Death of Me

This is the death of me I know 

The boy does not tremble. The knowledge of who and what he faces is clear and present in his mind, but he does not shake or shiver or flinch. His head is raised, his eyes look forward. He is a Snape. And a Slytherin.

These are things to be proud of.

The man who stands in front of him is tall, very tall, and broad of shoulder, pale of skin and dark of hair. Part of him wants to cower. But he is what he is. He stands straight.

In the background, he is aware of the others. Lucius Malfoy, two years older than himself. Rosier. Avery. Many of his Slytherin house-mates, but all older than him. He is young for his year, and is the only one of his year here.

He came of his own volition and his own curiosity. They did not twist his arm or force him into coming. They would not have dared to try and make him come, because young or not, everybody in Slytherin House knows better than to cross him.

He's taught them. With his knowledge of his curses when he's had to. With his preferred knowledge of poisons and potions when he can. Lucius Malfoy was vomiting for a week after first bothering him, and still eyes his food at the dinner table suspiciously.

They have a grudging respect for him now. It is fear-based, of course, but that is the only type of respect any of the children here understand.

Severus bears the silent scrutiny with stoic calm. It is, he reasons, like when his father has him stand in the center of the study and circles him like a ghoul or vulture, empty black eyes searching him for any sign of weakness, any hint of vulnerability. Searching for the soft flesh of the throat.

It is like that, and hence not so bad.

Except the man's eyes are red, and red eyes are somehow worse than black.

"What is your name?" The man's voice is very soft, very gentle. Severus does not show his surprise, but he is startled. The man looks strong and powerful, but his voice is... kind...

"Severus Mercurian Snape, sir."

"Son of Valerian Boreas Snape and Cineraria Aurelia Snape, née Zabini?"

"Yes, sir."

"I know your father and your mother both. In fact, I went to school with your mother, Severus. She was in my House. Two years younger than I, but we were friends. Your father, however, attended Durmstrang, so I never got the chance...

"You, too, are a Slytherin, are you not? What form?"

The voice is so friendly, and so kind. It talks to him just as if he were an adult.

"Yes, sir," he says, flushing with a little pride. Because it is an honor to be Slytherin, not only for its own sake now but because this man had been in that house too. "It's my second year, sir."

"And how old are you, Severus?"

"I'm eleven, sir."

"You're young for your year, then. Well, age is not important. What is important is the knowledge, and the drive to succeed. Where others fail, you must persevere and find victory," says the man, bending down to look into his face. His thin lips are curved in a slight smile, a secret smile, just like the tone of his voice. For one second, right on the word others, his red eyes (not so strange, once you got used to them) had flickered out to the other boys standing in the room.

And Severus understands. Where the others were failures, he could be a success. This man thinks so. This man... This man considers him better than the others.

He likes this man.

"Do you know," says the figure, still talking in that conspiratorial just-for-the-two-of-them tone, "I was young for my year, too."

"But you succeeded, didn't you, sir? Like you just told me to. You worked at it with determination and cunning, like a Slytherin ought," the boy says breathlessly, and the man laughs. It is a low, pleasant sound, rich and mellow.

"Yes. Yes, I did. You're a very clever boy, Severus."

The boy flushes with the praise.

"I have need of a clever young man to help me. Indeed, I could use a bright boy like yourself. But..." the figure pauses, straightens up sadly. "Well, I'm afraid it... you're probably still too young, Severus." Definite regret in the tone.

"You said age doesn't matter, sir," he says quickly. Again the rich low laugh. It sends tingles though him. Gods, it's such an approving sound...

"You are a quick study, aren't you, my boy?" The man moves again, turning so his back is to the boy. But the voice when it speaks is very earnest "But this is... important, Severus. Let me tell you a little bit about what I am trying to do.

"You see, I am fighting a war... a very vital war. And I have need of weapons. Not weapons of metal and wood, but weapons of minds and bodies, honed to steel-sharpness. Forged in the crucible of discipline. Only with such weapons, Severus, can I fight the plague of ignorance and apathy that infects our culture, that causes us to lower our standards and embrace filth, to deny ourselves our full potential.

"I need weapons with intelligence, loyalty, courage, and most of all drive. I need young men and women like yourself, who can fight for our cause..."

The boy listens eagerly as the man spins grand words and paints a grand picture of the war they fight, the dangers and enemies they face, the sacrifices and strength that being a weapon requires, and a great and terrible thirst rises up in him. He will prove himself. He will show the great man that he is worthy, that he has all the traits required of him...

And finally the man is telling him, reluctantly, that he will give him a chance. That he doesn't feel right about using a boy so young, but he has never been one to stand in the way of talent, and that he can see Severus has talent. So the man will let him prove himself.

Severus nearly weeps with joy at the opportunity to show his loyalty and intelligence and courage and drive. He asks what is required of him.

It wasn't much. Just returning to school, doing what he normally did, except now he would keep his eyes open. He was supposed to listen hard, and when he came back to the great man again, tell him what he'd seen. Explain who showed signs of being on their side and who did not. Be the loyal eyes and ears.

He accepted the task gratefully. Back at school, he did what he was told-- such a little thing to ask of him, and the approval that would come as a reward so great-- and he waited, eagerly, for the time when he could return to the man with the red eyes and glorious voice.

But he had purpose. He had a reason, and a goal, and a cause to which to devote his energies. It was more than he'd ever had before. He even-- even had a certain... comradeship, now, with some of the others. He was still the youngest. They certainly weren't friends. But they were all on the same Side. They all shared the loyalty to Him.

Burn your sign into my skin
Nail the box and throw me in
Take the coins from my eyes
Plow me under like my friends

It was not long before he returned. A matter of weeks, before he stood in front of the man again. This time he bowed, as he had seen the others doing.

The man was pleased. Pleased with him, and how very bright and gifted and dedicated and brave he was. They talked for a while, Severus actually feeling that all those things were true when the man said them.

And then the man said that he had proved himself, and did he want to take the next step? To leave being a silly child behind, and be of real use?

He had nearly begged for the chance.

There will be pain, said the man.

Sacrifice is sometimes necessary, he had answered, repeating the man's earlier words. The man had smiled, and beckoned him nearer.

He had trembled, but not with fear. With joy.

The man had lifted his left arm, the sleeve of the robe slipping down, and pushed the shirtsleeve under it down as well, until Severus's bare skin was revealed to the torch light. The man had brought out a black wand, thirteen-and-a-half inches long.

Severus turned his arm over as told, until his palm faced up, the skin of his inner wrist and forearm pale in the flickering lights. The man touched the wand to his skin, at a place halfway down the forearm, and said in a terribly soft voice,

"Morsmordre signum."

He had not lied. There was pain.

It was as if fire and ice had exploded every nerve in his arm. Radiating outward from the place where the wand touched, green flames licking and burning under his skin and searing a mark into his flesh, burning burning burning oh gods the pain oh GODS--

His hand clenched into a claw of agony, the tendons in his neck strained, his lips peeled back from his teeth. The pain did not go away. It did not fade. It grew.

Moving down his arm and into the rest of him, ice-cold flame that ravaged and cauterized all at once. He screamed, more than once, cried, swore with his meager eleven-year old vocabulary.

But not once did he attempt to pull his arm from the man's grasp and the fire.

The red eyes watched him calmly, distantly. Even when he could not see because of the pain, he knew the eyes were on him.

Finally the agony subsided. He shook and trembled and shivered and wanted to retch, to purge his body, but the hand was there. It brushed the hair back out of his eyes, wiped the sweat from his brow, gentle and graceful in its movements. The voice murmured, Good, good... Good soldier, good boy... You did very well, Severus.

I'm proud of you.

The pain didn't matter.

Lock the cell and kill the sun
Let me cook until I'm done
Drown my soul in love and rage
Until I kiss the loaded gun 

"You see, Severus, I am the general of the war. And the others... my other Death Eaters, whom you've met, and your school-mates, such as young Malfoy and the others... they are, as I said to you once, my weapons. They are battalions, and legions, and infantry and cavalry. Some of them are even lieutenants and corporals. Officers.

"But not you. You are a weapon on a different scale, boy. Do you know what you are?"

"No, Master."

"Sweet child. It is like this: in war, when even the commander himself rides out to the battlefield, he does not go out unarmed. He has his saber at his side, his personal sword that he may use to defend himself. The sword honored above all others.

"You are not my personal sword, Severus. Right now, you are my dagger. My poisoned dagger, kept close to my breast for the instance of last resort.

"But I am not yet done with shaping you. I have already made a finely honed dagger of a weak, pathetic child, and it took me but the space of two years. And I will make of you my sword."

"You do me a great honor, my Lord." Trying not to flush and tremble with pride. "I will try to be worthy of it."

His master smiled. "I'm sure you will. But the first component of 'worthy' is loyalty, is being mine.

"And are you mine, Severus? Are you loyal to me?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Tell me how you are loyal to me, Severus."

"My Lord. Lord. How can I say... how can I describe... My Lord, I am yours. Heart and mind, body and soul."

"Really."

It was a private audience, the others not here. That suited the thirteen year-old boy just fine.

He wasn't sure when, over the last two years, he had made the transition between calling the man 'my Lord' instead of 'sir,' but it was right. So right. The man was his Lord, had his loyalty until death.

He served the cause. He served his Lord.

This was a thing to be proud of.

"Yes, I know your mind serves me. Such a bright mind, too. And your heart is mine? Your soul?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"And... your body?"

"Everything, my Lord."

"Mm. Come here, Severus."

He approached his lord's chair with nervous anticipation, aware that it was not seemly to have one's head above the head of the one you served. That in mind, he knelt by the chair, so as to remain lower.

One of the man's beautiful hands-- so graceful so elegant so strong-- reached out and brushed his hair out of his face. Severus liked his hair. It was jet black like his eyes, straight, reaching to his shoulders, and silky-soft to the touch. It occasionally got in his face, as it had now.

The hand did not draw back after brushing away the hair, but rested at the side of his face, lightly touching his skin. The boy felt his breathing accelerate.

Gently, the hand began to stroke the pale skin of his cheek and neck, the long fingers moving over his face like a snake, the thumb moving in slow circles against his flesh.

Severus held himself very still, unsure of what was expected of him here. This was new territory. Dangerous territory.

Flight flight run-- get out of here, out from under the touch--

But it does not feel bad... it feels, feels... good, and this is he whom I serve, whom I believe in, who I would die for.

My Lord. And Master.

Who I belong to.

Let him do with me as he will.

His lord's hands were taking off his robe now, the strong, capable, beautiful hands moving over his shoulders. The touch burned through the fabric of his shirt as the fingers moved over his slender form, feather-light caresses that simultaneously terrified and aroused the boy.

His chest. His arms. His face again, the long fingers lingering over his lips and his closed eyes. He could not remember when he had closed them.

The touch went away. He heard a rustling of cloth and opened his eyes. The man had stood and now gestured for him to do the same.

He hoped the shaking of his legs was not visible, since without the robe they were clothed only in his jeans. He stood, looking carefully at the ground. He had done something wrong. He had reacted wrongly, somehow. He would be punished.

Punishment is discipline, nothing more, he reminded himself. Teaching me discipline, forging me into the perfect weapon, his weapon. To destroy his enemies. To be a sword.

Severus waited for the pain. It did not come.

His lord turned with a swish of his black black robes and walked out the door at the rear of the chamber, murmuring, "Come," over his shoulder. Severus swallowed, his throat dry, and followed, not daring to pick up his robe from where it lay on the floor.

All his dealings with his lord so far had been in that room, the room with the throne and the doors and the torches. He did not know where they were going. He did not ask. It was not his place to do so. His lord would tell him whatever he thought it was necessary for him to know. This was the way it worked.

He followed, his heart hammering in his veins (boom boom boom) and his palms sweaty. Down a corridor, long, long, long forever in length. Doors led off to the side, but the figure in front of him ignored them all, until they came to one made of heavy, intricately carved oak. The doorknob and lock were of beautiful, filigreed silver.

The man stopped and extended a hand to the door's chased silver knob, turning to impale Severus with his crimson gaze. He smiled the secret, just-for-Severus smile. It made the classically handsome face come alive. And the man was handsome.

Tall and slim, though the shoulders were broad and there was strength in the long limbs. Strength and grace. Every move, so elegant, so artful...

He was a young-looking man, appearing in his mid-twenties. Only his eyes spoke of being perhaps older than that.

The eyes. Without a doubt the first thing people noticed about him. His eyes were red. The color of blood... or roses. Deep, perfect scarlet. Oddly beautiful. They burned in the impossibly pale and flawless skin like rubies set in marble. That fair skin made the black hair that framed the face seem even darker, the stuff of absolute midnight. That same skin covered the perfect bones of the face, from the straight nose to the strong jaw to the high cheekbones. The face of a prince. Or a god.

The Dark Lord knew of his beauty and used it often as one more weapon in his arsenal of charm, along with his rich voice and gift with words. It was still seven years before the incident which would destroy this physical form... and deprive Voldemort of one means of seduction, at least.

But neither of them knew anything of what the future held, then. The man opened the door, gesturing for the boy to enter the bedroom.

Severus closed his eyes and took another step down the road that his young life had become. A road paved with the best of intentions, and leading where all such roads go.

Inside, the man gave him wine to drink, deep crimson wine in a golden goblet. As he was told to, he sat on the edge of the bed (a luxurious affair, king-size, black satin and emerald-green velvet) and drank.

It burned down to the pit of his stomach, sweet and bitter and searing, redolent of blood and roses. It made his senses swim. The night passed in a haze.

His only clear memory was one moment in the midst of it, when he saw his own fingers tightly clenched in the fabric of the sheets, staring at the mark on his arm and thinking, The pain is but the price of being forged. Into something useful to him.

I am no child. I will not cry, I will not fight.

This Mark is the symbol of my allegiance. I am a Slytherin, and a Snape, and a Death Eater.

These are things to be proud of.

And afterwards, his master held him close and brushed the hair back from his face, and whispered secret things in his ear, and whispered that he was pleased with him, and once more, the pain did not matter.

Slam the spike into my vein
Sentence me and forge my chain
Numb my conscience, steal my dreams
Stretch me on your open flame 

Severus Snape, Death Eater, fifteen years old, apparated to his Master's haven with his usual anticipation. It had been a long week at Hogwarts, surrounded by fools and those that were unworthy. A long long week...

Long days, trying to pretend to listen in classes he knew all the answers to anyway, trying to ignore the shivers in his limbs and not think about how long it had been since he'd last had the Venom.

Long nights, hungering for his Master's touch and eyes and mouth, for the release that could only be found with the blood-red eyes watching him.

He burns in my veins like fire and ice. The beats of my heart spell out his name. I exist only to serve him...

For I am His. I am favored. I am worthy. I am his sword, his weapon, his right-hand. None of the others-- none!-- do what I do, hold the position I do. Even the adults, lord, how they hate me, hate taking orders from a fifteen year-old. But they know my position, know that I am favored. They do not dare disobey...

The thoughts were pleasant ones. A smile curving his lips, he tossed his head back so that his long, fine black hair was out of his face, then reconsidered. He knew how the Master liked to brush it out of his eyes.... but it would fall back of its own accord, in any case.

He made his way to the bedchamber, a familiar path now; the filigree door-knob imprinted in his memory. In dreams it was a standard feature, always he was just about to open it, just about to enter the room.

Now, he entered... to find it empty. The bed was untouched, the wine bottle full with the rich crimson liquid. Blood and roses...

He'd taken half a step towards it before stopping. No. No, it was better with his Master's eyes upon him, knowing that he was the only one-- the only one!-- who drank that vintage...

He turned and headed back into the corridor. He knew where the Master would be, if not in his personal chambers: the room with the chair and the torches, the 'audience room' as some called it in jest.

A robed and masked figure passed him in the hall, staying as far to the other side as it was possible to get from him, and a thin little smirk curved his lips. They knew to fear him, oh yes. He wondered idly who was under that mask-- he hadn't recognized the walk. A peculiar scent hung in the air after him though-- extract of blackthorne, a new addition to the Dark Lord's list of drugs that insured his Death Eater's dependence on him.

Severus made a mental note to find out who was on blackthorne; it irked him if he didn't know automatically who was under each of the masks.

He made his way down the hall. The door to the audience room was open; voices could be heard from the other side. He smiled. He was the only one-- the only one!-- of the Death Eaters who could enter even if his Lord and Master was talking to someone else.

He wondered who he'd get the pleasure of interrupting. Lucius, perhaps? That would be enjoyable. See that aristo, pure-blood beautiful face pale with the hatred that Lucius Malfoy reserved just for him... watch as Malfoy struggled to contain it under the amused, crimson stare of the Dark Lord. Yes. Lovely.

He took a step neared the door, and stopped to listen. Timing, after all, was everything.

"... yes, Great Lord."

One of the new recruits, it sounded like. A young one. Probably only a second or third year, trembling with the joy of meeting the Dark Lord in person, thought Severus with a sneer.

"Very good, Quirinus. So... very good. I like you, boy. Like you very much...

"Do you know what you are, child?"

"No, Lord."

"Of course you don't. I shall tell you. You... are a dagger, Quirinus Quirrell. A sharpened dagger, held close to my breast for the moment of last resort. But you can become more.

"No-one will ever suspect you, sweet boy. Thus, you are the perfect weapon. You are the perfect iron to become my weapon, my sword.

"Would you like to become my sword, boy?"

"Yes, Lord..."

The hallway swung crazily around Severus, in-and-out spins and flickers. Something white-hot and angry and wounded rose at the edge of his vision. His hands balled into tight fists.

With exact, precise steps, he walked back the hallway to the point where he'd Apparated into, and returned to Hogsmeade.

In later years, he was occasionally asked-- by Aurors, by Ministry officials, by his fellow teachers-- what had made him turn from the service of the Dark Lord. People always expected an answer along the lines of 'I finally realized the evil of what I was doing, etc etc' and were always disappointed.

If he deigned to answer them at all, it would begin with laughter. Bitter, self-mocking laughter, a sound not conducive to peace of mind, terribly amused laughter... and when he recovered himself, he would look up and smile (teeth stained yellow, and he doesn't bother putting the glamour on anymore, no he doesn't) and stare with his empty black eyes. And say, "You'll never believe me. It was the most childish reason possible. Perhaps I could say that it... opened my eyes, perhaps... made me confront what I was doing, look at it from a detached point of view... but really, really, what did it, what pulled the trigger..."

More laughter here. The questioner is starting to wish they'd never asked. Snape tosses his head to get his lank, greasy hair (he can't stand washing it, can't stand touching it, because all he can think of is how much the Master liked to run his fingers through it when it was clean and soft) out of his eyes. He continues.

"...What started it... was jealousy. That's right. Jealousy turned me from Voldemort's side. Simple, childish envy, that I wasn't the special one anymore, and never had been. Simple, blind spite and resentment and jealousy...

"It was jealousy that was the death of me."

This is the death of me I know
This is the death of me I know
This is the death of me

Title: Death of Me
Author: Lady Dien
Rating: R for extremely dark themes, abuse. General Severus-angst.
Summary: A very vague prequel/companion piece to the events of "Hallelujah," covering a much younger Severus's Death Eater-ness. It, in keeping with the Hallelujah tradition, is overly-angsty and has song lyrics incorporated seamlessly so I don't have to do as much actual work.
Disclaimer: JKR owns 'em, we read 'em. The song is Glenn Hughes' "Death of Me."
Note: I know, I know, I know. In canon, Quirrell doesn't turn until the Event In Romania-- or so we're led to believe. I just took, ahem, dramatic license. We're allowed to do that, right?