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Night Flight	By : Massanie Category: Harry Potter > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 77567 -:- Recommendations : 6 -:- Currently Reading : 30
Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me and I'm not making any money with this story

Chapter List
- 28
- 29
- 30
CHAPTER 29: Breath of Life

CHAPTER NOTES:
I know it has been practically forever and I'm sorry. I'm also going to stop apologizing, because this is getting ridiculous. I'll just update when I can and the only promise I'll make is to never ever start another WIP...

Go back to the last chapter for the summary!

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Outwardly indifferent Severus stared down at Potter's still form, watching the boy hovering four feet above the ground of Damask Tower's Apparition Room where the emergency portkey had deposited him. Still and unmoving he looked like a corpse laid out for the world to bemoan, frozen in time, sickly pale and drenched in blood as he was.
At least the majority of the blood was likely to be his own, Severus thought with an odd sense of detachment. It would have been too much to ask for, that for once another but Potter should end up unconscious and in need of intensive medical care. After all these years he was still like a suicidal toddler, always looking for the next opportunity to off himself in a new, inventive way.

Hopefully his state was no indicator to Draco's and Blaise's wellbeing. If his past adventures were anything to go by, Potter's companions seemed to either survive their moronic escapades relatively unscathed or not at all and Severus did not even want to imagine the emotional backlash should the two young snakes belong into the latter category this time. It would be a loss that would shatter their parents, even Amalyne.
Severus himself was fond for the boys in his own way. He had watched them grow, tried to encourage their potential beyond the petty ambitions of their parents. And now that the fragile seedlings were finally just starting to thrive…

His hands twitched into fists for a second, the ghost of a complicated, pinched expression flashing over his face, gone before it could ripen into something more defined.
He had to remind himself insistently that there was no reason to expect they had come to any harm and Severus refused to envision chimeras everywhere. Besides, the fact remained that whether his godson and his fiancé were dead, unharmed or anything in between, there was nothing he could do for them now; they were far out of his reach.

Unlike Potter, who was very much present and hurt and in desperate need of help. And whom Severus had sworn to keep safe as a promise to Dumbledore and Lily… and to himself.

Even though a part of him still twinged like an old scar in the first chill of the coming winter when he looked at the boy. Especially when his eyes were turned or closed and he seemed like the image of the one man Severus had always abhorred above all others. There was so much to dislike there: The boy had such an annoying, gryffindorish hero complex, and he refused to bow to authorities out of principle and wouldn't think of consequences at all. Just look at him now… Wasn't he Potter's brat, truly, in this if nothing else?

But Severus had to admit that he was also compassionate and hateful of injustice and bullying in a way that his father had never been. He had broken into the boy's mind, had seen his most disturbing, most secret memories. Severus knew him, in a way that none of his friends did. And he knew that the boy was also and irrefutably Lily's son.

Perhaps he was even more than his parents combined: forgiving, where they hadn't been, accepting and understanding of how people could be swept along by the wrong ideals and beliefs, when even his righteous mother had never quite forgiven Severus for calling her a mudblood, for befriending the conservative purebloods of Slytherin House, his house, and allowing them to shape his beliefs.

Reflexively, Severus grabbed the recalcitrant thought that reeked of regret and anger, oozed grief and pain and he maliciously squished it, the way he had so often done during the past sixteen years; silently infuriated when it took more effort than it used to.

But, he reminded himself, it was of no use to think of Lily like this, to remember her like that, distant and upset with her former friend; No use in agonizing over it… there was nothing to change. She was dead, put into the past tense with nothing more than two magic words and the rift between them would stay open and gaping forever.

Severus was too much of a pragmatist, too much of a pessimist to truly believe in some form of afterlife where the dead might be aware of the living, could be present to watch or guide or guard…
No, he was certain that Lily would never know of his treatment of her child, never see… and thus it should be of no consequence whether Severus liked her son or not, whether he was fair to him or taught him to deal with all the cruelty of the world instead. The boy himself probably didn't care much either way and he was still an annoying, thoughtless brat. Rash to act and slow to learn.

Indeed. Where Potter was concerned, it should have only ever been Severus' duty to do what must be done and nothing more; to keep him alive and free. Of course the boy had done nothing to merit the treatment he had endured in his life, didn't deserved the kind of prison the Malfoys and Zabinis wanted to enclose him in. That still didn't mean that Severus should care about his happiness as well.

Yet the memories of the boy's childhood were still churning in Severus' mind, infecting every thought that touched on Potter's existence with a nameless feeling that he didn't much care for. Guilt perhaps, because he hadn't spoken up, hadn't helped or put a stop to the abuse and had even unwittingly tried to force him back into that life by advocating his expulsion every chance he got. Or, and perhaps more likely, the grudging acknowledgement of a strong mind that wouldn't allow life to break it, whatever it threw at him.

Just like Severus himself, and yet so very, very different. Pecause unlike the younger Gryffindor, Severus had allowed life to form him.

Not that flying upwind had helped him any, considering his pitiful appearance, and now he would depend on the help of someone experienced in weathering out storms to get him out.

Severus sighed and cast a quick tempus, frowning in displeasure when he noticed that he had been standing around idly for a couple of minutes when in truth he didn't have the time to analyse Potter and his view of him: Soon Narcissa and Amalyne would take notice of Damask Tower's visitors and there was still a lot to do and scant time.

With a flounce and a flick of his wand Severus leapt into action, throwing off his light summer coat and sending it off to the hallstand. When he turned to face his young charge again, his mind was already buzzing: analysing the situation, compiling a detailed list of all that had to be taken care of, prioritising and weighing…

Severus was pleased to find that Damask Tower – a safe house that had been in the possession of the Zabini family for a couple of centuries now – was fairly easy to defend, even against the few people that might manage to set foot into it against all odds. Not that he meant to actually let Amalyne and Narcissa lay siege to him here. He would allow them to enter, at his own leisure of course.
From the outside, the isolated building had more similarities with an oversized menhir than a tower, the smoothed stone surface unbroken by any cracks, windows or doors, nothing that would leave purchase for even the sturdiest of plants to grow.
Consequently, any intruder – even if they somehow managed to circumvent the Fidelius charm's protection that had been installed a few years earlier – would still have to fly to the top of it, fight their way through the poisonous Damask Roses planted on the entirety of the top level, and find the only existing entrance cleverly hidden in between the ridiculously enormous thorns. As the roses behaved rather like devil snares and were resistant to many kinds of magic, and with the entrance guarded by a gargoyle statue enchanted to come to life as soon as any living being came close, such an endeavour would require more than the usual amount of stubbornness and skill.

Of course that would neither hold Narcissa and Amalyne back, nor detain them significantly as they were keyed into the wards.

It were the inner defences, the dark wizard planned to exploit: there were seven floors to cross until one could expect to corner the Tower's inhabitants in their last available refuge. A dangerous undertaking with every level built to offer ample coverage for any potential defenders while leaving intruders open for attack: each floor consisted of a single room, and could be reached only via narrow corkscrew staircases, which would force all invaders to enter one by one and make it almost impossible for them to evade hexes and curses flung their way.

All of that wasn't even mentioning the multitude of inventive and nasty little traps generations of sadistic Zabinis had amassed practically everywhere, or the small assortment of handy portkeys waiting in several hidden places for emergency evacuations.

Fortunately, Amalyne had keyed in Severus to all the wards as per Lucius' wishes. Even after the war and all the smaller and greater betrayals during it, there was little doubt that Severus remained the only person outside of the family whom the paranoid Malfoy patriarch trusted with his son and heir's protection.
Of course neither Lucius nor Amalyne could have suspected that the decision to include him might come back to haunt them later on. But thanks to their trust, Severus found it neither strenuous nor terribly time consuming to add a few surprises of his own to the tower's strong defences – small tricks and traps that would not harm, but hopefully detain Amalyne and Narcissa for a while once they arrived; and they would, of that there was no doubt.

They were traditionalists, proud purebloods, and powerful witches. But above all else, they were mothers and after realising that one of their sons' emergency portkeys had been activated there would be only one thing on their mind: the instinctive fear of a parent for their child.

It was beyond him, how neither Draco nor Blaise had considered that possibility.

Obviously the recent development had already taken a deeper strain on the two families than Severus had expected, if the two brats truly believed their mothers had nothing better to do than to go after Potter, when they didn't even know whether their sons were alive to claim him.

Fortunately after teaching more years of dull-witted students than he cared to remember, Severus was rather used to handling the glaring mistakes of thoughtless children and thus he had left a curt letter for the two women to find in the Apparition Room in order to alleviate the most pressing concerns and hopefully direct their attention to Italy.

Of course, he had little hope of the latter to actually happen: once the two formidable women did realise that their sons were indeed still breathing and relatively well, Potter and he wouldn't stay undisturbed for long. Hence the traps.
And just to be sure, Severus levitated his battered charge to the one place that was the most difficult to reach in the entire tower: the ground floor.

It was an arduous endeavour with the boy still caught in the stasis spell, stiff and frozen in an outstretched position that was extremely inconvenient for levitating down overly narrow spiral staircases, but with a calm hand and a few precautionary cushioning charms Severus and Potter finally reached the lowest level barely half an hour after his arrival.

Wide and spacious, the room's corners and edges were swathed in deep shadows, the feint morning light still too weak to lend it any significant illumination and the quickly cast Lumos insufficient to reach the walls.
Carefully Severus let his eyes sift through the darkness, searching for movement, for traps, for even a hint of something suspicious. But after a few moments of pure silence, he relaxed minutely and set his charge gently down on the wooden floor. Whipping his now free wand at a fireplace on the far side of the room, he let a burst of flames explode from the sooted thing, the flickering fire reaching out warmly.
With a few more gestures and sweeps a couple of candelabras sprung to life as well, spreading their light over a room grand and luxurious enough to make Severus want to sneer.

It was circular – as all the rooms in the tower were – and obviously fitted out to host some fastidious guests comfortably for some time. A group of stiff, high-backed armchairs lounged in front of the now roaring fire, dark green velvet and rich plum wood, the delicately carved bases clawing and burying themselves deeply into the carpet beneath. Persian. A pale and exotic thing of silk with a complex pattern of deeply intertwined greens and blues, cream and grey, and with so many knots that Severus dearly hoped that magic had been involved in its fabrication. Such a bovine work he wouldn't even wish on his worst enemy, much less House-Elves who at least had their uses in contrast to some of their masters.

With a disdainful snort, Severus turned away, letting his gaze flitter swiftly over the rest of the room's interior, ensuring that nothing had been changed since he had been here last, that no one had desecrated this refuge.

But everything was as he remembered it. The walls were lined with book shelves and show-cases holding magical artefacts, stretching up to the high ceiling and intermitted only by a couple of heavy wooden doors and several magical windows that showed the view from the top of the tower: a sea of trees reaching far into every cardinal direction with only a few feint groups of lights that shimmered in the distance and marked the closest muggle cities. Nothing had been moved and only the absence of dust or dirt hinted at the regularly visiting House Elves.

The doors themselves lead to rooms that could only exist due to the clever usage of wizarding space: a kitchen and ever-full pantry, two bathrooms, several bedrooms… Severus knew what hid behind each of them even though they were currently closed, as he had been given the full tour not so long a time ago.

For a moment he considered barricading himself and Potter in one of the bedrooms, but in all honesty he didn't want to leave the main hall, didn't think it wise to leave the staircase out of his sight. When Amalyne or Narcissa came, he wanted to be able to take the initiative instead of waiting for them to corner him like a rabbit in its hole.

In the end Severus floated one of the beds to a spot behind the staircase, such that he would be able to see (and attack) the legs of any intruder long before they could ever hope to notice, let alone target him.

Only once he was sure that he could defend himself and his charge, did he let his attention focus solely on Potter, levitating him carefully onto the soft mattress where he came to lie in an odd position like a statue displaced from its original spot, still frozen from the stasis spell as he was.

He looked disturbingly frail against the white linen of the bed sheets, his skin far too pale and thin, like brittle parchment.
Severus stood entirely still, an ever so slight narrowing of his eyes and a miniscule tightening around his thin lips all that he allowed himself as he assessed the younger wizard's state from a safe distance, so as not to disturb the delicate stasis spell. Once undone, he suspected, there wouldn't be much time to act before the boy would breathe his last. The pallor of his skin, the bluish tint of his lips, and the darkly glistening patches on the back and front of the odd robe he wore, told him as much and had Severus forehandedly uncorking a healing and a blood replenishing potion. Those should stabilize him enough to allow for some deeper diagnostics.

At least the injury in his abdomen seemed to be very low and while still potentially lethal, stomach wounds like these often missed any organs vital enough to kill quickly. What was a messy, slow and painful death for a muggle, gave magic wielders all the time needed to heal themselves.

Thoughtfully, Severus leaned back, his eyes fixed on the bloody, torn robe hiding the boy's wounds from his view. If this was his only injury, and if it was as low as he suspected it to be, why then was Potter in such a dire state? The Vykélari submissive's magic alone should have been enough to heal him before he fell unconscious… hell, the accidental magic of far lesser wizards was often enough to stabilize their condition even after receiving grievous, non-magical wounds. And if his state wasn't critical, he wouldn't have been portkeyed to safety and put in a temporal stasis.

So why hadn't Potter's magic taken care of his injury? Severus pursed his lips and shifted closer, wondering whether there had perhaps been a trauma dire enough to render the boy unconscious. However, there seemed to be no bruising to his head, no abrasions and no blood… Internal bleeding then? But that should still have given the Vykélari's magic the few seconds it needed to act.
Maybe his mind had been weakened and held under the control of another, that might explain… Slowly Severus shook his head. If Potter had been under his kidnapper's control so entirely as to leave him unable to heal himself from a life-threatening injury, there would hardly have been any need at all to hurt him in the first place.

Which left another possibility: logic dictated that if Potter had had the time to act but hadn't done so, then he must have been unable to. And if it wasn't his mind that had been incapacitated, then it must have been his magic. Severus wasn't well-read in regards to Vykélari, but he would indeed be very astonished if dominants like Lucius hadn't found some way to gain the upper hand over the magically more powerful submissives. How else would they have successfully oppressed their other halves for centuries?
So. In all likelihood, the boy's magic was somehow affected.

Or he had been cursed with something more powerful than his own magic.

Whatever it was, for now Severus would have to concentrate on simply stabilizing the boy and later procure the needed information…

With a displeased huff, he curled his long fingers around his wand and uttered a sharp, clear Finite Incantatum.

Immediately Potter's form, frozen in the same position in which the stasis spell had caught him, slackened, sinking into the soft mattress. His chest moved with the first breath he had taken in almost an hour, a small fluttering like from a dying chicklet.

Severus took in the change with a sharp frown and as soon as the last traces of the stasis spell were gone, his wand began its complex dance. A few fast swishes and the mattress started to bend, bringing the boy into an almost sitting position while tilting his head back. The thin blue cloak he wore tore along its every seam to bare the boy's pale, blood covered torso and the ugly, gaping injury in his stomach.

Severus grimaced at the sight. He would have liked to start on closing the wound immediately but without the blood replenishing potion in his system Potter's organs might fail before he had finished; and the healing potion would hopefully do its part to make sure the new blood would stay within Potter.

Quickly he fixated his patient to the mattress, stripes of the fine bed linen tearing themselves out and wrapping around the boy's forehead, arms and chest. While they tied themselves off with neat knots, Severus floated a thin tube out of his bag.

Feeding tubes like these were admittedly originally a muggle invention, but they had drastically improved the care for unconscious patients in St. Mungo's during the last couple of decades. Liquids couldn't be teleported, especially not into the stomach of a patient whose magic was out of control; and it was quite awkward and time consuming to magically close off the windpipe and open the oesophagus for seconds at a time, which only left the rectum and… suffice to say, Severus was rather glad for feeding tubes.

At least, being barely a millimetre thick with a magically enlarged centre, and able to find their own way, the wizarding version was rather superior to its muggle model.

Severus had applied it before, when assisting Poppy in the Hospital Wing, and so he had little difficulty to feed the tube through Potters nose all the way down into the stomach and pour the potions into the enlarged ending.

The empty bottles were flung aside carelessly, clinging loudly as they hit the ground and rolled away and Severus immediately turned towards the wound in Potter's abdomen. The cleanly cut edges were raised just a little bit, the skin around them smeared red from blood.

At least it seemed that Severus' earlier assessment had been correct: the wound was low, lower even than he had thought. And that was good, heartening indeed.

Still, there could be more damage hidden beneath the scraped and bruised skin, damage that might even be fatal if not healed in time… therefore, without waiting for the potions to take effect, Severus let his wand fly over the boy's body, intricate gestures weaving a net of light that hovered for a moment above Potter, adapting to his outstretched form. Upon touching skin, the diagnostic spell would reflect the hurts and injuries the boy had suffered.
Severus lowered it gently, care and precision in each movement, until it settled like a blanket on his charge, and then…

Severus' eyes narrowed in alarm, his hands frozen over the Gryffindor's prone form as he watched the spell's delicate network rupture, the tatters flying away like the shreds of a torn spider web in a gust of wind, before dissolving entirely.

Now, Severus Snape had been called many a vile thing in his life, but not once a fool. His spellwork had been flawless as always, as were the potions, and he knew that it was impossible for there to have been any unwanted interactions between the two.
Even in the very unlikely case that Severus had made a grievous mistake, the spell would not have been destroyed like that, it would have yielded implausible, faulty results or perhaps even injured Potter… it wouldn't have just ceased to exist!

No, this was an effect similar to that of powerful magical beings able to repulse weaker charms cast at them. Which meant that it wasn't his doing, but Potter's.

Sure enough a moment later the boy started to convulse, his chest heaving with wet, violent coughing, his body shaking with tremors. Severus surged forward, cutting the bindings and grabbing Potters shoulders to turn him onto his side and not a moment too soon: he had just managed to turn the boy's head safely away when the potions Severus had fed him seconds earlier made an entirely disgusting reappearance, splattering all over the pristine bed sheets.

This time, Severus did sneer, though he didn't bother with useless swearing, instead holding his charge in place throughout his violent retching and shaking so that the vomit would not end up choking him, all the while wondering what the hell he was supposed to do if Potter was fighting off the magic that he might use to help him.

As suddenly as it had started it was over and the boy went lax again, too quickly for it to mean anything even remotely good, and Severus' fingers flittered to his pulse point, pressing down, pressing harder when there was nothing to be found aside from clammy, sweaty skin.

Later, much later, when Severus would have the time to process all that happened that evening, he would wonder over the way that, in that moment, his heart began trying to pummel its way through his throat, the way his smooth movements grew erratic and his skin cold and so slick with sweat that his grip around his wand almost faltered. He would wonder and not want to acknowledge and try without much success to let the matter rest where it wouldn't cause him discomfort.

But now, even while fear coursed through his body, his mind still worked a mile a minute, going off on a dozen different tangents at once.

He knew that muggles had ways of reviving people, of keeping them alive even without magic; he knew that he had to press down on the ribcage above the heart to more or less pump it manually and then breathe for him. He knew that, having lived with and around muggles during his childhood and the holidays as a teenager, but he didn't know how it worked, didn't know how forceful he had to be to make the heart pump but keep the ribs from breaking – didn't know that it would all but require the ribs to break for it to be really effective.
He couldn't conceive of a way to get air into the boy that wasn't entirely ludicrous. If he breathed his own air into him, wouldn't that be stale and deprived of Oxygen already?
And would the blood still remaining within the battered body even suffice to keep him alive?

He had no idea how it would work, but he swore he would learn after this was over. There shouldn't be anything a muggle could do that he couldn't!

In the meantime Potter was still not breathing and Severus knew if he used his own magic or poured more potions into him, the boy would, for whatever reason, just further exhaust his own magic trying to get the foreign stuff out until he reached a level of magical exhaustion from which there was no return (Severus refused to accept the possibility that that might have already happened). Hell, if the boy's own magic wasn't so depleted, being a Vykélari he could probably just heal himself even while unconscious…

Time was running out. Nerves died quickly if deprived of oxygen, Severus knew, and within two minutes, the boy's brain would start dying.
Quickly he cast a series of powerful cooling charms on the room until his breath congealed in the freezing air and his skin broke out in goose bumps. If he could get Potter's body temperature to drop quickly, it should considerably slow the process down. Hadn't Pomfrey once revived a Hufflepuff girl that had one winter fallen into the Great Lake, after twenty minutes without any lasting damage?

Still, the Mediwitch had been able to use magic then which didn't seem to be possible now… relentlessly Severus' eyes flitted over the room and its magical artefacts in search of something, anything that might help… stopping only when they encountered a speck of gold.

It was nothing of importance, only one of a set of golden goblets resting in a pretentious showcase, but it immediately brought to mind the one kind of magic that Potter might still accept, even when he rejected everything else: sweet, natural magic, unbiased and pure like untouched snow. The fact that his body had tolerated the potions (which to a large part derived their power from the natural magic of plants and animals) far longer than they had Severus' spell indicated it.

Vykélari had a strong, a unique connection to natural magic, everyone knew that, and purebloods even had the handy habit of bottling it, savouring it like rare Elf Vine. He was sure Amalyne, being as conceited and spoiled as she was, would have quite a few bottles lying around, just in case that a hapless guest should have to be impressed.
Or in the unlikely case that someone managed to prove the murder of one of her husbands and she had to spend some years in her safe house…

"Accio Hesperides' Nectar!" He bellowed, pointing his wand towards the pantry.

Loud rattling and clinking broke the heavy silence as almost two dozen bottles of the expensive brew tore themselves from their shelves to rush towards the dark wizard. Like a flock of birds they came flying, the slender golden bodies gleaming unnaturally bright in the dim light of the candles.

Severus caught them with a flurry of nimble wand gestures, directing the lot of them to crowd over the boy's outstretched body. Another flick and they turned upside down and Severus grabbed the next best bottle and tore out the stopper. Gurgling, the viscous liquid poured from the bottle and splashed against the boy's pale sternum. Thick golden drops sprayed over his chest, rivulets ran over his side to drench his torn clothing and the bed sheets, or flowing down to his stomach and even into the wound, washing away and mixing with the harsh red smears of blood.

Severus allowed it, he could worry about infections later if (when!) the boy's heart was beating again. But it wasn't. God be damned it wasn't!
"Come on Potter," he snarled, meaning it as the swearword he always used it as, even while he opened another bottle and emptied it over the boy's head. Let it run into his mouth, his ears, his nose and the tube in it! If Potter started choking on it that was so very fine with Severus because it meant the darn idiot was capable of choking! "You stubborn, foolish, annoying, good-for-nothing…"

He raised his hand to slap him, more because he felt like it than out of the belief it might cause a miraculous revival, and surely it couldn't make it any worse. But then Severus stopped dead. Within the blink of an eye the syrupy nectar smeared all over Potter's skin had lost its lustrous gleam, as if something had sucked the colour out of it, leaving a thick, richly yellow fluid that was not unlike mango juice in place of the liquefied gold that it had been.

Even while he stared, the pitiful rests of the nectar in the bottle above Potter's head drew languidly together, before sending off a perfectly formed drop on a free fall towards a pale nose. It splashed against the bridge of it, painting it golden and sending off a colourful spray to dot the cheeks with odd little freckles.
But within seconds the blots drew together like the leaves of a mimosa, the colour and the light sucked away and into the skin beneath.

It was actually working: Potter was pulling the magic from the nectar!

Severus didn't lose any more time, flicking his wand at the mattress to turn it into a narrow tub right beneath Potter's body. Then he tore all the stops from the remaining bottles, letting the golden liquid drench the boy entirely, hoping it would be enough.

Seconds passed like an eternity in hell and Severus clawed his fingers into the tub's rim until his knuckles were white, because the trembling was worse.
He was already half convinced that it hadn't worked, that he had killed Lily's son…

That thought almost wrung all breath out of him and Severus closed his eyes and let his straggly hair fall into his face. Thus he missed as a translucent wave of soft light rose from the still body, like tendrils of a shapeless ghost moving within, gliding through the boy's head, sinking into his forehead and cheek. The unhealthily pale eyelids fluttered as it passed and moved through his throat and into his chest, glowing as it surfaced briefly over a collarbone before diving again.
As the younger wizard's heart jumped to life again and his chest heaved with a sudden intake of much needed breath, Severus' eyes snapped open, widening as he saw light congealing in the gaping cut, not enough to close it or to even begin healing, but enough to let a steady heartbeat echo through the aorta in his stomach, visible in the rhythmic pulsing of the skin above his belly button.

Severus swallowed drily, his eyes swerving to the empty bottles of Hesperide's Nectar. He needed more of that stuff. And then he needed to find out what the hell had happened.

Dawn was close, the faintest sheen of paleness was just crawling across the distant horizon. It was still too weak to lend the forest she had apparated to any significant illumination, but Amalyne knew that it wouldn't take long now.

Perhaps half an hour and the softest orange glow would bleed into the blue, giving rise to a transformation like the birth of an entirely new world: oppressive and hostile shadows would turn into harmless wood and bark, the sounds of nameless enemies moving in the darkness revealing themselves to be nothing more than wind and animals prowling through the scrub and boughs. Blades of grass and millions of leaves and wild flowers would shed the dull greyness clinging to them like tar and burst into colours and the soft smells of moss and wood and leaves and earths would thicken in the soon warming air.

But for now everything was still smothered in that inky blackness, the dense foliage refusing any of the light the early summer's morning brought.

Amalyne welcomed the crisp cool and quiet, felt it sharpening her hearing, her very awareness, the reduced impressions of her other senses heightening her alertness until she felt that every single thought was precise and clear. It broke her fear and worry down to a manageable level so that she could look at her family's safe house with a cool head while she waited for Narcissa to arrive, instead of trying to barge in without so much as ascertaining that it was still uncompromised.

Damask Tower, however, looked like she imagined it always had. Unmoved by time, unmarred by nature's forces or any scuffle it had seen since its building countless centuries ago; a solid rock in a softly moving sea of densely packed trees and shrubs that surged and rippled with the wind.

And Amalyne knew for sure that its wards and protection spells were still unbroken. As Damask Tower's lady and secret keeper of the Fidelius Charm keeping it hidden, she was able to feel the powerful magic still pulsing through the earth and air, humming through her veins invigoratingly, and she knew that there had not been a forced entry, the wards were still fully intact.

And yet, it wasn't the integrity of her safe house that Amalyne was concerned with. God no; she already knew someone was in there, because one of the portkeys of her son and future son-in-law had been activated. It was the question of who it was, and in what condition that tore through her mind like a whirlwind of razor blades; scarring fears that were bound to leave some form of neurosis like the mementos of a battle.

Oh yes, this was a nightmare come true, a possibility that Amalyne had naively discarded after the war, after the fighting was mostly over. There never should have been a need for Draco or Blaise to use the emergency portkeys, never again.

If only both portkeys had been activated, she wouldn't have worried so much, would simply have assumed that the boys had been faced with some attacker, some vengeful Death Eater on the run, and had to escape from an ugly situation.

But it hadn't been both portkeys. And they were small things, the charm resting only on the inner surface of the bracelets, on a small plate that would stick to the skin. They were designed to only be able to transport a single human being…
Draco and Blaise had been meant to stay in the mansion with Potter, to stay together…

What could have happened for only one of them to evacuate? Who could have found the boys, found out they were even in Italy? Who could have entered Lanai manor and how and why? Was it due to Potter and his inheritance or some self-proclaimed revenger infuriated that Draco had so recently been acquitted?

And why, why in Medea's name had only the one portkey been activated? What atrocity could have taken place that could have made Blaise abandon Draco or the other way round – or had the portkey automatically activated due to its bearer being wounded too badly?
Did the other not escape? Not survive? Was it Blaise (please, oh please let it be Blaise) they would find in the entrance room of Damask Tower?

A quiet pop announced Narcissa's sudden arrival to Amalyne's left, her wand tensely clutched in one white hand, the other awkwardly closed around her son's Firebolt while a basket was dangling from the crook of her arm. It would contain Potions and salves mostly. Healing potions, blood replenishing potions, pain potions, tonics against burns and poisons and whatever else. Things that they might need but hopefully wouldn't.

The pale witch herself was in an unusually dishevelled state and Amalyne took her in with harsh, unflinching eyes, the hastily donned trousers of fine dragon leather that would protect her from carelessly pricking herself on the Damask Roses, the pale blue linen shirt, wrinkled under a grey, tightly fitted vest, also of leather.
Her hands were trembling, her eyes held a wildness and desperation that Amalyne herself had never seen there before and yet she was still insufferably sophisticated and composed, far too stiff and … by Medea, Amalyne couldn't help the sliver of hate that took root in her chest at this very moment, even though Narcissa had never done her any kind of wrong, had been a dear friend for a very long while… even so she had to hate her because… because it might just be the Malfoy's fault that this had happened at all and it might just be Draco that had been portkeyed to safety and not her own son.

Amalyne grit her teeth, her hands twitching into fists as she returned her gaze to Damask Tower.

There was no denying it. One of the emergency portkeys that Blaise had had manufactured for him and Draco had been activated, just the one. Whatever had happened, only one of their sons had made it out of it, made it to safety and now here they stood: two friends, two mothers secretly – cruelly – hoping that it was the other woman who would have her life shattered like a crystal ball smashed into a million sharp, cutting pieces smeared with sticky devastation – painful to look at, dangerous to even try to mend, leaving behind an unsalvageable mess that one would be well advised to just get rid of and bury in some graveyard of memories and ruined existences. And try to go on.

But if it was Blaise…

"Have you…?" Narcissa's voice was unusually thick and Amalyne minutely shook her head before remembering how neither of them could bear to look at the other right then.

"No." She hadn't checked who they would find, even though she had desperately wanted to, just so that no one would be there to see her shatter in case it wasn't Blaise.
But … "The wards won't allow location or detection charms. For safety reasons."

The pale witch swallowed audibly, the sound grotesquely loud in the silence of the forest. Ugly.
"Let us go then…"

And so they did.

They made their way to the top of the tower in heavy silence, heading directly for the single small spot of the platform that was clear of plants. The lush fragrance of Damask Roses greeted them as they drew closer, cloyingly sweet like honey, and thin twigs reached for their bodies like horrible grasping hands, sharp thorns already dripping with sizzling poison in anticipation of a rich meal.

But as soon as the wards pulsed with recognition the roses were forced to retreat, a jerking and writhing mass of rustling leaves and creaking twigs.

Twitching legs of dying spiders.

A path opened directly in front of them, not more than half a metre wide, revealing at its very end the towering statue of the enormous gargoyle, glaring at them from a tall, slender socle that was half overgrown with thorny twines and dark red blooms.

It sat enthroned there like a royal demon holding court, exuding darkness and malicious power. Or rather, a caricature of such a being: a failed attempt at crossbreeding of a human with a dragon, a horrifically distorted amalgamation of two forms that shouldn't mix.

Most grotesque of it all was the misshapen head, with the harsh contours of a dragon that someone had forcefully pressed into the form of an ape skull. Too short was it, too broad; but covered with scales and with longer and sharper teeth than even a baboon possessed. It displayed them well too, it's large mouth frozen in a fearsome, never-ending snarl.

The rest of its body might have been called graceful if it wasn't so strangely disproportioned, promising a lethal agility as soon as the gargoyle awoke. The beast had obviously been manufactured to be the perfect predator, with a sleek body and muscles that were lean enough to be fast and yet strong enough to be a force to be reckoned with.

For now it crouched as if it wanted to climb down from its pedestal, the claws of one large hand already deeply embedded in the front side, and its long, spike covered dragon-tail wound around the stone as if to stabilise itself during its descend.
In truth, both the tail and the massive paw were part of the locks of the entrance door that was hidden in the socle. Not a crevice could be seen but it was there, waiting to open for those who could prove their right of access.

There the two women were headed, Narcissa following Amalyne, tense and apprehensive, past the roses that were still quivering with the desire to attack them. It made Narcissa's already strained nerves fray more and more beneath her near perfect mask until she felt as if she was disintegrating from the inside, as if there was a black hole beneath her feet that tore bits and pieces out of her soul into its depths, leaving only a shell behind like a hollow porcelain doll.

Would that she could reach for her friend's hand, or at least share a few comforting words… but they were both alone in this nightmare. And in truth Narcissa would not have known how to approach the other. Weakness was not something that was acceptable in their world.

So instead she passively watched her friend hesitate and almost falter without uttering even one supportive word, and for a moment Narcissa imagined the silence freezing between them, layers of ice on a frozen lake, and Amalyne drowning in the dark depths beneath her. Drowning in silence. While she was freezing to death in it.

The vision broke as the black woman cleared her throat, perhaps aware of the observation, and suddenly Narcissa felt overcome with the surrealism of it all, the absurdity. What were they doing, acting like grudging allies or rather like enemies under a ceasefire, as if a friendship that had been forged over decades with trust and goodwill and affection could break so easily, was worth so little?
Whatever they would find down there, one of them would need the other's support and help and… almost more than she was afraid of what they would find, Narcissa was terrified of doing it alone.

"'Lyn?" The familiar pet name left her lips before she knew it, her voice unusually rough but Narcissa didn't repeat herself in a useless attempt at seeming stronger and saving face.

Amalyne had stopped, tipping her head just so to indicate that she was listening. But she hadn't turned and whether it was to spare her friend the indignity of being seen so weak, or because her own mask was crumbling, Narcissa couldn't say.

"Lyn, if…" if we do not find your boy down there, I'll be there for you…
Narcissa wanted to say the words, dearly wanted to. But comfort offered so brashly could only be rejected by someone as prideful as the Black Widow.

She licked her dry lips. "I may need you." She said instead. And if I don't, you will need me instead.

With a heavy sigh Amalyne turned around to face her friend, her eyes black in the darkness, unfathomable onyxes. There was a harsh strain around her full lips and for a moment Narcissa almost expected some jibe, some malicious mockery.

She couldn't help the tiny, surprised flinch as clammy fingers closed around her own, squeezing gently.

Amalyne blinked rapidly a few times, regarding her as if she had never seen her before, as if she wasn't quite sure how she should handle this alien being. The silence stretched between them, thin and taut until the dark woman finally settled for an awkward "They may both not even be down there."

It was very unlikely. With the wards still unbroken the only ones who could have entered were Severus and the bearers of the emergency portkeys. As the former had retreated to Spinner's End and Narcissa knew that her son and son-in-law never took off the invisible bracelets, she didn't allow herself to entertain the hope that it might all be some cosmic misunderstanding.
Even if someone else had acquired a portkey, they could only have done so by force. And why would any sane wizard want to steal a portkey to the middle of nowhere?

Still Narcissa swallowed down the acidic words. There was no need to voice what both of them knew to be true.

"Come now." Amalyne murmured lowly, averting her eyes as if ashamed of her words. Squeezing her friend's hand once more, she turned and walked the last few steps towards the statue, Narcissa following with only a moment of hesitation.

Coming to stand before the socle, the dark witch grasped onto the gargoyle's massive paw to pull herself up on her tiptoes and steady her stance. Quickly she reached for the beast's enormous jaws and pricked the tip of one long finger on a sharp fang, sharper than stone had any right to be.
The upwelling blood she smeared onto the curled tongue of the snarling statue, and in the darkness didn't see the similar stain further down its throat.

A mere moment later the gargoyle rose from its crouched position and Amalyne fell back and retreated a few steps. Intently the two women watched as the claws of its paw tore themselves away from the hidden door and its long dragon-tail uncurled from the socle, slithering back into the darkness. Clefts appeared in the previously seamless rock and a narrow but tall door slid open with the sound of stone grating upon stone, revealing a narrow staircase spiralling ever downward, illuminated by a flickering orange glow as if from dozen of candles.

Tense and silent, Narcissa followed her friend into the tower, again and again having to remind herself not to tighten the grip on her wand too much lest her wrist became too stiff for good spellwork. With every step she became more nauseous and dizzy with anxiousness as her eyes searched in vain for any hint of pale skin and blonde hair.

However, due to the staircase the circular room revealed itself only bit by bit to their eyes, more so as Amalyne seemed intent on being cautious, proceeding slowly with her wand at the ready.

Around her tall frame, Narcissa couldn't see very well, and nothing of importance, and it was maddening.
She could only catch hints of elaborately carved broom cupboards with beautiful inlays of colourful singing birds; and stiff storage benches with moss green velvet cushions, the drawers she knew would be holding an assortment of explosive potions, one or two spare wands and other things that might be used for defence. There were decorative side tables with colourful flower bouquets frozen in stasis and little snake statuettes that were in fact blood triggered portkeys.

But. There was no sign of life whatsoever.

"What is…" Narcissa frowned in confusion. "Where are they?"

Amalyne didn't answer. As if frozen she stood there staring at the clothing racks on the other side of the room. They were empty apart of one raven-black coat that the both of them knew only too well.

Narcissa shook her head in disbelief. "What… Severus?"

It made no sense at all! Severus had gone to Spinner's End. After that horrible meeting that last morning, during which Lucius had lost his composure and insulted Draco so badly.
Narcissa still remembered vividly how harsh Severus' eyes had been as he told his friend just how much he disapproved of his behaviour. But even though Narcissa could truly empathise – she herself was still angry because of it, Draco was her son after all and she could vividly remember his crestfallen expression… even so, Lucius was also her husband; a man who had had to shoulder far too much stress and worries lately.
Of course that didn't excuse his behaviour, but in time Draco would understand and forgive his father, even if Narcissa had to mediate between her family for a while.

As for Lucius, predictably his pride hadn't let him react kindly to his friend's reproach, especially since Severus was the younger of the two of them, had always been the one to follow quietly instead of lead.

They had argued over Draco and Blaise… and of course over Potter. The potions master had made no secret of how foolish he thought Lucius' plan to bind the submissive to their family in order to secure their standing and protect himself from prosecution.
It was because he was a halfblood, Narcissa told herself, he didn't understand the significance of having a submissive in the family because he was often unaware of the oldest, most deeply ingrained pure blood traditions. No light or dark wizard would underestimate the force the Zabini and Malfoy families would become due to Potter's power bound and wielded by both their heirs.
And Potter himself had to bow, even the Boy-Who-Lived would be unable to squirm free with the life debt he owed Narcissa tying him securely.

Unable to see reason, Severus had returned home.

Of course this night they had sent him a note as soon as they had been informed of the portkey's activation, just before Amalyne and Narcissa had departed for Damask Tower. Still, there was simply no possibility that he had arrived before them. He couldn't have, except… except if he had learned that their sons had gotten into trouble before the portkey had been activated in the first place.

Quickly the two women rushed down the rest of the stairs, whirling around, their eyes searching the room. But there was no sign that Severus was anywhere near. He must have retreated deeper into the tower. With that thought Narcissa turned towards the staircases.

That's when she detected it. A single sheet of paper hovering directly above the stairs leading to the level below them. With a few steps Narcissa crossed the room and snatched the letter out of the air. Quickly she unfolded it, her gaze flickering to the signature, drawn by the familiar elegant curves. Indeed, it was Severus' writing.

As Amalyne came up beside her, Narcissa started to read out loud.

"As far as I know your sons are still in Italy and well."

For a moment Narcissa felt her knees go weak. She could have sunken to the ground as the heavy tenseness fled from her limbs. It was as if someone had cut a too tightly laced corset from her body after she had worn it for years, only to realise that she didn't have the strength to keep herself upright on her own. But by Merlin, each breath was free and sweet, because her son was alive!

Next to her, Amalyne was chafing with impatience and with little hesitation she ripped the paper out of Narcissa's hands and continued reading herself. Her voice had regained its so familiar strength, the factual determination and it was soothing to hear.

"As far as I know your sons are still in Italy and well. Potter is the one that used the portkey."

Amalyne cursed. "Potter! Of course, damn it…" and then more quietly to herself "I should have suspected…"

Narcissa frowned deeply and pursed her lips. She hadn't thought of the boy at all. Of course if Potter had somehow been injured or at danger, they couldn't have all evacuated…

Yet something was nagging at her still: Potter was valuable for them, invaluable really, and she couldn't quite believe that neither Blaise or Draco had tried to accompany him and make sure he wasn't claimed by someone else, or that he fled and told some of his fanatic followers ridiculous horror stories about his treatment at the hands of former Death Eaters… something else was afoot here, something dire, just as Amalyne confirmed as she read out the rest of the short note.

"Apparently the Lanais accused Blaise and Draco of abusing Potter and took him with them while inciting the guardia to detain the boys at Lanai Manor. They have been put under house arrest and since Potter is here, they will have gone against it.
I am unsure as to what exactly happened but it will be a while until Potter will be conscious and responsive again. I advise you to get in contact with the headmistress and the minister, they are informed of the situation and may be swayed to lend their assistance.
Certainly your boys will need it as soon as the guardia recaptures them.

Yours,
Severus Snape"

Narcissa blinked rapidly, still trying to bring what she had just heard into some context that made sense. Of course she had expected another dark family to learn of their secret and try and take Potter from them, that was why they hadn't told anyone about where to find the boy after all.

But this! The Lanais were not even enemies of their families! They were related to the Zabinis, the head of the family was Blaise's uncle for heaven's sake! Why would they out of everyone do this to them? And why were the guardia involved? The laws were not so different from the ones in England after all. Whatever had happened, the guardia should not have interfered!
And who, by Morgaine's wrath, had had the splendid idea of bringing in McGonagall? Or the Minister? After all it wasn't as if the two of them held dark families in high esteem, not to mention families that had been strongly linked to the dark lord, had belonged to his innermost circle.

Well. Taking a deep breath Narcissa attempted to calm. Whatever had happened, it could have been worse, she reminded herself. Draco was alive and well. As was Blaise. Everything else they could handle.

Of course the last thing she or Lucius could need right now was to have their family name mentioned in association with the abuse of a submissive, especially if that submissive was the acclaimed Boy-Who-Lived-Half-A-Dozen-Times-More-Often-Than-He-Should-Have. Already the mood in the wizarding community was more volatile and far more difficult to handle than an Erumpent-horn. A mere push in the wrong direction and it would all explode into their faces.

Still. It was a basis on which they could work. As long as the boys were alive and well, a Black could work with anything.

Next to her, Amalyne pursed her lips, a frown marring her face.
"Narcissa…" She said hesitantly, speaking slowly with carefully chosen words, "it might be better if you stayed here and secured Potter for Blaise and Draco. Let me deal with my late husband's family and the guardia."

Preposterous, Narcissa huffed affronted and raised her chin, glaring at the dark witch. Of course she wouldn't leave her boy to face all this on his own. And Blaise. What the two of them must have gone through, betrayed by their family, having to go against such powerful wizards. They were children still, for god's sake, and now they would need their parents'assistance with all their legal trouble if nothing else.

"No, listen," Amalyne pressed when Narcissa made to interrupt, "so shortly after the war it would not be wise for you to seek the help of former enemies. And you have no way of getting to Italy, you know the ministry won't give you leave to use a portkey, especially not in the middle of the night. But I do already have a portkey to Zabini Manor."

"But…"

"Narcissa," Amalyne said urgently, and with a hint of anger in her usually so soft voice. But a moment later, her features softened and she pulled her friend's hands between hers, despite Narcissa's obvious reluctance to allow it.

"I really hate to say this, but neither the headmistress, the minister, the guardia nor the Aurors will be inclined to be accommodating if you came along, not with your history. Besides you cannot even speak Italian!"

More than a bit hurt but unable to refute the harsh words, Narcissa glared at the dark-skinned woman. All of it may be true, but it didn't mean that she couldn't help. She was still a Malfoy, a Black by birth. She knew how to navigate the tricky swamps of diplomacy and politics. And she was Draco's mother.
Narcissa told her friend as much, with a frosty voice and steely glare.

Amalyne sighed. "I know you want to see for yourself that your son is well, to help. But right now you'd only be making it worse. I ask you to let me do this Narcissa; for your son's sake as well as mine." She begged, gently squeezing the other's hands. "We don't know what happened or why. I will seek out the minister and then travel to Italy. I promise I will clear up this misunderstanding and I will send you a House Elf with a two-way mirror to keep you updated."

Narcissa lowered her gaze. It was true that Shacklebolt and McGonagall were more likely to hex than help her, regardless of what she might be able to offer them. The press, the Aurors, the guardia… there was no one she could call upon as a Malfoy.

History is told by the victors and she had been on the losing side of a war only recently. It would take time and a lot of careful manoeuvring for the Malfoys to return to any position of power again.

Of course Amalyne's reputation had suffered as well, and not only because of the engagement between her son and a known Death-Eater. But she had still leverage in certain circles.

That didn't mean that she had to like having to give in, or that she trusted Amalyne entirely with this. She could be ruthless and egoistic and Narcissa was afraid of what she might do if their interests ever clashed. Well, she could only hope that this point in time hadn't arrived with their current crisis.

For a few more moments her gaze bore into the firm black eyes, then finally she relented.
"You need to find out why your family would do this, Lyn."

Amalyne's lips twitched into a harsh, cruel smile. "I will."

Narcissa didn't appreciate the haughtiness, this was not a time for pride, but for careful planning and manoeuvring. "Don't underestimate them." She cautioned indignantly. "In Italy, their word holds more power than yours."

Again that haunting half-smile. "Don't worry. As soon as Potter wakes, he will be able to witness to what really happened and he will be believed. In the meantime, you should make sure that Potter remembers everything the right way."
Amalyne stepped closer, grasping Narcissa's shoulder and letting her strong hands run over her upper arms. Her eyes glistened like the scales of a black mamba. "Secure him for our boys, Narcissa. That way you can help Draco, Blaise and Lucius."

CHAPTER END NOTES:
So, as always I hope you enjoyed the chapter and I'm looking forward to hearing your opinions!

SEARCHING FOR A BETA

On another note: I'd be really greateful if one of you, preferably someone with English as their first language, would agree to beta me. I have the feeling that my English is deteriorating as there is no one to correct me, and I mean in more than just grammar. I would like to keep improving, therefore I need someone who would tell me if there was something that could be phrased better or described via idioms that I often don't know. So really: I'm not only searching for beta to correct mistakes, I'm searching for a harsh critic who loves the colour red!
If any of you are interested, please send me an email (the address can be found on my ff.net or my AO3 profile)
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