Inscribed in Air & Fire
~ An HP fanfic by Snape Ophelia ~
Chapter 4
As Severus Snape strode across the Hogwarts grounds, leaving the yellow glow of the castle's many windows behind, he wondered where the next few minutes would find him. He could make a few likely guesses, but there was no way of knowing with any certainty. As soon as he cast the spell to Apparate, his destination would be out of his control. It was not a notion he relished—he was not fond of things beyond his control—but in this case it didn't matter much.
Whom he was going to see vastly overwhelmed any concerns over where the meeting took place. And on such occasions as this, the location would not be the only factor beyond his control. That was one of the night's few certainties.
The wind held the first chill of autumn and blew hard enough that his black cloak billowed and snapped behind him. He did not mind the cold; it helped to keep his mind clear and sharp. His simple, unadorned black clothing was sufficiently warm. And if his face and hands were chilled by the night air, it was a pleasant counterpoint to the insistent fire burning his left arm.
He resisted the urge to grasp his inner forearm with the other hand. He knew from long experience that touching the Dark Mark—rubbing it, scratching it, applying ice, poultices, or balms—had no effect, none whatsoever. The mark would continue to burn with increasing intensity until it was like a live coal pressed against the skin. The only way to stop it was to answer its call. The mark's creator did not like his summons to be ignored.
Snape reached a small grove of trees which marked the edge of the school grounds. Once past the grove, the spells protecting Hogwarts would no longer prevent him from Apparating. Then he would be whisked away to…somewhere. And wherever that somewhere happened to be, Voldemort would be waiting.
He swept past the dark trunks and wind-tossed branches and crossed beyond the range of the wards of protection. On the other side of the trees, he paused for a moment, breathing deeply, bringing every nerve and muscle into awareness, preparing body and mind for the meeting ahead. As always, before saying the spell, he pushed up his left sleeve and gazed down at the skull and serpent, clear and black on the pale skin between wrist and elbow. The symbol that marked him forever as a Death Eater.
He could not have said with certainty why he did this. It was, nonetheless, a ritual. He locked his eyes on the Dark Mark and focused his inward attention on its burning, gradually forcing every other thought and sensation from consciousness. After a long moment of concentration, he was able to hold his mind fixed and steady. There was nothing but this, no world beyond this single point of focus. A skull and snake and fire against his skin.
He allowed the arm to drop and his sleeve slid over the mark. He raised his wand and spoke the words. The wind and the trees vanished.
~*~
"Severus," said the high, cold voice. "You have kept me waiting."
Snape said nothing. Voldemort knew that it was impossible to Apparate directly from Hogwarts, and that sometimes discretion demanded a delay. No excuse was needed, and none would be accepted in any case.
He knelt on the bare stone floor in the torch-lit chamber and bowed his head, waiting to be commanded.
"You may stand. I would hear your report."
He rose from his knees and, with his peripheral vision, took in as much information about his surroundings as was possible. The chamber was likely underground, part of a dungeon or a cellar. He did not see any windows. The air was stale and the walls were slightly damp. He had not been here before, and from what he could make out, the room could be anywhere at all. It was of course unthinkable to ask or show overt curiosity.
He kept his center of vision firmly fixed on Voldemort's feet, glad that the Dark Lord seemed to prefer this posture of deference. The feet, encased in ordinary, dusty black boots, were far more human and far less distracting than the slit-pupiled red eyes and the blunt reptilian features.
"Tell me, my Death Eater, what transpires at Hogwarts?"
If he were not steeled against its effects, that shrill, artic voice would have made him shudder. When he answered, he kept his own voice perfectly flat and neutral.
"The term begins as always. Dumbledore attempts to rally his forces. The Ministry, as expected, buries its head in the sand on all but the most insignificant matters."
"Dumbledore's pet werewolf has returned, I understand. And there are new professors, are there not?"
"Remus Lupin has been re-hired as the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor. The Ministry opposes the appointment, but Dumbledore has used some sort of leverage to garner their agreement. He will not speak of the exact arrangements made, but I suspect the Ministry fears public exposure of last year's"—he allowed a sneer to creep into his voice—"unfortunate events."
"Does Lupin suspect you?"
"He dislikes me. That is to my advantage. Dumbledore is willing to see antagonism between us, including my suspicions of him and his of me, as the results of that personal aversion. Also, Lupin depends on me for the potions that control his transformations. That may be of some use."
Voldemort began to pace the floor, circling Snape, who remained standing in place. "The werewolf does not overly concern me," said Voldemort. "Even with the aid of Sirius Black, who is the stronger of the two, he could not stop my most pathetic servant." The Dark Lord laughed, a sound like metal shrieking against ice. "The two of them had Wormtail in their possession, disarmed and helpless, and were too noble—too weak—to end his wretched life."
His circling brought Voldemort back into Snape's field of vision. Though the Potions Master's eyes were still cast down, he caught the flick of Voldemort's dead-white, spidery fingers as he made a contemptuous gesture—casually brushing aside such disgusting weakness.
"There are two women also." It was not a question. Naturally, Lord Voldemort had more than a single source of information. But I am still useful, thought Snape. I am closer to Dumbledore's plans than the others.
"The first is Clarice du Bois," said Snape in the same flat voice as before. "Previously employed at Beauxbatons. She is now Assistant Professor of Herbology at Hogwarts."
"Does she concern us?"
He shook his head. "She is nothing." Again, the slight sneer in the tone. "A witch of mediocre talent and limited intellect. She digs in the dirt in the greenhouse and is oblivious to the rest."
"And the other?"
"Annwyd Gwir. She is…more interesting."
"Well?" said that cold, whipcrack voice.
"A Glamour Caster, raised by a country wizard. She has talents that are not often seen now…not since the Glamours fell from favor years ago."
"And why does Dumbledore seek to revive the Glamours? Is this another noble pet project? Does he hope to play savior to the poor practitioner of dishonored arts? Is that his motive, hmmm?" The high-pitched, icy voice continued circling…circling…the boots tapping out a slow rhythm against the stone. "The same reason that he befriends the wretched, outcast werewolf? The same reason he redeems you, the miserable, turncoat Death Eater? Is that what he plays at, Severus?"
In spite of his rigidly held control, Snape flinched at the pure venom injected into the syllables of his name. He recovered himself quickly though. "No doubt that is part of it," he said coolly. "The old fool always dashes to play the hero."
"Yes," drawled Voldemort, in a slightly more human pitch. The circling had paused and the voice came from behind Snape's shoulder. "And it is to our advantage, is it not, that the old fool has such a passion for collecting garbage. If the old fool did not endeavor to make his own ridiculous pedestal look higher by surrounding himself with the dregs of the magical world, then he would certainly have no use for you. And therefore neither would I."
This time Snape was prepared for the dose of venom and his posture remained impassive, his eyes still fixed on the patch of floor where Voldemort's boots had been. All this was simply part of the report, little cruelties that the Dark Lord enjoyed.
"Anything else?" hissed the voice, now close beside his ear.
"No doubt," said Snape levelly, refusing to wince away from Voldemort's dangerous proximity, "in addition to indulging his taste for…befriending the friendless…he thinks to use the woman's talents to aid his fight against us."
"Come now," the voice almost whispered, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to raise. "Is Albus at such loose ends that he thinks to overwhelm me with parlor tricks?"
"Her arts are more…advanced than you might imagine. She appears to have learned the old skills, handed down from the time before the Glamours were banned. They are rather more effective than the parlor magic which these days masquerades as Glamour Casting."
"Is she a threat to us then, this Glamour Caster?"
Snape considered carefully before answering. Much could depend on the card he chose to play. "She has skills that could lend an advantage to the side that owned them. But she is weak. Unsure of herself. Afraid of her own power. And she suffers from the disdain her arts are accorded. Though Dumbledore attempts to enlist her loyalties, she sees herself as a leaf in the wind, alone and without allies."
"Yes," sighed Voldemort, with something that might have been pleasure, "yes, I see." He circled back to his position in front of Snape. "Look at me, my servant," he hissed softly.
Snape raised his head and met the slitted crimson eyes. He held his gaze steady, his face blank.
"A man can be cut with a glass knife, Severus. The blade may be brittle but still sharp. Do you understand me?"
"I believe I do, my Lord."
Voldemort's wand was in his hand. His red eyes glittered in the torchlight.
"You will put this knife in my hand or break the blade."
Severus Snape bowed his head.
"As you command, my Lord."
~*~
The instant the Dark Lord had Disapparated, a loud chime echoed through the chamber. It sounded remarkably like an elegant doorbell, incongruous as that sound was in the bare stone cell. Snape turned to survey the room and his eyes fastened on a wooden door, unseen until now since it had been directly behind him.
As he grasped his wand and approached the door, it opened. Brighter light spilled into the room, and low voices drifted in from somewhere beyond the walls. A figure was silhouetted against that brighter light, difficult to see in the dimness of the flickering torches. Snape recognized the voice though, when the figure addressed him.
"Severus," said the man in tones heavy and slurred. "I see that Lord Voldemort did not keep you all night after all." The figure made a little bow. "Please do join us."
Mulciber.
And as Snape followed the man out of the room into a low-ceilinged hallway, other voices also became distinguishable. Travers. Nott. Malfoy.
Several paces down the hall was another open door, which Mulciber now ushered him through.
They entered another chamber, much larger than the one he had just left. It was constructed of the same rough stones, but a rich, intricate Persian rug dominated the floor and the graceful chairs and sofas were covered in dark, shimmering silk brocades. Tables of delicate inlaid rosewood were topped with gilt candlesticks, expensive trinkets, and crystal glasses of whiskey. The smell of cigar smoke lingered in the air. All rather overdone and tasteless, in Snape's opinion.
He was almost certain the room belonged to Mulciber. The upper chambers of the Mulciber estate were furnished in massive gothic grotesqueries in black walnut, decorated with iron sconces and medieval weaponry, and presided over by stone gargoyles and carved ebony monstrosities. How typical of Mulciber, Snape reflected. His drawing room looks like a dungeon and his dungeon looks like a brothel.
"Ah, our esteemed Potions Master," said a measured, insolent voice. "So glad you could make it."
"Good evening, Lucius."
Malfoy was impeccably dressed as always, his clothes perfectly tailored of silver-embroidered black cloth, his legs encased in high black boots of supple leather. His pale blonde hair was bright in the glow of many candles as he lounged on one of the sofas, and the boots, propped on a footstool, gave off a rich, muted gleam. The impression of a brothel was certainly not dispelled by the fact that a shirtless boy of about fourteen reclined on the sofa, his head nestled against Malfoy's chest. One of Malfoy's hands absently toyed with the boy's hair.
Snape seated himself in one of the overly padded chairs and casually took stock of his fellow Death Eaters.
Travers and Nott seemed to be imitating Malfoy's dress and manner, though with less impressive results. Parkinson and Macnair were less ostentatious in their simple dress robes, though they also tried to affect airs of aristocratic languor, a posture which sat poorly on Macnair's stocky body and coarse features. Crabbe and Goyle didn't even attempt to look like anything but the guard dogs they essentially were.
Mulciber, who was now approaching to hand him a glass of whiskey, was outfitted in accordance with his normal tastes: close-fitting black pants over well-muscled legs, a full-sleeved crimson shirt open at the neck, and a black beard of medium length trimmed to a point. A ruby-studded earring added the final touch. He looked, to Snape's eyes, like a pirate in a theatre production. He was clearly very drunk but still steady on his feet.
Snape accepted the proffered whiskey with a nod and took a sip. It was, unsurprisingly, excellent.
His eyes now took in the room's other occupants. He had already noted the glassy-eyed boy next to Malfoy. He saw now that the boy's lower lip was puffy and swollen, giving a pouty expression to the otherwise blank countenance, and there was a trickle of dried blood at the corner of his mouth. Since there was no evidence of bruising on his face, it was probably a bite. And indeed there were two clear imprints of teeth on the boy's neck, one near the base of the throat, the other just above his collar bone..
On the far side of the room, a blonde girl lay in the corner like a discarded rag doll. Her legs were very white under a pair of fishnet stockings. A leopard-print slip was tangled around her waist, clearly revealing a series of red welts and purplish bruises painted across her slender hips and thighs. He wondered for a moment if she was dead, but then saw that her chest rose and fell slightly with shallow breaths. Just exhausted then. Another woman, this one naked, black-haired, and voluptuous, was kneeling by the side of Travers' chair.
"Muggles?" asked Snape, gesturing at the boy and the young women.
"Of course," said Mulciber, returning to his own seat. "They are a nuisance in general, no doubt, but they can be quite lovely…and amusing…in their youth."
"We had a few more playthings earlier in the evening," said Malfoy lazily, stroking the boy's neck, "but I fear they overstayed their usefulness. You should try to arrive more promptly in the future."
"Circumstances are not always as we could wish," said Snape, rolling the amber liquid in his glass and matching Lucius Malfoy's parlor-tone. "I could scarcely dash out of the headmaster's office without a suitable explanation. And pleading that I must depart abruptly in order to enjoy…fresh toys…with my fellow Death Eaters would hardly bolster my position as confidant."
"Of course, Severus, we all sympathize with the demands of your charade," drawled Malfoy, though he sounded more amused than sympathetic.
"Never fear, though," said Mulciber, "this one has a little entertainment left in her."
He fixed the brunette with a stare of concentration, and she rose from her position at Travers' side. The woman crossed the room with slow, sensuous steps and sank to her knees beside Snape's chair. A heavy, musky scent rose from her body. She rubbed against his legs like a cat, brushing her face and her long hair against his knees and thighs.
Snape rested a hand on the top of her head, her hair fine and silky under his palm. He stroked a finger down her face and felt her tremble in response, then he cupped her chin in his hand and turned her face up towards his.
Her full lips were parted in an expression of desire, and her body pressed closer against his legs. But there were dark circles under her eyes and lines at the edges, lines that didn't belong on a face so young. There was pallor underneath her dusky complexion, and her skin was feverish and trembling, partly the result of relentless desire, partly of nerves strained beyond their limit. And behind the heat of lust that glazed her dark eyes, he could see, far back in their depths, a remnant of awareness, and of terror.
The signs told the story all too clearly—the Imperius Curse applied too heavily and too long to a mind that could neither comprehend nor resist it.
Her will, held in the grip of the curse, was open to command, and Snape looked into her eyes for a long moment. Sleep, he instructed gently but inexorably, pushing the command firmly into the farthest depths of her mind where that last scrap of awareness clung to life. Let go of the light. No matter what happens, sleep.
The lines around her eyes smoothed and her mouth went slack. She caressed her cheek against his thigh one final time, then settled her head in his lap and closed her eyes.
"Alas," he said, his voice conveying mild disappointment, "it seems I have indeed arrived too late."
If he judged her condition rightly, then nothing—not the strongest Enervation Charm, not even Crucio—would bring her back to consciousness. Ever again. She would not have left Mulciber's house alive in any case—there was nothing he could do about that—but whatever happened now would be veiled in darkness.
Letting one hand play idly with the girl's silky hair, he settled back in the opulently cushioned armchair and made witty conversation with his companions.
~*~
It was very late when Snape returned to Hogwarts. He trudged across the grounds with a firm step in spite of his weariness, staving off exhaustion until he was safely enclosed in the castle walls. Once he was inside the building, a little of the rigid control slipped from his muscles, leaving him feeling drained and shaky. Finally, he descended the steps to the safety of the dungeons and entered his own well-warded rooms.
As soon as he had closed the door and checked the spells of protection, he shrugged off his cloak and hung it on a peg beside the door. He was glad to be home, glad to be amidst his own things. His uncluttered, rather spartanly furnished quarters were a welcome relief after an evening spent lounging with enforced ease in Mulciber's overly sumptuous armchair.
A spicy, slightly acrid smell of potions ingredients lingered in his chambers, and the familiar scents soothed his taut senses and tired mind. The odors were not what most people would call entirely pleasant, but they were the smell of home and, more than that, a sharp, clean contrast to the remembered aromas of fine cigars, expensive whiskey, and sex.
He removed his clothing laid it neatly on top of the chest of drawers. No matter how tired he was, he could not abide slovenliness or clutter. The strength of conscious will had its limits, and when those limits were reached, only discipline and habit remained to take up the slack. He had ensured, with years of practice, that his own habits were well-ordered and rigorous.
Finally, he allowed himself to collapse across the bed, pulling a heavy blanket over his body. He exhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and abandoned himself to sleep.
Sleep, however, apparently had other more pressing engagements and did not intend to visit him immediately. Instead, the night's events rolled across the backs of his eyelids.
The meeting with Lord Voldemort replayed itself, and he allowed it to pass through his awareness, then firmly pushed it onto a mental shelf. Some of the report had been routine and needed little consideration. The Dark Lord's orders concerning Annwyd Gwir, on the other hand, would require careful scrutiny and analysis. But that was best saved for another day. There was, in any case, no particular hurry on that score. Voldemort might be merciless and demanding, but he wasn't completely without reason. He would realize that the task he had assigned was one that would require work and strategy. Snape would be granted sufficient time to develop and implement a plan.
Next, his mind revisited the latter part of the evening. Most of it, as usual, was rubbish. The Death Eaters were predictably monotonous. Every time they gathered to serve their Master's whims and indulge their own, the same conversations played out. There were endless stale witticisms at the expense of the world outside their elite circle. There were boasts, idle and real, subtle and coarse. There was just the right mix of mutual flattery and mutual derision to keep the prevailing balance of power in place. It had all grown, to him at least, infinitely tiresome.
And this is the summit of dark knowledge and power, he thought bitterly.
He wondered if the others ever grasped how…commonplace it was. For all their contempt towards Muggles, they were very much like them. Not Voldemort, perhaps, but the others. Whatever secrets they uncovered, whatever powers they commanded, they sought only the same things that the worst sort of Muggles bought with their wealth and influence—material luxury, social superiority, and a free rein to indulge in whatever debauchery suited their fancy.
It was far more vulgar and ordinary than most people would have imagined. Though actually, he corrected himself, he had no idea what most people imagined. Perhaps it was only his own personal folly to have ever believed that the Death Eaters pursued a realm of intoxicating knowledge, a realm suffused with terrifying mysteries and dark splendors. If that had ever been the goal of his fellow servants of the Dark Lord, it was a goal they had lost sight of long ago.
As he tried to let the evening's images fade into sleep, he found himself thinking of the dark-haired girl kneeling beside his chair, her large eyes gazing up at his. She reminded him of another girl from many years ago…the same long raven-silk hair and warm complexion, the same wide eyes, full breasts, and rounded hips.
He was seventeen then and drunk on ambition. He was an excellent student in every subject, and truly gifted in Potions. And his gifts, it seemed, were appreciated by someone who shared his vision, by someone who looked for power beyond the obvious and mundane. Voldemort, full of half-revealed secrets and whispered promises.
At last there had been a chance to prove himself to someone who might understand and appreciate his goals, someone who applauded his ambitions.
Voldemort had needed a potion designed to his specifications—a pair of potions, actually—very difficult and complex, not to mention very, very illegal. Potions that might well be impossible to create. But perhaps Snape could consider the project, Voldemort had hinted, perhaps he would just think about it….
One of the older members of Voldemort's inner circle, a spy in the Ministry of Magic, was suddenly getting cold feet, neglecting to play his part. Killing the man would be easy, of course, but then Voldemort would lose his informant. Too much use of the Imperius Curse or the Cruciatus Curse would start to become noticeable after a while. To retain his position in the Ministry and navigate its diplomatic complexities, the man had to have his wits about him, had to appear trustworthy and well. He had no family to threaten, no misdeeds with which he could be blackmailed that wouldn't implicate the other Death Eaters as well. Some other form of persuasion was required.
So Snape had invented a pair of potions to provide such persuasion. The old Hogwarts Potions Master, knowing Snape's talents, gave him free access to the lab and its supplies, whatever he needed to conduct his student "experiments."
After a few weeks of relentless work, he handed the results to Voldemort.
The first potion was a clear liquid, easily slipped into the man's drink. After a few hours, its effects began. Anxiety. Paranoia. An oppressive sense of gloom. An increase in all the most debilitating emotions, regardless of circumstance. No matter what the man did, he could feel no spark of happiness, see no shred of hope. For the first week, the man thought he was ill. After two weeks, he was certain he was having a nervous breakdown. By the end of the month, he was losing his will to live.
And then a little dose of the second potion, generously provided by Voldemort. Euphoria. Intoxicated delight. Unparalleled confidence. All that had been lost returned, with interest. And the most effective thing—the true elegance of the solution—was that the first potion did damage that was permanent while the antidote was only temporary. The antidote, of course, was doled out by Voldemort in exchange for whatever information he wanted.
The Dark Lord had been very pleased.
Snape had not expected any reward. Acknowledgement of his achievement was reward enough. He was seventeen years old and he had created something that had never even been contemplated before, something most wizards would have sworn wouldn't work. He had taken on the challenge and succeeded. The potions worked perfectly. He was brilliant. He knew it and Voldemort knew it. That was enough.
There had been a reward though, hadn't there?.
But that was not a memory to dwell on.
As he lay under his blankets staring up at the dark ceiling, Snape was aware of the coldness settling into his left arm. The sensation was not unexpected. The mark burned when Voldemort summoned his servants, and after the summons was answered, the burn faded gradually. But it didn't fade to nothing—no, that would be too kind.
When the fire was gone, the Dark Mark grew cold, unpleasantly cold, and skin around it felt slightly bruised. The chill and the dull ache never went away, not until the Dark Lord called again.
For thirteen years, when Voldemort was weak and in hiding, the mark had lain quiescent on his arm, but in all those years, the cold, bruised feeling had never diminished. The feeling could be lived with, but it could never be pushed completely out of awareness.
After so many years, Snape had grown accustomed to its presence. Until Voldemort's return, however, he had forgotten how the transition from the fire to the dull ache always made him feel slightly sick.
Tonight, however, the feeling seemed appropriate to his thoughts.
The fire in his veins had lasted a long time, fueled by ambition and success and their rewards. And when it had finally burned itself out, it was much like the fading of the mark, leaving him feeling sick and cold and bruised.
"You deserve some recreation, Severus, after your excellent work."
Voldemorte's voice had sounded human then, not the low serpent-hiss or metal-on-ice shriek it was today. Perhaps it was understandable that he had once found that voice persuasive. His stomach still clenched at the thought.
Even now, years later, he was angered by his own abysmal stupidity. For all his ambitions, he had understood little about power. Otherwise, he would have guessed that Voldemort never did anything for a single reason alone—his rewards were never just that. One of the facets of wielding power, Snape had come to realize, was that every action had hidden layers, and layers beneath the layers.
That very first task should have given the game away, but he hadn't seen it. He had been so engrossed in the creation of the potions—in proving that he could create them—that he had spared little thought for what the potions actually did. Their effects had been a mere abstraction, a set of specifications that defined the challenge. He had never known the name of the man who worked at the Ministry, and indeed he had never even wondered.
Still, it was so obvious. There were two potions. Two.
The second one gave but the first one took away.
And while the second was short-lived, the first lasted forever.