Chapter 1: Start the Reactor
October 28th, 2004 – 1:10 AM
Snape
Drip…
The pipes above the cavern continued to sweat, as though the grim chill of the chamber more resembled the dream-like warmth of a gentle summer, pleasing and trustworthy like the glance of a parent, propositioning the perspiration to leave the body as a penance to some invisible idol. Snape despised the sound.
He motioned his head backwards, towards the elevator in the background. The platform he stood upon was cylindrical. He couldn't see the walls. Looking into the distance, the already dark interior merely bled into a night as black as his robes. Complex machinery lined the edges of the platform, the purpose of which Snape did his best not to consider. At the farthest end from the elevator, was a twisted throne of ebony and onyx, in which an equally twisted figure sat upon, his sinister visage hidden underneath a shabby brown hooded cloak. Snape knew the face that lay beneath the cloak, yes; he knew it all too well. All knew his name, feared his name, could not begin to comprehend his motives, or the true machinations of his madness, his evil.
Snape knew this and more, yet was powerless. His position was set in stone, there was no escape.
A thin groan emanated from within the figure's cloak. "Snaaaaaape...," it hissed. The figure raised its gnarled right hand and motioned towards an LCD screen at Snape's side. The screen whirred to life and lit up. Snape was familiar with its contents. Five azure circles filled the monitor. It was a familiar sight, oh yes. If someone happened to play connect the dots with these particular circles, one would be left with a pentagram. Snape was thankful each time he saw the display that no such connection existed, at least visibly. Within each circle was a photograph.
Like a head shot, thought Snape.
The top left circle, a picture of a homely girl, her hair unkempt.
The bottom left circle, a plump boy, his eyes dancing.
The bottom right circle, the face of a wasted prodigy, his talent squandered, and his ability put to foolish use by a trivial mind. Malfoy… the disappointment. His disappointment.
The upper right circle… the boy. Potter.
Snape didn't waste a glance on the highest point, the top of the would-be pentagram. He knew it was his own photograph. He knew it far too well. The figure on the throne stood, his bones shrieking like ancient machinery. Something within Snape seemed to shriek with it, far beyond his thoughts.
"Now is the time, Snape, my Snape," it whispered. "Or will you back out? Escape? You would lose nothing, you know. Nothing you value."
You don't know what you're talking about. He valued his life. Didn't he? Didn't he?
"Certainly not Sire. I am yours," Snape said, sounding confident. Such a confidence existed only outward. The figure chuckled, a hoarse, uneasy sound. The mere sound of the figure's amusement felt like a garrote around the windpipe of Snape's sanity. He wondered how much longer until it collapsed entirely. "Then, my boy, you are committed entirely to my project? You accept it, without any form of hesitation?"
Snape knew if he considered the question for even a moment he would be killed immediately. He gave a single, slow nod of his head. A shrieking bout of piercing laughter filled the chamber, echoing not off of the walls but off of Snape's own fear, and he was afraid, so terribly, terribly afraid.
The figure raised its hand. It reached out from its rope, a horrible, pale hand, thin and polluted with age, and pointed at the machinery to Snape's left. Without looking, Snape knew. The lever, that lever, soon to be his lever. The figured emitted another burst of its chilling laughter, flaying Snape's insides.
"Well, Snape? Then we are both ready. The dance begins," the figure whispered, an exquisite expression of triumph inflected in the voice. "Snape," it started.
"Start the reactor."