Author's note: A little controversial snippet I wrote before HBP, yet I think it still works. Please review : )
Disclaimer: I'm not J.K., I do not hold ownership nor do I gain profit from the use of Harry Potter and its associated trademarks and copywrites which belong to Warner Brothers, Scholastic, and their affiliates.
Deus Ex Machina
The weak, milky light spilled over the broken man before the altar, dancing with the subtle hues from the glass above. The form rocked slowly, quaking beyond its own control. The lips parted, dry and cracked, blood rolling with the desperate words, "Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison." He knew they invoked their gods in Latin, and though he knew himself to be utterly beyond mercy or salvation, he could not help but implore the silent grandeur. The calculated steps echoed behind him in the vacant cathedral, and he braced himself for what awaited as the footfalls abruptly ceased.
"You played God, Severus. Unforgivable. An abomination before their lord." The voice of the platinum demon rang out, each silky syllable hanging in the air like a peal of the Angelus.
"You and the Master are the ones defiling this place before their god. It is a vulgar display of power and pride," he struggled to maintain the smooth, convicted cadence of his words through the haze of agony.
"Ah, but my Master does so fancy places of worship, for in only so few a numbered days, it shall be he that is revered world over."
"A lie. You blaspheme the ancient gods to bolster the strength of your egos, to ready for the task of destroying their new apostle, the half-blood god Harry Potter. It is impossible now, for Dumbledore's legions know how He survived, and they will pull out the cornerstone soon enough. And then . . . and then the house of cards comes raining down. So proceed, by all means, kill me, Lucius, while you await your own death." He hissed a finish, and then gasped desperately, the force of the words draining him. The other sneered and paused beneath the crucifix, the fallen angel staring up somewhere between disgust and bemusement.
"Do you know the fate of heretics, Severus?"
"They burn," he spat, blood and spittle flying.
"Yes, you are readying yourself for flame. But you are no common blasphemer. Your lack of faith, while certainly punishable by death, is not your true threat. No, it is more sinister, you are their new Christ, disciple of the new god. You just said as much; Potter is the god of the hour, and you are the son of his preachings, turned to treason by his filth. You are claiming sovereignty in the kingdom of Lord Voldemort, and you have prostrated yourself martyr in the name of the boy. And so it is you are both dissident and traitor. And my Master shall see you punished most suitably."
Severus parted his lips to reply, when the impact of the lofty threat caught him square in the chest, like the stroke of the curses that had him trembling on the floor. As the realization dawned across his face, a cold, cruel laugh spilled forth from the lips of Lucius Malfoy. Through curtains of dark hair he saw the perverse irony, prostrated and tortured beneath the splayed arms of the martyr. He gathered himself; death had always been the only certainty in his spy games, but now the broken patterns of stained glass illuminated the light and dark at long last.
"The unwilling saint, how perfect. But I die for his holier-than-thou highness, Saint Potter, who will see the rest beyond the moment, and you must have realized by now that the devil will abandon his minions the hour your cost outweighs your utility, an hour long overdue. The devil will lay waste to you all for damned campaigns of salvation."