The placed ebbed and throbbed with the dark magic as he shed his coat and threw it at a waiting muggle, slipping in amongst the others, allowing the magic to enter his mind and his soul.
The magic had already begun, he was late. The bodies moved against him, and he did not fight as he was hauled into the air, as they grabbed and lifted and pulled at him, as his head fell back and he gazed at the spectre before him, heard those words, incantations in another language, and felt the vibrations resonate deep within him.
He hit the floor, and then he was writhing, as many of them were, head thrashing, body flung about, out of control. Heat, pain, sweat, absolute euphoria, swept away, carried off into darkness.
Pounding in his brain, speaking to his soul, spinning and falling and being hurled up again. The darkness, the fervour, the absolute power of the master, it was something that brought him back again and again. Painfully delicious to be in this thrall.
Sweat upon his brow, trickling over his skin, down his face, that greasy hair plastered across his face as he roared and screamed along with them, along with the master he watched so fervently, along with his heart that beat in time to the pulse of this magic.
Easy to live like this forever.
And later, as he stole into the darkness of night away from the gathering, as he fled the implications of his involvement, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he jumped a mile high, whirling until those obsidian orbs of his met shimmering blue ones.
“What are you doing here, Albus?” His words were a growl.
The benign Santa Clause opposite him twinkled like a Christmas tree. “Really, Severus, Rammstein? Muggle rock? THAT is your deep, dark secret?”