Mercy
"...Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy..."
- The Merchant of Venice, William Shakespeare
If seventeen years seemed like a lifetime, then each of these days seemed like seventeen years. He would spend most of his time in the Headmaster's office, waiting for the hands of the clock to crawl around its face in agonizing slowness. He had come up with many ways to distract himself, from compiling potion recipes to rearranging the bookshelves. But whenever he looked back at the clock, its hands would have barely moved. The office was the last and only private place left to him. Outside were the Carrows and their crude suggestions for more discipline, more beatings, more torture. Or he had to face his erstwhile colleagues with their masks of polite professionalism, from behind which their eyes glare out with accusation and hurt. The naked hatred of the children was easy to deal with, in comparison.
So it was a relief to him when the alarm tripped in the middle of yet another one of those arguments. "I must interrupt this," he said sharply, "there's an intruder in my office."
He swept off without another word. He was not concerned. The alarm told him that the intruder - no, three intruders - were trapped. Bungling students, no doubt.
There they were!
Neville? Neville Longbottom? With him was Ginny Weasley. She too had suffered under the Master. The last was Xenophilius Lovegood's daughter. What was her name? Luna. Luna Lovegood. The three of them stood at his desk, paralyzed by transparent webbing. They gaped at him. In Ginny Weasley's hand was the Sword of Godric Gryffindor.
One moment later, Alecto Carrow and Minerva McGonagall followed in through the door.
"Just some pranksters," he said.
"I will take that." He touched his wand to Ginny's hand. The webbing parted and he pulled the sword from her frozen grip.
"Give it back, Snape! It doesn't belong to you. Don't you dirty it -"
"Quiet, Ginny!" Professor McGonagall snapped.
"They're from your House, McGonagall?" Alecto hissed. Her fingers flexed and her eyes gleamed.
"Yes, two are. So I will discpline them. Luna is Ravenclaw, and I will take her to Filius."
"But this is serious. Breaking into the Headmaster's office. Burglary."
Professor McGonagall and Alecto faced off in undisguised hostility. He gritted his teeth.
"Neither of you," he interrupted, "They broke into my office."
He turned to the three children, looking utterly bored.
"But if I have to babysit every idiot Gryffindor who fancies an escapade, the Great Hall won't be big enough. Let me see. Since you long for adventure so much, I think normal detention would be a little bland for your ... appetites."
He let a small malicious smile creep onto his expression of boredom. Alecto looked gleeful while Professor McGonagall looked outraged. He spoke before she could.
"How fortunate then that we have an abundance of flesh-melting plants and man-eating spiders in the Forbidden Forest. Detention in the Forbidden Forest. Every evening, for a month. Ah. Since lessons are over today, you start tonight. Off to the half-man with you three. Don't lose your fingers on something sharp now."
With a slash of his wand, he released the spell holding them and swept the children out of his office, slamming the door shut behind them.
"Now where were we before we were interrupted?"
But Professor McGonagall's attention was on the sword now. "Severus, is that the Sword of Godric Gryffindor?" she asked.
"Is it? I don't keep track of every piece of junk in this room." He rolled the sword's hilt around in his palm, hiding the inscription on its hilt.
"I recognize it. It doesn't belong to you, Severus." Professor McGonagall's tone was firm. "As Head of Gryffindor, I request you return it to me."
"But it doesn't belong to you either, Minerva," he replied silkily, "If anyone, it belongs to Hogwarts. And if anywhere, it belongs in this office. What do you think, Alecto?"
"It's the Headmaster's sword, McGonagall." Alecto affirmed gloatingly.
Professor McGonagall sniffed. "Let's see you hold onto it then." She turned to leave.
"One moment. Professor McGonagall, please make sure your students behave themselves from now on. If I have to keep sending them to the Forbidden Forest, Hogwarts might run out of Gryffindors eh? "
The two of Death Eaters chortled with laughter as Minerva McGonagall stormed out of the office, a strange expression on her face.
He then spent an hour beguiling Alecto with the details of his "Educational Solution", knowing that once he had won her over, her brother Amycus would follow. Once the Dark Lord had triumphed, and with His approval, they would separate out the Mudbloods and blood-traitor (Gryffindor) students. The chaff would be cast into the Forbidden Forest, now ringed by a spell. Muggle Studies could do with some action, after all. Alecto could carry out historical enactments and hunt down the Mudbloods in the Forest. Wouldn't that be fine?
Wizarding blood was precious to the Dark Lord. They had to be careful, absolutely certain. If pure blood were mistakenly spilled, He would be angered. The punishment would be severe. It would be best to focus on Harry Potter for now. Once Potter was defeated, they could move forward.
He felt fatigued after his performance. Not from having to entertain Alecto; he could spin stories for the likes of her and her brother all day. It was the brief interaction with Minerva McGonagall that had drained him.
Still, there was one more act to perform. He set the sword down on the desk and flicked his wand. "Geminio." The duplicate he returned to the sword's original place. The original he carried to Albus Dumbledore's portrait and placed it into the hidden compartment behind.
"The sword must be protected until it can reach Harry." The portrait said.
"Foolhardy scheme, or do they know where he is," he mused. He shook his head. No.
"The risk is too great," the portrait echoed his own conclusion, "The sword is too important."
"Oh. Is it? But you won't tell me why?"
"I'm afraid not."
He looked at the old man's portrait with detachment and kept his theories on the sword unvoiced. When the portrait started nagging him again about George Weasley, he ignored it completely. Better the ear than the man; When George Weasley screamed, Remus Lupin turned and the green ray had missed him. It did not turn out the way he had planned, but somehow things had worked out. The real Albus Dumbledore would agree. The real Albus Dumbledore would know that the Order would attack him on sight for the murder of Albus Dumbledore himself.
Many sentimental fools have been seduced by portrait magic. They would converse with the portraits as if the paintings were living people. He was no such fool.
At most, he could admire portrait magic, the complex amalgamation of multiple magical disciplines that captured a person's personality patterns. Even the paint preparation was a fascinating subject. The alchemy of thought was esoteric, for unlike material substances it violated conservation from the start. (He could write an essay on that, it would help pass time.) Coloring the base required detailed knowledge of Herbology, since most dyes would not take. (Herbology was hardly his forte and he would not approach the hostile Sprout, so he was stuck with just shades of gray. No matter, it suited him.) Replicating the human image in the portrait, animating it, coaching it, and so on all demanded mastery of different magics. Or an excess of patience brought about by the terrible need to pass time. (He looked at the clock. After all that, it was unbelievably still only seven o'clock.)
It was difficult for him to distract himself.
He refused to talk to the portrait unless he had to. He was not that weak.
He sat at the desk and stared at the book he was working through. The old man's desk was now his desk. The old man's office was now his coffin. The old man's school was now his tomb. Outside, everyone detested him, and his only allies were loathsome to him. He was trapped inside the coffin, suffocating.
He sighed and removed the book from the bookstand. Tapping bookstand with his wand, he spoke his secret and wood grew transparent to reveal the objects within.
Gazing at her photograph, he felt a warmth suffuse him. It filled the hollowness in his heart. Minerva McGonagall did not need to understand. It was better that way.
Then, as it always did, the other nagging feeling crept in. The edge of the photograph was torn. He had torn it up, just like he had destroyed her family. Why had he done that? He could not stop himself from visualizing the rest of the photograph. He just could not escape James (Harry) Potter. He understood Potter's look now. It was not pity and contempt, as he had used to think. It was compassion and shame. But even his mental understanding did not change the agitation that arose in him as Potter's face drifted into his thoughts. The tree could be pruned, but its roots had grown too deep to be uprooted. He hated Potter!
He did not need that. He tore his eyes away from the photograph. "- friends with Gellert Grindelwald" went the letter beside it. The undesired memory of his last conversation with the old man came to him. Every time he looked at her photograph, he was also forced to relieve the ache of the old man's betrayal and the pain of what he had to do next.
Yes. He would bring Potter there. The boy would be told the truth. The old man's portrait would convince him. The boy had to understand why. It was not malice, but necessity. He would return her photograph to the boy. The boy would be delivered to the Master. He should not suffer. In such critical matters, the Master would not play. It would be one swift Killing Curse.
The last remnant of Lily would vanish from the world.