ccxl. heathen king
When Severus thought of his father, he remembered his temper best of all.
Tobias had been a man of many moods, and nearly all of them had been a shade of anger. He had once told Lily his father didn't care for much, and that hadn't been a lie; Tobias hated everything, especially his son, though he did love to complain. He used to work himself up into a snit over nothing and would spend hours shouting until he made himself hoarse.
The worst of his tempers were not those spent yelling and raging, but rather those that came on quiet and cold, those that built behind his eyes as if every second was simply another piece of kindling stacked on a growing pyre. All it took was one spark to send it all up in flames.
Severus shared that with his father. He was capable of the same cold, malingering rage, and it existed below his usual fatigue, disdain, and derision. He believed himself above it, and no matter how stupid his puling students could be, he rarely felt anything past annoyance or disgust for their attitudes or misdeeds. True rage only rarely came to Severus, built slowly, stick by stick, log by log, until it exploded.
His temper began the moment Potter reappeared from the graveyard and he pulled her from the floor, her thin, bony arms trembling under her hands, small and scared and brittle as a bird. It built when she said the name Barty Crouch and recoiled from it. It built when she returned from Azkaban still reeling from the touch of Dark magic and spent her days staring blankly, hopelessly, at the walls.
It built when the Vow—the curse—burned around his wrist, and for once, Severus resented Lily for its presence. He did not need the fucking agony to keep him to his word.
He could not articulate precisely why seeing those letters waiting on Potter's desk had set him off. How dare she. How dare she! She expected him to take a paltry little note and be written off? Some nauseating farewell wrapped in fake sentiment? No. No, he wouldn't accept that. He hadn't. He'd burnt the letter, and he wanted to burn the rest—.
Severus could withstand much. Hexes, curses, torture in the most literal sense of the word. But to behold that quiet defeat in her green eyes—. For her to simply submit—. How dare she—!
Like a wickerman, he was the rough outline of a body built by sticks, set alight—except the blaze in his chest kindled ice-cold, a blast of ice water swirling in his veins. It poured through him, and the memories of his own stay in Azkaban played like his own private horror film flickering behind his eyelids. It sent Severus from the house, past the Aurors and the other residents calling out questions, his heart pounding in his ears. He had to do something before Potter landed herself in prison.
He started pulling strings. Like a spider at his web, he plucked the strands to find what he'd caught, and he spun through vague rumors and supposition, knitting together information from off-hand comments and reports of Order agents in the field. It was Severus' responsibility to know where people were, what they were doing, what the Dark Lord—in any incarnation—intended. No, he wasn't always successful, despite his best efforts, but today—.
The door to the dingy Muggle pub wailed on its hinges as he pushed it in, not that the noise could be heard over the drunken din inside. Welsh voices boomed in the narrow, crowded space, unsurprising given they were near Cardiff and the monitor above the bar displayed an ongoing football game. The odor of pipe smoke and spilled beer met Severus' nose, made pungent by the humid summer air. The Muggles booed in displeasure at something on the telly, fists thumping hard on the bar. No one took notice of the tall, scowling wizard in a pair of Transfigured jeans and jumper as he headed toward the back.
He found what he was looking for seated at a booth near the rear door.
The magical ward rippled as Severus passed through it, and the trio of wizards at the seemingly empty table fell silent.
"Well, bugger all," Barty Crouch sneered over the rim of his pint. "The high and mighty professor descends among the peasants. I didn't know we'd be seeing you here, Snape."
Severus' eyes flicked from him to Wilkes and a newer recruit, Ebner Palmer, who wasn't a Death Eater but rather a sympathizer—a thug who rounded out their little party. "I go where my Lord wills me to," he drawled, forcing Wilkes to slide over with a look, allowing him to sit at the booth.
"He said nothing to me about it." Crouch sniffed. "Aren't you usually too sensitive to run with my circle, Snape? Too cozy with your books and research, kissing Slytherin's arse? Or was it Dumbledore's? I'm not quite sure."
Idly, Severus glanced at Wilkes and Palmer, then at Crouch. Crouch followed his look, then rolled his eyes, the unspoken concession being Wilkes and Palmer were worthless. Wilkes had never been incredibly bright and had turned to the bottle in the Dark Lord's fall, and Palmer had never been remarkable in skill or intelligence. Just a greedy little parasite snatching at the pieces of things he wanted.
"Whatchu looking at me for?" Wilkes demanded.
"Because you're an idiot," Crouch retorted. "Can't be trusted to stay in line! Of course the Dark Lord had to send someone else."
"Oi, fuck off, Crouch. Miss being led around by your daddy's leash yet?"
Crouch curled his lip like a mad dog, but he kept himself in line. The Dark Lord tolerated very little disobedience since his return, and Crouch took his duties more seriously than the others. He moved past Severus' presence and Wilkes' witless quipping, knowing the punishments met out at Voldemort's hands would be worse than suffering these slighter indignities.
Severus folded his palm hands together, his heart pounding in his ears. The Muggles cheered at something on the telly.
"Look at them," Palmer muttered, dribbling cheap beer over his bearded chin. "Oblivious to everything. Disgusting."
"Let the pigs be happy until we take the strays to the Dark Lord," Crouch remarked. He slipped his wand from his Transfigured shirt sleeve and casually Imperiused a waitress, pulling her through the ward to drop off another round of drinks, including one for Severus. He dismissed her again with a pleased sound. "It'll all come crashing down on their worthless heads someday."
The conversation turned to what it usually involved with this group—Dark magic, pure-blood women, and the Dark Lord. Occasionally there was a more thought-provoking word on current events, rare as water in the desert. It was Palmer who said, "It's that Potter bitch's trial today, innit? Think she'll get it for that brat you offed, Barty?"
Crouch chugged the last of his drink, finishing with a small sigh. "Hmph. No. Not if what we're hearing from the Guardians is anything to go by. But, if she's stupid—."
"They'd send a kid to Azkaban?" Wilkes interrupted.
"Why not? I was barely more than a kid when they sent me."
Wilkes scoffed. "Might have something to do with using the Cruciatus on Longbottom's wife until she kicked off."
Crouch cackled. He had the laugh of a hyena, high, forced, and raspy. "They won't. Potter will keep her mouth shut—and if she doesn't, well." His mouth spread in the eerie approximation of a smile. "No one will believe her, and our Lord will prove Azkaban's not the fortress the Ministry makes it out to be. She'll be like a nice present, all wrapped up and waiting for him."
The hand Severus wrapped around his frosted mug twitched.
"He's promised her to me. For all my dedication." Crouch's tongue flicked over his lower lip once, then again. The residue of his drink slicked his skin like gloss. "She'll learn her proper place."
"Right," Wilkes mocked. "You're full of rubbish. If our Lord had sent me in your place, I would have had the girl panting for it in a week. She would've done anything I said. Potter made a fool of you for months."
"Did you really spend all that time there and get nowhere? Fuck, mate." Sensing Crouch's growing ire, Palmer hurried to add on. "Not that I blame you. Potter's not my taste, either, not with her mum's dirty blood—."
Crouch snarled, fist thumping on the table. "Shut your mouth," he demanded, glowering at Wilkes, the Palmer. "Frigid bint. I couldn't force the matter under Dumbledore's nose, but she'll learn better before the end—."
The telly exploded in a burst of glass and smoke. The Muggles shrieked and bellowed in outrage, their game interrupted. The bartender could only stare at the mess and blink, confused by what could have happened.
Grunting, Crouch tugged a cheap pocket watch from his shirt pocket and judged the hour. "That'll be a sign for us to be on our way, boys. Let's see if Snape can pull his weight."
"More like pull a Muggle's weight," Palmer snorted, sliding out of the booth as the others followed suit. Severus' hand brushed Crouch's arm as he shoved by the taller wizard.
None of the Dark Lord's minions noted Severus was barely breathing.
"I still don't understand why we're doing this," Wilkes said as they walked toward the back door, opening it onto a quiet, shadowed alleyway. The lack of vegetation made the narrow passage hot despite the sun having dipped below the horizon, a scant blush of yellow light glimmering through the clouds overhead.
Crouch, Wilkes, and Palmer walked out in front of Severus. He shut the door—and silently locked it behind him. He lifted his hand, and the camera at the alley's head sputtered, dribbling sparks.
"It's not for us to question the Dark Lord's whims," Crouch said, shoving his hands into his pockets. He trailed behind the other two. "It is only our duty to serve."
"We get it, Crouch. You're a martyr for the cause. But what's he need all these Muggles for—?"
Red lights streaked through the alley, hitting first Wilkes then Palmer square in the back. As the pair crumpled like wet rags, Crouch's eyes widened and spun around, finding no one but Severus Snape standing there.
"Wh—?" He didn't bother fully voicing his question. "Traitor!"
Crouch reached for his wand—and found nothing. Instead, Severus held it in his left hand, taken when Crouch had risen from the booth, and in his right, he aimed his own wand.
"When the Dark Lord finds out—."
"Those two will remember nothing of my presence," he intoned, voice frozen, emotionless. A distant part of his Occluded mind found it fascinating how cold, arctic rage could be articulated so quietly. Behind him, the Muggle lights fought to stay lit, and they cast his face into shadow. "And the Dark Lord never knew I was here."
"You—!"
There was no ridiculous monologue, no seething outpouring of his animosity or antipathy. Severus had hesitated when he'd had Otho Selwyn under his wand all those years ago, but with Barty Crouch it was easy. It was as easy as breathing.
Slytherin would have been proud.
"Avada Kedavra!"
xXx
It rained in Scotland.
If a person stood carefully on the edge of the Astronomy Tower, past where the students were allowed, just where Severus now leaned his weight, they could see storm sweeping from the lower dale like a dark, mist-clad longboat, propelled by unseen but urgent rowers. It came on silently and then, all at once, burst into a chorus of static as the rain reached the lake's shore.
He couldn't remember much after that sordid green light burst to life in the alleyway. It came in pieces, sensations: the rasp of his cloak and hood returning to their proper forms, the vibration of spoken spells against his lips as he changed Wilkes' and Palmer's memories, Crouch's dead weight tugging on his shoulder, the pressure of Apparition. Then—cold water splashing his numb hands as Crouch landed in the Atrium's fountain. Screams echoing in the cavernous stone hall. The hard soles of his boots clacking on the floor as he bolted for the Floo before it could be locked down.
He remembered the rush of Apparition as he jumped from location to location, covering his tracks. And then—laughter, his own, the grounding, crippling embrace of Hogwarts' wards welcoming home despite the things he had done.
Severus wondered if his father had ever felt like this after his temper was spent, if he too had shuddered in the sudden unrelenting stillness, the place in his chest where one should find a heart yawning wide and deep as a Gringott's cavern. His palms tingled with Dark residue, curling around his wrists like shackles.
The rain chased itself across the shore and, like a summer dream, began to break apart as swiftly as it'd arrived.
Severus didn't hear the footsteps behind him, but he felt the two red, gleaming eyes that settled upon his back, sensed the shift in the air that brought smells found only in the colder, mustier reaches beneath the castle's foundations. Slytherin said nothing to him, and Severus didn't turn around.
Slytherin did not ask where he had gone, why he'd been out all day, or what he'd done. He did not ask how Harriet's trial had concluded. They shared only the unspeakable state of knowing—the will of a monster enacted by the all too willing hands of an ailing man.
Severus turned, leaning his weight against the railing. His body felt as if it weighed a tonne when he moved, his cloak's hem dragging on the stones. Slytherin stepped forward beneath the bright moonlight and raised his chin, staring down the length of his nose at the silent Potions Master.
Slytherin issued a single order with all the nonchalance of an owner directing his favorite pet. "Fetch."
Severus stood, slouching back into the darkness instead of over the railing into the light, and he did as he was told. He passed by Slytherin and missed how the wizard's mouth twisted into a knowing grin.
A/N: Title is from a line in Johannes Carsten Hauch's "The Wild Hunt," which I'm sure you can guess the subject of.
Wizengamot: "Ha, it couldn't possibly be Crouch! He died in Azkaban!"
Snape: "Your DoorDash delivery is here."