1 January, 1998 01:38

Severus Snape had long been a creature of the night.

He smirked at the thought, remembering the rumours that circulated about him to this day in these very halls in which he strode. No, he was no vampire. He bore no curses but the ones he had imposed upon himself. It might have been easier if he had been turned by Lupin on that long ago night or given into Sanguini’s heavy-handed attempts at seduction when the Dark Lord was courting the coven of vampires... before he, Severus, took the Mark. Either route, he never would have been able to take the Mark. The Dark Lord was notoriously intolerant of those who were not quite human, the bloody hypocrite.

How different his life might be without the damnable Mark, cooking sherry induced prophecies, and earnest young men who felt they had been born to save the world. How different it would be if he had never fallen in love with the first witch he met.

He walked through the castle hallways, his step silent except for the susurrus of slick leather soles on cobbles, and his expression cold. He was a Stygian patch of darkness in the already dim hallways. Night was the only time when he felt welcomed at the institution, especially after assuming the title of Headmaster. He had always been an outsider. He was too sharp-tongued, too ugly, and too much a loner to ever try to fit in with the rest of the staff. Now that he was branded a traitor amongst the people who he had once considered dear acquaintances or friends for killing Albus, he was even more a persona non grata. Each and every living inmate of the institution posed a serious threat to his authority and his health. That he secretly cheered them with the portrait Dumbledore was of no consequence. His life, always difficult before the murder, had become a series of skirmishes waged by children, old women, a half-goblin, and house elves. He was fortunate that Rubeus remained outside the castle most of the time. He doubted that he could have dealt with the enraged half-giant.

Damning himself for bringing his mind out of its darkness induced state of calm; he turned over the events of the evening.

Not a stress inducing topic at all, old man, Severus thought with a wry upturn of his lips.

A tumbler of firewhisky downed in front of Albus’ sleeping portrait (the old fraud had been awake. Severus had seen the blue glitter of his eyes through the slit of his lids) and Severus had lost the watery-bowelled fear that had gripped him once he left the tent and Apparated to the gates of Hogwarts. Another tumbler and he had discussed the odd turn his life seemed to have taken along with Potter’s, the conversation with Granger’s input, and the boy’s sudden ability to Occlude after his utter failure under Severus’ tutelage. It was a long soliloquy fraught with the sense of impending change and healthy fear. The old Headmaster woke with a snorting gulp of painted atmosphere at the mention of Horcruxes.

“Whatever brought that topic to the front of your mind, Severus?” Albus asked with feigned innocence. “Even for you, it is a Dark subject...”

Severus did not deign to give Albus a look of disgust at his transparent duplicity. He merely poured more whisky and sipped. He waited. Albus’ main strength as a mentor was in the teaching of patience. It was a lesson with which Severus still struggled, but he had made vast strides over the years. Albus finally huffed and said, “My notes on Tom’s Horcruxes are available to you, of course.”

Severus stood, tossing back the rest of his amber courage before he asked his words full of bile and ashes, “You couldn’t see fit to fill me in on this little tactical detail earlier, Albus?”

“No, Severus, I could not.” Albus’ tone was apologetic. “I could not risk Tom knowing what I did.”

Severus exhaled through his nose, trying to attain a sense of calm. “Potter, that dunderhead, Weasley, and the ever eager Know-It-All kept the information safe, I take it? This is the same Potter who failed so miserably at Occlumency.”

“Harry seems to have learned the proper discipline now, my boy.”

Severus ground his teeth, the grating sound filling the grave silence of the room. He struggled against the feeling of betrayal that swamped him before he asked, “Where might I find the information, Headmaster? I would hate to have it fall in the wrong hands. Mine, apparently.”

“Severus,” Albus said with the same tilting downturn of his head that he had employed to manipulate Severus whilst the older wizard still lived. “It is in plain sight for those who look for it.”

Tired of Albus’ machinations and marginally informative answers, Severus propelled himself from the room, and found himself walking the familiar dark halls of the castle, seeking a solace that always eluded him.

1 January, 1998 03:14

The raid had not gone as planned. Both Rabastan and Rodolphus had been killed by Muggle firearms, whilst Lucius was wounded and left to Apparate away from the military facility which they had attacked. It was rumoured that the Muggles had weapons of great power, greater than anything in the wizarding arsenal, that would end the war swiftly, if not painlessly. Apparently the Dark Lord had read about these devices from some Muggle historical tome. Lucius knew the attempt to gain information on this matter was folly, even before Severus had made his whispered admonitions of caution to Lucius days before.

Why, in Merlin’s name, would the Dark Lord think it was a good idea to alert the Muggle military to any of the wizarding world’s business, especially since the war was not going as well as could be expected? What with Potter and his little supporters still free, and the various resistance cells that functioned almost in the open. Add those minor considerations to the fact that Muggle genius lay in the very inventive ways they had devised to kill each other... Lucius tamped down his misgivings, remembering how fragile his defences were against the Dark Lord’s rapacious mind even at such a distance.

Malfoy weaved and then fell. He found himself bent over in the snow, the nose of his mask dragging in the substance. He pulled impatiently at the ties, all the while taking short, laboured breaths to keep from inhaling to deeply. Once the mask was gone he still felt as if his lungs were clogged and he was suffocating. He struggled to kneel and moved his shoulder experimentally sure that a gush of hot blood would exit his body at the gesture. In his panic to flee from the unequal fight, he had nearly splinched himself getting to wherever it was he landed. He had never done such a thing before, not even when he was a young man trying to attain his Apparition licence. He looked around to ascertain where he might have landed. All he could see was snow and trees, and that there was no light but the moon. Lucius righted his cloak about his shoulders aware of the snow melting under his knees and the burning agony in his side. He shoved his mask in his pocket as he checked himself for other injuries. In the back of his mind a niggling voice kept repeating that he too might die ignominiously from a gunshot wound as Rabastan and Rodolphus had. He pushed the voice down, under the turbulent stream of his consciousness.

He dare not die.

Narcissa was alone with the despot and worse, her own lunatic sister. Bella had made it clear that she had many scores to settle with Lucius and had no qualms about taking the payment in sisterly blood. No, he would not die. He needed to remain alive to affect his family’s escape.

Knowing his survival might depend on a thorough examination of his wound; he touched it and recoiled as he contacted the seeping warmth. He knew with sickening surety that if he held his hand before his face, it would be black with blood.

He recited the words of his long ago Apparition class, drawing on the small stores of magical energy he had left, “Deliberation, Determination, Destination.” The niggling voice filled in a fourth, “Desperation.” He waited for the familiar tug and whirl of Apparition, but realised, as the world went dark that he would not be making it home that morning, if ever.

1 January, 1998 07:42

Ron woke to a cold spot beside him where Hannah had rested the night before. He struggled to sit and pulled down the shirts and the thick wool jumper he had worn to bed, and then searched blindly for his pants. He found them inside the sleeping bag at his feet. He gave a sheepish snort as he donned them and his trousers, remembering how they had come to be in that position. The guilt he thought he might feel at shagging Hannah more than twice was absent. He wondered at that for a moment, before he shrugged into his cloak, a heavy, green wool one that he had lifted from Percy’s flat before he left. Once girded against the early morning cold, he exited the tent.

“Hannah?” he called his whispered shout throaty and hoarse. “Hannah!”

Bloody buggering hell. He’d be damned if he was going to flounder through the snow to find her. Let the bears, or badgers, (were there still wolves in Britian?) or whatever lurked in the woods eat her for all he cared. He needed to find Harry and Hermione and Hannah had already taken up too much of his time. Guilt settled on him at the thought. He had shagged her more than a few times and she’d had a hard time of it before that, probably been raped. He couldn’t in good conscience let her go again. He felt obligated in a way he had never been before. She, in that moment, seemed to be his, as if he had laid claim to her with his own randiness. He shrugged as if to throw the feeling off, but it had settled on him like a shroud. He knew whatever came, he would take her with him. He called again, “Haaannaaaah!”

“I’m over here, Ron!” the girl answered from behind a bush. “Do try to be quiet. There are Snatchers about.”

“Bloody hell.” He muttered, realising just why she would be up that early in the morning and behind a bush. He blushed painfully to the tips of his ears, as he added, “Not as many as there were two days ago.”

“I heard that, Weasley.”

After a detour to an adjacent area to relieve his bladder also (and no childish attempts to write his name with the steaming stream), he returned to the tent and pulled out a tin that he used to heat water and the last of his tea. He would share it with her and hope that he could find Harry and Hermione soon. He didn’t have money for food and his stores were sadly depleted. A quarter of a jar of peanut butter and a stale loaf of bread would be their fare that morning and maybe that afternoon. Ron idly considered putting up snares for rabbits, but rejected the idea. He had helped in the butchery of the chickens his mum kept, but had always sicked up after doing it. If he wanted to hold onto his new found ‘big manly man’ status with Hannah, he wouldn’t do it by vomiting over butchering a hare.

After scraping his hands through a bit of snow he scooped a few fresh handfuls of it into the tin and cast a heating charm on it. Sure, he could have used a spell for water, but why bother when there was so much fresh about? Besides, spelled water tasted off, stale somehow. He went back to the tent to retrieve the store of food and the small Styro plate he used to prepare sandwiches on when Hannah gave a small, terrified yelp. Ron reacted immediately, wand in hand before he was even standing.

Before he could take more than one step, Hannah was being dragged out of the bushes by a shaking, wild-eyed boy flanked by two older men. Ron recognised one as Fenrir Greyback and the other might be Marcus Flint. The Slytherin had changed, become tougher than he remembered, if that were possible for the git. Ron kept his wand trained on the trio as his heart-rate ramped up and he felt the tingling release of adrenalin in his blood. He made an effort to still his shaking hand and fixed his voice with his best steely tone as he said, “You’d best let her go.”

“Look at this, Flint. This ginger has some real fire,” Greyback said with a mirthful quirk of his lip. “I do believe you’re a Weasley I haven’t tasted yet. Come here, ickle boy and let me have a quick sniff. I won’t hurt you.... not much anyway and I promise that I’ll make sure you’re good and dead before I eat you.”

Ron blanched but held his wand on the werewolf. “Let her go.”

“Or you’ll do what, exactly?” Greyback leered at his compatriots as he grabbed Hannah by her hair and propelled her in front of him. The boy that held her stepped forward as if to stop the beast, but after a quick shake of the head from Flint, remained impassive to Hannah’s breathy whimpers. Greyback’s fingers shortened and his nails grew into pointed talons. At the sight, Hannah stopped making sounds and her exhalations took on a sharp, stuttering quality. Ron could tell she was nearly out of her mind with fear from the widening of her eyes and the way her mouth worked silently. Greyback gave her a shake and then ran his claws down Hannah’s inadequate jumper, snagging and then tearing the wool as he did. “D’you think you can hex me before I gut her, whelp? Come on, let’s see if you have the same fight in you as your delicious brother. I always thought it was such a waste that I couldn’t finish my nosh. Sweet flesh you gingers have.”

Hannah kept her eyes on Ron but was moving her hand surreptitiously to her belt where he knew she secreted a knife, the same one she used to despatch the Snatchers two days ago. Ron kept his face as unreadable as he could as he threw his first hex, a Jelly Legs Jinx, which Greyback sidestepped readily, pulling Hannah’s hair painfully in the process.

“Don’t disappoint me boy,” Greyback said, his tone irritated. “I need a good fight in the morning; it gets the blood flowing to my cock. After all, I’ve got sample this little morsel before we take her to the Manor. T’Dark Lord won’t let us have our fun after we bring ‘em in. Isn’t that right, Haversham, you runty virgin?”

The boy nodded sharply, though his gaze cut to Flint. The expression on his face seemed a bit disgusted. Ron shot a wild Expelliarmus at the werewolf, which missed spectacularly and caused snow to fly in a sparkling explosion, just as Hannah brought her knife from her waistband and slashed upwards with it. She caught Greyback in the soft spot between his chin and his neck. Hannah jerked the knife loose with a grunt, as blood spilled over her hand and down her arm. She sidestepped the werewolf’s lunge and brought her knife in front of her in a warding gesture. Greyback finally let go of her hair as he gave a surprised ‘oof’ as Haversham and Flint cast slicing curses at him. The werewolf took a step toward them but his leg stayed upright, anchored in the snow, as he pitched forward. The amputated stump jetted crimson with each beat of the fallen werewolf’s heart. Greyback scrabbled frantically at the knife as Hannah pulled his head up by the hair and gave him a proper Glasgow smile, slitting his throat from ear to ear. Blood stuttered in high, arterial arcs leaving vivid oval impressions in the snow where they landed. She only let his head fall as his mouth quit moving and the corpses’ eyes took on a glassy sheen.

The one called Haversham stepped forward, and folded Hannah in his arms as Flint toed Greyback’s still steaming body. The Slytherin said with a tone of disbelief, “A Jelly Legs jinx, Weasley? Is that the best you could think of?”

Ron felt more than a bit foolish and he flushed as the Slytherin shook his head disgustedly. He opened his mouth to give a retort, but groaned as he attempted to swallow the vomit that rose from his gut at the sight of the carnage. He spat the bitter aftertaste from his mouth as he noticed The Haversham bloke murmuring to Hannah and caressing her shoulders. Ron felt a wild burn of jealousy beat through his body at the sight. Ron stepped forward and pulled on Hannah’s arm as he said said, “Get your hands off her, Death Eater.”

A surprisingly feminine voice came from Haversham. “Merlin, you possessive prat, give the girl a minute of solace before you start manhandling her again.”

Haversham smoothed his hand over the top of Hannah’s head and came to a halt on her shoulders. He asked gently, “You okay?”

Hannah nodded as she gulped a sob down and stepped away from the bloke. “I’m fine, Mills, and Ron doesn’t know, so give him a break.”

“It’s Ron, now, is it?” Flint said, stressing them name as he gave Ron a leering smirk. “Didn’t know you were such close friends, not being a stuck –on-yourself-Gryffindor and all.”

Hannah shot the Slytherin a filthy look as she stepped away from the other boy. “I didn’t know you cared so much about who I associated with, Marcus.”

Ron opened his arms to Hannah and she slid into them as if she were made to be there. Flint rolled his eyes and said, “You need to get your gear packed. Greyback isn’t like the other two. He’ll be missed soon.”

Ron kept a wary wand trained on the two as Hannah moved away from him to break down their camp. It was only when Haversham’s face began to bubble and shift in a way that Ron had seen before, did he realise what exactly was going on. After a few seconds, the disgusting roiling flesh stopped and Ron gaped at the blue-eyed, black-haired form of Millicent Bullstrode. She laughed merrily as she said, “Welcome to the resistance, Weasley. Now go help Hannah so we can get you two to our safe house. Hannah needs to be debriefed before her next assignment.”

1 January, 1998 0745

Severus had been summoned to Malfoy Manor with a frantic firecall from Narcissa. He could only gather between her sobs that he needed to bring his healing kit.

He Apparated to the gates of the Manor which had similar anti-Apparition wards to Hogwarts, but stronger as they were effected by ancient blood magic and strengthened further by being keyed to the Dark Mark. He felt the tingle of the wards as he passed through them, and only acknowledged the discomfort they caused with a swift shrug. His mind had settled uneasily on what he might find inside the Manor. He hoped that this time he hadn’t been called to heal a victim of one of Bellatrix’s more strenuous information gathering sessions, known to sane people as torture. The last group he had been called to heal had been a family of five, ranging in age from infant to elderly. He had failed to bring the infant or the grandmother back to life and had felt the lash of the whip, wielded most happily by Bella, for the deed. Not that Severus had been trying in any material sense to save any of the poor sods. There were few things that he could do at this point to stave off the depravities of his brethren. Letting the weakest two of the family die was his only way to save them further pain. He’d had to watch as Bella tortured the rest of the family to madness and then death. It was his reward for his inability to save them all. He was sure it was karma.

His feet crunched on the gravelled path, loud in the early morning silence. His breath congealed into a foggy mist before it dissipated in the air. As he drew closer to the manor, he heard the call of Lucius’ poncy white peacocks, no doubt locked in an aviary during the cold months no doubt moulting and shitting messily as birds were wont to do. He could not abide them. Their mating call sounded as if a woman screamed for assistance and never failed to set Severus’ nerves to jangling. One sounded as if on cue, its “Heee-elp” calls seeming to scream down his spinal cord. He did what he could to tune them out, but could not shake the feeling that he was going to regret having to come to the Manor.

As he alighted the broad stone steps that abutted the pale grey stone of the facade, he saw Narcissa in the window beside the two-story door that led into the heavily embellished, neoclassical entry hall. She was ringing her hands and appeared to be as dishevelled as he had ever seen the immaculately groomed woman. Her hair was drawn back in a messy ponytail and her expensive, silk robes were covered in blood. As soon as she saw Severus, she opened the door and beckoned to him to hasten his approach. As Severus drew nearer, he saw the strain in her features that were manifested as small lines beside her eyes, and dark circles under them. She greeted him, taking him by his sleeve to propel him into the house.

“Oh, Severus...”she began with a tremor in her voice, her hands clutching at his free one. “I am so glad you came quickly. It’s Lucius. He’s been shot and the mission he was sent on...”

“That’s enough, ickle sister. Ickle Sevvie doesn’t need to know about another of your husband’s failures,” Bella said from the library. She was standing in the doorway with a supercilious smirk on her face, her robes gaping to show her meagre bosom to best effect. Severus surmised the Dark Lord was on property; otherwise Bella would not have dressed in such a slatternly fashion. The dark woman ran her fingers down her bony sternum, drawing the neck of her garment lower, neatly exposing the crest of her areola as she said, “Lucy did do me one favour, Sev dear, he got my husband and his fawning brother killed. It’s the only thing he did right on his mission.”

Severus allowed himself a moment of answering sneer to Bella’s pointed comments before he turned again to Narcissa and said, “Show me to him.”

Narcissa took his decorously offered arm as she led him up the main staircase and over to the family wing, the westernmost section of the house. As they strode through the gallery, Narcissa murmured,” Lucius was shot last night by one of those vile Muggle guns. I do not know how he made it from such a long distance, but Draco found him this morning in the forest adjoining the greens. The Dark Lord sent them on a fool’s errand, Severus...”

“Enough, Narcissa,” Severus hissed. Her eyes flashed to his face, as if she were searching for a secret before she lowered her gaze once again as if chastened.

“I am sorry, Severus. I meant no disrespect to our Lord.” Her answer rang false to his ears and he prayed that he would not be called to the Manor again to witness her torture and death if the same occurred in front of the Dark Lord or her mad sister. “I merely meant that Lucius did not do enough research on the matter. It was completely his fault that the Muggles were able to use their primitive weapons on the raid.”

She paused at the doors that Severus knew to be her chambers, not the more resplendent master’s suite. He leaned down slightly, close enough that he caught a whiff of the ambergris-based perfume that Narcissa always wore. He murmured, “Do not despair. Your words will go no further than these four walls. I do recognise the extremity of your emotions.”

Once again, her gaze swept his features this time as if they weighed his words, before she opened the door. Lucius lay on top of the silk counterpane, his chest bare except for a bloody bandage. His breathing was a stentorious rattle in the deep silence of the room. Severus watched rise and fall of Lucius’ chest as he drew closer to the man. Malfoy obviously had a deep chest wound, one that had caused at least one of his lungs to collapse as pleural cavity filled with blood.

Severus turned away from his inspection. He said more harshly than he intended, “Narcissa, his wounds require a Muggle Healer... a physician. I cannot simply Accio the bullet from the wound, give him a potion, and expect him to recover. His lung is collapsed. He needs proper medical attention.”

Narcissa bit her lip and began ringing her hands once again. “Please, Severus, do what you can. We dare not take him to St. Mungo’s, and He will not allow us to take him to the place you suggest... Lucius will die... ”

“Narcissa, I cannot...” he began gently, but broke off his words as she fell to her knees before him. Her fingers scraped frantically at the buttons on his frockcoat, loosening several as she whispered, “Please, I implore you, Severus. I will do anything you want. Don’t leave me here without protection...” She reached underneath the dark fabric, touching his inner thigh as she sought his genitalia. “I’ll do anything, Severus... even break my vows if you will help.”

“Get away from me!” Severus exclaimed in horror as he pushed her backwards. She landed with a soft thud as her body contacted the floor, her robes twisted around her legs. “Do you honestly think...? I have done enough for your family. I have destroyed all the good will I built up over the years with my colleagues... to save your spoilt, cowardly son from himself....” His fist clenched and unclenched as he tried to master the urge to strike her, an action he had promised himself he would never take against any woman. Narcissa covered her face with her hands, which further enraged Severus. He traversed the space between them and pulled her up by the scruff of her neck, his rage at so much that had occurred in the past year spilling over his control as if a dam had been breached. “I will do no more for you, Madam, your husband, or your weak get.”

“There is no one...” Narcissa began, her voice breaking as she said, “There is no one left that I can trust. They are all dead or concerned with their own safety. You... you have long been a friend to my husband, please...”

He let her go and she stumbled into the bed, eliciting moan from Lucius. As he turned to make his way out of the room and away from one more obligation, Narcissa’s soft, hiccoughing sobs tore at his abused conscience. He had his hand on the door latch when Lucius whispered, “Severus,... don’t leave... I don’t want to die... with.,. my family... in... danger... We were... friends... once...”

Severus leaned his head against the silk panel that covered the door, wishing for inspiration or at least a cessation of his never ending guilt over things that were beyond his control, choices that other people had made. He lifted his head, and turned in time to see Lucius wipe the tears from his wife’s face with his finger, the man’s normally cold expression soft and open. Severus strode to the Floo as he said, “Open this connection, Narcissa. There is one person who will feel obligated to heal him.”

Narcissa did as bade, her tear-ravaged face turned from him. As soon as the connection was established, Severus threw some Floo powder and bent into the flames. “Poppy!”

The school matron appeared in the flames, her expression made sourer by the green hue of the flames. She said sharply, “What is it, Headmaster?”

“I will be through shortly with an injured man. Prepare for our arrival.” Severus modulated his tone to mimic calm command. Too much was already spinning out of his control.

The matron’s jaws worked soundlessly in apparent outrage. She finally spat, “Snape! The school has three Death Eaters too ma...”

Severus cut the connection before she could commit treason in the hearing of loyal Death Eaters. He needed her in the position she was in too badly to allow his emotions to allow her to hang herself in front of two followers of the Dark Lord. He would reprimand her later and set some vile task for her apart from the healing of Lucius Malfoy. It was his way of handling crises when he could intervene. He turned sightlessly toward the two occupants of the room. “Narcissa, fetch Draco. Have him bring what he needs for school and pack what you will need for a short stay at Hogwarts. I will prepare Lucius for travel.”

He pushed past her. His rage subsided as he took charge of the situation and irritably disregarded the cost to him personally. He knew that no good would come from this intervention; such actions had a way of cocking up in his life like that.