DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Nightshade, Hemlock, Monkswood
The Dark Lord observes. He observes everything; he is always watchful. It is how he maintains power. Today, though he occasionally forces his attention to other things, his mind is primarily on the boy. His youthful poisoner.
The boy sits at his master's feet, at the foot of the throne, and watches as the other Death Eaters come in and go out all day long. They hate him with a passion-- taunt him, behind his back, for curling up like a dog at the side of the chair-- but it is never done in his or Voldemort's hearing. He may be a pet, but they all know whose pet he is.
And it is an empty insult as well, because there is not one of them who would not sell their soul-- yet again-- to be in his position.
Now the boy is leaning back against the throne, his head just at the level of the armrest, his legs crossed under him. His black eyes are half-open, lazily. He's been making potions most of the morning, but his lord has called him in for now, because there is a discipline problem to be dealt with.
The man's name is Parkinson. He's twenty-two, a loyal Death Eater for five years. Loyal, but fairly stupid. He had had no compunctions, two days ago, about blaring his political views and his support of Voldemort in full view of his Ministry co-workers. Some of the others bring him in, now, and throw him down on the floor at the foot of the chair.
Everyone in the room with the exceptions of Severus, the Parkinson fellow, and Voldemort himself are wearing their masks. Parkinson, at least, looks naked and defenseless without it. As he gets up from his sprawled position (not to stand, but only to kneel more in a more dignified fashion), his eyes, panicked and blue, meet Severus's. The boy stares coolly back. His hand idly caresses the small, poisonous snake that curls in his lap, quiescent for now.
Parkinson tears his eyes away and looks at the ground. "My lord..." he begins.
"Silence," young Severus snaps quietly. His voice is a satisfactory hiss across the skin, and above him, the Dark Lord fights not to smile. The boy Snape has been developing the same sort of control over his voice that He Himself uses to such effect. The boy is getting quite good at it too, cold cutting sarcasm one moment and soft silky caress the next. "Did the Master say you could speak, fool?"
Voldemort keeps his face impassive. Young Severus is really quite useful. He watches with amusement as Parkinson tries to decide whether to glare at the fifteen-year old who is giving him orders, or subside in deference. The man struggles for a moment, then chooses the latter. Voldemort sighs. Well, the fool has bought himself life, even if he has purchased pain at the same time.
The Dark Lord allows one of his hands to slip from the arm of the chair and rest on Severus's dark head, his long fingers tangling in the boy's soft black hair. He enjoys that hair. Out of all the young men and women he's taught and disciplined over the years, none have been quite so useful, co-operative, and so easy to seduce as this boy-child. And none have had such lovely hair, which reminds him amusingly of his own.
Even Peter, for all the opportunity the boy represents, certainly has no such beautiful dark silk to run his fingers in. A sensual delight indeed, and the Dark Lord refuses himself few things.
He begins to speak-- not to Parkinson, but to the boy. "Another thing, Severus. Discretion is of the utmost importance. It is all very well to serve me, to be known-- by some-- to serve me... but taking into consideration the nature of the war we fight, it is indeed very foolish to announce this loyalty to the world at large."
He looks up, his red stare taking in the rest of the room, and the gathered, masked Death Eaters. "Do you all understand this?"
There are murmurs of acknowledgement and obedience. In front of him, Parkinson's face now shows real terror. As well it should.
"Andrew," he says softly, and the man shrinks back in on himself. Voldemort remembers what Andrew Parkinson was like too, when that solid, Quidditch-playing body had writhed under his own in agony and ecstasy.
"Andrew, you disappoint me. You have shown great foolishness with your actions. I am going to have to allow you to be disciplined."
The man winces, but knows better than to plead. The Dark Lord lifts his hand from petting the boy's hair and says, "Severus."
The boy moves quickly, the bright green snake in his hand. Before Parkinson has even reacted, the fangs of the serpent are sunk deep in his wrist. The unfortunate man screams as the poison takes effect, a singular burning.
They all watch, for several minutes, as the man twists and thrashes on the stone floor. Finally, Voldemort lifts his hand. "Enough, Severus."
The boy reaches forward and carefully caresses the snake, touching the nerves just behind the skull that will force the reptile into calmness.The scaled body relaxes, the fangs slip out of the flesh. Severus returns the snake to an inner pocket of his robes, at the same time drawing out a glass bottle from another pocket.
He unstoppers it and leans over the man, whose agonized convulsions have given way to an occasional twitching. With clinical detachment, he pries open the man's clenched jaws and pours the antidote in.
A few more minutes pass, the body on the floor slowly relaxing. Voldemort gives a curt nod to the assembled Death Eaters, and they drag the body out.
The boy's black eyes follow them out, unblinking.
The Dark Lord does permit himself a smile, then. He has indeed trained a useful serpent.
And it is quite unthinkable that the child's venom should ever be turned against him. Laughable, really. He makes a mental note to administer Crucio to dear young Lucius, and his foolish suggestion that perhaps young Snape is not entirely trustworthy.
For, as the child does with the snake, he knows precisely what nerves to press, right at the base of the skull. The pressure points of hatred, distrust, cunning, and malice that mark his little Slytherin pet, as surely as the Dark Mark marks his skin.
The boy is his. It is unthinkable that it should be otherwise.
Voldemort smiles and brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting the heady essence that lingers there from the boy's skin and hair.
Essence of nightshade, hemlock, and monkshood.
