In which Severus Snape sells his soul.


I became aware of my surroundings rather quickly. My first thought was to acknowledge the massive headache I currently suffered, my second thought was how my entire body felt restrained, my third was how this had to be James' fault in some way, and my fourth was how Pandora would hear of this from me both vividly and heatedly.

And then I realized the reason for my body feeling restrained was because of the body-binding charm someone had placed upon it. Remembering the last person I had seen, I came to the conclusion this was not James' fault, but was instead the malicious act of Lucius', no doubt revenge for the kick in the ribs so many years ago. Again, I swore Pandora was going to hear of this from me.

It was dark. I could open my eyes and swivel them around, but it was the only part of my entire body that moved. I was propped up against the wall with chains wrapped around my upper body and arms. Two figures dressed in black robes stood on either side of me, their sleeves pushed back to reveal a tattoo/burn of a black skull with a snake curling out of its mouth. My mind instantly flashed back to that time I had been snatched by a Death Eater and claimed as a plaything, so many years ago when I was still a gutter rat. I knew I would not escape by biting anyone's hand and be rescued by an elderly woman hidden beneath an invisible cloak.

I heard footsteps as people brushed past us in the dark. Their voices were fleeting whispers of hurried words, desperate to keep silent and not attract notice. After a long while, someone stepped up to us. His face was covered like as everyone else's and he wore black robes with silver threading, but I knew from his gait he was Lucius. He snapped his fingers at the Death Eaters standing on either side of me, then pointed at me with his wand. The body-binding spell fell away, but before I could react the two Death Eaters grabbed me by my shoulders.

Lucius walked away, and I was dragged behind. With each step, I remained silent though I had to wonder of my fate. Was I to be killed by Voldemort, leaving Pandora with but one grandson? I rejected that theory as quickly as it entered my mind; Pandora would not feel indebted to Voldemort for ridding me of a werewolf's curse if he killed me so soon.

Was I to be used in Lucius' own personal game? Now, I was hardly surprised with the idea of Lucius as a Death Eater. It suited him. He liked to torture people purely for the sake of seeing them suffer, and joining Voldemort was a good way to assure he would always have someone to torture in some way. I doubted Romono knew, for as arrogant as the man was he would not have allowed a family member to do anything Pandora would have disapproved, and being a Death Eater certainly qualified for disapproval.

I was dragged through dark corridors, past other masked Death Eaters, to a room lit by a single torch burning in an overhead ring. Seated in the very centre of the room where the shadows twisted and jumped eerily the most, in a large throne-like chair as if he was a king, was Voldemort.

He was no different from any other time I had seen him. He was still dark, twisted, unnatural, and brimming with unaccountable power; still a shadow of his former, handsome self before he sold his soul to the Darker Powers. Lucius stepped to the side of the chair and watched as I was shoved to my knees before Voldemort, close enough for me to lean forward and rest my chin upon his knees. Voldemort remained silent as he studied me with those piercing, empty eyes. I stared back, partially enthralled by the strange emptiness and partially enamoured with the terrifying effects the shadows seemed to cast over his features. In those moments, I felt as I was in the presence of a powerful demon.

When he spoke, my heart seemed to pound in time with the rhythm of his words. "What do I do with you?" he asked as he leaned forward slightly. "What use have I for you? As Pandora's grandson, that would leave you with a great deal of leverage. However, that also makes you nearly inadequate." He swept his hand along my jaw line. "I could just kill you."

Numb as I was from his eyes, I answered without thinking. "You won't."

The hand on my jaw tightened suddenly, squeezing and pinching my flesh. Voldemort's eyes hardened. "Do not presume to tell me what I will or will not do. I did not grant you sanctuary." I knew I had made a mistake. The look in his eyes said he would kill me indeed, regardless of my relationship with Pandora, just to prove the point. "What should I do with him?" he asked Lucius.

Lucius smiled, wicked and perverse. "Play with him," he said. "Let him live with a shattered mind and body."

"Crude and useless," Voldemort replied with irritation. Lucius winced. "This one is marginally intelligent, which makes him dangerous. However, a knife that could cut our throat can just as easily cut the throat of those who oppose us." He was silent a moment. "Slytherin, despite your most questionable origins, but at least you do not shame the glorious name you undeservedly received. Would you join me?"

I blinked, trying to understand the meaning of the words that floated through my numb mind. The dragging weight of my arms chained at my sides was strangely all that kept me from sinking into a thick pool of endlessness. I bit the inside of my cheek and tasted blood. The pain rushed the numbness away and Voldemort blinked. "Join you? Join you?" My gutter rat instincts screamed at me to appear as harmless and defenceless as possible, but my Snape pride, carefully cultivated through school and nurtured by Pandora, balked in revolt. "It would be safer to dance with a hydra!"

Voldemort chuckled. I frowned; I amused or enraged him with my words at every turn. I found this annoying in the least. "But you would be dancing with a snake if you join me."

"Why should I?"

"I could offer you anything you ever wanted." His eyes glittered finally, no longer empty and soulless as whatever dwelled past began to stir in desire. "I do not often give people a choice in joining me. They either do, or I kill them. But to you, my filthy gutter rat, I offer power, status, and importance. Purity, even. You became a Slytherin for a reason."

"Lack of trust," I responded automatically. Voldemort threw his head back and laughed.

"A notorious trait that, I assure you, son of Pandora's heart, so often goes without notice."

I gritted my teeth. "I could make my way into the world and gain everything you offer me. I don't need your help."

He leaned back into his chair. "Oh, yes, you do. I can release your body, let that empty shell of filthy human flesh dwell still in this world, but your mind will remain locked away, chained forever at my side and trapped like a soul damned to hell."

That did not frighten me so much as the sudden haunting memory of being told of James, the mindless puppet.

"Troublesome Aurors," Voldemort said almost to himself. "Always meddling and interfering." His eyes shifted to the side. "Who is that woman James Potter is always so protective of? Lorry?" A heartbeat passed; my blood pounded in my ears.

"Lily," I said softly.

"Of course." Voldemort looked back at me. The heavy oppression of the air, weighing down upon me, reeked of fear. His eyes unnerved me - the eyes that reached into the depths of a personality and revealed everything of a single aspect saw my fear, saw what I knew that went unsaid.

Why threaten me, the self-exiled brother, when James was so much closer to dear, sweet Lily?

He smirked. "James I will not harm," he said softly. "Not directly, of course, so long as Pandora remains outside the game, accepting the rules I've established. But… who knows the emotional harm I can inflict upon him through Lily's fate."

Not death, but fate. That left him with the possibility to keep Lily alive, and prolong what he could inflict upon her for years and years. What could Voldemort inflict? I remembered the twins torn from limb to limb, Oliver sliced to ribbons, and Francis's body gone, drained of the blood left behind. And James – who had been with Voldemort for just two days.

James was a fierce Auror. There were those who would contribute such ferocity and success to being Pandora's grandson, but I knew, somewhere within his subconscious, was buried the memory of Voldemort's cruelty; that which James witnessed and suffered. It would not take much hurt James – only enough to cause regression. Voldemort could easily force James into the same position Pandora was forced to maintain. Fight me, and your most precious person in the world will suffer the consequences.

Beneath his piercing gaze, I felt my will to fight against this twisted man wither. For Lily, to keep safe the bright-eyed child who had built sand castles with me long ago… For James, so I would never know him as Pandora had: a blank, unresponsive puppet. Voldemort reached his hand out and touched my face. His fingers splayed across my cheek and the pad of his thumb rested lightly against my chin. "What will it be?" he asked softly. "What do you want most in the world that only I can give you?"

As I looked upon him, his eyes reading my innermost thoughts, I was suddenly filled with a burning passion to help James destroy Voldemort. This was the man who ruined the lives of everyone, not just Pandora and James, but the entire European population of wizards and witches. Once the European division of magic fell, the rest of the world, both Muggle and magic, would follow suit. This man could destroy the world as we knew it and I was never truly aware of this until that very moment. The desperation the entire world must have touched my soul. Remembering my brother on his last visit as he grumbled about what he would give to know Voldemort's plans of actions I thought to myself, Would you accept the price I pay?

It was time to use one another yet again, as we had as children for Pandora.

"For knowledge," I said. "For knowledge, I would become one of yours."

Those eyes saw my true intent. Knowledge for Voldemort's actions, not knowledge of the Dark Arts, as Lucius thought and others would think in my lifetime. Knowledge I would give James.

Voldemort smirked, amused and delighted. It was…frightful. He leaned forward until his lips were almost brushing my ear. "For knowledge," he whispered as his hand clamped upon my lower arm, "I could make you mine, though you will never truly yield." His other arm circled around my shoulders and drew me closer. The chains that bound me snapped open and fell to the floor. "You yield to no one but Pandora Potter, and even then it is most grudgingly and only after you have kicked and screamed yourself into exhaustion. And for that, I will take you and break you."

That was when he imprinted the Dark Mark upon my arm. His eyes glowed red as his power flooded my entire being, searing me with its essence. It was both glorious and repulsive. He did not draw the power back though, as he did when he burned away the moon magic. It pooled within my mind and my arm where his hand gripped me, spilling over and sizzling as bright green sparks. It was a magic that would ensure a connection with him, as it ensured a connection with everyone to him; one that gave him the ability to summon us from anywhere in the world, or to alert us to his call. It also lent strength to perform the Forbidden Curses to those Death Eaters who were otherwise too weak.

His magic burned my mind and the mark into my arm, assuring that I was more his than anyone else's. The magic made my blood boil, as if purifying every taint it carried, making me one with him.

Even now, with the Dark Mark burning as he calls me and I write this, recalling memories that I would rather keep buried six feet under, I feel as if there is something about Voldemort that only I know. Perhaps all Death Eaters feel this. Perhaps it is only my imagination.

I did not black out from the flood of power, but instead collapsed forward with the upper part of my body strewn across Voldemort's knees in some grotesque fashion, my forehead pressed against his torso. Hands swept gently through my hair after he finished. Somewhere in my mind, I made a mental note to take a long, soapy bath after all of this being touched. Foolish notion, really. As much as I would later scrub and scrub until the bathwater turned bloody, I would never rid myself of this contamination.

I floated amidst a swirl of agony and delight as my body adjusted to the invasive foreign power. I wondered if James was really worth this, but squashed that idea. I was doing this for myself as well. I had too many horrid memories as it was without James adding to them.

I distantly heard Voldemort speak. As he did, the foreign magic flowing through my veins tugged and came alive in response. Were it an animal, it would have rolled onto its back and barred its belly to him. "It is not often someone brings me such a gift, Malfoy," Voldemort said. "I shall remember this."

Lucius hissed with pleasure. "Is it a good gift?"

"Oh yes." The hand paused a moment in its sweeping. "It is a good gift."

I would remember Lucius and create my own revenge against the man. He will fall one of these days. When he does fall, Draco will turn his back to him. The very boy, whom Lucius pooled his resources, time, and effort to become his greatest creation, will be thankless. And therein lies my instrument of revenge. How Lucius' pride will be shattered that he is betrayed. I relish the thought, but I will not be present to witness my work.

The hand resumed its petting. "Few understand how valuable this gutter rat is to Pandora. Because I understand the value, I feel a satisfaction in knowing the soul she stole away from me returns once more."

I will destroy you, I thought dimly. In some way, some how, I will tear you apart piece by little piece, until you realize what is happening but it's too late to do stop me. Voldemort stood up and gently pulled me to my feet. I leaned against him, dizzy and nauseous. He held me close, as if understanding my discomfort and consoled me for it.

"Come," he said kindly as he led me down the hall. Lucius fell into step behind us. "There is a Death Eater meeting tonight with plans to discuss, torture methods to approve, rewards to grant, and punishments to wrought. We will have to dress you in your new uniform. I doubt we shall find anything for such a tall frame, so you may have to make due with barring your ankles until we brainwash a decent seamstress. And you really should eat more; for all that Snape wealth, surely they can afford a better-stocked larder…"

Voldemort is a strange villain for all of his atrocious monstrosities. People — those who did not join Voldemort's side — who remember his last reign of terror would tell you what a cruel, horrible man he is, that his sign was a dreaded sight that meant death and suffering. But Voldemort is no fool. Everything he does is weighted with consideration. He knows there has to be a balance struck; just enough fear to either have people too scared to fight or scared enough to seek his favour, enough to keep them divided from one another, for then he could conquer.

Voldemort never forgets anything. That man has a mind that retains every single detail of everything he has ever experienced. Everything that ever happened to him, from a simple breeze to a single blink of an eye, he could recall the exact place at the exact time in an instant. When people do things, he remembers, and he always pays his due. That is why he had so many followers and still does. Yes, he was cruel; yes, he was vindictive; yes, he inspired fear and terror in others on purpose with his horrid acts. Yet for those who joined his cause, he was the most charming, most generous person in the world. He was elegant and friendly; he had a good sense of humour and encouraged bantering when he felt that it would not undermine his relationship as master/slave with the rest of the Death Eaters.

Alas, I believe his various brushes with death (no thanks to you) have ruined his sense of humour.

Know thy enemy; such wise words. When one knows one's enemy, one understands that enemy's motives. Motivation is a great weak point, because once one realizes that motivation — should it be very specific— one can find something to destroy that motivation and leave the enemy, proverbially, "up the creek without a paddle."

But what was Voldemort's motivation?

One day, prowling through the dark halls of the Riddle mansion with that snake of his slithering behind, Voldemort spoke to me. While it was true he spoke to many, there were few that he ever had a casual, one-to-one conversation with about anything besides his plans of dominating the world. "Look at them," he said to me as we paused at one of the mansion's patios that overlooked the distant village. "Muggles are such destructive creatures. If you learn their history, you realize they destroy everything they possibly come across. They have more weapons as inventions than anything else that exists. And if it not meant to be a weapon, it is easily modified into one. Why is that?"

I did not answer. That he had beckoned me to wander with him through these halls, which had not known light other than sunshine for so many years, puzzled me. I deemed it wisest to remain silent. After a moment, he turned from the window and resumed his restless wandering. "Such inadequacy," he said. "They are never truly satisfied. They build greater and larger and more powerful objects. Certain special interest parties cry and whine about how the world's natural resources are being depleted; they pound their breasts and cry foul when they receive the very same behaviour they give others. People preach of love and charity and how their god created everyone equal, yet in the same breath will condemn their fellow man for following a different religion or choosing a different lifestyle."

He drew his lips back in a sneer. "Such pathetic, two-faced, hypocritical bastards, the whole lot of them. They coat their poisoned words with sugar and expect people to choke them down." He snorted. "Death is the cure for a malady such as theirs." Silence hovered upon our conversation then. After a while, Voldemort's snake grew bored and slipped off into the shadows, no doubt to feast upon the mice and rats that bred abundantly within the manor's walls.

"What was it like on the streets?" Voldemort asked suddenly.

"My lord?"

"You know I hate repeating myself. What was it like living on the streets? The Muggles, what sorts of persons were they like?"

"Horrid. If you ever wish to see the true wickedness of mankind, live on the streets. It will destroy any remaining faith you have in mankind. The slums, at least, do not coat the truth. It betrays and it deceives, but you know its limits – it's a deception that doesn't lie about itself."

"There was an age," Voldemort began slowly, "where the overall population of people believed mankind was inherently good. That thinking," he added disdainfully, "was destroyed when mankind decided to modernize itself." Another long silence followed, leaving me with a sense of boredom. It was supposedly an honour to accompany him. But I found it maddening to roam those dark halls, dancing the knife's edge between the monotony of silence and the adrenaline of careful speech.

"People are desperate in the slums," I said. "They look out only for themselves. You don't trust your comrades; you don't trust your leaders. They'd sell each other out for a moment's respite. There is no hope. The people who live there are trapped. It's the only world they know and understand, and everything else is too foreign. The concept of kindness, even if they had heard the word — which I doubt, the people have very limited vocabularies beyond insults — escapes them daily. Nothing is done without the intention to further their own ends."

"Then they, too, are better off dead."

I shrugged. "Why not? The upper classes ignore the slums people. They blame us for our fate and say it is our fault we are trapped in the slums, as if we choose to stay there. They do not understand it is all we have, all we know, and how incapable we are in coping with the real world because of the unaccustomed kindness. We have lived a life not trusting, and it cannot be gained by pretty words or flashy deeds. We cannot understand the meaning of simple charity. If those of the upper classes were forced into living what we have lived, they would abandon us in their own attempt to escape. What difference would it make to be dead?"

He glanced sideways at me. I realized I had been referring to myself as one of the slums people. It is easy, too easy, to slip back into that mindset – even now, after the distance of nearly three decades. "Would you say that is common amongst Muggles?" he asked with a slow-spreading smile.

I think I was backed into a corner. "I would say it is common to anyone or anything whose survival instincts are larger than their maternal instincts. Without the need to protect, trust never forms."

He grinned. "And you? Do you trust me though I do not protect you?"

I contemplated that, and when he regarded me with a curious amusement I decided I would lose nothing in telling him the truth, rather than mindless praise of his virtues – such as they were. "To a point." He cocked his head to the side. "You have no one to sell me out to, so I know you will not betray me."

"And if I wanted to destroy you?"

I was more careful with my reply this time. "I believe my lord would not do so without a good reason."

He smiled and shook a finger at me before resuming his wandering. "I would not be so wasteful, Severus," he said. "Waste is deplorable. That you are Pandora's son assures that you will be used with only a proper purpose in mind, and I will not let it be said I shamed her father's name. But Muggles have no use or purpose. They only know destruction, for everything must give way before their onslaught of productivity. They are like a disease that will destroy us all. They wish to populate the stars; will they move onward after first destroying this world? They either care to preserve what they have and sacrifice the future for that, or they care to create the future and sacrifice history in return."

"Wizards do the same," I said softly.

The nature of his smile changed and I knew I was then treading upon very dangerous, very thin ice. "Yes. Wizards do the same, but not all. Do you think I am like a disease?"

"I cannot say."

He stopped and turned to face me directly; I respectfully dropped my eyes to his feet. "You cannot… Or will not?"

"Wizards are destructive forces, in and of themselves. We are capable of great destruction and, often, we do employ such force. Yet we have never been known to decimate entire countries, such as Japan or Germany in the war, through sheer massive destruction that destroys the land as well as the population."

Voldemort snorted. "Ah yes, Germany." He hissed softly as he remembered an unpleasant memory. "More people died after the war in that country than those who died fighting in the war, because the Muggles deemed their being left to pick up the pieces, not caring for the destruction wrought upon the land, a suitable punishment for being Hitler's home. I can remember visiting the land after leaving Dinsmore and seeing the scattered, rotting corpses. The wizarding world was no better; the wizards and witches were left there to die only because they spoke the same language as Grindelwald." He sighed, and then said almost too softly for my hearing, "I will not be the same."

"If you wish to purge the world of its evil, you're a fine example of what to get rid of," I grumbled.

He laughed at that, his mood strangely becoming lighter. "Oh, Severus," he declared as he threw a friendly arm around my shoulders. "You are refreshingly not like the others! While they grovel and plead for attention, I may always count on your honesty. It may be because you can never yield yourself completely, so you hasten to compensate by giving your unbridled opinion." He shoved me away and strode ahead with a little skip in his steps. "True, I make a good example. But the best way to expose corruption for what it truly exists as is by reflecting it in such a way that it forces people to think."

Voldemort confuses me, Harry; he really and truly does. This is the man who destroys the wizarding world, piece by piece, so he can rebuild it in his own image, like a god. This is the man who burns with the desire to harness power and gather together all the knowledge of the world. This is the man who wants his name to be known and feared throughout the entire world — both Muggle and magic.

And, yet, this is the man who wants to purify the world of all the vermin and disease that was wrecking it, slowly but surely. This was the man who genuinely wants to save us from destroying ourselves.

Or it may just be the most elaborate smokescreen in the history of mankind.

Regardless, he is, without a doubt, the most cunning man I have ever known.

Do you understand the difference between brilliance and cunning, Harry? Francis, brilliant genius he was, asked the how of things. Pandora, cunning, asked the why of things. Combine the how with the why and Voldemort would have been brought to his heels when the questions were answered. In those years she was gone, Pandora decided it was time to start thinking like the duo that would have threatened Voldemort from the start had Francis lived.

She knew the why; she just had to seek the how. I still do not know the how of Voldemort's undeterminable power, but Pandora decided it was the only way to stop him. To destroy a power, the source of it had to be cut off, since motivation wouldn't work here.

It is hard to destroy the motivation of a man who has mixed agendas, some greedy and some good. The next best way to bring about an enemy's ends is to destroy that enemy's foundation, little by little, until everything collapses and he possesses no capability in which to repair the damage. This was my original goal when I became a Death Eater. For knowledge I bowed my head and became Voldemort's.

But how could I get James to understand this? James was not stupid. He may not have possessed Francis' brilliance, Pandora's sharp cunning, or Oliver's ponderous thoughtfulness, but he was shrewd. In him flowed the blood of the Snapes, and somewhere the genius of Francis Potter.

For several months he paid his once or twice weekly visits and I did not approach him. We spent most of our time with my staring at him like he was an idiot while he prattled on about nothing in particular. I measured his reactions and emotions when he replayed his memories of fighting against Death Eaters.

James was noble. He would not care for me being a spy. He would think that cheap, dirty, underhanded, and sneaky. It balked with his honourable Gryffindor nature; the nature that demanded fights to be direct and open, and it was to this nature I would then have to appeal. I could only be direct with my brother.

One evening, alone without his usual companions, after a rather particular long ranting fest about how he would personally tear Voldemort apart with his bare hands and relish the moment, I handed James a large mug of hot chocolate, sat down across the table from him, and sipped my own. He looked at me suspiciously. I had not shared a mug of hot chocolate with him since our third year at Hogwarts. It had been a ritual of ours when I had something serious to discuss with him (usually it had been about Pandora's letters, Sirius' pranks, a student I would refuse to tutor thereafter, Sirius in general, and Lucius' rumours).

"What is it?" he asked after a long moment of silence. I shoved my hot chocolate away and crossed my arms before myself.

"This is not going to be easy to say," I began. He sat upright, eyes wide with fear.

"Is it about Grandmother? Have you received bad news from her?"

I shook my head. "No." He visibly relaxed and I fixed him with a dark gaze. "But she would be disappointed in me."

The eyes narrowed suspiciously again. I almost decided against telling him, so frightened was I with the uncertainty of his reactions. "Severus Snape, what did you do?"

I leaned forward. "Don't talk to me like you're Grandmother. James, I have never asked much from you. I ask now that you hear everything I have to say, without interruption, and without judgment, until I say I have nothing more to say in my defence and reasoning. Please." He covered his face with his hands.

"Oh god, where did you bury the body?"

"I'm not – I didn't – James! This is damned hard enough as it is without your stupid jokes!"

He didn't smile. "I wasn't joking."

"Just – wait, please, or I'll lose my nerve and then we're both in trouble. Please. I know that Grandmother tried to get us to be good brothers, but it never quite worked. I never had the faith capable of asking you to trust me. It would never work for that. Now I am asking for your trust, and believe me, it is much harder to speak to you than it was committing my crime. Hear me out, please, before I begin to babble incoherently."

He dropped his hands and stared at me with a shattered expression. I wondered briefly how much worse it would be after I explained. "For you," he said hoarsely. "For the ties that make us family, for Grandmother, and for the sake of our being together makes us strong whereas our being separated makes us weak. As long as you don't expect me to help you bury the damn body."

I smiled weakly at him. "There's no body. No interruptions?"

He nodded. "No interruptions."

I sighed; steeled myself for the uncharacteristic directness that made the gutter rat within cringe and whimper. "It all starts with this." I shoved my sleeve back and showed him the Dark Mark. At the sight of Voldemort's sign, James leapt to his feet, his hand flailing for a wand he was (thankfully) currently not carrying. He froze as he heard his chair clatter to the kitchen floor. Moving stiffly, he righted the chair, and then took a deep breath.

"I'm going to need something a bit stronger than hot chocolate," he said with a forced calm, refusing to meet my eyes. "Where does Grandmother keep her vodka?"