The Last Supper
It was a most gloomy evening for one dark-haired, pale-skinned man by the name of Severus Snape as he sat in his private study, drinking one last goblet of wine, still mentally unprepared for the tomorrow. Opposite the small round table sat a tall white-haired wizard, Albus Dumbledore, having aged outwardly a hundred years within the past one; to his left and right respectively were Minerva McGonagall, and oddly enough, the Boy Who Lived, not by the host's request, of course. But he had his ways of getting around rules, and typically his demands or even insinuations were followed to the last letter. A spoiled brat of a hero he was. Severus's lips lifted slightly to form a shadow of a sneer but quickly relaxed as he sat there, simply contemplating his history, fate, forever-tarnished namesake, and unsurprisingly, the future. What a cruel world it was, to have brought him so little, yet so far.
No one, it seemed, wished to speak in his rather imposing office, what with its gilded fireplace shooting emerald green flames, high ceiling, and softly flickering lights casting strange but wonderful patterns of shadow upon the neat row of bookshelves lining a wall. An oil painting of Salazar Slytherin hung above the fireplace; this was where the legendary Founder escaped to from the disturbing crowds in the common room. Now he was wide-awake but silent, sharp slits of eyes focusing on each of the four in turn, clearly disapproving but not daring to make any significant point. There were few other furnishings since the occupant of the room preferred to leave personal objects outside the working environment: imposing and nerve-wracking it sure was. Even more so was the deadly silence permeating every corner of the office, relentless, subtly but surely chasing his life down a second at a time. If dear Salazar himself could rush this time and simply skip to the culmination of his short and waste of a life-but that could not be, for Someone apparently believed in experiencing time to its fullest. His life was flashing by in scenes before his mind, and for the first and last time, Severus Snape allowed himself to wait and watch.
Dear, sweet Lily, how dare that arrogant Potter boy steal you with Black and werewolf Lupin? The fragile goblet shook visibly in his hand and nearly smashed onto the floor as he recalled with dread the years at school. Potter, Lily, Black, and Lupin…they had been central there, running around the castle every night, taunting, cruel by day. He had never thought much of that Pettigrew rat, but now everyone knew perfectly well who and what he was. A traitor, the rat he could become, the rat he actually was. The werewolf, however, left few lasting impressions. Obviously he had been the "good boy", and where was he now? Gone, utterly gone. James Potter, the bane of his youth now flew by in his memories. The arrogant bastard who had taken Lily, the only one who had ever even tried to help him, was getting married. He almost deserved his death, although everyone said that no man earned a death at the hands of Lord Voldemort no matter what horrible deeds he had committed. Robbing another man of his one true love and light seemed awful enough. Black, thankfully was well deceased by now too; it gave him a certain bitter satisfaction in knowing that he had one less enemy to face off with. That having been said, the two foes remaining were the most hated of all: Potter Jr. and the Dark Lord.
Snape's emotionless black eyes suddenly clouded over as next came the years of pure, complete darkness, when the path of life led straight to Death Eaters and narrowly missed Azkaban. The endless human circle stood out clearly as it ever had in real time, a wall of fluttering black hoods and robes, one man stepping out of line, and—He covered his eyes with a hand, willing the terror and anguish to be swept back where they belonged, which was deep inside his mind and there alone. Albus didn't need to see it although he, Minerva, and Potter all knew already. They didn't need to see his weakness, especially Potter. The boy just didn't need to feel either sympathetic or more likely, scornful, even though he had always been surrounded by followers, supporters, healers, helpers, rescuers, and everything else of the like. While Severus had gone into battle without the general public even knowing about it.
Crucio! The word rang through his head like the sharp clang of a bell, only infinitely more piercing and deadly. Instantly he had fallen on the ground, hands clenched so tightly there were drops of blood gathering on his palms, leaving them wet and sticky as his body rolled on the earth uncontrollably. Each twitch of a wand had brought fresh waves of burning and insanely intense pain, causing his facial muscles to spasm into the grotesque expression of making every effort to defy the urge to scream. For although it was a punishment earned, there was still the matter of pride, and the scattered remnants of pride forbade the humiliating noise to escape from his drawn lips. It was the only satisfaction, bitter and harsh indeed, but it showed cynical hope. What man of honor and knowledge would be content, much less desire to remain a groveling servant for the remainder of his life? Of course, it had done nothing to lessen the torturous agony each time, but it was a little something to dwell on…nothing more, nothing less.
Mind snapped violently back to the present, his thin frame shuddered as before he struggled to forget, now he fought to remember the sensation deeply etched into his memories but dulled and scratched by time, the feeling caused by the man he would be dying at the hands, or more like feet of. It was for the common good. What common good? There was no hope that he, Severus Snape, would remain in the records as a savior of free wizards, especially if any minute detail was executed incorrectly. But there was no other option either; to be branded as a traitor would mean condemnation, and even Dumbledore no longer doled out second chances. It was a cruel, harsh world outside the seemingly unshakable stone walls, and some of its most unforgiving qualities had started to seep under the school's foundations.
He lifted the glass of wine and brought it to his lips, taking a small sip of the warm red liquid before allowing the memoirs of days gone by to surface again, more reluctantly than at the beginning of the meal. Why, oh why, do I bother? The question was clear and expressed a fact that could not be denied, the fact that no one, not even Potter, actually felt the desire to relive traumatic events. But the answer was even clearer and true to a fault: Without knowing about life with various imbeciles, there was no reason to give it all up. Running a hand down his loose sleeve, Snape lifted his head to face the table…and the three people sitting around it. Impassive as ever was the pallid face, but now there was a mere hint of age, and then, there was honor. What a funny thing, honor was. It led so many men to their doom and brought so many men far ahead. He had no doubt that it could lead himself to nothing better than a quick, easy death tomorrow, but there was a sense of relief overpowering any wistfulness or bitterness in being condemned to rejoin "the Marauders".
I have personally vouched for Severus and have no reservations about entrusting the man with my very own life. The headmaster's words had a vibrant, enlightened quality, completely unlike that of bumbling, objecting Fudge's. While at the trial, every detail stood out sharply in his darting black eyes, but now it was all just an undecipherable blur. A few moments were still crystal clear such as the statement of accusation, low and dry, and the moment of truth, of judgment. The hands had risen into the air slowly; his breath was shallow and uneven as he watched the ones who would decide his fate. And then Dumbledore had stepped forth in sweeping burgundy robes, blocking his line of vision. Hushed words of bargaining in answer to the resonant ones of the old but infinitely wise man were all it had taken, and as swiftly as the chains had bound him to the chair, they snapped back into the armrests, lying dormant in wait for the next accused to take a seat. He was free to leave but forever indebted to the leader of a steadily building Resistance, so in that single day, the future professor's loyalties had drastically changed. There would be no more facing his old comrades, except perhaps to strike them down from their lofty positions of importance with the Dark Lord.
The night of His defeat had been one to rejoice over, however privately, yet it had been obvious from the first that it would not be lasting. It had taken fourteen long years before the serpent of darkness had reared its ugly head once more, but fourteen years meant nothing in the long run of circumstances. Four out of six terms prior had been relatively quiet, a skirmish between himself and Potter emerging here and there; the past two had been quite dangerous. In his own House was always a dangerous conflict of interests: defending his students versus protecting the majority of the school. Had anyone known that certain Death Eaters' children would constantly threaten and/or attempt to murder certain other Aurors' children when he was assigned the post? If they had…he would have given them a most confident assurance that they would be experiencing a few uncomfortable days under the influence of medications…not that Severus dreamed of poisoning anyone…
Draco Malfoy was a prime example of aforesaid difficulties currently plaguing Slytherin House and robbing it of most of its well-deserved glory. With his father being a prominent patron of the school and a high-ranking officer in the blasted Ministry, the Potions professor nearly always felt that there was no choice but to accept all of his dangerous faults, taking the blame from his shoulders and tossing it upon a member of another House. Even in such blatantly unfair situations, he felt no remorse for the unfortunate scapegoat; it was most likely that they had earned it doubly for something else. What did trouble him was the fact that a single slip and the wrath of Lucius Malfoy would be upon him, and given his considerable influence, remove both his teaching position and the useful ability to report on the movements of the regrouped Eaters. It was so ironic that the only way he aided the Order was by pretending to revert to his old ways…and so far, he had them all fooled. But the façade would be gone by tomorrow evening, and he would not be caring who did not understand.
Each year had brought more obstacles to overcome, or at the very least, maintain an acceptable level of composure. For once Severus was wrong when he had predicted that Potter's first year would be the worst; each year, the boy became more arrogant and "heroic", although he never realized how his heroism led his allies into offering their own lives for his Destiny to Defeat the Dark Lord. Until two years ago, that was. The loss of Sirius, not mourned by Snape himself, had finally made an impression on his otherwise indifferent attitude toward life. There were no more inane words or moves after that. And Harry (Harry?) grew into the image of his dreaded father, knowing without a doubt that his life was as good as over, and he could die knowing that "the slimy git" was right next to him the entire time. A slow smile twisted his usually impassive features as he considered the look of revulsion that would be on our young savior's face by the time it was all over. He was too stupid to realize the intensity of the internal struggle within the man constantly told off as horrid, cruel, unfair, etc.
Without another moment for thought he picked up a fork and knife and carefully cut a piece of steak, savoring the flavor he would never taste again. For once he was beyond caring what Potter thought; the boy was most likely too busy trying to find a way to either get out of the situation or defeating Voldemort without making a self-sacrifice. A note of aggravation rose in Severus's thin chest-there was no other way, goddammit! Dumbldore and Aberforth themselves had spent months, no, years, studying all the possibilities, and they were the only ones to be trusted. Ever. Anyone who believed otherwise could join the land of fools.
Finishing the rest of the modest dinner set out in front of them quickly, he then stood up slowly, not a trace of regret or remorse on his pale face. He looked more vampirical than ever, features framed by harsh black hair, a billowing cloak fluttering in his wake. A curt nod as he met the eyes of the three others was all it took to formally give a farewell even as they implored him to stay, just a few minutes longer… "Do stay here a bit longer…" "Er, professor?" "Severus, won't you remain and wait for us to finish as well?" Their words fell on deaf ears as he pushed the straight-backed chair under the table and slowly glided away to an inconspicuous doorway, posture rigidly erect, resolved to continue with the plan. Just before exiting, he turned back and faced them once more with strangely glittering black eyes.
"I shall see you in the morning."
AN: Edited for a few grammar and spelling mistakes…I'm in the process of getting back into FanFiction.net.