"Severussss, pet... why do you continue to disappoint your masssster...?"

The waspish voice coursed violently through his ears, sending tremors of cold fear itching their way down his spine. He forced a proud, yet tentative voice to emerge forth, and answered the reincarnated devil with his best act in play.

"Forgive me, O gracious, loving master... I have failed to retrieve the boy because of Dumbledore's paranoia..." He suppressed a feverish shiver, "The old man has not granted me the permission to confront Potter alone..." A cough itching to be released was swallowed hastily.

Living Death was silent for a long while, in contemplation over obviously more important things. It was that, or a more vengeful contemplation on the best way to punish a failing servant. He stood; a breathing embodiment of every madness to grace the earth; and calmly placed his bloodless hand upon the still spy with unusual gentleness.

"Demoted ssservant... you are ill..." His breathed, his lifeless exhalation wrapping like the snake that he was around the wizard's skull. Severus said nothing, for Living Death was not merciful when those he trusted spoke out of turn. He felt his face, his hidden face, tear pore by maddening pore from his flesh, and he saw the world in a misted haze. Destruction dripped drop by drop from the unheard snake's lips, and the lifeless hand descended to his shoulder.

"Ssseverussss..."

"Gracious, loving master..." He replied mechanically, his words slurred with the fever. A hope-filled bead of sweat fell to its death, smashing into one thousand pieces at his knees.

"My pet... You love me, yesss...?" Ever-flowing in a constant swirl of pain, and madness...

"Always, Gracious master, always..." His mind, body, and soul...

"And you would put yourself to death to ssssave me, yesss...?"

"Forgive me, my lord..." Simple, utter destruction...

"Good."

The hand curled joyfully into his shoulder, and the claws tore elegantly through the black satin cloth; ripping through flesh, ripping, ripping, ripping... He could not scream, for the pain was too bearable. Always pain, always, always, always....

========FLASHBACK=========

"Severus, are you alright? You seem ill." Hooch. They were in the teacher's lounge, discussing topics to further improve, and brighten the school grounds, such as colour-changing grasses, and painted classrooms. Hooch had whispered it to him. Severus had, in fact, been feeling ill all morning, but merely dismissed it as a common influenza. He'd go see Poppy later for a remedial potion, or something... For now, he had to consider various blackmail topics on hindering the infernal Dumbledore from convincing him to paint his perfectly nice classroom pink. If memory served him correctly, he still had that picture of Albus from last year's Christmas party...

"Alright, then! We'll have Professor Sprout plant a few moss-eating daisies on the edges of the castle," Said Headmaster announced, "and the squid will be enchanted to turn purple when tickled!"

At dinner that night, Severus still hadn't felt any better. His was plagued with chills, and even the thought of food caused a rather uncomfortable uprising in his stomach. The students were a hazy blur from his position at the Head Table, and their obnoxious banter wasn't helping any. He had left early for that reason only.

The Headmaster had come by later that night, while Severus was working to the best of his ability to grade papers. The illness had only progressed from that time, and it took every strand of self-control within him to refrain from vomiting on his parchments. Dumbledore seemed to notice his distress, and kept their talk to a minimum.

"Severus, my child, I think it best that I go fetch Madame Pomfrey. You seem very sick."

"I am perfectly fine, Headmaster... perfectly fine..."

"You gave Mr. Longbottom an A on his paper. No, I think I'll go fetch Pomfrey."

"I hardly think-"

And then, IT had happened. The summons of Living Death, and he had to leave, much against the wishes of His Royal Pain-in-the-arseness. If flushed memory served him correctly, it wasn't the best thing to do at the time...

============

And now tens, hundreds, maybe thousands of miles away from any inkling of mercy, he lay prostrate before the madman who was formerly known as Tom Riddle. A wizard who had once posed his goals on accomplishing the world peace so many others had dreamed of doing, but now hell-bent on killing an innocent boy named Harry Potter; the bane of his lifeless existence. A wizard currently hell-bent on completely dislocating Severus' shoulder.

"Pet..." Living Death tilted into the spy's visage, and his tongue, venomous with hate, slid elegantly over his false servant's flushed jawline. His eyes, the very essence of madness, and greed, stared accusingly into Snape's. They betrayed the creature's passionless face.

"You disappoint me, demoted slave..." His milky hand prowled gracefully up the spy's chalky neck, leaving a trail of unhindered death in its wake. It traced his flushed cheekbones, and tenderly swept a straggling piece of inky hair back to its designated place; then the arthritic fingers kissed his jaw, and cupped it as a lover would.

"But we can make it better..."

Snape, who had drifted into a misty bliss, was suddenly jolted awake by a powerful SNAP. He cringed, realizing how badly a betraying Death Eater would be punished by his master if he was ever to be discovered, and obviously, someone had been found. A previously unknown well of pity leaked from his icy heart, for this Death Eater would definitely receive a ruthless penalization from his fellows. Wait...

Why was he moving?

Severus opened a bloodshot eye, and found the form of his mad lord fading slowly from his vision. Pettigrew stood beside him; a worthless rat compared to the awesome powers of that man... and yet, he was smirking. Severus' arms were locked above his head, and as he opened his mouth to speak, he realized that his jaw refused to budge. Oh dear... it seemed as though he had been found.

At least the basic necessities of his anticipated passing had been completed. No will to write, and no funeral to contrive... The problem was, though, that Severus was not ready to die. He wanted to live. He wanted to touch the sun, and steal the moon. He wanted to feel happiness at Death's own demise, and shout it to the world. He wanted to be free of his prison cell, and love again.

In a complete, and fevered hysteria, Snape began to struggle. His captured arms, held by Crabbe, and Goyle Senior, exploited their utmost strength, and his lower body thrashed upon the dank wooden floor of Riddle Manor. His raw throat worked, and, though his broken jaw urged against it, he screamed every loose obscenity in every language at that shadowed grim standing there with his pet mouse. Living Death, however, looked about to burst into tearful laughter.

And as the two monstrous thugs dragged the screaming spy into the darker recesses of his birthplace, Lord Voldemort expelled a rather playful chuckle, and seated himself on his silver throne. Peter retracted weakly beside him, his hands working furiously in a tight knot as if this action discharged his nervous tension.

"Well, my lovely..." He stared bemusedly ahead, into the darkness of the unknown corners of his childhood, and crossed his paper-thin legs in a dignified fashion.

"We must inform the old man..." His spidery fingers crossed, and served as a resting place for his chin, "Fetch some paper, and a quill, dear rat..."

And Wormtail did so.