Soon All the Suns Will Rise

Piercing Into the Sky and Higher

Switching it up a bit on Chapter Title lyrics. This is from a song called "Falcon in the Dive" from the musical The Scarlet Pimpernel. It's a perfect Severus song.
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Severus crossed the threshold of Malfoy Manor at the side of Corban Yaxley, who was already bragging to Snape about his progress in overthrowing the Ministry in an effort to distract from his tardiness.

"Come on, Yax— no need to defend yourself to Severus, since we're late too," Rhiannon teased, following behind the men. Snape had made it clear to her early on that her father needed to see deference and humility from her at all times, so he required her to follow several paces behind with her head lowered until the Dark Lord addressed her. Severus cast a sharp look to her over his shoulder, silently reminding her that goading the ash blond, callous-faced member of the inner circle wasn't really the wisest idea. But reigning Rhiannon in was rarely easy.

She had somehow managed to spare herself from taking the Mark, even though over a year and a half had passed since Voldemort had first summoned her. Snape was immensely grateful for that fact; seeing that devastating ink defile her ethereal skin would break him, and he wasn't entirely sure he would be able to hold together a front. It seemed for now her father was content to simply have her presence at gatherings periodically— to reassure him of some divine predestination of victory. Voldemort felt very clearly the strong connection that bound him to his daughter— the recognition of her magic, the rush of power that not only mirrored his own but sometimes hinted at surpassing it. But still he did not suspect the truth, as hard as it was for Severus to believe. The Dark Lord, in his arrogance, identified his own power in her as a gift from the gods themselves— a divine sanctioning of his masterful plans. He literally seemed to believe she was a goddess reincarnated and had placed her on a pedestal— undoubtedly the safest place for her to be.

This certainly rendered her rather unpopular with Snape's fellow Death Eaters, namely Bellatrix, who fancied herself their leader's consort and most skilled and devoted follower. As they moved into the expansive drawing room, lit only by the light of a large, roaring fire, Snape of course assessed the Dark Lord first, trying to gauge what mood they might be met with this evening. Then he shifted to Bellatrix and watched her hateful eyes as they followed Rhiannon's graceful form slipping into the chair across from Severus. Severus was of course instructed to sit at the Dark Lord's right hand, his murder of Dumbledore quelling any doubts as to his place in the ranks.

Having apprised himself of the pair's moods, Severus turned his attention above, and his stomach lurched. Hovering above the table was a seemingly stunned body, frozen save for a dreadful moan of agony occasionally escaping her lips. Severus had the distinct impression most of the Death Eaters at the table didn't recognize her in her current position. He couldn't confirm her identity, but he had his suspicions.

Glancing ever so subtly at Rhiannon across the table, he knew she did too. She was the only person Severus had ever met whose intuition and perception rivaled his own. He could see the slightest contortion of her face, and he slipped quickly into her thoughts through the bond they shared. To be in Rhiannon's mind didn't require legilimency; it only required the lowering of a shield Severus kept in place the majority of the time to allow her privacy. Once she felt him she willed her expression to be blank again, knowing he would scold her.

Having her with him in these meetings was difficult. She didn't always have to attend, and Snape was grateful for those times, as it allowed him to play his own role with a clear head. But tonight his mind drifted to Colleen's statement earlier in the week about children of war forced to grow up too soon. When Severus watched Rhiannon struggle to detach like this but ultimately do so with such grace and strength, he was reminded that she was close to a child herself when all this began. The Ilvermorny Thunderbird had come over from New Orleans just a couple months shy of nineteen— curious, playful, extremely sexual, with a thirst for adventure. Her emotions had still been raw from the death of her mother, and her arrival to the British wizarding world came with the earth-shattering news that her mother had been the Dark Lord's concubine during some of his time spent studying the Dark Arts in America.