Warning: This chapter contains torture.
CHAPTER 9
IT'S CALLED DIGNITY
Struggling for breath, on his forearms and knees, Severus pushed against the ground to straighten up somewhat. He had managed to lift himself on his hands and knees — some progress — when the effort sent a sharp jolt slicing through his midsection, and that wretched pain prompted Severus to do something stupid. Something very, very stupid.
He clutched his injured side compulsively and, realising in a flash of a second what he'd done, retreated his hand just as quickly.
His own jagged movements thwarted whatever shambly balance he still had, and he slumped forward on his forearms where his efforts had started.
He rested his forehead on the ground for a moment, scrunched his eyes shut, cursed his own negligence.
If the Dark Lord had seen and understood what he had just done — clutched on an open wound — he would be in for some maniacal entertainment.
Black, you son of a —!
Tac. Tac. Two steps. The Dark Lord crouched before him. The heavy robes furrowed; the wheezing breaths were close enough to land their cadaverous smell on Severus.
A cowardly thing though it was, Severus didn't dare lift his head from the ground.
He waited, forehead pressed against the floor, eyes scrunched shut, for the Dark Lord's hand to grab his arm, yank him on his side like a rag doll, prod its disgusting, gnarly, inhuman fingers in the torn flesh below his ribs.
He wouldn't get his hands as dirty. He'd probably use his wand for it, someone else's wand rather, poke with it as you'd do with a stick. You imbecile, Black... You bloody imbecile.
But that never came.
The Dark Lord stood back up, stepped away from him, and Severus lifted his head to watch the dark robes brush the ground ten feet away from him as the Dark Lord ambled.
"You see, Severus, there's been a misunderstanding… as to how you've disappointed me tonight. You believe you have only let Sirius Black slip through your fingers, but in reality," the Dark Lord sighed with an air of dramatic dismay, "he was also my key to Harry Potter."
Severus' chest constricted.
The tone in the Dark Lord's next words was jarringly cold. "Black was my only key. You denied me that."
This was it, Severus knew. His confirmation, beyond a trace of a doubt, that he had made the right choices tonight, however unlikely that was. He should have found some sort of solace in the knowledge of that. Instead, all he could think was — he was screwed.
He really was.
"On to more present matters… We have another problem," the Dark Lord said as though discussing the weather. "I made plans on your account. I made promises. I promised to the men here tonight that Sirius Black would provide them with some form of entertainment." He chuckled, disgustingly amused. "It would now seem that I am disappointing them. And unlike you, Severus, I never disappoint."
He couldn't be serious. No — of all things.
"My Lord—"
"Shut up. I've not asked for an opinion. My dear followers, I wish not to fall short of my promises. Severus has failed to bring us Sirius Black, but…" he lingered for a moment, just enough to allow time for Severus' stomach to convulse in fear and revulsion. "Severus voluntarily agreed that he takes Black's place for tonight. As a modest compensation ."
He was joking. He must have been.
The filthy dregs in this room — Dolohov and Amycus, and who else to take turns perfecting their torturing skills on him. No. In a million years, NO.
He was the Dark Lord's first lieutenant, rivalled only by Bellatrix Lestrange. And he should be the mockery of them? Second-rate sociopaths, who wouldn't lay a finger on him when he had his wand in his hand?
No.
"Did you not agree to it, Severus?" The Dark Lord asked, and Severus could hear the grotesque smile in the words.
"My Lord—" he said, lifting himself off the floor to one knee, straightening his back, head still bowed. The blood thumped madly in his temples.
"My Lord, I have failed you. My life is yours to do as you see fit. As it always was. As it always will be."
He drew in a deep breath; his heart raced fiercely, about to burst out of his chest. Inside he was shaking, though no longer with pain but with unhinged rage, and his breathing was disturbingly steady, as was his voice when he spoke.
"As for the rest of you, you'd do well to bear in mind: we will meet again under very different circumstances." Severus' tone was even, no flicker of doubt, no trace of hesitancy. "Anyone who so much as dares point their wand at me tonight — weigh well your chances in our next encounter, because that encounter will come soon, and I will have my wand in my hand. You have my word for that."
He raised his head, not to defy the Dark Lord, but to glance at the faces half-hidden in the dusk: glaring, wavering — lowly cowards.
None of them moved.
"Ah," the Dark Lord exclaimed with theatrical pathos, "to show defiance in hardship! Just when I was beginning to think you were getting dull, Severus."
Severus lowered his gaze back to the ground, uncertain what lay ahead. All he knew: no one in the room had dared pull out their wands.
"Commendable, commendable," the Dark Lord mocked. "To everyone here, watch closely; you may have something to learn — some of you, more than others."
He strode past Severus, his black robes billowing. "Yaxley. Tell me, what see you here to learn?"
Severus didn't turn, but by the commotion of toppling footsteps and shifting fabric, he figured Yaxley had stumbled forward to throw himself at the Dark Lord's feet.
"My Lord, I beg forgiveness, my Lord," Yaxley said in a voice hushed and grave. "I didn't know, My Lord. I didn't know of the Floo, I — Snape told me nothing about the mission; he kept it secret."
Uncanny how someone could muster such solemnity into their tone when mouthing such spineless words.
"Yes, he was supposed to keep it a secret from you," the Dark Lord answered. "It is not what I asked."
"My Lord, please! Please!"
"I am not here to please you. Or anyone else. It would seem, Yaxley, the notion in question is so foreign to you, you cannot grasp it although it's right under your nose. Maybe it's because your nose is pressed to the floor."
With steps unhurried, the Dark Lord returned to stand close before Severus. Very close.
"Do know, Severus," he said, and his tone was soft, almost companionable. "I always found laudable your reluctance to bow your head to the lesser. It has helped you often along your way." The Dark Lord bowed, and Severus felt the cold, decaying breath on the side of his face. He shivered when the whisper touched his ear, "I know how much it means to you."
His stomach dropped.
The Dark Lord stood straight.
"Dignity. Yaxley. It's called dignity. I will spare you further introductions. What you should all learn tonight from Severus' meagre lesson in dignity is" — He waited to capture the tremor of apprehension in the air, and to inhale it, all of it, with maniacal delight — "it makes no difference."
He probably smirked, too, saying those last words.
"Crucio."