Chapter Twenty-Four

The Dark Lord had not risen.

The startling truth had become apparent to Severus within moments of his regrouping with the Circle, Lucius confirming it shortly upon arrival; that the Dark Lord's current state of being was merely a temporary measure, while the arrangements came together to return him to full strength.

One of several that had been employed over the years, in his attempt to return stronger, greater than the wizard who had been defeated some years before.

In the meantime, only a handful of Death Eaters were granted access to the Dark Lord.

Severus was not one of those few.

As such, he had not yet had to face his old master and offer up the excuses he had been rehearsing day in, day out for the past six weeks.

Obviously, the Dark Lord would not face him in his current state, unable to call upon the full power of his legilliemency – among others – to suitably interrogate him.

It was true. Of all of the followers present, Severus' standing, his value was far greater than any and all of the others combined; their current state of being either Death Eaters who had evaded capture in the commotion of the Dark Lord's second fall – no doubt the ones who had searched for and remained by his side all these years – and those whom had escaped Azkaban during the recent outbreak – which meant that they could offer little in the way of infiltration or strategic planning.

Severus' placement both at Hogwarts and the Foundation, they were offerings the Dark Lord could not pass up; but his loyalty had to be proven, first. As he would be just as great an enemy as he would be an ally.

Severus tightened his occlumency barriers, reflexively.

This, this would have been the perfect time to attack; the Dark Lord sufficiently weak enough and his followers all gathered around, sitting ducks, awaiting orders, if only Regulus had managed to track down that last horcrux. The damn snake, that was currently slithering only metres away from Severus, a careful enchantment placed upon it so that it glowed as if shielded, the Dark Lord seeming to not trust, even, his Death Eaters or thin air around the creature. But Severus pushed the thought aside, reminding himself that he and the followers who surrounded him did not know about the horcruxes and, certainly, not that Nagini was one of them.

Severus glanced up from where he sat upon a cold, stone sort-of bench some metres away from the others who had relocated outdoors, when he noticed Lucius approaching, a shallow-filled sack of something carried carefully in his arms.

They were stationed within the most rural lodgings imaginable – three old style cottages which were deserted or, rather, made so by the current inhabitants – in the grassy, rolling hills of the countryside of Romania, though the location looked to be of more a drying brown than the lush greenery Severus was used to seeing in the countryside of Yorkshire where his own home was located.

Severus gave a nod of greeting when Lucius reached him, placing the sack upon the ground at his feet and taking a seat by his side.

Severus eyed the item, making no move to touch it; "Have we orders?"

"Only yourself for the time being," Lucius confirmed, though he did not elaborate on the suspicious offering.

Severus looked at him, expectantly, when the other man said nothing. Lucius had folded his hands upon his lap and was eyeing them, silent and contemplative, as if uncertain whether to speak what was on his mind, and Severus knew that whatever it was that the other man was weighing up, it had nothing to do with said orders that the Dark Lord had sent his way.

Severus waited.

"How is my son?"

Severus should not have been surprised.

If anything, what ought to be a surprise was that it had been over week for Lucius to come out and ask.

"He is well," Severus said; "A Slytherin."

"Of course," Lucius' lips moved in the barest hint of a smile, eyes straight ahead; "I would expect nothing less."

Severus glanced at him and he knew he ought to say more, that what he had said would do nothing to quench Lucius' longing to know more of his son. He would need more, to be parted from Grace so long. Six years. Severus knew he could not bear it. The past few months had been hard enough.

It was this, rather new, knowledge of that – the pain of a father to be parted from his child – that encouraged him to be more open, more so than he would have bothered to be in the past.

"He is a talented student. A Quidditch player; a seeker. And he is well mannered and kind to his mother."

Lucius kept his eyes on the horizon, barely reacting to the words spoken, but, even then, Severus could tell that he was affected. After a moment, Lucius drew in a breath and met Severus' eyes, unspoken gratitude expressed in his look for only a second, before he finally spoke as if the exchange had never taken place.

"It seems the Dark Lord has seen fit to impart a rather substantial task upon you, Severus."

"I serve at the pleasure of the Dark Lord."

"As do we all," Lucius said, almost dryly, at his response, before he went on; "The Ceremonial Ritual that will restore him to full strength; he has asked that you be the one to lead it."

Severus could barely contain his surprise at that.

"I…I am honoured to be considered worthy of it."

Lucius got that enigmatic smile of his, clearly taking pleasure in how he had taken Severus off guard with the order.

"As Potions Master, it is only natural that you would be called upon. Can you do it?"

"Certainly."

"You are aware of the required procedure?"

Severus gave a single nod. Necromancy, it was something that had utterly enraptured him as a student, during the height of his interest in the Dark Arts in his sixth year.

"I am familiar with several," he stated, unabashedly, glad of the chance to do something that might raise him somewhat further in the Dark Lord's esteem – surely, he was not so distrusted, then, if he were being granted this opportunity – not that any fool could not perform it; "There are a number of options."

Or, perhaps, it was another test. For the Dark Lord had nothing to lose; his remaining horcrux saw to that. And, as far as the Dark Lord knew, his Death Eaters, Severus, knew nothing of them, and, so, if Severus were an enemy who wished to eliminate him then this would be his chance.

His chance to reveal his true, treacherous intentions, thwart the ritual and eliminate his old master with poison in the potion, only for the Dark Lord to rise once again by the dark magic anchoring him to this world.

Lucius raised an eyebrow; "I would have thought the ritual of choice would be obvious."

The most brutal. The Dark Lord would have it no other way.

Severus pursed his lips, eyes going to the forgotten sack at their feet; "Indeed. Am I to assume…"

Lucius indicated with a nod that Severus take a look and he did, reluctantly lifting the opening and being presented with a most-lovely pile of decaying old bones; "Bone of the father."

Lucius eyed them with disgust, until Severus let the fabric go and it fell, covering them once more.

"Flesh of the servant, I'm afraid, you shall have to see to yourself," Lucius said, turning his eyes upon him, almost with sympathy.

"Certainly," Severus did not miss a beat, lowering his chin in acquiescence, before going on; "Need I point out that there is another necessary component not currently to hand?"

Lucius made to speak but was interrupted, as if on cue, by the distant sound of a 'pop' of apparition, signalling the return of the two who had departed some days before.

Rodolphus Lestrange and Barty Crouch Junior, dispatched on some secret task or another, which Severus could now, easily, guess at. Before them, as they approached, the body of a boy, a teenager, was suspended in the air by magic, and, while the head of said person was covered by a woven hood, Severus knew, without doubt, who the child was.

Harry.

Severus simply stared.

His occlumency barriers tightened, accordingly, as every follower present turned to watch, as the two returning Death Eaters made their way to the cottage where the Dark Lord resided with their precious offering.

Severus drew in a breath, only turning back to Lucius when the door clicked shut behind them.

"Of course, it would be the boy," Lucius said, as way of explanation.

"Of course," Severus conceded, not daring to even think in that moment, certainly not of Harry who was, presently, right before the Dark Lord, himself, and it was only the knowledge of this ritual that Harry would have to be alive for that kept his thoughts from running wild; "Though, need I point out that, the entirety of my value to the Dark Lord rests in my ability to walk amongst his enemies, a spy, and, should Dumbledore's Golden Boy identify me, my cover would be substantially compromised."

"Slit his throat then."

Severus shot him a look which he hoped belied scepticism at the suggestion, rather than the actual horror he felt; "The Dark Lord would not have that. The boy is his."

"True enough. Either way, you know better than to assume Harry Potter will be walking out of this alive."

Lucius got to his feet.

Severus did the same, the reality of being back in this settling upon him once more, in a way that it hadn't done for years. Back to the first, the very first, time, when he had been a mere idiotic child himself, standing there forced to keep himself under control as the Dark Lord spoke of his plans to hunt down the Potters and kill them all; reporting it back to the cold, hard glare of Headmaster Dumbledore, whom did not regard him with any trust whatsoever back in those times – an entirely mutual sentiment – in the hopes that the old man could keep Lily safe.

"In any event," Lucius went on; "We shall be masked. As is the usual practice."

Severus lowered his chin in a nod. And then he lowered himself, carefully lifting the sack of bones that Lucius had brought; "I shall begin the preparations."

"Do. The Dark Lord wishes to begin at nightfall."

With that, Lucius turned and strode back in the direction of the cottage in which the Dark Lord dwelled.

The Dark Lord and Harry.

It took all Severus' strength not to look back at the house.

"Remus," Lily grasped his arm, thinking it was silly to panic, she was sure everything was just fine, Harry must be somewhere in the house, but she couldn't help it; an almost instinctive, rising dread when she had been unable to find her son or anyone who could confirm his current whereabouts; "Have you seen Harry?"

"No," Remus looked at her with a frown; "The last I saw, he was with you."

"That was ages ago," Lily said, shaking her head, looking around the crowded room, eyes desperately seeking him out.

"Mrs Potter," Malachi hurried up to her, suddenly, "Ginny said she saw Harry go outside."

"Outside?" Lily repeated, dumbly, as Harry knew better than to do so. Her son knew he mustn't leave the house – it was a rule they had established years ago – but she wasted no time thinking further on that, because the panic was setting in, unchecked now, at the information and she hurried to the door, stumbling out, with Remus close on her heels; "Harry?" she called out.

"Oh, Lily!" an old friend of hers and James, Winifred, quickly addressed her; "I think I saw him head over there, on by the pond. He seemed in quite a hurry –"

Lily didn't wait for her to finish, only hurried in the direction she had indicated.

"Harry?" she called out, the panic she felt now slipping into her voice as she said his name, the second becoming a shout; "Harry!" Her eyes darted around in all the various directions, for any sign of her son, the dread coming upon her making it difficult to breathe.

Others were joining her in her search now, quickly picking up on what was going on – that Harry was gone – numerous voices joining hers as people filled out into the surrounding clearing, calling her son's name, entreating him to reveal himself.

But he didn't.

Not a sound or a sign whatsoever, of where Harry had gone.

For all of Severus' trying, he could not get away from his current post, standing in front of the bubbling cauldron as he began the preparations for the evening's ritual.

This was an utter disaster.

Harry had, once again, managed to get himself into a situation where he would have to face the Dark Lord, another showdown, and Severus was at a loss as to how he could possibly get the boy out of this one.

The surrounding areas were entirely manned by Death Eaters, idle hands, really, which were only more dangerous, as they were all itching for something to do after months – years, even – of simply waiting until this moment, when the Dark Lord would finally rise once more. Finally their master would be reborn with the full force of his powers and, hell, how was Severus supposed to get Harry out of this place alive, it was impossible.

But Severus would not panic.

He had been in dire straits before; there must be a solution, and he would find it.

Any attempt to move from his current position was met with offerings from his fellow comrades to fetch him whatever he needed – how generous, he had sneered, unable to help himself, his frustration reaching the highest of heights – but his mood had not deterred them, any and all followers eager to show their willingness to have their Lord returned to them. All doing everything that they could to ensure his favour when they faced him once more, that night.

And so, Severus resorted to the only possible excuse he could muster that one of his fellow Death Eaters couldn't assist him with and muttered an excuse about 'damn bodily functions' – cringing at the indignity of it all – and made his way in the direction of the accommodations to use the out-dated facilities within.

As he passed the one in which the Dark Lord and Harry resided, he glanced as inconspicuously as he possibly could in the direction of the windows, and could see nothing at all, though they were obviously inside, and he had, disappointedly, carried on, into his own shared accommodations and taken the brief time alone to try and muster up a solution to the current predicament in peace.

There was less than two hours until sunset, if his calculations were accurate, which gave little time until the ceremony was to begin. In ideal circumstances, he would have Harry out of here before said ritual were to take place, but that was utterly impossible, too many idle hands watching and waiting for something to do, scattered here there and everywhere, so it would have to go ahead – using Harry's blood no less, but that was not something Severus could worry about now, when the boy's very survival was at stake – he would simply have to try and remove Harry from the danger during, or following, the ritual in the commotion that ensued when the Dark Lord was restored.

What commotion? Well, Severus would just have to fabricate something that would see to it that there was.

Outright sabotage of the potion would be suicide, yes, and only lead to the demise of them both – himself and Harry, eventually – but he had ways of reducing their effects, seeing to it that they took longer than necessary to finally achieve the intended outcome, and, if he were thinking correctly, the stashes of ingredients he kept within his robes included perrilace vines, which would not react in any way with the concoction but would have the effect of causing drowsiness, for a time, thus buying them some of it.

It would have to be enough.

It was insanity.

The Dark Lord would surely know that it was not a common side effect, to be restored at such a slow rate, but perhaps it would be put down to it being a barely recorded method of rejuvenation. Indeed, this particular method of revival was so brutal, that the most recent recorded occurrences were dated back to the middle ages.

He could do it. There was no other choice.

Severus would pay for it, of course, but he doubted he would be outright killed, unless it were obvious he had actually did it on purpose. Particularly if his story held up and his value outweighed the Dark Lord's initial fury.

The plan would not cause him harm.

It was the only way to prevent the immediate slaughter of the boy, following the ritual.

It would give him precious time to get Harry the hell out of there.

But he couldn't do it alone.

He could not be implicated.

Though if it came down to his cover, or Harry's life, there was nothing for it; he would blow it.

And so, Severus drew in a breath, and set out of the cottage, as a plan began to formulate in his mind.

Barty Crouch Junior had brought Harry in.

Severus' eyes glanced around the area in search of him, so that he may put the man to use. The fates, it seemed, had it another way, and Rodolphus Lestrange, another of Harry's kidnappers, just happened to turn the corner and made to cross paths with him.

He would do.

Lestrange inclined his head, though his eyes betrayed his distrust; "Snape."

Lestrange ought to distrust him.

He would die for this.

Severus only inclined his head in response, speaking nothing at all. And when they had suitably passed one another and, with a quick glance around the area, to ensure he would not be spotted, Severus gripped his wand tight beneath the folds of his sleeve, thinking, not speaking, the incantation.

"Imperio."

There was a low murmur of chatter.

The crackling of firewood.

A hiss and a slither of a snake.

A breeze that was warm and muggy, stirring the fabric of his clothes.

A buzz in his head and a spinning of the ground, before the darkness that surrounded him was suddenly lifted, the fabric hood pulled roughly from his head and making him stumble forward and fall to his knees, unable to brace himself for the impact with his hands bound behind his back.

Harry was surrounded.

Masked faces gathered in a circle.

A fire burned below a cauldron only some metres away, casting a glow upon the ground and the faces.

It was as if Harry were living the nightmares he had been having, now, for months.

This was his nightmares come to life.

Harry was on the ground, on his knees, utter terror quickly coming over him as he realised what this was, who he was with. His eyes frantically scanned the masks, from the ones beginning on his right, around them all, until they landed upon the one working steadfastly behind the cauldron. That one, the one working, was the only who was not looking in his direction, ignoring the stirring conversation that had intensified when he had been revealed to them all.

"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son."

The voice was familiar.

Too familiar.

Harry raised uncertain eyes in the direction of the cauldron, at the man behind it. The man who lifted his arm, the folds of robes sliding back and revealing a pale hand, long thin fingers, and Harry stared at it, in disbelief.

"Flesh of the –"

"No."

The high voice, that high voice, the one Harry knew so well suddenly spoke from nowhere and Harry glanced around, frantically, seeking him out, but Voldemort was out of sight.

"My Potions Master without a hand," the high voice said, and even the unnatural lilt did not conceal a dryness in the statement; "Dolohov."

The hand that Harry was sure he knew, was suddenly covered once more, as another masked face, a Death Eater, stepped forward and held out his own.

"Flesh of the servant, willingly sacrificed, you will revive your master."

Harry's eyes widened in horror as the man behind the cauldron, the man Harry was utterly certain was Snape, lifted and flicked his wand in a smooth motion, the sound of flesh and bone cracking only just heard for a second before a piercing, agonised scream filled the air.

And Harry felt himself start to shake, his breaths coming in little gasps, as he looked around, desperate for any sign or sight of escape or help or something.

He was going to die.

The man behind the cauldron suddenly swept out from behind it, striding in Harry's direction, a stride that he knew oh-so-well and Harry scrambled backwards, feet moving frantically in the dirt, only succeeding in falling from his crouched position onto his back, with his arms still bound behind him.

The Death Eater, Snape, was right next to him now and he knelt down into a crouch beside him, yanking him up roughly from the ground.

"You!" Harry's voice was a harsh, accusing gasp.

He had no idea what to say.

His mind was racing, filled with confusion and fury and accusatory words that he couldn't get out.

Snape still had a tight hold of him, reaching around the back of him with his wand clutched tight in the other hand, and when he did he leaned in close, for the briefest of seconds, with the lips of his mask so close they were almost pressed to his ear, and when he did Harry heard his voice, low and warning; "Recludo."

Harry could barely make sense of it.

It was not sneering or jeering or wickedness.

There was warmth there.

And it was, almost, as if it were entreating Harry to trust him.

But what the hell the word meant Harry didn't know.

Harry tried to twist free, his wish quickly granted, when he suddenly found his arms unbound and he fell to the ground once more. Snape grasped one of them, pulling it up, and he slashed his wand across his hand without warning and Harry cried out in pain.

A phial pressed to the cut, gathering the blood that seeped from the gash, and then Snape let him go and he fell back into the dirt.

Snape was back in front of the cauldron, dripping into it the contents of the phial before speaking clearly, loudly, as if in a finale;

"Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe."

Harry's eyes were no longer on Snape, who took a step back, but entirely upon the cauldron before him.

Nothing happened.

Harry swallowed, as utter silence filled the air, and he willed nothing to happen. Renew, revive, resurrect. Harry knew what this was. He knew what they were waiting for.

Please, let nothing happen, Harry willed it with all of his might.

And, then, white smoke began to billow from the cauldron.

This had to work.

It would work.

Severus stood a few paces back, tilted his head so that it appeared as if he, too, had his eyes upon the cauldron but they weren't.

Not at all.

Severus' eyes were entirely on the boy that still knelt in the dirt some feet away from it.

Harry had not tried to run or fight – well, not until Severus had gone to him, that is, which, at least, showed sense. He only hoped the single word he had breathed to him in that moment would be enough to convince him to remain calm, that he knew Harry knew who he was and that he would get him out of this.

The seconds stretched into minutes, the delay working exactly as Severus had hoped, and murmurs began to hesitantly erupt amongst those watching.

Severus gave a sharp nod in Rodolphus Lestrange's direction.

The other man stepped forward immediately, going to Harry, and pulling him roughly to his feet.

White smoke continued to billow out and upwards towards the sky.

It was rather anti-climatic, actually, though Harry wasn't complaining.

Voldemort still hadn't appeared.

It obviously wasn't what anyone there was expecting but, before Harry could think any further on it, he was suddenly yanked to his feet by a Death Eater – one who wasn't Snape – and he couldn't help but look, desperately, in the Potion Master's direction, wondering if he had got it right or, dreadfully, wrong, when he had thought that, maybe, he was going to help him.

Snape should be the one dragging him away.

The Death Eater who did had a rough hold of him, hauling him in the direction of a rural cottage up ahead, and Harry fought back then; "No! No, let me go!"

Harry clawed at the man, tried to tear off the mask, the hair, the skin of him, and the Death Eater didn't let him go but he turned and backhanded him across the face so hard that his head snapped back, and Harry saw stars.

He could barely gather his bearings, the blow knocking all sense out of him for several disorientating moments, and when he was, finally, able to see clearly once more he saw a cell, a cage, in the corner of a dark, dingy, almost entirely unfurnished room – the main of the cottage, Harry realised – and he was thrown into it with such force that he hit the bars on the other side and sunk to the ground.

Harry gasped, reaching up, and felt blood running down the side of his face, could see blood that still trickled from the gash on his left hand that Snape had inflicted, glittering in the moonlight.

He rubbed his hands over his face, trying the compose himself, and wondered if Snape was going to come. Would he help him?

Harry turned and glanced over his shoulder, saw the Death Eater that had brought him now leaving, the door slamming shut as he did, but then something else caught Harry's attention.

There, lying entirely inconspicuously upon a table a few feet away, was his wand.

His own wand!

Harry flung himself at the bars of the cell, reaching for it. It was out of reach but only just. If he could only…

Harry pressed harder against the cold metal bars, ignoring the ache and the strain as he reached his arm out as far as he could towards it. He twisted and turned himself, swapping sides, uttering 'accios' under his breath, which he knew wouldn't work.

He had heard of people being able to summon their wands. Harry wasn't so gifted.

He would have to rectify that.

If he got out of this alive.

Harry grunted, his breathing becoming laboured as he pressed harder, more desperately against the cell, with his eyes squeezed shut and he gasped when his fingertips brushed the end of wood. He daren't look up or change his position in any way, lest he find it out of reach once more, and he pressed harder, ignoring the bite of pain against his armpit and the side of his face.

His fingertips knocked the wooden object, as they desperately moved to grasp it, but it slipped through his fingers and his wand fell to the floor.

Harry sobbed, turning to look, and it was a fucking miracle.

His wand rolled towards him on the ground, stopping with a click against the side of the cell bars.

Harry snatched it up immediately, quickly pointing it at the cage door.

"Alohomora."

Nothing.

"Alohomora!" Harry tried again, meaning it more than the first time, if that was even possible.

He needed to get out of here.

He tried another.

"Annihilare."

Nothing.

The cage stayed firmly locked.

Harry scrambled for any and all unlocking charms that he knew.

"Liberare."

Nothing.

"Dunamis."

Nothing.

"Emancipare!"

Nothing. Nothing at all for any of them.

Harry shook his head, growing frustrated, and growled out; "Cistem aperio!"

There was a blast of white light, that made the cell door shake and clatter. But it didn't unlock.

Harry felt despair wash over him.

Even with his wand he was utterly helpless and he touched his forehead to the bars of the cell, eyes closing. Almost in defeat.

Almost.

But not quite.

His mind still going until something lit up within it.

Harry frowned.

He drew back slowly, looking at the locked door of the cage, and then he lifted his wand.

Spoke the single word that Snape had said to him during the ritual.

"Recludo."

The cell door opened with a click.