A Dish Served Cold

A/N - Much thanks to the sublime Shiv for the beta\'ing service.


Chapter 35 – Slytherins

Blaise Zabini read the words on the page again, but they hadn’t changed. It was his mother’s handwriting, which made it particularly difficult to read – both because her scrawl was nearly illegible and because the idea of his own mother asking such a thing of him made him rather ill.

Lisa looked up at him from where she was sitting on the window ledge and the complete lack of hope in her eyes was tearing him up inside. He knew that the other boys his age were getting the same sort of letters and the obituaries in the paper told him how many of them were being obedient to their family’s wishes. He wondered how many had resisted even a little. Did any of them look at the young women they had married as anything other than cattle to be slaughtered?

Being pureblood used to mean something. There was a sort of Noblesse Oblige towards lesser folk. Muggles were savages, yes, but you pitied them and kept your distance; you didn’t kill them. He glanced out the window at the gathering dusk and wished that he lived in a different age. Preferably ancient Greece where there were plenty of oiled up young men who thought being gay was normal.

He dragged his thoughts back to his present dilemma and re-read the letter.

He couldn’t do it of course.

No one would turn him into a murderer over something as foolish as bloodlines.

So what to do? His mother’s letter made it perfectly clear that he was being given no choice in the matter.
There really only was one option.

“Lisa, we need to speak to the Headmaster,” he announced suddenly and rose, heading towards the door. With a startled look in her eyes Lisa got up and followed him out the door.

Draco stared up at the ceiling of the hospital wing and wondered why he always seemed to end up here.
“Here” being the metaphorical place where he was beaten up, bruised and thoroughly hexed.

He seemed to be in that place more often than was really fair.

“How are you feeling?” asked an unfamiliar and decidedly surly female voice. He turned his head and Susan Bones’ round face swam into view. He blinked, the cross-eyed hex had taken longest to undo and his eyes were still sore.

“Awful, if that makes you happy,” he grumbled, feeling as though his ill usage would never end. All the day had needed was his pudgy fiancée showing up.

“It doesn’t make me happy, Draco,” she sighed and gave him a look that implied he was mentally deficient or at least rather dim.

“You ought to be praying for my death, Bones,” he retorted, somewhat puzzled by her change in attitude.

“Why? Are you going to crawl out of that bed on your jelly legs and throw up on me?” Now her tone was openly disdainful and Draco flushed in anger. Where did she get off talking to him like that?

“You ought to watch what you say to me!” he snarled and immediately began to cough, ruining the effect completely.

“Listen Draco, I can hex you twenty ways to Sunday, my Great Aunt taught me things that would make your hair fall out. You may be my destined soul mate or whatever, but you had better watch your mouth around me because I can turn you into minced meat, you got that?” The vision of his plump, little, meek wife grinding him up didn’t seem so ludicrous when she had that martial gleam in her eye. Draco eyed her with far more wariness than he had ever before felt around anyone but his father, well, and Ginny Weasley, but then, the youngest Weasley was bloody scary.

It occurred to him that badgers can be fierce when cornered and he would have to sleep around her sometime.

“Humph,” he grunted and she crossed her arms and glared at him. Eventually she turned and left and Draco was left to think long and hard about the precarious nature of his situation.

Georgian groaned and sighed as he marked papers. The natural stupidity of the average person made him cringe.

“What’s wrong?” his wife asked him softly.

“A Marmoset is not something you wear in winter,” he replied and she snorted her amusement.

“Ah, now see, I hadn’t known that,” she chuckled and her tone was gentle enough to be somewhat startling to him. He looked up at her, surprise on his face and she looked somewhat embarrassed under his gaze. “Georgian, I haven’t been quite fair to you…” she began.

“There is no need to apologize. My father’s reputation has colored my life since childhood. I have come to expect it.” She winced a little as he spoke and it occurred to him that he sounded rather bleak.

“There are some good things about being Muggleborn, you leave behind your past when you come to Hogwarts, for one,” she sighed and he nodded. He had once thought of giving up magic entirely and fleeing into the Muggle world, but he had finally chosen to stay and try to repair the damage his father had done to the family reputation. It had proved much harder than he had thought it would.

“Must be nice,” he sighed enviously. “Though losing your parents has to go on the minus side,” he added, remembering that her family had been killed by Voldemort. A look of profound grief crossed her face and he quickly rose to stand beside her, feeling like an idiot for bringing that up, and putting a compassionate arm around her shoulders.

“My parents were killed because a madman hates things he doesn’t understand,” she choked out and he wrapped her up tight against him as she began to cry. He scooped her up and carried her to the brown leather armchair beside the fireplace. He settled into it with her across his lap and cradled her exactly as he would have one of his students in distress. A handkerchief was provided and a strong shoulder, beyond that the grief would just have to take its course. He knew that from extensive personal experience.

Some time later her hand groped for the scrap of fabric and she blew her nose with a shy glance at him.

“Sorry about that,” she nearly whispered.

“Don’t be, I am always willing to let a pretty girl cry on me,” he responded gallantly and she gave him a crinkly smile that transformed her into the pretty girl he had just named her.

He felt as though a truce had been called and it made him glad. Maggie was smiling through red eyes and mussed hair and he discovered that he rather liked this person. He only hoped that she could say the same about him.

Lucius was sitting in his cell contemplating exit strategies. He had several, most of which involved him on a beach somewhere with Narcissa, sipping something fruity and very alcoholic.

A Dementor drifted by and Lucius shivered. He hated the filthy things, but he was completely unaffected by them otherwise. Tattered gray robes swept down the stone corridor and the other inmates of Azkaban screamed and wept in its wake.

Weak-minded fools, Lucius mused. The trick to living in Azkaban was to have no sense of guilt and no unhappy memories to be used against you. Long before he had been arrested he had drawn out all his unhappy memories and put them into a pensieve then obliterated them from his mind. It always paid to think ahead. He smiled and continued to write his letter to Narcissa, all the while thinking and plotting.
He was ready for anything that might come.

Severus quietly shut the door on his spying cubby behind him and still deep in thought repaired to his laboratory. It was the only room he had been able to make over completely in his own tastes and it was perfectly clean and orderly with a Spartan quality that he found particularly refreshing after hours spent in Salazar Slytherin’s overly ornate chambers.

He unrolled one of the parchments that he had procured from Grindelwald’s library and spread it out on the plain wooden plank surface that served as his dry ingredients mixing table. A few weights on the corners secured the brittle scroll as he began gathering ingredients and setting them out in neat rows like soldiers awaiting a battle.

He had been contemplating his approach to this particular potion for some days before he had even begun gathering equipment for it. Despite his contemptuous words to Miss Weasley, he had certain reservations about possibly killing Remus Lupin.

Not that he liked the spineless fool or anything like that, but, as a fellow Order member and ally, it behooved him not to be reckless with the man’s life. Whether or not Lupin had been strong enough to oppose Potter and Black, he had never been one of those who had tormented Severus openly and persistently. There was little animosity left for the other man after all these years, they had been merely boys then and Lupin’s fearfulness was less of a crime than the genuine cruelty of the other Marauders.
With that in mind, Severus was genuinely concerned for the werewolf’s health, especially since his death would not be a successful conclusion to the experiment and would certainly not get him into any journals. In fact, Azkaban becoming a permanent residence was the most likely outcome for failure. Certainly that possibility focused his mind quite nicely.

A glass cauldron was a requirement for the spell, something that must have given most wizards pause, even with spells for durability; glass was a difficult substance to brew with. Hermione’s suggestion of Pyrex had been inspired. A quick trip to a Muggle kitchen supply store had provided him with precisely what he needed. It had taken a bit of doing to transfigure it into a useable shape, but he was quite pleased with the outcome. The Muggle material would withstand the high heat without shattering and Severus was certain that the rest of the challenges he faced could be overcome with the same level of ingenuity.

“Severus, do you know what time it is?” His wife’s voice broke his self-congratulatory reverie and returned him to earth.

“Approximately three in the morning, madam,” he replied curtly. He gave her a raised eyebrow but she had developed an immunity to it that irked him.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” was her next question and Severus wondered if all women asked foolish questions with self-evident answers or was he merely cursed.

“I am working,” he answered, still being civil, which was a major accomplishment considering the conversation. He ought to get a medal for that at least.

“I can see that.” Her sour tone denoted a certain lack of sympathy for the drives of genius. “That doesn’t change the fact that it is three in the bloody morning and you ought to be in bed.” Her use of invective told him that she was in a bad temper. It didn’t concern him, of course, as he was a strong man who didn’t quail at a woman’s anger, but the Mediwitch had been very firm that he not upset her too much.

Thinking only of her health and for no other reason, Severus graciously gave in and returned to bed.

Sabine Dumbledore padded through her new husband’s office with a fine disregard for his privacy and personal possessions. She was quite determined to get to the bottom of things and no silly little idealistic nonsense like that was going to get in her way. She started with his books. It was amazing how much you could learn from reading the titles of a person’s library. Years before in the war, Sabine had been quite adept at judging the character of her allies through such simple tricks. She had been an excellent spy, just as her grandson now was.

That had been a pleasant surprise. Sabine was very happy to know that her grandson had followed in the family footsteps. She remembered her own time in the fraternity with fondness, though it was many long years ago.

A title caught her eye and she bent closer to inspect it. It was tucked between a series of treatises on gardening spells and a full collection of a Muggle children’s series about some boys named Hardy. She was amused by his attempt at concealment. Hiding things in plain sight only worked when you weren’t dealing with someone who knew you well.

She drew the slim volume out carefully, not certain that he wouldn’t have put an alarm spell on it and relaxed as no claxon started ringing or shrieking ensued. There was always the possibility of a silent alarm, so Sabine flipped open the book and began to read.

Some hours later she was curled up in a chair in front of his fireplace, deeply engrossed in the book and sipping tea while she read.

“I take it that you have found something interesting to peruse, Sabine?” her husband’s voice, filled with amusement, drifted over to her and she nodded, never lifting her eyes from the words on the page.

“I have discovered that you are a terrible softy and cannot keep from meddling in everything,” she replied.

“Indeed?” He wandered over and gave her a sharp look. She lifted up the book and let him see the title. There was only the tiniest twitch of his mouth to give him away but she noted it with a feeling of satisfaction. “What can you possibly find interesting in a book about ancient superstitions, Sabine?” He did a credible job of appearing uninterested in her activities, but she was old, canny and experienced.

“You’d be better served pretending that you intended me to find this, Albus,” she informed him and he grimaced at her in irritation and amusement combined.

“You were always better at the game than I was, even though I worked harder at it.” No anger in his voice, just a quiet resignation.

“You Gryffindors are far better at the fighting though,” she allowed graciously.

“Why thank you, Sabine,” he drawled with a roll of the eyes. “Is there any other insult you would like to hurl at me tonight?”

“You sound more like a Snape than a Dumbledore at the moment,\" she chortled and he sighed. He took off his spectacles and wiped them with a large handkerchief in an unfortunate shade of puce.

“I think your grandson is rubbing off on me,” he admitted with a genial smile. She found that the blue eyes were warm and friendly and she softened in response.

“Nonsense, I was being unforgivably nosy and you have been quite tolerant,” she rose and summoned a cup for him, pouring out the fragrant tea and passing it to him. Setting the book on the little rosewood table next to the overstuffed chair she had vacated, she tended to his tea requirements and fetched him a scone as well.

“You were well-trained,” he commented as she poured milk and sugar into his cup with a liberal hand. “Your mother would have been proud.” Sabine flushed a little at his words, her pureblood mother had never stopped picking at her throughout her childhood, making certain that her half-blood child was above reproach in all things.

“Proud might be too strong a word, Albus.” She heard the remnants of old pains in her voice and wondered if those childhood hurts ever really went away. At her age she figured that she should be over them already.

“Yes, well I can only imagine what my father would think of Aberforth and myself,” he retorted with a rueful look at where his father’s portrait hung high in the rafters, the snoring figure oblivious to their conversation.

“Not much, but he was an idiot, anyway,” Nigellus’ sharp tones cut across the conversation and Sabine lowered her brows at the interruption.

“Headmaster Black, wasn’t there some scandal in your day? I can’t perfectly recall, but didn’t it involve some teacher and an artifact of immense value?” Sabine put a finger on her chin as she spoke, pretending to try to recall the exact events.

“That was never proven!” Nigellus rapped out and then vanished from his frame in a huff.

“My, my, and I thought that Nigellus Black was utterly imperturbable,” Albus murmured in a wondering tone. “What scandal was this?” he asked curiously.

“It was a Slytherin thing, you wouldn’t understand,” she answered serenely. He gave her an amused look over his teacup.

“What did you think of the book?” he asked next and she settled into her chair and gazed at the innocent little binding.

“Protecte Your Familie From Alle Harme,” she read with pursed lips. “A highly flamboyant title that promises much more than the book delivers,” she added. “Still it has one or two sections I found interesting.” Sabine picked up the book and turned it over in her hands. She looked up at her newly wedded husband with a thoughtful gaze. “I presume that you think that the Family Charms are effective?” she asked dubiously.

“Lily Potter certainly did and her death and subsequent events seem to have proven her correct.” His answer surprised her, not that he believed in the charms, for he obviously did, but that Lily Potter had used them herself.

“That explains certain events quite well,” she muttered to herself. Her mind whirred and clicked through the information and she could see the line of reasoning that Albus must have taken. “It doesn’t however explain his return to power.”

“It does if you know that he used some of Harry’s blood in the ritual to revive himself.” Sabine’s eyes widened, because that was not a part of the newspaper accounts that she had read.

“Yes, I can see where you are going with this, Albus.” She looked over at her husband and felt a certain pride in being the wife of an extremely clever man, even if he wasn’t Slytherin. “Nicely done.”

“Which is just what you said when I defeated Grindelwald, if I remember correctly.” His sardonic tone wasn’t lost on her.

“If you had wanted enthusiasm and perkiness, you should have wed a Gryffindor,” she shot back with asperity.

“Touché,” he sighed and drank his tea, but his eyes were bright and sparkling with amusement, so she knew he wasn’t really upset.

He really wasn’t all that bad a fellow, for a Gryffindor.