He slouched in his seat and examined his hand, poking and prodding at the folds of rotting skin. He lifted the other hand to look at the two in comparison before continuing his probing. No, this was not in some mystical search, some divination for a cure. The great Dumbledore had nothing up his sleeve, no tricks to pull. Instead, he merely picked at the skin, paying little attention to the world around him.
There was a knock, and the facade was replaced. He perched regally, a monarch comfortable in his throne, and fixed his face into that of the twinkling, dotty old man. "Come in, Severus."
A sweep of robes and a scowl. "Please sit." Dumbledore analyzed his spy's face, and then glanced out the window. The sky was dark, the moon long since set. It must be nearly morning. He inhaled deeply, imperceptibly, before turning and offering a lemon drop.
Severus's face was deeply lined, his cheeks hollowed. His hands, generally still, had a slight tremor. There were purple bags beneath his eyes, fiercely obvious because of his pale skin. Tonight would not help the man. All Dumbledore could offer, the lemon drop, was ignored outright.
"Severus, I must ask you once again to do something for me." Of course, Severus nodded. Dumbledore clenched his fists behind the desk before placing them in view, apparently at ease. "I must ask you, Severus, something that I greatly regret."
The old wizard fell into his chair once the door closed. The knight was in place. He looked at his wrist this time, and traced the expanded veins so close to the surface. He, the puppet master. He, who held lives within his grasp and manipulated them to suit his needs. No matter that his need was to end a war. He felt nauseated each time he spoke to Severus, could not look the man in the eye without feeling terrible guilt.
And the students. Harry trusted him absolutely. He felt like the manipulative old bastard he was.
But Dumbledore had reasoned, soon after the first war, that when fighting a Slytherin one had to fight like a Slytherin. Oh, the first war had ended, but that had been luck. It had been the perfect combination of love which had defeated Voldemort. An unstoppable force, love... but impossible to control. It could not be relied upon this second time.
And so he was the despicable puppet master. He controlled. He warped a childhood love into gnawing guilt, and a young boy into the world's savior. He ignored those looking for a way out, leaving them to fend for themselves. And he set those who trusted him like pawns for the slaughter.
Severus understood a part of it. He understood more than the rest. The spy could see that the crazy old coot was really manipulating everything toward an infinitesimal chance of destroying Voldemort. But even the observant Severus could not see what was plain to Albus: the headmaster hated himself.