Chapter Text
Masquerade
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“There are days when her humanity
Feels like a fever dream,
As if her bones are but the bower
Of a horned, hungry thing.”
Elizabeth Knight
✦✦✦
Chapter One
The Abyss
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“Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”
Friedrich Nietzsche
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“He will be here, my Lord."
The room was dark, save for a puddle of flickering firelight in which she knelt, forehead pressed to the rough floorboards. Heat licked at the exposed nape of her neck from the oversized fireplace, plastering damp tendrils of hair to her skin. Beneath the inky folds of her cloak, sweat beaded along her spine. She inhaled the stench of rotting wood, the stagnant air heavy in her lungs. Her jagged breath tore holes in the silence.
“Lord Voldemort does not like to be kept waiting.”
The taste of fear was copper and salt on her lips.
Alessia swallowed it back like bile, the motion raw in her tight throat. She would not yield to the crushing weight pressed against her already bowed spine. She curled her gloved hands into fists, the leather groaning in protest, a familiar mantra circling through her mind like a flock of trapped birds:
I have survived worse than this…
She had never expected mercy - not here.
Not with his fury still echoing in her bones. Not with the blood still fresh in her throat.
She should have run when he screamed.
In the graveyard, his gaze had passed over her with barely more than a flicker of recognition. When Potter had slipped through his fingers, and his screams of fury had shattered the night, she should have gone.
She could have been home now. At Tessari.
Out of the Death Eater robes she loathed, the night scoured away with scalding water. Jasmine-scented air curling through the open windows. Her teacup still sitting half-finished on the desk, rim stained with the dark imprint of her lips. Parchment cluttering the wood beneath it, her neat handwriting slashed through in frustration. Books piled high: some bookmarked, others splayed open and abandoned.
The chaos had been unusual for her, but that night nothing could hold her focus. Her gaze kept drifting to the clock atop the mantelpiece. Her thoughts had snagged, again and again, on Hogwarts.
She’d spent the day buried in dread, anticipation clawing at her as the third and final task of the Tournament drew near. They had known something would happen. What conclusion could it have been but this one? And yet again, the boy had been at the centre of it.
Harry Potter.
Caught up in the Tournament despite all of Dumbledore’s protections. Passing the first two tasks with an ease that reeked of interference. Someone at Hogwarts had wanted him to win. Not for glory. Not for fame. But for something far darker.
They had seen the delicate gossamer strands of the plot, even if they had not been able to see the full shape of the web.
Now they knew. Everything had been to get Potter out of Dumbledore’s grasp. To deliver him to the Dark Lord.
Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken...
Yet, to her relief, the boy had survived; his part was not yet played, after all.
It had done little to help her now.
The Dark Lord’s fury at Potters escape had been near homicidal. He had flung a few cruciatus curses, shrieked at them all to leave. Any Death Eater with sense had obeyed.
Only Wormtail had remained - cringing behind the Dark Lord, clutching his new silver hand, wide-eyed with the desire to flee.
And Alessia had stayed. She had hesitated in the shadows, his earlier words ringing through her mind:
One, who I believe has left me forever ... he will be killed, of course
She had thought of Severus - delayed by Dumbledore, apparating before the Dark Lord and cut down before he could speak.
The risk had been too great.
Even with the phantom of Severus’ scorn hissing in her ear --- “Fool! Now is not the time for Gryffindor heroics ...!” ---, she had stepped forward. Her heartbeat hammered against her ribs. Her cloak rustled over the grass. Her boots scuffed against the loose stones, alerting him to her presence.
When she drew closer to the Dark Lord’s shadowed form, swallowed beneath the folds of his cloak, she dropped to her knees, bowed her head, and waited.
“I said, leave,” he hissed, without even turning his head.
“Forgive me, master. But I must speak with you.”
As she spoke, she snatched a glance at Wormtail. Just as she had suspected, he displayed no surprise at her voice. He knew. The Dark Lord must have told him. She wondered what else the rat had learned.
Moments later, she had tasted the cruciatus curse for the first time that evening. The terrible, bone-shattering pain had been worse than she remembered; and yet almost a relief. The tension of anticipation was finally broken.
The curse had set the tone for the next two hours.
If she had known it would go on like that, she would have left Severus to rot in whatever grave Dumbledore had dug for him, and cursed the both of them.
A shadow stirred at the edge of her vision. It slithered towards her, the heavy cloak cutting serpentine patterns across the dusty floorboards, until it came to a swirling stop, fabric whispering against her cheek.
He stank of decay, like something unearthed from a grave.
Alessia raised her head and a crack of blinding white pain shot through her skull, forcing her back down into the dust. Her face contorted. A sibilant hiss of breath stole through her clenched teeth. Still, she forced her eyes up to him.
His wand was a pale flash against the darkness of his robes, the handle clenched tight in a skeletal hand.
“Master. I---"
“It has been hours, Visconti. Perhaps,” he said, thick with mocking pity “your faith was…misplaced?”
She felt as though she were drowning.
“No, my lord,” she said, though she knew it was futile.
Unblinking, she met the blazing brand of his stare. She twisted her skirts through her fingers, trying to hide the tremor in her hands. “He will come. He—“
“Crucio!”
The curse surged through her bones.
Splintering. Tearing. Ripping.
Her body convulsed, fingers scrabbling at the floor, head cracking against the wood, teeth snapping together, slicing open her tongue. The pain was inescapable. Far away she could hear the screams, ripped from her already ragged throat….
…and she was laying back at his feet, chest heaving, a sticky wetness against her cheek.
She lay, broken, waiting for the world to stop spinning. The waves of the curse thrummed through her body, leaving her boneless and sapped in its wake – a marionette with cut strings.
Dumbledore's voice writhed through her skull like a hungry worm, gnawing at the edges of her resolve.
There are things much worse than death.
She forced the thought away and wondered what would happen if – this time, just once – she didn’t get up.
But stubbornness, or desperation, got her back to her knees. The sudden motion sent nausea rolling through her, and dark spots danced across her vision. The room tilted.
For one awful moment she thought that she would faint.
Don’t you dare.
“Please, my lord,” she gasped, words laced with blood.
He turned away, striding to the hearth, his spine a taut, trembling line. His wand twitched against his thigh. Alessia saw the moment the anger ripped through him - and tensed before the wand even lifted.
The curse hit her like a bludger.
The impact ricocheted through her sternum with the sickening crack of bone. Her strangled scream tore loose, forcing the last of the air from her lungs as she pitched forward onto the floor.
“Where is he?” The Dark Lord spat the words like venom.
She couldn’t breathe. Each shallow inhalation sent tendrils of pain curling through her ribs.
“I don’t know,” She rasped. “He must have been delayed…. My lord, please…please….”
Hot tears began to blur her vision.
She blinked them away.
Control it.
“Delayed?”
Cold fury in his voice. Alessia tried to rise but couldn’t. A small, pitiful whimper escaped her lips before she could stop it.
She hated herself for it.
“Tell me, Visconti.” The razor of his voice was drawn slow. “Does a faithful servant not answer his master’s summons, without delay.”
“Please---"
“He has abandoned me—-.”
“No!”
She could barely look at him. Could only tilt back her head and peer through a veil of tangled hair, knowing he could see the tears, the terror.
“Master, I have explained… Severus stays away to serve you. He risks your lordship’s displeasure so that he may keep Dumbledore’s trust--”
“He has spent fourteen years cowering beneath Dumbledore’s wing,” sneered the Dark Lord.
“Better than rotting away in Azkaban! What use would Severus have been to you---?” She broke off, coughing violently. When she lowered her hand, the glove was flecked with blood.
“The Lestranges went to Azkaban rather than betray me.”
“And that was a noble gesture, my lord. But after fourteen years they can give you nothing more than their empty gesture of loyalty. Severus will bring you information on Dumbledore. You ordered him to get close – he obeyed you. Why would he throw it away now?”
“He is a coward and a traitor!” said the Dark Lord.
“No! My lord, please. Please! You must give him a chance to explain---”
“’Must’, Visconti? You forget your place.”
“Forgive me, master. I merely…I wish only to serve you—"
“Lies,” hissed the Dark Lord. “You abandoned me.”
“Never. Never!”
“Legilimens!”
The intrusion slit her open, leaving her flayed and naked and raw.
…A darkened room. The taste of wine on her tongue. "It's getting stronger every month. Severus, we have to act--"…
…Heat. Bodies slick with sweat. The bedsheets twisted and clinging. She arched towards him, her mouth shaping his name…
…."You bring shame on this family!" Spittle flying from furious lips….
…Bubbling cauldrons. The heavy, comforting scent of an apothecary….
…”I will not be Dumbledore’s pawn!”…..
… “You are my daughter;” the insidious whisper was as smooth as silk “My blood. You aren’t like them…” …
…Stairs coiling down into the earth
A bloody handprint, slick and glistening on the crumbling wall.
The door, yawning open on silent, ravenous hinges.
Stench of rotting meat.
Something glistening wetly in the dark.
Wide, gaping mouths. Hands reaching for her.
Screams - torn from a human throat, but wrong, too thin, too animal….
“No!”
Alessia recoiled, tearing herself away, forcing the memory back down into the fetid grave she had buried it in.
But the smell remained - sweet, cloying, clinging to her skin - and the gnawing terror that hollowed out her bones.
Stairs into the earth….Blood on the walls….Fingers reaching…
She hunched forwards, hands clawing at her skull, as though she could rip the memory from her head.
Faces in the windows…. Blood staining the snow….The door. Always the door….
And then, with a terrible jolt of understanding, Alessia realised what she’d done.
“Master…” She dropped her hands and lurched forwards, falling at his feet. “Forgive me. I didn't …. I couldn’t ….”
“Crucio.”
The curse hit like the shattering of glass.
No end. No mercy.
There was a purity to the pain; it obliterated everything until she was nothing but agony. Time stretched, warped, disappeared. She could only endure, lips pulled into a silent rictus, too broken to even scream. When it finally stopped, she lay slumped in the dust, mind still as death.
A pit. A tomb.
She dragged in a gasping breath and the dagger between her ribs slipping a little deeper.
“Forgive me, Master,” she whispered. “Forgive me.”
Something brushed against her temple, then fingers twisting cruelly into her hair, wrenching her head back. Alessia caged the scream between gritted teeth. Too much. The pain was too much. But she forced herself to focus.
My memories are yours. I would hide nothing….
He plunged into her mind.
This time, her thoughts were crystalline, still as a frozen lake. Memories flowed towards him – Severus’ voice in the dark. Whispers over books and cauldrons. Secret promises traded in the moonlight. For every memory she offered, there were a dozen more he ripped free. Raw, private moments she longed to protect. But she did not resist. She let him take them.
She was a loyal and obedient Death Eater. Just another ambitious pureblood, hungry for power. Nothing else. Nothing more.
And then the pressure receded. Her mind collapsed, thoughts scattered like books flung from shelves. She sagged, falling limp to the floor.
Alessia pressed a trembling hand to her temple, where the pain beat against her skull. She allowed her eyes to close, just for a moment. Unconsciousness prickled at the edge of her mind, soft and dangerous as fog. Her strength - whatever stubborn flame had carried her this far - was guttering out.
Somewhere through the haze she sensed him moving away.
She forced her eyes open and saw the Dark Lord sink into a tattered wing-back chair before the fire, his wand tapping an impatient tattoo against the fraying armrest.
Alessia didn’t bother trying to rise. Better to hoard what little strength she had left. She sprawled where she had fallen, resting her cheek against her forearm, and let her thoughts spiral, light as dust motes on the air.
Severus, where the fuck are you?
Hours must have passed since Potter vanished from the graveyard. Why was Dumbledore keeping him? Every minute wasted dragged Severus closer to the noose.
Potter had returned to the school with a corpse. Chaos would have broken loose. Students screaming. Fudge bumbling. Potter shouting the truth for anyone who would listen.
But Severus should have slipped away by now.
Unless…
…and one, who remains my most faithful servant, and who has already re-entered my service. He is at Hogwarts…
The Dark Lord’s earlier words crawled through her mind. Had the spy attacked Severus? Tried to expose him?
No. More likely the spy has been caught. Severus had stayed behind to clean up the mess.
Who was it? Who had gotten Potter’s name into the goblet, spun this whole cursed web?
Her thoughts fractured and fell apart. No matter how she clutched at them, they slipped through her fingers like ash.
The minutes dragged by, leaden and slow. Alessia counted each frantic beat of her heart, each ragged breath. Her muscles screamed. Flames writhed in the hearth. Somewhere in the shadows, Nagini shifted with a wet, sinuous sound.
The Dark Lord didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Sleep began to coil around her, thick and treacherous.
The knock crackled like thunder through the silence.
“Enter,” said the Dark Lord.
Wormtail scurried into the room and stood cringing in the doorway, clutching his new silver hand to his chest like a beloved child. His watery eyes flicked to her, triumph gleaming, before darting back to his master.
“M-Master. Snape is here.”
Alessia looked at the Dark Lord, and found his gaze already waiting, cold and merciless.
“Get out.”
“My lord.”
Alessia pushed herself upright. The effort wrung a low, animal sound from her throat. She staggered a step forward, legs as brittle as twigs. Darkness crowded behind her eyes, greedy and patient.
Not yet.
Wormtail lingered in the doorway, blocking her path with a slow, smug smile. She didn’t look at him. Let the rat enjoy his moment. His time would come - and she would be there, waiting, when he fell.
The hall was pitch dark, save for the spill of the firelight licking across the floor. Against the far wall, masked and emotionless, stood Severus.
Their eyes met, a fleeting collision, and his mind speared into hers.
‘He is a coward and a traitor!’
Sharp-edged fury. Pain beyond pain. Mistrust leaking like poison.
Then his familiar presence withdrew.
“Tessari,” she whispered as she brushed past him, lingering long enough to feel the touch of his fingers against her own.
Then he was gone, door snapping shut between them.
And the darkness swallowed her.