Chapter Five
Without the sense of that which I forbore,
Thy touch upon the palm.
On this occasion, it was just past eight on an otherwise ordinary Saturday evening when the summons came in its familiar excruciating form. He had been in the middle of a discussion with Minerva on a possible change to the sixth-year syllabus at the time. However, as soon as he felt the mark begin to burn, he excused himself without explanation, knowing that the lack would itself provide her with the reason.
She left without question, but also not without giving him the usual sympathetic glance, which he naturally ignored completely. Within a few minutes of feeling the command burning on his arm, he had gathered the necessary things and departed.
When he Apparated into the hidden stone-walled room in Goyle Senior's cellar which had been given as the location of this meeting, he was relieved to note that a good half of the others who made up the circle had yet to arrive. He made the required obeisance to the Dark Lord. Voldemort appeared deep in thought – doubtless boding ill for someone - and seemed consequently to pay little attention to Severus' routine prostration. Once he had been given an offhand acknowledgement, he strode quickly to his place to wait, wondering what had been planned for this night.
From the choice of location and the potions workbench set up off to one side, Voldemort would no doubt require Severus to create a potion for him. He merely hoped that it would be something that he could make without the consequences adding yet another weight to those that already plagued what passed for his soul. Considering the source of the order, he knew that such a thing was extremely unlikely, to say the least.
Death Eater after Death Eater, cloaked, masked and hooded, appeared in quick succession at the centre of the rapidly forming circle. They took their places only pausing to abase themselves appropriately in Voldemort's direction. Soon only two places were left open – Malfoy's and Thane's.
The latter had after Karkaroff's death replaced him both among the Death Eaters and as Headmaster of Durmstrang, and had soon become a favourite of the Dark Lord's. He had a cruel nature and a love for evil, not only the Dark, that was notable even in this company.
Severus wondered what they might be doing. It was unlike them to be late, as they both held high positions in the circle, meaning that it was far more likely that they were fulfilling a task for Voldemort. It was something else to ponder in order to pass the time, but no more soothing.
The reason for the absence of the two was made apparent after a few minutes, when they materialised on the spot where the others had previously appeared. Between them they held a Stupefied young Muggle woman, who appeared somewhat the worse for wear. They dumped her unceremoniously in a corner, made their bows, and moved to their places to complete the circle, Malfoy on Voldemort's right, Thane on his left.
Severus waited, holding a carefully dispassionate expression despite the safety provided by the mask as Voldemort made his customary speech to open the proceedings. Since his… rebirth… his addiction to verbosity had grown ever worse. Severus let the words pass over him without making much of an impression. A part of his brain occupied itself with cataloguing the potions which called for the use of human blood, whether in general or young female in particular. The combination of factors told him without a doubt that it was the fate that had been planned for her. He had seen enough such victims in his time, and used more than a few of them.
He had time to come up with a reasonably daunting list of possible potions by the time Voldemort had finished speaking. None of the items on it were soothing to his conscience. Of course, human blood was an important component in a great many benevolent potions too, but in every one of those cases it had to be given with the free will of the donor. This quite clearly would not be. Blood magic was a highly complex thing, as he now knew from experience he would gladly have forgone.
"Severus."
"Yes, my Lord?" He snapped himself promptly back to full attention at the sound of Voldemort's voice. Now was not the time to be thinking about such things, not when he needed all his wits about him.
"I find myself in need of a Ruin potion. Say, sufficient for a hundred people?" The tone the request-command was given in was almost frighteningly conversational, while the topic was anything but.
If there were such things as Unforgivable potions, Ruin would surely have been among them. It was most certainly among the first that had been placed on the Ministry's list of banned Potions.
It was inevitably fatal, but that was of little importance. After all, so were many other potions, whether that was their purpose or due to abuse. Rather, its true cruelty lay in the stages leading to that fatality, of which Severus' mind insisted on reminding him, without sparing him any of the details.
First – intense pain, claimed to rival even the Cruciatus, although no one had been left alive, let alone sane enough, after Ruin's application to comment. The blood used and the power of the potion's maker determined the duration of this stage.
Second – insanity, of a horrifyingly calculated form. Systematically coursing through the brain, it would seek out the foci of strong positive emotions and attempt to make the victim destroy them, as horrendously as possible.
Third – a gradual return of the mental faculties, followed by a period in which the person could realise the true horror of what they had done.
Finally – death in slow, painful increments.
He had seen it used once before. It had sickened him to see the perversion of his art. It had not merely been on account of the results it produced, but also the knowledge of what the maker had been required to do to create it. The reactions of the others present had been almost as revolting. He had hidden his own reaction as well as he could, plastering on a mask of almost equal enjoyment to hide his horror.
It took horrifyingly little time to prepare, especially when compared to other, less appalling potions, as long as one had access to the ingredients, skills and power required. Thankfully those three were all rare, the combination of them all correspondingly rarer. It appeared that he was, thanks to Voldemort, now in possession of that enviable status.
The mere thought of making the potion, the reminder of its effects, was enough to make him shiver. Mostly it was due to a combination of dread and disgust, but it also bore a touch of anticipation he could not seem to quell despite his certain knowledge of just how wrong it was. The thought of the challenge, the chance to know if he was capable of making even this, was horrifically tempting, as much as he tried to deny it.
He knew one thing. He could not make it. Certainly not in the amount required. There was no hint of 'would not' in his reaction. For that many people, there was no chance of him even considering it as a price that had to be paid to keep Voldemort's faith in him. Maybe, for one person, or even five he could have marked it on the same slate as the other dark potions he had created for Voldemort. Maybe he could have called it a necessary evil, somehow justified it to himself. But not for a hundred.
Still, he could not say that to this gathering, and simply doing it wrong in some obvious manner would not work. He would merely be punished – he forced his mind away from the knowledge that he would most likely be punished anyway - then made to attempt it again.
Rather, he would have to find some way of making Voldemort think he was not powerful enough to complete it. Voldemort himself, thankfully, had never mastered potion-making to the degree required, although of course he knew what was required. He had studied every one of the Dark Arts well, though he had only mastered those he saw as most essential. Neither had any of his followers chosen that path except, of course, for Severus, which after all was one reason why they had been so eager to have him. His father had been so very pleased when he had first mentioned his preference for potions, though it had taken him years to realise why.
"I will attempt it, my Lord," was all he said in reply. He allowed none of his churning thoughts and half-formed plans, each discarded almost as quickly as they appeared, to show in his face. The red eyes peered at him, faintly considering, before he was dismissed to begin. He walked over to the bench as slowly as he dared and started to prepare the required ingredients as Voldemort turned to speak to Thane. He tried at first to overhear anything of their conversation that he could, but soon was rapt in the almost meditative state that the challenge of brewing the potion induced.
For over an hour he distilled nightshade essence and diluted it with stagnant marsh water blended in strict proportion with the light of the dark moon. He shredded vampire bat wings, grated sphinx beak. Casting a charm to protect his hands, he chopped a mixture of hallucinogenic and deadly mushrooms with extreme care. During that time he managed to lose himself, gratefully, in the smells of the components and their textures under his manipulations, the sound of the small fire under his bubbling cauldron. The utter absorption of potion-making was a welcome relief from his thoughts.
Once everything was in place, he began the laborious process of blending the ingredients, adding each at precisely the right time and in exactly the right amounts, his wand waving unerringly in the prescribed gestures, his voice speaking clearly and accurately the required words. But ultimately he had to approach the point he had attempted to put off as long as he could.
He sprinkled in a pinch of powdered diamond and watched the potion turn a deep, royal purple. Suppressing a tremble that was demanding to make itself known, he set the fire so the potion base would continue to simmer gently. He sluiced down a silver blade with pure alcohol, laid it apart from his other tools, and made his way to his master. Voldemort appeared to be planning something with Pettigrew and Marissa Leturi, another newcomer to the Death Eater circle. Severus dared not hesitate even long enough to attempt to eavesdrop a little.
"Excuse me," he said, allowing a touch of uncertainty and worry to creep into his voice. The seeds of doubt had to be planted now if he was to have any chance of surviving what would come soon, if everything went as planned. His only hope – slim as it was - lay in convincing Voldemort of his powerlessness.
"What is it, Severus?" The reply positively crackled with impatience. The thought crossed his mind that this must be something like what his students experienced when they approached him, but he pushed it away. There was no time or thought to spare for whimsy.
"I am ready for… for the final ingredient," he said softly.
"Good. Goyle!"
"Sir?" The man's voice was much like his son's – slow, deep and indescribably, undeniably stupid.
"The Muggle. Now."
"Yes, sir." Goyle had been watching over the woman in case she woke unexpectedly and tried to resist. Now he lifted her like some bagged and weighed commodity and carried her over to the bench.
"Well? What are you waiting for, Severus? Get back to work," snapped Voldemort, turning back to his conversation.
"Yes, sir."
He tried not to shudder as he prepared himself for the next steps. This, he told himself, was no worse than some of the things he had needed to do before. In an action that had become almost automatic over the last few months, he checked his shield and strengthened it, thinking of the inscription on a green glass paperweight and eyes of a darker shade of the same colour, looking up at him with honesty and some other emotion in their clear depths.
He shrugged away the thought and focused instead on the woman, and the task at hand.
"Ennervate."
The woman jerked and gasped into consciousness, Goyle holding her down despite her obvious harmlessness. After all, she was a Muggle, and, considering the minimal nature of her clothing, could hardly be armed. It didn't prevent Goyle pinning her like some dangerous beast.
"Listen to me and I will not let them cause you pain," murmured Severus in what attempted to be a soothing tone as soon as he judged her in a state to comprehend his words.
She, quite sensibly, clearly did not believe a word of it. Nevertheless, she jerked her head in a shaky assent, perhaps realising that he was better than any other alternative.
"Put her down, Goyle." The gorilla-like man did so, and left the cellar, presumably having no other duties for the moment.
"Now, what's your name?" he said, injecting as much kindness as he could muster into the question.
"M-Mary…" she stammered, barely audible.
"Very well, Mary. Sit down on the bench for me."
She obeyed, slowly, eyes open but obviously registering little of her surroundings, her reactions sluggish and uncertain. Quite clearly Malfoy and Thane had drugged her before abducting her. No matter, it would simply make his job easier. If he was lucky, the drugs would be incompatible with the potion, but he dared not hope for that.
"Now, do try not to make too much noise," he said, stepping closer.
Her eyes widened fractionally in the instant before he lifted his prepared knife and, in his left hand, a broad, shallow, pure silver basin. Before she could move, he made an expert incision down her left forearm, slicing along the length of the vein from wrist to elbow and catching the blood in the basin. She whimpered, but gave little other reaction, and he wondered, distantly, what on earth they had given her.
He had other things to worry about, though. He left her perched on the bench, bleeding heavily, and returned to his task with complete single-mindedness. It could not erase, or even mute, his trepidation at the knowledge of both what this task would require of him, and of his intentions when it was complete.
