Chapter 8
"…Yet in his eyes, all the sadness of the world. Those pleading eyes, that both threaten and adore…" – Phantom of the Opera
Thirty buttons." Snape thought to himself as he fastened the topmost button on his collar. It was tedious work to do them all by hand, and of course, he certainly could've used magic, but it gave him a chance to gather his thoughts, as well as survey his appearance in the mirror without feeling vain. He looked up at his reflection and sneered. There were so many reasons why he hated the man in the mirror. He turned away, feeling freshly disgusted and went to retrieve his traveling cloak from the wardrobe in his office.
He slung the heavy black material over his broad shoulders and fastened the highly polished, silver clasp. He wore the cloak more out of habit rather than necessity. It was the second week in October and London was in the midst of an Indian summer. The weather had been mild and sunny. Snape stealthily made his way across the castle grounds to the front gate. He muttered an incantation and the lock sprung open. Thirteen years spent teaching at Hogwarts had taught him the and least traveled route out of the school was through the Forbidden Forest; however, it wasn't conducive for travel when one was in dress attire and in a hurry. So he risked being seen to make up for lost time.
One short apparition later, he was looking up a long, paved driveway. A stately white manor stood at the top of the hill. The sloping lawns which lead up to the house were surrounded by a large, sturdy, black, wrought iron fence. "Ah, what it must be like to live the life of luxury…" he thought bitterly as he gazed up at the house of Malfoy. He swallowed his animosity and made his way over to the gate. He knew he had tripped their wards which were guarding the house and that the gate would open automatically once the servants recognized him.
"Hurry the hell up." Snape muttered as he looked up to see a large black rain cloud slowly crawling across the sky. That'd just put the icing on the cake for the evening, having to waltz into the Malfoy manor drenching wet. Just then, and not a moment too soon he suspected, the lock sprung open and the gate swung inward, allowing Snape to cross over the threshold. "About bloody time." He griped as he started up the long driveway.
Moments later, he was standing with Lucius Malfoy, in his study with, to his delight a large glass of brandy. Malfoy's office was that which only exists in most people's dreams. (Those people who have use for a study anyway…) There was a large oak desk; a power desk. Truth be told, Lucius Malfoy had little use for such a large desk, however, that was not the purpose of his desk. The purpose of his desk was to suit him. And anything that made him look more important than he actually was, suited him very much indeed.
There were hardwood floors of the same shade of elegant oak, so well polished that one could see his own reflection in them. And Snape wouldn't have put that past Malfoy to stop to stare at himself in the reflection of the floorboards, or a highly polished silver spoon, or a puddle for that matter. There was also a large, black, marble fireplace, which also was not overused. He rarely kept a fire burning in it, for it made the room cheery and inviting. Despite his taste for handsome décor, he was still a Death Eater, and darkness suited him.
Also in the study, Malfoy kept a green, leather, high-backed chair for his guests as well as a black leather easy chair and love seat. The walls of his office looked much like Snape's; crammed with books. Though, there were obvious differences, characterized only by wealth. Snape's books were all well used, and, one might say, worn. Their leather covers were faded and thin. The golden letters that bore the titles had begun to wear and peel off. Malfoy's books, on the other hand were brilliant and new looking. They shone almost as much as the floor, it was as though the maid had polished his bookcase as well.
Snape took this all in each and every time he visited Malfoy's study. An ugly, uncomfortable feeling began to crawl into the pit of Snape's stomach. He knew what it was, but he was too ashamed to admit it, even to himself. It was envy. Each time he saw all that Malfoy had, simply for looks, but never used, he couldn't help but think of where he would be now if only he had Malfoy's assets. But that was a silly thing to think. It didn't matter what material possessions he had, or how much money he had in his bank account… he'd still be exactly where he was.
It irked him, that because he'd chosen to go to Dumbledore and offer to be his spy, he'd wound up with a dead end job, teaching Potions in the magic school, while Malfoy had denied all of the charges brought against him and had gotten off scott free. However, that was stigma of being a "former Death Eater…". But that was simply the way things were.
Malfoy moved behind his unnecessarily large desk, flopped down into his black leather chair and propped his feet up. "Now then Severus," he said once they'd finished a minimal amount of small talk about the storm rolling in and the quality of Malfoy's brandy. "I'm curious to hear all about any perspective candidates you've found to join our ranks. The past few recruits from Hogwarts have been a great disappointment at best." Malfoy said seriously over top of his glass, before taking a sip.
Snape glared at him from his post by the fireplace. He set his glass down on the mantle and leaned against the hearth, hidden in shadow. "The selection is slim, I'm afraid." He began, speaking truthfully. "The only students with any potential to become Death Eaters are the Druscilla Sena, Natasha Zaizen and Andrew Flick."
"Natasha Zaizen… isn't that David Zaizen's daughter?" Malfoy asked, frowning curiously as he folded his milky white hands behind his head. He then leaned back in his desk chair and propped his feet up on his desk.
"That's right." Snape replied.
"Yes… yes…" Malfoy mused, smiling slightly. "Old Doc Zaizen… always boasting about how he supports our cause. Saying he's all for our course of action… however… he's all talk, no action." Malfoy let out a cold laugh, "Always a bridesmaid, never a bride eh, old friend?"
Snape's lip curled indifferently. That was the last thing he wanted to be called, was Lucius Malfoy's friend. "I can assure you that his daughter is following in his footsteps." Snape said seriously.
"Is that so?" Malfoy asked, interestedly.
"Mmm…" Snape replied.
"Well we can't have that. We need recruits who will take some action, not just sit on the sidelines, leaving the dirty work up to we who have served our time and done our dirty work. What of the Flick boy?" he pressed on, again taking interest in his brandy. He swirled it around in the crystal glass, the ice clinking softly against its edges.
"He's Slytherin material sure enough…" Snape said, "However… I'm not sure he's got the dedication. He slacks off in Potions because he knows I won't fail him since he's in my house. He shows no initiative whatsoever."
"And the Sena girl? I don't believe I know her parents." Malfoy said pensively still staring into his glass.
"No, nor do I. However, she's so far up the Zaizen girl's ass she can't see the light of day. There's no way she would join us without her other half."
There was a long pause. Snape had been dreading this night. School had been in session for over a month and he'd yet to find any viable candidates for Death Eater initiation at the end of the year. He knew that wouldn't make Malfoy very happy. And if Lucius Malfoy wasn't happy, no one was happy. Snape could almost count on going home on the brink of being crippled once Malfoy was through with him.
"Severus… this isn't what I was hoping to hear… not at all." Malfoy said in a voice of disappointment as he got up from his desk. "What I'd like to know now… is what we're going to do about this?" Malfoy asked, tossing his long white, blonde hair over his shoulder as he leaned onto the front of his desk. He crossed his arms and stared angrily at Snape with his ice blue eyes.
"The Flick boy is my recommendation thus far." Snape said, getting angry in his own turn. Like it was his fault that the bunch of seventh years who were graduating this year were all goodie-goodie's. "However, I ask that you give me a few more weeks to find someone better suited for this. Perhaps someone will emerge, who will be just what we are looking for." Snape suggested, though he didn't even believe it himself.
"Perhaps…" Malfoy said skeptically. "Until then, I want you to take each of them into Knockturn Alley to question them. We don't want anyone overhearing a conversation of this nature within Albus Dumbledore's school. Even the walls have ears there…" Malfoy went on, moving over to stand next to Snape near the cold, dark, empty fireplace. "Ask them flat out if they would be interested in joining us. If they say no, then obliviate them… no harm, no foul." Malfoy said smugly. "If, in the meantime, someone appears who is a more suitable candidate than those you've already singled out, then by all means – bring it to my attention and we'll take the necessary actions to enlist him… or her." Malfoy said.
Snape nodded curtly.
"This is crucial, Severus, as I'm sure you well know." He said very sternly.
Snape felt his blood begin to boil. He hated being told what to do almost as much as he hated being talked to like a petulant child.
"I'll give you three weeks, one week to interview each candidate. If no one has turned up at the end of the three weeks, then we'll simply have to choose one of the three you've already suggested and be done with it. I want a report, three weeks from today, at the Halloween masquerade… but the sooner, the better. Understood?" Malfoy asked.
"Of course." Snape said through clenched teeth.
There was an awkward pause, during which Snape wanted nothing more than simply to leave. However, Malfoy wasn't through.
"I feel it's my responsibility to inform you Severus, as my friend," There was that damned 'friend' word again. "And colleague… the others," he continued, meaning the other Death Eaters, "Aren't exactly pleased with your progress lately." Malfoy said, looking curiously at Snape, as though waiting for a reaction.
Snape exhaled a heavy breath through his flaring nostrils, but didn't respond.
"They feel that you've rather… lost your touch."
"Lost my touch?" Snape repeated. A vein in his temple was pulsing violently.
"Well… you must admit, the recruits from the last two years in a row have failed to last a month inside our organization. And the one before that didn't even pass initiation. It's almost as though you're not trying to find us suitable recruits." Malfoy paused.
He watched Snape from his spot in front of his desk. Snape was unnaturally stiff. Malfoy knew he had achieved the desired effect, he'd gotten under Snape's skin. However, this was inevitable, and so was what he was about to do. It was a shame to have to punish Snape, without solid evidence that he'd done something wrong, however, if indeed he was innocent of his accusations, then this would perhaps, stop a problem before it began.
"Perhaps… being under the old fool, Dumbledore's nose for so long… perhaps… you've decided to switch sides on us, old friend. After all… we know how very talented you are at convincing other people that you're on their side… after which, you proceed to stab them in the back." With that said, Malfoy dipped his hand into the inside pocket of his robes.
The pupils of Snape's eyes dilated ever so slightly at the sight of Malfoy going for his wand. He knew better than to try to defend himself. How would it look, for Merlin's sake?
Suddenly Malfoy was on his feet and standing across from Snape, wand pointing level with his heart.
"Crucio!" he said in a devilish voice.
Snape dropped to the ground. His body twitched and writhed. White, hot knives were stabbing him all over. His whole body was on fire. His muscles were ripping apart, he could feel his ribs stretching to near breaking point. His body convulsed into the fetal position and he felt a rib crack, two ribs, three. But he didn't make a sound. He'd been through this enough times to know that crying out in pain only lengthened the curse.
Finally, an eternity later, the pain stopped. He was vaguely aware of Malfoy standing over him, savoring the sight of Snape laying on the floor in front of him, injured and defeated.
"Let this just serve as a reminder…" Malfoy said, as though he were explaining to a two-year-old why he was in time-out. "Whom do you serve?" he asked, his voice cold and harsh.
Snape's mouth was dry, his lungs felt as though they had collapsed which made it quite difficult to speak. He mustered up as much strength as he could and replied in a voice which croaked, rather unlike his usual silky baritone tone, "The Dark Lord."
"That's right." Malfoy said, sounding satisfied. "Well then…" his charming smile returned to his face, "I'm off! Good evening Severus, and I'm looking forward to your next report. You may show yourself out."
Malfoy was gone the next moment. Snape was still crumpled in a heap on the floor. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, his forearms shaking under his weight. He gingerly got to his feet and tried to get his bearings. There was nothing that Severus Snape hated more than being humiliated. As much as he wanted to retaliate against Malfoy, he wanted to get home more. Besides, any harm he inflicted on Lucius Malfoy would sure as shit land him in a wooden box, six feet under. So he picked himself up off of the floor, retrieved his cloak from the rack and exited the manor as fast as his injured body would allow.
Some ten minutes later, he was back in his office, seated at his chair behind his desk. He sighed heavily and raked his long spindly fingers through his shiny black hair. He clasped them together behind his head and leaned back to stretch. His muscles were tender and sore. There wasn't much a person could do for broken ribs. Going to visit the resident medi-witch, Madam Pomfrey would've solved this problem straight away, however, that also meant uncomfortable inquiries about how it had happened. That and having to ask another human being for help… well, that just wasn't an option.
On top of his new injuries, he now really had something to look forward to. For three weeks in a row, one of his weekend evenings (which typically were spent as far removed from student company as possible) with three snot-nosed teenagers, none of which he cared to spend a class period with, much less an entire evening.
He looked at the clock on the wall, it was only ten o'clock. His aching body was telling him that it was time to call it a night, but he still had a class full of antidotes to check. Correction, a class full of antidotes to check; minus one. He turned the wooden rack of test tubes and found one that he had separated from the rest. He read the label, "D. Lving Dead Antdt. – A. Bane"
On that note, he suddenly and for no apparent reason, changed his mind and decided to go to bed.
