Dark Livestream

Chapter 12: Eleven

August sixteenth

The sun rose high over the sprawling estate known to its residents as Dark Headquarters, illuminating long hallways through tall windows which looked out upon its well-kept gardens and - visible from higher up in the building - a dense, verdant forest.

Some unspoken rule of the magical world seemed to dictate that Dark magic took place in dark places: caves, dungeons, windowless rooms, outdoors under the new moon, and so on. Indeed, Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place - former seat of House Black, notorious Dark wizards - was an aggressively dreary, grimy, dimly-lit house. And yet, the Dark Lord had specifically designed and constructed his headquarters in just the opposite way, more like a monastery than anything else.

And no one's ever awake to see it, Severus Snape finished his inner monologue, pausing to gaze out upon the nearest bed of herbs through one such window. Not Him or any of the rest of us.. except for me. He rubbed at his eyes, exhausted from the night spent brewing yet another batch of Sobering Draught for the Dark Lord and his dread Assistant. It alone, of all his invented and modified potions, had to be started at sunrise. Now - he cast a Tempus - it was just after nine-thirty in the morning.

In other words, he was late.

Severus cursed the Dark Lord's design philosophy as he hurried along to the Apparition zone. It was located, for aesthetical reasons, on the south-most portion of the estate's main building, about as far from Severus' workrooms as one could get without going outside. He was of half a mind to request a relocation to one of the outbuildings, but that would mean moving all of his materials and giving up convenient access to the ritual rooms on those occasions a potion required magical infusion. More losses than gains, for now, and besides, Severus hated change.

Routine, though, he liked. And it was routine, circumstances permitting, for one Severus Snape to meet Albus Dumbledore on Wednesdays between nine-thirty and ten-thirty; just as, once he'd Apparated to his safehouse in Cokeworth first, it was routine to stagger through the Floo into the Headmaster's office and slump wearily into the nearest chair, draining the first cup of tea Albus handed him, and the second, until he could focus well enough to report.

"How has your week been, my friend?" Albus inquired gently from behind a teacup of his own. The phoenix Fawkes was resting its head in his hand like a cat from its perch on the man's shoulder.

"Terrible as usual," Severus complained, rather more good-naturedly than his tone suggested. "I regret ever inventing a potion that must be brewed at dawn."

They made small talk on unrelated things until Severus set his teacup aside; then, Albus returned Fawkes to his perch by the desk and invoked the privacy wards built into his office: those which kept the portraits of previous Headmasters from seeing or hearing what went on within. His expression, when he leaned forward in his chair, was a solemn one. "Have you learned anything new about Voldemort's plans for the year, Severus?"

The Potions Master sighed. "The Dark Lord has made neither an official reveal or an offhanded mention of further warfare." A grimace. "This internet project has consumed all of his attention - to say nothing of that damn Assistant."

At first, Severus would have called the boy pleasant: he demonstrated courtesy and intelligence, respectful and respected among the Death Eaters residing on the Dark Lord's estate.

But that was on his own, a minority of the time - it was when around the Dark Lord that Assistant became a problem.

Severus could swear - had sworn, during his rant to Albus last week - that the minute Voldemort walked into a room Assistant was in, it was like they shared just one brain between the two of them. Assistant absorbed the Dark Lord's attention and - if Voldemort even had any - his common sense. They rarely strayed out of arm's reach of the other, entirely drawn into their own world, and indulged in whatever caught their fancy.