The Last Sanguimagus

Severus closed the door to his suite of rooms. A small wave of relief flowed over him as he realised that he'd returned safe once again to the quiet embrace of his study. Being called to a Death Eater meeting had not been entirely a surprise. Harry Potter was returning to Hogwarts, the Dark Lord was mostly recovered, and it was time again to decide on the newest method of the boy's disposal. He shivered in spite of himself. What would happen should the Dark Lord succeed in his plans...

He sat down heavily in a chair and poured out a large tumbler of Old Ogden's. The tea in Dumbledore's office just hadn't been strong enough. He needed something to take the edge off the night's tension. As he drank he replayed the meeting over and over in his mind, trying to tease out the shape of the Dark Lord's latest plan. Unfortunately, he did not have enough information; both he and Dumbledore had been regrettably unable to guess the next move, though parts of it were clear. Harry Potter had to die, of course, and everyone knew of the general ideas regarding Muggles, but many of his other plots were only discussed with the individual Death Eaters involved in them.

Also thought-provoking was that he'd been dismissed relatively early from the Death Eater meeting. It troubled him. He'd had to suffer through some "entertainment" first. Bloody entertainment it'd been, of course; bloody enough that he was still sickened by it even now, but thank Merlin nothing had been sent his way. Later he understood why he'd been excluded; the Dark Lord had given him centre stage and interrogated him on the new teachers while one of the Death Eaters was busy slowly dispatching some unfortunate. The Dark Lord asked a great deal of questions about Silas in particular. He did not seem quite as interested with Sarah; he'd expressed concern about her knowledge of the Death Eaters, whether she intended to stir up trouble for Malfoy or Macnair, or even with Dumbledore regarding himself, but appeared satisfied when he said that Dumbledore had convinced her that he was no threat, and she had made no motion in the last two weeks towards implicating the other two.

He took another long pull of the firewhisky and tried to array his thoughts once again. Why would the Dark Lord be so interested in Silas? The man was a bit of a nuisance, but seemed of no further value. Even Dumbledore had seemed perplexed. Yet Severus had been forced to recite any detail, regardless how trivial. What if he had told too much, and now the man's life was in danger? His head was beginning to throb, and he remembered that tomorrow was the Sorting Ceremony, and he had many last minute things to attend to, and he needed to sleep. Yes, sleep, there was nothing else to gain from staying awake, his mind was too full of conjecture about sinister plans and the scenes of Muggle torture that he had witnessed. Thank Merlin most of the other Death Eaters were still in Azkaban, or it would have been worse.

He sighed deeply and finished the last of his drink. If he could get to sleep now, he still had time for a decent night's rest before the dunderheads arrived. The firewhisky rushed through his veins, slowly loosening his taut body. He hoped he would not have to take a Dreamless Sleep potion, but he knew it was inevitable.

***

Sarah checked the amulet again, carefully examining it in detail while she hunched over her desk. To the uneducated eye it appeared to be a bit of polished rock on a cord. To her eye, it was spinning and whirling with layer after layer of carefully positioned spells. Several minutes passed as she used her wand to probe the delicately placed magic. Finally she sighed and straightened up, placing the amulet back on her desk again. There was nothing more she could add to it. The only thing lacking was the boy who would wear it.

Her eyes felt hot and dry and she rubbed at them irritably one at a time with her right hand. The small room had gotten too warm again and she checked to be certain that the fire had not been lit by a well-meaning Dobby--no, it was dark. She gestured with her wand and one of the windows creaked open, letting in a cooling night breeze.

Her lesson plan was done, her notes copied and sent to the Headmaster as required, and the amulet was as complete as it could be at this stage. It was quite late, and she knew she needed sleep. Tomorrow the students would arrive and she would begin a new, strange odyssey. Again she wondered at Dumbledore's wisdom. Trust was not an easy thing, after all--yet he seemed to trust her. She could not see deceit in him. Another chance to take, another challenge, another day, another step. What choice was there, really? She had nowhere else to go.

***

Dreamless Sleep had long ago stopped working reliably for Severus. Whether it was because he had become tolerant of the formula or whether it was because his dreams had become too formidable to be headed off by anything as simple as a potion he could not tell.

There were some nights that passed by calmly, and he woke rested. There were other nights that he woke considerably worse off than when he had started.

This was one of the latter kind.

The nightmare began innocently enough, winding threads of Hogwarts around him; children blending ingredients, monotonous staff meetings, tea in the Great Hall. But then, as he turned to deliver a lecture on the properties of asphodel, the dungeon walls seemed to quiver and fold, and the frightened countenances of those he had hurt and killed began to appear. He was trapped, held in place, as they circled him, accusing him, howling his name, visiting his sins upon him with a bloodthirsty vengeance, rending him and breaking him, their dead eyes taking no satisfaction, showing no forgiveness.

No matter how many times he dreamt this, it always drove him to the edge.

Yet this time it was different. She stood before him, not in the background, not part of the chorus of dread as she had always been before. She was holding a razor whip, she was older, her green eyes more vivid and real than they had ever been before. Her right hand lifted. The whip came down.

His own scream awakened him. He was still in bed, panting heavily, soaked in sweat, raggedly cursing himself. His lungs felt as if they could not take in enough air. He looked around his innocuous room. There was no Sarah, there were no victims, no Dark Lord finally discovering his traitorous role. There was only him, tired and worn, sleep still far off, the darkness cold and uncomforting.

***

Harry tossed and turned, his sleep restless. There was a meeting of some sort, a meeting that he had to prepare for. He had to appear strong. He had to be convincing. He looked down at his pale, spidery hands and viciously cursed the trembling, the last vestiges of weakness wrought by that old fool. Angrily he struck out, knocking over the potion nearby, causing Wormtail to cringe in terror. Even Macnair cowered at his ire. Ah, yes. Macnair. "She has taken refuge within Hogwarts." Macnair looked even more terrified. "Yes, it is your fault. Had you not blundered so alarmingly in Poland, we would have her--and the Stone."

"My Lord--forgive me--"

"Crucio!"

Harry woke up panting. In the next bed over Ron was snoring reassuringly.

I'm safe, I'm here at the Leaky Cauldron, I'm safe...

It didn't help. He could still feel the curse surge through his wand, feel the dark maelstrom that fueled it, the evil tainting and burning him. His scar hurt terribly.

His mind was afire with dire thoughts. If he could see so clearly what Voldemort was doing, then Voldemort could see--

Voldemort could see everything. Dumbledore, the Order, Snape...everything that needed to be kept secret. Harry knew too much.

But--Voldemort hadn't planned this vision, had he? Not like the one with Sirius--this had been unforeseen. And Voldemort was still weak--he clearly remembered his trembling hands--it had to be a good thing. Dumbledore was right. He had to trust Dumbledore.

He pulled the blankets tighter around himself and laid his head on the pillow, trying to empty his mind as Snape had taught him.

***