Intermission: In Readiness

He Apparated calmly to his Lord's side that night. He knew what the Dark Lord would say to him, every word planned out, every dance step smooth. He did not need to be fearful or worried any longer. The arrangements had been made.

He appeared in the Riddle house, but this was a room he had never seen before. After a few moments of gazing about him, Severus understood. He was in Voldemort's inner sanctum, an honor that only Bellatrix, among all the Death Eaters, had received before—and then not for any special merit, as he had, but simply because her mad loyalty was beyond question.

The walls were smooth and black, Transfigured into cool stone. Warming charms glittered here and there along the stone, though, brightening and then fading, and Severus understood their purpose—to provide a warm spot for Nagini, and the other snakes that his Lord had collected about him, to rest. The floor was smooth and raspy beneath his feet, paved with either scales or a material not far from it. The chair that stood in the middle of the room flowed into a twisting ramp halfway down the seat, to provide an easy resting place for either snake or man. Or someone like the Dark Lord, Severus thought as he went to one knee and bowed his head, who was both.

"Arise, my child."

His Lord's vibrant voice made the walls shake. Severus stood again at once, feeling the deep thrill of pleasure within when his Lord spoke his name. Yes, he had expected it, as he had expected everything about this night, but it was still wonderful. Yes, wonderful was the word for it. His Lord was the one who had taught him to appreciate his first name again, and the man who called himself Severus now and had called himself Snape in the past had never been so grateful for it.

Voldemort stretched out a pale hand, and a shimmer of magic rose above it, growing. Severus stretched his own hands out, warming them before the shimmer as he would before a fire. His Lord had been drinking magic from Mudblood children and recalcitrant purebloods. He was a wildfire, a roaring glow of strength that would draw support from every wizarding community across the world in the end. It could not help but be so. The magic filled Severus's senses, and he swayed a bit, drunk.

"You have many griefs, my child," the Dark Lord murmured, as Severus had known he would say.

"Yes, my Lord." His words glided around and around him like the whisper of newly hatched vipers.

"And not least of all is your grief against Albus Dumbledore."

"Yes, my Lord." Yess, yess, yess, hissed his words, as they vanished and died.

"You hate him for retaining the Marauders in school when he should have expelled them and sheltered you, because you were the one who had almost died."

"Yes, my Lord."

"You hate him for refusing to accept and shelter you when you spied against me. He insisted that you place your life in danger for him each day, and he had the arrogance to imagine that his precious Light had redeemed you, that you joined the Order of the Phoenix for him and not to survive."

"Yes, my Lord."

"You hate him for the insults and patronizing air he has inflicted on you since, including speaking your name when you never gave him permission to do so."

"Yes, my Lord."

"You hate him for continuing to favor the spawn of James Potter and the adult Marauders even now. You hate him because you know he mourns the deaths of James and Lily Potter in a way that he would never mourn for you, who gave so much to him and to his cause."

"Yes, my Lord."

"My child, my dear one, my serpent, my Potions Master, my Severus…" Voldemort's eyes flashed. The air all around Severus turned a dull and shimmering red, the color of old blood.

"I give the honor of the kill to you."

SSSSSSSSSSSSS

Severus slowly opened his eyes. He felt more relaxed and satisfied yet than he had from one of these dreams. It was almost enough to cause him to wonder if they might be erotic in nature, but no, he did not think so. They refreshed his mind as well as his body, instead of leaving him in a state of lethargy.

And if they brought up old hatreds, as well, and floated them in the surface of his mind—well, what could it hurt to imagine them? Albus was dead, and disgraced. Sirius Black was dead, James Potter in prison, the werewolf beyond his vengeance. He had made his peace with Peter Pettigrew. He might remember the wrongs of the past and use them to strengthen himself so long as he did not dwell on them.

He gazed on the shimmering potions in the cauldrons near the wall, and gave a slow, assessing nod to himself. Yes, they were ready whenever he wished to use them. Perhaps he could convince Harry to take the silver potion today.

Today. In readiness.

The thoughts seemed to slide through his mind like blasts of wind, leaving it fresh and clean and—ready.

He pulled on his robes, absently caressed his left forearm, and swept out of his office to begin the day.