ccxvii. come all ye faithful sons
Severus sighed and kneaded at his brow as the band continued to play.
"Morgana spare us from that song," he grumbled as the last of the trumpets petered off, the third-year blowing it nearly dropping it on her foot. "Why Albus insists on repeating that ridiculous anthem at every task, I'll never know."
"Come now, Severus," Minerva said at his side, her elbow nudging his. "Where's your school spirit?"
"Presumably haunting a graveyard somewhere."
Minerva huffed at his comment, and Severus crossed his arms, leaning into the back of his seat. The staff had taken the lower stands for better access to the pitch while the students claimed what view there was to be had of the maze on the field from the seats above. Unfortunately, that placed Severus directly behind the band. He wouldn't put it past Dumbledore to have made the seating arrangements deliberate.
The tuba player blew hard into their instrument. Severus cringed as the resulting noise throbbed in his eyeballs.
"Och," Minerva said. The noise deadened to a reasonable volume, and Severus pretended he didn't see her wand hidden in her sleeve. If he pointed it out, she'd probably reverse it just to be spiteful. "You'd think after a full year of practice…."
"What's that I hear? Dissension from you?" Severus tutted. "Where's your school spirit?"
"Alive and well, thank you very much," the witch said with a haughty sniff. "It's just not nearly as tone-deaf as young Mr. Buckling."
Severus smirked, letting his gaze drift over the stands. Most of the staff had elected to attend aside from Trelawney, who he imagined was already three sheets to the wind on cooking sherry in her tower. Hagrid had been all but doused in Hufflepuff yellow, complete with yellow-feathered chicks nesting in his beard. Aurors and Ministry officials dotted the peripheries of the maze, most of them chatting or otherwise engaged in their own activities.
His attention wandered over to the champions. Albus stood with Diggory, Longbottom, and their parents, giving them whatever boring platitudes or words of encouragement were expected of a Headmaster in this situation. Maxime was with the Delacour witch, fussing with the plait in her hair, joined by the mother and younger daughter. Krum lingered alone on the maze's edge, seemingly already prepared to enter.
Severus paused. Something was…amiss with the young wizard. Though he stood at a distance and was veiled in the unreliable light of lit torches, Krum had the look of someone who'd had very little rest and had taken only a glancing run through a shower. Sweat gleamed on his skin, and he looked…thin. Unwell.
Karkaroff was nowhere to be found.
"Where is that simpering moron?" Severus murmured.
"Pardon?"
Severus didn't answer. He searched the crowd but found no sign of the Durmstrang Headmaster.
The skin on the back of his neck prickled. He tapped his fingers against his thighs, too aware of the thrumming heat on his left forearm that had been a constant sting the last few days. Severus had barely been able to eat from the anxious knot twisting in his stomach, subsisting on tea, supplement potions, and sheer irritation.
Restless, his leg bounced until he forced it to still. The stands vibrated with noise—cheering, chatter, laughter. More than one staff member had sneaked in a tipple, and the air smelled of lager and whiskey, powder from fireworks and dense, broken evergreen. Severus wanted to leave, to immerse himself in the cold, familiar dark of his quarters away from the sound and sharp lights before he crawled out of his own skin—but he held himself there. Tight bands of muscle pressed into his lungs and around his throat.
He faced forward, looking straight down at the students below, the band and choir mixed together. Black stood there, and she turned her head to the stands, her eyes narrowed. Severus tracked how her gaze moved from seat to seat, and her brow furrowed. Granger approached with a frown fixed on her face, and though Severus couldn't hear what she said or read her lips, he did see Black's expression grow more distressed.
Something is wrong.
Severus rose and gathered his robes around himself, making for the steps.
He didn't make it more than a meter before pain lanced through his right wrist, and the sheer, abrupt agony of it took Severus's legs out from under him. If not for Hooch's quick reflexes, he would have landed on his arse.
"Steady on, man!" she shouted over the renewed trumpet blasts. Her hand curled around his forearm for support, and Severus swallowed back a scream. He jerked free, jaw clenched, and all but ran down the steps to the lawn.
Potter—where is Potter?
He swung on his heels, searching the crowd for a head of disheveled black hair, a green scarf, anything familiar. His arm surged and, cursing, Severus stepped to the side by the front of the stands, giving himself as much momentary privacy as possible. His shaking fingers found the handle of his wand and jerked it from his sleeve, exchanging it into his left hand. Concentrating, he thought of the spell he'd developed for such situations and incanted, "Abscondere membra."
From his elbow to his fingertips, Severus lost feeling in his right limb. It wasn't ideal and didn't mask the pain completely, but it disassociated it enough for him to straighten and take a calming breath.
If she's fallen in a ditch somewhere, I'll strangle her skinny little neck myself, Severus thought as he stuck his wand in his pocket and strode toward the girl's irritating friends. His limp hand hung at his side, hidden by his robes' sleeve—a frustrating reminder of Severus' inability.
Granger jumped when he roughly grabbed her shoulder and spun her around, his face set in a harsh grimace. "Where is Potter?" he demanded without giving the witch leave to interrupt. "Where?"
"I—I don't know," Granger stuttered. "She said she was going to check her snakes—she should have been only a minute behind me—."
Severus pulled away without warning and darted for the field's shadowed ingress. A few students straggled in the tunnel, but none were Potter. Severus kept going, his robes snapping like snarling dogs as the wind ripped through the fabric. Behind him, he could hear Granger and Black running after him, struggling to catch up.
Agony licked toward his shoulder from his worthless arm. He almost wanted to reverse the spell; the absence of feeling felt disorienting, blinding, like stepping into a blackened room knowing a man with a knife waited within. Severus would rather feel the blade in his arm than worry it was about to sink into his neck, but he'd learned before how incapacitating the bloody Vow could become. He had to keep it under control to maintain composure.
Where was Potter? Where was Karkaroff? The fool had no reason to approach her, not after Severus beat his face in and Obliviated what memories remained. The moron had improved in the last month, mostly cognizant aside from lingering bouts of confusion, but he'd never remember Potter seeing his Mark. If Karkaroff was not involved, had Potter been bitten by one of her creatures? Was she injured? Where was she?
Severus ascended the rising path with increasing speed, ignoring the bone-deep thrumming of drums at his back as the final task began. He'd almost neared the final steps that led toward the entrance hall when the light became too vague to see by, and he fumbled for his wand with his left hand. A stiffly muttered Lumos lit the end.
There, in the weeds, he spied the corner of a robe. A student's robe—a younger year, bearing none of the markers of an O.W.L or N.E.W.T student, only a simple black lining, no stripes on the sleeves, or a seventh-year hood. For one blessed moment, Severus thought he'd found her, that Potter had fallen and gotten hurt or caught the brunt of some misplaced Gryffindor prank. He reached down to grab her out of the brush—.
His eyes caught upon Ravenclaw blue and bronze. The pale, unmoving face turned to the wandlight belonged to a boy, not a girl.
Terry Boot. That's Terry Boot, one of Filius' fourth years.
Shaking off his surprise, Severus hauled the wizard from the weeds and laid him flat on his back in the softer grass. "Rennervate."
Nothing happened.
Severus transferred his wand to his teeth, reaching out—but he hesitated. He hesitated with his left hand above the boy's still, unmoving face, because fear gripped him in its inexorable hold, and Severus could not bring himself to know. If the boy was not dead, if Severus didn't know, then they would all continue to walk the tightrope. The armistice would hold—the ship would not rock. But if the boy was dead—.
The rope would unravel.
Many things could be said about Severus Snape, but he was not a coward. And so, teeth digging into the wood of his wand, he touched Terry Boot's cooling face, brought shaking fingers under his nose, then cupped his neck, searching, searching—.
Finding nothing.
Footsteps scrambled up the path at his back, and Severus rose from his place kneeling by the young wizard. Terry Boot was unbothered. His open eyes stared into the void, his pupils blown wide as black, empty lakes.
"Professor Snape—." Granger stumbled on the dry grass, Black wheezing up the approach at her back. "Wh—Terry?" Her breath escaped in a rough burst as if she'd been struck in the middle. "Terry?"
Severus caught her by the waist before she could throw herself at the unmoving boy. Her scream broke in his ear, and he thought he might bite right through his wand as he struggled to hold Granger back. His gaze sought Black—standing pale and gobsmacked, staring down at Boot—and he stared until she took the hint. Black didn't question why he wasn't using his right arm as she gathered Granger close and held her.
It took longer than it should for Severus to form his Patronus, the blinding light of the ethereal phoenix hanging over his shoulder before he sent it flying for Albus. His arm continued to burn behind the obscuring shield of the spell, and Granger sobbed.
"Where is Harriet?" Black asked, looking at Severus with something almost childlike in her gray eyes. Fearful, uncertain. Shaken. "Where is she?"
Severus didn't know.
Albus arrived, trailed too soon by members of the Ministry, Gaunt among them. Severus wondered if it was possible for him to experience shock, if that would explain the oddly malleable quality of time, the world dragging and rebounding around him like a Muggle rubber band. Agony gnawed upward from his unfeeling elbow, pinpricks of blackness nibbling at the edges of his vision. The Ministry people's voices blurred like the ocean roaring in his ears.
Albus conjured a blanket and laid it over Boot, hiding his face. The Headmaster wore every single one of his hundred-odd years upon his bowed shoulders—but there was a rare anger in his eyes as well. Grief, and fury.
"We must cancel the final task," he said with gravity. "The champions must be called back, and the students moved to safety. Mr. Windels, if you would—."
"No," Gaunt said, still peering down at the body. He lacked Albus' emotion, and if Severus had to guess what was happening inside the wizard's twisted skull, he'd say calculation. No matter the situation, Gaunt was always calculating. "The task will continue."
"A student has been murdered!" Albus thundered.
"A student is dead," Gaunt corrected. "With no proof of anything more at the moment. The task continues." He curled his upper lip. "There's no need for you to cause unnecessary panic, Dumbledore."
Because a panic would reflect poorly upon him, upon the British Ministry—the Aurors meant to be protecting the grounds and the Minister meant to dictate them. They'd swept Crouch's grisly death under the rug, and if given half a chance, they would do the same with Boot. It was obvious it hadn't been an accident; the young wizard didn't have a mark on him, his clothes perfectly tidy aside from a few stray blades of grass. Only one spell could do that.
"She's missing," Granger gasped through her tears, grasping for the Headmaster's arm. "She's—she's—H—."
It was Black who dug her fingers into Granger's side, bringing her back to the present. Unfortunately, Gaunt wasn't a dunderhead, and he was perfectly aware of whom Granger and Black were friends with and whom they would be worried about being missing.
"Have you misplaced another student?" Gaunt asked, but Dumbledore disregarded him with a surprisingly blatant turn of his head, addressing one of the Ministry idiots Severus didn't know the name of.
"Find Auror Moody and search the grounds," he instructed. "And, Auror Beyar? If you would please see Miss Granger to my office and call Madam Pomfrey—."
"But Professor," Granger managed to choke out. "What about—what about Terry—?"
"I'll be staying here with him, I promise. Now, if you would—."
"But—!"
"Auror Beyar—."
The tangle of voices talking skirted Severus' awareness, the volume nowhere near the resounding thump of his heart rattling inside his ribs. He wasn't surprised when the Mark on his arm started to burn. Severus hadn't expected it, not now, but the horror didn't touch him. It couldn't, not over his internal scream of, "WHERE IS SHE—?"
A shiver went through Gaunt as if someone had stepped on his grave. His head snapped up.
Where is Harriet—?
Clarity hit with all the strength and cruelty of a bucket of ice water being upturned over his head, and Severus jerked, lips parting.
He has her. He has her.
The Potions Master didn't stop to acknowledge the Headmaster as he left, and none of the group gave his departure much thought. Cold sweat percolated on his face, prickled at his temples and brow—and the Mark raged as if freshly branded, as if it would catch fire to his sleeve and free itself for all the world to see. With it came the intangible sensation of being called, the line thrown out for the Death Eaters to blindly grab and Apparate to, like the sudden tug of an owner's hand upon a dog's leash. Severus walked into the castle and felt the leash yank.
He'd gone thirteen years without the feeling. He could have gone for thirteen more.
The barren school echoed back his footsteps as Severus descended into the dungeons, racing toward his quarters.
The Dark Lord is back. The Dark Lord is—.
"She's missing," Granger gasped. "She's—she's—H—."
"You can't be guilty forever." Green eyes narrowed in a young face, white flowers in her black hair like stars in the night sky. "Sometimes, you can have forgiveness if you're willing to ask for it."
"Forgive me," Severus whispered as he came through the door to his quarters, the words rolling like dead leaves, brittle and ready to crack. He slashed his wand, and the trunk held in the bottom of his wardrobe came banging out, landing at his feet with a solid crash. Severus didn't bother to flare the candles as he knelt, light still spilling from his wand's tip, and opened the hidden drawer at the trunk's bottom.
The silver, bone-white mask came into view. It seemed to leer from where it lay atop the black, folded pile of robes beneath it.
Taking a breath, Severus extended his hand, refusing to let it shake—.
A body collided with his, clutching fingers digging into his cloak. Severus' shins slammed into his trunk's lip, and he grunted, attempting to swing his shoulder into his attacker's side. His wand clattered on the flagstones.
"Please!" Karkaroff begged from his knees, attempting to drag Severus down with him. "He is calling! He is alive! He is alive! God help us all—!"
"Get off of me!" Severus snarled, but Karkaroff had pinned his usable arm, and he couldn't dislodge the sniveling wizard. His knees buckled, and he landed on the rug.
The door slammed, plunging the room into darkness—but there, in the slender, feeble glow of his fading Lumos, Severus saw a flash of white skin. Red eyes opened wide and furious, madness spiraling, and Slytherin was upon them in an instant. He threw Karkaroff to his back and leveled his wand.
"Please—!"
"Aht xiek!" the Dark wizard spat, and Karkaroff howled. "You thought to flee? You thought to escape? Did you really believe anyone escapes me?!"
Severus could only watch from where he'd fallen as the man writhed and kicked. He reached for his wand, stretching, and as the light renewed once he had it in hand, he stared at Karkaroff's face—or what remained of it. Before his eyes, the man's flesh shriveled and shrank, blood pouring from his orifices as Slytherin loomed above. Limbs turned in upon themselves, withered, and as the last of the shrieks cut off, the body began to crumble. It fell like so much dust within a set of empty robes and puddled with the red lake befouling Severus' floor and legs.
He kicked away from the remnants of Igor Karkaroff and reached for the mask—.
"You will wait," Slytherin ordered. Severus' fingertips grazed the mask, and the material blazed red-hot, burning him. He snatched his hand back with a choked gasp.
"Youwill wait!" Slytherin hissed again. When Severus turned his eyes to him, he found the wizard had his wand pointed at him now, and he wondered if he'd gone too far, if today would be the day he joined Selwyn and Karkaroff and all those who displeased the Dark Lord—.
"My lord—."
"You will wait. It has been discussed. I have decided it," Slytherin told him, stepping closer, his robes ghosting over the rippling blood. Severus kept his eyes on the wand's end. "Not yet. You will not answer him until the old man gives you leave. You will approach with the promise of information, of upholding the order I issued you—." Slytherin bore his teeth at the slip, rolling his shoulders. "His order. And you will accept your punishment as is deserved."
Severus leaned away as Slytherin came yet another step closer, and his wand came too close to his face.
"Need I remind you of what happens to traitors, dear Severus?"
Grim, Severus jerked his head in negation.
"Very well, then see that you do as you're told. Don't disappoint me." Slytherin stepped away, and though much of his countenance slipped into the shadows, his eyes continued to glow a ghastly, inhuman red like beacons luring lost travelers to their doom. "You are a good spy, Severus, but not so irreplaceable as you seem to think. Remember that before you act next time."
With that, Professor Slytherin took his leave, heedless of the mess he'd left behind, and Severus once again found himself alone in the cold dark with only his wand for light. His breath came in harsh, uneven bursts, and the Mark continued to burn. The blood soaked into Karkaroff's robes.
Inside the drawer, the mask remained unmoved, leering, just as it had been for thirteen years. Severus didn't take it. Not yet. "You will wait. Not yet."
He has her. He has her.
Unblinking, Severus dismissed the Lumos and let full dark claim the room. He reversed the spell upon his arm, and when the first jagged lash of pain hit, he screamed.
A/N: I imagined Karkaroff grabbing Snape like a drowning man—no guile, no plan, just sheer, ravening desperation. I think Slytherin has held a complete seething hatred for Karkaroff this entire time and has 100% planned to kill him from the beginning, knowing he was a coward and that he would eventually run. Whatever happened, Slytherin was going to make sure Karkaroff didn't get back on that ship to leave.
When Slytherin says "upholding the order I issued you—," he's literally slipping into a memory not his own; I.e, Voldemort's.