Lorelei Thurkell and the Philosopher's Stone

Moonlight fell on the manor, the dense, dark forest surrounding it on all sides, and the elaborate fence, which looked like a mess of snakes in constant motion. There was nothing unique about it; the founder of the Malfoy pure-blood family likely wanted to appear – or convince others – that he was somehow connected to Salazar Slytherin. So he filled the estate with family symbols, especially snakes: on the wallpaper, his cane, the railings, and the fence. There was little charm in it: Malfoy, famously stingy, hired a cheap craftsman and got a fitting result. The snakes were crooked, ugly – some with one eye, others with three – and twisted in unnatural ways, looping and crashing their heads together. And yet, even this absurd scene, however, seemed less ridiculous and more heart-chilling on the night of November 5th, 1981. That was a dark and momentous night. That was a time of strife and uncertainty, and there's no one who knew about that more than a young Lucius Malfoy, the head of his family. The war was over – for everyone but those who had truly fought it. The battlefields changed, the methods too: brute spells gave way to words, curses to accusations, physical death to the death of reputation. Dying for something worth living for had failed; now the struggle was to keep from losing everything worth living for. Lucius Malfoy struggled like the one-eyed snake on his estate’s fence – twisting and shifting, desperate. He had a wife, an heir, the wealth and influence of a noble bloodline he could not afford to lose to youthful extremism and unfulfilled ambitions he had blindly followed once. He lived in terror of standing shackled before the Wizengamot, wandless, voiceless, hearing truths masked as venom. He buried his estate under layers of spells – charms of warning, protection, and ancient vengeance. No one – not a sworn enemy, not even a former ally – could ambush him now. And yet, a dreadful insomnia had gripped him for days. On that night, when a sharp crack echoed beyond the manor gates and an unknown shadow began walking up the gravel path, sleep abandoned him once again. The stranger didn’t appear hostile. Upon reaching the gate, he simply stopped, standing still with quiet patience, as if waiting to be let in. He carried no wand – only a heavy basket – and his expression was blank. Pale skin, hooked nose, and greasy black hair gave him a ghost-like look under the moonlight. His eyes lingered on a three-eyed snake writhing near his face. Then something moved in the bushes. Moments later, footsteps cut through the silence – someone had come down the path from the house. It was Lucius Malfoy himself. It was doubtful he would have come out at all, had he not been informed of the visitor's identity. ‘Is it really you?’ said Lucius softly. ‘My slippery friend.’ Snape gave no answer. He only stared back. ‘Can I trust you?’ Lucius pressed on. ‘I came here hoping I could trust you,’ Snape replied at last. And the gate creaked open. Endlessly long, dark, and cold corridors. The two of them moved through them with surprising speed and grace, exchanging short phrases that meant more than they let on – for their past, their present, and their future. Their world was crumbling in those words, yet neither voice nor expression betrayed their emotions. Only Mr Malfoy’s voice, with its faint tremble, gave anything away. ‘Is it really true, Severus?’ said Mr Malfoy, as if the words were difficult to speak aloud. ‘The Dark Lord has fallen?’ ‘Yes,’ said Snape without hesitation. ‘Because of some boy?’ said Mr Malfoy with a grimace. ‘We can’t be sure.’ ‘That’s what people are saying, Severus. A child – one who barely has milk drying on his lips – brought about the fall of… our Great, almighty Lord,’ whispered Mr Malfoy. ‘What could be hidden in that child, if he’s capable of something like this?’ ‘I don’t know,’ said Snape flatly. Mr Malfoy glanced briefly at the basket in Snape’s hand, its contents hidden beneath a white cloth. Then he quickly looked away. They had reached the guest hall. It was brightly lit: a blazing fireplace and rows of enchanted candles left almost no place for darkness, casting shadows into corners and putting on full display the money, power, and glory of the Malfoy name – displayed boldly and, perhaps, even exaggeratedly. Marble statues of the most noble pure-blood wizards stood along the walls, their pale white surfaces glowing in the firelight. Portraits – painted by the greatest magical artists in Europe – moved subtly, observing the newcomers in silence. At the center of the room stood a tall, graceful woman. So still was she, she could have passed for another statue – until she stepped forward. That was Narcissa Malfoy, née Black. She took two hesitant steps, then froze again. Her eyes were fixed entirely on the basket in Mr Snape’s hands. He placed it on a green-upholstered armchair and seemed to forget about it completely – just as Mr Malfoy pointedly did. Their conversation resumed, as if Mrs Malfoy’s presence made no difference. ‘You… When I heard it – right there in the courtroom – that Dumbledore took you in, that you’d been a spy all along… I didn’t know what to believe,’ said Lucius Malfoy, standing stiffly beside the fireplace – a grand structure framed with marble carvings of muggles writhing in agony under the weight of hard labor, their faces contorted in despair at their own insignificance. Fires glow sharpened the lines of his face, casting a twisted shadow behind him. ‘Tell me the truth, Severus. Did you betray us? Did you betray our Lord?’ Snape stepped forward, then stopped, his cloak trailing like spilled ink. ‘If I had, would I be standing here?’ Lucius narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t know what to think…’ ‘Do you think I’d offer you what I’m offering now, if I had betrayed you?’ ‘And what exactly are you offering me?’ said Lucius Malfoy with a faint smirk. His eyes drifted, almost involuntarily, toward the basket. ‘A burden? A liability?’ Snape’s lips curled ever so slightly. ‘A possibility,’ he said, and something flickered – cold and calculating – in his eyes. ‘A chance to appear noble in the public eye – especially in the eyes of the Wizengamot, which has been all too eager to chase you down lately,’ he said. Mr Malfoy’s expression darkened. ‘No one believe the story about you being under the Imperius Curse, or acting under threats to your family. Crouch has set all his hounds loose to expose every Marked one as a liar. But you can still hide half – more than half – of what you’ve done. You just need to blind them with something bright. Public repentance for choosing the wrong side, for following the Dark Lord… and caring for a war orphan – child of heroes, no less. That is what I’m offering you.’ ‘I’ll find other ways to dodge the charges,’ said Mr Malfoy, though not very convincingly. ‘A child doesn’t guarantee protection from Crouch’s vendetta.’ Snape gave a slight shrug. ‘I’ve heard Thurkell earned favour with Crouch during the war. One way or another, guardianship of his daughter will work in your favour.’ Narcissa stepped forward, gently reaching toward the basket. ‘And what does Dumbledore think of all this?’ asked Mr Malfoy. ‘He doesn’t care,’ said Snape. ‘So he only had time for one war orphan? The rest don’t fall under his saintly concern?’ said Mr Malfoy with a smirk, clearly pleased with his own remark. Watching his wife gently peel back the white cloth from the basket, he added, ‘And you, Severus? Do you care just as little?’ ‘More than little,’ said Snape coolly. ‘She’s your niece. Your sister’s blood.’ ‘Elizabeth and I went our separate ways the day she made the wrong choice,’ said Snape. ‘This child is no more important to me than any other. And I have no intention of burdening my life with her care.’ A soft gasp escaped the room. Mrs Malfoy had covered her mouth, then lowered her hand to her chest. Her eyes, wide with a mixture of fear and sorrow, stared at the infant – and at her tiny arm, on which a dark, twitching mark shimmered in the firelight. The Dark Mark. Lucius, too, had been staring. He tore his gaze away with effort. Snape hadn’t even looked. ‘And still,’ said Lucius, facing the fire, ‘I don’t understand. Why would our Lord – the great, all-knowing one – choose to brand a child? Others died for such a… privilege. What drew him to this one?’ ‘I don’t know,’ said Snape. Silence settled over the room, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire. Mrs Malfoy summoned a hunched house-elf named Spriggan and began quietly giving her instructions – what to do with the child, which room to prepare, what to have ready before she comes. And it seemed the decision that the child would stay, under the care of the Malfoy family, had been made even before Mr Malfoy said, ‘Very well, my friend. You’ve convinced me. I’ll take the child under my wing and raise a proper wizard… as proper as her blood allows.’ Snape nodded. Still, not for a moment did he glance at the child. ‘What is her name?’ asked Narcissa softly. There was a short pause. ‘Lorelei,’ said Snape. Mrs Malfoy looked down at the infant again, but all she could see was the Dark Mark, still shifting faintly on the baby’s arm.