Chapter 11

Where neither joy nor love, but fierce desire,

Among other torments not the least

~Paradise Lost, Book IV

He avoided the firewhisky bottle. The last thing he needed was more heat in his veins.

Ice water helped, but only a little, and he slammed the glass back to the table so hard a cube flew out onto the wood.

A whore previously, maybe that would have helped. Several days of lots of wanking, juvenile though it would seem. But it was certain to him that sticking his cock into a warm, wet, willing cunt after a very long period of unintentional abstinence had not been a bright move. It was difficult, now, not to associate her swotty, frizzy head with heated kissing, pressed up against a tree. Or to separate her firing spells and twisting around attacks from her bucking against his hands as she came.

Severus eyed the ice cube, sitting in a slowly growing puddle on the table, and considered dropping it down his trousers.

Even the thought cooled him slightly. Leaving the ice to melt on the table, Severus strode into the sitting room, scanning the crammed bookshelves until he saw something that might help further alleviate his situation. He sank into an armchair with Newt Scamander's Book of the Hundred Most Hideous Harpies and steeled himself for a very unpleasant and thoroughly unarousing bout of reading.

The next morning, after a rather restless night, a magnificent eagle owl dropped a letter on top of Severus's toast. He offered it one of the burnt corners in return. It clacked its beak and vanished back through the window.

"And to you too, Archimedes." Severus broke the seal, sighing at the familiar loopy handwriting on the parchment.

Severus,

Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore

One more down, one in his chimney, one slithering around the Dark Lord's neck, and two more to be discovered. Severus hoped that the scar on Potter's head would prove to be the last of them, and that it would have to be removed from his head prior to destruction. Possibly with a blunt knife.

He did not hope as hard as he might once have. Being away from Potter lessened the effect of seeing that face and those eyes, coupled with his abrasive personality. Hating him was more habit than anything.

His whole life had been habit for several years now, he thought, staring into his coffee. Get up, terrorize students, report to Dumbledore, hate Dumbledore, hate Potter, try not to die... miss Lily...

"She would have approved."

That was habit, too. And as a memory of warm, full breasts and come-hither eyes surfaced in his mind, he could not but wonder how much of it was just that.

He spent the weekend with cold water and unscintillating reading. Monday evening found him staring at a plate of lightly buttered and salted tagliatelle, trying to convince himself that eating before a Death Eater meeting was a good idea. It involved weighing the likelihood of passing out from hunger against the possibility of vomiting from the activities.

Half the plate was empty before he took up his best robes and gave the hated silver mask a final polish with his sleeve. It was cold on his face, shocking him into complete focus on getting through the night alive.

The burning began, racing through the black lines on his arm to make him clench his teeth and hiss from the pain. He used it, though, used it to focus and strengthen his resolution to eliminate the Dark Lord and Dumbledore, the men who enabled this pain, by any means necessary.

He pushed her face out of his mind and spun on the spot.

The Dark Mark burned in the sky over Malfoy Manor, visible even from the path to the gates. Severus paused for a moment to steady himself against the double nausea of Apparation and dread. His lungs filled with sticky summer air, congealed with the scent of Malfoy's entire rose garden.

No one else was on the path, and he prayed he was not late. He restrained himself from running to the gates, but only just. He nearly knocked over the cowering house-elf who opened the door with freshly bandaged fingers.

The instant the doors to the grand dining hall opened, Severus dropped to his knees, not even daring to look to see who was already there.

"Ssseverus. How nice of you to join us. Do ssit down."

"My Lord," he said, straightening to face a cadre of Death Eaters seated at the table. Bellatrix was at Voldemort's left hand, and she was smirking like a dragon with a fatted calf. With long, pale, fingers, Voldemort indicated the seat at his right.

Late, yes, but not punished. Yet. Not one to question a lack of immediate torture, Severus nodded and moved to sit.

It wasn't until he took in the rest of the room that he noticed the large, dark cocoon hanging in place of the chandelier in the high ceiling. It was breathing, though shallowly.

"Sseverus, thank you for coming so promptly. I was merely discussing some minor topics with your compatriots, things you did not need to be bothered with."

Severus broke his gaze from the shape and turned to look at one of his masters. Red eyes met him, above a beneficent smile that not even the dumbest newborn kitten would trust for an instant.

Severus said, "I come when you call, my Lord, and do not question."

Voldemort nodded and turned his attention to the entire table.

"As part of the new academic structure of Hogwarts, certain changes have been made to the curriculum, and I fear a professor or two may be... what is the Muggle term... 'sacked.'"

Severus joined in the dark chuckle that arose at the table. The Carrows were a pair of grinning piranhas, staring at the cocoon with glittering eyes. Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco were paler than usual.

"Severus," Voldemort continued, blithe as if it were a tea party, "I believe you know our guest..."

He pointed his bonelike wand at the cocoon and said, "Ennervate."

It shifted, suddenly, and then began to writhe violently.

Voldemort tilted his wand, and the shape lowered into the pools of light just above the table. Slowly, it rotated around to face him.

You fucking bastard.

"Charity Burbage, for those of you don't know, until quite recently taught the Muggle Studies class at Hogwarts. Draco, are you familiar with her?"

Severus glanced over, seeing Draco's eyes wide and staring in the face of direct interrogation. "No, my Lord. I did not take her class."

Voldemort nodded. "As any proper pureblood would do. Severus, I hope you were not close?"

Her hazel eyes were huge and pleading. Muffled sounds came from behind her gag, made of the same ropes that bound her.

"We were not close, my Lord."

"Really?" Voldemort kept his red eyes on Severus as he flicked his wand again. The gag disappeared.

"Oh, God, Severus, what's happening?" Her voice rasped, no doubt worn away from screaming uselessly. "Please, Severus, help me, stop them, stop him, Severus, please!"

"Why does she ask your assistance, Severus?"

A game, then. Another fucking game of testing his "loyalty," of pushing him further and further to ensure that he was true to the Dark Lord and his intended regime of cruelty. And Severus had no choice but to play along. He had to make the expected move in return or else all was lost and then he would be dead without ever being free.

"I really don't know, my Lord. I had better things to do while teaching than associate with Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers." He wanted to boil his tongue for saying it, as her eyes filled with despair and Voldemort raised his wand.

"But..." Her voice was a whisper, drained of all she thought she knew. "We're friends..."

"Avada Kedavra."

The plump body shook the table.

"Nagini will take care of this, I think," Voldemort continued. He hissed, and Severus recognized, through a haze of rage, Parseltongue.

He shuddered when the massive form of the snake slithered over his feet, scales cold against his ankles. She swarmed up her master's chair and onto the table; blessedly, she dragged the corpse away instead of consuming it on the table.

"Now," Voldemort said, sitting back in his chair and steepling his fingers, "to other, but related business. How go our attempts at the Ministry?"

Severus tuned out the toadying reports of small victories to try to get himself under control. His fists were clenching so hard his knuckles cracked. He would drink to Charity when he got home, drink until he forgot her many kindnesses to him as a young professor, the assistance with administrative issues, the smiles...

A word from Voldemort caught him.

"Hogwarts."

He rapidly brought his attention back, focusing the anger until he was razor sharp with it.

"...it is my pleasure," the scaly bastard was saying, "to introduce the new Headmistress of Hogwarts."

The dramatic pause was only enough time for Severus to recognize the gender specificity and comprehend the significance of the seating arrangements.

"Bellatrix Lestrange."

The muscles in his face could still be molded into a grin, he found. He slapped his palms together in syncopation with the applause of the rest of the table. Bellatrix preened under all the attention, casting her adoring gaze upon the Dark Lord between victorious smirks at Severus.

Voldemort raised his hand, cutting off the clapping and sending Bellatrix back into her seat.

"There is work still to be done. Go, and do it."

The Malfoys stood up quickly enough to warrant raised eyebrows from Alecto Carrow, slowly rising across the table from them. Their pale faces were carved of stone as they bowed and backed from the room, a meek blonde huddle.

Severus had only just turned to bow when Voldemort murmured to him.

"Have you anything to say regarding my selected Head of Hogwarts, Severus?"

His back creaked objection to his carpet-kissing bow.

"My Lord, Bellatrix has many fine qualities, as do all of your most loyal servants," he said, carving smooth words from his roiling mind. "I had no presuppositions as to your choice for this important position."

A sibilant laugh. "If I did not know you to be intelligent, I would think you a fool for not picturing yourself sitting in that opulent tower, running the best school of witchcraft and wizardry in Europe."

"I seek only the power you allow me, my Lord."

"As I said: intelligent. You may go, Severus."

Severus backed out of the room, never taking his eyes from the twisting patterns of the Persian rug. Once the doors shut, he straightened from his obeisance and fled for the exit as fast as was seemly, seizing the handle of the front door from a quivering house-elf to fling it open. The garden was a labyrinth of twisting shapes, the muggy air pressing against him until the claustrophobia from heat and anger and evil was more than he could bear. He yanked off his robes and rent the front of his jacket, sending buttons flying into the roses until only a light, white shirt remained. Thus attired, he gathered his abused clothes and all but ran to the gates.

A too-dark shadow in a corner stopped him for a moment. He only ran harder once he made out the swollen form of Nagini, monstrous in her gluttony and abetting of her master's evils.

It was all coming down around his ears, just like the last time, control and solid ground giving way to sucking quicksand. A death sentence, yet again, and power wrenched from his hands, leaving him to beg for mercy from the other side.

Only this time both sides were the "other side." And this time the only Mudblood who mattered was on his side and safe. Safe until the war was over, except he was planning to put her on the front lines, wasn't he, and he wondered at how much of history is doomed to repeat itself.

There was too much burning in his mind.

Severus stumbled to the Apparition point and threw himself home.

And home, as always, waiting for him like a loyal dog, was a bottle of liquor. He didn't know when he started drinking, and he only stopped when his eyelids refused his commands to stay awake, betraying him to the comfort of the worn sofa. But even there, Voldemort's laughter echoed, a soundtrack to visions of the wrong hair and the right body pressed against him and a rock twisting around a tree.

He woke and, for the first time in years, didn't want to be alone with his rage.

**

Hermione blinked awake, warm from a dream of long fingers and a silky voice in her ear. Sighing, she nestled back into the pillow, resetting the light quilt above her.

The silky voice continued. His voice, she realized, and it was outside her window.

Hermione sat up and stared at the unnaturally silver light falling through the glass panes onto the rug. This was not the product of the fingernail moon. She pushed back the covers and slipped out of bed, grabbing her wand from the dresser as she padded across the room.

Not the product of the moon, indeed. On the grass outside stood a quicksilver doe. Hermione levered up the brass latch and pushed the window open. What had been a murmur of silk in her dreams coalesced into Snape's clear tones.

"Get out to the stream before I kick the window in!" He? She? Stamped a slender leg, looking as irritated as a graceful Patronus could.

"Snape?" she hissed, casting a wary glance towards the connecting wall between her room and Ron's. Bless the boy for being able to sleep through a hurricane. "What are you doing here in the middle of the night? Is this some kind of test, because if it is, I would really prefer to get back to sleep."

The doe didn't answer, simply continued to look perturbed.

Knowing Snape, he would have his Patronus smash the window, and then there would be a number of additional problems to the ones she already carried. Shooting him a glare, she said, "All right. Wait a minute and I'll be out."

For some reason, she turned her back as she dressed, shimmying out of her light nightdress to quickly don bra, shirt, and jeans. A thick elastic to tame her hair, odd socks and worn trainers, and she was fit to slip out the broad window onto the grass.

The doe pawed the ground, ears flicking. Hermione spelled the window shut.

"After you," she said, waving her hand towards the forest with sarcastic gaiety.

She had to jog to keep up with the Patronus, who slipped through the woods with ethereal grace and no sound. The wood at night was silent, save for her feet on the path and her breath. Dumbledore must have programmed the birds to stop singing and the deer to vanish into their thickets.

Snape was by the stream, seated with his knees up and his back against the apple tree. One long arm was propped at the elbow on his right knee, the hand delicately clenched some inches from his face. Something dangled at the end of a chain he held in that hand, catching the light of the Patronus with each pendulum swing. He watched the pendant like a hypnotists' guinea pig, absorbed as it swung away and towards his forearm. The Patronus went to him and touched her nose to his hand, before vanishing.

"Snape, what is going on?" she said, by way of greeting. It was the middle of the night; niceties could wait.

"Do you know the spell for Fiendfyre, Hermione?" His eyes didn't leave the bauble. There was something unusually controlled in his voice, a care to the enunciation of each word, as though speaking were difficult. And since when was she "Hermione" in this clearing?

Edging closer to him, she replied, "I think I came across it in Murders Mowst Fowle. It was in Middle Arabic, I think, since it's based on the summoning of fire djinns."

It was a locket at the end of the chain, a necklace in all. Snape, upon closer inspection, looked like he'd been dragged backwards through every circle of hell. Were his eyes just the slightest bit red and puffy?

"I happen to know the spell," he said. Back and forth went the locket. Hermione tried not to think of being strapped down underneath its arc.

"Why is it important that I...we know the spell?" she said, trying to worry out whatever was going on. He was not acting normally, and something about that locket was screaming at her memory to recognize its significance.

"Because we will use it tonight." Now he looked at her, eyes blacker in the thin moonlight than she had ever seen them. She backed up a step as he set his free hand on the tree trunk and pushed himself to his feet. He swayed just slightly.

Oh, dear lord, he's drunk...