Ch 12

Reign of Terror

The ministry of magic had become almost unrecognizable in the last four years. Since the overthrow the ministry building had been enlarged, upward by ten levels as it was deemed no longer necessary to be so concerned about noninterference with the Muggle world. Of the remaining nine subterranean levels from before the reign of Voldemort, the four bottommost levels, excepting the final, had been converted into dungeons, for the select prisoners the Dark Lord deemed important enough to keep closer at hand than Azkaban. The fountain in large entry hall held only a wizard now, the other creatures having been demolished shortly after Voldemort moved his headquarters here.

While most wizards still had to enter the ministry through the usual tedious methods, any of Voldemort's handpicked members, the ones who bore his mark, could Apparate into any of the upper levels of the Ministry at will. This change had been made after a low level Death Eater had been tortured within an inch of his life for responding too slowly to the Dark Lord's summons. When the reason for his tardiness was revealed Lucious Malfoy saw to it that none of the Lord's more senior followers would make the same mistake. Snape felt the wards flutter against him with recognition before withdrawing as he strode without a word past the thin, sharp featured witch at the front desk. She made no protest to stop or detain him to check his wand, he was too well known a face here. While a face might be stolen the abilities imparted by the Dark Mark could not. All of the lower denizens of this place knew what came of delaying or in any way interfering with any of the wizards and witches who had stood with The-Overlord-of-All-Britain during his first rise to power.

The Department of Mysteries had been deemed too sensitive to risk relocation from the lowest, ninth subterranean level of the ministry, so Snape began the slow descent into the bowels of the ministry, through the dungeons, to reach the hall of prophesy. This was his place, his presence in the four dungeon sublevels was unquestionable, and with Bellatrix banished from the presence of the Dark Lord till her face healed, he was it's one master, though other Death Eaters of the first order could and often did come down here to… entertain themselves. Truly, it was a rare thing for his duties to take him past the first dungeon level, he did not deal with the poor wretches whose fate it was to serve as sick amusement to the Dark Lord's followers, forever held close at hand. He only dealt with those brought immediately before the ministry for truly heinous blood-crimes. The lowermost level of the dungeon was for long term containment cells, no one stayed in the upper levels longer than a month. If they were not killed, or released (a rare thing indeed) they soon found themselves transferred to a lower level.

Entering the lowest dungeon level he passed the vile creature that played at being a man at his post, a small office-like room just across the way from the stair. He was determined to pass him by and head right on down to the next level. It would be a great risk if he were to kill the worm in broad daylight, unprovoked. People would ask what had set off the imperturbable headmaster, people would question. No, the man would die a slow and painful death, choking on his own blood as his lungs corrupted themselves and his viscera liquefied. His body would appear untouched, the poison too subtle to be noticed even if anyone decided to investigate the death of one so lowly as this.

He might have done it too, if the bastard Macnair had not called out, detaining him, "Snape!"

Slowly he turned to face the pinched, small man who exited one of the iron bolted doors that lined the long hall. Walking the requisite four steps back up and he stepped out of the stairwell fully into the lowest dungeon level.

"Macnair," he responded in a flat tone.

The other Death Eater, familiar with Snape, backed down upon meeting the other man's deadening gaze. He was not a gifted or terrifically powerful wizard, truly only a vicious thug who enjoyed the easy, permissible violence being a follower of the Dark Lord afforded, but he had been among the great powers that the Dark Lord drew to his side for long enough to understand instantly now was not a time to interrupt the man who was most favored by their Lord.

The worm, Vormis, was not so familiar with the ways of one Severus Snape and did not know the peril in speaking.

"Sir, how have you enjoyed your toy?" the beast inquired exiting his office and entering the hall standing far too close to Snape not to offer terrible temptation.

The desire to utterly destroy the man was strong, at this instant, stronger, possibly, than his desire to see the Dark Lord meet an untimely end.

Macnair loosed an unpleasant chuckle at the worm's expense as the Headmaster's permanent glower sharpened exponentially. The soon-to-be-dead low life did not sense his peril.

Macnair incapable of not encouraging wanton violence spoke softly, a mocking smile curving his thin, too red lips, "Indeed, Snape, a toy? I don't believe it. You joining us lower creatures on this level, soaking in the sounds of anguish."

Snape recognized the conspiratorial tone, the bloodlust lurking in muddy blue eyes, and for once was unable to resist the bait.

Black eyes flicked down to meet blue and they shared the premonition of blood, "And right you would be. These things are ruined creatures. There's no beauty in their broken cries."

Macnair, almost bursting with dark pleasure at having lured one usually so immaculately above such baseness into his game, smiled, showing decidedly more teeth than was healthy for their unsuspecting victim, "Ahh, then you must have found one worthy of your high standards. What toy met your pleasure? May I see her? or is it a him?"

Snape sneered, "Not all of us indulge so wantonly and risk bringing bloodfilth into our lord's pure world," black eyes turned a distinctly penetrating stare to the bloodfilth standing near the two pure bloods. Snape smirked slightly to himself, he like Voldemort, had long cast off his half-blood status. As the recognized first lieutenant of the Dark Lord, he was the equal of any pure-blooded wizard.

Vormis, finally seemed to have caught onto the malevolent aura put off by these two, powerful, high ranking Death Eaters and looked particularly nervous at this last comment. Both of the men were, at least to public knowledge, more partial to the untainted blood-violence of the thing.

"Of course, Snape, I jest. Have you found the creature satisfactory to your purposes?" Macnair questioned solicitously, turning his smile of promise on the frightened thing that stood near Snape not daring to move to back away from these two.

Snape nodded companionably, "Quite, save in one aspect."

It was a game, a cruel game. Giving the victim not even the satisfaction of his tormentor's full attention. It mattered not that Snape and Macnair would never normally converse. It mattered not that under normal circumstance such a familiar address by Macnair would result in him crutiated by the Dark Lord's Lieutenant. This was a game, a blood game, one Snape had acted out before but never really submerged himself in as he did now joining Macnair in the little theater. Macnair strolled almost lazily around to trap the worm between them.

He began toying with the thin leather whip he held coiled tightly in his right hand, "And what failing might she have?"

Snape's wand too had been taken in hand and rested lazily between long, pale fingers, "Not, innate, I assure you. She is a captivating creature, her cries so pure, her skin perfectly white," he smiled a dark smile, "I only wish she had not come to me damaged in a way I could not reverse… such a careless thing, to damage the creatures here beyond repair."

Vormis jumped when the whip whistled out drawing a line of blood from his ear.

"And this bloodfilth responsible?" Macnair prompted.

Snape struck a deep gash into its knee at a word severing vocal cords that worked fruitlessly to express the anguish of the crumpling form, "Hn, there is nothing I can do to force nerves to regrow themselves into flesh that has been burnt to the bone. So pointless, they feel nothing once a burn is past the third degree. She is woefully unresponsive to anything done to her back."

"An amateurish mistake really," Macnair agreed the whistle of the whip accenting his words.

"A real shame, she's perfect in every other way. Not like this thing, spineless, weak. She has such power, and so fearless too. How her proud eyes curse me. Just a moment of carelessness and she would kill me. It's beautiful." Snape murmured watching the thing writhe helpless and silent on the ground. Normally, he hated to put forth this persona, but the hatred was subsumed by fierce pleasure, and his hand urged onward by the memory of a woman's strangled, anguished cries.

He convinced himself it was for her honor that he inflicted such pain, and reveled so in the breathy shrieks that whispered past severed vocal cords, but the darkness in him enjoyed it for wholly different reasons. Rage, so familiar, so strong, was released from his firm control and ran rampant and hot through his veins. Usually he held himself above such vicious, violent pleasure, but his acceptance of the action allowed the baser emotions in him to creep out from under the heavy chains of shame and guilt.

"You will keep her then? Despite the damage?" Macnair asked as he slowly deepened the whip weal he had made across the jugular of their victim.

"Oh, yes, she is mine. It is no matter that this bloodfilth spoiled her, at least it won't…"

The leather strip cut like a knife through butter as Macnair finally allowed the instrument to fall correctly slicing open its jugular vein.

"…once it's dead," Macnair finished.

Snape nodded curtly at the other Death Eater who returned the motion his wand flicking out to clean up their mess.

"I've missed working with you, Snape," he offered, a pleased, sated expression on his thin face. He was paying Snape no mind, soaking up the high of the kill.

Snape did not deign to answer, but went calmly on his way, a similar emotion uncoiling deep in his mind. It was a rare thing for him to feel, but his stringent honor forgave it in himself this one time.


The ninth sub-level was devoid of all life, few ventured down here. Those who might usually inhabit this level, studying these mysteries, disliked descending past the maddening shrieks that echoed from the four upper levels. Snape soon reached the Hall of Prophesy and set about his true purpose in coming here.

He was still deeply pleased to know the vile creature was no longer drawing breath. It was a good cover, the man had obviously on past occasion offered some irritation to Macnair and it was not unusual for first order Death Eaters to make example of those who did not show them the proper respect. None would question that Macnair had destroyed the man, and with his nightmarish reputation no one would find it too odd he had added his special brand of suffering to the mix.

The only moral sticking point was in how he had spoken of Hermione, it was the persona, the mask he presented to the world. To the world he was Voldemort's most treasured weapon. He was an expert of his art, and his specialty was pain. It was accepted by all that he was above all baser evils, only indulging in his blood games, at the behest of the Dark Lord. The rumor that had grown up around him that the only thing that kept him from turning his wand on others was that none met his high standards that the Lord had to command he deign to practice upon lower creatures. And it was true. After the first kill he was clean at least of that sin. But like any addict it seemed he was destined to relapse… first Hermione, and now the dead man on the level above. Surely by now he knew just what came of executing his personal agenda. Who was he to determine who was deserving?

But then…

Who else would dare to do what was necessary?

No matter how gory.

No matter how inglorious.

No matter how evil.

Hermione.

God… Hermione…

His flimsy rationalization shattered with her name.

He was like nothing so much as a child pulling the wings off butterflies.

Although he had only given voice to what the world this persona lived in expected, it had sounded so wrong on his lips. So bitter, vile lies, yet at the same time he was completely unmoved offering forth the lie that tasted like truth. It was times like these he wondered if it was worth survival if this was what he had become. In his conformance with these demons he had long ago become one. The only times he ever felt he returned to the self he would have liked to have been was when he was working with his potions… or recently when he was with the girl, with Hermione. He felt almost human then, almost… a normal man, with the normal faults and failings, perhaps more of those than most, but not the colossal, apocalyptic sins with which his hand had heralded the reign of a mad man, and at his hand perpetuated it. He well knew he was a small, but substantial part of the fear that echoed when men whispered the name of the Dark Lord.

When resistors spoke in hushed tones of the ever present danger of capture and the horror that lay beyond, they spoke not of the Dark Lord. Voldemort was above tormenting such weaklings. Now that his greatest foes lay dead, Dumbledore, McGonagall, Moody, Lupin, Tonks, Shacklebolt, even Potter, the Dark Lord rarely indulged. There was no power to be gained in killing the poor wizards that made up the resistance now. No residual pulse of magic that the Dark Lord could absorb like a great thunderhead full with the power he had collected and absorbed from a hundred great wizards. When he had first fulfilled his vow, killed Dumbledore, Snape had been quite sure he would die at the hands of his other master. It was the only logical course of action for the power hungry despot to take, how else would he subsume any residual of the power Snape had gained when his most powerful adversary fell. Snape suspected if the Golden Trio had not been destroyed so quickly after the fall of their great protector, he would have been. It was a rather sick cosmic irony that he owed his survival to the deaths of Potter and Weasley only two months after Dumbledore.

Rather sick… like he was now… like the world was now… too much in the world was sick.

It was not well to spend long on this level, strange things came into ones head, strange truths that in normal places one was blessed enough not to acknowledge.

His footfalls echoed too loud down the long empty aisles between shelves at least four man heights high disappearing into the gloom above. Floating, blue flamed, tapers lit his way sporadically, at the moment he walked in the cool shadows between two, and studied the seemingly infinite supply of orbs. It was said that if a prophesy concerned someone, they would find their way to it, or it would find its way to them. No one, man or beast, could avoid their fate. So he walked the long aisles, passed a hundred thousand orbs, grey mist, meaningless to him, holding only the promise of madness.

Nothing leapt out at him, no light lit the impenetrable misted gloom, no great insight revealed itself. It occurred to him the prophesy might rest on her shoulders and not his. That only her hand would draw the orb and that this whole excursion had done naught, but drawn ill attention to him.

No, not useless, the beast was dead. Dead and this pleased him, the creature had been a sick, pathetic creature, a cruel thing that had reveled in sullying creatures better, stronger, more noble than he, reveled in trying to stain the light and power in them as if this might draw some of their unbreakable spirit into him. But he had failed and Snape had relished lording this fact over his wretched writhing form, grinding his face into the dirt to prove he was a thing lower and less powerful than the witches and wizards he had played keeper to. They at least were above an uncaring death at his hands.

It was the only dignity he could give the unfortunates who came under his hand, he would remember them, their faces, and names, endless names, and he would treat their bodies with what care could be given. He had no need for humiliation and shame in its many varied forms, no mind could endure the sustained pain he had grown so skilled in inflicting.

Without conscious order his body had ceased its even pace and he stood facing a wall of orbs. His hand reached out hovering, indecisive, over a dozen or so orbs about half the size of his palm. Were he to close one in his hand, it might bring knowledge… or madness. Was it to the left? Or the right? Or none at all?

Slowly, he shook his head these were not his, but his was close. A levitation spell brought him level with the second shelf and the third and then the fourth and fifth high. Reaching out his hand closed hesitantly over one unremarkable smoothly, glass orb. Dust lay over it thickly. One breath, two, no madness seized his limbs, no visions danced before his eyes. The thing was utterly inert in his hand, only a faint flickering light issued from within, and that might be a trick of the eyes. It's ancient…clay? tag was inscribed, The Lioness and The Serpent. ~Emrya of Aether ~

So a prophesy of the ancients, of the great Seers of the past. And the tag… to have inscribed in clay rather than parchment…ancient indeed. He studied the lettering… it was newer scratched into already fire hardened clay. Flipping the tag in his hand he looked at the cryptic script that had been impressed with care by a stylus sometime in the grey past. Beith-luis-nin, he vaguely recognized the early Celtic script that druidic wizards had favored for rune spells until as late as the seventh century. He twisted it in his hand staring into the murky depths, such an ancient prophesy… obviously it was his, else he would not have been able to lift it, but was it hers? Other lionesses had come into his life, Lily… his dear Lils… and he supposed, Minerva, until the final act of betrayal a great ally, even a friend, she was a fearsome lioness, but they were dead, and she lived, if his partner in the destiny were dead the orb would be dark. This one still glowed faintly with light. But this was a question for the extensively warded privacy of his own home.

Silently he pocketed his find. He had spent too long down here already, especially if the Dark Lord chose to ask after him. It was likely after his little display… Macnair was a bit of a braggart.


He almost made a clean escape.

Then the mark on his arm pulsed once, and he knew it had been wise for him to step into the room of thought, he would need a cover story.

Turning on heel he strode quickly to the Dark Lord's side, it was not the burn of a full assembly, it was the private calling, he alone, and one did not keep the lord waiting. When he entered the Dark Lord was alone, and he made a shallow bow in greeting before lifting his head and meeting the Voldemort's red gaze. He was amused… Snape smothered apprehension.

"I hear tell you have grown fond of the female," Voldemort hissed.

Snape allowed boredom to color his tone. It would not due at this juncture for her to be taken from him. Her mind was unprotected now. She was vulnerable, and he with her. though he did not doubt she would push forward images of his torture, and the pain he had put her through, if even an instant of his kindness showed, both of them would meet their ends, "She is an interesting distraction. I enjoy her…"

He let visions of her writhing in pain on his lab table flash before mind's eye and saw Voldemort smile, appreciative of his work. He showed a flash of her crumpling to the floor before him as he pressed to enter her mind, spliced this with her tears and choked screams as he violated her mind and awakened dark memories.

The Dark Lord laughed lowly, a sound that had caused lesser men to cower on their faces; Severus simply pushed an image of her face twisted with unbearable pain out beyond his shields.

"How you must hate the girl," Voldemort murmured, studying the girl's face, beautiful even in terrible agony.

Snape blinked slowly, "Not at all, my lord, she is a lovely creature, so strong. She is a wonderful challenge."

His lord nodded thoughtfully, "She was Bellatrix's… but Lestrange continues to irritate me. If you like her you may have her… I do not believe you have taken a blood marked, do you desire this one? The most powerful of the blood tainted, it is fitting that she should go to my most powerful follower."

Snape inclined his head slightly, it would do great harm to appear too eager, "You honor me with this gift, my lord. I will be sure to…use her power well."

"See that you do," was all the lord said.

Doubtless he saw only the potential for dark magic to be molded from the power of her blood. The dark lord was no fool, and recognized power wherever it lay. Even in the most hateful of his subjects he found use, and he appreciated the irony of Snape's dark magic being fueled by what remained of the power of the golden trio.


R&R

Thanks to my reviewers, any feedback at all is a massive motivator. I hope this chapters offer some insight to the darker side of Snape. And also Voldemort… I enjoyed writing him, more than I thought I would…