Ember – noun, a piece of wood or coal that continues to burn after a fire has no more flames; a faint warmth that refuses to die
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The night was thick with mist, curling through the manicured hedgerows like the breath of some unseen beast. Before it stood the great and looming Malfoy Manor, its stone façade untouched by time but heavy with shadows. Jagged spires clawed at the sky, silhouetted against the ghostly glow of the moon, their tips piercing the shrouded heavens like the talons of a waiting predator.
The Headmaster of Hogwarts glided swiftly down the stone driveway towards the ornate metal gates, his black robes whipping about his elegant form like bat wings. The brisk and crisp click-click of the heels of his black, dragon skin shoes pierced the heavy silence.
Beyond the walls, the gardens stretched into the night – elegant, but unnaturally dark for the bright half-moon in the sky. As though the very earth had bent to the will of something ominous.
The Headmaster did not slow his sure, fast and precise steps as he neared the shut gates. The metal bars dissolved in a wisp of smoke the moment they sensed the man's Dark Mark, and he was through.
Pale, golden light bled from the tall, narrow windows as he approached, spilling onto the cobbled path leading up to the imposing front door. It was the only warmth in a place where the cold seemed to whisper warnings through the wind.
Inside, the air was thick with candle smoke and the scent of aged wood, mingling with something colder – a damp chill that reminded Severus Snape of the dungeons of Hogwarts. The only place he had ever called home.
The fleeting thought was carefully folded and placed away into the recesses of his mind, using an Occlumency technique now second nature to him. In a flare of black material, the Headmaster turned in the entrance hall and swiftly headed for the door from which the soft candlelight emanated.
A long, grand dining table stretched the length of the hall that met his dark, opaque and shielded gaze. Its high-backed chairs were filled with shadowed figures whose eyes glinted like predatory stars in the dim light. At the head of the table, a figure moved with slow precision, his voice a low drawl that barely disturbed the flickering glow of the candelabras. A massive snake coiled and uncoiled itself in a leisurely manner on the table.
The Headmaster's face betrayed so sign of the disdain that swelled within him at the sight of the familiar faces: some sneering, some tense, some – like Lucius – evidently sleep deprived, and some, like Bellatrix, evidently mad. The fire in the great hearth cast long, flickering fingers across the walls, stretching and clawing like the darkness itself wished to consume everything within.
"Ah. Severuss."
Lord Voldemort paused mid-speech to his supplicants as though he had only just noticed his double-agent enter the room. The Headmaster was under no illusions – he would not be in this room had the Dark Lord not sensed his arrival and allowed him to enter unhindered.
"My lord," Snape replied in a measured, deep tone with an incline of the head.
Those red, serpentine eyes took in his most slippery, and his most valuable, follower at their leisure. Any other Death Eater would have grovelled under the unbearable, terrifying tension that his scrutiny provoked, but Snape, head still bent, remained the picture of steady deference.
"Ssit, Severuss."
The Dark Lord's voice slithered through the heavy air, a whisper of silk over steel. Snape obeyed without hesitation, stepping forward and lowering himself elegantly into the only empty chair along the vast table, at the right hand side of the head. The eyes of the assembled Death Eaters followed him with varying degrees of curiosity and malice, but he ignored them. His focus was on Voldemort alone.
Nagini, draped languidly across the table, lifted her head, tongue flickering toward Snape, as if seeking to taste fear in the air, before settling down once more. The firelight gleamed off her smooth, heavy coils. The silence stretched, taut and expectant.
"How fares my school?" Voldemort asked, his voice lilting almost playfully, but no one at the table mistook it for genuine curiosity. It was a demand.
In his peripheral vision, Snape noticed that Narcissa's gray eyes were fixed unnervingly on him. He did not look in her direction and kept his baritone voice as calm as ever. "All is proceeding as you have willed, my lord. The Carrows have instilled proper discipline. The students learned obedience quickly once they suffered the consequences of defiance."
A chuckle, low and cruel, rippled from Bellatrix's corner of the table. Others smirked at the mention of the Carrows, whose brutal methods were well known.
"Those loyal to the old man still resist, no doubt," Voldemort mused, his pale, long fingers tapping lazily against the polished wood.
Snape inclined his head. "Potter's supporters continue to test boundaries, but they are unsuccessful. The punishments are… effective."
Before the Dark Lord could reply, a voice from further down the table cut in.
"My Lord," drawled McNair, shifting in his seat, emboldened by the air of cruel camaraderie. "That's not what I have heard. I hear the Headmaster has not managed to get his own staff in line. That bitch McGonagall and the half-giant oaf have been causing the Carrows trouble –"
Voldemort's wand flicked. A flash of red light hit McNair mid-sentence. The room filled with a blood-curdling scream as McNair was wrenched from his chair and slammed onto the cold floor, writhing in agony. His cries twisted and cracked as his body convulsed, limbs jerking violently against the unseen force.
The Cruciatus Curse dragged his torment into seconds that felt like lifetimes.
Voldemort's gaze never left Snape, who looked back solemnly and blankly, his Occlumency shields taut. There was no anger in the Dark Lord's slitted red eyes, only calculation. He was demonstrating something – reminding them all, reminding Snape, that even the slightest presumption, like speaking out of turn, would not go unpunished.
Snape did not flinch. He did not shift in his chair. He merely watched, face impassive, as McNair's screams choked into sobs.
The curse lifted abruptly. A ragged, shuddering breath rasped from McNair as he curled on the floor, trembling. No one helped him. The lesson had been given.
Voldemort exhaled, as though expelling a minor irritation. "Do not interrupt me again," he said, his voice calm, almost amused. "Or I will not be so… forgiving."
A rustle of movement signified a few Death Eaters subtly shifting back in their chairs. Narcissa looked decidedly down at the table, her face taut. The Dark Lord turned once more to Snape.
"As Headmaster, your staff is your responsibility, Severus" he murmured. "If they refuse to… embrace our new world order, they cannot be allowed to shape young minds."
The unspoken warning lay thick in the air. Voldemort would not touch his most valuable spy – he had invested too much in him – but Snape understood. This was how he kept his leash tight.
Snape inclined his head respectfully. "Rest assured, my lord, I am watching the staff closely. By the laws of old magic, the castle is loyal to its Headmaster. It can be… recruited into aiding our efforts," he replied in low tones.
That sibilant face, unmoved, considered this reply for a moment. "Ssee that it is," he ordered quietly.
Bellatrix, black eyes wide with adoring supplication, cleared her throat. "But my, my lord," she stammered in cloying, obedient tones. "How can we know he is telling the truth? How can we know what he does, holed up in his dungeons, where the Carrows can't watch him?"
The group around the table was a frozen tableau for a moment, as all seemed to hold their breath to see if this interruption would merit another Cruciatus. But it didn't come, and Snape noticed a few scowls exchanged. Bella always got away with too much.
Voldemort swept a glance around the room, and all eyes snapped back down in fear. "Now, now, Bella. Severuss and I have an understanding, do we not? He reports me the truth" – he paused, his red eyes holding Snape's with chilling threat – "on pain of having it ripped from that calculating mind of his."
Bellatrix gave a rotten-toothed grin of delight at these words and bowed her mad head of hair. Snape's gaze remained a dead, black hole.
Voldemort suddenly dismissed the table with an almost absentminded flick of his fingers, his burning eyes still locked on the Headmaster. "Leave uss."
Chairs scraped against the floor as the Death Eaters rose, some with haste, others with careful restraint. McNair dragged himself upright, swaying slightly before staggering toward the door with the others.
Lucius, wan and hollow-eyed, cast a brief, unreadable glance at Snape before disappearing into the shadows. Bellatrix lingered for half a second longer than the rest, her mouth curling into something between a smirk and a sneer before she, too, obeyed.
Then the great doors shut, and Severus Snape was alone with the Dark Lord.
For a long moment, the only sound in the vast chamber was the steady hiss of the fire and the slow, deliberate movements of Nagini as she slithered closer, her heavy coils shifting languidly across the polished wood of the table. Voldemort sat utterly still, watching Snape with unreadable intensity.
"You have been faithful to me, Severusss." His voice was barely above a whisper, yet it filled the room, curling around the edges like smoke. "Have you not?"
Snape inclined his head, his tone smooth and unhurried. "Always, my Lord."
"And yet, I find myself… dissatisfied."
The words slithered through the air, dark and dangerous, though Voldemort did not move. His bony fingers drummed against the armrest of his chair with slow, deliberate taps, like the ticking of some unseen clock. Snape remained perfectly still, not daring to interpret his opaque words.
Voldemort's long, white fingers tightened slightly on the Elder Wand, as if expecting – demanding – something from it.
"There is a… weakness," he murmured, almost to himself, the crimson gleam in his eyes flickering like dying coals. "This wand – this most ancient, powerful wand – should make me stronger than ever before." His voice remained quiet, but now it was taut with suppressed frustration. "And yet… my corporeal form remains as it was. My magic is extraordinary. But my energies… they are easily spent."
His fingers curled slightly, the knuckles stark against his waxy skin. "The magic I have poured into it should invigorate me. My body should feel invincible. And yet." A slow exhale. "It does not."
Snape let the silence stretch before speaking, his voice measured. "That is… most troubling, my lord."
Voldemort's gaze sharpened, and for a brief, terrible moment, Snape thought the Dark Lord might strike. But instead, he leaned forward slightly, his breath cold as death itself.
"I have long invested in certain… protections against those who seek to destroy me." His voice was a whisper now, but it scraped against the air like a blade on stone. "Recently, I find myself bereft of a few."
A long pause. It was not a confession. It was a test.
Snape, ever the master of his own mind, betrayed no hint of understanding this as an acknowledgement of the existence of his Horcruxes. Instead, he let his gaze lower slightly, a subtle gesture of deference. "Perhaps," he murmured carefully, "the nature of the wand has become… ineffective with time."
Voldemort exhaled slowly, as if considering this.
"Regardless, I have need of something else," he hissed at last, his voice dropping to something cold and final. "Something potent. Something beyond the reach of mere spells." His red eyes gleamed. "A potion."
Snape nodded slightly, his fingers steepled as he considered. "There are many potions that strengthen the body and sharpen the mind, my lord. But few may be able to withstand the… subtlety and power of the magic you perform daily."
Voldemort tilted his head, a silent acknowledgement of his own greatness as much as an invitation to say more.
Snape hesitated for a moment, but knew this would not satisfy the Dark Lord. He had to offer him something. "There is a draught. A potion drawn from the deep, forgotten arts. It would require dark alchemy… and a most particular ingredient."
"And what is that?" Voldemort's expression did not change, but his fingers stilled against the wood.
"The virgin blood of an unwilling maiden," Snape said smoothly. "Freshly taken. The potion cannot be brewed without it."
A slow, rasping breath left Voldemort's throat, his eyes half-lidded in thought. Then, a slow, terrible smile tugged at the corners of his lipless mouth.
"And how long will this take?"
Snape lowered his gaze slightly, as though weighing his words. "A month for the preparation of the draught itself. Once brewed, the key ingredient must be added within a day of it being… procured."
Voldemort's fingers drummed against the table again, once, twice, before stopping.
"Then see to it."
There was no room for refusal.
Snape bowed his head. "As you wish, my Lord."
Voldemort studied him for another long moment, then leaned back in his chair, exhaling as though satisfied. Snape stood, bowing his head once more before turning and sweeping toward the great doors.
"Severuss."
The Headmaster froze at the doorway and turned on his heel, his black robe billowing, his form slightly bowed in expectation.
"You shall be the one to procure the virgin blood. And I shall see you do so with my own eyes."
His Occlumency shields swayed for a second, but held. "My lord?" Snape murmured enquiringly.
"My lord?" Voldemort mimicked in a mocking tone. "Would you trust the word of some Knockturn Alley apothecary with this most important of tasks, taking the vial of pig's blood he sells you for that of a virgin's?" the Dark Lord hissed, his cold demeanour dangerously close to shifting into anger. "No. You must obtain the ingredient. I must see for myself that it has been properly procured under the… circumstances… called for."
Snape bowed low and backed away through the doorway.
As he stepped out into the cold corridor, he released a slow, silent breath, his Occlumency barriers tighter than ever.
Snape allowed himself a single, imperceptible shudder. His breath remained steady, his stride precise, but beneath his composed exterior, nausea coiled tight in his stomach like a living thing. The Dark Lord's command was final. There would be no clever evasion, no means of delegating the task to another. Voldemort wanted a demonstration – he wanted certainty. Another test of loyalty, yet nothing like the others.
For the first time in years, something deep within Snape twisted with the sickly stirrings of real, raw fear. Not for himself – never for himself, this worthless life long forfeit – but for what he might now be forced to become. He had lied, he had betrayed, he had damned his soul a thousand times over, but this… this was a boundary he had never crossed.
A line that, once stepped over, he knew could never be undone.