Severus Snape and the Half-Blood Prince (34)

[montavilla]

I'd like to thank everyone who stopped by recently and left comments. It's very encouraging and, along with a certain amount of self-obsession, is the main reason I keep writing down what I imagine Snape's backstory to be.

At this point, as we're dealing with an adult Snape, I feel bound to warn you that the story is going to get more adult. It's not NC-17, by my definition. I don't think it's even R, just because I'm not a very graphic writer. But I'd say it's a good PG-13. So, for anyone out there who might be younger than 13, I'd like to warn you that you are going to find this stuff very boring.

Isn't that what PG-13 really means, after all? Full of boring adult stuff?


Tea with Katisha

It was late May and there were still pink-edged flowers on the cherry-blossom trees as Snape strode down the quiet residential street in London, the address clutched in his hand.

He had been a Death Eater for nearly six months now. It was odd to think back to the time when he hadn’t been a part of the group. True, they were largely anonymous, meeting always in their masks and black hooded cloaks, but nevertheless, there was a sense of camaraderie. They were out to change the world, after all. They were all brothers, under the hood.

And six months faithful service had brought Snape into favored status. He wasn’t most-favored. That status was reserved for people like Bellatrix Lestrange, who would have placed her hand under the Dark Lord’s foot, had it done him ease or Octavius Nott, who had been with their leader from the beginning. Or, clawing his way up the status ladder through sheer force of will, Lucius Malfoy.

It was Snape’s skill at teaching the Death Eaters to fight, talent for Occlumency, and ability to withstand pain that had brought him into favored status. His one flaw had been a center squeamishness that the Dark Lord had sensed, no doubt, on the night he had searched Snape’s mind. Searched it so vigorously that it had taken Snape several days to put it back in order.

But that flaw had been scoured out of Snape. He had, on his few raids, gathered a bit of a reputation. If he wasn’t able to magically torture, he had his own spin. To the disgust of the more fastidious Malfoy, he made a habit of snatching the youngest and prettiest girls available and taking them away for what he called “a bit of fun.”

It wasn’t a very savory reputation. But it had its uses. It kept people from asking inconvenient questions. And it kept the young girls away from the other Death Eaters. There had been occasional knocks on the doors, followed by requests to let a fellow join in, but no one really wanted to go one-on-one with the Death Eater who taught the others how to duel. If Snape was squeamish about torturing helpless captives, he was not at all about causing pain to an opponent.

The last raid, of course, coming after private Occlumency lessons with Lord Voldemort, had been a test. Snape knew that, knew that Malfoy would be instructions to watch him. Therefore, he did not leave. He did not flinch. He watched every excruciating moment as his old classmate, Irene, had been tortured and killed. It was after that raid that Lucius had been award the most-favored status. He had gone into the Inner Sanctum with the Dark Lord and returned fifteen minutes later, tucking what looked to be a small book in his breast pocket. His face had the stunned, awed look of a saint favored with a vision of his deity.

Yes, Snape had passed the test, but it turned out that there always another one waiting. Lord Voldemort now considered him ready to take on the daunting challenge of teaching at Hogwarts, but, as everyone was aware, Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of the school, might possibly disagree.

Consequently, the Committee to Get Snape a Job was formed. Lucius was in charge of gathering letters of recommendation from the Board of Governors, as his father was a member. He gathered a good many. Lord Voldemort was able to get some letters from rather remarkable sources and fussed over the growing stack like a hen over a clutch of eggs.

“This one is no good,” he said, holding up a letter from the Minister of Games and Sports. “It’s too obvious. It smacks of hubris. Besides,” his tenuously attached nose wrinkled with distaste, “he can’t even spell.”

Lucius exchanged a quick glance with Snape. “My lord,” he said, with the hesitant deference that all Death Eaters used when addressing their leader, “My experience with Dumbledore was that he didn’t pay much attention to political concerns.”

“Exactly,” Lord Voldemort fretted, rearranging the order of the letters for the hundredth time. “These recommendations are useless. Dumbledore has no respect for these people.” he frowned and pulled at that tenuously-attached nose--a habit that Lucius seemed to find terrifying, since he invariably shuddered when it occurred. Snape’s main worry about the gesture was that the Dark Lord would someday pull the nose off entirely. “I think there is one person whose opinion Dumbledore will heed. Little Prince, I need you to pay a call.”

Consequently, Snape found himself in London two days later, in front of a stone townhouse on a quiet, thoroughly respectable street lined with cherry-blossom trees. He rang the bell and was admitted by a boy in a silk white robe.

The interior of the house was startling. It had been decorated with low black lacquered furniture, potted bamboo, and silk paintings.

The woman who greeted him was shorter than Snape and much older. Her long hair was dyed black, braided, rolled, and held in place with large, golden combs. She had withered skin, cold black eyes, and cheeks that sagged at the sides. Her lips, pursed into a fretful frown, were both wrinkled and dry.

But she had moved with grace and power. Even though he had never seen her without a mask, Snape recognized her from her posture as one of Lord Voldemort’s foreign Death Eaters. She was a master of Sentou-Mahou, the most eastern of the styles present in the group.

“I see we know each other, Severus,” she said, extending a hand for him to kiss. Her veins were large and blue and the bones could be seen clearly outlined by the loosely hanging skin. “The Dark Lord has requested a favor from me. I am not disinclined to grant it, but I wanted to meet you first without your mask, so that we may know each other better.”

She put her hand against Snape’s cheek and studied his face. She had long red fingernails and it was difficult not to flinch. After a moment, she nodded and appeared pleased. “You are younger than I supposed. It is so difficult, when the Dark Lord requires such... anonymity... in his followers. Until he asked for this favor, I did not know your true name.”

“I see,” Snape said, handing his Uncle’s black cloak to the boy who had answered the door. “Does that mean that your real name is not Katisha?”

She laughed. “No, that is Lord Voldemort’s joke. It will do, though. It could have been worse. He might have called me Pitti-Sing.”

She gestured Snape over to the low table that stood on a thin rug.

There were no chairs. Snape folded his legs sideways to sit on the bamboo rug. There was a board on the table, with tiny figurines standing at attention.

“Do you play?” Katisha asked.

Snape shook his head. “I have played wizard’s chess, but this game looks different.”

“It is a variation. I prefer it. You’ll notice that there are nine squares in each row, rather than eight.”

“How do you tell one side from another?” Snape asked. The pieces all looked the same to him.

Katisha smiled. “You ask the right question. The pieces are the same. You can only tell them apart by the way they face. Indeed, one of the key differences in this game is that once you have captured a piece, he becomes yours. Thus, at any moment, a piece may change its allegiance.”

Snape stared at the pieces. Some of the tiny faces were set and determined in their loyalties. Others looked afraid. A few were looking around shiftily.

Snape noticed Katisha watching him with a smile. “Yes, the difficulty in this game is knowing which of your pieces you can trust. If you capture a pawn, will he work for you or against you? He may be captured back at any time.”

They played a game, which Snape lost. Katisha complimented him. “You lasted longer than I might have expected. You have some talent for logic.”

Snape was going through the game in his head. “I might have done better, but the rules are new to me. And,” he said ruefully, “I don’t really like chess.”

He used to play with Regulus. Regulus always won their games, which used to drive Snape crazy. He’d end up screaming at his pieces in frustration, while Regulus fell back on the cushions of the common room chairs, laughing his head off. Then, once the king was tipped over, Regulus would put his arms about his friend and gently soothe Snape’s ruffled feelings.

“I'm not surprised that you dislike it,” Katisha said. “My pieces don’t enjoy it nearly as much as I do.”

She smiled at Snape’s raised eyebrows. “Oh, did I say something rude? There can only ever be one king, you know. Everyone else is a piece that he moves.”

Snape frowned. “I don’t really like conversations where people talk about things by talking about other things.”

Katisha laughed aloud. “Perhaps my difficulty is expressing myself in a foreign tongue. But it is my observation that the Death Eaters have a thing that they do not talk about, and can only talk about by talking about other things.”

“What is that?”

The older woman picked up her king and put it into a wooden box. “The endgame, I suppose,” she said. “What happens when the king is gone.”

“Lord Voldemort’s goal is immortality,” Snape said. “He has stated this many times.”

“Do you believe he will attain it?”

Snape had no answer. Katisha nodded. “If he is immortal, then the game never ends, does it? This is why, even though he calls you his Little Prince, there are no plans for a succession?”

“Are you asking me if I think I am his successor?” Snape asked, puzzled. “I wouldn’t dare even consider that possibility!”

“No,” Katisha said. “If you did, he would strike you down immediately.”

“Even to discuss it is treason,” Snape said. He felt an extreme distrust towards Katisha. Was she trying to trap him? Was this another test?

“As I said,” Katisha said serenely, “It is the thing you cannot talk about unless you talk about other things.”

Snape tried to figure out what he ought to do. Should he leave and tell Lord Voldemort about this conversation? Or should he stay and try to get that letter that the Dark Lord thought was so vital? Which was the right move?

He glanced down and suddenly noticed that Katisha’s arm, which was uncovered in the short silk robe she wore, was unblemished. It bore no Dark Mark.

Snape started to this feet with a gasp. Katisha, following his glance, smiled and folded her hands together. “No, I do not carry the Dark Lord’s mark. That is why he wants my recommendation for you. I do not belong to him, and Albus Dumbledore knows that. They both trust my judgement.”

“Then why do you fight with Voldemort? Why do you teach his followers your spells?”

“I observe,” Katisha said. “I come from a very different world, and I enjoy studying your people. I like learning your spells--the European way of magic is very different from ours."

"For example," she said, gesturing him to sit again, "the practice of Occlumency is completely different."

He blinked, sliding back down to his knees. "How so?"

Again, she smiled. "Thought and architecture go hand in hand. You live in a world of stone castles. So, you fortify your mind. You build barriers and buttresses, bridges and gates. In my country, our houses are made of wood and paper. Consequently, we take advantage of light and shadow--tricks of perception."

"I don't understand." None of this had ever been touched on in any of his private lessons with Lord Voldemort. Or in the books he had read--with the exception of Verstand's brief mention of merging memories and imagination.

She nodded, her gaze intent upon his eyes. "But you are curious. That is good. For, believe me, Albus Dumbledore has studied this aspect of thought. He has always been a most brilliant wizard."

She waved her fan and the paper wall slid sideways, revealing a part of the room that had been hidden before. It was a quiet nook, with a large, comfortable couch and a small bookshelf.

She waved her fan again. The wall slid back, hiding the nook, then opened again, this time revealing an open door, going into an airy, sunny garden.

At the third wave, the wall revealed a live tiger upon a silk rug, with a golden chain around its huge neck. It yawned with a rumbling sound. Then the wall slid closed for the final time.

"So," Katisha said. "Each time the wall revealed something different. Which was real and which was illusion?"

Snape thought. "The garden was sunny, and it was raining as I came to your door. So that one was false."

She nodded.

"If the tiger had been there the whole time, we would have heard it before," he continued. "So, that one was false as well."

She nodded again.

"So," he concluded. "The first time the wall opened was the truth."

She smiled. "Very well thought out. Perceptive and logical. Unfortunately, all three were false."

"That's cheating!" he gasped, causing her to smile again.

"Of course it is!" she replied. "But the important thing is that you thought the first one was real because it made sense to your mind. Because it seemed plausible, you didn't question it."

She leaned forward a little. “Not even the Dark Lord has the time or energy to question every single thought in a person’s head. How much less so may an elderly man such as Albus Dumbledore?”

She clapped her hands and the boy appeared at the doorway. He was carrying a tea tray with three small ceramic cups. The boy placed the tray on the table, went over to the wall and pushed it aside.

Sure enough, there was no quiet nook behind it. Instead, there was what appeared to be a large, circular rack, attached to a wooden base and tipped at an angle. From the center of the rack radiated wooden spokes or beams, which were periodically crossed by concentric metal circles. Snape had never seen anything quite like it. But, even from the distance, he could feel the deep tracks of magic emanating from it. Dark magic. Very dark magic.

Puzzled and a bit apprehensive, he turned his attention back to the three cups before him.

"The light blue potion---" she began.

"Is a Forgetfulness Potion," he interrupted. If there was any type of potion he knew inside and out, it was the Forgetfulness Potion. "From the shade, I can tell that it would cause one to forget whatever happened in the two or three hours after it was drunk.”

She seemed taken aback. "That's correct. And the red one?"

"Painless Potion," he replied promptly. "At that strength, it would make one numb to pain for approximately an hour."

"I see you know your potions," she said. "You have hidden talents."

"I don't know what the green potion is," he confessed.

"It's tea," she said. At his inquiring eyebrow, she explained. "I don't do favors. I make exchanges. You want my letter of recommendation; I want something from you. But I am not a cruel woman. Therefore, I am providing options for you.

"What I am going to ask will not be painless. If you wish to avoid the pain, you may drink the red potion. You may well wish to forget what happens in the next few hours. If so, you may drink the blue potion. Or, of course, you may go back to your Dark Lord and tell him that you refused my offer. The choice is yours."

Snape considered for a few seconds. Then he reached for the middle cup.

"I think I'll have a cup of tea," he said. “While you tell me what it is you want.”

****

She was right about the pain. She was right about wanting to forget that night. But... on the other hand, what she did was quite the darkest magic he had ever seen anyone but Lord Voldemort perform. That, in itself, was worth remembering.

And, because he refused to dull the experience, because he paid the closest attention to her, she recognized his fascination and explained it all.

"There is a chance, of course, that you might die during the ritual," she said. "I suppose I should give you a chance to back out."

He shook his head. She nodded and drew some blood from his arm. Then, she bound the cut with a tight cotton bandage. "I can't heal it magically," she reminded him. "Not now. And if I don't bind the wound, you could easily bleed to death." Her hands were small and soothing, the skin wrinkled, papery-thin, and cool to the touch.

"You are very strong still. Very young, " she said absently as she knotted the silk ropes. "I don't think I'll need many years from you. Ten or twenty." As he flinched, she raised one eyebrow. "You don't imagine you will survive into old age, do you?"

He had never thought about it before. Wizards live longer than Muggles. The more powerful the wizard, the longer his life was likely to be. Dumbledore was well over a hundred.

But she was right. He didn't think he'd live a hundred years. Not the way that the people on both sides of the war were dying. If the years she wanted from him were useless, why did he feel such a sickening swoop of fear?

She mixed the blood with dragon's breath and sulphur, murmuring an incantation. As she stirred, the liquid hissed and spat like something alive.

When, starting with his forehead, she painted a line of runes down his body. From the moment her brush touched his forehead, he felt the burning. The light in the room began swimming in shades of red. As she painted the symbol over his neck, he gasped. Even if he wanted to turn back now, it was too late. His throat was too dry to make any coherent sound.

"Yes, it is painful," she said soothingly. "But don’t worry. It will be much worse in a little while. And then--if you live through it--it will be all better."

It took a long time for her to complete all the runes. Her hands, though withered and ancient, did not falter. She had done this many times before; he felt sure of that. All the while, the burning sensation crept over more and more of his skin. Had he not been so tightly bound to the rack, he would have been writhing uncontrollably.

He tried to distract himself by staring at a spider's web in the corner of the room. There was a fly caught in it, and the spider was slowly, tenderly, encasing it in silk, as though this were its hobby and not its livelihood.

Finally, Katisha finished with the runes. She climbed on the rack, her body close upon his. "Are you ready?" she asked him gently.

His throat was too dry to answer, but he nodded. He couldn't wait for this to be over. She placed her body carefully on top of his, her arms and legs stretching out to cover his limbs as much as possible. Skin to skin. Her black hair, falling out from its combs, mingled with his. Then, quietly, she chanted a few words in a foreign language.

As she spoke them, the burning sensation traveled from his skin to deep within his body. He gasped soundlessly. It felt like his very blood was boiling in his veins, and he strained against the ropes. Was this the hell that he'd heard about in the Muggle church his parents used to take him to? Fire and brimstone, the preacher used to cry out, the eternal torments of the sinner!

He flung his head to one side and saw a small red stain bloom upon the bandage on his arm. It grew wider. His blood was boiling, he decided, bursting out of the small cut like lava from the vent of a volcano. In another moment he would explode from within, his flesh peppering the walls in red.

He drew in great gasps of air that burned his throat.

It was only the cool relief of Katisha's skin against his that kept him from going mad. He trembled and felt himself straining every muscle to place another millimeter of skin against her.

Then, with an explosion that seemed composed of air, but not of his flesh, the heat burst out from his body. Katisha’s long hair flew upward from the force, dancing in the updraft as she tensed her muscles against the blast.

The redness dimmed from Snape’s vision. He looked into Katisha’s face and saw it grow younger. The eyes became bright, the cheeks pink and rosy. Her lips lost that wrinkled, dark color and took on the softness of rose petals. Her flesh filled out, and he felt her weight increase until she was as curved and voluptuous as any nymph.

"Well done, my little Prince," she said at last, her voice low and purring. She took his face in her soft hands and kissed him gently. "You have earned your letter of recommendation."

As for happened next, Snape decided that was mainly due to a desire on her part to celebrate her newly youthful body. He didn't mind, although at one point she asked if he loved her and laughed helplessly when he hesitated.

"Oh, my Prince," she said. "How will you fool the great Dumbledore if you can't even convince the woman in your arms that you love her?"

Indeed. Why couldn't he simply lie to her about it? Who would he betray with those few words? Regulus was dead, Lily was married, and Peggy... he had been nothing more than a tourist stop for her. So, what did it matter if he said, "I love you" to an old woman seeking the simple pleasures of youth? Who did he harm?

Still, he couldn't bring himself to say the words.

Tea with Katisha. Tea. What could be more boring than that?