He hadn't expected the bastard to actually leave, much less trust him.
Feeling a sudden stab of fear, Snape stood up, wanting to follow Lupin, but moving made the room go round, and he ended up back on his hands and knees on the floor again. He wanted to shriek with rage, but ended up retching with nausea instead. In desperation he grabbed hold of a table leg and clawed himself back up into a standing position.
Hunching himself over the table Snape closed his eyes in an attempt to stop the room from spinning. His face felt flushed and his body feverish. His heart was thudding against his ribcage.
He'd failed to make Lupin kill him...
Then again that was a moment of suicidal madness... he didn't really felt like dying...yet.
Plus of course he had his blasted mission to carry out...
So what was he going to do now? Make Wolfsbane?
His lip curled. Fuck Wolfsbane...he needed a cure.
There was no cure.
If there had been a cure for lycanthropy, he as The Potions Master of the sole, eminent British Wizarding school would have known about it.
But obviously, he'd never really properly researched it himself, because there had been no real will, or incentive to…
The sad reality was that there was more money to be had in the wizarding world selling Wolfsbane than searching for a cure for lycanthropy. Cured werewolves didn't make money.
Then there was the additional issue of Lupin transforming before the full moon. The Remus Lupin he had known before did not get explosively angry... Merlin knows he'd spent years trying to goad that feeble soul to violence and he'd never once exploded like he'd done this evening. The outburst had been something more reminiscent of hormone-riddled Harry Potter, not a middle-aged, tweed-clad ex-professor.
Perhaps the mood swings were a precursor to a breakdown? Or, just perhaps there was some kind of infection or mysterious rabies type sickness, or other spell affecting him?
What if he transformed in the street and bit a load of people?
Snape scowled at where his train of thought was heading. Why did he even care about Lupin's plight now anyway? It wasn't as if Dumbledore was pressing him to help everybody out anymore.
His sole mission now was to help Potter.
But what if Lupin transformed and bit Potter?
What if he bit Potter?
When was the blasted full moon, anyway? He hadn't been paying much attention of late...
Fuck.
He groaned weakly into the table.
x-X-x
He must have passed out, or fallen asleep for goodness knows how long, all he knew was that a familiar stab of pain from his left forearm had given him a very rude awakening.
Snape jerked awake - the mark was burning….he needed to get moving...
Snape gradually eased himself up from the table and was relieved to find that the sickening dizziness had passed at least. He looked down at his robes with disgust; they were shredded to pieces in places and still tacky with blood. He licked his lips, there was blood over his face too – he could actually feel it dried and crusted on his skin. The metallic taste of blood seemed to be filling his mouth.
He retched and spat.
Snape snatched his wand off the table where Lupin had left it and performed a chain of spells to clean and mend his robes. The blood stains vanished to reveal that what were awful gashes a few hours before, were now almost healed wounds and faint white scars.
As he inspected each wound and scar in turn Snape felt a surge of horror and fear growing inside him. Of all people it was Remus sodding Lupin that had left him like this. The wolf had recognised him. People who had survived being a werewolf for many decades sometimes gained a little control and powers of restraint over their wolf and its actions…It was always a controversial issue, however, because what werewolf would ever in a million years dare admit having some control after attacking a human?
Lupin's wolf had not been content with just a bite either. He had repeatedly torn at him, dragged him about the house, wanted him to suffer.
And worst of all, his werewolf had not killed him, no... he'd deliberately left him with just survivable wounds, so he would turn...
But...however conscious he'd been of the heinous deed, Snape couldn't bring himself to hate Lupin for it. Vengeance was something he understood, and this was...probably...exactly what he'd deserved.
It even seemed like fate...
He sniffed - he could still smell blood. He'd performed careful cleaning spells on his robes, cleaned the blood spots off the floor, the table, the stove, everywhere... he'd cleaned each and every wound. And yet… where was that smell still coming from? It was driving him distracted...
The Dark Mark seared his arm again, jolting him from his thoughts. Wincing slightly, Snape unlocked the door to Grimmauld Place, stepped out into the chill morning air and disapparated.
x-X-x
For once Severus Snape considered it very fortunate that he was known for the habit of wearing high collared robes – for on this particular meet it proved very useful in keeping the scarring that the werewolf's fangs had left on his neck from his fellow Death Eaters' view.
And his Master's.
He slipped silently down the steep cellar steps until the dark oak doors of the wine cellars appeared in the gloom before him. This was just one of the Death Eater's wide network of meeting places, the majority of which were in underground chambers, or the cellars of Muggle buildings for secrecy purposes.
He paused a moment, uncorked a vial and downed the remainder of a calming drought. Giving one last self-conscious upward tug of his collar, Severus held the tip of his wand to a stone at the side of the door and muttered the password. Without warning, the stone transformed into a molten type substance and sucked his wand into the wall. There was a clanking noise as the cellar door unlocked and opened inward.
The wine cellar had a high, curved stone ceiling and housed racks and racks of dusty kegs and wine bottles, stretching out into the gloomy distance. With the age of the bottles, Snape guessed that it could be a cellar of an old OxBridge college. A dark-robed witch was standing next to a large, rough-hewn oak table in the centre of the room, which was covered with half-filled wine glasses, corks, and several opened bottles of red.
The witch turned and fixed him with her heavy-lidded gaze. Snape raised a cool eyebrow as Bellatrix Lestrange produced his wand from her robes and held it out to him. Her deep red lips holding the same faint twist of mockery they often wore.
"Evening Sevvie, would you like some wine?"
Severus had no chance to reply, however, as just then a high voice echoed from the distant gloom.
"Late again, Severus? It would appear that old habits die hard…"
As Snape gave what he hoped was a plausible excuse he felt the witch's eyes scrutinising him. Despite all the potions he had taken he still felt a little feverish. He hoped that it wasn't outwardly noticeable.
"Is that so…?" Carried back the chill voice. Snape followed its direction by walking down the cellar until the sharp-shouldered outline of his Master came into view. Lord Voldemort turned to face him, his soulless, crimson eyes burning in the shadowy gloom.
The Dark Lord gave the thinnest of smiles. As ever, Severus Snape was ready. The master Legilimens never gave any warning before cutting into his thoughts, but as ever, he could not cut through his thickest of mental walls, the only wall he could never afford to be broken. The Master pulled back, his lipless mouth curling.
"Tell me...Did you find anything today, Severus?"
Snape blinked slowly. "With the limited time I had before an Order Member turned up; no My Lord."
"My Lord," interjected Bella loudly. "You should have sent me! Tell me about this mission – my cousin-"
"Quiet Bella!" came the dangerous hiss. Voldemort's mouth curled back to show a few pointed, inhuman teeth. "There will be no more wine for you. Go and assist Avery in the interrogation room at once."
Bella snapped her mouth shut, her jealous eyes burning into Snape's face, she did not move.
The Dark Lord's eyes glowed angrily in warning, and one deathly-white spider of a hand began to creep back toward its wand pocket.
The witch took the hint and turned swiftly on her heel, her black robes whipping stormily around her. There was a rush of air as the cellar door slammed to, the bang echoing and reverberating all along the tunnel-like cellar and back again.
The Dark Lord's mouth twitched in dry amusement as the echo slowly died. "By Salazar. Such a passionate serpentress...I shall accept none other, as you well know..."
Severus allowed himself the thinnest of humoring smiles, which soon faded as his Master's eyes locked into his again. This time he felt a definite shiver crawling up his spine.
As if he detected this emotion, Voldemort's eyes suddenly narrowed, the pupils almost slits. "You cannot have had any sleep for days, Severus, am I correct?"
"My Lord," murmured Snape.
His master's cold fingertips brushed his forehead. "Your face is uncharacteristically flushed, feverish. You are unwell?"
Snape's breath caught slightly in his throat. "It is merely due to the chronic lack of sleep, my Lord. I have taken potions to take the edge off. As you know I have abused Dreamless Sleep, it is no longer effective for me."
The Dark Lord studied his servant emotionlessly. For a few terrible moments Severus feared he had been found out. Then, finally, thankfully, the ever-guarded red gaze softened into one of faint amusement.
"Tiredness it must be, then….For it would be a great failing indeed for my Potions Master to fail to tend to his own fever…! Poor Severus... I am sure that the distraction of being hunted by the Ministry is keeping you alert at night…"
A wave of relief swept through Snape's nerves, and the small smile he gave as he again lowered his head in answer, was a genuine one.
But the Master did not share his servant's smile. In his drive to escape his mortality, he had lost interest in mutual sharing of emotions long ago, and as ever Severus was left with a void, a feeling of loss; something which had never happened with his other Master.
He could never hope for such friendship again; his enjoyment now was supposed to be in display of cold, raw usefulness and power.
(Then again, once this hell was over, if he survived it, Severus was completely and utterly done with serving any kind of Master. Damn medievalist wizarding hierarchy to fuck.)
Voldemort took out an extremely dusty, extremely old bottle of wine from an oak rack and turned it thoughtfully in his hands. "Such a pity your search was unsuccessful. You shall return again, until you have discovered more about the whereabouts of my locket. I imagine it will be well concealed; the youngest Black was foolish, but he wasn't entirely stupid…" T
The red eyes burned as they eyed him levelly. "Do not forget that we must also begin the preparations for your long overdue promotion at the school...Headmasster Severusss..."
Snape felt a faint thrill of horror run through his nerves at his Master's hissed words, but as ever his face relaxed into one of stony determination. He bowed respectfully and Voldemort's thin white lips smiled...
"Yes, My Lord."
Voldemort dismissed him and turned back to the wines he was inspecting. Snape turned and left the cellars swiftly. There was no sign of Bella. It was a blessing, for he was starting to feel nauseus again...
At long last Severus Snape felt he was trusted more than any other Death Eater in the fold, with a depth of trust that few spies achieved in a lifetime of undercover work.
The Half-Blood Prince had bought himself security at his Half-Blood Master's side.
But at such a terrible price.