He had apparated back to his rooms at University. He lay curled on the floor, a fetal ball of pain; he bit at the backs of his hands, grinding his teeth along his knuckles. His stomach was heavy again with a nausea that would not be released, his guts wanting to reject everything he had consumed that day.

His left arm felt as though scraped raw, the Dark Mark searing its request into his flesh, the Dark Lord demanding his return.

He pulled himself to his feet, a body memory assuming that he would heed the Dark Lord's call. He stood, unsteadily, and began to pace, slowly, laboriously, limbs reluctant to comply, his torso so weak with cramps that both his knees shook. And not for the first time in twenty-one years he wondered why his lot seemed to be that of punishment, his portion flayed? A snatch of something played over in his mind 'drunk on self-delusion and punished by desire" his feet stumbled it out almost rhythmically, the words became an accusing pulse in his veins, was that how he defined himself, explained the choices he had made?

Contemplation felt almost like a balm, if he could just sit and think and ponder. On what exactly? His childhood and youth, his choices, the unspeakable things he had been doing the past three years under Voldemort's reign over him. But he could not stop his pacing, could not fall into a reverie. Daily, he carried the knowledge that the only passion he had ever known had come with the taking of the Mark. Bitterly he had accepted that the spark of desire he had felt when the seemingly endless possibilities had been presented to him at his first meeting with the Dark Lord had never been fanned into the conflagration he had been promised. He pressed his balled fists into the tender spot below his ribs, he had neither the time nor the stomach for such thoughts now…

He would have to return, what was this journey and who was beckoning him to embark?

He stopped in the center of his small room, he was without robes, without mask, and his heart's journey was being illuminated by a dying woman. He grimaced to keep from laughing in the face of his unknown destiny. Swallowing a huge lungful of air, he reached out a tentative hand to the Dark Mark and let it portkey him back to Los Angeles.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Nine years away, Snape savagely leapt to his feet, up out of the chair, alone in his chambers at Hogwarts, Samhain eve upon him. He could hear the veil rending, but no, it was the gears of the ancient grandfather clock in the corner, grinding against the gear that wound the chime. Half-way through the witching hour.

He would have to begin a long day of instruction in less than seven hours

The fire lay spent and smoldering on the grate. The room was almost cruel in its chill and he wondered why his lot seemed to be that of ice, his portion frozen and he wondered, not for the first time, why he would never be thought to have possessed "some heart once pregnant with celestial fire." He spat into the fire, furious. Even his rage was frigid, frigid, frigid.

Unconsciously mimicking his twenty-one year old memory self, he brought both of his long-fingered elegant hands up to cradle his face. This was deeper into the memory than he had allowed himself to go for a long, long time. He was remembering everything. Pressing firmly against his brow with the pads of his fingers, massaging his clammy temples with the sides of his thumbs, he wanted nothing more than to will his head to clear, his mind to empty itself of the images.

He began to pace the length of the small room. Walk, and walk, and walk an all too familiar track. To keep from running, to keep from bolting out into the unknown. But he couldn't walk it off this time, wouldn't allow himself the escape. He felt something shifting within him, the brew was going to turn, the inner glass egg reached its point of dissolution and from some hitherto unknown part of him his emotions became a torrent and flooded the barren landscape of his memories.

Albedo. At last, at last.

He felt his face bathed in tears and with a howl of grief so piercing that it hung ringing in his ears long after his lungs expelled the rage and pain he let himself be washed clean. The man he had become felt his heart break for the boy he had once been. The boy who had known only castigation and grew into the young man taking the Dark Mark to assuage the guilt of his stain free conscience. That young man had found a crime to fit the punishment.

He stopped in front of the hearth, two large hands splayed on the mantel; he stood spread-eagled there, staring down at the cremated remains of his shirt. The glowing embers shimmered like red jewels, not enough warmth to dry his face. His heavy gaze to become a stare and he followed it back down into the dank cellar of his memories.