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☾ waning, waxing, waning, waxing... ☽
- 'Have they ever picked the wrong man for this job,' a tall brunet man thought as he walked, his silhouette no more than an obscure shadow in the night. His robes were as black as the sky above him but his typically tanned face was as pale as the moon thankfully out of sight tonight, sweat beaded on the back of his neck and his forehead and his hands shaking and clammy. The cause for his anxiety lied in his destination, a remote manor out in the countryside that required one to travel there by foot rather than Apparate, and even more so in the people he was to meet there: Lord Voldemort, he presumed, and his followers, the Death Eaters. Remus Lupin himself had become a Death Eater not a fortnight prior, and already he had been summoned to gather with the extent of his 'colleagues'. Half an hour had passed since the Dark Mark he considered to be little more than a hideous blemish on his left forearm began to burn, and half an hour had passed since he left The Leaky Cauldron in London and arrived in Little Hangleton to seek out the Riddle House. Remus's nerves were on end and were also responsible for the churning sickness he harbored in his belly, though in his mind he was prepared to face much worse when he finally stood amongst the group of blood supremacists and murderers whose leader was a direct contradiction of what they all believed in. It made him ill to think that these witches and wizards would go to any extreme to supposedly sanctify the wizarding race and restore the pure blood that had been tainted by Muggles and half-bloods and Muggle-borns for years now, and that it was currently his job to assist them in such gruesome tasks.
What would James and Sirius have thought if he had allowed them to see him like this before he left, if he had told them what Dumbledore ordered him to do for the Order of the Phoenix? His lip caught between his teeth and he clamped down on it, his fear of rejection serving only as a confirmation that he had done the right thing in keeping it from his two best friends. It was something of a comfort to remember that he had been accepted by them back when they attended Hogwarts and his lycanthropy had led him to convince himself that he had no chance at making friends with anyone, yet he believed there was a profound difference in existing as an unwilling werewolf -- certainly not to the likes of Fenrir Greyback, for instance, who had bitten him in the first place -- and willingly holding the title of henchman or terrorist for the Dark Lord, whichever one may have preferred to call it. The possible argument regarding this that he had no other choice but to take on this long-term mission was one that had crossed his mind many times over the past two weeks, and on every occasion he came back to the same conclusion that it was simply not true. Granted, Dumbledore was a very persuasive man who used the influence of logic and perhaps a drop of guilt to coax an individual into doing something they did not particularly want to do, as had been the case with Remus, but by no means was he a man who forced the hand of another unless it was absolutely necessary. Remus's complex that made pleasing his peers a thing of vital importance had done Dumbledore's job for him, and as the tangy taste of copper from his own blood touched his tongue courtesy the hole he had created in his bottom lip, he realized that the gravity of what he had signed himself up for was unclear until he had endured the excruciating pain of being stamped with the Dark Lord's mark of possession and belonging. The souvenir he would take away from this mission was one that would stick with him for life, no matter what allegiance he genuinely gave himself up to.
So wrapped up was Remus in his thoughts that it took him several minutes to notice that he was now climbing a very steep hill. He was by default an incredibly weak man due to his debilitating condition and the difficult journey over the elevation of the land was no physical assistant, but he had somehow found the strength to overcome the obstacle and reach the top, which overlooked the acreage below and the decrepit home that sat in the middle of it. He recognized this as the home once owned by Tom Riddle Senior, Voldemort's father, that served today as the secret meeting grounds for the Death Eaters as well as a location for many other purposes, he supposed. He did not sacrifice a single moment to speculate what those miscellaneous purposes may have been, for he relied on the opportunity to at a later date when he was to be involved in those performances, so with a deep breath he resumed his pace and started this time down the deep slope of the hill. The closer he came to this sin-ridden home the faster his heart pounded, and he swallowed several times to dispose of the lump in his throat while an unsteady hand reached up to his face to push the stray hair out of his eyes. Remus at no point had ever been an exceptionally brave boy, too afraid even to stop his small group of friends from bullying students they despised while they were in school, and this reminder gave his heart all the more reason to stop beating completely. One of those boys James and Sirius liked to pick on the most, Severus Snape, was to be at this meeting according to Order members who had observed the Death Eaters from a distance in the past, engendering all likelihood that a sincere awkwardness and maybe an acute hostility would linger between them and make Remus's job complicated to a ridiculously absurd -- though well deserved -- degree. The guilt that he had not stood up to his friends and asked them to back off of the Slytherin hardly bestowed any peace, and the idea that he had joined the Death Eaters out of loathing and spite of the Gryffindors increased the intensity of the guilt tenfold.
Nothing could be said or done to reverse the consequences of that mistake, however, leaving him with no other option than to put it behind him. Remus approached the front door to the haunted dwelling and withdrew his wand from an inside pocket of his robes, the spell needed to unlock the door spoken firmly in his head and subsequently permitting him access to the interior areas. A very small supplement of confidence guided him up the rickety stairs, and he even managed to cease the shaking of his hands when he entered the large room on the second floor. To Remus's surprise, the Dark Lord was not yet in the room -- or if he was, Remus could not distinguish where -- though a significant number of his followers were. None concealed their identities with the employment of a mask, 'because they all trust each other enough,' he thought, and, uncomfortable with standing after the trip that had rendered his legs sore and tired, he seated himself in a corner of the room and awaited their leader and direct orders, his head bent over his lap to conceal his own identity by no other motivation than shame.
☾ ...my weakness lies in-between ☽
domestication
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It may have escaped your notice, but life isn't fair.
the iNTRODUCTiONS__
[ my Name ];;
Severus Tobias Snape.
Snape. Severus, if you must.
[ my Age ];;
Thirty-one years wiser.
Born 09 January, 1960.
[ my Gender ];;
Unmistakably a wizard.
[ my 'Status' ];;
Lacking the appropriate hormones,
I've no qualms with being single.
[ my Orientation ];;
Heterosexuality has been ascertained.
[ my Bloodline ];;
Pureblooded mother, Muggle father.
Half-blood would be the outcome here.
[ my Loyalty ];;
I'm no hero; self-preservation's first.
Voldemort's i nn e r _○_ C i R C L E.
[ my Name ];;
Severus Tobias Snape.
Snape. Severus, if you must.
[ my Age ];;
Thirty-one years wiser.
Born 09 January, 1960.
[ my Gender ];;
Unmistakably a wizard.
[ my 'Status' ];;
Lacking the appropriate hormones,
I've no qualms with being single.
[ my Orientation ];;
Heterosexuality has been ascertained.
[ my Bloodline ];;
Pureblooded mother, Muggle father.
Half-blood would be the outcome here.
[ my Loyalty ];;
I'm no hero; self-preservation's first.
Voldemort's i nn e r _○_ C i R C L E.
Every memory he has access to is a weapon he can use against you...
the SPECiFiCS__
[ my Wand ];;
10¾ inches & Birch & Runespoor Fang.
Birch has good bending properties.
Runespoor Fang is best for Dark Magic.
[ my Origin ];;
Born, raised, and presently residing in Manchester, Greater Manchester, England, United Kingdom.
[ my Appearance ];;
My skin is pale. My hair is black. My robes tend to also be black, as do my boots. My eyes are of an onyx hue as well.
What, you need more?
...
Fine.
A variety of characteristics might catch one's eye at first glance, however the most common is my nose -- which, no thanks to my father, is hooked. A twenty-three year old incident, my adolescent self used to believe that standing up to my father rather than fearing him could earn his respect, no matter how small the quantity; a terribly wrong assumption, of course, but with a decent blow to break my nose I had earned myself seven years of ridicule once I started school, coupled with the lesson that fetching father's liquors as I was told like a good little boy would assure the rest of my body to remain as it was originally intended. My father's nose is naturally hooked, yes, but at birth I had been blessed with my mother's (though there is no longer any evidence of that). Very few know that story, my enemies not of them.
The condition of my hair between both of my parents was nothing short of guaranteed. Black, somewhat greasy, slightly stringy, though over the years it has certainly improved from when I was a child. I prefer it not grow past the base of my neck and I will work with it using the occasional potion or two, otherwise I will leave it as is.
I mentioned that my eyes are black, I think? I don't need to expand further on that?
Natural height stands me at six feet, one inch. Add my boots and I appear three-quarters of an inch to perhaps an inch taller, standing me at six feet, two inches. My weight is relatively proportional to my height and medium build at twelve stone, or one hundred and sixty-eight pounds.
My robes haven't changed since I was eighteen, after I had left Hogwarts and no longer spent the days parading my House's crest. They're very plain, at least to me. From the bottom up, my boots are made of black genuine leather with a square toe and a touch of heel, and the legs of my trousers flare slightly to accommodate my shoes. Made of the same material as the trousers, my overcoat has a long set of buttons going up the sleeves from the hem that stop just before my elbows (concealing the Dark Mark on my left forearm), and yet another row trailing from neck to waistline. The coat itself stops just past my knees, and beneath that are two more layers: a black, long sleeved shirt tailored specifically to my frame, and a similar shirt in white singularly exposed at the neck and at the wrists of my sleeves. Over my black shirt I also wear a knotted jabot of the same color -- which is often hard to see as it is known to blend in -- and when temperature and location permits I may wear a light-weight, floor-length cloak. Death Eater robes hardly differ, but that is not to say I don't prescribe to uniform. You will never see me in Muggle wear; I was not gifted with magical capabilities to dress like a common Englishman.
[ my Personality ];;
First impressions are what one instantly bases their appraisal of you on. To my foes I am seen as a heartless b*****d and to the other Death Eaters I could only guess, but what may be in your best interest to know about me is that it is no concern of mine what you think of me, and your views will not spark a desire in me to change my attitude or whatever you surmise my issue to be. So, with that in mind, I shall continue.
I am a realist and I am a former Slytherin. Combine these traits and I will not be afraid of telling you the truth despite how bad or upsetting this news may be; add in my position as a Death Eater and it is feasible that I or a colleague of mine is to blame for it. Disgraceful, is it not?
Voldemort holds me in the highest respect. With such approval one could speculate that I work within my power to grant his ambitions, whatever the cost, and that I am faithful to his rule. One can also deduce that I am prized for my exceptional skills and strengths, for the Dark Lord would waste not even a minute for weaklings.
My trust does not lie completely with anyone. Occlumency, Legilimency, and Veritaserum are only three direct representations of the lack of trust human beings have for one another, all of which I could flawlessly produce. One's intentions are never totally pure.
There is an assortment of levels of respect I show others, determined by who you are. The Dark Lord is entitled to my full respect, as is Ms. Chase, and the rest of the Death Eaters are treated to indifferent courtesy. Members of the Resistance are offered nothing but my pity.
Childishness and thick-mindedness is something of a notable pet peeve. Tarnish your reputation for maturity if you'd like, but do not do it around me. If you are over the age of twenty, grow up or you may die before you get that firm grasp on adulthood. We all know what a tragedy that would be.
Sarcasm is typical in my speech, but any kind of mockery or ridicule is specifically deserved, not haphazardly distributed. This will be reserved mainly for members of the Resistance, and Death Eaters may also be subjected to insult should a passing comment warrant a remark.
Social inclination was a gift that did not quite reach my doorstep as a child. If I am not reporting to the Dark Lord or making plans and devising strategies amongst the Death Eaters then I will not initiate idle chatter to break silences, nor am I keen on participating in them.
My awareness is never dormant, and I clear my mind of all thoughts before I sleep. There is no such thing as being too cautious, as there is an old saying that goes 'anything can happen'.
How many Death Eaters do you suppose have a conscience? Our objective is dominance and power, and we are rarely hesitant of destroying what stands in our way. Using the Unforgivable Curses and the Dark Arts on a guilty conscience is virtually unimaginable, therefore few of us have more than mere traces of one.
Yes, I am indeed able to exhibit human feelings; it is only a question of whether doing so is appropriate at the time.
In a cornering situation I will rely on what I know and what I am capable of in lieu of resorting to cowardice, a weakness I have been known to prey on and exploit in my adversaries. My responsibilities and duties are far too vital for my apprehensions to interfere and leave me twice as vulnerable to them.
Preserving my own life is top priority. End of story.
[ my Likes ];;
»Scotch Whisky
Very possibly my favorite liquor. Self-restraint prevails over abrupt impulses nine times of every ten, but I will make an exclusion every now and then for a sporadic glass or two of scotch. The difference between my father and I is that I know when to quit whether doing so is consequential or not, and I do not rely on liquor to drive away my problems as he did. An inherent of my mother's intellect, I refuse to surrender my own life to foolish acts of drunkenness and limit the amount I drink very strictly. The effects of alcohol on the mind, after all, are anything but foreign to me.
»Potion-Making
Beneficial as it is that I am accomplished in the art, enjoying it and being gifted for it have two entirely different meanings. Over the past twenty years, since my first year of school, the stains obtained by a true brewer have accumulated as a sort of mosaic upon the skin of my hands, giving away my level of experience and the hobby I busy myself with almost every bit of time I have to spare for it. I possess a strong fascination for the way ingredients react with each other and what they can create, thus you may find me exceedingly focused but at my calmest when caught in a laboratory.
»The Dark Arts
To understand the Dark Arts, one must have an open mind and a disregard of personal stance. Defense against the Dark Arts and the Dark Arts themselves share a common ground in that to fully understand one, the other should be equally understood. I do not practice its defenses unless the Dark Arts are being used against me, however the concepts of both I have found useful and helpful to take awareness of and practice. As this is my personal opinion, I would imagine most Death Eaters have no mastery of the Patronus Charm like I do, for example, which is not surprising as I myself have yet to use it. I enjoy the Dark Arts and the potency of their effects, making it an easy skill (just like potion-making) to conquer.
»Researching
Had I not been a Slytherin I undoubtedly would have been sorted into Ravenclaw. If in my free time I am not seen working in my laboratory, you are likely to catch me with a quill, a few blank scrolls of parchment, and a fair number of volumes pulled from any and all topics that could come to mind. I credit about two-thirds of my knowledge to independent research and trial testing, and I take the most acute interest in topics that have little known facts about them or topics that are based largely on unproven theory. I far from expect to make any discoveries of my own, but I enjoy building and expanding on others' ideas all the same.
»Solitude
Silence is golden, and in my case, hard to come by.
[ my Dislikes ];;
»Muggle Customs
Base everything you think you know about me on my bloodline and your knowledge will be horribly skewed or incorrect. Should your brain prove to be any larger than the size of a pea you could deduce that my position within the Dark Lord's ranks speaks for my obvious distaste for Muggles and their customs, as well as my lack of concern for the preservation of their race. Similar to the stances of other Death Eaters, I too believe that they serve no purpose and should be eliminated from our society, where I feel they make no positive impact. I am shamed to have any traces of Muggle heritage, but I redeem myself with my skills as a wizard.
»The Resistance
I dislike my enemies. Contradictory ideals, detestable qualities and all.
»Weaknesses
Weaknesses are the root of all failure. Isolate them lest they betray you.
»Puerility
If you are over the age of twenty and do not act it, I can do without your company.
»Naïvety
Most often seen in members of the Resistance, naïvety is a classic sign of stupidity. Nothing in life is simple, life's problems are not all limited to a single cause, and as I had learned early on in my childhood, life isn't fair. Most Death Eaters have grown up under no illusion of anything to the contrary, which may explain why we are several touches more realistic and do not fight for the opportunity of a fabled, uncorrupted world. The Resistance fights a rather useless battle; were it not the Dark Lord and his followers posing the threat it would be some other kind of dark power equally dangerous and unstoppable, and they would equally have no chance of succeeding over that power.
[ my Wand ];;
10¾ inches & Birch & Runespoor Fang.
Birch has good bending properties.
Runespoor Fang is best for Dark Magic.
[ my Origin ];;
Born, raised, and presently residing in Manchester, Greater Manchester, England, United Kingdom.
[ my Appearance ];;
My skin is pale. My hair is black. My robes tend to also be black, as do my boots. My eyes are of an onyx hue as well.
What, you need more?
...
Fine.
A variety of characteristics might catch one's eye at first glance, however the most common is my nose -- which, no thanks to my father, is hooked. A twenty-three year old incident, my adolescent self used to believe that standing up to my father rather than fearing him could earn his respect, no matter how small the quantity; a terribly wrong assumption, of course, but with a decent blow to break my nose I had earned myself seven years of ridicule once I started school, coupled with the lesson that fetching father's liquors as I was told like a good little boy would assure the rest of my body to remain as it was originally intended. My father's nose is naturally hooked, yes, but at birth I had been blessed with my mother's (though there is no longer any evidence of that). Very few know that story, my enemies not of them.
The condition of my hair between both of my parents was nothing short of guaranteed. Black, somewhat greasy, slightly stringy, though over the years it has certainly improved from when I was a child. I prefer it not grow past the base of my neck and I will work with it using the occasional potion or two, otherwise I will leave it as is.
I mentioned that my eyes are black, I think? I don't need to expand further on that?
Natural height stands me at six feet, one inch. Add my boots and I appear three-quarters of an inch to perhaps an inch taller, standing me at six feet, two inches. My weight is relatively proportional to my height and medium build at twelve stone, or one hundred and sixty-eight pounds.
My robes haven't changed since I was eighteen, after I had left Hogwarts and no longer spent the days parading my House's crest. They're very plain, at least to me. From the bottom up, my boots are made of black genuine leather with a square toe and a touch of heel, and the legs of my trousers flare slightly to accommodate my shoes. Made of the same material as the trousers, my overcoat has a long set of buttons going up the sleeves from the hem that stop just before my elbows (concealing the Dark Mark on my left forearm), and yet another row trailing from neck to waistline. The coat itself stops just past my knees, and beneath that are two more layers: a black, long sleeved shirt tailored specifically to my frame, and a similar shirt in white singularly exposed at the neck and at the wrists of my sleeves. Over my black shirt I also wear a knotted jabot of the same color -- which is often hard to see as it is known to blend in -- and when temperature and location permits I may wear a light-weight, floor-length cloak. Death Eater robes hardly differ, but that is not to say I don't prescribe to uniform. You will never see me in Muggle wear; I was not gifted with magical capabilities to dress like a common Englishman.
[ my Personality ];;
First impressions are what one instantly bases their appraisal of you on. To my foes I am seen as a heartless b*****d and to the other Death Eaters I could only guess, but what may be in your best interest to know about me is that it is no concern of mine what you think of me, and your views will not spark a desire in me to change my attitude or whatever you surmise my issue to be. So, with that in mind, I shall continue.
I am a realist and I am a former Slytherin. Combine these traits and I will not be afraid of telling you the truth despite how bad or upsetting this news may be; add in my position as a Death Eater and it is feasible that I or a colleague of mine is to blame for it. Disgraceful, is it not?
Voldemort holds me in the highest respect. With such approval one could speculate that I work within my power to grant his ambitions, whatever the cost, and that I am faithful to his rule. One can also deduce that I am prized for my exceptional skills and strengths, for the Dark Lord would waste not even a minute for weaklings.
My trust does not lie completely with anyone. Occlumency, Legilimency, and Veritaserum are only three direct representations of the lack of trust human beings have for one another, all of which I could flawlessly produce. One's intentions are never totally pure.
There is an assortment of levels of respect I show others, determined by who you are. The Dark Lord is entitled to my full respect, as is Ms. Chase, and the rest of the Death Eaters are treated to indifferent courtesy. Members of the Resistance are offered nothing but my pity.
Childishness and thick-mindedness is something of a notable pet peeve. Tarnish your reputation for maturity if you'd like, but do not do it around me. If you are over the age of twenty, grow up or you may die before you get that firm grasp on adulthood. We all know what a tragedy that would be.
Sarcasm is typical in my speech, but any kind of mockery or ridicule is specifically deserved, not haphazardly distributed. This will be reserved mainly for members of the Resistance, and Death Eaters may also be subjected to insult should a passing comment warrant a remark.
Social inclination was a gift that did not quite reach my doorstep as a child. If I am not reporting to the Dark Lord or making plans and devising strategies amongst the Death Eaters then I will not initiate idle chatter to break silences, nor am I keen on participating in them.
My awareness is never dormant, and I clear my mind of all thoughts before I sleep. There is no such thing as being too cautious, as there is an old saying that goes 'anything can happen'.
How many Death Eaters do you suppose have a conscience? Our objective is dominance and power, and we are rarely hesitant of destroying what stands in our way. Using the Unforgivable Curses and the Dark Arts on a guilty conscience is virtually unimaginable, therefore few of us have more than mere traces of one.
Yes, I am indeed able to exhibit human feelings; it is only a question of whether doing so is appropriate at the time.
In a cornering situation I will rely on what I know and what I am capable of in lieu of resorting to cowardice, a weakness I have been known to prey on and exploit in my adversaries. My responsibilities and duties are far too vital for my apprehensions to interfere and leave me twice as vulnerable to them.
Preserving my own life is top priority. End of story.
[ my Likes ];;
»Scotch Whisky
Very possibly my favorite liquor. Self-restraint prevails over abrupt impulses nine times of every ten, but I will make an exclusion every now and then for a sporadic glass or two of scotch. The difference between my father and I is that I know when to quit whether doing so is consequential or not, and I do not rely on liquor to drive away my problems as he did. An inherent of my mother's intellect, I refuse to surrender my own life to foolish acts of drunkenness and limit the amount I drink very strictly. The effects of alcohol on the mind, after all, are anything but foreign to me.
»Potion-Making
Beneficial as it is that I am accomplished in the art, enjoying it and being gifted for it have two entirely different meanings. Over the past twenty years, since my first year of school, the stains obtained by a true brewer have accumulated as a sort of mosaic upon the skin of my hands, giving away my level of experience and the hobby I busy myself with almost every bit of time I have to spare for it. I possess a strong fascination for the way ingredients react with each other and what they can create, thus you may find me exceedingly focused but at my calmest when caught in a laboratory.
»The Dark Arts
To understand the Dark Arts, one must have an open mind and a disregard of personal stance. Defense against the Dark Arts and the Dark Arts themselves share a common ground in that to fully understand one, the other should be equally understood. I do not practice its defenses unless the Dark Arts are being used against me, however the concepts of both I have found useful and helpful to take awareness of and practice. As this is my personal opinion, I would imagine most Death Eaters have no mastery of the Patronus Charm like I do, for example, which is not surprising as I myself have yet to use it. I enjoy the Dark Arts and the potency of their effects, making it an easy skill (just like potion-making) to conquer.
»Researching
Had I not been a Slytherin I undoubtedly would have been sorted into Ravenclaw. If in my free time I am not seen working in my laboratory, you are likely to catch me with a quill, a few blank scrolls of parchment, and a fair number of volumes pulled from any and all topics that could come to mind. I credit about two-thirds of my knowledge to independent research and trial testing, and I take the most acute interest in topics that have little known facts about them or topics that are based largely on unproven theory. I far from expect to make any discoveries of my own, but I enjoy building and expanding on others' ideas all the same.
»Solitude
Silence is golden, and in my case, hard to come by.
[ my Dislikes ];;
»Muggle Customs
Base everything you think you know about me on my bloodline and your knowledge will be horribly skewed or incorrect. Should your brain prove to be any larger than the size of a pea you could deduce that my position within the Dark Lord's ranks speaks for my obvious distaste for Muggles and their customs, as well as my lack of concern for the preservation of their race. Similar to the stances of other Death Eaters, I too believe that they serve no purpose and should be eliminated from our society, where I feel they make no positive impact. I am shamed to have any traces of Muggle heritage, but I redeem myself with my skills as a wizard.
»The Resistance
I dislike my enemies. Contradictory ideals, detestable qualities and all.
»Weaknesses
Weaknesses are the root of all failure. Isolate them lest they betray you.
»Puerility
If you are over the age of twenty and do not act it, I can do without your company.
»Naïvety
Most often seen in members of the Resistance, naïvety is a classic sign of stupidity. Nothing in life is simple, life's problems are not all limited to a single cause, and as I had learned early on in my childhood, life isn't fair. Most Death Eaters have grown up under no illusion of anything to the contrary, which may explain why we are several touches more realistic and do not fight for the opportunity of a fabled, uncorrupted world. The Resistance fights a rather useless battle; were it not the Dark Lord and his followers posing the threat it would be some other kind of dark power equally dangerous and unstoppable, and they would equally have no chance of succeeding over that power.
the iNNER SECRETS__
[ my History* ];;
»16 July, 1986
{{ "What do you have for me, Severus?"
"News, my lord. Excellent news."
"Very well. Come forward."
The house was as much old and decrepit as it was abandoned, as were all of the homes Voldemort chose to confront his Death Eaters in. Severus Snape obediently stepped forward from his position in the doorway of a darkened parlor, his thin frame shrouded in the billowing cloak that hung about his shoulders, and the flicker of the candlelight lit up his face once he had approached the Dark Lord at a respectable distance. Snape's protection of Occlumency instantly flared as he bent in a low bow, and he paused in this fashion until Voldemort spoke again, his voice used as a signal to straighten.
"I trust you have succeeded in your mission?"
"Yes, my lord, I have."
"But this is not what you have come to tell me."
It was not a question.
"No, it is not."
The slightest of smiles curved the Dark Lord's lips. He knew each and every one of his Death Eaters explicitly; what they were capable of, how loyal they were, and how hard each would work to satisfy their master's needs. Severus at this point had yet to do anything remarkable, his aptitude for potions and the Dark Arts admirable but by then largely acknowledged. Voldemort knew that Severus had the potential to do amazing things for the Death Eaters, and what the young man was about to tell him only proved that. What Severus was about to tell him would call for an instant promotion in rank, the reward of a coveted position within the Dark Lord's inner circle. He would be granted information other Death Eaters hadn't the faintest ideas of, and the opportunity to collaborate with the Dark Lord himself when it was requested. Severus, with this information, personally assisted greatly in Voldemort's triumph.
"Go on," Voldemort responded, a glimmer sparking in his eyes.
"My lord," Snape said with a flourish to his voice and a boastful curl to his lip, "I have overheard and can recite word for word the very prophecy you feared would desecrate your rise to power." }}
'The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies...' With my accidental eavesdropping of Trelawney's prophecy I rose above most of Voldemort's Death Eaters at the amateur age of twenty-six, above Death Eaters who had been many years longer than I on the condition of secrecy I was sworn to until a select group of Death Eaters could issue the attacks. The Dark Lord was able to target the families of the Potters and the Longbottoms and eliminate these prophetic threats, and it is all to my credit with the medal of his trust to show for it.
»03 May, 1984
{{ "What is this?"
"Syrup of hellebore."
A pause.
"Syrup of what?"
"Hellebore. A flower, Rine."
"Oh."
Black eyes watched a tall, curvaceous figure stand in the middle of an open storage cupboard and turn in slow circles as she inspected the shelves, stopping at times to reach out a slender hand for a flask or vial that caught her attention. The container would be held at eye-level as she looked through the clear glass, and if she could not determine what the substance was, would spin to face the open door and meet the onyx gaze that so intently focused upon her to inquire. Once the woman received her response from her companion and was satisfied with her understanding, the glassware would return to its place on the shelf and a new one would be found to peruse. This process repeated several times, but the man who answered her never tired of her questions. He took very little interest in his book, which was opened to a page with his fingers as it rested, forgotten, in his lap.
"And these, Severus? They look disgusting."
"You would have to show 'them' to me, Rine."
"Good Merlin, no. I'm not touching the flask. Come see."
Amusement twitched at the corners of Severus's mouth as he stood, tossing the closed book on the padding of the chair before he stepped into the cupboard behind her kneeling frame and leaned down to follow her pointing finger.
"Those are scarab beetles."
Her ivory nose scrunched.
"They are used in Wit-Sharpening Potions. May I assume that you would never need one?"
"Yes, you may." }}
Speaking by means of personal, salient happenings, a past affair between Katharin Chase and I almost seven years ago takes the place of most recent. As Slytherins at Hogwarts of the same age our history goes as far back as our third year, however intimacy was not an aspect of our relationship until the closing of our seventh. Her departure for Germany halted such affectionate advances until her return six years later -- during which she took up residence with me in Spinner's End for a period of roughly twelve months due to the alienation of her parents after her brother's death -- and amongst other things that time was spent by Rine arranging the ingredients of my cupboards from least to most revolting as I experimented with possible cures for chronic migraines. Our eventual separation, engendered by my bloodline and the emotional effects of her migraines, in no way depleted our friendship.
»28 November, 1973
{{ "Mr. Snape, if you will please pair with Ms. Chase?"
"Yes, Professor Slughorn."
"Thank you, my boy." His voice rose to direct the rest of the class. "All right, everyone! Your solutions must be done by the end of the lesson, so get started and do not waste your time!"
A dark-haired boy clad in Slytherin robes stood from his seat in the front of the room and relocated to the middle of the room, taking the empty chair next to a blue-eyed girl with pale skin and hair as dark as his own. He said nothing to her, his attention drawn to the blackboard in front of the class to skim instructions, and he lit a fire under their cauldron with his wand as he simultaneously opened his text book to the correct chapter. With the list of needed ingredients in mind, Severus disappeared into the storage cupboards and returned several minutes later with an armful of glass containers, and once the ingredients had been organized upon the table, Snape took up the task of preparing them to be added to their Shrinking Solution. Their cauldron was the only one in the room to already be simmering.
"Is the mixture supposed to be bubbling like that now?" the girl next to Snape asked. She did not offer to assist him.
"It is, Katharin," he confirmed without looking up.
"No one else's is."
"Everyone else is slow." A group of chopped daisy roots made it into the cauldron. "If nothing else you know how to stir, right? Anticlockwise until I tell you to stop, so I can skin our shrivelfigs."
Towards the end of class Professor Slughorn wandered amongst his students to observe their progress, volunteering a brief critique for each table he met. Severus's potion was the first to immediately catch his eye when he reached the two, as did most (if not all) of his potions, and his Head of House peered into the cauldron, the acid green liquid frothing and steaming at the low heat of the fire beneath it. He chuckled jovially.
"Outstanding!" he beamed. "Outstanding! 'O's for the both of you Mr. Snape, Ms. Chase!"
"Thank you, sir." And when Slughorn persisted with the rest of his inspections Katharin smiled, "and thank you for the mark."
"Anytime." }}
For eighteen years Katharin and I have known each other; twelve if you subtract the time she spent in Germany. As teenagers we were prone to partnerships in Potions especially when faced with the challenge of creating a new brew, and it was and is still my belief that these partnerships earned her passing marks year after year at Hogwarts. She has always been extraordinary with other subjects -- the Dark Arts, Astronomy, Charms, Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Transfiguration -- but Potions had never seemed to suit her, nor did she seem to suit it. With every lesson our friendship built and we steadily grew more open with each other, and with this unrestricted discourse she easily became the one person who knows me best. This hasn't changed in the past eighteen years, and I think it unlikely to.
»09 January, 1966
{{ "Mum?"
"Sweetheart?"
"Why does dad hate us so much?"
Eileen Snape was rendered motionless when her son spoke, the bite of cake on her fork dropping back onto the plate it came from before it could reach her mouth. She recovered quickly, forcing herself from the trance of her shock with a shake of her head, and her fingers combed carefully through Severus's hair as she looked about the room. Severus and his mother were holed up in his parents' bedroom, letters charmed to read 'Happy Birthday, Severus!' and shimmer like fireworks as they floated above the wall-mounted vanity mirror while a half-eaten birthday cake sat on a small platter next to them on the nightstand. A minute group of unopened, colorful presents decorated the foot of the bed and Eileen leaned to grab one of these presents, flashing it before his eyes in hopes of distracting him.
"Open one of your presents, Severus," she said, and her son took the package. An untrimmed nail picked at the wrapping.
"Mum, please," the younger Snape urged. "I want to know, and I know you do."
He was a smart boy; it was hard to change his mind, it was hard to veer him away from anything he sought after, and it was hard to fool him out of the truth. Not even his mother had those powers.
"It's because we're magic. Your father is no longer tolerant of it, I'm afraid."
"Was he ever?" A frown seized half of his mouth.
"Are you six or are you twenty-six, darling? It is not for you to analyze," she told him kindly.
"Yes it is. I deserve to know why my dad hates his family, and why you and I are shut up in here while he gets drunk downstairs. We deserve to know."
The nostrils of his button nose flared with anger, and he looked up to the mirror across the room to view his reflection. Over his shoulder he saw his mother, her eyes connecting with his in the speculum, and his features softened into solid disappointment. He sat back against her and her arms snaked around his slim midsection.
"It's all right," she whispered with her mouth next to his ear, and Severus relaxed at his mother's words and touch. "We have each other, Severus. That's all that matters, now, isn't it? I love you no matter what."
"I love you too, mum. No matter what." }}
I loved my mother dearly until her death in 1976. I was sixteen, and received the news from the Headmaster himself in the middle of a Transfiguration lesson when I was excused to read the owl that had been sent to the school. It had never been clear to me how she died but I always speculated my father to have had a hand in it, whether he spontaneously grew sick of her or a row between them was taken a step too far. She had been in excellent health.
My father followed her about two years later, but I would rather not talk much of him. I fathom he died of his alcoholism, and he was alone in that dreary old house when he did. When I came of age to legally depend on myself in the wizarding world I did just that, working for the Dark Lord to prove myself while Katharin was away and returning to Manchester to get it all in order only when he passed on and I became the owner of the house. Spinner's End does not bring back many fond memories, but what few I have are of my mother and time spent with her. My father never existed to me, as one cannot truly exist without a heart; I lend my deduction of this to the verbal and physical abuse he treated my mother and me to when he saw fit as I was growing up, which frequently and subsequently tore my family apart.
*The lack of reminiscences pertaining to his father stems from his use of Occlumency to repress any recollections he had of him. He has never spoken of his father to anyone.
[ my Magical Talents ];;
- »Occlumency & Legilimency
My skills as an Occlumens and as a Legilimens are second only to my potion-making skills. I admittedly excel far better in Occlumency simply because I am more often guarding my own mind than reading others', however I could succeed in performing either when I am subjected to the need. While Legilimency works as an offensive skill and may very well assist your triumph in battle, Occlumency is a defensive tool that will ultimately assure your life when brought before the Dark Lord. One would be foolish to expect to survive against him without it, whether you're a Death Eater or a weak hearted do-gooder.
»The Unforgivable Curses
Would you expect anything to the contrary? Yes, I have used each of the three curses before. I have manipulated, tortured, killed and I do not regret it or lose any sleep over it. I will do what needs to be done, and if that in some way interferes with your life or comes to end it, well, how very unfortunate for you. It is not my job or my place to pity you, spare you, or make you think I can be swayed with negotiation. I answer to the Dark Lord and destroy what obstructs his work; if you have a problem with that, I invite you to take it up with him yourself.
»Creating New Spells
As a teenager I had something of a penchant for creating new spells, curses, and hexes. In battle I sometimes have the upper hand as my opponent does not recognize the spells I use or what their affects may entail, subsequently making it easier for me to perform verbal spells without requiring the full focus to perform nonverbal spells. I far from advise my enemies to fret -- the only spell I will take from my personal palette is one I had created in my fifth year by the name of Sectumsempra, which in Latin translates literally to 'always cut'. Surely you have some idea of what that particular spell does.
»Potion-Making
Whereas you may find it typical that a former Slytherin happens to be good at potions, I will start by saying that the majority of students in my year (even Slytherins) never made it to the O.W.L courses. Potion-making is a very precise art that requires time and patience, as well as the willingness to experiment. In school I'd never received anything less than an O, mind you, and I continue to advance in my skills with whatever the Dark Lord asks of me. I work better with a cauldron than I do a wand and a fatal brew over a deadly spell, so think twice before you underestimate me.
»Healing Magic
Last checked, St. Mungo's didn't make house calls. Basic healing spells at the very least are more than achievable by any witch or wizard, but basic spells have not always proven to be enough and usually call for additional knowledge. The role of potion-making for medicinal purposes is just as or at times more important than the healing spells themselves, and most healing spells have their own counterparts in potions which have the odds very much in my favor. Regardless, I am familiar with both forms of healing should every other capability fail me, and supplementary practice and research has taken my own proficiency above the fundamentals.
[ my Non-Magical Talents ];;
- »Cognitive Manipulation
The equivalent to Legilimency and a convenient replacement for half the energy. As few are truly adept at Occlumency it is less complicated and more sufficient to psychologically manipulate a person by warping their thought processes to coincide with and serve my own, and unlike the Imperius Curse, dispose of any suspicion. With this application many petty tasks are done for me such as the revealing of information and the collection of valuable resources, and I prefer this to Legilimency due to its higher success rating and multiple methods of execution.
»Long-Term Memory
Unless a mission for the Dark Lord orders me to surrender sensitive memories from the prying eyes of a Legilimens, I have no uses for a Pensieve. With exquisite detail I can recall each and every event of my life from the young age of four to my current age of thirty-one without flaw, the good accounts and the bad accounts. It is more a curse than a blessing as most of these accounts do not summon favorable sentiments of any kind, but the ones that do I subconsciously guard above the others in the likelihood that these sentiments would and could be used as weapons against me. I will not allow past frivolities to serve as my weaknesses.
»Self-Control
Definition: control of one's emotions, desires, or actions by one's own will. Body, mind, and temperament, in other words. You will find that I do consider temperament and sensibilities to be weaknesses of mine, however some wizards can very insignificantly take reign over these weaknesses. For instance, when anger fogs my common sense I follow the Dark Lord's commands without question, suddenly unequipped with an opinion, and when feelings split my absolution in a compromise I compromise it even further. I tolerate a great deal to earn my self-control, as it is a crucial skill that keeps me alive under Voldemort's rule.
»Fluent Latin
To fulfill my mother’s wishes I had become well-versed in speaking and writing Latin at the age of seven, prior to my acceptance into Hogwarts. For two hours out of each day she would sit at the kitchen table with me as the dishes she enchanted in the sink scrubbed themselves clean, reading out of the self-teaching book she had purchased from Flourish and Blotts while I studied the suggested exercises. These sessions lasted for about eight months when I was six, and by the time I turned seven I had mastered the language and began using this skill for creating my own spells throughout the seven years of my schooling.
»Deception
The equivalent to Occlumency. When it comes to the unsurpassable talent for Legilimency the Dark Lord possesses, a Death Eater is best protected with two very agnate masteries: the mastery of lying and the mastery of Occlumency. I have a substantial knack for both, since without one the other is essentially useless; this is because a lie can be detected through the reading of one's accessible mind, and because an implausible lie will be noticed no matter how potent one's Occlumency is. Subtlety and credibility are the advantageous keys to deception.
[ my Weaknesses ];;
- »Wandless Magic -- Learning to perfect nonverbal magic as a teenager was enough of a challenge; without my wand I am afraid my opponent has the magical upper hand in battle.
»Temperament -- Angering me is absurdly simple given that I have not grown accustomed to the nuisance in question. Indignation has been known to cloud my judgment, rendering it useless or unhelpful, and to a small extent degrade my sense of self-control.
»Presumption -- Once I make my suppositions of you they do not change, and because of this I often overestimate or underestimate others. I have tried with little fruition to curb this habit.
»Sensibilities -- To my disappointment my feelings influence many of my choices and actions. I have only ever confided in two individuals, one of whom passed on several years ago.
»Jealousy -- What luxuries some have always been able to expect in life I wouldn't dare dream of. Jealousy is a mediocre and pathetic emotion I have never outwardly expressed, yet it has been a constant and devoted companion of mine for years.
...you wouldn't last two seconds if he invades your mind.
the CONCLUSiONS__
[ my Theme Song ];;
'Moonlight Sonata' by Beethoven is adequate background music.
[ her Username ];;
Alissya
[ her Post Colors ];;
What I think doesn't always reflect what I "say" and do.
{color #333333} -- {darkgreen} -- {black}
[ my Theme Song ];;
'Moonlight Sonata' by Beethoven is adequate background music.
[ her Username ];;
Alissya
[ her Post Colors ];;
What I think doesn't always reflect what I "say" and do.
{color #333333} -- {darkgreen} -- {black}
domestication
Offline
{ right now severus snape is beginning a brew in his basement lab, and is rather at ease }
The upper two floors of Severus Snape's residence in Spinner's End were doused in darkness, quietness, and tranquility; three of his most favorite states of being. Curtains of a thick material covered the windows and any possibility of peering into the home, a fire in the grate had been recently extinguished, and no sign of obvious life was present even if one were able to steal a glance inside. The owner -- Snape, Death Eater, potions brewer, antisocialist, all were acceptable -- concentrated his attendance and work that early, early morning in the basement of his cramped, tri-level home, clothes slightly disheveled and hair slightly mused as his gaze traveled the length of his nose to view the frothing contents of his cauldron. One pale hand wielded a metal stirring rod while his other rested at ease behind his back, revealed only to add another ingredient to his mixture or to soothe a physical discomfort that plagued him, but the dark man was otherwise unmoving and camouflaged by the severe lack of penetrating light.
This type of behavior, at times to the dismay of the man, was not uncommon and was utilized in various ways. Much unlike this night, Severus readily prepared and preoccupied himself with a spectrum of tasks ranging from formal productivity in the form of Death Eater assistance to leisurely activities such as light reading and experimentation, but on this night, the object of his procedures would offer the very formula to release the firm grasp of consciousness that so unwillingly prodded both body and mind: a simple sleeping draught. At the very realization of the purpose of his task he allowed a small yawn to pass through his lips, followed almost immediately by a noisy, exasperated sigh. There was no question concerning the origin of his insomnia, but as he thought with distaste, Katharin Chase was unlikely to be returning these same sentiments at such an early time.
For quite the span of time was his agenda composed of stirring, adding ingredients, and stirring once more, the idle hand behind his back becoming this less and less as he neared completion of the much-needed liquid. A lethargic left hand was pulled from behind his back, this time in pursuit of a small quantity of ground sopophorous bean contained within a simple crystal phial, but at a disturbance of his hand-eye coordination, knocked the glassware onto the floor instead. A curse slipped unheard by a second pair of ears from his mouth, but a sound followed by the shattering of glass prevented him from taking any immediate action. The knocking at his front door -- not once, twice, but four times consecutively -- stole his attention, so, once he had taken up his wand from the counter, Severus proceeded up the stairs to answer this unexpected call.
As he approached the front door, Severus's wariness of the mysterious visitor woke him from his enchanting stupor, replacing it with a cautious, Occlumency-inclined mentality. It was not typical of the ex-Slytherin to anticipate company so late at night -- or so early in the morning, depending on how you looked at it -- nor did he believe that the man or woman waiting outdoors could possibly bear good news. His wand equipped in his right hand concealed behind his back, Severus managed turning the knob with his left, opening the door just enough to expose the full width of his body.
"Katharin," Severus said softly. Thoughts and emotions flooded him much too quickly and in surplus as he looked down at her; Katharin Chase, a friend since Hogwarts who he had assumed to currently be in Munich, graced him with her staggering five foot nine stature. Here, in Manchester of all places! His unsurpassed six foot one frame did not hesitate to step out of the doorway, and with a wave of his hand, beckoned her inside before he would say anything more. When she had, the door was shut and locked again and a flick of his wand illuminated the candles placed throughout the entrance hall. He turned to her, the skin beneath his eyes dark, discolored, and portraying his tiredness, and he ran a lazy hand through his hair to straighten it.
"As much as I would like to believe it, I fear this is not a sporadic, arbitrary visit," he commented, merely paving the way for conversation before he silenced.
This type of behavior, at times to the dismay of the man, was not uncommon and was utilized in various ways. Much unlike this night, Severus readily prepared and preoccupied himself with a spectrum of tasks ranging from formal productivity in the form of Death Eater assistance to leisurely activities such as light reading and experimentation, but on this night, the object of his procedures would offer the very formula to release the firm grasp of consciousness that so unwillingly prodded both body and mind: a simple sleeping draught. At the very realization of the purpose of his task he allowed a small yawn to pass through his lips, followed almost immediately by a noisy, exasperated sigh. There was no question concerning the origin of his insomnia, but as he thought with distaste, Katharin Chase was unlikely to be returning these same sentiments at such an early time.
For quite the span of time was his agenda composed of stirring, adding ingredients, and stirring once more, the idle hand behind his back becoming this less and less as he neared completion of the much-needed liquid. A lethargic left hand was pulled from behind his back, this time in pursuit of a small quantity of ground sopophorous bean contained within a simple crystal phial, but at a disturbance of his hand-eye coordination, knocked the glassware onto the floor instead. A curse slipped unheard by a second pair of ears from his mouth, but a sound followed by the shattering of glass prevented him from taking any immediate action. The knocking at his front door -- not once, twice, but four times consecutively -- stole his attention, so, once he had taken up his wand from the counter, Severus proceeded up the stairs to answer this unexpected call.
As he approached the front door, Severus's wariness of the mysterious visitor woke him from his enchanting stupor, replacing it with a cautious, Occlumency-inclined mentality. It was not typical of the ex-Slytherin to anticipate company so late at night -- or so early in the morning, depending on how you looked at it -- nor did he believe that the man or woman waiting outdoors could possibly bear good news. His wand equipped in his right hand concealed behind his back, Severus managed turning the knob with his left, opening the door just enough to expose the full width of his body.
"Katharin," Severus said softly. Thoughts and emotions flooded him much too quickly and in surplus as he looked down at her; Katharin Chase, a friend since Hogwarts who he had assumed to currently be in Munich, graced him with her staggering five foot nine stature. Here, in Manchester of all places! His unsurpassed six foot one frame did not hesitate to step out of the doorway, and with a wave of his hand, beckoned her inside before he would say anything more. When she had, the door was shut and locked again and a flick of his wand illuminated the candles placed throughout the entrance hall. He turned to her, the skin beneath his eyes dark, discolored, and portraying his tiredness, and he ran a lazy hand through his hair to straighten it.
"As much as I would like to believe it, I fear this is not a sporadic, arbitrary visit," he commented, merely paving the way for conversation before he silenced.
{ right now severus snape is waiting for an explanation, and is surprised by Katharin's appearance }
domestication
Offline
{ right now severus snape is sitting in his armchair, reading, and couldn't be more relaxed }
The fire crackling in its grate lit and heated the small, otherwise dark living area of the home on Spinner’s End in a brilliant orange glow, bathing the surrounding surfaces in colored light that also reflected in the face of the pale man sitting before it. One leg squared over the other, a leather-bound book fitted snugly in the middle of his lap; the room was still but for the rustling of a page turning or the occasional shift in position of the man in his winged armchair, his expression blank but for the knitting of his eyebrows as he concentrated upon his text. His person was abnormally unmoving, the lack of a tapping foot or noticeable changes in the way he sat providing an unintended camouflage against the untrained eye, but that was not to say the man required this concealment or at all entertained the notion that he did. It had not escaped him that two hours prior to the current time he was under the obligation of making an appearance in Diagon Alley where the rest of the Death Eaters undoubtedly were, however the below-freezing temperatures that iced his curtained windows and the necessary adjustment of his attire from a lightweight cloak to heavier outerwear had turned him off of the idea of stepping foot outside altogether. It abated any concerns he may have had to know that it was not a personal manhunt he could expect from any members of his party as a result of this delay when his presence grew to be more urgently needed, but the irritable reactions of one woman in particular that would arrive in the form of her Patronus, an ocelot, which would stimulate his eventual departure.
Standing to clarify his full height of six feet, two inches, the page marker that had been summoned to Severus Snape's opened hand was slipped between the pieces of aged parchment and the book itself sent to its original place on the shelf across the room. Two minor flicks of his wand exchanged the illumination of the fire for that of several candles placed strategically throughout the parlor, and Severus's silhouette filled in with the finer details of his frame. His current state would be what he considered a mess as he observed his reflection in the mirror up on the mantle, his jabot hanging unknotted round the back of his neck and his overcoat unbuttoned many more times than he preferred. His cloak hung awkwardly about his shoulders from his position in the chair, and his shirts were untucked at the waist and uneven at the wrists, strings of raven hair frizzy and out of place. Severus first relieved himself of his cloak, tossed carelessly over the back of the threadbare sofa, and stepped noiselessly into a side bathroom where a comb worked through his almost matted hair to straighten it and create a distinguishable middle part. The black jabot against his neck was tied with the expertise of fingers that had done so many times, and the remaining buttons of his coat were done up by hand and stopped at his collarbone after his black and white shirts were tucked properly into the waistline of his trousers. At the approval of his appearance he returned to the cramped entrance hall of the house, his black eyes instantaneously registering the cloudy wisps of a well-defined Patronus: an ocelot. Severus had anticipated the animal’s company for some time now, and wondered what had hindered Katharin from sending it earlier.
"I am due to leave in just a moment," the Death Eater said patiently, and he stilled as the ocelot threaded between his ankles and circled him. His gaze snapped up as the creature bounded across the hall to sit in front of the door and hiss, and Severus chuckled. "I surmise this Patronus was nonverbal." It was easy to ascertain this, of course, by the absence of Katharin's voice blaring from the sharp-toothed mouth of her representative, and when it vanished a closet door just to the left of the last surviving Snape was opened, the articles of clothing hanging from their wooden captors sifted through by rushing hands until he had located the desired coat. Black and double-breasted with a hem mid-way down his shins, the outer material repelled moisture while the inner material locked in heat, matching a pair of gloves with similar effects and a thick black scarf that warded off the suspicion of Muggles as he strolled through their territories. With a final observation of his appearance, this time through a full-length wall-mounted mirror, Severus withdrew his wand from the pocket of his coat and turned on his heel to Disapparate from the house in a flurry of opaque black smoke.
Despite the layers of his clothing and his destination of an abandoned, enclosed space two blocks away from Charing Cross Road in the heart of London, the chill of the weather showed him no mercy and immediately brought a limited variety of rosy hues to his ears, cheeks, and nose. Snow littered only some parts of the wooden floor Severus stood on, explained by the charred ceiling and missing chunks of roof that suggested it had at one time caught fire, and the wind stung his skin, temporarily making his eyes water and his jaw clench. He spared no time to dawdle now that the climate had significantly changed, and his wand was stashed in his pocket as he exposed himself to the slick streets of the city. His pace was brisk but constant and he noticed how few Muggles roamed the outdoors, making his journey to the Leaky Cauldron uncommonly simple. With Severus's new motivation to arrive at Diagon Alley as quickly as possible it took no more than ten minutes to spot the mostly desecrated wizarding pub across the street from where he stood, black eyes focused upon the wooden door as he stepped from the sidewalk to cross the empty road. What happened next to distract him from the the pub, howbeit, was nothing he could have foreseen, and his sharp intake of breath portrayed his shock: a puddle of water disguised by snow covering its surface swallowed the foot and ankle of his left leg and saturated his pant leg with the frozen liquid, directly numbing the skin under the worthless protection of his leather boot and cotton sock. How had he been so blind not to recognize the pile of snow, which he would have assumed to be more than snow?
Bloody hell, Severus cursed, examining his leg before an accusatory glare fell upon the pile of snow. Katharin will take such amusement out of this.
His expression laced now with vexation and scorn, the puddle was evaded with Severus's second attempt onto the road. He crossed promptly, ripping the oak door of the pub open with more force than was appropriate -- nearly tearing it off its rusting hinges -- and with the squishing sound of damp leather as he walked he made a beeline toward the uncovered door frame leading out to the back of the pub, retrieving his wand once more from his pocket. Severus approached the wall and his wand right away tapped each brick that made up the pattern to access Diagon Alley, hiding his face in shadow when the wall shifted to reveal the seemingly empty passage. Both his wand and his hands recessed to his pockets and he started forward, walking closely along the walls of shopfronts to his left with eyes peeled for signs of visitors that were not on the guest list -- namely the fools of the Resistance. Severus walked until he had reached the end of the alley, and, after scanning the main alley a final time for any sign of extra company, slipped into the side street where the rest of his party hid, guarding their new victims. He picked Katharin efficiently out of the group of Death Eaters and advanced towards her as he, like his female companion, unbuttoned his coat in preparation. His right hand then plunged back into his pocket, grasping the shaft of his wand.
Muffliato.
The spell was cast over the group of Death Eaters and their charges, a precaution Severus was surprised to find had not already been taken. Had he overlooked any additional company, Severus assured that conversation amongst the Death Eaters or the children would resound throughout the alley as a low hum, making these conversations impossible for the Resistance to overhear. Confident in the work of his charm, Severus offered Katharin a subtle smirk.
"I see you've mastered use of the nonverbal Patronus Charm, Katharin," Severus said smoothly. "Good for you. I would have responded with one of my own, but I assumed a solid appearance would earn more of your appreciation."
Standing to clarify his full height of six feet, two inches, the page marker that had been summoned to Severus Snape's opened hand was slipped between the pieces of aged parchment and the book itself sent to its original place on the shelf across the room. Two minor flicks of his wand exchanged the illumination of the fire for that of several candles placed strategically throughout the parlor, and Severus's silhouette filled in with the finer details of his frame. His current state would be what he considered a mess as he observed his reflection in the mirror up on the mantle, his jabot hanging unknotted round the back of his neck and his overcoat unbuttoned many more times than he preferred. His cloak hung awkwardly about his shoulders from his position in the chair, and his shirts were untucked at the waist and uneven at the wrists, strings of raven hair frizzy and out of place. Severus first relieved himself of his cloak, tossed carelessly over the back of the threadbare sofa, and stepped noiselessly into a side bathroom where a comb worked through his almost matted hair to straighten it and create a distinguishable middle part. The black jabot against his neck was tied with the expertise of fingers that had done so many times, and the remaining buttons of his coat were done up by hand and stopped at his collarbone after his black and white shirts were tucked properly into the waistline of his trousers. At the approval of his appearance he returned to the cramped entrance hall of the house, his black eyes instantaneously registering the cloudy wisps of a well-defined Patronus: an ocelot. Severus had anticipated the animal’s company for some time now, and wondered what had hindered Katharin from sending it earlier.
"I am due to leave in just a moment," the Death Eater said patiently, and he stilled as the ocelot threaded between his ankles and circled him. His gaze snapped up as the creature bounded across the hall to sit in front of the door and hiss, and Severus chuckled. "I surmise this Patronus was nonverbal." It was easy to ascertain this, of course, by the absence of Katharin's voice blaring from the sharp-toothed mouth of her representative, and when it vanished a closet door just to the left of the last surviving Snape was opened, the articles of clothing hanging from their wooden captors sifted through by rushing hands until he had located the desired coat. Black and double-breasted with a hem mid-way down his shins, the outer material repelled moisture while the inner material locked in heat, matching a pair of gloves with similar effects and a thick black scarf that warded off the suspicion of Muggles as he strolled through their territories. With a final observation of his appearance, this time through a full-length wall-mounted mirror, Severus withdrew his wand from the pocket of his coat and turned on his heel to Disapparate from the house in a flurry of opaque black smoke.
Despite the layers of his clothing and his destination of an abandoned, enclosed space two blocks away from Charing Cross Road in the heart of London, the chill of the weather showed him no mercy and immediately brought a limited variety of rosy hues to his ears, cheeks, and nose. Snow littered only some parts of the wooden floor Severus stood on, explained by the charred ceiling and missing chunks of roof that suggested it had at one time caught fire, and the wind stung his skin, temporarily making his eyes water and his jaw clench. He spared no time to dawdle now that the climate had significantly changed, and his wand was stashed in his pocket as he exposed himself to the slick streets of the city. His pace was brisk but constant and he noticed how few Muggles roamed the outdoors, making his journey to the Leaky Cauldron uncommonly simple. With Severus's new motivation to arrive at Diagon Alley as quickly as possible it took no more than ten minutes to spot the mostly desecrated wizarding pub across the street from where he stood, black eyes focused upon the wooden door as he stepped from the sidewalk to cross the empty road. What happened next to distract him from the the pub, howbeit, was nothing he could have foreseen, and his sharp intake of breath portrayed his shock: a puddle of water disguised by snow covering its surface swallowed the foot and ankle of his left leg and saturated his pant leg with the frozen liquid, directly numbing the skin under the worthless protection of his leather boot and cotton sock. How had he been so blind not to recognize the pile of snow, which he would have assumed to be more than snow?
Bloody hell, Severus cursed, examining his leg before an accusatory glare fell upon the pile of snow. Katharin will take such amusement out of this.
His expression laced now with vexation and scorn, the puddle was evaded with Severus's second attempt onto the road. He crossed promptly, ripping the oak door of the pub open with more force than was appropriate -- nearly tearing it off its rusting hinges -- and with the squishing sound of damp leather as he walked he made a beeline toward the uncovered door frame leading out to the back of the pub, retrieving his wand once more from his pocket. Severus approached the wall and his wand right away tapped each brick that made up the pattern to access Diagon Alley, hiding his face in shadow when the wall shifted to reveal the seemingly empty passage. Both his wand and his hands recessed to his pockets and he started forward, walking closely along the walls of shopfronts to his left with eyes peeled for signs of visitors that were not on the guest list -- namely the fools of the Resistance. Severus walked until he had reached the end of the alley, and, after scanning the main alley a final time for any sign of extra company, slipped into the side street where the rest of his party hid, guarding their new victims. He picked Katharin efficiently out of the group of Death Eaters and advanced towards her as he, like his female companion, unbuttoned his coat in preparation. His right hand then plunged back into his pocket, grasping the shaft of his wand.
Muffliato.
The spell was cast over the group of Death Eaters and their charges, a precaution Severus was surprised to find had not already been taken. Had he overlooked any additional company, Severus assured that conversation amongst the Death Eaters or the children would resound throughout the alley as a low hum, making these conversations impossible for the Resistance to overhear. Confident in the work of his charm, Severus offered Katharin a subtle smirk.
"I see you've mastered use of the nonverbal Patronus Charm, Katharin," Severus said smoothly. "Good for you. I would have responded with one of my own, but I assumed a solid appearance would earn more of your appreciation."
{ right now severus snape is standing in a cold side street, and is discomforted by his frozen foot }
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severus is brewing a potion.
- · Standing over a hot, bubbling cauldron was a task often proven to relax Severus after a run in with disappointment or anger. It was a means of recuperation when something that was supposed to have gone right had gone askew, when he had once again been unable to impress his Lord with his skills, or when he had to his misfortune come unintentionally across a member of the Order of the Phoenix, specifically a former classmate in his year at Hogwarts. There were many ironies to accompany the brew he made now: the quality of its effect would determine his Lord's satisfaction, the potion was to be used on a former classmate of his who was, actually, a member of the Order, and if he were to fail this task it was likely to bring punishment along with it. With all of these factors kept in mind he could not allow himself the leisurely air with which he usually worked, and nor could he even work in the comfort of his own home for fear of detection, should Evans have chosen to reveal its location to her moronic comrades. Therefore his concentration was solely upon the potion, his ingredients measured out with extra care for accuracy, and the book from which he had initially found the recipe now marked with improvements of his own sat open to his right on the table for confirmation on the correct amounts and the appropriate procedure. Severus decided that if his mission was to be in any way compromised, it was not to be the result of a malfunctioning potion.
· The Dark Mark suddenly and without warning began to burn, and Severus forced his left forearm to remain still as it held his paring knife. His Lord had given him prior notice of a meeting that was to occur on this night in his absence, but he had not been given the generosity of knowing the exact time it was to occur. With this thought he glanced to the Muggle clock mounted on the western wall of the house he stood in, his arm trembling, and he observed the time before looking back to his work. He could not resume until the pain in his arm subsided into its usually dull ache, in case his hand slipped at the wrong moment, so he instead imagined how the evening's events were to play out. He had been told by his Lord at the time of receiving his duty that he could expect to find Sirius Black in The Leaky Cauldron, and that it did not matter the method he was to use to bring him in so long as it was successful. Of course, playing to his strengths, Severus opted to use a potion he had found the recipe for several months ago while he was looking for a quick stain-removing mixture. It would ensnare the drinker's judgment so that he or she would follow the commands of the person who brewed it, and unlike the Imperius Curse, it was impossible to detect after the drinker imbibed it. Of the three Unforgivable Curses Severus knew the Imperius Curse to be his weakest, but with Malfoy's apparent skill for it, he saw no reason to care for improvement. He had been recruited for potions, not for silly wand-waving.
· Almost half an hour passed before the sharp sting from the mark dissipated, and Severus could only assume that the Dark Lord was irritated by the absence of some of his Death Eaters. Despite having permission to be away Voldemort preferred the attention of all of his servants, and excuses for a lack of presence, even excuses he had granted, still did not completely satisfy him. It must have been why the mark burned for as long as it did, his way of expressing his dissatisfaction not only to those who were away, but also to those who sat at his table. Nevertheless, Severus continued; his arm shook once, twice, thrice more before it calmed, and once it had, he pried the knife from his left hand and proceeded to finish preparing his ingredients. What he got as an end result after all the chopping and dicing and stirring was a clear, tasteless, odorless liquid, much like water, though it would not dilute the concentration of the beverage it was mixed in with. Black was a fool at the best of times, an immature child who always let emotions get in the way of his goals and his priorities, and that he, Severus, was the perfect person to stir up those emotions in Black made his plan flawless. He would meet Black at The Leaky Cauldron, the mere sighting of Severus would drive him into a distracted rage, and as his focus lied elsewhere, in a verbal confrontation, Severus would simply tip the vial into the Gryffindor's drink. The Dark Lord had understood that Sirius would be irritated but alert around someone like Malfoy or his cousin Bellatrix, but when it came to Severus there was a side of him he could muster from deep within his heart that was reserved for his classmate alone. He could never believe that Severus was competent enough to accomplish anything, but that was where he was most mistaken. Perhaps he would see the error of his ways once he came to his senses before Lord Voldemort himself.
· One final glance was spared to the Muggle analog clock and then the contents of the cauldron were poured into three separate vials, two of which were to be used at a later date. Severus moved quickly to pack away his ingredients and clean and shrink his cauldron before the owners of the house returned, as he had found a note on the kitchen counter from a couple telling their unsurprisingly absent teenaged daughter that they would be home within the current hour, and once he had checked thoroughly that the kitchen was in the same pristine condition he found it in he relocated to the family's basement and Disapparated from there so as not to alert the neighbors to any unusual noises. Now he was on Charing Cross Road in Central London, and -- he could feel it -- he was dangerously close to Sirius Black. With the vial of serum he was to use located modestly in the left pocket of his slacks, he made neither any rush nor an unhurried walk down the road to The Leaky Cauldron. The idea was to act natural, regardless of the fact that purposefully seeking Black was far from natural for Severus, so that he would hold no more suspicion for the Death Eater than he already did. Black was relatively easy to spot once Severus had stepped into the pub, for the dimwitted Order member occupied a stool right up at the bar. And was he... was he smoking a Muggle cigarette? How pathetic. The smoke reminded him of his father, but he forced the memories away before they could take shape.
· "Well well, Black," Severus said innocently as he took the empty stool to the right of him, nodding almost unnoticeably in greeting. "Arranged any confrontations between werewolves and wizards lately, or has your mother finally seen to it that you no longer associate with half-breeds?"
severus is amused by black's habits.
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what frank thinks and is doing right now
- · Movement. "Speech."
· Movement. "Speech."
· Movement. "Speech."
· Movement. "Speech."
· Movement. "Speech."
what frank thinks and is doing right now
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what remus thinks and is doing right now
- · Movement. "Speech."
· Movement. "Speech."
· Movement. "Speech."
· Movement. "Speech."
· Movement. "Speech."
what remus thinks and is doing right now
