~ by Megan Locatis
Snape looked at Dumbledore one last time. He wondered if he was as pale as he felt. “If I don’t return—”
“I’ve already promised you,” Dumbledore murmured, his blue eyes inscrutable. “Not a word to him.”
“To anyone.” Snape hesitated, half-wishing that Dumbledore would stop him now and tell him that it was too dangerous, that he was risking too much, that there was no sense in suffering through whatever unbearable torture the Dark Lord had in store for him.
But Dumbledore merely nodded, content to see him off into the belly of the beast, unconcerned as to whether he would return or not.
Snape wondered what Dumbledore would do if he refused him now, if he declared that he would just stay put, at his side, and ignore the call.
This was no time for cowardice, he reminded himself. He’d spent thirteen years believing this day would never come. Now was the time to shake himself out of denial and face the music.
The Mark still burned unbearably on his arm, a constant reminder of what he was about to face.
Drawing a final calming deep breath, Snape turned and strode out of the headmaster’s office, down the stairs, out across the castle lawn. He did not stop until he reached the gates to the school. He paused there, closing his eyes, giving himself a moment to gather his thoughts, to steel himself. Then he concentrated on the pain, on the thread there, the unique tie that he could follow to his old master’s side.
Snape apparated, and in the next moment he found himself in the graveyard of a place he knew well. Little Hangleton. The town had been a favorite haunt of the Dark Lord’s before his fall, though they had never gathered in the graveyard like this.
And there, standing before him, in all his repugnant glory, was his old master. The man was as snakelike as ever, pale as bone, his red eyes burning from behind thin slits. And there was a terrifying cold rage in the man’s eyes, one that Snape had not seen in all his days serving at the man’s side.
He was not alone. Snape recognized the figures fanned out around him, the Death Eaters who had heeded the call immediately, most hoping for forgiveness for their cowardice. He recognized Lucius, Dolohov, Macnair. Pettigrew, simpering off to the Dark Lord’s side, missing a hand—just as Potter had reported.
Snape sank into a low bow. “My lord,” he uttered.
He looked up in time to catch Voldemort’s cruel smile. “Severus,” he greeted him, suffusing the word with false warmth. Then he flicked his wand at the man.
Severus buckled down to the ground immediately, overwhelmed by the screaming pain that shot through him. It twisted through his limbs, burning like fire, searing his veins. He could not bear it, he thought. He was too weak. Dumbledore had sent the wrong man for this job.
Voldemort’s cold, high voice cut into him, even through the pain. “I was wondering whether you’d be joining us. I must say, I’m rather surprised. I expected you to continue to cower in Dumbledore’s skirts.”
Laughter echoed from around him.
Snape gritted his teeth, trying to find the will to endure. The burning started to fade a little, enough that he was able to struggle back to his feet. He reached for his wand.
Voldemort’s disarming spell was swift—but not so swift that Snape was not able to block it with a Shield Charm.
A murmur of shock rumbled through the ranks of the Death Eaters.
“Well,” Voldemort mused, stepping forward slowly, wand still raised. “Such fine reflexes, Severus. Most impressive.”
Snape dared to meet Voldemort’s red eyes for half a second, molding his expression into one of shame and reverence. He tossed his wand down at Voldemort’s feet and sank to one knee. “There is no need to take, my lord, what is freely given.”
“Do not think that I do not know what you freely give, Severus,” Voldemort hissed. He hit Snape with another terrible Cruciatus Curse. “Do not think that I do not know why you are late today, why you came long after my rebirth, long after the Potter boy slipped through my fingers again.”
Snape moaned, unable to contain himself. He felt as if his very tendons were being twisted within him, as if his bones were being crushed to splinters.
“Dumbledore did, I hope, give you permission to be here?” Voldemort directed his wand at Snape, lifting his shaking body in the air, suspending him by his neck. “I would not want his favorite spy getting into trouble.”
“He believes he did,” Snape choked out.
Voldemort let him drop to the ground then.
The latest bout of torture ended. Snape panted heavily, trying to regain mastery of himself. He was shaking, sweating from the strain the curse had put on him.
“Surely—my lord—you can see the advantage of my position?” Snape heaved out. “Let me explain—let me show you—”
Voldemort blasted him again, this time with enough force behind his curse to cause Snape to cry out immediately. He shrieked as he writhed on the ground, lost to anything but the agony of the sensations ripping through him.
“I am a merciful lord, Severus,” Voldemort said quietly, though his deadly words still found their way into Snape’s ears. “I have forgiven many of my servants here tonight, wayward though they have been. But some sins are too great, you understand, to be forgiven. And for those like you—traitors, cowards, liars—there is only one appropriate reward.” Voldemort lifted his wand again, holding it aloft gently. “I shall make an example of you, so that those present today will know the price of betrayal. But I do thank you for seeking me out; it makes things so much simpler.”
“But you will look through my mind, my lord,” Snape croaked, clawing at the damp dirt of the cemetery beneath him. “Before you kill me, you will look—”
“But of course, Severus,” Voldemort reassured him soothingly, his mouth pulled back in a tight, lipless grin. “I dare say I shall tear it apart, knowing the secrets that fool Dumbledore has entrusted to you.”
Snape forced a relieved smile to his lips as he pretended to sag down. “Good,” he whispered, even as his stomach twisted into a knot.
This, at last, seemed to give Voldemort pause. “Good? Has it been so long? Have you forgotten what it is, to have your mind undone at the seams?” Voldemort paced forward slowly, his eyes analyzing Snape as they might a revolting insect squashed against the ground. “Ah, but I was always so gentle with you, wasn’t I? So indulgent. So many painful memories swim in that mind….” He shook his head in mock sympathy. “I will offer no such mercies this time.”
“I knew you would not, my lord,” Snape murmured in a tone that he hoped was just contrite enough to be believable. “I was a fool to abandon you, to believe that a mere child could be your undoing. But I would never come here thinking, for even an instant, that such an accomplished Legilimens, that a wizard of such power and skill, would leave any inch of my mind unexamined.”
Snape shifted himself onto his knees and spread his hands before him, palms up, in a gesture of absolute surrender. “I am yours. Use me as you will.”
Snape braced himself for another Cruciatus Curse, for another round of wishing himself dead and gone.
But the blow never came.
“Leave us,” Voldemort commanded, turning his attention to the other Death Eaters in the graveyard. “You have disappointed me enough for one day.”
Wormtail tried to scamper off, too, but Voldemort flicked his wand at him, stopping the man in his tracks. “Not you, Wormtail,” he hissed.
Wormtail whimpered softly.
“I shall interrogate Severus myself. And if I detect deception, we will reconvene and, together, shall witness his punishment.”
One by one the Death Eaters disapparated with loud, resounding cracks.
Snape remained on his knees, in the midst of the sod, his robes already soiled from writhing on the ground.
“You are either very brave or very foolish,” Voldemort murmured. He continued to pace before Snape, the hem of his black robe just barely brushing against the ground.
“I am remorseful, my lord,” Snape breathed. “Nothing more. I have come to offer what I have learned after thirteen years at that fool Dumbledore’s side. I will consider myself fortunate if you permit me to continue to serve… but I know that I was faithless, and that you do not forgive easily.”
“We shall see,” Voldemort said.
There was no warning before Voldemort invaded Snape’s mind. Snape marshaled every last ounce of concentration he possessed and focused not only on reinforcing the walls in his mind, but on the altered truth he would present to Voldemort, the version of his life spun out from his darkest, most selfish emotions.
He felt the force of Voldemort’s probe reach for the night he’d gone to Dumbledore to ask for protection, letting it be colored by his shame and his weakness, lingering on the feeling of infatuation with Lily. The string of memories that followed were filled with his fear at the date of his approaching trial, his continued weakness, his cowardice when presented with the prospect of Azkaban. Dumbledore rushing to his aid, always willing to believe the best of people. Snape’s smug satisfaction that the old fool had stuck his neck out for him and spared him from his fate.
The next years at Hogwarts flew past in a rush, mostly filled with his own distaste for his pathetic students and their loathing of him, his preference for his Slytherins and their ruthlessness. His contempt for Dumbledore the many times he’d been summoned to speak with the man, to discuss rumors and possibilities of Voldemort’s return.
The blur of memories slowed as Potter’s first year approached. His first potions class with the boy, his cruelty, his taunting and sarcasm—this seemed to please Voldemort greatly. Voldemort’s probing presence lingered over every exchange between Snape and the Potter boy, seemingly relishing Harry’s humiliation.
Snape nearly lost himself when Voldemort examined, in particular detail, the time when Snape had taken over Lupin’s class the previous year, when Granger had answered his questions without being called on.
“Another five points from Gryffindor for being an insufferable know-it-all.”
Snape could almost feel Voldemort’s approval radiating through him, the words that were not words echoing in his mind and memories.
Filthy sanctimonious mudblood.
Snape forced his anger and shame down; he did not let his emotions rise to the surface, instead burying them deep beneath his walls. The walls that Voldemort had not even brushed.
Voldemort moved on then, pressing forward, spending less time lingering on amusing exchanges, instead searching for something very specific. The reason Snape had returned.
They slowed again, focusing on the moment Karkaroff had confronted Snape about the Dark Mark. Snape could feel Voldemort’s interest in this exchange, as well as his loathing for the former Death Eater.
Snape’s words to the man echoed very clearly in the memory, as if Voldemort had chosen to underscore them as evidence.
“I have nothing to be scared of, Igor. Can you say the same?”
They sped through memories again, slowing for Snape’s threat to use Veritaserum against Harry, for the Trials, at last coming to the events of that very same day. The moment that Harry had returned, Cedric’s body in tow. Snape’s own memory of the unbearable burn on his arm, his rationalizations to himself that he needed to resist the call, that he needed to linger at Dumbledore’s side in order to continue to fool the decrepit old man.
Crouch’s confession. The revelation that the Dark Lord had returned. Fudge’s denial—which evoked mixed feelings in Voldemort, who, ultimately, settled on amusement.
Snape’s conversation with Dumbledore before leaving to rejoin the Dark Lord in Little Hangleton.
“So it is true. Undeniably true.”
“You wish me to return to his side, headmaster?”
“The risk, Severus—it is too great. I could not ask—”
“I am happy to go, headmaster.”
Snape felt Voldemort carefully tasting all of the emotions of that greatly altered memory, weighing them each—the eagerness, the dread, the hatred for Dumbledore, who had pretended to be Snape’s master for so many years, who had treated him like some house-trained pup. His fear—that he had waited too long, that he had not looked for the Dark Lord as he should have, that he would not be forgiven. The resolution to go and die in the Dark Lord’s service, better than rotting away as Dumbledore’s doormat, as the Potter brat’s babysitter.
At long last Voldemort withdrew from Snape’s mind, leaving him lost for a moment deep within his own consciousness. But Snape managed to resurface, like a disoriented swimmer finally breaking the surface of the water and gasping for air.
Voldemort did not speak at first. He continued to stare down at Snape, impassive, fingering his wand, as if he had not yet decided on his servant’s fate.
For a terrible moment, Snape thought it had not been enough, that he would die here after all, kneeling in the mud, cowering before his former master like some slovenly wretch.
At last Voldemort broke the silence. “You have done well, Severus.”
Snape practically collapsed into himself with relief.
Voldemort flicked his wrist, sending Snape’s own wand flying back into his hand.
Snape caught it in his trembling fingers. “Thank you, my lord.”
“Rise, Severus, and let us discuss what use we can make of you.”
Snape allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. He pushed himself to his feet and, with a quick jerk of his wand, cleared away the debris that had collected on his robes. “I believe, my lord,” he murmured as he followed Voldemort out of the graveyard, being sure to keep just slightly behind him as a sign of deference, “that I will be of great use, indeed.”
***
Snape strode into Dumbledore’s office without announcing himself. He wanted to make his report so that he could go find a Calming Draught for his nerves. He’d held himself together well enough for the brief time he’d stood at Voldemort’s side, but even he had his limits, and now he was in dire need of reprieve.
Dumbledore was standing at the window, as he so often did, gazing down at the grounds. He turned slightly upon hearing Snape’s entry.
“So?” he inquired softly.
No indication that the man was surprised to see that Snape had survived, or that he was even glad that he had. Just this cool demand, as if he took for granted the very service Snape had just performed.
“It is done. I have been welcomed back into the fold.”
Dumbledore nodded to himself, his beard bobbing slightly with the motion. “Good, good. And you told him of the Order?”
Snape nodded curtly. “I told him as much as you instructed I should reveal.”
“And Voldemort trusts you?”
Snape flinched at the mention of the man’s name. “As far as I can tell. He was very… thorough… in examining my mind.”
“Doubtless he is already plotting my demise,” Dumbledore mused, more of a comment to himself than to Snape. He was already lost in his own ponderings. He could not be bothered to wait until Snape had left. “And he believes you will be the one to orchestrate it….”
“His greatest concern now is reestablishing his followers and regaining control of the ministry. He believes his work will be much easier once the deck is stacked in his favor.”
Dumbledore continued to nod to himself. “Were they still at his side when you arrived?”
“His Death Eaters? Yes. All the ones I suspected… and our friend Pettigrew.” Snape shifted very slightly to his left, so that he could support himself against the wall. He was starting to feel the aftereffects of so much adrenaline in such a short period of time.
Dumbledore turned slightly, and, seeing Snape leaning against the wall, exclaimed, “Severus, by all means, sit!”
“I’m fine,” Snape ground out stiffly. He wondered whether Dumbledore would even ask what he’d endured, or how Voldemort had welcomed him back. He had a suspicion that the man did not want to know.
“What were his orders to you?” Dumbledore pressed, stepping away from the window.
“To remain here, to keep my cover as I have. To report to you that he is still very weak and dependent on others, that he intends to move very slowly and cautiously. To remain alert and wait for further instruction, and to contact him if I hear anything worthwhile, or if the Order or the Ministry begin to move against him and his followers.”
“Good.” Dumbledore paced over to his desk. “Yes, very good. We shall have to be very careful as to what information we pass along. It must be enough that Voldemort feels you are an effective spy. We will have to play this very carefully, indeed….”
Snape merely frowned to himself. Foolish of him, he thought, to believe that it was over, that he had accomplished his task. This dance had just begun, and a single slight misstep on his part would spell his end. The victory he celebrated today was nothing in the face of what was to come.
“Was there anything else?” Snape asked quietly.
Dumbledore shook his head, his attention elsewhere again. “No, that will do for now. I should go down anyway… Cedric’s parents will be arriving at any moment.”
Snape winced at the mention of Diggory. He felt a not unfamiliar shame rise in him again. Of course Dumbledore did not have time to fuss over him, regardless of what he’d endured. A student had just died, an impostor had been discovered, the ministry was in denial over the Dark Lord’s return….
And Snape was a grown man capable of licking his own wounds. Dumbledore had precious little time and energy to spare, and Snape’s wellbeing was far down on his list of priorities.
“Of course. I’ll be in my quarters if you’ve need of me.” Snape turned to leave.
“Take care of yourself, Severus.”
Dumbledore’s words startled him, mostly because the tone had changed so drastically. They were suddenly warm, brimming with sincerity and concern. They came across as a heartfelt plea rather than an empty platitude.
Snape did not know how to respond, and so an awkward, pregnant silence hung between them for a moment.
“I intend to,” he said at last, before sweeping out of the office.