Chpt30: The Road to Nowhere.
~*~*~*~
What do I do to ignore them behind me?
Do I follow my instincts blindly?
Do I hide my pride
from these bad dreams
And give in to sad thoughts that are maddening?
Do I
sit here and try to stand it?
Or do I
Try to catch them red-handed?
Do I trust some and get fooled by phoniness,
or do I trust nobody and live in loneliness?
~*~*~*~
"Traitor." The word rang out shrilly in his ears. Mutiny was not unheard of, but its mention struck fear in the depths of his soul. What little soul he felt that he had left.
Each second stretched out into a million centuries as he tried to count his breaths, keeping them even. The slightest hitch of breath or stiffening of the jaw would arouse suspicion I the Dark Lord, regardless of the mask that should have concealed the fault.
Uncomfortably aware of the distance between himself and the rest of the Death Eaters behind him, he stared straight ahead into the shadows.
"Typically," the Dark Lord commenced, "I would deal with the matter myself, but on this occasion I shall allow those. loyal to me to share the honour." He sounded amused, as one would if casually commenting on a broken nail than a man's life. Holding out his hand, he looked at each Death Eater in turn; Adrian Dovovan, Hestia Berkeley, Alan Manrick, and finally to Snape. Prepared for the unmasking as Voldemort eyed him maliciously, he almost gasped in surprise as the damning circle was cast upon Manrick instead, and his mask was flung into the fire.
"Learn his face!" Voldemort told the others as Manrick's claims of innocence were magically silenced by the flames. "This is the last time that he shall be seen drawing breath!"
Then, as one of the three selected, Snape was set to the task of torturing the wretched man, and preparing him for Voldemort's final blow.
Severus had always imagined what it would be like for his one name to be called at an unmasking. It was inevitable that this should one day happen, and at times, in his darkest moments, he had almost longed for the consuming flames that would free him of this worldly deceit. Mendacity. His entire life had been founded in mendacity, and as he held his wand against the only ally he had within Voldemort's ranks, he knew that evil would always prosper. In a world where lies were of such essence.
Each spell was uttered as though against himself, every word was aimed to punish not Rickman, but himself. He had been stupid. He had no use for Crucio; his magics were varied enough to torture a person within a hair's breadth of death, and hold them there until he so wish to release them.
Eventually, Voldemort tired of the sport, and vanquished at last, the body was left to be consumed by the fires, the black smoke rising into the sky as a beacon that would last until the following night, disperse by neither magic nor wind.
Alan Manrick. Snape added yet another name to the list that he would never forget. Hundreds of faces, both known and unknown that would haunt him for all eternity, seeking him out even in death. The image of Manrick's face, his disbelieving expression when his identity was revealed was imprinted onto Snape's mind; the horrified look when he had realised his fate, when he had sought Snape's gaze and realised that he would not find help in him. No, that image could not be forgotten. Apparating back to Hogsmeade, Severus opened the hidden door in the alley behind Honeydukes and stepped in, his footsteps echoing in the silence. Flickering candlelight illuminate the hall, casting eerie shadows as he walked past the few ornaments that had been unable to join the festivities. Statues, carved out of stone, could not travel as the characters in a painting could - they were fixed to their plinths and doomed to remain there, bound by fate and duty, imprisoned by the choices that had been given to them.
Reaching for his own door Snape hesitated. It was 3am, and Heather Gates would probably still be inside, asleep, her hair fanning out over his pillows. He stood there for a moment, his hand half raised to undo the wards, his mind wandering to a different plane altogether as the mask which he had been holding slid from his limp fingers and clattered loudly onto the ground. The sound echoed for an eternity, and Severus recalled how the tongues of crimson death had consumed his confederate, how he had squirmed and writhed on the floor, tearing at his own skin in desperation.
***
Put even one to out of place and I will kill you myself, do you understand? You have no idea - no idea - of what it is that you're getting yourself into. And I swear to you that if the cause comes under question I will not hesitate to decide between our cause, and. the cause of the problem. Do you understand? Don't make me have to choose, Manrick, I do not take kindly to ultimatums.
***
Manrick had been one of Fudge's great master plans. "Send him in!" he'd said eagerly, "Two spies in the ranks are bound to be of more effect than one, eh?" Severus had only met him once, in secret, to educate him on the certain. details entailed of one that would choose the Dark Lord's path. Bending down to retrieve his mask, he turned away from his chamber door and continued down the passageway, halting at the statue of a soaring phoenix.
"Pink Chihuahua." He told it dispiritedly, having been informed of Dumbledore's newest discovery ("They're half the size of normal Chihuahuas, with saucer-like eyes and electric pink hair! Quote the novelty!"). The phoenix ruffled its stone-cast feathers and jumped aside, revealing a set of carved golden stairs (revolving, of course), that would lead up into the main building, and to the Headmaster's office.
~*~*~*~
"I must admit, Severus, I had a terrible shock when Wystetia appeared out of nowhere, right there in the great hall. I never imagined that he would choose today of all days to meet!"
Dumbledore sat behind his desk, hands clasped on the wooden table between a short, pointy blue flannel hat and the feathery mass that was Snape's familiar.
He nodded imperceptibly, and then realised that a reply was expected of him. "Manrick is dead." He informed the headmaster simply, his mind still dwelling on the memory of the other's countenance.
Dumbledore stood up, his expression grim. "I had wondered how long Cornelius' plan would last. Fool." He tutted softly and shook his head. "Do you know where the gathering took place?"
"There will be nothing left to collect, headmaster," he said, "not even ashes." Then, meeting Dumbledore's gaze he added, "Somewhere in Yorkshire, I think. The cloud of Death is there for all to see." A slight fluttering was heard, and Severus saw that Fawkes had laid his golden head on his feet, sending warmth into his body. Ever jealous and possessive, Wystetia also flapped across and eyed the phoenix with uninhibited disdain. Dumbledore smiled at the birds' concern and resumed his seat once more. I will write to Fudge - we must see to it that immediate precautions are taken to prevent further harm. He'll have to inform those necessary." He shuffled some papers on the desk, then paused. "Severus, you look exhausted. I should think that some Dreamless Sleep is in order, and a lie in. It's Christmas Day now, remember; no more classes until the New Year!"
Nodding, Snape left, dumbly walking through the deserted school building, the silver mask still in his hands. The Dark Lord's gatherings had never affected him this much before, he thought, making his way down to the ground floor, his knuckles white as he gripped the banister. His breaths came in short bursts, and when he reached the entrance hall, Snape crossed it and pushed open the doors.
The grounds were silent and still - an hour had passed since his return, and the few students that had not retired to their dorms would be either in the rose gardens ior in the astronomy tower. The moon, which had seemed to shine so profusely mere hours ago was nearing its last quarter and offered only enough guidance to lead him to the lake's farthest shore. Here, among the tangled reeds and sturdy branches of nearby trees, Snape had found a shelter. The four Gryffindors that had harassed him in his youth had not discovered it - or had thought it unworthy of their attentions - but he had found it and had cherished it as the only place that was truly his.
Choosing not to sit on the mouldy stump that had once served as a stool, Snape fell to the ground instead, his long legs stretched out, uncaring of the moisture that seeped through his robes.
The night had begun so well.
His curiosity had been piquéd upon seeing the dark-haired lady at the Ball, and he had watched her dance noting that she too seemed an outsider. Then, just as he had been preparing for Heather Gates' arrival in the dungeons, the Mark had darkened. Even Yuletide celebrations could not banish Voldemort's evil. An evil in which he shared. Thinking back to the person that he had left sleeping in his bed, he could not imagine them together, not any more. For four blissful weeks he had been able to forget Voldemort, knowing only a strange serenity and compatibility that was altogether new to him. But Voldemort was not a threat that would so easily allow himself to be forgotten, and had now reasserted himself with the strength of a single unavoidable choice.
Severus did not prize his own life, did not allow himself any great esteem, but now, he fearfully acknowledged that he. cherished the vital life of Heather Gates, and, knowing the risk that he had placed her in, he cringed, feeling foolish for having allowed her to get so close. Occlumency or no, Voldemort would know that something was amiss. Would know that -things- had changed. He would smell it in the air, tasting it on his forked serpent's tongue.
As the first signs of the encroaching dawn seeped over the highland vales around Hogwarts, Severus Snape brought his knees up to his chest and held them close; The frost had settled onto his cloak and now ran down to the ground in narrow streams of moisture. He had wanted to spend Christmas Day with her, with Heather Gates. Christmas Eve would now have to suffice - forever.
~*~*~*~
What do I do to ignore them behind me?
Do I follow my instincts blindly?
Do I hide my pride
from these bad dreams
And give in to sad thoughts that are maddening?
Do I
sit here and try to stand it?
Or do I
Try to catch them red-handed?
Do I trust some and get fooled by phoniness,
or do I trust nobody and live in loneliness?
~*~*~*~
"Traitor." The word rang out shrilly in his ears. Mutiny was not unheard of, but its mention struck fear in the depths of his soul. What little soul he felt that he had left.
Each second stretched out into a million centuries as he tried to count his breaths, keeping them even. The slightest hitch of breath or stiffening of the jaw would arouse suspicion I the Dark Lord, regardless of the mask that should have concealed the fault.
Uncomfortably aware of the distance between himself and the rest of the Death Eaters behind him, he stared straight ahead into the shadows.
"Typically," the Dark Lord commenced, "I would deal with the matter myself, but on this occasion I shall allow those. loyal to me to share the honour." He sounded amused, as one would if casually commenting on a broken nail than a man's life. Holding out his hand, he looked at each Death Eater in turn; Adrian Dovovan, Hestia Berkeley, Alan Manrick, and finally to Snape. Prepared for the unmasking as Voldemort eyed him maliciously, he almost gasped in surprise as the damning circle was cast upon Manrick instead, and his mask was flung into the fire.
"Learn his face!" Voldemort told the others as Manrick's claims of innocence were magically silenced by the flames. "This is the last time that he shall be seen drawing breath!"
Then, as one of the three selected, Snape was set to the task of torturing the wretched man, and preparing him for Voldemort's final blow.
Severus had always imagined what it would be like for his one name to be called at an unmasking. It was inevitable that this should one day happen, and at times, in his darkest moments, he had almost longed for the consuming flames that would free him of this worldly deceit. Mendacity. His entire life had been founded in mendacity, and as he held his wand against the only ally he had within Voldemort's ranks, he knew that evil would always prosper. In a world where lies were of such essence.
Each spell was uttered as though against himself, every word was aimed to punish not Rickman, but himself. He had been stupid. He had no use for Crucio; his magics were varied enough to torture a person within a hair's breadth of death, and hold them there until he so wish to release them.
Eventually, Voldemort tired of the sport, and vanquished at last, the body was left to be consumed by the fires, the black smoke rising into the sky as a beacon that would last until the following night, disperse by neither magic nor wind.
Alan Manrick. Snape added yet another name to the list that he would never forget. Hundreds of faces, both known and unknown that would haunt him for all eternity, seeking him out even in death. The image of Manrick's face, his disbelieving expression when his identity was revealed was imprinted onto Snape's mind; the horrified look when he had realised his fate, when he had sought Snape's gaze and realised that he would not find help in him. No, that image could not be forgotten. Apparating back to Hogsmeade, Severus opened the hidden door in the alley behind Honeydukes and stepped in, his footsteps echoing in the silence. Flickering candlelight illuminate the hall, casting eerie shadows as he walked past the few ornaments that had been unable to join the festivities. Statues, carved out of stone, could not travel as the characters in a painting could - they were fixed to their plinths and doomed to remain there, bound by fate and duty, imprisoned by the choices that had been given to them.
Reaching for his own door Snape hesitated. It was 3am, and Heather Gates would probably still be inside, asleep, her hair fanning out over his pillows. He stood there for a moment, his hand half raised to undo the wards, his mind wandering to a different plane altogether as the mask which he had been holding slid from his limp fingers and clattered loudly onto the ground. The sound echoed for an eternity, and Severus recalled how the tongues of crimson death had consumed his confederate, how he had squirmed and writhed on the floor, tearing at his own skin in desperation.
***
Put even one to out of place and I will kill you myself, do you understand? You have no idea - no idea - of what it is that you're getting yourself into. And I swear to you that if the cause comes under question I will not hesitate to decide between our cause, and. the cause of the problem. Do you understand? Don't make me have to choose, Manrick, I do not take kindly to ultimatums.
***
Manrick had been one of Fudge's great master plans. "Send him in!" he'd said eagerly, "Two spies in the ranks are bound to be of more effect than one, eh?" Severus had only met him once, in secret, to educate him on the certain. details entailed of one that would choose the Dark Lord's path. Bending down to retrieve his mask, he turned away from his chamber door and continued down the passageway, halting at the statue of a soaring phoenix.
"Pink Chihuahua." He told it dispiritedly, having been informed of Dumbledore's newest discovery ("They're half the size of normal Chihuahuas, with saucer-like eyes and electric pink hair! Quote the novelty!"). The phoenix ruffled its stone-cast feathers and jumped aside, revealing a set of carved golden stairs (revolving, of course), that would lead up into the main building, and to the Headmaster's office.
~*~*~*~
"I must admit, Severus, I had a terrible shock when Wystetia appeared out of nowhere, right there in the great hall. I never imagined that he would choose today of all days to meet!"
Dumbledore sat behind his desk, hands clasped on the wooden table between a short, pointy blue flannel hat and the feathery mass that was Snape's familiar.
He nodded imperceptibly, and then realised that a reply was expected of him. "Manrick is dead." He informed the headmaster simply, his mind still dwelling on the memory of the other's countenance.
Dumbledore stood up, his expression grim. "I had wondered how long Cornelius' plan would last. Fool." He tutted softly and shook his head. "Do you know where the gathering took place?"
"There will be nothing left to collect, headmaster," he said, "not even ashes." Then, meeting Dumbledore's gaze he added, "Somewhere in Yorkshire, I think. The cloud of Death is there for all to see." A slight fluttering was heard, and Severus saw that Fawkes had laid his golden head on his feet, sending warmth into his body. Ever jealous and possessive, Wystetia also flapped across and eyed the phoenix with uninhibited disdain. Dumbledore smiled at the birds' concern and resumed his seat once more. I will write to Fudge - we must see to it that immediate precautions are taken to prevent further harm. He'll have to inform those necessary." He shuffled some papers on the desk, then paused. "Severus, you look exhausted. I should think that some Dreamless Sleep is in order, and a lie in. It's Christmas Day now, remember; no more classes until the New Year!"
Nodding, Snape left, dumbly walking through the deserted school building, the silver mask still in his hands. The Dark Lord's gatherings had never affected him this much before, he thought, making his way down to the ground floor, his knuckles white as he gripped the banister. His breaths came in short bursts, and when he reached the entrance hall, Snape crossed it and pushed open the doors.
The grounds were silent and still - an hour had passed since his return, and the few students that had not retired to their dorms would be either in the rose gardens ior in the astronomy tower. The moon, which had seemed to shine so profusely mere hours ago was nearing its last quarter and offered only enough guidance to lead him to the lake's farthest shore. Here, among the tangled reeds and sturdy branches of nearby trees, Snape had found a shelter. The four Gryffindors that had harassed him in his youth had not discovered it - or had thought it unworthy of their attentions - but he had found it and had cherished it as the only place that was truly his.
Choosing not to sit on the mouldy stump that had once served as a stool, Snape fell to the ground instead, his long legs stretched out, uncaring of the moisture that seeped through his robes.
The night had begun so well.
His curiosity had been piquéd upon seeing the dark-haired lady at the Ball, and he had watched her dance noting that she too seemed an outsider. Then, just as he had been preparing for Heather Gates' arrival in the dungeons, the Mark had darkened. Even Yuletide celebrations could not banish Voldemort's evil. An evil in which he shared. Thinking back to the person that he had left sleeping in his bed, he could not imagine them together, not any more. For four blissful weeks he had been able to forget Voldemort, knowing only a strange serenity and compatibility that was altogether new to him. But Voldemort was not a threat that would so easily allow himself to be forgotten, and had now reasserted himself with the strength of a single unavoidable choice.
Severus did not prize his own life, did not allow himself any great esteem, but now, he fearfully acknowledged that he. cherished the vital life of Heather Gates, and, knowing the risk that he had placed her in, he cringed, feeling foolish for having allowed her to get so close. Occlumency or no, Voldemort would know that something was amiss. Would know that -things- had changed. He would smell it in the air, tasting it on his forked serpent's tongue.
As the first signs of the encroaching dawn seeped over the highland vales around Hogwarts, Severus Snape brought his knees up to his chest and held them close; The frost had settled onto his cloak and now ran down to the ground in narrow streams of moisture. He had wanted to spend Christmas Day with her, with Heather Gates. Christmas Eve would now have to suffice - forever.