Work Text:
“I didn't think you were stupid enough to take an Unbreakable Vow, Severus.”
If he were not long accustomed to dealing with such situations, his blood would run cold in his veins. Of course Bella told him, such a loyal bitch as to endanger the life of her own grandson. He lowers his head in humility and humiliation, speaking at his master’s feet, like the good, faithless dog he is.
“I owed a debt to the Malfoy family, my Lord.”
This is not entirely untrue, of course. The Dark Lord knows that Lucius showered him with gifts, especially in the beginning, forcing him to wear robes befitting his princely abode and the presence of their noble mentor. Not to mention that it was Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy who introduced him to his idol, long before his monstrous nature overflowed to the point of disfiguring his body as well as his soul.
“And so you are prepared to die to save their pupil... Gryffindor sentimentality!”
“My Lord...”
It is a stupid move, this one. Speaking without being asked can be fatal, but Severus is tired and knows there is nothing the Dark Lord hates more than Gryffindors. He might keep quiet if he were accused of being a spy, but not of being anything like…
“What is Albus Dumbledore doing these days?”
He shuts his mouth tightly, thinking for a maddening moment that his master has finally managed to breach his Occlumency shields, before realizing the idiocy of such an assumption.
He is busy dying, of course.
He swallows those words and forces out others, and his voice is that of a dead man:
“He's working on a crocheted blanket. He says next winter will be especially cold.”
“What on earth are you doing?”
Albus is sitting in front of the lit fireplace with his black hand busy knitting an equally black blanket. He shouldn’t exert himself in this way, but instead he continues to waste what (little) time he has left in such ridiculous occupations.
“It's a blanket, my dear boy.”
He ignores that ludicrous answer as he has been accustomed to do for years, and tries futilely to reason with him.
“You should be resting. If you strain your hand like that...”
“Next winter is looking particularly cold. I bet the dungeon floor will freeze. You'll need something to keep you warm.”
The Dark Lord bursts into thunderous laughter, similar to the screeching of a dozen long fingernails on a dirty blackboard.
“That old fool... He should sew himself a shroud. Am I right, Severus?”
That’s when he does something foolish - he tells the whole truth, for once.
“I don’t need a damn blanket! Hell will keep me warm”.
Albus finally puts down his knitting needles and raises his head, staring at him with deep sadness behind his half-moon glasses.
“Oh, Severus… Do you still hate yourself that much?”
“Indeed, my Lord.”