Chapter Eighteen

A/N: Just a heads up: dark deeds and times are in this chapter and ahead. Please heed the chapter warnings.

Chapter Eighteen

Woolen Death Eater robes did nothing to protect him from the stinging chill of a late October night. The ground was damp with a light drizzle, his robes mucked. Pebbles and bits of gravel dug into his aching knees.

“My faithful followersss,” His Lord hissed, weaving a path through a throng of bowed servants while Nagini slithered dutifully behind.

“Two of your brethren are noticeably absssent thisss evening.” The Dark Lord stopped his circuit behind Snape.

“Macnair. Risse.”

The hulking executioner moved to stand with his head bowed in reverence.

“Covington felled Yaxley, then took hisss life. Why?”

“I—I don’t know, my Lord.”

Voldemort chuckled. The wizened cackle raised Snape’s hackles. “Avada Kedavra.”

Macnair fell dead, expressionless.

“Risse, Avery.” The man wasn’t even on his feet when he met the same fate as Macnair.

The smell of excrement was pungent in the air as the bowels of the fallen released with an involuntary muscle spasm. In all, the Dark Lord slaughtered Macnair, Avery, Goyle, Nott, and Rookwood.

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“Your brethren displeased me,” the Dark Lord offered by way of explanation to his still kneeling soldiers. Snape, though, believed it had more to do with systematically executing anyone in close proximity to Macnair, rather than any one man’s fault or lack thereof.

“How quickly they forget that if you are to perish, it will be in the glory of battle when I am to be triumphant over Dumbledore and Harry Potter, or by Lord Voldemort’s hand.”

The snake-like nostrils scented the odor of bodies as thin lips curled in disgust. “Remove them from my sssight, and be gone.” The Dark Lord dismissed them with a wave of his hand. “I grow weary of your presence.”

Wormtail leapt, eager to do his Master’s bidding.

Snape waited until his Lord retired to the confines of the Manor house before rising.

“Our Lord is most displeased, my old friend.”

“Yes,” Snape concurred. “But we live to see another day, Lucius,” he stated matter-of-factly.

The blond nodded. “A drink?”

The two Death Eaters Disapparated to a pub in Muggle London.

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“Jameson holds less of an appeal than firewhisky, what say you?”

“The end result is the same, fuck should I care?” Snape grunted, taking another shot from the near-empty bottle the barkeep set on their table.

"Draco owled Narcissa. He is settling in well.”

Snape nodded, chasing his shot down with another.

“All loose ends have been neatly tied together.”

“My dear friend,” the Potions master kept his voice low, “I fear drink has addled my brain. We shall have to continue this conversation on the morrow.”

“But, of course,” the older wizard responded in understanding, “when we are both clear-headed and you’ve remembered.”

Snape bid Malfoy a good evening, made his way to the back alley of the pub, and Disapparated under the cloak of darkness back to Hogwarts.

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“My boy, you reek of a distillery.”

Snape sat before the Headmaster. He hadn’t bothered to change his attire upon his return to the castle. He’d only stopped briefly in his chambers to retire his mask and retrieve his memories.

“He was most displeased at the events that transpired today. Suffice it to say, there are fewer Death Eaters amongst his ranks.”

“What of Madam Umbridge?”

Snape snorted. “That woman,” he spat in disgust, “is a hanger-on. With her lover dead, she holds no 'in' with him, and to act otherwise would not bode well for her longevity.”

“Dolores holds nothing more dear than power,” Dumbledore spoke in a conversational tone, “which is what you will provide her with.”

“To be hired out like a whore… How cheap I feel.” If not for the drink, his words would have had more bite than slur.

“Levity? Severus, I thought you incapable of a sense of humor.”

“What is more humorous than my very existence?”

“You have imbued much alcohol this night.”

“Yes, well, thank you for stating the obvious, Headmaster. Surely, you would not deny your spy the pleasure of a petty vice.” Snape grouched, irritated.

Blue eyes narrowed behind half-moon spectacles. “Sober up. You have classes to teach in a few short hours.”

Snape left the headmaster’s office without so much as a parting word or backwards glance.

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“Poppy,” the dark man whispered so as to not startle the matron standing vigil over her two young charges.

“You know where the Sober-Up potion is kept,” the mediwitch replied, not taking her eyes off of Granger and Finch-Fletchley.

Snape found the potion in her cabinet and drank it down, setting the empty bottle on the edge of the wash basin. “Miss Granger had to be sedated, took nearly two full doses of Dreamless Sleep.” Poppy shook her head, saddened, and made quick work of tucking the Hufflepuff back in.

“She is still covered in filth, and her clothes have not been discarded,” Snape observed.

“She was hysterical, in shock. Screamed like a banshee with the devil on her tail when I tried to see her properly cleaned and clothed.” Poppy sighed heavily. “I have suspicions that something more untoward might have occurred. Her behavior indicates as much.”

“Have you word to corroborate or confirm this?” Snape offered, knowing the reason why the girl refused to be seen nude in the presence of the school’s nurse.

“I was waiting for consent from the girl,” the matron snapped, gasping at her outburst.

“Forgive me, Severus,” guilt laced her apology, “the children.” She wept into her handkerchief.

“I know.” He nodded, his joints creaking as he sank onto the empty cot.

“Poppy, take leave. You’ve not slept. I shall stand vigil.”

“You’ve not slept either, Severus.”

“Yes, but I am accustomed to weariness and fatigue.”

Poppy made a tsking noise and with a swish of her wand saw Severus’ appearance righted and cleaned. “It wouldn’t do to have the children wake and see you in such as state.” She smiled warmly at the man whose wounds she had tended to since he first stepped foot in this institution.

“Thank you.” Severus bowed watching the matron retreat to her adjoining chambers.

Severus cast a Muffliato and pulled the privacy curtain closed, but not before casting a charm that would alert him if Finch-Fletchley awoke or became distressed.

“My dear girl, please know that I would not intentionally put you in harm’s way.” He brushed her blood-matted hair away from her face.

She looked peaked and much younger than anyone who suffered as she did had the right to look. “You must inform me as to how you can maintain innocence amidst such chaos.”

He rested his hand over her blanket-covered one. “I’ve not a moment's peace since you and your bloody cohorts stepped foot in this damned school,” Severus gently chided. “You seek knowledge with every breath, quote verbatim and ramble ad nauseam on every book you’ve laid your eyes upon. You seek to prove your worth and exercise your right to exist in a world that would see you labeled a deficient Mudblood…” He paused as Hermione began to stir.

“Rest,” he soothed. “Rest, my dear girl.” Hermione’s twisting and turning settled, her breathing evening out.

“You are a complication in my life that I had not anticipated, but welcomed nonetheless. Most certainly against my better judgment, I can very well assure you.” Severus chuckled softly. “Gryffindor stubbornness through and through.” He sighed. “Sometimes a man can meet his destiny on the road he took to avoid it, and I hope you will not hate me for what I must do.”

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A/N: The quote “Sometimes a man can meet his destiny on the road he took to avoid it,” is spoken by Clive Owen’s character from the movie “The International.”

A/N: Heartfelt thanks to my beta, SLU, and to all my readers and reviewers.