clxiv. a measure of quality
The echoing crack of Apparition fell short in the dense woodland as Severus appeared among the summer-ripe lingonberry bushes.
He didn't move for several minutes. He lingered there in the bracken, staring down at the flat, chiseled flagstone partly buried in the weeds, a marker to assist wizards and witches in visualizing the proper spot to appear. He felt like a man with one foot on the gallows' step, hesitating for more time before the inevitable farce began.
Enough of this maudlin twaddle.
Severus shifted, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck, shaking off the pained slouch he'd fallen into over the day. He curled each finger of his right hand into his palm one by one, then extended them, forcing the screaming tendons extending past his wrist to contract and stretch. It was a miracle he could move the hand at all.
Slytherin threw a fit on his last visit, and Severus had only partially dodged the curse that glanced his arm. Despite his best attempts, he hadn't been able to find the counter, the spell either too esoteric or existing purely in the Dark Lord's head, though his efforts in quickly cobbling together a Dittany potion spliced with Murtlap Essence had managed to stop the bleeding. Nevertheless, the wound persisted, and if he couldn't heal it, Severus would have to go to Dumbledore before it became septic.
Merlin save me from that.
The grass under his boots had been trodden on already, flattened by heavy footsteps, and Severus walked through the dark without the need to light his wand. The wards ahead of him buzzed like the angry hive of a thousand hornets, and he lifted his wounded limb to the paunchy surface, letting the old blood on his skin serve as the needed sacrifice. The buzzing abated, and he stepped through the transparent bubble with little thought, continuing from the weeds to the cobbled path leading higher up the mountain.
The Tor, as the Sangforts had named their ancestral home, clung to the precipice of upland rocks, fringed in thick, overgrown trees—located not terribly far from Hogwarts, on the far side of the Forbidden Forest. Severus always thought it ironic, considering none of the Sangforts ever had or ever would enroll in Hogwarts; the local dearth of Dark magic meant the old family vastly preferred Durmstrang.
The manor itself stood limned in summer moonlight, looking very ghoulish, like something out of an old Muggle film about vampires haunting Gothic houses. It did little to impress Severus, who would have been pleased if the whole place were to simply slide off the cliff into the deep canyon below.
As he climbed the steps, he concentrated on his shields, letting the cold, unmoving waters of his Occlumency subsume his mind until his emotions slumbered in the depths of his mental sea. It was a pretty way of saying he felt nothing at all as he crossed the stone courtyard to the main doors, and a downtrodden elf allowed him access to the house.
He could hear the voices and laughter from the foyer, and the noise only grew louder as Severus approached the main dining hall. He emerged below the mezzanine to survey the room, the high, mullioned windows overlooking the canyon, the crystal chandelier, the long walnut table inlaid with gold. The accouterments gave the scene a posh tinge, like a Malfoy ball, but Severus knew the family's fortune had dwindled—both in the metaphoric and physical sense—thanks to Slytherin's desired tithes. Cladius had a sense for money, and Severus knew he had to be hiding a sizable chunk of it from the Dark Lord.
A lull in the conversation preceded the turn of Slytherin's head, the seemingly young wizard lounging at the head of the table, unaffected. Red eyes found Severus lurking as he was prone to do, and a smile split Slytherin's handsome face. "Severus! How nice of you to join us. I had worried you'd be late."
He'd timed his arrival carefully, avoiding being unaccountably rude while also missing the majority of the meal—something he always avoided in mixed company. His immunity and gained tolerance for most poisons didn't rule out new hybrids, and the injury to his forearm made his hand shake something fierce when he tried to grip flatware or a quill. Severus wasn't about to sit at a table with a bunch of Dark sycophants and tremble, for Merlin's sake.
"Apologies, my Lord. A delicate brew demanded my attention."
"Of course." Slytherin's attention thinned, already bored with Severus' excuses. "Come, join us."
Around the table, faces turned to the Potions Master as he approached an open seat.
"Oh, joy. The half-blood is here," Gauthar Sangfort muttered in an undertone to his wife, Nefaria, the light-haired pair hiding their mouths behind their crystal wine glasses.
"The stink of him," Nefaria complained. Severus reeked of sweat and emulsified potions ingredients, having not given a thought to changing after spending a night in agony and a day bent over a cauldron, half-insensible from potent analgesics. Most everyone else in attendance had donned their best; Severus wore the same clothes he always wore, this particular pair of robes speckled in blood and potions.
He blinked. When did I last sleep?
Severus pretended he hadn't heard them and seated himself, letting his gaze drag along the table and register who had come to this farce. Ernest Nott, Theodore's elderly father, sat in attendance with his third wife, Rosetta, as did Mathias Avery, Hekter Flint, Silas Burke and his sister Huldah, and Alden Rosier. Cladius, Gauthar's father, was deep in his cups—or so he let everyone think—and Cicero Aeter had stolen a seat by Slytherin's side, leaning closer to speak in low, hushed tones, as if he had a secret. Severus almost snorted, given Cicero never amounted to anything more than a sleazy legend chaser and a distraction.
I guess I should be thankful for that, he thought, ignoring the wine that appeared before him. Anything that distracts Slytherin from his designs should be cherished indeed….
Younger faces dotted the peripheries of the table—fodder for the Knights of Walpurgis, Hogwarts alumni every last one of them, mostly from the House of Slytherin, though the odd Gryffindor or Hufflepuff had joined the corp. Funnily enough, Ravenclaws didn't usually succumb to Tom Slytherin's guile; too strange, he'd once told Severus. Too prone to following their own whims.
Severus thought they'd all be a lot better off if they were all as weird as the Lovegood girl. The chit hung some radishes from her ears, and Slytherin looked the other way.
That didn't spare her from the Diadem, though.
His attention snagged on a new face sitting to Slytherin's right and paused.
"You remember Cobalt Selket, don't you, Severus?" the Defense instructor asked, a hand coming to settle on the young boy's arm—and Selket was just a boy, despite graduating in 1990. His shoulders rounded under his uncertainty, his round face flushed with the tentativeness of youth—the kind that lingered in some despite the years. Severus named it ignorance on his best days, and the rest of the time simply referred to it as stupidity.
Yes, he remembered Selket. He remembered sternly advising him to take a position on the Continent, thus firmly removing himself from the Dark Lord's temptations, and yet here he was.
You stupid, stupid boy.
Severus inclined his head and looked away. Conversations continued, and he distantly felt the disdain of the others when they glanced in his direction. Their distaste slid off of him like an Impervius Charm; none of it touched his consciousness, not as deeply embedded as it was in his being, and Severus' distinct lack of emotion bored the others, so they paid him little mind. He made motions as if drinking his wine while none of it actually crossed his lips. His wounded armed flared each time the muscles moved.
Pure-blood arseholes, he thought in a voice that sounded far too much like Potter's. He swatted it aside.
From the far head of the table, Cladius got to his feet and swayed slightly as he came down the line. He performed his little display with mastery, putting enough effort into his steps to be noticeable but with enough subtlety to not exaggerate. He gripped the back of Severus' chair, aged fingers curling into the carved wood, and affected a weak hiccup.
"Aye, Snape. I've had a bit too much tipple. Got anything for a poor drunkard stashed away there?"
Across the table, Gauthar sucked air through his straight teeth and hissed, "For Circe's sake, father."
Ignoring their genteel squabbling, Severus snapped his fingers and summoned the requisite vial from his robes. Oh, it certainly had the appearance of Hangover Relief if anyone at the table thought to take a glance at it, as Severus had specifically engineered the recipe to mimic the look. Cladius accepted the vial with entitled gratitude—the kind his poncy breed of pure-bloods always expressed towards half-bloods and the like—and drank it down, straightening his back.
"Much better. My thanks, Master Snape."
Severus nodded—one solid jerk of his chin—and placed the vial back in his pocket.
To most in society, Cladius Sangfort was an affable drunk and respected rune augmenter, a flighty and superficial character warranting a few off chuckles at gatherings—but Severus knew better. The eldest Sangfort was a Dark wizard who struck a deal with the devil when Tom Riddle had only just left Hogwarts, making him an original Knight of Walpurgis and Death Eater. Whether a person was a Knight or a Guardian or a Death Eater, they did not usually last long. Cladius' longevity alone spoke of his influence and cunning.
As did the fact that he had a secret no one but Severus had ever sussed out.
About half a decade ago, Severus noted a peculiar and distinct smell clinging to the wizard's robes, an odor belonging to a very narrow subset of mixtures, one of which fitted a tincture prescribed for Fibulus Fever—a magical autoimmune disease that caused brittle bones. It wasn't something Severus would usually concern himself with—but the Dark Lord abhorred…weakness. He culled those with infirmity from his ranks, and so Severus understood Sangfort was keeping a very naughty secret from his Lord to spare his own neck. How very Slytherin, for a man who'd never set foot in Hogwarts.
Severus had approached Cladius with a proposition; in exchange for discreetly brewing and providing the needed potion, Sangfort occasionally sent an owl the Potions Master's way, detailing when Slytherin decided to frequent the Tor, who he brought with him, and what kind of discussion went on behind Severus' back. In return, Severus conveniently forgot all about the man's disease.
Under the table, Severus tapped an impatient finger against his thigh as Cladius returned to his seat. He had heard nothing of Selket being recruited, and Cladius had not reported new visitors. How many others had Severus heard nothing about? Was this a reflection of his standing? An unforeseen backsliding in Slytherin's trust?
None of his ruminations reflected on his still face. Severus did what he did best; he sat and waited and listened. He listened to the idle gossip and the truth it concealed. Mentions of the Ministry and its various departments outlined an increased interest in Gaunt's activities among the Knights, but Severus didn't detect any whiffs of dissension. Most of those who had a seat at that table were clever enough to never hint toward any wavering sentiment. Slytherin's more pointed question to Nefaria about her daughter Elinor's time at Durmstrang revealed his own interest in how Gaunt's attentions had turned to Hogwarts with the Triwizard Tournament.
Overall, Severus felt he was going to have a very bad year.
"A pity Erroneous couldn't attend," Slytherin said, patting his mouth with a napkin. "But business called him away."
Or, more succinctly, spying on Gaunt left Erroneous Pyrites too busy to come lick Slytherin's boots this evening. Severus wished his own duties reporting on Dumbledore would excuse him as well, but it being summer didn't give him much excuse to be near the venerable wizard.
Slytherin rose, black robes falling about him in a puddle of bespoke, gilded silk. "Severus, a walk."
With a simple bow of his head, Severus stood to follow the shorter wizard wherever he wished to go—and, in this instance, Slytherin merely moved them to the mezzanine, a more shadowed venue from where the Dark Lord could survey his pawns scattered below. Severus remained a respectful distance away as Slytherin leaned a casual hand on the railing and the chandelier poured gossamer golden light on his profile, the rest of him plunged into the heavier dark of the mezzanine. Red eyes swiveled to survey Severus, unknown thoughts swirling behind them.
Whenever Slytherin looked at him like that—with silent, indolent speculation—Severus considered he might be about to die.
"You have something to tell me, Severus?"
"A minor development."
"Oh?"
"Guardianship over the Granger girl switched hands," Severus reported. "The specifics of the situation are unclear, but she has apparently become a ward of the Blacks, removed from the Malfoys' purview."
"Erroneous has already brought this to my attention," Slytherin said, the reprimand clear as Severus forced his neck to bend in acknowledgment. "But he is closer to the source, as it were. I would have been very unhappy with him had you brought this to me first."
A pity, Severus thought, lips threatening to curl in a snide smirk. But, then again, Albus would wish for me to enable Erroneous Pyrites, not bring him down. Pyrites undermined Gaunt on Slytherin's behest, and of the two nefarious men, Gaunt flexed his power in more ostentatious, dangerous ways. He needed more checks because, for all that Slytherin's machinations often proved insidious and devastating, they were survivable.
Usually.
"It is an interesting turn of events," Slytherin remarked as he crossed his arms. "The sneaky little Mudblood is safely tucked away from Gaunt's sticky fingers. Naturally, she was the weakest point of access to Potter for the Ministry and the misguided Guardians. I bet Dumbledore is well pleased with himself." A contemplative mien settled over Slytherin's expression, and the sudden urge to shove him from the balcony almost overcame Severus. It bucked against his shields like some deepsea swelling creature picking at the ice. He quickly posed a question.
"Cobalt Selket, my Lord? I am…surprised."
"Ah," Slytherin said, waving a hand, glancing at the boy in question. He still seemed uncertain of his place there—but also eager, greedy for the easy privilege displayed before him. Poor dead fool. "I know. Not up to my usual standards, true. I doubt he'll last long, but he'll have his uses." An unaffected sigh escaped him, and Severus' hands twitched in the long sleeves of his robes. "I despair of finding quality in the dregs I am allowed to nurture. If only the Headmaster would do us the great honor of kicking off over his kippers in the morning…."
Slytherin turned to him, and the only warning he received was the ghoulish glow of crimson eyes in a shadowed face before Slytherin's hand snaked out like a viper and grabbed his arm. The pain of careless fingers digging into his wound drove Severus to his knees, but he didn't utter a single sound of protest.
"That is what I like about you, Severus," Slytherin crooned. "You're quality, for all that you have aggrieved me so over the years." His other hand touched Severus' rigid face, thumb brushing the scars by his left eye. "But you learn well, and you've lasted while so many others have…displeased me. Where they have proven themselves worthless, you rise above. Most of the time, at least." Again, his thumb passed by Severus' false eye, and the nail scratched against the scar tissue. His fingers continued to dig into his arm with unflagging strength. Blood pattered on the dull carpet.
Severus continued to look forward with a blank, unfeeling stare, and Slytherin leaned closer.
"Gaunt wants to play in my school, and I'm supposed to make do with the likes of Cobalt Ssselket?" He laughed, cold and high, his answering smile as cruel as Dumbledore's was kind. "No. I need a bit more than that, and if I cannot find quality, why not make it myself?"
Severus did not entirely follow his deranged line of thinking, but he memorized the words nonetheless. "I will do as my Lord wishes."
"Yes, you will, won't you?"
His fingers relaxed, and Slytherin passed his hand over the interior of Severus' forearm. Magic prickled against the Potions Master's skin, and he felt the wound knit itself closed under the unvoiced counter-curse, taking the lingering agony with it. Blood stopped seeping into his sleeve.
"Thank you, my Lord."
"That is the only reward you shall receive for me." Slytherin surveyed his hand, eyes half-closed as he rubbed the red gore between his fingertips. "Do not appear so disheveled in my presence again."
"Of course, my Lord."
"Get out of my sight until I have need of you again."
Bowing once more, Severus stood and swept away. He did not wait to see Slytherin lick the blood from his skin.
xXx
Hours later, sequestered in his office at Hogwarts, Severus pondered over Slytherin's words for the hundredth time.
"If I cannot find quality, why not make it myself?"
"But to what end?" he breathed, brow furrowed. "And what evil does it mean for the rest of us?"
Silent again, he withdrew a bound leather ledger from the bottom drawer of his desk, unwinding the clasp to lay it open on the surface. He flipped through the yellowing pages of cheap parchment, surveying the lines until he paused upon a page marked "1990" is own spidery script. There, he slid his finger down the list to the name "Cobalt Selket."
With little emotion, Severus picked up his inked quill and crossed the name out.
He closed the book, and as the pages fluttered, he pretended he didn't see the dozens upon dozens of similar names dismissed with other, foreboding slashes.
Severus pretended it didn't make him feel like he was dying a little more every day.
A/N: The Sangfort and Aeter families are OC characters I use in some of my others fics. You might recognize the Aeter name from The Theory of Magic, if you've read it. I don't have anything with the Sangforts published atm, so this is their first appearance technically. They're not particularly important characters, but they do flesh out Slytherin's Knights a bit more.
Slytherin: "That is what I like about you."
Severus: "My winning personality?"
Slytherin: "…No."
