Chapter Six

… The widest land
Doom takes to part us,

Robes and shirt half-open, his head, hands and the spot over his heart still anointed with streaks of the Muggle's blood…

No, he reminded himself sternly, not the Muggle, but Mary. He dared not deny her humanity to himself – making it easier on himself would make it all too easy to forget what he did, and why it was necessary. Make it far too simple to fall into the trap of thinking that he did nothing wrong in committing these actions. He dared not make that mistake. No matter how good his justifications might be, it was wrong.

Still, he did not allow himself to wonder who she had been before, what kind of life she had led. He knew from experience that later it would be almost more than he could bear, to know only her name and her face. That, and what he had done to her.

There were no justifications that could make this into a worthy action. It was a stark, agonising knowledge.

He was still marked with her blood from the preceding steps in the potion-making procedure. The drying red-brown streaks cracked and pulled at his skin, which seemed far too pale in contrast. He returned to her and, with a considerable effort of will, gathered his courage for the last few stages. She was pale and still, sitting exactly as he'd left her after gathering a few more… ingredients from her. He had given in and staunched the flow of blood when the sight of the growing puddle under the bench had grown too sickening to stand.

Hair, nails, skin, blood, flesh, and eventually breath, all to bind the potion more tightly to her energy, listed the monitoring part of his mind, scientifically distant. Symbols of the human elements binding it to her life and her pain.

The rusty tang of blood filled his nose, barely muted by the myriad other odours that would otherwise have been overpowering to his nose, trained to the subtle nuances of smelling potions. His stomach would have rebelled, had he not long ago perfected the art of distancing himself from what he did in order to keep up the appearance of a true Death Eater. He would never pass for one who truly enjoyed this, but he thought he gave the impression of one willing to tolerate anything in the name of power and respect.

"Stand next to the wall," he ordered as kindly as was within his ability. She obeyed his command meekly, staggering slightly as she walked the short distance. He waited for her to reach the spot he had indicated with something approaching patience. She had lost a great deal of blood, after all, and he could afford to make some allowance for that.

A spell bound her to the wall securely, washed-out skin pale against the rough grey stone. He needed her to remain upright through what he would have to do next. Having to struggle with her later would only make his job harder, and her fate had been sealed from the moment Malfoy and Thane had acquired her. There was nothing he could do to save her, and he had accepted it from the beginning. Railing against your fate brought little enough profit, and more pain than it was worth. There would be enough pain for both of them soon enough.

He ensured her bonds were not tight enough to cut. It was all the kindness, small enough in truth, that he could offer.

"Crucio," he whispered, almost soothingly, his wand pointed precisely at her heart, held in a hand that did not dare to tremble.

Almost distantly, through the deafening sound of her almost inaudible whimpers of agony, he registered that Voldemort was watching them, his red-gleaming eyes intent. There was an avid expression on the inhuman features, the snake-dry tongue flicking out in a vain attempt to moisten thin, cracked, almost bloodlessly pale lips.

He counted off three minutes, the bare minimum given in the book. Had he intended to truly make the potion, it would have been far too weak for Voldemort's liking. Yet it was almost more than he could bear to hold the curse for.

Then he dropped his wand onto the table just behind him as if it had suddenly become too heavy to hold, somehow managing to avoid the tools and ingredients that littered it. Flexing his fingers subtly to relax them after the near-desperation with which he'd gripped the wand, he spared a moment to hope that the revulsion in that action would not betray him. With any luck, the observers would take it merely as weariness due to the demands of the brewing.

He stepped up to the woman's still-convulsing body, and gently pressed his lips to her now silently screaming mouth.

He could feel a dozen gazes fixed on him, and endeavoured to ignore them as best he could.

He tried, desperately, not to think of the last time he had been lip to lip with another – Harry. That had been heat and passion, close to perfect, apart from the ending. Nothing like this cold and premeditated corruption of the gesture. Nothing like it.

He lifted the stained knife, insinuated it between them, and tenderly, skilfully slit her throat, the skin and flesh parting with startling ease under the sharp caress of the blade.

She whimpered into his mouth as her blood gushed out over him, sticking revoltingly even through the protection of his robes.

He tried, frantically, not to think of the last person he had kissed – Harry - and the so-different feeling of their breaths mingling.

He was none too successful on all counts. He didn't know why the idea of thinking of Harry at such a time was almost as vile as the feeling of being covered in blood.

He felt her body go still, one last breath, moist and shockingly cool, sighed into his mouth, almost with thankfulness for her final freedom. He clamped his lips tight around it and pulled away from her, refusing to accept the gratitude.

He was almost drenched in blood, his robes even darker, clinging stickily to his body. Its coppery tang filled the air, drowning out the other scents that had dominated the room as he created the potion.

He bent over the cauldron, gently exhaling their mingled breaths – the victim's and the tormentor's essences blended, as the ones who took the potion would become both to themselves - onto the surface of the viscous liquid within. He lifted his wand and spoke the last phrase, allowing only the barest trickle of power to flow through him into the potion.

He lowered his wand tiredly and stepped back from his accomplishment, praying he had done it wrong enough.

It should have turned midnight black, not even admitting the existence of such things as light or colour. Instead, it went a vile, putrid shade that defied all the vocabulary at his disposal. He exhaled a thankful breath as Voldemort stepped closer to examine the results.

The cauldron exploded, showering them both with shards of hot metal and still dangerous, if hopefully for his sake not quite lethal, potion.