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Angst

The Heir by Sarablade [Reviews - 11]

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A/N: Not mine, the known characters.
Thousand thanks for all those great readers reviewing and sharing their insights with me here...
For all those who've read the first chapter under another name, this is the same story. To save headaches this will be my new penname from now on.

Please review...

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She stood in the corner of the gothic high window of Snape's unheated cavernous antechamber, blindingly staring at the rain outside, mindful not to touch any of his furniture, as the elf had sternly warned. From the inside Snape's home looked gloomy and grand, hollow in spite of the heavy, mildewed centuries-old furniture and tapestries. An abandoned museum.

She tried to concentrate on the way her feet hurt in the old Azkaban-issue shoes, and on the job interview Bill had arranged for her this afternoon, to avoid thinking of the upcoming confrontation. Her head swam with hunger, stress, and the after-effect of the crying bout she'd had after leaving Emery.

Five days left, meaning it may have been the fourth time before last she ever kissed her baby good-bye in the morning. She smirked, opening a wound on her lip again, began to chew it mindlessly.

The huge, menacing clock was ominously ticking away. One hundred and six. Back when the world looked as if it only needed some idealistic young dedicated people, however few were left of them, to be set whole and good again, she'd become an Unspeakable. Some part of her trained brain still automatically logged in that kind of peripheral knowledge. Time elapsed, surroundings...

And now it suddenly warned her of an approaching presence.


She'd lost her edge though, or the intermittent crybaby sniffling she'd been afflicted with since last spotting Emery's too-thin, too-pale small hand waving her good-day through Azkaban's gate, had messed with her senses, because she didn’t get to whip around, or even compose herself before his voice, thin and nasty, cut through her ears.

"Don't turn around. If you turn around or look at me without my express permission it'll be the last time you enter this house. If you speak without my express permission… it will annoy me."

She dipped her head in acquiescence, did not bother to bring it back up.

His steps – soft, menacing – creaked closer on the ancient floorboards, until she could feel the physical heat emanating from him. And his inherent malevolence. He smelled of Firewhisky, expensive leather and dark coffee, over something… unhealthy. Something that reminded her of the emergency medical care part of the training.

"You have some nerve, Malfoy Breeder."

She pinched her broken lips and concentrating on not shaking. Really? She felt as if all her nerve had left her so long ago… She sensed him looming nearer, his hair and nose brushing her skull. Unwillingly her breath hitched.

He chuckled. A low, self-satisfied throaty laugh, sure of the man's power over the woman standing right before him.

"Do you know, Breeder, do you have any idea what I'd look for in a wife? Are you so far gone from your previous persona that you didn't research the meaning of being married to a Snape?"

Although she'd grown taller during her pregnancy, he had to stoop so his mouth was flush with her left ear. The weird smell got stronger.

"Look ahead, Breeder. Keep looking ahead. Do you know how the last six Snape wives died?"

She willed herself silent, although her mind screamed answers. Nodded dumbly as her hands fluttered to her throat.

His hands firmly circled her wrists from behind, putting them back down to her sides, and went back to her throat , barely touching it.

"Right. They were either strangled, or slowly smothered to death." Suddenly his voice took a violent quality, ringing in her ear. "By their husbands. Did you know that, Breeder?"

His hands were roughly massaging her throat, squeezing her trachea, causing her to cough and send her hand to the wall not to fall. Color spots were flying before her eyes as she struggled for air. She knew better than try to fight back.

Suddenly he took his hands away, stepped back. His voice was calm again, his school voice. "Except one. Can you tell me which?"

She nodded between the coughs, careful not to look at him.

"Take your filthy hand away from my wall," he hissed. He took a step back. "You smell, by the way."

She complied as if burned, taking in rough bursts of air spasmodically, hugging herself for balance, coughing. She was blinded by the tears coming out of her eyes.

"Put your hands on your head. Stand straight." He stepped close to her again, his left hand at her throat, going down to the chest, grazing a nipple, up again to the buckle of her robe, to her throat. His fingers slid inside the robe, probing the hidden skin. She fleetingly asked herself if she'd rather be... had, or strangled, before realizing he'd probably do both.


But her breathing stopped by itself when suddenly her robe fell at her feet, and she felt the rough abrasion of a very thorough Scourgify. The hair, the skin, under the nails like with a rough pocket-knife… internally. She closed her eyes against the intrusion and the thought of her grey, Azkaban fraying underclothes (grandmother's sagging bra, granddad's ripped undershorts) and ungainly shoes, her skeletal body and the marks on her skin.


I'll glamour myself, she wanted to scream. I'll turn into the very embodiment of your fantasies. I'll open to you, and suck you, and massage your feet with my -



"Kindly stop the cheap come-ons, Granger," he snapped.

He'd been in her head.

He snorted. "You want to be my wife, Breeder. A good wife shouldn’t want to keep any secrets from her husband, should she?"

She tried to wet her desiccated lips with an equally dry tongue. Where were all the tears when one needed them? Had he just alluded he'd be ready to marry her? Indeed? She tried to calm the wild beating of her heart, the images of Emery growing near her, the sudden elation, the -

"Of course not," he sniggered again. "But I must thank you for the amusement which infused the very nice chat I had with Narcissa yesterday evening. She and I found ourselves in agreement and separated in good cheer." The icy bitter tone of his voice belied the words.

She pushed her nails into her palms to overcome the urge to turn and look at him, to decipher his face.

"Of course not marry", Narcissa and him in agreement.

Suddenly the tears were not hard to come by. Her stomach churned painfully and she feared she'd be sick. She had lengthily debated the risks of going to him, known there was a possibility he'd turn against her and help Narcissa, but in the end she'd refused to believe it. She still saw the war hero in him, the-

"Refreshingly candid," he drawled. He chuckled at the flash of anger in her head at finding him lurking there, aware of her thoughts. "I have a proposal, though."



"Are you listening?"





The Heir by Sarablade [Reviews - 11]

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