The Flight of the Patronus
After Draco left, Snape warded his rooms as thoroughly as he could. This level of paranoia was, of course, business as usual for him whenever he was among other Death Eaters: no-one would remark upon security measures that would not have been out of place at Gringotts.
That done, he lifted his wand, watching the light spill down the glass-smooth ebony, remembering an entirely different light - a heinous, Unforgiveable green - that had burst from that black wood all too short a time before. His face was impassive, as it always was when he was afraid.
Afraid. What a trivial little word: too small to encompass the terror which he had leisure to allow himself to feel for the first time. The looming worry that he might have struck amiss. The fear that despite the sudden, total silence of Dumbledore's mind, he might not have entirely succumbed to the curse of the ring and the creeping poison of the cave's potion, before Snape's own spell was cast. Was this soul-deep ache how it felt, to have torn one's own spirit in two by committing murder?
What if I can't do this? What if he was wrong to have such faith in me?
Everything hung on this. If he, as a murderer, as a Death Eater, could no longer cast the spell at all, he would be left with no secure means of passing on information to the Order. Snape drew a long, deep breath, gathering his magical and mental energies as he did so. His eyes closed in one supreme moment of focus, of surrender, and he threw everything he was and everything he hoped and everything he'd been working for, all these years, into this moment. This spell.
What need of vulgar shouted words, when you can incant with the whole of your being?
Expecto Patronum!
Dark eyes snapped open, wide with the need to behold the result of his attempt. Even if Snape could still cast as well as he used to, he knew that his Patronus would never be trusted again, by the Order or by anyone else: his devious-twisted Sidewinder would be cursed on sight. Just as he would be.
Flame burst from his wand with a fierceness he had never seen before: a wildfire that could not be hindered by wands or wards, untameable by even the Darkest of the Arts. Neither leagues nor languages would stop it from carrying his tidings to any ears he wished.
As his Patronus took form above him, Snape's beaky face tightened, black eyes narrowing as if its light was too brilliant to be borne.
Wings of fire curved, mantling protectively over that dark, bowed head. Then those blazing pinions spread wide and the Phoenix soared away, disappearing in a final burst of flame.
The last sparks raised glimmering echoes in the stinging wet that welled between eyelids suddenly squeezed tight.
Thank you, Albus.
Throughout the Wizarding World, wherever they were, every member of the Order of the Phoenix received a visitation from a Patronus no-one had ever thought to see again; not now that Dumbledore was dead. To all of them it whispered the news, too quietly for any human voice to be identified in the words:
Tonight the Death Eaters attack Azkaban.
That done, he lifted his wand, watching the light spill down the glass-smooth ebony, remembering an entirely different light - a heinous, Unforgiveable green - that had burst from that black wood all too short a time before. His face was impassive, as it always was when he was afraid.
Afraid. What a trivial little word: too small to encompass the terror which he had leisure to allow himself to feel for the first time. The looming worry that he might have struck amiss. The fear that despite the sudden, total silence of Dumbledore's mind, he might not have entirely succumbed to the curse of the ring and the creeping poison of the cave's potion, before Snape's own spell was cast. Was this soul-deep ache how it felt, to have torn one's own spirit in two by committing murder?
What if I can't do this? What if he was wrong to have such faith in me?
Everything hung on this. If he, as a murderer, as a Death Eater, could no longer cast the spell at all, he would be left with no secure means of passing on information to the Order. Snape drew a long, deep breath, gathering his magical and mental energies as he did so. His eyes closed in one supreme moment of focus, of surrender, and he threw everything he was and everything he hoped and everything he'd been working for, all these years, into this moment. This spell.
What need of vulgar shouted words, when you can incant with the whole of your being?
Expecto Patronum!
Dark eyes snapped open, wide with the need to behold the result of his attempt. Even if Snape could still cast as well as he used to, he knew that his Patronus would never be trusted again, by the Order or by anyone else: his devious-twisted Sidewinder would be cursed on sight. Just as he would be.
Flame burst from his wand with a fierceness he had never seen before: a wildfire that could not be hindered by wands or wards, untameable by even the Darkest of the Arts. Neither leagues nor languages would stop it from carrying his tidings to any ears he wished.
As his Patronus took form above him, Snape's beaky face tightened, black eyes narrowing as if its light was too brilliant to be borne.
Wings of fire curved, mantling protectively over that dark, bowed head. Then those blazing pinions spread wide and the Phoenix soared away, disappearing in a final burst of flame.
The last sparks raised glimmering echoes in the stinging wet that welled between eyelids suddenly squeezed tight.
Thank you, Albus.
Throughout the Wizarding World, wherever they were, every member of the Order of the Phoenix received a visitation from a Patronus no-one had ever thought to see again; not now that Dumbledore was dead. To all of them it whispered the news, too quietly for any human voice to be identified in the words:
Tonight the Death Eaters attack Azkaban.