*When the door opens again, an unexpected face enters into Snape's stubbornly peripheral vision. With a large stack of sickly yellow folders following just behind him like a threatening but subservient pet, the Minister's sunken features are more exaggerated than a mind might, kindly, expect. Most people outside of the Ministry are accustomed only to seeing him on the front of a press release or staring out at them from a watchful poster, and it becomes easy to assume he cannot look quite as distinct in the flesh. It is an awkward and mockable face, but only when it's owner is far, far out of sight and earshot, a distance which he does not plan to allow Snape
( ... )
*His angles come in and out of focus - the gaunt, inward slope of a cheek, the harsh lines of bulging veins, the cut of an expensive suit. Unlike the bricks, the Minister for Magic never seems to grow soft, his presence slicing and prominent and nearly impossible to ignore. Nearly, of course, being the key word. Snape banks on that nearly, wraps its possibility around himself and waits. There's power in it, a summoning of a life filled with the dusty, dark panelled confessionals of his youth, the lies he'd spoken plain-faced to the Dark Lord and to Lily, the torture that had filled up his world and his mind not even an hour ago, the boiling sauna of a room that leaves him dizzy and parched. Against all of these things, these things Snape has resisted and snaked past for no real reason or end other than a dull, aching aversion to dying, the neat little pile of folders - Bartemius Crouch's weapon of the day - seems laughable, pathetic even.
*The insulted horror of being ignored is a force that runs in the blood of every Crouch who can still be remembered. From infancy, the offences of distraction or disinterest or stubborn rudeness had been catalogued in some hidden part of the brain, left to fester until adulthood, when Crouch Sr. decided he would make something of himself that would be impossible to ignore.
This trussed up sack of bones and stink all held together by a strong but curving backbone has, intentionally or not - and he very much suspects not, spoken a language the Minister can understand. Unfortunately for Snape, his tactic will not work this time. Ignoring the world most often forces it to give up and ignore you back, but all it does to Crouch Sr. is make his eyes rise from the puddle and pin themselves onto him for the rest of the night.*
I've been told you haven't been forthcoming with my staff. But perhaps you didn't hear me. You've had hours to speak with them, and that lucky chance will not be given again. So. Do you know what this is.
*There's a sudden and increasing awareness in Snape. The water, now reaching down the back of his throat and his robes, affords him some precious mental mobility. However, as the world turns into tangible strings, dull pinpricks of pain flare into a consuming soreness. His bones feel like they've been spun around - which isn't surprising, as that's exactly what happened with the hitwizard before last. He still isn't sure if his knees have migrated back to their proper position.
More importantly, however, he still isn't sure what the Minister expects - what any of them expect. Confessions, after all, are hardly needed. Neither is proof. This is an unnecessary step, some extra superfluous fate reserved just for him - it's something personal - and that something seems to have escaped him entirely.
*Crouch Sr.'s eyebrows raise briefly in combination satisfaction and distaste. When interrogated, many men and women spit swears and curses for lack of any other weapon, a few keep silent as the grave, but all of them become children. He has seen tears, threats, pleading, repeating, laughter, and plenty of this stubborn, adolescent refusal to elaborate, or to think. No matter who has been bound to this chair and what has been inflicted upon them, each of them have thrown some manner of tantrum, and though he likes the authority and he likes the confessions these walls have seen, each infantlike adult makes him less and less satisfied and less patient with humanity as a whole. Even though Snape's silence had annoyed him, the stupidity and carelessness of his answer are almost even stronger grounds to continue to punish him beyond the extent of the law
( ... )
*It isn't the wise answer or even a particularly wise observation - but it's a factual one, and it slumps out of Snape's mouth like a half-slumbering troll, clumsy in its attempt to be brutal.*
*Snape has never played well with others or gotten the hang of playing along - however, he has always had a sharp sense for when he's being played. For every second Crouch stretches time out like silly putty, delaying and plodding and stalking, Snape can see the formations of a grander arc. Its details still unknown, but its mass stretching easily above him - foreboding and expansive. He isn't here to be read a bedtime story and somehow that sentiment becomes sound.*
*He plucks one of the thickest files out of the array then, talking over Snape's feeble attempt at verbal bullying. The thick black case number 10229-s disappears into Crouch Sr.'s palm as he lifts the cover with smooth mechanical motions more calculated than a watchmakers or a musicians. He opens the file, and begins to recite facts and figures from the top summary report without taking his eyes off Snape.*
-Two hundred and sixteen bodies found dead on scene. No visible signs of trauma. Autopsy tests reveal no indication of internal damage, and no trace of Dark magic found. Cause of death - inconclusive... Effects of the body linked to poison. Source of contamination linked to the hospital's supply of medications, further testing shows contaminant only present in supplies stoppered by cork. Full recall of all hospital supplies issued to ascertain prevalence of tampering...
Are you familiar with this story, or should I continue.
*It's funny, the things trauma and pain can do to the mind. Even a day of torture can make the mundanities of forty-eight hours ago seem like a different universe, much less the span of months. For a second it almost feels as though he isn't familiar with Crouch's story at all and it's only with a gradual, hazy recognition that Snape identifies it as his own. He crumples his eyelids and really focuses, really thinks - although in his fevered state he looks more constipated than safeguarded. Occlumency is a slow business in a world halfway into the unconciousness.
With no question in the Minister's tone, Snape sees no reason for an answer. He opens his eyes and stares forward steel-faced with thin lips pressed together in a hard and unpleasant line.*
*He snaps the file closed and lets all the papers inside fall neatly aligned into the fold before placing it back in line with the others. Surprisingly, and with unaffected ease, he reaches for something new, something labelled 91274-b. This mystery addition would be too far away for most men to grasp without an awkward sidestep or bow, but Crouch Sr.'s limb unfolds from his body toward it with the ominous lanky detachment of a spider.*
Perhaps these files seem trivial, but there is a benefit, I assure you. Sometimes a new case seems very familiar, almost as though I've already read it somewhere before... I trust you'll remember this next one, too
( ... )
*Crouch, Sr. does not trust needlessly. Much like the parchment in his immaculate folders and his bones in his immaculate posture, it all slides into place. It slips through the crevices and folds of Snape's brain and lights it up like a lantern, allowing his memories to play shadow puppets across the inside of his skull. A tiny shadow Dark Lord smiles - and the Dark Lord never smiles without a reason - the dreadful, beautiful, subtle reason His trust in Snape has never wavered.
Once more, he makes no reply, and once more he presses his lips together, so tightly that they fall inward into his mouth and leave nothing but a wrinkled series of lines, making Snape look remarkably like an 90-year old man who's just swallowed a lemon.*
*The files begin to shuffle slowly toward the centre of the room, reordering themselves in near silent wariness as Crouch Sr. gazes out over top of them. He is controlling their movements, but they look for all the world like creeping subservient lifeforms trying to avoid drawing attention to themselves. Their weaponry has been used, and they are no longer needed to destroy Snape
( ... )
*Snape's spleen tries to evacuate his body through his oesophagus before any sort of coherent reply - at least that's the closest approximation to the bubble of dread forming fast in his vital airways. It becomes a credit to his dedication that, after a horrible second, something ordered manages to spill out. Like roadkill plastered on asphalt, his tone is dark, coagulated and flat.*
That's a lie, you wouldn't need to ask so many questions if you were even half as sure as you sound.
On the contrary, everything I need to prosecute you is already available to me. There are only so many potion brewers employed at St. Mungo's with reputations like yours, and fewer still who would be oafish enough to repeat their crime. It isn't difficult to uncover your associates, or to search your home for evidence. From what I understand, there should be more than enough waste to test for ingredient residue left behind.
Tonight is largely for prosperity. You are a loose end, Mr. Snape. One I will not tolerate.
*He had always approached war like a coin, there was heads and there was tails, Mulciber and Evans, the Dark Lord and the Order. Each had their niches, areas where he could dig a yellow finger nail into and hold it there. He'd balanced the coin perfectly on the table but only now does he give any consideration to the table itself. That third side, on which everything rests. The side where he has no niche, nowhere to sink a nail into, no hold or friction. There had been a time when Snape always had a defence and a lie, a fall back and a back up and the longer he sits here, blood drumming against the inside of his swollen limbs, he realizes now is not that time.*
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Snape makes no move to respond.*
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This trussed up sack of bones and stink all held together by a strong but curving backbone has, intentionally or not - and he very much suspects not, spoken a language the Minister can understand. Unfortunately for Snape, his tactic will not work this time. Ignoring the world most often forces it to give up and ignore you back, but all it does to Crouch Sr. is make his eyes rise from the puddle and pin themselves onto him for the rest of the night.*
I've been told you haven't been forthcoming with my staff. But perhaps you didn't hear me. You've had hours to speak with them, and that lucky chance will not be given again. So. Do you know what this is.
Reply
More importantly, however, he still isn't sure what the Minister expects - what any of them expect. Confessions, after all, are hardly needed. Neither is proof. This is an unnecessary step, some extra superfluous fate reserved just for him - it's something personal - and that something seems to have escaped him entirely.
Finally, he answers, defiantly monotone.*
Yes.
Reply
*Crouch Sr.'s eyebrows raise briefly in combination satisfaction and distaste. When interrogated, many men and women spit swears and curses for lack of any other weapon, a few keep silent as the grave, but all of them become children. He has seen tears, threats, pleading, repeating, laughter, and plenty of this stubborn, adolescent refusal to elaborate, or to think. No matter who has been bound to this chair and what has been inflicted upon them, each of them have thrown some manner of tantrum, and though he likes the authority and he likes the confessions these walls have seen, each infantlike adult makes him less and less satisfied and less patient with humanity as a whole. Even though Snape's silence had annoyed him, the stupidity and carelessness of his answer are almost even stronger grounds to continue to punish him beyond the extent of the law ( ... )
Reply
That's quite a few.
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I'm not here to be read a bedtime story.
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-Two hundred and sixteen bodies found dead on scene. No visible signs of trauma. Autopsy tests reveal no indication of internal damage, and no trace of Dark magic found. Cause of death - inconclusive... Effects of the body linked to poison. Source of contamination linked to the hospital's supply of medications, further testing shows contaminant only present in supplies stoppered by cork. Full recall of all hospital supplies issued to ascertain prevalence of tampering...
Are you familiar with this story, or should I continue.
Reply
With no question in the Minister's tone, Snape sees no reason for an answer. He opens his eyes and stares forward steel-faced with thin lips pressed together in a hard and unpleasant line.*
Reply
*He snaps the file closed and lets all the papers inside fall neatly aligned into the fold before placing it back in line with the others. Surprisingly, and with unaffected ease, he reaches for something new, something labelled 91274-b. This mystery addition would be too far away for most men to grasp without an awkward sidestep or bow, but Crouch Sr.'s limb unfolds from his body toward it with the ominous lanky detachment of a spider.*
Perhaps these files seem trivial, but there is a benefit, I assure you. Sometimes a new case seems very familiar, almost as though I've already read it somewhere before... I trust you'll remember this next one, too ( ... )
Reply
Once more, he makes no reply, and once more he presses his lips together, so tightly that they fall inward into his mouth and leave nothing but a wrinkled series of lines, making Snape look remarkably like an 90-year old man who's just swallowed a lemon.*
Reply
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That's a lie, you wouldn't need to ask so many questions if you were even half as sure as you sound.
Reply
Tonight is largely for prosperity. You are a loose end, Mr. Snape. One I will not tolerate.
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