Snape spoke in a voice like dead, dry leaves, that soft sussuration. It was hypnotic, like dust in a sunbeam...

Harry Potter refused, however, to let it lull him, to let it gull him.

His godfather had spoken of pranks, of jokes, of laughter. Harry hadn't dreamed that his father's laughter had left scars. In his soft, childish face, his eyes had gone cold, and his hands had curled into fists.

Harry repeated to himself, as Snape showed yet another scar, this one a clear rope burn on his ankle, I am not my father. I did not do this. I would not do this.

He took a steadying breath, and admitted, quietly to himself, that he wouldn't even do this to Malfoy. Nor Dudley, nor even Uncle Vernon, and the old fart did deserve punishing. Harry didn't... wouldn't... trust himself with punishing his Uncle. There was such a thing as too close, and his Uncle was that for him.

Snape paused for a moment, and Harry was abruptly aware that both Draco Malfoy and Neville were watching him carefully. Everyone else's eyes were on Severus Snape.

Snape began, slowly, to speak of his service to Voldemort. He started with the Dark Mark, and Harry was abruptly aware that - even in a room with so many children of Death Eaters, most hadn't seen the mark - from the spellbound way they looked at it. Snape spoke of pain unbounded, of the release of the ravages of pain - giving escape from remorseless eyes.

A Mistake, Snape said, showing off a wheal, "The Dark Lord does not look kindly on failure."

Again, and again, Snape showed marks, some small - some nearly invisible, like the shaking of his hands from the Cruciatus curse.

And then, it was as if the pale winter sun shot through night-dark clouds, leaving a precious, soft sunbeam in its wake. "This was the first time a dunderhead blew up my classroom." Snape said, showing off glossy skin that was a never-healed burn.

The room laughed in an explosive release, as if they'd quite forgotten the Potions Master for the Death Eater.

Snape went on - there were even a few etchings from the Weasley twins*, although Harry could tell by the force of Snape's eyes, that it wasn't personal... on either side. Not like he'd been with James and Sirius. Never like that.

And Snape came to the Dark Lord's return, his skin a map showing the growing instability of the man turned monster. Cutting curses - with those straight, straight lines, neatly bisecting other scars. Bloodlettings - round, circular punches in Snape's skin, coming in bright white.

Snape had seemingly reached the end of his recital, the last of his wounds still weeping and seeping - and yet, he stood tall.

"I survived."

*These are mostly fuckups. Occasionally mass chaos that turned a bit bad. Nothing specifically targetting Snape.

[a/n: Okay, maybe we need another chapter break here. I could have gotten more descriptive here - and will, if you'd like, but honestly? Torture porn isn't my speed.

Leave a review if you like it, or if you'd rather see something else.]