Disclaimer: Characters and situations all belong to JK Rowlings, not me. Caius the raven belongs to Dragonelle, who has kindly allowed me to borrow him (Vesta McGonagall is hers too). She also owns the Remus-in-the-closet incident, Caligula Snape, and young Sirius's boggart. In addition, I got the name Polaris Black for Sirius's sister from someone else's fanfic, but I can't remember whose (her character, however, belongs entirely to me and Dragonelle).
Posted by: Elspeth (also known as L Squared)
Ships: Professor Sinistra and an adorable black dog, hopefully hints at a future Snape/McGonagall
Partial credit for the Death Eater induction scene goes to the Anglican Book Of Common Prayer, from which I borrowed much of the structure of the ritual (and thank you to Iniga, who very ritualistic Death Eater induction in "Cyanide" gave me the idea—go read "Cyanide", it's good.)
Chapter Five: In Which Snape and Draco Take an Unorthodox Fieldtrip.
As the days passed and the first semester drew to a close, Snape's mood grew worse and worse. The treachery of the dementors and the escape of the incarcerated Death eaters from Azkaban should have signified the start of something big, some drastic move on Voldemort's part, but it was followed by first one and then another month of stalemate. As he returned from meeting after clandestine meeting with nothing of import to report to Dumbledore, Snape's frustration grew. The fact that the ministry appeared to be doing even less than the Dark Lord only made matters worse. Fudge continued to hem and haw, finally admitting, after his attempts to cover up the debacle at Azkaban failed, that "a small cell" of "former supporters of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named" had "resumed their old activities," but he still refused to acknowledge that Voldemort had returned. One member of the wizarding parliament, overcome with exasperation, had delivered a particularly nasty speech comparing him to Neville Chamberlain, but Fudge remained unmoved.
November slipped into December. Snape turned thirty-five. No one noticed. The one bright spot of the fall was Slytherin's quidditch victory over Gryffindor, the first in four years. Nevermind that half of Gryffindor's players had been off form because of a particularly virulent attack of flu, or that they had only won by ten points, or that Harry Potter had still caught the snitch—they had won. Snape had controlled the undignified desire to dance in circles around Minerva McGonagall, chanting gleefully, and had settled for smirking complacently whenever he saw her instead. It served her right for manipulating him into setting up the extra lessons for Longbottom. True, the child had become slightly less destructive over the past several weeks, but the extra time spent supervising the lessons—well, about fifty percent of them; the rest of the time he simply left Caius in a corner of the classroom to glower at the two Gryffindors and report back to him if anything went wrong—was a drain on his time and energy that he could ill afford. Teaching, creating potions for Voldemort, creating potions for Dumbledore and the ministry, and creating the Wolfsbane potion for Lupin, not to mention being "called away on unexpected errands" several times a month, was beginning to add up. By the time the Christmas holidays arrived, he had begun looking forward to them desperately.
This year, however, he was not treated to the usual pleasant lack of students. Most of the students' parents had chosen to leave their children at Hogwarts over the holidays, where, under the protection of the one wizard Voldemort truly feared, they would likely be safer than they would at home. Even most of his Slytherins remained behind, some out of a desire to keep up a façade of respectability, some out of real fear.
Even at Hogwarts, however, the troubles afflicting the wizarding world made themselves felt. One morning at breakfast, a few days after Christmas, a pair of owls came swooping into the Great Hall. Lucius Malfoy's giant eagle owl, Creon, who deposited sealed scrolls in front of both Snape and Draco before flying away, and an unprepossessing gray ministry owl, who swooped toward the Hufflepuff table bearing an impressive looking roll of parchment with a heavy black wax seal.
"Oh no," Claire Sinistra said softly from her position at Snape's left. "I was afraid something like this was going to happen eventually." The third-year Hufflepuff girl who had received the scroll burst into tears, jumping to her feet and running from the room. "I remember back when we were in school: I used to dread mail delivery, waiting to find out which of my friends' families had died, though I suppose I got off rather easily, being a Ravenclaw." Ravenclaw, with most of its former graduates tucked away in research or intelligence work, had suffered the fewest casualties in the last war against Voldemort. Hufflepuff, though, had always been the hardest hit. The majority of aurors were former Hufflepuffs, a point of origin immortalized both in the profession's name, taken from the Latin word for gold, and by the traditional black and yellow auror's robes. Next to Hufflepuff in casualties had been Slytherin, but few bothered to sympathize with the bereft children of deceased dark wizards, never mind that their parents were just as dead as a Gryffindor's or Hufflepuff's auror relatives.
"At least they're getting the notifications out in a timely manner this time around," said Professor Vector. The elderly Ravenclaw shook her head. "They didn't always bother to do that last time. I remember one poor Slytherin sixth-year who didn't get his letter until photographs of his father's body had already been splashed across the entire front page of the Daily Prophet." She sniffed disapprovingly.
"Oh, I think I heard about that," Sinistra said. "How horribly traumatizing."
"Yes," Minerva McGonagall said flatly. "He locked himself in an empty classroom and drank poison. Thank God his familiar was able to break the window and fly for help, or we would have lost a student."
Remus Lupin was staring at McGonagall with an expression of absolute horror.
"My God," he said softly. "I never knew about that."
Snape decided that it was time to change the subject.
"The Daily Prophet is nothing but a sensationalized tabloid anyway," he sneered. "It's almost as bad as that insipid Witch Weekly, and the whole thing's written on an eleven-year old's reading level. I canceled my subscription years ago."
"It's gotten better lately ever since that insufferable Skeeter woman stopped writing," Minerva said, accepting the subject change gracefully. "Aren't you going to open your letter, Severus?"
Snape cracked the ostentatiously ornate seal and unfolded the creamy parchment. Handmade, of course. Lucius never could resist a chance to show off the fact that he was richer than anyone had a right to be.
Dear Severus,
As you know, my son's sixteenth birthday approaches. As his Head of House, your permission is required to permit him to leave Hogwarts grounds on the evening of January 6th, so that he may celebrate the occasion with his family. A small coming of age ceremony has been planned for him, which you of course are invited to attend. As you know, Narcissa and I have always considered you to be, in a sense, Draco's godfather, and we would like to extend you the honor of sponsoring him at this momentous event, as I once did for you.
Cordially,
Lucius Mephistopheles Malfoy
Snape felt a cold chill run up his spine. For "small coming of age ceremony," read "Death Eater induction." Draco was unusually young for the roll, but Lucius had always had high expectations of his son. It was too early, too soon. Another few years and he might have been able to draw the child out from under the influence of his father. As it was, Draco worshiped the ground Lucius Malfoy walked on and was desperate for his approval, a dangerous combination. He would walk willingly into the arms of Voldemort at his father's orders, not out of resentment at the abuse Slytherins received at the hands of the favored Gryffindors, or from a desire for vengeance against the aurors and ministry officials who had blindly ruined the lives of so many Slytherin children, but simply from a desire to make Lucius proud of him.
Snape had always had a soft spot for Draco. Perhaps it was sympathy over his overbearing father and constant existence in the shadow of the great and wonderful Harry Potter, perhaps he saw in the bitter and arrogant young Slytherin a reflection of himself, or perhaps it was simply that Draco was one of the only students in Hogwarts who actually seemed to enjoy and have a talent for potions. Admittedly, some of his apparent respect was feigned as part of Lucius' scheme to keep an eye on Snape, and some of it was simply blatant sucking up, but there was real talent and pleasure in learning there as well. And unlike Hermione Granger, whose hard work in his class was motivated mainly by a desire to get good marks and a generalized interest in gaining knowledge—which she would then show off at every opportunity—Draco honestly liked making potions. Despite Minerva's accusations, his place at the head of the fifth-year potions class was not due entirely to favoritism.
And now Snape would have to take his favorite student and hand him over to the darkness. Would have to, or his cover would be blown and Dumbledore's only link to the plans and movements of the Death Eaters would be lost. Lucius' letter might be couched in the form of a polite invitation, but it was an order as ironclad as any monarch's decree, and refusal to comply would mean exposure and death—if he was lucky.
Snape turned to stare at the Slytherin table, where Draco was tucking away his own letter in a pocket of his robe, obviously intending to make it "disappear" later on. One of the first things any Slytherin learns: destroy the evidence. One person's secret is another person's opportunity. Draco, noticing Snape's eyes on him, looked up towards the teachers' table, meeting his gaze. And smiled.
^_~
A week later, on the evening of January 6th, Snape sat in his office, waiting for Draco to arrive, waiting for the flare of burning pain in his arm that would signify the beginning of the night's "festivities" and tell and him Draco when it was time to leave the safety of Hogwarts for the Forbidden Forest and whatever apparition point they were being summoned to.
Caius was perched on the back of his chair, preening his beak through Snape's hair in an exceedingly irritating fashion. He knew something was going to happen tonight, and he didn't approve.
"Caius, stop that," he snapped, pulling his head away from the raven's reach. Offended, the bird gave a fluttering hop onto his desk, ruffling his feathers and pinning him sternly with an anthracite glare. He straightened up and turned his head sharply toward the office door as it began creaking slowly open, revealing the slim, silver-haired silhouette of Draco, pale and excited in black dress robes.
"Draco," Caius croaked in greeting. The Slytherin student was one of the few people he displayed any degree of affection towards, the others being Snape, Dumbledore, and oddly enough, Ginny Weasely. "Draco. Raat?" He flew across the room to Draco, perching precariously on the shoulder of his robes. "Rat. Raat?"
"Hello, Caius."
"Don't give him anything," Snape said. "He's already eaten. And don't let him perch there either. Ravens only do that to put themselves in a better position for pecking out people's eyes."
Draco laughed, forcing Caius off his shoulder and onto his wrist, then transferring him back to the desk. " I think I shall ask Father to buy me a raven when I graduate. They make much better familiars than common Snowy Owls."
"Common familiars for common wizards."
Suddenly, a hot flash of pain shot through Snape's left arm, as if someone had pressed a branding iron into the skin. He flinched involuntarily, clenching his hands into fists.
"What is it?" Draco demanded.
"It is time for us to go." Snape pushed back his sleeve, showing the ugly black Dark Mark on his forearm. Let the child see it now; he would have one of his own by the end of the night. "It is fortunate that you chose to come down when you did, Mr. Malfoy. You were very nearly late."
Caius, seeing Snape's exposed arm, let out a sharp and angry hiss. "Snake," he cawed harshly. "Snake. Ten points from Sly-ther-in."
Ignoring Caius, Snape got to his feet and moved out from behind the desk, gesturing for Draco to precede him into the hallway. Caius, left alone in the classroom, made a soft, mournful croaking sound. "Sev-a-rus," he said sadly. "Snake."
"Be quiet, Caius," Snape ordered, as the door closed behind him and Draco, concealing the raven from view.
"We will be apparating directly to the gathering as soon as we reach the Forbidden Forest." Snape informed Draco as the two of them ghosted silently through the empty halls. "Once we get there, you are to stay silent and hang back until I present you. Don't speak unless spoken to, and don't address the Dark Lord directly until he gives you permission to do so. Don't meet his eyes. After you swear fealty to him, he will burn the Mark into you. It is… extremely painful. Try not to scream or cry if you can possibly help it. Weakness is not tolerated."
As they slipped out of the castle and started across the grounds toward the forest, and Snape continued with his instructions, Draco's eyes got rounder and rounder. Snape couldn't help feeling a small twinge of guilt deep inside his soul. What a thing to be doing to a child who trusted him. He covered the emotion with a sneer.
"If you are quite ready, Mr. Malfoy?"
Draco gave a half-frightened, half-eager nod, and Snape pulled back his sleeve once more, pressed the tip of his wand to the Mark, ignoring the resultant stab of pain, and apparated the two of them away.
^_~
Draco felt his stomach give a slow roll as the dark trees of the Forbidden Forest disappeared, to be replaced by stretch of even darker mooreland, flat and lonely and empty but for the group of eight black-robed figures who stood in a silent circle around him and Professor Snape. Eight figures, and a ninth at the head of the circle, tall and looming, flanked by a small, round little man who hung back nervously, wringing his hands. In the dim, greenish wandlight, one of the appendages gleamed silver.
"Sso," the tall figure spoke, his voice a queer, high-pitched hiss. "My faithful alchemist." Why that odd emphasis on the word faithful? "You have brought uss a new recruit."
"Yes, Master."
"You may approach me." Voldemort waved one abnormally elongated hand regally.
Professor Snape took several steps forward, then fell to his knees in front of the Dark Lord, head bowed forward, abasing himself totally. Gone was the arrogance, the air of command. He suddenly looked gaunt and much younger. "Thank you, Master."
"Do you have the poisons I asked you for?"
A small collection of bottles and vials was presented. The little round man stepped forward and gathered them up, then retreated backward again into the shadows.
"Aahh, excellent," Voldemort tapped his fingers together in a pleased manner. "I do sso enjoy your little concoctions. Sso… creative. You have done well." One hand rested for a moment on top of the greasy hair. "There will be no punishment this time. And now, let uss see what you have brought uss."
And with that, the Dark Lord swung his attention toward Draco.
Glow red eyes, slit-pupiled like a snakes, seemed to penetrate into his very soul. Keep your eyes down, don't flinch, don't stare. Draco gazed at the slitted nostrils, the narrow, lipless mouth, the greenish skin—were those scales—transfixed with a blend of horror and amazement. Those firy eyes held him spellbound. Potter had dueled with this? Against his will, his assessment of the spoiled and arrogant Gryffindor rose a notch.
"Ssso, what have we here?"
"Lucius Malfoy's son, my lord. He is sixteen tonight."
"Aahh, yesss." The snake-like face shifted into a smile. "That hair, those eyes… I recognize the veela blood. Let uss hope he shall be a credit to your name, Luciuss. I trust you have trained him well?"
"Yes, great lord," one of the figures spoke, stepping forward and lowering his hood. Lucius Malfoy's pale eyes swept over his son, inspecting, cataloguing, sizing up every detail of his appearance and bearing. The lips curved upward slightly; he had been found satisfactory. "I have raised Draco to serve you, to honor and follow only you."
This was not strictly true, though it was close enough. Lucius Malfoy, the consummate politician, had taught Draco curses and hexes, taught him the glorious history of wizard-kind and the danger muggles and mudbloods posed to their ancient and honorable society, but he'd also taught him how to manage and maintain the Malfoy fortune and estates, and told him to be loyal to the family name above all else. "Rulers come and go," he always said, "but Malfoys are forever." Most fifteen year-olds got a new racing broom for their birthdays, Draco had gotten his own stock portfolio, with shares in various magical corporations (plus one muggle company called Microsoft who paid extremely large dividends and whose business practices Lucius thoroughly approved of) and an annotated copy of Ars Maledictio, the ancient Dark Arts manual. This year, for Draco's sixteenth birthday, he was giving him something even better—power.
"Iss that sso, Draco? Do you wish to serve me?"
"Y-yes, Great Lord," Draco stammered. Of course he wanted to serve Voldemort. The Dark Lord was the winning side, the powerful side, not those muggle-loving fools at the ministry, who, if their performance so far was anything to go by, were going to go down with barely a fight.
"Why?"
"Be-because. Because you are right, because purebloods are superior to muggles and mudbloods. Because I'm tired of always being second-best to those stupid, spoiled Gryffindors. Because I hate Harry Potter and his snotty little muggle-loving friends. Because you are going to win, and whichever side wins, I want to be on it."
"Sspoken like a true Malfoy. Luciuss, Sseveruss, come forward."
Professor Snape and his father stepped up to flank Draco on either side.
"The candidate for initiation will now be presented."
"We present Draco Malfoy to receive entry into the service of the Dark Lord," Snape and Lucius spoke in unison, one voice hard and cold, but with an undercurrent of pride, the other low and soft.
"Will you be responsible for seeing that the one you present is trained in our methods and the pureblood cause?"
"We will."
"Will you by your actions and witness help this candidate to grow into his full stature as a servant of my cause, and stand surety for his actions if he fails?"
"We will."
"Draco Malfoy, do you renounce Albus Dumbledore and the Ministry of magic and all the forces that rebel against us?"
That was easy; he had never felt the slightest bit of loyalty to either Dumbledore or the Ministry in the first place. "I renounce them."
"Do you renounce the evil influence of the muggle world, which corrupts and destroys the purity of wizarding blood?"
"I renounce it." Again easy, though he did feel a small pang of guilt at the thought of his Microsoft stock and the bank account in Zurich—but if Lucius thought those were okay for a Malfoy, they must not be corrupting or degrading.
"Do you renounce all the weak desires which draw you from the service of my cause? Do you renounce pity, mercy, sympathy for those of baser blood or for any causes which conflict with your loyalty to ours?"
"I renounce them."
"Do you turn to me and accept Lord Voldemort as your master, and as the savior of the wizarding world?"
"I do."
"Do you put your whole trust in my power and righteousness?"
"I do."
"Do you promise to follow and obey me as your Lord?"
"I do."
"Avery, bring forth the branding iron."
Branding iron? Oh God. I will not scream, I will not scream. It will be worth it. I will not scream.
As his father took a firm hold on his left arm and Professor Snape gripped his shoulders, a third dark robed figure stepped forward holding a terrifying looking glowing brand, which he handed to Voldemort. As the Dark Lord stepped forward and pressed the burning metal into the skin of Draco's forearm, he though he heard Snape whispering a nearly silent apology into his right ear, but he was so busy trying not to scream that he couldn't be sure.
Oh God it hurt it hurt it hurt! He could feel it burning into his arm. Burning, burning until he was sure it must sear all the way down to the bone. Tears sprang into his eyes, and he could fell blood dripping down his chin from where he had bitten straight through his lower lip. Then the metal was gone, but the pain remained, dimishishing only slightly, pulsing in time to his heartbeat.
Then Voldemort folded his long, thin fingers around Draco's arm, pressing them into the raw and charred Mark until the pain became so great that, were it not for the tight grips of Lucius and Professor Snape, he would have fallen to his knees.
"Morsmordre," the Dark Lord said, and Draco could feel the mark on his arm flare in response, see the red and blistered skin darken to black, feel the pull that the word awoke in his body.
"Draco Malfoy, you are sealed by the Dark Mark and marked as my own forever."
As the Dark Lord withdrew his hand, Draco, obeying the orders given , it now seemed hours ago, by Professor Snape, knelt (well, more fell than knelt actually) and kissed the hem of Voldemort's robe. It took Lucius's hand on his arm to haul him back to his feet, where he concentrated all his energy on remaining upright. He spent the rest of the meeting in a daze, barely noticing the praise and congratulations heaped upon his father by the Lestranges, both of whom had gaunt, ravaged faces and a creepy, mad light in their eyes. The plans being discussed for an eventual invasion of Hogwarts, with the dementors as reinforcements, floated right over his head, and the final apparition back to the Forbidden Forest and the walk back to the Hogwarts dungeons slid by like a dream. He obediently accepted the painkillers and sleeping potion Snape pressed into his hand before sending walking him back to the Slytherin dorms, and totally ignored the oddly distraught shrieks of Caius ("Draco! Snake! Ten points from Sly-ther-in!"). At that moment, only two things mattered: the throbbing, burning pain in his arm and the look of pleased pride he had seen in his father's eyes.
^_~
*AN: eeeeew! I feel dirty! My profoundest apologies to the Episcopal Church for what I've done with the Baptismal Sacraments, but Tom Riddle probably came from a largely Anglican background, and perversion of ritual seems like the kind of thing Voldemort would do. Shudder. Voldemort is hard to write, and that bit with the hand on top of Snape's head—Ick ick ick! Poor Severus. I'm going to go take a shower now.
Thank you, thank you to everybody who reviewed me.
Demeter: If you want to see my SB/RL slash stuff, read "Li'l Red Riding Hood," not much action, but same Moony and Padfoot.
Leigh, ZZ, Jellibeana, gjegji, and Alla: Thank you ^_^, I try really hard to be original and to keep everyone in character. And I hate it when people make Sirius out to be an idiot too.
ICNess & You-Know-Who: I'm in y'all's favorites? Yea! J
Kit Cloudkicker (like the name): About the silver nitrate thing, think werewolves, silver… It's kind of like spiking a vampire's drink with garlic (but Sirius was only kidding; he'd never actually do it).
Karine: Yup, Sirius is still scared of dementors (and I'm not done torturing him with them yet, either).
Next up, Chapter Six: In Which Sinistra Discovers Lupin's Dark Secret and McGonagall Hits Snape.
Moony and Padfoot return! Lavender and Parvati spread rumors! And is Claire Sinistra really sleeping with a Death Eater? (Minerva thinks she knows who).