Chapter Two: Imprisonment

Severus Snape was staring into the darkness of his cell. He was lying on his side, rolled into a ball, trying to get warm. He never seemed to get warm during the winter months. The clothes were too thin, the blanket threadbare and the temperature in the underground cell was near freezing point. His thoughts wandered back to the visitors' room. Warmth and the woman. Of medium height, with short brown hair, blue eyes and very white skin – nothing out of the ordinary, but to him, who for the last five years had only been surrounded by the miserable figures of his fellow prisoners or the grim faces of the guards, she had seemed beautiful. He still could not get over his inexplicable reaction towards her: When he had learned about the interview, he had intended to be cold and sarcastic, but then something about her, an aura of loneliness and bad luck, had evoked his sympathy. He could not understand it. All his adult life he had succeeded in avoiding feelings like sympathy and love, had tried to ban emotion altogether. In the five years at Azkaban this ability of detachment, of withdrawing into himself had kept him sane. Imprisonment was like death, a death that had evaded him in his treacherous position as a spy and in the mortal peril of the battlefield, a death that he had long wished for, but had been too much of a coward to bring about himself. Here in Azkaban, locked away behind impenetrable walls, he was finally free from the demands of mighty masters, free from responsibilities and obligations towards a society that had never really accepted him.

He had learned to obey the rules and the commands of the guards, a learning process that had started on his very first day, when after one hour's work with a shovel he had presented his bleeding hands and had asked to be transferred to some work where he ould be more useful. This had earned him a stay in a punishment cell and some rags to wrap around his hands for protection. Now, five years later, these hands, once the hands of a scholar, had become hard, dirt-ingrained, rough and calloused, as calloused as he wanted his soul to be.

He had learned to accept the monotonous routine of the days: The harsh, cruel sound of the alarm, waking the prisoners at dawn, the fastening of the shackles, leaving the cell for breakfast – always thin porridge – followed by long hours of work, hard, back-breaking, mind-numbing manual work, then ten minutes for a quick wash before dinner – always stale bread and some kind of watery stew made with unidentifiable ingredients followed by a small piece of fruit - and finally the loneliness of the small cell and sleep. Sometimes he tried to remember passages from books or potion recipes to keep his mind active, but most of the time he was overwhelmed with exhaustion and pain. He was alone, a tiny, isolated drop of water in the sea of inmates, swept away by the tide and the waves caused by prison rules and the guards' vim.

There was no friendship among the prisoners; the guards made sure that contact and conversation were reduced to the absolute minimum. Death Eaters belonged to the lowest rank in prison hierarchy, they were treated cruelly by the guards and by the other prisoners alike. He usually tried to avoid the secret cruelties or to ignore them. There were, however, occasions when his self-control failed him. When prisoners or guards tormented the weak and helpless, his former students who had joined Voldemort in the last months before the final battle and had been sentenced like all the other hardened Death Eater veterans. They suffered most and when they were the victims of sadistic games Snape's indifference weakened, he could not help but intervene, and as a consequence had to spend long hours in the punishment cells for insubordination, always berating himself for his foolishness and at the same time knowing perfectly well that he would do it again.

So a good day was a day without punishment and injuries. He had learned to live from day to day, not giving way to hope and illusions. So far it had worked. Until today.

Shivering he turned over and groaned. His back hurt, a painful reminder of what could happen if you indulged in emotion: After the interview he had been so pre-occupied with his visitor that his foot had slipped on the wet ground, he had fallen, pulling with him two other prisoners and upsetting a pile of stones waiting to be build into a wall. The guards had helped him to his feet with their cudgels…

Forget her! he told his mind. You won't see her again. He drew the threadbare blanket closer around his shoulders and tried to go to sleep.

Back in London Alexandra wrote her article, but she did it only half-heartedly. Her thoughts were elsewhere, and when she had finished, she ordered from the archives all the back copies of the Daily Prophet containing articles about Severus Snape and his trial. Five years ago she had still been married. Her husband had wanted her to stay at home and keep away from politics and public affairs. Four years after Voldemort's destruction, the wizarding world had been trying to go back to normal. So although the media had covered the capture and trial of the last Death Eaters extensively, public interest had not been very high in general and as Alexandra then had been busy with plenty of problems of her own, she had not paid attention to the news very much.

Now she read through the papers eagerly, scanning each page carefully so as not to miss anything.

When she had finished she sat back and ran her hands through her cropped hair, making it stand on end, a bad habit she always indulged in while thinking. This was strange: He had remained silent throughout the trial, had absolutely refused to speak, to give evidence.

Pictures showed him in the courtroom, chains binding him to the chair, his face without expression, pale, gaunt, hard like stone, scarred from the injuries he had received during his capture after two years on the run.

Death Eaters brought in from Azkaban had confirmed that he had been one of them, high in rank even, a close confidant of the Dark Lord – he had shown no reaction.

Harry Potter had told his story about Dumbledore's murder – no reaction, no comment when the head of the wizengamot had asked him to give his side of the events.

Arthur Weasley's evidence about the bits of information on Death Eater activities that had found their way to the Order after Dumbledore's death; nobody knew where they had come from, but they had always proved reliable and very useful – no comment.

Remus Lupin's report about the last battle, where Snape had been seen casting curses at Death Eaters – no reaction.

Ronald Weasley's description of the decisive moment in the final confrontation between Harry Potter and Voldemort, when the Dark Wizard had been so distracted by a strange spell hitting him that his deadly curse meant for Harry had gone astray, thus enabling the boy to overwhelm his opponent and kill him. There were rumours that the potions master had been the source of that spell – no comment.

Nymphadora Tonks remembered Snape carrying an unconscious Gimnny Weasley from the battlefield – no reaction.

When the jury finally agreed on life imprisonment in Azkaban instead of a death sentence, his face had remained impassive and he had declined the offer to speak. They had taken him to Azkaban and after some last speculations on his behaviour in the following issues of the Daily Prophet he had been forgotten.

Why? Alexandra stretched her arms vigorously in an attempt to ease the pain in her neck muscles. Why had he not spoken, explained his reasons for killing Dumbledore and helping against Voldemort at the same time? It seemed as if he had decided that enough was enough, as if he had been tired of his life, as if he had wanted to vanish behind the thick walls of Azkaban.

He was an enigma Alexandra could not stop wondering about. What kind of person had he been? She decided that she wanted to know more about him. She would write to former pupils and colleagues, gather information. She would suggest a background story to the one she had just written to her editor-in-chief, biographies of famous Death Eaters, something along that line, so that she would be able to use her time at work for her research.

Two months later she had answers that formed into a portrait – a very unfavourable one.

Strict, unfair, vindictive, arrogant, sarcastic, cruel, ugly, antisocial. She sighed. No wonder his misdeeds had seemed to be so much more in character than his alleged bravery during the battle. There seemed to be no one, absolutely no one with friendly feelings towards this man.

Now she understood why he had not had visitors in all these years. She wondered about his work. Potions. As a squib she only had a vague idea of what the subject implied. She decided to visit Hogwarts. There had been few replies from teachers, perhaps she could gather some more information personally.

Thanks to J.K.Rowling for inventing the wonderful characters.