"A Priori" – Chapter Two
Disclaimer and Warnings: As before.
Chapter Two
I.
Snape wakes in the night, without knowing why. The sky is still dark, but the moon must be bright to explain the light spilling in through the curtains, the shadows shifting on the floor. Draco (the first thing he checks, still nestled in the crook of his arm) is stirring in his sleep, even paler in this eerie glow.
Something is wrong, despite the quiet and the regular ticking of the clock in the hall. The clock doesn't sound so reassuring now; it ticks like a trapped insect, buzzing and insistent with a building panic. It sounds too loud. And then Severus realises what, exactly is wrong: the quiet is not quiet.
It's silence.
No coughs or movement in the other bedrooms, no gurgling pipes, no traffic in the streets. Nothing. No music, no dogs, no clattering dustbins. Just airless, breathless hush. The clock beats louder and louder, the sole noise in that awful silence, and Severus can feel his heart move to match it, pounding in his chest as the light through the window grows brighter, stronger, blinding, freezing before he knows, with absolute certainty, what has happened.
And after that, there's no silence any more.
II.
"Why did you not return
at once to the Dark Lord?"
"I might have been pursued - Fenrir! Come away from there. Haven't you done enough?"
Fenrir raises his head from the Muggle woman's neck, his chops bloody and slicked with gore. "Not begrudging me my prey, Severus?"
"I'm only suggesting we don't leave too many clues behind us." He's more worried about Draco, who - eyes fixed on the blood pooling the kitchen floor - looks as if he's about to faint. Deliberately sharpening his tone, in the hopes of diverting him, Snape faces the Death Eaters with a lofty arrogance.
"Of course I knew my Lord would find me when he wanted me. It's the attention you'd attract that gave me pause. Tell me you haven't left a trail of devastation in your wake?" He raises an eyebrow. Crabbe shifts.
"You didn't make it very bloody easy for us."
"I didn't make it very easy for the Order, you mean. Surely even you can see I had to put some distance between myself and Hogwarts, first?" Stop there. Justification implies guilt. He stares the older man down, keeps his face neutral. A couple of the other Death Eaters shift uncomfortably, look away: the dark-haired man behind them, however, speaks.
"And what about the boy?"
Snape glances over at Draco, gives him a long, dismissive look that he hopes shows nothing of what he feels. "What about him?"
"He knows too much," thunders Goyle, bringing his fist down on the counter.
"Something that could never be said of your son, certainly. Come on, Goyle, what do you propose we do? Kill him?" His throat is very dry, but he makes himself continue. "If every one who failed to kill Potter was destroyed, would any of us be standing here?"
"Speak for yourself," mumbles Crabbe, and Snape turns on him.
"I do. Now, if your orders were to kill Draco now, for god's sake get on with it and try - " he glares at the werewolf - " - not to get blood on the sideboard. But," he cautions, hoping against hope that the frozen terror in the boy's eyes will hold, "that boy is Lucius's son. Bellatrix's nephew. He has always been well-favoured by our Lord. As have I. And I say wait for his orders."
A frustrated Crabbe just looks sullen. "And why should we listen to you?"
Snape gives him a dead-eyed stare. "Because I killed Albus Dumbledore." He shrugs. "Now, let's get on with it."
III.
"I see Beauxbatons has been taken," Snape remarks, surveying the carriage that waits in the alley. The sight of it reassures him as much as anything can, just now. The Dark Lord must be pleased with such an acquisition; thus sending it suggests that he, Snape, isn't returning as a prisoner.
He. Involuntarily, his glance flicks towards Draco, whose face is waxy-looking and uneasy in the dawn light. Technically, Draco doesn't have his Apparition licence - was the Dark Lord counting on their being together? He's not sure if that's good or bad. Bad, if Draco's subjected to any sort of interrogation. Veritaserum. A Pensieve. ...Legilimency.
His mind is racing by the time they're seated in the carriage. Goyle and Crabbe bicker before the latter is sent to sit beside the coachman; the others follow them inside. Fenrir is still licking the blood from his hairy fingers; grinning gruesomely, he takes the seat opposite Draco, beside Snape.
Snape sees Draco's knuckles whiten at that, and at the first jolt of the carriage's ascent. Look at me, he wants to tell him, look at me and keep looking, it's going to be all right. But Draco can only stare at the werewolf.
Fenrir looks up, and grins, and in that long yellowy face, Snape suddenly sees himself, licking Draco's blood from his thumb. He glances away a little too fast, and in the silence that follows, Fenrir laughs.
Snape should be furious at the show of weakness, but he has other things on his mind. Draco. He risks a glance at the boy, hoping they'll make eye contact, but what good is a look, now? As far as Snape knows, Draco has been in the Dark Lord's presence just once in his life, and Snape doubts it would have done ANYTHING to prepare him for this.
Why hadn't he taught him Occlumency? Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid - although an obviously closed mind might suggest collusion, Snape reflects: the Dark Lord knows of his own skill. In his case, the potential danger of too pronounced an Occlumental gift is outweighed (at least in Voldemort's red and slitted eyes) by Snape's usefulness. Draco, Snape knows, isn't useful. Isn't trusted.
Is, he concludes grimly, a failure.
He is also, Snape recognises, with the first gnawing anxiety he's allowed himself, too young, too vulnerable and too... necessary to go through this. Not because of the Vow, not because Draco is responsible for any bizarre excess of frothy sentiment in Snape's own narrow breast. But because there's a part of Snape that depends on Draco's survival, Draco's happiness for his own.
Snape knots the hands that are tightly shaking in his lap, and gazes, hopelessly, at the boy he cannot have, the boy he might be about to destroy. He can't get them both out of this.
But he might manage one.
IV.
Draco stays quiet, if not composed, throughout the journey. Watching him, Snape runs through (he hopes) every possible permutation of outcomes. Desperation, rearing up whenever his mind goes blank, is threatening to overthrow him (them both), but he cannot speak, cannot communicate anything that might help the boy sitting so pale and still in the corner of the carriage. Snape prays that Draco will have the sense not to speak, to stay quiet. Should he claim Draco followed him? Turned up only a few nights before? Narcissa -
Narcissa.
Narcissa who knows, who might have confessed -
No. No, Narcissa's instincts are to protect, and a confession from her would only be Draco's undoing. Terrified she might be, but after all, the Black women -
Fuck. Snape's fingernails dig into his fists, and he swallows thickly. Bellatrix. Bellatrix, the last fanatic; who had been there, watching when Severus had made the Vow; who doubts Severus's loyalty; who has no loyalties of her own, save to her Lord.
Sickened,
he racks his brains for something to disprove this last. She's a
Black; Draco is half-Black; Bellatrix loved her sisters as a child.
Loves? Hunting back through his memories of her - the arch-Black
Slytherin, with the hooded eyes and the grace even Lucius could never
match (before Azkaban deranged her) - he remembers the year Andromeda
left. He had seen Bella crying, once, out in the garden. And,
after all, when her entreaties had failed to stop Narcissa, she
hadn't resorted to force. Cautiously, Snape exhales. So much, then,
for Bellatrix – he hopes so, anyway.
V.
The carriage drops into a square, the centre of which is dominated by some large, dark and heavy shape. It's not an enclosed quadrangle; peering through the window, Snape spots alleys and a roadway - not that they'll have much chance to escape. As the other Death Eaters move away, starting to unlock the door (Crabbe, predictably can't find the key - after berating him through the window, Goyle remembers it's in his own sleeve), Draco shoots Snape a look of naked terror. Snape feels his stomach lurch, but says nothing, nodding back towards the seat. Draco drops back into it, and - to Snape's relief - appears to calm himself. He draws himself up when it's time to leave the carriage, and doesn't shrink even from Fenrir. Passing in front of Snape through the door, he squares his thin shoulders and raises his chin just a fraction too high.
Snape is not one for doomed youth or heroic gestures, but all the same, the sight makes his heart ache, a little. Held by Snape's fathomless stare, he passes out of the carriage and into the gathering of wizards waiting on the cobbles. Involuntarily, Snape takes a step to follow him, but is restrained. Aldous Mulciber, with eyes even inkier than Snape's own (and at this moment, faintly ironic), raises an eyebrow and precedes him, forcing Snape to walk at the rear, beside Greyback. Mercifully, this separates Greyback from the boy, but his own distance from Draco makes Snape uneasy. "What's going on?" he asks, impatient.
"Surprise," Fenrir smirks, voice thick and wet with slavering anticipation. Snape stills.
"...where are the Dark Lord's headquarters, from here?"
The smirk widens. "Beneath our feet."
The four or five figures who've received Draco start to move with him towards the large building that Snape can now discern as circular, surrounded by a circular lawn and railings. Mulciber, the only member of the group not to be masked, points his wand at the railings; they melt away, and behind them, part of the grass recedes. The aperture is square, exactly like a grave, and Snape can tell by Draco's shudder that the symbolism is not lost on him - for a second he falters, looks around as if for help. Silently, Snape wills him forwards, and he goes, disappearing beneath the ground.
Snape follows a few seconds later.
VI.
Obviously you can't Disapparate from here; otherwise nobody would choose such an inconvenient entrance to a hideout.
The tunnels may be wide, but they're hellishly dark - and if the smell is familiar, it's not exactly pleasant. The tunnel bends sharply to the left, and then to the right - Snape is of the opinion that they've just circumvented the foundations of the circular building, confirmed when Mulciber stops beside a cold, curved wall. Someone (Goyle, probably) casts a Lumos, and in the flickering light (held up so Mulciber can select a stone), Snape can just make out Draco's profile, pale and stunned-looking. After a pause, Mulciber taps one of the stones, and the structure slides apart. They pass through, but do not continue - instead, they're bunched into a small, dark space, stinking of damp. Another pause. A longer pause.
"Oh, if you will trust Macnair to do these things - " Mulciber's aggrieved tones ring out, and he slams the end of his wand into the brick. Suddenly they are in a light more powerful than the darkness, screamingly white, almost unbearable to the naked eye before it fades, coalesces from purple and black shadows to shapes; outlines; three people standing on a dais, one man kneeling before an occupied throne. The light stretches their brains, then resolves.
Seated on the throne is Lord Voldemort.
Kneeling before him is Lucius Malfoy.
"Father!" Draco's cry cannot be restrained, and it's full of the same shock that jolts Severus a second later, when he recognises Lucius as well. It isn't easy. The long white hair is yellowed, gnarled, obviously dead in parts. His face, stretched taut across the skull, has shadows where no shadows should be, and the eyes are terrible. He cringes when he hears Draco's voice, hides behind his shaking, stained hands.
The Dark Lord's eyes gleam. Grasping the arms on his throne, he leans forwards with an almost ecstatic smile. Beside him, Snape can see that the surprise appearance of Draco has left Wormtail and the Lestrange brothers slack-jawed with shock. Unable to wriggle free of his captors, Draco is calling and calling to Lucius, but not even Snape will move towards him now. Instead, Snape watches Voldemort's eyes burn brighter and brighter, his horn-nailed feet curl with pleasure on the marble floor. When he hisses something to Lucius, Snape decides he must speak.
"My Lord," he begins, but Voldemort stops him, raising one glistening hand, shiny with scar tissue and burns.
"One moment, Severus," he murmurs, beginning to smirk. "My, you have done well, haven't you? Two unasked-for deeds. How very noble," he purrs, and although this sort of praise would usually spell instant death, for once - incredibly - it seems as if the Dark Lord's pleasure might be genuine. Light-headed, Snape entertains the brief hope that everything, implausibly, might turn out to be all right, before Voldemort's smile turns almost lascivious, moves back from Draco to his father.
"Lucius," he says slowly, "The time has come. Do it now."
A noise from Lucius that is almost a whimper. The Dark Lord's face darkens - Draco is struggling and shouting, and Snape wants to tell him to be quiet, he's trying to hear, but when the Dark Lord repeats the command, Lucius rises, slowly and painfully, and turns to his son. Either side of the throne, Rodolphus and Wormtail shuffle to attention.
At the full sight of his father, Draco's strugglings redouble, hands outstretched, making the chamber ring with his cries. Crabbe and Goyle are holding him fast, faces blank as if they can't hear the pathetic noise. Snape wishes he could be so calm; he can taste blood on the inside of his cheek, but otherwise it's as if he can't move. Lucius opens his mouth to speak, and can't - for an instant, his eyes flicker over to Severus's and lock there, and in that second Snape realises what the Dark Lord has asked him to do.
It's done before Severus can stop it.
Not looking at his son, Lucius wets his lips, swallows, and says it: "Kill the spare."
VII.
"Who gave you the authority? How dare you enter into such an arrangement without my will? My consent?"
Snape, all colour blanched from his face and black eyes glittering, stares up from the body of Draco Malfoy, hands red with the blood that's bubbling onto the floor. There are no more plans. There is only time, and not much of that. "Narcissa Malfoy. She knew the boy's frailty, wanted to protect her son. I consented." He swallows, tries to begin again, "I was very wr -"
"What RIGHT does she have to exalt herself over such a worthless brat? Has she no loyalty -"
Draco gives a moan, turns his head; a second later blood runs out of his mouth and onto the marble. Snape sees little white chips in the red and can't restrain himself. "Narcissa Malfoy has never received the Dark Mark!"
"Are you calling my wife a traitor?"
Snape gazes at him, beyond anger now. "I'm merely wondering," he hisses, in a tone that makes Lucius step back, so full is it of venom, "why we're killing this Malfoy when he came closer to killing Dumbledore than you ever did."
"But not quite so far as you," Lucius says, tone unmistakably nasty. "Flattered as I am, Severus, that you should have taken it upon yourself to - ah - assist Draco, I can hardly see why my wife should have enlisted you -"
" - possibly because she knew you wouldn't be capable of it?"
Rodolphus steps between them, just in time. Disgusted, Snape drops back, turning again to the small, broken shape on the floor. Draco's eyes are wide and shocked, but the light's fading and - Hades, the boy might not be able to see him.
Might think he's all alone.
Resting a hand on Draco's chest as if for balance, he stares up at Voldemort and plea - and negotiates. "My Lord, this boy is dying. If he dies - " having kept his voice steady, to have it crack now would be too incriminating, keep calm, just keep calm and this'll work - "I die." Snape takes a long, necessary breath. His hands are shaking, and he knows he must either look like a coward or a pederast, pleading for his life over the - over, almost, the corpse of the Malfoy heir. Coward, he decides grimly, plunging on. "I am your loyal servant. I have never betrayed you. When Quirrell failed you, I did not fail. When Crouch was discovered, I did not betray myself or you. I have sat with the Order at supper and meetings, and no one has ever suspected me. Even when this brat failed, the son of a man who has tried so many times to deny you, it was I who stepped in and murdered Albus Dumbledore. Why would I have sworn to do this if not through loyalty to you? If I was Dumbledore's friend, how could I have killed him? I have never let you down. I will never let you down. Do not allow this man -" he points to Lucius, "- to ruin me."
The Dark Lord looks from Snape to Lucius. Through Draco's shirt, Snape can feel his heartbeat. Its flutterings make Snape's stomach clench with fear, and he can't help the cry that forces out, "My Lord, we're running out of time."
Something flickers in Lucius's eyes, then, and he half starts forwards as Snape, as close to hysteria as he'll ever get, rehearses his list of achievements in the Dark Lord's service. To the others he must look like the worst sort of coward, begging - like Avery, or worse, Wormtail - for his life, for continued favour. He can't bring himself to care. Desperate, he breaks off at the end of this second list, and waits. He can hear Fenrir's ragged breathing above them, heavy with blood-lust. In his eyeline are Lucius's shaking hands. Forcing himself back under control, Snape licks his dry lips. "I have always been your most loyal advisor," he repeats, head bowed.
"...he does have a point, My Lord," says Mulciber. "Given the loss of Bellatrix Lestrange -"
" - Bellatrix has been captured?" Snape's head whips up, shocked. The Dark Lord frowns, displeased.
"Dead." There is a silence while something like a shadow crosses his face. "...you have a point, Aldous. Come forward."
Astonished beyond measure, Snape looks from Mulciber to Rodolphus: the older man's face tells him nothing. Bellatrix. ...Merlin. The Order, no doubt. A blow for the Death Eaters, which was surely cause for celebration, except that, kneeling beside Draco's body, Snape finds it hard to remember which side he's on. Voldemort peers down at Draco. "Can he be healed?"
"Possibly." Mulciber is infuriatingly calm, but Snape - surprised and grateful for his earlier intervention - bites his tongue. The death of Bellatrix is an unexpected blessing; as far as real intellects go, the Death Eaters are now more or less inquorate, and Voldemort - although evil, paranoid, sadistic and more or less insane - probably has enough sense to realise this. It may save him. Mulciber directs his wand at Draco's heart and a fine red mist rises.
Eileen Prince, although she never forgave her husband for being forced to work, had been a Healer. Of all the strange and alarming things he'd watched through the keyhole of his mother's surgery, this business of aura revealing disturbed him most. You could learn Occlumency and shut your mind against intruders; but the revelation of one's self through colour seemed to be inescapable. Whoever you were, a Healer's wand could show it; your character, your ambition, your mortality.
Draco's aura is the colour of blood.
"...he's weak. If you want to save them, my Lord, I suggest you allow me to act now." There is the faintest hint of subordination in the Death Eater's eyes, and - not for the first time that evening - Snape finds himself wondering what Mulciber is about. Lucius has drawn blood from his bitten lips, gazing ceaselessly at his son, but now his eyes - with everyone else's - go to Voldemort, waiting.
"Heal the boy." His tone is one of dismissal; shoulders slumping with relief, Snape turns towards Mulciber, eager to assist. Voldemort's voice stops him.
"Not you, Severus."
"My Lord? I -"
"- you have seen me kill before, haven't you?"
The question is such a stupid one that Snape barely represses the urge to respond in kind. "...yes, my Lord," he mutters, with an approximation of deference.
"And yet you swear you have acted only in loyalty and due obedience to me? That you have not harboured disloyalty?"
Ah.
Snape raises his head, and with frank, blank, black eyes, makes his promise. He knows Voldemort is not strong enough to read his mind.
"Very well. Mulciber, keep the boy alive until dawn. That, Severus, will give you the time you need to brew the Veritaserum."
Despite himself, Snape falters. "Veritaserum?"
"You say that both of you are loyal. But, just as the boy outran his father -" a smirk returns to Voldemort's bloodless lips, and there are a few smiles in the chamber, " - so may he have outrun you. You will brew the Veritaserum, and tomorrow, in my presence, you will administer it. Until then, he is Mulciber's responsibility. If," he murmurs, eyes narrowing ominously, "you have acted as you say, this separation will be no inconvenience. I shall see you at dawn. Mulciber, bring the boy to the Upper Gallery. Rabastan, Rodolphus, you know your night's work. Macnair -"
" - my Lord, I have no ingredients. It takes a whole - "
The Dark Lord's smirk widens."You'll find you have everything you need. Macnair, show Snape to his quarters. Now."
As Voldemort turns away, Snape hears a high, insolent laugh; looking back helplessly (for Macnair is already leading him, and Voldemort's gaze is inescapable) he sees Dolohov and Mulciber bending over Draco, and feels a flare of protective rage. Then Macnair opens a door and ushers him through it; just as Mulciber lifts Draco, both are suddenly lost to view, and Snape doesn't know whether things are getting better or worse.
VIII.
"How kind of
Snape to shelter the poor, half-naked
boy."
"Noble."
"Generous."
"Certainly his wounded prettiness can have nothing do with it."
That shrieking laugh again, and then they lapse into Russian; hands shaking, Snape has to set down his vial. Closing his eyes against a sudden lurch of fear, he tries again to pour the vial of Jobberknoll blood into the larger flask, but misses; pale green liquid splashes onto his boots. Snape curses, casting a Cleaning charm to absorb it, but his nerves are shot and he knows it. WHY isn't Mulciber with DRACO? Scrubbing at the desk, where the scattered drops of bird blood are starting to simmer, he ignores (and thus confronts, by omission) the possibility that Draco is already dead.
Murmuring to each other, Mulciber and Dolohov relax - Snape can tell from the creaks that they're leaning against the door to his workroom, although "cell" might be a better term. If Draco was dead, I would be too, he tells himself, but the memory of the Vow is far less immediate than that of Draco himself, blood dribbling from the corners of his mouth.
Mechanically, he continues to prepare the potion's raw ingredients, glancing from time to time around the room. It was, as Voldemort had hinted, well-prepared - evidently the Death Eaters had been here for some time. The abundance of books, however, revealed its original purpose - if not a library, then perhaps a "cell" in the monastic sense. The apparatus needed to brew Veritaserum in a single night was also close at hand; this proved nothing, though - Snape had often seen it brewed for use on... prisoners. Most of whom subsequently died for their answers.
This is madness. Draco's answers will undo not only himself but Snape; not only Snape but the Order. He moves around the room; starts, doubts, stops and gives up. Mulciber and Dolohov's footsteps die away along the corridor, and all is quiet.
The sole window in Snape's chamber is sealed, but a thin, grimy half-light is beginning to seep through the boards. Blinking at it like some half-forgotten thing, Snape grows still, lets his knife fall to the ground. Then he goes to the window, rests his forehead against the wood, and does not move for a long time.
When he straightens up, he has a plan.
"Aguamenti!"
IX.
When a gleeful Wormtail unlocks Snape's cell the following morning, he is disconcerted to find its occupant breakfasting comfortably, drinking coffee (black, boiling and bitter), and eating toast. The man's obvious equilibrium makes Wormtail uneasy, even a little cross; it doesn't seem right for Snape to be so calm, so confident about the contents of the little glass bottle. Even his potion debris is tidy; the ends of chopped Jobberknoll feathers, the leaves of the Iredesian tree and a few flakes of scapola root are neatly parcelled on the corner of his desk. All the utensils are sparkling.
Snape doesn't return his greeting, only stares impassively for a few seconds, puts his napkin (linen, Wormtail notices, twitchily, and monogrammed) on the table. Taking the glass bottle in one hand, he rises - with a grave courtesy that seems to Wormtail almost radioactive with irony, were irony invisible and deadly and, oh wait, in this case it is - and waits to be lead from the room.
"To think that a year ago you were my assistant," Snape says as they pass along the corridors again. He sounds almost dreamy. Wormtail does not like this.
"Tell me, Peter," he continues, in that same wistful tone, that makes Wormtail's spine drip with unexpected ice, "do you ever miss your human hand?"
"Snape, what the -"
"Can't you open the door?" Snape glances at the doorhandle, where Wormtail's hand (the non-metal one) is apparently stuck. Glaring (flushing a little, a reaction that makes him look twelve even though his puppy fat has become a paunch, and his limp blond hair is grey and sparse), the latter mutters something and turns, starting to practise the complicated unlocking Charms necessary to let them back into the chamber. Rattled and with hackles raised, he's starting to go red in the face. Snape permits himself a silent smile when the door fails to open.
"Imperio," he whispers, and pushes inside Peter's brain.
X.
Aldous Mulciber was the cleverest wizard in his year at Durmstrang, and although his best friend liked to pretend otherwise, he would still have been the cleverest had Antonin Dolohov ever done any homework. With Mulciber's intellect came a passion for research; with research, knowledge of the theory behind the Imperius Curse: theory that, inevitably, led to practice. Legilimency entertained him, and Occlumency was certainly an essential tool, but the Imperius surpassed both, for what was the point of knowing all the secrets of somebody's brain if you couldn't control them afterwards? Oh, there was always blackmail (look, not that Aldous much cared to, at Fenrir Greyback), but people had a tendency to do silly and hysterical things under blackmail, such as make annoying confessions and kill themselves. And Mulciber had learnt long ago that the best way to defeat your enemies was to keep them alive.
Although as far removed from the characteristics of "normal" humanity as one man could get, Aldous's knowledge of (loosely) human behaviour was unsurpassed. He could predict, almost without fault, the behaviour of individuals and groups. When he and Antonin had received (in grammatically perfect, if over-formal Russian) owls inviting them to the town of Hogsmeade (ugh), a few minutes' meeting with the last descendant of Salazar Slytherin had told Aldous all he needed to know about the former's potential.
His perception had yet to fail him. Which was why, that morning, Severus Snape was not the only one with a plan.
XI.
"Test it."
Snape raises his eyebrows slightly, pours a few drops of the colourless liquid onto Pettigrew's tongue. He hopes nobody notices the beads of sweat on his brow, formed through the effort of sustaining two massive spells simultaneously. Pettigrew whimpers twice, then swallows. Snape takes a step back and glances at Lord Voldemort.
He doesn't allow himself to look behind him, to the curved-back chair where Draco waits. He has caught a glimpse of bandages, he can hear the boy's slightly laboured breathing, and if his spine prickles and his heart feels like someone's closed a fist around it, well, both of those will just have to wait. The thought of the suspense Draco must be enduring is appalling, but they have to wait. Draco has to trust him. Draco is, at least, alive.
"Will you question him, my Lord, or should I?" He raises his eyebrows slightly, suggesting the same calm confidence that had disturbed Wormtail. It works – frowning slightly, the Dark Lord (such a Pureblood, Snape reflects, blackly amused) replies with some asperity that Snape has done enough for the moment. Bowing acquiescence, Snape takes a further step, and folds his hands beside his back.
If his eyes are fixed on Pettigrew, nobody notices: everyone else's are fixed on Lord Voldemort.
"What is your name?"
Predictable.
P-P-Peter P-Pettigrew, called "Wormtail", ahaha. "P-P-Peter P-Pettigrew, called "Wormtail", ahaha." Pettigrew's stammer and idiotic laugh sound entirely natural, and Snape is privately a little proud of the effect.
"Do you fear me?"
Oh, honestly. He's the most terrifying Dark Wizard for a century and Pettigrew's a coward, what does he suppose
Y-yes, my Lord. I – oh, Snape can't resist – am terrified. I don't want to die. "Y-yes, my Lord, I – am terrified. I don't want to die."
Pettigrew's eyes flicker nervously around the room (his own movement, not that anyone in the room can tell). Gaining confidence, Snape smirks. "Perhaps I might be allowed to ask a question? Wormtail, what's your most humiliating memory?"
Pettigrew's terrified eyes lock with Snape's. He, too, has started to sweat.
XII.
Five minutes later, Pettigrew has attempted to chew through his own underlip but has, nevertheless made the Death Eaters believe he's taken Veritaserum. The complicated tale of how Wormtail was caught wanking over a picture of McGonagall is Snape's invention, but so convincing is Pettigrew that by the end Snape's started to wonder if it actually happened. He's heard Draco laughing once or twice, but is determined not to turn to him until ordered to do so. The laugh must be token; if Draco thinks Pettigrew's generally under Veritaserum, he must be (like Snape, but for different reasons) wondering what in Hades happens next. The Death Eaters are wondering too, but with rather more glee – most of them started as classroom bullies, after all, and this probably reminds them of Christmas in Slytherin.
Snape manages to keep smirking until he looks at Draco.
There's no dying Mulciber's genius, but it's still a nasty shock, the pattern of silver scars over his arms, and neck, and the side of his jaw. The neatly stitched cut in his lip, an astonishing violet. The black circles under his eyes that show what an awful night he must have had, and the set of his shoulders that dares anyone to say as much.
He's terrified.
….this is not really surprising.
Wetting his dry lips, Snape looks evenly at Draco, willing him to trust him, now they've come this far. Draco's eyes are wide with panic, but after a moment's hesitation, he opens his mouth. Silently relieved, Snape considers pushing inside his mind to warn him, but the effort of already controlling Pettigrew (whose protests flutter like a trapped butterfly at the back of Snape's brain) makes it too much of a risk. Tiredness throbs through him, nerves taut. It occurrs to him briefly that even if they manage this, he has no idea how to protect them beyond the next few days, perhaps even the next few hours. It would be a sobering realisation, were there anything left to find funny.
Using one hand to tilt the boy's chin, he pours three drops of the water onto Draco's tongue. Waits.
Draco's frozen posture is fairly representative of those under Veritaserum, and the look of panic and confusion in his eyes suggests nothing untoward. Snape tells himself this as dispassionately as he can, trying to ignore how sick he feels; with fear, and, obscurely, guilt. Unable to help him, Snape waits for realisation to hit.
"Is your name Draco Malfoy?"
"Y-yes." He sounds wary, slightly hesitant. Snape's face doesn't change.
"Are you the son of Lucius Malfoy, and of Narcissa Black?"
"I am." The Death Eaters are starting to get restive, rattled by the ease of the questions, but Snape's glad; their confusion is a mask for Draco's. He asks two or three more of the same sort, silently praying that Draco uses the pause to find his voice, to realise what's happening. It's a fine balance, though; he can hear Voldemort shifting behind him, drumming sharp nails (really, having an incorporeal Dark Lord was more than preferable), and knows that time is running out.
He swallows. "Are you loyal to the Dark Lord?"
A pause, and then, into the ringing silence, "Yes."
Everyone starts talking at once, some excited, others angry: Snape thinks he can detect Lucius's voice, weak and high, amongst the babbling of the others. Holding onto the back of Draco's chair, even Mulciber is looking a little shocked.
Snape's mind starts racing.
"Why did you fail to kill Dumbledore?" He has to push him, hurt him; the Death Eaters won't be satisfied with loyalty, they want blood. First Pettigrew and now Malfoy, they're thinking. Ignoring the twist of his stomach, he keeps going. "Why couldn't you?" Think, boy, think.
"I got scared," says Draco quickly, fighting the rising inflection. "I - the old fool taunted me. Threatened my mother."
"Would you have liked -" Snape begins again, but Fenrir's voice barks out from the crowd.
"Snape's being soft on him! My Lord, if you want the truth, let me ask the questions." He takes a step forward; Snape hears Draco's involuntary gasp. Hating himself, he brings the next question down with a ferocity that surprises anyone in the room.
"Do you think the Dark Lord would have permitted anything to happen to her? Do you care for your mother more than your Lord and yet presume to call yourself faithful? Did you doubt, Malfoy?"
The boy's eyes change and Snape can no longer look at them. He can only hear the awful silence before Draco answers, getting longer and longer and more incriminating, and in his terror, he wrenches the boy from his seat.
"- I doubted," Draco chokes out, half-strangled by Snape's hand at the neck of his robes. "I cared for my mother more, I forgot that the Dark Lord was all powerful. I thought there was another way, I thought -" At some point Draco has stopped struggling and started crying, and Snape can feel his boy's body shuddering instead of twisting away. His face is red, wet with tears and mucus; his fair hair sticks to his bruised forehead. A moment ago, the others were loudly debating his sincerity; now Draco's sobs are the loudest thing in the room.
...Snape lets him go, attempts to set him on his feet again. He touches the boy's arm, to steady him, and doesn't know whether the repulsive shove is real or feigned.
"Your lack of faith will not be forgotten, Draco," the Dark Lord murmurs, looking meditatively at him.
Draco shivers and dips his head, Snape's stomach clenching until he has the sense to answer with a mumbled "No, my Lord." Snape grits his teeth, waiting.
"But it seems on this occasion, your intentions did at least surpass your miserable abilities. Miserable, but superior to your father's," he adds, giving Lucius a look that makes the other man pale. Draco makes a bitter noise, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.
"Perhaps," the Dark Lord muses aloud, "you hope to take after your aunt. We must hope so. Now," he hisses, "get out of my sight."
Half-staggering, Draco obeys. Snape moves automatically to follow him. It is a mistake.
"Severus," the Dark Lord hisses, and Snape feels his flesh creeping at the name Draco, he realises, has never used. Eyes blank, he turns back to the circle of Death Eaters and waits.
"One more test before you go." Involuntarily, Snape glances at Pettigrew, blinking glassily in a little space of his own. No. Too easy, too -
"You will test the Veritaserum again," Voldemort smiles, and suddenly Snape cannot breathe. "This time, on someone neither a child nor a fool."
Shit. He knows, Snape realises, mind blank with terror for a second before he can control it. He lifts his head, and sees for the first time that he is not the only person in the room who is afraid. Lucius Malfoy, battered and thin, is now also ashen with fear. His grey eyes (like Draco's) meet Snape's, and for a second and for the second time, an understanding passes between them.
The Dark Lord makes his choice. "Mulciber, come here."
