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Metanoia: The Conversion of Severus Snape by MithLuin [Reviews - 3]

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Warning: Explicit Torture. And no, I don't mean my prose (though there is one groan-worthy pun). Just thought you should know.

Metanoia: The Conversion of Severus Snape

Chapter 6: Descent into Darkness
The Prophecy unfolds.


Every day for the past week, Snape had scanned the notices in the Daily Prophet. He couldn’t help himself; he was looking for… well, someone who fit. He knew it was silly – he didn’t think much of prophecies and fortune telling. But he was curious, and he usually read the paper anyway. But so far, there had been nothing. Maybe it was a false one… or maybe the baby would be Muggleborn. But that made no sense – surely the parents couldn’t have defied the Dark Lord if they were just Muggles. But here it was the last day in July, and nothing… wait. Longbottom.

Frank and Alice Longbottom are pleased to announce
the birth of their son Neville Augustus Longbottom on July
30. The boy weighed 7 lb. 6 oz. and was 21 in. long.
Both mother and son are in good health at St. Mungo’s.


He thought he knew that name. Who was Frank Longbottom? That’s right, a few years ahead of him. The Gryffindor had become… an Auror. With a sharp intake of breath, he realised that the Longbottoms were perfect candidates. He didn’t know if they’d ‘defied the Dark Lord three times,’ but they certainly could have. He would have to find out more about them.

***


His arm was burning. It was so incongruous, it took him a moment to register what that meant. He was being called… they were all being called. Bloody pageantry, he thought, fetching his Death Eater robes and mask. The Dark Mark on his arm shone black as ink. As he changed, he thought wryly, I should just attach a hood to my regular robes. It would be simpler.

Then he Apparated. It was a strange feeling, to Apparate when you weren’t sure where you’d be going. To Him of course, but where was that? This time, it was a large hall. The Dark Lord stood on a raised dais, and the Death Eaters formed a circle around him. The room was ornately decorated and well-lit. Snape was struck by the strange image of him as an emperor, demanding homage from his subjects. His lips curled into a smile, which was perfectly safe behind the mask. Not perfectly. The Dark Lord could still catch you off-guard. It would not do well to misstep.

“Friends,” he intoned. Everyone had arrived, then. “I have called you here tonight for an announcement.” He paused, his eyes sweeping the circle. He took a few steps, his hands clasped behind him. “As you know, there are many who oppose us. Some are fools who cannot see that we are the future. Some are jealous of the power you wield. Many are simply afraid, knowing that they cannot stop us from changing the world, sweeping away the weak tattered system we have found. But these mean little.” He dismissed them with a wave of his hand. “Their ceaseless clamour has done nothing to hinder our plans. The Muggle-loving fools are trapped by their own weakness, their own short-sightedness and lack of true wizardly ambition. No, tonight I will speak of those who would try to stop us. For too long, they have been allowed to oppose me. For too long, they have sought us, shadowing our movements and dogging our steps. No more. The Order of the Phoenix shall not be ignored any longer. We will bring our War to their doorsteps, and their children shall pay the price for the crimes of their fathers.”

Snape had a fair idea of where this was headed, though he was surprised that it was happening so soon – and so publicly.

“These soldiers are brave enough to meet us in the field,” the Dark Lord sneered. “But their devotion to their cause may waver when they find they have to face us in their homes.” His voice dropped. “Even their children, who have never raised a wand, will be dealt with as enemies. They did not stand aside, and so they must pay. My patience grows thin, and soon their ranks will as well.” He paused, and his voice resumed its normal volume. “I myself will begin this new policy, to set a clear example. I will target the most arrogant, brazen members of the Order…. Who have at home the most defenceless of children. No one else will dare oppose me after this. The whole world will see that to defy Lord Voldemort means death – death to you, and death to your family.”

“My loyal Death Eaters,” he continued, “You have been strong and cunning. In just a little while, you will see your enemies laid at your feet. Patience. This war shall pass, and the voices of our enemies will be silenced. Your rewards will be rich. Do not fear Azkaban, and do not fear the Aurors. They cannot withstand us.” The Dark Lord let his eyes fall to the ground, and they realised he was finished. After a moment, he waved his hand distractedly. Only then did anyone move. The circle began to break up, but no one spoke. One by one, they Disapparated. Snape noticed a Death Eater approach the dais to speak to the Dark Lord. Who would seek out a private audience? he mused. But he was too far away to hear the voice. He smiled wryly again. It was so hard to recognise anyone in the robes and masks. Inconspicuously, Snape left as well. Now he knew what his Master intended to do about that prophecy. But true to style, the Dark Lord was overreacting, though not giving anyone fuel to quench him.

***


“So tell me, Lucius, why is it that your father is always absent from these little gatherings? We haven’t seen him since Draco’s christening. Surely he must get bored with appraising his holdings in France?” Snape was in Malfoy’s garden; Evan had just stepped away to have a word with Avery (and get a drink).

Malfoy looked at him quickly and piercingly. He had definitely crossed onto forbidden ground with this inquiry. Apparently, Malfoy was satisfied with his sincerity; he had not been instructed to set this trap by their Master.

“Politics,” Lucius replied in a tired voice. “My father is from the older generation, and cannot help seeing the Dark Lord as a young upstart.”

Snape raised an eyebrow at that. Lucius laughed and continued, “Oh, I know, quite ridiculous, but you have to keep in mind, he remembers Grindelwald.”

Suddenly, it clicked into place. “Remembers Grindelwald’s defeat, you mean,” Snape said, more forcefully than he meant to.

Now it was Lucius’ turn to raise an eyebrow, but he merely shrugged and continued. “The Malfoy family has been around for a long time, and weathered many upheavals of the wizarding world. We will make it through the current transition as well.”

“I see.” Snape’s dark eyes glittered. “When the Dark Lord triumphs, you will be there at his side,” he murmured. “But if he meets the same fate as Grindelwald,” the silky voice continued, “Your father will be there to save the family name.”

“Something like that,” Lucius smiled, though his eyes remained cool. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand the nuances of pureblood politics,” he said dismissively.

“Of course not,” Snape said with a sneer. “So is that why it was so important to start on the next generation? I could understand wanting to assure a son, but not why you were in such a hurry.”

Lucius’ eyes narrowed to slits, and the swift look he gave Snape was calculating. “Figured out what the family recipe was for, did you?” It was some time before he continued. “Draco will grow up to be his father’s son, I’ve no doubt,” Lucius said with some finality. “Unlike Grindelwald, our Master has plans for disposing of Albus Dumbledore.” He paused. “Like you, I intend to survive my father.” Snape knew he was being reminded of his own secret, which Lucius held. “The Death Eaters are the future – the only future.”

At that moment, Rabastan chose to join them, and Lucius welcomed the interruption. Snape did not mind the reserved man, but unfortunately he was followed closely by his ebullient younger brother and Regulus Black.

“Did you know, Regulus knows the spell for fitting things into tiny spaces? It should work wonders for hiding things in even a small house or Muggle cabinet.” Rodolphus began.

“Shocking…that after seven years at Hogwarts, he’s learned to shrink things,” Snape remarked drily.

“No, no, that’s not what I’m talking about,” Rodolphus laughed, undaunted. “I mean putting twice as many books on a shelf as would fit. Or using multiple locks, so each space is reused.”

“Yes, we have that employed in several places in the Manor,” Malfoy replied, bored. “It is a clever little spell.”

Regulus eyed Snape closely; he was not oblivious to the scorn, but he did not think the malice had been limited to this single idea. “I think I’ll refill my drink,” he announced, and wandered off.

“So, Snape, what will you do with yourself now?” Lucius resumed the conversation.

Couldn’t that man mind his own business? He supposed it was a small revenge for his probing question earlier. He had been doing temp work, and the last assignment had dried up a few weeks ago. But then, he could only benefit from sharing his predicament with Malfoy and the Lestranges. “I must find a new job, of course. Dumbledore wasn’t interested, and I doubt the Ministry will take me back.” He had been without steady work for ten months now, and it was getting tiresome.

“Any thoughts?” Rabastan asked laconically.

“Not anything definite. I’ve applied for several positions, though, so we’ll see.” Snape was not going to rely on Lucius’ connections again, at least not if he could help it.

“What would you say to an opportunity to work on Potions?” Lucius said.

“What exactly did you have in mind?” Snape asked cautiously. He had no intention of brewing illicit poisons in the bowels of Malfoy Manor for a living!

“A friend of the family, Gerontius Gamp, is a renowned Potioneer. One of the best, as I understand it, and he’s interested in taking on an apprentice. He has plenty of assistants, but they merely follow his directions. He’s looking for someone who understands potions, not just has the skills to chop roots.”

“You do know a lot of people, Lucius,” Snape murmured. He wondered what the connection was this time – another pureblooded snob, or a lackey of the Dark Lord? He wasn’t sure he’d want to work with either. “I’d have to meet him first of course,” Snape said easily.

Lucius smirked. Some people were so easy to manipulate, it wasn’t even a challenge. You find out what they need, dangle what they want, and watch them follow the lead. Even someone as private and uptight as Severus made it clear he needed a job, and enjoyed working on potions better than anything else. Absurdly simple. Keeping people in his debt was half the battle.

“Of course. I can take you around to his workshop sometime this week. He supplies most of the apothecaries in Britain, I believe.” He added that last for good measure. It didn’t much matter to him where Snape got his money, so long as he knew he owed it to Lucius, in the long run.

Snape was not fooled by Malfoy’s helpfulness. The man was hardly a philanthropist, even if he was charitable enough in public. He wanted him or Gamp in his debt for this, most likely both of them. It would be interesting to see what manner of man Gamp was. He was inclined to think pureblood (a friend of the Malfoy family was almost bound to be), but the fact they were visiting his place of business suggested Malfoy would not meet with him socially. Odd. Perhaps a business partner, then? He was not sure he wanted to work for someone who depended on Malfoy’s gold – that would be almost as bad as working for him directly! But then, if he supplied major apothecaries, he had a source of revenue. He’d have to learn more. Not long after, he excused himself from the gathering.

***


Only a small portion of the Ministry Library was open to the public, and Snape was given suspicious looks when he requested access to public records. But they could not deny him – the whole point of public records was to be available to the public! With a pureblood genealogy book as a guide, he started combing through the records for the name “Gamp.” He found plenty from the 1700s, so it was, as he’d suspected, an old pureblooded family. But in the 1800s, the families seemed to have mostly daughters. The name became more rare, so that the last individual he found bearing it was born in 1903. It was, indeed, Gerontius. But there were no other records, besides his birth. No marriage, but also no OWLs or NEWTs, no arrests, no job with the Ministry – nothing. Not even a citation for unlawful use of magic. It was as if he were a ghost, who had disappeared in childhood. Strange. He would have to check old copies of the Daily Prophet to see if anything turned up.

While he was here, he looked up his own records. Anyone who wanted could see that he’d had a Muggle father. It wasn’t exactly a secret. His face was sour. Lucius knew. Surely the Dark Lord knew. Evan had known since school, but never let it matter. Bellatrix, of course, never let him forget it. He scowled, and closed the records. Then he thought better of it. He might as well see what he could find out about Frank Longbottom and his wife Alice.

***


Apparently, Gamp made his potions in a small, dilapidated shack in a wood of silver birch trees. This did not bode well. As Snape approached the house (if you could call it that), he noted the single black poplar towering over the doorway, casting a long morning shadow across the walk. There was no yard to speak of, but near the building were low bushes with bright red berries. Surprised, he recognised them as yew. Well, that was one ingredient that was ready to hand, but hardly a reason to brew potions in this forsaken place. He shook his head and knocked on the door, half-hoping he was spectacularly lost. He could not picture Lucius Malfoy entering this building. He now regretted declining a personal introduction in favor of a cold interview.

The door was opened by not one, but two house-elves. “You must come in, young master,” said one. The other bowed and reached for his travelling cloak. “Teemo will be taking your cloak. Master will be with you shortly. You be waiting here.” They whisked out of sight before he could say a word. Left alone, Snape looked around at his surroundings with some curiosity. The room was clean, and much more spacious than he would have guessed the entranceway to the shack to be. Clearly, there was more to this place than met the eye. A map of Britain covered the wall on his right, while the one in front of him had cubbyholes filled with scrolls of parchment. A filing system, but none of the cubbyholes seemed to be labelled. Wizards could be so secretive about the simplest things, sometimes. He heard footsteps, and looked up.

“Mr. Snape, I take it?” The Wizard addressing him had silver hair, worn (but neat) robes, and a firm handshake. If Snape had not known this man had turned seventy-seven two weeks ago, he’d have guessed him to be in his late fifties. “I’m Gamp. Come in, won’t you?” He led Snape around the corner into a single, large room with a sloping roof. Long wooden tables were set up along the length, each covered with a variety of cauldrons, crucibles, knives and other implements. Half a dozen men in dark red robes were working on various potions throughout the room. The walls were covered in cabinets, with a counter wrapped all the way around the room. In the middle, water bubbled up into a large basin. There was a fireplace, but no windows. It was the nicest and (apparently) best-stocked potions lab Snape had ever seen.

Gamp saw his eyes linger on the water basin. “An artesian well,” he explained. “One of the perks that came with this place.” He gestured for Snape to follow him into an office off to the side. When they were both seated, he began with little preamble. “So, young Mr. Malfoy tells me you can brew Rikki Tikki Antidote, as it’s usually called.”

Snape nodded. “Yes, sir, that’s right.”

“And where’d you learn that? They teach that at school these days?”

“No, sir. I found it in Moste Potente Potions.”

“So, you taught yourself, then? No one helped you with it?”

“No, I find I work well on my own.” Snape replied. He hoped that answer wasn’t going to get him in trouble, but it was the truth. He could tolerate working on countercurses with his co-workers, but he brewed potions strictly alone.

Gamp stroked his chin, looking thoughtfully at Snape.

“You see those men out there?” He gestured to the men in the lab. Snape nodded, curtly, to show he was listening.

“They work alone, too. But they follow instructions, see. Do you think you can do the same?”

“Yes sir, I worked at the Ministry before. I’m used to following instructions on projects.”

“In Potions?” Gamp inquired.

“No, Department of Mysteries. Countercurses.”

“Hmmm. If you were working on a potion that wasn’t thickening properly, what might you add to it?”

Snape’s mouth twitched at this impromptu quiz. “If it weren’t flammable, I might add flobberworm mucus.”

“What is the difference between fresh and pickled fish eyes?”

“Fresh fish eyes are used in potions that stew for less than an hour over low heat. Pickled eyes can be used in most other potions, except cough draughts.”

“What can you substitute for spine of lionfish?”

“Leeches and catnip, though that’s hardly recommended.”

“If your potion called for crushed snake fangs and porcupine quills, what might it be used for?”

“Treating boils, if it contains nettles, or arthritis, if it contains copper.”

"How do you remove the juice from a sopophorous bean?"

"Crush it with a silver knife."

“If someone offered to sell you golden Re’em fur, what would you do?”

“Figure out what he’d done with the blood, and retire a wealthy man.” Snape smirked. He wouldn’t have given that answer at a Ministry interview, of course! But men who worked in shacks out in the woods and had no official files on record at the Ministry were probably not interested in the official answer…particularly not if they respected the opinion of Lucius Malfoy.

“Let me explain how things work here, Mr. Snape.” The questions ended as abruptly as they’d begun. “Each of those men out there is working on a different potion. Some we brew regularly, to supply to shops, apothecaries and hospitals all over Europe. Should you join us, you also would be responsible for producing these standard potions each week.” That did not sound promising, but it would be decent practice, at least. “However, we also work on developing new potions here, and provide rare and unusual potions to private customers. While I expect you to follow the instructions you are given while working on these, I also expect you to use your head. Any “innovations” should be run by me first, at least until we are comfortable with one another.

"So, any questions?”

Snape was still digesting what had been said. “So, once we are comfortable with one another, as you put it, would it be possible for me to do some of my own research? Under your supervision, of course,” he quickly added.

“I’d certainly be open to that, but any research project must be approved by me. I would not have time or supplies wasted on a dead-end project.”

“Of course not,” Snape murmured. If the pay scale were decent, this could be an interesting job. The boss was a bit abrupt, and rather enigmatic, but he could probably work with him, if he had to.

***


Edward Richardson looked up when the door to his cell opened. He thought of it as a cell, even though it did not seem to be designed for habitation. He hadn’t decided yet whether or not that boded well. The only furniture was a single chair, which he was sitting in. His hands were manacled, but they had left his feet free. The last time he had seen his captors was about an hour ago, he guessed, when they had left him in disgust. He smiled grimly at the memory. He could out-shout anyone, and it is rather hard to negotiate or reason with a wild man.

Two men, clad in dark, hooded robes and pale masks, entered the room. He wasn’t sure how he knew they were men; he just was accustomed enough to disguises to pick up subtle hints. Besides, if they were centaurs, you would see the horses’ behinds sticking out, he thought. One of the men was very thin; Edward also thought he was the younger one. The larger man’s movements seemed more tired and methodical. These men were new; they weren’t among those who had captured him. Edward stood up, and took a few steps forward as soon as the men closed the door behind them. “I won’t tell you a goddam thing!” he bellowed, satisfied that the questioning would begin on his terms.

They just ignored him, though. The thin man turned to his companion and said, “String him up” in a quiet, even voice. The older Death Eater pointed his wand at Edward’s wrists, and the manacles attached themselves to some chains that were hanging from a beam on the ceiling. The chains hoisted him up so that he was barely able to touch the floor; all his weight fell on his shoulders. The thin man walked around him once, slowly, sizing him up. His companion took a seat in the chair, watching.

“You work for the Magical Law Enforcement Squad, Mr. Richardson?” the young man began in a polite, almost bored voice.

“I’ll tell you nothing,” Edward insisted, and spat at the man.

“Mr. Richardson, you will cooperate with us.” The voice was now dangerous, threatening, but still quiet. “We know who you are, and where you work. We have, ah, spoken to some of your co-workers, in fact.” The unpleasant smile, though invisible behind the mask, was unmistakable from the sneer in the voice.

“Oh, I’ll scream all right, if that’s what you mean by cooperate.” Edward smirked at him, trying to provoke him. The young Death Eater drew his wand, and stepped closer. “I can make you regret that,” he hissed; the hairs on the back of Edward’s neck raised in response. Ignoring the warning, he blundered on. “Oh, I have no doubt you can. Crucio, crucio, crucio,” he mocked in a sing-song voice. “I’ve heard it before.” He tried his best to look bored and unconcerned.

“You are a fool to speak of what you do not know. Allow me to instruct you.” The young man circled behind him again, but he must have muttered a spell, because Edward felt a terrible stinging in his left shoulder. He grimaced and flinched, but the pain did not go away. The voice was near his ear now. “That was only the beginning. It gets much worse, I’m afraid. And so,” he continued in a soft purr, “what Department do you work for?”

“You’ve already said it was Magical Law Enforcement, so who am I to disagree?” Edward taunted.

“It would be foolish to deny it,” the voice agreed, “when you are in uniform. Though I suppose I could check….” There was a sound of tearing cloth, and the back of his robe fell in two against his shoulders, parted down his back like a hospital gown, revealing his shirt and trousers. The young Death Eater circled around to the front again.

“Yes, I’ve seen enough dead hit wizards to recognise the outfit,” he continued conversationally. “And since you are not denying your career, perhaps we can discuss that. Who was with you on Thursday?”

Edward just glared; his shoulder was bothering him. “I was alone,” he finally ground out.

“Hardly. You were with four of your esteemed colleagues. Dora Sackett did not escape, incidentally, but the Ministry will not find her body.” That invisible sneer again.

Edward wished he could take the weight off his left shoulder. “If you know so much, why bother asking me?”

“I will not suffer your impertinence.” The wand was at his throat; he clicked his jaw shut and stilled his squirming.

“Very good,” the voice said softly, to his annoyance. “Now then, who were you with on Thursday?”

“Dora Sackett and three Aurors, apparently,” came the truculent reply.

“And their names?” Silence greeted this question. “You disappoint me, Mr. Richardson.” The voice sounded more eager than disappointed, though; Edward shuddered once, involuntarily. Again, the young Death Eater drifted out of his line of sight. Edward strained his ears, so he heard the whisper of wind as the wand slashed the air, and the accompanying bang, but no words.

So he was slightly shocked when his back was slashed open. He arched, pulling against his restraints. He couldn’t breathe. His eyes were squeezed shut, but he still saw red stars. He was gasping through the agony, trying to focus. He did not realise he was screaming until he stopped to gulp in more air. The voice was near his ear now; he started when he heard it so close. “You see, Mr. Richardson, I have no intention of using Crucio on you. Rather, I am going to rend the living flesh from your bones until you cooperate.”

It is to Edward’s credit that he responded, “That’s going to make an awful mess,” though it was only a hoarse whisper. His face was as white as if he had already lost the blood his statement referred to.

“No matter, we can find a use for it.” At this, the other Death Eater, who had remained silent until now, laughed. “Don’t waste a bloody thing, do you?”

“The names of the Aurors, then, Mr. Richardson?” the questioner continued, his wand poised, but still out of sight. The prisoner did not answer. He sighed and repeated the punishment – three vicious strokes. Each time, Edward hissed and shrieked, calling out many colorful curses. The Death Eater circled around in front of him again. “You bastard,” Edward spat, his chest heaving, his back pure agony.

“Yes, I am,” he replied smoothly. “Now, the Aurors?” Edward looked into the blank face of the mask, trying to think through the haze of pain. He could not start talking. The man in front of him may already know the Aurors, and they all knew their jobs were risky. Betraying their names would not necessarily betray them to… this. But he knew that once he started talking, he would find it very hard to stop. And that was not something he could afford to do.

“Let’s skip that question,” he said hoarsely. “What else do you want to know?” he asked desperately, hoping to delay the inevitable.

The young Death Eater paused, his head tilted as he considered this question. “Yes, we might discuss what happened the night you and your unnamed friends surprised young Rosier.”

Edward protested, “I can’t tell you anything,” but his heart was not in it.

“I was afraid of that,” his torturer murmured, moving behind him once again. Slash. slash. Slash. slash. The pain rolled over him in waves, bursting somewhere behind his eyes. He was clinging to his resolve now, holding on with all his might. Clare would be disappointed, he thought, and tried to hold on so she could be proud of his death at the hands of these madmen. Give them no reason to gloat. Finally, he opened his eyes, gingerly, to find the young man staring at him intently.

“I am running out of room on your back,” he stated dispassionately. “I am afraid you will not last long if I move to your gut.”

“You are my executioner, then?” Edward rasped. The Death Eater did not answer, but glanced over at his seated companion. In deference, or looking for approval? Edward couldn’t tell, but couldn’t bring himself to care, either.

“You do not seem very talkative, though,” he continued. “Perhaps you would prefer to discuss these things with my Master?”

Edward’s eyes widened in fear. He had heard too many stories about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named – he couldn’t help it. He began to struggle weakly against his bonds. Unpleasant laughter greeted this attempt. “Yes, he does have that effect on people.” Edward remained mute. “I wonder…” the Death Eater said slowly. “I wonder what a middle-aged witch would do if brought before Him? One with curly, shoulder-length brown hair, blue eyes and a mole on her chin?” Edward moaned, his fear written plainly on his face. How did this man know his Clare?

“You do realise that if you fail us, we will go after her?”

“Please.” Edward hated himself for begging, but he felt strangely light-headed. “Leave… leave her out of it. She doesn’t know anything.” The Death Eater murmured quietly…it sounded like 'But you do.' Time seemed to drag on. He was finding it difficult to think; his vision was swimming, too. Suddenly, he was thirsty, very thirsty. “Water!” he gasped, his tongue thick and strange in his mouth. The two men conferred; he couldn’t hear what was said, though – his ears were buzzing. A goblet was thrust against his lips; he gratefully accepted the tepid liquid. “You seem to have lost quite a bit of blood,” his tormentor murmured. His vision sharpened. What was in that water? he thought suspiciously. He tasted the coppery tang of blood replenishing potion.

“The names of the Aurors?” the young Death Eater asked, business-like once again.

“Moody, Camden and Larson,” Edward replied tonelessly. What? Why had he said that?

“And how did you track Rosier?”

“He attacked a Squib two weeks ago; the Ministry was using her as bait. We suspected a Death Eater attack on her or her family, so we had her clothing charmed with Find Me. Told her it was for her safety, or something. No matter where they took her, she would appear on a map at the Ministry. Unless it was Unplottable, of course.”

“Like this room,” his questioner smirked.

“When Rosier took her, we tracked them to that shack he was using. Then we staked it out, and waited for him to return so we could ambush him. It worked well enough, but he fought like a cusséd mad dog.”

“Yes, I imagine he did,” he said softly. “Well, Mr. Richardson,” he said, his tone more clipped, “Mr. Rosier’s father will no doubt wish to finish your interrogation after the Veritaserum wears off. I do suggest you cooperate with him; I may forget to mention your dear Clare to him.” He pointed his wand at the chains holding Edward’s wrists, and he fell to the ground in a crumpled heap, the large gashes on his back still pulsing and quivering. With a nod to his companion, both Death Eaters left the room, which fell into sudden darkness.

***


“I heard you spent over an hour with Rosier’s killer, Severus,” Lucius began.

“From Regulus, I take it?” Snape answered, avoiding the implied question. “He pestered me endlessly about how I did it. He really does lack imagination if he can’t see the way to get around a blood-born immunity is to get rid of the blood. Once he’d bled enough, the Veritaserum worked as well on him as anyone else.”

“Your ideas are more innovative than you might think,” Lucius smiled. “But surely Rosier would have found a way to deal with his son’s killer.”

“Richardson was there, but I don’t think he killed Evan himself,” Snape continued. “Far too much righteous anger coming from him,” he sneered. “I got the names of the others, but I left that question for his father.”

Lucius smiled appreciatively. “Macnair tells me you quite enjoyed yourself.”

Snape’s thin lips curled into an unpleasant smile. “It is an amazing thing,” he said softly, “to feel the pulse of a man’s life ebbing at your hands. To know that you have complete control over the manner and time of his death. There is nothing quite like it.”

“Intoxicating?” Lucius asked, a knowing look on his face.

“Oh, much better than wine,” Snape agreed. “It is an unspeakable joy.”

“Welcome to my life,” said Lucius with an expansive gesture. He smiled, and Snape was once again reminded of why he did not wish to be in debt to this wealthy man. Suddenly, he understood exactly what drove Lucius. His wealth was not about comforts or even prestige; it was pure, unadulterated power. He shivered, but then regained his composure and returned his friend’s smile.

*** *** ***


Author's Notes: Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think and leave a review. This chapter takes place in late summer of 1980.

Metanoia: The Conversion of Severus Snape by MithLuin [Reviews - 3]

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