Books and Covers

For main notes and disclaimers, please see Chapter One.

A/N: I'm overwhelmed at the response to this little piece. Since this part was almost ready to go, I'm posting it tonight. Thank you all for reading.


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The Savage Garden

Had it not been for Magic, the temperature in the Great Hall would have been unbearable.

The Hall was filled with heat and light as the waves of party goers moved between the dance floor and the banquet. Ornate robes in layers and greens and blues and purples lent credence to the view of it as a tropical lagoon, the occasional slash of red or white flashing through like brilliant tropical fish. Couples whirled around the dance floor like small eddies in the larger current. Braids, buttons, sashes and fringes glittered like sunlight or moonlight when the glow from the hundreds of torches and candles struck them. The music that moved this ocean in miniature across polished marble beaches came from a hidden alcove and rained down from the painted frescoes above with almost a much passion as its creator had put into it, but only rarely as frenzied as those that moved to it.

No one in attendance appeared bare faced; no Death Eater in the Outer Circle ever knew who stood beside them. Of them all, only the Dark Lord himself knew all the names of who was with the Cause and who wasn't. Each person's face was completely covered by an exquisitely crafted mask of precious metals, gemstones, feathers and silk, all carved or cast into the semblance of fanciful animals. All were represented there, from the most magical to the most mundane, save for the brilliant and fiery phoenix.

Along the sides of the room and in curtained alcoves, these animals fenced with words and teased with gestures. Bargains were struck and futures bartered as each of the participants in the night's festivities tried to gain the advantage over their peers, and sometime of their betters. They all knew that even though the Master of the house wasn't present in the flesh, he would know who came out ahead from the maneuvering that night, and equally well who lost; for here, in the Heart of the Dark, the Devil truly would take the hindmost.

Into the midst of this celebration of competition appeared Death.

Doors slammed open against the walls, freezing the dancers and choking the witty to silence. The once-lively music faded in a handful of surprised, discordant notes, and the small, brilliant fishes scattered. Like Poseidon dividing the waters, the ocean of velvet and silk parted in waves before a truer predator than any of those so far present.

He strode down the steps, frost-bitten winds curling and gusting before and behind like great hounds, the inky night enshrouding him and trailing behind before slowly separating and retreating out the door like a reluctant lover. Layer upon layer of blackness; robes to hair, eyes to heart. The quick, firm *clack* of his boot heels on the exquisite marble created a rhythm of their own, one that sucked hearts down, and *en masse* the entire room bowed till he passed.

The man himself, bare-faced as only a member of the Dark Lord's most loyal would appear, looked neither right nor left as he crossed the floor to the grand staircase beyond. Another man, equally bare-faced awaited him a few steps up. This one's dark blue and silver formal robes looked even bulkier on the huge man's frame, and as Severus Snape passed him, the two fell into step, climbing steadily.

Neither paused when movement caught their eyes from the top of the stairs and in a flurry of pale grey velvet and silver silk Lucius Malfoy appeared. Immaculate as always from a distance, Snape spotted the slight scuffing on Malfoy's boots, a hint of moisture on his outer robe, that proved the man had either just arrived or been recently outside and returned.

Just returned, Snape decided, or the Dark Garden below would have still been in disarray from Malfoy's arrival.

"Severe burns," the blond said, nodding to Snape and Goyle before turning and leading them to their Master's chambers. "Down to the bone in places," he added.

"Other trauma?" Goyle's voice rumbled in his chest.

"A head wound that I'm sure of, but as for the rest, you'll need to wait and see." Malfoy smirked over his shoulder at the two before swinging open the massive, ebony inlayed doors they paused in front of.

The parlor beyond was dark except for the ever burning fireplace, hiding a small fortune in antiques and furnishings. Light poured from one of the bed chambers, and the three Death Eaters made directly towards it.

Entering the room they split up, Severus to open and unload the dragonhide bag hidden under his cloak and robe, Vincent Goyle to examine his patient, and Malfoy to attend their Lord, whose black-clad figure sat, oddly enough, on one of the room's many ottomans as he observed the sudden flurry of activity around him.

Goyle's sudden, sharp gasp drew all eyes back to him. The big man turned and knelt at Voldemort's feet, eyes down, waiting for permission to speak. Voldemort's long-fingered, snake-belly-pale hand passed lightly through the short brush the older Goyle kept his hair in, before lifting Goyle's chin. Blue eyes remained open to red, no emotion visible, simply waiting. Voldemort nodded, and Goyle sat back on his heels.

"Lord, did you wish the boy completely healed?" Goyle's face remained placid to the point of impassivity as he awaited instruction.

For a moment, fury coursed along Voldemort's nerves, shoving sanity aside in his perception that Goyle was questioning him. His senses returned seconds later, and the Dark Lord realized that the healer's question was more than reasonable; after all, how many times had he kept prisoners barely alive for days or weeks, until every bit of information or sanity had been wrung from the unfortunate?

"Yes," Voldemort hissed, finishing his thoughts, "completely healed."

Voldemort rose from the ottoman and settled back in the chair behind it to watch as his personal healer began to examine his patient. Goyle walked around the bed and leaned carefully in, closely examining the boy.

"Lucius," Voldemort turned his head slightly, eyes never fully leaving the scene before him. "Go, and attend to the Garden. Dismiss them at midnight." He sensed rather than saw Malfoy bow slightly before withdrawing from the room, and nodded his own head in acknowledgment.

The slightest brush and rustle of fabric announced Severus taking up his position to the right of the Dark Lord's chair. A commanding flick of Voldemort's fingers told the Potions Master to relax. Sinking into a pool of black velvet, Snape settled on the floor at this Master's knee, leaning against the plush chair while he, like his master, awaited Goyle's diagnosis.

They watched as Goyle, using not his wand, but rather his open hands, ran slowly over the wounded boy in Voldemort's bed. Pale light glowed around the big man's hands, blue, green, pink and white as he studied his patient.

Absently, Voldemort began threading his hand through Severus' hair, weaving the fine, silky locks between his fingers. It was something he never did during the school year when his servant had to don his 'greasy git' persona; the feel of the pomade Severus used revolted him. Voldemort stifled a chuckle when he felt Severus begin to relax under his touch; playing with the high-strung man's hair was guaranteed to relax him, and from the slowly increasing weight against his leg as the minutes passed, Severus was nearly asleep. It must have been a trying week for his Potions Master.

Voldemort dropped his hand to Severus' shoulder when he saw recognition finally tense the healer's shoulders. Goyle's gasp roused the Potions Master from his daze.

"Master?" The questioning note in Goyle's voice brought Snape to full alert.

Voldemort watched Goyle as the healer straightened. With a tilt of his head the Dark Lord encouraged Goyle to speak.

"You wish me…to *heal*…the *Potter* boy?"

"What!" Snape barked, jerking himself upright.

"Severus!" Voldemort snapped. It took all of his considerable strength to keep the man still, his hand tightening in Snape's silky hair.

"But-," Snape began to sputter.

Voldemort chuckled before rising and letting Severus gain his feet as well. "Yes, Potter." He waved a hand towards the bed. "Nagini found him like this while she was hunting."

Severus stepped forward and took his first comprehensive look at the boy's condition, noting the burned flesh and shattered bones.

"What trouble have you brought down on your head now, Mr. Potter?" Snape muttered, frowning.

"An excellent question, Severus," Voldemort said quietly. "A question I suspect the answer to, but I would like confirmation before I act on my suspicions."

"My Lord?" Severus blinked, confused, and Voldemort heard Goyle Sr. echo it from across the bed.

"First things first, my dears; Vincent what have you found?"

The healer frowned, thoughtful. "Many things, my Lord; where do you wish me to start?"

"Can he be healed? All else will come from that."

"The suspension spell." Goyle passed a hand over Potter's arm, and a soft, light green glow emanated from it, shot through with minute strands of a darker green. "I don't recognize it, but it was done in time. Yes, I can heal his physical injuries." Goyle stopped his hand near Potter's face. "At least--most of them. Severus' potions will be a great help as well."

"Vinssssccccent," Voldemort hissed. "I am not in the—bessst of moodsss, at the moment. Ssspeak!"

Vincent Goyle, the father of Harry's schoolmate, was easily the largest man in the room at 6'5" tall and 250 pounds of solid muscle. His hair was a short, practical brush-cut, and his eyes were a cool blued steel. The heavy layers of blue and silver he work were flecked here and there with bits of blood and charred skin transferred to him from the body of the boy in the bed. Hovering over an injured body, he was a creature from a medieval chamber of horrors. Had he been holding a wand, he'd have appeared a wizard's nightmare.

Faced with his master's quick rising ire, he gulped.

"The damage to his body is severe, yes; burns, breaks, blood loss, all than can be repaired, and back to roughly 90% functionality with minimal scarring. Not even the entire staff at St. Mungo's could improve on that, the injuries are too numerous and too severe." Goyle met each man's eyes and then reached down, carefully easing Potter's head forward.

"See here, the source of the blood matting his hair. He's struck--or been struck by--a very hard, blunt object, which has not only concussed him but fractured his skull. Somehow, either the blow itself or some other trauma has driven a piece of bone into his brain."

"Which means what, Goyle? The boy's a vegetable? A Squib? What?" Impatient, and obviously unsettled to those that knew him best, Snape snapped his cuffs before smoothing them down.

Goyle held Snape's eyes for several seconds before answering. "It means, Snape, that he may be blind."

Silence blanketed the room.

" 'May'. You're not certain, Vincent?" Voldemort asked, frowning slightly.

"There are…other complications as well, my Lord."

Voldemort sighed to himself, feeling pain beginning to throb behind his eyes. It was no wonder Severus complained of constant headaches during the school year; nothing around Potter could ever be simple.