Morning arrived at Hogwarts without any great disturbances (lest one counts finding Nevielle Longbottom outside the Gryffindor dormitory after AGAIN forgetting the weekly password), and at exactly six o' clock, the massive doors to the Great Hall were opened. Gradually, students filed in, and sat at their respectable tables, waiting patiently (with the exception of Ron Weasley) for their breakfast, and chattering about recent happenings in their hidden world. At seven, the teachers were all seated at their seats before the students, and, with a wave of the Headmaster's hand, the food appeared.
Hermione Granger, the currently leading know-it-all of Hogwarts, remained stone-still in her seat, pouring over the Daily Prophet, and absentmindedly fingering her toast with distracted fingers. Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world, and Ron Weasley, destroyer of all edible material, nattered on about Quidditch, and the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend, which happened to be the very reason of their existence, hardly noticing when Hermione let a startled gasp.
"Mione?" Harry questioned after realizing this. When she did not answer, his emerald eyes moved to her newspaper, and then widened in surprise. Across the front page was a huge headline;
SEVEN MUGGLE HOMES DESTROYED;
DARK MARK FOUND HOVERING ABOVE SCENE
Without further question, Harry directed his gaze to the head table, where every professor accounted present... except one.
Fear suddenly taking hold of him, the wizard turned to his happily eating friend, and grabbed his shoulders roughly. "Ron, Snape's not here..."
A befuddled stare took hold of the redhead's face for a moment, then his face split into an absolutely monstrous grin. "Not here?! ALRIGHT!" He began to dance in his seat like an elated child, happily whooping with joy. Irritated, Harry grabbed his shoulders again, snatched the paper from a peeved Hermione, and shoved it in his freckled face. "LOOK!" He whispered loudly.
A bit angry at the interruption, Ron pettishly ran his eyes over the paper, then narrowed them. "So?"
"So?! If you've forgotten already, Snape just HAPPENS to be connected with Voldemort (flinch) AND the Order!"
Realization dawned on the young teenager's face. "He's bloody backstabbed us!!!" He said a bit too loudly. A few heads turned in their direction. Hermione nervously waved them off before joining her friends. "Not necessarily..." She whispered, "it could have been an unplanned raid... or..." In a sudden burst of intrigue, she grabbed the paper, with its headline picture of a burning muggle home, and her chocolate eyes widened to breaking point. "Oh no..."
"What, Hermione?!" Ron cried softly, his face a mixture of fascination, and fear. The witch slowly turned the picture to them, her jaw trembling as she pointed to a small blob behind the house. The two boys leaned forward. On closer inspection, they found that it was no blob, but two men, and a child. One of the two wore a silky black cloak, and a faceless porcelain mask, which shimmered slightly in the counterfeit firelight.
Before any of them could say anything about this, the sky opened with the fluttering of hundreds of tawny wings, and it began to rain letters. As one owl swept past Harry's head, he ducked to avoid it, but also noticed a rather perturbed black hawk of some sort screeching at the Headmaster, who looked both surprised, and... fearful?
Dumbledore stared dumbly at the bird, holding out a plain black letter, sealed tightly with the emblem of a blood-red snake. With shaking fingers, he untied it from the hawk's foot, and watched the item as if it was a time bomb waiting to blow into hundreds of pieces. A trap. Dark magic. He is only trying to trick you into a false sense of security... but there isn't any magic on this letter... except...
He turned it over, and, in elegant, snakelike handwriting, the words singed themselves into the black paper.
To Headmaster Albus Dumbledore of Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft, and Wizardry:
Albus watched, too frightened, and anxious to move, as more words burned into the letter. Every eye was upon him.
Hello, Albus... I believe we can skip petty intervals, and greetings, and cut right into the proverbial cake... although, a cake is definitely more than what I'll be cutting into very shortly. You see, I currently hold within my possession, a rather... sneaky snake I smoked out of its hole last night. Any guesses? None? Come, come, Albus! You really are getting senile, aren't you? Ah, well... I suppose it can't be helped. If you really are as smart as everyone throws you out to be, then perhaps you would have stopped sending your little rat snake back into the cobra's lair every time you had the chance... a pity. He really was quite the sneak... had me fooled for quite some time. Dear, dear Severus... he is quite ill, you know. Dirtying my humble abode with his spilled waste, and whatnot... but, in turn, it is making you, oh great and powerful one, a bit weaker each time... who knows when I'll strike next? Better keep precious Potter locked up in his little safe hole, now, won't we? Well, then... adeu, old friend... until next time.
Albus stared in utter disbelief as two words formed at the bottommost right corner in red, dripping blood. Tom Riddle. Tom Riddle. Voldemort. The Dark Lord. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. A student. A wizard. An orphan.
Without realizing it, the old headmaster had raised himself to his feet, and stared at the black parchment with tears shimmering in his eyes. He faced the students, his children, gripping the last piece of his dark child he had left, and with a heavy voice, said;
"Potion classes... have been cancelled until further notice..."
There was an eerie hush which fell upon the Great hall at that moment. Movement was devoid, and not even Nevielle breathed. All eyes were upon Albus Dumbledore as he solemnly closed his grave, blue eyes, and, with his shoulders shaking, exited from sight.
Silence reigned for a long, excruciating moment before McGonagall stood, and cleared her throat.
"Prefects, escort your classmates back to your respectable dormitories, and stay there until further notice." There was a slight waver in her voice. Nobody moved.
"WELL?!"
Immediately, the Prefects jumped up, and, fearing the wrath of the deputy headmistress, collected their fellow classmates, and made off to their rooms.
Harry couldn't explain it, but, despite the adrenaline pumping through him, he felt inexplicably tired...
God, it was cold...
Severus coughed wetly, and tightened his thin robe about his shoulders. How long had it been? Hours? Days? Weeks? The sunlight poisoned his black attire, but did nothing to stop the November chill from penetrating his thin, starved body. Strangely enough, the ex-spy had yet to taste the bitter agony of torture, for there had been no one entering his lonely basement to extract the harsh punishment of betrayal upon him yet.
His black eyes roamed the dark corners, where red-eyed rats stared hungrily at their new prey, waiting for that moment when he would lose his grip on reality, and they could scurry in for the kill. Obviously, the foul corpse hanging from the ceiling was too high for them to reach. Severus sighed, and rustled his aching joints, wondering in a blinding daze if his life was to end just like that rotting mass'. Starved... alone... regret for his past sins...? He wondered what the Order thought of this... knowing Dumbledore, he'd send a merry band of rescuers into this presumably abandoned house of one-thousand corpses, even against Snape's wishes, and fall right into the trap Living Death had planned for them.
God, it was cold...
A freezing wind squeezed through the bars of his tiny window, and wrapped about Severus in a frigid embrace. He hated November... not because it was cold, but because the seventeenth of the bloody month was his bloody birthday. Nice way to celebrate the anniversary of my godforsaken existence. He thought waspishly. Alone in a damned hell-hole with no hope of ever seeing living company again.
Averting his tired gaze, he stared at the rotting corpse which he had so lovingly named Caedus, and his lip curled slightly in disgust. What did you ever do to them? Am I going to join you soon? The wind sighed gently, and pushed bits of ancient soil across the stone floor, as if a mother beckoning her wobbling toddler into her arms. Severus wished he had a mother. To know what it felt like to be loved, and cared for and coddled and hugged when he cried. To give healing kisses when he fell, and got hurt. To sing pretty lullabies before he drifted off to sleep...
Severus smiled slightly. She would be tall, and have the most beautiful violet eyes... her skin would be lily white, and her lips a quiet red, at the ready for bedtime kisses... her hair would be silky black, and long... long enough to reach her waist...
He had never known a family. His mother had died in childbirth, leaving him with little sympathy from his father. If it was not for his kindly neighbor, Margaret, he probably would have died before the age of one, considering that his dear old dad was either in Knockturn alley, drinking, or passed out on the floor at home. There was little difference between the two. Severus, however, was no fool. He had taken his first steps at the age of barely nine months, and said his first sentence at one and a half. Margaret had considered him a genius, and constantly purchased books for his growing mind; and then, when Severus turned five, she died.
It was a rather... demoting experience growing up with Snape Senior, to say the least. Drunken battles ensued when he returned home from a night out with firewhiskey, and the belt was involved often. Enraged by the drink, he would whip Severus into a stupor, constantly repeating to him what a damnable, worthless mistake he was, and a murderer on the lowest of low branches.
Unfortunately, his son had believed it.
There was no sympathy anywhere he went. Not at Hogwarts, not at home, and, after a few years, not even in pain. He had no friends, and no 'legitimate' family; no comfort, and no solace. He had tried to cry on numerous occasions, but Severus couldn't cry. He had never cried in his life, and he didn't know how. Even when the Marauders beat him under a broken sink; even when Lupin had nearly killed him; even when Voldemort had performed the searing spell of fire up his arm, Severus did not cry.
'I can't cry...' He whispered as he stared at Caedus, 'I can't cry for you, or Him, or me... I can't cry for them, or it, or me... I can't, I can't, I can't...'
And thus, he chanted until a fitful sleep overtook him.