"Did you honestly think that I did not know?"

He said nothing.  Knew better than to say anything.  His eyes stayed glued to the floor.  He could have -- *should* have stayed at Hogwarts.  All it would have taken was a steadfast "no."  But it would have been difficult. Saying no to Dumbledore would have been as hard to do as going against Voldemort had been, years ago.  It would have felt the same, like a betrayal. Perhaps not one that would have cost him his life, but, still . . . it was a step he hadn't been willing to take.  He hadn't allowed his mind to consider the refusal, let along give his lips the opportunity to form that simple, soul-stealing, life-saving, two-letter word.  And he wasn't going to say it now that his life was going to be taken from him.  So he stayed silent, staring at the cold and callous floor, instead.

"Your posturing was . . . believable.  But I still knew.  I've known for years.  Ever since you warned the Potters."

That last was surely said to get a reaction, and he did find himself caught by it.  Was it true?  It couldn't be. Voldemort would have killed him years ago if that were true.  Why let a known defector live?  The man wasn't one who could be accused of having a forgiving nature.  Other Death Eaters had been killed for less.

"Your instinct for survival is admirable. Trying to stay close to both sides . . . leaving me for Dumbledore when you sensed trouble . . . " He bit his tongue.  It might not do to inform Voldemort that he had left when he realized that the Dark Lord was completely insane, and would not have had any more dealings with the man after that realization, had it been possible.  'Staying close to both sides' really hadn't been his idea.

". . . And crawling back, now that I have regained my strength.  No doubt waiting until you had some helpful pieces of information to bargain with . . ."  The voice droned on. Had Voldemort always loved the sound of his own voice this much?  It was a particularly grating voice, now . . . torturous in and of itself. Snape soon tired of it.  'Oh, feed me to your snake, already and let's be done with it . . . '

But that didn't happen.  He was there, weak from the interrogation, unwilling to speak aloud, barely able to keep his feet, let alone pay close attention to what was being babbled on about.  And the snake was there as well -- monstrous, dripping with ill-intent. But there was no feeding. Just more of the insane lecture, as though he were merely a wayward child.  It was somewhat disappointing to have fully prepared himself for consumption and then be put off for so long.  He knew that offenders of his type were never blessed with swift executions. An example had to be made of those who dared betray the Dark Lord, and the Avada Kedavra curse simply didn't give as much of a lasting impression as it once did.

He really had thought that spies would be fed to the damn snake.  Only, now he was hearing otherwise.  Hushed voices from the shadows . . . Whispered rumors of even deadlier pets . . . harsher punishments . . . horrific mutilations and agonizing deaths which were drawn out over weeks . . . perhaps longer.

Not that he believed most of it.  Death Eaters could be very melodramatic.  They loved reactions.  They wanted to see fear before the fall. He was in a position to know, after all. So, he wasn't at all surprised to hear the rumors.  He supposed that Voldemort could have acquired a creature more terrible than that hideous snake. One that liked to 'toy' with its prey for extended periods of time.  He couldn't imagine such an animal, however, so he saw no use in dwelling on it.  He was actually rather resigned to his fate.  Anything to keep from hearing anymore of Voldemort's long, tedious monologues.  Instinct for survival, indeed.