A celebration for all. A victory for one.

[lord_mordre]

The Dark Lord sat on his throne, spidery fingers curled around the ends of the bone and ivory chair. He was particularly pleased with how things were progressing. Years of painstaking planning had finally paid off, and he had Severus, of all his followers to thank. And with Lucius in Azkaban and Draco so close to death's edge, he'd finally be

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[prongs_by_proxy]

The cold washed over him again, and his knees buckled. He'd been right; the floor damaged James's knees.

He laid his head against Master's thigh, glad to avoid the stares, but despite his earlier wish the command did not soothe him. James had sat on many laps, mostly when the world had been oversized and the people huge, but he could find no memories of James kneeling so obsequiously, though once James had laid under a tree with his head in Lily's lap.

That would have to serve precedent, he decided, though he didn't suppose Master would take off his shirt later, or let him put James's hands up his robe.

He let his gaze drift out over the gathered servants, and found so many eyes watching him that he couldn't help but press against Master. Then he felt this was the wrong thing to do, for nothing in his memories hinted at this shyness.

James did not hide when people watched him.

He tried to straighten his shoulders, bent as they were to accommodate his head in Master's lap. He imagined James might like all these strangers watching his every move, and surely that was what Master intended, but he wished Master had given him more time. He was still clumsy with James's body, and he didn't want to make a mistake in front of such a large audience. Despite his resolution, he turned his head to Master's thigh again.

[stoppered_death]

Snape had attended many Dark Revels, though never before in such a favoured position. He was familiar with his Lord's and his colleagues' tastes in ...entertainment. He had had time to prepare, mentally as well as physically.

Nothing from wrestling Giants to mating thestrals would have earned the slightest flicker of reaction from him.

So when Snape's prowling stride - its smoothness calculated to make the most of his trailing overmantle and wing-wide sleeves - actually paused, and his usually-expressionless black eyes blinked and widened, these tiny reactions spoke volumes.

Potter? What the fuck?

A stare as focused as a black searchlight tracked the progress of the tousle-haired figure through the hall, cataloguing the marionette-clumsiness of its movements as it knelt by the Dark Lord, assessing the unhealthy hue of skin: even more pallid than Snape's own.

He hardly needed the Dark Lord's command: his curiosity alone would have drawn him closer. As it was, he hastened to approach his Lord's throne, not even sparing a sneer for Pettigrew as he moved.