Sunday, September 28th, 1995 – Malfoy Manor, The Throne Room
Emmanuel Ollivander spat a wad of thick, ropy blood onto the stone floor. He thought he noticed another tooth in the gore. He had stopped counting after he lost his third tooth, but he guessed only about half of them were remaining by now. He stared at the black boot inches from his face, and rose shakily onto his hands.
"Would you like to reconsider your last statement, wandmaker?" a sinister voice above him hissed.
"My…my Lord," the old man faltered, "I'm doing all that I can. The basilisk venom is unstable; it destroys the wood and the other cores…it…it has never been done before…" "My Lord," he added, as a shivered afterthought. He had learned that addressing this monster before him with anything but reverence resulted in very bad things.
There was a pause of several seconds while Ollivander braced himself for further torture. When it came, it was harsh beyond measure.
"Crucccio," whispered the hated voice, holding the curse for almost thirty seconds before relenting.
Ollivander's body was twitching and shivering now, his muscles spasming involuntarily in response to the pain. He wondered hazily if he would be able to use his hands after tonight.
"You have two weeks, wandmaker," Voldemort threatened. "If you fail, they shall hear your screams in Scotland."
Had he not been in a state of such agony, Ollivander might have laughed at the comically sibilant intonations of the Dark Lord. But his sense of humor had deserted him, and there was truly nothing funny at all about the snake-like creature who owned the voice.
Voldemort gave the broken man one last kick to the ribs and returned to his "throne." They were deep beneath the ground, in a part of Malfoy Manor below even the dungeons. The Dark Lord's meeting room had been dubbed the "throne room" by the Death Eaters because of the regal manner with which he held court there. In truth it was little more than a circular room with humble stone walls covered in black and green tapestries.
"Severus," the Dark Lord spoke. "You are to give the old man two more ounces of venom. Remove him from my sight, and return to Hogwarts. Wormtail, remove the muggle."
Severus Snape stepped forth from the shadows where he and Peter Pettigrew had been watching the evening's progress report from Ollivander.
"As you wish, my Lord." He bowed respectfully, careful not to meet the red glowing eyes of his Master, then knelt to lift Ollivander from the ground. The old man could not support his own weight at all, and a levitation spell would probably cause him to vomit.
Groaning under the added weight, he began half-dragging and half-carrying Ollivander back to his "workshop."
Peter Pettigrew levitated the bloody remains of a young muggle woman and followed in Snape's direction, trying not to gag on the smell of the girl's viscera dangling pitifully from her abdomen.
Snape strode quickly through the corridors of hewn stone deep below Malfoy Manor. This part of Malfoy's dungeons always gave him a sense of claustrophobia, despite his comfort with Hogwarts' dungeons. The corridors were narrow, the rock walls were slimy and foul-smelling, and the torchlight insufficient to provide real light. Tonight he ignored those things, intent on ensuring that he knew the twists and turns of this passage by heart. It led, after a slow uphill climb, to an exit near the edge of the Manor's wards. From there it was easy to exit the wards, though virtually impossible to enter through them.
Snape stopped abruptly and peered into the darkness behind him. Satisfied that he had not been followed, he turned and moved quickly on.
If things went according to plan, his life as a spy would be over six days from now.
If the plan failed, the best he could hope for was a quick and painless death.
Many things depended on whether Potter was capable of some new miracle. The wretched boy had a habit of defying the laws of magic that baffled even Dumbledore. But this time the deck would be so heavily stacked against him that a miracle was nearly inconceivable. Snape wondered briefly what would happen if Potter somehow struck down the Dark Lord like he had all those years ago, but didn't dwell on it. That would be Albus's problem. The Dark Lord was currently everyone's problem. He had recovered from whatever Potter did to him at his resurrection ritual, and was growing more impatient to destroy his enemies with each passing day.
Snape had exited the presence of the Dark Lord not twenty minutes ago. He had dragged Ollivander back to his cell and administered what little first aid he could. There was not much to be done for cruciatus exposure. He had left the man with enough basilisk venom to dissolve a human body, but Snape thought the elderly wandmaker's chances of success were slim. His body was too broken for such complex work. He wondered, in fact, when Ollivander would decide that all hope was lost and use the venom on himself. That would have both advantages and disadvantages to their cause.
Despite the important service Ollivander had been coerced into performing, Lord Voldemort took great pleasure in torturing him daily. Apparently he didn't care that the man's frailty was only delaying the delivery of the new wand. Snape was exceedingly grateful that the Dark Lord was not so reckless when torturing his potions master.
Sweating from both nervousness and exertion, Snape eventually reached his destination. Slowly opening the heavy iron door and peering around cautiously, he decided that he was alone. He took a few steps out into the darkness and surveyed the area.
Snape stood in the dark for the next five minutes, carefully memorizing the locations of rocks, trees, and greenery. With any luck this reconnaissance would turn out to be useless, but it might end up saving his life. Many years of spying had engrained in him the necessity of having multiple escape routes.
Finally satisfied with the intelligence, Snape made his way to a copse of trees just beyond the wards and apparated away.