A hot summer day neared its end, the air still filled with heat and a fierce dryness. Fireflies buzzing around and mosquitoes making the lazy time of Muggles and Wizards more exhausting. Lakes were beautiful, beyond any doubt, especially shortly before the sun set, but these feisty little creatures were hard to endure.

Nevertheless, many a couple sought out such romantic places to end a hot day, whether if it was a quiet little pond in the backyard, or the gigantic dimensions of the Pacific ocean, it made no difference. The sun glowed red in the last stages of the day as it slowly sunk down below the horizon, playing with the water surface and letting it shine vibrantly for a short but precious amount of time. The blue of the sky shone red as well, looking as if the air was on fire, and the water played along.

The sparking fire was mirrored in the couples that loved to watch these sunsets together, that loved to just be together, that plainly loved each other. Hearts thumping wildly and profusely sweating palms were only the clearest indications.

Red was the colour of love and passion. Love was one of the oldest emotions, even older than hatred. And passion was the physical embodiment of the pure love. True love and passion weighed each other out, they balanced each other and avoided the equilibrium to get disturbed. There was no need to worry, for there was no negative side to the fire to get burned if it was pure.

But only the lily stood for purity, not the red of the dusking sun, nor the red of the burning emotion. Even red was corrupt, but at least not deceiving. Red could also show you where the danger lay ahead; if it wasn't already too late for it, that was.

"Fuck," Snape cursed softly, after the vomiting had ceased somewhat to a more tolerable level. Even swearing wasn't that colourful as the blood that pooled in a puddle larger than necessary.

"My, Severus," the icy voice of Voldemort hissed in a twisted mixture of glee and barely controlled anger. "No need to be so vulgar. It is 'Fuck, Master.'" A playful smile crept onto his face, looking as out of place as Vegeta in high-heels only to match Bulma's height. "And fuck what? Fuck you?" he pursed his lips condescending, "thanks, but no, thanks. Fucking the dead is not quite as amusing as it used to be. It gets so tiresome after a while, no resistance no fun, you see? And you don't seem as though you'd last for more than five minutes with my superior company, anyway. Or did you mean fuck me? Time is precious, Snape, yours even more than mine, as I should think you would know by now. You have to be more precise, indeed. After all, I can't read your mind to know what you meant. Wait. Actually, I can." A calculating gleam entered Voldemort's eyes as he studied his wand, carefully stroking the glossy surface with one bony finger. A powerful energy surged through his hand, his arm, eagerly wanting to be released to wrack havoc.

Voldemort sighed and pointed his wand at the prone figure of Snape. "Legillimens," he muttered, lazily, prying into his victim's mind who was too weak to steel himself against the assault against his privacy.

Violent jerks, no coherent thoughts, anarchy reigned inside Snape's head. Every thought seemed to merge into the next or break up suddenly, as if Severus had forgotten what he had been doing at all. His mind was out of order, a colourful swirl of nothingness that led in a regular pattern back to a few major topics. Red. Blood. Pain.

Voldemort dug deeper, forcefully prying his way into the foreign environment. But there was nothing he could work with. Random experiences, random memories, random thoughts. There was nothing at all. Voldemort's grip tightened around his wand as he forced his murderous impulses back; at least for the meantime. There was only one way Snape could have accomplished that, but this sole way also meant conclusive that he had known what had been laying ahead. And this led to only one conclusion in the Dark Lord's train of thought: That this meantime would last a bit longer than he had thought at first.

"Crucio!" he cried, shaking with the afford not to merely utter the Avada Kedavra which would end it all. Oh, how he wished he had summoned the other Death Eaters to watch this spectacle. It would have been so much more fun. The more the merrier, didn't they say so? But as this was a Muggle saying, Voldemort would have the fun all for himself.

"Flipendo!" Voldemort uttered and watched satisfied as Snape's nearly unconscious form rolled roughly unto his back. Blood-crusted hair was glued to the pale face and neck of the Potions Master, his breathing came in shallow gasps, trying against all human logic to not pass out. Cuts and bruises covered the exposed skin, as the once intimidating robes were now left nothing but shreds due to the various curses he had been under for the last hours. Snape's vision was blurry and sticky blood ran over his cheek, screaming for all who would listen that the life was leaving this body. But the walls were deaf.

Little tremors ran through Severus' body as Voldemort cast the next spell on him. The effect was less than anticipated, but this was due to Severus' exhaustion and not Voldemort's lack of torture skills, which were, by any means, quite sophisticated.

"You should have known better," the Dark Lord whispered. "Killing the boy and thus depriving me of my prerogative? Tut. Where shall I get my pleasure from now? ANSWER! CRUCIO!"

Another jolt went through the weakened wizard's body. Voldemort scowled in obvious displeasure as his little project uttered nothing more than a weak sigh instead of a thoroughly tormented scream. Where were the good old days when one could torture some victim or another and one's Potions Master delivered concoction after concoction to keep the poor soul by full mind and body awareness? These things were predestined to happen when one tortured the Potions Master himself. Pity. At least, it hadn't been too awfully quick. Snape had lasted longer than Voldemort would have given him credit for beforehand, though, and that meant something.

"Don't despair, Snape," Voldemort whispered, unknowingly using the same words Snape had said shortly before his curse had killed Harry. "I won't let you die on me. Not today, anyway. Even though you have disappointed me so deeply with your lack of foresight, you are very precious to me. Really. What would I do without the Wizarding World's best Potions Master? Don't let yourself be flattered, though." He put a Stabilising Charm on Severus, not wanting to let him die, but not quite ready to allow the torture to be over with. The sight was too beautiful and the pain was far too delicious. Closing his eyes, Voldemort sucked in a shuddering breath as Snape's pain morphed into his pleasure, sending delightful jolts through his inhuman body.

Snape was too intelligent for his own good. One day, it would be his downfall.

Severus coughed, nearly choking on his own blood, and rolled to the side, wincing while doing so. His heart beat agonisingly slow and forceful, making the breathing even more painful.

His mind was blank, no thoughts breaking to the surface. It was odd; and Snape didn't know why. He must have let almost all of his memories in his Pensieve at Hogwarts, though why was beyond him. It was likely that the 'why' was important, as well, so he didn't really care. After a countless number of Crucios and various other curses, Severus hadn't got the strength anymore to really care. He was in a state of nearly absolute blissful ignorance, his body was mercifully numb, despite the aching of his lung and his heart.