Fic: Walk Your Lonely Road
Walk Your Lonely Road by snarkyroxy
Characters: Snape, Draco, Bellatrix
Genres: Angst
Word Count: 4262
Rating: PG and a bit
Also archived at: OWL and fanfiction.net
Summary: After fleeing Hogwarts in the aftermath of Dumbledore's death, Snape and Draco find themselves holed up at Spinner's End. The conversation takes an unexpected turn when loyalties are revealed, and the time for difficult and life-changing decisions is at hand.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Alas. If Snape was mine, I’d have better ways to occupy my time than with writing about him… :P
Author’s Note: It’s all emlouise’s fault! She gave me a prompt to write a fic in which the key characters are Bellatrix, Draco and Snape, set just after HBP, location Spinner’s End, and key themes to include fear, comfort, and discussions of allegiance… Okay, so there’s not much comfort, but anyway…on with the story.
Many thanks to feathersindigo for beta reading!
It was raining when Severus Snape emerged from the Dark Lord’s hideout in the early hours of the morning. He spared a cursory nod to the two sentries posted on the outer gates, wrapped in heavy cloaks to shelter them from the downpour; he didn’t recognise either of the men, nor did he care. Sentry duty was for the lowest of Voldemort’s ranks… those with whom he was displeased, or those who were yet to prove their worth.
Snape had certainly proven his worth last night.
His hands shook slightly as he raised his own hood, and in a flash of lightning from the stormy sky, he saw a trickle of blood on his wrist and palm. Rubbing at it with his thumb, he discovered it was still sticky, and he pushed his sleeve up to reveal more blood and a deep gash on his inner forearm.
“Blasted animal,” he swore softly under his breath.
The Hippogriff that had attacked him as he’d duelled with Potter before fleeing Hogwarts hours before had left its mark; the sleeves and shoulders of his robes beneath the cloak were shredded. The cloak itself had been hastily donned prior to going before the Dark Lord; the less questions asked, the less he had to explain… it had been a harrowing enough meeting as it was.
The Dark Lord had spent over an hour sifting through his mind, forcing him to relive the moment he had cast the Killing Curse at Dumbledore; over and over it played, until he collapsed to his knees from the sheer exhaustion of trying to Occlude his emotions at the time of the murder from his master. The other man had been far too pleased with the outcome of the memories to notice that the hatred radiating from Snape as he cast the deadly curse was not hatred for the man he had killed, but rather pure self-loathing for what he had been forced to do.
He had known for some months it could come to this. The Unbreakable Vow he had made with Draco’s mother last summer had only reinforced the Vow he had already made to Dumbledore all those years ago… to do whatever was asked of him without question or hesitation. Even if that meant killing the man to whom he had sworn that very thing.
After the adrenaline rush of his escape from Hogwarts, a numbness had settled over his mind in a poor attempt not to think about what he had done. The Dark Lord’s probing had brought it all to the forefront of his mind again, and the weight of grief was bearing down on him more heavily with each passing moment.
He was weary. So weary.
For the first time in almost twenty years, he felt completely and utterly alone. The accolades from the Dark Lord meant nothing to him; being honoured above all other Death Eaters, being permitted to stand shoulder to shoulder with his master while all others knelt in subservience… he had never wanted that.
The wizarding world would be out for his blood. No matter what course the rest of this war took, he would be dead at its conclusion. If Potter defeated the Dark Lord, Snape would be tried for Dumbledore’s murder and given the Dementor’s Kiss. If the Dark Lord won, he would have shown his true colours in a last, desperate attempt to help Potter win, and he would be tortured and killed by those who now hailed him a hero.
And the only person who could testify to the tireless work he had been doing for the Order was dead. Killed by his own hand.
With a heavy sigh, he closed his eyes and Disapparated, reappearing two streets away from his home. The rain was heavier here, the wind unusually cold for June, but he paid it no heed. Perhaps the coldness would seep into his very soul, numbing the pain as it already had his icy hands.
Striding through the dark streets of the near-abandoned industrial suburb, he kept the shadows, sense alert as he turned the corner into Spinner’s End. The mill tower loomed at the end of the street, silhouetted against the roiling grey sky as another flash of lightning split the heavy clouds.
A tingling feeling at the back of his neck as he stepped through the front gate let him know someone else was already inside the house. Tightening his grip on his wand, he moved stealthily towards the door; casting a silent eavesdropping charm, he listened for sounds within. The two voices he heard were familiar, and he breathed a sigh of mixed relief and irritation. One he was thankful to hear - he had much to discuss with its owner; the other, he could have done without. He’d have to rid himself of her quickly. As he listened, the talking stopped and he heard a door open and then close… the door leading to the kitchen and outhouse, if he wasn’t mistaking the squeaky hinge.
There was a soft cough from within the sitting room, confirming the older of his two visitors was still in the room. Good. He’d deal with her first.
Lifting the latch, he pushed the door open, raising his wand just in time to deflect the Stunner that jetted from the opposite side of the room.
He raised one eyebrow at his would-be attacker as he closed the door and lowered his hood.
“How impolite to attack your host, even if you are an uninvited guest, Bellatrix.”
The dark-haired woman lowered her wand and snorted disdainfully.
“Not the sort of place I’d welcome being invited to, Snape. Where have you been?”
Snape took his time answering, crossing the room and shrugging out of cloak with deliberate slowness. After hanging it on the coat-stand in the corner, he turned back to see his guest standing with her arms folded impatiently.
“I don’t believe I am required to explain myself to you.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Bellatrix smirked nastily, sauntering across the room to stand close before him. “Everyone save the Dark Lord himself answers to you, now, is that right?”
The dripping sarcasm in her tone rang clear, and he narrowed his eyes, refusing to be baited. Fighting back only provoked her further.
“Although, if you fancy yourself to be our Lord’s second in command…” She reached out a hand and fingered the torn sleeve of his shirt, one corner of her mouth curling with contempt, “…you may consider purchasing some new clothes. One can hardly command respect in such tattered garments.”
Swiftly, he took her wrist in a bruising grip, twisting it when she tried to yank her arm away.
“Oh, but I do command respect, Bella,” he whispered malevolently, using his grip on her arm to pull her against him. “In fact, while you are in my house, I demand it. Either comply, or get out.”
“I’ll leave when I’m good and ready, Snape,” she spat, pulling away from him again. This time, he released her arm and allowed her to claim back her personal space. “Before I do, I have a matter to settle with you on behalf of my nephew.”
Snape snorted, wondering what the young Malfoy was doing down the back of the house. Lurching his guts into the toilet, he thought, if the brief glance of the boy he’d seen earlier at the Dark Lord’s hideout was anything to go by. Draco had gone before his master as soon as they’d arrived, and it had not been a favourable meeting.
“Draco is quite capable of looking out for himself,” Snape said unconcernedly, striding across the room to a cabinet beside the long bookshelf. He withdrew a decanter of whiskey and a single glass, not bothering to offer his unwanted guest a drink as he added, “If he has something to discuss with me, he can do so himself.”
“After he’s finished hurling his guts into your toilet?”
Just as I thought. Snape kept his face impassive as he returned to the middle of the room, lowered himself into his favourite, threadbare armchair and swirled the amber liquid slowly in his glass.
“I take it the Dark Lord was not pleased with his failure.”
“His failure?” she echoed in disbelief, eyes flashing angrily. “He failed because you stuck that beak of a nose in where it wasn’t wanted. He would have completed his task, but no… Severus Snape couldn’t bear to be upstaged by a mere teenager.”
“He hesitated, Bella,” Snape said shortly. “You know how the Dark Lord abhors lack of conviction. He hesitated, and had I done the same, neither of us would have made it from the Hogwarts grounds alive.”
“Rubbish,” she scorned. “You never gave him a chance.”
Snape took a sip of whiskey.
“Whatever delusion of grandeur you harbour, Bella, rest assured not everyone seeks fortune and glory in the Dark Lord’s service. I did what I had to do and what Draco could not, and that is the end of it. I daresay your indignance on Draco’s behalf is a poor attempt at disguising the jealousy at not having been there to take Dumbledore’s life yourself.”
Snape smirked in triumph when Bellatrix huffed petulantly and flung herself into the empty chair across from him.
“He is my nephew,” she sniffed, in a manner very reminiscent of her younger sister, Draco’s mother.
“Ah, but of course. You were merely concerned for his well-being, isn’t that right?” He chuckled softly, nastily. “How… touching.”
“He’s family, Snape.” Her voice was suddenly cold. “We take care of our own. Still, can’t expect you to understand that… didn’t you kill your own father in a fit of magical rage?”
Snape stood abruptly. Only the whiskey glass in his hand prevented him from drawing his wand and hexing the woman in front of him. As it was, he barely avoided cracking the glass in his tightened, angry grip.
“Out.”
His voice was pure ice, and she stared at him for a moment, tracing her lips idly with one thumb.
“It seems I’ve hit a nerve,” she finally said, a cruel smile curling the corner of her mouth. She rose from her chair and moved towards the door, deliberately brushing close as she passed him. Snape closed his eyes, his body fairly shaking with rage. And knowing Bellatrix Lestrange as he did, he knew she wasn’t finished yet, either.
“Enjoy the Dark Lord’s favour while it lasts,” she whispered, her breath warm and rancid on his face. “I trust you no more than I did this time last year, and when I discover what you’re keeping from us all, you’ll wish Dumbledore had killed you.”
Usually quick to return jibe or insult, Snape was silent. An instant later, a cold blast of icy wind hit him, then the door slammed and Bellatrix was gone.
Shaken, he collapsed into his chair again, raising the whiskey glass to his lips with a trembling hand and downing a large gulp. At any other time, the Death Eater’s taunts would not have bothered him. Now, though, after everything that had happened this night… she had hit a nerve, though not the one she had suspected.
True, he had killed his father… but the man had been a Muggle bastard whose fear of magic led him to try to beat the gift out of his only son. On the last night of the summer holidays between his sixth and seventh year, Severus Snape had shown his father just how terrifying magic could be. And had never regretted the action since.
What Snape did regret - this day above all those that had gone before it - was that Dumbledore hadn’t killed him.
His own death would have been far preferable to the events that had unfolded over the last year, culminating in the Headmaster’s death earlier that night.
He shook his head in a effort to clear the images of what had happened atop the Astronomy Tower from his mind. It was no use… the accepting look on the old wizard’s face, the sadness in his blue eyes as he held Snape’s gaze, a silent conversation they’d had many times aloud before passing between them…
Severus… please…
Those who had heard the desperation in the Headmaster’s voice might have assumed he was pleading for his life. On the contrary, the aging wizard had been begging for his death.
And he, Severus Snape, had been given little choice but to oblige.
“Professor! You’re back.”
Snape looked up to see Malfoy emerge from the kitchen. The younger man wiped the corner of his mouth as he sat down, uninvited, on the lumpy old couch; he looked even pastier than earlier that night.
“Where’s Aunt Bella?”
“Bellatrix has taken her leave.” As he spoke, Snape rose and crossed to the small cabinet in the corner again. He refilled his glass and poured another for his young guest, taking a deep breath to gather his thoughts before he turned back and handed the second glass to the blond.
“The Dark Lord wishes you to remain here until he calls upon you again. I expect it will be a day or two.”
“The longer the better,” Malfoy said, a visible shudder running through his body as he clenched the whiskey glass tightly in both hands.
“You do not wish to serve your Master?” Snape asked sharply, narrowing his eyes when the boy paled even more.
“I- I- of course I do,” he said quickly, eyes widening with undisguised fear for an instant, before he dropped them to the floor. “Just… he wasn’t pleased with me tonight.”
Snape watched as the boy continued to gaze at the floor, wondering if it was the Dark Lord’s wrath, or events earlier in the night, that saw him so usually subdued now? It wasn’t the first time this year Snape had suspected the boy was regretting how deeply he’d already become involved in Voldemort’s service. Was his inability to cast the Killing Curse at the Headmaster merely a moment of weakness, or a sign of reluctance to complete the task he had been assigned at all? Snape intended to find out.
After their mad flight from Hogwarts, their hasty Apparition had seen them stumbling breathless outside the Dark Lord’s hideout. Draco had been breathing hard, wild-eyed, and he’d backed away from Snape as though he’d thought the older man would kill him for his inaction.
“Come,” Snape had ordered imperiously, masking his own roiling emotions with a carefully-schooled, cold expression.
That had made their way quickly into the underground chambers inhabited by Voldemort. Word of what had happened at Hogwarts had spread like wildfire, and while Malfoy was summoned to go before the Dark Lord immediately, Snape had to endure over an hour of the other Death Eaters’ celebrations and congratulations. Some were even so bold as to slap him on the back and claim they’d known all along he’d simply been biding his time to rid them all of the old bastard.
Finally, and with only a shred of his temper remaining, he had been summoned before the Dark Lord, passing a kneeling, retching Malfoy in the dank corridor outside the opulent sitting room before he entered to face their master himself.
“I expect his displeasure with you will be short-lived,” Snape said, returning from his thoughts to find the blond’s eyes on him again. “The task he set you at the beginning of this year is complete.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t do it, did I? I failed. I’m weak. I’m a disgrace to him.”
“If he truly thought that of you, Draco, you would already be dead. The Dark Lord does not tolerate failure or weakness in his ranks.”
Malfoy took a long sip from the glass in his hand, then said, “Do you think I’m weak?”
The question hung in the air between them, and Snape held the younger man’s gaze until he appeared to grow uncomfortable and looked away.
“I think you made a choice,” he said carefully. “Whether or not it was the right choice, only you can say for yourself.
Malfoy nodded, glancing around the room distractedly. He seemed to want to speak, and eventually, he looked at Snape again.
“I couldn’t do it.” There was a desperate edge to his voice, and his eyes seemed to plead for Snape to understand him. “I couldn’t kill him when he looked like that… when he looked so helpless.”
“Could you have done it if Dumbledore had been standing with his wand at the ready?” Snape questioned, watching the conflict of emotions play across Malfoy’s pale face.
“I… I don’t know.”
Snape stood and crossed the room to pour himself another drink. With his back still to the younger man, he said in a low voice, “I’m glad to hear that.”
“S-sorry?” Malfoy spluttered, confusion clear on his face when Snape turned to face him again.
“You heard me,” Snape said evenly, returning to his seat. “I’m glad you have not followed in your father’s footsteps and become a cold-blooded killer at such a young age. Conscience stayed your hand tonight, Draco.”
Realisation dawned on Malfoy’s face, and his eyes suddenly turned cold.
“Oh, I bet you’re glad I’ve still got a conscience, aren’t you?” he said. “Poor piss-weak Draco couldn’t kill the ailing old Headmaster so Snape had to step in a save the day!”
“Draco, that’s n-”
“What did the Dark Lord say to you tonight?”
“You know I cannot tell you th-”
“Was he pleased with what you’d done?”
“Draco-”
“Honoured above all others in his service… that’s what he said to me when he told me to-”
“ENOUGH!”
Snape slammed his glass down on the coffee table as he stood, the amber liquid sloshing onto the dull wooden surface.
Didn’t the idiot boy understand what he had done… what he had been bound to do?
“Yes, I was glad you couldn’t kill him, you little fool,” he spat angrily. “I was glad you showed enough maturity to think for yourself and not do what was instructed of you without thought of consequence. But do you think I did what I did out of a desire for glory in the Dark Lord’s eyes? I killed him because he asked me to!”
He stopped his shouted tirade abruptly as he realised what he’d said. There was no going back now. Sinking back into his chair, he buried his head in his hands and fought off returning memories of the moment of Dumbledore’s death.
It took long minutes of tense silence for Malfoy to find his voice.
“Professor?”
“Don’t call me that.”
He would never set foot inside Hogwarts’ grounds again, let alone teach within its walls.
Wiping a shaking hand across his eyes, he glanced over at his companion again. Malfoy looked confused, but there was also a glimmer of something in his eyes… hope, perhaps? Whatever it was, it prompted Snape to speak further.
“Things are… complicated, Draco,” he began. “More complicated than you can possibly imagine. I don’t know if you’re ready to hear what I have to say.”
“I think I am,” he said, and his tone of voice was so strange that Snape paused, a questioning gaze looking for an explanation.
Malfoy sighed. “I knew something happened up on that tower tonight - something beyond simple murder. I didn’t dare question you because I couldn’t make sense of it. All year you’ve been trying to find out the task I was charged with, but it wasn’t because you wanted the glory for yourself, was it? It was because you wanted to prevent it from happening at all.”
Snape nodded. “Perhaps I’d better start at the beginning. There is much you need to know if you are to fully understand what took place tonight.”
It was Malfoy’s turn to nod, and Snape rose from his chair once again.
“I think another drink is in order first,” he murmured. “Another for you as well?”
Malfoy nodded and passed his near-empty glass to Snape, frowning as Snape took it and crossed to the cabinet in the corner again.
“What happened to your shirt?”
Snape glanced at his sleeve, almost surprised to find it still torn to shreds.
“Hippogriff,” he said shortly. “One of Hagrid’s damn beasts trying to protect Potter from me.”
He snorted at the irony.
He should heal the wounds before the sticky blood became dried and stuck to the bits of fabric; other more pressing matters had garnered his attention up until now. Pulling his wand from his pocket, he muttered a quick spell to knit the cuts on his arms and shoulders together enough that they would stop bleeding. He would heal them more permanently later.
That done, he filled the two glasses with whiskey, handed one to Malfoy and then sat down, staring at the liquid in his own glass for a moment. Then, taken a breath, he began to speak.
“When I was not much older than you are now, I swore my allegiance to the Dark Lord. I served him, and I served him well, until chance and circumstance showed me I had been wrong to ally myself with him. At that time, when all who had previously tried to leave his service had been killed, Dumbledore gave me a chance to live. Since that day, I have served Albus Dumbledore… and I serve him still.”
“Still,” Malfoy echoed. “He is… he is dead, isn’t he?”
“He is,” Snape affirmed heavily. “But that does not mean the work he spent a good part of his life on should go to waste. Let me explain the whole story.”
With that, he began to speak.
A hint of light was peeking through the crack in the curtains when Snape finally finished his anecdote spanning the last twenty years. Malfoy had made few comments, but his attention had never wavered. Now, as silence finally fell on the room again, the younger man stood, bones cracking as he stretched.
“I want to help you,” he said. “Whatever I have to do to make right what’s happened, I’ll do it. I don’t want to serve him anymore. I can’t.”
“I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple,” Snape countered, holding up a hand to stay the protest as Malfoy opened his mouth. “One does not simply leave the Dark Lord’s service. Even if you wish to turn your back on him, you must appear to serve him. There can be no doubt in his mind as to your loyalty. You cannot trust anyone, you must not allow yourself to become close to anyone. It has been a long and lonely road for me, and I do not expect it to be any easier for you, though I do hope it will be shorter. Whatever happens, once you have made your choice, there is no turning back.”
Malfoy stood, his jaw set and his eyes steely with determination.
“There is no other way for me now. I have to do this. I have to help end it.”
Snape, too, rose from his seat; he didn’t doubt the sincerity of the younger man’s words, and it was both a relief and a burden that Malfoy had made this decision. Relief that he no longer believed in the things for which his father and Voldemort fought… if he had, Snape would have had no choice but to kill him.
But it was a burden to Snape to know the choices the blond has made this night would lead him along a road not dissimilar to his own. And a long and lonely road it had been for him. Perhaps it would be different for the young Malfoy; Snape would guide him as best he could.
“So,” Snape said. “You’ve made your decision. There is much we have to do, and none of it will be easy. The only hope either of us have now is that the Dark Lord will be defeated, for if our treachery should be discovery first… we best hope it does not come to that.”
“That’s for sure,” Malfoy muttered, then exhaled a shaky breath. “So, what happens now?”
“We bide our time, we avoid suspicion, and we stay alive. We’re no use to either side if we get ourselves killed.”
“Right.” Malfoy looked paler than ever, having made his decision, and Snape walked away towards the kitchen.
“But while we are biding our time,” he said as he reached the doorway, “I daresay some food and a cup of tea are in order.”
“Sir?”
The younger man’s voice halted him, and he turned once more.
“I… I’m sorry for what you had to do.”
He sighed. “It was not your doing, Draco. It was entirely mine… and perhaps, someday, I may see fit to forgive myself for it.”
When… if… the war ended favourably, perhaps he would be able to understand why Dumbledore had thought what had taken place last night had been the right thing to do.
Finite.
And a quick, shameless plug... When All That's Left Is This, a fic I wrote a few weeks ago in response to ferporcel's prompt, has been nominated for Best Voldemort Wins story at The Sorting Hat Awards. If you enjoyed reading it, send a vote my way! If you've yet to read it, you can find it here, here and here.
Characters: Snape, Draco, Bellatrix
Genres: Angst
Word Count: 4262
Rating: PG and a bit
Also archived at: OWL and fanfiction.net
Summary: After fleeing Hogwarts in the aftermath of Dumbledore's death, Snape and Draco find themselves holed up at Spinner's End. The conversation takes an unexpected turn when loyalties are revealed, and the time for difficult and life-changing decisions is at hand.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Alas. If Snape was mine, I’d have better ways to occupy my time than with writing about him… :P
Author’s Note: It’s all emlouise’s fault! She gave me a prompt to write a fic in which the key characters are Bellatrix, Draco and Snape, set just after HBP, location Spinner’s End, and key themes to include fear, comfort, and discussions of allegiance… Okay, so there’s not much comfort, but anyway…on with the story.
Many thanks to feathersindigo for beta reading!
It was raining when Severus Snape emerged from the Dark Lord’s hideout in the early hours of the morning. He spared a cursory nod to the two sentries posted on the outer gates, wrapped in heavy cloaks to shelter them from the downpour; he didn’t recognise either of the men, nor did he care. Sentry duty was for the lowest of Voldemort’s ranks… those with whom he was displeased, or those who were yet to prove their worth.
Snape had certainly proven his worth last night.
His hands shook slightly as he raised his own hood, and in a flash of lightning from the stormy sky, he saw a trickle of blood on his wrist and palm. Rubbing at it with his thumb, he discovered it was still sticky, and he pushed his sleeve up to reveal more blood and a deep gash on his inner forearm.
“Blasted animal,” he swore softly under his breath.
The Hippogriff that had attacked him as he’d duelled with Potter before fleeing Hogwarts hours before had left its mark; the sleeves and shoulders of his robes beneath the cloak were shredded. The cloak itself had been hastily donned prior to going before the Dark Lord; the less questions asked, the less he had to explain… it had been a harrowing enough meeting as it was.
The Dark Lord had spent over an hour sifting through his mind, forcing him to relive the moment he had cast the Killing Curse at Dumbledore; over and over it played, until he collapsed to his knees from the sheer exhaustion of trying to Occlude his emotions at the time of the murder from his master. The other man had been far too pleased with the outcome of the memories to notice that the hatred radiating from Snape as he cast the deadly curse was not hatred for the man he had killed, but rather pure self-loathing for what he had been forced to do.
He had known for some months it could come to this. The Unbreakable Vow he had made with Draco’s mother last summer had only reinforced the Vow he had already made to Dumbledore all those years ago… to do whatever was asked of him without question or hesitation. Even if that meant killing the man to whom he had sworn that very thing.
After the adrenaline rush of his escape from Hogwarts, a numbness had settled over his mind in a poor attempt not to think about what he had done. The Dark Lord’s probing had brought it all to the forefront of his mind again, and the weight of grief was bearing down on him more heavily with each passing moment.
He was weary. So weary.
For the first time in almost twenty years, he felt completely and utterly alone. The accolades from the Dark Lord meant nothing to him; being honoured above all other Death Eaters, being permitted to stand shoulder to shoulder with his master while all others knelt in subservience… he had never wanted that.
The wizarding world would be out for his blood. No matter what course the rest of this war took, he would be dead at its conclusion. If Potter defeated the Dark Lord, Snape would be tried for Dumbledore’s murder and given the Dementor’s Kiss. If the Dark Lord won, he would have shown his true colours in a last, desperate attempt to help Potter win, and he would be tortured and killed by those who now hailed him a hero.
And the only person who could testify to the tireless work he had been doing for the Order was dead. Killed by his own hand.
With a heavy sigh, he closed his eyes and Disapparated, reappearing two streets away from his home. The rain was heavier here, the wind unusually cold for June, but he paid it no heed. Perhaps the coldness would seep into his very soul, numbing the pain as it already had his icy hands.
Striding through the dark streets of the near-abandoned industrial suburb, he kept the shadows, sense alert as he turned the corner into Spinner’s End. The mill tower loomed at the end of the street, silhouetted against the roiling grey sky as another flash of lightning split the heavy clouds.
A tingling feeling at the back of his neck as he stepped through the front gate let him know someone else was already inside the house. Tightening his grip on his wand, he moved stealthily towards the door; casting a silent eavesdropping charm, he listened for sounds within. The two voices he heard were familiar, and he breathed a sigh of mixed relief and irritation. One he was thankful to hear - he had much to discuss with its owner; the other, he could have done without. He’d have to rid himself of her quickly. As he listened, the talking stopped and he heard a door open and then close… the door leading to the kitchen and outhouse, if he wasn’t mistaking the squeaky hinge.
There was a soft cough from within the sitting room, confirming the older of his two visitors was still in the room. Good. He’d deal with her first.
Lifting the latch, he pushed the door open, raising his wand just in time to deflect the Stunner that jetted from the opposite side of the room.
He raised one eyebrow at his would-be attacker as he closed the door and lowered his hood.
“How impolite to attack your host, even if you are an uninvited guest, Bellatrix.”
The dark-haired woman lowered her wand and snorted disdainfully.
“Not the sort of place I’d welcome being invited to, Snape. Where have you been?”
Snape took his time answering, crossing the room and shrugging out of cloak with deliberate slowness. After hanging it on the coat-stand in the corner, he turned back to see his guest standing with her arms folded impatiently.
“I don’t believe I am required to explain myself to you.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Bellatrix smirked nastily, sauntering across the room to stand close before him. “Everyone save the Dark Lord himself answers to you, now, is that right?”
The dripping sarcasm in her tone rang clear, and he narrowed his eyes, refusing to be baited. Fighting back only provoked her further.
“Although, if you fancy yourself to be our Lord’s second in command…” She reached out a hand and fingered the torn sleeve of his shirt, one corner of her mouth curling with contempt, “…you may consider purchasing some new clothes. One can hardly command respect in such tattered garments.”
Swiftly, he took her wrist in a bruising grip, twisting it when she tried to yank her arm away.
“Oh, but I do command respect, Bella,” he whispered malevolently, using his grip on her arm to pull her against him. “In fact, while you are in my house, I demand it. Either comply, or get out.”
“I’ll leave when I’m good and ready, Snape,” she spat, pulling away from him again. This time, he released her arm and allowed her to claim back her personal space. “Before I do, I have a matter to settle with you on behalf of my nephew.”
Snape snorted, wondering what the young Malfoy was doing down the back of the house. Lurching his guts into the toilet, he thought, if the brief glance of the boy he’d seen earlier at the Dark Lord’s hideout was anything to go by. Draco had gone before his master as soon as they’d arrived, and it had not been a favourable meeting.
“Draco is quite capable of looking out for himself,” Snape said unconcernedly, striding across the room to a cabinet beside the long bookshelf. He withdrew a decanter of whiskey and a single glass, not bothering to offer his unwanted guest a drink as he added, “If he has something to discuss with me, he can do so himself.”
“After he’s finished hurling his guts into your toilet?”
Just as I thought. Snape kept his face impassive as he returned to the middle of the room, lowered himself into his favourite, threadbare armchair and swirled the amber liquid slowly in his glass.
“I take it the Dark Lord was not pleased with his failure.”
“His failure?” she echoed in disbelief, eyes flashing angrily. “He failed because you stuck that beak of a nose in where it wasn’t wanted. He would have completed his task, but no… Severus Snape couldn’t bear to be upstaged by a mere teenager.”
“He hesitated, Bella,” Snape said shortly. “You know how the Dark Lord abhors lack of conviction. He hesitated, and had I done the same, neither of us would have made it from the Hogwarts grounds alive.”
“Rubbish,” she scorned. “You never gave him a chance.”
Snape took a sip of whiskey.
“Whatever delusion of grandeur you harbour, Bella, rest assured not everyone seeks fortune and glory in the Dark Lord’s service. I did what I had to do and what Draco could not, and that is the end of it. I daresay your indignance on Draco’s behalf is a poor attempt at disguising the jealousy at not having been there to take Dumbledore’s life yourself.”
Snape smirked in triumph when Bellatrix huffed petulantly and flung herself into the empty chair across from him.
“He is my nephew,” she sniffed, in a manner very reminiscent of her younger sister, Draco’s mother.
“Ah, but of course. You were merely concerned for his well-being, isn’t that right?” He chuckled softly, nastily. “How… touching.”
“He’s family, Snape.” Her voice was suddenly cold. “We take care of our own. Still, can’t expect you to understand that… didn’t you kill your own father in a fit of magical rage?”
Snape stood abruptly. Only the whiskey glass in his hand prevented him from drawing his wand and hexing the woman in front of him. As it was, he barely avoided cracking the glass in his tightened, angry grip.
“Out.”
His voice was pure ice, and she stared at him for a moment, tracing her lips idly with one thumb.
“It seems I’ve hit a nerve,” she finally said, a cruel smile curling the corner of her mouth. She rose from her chair and moved towards the door, deliberately brushing close as she passed him. Snape closed his eyes, his body fairly shaking with rage. And knowing Bellatrix Lestrange as he did, he knew she wasn’t finished yet, either.
“Enjoy the Dark Lord’s favour while it lasts,” she whispered, her breath warm and rancid on his face. “I trust you no more than I did this time last year, and when I discover what you’re keeping from us all, you’ll wish Dumbledore had killed you.”
Usually quick to return jibe or insult, Snape was silent. An instant later, a cold blast of icy wind hit him, then the door slammed and Bellatrix was gone.
Shaken, he collapsed into his chair again, raising the whiskey glass to his lips with a trembling hand and downing a large gulp. At any other time, the Death Eater’s taunts would not have bothered him. Now, though, after everything that had happened this night… she had hit a nerve, though not the one she had suspected.
True, he had killed his father… but the man had been a Muggle bastard whose fear of magic led him to try to beat the gift out of his only son. On the last night of the summer holidays between his sixth and seventh year, Severus Snape had shown his father just how terrifying magic could be. And had never regretted the action since.
What Snape did regret - this day above all those that had gone before it - was that Dumbledore hadn’t killed him.
His own death would have been far preferable to the events that had unfolded over the last year, culminating in the Headmaster’s death earlier that night.
He shook his head in a effort to clear the images of what had happened atop the Astronomy Tower from his mind. It was no use… the accepting look on the old wizard’s face, the sadness in his blue eyes as he held Snape’s gaze, a silent conversation they’d had many times aloud before passing between them…
Severus… please…
Those who had heard the desperation in the Headmaster’s voice might have assumed he was pleading for his life. On the contrary, the aging wizard had been begging for his death.
And he, Severus Snape, had been given little choice but to oblige.
“Professor! You’re back.”
Snape looked up to see Malfoy emerge from the kitchen. The younger man wiped the corner of his mouth as he sat down, uninvited, on the lumpy old couch; he looked even pastier than earlier that night.
“Where’s Aunt Bella?”
“Bellatrix has taken her leave.” As he spoke, Snape rose and crossed to the small cabinet in the corner again. He refilled his glass and poured another for his young guest, taking a deep breath to gather his thoughts before he turned back and handed the second glass to the blond.
“The Dark Lord wishes you to remain here until he calls upon you again. I expect it will be a day or two.”
“The longer the better,” Malfoy said, a visible shudder running through his body as he clenched the whiskey glass tightly in both hands.
“You do not wish to serve your Master?” Snape asked sharply, narrowing his eyes when the boy paled even more.
“I- I- of course I do,” he said quickly, eyes widening with undisguised fear for an instant, before he dropped them to the floor. “Just… he wasn’t pleased with me tonight.”
Snape watched as the boy continued to gaze at the floor, wondering if it was the Dark Lord’s wrath, or events earlier in the night, that saw him so usually subdued now? It wasn’t the first time this year Snape had suspected the boy was regretting how deeply he’d already become involved in Voldemort’s service. Was his inability to cast the Killing Curse at the Headmaster merely a moment of weakness, or a sign of reluctance to complete the task he had been assigned at all? Snape intended to find out.
After their mad flight from Hogwarts, their hasty Apparition had seen them stumbling breathless outside the Dark Lord’s hideout. Draco had been breathing hard, wild-eyed, and he’d backed away from Snape as though he’d thought the older man would kill him for his inaction.
“Come,” Snape had ordered imperiously, masking his own roiling emotions with a carefully-schooled, cold expression.
That had made their way quickly into the underground chambers inhabited by Voldemort. Word of what had happened at Hogwarts had spread like wildfire, and while Malfoy was summoned to go before the Dark Lord immediately, Snape had to endure over an hour of the other Death Eaters’ celebrations and congratulations. Some were even so bold as to slap him on the back and claim they’d known all along he’d simply been biding his time to rid them all of the old bastard.
Finally, and with only a shred of his temper remaining, he had been summoned before the Dark Lord, passing a kneeling, retching Malfoy in the dank corridor outside the opulent sitting room before he entered to face their master himself.
“I expect his displeasure with you will be short-lived,” Snape said, returning from his thoughts to find the blond’s eyes on him again. “The task he set you at the beginning of this year is complete.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t do it, did I? I failed. I’m weak. I’m a disgrace to him.”
“If he truly thought that of you, Draco, you would already be dead. The Dark Lord does not tolerate failure or weakness in his ranks.”
Malfoy took a long sip from the glass in his hand, then said, “Do you think I’m weak?”
The question hung in the air between them, and Snape held the younger man’s gaze until he appeared to grow uncomfortable and looked away.
“I think you made a choice,” he said carefully. “Whether or not it was the right choice, only you can say for yourself.
Malfoy nodded, glancing around the room distractedly. He seemed to want to speak, and eventually, he looked at Snape again.
“I couldn’t do it.” There was a desperate edge to his voice, and his eyes seemed to plead for Snape to understand him. “I couldn’t kill him when he looked like that… when he looked so helpless.”
“Could you have done it if Dumbledore had been standing with his wand at the ready?” Snape questioned, watching the conflict of emotions play across Malfoy’s pale face.
“I… I don’t know.”
Snape stood and crossed the room to pour himself another drink. With his back still to the younger man, he said in a low voice, “I’m glad to hear that.”
“S-sorry?” Malfoy spluttered, confusion clear on his face when Snape turned to face him again.
“You heard me,” Snape said evenly, returning to his seat. “I’m glad you have not followed in your father’s footsteps and become a cold-blooded killer at such a young age. Conscience stayed your hand tonight, Draco.”
Realisation dawned on Malfoy’s face, and his eyes suddenly turned cold.
“Oh, I bet you’re glad I’ve still got a conscience, aren’t you?” he said. “Poor piss-weak Draco couldn’t kill the ailing old Headmaster so Snape had to step in a save the day!”
“Draco, that’s n-”
“What did the Dark Lord say to you tonight?”
“You know I cannot tell you th-”
“Was he pleased with what you’d done?”
“Draco-”
“Honoured above all others in his service… that’s what he said to me when he told me to-”
“ENOUGH!”
Snape slammed his glass down on the coffee table as he stood, the amber liquid sloshing onto the dull wooden surface.
Didn’t the idiot boy understand what he had done… what he had been bound to do?
“Yes, I was glad you couldn’t kill him, you little fool,” he spat angrily. “I was glad you showed enough maturity to think for yourself and not do what was instructed of you without thought of consequence. But do you think I did what I did out of a desire for glory in the Dark Lord’s eyes? I killed him because he asked me to!”
He stopped his shouted tirade abruptly as he realised what he’d said. There was no going back now. Sinking back into his chair, he buried his head in his hands and fought off returning memories of the moment of Dumbledore’s death.
It took long minutes of tense silence for Malfoy to find his voice.
“Professor?”
“Don’t call me that.”
He would never set foot inside Hogwarts’ grounds again, let alone teach within its walls.
Wiping a shaking hand across his eyes, he glanced over at his companion again. Malfoy looked confused, but there was also a glimmer of something in his eyes… hope, perhaps? Whatever it was, it prompted Snape to speak further.
“Things are… complicated, Draco,” he began. “More complicated than you can possibly imagine. I don’t know if you’re ready to hear what I have to say.”
“I think I am,” he said, and his tone of voice was so strange that Snape paused, a questioning gaze looking for an explanation.
Malfoy sighed. “I knew something happened up on that tower tonight - something beyond simple murder. I didn’t dare question you because I couldn’t make sense of it. All year you’ve been trying to find out the task I was charged with, but it wasn’t because you wanted the glory for yourself, was it? It was because you wanted to prevent it from happening at all.”
Snape nodded. “Perhaps I’d better start at the beginning. There is much you need to know if you are to fully understand what took place tonight.”
It was Malfoy’s turn to nod, and Snape rose from his chair once again.
“I think another drink is in order first,” he murmured. “Another for you as well?”
Malfoy nodded and passed his near-empty glass to Snape, frowning as Snape took it and crossed to the cabinet in the corner again.
“What happened to your shirt?”
Snape glanced at his sleeve, almost surprised to find it still torn to shreds.
“Hippogriff,” he said shortly. “One of Hagrid’s damn beasts trying to protect Potter from me.”
He snorted at the irony.
He should heal the wounds before the sticky blood became dried and stuck to the bits of fabric; other more pressing matters had garnered his attention up until now. Pulling his wand from his pocket, he muttered a quick spell to knit the cuts on his arms and shoulders together enough that they would stop bleeding. He would heal them more permanently later.
That done, he filled the two glasses with whiskey, handed one to Malfoy and then sat down, staring at the liquid in his own glass for a moment. Then, taken a breath, he began to speak.
“When I was not much older than you are now, I swore my allegiance to the Dark Lord. I served him, and I served him well, until chance and circumstance showed me I had been wrong to ally myself with him. At that time, when all who had previously tried to leave his service had been killed, Dumbledore gave me a chance to live. Since that day, I have served Albus Dumbledore… and I serve him still.”
“Still,” Malfoy echoed. “He is… he is dead, isn’t he?”
“He is,” Snape affirmed heavily. “But that does not mean the work he spent a good part of his life on should go to waste. Let me explain the whole story.”
With that, he began to speak.
A hint of light was peeking through the crack in the curtains when Snape finally finished his anecdote spanning the last twenty years. Malfoy had made few comments, but his attention had never wavered. Now, as silence finally fell on the room again, the younger man stood, bones cracking as he stretched.
“I want to help you,” he said. “Whatever I have to do to make right what’s happened, I’ll do it. I don’t want to serve him anymore. I can’t.”
“I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple,” Snape countered, holding up a hand to stay the protest as Malfoy opened his mouth. “One does not simply leave the Dark Lord’s service. Even if you wish to turn your back on him, you must appear to serve him. There can be no doubt in his mind as to your loyalty. You cannot trust anyone, you must not allow yourself to become close to anyone. It has been a long and lonely road for me, and I do not expect it to be any easier for you, though I do hope it will be shorter. Whatever happens, once you have made your choice, there is no turning back.”
Malfoy stood, his jaw set and his eyes steely with determination.
“There is no other way for me now. I have to do this. I have to help end it.”
Snape, too, rose from his seat; he didn’t doubt the sincerity of the younger man’s words, and it was both a relief and a burden that Malfoy had made this decision. Relief that he no longer believed in the things for which his father and Voldemort fought… if he had, Snape would have had no choice but to kill him.
But it was a burden to Snape to know the choices the blond has made this night would lead him along a road not dissimilar to his own. And a long and lonely road it had been for him. Perhaps it would be different for the young Malfoy; Snape would guide him as best he could.
“So,” Snape said. “You’ve made your decision. There is much we have to do, and none of it will be easy. The only hope either of us have now is that the Dark Lord will be defeated, for if our treachery should be discovery first… we best hope it does not come to that.”
“That’s for sure,” Malfoy muttered, then exhaled a shaky breath. “So, what happens now?”
“We bide our time, we avoid suspicion, and we stay alive. We’re no use to either side if we get ourselves killed.”
“Right.” Malfoy looked paler than ever, having made his decision, and Snape walked away towards the kitchen.
“But while we are biding our time,” he said as he reached the doorway, “I daresay some food and a cup of tea are in order.”
“Sir?”
The younger man’s voice halted him, and he turned once more.
“I… I’m sorry for what you had to do.”
He sighed. “It was not your doing, Draco. It was entirely mine… and perhaps, someday, I may see fit to forgive myself for it.”
When… if… the war ended favourably, perhaps he would be able to understand why Dumbledore had thought what had taken place last night had been the right thing to do.
Finite.
And a quick, shameless plug... When All That's Left Is This, a fic I wrote a few weeks ago in response to ferporcel's prompt, has been nominated for Best Voldemort Wins story at The Sorting Hat Awards. If you enjoyed reading it, send a vote my way! If you've yet to read it, you can find it here, here and here.