Chapter Ten
He twitched his cloak about him and settled gracefully to his knees.
"My Lord," he intoned, reaching forward with one manicured hand to touch the deep red robes to his masked lips.
"Rise, Lucius." The Dark Lord's voice was high and thin, and Malfoy felt a shiver of anticipatory pain at the sound of distain in his Master's voice. He tried to control his anxiety as he rose and moved backwards a respectable ten steps to join the silent circle of black robed figures.
"You failed to obtain the prophecy, Lucius. You led a group of my most loyal Death Eaters straight into the hands of the Ministry."
"My Lord -"
"Silence! Your pathetic excuses disgust me. I believe I will allow Bellatrix to exercise her... frustrations... on you. Do not worry, my pet - you are much more valuable to me sane." He raised one long, skeletal hand and beckoned towards another masked figure.
With a thrill of fear, Malfoy recognized the outline of Bellatrix Lestrange. A black fury rolled off her form in waves, and he had to fight to keep himself steady. A Malfoy never showed fear.
"Do avoid his face and hands, Bella," the Dark Lord sneered, and a ripple of laughter swirled through the black circle of Death Eaters. The circle shifted nervily inward, anticipation heavy in the air. Lestrange was about to raise her wand when, with a thump, another figure apparated at the feet of the Dark Lord.
Malfoy forced his eyes off of Bellatrix and turned his gaze to the Dark Lord's face. He was livid, red eyes narrowed and breath fluttering hard and fast through slitted nostrils. When he spoke, his voice was harsh and sibilant.
"Sssseverussss..." He brought his boot hard against the side of the prone figure's head. The only response was a moan of quiet laughter. Malfoy sneered beneath his mask - it looked as if dear old Severus had fallen back on old habits.
The Dark Lord flicked his wand and Snape's head was suddenly jerked upwards, his hood falling back to expose his bare face, pale skin marred by a trickle of blood at his temple. A slight smile skewed Snape's features, and he gazed blankly up at the hideous spectre before him.
********* .
"Tsk, tsk, tsk, Severus, has it come to this *again*?" The Dark Lord purred, and Snape felt a cold weight coalesce through the raging hot ecstasy in his chest and sink down into the pit of his stomach. Then he had it - he had forgotten his mask. He laughed at the sheer simplicity of it all.
"Funny, is it, Snape? All I find in here -" He tapped a long, bony finger between Snape's unfocussed eyes, "- is mush. Porridge. One of your failed potions experiments." The black circle shifted and sniggered.
Something was very wrong. The Dark Lord was angry with him, but, to tell the truth, Snape couldn't seem to find the energy to care. It wasn't until he saw the slender, polished wood of the Dark Lord's wand that the first real thrill of fear pierced his mental fog and he began to struggle through the heavy miasma to kick his mind into gear.
Pain pain fire boiling ice - the sensations ripped through him, an exquisite agony that heightened his drugged euphoria to unbearable levels. His screams faded into a cough as he passed out.
When he came to, muscles quivering with exertion and loss, he found himself prostrate at the feet of the Dark Lord. Out of long ingrained habit he began crawling forward in obeisance, one shaking hand extended to grasp the hem of the Dark Lord's robe. An enormous boot swooped down from the darkness and smashed into his skull, throwing a blinding spray of sparks across his vision.
"Foolish worm," The Dark Lord's voice snapped across the silent ringing in Snape's ears like the sound of sheet ice cracking. "How two purebloods ever managed to create such a pitiful excuse for a wizard, I'll never know."
With a swish of wine dark robes, the Dark Lord began stalking around the expectant circle, before suddenly spinning around to smile wickedly into Snape's bemused face. He turned back to the edgy circle. "Lucius, how very lucky for you that other... entertainment... dropped in. But don't fret, I haven't forgotten about you." Sensing blood, the circle contracted around Snape's prone form.
"Ssseverusss... How nice of you to... open... your mind to me," The Dark Lord hissed, lips pulling back from small, sharp teeth imbedded in blackened gums. As euphoria began to disperse into a dull numbness, Snape realized that whatever was about to happen wouldn't be pleasant.
The all too familiar blade of the Dark Lord's mind began prodding about in his skull, and he was unable to contain his laughter as he felt his mental defenses crack and crumble like dry dirt beneath the heel of the Dark Lord's mental onslaught.
*********
Malfoy sank back into the circle as the others surged ahead, anxious to witness whatever the Dark Lord had planned for Snape. Personally, Malfoy was too relieved with the suspension of his own punishment to take much pleasure in Snape's. Probably just the Cruciatus, again, he sighed to himself. Watching twitching, screaming bodies became decidedly uninteresting after a while.
Even so, his attention was grabbed by Snape's almost unnatural stillness and the sound of poisoned honey dripping from the Dark Lord's tongue. When Snape hitched a quiet sob and the black cloaked figures around him roared with laughter, Malfoy began to listen more carefully to what the Dark Lord was saying.
"Dear little Severusss... did daddy beat your mum? Tsk, tsk, don't cry," The Dark Lord mocked. "Oh, daddy doesn't like how weak you are, does he? The Cruciatus makes dear little Severusss sick, does it? There, there," the Dark Lord patted Snape's trembling shoulder. "Oh, the poor kitty cat, eh, Severus?" He chuckled as the masked figures whooped and jeered. "SO lonely... POOR little boy..." The Dark Lord gave a wheezing snigger. "See what happens, Severus, when you let a putrid Muggle substance into your life..."
Malfoy watched as the Dark Lord ravaged Snape's mind, drawing out the memories of a bleak childhood and spreading them out for all to see. A truly heinous form of psychological torture, Malfoy mused, laughing with the rest of the circle as Snape broke down sobbing in front of all of them over a memory.
*********
A dark, grimy kitchen. Under his bare feet he could feel the grit of dirt imbedded between the rough wooden planks of the floor. Hungry. He was hungry. But Mother had told him to stay quiet, because Father was 'in a mood.' But...
The scrawny child snuck across the cramped kitchen to look through the door into the dingy main room. At a splintery table, a tall, hook nosed man sat, the wavering light of a candle glinting off of a dark brown bottle.
The little boy wrinkled his nose at the sour smell, but crept forward to stand beside his father's chair. He couldn't reach the bread cabinet, but he knew Father could. He could hear Mother's footsteps through the ceiling and hurried to ask Father before she returned.
He reached out a hand to tug at his father's sleeve. "Father? I'm 'ungry." He shrank back as the dark haired man shifted to glare at him balefully with bloodshot eyes.
"Moira! What's yer brat doin' in 'ere?!" He shouted up the stairs before casually turning and backhanding the little boy across the face. He glared blankly at the crying child before taking a swig from the bottle and wiping his mouth with a sleeve.
Standing unsteadily, he turned his black gaze at the woman who had stopped suddenly at the base of the ladder to the second floor. She quailed beneath his scrutiny. "Antonius, 'e's just a little boy..."
"Shut up, ye blatherin' wench! If 'e's gonna be a man wi' th' name Snape, by Merlin, 'e's gonna 'ave t' show th' wizardin' worl' thet we may be poor, but we's still pureblood! 'E's got ter act like a man, an' thet includes not whinin' an' carryin' on!" He took a menacing step forward. "Now, did I tell ye or din' I, thet 'e's not ter disturb me when I'm thinkin'?"
The child curled up in a corner of the dingy room and nursed his split lip, trying to silence his sobs. They would only serve to make Father angrier. He couldn't understand what he had done wrong - sometimes Father was proud of him, ruffling his hair and calling him the heir of Snape, saying that he would one day bring the old family name back to its former glory. Other times, especially when Father gave off a sour reek and his eyes were red, he would hit him.
Now Mum was in trouble, and it was all his fault for bothering Father. A deep, heavy emptiness overwhelmed him and fresh tears welled in his throat. The sudden crack of leather against skin jolted the little boy, and he felt the edgy bite of powerlessness as he watched his father lay into his mother with his belt.
The pressure building up inside of him suddenly burst forth with a yowl as his control snapped. He began to scream and cry despite the fear that shot through his veins like ice when his father turned to face him.
"Sharrup, boy!" His father's menacing figure loomed over the sobbing child. "Et's yer own damn' fault I 'ad ter punish yer mum!" With his eyes shut tight against the fearsome apparition before him, the little boy never saw his father level a wand at him and -
The kitten squirmed on the cold, scarred wood of the butcher's block. The boy, a little older but still just as scrawny, toyed nervously with the scuffed old wand his father had handed him.
"We'll start y'off wi' some 'exes, Sev'rus," came his father's rough voice. The boy felt a thrill of pride as his father patted him brusquely on the shoulder and began explaining what they were going to do.
"Ye jus' lif' it up -" His chemical stained hand grasped the little boy's, "An' bring 'er down, like thet. Good boy." He stood back, surveying his son with narrowed eyes. "Th' word is 'atropos', say et nice an' clear."
Glancing nervously at Father, he lifted the wand and almost dropped it when he felt an answering surge from within. Delighted, he turned to grin at his father, only to meet a stony glare. "Get on wi' it, boy!"
Containing his prickly excitement, he again lifted the old wand and swung it down. "Atropos!" He felt a sickening slide as sparks shot from his wand. The kitten batted a paw at the tiny lights settling around it. The boy shrank away from his father, expecting a blow, but it was soon smothered by a surge of anger at the kitten now nonchalantly licking a paw. With a growl he shouted, "ATROPOS!"
He felt almost as if he had been dipped in a slick of oil as sweet fire shot from his wand and slashed through the kitten. Blood splattered the butcher's block -
His father was out and his mother was lighting the candles as Severus scrubbed the dishes. At every noise they flinched and froze before continuing silently.
He jumped at the sound of the front door slamming open. A cold, empty fear jittered across his nerves and numbed the boy's frame, and he lifted a trembling hand to brush some hair out of his eyes. His father's drunken shouting at his mother twisted several long, rusty nails through his gut -
He spat dirt out of his mouth, reaching for his wand as the other students flocked to see the latest brawl between the scrawny, ugly Slytherin loner and the Golden Gryffindor twins. A heel crunched down on his fingers, grinding his hand into the dirt.
A hot, all encompassing rage flooded his mind and he struggled fiercely. The fingertips of his other hand grazed the handle of his wand and he managed to grasp it. With a snarl, he flicked his wand upward and hissed, "Atropos!"
A shower of hot blood and a scream accompanied the lessening of pressure on his hand, and he scrabbled to his feet. Grabbing his book bag, he lurched to his feet. He only managed to go a few steps when from behind him he heard the shrill voice of McGonagall. "Expelliarmus! Petrificus Totalis!"
His wand flew out of his hand for the second time in as many minutes and he fell, stiff as a board, back into the dirt. Seething with anger, he hung onto the sweet taste of the curse he had slashed golden Potter's face with, trying to ignore the injustice closing his throat and forcing traitorous tears out the corner of his eyes -
"Albus! I demand you do something about this child! This time he used a dark curse, wounded a fellow student, and bit another!" The Head of Gryffindor ground out. The boy felt almost completely overpowered by rage and a burning, unrepentant hatred. He was attacked first, he was constantly taunted, and when he struck back, he was punished. He should have learned from his father that those in power were inclined to abuse it -
He regarded the small plastic pouch of white powder, then returned his gaze to the smug faced Muggle. He was deep in the slums of London, haunting the ruptured streets and garbage-strewn alleyways.
For some reason, the dank, cheerless, anonymous gray of the streets was calming, the heavy smoke and car exhaust relaxing. He went from one hole- in-the-wall pub to the next, wandering aimlessly.
It was the summer holidays after his sixth year at Hogwarts, and he was ready for anything that kept him away from home. Nobody bothered him at the dingy bars, and he had grown to like the warm numbness imparted by the fiery liquor. Head ringing slightly, he worked to focus on the Muggle's face.
"It'll keep yeh from feelin' so down," the Muggle smiled widely, revealing several gaps in his teeth. "Look, seein' as yer so obviously in need o' some o' this magic powder -"
"Magic?" His mind latched onto the unexpected word.
"Oh, yes, this 'ere 'as th' power to make yer troubles go away. As I was sayin', seein' as yer so down an' all, I'll let yeh 'ave this first bit fer free." The smile widened as he pressed the clear plastic pouch into Severus' hands.
"'Ow's it work?" He asked, staring dumbly at the powder. The Muggle's grin widened as he reached a hand into his grimy jacket and pulled out a small, dirty cardboard box. Across the top was written STERILE SYRINGES: FOR MEDICAL USE ONLY -
Cold. Bone shattering, icy cold. Asphalt pressed roughly into his cheek and temple and when he opened his mouth to groan freezing sludge trickled in. A gutter. Each joint burning and almost immobile with stiffness and cold, he managed to roll out of the gutter and stare up at the predawn gray above him. The unknown substances soaking into his hair and freezing his scalp finally prompted him to sit up, a move he immediately regretted as he added his contribution to the gutter's contents -
*********
Malfoy looked dispassionately at the now silent Snape curled up in the dirt at the Dark Lord's feet. After going over the plans for the raid next week on the head of the Wizard Muggle Relations Bureau, the Dark Lord dismissed his still chuckling Death Eaters, several of whom aimed a parting kick at Snape's unresponsive body.
As Malfoy was preparing to Disapparate, though, the Dark Lord raised a long, pale hand and beckoned him over. "Yes, My Lord?"
Two ruby eyes glinted dully in the late evening light. "Do not think that I have... forgotten... you, Lucius, despite the fact that you have managed to essscape your punishment for the moment."
"Yes, My Lord. I await your righteous wrath, My Lord." Malfoy flinched at the wheedling tone in his voice but kept his eyes downcast.
"Good. You are a loyal ssservant, Luciusss. Take this -" He nudged Snape roughly with the toe of his boot - "near the Hogwarts grounds and leave him there. I'm sure he can make his way... home... on his own."
"Yes, My Lord." Lucius bowed gracefully, and waited until the Dark Lord had disappeared in a swirl of magic before straightening and reluctantly grasping Snape and Disapparating to the Forbidden Forest, a mile out from Hogwarts.
*********
"Albus?" McGonagall slipped into the warmth of the Headmaster's office. "The house elves say that you've refused food." She found him sitting in the window seat, gazing blankly out into the moonlit night, Fawkes perched beside him on the sill. A howl from the depths of the Forbidden Forest was carried to the cozy room by the increasing wind, and McGonagall felt a shiver prickle her skin.
"He was Summoned, Minerva." Dumbledore's voice gave a slight hitch and he removed his spectacles to rub at his eyes. McGonagall put a hand on his shoulder.
"He has survived before, Albus." After all, he is the quintessential Slytherin, she added ruefully to herself.
The old wizard did not seem to have heard her words, and he lowered his face to his hands. "Why - why, after all these deaths - why must I still care?" Fawkes gave a lilting cry, pushing his head against Dumbledore's hands.
"Albus..." McGonagall sat beside him. "Would Voldemort fear you if you didn't possess the one thing beyond his grasp?"
"Do you remember, Minerva, the night Severus came to me to turn himself in?" Dumbledore's voice was the whisper of dead leaves as he lifted his head to again gaze out the window at the night. A sudden, sharp gust of summer scented wind stirred the silver length of his beard.
"How could I forget? It's not every day that a young man leaves a trail of blood all the way from the Great Hall to here. If nothing else, I'll always remember the fit Filch threw."
The ancient wizard beside her chuckled slightly at her gallows humor. "Argus later informed me that that was the last time he was going to clean up after a student who had already graduated from this school."
He suddenly shifted on the window seat, peering intently into the moonlit night. McGonagall's eyes swept the grounds, but she saw nothing other than the grasses rippling in the rising wind, blades gleaming in the bright moonlight.
"Albus, what - "She stopped as a motion on the dark edge of the Forbidden Forest caught her eye. A silver shadow ghosted through the trees, shining where the moonlight struck it. It was huge, the size of a small horse, and it flew across the ground as if unbound by earth. As it broke through the black trees and began to flow across the lawns, McGonagall could see that it carried a black bundle.
"Severus..."
*********
Velvet blackness pressed inward, suffocatingly warm, compressing the wavering glow of a single candle into a piercing point of light. He groaned and tried to shift away from it. A voice fell flatly on his ears, as if muffled by the hot, heavy darkness.
"He's moving, Albus." There was the sound of shifting cloth, and a searingly cold hand touched his forehead. He shrank away. "He's burning up. Poppy, do you have any more of that anti-inflammatory drought?" More cloth shifting, then the muted sound of footsteps.
"Help me prop him up, Minerva." A shuffling, and then cold, cold ice slid along his back and wrenched him upwards. The motion caused a spark of pain to bloom in his chest and he moaned.
"Quick! Poppy, his lungs again!"
A frozen, parchment-like hand gripped his jaw and a long suppressed memory filled his mind with the cold, dank cell of his nightmares.
Dementors.
He struggled blindly against the claw grasping his face, a terrible fear freeing his mind from his thrashing body. Disconnectedly, he wondered what his soul would taste like - filthy, grimed with the oil of dark magic? Or would it be like his old nightmare, the Dementor pulling away unsatisfied and unable to find any soul at all?
Numbingly cold fingers grasped his nose and pinched it shut. He fought to hold his breath, keep his mouth shut, but as the black, buzzing swarm of unconsciousness began to close in around him he lost control over his jaw muscles and they loosened. The cold mouth of a vial was shoved between his teeth and tilted. Blisteringly cold...
*********
The great wolf paced the infirmary, tufted tail twitching from side to side. At the bedside, Poppy Pomfrey smeared a healing salve across Snape's split scalp, pausing every once in a while to run her wand along his prone body and mutter. Dumbledore sat to one side, talking quietly.
"Headmaster!" Pomfrey's outraged hiss grabbed the wolf's attention. Dumbledore hurried to her side, where she whispered furiously at him. "He's been taking it again! You assured me that he had stopped! Between the alcohol and the heroin, it'll be a wonder if I can heal any of this, and a miracle if he'll survive his own self medicating! His liver alone..."
The wolf began to tune out the words, pacing silently through the darkened ward. Dumbledore's words the day before came forward in his mind, replaying aimlessly as the great wolf pondered their implication.
*******
*
Dumbledore sat forward, eyes earnest. "However, my old friend, I fear that I must ask for your help yet again. Severus is in an extremely dangerous, yet critical, position, and we desperately need him to remain functional. His addiction runs deep in both his body and mind, and as long as the two share a space, true healing is nearly impossible."
Remus was stunned. "Are you asking me to do what I think you're asking me to do?!"
Dumbledore sat back, eyes lit with a tiny spark of mischief at the surprise on Remus' face. "I would have to ask what it was you thought I was asking you to do before I could answer that question," he said as he took a sip of tea.
Remus held in a sigh of frustration. "Are you asking me to allow you to perform the Vers - Versamentus curse on me and Snape?"
Dumbledore's gaze remained fixed on Remus'. "Yes I am."
Remus shook his head in amazement. "That's ridiculous!"
"...And before you ask, I'll tell you my reasons for wishing to adopt such drastic measures," Dumbledore continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. Remus listened intently - if Dumbledore was so straightforward about something, it was very serious, indeed.
"Successful casting of Black Magic works a very powerful influence upon the caster. Each time, for instance, a person is able to cast one of the Unforgivable Curses, it becomes easier and easier until the caster desires nothing more than to do so again. A strong sense of power and control follows the use of dark magic, a heady combination that can quickly become an addictive force."
"I understand all that, Albus, but what, even if I were to agree, would casting the Versamentus Curse accomplish?"
"Patience, my friend." Dumbledore took a leisurely sip of tea before tapping the pot with his wand. "The tea is getting cold, Remus, are you sure you don't want a cup?"
Remus absently picked up his teacup, gazing around his small room. The morning light was streaming through the windows, snagging tiny dust motes. The night before seemed little more than an exaggerated nightmare as he sat in his bright, airy room at Grimmauld Place.
Dumbledore cleared his throat before taking another sip of his tea and continuing. "Severus, with his usual skill, managed to make his situation worse by attempting to control his urges with an inexpensive drug he had learned about and experimented with while skulking through the slums of Muggle London."
He paused again, eyes distant and face sad. "As well as a physical desire, even need, for the substance, he well and truly believes that he needs to take it to keep himself under control." He sighed. "As long as his mind and his body are working in concert, neither can heal. He is killing himself, Remus."
Dumbledore halted, and Remus looked up to see a tear slide down the side of the ancient wizard's nose and into his snowy beard. Remus felt a sudden, numbingly warm rush of compassion for the man before him, who had to stay strong for so many.
"If you would be willing, you would take charge of his body as we work to heal the physical addiction, and allow his mind a chance to recover without it."
Remus dropped his gaze, chest a battleground of confliction. To switch bodies with Snape - how could he bring himself to... to do it? Remus was well aware of his body's faults, not the least of which was its tendency to turn into a raging beast a few days a month, but it was his body and he had to admit to a certain attachment to it.
He looked up at Dumbledore, ready to decline the Headmaster's request, when he realized what was resting on his answer. Snape was the Order's only full-fledged spy in the ranks of the Death Eaters. The man was a brilliant Potions Master, and an excellent Occlumens.
He had saved Harry's life more times than Remus could count. St. Mungo's was not an option - once it became known that he bore the Dark Mark, his life was forfeit to any grieving family or revengeful staff member.
Dumbledore's eyes held a great faith in Remus' good will, and a desire not to dissapoint the great wizard before him grabbed his tongue. "If you can convince Sn - Severus to do it, I will, too. But, Albus -"
He paused, the heavy weight of what he was doing dragging down on his stomach and stretching his tired frame. "Albus, I don't think there is a puffskein's chance in a quidditch match that Severus will ever agree, and I doubt this will work at all, anyway, but I've thought those things before. I'll do it." He took a shaky sip of tea. "Merlin help us.
***********
He twitched his cloak about him and settled gracefully to his knees.
"My Lord," he intoned, reaching forward with one manicured hand to touch the deep red robes to his masked lips.
"Rise, Lucius." The Dark Lord's voice was high and thin, and Malfoy felt a shiver of anticipatory pain at the sound of distain in his Master's voice. He tried to control his anxiety as he rose and moved backwards a respectable ten steps to join the silent circle of black robed figures.
"You failed to obtain the prophecy, Lucius. You led a group of my most loyal Death Eaters straight into the hands of the Ministry."
"My Lord -"
"Silence! Your pathetic excuses disgust me. I believe I will allow Bellatrix to exercise her... frustrations... on you. Do not worry, my pet - you are much more valuable to me sane." He raised one long, skeletal hand and beckoned towards another masked figure.
With a thrill of fear, Malfoy recognized the outline of Bellatrix Lestrange. A black fury rolled off her form in waves, and he had to fight to keep himself steady. A Malfoy never showed fear.
"Do avoid his face and hands, Bella," the Dark Lord sneered, and a ripple of laughter swirled through the black circle of Death Eaters. The circle shifted nervily inward, anticipation heavy in the air. Lestrange was about to raise her wand when, with a thump, another figure apparated at the feet of the Dark Lord.
Malfoy forced his eyes off of Bellatrix and turned his gaze to the Dark Lord's face. He was livid, red eyes narrowed and breath fluttering hard and fast through slitted nostrils. When he spoke, his voice was harsh and sibilant.
"Sssseverussss..." He brought his boot hard against the side of the prone figure's head. The only response was a moan of quiet laughter. Malfoy sneered beneath his mask - it looked as if dear old Severus had fallen back on old habits.
The Dark Lord flicked his wand and Snape's head was suddenly jerked upwards, his hood falling back to expose his bare face, pale skin marred by a trickle of blood at his temple. A slight smile skewed Snape's features, and he gazed blankly up at the hideous spectre before him.
********* .
"Tsk, tsk, tsk, Severus, has it come to this *again*?" The Dark Lord purred, and Snape felt a cold weight coalesce through the raging hot ecstasy in his chest and sink down into the pit of his stomach. Then he had it - he had forgotten his mask. He laughed at the sheer simplicity of it all.
"Funny, is it, Snape? All I find in here -" He tapped a long, bony finger between Snape's unfocussed eyes, "- is mush. Porridge. One of your failed potions experiments." The black circle shifted and sniggered.
Something was very wrong. The Dark Lord was angry with him, but, to tell the truth, Snape couldn't seem to find the energy to care. It wasn't until he saw the slender, polished wood of the Dark Lord's wand that the first real thrill of fear pierced his mental fog and he began to struggle through the heavy miasma to kick his mind into gear.
Pain pain fire boiling ice - the sensations ripped through him, an exquisite agony that heightened his drugged euphoria to unbearable levels. His screams faded into a cough as he passed out.
When he came to, muscles quivering with exertion and loss, he found himself prostrate at the feet of the Dark Lord. Out of long ingrained habit he began crawling forward in obeisance, one shaking hand extended to grasp the hem of the Dark Lord's robe. An enormous boot swooped down from the darkness and smashed into his skull, throwing a blinding spray of sparks across his vision.
"Foolish worm," The Dark Lord's voice snapped across the silent ringing in Snape's ears like the sound of sheet ice cracking. "How two purebloods ever managed to create such a pitiful excuse for a wizard, I'll never know."
With a swish of wine dark robes, the Dark Lord began stalking around the expectant circle, before suddenly spinning around to smile wickedly into Snape's bemused face. He turned back to the edgy circle. "Lucius, how very lucky for you that other... entertainment... dropped in. But don't fret, I haven't forgotten about you." Sensing blood, the circle contracted around Snape's prone form.
"Ssseverusss... How nice of you to... open... your mind to me," The Dark Lord hissed, lips pulling back from small, sharp teeth imbedded in blackened gums. As euphoria began to disperse into a dull numbness, Snape realized that whatever was about to happen wouldn't be pleasant.
The all too familiar blade of the Dark Lord's mind began prodding about in his skull, and he was unable to contain his laughter as he felt his mental defenses crack and crumble like dry dirt beneath the heel of the Dark Lord's mental onslaught.
*********
Malfoy sank back into the circle as the others surged ahead, anxious to witness whatever the Dark Lord had planned for Snape. Personally, Malfoy was too relieved with the suspension of his own punishment to take much pleasure in Snape's. Probably just the Cruciatus, again, he sighed to himself. Watching twitching, screaming bodies became decidedly uninteresting after a while.
Even so, his attention was grabbed by Snape's almost unnatural stillness and the sound of poisoned honey dripping from the Dark Lord's tongue. When Snape hitched a quiet sob and the black cloaked figures around him roared with laughter, Malfoy began to listen more carefully to what the Dark Lord was saying.
"Dear little Severusss... did daddy beat your mum? Tsk, tsk, don't cry," The Dark Lord mocked. "Oh, daddy doesn't like how weak you are, does he? The Cruciatus makes dear little Severusss sick, does it? There, there," the Dark Lord patted Snape's trembling shoulder. "Oh, the poor kitty cat, eh, Severus?" He chuckled as the masked figures whooped and jeered. "SO lonely... POOR little boy..." The Dark Lord gave a wheezing snigger. "See what happens, Severus, when you let a putrid Muggle substance into your life..."
Malfoy watched as the Dark Lord ravaged Snape's mind, drawing out the memories of a bleak childhood and spreading them out for all to see. A truly heinous form of psychological torture, Malfoy mused, laughing with the rest of the circle as Snape broke down sobbing in front of all of them over a memory.
*********
A dark, grimy kitchen. Under his bare feet he could feel the grit of dirt imbedded between the rough wooden planks of the floor. Hungry. He was hungry. But Mother had told him to stay quiet, because Father was 'in a mood.' But...
The scrawny child snuck across the cramped kitchen to look through the door into the dingy main room. At a splintery table, a tall, hook nosed man sat, the wavering light of a candle glinting off of a dark brown bottle.
The little boy wrinkled his nose at the sour smell, but crept forward to stand beside his father's chair. He couldn't reach the bread cabinet, but he knew Father could. He could hear Mother's footsteps through the ceiling and hurried to ask Father before she returned.
He reached out a hand to tug at his father's sleeve. "Father? I'm 'ungry." He shrank back as the dark haired man shifted to glare at him balefully with bloodshot eyes.
"Moira! What's yer brat doin' in 'ere?!" He shouted up the stairs before casually turning and backhanding the little boy across the face. He glared blankly at the crying child before taking a swig from the bottle and wiping his mouth with a sleeve.
Standing unsteadily, he turned his black gaze at the woman who had stopped suddenly at the base of the ladder to the second floor. She quailed beneath his scrutiny. "Antonius, 'e's just a little boy..."
"Shut up, ye blatherin' wench! If 'e's gonna be a man wi' th' name Snape, by Merlin, 'e's gonna 'ave t' show th' wizardin' worl' thet we may be poor, but we's still pureblood! 'E's got ter act like a man, an' thet includes not whinin' an' carryin' on!" He took a menacing step forward. "Now, did I tell ye or din' I, thet 'e's not ter disturb me when I'm thinkin'?"
The child curled up in a corner of the dingy room and nursed his split lip, trying to silence his sobs. They would only serve to make Father angrier. He couldn't understand what he had done wrong - sometimes Father was proud of him, ruffling his hair and calling him the heir of Snape, saying that he would one day bring the old family name back to its former glory. Other times, especially when Father gave off a sour reek and his eyes were red, he would hit him.
Now Mum was in trouble, and it was all his fault for bothering Father. A deep, heavy emptiness overwhelmed him and fresh tears welled in his throat. The sudden crack of leather against skin jolted the little boy, and he felt the edgy bite of powerlessness as he watched his father lay into his mother with his belt.
The pressure building up inside of him suddenly burst forth with a yowl as his control snapped. He began to scream and cry despite the fear that shot through his veins like ice when his father turned to face him.
"Sharrup, boy!" His father's menacing figure loomed over the sobbing child. "Et's yer own damn' fault I 'ad ter punish yer mum!" With his eyes shut tight against the fearsome apparition before him, the little boy never saw his father level a wand at him and -
The kitten squirmed on the cold, scarred wood of the butcher's block. The boy, a little older but still just as scrawny, toyed nervously with the scuffed old wand his father had handed him.
"We'll start y'off wi' some 'exes, Sev'rus," came his father's rough voice. The boy felt a thrill of pride as his father patted him brusquely on the shoulder and began explaining what they were going to do.
"Ye jus' lif' it up -" His chemical stained hand grasped the little boy's, "An' bring 'er down, like thet. Good boy." He stood back, surveying his son with narrowed eyes. "Th' word is 'atropos', say et nice an' clear."
Glancing nervously at Father, he lifted the wand and almost dropped it when he felt an answering surge from within. Delighted, he turned to grin at his father, only to meet a stony glare. "Get on wi' it, boy!"
Containing his prickly excitement, he again lifted the old wand and swung it down. "Atropos!" He felt a sickening slide as sparks shot from his wand. The kitten batted a paw at the tiny lights settling around it. The boy shrank away from his father, expecting a blow, but it was soon smothered by a surge of anger at the kitten now nonchalantly licking a paw. With a growl he shouted, "ATROPOS!"
He felt almost as if he had been dipped in a slick of oil as sweet fire shot from his wand and slashed through the kitten. Blood splattered the butcher's block -
His father was out and his mother was lighting the candles as Severus scrubbed the dishes. At every noise they flinched and froze before continuing silently.
He jumped at the sound of the front door slamming open. A cold, empty fear jittered across his nerves and numbed the boy's frame, and he lifted a trembling hand to brush some hair out of his eyes. His father's drunken shouting at his mother twisted several long, rusty nails through his gut -
He spat dirt out of his mouth, reaching for his wand as the other students flocked to see the latest brawl between the scrawny, ugly Slytherin loner and the Golden Gryffindor twins. A heel crunched down on his fingers, grinding his hand into the dirt.
A hot, all encompassing rage flooded his mind and he struggled fiercely. The fingertips of his other hand grazed the handle of his wand and he managed to grasp it. With a snarl, he flicked his wand upward and hissed, "Atropos!"
A shower of hot blood and a scream accompanied the lessening of pressure on his hand, and he scrabbled to his feet. Grabbing his book bag, he lurched to his feet. He only managed to go a few steps when from behind him he heard the shrill voice of McGonagall. "Expelliarmus! Petrificus Totalis!"
His wand flew out of his hand for the second time in as many minutes and he fell, stiff as a board, back into the dirt. Seething with anger, he hung onto the sweet taste of the curse he had slashed golden Potter's face with, trying to ignore the injustice closing his throat and forcing traitorous tears out the corner of his eyes -
"Albus! I demand you do something about this child! This time he used a dark curse, wounded a fellow student, and bit another!" The Head of Gryffindor ground out. The boy felt almost completely overpowered by rage and a burning, unrepentant hatred. He was attacked first, he was constantly taunted, and when he struck back, he was punished. He should have learned from his father that those in power were inclined to abuse it -
He regarded the small plastic pouch of white powder, then returned his gaze to the smug faced Muggle. He was deep in the slums of London, haunting the ruptured streets and garbage-strewn alleyways.
For some reason, the dank, cheerless, anonymous gray of the streets was calming, the heavy smoke and car exhaust relaxing. He went from one hole- in-the-wall pub to the next, wandering aimlessly.
It was the summer holidays after his sixth year at Hogwarts, and he was ready for anything that kept him away from home. Nobody bothered him at the dingy bars, and he had grown to like the warm numbness imparted by the fiery liquor. Head ringing slightly, he worked to focus on the Muggle's face.
"It'll keep yeh from feelin' so down," the Muggle smiled widely, revealing several gaps in his teeth. "Look, seein' as yer so obviously in need o' some o' this magic powder -"
"Magic?" His mind latched onto the unexpected word.
"Oh, yes, this 'ere 'as th' power to make yer troubles go away. As I was sayin', seein' as yer so down an' all, I'll let yeh 'ave this first bit fer free." The smile widened as he pressed the clear plastic pouch into Severus' hands.
"'Ow's it work?" He asked, staring dumbly at the powder. The Muggle's grin widened as he reached a hand into his grimy jacket and pulled out a small, dirty cardboard box. Across the top was written STERILE SYRINGES: FOR MEDICAL USE ONLY -
Cold. Bone shattering, icy cold. Asphalt pressed roughly into his cheek and temple and when he opened his mouth to groan freezing sludge trickled in. A gutter. Each joint burning and almost immobile with stiffness and cold, he managed to roll out of the gutter and stare up at the predawn gray above him. The unknown substances soaking into his hair and freezing his scalp finally prompted him to sit up, a move he immediately regretted as he added his contribution to the gutter's contents -
*********
Malfoy looked dispassionately at the now silent Snape curled up in the dirt at the Dark Lord's feet. After going over the plans for the raid next week on the head of the Wizard Muggle Relations Bureau, the Dark Lord dismissed his still chuckling Death Eaters, several of whom aimed a parting kick at Snape's unresponsive body.
As Malfoy was preparing to Disapparate, though, the Dark Lord raised a long, pale hand and beckoned him over. "Yes, My Lord?"
Two ruby eyes glinted dully in the late evening light. "Do not think that I have... forgotten... you, Lucius, despite the fact that you have managed to essscape your punishment for the moment."
"Yes, My Lord. I await your righteous wrath, My Lord." Malfoy flinched at the wheedling tone in his voice but kept his eyes downcast.
"Good. You are a loyal ssservant, Luciusss. Take this -" He nudged Snape roughly with the toe of his boot - "near the Hogwarts grounds and leave him there. I'm sure he can make his way... home... on his own."
"Yes, My Lord." Lucius bowed gracefully, and waited until the Dark Lord had disappeared in a swirl of magic before straightening and reluctantly grasping Snape and Disapparating to the Forbidden Forest, a mile out from Hogwarts.
*********
"Albus?" McGonagall slipped into the warmth of the Headmaster's office. "The house elves say that you've refused food." She found him sitting in the window seat, gazing blankly out into the moonlit night, Fawkes perched beside him on the sill. A howl from the depths of the Forbidden Forest was carried to the cozy room by the increasing wind, and McGonagall felt a shiver prickle her skin.
"He was Summoned, Minerva." Dumbledore's voice gave a slight hitch and he removed his spectacles to rub at his eyes. McGonagall put a hand on his shoulder.
"He has survived before, Albus." After all, he is the quintessential Slytherin, she added ruefully to herself.
The old wizard did not seem to have heard her words, and he lowered his face to his hands. "Why - why, after all these deaths - why must I still care?" Fawkes gave a lilting cry, pushing his head against Dumbledore's hands.
"Albus..." McGonagall sat beside him. "Would Voldemort fear you if you didn't possess the one thing beyond his grasp?"
"Do you remember, Minerva, the night Severus came to me to turn himself in?" Dumbledore's voice was the whisper of dead leaves as he lifted his head to again gaze out the window at the night. A sudden, sharp gust of summer scented wind stirred the silver length of his beard.
"How could I forget? It's not every day that a young man leaves a trail of blood all the way from the Great Hall to here. If nothing else, I'll always remember the fit Filch threw."
The ancient wizard beside her chuckled slightly at her gallows humor. "Argus later informed me that that was the last time he was going to clean up after a student who had already graduated from this school."
He suddenly shifted on the window seat, peering intently into the moonlit night. McGonagall's eyes swept the grounds, but she saw nothing other than the grasses rippling in the rising wind, blades gleaming in the bright moonlight.
"Albus, what - "She stopped as a motion on the dark edge of the Forbidden Forest caught her eye. A silver shadow ghosted through the trees, shining where the moonlight struck it. It was huge, the size of a small horse, and it flew across the ground as if unbound by earth. As it broke through the black trees and began to flow across the lawns, McGonagall could see that it carried a black bundle.
"Severus..."
*********
Velvet blackness pressed inward, suffocatingly warm, compressing the wavering glow of a single candle into a piercing point of light. He groaned and tried to shift away from it. A voice fell flatly on his ears, as if muffled by the hot, heavy darkness.
"He's moving, Albus." There was the sound of shifting cloth, and a searingly cold hand touched his forehead. He shrank away. "He's burning up. Poppy, do you have any more of that anti-inflammatory drought?" More cloth shifting, then the muted sound of footsteps.
"Help me prop him up, Minerva." A shuffling, and then cold, cold ice slid along his back and wrenched him upwards. The motion caused a spark of pain to bloom in his chest and he moaned.
"Quick! Poppy, his lungs again!"
A frozen, parchment-like hand gripped his jaw and a long suppressed memory filled his mind with the cold, dank cell of his nightmares.
Dementors.
He struggled blindly against the claw grasping his face, a terrible fear freeing his mind from his thrashing body. Disconnectedly, he wondered what his soul would taste like - filthy, grimed with the oil of dark magic? Or would it be like his old nightmare, the Dementor pulling away unsatisfied and unable to find any soul at all?
Numbingly cold fingers grasped his nose and pinched it shut. He fought to hold his breath, keep his mouth shut, but as the black, buzzing swarm of unconsciousness began to close in around him he lost control over his jaw muscles and they loosened. The cold mouth of a vial was shoved between his teeth and tilted. Blisteringly cold...
*********
The great wolf paced the infirmary, tufted tail twitching from side to side. At the bedside, Poppy Pomfrey smeared a healing salve across Snape's split scalp, pausing every once in a while to run her wand along his prone body and mutter. Dumbledore sat to one side, talking quietly.
"Headmaster!" Pomfrey's outraged hiss grabbed the wolf's attention. Dumbledore hurried to her side, where she whispered furiously at him. "He's been taking it again! You assured me that he had stopped! Between the alcohol and the heroin, it'll be a wonder if I can heal any of this, and a miracle if he'll survive his own self medicating! His liver alone..."
The wolf began to tune out the words, pacing silently through the darkened ward. Dumbledore's words the day before came forward in his mind, replaying aimlessly as the great wolf pondered their implication.
*******
*
Dumbledore sat forward, eyes earnest. "However, my old friend, I fear that I must ask for your help yet again. Severus is in an extremely dangerous, yet critical, position, and we desperately need him to remain functional. His addiction runs deep in both his body and mind, and as long as the two share a space, true healing is nearly impossible."
Remus was stunned. "Are you asking me to do what I think you're asking me to do?!"
Dumbledore sat back, eyes lit with a tiny spark of mischief at the surprise on Remus' face. "I would have to ask what it was you thought I was asking you to do before I could answer that question," he said as he took a sip of tea.
Remus held in a sigh of frustration. "Are you asking me to allow you to perform the Vers - Versamentus curse on me and Snape?"
Dumbledore's gaze remained fixed on Remus'. "Yes I am."
Remus shook his head in amazement. "That's ridiculous!"
"...And before you ask, I'll tell you my reasons for wishing to adopt such drastic measures," Dumbledore continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. Remus listened intently - if Dumbledore was so straightforward about something, it was very serious, indeed.
"Successful casting of Black Magic works a very powerful influence upon the caster. Each time, for instance, a person is able to cast one of the Unforgivable Curses, it becomes easier and easier until the caster desires nothing more than to do so again. A strong sense of power and control follows the use of dark magic, a heady combination that can quickly become an addictive force."
"I understand all that, Albus, but what, even if I were to agree, would casting the Versamentus Curse accomplish?"
"Patience, my friend." Dumbledore took a leisurely sip of tea before tapping the pot with his wand. "The tea is getting cold, Remus, are you sure you don't want a cup?"
Remus absently picked up his teacup, gazing around his small room. The morning light was streaming through the windows, snagging tiny dust motes. The night before seemed little more than an exaggerated nightmare as he sat in his bright, airy room at Grimmauld Place.
Dumbledore cleared his throat before taking another sip of his tea and continuing. "Severus, with his usual skill, managed to make his situation worse by attempting to control his urges with an inexpensive drug he had learned about and experimented with while skulking through the slums of Muggle London."
He paused again, eyes distant and face sad. "As well as a physical desire, even need, for the substance, he well and truly believes that he needs to take it to keep himself under control." He sighed. "As long as his mind and his body are working in concert, neither can heal. He is killing himself, Remus."
Dumbledore halted, and Remus looked up to see a tear slide down the side of the ancient wizard's nose and into his snowy beard. Remus felt a sudden, numbingly warm rush of compassion for the man before him, who had to stay strong for so many.
"If you would be willing, you would take charge of his body as we work to heal the physical addiction, and allow his mind a chance to recover without it."
Remus dropped his gaze, chest a battleground of confliction. To switch bodies with Snape - how could he bring himself to... to do it? Remus was well aware of his body's faults, not the least of which was its tendency to turn into a raging beast a few days a month, but it was his body and he had to admit to a certain attachment to it.
He looked up at Dumbledore, ready to decline the Headmaster's request, when he realized what was resting on his answer. Snape was the Order's only full-fledged spy in the ranks of the Death Eaters. The man was a brilliant Potions Master, and an excellent Occlumens.
He had saved Harry's life more times than Remus could count. St. Mungo's was not an option - once it became known that he bore the Dark Mark, his life was forfeit to any grieving family or revengeful staff member.
Dumbledore's eyes held a great faith in Remus' good will, and a desire not to dissapoint the great wizard before him grabbed his tongue. "If you can convince Sn - Severus to do it, I will, too. But, Albus -"
He paused, the heavy weight of what he was doing dragging down on his stomach and stretching his tired frame. "Albus, I don't think there is a puffskein's chance in a quidditch match that Severus will ever agree, and I doubt this will work at all, anyway, but I've thought those things before. I'll do it." He took a shaky sip of tea. "Merlin help us.
***********