Had he not recognized the owl, he immediately would have known the sender from the ridiculously extravagant parchment – a ream of which likely cost more than all of the Snape family's possessions - including the house. He could not think of a single solitary reason to use this parchment, much less for simple post. He rolled his eyes.
After giving the owl a few treats, which it ate delicately, he broke the seal and unrolled the message. Noting that the owl was waiting patiently for a reply, he read the message rapidly.
And then he read it again.
Severus,
I've spoken with my associate. He believes that a man of your talents and aptitude would be an asset to his organization and would like to interview you for prospective employment.
Be at the Manor this evening before nightfall and I will take you to meet him directly.
LM
Severus's blood ran cold. He knew well who this so-called
"associate" was. All his life had prepared him and led him to this most important step of his ultimate - and secret - goal, and under no circumstances could he afford to make even a minor misstep. Grabbing a quill and some ink from the bookcase, he scrawled a hasty "understood" on the parchment, and returned it to the owl, which pompously held out the opposing foot. How an animal could have so much arrogant pride, Snape had no idea. Tying the parchment carefully to the owl's leg – past experience had taught him the animal had a sharp beak which it was not hesitant to use – he carefully picked the animal up to give it a boost and watched it fly away.
With his expression schooled into cold blankness, he closed the window and drew the curtains. Striding away from the window, he leaned against the bookcase and took a deep breath. Feeling the need to move, he slipped into the kitchen and stared hard at the stove. Placing a pot of water to boil, he set the flame high and slunk upstairs for some supplies.
Brewing was good – it was soothing, even if it was only a simple cup of tea, and even if it was a mostly futile effort. A few minutes spent dropping a carefully considered mixture of herbs from a pouch at his waist into pot of now boiling water and letting it steep while he prepared some sandwiches, calmed him considerably.
Sandwiches prepared, he strained the tea into a mug and spelled the sandwiches and tea onto a levitating tray. He was of age now and his household long since past any restrictions, and the contents were less likely to spill when levitated. He made his way up the stairs, hovering the tray in front of him.
At the top of the stairs he paused, and rapped twice lightly on the door, waiting a few moments before pushing it open. Laboured wheezing greeted him.
"I made you some tea," he said softly to the gaunt man gasping on the bed. "And some sandwiches – you should eat."
The hooked nosed man struggled to raise himself on the bed, and Severus watched blankly as he levitated the tray to the nightstand. Coughing from the exertion, the older man covered his mouth with a bloody and spittle flecked cloth.
"This one o' your concoctions?" Tobias asked when he'd recovered his breath.
Severus nodded.
"Won't help, y'know," his father said, as he nonetheless downed the contents, wincing at the bitter taste.
Severus shrugged. "I know," he replied quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Each man took a sandwich, chewing slowly. No fool he, Tobias took in his only son's pensive expression, and asked "what's eatin' you?"
Severus swallowed carefully, and turned to meet his father's eyes. "I . . . have a meeting tonight," he began. His father quirked a lone eyebrow at him, and he continued. "With, ah . . . the Death Eaters."
Tobias' other eyebrow rose now as well.
"I . . . do not know when I shall return, but I imagine if I haven't done so within a week, that you may reasonably consider that I shall not do so."
"Join yer mother, then?"
Severus nodded.
"Happen I'd better wish you luck, then – whatever that means in this case."
Severus snickered. "Indeed." He handed the older man a potion, which tasted so foul that it induced another coughing fit that Severus patiently waited out. "Can I get you anything else?"
Tobias shook his head weakly, then stared sharply at his son. "'Never breathe a word about your loss' . . ." he intoned.
Severus grinned wryly and replied, "'Force your heart and nerve and sinew to serve your turn long after they are gone' . . . " His mother had read him that poem every night before bed before she'd died.
"Today's the anniversary, you know," Severus
reminded quietly. Tobias merely nodded. "When're
y'leaving?"
"Soon – I'll wash and change first, but immediately after that."
Tobias looked hard at his son. "You be careful."
"I will try."
Freshly and in relatively new robes – which months of commissioned work for Lucius' business associate had permitted him – Severus strode quickly toward the Apparation point by the river, taking a deep breath as he prepared to go to Wiltshire.
As night settled in, he couldn't prevent a sudden terror from invading his heart. He knew that within an hour he would be standing in front of the most powerful Dark Wizard of the age – rumoured by some to be the most powerful wizard of all time – a man who styled himself "Lord Voldemort". By midnight, he'd either be a Death Eater – or dead.
Appearing in a secluded grove in Wiltshire enhanced with heavy
Muggle-repelling charms – far more than were strictly necessary – Severus glanced about for a moment to get his bearings, and set off purposefully toward his next destination.
A few minutes walk in the increasing coolness of the encroaching night left Severus with the realisation that the next purchase he would have to make would be of a durable cloak.
If he lived through the night, that is.
Meanwhile, he'd just have to make judicious use of warming charms.
He had a cloak, of course – it hadn't been that long that he'd gotten one for his sixth year at Hogwarts, after all, and he hadn't grown - much - since then – and he used it regularly. But it was because he used it regularly that it was desperately inappropriate for the meeting he was about to attend and he'd therefore left it behind.
He had a feeling he'd regret that later in the evening, but under no circumstances would he allow any weakness to show from his discomfort.
He picked up his pace as he approached Malfoy Manor – the sun was sinking quickly and he would not destroy this opportunity by tardiness and he had no idea how soon after sunset Lucius would wish to depart.
He knocked sharply on the ornate front door using the heavy knocker and had barely stepped a polite half-pace back when the door swung open revealing a trembling house-elf clad in an absolutely filthy pillowcase. "Dobby is to take Master Snape to Master Lucius immediately!" Snape merely nodded and followed the scurrying elf to the master parlour, pondering absently that he was surprised Narcissa allowed the beast to remain so disgustingly clad in her precious home.
"Drinks!" Lucius snapped impatiently at the elf the second they'd crossed the threshold, and the elf disappeared with a look of relief on its face.
"Good evening, Narcissa, you're looking very well. Good evening, Lucius."
Lucius looked up at him, nodding approvingly at his appearance then paused. "Haven't you a cloak?"
"Not one appropriate for such a meeting."
"Narcissa, would you mind? It may get very cold this evening," Lucius asked his glowing wife.
"Not at all," she said, rising gracefully from the silk-upholstered chaise upon which she reclined, and swept elegantly from the room. Severus wondered how much longer she'd be able to pull that off, given her delicate condition.
A few moments passed, and Lucius asked quietly "Any second thoughts?"
"None," Severus said with conviction, and utterly without hesitation as he gazed at the setting sun through the large bay window.
"Severus, look at me," Lucius called softly. Snape turned around then suddenly recoiled, frowning, from Lucius' crude mental attack.
"Ah – a natural Occlumens – that's good," Lucius crooned approvingly. Snape quirked an annoyed eyebrow at him
"Occlumency will serve you well, Severus, but the Dark Lord is the most powerful Legilimens this world has ever seen. You can hide nothing from Him. If you have any misgivings, tell me now. I can make excuses for you up until the point where I bring you to Him. After that, hesitation will cost you not only your life, but also mine, and my wife is expecting."
Snape scoffed. "I have no reservations about this, Lucius, nor am I so foolish to come here had I any," he said dismissively, making a display of dropping his mental shields as he did so. As he had expected, Lucius pounced, but found nothing in Snape's mind to object to.
Well he might not. Although he'd never be able to afford a Pensieve, Severus Snape was anything but a fool. Glass phials had their uses for other than potions, and he'd secured several in a remote and completely secure hiding place. While there were other potentially worrisome memories, Severus could explain those all away to anyone who wanted to know.
Should the Dark Lord encounter them, he'd want to know, of course. But after all, one of the most efficient ways to conceal something was to hide it in plain sight. And too many memories removed would create suspicious holes.
Narcissa returned with the cloak and handed it over to Severus. He took it with what passed for a grateful smile from him, and fastened it carefully about his shoulders to check the fit. A black exterior of what felt like fine, soft wool and a green raw silk interior, it was lightweight but very warm, and embellished with the elaborate Malfoy Celtic knotwork embroidered on the hems that Severus would bet money was made from finely spun pure silver.
A single spool of the embroidery thread alone probably cost more than Snape's entire wardrobe, but the cloak itself was nonetheless a welcome convenience. And the family embroidery effectively marked him as being Lucius' guest – and responsibility. As much respect as he had for Lucius Malfoy's ability to slip out of trouble, he knew better than to think he'd be thus marked if Malfoy didn't think he'd live through the night. Lucius would sooner let him freeze to death.
"Good thing we are something of a size. It looks as though it were made for you. Sometime next week, I'll take you to the tailor to get your own."
"That is unnecessary, Lucius."
"Nonsense – consider it a congratulatory gift from me."
Snape was about to protest when Lucius flinched and hissed quietly. "That's us. I will have to Side-Along Apparate you." Severus simply nodded, and walked over to where Lucius stood. "Hood up, pulled all the way forward, and don't remove it until the Dark Lord, and ONLY the Dark Lord, tells you to do so. Keep your head down and kneel before him when He addresses you. Otherwise, follow all my directives," Lucius said, pulling a mask over his face and his hood over his head. Severus nodded again, grateful that they were Apparating as it gave him a plausible reason to take such a slow, deep breath.
They arrived in what appeared to be a cemetery that sat behind a large house on a hill. A few others had already arrived; Snape heard soft ‘pops’ behind him as others still arrived after they did. Head lowered slightly more than was strictly necessary in order to keep his unmasked face hidden in shadow from those shorter than he, he followed Lucius' cloaked legs to what appeared to be a predetermined position and stood stock still in complete silence.
"Ahh, Lucius, you have brought your friend," hissed a sibiliant and eerily inhuman voice. Lucius yanked Severus forward and pulled him to his knees – Snape got the idea and prostrated himself on the ground next to Lucius.
"Yes, my Lord, and he is eager to make your acquaintance."
"Very well. Stay there."
"As you wish, my Lord."
Snape winced inwardly as he heard the unmistakable rasping and hissing of Parseltongue, so unlike the high, cold, cruel voice which he'd heard immediately prior, and wondered to whom the command had gone
They knelt on the cold damp ground for a few minutes more as orders were doled out, and Snape felt Lucius recoil next to him. Chancing a glance up, Severus saw an enormous King Cobra eying them carefully, and blinked.
Severus had a vested personal interest in King Cobras – one that didn’t involve the Dark Lord – so he knew quite a few things about them. This one wasn't agitated, judging by the fact that its hood wasn't flared, and the animal was neither hissing or mock-striking. He wondered how many of his associates would even recognise a calm King Cobra. He gave the animal a blank look and laid his head back down. Doing so provided a good excuse for grounding anyway, although he was very glad for Lucius' cloak.
Snape heard a few of the attendees being dismissed, and listened carefully, assuming he'd be called upon soon. He was not disappointed, as shortly the Dark Lord called out "Lucius, take your place, and introduce your friend to us."
Lucius leapt up, and backed away, presumably to return to his previous position. "My Lord, I present to you a Slytherin of the finest cunning, a man of great intellect and expertise in the Dark Arts, who has already proven his worth to us by the preparations of complex and rare potions."
He felt a tap on his shoulder which was followed by a terse "get up". He complied, and stood ramrod straight, utterly ignoring the snake which raised its body to meet his eyes. A full-grown one, then, he noted absently, and probably male.
"And what brings you to me – what makes you feel you are worthy to join us?" the high cold voice asked.
Severus blinked, and then made a gamble. Lowering his hood, he turned slowly to Lucius and back, and lowering himself to his knees once again, smoothly said "My apologies, my Lord – I do believe Lucius has forgotten to give you my name. I am Severus Snape."
A collective but quiet gasp went around the circle of those who remained – the Dark Lord merely snorted. "Up. You haven't answered my question."
Severus looked the fearsome man directly in his slitted red eyes. "It has been my overwhelming desire since I was small child to join in your ranks, and I am eternally grateful to Lucius for affording me the opportunity to meet with you, my Lord, that I may convince you of my use to you."
The Dark Lord's eyes were merciless. He tried to keep his gaze from wavering or tearing away while he felt his mind being penetrated and studied.
"Snape – that is not a Wizard name," he said scornfully, loud enough for the others to hear.
"No, my Lord, it is not."
"Your father was a Muggle, wasn't he?"
"Yes, my Lord, he is."
". . . He still lives?" the Dark Lord asked, eyes narrowed.
"He does."
"Why have you not amended this?"
Snape's mind felt as if it were about to burst with the effort of providing an answer during the relentless delving into his thoughts and memories. He shrugged lazily. "His presence masks my current activities, and I haven't had any compelling reason to dispense with him."
"Hm. Is that true?"
"Absolutely, my Lord," Snape said coolly.
"And what of your inappropriate attachment to the Mudblood Gryffindor girl?"
Snape's eyes narrowed. "Evans?" he asked after a few moments concentration, as if he'd had difficulty figuring out who they were talking about. He snorted dismissively. "That is simply a case of people wanting to see something where there was nothing to see. We were assigned as partners in separate classes by the instructors, and it was to my benefit to assist her with her schoolwork so that my own grades did not suffer. As to the other – well – she was an attractive girl, and I was sixteen. As I recall it, I am not the only one in Slytherin House who participated in that little fantasy." He never dropped his gaze.
The Dark Lord smirked. "I like this one, Lucius – he's got nerve." Snape could feel relief washing over Lucius across the distance between them. Or perhaps that was his own relief.
"Don't get so confident – you have yet to prove your worth to me."
Snape blinked. "My Lord?"
At the Dark Lord's comment that His Lordship liked him, Snape had slipped his arms through the opening of the cloak, and begun to pull his sleeve back to bear his left arm, knowing that his fate and future were about to be sealed with a large, black brand.
The Dark Lord approached him, his eyes flickering down to Snape's hands, which were now still. He made no move to perform the marking ritual and instead turned his merciless gaze back to Snape's face, asking a fatal question.
"What special knowledge or service do you hope to offer the Dark Lord for giving you the honour of being among his followers?"
Unblinking, Snape pondered that for a moment. He hadn't put all of his past memories and thoughts into a Pensieve and as an Occlumens, Snape could feel the power of the Dark Lord's Legilimency, which was considerable. The heir of Slytherin could easily find out the truth of any boastful claim Snape made, and the look on his face and the tone of his voice made it quite plain that an unsatisfactory answer will result in a grievous punishment. He needed to choose his answer carefully.
However, he was confused. Lucius had introduced him as a Dark Arts expert, and as the one who had been brewing the commissioned potions for the last few months. Further elaboration on this matter seemed pointless and foolish, as it was rumoured that the Dark Lord had a very short temper.
He gazed at the other man appraisingly for a moment. "My Lord, I was given to understand that Lucius had already expounded upon my Dark Arts expertise, which I mastered at a young age. I was under the impression that the potions I had been brewing were delivered directly to you, but I can elaborate if my somewhat unfounded assumption was incorrect and will explain the preparations and research if you desire. Apart from that, you may be unaware that I am quite skilled at spell invention, particularly the non-verbal ones. I believe your faithful followers have made judicious use of Levicorpus, for example," he said, while withdrawing his wand and embedding it, handle up, on the ground at his feet. "But there are others – as lethal as the Killing Curse, yet not restricted by the Ministry."
The Dark Lord raised an interested eyebrow. "And they are . . . ?"
"Sectusempra is one, Viscumortalis is another. Both are nearly non-treatable."
"'Nearly' non-treatable?"
"Well – yes, my Lord – even non-verbal spells do not stay a secret for long – Levicorpus made its way around Hogwarts in a matter of weeks, and it would be rather undignified if I became a victim of my own spell, don't you think?"
The Dark Lord snorted. "Indeed."
"Besides, my Lord – speaking from a strategic perspective, it is far better to injure your enemies than kill them outright. Those suffering from the horrific burden of compassion and righteousness find themselves having to transport and care for the injured – you can easily cost your enemy ten times its resources by injuring them than by killing them. The dead ones, they can just leave lying there – although they won't . . ." he said, bending down to retrieve his wand.
"So – 'cut always' and 'venous death'?"
"'Cut always', yes, and . . . ah . . . well, this does not translate well, but it puts the internal organs into shock and then a slow state of necrosis. It is particularly nasty, and somewhat difficult to diagnose as it outwardly mimics a powerful sleeping spell, but ingestion of any stimulant only speeds the process." He shrugged.
"My, my, my, Mister Snape, and where did you learn to do such a thing?"
Snape smirked. "Ah, well, my Lord, this is where Muggles can come in quite useful. There was an outbreak of haemorrhagic fever on the Continent a few years ago, and Muggle anatomy books the actual organs in greater detail."
"Hm," the Dark Lord snorted. "That is . . . quite . . . interesting."
"There's also Cruor Ferveo, but to be perfectly honest, I do not care for that one."
"'Blood boiling'?" the Dark Lord asked in surprise. "And why might you not like that?"
"It's immediately fatal, which is not what I was trying to accomplish."
"What were you trying to accomplish?"
"Well," Snape said slowly and thoughtfully, "something somewhat like the torture curse, but that causes an injury. The torture curse itself is painful, and it can cause the victim to injure themselves in their contortions or even later if they're struck by it for an extended period of time . . . but if you can cause an actual injury – tissue damage, for example, then not only are they afflicted by the initial pain, but also later they must be treated for their injuries." Snape gazed into the distance, his voice drifting off as he considered the spell further, then remembered his setting. "In any case, I am still researching that one, my Lord," he said dismissively, shaking his head to clear it.
Silence so loud it was deafening surrounded them. He'd handed them weapons, which they could easily use against him. While he was capable of casting the counter-curse for Sectumsempra, were it cast against him, Viscumortalis would put him into a serious coma from which he had no hope of recovery as he was, as far as he knew, the only person alive who knew which organs were damaged by the curse and therefore which potions to brew to repair them. These were not potions he happened to have on hand – or even prepared.
He was on a very precarious precipice, from which the slightest breeze could topple him.
Snape met the Dark Lord's gaze once again, the back of his Occluded mind wondering if he'd said too much.
Suddenly, his surroundings transformed around him and he found himself alone in a room with no visible escape, no instructions or even a glance. Clearly, this was a test of his talents he'd boasted of to the Dark Lord.
He blinked and took in his surroundings. Surely they didn't lock him in a room with no visible escape, where a simple "Creoportus" would provide an opening. He'd quite frankly be insulted at that and have to rethink his allegiances. If this was the best the Dark Lord had to offer, and the Order and the Ministry were unable to defeat it, he may well decide to go live as a Muggle in disgrace.
Summissio moenia? he thought to himself, then decided not to cast it. He was in no apparent immediate danger from where he stood – the walls were not closing in upon him and he could see no violent creatures with the apparent idea to attack him. Merlin only knew what lowering the walls would expose.
He decided to wait for a few moments. The Dark Lord was rumoured to value strategy and cunning above all, and an immediate escape from an otherwise unthreatening environment would make it look as though he was panicking and easily frightened. He had no doubt that the Dark Lord would know exactly what transpired inside this room.
He conceded to walk the perimeter of the room, to get a more concrete analysis of the size of this prison. He pushed ever so slightly at the walls – they did not give, so it was not purely an illusion.
He did have to appreciate the transfiguration that took place, seemingly without effort on the Dark Lord's part, or the transportation of him into this small room without any obvious sensation of motion.
As he took stock of the room, he saw black smoke appearing in the air before him, and he reflexively conjured a shield and cast a Bubble-head charm.
The smoke shaped itself into the letters and words of a riddle whose answer hopefully would give a clue or hint as to what he was expected to do.
He moved slowly and carefully toward it.
Homines, dum docent, discuntSnape laughed out loud in wry appreciation.
Aut disce aut discede
Facilius per partes in cognitionem totius adducimur
Aut viam inveniam aut faciam
Abiit, evasit, excessit, erupit
"Men learn while they teach,Who would have thought the Dark Lord himself was a scholar of ancient Muggle Roman history? Very few wizards would recognise Lucius Annaeus Seneca, and in his experience, fewer still possessed the Latin expertise to understand the meaning.
Either learn or leave,
We are more easily led part by part to an understanding of the whole.
I will either find a way or make one
He has left, escaped, absconded and disappeared".
But wait – abiit, evasit, excessit, erupit? That wasn't right – "left, escaped, absconded, disappeared"? It should be 'he has left, absconded, escaped and disappeared', he thought to himself.
He looked at the words again. "We are more easily led part by part to an understanding of the whole – I will either find a way or make one".
Part by part? HAFAA – nonsense. MEWIH – that doesn't work either. This must be something to do with the words out of sequence. AEEE? Ah, no. LAED – no, wait, that part is switched around . . LEAD . . . "lead?" Perhaps it will lead me out of here . . .
Nothing happened. Hm. "Lead?" At the mention of the powerful shielding agent and toxic metal, the words disappeared, and a table laden with materials appeared in their place.
He looked down – standard potions making implements were laid out in a very orderly pattern, as well as some not-so-standard potions making implements. They stood alongside varying ingredients, among which were a chunk of what appeared to be pure gold, a bottle of what looked like liquid silver but may have been unicorn blood, a small container of a faintly glittering finely ground dust, and a bizarre scaly looking feather.
Oh Merlin, he thought to himself in dawning horror, that's a Quetzal feather. Quetzal feather and gold are only ever mixed in one potion!
He sat back to analyse this. There was a purely theoretical potion discussed in the rare clique of potions experts who were also highly qualified in Dark Magic – it was designed to strip someone of their magical ability. By all rights, nobody under the age of 75 should even have known of the theory behind the potion, and Snape realised that if he didn't brew it properly, he was never going to get out of this room.
All this for a potion that had never actually been brewed – not only because of the universal and unforgiving condemnation by all magical governments worldwide, but also because the ingredients were exorbitantly expensive, owing in no small part to the fact that the Quetzal had been extinct for several hundred years. It also yielded very little product when finished, and had to be administered in a large amount to be effective.
Nothing like a little bit of pressure to hone a man's wits.
He took a deep breath and began. He poured the quicksilver into the cauldron and set it on a low flame, then slipped the gold nugget into it – he didn’t want the solution to boil but the heat would help the solid dissolve more quickly. He assembled his other ingredients, adding some periodically, keeping a close eye on the cauldron. At least the diamonds had already been pulverised into dust – the Dark Lord apparently assuming that anyone capable of USING such an ingredient was capable of either preparing it or obtaining it thus from a reliable source. He carefully sprinkled one miniscule but perfectly level scoop of the dust evenly across the top of the liquid in the cauldron and stirred it very precisely with a glass stirring rod.
When all the ingredients had been added, he grabbed the very end of the calamus of the Quetzal feather with a pair of micro-forceps. Holding the feather over a glass jar, he picked up a burette with the other hand and filled it with the solution in the cauldron. Taking a deep breath to steady his hands, he let 13 identically sized droplets of the solution drip over the feather and into the jar, then set them down and capped the jar tightly before setting it in the centrifuge. He quickly cleaned the table, restoring it to its original condition while the potion spun and separated, and set up the distillation station. When the jar stopped spinning, he separated the two layers, and set one over the cauldron to boil. The steam travelled through the distillation apparatus and dropped down into a small phial, which Severus picked up with a pair of tongs and corked carefully. Once sealed, he took hold of it to inspect it, and felt himself spinning off.
The phial of the completed potion had been a Portkey.
Snape slammed into the ground with a teeth-rattling lurch that made him wince, but managed to maintain his footing. Once again, he found himself face to face with the darkest wizard of the age – perhaps of all time. "Your potion, my Lord," he said calmly, offering the phial.
"Drink it."
Snape's eyebrow twitched, and his eye narrowed temporarily, but he shrugged and uncorked the phial, holding it to his lips. "As you wish, my Lord, but this seems an unnecessary waste of ingredients."
"How dare you presume to call my instructions 'a waste'?"
"Begging your pardon my Lord, but this potion will not work against the brewer. For another, there is not enough of it to affect anyone, even if it would work against me. One of the myriad reasons the potion had not been brewed until now is that you only get about a ten percent yield per set of ingredients – to produce a serving such as this one." He held the phial up as if to demonstrate. "It is estimated that about one hundred preparations of this potion is required to dose one individual effectively. Further, I am not of any particular use to you if I am stripped of my magic. But, if that is what you desire . . ." he trailed off, tipping the small bottle to his lips.
"That will be unnecessary. Cap it. What if I served that to a child?" he asked next, pointing at the full phial.
Snape corked the phial again and rolled it between his fingers, analysing the contents. "Hm. I am not sure, but I don't think it would have any particularly profound effect, even on an infant. It is possible that you would succeed in reducing their magical ability, perhaps . . ."
Suddenly, striking with the speed of the serpent he resembled, the Dark Lord grasped Snape's left arm with such violence that he nearly dropped the bottle, causing Snape to pull back in alarm to protect the precious potion. Red eyes glowing, Voldemort stabbed the tip of his wand into Snape's arm and hissed "Proteus Morsmordre!"
Snape fought the urge to react, instead taking only a deep breath and letting it out slowly as the excruciating pain slowly traced a raised black outline along the sensitive flesh of his inner left arm. The sickly sweet stench of burning flesh filled the air around them. Just when the pain got to the point where his endorphins kicked in and he could use the pain to induce a meditative trance, it stopped. A few seconds later, it started again. He raised his eyes to the Dark Lord and lifted his eyebrows in a wry look, but turned at the hiss of an indrawn breath coming from his right flank.
One of the other Death Eaters was cringing and Snape gazed at him in bland confusion.
"They feel it too – they all do, every time another is inducted into our ranks. As will you," the Dark Lord said softly.
"Ah," Snape murmured non-committaly as the blazing pain surged through his arm again. He looked back down again, watching the progress of the brand as it traced rivulets of bleeding scars across the tender sallow flesh – and stopped again, leaving him wondering if the entire process was going to proceed as such. While he appreciated the element of control the Dark Lord was demonstrating having, truly from the perspective of the recipient, the point had been made and was tiresome.
The Dark Lord, apparently, had little regard for the weariness of his minions and their petty boredoms, as the irritating starting and stopping did indeed continue until the brand was burned into his arm completely. Good Merlin and he'd have to go through this every time another Death Eater was recruited? How annoying.
When it finally stopped for good, the Dark Lord grabbed his arm again and once again jabbed his wand into the brand, with such force that it made Snape's eyes water. The throbbing burn skyrocketed to a piercing scald of such intensity that it made Snape's eyes water and knees buckle. He noted, though, that several of the others stumbled as well.
"Just checking," hissed the Dark Lord, "to make sure it works properly," he said, throwing Snape's arm away from him and causing a renewed throbbing as the lower angle of the arm pooled with blood.
Snape barely bit back a biting retort of "Are you routinely so unsure of your casting abilities?" although it took a significant amount of effort.
"Take your place, beside Lucius – for now. We will come up with a more permanent assignment for you once you have proven yourself."
Snape bowed and with a perfectly respectful "As you wish, my Lord," retreated to take his place beside the blond man.
As he walked towards the man who'd brought him to this meeting, he forced his arms to swing naturally at his sides, as if nothing was amiss despite the fact that lowering his arm caused a blinding throbbing of pain.
So consumed was he with appearing casually undisturbed that he was ill-prepared to protect against a non-verbal Expelliarmus that thrust him face first into the freezing mud and tore his wand from the tips of his fingers.
Let this be a lesson to you, Snape, never turn your back on them. They are not your friends. You should know this already.
He struggled to get up and found himself bound by thin, strong chains – someone had obviously cast a non-verbal Incarcerous upon him when his back was turned. Serves me right.
As he heard the laughing of the other Death Eaters (even Lucius - he noted with derision), he was attempting to calm himself to the degree that he could summon the considerable energy necessary to cast a non-verbal and wandless releasing spell on the chains that bound him when he was roughly wrestled into a standing position by two burly Death Eaters that he suspected to be Crabbe and Goyle.
Lovely, and me without my wand. This should be educational.
He attempted to put increasingly alarming thoughts of varying tortures out of his mind so that he could return to his earlier task of freeing himself. Although he was no match for the brawn of the terrible twosome, the two of them together didn't possess the mental capacity of a flobberworm, and he may well be able to con one of them out of their wand. From there it would be a simple task to dispose of the other one.
He needn't have bothered. He was thrust roughly into a small room and collapsed onto the damp floor. Just before the door slammed shut, his bindings were removed, and he was left alone.
He paced for a while, trying to wandlessly cast spells to free himself from this prison, but was ineffective. After what seemed like an eternity, he sat down in frustration and his mind drifted.
Da! Are we goin' home now?
Yeah we’re away soon – you get yer stuff together.
The small dark haired boy scampered about to his grandparents and cousins, making his goodbyes.
It had been the last time he had been truly happy.
Belongings gathered, pleasantries exchanged, the boy ran excitedly to a beat-up old coupe parked at the kerb, and pulled with all his weight, trying to budge the stubborn and rusty door. But the rain had made the handle slippery, and just as he wrenched the door open he was smashed in the face by the door and thrust backward into the gutter. As he lay scared, bleeding and crying in the runoff, his father had rushed to his side, brushing his hair aside gently and crooning sympathetically.
Hey now, don’ cry, it’s nobbut a scratch an' head wounds bleed like owt. We'll tak you to yer mam an' she'll see you right. Mebbe she'll even let you do it y’self, now, wouldn’t that be fun?
Mollified, the six year-old boy nodded but continued to snivel slightly – "nobbut a scratch" or no, his head HURT and the blood was flowing steadily into his eyes.
A short drive later, most of which was spent navigating the labyrinthine passages of a foul-smelling riverside town, and they pulled into the alley behind a small home.
Severus twitched – something was amiss. Something Tobias couldn't sense.
"Da, summat's wrong . . ."
"What like?"
"I dunno – someone's here."
"Shit" Tobias hissed, and pulled his son up against the wall, where both of them tilted their heads to listen.
Laughing voices trickled past the tortured screams of a woman – Severus' mum, who was protesting loudly that she didn't know where they had gone. A drawling, educated voice said "More Crucio, then, Lestrange, and if she doesn't tell us after that, kill her. The half-blood whelp won't be a bother to us, and it's her we really have exception to."
"Sure thing, Avery," replied a voice fairly dripping with arrogant aristocracy, and a whispered Crucio! brought renewed tortured screaming from Eileen.
Severus turned to bolt into the door, sure that his appearance would spare his mother, but Tobias yanked him into the small shed that sat behind the main building.
"Severus, HIDE US!" he'd said, and the boy, too confused and frightened to protest, complied.
They'd stayed in the shed for several hours, long after the laughing voices departed. When they finally emerged under the cover of the darkest night, Severus was dizzy. Tobias had picked him up to carry him and walked cautiously into the back door, sucking in an indrawn breath and turning abruptly as he navigated around what Severus later found out was the body of his dead wife. He took his son upstairs, tended to his head wound and cleaned his face, and put the boy to sleep in his parent’s bed, then went downstairs to deal with more adult matters.
It had been the beginning for Severus – the words had been burned into his head and he was hell-bent on avenging his mother's death. At the holidays following her murder, his mother's family came to visit and Tobias, who was
ill-equipped to deal with being a single parent in the mid 1960s and completely incapable of dealing with a magical one, arranged for special visits and tutoring sessions with the Prince family.
By virtue of their long history, the library was well stocked and during the summer months, when his cousin Broderick was at work and so unavailable to tutor him in other subjects, Severus spent countless hours poring over tomes of the Dark Arts, teaching himself jinxes, curses and hexes, and the counters to all of them.
He'd been ecstatic when he'd gotten his Hogwarts letter, sure that his expertise would serve him well, but he'd been horribly disappointed by the reception he'd gotten from some of the other students. Having spent all his time poring over books as a child he had limited social skills and his capabilities in forbidden topics alarmed and alienated the other students. He'd thought he'd be at home in his house, but one of his classmates was named Rosier and an older boy was named Lestrange, and he knew these people were the sons of the ones that had killed his mother, making him reluctant to trust in them. He let them all think he was a pureblood, because he realised immediately that to allow them to discover otherwise was a one-way ticket to death, and then his mother's murder would remain unavenged. Instead, he'd sequestered himself in the library, studying the darkest and most restricted tomes the school had to offer and perfecting his demeanour in Slytherin house just enough to ingratiate himself to the other students while keeping them at a distance.
A natural at compartmentalising his emotions, he found Occlumency a relatively easy skill to master, and none too soon, as shortly after he started studying Occlumency others in his house began practicing Legilimency – widely regarded as a Dark Art - against each other – and him.
By the time he graduated, he had respectable grades under his belt and a few job options, most of which didn't pay much. Lucius had come to him, offering a respectable income brewing restricted potions for the Dark Lord, owing to
Severus' long-established ability to maintain discretion. He'd wanted more, but bided his time, until the owl came telling him to meet Lucius at the Manor. He knew this was his long dreamt for chance.
Remembering why he'd decided to join the Death Eaters made him remember times when he was the target of other people's pranks or other harassment.
The mark on his arm was still warm, and he felt strong – connected – as if there were no limits to what he could accomplish, having finally achieved his lifelong ambition of being indoctrinated into the ranks of the Dark Lord. In his mind he devised a plan how he could properly humiliate and ridicule everyone who ever did him wrong.
First, for the petty annoyances. He had a vision of Sirius Black having a Jarvey shoved down his pants, then revised that plan to the much more satisfying idea of transfiguring the berk's nether bits INTO a Jarvey – preferably permanently. Snape snickered out loud at that and considered that despite the fact that Black had purportedly severed all familial ties, he may well be able to enlist the assistance of the his relatives within the organisation to try an experimental blood tracking charm. My my, wouldn't that be amusing?
The next order of business would have to be Potter. He couldn't bring himself to do anything that would harm Lily in any way, so that left some of the more satisfying and long-lasting methods out. He thought on this for some time, and then a cruel smirk played across his sallow features. He could coat the prat in stinksap while he slept, and then cover him in something – Fwooper, Snidget or Jabberknoll feathers, perhaps – that is, if he wasn't able to ensure Lily's absence. If he could – he'd use nettles. That would be hugely satisfying.
Speaking of Lily, he'd really have to get back at Rosier for that twisted, sick thing he'd done to him – but in a way that paid homage to Lily. He wondered idly if Evan and Rabastan were still carrying on their bizarre affair. Polyjuice potion was plentiful but he was hopeful that they'd finally run out of Lily's hair.
He shook his head to clear it. He OWED Rosier for that, but in some ways it wasn't the most humiliating thing that had ever been done to him. But the Dark Lord HAD mentioned it . . .
Hm. He contemplated reverse-engineering Muffliato, which was a spell that Lily had basically requested. If he could somehow cast a similar cone of protective silence, only amplify and project the sound on the inside to the outside . . . hmmm. Now that had promise. If he could pull that off, he could cast it on Rosier in a particularly private moment of self-indulgence. He snickered. Better if he could slip him an aphrodisiac potion of some sort immediately prior. It would have to be strong and quick-acting, and not last very long, because for maximum effect, he'd have to do it at a ruthlessly inappropriate time, but Snape was willing to bargain that he'd be able to come up with exactly the thing.
On both counts.
Snape jumped and yelped as his the Mark on his arm began to burn – much as it had in the few moments immediately after it had been completed. "JESUS!" he hissed out loud, wondering how the hell Lucius, who had very well been Summoned in front of him before, managed a short, sharp, indrawn breath and barely a flinch before excusing himself quickly and politely. Although, he supposed, people would eventually get used to just about anything. He'd have to work on that. Heaven knew that if he screeched like that in front of his father the man would likely have a heart-attack . . . although that may be kinder than letting him suffer from whatever respiratory ailment was apparently killing him.
Brought out of his reverie, Snape noticed his wand lying at his feet – where it most certainly had NOT been lying only a few moments before. He retrieved it and then, for the first time in his life, Apparated without a clear destination in mind. Wilkie Twycross would have been horrified.
He appeared suddenly, once again in the circle of assembled Death Eaters. He fought down the urge to give the Dark Lord a sarcastic "you rang?" and simply walked to where his new Master was standing, knelt, and kissed his robes as was befitting a minion of darkness, waiting impatiently for the command to rise.
"Did you enjoy your little furlough, Severus?"
He took that as permission to look up, and met the Dark Lord's eyes. "If you would call contemplating ways to turn arrogant blood-traitor's generative bits into annoying weasels 'enjoyable', then yes."
"How fascinating," the Dark Lord drawled sarcastically. "However, I have more important things to deal with – this should be easy for you."
The Dark Lord handed him a beaten metal object that Severus recognised as an old – and probably broken – toaster. Severus reached for it questioningly. "This is a Portkey. There is a book on an island in the middle of the lake that I need you to return to me – undamaged. It is very valuable."
Snape blinked, but took the Portkey, and whirled off, landing on the bank of a small lake.
He looked around, trying to get his bearings. Off in the distance, he saw a man leading a heavily laden horse. He ducked to the ground and scooped a small rock into his hand, which he transfigured into an Omniocular, which he used to examine the man better. He didn't appear to be much older than forty, but had a prematurely aged face that looked as if it had been etched from weathered driftwood, and not only due to its colour. He was wearing a fuzzy black hat vaguely reminiscent of a Cossack's hat, and bright red and blue coloured clothes, wielding an odd stick with a loop on the end of it. He appeared to be a Muggle and to not have seen Severus, and therefore wasn't any sort of threat.
Snape decided to ignore him, and focused on the terrain around him. From where he stood, aside from the lake in front of him, he saw steppes, sand dunes and wetlands, and far in the distance, what appeared to be a volcano.
Where the hell am I?
He looked up and saw a flock of cranes with greyish brown bodies, red spots over their eyes and white necks flying in a V formation. Judging by the time of year and climate, he assumed the direction they were headed was south. Elegant brown and black bodied birds, also with white necks were in the water ahead – he could see the island not far away, but no boats. Deciding his location really didn’t matter, he doffed his shoes, cloak, preparing to swim, and was just about to remove his robe when he suddenly noticed a funny-looking creature that resembled a monkey with webbed hands slavering just underneath the reeds. Swimming didn't look quite as appealing anymore.
Hm, he thought to himself, peering down his aquiline nose at the beast. It wouldn't be here without its food sources being near, but he didn't feel like going on a trek after horticultural targets – he had enough things to deal with.
"Accio cucumis!" he hissed, eyeing the beast carefully. He hoped it would come to land on its own, but if it didn't, he could coax it. A few moments later, he was rewarded by the thumping of a long, fat, dark green gourd landing at his feet. He swooped down and grabbed it, noting the gleaming eyes of the creature as it saw its favourite treat.
He withdrew the small silver dagger he always carried with him – one could never know when a rare or otherwise valuable potions ingredient would appear, or when the sudden need to defend yourself bodily would present itself, after all - and carved his full name into the thin, tender rind, exposing the much lighter, watery flesh beneath, then tossed the vegetable towards the shore and watched as it landed satisfactorily far away from the bank with a loud thump, sinking slightly into the mud at the bank.
The creature eyed him warily, but couldn't resist the treat, and crept carefully up the bank. When the animal was about halfway to the cucumber, Snape bowed dramatically, and when the creature, bound by tradition to repay courtesy with courtesy, bowed likewise, Snape whipped his wand out of his sleeve and cast a stunning charm. Acting quickly – he had no desire to find out what retribution the Dark Lord would exact if he killed his guardian, he rushed to the animal, and dunked it back in the water to refill the depression on its head.
"You may have the cucumber when I return," he said by way of apology, with no idea if the beast understood English.
Carefully, he arranged the animal against a rock so the water in its head would not spill then bound it tightly, should the spell wear off whist he was in the water, although this task was made quite difficult by the tortoiseshell the animal wore on its back. Satisfied he wasn't in any immediate danger, he placed the cucumber between the rock and the lake – thus ensuring that the Kappa would see it and eat it in the event he was able to extricate itself from its bindings if the charm did wear off.
Resigned – swimming was never a favourite activity of his and he wasn't particularly good at it – he removed his robe and dove into the water. "SWEET MERLIN!" he chattered desperately, coming up for air, his teeth chattering and his skin a raised pattern of freezing dots. The water could not possibly be more than two degrees above freezing.
He cast a warming charm on himself, hoping that his shaky voice wouldn't mangle the casting, but was rewarded by instant warmth.
Although the island wasn't far away, his lack of expertise in swimming, coupled with the difficulty of swimming with his wand in his hand, tired him out quickly. He flipped on to his back, gasping for air as he willed his legs to keep kicking, but was making little progress. He paused for a moment to rest then spun around. Only slightly more than halfway there, he suddenly wondered why he hadn't just Apparated to the stupid island in the first place. Disgusted with himself, he tried desperately to summon the necessary determination and deliberation to make it to his destination – and found himself still floating in water.
He wasn't sure if he was facing an Anti-Apparation Jinx, or if it weren't possible to Apparate while treading water, or if he was just too tired. Regardless, he'd have to go about this the Muggle way. He started kicking again, trying to get himself into a rhythm of productive kicking and stroking that didn't resemble panicked flailing and thrashing.
His lungs burned, his muscles burned, his stomach ached and he wanted to heave. He strongly suspected he was going to drown, despite his ability to "swim", before he reached his destination. He groaned in agony and immediately regretted it, as so doing caused him to inhale a generous mouthful of filthy water that tasted horribly decomposed and very, very salty.
He did vomit, then – a feat which was accompanied by an inability to keep himself treading water and he went under. Panicked, he fought himself to the surface and forced himself onto his back but turned to the side until the retching passed.
Gasping, weak, and shaking, he floated in a pool of his own vomitus until he caught his breath, calmed down and summoned his strength.
He raised his head and realised he had only a short distance to go, but was coated in undigested food. Taking a deep breath, he submerged himself again, and once underneath the water, kicked hard to get away from the waste. When he came up for air, he was a respectable distance away and now only covered in the filthy water. Eying his destination once more, he summoned the remaining energy he had, and crawled up on the bank, where he laid face down on the island for a full five minutes before clambering wearily to his feet. Naked and exposed, he stepped carefully over the sharp rocks of the island to the pedestal in the centre of the island, and grabbed the book.
He nearly dropped it when he realised it was bound in human skin. Supressing a shudder, he looked at it carefully. Apart from its obviously dubious choice of cover material, it was inscribed with some Gothic writing that Severus couldn't discern, and a drawing that looked somewhat like a cross between the Vitruvian Man and an astrological chart, with alchemical and arithmantic symbols engraved around it. The tome fairly oozed Dark Magic. Whilst his hands itched to open it, he hadn't the Dark Lord's permission to do that, and contained his curiosity.
He turned about and eyed the bank, hoping in vain that it would be closer than he remembered. It, of course, was not, and he wasn't at all certain he'd survive a return swimming trip. Desperately hoping Apparation would work, he concentrated hard on the pile of his clothes, which he could only just see.
Apparation worked, and he didn't care in the least if there had been a jinx on Apparating to the island but not from it – he was just glad to not have to suffer the torturous water journey twice.
He carefully set the book on dry ground and dressed quickly. Grateful beyond measure, he grabbed the cucumber, dismissed the chain binding the Kappa to the rock, and, noting the animal was still rigid, picked it up and placed it carefully in the water, setting the cucumber within easy reach of the animal before releasing the charm that bound it. He walked back to the book, prepared to return the item to his lord.
When Snape got to the book, he pulled the Portkey out of the pocket of his robes, and stared at it mutely for a minute. Portkeys were one-way devices – he didn't have one to return.
Snape looked long and hard at his arm, which still burned if he let it fall to his side too harshly. He'd managed to Apparate to the Dark Lord once tonight without knowing exactly where he was, and decided to try that again.
And failed.
Snape hadn't had difficulty Apparating ever in his life since he'd gotten licensed, yet twice in the last half-hour he'd found it impossible – both times around this hidden book. It made sense – of course the Dark Lord would cast concealment charms and an anti-Apparation jinx, but the problem was, if he stepped outside the boundaries of the jinx, that would as good as mark the place for whatever passed for a Department of Magical Law Enforcement in the area. While he was still unsure where he was, he was quite convinced he was not in Britain.
Walking back to the very edge of the lake shore, Snape cast an Impervious charm on the book, which he followed up with a Dissillusionment charm, which he then secured tightly to himself under his robes. Glancing around at his surroundings again, he saw the sun glinting of the tops of some structures in the distance, possibly a Muggle village.
Unwilling to be the one to bring the hideout to the attention of the local counterparts of the DMLE, Snape started walking toward it. At least if he were there and cast magic, and that was picked up, they'd think he was doing something in the village and probably not look at the hideout. Or he might be able to arrange for Muggle transport to a larger town or even a city, where the prevalence of wizard-kind would be higher, in which case he could probably get away with creating a Portkey. At least, he stood much lesser chance of being caught at so doing.
The walking was slow going, given the rough and undeveloped terrain. After almost an hour, he began to wonder if this was really worth it.
On the other hand, if the Dark Lord were growing impatient, he'd have known by now. And he felt as if he were being tested for not only his loyalties, but his dedication to the cause and determination to maintain secrecy. He kept walking, the activity and Lucius' cloak keeping him warm.
Finally, after about two hours, he reached the village and looked around. The area was truly primitive, bearing only a few people who were as weathered looking as the man he'd seen on the horse earlier, all of which were eying his far-too-pale features with hostile suspicion.
This would never do. He slipped behind one of the canvas huts and Disapparated.