Chpt29: The Supposed Crime.
~*~*~*~
What part of our history's reinvented and under the rug swept?
What part of your memory is selective and tends to forget?
What's with this distance, it seems so obvious?
This could be messy and
I don't seem to mind
Don't go telling everybody
And overlook this supposed crime.
~*~*~*~
The Potion had lasted far longer than he had expected. In fact, it he was extremely relieved that the amount that he had taken the previous night - three times his usual dosage - hadn't knocked him out cold. His relief was short lived, however, as another poker-hot wave of pain spread through his body.
Hermione was asleep beside him, her arms wrapped tightly around him in the comforting embrace that had reassured him in his sleep. He closed his eyes and inhaled the soft scents of lavender and jasmine, wishing beyond hope that this curse was not his to bear. A curse that was of his own making. Mandrake root, phoenix tears, powdered dragon scales. it had taken him years to find something - anything, that might offer him a solution, but even those years of toil could not subdue the inevitable reminder that his mistakes were not forgotten.
Carefully rolling Hermione's sleeping form away, he slipped out of the bed, his feet hitting the icy stone floors and padding softly as he moved; quietly muttering cleansing and shaving spells, then dressing in heavy black robes, his wand concealed deep within the sleeves.
It was still dark - nearing the darkest hours, and from the doorway, he could just about identify the small mound on the bed that was Heather Gates, so taking a deep breath, he turned away and closed the bedroom door.
Soft firelight flickered from across the room, highlighting what silverware had been left by the house elves. The food was gone, and the plates, but the large beaker of drink remained along with two glasses. His mind was filled with images of Heather; her smile, her teasing laughter, the complete sense of ease that she emanated when with him.
She did not seem to fear or despise him as most people did, she wasn't even wary of his past. But the Dark Lord was smart. He sensed peoples' weaknesses before even they had a chance to discover them, and even Snape could see that Heather Gates had every chance of becoming the chink in his armour.
If he spent all his time worrying over what foolish situation she'd got herself into because of him, he would endanger more than his credibility as a Death Eater. He would endanger her life.
He shuddered at the thought and put a hand over the Dark Mark on his forearm. She hadn't said anything the night before, had only hesitated slightly when her touch had skimmed over its contours. The Potion was not so strong that it could prevent the change in texture, even if pain and colour could be evaded. But she had not asked, and he would not explain. His role was meant to be secret. To tell even those who might understand would be to risk everything that the Order had achieved. And how could a woman care for someone that was still a member of Voldemort's ranks?
He took a deep breath and walked purposefully towards his private library. If all she did was "care", this might be easier, but last night she had said she loved him and Snape felt compelled to believe her, regardless of whether or not he should. Regardless of whether or not he knew what her actual identity was. For some reason, she made him feel totally irrational. The situation was balanced precariously between the familiar and the sheer drop into the dangerous and unknown. Snape wondered what on earth it was that he'd got himself into, and how, HOW he was going to get out of it.
He scrawled a quick note on a torn piece of parchment, barely even thinking about what came out on the crinkled surface of the sheet, his mind elsewhere as he folded it until it was ridiculously small and then sealed it shut with wax. When he handed it to Wystetia, she sang a single soft questioning note, which he did not heed, choosing instead to mull over what course this night would take. This night. This life.
The 'V' between his eyebrows deepened, enhanced by the flickering firelight that shadowed its groove. He would go, of course, this at least was not debatable, but afterwards.
Fists clenched, Snape marched towards the door; he was going to do it. He had to. Severus Snape was not the man that would risk everything when the solution was clear, even if the promised solution would have the power to break him and what few shards of confidence he allowed himself.
The Dark Mark burned. As the potion faded the Mark'' effects grew stronger. Colour began to seep into his arm gradually, slowly, like the grey mist and morning mildew that steadily thickened into fog and then complete darkness. Night.
She would be gone when he returned. Gone. He doubted that Heather Gates would ever be back, but at least he'd know that she was alive and not a member of the honorary Death Eaters' hit list.
Better safe than sorry, wasn't that what they said? Better safe than sorry.
~*~*~*~
Skin prickled with cold, and the silver mask adamantly refused to grow warm with the soft heat of his face and breath beneath it. In the centre of the circle, the Dark Lord paced, taking news from the Death Eaters that were gathered there.
Fudge was trying to train quintapeds - or so they wanted Voldemort to believe. Dumbledore would be extremely pleased to find that their ruse had worked, and that Eden Summers had indeed been leaking information. With the IQ of a wasp in winter, however, the slip in information might have more to do with her gossiping tendencies than with a genuine attempt to defect. Precautions would have to be taken, however, whatever that half-witted secretary's intentions were.
Listening carefully, he found that Lucius Malfoy had acquired a collection of rare and deadly poisons - it would be Severus' task to study and reproduce them.
The Death Eaters continued to report the various rumours, confirmed events that they had heard of or witnessed, and when Voldemort was satisfied, he turned to them, and said; "The tides are in our favour."
His voice was ice cold, barely more than a whisper as his slitted eyes narrowed viciously.
"Dovovan, come forward."
The tall form of Adrian Dovovan stepped into the circle. The metal planes of his mask flashed eerily in the night. Snape remembered teaching him three years before Voldemort's final ascent. The boy had been foolish and headstrong, much like his father. Perhaps their fates would also be similar - to be captured and condemned to the Kiss. Surely, his moronic attempts to avenge his father's death could only lead to his own demise.
The youth bowed his head, uttering a soft "My Lord."
"I have a task for you," the Dark Lord said, sweeping towards him, then pausing to add, "Berkeley, Manrick, Snape; forward!"
He continued to regard Dovovan, and Snape's gut constricted - Voldemort's "special tasks" were rarely short of blood and carnage. Being chosen to participate in one was not an honour which he regarded as desirable. Trying to erase any doubts, he listened cautiously for the Dark Lord's next words.
"My loyal Death Eaters," he began mockingly, before stopping abruptly, his face contorting into one of manic rage.
"There is a traitor among us, and tonight they will pay."
~*~*~*~
What part of our history's reinvented and under the rug swept?
What part of your memory is selective and tends to forget?
What's with this distance, it seems so obvious?
This could be messy and
I don't seem to mind
Don't go telling everybody
And overlook this supposed crime.
~*~*~*~
The Potion had lasted far longer than he had expected. In fact, it he was extremely relieved that the amount that he had taken the previous night - three times his usual dosage - hadn't knocked him out cold. His relief was short lived, however, as another poker-hot wave of pain spread through his body.
Hermione was asleep beside him, her arms wrapped tightly around him in the comforting embrace that had reassured him in his sleep. He closed his eyes and inhaled the soft scents of lavender and jasmine, wishing beyond hope that this curse was not his to bear. A curse that was of his own making. Mandrake root, phoenix tears, powdered dragon scales. it had taken him years to find something - anything, that might offer him a solution, but even those years of toil could not subdue the inevitable reminder that his mistakes were not forgotten.
Carefully rolling Hermione's sleeping form away, he slipped out of the bed, his feet hitting the icy stone floors and padding softly as he moved; quietly muttering cleansing and shaving spells, then dressing in heavy black robes, his wand concealed deep within the sleeves.
It was still dark - nearing the darkest hours, and from the doorway, he could just about identify the small mound on the bed that was Heather Gates, so taking a deep breath, he turned away and closed the bedroom door.
Soft firelight flickered from across the room, highlighting what silverware had been left by the house elves. The food was gone, and the plates, but the large beaker of drink remained along with two glasses. His mind was filled with images of Heather; her smile, her teasing laughter, the complete sense of ease that she emanated when with him.
She did not seem to fear or despise him as most people did, she wasn't even wary of his past. But the Dark Lord was smart. He sensed peoples' weaknesses before even they had a chance to discover them, and even Snape could see that Heather Gates had every chance of becoming the chink in his armour.
If he spent all his time worrying over what foolish situation she'd got herself into because of him, he would endanger more than his credibility as a Death Eater. He would endanger her life.
He shuddered at the thought and put a hand over the Dark Mark on his forearm. She hadn't said anything the night before, had only hesitated slightly when her touch had skimmed over its contours. The Potion was not so strong that it could prevent the change in texture, even if pain and colour could be evaded. But she had not asked, and he would not explain. His role was meant to be secret. To tell even those who might understand would be to risk everything that the Order had achieved. And how could a woman care for someone that was still a member of Voldemort's ranks?
He took a deep breath and walked purposefully towards his private library. If all she did was "care", this might be easier, but last night she had said she loved him and Snape felt compelled to believe her, regardless of whether or not he should. Regardless of whether or not he knew what her actual identity was. For some reason, she made him feel totally irrational. The situation was balanced precariously between the familiar and the sheer drop into the dangerous and unknown. Snape wondered what on earth it was that he'd got himself into, and how, HOW he was going to get out of it.
He scrawled a quick note on a torn piece of parchment, barely even thinking about what came out on the crinkled surface of the sheet, his mind elsewhere as he folded it until it was ridiculously small and then sealed it shut with wax. When he handed it to Wystetia, she sang a single soft questioning note, which he did not heed, choosing instead to mull over what course this night would take. This night. This life.
The 'V' between his eyebrows deepened, enhanced by the flickering firelight that shadowed its groove. He would go, of course, this at least was not debatable, but afterwards.
Fists clenched, Snape marched towards the door; he was going to do it. He had to. Severus Snape was not the man that would risk everything when the solution was clear, even if the promised solution would have the power to break him and what few shards of confidence he allowed himself.
The Dark Mark burned. As the potion faded the Mark'' effects grew stronger. Colour began to seep into his arm gradually, slowly, like the grey mist and morning mildew that steadily thickened into fog and then complete darkness. Night.
She would be gone when he returned. Gone. He doubted that Heather Gates would ever be back, but at least he'd know that she was alive and not a member of the honorary Death Eaters' hit list.
Better safe than sorry, wasn't that what they said? Better safe than sorry.
~*~*~*~
Skin prickled with cold, and the silver mask adamantly refused to grow warm with the soft heat of his face and breath beneath it. In the centre of the circle, the Dark Lord paced, taking news from the Death Eaters that were gathered there.
Fudge was trying to train quintapeds - or so they wanted Voldemort to believe. Dumbledore would be extremely pleased to find that their ruse had worked, and that Eden Summers had indeed been leaking information. With the IQ of a wasp in winter, however, the slip in information might have more to do with her gossiping tendencies than with a genuine attempt to defect. Precautions would have to be taken, however, whatever that half-witted secretary's intentions were.
Listening carefully, he found that Lucius Malfoy had acquired a collection of rare and deadly poisons - it would be Severus' task to study and reproduce them.
The Death Eaters continued to report the various rumours, confirmed events that they had heard of or witnessed, and when Voldemort was satisfied, he turned to them, and said; "The tides are in our favour."
His voice was ice cold, barely more than a whisper as his slitted eyes narrowed viciously.
"Dovovan, come forward."
The tall form of Adrian Dovovan stepped into the circle. The metal planes of his mask flashed eerily in the night. Snape remembered teaching him three years before Voldemort's final ascent. The boy had been foolish and headstrong, much like his father. Perhaps their fates would also be similar - to be captured and condemned to the Kiss. Surely, his moronic attempts to avenge his father's death could only lead to his own demise.
The youth bowed his head, uttering a soft "My Lord."
"I have a task for you," the Dark Lord said, sweeping towards him, then pausing to add, "Berkeley, Manrick, Snape; forward!"
He continued to regard Dovovan, and Snape's gut constricted - Voldemort's "special tasks" were rarely short of blood and carnage. Being chosen to participate in one was not an honour which he regarded as desirable. Trying to erase any doubts, he listened cautiously for the Dark Lord's next words.
"My loyal Death Eaters," he began mockingly, before stopping abruptly, his face contorting into one of manic rage.
"There is a traitor among us, and tonight they will pay."