They continued well into the bowels of Riddle Manor, through doors shrouded in dark magic, and invisible walls Snape had no idea were there to begin with. The said Potion Master had long-since contained his violent outburst, favoring a more subtle observation of the dark corridors, and seemingly endless lines of cell doors. He would not deny that he was utterly exhausted, and spurring himself on even more would only worsen the sickness and fever fate had subjected him to. Experience, and hastily exterminated fear told him that to survive, he would need to cooperate with his better side; a hard thing to do, considering that the spy was in a fifty-fifty freeway between shock, and utter madness.
Still, Crabbe and Goyle continued on with their cargo, hardly acknowledging the many broken cracks, and uplifted earth they were subjecting their master's pet to. Severus had to admit that the two thugs, however dim- witted they seemed, were actually quite brilliant, unlike their Slytherin spawn. The two, in fact, had a rather fine nack for 'deliberate torture', and Snape had no doubt in his mind that they would be the ones reaping information from him. However, in the off-chance that Living Death would prefer an excruciatingly painful, yet short end to the diseased spy, he would send in Avery to deal with him. This conclusion left Severus with small chills. He had seen what Avery, the madman, did to his muggle victims, and the thought alone was enough to panic anybody.
Further, and further down they traveled, dragging the ill wizard behind them, passing more rows of cells, where whispers of the nameless dead stirred like tame whirlpools from the walls. Snape heard their voices, crying for mercy, and the violent screams of children as they were torn limb from limb. Whether they died by magic, or werewolves, it was undecided, and the spy felt it best to be left that way. He knew, of course, that Living Death had a wide arsenal of dark creatures ready to do his bidding, but whether or not he would use them on his newest addition to the Riddle household was undecided.
Riddle Manor... it was actually a rather lovely setting in its better days, with its seaside scape (the entire thing was situated on the edge of a cliff) and many blossoming flowers (which had long-since died from lack of care). Now, it was a shabby mansion, rumored by the nearby muggle residents to be haunted. Little wonder... a deaf man could hear the screams coming from this place at night. Severus did not doubt that his voice would be one of them.
Finally, what would presumably seem like five-hundred feet below ground level, the two thugs stopped with their captive in tow, and straightened. Crabbe left Goyle's side with his wand raised at eye level, and pressed it to the slimy cell door with tentative caution.
"Boss give you a key...?" He questioned gruffly. The larger of the two fished his pocket thoroughly, and removed a silver skull-key, upon which Crabbe held out a grubby hand for. Goyle handed it to him without complaint.
The lock snapped; expected, for it was half-disintegrated with rust, and... other things. Severus watched in detached interest as the burly wizard pressed roughly on the iron entree, which shrieked loudly with disapproval. It was obvious that this cell had not been used in many a year.
A blast of cold air, flavoring deeply of moss, sea-salt, and a highly disgusting odor pervaded the trio's senses. The odor was foul, and all-too- familiar for the spy's liking. Snape knew that scent, though. He knew it off the back of his hand, despite the fact that he had not smelt it in over nineteen years.
"Sorry about this, Sev..." Goyle apologized, "but you gave him no choice..." Severus barely had time to register this comment before the beefy hand had left his clammy skin, and he was toppling over himself down a flight of steps. Over, and over, and over until his limp body crashed unresistingly onto the stone floor.
He lay there for a long time, entangled with himself in an unceremonious heap, afraid to open his eyes for fear of what he might see. The smell was absolutely gagging; he couldn't breathe. His subconscious muse informed him that it was because his diaphragm was blocked by one of his spindly hands.
With stiff, suppressed movement, the bundle of joyless robes stirred, and amongst the dark fabric, flashes of pale flesh could be seen groping along the ashlar confinements. Snape hesitantly opened one dark, unscathed eye, and it flickered nervously around the (as he was surprised to discover) slightly lighted cell. On the slime-encrusted wall directly in front of the unmoving spy was a small, heavily barred window, which granted a small amount of sodium-yellow moonlight to penetrate the inky blackness.
It was rather large, actually. More of a basement than anything else. In an attempt at investigating further, Severus raised a bony hand, expecting to curl his fingers around a protruding stone, or dripping chain, but instead latched on to something soft... and spongy...
Daring; just daring himself to look, the ill wizard craned his neck ever-so- slightly, his joints popping with undesired movement; the silence screaming, his mind whirling; doubtless accounts of death, pain, suffering, madness churning through his brain, but nothing; nothing in this mortal, retched world could compare to a thing as insanely terrible as what Severus Snape's eyes laid upon now. THIS was what he had been smelling.
A man. A muggle man, still dressed in customary business attire; unscathed, and unmarred hung several inches above the rocky floor by a crude noose wrapped unceremoniously about his white. Decaying. Neck.
Severus' breath hitched painfully, and his bowels piled into mush at the rock bottom level of his stomach. His brain screamed to move, and his chest felt as though it would shatter into thousands of pieces, but his body remained immobile. He could not tear his gaze away from that innocent man's melting, rotting face, and the china-eyes illuminated by the meager light. He could not fathom what had driven Living Death to tear an innocent muggle from his home; chain him to a wall, and leave him to die. To rot. To decay amongst scavengers who cared little for the condition of food sources.
Merely the sight, combined with a raging virus, and a violent fever, provoked Severus to throw himself into a corner, and expel any inkling of nourishment he had received over the last few hours; a difficult thing considering that his jaw was, doubtlessly, broken. He pressed his burning brow against the cool, damp wall, inviting himself to refrain from staring at that mutilated corpse once more, and to receive any sort of relief from this ravaging disease.
He had to be strong. For his Slytherins. For Hogwarts. For Dumbledore. He had to be strong...
"Please, Albus... drink some tea."
Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft, and Wizardry, the most brilliant, and powerful man of his time, and one of the few last hopes of defeating Voldemort, felt anything but a want to drink tea. He was worried, frightened, stressed, and nauseated all at the same inopportune moment, but then, he had to remind himself, so was the girl in front of him.
A few hours after Severus had left for his meeting, Professor Sinistra had come knocking upon his door, merely acknowledging the Headmaster's tense situation, and to share a word about her fellow friend. She, among the precious few in the wizarding world, had gained a gift far more comparable to any material item from the enigmatic man known as Severus Snape, and that gift happened to be his trust. Only she, and Dumbledore shared his lasting friendship.
Albus fondly remembered how, on that bleak December night, she had tentatively inquired about his health on the astronomy tower, after seeing him at a teacher's conference looking rather pale, and sickly. Under any normal circumstance, Severus would have snapped, and rudely dismissed anyone who dare pry into his personal life, but he merely told her that a rather nasty influenza was going around. That in itself had been a small miracle.
Weeks after the incident, they shared short conversations at the staff table, asking about recent goings-on, and shared tea in the lounge, while the Headmaster looked on with a smile, knowing that their tentative acquaintance was blossoming into a full-grown friendship. Soon (at least in a Snape-ish case, which was about a year), the enigmatic wizard revealed to Sinistra that on the astronomy tower, he had not really been ill with the flu, but that his heart had been acting badly upon him again.
Severus, though quite strong, and fit, had a rare heart disease, which often opened him up to a great risk of infection, and prolonged cases of exhaustion. He could not take any sort of healing potion, or regenerative draft for fear that it would spur him on into a full-blown heart attack, which (if we return to the very beginning of this problem), was the reason for Albus' fear.
Dumbledore looked up at his fellow colleague, and smiled sadly, the twinkle in his eyes long-gone.
"No, thank you, Sylvia. I am afraid that my passion for tea has been snuffed for the moment."
The young woman nodded quietly, setting her own tea at the arm of her chair. Moonlight reached like a long-fingered hand into the spacious office, and illuminated the sleeping Fawkes on his wishbone perch. She was aware, of course, for the reason of her mentor's fear, for she knew that her friend was a spy for the brighter side of the world. She respected him for that. Albus, and Severus, both; for each would doubtlessly die for the other without a second thought.
A wry smile pulled coyly at Sinistra's lips as she nursed her drink slowly. She was not a beautiful girl by any means; her brow was too high, her face too oval, and her raven hair much too thin, but her appearance didn't bother her in the least. It didn't bother Severus, either. In fact, it was more of a mutual, unattractive base that they shared. She found him striking in a peculiar, dark way, and he found her fetching in a gentle, motherly manner. Actually, it was tomorrow (Saturday) that they had planned to go to Hogsmeade, and share a dinner at one of the finer restaurants. Of course, it would have to be cancelled. Severus would, in all likelihood, be in no condition to enjoy a night out.
"How long do the meetings normally last, Albus?" Sinistra questioned softly. The Headmaster laid his chin in his hand for a moment, then answered just as softly;
"They can last from one hour to one week... never more than that, though. If Severus does not return by Monday's eve, then I shall send a search party to look for him."
Silence.
"And what if... what if you can't find him...?"
A pause.
"Then pray to whatever deity there is out there that the child comes back safely..."