"Severus," said Dumbledore, turning to Snape, Oh no… don't say it, please don't say it, the younger man pleaded silently.
"You know what I must ask you to do. If you are ready… If you are prepared…" Damn. The man doesn't know what he asks of me. How can I do this? How can he expect me to do this? No, just say no!
"I am," said Snape. What else could I say? This is Dumbledore, I can't refuse him. I can't hinder the cause, even if it does mean… no, don't think about that. "Focus, keep your face calm," the voice in the back of his head told him. They can't know how scared I am, my dignity is all I have.
He looked slightly paler than usual, and his cold, black eyes glittered strangely.
"Then, good luck," said Dumbledore, and he watched, with a trace of anticipation on his face, as Snape swept wordlessly after Sirius. You're going to need it, Dumbledore added silently, but you know we have to do this, I hope you understand. Please forgive me.
It was several minutes before Dumbledore spoke again.
"Damn the man, damn him to hell," Snape fumed.
Now he was safely ensconced in his private quarters in the dungeons, he could stop pretending. He looked pale, tired, and afraid.
"Why?" He asked the empty room, knowing full well that there would be no answer and that none was needed anyway. He knew. He was the only spy in Voldemort's inner circle, he alone could find out what exactly the evil bastard was up to this time. Snape was momentarily disconcerted to notice that his inner voice had briefly sounded like Sirius Black. He scowled.
There, that was better, think of Black, think of the nice, safe and almost comforting mutual loathing. It was better than thinking of… Oh hell he was at it again.
It was not as if it would be THAT difficult after all. He had been a double agent for years, but then again that was before Dumbledore had announced that fact rather loudly to the world at his trial, before he had ignored a summons and certainly before he had started keeping Harry Potter safe. It stood to reason that Voldemort knew about that. Especially since he had actually, as it turned out, been there when Snape had countered that curse of Quirrell's. Damn Damn Damn Damn DAMN.
Surely he'd be able to talk his way out of it, given time to prepare, he could surely come up with a plausible explanation for his actions.
He felt reassured by that thought. For about thirty seconds. Roughly the length of time he actually had to think before the mark on his arm began to burn.
