Severus: A Portrait of the Potions Master as a Young Man

A Portrait of the Potions Master as a Young Man

By Daphne Dunham

Chapter 12: The Young Apprentice

* * * * *

In the years that followed, Severus would remember with great regret the events of the night he accepted the Dark Mark. He'd recall all too clearly the ominous lull of the dark magic around him. He'd remember that he didn't care, that he would've said yes to anything during those critical moments if it meant power and the chance to prove his worth. Severus was not naïve; he had been raised in the midst of a precarious decade, after all, by a man whose hand had touched virtually every incident most trembled to recollect. And so, as he prostrated himself before the Dark Lord - for that was what Darius had indicated Severus should call the man who had once been introduced to him as Tom Riddle - he was well aware of what he might be asked to do in exchange. It was merely inconsequential to him.

Severus wasn't the only one, of course. It was a new order that the Dark Lord promised, one that ensured pureblood supremacy, and as a result, he attracted the immediate attention of the finest families. He played on their elitism; he played on their fears; most usefully, he also played on their vaults at Gringotts. Each of them had their own reasons - hatred of Muggles, in the case of Will Avery, for example; love of Bellatrix Black for Rodolphus Lestrange; a desire to find meaning in an otherwise meaningless life for Evan Rosier. Severus' reasons seemed just as good as the next, and so he took his place among them without hesitation.

The Dark Lord, it so happened, had been pleased to see the pallid young man among the inductees. "Severus Snape, we meet again," he said, beckoning him forward with a wave of his snakelike fingers.

Despite the decade that had passed since he'd last seen the man before him, Severus recognised him immediately: the same hypnotic, narrow slits of eyes, that serpentine drawl, and the fluid manner in which he walked - a hybrid of self-assured swagger and surreptitious stalking. As always, he radiated power, cruelty, and a certain charisma that was at once magnetic and lethal.

"My Lord," Severus greeted, plunging into a deep bow at his feet.

Darius had versed him well in the etiquette of the Death Eater community, and he knew better than to speak his new master's name. It was a name, incidentally, that recalled such terror and atrocities Severus wasn't entirely certain he'd want to speak it even if he could. Someday, the hook-nosed young wizard had secretly vowed, his own name would also be one which others - James Potter and his own father included - feared to speak.

"I've been expecting this moment for some time now, you know," the Dark Lord told him, surveying him with grim approval.

Severus' brow wrinkled in puzzlement as he attempted to discern the meaning behind the Dark Lord's words. He was not especially fond of studies in divination, and it perplexed him that his new master apparently placed value in such. After all, unless the Dark Lord was prescient, Severus could not comprehend how he had known that he would someday join his ranks.

Upon seeing Severus' dismay, the older wizard nodded and smiled, his lips curving over pearly pointed teeth in wicked delight. "I knew you wouldn't forget," he explained.

He had been referencing, Severus supposed, that afternoon during which they had first met, that day at Borgin and Burkes when he was a child, and indeed, the Dark Lord was correct. Recalling that moment had been a turning point for Severus, the very instant that had caused him to seek the Mark. Eerie, Severus thought, that the Dark Lord could sense this, but it wasn't so much eerie as it was a direct result of Legilimency, a fact confirmed with the Dark Lord's next words.

"There isn't much about you that your emotions don't betray, Severus," he continued. "With a glimpse into your mind, I can learn your strengths and your weaknesses, your talents and..." The Dark Lord's voice trailed off as he peered meaningfully into the ebony eyes of the hook-nosed wizard before him, clearly searching for something deep in the recess of his mind. Moments later, the corners of the Dark Lord's lips twisted yet higher as he located precisely what he sought. "And your failures," he concluded smugly. "As you may have guessed, I haven't much use for Defense Against the Dark Arts myself. In this regard, you and I are not unalike."

Severus faltered at the Dark Lord's allusion to the recent disaster of his Defense Against the Dark Arts N.E.W.T. He had heard of Legilimency before. Albus Dumbledore had explained that particular branch of magic to him when he was his student. Severus had even been suspicious the Hogwarts headmaster had practiced Legilimency upon him from time to time. Until this moment, though, it had never occurred to him the tremendous power a Legilimens possessed over an unwitting wizard, and his cheeks burned with the humiliation of his vulnerability. This was a power, he thought, he too wished to possess.

Before Severus could respond, the Dark Lord had turned to a portly wizard beside him. "Goyle, show our young master Snape to the North Tower," he instructed him abruptly. He turned his probing eyes back to Severus then as he added, "Anyone who could brew Veritaserum by age thirteen is of special value to me, and I have much more in store for him than mere brute labour."

* * *

Severus wasn't entirely sure where exactly this castle was located or even to whom it belonged. All he knew was that it was protected by numerous charms - including the immensely complex Fildelius - and that it was most likely the result of the generosity of the Malfoy clan. Drafty and windowless, the North Tower rest atop a flight of uneven stone steps at the far end of the castle. Severus shivered as he stepped inside what he immediately recognized as a potions laboratory.

The room was ideal for such work - chilly enough to keep potions ingredients fresh, he noted, and secluded enough that he could work in quietude. Although the Dark Lord had not been specific in what he wished Severus to prepare for him, a survey of the equipment neatly situated across the room was quite telling. The shelves were lined with endless jars of overtly toxic substances - arsenic, hellebore, and the like. There were books, too, a library of volumes like A History of Hemlock and Encyclopaedia Toxicus, The Dark Lord, it appeared, spared no expense, and the stocks on the shelves made his intentions perfectly clear.

"Poisons," Severus observed, his voice reverberating against the stone arches of the ceiling. "He wants me to make poisons."

And it was then that it occurred to him: Severus Snape was going to kill. He wasn't going to do it with curses or violence, and he wasn't going to do it in a barroom or a brawl. But he would do it nonetheless. He would do it with conium or belladonna, and he would do it from the Dark Lord's dark tower, never knowing who or when or why.

* * *

If someone had told Severus Snape a year ago that he'd be married at a mere eighteen years of age, he would have laughed in their faces and told them a werewolf had a better chance at being Minister of Magic. Nonetheless, his and Jane's hand-fasting ceremony took place before the summer's end.

"I suppose odds were in your favour that you'd find someone to shag you eventually, Snape," Evan Rosier had quipped when Severus told him he and Jane were getting married. "I mean, statistically, if even a wanker like Goyle could find someone then you could, too."

Indeed, the next months brought many changes for Severus. He had a new wife and a new cottage in the countryside to attend to. However, as the months turned to years, it was the lying that proved the most challenging to Severus. As much as he loathed deceiving Jane, he was fairly certain that she would not sympathize with the fact that her husband had sold his soul to the most innately Dark wizard of the age for the chance at power and prestige. The task had become increasingly difficult, as a supply of inventive lies was evading him, and he was surprised Jane still believed him. Severus had once fancied himself more creative than to issue such feeble excuses to explain his absences as working late or as having a shot of Firewhisky with Rodolphus Lestrange or Evan Rosier, but there seemed few other feasible options.

It was the lie, in fact, that he would be forced to tell Jane that was Severus' first concern when he felt that familiar searing on his left forearm as he left Jigger's library that evening. By now, he recognised the sensation enough that he didn't have to lift his sleeve to know that his skin was aglow with the Dark Lord's snake-and-skull marking. At once, he wished he could have ignored the call. It had, after all, been a long day and he knew Jane was probably already wondering where he was. Severus had no choice, though: one did not deny the Dark Lord and live to boast about it.

Severus had Apparated to find himself in the company of Evan Rosier and a corpse. He hadn't meant to stare, but he had never been in the presence of a dead body before and the sight of it unnerved him a bit more than he would have liked to admit. The corpse had been crudely wrapped in a dingy, soot-stained tarp and bound with rope. It was an awkward bundle, one that didn't feign to try to conceal what it was, only the identity of the victim within. Severus knew better than to ask, and as he and Rosier, charged with disposing of the awkward lump, made their way to darkest recesses of the Forbidden Forest, he wasn't sure he wanted to know anyway.

Now, a cool wind cut through the air. A choir of howls indicated that somewhere not too far from here, some unfortunate creature was meeting a gory end, and some felled twigs snapped beneath his heavy boots. Nonetheless, Severus walked on. He wasn't exactly certain where they were headed, and he doubted whether Rosier, who followed just steps behind, guiding the corpse with a simple Levitation Charm, knew either. The path - if there had been one - had disappeared beneath the overgrowth of moss and roots and fungi, and as the moon ducked behind another patch of clouds overhead, Severus withdrew his wand from his robes.

"Lumos!" he muttered with annoyance.

"The last time I was here - in the Forest, I mean," Rosier was saying, "was during N.E.W.T.s. It was that night I found you in the common room studying and when you asked where I'd been, I told you I'd been studying Florence Feather's anatomy. Remember that, mate?"

"Faintly," Severus replied gruffly, only dimly recalling that he'd been particularly appalled by Rosier's bragging about his insatiable libido that morning.

"Well, it just so happens that our little anatomy lesson took place at the edge of the Forest," Rosier replied with a grin. "I guess you could say I did more than penetrate school grounds that night."

Severus sighed and shook his head in disgust as he pushed aside a stray branch. "Rosier, how can you possibly talk about shagging at a time like this?" he hissed.

"Can't help it, mate," Rosier retorted, his smile broadening. "Burying dead bodies always makes me randy. You mean to say it doesn't do the same for you?"

Despite his years of familiarity with his friend's propensity for jocularity, the startling inappropriateness of Rosier's statements never failed to exasperate Severus. Consequentially, he met Rosier's laughter with an icy glare as he recalled his own experiences in the Forbidden Forest. The last time Severus had been here was while serving detention during his sixth year, feeding thestrals with Hagrid. Remus Lupin had nearly killed him the following night, and as Severus reacquainted himself with the ominous mystique of the forest, he had the distinct impression that he could quite possibly die tonight as well. The beasts of the Forest were notoriously dangerous, after all, and as Rosier was not making the slightest effort to be quiet, Severus felt fairly certain that they would have no difficulty locating prey as willing as they. The corpse behind him, he thought in a moment of grim epiphany, could within moments be his.

"I suppose this is as good a place as any," Severus said coldly as they presently came upon a small clearing.

Rosier nodded approvingly. He lowered his wand, and with an indecorous thud, the corpse tumbled to the ground.

"Would you mind terribly being a bit more careful? I don't think you'd like someone treating your body that way," Severus snapped.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, he's already dead," Rosier protested. "I highly doubt he cares anymore."

However, as Rosier charmed the shovel they had toted along into digging an appropriately sized hole in which they could stow the swaddled mass, Severus felt quite differently. He was fairly certain that were the roles reversed, he would not appreciate such a crude burial as this, and he beheld the scene with revulsion. It was only now, standing over the tarp that he noticed something peculiar about it: in the course of transporting the body, the right hand had slipped from the makeshift wrapping.

Brow wrinkled, Severus approached the corpse, intent on concealing the lifeless flesh once more. "Who is it anyway?" he asked.

Rosier shrugged his shoulders. "Dunno," he replied, averting his gaze. "Just some poor bloke who double-crossed the Dark Lord, I suppose."

There was an uncomfortable hesitancy in his response, though, and Severus had the distinct impression that despite what he claimed, his friend did indeed know the identity of the individual whose body they now had the unpleasant task of disposing of. Eyes narrowed, Severus glanced suspiciously from Rosier back to the corpse. Kneeling beside it, he took the limp palm in his own. Its iciness chilled him to his spine as he studied it. It was a man's hand, a Sunday hand, and upon the middle finger was a platinum ring. Unmistakable signs of an aristocrat, Severus realised, and most likely a pureblood at that. Eager to ensure their continued status in the upper echelons of society, most pureblood families at least donated financial support to the Dark Lord; it was odd to think that one among them had, as Rosier had put it, determined to double-cross him

Puzzled, Severus looked closer. In the fickle illumination of the moonlight, he noticed there was an inscription on the ring, a family motto. Toujours Pur, it read. Centuries ago, the Norman Conquest had left its mark in the bloodlines of society, and Severus was not surprised to find the influence of the French still among the elite. He himself had grown up under the Lestrange influence and a similar family motto, force dans l'obscurité et la lumière. There were precious few wizarding families Severus could think of who had the strength of bloodline to advertise such distinctive ancestral connections, and Severus could think of only two young men who could have claimed the Toujours Pur motto as their own. One of them, he knew, had rebuffed it years ago. Thus, even as Severus cautiously peeled back the tarp, his heart thumping wildly in his chest all the while, he had an inkling of whose body it was he could find before him.

The death must have been recent, as the foul stench of corporal decay did not instantly overwhelm him. What did overwhelm Severus, however, was the familiarity of the lifeless face that stared back at him. He had once been a handsome man - robust and energetic with his chin held high in aristocratic hauteur and the same mischievous grey eyes of his brother. Now, the young man's cheeks were hollow and grey with death, his still-open eyes glassy and dull, and his dark hair hung limp and tangled around his prominent jaw line. Despite this, though, there was no mistaking him; Severus' suspicions had been confirmed.

"Bloody hell, it's Regulus Black," he choked.

Trembling, Severus stumbled back and steadied himself against a tree stump. He had known Regulus, had gone to school with him. Despite certain personality quirks, such as his pervading believe that being a Black made him superior to others and the fact that Severus never felt he could trust him entirely, Regulus had been good company. He was always game for a practical joke and he and Severus shared a distinct disdain for Sirius Black. Now he was dead. Severus hadn't even known he'd been associated with the Dark Lord, although it didn't surprise him. Knowledge was power, after all, and the Dark Lord, in his apparently unending quest to maintain said power, often denied his followers awareness of one another's identities. Severus doubted he could name much more than a dozen Death Eaters, although he knew there were dozens more. This secrecy was wise, he thought, as it ensured the safety of the whole should someone untrustworthy among them seek to betray them. Could Regulus Black have been such a traitor?

Severus looked up at Rosier to see his reaction. The sandy-haired young wizard remained silent, and although the arrogant grin that normally played at the corners of his lips was gone, he seemed oddly unmoved.

"You knew, didn't you?" Severus demanded, concluding that this was the only logical explanation for his friend's indifference.

Rosier turned away, and by so doing, he only validated Severus' suspicions.

At once, Severus was back on his feet. He grasped Rosier by the shoulders and forced him to look at him. "You knew!" he hissed through clenched teeth. "You knew and you didn't tell me!"

Defiantly, Rosier shook himself from Severus' grasp. There was a sudden madness glowing in his eyes, and Severus was taken aback by it. He had never seen a fire like this in his friend before, in the wizard whose humour had once been legend in Slytherin dormitory and whose most complex emotions extended to lusting after young witches.

"Aye, mate, I knew," he spat. "I knew because I was there."

Rosier paused abruptly then, his voice crackling in a way it hadn't since he was twelve years old. Unable to stand Severus' probing gaze any longer, he turned away again, and with a sudden burst of frustration, he grasped the shovel mid-scoop, halting its progress on the makeshift grave, and hurled it into the air. With a metallic clank, the shovel collided with a tree and tumbled to the ground, scattering dirt and snow in its wake.

"I was there," Rosier added, "because I did it... I killed Regulus Black."

Severus thought he hadn't heard Rosier correctly at first. For a moment, it sounded nearly as though he was confessing to a murder. But it wasn't just any murder he had admitted to - he had killed a man who had once been their Slytherin brother, their friend. It was beyond anything Severus could have imagined Rosier capable of. He was no murderer; he was a playboy, a man who divided his time between lounging about his lavish SW3 flat and making love to beautiful women. However, the strange look of self-loathing in Rosier's face as he turned to look at Severus' once more confirmed his guilt.

"He wanted to defect, and I was given my orders," Rosier explained. His voice was barely more than a whisper now, and there were silent tears of remorse on his long, blonde lashes. "If I didn't do it, someone else would have. If I didn't comply..." His voice trailed off painfully, and he swallowed hard. "If I didn't comply, it would've been me."

Unable to conceal his horror, Severus staggered away from Rosier. Like a typical Slytherin, Rosier had traded his friend's life for his own. Although he couldn't say he was necessarily shocked by this turn of events, Severus was still disgusted by it. "Regulus knew you - he trusted you," he sputtered.

There was no point protesting the validity of his friend's words, and so Rosier nodded wretchedly as he lowered himself to sit, back slumped, on the same tree stump upon which Severus had steadied himself just moments before. "No offense mate, but I'm really in no mood to be preached to," he said weakly but bitterly. "The truth is, you're just as guilty as I am."

Severus looked incredulous. A flush rose high in his cheeks as he cowered over Rosier in the moonlight. "Me?! How?" he gasped. "I didn't kill Regulus."

"You provided the means to do it, Snape. You made the poison I used to kill him," was the frank reply. "Remember that night we slipped the Veritaserum into James Potter's dinner? Let's just say history has an ironic way of repeating itself."

Rosier's words reverberated in Severus' ears, echoing horribly until the richness of their implications settled in. Severus didn't want to believe it, but as he leaned closer and examined Regulus' corpse more closely, he immediately saw that Rosier was telling the truth. Regulus Black hadn't been killed in the normal way, by the Killing Curse. The Killing Curse was instantaneous, stealing life before shock and pain could register on the face of the victim. Regulus' countenance, however, was contorted oddly, indicating that he had suffered in his death. He'd had time to feel, to realise what was happening to him and who had killed him. It seemed quite likely, Severus thought, that Regulus had been poisoned.

And he had made that poison.

* * *

Severus Snape was an accomplice to murder. The revelation blindsided him, and as he sulked in his study in those early morning hours upon returning from the Forbidden Forest, he pondered what it meant to be a killer. He had, after all, brewed the poison that took the life of Regulus Black, his one-time friend. Severus had been well aware of the toxicity of the potion he'd created, that it was lethal in certain quantities, and although he had not known it was intended specifically for Regulus, he had known that it was meant for some unfortunate fool who tangled with the Dark Lord.

This wasn't the way it was supposed to be, Severus thought. He had only killed anonymously before, had never known the names or faces of those who fell prey to the potions he created. For this reason, it hadn't truly seemed like murder. Tonight, though, everything had changed. Severus had seen his victim, had known his victim, had befriended his victim. The horror of this reality washed over him in waves. Indeed, Rosier had been right: Severus shared in the guilt for Regulus Black's death. The matter was as black and white as the letters in the Occlumency text he now stared at in unsuccessful attempt to distract him from his wretchedness.

"Severus?" a soft voice asked from behind him.

He looked up with a start and turned to see Jane standing behind him. He hadn't heard her come into the room, and considering the lateness of the hour, he was stunned she had not yet gone to bed.

"It's late, Severus," Jane whispered to him as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and embraced him. "I can't imagine Master Jigger means for you to work for him morning, noon, and night. Please come to bed."

Severus closed his eyes and allowed himself a temporary indulgence as she nibbled his ear affectionately. In truth, Jane was right: Arsenius Jigger didn't mean for him to work so much. However, it hadn't been Master Jigger's work that kept him up on nights such as these. It had been the work of the Dark Lord, the work of death. But how could Severus possibly tell her this? How could he explain that Regulus Black was dead - that he had been there, that he'd seen his body, that he'd helped bury him? Worse, how could he tell her that it had been he who had helped kill him?

The answer was simple: he couldn't tell her. Severus had seen the havoc his father's commitment to the Dark Lord had reaped in his parents' marriage. He remembered all too well the constant tension and mutual disapproval that alienated them from one another. There had been his father's hostility, his volatility and impassivity; there had been his mother's tears and protestations, the way her smile always faded when Darius entered the room. Their mutual detestation had resulted in nothing but destruction - in Azkaban, in Cruciatus, and in traumatizing their only son. Severus didn't think he could bear it if he turned into the same monster his father had and Jane came to resent him as much as Circe Snape had resented Darius. By protecting Jane from the truth, he was protecting himself. He wouldn't tell her.

It was with these memories in mind that Severus pulled away from Jane, shrugged from her embrace and her questioning gaze. "Bloody hell, can't a man have a moment of peace?!" he muttered, the stresses of the night getting the better of his temperament.

At once, Jane recoiled, hurt by his rejection and stunned by his coldness. "Severus, what's wrong?" she asked gently.

Severus hesitated and ran his hands through his hair, tugging on the lank strands in frustration. He hadn't meant to snap at her, and it occurred to him that in the moment he had denied Jane's advances, he had proven he was more like his father than he had at any other point in the evening. After all, the destructive spiral of Darius and Circe Snape must have begun with moments such as this - an unanswered question, an unreturned embrace, a snide remark. Severus shuddered at the thought of how much like Darius he was becoming: disappearing without explanation for undefined periods of time, isolating his wife who only meant well, supporting the Dark Arts. Slowly but surely, Severus noted, he was turning into the monster he'd always loathed. He had to stop this cycle in any way he could, and while some matters could not be helped, he could avoid isolating Jane.

Sheepishly, he raised his dark coals of eyes towards her. "I-I'm sorry, Jane," he stammered.

There was a distinct trace of dismay that marked Jane's gaze as she beheld her husband's face for the first time that evening. Severus wasn't certain which it was that alarmed her more: the dark circles that had formed under his eyes or the uncharacteristic hoarseness in his voice when he spoke. Either way, it was immediately apparent to her that something within Severus was broken, and gracefully, Jane resolved not to force herself into his confidence. She respected him too much to do so. Instead, her apprehension melted into a sympathetic smile, and she reached out to caress his face, running her fingertips gently along the swell of his cheek the way he had done to her countless times. Jane kissed him then. It was an invitation, of course, one which Severus accepted without hesitation. He needed her, and as he drank from her lips with avarice, she understood that need.

* * * * *