Unexpected Events

A/N: From here on, this story is written for my friend shellsnapeluver. Without her, I wouldn't have finished it. Hugs from Germany, love!

5: Unexpected Events

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The Dark Lord sat lazily on his throne-like chair, one leg thrown casually over the armrest. In his hand he held a golden goblet, and his wand was placed on a cushion only an inch away from his fingertips. Apart from him, the room was empty.

Sunlight shone through a broken window – apparently, Lord Voldemort had lost some powerful followers, as he now resided in this shit-hole of a mansion. It was large, but it was rotten as well. Only magic held it together still, and on the tapestries, large mouldy patches showed.

"Severus," Voldemort said, his voice crisp with excitement at the sight in front of him. "I haven't seen you in a while. I hope you are well." Leaning forward a bit, he threw the goblet aside. It landed clattering on the ground and rolled under a table. His snake-like eyes were focussed on the young man who hung half unconscious in Snape's arms.

Snape dropped Harry and then bowed deeply, much like a knight bowing before his king, and it would have looked ridiculous if the air hadn't been crackling with tension and danger. There was a lot of magic in this room, dark magic, that was only waiting to be released.

Dizzy, Harry tried to move only to feel Snape place his foot on his wand hand. His bones threatened to crack, and he moaned with pain. In the pale light he saw nothing but Snape's shoes, dust, and the legs of a huge chair. And... another shoe? Only one?

Slowly, he moved his head, carefully enough not to catch Snape's attention. What had the bastard said? Obey him? Never, never in his whole life!

Voices somewhere above him. One was Snape's, greeting someone else with devotion and respect in his voice. The other one contained a lot of hissed syllables, was hard to understand, and...

Harry nearly yelled when a huge snake slithered into his vision. A strange sound came along with it, like dry leaves getting crunched under bare feet – the scales of Nagini, rasping against the rough wooden planks of the floor. Her tongue flickered in and out, her eyes focussed on Harry, and she came closer. Fear gripped him, and he struggled; he had no intention of dying on a dirty, dusty floor, bitten to death by a pet snake! That was way out of the question; that would be far too fucking humiliating!

"Master," Snape said somewhere above him and increased the pressure on Harry's hand. "I brought you a present. I finally managed to capture Harry Potter without the Order noticing. No one knows where he is; no one knows where you are. I beg you, my Lord: Take his life and end your misery."

Harry nearly laughed at Snape's words. Misery? Yeah, Voldemort had nearly lost the war, and certainly he was miserable about that. But that Snape so eagerly tried to get his master's attention was ridiculous. Where's my wand? he thought furiously. I need my wand, and then I will kill him!

Unfortunately, his wand seemed to be gone, and his head ached when Snape ripped him up to his feet. His glasses sat lopsided on his nose; he couldn't see clearly. Only Snape's hand on his neck, gripping him hard and mercilessly, held him upright. For the moment, he guessed he actually gave a good impression of a wizard under the Imperius Curse.

Voldemort got up from his chair and took the few steps needed to get close to his most devoted follower and his worst enemy. "Still a boy, I see," he hissed. "He will be easy to kill."

"Are you pleased with me, my Lord?" Snape asked eagerly and pulled Harry to the table where he slammed him face down on the rough and uneven surface. The table was made of dark slate and definitely too high for sitting at it comfortably. Somehow, Harry didn't believe that anyone had ever eaten at this table. Much more likely, far worse things had happened on it. There were dark stains on the stone. Blood, presumably.

A splinter scratched Harry's cheek, and then he involuntarily gasped with shock when Voldemort touched him. Lightly, and only with one fingertip at his exposed neck, but Harry felt soiled from head to toes.

"Very pleased, my Severus," Voldemort hissed. "I was right to trust you; I was right to reward you. Let us drink to this victory." He drilled his wand between Harry's shoulder blades, and Snape went to a smaller table where he snatched a yet unopened bottle of wine out of thin air.

One flick with his wand, and the golden goblet was in the Potions master's hand. He inspected it, then took a napkin out of his robes and polished it clean of dust and dirt. When he was satisfied with his work, when the gold sparkled again, he poured the wine. Dark red drops hit the gold, dark red – like blood. Snape handed the goblet to his master, filled a second, smaller glass for himself, and said, "To Harry Potter's death, my Lord," and drank.

Voldemort waited for a few long moments before he raised his own goblet. Intently he stared at his Death Eater. He even murmured a word and flicked his wand towards the bottle. "Can't be careful enough, Severus," he said with a cold, thin smile. "You know how many have tried to poison me, but the wine is clean. So I will drink with you. To the death of Harry Potter!" And he emptied the goblet in one go.

Snape loosened his grip on Harry's neck ever so slightly. It felt wonderful, and Harry hated Snape even more for the small comfort he had just granted him. He flexed the muscles of his right hand and was most relieved to find no bones were broken or even cracked.

Less pressure on his neck. Snape merely held him down now, and Harry could have broken the grip at any time. Maybe he's drunk? he mused and discarded the thought as impossible. Snape had barely drunk more than a sip; if anyone was drunk, it was Voldemort.

Harry moved his head so he could get a better view of the room, the throne, and the man who sat on said throne, only to be surprised at the fact that Snape didn't hinder his attempts. He touched his former pupil only with his ice-cold fingertips – a farce, all of this was a farce, and Harry intended to live at least long enough to find out what all of this was about.

Voldemort stared at him, his eyes narrowed with curiosity and hate. "How long I have looked for you, boy," he hissed, and Harry expected to see a tongue slip through his non-existent lips at any moment. "How long I have wanted to kill you. But my followers have abandoned and deserted me, mainly since the Malfoy brat failed the task I had given him. Dumbledore is still alive. Yet I am not dead; I still have power. Power to hurt; power to reward my true followers." His wand twirled between his fingers.

If only he would put it away, Harry thought desperately. I would strangle him with my bare hands.

"Master," Snape said and bowed his head once more. "What you did for me, the present you gave me the other night, was most appreciated. I do thank you. I truly did not know what I had been missing."

Generously, Voldemort nodded once. "You earned a reward, Severus. You truly did."

What the hell are they talking about? Harry wondered. What present? What reward?

"You better have another glass of wine, master," Snape suggested, stepped away from Harry, and took the goblet out of Voldemort's hand. He polished it once more and filled it again with wine.

Voldemort, not even flinching at the fact that a mere servant had just told him what to do, accepted the goblet Snape had taken from him without asking and given back without lowering his eyes.

Harry rose to his feet, staggering and dizzy. "I will kill you," he stated, ignoring Snape's threatening gaze. "I don't have a wand, but I will kill you nevertheless." Taking a step, his vision blurred, and he had to reach out only to find Snape at his side, supporting him.

"The boy talks nonsense, master," Snape snarled and silently snapped his fingers once behind Harry's back. Instantly, Harry's head cleared, and the pain vanished in his jaws and his wrist.

This here was most strange, surreal even. Harry couldn't understand why Snape had used magic to heal the wounds he had caused in the first place. He shook his head, bewildered, confused.

Snape laughed coldly and mercilessly. "Even without a wand, you would always best the boy, master," he coaxed. "You are faster and stronger, and he is half unconscious after the beating I gave him before we got here. You could place your wand on the table, and still he would not stand a chance against you."

Voldemort tipped his head, a quite terrifying sight, as he was most inhuman-looking and the movement so very familiar. Hermione often tipped her head; Harry's heart ached at the thought of his best friend. She had changed recently, not for the better, and he hadn't yet managed to find out why.

But... what was that? Voldemort – No. That was impossible. Completely nuts.

The Dark Lord had just taken one long look at his wand, had looked at Snape, and had then placed his weapon on the table as suggested by the Potions master.

Harry now really needed Snape to keep him upright. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe one of the blows to his head had broken his skull, and this was a coma-induced nightmare. He began to shake slightly and tried to move away, away from Snape and from Voldemort, out of the room and out of this rotten ruin of a house. Gone was his urge to kill the Dark Lord, the one who had murdered his parents. Gone was his lust to strangle him or to hit him or at least to shout at him. All he wanted was to get out of here, and he moved backwards, towards the door.

Snape tightened his grip again. "Your present, master – I should tell you that raping her has broken her entirely."

Harry froze. Rape? Broken? Who?

Snape continued, unimpressed by his prisoner's obvious terror. "Granger is now unable to sleep, to eat, or even to talk. At first, she tried to find out who did that to her, but for more than a week now, I haven't seen her. It is said that she has gone mad."

Voldemort chuckled. When Snape suggested a third glass of wine, he poured it for himself and downed it instantly. It nearly seemed to Harry as if the man on the throne was obeying Snape's every order, which was, of course, an utterly impossible thought.

Harry ripped his arm free and whirled round to face Snape. "Hermione – she has been raped?"

Snape laughed. Voldemort, as if infected, laughed with him. "Oh, yes, Potter, she has. I raped her. On a cold winter night about a month ago. Afterwards, my master allowed me to beat her nearly to death. Didn't you know that?"

Staying out of Harry's reach, the young man could see that Snape hid something behind his back, holding it with both hands. And what was that on the floor, shoved half under the table? A hat? Old and battered? Looks like the Sorting Hat, Harry thought before fury washed through him at Snape's words, as well as hate and loathing. He had known something was wrong with Hermione; he just hadn't known what it was.

Raped. His Hermione. His best friend. Ron's former fiancée. Only she wasn't anymore. She hadn't answered their owls for weeks, had refused to see both of them, and had told Ron a week ago in a short, polite letter that she didn't wish to date him anymore.

In Snape's eyes Harry saw that the man wasn't lying. A fire burned in their blackness, and a smug smirk curved the Potions master's lips. "She struggled quite a lot, but of course she didn't stand a chance against me. Her screams, though, were a bit annoying."

Mad, indeed. "You... worthless... lousy..." Harry stammered and felt his fists clench in the hopeless wish for a wand, a knife, a bat, anything to smash in that bastard's head.

Snape moved back a step, towards his master. "No need to take up your wand, my Lord," he said casually. "He is helpless and useless. Like a child. Weak. You can crush him under your feet. Get up, master, and come to us. Finish him with your bare hands." Sweat was showing on the Potions master's forehead, and his breathing seemed forced. He looked as if he was handling an impossible, deathly situation, and Harry wondered briefly why he didn't seem to enjoy this little game more.

Trembling, Harry reined in his rage for a second to ask one last question. "Raping Hermione – that was your reward?" He turned to Voldemort. "You... you gave my friend to this monster?"

The Dark Lord chuckled, standing only a few feet away from Harry – again he had done what Snape had suggested. His hands hung loosely down at his sides. Empty hands. Wandless hands.

"I did grant him his biggest wish. He seemed to enjoy it, didn't you, Severus?"

Snape cast another thin smile. "I did indeed. Take a look, Potter." And with a quick jerk with his head and a soundless spell, he transferred a memory into Harry's head.

Hermione, lying broken and bleeding on the ground. Snowflakes swirling in the winter wind. A Death Eater mask, cast aside. And laughter. Cold, high, snake-like laughter. Voldemort, laughing at the scenario.

Something snapped inside Harry. He had always wondered if he could kill, if he had the strength to take someone's life. When he heard this laughter and saw Voldemort standing so close by, wandless and apparently unaware of the hate the young man in front of him radiated, Harry didn't think anymore. He acted, reacted, and reached out to attack the man, his enemy, the one he was supposed to kill. He didn't even comprehend that Snape got in his way for a brief moment and shoved something in his hands; he didn't realise the Potions master had handed him a sword until he felt the handle in his sweaty palms.

Gryffindor's sword, taken out of the Sorting Hat, which lay innocently again under the table in the Dark Lord's mansion.

Harry took it. He swung it high, in a wide arch, and beheaded Tom Riddle with one neat strike.

Time stopped, frozen to glass.

What have I done? Harry wondered, then felt the pulling of the sword, the power of the movement. Whirling round his own centre, driven by the strength of his movement, he couldn't help following the curve Voldemort's head took before it landed with a hard, full thump on the dusty floor and rolled against the wall.

Nagini hissed with pain and loss, ready to attack. Her big, flexible body moved fast.

Harry was faster. He speared her right through the centre, and when the Horcrux in her died with an agonising scream, she exploded into millions of little, dirty flakes. So did the body and the head of her master – dust, whirling through the mouldy, smelling room. Dust and dirt, flittering slowly to the ground.

Nothing was left of the Dark Lord and his snake. But before his inner eye, Harry could still see the smile on Voldemort's lips when talking about Hermione.

One thing left to do. Feeling sick down to his bones, tears running down his face, Harry swung the sword once more and drove it right into Snape.