This chapter's slightly shorter than the others, but I figured I should post it anyway, because I really didn't want to keep people waiting for another few weeks. And to bosch - thank you! :)
I've never written Lupin before, so if I royally screw over his characterisation, apologies. Without further ado...
The versipellis was leery tonight. Though it would be nearly another month before he slid out of his human skin again, he shifted uncomfortably as though his flesh itched beneath its weathered hide. His nostrils flared, and Severus would have enjoyed sewing them shut with a dull needle. Hazel eyes in a half-squint studied him warily, sight wrestling with scent, trying to discern something about the dark man seated next to him at the High Table.
He knows... the voice hissed, high and cold, like a quiet shriek. He can smell her on you, smell what she did to you.
The wounds on his back had dried to his robes, sticky and pinching, ensuring that they would bleed again when he later undressed for bed. They twinged lightly with pain, as if he really needed to be reminded...
He caught Lupin's gaze, knew his own eyes were glittering with ferocity, almost daring the turnskin to speak of what he thought he scented. Blood, death, sex, and the latter mightn't have been any of his concern had the strange musk not been so damned familiar, had it actually been recognisable as belonging to one of the other professors, if not from a stranger.
"Something troubles you, Lupin?" Mocking words spat out in a dangerous, seething tone, and the other man turned grave and guarded as though he'd stumbled upon a secret sweet to save for later.
"No. There is nothing, Severus. Nothing at all."
No evidence but for the talon-marks on his back and the mould of his teeth in her chest, and there was no way to tell they either had been given their injuries by the other. Lupin's keen nose would cast no guilt upon either of them - who would trust a werewolf?
Dumbledore would. But Dumbledore's opinion could be worth surprisingly little amidst a jury who would sooner see the witness lynched than the accused.
Lupin shook his head, trying to rid the thoughts from his mind, if not his instincts. Severus was a dark man - in truth, Lupin himself had unwittingly helped to shape that poisoned personality, and was now regretful of that fact - but surely he was not as dark as all that. He was a man of basic decency, wasn't he? Dumbledore would not have consented to hire him if he thought otherwise...
But the smell on him, the crushing, cloudy odour of things most unsuitable for public conversation, of Severus' own blood, and the blood of another which Lupin had scented before...he had occasionally forgotten a name, or even a face, but never a scent, never a scent and the realisation was plain as day before him though he protested the very notion of such a decadence being indulged. Had Sirius been present at the meal, he would have bluntly stated that which Remus was trying very hard not to believe: "Snape fucked a student."
And taking her had not been the only thing he'd done, from what the versipellis could smell. He had hurt her, and she him, and his heart fell into his stomach when he considered that the Potions master's wounds might have been the result of a struggle between them.
Sirius' voice floated in his head again: "Snape raped a student."
No. No - there was no proof of that, no proof that the pain had not been consensual, though its presence at all drove Remus' appetite away. It was wrong on every base level - wrong for a professor to take advantage of his position of helping to sculpt youthful minds, wrong to harm one of his charges, be it in lust, anger or both, whether or not she enjoyed it. The image of a broken girl passed through Lupin's mind - what if it hadn't been consensual? As tentative as he was to accept that Severus was a monster without knowing the whole story - he had dealt with that stigma for most of his life, and was wary of pressing it onto another - he could not push away his thoughts of the worst, that down in the Slytherin dungeons was a frightened sixteen-year-old girl, too terrified of what retribution could await her if she dared tell anyone of what had happened to her. Weighing his options, he decided he could not allow something like that to happen; he would rather risk being wrong than doing nothing and being right. But how to go about his investigation...
The lingering scent of depravity was quite suddenly overwhelmed by that of charring flesh, just as telling of moral decay, and the Potions master rose from his seat with a sneer and a polite travesty of an "Excuse me."
Lupin watched him go, a deep frown etched into his face at the pungent traces of recent events that floated in the darker man's wake.
Upon exiting the Great Hall, Severus gripped his left forearm tightly, pressing his nails into the come-hither burn. There had been others - those who had fallen into disgrace with the Dark Lord - who had been made to claw the Mark from their fleshy tissue while under the Imperius Curse. It had been an odd thing to observe, for no matter how deeply they dug, the layers of muscle and fat were just as inky black as the epidermis, and against the discolouration their blood had resembled seeping tar.
He made haste descending into his dungeons, where his Slytherins continued their merriment in their common room. He would have to make an appearance when he returned if to do nothing more than congratulate them on their victory. Minerva McGonagall had scarcely said a word at dinner, and that much was an accomplishment to which he owed them his gratitude.
The trip by flue to his estate was fast, and this time he had managed to not nearly barrel over a House Elf when he rolled out of his sitting room fireplace and to his feet. He concentrated on an image of Lord Voldemort, locking the Dark wizard's presence in his mind and then Disapparating, knowing that the thought would carry him along the ghostly teleportation roads interwoven into the magical energies encompassing the earth by witches and wizards many thousands of years ago, something like the Floo Network with no limit to the possible destinations. He felt his body piece itself back together as he Apparated, and opened his eyes.
Lord Voldemort had obviously changed the location of his little hideaway. Gone was the gaping maw of the cave, and in its place was a rather opulent if foreboding foyer, with stretching columns of fine black marble and a thick green carpet running the length of the room, leading to a large stone throne on which his Dark Lord sat leisurely. Severus ignored the serpentine man's relaxed stance - the true predators never wholly let down their guard, and Lord Voldemort was, if anything, a predator, a true master of manipulation. His stillness was no more relaxed than a cobra who was poised to strike.
At his side was the servant Wormtail, standing obediently like a loyal pet caught in a choke-chain. Snivelling little Peter Pettigrew had proved to be an adept manipulator in his own right, if an excessively petty one, driven by cowardice and resentment. Severus loathed the rodent, and had his suspicions that Lord Voldemort was no more fond of him. But Pettigrew's loyalty was born out of fear and self-preservation, and to a rat such as he, those things made his allegiance to the Dark Lord unquestionable, and that was worth far more to the Dark wizard than mere personal partiality.
Severus approached the throne and knelt with the others who had been called - he recognised Crabbe and Goyle through their massive statures alone, which meant that Lucius was also most likely among them, as the two bulky Death Eaters scarcely possessed a whole brain between them and were nothing without Malfoy's translation of the Dark Lord's eloquent orders into the most basic English.
"My Lord," he said quietly, and Voldemort gestured for them to stand, his flat nostrils flaring slightly in tedium. He was silent for a moment, for the dramatic impact of a pause as much gathering his words.
"Ah, my children..." he spoke at last, an arctic smile slipping over his thin lips, bearing sharp, bleach-white teeth. "The time has come to discuss the future of your own heirs."
Severus did not question why he had been called, as he had no heir - his home was the Hogwarts castle, and as Head of Slytherin House, he was, in a way, the most important 'parent' present. His surveillance of the students in that particular habit was invaluable in the shaping of the next generation of Death Eaters, not only for those whose families had already sworn faithfulness to the Dark Lord. He was meant to act as a scout of sorts, weeding out those who would forsake their blood-relatives for this degenerate family and cultivating their minds to Lord Voldemort's Dark cause.
His mind went immediately to the Cross girl, already corrupt in so many ways. Such a finding would please the Dark Lord. If he revealed her to him. Of course, he would have to - the girl's friendship with Draco Malfoy had all but ensured of Lucius' knowledge of her existence, and he knew his son would not consort so closely with anyone who didn't have a predilection toward the Dark side of things. He would grow suspicious if Severus omitted mention of her, and suspicion was as deadly as proof in a circle such as this one. Not that he had much of a problem with handing her over to the Dark Lord on a silver platter. Chances were she would end up there sooner or later, and he would not be held responsible for the personal beliefs of his students. Still, hesitation tugged at his mind, along with the fierce thought that she was his, his possession, his plaything, and he was chary of sharing her with anyone. He had taken her, made her his through the pain she so adored, but even his cruelties were naught compared to those of Lord Voldemort's, and he was not eager to present her to such a great agony. He would not allow her to be so vacillating in her adulations, not when the intoxication of her was still so fresh in his body, in his head.
He did not know that someone had already taken that particular burden off his shoulders.
"Lucius," Voldemort hissed, forked tongue savouring the asp-like feel of Malfoy's name, "tell me, how is young Draco? He was but a babe when I saw him last, a cherub of a child...how has the angel fared his fall?"
"He has turned out well, my Lord," Lucius answered, head dipped respectfully. "A point of immense pride for Narcissa and myself. We have brought him up to believe in our ways, and he wraps himself in them like a warm blanket. He is most eager to take his place in your reign."
Voldemort's smile widened slightly. "Well done, my slippery friend, very well done indeed. Crabbe, Goyle...I trust your sons have looked to young Mr. Malfoy as an example of what is expected of them?"
Brutus Crabbe and Boris Goyle mumbled affirmative answers, nodding their heads like fat, bumbling birds. Voldemort passed over them seeming almost bored, and with good cause - Snape oftentimes did the same thing with their sons. Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle had very little true evil in them; they were simply too stupid and brought up in such severe ignorance that there was little chance of either of them doing anything more than acting as guard dogs. Their lack of real ambition was a mockery to Slytherin House, and Snape had long believed that the Sorting Hat had simply taken to lumping in the cruel with the cunning, as though Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws could never be so twisted, never so sadistic. Wouldn't it be surprised to know the number of former Hufflepuffs in the Death Eater population. They were known for being loyal and hardworking, yes, but that did not mean that they would not be loyal to Darkness, that they would not work hard at accomplishing the most terrible of tasks.
"And Stephen Cross..."
Snape's head jerked up at the name, but he hid the motion quickly, catching out of the corner of his eye a tall Death Eater with his masked face upturned. He surreptitiously studied the man, who held himself with a quiet but not wholly predatory grace, whose voice betrayed no nervousness, but rather a firm sort of acceptance. So this was the girl's father. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes...
"New amongst our ranks," Voldemort continued, managing to sound both indolent and intrigued. "You have a daughter, am I correct?"
Of course, he knew the answer already. The Dark Lord was so very fond of patronising questions. Passive sadism.
"Yes, my Lord - Gwendolyn," replied Cross. Voldemort's forked tongue slithered out to lick his teeth.
"And she will not disappoint me? I do loathe being...disappointed, don't I, Wormtail?"
Wormtail stuttered out a positive response, a slight tick going in his fleshy left cheek, full of fear and anticipation. Severus wondered how he never seemed to tire of such two-dimensional emotions.
"She...has no knowledge of my involvement in these matters, my Lord, but she is...a very open-minded child. Her inclinations fall toward our ways; she will put up no resistance to our cause."
No lies, no extravagant promises; simple truth and reassurance. Severus determined Mr. Cross to be a man of decent intelligence.
"Severus..." Voldemort hissed, and Snape tilted his head oh so slightly upward, questioningly. "Your assessment of Miss Gwendolyn Cross."
She's a screamer... "A talented Slytherin, my Lord. She has earned the favour of young Messrs. Malfoy, Nott, Warrington and Montague;" ...such a glorious mouth...the most beautiful shrieks reside there... "She excels at potion-making and history, and does possess a certain dissolute proclivity that would flourish under your...guidance." Far more under mine...
The Dark Lord nodded, warily pleased with what he had been told. Cross glanced briefly at the Potions master, though it was impossible to decipher his thoughts on the matter - one of the unwavering requirements for becoming an Unspeakable was an impenetrable gaze. Severus could not help but wonder what had caused the man to choose to walk this particular path, stringing his family along behind him. Unspeakables were far more powerful than the general public was led to believe - cunning and ruthless, collectors of secrets. Whatever ambitions this man held, his loyalty to Lord Voldemort would never be as set in stone as Peter Pettigrew's. His allegiance was, for lack of a better word, needless. He already possessed wealth, means to utilise his vices. His occupation was one that would allow him to kill, if circumstances came to that - and circumstances could be easily forged. Though perhaps his tastes ran more along the lines of those of Severus' himself - to kill was not enough. Death was irrelevant. It was the hunt, feasting off the prey as it still thrashed beneath his snapping jaws that excited him, thrilled him like nothing else, or perhaps one thing else. It was possible that Mr. Cross, too, craved that delight.
Voldemort moved on through the pack of Death Eaters at his feet: Nott, Warrington and Montague, Greengrass and Davis, Parkinson, Pucey, Zabini and so on. Sometimes Severus would be asked his opinion on the youth in question, others, the Dark Lord was sound in his opinion of.
Severus noticed that Dominic Flint was absent from the group - young Marcus must have been recently initiated into the fold. He remembered the boy well; a star Quidditch player, if lacking in the skills of academia. What team did he play for now...ah, yes, the Bigonville Bombers of Luxembourg. Fourth in the international league and rising quickly under the guidance of a Durmstrang alumnus whom Severus believed was involved in the recruiting sect of the Death Eaters, a group of would-be cult leaders. Needless to say, as a captain of one of the most celebrated Quidditch teams in all of Europe that year, the man undoubtedly had a considerable sway with the young, idealistic rogues that were becoming more common with each day that passed.
Every so often, Snape would catch Stephen Cross glancing surreptitiously in his direction, as though he was burning to inquire further of the Potions master's evaluation of his pride and joy, and every time, the glanced at would both form and answer a question in his head, or a comment he did not dare speak aloud.
Question: "What has Gwendolyn done to prove this 'dissolute proclivity' of which you speak?"
Answer: "She carves up small animals as though they were birthday cakes. She threatened to slit the throat of one of her peers."
Question: "Does she encourage whatever adolescent behaviour the boys she has befriended no doubt openly display?"
Answer: "She has no apparent interest in boys."
Response: "Oh?"
Counter-question: "Are you aware that I fucked your daughter over a desk not two hours ago?"
Answer: "I was not."
Question: "Would you like to see the marks she left?"
Answer: "I would not."
Question: "The marks I left?"
Answer: "Avada Kedavra."
No, Snape would not be seeking out Mr. Stephen Cross for polite conversation.
The symposium topic eventually waned away from the lambs being led to slaughter, and their butchers were dismissed to go about their personal business, with the exception of Lucius Malfoy, who remained for 'a word' with his King of Kings. Severus Disapparated back to his estate before Cross could corner him and grabbed a polished brass poker that had been resting near the fireplace to scratch his back, which was itching like mad, scabbing wounds grating against the rough wool of his winter robes, snagging along the deep impressions of her nails like the raking of ghosts' nails.
Out of idle interest, he replaced the poker in its stand and shrugged the thick black fabric off his shoulders so that it hung by the clasp at his waist. The sitting room had in it a decent-sized mirror in an ornately carved silver frame, and he inspected his injuries for the first time.
His front looked, for the most part, as it always did - lean, pale, unmarred but for a few talon-marks curving over his shoulders. When he twisted around to view his back, the sight was quite different. Long, jagged slashes in the flesh there, beginning beneath the blades of his shoulders, shooting up like lightning, curdle-red in colour and smouldering peppery pain. He thought of Potter, Potter's scar borne of a lethal curse, Potter's scar that burned.
Fuck Potter.
They were becoming infected - that much he could tell already. Angry-looking welts enflaming his skin in precise little borders, the black fuzz from his robes caught in serrated lines of dried blood. They would need to be cleaned tonight, preferably bandaged as well. He would have asked one of his House Elves for assistance, but they feared him far too much to do anything but hide from him, and even if he managed to catch one of them as they were needlessly tidying up one of the rooms, it would probably shake so fiercely that nothing relevant could be accomplished.
Shaking hands. Her hands. Shivering like spiders.
He pushed the thought away - he did not need it now, did not need to want her again so quickly after their encounter, did not need to want to feel her spine bowing crookedly beneath his hands as she arched against him, did not need...
It was dangerous to want this greatly, that much knowledge his fractured mind had retained. Deadly to crave so violently, and they had both been infected by that terminal disease. They weakened each other, feeding off of each other's insanity and repelling it all at the same time, like twin poles on a magnet, a perfect match in all the wrong ways, like a body rejecting a vital organ it had been born with. Nonsensical. Contradictory. Like a train wreck - didn't want to watch, couldn't tear his eyes away.
With a slight shudder, he pulled his robes back over his shoulders, biting back a hiss as the fabric rubbed against the raw wounds. He would dilute a wound-cleaning potion into a bath tonight to soak away the infection from his skin, wear something smoother, lighter than wool tomorrow in place of proper bandages. It would have to do.
He glanced once more in the mirror, at his face, and almost didn't notice that he still wore the bone-white Death Eater mask. He removed it, rid himself of it with a wave of his wand, and Disapparated for the front gates of the Hogwarts castle.
He did not mention Voldemort's calling to Dumbledore, reasoning that any information regarding the future of certain Slytherin charges would be redundant - their parents had been tried some fifteen years ago; the headmaster was well aware of their impending fates, and, unless their blood relations were caught red-handed or the Dark Lord fell once again before they departed Hogwarts, he had little hope of saving them. All he could do was offer them open companionship, and hope that through gentle conversation he might shed some Light on their grisly loyalties.
The only new development was that of the Cross girl's father having been newly inducted into the Death Eater fold, and Severus had no intention of sharing that particular insight with anyone, let alone Albus Dumbledore. The fewer shady glances the headmaster cast her way, the better, for the less he worried, the less chance there was of him discerning her true nature, and the nature of her relationship with Severus himself. What he had done...spy or ignorant bystander, his actions were deplorable, inexcusable in both a professional and moral sense, and the old man's confidence in him would be irreversibly shaken, and his patience and forgiveness, though formidable, doubtfully stretched to matters such as that. Severus could not risk losing Dumbledore's trust, not now, not when there was still so much to decipher, to decide. Too many moves to make.
Lupin had taken to squinting at him as often as possible - yes, there was no doubt that he knew, or at least had his suspicions. He would squint, and Severus would always respond with an arched brow, a taunting scowl. It had occurred to him that provoking a werewolf, even one as neutered and tamed as Remus Lupin, was not the wisest course of action to take, but with each sideways glance, he found himself caring less and less. At times, Severus thought himself far more wolf than Lupin. The turnskin was just so damned...human. Vulnerable to the sort of emotions that break men's spirits - sorrow, regret. Guilt. Severus had caught the versipellis' gaze lingering on Miss Granger for far longer than could be considered proper, and no down Lupin retired to his chambers every night to flog and punish. Perhaps he got Black to help him. Severus would not have been surprised.
Saturday brought with it the first Hogsmeade trip of the new year, and it was his turn to play chaperone, along with Lupin, Sinistra and Sprout. By ten in the morning, all of the third-years and up that had been granted permission to visit the wizarding village had crowded into the castle's foyer, filling it with the screeches of adolescent natters, the volume of which could have put a pack of chorusing harpies to shame. She was there, of course - somewhere to the right of him, he knew, though he kept his gaze to the forefront of the chaos. His eyes shifted over to Lupin, who was scolding a group of Ravenclaw seventh-years on the verge of duelling with the Weasley twins to see who could come up with the funniest-looking hexes. As if sensing his stare, the turnskin turned to look at him, and then past him, and Severus knew where his gaze came to rest.
After a few minutes of attempting to gain some form of order, the group left the castle and started on the brief walk to Hogsmeade. He watched her out of the periphery of his vision; she was speaking, unsurprisingly, with Warrington and Malfoy, with Nott and Montague behind them, and Crabbe and Goyle on either side of the group of five like great moving stone pillars. The few words he caught of their conversation were inconsequential - the boys were still raving about their Quidditch victory against Gryffindor, and she was, quite obviously, humouring them with idle comments and off-hand remarks. Her mind held other memories of the previous evening.
"You should have been there," Montague told her for what had to be the dozenth time. She never replied to him with anything more than a small smile, perhaps a shrug, brushing the game from her thoughts as though it were an errant bit of fuzz marring her robes.
They reached the wizarding town quickly, and both students and faculty members scattered throughout - Sprout to Honeydukes, Sinistra to Dervish and Banges, and Severus himself disappeared into the Hog's Head, which was far less likely to be populated by adolescents than the Three Broomsticks and thus a far more favourable establishment. He either did not notice the grave-looking figure enter but a few moments behind him, or did not care. He ordered a brandy, and took a seat near the back, just beyond a group of burly warlocks engaged in a boisterous game of poker deep within a cloud of bittersweet pipe smoke.
His brandy appeared not a minute later, and he glanced up when the hand that had set it on the table, and the body attached to it, made no move to leave.
"Hello, Lupin," he drawled lazily, taking a long sip of his drink and grimacing only slightly at the following burn that slid down his throat.
"Severus. May I join you?"
"Who am I to deny your indulgence of masochism?"
The versipellis sat with his back to the poker game and fixed the Potions master with a calculating stare. Severus maintained an unaffected visage, and continued about his drinking as if oblivious to the other man's presence.
When he had nearly finished, Lupin spoke.
"You did it, didn't you?"
Severus did not pretend not to know what the turnskin was speaking of, instead choosing to respond by finishing off the last of his brandy.
"You're not even going to try and deny it," Lupin spoke again, the intensity of his stare wavering with a mixture of abhorrence and...pity? ...no, that couldn't have been right. "How could you?"
Ah, yes. "How could you?" One of the staple phrases of the heroic sort. Severus was nearly inclined to laugh. Nearly. He kept his silence.
"She's your student, for God's sake," the turnskin continued. "She's sixteen. How could you allow this to happen?"
The Potions master motioned to the barkeep for another drink, and when he at last relented an answer, he sounded almost bored.
"I lost control."
"You...you lost control?" Lupin repeated, his expression one of complete disbelief. He sat back in his chair, and when Severus' drink was brought over, he ordered a scotch for himself. "We have never been friends, Snape," he said quietly after a brief spell of quiet, "but I do know you. Everything you are is about control. In fact, I...I always thought you might go mad were you to ever lose it."
Black eyes shifted up to meet hazel, full of bitter contempt. "Who is to say I have not?"
"Madness is a cheap scapegoat to you, Severus. You are too...responsible...to yield to it so easily."
"You presume I did not fight against it? That I did not struggle with it for weeks - months?"
"Then you did not struggle hard enough!" Lupin hissed. "What you have done - it's unforgivable, Snape. To abuse your position in such a way...it's sick. Giving into temptation is not madness, and damn you for trying to use that as an excuse to take pleasure in something so degenerate!"
"Pleasure?" Severus spat, his mouth twisting into a grimace. "Do you think I enjoy what she is doing to me, to my mind? She's like a plague, an infestation of maggots and death consuming everything that is me until all that is left is her, her psychosis. She is not sane, Lupin."
The versipellis regarded the man sitting across from him with a sceptical, disturbed frown that made his already tired-looking appearance seem broken, shattered.
"Severus..." he said slowly, "...if what you say is true, you must put as much distance between yourself and this girl as possible. She needs help, she needs a professional--"
"Shhh," Snape cut him off, a small sneer curling on his lips. "My sanity suffers as hers does, Lupin," he murmured, and Remus noticed for the first time the tinge of dementia in his softly threatening tone. It made his hair stand on end.
"It is hers," Severus continued, "and she is mine. She is mine, Lupin, mine to have, mine to hate, and you will not deny me my vengeance against her for stealing my mind away. I will not allow it, and neither will she. Bite your tongue, turnskin, or I will bite it off for you."
The Potions master was grinning at him wolfishly, making him bristle further. Without a word, he rose and moved to go, leaving his drink untouched on the table and Snape with a feral, warning glare, letting the darker man know that this was far from their final conflict on the matter.
When he had gone, Severus sobered immediately, a hard, dangerous stare fixed on the place Lupin had vacated.
"If the wolf howls," he whispered to himself, "I will make him lame. He will whimper before he dares to bay. If he thinks me the vile animal, so be it, for she has infected me with a rabid advantage. Let him think me a beast. He can be the hare."