Libera Me a Malos

He wasn't a handsome boy, by any standards, but he had beautiful hands. Strong and assured, they sketched the sign of the cross with a grace the rest of him did not possess. "Pater noster qui in caelis es, sanctificetur nomen tuum."¹

***

Mass was every Sunday at nine. He was aware of those who attended, and by extension, those who didn't. He was aware, most keenly, of those who mocked him for his attendance.

"Sir, it's a disgrace!"

"I'm sorry, my boy, but Sunday mass—and indeed any activity of a religious nature—shall not be made compulsory at Hogwarts while I am Headmaster."

"But—"

"That is my final word on the subject. Although I don't suppose I can prevail upon you to give up your crusade."

Crusade. He liked that. A crusader was a warrior of God.

"No sir, not while the cause is worth crusading for."

***

The initial meeting was like nothing he had expected. It wasn't Voldemort's charisma—the practiced subtlety of which had not escaped him—but the ideas, audacious yet inspired, that set his soul on fire. It was true; Muggle preeminence in the world was a disgrace. That a wizard of pure blood be forced to hide from and conduct his business around the limited understanding of such baseborn creatures was insupportable. Like the Flood, Voldemort would cleanse the earth.

***

Sometimes, he participated in the executions. It was joyless work, but he understood the necessity. Usually his time was too valuable to be frittered away on such brute's tasks, and for that he was grateful.

Last night he had executed. A boy, and two girls, because he hadn't trusted the others with the children. Watching his fellows with the mother and father had been unpleasant enough.

He studied his hands, resting lightly on the top of the rail, and thought, tiredly: These hands are those of a crusader. These hands are doing His work.

All saints went through hardships, privations, torments.

He rose with the rest of the congregation and began to sing.

***

Sunlight sparkled off the potion, a mesmerizing swirl of sprightly chartreuse and delicate lime. He watched as his master removed the stopper, releasing the scent of spring grass.

"Very pretty." The dry tone turned acid. "I would hope you can assure me that function rivals form."

"Certes, my Lord. My Lord, I would... strongly caution against taking another whiff of that."

Eyes narrowing, Voldemort stoppered the flask. "A reward is in order, lad. Assuming the potion lives up to your promise."

He bowed dully. The process had been demanding, and the only reward he currently craved was sleep.

"You're positively weedy these days. I've kept you in the laboratory too long. Tell me, do you have plans for tomorrow night?"

His mouth went dry. "I serve your convenience, my Lord, as always."

"Then I do believe you should have the honor of testing your creation. Don't you?"

***

It went on for what seemed like days. Afterwards he went home and was wrenchingly, sobbingly sick in the toilet.

***

"A fascinating tale, Professor Dumbledore, but it was pointless to have contacted me. I can't recall ever hearing of a potion that can produce such effects—let alone help you trace its maker."

"I see. Perhaps you might have contacts among your colleagues...."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, sir, but you're wasting your time."

"My apologies for disturbing your work, then. But before I go, Severus, a favor, if you please."

"I'm listening."

"When you need help, my boy, remember that I'll be here."

***

The atmosphere was charged, that night, with an air of sullen anticipation. He didn't understand, and it made him uneasy.

"I'm worried, my faithful Severus. Valuable though your research may be, there are those who suggest that you lack the proper... dedication to field work."

"Then may I suggest, my Lord, that dedication may be recognized in the desire for efficiency? I've neither the patience nor the flair for wand-induced melodrama."

"A good point. I am gratified by your candor. However, you seem to be harboring a basic misunderstanding of our methodology. It troubles me to have let you gone uncorrected for so long.

"Crucio.

"My faithful servant, our savior died for us under the power of the Unforgivable Three. Even as I speak, it flails your flesh, excoriating you for your sins and bringing you closer to His agony. Do you understand?

"It would be reprehensible if we failed to give the unfaithful the chance, before they die, to reconcile with God. Do you begin to see the extent of this responsibility?

"This is the salvation we offer, even to those who deny Him. Under my eyes, your body is straining towards redemption. Is your mind yet enlightened?"

"Y-yes."

"What was that?"

"Yes-s. M-my... Lord."

"Excellent! You have overcome your final impediment to true understanding. Finite Incantatum. You are ready, my dear Severus. Tonight, you will be privileged with the honor of receiving the Mark.

"Now, now; no need to look so surprised. It's what you deserve."

***

"Dimitte, Domine, peccata mea." ²

He fell silent, watching his clasped hands shake. After a long while, he eased the sleeve back over the forearm, and tried in vain to button the cuff.

He could still feel his flesh, burning.

"Dimitte," he began again, but choked on that simple request.

His hands turned palm up and he studied them. These are not the hands of a crusader, he thought. These hands are not doing His work.

I am not a saint.

***

"Professor Dumbledore? You once asked me for a favor...."