'You shall show no mercy: life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot,' - Deuteronomy v21

Chapter Two

I was now a ward of the family. My parents had left all their money to me, but I could not touch this until I was twenty one, another curious custom of my Muggle and Wizarding family. This meant that whilst I grew up, I had to rely on whatever my family could afford to give me.

They were rich, but most of them were misers. Their extravagant reserves of wealth was fit (they reckoned) only for paying for expensive tuition fees for their offspring in University or setting up home for newly weds or for the most magnificent parties. Money was spent in huge amounts, not for small things like clothes and shoes. For that, I would have to earn my own money. It was not uncommon for me to visit a great aunt's house to assist in the library or potions laboratory and notice that there was a small leak in the roof. Were I to mention this defect, the relatives would reassure me and tell me that I was not to worry, 'we'll leave it and see if it gets worse before we do anything about it'. A month or so later, there would be rot in the wooden beams, and unsteady foundations. The house would literally be falling down and only then, when it could be put off no longer, a cheque would be written, worth vast sums of money and sent off without a murmur.

So I was, essentially, poor. And an orphan obsessed with revenge to boot. And so many things besides, I forget.

When my position had been settled, I became my great great grandfathers 'favourite'.

This basically means apprentice. It means that the favourite is considered throughout the family as the heir of whosoever is concerned, and expected to be knowledgeable of things that most remain uninitiated in. As they grow older, they are expected to manage some of the elder's accounts and enact business for them. It is not far from what Potter would have been to Dumbledore had I not cut that particular dealing so brutally short.

There was an unspoken agreement between us. I never mentioned to him of my desire for revenge, and though he must have known about it on some level, I do not think he truly understood how consuming that particular desire was. The reason why I say this is because I remember his look of reluctant acceptance on realising that it was indeed true; that his closest friend and distant relative had been murdered in cold blood by his great great grandson. Like most of the people who I had always assumed would be able to see right through me, he was completely blind to my most obvious defect. Nevertheless, he taught me a great deal. Like my own father, he believed it was important to read as extensively as possible of particular books and to train one's mind to think in precise algorithmic patterns. Typical of the ancient minds whom he so admired, his would frequently return to the same basic point, the same basic philosophy, regardless of his mental excursions. It is not a characteristic of real intelligence that one commonly finds today. The modern mind is the one which rambles and traverses frequently and unashamedly. The classical is quite rigid, relentless and disciplined.

So in this sense, I suppose I am truly a modern man who occasionally likes his algorithms.

I learnt an awful lot of history, instead of magic and what would perhaps have been normally expected. I learned about mathematics, often from first edition prints of the famous mathematicians themselves. I cannot say that I was that good at it, or even that eager, but I suppose, looking back on it now, it is the training that counts.

One of the most important things I learned about was how to research, how to influence opinion, how to speak well and effectively. How to tell if someone was lying (without using magic) how to tell if a person was going to die soon, how to use silence rather than words to question people, how to listen out for clues and answers rather than ask in the first place... so many things, all from watching my great great grandfather dealing with other people: political opponents, fair-weather friends, good old and trusted friends and his spies, too.

I think I was his favourite in both senses of the word. He certainly seemed fonder of me than of my cousins and other relatives of my own age, not that that would have been entirely difficult: they were quite a stuck-up bunch if I recall.

And now I hear my guards approaching my cell for my exercise. It seems strange that so much time has passed. Thinking of my own family always seems to have this strange effect on time. I think that perhaps I should keep on doing it more often.

Before I put this writing away, I think I ought to explain how this routine works. Once every week, I am led through the secret passageways of Azkaban to the open courtyard for my exercise. This is, in truth, an opportunity for them to see if they can satisfy their craving for some evidence of my evil and depraved nature, either by way of mysterious Dark Arts objects that could have somehow been missed during the search that took place when I first entered Azkaban, or some carnal doodling on my wall. I know that I have already disappointed them by my subconscious' apparent unwillingness to share any of my more dastardly secrets at night time. I suspect that they would love nothing better than to hear of me screaming out for forgiveness or giving evidence to some heinous albeit long forgotten crime.

And so here I end. I shall return in some forty-five minutes.

And so, some forty-five minutes later, I return.

My guards in Azkaban are quite fascinating characters. There are three of them. I know them very well by now just as well as they no doubt know me.

The first one, the most important, is Mr. Anumis. He is the perhaps the most terrifying: a little taller than myself, clean-shaven with closely cropped dark blonde hair, he always seems to be wearing velvet in the darkest of greens or purples or reds. I suppose it's his way of flouting the ruling for the guards' uniform. Not that I can blame him. Most of them look more like prisoners than we prisoners do, in their musty grey wool mixes and odd socks and what have you. He is always extremely polite. He always calls me Mr. Prince-Snape (uncanny) and bows to me slightly on entering or leaving my cell. He knows more about the weather than is healthy for a man of his age. And far too much about one's personal hygiene. I can tell he loathes me: not so much on principle, but simply because I do not speak to him and because he has not been able to coax anything out of me as he has with the other prisoners here. He knows nothing about me save what is on my record and I can sense that he is getting increasingly desperate. He is a most sophisticated brute.

The second, a little older, is Mr. Khan. He is actually a Squib who has compensated for his lack of magic by his extensive knowledge on all things magical. I find him very interesting to talk to, because he is more prone to laughter than the other two and, even though we get on comparatively well, he always makes it clear his disgust at what it is that I have done.

"I once met Dumbledore, you know," he sometimes says, very gravely. "You could have at least had the decency to give him a proper fight... but murdering him... defenceless... cold blood. I find that horrible. Revolting. Did you really hate him that much?"

"No," I always say.

"He always stuck up for us lot, us Squibs, even when everyone else treated us like dirt, not just your lot either..." he will usually then go on to say. "Everyone. Tell me, Severus," He would then break off abruptly. "Why d'you do it?"

Then I will be silent and either look at him or at the wall directly behind him.

"Ah, well," he'd sigh. "You must have had your reasons." Then he'd leave and lock the door behind him.

In a strange sort of way, I like him for his predictability. My whole life had been staked on chance. It was chance that my parents and I were at home having early tea when the Death Eaters decided to pay us a call. Chance that I was able to attend Hogwarts, chance that I was to become the favoured punch-bag of the Marauders (oh, happy days!). Chance, chance, chance. People I can only control so much. Most of it is down to chance. Mr. Khan is a welcome relief from this.

He would always enter my cell, knocking first and waiting for me to say 'come in' unlike Mr, Anumis who simply strides in having knocked on the door. He would always say 'good morning' or 'afternoon' and ask how I was. He'd then go on about some minor detail that had happened today or yesterday (if he hadn't been able to see me then), talk about something from the Daily Prophet, then give it to me and discuss the issue with me, as if it were of the utmost importance that I should do so. I have grown very fond of Mr. Khan: he is very well travelled compared to myself and so we usually spend a good deal of our time talking about wizards in other countries.

The third, the last, the least important is also the youngest. He is about as old as I was when I started to work in Hogwarts and a good deal wiser. Or more foolish. I suppose it depends on how you count.

HIs name is Octavius McGill.

Sometimes, I find myself pitying him if only because he is young, surrounded by us ancient ones. He is so eager to do his job well, to uphold his responsibilities and ultimately, to make the wizarding world a better place. I wouldn't say that he is naive, but he is certainly idealistic. He is also unnervingly polite and incredibly clumsy and awkward. The number of times he has knocked into my table during an inspection and thus several of my books, or somehow managed to damage one of the scant items of furniture... that boy.

It was he who encouraged (his one act of defiance, I believe) Mr. Anumis to grant me my request for some paper and ink with which to write. He is such a one for us prisoner's rights.

I suppose it's rather comical. One moment, he will be the stern, young moralist, standing upright between an incredibly anal Mr. Anumis and a more relaxed, twinkling-eyed Mr. Khan. The next, he will be tittering nervously and uncertainly at some comment that I might happen to make and trying to hide his frustration as he attempts the rustic psychological 'persuasions' that the authority promotes those in his position to use on those like me. I do it just to shock him, I admit. Candidly recalling murders is not exactly to my taste, but certainly to blithely defend some atrocious Death Eater policy... ah, heaven. The look of anger, shock, but more often than not, guilty amusement, which he tries so desperately to hide... I love it. He's all too easy, I know: I ought to challenge myself a bit more, but Mr. Anumis is simply out of bounds.

Each of these men will see me once a week at least, especially Mr. Khan. I can't say that I look forward to their visits (even those of Mr. Khan) because their presence eventually begins to irritate me, but they are my contact with the outside world (Mr. Khan and McGill both give me snippets of information about the other prisoners and the dealings in the world outside), and they do look after me, for whatever motive.

Today, it was Mr. Anumis who led me out of my cell to the exercise courts, where I exercised in solitude. I am always grateful that exercise simply means free time, when I can just walk around and inspect the magnificent view of the iron grey of the North Sea.

There are no longer many prisoners in Azkaban. I made sure of that. All the Death Eaters are dead, and the one (or two, if indeed any) that survive are under house arrest. Whatever that means. I know that the Malfoys for a fact have had their lands confiscated for the time being. Perhaps one of Draco's children (if he's to have any) will be fortunate enough to inherit the ruins of the Wiltshire manor. The prisoners that are here, only know me by rumor. They are forbidden to speak to me just as I am to them. Sometimes they are awake when I pass their cells to reach the courts. They are ordered to turn their backs or at least to avert their eyes. Excessive, yes, but there you go.

Once outside, it is a true test of will not to simply end it all and jump from the ramparts of Azkaban. Not that I would, really - I'm not quite that mad yet. Besides, Mr Anumis is a very powerful wizard, and Mr. Khan is physically strong. They would be more than a match for me. I am, of course, forbidden from taking my own life.

It's usually bitterly cold and today was no different. I walked around the stone courtyard, observed the distance, kept on walking. Anything to while the 45 minutes away. I daydreamed, I thought deep thoughts and tried to keep myself warm. It is extremely dull stuff. I would not wish it on anyone.

If I do not walk around that much, they will call me over if only to get me started again. That is when I hate them the most. Whilst I appreciate the opportunity to leave my cell, I certainly do not appreciate being called over for no other reason than to crudely manipulate me into walking when my joints get stiffer and stiffer in the cold. If I pace, or walk around too much, they will stop me and make me keep still for a while. Perhaps they think I am signalling to some obscure ally who hovers on his broomstick in the sky, waiting for the right moment to rescue me. Ha ha. I need rescuing from myself more than anything.

But now I am safely in my cell, back to the monotonous wail of the sea as she pounds against my walls.

Sometimes, I fancy that she is calling for me. Lamenting for the fallen Prince. It could be why she has not driven me insane when most prisoners only last a year or so before going mad. The last man to occupy my cell only lasted a few months before being thrown off the cliff. More merciful that way, Mr. Khan insists. The sea continues to weep, however. Like most women, she is ignored.

It is a pattern that I have seen all too often in my lifetime. My mother always spoke of her chagrin of being ignored by her younger siblings (all dead now: Dragon-pox, broomstick accident, Death Eaters) and then being blamed for any mischief that they had done, and then, when she was older and less pretty, being ignored by her classmates and the young man of her dreams (name long since forgotten). Always pushed to the side, always ignored. When she married my father, none of her fellow witches would take her seriously. They would make slimy insinuations and pretend not to hear what she said. I only know this because I heard her complaining softly to my muggle grandmother when I was supposed to be asleep. My muggle grandmother, too, could remember the days when women weren't expected to have much of an opinion for themselves. She herself was lucky to have had progressive parents who urged her to study, but for what? she had always reasoned. Why get a degree in History and Ancient languages if the only job you could get was as a secretary? Why get a Physics degree if only to become a housewife? To accurately calculate the mass of your side of roast beef?

As a Death Eater, one of the most pitiful sights I had ever witnessed was that of Theodore's mother begging her husband to let Theodore make the decision for himself, whether to become a Death Eater like his father or not. Then there was Narcissa weaping hysterically at the thought of her son being sent to do some thankless task in the process of which he was obviously going to get killed. Then, before them, there was Lily bound by love and duty to follow her husband and stay by his side. That pale insipid creature who happened to be the wife of Barty Crouch Snr, not to mention the nameless girl who had mothered the most powerful Dark wizard in over a century. To hear the way the Dark Lord would sometimes speak of her, as if he'd rather she'd never laid her eyes on his father, had never existed. I had always pitied her, whoever she had been. This was only in private, mind, when none of the pure-bloods were in earshot. To me, his fellow half-blood (whose lineage he was never entirely sure about), he would release scant, but very informative, details of his life.

My great great grandfather, in terms of his attitudes to women, reminds me - especially now - a lot of Mr. Weasley. I learned a great deal from him, not just about the things I have mentioned before, but certainly my interest in the underdog, the hidden and pushed away, was prompted by him. Whilst in his home, I would freely read of everything: books on the Dark Arts fascinated me as did the prospect of ever having that much power, but so did the History of Magic, especially the little details no one seemed to care about; mistresses, secret weddings, small, uncanny points of interest. I suppose that's why I was quite comfortable with my job at Hogwarts. Dumbledore was living history and the fact that such a great man had a penchant for sherbert lemons and socks proved irresistable to someone like me.

But what I really enjoyed during my time as an orphan was the fact that I got to spend more time with my muggle grandparents, who, as I have said, I loved more than anything at that time. They lived in the suburbs of London (much quieter then than they are now) and had a large garden and two tortoises.

My grandmother was a true woman of her age: modest, quiet, humble and unassuming. She knew she was intelligent, yet always bowed (or so it semed) to the assumed superior intellect of her husband. My grandfather, in turn, was a true man of his age: hard-working, logical but incredibly respectful and polite. He was also quite shy. I think this is why he benefited from having married an unassuming woman like my grandmother and also why he got on so well with my wizard grandfather.

I'll give you an example. One day, when I was eleven, shortly before starting Hogwarts, I saw my first black person up close and actually got to speak with him. Although this was the sixties, for someone who had been brought up as I had, I didn't really know anyone yet alone a foreigner. I had seen agents of my parents from distant countries but they had never spoken to me nor I to them. If my parents were still alive, I may have seen more black people on television in those dreadful sitcoms that were so popular then, and in muggle comics (horrible rags, I have to admit), but they weren't, and I hadn't. To speak to someone who was quite clearly a foreigner was quite different from just seeing them.

His name was Bartholomew and he was from Jamaica. I was enchanted by the slang that he used and how dark his skin was compared to his teeth and nails. He was a little wary of me to begin with, but then got talking and revealed himself to be a cheeky, quite bossy little thing who found his new white friend equally fascinating (all the white children he had ever seen wore white and were very deeply tanned and turned up their noses a lot. Neither applied to me in the least). He had only recently arrived in England and was celebrating his first birthday here (it was to be his eleventh) in a few weeks time.

When I brought him to my grandparents' house (the way you would an unexpected treasure. It's quite embarrassing really), it didn't occur to me that my grandparent's would not be their ordinary selves. There was no reason, to my mind, why they shouldn't be. And indeed they weren't. My grandfather managed to get Bartholomew talking about his home country (which I found evern more interesting: bananas growing from trees and plantains that you could eat and sweet potatoes: what on earth did they taste like?...) and my grandmother got him to try a slice of her carrot cake. What really surprised me, was that it took so long for this chatty, lively and very funny boy to open up in front of my grandparents. He seemed almost afraid of them and now, looking back, I realise that he probably was.

My grandmother found him as fascinating as I had. She had not travelled when she was younger. It was my grandfather, having served as a doctor in the navy who had journeyed to the West Indies (he could even speak some of the patois) and it was his usual, determined politeness that had enabled my new friend to open up to him. Not just Bartholomew either: any child, myself included, would mysteriously open up and bloom before my grandfather's careful, polite attention.

I only saw Bartholomew once before moving to live with my wizard relatives permanently when I began to study at Hogwarts. We did exchange letters, though, for a long while into our adulthood. He invited me to his wedding and offered to make me a godfather, but I politely refused the latter. I am forbidden letters now, and no doubt he has been told that I am dead and that he is no longer to send me any more. He had four children the last I heard of. Three boys and a girl. He always kept his humor in spite of it.

Anyway.

There came a point when I could not see even them, particularly as Death Eater activities increased in vehemency. I was not even allowed to visit my grandmother in the last stages of the disease that took her life (something to do with the brain) and only just allowed to attend the funeral. My grandfather did not last long after that, but I was at least allowed to attend to him before he passed away. It is something that still affects me deeply. They were such stoic, honourable people: they had buried their son and daughter-in-law, been forbidden from seeing their only grandchild and remained in the knowledge that there was so much they were not allowed to know. Yet they kept on loving me. Perhaps if they had not died so early on... well. That is neither here nor there, but it would be nice to think that I may have deen deflected from my course of revenge had they lived only a little bit longer.

At the age of eleven, armed with a vicious knowledge of the Dark Arts, Wizarding History and mostly second hand clothes (my robes and books and wand were first hand: a treat from my relatives, would you believe), I entered Hogwarts school.

Albus Dumbledore, fully aware of all that my past entailed, saw it as a duty and a pleasure to educate the great great grandson of his best friend and distant relative and to assist the unfortunate wretch in any way that he could. He also provided me with an allowance with which I could buy my school books without having to work during my education. I suppose I ought to be grateful but all things considered, I'm not. I may not be the most intelligent man in the world, but I am not stupid and with the springboard of opportunity given to me by such well endowed relatives, I'm sure I would have done well enough without a Hogwarts education.

But it certainly had it's uses.

I was entered into Slytherin immediately and thus began my school career.

Did I enjoy my life in Hogwarts? No. I found it immensely dissastisfying, irksome, frustrating and depressing. I did not fit in and eventually, I gave up trying to do so. I can't say that I had any real friends. By the time I may have done, I had grown so tired and cynical of the whole thing that I simply alienated the people around me. They included a range of people, some even from different houses. Lily Evans, I suppose, could be counted as one of them, but as I said, I was sick of the whole lot of them by then and gave her no thanks for whatever it was she did to stand up for me.

Did I find it interesting? No. It was dull, dull dull. Boring lessons, boring teachers, boring students the most colourful of whom simply annoyed me, that damn Slughorn and those Marauders to name a few. Apart from being flipped upside down, tripped up and assaulted at various times, my school life was (up until halfway, that is) monotonous and, to be frank, heart-breakingly, pathetically, mind numbing. My learning was mechanical, though I did excel in not a few areas (Potions, History, Defence against the Dark Arts and most surprsingly, Transfiguration. Maybe it was because McGonagall had been my favourite teacher - and yes it's a little embarrassing to admit it, but it's true: she was the one teacher who I found to be completely honest with me as a student and later on, as a colleague) and I had no real interest in anything except for occasionally making up hexes to use on the Marauders.

The dullness of school life had also worn the edge off my desire to avenge my parents, shamefully enough. Until one evening, when Lucius Malfoy held council in the Slytherin common room.

I despised my fellow Slytherins, and would often attend these things just to sneer at them and contradict them at every turn. None of the Slytherins, particularly the older ones, knew what to make of me. I kept near the most famous and well-known of them for information's sake (a lesson I had learned as my great great grandfather's favourite) and for some excitement, I suppose, to break up the dull routine of school life.

As it happened, I attended this meeting when Lucius Malfoy let slip that his father had once been an active Death Eater and remained one of the Dark Lord's most trusted advisor's and friend. He was boasting of what would happen once the Dark Lord would come into power.

"The first ones to pay won't be the Muggle or the Mudblood or the Squib," he said, daring anyone to object him with those cold grey eyes of his. "No, it'll be the Pureblood who forgets their place... you know who I mean, the sort who cavort with Muggles and Mudbloods as if they were equals. They'll be the first to die, they'll be the first to be taught a lesson. And those of us who've remained faithful and true to ourselves," he shrugged, smiling slightly, "well, what can I say? We'll get the respect we deserve, the respect we've always deserved."

All those present nodded and murmured loudly of their approval.

"Let me tell you what it is that the Ministry don't want you to know," he went on in that thrillingly calm, cold voice of his. "That we've already begun! We've already struck and showed that we are a force to be reckoned with. Have you heard of the Princes?" Of course. Everyone had heard of the Princes. My ears pricked up. "There, you see? It was my father, the Dark Lord and five others who killed the whole lot of them: the traitor, her muggle husband and their bastard son...-"

Excuse me... I remember thinking.

"...but the Ministry said it was a fire. Oh no... how tragic... an accident," he laughed and everyone laughed with him. "But you see? The Ministry are afraid of us, how much more the common witch or wizard. Because they know that we're unstoppable."

I would have laughed at them if not for the fact that I was too busy trying not to let the pain show on my face. Back then, it always hurt to think that I could barely remember my parents, despite all of my attempts. I left that meeting abruptly, I recall.

But that was the beginning. I began to hang around Lucius and his cronies a lot after that, in order to get any information that I could to begin my revenge. But this was not the catalyst that I needed. That took place when I was sixteen and I was foolish enough to think that I could ever bring the Maurauders to any sort of justice. My anger does not merit description. It went beyond that. I was furious not only at the Maurauders, but at Dumbledore for his pathetic attempts to placate me, to make me feel sorry for the wretched gang. The worst came when he attempted to convey his sympathy or whatever it was over my parents death... the usual nonsense. It still makes me angry today. He was several years too late and if he thought he was being subtle...

You don't want sympathy or pity at that age, not really. You certainly don't want some old fool thinking that he knows you better than you know yourself. But I was just practise, I now realise. He knew what not to say when it came to Potter, after that. He's been trying to apologise to me ever since, that Dumbledore. Earlier on on that very day I killed him, he had been telling me that he knew he had failed me and been unnecessarily harsh to me and I swear he died trying to apologise to me. I feel a bit sorry for him, because of that, but it doesn't stop me being angry at his astounding arrogance.

I officially joined the Death Eaters when I was nineteen. Between my sixth year and then, I garnered enough information to begin my killing spree. I had to gain the Dark Lord's confidence and trust, then win that of my peers and then that of his older cronies. Several months wasted being polite and helpful and asking the right questions and being unobtrusive when I could have been killing the bastards. But I waited. I worked and bided my time.

It all paid off in the end.