Chapter Text
Rookwood clenched his fists so tightly it hurt, his short nails nearly breaking the skin. He stood leaning against the door of his quarters, where he had fled the very moment he left Hermione Granger’s room.
At last, he looked down at the sandwich she had brought him.
Had she touched it?
Had she perhaps brushed it against her lips?
His breath came heavy and uneven, for his mind swarmed with countless other notions of what her lips might have touched.
"Bloody hell!" he bellowed with all the force in his lungs. He levelled his wand at the sandwich and whispered:
"Lacarnium Inflamari."
He stared at the flame as it slowly consumed the bread.
When she had handed him the plate, he had scarcely been able to restrain himself from touching her fingers. What she may have taken for disgust at her bloodline–that moment’s hesitation–had in truth been his desperate inner struggle for control. He so yearned for the touch of her skin upon his own, so longed to feel the warmth of her body beneath his fingertips, that in that instant, when their hands were separated by mere inches, he almost brushed against them in a mad reflex.
Even now he trembled, part from desire, part from dread of his own behaviour.
He had never considered himself one of those weak men, those so-called machos who lose their wits at the mere sight of a skirt. He regarded such abandon as a sort of brutishness, madness. And now he himself was slipping into it–over that slip of a girl, barely of age, inexperienced and...
Innocent.
Damn it. Was that, perhaps, what made her so enticing? That omnipresent innocence and naivety, that unworldliness in a sphere where he himself had moved since boyhood. That face, so full of kindness and unawareness, a soul that had never known cruelty or evil to such an extent as to grow accustomed to it or build defences against its corrosive touch... He saw in her brown eyes the shock of what she had so recently endured, a shock she was still reliving, just as raw: someone had hurt her, someone had bound her, someone had stripped away that priceless illusion of freedom she had thought was hers alone. She had believed, until then, that she herself was hers alone. She had made her own decisions–never mind that someone lurking in the shadows had always pulled the strings, while she, poor puppet, failed to see the threads protruding from her own body. Subtle control: Dumbledore’s speciality, violence in kid gloves. The Dark Lord was different: he had cut the strings, leaving Albus’s puppet dangling helplessly. And then he had slipped her on like a glove, turning the girl into a living marionette, bent from that moment by sheer force to his will. Well, strings one might overlook–or at least pretend not to see–but a hand rummaging directly in one’s soul could not be ignored...
In truth, he owed much to Narcissa: had it not been for her unexpected offer, he might well have failed to contain himself–in Hermione Granger’s very presence.
He had thought that once he knew her better, once he began to unravel the girl, it would grow easier. And yet, each new thing he discovered about her only stoked his senses to a fever pitch.
He felt as though he had stumbled into his own private Hades, his own mystical chamber of torture.
His appetite grew, the walls of his control began to crumble.
He closed his eyes, squeezing his lids so tightly he saw white spots. He knew he must focus, knew there were matters of far greater import weighing upon him, yet he could not. Not when her face, her body–still unknown to him–forced its way into his awareness by every possible avenue. He had sat upon her bed–thus he knew how she smelt. And that knowledge only fuelled his imagination, only fed the mounting tension. With a sigh of resignation, he slipped his hand beneath his leather jerkin, unfastened his flies, and drowned himself in his fantasy.
***
An hour or so later, he found Junia in her chamber, seemingly calm, sunk in thought. Yet he knew at once something was amiss, from the sombre, closed look she gave him together with a curt "hullo."
"Has something happened?" He raised his brows. His own head had cleared by now, and he realised it was high time to share with his sister the nature of Narcissa Malfoy’s request. He might have ignored it altogether, but he knew that would have been unwise: he had accepted payment given in blank, which placed him in a most awkward position. For behind Narcissa’s request lay both dangers and opportunities–things Rookwood was not in the habit of overlooking. Still, he preferred to know first what had put Junia in such poor spirits, so as to steer their conversation accordingly.
"Don’t ask."
"Juna…"
"Guss, leave it," she said firmly, almost curtly. "Tell me rather what brings you here."
He grimaced. So that was her mood: direct, controlling? He disliked dealing with her at such times: her vehemence completely clouded the good sense that usually guided her, and it was often hard to pierce through her furious defence.
"Narcissa came to me yesterday with a rather unusual proposition," he began cautiously.
"Plainly, if you please," she almost snarled. "I’ve no wish to play your rhetorical games."
He snorted. Was it truly that bad?
"She sought to bribe me with a rather decent tumble in exchange for ensuring assistance for herself and Draco. Preferably Lucius as well."
Junia gave a sharp little laugh through her nose.
"And she succeeded, did she not? My darling brother once again thinking with his cock rather than his head? Bloody Sister of Mercy."
He had not expected such profanity from her.
"What’s got into you, Jun? Who’s rubbed you so raw? And if you now tell me it’s your precious Severus…"
One look from her eyes gave him the answer.
"Leave him be, you’re ruining your life of your own accord. Not that I’d shove you to the altar with Nott, but admit it–the prospect of settling at someone’s side is not so dreadful…"
"Hypocrite," she spat.
He shrugged.
"It’s not a matter of who’s the hypocrite, Junia, but of who makes use of it."
"He told me to give Tadeus his regards," she said bitterly.
Rookwood raised one brow.
"And what of it?"
He disliked it when his sister dragged him into her womanly intrigues.
"What of it?" she snapped, glancing at him from under her brows, like a furious cat spitting. "You’re thick, Guss."
"And you’re overwrought," he said with distaste.
She fixed him with a cold stare.
"So what are you going to do about it?" she asked frostily. "For you must know that by accepting her “gift” you can either grant her demands–or earn Narcissa as an enemy. And that, I would not recommend. Especially since it will also deepen your quarrel with Bellatrix."
Guss rolled his eyes. The situation was beginning to truly grate on him.
"As if anyone gave a damn about Bellatrix. To her I’m already an abomination, if only for my ties with Severus."
"So you mean to simply leave it be?" Junia growled.
"Not in the least," he forced himself to patience. Junia’s fiery temper often set his nerves on edge. "I merely say I shall not allow myself to be cowed by that mad Lestrange."
"She’s a Black," Junia reminded him.
"So is Narcissa," Guss muttered. "And Andromeda. Each of them went in a wholly different direction."
"Yet each of them managed to achieve precisely what she wanted," his sister shot back, hitting the mark squarely.
Augustus paused, surprised. She was right. He had not thought of it before. The three sisters, so outwardly different, were united by remarkable determination.
"I’ve no intention of underestimating Narcissa, Junia, if that’s what you mean. That proposition of hers…"
"What of it, Guss? You’ve only tangled everything worse, damn you!"
"Calm yourself, Jun. I meant that perhaps we might turn Narcissa’s request to our own advantage."
Junia looked at him doubtfully, though the anger was slowly ebbing from her face.
"And how, pray? Augustus, are you quite well?"
She rose and stood before her brother.
"Much more of this, and you’ll draw the Dark Lord’s attention. And you know full well it won’t be in a manner to delight us."
Augustus leaned his back against one of the tall oak cupboards.
"I don’t yet know," he said quietly. The last dozen hours were a blur in his mind. There had been Hermione Granger, and Narcissa, then Granger again–as though in some bloody kaleidoscope.
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"The favour she asks is enormous," he observed. "Almost impossible, in truth," he added.
"Then why does it amuse you so?"
Guss smiled.
"If we manage even a fraction of it, Narcissa will already be indebted to us. You know her–she prizes results, but usually demands more than what she most needs. And what is it she values above all?"
"Draco," Junia muttered.
"Then why not turn to Severus?" she asked, folding her arms. "He is the boy’s godfather."
Rookwood gave a wry smile.
"Because, after your sweetheart’s latest escapade, Narcissa has begun lending ear to the venom Bella drips about him."
Junia swore under her breath.
"He must be warned."
"Indeed. Will you do it, or would you rather…"
"Do it yourself," she cut him short.
"As you like," he shrugged. "Quite sure it wouldn’t serve as a peace offering?" he asked, moving towards the door.
"Shut up, Guss."
"And what shall we do about Draco?" she called after him.
Rookwood smiled.
"I could offer Lucius that, in return for hospitality, I take his son under my wing."
"You would?" Junia asked, suddenly alert.
Rookwood shrugged.
"Why not? I don’t care much for the boy, but he is clever enough, quick to grasp things–though a mother’s darling and a coward. Still, one might yet make something of him. And from what I know, he is well acquainted with Snape’s little Mudblood."
Junia snorted, half amused.
"Ever the man sniffing out profit in everything?"
He smiled faintly.
"As though you didn’t know me."
***
Augustus was content. His talk with Junia always cleared his head. In the end, she had taken the news of his rash behaviour far better than he had expected, and thanks to her level-headedness, he usually came to wiser decisions. Now he needed only to pay Lucius a visit: though Rookwood had never cared for the elder Malfoy’s company, felt neither respect nor affection for him, as head of his house the man had every right to know what was intended for his son. And besides, if it might warm the chill between them, why not seize the chance being thrust into his hands?
He walked swiftly, meeting hardly a soul along the way. The guards the Dark Lord had stationed everywhere stood or paced in silence, clad in their plain black robes, yet Rookwood had long ceased to count them as men–saw them instead as herd beasts, cattle roaming the farmyard: useful, but far from refined.
Did he deem himself superior to them? Both yes and no. He had achieved more, was capable of more, and without doubt stood above them in the hierarchy of this world. Yet he felt neither scorn nor hatred for them; merely, from sheer practicality, he preferred to treat them as part of the furnishings, as mindless mechanisms. Otherwise, he might well go mad, feeling himself observed at all hours.
Augustus Rookwood was, then, a practical man, possessed of a notably even temper. Impetuous folk wearied him, as did the nervous and those with hysterical streaks of character. He himself was not above outbursts, or moments of strain, but he strove to confine them to the privacy of his own home.
Privacy: the very word suited him well. He considered much of his life profoundly intimate, disliked sharing it with others, revealed little truth of himself to the world, and when something slipped, he felt guilty, exposed, in peril. His discretion and reserve, together with his vast knowledge and skills, were the very qualities that had carried him into the Department of Mysteries.
Of that achievement he was most proud, and at times regretted that fate had not allowed him longer to draw upon the treasures housed there–to study, to learn, to refine himself in the greatest and most secret arts ever conceived by human minds.
He finally stood before the black doors with silver fittings that led to the Malfoys’ private wing. The Lord, in his graciousness, had allowed them to retain that part of the estate for themselves.
He reached for the knocker, a piece modelled in every particular on the head of a mighty serpent. The metal’s cold surface trembled beneath his touch, then gave a soft hiss: a protective enchantment had been laid upon it, one that read a visitor’s intent at the touch; without using the knocker one could not enter, and should the test prove unfavourable the thing would bite savagely, injecting poison into the careless victim’s bloodstream.
The silver, scale-bright serpent coiled round his right shoulder; its cold metal tongue tickled the skin beside the man’s ear. From such an embrace there would be no freeing oneself, and poison administered that close to head and heart would kill with startling speed.
For reasons unknown, the Dark Lord had never attempted to strip the Malfoys of their luxurious ancestral wing: when the Lord had arrived, in the company of his most faithful servants – among whom Augustus himself had stood – Lucius, Draco and Narcissa had shut themselves inside and refused to leave for many weeks. Only once they had negotiated acceptable terms with the Dark Lord did they begin to appear at meetings again. Only Draco, a hostage of his parents’ love and solicitude, had been forbidden from leaving the protective, magically-warded fortress. Rookwood had not seen him in a good two years. He did not even know whether they would admit him. He struck the knocker with effort.
After a moment he heard quick, light footsteps.
"Who’s there?" came a thin, hated voice from the other side.
Bella. The watchdog of the Malfoy nest. He had forgotten that she too spent most of her time in that cage, acting as a kind of bridge between mercy and disfavour for the household within.
"Augustus," he said, sombrely.
"What do you want? Say it through the door – forget it if you think I’ll let you in."
"I need to speak to Lucius," he declared without preamble. "Not to you, nor to anyone else, Bella. Face to face: just Lucius and me."
Silence.
"Will you fetch him, or shall I complain to the Dark Lord?"
She snorted. As the Lord’s pet she felt untouchable, yet she was incapable of open insubordination: she could be spiteful, she could make obstruction, but even she retained some remnants of common sense.
He heard the tap of heels receding. He waited. The serpent unwound its icy, rigid coils.
"What do you want, Rookwood?" The master of the house’s voice, rough and unfriendly, startled him. Malfoy materialised soundlessly, doubtless unaccompanied by his notorious cane.
"I have an offer," Rookwood replied.
"An offer? What else do you intend to rob us of?"
He smiled.
A coward. A rat. Certainly not the snake he fancied himself. Rookwood felt even a touch of pity for Narcissa: to be trapped in a marriage with such a life’s impotent was punishment enough; now this on top of it… No wonder, desperate, she sought any help she could find.
"Open, Malfoy," Rookwood said calmly. "This matter is for your ears only. And the offer expires tonight. I will not trail you like a dog when I seek to help you and repay your hospitality."
"Repay me for hospitality?" Lucius sneered. "Do not take me for a fool."
I need not, Augustus thought. No one need help you with that.
After a moment’s silence Lucius opened the door.
"Enter," he said coldly. "Tell me your business and be off."
Augustus forced a civil smile.
"I would prefer to speak in rather more…private circumstances."
Lucius shot him an angry look. He hesitated visibly.
"There," he finally indicated with a finger one of the dark, heavy ebony doors, and Rookwood inwardly felt he had already won. Accompanied by Bella’s watchful gaze, he caught a fleeting glimpse of Narcissa’s face before she vanished through the entrance to some other room.
Everywhere there were signs of splendour: silver handles inlaid with green stones, hand-woven, costly magical mats and carpets. Rumour had it that some of them were the work of Mauretanian enchanters – descendants of the ancient sorcerer Aladdin. Rookwood did not ordinarily trust gossip, yet the interiors of the Malfoys’ private wing impressed even him. Enchanted or not, ancient or newly fashioned, objects hoarded by Lucius’s ancestors inspired the admiration and envy of any mortal. No other house could boast such riches: even the Blacks and the newly wealthy Potters could not match the Malfoys’ fortune. Voldemort treated the Malfoys as a bank with limitless withdrawals, and the family, stripped of influence – and therefore income – were slowly losing the wealth amassed over centuries.
They entered a spacious study with a wenge desk, before which stood two black-leather armchairs. Lucius silently indicated one to Rookwood and took his place opposite, in the seat befitting the head of the house.
"Speak," he ordered, toying with a raven-feathered pen fitted with a silver self-ink nib.
Rookwood settled and leaned toward Malfoy.
"Your son… How old is he?" he asked as if ignorant. Yet he remembered very well the day the most eagerly awaited heir of one of England’s most powerful wizarding families had been born.
"What do you want with my son?" Lucius snarled; from his expression Augustus judged that he would shortly be unceremoniously ejected.
"Eighteen, is it not?" Augustus chose to ignore the man’s menacing tone and smiled politely. "So he is a man now. Should he sit cloistered like a princess? Shut off from the world, with no chance to bring glory to his house? Does position, power, and money not matter to you, Lucius? The Dark Lord, in his boundless favour, has chosen you to be his householder – which, I am not blind to, has sharply reduced your cash reserves. When last did you walk through your own home without fear? And Draco? And Narcissa?"
"What do you want from my wife?" the wizard spat, pale with fury.
Rookwood raised his hands in mock surrender.
"I want absolutely nothing from her," he said. "I merely suggest that not all those close to you may be content with the present state of affairs."
"I am trying to protect them," Lucius threw back, and Rookwood saw, in that instant, that his former schoolfriend was unwittingly revealing himself.
"And quite rightly, Lucius," Augustus observed, noting the man’s bright, uncertain eyes on the verge of madness. They darted and were bloodshot, as if he had slept little and kept watch for a sudden strike. "But no one here seeks to annihilate you–" That was a brazen lie. There were many discontented Death Eaters circling, ready to seize the Malfoy inheritance should the Dark Lord permit their execution. Some whispered that someone ought to put the traitorous family to rights. In certain circles – those Augustus did not substantially belong to, but sometimes brushed against – murdering Lucius would be thought an act doing both Lord and house a favour.
Yet he smiled affably and lightly.
"Your son is safe, Lucius," he said, having little doubt on that point. He could distinguish empty chatter from genuine menace. Though some Death Eaters sought Lucius’s life, Draco was comparatively secure; few wished to kill the promising young lad. "Early introduction to the right circles will serve him in future. Look at us: at his age we started as young blades among much older, far more experienced servants of our Master. Yet the day eventually came when the Dark Mark was bestowed upon us." He raised his left arm to underline the point.
"Draco has already been sufficiently rewarded," Lucius growled, plainly discontent with the turn the conversation took. "I do not want him to consort with any company, Rookwood."
Augustus raised his brows theatrically in feigned surprise. Of course he had expected that response. Lucius had made plain on several occasions, not excluding to the Dark Lord, that he did not wish his firstborn and only son to follow in his footsteps.
"I fail to see why." Augustus now relaxed back into the chair, crossing one leg over the other. This casual, nonchalant demeanour visibly irritated his interlocutor; Lucius’s nostrils fluttered with the rhythm of his breathing.
"Perhaps because–" Malfoy said slowly, his voice rising by degrees – "he is my son, my family, and I shall decide for it!"
"For now you have nearly condemned him to death," Guss observed in an innocent tone, which he suspected would sound to Lucius like a most refined insult – and, naturally, it was.
"For now, this conversation is over," Malfoy replied, rising.
"I want to train him," Rookwood said, standing as well.
"You think my son needs training?" he snorted. "He finished Hogwarts with the best marks–"
"In his year, I know, you have said so. But Draco did not complete Hogwarts, he failed his OWLs, he abandoned his studies and now languishes, imprisoned by his own father. You did not wish such a life for him either."
Lucius snorted.
"I trust neither you nor the company you keep," he snarled, yet for some reason he remained standing rather than walking to the door or ordering Rookwood out.
Rookwood smiled faintly.
"You mean Severus?"
"I mean exactly that bloody traitor, a half-blood–"
"Who enjoys so much favour with our Master that after lavishing upon your family there would still be enough left for him," Augustus said calmly.
Lucius fell silent for a moment.
"I wish to help you. In return for your hospitality," Rookwood confessed as if it were no matter, his voice steady, as though Lucius had not but moments ago defamed his friend. "I am not so wealthy as to pay you, but I can repay you in a far more useful way."
"I told you I do not want–"
"But what does he want? What will happen if Draco…"
"I have told him so many times that I’ve worn my throat raw with wasted words–" Narcissa entered the study through the side door. Rookwood inclined his head to her. She walked tall, radiating dignity and pride. A faint smile played upon her lips, part mocking her husband, part treating the whole affair with indulgent detachment.
"What are you doing here, Narcissa?" Malfoy muttered.
"He is my son as well, Lucius," she reminded him sharply, gazing at him through slightly narrowed lids. "He may bear your name, but he will always be half a Black." Her voice carried an astonishing certainty, the same she had shown at their small, secret meeting but the day before. There was no embarrassment in her, she did not avoid Augustus’s eyes, yet neither did she stare at him too directly. To any onlooker, nothing in her bearing would betray that Rookwood’s visit this day had anything to do with her. "Besides, the pair of you are shouting like a brood of drunken cockerels, so it was impossible not to hear the subject of your quarrel. Once I had heard, I could not ignore it."
Rookwood kept silent, concluding that two attackers were better than one. Lucius would have to give way eventually: when they had spoken alone, he had hesitated more than once; Augustus had seen doubt in his watery eyes that dimmed their furious gleam.
"Lately you take no account of what I want for our only child!" Narcissa’s voice rang out.
Lucius looked at her, stunned.
"I do not consider Rookwood the best candidate imaginable either, but–" she measured him with a cool glance, "there is no other at present. And he stands just behind Severus in the Dark Lord’s inner circle. We may not trust either Snape or him, but would you have your heir live worse than a rat? Hidden in the shadow of families poorer than his? He does not deserve that! My son does not deserve that!" she cried in Lucius’s face.
Rookwood watched this private scene and could not shake the sense that Narcissa was performing of a kind – that though she indeed possessed some hidden reservoir of anger, her prudent nature was ill-suited to such a tempestuous outburst.
He cast a fleeting glance at Lucius, who seemed aghast at his wife’s conduct.
"I had best be going," Augustus said cautiously, giving a slight bow to them both. "Should you change your mind, Lucius…"
"Lucius has changed his mind, has he not?" Narcissa’s hard gaze bore into her husband.
"I… Yes," Malfoy said at last.
Narcissa released the breath she had long been holding; Rookwood caught the fleeting, nervous, yet relieved smile she sent him – a silent thank-you, the only one she dared offer in her husband’s presence.
He inclined his head towards her and said aloud:
"Very well then. When he is ready, send Draco to me."
He was about to leave when Lucius stopped him, clutching his right forearm.
"Swear to me that he will be safe."
Rookwood raised his brows.
"You want an oath? A Binding Oath?"
"Yes," Lucius said proudly.
"Put that out of your mind," Rookwood replied, feeling Narcissa’s keen eyes upon him. "The last who swore such an oath to you found himself in your disfavour regardless. If I teach Draco, I shall treat him as my own son; I shall guard his welfare and his safety. You know I do not break my word."
"I know it," said Narcissa. "Lucius, I think we may trust him. You demand too heavy a price…"
"I do not think so," Malfoy retorted, wrinkling his nose in unconcealed disgust. "He is hiding something, Narcissa."
"Everyone hides something, Malfoy," Rookwood murmured. "Some less, some more."
"Draco will be with you tomorrow," Narcissa assured him.
Rookwood inclined his head.
"Good."
He extended his hand to Lucius, who, though grudgingly, clasped it.
"Until we meet again," Augustus said, and left.
As he made his way back to his quarters, he resolved to pay Granger a visit first.
He knocked. Opened the door. Slipped slowly inside. She cast him a look of dislike.
"I am sorry to disturb you, but I have something that may interest you," he said softly. "I passed your words on to Ron Weasley."
At the sound of her friend’s name, the girl leapt up and hurried a few steps towards him. She looked far better than she had that morning. She stood straight, and some colour had returned to her cheeks. Perhaps it was the hearty meals, perhaps the reaction to his words – he could not tell. What he did know was how fiercely he wished that it was his presence that brought the blush to her face.
"He told me to assure you not to worry for him. He is not in poor condition, he knows what awaits him. And he very much wants you to survive. I told him you are safe. Your friend says that is what matters most to him."
He watched her reaction closely, to see if it matched what he had intended.
Hermione Granger pressed her hands to her lips. Tears slipped from her tightly shut eyes.
"Ron," she whispered. "My Ron…"
So he had struck the mark.
Despite the satisfaction curling in him, he arranged his face into a mask of sorrow and concern.
"I am very sorry… Hermione? May I call you that?"
She gave no answer.
Rookwood, seeking to allow her privacy, left without another word.
Outside, his face brightened with a genuine smile of self-satisfaction.
He was a step closer to his goal. And he knew now that without a Sleeping Draught he would not close his eyes for a single hour that night.