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The Serpent's Gaze, Book Five: The Lernaean Hydra	By : DictionaryWrites Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male Views: 3108 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and the characters therein belong to JK Rowling; I'm playing in the sandbox, as it were, whilst claiming no ownership and making no money.

Chapter List
- 11
- 12
- 13
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are delighted to welcome you back for your fifth year of schooling here at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This is a very important year, as it will conclude with your OWL exams. Just to confirm, you are currently enrolled for the following O.W.L. exams:
- Defence Against The Dark Arts*
- Herbology*
- Potions*
- Transfiguration*
- Charms*
- History of Magic*
- Astronomy*
- Care of Magical Creatures
- Ancient Runes
*Classes which are compulsory at Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft & Wizardry.
If you believe you will have some difficulty in any of these classes or if you require more information about your exams, please contact your head of house, who will be able to advise you further. This year you will meet with your head of house to discuss potential career prospects; this meeting will occur some time in October.
I am pleased to inform you that you have also been rewarded the honour of Slytherin House prefect. Please find enclosed your Prefect Badge, which you should fasten to your robes when you arrive at Kings Cross Station for the Hogwarts Express: your prefect duties will be outlined to you in the prefects car on the Hogwarts Express. We are certain you will perform your duties with pride, and will take the responsivities incumbent seriously. Congratulations, Mr Potter!
Yours,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry
Staring down at the page, Harry smiles slightly, and he takes up the silver badge from the envelope. The black P isn’t so big, and out of curiosity he fastens the badge to the front of his light robes, looking at his reflection in the window and looking at the way the polished badge reflects the light.
Hogwarts Prefect, him.
Harry turns over the page, quickly scanning the supplies list: he has everything he needs to hand. The Potions supplies aren’t altered any, and there’s been no change at all in the equipment needed for Astronomy or Herbology – apparently, at N.E.W.T. level one needs to purchase some more specialized equipment, but at O.W.L. level, the previous equipment is sufficient.
“Harry,” Remus asks, appearing in the open doorway, and Harry glances back from his desk. He watches Remus’ gaze flit over the pile of post on his desk before returning to Harry’s face. “What time would you like to…?” The question is posed very cautiously, as if he’s worried Harry’s going to take several hours, and Harry’s lip twitches.
“I’m actually finished, Remus. None of this needs replying to until later this evening. Let me just grab my shoes.” Remus sags in relief, and Harry stands up from his writing desk, leaving his Hogwarts letter on the wooden surface. Remus stops short, however, staring at the badge on Harry’s robes, his eyes wide.
“You didn’t,” he says, excitedly.
“Yeah,” Harry murmurs, and Remus lopes suddenly forwards, throwing his arms around Harry and hugging him tightly, and Harry laughs into Remus’ chest as he lets the man pull him close.
“That’s great! Congratulations, I’m so proud of you— Sirius! Sirius!”
“What?”
“Come here!”
“I’m eating toast!” comes the yell from down the corridor, and Remus rolls his eyes.
“Fuck your bloody toast!” he snaps back, and Harry laughs, leaning into Remus’ side as Sirius comes into the room, his robe front mottled with crumbs and his expression confused. “Look! Notice anything different?” Sirius looks between Harry and Remus very slowly, his brows furrowed over his deep-set, handsome eyes.
“Well, he’s not any talle—” Sirius’ eyes land on the badge, and he howls. “You bastard! He’s a traitor, Moony, a traitor!” Despite the language he’s using, Sirius looks anything but displeased, and he runs up and throws his arms around both Harry and Remus. Harry feels red blood flush through his cheeks, embarrassed at how enthusiastic the both of them are, and yet he just can’t keep the wide grin from his face.
“Prefect Potter,” Remus says delightedly, patting Harry on the back.
“Prefect Potter,” Sirius echoes delightedly, patting himself on the chest and wiping away the crumbs. “What a weasel you are. Were you expecting it?”
“No,” Harry says. “No, not at all. I feel really good about it, though.”
Once Harry has his shoes on, the three of them Floo over to Grimmauld Place, and Harry waves off Sirius and Remus as they split off into Sirius and Narcissa’s office. It’s been a few days since Harry’s trip to Hogwarts with the headmaster, and he can’t help but feel a little strange about it. Remus has calmed down extensively, and no longer seems ready to run off with the werewolf cabal… Harry truly feels as if he’s been taken seriously, like an adult, and he wonders if it’s strange that it’s such a surprise to him.
Harry thinks of Adrian King, and for a moment, his good mood fades away.
“Is that a badge I see on your chest, Mr Potter?” comes a crow from the top of the stairs, and Harry looks up, meeting Draco’s eyes. There’s no anger in Draco’s voice at all, but a low triumph, and Harry grins up at him.
“There is indeed, Mr Malfoy,” Harry calls back, and Draco stands up straight on the landing of the stairs, giving Harry an exaggerated salute before sliding down the bannister with a surprising grace, landing on his feet at the base of the stairs.
“Well done, Harry,” Draco says. “I wondered who it would be – a toss-up between you and Theo, I thought.”
“Do you think he’ll be upset?”
“No,” Draco assures him, shaking his head as they walk together into the dining room. “He might not be able to take points off anybody, but people treat him like a prefect with or without the badge.” Harry chuckles, and he looks around the dining room as they enter. Hermione is sat at the dining room table, her nose buried in a heavy, leather-bound book, and Ginny and Ron Weasley are engaged in a game of chess.
“Is Mrs Weasley here?” Harry asks, and Ginny glances up from the game.
“No, her and Dad are both in the Ministry today, so she asked us to stay here – the twins are about somewhere. Mum’s at a job interview.” Hermione abruptly looks up from her book, her lips parting as she leans forwards.
“A job interview? I didn’t realize that!”
“She’s applying for the Magical Law Enforcement office,” Ron says, his tone very serious. “She says she’s been feeling the empty nest now that the last of us is at Hogwarts and that she wanted to keep busy, but it’s all to do with the war, it seems like.”
“So what, your mother’s going to be an Auror?” Draco asks, arching an eyebrow. Harry keeps an eye on him, wondering what offensive thing he’s about to say next, but Draco just finishes, “Isn’t she a bit old? I thought Auror applicants had to be under the age of thirty five.”
“She isn’t applying to be an Auror, you prat,” Ginny says, shaking her head and giving Draco a dirty look. “She’s applying to work in their office as an investigator. She has to go through files, talk with victims, take statements, stuff like that.”
“So your mum is going to help the war effort by becoming a secretary?” Draco asks.
“What are you doing, Draco?” Hermione asks archly. “Going to take on You-Know-Who himself?” Harry sniggers.
“Shut up, Granger,” is the muttered reply as Draco walks away and into the kitchen, and Harry looks between Ron and Hermione, letting his grin show as he looks between the silver shining badges pinned on Ron’s thick, red jumper, and on Hermione’s black cardigan.
“So,” Harry says mildly. “You’re my colleagues, then?” Hermione gasps, and abruptly throws herself from her chair, all of her weight landing on Harry’s shoulders as she wraps herself around his neck, and Harry laughs, lifting her off the ground a little and swinging her around.
“Oh, Harry, that’s so brilliant! I’m so glad – isn’t this great, Ron? Harry’s a prefect too!”
“Yeah,” Ron says, not entirely convincingly, as Harry drops Hermione back onto the ground. Neither Ginny nor Ron look especially pleased about the situation, and in the back of his mind Harry feels the slightest bit of confusion. Ginny is giving Hermione a look that borders on jealousy, but why, Harry has no idea. And Ron?
Well. Ron seems positively foul-tempered.
“How are you?” Harry asks as he sits at the table beside Hermione, and Hermione lets out a low, half-breathed laugh, waving her hand at the stack of books. None of them are on the syllabus, of course, but obviously Hermione feels they need to be read, and Harry chuckles as he sits down beside her. “How are your parents?”
“Oh, settling in, settling in. The Kiwi government was actually really nice about it, honestly – I spoke with their Minister for Magic, actually. I couldn’t believe it, I mean, I wrote her, but to actually meet with me and my parents!” As she speaks, Hermione’s gaze is distant, as if she’s still blown away by it, and Harry’s smile is soft and fond. “They’ve been given a visa for three years… I mean, they’ve wanted to move to New Zealand for a long time, you know? They were always thinking they might move out there after I finished school, and they were so worried about leaving me alone in the UK, and Ron just said to my dad, “Well, is she a witch, or isn’t she?”, and pointed out that going to New Zealand is as easy for breathing for us, I mean, there’s no worry about flights or anything!”
Harry looks to Ron, who has a small smile on his face as he looks down at the chess board between himself and Ginny: Ron, it seems, is winning by a landslide, and Ginny looks very irritable about the fact indeed, especially now that Harry is actually watching the game, and she has an audience to lose in front of.
“It wasn’t much,” Ron mutters. “But it’s better they move out while they still can, before a lot more people do. Dad said that during the First War hundreds and hundreds of people left Britain, and our censuses are still feeling the loss.”
“It won’t get that bad again,” Hermione says. She doesn’t make eye contact with any of them, keeping her gaze on her books, and her voice shakes slightly. “It can’t get that bad again. The First War lasted eleven years.” Harry reaches out, gently puts his hand over hers, just for a second.
“You’re right,” Harry murmurs. He thinks of Stan Shunpike on the bridge, and Canton Nott with his brains dashed on the pavement, and of Evan Rosier strung up by Gilderoy Lockhart. He thinks of a war that lasts eleven years, long enough for a whole set of new children to come through their entire Hogwarts career, and he presses his lips together. “It won’t get that bad again, Hermione.”
“Have you noticed,” Ginny starts, her tone slightly shrill, as if suddenly struck with desperation, “that we’ve always called it the First War? Even in textbooks, it was always the First War, even though everybody thought that they knew You-Know-Who was dead. The First War. Like we always knew there’d be a second one.”
“Even World War I used to be the Great War,” Hermione murmurs. “Until the second one started, anyway.” There’s a tension in the room, settling on each of their shoulders like a heavy blanket, and Harry wants to stand up and say, No, no, we’re not going to think about this anymore, we’re not going to talk about this! All of you are too young to have to worry about this!
Instead, he says, “This was always coming. Everybody knew it, everyone. Even those who believed Voldemort was really dead – they knew it would come from somewhere. But it won’t be the same. This war, if it becomes that… It’ll be short, and bloody, but it will end with as little hardship as possible.”
“How do you know?” says Ron. It’s not said with any especial hostility or anger, or as if he’s challenging Harry, but with genuine askance in his voice and painted on his face.
“I don’t know,” Harry replies. “But we need goals.” The door opens, and Cecilia walks past the four of them, moving into the kitchen. She returns a few moments later with a teapot and a cup, sitting at the table beside Ron, and she looks between the four of them, a little smile on her face.
“How are you four this morning?” They each respond, offering quiet, muted responses, and Cecilia chuckles into her mug.
“God, you lot are dour. Cheer up, ye’ll be back at Hogwarts soon, so.”
“What are you teaching us first this year, Celia?” Harry asks, and Cecilia glances up from her tea, apparently surprised. Her eyes move between each of their four faces, as if looking for some sign of a joke.
“Oh, well, I’m not, lad. Did nobody tell you? I’ve accepted a position at Scoil Eala Dubh in Kerry, I’m not teaching at Hogwarts this year.”
“What?” Ron asks, turning his head and staring at her. “You’re leaving? Why?”
“Circumstances demanded it,” Celia says vaguely, waving her hand.
“Don’t they speak Irish at Scoil Eala Dubh?” Ginny says, arching an eybrow, and Celia lets out a short laugh.
“This accent isn’t for show, you know, I’m from Cork.”
“I thought people didn’t speak Irish in most places,” Hermione says, leaning forwards, and Cecilia shakes her head.
“Irish magicals all speak Irish,” Celia replies, shaking her head slightly. This is a good distraction from the conversation they’d been having, so Harry leans forwards, showing as much interest as the others, despite feeling, he suspects, a little less. “It’s not a boarding school, anyway. I teach every day from nine until six, and then go home. Monday to Friday, with a half-day of teaching on Saturdays.”
“And you only teach in Irish?” Ron asks. “That’s mad.”
“English isn’t banned or anything,” Celia murmurs, seemingly amused. “But it’s a foreign language, like French. The Irish magical community is completely separate from the Muggle community, so Irish always stayed as the dominant tongue. You’ll find the same in some small Welsh or Breton communities.”
“We’ll miss you,” Hermione says, and Cecilia beams at her, looking at Hermione with fondness on her face. Hermione adores Celia, Harry knows, and it’s nice to see the two of them get on so well – they have a lot in common, he guesses. Both Muggleborn, both massive bookworms… Both with dark-haired best friends who have a proclivity for trouble.
“Lindon and I won’t be far off,” Celia says, her lips still quirked up into a smile. “We’re renting a farm outside of Hogsmeade – nothing big, just a little homestead and some land.”
“A farm?” Ron asks, and sniggers. “What would a man like Sartorius know about living on a farm?”
“He doesn’t know the front end of a duck from the arse end of a chicken,” Ginny agrees, and the two of them descend into laughter.
“Yes, well,” Celia agrees. “That’s all true. Thankfully, we’re not working the land.”
“Do you know who we’ve got for Defence Against the Dark Arts, Celia?” Harry asks, willing to change the subject to something other than Lindon Sartorius’ shortcomings, and Cecilia drums her painted nails upon the table, humming.
“Yeah, it came up last night – I was talking to Minerva McGonagall last night when I was on patrol in Hogsmeade. Professor Dumbledore told all the staff yesterday – except Snape, of course, he’s in Dusseldorf ‘til tonight – and it’s a man called Gideon Gibbon.”
“What do you make of him?” Cecilia opens her mouth, and then freezes, considering the question. It’s like she tastes her own answer on her tongue, and chooses to rethink it. Settling her cup slowly down on the table beside her, she says in a very measured tone, “He worked for a long time in the Office For The Removal of Jinxes, Hexes and Curses.” She pauses.
“Go on,” Harry says. Ginny and Ron have all but abandoned their game now, looking between Celia and Harry with rapt expressions. Celia meets Harry’s gaze, and Harry adds, “There’s something there, something you think is a problem.”
“He’s not a very nice man,” Celia murmurs. “Lindon could tell you more.”
“He’s not here, though,” Harry points out. The door to the kitchen opens, and this time, with the door left ajar for some long moments, the scent of something baking comes through and into the dining room. It’s a sweet, spicy note upon the air, heavy and pleasantly cloying, and although Draco is delicately drying his pale hands on a clean cloth, there are one or two dots of some pale mixture on his rolled-up sleeves. Around his neck and tied tightly at his waist is his father’s pressed black apron: it fits him better than Harry would ever have guessed.
Cecilia’s hands move slowly to her mug, cupping it between her hands: Harry watches as she swirls it three times, and then sets it upside-down on a coaster to drain. Cecilia Hayworth, reading tea leaves?
Harry would never have guessed it.
“Mr Gibbon believes very strongly in blood purity. He started at Hogwarts in the latter half of the war, and I think the ideology very much crystalized in his head – he believes quite firmly in a complete separation of magical people and mundane ones.”
“Lots of people are blood purists, Celia. What’s different about him?” It’s strange, to see Celia so reluctant to talk openly about something: she’s usually so open to talking about anything at all, and Harry wonders if he’s doing the right thing by teasing the answer out of her. Celia exhales.
“Gideon Gibbon, as well as believing in the crucial importance of blood purity, is very keen on the traditional family unit. A mother, a father, and a child – several children, if possible, although for the best raising one should have no more than four. Mr Gibbon believes that although Muggleborns are the greatest threat to wizarding society, being as they are outsiders, the greatest threat from within are those who are homogenital. Homogenital progenitors, according to Mr Gibbon, should be treated in St Mungo’s for their condition; these people create a rift within the family unit, and if allowed to progress unimpeded, will destroy family life as we know it. Those who do not respond to treatment should be put to death, for society’s sake as much as their own.”
“Put to death?” Hermione repeats. “You can’t be serious. He thinks we should kill people for being gay?”
“Only if they don’t respond to treatment… What sort of treatment is that?” Harry asks. “Does that exist?”
“St Mungo’s won’t do it,” Cecilia says. “Gibbon has put papers before the St Mungo’s Board of Directors two or three times in the past decade, but has been rejected point-blank every single time. You have to go to fringe practitioners.”
“How does it work?”
“One healer got an Azkaban sentence,” Celia says, and she spits the word “healer” as if it’s a curse, despite retaining her quiet, unemotional tone, “He was killed in the Lockhart breakout. They were using the Cruciatus Curse.”
“Right, I get it. Send your son to be Crucioed until he can’t look at another man without flinching any more, let alone think about being in bed with him.”
“Harry!” Ron says. “Steady on, mate. You don’t need to be so graphic about it. Still, though, death… That’s a bit bloody harsh, innit?”
“It’s not a common belief,” Draco says. He’s still on the other side of the room, ridiculously far away and hovering beside the kitchen door, as if scared to come further inside. “Most blood purists merely believe such proclivities should be kept private: execution or torture are far outside the realm of normal belief.”
“It’s horrible,” Ginny says, shaking her head. “I mean— Not that it should be a big public thing or anything – that sort of thing is for the bedroom, it’s private, but to kill somebody?” That sort of thing is for the bedroom, Harry repeats in his mind. It’s private. He looks to Ron, hears in his head again, You don’t have to be so graphic about it.
“Why does it have to be about sex?” Harry asks. “You don’t think a man could love another man?” Ginny stares at him, blinking owlishly. Ron looks uncomfortable at the very question.
“Well, that’s not— that’s not how it works, mate,” Ron says. “Love, marriage, they happen between a man and a woman, like. There’s two halves of a whole there – it’s like a fetish, it’s all sex, like. You couldn’t have a real relationship, could you?”
“Couldn’t you?” Harry echoes, half-distracted. The kitchen door clicks as Draco disappears into the other room once more. “Was he a Death Eater?”
“He was too young,” Celia says. “I don’t think he ever joined the Death Eaters.”
“What about now? Do you think he’s a Death Eater now?”
“I— I don’t know.” She doesn’t know. Harry believes that. The doors open, and Lindon immediately throws himself on top of Cecilia, the first of the small group of Order members to come into the room. They’d been on patrol in Hogsmeade, and have just been relieved, but they need to feedback before going about their days.
Gideon Gibbon… Perhaps he is a Death Eater, now. Harry doesn’t know who he would ask to discover whether he is or is not.
♌ ♊ ♑ ~ ☾ ϟ ☽ ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ ☾ ϟ ☽ ~ ♑ ♊ ♌
“Are you absolutely insane?” Severus hisses, and he slams his travelling cloak down on one of the plush chairs Albus keeps for visitors in his office, pacing the floor distractedly. Of course Albus had chosen to make this absolutely ass-minded decision while Severus was in Dusseldorf, attempting to procure some sort of security for the Order in Germany, and he would dare—
“So I am told,” Albus says softly. Severus had not even been told, had not even been given a note: he had merely met Gibbon in the entrance hall, having just Flooed in.
“I’m not joking, Albus!” Severus snaps, feeling the rage burning in his throat and in his belly as he whirls on the old man. He’s almost yelling, he can hear himself – it has been decades since Severus has lost his temper like this, since he has truly raised his voice. “This isn’t something you can sweep off with your charm and ageing dignity! How could you? How could you be so stupid?”
“If you have quite finished bandying insults in my direction, Severus—”
“No, no, Albus, I have not finished!” his voice cracks in the middle, so loud and desperate are his words, and he feels his fingers run through his hair. “I don’t— I simply do not understand, Albus, how you could risk the children in this way. Quirrell was one thing, for he had no desire to harm children, but Gibbon, Albus, he—” Severus’ steam is leaving him: instead of anger, he feels abruptly powerless, and obscenely fatigued. Very slowly, he sinks into the chair across from Albus’ desk, his body turned away from the old man and leaned against the arm of the seat. “Albus,” Severus whispers. “He murders chi— He… The things he believes in, the extent of his cruelty, you might as well have hired—”
So many thoughts are running through his mind he cannot give them voice, and Severus closes his mouth, closes his eyes, presses his face into his hands and lets out a long exhalation as he attempts to draw himself back under his own control. His racing ideas must be quelled, and he must reach some sort of calm.
Severus does not know how many minutes it takes him, but when he looks up, Albus is watching him. His expression is carefully schooled into something resembling neutrality, but the bird, that bastard phoenix, is settled upon the arm of Albus’ arm, and it only chooses to go to him when it feels Albus is in need of comfort. If it would not reveal an element of Severus’ own careful analysis to the old man, Severus would openly scoff.
“Gideon Gibbon revels in seeking out and torturing Muggles, Albus. Children especially. He is an extremist in every sense of the word; even Lucius believed he ought be kept on a tight leash within the Ministry. And you would allow this man to teach the children of Hogwarts? What possessed you to appoint him, Albus?” Severus feels humiliated, feels the extent of his vulnerability in every fibre of his being. He so hates to lose control before Albus, of all people, who so carefully takes note of such things, to be utilized at his leisure. He ought not have betrayed his emotions so clearly, ought not have come to the headmaster’s office when he was so surprised, before he had controlled himself.
“When was Gibbon made a Death Eater, Severus?” Albus asks softly.
“Very soon after the Dark Lord’s return to Britain,” Severus says quietly. “Bartemius Crouch suggested him to the Inner Circle, and the Dark Lord delighted in the thought.”
“So he has been a Death Eater for some time more than six months?”
“Yes,” Severus answers.
“Is he well-viewed within Voldemort’s Inner Circle?”
“Stop it,” Severus says. It is a weakness of him, but he has already shown so much weakness tonight. “Albus, tell me why.”
“There is a lot of pressure on you, my boy,” Albus says, looking at Severus with his blue eyes shining with kindness, and yet Severus knows, knows, that Albus feels as much revulsion for Severus as he does any Death Eater. “With Gibbon’s presence here at Hogwarts, you will no longer be a unique target.”
“But I am a target we can control. Albus, Gibbon roaming the castle—”
“He will be carefully observed, Severus,” Albus murmurs. “We might feed riskier information to Lord Voldemort through Mr Gibbon, and protect you.”
“I don’t need protection, Albus!” Severus snaps. “I will now be under greater scrutiny: not only will I have the worry that a child might write to his or her parent with some analysis of my behaviour that might displease the Dark Lord, but now there is a Death Eater beside me at breakfast, at dinner, a true Death Eater.”
“Lord Voldemort—”
“Albus!” Severus hears the plaintive note in his voice, and he hates himself.
“—will trust you more now, Severus. That we should appoint Gibbon should be the truest test of the Death Eater anonymity: he will know you have revealed nothing to us.”
“Is this a punishment?” Severus asks. “Every year, you refuse me an appointment to position of Defence Against the Dark Arts, and you refuse me my resignation, and now even a Death Eat—”
“Severus,” Albus says, his tone abruptly hard as steel, Severus has crossed a line in speaking so openly, and he shuts his mouth with a soft click, turning his face away from Albus. The very thought of Gibbon being in the castle makes him feel sick to his stomach, but the thought of the man around the children…
He stands, taking up his travelling cloak.
“You won’t do anything foolish, I hope,” Albus murmurs.
“Spare me your hypocrisy,” Severus retorts, and he sweeps from the room. He is not a good man. By no means would Severus ever convince himself he is a good man in any sense of the world: as a Death Eater, he tortured men and enjoyed it, tore to pieces those who made his life hard at Hogwarts, and imagined others with the faces of James Potter and Sirius Black. Severus had been feared even among some of the older Death Eaters for his ability in a torture chamber, and yet he had never preyed upon children.
Gibbon delights in such things, and to take him into the school…
The only reason for his work in Curses, Jinxes and Hexes is so he might enjoy the spread of their effect before he dispels the magic. He is a sadist of the highest order, a monster, and he hasn’t grown to regret, or change, as Severus did.
He is standing outside Severus’ office.
“You were in such a rush when you passed me by!” Gibbon says, smiling warmly. He has rounded cheeks that make him look younger than he is, like some parody of a cherub. He proffers a bottle of Ogden’s Firewhiskey in his left hand, and says, “The caretaker, Filch, directed me here. A Squib, is he?”
“Yes,” Severus says, and allows Gibbon to follow him into his office, although every fibre of his being tells him to kill the man. Severus could. He killed Canton Nott not a month ago, and no one had ever suspected – an accident in the Hall of Staircases, perhaps. It has happened before: it will happen again.
But no. The timing would be far too suspicious.
“Tut tut,” Gibbon says cheerfully as he enters, closing the door behind him. “Well, we have to do something with them, I suppose! Would hardly do to throw them among the Muggles, deficient as they are. Killing them, I often think, would be kinder.”
Severus says nothing, but merely inclines his head as he opens a cupboard for glasses. He “rummages” for longer than he truly needs to, desperately avoiding eye contact with Gibbon’s bright eyes, avoiding looking at his cherubic features and warm smile. Severus has tortured and killed, still delights in it when he can turn his talents upon a fellow Death Eater, but he could never look so beatific as he did such things, never.
Gibbon scares him, Severus realizes. The thought hits him with all the force of a train.
“I beg your pardon?” Severus asks, realizing Gibbon is looking at him expectantly.
“Do you enjoy it? Being Head of House?” Gibbon repeats, still charming. So charming.
“I do,” Severus says. “To offer support to the betters of our society is, of course, a great honour. In any of the other houses, of course, Mudbloods would be among our stock, but Slytherin House has no such trouble.” A lie, a lie, a lie, a lie. Severus has more lies stored within him than he has buttons on his robes. He speaks smoothly, clawing back the control he had let slip with Dumbledore, and he gives Gibbon a sly half-smile. “What a delight it is to have a co-worker who knows the truth of the world.”
Beaming, Gibbon begins pouring firewhiskey into each of their glasses, and when Severus drinks, he drinks more than he ought.
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The Serpent's Gaze, Book Five: The Lernaean Hydra