Chapter 69: A Question of Loyalty

"It seems," a cold voice hissed from the black smoke that had been Professor Quirrell, "if you want something done right, you must do it yourself."

A spectral figure coalesced from the dissipating ash. It was translucent and chillingly handsome, the image of a young man with elegant features and dark, captivating eyes. He extended a hand, and Quirrell's wand flew from the floor into his grasp. He aimed it at Harry's unconscious form.

Just then, a figure robed in black swept through the curtain of fire at the doorway, placing himself between the phantom and the boy.

"Who are you?" Snape's voice was tight, a flicker of apprehension on his face. He knew, somehow, but refused to believe it.

"Severus," the handsome ghost said, a cruel, knowing smile spreading across its face. "Long time no see."

As he spoke, his elegant features began to twist and melt like hot wax. The ebony hair receded, the nose flattened into serpentine slits, and the handsome eyes burned a malevolent, glowing red. Within moments, the Dark Lord stood before him in his terrifying, true form.

Snape's pupils dilated. He bowed low, a deep and reverent gesture. As he bent, his gaze fixed on the stone floor, he threw every ounce of his will into his Occlumency shields, fortifying his mind against intrusion.

"My Lord," he said, slowly raising his head. His face was a carefully constructed mask of awe and devotion. "I knew you would return. I never lost faith."

Voldemort scrutinized him with those scarlet, snake-like eyes, weighing the truth of his words. He had revealed himself not because he trusted his former right hand, but precisely because he did not. He knew nothing of Snape's loyalties, nothing of his feelings for the Potter woman, and nothing of how he had earned Dumbledore's unshakable trust. This was a test.

He also knew Snape's formidable power. He could not be dispatched as easily as Quirrell. If Snape chose to stall, to fight until Dumbledore or Dracula arrived, the Stone would be lost.

"You waited for me, Severus?" Voldemort's voice was a low, dangerous hiss. "And yet, in all that time, you made no effort to find me. Instead, you burrowed into Dumbledore's pocket like a faithful pet."

"I was your agent, my Lord," Snape replied, his voice a deep, steady baritone. "Lurking at Dumbledore's side, awaiting your return. Under his constant watch, it was impossible to search for you without exposing myself."

"Is that so?" Voldemort sneered. "He trusts you enough to make you Head of Slytherin."

"A consequence of your... departure, my Lord," Snape explained calmly. "With so many from Slytherin facing trial, the house's reputation was in ruins. I was the only Slytherin professor left. When Slughorn retired, I was the only candidate."

Voldemort stared into Snape's black, unblinking eyes, searching for a flicker of deceit. He found none.

"Good. Very good," Voldemort said, his lipless mouth twisting into a grotesque smile. The suspicion in his eyes was replaced by a look of satisfaction. "I am pleased, Severus. Then you will not hesitate to complete the first task I give you upon my return."

He extended a long, white finger, pointing at Harry.

"Kill the boy. Bring me the Stone. And you will be rewarded. You will stand above all other Death Eaters."

An imperceptible twitch in Snape's eyelid was his only reaction.

"What is it, Severus?" Voldemort's voice turned to ice. "Do you hesitate? Can it be that after more than a decade, you still harbor feelings for the mudblood?"

Beneath his black robes, Snape's hand tightened on his wand. He knew this was the final test. He turned his back to Voldemort, hiding the agonizing conflict on his face. He looked down at Harry, at the face so like James Potter's—a face he had loathed his entire life. But he also knew that beneath those closed eyelids was a pair of emerald green eyes, Lily's eyes. He could not let her son die.

His mission as a spy, so carefully cultivated for a decade, was about to end before it truly began.

He slowly raised his wand, his hand steady, but his heart pounding. In the next second, he would turn, he would fight, and he would die.

Just then, a low, amused voice, impossibly close, sounded in his ear. "Do what you must. Leave the rest to me."

Dracula.

Snape's resolve hardened. All hesitation vanished.

"Avada Kedavra!"

A bolt of blinding green light shot from his wand, hurtling toward the unconscious boy on the floor.

A true look of relief finally crossed Voldemort's face.

"BOOM!"

A massive slab of dark, ancient wood slammed down between the curse and its target, shattering the stone floor. The green light splashed harmlessly against its surface. A silver-haired figure emerged from behind the makeshift shield—a coffin lid—a curious smirk playing on his lips.

"Quite the party," Dracula remarked, popping a blood-red lollipop into his mouth. He leaned casually against his shield. "And it seems I've arrived just in time."

Voldemort's expression froze. "You," he snarled, his eyes burning with hatred. "Dracula!" In a subtle, almost imperceptible arc, his wand moved, pointing at Snape.

Snape's expression immediately went blank, his posture rigid and unnatural.

Seeing this, Dracula chuckled, his amusement growing. "Professor Snape," he said, his voice dripping with mock pity. "To be controlled by the Imperius Curse... as a Head of House, I must say, I'm almost embarrassed for you."

Voldemort allowed himself a sliver of relief. His gamble had worked. By controlling Snape, he had created the perfect cover story. Snape's loyalty to Dumbledore would remain intact, his position as a spy secure. This setback was temporary.

He did not know, of course, that Dracula had seen everything.

Voldemort nodded to himself and directed his new puppet to attack. Snape raised his wand and aimed it at Dracula.

"Bang!"

In the next instant, Snape was flung backwards with tremendous force, slamming into the far wall and leaving a perfect, human-shaped indentation in the stone.

"Now then," Dracula said, turning his full attention to the Dark Lord. "It's your turn." An intense, fervent light burned in his eyes. "Lord Voldemort, I presume?"

Since Dumbledore was unwilling to fight, this pinnacle of dark magic would have to provide his entertainment. The elder wood wand appeared in Dracula's hand. Voldemort raised Quirrell's wand in response, his expression grim.

"Confringo!" Voldemort roared.

But the Blasting Curse didn't fly at Dracula. It shot sideways, striking the wall behind the Dark Lord. The ancient stone exploded outwards. With a hiss of grinding rock, a massive, armored head, covered in scales of venomous green, smashed through the ruined wall.

Dracula turned his head, his curiosity piqued. He found himself staring into a pair of terrifyingly huge, yellow eyes. For a moment, he felt a strange lightness, a bizarre sensation of his soul wanting to drift away...

Voldemort watched him, a triumphant, wild laugh escaping his lips. "What a pity, Dracula! Your arrogance has been your undoing! You looked directly into the eyes of the Basilisk!" Confident of his victory, he started towards Harry's body to claim the Stone.

But before he could take a step, a calm voice sounded in his ear.

"It's just Salazar's old pet snake," Dracula said, his voice laced with pure, unadulterated boredom. "Where did you get the confidence to think you could use it against me?"

(End of Chapter)

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