Other Worlds

By the time Narcissa came down to the toy room the two toddlers had been fed, and were busy climbing all over 'Alpha' as he playfully romped and growled with them. Severus, working on his second cup of coffee, was standing watching them, wrapped in Sirius' arms, a smile lighting up his whole face. Sirius was not watching, his head turned in towards Severus's nape, murmuring sweet nothings into the dark curtain of hair. She stood for a while, just watching her oldest friend and her cousin, feeling the depth of their emotion even as a bystander.

 

It was hard to acknowledge, but she had never had that passion herself. She had been coolly affectionate with Lucius initially, but even though they had known each other since they were young children, the betrothal was an arrangement between Families, much as Bellatrix's had been with the LeStrange boy. There had been no love in either marriage. She had seen love grow within such couples, of course, but while Bellatrix and Rastaban were at least matched in temperament and compatible in preference, there had been no such felicity in her own marriage. 

 

The marriage had been engineered for one purpose only: to bring into the world the perfect, healthy and male heir. She suspected she, not Bellatrix or Andromeda, had been affianced to the Malfoy scion because she alone had the pure blonde hair the Black family threw out every other generation or so. Abraxas had an eye for colouring, and would have wanted the almost white-blond hair of his son to breed true. As the eldest, Bellatrix had the larger dowry, but the fabled wealth of the Malfoy family was no myth, and her financial charms had little interest for the Malfoy Patriarch.  Her other charms had held little interest for Lucius either, which, after being in Slytherin with him for six years, had not come as a surprise. 

 

It was a little surprising he hadn't tried to seduce Sirius while they were schoolmates, but then there was very little positive interaction between Slytherin and Gryffindor Houses, and while that hadn't stopped liaisons in the past, Sirius had always displayed his colours openly while Lucius remained, spider like, lurking in the shadows. His own house had been fair game, and he had hunted freely within it. Only Purebloods, of course. While he admitted that Halfbloods like Severus had their uses, bedroom play was not one of them, and the only notice he paid to the unlucky Muggleborns that found themselves in Slytherin was to orchestrate, but not participate in, their torment.

 

It had been made clear to her on Abraxus' passing (and the timing of his 'dragon pox' coming four days after Lucius' 17th birthday had not escaped her), that while Lucius was prepared to honour the arrangement between their families, once the fabled Heir had been conceived all relations between them would cease. She had not inwardly been displeased. Her hostess talents had quickly become legendary, and they had made a fine matched set to host galas and parties for Lord Voldemort's various causes, which she privately admitted had probably kept her alive when Draco was weaned. The Golden Couple, as The Prophet called them, were a useful public fiction, but as the gaps in her personal timeline grew she began to fear that Lucius would soon aspire to hold the title of Wizarding Britain's Most Eligible Widower instead.

 

She didn't know what she had to offer Mycroft Holmes in terms of testimony. Naturally, her statement would link the two together as business acquaintances, for the parties she had co-hosted raised funds for his social causes and political ambitions, but the glamour Lucius wore over his left arm had never slipped, and she could not swear to it's having been the Dark Mark despite her intuition screaming it in her mind. The Dark Lord, as Lucius had her refer to him only as, had not to her knowledge ever been in her house, and she had only met him once herself, ironically at a Ministry Gala before the War had openly begun. Poor Merrilee had introduced them, albeit stiffly, and the conversation had been the usual Pureblood political zealotry.

 

Her attention was caught by the woman who came to stand next to her, nodding approvingly at the sight of Remus laughing as the toddlers covered him in soft toys. 

 

"Hard to believe that this time last week he was at death's door, isn't it?" Surprised, Narcissa cast an alarmed look over the man playing with the children, but he seemed perfectly healthy. The newcomer held out her hand. 'Jane Bardwell, Mind Healer at St Mungo's. You must be Lady Malfoy. Unspeakable Holmes has requested I look into your memory lapses with you. Gentlemen, glad to see you all so well. Do excuse us."

 

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Mycroft leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smile on his lips. Thank Merlin and Morgana for idiots who thought they were clever. Lucius Malfoy had stood out, even as a first year to Mycroft's lofty seventh, as a cocksure little git, wearing the pride of his Name and Daddy's wealth like an impenetrable cloak that would shrug off all cares. He'd been relatively quick to grasp concepts, but discarded them as soon as he no longer saw their use, and while he'd proven in study hall that he could memorise facts provided in revision papers by others long enough to get through exams and tests, he was too taken up with his own self importance to have the true scholars' ability to retain and expand knowledge. In short, he confused cunning with intelligence, as so many did, and like so many others, it was about to catch up with him.

 

Obliviation was as much an art as it was a science. It was easy enough for any fool with a wand to call out 'obliviate', but without taking the time to overlay a new 'memory' over the old, all that happened was the memory was wiped, like a muggle videotape. New memories were laid down where the old one had stopped, so those with imperfect obliviations had blank sections in their memory. Their time unaccounted for, some went mad over time, disconnected from reality. The lucky ones were those with the intelligence to realise that something had been done to them, and the misfortune to know someone who might have done it. Like Narcissa Malfoy.

 

Lady Malfoy had sat, thin lipped, as her memories were restored to her, and had been more than willing for the returned memories to be decanted into Pensieve Phials for the Wizengamot. The number of times Voldemort had been in her home, openly mounting Bellatrix in front of them all while Lucius played with his catamites. The planning sessions between the three, plotting attacks against both Wizarding and Muggle public, while she had been forced to take notes. The many meetings of the Inner Circle in her own sitting room, ensuring scum like Dolohov and Rosier had enough Firewhisky. Oh, she was more than willing for those memories to be played on the large white wall of the Moot Chamber, if it meant her husband was damned to Azkaban - and with what she had unknowingly seen, he would have many companions.

 

Already he had received an official Department Commendation for offering her Sanctuary, not least because it had been on his own Name, leaving the Department free of any robust connection. Now the Trials were imminent, he needed to organise proxies to cast the votes held by Severus, Sirius and the youngest Lord, Harry, without drawing attention to their absence from the public eye, and in particular, from that of Dumbledore. While Narcissa could not vote on her own husbands guilt or innocence, the votes she would hopefully be able to wield on her son's behalf, if all went to plan, might be needed if Dumbledore decided to tamper.

 

He neatly sent the reports from Dr Bardwell and the Wizangamot Chief Prosecutor to their correct folders, then stepped through the Floo, calling out "Holmes Grove" firmly. He and Sherrinford had evacuation plans to set in place.

 

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What looked like a tumbledown woodsman's hut deep within the Black Forest was actually fairly decent inside. It was one of Bellatrix' favourite hideaways for hunting. It was always so amusing to see her prey floundering through the forest, completely out of their comfort zones whether they were wizard or muggle. Screams could roll around the sunken valleys beautifully, many miles away from any who would help, and there was nothing sweeter than the games she would play with her Lord while giving the hunted the head start she always promised.

 

Which was why she was in such a toweringly foul mood when she stalked into their bedroom to find that disgusting rat Pettigrew, sleeping in her bed. Only the knowledge that he was regretfully necessary to her saved his wretched life, and her Lord was not around to stay her hand from the repeated Cruciatus he deserved. 

 

The twitching made him look even more like a rat.

 

He readily gave her the locations of the few safe houses in Britain she had not already known of. Hopefully there would be enough refugees from the Samhain Cull debacle to be able to regroup and start locating the Dark Lord's essence. The Minister's funeral was going to be impossible to hit as planned, but some of the secondary targets might still be feasible, and if Sirius was able to come out of hiding in plain sight, they could thrash out some alternate strategies to be visible by Solstice. At least deep in the Department Of Mysteries he'd have access to useful intelligence, and the Black townhouse would make an acceptable Headquarters now Malfoy Manor was shut down.

 

Returning to Britain was crucial. There were always rats around Azkaban, so one more or less wouldn't stand out, and would be very useful at passing information in and out. She also needed to have a little talk with her sister. And there was plenty of unfinished business she could occupy herself with once they'd regrouped a little; objectives that hadn't been completed, trials to disrupt, Wizengamot members to coerce. Busy, busy Bellatrix. Always so much to do...

 

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"I can't take him, Augusta. You must see a crusty old bachelor has no business raising a child. I'm sure it will only be for a little time..."

 

"Balderdash, Algie. Complete cobblers. You're twelve years younger than I am, and a man who has energy to chase after barmaids has enough energy to deal with a toddler.  See sense, man! Frank and Alice aren't going to get better, ever, and if he stays with me I can't go after the bitch that did this."

 

"Augusta, as much as I had no intention of inflicting myself on a child, I have even less of having one inflicted on me, by you or the Ministry. Face it, the kid's a squib. If you're that desperate to track the LeStrange woman down, hand him off to the Ministry for raising in the Muggle world."

 

Augusta Longbottom glared at her brother. "This Family has survived Squib Heirs before, and will again, Algernon Longbottom, and the Family Magics recognised him as heir regardless of how large his core might be. I will not ship him off like the Parkinson's do! If you will not take him, then you can hunt down the LeStrange woman yourself - if she doesn't come after the rest of us first! Don't think I'll forget this, brother."

 

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Sherlock slung his duffel bag into the corner of the Grove's library and folded his lanky legs into his favourite chair, his back on the floor. More than used to his little brother's eccentric habits Mycroft didn't even twitch his copy of the Evening Staff. 

 

"Bored", announced Sherlock.

 

"Well, of course you are. You've been home at least five minutes. Announced yourself to Sherrinford?" drawled Mycroft.

 

Sherlock gestured airily. "He knows, he always does. You've filled Trewissick up with waifs and strays again. Place smells like small children and wet dogs. And Cousin Severus. Who also smells of wet dog. Odd. You need to give me something to do, Mycroft; I have two weeks stretching out before me and I am bored already."

 

Mycroft lowered the paper and looked closely at his brother, assessing him carefully. A bored Sherlock was a troublesome thing, unless he could be focused. Give him an open-ended task, and he was a genius at giving you more than you asked for; leave him to his own devices and he'd either blow up half of Shropshire, or need wringing out and restraining as he came down from whatever ridiculous potion he'd come up with this time just to be able to think at 'normal' speed. He was just marking time at Hogwarts with his Charms Mastery, having taken his NEWTS at thirteen, and Flitwick was despairing of his ability to keep him occupied until his 17th birthday.

 

The boy needed a project. Luckily, Mycroft had just the solution. Developing and maintaining an information network in both the Wizard and Muggle worlds should be enough to keep Sherlock busy, and Merlin knew he could always find a use for it. It might even keep him at school another few months. One could always hope, anyway. Leaning forward in his chair, the paper discarded, he began to lay out his idea.