Casting Shadows at Noon
Chapter 3: The Darkness Past
It came back vividly to Snape as he appareled among the other Death Eaters, the past rising and engulfing him in a suffocating mist, hiding hope and reflection.
Darkness in pine-scented woods. A campfire burning bright, wood smoke spiraling into the night. Following Lucius to the circle of watchers. Fabric rustling, hooded faces, a memory of a muggle group-the KKK? irrelevant, worthless, a form outlined against the night, reflected into the fire, the broken glass scattered before it, a thousand tiny Voldemorts gleaming in the night. Kissing the hem of a robe; "My lord, Severus is a master potions maker... improved necromantic processes a thousandfold" "I hunger to serve you, my lord." Stepping over the twisted figure of a woman- a muggle, agony reflected beside power, feeling distaste, but not here for that, never for that, just knowledge, knowledge is power, life, vital, and entering a tent- canvas, charmed for sound, images and ideas clarifying and focusing, too clear, too bright for human eyes, a mystery not intended to be deciphered, wordless conditions of the game that they all played.
Voldemort had seated himself in a chair of old, crushed velvet and twirled his wand in long fingers. It was death to any man who resisted that which was offered in this room. Still, this slim, dark man was intriguing. He held himself as though he was the king of all, and more intriguing, he was a master potions-maker. Such men did not defect often, indeed, they rarely were allied. The patience and study needed to master potions meant that they were poor, ugly, and of muggle blood often enough. They had to be bribed and blackmailed in order to produce, and in a discipline when mistakes were common, potion-based warfare was impractical in the extreme.
This man, though, was utterly original. Tall, dark, and of the pale complexion valued by Europeans, he was born a Snape, older and richer than even the Malfoys. That fact alone opened a sea of possibilities and intrigues. His voice was soft as silk, musical, yet containing a complete neutrality, a lack of emotion that was either sincere or carefully studied. The speed of his words revealed a measured intelligence deep as Voldemort's own. Instinctively, he new this man could turn the allegiance of crowds with a single breath, could be absolutely convincing when accused of anything, could make sincerity match deceit without a single flaw. A double- edged sword, intentions hidden from wielder and victim. A dangerous man, by any measure. But Voldemort had always valued a challenge. And this challenge he accepted cooly and confidently. Behind his black hair and blacker eyes, Severus perceived.
A log in the path, and Severus stumbled, cursing. Approaching that tent again, too real, too clear, and drawing ever nearer, he saw Lucius, last to leave the previous night's meeting, staring. Lucius, who had always regretted bringing Severus here, who had watched with growing apprehension as Severus had risen in the ranks of the Death Eaters. Watched, as Voldemort had pitted the two families against each other, and watched, as Snape inevitably won.
It came back vividly to Snape as he appareled among the other Death Eaters, the past rising and engulfing him in a suffocating mist, hiding hope and reflection.
Darkness in pine-scented woods. A campfire burning bright, wood smoke spiraling into the night. Following Lucius to the circle of watchers. Fabric rustling, hooded faces, a memory of a muggle group-the KKK? irrelevant, worthless, a form outlined against the night, reflected into the fire, the broken glass scattered before it, a thousand tiny Voldemorts gleaming in the night. Kissing the hem of a robe; "My lord, Severus is a master potions maker... improved necromantic processes a thousandfold" "I hunger to serve you, my lord." Stepping over the twisted figure of a woman- a muggle, agony reflected beside power, feeling distaste, but not here for that, never for that, just knowledge, knowledge is power, life, vital, and entering a tent- canvas, charmed for sound, images and ideas clarifying and focusing, too clear, too bright for human eyes, a mystery not intended to be deciphered, wordless conditions of the game that they all played.
Voldemort had seated himself in a chair of old, crushed velvet and twirled his wand in long fingers. It was death to any man who resisted that which was offered in this room. Still, this slim, dark man was intriguing. He held himself as though he was the king of all, and more intriguing, he was a master potions-maker. Such men did not defect often, indeed, they rarely were allied. The patience and study needed to master potions meant that they were poor, ugly, and of muggle blood often enough. They had to be bribed and blackmailed in order to produce, and in a discipline when mistakes were common, potion-based warfare was impractical in the extreme.
This man, though, was utterly original. Tall, dark, and of the pale complexion valued by Europeans, he was born a Snape, older and richer than even the Malfoys. That fact alone opened a sea of possibilities and intrigues. His voice was soft as silk, musical, yet containing a complete neutrality, a lack of emotion that was either sincere or carefully studied. The speed of his words revealed a measured intelligence deep as Voldemort's own. Instinctively, he new this man could turn the allegiance of crowds with a single breath, could be absolutely convincing when accused of anything, could make sincerity match deceit without a single flaw. A double- edged sword, intentions hidden from wielder and victim. A dangerous man, by any measure. But Voldemort had always valued a challenge. And this challenge he accepted cooly and confidently. Behind his black hair and blacker eyes, Severus perceived.
A log in the path, and Severus stumbled, cursing. Approaching that tent again, too real, too clear, and drawing ever nearer, he saw Lucius, last to leave the previous night's meeting, staring. Lucius, who had always regretted bringing Severus here, who had watched with growing apprehension as Severus had risen in the ranks of the Death Eaters. Watched, as Voldemort had pitted the two families against each other, and watched, as Snape inevitably won.
