The door closed tightly behind his back as he stood in the tiny, cramped, dark hotel room in the east end of London, looking out a grimy window, bereft of even the barest of curtains, at the street below. While using the door had been a polite course of action, both he and his visitor knew it wasn't necessary. Not with apparition being a potential mode of transportation.
His left arm burned, as it so often did these days, and still he stood, framed by moonlight and streetlight, glaring at the Muggles walking below, most oblivious to the chilling wind, let alone the danger the world found itself in these days.
He's not going to be happy with you, if you don't answer him quickly.
At the same time, if he knew you'd just met with his enemy, discussing what you two just discussed, answering him would be the least of your worries.
I can't do this anymore…
The battle with his conscience grew louder each day, as it had for five long, painful, wasted years. Five winters like this one, regretting his rashness, his stupidity, his lack of conscience.
Funny, the one thing I never seemed to have in school, and it plagues my every moment now.
The room was too small to allow him to pace as he would have preferred, his long limbs taking only two steps before needing to tightly circle, only to take two more steps. The bed was rickety at best, the sheets smelling musty, and the pillow flat. The carpet was threadbare, whole patches showing the warped wood below. His mind raced with thoughts. Regrets. Pained memories. Others' voices.
How could he have done this to himself?
How could he atone for it?
The old man was now visible below, walking along the street, the muggles seemingly oblivious to his existence. Not the first time Dumbledore would have used such a trick of light and shade to mask himself from those who shouldn't see him.
If only he'd mastered such a trick himself, all those years ago.
The small bureau at the other end of the room held a dusty, cracked mirror, and it was into that glass he now peered, the pale light from a flickering bulb overhead illuminating what he hadn't wanted to see. The color in his face was even whiter than normal; he knew he was a pale man, but the pallor there now explained the older man's concern. The dark eyes were rimmed with circles, the blackness of both iris and pupil preventing him from seeing how contracted they were. The thinness of his cheeks was even more pronounced than normal, the hollows shadowed. The limp locks hung around his face, casting even more shadows over the sharp angles of his forehead, nose, chin, and cheekbones.
Severus, lad, you look like the muggle's image of Death.
It was his eyes that caught his attention; that actually scared some corner of his mind still capable of rational thought. The black spheres set in paleness, reflected something back that he'd only felt before.
Emptiness.
The eyes were devoid of a single emotion. Fear, happiness, anger, sadness. Nothing. Not even cold or hunger, both of which he felt with a deep sensation.
His eyes reflected the emptiness of the soul within.
Sighing, he pulled himself away from the mirror, turning out the light and stretching his tall frame out on the creaking bed. Still fully clothed, right down to the dingy robes he'd worn for three days running, his bootheels resting on the footboard, he lay there, staring at the ceiling.
His mind refused him solace.
'Severus, you know what Voldemort is doing is wrong. I know you're a better man than this. I've seen your character; you're better than petty hate and torture.'
'When have you seen my true character, Headmaster? You were always too busy playing favorites with your darling Gryffindors to notice anything about myself or my character?'
'Not true. I saw far more than you, or they, will ever credit me for seeing, Severus. I saw the times you tried to walk away, the moments where you could have done far more harm than you ended up committing. I saw you with her…'
A flare of anger. 'Don't you dare to bring her up to me.'
'You asked, Severus. You asked me when I had seen your character. I saw it in every smile you put on her face. I heard it in every tale she told, every plea she gave me for your leniency. I felt it whenever she told me of your bending, placing a little of your coldness aside to try and humor her. If nothing else, the way you treated her speaks enough to me to come to you now.'
'And the way I treated her in the end should show you the man I really am, Headmaster.'
'No, it doesn't. You regretted it, Severus. Even she saw that, that night. You were pushed, you snapped, you reacted. Even Desdemona knows what that's like.'
Pain in his voice. 'Stop bringing her up.'
A sigh. 'Fine. Please, Severus. Please, consider this. I'm begging. I rarely beg anyone for anything. Please, help me. Help us end this. I can't bury any more students.'
'What makes you think I can help? That I –will- help?'
A small smile. 'Because, you're in an interesting position, Severus. Important to Riddle, important to his side, but not so important that you would be likely to use your knowledge to curry favor. A convenience, a tool. The craftsman never suspects his hammer will one day strike him instead of the nail.'
'It's not that easy. If he finds out…when things are over, if I do this, they'll all know…'
'Voldemort will never be able to reach you, as long as you remain at Hogwarts and under my protection. And no one will hold this against you, Severus. No one will ever have to know you helped us. No one will know you betrayed him. I promise you.'
A voice breaking with fear, with pain, with a sense of being lost. 'I'm tired, Headmaster. That's all I can think anymore. I'm so tired…'
'I know, Severus. But I can't end this without you. Please. I need you, far more than either of us would prefer.'
Black eyes haunted, staring, asking, searching, needing. 'Why me?'
'Because, you're the only one I can trust.'
Silent consideration. 'I – I don't know…'
One last plea, risking all, showing his hand. 'If nothing else on Earth concerns you, Desdemona's safety does. I know that. I've learned of your careful inquiries about her. Until this war is over, I can't even spend so much as five minutes in her company. The risk is too great. Your Lord and Master has made it clear that he's willing to use her against me. I need her to be safe. Help me protect her.'
A sharp intake of breath from the man in front of him. The first sign of life in dull black lifeless eyes.
'Do this for my granddaughter, Severus. Please. If no one else in this world matters to you, think of her. I beg you, Severus. Do this for Desi.'
Just had it done with Albus Dumbledore spoke those words, Severus felt a sharp pain in his chest, as if a knife were slipping between his ribs, cutting him deeply, letting him bleed inside. Funny how five years had only made the pain worse, more pronounced. Days, weeks, even months would go by without the memory of flashing blue eyes or a swinging auburn ponytail. A blissful time, when he could lose himself in his master's bidding, forgetting all about a little Slytherin girl with a haunting laugh who attached herself to him, much against his will at first. But someone would mention her again, usually Lucius, and the pain would come back.
She'd left Hogwarts. He'd known that. She was nineteen now. And missing. Every piece of information he'd managed to pry out of McNair, every comment from Maximillian Rowe, every quietly-asked question, had all come up with the same thing. Desdemona Dumbledore had vanished, like smoke.
Now, her grandfather had handed him the reason.
The Mark on his arm burned again, worse than before.
His master was angry.
He was the reason she had vanished. The bastard. He was surprised, in a way. Although she had graduated in the scarlet and gold of her father, and his father before him, she had entered Hogwarts clad in unmistakable silver and green. That, plus her unquestionable parentage, both Drecorum and Dumbledore, should have kept her safe from Riddle's plans.
It was his fault she'd ever changed colors. Changed houses. He was partly to blame for any risk to her.
And now, he had a chance to atone for the greatest sin he'd ever committed. Of all the lies, the spells, the tortures, the pain, the tears. The one sin that haunted him always.
Breaking a fourteen-year-old heart.
The old man had offered him the key to undo all he'd done in one night of stupidity. To begin to work to undo the five years of wrong. To finally set right what hadn't been right, even in his own eyes, for a long time.
A ghost of a chance, to be sure, but a chance.
The Mark burned yet again, the pain making him cringe. With a heavy sigh, he rose from the bed, preparing to apparate directly to his master. Before doing so, he walked to the corner of the filthy room, opening a closet, and tapping his wand to the lank, greasy hair he used as a subtle way of keeping the world at bay. A thin silvery cord came from his mind, and he laid it in the pensieve that had been left there for just such use.
With a hiss, both the memory of Dumbledore's visit and the pensieve vanished.
The sign the two men had agreed upon, to signal his acceptance of the bargain.
With one last sigh, he apparated to his Master's side, already preparing himself to work towards his downfall. His only chance at contrition, his only chance to rectify a lifetime of mistakes.