Alright people, I must warn you that this chapter contains an awful lot of graphic violence. And off-screen sexual abuse. I felt uncomfortable writing this, and even my wonderful treasure of a beta, FawkesyLady, agreed that it's just too much of the bad stuff. Alas, it had to be written.

The first (non-violent) part of this chapter is quite important to the story, so if you don't wish to read the descriptions of abuse, I suggest that you only read up to the second break (not counting the one underneath these chapter notes). The bad stuff starts when the POV changes to Rhys Millar's.

Anyway... as I said, this one was hard to write, and even harder to revise and edit, and I'd love to read your reviews. See you next week!

Severus woke abruptly, his body jerking upwards reflexively as the brand on his arm burned with the searing pain of a Summons. He blinked rapidly, reorienting himself. The world outside the window was still dark, but the dying embers in the grate indicated that he must have slept for a while.

He hissed as he rose from the couch, cursing under his breath as he realised that his leg had gone to sleep. He hobbled about, retrieving his Death Eater garb from the peg by the front door. The intensity of the pain told him that this was urgent. He had to hurry.

He quickly pulled the Death Eater garb over his frock coat, and fixed the abominable mask upon his face. He suspected a last-minute raid - better to come ready and prepared. He looked around frantically, trying to ascertain whether or not he had enough time to alert the Order. Even if he did, the Dark Mark burned like molten lava, boiling the blood in his veins. Severus was on the verge of screaming. It was never a good sign if the Dark Lord summoned him with such ferocity.

Doubled over with pain, he grit his teeth against the pounding in his head as he wrapped his hand around the Mark. Just as black spots began floating in his vision, he felt the familiar violent pull that started in his arm and radiated out to engulf the rest of his body, transporting him to meet his Master.

Severus fell to his knees as soon as his feet touched the polished marble floor of Malfoy Manor, light-headed and disoriented. He bowed his head, as was expected of him, the picture of subservience and willingness to obey. He was secretly grateful for all the ceremony. Taking up the proper position of a faithful servant allowed him to compose himself quickly, to bury his emotions within the elaborate walls of the labyrinth within his mind.

He continued kneeling elegantly on the cold, hard floor, keeping his gaze low for what seemed like eternity. His face was set in stone, as emotionless and blank as his mind, even as his knees began to protest. 'Focus. Control yourself.'

At last, Lord Voldemort's tenor floated towards him. 'Severus. How nice of you to join us.'

The tone with which he spoke froze the blood in Severus' veins. His instincts picked up immediately, the sense of imminent danger pricking at the edges of his consciousness. He reined them in, pushing all traces of fear behind his mind's walls, and remained on his knees, awaiting further instruction. Choosing to proceed with exceptional care, he murmured, 'My Lord. I came to you immediately.'

The Dark Lord replied, 'So you have, so you have… Stand up, Severus.'

Severus rose in one fluid movement with apparent confidence, but his heart was beating a rampant staccato in his chest. He forced himself to breathe steadily, willing his heartbeat to slow, to conceal any outwards signs of agitation that could be interpreted as guilt. The Dark Lord's calm and modulated voice was a sure sign of his displeasure, and not for the first time, Severus was very grateful for the hideous mask as he paled, wondering what had gone wrong this time.

He could not control the grimace of disgust that briefly twisted his features as he regarded the repulsive snake-like face, pale and unnaturally shiny, resembling a poorly-done wax sculpture. Red eyes gleamed with malevolence, and Severus could tell that the evil wizard was thinking hard, weighing his words carefully. Another bad omen.

'Remove your mask, Severus.'

Severus took off his mask and stood perfectly still, making a conscious effort to not curse his bad luck. The mask allowed him some degree of shelter, and he felt exposed without it, knowing that he was not at his best, and one bad move could cost him his life, not to mention the war effort. He waited, redoubling his resolve to keep himself calm and collected. Not a raid then. This could only mean that something else had happened, something that would most likely lead to a very unpleasant outcome.

'You must be wondering why I have called you to my side so urgently,' Lord Voldemort began, his lilting voice reverberating around the vast space of the de-facto throne room. Severus inclined his head in a gesture of polite curiosity, registering the sounds of subdued whispers behind his back. He now knew that the others were there, but continued looking straight ahead, fixing his attention on the grotesque creature before him.

Voldemort stood and began pacing leisurely, rubbing his chin with his long, bony fingers, as though he was contemplating something important. His regal robes, finely cut and made from rich, purple velvet, pooled at his feet and trailed after him as he walked, a parody of an Emperor addressing his subjects.

'I am confused, Severus. You claim to be my most loyal servant, wholeheartedly committed to our most noble cause…' Voldemort's voice was carefully modulated into a sound of deep-hearted concern laced with surprise, as though he was speaking to a son with whom he was profoundly disappointed. He sighed dramatically, turning to face Severus with an expression that dripped with razor-edged regret. 'And yet you choose to hide important information from me. Why is that, Severus? Do you no longer share our ideals? Perhaps you never believed in them in the first place?'

Severus' heart skipped several beats. He broke out in a cold sweat as he realised that this was a trap, one that felt like a punch to the stomach. He tried to kick his tired brain into gear, searching frantically searching for the words that would get him out of this situation, but a panicked voice in his head told him that he would not be getting out of this place alive. This is it. You've been found out.

Swallowing the bile that rose in his throat, Severus forced his features into an expression of surprised incomprehension before falling again to his knees. He hung his head low, avoiding Lord Voldemort's eyes, feeling like a cat who had ran out of its nine lives. Death was now taking form of a terrible certainty, and he dug deep for courage, concentrating on his survival. 'My Lord, I am afraid I don't understand. If I have displeased you, please tell me how, and I will do my best to prove my undying loyalty.'

He could feel Lord Voldemort's gaze, boring into his kneeling form like a predator closing in on its prey. He had to continuously remind himself to keep up his Occlumentic shields, determined that if this was the end of his life, he would take his secrets to the grave. An alien presence appeared at the edges of his mind, probing his surface thoughts. Although the Dark Lord believed himself to be subtle and undetectable, Severus could always tell the precise moment when the Dark wizard used Legilimency on him, instantly recognising the pin-prick sensation as he attempted to penetrate his mind. He pushed a small collection of fabricated thoughts and emotions up to his mind's surface, allowing them to float in front of his mind's eye, ones that spoke of eternal admiration and faith in Lord Voldemort. For good measure, he presented an image of Dumbledore, complete with an emotional background painted in shades of anger, hatred and disgust. Many of those emotions were not merely pretence.

Severus suppressed a shudder as Voldemort withdrew abruptly, leaving his brain tainted with the foul, poisonous traces of his presence. A swift intake of breath indicated that the Dark Lord was about to speak, and Severus braced himself, hoping that the thoughts he had presented were enough to placate the ruthless monster and postpone his own execution.

Finally, the Dark Lord spoke, 'I have received some interesting news lately, news that call your loyalty and competence into doubt, Severus. I continue to put my trust in you, even when so many of your brothers and sisters express their concerns regarding your true allegiance. Lord Voldemort remembers how useful the intelligence you've provided in the past was, and rewards his loyal servants accordingly… however, you have failed me repeatedly in the recent weeks, Severus. I have warned you of the consequences should you fail me again, and yet all I get is useless drivel!' The wizard whipped around sharply. Malevolent red eyes gleamed as Lord Voldemort took a step towards his servant, his flat nostrils flaring as he continued in his cold, unmerciful voice, 'I have been lenient. I have listened to your excuses and explanations, always giving you the benefit of the doubt, always choosing to believe that your devotion is sincere... '

Severus wished that the Dark Lord would make his point with every fibre of his being. He was not a religious man by any stretch of imagination, but in this moment, he prayed for it all to be over with. He continued to kneel, counting breaths, knowing that each one could be his last. Hopefully his death would be quick.

'Tell me, Severus. Have I not been kind to you? Have I not been accepting and forgiving? Have I not turned a blind eye to many of your shortcomings? Have I not taken you under my wing, taught you and shaped you into the brilliant wizard you are today? Tell me, Severus, have I done all these things in vain?'

Severus answered impassionately, 'My Lord, I swear that I have done everything in my power to serve you in the best way I know how. Without your favour I would be nothing more than a Potions teacher, less than that even. Tell me how I have failed you so that I may serve you better in the future and make most earnest amends now.'

Voldemort chuckled bitterly and shook his head with theatrical regret. 'Such beautiful words, and yet I remain unconvinced. You see, Severus, your brothers have conducted a raid on a shop belonging to one Abundantius Butterfield… an ancient scrolls dealer, you may have heard of him. He wrote that disgusting piece on the Muggle education system. As I was saying, your brothers were looking for one particular scroll, but found something infinitely more valuable. Before old Abundantius gave up the ghost, he told Bellatrix here that the recipe for the Dark Essence had been found, and happens to be in Dumbledore's possession!'

Severus gasped, whipping his head up sharply at this news. The shock to his system was so great that he jumped to his feet, looking around the room as he processed this unexpected revelation. With eyes as wide as saucers, he stared dumbly at his Master for a long moment, his jaw opening and closing several times before he finally found his voice again. Finally, he managed to croak out, 'The… Dark Essence… My Lord?'

The Dark Lord nodded slowly in reply, as though he had just said the most obvious thing in the world. White as a sheet, Severus put one hand on his heart, his voice shaking with disbelief as he appealed, 'My Lord, I swear that I wasn't aware…! The Dark Essence… it is only a legend! Surely it can't be true? Dumbledore has been acting strangely, but I should have been the first he went to…'

A flicker of doubts flashed across Voldemort's face. 'Obviously, Dumbledore is not such a great fool after all, having chosen to keep this information from you, Severus… however, this begs a plethora of questions regarding your usefulness as my Spy…' He stepped closer to Severus, stage-whispering, 'I always believed it to be a legend myself, but it appears that the Essence does, in fact, exist.'

The whispers circulating around the room died instantly as Voldemort stood to his full height, turning to address the entire gathering. 'This has come as a great surprise to us all, brothers. In the past, I have searched high and low for information about the Dark Essence. From the fjords of Norway to the most remote corners of Russia, I have travelled far and wide to locate this elusive potion, alas, to no avail. Nobody could give me any answers, other than that it is merely an old wives' tale, and finally, and I had come to accept it as such… '

Severus was mesmerised, listening to the Dark Lord's speech as his mind reeled, one terrifying thought chasing another rapidly, threatening to spiral out of control. Light-headed and sick to the stomach, he prostrated himself on the floor once again, the edges of his vision blurring as he held onto the small tendril of hope that he would escape with his life one more time. As he listened, his brain was going into overdrive, constructing a desperate plan.

'... Is it not disappointing, and yet typical, that Dumbledore would choose to keep such a treasure to himself? He must be aware of the extraordinary properties of the Essence and the power it can bring. As far as I'm aware, nobody had ever managed to brew it to completion since its invention around the year 900. Dumbledore, in his arrogance, believes himself capable of unlocking its true potential.' Voldemort turned to address Severus specifically, 'When he has a formidable Potions Master at his disposal, with skills far superior to his own…'

Severus was consumed with dread as he considered the implications, his overtaxed brain breeding questions he dared not answer. As a Potions Master, he was aware of the legendary Essence, but never, not in his wildest dreams, believed it to be anything other than myth. Suddenly, Dumbledore's mysterious disappearances made sense.

As if sensing his thoughts, Voldemort continued, 'Indeed, it is a shame, and a massive waste, is it not? Just imagine the research you could do, Severus, if Dumbledore wasn't so entirely self-serving…' His voice hardened, 'I have every reason to believe that Dumbledore is trying to brew the Dark Essence. He will strive to extend his own power to infinity by stealing our magic, and the innocent souls of our children. He will either destroy us, or force us to live underground like rats, while he presides over his beloved Mudbloods and blood-traitors, hailed as an eternal hero. Make no mistake - his hypocrisy knows no bounds. He will use the Essence selfishly, and will undoubtedly turn his back even on Harry Potter.'

A collective gasp went up, and Voldemort paused for breath. He began pacing, his visibly agitated. 'He must be stopped. This is an opportunity which, if seized, will change the course of this war. If old Abundantius told the truth, a new dawn will break on the world. I will return magical people to their rightful stations as rulers and protectors. We will step out of the shadows and into the light of day, no longer fettered by the fears of old men in closed velvet rooms. It will be glorious!'

A roar of cheers broke out from the back of the room, reverberating from the marble floors and up to the decorative ceilings in a soaring wave of eager anticipation. The Dark Lord allowed this to continue for a long moment, basking in his servants' adoration, before holding up one hand. 'Let's not praise the day before sunset, brothers. Severus, you will go back and find out the truth. Dumbledore is a blind, conniving fool without an honest bone in his body, but I am willing to put my trust in you once more…'

Severus chanted, 'Thank you, my Lord. I will do everything I can.'

'I expect a detailed report at your earliest convenience, Severus. I admit that even I am reluctant to believe, however, I'm sure you can provide me with a definite answer.'

Severus muttered, 'My Lord is wise.' His tense body relaxed a fraction as relief washed over him. His execution has been postponed once again, and he would confront Dumbledore as soon as he was out of here, whether he would speak to him or not. He would force him to speak if he had to. He was about to ask to be dismissed, so he could get to work immediately, but it looked like the Dark Lord had other plans.

'But first… Brothers, before Severus arrived, I promised to enlist your help in his execution. I must inform you that this is no longer the case.'

Disgruntled muttering could be heard around the throne room, and the Dark Lord stepped up to the podium, turning to face his Death Eaters with a dramatic billow of his robes. 'Lord Voldemort is wise and values loyalty and talent. Severus had failed me, it is true. However, only he possesses the ability to uncover the truth.' He looked pointedly in the direction where, Severus assumed, stood Bellatrix Lestrange, 'I know some of you will be disappointed at this turn of events, but I urge you to remain focused on our goal. Severus must not be killed tonight.'

Voldemort dipped his head, his voice softening, 'However, I will not deny my Death Eaters their pleasure. As promised, Severus will be your entertainment for tonight. Severus, know this will hurt me more than you.'

Severus' breath hitched in his chest as sounds of approval echoed through the room. He could hear the approaching footsteps of the enthusiastic crowd. He could feel their bloodlust, curried to a fever pitch, pressing on him. Meanwhile, the Dark Lord sat down in his throne, petting Nagini with one hand. He seemed pensive, troubled as he casually waved his free hand, signaling for the revel to begin.

Rhys Millar stood at the back of the room, partly hidden behind a decorative sculpture of a warrior in a horned helmet, sitting on a horse with his sword raised high. The young man observed the proceedings with an odd mixture of bafflement and apprehension - as one of the newest recruits, he was eager to prove himself as a capable Dark wizard, but the idea of hurting his former Head of House, who had nurtured and defended him and his fellow Slytherins against the prejudice of Mudblood-loving traitors for the last seven years was utterly repulsive. Alas, he had no choice. He knew the drill. He would have to partake in this sadistic performance to ensure his own safety.

Swallowing thickly, Rhys abandoned his spot behind the sculpture and reluctantly stepped towards the centre of the room. Bellatrix Lestrange was already orchestrating the events, twirling from one side of the crowd to the other like an excited fly. Giggling in her harsh, high-pitched voice, she explained her plans to the attendants, waving her wand around like a choir mistress, urging people to move this way and that, so that everyone was able to participate without restrictions.

Rhys took his place on the outer edge of the broad semi-circle, among the other novices, and a quick glance told him that most of them obviously shared his discomfort, with jaws set tight and clenched fists, as though they too would rather not raise their wands on their mentor and protector. The older Death Eaters, however, were beside themselves with malicious glee. Rhys could read it from their faces that they were itching to begin casting curses at the condemned man.

Rhys shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Every revel was a display of unimaginable horrors, but Rhys could not understand why the Dark Lord would choose to punish his own so harshly. Hunting and torturing Muggles and Mudbloods was nothing but a bit of normal, harmless fun. It was natural. After all, their very purpose was to serve and entertain. This, however, was different. Wrong. The Death Eaters were supposed to be a brotherhood, supporting each other as they worked towards their common goal. If Professor Snape himself, one of the Dark Lord's most trusted servants in the Inner Circle, could be tortured like this, when would his own time come?

A raucous cacophony of cheering and whistling jolted Rhys back to the present. Fenrir Greyback stood in the centre, towering over Professor Snape, who was swaying on his feet, clutching the side of his face in his hand.

Bellatrix was jumping up and down nearby, cackling, 'Aw, Sevvy! Not so tall and proud now, are we?!'

The werewolf stood to his full imposing height and rose both arms in the air like a victorious gladiator, basking in the overwhelming sounds of approbation. Spurred on by the cheering, he bared his teeth in a predatory grin before taking another swing. He brought his fist down with tremendous force, punching the Professor in the chest. The impact sent him flying backwards, and he collapsed in a heap a few yards further.

Goyle Senior stepped forward. He was met with applause as he paused in front of Snape's huddled form, looking down at the panting wizard, apparently considering something. Then, he stepped back a few paces, and taking a run up for dramatic effect, he kicked the Professor soundly in the ribs. A strangled groan escaped his throat, and Rhys winced, grimacing as Snape's ribs yielded to Goyle's foot with a loud crack.

Bellatrix called out, 'Can someone improve his ugly nose? He's the spitting image of that filthy swine of a father of his. As if keeping it turned up so high could change that!'

Seconds later, all hell broke loose. Eager to get their share, Yaxley, Rowle and the Carrows joined in, jumping into the centre like a pack of famished hounds. Rowle forced Snape to stand, pulling him up by the hair, and threw a well-aimed punch at the Professor's nose. Snape staggered backwards, covering his face as blood began gushing out of his nose, only to be caught mid-fall by Amycus Carrow, who kicked him in the stomach with a loud huff of effort. Snape was then passed on to Yaxley, who spun him around and high-kicked him in the back, pushing him towards Goyle. Snape was tossed around like a sack of sand for a long time, until he collapsed in the middle of the ring of wizards.

Rhys started fidgeting, looking nervously around to catch the eye of the other novices. They all kept their gaze fixed on the Professor, but their drawn brows and narrowed lips indicated that many were struggling to remain composed. One novice, a Ravenclaw called Howie Edmunds, was positively green in the face, and Rhys hoped that, for his own sake, he wouldn't be sick there and then.

Snape was lying on his side, curled up in a ball, breathing laboriously. Rhys watched in fascinated horror as the man rose on shaky hands and knees with effort, his joints cracking audibly. His face, scrunched up in pain, was turning an ugly shade of purple, streaked with the ribbons of blood that poured out of his nose and mouth. One side of his face was massively swollen, and his jaw stuck out at an odd angle. Heaving, Snape screwed his eyes shut and started spitting blood, tainting the show-white floor with droplets of red.

Bellatrix, whose face shone like the sun as she watched the punch-up with an expression of sheer euphoria, skipped merrily into the middle and beckoned at the attendants, waving her hands in broad, welcoming circles. 'Gather round, children, don't be shy!' She chirped cheerfully, 'The big boys had their fun, and now they need a little rest, so it's your time to shine! Take out your wands, and auntie Bella will teach you how to play!'

Rhys felt a pang of nausea, but did as he was told, forcing himself to move against the horror that pushed heavily on his chest. All around him, Death Eaters old and new brandished their wands, ready to continue this vile show. Peter Pettigrew snickered as he traipsed towards the centre, looking like he was about to wet himself with excitement. Rhys glowered at the back of his head, wishing that he could drown the rat-faced coward in a spoonful of water.

Snape fell back onto his side, panting and wheezing. So far, he had not screamed once. His black eyes, barely visible beneath the swollen bruises, were clouded over with pain, but the man was undefeated, facing his fate with indescribable bravery. Rhys regarded his battered form with sorrow. His respect for the Professor soared in that moment.

As the Death Eaters reorganised themselves in a broader circle and Bellatrix explained the proper casting of the Cruciatus Curse in great and gruesome detail, Mrs Malfoy took the opportunity to scuttle over to where Snape lay. Whizzing around him like a silvery sprite, she pointed her wand at the Professor, muttering incantations in a shaky voice. Rhys guessed that the hostess must have been trying to heal him, her lips drawn into a narrow line of obvious disapproval. Considering that her husband had fallen out of favour, imprisoned and disgraced, Rhys thought that the woman must have been extremely brave, or foolish, to show her displeasure in the Dark Lord's presence.

Snape did not react at all to Mrs Malfoy's ministrations. He ignored her questions of, 'Are you alright? How are you feeling?', and continued to lie as still as his injured body allowed, waiting for the next round of torment. His disfigured face was impossible to read, but Rhys suspected that his thoughts mirrored his own. He snorted under his breath, wondering what it was that Mrs Malfoy expected to hear. It was quite obvious that Professor Snape was far from alright. As Rhys briefly caught the Professor's eye, he found that he had to look away, consumed by the feeling of utter helplessness.

Bellatrix's piercing squeal made him look up sharply. The rabid witch widened her stance, her ugly, crooked wand pointed at Snape. She exclaimed joyously, 'Now that my dear sister has finished messing about, let me show you how it's done. Can everybody see me?'

A murmur of agreement broke out around the room, and Bellatrix beamed at her audience, delighted to be the centre of everybody's attention. 'Good. Now, watch and learn, children, watch and learn!' She leaned in dramatically, a black widow ready to attack a defenceless insect. In a great show of exaggerated concentration, she narrowed her black, heavy-lidded eyes before crying out, 'Crucio!'

Professor Snape had a split second to visibly brace himself, eliciting an amused giggle from Bellatrix. As the wizard began to jerk and twitch uncontrollably, Rhys found that he too had tensed in sympathy, staring wide-eyed at the distressing image of his Head of House, flailing about like a fish out of water, his limbs curling up on themselves as though he tried to escape the unbearable agony that twisted his body almost to breaking point. Rhys held his breath, half-expecting to hear the sound of breaking bones, amazed that the man still refused to scream. His principles began to shatter, his ideals tumbling down like a house of cards as he watched the Dark witch whom he had admired so greatly, laughing hysterically as she tortured one of their own more ferociously than she did Mudbloods. This was not the typical punishment that a Death Eater could expect for failing to fulfill his duties. This was a twisted show of dominance that went against the laws of nature, against the sense of brotherhood and common purpose that had been used to lure him into this madness. Yes, he could see it with painful clarity. He had walked into this trap blindly, like an unquestioning child led to his doom by the Pied Piper of Hameln. This was his life now. The cave was shut now, and there was no escape.

One by one, the Death Eaters shuffled forward to cast their curses at Professor Snape. Flashes of green, red and purple flew through the air, dissipating into clouds of shimmering sparks as they violently collided with the wizard's body. Peter Pettigrew stood over Snape now, sniggering as he hit him with short, repeated bouts of Cruciatus, whilst the Carrow siblings were busy arguing over who would go first, waving their fat, dirty hands in each other's faces.

The youngest recruits joined in now as expected. Some of them made a token effort at casting a weak Cruciatus, figuring that scoring points was in their best interests, although without much enthusiasm. Those who have never cast Unforgivables before pretended to still be incapable, and opted for lesser hexes and jinxes instead, inflicting minor burns and scratches. Bellatrix seemed beside herself with glee, and looked like she was going to start handing out gold stars and sweets.

Soon it was Rhys' turn. Chanting mental apologies, he hit the Professor with a Stinging Hex to the shoulder, feeling his ears burn with shame when Snape hissed, but did not look up. Any contempt Snape might have felt towards him paled in comparison to the contempt Rhys felt towards himself. Before he had a chance to mouth his last apology, he was pushed aside by Joshua Barrett, a Gryffindor novice who, unlike the rest of them, seemed very eager. Barrett's twisted grin made it very clear that the lad could not wait to prove his worth. 'Move over, Millar! My turn!'

Barrett tensed in concentration, clenching so tightly that Rhys thought he was going to crap himself with the effort. The Cruciatus he cast was a rather pathetic attempt, and the sparks dissipated before they reached their target. Disgruntled, Barrett cussed under his breath, and made another try, this time casting a strong Diffindo. Rhys watched in dread as the spell sailed through the air, coming dangerously close to the Professor's neck. Barrett's Severing Charm missed, barely skimming the side of Professor Snape's head, but the fresh blood that began pouring down the wizard's ear neck made Rhys weak in the knees. Barrett walked away, looking somewhat pleased with himself, and the murderous glares of the other youngsters made it very clear that the Gryffindor would pay for this later.

The crowd ahead of Rhys parted as Draco Malfoy was led towards the centre by his aunt, who stood behind him with her long-nailed hands on his shoulders, whispering in his ear. Rhys could not hear what was being said, but judging by Draco's face, which was now a shade of green, it was not at all pleasant. Draco gulped visibly, and took a half-step forward, his hand shaking as he cast the curse.

When Draco lowered his wand a short time later, he looked on the verge of tears. Bellatrix spun him around and kissed him soundly on the cheek, gushing with appreciation. Rhys observed the pair, transfixed, and jumped when a loud 'Aaaaaaay!' rose among the audience. As his eyes darted to Professor Snape, he realised what caused the uproar. The wizard had vomited all over his robes.

Once again, Mrs Malfoy stepped in. Flicking her wand, she vanished the mess and cleaned Snape up as best as she could in the few stolen seconds she had. She bustled around, casting one healing spell after another, when Bellatrix whines, 'Oi, Cissy! You're destroying all of our hard work!'

Mrs Malfoy turned to face her sister, and raised her elegant chin in defiance. 'Our Lord said that he is not to be killed, Bella.'

A heavy silence fell on the room as heads whipped around to look at Lord Voldemort, who sat in his throne, fiddling his wand between his long fingers with an expression of mild boredom. He inclined his head at Mrs Malfoy, saying, 'Indeed, I have given explicit instructions to keep Severus alive. I must remind you all to not get carried away. Do not worry, Narcissa - Severus won't die in your home tonight. You may continue.'

The Death Eaters muttered amongst themselves as they moved out of the way, allowing Mrs Malfoy to carry on healing the Professor for a few minutes longer. She made a clumsy attempt at fixing some of the worst injuries, but it was obvious that healing was not her forte. Rhys, having a good grasp of the basics of healing, could only hope that she wasn't causing him any further discomfort, but dared not intervene.

Bellatrix tapped her foot impatiently. She shot her sister a nasty glare that spoke of intense anger and jealousy, and her voice dripped with mock-sweetness as she uttered patronisingly, 'There, Cissy, I think you've done all you can, and I think it's time to move on to the feast.' She looked around with a sly smile. 'I propose a toast!' She exclaimed, summoning a bottle of alcohol from a nearby table. 'To our brother Severus, and to loyalty!'

Rhys' mouth went dry. He knew what would happen next - he had seen it done enough times over the past weeks. He sent a silent prayer to Merlin as Professor Snape was hoisted up by Greyback and Yaxley, and led over to a nearby table laden with food and drink. There, Bellatrix stood waiting, a madman's grin plastered across her face.

When the Professor was dumped in the chair without ceremony, Bellatrix grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled his head back. Her eyes glittered as she shot an impish look at the Carrows, who rubbed their hands, chuckling dumbly like a pair of witless trolls. At Bellatrix's nod, the siblings moved to stand at either side of the chair and pried Snape's jaw open with their hands. Bellatrix made a great show of uncorking the bottle. It appeared that, in her twisted mind, she believed to be building up the tension, giving the audience the show of their lives.

She poured the contents down Snape's open mouth, squealing, 'Drink, brother! Drink and be merry!'

Her exclamation was punctuated with snorts and laughter, and Rhys stepped back, leaning against one of the many columns for support. He did not want to witness what he knew would be the ultimate humiliation of Professor Snape, but his eyes were glued to the scene as the man choked and spluttered, forced to drink to himself in this macabre parody of a party.

The Carrows, Yaxley, Greyback, Gibbon, Goyle and the ever-present Bellatrix surrounded the Professor in a tight circle. At Bellatrix's signal, they dragged him out of the chair and pushed him onto the table, face down. Rhys saw Bellatrix raise a questioning eyebrow at the Dark Lord, and turned his head in time to see him nod in response with a beatific smile. Then, it happened. Professor Snape was held down, and numerous hands grabbed at his robes, viciously tearing them off and throwing them across the floor.

When Greyback moved to position himself behind the wizard, Rhys felt that he couldn't take any more, and had to look away.

Seconds later, Snape finally began to scream.