Unintended Consequences

Chapter 6: A Hard-Won Victory

Guided by his Dark Mark, Snape Apparated into an unfamiliar room, furnished richly in an old-fashioned style. It was lit dimly by candles placed in bronze sconces on the wood-paneled walls. Snape spun about quickly, to find the Dark Lord standing behind a wing-backed chair upholstered in dark velvet, his back to a fireplace flanked by windows with matching velvet drapes. Only his eyes were visible in the gloom. They glowed red, like the embers of the fire behind him.

Bellatrix stood to the right, her too-pale face drawn and tight. It seemed to Snape that she was surreptitiously leaning against the matching wing-backed chair in front of which she was standing. The Death Eater whose spell had confirmed the Potters' departure by Floo stood close to her. All three had their eyes on Snape.

"Master," Snape said, hastily dropping to one knee and bending over the other. "You summoned me?"

"Indeed, " Voldemort replied softly, in a voice that seemed almost a hiss. "Bellatrix has given me her account of tonight's...blunders. I believe you can shed some light on the matter?"

His eyes still on the faded Oriental rug beneath him, Snape hesitated, his mind racing. How could they know so soon? Could they? Surely not...bluffing, regardless, was his wisest move. He would have to make eye contact, though. The thought of those glowing red eyes, a sure indication of the Dark Lord's anger, filled him with dread, and, out of old habit, he found himself recalling yet again the night of Letitia McKinnon's death.

"My Lord?" he asked, raising his eyes to meet Voldemort's gaze. A shudder he could not quite suppress ran down his spine as those pitiless eyes seemed to bore into him.

"Bellatrix tells me that you discovered the reason for the Potters' departure," said Voldemort, his eyes flashing dangerously. Of course...the note, Snape realized, keeping his face still. Hoping that he was hiding his relief well, he stood and walked up to the claw-footed mahogany coffee table the two chairs flanked, and offered Lily's note to the Dark Lord.

"Yes, My Lord. I found this in the bedroom. It is in the hand of Lily Potter," he explained. Voldemort grasped the offered paper in his long, thin fingers. Wordlessly he lit the tip of his wand and held it over the paper to examine it, revealing his gaunt and snakelike face. Extingushing his wand, he tossed the note down onto the table in front of Snape.

"The ingredients would have a soothing effect," Voldemort stated quietly. "You are sure the dosage is right for an infant?"

"Yes, My Lord," Snape said firmly. "I make such potions at my work, on occasion." As Voldemort fixed him with a penetrating gaze, a sudden sensation of transparency gripped him. He shivered involuntarily and glanced away.

"Look at me!" Voldemort ordered dangerously. "In what way are Dragon Pox more dangerous to infants?" As Snape forced himself to hold the Dark Lord's gaze, he felt an uncanny sensation of...something...rummaging about in his mind. He concentrated on remembering where he had read that bit of information.

"There is a significantly higher mortality rate in patients under the age of two," Snape said. "A recent issue of-"

"Enough!" Voldemort said, and the sensation receded. "I have no need to read a treatise on the subject; I know that you are telling the truth." Snape suppressed a sigh of relief, but Voldemort had already switched his attention to the other Death Eater.

"And why did you not check the Floo as your first step?" he demanded, as he swept past Snape to face the Death Eater directly. The man dropped to his knees in front of Voldemort, whose tall, thin form loomed above him.

"My Lord, I - I was casting spells to reveal the Potters-" the man responded fearfully.

"Who had already left!" Voldemort whispered, his eyes blazing.

"Yes, that is, I was following my orders-"

With the swiftness of a striking snake, Voldemort's wand was pointed at the Death Eater.

"Crucio!" Voldemort said coldly. The Death Eater curled up into a ball, shrieking horribly. Snape watched, afraid to look away, his stomach writhing in sympathy. Unable to look any longer, he glanced towards Bellatrix. She, too, was watching the punishment of the Death Eater, her face still pale and fearful, but her eyes glowing fanatically as she looked on the Dark Lord and his victim. Hastily Snape looked back down to avoid her eyes. He had a shrewd idea now, though, why she was leaning on that chair. It did not bode well for him, he reflected.

Voldemort raised his wand, and the Death Eater lay gasping on the ground.

"I have already...discussed...your orders with Bellatrix. See that, in the future, you give better advice," he said coldly.

The man pulled himself painfully to his knees.

"Oh, yes, Master...thank you..."

Voldemort spun back around to face Snape, who flinched.

"And you," Voldemort said softly, "Bellatrix tells me that you actually stood around watching the destruction of the house instead of bringing the note straight to her. Explain yourself!" His voice rose menacingly.

"Master, the house was already a complete shambles by the time I found the note and returned back downstairs," Snape answered truthfully, as anger at Bellatrix joined the mixture of fear and revulsion he felt. His answer was a trifle too heated, he realized as he saw the tip of the Dark Lord's wand start to drop.

"Crucio!" Voldemort said.

It was unimaginable, unbearable, overwhelming. Snape felt as if his entire body had spontaneously burst into flame. As the pain continued, he felt certain that he could take no more, that he would black out in the next instant. Yet, impossibly, it continued, and he endured, for what seemed an eternity. Then, abruptly, it was over. Snape found himself lying on the floor, next to the coffee table. Struggling to control his breathing, which was still coming in great shuddering gasps, he raised himself up onto his knees, facing Voldemort.

"Your incompetence and lack of foresight have caused this failure," Voldemort said in a cold voice, looking upon the three Death Eaters in the room in turn. "See that you serve me better, in the future. You may leave me now."

Snape, who was now closest to Voldemort, lurched forward on his knees to grasp the hem of Voldemort's robe and kiss it in leave-taking.

"I will, Master," he said hoarsely. Summoning his willpower, he stood up with a suppressed groan and backed away, as the unknown Death Eater approached. Apparition seemed like a really bad idea; on the other hand, he clearly had no other option. Tucking his mask away as he spun on his heel, and wondering what the effect on the spell would be if he fell down, he Disapparated.

He materialized and collapsed against a brick wall. The effect of losing one's balance while Disapparating appeared to be that one collapsed upon Apparation. Logical...

Taking stock, he saw that he had, indeed, arrived in Diagon Alley, and was seated on the sidewalk with his back against the brick façade of Madam Malkin's Robes. It was long past the closing time of the shops, so the street was deserted. His body was still shaking, an aftereffect of the Dark Lord's punishment.

So, that was the Cruciatus Curse. Having now experienced it first-hand, Snape could certainly agree that it ought to be considered Unforgivable. He had seen it before, and that memory haunted him, but no exercise of his imagination could have prepared him for the reality. His punishment had, he realized, lasted only a minute or two, like the punishment of the other Death Eater that he had witnessed. If the Dark Lord had had any inkling...Snape knew, he had seen, that a person could survive hours of such torment... Yet, even as his thoughts dwelt on his old, familiar fear made real, as he sat there alone, away from the Dark Lord, he found that the feeling of relief he had felt that afternoon, and after the failed raid, was creeping back. Gathering himself, he stood up and turned left towards the entrance to Knockturn Alley.

He was in a peculiar state of mind. The encounter with the Dark Lord left him shaking and weak; yet, now that he was out of that fearsome presence, the euphoria of the raid was back. The complete and glorious failure of that operation almost made him want to laugh out loud, and the very best part of it was the knowledge that he, himself, had played an important role in its failure. And more: while he had paid a price for the failure, that had been random, the result of Bellatrix's spite and the Dark Lord's desire to vent his anger on all available targets. His true role, it appeared, was unsuspected, and could remain so if he managed to play his role well. He had achieved his goal, he had won, and, the thought came to him, he might do so again. He would like that, he realized.

Returning to his room, Snape took off his cloak and hung it on its peg near the door. He knew his body needed sleep, but his mind was racing. In the past months he had felt himself grow increasingly lethargic. He had lost the burning desire to get a position at the Ministry or St. Mungo's which he had felt upon his initial failure, and stopped thinking much about his future. A particularly interesting Dark Arts problem or tricky bit of potion-making might consume him for a time. But that was it.

This evening, on the other hand, he felt more alive than he had in years. While tired, his mind teemed with ideas and plans. He would live to report the events of the raid to Dumbledore, an outcome he realized he had doubted. He had so much other information which might be potentially useful. People he knew were Death Eaters, people he had met at Lucius's, the projects he had worked on. And more information to try and ferret out. Who were the men that had helped out with the advanced magic during the raid? Who was the Dark Lord's spy? Would the Potters be safe? He could probably sound Lucius about about that one, carefully, in a little while. His hatred of James was a reasonable excuse...

In fact, he could start right now, he realized, taking a seat at his desk. He unrolled a blank piece of parchment, picked up a pen, and started writing.

Perhaps an hour later, he stopped, as the roll of parchment was full. In his small, cramped hand he had listed every detail of the raid that he could recall. He had gone on to try and list all of the Death Eaters he remembered meeting. The few he had recognized and knew by name he had identified; for the others, he had tried to jot down any peculiarities of their appearance or manner that he could recall. After the ink dried, he re-rolled it and with a wave of his wand, caused the writing to disappear.

His mind was still racing, but the shaking and weakness he had felt since his experience of the Cruciatus Curse were getting worse; in addition to which his neck and hand were cramping. He could not get it all down in one night; it was enough for now. Wearily, he lowered himself onto his bed, remembering suddenly that he had not practiced his Occlumency exercises recently. Something he would not neglect again.

Lying back with his eyes closed, he tried to clear his mind of the impressions of the last forty-eight hours. Lucius, learning of the raid, Dumbledore, the raid, The Dark Lord's anger...they would not go away, however much he tried. Though the attempt did, finally, calm him down sufficiently to fall into a fitful sleep with horrible dreams he could not later recall.