Snape In Love: Chasing Darkness Away

Ch10

Termination

They slept late, and after Ella woke to feed Persephone she returned to her husband, whose slumber was so deep that he had not even noticed her absence, snuggling back into his arms and sleeping until the sun blazed high in the sky.

They decided to spend an hour or two underneath the ancient oak tree beyond the rose walk. Ella pushed Persephone, who was shaded against the searing glare of the late August sun by a large white parasol that hovered above her, while Severus walked alongside deep in thought. Casting sidelong glances at her husband, Ella knew better than to press him to carry on before he was ready, settling instead for reaching out for his hand. He interlaced his long fingers with hers and let out a heavy sigh.

"Do you remember our first picnic?" he mused.

"Of course! It was a blisteringly hot day, just like today...you were even 'hotter'!" she teased.

He released her hand and slipped his arm around her waist instead as he leaned in to plant a lingering kiss on the top of her head. "Especially when you flew me home afterwards!" she continued.

"Hah, yes, that broomstick ride was very enjoyable," he smirked. "Amazing, how I was able to terrify you and arouse you at the same time!"

"It's a particular talent of yours," she replied dryly. "You were punishing me for inviting Hermione and Remus along, weren't you?"

"Perhaps." He fell silent for a while, and then continued, "I think that was the first time I could accept being in the company of other people, when I was with you. It became a little less intolerable after that."

"And just look at you now! A party animal!"

"I hardly think so," he replied coolly. "I would prefer to leave that particular epithet to the unfortunate Professor Lockhart."

Ella snorted in amusement and leaned against him as they walked, resting her head against his shoulder.

A short while later the newlyweds had spread out a tartan blanket underneath the aged oak tree, and were flat on their backs side by side, staring up through its branches with their emerald filter of gently dappling leaves, in languid contemplation of the sapphire sky. Ella shifted until she was lying on her side, propped up on one elbow. She ran her hand underneath her husband's newly untucked linen shirt, the informality of his dress a grudging concession to the persuasive powers both of the weather and of his wife, and caressed his chest with its smattering of soft dark hair. She closed her eyes for a few moments in appreciation of the different textures of him under her questing fingertips, and sighed happily as his flat nipples hardened to small nubs under her touch. Opening her eyes to find herself under intense scrutiny, she smiled,

"What?"

"You..."

"What about me?"

"Everything. Absolutely everything."

His hand pressed into the small of her back and the gentlest of pressure pulled her to him. Her hair fell around his face like a curtain of scented silk, and she covered his mouth with hers, letting the tip of her tongue flick against his before they began their intricate tender dance. At last, she withdrew a little, planting gentle teasing kisses on his pliant lips as she said,

"Mmm...I could do this...all day...but we really should...make the most of ...mmm..."

He wrapped his arms around her and flipped her over then, parting her legs with the pressure of his thigh, deepening their embrace and effectively pinning her beneath him.

On reflection, Ella decided that Severus really should be allowed to resume his account in his own good time, and so it was that Persephone had awoken before they could be parted.

****************************************************

Snape had spent the weeks after Ella's safe return to Hogwarts on a mission to various Mediterranean countries to corral more support for Voldemort from those who had been known sympathisers in the Dark Lord's heyday. Voldemort required renewed affirmations of loyalty, and while hired thugs such as Crabbe and Goyle had their uses, a more refined approach worked best with the more noble of the pureblood families. Snape was renowned for his particular way with words, a sophisticated menace that implied terrible penalties to be paid by those who would prevaricate.

He undertook his work only half-heartedly. Some families would ward their doors when they heard of his impending arrival. These he would attempt to break, putting on a convincing show of grim determination and threatening displeasure, but he would give up quickly and leave with a lightness in his step at the thought of one less family prepared to support the Dark Lord.

Other families would allow him entry with fearful looks and obviously wavering loyalties. Depending on their lineage and the likelihood of any show of consideration on his part blowing his cover, he would either leave them be, and send an owl to Albus Dumbledore suggesting a possible new source of support for their own cause, or he would give them some manifestation of power and use all the means at his disposal to intimidate them into pledging their allegiance to the dark.

These latter confrontations would leave him sick to his stomach and he would wend his way back to his lodgings with a heavy heart, hoping against hope that he would not ultimately be responsible for more suffering. He would then send an owl to Voldemort to inform him, with the right mixture of pride and sycophancy, of more conscripts to be added to his magical army, to be drafted when the time came.

He was uneasy, in view of Voldemort's discovery of his attraction to Ella, at being so far removed from the Inner Circle at this time. While he had no desire to be in the Dark Lord's company, he knew that his absence would be a boon to the likes of Malfoy and Lestrange, who would seize every opportunity they could to plant seeds of doubt about Snape's loyalty.

He yearned for Ella, and Hogwarts. He hated to be away from his home, his routine. He lay in a series of rooms, always differently furnished, on a series of beds, always with different views through the windows, and his thoughts were always the same. He looked out over azure seascapes and terracotta rooftops, but he missed the morose crags and the lake visible through diamond-leaded panes. He slumbered in roughly plastered, balconied rooms with frescoed ceilings, but he missed the carvings on his antique bed and the sombre tapestries and portraits that oversaw his sleep. He missed the ordered clutter of his office, the soothing stones of the school, the continuity all around him, the safety.

And most of all he missed the one thing he had never had, and had never thought he would know how to miss. He missed a woman. Ella. His Ella. He did not even know whether or not she was his Ella, even though she had responded to his kiss with a desperation that had matched his own. He could still see the fire that burned in her eyes as they broke apart, but that scorching look had sparked in the heat of the moment and he craved the reassurance that she had not had a change of heart as the weeks had passed and her passion had cooled. He was and would always be unworthy of her love anyway, as the dissenting voice in his head seemed to delight in reminding him.

But he missed the promise of her, the scent of her, the taste of her, the soft, pliant warmth of her body pressed to his, and the expectation of more, so much more than he had ever dreamed, if only he could see her again.

And therein lay the rub. His thoughts were always dragged back to Malfoy, and Wormtail, and Lestrange, and their exclusive access to Voldemort's ear in his exile. He feared that the next visit to his supposed Master would be his last, and he prayed to the Fates that circumstances would allow him to be with Ella again before the call came.

The Fates, notoriously fickle and rarely on his side, denied him his wish, and the last summons came several weeks after Snape had sent Ella to Hogwarts. He had endeavoured to discover as much as he could about Voldemort's plans, but his prolonged sojourn abroad had given him a sneaking suspicion that he was not privy to some master plan that he sensed involved him somehow. His fears were confirmed soon after his arrival.

The perfidious Wormtail had approached him from behind just after Voldemort had dismissed him to the far side of the room, to partake of the usual feast laid out for the Inner Circle. The debriefing had gone well; despite Snape's deliberately limited success at converting frightened wizards and witches back to the Dark Lord, Voldemort was in good spirits. Malfoy appeared somewhat resentful of Snape's welcome, and was obviously working with Wormtail for he had cornered Snape at the farthest end of the cavern and begun to engage him in meaningless small talk when Wormtail sidled up to him and suddenly injected him with what could have been a lethal dose of Veritaserum.

Despite the cumulative effect of the regular doses of antidote that Snape had been taking for years, he was still unable to conceal the truth when asked directly by a sneering Malfoy,

"What did you do with the half-blood?"

"I sent her to Dumbledore..."

"Why Dumbledore?"

"He'll keep her safe."

"Why do you say that?"

"I trust him..."

Malfoy had hissed his satisfaction and, after waiting for Voldemort to complete his systematic punishment of Pettigrew for administering the drug to his favourite plaything without first seeking permission, dared to step over Wormtail's prone, quivering form in order to approach his master with the news that perhaps Pettigrew had, in fact, acted in his lord's best interests.

Voldemort had acted swiftly. Prostrate on the ground again, Snape had been told to kneel before his lord once more, and for the second time that evening Voldemort had stroked his hair and sighed over him with the lasciviousness of the aged impotent. Then, after enduring several more minutes of these sickening ministrations, Voldemort had thrown Snape to the ground and stood, steadying himself for a moment with the arms of his throne but nevertheless presenting a terrifyingly potent appearance. Malfoy had appeared at his shoulder with a smirk, triumph and delight at Snape's fall from grace evident in his cold blue eyes.

"It appears, Severus my sweet, that we might have had a spy in our midst for a goodly long time," Voldemort announced, reaching out his withered right arm so that Malfoy could take the parchment-covered hand and raise it to his lips for a respectful, fawning kiss. Snape met Malfoy's gaze with disgust, but saw no sign of any revulsion. Malfoy was getting very good at dissembling, he thought.

"Lucius here has been so busy, toiling away, grubbing around for clues...haven't you, my pet?"

"It has been my greatest pleasure, my lord," came the smooth reply.

"And, furthermore, it would seem that he was acting with the most selfless of interests! Ah, Lucius, however shall I make it up to you, my beauty?"

"Your estimation is all I crave, Master."

"Why don't you tell Severus what you have unearthed?"

With a smirk, Malfoy swaggered around Snape until he stood at his right shoulder before saying conspiratorially in a stage whisper,

"A little owl told me that you find that feisty little librarian to be more than a mere trifle, old boy! What say you to that? Hmm?"

"I don't know what you mean, Malfoy," Snape growled.

"Then I shall endeavour to enlighten you. Dumbledore's oaf of a groundskeeper fancies himself in love with the Giantess they have running Beauxbatons. Did you know that, hmm?"

"Your point?"

"Well, he really ought to learn a little discretion, don't you think? Tsk, tsk, telling his dearest Olympe that the fearsome Potions master was so desperately in love with the little half-blood that he had to save her from the evil Lord Voldemort's clutches, no matter the cost to his own delicate position?"

"What do you suppose that delicate position might be, dearest?" came Voldemort's cold, high voice.

"Master, rest assured that I have no idea what Malfoy is implying."

"Silence! Wormtail obviously administered too little of the Veritaserum. Wormtail! Get more, immediately. I fear Severus needs to bare his soul..."

The interrogation was thorough. Snape was bound magically to remain on his knees before the throne, and Voldemort glided around him, trailing his arthritic talons through Snape's long black locks and alternating these caresses with frequent bursts of Cruciatus. The questioning examined the history of his relationship with and feelings for Ella Redemte, and Snape could not understand why this appeared to be so important to Voldemort at first, for while he feigned a twisted jealousy, Snape knew better than to suppose such feelings were representative of a genuine regard. He eventually concluded that by forcing Snape to confess all, Voldemort would at last arrive at the true reason for Ella's removal to Hogwarts; the full extent of Snape's esteem for Albus Dumbledore, and its natural obverse, his contempt for Voldemort.

By the time the interrogation was over, Snape's nose and ears were bleeding with the after-effects of the Unforgivable curse, and Voldemort's pouting disappointment was tempered with a shrill, disturbing glee at Snape's use of the anti-arousal potion with which he had driven Ella away. Snape had seen these moods before, and knew that worse was to follow. He did not for one moment envisage that Voldemort would choose the method he did, however. He fully expected to be raped repeatedly, forced to accept Death Eater after Death Eater into his body via more than one orifice at a time, culminating perhaps in the gangrenous, stinking member of the Dark Lord himself. And then he expected death. Slow, painful, lingering death, followed by the ceremonial impaling of his bloodied head on a railing on Hogwarts' perimeter wall.

What happened instead filled him with despair. Voldemort sent Wormtail off to his private stores, stores which Snape himself had built up and maintained years before, to retrieve a selection of potions including one whose constituent parts bore a very strong similarity to the anti-arousal potion. The Dark Lord then involved Snape in the manner of his own demise by insisting he identify the various bottles and vials Wormtail had produced, and comment on the many different effects that could be created in their careful combination. This surprisingly subtle phase of his torture lasted for hours, until Snape's legs and back were cramped and then numbed with inactivity, and his head was swimming with the emotions he no longer had the strength, or indeed the requirement, to conceal.

At last, Snape gave Voldemort the answer he had wanted. The particular combination of potions and incantations, with the anti-arousal basic compound used as a starting point, that would produce a poison to be injected directly into the Dark Mark on Snape's forearm and would result in an irreversible creeping paralysis and subsequent death. Once administered, by Voldemort himself, of course, Snape would be sent back to Hogwarts to die in front of his helpless, hopeless friends. There would be an amusing symmetry to it, since the very same potion Snape used to try to save Ella and himself would result in their destruction.

Expected to plead for mercy and kiss his master's feet, Snape decided that there was little point in keeping up the pretence. He assumed his habitual mask of impassivity, showing neither fear nor open defiance, knowing that neither would profit him or secure his release. Rationally, scientifically, he could see no way out, and emotionally he knew that acceptance of his fate would at least allow him the luxury of seeing both his home and Ella again before he died.

His stoicism, although befitting his reputation, was not well received. Surrounded by jeering Death Eaters he knelt in the centre of the circle they formed, awaiting his Lord's displeasure. Gliding silently around him, Voldemort only spoke when finally he took Snape's arm in order to administer the poison.

"Sweet Severus, I doubt I shall ever recover from the disappointment...do you recall those wild days of our youth, when I joined with you so intimately and you cried out so...winsomely...ah, how I long to feel your tightness once more, just once before you die this most painful, lingering , deserved death...but alas, I doubt that even the soft wetness of your lips around me as I thrust into your throat would arouse my incapable appendage now, tempting as you are, dearest boy..."

Snape endured the grotesque pretence at intimacy with impassivity, and the now silent Death Eaters witnessing the tableau watched avidly. Some, he noticed, were stroking themselves assiduously through, or in some cases under, their robes. Death was as powerful an aphrodisiac as power in some circles, he thought with disgust.

Voldemort pressed the opened end of the small vial of poison to Snape's arm so that it covered the mouth of the skull of the Dark Mark. After intoning a series of incantations that Snape knew were the apotheoses of dark magic, Voldemort purred,

"Drink, my sweet, this draught of death as your final service to me..."

Snape looked down at the Mark to see the skull's shape alter rhythmically as it gulped down the cloudy grey liquid before allowing the serpent to slide back into its position in its mouth once the vial was empty. All at once, the whole of his arm that was in the vicinity of the Dark Mark grew cold, as if the flesh had been replaced with ice, and the Dark Lord dropped his arm and turned away, gliding back to his throne with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Get rid of him. Make sure you leave him somewhere he can be found. I want the sentimental old fool to know the manner of his spy's demise."

"It will be my utmost pleasure, my Lord!" exclaimed Lucius Malfoy obsequiously, reaching Snape in a few easy strides and pulling him to his feet whilst motioning impatiently for the dull-witted Crabbe and Goyle to accompany him. Snape shrugged off Malfoy's restraining grip with a fierce glare, and strode off in the direction of the exit tunnel. This would be the last time he would endure the black light, that much was certain. He tried not to think about how many other things he was to experience for the last time. There would be opportunity enough for that later when Malfoy had left him alone with his thoughts.

***

They apparated to a hillside just above Hogsmeade village. It was dusk, and Lucius Malfoy grabbed Snape's arm again and dragged him around the back of a dilapidated old building that Snape recognised at once as the Shrieking Shack.

"There, that's better," he said smugly. "We won't be seen here, eh Snape? Hmm?"

"Why don't you just bugger off now, Malfoy? You've done your duty, now leave me alone!"

"Oh, I will in a while, don't worry. But I have to admit to a little curiosity regarding my Master's apparent affection for you. He seems to hold your prowess in very high esteem, even after all these years! And all this time here I was thinking you such a cold fish!"

Snape did not deign to rise to the bait, so Malfoy smirked and began to unfasten the front of his robes, continuing,

"My Lord might be incapable these days, but I assure you that I am not...how about it, Snape? Hmm? Call it your swansong. Think of me as his proxy, if you like."

"I'll think of you as unmanned, you bastard!" Snape growled, advancing on Malfoy despite a trembling in his legs as the poison sent out exploratory feelers through his nervous system. "I could do it, you know! Bite it off and spit it out!"

"You wouldn't dare!" Malfoy blustered, glancing over his shoulder for his sidekicks, who were still looking around wondering where the other two had gone.

"Wouldn't I? And what, exactly, would I have to lose?"

"I wish I could be there to bear witness to the moment of your death, Snape!" said Malfoy, regaining his composure as two lumbering shapes cornered the shack, silhouetted against the setting sun like trainee mountain trolls searching for new clubs. "Crabbe, Goyle, time to go!"

Three loud cracks rent the air around them and Snape was alone. He could see Hogwarts' towering spires shimmering hazily in the distance, and tried to ignore the creeping numbness in his arm and the needles of pain that were its advance guard as he began to stumble down the scree at the far side of the shack, out of sight of the village below. He did not want strangers to witness his extremity and offer pity. It would be undignified. Moreover, it would be undeserved.

Halfway down, he heard a door slam behind him, rattling on rusting hinges.

"Severus! Is that you?"

It was the werewolf, hurrying down the slope.

"Lupin. The very man," muttered Snape.

"You're back!"

"So it would seem, yes. Your powers of observation are unparalleled."

"You've been gone for weeks!" Lupin pointed out with an irritatingly boyish smile.

"Look, Lupin, is there a point to this conversation or can I just tell you to bugger off now?"

Snape was uncomfortably aware that the coldness on his forearm was spreading to his fingers, and he flexed them at his side several times before realising that he could no longer feel the fabric of his robes with his fingertips. He needed to get back to Hogwarts, and he needed to get there fast. He wanted to be able to hold Ella in his arms before he died.