Refuge Has Its Price

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CHAPTER 5: THE WAY IT STANDS NOW

Early the previous morning:

Severus felt his Dark Mark burning. It had awakened him from the first sound sleep that he'd allowed himself to have in days now.


He groaned and rubbed at the throbbing tattoo as he hoisted himself onto his feet. Voldemort must be impatient to get the day started; that he held the Summons for so long attested to the fact.


There'd be no time for a leisurely shower this morning. Severus had to settle for a brief 'Scourgify' before pulling on clean boxers and socks.


A quick trip to the loo, and he stepped into the first set of robes that his hand grabbed from his wardrobe.


As soon as his black dragon-hide boots were snugly on his feet, he Apparated away.

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Voldemort had taken up residence in Hogwarts itself, using it as his own personal castle. It had only taken him three days to reorganize and tidy up all of the loose ends of his conquest.


The Dark Lord had inexplicably come to depend on his powerful Potions Master for advice in most matters of state. Bellatrix must have only been jealous of Severus Snape's closeness to him, when she'd raised those false suspicions in his mind just before the battle had begun.


Why he'd ever trusted a bit of pussy, instead of Severus Snape's continually proven loyalty, he couldn't comprehend!


Voldemort also didn't fully understand why he should be relying so heavily on the sarcastic Potions Master now. He simply felt as though it were the . . . right . . . thing to do at this time.


It was a very strange feeling indeed for the current Master of the Wizarding World!


The Halfblood Prince resembled his uncle so strongly, in both his physical appearance and his magical talents and gifts. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps Severus Snape simply reminded the Dark Lord of his most trusted, most missed, long dead friend, Ethan Prince.


Voldemort wasn't sure if he liked this feeling of dependency. For now, he would simply tolerate the unaccustomed emotion and continue to use the Headmaster as his court advisor. Even kings and tyrants used councilors for their advice. They made such perfect, expendable, scapegoats should a ruler's politics and policies ever go awry.


He was also using Lucius Malfoy's prestige and handsome face in the position of Minister of Magic.


No one was under any illusions as to exactly who was really in charge.


The Dark Lord had simply decided that it would make things more palatable to the general masses if his rule was disguised as a beautiful treat, instead of the harsh reality of his frightfully demonic appearance.


'Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.’


If Voldemort had ever seen the American Muggle film, "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz", this image of the ‘wizard’, manipulating his whole Emerald World, from behind the veil of his curtain would have most certainly struck his fancy.


Voldemort was now truly the sole ruler of his magical world, yet he remained hidden here, just out of sight. He, alone, was in charge and manipulating all of his loyal subjects from behind the scene, as if they were merely puppets.


However, unlike the fictitious wizard of that film, the young Tom Riddle really could work magic, just by wishing for it with all of his concentration.


When the flamboyantly dressed Professor Dumbledore had paid eleven-year-old Tom that unexpected visit at the state-run orphanage that he'd been born in, and calmly explained to him that he really was a wizard, the boy wasn't even surprised.


Tom had known for a long time that he was not like other children. That he was special. He'd merely accepted the hand-delivered invitation from the strange man, and thought to himself, "Well it's about bloody time!"


Voldemort's attention jerked back to the present, with a sudden 'thump' of anxiety, as he slowly and coolly scrutinized his reptilian physical appearance in his full-length mirror.


Even though the Dark Lord hid it well, lately his unfortunate, and quite unintentional, resemblance to his old House symbol had begun to make him just the tiniest bit self-conscious.


'No matter; the little fey witch seems unfazed by my face. I've waited long enough.'


What was done was done. It was far too late now to alter his means of resurrection. The whole future was now before him, and he finally and properly ruled it all. Why dwell on the past?


Shoving the tip of the Elder Wand fiercely into his own marked arm, Voldemort sent out his call. He did not even flinch at the fiery pain it caused, or wince at the faint odor of his burning flesh that slowly filled the air of his bedchamber.


He impatiently sub-vocalized the necessary words to spur the compliance of the servants that he currently wanted 'front-and-center'.


It was time to get this day started. After all, the Master of the entire Wizarding World didn't get married just every day. There was still much left to do.


The Dark Lord checked his reflection in the mirror, his eyes merely skimming over his visage.


His expensively tailored black velvet robes, richly embroidered with silver and emerald-green serpents, looked impressive and showed his sleek physique to its best advantage.


He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named smoothed another imaginary wrinkle from his impeccable sleeve. He readjusted the collar of his formal robe, and checked his mirror one last time.


He was satisfied.

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Lucius Malfoy groaned, rolled over, and immediately puked on the expensive oriental carpeting of his bedroom floor.


Since the deaths of Narcissa and Draco, he'd had to drink himself unconscious every night just to be able to get any sleep at all. He'd become addicted to Dreamless Sleep Draught during Draco's early . . . difficult . . . years.


Because of that fact, Severus refused to supply him again with any of it. He'd offered him a Calming Draught instead.


Lucius didn't want to be calm; he wanted to be oblivious!


The searing pain of the Dark Lord's third Summons of the morning had finally jolted him into nauseated wakefulness.


He'd ignored his personal house elf, Stubbs, repeated attempts to wake him. Now it was his own fault that there'd be no long, hot, sobering, shower this morning.


Stubbs 'tsked' and reproachfully shook his large head as he 'Vanished' the vomit, and the odor along with it.


Silently, he passed his Master a small yellow vial. Lucius was surprised at Severus' generosity, but he still greedily sucked down the SoberUp potion that had been left for him.


After all, Severus Snape was a guest in his home. An occasional host's gift was perfectly acceptable; as fellow Slytherins, it was almost mandatory.


In a matter of moments, with Stubbs assistance, Lucius Malfoy was feeling and looking much more the thing; cleaned, pressed, dressed, and coiffed.


He checked his manicured nails. Perfect.


He Apparated away to meet his Lord's summons, with not even ten minutes passing since he'd first awakened.


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From where she sat in the iron and stone chamber, Luna Lovegood wondered again how Hermione was faring in the Muggleborn holding cells.


She and Ginny (although Luna wasn't certain just where the Ginny that everyone knew was) were sitting huddled together, a little separate from the other Pureblood girls.


Luna sensed that 'something different' was about to happen to them today. She didn't understand how or why she knew that, she simply knew it.


She wrapped her slender arms a bit tighter around Ginny when she watched Gregory Goyle unlock the cell door and approach them, with his wand drawn.


"You! Loony Lovegood! You're to come with me. Now!" The dullard, trainee Death Eater, ordered in a superior tone.


Luna stood up and possessively pulled an unresisting Ginny to her feet. There was no bloody way in this world that Luna Lovegood was going to leave Ginny behind.


In the redhead's present mental state it would be the equivalent of leaving a newborn at home alone; defenseless and utterly dependent, with starving werewolves circling its bassinet.


"Hey! W'ot cher think you're doing, Loony?" screeched Goyle. "The Master din't say anythin' about bringing the Weasel. She stays put. I ain't gettin' myself 'Crucio'd by the Dark Lord for a bloody fuckin' Gryffindor nutter!"


Luna's long smoke darkened hair began to lift and swirl around her dirty face, as her anger released the ancient Eildarvitch magics that she held so tightly under control within her.


Her eyes inexplicably turned a brightly glowing luminescent blue just before they fixed and locked with Goyle's shit-brown eyes. He instantly froze in place and, for the life of him, could not break their magically bonded eye contact.


Under any other circumstance, Luna would have never resorted to using the powerful reservoirs of Eildarvitch magic for such a forbidden spell. However, these were desperate times.


Desperate times demanded desperate measures Luna rationalized to herself. In her mind, protecting the helpless Ginny Weasley far outweighed the cost to her soul of performing an Unforgivable.


She wriggled her slim fingers before the big bully's fat face and firmly whispered, "Imperio!"


Goyle's body immediately stood to attention; the weak minded were so easily influenced.


"The Dark Lord will want to see Ginny Weasley for himself. She must come too," Luna ordered the Slytherin. Gregory Goyle would now believe it had all been part of his original order, with no memory of their exchange. She suddenly released him, just as the very last of her energy reserves drained out of her.


They hadn't been fed in three days. There had barely been any energy at all left within her to draw from. If Goyle hadn't been such an imbecile, Luna doubted that it would have even worked at all.


As it stood, at least she'd be able to tend to poor Ginny a little while longer.


That was something anyway, given the harsh reality that things were now the way that they were.


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Rabastan Lestrange laid a heavy restraining hand on the bony shoulder of Nott the Younger. The boy before him froze to attention, as soon as he realized just who had grabbed him.


"I'll be fetching the Mudblood to the Master," said Rabastan, carefully keeping his expression and voice neutral.


"But the Master sent me to do it," whined young Nott. "I can't disobey the Dark Lord!"


It wasn't so much that he feared disobeying the Dark Lord, as it was wanting to feel his cock filling up Potter's pretty little Mudblood whore that made Nott defend his task.


The whore would be taking plenty of Death Eater cock soon enough, and young Nott simply wanted to dip his 'wand' into the pool first. He'd wanted 'bragging rights' concerning Potter's Mudblood.


Rabastan dangerously drew himself up. "I said that I will fetch her," he reiterated in a flat, too calm, tone as he reached into his Death Eater robes, and lovingly fingered his wand with a deadpan expression. Only his deep brown eyes glittered with suppressed viciousness to warn young Nott of his danger.


Nott understood instantly. He gulped and subserviently backed away. "Yes sir. Sorry sir," he meekly said. It wasn't worth it; to fuck with the Dark Lord's Inner Circle was to end up werewolf food with none ever becoming the wiser.


Besides, there would still be plenty of leftover Mudblood pussy to pick from once the pack leaders had taken their share. He could bide his time. Perhaps his father would even slip him one early, before he developed a serious case of blueballs.


Hermione slowly looked up from where she sat, curled up around herself, in a surprisingly vacant corner of the holding cell. Every Muggleborn witch sharing her cell had scrunched as far away from the late Harry Potter's best female friend as they could.


Each one of them instinctively realized that something special would surely be Hermione Granger's fate. Not one of them wanted to share that fate simply by association, so they had all abandoned her as much as they possibly could, considering the limited space that held them confined.


A shimmer of dropping wards slid across the bars of the holding cell, and the young female Muggleborns gasped almost in unison when Rabastan Lestrange unlocked their cell door and entered. They parted like the Red Sea before him, as he strode directly over to where a lone, miserable, girl sat huddled.


Hermione slowly raised her head and stared at the tall dark wizard standing before her. Brown eyes met brown eyes. One pair was mutinously defiant--the other was calmly complaisant.


"Miss Hermione Granger, I presume?" the dark wizard pronounced with a slight, mocking, inclination of his black head.


So. This was it. They'd finally sent for her.


In a way, it was almost a blessing that she was finally about to die. She only prayed for the strength to die fighting, if possible, and with dignity if it was not.


Right! Dignity my arse!


Hermione slowly stood up, then gave the elite Death Eater a mocking curtsy of her own as she said, "Rabastan Lestrange, I am sure. Did Voldemort finally pull his dick out of your arse long enough to actually send you for me?"


The next instant Hermione groggily looked back up at Rabastan from where she lay on the ground.


He'd hit her so hard that one eye was rapidly closing with the promise of a right proper 'shiner'. She distinctly tasted blood from where his ring had laid open her left cheek, and deeply cut into her bottom lip.


"How dare you speak his name, you filthy little Mudblood whore! Your new master will soon teach you proper manners; now on your feet. Move, witch!" He harshly ordered, as he dragged her up onto her feet.


The other girls sharing the cell were pressing hard backwards, away from this unfolding drama. No one even noticed that a young fifth year Hufflepuff was slowly being crushed to death between their backs and the cold metal bars that confined them.


It was only Hermione's being hauled up and dragged out of the cell that allowed the young girl to breathe once more. The press of the throng squeezing her against the thick iron bars had broken her right arm, but at least she was still alive. Barely.


Confused by the hallway's appearance, Hermione stumbled along; the poking and prodding of the Death Eater escorting her as her only source of direction. She'd never thought that she would ever be lost inside of Hogwarts.


However now Hogwarts itself seemed to have magically changed, and not for the better.


It had taken on a darker, sinister, more gothic cast since Voldemort had claimed it as his own. Hogwarts had become quite Machiavellian in its' mildewing flavor, with long dark shadows now lingering where once bright sunshine had shone and airy breezes had blown.


Most of the painted portrait people were silently hiding in their scenery as best as they could. Of all the castle ghosts, only the Bloody Baron of Slytherin House still freely floated around, victoriously rattling his chains.


The former Great Hall was now temporarily serving as the Dark Lord's audience chamber.


He was using the impressive ancient oaken Headmaster's chair as an implied throne; it already stood in the center of the dais anyway. His elite Inner Circle sat in a line of seats on either side of him.


It was indeed her Judgment Day. Rabastan shoved her down onto her knees and went to take his seat beside Bella and his brother, Rodolphus.


"Ah, Miss Granger,” the Dark Lord pleasantly said. "Still alive I see . . . and relatively unharmed?" He left the statement hanging open as a question.


A question that she'd best respond to, if the filthy little Mudblood knew what was good for her.


"Quite . . . well . . . sir," Hermione proudly lied, after struggling for a moment with just what to call the evil wizard enthroned before her.


"Good. That is well then. You will be in fine shape for your new position in life," Voldemort said with an immense degree of self-satisfaction, and a vicious smirk.


END OF CHAPTER 5


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