Chapter Seven: September 21st
It was late at night, almost early morning in fact, the rest of the castle at rest. The most comfortable of times when he knew for certain that he could sit for a while, undisturbed by students, colleagues, or Albus. But not tonight.
Severus dropped his book from suddenly nerveless fingers as he felt the Dark Mark burn. An agonising, familiar pain crowded his body and the knowledge of the required gathering flooded into his mind. He gathered the things he'd need, long practice allowing him to push the pain, the tiniest of inconveniences compared to others he'd felt in Voldemort's service, aside long enough to gather his wits along with his equipment. Late arrival, he knew – oh, how he knew – would be punished beyond his ability to stand, but so would be arriving unprepared. Tonight he could not win. He should have known to be ready, but should have carried no weight now.
He spared a moment to be thankful for the fact that his reading over the last few weeks had shown him how to erect a rudimentary shield between Harry and himself, blocking most of the leakage through the bond, or else the boy would have been awakened. He no doubt would be down here demanding to know what was going on shortly afterward, something Severus surely did not need right now. Or, worse by far, Harry would discover the location of the meeting through the bond and attempt something characteristically foolish and bravely Gryffindor. No, it was much better for both of them if he remained asleep and unaware of what would occur that night.
Soon, but not nearly soon enough, everything was assembled. His broom took him to the edge of the Hogwarts grounds where he donned the robe and mask, then he Apparated to the meeting place. It was as disorienting as he always found it, and when he regained his balance and bearings enough to look around him he realised with a pang of terror he couldn't contain that he was the last to arrive. As always, that meant one thing.
"Ah, Severus." His master's voice. "So you deign to grace us with your presence after all. How very kind of you." From behind the masks arrayed on either side of Voldemort he could feel cold, cruel eyes resting on him, waiting eagerly for what they too knew would come.
"I am very sorry, my Lord."
"I'm afraid sorry isn't quite enough, Severus."
He knew what he had to do, not that it would help. With effort, he repressed the shudder that longed to crawl through his veins and knelt. On hands and knees, he dragged himself across the clearing to kiss the hem of Voldemort's robe, prostrating himself before the creature he longed to destroy. Unwillingly, he flashed back to the countless times he'd performed the same action, and doubtless it would have the same result as always. He tensed, waiting for the blow to fall.
"Anguiso."
He collapsed, thrashing with pain as fire ate along every nerve and muscle, writhing along his bones, vicious cold biting along his skin, opposing elements not cancelling each other out but rather seeming to wage a battle inside his body, driving each other to greater heights. He held the shield as long as he could, struggling to protect the boy, but within moments it was all he could do to hold on to his mind.
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Harry awoke gasping, the pain from his scar fading upon waking. For the shortest of seconds he thought it was another dream, 'just' like all the others. But no, agony still danced through his body, and somehow he knew that it was merely a shadow of the pain Snape felt. He found too much pain for one body, now spilling down through a new outlet. He whimpered quietly, the pain distant and unreal enough that he could be thankful for the sound-muffling effect of the thick curtains around his bed. He reached for his wand and cast a silencing spell, in case it got worse. He hugged himself tightly, and hoped it would pass soon, closing his eyes and trying to endure. There was nothing else he could do. The pain encompassed Snape's mind, leaving no space for anything else to make its way to Harry, and he knew besides that any action he could take would make the situation worse, if it had any effect at all.
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"Anguiso."
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Perhaps one could get used to such lancing agony if you felt it long enough, and distantly enough. It felt like hours, but Harry had the suspicion that it had only been minutes, maybe even seconds. Snape's all encompassing suffering still filtered along their bond but Harry found he could concentrate on things other than merely tolerating the pain and trying to keep breathing through it. Now a new urge was rising in him, not just to make the pain go away, but to make it stop.
Not just for him, but for Snape. He wanted to end the pain, not in any distant general sense, as he would have wanted an absence of pain for any other human, but in a deeply personal one. He wanted the pain to cease, and he wanted to be the one to make it cease. He wanted to…protect Snape. If he hadn't been so intent on that goal, he would have boggled at the thought. For now, though, he was too busy trying to think of a way – any way – to help. He could feel Snape desperately clinging to his sanity, and he could not begin to comprehend how the man had endured this on the many previous occasions that he now knew had occurred. Harry needed to help, needed to stop the pain or at the very least give Snape the strength to endure.
Harry was so focused on the thought that he barely felt his own strength drain away, leaving him limp on the bed. Then blackness crept up on him and clubbed him mercilessly over the head. He fell down into its embrace, welcoming the absence of pain.
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"Anguiso."
He had grown still long ago, even the reflex twitching too much for his overtaxed muscles to bear, his body shutting down in a futile effort to evade the torture, for it was all in the mind. At the unexpected influx of energy, he jerked once more, feeling the green-gold strength that he knew belonged to Harry supporting him, giving him a little more endurance. If his throat was not already ragged with screaming, he would have whispered the boy's name in gratitude. Later, he would be thankful that he had not, that Voldemort's own punishment had, perversely, saved him from further agony. But for now, thanks to the boy's gift, he had enough resources to push himself into blessed unconsciousness before Voldemort was inclined to give it. Once there, he knew the punishment would stop. He would be revived, and instructed as to what was required of him this time. Then he would be free to return to his rooms and attempt, unsuccessfully, to soothe his muscles enough to allow him to function somewhat normally the following day.
Darkness claimed him.