"Severus Snape, heir of Prince, Knight of the Order of Merlin Second Class, to Lord Lucius Abraxas Malfoy!" announced the house-elf.
"Prince?" Lucius exhaled. "He managed that too?"
And immediately arranged his most gracious smile. Though he was, in truth, genuinely pleased. His instincts had been right. He had not shaken that strange, very young first-year's hand for nothing.
He had intended to disconcert the modest halfblood with his grand manner, receiving him in the most opulent drawing room—but it didn't work. His guest didn't blink at any of it. He ignored the refreshments entirely, appeared to merely pretend to sip the wine, and didn't look around at all. And then Lucius himself had no attention to spare for any of it, because Snape—who had received the Order of Merlin for fighting the Dark Lord—calmly announced his intention to resurrect that very Lord.
"To earn the first class?" Lucius enquired politely, appreciating the depth of Snape's cunning.
"Merlin forbid," came the reply—which thoroughly confused him.
"But then—you're a loyal supporter of the Dark Lord?" Malfoy was shaken, though he was doing everything in his power not to show it.
And there's no way to inform on him, flashed through his mind, not a soul would believe it now. What a move. But when and how did he find out what exactly the Dark Lord gave me to keep—when I wasn't even certain of it myself? Does he have a joker and three aces up his sleeve?
"And Madam Longbottom?"
"A herbologist with a decent grasp of potions who grows certain rare plants personally? A fine acquisition for our cause, I would say. Our cause, Lucius? Or am I mistaken?"
Double bottom. Double bottom in everything. The very quintessence of what every Slytherin ought to cultivate in himself.
It had not occurred to Lucius Malfoy that the bottom was rather shallow—the first and only one: the Dark Lord was to be revived for an entirely utilitarian, if rather unconventional purpose: to obtain basilisk venom. And perhaps, while they were at it, something else. The shed skin, for instance—might come in useful for something. Oh, and the relic animal was to be preserved, naturally.
The appearance of Narcissa Malfoy gave her husband time to collect himself and continue the conversation—on the subject of future cooperation, of course. But the future turned out to be uncomfortably close, especially when Snape politely enquired whether anything prevented dear Lucius from producing the item in question right now, for instance—he, Snape, was perfectly prepared to wait as long as necessary. And made himself comfortable on the sofa with every appearance of taking up permanent residence.
The hosts lost the power of speech for a full five seconds, though nothing technically improper had been said. Severus then carried on a perfectly normal social conversation with the lady of the house—and stopped only when Lucius reappeared with the sought-after item in hand. Narcissa, who had been attempting throughout to determine where Snape was getting his information, apparently decided she was too tired and retreated.
Was there any doubt that Snape left Malfoy Manor with the well-known diary, leaving his hosts in a state of profound stupefaction?
***
"He didn't make you take an oath?" Narcissa exclaimed. "But then—you have a completely free hand!"
"So what?" her husband replied sourly. "Do you know what bird brought him the letter that made him hurry home so suddenly? Walburga Black's barn owl."
"Auntie?!"
"And I know her handwriting on the envelope perfectly well. No charms—you know how it is in the White Drawing Room, it's impossible."
"And the Auror Office?"
"Snape is counting on ingredients from Augusta Longbottom."
"Covered from all sides."
"Hemmed in and hedged in, the son of a—" He paused. "But what a man. I never thought I'd come to respect this halfblood so much that— My dear, what do you think about asking him to be godfather to our son in the magical sense?"
"Given the current circumstances, I think that may be the best possible decision. Though—he's an heir, meaning he hasn't taken the lordship yet?"
"Apparently on account of the halfblood status. Never mind—his children will have the title."
"Then he needs a suitable wife!"
"Who will naturally be your closest friend?"
"My dearest!"
"And who do you have in mind?"
And at this point, Narcissa Malfoy became quite, quite sad. Because no one in their rather narrow circle came anywhere near qualifying for the role. Except girls who were still practically children—whom one might cultivate, if Severus Snape were willing to wait a couple of decades before marrying.
"What about your French cousins?"
***
"All this scheming of yours," Hagrid admitted with a grimace, "is not really my thing."
"You're in it now, so you'll have to manage," Lady Walburga replied.
He sighed heavily.
"The one consolation is that I'll be learning from the best."
"Don't flatter me," Walburga's voice softened nonetheless.
"Why not?"
"Who on earth asks questions like that?" she said, indignant.
"Is that so you don't have to answer, my lady?" Andrei smiled. "You see, I do ask. And you appear to be slightly flustered."
"Hagrid, you are like a child."
"I am what I am."
"Oh—Severus is here, I think." Walburga chose to retreat to the fireplace room.
***
And so they examined the diary while Hagrid told them everything he had read and seen in the film about the spirit—or whatever it was—of Tom Marvolo Riddle contained within it.
"I would think carefully, if I were you, about whether you actually want to revive someone like this," Lady Black said sceptically. "From what Rubeus foresaw, he is quite capable of hissing at everyone as a ghost, in his current form."
"You're suggesting we simply begin a correspondence with him?"
"And remember that he is a Slytherin."
"So—don't be alone with the diary, especially when writing in it?"
"Naturally. But only one of you should be making entries."
"Did you bring it?" Regulus entered the room at a brisk pace. "Don't write anything in it yet. There's something I want to finish first."
"What sort of something, son?"
Regulus Black, who had his own inclination for artefact work, had grown tired of tinkering with Muggle transportation—he had left the warm company in Arthur Weasley's garage and taken over one of his father Orion's studies. What he was doing there he had declined to tell anyone yet, exactly as his father had: the man never mentioned what he was working on until it was finished.
"A Truthful Quill," he said, with a smile. "That's what I'd call it. A quill that only writes the truth."
"And what use is it to us?"
"If the person writing with it is replied to in writing on the same page, and they're being lied to—the entry turns into a blot."
"Oh—so it works in both directions? That's rather more interesting."
"Exactly. The second direction was the tricky part to get right. I'd like to test my invention myself, if you don't object. And—I've spent more time with the Dark Lord than any of you, so I hope to have some sense of what sort of person is waiting for us on those pages. I should have enough magic to rouse whatever is in the diary. And at home, in my own house, this should be safe for me. That's right, isn't it, Mother?"
"It's remarkable you didn't end up in Gryffindor after your brother," Walburga muttered, but agreed to Regulus's participation—on condition that she would be present to observe the entire correspondence in person.
"Wait a moment," she stopped the young men, who were already preparing to open the diary and look it over. "What else have you forgotten?"
"Malfoy's reaction," Snape said.
"The Malfoys'," Walburga corrected. "I wouldn't dismiss my niece. I'm certain she'll have at least a couple of fresh ideas regarding our young prodigy."
Andrei clutched his head. All of this was getting so tangled that— He longed to be in the forest, with Aragog and Ninochka. Except that the basilisk might crawl out there at any moment, which meant all of this would still have to be dealt with. But the women's scheming— Brrr.
He envied Sirius sincerely when he spotted him in the corridor as a dog, with a laughing Harry riding on his back.
"Godfather on duty," Snape could not resist.
He was immediately barked at—not viciously, but loudly—by Sirius.
"Mama!" Harry lunged toward Snape, sliding off the shaggy back and reaching up with both hands.
"Why did I say that?" Snape said miserably, already with the child in his arms and somewhat in the nose, as Harry appeared to have specifically missed this part of his face.
"Let that be a lesson about criticising my methods," Sirius said, already back in human form.
"I was merely stating the fact that—"
"They've bonded," Walburga sighed.
"Small wonder—intellectually speaking, they're perfectly matched," Severus added.
"Does it not occur to you," Walburga said, in a suddenly icy tone, "that you are saying this in my home and to my son?"
"He's joking, Mother!" the Black brothers said, very nearly in unison.
"Now you understand, my lady, what such remarks look like from the outside."
"I— did I say something like that?"
"Yesterday, as it happens. The Pensieve and I are at your service."
Regulus nearly whistled, and Sirius's eyes went wide. Was Snape actually trying to get his mother to behave better— for his sake?
"Only for Harry's sake," Snape said, emphasising the second-to-last word in a way that left everyone around him feeling—you won't believe it—mildly ashamed. Not all of them were able to identify the feeling, however.
"And now I must go to the Longbottoms," Severus announced, handing Harry off to Sirius. "Do carry on—you're doing splendidly."
***
"Did you think you'd landed in paradise, lad?" asked Unspeakable John Smith, detaching yet another wire from the shaved head of an exhausted Peter Pettigrew.
"Ah." Peter waved a hand. "Better than Azkaban. It's considerably worse there."
"I wouldn't be so sure, son. We have a laboratory where they study Dementors—not here, on the coast. If you ask nicely, they'll give you a tour."
Peter shuddered, and the Unspeakable laughed. No, Peter would probably take a long time to get used to the local jokes and black humour.
"But you're rather less of a coward than you might think. None of this frightens you anymore, does it?" The Unspeakable gestured at the quietly humming instruments around them.
"I'm more useful to you alive," Peter said, with a faint smile.
"True enough. But I think you're starting to find it genuinely interesting in here—what does what, and why. Can you tell me why we've been working on your head rather than your arm?"
"Well—" Peter perked up: at last someone was interested in his thoughts. "I have two theories, actually."
Mr Smith made an approving sound and waited.
"The first is that you want to know whether the Mark affects the entire organism through the brain. The second is that you're not working on the Mark at all—but on the complications from forming an Animagus shape too young."
"Which do you think is closer to the truth?"
"The second. Because throughout all the tests, you've never once tried to work directly on the Mark itself."
"Bravo, young man. Consider the test passed. You are hereby hired as a trainee—my junior assistant, to be precise. You'll fill in the paperwork once you've changed. White will take you to his room and introduce you to the scope of work, so to speak. Incidentally—your assessment of him was essentially correct."
"Will I be able to see—" Peter's voice wavered. "—my family?"
"Yes, of course. You may spend your days off at home—but only after signing the documents."
"And an oath?"
"An Unbreakable Vow. Naturally."
"Thank you. Thank you so much! I— I didn't expect it. I really didn't."
"Didn't expect what?"
"That you'd actually give me a job."
"You've shown you can reason and think logically. You know, that's rarer in our world than we'd like. Which means— I think you'll find both the work and the salary satisfactory."
"I couldn't have dreamed of something like this! You— you can't imagine. I thought I'd just stay a— a test subject forever. It's a miracle, really."
"What's a miracle is that after all of that, your mind is still intact. And I believe that's a resource worth putting to proper use."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
***
"Valerian, then, asphodel, moleskin— oh, and rue as well. Quite the interesting potion you're planning, Mr Snape."
"These are for different preparations, Madam. What do I owe you?"
Augusta Longbottom smiled thinly.
"One small account. For instance, of how an Unforgivable Curse—specifically the Cruciatus—came to rebound off the back of a certain young wizard. There has never been a shield that works against it, nor has there ever been. Well?"
And Severus found he could move only his facial muscles and, of course, his tongue. Strangely, he felt relief—he would no longer be alone in guarding Hagrid's secret from the Longbottom family. The fame he considered entirely undeserved had been making his life difficult, and not only because he had to keep his public appearances to a minimum. But there was one thing he was curious about.
"What made you certain it wasn't a product of your own imagination?"
"Experienced Legilimens, my boy, are rather good at memory restoration techniques. Obliviate."
Snape had already raised his defences—naturally; immobilised as he was, he had gathered himself and put up every available shield the moment she'd spoken.
"Will you teach me?"
Augusta looked surprised, then smiled.
"It didn't work? Hmm. But first I need to know who was in my house that night."
"It's not my secret to tell. But— no, I'm not under oath, and I'll actually tell you everything quite willingly." Snape sighed, and flexed his hands slightly—the spell was gradually wearing off, and Augusta was not renewing it.
"Not an oath? And you've been silent all this time?"
"I was asked. If I'd known, I never would have agreed. Though— no one would believe it anyway."
"And?"
"Fine." He tried to shrug—it didn't quite work yet. "We're working together. Hagrid and I."
"What utter nonsense."
"Call him yourself."
"Are you certain?"
"Entirely."
After a brief but rather expressive conversation—now three of them—it was decided, once again, to employ Polyjuice Potion. And so while one Severus Snape worked diligently in his own laboratory, sighing at the prospect of yet again bearing the consequences of being Rubeus Hagrid's figurehead, a second Severus Snape became, in a modestly ceremonial setting, the magical godfather of young Neville Longbottom. Which surprised no one in the slightest—what could have been more logical after the Iron Augusta's performance at the Ministry?