Narcissa Malfoy’s funeral was held four days later in the gardens outside Malfoy Manor’s imposing facades at ten o’clock on the 23rd of June 1997.

As she looked outside the windows at the Cornish cliffs and raging ocean behind, Saturnine fleetingly thought the weather was all wrong. It was a beautiful summer day with a shining sun and a slight breeze—a perfect day for a picnic at the beach. Not the kind of weather one would ever want for a funeral—not that any of them would attend, of course.

Draco had asked to go. He’d come to what was now labelled ‘the adults’ bedroom’ to request to speak to Severus about it. Her brother—who had not left the room again since that night—only agreed to see him long enough to tell him no.

If it had been her and Harry, Saturnine knew there would have been shouting, their emotions taking over—heated words spoken out in anger. But Severus and Draco were Slytherins to their core—snakes with cold blood running in their veins. So, they approached it like a business transaction, arguing their respective stance on the case as they would their bank accounts’ interest rates.

But the result still stood: none of them would go. It was too dangerous. Everyone would expect Narcissa Malfoy’s only son to attend, and it would be the perfect opportunity to have the boy kidnapped again. With the amount of Death Eaters present, attending the ceremony would be akin to committing suicide. There’d be no white-flagged truce for the day—even though it was Draco’s mother they were burying.

Draco hadn’t taken the refusal well. Though he’d done his best to hide his true feelings on the matter, it had shown in his blazing gaze, nonetheless. The hurt—the disappointment.

And Severus, idiot that he was, had let the boy return to his room without a word of encouragement. Saturnine had chastised her brother for it at length afterwards. She had berated him for his poor choice of words and attitude. She hadn’t meant to add to his worry. But she had to make him understand that Draco needed his godfather now—not his Head of House. Was there really nothing of the compassionate kid he’d once been left inside Severus Snape? Couldn’t he find some warmth inside him to share with the boy?

With no other alternative, Saturnine was forced to use her special brand of Ravenclaw ingenuity to solve the situation. She’d had to think outside the box again—so much so that she reached a new personal level of out-of-this-world craziness.

A quick trip to Hogwarts after everyone had gone to sleep assured her the help of Dobby the house-elf. A quick mention of Harry’s name was enough for the large-eared kitchen helper to readily accept her plan, though he understood precious little of it. An Apparition to the heart of London and a bout of morning shopping secured her the necessary equipment to pull it off. She told Severus her plan the next morning. And he approved of it, agreeing to help her with the final preparations.

Shortly before the funeral was set to start, Saturnine knocked on the boys’ bedroom door. Predictably, it was Harry who got up to let her in. He looked anguished and tense, and Saturnine could easily guess why. She nodded in Draco’s direction, and Harry wordlessly opened the door wider.

Saturnine moved to stand by the Slytherin’s bed and found the blond busy reading a book—or pretending to, at least. She sat down next to him and, unsure how much familiarity would be accepted from her, refrained from touching him.

“I know you want to go to the funeral,” she said without preamble.

Draco tensed next to her as if part of him wondered if maybe he would finally be allowed to go. She was sorry to have to quench that hope.

“I agree with my brother’s decision—it’s too dangerous,” she explained. “Even if we were to both go with you, we couldn’t be sure to protect you. And neither of us wants to see you hurt any more than you already have been.” She paused, then made her offer. “I have arranged for you to view the ceremony another way—if you’re interested.”

Two curious pools of liquid mercury settled on her.

“If I tell you digital camera, transmitter, and monitor—have you any idea what I’m talking about?” she asked. Draco shook his head. She wasn’t surprised the blond wasn’t familiar with such contraptions.

“Muggle devices,” she informed him. “Mostly used for entertainment purposes.” At Draco’s evident puzzlement, she added, “I set something up in the living room. Have you heard of a thing called a television?”

“Moving pictures?” Draco asked, frowning. His tone of voice let her know he’d heard of it but that he was far from an expert.

“Something like that.” She nodded. “I had someone install a device at the Manor. Think of it as a magical eye that will observe the ceremony. Then I set up a television in the living room. It will allow us to see everything that eye sees.

“I know it’s not the same as if we were there in person. But it was the best I could do under the circumstances—if you want to see the ceremony, that is. No one’s forcing you.”

Draco’s breath had shortened, and he had paled. But still, he nodded his agreement, and she reached for his shoulder then, landing a comfortable hand atop it. “We’ll all stay with you,” she assured him. “So, you don’t have to go through it alone.”

Draco nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, but no word came out of his closed lips.

Saturnine sat up and motioned for Harry to follow suit. After a pointed nod from her, the Gryffindor left the room, leaving her alone with Draco.

“We’ll wait for you in the living room,” she informed him. “Take your time, and come join us whenever you feel ready.”

Draco nodded again, face pale, features drawn. He looked inches away from falling apart, but Slytherin determination kept him from surrendering in her presence. So, Saturnine gave him one last encouraging smile before leaving the room.

***

Severus had never been more thankful that Saturnine had been raised a Muggle and later sorted into Ravenclaw than he did at that moment. Her idea to install a camera at Malfoy Manor was sheer brilliance, and he wished he could have thought of it himself. But it was so far removed from their world that he had never even once considered it.

Some spells would have acted equivalently, if not better. But given the levels of security sure to be surrounding the proceedings, using magic would have been akin to committing suicide. Any unaccounted-for spell would have been traced back to its origin and investigated. But a single camera feed flying up to the stratosphere to reach a satellite before beaming back down to earth and into their little Cornish cottage was as untraceable as it got. Lucius Malfoy probably didn’t even know that kind of technology existed. And none of the other Death Eaters—the Dark Lord included—would ever think to stoop so low; it was perfect. He told his sister so as he sat down on the sofa.

Harry came out of the kitchen a few minutes later. He perched himself on the arm of the sofa as he had four nights prior when Lupin had come with his bad news. Saturnine fidgeted a short while longer with the television set that she had installed on the coffee table, working the dials to alter the contrast and luminosity levels. She did her best to clear the image, but it wasn’t easy with that many wizards on both ends of the signal. The image remained a little grainy, but it was a wonder she had made it work at all. Magic and Muggle technology mixed like water and oil, and the fact she had found something sturdy enough to withstand an assembly full of powerful wizards was a small marvel.

Draco padded into the room a short while later with his head bowed. He was dressed entirely in black, wearing a pair of his school trousers and what Severus suspected was a transfigured Slytherin uniform dress shirt. He had a choice of seating arrangement and could have sat on either side of Severus. He chose the spot on his godfather’s right, as he had before. His eyes were glued to the television, not even absorbing the Muggle equipment with its mess of wires and cables. With rapt attention, he observed the image displayed on the screen.

At a push of a button, the sound came on. And an eerie silence fell upon Cove Cottage as everyone listened to the ceremony occurring on-screen. It was the most pompous funeral Severus had ever seen, but he’d expected no less from his old school friend. Lucius Malfoy had always been arrogant about everything. And Severus never once expected him to treat his wife’s death any differently.

The elder Malfoy was front and centre on stage, dressed equally in black in what appeared to be an embroidered silken shirt. His long platinum-blond hair provided a sharp contrast to his shirt’s dark colour, and the snake head of his cane was polished so brilliantly that Severus had a feeling house-elves must have been required to scrub it all night.

The camera offered a fixed point of view that showed little of the guests seated on folding, wooden, garden chairs on both sides of a flower-paved central alley that led to a small, raised dais lined with black velvet. The whole setup was in the eastern gardens of Malfoy Manor. And Severus figured the camera had been secured against one of the lower branches of the large oak trees that lined the gardens on that side.

A platinum-plated coffin stood on one side of the dais. It was covered in fine engravings. Swirls and loops surrounded the centrepiece that was the Malfoy crest. A collection of small diamonds lined the edges of the well-known symbol.

Severus had little doubt that the coffin alone must have cost a fortune. But a fortune was something Lucius Malfoy could easily afford to spend on his dead wife. He would have done it without blinking. He would have signed off on the paperwork without an afterthought, as he had probably signed for everything else: the flowers, the musicians, and the delicious banquet assuredly waiting for the guests inside one of the Manor’s most grandiose rooms. Narcissa’s funeral was a display of richness, a decadently gauche social event. Cold, removed, and uncaring, it was worthy of the deceased’s best receptions.

As he examined the screen more closely, Severus felt like he was watching a television show—a production. There was nothing personal in the scene. Nothing that betrayed Lucius’ true feelings or any kind of love for his dead wife. He appeared like a hired comedian, shedding fake crocodile tears in tune with the musician’s mournful beat, an affected look thrown on for the benefit of the assembled crowd and journalists.

A Ministry official said a few empty words, and Severus recognised the man as a high-ranking employee sympathetic to Voldemort’s cause. Of course, he’d been spared the Dark Lord’s wrath—as all their other allies probably had been. But not Narcissa. An appointment at the Ministry? Were they really expected to believe that? The Dark Lord had intended her to die as punishment for Draco’s actions, Severus knew. And Lucius went with it. The elder Malfoy had to have known; the Dark Lord would have seen to it. A test, if ever there was one, of his commitment to his master’s cause. And Lucius had sanctioned the death of his own wife. Merciful Merlin, he’d probably been present that day. Hidden under a cloak and a mask as he fought alongside his brothers-in-arms, throwing curses left and right while his wife was murdered in the next room.

Severus swallowed down the bile in his throat as he wondered if his godson had come to the same conclusion on his own. Did Draco realise his father was to blame for this? Looking to his right, he saw that the boy only had eyes for the television. He was barely breathing. His hands were clasped hard on his lap, his shoulders hunched forward as if he could barely keep himself from jumping forward and running for the television in the hopes that he would somehow cross over and be there himself. Apart from that, there was no expression on his face. The Occlumency barrier was firmly up again.

On the other side of the sofa, Harry and Saturnine were equally silent as the ceremony went on. Severus paid them no mind. His only concern was for the event on the screen and the boy by his side. Harry had told him to be there for Draco. And Saturnine had urged him to do the same. But neither of them had told him how to do that—and he still didn’t know. He wished that he could have claimed the camera and television trick as his own. At least it would have shown that he cared. But no—that had been Saturnine’s idea. His sister had done that for Draco, a child she barely knew. And it was Harry Potter who spent all his days caring for his godson. Draco’s Gryffindor nemesis was the silent, comfortable presence at his side, while Severus remained locked in his room like a frightened man—like the coward he was. Wholly inadequate, once more. Like how he had felt most of his life where Draco was concerned. Wrong-footed, always. Fearful—inept.

The first time he had been introduced to his godson, he hadn’t known what to do with himself, either. When Narcissa had approached him with a bundle of jiggling legs and arms and a swath of white linen, clearly intending for him to hold his godchild, he had frozen in fear, not knowing how to proceed.

“Take him from me, would you?” she’d asked. “I need to rest.”

Severus had been so shell-shocked that he hadn’t known what to say—or do.

Narcissa had placed the baby in his arms eventually, instructing him on how to place his hands so that he would cradle the boy’s head adequately. Severus could still remember the warmth that had spread within him as he first held his godchild—a tiny baby with a round face, quicksilver eyes, and a tuft of almost-translucent blond hair. An innocent child that looked upon him with wonder, regarding him with no malice or hate.

Severus had promised himself that day that he would always be there for Draco should he need him. That baby was partly his responsibility—a child he would allow himself to love. And for years, he had. He’d never missed a birthday and had tried to come around Christmastime whenever he could. His gifts might have been modest—an assortment of enchanted carved wooden figurines. But with dedication, he had assembled them himself. Scouring the Forbidden Forest for the right core material, he then spent hours in the dungeons of Hogwarts hunched over the branch, shaving thin, curly strips from the surface to get to the beauty inside. Sitting at his desk with the figurine clutched in one hand and his wand in the other, he added detail upon detail to make it as precise as he could. His were meagre gifts compared to everything else, he knew. But it was the best he could come up with—something personal imbued with a bit of his magic. It was a small part of himself that he gifted the boy each year in the hopes that it would bring a smile to his godson’s face when he played with it.

He’d kept that habit up until Lucius decided that Draco was too old for toys. He’d told Severus so in no uncertain terms—clarified that it was not what was expected from him anymore. Lucius had never had any doubt that his son was destined to become a Slytherin—and that Severus would defacto become his Head of House. And it was time he started acting like it. It was then that Severus had understood why he’d been chosen to become Draco’s godfather. The decision had been made in preparation for that moment: the day that Draco came to Hogwarts. Away from home, the Malfoy heir would no longer be under Lucius’ watchful gaze. He would be under Severus’.

Even then, the Dark Lord had known where he would ultimately send his Potions Master, and Lucius had been made aware long before Severus was. And thus, eleven years before the day, Lucius had established a contingency to ensure that his son’s best interests would be seen to. He’d made sure the man in charge of him then would have a personal interest in Draco’s fate. A sure way to ensure that his son would be favoured and protected on all accounts. His stratagem had worked to perfection. With Lucius on the Hogwarts Board of Governors and Severus acting as his Head of House, Draco had made it through the years with the greatest of ease. The brat could have done anything, and he would have gotten away with it.

But Lucius’ cold-hearted, tactical manoeuvring didn’t change the fact that Severus had a heart. And he’d made a promise to that baby he’d held against his chest one summer afternoon in June 1980. A promise that superseded Lucius’ scheming—and even Dumbledore’s. He’d promised to always care, and he did. So, when the Dark Lord kidnapped Draco, Severus put the boy’s safety first. He sacrificed his cover and his place in the war. And he risked his own life. He stopped at nothing to make sure his godson would see another day. Were he given a Time-Turner to relieve the events of that day, he knew he would make the same choices. Always.

The ceremony was ending on-screen. At a swirl of Lucius’ wand, Narcissa’s casket vanished from sight. It was magically transported to its final resting place in the family’s mausoleum. The violins started another mournful tune as the guests began to rise. Lucius, ever the gracious host, helpfully pointed them towards the Manor for the second act of the day’s celebration.

Saturnine rose and flicked off the television, rendering the screen dark once more. There was a certain finality to the action. The colour, a glistening black, was fitting; it was an absence of content. Next to him, Draco sniffed audibly, and Severus’ attention was on his godchild at once. The Occlumency barriers were starting to crumble, he could see. The boy’s knuckles were white under the strain as he clasped his hands tighter and tighter. His breathing had increased, and there was a little red in his cheeks. It felt as if he were minutes from an explosion, and Severus worried again if he would shatter into a million pieces.

This time, he did what he couldn’t last time—he extended a hand and placed it on Draco’s shoulder, rubbing a little warmth into the taut muscles underneath.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” he apologised, surprising himself with his tone. He had meant for the words to come out stronger. But they had been weak and raspy, and he realised he was parched.

Draco shook a little under his hand and turned his head towards him. Black eyes sought silver orbs, and the barriers came tumbling down as their gazes met. Pain. There was so much pain on Draco’s face now. On his godson’s face, it was so wrong. The child he had promised to protect should never have to endure such pain.

“I’m sorry,” Severus repeated as if his words could make a difference—as if they alone held the power to stop the torrent of pain that pulsed out of Draco. He turned in his seat, feeling his second arm reach out. Intent on doing what, he wasn’t sure. Draw the boy in for a hug, perhaps?

Wherever the action was supposed to lead, Severus would never know. Draco launched himself from the sofa as if he had been burned and ran away—out of the living room and into the bedroom. The door slammed behind his back, the sound loud in the silence. To Severus, it felt like a punch in the stomach. He’d failed once more. Inadequate. So inadequate.

Lucius had chosen him for all the wrong reasons, and it showed. A political move rather than an informed decision—and the boy had been made to suffer the consequences.

Severus was dimly aware of Saturnine talking to Harry behind his back. He heard the second boy retreat to the bedroom an instant later. And then his sister’s hands were on him, snaking around his middle from behind. She pressed herself against his back, a warm, comforting presence. He leaned into her a little as he felt his eyes well up with tears. She softly dropped her head to his shoulder, and he half-expected reproachful comments to pour from her mouth. She had had many of those for him the past couple of days—rightfully so. Clearly, even Saturnine would have been a better choice of a godparent for Draco than he’d been.

His sister said nothing. She just held him, offering him support in silence. And the tears became harder to fight off.