Title: Heart of a Death Eater - Sidestory to Cracking The Hourglass
Author: MajinSakuko
E-Mail: MajinSakukoyahoo.de
Beta-Reader: Persephone Lupin
Dedicated to: Lilith11, who made me learn some German terms.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, JKR everything else
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing/Main-Chara: SS, HP, LV
Rating: R
Genre/s: Horror, Angst, Drama
Warning/s: Dark Fic
A/N: This plays (as Cracking The Hourglass) in Harry's fifth year, it's AU, and it's before Harry saw Snape's Pensieve and before Sirius died.
A/N2: It's really quite dark; so if you have a sensible belly, don't read it.
Summary: This is no romance where someone captures Snape's heart or something. It's a dark fic, no pairing, and is about a flashback (triggered by Harry) of Snape's time as a Death Eater.

Occlumency lessons would be as nice and as much fun as always, Harry knew that, and the boy willed the time to fly by - with little success. He knew he had to learn to block Voldemort out, even if just because Dumbledore asked him to, but Snape was just so... Snape; there wasn't a better description.

With a heavy heart, Harry knocked on the Potions classroom door, and entering after hearing a familiar, impatient "Come in, Potter. Don't waste any more time than you already have!" As if Harry wasn't exactly on time.

Harry pushed the door open and entered, observing how Snape drew a few more silver threads from his greasy temple. The professor put the threads into the Pensieve, where they whirled around briefly before settling down. There was a tiny smile on Snape's lips, and Harry couldn't help but ask himself what memories those were. Not that he was going to find out. No, thank you, the outcome would be too nasty even for the brave Gryffindor.

"There'll be no further invitation, Potter," Snape snarled, and Harry hurriedly closed the door, inwardly cursing the greasy git. "Time is precious-"

"Time is money," Harry murmured.

"What?"

"Sorry, I didn't want to disturb you."

"Your mere presence in itself is disturbing," Snape muttered. "But after you did already cost... precious time, why don't you explain what you meant with 'time is money'."

"It's nothing, just a Muggle saying," Harry said. "Can we get started? I've still got some homework I'd like to do before dinner."

"Maybe you will miss dinner, although that would surely pain my heart-"

"You don't have a heart," Harry spat under his breath, unfortunately loud enough for Snape to hear.

Snape's eyes flinched with unknown emotion before his features hardened into his usual blank mask. "If I were you, I'd hold my tongue - or at least use my however scarcely present brain first," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Or I may see myself forced to do something I'll possibly regret later." He didn't sound as if he'd regret anything later, though, and neither did it sound as if he'd merely deduct points or give detentions.

"Then I'm relieved you're not in my place, am I not? " Harry hissed right back. He didn't know how the Potions master did it, but somehow he always managed to bring the worst out in Harry and the boy couldn't do anything against it. He wasn't usually thus hot-tempered, but around Snape, he was always mere seconds from breaking point. One wrong word from Snape and Harry went off. And that didn't exactly help improve the picture the Slytherin had of the Boy-Who-Lived.

Harry couldn't possibly bite off his own tongue to hold the angry words back that threatened to spill from his mouth, could he? Even if Snape probably would suggest just that; "Do us all a favour and bite off your tongue or at least sever your vocal cords, so we shall no longer have to suffer from that utter nonsense of yours!" or something in that line. Maybe he'd even lend Harry his herb knife or offer doing it himself.

"Out with you, you twit!" Snape snarled, pointing a yellowish, bony finger at the door. "If you've got nothing better to do than waste my already valuable time, during which I could be brewing some delicate potion, then you'd better leave. I've neither the will nor the patience to deal with your adolescent flares temper right now. Go read some anger-management self-help book and if that doesn't help... don't hold me responsible."

Harry suspected that the 'if that doesn't work out' phrase rather ended with 'then throw yourself from the Astronomy Tower' in the uncensored version, but he didn't say that aloud. He also didn't point out that this anger-management book would probably do Snape some good, too.

Since it was said that you shouldn't tickle a sleeping dragon, it was quite obvious that you mustn't anger an already fire-spitting one.

Harry mentally shrugged (at least, he hadn't had his brain ravaged this time) and headed for the door.

"Oh, and one more thing," Snape said lowly, waiting for Harry to turn around again.

The boy's eyes widened as he saw the flash of light coming towards him; it happened so fast that he didn't even register Snape muttering the "Legilimens". If Harry's brain had had the time, it would have told him that it was due to the fact that light travelled faster than sound. His last conscious thought, however, was that this was absolutely unfair, and then Snape pried his way into his mind, ruthlessly digging up what seemed to be his best-hidden memories.

Cedric was dead, killed without a second thought, because he could be 'spared'.

Cho kissed him but broke away, crying.

Voldemort told him that he could bring Harry's parents back to life, but he was lying.

Mrs. Longbottom gave Neville a chewing gum wrapping, and Harry was glad his mother was dead.

Umbridge forced him to write with her special quill, and it hurt more than Voldemort's Crucio, because Umbridge was supposed to be one of the good ones.

The pain, both the physical and the emotional one, was unbearable, and Harry tried with all his might to block it out; to force it back; to make Snape stop. The scenes ripped to the surface by the spell nearly brought tears to his eyes, and only his iron resolution that he wouldn't sink so low as to cry in front of Snape, held them in check. He wouldn't give Snape this last satisfaction. Never.

Snape read the article about his and Hermione's supposedly clandestine affair, utterly embarrassing him.

How could he have done that? Snape was his teacher. He had no right whatsoever to torture him in this manner; he had no right to torture him except in tests and check-ups, but that didn't seem to matter to the Potions master. Giving out detentions and deducting points, mostly undeservedly was one thing, but using one's position as professor to publicly torment a student was not acceptable.

And then, as sudden as the assault had started, it was over. Harry's breath came in heavy pants and his forehead was covered in cold sweat. A dull throbbing in his scar caused his vision to blur slightly. Harry pulled himself together and got back to his feet - when had he fallen down? - and glared at his least favourite Potions master.

If Harry hadn't been panting so heavily, he would have let out a gasp of surprise: Snape looked positively shaken, in more ways than one. His greasy, nearly shoulder-length hair hung in dishevelled locks around his face, which was even paler than usual; his posture was less rigid than his normal formal one; and his right hand was pressed tightly against the place on his chest where his heart would be (if he had one).

"Potter," he croaked, fighting to get his composure back. "What have you done, you stupid little dunderhead?"

"I did nothing!" Harry cried indignantly. "You were the one who attacked me without warning! I only tried to block you out, which was rather difficult because I was unprepared!" He fisted his hands and tried not to imagine that it could be Snape's neck he could be wringing. What was wrong with the greasy git - well, apart from the usual and the obvious? Everything that went wrong in his poor and pitiful life was automatically Harry's fault - whether that was even possible wasn't Snape's concern. It seemed as if he was convinced that Harry's sole reason in life was to make Snape's own unbearable. The funny thing was, it was the other way around.

"The goal is to make you always prepared! Or do you believe the Dark Lord will count till three, then ask if you're ready and only then cast Legilimens?" Snape snarled. "You are a bigger fool than I gave you credit for originally," and that had to mean something, "when you think you could win this war with this attitude! You aren't even trying, let alone giving your best - which will be the least you have to do, boy. Why do you think I'm doing this? Because I enjoy giving up my free-time to train you helpless excuse of a wannabe hero?" Harry spluttered angrily, but Snape didn't give him a chance to say anything. "No, think again! No, better not. Wouldn't want to cause some malfunction with your brain. So I'll give you the answer myself: Because of some terrible, sadistic joke that says you're the only chance for the Wizarding World! If you can't even look through my simple diversion tactics, how do you reckon you're going to thwart the Dark Lord? Tell me, Potter, I'm dying to know. V-Voldemort is not as nice," Harry snorted, "a person as I AM, no matter how evil you think I may be, you have no idea. He won't explain what he's going to do next!"

Harry had to grudgingly admit that Snape was right - and not for the first time.

"Do you even understand what I'm trying to say?"

"Yes, sir." Harry hung his head and interestedly studied the stone floor.

"Why weren't you prepared for my assault?"

"Because you said-"

"Because I said you should leave," Snape growled; there was no question in his sentence. "As much as I'd appreciate your obedience during Potions class, but unlike what you might imagine, Potter, this is no game. Would you turn your back on Voldemort if he asked you to leave? No? I didn't think so."

"All right, I understand-"

"I highly doubt that," Snape murmured under his breath.

"So, we go for another round?" Harry asked, already preparing himself, in case Snape again wouldn't count till three.

"Of course," the Potions master said through gritted teeth. Was there even the tiniest doubt? "But first, tell me what you did when I tried earlier." There was a gleam in his eyes, and Harry wasn't sure he wanted to know what it meant.

"As I said before, I didn't do anything," the boy replied with an awkward shrug. "At least, not that I'm aware of."

Snape's eyes narrowed; he was obviously trying to decide whether he spoke the truth or not. "Very well." However, a slight frown remained.

How had the boy done that? And why didn't he even seem to know that he did something at all? 'Something' had happened before, that was true. Harry had turned the spell around and pried into his own mind - with embarrassing results. But this was new. Severus had felt what Potter had experienced. It was as if he himself had been there... as Potter; had felt devastated as Diggory had been killed; had felt his nerves being ripped apart as Voldemort cast the Cruciatus on him; had felt cheap and used as Chang ('Yuck, she is a student, for Merlin's sake!') kissed him and cried; had felt himself promising with his own blood to never lie again; had felt himself go colder as he realized the world was becoming greyer by the minute because Umbridge was evil though didn't wear the Dark Mark; and he had felt himself shut down as his Potions master made fun of him.

Who would have thought the 'greasy git' had such an influence on the great Harry Potter? Did it really hurt his feelings to be the joke of class?

'How should I know?' Severus thought bitterly.

°°°°

"On the count of two then, hopefully you will be a tad better prepared now," Snape said, bringing his wand in position. "One, two, Legilimens!"

And then, Snape was in his mind again, prying, alternating between gentle prodding (and thus luring him into a false sense of security) and ruthlessly ripping through the layers of memory. It burned, but Harry willed the pain into the back of his head. He had to hold on; he had to stay focussed; he mustn't lose control. And even though there were flashes of pictures, Snape wasn't able to coax a whole memory to the surface. Potter obviously tried to do better this time.

As the assault grew weaker, Harry pushed with all his might against the intruder. He pushed him out of his own mind... and followed into the mind of the former intruder.

This was different from the first time. There were no short flashes of unordered experiences; this was a whole memory.

It was kind of like with Dumbledore's Pensieve, except maybe that Harry didn't find himself in the Ministry of Magic but in a place far darker. It was a dungeon, but unlike the ones in Hogwarts, this dungeon seemed to be taken directly from some medieval castle, full with chains, shackles and a few torture devices. The stone floor was blood-crusted, though the things made of iron were not; either because they had been thoroughly cleaned (with thought of the hygiene for the next victim) or because they were mostly for intimidation, Harry didn't know, but he hoped for the latter. The rough stonewalls were high but didn't have any windows; the only source of light was a small magical fire, floating in mid-air. Without the fire (and the fact that this was one of Snape's memories), Harry would have never guessed this was a place in the Wizarding World. It seemed so old and creepy (and probably was), but there was definitely too little magic in the air. It was cold, and Harry wrapped his arms around himself, wondering idly why he could feel it.

A choked cry ripped Harry from his musings, and he whirled around, completely baffled that he hadn't realized earlier that he wasn't alone. This was Snape's memory; he at least had to be here, after all. Why was he so surprised, then? Harry froze at the sight of the three people before him. He couldn't quite decide which affected him the most: Voldemort, who looked far more like Tom Riddle, the manic gleam in his eyes reminded Harry of the Chamber of Secrets. Snape, who seemed way too young to already be conversing with Voldemort. Or the young man (who couldn't be much older than Charlie), who lay in a puddle of his own blood, which was merrily seeping from countless cuts and other wounds. His face was contorted into a mask of weary pain, suggesting that his ordeal had begun a few hours ago already. Bloodied and sweaty strands of his cheek-length hair were plastered to his face, and Harry couldn't for the life of him tell whether his hair colour was originally blond or brown; now it was a deep crimson. He felt the bile rising in his throat as he glanced at the man's neck. It seemed as if...

Harry clamped his mouth shut with both of his hands, fighting the urge to throw up. He wondered briefly why he could feel the goose bumps on his arms and how his body could react at all, but then his mind went back to the picture.

"Such a little screamer, he is... he was," Voldemort hissed (but the hiss was not as impressive as Harry had witnessed before) with a condescending glance at the man at his feet. "Must have cried his throat hoarse. But now he doesn't have to worry about that anymore..." He cackled evilly.

Harry felt fear and realized that the man's vocal cords indeed were ripped out. How they'd managed not to do any damage to her air-pipe or any other vital line was beyond him, but he supposed magic was a major factor.

Why was he afraid? He should feel disgusted or at least thoroughly shaken, but all emotion he could come up was fear... and anger. And even the anger was of unknown origin, and it wasn't even directed at Voldemort or Snape but at...

"Lucius," Harry whispered. "You bloody bastard." And where did that come from?

"Severus," Voldemort hissed. "You may finish your initiation..." He let the sentence hang pregnant in the air, drawing a twisted pleasure from the situation. "Bon appetite."

Snape hesitated the tiniest moment, but then bowed and turned around to the man, whose eyes widened almost comically then. Fear and distress were emitted in heavy waves, and Harry didn't have to be empathic to feel that. His lips moved frantically, but nothing more than gurgling and a little bit of blood escaped his mouth. His clothes were ripped in places and soaked with his own life-giving essence.

Snape traced a pointy, pale finger down the man's face (Harry again realized that the man was at least five years Snape's senior), and a shiver of mixed disgust and excitement filled him. As Snape ripped the blouse in two, baring a smooth chest, and raking his nail across one breast, drawing blood, Harry had to quench the queasy feeling in his stomach again.

He shouldn't look, he knew that, this was the younger self of his hated teacher, about to commit something unforgivable - even if it wasn't declared as such by the Ministry. He shouldn't look but some unknown power (paired with his morbid and perverse curiosity) held him in place; prevented him from averting his gaze. He felt sick, and for the first time in this memory, he knew it was his own emotion.

The man tried to scream, and Harry snapped back into the memory's present, but the sight that greeted his slowly refocusing irises was not what he had expected (and dreaded).

The gurgling and mewling noises the man emitted brought tears to Harry's eyes; he tried to block them out, pressing his palms against his ears. He knew that the man was most likely already dead in his present and that he couldn't do anything to change that, and it felt bitter on his tongue. He couldn't help the other, but he didn't want to have to watch him die either. He wished he was back in his own mind, far away from the twisted experiences of his Potions master, back in the sanctuary of his own hell. But again he couldn't; and the 'real' Snape was nowhere in sight to pull him out. Harry briefly wondered what Snape was going to do when he went back (because he just knew that Snape would be aware what exactly Harry had seen), but then his thoughts came to an abrupt halt as Snape's wand pointed to the man's chest and the wizard chanted a few softly spoken words, then there was a cracking sound, then some ripping, again cracking, ripping, cracking, ripping... till the last rib was broken and twisted outwards, revealing the inner workings of a still however scarcely living human being.

It seemed so unreal, as the man's posture froze into a picture of agony: His huge, frightened eyes, his terrible pseudo-screaming, his cramping fingers and his blood that rushed out of his chest as Snape ripped out the other's still beating heart. The organ contracted a few times, splashing the man and Snape with fresh blood; the man's eyes, though still wide, were becoming glassy. And as the heart did its last beat, the man became very still, Snape took a bite, and Harry lost his fight, emptying his stomach onto the stony floor.

One moment later, the floor was still stony, but there were no traces of blood, only the unmistakable stench of potions. Harry felt relieved, but only for a second. The sour taste of bile was still prominent in his mouth, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust, quickly cleaning the floor with a Evanesco. After pocketing his wand again, Harry scrambled to a kneeling position and lifted his head to... come face to face with the end of Snape's wand.

"My, Potter," he said, and Harry could guess that his uncanny calmness didn't bode well. "Aren't we nosy today?" A smile - an actual smile! - graced his thin lips as Snape sighed in a long-suffering manner.

"Pro-Professor, sir!" Harry stammered, keyword damage control. "I didn't- I didn't mean to break in-into your mind! I-I swear! It was an a-accident! I only wanted to pu-push you out!"

"Yes," Snape's smile only grew wider, "I do believe that. But that doesn't change the fact that you saw something you weren't supposed to see, does it?" Why didn't he scream? Why didn't he try to throttle Harry? Why was Harry having such unsettling thoughts in the first place? "And while the other memories you decided to take a peek into were comparably harmless, this one was not. I cannot leave you with this piece of information..."

"You can't kill me!" Harry cried. "I haven't-"

"Potter!" Snape snarled, and Harry couldn't believe how relieved he felt at the familiar tone of the voice. "Of course, I'm not going to kill you - however tempted I may be..."

"But y-you said," Harry prodded. This to and fro made his head queasy.

"I come to realize that you truly - and unfortunately - are that daft," Snape drawled. "How far do you think it would get me to kill the Golden Boy? Don't you ever think in advance? However painful it may be to admit, but I do... need you - like the rest of the Wizarding and the Muggle World - to destroy the Dark Lord. Don't you reckon it would be unwise to kill the sole chance we have only to satisfy a sudden urge?" Harry stayed silent, engrossingly staring at Snape's wand. "I'm merely going to let you... forget." And again, there was this creepy smile.

"Go on. Obliviate me. I can tell you, it's not going to work." Harry tried to appear braver than he actually felt. "I will know there's something missing, and Hermione will be able to break the charm."

"Obliviate?" Snape snorted. "Have you already forgotten what you just saw?" Unfortunately not. "I don't use simple memory charms. I know more Dark curses and hexes than you are ever going to come across, Potter. I am not going to charm the memory, I am going to erase it, or more accurately: I am going to... nick a few minutes of your life."

"What!" Harry cried, jumping to his feet, as the wand followed his movements. "You can't do that! That's Dark magic!"

"Most Dark curses are considered Dark magic, Potter," Snape said dryly. "Do you think that will hinder me? And choose wisely; you only have this one guess."

End-

A/N3: A few things are going to be solved in Cracking The Hourglass, but this story can stand-alone.