The light from the afternoon sun stretched over the flagstones on the floor of the corridor, as young Severus Snape slumped on the bench. He barely registered the lengthening shadows that more clearly defined the edge of each stone block, noting only that the cracks were more visible; he wished more and more that he could just dissolve into water and soak away through them, never to return. His hands were clasped in front of him, motionless. He had no more energy to wring them, or to indulge in fruitless fidgeting, and his heart was too broken to cry.
It hadn't been for long. For a few short, glorious months he'd been drunk on the feeling of power, that he, Severus Snape, without job or family, from a no-good half-blood alliance, had the knowledge that could make or break the Dark Lord. He had furthered his Master's cause more than any other Death Eater. Oh how pleased the Dark Lord had been with him for passing on the Prophecy. How well he had been treated by the others - Lucius had looked upon him with approval as he had been held up as an fine example. His old friend Avery had clapped him on the back, while Nott had said a few complimentary words and invited him to the next officer's meeting. And Bellatrix Black ...
Snape shuddered for a moment, remembering the unfathomable look in her eyes. She had walked up to him, taken his hand and then licked it. He had frozen in bewilderment, the shades of lust in her action confusing him. Surely she was involved with Rodolphus Lestrange? Severus saw his school collegue glance over the scene and then shrug and turn back to a conversation with a harried-looking Karkaroff. Snape looked back to Bellatrix, who seemed about to say something, but she was interrupted before she could start by a summons to join the Dark Lord in a conclave.
The shuddering began again. It wasn't from cold. While the Hogwarts walls were thick enough to keep out the worst of the late summer heat, enough had permeated the castle to make you sweat in all but the thinnest robes. No, it was the aftertaste of power gone wrong, of finding out the consequences of his actions.
Professor Slughorn wandered past and patted him on the shoulder. "You got my letter then? Glad to see you here, my boy. Knew the Headmaster would see the point. Just you wait" Snape's puzzlement must have shown, because Slughorn leaned down and whispered conspiratorially "I'll do this one more year, then I'm retiring. And I mean you to have my job - and I didn't tell you anything." He straightened and sauntered off, and Snape looked after him in total bewilderment, not even certain of what the aging teacher had just said. Then he slumped forward again to rest his elbows on his knees, and continue his vigil.
Over and over, he turned the words in his head that he'd read in Slughorn's letter. Most of it he had skimmed, rubbish about the latest "golden boy" and whoever the teacher had decided to encourage this year. And then... "Your old friend Lily"... "called him Harry" … "thought you'd be interested." He'd known. From the moment he read that old bumbler's gloating news, he'd realised this child would fit. That the son of his beloved, his only love, could be the one . And he'd not told the Dark Lord, not given his Master the information He might need to gain total power. And yet the Dark Lord had found out. Had summoned him to His presence and demanded to know why Snape hadn't told Him. And that was when Snape had realised, suddenly, that he could hide his thoughts. That the thing that Tom Riddle had become, while powerful beyond all known wizards, was not the most powerful Occlumens in the wizarding world. Snape had looked him straight in the eye and denied all knowledge of Lily Evans' son. And the Dark Lord had believed him.
But not trusted him. Not enough. Not enough to let Snape deal with Lily, not enough to spare her, to let her live though her husband and child might die. He'd asked, argued, that she was nothing to the prophecy, that Snape holding her prisoner might be a handy bargaining tool, or some extra insurance against anything going wrong.
And that was his mistake.
The Dark Lord had yelled at him. Railed at him. "Fool! Ignoramus! Nothing will go wrong! We need no prisoners when we will be in charge!" And nothing Snape could say or do would change His mind.
And so he was sitting, silent, in the corridor of Hogwarts at the beginning of the August holidays. The halls were strangely hushed with no students present, and even Mrs Norris was absent, no doubt curled up somewhere cool and dark, away from the warm summer air.
Somewhere away to the south, Voldemort's minions were searching for James and Lily Potter, so that Voldemort himself could kill them. Somewhere to the south, the woman he loved was in mortal danger, and he could not save her by himself. Somewhere, his soul was dying, unless he could do something - anything - to persuade Dumbledore to help. As long as Voldemort was alive, she was in peril. And Dumbledore could not see him until sunset.
Snape sat in the sunbeam and wondered why the day would not end.