xxii. the third floor corridor
Severus barely noticed the roaring over the sudden agony devouring his hand.
Not now, he snarled in the confines of his own mind as his fingers curled in upon themselves, nails digging into the fleshy mound of his palm, and Severus slammed his arm against one of the slick dungeon walls to reassert a measure of control over the limb. Weeks had passed without so much as a single twinge of pain—now this.
The roaring, he realized, was not the enraged shouting in his skull. No, it echoed in the narrow passages delving beneath the school, down deep into the perilous, untraveled oubliettes and locked chambers where the manacles still hung on the walls, the stones branded with runes long since consumed by time's avarice. The sound grew fainter, and as Severus straightened, a figure appeared in the green torchlight.
He sucked in a breath as another figure from another time overlaid itself on that youthful face, and he was torn between reaching for his wand and dropping to his knees. Welcome, Severus….
"Snape!" Slytherin snapped once his first attempts to get Severus' attention failed. "Snape, the beast's above us now."
Severus straightened again, then nodded. The image in his mind faded. They whirled about and ran for the stairs, Slytherin quick to overtake him, but Severus let him go, not wanting to give the other man his back. After all, who would have the skills and wherewithal to let a bloody troll into Hogwarts if not Slytherin? Snape didn't trust him—at all. Was this some kind of ploy? What was he up to now?
Minerva joined them in the entrance hall, appearing from the shallower dungeons where the kitchens and Hufflepuff dolts dwelt. The older witch was spry for her age and managed to keep up with Slytherin's demanding pace, the portraits following their progress through the empty corridors. The roaring had silenced itself.
Ahead, Severus heard a familiar and totally unwelcome voice.
Is that fucking Longbottom? he asked himself—and indeed, the three professors found Longbottom and his duped fellowship standing about like thrice-Stunned garden gnomes with their wands all but stuffed up their noses, as if they knew how to do anything with them besides cast Tickling Charms or bloody Levitate. He didn't have to look at Minerva to feel the impetus of her fear and rage.
What caught Severus' eye was the troll itself, laying spread eagle on the floor caught halfway out the doorway to what looked like a girls' lavatory. For one nausea-inducing minute, Severus thought Longbottom and his idiot groupies had downed the savage creature. How was that possible? He ignored Slytherin's sniping and Minerva's sputtering, ignored the four Gryffindors and studied the hulking mound of gray flesh, nostrils flaring against the foul odor.
Its skin lacked color naturally, but a new pallor had overtaken the thick folds of dry, mottled epidermis. Its movements were listless and automatic—twitches, really, the final impulses of a body giving way to a mind that could no longer control the heavy arms and stumpy legs.
"We defeated the troll," Longbottom proclaimed. Arrogant little shite.
"Did you now? Unless you're carrying around a deadly poison, Mr Longbottom, I highly doubt that."
Severus flattered himself in thinking he knew quite a bit about poisons. It was for this knowledge he'd been originally brought to the Dark Lord's attention, after all, and while Severus would always regret that decision, he wouldn't regret what he learned while suffering Voldemort's unique brand of tutelage. He'd heard it said in the Muggle world that poison was the weapon of women—but in the Wizarding world, everyone knew poison was the tool of Slytherins.
This didn't manifest like a poison. A troll would have to ingest massive quantities of any toxic plant—and trolls were carnivorous by nature. They didn't eat plants, and most common poisons wouldn't present themselves in this manner. Aconite, for example, would induce sickness first, shut down the respiratory system, then attack the heart. Breathing difficulties were a common symptom among most harmful ingredients. The troll's tongue was swollen, the inside of its disgusting mouth blackening, the eyes swelling with blood. If Severus had to guess, he wouldn't guess poison. He'd say this was caused by—
Venom.
Blood not belonging to the troll speckled the floor. Slytherin didn't notice it, not with his head stuffed so far up his own arse. None of the Gryffindors were hurt. They'd clearly arrived at the scene to find the troll half-dead and Longbottom decided to take credit—a reminder that had Severus grinding his teeth. The blood led away from them, across the passage to a…broom cupboard.
Venom. What kind of venom—?
A sudden recollection struck Severus dumb. "Miss Potter, are you aware there is a highly venomous snake tucked into your bloody shirt?!"
"He's my familiar, Professor."
His lungs burned for air but Severus couldn't bring himself to breathe past the knot in his throat. He thought he might literally spit fire, because if he didn't, he'd have to swallow it down and combust from the inside.
She wouldn't. She FUCKING WOULDN'T—!
Albus was there and speaking to Severus. When the hell had the Headmaster arrived?
"Severus?"
"I think we should do a bed check, Headmaster," he whispered, too furious to speak. "Just in case."
He'd check Slytherin House himself. Severus didn't give a fuck if he wasn't Head anymore, that he hadn't been for years. He'd check the dorms and if Potter's spawn wasn't there, he'd wring her bloody neck himself for risking her fucking life! He'd make death by troll seem like a fluffy alternative to his rage. How dare she!
Albus dismissed the others and, taking the sudden opportunity, Severus went for the cupboard only to have the Headmaster grab his arm. Albus squeezed with enough strength to break through the Potions Master's seething mood. Severus remembered that he had more to do here, a role to play, especially at this critical junction, and he couldn't lose his head.
Yet.
"As you wish, Albus."
Severus turned his back on the Headmaster and the dead troll and the broom cupboard. He sank his worries and speculations on the matter into the frigid stillness of his Occlumency shields, allowing the cold waters to overcome him inch by inch, quenching the spark of his fury, his terror, his uncertainty. He sent it all down into the abyss so that by the time he rejoined Slytherin in the entrance hall, his face was perfectly placid and his mind empty as a Gryffindor's skull.
"Well, this is a promising development," Slytherin said as he fell in step with Severus and the two wizards walked to the marble staircase.
"The prospect of students being crushed by a mountain troll is promising, is it?" Severus drawled in response.
The Defense teacher's lips curled in the mockery of a smile. "As if you'd mourn the loss of Longbottom."
Severus said nothing. No, he wouldn't miss Longbottom if the boy dropped dead, especially if he met a sticky end as a result of his own foolhardy stupidity, but only a sociopath like Slytherin—like Gaunt, like Voldemort, like Riddle—would see children being crushed by a troll as just another hurdle to overcome. Only a sociopath like Slytherin would let a bloody troll into a school as a distraction.
They mounted the moving steps and Severus tapped the railing with his wand, sending the stairs upward toward the third floor. "You believe he's taken the bait then…my Lord?"
"Naturally, Severus. He wouldn't be able to resist. After all, if anyone could understand Voldemort's mind, it would be me." Slytherin then shifted and removed his own wand from his sleeve. Not his wand, of course, not in truth. His fingers traced the wand's the length and Severus heard the other wizard sigh.
He wisely chose not to comment.
The brazier kindled itself when he and Slytherin stepped from the stairs to the waiting corridor and paced to the final door. A simple lock of crude Muggle designed blocked the path and a thoughtless motion of Slytherin's hand opened the way. They entered the third floor antechamber. The silence resounded through the empty space.
There was nothing—no one—there.
Slytherin sucked air through his teeth, displeased. "What a pity."
Severus stood to the side as the other professor strode to the trap door situated in the room's middle. Slytherin flicked his wand in wordless incantation and the invisible wards came into relief, gold and crimson and blue, spiraling in meticulous nets of runes and old magic even Severus hadn't heard of before. This was Albus' work; the wards gleamed with purity, the same fragile purity the bled from a Patronus and filled up a person's heart with joy and relief and love.
An irked scoff left Slytherin as he stepped back from the ward, and Severus squeezed his eyes shut, holding tight to his Occlumency skills.
"No luck, then?" Dumbledore asked from the doorway. Severus spared a thought for how swiftly the Headmaster seemed to move through the school, but then again he was Headmaster, and had been working at Hogwarts for far longer than Severus or Slytherin—in any iteration of self—had been alive.
The House of Serpents alumni didn't respond to Albus as he entered the chamber and quickly shut the door behind himself, the lock clicking home with a heavy thunk. Slytherin drifted from the trapdoor to a darker edge of the interior, the motion silent as ever, his wand still held in loose fingers. Severus watched him, and he watched the Headmaster as the elder wizard began to check his own wards.
"Ah!" Dumbledore said and Severus started. "Perhaps we had more luck than we thought."
Slytherin slid forward without another word. Albus smiled at him—smiled at him like how he used to smile at Severus in the early days, a cruel curve of pity and reservation begging stupid sinners to repent, to recede again into the Dark or burn themselves in his light. "Though, I take it you didn't catch that, did you, Tom? No, not when you close yourself to magic like this—the magic and the possibilities it holds."
"Enough of your pedantic prattling, old man," Slytherin spat. "Did someone attempt to breach the corridor or not?"
"Yes," Dumbledore replied without missing a beat. "It wasn't you, was it, Tom?"
Cracks began to appear in Slytherin's calm facade, hairline thin and not always visible, but Severus was adept in studying people and he could sense the angry snap of energy surrounding the Defense professor. Albus referred to him as "Tom" constantly and consistently much to Slytherin's consternation, widening the cracks in his persona in an attempt to pour light on the nasty little creature hiding behind that handsome face.
Then Slytherin stilled himself and smiled.
"No. As you are well-aware, Dumbledore, I have no need for the Philosopher's Stone."
Severus fought the urge to roll his eyes. No one needed the bloody Stone; they simply wanted it, wanted what it could offer, and Dumbledore knew Voldemort, that half-alive thing that mostly died exactly ten years ago that very evening, would want the Stone more than any other person in existence. It wasn't as difficult to understand the Dark Lord's mind as Slytherin supposed it to be. Truly, the desires of the power hungry were disgustingly myopic.
Who the fuck actually wants to live forever?
No, the real question was why Slytherin wanted Voldemort apprehended in the first place. Severus assumed it was because recruiting snotty little cretins to the Dark Arts became unquestionably more difficult when there was a mad Dark Wizard on the loose spreading anarchy, slaughtering Muggles and pure-bloods with little discrimination. The farther removed he was from all speculations on Voldemort, the more Slytherin legitimized himself, the more trustworthy he became. The deadliest of fruits and lies tasted the sweetest, and the very worst poisons Severus had hidden in his stores were subtle things that did the worst damage long before the toll became detectable.
"Then we will suppose his agent has come to inspect the situation, at the very least. A troll. How very imaginative." Dumbledore stroked his beard. "Should he—or she—attempt to break my wards, they'll be sent into a nice cozy sleep. Unbreakable, of course, unless given the proper antidote." Here, he nodded at Severus with a look akin to pride. Severus wanted to sink into a hole and never be found.
Slytherin frowned. "He's not stupid, Dumbledore," he said as he gestured at the trapdoor. "Mad; yes, stupid; no. He might see through this…ruse. He might realize the Stone isn't being kept here. You are almost too flagrant in flaunting the knowledge of its location. At the very least, he will be reticent to break wards he doesn't understand."
"I know. He won't try again until he feels more confident, but confidence is the armor of the wise man and the folly of the ignorant. Voldemort will lose patience and he will try again. I know this. I know him." Half-moon spectacles gleamed in the low light. The look their venerable Headmaster bestowed upon Professor Slytherin could have made Hit Wizards weep. "I know you, Tom."
"And you're just as predictable, Albus." Slytherin started for the door and unlocked it with a twitch of his hand. "We shall see how this unfolds and how far my assistance will extend. Come, Severus, we have a House to count heads in."
Severus—the well-heeled, if ill-mannered, dog that he was—followed him out of the chamber, though not without sharing a final glance with the Headmaster.
Watch him, said that searching look. Watch him closely.
As if there was another choice.
