Here they are, Voldemort's most trusted ones: Snape, his figure swimming in the shadows, his hair dripping ink, bony face colder than death. Lucius, with hands curled around his walking stick like dangerous serpents, the silvery moonlight of hair embracing his shoulders. Bellatrix, lips red and full, eyes gleaming with madness as ancient as the dreadful joy of murder. Only Narcissa has her face covered with a mask, fair, velvety skin in stark contrast with coal-black silk.
Snape speaks first, the waves of darkness parting around him as he steps forward.
The other three are eyeing him cautiously.
- The Dark Lord is defeated, - Snape's voice rustles. He doesn't say "dead", he doesn't need to. They already know that, anyway. - We mourn this loss.
They all see these words for the lie they are. Neither of them moves to contradict, although, inwardly, they cringe. Only one of them smiles.
- What is to be done now? - comes Lucius's voice, which trembles just so. This, they also notice, for the same sickly anticipation grips their own hearts.
Snape's tone, when he speaks again, is vacant.
- We appoint a successor.
The darkened room is suddenly cramped with the thoughts they do not give voice to. They echo off the walls and make Lucius clench his teeth, make Bella tremble, make Narcissa sway and throw an odd look at her husband.
- How do we decide? - Bella blurts out, unconsciously moving closer to Snape. She's looking at his mouth as if she wants to breathe in his answer together with his last breath.
A silent energy seems to be coursing through the bodies of all the three, but there's something in Snape's eyes that is even stronger, more dangerous. His eyes never stop looking, burning each of them from the inside out.
- The decision's already been taken, - he speaks in a voice far too soft to be soothing. The corners of his thin lips curl up in a smile.
The silence around them is the question and the answer at the same time.
Lucius's words, when they come, feel like the coldest of winds on the hottest of skins.
Snape only nods, silently, calmly. Neither of them can explain why this strange sort of calm seems to be more dreadful than dread itself. Neither of them knows why they don't protest, don't even utter a single word.
All this time, they've been fearing the wrong man.
Narcissa suddenly rips off her mask and falls to her knees in front of Snape. Lucius and Bella stare at her in bewilderment as she clutches Snape's robes in her shaking hands, showers his long fingers, his narrow wrists with fervent, burning kisses. She's trembling all over, and whether it's from fear or from delight, is difficult to say.
Snape's face remains impassive as he makes her stand and brings her closer. His eyes are cold and burning as he peers closely at her fragile, adoring face.
- Narcy, why? - Lucius whispers, stricken. He can't stop watching them, even though the sight is already etched like a brand into his very soul.
She is silent for a few seconds, still looking into Snape's eyes. Then she turns her head and says, simply:
- Because I wanted to. - She smiles, a slow, euphoric smile. - I wanted to be owned.
Lucius and Bella draw out their wands, moving closer together. They've never been allies, never looked into each other aside from a passing, indifferent glance. Now they're joined in their fury, in their gnawing fear, in the bitterness of betrayal.
Narcissa is already armed, but Snape stays her hand, shaking his head. He eyes the opposing pair as if there's a secret he has to share, but isn't sure they'll understand.
- There's no need for that, - he says, reasonably, much like speaking to a child.
He is met with deafening fury in Bella's eyes. Lucius, however, is still and pale as a ghost. Once again, he finds himself devoured by irrational, deathlike dread which makes his stomach twist and the blood flow painfully slow in his veins.
- Brave Lucius, - Snape's voice suddenly says, and it's as though he hears it inside his head, his mind. This voice is nothing like he remembers - smooth, velvety. Full of promise. It continues. - You're trying to fight it, but there's nothing to fight. Have a look.
A wave of Snape's hand, and Lucius can see the other Death Eaters surrounding them, surrounding Snape, the same look on their faces that his wife has. Lost to unknown madness.
- They are happy, Lucius, - Snape's voice slides into his ears, stirring his strangest nightmares, caressing his deepest secrets. - They want to be owned - that's all they want. And me... I'm just there.
- What have you done with our Lord, you demon? - He hears Bella whisper, advancing on Snape while Lucius himself is backing away. - He wasn't defeated, was he? You killed him!
Snape merely smiles, tearing an agonized cry from Bellatrix's throat. She watches him like he is, really, a demon, a creature from the other world, a beast even worse than the one she had lain with and killed for and mourned with her eyes dry and hot.
- There's no Dark Lord. - Snape chuckles, and it's a terrible, hollow sound. - There never was. He was just a figment of your imagination.
Lucius and Bella think back to different things - unforgivable curses, unforgivable touches of cold, icy fingers. But in the end, they're sure of the same. They were as real as the scars covering Lucius's tender body and Bella's seasoned heart.
- Oh, you're right, - smiles the creature before them. He draws Narcissa to him, snaking his hand around her waist. His eyes watch Lucius and Bellatrix, but not carefully. - It was real. I've been real, all this time.
Without waiting for their reaction, he turns his head and kisses Narcissa full on the lips. This kiss is deep, decadent, burning with passion which isn't really there, can't be there. His mouth covers her mouth, their lips move together, rose petals on a blood-red wound.
When he finally withdraws, he leaves all three of them gasping, struggling for air.
- Don't you want to know who it is that you love so? - he asks, shifting closer.
They remain silent. They cannot move, frozen to the spot as he slowly approaches, shoving a dazed Narcissa in their direction.
When he stops several steps from them, and their lips are still sealed, he waves his hand once more.
Two things happen simultaneously.
The crowd of the other Death Eaters disappears like an army of ghosts in a strange, chilly dream.
Snape's face shifts, changes, frays at the edges. They stare on, frozen to the core and so, so fascinated.
It's like they see, and they don't. It's like he's there, wholly there, and isn't there at all. His face is changing constantly. But does he even have a face?..
When the question comes, neither of them knows who asked it.
- Who are you?
The darkness in front of the group swells and reaches out.
- I'm you, - it says, and then it swallows them.
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