This is Halloween by Morgana

The world is an oyster which a man of genius and courage may open if he possesses sufficient ambition. This, naturally, is why half-men, those with the brains to rule but not the stomach, create fetters for the ambition of others; an omniscient, omnipresent “God”, the Wizengamot and, of course, karma. Chains which bind the hands, tongues and minds of the weak, transfiguring self-possessed wizards into the mindless slaves of an indolent, self-effacing Ministry, whilst white-bearded fools sit in their ivory towers, blithely believing that ‘humanity’ stems from the goodness of men’s hearts, rather than their fear of punishment.

Until, that is, a mongrel whelp found that the muzzle binding his fangs was a mere figment of imagination, as insubstantial as smoke. The strength of the Ministry might conquer the will of weaker wizards but I, in possession of my full powers, was stronger than those who sought to bind my ambition. Thus a wolf stepped out from amid the ranks of simpering, pedigree lap-dogs and snarled defiance. No God, no State, no ghostly power would ever hold the whip over me.

However, I am digressing; it is difficult for one of my outstanding intellect not to be overwhelmed, from time to time, by his knowledge, curiosity and imagination and, while I am sure that you must be feasting upon the fruits of my genius, I wish to impart a tale of far greater interest. Yes, a tale which has tempted me into reconsidering the concept of karma.

It started on Samhain, four years ago today. Of all holidays celebrated by the wizarding world, Samhain is the least tainted by muggle superstition and, thus, it is the one feast-day I actively endorse. You may ask yourself why, given the urgency of my mission, I allow my followers to idle on such a significant night. After all, on official holidays the Ministry relaxes it’s already lax controls and hundreds congregate in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade for mindless, drunken festivity. An ideal time for action, many, lesser intellects would think. However, as a master of the art of manipulation I understand human nature; the pressures of life must, on occasion, be lifted because, much like yew wood, the human spirit may bend but, if forced too far for too long, it will break. There is no more effective a cure for this type of fatigue than a day of revelry and, thus, while I ban Christmas and Easter, I grant my followers Samhain as a night of unrestrained pleasure.

The night of 31st October, 1979 was, from the first, somewhat different from any other Samhain. Our host were the Blacks; their son Regulus had defected earlier that October and, although the Black wards are substantial, they may as well have been cobwebs in the face of my power. Orion had the audacity to attempt to duel me and, although I am loath to spill pure blood, the man’s ability and fury was such that I could not take him alive. Walburga, on the other hand, surrendered and my Deatheaters sported with her for a while, as a start to festivities. However, it quickly became clear that she knew nothing of worth, so I set her under the imperius and ordered her to bring us wine.

As the night deepened, my married followers, sated with meat, emboldened by drink and exhausted by laughter drifted upstairs, leaving the young (and not so young) singletons to their own devices. Inevitably, the discussion turned to the pursuit of more piquant pleasures. Sitting by the blazing fire, Nagini’s warm weight across my shoulders and a glass of aged mead in my hand, I welcomed the chance for a little quiet introspection and waved them away with a stern warning to be discrete.

Slowly, the cacophony of their mindless chatter was replaced by the gentle crackling of cedar logs and Nagini’s whispering breath.

And a sigh. I turned. A slender figure, clad in darkness, hunched in a silver, velvet armchair; his elbow on his knee, his tapered, porcelain pale fingers sunk into a fall of long, fine hair, blue-black as a ravens wing.

There was something in the air, that cold, moonlit evening. I am not, you must understand, one for the fripperies of life; an intellect such as mine cannot be wasted but on matters of import. Yet, as I sat in the deepening silence, a snatch of long poetry filtered through from my subconscious;

“Though the night was made for lovers,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.”

Ah Severus. Although, as first amongst his generation in terms of power and intellect, he might seem inscrutable to his contemporaries, to me, he was as an open book. The boy had been the subject of my interest for many a year; a boy of his talent in potions, alone, would make him a gem amongst my retinue. That Severus was a polymath and almost as knowledgeable as myself in many areas of the dark arts, though not as powerful, of course, made him a veritable diamond.

Yes, I knew his worth and, thus, I had made his early life my business. The Evans girl was, I thought, entirely unworthy of his regard; blood, I could have forgiven; she was a fairly attractive woman and, as she did not lack power, the mudblood seemed likely to produce fine heirs. No, it was her stupidity that irked me; any fool could have seen young Snape’s worth, especially for one of her blood status. Yet somehow Severus still remained in love with her, in spite of her ignorance and despite her defection to Potter’s camp.

Ah, yes, the ‘Marauders’! What brainless audacity, taking such a title! Their ignorance could not be forgiven as youthful stupidity, however; in their mature years, they had made a point, had they not, of targeting those I had ear-marked as my own? Even boasted of it. Those lads were destined to meet an unpleasant end.

However, I am, again, digressing. I understood Severus’ thoughts that night. Although that worthless woman’s behaviour should have taught him that love was an unnecessary weakness, the boy’s heart still ached for Lily- she had been married merely a week before, I later discovered- and, thus, Snape eschewed the wanton, superficial pleasures of his associates.

I, however, knew Severus’ value: as a warrior, a potioneer and, ah yes, a spy. I was still in need of a spy at that time; Dumbledore was growing more and more unpredictable- his brain addled by sugar, no doubt- and Severus, with his talent in occlumency, acting ability and intelligence, was a perfect candidate. Yet Dumbledore was a cunning, ruthless old man, for all his grandfatherly demeanour, and not unversed in the art of manipulation. To place my gem in his pocket rankled, especially when Severus was bound to my service by ideology alone.

This was an opportunity, I realised. That Samhain night, when Severus had sunk into the deepest depths of despair, I would raise him up above all others. I would give him the greatest of gifts. Vengeance.

oOoOo

My followers had scarcely descended the first staircase when I recalled them to my side. We were going on a little outing, I told them. Amongst the carefully blank expressions- I train my servants well- the only countenance betraying emotion was Severus’. I suppose he did not realise that, bathed in darkness as he was, I caught the tensing of the skin across his high-cheekbones, the weary glint in that lapis eye. Doubting that even Dumbledore would have noted Severus’ reluctance to leave the fire-side, I swallowed my irritation and allowed myself a smile. The boy wished only the peace to lick his wounds, little realising that I was planning to cauterise them.

“My children” I lied, layering on my customary charm, “Your Lord understands that an evening beside the fire, while pleasant, is not fit entertainment for the young, whose pure, hot blood calls for action. I propose, therefore, a midnight raid.”

“Where do you suggest, my Lord?” a deep, lacquered voice drawled from the doorway. Lucius’ sixth sense for mischief, he has Veela ancestry, was apparently on fine form; he has always preferred Nemesis to Aphrodite.

“Godric’s Hollow”

oOoOo

While I prefer, on the whole, for my followers to announce their arrival, silent apperation is, on occasion, one of my more useful little discoveries. As my followers forms whispered into being around me under the waxing moon I cast muffilato and, when all had appeared, I spoke.

“Tonight, my friends, we are here to honour young Severus Snape, whom I have decided to relinquish to Dumbledore’s service. On a leasehold basis, naturally.”

The rumble of laughter was interspersed by Lucius’ growl of ‘Oh for Cerce’s sake; as a spy, Goyle!” A smile twitched at the corner of my mouth and I gracefully waited for the appreciation of my witticism and congratulations to Severus to die down before I continued.

“In his youth, Severus was the target of several attacks by one James Potter, a boy who had, very foolishly, taken it upon himself to harass Slytherins, in particular those whom I had earmarked for my service. Tonight, Potter will be taught the folly of his presumption.” I paused, letting my eyes fall upon a tall, slender figure to my right. “This is my gift to you, Severus. Potter, and his mudblood whore, are yours to do with what you will.”

Severus approached me and fell to his knees. I graciously offer him my hand to kiss. “Thank you, My Lord.” He whispered, his smooth baritone taut with emotion.

“My Lord, if I may…” A tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped forward, his drawl and dignified mien unmistakable. “I am sure that my Lord is aware that death is too great a mercy for Potter.”

“Indeed?” Severus stiffened. At the time I believed he feared that Malfoy would suggest that he stayed his hand.

“Potter is a proud, arrogant fool, self-satisfied and overly assured of his prowess.” Lucius paused, a smirk lighting his silver eyes “As a married man I would suggest that to live with the knowledge that his wife had been defiled whilst he stood by, helpless, would be a most fitting punishment. The mudblood, after all, is not unattractive.”

Dolohov’s harsh laughter broke the still air “Best be gentle then, boys, these mudbloods wear out quick.”

When he spoke, Lucius’ voice was cold “My Lord has given her to Severus alone.”

I do not, usually, find it pertinent to deny my servants their sport. However, to risk Snape’s loyalty, when I had taken pains to assure it, would have be folly.

“Potter and his mudblood’s fate lies in Severus’ hands alone.” I decreed: a useful tactic as any blame would be laid at young Snape’s door. A little division in the ranks is always helpful and I did not fear my spy being too inconvenienced because of his peers’ disappointment. After all, Malfoy had proved himself to be a firm ally.

oOoOo

In the end, only Malfoy, Snape and I entered the Potter’s Manor. Sensing that there was no sport to be participated therein, my other servants had become rather restless and, thus, I invited Dolohov to take them all on a little outing to London.

It was a matter of minutes to dissolve the pitiful wards surrounding the Manor house and, within quarter of an hour, the elf was dead, the mudblood stunned and Potter enjoying the full effects of locomotor totalis.

As we stood amongst the wreckage of the bedchamber, young Malfoy bent over and his glove-clad fingers fastened around a pair of broken glasses, fallen during the brief battle. He then cast reparo and, smirking at Severus, placed them upon Potter’s nose.

“Can’t have you missing the show.” He sneered into the man’s unblinking, hazel eyes. The desperation and terror lurking within that gaze was very satisfying, almost enough to encourage me to decline Lucius’ next request.

“My Lord, now that Potter is suitably restrained, I was wondering whether we might join Antonin. I must admit that this little aperitif has whet my apatite for sport.”

Curious, I caught Malfoy’s silvery gaze and slipped in amid the waves of his thoughts. Severus was a virgin, apparently, and Lucius feared for his already low esteem. I sighed; Lucius’ mind is a dark sea but the ebon is not quite pure; the fool had deceived himself into becoming emotionally attached.

“Very well” I agreed. “We head for London. Enjoy yourself, my boy.”

That night, a gas main burst in Whetstone. The explosion was somewhat vigorous, destroying several muggle hovels and, according to the local news, incinerating the occupants. Inferi are always useful.