Black Mamba.

[yma2]

Black Mamba isn't so much one Harry Potter story. But lots and lots of little, drabble leangth stories telling the over-all fable of two traitorous Death Eaters. Severus Snape and Regulus Black.
I've done what I can to make this story fun and interesting. Some bits of it have already been posted over at HP100, but this is the first time it has been posted in it's entirity. Please spare a moment to read and review it if you can. I'm especially interested in what you think of the over all work. Is there any scenes you'd like to see me add to it? Any more drabble bits you'd like to see in it? This has been a story long in the making, I'd really like to see some feed back on this, people.
So anyway... here you go... my long awaited HP work...

Black Mamba.



It started on the Hogwarts express.
Severus sits silently, poring over a textbook, he’s alone in the dark compartment and likes it that way.
The door opens and, looking up, he sees Black.
No… not Black; the boy’s wearing an immaculate green velvet robe, not the Muggle rags Sirius usually sports under his uniform these days. Still, there are uncanny resemblances, the curve of the face, the flick of the hair, the lively, grey eyes.
‘May I join you?’ he asks.
‘No,’ snarls Snape, slamming the door in the boy’s face.
He dislikes being reminded of everything he is not.

‘Oi! Regie? Wanna sit with us?’
Regulus faces his grinning brother and his lackeys, Potter, Lupin and Pettigrew. He knows their names by heart.
‘Mum said not to sit with you.’
‘Yeah. So?’
He pauses… considers… lingers upon the question. Mother had warned him…
Sirius frowns at his brother’s indecision. He starts to speak, then stops; eyes fixing on something behind Regulus.
A hand falls companionably round Regulus’s shoulder. He turns to see a beautiful, dark, smiling seventh year girl, surrounded by her friends.
‘It’s alright, Sirius,’ Bellatrix says smugly, ‘Regulus can sit with us. We’ll take care of him.’

He was wrong; the boy is Black.
Severus watches with dark amusement as Regulus strides towards the sorting hat in much the same way Sirius did two years before.
There is a difference though; for Sirius that lazy, smooth, arrogant gait is second nature. But Regulus puts effort into it. Concentrating so hard he almost trips his new school robes.
He wears that Hat for a long while before it eventually calls ‘SLYTHERIN!’ and, smirking, Regulus strides over to their applauding table.
Whilst clapping, Severus bows his head. Allowing greasy locks of hair to cover the grin he can’t suppress.

Regulus Black had always known that to be sorted into Slytherin meant living in shadows. It was necessary, expected, even respected.
He never truly expected it meant his brother’s shadow.
Even though they aren’t in the same house, Sirius is always the crowd pleaser, running about with James. Pettigrew and Lupin at their heels like whipped dogs.
Pettigrew is a good name but the Lupins are full of mudbloods. The Potters? Respectable enough, though not particularly wealthy or pure.
Regulus doesn’t understand it. But then Sirius will do anything for attention, for a lark.
Mother says it’s just a phase.

He’s small, scrawny, alone mostly. A runt. But he can change that.
Baggy robes hide his thin limbs and slack muscle, billow about him to make him look larger. He’s mastered the stride, his stalk, his charge. Each morning he practices his sneer in the mirror. Glaring come naturally, his eyes are dark and cold enough to swallow souls.
But there’s more; he’s learned other skills, how to bow, to crawl, to wheedle and praise. How to tone his body for strike one moment, retreat the next. Flexible as any viper.
Oh yes, Snape can say a lot without words.

There are cracks in the family.
Mother’s still convinced it’s just some unwelcome rebellion on Sirius’s part. Nothing a few stern words or the back of her hand won’t cure.
Regulus wonders…
Sirius spends little time with him, in or out of school. When he’s not in classes or with his ‘friends,’ he’s practicing spells or resting.
The summer before Regulus’s second year, Bellatrix visited. She hardly talked to Sirius, but spent more time with him. Regulus feels good about this. At last he’s getting his due.
And if the cracks in the Black family widen it’s hardly his fault.

His mother is thin, pale and dark. Gentle in speech, subtle in manner and with a wonderful eye for detail.
His father likes that about her.
She’s also sensitive, open hearted. A few harsh words can reduce her to a shivering wreck
His father likes that about her too.
Severus is watching now as father yells at her. As she whimpers and cowers under his attention. His father enjoys manipulating people, the fake power cruelty brings. It’s the only power he has, really.
Severus clenches his fists. He’ll never be like them, meek and self deluded.
He’ll never be weak.

Seems a stupid thing now, arguing over the green eyed mudblood. It wasn’t worth loosing his brother over. Still, that’s how it began. Him, wand out, Sirius standing heroically before the girl. Shielding her from a playful hexing.
‘Bugger off, Reg.’
‘She’s only a mudblood.’
‘Shows what you know!’
‘Move or… or… I’ll tell mother!’
‘Yeah? Like I care what that old bat says!’
Those words broke his heart and he ran.
Next morning he cries into his pillow as mother’s howler echoes through the air of the breakfast table, berating the older Black.
The cracks are fast becoming crevasses.

Turn about’s fair play. So next time it’s Regulus standing in front of someone, shielding them from a hexing.
‘Please, Reg.’ sighs Sirius, ‘Just… move!’
‘No!’
‘He’s a slime ball. He’s not worth it.’
‘Then leave him alone!’
‘Come on, Pads,’ Potter urges from the side. ‘Just jinx them both and be done with it!’
Sirius looks indecisive, he slowly raises his wand and-
Behind him Regulus hears Snape spit Latin. There’s a flash and Sirius’s wand is transfigured into a writhing snake.
Severus grabs him before Sirius can react and they run.
That was the start of their friendship.

‘Hay… Sirius?’
‘Um?’
‘You know… the Wasps are playing tomorrow. Father’s got me two tickets, I thought… maybe you’d like…?’
‘Thanks but… James already got me a ticket. Gonna be sitting with him.’
‘Oh… well… maybe we could… sit together?’
‘He’s supporting the other team.’
‘The Arrows? But they’re gonna get trounced!’
‘Hey, they’re pretty good!’
‘They’re dreadful!’
‘Like you know anything about Quidditch!’
‘Well I know more than you and… and your stupid mudblood mate!’
‘Shut it before I hex it! Least I’ve got someone to sit with!’
‘I have too! I’ll invite… Sev!’
‘Snivilus? Ha! Drop dead Reggie!

‘Why do you insist on following me!’
‘I’m not following you,’ Regulus replies. ‘I’m just… accompanying you… I like spending time with you, you’re a good mate.’
Snape blinks, unable to comprehend how anyone could consider him in such a way. His eyes dart across the hall, to where Black and Potter are sitting.
He sneers, ‘I’m not your brother.’
‘I know. Never asked you to be.’
That sentence says much. Severus considers, eyes flitting from one Black to another. At last he understands.
How wonderfully ironic.
‘Care to accompany me for dinner?’
Regulus smiles also, every inch a fool.

This is priceless.
Every action, every expression, is cutting into Sirius. Racking his soul, cursing him in ways wands could never manage. Envy is a wonderful thing.
Snape sees it in Black’s eyes every time he and Regulus pass by, every time they eat together, talk together.
It’s killing him.
Simply sublime.
It’s a pity that Regulus’s company isn’t more interesting. He’s foolish, easily deceived and utterly devoted. He once said to Snape, ‘it’s like I’m Sirius, and you’re Potter. Perfect!’
Snape wants to laugh. If such allegories are to be made then, surely *he’s* Sirius and Regulus is Pettigrew.

‘Isn’t he a nice boy,’ coos Mrs Black. ‘A polite boy. An educated boy.’
‘What fine breeding,’ agrees his father. ‘How well brought up! Underprivileged, true, but his blood’s pure enough. A fine child!’
‘Isn’t he smart?’ says Regulus. ‘A true friend! An excellent role model for me, right?’
Both parents agree. ‘Why,’ they say sadly, ‘why couldn’t you be more like the boy Snape, Sirius? Why can’t you be friend with him, rather than those horrible Potters?’
Sirius bites his tongue so hard it bleeds.
And over the dinner table Regulus smiles smugly. Even this bitter revenge tastes sweet.

Lucius says there’s a war coming.
This was no news to Severus, it’s been brewing for years, its vapours permeating the halls of Hogwarts, drugging the students. It’s already being played out in miniature, tensions between Slytherin and Gryfindor have never been worse. Partly because of him and the self proclaimed ‘Marauders.’
Carefully removing the latest Potter patented hex, Severus already knows what side he’ll choose. Not that he’ll proclaim it to the school; he always keeps his cards close to his chest. Because he knows, whatever else will happen, it’s going to get messy.
He finds he doesn’t care.

Sirius didn’t run away, he faded.
His pictures slowly disappear from shelves and walls, his stuff is moved, burned, or simply vanishes. He’s absent from home more often than not.
One last argument, a flash of magic, and his place in the Black Family is gone.
Regulus watches him walk out. Wonders if he can stop him, catch him, hold him like when they were children, after the nightmares. When Sirius seemed all that was real.
He knows he can’t. Sirius has been fading for years now. Even if Regulus tried, there’s not enough left for him to hold onto.

His father’s sprawled in his chair, mouth open. The liquor glass lies shattered upon the floor, Snape watches it venomous contents burn holes in the carpet. A most virulent toxin.
His mother’s sobbing of course, crouched on the floor, rocking back and forth.
He goes to her.
‘Mother?’
‘Is he…?’ she’s terrified.
Severus looks back, father’s face is pail, faint traces of pink froth stain his lips. Excellent.
‘Yes, you did it. We did it.’
He leans forward and kisses her forehead tenderly. She stops rocking and gives the smallest of smiles.
‘Come mother,’ he whispers, ‘the world is waiting.’

Severus arrives exactly on time, punctual to a fault, that’s him. Never earnestly early, nor fashionably late. Says a lot really.
He steps out of the fireplace, brushing the ashes from coals and burned photographs off his worn robes.
‘Hello Regulus.’
‘Hello Severus, come to my room?’
Regulus guides him down silent corridors, past Sirius’s room, into his own. Severus sits down in the chair Sirius once occupied, back when he was his brother, no doubt noticing the empty spaces on the walls.
‘So,’ drawls Severus, ‘he left?’
‘Yeah. My fault. Your dad’s really dead?’
Severus nods.
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’

He’s eighteen and watching his father’s funeral.
He doesn’t cry, father taught him not to. Taught him to keep the tears and the pain inside, let it stew and boil into particularly vicious poison.
Father taught him a lot of things.
He also taught him the power of words, the pain of a suitably slung insult; the whiplash of sarcastic remarks. Wands and toxins and blades can tear you from the gizzards out, but only words leave an aching soul aching pain that rivals cruciartus.
Severus grimly flings aconite flowers upon the grave of the man who taught him hate.

‘Don’t you feel it’s wrong?’
Regulus looks up from his homework. ‘What?’
‘This,’ Snape waves a hand. ‘Mudbloods stealing Wizard jobs, money, heritage. Muggle culture leaking into our own. We’re a dying race.’
Regulus nods. ‘That’s what mother says.’
‘What do you think?’
Regulus shrugs. He’s never given it much thought, happy for others to lead the way. ‘They’re right, I suppose. How many moons does Saturn have again?’
Snape ignores the interruption. ‘Don’t you want to do something about it?’
‘I… suppose so,’ another shrug. ‘But we can’t do anything, can we?’
‘Oh,’ Severus says casually, ‘you’d be surprised.’

Christmas at Malfoy Manor is bright and silver and cold. Sharp culinary instruments squeal against delicate bone china. Crystal goblets, brimming with red wine, are sipped, then placed down with shrill ‘clinks’.
It’s no place for a Snape.
Severus handles Malfoy charity awkwardly. Holding back his bitterness against the sweet words and offers presented to him. He still retains his pride.
Lucus, political prodigy, talks insistently about pure blood unity. Protecting the old families, sticking together. A new movement, a new time, a new breed of wizard.
Severus expression remains blank until Voldmort is mentioned.
Ah, now this is interesting…

Snape’s mind is filled with ‘lasts’. Last night in the dorm, last breakfast, last lesson, last meal, last time he’ll see Potter and his posse, last chance to hex them. Last day at Hogwarts.
Odd; it should feel different. But it doesn’t. It’s nothing special; just the last.
At Hogsmede Platform he says goodbye to Regulus, promises to stay in contact. And he will; he’s got plans for that boy.
Then he’s on the train, surrounded by those fated to return.
He notices, for the first time, how small they all are now.
He smiles; they’re about to get smaller.

Hogwarts is odd without Severus and Sirius.
Regulus misses their company. The gentle words, the teasing, the endless competitions.
For the first time the school, his family, is too small for him.
He longs to break out of the walls, make his own destiny, forge his own path. Is this how Sirius felt when he talked of freedom? What Severus meant when he spoke of the lust for power?
What is this strange, pulling, longing in his heart?
Regulus really doesn’t know.
He nearly writes to his brother about it, then remembers himself, and addresses the letter to Severus instead.

The party is in full swing, voices are raised, fire-whisky is flowing and shrill laughter rings out. The troll bouncers have relaxed, too engaged in club maintenance to notice a dark, uninvited guest striding into the hall.
Snape, walking with a power and confidence he doesn’t yet possess, pushes scandalized guests aside, heading for the party’s focus.
Voldemort watches Snape with crimson eyes. Whilst next to him Lucas glares.
‘What do you want?’ Voldemort demands.
Severus kneels reverently. ‘I come to serve you, Lord.’
‘Why? Power? Money? Family?’
‘No… vengeance.’
Voldemort laughs and, reaching out, embraces Snape like a father.

Severus has changed.
It’s been months since they last met and his friend seems different. Like a wolf that has been beaten, tortured, cornered. He seems leaner, darker, even more savage.
He talks about nothing but his new ‘friends’
‘So,’ says Regulus, lazily, ‘this Vold-‘
‘Dark Lord!’ interrupts Severus, viciously.
‘Yeah, him, he likes you, then?’
‘He calls me his Hidden Daggar, his Subtle Knife. I suppose he finds me useful.’
‘And… you like him?’
‘He is my Master.’
‘Why do you follow him?’
‘Because of what he stands for. What he can give me.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You will.’

‘Et tu, Severus.’
Snape steps forward at his master’s bidding, bares his arm, takes the mark.
It burns. He hisses in pain.
‘The sensations will fade,’ assures the Dark Lord.
He lies.
Pain goes, except upon the Calling, but a chill remains. A cold, bitter emptiness. Like blood has been turned to ice and drained from his veins. Like his wrists have been slit. For months after Severus huddles by fires. Almost burning himself, desperate to stay warm. But nothing succeeds.
A year later it is no longer so.
Though the chill remains, he has merely become numb to it.

Though an invitation to Malfoy Manner wasn’t shocking, that the invitation came via Severus was. Usually Regulus remained at home, such an event being considered unsuitable for under aged wizards. But somehow Severus managed to persuade them to make an exception.
He isn’t best pleased. The party’s full of alcohol he can’t drink, dull conversation, strict etiquette.
Then the speaker, Voldemort, takes to stage.
It all becomes to clear! It’s about reclaiming what was lost, about protecting purity of blood, about excitement and danger and subtly and honour and everything Sirius should have been!
‘Well?’ asks Severus. ‘You in?’
‘Yeah!’

Fear hangs in the air like some noxious vapour. The ministry has last control and, Merlin, it is amusing to watch!
Suspicion, paranoia, distrust is rife. The Dark Lord sowed his seeds well and now reaps in a rich harvest.
Even his elderly next door neighbour was arrested yesterday.
Snape is unconcerned. He’s above suspicion… well, more or less. He’s staying firmly out of sight, but he’s always preferred the subtle darkness anyway.
The Order are being slaughtered. The Dark Lord is rising like the morning star. Severus is on the cutting edge of a new world.
Life is good.

He arrives promptly on time, to see his father die.
The man, once so vigorous, now so frail, looks up at his son with something like pride in his eyes.
‘Regulus,’ he rasps, ‘I give you my name, my position, my house on to you. My son. My only son. The last and purest Black.’
Then he expires.
Regulus sits there, separated from his mothers sobs and his father’s cooling corpse by dignity and introspection.
Odd, that in this moment of power, of heritage, this apogee of everything his family stood for… odd he did not feel proud at all.

The Three Broomsticks is quiet, most people are afraid to leave their houses. Only the brave or desperate venture out.
‘Listen,’ says Sirius, deadly earnest. ‘I’m being serious, things are bad! Stay out of it!’
Regulus snorts, ‘I’ll do what I want.’
A fist slams onto the table, ‘damn, Regulus, this isn’t a game! This isn’t about getting into the right crowd or living up to family name! This could get you killed! This could get you killed by *me!*’
A pause, the words echo around the room.
‘Why do you care?’ sneers Regulus finally. ‘It’s not like we’re brothers.’

It’s his biggest mission yet.
‘Kill the mudblood bitch as she’s leaving Mungo’s,’ Voldemort commanded.
Their number is five, all nervous.
They spot her. Save for a stray dog, Evans is alone on the street. One hand rests upon her swollen belly. He hadn’t known she was pregnant.
They leap out, duelling commences. They have Evans pinned when, inexplicably, Sirius appears.
The fight becomes fast and furious.
Someone casts a disarming charm. Sirius dives for his wand. Regulus has a clean shot. They lock eyes. Sirius doesn’t recognise his brother for the mask. Time stops. Choices are made.
Regulus Disaperates.

‘I’m going, I’m being Called.’
‘I don’t like this, Severus.’
‘What?’
‘Your position, your employer, the entire movement. It’s too violent. I worry you don’t take enough care.’
‘It’s fine mother, trust me. The Dark Lord will put things aright.’
‘… Lucus visited yesterday.’
‘So? I thought you liked Lucas?’
‘I found him looking in the family archives.’
‘Indeed? Probably just curiosity. You know how bloodlines interest him. We’re Snapes, pure bloods, there’s nothing he can do to us.’
‘Perhaps you’re right. Are you going to invite the boy Black here again?’
‘Most probably.’
‘Good, I like him.’
‘He’s… entertaining.’

Snape enters Regulus’ house to see him packing hurriedly.
‘Severus?’ the boy gasps, relieved. ‘Thank Merlin it’s you mate! I thought… I need your help.’
‘What?’
Regulus rants desperately, ‘I’m switching sides, I can’t take… Sirius was right. You feel the same, yeah? You can come too. I’ve arranged it all… but I think He knows… He’s sent someone after me.’
‘Correct,’ confirms Snape, raising his wand, ‘Adava Kadava.’
Regulus closes frightened eyes and whispers something Snape can’t quite hear. Something like ‘Sirius’ or perhaps even ‘Severus.’
Black’s body falls to the floor.
Severus sneers bitterly, so much for redemption

‘Regulus is dead,’ Snape proclaims.
‘Excellent,’ replies Lucus. ‘The Dark Lord wishes to see you. A matter of import has arisen.’
Snape nods, hurries to the Audience Chamber.
His mother there, sobbing wretchedly, surrounded by Death eaters.
‘Ah, Severus,’ hisses the Dark Lord, ‘it seems your mother is a Mudblood.’
Snape goes white, he fights his rising emotions rising.
‘She hid it well,’ continues his Master. ‘But Lucus discovered it. Do not worry; I don’t blame you, there will be neither punishment nor penalty. You’re still a Snape. But… some assurance is required. Kill her.’
Shaking; Severus raises his wand.

Snape stumbles back into his home, locks the door behind him, and breaks.
The bottle of his soul shatters. Spilling anger, pride, fear, laying bare his carefully trapped emotions. His father, his best friend, his mother… his mother… dead by his hand.
He’s got exactly what he wanted.
When it’s finished, when he’s screamed, fallen, puked and cried, he stands up and enters his bathroom. He runs a bath, gets in, examines his sharpest razor carefully… and shaves. Then he leaves the tepid water. Dresses and, taking out a bottle of fire whisky, starts to compose a letter to Dumbledore.

Dumbledore patiently listens to the man before him. Severus is drunk, his mark laid bare, his black eyes hollow and empty.
‘I thought,’ Snape slurs, ‘that I would become a flaming sword. Powerful, sharp, burning my enemies, purifying the world… no man’s slave. I succeeded. But I’ve only cut myself, I’ve burned away all those I loved, blighted the world. My power... is only that of any weapon wielded by the Dark Lord. I’ve destroyed myself quite thoroughly. Instead of strength… I am weakness itself. The ultimate idiot. It’s over… send for the dementors.’
‘There is…’ Albus pauses, ‘another choice…’

He laughs, ‘I don’t believe in redemption, Dumbledore. I cannot atone for my crimes and I will certainly not be your lap dog. If you want some dark, salvation obsessed champion, look elsewhere.’
‘Very well,’ shrugs Dumbledore. ‘It seems I misjudged you, Severus. I thought you a man of honour, of bravery and strength. I thought you possessed the spirit and intelligence to continue. I was wrong. I’ll leave you to wallow in your self pity.’
He rises, but Snape lashes out, grabbing his hand in an iron grip. ‘
‘Fine,’ he spits, his voice venomous, cold fire. ‘I’m in.’

Snape adores Black humour, and this is priceless.
A complete swapping of perspectives, Sirius is the new Black now. Traitorous like Regulus, only in a different manner.
Traitor, turned traitor, turned traitor. Poor Sirius, he’s lost it all.
Snape finds himself only mildly surprised, in some ways, he saw it coming a long time ago.
The Order’s reactions are wonderful, Dumbledore’s quiet tears, the unstoppable tremble of Lupin’s hands, Moody’s bitter words and his own, almost hysterical laughter.
So… this is what it’s come to. James; dead. Lupin: broken. Peter: dead. Black: insane and incarcerated.
It’s almost a happy ending.

‘We’re so proud of him,’ Mrs Black says, sipping her tea. Her face pinched and crinkled like rotting parchment.
‘My brave Regulus,’ she sighs, ‘he did well… fifty araurs, correct?’
‘Indeed,’ replies Severus, not caring to contradict. His own tea has long gone cold; the milk is rancid, but Mrs Black hasn’t noticed.
She smiles, beatifically, one skeletal hand reaching out like a dementor’s claw, it touches his knee gently and he shivers.
‘We’re proud of you too, Sirius.’
Severus nods coolly and quickly takes his leave.
Outside he hisses a laugh; perhaps he would have made a better Potter.