Note: Sequel to "Gimme a drink".
Disclaimer: All credit to J.K.R. and her associates.
How to get him on his knees
Why was his head spinning? And spinning and spin-
Urgh! What's this feeling in his stomach? He couldn't remember when or if he had ever felt that sick. Merlin, was he ... he was dying, wasn't he? Panicked, Voldemort bolted up into a sitting position and instantly regretted it. The spinning became worse with his eyes open and his insides seemed to troop together for a protest march up his throat. Somebody must have cast a curse to gut him.
Just having a few very short seconds to orient himself in the foreign surroundings, he jumped out of the bed and ran to the door he hoped would lead him to a toilet or at least some kind of bin. It was a fifty-fifty chance with two doors available, but thankfully the closer one turned out to be the bathroom. He didn't make it to the toilet though and instead used the sink to throw up the remaining pieces of his wretched soul.
After some excruciating minutes the retching stopped and left the Dark Lord utterly miserable. There was nothing to describe the sharp pounding in his head or the unusual lack of control he wielded over his body and mind. With shaking legs he made his way back to the ruffled bed and sank onto the mattress, taking deep breaths to calm the dizziness down. Whoever has done this to him would die a horrible death, he pledged. His imagination was quite livid in the ways, but there was no visual recipient to his unholy thoughts which reminded him: He had absolutely no clue to what has happened to him. How comes he ended up in such a shady room, feeling sick to the bone and ... starkers? Where the bloody hell where his clothes?
Another spike of pain ran down his nerve endings. Taking his way too heavy head slowly into his hands, he allowed a little groan to escape his burning – why was it burning? – throat. Maybe if he reconstructed the course of events he would be able to decide on a counter curse. Moving only his eyes in search for his wand, he found it on the bedside table. That was easy.
His memories were foggy ghosts, so the other part of his search appeared to be a tad harder, but eventually he remembered visiting Knockturn Alley. He needed glimmergrass for a shampoo-potion to maintain the structure of his still tender hair, so he went straight for the not quite legal apothecary.
What happened after that? Did he ever reach his destination?
His eyes fell upon a dark cloak he recognised as his favourite one. Now he only had to grab his wand and levitate it from the floor to look into the pockets – empty. By the way, he never left his things on the floor which leaves one certain conclusion: he must have come across somebody who had accompanied him into this room. A guest room he guessed by the lack of furniture and personal possessions. But who could it have been? A Death Eater surely wouldn't have just left him here; he wouldn't go easy on such an individual.
As his mind snail-raced, a glimpse of dark hair and bright eyes surfaced, but was gone before he could grab it. If he examined the bed and bathroom he might find more traces of his mysterious and soon-to-be-dead companion, because his memories were totally locked up and he was dying from curiosity; and, maybe, a bit of anxiety. But first: with a defeated groan he sank into the cushion and closed his eyes for the next eternity.
Yet it was only a few hours later that he returned to his quarters in Malfoy Manor. His investigations had produced one black hair and an obliviated inn-keeper with no more traces. Other people would have been frustrated with the results, but Lord Voldemort was a genius and it didn't take a genius to know that a hair was excellent news.
"Send Pettigrew to my rooms," he ordered a Death Eater he came by. The woman bent and hurried away while Voldemort detoured to his office to retrieve two small flasks of different colours. Almost having regained his grace but not his constitution, he drained one potion immediately and stowed the other into his robe pocket after including the hair into the substance. Feeling already much better, he headed for his personal living room to wait for Peter. He contemplated to take a seat and relax his still sore body, but for some reasons he chose not to evaluate, it was easier to stand than to sit down. This way he wasn't able to do anything useful, so he wished for Peter to move his rat's arse quickly over here before he lost the last bit of patience.
Right on cue there was a tentative knock on the wooden door. Drawing himself up and checking the stability of his legs, Voldemort commanded the rat in. But before it could waste his precious time with huddling and cowering, he came straight to the point: "Come over here, Peter." At least now his voice sounded as imperious as he was used to; when he had questioned the inn-keeper, a croaking and rasping had accompanied his words. Usually this was the case after he had shouted at his Death Eaters for several hours, because the idiots couldn't get a damn thing right. He was curious as to whether he did have an argument last night.
"M-M-Milord," Pettigrew brought him back with an annoying squeak. He had stopped just out of reach, the little coward. Since the Dark Lord had other things to obtain to, he came the last step towards Peter himself and the rat instantly cowered. Honestly, what did he expect Voldemort to do? Punch him? Jump him? Peters small pig-eyes remained tightly closed for a moment before he found the guts to open them and glance cautiously at his master who was now holding an already opened vial in his hand.
"Here!" A little squeal escaped the rat's throat as Voldemort almost threw the vial against his chest. "Drink", he commanded harshly.
That was the good thing about chicken-livered followers; they never questioned you like some high-ranking Death Eaters did nowadays. Peter took the potion with shaking hands and poured it down his throat as if it were a poison. Wasn't the man said to be acceptable at potions? Didn't he recognise the liquid or was fear clouding his brains?
"W-What happens?" This squeaking was trying, but fortunately it would last no longer. Pettigrew's facial features changed, smoothing somewhat; his body became a bit slimmer and a very large bit taller. Voldemort stepped back and observed the transformation with restrained tension. If the hair he had found really belonged to his last night's company, he would now come to know who of his servants deserved a rather nasty punishment. It could neither be a complete stranger nor a woman as his backside claimed with penetrating insistency. He wasn't the type to pick somebody up from the street; it must have been a familiar face.
Shortly after, he found his assumptions confirmed. It indeed was a face he knew quite well that was now looking at him where Peter had stood a minute ago. The problem was that he wouldn't be able to kill this bastard, which wasn't down to the shock he experienced at this very moment. He needed this man for some future plans. But, well, maybe he needed an outlet for his upcoming rage even more. Because the mere thought of having shared a bed with this individual and probably having done quite a few other things together gave Lord Voldemort a chill.
The polyjuice had turned Peter Pettigrew straight into none other than the infamous horror of Hogwarts, known as one Severus Snape. Though he refused to believe what he saw, a small part of Voldemort's mind confessed that the degree of oiliness on the found hair had been a glowing clue, right?
Something went horribly wrong.