Check Mate, the Black King Advances

Guard... Check... Mate

By Bambu

~o0o~

Author's Note: Be advised that the beginning of this chapter is filled with graphic depictions of the effects of a curse.

~o0o~

Chapter Five: Check Mate, the Black King Advances

Writhing on the highly polished, wooden floor, Snape shouted as he was wracked with the unbearable agony that was the Cruciatus curse, thousands of knives piercing his skin, his muscles... his mind. As his body spasmed and his eyes rolled in his head, Snape could make out the circle of Death Eaters surrounding their overlord. Some were watching his jerking movements avidly, others were avoiding the pitiful sight of one of their number rolling in pain, and all were wholeheartedly relieved that it wasn't them in his place, suffering the caress of their master's displeasure.

Lord Voldemort's agonizing incentives had grown more frequent over the past few weeks, as Snape had been seemingly unable to give up Harry. The bottle-spectacled wizard was training daily with Dumbledore and Moody, and studying late into the night, following Hermione's surreptitious and secret study-guide. However, the more time the young wizard had to hone his skills, the better chance he would have to be victorious. So, Snape kept his mouth and his mind closed, and suffered the continuing negative reinforcement that the Dark Lord specialized in.

Only this time, Snape knew that the end was at hand. There remained five days before September first and tempers were frayed, tolerance was at its perogee, and Snape was the sacrificial victim.

Snape had been afflicted with the agonizing curse for varying lengths of time since he'd arrived at the Dark Order's new location and hadn't given Voldemort the answer he wanted. His punishment had been swift and merciless, as it had been for the past eight weeks. Voldemort's chastisement of Snape's failure had dragged on for three hours, and Snape's well-honed ability to distance himself from the pain was weakened to the point of non-existence... he was close to giving up hope.

Abruptly the curse broke off and the high, cold voice of Lord Voldemort hissed, "Look at me, Severus!"

Snape rolled onto his back, gulping in huge mouthfuls of air, his limbs twitching. He looked up to the skeletally thin frame of the Dark Lord, his vision obscured by sweat-soaked strands of his black hair. He was incapable of pushing the hair from his face. The flat face, slitted-nostrils, lipless mouth, lidless crimson eyes stared back at him, unblinking. The foul stench of decay and rancid blood emanating from Voldemort's robes wafted in Snape's direction as the Dark wizard moved toward his recalcitrant Death Eater. Snape fought the nausea that would set off muscle spasms anew.

The Dark Lord pointed his wand at Snape, and the Potions master flinched, the muscles in his back knotting, one hand spasming, itching to grab the Portkey... but it was too soon.

Not yet, not yet.

The cold voice shrilled, "Legilimens!"

Snape felt his mind's barricades holding against the assault on his defenses. He concentrated on mundanities while the Dark Lord accessed, painfully, forcefully, Snape's most recent public images. The minutia of teaching duties flooded his mind: compiling student lists, purchasing annual potions ingredients at the Apothecary, sitting in on staff meetings, Dumbledore's mention of seeing Harry in a few weeks time. Nothing revealing, nothing to merit the agony he was currently experiencing.

Snape hoped to live through the night.

By the time Voldemort withdrew his attack, Snape's feet were curling with cramps, the large muscles in his legs shook and trembled with strain and residual hex marks. He couldn't allow himself to think of the one place he wished he was: a small, quiet sitting room with a curly-haired witch writing letters. Just blocking the thought soothed him somewhat.

"Tell me, Severus. Where is Potter?" Voldemort's skeletal hand, scaly fingers wrapped around his wand, pointed directly above Snape's heart.

Snape's voice was hoarse and soaked with pain. "I do not know, my Lord. I keep as close to Dumbledore as possible. Surely I will find him in time."

"Not good enough, my servant. Not nearly good enough." Once again, Voldemort opened his mouth to curse Snape, and the despairing wizard prepared for the Cruciatus, praying to whatever gods might actually exist that he didn't end up like Frank and Alice Longbottom, vacant and drooling into their laps. But he was to be surprised... unpleasantly.

Two words spoken in that thin, shrill, cold voice. It was the last time the word 'cold' would enter Snape's mind.

"Inflamare venis!"

Snape's blood began to boil... literally.

He screamed, his skin rippled, and Snape knew that he was going to die. Searing, burning agony unlike anything he'd ever known pulsed through his body, in time with his heartbeat, flushing through his veins.

With all his remaining will, Snape fought against grabbing the Portkey... he couldn't do that until the Dark Lord had seen into his mind. Hurry up, you Bastard! The fire in his body was cooking everything in its path. Even if Snape lived through the next ten minutes, he would never survive. Scorching heat from within evaporated any sweat that he might have produced to cool the boiling of his blood.

Not yet, not yet.

Snape clawed at himself in an instinctive attempt to purge the offending flames from his body. His fingernails raked his cheeks, shredding the pale skin. The blood that oozed from his veins was boiling, steaming, and as it dripped across his face it left second degree burns.

As one, the circle of his brethren stepped back.

Snape thought he might die right there, right then. He barely registered the icy scream, "Legilimens!"

But Snape knew immediately when the Dark Lord had breached his mental wards. As if a chunk of grey matter had been hewn from his brain, Snape felt the protective aspect of the Fidelius Charm being tripped. The location of the cottage had been severed from his mind. Hermione was safe. He had saved her. That knowledge was his only comfort as he thrashed on the ground, screaming in agony, tearing his clothing, rending his flesh, reaching for the blessed relief of unconsciousness.

Snape had been a spy for so many years that even his private mind had created barriers within barriers, and the Dark Lord had not as yet discovered the damning evidence of the spy's true loyalties... and Snape's body was burning. Soon the layers of protective tissue would give way and his veins would burst.

Not yet, not yet.

The smell of burnt flesh and the copper tang of blood filled Snape's senses. The fact that it was his own blood, his own flesh, didn't even register. He was focused inward, riding along with the vicious bastard who was raping his mind...

Boil... boil... toil and trouble...

fire burn and blood bubble.

Snape was a cauldron, made of bone and muscle and tendon... and blood. He was made of blood... blood that boiled and sluiced through his entire venal system, reaching every extremity, every organ in his body. He tore at his hair and his face... ripping at his clothing, attempting to find some way to cool off his limbs, his body, his intestines.

How long could a heart function with magma for blood?

His brain was heating up and Snape feared that he would be dead in short order. As he retched and flailed at Voldemort's feet, seeking any chill in the gleaming hardwood floor, he forced his spasming, clawing hand to find the Portkey, his most urgent duty.

His lungs felt on fire, each breath turning to steam as it left his lungs. He gulped fresh air in a frantic effort to cool his internal organs, long enough to fulfill his obligations. Even as he found the top button of his robes, and began to feel his way down the placket of his robes, Voldemort was riffling through his mind, memories of Order of the Phoenix meetings, the times he'd met with Dumbledore privately.

Snape's fingers found the second button... the third. He breathed flames and shouted hoarse, unintelligible words as agony ripped through him. He no longer saw the circle of Death Eaters or the red eyes of the Dark Lord. He was blinded by his own crimson eyes, blood vessels ruptured and light obliterated from his sight.

Images flashed through his mind, in time with Voldemort's perusal: Harry Potter and the Weasleys seated around the kitchen table at Grimmauld Place, Hermione's face illuminated in the soft light of the sitting room they shared in what were the only peaceful and contented moments of his life. She is safe.

"Traitor! Spy!" The Dark Lord shrieked at his formerly trusted Death Eater.

Snape's fingers fumbled on his frock coat, losing count. The stench of decay and blood filled his nostrils. He was panting and screaming, his blood bubbling, each breath was unrelieved pain.

Top button... it burns... it burns...

Second button... it is over... I will never find the cottage...

Third button... I will never go home...

Searing agony, lungs on fire.

Fourth button... kill him, Potter...

"Aha! I have it!" The cold voice crowed in triumph. "'The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.' My faithful, we have the location, we have the element of surprise. Wormtail, your arm. It is time to summon the remaining members of our flock. We will take Dumbledore and his sycophants in their sleep!"

Voldemort kicked Snape in the ribs. The splintering of bones couldn't be heard over Snape's cries. "I have no need of you!"

Fifth button.... Breathe...

Just two more minutes... I will miss you, Hermione... I have saved something precious.

Sixth button... It was worth my life.

The shrill, cold voice began the final incantation that would end Snape's agony... "Avada Ked..."

Snape's fingers found the seventh button and, amidst the fiery torture his internal organs were suffering, verging at the point where the proteins which formed his cellular structure were denatured, he felt the tug behind his navel, and then darkness consumed him.

~o0o~

...please go directly to the next chapter...