As he thought, Nagini was too good for him. His
punishment was to be more long-lived. That was all he was told, before three of
the others were ordered to "take him upstairs." He hadn't even been
aware of an "upstairs," beforehand. Being caught as a spy was almost
just as lucrative, informationally, as being one had been. Rather than brood
about what his intended fate might be, he reflected on the current situation as
it stood. Interesting, that Voldemort was so adamant on the idea of his spying
being a survival tactic rather than a true betrayal. The man seemed to believe
that Snape wanted to sincerely change sides again . . . or that Snape had never
truly double-crossed him, at heart.
He smiled, ruefully. A credit to his manipulating skills, perhaps. Or, perhaps,
the Dark Lord still had another hand to play. One which required hope on
Snape's part -- or a strong desire to live. A silly thought, indeed. Why should
Voldemort want to instill a will to live into Snape, after naming him for a spy
and practically condemning him in front of his paltry cult? It was too much
speculation. He didn't want to accuse himself of wishful thinking. Not letting
himself get depressed over the turn of events in no way gave him leave to be
hopeful. Far better to focus on the moment, instead. He didn't want to
speculate, anymore, so he forced himself to settle on pure observation.
The air was dank and lifeless. It wasn't the most clinical of observations, but
it was certainly apt. There was no other way to describe the feel of the place
. . . Though the floor they were on was definitely above ground. There were
dirty windows here, small, set high in the walls. And heavily barred from the
outside. Wherever they were, it seemed to be secured. It certainly felt enough
like a prison. But it was too quiet. There were too many cobwebs and rusted
hinges for the place to be called anything but dead, even if Voldemort were
holding base there. At least, it had seemed dead until they had walked further
down the hall after ascending two very narrow flights of stairs. It was then
that he heard the noises. Was the building infested with rats? That would make
sense, given its dilapidated condition. But the sounds couldn't all be
attributed to rats. The scufflings and scrapings, perhaps . . . but not the
breathing. He glanced at his escorts, narrowing his eyes and trying to decide
if they were to blame for that. It was difficult to tell, though one of them
seemed to be *holding* his breath. He wasn't sure exactly what was responsible
for the odd breathing, but he knew that rats didn't chuckle, either. And
neither did his former associates.
"Well, now. Who do we have here?" That was certainly no rat! Snape
caught a glimpse of an unremarkable man just inside one of the rooms --
balding, wearing white and gray . . . before one of the Death Eaters strayed
from his side to spell the man's door shut and lock it, muttering something
unintelligible. Another prisoner of Voldemort's whims? Security around here was
rather lax, if that were the case. The clothing had been odd . . . perhaps . .
. a Muggle? Absurd! There was no logical reason for a Muggle to be peering out
of a doorway in Voldemort's makeshift fortress, smiling obscenely at him while
he was being led to his own demise. So Snape let the image go. He had other
things to think about, after all.