Sacrifice
By Eline
(For Quaxo--for egging me on and giving me a lot of ideas.)
(Spoiler warning! Spoilers until Book 4!)
That Potter boy was looking at him again.
Always Potter! Precious Harry Potter, the living proof of victory over Voldemort!
Snape looked away. It had not been hard to dislike the boy--he looked so much like his father . . .
But he had taken it onto himself to watch over the boy, had he not?
After supper, Snape retired to his quarters, restless and out of sorts as usual. He had been out of sorts for as long as he remembered.
He glared down at the tattoo on his arm. Like the Dark Mark, it was Voldemort's trademark. He had always kept it hidden under his robes even when it had faded with the demise--or so they had thought--of Lord Voldemort. It was a permanent thing--like a brand. There had been excruciating pain when Voldemort had placed it on each of them. A reminder of the punishment for disloyalty, he had called it. Snape remembered that Lucius Malfoy had screamed and whimpered like the pathetic waste of breath he was.
Why? Why put himself at risk again?
He had to do it. There was no one else who could.
The error of his youth was coming back to haunt him. One fatal error that had compromised his life and his very soul.
But Dumbledore had believed in him. Had give him a second chance . . .
Dumbledore had not expected him to go this far to prove his worth, but no one had predicted this necessity. No one had known that Voldemort was on the rise again.
Ah, but now he had to go crawling back to *them* again . . . Go back to his days as a Death Eater.
He had fought so hard to be rid of all those shadows . . . When supporters of Lord Voldemort had been denounced and reviled, his role in that affair had been exposed. He had been a double agent in the ranks of the Death Eaters, but no one was prepared to let him off easily because he had joined on his own free will before turning on Voldemort. The accursed mark on his arm might as well have been a brand screaming "Traitor!" for all the world to see. It had been terrible, being under eternal suspicion--everyone shunned him like the plague. No one wanted to be near him--as though they could be tainted by the evil just by standing next to him.
It had made him even more bitter than he already was at that time. Once, twice, regret resurfaced and he had been tempted to return to the fold. But he did not know if it was truly Voldemort's defeat or his own will that had kept him in his place. That had been the worst part of it all, not *knowing* his own mind and fearing the voice that said that he had defected due to cowardliness and the other, more insidious one that said that he had made a grave mistake.
Then Dumbledore had vouched for him, given him a place at Hogwarts because no one else would. Snape was both grateful and resentful at the same time. He hated being pitied--and by *Dumbledore* of all people! Everyone knew he was a refuge for lost cases no one else would have anything to do with!
And Dumbledore had refused him the Dark Arts position time and time again. But he knew why--the temptation in that position was too great. Even Snape, in own mind, did not trust himself fully. Dumbledore had been right, that position should not be his . . .
Oh how he had seethed with the fury of being beholden to both Dumbledore and Potter! If only they knew what he could have *done* to them . . .
If only they knew his darkest thoughts . . .
His old master could see into his heart of hearts. He remembered the cold sweat that formed on his hands every time Voldemort looked his way. Every one of the Death Eaters had feared their master's gaze. They knew he could see their every traitorous thought, smell their fear and taste their guilt. No wonder some of his supporters refused to go back to him. They would have been killed--and not quickly either.
There was no love in that relationship between master and servant. Nor amongst the Death Eaters either--they had all hated each other like poison.
No remotely warm feelings. No recognisable human emotion. Only fear. Voldemort had long passed the point that Snape considered *human*. That was it though--the very core of his defection. He had turned more readily because he had already doubted his own capacity for darkness. For all of his ambition and his knowledge of the Dark Arts, there was still a spark that rebelled against the slow corruption that ate at the rest of him.
It was the humanity in him that had made him watch Potter's son--watch his foe's offspring, keep him safe no matter how aggravating the boy was. It was the part of him that wanted redemption from his days as a Death Eater and what had transpired then. Dumbledore had seen the spark there where no one else had.
Come to think of it, Dumbledore always saw the sparks in his so-called charity cases, no matter how well hidden. Like that Hagrid--well-meaning but dense oaf that he was.
Was he, Snape, even worth it? He had become a bitter man, loathing everyone including himself. He had set up walls against the loneliness and the hurt. Would those walls serve him well now?
Only time would tell . . .
* * * * * * * * * * * *
It had come at last.
Snape recognised the writing on the parchment that had came tied to the leg of a great horned owl. It was from Lucius Malfoy, requesting that he joined him in Hogsmeade tomorrow afternoon.
He had been sitting in his dungeon, unable to sleep and brooding, when the spectral vulture had came. It was not a real bird--it was a malevolent conjuring that was more like a slave than anything. He had summoned it himself that night to carry his message when Voldemort had exposed his hand. This was the result . . .
It was no request though. It was a summons from the Dark Lord. Fudge--who was a first class idiot if there ever was one--had not believed in Malfoy's involvement and it was still safe for two former Slytherins to meet openly in Hogsmeade.
It had begun again. Ever since he had set off the spell on that fateful night that served as a means of communications between the ranks of the Death Eaters, he had been dreading this day. The summons--he was going back to the dark fold . . .
How could he fool Voldemort *again*? His luck was going to run low one day . . .
It had been his own skill--the ability to project his emotions so strongly that most mind-reading wizards could be fooled into thinking that those were his actual thoughts. He had survived Voldemort's first reign of terror as a double agent by focusing on his bitterness and hate. It had been easiest to use James Potter as a focus--Potter had *everything*. Potter had been popular, smart and the school's Quidditch star. Snape had been no one despite his excellent academic performance.
Snape had broken the rules too--but no one loved him for it like they loved Potter.
Perspective . . . he had to bear in mind the perspective. School rules and the Laws of Wizardry--two *very* different things. Dumbledore had saved him from Azkaban and a living death for what he had done. But resentment helped to cloud his thoughts--if they were to look into his heart and mind, they would see a bubbling mass of dark thoughts, like a pus-filled boil about to erupt.
Focus on Potter. Focus on how much he despised the boy and his father--
Even that was becoming harder now. He and Potter were essentially on the same side. It did not take much to dislike him--so much like his father . . . As for Lucius and his son Draco, he despised them for their ties to him. But he had to pretend to be another sycophant because Lucius knew too much about him and his days as a Dark Eater.
At the appointed time and place, he was down in Hogsmeade, trying to ignore the curious stares of the villagers. Everyone knew that Snape was the least sociable of the Hogwarts staff.
He checked his watch--a cheap magical one--after a while and swore silently.
Typical of Malfoy--fashionably late because he thought everyone else was less important. There he was now--taking his own sweet time. It must have hurt him to walk amongst the lesser mortals. Ha--didn't like the mud in that gutter did you? You'll be moaning about your expensive boots next. Maybe you should watch your steps more, Lucius . . .
"Severus!" Lucius made a great show of shaking his hand. "Good to see you!"
"Lucius," Snape said with no warmth, "you wanted to see me."
"Outside town," Malfoy whispered and they started walking.
They left the town in silence--Lucius checked over his shoulder several times, as though afraid of pursuit. They finally stopped at an open field.
Snape started when Lucius reached for his wand but it was not directed at him. The other man began a series of motions and chants that Snape knew to be a shielding spell to keep unwanted spies out.
"So Severus, you have finally shown your true face," Malfoy said at last.
"I had to wait for the correct time. I sent my message through the spell to you lot, didn't I? I was under suspicion, thanks to Crouch's meddling," he sneered. "Fat lot of good he was--"
"He is our master's trusted servant--"
"Oh spare me the rhetoric!" It was not hard to sound contemptuous to Lucius Malfoy--not hard at all. "He *was* our master's trust servant, Lucius. *Was*--it's known as the past tense." Snape discovered an unwarranted pleasure in speaking to Malfoy as though he was a small, stupid child. "He's useless now. And *you* probably liked him about as much as I did."
To this, Lucius had no clever reply. Rallying his wits, he started again, "So you are with us?"
"Of course I am!" he snapped. "Have you forgotten my enmity with Potter and his son?"
Lucius' tone took on a smarmy note. "Well, that is good to know--what with you being Dumbledore's lapdog and everything . . ."
"I did not see you so confident before the Council when you ratted on everyone else to save your own skin," Snape retorted coolly even though he was seething inside.
"Touché," Lucius said. "But enough of this bickering--you are to come with me." And he produced a Portkey in the shape of a snuffbox.
Snape stepped forwards and touched the box, praying that he did not look reluctant. There was a lurching shift in perspective and the fields gave way to a grey-blue darkness and a blast of wind.
Reality reasserted itself and Snape found himself in a stoned-walled chamber lit by the light of two glowing, green torches. There were two doors, one at each end. Snape stared from one side to the other of this underground place and looked to Malfoy for directions.
"Wait," Lucius said softly. Snape noticed that the normally smug man was a lot less self-assured here--he was practically shivering. So Voldemort must be near . . .
A figure appeared in the furthest doorway--but it was not Voldemort.
As it moved close, Snape saw the it was Peter Pettigrew--but he looked different, taller, more . . . confident?
"Our master said you would not return to us." There was something in his voice . . . something cold and vaguely unpleasant.
Snape stared at Pettigrew. This was *not* the boy he had once known. He had grown into a weak-looking man, but his normally watery eyes were now afire with purpose.
"Did he now?" he drawled carelessly. "But I am here."
"He said that you would not return. I do not question his words."
"That was Karkaroff, not me. Wasn't it, Pettigrew?"
"Yes, it could be," Pettigrew said after a pause. "Our master never mentions names very often . . ."
"Karkaroff has been and always will be a fool," Snape replied levelly. "He was nagging at me the whole time at Hogwarts about the Dark Mark--practically begging me to help him remove it or hide it."
"His time will come . . ."
"He will learn his folly of not coming when Lord Voldemort calls, I'm sure." Snape was more than sure--Karkaroff was a dead man walking now that Voldemort knew of his defection. "You know I can't apparate in Hogwarts. So I played along. They wanted me to be their spy--they wanted me to spy on our master--"
Quicker than a wink, Snape found himself seized by the throat. He had not even *seen* Pettigrew's arm move--
"Are you even *worthy* to join us now, much less lick our master's boots?" Pettigrew asked him calmly. Lucius was pretending not to see anything as Snape thrashed in the air with his boots dangling two feet off the ground. "Did you not betray us? Do you know that our master wants you *dead*?"
"Hruggghhh . . ." Snape clutched at the silvery arm that held him aloft like some helpless kitten. No--he should be getting out his wand! It was all going downhill a tad early--he had no breath left to even utter a spell . . .
Pettigrew let him go and he fell with a hard thump to the cold flagstones.
"I was loyal," he croaked. "Just let me pr--"
"You have a lot to prove, Severus. And I am Wormtail now. Pettigrew is dead."
Snape winced and rubbed at his throat as he struggled back to his feet. That had been a mistake--he should not have underestimated Pettigrew. He was no longer someone who cringed in the shadow of those stronger and more powerful than he was. The weakling had changed--no, he had not truly *changed*, Snape realised. He had been given a gift by Voldemort and now he was the bully. All bullies were essentially weaklings; Peter was just one of those who kicked people only when he was standing above them because he was too cowardly to do it to their faces.
"Our master will not see you yet--you will have to do something to erase the memory of your cowardly defection from his mind."
Here it was--the test of loyalty. He had been dreading this even more than what Voldemort would do to him . . .
"Name it . . ." And he tensed expectantly, waiting for Pettigrew to say "murder Harry Potter" or "poison Dumbledore".
"You will find where Karkaroff has gone and you will report back to me--nothing too hard, I hope, seeing as you are supposed to be *their* spy."
Snape exercised control so that Pettigrew--no, he was *Wormtail* now--could not hear him grinding his teeth. "Consider it done! Though I thought you would have something more challenging in mind. Like assassinating Dumbledore . . ."
"Do no question the Dark Lord's will. Dumbledore's time will come. But we are to move slowly--like the serpent before it strikes. Follow your orders and wait."
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Back in the fold . . .
Snape would not have been in his own shoes for all the world. His nerves were acting up again, making him more snappish than usual. It was the holidays, so there were no convenient students around for him to vent on. That had been a habit he had cultivated over the years. Sarcasm a speciality, he thought to himself darkly one morning as he took stock of his large store of potions' ingredients in his dungeon.
He had started asking questions about Karkaroff. None too subtle questions. Hopefully, the Headmaster would see what he was getting at soon. They could not even risk discussing this plan very often--Voldemort had always been good at setting up his spies in the most unexpected places. Just look at Crouch, the most loyal . . .
But once . . . once he had been like Crouch.
He had been one of the more fanatic Death Eaters--or so they had thought. He had pushed himself to extinguish that small voice inside. Snape had been a model Death Eater--whatever *that* was. Until he had killed his first victim. Then he heard the one protesting voice loud and clear in his mind.
Did you enjoy it?
He had not. Extinguishing a life had *not* been what Voldemort had said it was. The nightmares had never faded. The screams had never faded.
It had been close. He knew how close he had been to losing control towards the end, not even knowing to which side his loyalties lay. Being the double agent, feeding misinformation to both sides, doing his duties as a Death Eater . . . He had been in danger of losing his very soul to the bleakness when Voldemort had looked as though he would win . . . if not for Harry Potter. Damn him--he owed him too much!
His own parents were safely dead for decades--he was unashamedly glad for that. Voldemort would have liked *that* as a test of loyalty--patricide as Crouch had done in emulation of his dark Master. Now Crouch had been the *real* article--a zealot--Snape could not help but feel relief that he was no longer a threat.
He had expected that would have to kill again to prove his loyalty. This was too easy . . . Unless Voldemort had something worst planned for him later.
Snape's hand tightened around a jar of nightshade. Oh yes, this was the beginning--move slowly . . . before the strike. He did not know if he could see this through . . .
A scratching noise made him start and look up hurriedly.
It was Fawkes, perched on the bench in front of him. The magical bird looked at him wisely for a moment before dropping a scrap of parchment on his bench.
The phoenix left as quietly as it had came and Snape picked up the paper slowly.
There was one word written on it. "Romania."
* * * * * * * * * * * *
In the dungeon that night, Snape made his report to Pettigrew by a special enchanted brazier that Malfoy had passed onto him from the last meeting.
"So *Dumbledore* told you that Karkaroff's in Romania?" Pettigrew's head asked from the bed of greenish flames.
"Yes." Snape waited to see what would happen.
"You will come to the Great Lord now," Wormtail said abruptly. "Go down to the same field as the last time. You will find an old newspaper dated July 8th--that is the Portkey."
The head vanished from the green flames and Snape took a deep breath to calm himself before getting ready to leave secretly.
Casting his own invisibility spell, he flung on his black cloak and moved to the concealed door at the back of his dungeon. That Potter and his friends were not the only ones who knew about secret passages . . .
Down in the field, he found the Portkey easily enough and was back in the dim underground caverns again. This time, however, Wormtail was waiting for him.
"The Great Lord summons . . ."
This was it. He knew his palms were slick with sweat, but there was no turning back now. He could come out of this in two ways--dead or alive. He had known that he was in danger of being short of a life very soon . . .
He followed the other man.
This would be redemption or doom.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
I was trying to write it as though Snape had a bellyful of bile he wants to unload on the world. He's not at all likeable--could never act likeable--but he still can be a good character struggling with both sides of his conscience. Hopefully, he won't come off as being *too* whiny . . . Hopefully a sequel in the works.
25/03/01: The rest of this long, rambling story continues in "Heart of Darkness" and then "The Reckoning".