Casting Shadows at Noon
The Luster of Lost Trust
Severus reels off the excuse with the trained ease of an actor reciting lines... speaking of Dumbledore's watchfulness, the necessity of waiting, especially as Karkaroff had just fled, the traitor... but surely his Lord would forgive him, as he had done everything he could, and look how much Dumbledore trusted him now- that couldn't be sacrificed for anything.
The Dark Lord narrows his eyes, wanting to believe that his old servant has truly returned, but knowing it may not be true. Wanting to lash out at Severus, but knowing he could not, wanting to cast legilimens, knowing Severus could not be controlled, wanting to do something, anything to get back the original Severus, the devoted Severus. Outright rebellion was better than the lifeless indifference of the young man. So young, and so utterly ruined.
Snape held his breath, waiting to know if he would be killed now, immediately, or if Voldemort would consider the importance of the game he was playing, would appreciate their interdependance. Voldemort relaxes, and lifts him from the ground, giving a falsely happy exclamation that startles the Death Eaters around him, makes them wonder how they can use this new development to their advantage. They are actors, both of them, and both know that the script has been written by a man miles away in his oak paneled office.
Voldemort is wondering when he can reverse his role, how he can outmaneuver Dumbledore. Severus is wishing that he had been killed. But, for him, this is hardly a foreign emotion.
Three hours later Snape is gone, and Voldemort lashes out, destroys his tent in his rage. The boy had been brilliant, had leapt for knowledge, and followed wide-eyed after anyone who could tell him anything. Now, he is worthless, a spy who may or may not betray him. It was not that he had finally appreciated the horror of what he was doing. he had done that long before, and he had returned, sorrowful but still loyal, still working hard. It had been summer, just before Potter had been born, just before the prophecy had been made, when he had returned one day. Had admitted to meeting Dumbledore. Had taken the Cruciatus without a sound, as he always had. And then, looking at him with dead, blank eyes, had handed him a book of gilded pages, with an opal ring on top. Voldemort had handed them back, but Severus had only taken the ring, had left the book on the desk and never looked at it again. That, thought Voldemort, was the day Dumbledore had killed a man.
Three hours later Snape is in the carriage home, waiting dully to arrive at the castle, waiting to report to Dumbledore. He recalls the day he had agreed to spy for him, a full year after he had confided in the old man about the Death Eaters and their cruelty, remembers returning to the school where he worked and discovering the Dumbledore had tipped off the ministry, had seen the look in Mad-Eye Moody's eyes as the auror held his wand at Snape's chest, remebers Crouch's reasonable voice as it suggested that they make a deal. Snape's harsh bark of laughter startles the thestrals of his carriage, as they pull steadily along the road to Hogwarts. He had staggered into the school feeling tainted. It was not that Severus was betraying the Dark Lord that he minded, it was the actual act of betrayal that sickened him, made him finally run to the Dark Lord, report meeting Dumbledore and informing him that he was a Death Eater, and made him take the punishment silently. To this day, he could never explain what made him return the book that he had spent his life desireing. He had never even opened it, but he could not bear to see it gleaming in the darkness reflecting his treachery, his breaking of a pact that felt no less real in that it had never existed.
Three hours later, Dumbledore smoked a pipe, pacing the floor of his office and hoping that Severus was not dead. He was truly fond of Severus, but he did not like the dead look in the man's eyes. He had been lively and intelligent lately; mocking Potter and even showing a vestige of his old interest in acquiring knowledge, reading new studies in Potion making. Studies that had lain unopened since the Dark Lord's return. Albus never really understood why Severus had stopped seeking knowledge after beginning to spy for him. Part of him rationalized that this disinterestedness in knowledge, the dead look in his eyes, the loss of interest in life was the result of some taunt of the Dark Lord's. but in his hear, he knew that the real Snape had died the instant he had cornered him, had forced him to agree to spy.
Three hours later, the sky wept for the lives and the souls lost over nothing. For the sky cannot see the color of man's blood.
Severus reels off the excuse with the trained ease of an actor reciting lines... speaking of Dumbledore's watchfulness, the necessity of waiting, especially as Karkaroff had just fled, the traitor... but surely his Lord would forgive him, as he had done everything he could, and look how much Dumbledore trusted him now- that couldn't be sacrificed for anything.
The Dark Lord narrows his eyes, wanting to believe that his old servant has truly returned, but knowing it may not be true. Wanting to lash out at Severus, but knowing he could not, wanting to cast legilimens, knowing Severus could not be controlled, wanting to do something, anything to get back the original Severus, the devoted Severus. Outright rebellion was better than the lifeless indifference of the young man. So young, and so utterly ruined.
Snape held his breath, waiting to know if he would be killed now, immediately, or if Voldemort would consider the importance of the game he was playing, would appreciate their interdependance. Voldemort relaxes, and lifts him from the ground, giving a falsely happy exclamation that startles the Death Eaters around him, makes them wonder how they can use this new development to their advantage. They are actors, both of them, and both know that the script has been written by a man miles away in his oak paneled office.
Voldemort is wondering when he can reverse his role, how he can outmaneuver Dumbledore. Severus is wishing that he had been killed. But, for him, this is hardly a foreign emotion.
Three hours later Snape is gone, and Voldemort lashes out, destroys his tent in his rage. The boy had been brilliant, had leapt for knowledge, and followed wide-eyed after anyone who could tell him anything. Now, he is worthless, a spy who may or may not betray him. It was not that he had finally appreciated the horror of what he was doing. he had done that long before, and he had returned, sorrowful but still loyal, still working hard. It had been summer, just before Potter had been born, just before the prophecy had been made, when he had returned one day. Had admitted to meeting Dumbledore. Had taken the Cruciatus without a sound, as he always had. And then, looking at him with dead, blank eyes, had handed him a book of gilded pages, with an opal ring on top. Voldemort had handed them back, but Severus had only taken the ring, had left the book on the desk and never looked at it again. That, thought Voldemort, was the day Dumbledore had killed a man.
Three hours later Snape is in the carriage home, waiting dully to arrive at the castle, waiting to report to Dumbledore. He recalls the day he had agreed to spy for him, a full year after he had confided in the old man about the Death Eaters and their cruelty, remembers returning to the school where he worked and discovering the Dumbledore had tipped off the ministry, had seen the look in Mad-Eye Moody's eyes as the auror held his wand at Snape's chest, remebers Crouch's reasonable voice as it suggested that they make a deal. Snape's harsh bark of laughter startles the thestrals of his carriage, as they pull steadily along the road to Hogwarts. He had staggered into the school feeling tainted. It was not that Severus was betraying the Dark Lord that he minded, it was the actual act of betrayal that sickened him, made him finally run to the Dark Lord, report meeting Dumbledore and informing him that he was a Death Eater, and made him take the punishment silently. To this day, he could never explain what made him return the book that he had spent his life desireing. He had never even opened it, but he could not bear to see it gleaming in the darkness reflecting his treachery, his breaking of a pact that felt no less real in that it had never existed.
Three hours later, Dumbledore smoked a pipe, pacing the floor of his office and hoping that Severus was not dead. He was truly fond of Severus, but he did not like the dead look in the man's eyes. He had been lively and intelligent lately; mocking Potter and even showing a vestige of his old interest in acquiring knowledge, reading new studies in Potion making. Studies that had lain unopened since the Dark Lord's return. Albus never really understood why Severus had stopped seeking knowledge after beginning to spy for him. Part of him rationalized that this disinterestedness in knowledge, the dead look in his eyes, the loss of interest in life was the result of some taunt of the Dark Lord's. but in his hear, he knew that the real Snape had died the instant he had cornered him, had forced him to agree to spy.
Three hours later, the sky wept for the lives and the souls lost over nothing. For the sky cannot see the color of man's blood.
