Notes: My many thanks to sassamifrass, for her wonderful beta read and endless patience.
---I---
Epiphany
It had not been a conscious decision he'd made, to embark upon the traitor's path. No, it had merely been an epiphany, a moment when fate and dumb luck combined had provided him with Fenwick, and thereby the means to realize the motive he didn't know he'd had. If the fool hadn't chosen to drop his letter in the Muggle post-box oh-so-casually that day, if he hadn't managed to stumble so blindly into the waiting arms of Severus and the other five Death Eaters later that week...
The cornered Fenwick fought like a hellcat in the tumbled-down manor. Whatever family the man had left should be able to bury the pieces with pride. Severus could still see the Mudblood's face, soot-blackened and wide-eyed, shouting curses and hexes right up until the moment he'd been blown apart by six different spells cast as one.
Ustulosa! Crucio! Summos Diffindo! Stupify! Discerpo! Avada Kedavra!
The epiphany had occurred then, in the stinging silence as blood and gore rained down upon the hooded figures. A single, perfect moment when everything was clear. He'd seen everyone for who they truly were.
Fenwick was one of Dumbledore's lions. The post-box was a message drop.
Never rash, he'd watched the box discretely over the next two weeks in order to confirm his suspicions. No Muggle ever used the box, nor was mail ever collected from it. Only ever wizards came, all with faces he knew though many of the names escaped him. With just a little work, he could put names to those faces, a list of Dumbledore's agents and allies.
The Dark Lord would reward him well for such a list.
And yet he'd said nothing. Done nothing. He still wasn't sure what part of him had prompted this treacherous silence, but knew that it tied in with the epiphany, that moment of clarity when Fenwick died. Regardless of the cause, the result was the same: the first omissions, unplanned, had set the stage for the second and more deadly betrayal.
Tonight.
He remained surprised, in a detached way, at just how steady his hands were as he wrote out his message. For all his heart pounded and palms sweated, for all he'd agonized over this letter, his script was neat, clear and strong. The handwriting of a stranger.
He waved the parchment gently to dry the ink, then examined his handiwork in the firelight. Simple, short and to the point. Anonymous.
It would do.