XXXVI

It's simple, really, to let your soul unfurl and then let it go completely, to ignore its whines and walk away. It's even simpler to cut your heart out with the dullest knife, and then let it pump its last gallon of blood, before you wilt away with it. But perhaps, it is the easiest to just lie on the sullied floor, stare at a blank ceiling and do nothing of importance to the world. Wither away like a cherry blossom in inclement weather, and then let life leave as it always does, for it is inevitable. Yet, ineffably, Severus had not chosen to do any one of these thing truly. It was his cynically inclined mind that had made him believe that he was a worse than a bloodied murder of twelve hundred, and that he was beyond the protection of the light he seeked so.

A lone man, he was, walking through a street filled with stone buildings as old as Merlin. Severus walked in through the large crack in the wall, one that only appeared for the Dark Lord's followers. A brick-built quill shop was across the cobbled street, and there was a dim street lamp the other side of a small cottage, which was no too far from the crack. He sighed as he entered, feeling as if he had been covered by a great veil. Once in, he saw the meeting taking place, Regulus sitting silently across from Lucius and both Rosier and Avery looking at him smugly.

Once again, he was at the long table so loathed. The Dark Lord was at the head and Severus at his side. Severus wasn't specifically listening to the words that were being said, but rather he decoded them and took what was in between the words into account. Another attack, more deaths—those were the things that were spoken with pride.

"Tonight, we gather here with a plan, a plan to strike once more," began the Dark Lord, who looked paler and more horrendous than usual. His red eyes glowed with malice and egoism, his nostrils were flared, and his tongue was writing cynical ballades with its every flick.

"I believe that Lucius and Severus are well-acquainted with this putrid village, and as such, they will once again be the heads of this mission—a mission of utmost purity." There he went again, the predictable commander—always speaking the same binge, always tricking the same foolish minds into further playing the pawns in his game of deceit. A recipe for disaster, though it was, had managed to avoid all unfortunate circumstances in this rather incorporeal game of his.

"The town's name, unfortunately has been lost long ago, and is in disuse to those old enough to remember. It is located thirty seven kilometers west from here, and is hidden by a thick forest infested with magical creatures of all kind—some of which could benefit us profoundly."

Severus' focus wandered (but he still listened pensively to the speaking of the Dark Lord), as he had taken the time to . . . appreciate the dismal scenery of the dimly lit alcove in which he was sitting. A single sconce, holding two weak, diffuse, ecru wax candles lit a small portion of the room's vastness. A basin-like fountain was just on the other side of the room, and his position provided an enchanting view of its icy beauty. It was made of emerald-colored glass which shone like the sun through patchy clouds, and the water filling it shimmered in the same shade of green as the fountain. Beyond the crack, (which served as an entrance) started no decoration, nor bravura-display of wealth. It was simply made of gneiss that absorbed most of the light in the area. However, the table which the followers were seated was obscenely ornate, with carvings of Veelas, and dragons, nymphs and cupids. The table was made of rich mahogany and lacquered in a way that did not diminish the grain of the lavish wood. The chairs they sat in were much the same, and un-cushioned.

His attention snapped back without hesitance the moment the Dark Lord's voice snapped louder than a whiplash, speaking with an indifferent coldness that was strong enough to make the skin on Severus' arm fill with tiny goosebumps.

"Understand that, though some of you show mercy, there is to be not a single survivor left. Do not bring whimpering filth to my feet. Be they wealthy, or poor, powerful or weak—they must die."

'Lily,' the voice in his head whispered, 'Lily, Lily, Lily!' and expounded with intensity. He had to warn her—he had to save her. Would she listen? Damn fate three times over: He had no time left. It came down to this single, essential moment—a moment where he would most certainly lose everything he had, or gain everything he didn't.

Then, an even louder voice reverberated within him—'Dumbledore, Dumbledore'. He had to warn the damned puppeteer, tell him of this murderous information, and pray that he could reach Lily in record time, for if he didn't. . . He wouldn't even imagine such an occurrence: A pit had begun to form in his already churning stomach.

"I expect you to strike within the hour. Plan quickly." The Dark Lord looked to Severus, smiling connivingly, and a flicker of—was it even conceivable?—pride danced in his eyes like a devil amongst scalding flames. "But before you leave, I must bestow upon Severus the well-deserved honor of the Dark Mark."

'Can they hear me gulping like the coward I refuse to say I am? Do they see the fear in my occluded façade? Are they aware of the fact that I'm concealing that my veins feel as if they are flowing with acid and that I feel like I'm shaking like a leaf in the fall, ascending and descending through the sky from a bitter wind which has taken me so? Why are they smiling like harlequins? If Lily knew, if Lily was, if Lily—if nothing: She will never see this. She'll be off prancing in the meadow with someone worthy of her, and I'll be the puppet, evermore being lurched by the tightest strings. Oh, Lily I'm sorry for what's about to happen.'

Severus knew the process very well (he could still remember the first time he had taken it). He was in inner anguish as he reminisced of the day—a day that would soon be repeated. It was a moment that would forever live in infamy in his unfortunately extensive memory.

If it had been cold, Severus didn't feel it, for he was too focused on the grandeur of the event taking place. As a follower of the Dark Lord, so willing, so inclined that this would build him up from the ashes, he had put his train of thought into the serpentine villain sitting in his throne. He kneeled, silently, hoping above all that his breathing couldn't be heard. Did he look pitiful, and if so, how pitiful did he look? This was all he had wondered. Stretching his arm out with immodesty, he took the Dark Mark, the Dark Lord's wand firmly pressed onto the skin of his left arm. He remembered smiling like an idiocentric twit, bound for doom because of his self-destruction.

He was kneeling on the floor. How he had gotten there, he had no clue, but he knew that his legs had done the crime and that he was soon to be in utter loathing and pain. There was a sharp ringing in his ears and a voice, a woman's voice who told him to turn away and flee, flee like a hero, not a coward. Consumed as he was by this overbearing prophet, he outstretched his arm; all the while suppressing the grimace his face was so badly yearning to form. Every ounce of him screamed in defiance, but he held firmer than a platinum statue. Fading in and out of him was strength, that which he cherished so. Voldemort picked up his left arm; it was the only sound that could be heard in silence of the cavernous lair. His muscles were tense, but the Lord did not seem to care, as he had continued to proceed. With a sharp flick of his wand, Severus' black sleeve was unbuttoned, its atramentous buttons flinging all about. His pale skin acquired a dark glow, and now sallower than ever, it looked like the skin of a newly dead man, cold and grim.

He heard Lily speaking to him in his head, things she had said before, things he had thought were rolling through her mind, but had gone unsaid. "You're back. You're finally back. You're better than that. I worry about you. I love you. Are you still with them? Do you behave only when I'm around? Do you really love me; do you truly love me with all of you as it seems you do?"

"I love you. I love you. I love you, I love you." It continued on like the pouring rain, and just like rain it had to fall, until there was no more substance to run on. But when the pouring amour left he could see her face as she watched him nearly die that one fateful night in front of Hagrid's cabin. Her beleaguered, rubicund face contorted with emotional agony beyond any extent he had thought possible. There were her emerald eyes, swollen from the tears which dripped from her eyes like a cruel tempest. There she was kissing him as he held on to the last vestiges of his dismal, diminutive life. Like only a tyrant could do, his recollection was snatched away from him and torn piece by piece, than lit aflame and lastly, for good measure, blown away with painstaking leisureliness, such that made his insides spasm continually, until he felt worn, like the leather of a pair of broken-in work boots.

Masochistically jabbed into his arm was the Dark Lord's phoenix core wand. "The worst is the wait for it to come." Severus reminded himself, though he could not yield to the want to count the seconds that passed as days.

The spell that was cast was mute. Writhing in torment, Severus fell to the floor, yet a sadistic smile was spread across his gaunt, paling face. His heart was palpitating.

"Leave him," Lord Voldemort respired. "He will recuperate in due time." They apparated away as a group to the Malfoy Manor, departing in puffs of acerbic smoke.

Severus' eyes were plastered to the ceiling. He was hyperventilating and nearly seizing on the floor, his black irises rolling black until his eyes appeared white and vascular. The tintinnabulation of nonexistent bells was ringing in his ears softly, soothing the burning pain coursing through his veins as if they were pure acid on flesh. His muscles were clenching, and his teeth were bared. He thrashed from right to left, left to right until he was bursting with exhaustion. His mind began to decay, and so went with it the last vestiges of his once pleasant life, though brief it was. Reinstated was the impending doom which had been lingering not too far away for so long. How had he let it slip away so? Only now had it hit him with such barreling strength. Insubordinately, he further delved into the thoughts of what was to come in short. The result: Death, if not his, of those whom he had if not loved, grown to cherish and respect. The result: The same languish of his first life.

Physically, he felt atrophied—mentally, he was demeaning himself with his self-comments. Emotionally deplorable, and undeniably inhospitable as he was, he found the stability to shed a single oceanic, woe manifested tear.

He knew that he would be in this hell for longer than he had hoped. He stood up shakily, dusted himself off and trudged on, a cyborg with only a single program to guide him. He did not dare to look down at his arm: He was sure that if he did, he would keel over and be knocked unconscious by the impact. With a virtually inaudible 'pop', he apparated to the rest of the Death Eaters, thinking of nothing but that he must warn Dumbledore and get Lily out of the village as soon as possible.

The choice was between time for him, or giving the Death Eaters a terrible strategy. Looking down at the map carved in suede, he mulled over the numerous possibilities and outcomes. His heart thumping like a jackrabbit's, he turned away from the map looking pensive with the back of his hand on the underside of his chin. The Death Eater's eyes spoke to him, questioning him, all of them asking a single inquisition: "What do we do?" Time, strategy, strategy or time—which to risk?—what was the right choice?

He whipped around quickly, his finger hitting the map sharply. "Avery's fleet will walk through the forests from the South. Divide and conquer, I don't care which person does what as long as it gets done. Rosier take Mulciber along with you: Enter from the East, and place by place, search for what we're looking for." Many gave him a quizzical glance. "They know what to find, if any one dares to question me you'll be unincluded in tonight's…festivities, but moreover, you'll have to face the Dark Lord's…displeasure." His stoic lips curled into a nauseating smirk. "Lucius, you have your own plan, I'm sure. Do what you must." He turned to Regulus and simply nodded. Regulus took off on his own, his hands held behind his back, and his black robes inveigling him. A shriek sounded, and he was gone.

"And what about you?" Avery audaciously probed.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" His voice was bathed in acrimony. Standing up and trudging away from the cult, he took his cloak off of the chintz footstool and apparated with a flourish.

Out in the middle of a steamy forest he casted his Patronus, a silvery doe gracefully floating onto the twig and leaf floor. He installed a message within it, "They're attacking the city I'm vacationing in. Come quickly. Bring the Order. Lives are at stake." It took but seconds for the doe to disappear from view.

A soft crack sounded behind him: Severus turned sharply, his wand at ready. Leaning against a short, leafy oak tree was Lucius Malfoy, his arms at his sides, though his face seemed to show the determination within him. "They're departing for their destinations in ten minutes. The Dark Lord appeared and asked them about your plan. I left to find you on his orders."

"Whatever for?" he said nonchalantly.

"To inform you about my part of the mission." This peaked Severus' preciously narrow curiosity. Noticing his friend's shift in mood, Lucius continued. "Why The Dark Lord holds such…high esteem for these objects, I will never know, but he has his unquestionable reasons. Goyle nearly got killed for losing the cup already." At the mention of the cup, Severus knew it was the very cup he had given to Dumbledore for…safe keeping.

Lucius shuffled through the pockets of his outfit before holding in his hands—like he were holding the Holy Grail—a black, leather-bound book, which looked (though old) rather ordinary. Its pages were wrinkled in stained, and the book itself emitted a scent that reeked of suffering. Its mundane quality would have made most people scoff, and then move on with their uninteresting lives, but Severus had an epiphonic moment of a magnitude so large that if it were a material object he would have been crushed beneath its girth.

He had seen that book—witnessed it with unparalleled fear, for Tom Riddle had been arrived from its hellish pages of blood and bone, memory and suffering, and he had been resurrected; for how long, he didn't know, but he knew it had happened as a pain in his left arm had wrung for a pea-sized second in 1993. He now knew what that book was: It was a vile thing, something that should have never been made. It was a Horcrux, and with every gram within him, he would seize it in his very hands and give it promptly to Dumbledore. There was no other way, he was convinced.

"I must hide this, Severus. If I fail in doing so, I trust that you will take on the task."

"Of course,' he lied, though impercivably.

"I will see you soon." With a nod, Lucius disappeared into the humid air of the spring night.

With the speed of a peregrine, Severus ran through the forest. He knew that he could not apparated to the Inn, or anywhere near the inn. There were too many charms set upon the thrice damning place. He had to get Lily out of the village, to get her safely to Hogwarts, but most vitally, to get her somewhere alive.

Was she safe now? Had she left their room? These were all questions that Severus would have the answers to within minutes, seconds even. But seconds are the difference between life and death, and if he was too late…He too would die, surely.

If it weren't for the migraine-esque pain splitting his forehead, he would have kept running. A thick root had tripped him, and he was now wallowing on the musky forest floor. Looking up at the sky, he only saw the blackness of space. It was starless and hopeless. An eerie, hope instilling voice rang through his head—it was Dumbledore. 'I'm coming Severus. Stall them if you can.'

Golden fairies danced around Severus in a circle, holding one another's tiny hands. His strength burgeoned, as well as his ability to execute his utmost duties. What lay ahead for him, he had not the slightest idea. No matter the circumstance, he would pull through. Some would call it destiny. He called it utter idiocy. And so, he moved on into the shroud of the night, thinking of the payments which were just a kilometer away.

A/N: Woo!—another update. I know I'm taking long… If I say I'm busy one more time, I worry that you won't believe me. I hope you like it. The next chapter is…I won't reveal anything yet. Review, Follow, Favorite, if you did enjoy it.

-E.S. Grey