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Into the Fold by Pasi [Reviews - 3]

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Late Winter, 1980

Severus could almost believe that Lucius Malfoy , the son of a St Mungo's Trustee, could affect the work load in the Potions and Physics Department. This particular Tuesday in late February was the easiest day he'd had since Christmas. Even Accident and Emergency had pestered him with very few calls. Perhaps the Death Eaters weren't getting themselves involved in anything they couldn't extricate themselves from easily because they didn't want to be late for the meeting tonight.

Just like Severus himself.

He reported to Bermsley and left the Department on the stroke of seven. He couldn't remember when that had happened last. It gave him time to go home, eat his solitary dinner and bathe. After the bath usually came bed and immediate, exhausted sleep. Not tonight. Tonight, he ventured to guess, sleep would come late, if it came at all.

He was ready well before eight-thirty, when he planned on stepping into his fireplace and Flooing to Malfoy Manor. He had time to think, and he expected the Dark Lord to dominate his thoughts. But it was Lucius who came to mind, Lucius showing him for the first time, in the peaceful winter garden of Malfoy Manor, the black, shining brand of the Dark Mark on his arm; the trembling of Lucius's hands and the recklessness in his eyes as he willingly took up the role of the guinea pig upon whom Severus proved his worthiness to the Dark Lord; Lucius lying in a pool of blood on the floor of his well-appointed library.

He was like Ruskin. Ruskin, who had feared and admired the Dark Lord's power, the power with which he had threatened James Potter. Ruskin, who had worshipped the Dark Lord with such devotion as to die for him.

Lucius shared Ruskin's fear and admiration, but he was far too canny to share in Ruskin's half-mad devotion. He was like Severus, perhaps, one who hoped the Dark Lord could take him to heights he'd never reach on his own.

Did the Dark Lord speak to Lucius, understand Lucius as he understood Severus? How could he? He was a half-blood, like Severus, with an ambition suggesting that he, like Severus, had been brought up far from Lucius's world. That the Lord could understand Severus himself seemed unreal, somehow, now that Severus was not with him, gazing into bloody, slit-pupilled eyes, listening to a voice that at once frightened and mesmerised.

Mesmerisation came and went. Fear was Severus's consistent reaction, the emotion steady and immoveable, whether he was with or away from the Dark Lord. What he saw with nearly every delivery to Accident and Emergency proved it was the logical reaction as well. The corpses, the minds and bodies twisted by torture showed that Voldemort was winning his war against the Ministry of Magic and the Order of the Phoenix. He was scything down his enemies like so much ripe wheat. Better not to be among them. Better to be inside the Dark Lord's fold when the dust settled, not outside, in the deadly cold.

Severus wandered restlessly from his tiny kitchen into the sitting room, where the clock on the mantelpiece read eight-thirty. Time to go, he thought, taking a handful of Floo powder from the tin, for it was also better to be early to his first Death Eater meeting rather than late.

****

Severus stepped from the fireplace into the library at Malfoy Manor. Lucius rose immediately from an armchair to meet him. He was alone, but Severus heard the sound of glasses clinking and the buzz of conversation in another part of the house.

"Good, you're early," Lucius said. "The Lord hasn't arrived yet." He started for the door. "We're in the drawing room. We always meet there."

Severus followed, not without reluctance, for the drawing room, with its glaring portraits, Victorian wall-covering and marble fireplace struck him as a lugubrious place. It was, even under the candle-laden chandelier, as heavily dark as ever. But with the uncomfortable furniture pushed up against the wall and a large table set up in the centre, it otherwise looked quite different.

There were some thirty people standing around the table. Some held glasses of iced water--the source of the tinkling Severus had heard--and there were pitchers filled with more water on the table. Untypically for a gathering at Malfoy Manor--at least, one hosted by old Abraxas--there was no alcohol. But then, neither was Abraxas Malfoy anywhere to be seen.

Heads turned when they entered. "Good evening, all!" said Lucius cheerily, and more heads turned. Severus was astonished to see an Assistant Minister whose photograph and pronouncements often appeared in the Daily Prophet and a Chaser for a well-known Quidditch club whose exploits were chronicled weekly in the paper's sports pages. And wasn't that Augustus Rookwood, the Slytherin who had been Head Boy in Severus's first year at Hogwarts? He'd been in the paper recently too, something about a promotion--

"Sorry for abandoning you to your own devices," Lucius was saying to his guests, "but I wanted to greet our newest member personally."

There were Fordon Avery, Douglas Wilkes, Maxwell Mulciber, who raised his hand in a casual salute, and Evan Rosier, whose smile of recognition lit up the room which candles and fire had failed to brighten.

"Many of you know him already. For those of you who don't, allow me to introduce Severus Snape."

Rabastan Lestrange turned to look, his brows slightly raised. Memories rushed into Severus's mind: Rabastan Lestrange and Olaus Ruskin, inseparable in the Slytherin common room, in the shops of Hogsmeade, on the Quidditch pitch. And in the classroom too, Severus didn't doubt. Certainly in his classroom, under the open air beside the Forbidden Forest, where Severus had taught them how to cast the Firewhip.

Rodolphus was standing beside his brother, his face so wooden that it seemed paralysed. Beside Rodolphus stood his wife, Bellatrix, whose look startled Severus with its sheer malevolence.

Bellatrix's good humour while he and Mother had stayed with the Malfoys had been just as startling, to be sure. Severus had concluded that she had been trying to please Druella, who had resumed her friendship with Mother, for the feeling he normally expected Bellatrix Black Lestrange to have toward a Snape--any Snape--was contempt. Her hatred was more of a compliment. It meant she actually thought he was worth her notice.

If the hatred were really there. Severus had looked away, pretending not to notice anything unusual. When he glanced back a few moments later, Bellatrix's face was as frozen as her husband's.

But then she turned slightly at the pop! of Apparition, and her eyes lit up as brilliantly as Evan Rosier's. All eyes followed hers, to a smoky swirl which resolved into hooded robes. Beneath the hood a thin face gleamed pale and translucent, like mother-of-pearl. Whatever Anti-Apparition charms Lucius and his father had placed around Malfoy Manor had not deterred Lord Voldemort.

"My Lord!" breathed Bellatrix.

A thin white hand emerged from Lord Voldemort's sleeve and gave a careless wave. "Bella." The hand went to Voldemort's hood and swept it back.

Bellatrix gazed raptly at the bald, small-eared head, the pale face, the red eyes. As if by instinct, everyone else backed off around either side of the massive table, clearing a space around Voldemort. Even Bellatrix's husband left her side. She stood alone, basking in the glow which in the half-gloom seemed to emanate from the Dark Lord's face.

"Come, Bella. Make yourself comfortable," said Voldemort. His gaze, lighting on the water pitchers, expressed disdain for the concession to thirst which they represented. "Like everyone else here."

Some further back dared to exchange uneasy glances. Those in front, directly beneath the Dark Lord's gaze, kept their eyes fixed with reverent attention upon him.

"Oh, sit down," said Voldemort. "I'm only grateful to Lucius for giving you nothing stronger than water."

With a scraping of chairs, the Death Eaters hurried to obey. Severus, seeking a chair, found one beside Mulciber. "Maxwell," he said with a nod, then pulled the chair from beneath the table to sit down.

"Except for you, Severus." The Dark Lord's voice sliced the air, above the sounds of people settling in. "You remain standing."

Severus did so, resting his hands on the back of the chair. Nervous glances lit upon him like insects, then flitted away again, so many that their anxiety began to infect him.

"Severus Snape, our newest Death Eater," said Voldemort, and all eyes turned toward Severus. "Many of you are already acquainted with him from your shared school days at Hogwarts." The Lord's smile displayed his needle-thin teeth. "The more hysterical of the opinion-makers at the Prophet and in the Ministry are right about one thing: it is mainly Slytherins who are wise enough to follow me." He waved carelessly. "All right, Severus, sit down."

Severus felt a prick of irritation at the casual dismissal, but what he'd seen of the expressions around him told him it was best to smother it, so he did. "Yes, my Lord," he said and sat down.

The Dark Lord coiled himself into the seat at the head of the table. "To business, then. Mulciber." Mulciber set down the glass he'd raised half-way to his lips and straightened apprehensively in his chair.

The Dark Lord hissed a laugh. "My dear Maxwell, can't you tell whether you've earned punishment or praise?"

A tic leaped in Mulciber's cheek. "I--I exist only to serve."

"Yes. You do. And you served me quite well in getting rid of Dirk Thomas."

"Why--thank you, my Lord."

Something like Bellatrix's look of rapture replaced the fear in Mulciber's eyes. Looking at him, Severus felt a stab of distaste. Mulciber had always been rather craven, calling to mind Potter's mousy little friend Pettigrew. The only difference was that Mulciber, in his constant efforts to impress, had occasionally pulled off some good pranks on the weaker Gryffindors. Pettigrew, as Severus recalled, had never done much of anything but trot after Potter in abject worship.

If there was one thing Severus hated, it was cravenness. No one revolted him more than the person who went down on his knees to lap up another's contempt. For that was all that was in the Dark Lord's eyes as they rested on Mulciber--contempt. So Mulciber had disposed of this Dirk Thomas. Killed him, Severus supposed. It would only be a step or two up from what Mulciber used to do in his Hogwarts days.

"And the way you did it," said Voldemort. "Quite discreetly; I didn't think you were capable of that. Everyone who knew Thomas seems to think he walked out on his wife and baby."

Many of the others looked enviously at Mulciber. If they knew anything, they'd envy Severus instead. Severus had drunk wine with the Dark Lord, had shared the secret of his half-blood parentage, had heard the Dark Lord praise his power--

"I have never known anyone quite like you, balanced on a thread between Light and Dark, powerful in both. You would become one of my most valuable servants if you joined me, highly-regarded and well-rewarded..."

--and knew that it was he, Severus, upon whom the Dark Lord meant to bestow his favour. Not Mulciber.

So why did the Lord look at Mulciber, why did he speak to Mulciber--

"You force me to admit, Maxwell (Maxwell! The Dark Lord called him Maxwell!), that the thing was quite well done. You didn't leave a shred of evidence for the Aurors."

Why does he pay attention to Mulciber and not to me?

Mulciber beamed. He looked as though he were basking in the sun in Majorca. Severus glanced around. Lucius was looking irritably at Mulciber, as if he felt as Severus did about Mulciber's absurdity, while Bellatrix glared murderously. Indeed, everyone seemed to be looking at Mulciber and no one seemed pleased with him, as if they, like Severus, wondered, Why is the Dark Lord paying attention to him?

A high, cold laugh cut the air. All heads jerked around and all eyes fastened themselves on Voldemort.

"Bella, why the sulk? You know I love you--in my way. Lucius, believe me, I have not forgotten your recent gift. And Antonin, such a long face. Did I not praise you to all my Death Eaters in our last meeting for killing the Prewetts? All of you, I call you my family, but I should say that means my jealous children, jockeying for smiles and caresses from their father!" Voldemort looked around, satisfaction mingling with the amusement in his eyes. "Well, well. Whatever helps you to recall that, like the child to his father, your first duty is to please me."

"Certainly, my Lord." The murmur rippled through the gathering.

"Certainly, my Lord," Voldemort mimicked. A disquieting light entered his eyes. "However, I am not yet pleased. Dirk Thomas and the Prewetts were not my only enemies. What about these Longbottoms, Macnair?" His gaze jumped to a brick wall of a man with dark hair, a moustache and ice-cold eyes. "You're in Magical Law Enforcement, and you never told me about them."

It was easier to watch the Lord's displeasure than his approbation. You didn't long for him to turn his attention to you.

"They're Aurors, my Lord," said Macnair. "I don't know much more about them than that. I'm a hit wizard, different office, you know. Or I was. They transferred me to Magical Creatures." He faltered. "I--er--I'm sorry."

Voldemort looked at him through an electric silence, a silence in which anything could have happened, but didn't. "Yes, well," the Dark Lord said at last, "you were the closest I got to the Auror Office." He rose and strode restlessly about the room, his robes flapping like the wings of a large, slightly uncoordinated bat. Severus found that he did not want to let him out of his sight and so, like the other Death Eaters, watched him closely.

"They defied me. Me." Voldemort's calm cracked and fell away, like a fragile, weather-beaten façade unable to stand up to one last storm. "I wanted Dearborn...How dared they stand in my way, how dare they...I will have Dearborn, I will kill him, if I want to kill someone, I will--!"

"Longbottoms!"
Bellatrix Lestrange spat out the name, as if she couldn't keep it behind her teeth. "If I had them here, my Lord, I would--"

Voldemort whirled, wand raised, mouth twisted in fury. Slowly he approached Bellatrix, pointing his wand at her. When he reached her, he placed its tip against her heart. "You forget, Bella. I don't like to be interrupted."

Every other Death Eater shrank back as far as he could go without leaving his seat. Bellatrix alone didn't move. Her back straight, her head tilted upward, she gazed with terror and longing into the Dark Lord's face.

He pressed the tip of his wand harder into her breastbone, then traced a line downward between her breasts until the wand struck the tabletop with a sharp click. Bellatrix shivered once.

Voldemort lifted his wand and slid it up his sleeve. 'But because of your extraordinary courage, much more than any of these," he gestured airily at the Death Eaters, "I'll let it pass. This time."

"You are merciful, my Lord," murmured Bellatrix.

"Yes, I am. Except to the Longbottoms. They need killing, as you so helpfully pointed out. But they're mine." Voldemort swept his eyes over the table. "Do you understand that, the lot of you? The Longbottoms are mine. I am their death. It's me they'll see when death comes for them."

Transfixed by the purity of Voldemort's hatred, Severus gazed like the rest into the Lord's blood-red eyes. His pupils were dilated, but not into enlarged circles, like human pupils. They were slits widening into chasms, like the pupils of a snake. Chasms into which the incautiously self-aggrandising, like Frank Longbottom, might easily trip and fall. Too bad he had to drag his wife down with him. But Alice Aylsworth had made her choice. She had chosen Frank Longbottom.

She had chosen her way, and Severus had chosen his. He looked down at his left forearm, where the Dark Mark had tingled since the Dark Lord's arrival. He did not know what was ahead for him. But, given what he had seen of the corruption of the Ministry in Azkaban, given what he had seen of people like Dawlish and the Prewetts in A&E, given what he had seen in the Lord's eyes tonight, he could not believe Voldemort would lose this war. It was better to be in the fold, among the influential supporters of the most powerful wizard in Britain, than to be beyond the pale, in the rapidly shrinking ranks of Voldemort's enemies.

"Assignments, then," said Voldemort, and Severus looked up. "Lucius, your father's resigned as a Hogwarts Governor. Have him talk to his friends about putting you on the Board in his place."

"He has my Lord, but Davies thinks I'm too young and Montrose says I haven't shown sufficient interest in the education of the young."

"Indeed?" said Voldemort. "Well, you could ask Davies if he thinks his wife would like to know about that young veela in Prague. And you could ask Montrose if his partners in the cauldron business would like a true accounting of where the money went."

"Ah, yes," said Lucius, comprehension lighting up his face.

"Rookwood," said Voldemort. "Keep after Ludovic Bagman. He's not worth much, but he has friends who are, and his father has contacts in every department of the Ministry. And didn't you say they've started research on that veil in the Department of Mysteries?"

"Yes, my Lord," said Rookwood.

"I want the records. I have a particular interest in death, you see. Oh, and Travers?"

"Yes, my Lord?" said a slender man with fine, sandy hair.

"Two new Order members, the McKinnons, husband and wife. I want you to keep an eye on them for me. I have the feeling they're going to turn into troublemakers."

A smile slithered across Travers's lips. "Troublemakers? I'll look after them for you, my Lord."

"Very good." Voldemort looked round the table. "We're finished here; the rest of you already have your orders. When I want us to meet again, I'll call you." He stepped away from the table, began the half-pirouette of Disapparition, then stopped and looked straight at Severus. "Except for you, Severus. I want you back here on Saturday evening at seven o'clock sharp."

He didn't wait for Severus to answer. With a snap of his robes and the crack! of the air parting for him, the Dark Lord disappeared.







Into the Fold by Pasi [Reviews - 3]

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