Inscribed in Air & Fire
~ An HP fanfic by Snape Ophelia ~
Chapter 7
It was late Monday afternoon and Professor Snape was tired. His weekend had not been restful. Nonetheless, he was putting together his notes for the week's lectures. He did not have classes to teach on Mondays and he always spent the day organizing and preparing for the week ahead. Tired or not, he didn't intend to vary his routine.
He was almost finished with the notes when he heard a polite knock on the door connecting his office to Annwyd Gwir's. Before he had even looked up from his desk, the door opened. He caught a gleam of red hair from the corner of his eye.
"Excuse me…Professor?"
He disliked people entering without waiting for him to answer, but he bit back a sharp reply.
"Yes?" he said, without looking up.
"I hope this isn't a bad time…."
He made a noncommittal sound and continued writing.
"I hope you had a good weekend…?"
Oh, yes. I enjoy pacing around my rooms at all hours of the night because it's less disturbing than going to sleep. Always a charming way to spend one's weekend.
"It was fine, thank you. Can I help you with something, Instructor?"
"Um, I was thinking, I was just wondering…." She trailed off.
He put down the quill and looked at her.
The new instructor had not entirely gotten over her fits of nerves and he forced himself to be patient while she stumbled over whatever she had to say.
She was wearing black robes, he noted idly. They made her look paler than the usual green.
"The other day, a week or so ago, after my class, you wanted to talk to me about something. But I was having lunch with Professor Lupin. Do you remember?"
Snape nodded. It was hardly a subject likely to have slipped his mind.
"Well, is there something that we still need to discuss? I was just wondering what it was."
He wanted to sigh but didn't. He was stalling—had been stalling for a over a week now—but he still didn't feel prepared to broach the conversation.
"We'll discuss the matter later," he said curtly.
Disappointment, and perhaps anxiety, flickered over her face, but she didn't argue. She hesitated in the doorway for a second or two, eyes on the floor.
"Well, all right then. Let me know when you want to talk about it."
The door started to close.
"Good evening, Instructor," he said, giving her a final glance.
The door froze and her eyes flashed up at him.
Oh gods.
He willed his face to be a block of stone and imagined that his eyes were made of ice.
"Goodbye," she said quietly, eyes on the floor again.
The door swung shut with a soft click.
Snape picked up his wand and muttered a spell, ensuring that the door would not open again unless he answered it. Then he laid the wand aside, pressed his forehead into his palm, and allowed the mask to fall away from his face.
Seven hells.
For a second, he had almost lost his grip.
The gaze that Annwyd Gwir had just flashed across the room at him wasn't quite the same as in his dream, but it had managed to evoke the dream well enough. The dream he'd been having over and over, with slight variations, for days on end. The dream that was making pacing the floor more restful than falling asleep.
He had allowed himself a strong dose of Dreamless Sleep twice in the last ten days, but taking it more frequently than once a week was risky. With repeated use, sleeping potions dulled the mind during waking hours, slowing reactions and clouding observations. Under the circumstances, he could not afford the risk. Voldemort could summon him for a report at any time, and Snape did not relish the thought of facing the Dark Lord with his mental faculties impaired. One tiny slip could be fatal.
But lack of sleep was dangerous as well. He had almost let his control slip just now, for gods' sake. And if he couldn't maintain his mask in front of a nervous girl, how did he expect to maintain it under the relentless scarlet gaze of Voldemort?
His mind was well-trained to record details, and he drew on this faculty now, replaying the brief conversion with Gwir, trying to observe it coldly and analytically.
The look he had just seen wasn't the expression of sensual invitation his subconscious insisted on imagining, but it hinted that she was more than able to offer such an expression. That in itself was not surprising, he supposed. She was not a child, and not unattractive. He had no reason to think of her as virginal. The thing that was surprising—enough that it had taken all his years of well-practiced restraint not to betray himself by suddenly catching his breath—was the way her eyes had seemed to ask, hesitantly, almost shyly, whether he would welcome such an invitation.
From the way her face had fallen and the from tiny twitch of hurt around her mouth, he guessed that he had conveyed his answer clearly. Not the answer she had wanted, but the only one it was possible to give.
So at least he had managed something correctly.
He shook his head.
Why would she give him such a look? Women didn't look at him like that. They never had.
He had worked at curbing his temper around the instructor, had tried in a few small ways to help her settle in, was attempting to establish some basis for trust so that he could do what must be done. But he was certain that he'd shown none of that sort of interest. In spite of the dreams that had troubled his sleep for the past many nights—well, more accurately, not in spite of them but because of them—he had been careful, terribly careful, to avoid any thoughts along those lines in her presence, had been careful not to look at her too closely or too long.
But still, he had seen what he had seen. He wasn't given to flights of imagination. Too much for too long had depended on his ability to read the subtleties of other people's reactions while revealing little or nothing of his own. He had seen the flash of interest, and the disappointment that followed.
It was another complication in a situation he was quickly coming to loathe.
He needed to take control of circumstances—and soon. It was unlike him to second-guess and stall. He simply had to brace himself for the confrontation ahead, plan his approach rationally and well, and then do it and be done with it once and for all. No matter whether he dreaded it or not. No matter that, at the moment, he would rather be summoned by Voldemort again—would rather have tea with the monster every day for a month—if only the Dark Lord would lose interest in the Glamour Casting Instructor.
Talk to her soon, he thought. Do it tomorrow.
He didn't intend to tell Miss Gwir the whole story of course. That would hardly be helpful or necessary. Reveal too much and she'd never trust him enough, not even if it was in her own best interests to do so. He would be wise to provide as little detail as possible. But even that little would no doubt be sufficient to preclude any wistful looks in the future.
He tried not to think of it as a loss. Even if Voldemort did change his mind, even if the dreaded conversation never took place at all, what did he, Snape, have to offer Annwyd Gwir? Nothing that any sane woman would want.
~*~
Perhaps an hour had passed, and Snape was still working when he was disturbed by another knock. He had heard Instructor Gwir leave sometime earlier, and this knock was at the main door, not the one that led to Annwyd's office.
"Yes?" he called, loudly enough to be heard through the door.
"Professor Snape?" answered a familiar voice.
Oh, perfect, he thought sourly. It was Malfoy.
With a sigh of resignation, he composed his features and picked up his wand.
"Alohomora," he muttered. The door opened.
As soon as Draco walked into the office, Snape knew that something had changed since Friday. Malfoy had been looking rather sullen and aggrieved ever since the second week of the term when Snape had taken twenty points from Slytherin for Draco's comments in Annwyd Gwir's class. Malfoy was so used to having his head of house turn a blind eye to his many transgressions of etiquette, great and small, that the boy had been quite amusingly startled. Over the intervening few weeks, he had kept a low profile in Snape's class as well as in Gwir's, confining himself to a few put-upon looks.
Now however, Draco seated himself with the self-assured grace and insolent look he had no doubt learned from his father. He gave Snape an annoyingly smug smile.
"I trust you are well, Mr. Malfoy?"
"Quite well, Professor." The smile deepened and his pale eyes glinted with amusement.
Apparently, the pleasures of a seeing a sullen and off-balance Malfoy instead of a smirkingly self-satisfied Malfoy were now over.
"What can I do for you?" said Snape neutrally.
"I spent the weekend visiting my parents," he volunteered.
How very thrilling. "I hope you extended my greetings to your father."
"Oh, yes. We had a chat about you."
"Indeed."
"Yes, Professor. And my father asked me to give you this note."
Draco withdrew a bit of creamy ivory parchment, folded and stamped with the Malfoy seal.
Snape reached across the desk and took it, then laid it aside on a stack of other papers. He had no intention of opening it while Draco sat and watched.
"I'm sorry for what I said to Instructor Gwir." He looked not at all sorry, quite the reverse. "Father explained what you're doing. I understand now why you had to take points from Slytherin."
Ah, that would account for the cavalier demeanor.
Of course Snape hadn't deducted points because Malfoy was an insufferable little git. It had only been part of a charade—a charade to which Draco was now privy—and so the proper order was restored to the Malfoy world. Snape stifled a sudden feeling of deep disgust.
"Then I trust you will not hinder my efforts in the future by causing Miss Gwir undue distress."
Draco gestured at the connecting door to Gwir's office and asked, in a conspiratorial whisper, "Is she in there?"
Truly, thought Snape, the boy is an idiot. If she had been in her office, the whisper would be a tad belated.
He shook his head.
"Do you really think," Draco asked, his eyes gleaming eagerly, "that she's going to be useful to You-Know-Who?"
Snape allowed himself a slight sigh. "Discretion is a virtue, even in private, when we are at Hogwarts. But as to your question, what do you think?"
Draco seemed to consider it. "I guess some of her tricks could be valuable."
Your insight is stunning.
"On that point, our friends are in agreement."
There was a pause. Snape pointedly picked up his quill again.
It took several seconds, but Draco caught the hint.
"Well, I suppose I'll go get ready for dinner."
"Very good, Mr. Malfoy. I will see you in class tomorrow."
Draco ran a hand through his sleek blonde hair and gave Snape what he probably thought was a cloak-and-dagger smile. Then, thankfully, he vacated the office.
Once the boy was gone, Snape considered the folded parchment.
Clearly, Lucius could have sent a message by owl or floo, but he had chosen to have it delivered by Draco instead. That was no doubt a message in itself. Charade or no, don't forget whose son you're dealing with. Also, it neatly provided a chance to let Draco prove himself in-the-know.
Lucius Malfoy might feel free to insult his son, and his wife Narcissa, when the mood struck him, but everyone else had best remember that they were superior creatures. Not that Lucius was exactly fond of his family, but they were his, and he therefore cultivated a sense of proprietary pride in their dubious merits. Treating the wife or son with less than due respect was quite the unforgivable affront, rather akin to insulting his taste in clothing.
Well, mused Snape, perhaps not that unforgivable, but almost.
He eyed the parchment wearily, then broke the seal and read it.
Though the paper was thick and expensive and the handwriting large and elegant, the words themselves were as brief and to the point as discretion allowed.
Dear Severus,
If it is at all convenient, perhaps you could join me for a drink before dinner this evening. There is business we need to discuss concerning the interests of a mutual friend. I will be at home after five o'clock.
L. M.
It was now ten minutes after five. He wondered if Lucius had instructed Draco to deliver the note at just this time, giving him as little notice as possible. Probably. Malfoy certainly couldn't rival the Dark Mark's summons, but he had his own small ways of making invitations uncomfortable.
For a moment, Snape considered postponing the visit until another day. He could always plead a prior engagement, perhaps with Dumbledore. Really, he thought, that might be for the best. He was tired and tense and if, as he suspected, this meeting had anything to do with Annwyd Gwir, he was going to have to lie more than usual. He would have preferred to do so in a better state of nerves. Lucius might not be possessed of a brilliant mind, but he was clever enough—far more clever than Draco was ever likely to be—and undoubtedly cunning enough to be dangerous.
On the other hand, having the meeting hanging over his head wasn't likely to improve his state of mind. There was much to be said for getting it out of the way. Quite likely Lucius had nothing important to say and was simply being nosy, keeping himself in the loop. If, however, he did have some information to share, it would be as well to learn it as soon as possible.
He slipped the note and into his pocket and picked up his wand. There was a largely unused fireplace on the wall behind his desk, and he quickly conjured a fire and threw in a handful of powder from a small stone jar on the mantel. The flames turned bright green instantly and he stepped into the hearth, muttered his destination, and disappeared.
~*~
Snape stepped out of the hearth in Malfoy's parlor. Lucius was reclining in a tastefully upholstered wingback chair, sipping a drink. There was a decanter and another glass on the table beside him. Clearly Snape was expected.
"Ah, Severus, so pleased that you could make it on such short notice." Malfoy's voice, however, managed to convey that he'd had no doubts that Snape would make it. "Do have a seat."
Snape merely nodded. Brushing a bit of soot from his sleeve, he settled himself in the other wingback chair and accepted the drink that Malfoy had poured for him. He sat silently for a moment, taking in his surroundings.
He had been here any number of times before, but he was always struck by the perfection of the room's effect. Every expanse of gleaming wood, every portrait in its gilt frame, every well-placed objet d'art—it all whispered of wealth and power and good breeding.
His host, of course, fit perfectly against such a tableau. Dressed in fashionably cut midnight-blue robes that revealed a glimpse of pearl-grey silk at his cuffs and collar, Malfoy looked every inch the aristocrat.
Snape raised his glass in a wry half-toast and took a sip. He was well aware that his own appearance was ill-suited for the environment. His clothes were sufficiently well-made, but functional and unadorned. He looked, he supposed, like an old crow which had alighted in a garden of songbirds and roses.
"You're looking well, Lucius." He had long ago perfected the art of flattering Malfoy in a slightly mocking tone which noted the aristocratic trappings and simultaneously dismissed them as irrelevant. If Lucius thought for an instant that Snape was impressed by such things, he would fall several notches in Malfoy's estimation. There were plenty of others—Nott, Parkinson, and Macnair, to name a few—who aspired to match Malfoy's air of elegance. They would never succeed, however, and it condemned them to be eternal imitators and inferiors.
There was exactly one thing that his host respected, and that was well-backed confidence. Why do I need fine clothes and expensive baubles? My powers are elsewhere. Snape worked a slight twist of derision into his smile.
And don't forget that the Snapes were a fine, established wizarding family centuries before anyone ever heard the name of Malfoy. If there was one thing that Lucius valued more than wealth and taste, it was pedigree. It didn't matter that it meant nothing to Snape. It was a suitable thought to dwell on in Lucius' parlor.
"And you, I'm afraid, are looking rather overworked, my friend," said Malfoy, his voice sympathetic but his eyes amused. It was the expected counter-thrust in the subtle fencing match. Work, in the world according to Malfoy, was a rather shameful way to occupy one's time, and the unspoken message was clear—such a fine old family, yes, but how far the Snapes have fallen.
"I am certainly busy enough between doing my own research and looking after the interests of Dumbledore and Lord Voldemort." I work because I want to. I enjoy my research. And I am in the confidence of both leaders in this war of powers, while you have access to only one.
"No doubt," said Malfoy dryly, acknowledging a point scored. He recognized the value of Snape's position. "But the responsibilities must get rather draining, on top of dealing with students and grading and so on." Let's not forget that a large part of your work is sheer drudgery.
Snape shrugged indifferently. "I have an assistant who does most of the grading"—a bit of it anyway—"and the students rarely infringe on my time outside of class. I manage to discourage them seeking me out." He took another small sip of his drink.
"Yes," Lucius chuckled, "you've always had a knack for making yourself unpleasant when it suits you." And when it doesn't suit you also. Which is why you'll always work behind the scenes and never win open admiration or influence.
"Your son did pay me a visit today though." Though he generally disliked stating the obvious, Snape was impatient with the so-called niceties and was hoping to circle towards the purpose of the invitation.
"So I assumed," said Malfoy, ignoring the hint. "I trust his studies are going well?"
"Well enough. He could apply himself more diligently." He couldn't bring himself to compliment Draco's academic progress, such as it was.
"Yes, yes. But boys will be boys." What do I care if he's a scholar? He's a Malfoy. "I remember being rather, hmm, easily distracted myself when I was his age." As you no doubt remember, I was adding every girl in Slytherin to my list of conquests while you holed up in that dreadful potions lab.
Snape made another effort to push the conversation towards something of relevance. "I fear that Draco was rather taken aback when I deducted points from Slytherin for his behavior with the Glamour Caster."
Malfoy laughed. "To hear Draco tell it, it sounds as if you've opted to play the gallant with the little instructor—rushing to the aid of the damsel in distress, besieged by her unruly students." He drained the last of his whiskey and poured another, grey eyes glinting with cool amusement.
Snape took a rather larger sip of his own drink than he'd intended. "Something like that."
"I found it an entertaining image, Severus. I've never quite pictured you as chivalrous."
He tried to make his tone lightly ironic. "Well, there are many roles to be played in the line of duty. You're aware, of course, of Lord Voldemort's interest in Miss Gwir."
"Yes," said Lucius in a lazy drawl. "We've…discussed it."
There was a clear hint that this discussion was one that would interest Snape. Perhaps, he reflected, Malfoy really does know something significant.
Lucius, having dropped his hint, now sat back to let Snape wonder for a while, daring him to ask about the discussion. Snape, however, knew better than that. If he showed little interest, Malfoy would get to the point sooner. If he acted overtly curious, Malfoy might still tell him eventually, but he would draw it out three times longer, dangling the tidbit of knowledge teasingly in front of his listener without actually revealing it for as long as possible.
So instead of asking, he picked up a small bronze statuette from the table beside him and examined it briefly, feigning interest. "A new acquisition?"
"Somewhat new. Narcissa bought it in Paris last spring." He sounded mildly disappointed that Snape hadn't taken the bait. "Draco says the Glamour Casting Instructor is rather young. Surprisingly young."
"Yes, I believe she is."
Lucius smirked. "You 'believe' she is? You haven't managed to look at her during your classroom observations?"
"Early twenties or so," said Snape, a bit more snappishly than he intended.
"Alas," said Malfoy, "no such luck when we were students, hmm? Back then Dumbledore always seemed determined to only hire female teachers who were ancient or hideous. Such a pity. At sixteen, I rather fancied the idea of an older woman, but there were no such opportunities." His eyes misted nostalgically. "Not at Hogwarts anyway."
Snape sincerely hoped that he was not about to hear a recounting of Malfoy's quest for older women outside Hogwarts. He had, over the years, heard more than enough of the other man's continuing carnal adventures. Thankfully, Lucius seemed content to savor his youthful conquests in silence. Snape took another drink of his whiskey.
"She's pretty then, is she?" said Malfoy.
"Not especially."
"Oh? Unattractive?"
"She's rather unremarkably average," Snape said irritably. "Not that it matters."
Lucius raised his eyebrows. "True, true. The plain ones are often the most amusing. Not jaded by an overabundance of male attention, hmm?"
"Lucius," he said, scowling, "Lord Voldemort has asked me to enlist the woman's aid, not seduce her."
"Well, Severus, the two are hardly mutually exclusive. When Draco mentioned that you were defending her honor in class, so to speak, I thought you might have decided to do the thing with style."
Snape hoped he didn't look as tense as he felt. Malfoy's powers of observation might not be as carefully trained as his own, but the man had a talent for sniffing out and seizing upon whatever topics made him most uncomfortable.
Malfoy, smiling innocently, picked up the decanter of whiskey. "Another drink?"
Snape realized his glass was nearly empty and handed it over. It had been a mistake to accept the invitation, he concluded. He was too tired for this. No doubt Lucius was taking note of the fact that he had just finished his whiskey in record time—he did not like to become drunk and was usually adept at sipping from a single drink for hours—but he accepted the glass and took another swallow. Perhaps the alcohol would ease some of the tension in his shoulders. He was having trouble maintaining a relaxed posture, and Malfoy would certainly notice that as well.
"I received a summons from Lord Voldemort last night," said Lucius casually, twirling his own glass in his hand lazily.
"Hmm."
"Yes, he asked me to speak with you. He was en route to an important meeting, it seems, and he didn't feel inclined to wait while you disentangled yourself from Hogwarts. He asked me to convey his fondest regards, of course."
Malfoy smiled and Snape suppressed a slight shiver.
"Well?"
"I don't know exactly what his errand was. Something to do with the Dementors. More than that, he didn't say."
"Not unexpected," said Snape. The fact the Mulciber and Travers were out of Azkaban, looking hardly worse for the wear—and that no one in the Ministry of Magic seemed the wiser—made it obvious that Voldemort had been dealing with the prison's unsavory guards. Dumbledore had predicted months ago that this would happen. Still, it was good to have the speculation reconfirmed.
Snape assumed a air of indifference—only slightly strained—as he waited to hear the news that concerned himself.
"It seems," said Malfoy, when he saw that no questions were forthcoming, "that Voldemort is inclined to agree with your assessment of the Glamour Caster. He thinks she may indeed turn out to be useful."
"I gathered as much from our last meeting."
"In fact…" Malfoy drew out the pause as long as possible. Snape refused to show impatience. Really, the man was shameless in his enjoyment of showing off—showing off his wealth, showing off his little bits of knowledge. Finally, though, Lucius continued. "He seems to have a particular use for her in mind."
That did manage to draw a look of curiosity. Snape kept it to a glance and an arched eyebrow, but Lucius looked slightly gratified.
"Yes, it seems that there is a magical object of some importance that Voldemort wishes to acquire." Another pause. "He wouldn't say what it is," he added with a trace of disappointment. "But he seems to think it rather valuable."
"No doubt," said Snape dryly, "that's why he wouldn't say what it is." There was little that could be called trust between Voldemort and his Death Eaters—there was only an intricate balance of fear and power and mutual usefulness.
"Yes," said Lucius, with an almost comically world-weary sigh. "So little good faith in the world these days. At any rate, it appears that there will be a chance to acquire the object in question shortly after the New Year. No doubt it will be carefully guarded—perhaps at Gringott's—but Lord Voldemort believes it can be taken. He seems to think that the Glamour Caster can help."
"I imagine she can," said Snape. Voldemort would obviously see that the woman's talents were well suited to such an enterprise.
"I fear, however," said Malfoy, his voice now heavy with false sympathy, "that Lord Voldemort entertains some doubts about your ability to secure her cooperation."
Snape took another sip of the whiskey and forced down the knot of tension that tried to form in his stomach. "He expressed no such doubts to me, Lucius."
Malfoy ignored his comment and proceeded. "He seems to be planning suitable alternatives. Just in case."
This time Snape couldn't resist a question. "What sort of alternatives?"
Predictably, Lucius deferred the answer. "I felt, however, that he ought to give you a decent chance to accomplish the goal yourself. We're old friends, Severus, so I naturally felt obliged to take your part."
Snape made a noncommittal sound. Whatever motives Malfoy might have, honoring the bonds of 'friendship' was certainly not among them.
"And besides, I had just spoken with Draco, and the situation seemed to be proceeding rather amusingly."
Was that the whole of Malfoy's interest? Snape wouldn't entirely put it past him. He had the typical aristocrat's thirst for scandal and entertainment. But there might be more to it as well.
"I'm glad you think so."
"Really, Severus, you take too little pleasure in your work. You weren't always quite so boringly proper. But perhaps that's changing, hmm?" Malfoy took a drink, giving Snape a questioning look over the edge of the glass. "Why look at you"—he gestured towards the half-empty glass in Snape's hand—"you're actually drinking like a normal man for once, rather than sipping like a nervous virgin on a first date."
Confidence, thought Snape, is the only card to play. He drained the glass in one swallow and refilled it from the decanter with a flourish, then fixed Malfoy with a wicked smile. "Times are changing, Lucius, are they not?" he said softly. "We have all laid low these past thirteen years. But Voldemort has returned. The possibilities now expand for all of us."
Malfoy gave a genuine smile of approval and raised his glass. "A toast then, to the expanded possibilities."
They drank.
"Really," said Malfoy, "I think it would be a shame if Voldemort sent Mulciber to look after the Glamour Caster. His use of the Imperius Curse has always been rather artless and heavy-handed, don't you agree?"
"Yes, I've always thought so," said Snape. He was suddenly glad of the alcohol in his system. His voice sounded casual and completely steady.
~*~
When Snape finally stepped out of the fireplace into his own sitting room and library, it was still fairly early in the evening. His talk with Lucius had seemed to last forever, but in reality he had been gone for slightly less than two hours.
He had no desire to attend supper in the Great Hall, so he summoned a house elf and had a tray brought to his rooms instead.
While picking at the food, he attempted to read a chapter of Poisons and Antidotes: A New Approach, which had recently been delivered from Flourish & Blotts. Neither the meal nor the book, however, succeeded in holding his attention.
Every bit of tension he had been suppressing during the interminable visit with Malfoy seemed to be returning with a vengeance. He simply couldn't keep his mind on the page in front of him. There were too many distracting thoughts circling the edges of his awareness. Plus, he conceded, he was probably slightly drunk.
Damn Lucius Malfoy all to hell. Damn him and his whiskey and his smugness and his insufferably arrogant son and his absurdly rich clothes and his tawdry little bronze statuettes. And his endless questions about the Glamour Caster.
After their initial exchanges, Lucius had produced no further information, though he continued to hint, of course, that he might have some secret up his sleeve. Mostly, he had bored his guest with various anecdotes about his travels, his servants, his tailors, and his friends in the Ministry of Magic. All of that nonsense was par for the course with Lucius.
In the midst of this trivia, however, he had circled relentlessly back to Annwyd Gwir. Some of Malfoy's questions were arguably relevant—Where was she from? Was it true that she knew very little regular magic?—but most were completely gratuitous—What color was her hair? Was she tall or petite? Slim or voluptuous?—all matters Snape would have preferred not to dwell on.
Worst of all, though, were the many nettling remarks about Voldemort's "alternatives." Lucius did wish Snape the best of luck with his endeavor, such a pity if Mulciber had to step in, and so on and so on, ad nauseum.
Mulciber stepping in would be far more than a pity, thought Snape. It simply mustn't be allowed to happen. The fact that Voldemort was considering it was grim news in and of itself. Not only did it betray a lack of confidence in Snape, it also indicated all too plainly what the Dark Lord thought of the Glamour Caster. A useful tool, perhaps, but quite expendable.
Mulciber was infamous for his use of the Imperius Curse, and the reputation was not undeserved. He was very good at getting the results he wanted out of his victims, even if those victims were strong witches or wizards who had been specially trained to resist the curse. Bludgeoning his commands past all walls of resistance was his specialty. Unfortunately, the victims' minds were often bludgeoned out of commission in the process. Their usefulness was generally short-lived.
Snape doubted that Annwyd Gwir had any defensive training against Imperio, and even if she did, her chances of surviving an encounter with Mulciber with her faculties in tact were slim at best. And once Voldemort chose to go that route, no one would care if the instructor survived or not. Indeed, if she had to be strong-armed into performing her task, she would only be a liability afterwards. If she was lucky, the Killing Curse would follow immediately once the job was done. If she was unlucky, she would be the guest of honor at a Death Eater gathering in between Imperio and Avada Kedavra.
He tried to focus on the rapidly cooling supper tray in front of him and realized he'd been rearranging his food for some time without eating it. The slice of roast beef was untouched, but the serving of buttered peas had been neatly squared off and the cubes of boiled red-skinned potatoes were now lined up in rows according to size. He gave a disgusted grunt and speared a chunk of potato with his fork.
The fork was halfway to his mouth when he was visited with a sudden flash from his visit to Mulciber's dungeon. He saw the dark-haired girl kneeling beside Travers' chair and suddenly imagined Annwyd Gwir in her place. He slammed the fork onto the tray and shoved his chair back from the table. He was not inclined to eat after all.
He left the tray on the work table, not wanting to be disturbed by a house elf, and paced about the room, pausing in front of the bookcases, running his eyes over the familiar titles of his collection. Properties of Common Fungi. Healing Potions - Ancient and Modern. Magical Plants of the Far East. Fundamentals of Temperature and Precision. A Guide to Preserving Insects. The Subtle Poisons.
Ah, yes. The Subtle Poisons. That one had been an invaluable resource during his early work with Voldemort. He turned away from the bookcase.
"You see, Miss Gwir, I was seventeen and not very happy, so I made a pair of potions for Lord Voldemort to help him destroy a man I'd never met."
But that was hardly the worst of it, Snape thought as he paced the length of the chamber. There were other, stronger reasons for keeping his thoughts of Annwyd Gwir cold. Because Voldemort rewarded his servants, didn't he?
"You deserve some recreation, Severus, after your excellent work. So you see, I've brought you a little pet to entertain you."
Gods, he could still see her, that first one, though most of the others had faded from his memory over the years. Raven-haired, dark-eyed and beautiful, face exquisite, body full and ripe and perfectly formed. And she was touched ever so lightly with Imperio. Not the mindless doll that Mulciber would have created—Voldemort knew Snape better than that. No, she was still aware and alert and vibrant. What the Dark Lord had planted in her mind was simple, really, hardly even a set of commands, just a few unshakable beliefs. You are his. You are helpless to be otherwise. React however you will. Feel whatever pleasure or pain is given you. Struggle or submit as you wish. But the power is all his and not yours.
The Dark Lord had known his servants well, their strengths and weaknesses. At seventeen, Severus had intelligence and ambition and he had, even then, the capacity for single-minded focus. It was an age when most boys found it difficult to concentrate on books. As the young human animal developed towards adulthood and the internal machinery flooded the system with hormones and desires, it was hard to spend solitary hours with quill and scroll. It was hard to listen to droning old professors when yesterday's unremarkable female classmates had suddenly become young sirens. Many abandoned whatever scholarly drive they had possessed and did as little work as possible, saving their time and energy to better impress the newly entrancing opposite sex.
Severus, however, had not followed suit.
In retrospect, he could acknowledge that the explanation was simple: none of those pretty things spared him a passing glance. If his family was old and well-bred enough to make him acceptable, they were hardly rich enough to make him a catch. He was skinny and unathletic and clumsy at the social graces. His hair was always lank and a little unkempt, his roes always dusty from the Potions lab. He was short-tempered and somber even when he didn't intend to be. If a girl ever noticed him at all, it was only to say "Severus, what are you scowling about now?" when he hadn't even realized he was scowling. And his humor even then had been dry and intellectual—never the sly, easy jokes and teasing innuendo that made teenage girls blush and giggle—so of course it was assumed that he lacked a sense of humor all together.
Lucius Malfoy was ever surrounded by a bevy of Slytherin girls, posing and pouting in hopes of catching his notice. James Potter moved in the warm glow of Lily Evans' adoring green-eyed gaze, and if Lily should ever look the other way, there were other girls lined up to fawn on the Quidditch hero. Sirius Black's high spirits and reckless sense of adventure occasioned playful scolding and not-so-secret admiration. Even Remus Lupin—who was a werewolf, for gods' sake—was known to draw a doe-eyed glance from the shy and bookish types.
And now, years later, Snape could admit that he would have gladly traded places with any of them. But at the time he was convinced—had to be convinced—of his own higher callings. He was destined for better things, more important things, than roaming the halls in a circle of laughing friends and snogging silly girls behind the greenhouse.
His body, of course, had remained rather dubious as to the value of his mind's more lofty ideals. But even that had been swept up in ambition. The aching hardness of unspent desire could be mastered. The pent-up energies of frustration could be rechanneled into other—higher—worthier—pursuits. And some day—
Some day, he would achieve greatness while the others would remain mediocrities.
No doubt the Dark Lord had suspected all of it. He hadn't bothered to explain what commands he had given the girl, hadn't needed to say anything at all. Snape had felt it the instant his eyes fastened on hers. She was beautiful, she was perfect, and she was his. His to enjoy in whatever way he wanted—the rightful earnings of his hard-won success, the wages due his brilliance and achievement. If he wanted to make her suffer for every jibe and cruelty of the others, he could do that. If he wanted to make her moan with desire and beg for his caresses, he could do that too. And he had. He had done both, and more.
Yes, thought Snape, the reward had gone down sweet. As sweet as the second potion he'd created for Voldemort's reluctant informant. As sweet and as wildly exhilarating—the girl's soft flesh under his hands and her damaged will open to his command, the pleasure and the power intertwined, the freedom to use her as he saw fit, to please her or make her crawl.
A fair bargain, in retrospect, Snape thought bitterly. An even exchange, the potions for the girl.
He supposed that once he had wanted things that other men wanted. Companionship. Laughter. Affection. Trust. But those things had paled beside the intoxication of power. Maybe it was a side effect of taking the Dark Mark, which was burned onto his arm soon afterwards. Maybe it was a subtle influence of the Unforgivable Curses, because of course he'd quickly learned to perform Imperio himself. Maybe it was just the wretchedness of human nature. But whatever the cause, with each new "reward"—with each new indulgence in that heady wine—everything else receded farther and farther into the distance.
It wasn't guilt that had moved him to curb those indulgences. The guilt had only come much later. It was the hollowness of his so-called power that was finally revealed when he felt the jaws of the trap closing around him, the same trap that closed on every servant of the Dark Lord. It wasn't quite as ruthless as the prison he'd made for the Ministry informant, but the principle was nonetheless the same. Step out of the circle of Dark wizards and where will you ever satisfy the craving? Who in the world, besides your fellow Death Eaters and your Master, will approve of the pleasures you require?
And so he had stopped, accepted no more rewards, and believed he'd won.
Perhaps he had, but the victory was bitter. For a while he'd believed that the other world—the one where normal people lived and loved and were sometimes happy—might still be there waiting for him to return to it. But as the months and then the years rolled by, he realized that the other world would always remain at a distance, a foreign country whose customs he heard about but one which he would never personally visit.
Prowling about his library in the grip of these unwelcome thoughts, Snape considered taking a draught of Dreamless Sleep. Since Voldemort was occupied and had chosen to deliver his latest message through Lucius Malfoy, it was highly unlikely that he'd issue a summons soon. And the gods knew a night of dreamless sleep would be more than welcome.
Unfortunately, as he remembered a second later, he had consumed three—four?—glasses of whiskey in Malfoy's drawing room, and sleeping potions did not mix well with alcohol. Even a small dose would make him ill.
After a moment's consideration, he opened a cabinet and removed a rather dusty bottle of whiskey. He was already likely to wake up with a headache, but perhaps one more drink would push him from agitation to dullness and, with any luck at all, sleep.
He had to search for a while to find a glass. He drank alone very infrequently and entertained guests even more rarely. The glass was also dusty and he pulled his shirttail loose to wipe it off. Then he filled the glass and downed it in two swallows.
A moment later, he knew the whiskey had been a mistake. His pulse seemed to pound against his eardrums and his thoughts spun even faster than before. With a grimace, he flung the glass at the empty fireplace where it shattered, raining fragments onto the floor.