This is the first chapter of 'Light in the Darkness.' I have gone through the first three chapters of this fanfiction and attempted to correct certain grammatical and spelling mistakes. I do not own any of the characters. Characters and devices are copyrighted to J.K Rowling. Scenario that follows is conceived from my imagination…sick as it may be
.:Light in the Darkness:.
.:Chapter 1:.
The cool water splashed against the angular face of Lucius Malfoy as he stood underneath the bewitched shower head. He felt the water cascade down his back, clinging to his blonde locks as he looked down at his left forearm; the Dark Mark was still faintly present underneath his pale skin. His fingers traced the outline of the skull, working their way around the snake that slithered out of the skull's redundant mouth. This was the Mark that unified all of them, himself, his fellow Deatheaters… and him.
"Finite incantato," he muttered, watching whilst the water ceased to flow from the shower head.
He grabbed a towel, wrapping it about his slim waist; beads of water still clung to his hair eventually trickling down the curves of his defined muscles. Sighing, he sauntered over to the silver, serpentine styled mirror, the cold stone floor chilling the soles of his feet as he went. The grey mist that swirled about the emerald-encrusted mirror cleared, revealing his cold reflection. His hair hung about his shoulders in wet strands, his piercing dark eyes contrasted against the pale canvas on which they were set. A slight smile appeared on the wizard's pink lips. Turning from the mirror, he grabbed the silk robe hanging from the dragon's claw that lay embedded in the dark wood of the mahogany door and walked into the master bedroom.
The room was covered in ancient black velvet drapes and deep green satin throws each bearing the Malfoy Crest: two silver snakes entwined around an ornate emerald dagger. On each wall golden framed portraits hung, ancestors of the Malfoy Family, each distinguished by their platinum blonde hair and dark, deep set eyes. The wizard paced across the room, watching as each portrait turned to face him, each one nodding in respect to the current patriarch of the infamous Malfoy family. Smiling, he loosened his towel allowing it to fall to the cold slate ground below him, revealing the taut abdomen and buttocks that lay concealed beneath it. The subdued candlelight that lit the room from sconces and candelabras, cast shadows on the nude physique of the dark wizard, enhancing the natural contours of his body whilst bringing to life the Dark Mark that lay embedded on his forearm.
"Soon," he whispered to the air. "Soon."
His black robe billowed out behind him, as the Potions Master paced along the dark corridors, descending down a flight of stone steps to reach his dungeon. Professor Severus Snape scowled as he saw the rag-tag group of first years he had the unfortunate pleasure of teaching; a mixed bunch of students from Gryffindor and his own house, Slytherin. His eyes narrowed as they fell upon three dim looking Slytherins whose robes were covered in a rather stubborn green substance. He glared at them with admonishment as their attempts at removing the matter remained fruitless. No doubt they were victims to either the childish nature of Peeves or the delinquent delights of the Weasley twins.
"Ten points from Gryffindor," he callously muttered under his breath.
"Silence!" he shouted, as he walked past the chattering group of pupils who fell quiet when they heard Snape's harsh tones. "I do not tolerate insolence, you would all do well to remember that," snarled Snape as he led the class into the dark oppressive depths of his classroom.
Pulling his dark robes about his slim frame, Snape eyed each one of his students as they unpacked their cauldrons and unravelled their parchment. He was seething that he still had not been offered the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, and that he was still confined to his dungeon teaching the complex art of potion-making to a class of pubescent numbskulls.
"I do not expect that many of you will understand… no, comprehend the study of potion-making," began the dark haired Professor slowly. "However, I expect that some of you," he continued, shooting a glance at the Slytherins, "…will prove me wrong… unlikely though it may seem." The words came from his mouth as if spoken a thousand times before.
The class remained transfixed by fear as Snape began writing up the ingredients needed for a basic sleeping draught, reminding them that he would be testing their own potions on them at the end of the class.
"Let me remind you," frowned the Professor, "one drop too much of chimera blood and your potion will, in some cases, become a fatal … BYRNE! Did I say SPEAK!" He hissed.
His index finger was pointed at a mousey haired Gryffindor in the front row, who had made the foolish mistake of whispering whilst Snape was talking. Snape's dark eyes were unwaveringly fixed upon the dumbstruck boy who stood shaking before him.
"Tell me Byrne," he whispered, quietly, dangerously. "What did I say to the class before this lesson began?"
The Gryffindor had turned a deathly shade of white, his bottom lip trembling.
"Y-y-y-ou said that y-you would not tolerate insolence, Sir," stammered the young Gryffindor.
"Well, it seems to me that we have someone who thinks they are… above my rules, haven't we?" announced Snape, over the snickering laughter of the Slytherins. "Another Harry Potter, I fear."
"N-n-o, S-sir," stuttered Byrne.
"No?" challenged the Potions teacher, leering at the trembling Gryffindor. "Then perhaps, Byrne, you would like to explain to me what was more important than listening to my instructions, hm?"
"N-n-nothing, Professor," replied the boy.
"Nothing, you say? I see…" snarled Snape, his lip curling. "Well then, I think twenty points from Gryffindor for Mr. Byrne's neglect of my rules and a further ten points for his apparent ...inability to tell the truth. Sit down."
The Gryffindor sat down trembling, tears welling in his eyes.
"Be ready to present your potions for grading in five minutes," snapped Snape, as he turned around returning to his worn desk, surprised to see a rolled up piece of parchment lying there.
Snape eyed the parchment and snatched it up, crushing it in his grasp.
"WHO PUT THIS ON MY DESK?" he shouted, his eyes darting from the young Gryffindor to the crumpled parchment in his hand.
His lips curled into a snarl as he read it, miming the words with his mouth.
We were as one,
Underneath the Black Sun,
And with a change of heart,
We were apart,
The time has come, our finicky friend,
For us to meet and make amends.
Once the last word was read, the Professor's brows furrowed in disbelief as the words liquefied, trickling down the tattered parchment in a rainbow of shimmering colours. Snape felt the familiar tug of an invisible force, pulling him backwards in a whirlwind of swirling colours.
Severus felt his feet crash on to the solid stone floor beneath him.
"A portkey?" he muttered confusedly as he swayed slightly.
It began with a hushed whisper at first, growing louder, more distinct until Snape's ears were filled with the sound of cool laughter reverberating around him as he quickly sought to regain his bearings. As his sight slowly came back into focus, the source of the laughter was made abhorrently clear... Six or seven hooded shadows leered at him through the insidious darkness that surrounded him. Even though all that his eyes could distinguish were the sketchy outlines of the hooded heads, he knew exactly what and who they were…
"Deatheaters," he said in an almost whisper, his right hand instinctively moving towards his left forearm.
Their garish laughter metamorphosed in to one slight snigger as a dusty ray of light crept into the darkened room; it soon became clear to Snape that the hooded figures were nothing more than several faded portraits. Still shrouded in darkness with only a thin beam of light to see, Severus turned to what appeared to be the source of the light. He brought his hand up to face, shadowing his eyes. His eyes narrowed… all he could make out were the fingers of a gloved hand curled around the handle of the opening door.