Books and Covers

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Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.



A/N: I am amazed and humbled by those who continue to read this. As I mentioned, I am a very, very slow writer. Thank you all for your kind words and encouragement.







Chapter 6



In Prologue





Lucius Malfoy closed the door to the Master’s suite behind him without a sound, glad to be away from the charnel-house it had become. While he could fight as well as anyone and had not compunction about spilling the blood of enemies, he had never done well in healing wards. Indeed, it had taken a great deal of begging and humbleness to return to his wife’s good graces after he had fled the delivery ward during Draco’s birth.



He paused at the top of the stairs, still partly concealed in the shadows, and cast a quick charm to repair his appearance, returning robes and boots to crisp perfection. Happy with his appearance, he crossed to the stairs and descended leisurely, enjoying the complex melodies and swirling colors.



It had been years, nearly two decades in fact, since he and Narcissa had been part of the crowd, constrained to code names and ornate masks. His ability to manipulate the Ministry, to guide it into paths favorable to the Lord’s desires, had brought him the Dark Lord’s favor every bit as much as his dueling skills and strength. Narcissa had also risen on her own, just as the Dark Coterie demanded, and she stood now as Lord Voldemort’s official hostess and secret spymaster, her ability to ferret out information, to winnow the chaff of gossip for the grains of truth, every bit as important as his own.



Descending into the crowd, Lucius made his way to the buffet, refusing to acknowledge the dancers that moved out of his path without prompting. It was as it should be; he was, after all, one of the elite.



Reaching the long table he scooped up a glass of perfectly chilled champagne and turned to survey the crowd again, not at all surprised when his wife appeared next to him, elegantly draped in a blue-figured gown, vaguely Eastern in style.



“Lovely party, my dear,” Lucius murmured, raising the back of her hand to his lips.



“Why, thank you, Lucius,” Narcissa Malfoy answered just as quietly. “There is, of course, a great deal of speculation as to why our Lord departed in such haste earlier, and has yet to return; especially with Severus making such a conspicuous entrance.”



“He returned quite a while ago, actually; he and Severus along with Greg and Vincent are hold up in his rooms; what it concerns is highly confidential, at the moment, although I’m quite sure the news will filter down in a few days.”



“But you can’t tell me now?” Narcissa half smiled, half pouted, clear blue eyes sparkling.



Lucius saluted her with his drink, even as he returned her smile with silence.



A sudden shift of the atmosphere alerted the two Inner Circle members that something had happened. The Malfoys turned just in time to see Voldemort resume his seat in the corner where he normally held court. Settled in the heavily carved chair he always used at these functions, the Dark Lord waved one pale hand in the direction of the musicians, who immediately resumed playing a quatrain.



“Dance, my dear?” Lucius offered his hand to his wife, who took it with a smile and allowed her husband to draw her into the pattern.



Over the next few minutes, the gathered Death Eaters would bow or curtsey to the Dark Lord as the movement of the dance pulled them past him. The stately measures finally moved the Malfoys to the front, where they made their obeisance to their lord before stepping out of the pattern to take their usual places behind Voldemort.



The quatrain ended and a pavane began before Voldemort pulled his attention back to the present. He motioned the pair of Malfoys to him with the crook of a long, pale finger.



“Lucius,” he said, softly, “I wish for you to prepare a list of all the children of my followers, between the ages of nine and twenty. When that is done, Narcissa, you will arrange to have all the children visit here over the next few weeks. I want all of them to have appeared before me no later than mid-August.”



The two glanced at each other, communicating with the ease of the long-married, before bowing their heads in acknowledgment of their orders.



“Your wish, my Lord,” Lucius said. “With your permission, we will withdraw a little to begin your task.”



Voldemort nodded and waved his hand absently. “I will withdraw now, Lucius; see to it the house is cleared at midnight, no later than half past the hour.”



Rising, the Dark Lord swept from the room, moving gracefully up the stairs to his suite. He had the feeling he would be needed there, more than watching his court attempt to negotiate power games.



**



Severus Snape was quite sure he’d not only thrown up his last meal, but everything he’d eaten in the last three days as well as at least one semi-vital organ. His throat was raw and burning, not just from the stomach acid that accompanied his dry heaves, but from the uncontrolled screams he’d released to purge himself. His face was coated with tears and snot, his long hair matted and clumped to his skin.



A cool, roughened hand stroked lightly across his forehead, sending shockwaves of pain through his skull that made him want to claw out his eyes, just so he could reach into his mind and scrape out whatever was causing it. That the hands were there to do no more than scrap the filthy mass of his hair away from his face was no reason, in what was left of his mind, to extend forgiveness.



“Drink this,” a voice quietly murmured in his ear, shooting daggers to explode his eardrums.



The smell of roasted almonds made him gag, and he frankly didn’t care if he was being handed a calmative for his stomach or cyanide; either way his troubles would be over.



Three deep breaths later and he felt the muscles in his stomach and ribs unclench, the need to continue to vomit up a non-existent irritation vanishing. Relieved of the need to clutch the commode, Severus collapsed inward, resting his forehead on the cool porcelain, panting to suck in enough air.



The cool hand returned, fingertips lightly stroking across damp silk before gently plucking it loose from Severus’ back.



“Now this,” the voice from before was back, pressing something against his lip that smelled faintly of mint and tasted like salty strawberries.



Severus could feel the soothing magic of the pain reliever flowing over his abused nerve endings, and within minutes he was finally able to lean back against the wall behind him. Clenched muscles relaxed, the throbbing in his head eased, and he was able to open his eyes to slits, glancing up to meet concerned red eyes in a pale, noseless face.



“You’re a mess, Severus,” the Dark Lord’s voice was amused. “Here, let’s get you cleaned up.”



And that was all the warning Severus had before a warm, wet flannel was taken to his face, leaving only his reddened, swollen eyes as evidence.



“Blow,” came the order, in that same amused voice, while a spotless handkerchief was waved in front of this face.



Ever obedient, Snape wasted no time in sullying the while linen, his hand dropping limply to the floor next to him.



“Feeling better?” The greatest Dark Lord in history, Voldemort, knelt in the middle of his private bathroom, deep maroon robes flowing around him like a pool of drying blood.



The image made Snape frown as deeply as he could, with a pair of heavy-duty potions flowing through him and coaxing him to relax.



“You shouldn’t be on the floor, it’s not right,” the words came out slurred, much to Snape’s disgust.



“Don’t fret so, Severus,” Voldemort answered, rising from his place. “Come, let’s get you to bed; everything else can wait.”



Snape reached a hand towards the one held out to him, letting it pull him to his feet. He swayed a moment, trying to gain his balance, leaning against the basin in the end. There was something he needed to let the Dark Lord know, something important, something about….



“Potter,” he blurted out, trying to sort his thoughts into order. The potions were making everything blurry. He fought against the blackness that was trying to suck him under. “Something…wrong…with...magic,” he panted.



“Quiet now, Severus. Potter is here still, and as well as can be expected at the moment. There’s nothing more to be done til morning.”



The feeling of being lifted then settled on something soft and yielding conquered the last of his resistance.



“Sleep now,” he heard the words distantly, and, recognizing the voice as one he trusted above all, gladly obeyed.