Chapter 42

What Doesn't Kill You

The high pitched scream rang loud and clear across the night sky. The yell was borne of fury and shock and frustrated anger, thirteen years of vitriol spilled out into the air. The shriek spewed forth and echoed across a destroyed graveyard, ringing a warning that seemed to shake the very ground.

The Dark Lord was angry, he was furious, he was wrath incarnate.

He stared at the empty space of grass in front of him that seconds ago held the most precious thing in the world. And now it was gone, vanished, melted into thin air. The boy escaped into the ether mere seconds before certain death. Why can I never end this wretched child?!

Lord Voldemort turned around, his crimson slits gleaming in the darkness. These pitiful wretches, sniveling cowards and useless rats, this ragged band of miscreants is what's left of my proud legion.

"Crucio!"

Red beams glowed in the darkness, soon accompanied by howls of pain and hurt. Headstones erupted in a shower of stone, grass burnt to a charred crisp, and the ground was chewed up and spit out into bits of dirt. Death Eaters scurried across a desolate graveyard, trying their best to avoid the lasers from hell.

Eventually the Dark Lord stopped screaming and the red beams died away, yelps and moans of the anguished were the only surviving sounds.

"Leave me," Lord Voldemort hissed. "I said…LEAVE ME!"

The graveyard filled with cracks and pops and soon the Dark Lord's only companions were a big green snake and the long ago ghosts of the graveyard. What had happened? How had it all gone awry?

Tonight was to be the culmination of years of hard work and scrupulous planning. The night's festivities had begun like clockwork, every minute detail meticulously planned and flawlessly executed. The former enemy quietly taken prisoner, the servant perfectly placed, the ancient spell ingeniously recreated…the boy had been alone, without aid or assistance. He had been surrounded by my devoted soldiers…I had been reborn and had my precious wand…and yet again fate intervened…snatching defeat from the jaws of victory…

Lord Voldemort played the scene over and over in his mind as he aimlessly walked about the cemetery. What had happened?

The green killing curse had hit the red defensive spell and suddenly the two brother wands had become one. A bright, deep gold beam of light had grabbed ahold of the two and never let go. It has raised both Lord and boy into the air and carried them around the air and then suddenly, both combatants were encased in a golden dome-shaped web, a brilliant cage of light that cut them off from the cares and wants of the world.

Lord Voldemort had obsessively studied both the light and dark, he had unraveled past mysteries and pushed the boundaries of magic farther than they had ever been pushed before, he possessed a rich and deep reservoir of magical knowledge that would impress even the most learned historian, and yet, he had never even heard of the golden phenomenon that had taken place tonight. And then there were the ghosts of his past…

Lord Voldemort shuddered in the chilly night air, even the most fearsome dark wizard of all time had been unsettled by the appearance of his former victims. The man who fears death fears its emissaries just as deeply, and they had seemed so real…

I had used the cursed child's own blood! How could there still be a lasting shield cloaked about him?! The bitch's lingering protection should have been destroyed tonight! A tired voice, from long ago, sounded loudly in the night…"You understand much, but not everything…you underestimate the power…of love…"

"Shut up you old fool! You know nothing!" Lord Voldemort waved his wand in another bout of fury and more headstones dissolved into angry pieces. What had happened?

"Wormtail! Show yourself!"

Crack!

A short, stubby figured appeared beside the Dark Lord, cloaked and hooded in dark robes. The hunched man dropped to his knees, one pale hand and one silver hand clasped together in supplication.

"Please master…please…"

"Shut your godforsaken sniveling or I'll cut out your useless tongue."

Wormtail shivered and mouthed some feeble plea, but no sound issued forth.

"Fetch some food for Nagini and bring me the old Dornish tome from the Seven Cities…now!"

Wormtail scurried off into the mist, a giant serpent slithering along in his wake. Lord Voldemort found a secluded spot near an old yew tree and passed the time thumbing through an ancient book with golden Farsi script and illuminated pages, while his devoted snake consumed a small deer and his piteous servant sat quietly nearby, a constant twitch upon his brow.

As Lord Voldemort read the text again and again, searching for an explanation of the night's events, his thoughts kept floating back to a singular question, "What now?"

All his painstaking plans had hinged on the boy's death – I was to be unstoppable! I was to declare my rebirth from the shadows and strike fear into the magical community that celebrated my death and mercilessly persecuted my faithful flock.

Instead, abject failure had come calling once again. The boy had miraculously escaped, another unbelievable stroke of luck, another piece of ancient magic unknown and unforeseen. Fate conspired against the great Lord Voldemort once again…but it was of no matter. I will not be denied; for just as the mighty sea breaks upon the surf, just as the sun rises and sets, just as the world keeps spinning, I will rule the world until the end of days.

A calmness settled over the Dark Lord as he sat quietly, contemplating his next move. I will simply have to operate in the shadows for a time longer, sow discord and distrust amongst my enemies with an invisible hand. Tonight will be of no consequence, I have risen like Lazarus and the child will die in time. Still, as long as the boy lives…

"Shut your filthy sobbing or I promise you Nagini will soon be having dessert!"

Wormtail shoved his face deeper into his robes and turned away, trying in vain to squelch his uncontrollable cries that had suddenly arisen…such a wretched existence for a wizard of such noble birth. Lord Voldemort turned in irritation to his servant and raised his wand when…

Crack!

A popping sound echoed in the nearby graveyard, the unmistakable sound of magic. Lord Voldemort turned his head to the sound, Nagini unhinged her jaw to quickly gulp down the last of her meal and Wormtail peered out from his tattered robes in shock.

"Go…"

Nagini slithered away into the darkness and Wormtail scurried after the serpent without a second glance at his master. Lord Voldemort slowly rose and began to make his way to the ruined boneyard. He raised his wand to his lips – how I've missed the feeling of holding this – and blew upon its tip. A red mist floated out and scouted ahead of him, swimming silently in the night air to seek out any signs of deception or duplicity. When the red mist dissolved into the night sky with nary a sound, the Dark Lord knew that whatever waited for him up ahead was nothing to fear…

A tall, thin man walked through the night – a white skull with sunken, crimson eyes and a nose that was flat as a snake's with slits for nostrils. He emerged through a wavy mist and entered a wrecked graveyard, the grass cool and dewy on his bare feet. The home of his wretched father's bones, the site of his rebirth and a witness to another one of his failures at the hands of that insufferable child.

Lord Voldemort spied a cloaked and hooded figure kneeling silently in the middle of the ruined boneyard, his wand sticking out of the ground in front of him like a gnarled wooden finger. The Dark Lord stood in front of the penitent man, another beggar come calling with his hand out to seek forgiveness from a God.

"I smell guilt on you, as I did with your brothers…but no fear," hissed the Dark Lord. "Not yet…why have you come calling Severus Snape? You must know I've no use for traitors and turncoats."

The kneeled figure quaked and shivered in apprehension, but still removed his cloak and dared to look up at his Lord – pitiless pools of jet black met burning red slits of lava.

"Tonight, when I called out, many of my Death Eaters came back to me…save for a few missing soldiers who had once promised me undying and everlasting fealty. The Brothers Lestrange and Bellatrix were not here tonight…do you know why Severus?"

The skinny reed kneeling before Lord Voldemort dared not reply, rather, he listened intently to the sermon he was receiving from a dark preacher.

"They sit and wait for me patiently in Azkaban…they would rather suffer and rot in the dark than forsake the vows they pledged to me! True loyalty, leal and honor bound soldiers of the dark. Jackson, Emery, Winston and Walcott also did not come receive me tonight…you know why, don't you? Four true servants who died long ago in my service.

"There were others as well; McKinley and Eberhard and Arthur of the Black. But these are cowards who will rue their foolishness. Who else have I not mentioned? Tell me Severus…who else is missing…the final members of my true inner circle…TELL ME!"

"I did not come my Lord."

"Who else? Think! He's been with you all year at your precious school."

"Igor."

Lord Voldemort let out a laugh, an evil and unnatural sound, bereft of any mirth or joy.

"Ah yes, too cowardly to return…he will pay, and soon…yes, Karkaroff will pay the blood price, but he's not who I speak of. There is another…"

"My Lord?"

"Who else is missing Severus? Who have I not yet named? Who has remained my most faithful servant lo these many years? Who has already reentered my service? Alas, who has never left me?"

Snape ran through the names of his former life…who was missing? Who had been with me at Hogwarts all year?

"Karkaroff and I were the only ones. I swear it, my Lord."

"You swear it," sneered Lord Voldemort. "YOU SWEAR IT?!"

Lord Voldemort unsheathed his wand…"CRUCIO!"

The Death Eater on the ground writhed and shirked in horrible pain as his insides were twisted out; surely the horrible wailing would carry to the houses around…finally Voldemort raised his wand and the tortured figure lay flat upon the ground, gasping for air like a beached fish.

"Which faithful servant was alongside you throughout the year? You must have sensed the truth at times, or have your powers left you? You will die tonight for your betrayal Severus the snake…how much pain you experience before is up to you…"

"Barty Crouch, my lord."

"Yesss…my most faithful servant was reborn as well, into an Auror."

Lord Voldemort allowed himself another fit of twisted laughter as he began to pace around panting Snape.

"Right under your nose," taunted Lord Voldemort, and then his face darkened. "And right under the nose of that old fool! He was there the whole time, helping the child along, prepping him to die at just the right moment like a calf brought for slaughter…my devoted servant has been whispering in my ear all year. Dumbledore's suspicions, the school's security, and some very disappointing tales about his erstwhile brother…"

Lord Voldemort stopped in front of Snape and kicked at him, "Get up."

Snape lumbered to his feet, hunched over in pain, standing a good head shorter than his master.

"You think me a fool?! Tell me now, this very instant – when will the old fool arrive?!"

"No one is coming but me, my lord."

"Why are you here?! Surely you must have known I'd never let you leave my presence alive…tell me…why are you here?!"

"My Lord I…I was lost, but now I'm found. When you fell…it was chaos, complete bedlam…I…I was weak. I didn't want to face punishment from the corrupt. I've never been strong, I couldn't face the island again…"

"Look at me…what are you doing here?!"

"I strayed my Lord, I strayed far from the illuminated path…but I never left it. I've been in limbo, in a hellish purgatory…I've been waiting…"

Lord Voldemort reached out a slender pale finger and arched it under Snape's chin – a long thin nail drew the potions master's up to the heavens, to gaze upon dark crimson slits of fire and brimstone.

"Am I to believe you knew I was coming back? Why are you here…"

…Lord Voldemort was clad in a long dark traveling cloak and black robes as he strode through a field of long grain wheat, the tan colored crop rose waist high and waved in time with a gentle breeze. The day was bright, yet no sun hung in the sky and the air was a perfect temperature, just so between warm and cold. The Dark Lord floated on until he suddenly came to the end of the field and upon an old country road – a gloomy house stood ahead.

Lord Voldemort walked across gravel and sand, through a dirt yard and up cracked porch steps. The house trembled and quaked in fear. it shuddered in apprehension as the Dark Lord raised a bony white fist and knocked upon the front door.

Rat-a-tat-tat…rat-a-tat-tat…rat-a-tat-tat…

No hello or welcome sounded from within, but the door soundlessly swung inward to reveal a shadowy alcove. The Dark Lord crossed the threshold and the air immediately began to fill with soft cries, muted whispers and low wails. The door slammed shut of its own volition and a ghostly pale light permeated the house.

Lord Voldemort walked into a sitting room on his left. It was a plain, spartanly furnished room, with a rocking chair, dilapidated old sofa and a black and white television the only pieces of furniture. A reedy pale-faced child was sitting on the sofa staring at the flickering television, a buzzing sound of white noise disquietly filling the room.

The child had milky-white rheumy eyes and jaundiced skin, a vapid expression on his sunken face. The Dark Lord stood over him, blocking the television and eyeing him curiously, but the boy paid him no mind. The same boy also sat in the rocking chair, crying and red faced…and the child was also sitting in the crummy sofa with a bruised face and bloody lip.

Images flashed into the room as the Dark Lord silently watched; a silhouetted man appeared to chase a ghostly image of the boy and violently backhanded the child into the floor, but the scene vanished as quickly as it had appeared. A specter of a crying woman curled up in pain in front of the rocking chair floated in and out of existence, while the red eyed boy stared blankly at the floor.

Lord Voldemort reached down and forced the child sitting on the sofa to look at him; the child stared up at the dark wizard with unfocused eyes, betraying not a hint of fear or confusion or any emotion at all. After a few moments the Dark Lord moved on from the room, leaving behind the unsettling and creepy triplets, and walked through a foyer littered with pictures of a gloomy looking family and into a hovel of a kitchen. The floors were stained with grease, the wallpaper was peeling in ugly rashes and dirty cracks littered the walls – a threadbare table stood alone in the center and a discolored stove was set into a wall.

A sallow-faced child ran through Lord Voldemort and into the kitchen and began to furiously search the room – knocking over the table, kicking over worn down chairs, opening and slamming shut the stove, coarsely rooting through a bare pantry cupboard. The child then flickered and melted into the ether…a few moments later he ran into the kitchen all over again and the panicked scene replayed itself.

A howl thundered from above and the Dark Lord left the kitchen to ascend a ramshackle staircase. From the walls hung portraits of a pallid child with a hooked nose, an ugly woman with black hair and an angry looking man with pockmarked skin. The second floor of the eerie house comprised of a long hallway with several rooms that had no doors.

A moldy, creaky staircase lay at the end of the hall and the Dark Lord swept towards it, peering every so often into the open rooms; one held a hook-nosed man shouting at a cowering woman, while a small dark-haired boy cried in a corner; another showed a greasy-haired teenager sitting alone in a dark bedroom, pointing his wand at the ceiling, shooting down flies.

The Dark Lord reached the end of the hallway and peered up the old rickety staircase – it rose for several steps and then disappeared into a thick, penetrating darkness. The Dark Lord ascended slowly, each step creaking and groaning under his full weight. He pierced darkness with no fear and an old attic materialized – within stood the pockmarked hook-nosed man whose portrait had hung on the walls below.

The man walked in angry gin-soaked circles, a bottle cradled in his hand, muttering incessantly to himself – drunken rabble from a drunken sod. From time to time he would throw the gin bottle against a wall and it would smash to pieces in a loud burst, yet, the glass pieces would quiver and jump back together and soon the bottle would reappear whole and unbroken in his hand as he continued to pace around.

"I know this already!" The Dark Lord's roar rattled about the attic. "You're from half-blood stock, born from muggle seed…impure and dirty! I know the secret of your filthy muggle father!"

The Dark Lord rushed out of the attic in anger, pushing aside an old woman and a young boy who were walking up the stairs. He flew down the second floor hallway, pushing past a pretty red-headed child without as much as a second glance. The small child fell to the ground and her green eyes flashed with anger at the dark wizard who had brushed her aside.

Soon the Dark Lord found himself back in the entryway foyer, growing more and more impatient. He smashed a hallway mirror to pieces and ripped brass fixtures down from the walls. A nervous rattling jingled behind him, and when he turned he spied a door that had not been there a moment before – a dark black frame with decaying wooden borders. It rattled and struggled against its hinges as if a great wind flowed behind it, threatening to burst from the seams at any moment.

Lord Voldemort approached the quacking door, but there was no handle, no knob to turn. He pushed against the door, threw his shoulder into it over and over again, but the door stood tall and closed. The Dark Lord let out a furious yell, stepped back and kicked hard at the black rectangle. The door splintered and then bent inwards on itself – faded and worn wood steps lay before him.

The Dark Lord made his way down into a dark, damp cellar where a yawning blackness welcomed him. Eerie sounds resided down here: ghostly whimpers, raspy wheezes and childish squeals. The Dark Lord went forth and a young pale man appeared from the darkness, holding up a pale hand and barring his way.

"You will tell me everything Severus…"

The young man melted away into smoke and in his place the air shimmered; discolored images played out against the dark backdrop, as if a flickering projector was running from above: an ashen faced child watching a young red-headed girl from behind the cover of a green-briar bush, a skinny boy skulking around a house late at night and peering through open windows, a hook-nosed teenager reddening in anger as a pretty girl with green eyes laughed at a handsome boy, a pale teenager softy crying in a forest as a young couple embraced nearby…

Minutes later the Dark Lord stepped out of the house and into a sand swept backyard. His black robe was smeared with white dust and a small rivulet of blood dripped from his pale knuckles. He looked back to the old dilapidated house and frowned in concentration…magical genes tinged with muggle pollution; unfortunate but not unheard of…an obsession with a mudblood; disappointing and disgusting but lesser men were known to suffer from base weaknesses of the flesh and such indiscretions could be overlooked…yet there was something else…

Large cracks began to appear on the walls of the house, jagged rips opened in the brick and mortar, as if the house itself were bursting from its seams. The ground began to rumble underneath Lord Voldemort's feet, an earthquake aftershock, a lonely tremor from the bowels of the land itself. The Dark Lord crimson eyes turned back to the dirt yard and something in the far back corner caught his evil eye.

In mere seconds Lord Voldemort was across the yard and upon an oubliette built into the dirt ground. He stamped on the brown trapdoor, buckling its hinges and rupturing the wood. Again and again he slammed his foot down; splinters grew into fissures, which gave way to gaping holes, until the wood itself crumbled to pieces.

The door crashed down in a violent splinter, revealing a tunnel that led into a small dark room. And staring back up at the Dark Lord was an old man with a long white beard, a crooked nose and piercing blue eyes…

…Lord Voldemort stood once more in the broken churchyard. He pupils were milky white, but the cloudiness soon evaporated and red flames soon appeared, crimson and scarlet with angry power. He sucked in a large mouthful of air, as if he had just breached a deep ocean cover after being trapped beneath it, greedily sucking in the night air and filling his black lungs.

Before him lay a twisted man; broken and spread eagled on the hard ground, head lolled to one side and a pink tongue hanging out. Snape's face was covered in spittle and plum colored bruises, ugly scratches lined his wan cheeks and blood flowed freely from his nose and ears.

Lord Voldemort looked down with contempt at the warped creature that lay damaged before him.

"Rennervate!"

A flash of brilliantly colored red light blazed forward and slammed into Snape. His chest convulsed and then pulsed upward, his black eyes flicked open…a violent coughing fit then enveloped him. Snape grunted and heaved for a few painful seconds and then wretched all over himself, discoloring his robes and cloak with blood and green sickness.

"Muggle father, carnal lust for a filthy mudblood wretch and most troubling indeed…acceptance and a deep seated fondness for the greatest blood traitor to ever live, you've grown to love the old fool? You've been quite busy these past few years…"

"Please my Lord," choked out Snape. "I…I did what I had to…to survive. I was alone…"

"Spare me Severus, I have seen all you've done! No one can hold back from Lord Voldemort, not even a favorite son such as yourself. Any last words before I send you to squealing like a stuck pig to your slovenly father and pitiful slut of a mother?"

"My Lord?" Snape sputtered the words out as a question. His mind flashed back to thoughts and dreams of yesteryear – he had always imagined his death to be one of heroic sacrifice, borne from love and loyalty to his fallen best friend. But to die in an empty graveyard, with only the Dark Lord to witness his end? To die alone and in the dark, covered in his own blood and sickness? A pitiful, yet fair end, to an inadequate life full of failed potential. Tears began to swim in his black eyes as fear seeped into Snape's mind.

"I – I want you to know…that I wavered and cowered and hid, yes, but I never forgot what you once gave me. I've been craven, but I've never forgotten the pain and fear you rescued me from. I hope what you saw in me was not just the weaknesses and mistakes, I pray you saw the useful bits of information I've acquired about your true enemies.

"Dumbledore and his minions have feared Your return since the night You fell. He's been preparing for Your return…protected the boy at all costs…even reached into death itself to try and discover your secrets and use them against you. He still controls the Order, has far reaching plans to make the boy stronger than ever and reveal your existence to the world. But the Ministry is in denial; they are the ignorant ostrich, burying its head in the sand."

Snape paused a moment to spit out a mouthful of blood, before more words came tumbling out; trying to delay the hangman's noose, using his silver tongue to buy a few more moments of life.

"You saved me and I repaid you with abandonment and lies, but I promise you I've never forgotten! Didn't you see that as well?! I still hold the Dark Mark, it has not consumed me! I still live to serve! If I can best oblige you this way, by dying here and now, then I do so willingly. You've just stood witness to my past and present, and if taking my future pleases you…I gladly welcome the kiss. I give my life in earnest…a life that has always been yours."

"I don't need you to give me anything! I can take your life at any moment! The ant has no quarrel with the boot!"

"Yes, my Lord," squawked Snape as he struggled to one knee, the convict kneeling before his executioner. He bent low before the Dark Lord and cowed his head. "Take my life and release me from this vile purgatory I've been lost in since my one true Lord fell."

"You think your forked tongue will save you now? Rise!"

Snape slowly pulled himself up and stood punch drunk before the Dark Lord, a smashed scarecrow of a man. He looked as though he had been dragged for miles behind a truck and would collapse at any moment. The Dark Lord's crimson slits flared angrily and he raised his wand with a flourish. There was a whoosh, a loud bang, and a large plume of smoke erupted in front of Snape. He stumbled backward in a coughing fit and when the smoke cleared, a scared man appeared between him and the greatest Dark wizard to ever live.

Anxious sweat poured down the man's face, sliding across a beetled brow and along dimpled cheeks, coursing down a fleshy neck. He swept his head back and forth between the two strangely garbed men. "I'm sorry, I wasn't eavesdropping…I…I swear it! I heard noises and lights, I thought it was a…a…"

"You thought it was a late-night party…looking for a certain young girl, weren't you?" Lord Voldemort's voice loudly sounded across the empty graveyard.

"No, I swear it, I wasn't looking for no piece of tail! I was–," squealed the man but his voice cut off with a start. He continued to mouth frantic pleas and denials, but no sound escaped his lips.

"You swear you're still loyal to the dark?"

"Yes my Lord."

"How can you justify your actions? Lord Voldemort does not forgive easily."

"You taught me to use cunningness to my own ends…that no one in this world can be counted on save for myself. That the only one in this world to provide for me…was me."

"Why did you not search for me?"

"None of us did my lord."

"I didn't ask about your brothers and sisters!"

"I wavered…I was spineless…I thought… I thought my Lord had left me for good…"

Lord Voldemort ignored the silent muggle pig rolling around the grass, had eyes only for his former soldier.

"I am not a cruel man Severus, I understand the weaknesses that disease lesser men. If I did not forgive, I would not have many soldiers left in my flock, would I? I have offered the others who came crawling back to me tonight chances to show their continued loyalty…and I will offer you the same. Lord Voldemort is nothing if not merciful. But I will never forget those who stayed true all this time and those who didn't."

"Yes my Lord."

"When you entered my service I told you the path would be hard, the way treacherous and difficult, did I not?"

"Yes my Lord."

"It is likely that I may still kill you when I've finished with you and you're no longer valuable to me, for one day you will answer for your sins when you've outgrown your usefulness."

"It is only just, my Lord."

"You can prove to me once again your leal service. Choose Severus, quickly now, life or death."

"My Lord? I don't understand."

Lord Voldemort did not answer, rather, he stepped back and stood quietly beside a cracked headstone, watching and waiting. Snape looked around the graveyard, searching for a clue but there was nothing in the graveyard except despair, there was only him and his Lord and…the muggle. Snape rest his tired eyes upon the frightened man, who was cowering on the ground and screaming silent pleas of mercy to the heavens.

They made a queer threesome; the tall and imposing Dark Lord robed in deep black wool with a hint of crimson and emerald, Snape in a ripped robe and cloak, covered in blood and bile; and a panic stricken common born man who could not wake from this confusing nightmare.

Snape looked at his Lord and knew exactly what price he must pay – he must either do something he swore to himself he'd never do again and sully his soul once more, or spare an innocent and pay the blood price himself.

Snape tried to convince himself he had no other options, and truly…

What choice do I have?

The Dark Lord will kill the eavesdropping muggle no matter what, so why must I die as well? It's a cold world, dog eat dog, kill or be killed. I might perish anyway, but shouldn't I at least try to survive this crucible? Why should I die for some stranger, some base born sheep? The meddling fool should have stayed home and not come snooping into business that was of no concern to him. He was out and about late at night looking for trouble, searching for a young girl mayhaps.

And what is one innocent life against another? What is the life of one innocent man if it may save me, and could lead to the power to save hundreds of other innocents in the future? Better one guiltless man go without, if it means a hundred guilty go without as well. It was the law of the jungle, nature's brutal code…aut neca aut necare.

But the justifications rang hollow in Snape's throttled mind.

Could I truly prevent a dark future and help shape the course of the history? Perhaps. Could I take one dark step in order to take a hundred light ones?

One life may not matter in the grand scheme of life, it may not even amount to a teardrop in the river of eternity, but it was a blameless life and did not deserve a horrid fate. It was not for Snape to decide the fate of another, but he must. And Snape wanted to live. He knew now, right here in this instant, that he was not ready to meet his maker. He did not want to die in the rubble of a wrecked boneyard, he wanted to live. For her.

Snape reached down and tried to pull his wand out of the soft green earth, but the wooden shaft would not budge. He pulled and pulled, sweat pooling on his brow despite the cool night, yet the soft ground would not yield his wand. Snape relaxed his grip and looked up with grim understanding. He removed his worn and musty robes that were caked with dried blood and foul smelling sickness, revealing a snug undershirt and tan laced breeches that hugged to his stringy frame.

Snape took a long deep breath to stay the hot tears that were threatening to make an appearance and steeled his face into a hard grimace. His mind began locking down and cutting off his emotions, empathy and compassion melted away into cold, empty deadness. He walked with dark purpose towards the cowering muggle, his eyes black as night, his pale hands slowly curling into tight fists…

…Severus Snape stared at himself in the streaked, water stained mirror – crow's feet lined his tired eyes, sunken cheeks were marked with red blotches and bedraggled hair was tangled in black knots. He was stark naked, his only clothing were scars, bruises and deep gashes across his chest and back. His nails were cracked and crusted with dirt and dried red blood; he grimaced and saw a tooth was missing, a black empty space remained where it used to hang.

A pale hand reached out for an ornately carved metallic snake head and the reptilian head turned slowly to the left – clear crisp water flowed from a serpentine maw and dropped into a wide circular basin. Snape dipped cupped hands under the cool stream and the white water flowing into the basin soon became tinged with dark red, brown and green swirls – a kaleidoscope of water, blood, dirt and sickness.

Soft footsteps padded up to the bathroom door, soon accompanied by soft knocking.

"Severus? Are you alright?"

The only reply was the dull sound of the cold water running from the metal snake tap, a steady unbroken stream of clear liquid.

"Severus? Shall I fetch Poppy?"

More questions of concern persisted for a time, but soon the footsteps receded and Snape was alone once again. He let the cold water cleanse his hands, if not his conscience, and then splashed his face over and over again, the cool water sluicing through his greasy hair, along his face and down the nape of his neck. The water left a trail of prickly goosebumps in its wake, washing away tired sweat and sliding down weary muscles and old bones.

Snape could not bear to look at himself any longer and turned away from the mirror, finding a damp corner of the bathroom. He leaned against a white tiled wall and slowly slumped to the ground, a streak of red marking the tiles as he met the ground. He hugged his knees to his bony chest and rested his cheek upon them, quietly listening to the drip drip drip of the serpentine faucet.

And then Severus Snape quietly cried himself to sleep.