A/N: WARNING! GRAPHIC STUFF (not sexually related) AND SOME RELIGIOUS REFERENCES THAT MAY BE CONSIDERED OFFENSIVE!






He did not sleep that night, he merely twisted and contorted himself into near-acrobatic positions to find some hard sought respite. He mulled over the thought of actually revealing Diagon Alley to her, but immediately clamped the thought from his mind. Not only was it too tempting, it was also impossible.


Severus surprised himself by taking somewhat of a liking to her. He respected her, no doubt, for not turning him out, being the sputtering, nasty bastard he was. She was also bright and anxious to learn; he had gleaned that from the excited pitch of her voice as he fed a pitifully small trickle of information to her. She was attractive, no doubt, and Severus would have liked to believe that this had no bearing upon his judgment. But he couldn't ignore the sharp pull of his stomach, nor the ignobly submissive manner that she sometimes had cornered him into.


Severus Snape had not liked many in his lifetime, and now that his former friends and supposed allies had rallied for his departure, he found his near-misanthropic list become positively hermetic. He could count on his hands the number of people he was on speaking terms with, and on one hand the number of people he allowed himself to trust.


He had long since given up sleep, being that the room was too hot, and the hissing radiator was placed in alarmingly close proximity to his head, and he was rather wary that it might combust. It smelled dusty in here, as he tentatively took a deep breath. He wished he could open the window, and behold the massive spinets and towers of his former home once more. Severus, not usually a maudlin man, was becoming homesick.


He rose up from the bed, ignoring the wheezy sheets, and pulled himself towards the bathroom. He flicked the light on, the gassy fluorescent bubbling warningly at its lack of power, and went towards the shower. He turned the knobs cautiously, not wanting to scald himself before he could even fit in a decent bath.


He undressed stiffly, feeling his age in his knees and neck. Starkly naked was a surprising display of his gaunt physique. Surely no Oliver Wood or Harry Potter, there was still an unrefined power and energy that flexed in the bloodless tendons of his muscles. He was long and lean, torso so precariously thin, it almost appeared corseted. He had no fat on him, given that he ate the amount of what a starving man might barely survive on, and he had lived this way for years. Severus was glad he had no excessive amount of hair to boast of, and was absolutely disgusted by the way certain men (Sirius Black, in this case) went off spouting their masculinity by wearing slightly untucked robes, a tiny trickle of coarse hair sprouting. His arms were his least favourite part, and as he beheld his Darkmark and shuddered, there was little doubt as to why.


The branding was the most unpleasant bit, it was done in the pit of one of the Malfoy manners, somewhere in Transylvania (no one had ever accused Lucius of being subtle). He was goaded on by partially intoxicated friends, but also by his own recognition that he was a man now, and therefore ready to assume responsibilities that were to be handed to him. In the center of the clearing of bodies, mostly cloaked or masked (even then he found this a distastefully theatrical practice), there was a massive black throne, made of darkened steel or silver. Several men had carried him over their heads, each of the Deatheaters hand's passing briefly over his bereft form. Silence ensued the rather rowdy ceremony, and two men, so large in stature that he instinctively shrank from them, grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him into the seat. A dark object was placed over his head, and he felt as though there was a nest of nettles in the vicinity of his forehead from the way it was scratching him.


This is where Severus grew nervous, and began to shift uneasily, holding the cold arms of the throne in his sweaty palms. He heard a hissing from his right, and he clearly detected the scent of burning metal and another element he could not identify. There was another kind of silence now, not from fascination with a nervous newcomer, but one that accompanies respect, grudging or otherwise, for one's leader. Severus' heart skipped beats as he heard the tormentingly slow footsteps of his famed almost-master.


Ah. A new addition.


His voice was a throaty gurgling hiss, and it could not help but sound repellent to Severus' ears.


Is our lamb ready?.


Now it was mockingly concerned, and Severus grew continuously discomforted in his restraints. And whatever was placed on his head was now causing blood to flow into his eyes.


I see he wears the crown well. Let us hope he proves his worth.


Severus realised that Voldemort was speaking of the Crown of Thorns, some muggle myth of a man who was tortured and crucified, but was ultimately martyred for the sins of mankind. He could not help but feel a trickle of terror pool in his belly.


Is he ready?.


He began to nod, but from the monotonous, droning answer from the crowd, he knew that Voldemort was speaking only to them, and pointedly ignoring himself. Only one person disagreed.


No, my lord. I do not believe that this...boy (the words were spoken with harsh contempt) can possibly comprehend the difficulties of the tasks that you set before us. He treats this merely as a passing fancy.


Severus felt the tightening of furor reign over his fear. Malfoy, of course, was debating his chances at ever being able to serve loyally and obesquiousley. His fists coiled in their tethers, long nails cutting into soft, unprotected skin.


I see no evidence.


The voice came out in an impatient hiss, and Severus felt a triumph seep through his blood. He could picture Malfoy's feminine face slink back into the crowd, purple with disappointment.


Tell me, servant, are you ready? Prepared to carry out tasks of perhaps a more graphic nature? Prepared to purify the sullied blood of wizards? Prepared to cleanse our kind and rid ourselves of unnecessary enemies, as well allies? As Deatheaters, we need no one, only one leader.


Severus felt something else surge through him, a newfound drive. Suddenly, he wanted his wand in hand, the thrill of killing was beginning to take him. His hands wrenched at themselves to wrap around someone's throat. His teeth and lips longed to taste the blood of those traitors who had dirtied and intermingled. There was a laugh of both appreciation and surprise from Voldemort.


I see your mettle is strong as any Dark wizard's. Let the branding commence.


He heard someone creep stealthily up next to him, booted feet whispering over the floor. Suddenly, four hands were placed on his wrist and he felt the bodies circle him. And there it was.


A hot, excruciating pain seized him, and he threw his head back, only driving the thorns further into his scalp. He bit his lips in a wretched attempt to retain the screams that were gurgling in his throat, and he shut his eyes so hard, he thought he had blinded them. The brand was pressing more deeply into him, yet he felt no blood, nor any breaking of his skin.


Nothing but pain existed in his solar plexus, and the stars exploded in brilliant spasms of torment. The sun began to orbit the earth, and moons collided and crashed within him. Every memory, good or bad, his mother scolding him, his first horse, his sister dying, almost drowning in their lake, Dumbledore trying to discover what was wrong, the Whomping Willow, James Potter's damnably sincere eyes, Lily Potter's equally unfeigned concern, Sirius Black suddenly becoming a massive dog which assailed him. All these memories were pouring out of him, and he had the terrible, foreboding feeling that once they were released in a fume of heat and blood, they would never again be his own. He writhed under these stranger's grip, and suddenly his mouth slackened, and a sound of such baritone fury was discharged, he felt the brand-maker quaver.


And it was over, and the brand was removed. The thorns were pulled back from his face, and he found himself facing a crowd of kneeling, obeisant people. He glanced at his arm, and smiled satisfactorily at the appropriately blackened Mark that now adorned him. A black robe and gloves were slipped between his hands unquestioningly, and when he dared meet some of the other Deatheater's eyes, he felt a familiar pull and an emotion he thought would forever evade him: belonging.


As he turned to look at Voldemort, who had his arms crossed in an almost fatherly way, Severus saw something else that frightened him. Beneath the half hooded, reptilian eyes that stared back at him in admiration and respect, beneath the bloodless skin that was taut over his face, the two slanted nostrils that flexed periodically, Severus saw something.


He saw a man, but with clarity and such precision, that he almost gasped.


In that face, where every particle of soul had departed him, Severus saw himself.








A/N: For those who didn't get my weird allusions, the crown of thorns and Voldemort's reference to him as a lamb are strictly sacrificial, alluding to the fact that the now initiated Deatheater may require his life to be taken, but only for the good of the wizarding world (supposedly) and that their self sacrifice is necessary, and Christ's similar experience on the cross.