Chapter Text
Consciousness returns to Severus in sluggish, painful waves. His head throbs with a relentless ache, his mouth is dry, his throat raw. His body is a patchwork of pain, limbs twisted awkwardly as though he has been discarded without care. A sharp pang in his neck tells him it has been wrenched into an unnatural angle. He remains still, eyes shut, mind grasping at fragments of information. Waking up like this is never a good sign.
The cold, unyielding ground beneath him confirms he is no longer at Hogwarts. The air is damp, tainted with a musty scent that conjures images of poor kept dungeons. Something heavy encircles his wrists and ankles. A quiet pervades the space, save for his own shallow breaths. There are no screams, no taunts, no jeering laughter.
Severus opens his eyes.
The dim lighting reveals a stone chamber, bare and foreboding. He is alone. He is shackled. The magic suppressors bands on his wrists and ankles are shackled to the ground with heavy chains. Something has gone terribly wrong.
Memories flash into his mind. The last desperate stand. The children. His futile hope that Voldemort could be reasoned with. He remembers gathering the remaining students and professors, holding onto composure while fear gnawed at his insides. At that point in the war, only a few dozen students were left at Hogwarts. After Dumbledore’s death and the Dark Lord’s takeover of the ministry, everyone knew that Hogwarts would be next. Pureblood families had pulled their kids out of Hogwarts in the weeks prior. The only children left were muggleborns, half-bloods, and children of families who stood against the Dark Lord.
That last week, he worked tirelessly with Minerva and Filius to create emergency Portkeys. The children’s only hope at escape and survival. If he is here, then Hogwarts has fallen.
He sees it clearly now, the wards crumbling, the small army of Death Eaters led by Lord Voldemort. Severus had instructed everyone to stay behind within the castle walls, and to immediately portkey away if he was unsuccessful. He had walked out to the Dark Lord alone, no protection except a Protego spell, his wand in his holster. He had hoped to reason with his Lord, to beg for the lives of the children if need be. Failing that, he would delay the Death Eaters for as long as possible to buy time for the others to escape.
He had begged. Pleaded. Fallen to his knees before the Dark Lord in one final, desperate attempt. He remembers the sneer, the backhanded blow splitting his lip, the white-hot agony of the Cruciatus Curse. The rest dissolves into a haze of pain and fractured terror. He remembers glimpses of glowing red eyes and the feeling of his mind tearing open…
Why, then, is he alive?
Is this a prelude to interrogation? A drawn-out game of suffering for the Dark Lord’s amusement? Or has Voldemort saved him for something worse? He does not like any of the scenarios his aching brain conjures.
Severus attempts to sit up, but his body rebels. His legs tremble, his head swims. He clenches his jaw against the wave of nausea and forces himself upright. Magic thrums around him, yet his own power remains agonizingly out of reach. Severus has always been sensitive to Magic, able to sense ambient magic, identify magical signatures, and understand the core of someone through their magical aura. But now, without his wand, without his magic, he is vulnerable in a way he has not been since his youth. The knowledge unsettles him.
As he contemplates his powerlessness, a sound shatters the silence. Footsteps. Slow. Measured. Deliberate.
By the time the figure comes into view, Severus has managed to shift onto his knees. His legs are shaking too much to stand, but at least he tells himself that he is upright.
Lord Voldemort watches him with a quiet intensity, maroon coloured eyes gleaming in the dim light. He is not the disfigured skeletal being that once haunted nightmares, but the man he had carefully reconstructed—a creature of sharp angles, aristocratic features, and deceptive elegance. There is an eerie beauty to him, an aura of power exuding from this tall well built man that demands submission.
Severus suppresses a shudder. The Dark Lord smirks.
“So, my dear Severus,” Voldemort purrs, voice smooth, dangerous, “what shall I do with you?”
Severus' mind suddenly conjures up his recent worries. Is he kept alive to be tortured for information, to be tortured for entertainment, or to be made an example of?
He swallows against the dryness in his throat. “I do not presume to know, my lord.” His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. He lowers his gaze. Defiance will serve no purpose here.
Voldemort tilts his head. “Am I your lord, Severus?”
“You are now lord over all of Britain, my lord.”
A chuckle, low and amused. “How diplomatic.”
Severus braces himself.
“So, my little traitor,” Voldemort continues, “how shall you serve your lord?”
Dread coils in Severus’s stomach. The possibilities race through his mind again, each more horrifying than the last. If he suggests nothing, Voldemort will choose for him. If he chooses incorrectly, the consequences could be dire. He clings to the one thing that has always been of value.
“Potions,” he blurts. “I can serve as your personal Potions Master. You know my skills as a Potions Master. I can craft elixirs beyond what is commercially available, create new brews tailored to your needs.” Indeed, the Dark Lord’s new form is largely a result of a series of personalized potions Severus had customized for the Lord.
Voldemort studies him, the weight of his gaze suffocating. Then, slowly, his lips curl into a smirk. “A practical offer. Having my own pet Potions Master would be… convenient.”
Relief flickers—then vanishes.
“But,” Voldemort muses, eyes gleaming, “you will still be a pet. Just like the other half-bloods and blood traitors.”
Severus stiffens. “Pet?”
The Dark Lord’s expression is almost delighted as he explains. Captured half-bloods, muggleborns, and traitors will not simply be executed—they will be kept. Stripped of magic, gifted to loyal Death Eaters as living trophies. And, of course, as ruler of the new magical Britain, it is only fitting that he lead by example.
Severus’s breath comes shallowly. His stomach turns. He listens as Voldemort outlines, in excruciating detail, his new role—how he will serve not just as a Potions Master, but as something to be displayed. Controlled. Owned.
By the time Voldemort finishes, Severus is trembling. His world tilts precariously.
A hand shoots out, fingers clamping around his jaw with bruising force. “Any objections, pet?” Voldemort’s voice is silk over steel. “Or do you require some… incentive?”
Severus knows precisely what kind of ‘incentive’ the Dark Lord is referring to. He has endured the Cruciatus before—once more might shatter him in his weakened state. Resistance is futile. With his magic bound, his body broken, and his mind spiraling, defiance is a luxury he cannot afford.
“No, my lord,” he murmurs, voice barely audible. “I understand my new role.”
Voldemort holds his gaze, searching, waiting for something. Then, slowly, he releases his grip, the smirk returning.
“Good,” he murmurs. With a flick of his hand, the chains vanish, though the suppressor bands stay. “Come along, pet.”
Severus exhales shakily, forcing himself onto unsteady legs. His knees threaten to buckle, but he wills them to hold.
The Dark Lord strides away, confident, unhurried.
Severus follows.