FIC: Hand Me Down Devotion (R)
Title: Hand Me Down Devotion
Type: Fic
Age-Range Category:
Characters/Pairings: Severus/Lucius, Severus/Evan, Voldemort and assorted Death Eaters
Author: snax0
Beta(s): Alex
Rating: R
(Highlight to View) Warning(s): Ambiguous relationships, implied/referenced violence, non-explicit sexual activity, hints of infidelity.
Note: WC: 4,255. Bit of a mad dash to get this in as a pinch-hit, but I had fun writing it and I hope you all enjoy it! Thank you, iulia_linnea, for running the fest!
Summary: Potions, war, attraction; they brew.
August, 1977.
A bell's chime cuts through silence: too loud and high pitched, like it's shrieking for attention. Not dissimilar to the cry of an infant animal, Severus has always thought. Particularly one in pain. He shifts his gaze from his book to the apothecary's door, expectant. Perhaps a little irritated. He doesn't like being interrupted, especially not when he's in the middle of something interesting. It dissolves a moment later, though, as he sees who it is that steps inside. The bell chimes again as the door shuts, and Severus stifles the sigh pressing at his teeth. He hates the sound. Has not grown used to it, as Master Bonhomme would attest. It's unnecessary. All of it. The shop is small, but more than that, the door drags across the ground, wood scraping against wood, harsh and grating. Customers are hard to miss. Never mind when it's this one.
Lucius walks in as if he owns the place, summer robe falling to his feet, the grey fabric so dark it looks black until the light hits. Sun streams through the shelves pressed to the window: comes through broken, beams slipping through the cracks between ready-made potions and painting the room with a lined pattern, marks of light turned bright orange by the setting sun. Severus shuts his book and watches.
"What are you doing here?" he asks, but he doesn't really care for the answer. Half his mind is still thinking about his book-journal, really. Filled with theoretical essays on advanced practices of Legilimency. He's been trying to fine-tune it, lately: turn his natural inclination to something more useful. After all, duelling is always easier when you know what your opponent is thinking, especially when you can do it without an overt attempt at intrusion. The rest of him is caught up with how Lucius looks in the golden light: fair hair yellowed and glowing almost as if it were a halo, his figure a sturdy, solid stance of lean muscle and latent power. He is beautiful in a way that is undeniable. In a way that is conventional. In a way that drives Severus up the damn wall.
Lucius smiles, a picture-perfect image of politeness. "Shopping," he says, in a voice that suggests anything but. It's funny, really. How conversations these days consist mostly of half-truths and omissions. You never know who's listening, everyone has always said, and so Severus made a spell for that. But, no, he thinks. Best not to, not at work. Master Bonhomme is only a few rows away.
He arches a brow. Doesn't swallow the sarcasm that pools in his mouth. "What can I do for you today, sir?"
The smirk doesn't leave Lucius even as he tuts. "Careful," he admonishes. "Wouldn't want a customer complaint."
Severus rolls his eyes. Catches sight of Lucius' own, the mischievous glint invalidating his serious tone. He remembers, from his earlier years at Hogwarts, the way girls would giggle and gush and whisper in soft voices, sneaking glances at Lucius and talking at length about his long blonde hair and stormy grey eyes. Severus has always thought that they were wrong. Lucius' eyes are nothing like a storm. There are no dark clouds, no strikes of lightning, no heavy rain. They are grey like The Draught of Living Death is at its seventh step, when it's more poison than potion, more harmful than helpful: a light, clear grey, similar to still water except for how the pixie dust glitters, reminiscent of thousands of little icicles in a snow-covered field. They are not volatile or dangerous or destructive. They are alluring the way the ocean is; the threat of drowning immaterial so long as you get to be in it.
"Three vials of Pepperup," Lucius instructs, "and a batch of dried borage." He pauses, gaze trailing over Severus, the counter, the rare ingredients in the shelves behind. Then, in an amused tone, "Please."
Severus doesn't bother with the snarky retort sitting on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he steps from behind the counter and goes to retrieve the order. The borage is, perhaps, understandable, their newest batch transported in from a small Wizarding community just off the Mediterranean coast, the difference in climate accentuating its colour and sweetening its taste, but the Pepperup is a clear red herring. Lucius is a skilled potioneer, almost as skilled as Severus himself. He could make it at home with little effort and the both of them know it.
"Four galleons, three knuts," Severus tells him, placing the items in the apothecary's standard bag. He's careful, folds the tip back and tapes the paper in place. Master Bonhomme's footsteps can be heard drawing nearer, the man's accented tones barely audible as he murmurs to himself.
Lucius reaches beneath his robes to retrieve his payment, and Severus can't help but watch as his fingers disappear behind the fabric. He's always been drawn to Lucius' hands. Smooth and pale but solid like the rest of him, so often adorned in glittering jewellery; the display of wealth clear as the crystal he wears. His fingers are long and thin like Severus' own, but elegant in a way he'll never be. Where Lucius' nails are clipped and manicured, his are chipped and stained, his fingertips calloused and scarred. Signs of his work impossible to hide. Currently, there are streaks of a deep, dark green that curl across his palms, between his fingers, underneath his nails, the residue of his latest failed attempt at an elixir for major curses. It will fade, he knows, in time. Shift to something softer before it disappears entirely; but for now, he balls his hands into fists and keeps them beneath the table. He wonders if Lucius Malfoy has ever felt shame or if it's simply another thing that Malfoys are immune to.
Payment is placed on the counter: a small, torn strip of parchment folded beneath and half-hidden. Lucius doesn't move his hand until Severus covers it with his own, understanding settling as he pockets the note and places the money in the register.
"You'll come," Lucius says then, a low murmur, and there's no real room for argument. Not anymore, not when it's easy-seventeen and no restrictions. All he has to do is Apparate.
"We'll see," is his response, but both of them know what the outcome will be. He will come. He always comes. He sees no other choice but to.
It's only once the bell chimes for a fourth time that Severus excuses himself to the restroom. Master Bonhomme waves him away, replacing his spot at the counter, and Severus makes sure to lock the door before he removes the note from his pocket and reads the brief message. There, in Lucius' familiar penmanship, is the time and location of their groups' next meeting, the parchment on which it's written bursting into flames and dissolving to dust not a second after the information is burnt into Severus' memory.
Oakhill. Sunday. 7 P.M. Do not be late.
September, 1977.
"You both went?"
There's a loud pop, the sound of gum snapping. Severus watches Evan give Regulus a quick grin. "Of course we did," he says. "Mulciber, too."
"And?"
"And, what?"
"Well, you know." Regulus shrugs, black fabric pulled tight over his broad shoulders. He's had another growth spurt, Severus thinks. Is turning into the mirror image of his brother, albeit one that is more tolerable. More reserved, really. Neat and clean and quiet; Slytherin. "What was it like?"
Evan quirks an eyebrow. "I thought you said you weren't interested."
"I never said that."
"Yes, you did," Severus says. It's the first time he's spoken since they settled into the train compartment. Evan laughs beside him: a quiet, breathy chuckle, the warmth of it brushing Severus' cheek. He has an arm thrown across their seat, behind Severus' shoulders, the tips of his fingers on his right hand resting on Severus' robe, and Severus is acutely aware of how Evan's body leans against his. Of how he inches closer with every jolt and jump the train makes.
"More than once, as I remember," Evan goads, laughing again when Regulus rolls his eyes.
"Well." He shakes his head, strands of short, black hair falling across his face. "Whatever. What'd you do?"
There's a pause, silence filling the compartment. Evan catches his eye, lips twitching, and Severus holds it for a second before he looks at Regulus again. They're safe; Muffliato cast almost the second they'd sat down. But still. Still. "What do you think we did?" he asks, voice lowered, deeper, filled with an ominous innuendo.
Regulus swallows. He's read the papers. Severus can see his throat work beneath the buttoned collar, the shade of his skin paling just a bit as he leans back, fingers tapping against the curve of his knees. "Right," he says. "Right, yeah." Another pause, tense as Regulus works up the courage to ask after whatever it is he wants to know. Then, "Did you enjoy it?"
Their carriage vibrates, wobbles, the train driving over a troubled spot. Through the window, Severus can see a field of endless green, trees and indiscernible scenery passing in a blur as they move beneath the greying sky. He contemplates the question. Can feel Evan's fingers stroking the curve of his bony shoulder. Did they enjoy it? Did he enjoy it? He thinks of Evan, of the feral grin and the way he'd found him, after: out of breath but elated, small circles of blood splatter still clinging to his collar, his cheek, his lips. He thinks of the hard lines of Evan's body and the way he'd pressed at Severus' side, arousal undeniable. He thinks of his own body: the way adrenaline had burned, white-hot, until it lit up every vein, the way his breath had come quick, chest panting, the knowledge of his own power making him dizzy. Did they enjoy it? He thinks of Evan's hand on his arm and the mattress beneath his back, the way they hadn't waited: clothes shoved aside haphazardly and touches rough. Did he enjoy it?
Yes, he wants to say. Yes, yes, they did. What comes out is, "That's not what matters."
Regulus changes the subject.
December, 1977.
The letter comes a week before winter break, Lucius' familiar eagle owl swooping over the Slytherin table and landing beside Severus' plate. Her wings flutter, beak nipping at his toast as he unties the attached parcel, her soft cheek rubbing against his palm when he spares her an appreciative pat.
"What is it?" Evan asks, no sense of personal space as he looks over Severus' shoulder, soft, dirty blonde curls pressing against Severus' jaw as he tries to read. Severus moves away and fixes him with a stare: blank, bemused, a little fond despite himself. Evan smiles, as if to say, What? and Severus shakes his head. Brings the letter closer to himself.
There are ingredients in the package: little pouches of herbs and shavings and four small vials of liquid. Severus quickly hides them in his bag and reads the letter. Rereads it. "It's an order," he says when he's done, soft and secretive. "The Draught of Delirium, three batches. On behalf of…"
He trails off, but it's obvious who it's for. The name none of them say, not here. Not where they can be caught; the Wizarding World aware of a growing threat but still begging to put a name to it.
"Oh."
"Mm." It's nothing new. Severus has been taking orders since he was thirteen, his skill with a cauldron spreading across certain crowds with a little help and a lot of hard work. It's helped him cultivate a small fortune; enough to get by on, at the very least. It's not even the first order he's received from the Dark Lord. "Wants it done by Easter."
Evan nods, returning to his breakfast as Severus folds the letter and pockets it, Lucius' owl disappearing only after she's ruined the rest of his toast. "Doable?" Evan asks, bringing a forkful of eggs to his mouth.
"Should be," Severus tells him. If things go to plan. They will, of course-their professors don't care enough about him to care what he does in the abandoned classrooms just past the Slytherin dorms. Five years and Potter's the only person who's ever come close to finding his workspace. "I'll have to stay for break."
"Reckon you're his new favourite," Mulciber comments, gruff and gravelly, from the seat across him. Severus' expression hardens to a sneer.
Internally, though, he preens.
March, 1978.
He receives another owl in early March, this one from Malfoy Sr. There's a date and a time, an invitation to spend the week at the Manor. He packs two sets of his best robes and wears the third, the latter a gift from Narcissa for his seventeenth birthday: high necked and billowing behind him, black fabric weaved from the finest material and intricate embroidery stitched with pure silver along his sleeves. They'll make you look taller, she'd said, as Lucius smiled at him from behind her shoulder. More imposing. At the time, he was sure it was utter shite, but he can't deny what they do to his figure.
An elf meets him at the entry of Malfoy Manor's drawing room, bumbling nonsense as it takes his trunk and directs him up the stairs. Severus goes, passing by the portraits on the wall, the expensive décor. Abraxas' study is a familiar sight by now, the room witness to more than a few of Severus' secret dealings. It had been Mr. Malfoy who'd got him his major clients, initial interest piqued by Lucius' recommendation and solidified when he'd seen his work himself. Now, Severus knocks on the heavy door, his knuckles grazing over detailed woodwork, the case with the requested order held carefully at his side as he waits for the call to enter.
It comes almost instantly, the door opening with it. Severus steps inside as it locks behind him, his head bowed in a show of respect as he greets the two other occupants.
"My boy," the Dark Lord murmurs, looking him over with an interested gaze. He has changed, again, since the last time Severus had seen him: the already wax-like skin paling an extra shade and stretching across his face almost as if it were a mask. His eyes, though always bloodshot, glisten beneath the candlelight, the usual dark hue lightened by a reddish gleam. "Come here," he continues, beckoning him forward with the crook of a finger, and Severus does not think to disobey.
He places the case on Abraxas' desk, unclasps the opening and pulls the lid back. Inside sit three large vials, each protected as the case's padding curls around them, the liquid enclosed in the glass a bright, sleek yellow, not quite clear but not entirely opaque, either. It's always reminded Severus of the bottle of Advocaat Mr. Evans had kept on his liquor shelf, hidden up and away from any prying children.
"The Draught of Delirium, My Lord," Severus says, dispelling any and all thoughts of the Evans family from his mind. He nudges the case forward, inviting inspection. "As requested."
The Dark Lord plucks a vial from its place, as does Mr. Malfoy. Severus stands, waiting, his hands clasped behind his back and shoulders straight as he watches the men assess his work. Vials are brought close to their faces, are twisted beneath the light. Corks are popped, the concoction sniffed, assessed, approved of.
"Well done," Abraxas tells him, replacing the vial to its rightful spot. Severus bows his head in silent acknowledgment, holds his breath as the Dark Lord follows suit.
The case is shut once more, the Dark Lord taking hold of the handle and moving it to his side. "I see great potential in you, Severus," he says, a gentle murmur, his unblinking eyes meeting Severus' own. "You will, I think, prove quite useful in the coming months."
Severus' lip curls: a small, accomplished smile. "Thank you, My Lord."
The Dark Lord nods, waving a hand to the spare seat at Abraxas' desk. "Sit," he orders. Severus complies.
April, 1978.
"I hear it went well."
Severus hums, leaning against his seat in one of Malfoy Manor's many sitting rooms. He holds a cigarette in hand, butt brought to his mouth, the balcony's windows pulled open and curtains flapping in the evening wind. Cool air filters inside, the gentle pitter-patter of rain audible over the quiet conversation. Lucius stands against the railing, back to the gardens as he looks at Severus; the blue glow of his shielding charm casting him in a gentle light.
"He's waiting for you to graduate, I think," Lucius continues, index finger tapping against the crystal glass he holds in hand. "You've likely proved yourself by now."
"Your father said the same."
Smoke coils in front of him, the grey cloud slowly dissolving to nothing, fading with the wind. Through it, he sees Lucius step closer. Hears the gentle clatter of glass against wood. He takes another drag and waits, eyes shut. Feels the body settle on the couch beside him.
There's silence, thick but comfortable. Compatible. It's strange, Severus thinks, to have comfortable silence with Lucius Malfoy. Their friendship had been unexpected, the difference in age, class, expression a stepping stone no one thought they'd overcome, and yet here they are. Here they are.
"You should be proud," Lucius tells him. His voice is like the cognac he'd served: smooth, warm. Enough to make Severus' insides burn hot. A hand settles on his leg, above his knee; a little too above his knee. Fingers circle his thigh, add a bit of pressure, the warmth seeping through layers of fabric and transferring to skin.
Severus swallows and then exhales: a slow, steady stream. "I am," he says, and he is. Has every reason to be. Lucius hums, low and inviting. Severus drops his finished cigarette into the ashtray and aches to light another.
"Good." The body beside him shifts, and for a second, Severus thinks that Lucius is going to lean forward, toward him, in. He wonders, sometimes, if there's a chance of that. Thinks that maybe there might be. He's heard rumours, at any rate. Hints to Narcissa's leniency. An offhand joke from Bellatrix about permission. He tries not to think about it. Tries. Fails. "I look forward to spending more time with you, Severus."
The hand falls away: a slow, torturous drag.His body remains hot.
April, 1978.
"Great potential? You're sure that's what he said?"
Evan is whispering, blue eyes wide, light streaming through the window and hitting them in a way that highlights the flecks of green and gold. He's sat across from Severus, is leaning forward in his seat, one elbow on his thigh while his spare hand curls around Severus' knee. His hold is tight, excitement barely contained.
"Yes," Severus says, for what has to be the third time. "Why?"
Evan looks around despite the Muffliato, watches as a little first year passes their compartment and scurries toward her friends. "It's just. That's what he said to Bellatrix, wasn't it? Before he…"
He leaves it hanging, but Severus can hear the rest of the sentence. Marked her, his mind supplies, thinking back to the one time he'd caught sight of her left arm: half-shadowed in the candle light, the black ink stark against pale skin. "I don't know," Severus says, truthfully. He and Bella had never got on.
"Yeah, well," Evan starts. "Remember Lucius' wedding? I overheard Rabastan tell Ka-"
He cuts off abruptly, a high-pitched screeching sound interrupting them as their compartment door is pulled open, an all-too-familiar voice fading away as Severus comes face to face with Sirius Black. He ends the Muffliato just in time, the flick of his wrist concealed by the way Evan sits, fingers still curled around his knee.
"What the fuck do you want?" Evan spits, combative already. Severus looks first at him, then Black, then to where Lupin stands behind Black's shoulder, a torn, brown blanket thrown across his shoulders, his left cheek red with a scabbing scar.
Lupin curls his fingers around Black's wrist, tentative. "Sorry," he says. "We thought it was empty." He tries to turn, but Black won't budge. His gaze zeros in on where Evan is touching him. Severus can feel it, the heat. Can tell immediately that this will not end without an incident.
He tightens his hand around his wand.
"Didn't realise we were interrupting a date," Black mocks, an edge to his voice. "Course, I didn't think anyone would stoop so low as to shag that."
He spits the last word, looking Severus up and down. Severus' first thought is that it's a terrible insult, even for him; predictable with little impact. His second is a disparaging remark on Black's own inclination to half-breeds.
He opens his mouth, ready to say it, but Evan beats him to it. "Your baby brother doesn't seem to mind," he says. Grins when Black's face hardens, hatred twisting his features. It's a lie, of course. Neither of them have ever had sex with Regulus, but they've long since learnt that this is a sore spot for Sirius. Say the right thing and Black will snap, attack first, get himself into trouble. They both have it down to an art. "You should hear the way he screams like a bitch in heat when we fu-"
Black lunges, a string of obscenities spat as the first curse goes flying. Lupin's hand grabs at his shoulder, a warning, but it goes ignored as Evan jumps to his feet as well. Severus remains seated, watching. Only interferes when Black's fist collides with Evan's face, the beginning of a very dark, very illegal spell escaping Evan's mouth as retaliation.
"Stop," Severus snaps, arm circling around Evan's middle and pulling him back. Lupin takes the opportunity to do the same to Black. "Stop," Severus says again, softer this time, murmured directly into Evan's ear. The body in his arms relaxes, tension draining as Evan leans against him. Severus reaches forward, takes hold of the handle and slams the door shut in Black's face. He waits a minute, slowly lets go of Evan's body as Lupin and Black walk away, a distant threat of You'd better watch it, Rosier, thrown their way.
"I'd like to rip his bloody tongue out," Evan says from behind him, settling back in his seat. Severus snorts.
"We'll get our chance," he murmurs, turning away from the door. Lucius had used to say the same thing, years ago, back when Severus was a fiery little third year and he the Head Boy. He hadn't understood, then, why revenge had to wait for Lucius' promise of later, but he gets it now. Keeps it as a small comfort, the knowledge that someday soon there will be a battlefield with an even playing ground: no school rules or Ministry laws to restrict him, just power and knowledge versus power and knowledge. He knows he'll win. "Just be patient," he says; a promise.
He retakes his seat and settles in. Just be patient.
June, 1978.
Severus, the note reads. Your presence is required at the Lestrange Estate on 3 July. Dinner will commence at 8 P.M. sharp. Dress appropriately. Yours, Lucius.
His thumb trails over the last two words, parchment crinkling beneath his hand, the black ink of Lucius' penmanship leaving a faint grey streak across his already-stained skin. He reads the letter three times and turns it over in his hands, chest tight as the meaning settles in. Severus is no fool. He knows what this is. Knows that it's not just any ordinary invitation.
The Mark, he thinks. Initiation. An official recognition of his talent and the last chance for him to turn away from the path he's on. He reads the letter again despite the fact that he can already recite the words from memory. It's less than a week away, the date, this chance to solidify his fate.
He thinks of Lucius: of darkened rooms and secretive smiles and the heavy weight of a hand on his back, his shoulder, his knee, his arm, his neck, his wrist, his thigh, he thinks of sleepless nights spent before a crackling fire, of ancient runes printed on dusty pages and the way the hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge when a low, elegant voice whispers in his ear. He thinks of Evan: of hot breath and heated kisses and a slowly formed friendship. Thinks of the weight of another body against his own, of easy smiles and loud laughter and the way he'd looked, that very first time, that very first raid, a Muggle village burning behind him, hair golden, eyes alight. For a fleeting moment, he even thinks of Lily: fond memories tainted, a relationship long gone, seemingly broken beyond repair. And then, finally, he thinks of the Dark Lord. Thinks of the real appeal. Of power and promise and ambition, of praise and recognition and the chance to actually be something.
He tries to think of another option and can only draw a blank.
Lucius' owl remains in place, and so Severus knows she's been instructed to wait for an answer. He retrieves parchment, his quill, a pot of ink. Knows this is a defining moment. His kairos.
The answer comes easy.
See you there.
Yours,
Severus