Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor am I attempting to make a profit. This is all for pure entertainment's sake! Hope you enjoy!

Author's note: this chapter ended up being longer than I'd expected; R&H will make their appearance in the next one, I promise, and it will be all R&H in the next chapter (I've already written it, so I guarantee it! :)).

Thanks as always to Alcamenes and soupytwist for their wonderful betaing and their utmost patience!!


A Deal With The Devil
Chapter 3: Veritas

If he closed his eyes, he could see it all over again. Blood. So much of it, flowing over the rocks and staining the shore, contaminating the sea and filling the air with that sick stench of iron. Even now, Ron could feel his stomach churn just thinking of it, his hand twitching at the memory of Foster's blood coating his fingers and that scared, panicked look in the young Auror's eyes when the reality of the mission had finally sunk in.

They had lost four of their own today. Three were still at St. Mungo's, being treated for severe hex burns and powerful mind-altering curses; their physical injuries had been healed easily enough, though their psyches remained thoroughly shaken from the harrowing ordeal. But four had never even made it to the hospital, having been hit with the ultimate Unforgivable curse and left to die on the shores of the bloodied sea by the bastards who didn't even bother to stick around to see everything through.

Ron had never suffered casualties on a mission before. Not once in his young career. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd always known he would find himself in this situation at some point; he'd done his best to prepare himself for that inevitability.

But not even in his worst nightmares did he ever imagine he would lose them in this way.

A hand curved over his shoulder; Ron almost jumped out of his skin at the unexpected touch. He turned around to see Wentworth standing harried and pale, as if he'd been up all night. And he probably had been.

"Have you been here since last night?"

Ron shook his head.

"I went home for a bit this morning," he said. "I had to see my wife. Let her know I was all right."

If he had to be honest with himself, that wasn't the reason he'd gone to see Hermione. At least not the entire reason. When he apparated in their room, she hadn't even been awake--and he hadn't had the heart to shake her out of slumber. She would have been frantic at the sight of dried blood on his robes, and all the bruises and cuts he hadn't bothered to let the doctors at St. Mungo's attend to. Better to let her sleep and never know he had been there by her side, drawing strength from her without her even being aware of it.

And so he just watched her, wanting so badly to run his hand over her hair, but not daring to, lest she wake. Maybe she could sense that he was in the room after all, and that he was OK, though so many of his comrades had not been nearly as fortunate.

He'd just needed to see her. To see her delicate eyelids flutter as she dreamt, and see the steady rise and fall of her chest as she took in air. He disapparated before she ever opened her eyes, coming face to face once again with the harshness of last night's events when he saw a team of doctors rushing into Simone Curry's room. He hadn't been able to move from the spot since then, not until Wentworth arrived and got his attention.

"There's nothing more you can do here, Weasley," he said.

Ron knew he was right, but found it difficult all the same to make his limbs move.

"Go home-"

"No."

He caught himself, realising all too late that this was his superior, to whom he'd just spoken in a much too firm manner, and he stammered out a follow-up in a lame attempt to apologise.

"I'd... I'd much rather go to Azkaban, sir," he said. "Have they begun to question Snape yet?"

Wentworth let out a breath but kept his lips pressed together in a taut line.

"Won't your wife be worried about you?"

"I'll send her an owl and let her know I'm safe."

Wentworth seemed unconvinced, though, and Ron decided that perhaps it was time to just tell the truth.

"Please sir, I have to do this. I want him to explain to me why he's done what he's done-"

"That's just it, you're far too involved," Wentworth said. "The Ministry is already out for his blood! They want to bypass as much of procedure as they can so they can cut straight to punishing him for treason. I can't have one of my own losing his objectivity right when this department needs it the most, do you understand?"

"I won't."

Ron forced himself to let out the air he'd been holding in his lungs, but his fists clenched tighter at his sides. He hoped Wentworth wouldn't notice.

"You have my word, sir," he said. "I won't do anything stupid. I won't jeopardise anything."

Wentworth stared at him for a long time, as if trying to weigh the truth in his words. Ron could see the genuine doubt in his eyes; he'd never seen that in his superior before. For the last five years, Ron had been glorified and lauded, thrust upon a pedestal on which he'd never wanted to be perched in the first place. But now for the first time, he saw fear in Wentworth's eyes. A real fear.

And Ron did not want to fail him.

"If you feel it's best that I not be involved, I'll understand-"

"He's been asking for you."

Ron blinked back at him.

"Asking for me?"

"We've tried to question him, but he refuses to say a single word to any of us. He says he'll speak to only one person. You."

Ron shook his head and almost let out a laugh, but stopped himself just in time. He didn't even know why he almost did in the first place; he didn't find anything about this the least bit amusing.

"Crazy bastard," he muttered.

Snape always did have to be difficult. Apparently this would be no exception.

"The Ministry is pressuring me to do without the questioning altogether," Wentworth said. "They want me be done with it and officially declare him a traitor. But I won't do it, Weasley. Not without his statement. We have to get it, one way or the other."

"I understand, sir."

After a long pause, Wentworth said, "Snape says he won't speak to anyone but you. So if I have your assurance that you won't lose your objectivity-"

"I won't," Ron said, rushing to reassure him before he could even finish the thought. "I won't, I promise. I'll do my job the way you trained me, sir."

Wentworth took so long to answer that Ron was certain his answer would be no. But instead, he nodded, as if in resignation.

"I'll leave it to you, then, Weasley," he said. "I'm relying on you. Find out everything you can."

Indeed he would. And then some.

They said that no man had ever walked through the gates of Azkaban Prison without carrying at least a little bit of madness in him by the time he left. Ron believed it wholeheartedly.

No matter how many times he'd stepped foot inside this mighty fortress, no matter how much he'd prepared himself for what awaited him inside, that cold blast of emptiness that assaulted him as soon as he came within a few feet of its stone walls never failed to shake him to his very core. Each time he entered this desolate place, he felt a small part of him die, seemingly never to be recovered again. Memories suddenly fell out of reach--sweet memories of summers diving in the murky lake with his brothers, of licking cake batter from his mother's mixing spoons, of holding Hermione's hand, and kissing her, and breathing in that scent that was hers alone.

At times it took him hours to recover from having come here. Ron knew if he ever had to spend a night in one of these cells, much less be condemned to an entire lifetime in one, he'd go mad as quickly as all the others he'd seen muttering to themselves, clinging hopelessly to the bars and staring out with blank, soulless eyes.

Over the years, the number of Dementors guarding the prison had dwindled to a far smaller number than it had been only ten years ago, with many having defected to the Dark Lord's side at the time of his return. Still, the number that remained was enough to make any man feel despondent within minutes of entering the fortress, but at least Ron could now manage to stay a few hours at a time before he needed to get away for his own sanity.

Weak flames flickered on the torches along the wall. Ron followed the head guard down the narrow hallway, ignoring the faces of the prisoners pressed up against the bars, with their hollow stares and their knotted, greasy hair. He had to ignore them. He would go mad right along with them otherwise.

Being this close to a Dementor was torture enough. His rigorous Auror training had taught him some techniques to ward off the effects, but even they could only do so much. It was taking all of his strength to concentrate and keep the desperation and emptiness at bay, and it certainly didn't help that the bar of chocolate he'd brought along with him to nibble on throughout his visit here was now a few bites away from being gone altogether.

He hoped he'd be able to make it long enough to do what he had come here to do.

They came to a stop at some sort of a special holding cell at the very end of the hall. The Dementor raised its hand to stick the key in the lock, and Ron couldn't help but wince when he caught a glimpse of the scabbed, bony hand turning the key. A click sounded, followed by a mighty rumbling as the bars slid open. It was only then that Ron finally raised his eyes to survey his surroundings.

Snape was sitting perfectly still in the far corner of the dimly lit cell, right on the floor, next to the candle which looked to be in the dying stages of its life. The meager flame made shadows on his face, further deepening the fine lines on his sallow skin, and making his cheeks look all the more hollow and his nose all the more crooked.

He stared up at Ron with a cool mask of serenity, and more than a healthy dose of defiance for good measure. Perhaps he thought Ron would flinch. Had they still been at Hogwarts, with their roles as they had been--professor and student--Ron might have, but he was much older now, and the roles were reversed.

Ron would no longer be intimidated by anyone, least of all a dirty rotten Death Eater.

He felt coldness brush against him, as the Dementor turned to face him. Ron immediately looked down, so as to avoid eye contact, but felt that sick, clammy feeling come over him nevertheless, and he closed his eyes, waiting for it to pass.

Without looking up, he nodded and said, "Thank you, that'll be all for now."

There was no response, at least not an audible one, but the Dementor eventually left the cell, and Ron felt the emptiness ease inside of him--though only slightly, as the other Dementors who stood guard over this entire block were not too far away.

When the bars had clicked shut behind him, he looked up once more. Snape was staring at him, as if he'd been staring at him all this time. Ron guessed that he must have been waiting for him to say something, but decided to keep him waiting on purpose. Snape had tormented him enough times in school; how many chances would he get for payback?

Of course Hermione would be the first to scold him right now for letting his childhood longing for revenge cloud his judgment. And the very thought of her admonishing him made him feel a twinge of guilt. Besides, he had given his word to Wentworth. He supposed he should just get on with it then.

"All right, here's the way it's going to work," he said, leaning up against the wall. "You're going to answer my questions, and you're going to tell me the truth. I heard you've been trying to stall all this time, but your excuses have run out. If it's me you wanted to talk to, then talk."

Snape let out a laugh. Ron couldn't tell whether he was trying to be indignant or reacting in amusement to what Ron had just said.

Either way, Ron's patience was running ever thinner.

"Are you or aren't you going to talk?"

Snape's voice was impossibly even when he replied.

"I believe the question is, Weasley," he said, "are you or are you not going to listen?"

Now they were beginning to get somewhere.

"Depends on what you've got to say. I'm not here to play mind games with you, Snape. Apparently that's your expertise, but I won't let you manipulate me or the Aurors the way you managed to manipulate Dumbledore."

Snape's eyes twitched at the mention of the old headmaster's name. His nostrils flared and he looked as if he were about to fly into a rage, but managed to gain control of himself just in time.

"If you knew everything," he said, "I assure you that you would not be standing there all smug and righteous and sure that you've got this all worked out. You don't even know a tenth of what the truth is."

Ron shook his head and laughed.

"Save your riddles for somebody who gives a damn."

He'd had enough. If the bastard wasn't going to speak, then he wasn't going to stick around either and be played for a fool. He banged on the bars with his fist.

"Guard-"

"The truth, Weasley?"

Ron turned around to look at him again.

"The truth... is that I've been paying close attention to you for the last few months."

"What the hell are you on about?"

Snape's thin mouth curved into a smile. "Got your attention, have I?"

"Just tell me what you meant!"

"You've managed to make quite a career for yourself," he said, then he clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in that ever so familiar way. "Who would have ever thought. Ron Weasley, one of Hogwarts' most famous underachievers, transforming himself into the Ministry's brightest young Auror in centuries."

Ron clenched his jaw. "Well, if you'd stuck around long enough," he said, "you'd've known I turned myself around by sixth year. 'Course, you were too busy torturing Muggles to pay attention, weren't you?"

"So you think."

"So the entire wizarding world thinks, you bastard! What other conclusion were we supposed to come to? You'd left! You'd vanished without a trace, and then all the rumors came about, and all the sightings... and I bloody caught you myself in the middle of a raid!" He shook his head again. "How the hell do you intend to explain all that?"

Eyes fixed on Ron's, he said, without a trace of emotion, "I'm a spy."

It took a few minutes for Ron to even realise what Snape had just said. And even longer for him to process the words themselves.

"What?"

There was something about Snape's eyes in that moment--a kind of sadness, or regret. Ron didn't quite understand what it meant, but for some reason, his instincts were telling him to listen right now, and to listen well.

"I had joined the Death Eaters when I was young," he began to say, his voice heavy with what seemed to be regret. "When I was far too young to understand what I was getting myself into, and far too hungry for power myself. I believed him when he said we could gain control over everything, but I should have known then it was all lies. He wanted the power for himself, and he would have cut any one of us loose if he so chose."

Ron slowly sank to the ground.

"When I came to realise the mistake I'd made, I ran back to Dumbledore. By then, Voldemort was at the height of his power, and there were those who had begun to band together to fight him. Dumbledore was the one who led the cause. Potter's parents, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin... They were all there to fight Voldemort's hunt for power. Dumbledore recruited me despite my past. None of them wanted me--they thought I would betray them all for Voldemort, but Dumbledore fought for me. And he never stopped fighting for me."

It was true. Harry had once told him, after Ron had gone on a verbal rampage about Snape's disloyalty one time during fifth year, that Dumbledore had vouched for Snape before, and that he had never stopped believing that all the nasty rumors about Snape were all lies.

"Our group was called the Order of the Phoenix, Weasley. We swore to do everything we could to fight Voldemort and his followers. And I have kept that vow to this very day."

Ron let out a disgusted laugh.

"How?" he said. "By joining Voldemort again? By killing all those Muggles? I have to hand it to you, Snape. At least you picked the perfect time to reveal the truth. Dumbledore's not around anymore to verify a single word that comes out of your mouth, so what the hell does it matter what you say now, eh?"

Snape was clearly shaken by Ron's accusation. Ron had never seen Snape unnerved, but sure enough, he was.

"Dumbledore had asked me to infiltrate Voldemort's inner circle again," he said, having found his voice once more. "You're right, I have no way of proving it, but it's the truth. Dumbledore knew that the only way to destroy the Dark Lord was to destroy him from the inside-"

"But you didn't destroy him. Bloody hell, you've actually helped him!"

Snape shook his head. "You don't understand. There's so much you don't understand-"

"Then help me understand, damn it!"

"He already considered me a traitor, don't you see that?? He knew I'd joined Dumbledore, and he knew I'd tried to protect Potter from him when he sought the Stone... I needed to prove my loyalty if I was to carry out this mission that Dumbledore gave me!"

Ron had heard enough. He got to his feet, ready to call out to the guard again--anything to get out of here--when he heard Snape speak one more time.

"I've tried to stop them as best I can," he said quietly. "You were there. You saw how I held them back and prevented them killing those Muggles-"

"And what about the ones in Wales last month??" Ron volleyed back. "What about the ones in Ireland last year? The ones you ambushed during Christmas? Christmas, for God's sake!!"

Snape could only let out a sigh and look down on the ground. "I couldn't stop everything."

"Evidently."

He couldn't look at him anymore. Spy or not, Ron couldn't stomach the sight of him. Not when he had the blood of so many people on his hands, including Ron's own colleagues. He may claim to have tried to stop the Death Eaters, but as far as Ron was concerned, he didn't try nearly hard enough to do it.

"Guard!!"

"Don't leave."

"Why the hell should I stay? You've told me all I need to know."

"No," Snape said. "Not even close to everything."

"I've heard enough."

"If you want to stop Voldemort once and for all, you'll listen to the rest of what I have to say. You'll help me-"

"Help you??"

Ron almost choked on his own laugh.

"Bloody hell, you really are delusional. I'd rather die than help you-"

"That's exactly what might happen."

Ron regarded him with disdain.

"I'll take my chances."

Snape could rot in hell as far as he was concerned.