liv. on the devil's shoulder
Hogwarts' empty halls echoed with a yearning, desperate silence that reflected Severus' every breath and every step with exacting mimicry.
Severus himself yearned for the silence ten months out of every year, more than grateful for what simple measure of peace he could find in the time between the dunderheads' departure and his looming responsibilities. Hogwarts, in contrast, was barren and empty, longing for the return of her children in the fall, and when he brushed his fingertips against the stone wall, he could feel the sentience of a thousand years of magic saturation rippling under his touch, rising, trickling into his palm and mind.
Because Severus, to his chagrin, was very much still a child to a castle older than Merlin himself.
He stood for a time in the shadows between the sunlit cloister windows and drew strength from the castle and the quiet, his dark eyes closed, his thoughts and emotions and memories shifting in the black, frozen depths of his Occluded mind. He sunk some memories deeper into the morass and lifted others, some limned in ice and hoarfrost, decoys to the quiet recesses where dangerous recollections buried themselves deep. Only when the ice extended to the shores of his consciousness did he open his eyes again.
Severus would pay a price for the Occlusion later; all or nothing, Albus had said when he first taught his budding spy how to Occlude and read minds. One cannot simply shift and displace their mental landscape without exacerbating cause and effect; suppressing natural emotion only served to deepen it later, like a Muggle pressure cooker, worsening his predisposition for being a bastard. When his shields thawed, he'd more surly and short-tempered than ever, and Potter and Black would most likely suffer the consequences of his mood at dinner. He could theoretically Occlude through the evening, but should his mind not find equilibrium before sleep, the nightmares would come again.
Severus wagered the brats would rather deal with his usual vitriol than his night terrors bringing down the house.
Rolling his shoulders back, the Potions Master departed the castle's warmth and delved into the dungeons below.
Slytherin wasn't hard to find; he mostly kept to the House from which he'd stolen his namesake, and when the students were gone, he frequented the subterranean common room and sprawled in the same winged armchair by the main hearth, a glass of elf wine in hand, his eyes fixed on the painting of a rowan tree hung above the mantel.
Though the man's time as a student had been far before Severus' own, the Potions Master needed little effort to imagine the wizard had been exactly as he was now; recumbent in that unofficial throne ceded to the most feared or respected Slytherin, the best seat in the house, as it were, near the warmest fire with the rest of the common room in sight, a position of power in the petty struggles of adolescence. Severus, of course, never sat there—nor did he care to.
"My lord," Severus drawled as he entered the room and came to stand in the periphery of Slytherin's vision. The other wizard waved him forward.
"Severus," he acknowledged. "Take a seat, won't you."
The Potions Master did as ordered, pulling his robes to one side with a practiced motion as he lowered himself onto one of the accompanying sofas. He studied the other wizard, jaw tight against recriminating thoughts, thinking that Slytherin was not so far removed in looks from the Dark Lord Severus had knelt to all those years ago. Slytherin was, after all, the same man, a clone of some kind, a homunculus perhaps—undoubtedly a creature of Dark magic, but essentially still Tom Riddle and maybe more Tom Riddle than Voldemort had been at the end. If such a thing were possible.
Time and hard-won wisdom had stripped the veneer and glamour from Severus' eyes; where he once saw pride, he saw only arrogance. Where he once saw power and prestige, he saw a well-dressed squatter, a malicious swindler, a liar, a thief. Neither Severus nor the Headmaster could roust the bastard from the castle, so he was an unequivocally powerful liar, but a liar all the same—a blight, a very slow poison taking root and rotting the magical world at its heart. The pernicious corruption of impressionable youths would be their destruction one day.
What a fucking moron he'd been to ever proffer his arm for Riddle's mark.
Slytherin said nothing for several minutes, content to take his time and finish his idle perusal of the painting and make the Potions Master wait. "Pleasant summer, Severus?"
"Yes, my lord. Busy, as well. The old man ensures I have little idle time on my hands."
"You know what they say about idle hands and the devil." Slytherin grinned and swirled his wine. Severus didn't tell him that expression was a Muggle euphemism. "He's just trying to keep you honest and on the path of righteous virtue, 'my dear boy.'" He laughed outright.
The corners of Severus' mouth quirked and he folded his hands together between his knees, the picture of relaxed and negligent, all thoughts of sneering and snapping and spitting at Slytherin kept well-hidden from the man and from himself. "Indeed. He did, however, happen to send me on a very…interesting errand the other day."
"Did he, now?"
"Yes, my lord." Severus drew his thumb over his knuckles, a calculated, thoughtful motion. "Forgive my impertinence, but I must ask if I've trodden on one of your many plans and haven't been informed."
Slytherin's expression sharpened. "Explain."
"The Headmaster sent me along to…clean up after a conflict between Gaunt's men and Harriet Potter's guardian." Not technically a lie, if one were to consider the chit's Horned Serpent in such a capacity. Of course, Severus wasn't about to tell Slytherin the girl was vulnerable, and it wasn't like Dogbane had the opportunity to report back on her whereabouts, thus eliminating the chance Slytherin had learned of her circumstances through a Ministry mole.
Slytherin set the wine glass down and leaned forward ever so slightly, and though he said nothing, his attention honed in on Severus like a snake spotting a juicy rat.
"It seems the Minister was curious to learn what had transpired with the girl in June."
The other wizard rose and stood over Severus, red eyes glinting. "And you believe I was foolish enough to impart this information to Gaunt?" He sneered the name with particular venom.
"It is not my place to believe anything as such, my lord. It is your information to do with as you will; I simply wish to know if I should be suppressing knowledge of the event, or if I have been remiss in knowing your wishes regarding the matter." The Potions Master's smooth, unctuous tone never wavered even as the skin about his eyes tightened in increments.
Slytherin bore his teeth and the wine glass sailed into the hearth without him touching it, shattering, the painted snake entwined in the rowan hissing in irritation. "Of course I want the information suppressed, you fool!" The wizard began to pace between the armchair and the glass-strewn hearth, making no sound but for his snarling and the swish of rippling cloth. "I did not want the girl brought to his attention anymore than it has been, let alone the Minister's. I seek to secure the girl's potential for the Knights—sssomeone seeks to play us. Someone dares share my secrets with Gaunt!"
It was as Severus expected, then. He knew Slytherin would "seek to secure" any of his House for the Knights of Walpurgis—his chosen name for his Death Eaters—so his specific attention on Harriet wasn't shocking, especially not after the scene they discovered in Albus' office. He hadn't been certain, however, whether Slytherin had fed information to his Dark Lord counterpart for some heretofore unknown and undoubtedly dastardly plan, or if the man had a leak in his network of sympathizers and confidantes.
It seemed Slytherin had been betrayed.
"An unfortunate, but ultimately worthless event for a traitor to play his hand on, my lord," Severus murmured, watching Slytherin round on him with murder in his red eyes, the Potions Master modulating his every word. "Quirrell's own incompetence and weakened state led to his demise. I would not lay any claims of prodigal ability at Potter's feet; she simply benefited from pure dumb luck."
The bastard was listening to him now, focused instead of idly hearing Severus, and so the younger wizard pressed his advantage, taking care not to lay undue suspicion. "A useful tool, to be sure, but not more so than her year mates. The traitor has extended his reach for fool's gold."
Slytherin smiled then, all sharp teeth and no guile, and though Severus didn't know if the wizard believed him about Potter's supposed worthlessness, he had successfully redirected his attention—for now. Slytherin had intimated far too much interest in Potter after June; whatever happened in that office, whatever new secret Albus was trying to bury, whatever had made the Headmaster pale and morosely reflective, Severus did not want bloody Slytherin privy to.
Not for the first time, he wished the girl had gone to a different House. Severus didn't know how to keep her from Slytherin's clutches. He didn't know if he could.
The Dark wizard sat in his chair again, a veritable king in his throne—one who didn't need a crown to remind a man he could grind him into so much dust beneath his heel. "Leave me," Slytherin ordered, and Severus didn't hesitate, standing from the couch and bowing his head before he strode from the room.
He didn't breathe again until he reached his own quarters.
X
The migraine pulsed white-hot behind his left eye, wreathing itself like Devil's Snare about his brain, and Severus could only press the side of the cool vial to his temple and mutter invectives under his breath until the potion kicked in. The bitterness of willow extract on his tongue matched his mood, and he swallowed it, shoving away all thoughts of Slytherin and traitors, unwilling to brood more upon the potentially dangerous situation.
If one suspects their boat has sprung a leak, they will search for the breach. Upon finding and fixing that leak, the very first thing a wise person would do is check for another.
In this droll metaphor, Severus was the second leak—much finer, much harder to find, but he didn't need some bloody idiot hemorrhaging information to bring Slytherin's discerning eye down upon him as well. The harsh truth of having a double-agent was knowing that agent fed information, however selective, to your enemies, and then deciding at what point that agent crosses the line between obedience and dissension. Severus came perilously close to the line again and again over the years. Slytherin's last warning to him had been losing his eye. There would be no second warning.
He tucked the vial into his robe pocket and crossed the room to the Floo, throwing in a pinch of silver powder. It was very nearly seven in the evening. Severus spoke the address and the pass phrase Albus had lifted from the poor blighter in the Department of Magical Transportation, then stepped through the whirling fire to the kitchen of Grimmauld Place.
The smell of Earl Grey overcame the choking soot, and Severus looked around to find Minerva seated at the table with a cuppa, staring into the milky liquid with a distant eyes.
"Are you their minder for the day?" he sneered, flicking the last bit of ash from his robes. The older witch lifted her head and arched a brow.
"Good evening, Severus," she said, ignoring his jibe, gesturing to the chair across from her. A brush of magic jerked it away from the table. "Tea?"
He considered declining with his usual aspersive snark, but in the end simply grunted and dropped into the seat, accepting a conjured cup and pouring himself a serving from the kettle. The two professors drank in silence, the oppressive quiet of the house coming to rest on their shoulders until Severus could little stand the resulting stillness. "So…how did the old fool guilt you into watching brats during your holiday?"
Minerva snorted and sipped her tea. "They're well behaved girls, quiet and studious—hardly brats," she commented, smirking. "Neither came out very much like their fathers, did they?"
"You mean arrogant, destructive, or deranged? No, I can't say they did. But there's still time for those symptoms to present themselves."
She tutted and lifted her gaze, letting it rove past Severus to the china hutch bearing ancestral plates, to the ancient kitchen and its aged cupboards. Someone had spelled the room clean and returned vigor to the furnishings, but it remained dimly lit, old-fashioned, and touched by the Dark. "I can see why Sirius turned out as he did, being raised in this place. Sometimes, no matter how we try, it's impossible to escape our roots."
Severus didn't want to talk about Sirius fucking Black. He didn't want to think about his own roots—about Tobias Snape and the back-end of Cokeworth, because if a privileged prat like rich, pretty boy Sirius couldn't escape his fate, then Severus had no chance at all. He tightened his grip on the teacup.
"I told Albus it's not right to keep the children here, even said I would house them at Elphinstone's old cottage in Hogsmeade, but the protections are sound and Miss Black is intractable."
You mean pig-headed and irritating. Severus wondered where Black had grown up, since it obviously hadn't been here. Potter once commented on Black's great-uncle, whom Severus knew for certain from Narcissa had enclosed himself in this wretched place after falling out with his remaining daughter, and so Black couldn't have been with Cygnus. Not for long, at any rate.
"An orphanage."
Blinking, Severus realized he'd spoken aloud—and Minerva had answered. "Pardon?"
"An Muggle orphanage in Wiltshire," she explained, lips pursed with her signature displeasure. "I checked the Book after Albus…." Pausing, Minerva seemed to struggle for the right word, a flush of anger in her cheeks, the Scottish brogue curling the edges of her voice. "After Albus told me about the Dursleys and asked for my assistance. I'm sure you know, but the letters that go out to incoming and ongoing students in the summer are automated by the Book and the Quill through a regiment of Protean Charms mimicking the first letter I write and the year's requirements set by the Board, and though I oversee that every letter goes out, I haven't the time to check and verify all the addresses."
"Perhaps you should make the time," Severus retorted with a measure of censure and anger, Petunia's memories rising like bile from the pit of his mind.
Minerva shot him a look, and yet didn't defend herself. "Yes. Perhaps I should. Miss Potter's address, as you've already learned, was listed for The Cupboard Under the Stairs. Miss Black's was listed as St. Giles' Institute in Wiltshire."
"And this didn't necessitate a visit from a representative?"
"No. She's a pure-blood; both her parents are magical, and the Quill noted her down as such. The same with Miss Potter. Only Muggle-borns are indicated as needing a representative from the school to deliver their missive—and to inform them of Gaunt's bleeding MPA law."
"The letter system is flawed." He made no mention of the MPA, as stating the obvious irritated him.
"Yes," Minerva acceded. "And I will be watching it more carefully from now on, though you know as well as I do that abuse in Wizarding households isn't at all common, and I can't very well go and strip the Quill or the Book of their Charms because they've made mistakes, no matter how wrong. The Board would have my head." She sipped her tea, frowning. "She wrote to me over the summer—Miss Black, that is. She was very careful with what she said, and while some of her questions struck me as odd coming from a pure-blood, her rhetoric…I assumed her guardian was coaching her to be more precocious and curious. I never suspected she'd been raised in a Muggle environment. She's very clever, Severus."
"Did Miss Potter write to you as well?"
"No. Why?"
The Potions Master glowered at his cup and tried to make sense of this mess. How in the hell did the girl reach Diagon Alley? Who told her? Who took her there? If Black was clever, then Potter was cunning, because for all that she seemed an affable, if odd, girl, Potter trusted little and played her secrets close to the chest. "Never mind."
"Och, you sound like Albus when you do that."
"That's not a compliment." Severus set aside his empty cup. "Next you'll be expecting me to proffer a bowl of lemon candies. Maybe keep a tin of peppermints on my desk for the children?"
Minerva chuckled and poured herself another serving, doctoring the cup to her liking. "I don't think the students would eat anything you handed them, Severus."
He sneered. "Good."
The cat just rolled her eyes and moved the conversation onto other topics. "Speaking of letters," she said. "I've handed Miss Black and Miss Potter their school lists this morning. They'll be in need of a trip to Diagon."
"I assume, knowing Albus, I'll have the dubious honor of ensuring they get there."
"Most likely, yes. You are the closest thing we have to a real Head of Slytherin, and the girls are Slytherins, after all."
"Joy."
A prickling sensation began in his right wrist, creeping through the skin of his palm, and by the time Black came barging into the room, Severus had already regained his feet. "Professor—!" Black paused when she saw the Potions Master but she nonetheless continued, wringing her gloved hands. "Er—there's a chair in the parlor trying to eat Harriet."
Severus swept past the witch and climbed the stairs, hearing the thumps and muffled swearing echoing into the main corridor as he crossed below the leering elf heads and approached the front parlor. A chair had, indeed, made a go of devouring the bespectacled witch, seeming to have thrown her back into its cushions like a duck swallowing its meal whole, the seat raised to pin her in place. The girl's reading material had dropped on the floor when she'd attempted to sit, and her small fists balled and struck the furled arms while the chair growled.
Severus stared at the scene before him.
"Bloody, stupid, fucking—!"
"Miss Potter!" Minerva had come up behind the Potions Master and now clutched at her chest. "Where on earth did you hear such language?!"
By now the girl was more than a little red in the face, straining to yank her weight out of the ravenous seat, and Severus thought she may well started cursing at Minerva if no one assisted her. 'Well behaved' indeed.
Severus slashed his wand and the chair fell to pieces. Potter hit the floor with a loud, indignant thump.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, the Potions Master turned and strode back into the hall. Summer could not end swiftly enough.
A/N: "The Knights of Walpurgis" was Rowling's original name for the Death Eaters, based off of "Walpurgis Night," a Christian holiday wherein bonfires are lit to ward away evil spirits and witches.