Recovery, Attempted
Patience is a virtue known to many, but held by few. Severus Snape is a man who holds patience in high regard, as it’s gotten him through horrible days. However, when The Dark Lord calls, with the flames of fury in his eyes, waiting for the man’s return can make patience seem more like a sin. He has to question what he’s done to invoke the rage of his lord.
“Severus.” The voice brings both relief, and the sinking dread of knowing he may not leave this room alive. It’s tainted with the hate he can see the blood-like slits of his eyes. “My Lord.” He responds with as montone of a voice as he can manage.
“Severus, I deal with cruelty in packs. I am the iron hand which controls the wicked.” Voldemort monologues, walking into the room with an inhuman grace, and sitting on the throne in front of the black-haired man. “I can tolerate a certain amount of disrespect, as I find it comes with my following being who they are. But you, Severus? I expect more from you.”
What had he done wrong? Last Snape knew, he had done everything right. Was his cover blown? Had he found out about his deception? “My Lord, I am under the belief that I have been an exceptional servant?” He bows, trying to cover anything he’d done with ignorance. “I’m unsure of what I could have done-”
“Is that so?” Voldemort raises a hand to silence him, looking down with narrowed eyes. “Because I was under the full impression you had inside knowledge of Harry Potter’s whereabouts, but it seems I was mistaken. Tell me, what is it you told me when I asked you about the boy's home life?”
Snape furrows his brows. He had told the truth, had he not? Dumbledore told him the brat was in the care of his relatives, who were spoiling him to no end. “My Lord,” He drawls, putting his memories into words, “I made you aware of the fact the boy was being taken care of and spoiled by his distant relatives.” He says slowly, his lips turning into a thin line.
“Hm.” The Dark Lord makes a small noise, still staring at the potions master. “That is what you told me. Is this what you knew? You swear on your life to me, Severus, that you did not knowingly or intentionally hide the truth of the boy's home life from me?” What would it matter if he did? Why does he care suddenly? “Yes, My Lord.” He responds simply.
A few moments pass. Voldemort has closed his eyes in thought, before he clicks his tongue and opens them. “I will trust this, for now, however I want the memory of what you’ve been told. Along with this, I require your care for a certain, how do you put it, brat.” …What?
“My Lord, you wish for me to track down and care for the boy?” Even more confused, he responds. He can’t wrap his head around this line of questioning. Why does Voldemort care about Potter now? What changed?
“No. I have the boy.” Severus almost chokes, looking up at the man, snake-like as he is, in shock. “I just require you to care for him, as he’s currently almost dead, unfortunately not from my hands. Do not ask further questions. I expect you to obey without my constant reassurance. He is upstairs, in my personal quarters, bring any potions you deem necessary for his recovery after you inspect him.” Before Severus can respond, his lord stands and waves a hand, motioning for him to go. “You are dismissed.”
What the hell is happening? Has he been transported to an alternate dimension? This cannot be happening. He can’t help his mind swirling as he climbs the stairs towards the room. He must be dreaming. That has to be the answer…but as he opens the bedroom door and sees the brat, Harry Potter, thin as a stick, shivering under multiple blankets with bruises lining any skin he can see…
He needs a drink when this is over.