The Traitor

Lord Voldemort is angry. Albus Dumbledore is left to deal with the aftermath.

"There is someone in our midst who is not loyal." My voice is a hiss. I feel the atmosphere in the room change dramatically. Fear is suddenly rampant. "A traitor." I tease them. I want them to be afraid. They will submit to my will when they are terrified. I walk forward, looking around my circle of Death-Eaters. A group of men who have sworn their loyalty to me—their arms forever scarred with my Dark Mark—they should be willing to live, breathe and indeed die for me.

Except one. "Someone who has passed our secrets to our enemies." I turn abruptly and stare into the mask of one who is innocent. I know where the traitor is stood. I will confront him in time. The man in front of me flinches and shakes his head. Do I see what I am looking for? Perhaps.

"Does he have the courage to step forward and admit his fault? Lord Voldemort admires such bravery." The traitor is brave—braver than any other. But he is intelligent, too. He is waiting for me to discover him. He will not step forward for he knows that I will destroy him. Tonight, he will die for me.

I draw my wand from within my robes, toying with the ivory length, pretending to lose myself in its beauty. I have not yet glanced in his direction, but perhaps this man sees that as confirmation that his secret has been revealed. He does know me so very well, after all. "No?" I answer my own question.

So I turn. I turn so the traitor is on my left. I wish that his mask did not obscure his face, for otherwise, I would be able to look into his eyes and see if he is afraid. How can he not be afraid? "Then I must name the one who has betrayed me. Lord Voldemort does not take kindly to betrayal. By the end of tonight...we shall be one fewer in number. Tell me, does that frighten you, traitor? This is your last night. Do you feel the fear, traitor? You will die tonight." I raise my wand. "Answer me, traitor. Answer my question."

I am challenging the traitor.

"I am not afraid to die." He has spoken. Whispers erupt in the circle. I whirl. I face him. I laugh.

I laugh at him and his stupidity. He has admitted his treachery to me. "Remove your mask. I do not think you are worthy to wear it."

And there, in front of everyone, he defies me. He stands, arms relaxed by his side, hood still drawn, mask still in place. No one else dares to move as I stalk toward him, the predator closing in on the prey. "Is this a streak ofGryffindor bravery? It will do you no good! Remove your mask!"

He does not react to my command.

I smirk. "Very well." I wave my hand at his face, and the mask dissipates in to blackness.

His eyes are lowered, watching the ground. That is not an expression of respect—it is still defiance. If he were to show me true respect, he would, of course, meet my eyes. But no. He has deemed me unworthy of his time.

I reach out one hand and clench my fingers around the front of his shirt. I could do this with my wand, but I enjoy the physical connection. I pull him toward me. "You are a fool."

Those black eyes glance at me, and one eyebrow is raised. I hear his unspoken reply—he is turning the insult on me. I throw him to his knees and point my wand at him. "You have committed the greatest sin of all. There is nothing more terrible than betrayal. You have abused the trust of those who surround us. You have passed information to our greatest enemy. Your sentence, therefore, is swift." There is a hunger for blood in the air—it is a shame that I will send them away. I am sure that my loyal followers would enjoy tormenting the traitor, but I must have this victory myself.

Black eyes are focused on fingers that are stained with potions' ingredients from the past two decades. He is examining his nails. He does not seem to have heard me.

I cross to him, bend my back just slightly, so I can whisper into his ear. "I am going to destroy you. Does that knowledge not affect you?"

Still no reaction.

"Leave us." I say to the other Death Eaters. I feel their disappointment and for a moment, I sympathise with them. Torture is such a fulfilling activity, and I can imagine that tonight's entertainment would have been exquisite, considering the personality of my prisoner. But this is something I must do alone.

When there is nothing but silence around us, I contemplate him. "Look at me." I command, and he raises his head. "Will you offer me an explanation for your actions?"

He does not respond.

"The longer you stay silent, the angrier I become..." My voice is threatening—and I am beginning to lose my patient. "Very well. Clearly, you have made your choice." I move back from him, pointing my wand at him. "Crucio."

He flinches, but that is only the body's reflex. I nod to myself, smiling. This shall be an interesting evening. "Is this the way you are choosing to play your final card?" I ask of him, releasing him from the curse. "You wish me to push you to the limit? Do you want me to torment you until you are begging me for mercy?" I pause, staring at him. "Why does this not concern you? What are you hiding from me?" There is something not right here. I take a step toward him. "Why do you not speak?"

One hand is moving on the carpet beside him. I keep my eyes focused on his face, waiting to see what his secret is. He cannot Disapparate, for the wards here will keep him trapped here until I see fit to release them.

In a sudden flourish, his fingers move to his neck. I see the glint of metal—there is a chain around his neck—and I strike before I have completely formulated the action. There is an explosion of blood and he cries out at the sudden pain—and I am there beside him. I reach out and grab the chain from his neck, wrenching so the silver metal breaks and I can pull it away.

I know it is important to him when he involuntarily tries to snatch it from me—I send him back to the ground with my wand, and when he lies on his back, I stamp my foot into his stomach and hold it in place so his movement is restricted.

I hold his possession up to the moonlight, shining through the window above us. It is a silver necklace, with a small pendant hanging from the end. "Jewellery?" I enquire politely, driving my foot in further so he coughs. Ah. But of course. I recognise the shape of the pendant—it is a silhouette of a phoenix.

Only one man would give out such an item. "Albus Dumbledore." I hiss. "He gave you this, did he not? Pray tell, traitor, what is it?"

His eyes are watering slightly and his face is splattered with the blood from his chest wound, but he does not answer me.

"A weapon?" No, that is not Dumbledore. It would have to be a protective measure. Or perhaps...an escape route? I laugh at him. "It is a Portkey, is it not? Oh. Did your blessed Headmaster give you this in case I discovered you?" I taunt him. "How very touching."

I dangle the phoenix in front of his face. "You will never see him again." I crush the phoenix in my hand, and we both hear it splinter. I throw it to the floor and, still watching the expression in those eyes, shatter it beneath my other foot. He glances toward it, and for a second—nothing more—I see a shadow of an emotion on that pale face that I recognise.

One that I recognise from my many victims. Hopelessness.

"Do you see now, traitor? You will die here. I will drag the life from your body." I pull away from him, giving him time to pull himself into a sitting position. Just as he has bent over his lap, I strike with my Cruciatus. This time, the effects are more noticeable; he flinches more than once, and although he does not scream, I can tell that he is in pain.

I imagine the hot knives driving through his bloodstream, scraping against bone, sending impulses to his muscles that he cannot control. I stop the curse and sweep nearer to him. He has but a moment's relief before I strike him again, this time holding him under the curse for longer. His arm spasms, and I know that I am causing internal damage—he closes his eyes and turns his head away—and I keep him there beneath the curse, watching as he flinches and twitches and fights his own body, his own mind. I stop suddenly and change my tactics.

I wave my wand down sharply and blood appears at edges of the tear I cause in his skin, down his right shoulder and upper arm. I see him glance at the wound, and the smell of blood reaches my nostrils. I do this again, on the other arm this time. I see him frown and the way he grits his teeth. I smile, inhaling the bitter scent and feeling it send power to my muscles. I lower my wand to his thigh and drag the tip down his leg. It slices flesh and muscle open behind it, revealing the bone. I stop at his knee, but do not show him the mercy I know he is praying for inside that powerful mind of his—I stab the wand into the wound and see him try to wince away.

I laugh at him. He can hear the noise—I suspect it is probably reverberating inside his skull. "Tell me, traitor, how do you feel?"

He raises his head, opens his eyes, and spits at me. I step back in time. "That is such an uncouth habit, and one I do not expect from you." I chastise. "I expect an apology."

I know that I will not receive one, but it is good to have such power. It is good to have something else to torture him for.

I smirk at him. "What should I do now? How should I hurt you?"

Without any warning, I levitate him using my wand and hurl him against the wall. I hear the sound of bones shattering as he collapses into a crumpled heap at the bottom of the wall. And then I do it again.

And again.

And again.

When he hits the ground for the fifth time, I know I have caused some serious damage from the shout of pain that forces itself from his vocal chords. He does not move straight away, and I walk over to investigate. I pick him up by the back of his robe and throw him into the centre of the room.

"Sectumsempra." I have pointed my wand at his back, so it is there that the wounds slash his skin. He jerks forward, and I watch the blood trickle down his back. There is so much of the sweet red liquid that it is forming a river on the carpet.

The smell of fresh meat and blood combines to produce such powerful scent—and although I enjoy it, I know my prisoner does not. His body is caving in on itself—and suddenly, his stomach decides that it has taken too much punishment. He throws up whatever small amount of food had been festering, clamping a hand to his mouth. I can just imagine the humiliation. I cross to him. I tut. "You have made a mess on my carpet." I grab the back of his head and force his face into the newly created mess. The proximity of his nose to the sickly substance is enough to induce vomit once more, and I throw him aside as he gropes for calm.

"What a shane." I murmur. "What a terrible shame that such a thing should happen to one so brave and powerful." I punctuate my sentence by casting the Cruciatus, my trusty curse, once more. The agony is too much for him.

He cries out. I have won this fight.

His body is breaking down before my eyes, I can see it. His eyes are leaking water, mixing with the sweat that beads from every pore. His lip is badly bleeding from where he has bitten over and over—and I assume his tongue has received the same treatment. He collapses to the carpet, flinching under the command of my spell. Should I relieve him? Should I grant him respite? Or should I continue to play with him? The proverbial cat with the proverbial dying mouse?

Because he is dying. Slowly. I wonder if a splintered rib has caused internal damage? Even if he does not die from that, he surely will from blood-loss.

I pull my wand away when he is suddenly still on the carpet before me. He has passed out. I consider waking him.

But I can think of a much sweeter torment. And I will have my revenge.

I have defeated Severus Snape. And now I will defeat Albus Dumbledore. Now I will tear his heart apart.

Now, I will make him cry.

I storm into the Hospital Wing, my robes billowing out behind me. I have always wondered how you manage to produce such an effect-perhaps I should have taken the time to admire it? But I keep walking. I keep walking and I do not stop until I am at your bedside, and I can confirm the truth in my own mind.

That you are hurt. Badly hurt this time. And it is my fault.

You lie, sheet white against white sheets. Your black robes are tattered and torn, yet Poppy does not dare to remove them for fear of causing you more hurt. The material sticks to your wounds with blood as the adhesive.

I have never seen such a pitiful sight. You despise pity; it is an emotion you do not care for and do not experience. Maybe if you were looking down upon yourself, as I am now, it would flare inside your chest?

I swallow, and the next breath I take is hard to inhale. I reach out a shaking hand and gently touch your forehead. The skin is cool beneath my fingertips. I whisper your name, wondering if you might hear me. You do not stir.

"Headmaster?" I turn my attention to Poppy, who has come forward slightly. "I am glad you are here."

"What happened?" I murmur, knowing that my voice shakes slightly.

"I do not know. Hagrid and Fang found him." Poppy glances at you. Her face is drawn and pale, her eyes sparkling. "I do not think he will make it through the night. The damage is severe. Internal bleeding that I cannot stop, broken ribs, sustained subjection to the Cruciatus Curse...it's playing havoc with his nervous system. He is under a sedative now. I doubt he will recover before it wears off."

It is difficult to hear such words from Poppy; she is normally so upbeat about finding a cure and helping patients to recover. She has seen you hurt before. It is her pessimism that brings home just how badly injured you are.

I look away from her, back to you. "I will stay with him." I move closer to the bed.

"Albus." Poppy's hand rests on my elbow. "The chance of him recovering..."

"Is slim. I know." I cannot leave you. "He is still alive now, though, is he not? Unconscious. But alive?"

Poppy nods.

"Then there is still a chance. There is always a chance."

She smiles sadly at me. "Of course there is a chance. I'll be in the next room." She turns to leave me alone with you.

I stand by you for a moment, suddenly feeling useless. What can I possibly do? I am not a healer. I am a powerful wizard, yes, but in your time of need, I am not able to help you. That is Poppy's power—and if she cannot, then...

I do not want to admit that there is no hope. But I have never felt so hopeless.

Instead of standing, I sit beside you, reaching out a hand and gently stroking the black hair that lies against your cheek. The strands are sticky with dried blood. The red specks my fingers. I lower my hand and try to pull some of your robes from your wounds, wanting to free you from the Death-Eater robes I know you despise so much.

Your facial expression does not change. I do not even know if you are aware of my presence. I lean closer to you, murmuring your name once more into your ear. You have always responded to my call in the past—and when you do not, this time, perhaps that is the true sign. The sign that you are too far gone.

This close to you, I can smell more than just blood. There is a yellowy-white substance crusted to the side of your face—and with a realisation that chills me to the core, I know what it is. He showed you no mercy then? I conjure a cloth and some water and gently wipe the vomit away. I will not have you defiled in such a way.

Why did you not use the Portkey I gave you? I told you to use it when you were in mortal peril, and yet you have disobeyed this instruction. Why? Could you not reach it? Did you know that the situation was so serious? Or did he stop you? Did he start on you so quickly that you had no chance?

I move my hand down your body and touch your fingers with my own. I interlink us together, clenching slightly to prove to you that there is someone here. By some happy chance, your hand is not broken. I am not causing you any more pain—although I wonder if you can feel pain in such a place.

This is my fault. Every time you return with yet another scar to add to your collection, I know it is my fault—yet seeing you here makes the guilt all the more poignant. It stabs me. I feel the knife blade cut through my heart. I never meant for this to happen! You were never meant to be discovered!

For I assume that is what has happened. You have been discovered as a spy. My spy. It is a marvel he returned you to me at all—although, I would suggest that it was not a mission of mercy. He knows what seeing you like this will do to me.

Your hand is trembling in mine. I have not noticed it before. It is not voluntary—

And suddenly your body flinches. Spasms. Uncontrollably. I jump away to prevent myself from being hit by a flailing fist. I call out your name, hoping it will calm you, but then I realise that this is not you.

This is your body, limp and broken though it is, controlled by the Cruciatus curse that has fallen...how many times? Again and again your limbs jerk. I know you are not conscious, and yet the sight aggrieves me—if you had any awareness, I know that you would be sickened by your own weakness.

I move before I really understand what I am doing. I climb onto the bed beside you and pull you close into my arms. I move one leg so it rests on top of yours, stopping you from moving, and I press a gentle kiss to your forehead, telling you, wherever you are, that there is someone here for you.

You quieten not soon after. I think you are exhausted. There is no strength left in you. Not even the strength to whisper a gentle word to me? Not even the strength to open your eyes?

I shift my arm, and feel something firm against my elbow. The pocket in your robe is still intact. I investigate, and pull out a piece of metal. A shard of red. I recognise it instantly. This is all that remains of my Portkey. The phoenix, that I gave to you a month ago. So he did trap you, after all.

I gather you closer, making sure your head rests against my chin. I can feel you breathe—in and out—and it comforts me.

I murmur your name again, the tone affectionate. I do care for you, more than I ever thought I would. I really do care for you, my dear boy. I just wish I could convey that to you.

Your head moves slightly against my chest. Are you gaining unconsciousness? Are you going to wake up? I wonder if you can hear my voice.

"I'm here. I am here, my boy. I will not let anyone hurt you, ever again. I should have protected you. I should never have sent you to him. I feel the guilt for that—I should never have been so focused on the greater good. If I was even a shadow of the wizard that others perceive me to be, then I would have seen that this was the only possible future. But I did not." I hold your hand once more. "I always believed that you were invincible. I believed that you would find your way back. Instead, here you are, sent back to me by him, and I do not think you will wake up, this time." I pause, not because I need to breathe, but because my voice has started to crack. I am beginning to mourn you, and yet, you are not even dead yet!

"For what it's worth...you were never just my spy. You grew to mean so much more to me. I even..." I struggle to say it, even when we are so near the end. It is because sometimes, I do not understand the intensity of my own emotions...and with you, they are intense. "I even grew to love you—not in the patriotic way. I loved you like a son. Will you wake? For me?"

You do not stir. You do not react. You do not respond. Perhaps you cannot hear me. But I like to pretend that you can.

I stroke your cheek. You are colder now. I think that the true end is near. It is something that I have come to accept. "Good-bye, my dear child. I hope that...you are able to find peace."

I do not pinpoint the moment when you breathe your last breath. It dawns on me slowly that one moment you are living, and then you have passed into the world where I cannot find you.

Even in such close proximity, I do not experience your last second.

I pull your lifeless body as close as it can be, resting my forehead against yours, surprised when the tears burn my eyes.

But then again. I think I always knew that you would be the one to tear my heart in too. I think I always knew that the only person I would ever cry over...would be my Severus Snape.