Heart of Darkness
By Eline
Sequel to "Sacrifice" but it can be read as a stand-alone.
(PG-13 for character torture and some violence.)
Fear. Surely it was pouring out of his every pore?
Severus Snape followed the man who used to be Peter Pettigrew into the dim, vaulted chamber. He had just apparated here via a Portkey--they did not trust him enough to let him know where this subterranean lair was. Where *Voldemort* was . . .
Fear. This was what he had been waiting for . . .
Pettigrew/Wormtail left him without a word. A minute ticked by. Two minutes . . . Snape knew he was breaking out in cold sweat as the moments trickled by . . .
And then a tall, black-robed figure glided through the doorway like a spectre from the past. So it was true--Voldemort had, in fact, regained his body.
He knew what to do--it was not as though his knees were in any condition to hold him up when raw fear filled him anew. Without prompting, he fell to his knees and crawled forwards.
"Severus, you disappoint me," said that voice from a nightmare, stopping him cold.
And there was pain--like red-hot nails rammed into his belly.
"Master . . ." he gritted out through the pain. "I--"
"Silence." There was more pain and Snape's forehead connected with the stone floor as he convulsed. "I know you for what you are. A pathetic creature of two minds--Dumbledore's double agent and one of my Death Eaters . . . You loathe everyone. You loathe yourself most of all for what you have done and what you did not fulfil. I know of your mission. You know that you're going to die, don't you, Severus?"
Indeed, Snape knew that the game was up--he was a goner. But Voldemort did not move to kill him. Half a second later, Snape wished that he had. Instead of death, there was an awful, racking pain that made him arch and thrash about.
In the long, drawn out moments that followed the torture, his muscles twitched and complained, causing him to shake uncontrollably. A large snake had slithered around Voldemort and seemed to being investigating him.
"Look at you now . . . Catering to a bunch of ungrateful brats. Competing on such a low level. What has happened to your ambition, Severus?"
He did not answer--he dared not answer. He could only draw pained, ragged breaths through his mouth and nose. The snake put its wedge-shaped head closer--until they were practically eye to eye on the floor.
"Ah . . . you have become a pathetic, powerless pawn . . . Torn with your small-minded indecision and doubt." The dark robes advanced closer and the snake swayed aside. "Remember the old days? Remember how you gained the Dark Mark?"
Snape could not help but remember, for the Dark Mark on his left arm was suddenly a fresh, burning brand. He had known this agony before--when it had been placed on his arm . . .
Their master had announced that his chosen would receive his blessings. Some of them had jumped at it, swearing their loyalty profusely. They had been dead silent after Lestrange had been marked. Lestrange, fanatic that he was, had screamed like an injured banshee when he had received his master's "blessing".
"Well? Who is next to declare his loyalty?" their master had asked, glaring at each of them in turn.
He had volunteered--made himself go forwards, just to show that he was better than Malfoy and the other toadies. Just to prove to himself that he had truly give himself over to Voldemort's cause and silence the one dissenting voice within.
Voldemort had conjured up his Dark Mark--the skull and the snake--in miniature and then the apparition was on his arm. It had been pure agony--the brand seemed to sear its way into his soul . . .
The spell broke. He was back on the floor again, sweating with remembered fear. The Dark Mark linked them both still--master and servant . . .
"You see? You had so much potential . . ." Voldemort took another step closer and the Dark Mark burned again. "You gave it all up--you chose the other side. So tell me, have you ever regretted it?" The brand flared again, sending a new wave of harsh suffering through him. "Of course you did--you still do. In the darkest hours of the night, when you're sick of the whole world and everyone who has ever wronged you . . . You wished that you had chosen differently. It's quite sad actually . . ."
Snape bore the pain with clenched teeth. He had prepared a cache of lethal cyanide and nightshade capsules in his sleeve pocket for *this* eventuality. When the plan had failed and the pain became too great to bear . . . He knew Voldemort well enough to expect him to make a very vivid example of his death.
The pain stopped as abruptly as it had came. "That was the one thing I liked about you, Severus--you wouldn't plead for mercy. You had some degree of *backbone*, arrogant fool that you were."
Snape opened his eyes cautiously. Voldemort sounded almost calm--as though he was considering something.
"Well . . . I, too, can give *second chances*," Voldemort said and laughed--a noxious, hissing noise he remembered so well. "You will learn the error of your ways, Severus, or die a death I would not give a worm. You will live for now."
Words--life-giving words . . . "T-thank you, master . . ."
"You may come to me as my servant again."
It was terrible, the sheer relief and gratitude he felt as he crawled forwards to kiss his master's robes. Voldemort still knew how to inspire fear and loyalty in his servants. And Snape hated it as much as he hated himself for wanting to fawn like a dog at his master's feet.
"So Dumbledore has directed us to Romania, has he?"
"Yes, Lord," Snape said from the floor. He dared to look up now--the Dark Lord looked pensive as he considered this information.
Voldemort's red eyes flared in the gloom within the shadow of his hood. "It is no doubt a part of Dumbledore's design. Very well, we will play this game . . . to win. Prepare to leave Hogwarts soon, Severus--you will be taking a vacation. Of my choosing of course . . ."
And then the robes swept away, leaving him alone on the cold flagstones.
Shaken to the core, Snape could not rise yet. It had been like a violation of the soul--his inner self flayed open and prodded about mercilessly. His old master had known his every doubt . . .
Feeling older than he had in years, Snape forced himself to stand. He could not show weakness in front of Wormtail. This was not the time for weakness . . .
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Dumbledore looked up from his desk. "Yes, Severus?"
"Headmaster, I need to claim a few days leave."
"Well, you haven't claimed any leave for years, Severus . . . You've got heaps of it accumulating here."
Of course--he had holed himself up in Hogwarts, a virtual hermit. He had shunned the world that had shunned him. There had been no reason for him to go out--no friends and family to visit, nothing to celebrate.
"You've got heaps of leave owed to you, Severus--go with my blessings," Dumbledore said. His eyes were at odds with his cheerful tone. He *knew*.
"Thank you, Headmaster."
"Severus?"
He stopped and looked back.
"Are you sure you can do this?"
"Yes." He had been prepared for this since the night had had returned to the fold as a double agent. He only wished that he was as confident as he sounded though.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
It felt strange to be out in the world again.
He had a broom--but it was seldom used and had fallen into a bit of disrepair. It had taken some time to fix even with Professor Flitwick's help.
"Well, it's the best I could do," the diminutive Professor had said while they stood outside the school building. "Bon voyage, Severus--enjoy your holiday."
Dumbledore and McGonagall had also appeared to see him off. "Farewell Severus--we'll be expecting you back in a week or so."
Translation: If you're not back in a week, we'll know that everything's gone down the privy.
He wondered if they would hold a nice funeral for him. They probably wouldn't find much of him--a piece or two here and there perhaps . . .
"Good bye, Severus--you look like you're in need of some fresh air," Minerva McGonagall said. Was it showing? Did he look like a hunted animal yet?
He had nodded stiffly and managed to get the broom started without too much fuss.
Now, soaked to the skin and in a thoroughly foul mood, Snape was trying to discern if he was flying over Romania.
"Lumos!" Even the light from his wand was dim in the downpour. Now for a charm to direct him down safely . . . His memory did not throw up one that could be performed on a broomstick flying who-knows-how-many-hundred-feet-above-solid-ground, wherever solid ground was at this point (it was probably mud). He was never very good at charms. Could he risk landing on unknown ground?
"Severus!"
There was a light in front of him and it was drawing closer. It was also the source of the voice that was hailing him.
It was Macnair, wrapped in oilskins and bearing a magically powered lantern.
"Severus! You're late!" His tired mind picked up on the fact that Macnair was not, oddly enough, on a broomstick.
His temper, not at its best even without the three hours spent flying on a broomstick through a storm, snapped. "Late? Of course, I'm *late*! I can't even see where I'm going in this confounded storm!"
"Well follow me! We're only about fifty feet above ground--if you'd gone on any further, you'd be stuck in the forest!" *That* explained why Macnair was levitating instead of using a broomstick.
Fuming silently, Snape followed Macnair's lantern down. There was some building down there--an isolated farmstead as it turned out.
It was not empty--there had been spells placed on it toward off Muggles.
The Death Eaters were gathered there. Heads turned as he entered. Avery, Crabbe, Goyle and Malfoy and a number of those he did not recognise.
Ah, so it was to be a reunion . . .
He knew he looked a state, of course, drenched and bedraggled. The broom was on its last legs--or bristles--and looked like it had just been used for cleaning drains. Lucius Malfoy was looking at him condescendingly.
If Malfoy had said one jeering word, just *one* word . . . Snape would have administered the broomstick to him--right in the face. But perhaps Malfoy had seen the murderous look in his eyes, because he kept silent as Snape stamped in.
"Thought you'd never make it," Crabbe said. "We figured you left for good . . ."
Snape did not want to waste his breath on the obvious--you couldn't disobey when Voldemort commanded you personally. Not unless you were suicidal or extremely stupid.
"Who are they?" he asked, gesturing at the strangers.
"New recruits," Goyle grunted.
"They're here for their test," Avery chipped in. "Green and wet as grass in the morning, that lot. We've got to weed out the chaff, the master says."
New Death Eaters . . . Well, all Voldemort's supporters called themselves that, but everyone knew that they weren't truly Death Eaters until the Dark Lord had confirmed it and marked you personally. Snape had been amongst the first group to be so marked--the true elite. This motley assortment of wizards and witches looked young and eager to prove their worth as Death Eaters--far too young to be starting on this road . . .
Snape knew a pang as he remembered that he had been younger still when he had been marked.
There was a faint pop and someone apparated into the room.
It was Wormtail. "Put your masks on now--we will be meeting the others soon."
The mask . . . Snape had not burned it even after all these years. It felt strange, to be putting it on again. In this mask, he had committed atrocities he had never wanted to remember. Just pulling it out of its hiding place yesterday had awoken some of those dreadful memories . . .
He gritted his teeth and drew the black mask over his face. Everyone else did so too, including the newcomers--though their enthusiasm was particularly galling. They would not be so eager after tonight, unless they were the kind of Death Eaters Barty Crouch and the Lestranges had been. Now *that* was a frightening though--even more fanatics who weren't afraid to die for Voldemort.
Soon afterwards, there were other masked and hooded wizards and witches filing in. It was an old trick to ensure that no one truly knew the identities of all the Death Eaters. Snape suspected that these were Death Eaters from other countries and locals--Voldemort had been widening his power base across the world fourteen years ago, there no reason why he was not continuing to do so now.
"Will the master be here?" one of the newcomers asked--he had to be new, no senior members ever asked anything about the Dark Lord if they could help it.
"He will not be here," Wormtail said coldly. "The Dark Lord says we have a lot to prove--all of you. You will be split into groups under the supervision of the senior leaders. Tonight, we hunt a failed Death Eater and those who would shelter him. Magic usage was spotted not far away from here--there are likely to be many enemy wizards out there. It is likely that they are expecting us to come, but we know they're out there. Remember that failure is not an option."
They all knew what *that* meant.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
There was, Snape reflected, a certain irony in this whole mission. Sixteen years ago, the youth he had been could only dream of leading his own troop of Death Eaters. Now he had been issued with his own cadre to train. It was not all *that* different from Potions Classes . . .
Wormtail had taken the older Death Eaters aside and issued them with Portkeys. These were spelled for activation only when they were needed. They were to return to headquarters with their teams by the stipulated time--when Voldemort summoned them via the Dark Mark. *If* he could do anything useful with this lot by that time.
Currently, he was trying to get the half dozen of them into some semblance of order in the shelter of the woods. They had given him their names--only they seemed entirely too keen on having "code names" for additional secrecy. He had sighed in resignation and gone onto explaining the rules.
"--and you're not to communicate with members of another team unless instructed. Do you under--"
"Ow!"
"What is it *now*?" he snapped at the wizard named Ormond.
"He nearly cracked his own head on a branch--the big dafty," sniggered a witch--what was her name? Kelly Slater. She had called herself Kali--the sheer melodrama these idiots embraced so willingly was getting on his nerves.
"Quiet!" he hissed. "Are you as stupid as you make out to be? This is not a picnic, boys and girls--this is a *mission*. Does anyone know a scrying spell?"
No one did.
"Is that Dark Magic?" someone asked.
All right, so he *did* wish that some of these dunderheads were even half as bright as his students, infernally annoying though they were. But this bunch would make his job a lot easier if they were continually incompetent. Voldemort would not be pleased though, if he didn't look like he was *at least* trying to whip them into shape . . .
"No--it is a spell you use to see into another place," he said, snapping off each syllable with iron-willed control. "We will need it if we don't want to be ambushed. How many of the Unforgivable Curses do you know?"
"All of them," said the wizard called Foley. The others nodded along.
"We'll see . . ." Snape smiled sarcastically. *This* he could handle. "Try it--yes, try it on me."
"W-which one?"
"Oh, the Avada Kedavra one . . ."
From the gasps, none of them had *tried* the killing curse before. Snape smiled bitterly--*he* had known that curse since he was eight. Had used it when he was ten on a rabbit. It was true that he had gone to Hogwarts with more knowledge of the Dark Arts than anyone else. His grandmother had passed it down to him when he was a child--but it had been her intention to *warn* him about the Dark Arts, not encourage him. The younger Severus Snape had been a bit of a disappointment to her when he had taken the dark path . . .
"Come on--we don't have all night to stand out here waiting for you to start!"
"Avada K-Kedavra . . ." Foley said without much conviction.
"I can't feel anything, Foley . . . You--Ormond, you try it."
In the end, none of them could even make him break into a sweat. One part of him was glad that these were not dyed-in-the-wool fanatics like the Lestranges, the other was furious at the sad drop in standards. Were these blunderers what passed for Death Eaters these days? His old trainers would have had these incompetents skinned and strung up to dry by now.
"Is *that* all we've got now?" he asked in a dangerously soft voice. "None of you have the resolution to kill even a fly! I doubt you have enough will power between all six of you to do even the Imperius curse!"
They flinched at his cutting tone.
"I mean, it ain't fair--we haven't--" Kali began.
"Shut up, you stupid girl! None of you even know anything! You need some form of *intention* to make the curses work! You have to *mean* it when you curse someone! You have to *want* them to die!"
Oh, Snape knew all about *intentions*. The intention to hurt, the intention of cause pain . . . The intention to kill. Just one moment's murderous desire and he had been left with a lifetime of regret.
His new "students" looked suitably cowed at his lecture and he went on smoothly.
"Assuming you even survive tonight, I will have you practising those curses everyday--on each other. For now, you will use the disarming and the stunning spells along with a few of the easier offensive ones--not too hard for you all, I *hope*," he said, his voice dripping sarcasm.
Those spells they *could* do and he made them practise them until he was satisfied.
"We're setting out now--kindly bear in mind that there are other wizards out there, and some of them might even consider using the Unforgivable Curses on you. You have to be faster and more ruthless than they are since you're obviously less powerful--survival of the fittest, you know . . ."
It was too good to hope that they would know, but it was the best he could do with the material he had been given to work with. Snape did not see much potential in them at all. The test tonight was too early in their initiation--they had to be seriously short of manpower if they had to rush the training like this. And in the first foray of the dangerous game of cat and mouse that Voldemort and Dumbledore were playing too.
It was going to be the most intensive "weeding out the chaff" exercise in the history of the Death Eaters. If these apprentice Death Eaters actually accomplished anything tonight, he would be truly surprised.
He sketched a rough map in the air with his wand. "We will be combing this section--flush out anyone hiding in it and take them. I won't say *alive* because you're all not up to killing anything. Now listen carefully . . ."
* * * * * * * * * * * *
It was going to be another damp night in the trees. Sirius Black climbed back down from the lookout platform where he had been perching and rejoined his companions in this risky little venture. Of course, it was always a risky venture when hunting Death Eaters.
"Just like the old days, eh?" Sirius said to Mad-Eye Moody, who was seated cross-legged on the planks lashed to the branches to form a rough platform.
"You don't know half of it, Black," said the former Auror. He had his foe-detectors out and was steadily tracking the moment of groups of Death Eaters through the forest. The normal eye was watching a series of dots in a crystal ball while the magic eye was darting back and forth at the surrounding forest. "Didn't expect the bait to work this well . . . With this much evidence, the Ministry can't help but believe us now."
"We've got to catch them first--preferably someone sane who can say that they've seen Voldemort at full strength with their own two eyes with a truth potion administered," said a new voice. Minerva McGonagall was hovering beside the rude platform on her broomstick. She had been on an aerial patrol of the area.
"Well we've got Severus Snape if all things fail." Sirius did not look happy that they had to depend on Snape for any part of this operation.
"Fudge wouldn't believe him last month--we need to get something solid to convince him."
"Like Lucius Malfoy's head on a platter?" Sirius asked hopefully. Mad-Eye snorted, but kept his attention on his devices. "Can't get anything more thick than *that*."
"Restrain your enthusiasm for a moment, Sirius," McGonagall said though she too looked would have liked that very much.
"Yes, ma'am--right away, ma'am," Sirius said in imitation of a student.
"Nostalgia, Sirius?" Remus Lupin appeared on his broom--a new one that Sirius insisted on getting for him for all the years they had lost as friends. Lupin had said that being a godfather was obviously going to Sirius' head. He might have been a good father in his own right, but that was a moot point just then. All he cared about was bringing James and Lily's killer to justice. Life could wait.
"About time you showed up," Moody grunted by way of greeting. "We were going to start without you."
It was the closest thing the old Auror had got to cracking an outright joke. They would need Lupin's skill in the Dark Arts for tonight. For backup, they had recruited Bill Weasley for his curse breaking skills and Gerad Connelly who was always up for adventure. The other two were on ground level setting up some surprises. They *had* expected to be outnumbered in this first open foray though.
"Bill and Gerad said that everything's set . . . " Lupin looked over the forest again. "It's now or never, Sirius."
Sirius nodded. "Let's get going then."
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The author mumbles incoherently: There's second part to this, but it's not done yet. Busy with more fic (The Education of Lupin and Snape with Quaxo.) and webpage construction. I only got this bit done somewhere between an essay on postmodernism and a lab report that I've put off for quite some time. Bad me, I shall flagellate myself with a damp bootlace when I find the time . . .
Disclaimer: All characters are © J. K. Rowling and the respective publishers except for those created as a supporting cast.
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