down close over the document, his pen
scratching
away furiously as if in a race to complete his writing before the fire
died
out completely.  But after a few minutes he suddenly raised his
head
and ceased the movement of the quill, peering across to the corner of
the
desk where a small vial was now rocking silently back and forth.
 It
was also glowing an eerie shade of green, but it had been the strong
aroma
of vinegar that the bottle was emitting that had first caught his
attention.
 In a moment the pen was abandoned as well, and he had reached
into his
cloak to retrieve his wand.  With a wave of his hand, the fire was
completely
extinguished and in the cover of darkness he crept to the mouth of the
cave
and peered out.  

A small spot of white light was moving towards him from the distance,
but
he only gave it a cursory glance before studying the rest of the
darkened
landscape.  The bright spot might be nothing more than a decoy to
distract
him from other, closer intruders.  But after several minutes he
satisfied
himself he had only a lone visitor that evening and returned his
attention
to the approaching figure.  After a few more yards he could even
begin
to make the features of the face, aided by the fact that the wandlight
was
seemingly magnified by the extreme paleness of the traveller\'s hair and
complexion.

It looked as though the evening was going to turn out to be much
more
interesting that he could have dared hope.



He hesitated for just a moment before suddenly thrusting his wand into
the
pocket of his cloak and retreating a few steps back into the cave.
 There
was a tiny mirror sitting upon his workbench, but in the present
darkness
he knew it would be useless to him.  At any rate, he knew that his
appearance
was less than prepossessing at the moment.  He raised his hands
and
tugged forcefully upon the small strip of leather that he had tied
around
his hair upon arising that morning.  It has loosened during the
course
of the day, allowing the dark locks to escape.  But now the knot
proved
devilishly stubborn, refusing to yield until more than a few strands of
his
hair had been sacrified to it.  He hissed out an oath as he
finally managed
to work it free. Throwing a glance over his shoulder, he saw that the
glowing
spot of light was drawing very near.  With a deep frown upon his
face,
he hurriedly brushed back the oily locks from his face and managed to
tame
them into a semblance of order before retying the strap.  

The visitor\'s footsteps were echoing clearly through the stillness of
the night now.  He raised a hand to his face and hastily ran his
fingers over his chin.  

Clearly there was not time to perform a shaving spell.  

He retrieved his wand from his pocket as he turned.  With a wave
of his hand, the fire burst back to life behind him, allowing his own
dark silhouette
to be clearly visible against the brilliant scarlet light illuminating
the
entrance to the cave.

The traveller stopped for a moment, obviously startled by his sudden
appearance.
 And then the figure began to move again, this time moving close
enough
for him to see that she was holding out her cloak and daintily picking
her
way down the stone-strewn path.

Of course.  Malfoys took great pains to make sure they never
had
to come in contact with the mud or the muck.

He drew himself up to his full height as the woman hurried down the
last
few yards of the path.  As she neared him, a large smile appeared
on
her face and she dropped the cloak to extend her hand out to him.
 He
had already transferred his wand to his left hand, so his right was
free
to take hers.  He bowed down over it, allowing his lips to brush
ever so slightly against the soft skin of her hand.

\"My dear Narcissa.  How kind of you to visit me.\"