Dumbledore's spy had taken one vicious beating after another and frankly had had enough of the whole business. Why didn't they just sic Potter at him, add the Longbottom nemesis for effect and the war? Sure, they would utterly destroy one another, but such a price wasn't that bad was it? One boy kills one dark lord. Equal trade.
Apparently not. They wanted their precious Potter to live through the war. Probably to bother the next generation of good descent overlords with an overtaste of death and destruction.
Severus Snape shook his head at his own train of thought. Such thoughts were not proper for a turn back good pet or an evil Death Eater who wouldn't die on command. He pushed the topic away for consideration at a later time and went back to cleaning the wounds the last round had inflicted.
Of course, he sneered at himself, if I hadn't dropped my wand like some first year Gryffindor when they hit me with the Cruciatus curse, I wouldn't be here…wherever here is. They had, after filling their personal fun quotients, hauled him quite a distance before finding a suitably wet ditch to dump him in and, for seasoning and spice, toss his wands in with him.
His attention went to the small pile of wood, feather and faithful service that was quietly sparking to itself. Mr. Ollivander would not be pleased. That was the fourth one in as many months. Wands were never meant, physically or finally, to be disposable after x number of uses. There were some wizards who never needed to replace their wands at all. Hermits, no doubt.
Snape removed one rather large splitter from his ankle, and tossed it in the small campfire in front of him. The flames spit up, lighting the clearing he settled in to reveal, for a moment, a pair of glowing eyes in the darkness. When he looked back, they were gone.
Climatic, aren't we? Eyes glimpsed only for a moment, his heart stood still and all that nonsense. But he had held his breath, to be perfectly honest.
Just how many times did they curse me, anyway?