Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

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
- 16
- 17
- 18
Albus’ hair is very thin and soft, and Severus takes care as he places the skullcap against it, sliding a hairpin through the thin swathes of silver hair to keep it in place. He can see the mottled skin of Albus’ scalp through the thinning hair on the top of his head, no longer as thick and plentiful as that of his beard, and he ensures the circle of black silk is settled securely. Being so close to Albus is very strange, seeing his own thin fingers touch Albus’ hair, his skin, to pin on a headpiece Albus would struggle to pin on himself: it is a level of intimacy Severus would expect to be afforded between a father and son, perhaps, and the thought greatly disturbs him. He is glad to draw back his hands and step away from behind Albus’ chair, creating a much more comfortable distance between them.
Wearing robes of a dark grey, with silver shining at his waist and sleeves only, he has never seen Albus look so very muted. The effect of the kippah adds to the sense of dourness, of wrongness, so different to Albus’ numerous colourful hats and headpieces, so simple. Severus’ own skullcap, pressed into his hands by Theodore Nott that morning, fades into his dark hair, which is tied at the nape of his neck. One or two thin strands of greasy hair have evaded the capture of the black hairband, and when he catches himself in the mirrored surface of some strange device in Albus’ office, he is reminded of how much younger he looks when he ties back his hair.
“We should go,” Severus says, turning away from his own reflection, and Albus rises from the chair. They Floo into the village, coming from the fireplace in Honeydukes (Albus refuses to enter the Hog’s Head under any circumstances), and Severus allows Albus to take his arm, the two of them walking together through the cool, clear air of the village. The sun is shining wanly from the grey skies, and although the light is bright, there is no heat in it.
The two of them wait at the gates of Hogsmeade for the children to come down, and Severus thinks of the way he holds out his arm, the way that Albus threads his own through it. It is only proper, he knows, for a man to offer support to another his senior, man or woman, but Albus does not need support, any more than he truly needed Severus to pin the cap to his head. Albus is as yet strong, and healthy, despite his age: this act of weakness, however mild, unsettles Severus to the extreme, and he wonders how terribly Albus must foresee times changing if he truly feels the need to act so.
Unless he really is feeling so unwell…
But Severus doesn’t want to think about that, and won’t.
The children come down from the hill slowly and in orderly lines, dressed in plain black robes without their house haberdashery or ribbons. Many of the students Severus recognizes from the Jewish study group that Amstell is heading this year, but others are merely from Slytherin house, primarily Hamish’s year mates. When was the last time Severus saw a group of his Slytherins so muted and sad, dressed in their plain robes with their heads bowed?
Never. Never have his Slytherins faced grief like this, an attack on one of their very own… Is this a failing of the Dark Lord’s, at the very beginning of his new war, Severus wonders? Has he tripped up without even realizing? It had been so easy to draw Slytherins to the Dark Lord’s company in the first year, Severus recalls: so many Slytherins, disenfranchised and in desperate need of power, of recognition, had been swayed by the Dark Lord’s Pureblooded rhetoric.
And then Severus himself, who had been drawn by the promise of power alone. Power, and magic he could never hope to discuss alone, the freedom to explore such powers that were out of his grasp…
For good reason, he discovered. But books can be filled with any man’s regrets.
Albus takes to the left of the children, and Aurora to the right: Severus brings up the rear, ensuring the children are surrounded on each side by a member of staff ready to fall into step should some attack hit upon them, although Severus already knows no such attack will come. Of the crowd, a few of them are a little older, and walk with their hands in their pockets, no doubt with their palms tightly grasped at the handles of their wands – just in case.
If bringing down Malfoy Manor that very hour, with Fiendfyre, would end it all for them, Severus would. He thinks on the idea, of holding the Dark Lord tightly to him as inescapable flames lick high about them, thinks of the screams that would no doubt come highly from that monstrous throat…
But he would not die. What would the point be, if he would return not years later? What is the point of anything?
“Professor,” murmurs a voice, and Severus looks to the pale faces of Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, each of whom look very solemn indeed. Crabbe’s lips are bitten red with bruises, and Goyle’s eyes seem dry and red. Hamish had tutored them in several subjects when they had first come to Hogwarts, at Severus’ behest, he knows: had they truly looked upon him so fondly?
“We haven’t them hats, sir,” Goyle mutters, his step solid upon the path as they move forwards. Neither Crabbe nor Goyle will ever be graceful, but the two are each sure-footed, and Severus is certain either could stand firmly planted in the midst of a hurricane if it became necessary for them. They fall into step on either side of him, towering over him with their broad, tall bodies. “We need ‘em, don’t we? For the funeral.”
“Abe, he said you can’t even go in temple without one on!” Goyle says, anxiously. “But we want to be there, sir, we don’t want to wait outside—”
“Would they make us wait outside? Where could—”
“For such occasions as these,” Severus says quietly, cutting through each of their anxieties, “there will be a container of kippot for visitors to the synagogue. The Rabbi knows not every mourner will be Jewish, Mr Crabbe, Mr Goyle: nobody will attempt to deny you, or indeed any of us, entry on the basis that we are gentile.”
“I’ll be real gentle, sir, I promise,” Crabbe promises immediately. His expression is utterly earnest: were the situation not so heavily tragic, Severus might find it amusing. He doesn’t. There is not even the barest flare of humour in his chest. If anything, Crabbe’s well-meaning stupidity but compounds the grief and the anger he feels at losing one of his own to something so thoughtless as the Dark Lord’s rise to power – something he, himself, contributed to. Something he assisted, and is as responsible for as any other Death Eater with worse crimes upon his back.
“I know, Mr Crabbe,” Severus whispers. He looks slowly between Crabbe and Goyle both, and he wonders if there is something he could say – some comfort he might give them, or some encouragement. Nothing comes to mind. After a few minutes, a natural gap forms between them, and the two lads return to the group of students moving forward – Severus is permitted his isolation until they arrive at the synagogue’s grounds. The gates open slowly, and there are mourners present already – Hamish’s family members, members of his congregation, family friends… It isn’t as large a crowd as Severus had expected, and he wonders how many more mourners might have attended were they not under the threat of war.
Perhaps none. Perhaps he is merely cynical. Perhaps he has seen too many funerals in too few years.
♌ ♊ ♑ ~ ☾ ϟ ☽ ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ ☾ ϟ ☽ ~ ♑ ♊ ♌
“Will you be a pallbearer, sir?” Nott whispers as he crosses the threshold of the synagogue. The white stone of the archway seems to radiate a sense of comfort, and Severus wonders if it is magic or the echo of other people’s faith. “We need just one more – they can’t be family.”
“Yes,” Severus says. He can say nothing else.
There is no sign of Amstell, nor of Hamish’s mother or grandparents, nor of his several siblings. Severus recognizes other faces in the crowd as they take seats on the cushioned benches: he sees Nott’s parents, who are hand-in-hand, and who watch their son as he walks around the room, helping non-Jews place kippot on their heads, talking quietly to the Jewish second years, letting elderly members of the congregation hold his hands and whisper things to him – thanks, perhaps, or assurances that he is doing very well.
There are no tear tracks on Nott’s face. It is not merely the work of a glamour, either: Severus knows Nott’s type, who will throw themselves into whatever work arises from a friend’s death, who will care for every person who crosses their path. He wonders when the grief will hit, and when Nott will sob openly in the midst of a History of Magic class, or let out an explosive snap of temper at a crowded meal. He hopes for when, and not for if.
Severus has met the Rabbi Michaels in passing several times over the past few years: if he sees Severus in Hogsmeade, he will speak to him at length about his affection for the students of Hogwarts that attend his services, and tell him which children speak highly of him. Michaels fills Severus with an overwhelming discomfort, and has since he met the man when he returned to Hogwarts to teach – Michaels seems to genuinely like every person he meets, Severus included, and Severus has no choice but to assume the man is somehow insane.
Michaels is solemn, now, and the younger rabbi (Severus has either forgotten his name or never deigned to learn it) is leading in Hamish’s family, and Rebekah Amstell. They join the front row of the congregation, and the service begins.
Severus hates funerals.
He stands at the back of the room, against the back wall, and he listens intently: he listens as people talk of Hamish’s strengths and virtues, and say prayers, and talk about faith. Severus has no virtues, and has no faith: he says no prayers.
The sound of Hebrew washes over him as the congregation begins to pray together, and Severus takes a cursory glance over the students, but each and every one of them is silent, with his head bowed – even those who have never heard a religious word in their life, let alone a Hebrew one.
Hamish’s body doesn’t weigh enough for Severus’ liking. The other young men carrying the coffin, made of a plain and sweet-smelling wood, stoop to let it fall on Severus’ shoulder as it does on their own, and Severus’ mind is awash with thoughts of how thin Hamish had always been, how light upon his feet.
The thought sickens him as they stop at Nott’s quiet command. They start walking again… And then stop. Seven times they stop as they move across the grass, and Severus hates funerals. He hates atheist funerals, and he hates Christian funerals, and he hates Jewish funerals, Hindu funerals, Sikh funerals – he hates memorials, and despises burials, and wishes he has not seen so many of them, in such diversity, and en masse.
How many funerals has he been the cause of?
Too many.
More Hebrew. The musical sound of the language, with its lilting ups and downs and sung notes mixed with its throaty sounds, seems strangely at odds with a time of grief, and mourning. It runs over the top of Severus’ head like an unfamiliar breeze, and he stares into the middle distance as Amstell drops a handful of black soil upon the coffin’s plain lid. Specks of dirt cling to her fingers and cake around the engagement ring on her finger – the only jewellery she still wears. Hamish’s mother drops soil on the coffin, then each of his three surviving grandparents, and then other mourners, one after another after another.
The soil is thick and damp and heavy in his palm, and he tips it slowly onto the pile of dirt that nearly hides the coffin’s top, now. He stares at his hand, at the mulch that clings to the slight webbing between his fingers and palms, and seems very obvious under his cut-short nails.
Minerva and Filius are waiting on the street to escort the children back to the school, and Severus is the first to leave the synagogue’s cemetery grounds. “How was it?” Filius asks, looking up at Severus.
“It was a funeral,” Severus replies. Minerva reaches out, her fingers ghosting over the fabric at Severus’ shoulder, touching over the seam there. “And another tomorrow.”
“Another tomorrow,” Minerva echoes, squeezing his arm, and Severus passes she and Filius by. The skies are turning a bleached pink in the distance, the grey folded in with the strange burst of colour, and Severus walks into the village itself. He steps into the public park in the centre of the village, where there are still singe marks from the duelling the night before. Peach-coloured light filters in through the old trees, which are starting to change colour with the season. Severus stands amongst them.
For the first time – since yesterday, he has not permitted himself to do so – he thinks of Abraham Hamish’s face. When the boy had come to Hogwarts, he had been round-faced and red-cheeked, with one of those cherubic faces that curse an adolescent with youth lesser than his years. As the years had passed, his cheekbones had become more prominent and his jaw had defined itself; seemingly overnight, some time last year, he was a man. Hamish’s eyes had been a dull green, flecked with blues and blacks; his eyebrows had been thin and arched at harsh angles; he had a strong jaw and a tendency to a stern expression. He had always kept his black hair short, and despite being only a few inches long it had settled in thick waves around his head, glossy and healthy. Severus thinks of how Hamish had looked when dead, his eyes duller than ever before, his stern jaw slack and open, his skin pallid and spattered with blood.
“He was so very young,” Albus says softly. He stands between a gooseberry bush and an ancient maple tree, his hands clasped loosely before him, his eyes soft where they land on Severus’ face. He didn’t need to seek Severus out in the park – he could easily have walked up to the castle with the children, allowed Severus to make his own way back.
“Even the oldest are far too young,” Severus replies. They walk up to the castle together, in silence, with a space of several feet between them, and Severus is grateful Albus feels no need to continue the appearance of frailty.
♌ ♊ ♑ ~ ☾ ϟ ☽ ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ ☾ ϟ ☽ ~ ♑ ♊ ♌
Dinner that evening is muted.
Severus sits between Minerva and Filius, as usual, and he is grateful for the distance from Gibbon. Even with the return of Aodh Delaney, who had limped slowly into the Great Hall to the loud cheers of the sixteen Alchemy students and the absolute silence of everybody else, has failed to raise the cheer of those in the room. The children speak quietly and seriously to one another, and even the Weasley twins seem strangely quiet. As a result of Rosmerta’s funeral tomorrow, classes are cancelled once again, and Severus knows many more students will likely attend her funeral, and many of those across wizarding Britain. Filius and Minerva are both silent themselves on either side of him, staring into space: for several minutes now, Minerva has been silently stirring her soup, which is now quite cold.
Severus will not attend the funeral. There will only be a skeleton staff remaining in the castle, as far more of the staff will walk down to the village – Severus knows he, Charity and Aurora will remain present, as well as Filch, and Delaney will undoubtedly be confined to his quarters for the next day or so.
Letting his gaze flit over the room, Severus’ eyes land on Potter: even with the ridiculous, dark lenses of his spectacles, the boy looks melancholic and distracted. He hadn’t put his name on the register of those attending Rosmerta’s funeral, Severus had noticed, and he barely speaks to the young men on either side of him. Earlier that evening, Severus had observed Blaise Zabini carefully removing a bottle of Ogden’s Firewhiskey from behind a loose brick in the corridor near his office, and he had heard the tell-tale clink of Potter’s satchel as he had entered the Great Hall, but it is not the day for Severus to crack down on underage drinking.
He’ll merely have to patrol the Slytherin rooms later this evening, and check individually on the students – but given the circumstances, it is perhaps best he does so anyway. He feels his lips turn down at the sides at a twinge of pain in his arm, distant and aching; not a call, not yet, but a warning that the call is soon to come.
“I’ll retire to bed, Minerva,” Severus murmurs quietly. “I feel a migraine make itself known.” Minerva’s fingers brush Severus’ arm, and he sees a flash of fear in her face, or uncertainty, that he doesn’t quite understand. What, he wonders? Does she now worry that any ex-student leaving her sight will fall to their death?
“Yes, a good idea. Good night, Severus.” He stands from the table, slinks from the room, and he is aware of the eyes of students on his back – mostly of his Slytherins, who desire any distraction in these trying times. The walk down to his quarters calms him some, the cool air settling on his skin, and as he slips into his quarters, Fantôme weaves herself around his legs, doing her best to trip him as he walks. Despite her best attempts, Severus’ robe hems are too well-charmed for her white hairs to cling to the black fabric, and he moves swiftly into his bedroom, removing from the back of his wardrobe a set of different robes (lacking the personal tailoring his own have) and his mask. He doubts he will need it – the masks are only utilized before those the Dark Lord mistrusts, or when Death Eaters are to appear in public, but Severus likes to be prepared.
Fantôme hops up onto his bed, and she drops onto her back, baring her soft belly to the night air. “This is a deceit you’ve attempted before,” Severus says to her, darkly. She stares up at him, her silvery eyes wide and innocent: he scowls at her, picks up a small cushion from the chaise long against the wall, and presses it against her stomach. Immediately, Fantôme’s display of softness and peace evaporates, and she viciously paws at the pillow with her claws ripping into the black silk, tearing it soundly to ribbons before his eyes.
Unable to entirely suppress an affectionate smile, Severus tickles the tips of her whiskers as he passes her by, stepping into his lounge and Flooing to the Hog’s Head, his Death Eater uniform shrunken into his pocket.
“A gillywater, please, Aberforth,” Severus says as he enters, and Aberforth immediately takes a bottle from the shelf behind him and pores Severus a tall glass. Gillywater is a favourite tipple of Filius’, and Severus only appreciates it at times such as these because it is so very weak. He feels the tingle of magic at the back of his tongue and the ghost of gills on the inside of his throat, but the alcohol itself is at an extremely low percentage.
He nurses the drink for some time, comfortable in the silence of the room: it is not until forty minutes later that he feels the heat as his mark flares to life, and then he pushes the glass aside, leaving the Hog’s Head via the doors and Apparating on his heel.
He is the first to enter the hall of Malfoy Manor, and he arches an eyebrow at Bartemius Crouch, who has Maxie Caine pinned against the wall, Caine’s legs tightly about Crouch’s waist, his head tipped back, a silent moan twisting his lips. The pose is positively indecent, and when Caine sees him, his eyes widen and he tries to struggle out of Crouch’s grip, but Crouch grabs him by the chin and holds him still in his place. Jealousy flares in Crouch’s eyes as he bares his teeth at Severus, a dog’s impulse to bite at the hand threatening his meal, and then returns his teeth to Caine’s neck. Rolling his eyes very obviously, Severus nimbly steps past the pair, and enters the grand hall with Caine’s moan rising on the air behind him.
“What games children play, my lord,” Severus says dispassionately, and the Dark Lord’s chuckle echoes against the wide walls and high ceilings. His chin weighted lightly upon the heel of his hand, the Dark Lord smiles softly at Severus, and Severus takes the jug of wine from the table, pouring himself and his master a glass apiece. The Dark Lord looks different than he has in recent weeks: he seems much younger, at a glance, and more handsome, his skin clear and soft, his features plainly human. He’s positively unrecognizable compared to the state he had been in at the time of his return, but Severus knows better than to say so. Is this what he’d looked like at school?
Lucius had met the Dark Lord when he was but a child, still little more than a babe in arms, and he had told Severus once how handsome he had been in his youth, how different he had come to look as the years had passed, as the war had taken its toll: the magic he must do, they had theorized, to lose his very features in such a way…
“Not everybody can be as high-minded as you, Severus,” the Dark Lord says mildly, taking the glass of wine Severus offers him and inhaling its aroma. In the dim light of the room, the thick, red liquid is as blood: the Dark Lord favours dessert wines, when it suits him, and although the wine is too sweet for Severus’ liking, wine is wine is wine. “I do not begrudge my servants their baser pleasures.”
“If my lord does not object, I shall begrudge them all the same.” The Dark Lord’s laugh echoes in the room. His voice is still supernaturally high, ethereal in the way it sounds, but it no longer sounds so entirely inhuman. It seems more grounded, somehow, as if he has come down to a lower plane.
“Do you miss Lucius, Severus?” the Dark Lord asks, and Severus turns to look at him, letting surprise show on his face, his eyes a little wider, his eyebrows raising. A beat passes.
“Yes, my lord, undoubtedly. He and I were close associates, as you have long been aware, and it was he who brought me before you, when I was but seventeen. Of course, his absence weighs upon my mind… And yet no more than his betrayal. Lucius might as well have been dead to me, my lord, from the very moment he ignored your call to his side.” The Dark Lord’s eyes, red and shining in the dimness of the room, and Severus wonders if he has chosen well, to mingle truth with deceit in this way. The Dark Lord should not like him to mourn a traitor’s passing, but were Severus to deny it, the Dark Lord would undoubtedly punish him for lying.
“Close associates,” the Dark Lord repeats, mildly. Severus frowns slightly, tilting his head slightly.
“My lord?” he asks: the confusion that bleeds onto his features is completely genuine.
“You share Bartemius’ predilections, do you not? And without Lucius…” Humiliation flares hot inside him, and even Severus’ most concentrated efforts couldn’t stop the flush that heats his pale features and reddens his cheeks. He turns his head away, not meeting the Dark Lord’s gaze, and he clenches his fists at his sides, feeling the sickly heat of embarrassment burn under his skin, pricking at his pride and making shame flourish inside him.
“I don’t deny my predilections, my lord, but I had never fostered— I would never have… I am—" It is will within Severus’ power to take a moment’s silence and formulate a proper sentence, but he knows it will not satisfy his master in the same way. The Dark Lord relishes humiliating his servants in their turns: it was stupid of him to imagine he might escape such a thing, when he has gone unembarrassed for so long. “You shame me, my lord.”
“Not at all,” comes the airy response. Severus stares at the Dark Lord’s index finger, tracing lazy circles about the rim of his wine glass, and for a few moments does not meet the other man’s gaze. Severus’ mouth is dry, his jaw clenched tightly, and he wishes he could turn on his heel and leave. “I merely worry as to what you might do without some base urge to satisfy.” Worry! As if the Dark Lord worries for such things.
“I have self-control, my lord,” Severus says, and he feels the slightest twinge of fear within him, of uncertainty. Is this the beginning of some new, stranger humiliation? Will the Dark Lord prescribe some sort of sexual debasement to him amongst his orders, merely to see Severus hang his head and hide his face?
“In spades, I see,” the Dark Lord agrees. Behind him, Severus begins to hear others of his servants filter in, but he stands very still, one hand behind his back, his wineglass still clutched before his chest. He meets the Dark Lord’s gaze, sees the way the Dark Lord’s lips are twitched into some parody of a smile: the majority of the Death Eaters, and the Dark Lord himself, have long-thought of Severus Snape as a prude, afraid of sex and its intimacies, uncertain. Not virginal, as that would paint too much of a target on his back and make him the subject of interrogation, but discomforted by sex at the very least. And as for his predilections, as the Dark Lord labels them… “Do sit beside me, Severus.”
“Yes, my lord,” Severus assents, and he takes his seat at the Dark Lord’s left-hand side. Despite the saccharine sweetness of the dessert wine, he drains his glass – he does not miss the amused way the Dark Lord’s gaze rests upon him. The Dark Lord is wrong, of course, as he so often is. Severus Snape no more fears sex than he fears the monsters beneath his bed – he merely suppresses his appetites for such things, as he suppresses his appetites for most things.
Bellatrix sits at the Dark Lord’s right hand, and as he sinks into a seat beside her, Crouch meets Severus’ gaze. His dark eyes burn with something difficult to place, and Severus arches a silent eyebrow at the other man in question – surely, he cannot be so protective of Caine already? Particularly not as Caine does not, and cannot, belong to Crouch: he is the Dark Lord’s toy alone, even if the Dark Lord does not descend to such human depravities as sex. As others filter into the room, Caine brings out another bottle of wine, uncorking it and setting it into the middle of the table to breathe. Crouch pulls Caine soundly into his lap, and Severus does not miss the subtle turn of Caine’s head, the slight shift of his body, even as he settles upon Crouch’s thighs: already, Caine has grown uncomfortable with Crouch’s treatment of him, and what can be done for the boy? Absolutely naught.
“Let us begin,” the Dark Lord says lightly, and he leans forwards, looking at each of his servants. Gibbon is sat some way down the table, for which Severus is grateful, but he has no doubt the man is greedy to ascend the ranks and move closer to his master at the table… Severus listens intently to the words spoken at the table, and the way in which they are delivered, looking closely for cues to annoyance, desperation, delight, pleasure. This is his concern whether he reports to the Dark Lord or to Albus Dumbledore, after all: Severus is an observer, searching for the subtlest clues in other people’s façades with the knowledge that his own is firmly in place.
It is crucial that they reach for influence within the Ministry: immediately, the convicts amongst the group become restless. Bellatrix taps her well-manicured fingers upon the table top, her lips pressed tightly together; Beauregard Goyle’s own fingernails are bitten down to the quick, and a few of the other Azkaban escapees fidget in their places. It is unfortunate to have lost Gibbon’s influence in the Ministry, but what of the other departments?
“For how much longer will your Auror training last, Dixon?” Dixon Jugson’s eyes widen at being addressed directly by the Dark Lord: the boy is nearing twenty one, now, and has the wide eyes and bandy legs of a young deer. Caine looks at Jugson with unmitigated detestation, and it is hardly any surprise, when they are so similar in age.
“Eight months, sir!” he barks out. “Eight months.” The Dark Lord clucks his tongue, seeming thoughtful as he examines Jugson from his head to his chest, as if he might measure the man’s magic that way. “And as for the Aurors’ corruption?”
“Difficult, my lord,” Selwyn says quietly. “The majority of the Auror force either joined during the previous war, or were prompted to join by its effects: many are the relatives of those we have killed.” Severus might wince, were he able: Selwyn is so plain-speaking, despite the Dark Lord’s capacity for temper, and Severus cannot believe he has survived for so long with so little tact. “We might have luck amongst the newest trainees, however: Jugson’s classmates and, indeed, underclassmen.”
“But they are without influence,” the Dark Lord says, his lip curling. “We are to wait eight months before young Dixon might assist our efforts within the Aurors’ office, Huw: is it truly your suggestion that we merely cultivate a further pool of the useless?” Jugson flinches: Huw Selwyn merely stares at the Dark Lord, surprise on his face.
“I’ve taken to Esther Fairbanks,” Macnair breaks in, smoothly: he will take any chance to talk of his escapades with one woman or another, it seems. “She’s an accountant, and her father was killed by an Auror in the last war. Her sympathies—”
“You think an accountant isn’t useless, Macnair?” Bellatrix asks shrilly. “What will she do for our cause? Our expenses? Ha!”
“I’m sorry, Bella,” Severus says silkily. “Did you have a better suggestion? Have you cultivated many connections in the Ministry of Magic – perhaps by post, under an alternate persona?” Macnair shoots Severus a grateful look he neither desires nor deserves: before Bellatrix can stand, the Dark Lord gestures for her to stay seated.
“We shall speak later on Ms Fairbanks, Walden,” the Dark Lord murmurs lightly. Impatience shows in his stiff form, and Severus remains silent. He has no idea as to what the Dark Lord might have planned for him, but he is not so stupid as to outwardly request punishment, as it would be to continue to show cheek – the Dark Lord wants results, and in this venture Severus can offer none.
“As you know, I have been brewing Polyjuice,” Crouch says, smugly. Caine’s head is laid upon his shoulder, Crouch’s hand tightened in his hair, but nobody pays it any heed (bar Gibbon, of course, who is mildly scandalized). “From next month – the 20^th of October, I should say – I can provide enough Polyjuice for three members of our order to perform work at the Ministry of Magic, assuming a rough shift of ten hours per day. They ought study their targets in advance, of course, that they might entirely duplicate their mannerisms, their persons…”
“And which three of our order will they be, Barty?” Severus asks: here, he and Crouch might work in perfect harmony to calm the Dark Lord’s irritation. “Yourself, of course, and who else?”
“That would be our lord’s decision,” Crouch says immediately. Ruffled feathers are slightly smoothed: the Dark Lord relaxes by an infinitesimal fraction, and were Severus and Crouch Muggles, and unsubtle, perhaps they might have high-fived, or something equally obnoxious. They merely make eye contact for the most fleeting of moments, and then return their gazes to their master.
“Bartemius should certainly lead the party…” the Dark Lord murmurs, deliberating as he looks about the room. Bellatrix is near bouncing in her seat, but even she ought know she would be inappropriate for such an assignment: the woman wouldn’t last a day feigning even the bitterest of workers in the Ministry, and would likely murder a baker’s dozen of Ministry workers at the slightest sign of frustration. “Yes, I think so. Bartemius, Beauregard, and perhaps Augustus.” Rookwood, who had been staring melancholically into the ether, looks up.
“Me, my lord?” Rookwood asks, seemingly astonished. “I would be honoured.”
“Yes,” the Dark Lord says, apparently in agreement. “Select your quarries, gentlemen, and we shall have a meeting on Thursday to determine where you might best fit. We might examine other pressure points – such a shame about Stanley and that Muggle… The Daily Prophet. Have any of you come across any sensitivities, any weak points?”
“They have an opening for a copy editor. I thought I might apply.” Silence rings in the room: everybody, Severus included, stare at Caine. Caine is sitting up in Crouch’s lap now, his knees pressed tightly together, his hands clasped in his lap, and despite the attention he looks earnestly in the Dark Lord’s direction. “I had the highest mark on a History of Magic N.E.W.T. in forty years, my lord, and the Prophet looks for high scores in History – and I—” He is cut off by Crouch’s laughter. With Crouch’s invitation, the others in the room begin to laugh at Caine’s expense as well, and only Severus and the Dark Lord remain silent. Caine looks fit to melt into a puddle, his eyes wet at their edges as he hangs his head.
The Dark Lord holds up a finger for silence, and immediately the laughter is cut short. “And what, Maxie, would you do were you accosted by an Auror, or a member of the Order of the Phoenix, without a wand? Wave your History certificate at them?” The Dark Lord leans forwards, grasps at Caine’s chin and forces his head up. The tears on Caine’s cheeks glint in the dim candlelight, and the Dark Lord whispers, “Would you cry at them, Maxie?”
Caine is breathing heavily, and Severus can see he is fit to lose his temper. He looks desperately into the Dark Lord’s eyes, aching for some sign of empathy, and he adds, “They wouldn’t realize, they’d never know. I could just—”
“Selwyn, you have a dog, don’t you?” the Dark Lord interrupts.
“It is my wife’s dog, my lord, the animal isn’t mine,” Selwyn says reluctantly. “A French poodle.” There are a few snickers at the table, but Severus keeps his gaze on the Dark Lord’s hand. He grasps tightly at Caine’s chin, so tightly that his skin is white under the Dark Lord’s grip, and his long thumb nail is pressing tight enough to the flesh that it threatens to break the skin.
“Very well,” the Dark Lord murmurs. “I will permit you to submit yourself to the Daily Prophet, Maxie, but do make sure to include the poodle’s application with your own.” Caine releases a sob at the unfairness of it all, and now the Dark Lord does draw blood: he nicks at Caine’s open mouth with a nail, cutting the flesh just inside his lip, and when Caine hangs his head, blood drips down over his chin. Caine sighs, softly, and says nothing more for the rest of the meeting. Idiot boy, Severus thinks to himself. The meeting returns to its established agenda.
♌ ♊ ♑ ~ ☾ ϟ ☽ ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ ☾ ϟ ☽ ~ ♑ ♊ ♌
He catches Caine out on the grounds. He does not know what compels him: perhaps a mix of sympathy and rebellion. The skies are misty, and Caine sits on the remnants of what had once been a bench, and is now little more than a pile of unpolished stones. “You did not truly believe, I hope, that such an obscene suggestion would be met with approval?”
“You don’t understand,” Caine snaps, running his hands through his hair. “The way they treat me—”
“You think of yourself as their equal,” Severus says mildly. “You are not, Caine. You are a Squib: many of our compatriots would have you dead for that sin alone.” Caine lets out a sound of frustration, standing from the bench and pacing, his shoes squelching in the mud. Severus thinks of Abraham Hamish, his student, who he had failed, and allowed to die at the Death Eaters’ hand. “You ought count yourself lucky.”
“Lucky? Lucky, am I? I’m a pet.”
“What are you telling me, Caine? That you are unhappy with the Dark Lord’s affection? That you would betray that affection?” Severus demands, sharply, and Caine flinches away. There’s a softness in his eyes: Severus realizes, with a sinking sensation, that Caine fosters more than a lust for power. The loyalty to his master, to some extent, is real. A shame, truly.
“No: don’t twist my words. I don’t like… Them.”
“Them,” Severus repeats, and he laughs: the sound is nasty, even to Severus’ own ears. Caine stares at Severus like he has never seen him laugh before: he likely never has. “You idiot child. If you say Crouch, say so.”
“Alright! Fine. Crouch.”
“You’ve bored of him so quickly?”
“You don’t know what it’s like for men like me,” Caine mutters, clenching his fists at his sides. “I just want… And the Dark Lord— He encouraged me. Said I ought keep everybody happy. Suggested I touch him.” Caine clenches his jaw, stares out over the bleak, barren fields about Malfoy Manor – or at least, stares out over what he can, in the dark. “He barely ever releases me. If I could only leave—”
“You cannot leave,” Severus snaps. “Do stop with this obsession of coulds and can’ts and wishes, you stupid child. Do what is within your power, and stop dreaming of that which is not.”
“Easy for you—”
“In the space of three minutes,” Severus says darkly, “You have told me I do not understand, and that I do not know what it is like for men like you. Would you really like to add a third such offence to my memory?”
“Why not?” Caine spits. He looks at Severus now, his lip twisted. “You can’t take points off me anymore, can’t glare at me for being a Squib, can’t do anything!” He looks so very young, Severus thinks, nothing like Hamish. Why is it that Severus feels a need to draw a connection between the two?
“I can do much worse things than take points and glare, Caine,” Severus says, his voice dropping to a whisper. He darkens his stare, taking a further step into Caine’s space, and he sees the way Caine pales, his tear-stained cheeks turning to marble in the cool night air. “Is that what you want?”
“No,” Caine mutters. He looks at Severus’ chin instead of into his eyes, as if it might save him from Severus’ temper: perhaps this works for Crouch. “What did you come over here for? Just to rub it in I can’t do anything?”
“I planned to suggest something you might do, actually,” Severus says. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Caine.” The order is crisp and clean, and it seems to hit Caine hard. He stands up a little straighter, his watery eyes focused on Severus, and although his bloodied lip quivers, his stained chin trembling, he doesn’t flinch away. “Order subscriptions to the Prophet, the Gazette, Witch Weekly, Wizard’s Staff… Analyse them.”
“Analyse them?” Caine repeats. “For what?”
“Signs of sympathy,” Severus says. “You have the highest History of Magic marks in forty years – surely you know how to detect bias in a source? You might examine the work of each writer and look at the way they use language when speaking of Death Eater movements, or Pureblood ideas, and extrapolate any biases they may hold. I would edit a report, but you could submit it to the Dark Lord.” Caine stares at him, struck dumb, his ripped lip gaping like that of a hooked fish. He looks like Hamish, perhaps. He has hazel eyes, so different to Hamish’s eyes, and chestnut hair. His face has a girlish softness to it, and he has a prominent nose, slightly overlarge front teeth… Hamish and Caine look nothing alike.
“You’d edit it? Submit it in your name?” Severus scoffs.
“I would examine it, and ensure you had thought through your analyses. I have no wish to plagiarize your war reports, boy.”
“Then why?” Caine demands. “Why help me?” The boy seems to hesitate for a second, his tongue touching over the bloody mark on his lower lip, and he looks Severus up and down. Severus’ instinct is to smack the child, to whirl away and rescind his offer, to spit. He merely withstands the look. “Would you— Would you want me to—”
“No.” Caine looks at Severus, steps slightly closer, reaches out for Severus’ cheek: Severus catches him tightly by the wrist, twists it behind his back. Caine lets out a cry of pain, freezing in Severus’ grip, and he takes advantage of the position, putting his lips directly against the shell of Caine’s ear. “I have no wish to cavort with a student.”
“I’m not your student any more. If you want—” Caine takes on a breathy voice that he must imagine is very attractive, and Severus wrinkles his nose.
“You are wishing I desire you in the hope that I might assuage Crouch’s attentions,” Severus snaps, cutting through Caine’s lacking attempts at reasoned seduction: Caine’s silence belies the truth in what Severus says, and he releases the boy. Caine straightens slowly, stroking his forearm. “I do not, and shall not. I shall give you a month, Caine, to pick out a few potential candidates for approach.”
“Yes, Professor Snape.” Caine seems to hesitate, for the longest time, and then says, “Why are you helping me?”
“You are a resource,” Severus says cleanly. “You oughtn’t be wasted merely because you are a Squib. You have an education: we ought make use of it.” Caine’s face crumples: perhaps he expected some confession of affection, or rebellion, or the like. Severus walks away.
Why are you helping me? The words repeat in his head as he walks back toward the front of the Manor. Why are you helping me? Why not? That’s not an answer. Need it be? Yes. Why are you helping me? Because I can. Isn’t that enough? No.
Crouch moves fast. Not so fast that Severus does not realize what is happening, but fast enough that he cannot respond to defend himself, and Severus’ head smacks overly hard against the stone of the Manor’s outer wall. Crouch’s hands are against Severus’ shoulders, his body right up against Severus’ own.
“What are you doing?” Crouch asks softly.
“Surely you aren’t jealous, Bartemius?” Severus asks, looking up into the other man’s eyes. Crouch’s eyes are a deep brown, and they are full of madness.
“Jealous?” Crouch repeats, and he lets out a breathy little laugh: his fingers clutch at Severus’ shoulders, stroking over the black fabric of his robes. “No, no, no, I know how to share my toys, particularly toys that aren’t my own.” This much is debatable, but Severus knows better than to say so. “But you… You’ve never shown an interest, hmm? And yet here you are, walking with the boy under the light of the moon…”
“It’s a moonless night.”
“Still!” Crouch snaps, his voice shaking with the sudden force of his emotion, and Severus thinks of Hamish’s slack features, of Caine’s tear-streaked ones. Why are you helping me? The question echoes in Severus’ hair like the clang of a bell. Why are you helping me? Did you put it out of its misery? It’s only cruel to do otherwise, Severus. Perhaps you ought take the boy under your wing. Why are you helping me? Save him… But he can’t be saved. Voices wash over each other, mingling, echoing. Severus wishes for the sound of Hebrew again: a glorious language, one that he can’t understand. “Can it be you feel sorry for him?”
“Sorry for him? Ha. Hardly.” You hope that I will assuage Crouch’s affections. I will not. The heels of Crouch’s hands are against Severus’ chest now, and even through the fabric of Severus’ robe, he can feel the dry heat of them. “What is it, Barty? Isn’t the boy enough for you?” Sarcasm drips from Severus’ every word. It might have been like this at Hogwarts, were Severus and Barty closer in age, were Barty a year older, even two years older.
“He’s a boy,” Crouch murmurs. “Aren’t you lonely?” Severus thinks of the Dark Lord’s questions that day – had he known this was coming? Perhaps. It is impossible to predict his patterns, even when he is in the best of moods.
“Not lonely enough to ache for your company, Bartemius,” Severus murmurs.
“Really? I’ve always thought of myself as quite handsome.” Put him out of its misery. Take the boy under your wing. Save him. Severus does not kiss the other man so much as he bites. Crouch moans at the pain, at Severus’ teeth, and Severus feels him tense as Severus grasps at the sides of Crouch’s neck, kissing him as hard as he knows how. Crouch is dazed when Severus releases him, and his tongue darts out, licking his lips.
“And what would my new bosom friend, Gideon, think?” Severus whispers, and kisses Crouch’s chin, keeping his hands tight at Crouch’s neck so that the other man cannot lean and turn it into a proper kiss. “If he thought I carried such perversions as you?”
“He wouldn’t mind,” Crouch says, and when Severus bites at the side of his jaw, he leans greedily into it.
“Wouldn’t he? I think he would.” A bite: this one leaves a mark, though it doesn’t draw blood. If Severus could get away with it, he would rip out Crouch’s throat with his mouth right here. “If he knew I were a degenerate like you, Barty…” Crouch gasps as Severus allows his hands to roam lower, and then Severus releases him entirely, stepping cleanly away. “Why, he might no longer invite me for tea.”
“What is this?” Crouch demands. He is flushed with exertion, excitement, and his breathing is heavy. He is handsome, like this. It hardly matters: if Crouch were the ugliest man in the world, Severus would still be here. “Some extended tease?”
“Think of it as a promise: a collateral, if you will.”
“Collateral?” Severus takes a step away from Crouch, and smiles. He looks vicious when he smiles, he knows.
“You might share well, Barty, but I do not, and will not.” Crouch’s mad, mad eyes shine with understanding, and he reaches out for Severus: but no, not tonight. Severus is already moving down the hill, so that he might Apparate back to Hogsmeade.
- 16
- 17
- 18
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

The Serpent's Gaze, Book Five: The Lernaean Hydra