Delusions- Chapter Six
I do not own Harry Potter, nor am I receiving any sort of profit from this.
A/N: This took quite a bit to come out, and I apologize. It took me awhile to decide what I wanted to do in this chapter.
~
I have rejoined my master, the one who will cure my bloodlust, who will help me destroy and kill and maim and drink and devour. I long for the warm, metallic taste of blood on my tongue; I deeply desire its warmth traveling down my throat. And Master will help me, he has told me this in his hissings, the language echoing throughout my head faintly, always there, always guiding me. His power is the bane of my existence; his evil is the thing that sustains me so thoroughly. Yet… yet I can feel him fighting. He has almost disappeared from this body, but his inner impressions remain lightly etched in my thoughts. He is struggling, but I must not let him win. He will not conquer me. He will remain imprisoned forever, until the day I finally manage to erase all traces of him or until the day I die myself.
~
Harry did not know where he was or why he felt so disconnected from everything. Silence pressed heavily over his ears, and the air was so thick, he felt himself gasping silently for breath. He thought he was suspended in some sort of magical solution for some reason; he could feel nothing solid under his feet. Yet he could not look, couldn't even manage to incline his head a fraction of an inch. Wherever he was, whatever he was in, it did not allow him to freely move. The substance around him grasped him ceaselessly, and though his mind was blissfully blank at times, fragmented thoughts slowly drifted across. Was this a dream? It was unlike anything he had ever known to experience. Where was he anyway? Was this Voldemort's doing, or was this completely unrelated to him? These particular thoughts were, at best, unsettling, even settling on downright scary sometimes. It was true; as soon as Harry had returned to this semblance of consciousness, he had instantly panicked, screaming pleas of help that fell on deaf ears.
It was the frantic moments such as the aforementioned that sent Harry wishing his mind would return to its unoccupied state, but that was occurring less often with the unknown passing of time. Though the thoughts were just as interrupted as they had been since he had awoken, pictures would pop randomly into his head. More often than not they were flashes of Ron or Hermione or other assorted familiar figures, but flashes of memories would burst soundlessly into his brain, vivid and descriptive. Whenever this occurred, Harry felt the slightest prick of fear, mingling with an emotion that was not his own: a growing sort of satisfaction that provoked the only physical feeling Harry had felt since he arrived. It was this that helped convinced him that Voldemort must be behind this, for the painful prickling of his scar was the thing that he could always connect with the pale-faced, scarlet-eyed dark wizard that haunted his dreams. It was this that made him struggle the most; he needed to get out of this confinement. The question was not "how soon"? The question was "how long could he keep trying as this solitary environment slowly but surely demolished his sanity"?
~
His surroundings swam as Snape opened his eyes and felt the full pain of his stump of an arm. He was leaning against something rough, something he identified to be a wide tree. His physical weakness was apparent even to himself; he knew he would not be able to support himself and immediately knew why. While he was unconscious, Voldemort had been probing his brain to gain pictures of wanted information. Mentally, Snape felt drained and that, coupled with his physical exhaustion, was the reason he had use the remaining energy he had to concentrate on where exactly he was. Vaguely, he noticed himself to be in some sort of clearing, surrounded by trees with overlapping roots, the darkness looming dangerously overhead. A miniscule amount of silvery moonlight had penetrated the leaves of the canopy directly above him. The light shone directly onto him, as though he had been positioned carefully so he would not be able to fully see what was lurking in the shadows. He moved his unharmed arm slowly, the only indication, apart from his opened eyes, that he was indeed aware.
"Ah, the little spy has finally awoken," said a high-pitched voice that Snape immediately recognized as Voldemort's. He was obscured by darkness, giving a more sinister impression. Snape softly moaned incomprehensibly; he could not think of an answer to this particular remark.
"Do you realize now what you have done to yourself, Snape? Did it not occur to you that I would not kill you instantly? You deserve the pain, for you pledged your unwavering faith towards me. Yet it wavered, did it not? You ran to Dumbledore, the Mudblood lover, scared as you could be. You repented, you gave him invaluable information. Have you nothing to say?" At the silence, he continued. "You have tested me and I will rise to the occasion. I can make the remainder of you life a living hell, and I plan to do so, with the help of the faithful ones. Those whom you betrayed. Yes, Dumbledore will be sent your blood drenched remains with the knowledge that I know have Potter, his most needed trump card. Will you embrace your death, or will you fear it? I must know." Still, Snape said nothing, and this seemed to amuse Voldemort greatly; he began to chuckle shrilly.
"My, my, let us see if I can get an answer out of you. Crucio!" Snape had felt this curse many times as punishment for his incompetence, yet each time it was administered on him it seemed to hurt worse. The power behind those words seemed to have increased the intensity of the curse. The customary feeling attacked at full force, and Snape could disconnectedly hear his own voice howling hoarsely in pain. The invisible knives were white hot, they dug insistently at his skin, he wanted out, and he wanted to die… And then it stopped.
"Now, we don't want to have to do that again, do we?" Voldemort's disembodied voice drifted through the air and Snape averted his head in answer. "Have you forgotten your manners, traitor?" Voldemort continued, the prominent indication of amusement had diminished in his voice. "Has your absence dulled your mind? Answer me!"
"No," Snape said weakly, raising his eyes almost defiantly to the direction in which he was hearing his old master taunt.
"And I see you haven't lost your spunk either. I suppose that would be good if the situation wasn't so grim. I regret to say that I will have to leave you traitor, for watching your continued torture would be so entertaining. However, I am sure Bellatrix will do a sufficient job. Oh, and don't worry; we won't kill you yet."
~
End of chapter
A/N: It's the same word-count as usual, yet it seems shorter than normal. Oh well.