The Soul of Evil

Chapter One: The Beginning of the End

"Every beginning is a consequence. Every beginning ends something." -Paul Valery

*

The breeze came in from the ocean and rolled gently over her face. She closed her eyes to the cold bite of the late evening on her face and leaned back in her chair, relaxing her strained muscles for the first time in days. It was good to be home.

"Home" was a good-sized but moderate cottage on the northern coast of Scotland. It was cold there, even in late July, but she had grown used to the cold over the years. Besides, she reasoned, it's nothing to the cold inside of me.

"Accio," she said lazily, waving her hand in the direction of the door leading inside of the cottage. A mug, sloshing some dark brown liquid out of its rim at it came, flew smoothly out of the door and into her hand. She wrapped her hand around it and drank heartily, feeling the warmth rise slowly through her veins. She could feel his presence, but she ignored it. She had spent the past month and a half in service, and she felt she deserved a break. She had worked hard. And if he refused to give it to her, she just might throw a fit, complete with a few Unforgivables. "The plan" whose success she had been working toward for the past six weeks came to the forefront of her mind but she pushed the thought away irritably. He would have been able to thwart it.

"You're losing your touch," his voice said silkily as he sat down next to her, black robes overflowing out of the small porch chair. "I know you can do it without spilling." She answered him with silence and feigned ignorance of his presence, sipping some more of her hot cocoa, but he knew she was alert, wondering hungrily what in the bloody hell he was doing there when she had just left the day before. He was silent for a moment, seeming to contemplate how to ask of her a new task, another mission. She knew that was what was coming, but she couldn't read what it would be. His thoughts were cloudy with mixed emotions, guarded. His fuzzy thoughts of "the plan" drifted to her and she held onto them. She knew that was what this was about.

"We need your help, Sally," he said finally. She kept her eyes focused ahead on the ocean and spoke to him, almost as if she were speaking to someone else whom neither of them could see.

"We, Severus?"

"The Order. Dumbledore." She looked at him sharply now, her eyes full of doubt and suspicion. Yet they were unreadable, that terrible blood red that still shook Severus to the core when he looked into them.

"What does Dumbledore need me for?" She asked, her voice controlled but edgy. She had looked away from him again.

"Sally," he began, a tint of desperation in his voice, "do you remember when you told me that you were tired of being evil, that you wanted to be good?" She looked at him, her eyes a mixture of disgust and disbelief.

"I was ten, Severus." He continued, seeming to ignore her remark.

"You were telling the truth, weren't you? Do you still want that, Sally? Do you still believe that?" He was standing in front of her now, either hand planted firmly on either side of her chair, knuckles white. His eyes, usually void of any feeling, were passionate. She couldn't remember seeing him this way.

"What is this about, Snape?" She hissed, her voice suddenly reverting to the cold jeer of her sire.

"Harry's dead," he said, ignoring the sudden vulnerability, astonishment and dismay on her face. "The plan worked. I was unable to thwart it."

"You always were incapable," she said, effortlessly pushing him out of her way with one hand and heading into the house, her composure suddenly regained, her voice returned to its usual controlled, restrained tone. He followed her.

"That," he spat, "is not the point."

"Oh, but I believe it is, dear Severus," she said sarcastically, reaching the kitchen and Banishing her now-empty cup to the sink, where it immediately began rinsing itself. Leaning against the counter, she turned to face him. "Because now you're going to ask me to save Harry's life, am I wrong?"

"No," Severus said darkly. "You never are. But I know you want to say yes and I need an answer. The spell must be completed within twenty-four hours of the death." She crossed her arms over her chest and sighed resignedly.

"And when was that?"

"Precisely ten-oh-six PM yesterday evening." She glanced at the clock.

"My, my, but we DID take our time getting here."

"There were certain obstacles to overcome. I'm sure you understand. I need your answer. Understand that if you agree to help, you cannot change your mind. He will know immediately it was you."

"I know," she snapped crossly at him. "I'm perfectly aware." They were quiet for a moment. "You didn't leave me much time to prepare."

"I left you no time," he replied.

"What if I decide not to do it? What if I decide to tell him the truth about you?" She was grinning malevolently now and a tiny shudder ran through Severus's body. Sometimes the resemblance really did get to him.

"Then he has won," Severus said. There was no need to try and deny it.

The grin faded a little as her gaze became glazed and focused somewhere off into the distance. She bit one nail thoughtfully. He saw his opportunity to speak.

"This is your chance, Sal," he said softly, very uncharacteristically of him. "This is your chance to stop the wickedness, to stop the cycle." He paused. "I know you want to." She looked up at him.

"I hate you, Severus," she burst out angrily. "You knew, you KNEW I would agree and that's why you waited so long because then I would have the adren-,"

He cut her off.

"Let's go. We haven't much time."

*

Approximately twenty hours earlier...

Vernon Dursley had never been a drinking man. Occasionally he would have a glass of wine or two at dinner, if Petunia insisted that it would flatter her cooking, but generally, Vernon Dursley refused to touch the stuff. The evening of July 30, 1997, was a different story, however.

It had started out as one of the aforementioned incidences. His wife Petunia had made a special dinner for Dudley, who had been complaining all summer that the food at Smeltings, his school, just was not fit for his appetite. At the advice of the school nurse, Petunia and Vernon had been trying to keep their young son on a diet, thereby depriving him of all of his favorite foods. Vernon hated to do such a thing; Dudley was a good-sized boy. The only good thing about this diet was that Petunia insisted that Harry follow it as well, to make Dudley feel better and Vernon did derive pleasure from watching his nephew suffer. Tonight, however, both parents had grown tired of the constant whining and groaning from their son at every mealtime and Petunia had finally consented to make Dudley one of his favorite meals--steak. In celebration of their son's silence (his mouth was full of food) and lack of complaints, the Dursleys had popped open a bottle of wine Petunia had picked up earlier that day.

The meal started out normally. Vernon sat at the head of the table, Petunia to his left, Dudley and Harry to his right. Dudley was busy eating and for once, Potter was keeping quiet like he should. Vernon enjoyed a pleasant meal and conversation with his wife, hardly noticing the numerous glasses of wine he was consuming until he asked for another and Petunia informed him he drank the whole bottle. Her first glass still sat, barely touched, in front of her plate. Miffed, Vernon declared the supper over. Dudley began to whine that he wasn't full yet, and Petunia ushered him into the kitchen for more food. Vernon watched with a suspicious eye as his nephew made his way from the dining room toward the stairs. Something about that boy was just so damn maddening...

"Potter!" Vernon barked suddenly. He saw the boy jump as he wheeled around.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon?"

But Vernon never had time to answer.

At the exact moment he opened his mouth to reprimand his nephew for his ungrateful insolence, all the lights at Number Four Privet Drive went out and a loud crash from the direction of the front door indicated that someone had just entered uninvited.

Both Vernon and Harry immediately whipped their heads to the door. Dudley and Petunia rushed in through the kitchen door and crowded around Vernon.

"What's going on, Dad?" Dudley asked.

"Oh dear Vernon, do you think it's burglars?" Petunia asked, frightened.

Vernon saw the boy's hand fly to his right pocket.

"This better not have anything to do with your...abnormality, boy!" Vernon snarled, ignoring his family's comments and the sheet white look on his nephew's face as he pushed past Harry into the entrance hall. Harry followed him, hurrying up the stairs and reappearing a few moments later, wand in hand.

"What do you think you're doing?" Petunia shrieked furiously, pointing a trembling finger at his hand clutching the wand. "Get that out of here!" Once again, Harry had no time to answer as Vernon issued a loud bellow from the front hall and there was a popping sound that sounded a little like a gun going off.

"Dad!" cried Dudley, his piggish face fearful.

"Vernon!" screeched Petunia, lunging for the door to the hall. Harry stepped in front of her.

"Don't."

She regarded her nephew with furious indignation.

"What do you mean 'don't', you freak?!" She cried, shaking with rage. "Someone is accosting my husband out there and I-," She was cut off by the sound of a calm, cold voice from the front hall.

"There are others here? Besides the boy?" Harry recognized it.

"Y-yes," stammered Vernon's voice. "My w-wife and m-my son."

"Take care of them," the first voice commanded and another strange voice replied.

"Should I-,"

"No!" the first voice replied angrily. "Just take care of them for now. And bring the boy in here while you're at it."

"Yes," the second voice replied and footsteps headed towards the dining room. Petunia and Dudley were now cowering in the corner of the dining room, Dudley attempting to hide behind his mother. Harry wondered for a moment, with fleeting humor, if he knew that his fat bulk was not hidden at all behind his mother's bony frame. But any trace of humor in Harry's thoughts dissipated when he saw a figure cloaked in black robes, a hood covering his head, appear in the dining room.

"Stupefy!" the figure cried, pointing his wand first at Petunia and then at Dudley. They both fell to the floor, Stunned, with thumps, though Dudley's shook the house and Petunia's could barely be heard.

Harry tried to identify the face underneath the hood by just the mouth and chin and had no success. He gripped his wand tightly, feeling his hand growing sweatier and sweatier as he unconsciously backed away from the man in the doorway with a menacing smile.

"Mr. Potter," the voice said sleekly, a malicious grin drawing over the mouth. "Your presence is requested in the front hall." Harry continued to back away and found himself running into one of the dining room chairs, the wood clinking against the dishes still present on the table. He swallowed, his throat thick with fear. He wasn't supposed to use magic outside of school--though he doubted Dumbledore or anyone at the Ministry would have a problem with it if he used it now--but he was just a sixteen-year-old wizard. He had no idea how to defend himself! The most education in defense he had been given was the mediocre display in his second year during the Dueling Club. All his Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers had been abysmally hopeless or taught him things that were of no use to him now. He knew a few simple hexes and curses, but he doubted they would be any impediment or challenge to the Dark Magic of a Death Eater. What on earth was he supposed to do?

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the first voice from the front hall: "Imperio!" Harry felt his insides turn over. Malfoy had complete control of Uncle Vernon now. What would happen? What would he make him do?

He didn't have to wait long for the answer.

Within seconds, Uncle Vernon walked into the dining room, followed closely by the hooded figure Harry was quite was Lucius Malfoy. Harry turned and blindly ran for the kitchen and the back door, having no idea of what he was planning on doing, but knowing that something needed to be done.

"No use in running, Potter," Malfoy's chill voice made Harry's veins crawl. "I'm quite sure all the doors have been sealed quite securely." Harry turned, suddenly angry and feeling viciously brave and daring.

"What do you want?"

"Well, well, well, he speaks!" Malfoy said with mock cheer. "I would have thought that would be obvious, Potter," he said, lowering his voice and moving closer to Harry, looking him in the eye. "I want no one other then you." Harry could feel the older man's breath on his face. "Expelliarmus!" Before Harry could react, his wand was safely clutched in Malfoy's fist. Instinctively, he began to back away again. His mind was racing at the speed of light and his heart was pounding furiously as he frantically searched for a way out of the predicament. He vaguely heard Malfoy's voice, seemingly somewhere in the distance.

"Now, Avery," he was saying, "the real fun begins." Harry heard Malfoy mutter some instructions to Uncle Vernon, ending with the words "hit him." Oh no, thought Harry. No. They're going to make him beat me up.

The blows were distanced at first. One to his face, a few seconds later, another to his stomach or his back. Soon, he stopped being able to hear where Malfoy was directing Uncle Vernon to hit him next. The strikes came constantly, he was thrown against the wall, and his wrist was twisted until he heard a terrible cracking sound and felt a burning pain in it. His glasses were knocked off; he felt blood pouring from his nose and mouth. His chest burned with the effort of breathing and his head spun dizzily. At first, he tried to defend himself, shielding his face and head with his hands, but after a while (he lost all track of time), Harry stopped curled up into a ball, praying desperately for the nightmare to end soon. He wondered hazily when and if they would stop, what they would do with him. He thought of Ron and Hermione, and Sirius and wondered vaguely if he would ever see them again. Of course you will, his mind insisted firmly. Why wouldn't you? But as the blows rained down on him and he heard the far-off sound of Malfoy's laughter, he started to doubt that he would. Just as he was wondering what it would feel like to die, he surrendered to the blackness that had been threatening to overtake him.

*

When Vernon awoke, he found himself in bed, under the covers. Funny, he thought to himself, I don't remember going to bed. He looked to his right and saw Petunia there, sleeping peacefully. As nimbly as possible for a man of his stature, Vernon hopped out of bed and padded to his son's bedroom door. Peeking in, he saw the great heap that was Dudley snoring happily in his bed. Frowning, Vernon stroked his mustache. He certainly didn't remember going to sleep. As his gaze wandered across the hall to the door of his nephew's bedroom, Vernon did not feel the animosity he usually experienced when thinking of his nephew. Wait, Vernon, he thought suddenly, what are you on about? You don't have a nephew. That's Dudley's extra bedroom for his toys and things. Shaking his head, Vernon turned back to his bedroom to go back to sleep, as it was still very early.

"Hmph," he chuckled to himself, "a nephew. No more wine for you, Vernon. No, no more drinking for you."