By: Spiral (spiral_24@hotmail.com)
Rating: Rated R for violence (including torture), character death, swearing, sexual references (including BDSM) and mild slash (SS/RL). It is not rated NC-17 as there are no explicit sexual descriptions. If in doubt though, treat it as such.
Summary: Snape is sent on a mission by Dumbledore to recover an ancient artefact from the British Museum in London. Will he reach it before Voldemort does?
Timeline: Four days after the ending of GoF.
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst
Disclaimer: This is for love, not money. Severus and all the other characters portrayed here do not belong to me - I am just playing with them again before I put them back in J.K.Rowling's toy box. Oliver's Army was written and sung by the great Elvis Costello (all bow deeply).
Note: Apologies to Steven King and Frank Darabont. It was inevitable, someone had to do it and it might as well be me. Sorry. Oh, and Nina is not me, honestly. Five points to Slytherin if you recognise where the character was taken from, before being warped and abused by me here. Many thanks to my superlative beta readers, Becca and Tanya.
My Mind Goes Sleepwalking
I could talk all night
My mind goes sleepwalking
While I'm putting the world to right
Called careers information
Have you got yourself an occupation?
Oliver's army is here to stay
Oliver's army are on their way
And I would rather be anywhere else
But here today.
There was a checkpoint charlie
He didn't crack a smile
But its no laughing party
When you've been on the murder mile
Only takes one itchy trigger
One more widow, one less white nigger.
Severus Snape jabbed the 'Stop' button on the CD player and walked over to the open window. His most constructive thoughts often occurred to him when gazing out of a window, especially when the view was as pleasing as this one. Some of his students back at Hogwarts seriously believed his private chambers were in the dungeons. This amused him.
The words of the song played across his mind. He had been listening to the track on repeat for almost ten minutes.
Cromwell. He had always admired Oliver Cromwell - the man's resolute control, his fierce mastery of mind, body and emotion. Cromwell chose his men wisely. He saw into men's hearts and felt their consuming passion, knew they would fight to the last breath for the cause as long as he led them. They fought not because they were forced to, or were convinced to, or needed to, but because they wanted to. "Troops moved to victory with the precision of machines, while burning with the wildest fanaticism of crusaders ..." To Snape, the lines from Macauley's History of England, Volume 1 never seemed more apt.
Voldemort, Snape knew, could also see into men's hearts and know their innermost desires. But had Voldemort been wrong about those Death Eaters who, like Karkaroff, had failed to return when called after the long years of silence? No. They had fled from cowardice. They still wanted what they always had, but were no longer prepared to risk their lives for it. As far as he could see, Voldemort had never misjudged any of his troops. It was merely that, for some, the fire had died down over the years.
And him? Had not he, Severus Snape, offered his arm for the Dark Mark freely? Voldemort had not been wrong about him then, and when he had prostrated himself in front of the Dark Lord the evening after the third task of the Triwizard Tournament, he had simply been commanded to rise, return to Hogwarts and await his summons. There had been no further comment; it was an unspoken acceptance of his continued loyalty.
That was what Dumbledore had predicted.
'You are now Voldemort's only link to Hogwarts, Severus,' Dumbledore had told him. 'We both know how much he wants Hogwarts. He will accept you back into the ranks.'
Snape had not looked so convinced. Dumbledore had smiled at him in his most fatherly manner.
'I'm not saying it won't be highly dangerous, of course. You will need your wits about you more than ever. But Voldemort would be a fool to kill you when he can make such good use of you. Just play your strongest card, Severus, and you will survive.'
His strongest card? The role of fence-sitter, poised to slide over the side that was ultimately victorious. Dumbledore believed it to be an act. All Snape believed was that Dumbledore had more faith in him than he had in himself.
The noise of the traffic below in Park Lane was getting louder and drew him back to the present. Snape wrinkled his nose in distaste at the noxious petrol fumes and moved away from the window. The speed and determination of these non-magicals going about their business had made him apprehensive at first. He felt marked out as an interloper in their everyday dance of life, the only one not knowing the steps. Yesterday evening he had stood completely motionless amongst the mass of people crossing Tower Bridge, leaning back uneasily against the parapet, the only still figure amongst the constant human tide. He had felt disconnected, yet perversely superior in his aloofness.
Muggles. He disliked the term. It made them sound harmless and inoffensive - comic, even. They should never be underestimated as such. They reminded him of honey bees, constantly on the move. Like bees, they went quietly on their way if nothing disturbed them, but were capable of a dangerous swarming given the provocation, and then Merlin help anyone in their path.
How many had died the last time the non-magicals had swarmed out of control in their fear and hatred of his kind? It was the Witch Trials - what many had called The Burning Times. Some said nine million, but on closer reading of the primary sources that seemed a rather arbitrary figure. He concurred with Muggle historians such as Hutton that the real figure was closer to forty thousand. Yes ... Professor Hutton. Some of what Snape had read in his books was so accurate it made him wonder if the man truly was a non-magical.
Forty thousand - the number appeared insignificant in comparison with nine million. But had he stood on Tower Bridge yesterday until sunset, Snape doubted whether as many as forty thousand souls would have passed him. And how they had died ... it was the fortunate ones who had been hanged, given the dignity of a quick and efficient death. The others ... Snape thought of their screams and desperate pleas for mercy as he envisaged their torture and execution - flesh ripped from flesh, fat melting from charred bones, splashing and congealing grey and thick on smooth cobbles.The shrieks of agony of those broken and violated bodies echoed to Snape across history. It didn't require him to draw greatly on his powers of imagination. He had heard tortured screams as a younger man and would never forget them. Torture was the logical recourse of fundamentalism of any type, in any age. The cries still haunted his dreams sometimes, pulling him from sleep to wake with a cold sweat, and a sick emptiness in the pit of his stomach.
Often, in those dreams, Snape heard Voldemort's voice rising above the screaming, a calming and yet impassioned counterpoint, compelling and strangely mesmerising. Theirs was a glorious mission of deliverance, he was telling them, the liberation from a thousand years of moving darkly through the shadows. No longer would they cloak themselves in anonymity to blend in with the mediocrity of the world 'outside', weaving deceptions and incantations to hide their every movement. Finally, they would reclaim this world 'outside' and make it their own, walking tall and proud in their rightful place as leaders in the land of their birth. Aged seventeen, Snape had wanted it, had desired it, so intensely it had made him tremble ... and kill.
My mind goes sleepwalking
While I'm putting the world to right
The two lines came back to him suddenly.
'Go with the certainty of sleepwalkers on the path laid out for you by Providence,' Voldemort had told them, the Death Eaters, the élite. They had done so. The seduction of Voldemort's dazzling charisma had brought about an unshakable faith in the guidance and protection of a higher force, external to them all - even their Dark Lord and Master himself. In this atmosphere of abandonment many of them had indeed been liberated, just as Voldemort had promised. It had taken the form of willing submission to the deadly, glittering impulses they had previously only barely held in check. Had he believed he was putting the world to right? For a brief, pure moment, yes ... before the blood, before the screaming ...
Snape had listened to some of the Death Eaters at their trials, pleading the influence of the Imperius curse, the subordination of their mind and judgement to the Dark Lord. The majority of them had no more been the victim of that curse than Snape had. Their wills had not been lost; quite the opposite. They had been given free rein under Voldemort's careful ministrations. This was the true horror of it all.
He checked his watch. 8.40 am - the British Museum did not open its doors until 10. Better make a start, though. He would walk. The Underground was loathsome, especially at this time of the morning.
Snape closed the window and walked over to the small writing table on the opposite side of the room, where he picked up a smooth black leather wallet. It bulged slightly with the thickness of the Bank of England notes inside it. Their damned money, he had never been able to get used to it. Yesterday evening he had attempted to pay for a newspaper with a £20 note and had incurred an astonishing amount of verbal abuse from the street vendor. It had attracted too much attention from passers by. He would not make that mistake again.
He slipped the wallet and his room keys into his trouser pocket and glanced up at the tall gilt mirror above the table. He adjusted his black silk tie for a moment and fiddled awkwardly with the cuffs of his black cotton shirt, pulling them further out from under the sleeves of his black suit jacket. His appearance was ... adequate, perhaps even slightly more than adequate. So it should be, he thought sourly, the amount the blasted suit had cost him at the tailor's - R. Marney: Muggle Clothing of Distinction - in Diagon Alley. He patted the left side of his jacket and felt the slim, reassuring presence of his wand and two thin crystal phials, held tightly inside the narrow concealed pocket in the lining.
Snape handed in his keys at the reception, then crossed the cool, marbled, art deco splendour of the hotel lobby and pushed through the revolving mahogany door. The concierge on the pavement outside bade him a warm 'Good Morning, Professor' and Snape nodded curtly in acknowledgement.
It was strange, he mused, that once he reaccustomed himself to it, it was almost comforting to be swept along in the flow of life outside, to be totally anonymous and blend in with it all, just another face in the crowd. This was the opposite of Diagon Alley, where it seemed as if at almost every other step he was acknowledged, or worse, forced into responding to some cretinous attempt at polite conversation by an ex-student or a parent of one of the current hoard. He kept his visits there to a minimum, always ensuring they were as brief as physically possible.
As he walked, Snape cast his mind back to the previous morning's meeting with Dumbledore, and the reason why he was here in London in the first place.
It had been well before breakfast, while Snape - a habitual early riser - was still dressing, that the house-elf had knocked on the door of his private chambers and delivered Dumbledore's note. The note had told him nothing, except that his presence was required in Dumbledore's office immediately. Curious, but not so curious as to walk the corridors in only his shirt-sleeves, Snape was being admitted to the large circular room more than ten minutes later.
'Severus, do come in.' Dumbledore gestured towards one of the leather armchairs in front of the smartly crackling fire. 'Can I get you some tea?' he inquired.
'No, thank you, Headmaster,' said Snape, sitting down stiffly.
'Some toast, perhaps?' said Dumbledore, lifting the copper kettle from above the fire and warming the large willow-patterned teapot on the hearth, which promptly did a small jig to swirl the hot water around itself before settling back down again.
'No, no thank you.' Snape crossed his legs and had to make a conscious effort to stop himself from drumming his long fingers on the arm of his chair as Dumbledore replaced the kettle, and then the teacosy on the now motionless pot, in a slow and deliberate manner.
'You wished to see me, Headmaster - urgently?' said Snape, not quite succeeding in extracting the slight tone of sarcasm from his voice.
'Yes, indeed I do, Severus, but first things first, eh? Are you sure you won't join me for a cup of tea?'
Snape sighed inaudibly and nodded, smiling slightly, despite his mild irritation.
'Very well, then.'
He knew from long years of experience that there was no point in trying to hurry the Headmaster. It would be as useless as attempting to summon snow on the Summer Solstice. He would just have to hold his impatience, and his curiosity, in check until Dumbledore was ready. He inspected his fingernails lazily, while he listened to the spooning out of tea and the chinking of china cups.
The teapot eventually became animated once again and obediently poured out two cups of steaming hot tea. Dumbledore settled himself in the chair opposite and sipped his tea thoughtfully. He put down his cup and picked up the morning's newspaper. It was not the Daily Prophet but rather the Muggle newspaper that the Headmaster also took, called The Guardian. He began to flick through its pages.
Snape sighed again, louder this time, and raised his cup to his lips.
'You know,' said Dumbledore from behind the newspaper, 'I'm firmly of the opinion that it is important to get a balanced perspective on the world. It is most advantageous if one maintains an open mind.' He folded the newspaper in half and regarded Snape over the top of his half-moon spectacles.
'What do you make of this, Severus?' he said, leaning over to pass the newspaper.
Snape took the paper and examined the page. Occupying a prominent position at the top was a black and white photograph of what looked like some form of metal ornament, crafted in the shape of a snake swallowing its own tail. He read out the caption underneath.
' "A silver Celtic torc, believed to date from the first century CE, discovered yesterday at a peat works at Hatfield Moor near Doncaster in Yorkshire, is due to go on display later this week at the British Museum." '
He looked up sharply at Dumbledore, his dark eyes gleaming. 'The Ouroboros torc of Salazar Slytherin,' he breathed. 'Can it be?'
'Yes, I believe so,' said Dumbledore slowly. He got up and walked over to his desk, returning with a thick leather and metal bound book, which he opened carefully at a bookmarked page and handed to Snape. 'It matches the sketches in Salazar Slytherin's journal exactly, does it not?'
Snape held the two images side by side for a moment, and then half-closed his eyes and murmured softly.
' "There is a plant that hides somewhere among the rocks,
That thirsts and thrusts itself deep in the earth,
with thistles that sting.
That plant contains eternal life for you ..." '
'Yes, the Epic of Gilgamesh,' said Dumbledore. 'I felt confident you would grasp the situation immediately, Severus, having studied Salazar Slytherin's writings in some depth.'
'Indeed, Headmaster. The serpent - '
'The serpent Ningizzida spoke to me of the blessing of the plant that restoreth the soul to the body,' quoted Dumbledore from memory. 'She told me that if my hands did obtain this plant, I may regain life's breath and youthful vigour. She showed me where this wonderous plant might be found.' He smiled. 'I have also made a detailed reading of Salazar Slytherin's most fascinating journal.'
Dumbledore returned to his armchair and steepled his fingers thoughtfully.
Snape's intent gaze never left him.
'What do you believe the Ouroboros could contain, Headmaster?' he asked softly.
'I have pondered that question for over five decades,' said Dumbledore. 'Whatever I could say at this moment would merely be conjecture. But I believe it is vital to assume two things. Firstly, that this artefact in the newspaper is indeed the torq that Salazar Slytherin described in his journal as his hiding place for the powerful plant he claimed to have discovered. Secondly, that all of the information we have is also known by Voldemort, and that he will be most anxious to obtain the torq for his own purposes. Although Voldemort, of course, possesses a form of immortality, from the description of his appearance given by Harry, and from your report, Severus, he must now be a truly terrible sight to look upon. Consider, if the torq does in fact hold a fragment of Gilgamesh's legendary flower of youth, just how much more power this will give Voldemort. With his youth restored, he would become even more of an overwhelming and seductive presence than he was thirteen years ago.'
Snape broke his gaze and shifted uncomfortably in his seat for a moment, before meeting Dumbledore's bright blue eyes once again.
'What is it that you wish me to do?' Snape asked.
'I want you to go to London,' said Dumbledore. 'Do your utmost to retrieve the torq from the British Museum before Voldemort does. Do what you must. Go today, as soon as you are able. It may take a few days - stay down there. I have an account at The Dorchester, I will arrange for you to use it. I know I need not warn you to use your discretion.'
'It is assured,' said Snape, rising from the armchair.
'And Severus ...'
'Yes, Headmaster?'
'Be careful.'
The Potions master nodded, and swept silently through the door.
Author's note: The comment about Professor Hutton is meant as a gentle compliment. I had the honour of meeting him once, at of all things, a Harry Potter fancy dress party. He was dressed as ... yes, you've guessed it ... Professor Snape. A very fine rendition of the Potions master he gave too, giving Alan Rickman a run for his money... well okay, just a little bit!