Descending into Darkness, Part 1: Autumn 1978

Descending into Darkness (Part 1): Autumn 1978

Peter

It was hot for November in this part of England, wherever this 'part' of England might be, for none of them knew the exact location of their headquarters. It was even hotter in the old, dusty farmhouse, crowded with Order members who were clustered in several small groups, speaking in lowered voices, waiting for Albus Dumbledore to arrive and for the meeting to begin.

Peter sat in the back, off by himself, wiping his sweating face with a handkerchief he now kept with him at all times. He was perspiring a great deal lately. He also found himself startling at odd moments, like when someone touched his head or at the sound of high-pitched laughter. Moody had apparently noticed it too, for Peter had been chastised for being less vigilant than he should have been during training exercises. He couldn't seem to help it, though. He felt trapped, paralysed as if under the Imperius Curse. Only it was worse, because he wasn't. Peter had been forced to spy for Lord Voldemort, to turn traitor on his friends, on the Order, unwillingly bound to the Dark Lord's service. I have no choice, he repeated to himself hundreds of times each day. I was kidnapped! I've no choice! Indeed, the despair Peter felt in his heart was genuine. All he could do was to ferret out some information that would keep his master happy, and Peter, his family, and friends alive.

James certainly wasn't making it easy. If only he'd stay out of the press, Peter thought with despair. Since James had first spoken out against pure-blood politics in the Prophet, he'd become a bit of a celebrity, and other articles about him had followed. Moody wasn't happy about it either, since publicity of any kind was bad for the Order. Peter was there when the Auror bluntly admonished James to 'keep his bloody opinions to himself!' But he knew that it was too late. Voldemort had taken notice of the 'outspoken boy and his Mudblood wife' who had managed to defy him. His master had instructed Peter to 'keep an eye on Potter.' Every time he thought about it, he felt like a hand was tightening around his throat and he found it difficult to breathe.

I'll do everything I can to protect him, affirmed Peter, wiping his sopping brow and the back of his neck. I don't care about anyone else, but he can't have James!

Fretting about his friend, Peter scanned the room in a momentary panic, needing to reassure himself that James was all right.

To his relief, he found James and Lily sitting together on a frayed sofa in a corner, her head resting on his shoulder. He knew he was being silly, but the sight of the two of them together was calming.

Glancing further through the crowd, he saw Sirius and Emmy Vance sitting on the floor near the fireplace. Sirius was leaning in such a way that he was able to snake his arm around the young witch's back. He was whispering something in Emmy's ear, and she smiled and blushed. Sirius edged himself closer to her side and looked smug.

Peter grimaced and briefly wondered if he should warn Emmy about Sirius' ongoing game of Seduce, Conquer and Abandon. He then looked around the room for Remus, but the man wasn't there. Now that he thought about it, Peter realised that he hadn't seen Remus for over a month! Perhaps he was on another special mission for Dumbledore. He'd have to remember to talk to Dumbledore later, just to make sure Remus was all right.

*****

Dumbledore enters the room. The crowd grows quiet and Peter sits at attention, preparing to listen carefully for any information he might be able to give his master. He feels his soul being battered every time he's called to Voldemort's side, and yet he truly believes that he won't have to betray his friends, the ones he loves. I'll find some way, he thinks fervently. I have to.

Lily

Lily found it hard to pay attention during the meeting. It was hot and she'd had a very stressful week. In her first full week as a 'Harvester,' she'd been at the deathbeds of an elderly wizard, a middle-aged witch, and a child. It was her job to cast the difficult and precise spell that drew out and captured each donor's unique bit of Elemental Magic, the essence of the love both given and received during his or her lifetime; she marvelled at how this powerful magic fit into the tiny, heart-shaped vessel.

In addition to her work, she'd spent the past three nights with Alice and Dorcas creating healing potions and draughts to replenish their supplies. She loved her job, and was devoted to the Order, but the combined efforts had left Lily both physically and emotionally drained.

Dumbledore was speaking, and James' hand was gently stroking her arm. The words in the air around her seemed to blur, but she didn't care. The repetitive touch of her husband's fingers on her bare skin was soothing.

She jumped in her seat, startled as her left foot received a decisive kick.

"Stay awake!" Alice whispered loudly.

Indeed, she had dozed off, and Lily shook her head so vigorously to rouse herself that it prompted Dumbledore to ask, "You disagree, Mrs. Potter?"

She felt the heat rush to her face in embarrassment. "Sorry, sir. No, sir." Of course she had no idea whether she disagreed or not. Alice sniggered, and Lily kicked her foot in return.

"In that case, we shall proceed as planned," Dumbledore concluded. "Thank you all for your kind attention." And the meeting came to an end.

Lily saw Moody scurrying through the crowd, his eye fixed on James. "Potter!"

"Sir?" James asked, turning to Moody.

"Glad to see you've not been in the paper this week. Keep it that way!"

Lily knew that James wasn't happy to have been anointed by the press as the 'spokeswizard' for half-bloods and Muggle-borns. That Rita Skeeter was horrible in the way she always managed to twist his words. But she also knew that it was hard for James to remain silent if asked his opinions. Moody was right, though. It wasn't safe to be in the limelight. So, Lily had drilled James to use the phrase 'no comment,' and so far, it seemed to be working.

Lily left James to be further tormented by Moody as she made her way to Dumbledore, who was speaking in the corner to a very animated Dorcas Meadowes. As Lily approached, she noted that a Silencing Spell had been cast, since their mouths were moving but their voices could not be heard. So, she stood patiently, waiting for their conversation to finish, and tried not to stare or read their lips. She did wonder what Dorcas was going on about, though. It must be something very sensitive, she thought, and recalled that no one had been assigned to work with Dorcas in the last few months.

Finally, Dumbledore released the spell and Dorcas stormed out of the room, clearly unhappy with the outcome of their conversation. The old wizard turned to Lily with a sigh.

"Yes, my dear?" He sounded as tired as she felt.

"I wanted to apologise, sir. I didn't mean to nod off like that."

Dumbledore dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand.

"No need, Lily. I know how difficult it is to work all day and then have Order duties on top of that. I'm sure that James will fill you in at home."

"Thank you, sir. I'll make sure to have Alice kick me regularly throughout future meetings, just in case," she said with a smile.

"I always find it helpful to have a plan, Lily," Dumbledore remarked with sage nod and a wink.

*****

Lily turns from Dumbledore and scans the room, looking at the determined faces around her. Faces that belong both to people she has loved for many years, and to those she has come to love more recently. She tries to imprint their faces in her memory, to fix this moment in time. She knows that the danger is growing and the risk to all of them is higher than ever. It is important to capture this moment, she thinks, so she can recall it in the dark days certain to come.

Severus

Severus was running a fever, but at this stage of the process the bubbling ingredients in the Consentire Potion had to be stirred continuously for two hours. By hand. He had the presence of mind not to stand too close to the cauldron, so the sweat pouring from his brow would not drip into the potion by accident and ruin the painstaking work of the past few months. Glancing at the timepiece on the bench, he noted there were five minutes left.

Sparks of pain ignited in his aching fingers and shot up his arm like fire. He gritted his teeth, ignored it and kept on stirring. He had worked hard to master his response to pain, and so, to distract himself, he closed his eyes and concentrated on thoughts of the book he was currently reading, Delicate Poisons and Dangerous Draughts.

Severus joyfully soaked up the knowledge his master had provided him and threw himself into his tasks with a fervour he didn't know he had. The more complex the potion, the harder Severus drove himself. His hands were never idle, and he worked himself so relentlessly that he slept only when his body could no longer remain upright. He ate sporadically, indifferent to the gnawing pains in his stomach.

It was discomfiting to him, however, that when it came time to turn over a completed potion to Lucius Malfoy, Severus felt something within him tear, the parting from his work a painful, keening loss. He actually found it difficult to breathe, and one time he had to fight the urge to hide the phials. He didn't understand why this happened or why he couldn't prevent himself from being overcome by such feelings. He certainly didn't like it. Inevitably, his concern would evaporate, forgotten, as soon as he received new orders and started to create a new Dark potion.

His eyes snapped open, and seeing that exactly two hours had passed, he stopped stirring. Stepping away from the cauldron, Severus stumbled. It felt like his arm was still moving in a ghostly echo of itself. His body was screaming to sit, to lie down, but Severus ignored it. Instead, he made his way to the shelf holding the restorative potions and salves, found the small blue phial with the Fever Reducing Draught and swallowed it quickly. His breathing came in gasps, his grip on the phial slackened, and it fell from his hand, shattering on the stone floor. Severus didn't notice, as he swayed and fell to the floor himself, unconscious.

*****

When he awoke, he found himself lying on the pallet that he used to catch one or two hours of sleep. He heard Lucius Malfoy speaking with someone he didn't know. The constant thud in his head argued against opening his eyes, so he opted to listen instead.

"He'll be assigned to your cell, Mulciber." This was Malfoy's voice.

"But can he handle it?" The man Severus assumed must be Mulciber spoke, the doubt in his voice evident.

"Our master is certain, and that is all that matters. You and Dolohov will help him to recover, prepare him, and ensure that he is capable and ready."

A long silence followed, and Severus, though the fever still addled his mind, realised that they were talking about him.

Cell? Ready?

He must have moved or attempted to speak because he felt Malfoy sitting by his side and holding up his head.

"Drink this," Malfoy said, and Severus forced his eyes open enough to see a goblet of water being held to his lips.

He drank and recalled that he hadn't had food or water in nearly two days.

"You're no good to anyone like this, Severus," Malfoy said quietly, as if he didn't want the other man to hear.

"But the Consentire..." he croaked, sounding like a frog had taken up residence in his throat. Severus moved as if to stand, but Malfoy pushed him back down.

"You will finish the potion, but then you will move on to a different sort of task. Drink more."

He sat up and drained the goblet, feeling the relief of hydration at once.

"Different task?" Severus asked, feeling suddenly alert and anxious.

"Our Lord has been very pleased with your work, Severus. You have exceeded all our expectations, but you must be prepared to serve our master in all ways."

Severus was alarmed. What did he mean?

Malfoy continued. "You will report on Monday to Mulciber and Dolohov, who will oversee the next phase of your training. I believe some of your schoolmates are in their cell as well."

Severus tried to process what Malfoy was saying. He knew that his master's servants were divided into small groups, or cells, each responsible for a piece of some larger mission, and only those in Voldemort's Inner Circle...such as Malfoy...knew how the pieces fit together. Even the identities of Death Eaters outside their own cell were unknown, as they wore masks and hooded cloaks on the rare occasions when they gathered as a group or worked together in the field.

"Training?" Severus asked, stiffening.

"Physical training, Severus, to prepare you for field missions. You already have a wide knowledge of curses, hexes and other Dark spells, all of which will be valuable to the work of Mulciber and Dolohov's unit. But you need to build up your stamina, which has been, unfortunately, severely neglected."

Severus had to fight a growing panic. He was needed here! He was Voldemort's Potions master! The thought of leaving the safety and certainty of the laboratory made him break into a cold sweat that had nothing to do with his fever. "I've been working hard, sir," he said, controlling his tone and careful not to use Malfoy's given name. He couldn't recall, in fact, when he had last called him Lucius. "There is so much work still left to be completed and..."

Malfoy interrupted him, placing a hand on his knee and squeezing it gently. "You have performed brilliantly, Severus. And you have provisioned our stores so completely that our master feels he can spare you to other duties for a while."

Severus glanced up at Mulciber, who stood silently, watching them carefully.

He looked at Malfoy, suddenly understanding. "I will no longer report to you?"

Malfoy stood and smoothed out his robes. "Mulciber will keep me informed as to your progress, but you'll heed him in all regards," he said. "I'm sure you will not disappoint us." He considered Severus' appearance with a frown. "Eat your dinner, then go home and get some rest."

Malfoy inclined his head to the other man and, without a further word they both left the laboratory.

*****

Severus drops back down on the pallet, his head throbbing against the thin pillow. Despite Malfoy's words of praise, he feels that he has failed. He has been demoted, handed off. Pushed aside. A horrible dread fills him. He has heard about the raids, the attacks, the bloodshed. Then, he begins to shake violently, an involuntary reaction to the caustic and terrifying combination of fever and fear.

My betas were heavily consulted on the content of this chapter and I owe them for more than checking punctuation. Thanks to both celtmama and capella_black.