Severus Snape was in an uncomfortable state of ambiguity. He had no idea what he himself wanted, only a vague inkling of other people's desires. Of course the Cause was an automatic justification for this otherwise unfair reposting, but then again, a lot of inexplicable things were always rationalised using The Cause.

The Cause. In all its grandeur and bloodied glory, never had he met so deceptive an institution. Of course you joined if you want Voldemort defeated, of course you joined if you wanted the riddance of Dark Arts. Of course you joined if you cared to be accepted into highly placed positions of power and politics, accepted into the best schools, and generally well liked among many.

But, too late had Severus Snape learned, that many does not mean all. Deatheaters, quite a popular pastime when he was student, seemed to be in the vast majority of the school. Little did he know that their curtieousness did not extend far beyond the Slytherin house. Ironic also was the fact that these priveleges were shared by nearly all members of the ranks they were fighting so tirelessly to defeat. Living a life as a Deatheater signified privelege, but also pain. Everything must have an equal balance somewhere.

He rubbed his Mark absently, noting the tiny ridge of skin that had so colossal an impact upon his life. A scar was all it was, really, when one reasoned down to the basics of things. But no ordinary scar could gleam the most onyx black, nor the most crimson red. And no scar had quite so vicious a master as this. He had often debated whether he should simply mutiliate the damned thing off his arm. Or even cut his arm off, until he realised that unless he wished to continue brewing potions and earning a relatively steady income, his arm could simply not go.

He let out a frusturated growl, knowing that if his voice bore the full weight of his torment, the stones of Hogwarts would surely collapse. He had long since deemed himself a lost cause, and now simply wished everyone else would. Perhaps that way he would not feel such obligation towards Dumbledore, nor to the rest of them, though his loyalties towards his headmaster were a bit more than deeply rooted.

He was tirelessly devoted to him, knowing that if need be, his own miserable life he would gladly trade to see the old man prevail. Knowing that such a godly man would be left behind because of his sacrifice was reward enough.

Few students roamed the halls anymore, mostly because their cowardly parents though them better protected in their own weakly warded homes. Little did they know of the zeal and quickness that Voldemort used when slaughtering defenceless families, the malicious grin of pleasure that he gained from watching frozen horror upon their faces. He felt a clinch in his gut, knowing that the sickly, foul pleasure of death would never leave him. He was a virgin sullied, and well he knew that his own errors were wholly irreversable.

Of course, some would be disgusted by his partaking in such inhuman ceremonies, the killing of people. And, at one point, Severus would have fully agreed with them. But that was before, before he knew how strong the pull was, to come back and exploit his own talents. As the ocean is inexorable from the moon, so was Severus Snape with his own realisation of the power he harbored. Much like a drug in a muggle's hands, so was death in his own.

He thought he would be sick for a moment, feeling the acidic liquid creep slowly up his throat. Just staring at his own body made him ill, nevertheless thinking about how he had used it. He twisted his mouth into a grimace, and glimmered softly down the hall, the absolute blackness of his robes devouring every particle of light that was reflected into them. Even the man who wore them seemed to be consumed by their utter depthlessness. I

In the harsh light of day, reflected off the bleak cobblestones of the greast square of the school, where the four towers conjoined, leaving an intimately close space to be shared by all. There was no on skulking there now, only littered remains of those who used to. Severus regarded it carefully, his cruel, hawkish face twitching in pain and reminiscince. His blue black eyes, restless as stallions, darted frenetically between the four minarets that rose in resplendent conjunction from the rest of the castle. His pale skin, perhaps lighter than the pallor of snow, was eerily detatched from his somber clothing. It glowed, even in the imcomparably white light of a cloudy, winter sky, it muted everything else around him. A satyr, perhaps, seemingly half human, for he was beastial in his cruelty, and ethereal in his looks.

He rubbed the malleable material of his robes between his index finger and thumb, appearing a fine tailor appraising robes. But his thoughts were strayed far from such petty fantasies. What he wouldn't give to have a profession that didn't involve him becoming deeply embroiled in dark arts and vindictive dictators.

There was light pattering of feet, meters from his own staunch form, and he looked up quickly, making sure his own defenses were not so carelessly strewn about his feet. Sirius Black, now embedded within the fortress walls, and showing no signs of taking his leave, approached him warily. A hostility so long sewn, yet freshly wounded, still lingered. Neither sought the other's company without absolute need, and even then it was a great dollop of pride that had to be imbibed. Severus inclined his head briefly, acknowledging his presence, but not inviting him for chit-chat. Black did the same, though there was an odd animalia that resided in his subtly chisled face.

Have you set a date?

Severus grunted, though he found it extremely distasteful to do so, he reasoned that the less words with Black, the more he would understand. Black inclined his head for a swift second, and regarded his enemy with something akin to inimical curiosity. As much as he hated Severus, he had to give the man credit. After all, he was going to be leaving with less than a day's notice to do so.

Albus sent me. He said the sooner the better.

Severus gave him a glare, but it was half hearted. His heart sagged at the thought of his precious classrooms being rooted around and manhandled by another.

.


It was said in a swift sigh that would have sounded lachrymose, had it not been for the odd lurch of pain that his face made as he forced the words out.

Black nodded, for once aware that it was best to let sleeping dogs lie.










A/N: No reviews, as of yet, but I hope there will be more soon. This is vastly different from my other fanfics, so I hope you enjoy it.