Which of you conjured the Dark Mark?

Chapter 3: Severus Snape

Lucius had offered to get him a ticket to the Top Box, but he'd refused – because, frankly, he didn't really enjoy Quidditch, even if he was keenly interested in the Slytherin team and never missed a House match, and could manage a broom well enough to referee a game. He'd snarled a little at the memory of that game, Harry-bloody-Potter's second Quidditch match, the atmosphere in the staff room had been arctic when everybody thought he was trying to sabotage Gryffindor's chances – and even Filius had been a bit short with him.

And he didn't want to see Fudge again, not after the outburst when Black had escaped, he'd really lost control, he'd raved and screamed like a madman, and he had a nasty feeling that he'd come close to foaming at the mouth. Black had Confunded the brats alright, and it had freaked him out completely, being back in the Shrieking Shack with Black and Lupin and the Potter-clone - the boy's resemblance to his father is truly extraordinary, he has nothing of his mother about him other than those green eyes. Except for the absence of that little rat Pettigrew it had been like facing the Marauders all over again, four against one, and it had really rocked him ... there was one consolation, though, he'd outed the werewolf, got the filthy beast kicked out of Hogwarts ...

He didn't want to run the risk of seeing Karkaroff again, either – the prick had named him as a Death Eater in front of a full hearing of the Wizengamot, in front of two hundred witches and wizards. Not that he really cared, after all, Moody had arrested the bastard on the information that he'd provided, but he still didn't want to see him – and he'd be seeing enough of Karkaroff at Hogwarts, anyway.

But he hadn't refused Narcissa's invitation to dinner before the match, very informal, just a handful of close friends – and the children will be eating with us. So he'd strolled through the campsite, feeling slightly self-conscious in his Muggle jeans, shirt and jacket, until he'd found the Malfoy tent - and that was easy enough, Lucius' idea of roughing it was three stories high and boasted several turrets. He'd snorted a little with amusement, he could just see Lucius putting that up by hand, with a mallet and tent pegs – not!

He'd snorted again when he saw Lucius and Draco in Muggle clothing – in their black dinner jackets they looked the perfect picture of Muggle landed gentry dressed for dinner, except for their long white-blond hair tied back with black silk ribbons in a style more reminiscent of the Regency era. He'd thought, Draco has grown up over the summer, he'll be as tall as his father in a couple of years - and he'd been careful to hide a smile as he listened to Lucius' opinions coming out of Draco's mouth, the Irish have seven good players, the Bulgarians have one superb one ... Ireland will win the game but Krum will catch the Snitch. He'd thought, indulgently, Draco worships his father, he models his every word and gesture on Lucius - and with all the naivety and arrogance of adolescence, the kid thinks the ideas that he's spouting are his own! And then he'd remembered when he was fourteen, when he'd almost worshipped handsome, charming, wealthy, pure-blood Lucius Malfoy ...

It had been a shock when Narcissa came gliding down the stairs to greet him - he'd never seen her wear anything but robes before, and she looked bloody amazing in a tight black silk sheath that looked as if it had been painted onto her body, and her blonde hair twisted up in an elegant knot at the back of her head. He'd gaped at her like a teenager, both shocked and aroused at the sight of the pure-blood Slytherin princess dressed like a Muggle vamp, and then, embarrassed, he'd looked away - how he felt about Narcissa was no secret from Lucius but he didn't want his favourite student to guess how much his Head of House wanted to get into bed with his beautiful mother.

Dinner had been pleasant enough, the food was good - as always - and the children had been allowed to eat with the adults, but at a separate table. He'd enjoyed the feeling of being with friends – well, not exactly friends, but people who knew what was burned into his left forearm and didn't shrink away from him in disgust – and the chatter around the table. Ireland's prospects in the match, of course, and Ministry gossip ... the thousands of Galleons it cost to host the World Cup and the dent it had made in the Ministry's finances, Fudge's new Senior Undersecretary, Dolores Umbridge – an ugly toad of a witch, it didn't seem possible that she'd slept her way into the job - Scrimgeour's ambitions, who'd been prosecuted under Arthur Weasley's Muggle Protection Act, the trouble brewing with the Gringotts goblins, and who was in the running for an Order of Merlin this year – that had stung him for a minute ...

Finally, the conversation had got around to the Triwizard Cup – he'd told them that Dumbledore himself would draw an age line around the Goblet of Fire, and you didn't need to be a Legilimens to see how thankful Narcissa was that they'd changed the rules so that no student who wasn't of age could compete – all for the benefit of Harry Potter. Famous Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the boy who'd disposed of Quirrell with a single touch, killed a Basilisk, the boy who was capable of producing a corporeal Patronus at the age of thirteen - according to Lupin, anyway - of course the little bastard would want to compete, but Potter is the weapon, he mustn't be allowed to risk his precious life – and he's the Headmaster's darling.

Everyone had looked at him, asked his opinion of who the Hogwarts champion would be – and it was galling to have to admit that there wasn't a Slytherin candidate amongst his sixth and seventh years, Warrington and Montague had the guts, but he wasn't sure that they had the brains. He'd named Cedric Diggory as his choice, and there'd been laughter, but the laughter had stopped when he'd said that Diggory was the most talented young wizard to be Sorted into Hufflepuff since Edgar Bones, and all eyes had turned to Lucius - everyone knew he'd been on the raid that had killed Edgar Bones, his Muggle wife and their entire litter of half-bloods. Lucius had just shrugged and smiled – and leaned across the table to pour him some more wine ...

Not that he'd drunk too much to Apparate home to Spinner's End, the Muggle maxim don't drink and drive had nothing on the risks of splinching yourself Apparating while pissed – there was no Floo at the campsite and Spinner's End isn't connected to the Floo Network, anyway. No one knows about Spinner's End, he rarely uses magic there even though it's warded to hide the use of magic, and it's not in his Ministry file or his personnel records at Hogwarts – and his subscription to the Daily Prophet is not, of course, in his own name.

He'd kissed Narcissa goodbye, a chaste kiss on the cheek, said goodnight to Lucius while Narcissa went upstairs to change into something warmer, and he'd wondered about these old pure-blood families - Lucius knew very well that every wizard that he'd entertained tonight wanted to screw his wife, and he didn't seem to care ... if Narcissa had been his wife, he would never have let her wear such a revealing dress, not in a room full of pure-blood Slytherin wizards to whom a Muggle dress like that screamed "slut".

But he couldn't stop thinking about Narcissa as he walked up from the river - because he never Apparates straight to Spinner's End, even though the Anti-Apparition wards don't affect him. If it had been a Saturday night, he'd have been cruising a Muggle singles bar in London looking for a divorced mother of three or a career woman who forgot to get married, but it's a Monday night, there's nothing to do and nowhere to go - even Knockturn Alley will be deserted until the match is over.

When he'd walked through the door, he'd thought, the match has already started and I don't feel like listening to the broadcast on the Wizarding Wireless Network anyway – so he'd settled into the scruffy old armchair in the sitting room with the remains of a bottle of firewhisky, and turned on the television. But every channel seemed to show tantalising, half-naked blonde Muggle females, and he still couldn't stop thinking about Narcissa, thinking of loosening that blonde hair and running his fingers through it, of pulling down the zipper of that dress, and watching her step out of it. Hell, the fact that she was the wife of his best friend didn't bother him - if a wizard hasn't got the power to guard what is his, he doesn't have the right to keep it - but what did bother him was that Narcissa has the ability to make him feel as if he's still a fumbling, importunate teenager. She lets him kiss her, she lets him touch her, but she never lets him get beyond second base ...

Finally, frustrated, lonely and miserable, he'd got up and switched on the wireless just in time to hear Ludo Bagman shout IRELAND WIN ... KRUM GETS THE SNITCH BUT IRELAND WIN! Then he'd left some owl treats on the kitchen table for the newspaper delivery owl - he didn't have any nine am lessons to prepare for, thank Merlin, and he planned to stay in bed until at least mid-morning - and gone upstairs to bed, but he hadn't been able to sleep, so he'd bowed to the inevitable, because every bachelor wizard is, of necessity, intimately acquainted with Mrs Palm and her five daughters. And, to his surprise, he'd found himself remembering red hair and green eyes, wondering if Lily had lived whether she would have kept her looks as well as Narcissa has, and then he'd thought, if the Dark Lord had chosen the Longbottom boy, if the Dark Lord hadn't fallen, James Potter – Auror, blood traitor and member of the Order of the Phoenix - would certainly still have died, but he might have been able to save Lily ...

He might still have been able to save Lily if he'd begged the Dark Lord for her life, begged on his knees - and perhaps the brat, too, the Dark Lord might have been amused by the thought of the son of one of his enemies being raised as a faithful Death Eater. And Lily would have been grateful, more than grateful - she would have given herself to him willingly, more than willingly ... and in his mind she'd been whispering passionately in his ear, she'd been begging him not to stop, and she'd called his name as she writhed in his arms, because he knows exactly where and how to touch her to give her pleasure.

But when it was over, when the brief moment of release was over, he'd curled up alone in his bed, just as wretched and sleepless as ever, because he'd known in his heart of hearts that it was only a fantasy, a dream - Lily might have sold herself to him for the sake of her son, but she would have been revolted when she knew what he was, when she knew what was burned into his left arm ... and he, he would have behaved like a beast, he would still have taken whatever she offered, because that's how he's always lived – taking whatever he can get.

So he'd brooded for a little while, smoked a couple of cigarettes, and then he'd tossed down a goblet of Dreamless Sleep potion. He'd slept until late in the morning, and now he's stumbling downstairs, feeling slightly seedy and hung-over, he's slumping into the scruffy old armchair with a mug of tea and a plate of toast, thinking, it's not much more than a week until the start of term and I have to deal with Moody and Karkaroff, fuck, this is going to be a fun year ... and I'd better mow the lawn today, that's one job I'm not doing without magic, Otto Bagman's enchanted lawnmower has nothing on mine ...

He's unfolding the Daily Prophet, still yawning, and thinking, the paper will be nothing but page after page of crap about the World Cup, and advertisements for expensive broomsticks, I don't know why I'm bothering to read it ... but when he sees the front page, when he sees the twinkling, black and white photograph of the Dark Mark above the tree-tops, very slowly, very carefully he puts down his mug of tea.

His first, panicked, thought is that Dark Lord has returned – but the Dark Mark didn't burn last night, and it hurts like hell, it would have woken him even from a drugged sleep. Just in case, he rolls up his sleeve, checks his arm, but there's nothing to see.

And his second thought is, how long before the Aurors are at Hogwarts, looking for me? Albus said it before a full hearing of the Wizengamot, he said, Severus Snape is now no more a Death Eater than I am, but I'm still on the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's watch list! And whenever anything happens, they search my office and my quarters, they check my wand, Prior Incanto ... it happened when Gringotts was broken into, when the trouble started at Hogwarts two years ago, when Black broke out of Azkaban ...

He reads the headline ...

SCENES OF TERROR AT THE WORLD CUP

by Rita Skeeter

He skims through the first few paragraphs of the article, picking up the gist of it ...

Ministry blunders ...culprits not apprehended ... lax security ... Dark wizards running unchecked ... national disgrace ...

He thinks, the idiots, the bloody idiots, Muggle-baiting at the World Cup - the place was crawling with Ministry wizards, what the hell did they think they were doing? And just how smashed did they get after the game? Lucius wasn't drunk at dinner ... but he would have been as pleased as Punch when the match turned out the way he expected, he must have got completely pissed afterwards. But who was the fucking idiot who conjured the Dark Mark? Not Lucius, even drunk he'd never do anything so cretinous ... Avery wouldn't have the nerve - the pusillanimous twat - and Crabbe and Goyle never do anything without orders ... it couldn't have been Lucius, it couldn't.

But his heart has turned to ice in his chest, remembering the week that Lucius spent in Azkaban, just after the Dark Lord fell, and the trial ... it had been a three ring circus, and Rita Skeeter had splashed every detail of the accusations across the front page of the Daily Prophet, but Lucius had been cleared of all charges on the grounds of bewitchment under the Imperius Curse - what a joke, when Lucius is the most accomplished wizard in the use of imperio that he's ever seen, barring the Dark Lord, of course!

He's thinking, if Lucius is caught casting the Dark Mark, it will be straight to Azkaban, they won't bother with a trial, not for a second offence ... and then he remembers Sirius Black.

He reaches for his now luke-warm mug of tea, mutters a quick warming Charm, and thinks about the situation calmly, rationally. Black is a madman, as fanatical as his cousin Bellatrix – James Potter had been a fool to trust Black, and his stupidity and arrogance had cost Lily her life – Black hasn't contacted anyone since he escaped from Azkaban, but he could easily have been at the World Cup ... the arsehole loved Quidditch enough when he was at Hogwarts ... and when he saw Lucius and the others having a little fun with the Muggles, he'd got carried away and he'd cast the Morsmordre. And it's only Muggle-baiting, no one has been killed, and who cares about a bunch of Muggles being hung upside down, anyway? Not even the Ministry cares, not really ...

He reads on further, and then, furiously, he hurls his mug at the opposite wall, smashes it, and he doesn't care about the tea dripping over the spines of the books bound in black and brown leather ...

If the terrified wizards and witches who waited breathlessly for news at the edge of the wood expected reassurance from the Ministry of Magic, they were sadly disappointed. A Ministry official emerged some time after the appearance of the Dark Mark, alleging that nobody had been hurt, but refusing to give any more information. Whether this statement will be enough to quash the rumours that several bodies were removed from the woods an hour later, remains to be seen ...

He's thinking, Rita Skeeter is a vile bitch and she sensationalises everything, but several bodies, that must mean at least one body! And we only ever cast the Dark Mark when we'd made a kill, those were the Dark Lord's orders ... sweet Merlin, Lucius has killed someone! The crazy bastard, what has he done? I know the Avada Kedavra is a real kick, better than sex, better than "recreational potions", but the Auror Corps will go apeshit now, this might even cost Fudge his job - and it will mean the Kiss for Lucius, if they can catch him!

Then he remembers how much he'd wanted to use the Killing Curse on Black in the Shrieking Shack, he'd pointed his wand straight between Black's eyes, and he'd imagined saying the words, imagined the flash of green light, imagined the surge of blood-lust ... but he'd kept control, he'd had to keep control, because once he started, he might not have been able to stop. He would have killed the werewolf for certain - no loss that, and the brute was about to transform anyway – but then he might have ...

No, he can't bear to think of it, he can't bear to think of what he might have done, and he cringes back in his armchair, thinking, desperately – the Headmaster trusts me, Dumbledore trusts me with James Potter's son, and I'll never hurt the boy, I'll never hurt Lily's child ... Albus trusts me ...