Chapter 13

19 November 1998.

Dawn had long since broken, but Severus never knew. His private laboratory was below the ground, in the most interior of the castle and bare of even magical windows, because this was the only way his potions were not contaminated by something so easily controlled as excess light. For him, time passed in small increments and counter-clockwise stirs; the twenty-four hours of someone else's day didn't matter here.

His students spun tales of vampires and Darkness and he knew he was called the Greasy Bat of the Dungeons. Severus was too cultured to be so uncouth as to roll his eyes even in the privacy of his lab, though a lesser man might have snorted. He'd long since abandoned the hope that even one student would understand the art that was potion-making and as such, he had things he considered more important with which to waste his breath upon than explaining the way that air currents, temperature, and light, be it artificial or natural, could decimate a delicate potion… important things such as breathing, which he did even as Alicia Spinnet did not.

In the dim light his eyes snapped, a flash of obsidian suffocated by the red haze of infrared. Long fingers hesitated as he kept the count in his head; two hundred eleven; two hundred twelve; two hundred thirteen, and he splayed his fingers and let two ounces of powdered horn of a unicorn fall into the cauldron, he watched as the liquid seethed. With a pewter rod, he stirred four times counter clockwise and murmured a stasis charm to hold his work constant. Carefully, he donned dragonhide gloves and lifted the cauldron. He decanted the healing potion by hand because it was fragile; it was something of his own creation that he had woven the ingredients together by feel and little more than instinct. Traditional healing potions hadn't worked for the girl, and he'd be damned before he let her die.

Stupid Gryffindor. His eyes snapped again and he allowed the surge of anger because it was safer than guilt. He had cast Sectumsempra because he'd created Sectumsempra, and it had fused with him, become a part of him in the same way the billow of his cloak had become a part of him. When he cast, he had done so after watching Hermione Granger fall, roll, rise, and aim her wand both in practice and here, while under fire. He'd cast because he knew where she was then, and where she would be fractions of a second later. He'd cast accurately. No one else had been in her vicinity until Lucius had cast a burning hex, and Alicia Spinnet had invaded the space he'd designated for his curse. Fucking Gryffindors.

And yet… she had been his student, and she was clearly a member of the Order of the Phoenix. There aren't enough of us to attack each other. Something too close to guilt flung itself with those words and banged the corners of his mind, and he set his jaw against it all.

She wouldn't live. He knew this, just as surely as he knew he was already damned. It didn't mean he wouldn't try.

He hadn't been hopeful, and so he hadn't been disappointed when the potion had failed. During the brief moments that Poppy had lifted the magical stasis, Alicia deteriorated rapidly, and in the rush to re-stabilize her, his left arm burned, and Severus swore fiercely enough to earn a look of reproach from the Mediwitch.

The call was too early. His heart rate might have increased, but he was silent as he left the hospital room to enter his own and he retrieved his Death Eater robes. The bone of his mask was cold in his hands and he slipped it into an inner pocket. He paused briefly, closed his eyes and rolled his shoulders, and he pressed against the dark skin on the inside of his forearm and when it burned, he corrected his mind. It wasn't pain; it was adrenaline, and the surge in his veins kept him alive. He rolled his shoulders and turned on his heel, and he Apparated straight from his room.

The wards of Malfoy Manor yielded as easily as the gates for him, and something akin to pleasure stroked the fibers of his being when he passed through. Narcissa stood in the entryway. She was lovely in blue, and the shade of ice in her gown echoed that in her eyes. He took the hand that she offered to him and brushed his lips over the back. She smiled then, but it was grim, and the tension she carried in her shoulders made his own want to ache.

"Good afternoon, Severus. I trust you are well?" She took his arm and led him from the drawing room, and the casual ease with which she spoke directly contradicted the urgency of her step. That she had received him instead of an elf spoke volumes, and a tingle of unease wove its way between his bones.

"Quite well, Narcissa. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

"I am concerned that Draco's enthusiasm for his education is waning and would like to further discuss the subject with you when you've the time. I simply wanted to be sure that I caught you today before you left, and what better way to do so than to greet you as you arrived?" Even speaking softly, Narcissa's voice had a musical quality that soothed the ear, and not for the first time, Severus appreciated that a beautiful woman was rarely perceived as intelligent. Narcissa had devoted her entire life to nurturing the image of the perfect Pureblood lady; she was gentle and generous; she was sophisticated; she was the embodiment of docility, and she was ravishing. Her home was immaculate and her reputation was flawless. She masked her mind behind sweet smiles and hid wit behind etiquette. Yes, he decided, Narcissa Malfoy was downright terrifying, and he was glad that more women were not like her.

"It would seem that young Mr. Malfoy's attention is a finite resource, and that an increase in attention to a certain Miss Greengrass is directly proportional to the decline in his attention to his schooling. It is a topic that I had planned discussing with you and Lucius later this evening, actually. Unfortunately, I must leave you here. Until then, Narcissa."

He inclined his head to her and swept through ballroom doors and dropped to his knee before Lord Voldemort.

"Rise." And so he did, though he kept his eyes low and his head bowed. He clasped his hands behind his back and waited.

"I am displeased, Severus. Do you know why?"

"I dare not presume to know the wonders of your mind, my Lord." A lazy exhale and absence of pain served as approval for this answer.

"Two events took place on Tuesday. Nine of my Death Eaters could no subdue seven members of the Order of the Phoenix. Thus, the second event that took place was that countless hours of your time have been rendered useless. Your potions, or lack thereof, do not affect me as much as they affect the eight of you that remain, though I do suggest that you rectify the loss immediately. I am displeased that nine of my most senior Death Eaters proved themselves to be incompetent. Crucio!"

Two decades had taught Severus to give, to let his knees buckle and to roll into the cold marble floor. Two decades had taught Severus to unclench his muscles methodically, beginning with his jaw and ending with the last joints in his toes. Two decades had taught Severus that nothing he did would minimize the pain, but four still hadn't taught him not to try.

When the curse was lifted, his body continued to tremble. In the time that it took him to recover, Voldemort had levitated him and the red of his eyes burned Severus' mind as he clawed through his mind and scrutinized his memory. For the second time, Severus stood beside Poppy and administered his custom healing draught to Alicia, and for the second time, he was unsurprised that his efforts had failed. He found himself in the potions storeroom, long fingers touching glass jars as he put forth genuine effort to healing the Gryffindor girl. His heart beat angry staccato against his chest when smoke and haze and spellfire lit the sky and he saw Hermione Granger throw up a shield powerful enough to block a series of curses and bought the Order enough time to destroy the storage house. Finally, he saw walls that built a Malfoy ballroom and Voldemort standing before him.

"Your Lord is merciful, Severus. The construction of Sectumsempra is flawless. I see that even you have failed to staunch the damage it creates. With such authentic effort, you earn the Order's trust. Continue trying to beat yourself, Severus.

"Potter's mudblood – was this an accurate display of her abilities?"

"You are gracious, my Lord. Even if not for blood inferiority, the girl only possesses the level of skill that can be taught. Her marks are acceptable, though the faculty blatantly favors her, but she lacks any ability to progress beyond what a textbook can teach her. This reaction was emotionally driven, something akin to accidental magic. I do not believe she would be capable of producing the same result twice simply because it requires an individualized touch, a certain focus... and originality, if you will. She lacks the capacity to work outside a book."

"This is predictable, of course, but it is good to hear my suspicions are confirmed. You are dismissed." Severus knelt and brought Voldemort's robes to his lips, and then he rose again and backed away, exiting the room without turning his back.

A/N:

Love always,

Threnody.