They were nearly back to the Leaky Cauldron when the last thing in the world that Severus wanted to feel began to burn uncontrollably. His left arm, emblazoned with the Dark Lord's mark, was burning; his summons to Voldemort's side. "Dumbledore," he said softly, touching his arm surreptitiously and meeting the Headmaster's eyes over the top of Amber's head.

Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly, then nodded. "Go," he said softly, putting an arm around Amber's shoulders, "and we will talk when you return." Carefully guarded words, as they could make no more than insinuations in front of the student, but there was, as always, a double entendre to the older man's words. Return safely, and be careful.

Severus ducked into an alleyway and, glancing one way and then another to make sure no Muggle would see it, he Disapparated and then Apparated into Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. If anyone heard the popping that announced his arrival and subsequent departure, they would have been hard pressed to find him before he left again; as he was there only long enough to retrieve the hooded black cloak and mask that he kept there. A moment later, he was in a field, and on his knees, crawling towards the Dark Lord. He was not the first to arrive, nor was he the last, which was as he preferred. It meant that his presence was less remarkable to the others. More likely to be noted, but unnoticed.

After kissing the robes of the Dark Lord, he took his place in the forming circle, and waited quietly, still as a corpse, as the Death Eaters arrived one by one. Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Macnair, the Lestranges… it was difficult to tell everyone apart when all were wearing the robes and masks, but he'd had years to study them all, and they might as well have stood in their skin. Malfoy carried himself with an arrogance that no cloak could mask; Crabbe and Goyle, were the ones that stood like sentries, muscles of the circle, always together and willing to do whatever they were told, though not one thing more. Snape had always rather thought those two incapable of independent thought, but such goons served a purpose anywhere. The Lestranges had their own brand of arrogance—they knew that they were among the few faithful who had supported the Dark Lord openly, even after his fall. Fools, Snape had always thought. Fools to continue such a dangerous path when there was no hope of reward, and what fool would sell his soul for any but the most promising reward? The gaps in the circle filled in, slowly, too slowly for the Dark Lord's taste, as there was never a stream of black-robed figures crawling towards him. Only a trickle, one at a time. Snape was suddenly quite grateful that he'd been among the first to arrive, as that put him further in line for the punishments he was sure were coming to those who drew the Dark Lord's anger.

"It seems," came the dry hiss of a voice, a serpent slithering across dead leaves, "that my Death Eaters have grown lax in their responses. You," he raised a bony finger, and for a moment, Snape feared that finger was pointing at him. It was not, however, and the figure beside him stepped forward with an audible gulp. "And everyone who arrived after you, come here." For a moment, the Cruciatus curses were blinding, and screams of agony filled the air as the Dark Lord wrenched promises from them that they would appear more quickly the next time.

"The next time you are summoned," he spoke to all of them now, and Snape ignored the whimpering figure who was slipping back into the circle beside him, "the last five to appear will be… reprimanded." Thee was no doubt what sort of reprimand they would receive. Snape closed his eyes behind the mask, and made a note to speak with the Dark Lord, to find out if he might have a bit of leniency, given that he had to Floo away from the school before he could Apparate, and that meant a slight delay. He thought the Dark Lord would be merciful in that respect; he was often quite understanding of Snape's predicament.

Seeming to float nearly formlessly before them, the Dark Lord began a slow circuit of the assembly, pausing here and there to speak to someone, giving instructions, and after a moment, Snape's mind wandered away from the meeting. Dangerous, that, especially here, but his control was lacking just now, the grief too great upon his heart. His hand slid into the pocket of his trousers, and found the smooth glass vial, and his heart clenched at the thought of bright-eyed and laughing Aislinn. And immediately, he berated himself, for it seemed a disgrace to her memory to think about her here.

"Ah, Snape," came that hissing whisper, right in front of him, and Snape's eyes and mind snapped back to the present. A long, bony, death-cold finger slipped under his chin, raising his head slightly. "Your mind is not with me, my loyal Death Eater."

Snape barely missed swallowing hard; being called a 'loyal Death Eater' was fearsome on many levels, most immediately because the Dark Lord tended to use that appellation just before questioning the supposed loyalty, and such a test was never to be enjoyed. To his horror, Snape found his mind whirring; he was dancing with Aislinn, he was kissing her. He was walking in the moonlight, she pointing at shooting stars, whispering for him to make a wish… Snape could not close out the Dark Lord, and it was a deadly game of cat and mouse, but Voldemort's interest seemed to be with Aislinn, and those were the memories he wrenched forth.

"Your mind is not with me," he repeated, "and neither is your heart. Who is she?"

Breathe, he ordered himself. Breathe and then tell him what he wishes to hear. He took a deep, ragged breath. "One who addled my senses, my lord, and who incited my passion."

The Dark Lord's face, deformed though it was, conveyed a sense of ironic humor, and he turned Snape's face to one side, studying his profile for a moment. "I will not share your heart and mind," he whispered. "Do as you wish with your body, but your heart and mind are mine alone. Either bring her here to pledge her loyalty, or kill her."

He was turning away, and Snape forced himself to speak. "That won't be necessary, my lord." A cumulative gasp ripped from the circle; no one talked back to Voldemort. He whipped around, his red eyes gleaming madly, but Snape's hand was already in his pocket, pulling forth the vial. "She is already dead," he whispered, offering the vial.

Those cold fingers wrapped around the small glass flask and held it to the light, and then the lipless mouth curved into a frightening excuse for a smile. "I see," he intoned. "And you mourn for her. How sentimental." There was a flicker of amusement near the Lestranges, and Snape could almost hear Bellatrix shrieking with delight. The Dark Lord turned away from him again.

"My children!" his voice suddenly raised high above them all. "One among us is plague with sorrow. We must do something to lift his spirits. On the dark of the moon, just past sunset, be ready, for we feast that night!" He whirled back to Snape, smiling that petrifying smile. "And it shall be a blood feast worthy of a title. In your honor, my loyal Death Eater. It shall be known as Snape's Massacre."

"Thank you, my lord, you are compassionate." The words sounded hollow even to his own ears; Snape wanted nothing more than to crawl into the bushes and heave until he relieved himself of the pain that threatened to consume him.

The curling sneer of Voldemort's mouth was bone-chilling. "Of course," he said silkily, "anything for my children. When you suffer, I suffer." And he was off again, walking around the circle. He paused here and there, giving instructions, and then there would be a pop! as someone Disapparated. The Dark Lord would pass three before pausing to give instructions to someone, and then continue on, and he made at least five circuits before only a handful were left. Lucius was one of the last to be dismissed, along with Crabbe and Goyle, and then, there was only Snape and the Heir of Slytherin.

He lifted a finger and beckoned Snape to come forward, and Snape did so.

"You will be reporting to that old fool tonight, I presume?" The Dark Lord's voice had lost some of the silky softness.

"Yes, my lord," Snape replied.

"Good. Tell him that our merriment will begin at ten, at Stonehenge."

Snape bowed his head. "Yes, my lord."

"What more can you tell me of that doddering old man?"

Snape shifted slightly, hoping the Dark Lord would take it for discomfort at having so little information. "Little, I'm afraid," he replied softly. "They suspect me, and have begun to guard their tongues in my presence. I will be looking for a way to redeem myself in their eyes soon."

"They still will not speak to you without the blindfold?"

"No, my lord." That had been a recent development, as of mid-February.

hr

"Wait."

Snape stopped and looked at the man who'd spoken-- Alastor Moody, a half-crazed former Auror who say conspiracy around every corner and spies up every tree. He hated Snape with a passion, a personal grudge that one of the Death Eaters was known to him, and beyond his reach. Snape had always thought he lived in an idealistic contortion of reality where 'should' and 'are' were the same things.

"What is it, Alastor?" Dumbledore's voice was smooth and calm, but touched with a certain impatience.

"I have been thinking on it, Albus, and the more I think the less I like it."

Snape snorted softly. "Wonders never cease, Moody. I wouldn't have thought you capable of thought."

Both men turned a glare to Snape, but it was the one from Dumbledore that quieted him.

"We know that there is a leak in the Order. The attacks over the last two months have suggested it, but as far as I'm concerned, it's the last two weeks that have proven it. How did the Death Eaters know that we were going to be moving the Wimberlys to safety?"

The corner of Snape's mouth turned up slightly. "What are you suggesting, Moody?"

Moody's magical eye rolled madly, a discomforting feeling to say the least, and it settled on Snape's left arm. "I am saying, Professor, that there are certain spots that no cleansing can wash off. Presuming, of course, that a person actually bathes."

Snape opened his mouth to retort, but Albus lifted a hand, stopping the argument. "We cannot afford to bicker among ourselves. There are few enough of us as it is."

"So few that we refuse to see what is before our very eyes? Albus, there are three new faces in that room, and I refuse to expose them to danger. He," Moody jerked his head towards Snape, "is not to be trusted. We have trusted him enough, and for what? Trifles we could have worked out on our own that come too late for us to do anything about? And exposure of our plans to You-know-who? It is not worth it, Dumbledore, and you're a blind fool if you refuse to see it."

There was a moment of silence, each of the men lost in his own thoughts, and then Dumbledore sighed softly. "And what do you propose, Alastor? That we give up our link to Voldemort's inner circle? If you are starving, you eat the bread you are given and do not complain that it is not filet mignon."

Snape bristled at being compared to bread and slabs of beef, and he flinched at the Dark Lord being named, but he kept his mouth shut. He could not afford to endanger his position further.

Moody grunted, but seemed to have conceded the point that the information Snape brought, while not invaluable, was more than they had from any other source. "Then why does he not report directly to you, or to me, and leave the others out of it? I daresay You-know-who is aware of our involvement, but there are others..."

Dumbledore shook his head firmly. "Everyone who is here is here by his or her own free will. Everyone knows the danger of standing up to Voldemort, and everyone remembers what happened the last time. It is their choice to be here, Alastor, and I will take as many able bodies and sharp minds as I can find. Perhaps there are connections that others will help us to make, that they would not make if they did not hear and could not question."

Snape flinched again, Moody looked too livid to even notice Dumbledore's naming of the Dark Lord, and after another grunt, he sighed, resigned. "Then at the very least blindfold him. So that he cannot report back to you-know-who."

Snape's eyes widened indignantly. "I do not appreciate the..."

"Perhaps, Severus, it is wise."

Snape spun to look at Dumbledore, disbelieving. Dumbledore had always trusted him implicitly. "But sir, you don't think I..."

"No," Dumbledore replied, "I do not. But it would be for your own protection as well. After all, who is to say what information Voldemort could wrench from you if he resorted to torture. It is far better that you have no information to give."

Snape's lip curled into a sneer. "Fine," he hissed. "I will wear the blindfold. But you have gained nothing."

Moody's lip curled into an almost identical sneer. "You will wear the blindfold, not because you so graciously conceded to do so, but because it is what is best for the Order. You have no choice."

"Very well. Find out what you can, but more importantly, see to it that they are at Stonehenge." He was so adamant about that Snape thought it likely the attack would be on the opposite end of Britain.

"Yes, my lord," he replied.

"Go."

hr

As soon as the Dark Lord released him, Severus Disapparated, relieved to be placing the comfort of distance between them. He Apparated into the kitchen at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, and drew a ragged breath, peeling the mask away from his face and the hood from his head. Closing his eyes, he leaned against the wall, and just stood there for a moment, letting the wall support him, the implications of what the Dark Lord had said sinking in. Snape's Massacre. A blood bath in his name. He turned to face the wall, his elbow propped against it, and leaned forward, burying his face in his hand. The mask slipped from between his fingers and landed on the floor, but he did not notice it. Nor did he notice the door opening, and someone stepping into the room.

His first indication that he was not alone was a hand on his shoulder, and he flinched. Why is everyone so bloody determined to touch me? he thought bitterly, stiffening. "Go away," he whispered, not even caring who it was. The grip on his shoulder only tightened, though, and Severus spun around. "I said leave me!"

"You cannot hold the world at bay forever, Severus." It was Lupin, and his eyes were softened with sympathy. Sympathy Severus neither wanted nor needed.

He opened his mouth to reply coldly that he did not need advice from a werewolf, but instead of the words, there was only a sob that wrenched from somewhere deep inside, taking him by surprise. He suddenly felt vulnerable, and, he most likely would have collapsed had it not been for Remus' quick reaction, pulling him into a firm embrace. Snape did not want to be in Remus' arms, had no desire for anything more or less than the lull in hostility that they had all agreed to. He was obviously not in control of himself, or his reactions, however, and before he knew what he was doing, Severus had leaned his head into Lupin's shoulder, and the sobs shook his body.

"Shhh…" Lupin whispered, lifting a hand to Severus' neck. "Not so hard. You'll make yourself ill." Other than that murmured advice, no words passed between the two of them, and after a moment, the worst of the sobs subsided, though Severus was still shaking. Lupin's tight grip of the base of his neck never wavered, and his embrace bordered on painfully tight, and, Severus was shamefully aware that he was clinging to the other man like a child.

He didn't know how long they stood there, but Severus did not lift his head from Remus' shoulder until he heard a soft crackling, and even then, he was only vaguely aware that Remus was turning. Severus made a weak attempt to pull away, but Remus' continued grip was enough excuse to stay where he was, suggesting, even to his own mind, that perhaps he was not truly ready to break away just yet.

"The Weasleys," Lupin said softly, answering the unspoken question, his hand smoothing Severus' hair. "Just the Weasleys. It's all right."

Severus nodded and leaned into Remus' shoulder again, a new wave of pain washing over him, and another sob wrenching free. Molly's was the first voice he heard, and he wished she would go away.

"Severus! Are you all right?" she was asking, and he felt her hand against his arm, and another sob bubbled up from his throat.

"He's fine," Lupin said. "He's just fine."

"Well, he doesn't look fine. Severus, are you hurt?"

"Molly." Severus was grateful for Lupin's calm insistence. "He is fine. Go on."

Arthur was the owner of the next voice Severus recognized, and he squeezed his eyes shut, wishing the man might somehow be too blind to see him. He tried to swallow a sob and regain some composure, but the effort only caused the sob to transform into a moan, and Remus tightened his grip once more. "It's all right," he whispered. "Let it out."

"Severus?" Arthur's voice held the same parental concern that Molly's had, but he let it go much more quickly than Molly had when Remus repeated his mantra.

"He's fine, Arthur."

There were several more crackles, and then another voice, one Severus had decidedly been hoping would be absent for once. Wishful thinking of course. "Is that Professor Snape?" The voice belonged to Harry Potter, and the reply to Ronald Weasley.

"Is he crying?"

That's right, boys, and you say a word to anyone and I'll… Remus was smoothing his hair again suddenly, and the threat slipped from his mind as another sob worked its way to the surface.

"Why is he crying?"

"Mum, what's wrong with…?"

"Hush, the both of you," Molly admonished quietly. "Go light a fire in the sitting room. Go on!"

There was more crackling, and two more voices, both female. Ginny Weasley and Hermione Granger, both of whom stopped talking abruptly. "Is that Professor…"

Why don't you just hang a sign around my neck that says "Severus 'Snivellus' Snape is crying?" he thought bitterly. There was another crackle and roar, and then Molly's voice again.

"Bill, good. Take the children into the drawing room, please, and keep them there."

"Yes, mum," came a male voice, and then "Come on, you all heard her. Move." There was a general shuffling sound, and one more question from Ron Weasley.

"But why is Professor Snape crying?"

"I don't know, Ron," Bill replied, and the last of his words were nearly muffled beyond recognition. "But whatever his reason, I doubt he needs an audience."

There was quiet again, and, by degrees, Lupin was easing his tight grip on Severus' shoulders. A gentle hand on his arm brought his eyes up at last, and, through tear-bleared vision, he looked at the worried face of Molly Weasley.

"Are you sure you're all right, Severus?" she asked. He nodded mutely, his face beginning to burn, and Lupin guided him to one of the chairs.

"What brought that on, Remus?" Arthur was asking softly, and Severus could barely make out Lupin's head shaking.

"No idea," he said softly as he knelt by Snape's knee.

Molly had slid an arm around his shoulder, and pulled him against her now, her hand pressing his face against her breasts. "It must have been horrible," she commented softly. "Whatever it was."

He felt another hand on his shoulder, Arthur's this time, and the outpouring of sympathy—and there was not a hint of judgement in any of their voices—was almost enough to send him into another round of sobs. Remus, however, was standing. "Come on, Severus, up you go… there." Severus was standing too, now, having been pulled to his feet by Lupin. "Let's go wash your face before the others start arriving. Molly…"

"I'll put on some tea," Molly was saying, bustling off.

Arthur cleared his throat. "Yes, well, I'll just take this…" he trailed off, and Severus glanced at him. He had the mask in his hands. "I'll just take it upstairs and… Severus, do you want to give me that cloak?" Despite asking, Arthur gave him little choice in the matter, and Severus found the cloak being peeled off him.

Within a few minutes, Snape was shut into a downstairs bathroom, a flannel in his hands, looking into the mirror at his face and scowling.

"Tsk, tsk, you don't look good at all, dearie," the mirror told him, and he scowled at his reflection.

"And here I thought I was setting a new trend," he replied caustically.

He ran cool water over the flannel and applied it to his face, holding it over his eyes and nose for a long minute in a desperate attempt to reduce the swelling and redness that were such a tell-tale giveaway of his evening activities. And you couldn't have found a quiet corner to do that alone? he asked himself. No, you had to collapse on top of that bloody… He couldn't finish the thought, though. Lupin, whatever else he might have been in their youth, was possibly the most mature of his former schoolmates. Himself included, he admitted grudgingly. Perhaps it had been because of the loss he suffered so early in his adulthood—two friends dead at the hands of the Dark Lord, a third friend having betrayed them and killing a fourth… coupled with his struggles as a werewolf, it wasn't difficult to believe that Lupin had been forced to grow up and to look beyond the rosy glow of Hogwarts days. Perhaps Severus was being unfair to him after all. He wet the flannel again and waved it in the air, cooling it even more before patting his face with it once more.

Last December, Lupin had come to his private rooms to retrieve the Wolfsbane potion, and they'd talked for a few moments. A strained conversation, yes, and one that Severus had only half-listened to at the time, but they'd talked. Lupin had extended an offer of friendship, which Severus had turned away. He probably would have turned it away from anyone, but most especially someone he had so hated as a boy. But, had you been in Lupin's position just a moment ago, what would you have done? He snorted softly. Bloody well left whoever it was alone. Which was what I wanted. He peered at himself again, and thought that some of the redness had left his eyes and nose, but his eyes were still abnormally bright. Nothing he could do anything about anyway. He sighed and draped the flannel over the drying rack and washed his hands. Wanted to be left alone, hrm? And I suppose that's why you made such an effort to get away from him. You could throw Lupin against the wall. There aren't many people you would be physically strong enough to shove away from you, but he is one of the few.

With a disgusted sigh, Severus left the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. The mirror clucked at him. "Nasty temper."