Chapter 2: Comprehension

Fool.

He was fortune's fool.

He buried his head into his hands in helpless anguish.

Why was he so foolish to commit himself to such a terrible cause? He had hailed it to be the greatest work he had ever done when he had first stepped into Lord Voldemort's organisation. He had admired Voldemort, gasped in delight and awe at the powerful wizard's immense strength and skills. His charisma had engaged him, enticed him with visions of a new order, a new world where he would have had been responsible in creating. Here was one whom he had thought was brilliance incarnate. Voldemort's logic had flawless, and he had wrapped the cause with eagerness and pride. To be a part of such a worthy cause. . .

An empty thing he had now realised. A false, repulsive, disgusting thing.

A dream, a vision, a madness that would never pass!

He sank deeper and faster into the gaping hole in his mind's eye. He knew he was working himself into intense despair and desperation but he could not care less. Indeed, he secretly wished the emotions he had once suppressed ruthlessly would surface with a vengeance and submerge him into nothingness. He could thus escape Voldemort, Malfoy, the loathsome activities they were involved in and ultimately, himself.

Where else could he turn to, or hide away in?

He cried out involuntarily when his Dark Mark tingled in his arm. He had recently acquired it when Voldemort's aims were made clearer as he had spoken to the members, treating them as his servants. Oh, the Malfoys had protested, but they knew when they were defeated. Particularly after Voldemort had dispatched Malfoy senior to St. Mungo's with a single curse.

No one dared dispute as to whom would lead the group since.

This was the first time Voldemort had used the Dark Mark to summon or call them. It did not hurt yet he felt it penetrate his soul painfully. He was unable to attribute the latter to a physical byproduct or a figment of his imagination. It was imprinted resolutely in his arm, this small, ugly scar that seared him within and forced him to recoil instinctively whenever he saw it.

Months ago, he would have taken it willingly, even feverishly. In his desire for acceptance and a longing for circumstances in the wizarding world to improve, he had allowed his addled brain to deliberately work against him and choose to ignore all the disturbing signals and warnings. He was a simpleton not to see through Voldemort's visage and the real meaning of the organisation.

Now the mark reminded him relentlessly that he had enslaved himself to one of the most chillingly fearsome masters. It was as though it sealed his fate in. He was forever tainted with the ties he had with Voldemort and the horrors he had plunged himself in whilst carrying out curt orders.

And the name applied to them. . . Death-Eaters. Voldemort possessed an obsessive streak of morbid fear for death. He, on the other hand, did not know whether to laugh at the ridiculous term or weep at this additional nail driven into his coffin.

Amidst his dawning comprehension and ensuing frustration, he wondered at his luck to master Occlumency at a young age. It was his shield against everyone. It saved him countless times when Voldemort interrogated him to test his loyalties. No one was to be trusted. He could not seek help for certain knowledge of betrayal. He felt more isolated than he was in Hogwarts, with nowhere to turn and no end in sight.

The Mark tingled persistantly. Fury filled him an instant when he wanted to lash out at it. Then, the gloom of doom overcame him. Shakily, he got up and changed into his uniform. He stared at the faceless mask in his pale hands for several moments. It was just an extension to the charade he was playing at present. He gritted his teeth and put it on, feeling the cold steel bite into his own mask.

He Apparated and found himself in a patch of field with three fellow Death- Eaters, situated outside a familiar-looking house.

His spirits sank. It was Professor Flitwick's home from Hogwarts. He recalled seeing the pictures in school. Someone pushed him forward. He spun round to see Lucius' frame.

He gestured frantically to the house, whispering, 'What are we supposed to do?'

'Flitwick's developing a charm to counter the Imperius spell. We're to stop him.'

'How?' he asked, stupidly.

Apparently, Malfoy had the same thought too. Malfoy's eyes, the only features to be seen, glinted with scorn. 'What else?' the wizard said malevolently. 'Avada Kedavra.'

Of course. The Killing Curse. What else?

How much more blood would he have on his conscience before he was hounded out by the Ministry and put to Azkaban? In his childhood and youth, he had always been intrigued by the forbidden arts. Later, his fascination grew as he learnt more about them in stealth. It had exhilarated him to think he knew impressive things others did not. However, to study them and to use them were vastly different.

He had first tasted torture and death when he was twenty-one, a year ago. It was his first mission. To him, it was nothing more. Yes, he had frowned at it, but it was simply a means to an end, a greater good.

Gradually though, he had realised what was wrong. Or rather, the truth had come slamming onto his body, literally. He had stared into the glassy eyes of one victim, which was flung to him during one of their raids, and with a jolt of shock he had seen the body to be that of John Russell's, a Muggleborn previously in Hufflepuff. He had begun to see individual victims, acknowledging their past. He had begun to question the prejudices of so-called purebloods and Mudbloods. He had concluded they were no different. He had realised he was devoid of morals, no more superior to his partners who lusted for blood and hungered for pain.

They like it, he had thought numbly, they find pleasure in indulgence.

Malfoy shook him out of his reverie. 'You're no use to us Snape if you just stand there.'

Soul laden with guilt and fear, he walked into the house after the wards were deactivated.

His mouth twisted when he stepped into the intimately warm domestic scene in the living room. Professor Flitwick was playing with his grandchildren whilst the elderly Mrs. Flitwick sat near the fireplace talking quietly to her daughter-in-law. Envy, fear, anger, worry and a myriad of emotions fought for dominion in his turbulent soul, finally to be replaced by the all-too familiar and unwelcome feeling of sorrow.

Two men surged forward without hesitation and rounded the two ladies.

He wished he could close his ears to shut out the screaming.

Professor Flitwick hurriedly gathered the tots. For such a tiny man, he moved fast and smooth. Drawing his wand out, he Stunned one of them. The latter immediately collapsed.

He watched as Malfoy cast the Killing Curse rapidly. Professor Flitwick squeaked furiously. Both were locked in a duel in close proximity.

'You!' shouted Malfoy to him. 'Come on!'

He remained rooted on the spot.

Professor Flitwick moved to his wife in an attempt to rescue her. Malfoy cast a hex, forcing the Charms professor to take coverage under a table further back.

'You want her?' Malfoy spat, 'Fine, have her!' Malfoy turned to her.

He knew what Malfoy would do.

'No!' he cried. Improvising, he said, 'Behind you!'

Malfoy turned back. It must be a miracle when Professor Flitwick's son happened to rush into the room in that moment.

Chastising himself, he lifted his wand to prove to Malfoy that he was helping. Two fought two now, although he seemed to be the only person reluctant in this match of life and death. The warning signals had been sounded in the Ministry as soon as they had barged into the house. As time wore off, he and Malfoy knew they could not remain any longer. Malfoy cursed and made a sign of departure to him. He understood.

Together, they abandoned their third man and Apparated to Voldemort's headquarters.

'You have failed,' the Dark Lord said softly after hearing Malfoy's account, which contained an accusation against him at every opportunity.

He stiffened. He wondered if he would be found to have betrayed them.

'Crucio.'

He heard Malfoy scream in agony as he continued crouching before their master. He was absolutely still.

'Severus,' Voldemort spoke up again. 'Do you deny what Lucius has reported?'

'No, my lord.' He shivered at his boldness. Perhaps he really was beyond care. He was utterly broken in spirit and will. He was sick and tired of being sick and tired. He deserved punishment, any form of punishment, to ease his burden that was his conscience.

'You disappoint me. I had high hopes for you.'

He wanted to sob, wanted to clamour to Voldemort's side and beg forgiveness. He wanted someone to tell him it was all right, that there was a haven he could rest and belong to. He wanted it to be over.

'Look up Severus.'

He obeyed in surprise. He felt Voldemort's searching gaze.

'Do you know your purpose here Severus?'

'To follow you and pledge my undying loyalty,' he blurted out.

'Why did you not succeed tonight?'

'I was weak my lord. I pray that you will forgive.'

'No, Severus. I do not forgive, and I will not let you forget your dismal performance. Be sure to fulfil your duties the next time. Crucio.'

He crumbled in a heap of relief and then the excruciating sensation of pain hit him.

It took a few hours before he fully recovered.

Lying on his bed, drained of physical and emotional strength, he contemplated suicide, but he knew it to be an act of cowardice. He snorted at the Gryffindor thought. Sighing, he pondered over his limited options. Deep in his heart, he had decided on the path to take long ago, ever since he arrived at his revelation.

Albus Dumbledore.

The old wizard was the only wise and powerful enough to challenge Voldemort.

Until the whomping willow incident, he had always sought to attain the Headmaster's trust and affection. After that, he had given up and seized the only hand that extended to him, even if it was Voldemort's.

He had to cast aside the harrowing experience in school and contain any petty and childish feeling if he intended to do what he needed to.

He set out to Hogwarts.