New blood joins this earth
And quickly he's subdued
Through constant pain disgrace
The young boy learns their rules
With time the child draws in
This whipping boy done wrong
Deprived of all his thoughts
The young man struggles on
And on he's known
A vow unto his own
That never from this day
His will they'll take away
Severus Snape, fifteen years old in body and fifteen hundred in spirit, ran. He didn't know where he was going. Nor did he care. He was going to run forever, run until 'Severus Snape' was left behind, run until the brand on his arm was left behind, run until he escaped the stare of red eyes that cut ribbons into his soul.
Run.
Escape.
He shut out the voice that screamed escape was impossible, that the manacle chain binding him was not mere metal but seared flesh and even if he ripped the skin from his forearm his Master would yet live in his soul.
The ground was uneven and he tripped, the dirt rising up abruptly to slam into his outstretched palms and steal the wind from him. He lay there gasping, curling instinctively into a foetal ball, his eyes squeezing shut.
In other circumstances, he would have been an attractive young man, his beauty no less compelling for all it felt like a relic from another century. He was tall and slender and graceful when he moved. He spent enough time inside that his skin was pale, almost unhealthily so, but it suited his jet-black hair and eyes. That hair was long, falling to his shoulders, and shone like a raven's wing, smooth and straight. The eyes were deep, mesmerizing, perfect black, and set on each side of an aristocratic nose he was just growing into.
Perhaps not a conventional beauty, but a striking one nonetheless when he moved with cool composure and arrogance and unspoken threat that a boy fifteen years old should not be able to summon so easily.
But he was anything but composed as he lay on the green earth and clenched himself into a knot of flesh and wept. Hot angry broken tears spilled from under his tightly shut lids, tracing bitter paths down his skin. His fine hair flew around his face and caught in the dirt.
Severus had just had his heart broken.
His Master loved another-- or rather, his Master had never loved him to begin with. All a lie, all lies, all deception from blood-red eyes; the last four years... he gasped, convulsive painful breaths, ragged and furious.
The world ought to die, he thought savagely, wishing a holocaust of flame would kill every living thing for a hundred miles-- wipe through Hogsmeade, on the other side of the hill; descend upon Hogwarts, half a mile away-- burn it all to ashes. Everyone. Every fucking person who had ever mocked him, lied to him. Especially Him.
"Liar, liar, fucking liar," he hissed under his breath, clawing the turf with his fingernails. "You lied you lied you lied youliedyouliedyouLIED--"
The haze he'd inhabited willingly for four years was ripped from him, its comforting presence gone and leaving him naked. His agile mind processed every sacred word he'd kept close to his heart, every secret whispered into his ears, every glance of blood-red eyes--
"Liar, you said I was special you said I was yours you lied you lied you lied. Liar. Liar. Fucking liar," he gasped, over and over and over again, until finally he lost the energy. Anger, hatred; they cost too much. Too consuming. He was so tired. So empty.
He lay there and after a moment opened his eyes. Blue sky met his gaze, the same blue sky that had reigned half an hour ago, before his world had been so completely shattered. Before he had Apparated to Him, and heard his words-- to the other--
Stifling another sob, he buried his face into the remorseless earth. After a moment, he realized he couldn't breathe in such a position and reflexively wrenched his face back to the air, dully wondering why he'd bothered. Wouldn't it be better, after all, to just...
After all, what was the point? He lived for Him. Had lived for Him. Before. Not now. No. Never again. No point now. So empty. What was he, without blood and roses at the core of him, to be his inner fire, to be his secret knowledge? Nothing.
And he had been special. He had been loved.
No. That is not truth, the coldly rational part of his mind said with easy cruelty. All I was. Was his whipping boy. And fucker just got himself a new one. What number was I? The third? the fourth? the hundredth?
Never again. Never. No more.
What the hell else is there?!? he screamed helplessly back at it, and rolled over, looking up into the clean sky. There was dirt on his robes, hands, face, hair; he didn't bother wiping it off. It was insignificant compared to the filth he felt inside him. He didn't think he'd ever be clean again.
He used me. That's all it was, the cruel voice said again, and this time he did not flinch. He bit down on his lower lip until he could taste the blood, the copper tang of it grounding and reassuring him. And I will never bow to him again. So. Now what. What is there, for me?
And the coldly rational, cruel voice answered definitely, Revenge.
What I've felt
What I've known
Never shined through in what I've shown
Never be
Never see
Won't see what might have been
Severus made his way back into the school with his back ramrod straight and his eyes daring anyone to question or speak to him. The students in his way cleared when they saw him coming. None of them were really stupid, and this was Severus Snape.
When he'd reached the sanctity of his room, he rolled up his sleeve and spent ten minutes just staring at the Mark, where it sat on his skin like a cancer. The earlier rage, like a sweltering high summer, was gone; in its place was ruthless patient winter, calculating and assessing.
How to do it. How to effect his vengeance. Outright defiance was insanity; Voldemort was a thousand times the wizard he'd ever be. So. Subtlety.
Betrayal? His mind seized on it like a starved dog seizing meat. He knew much about his Master, after all; who was in His service, who did what, who bore the Mark. If he were to spill his knowledge to the Master's enemies, and if they were all to be arrested or killed, it would indeed be a crippling blow.
Yet his insides seized at the thought. The Aurors-- always the enemy, since time immemorial the enemy. The hands of the Ministry, doing its dirty work. The Ministry, fools wrapped in stupidity, incompetence and fear. He didn't want to touch them, even to sell them his former Master.
And Voldemort didn't fear the Ministry. By extension, neither did the Death Eaters.
Severus's brows drew together in concentration. This would be more difficult than he'd thought....
He dropped back onto his bed, lacing his hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. His face was impassive but his mind raced, turning over possibilities and consequences, actions and fallout. He saw clearly in his mind's eye what had happened to the last traitor Voldemort had caught. Remembered the death. The blood. The madness. The ruptured veins and leaking eye sockets...
Grimacing, he sat up. That was not a productive train of thought, and with a discipline born of his experiences of Voldemort, he simply shoved it aside. It was not productive to think of that unthinkable alternative, and so he did not.
It was also not productive to think of what might have happened had he never taken the Mark onto his skin. What might have been if he had never gone to him. What he might have become. Not productive. Not at all. Yet for some reason he couldn't shove those thoughts aside so easily...
A knock on his bedroom door, respectful and polite. He cast a quick glance down at himself to make sure the cleaning spells had gotten rid of all that dirt, and said calmly, "Enter."
Lucius's blond head stuck round the corner of the door, the usual mutinous hatred seething under a false obedience. Severus almost smiled, forgetting for a moment everything that had just transpired. For a moment, it was business as usual.
"Yes, Lucius?"
"... Nott and Pucey and I need help with our Potions homework."
He considered. "No. I'm busy."
Anger blazed for a moment, the older boy fighting to control it. "What do you mean you're busy? You're not even doing anything."
Severus fixed him with a frigid stare before saying softly, "Just because you don't perceive my actions means nothing, Malfoy. I'm thinking about the formulas for some new poisons, as per His instructions. Now, unless you care to assist me in testing them..."
The older boy left admirably quickly, and he laughed quietly in the silence of his room then quickly sobered. A petty pleasure, one he didn't have time for anymore. He closed his eyes again, thinking. Thinking.
Lucius feared him. Why did Lucius fear him? Because of what he could do, yes, and also because of Voldemort. Lucius feared Voldemort. They all did of course.
What did Voldemort fear?
Nothing, his mind whispered. Nothing. So there was no point...
No. Not true. He fears. Everyone fears something. Everyone. Something.
For a long time he just sat there, running over what he knew of his Lord's behaviour and mannerisms. After enough recollection, it came to him, simply and slowly, like dawn over the lake.
He is afraid to die.
No one spends so much energy, so much magic, in pursuit of eternal life just because they have something to live for. He doesn't want to live forever, he just doesn’t want to die.
Just like anyone else. He's terrified of what lies on the other side. He's scared of death.
And of Albus Dumbledore.
Standing, the boy quickly left the room, unwilling to let himself sit still, unwilling to let doubt possibly creep back in.
Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, leaned back with a sigh. He was tired; exhausted even, from the day's strain and wear.
He always felt tired, these days. Not a moment free.... He stared out the window, west, towards the sun as it slowly lost the battle with gravity. Day was dying. The light was fading.
And under his office, in the labyrinth of the school, more children were lost to the darkness each moment. He sighed again, wearily, pain visible on his features.
Gods. They tried, he and his staff; and for every Gryffindor or Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff they managed to save, a Slytherin seemed all that much surer to slip into the shadows and disappear. Why? Why couldn't he save them?
Why did Tom get them all? How?
He opened a folder that rested on his desk. A picture of Evan Rosier stared back at him, an insolent smirk on his face, his eyes shifting off to the side constantly. The colours of his Slytherin school tie mocked the Headmaster, mute accusation.
The boy was just sixteen. And he was a Death Eater. Albus didn't have to see the Mark on the boy's arm to know this; it was evident just in the aura that clung around the boy. That clung around so many of the Slytherins.
Names: Lucius Malfoy. Alexander Pucey. David Lestrange. Elaine Bordeaux. William Avery. Evan Rosier. Narcissa Barron. Severus Snape. Walden MacNair. Candace Fletcher. Anthony Parkinson. Vincent Goyle. Edward Crabbe. Amelia Hart. Cynthia Bragg. All students, fifth year or above. All enrolled here, at his school.
All wearing Dark Marks.
And those were just the ones he knew about.
And what could he do? What in the name of Merlin could he do? Turn them over to the tender mercies of the Ministry? Dumbledore let out a bitter laugh. They were children-- damned if he was going to send them to Azkaban. And such would be their fate, were their names to make it to the Aurors. Albus knew the Aurors, especially his sometime friend Alastor Moody-- and to one such as Alastor, there was no such thing as rehabilitation, and age was no factor in a Death Eater's guilt.
The Headmaster closed his eyes. Each one of the names was a blow to him. He longed to grab each child by the shoulders, to look into their cool, disdainful eyes and shake them and yell, "Can't you see? Can't you see yourselves pandering to please the devils who brand your arms and souls? Can't you see yourselves handing over the running of your lives to him? Children, my children, please--!"
But his cries would fall on deaf ears, he knew. He closed the folder. And stood. Time for the evening feast now. Time for blame and worry later.
The stairs moved silently under his feet, as silent as his office had been. Fawkes was quiet these days, sensing his master's mood and not interrupting with song. The stairs descended, taking him down, down....
He exited past the gargoyle-- and nearly walked into a fistfight.
Sirius Black and Severus Snape were facing off in the center of the hall, a red angry face and bulging eyes fixed on a cool disdainful face that was no less angry. Dumbledore sighed, took brief notice of Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew standing helplessly off to one side, and silently moved up behind the boys.
"--and I want to know what you're doing around the Headmaster's office, you filthy Slytherin sneak! Planning to break in and steal something for your daddy, maybe?"
"My business is my own, Black, and unless you want to learn the hard way not to interfere, I suggest you remove yourself from my path," a chilling voice whispered back.
"Is that a threat?"
"Don't be ridiculous. I 'threaten' someone worthy to oppose me... I just hurt someone like you," came the sneering reply. "Now, as you won't obey like a good little Gryffindor--"
Dumbledore saw the Slytherin's hand moving towards his wand long before Black ever did, and if he hadn't been there, things likely would have ended badly. As it was, a simple exertion of his will and the wand clattered to the ground.
All four boys wheeled and looked at him; triumph flitting over Black's face, dismay over Snape's. Dumbledore kept his voice calm as he said, "Gentlemen. This is hardly fitting behaviour for fifth years, now is it?"
Instantly, the Gryffindors all began to speak at once. "His fault--" "Sneaking around your office, sir--" "Caught him outside your office--"
"Boys," he said quietly, lifting his hand. They silenced, and he looked at the silent Slytherin, who observed him with cold, fathomless black eyes.
Thoughts raced in the Headmaster's mind, grim thoughts. Anger filled him as he met the boy's malicious gaze. Had Riddle sunk so low, to send a student after him? But of course-- he cared not what his servants suffered. And this one-- so eager to please his master, no doubt--
Severus Snape bothered him. He'd hoped the boy would not follow down the same road as the others. He was such a bright lad, so skilled, such potential-- but serving the wrong side.
"Mr. Snape. May I ask why you were near my office, as your classmates claim?"
The boy stiffened. Barely visible, and if he hadn’t been observing as carefully as he was, he would have missed it. "No reason, Headmaster. Just passing by... when they began to harass me." Silky smooth voice. Quite obviously a lie. Dumbledore sighed.
"When they began to harass you verbally, Mr. Snape. And yet you reached for your wand."
The Slytherin was silent, icy black eyes giving away nothing. The Headmaster tired to probe him, his blue eyes matching the boy's stare for long seconds. But the boy's mind was shut to him, shut to him as so many of the Slytherins were. The Headmaster exhaled.
"Five points from Slytherin for intent to attack another student, Mr. Snape. And, messrs. Pettigrew, Black, and Lupin-- in the future, remember that groundless accusations can cause more trouble than they're worth." Not that he thought the Gryffindors' accusations had been groundless-- it was all too likely that Snape was near his office on some unsavoury errand-- but the principle of the thing...
"Now. I suggest we all go to supper?" And he ushered the children ahead of him, down the ever-widening stairways to the Great Hall.
Snape was bitterly silent the whole way down. For a moment, Dumbledore had a sudden vision, as he watched the tall boy sweep ahead of the others: a man in voluminous black robes striding through the halls, his face bitter and set beyond his years; a tired hatred still lingering in coal-black eyes.... He shook it off and turned his eyes to the antics of his Gryffindors. Bright, honest boys-- whose motives he never had to question.
How does he do it? How does Tom get them all? the old wizard continued to ask himself, staring mournfully at the gathered Slytherins as he entered the Hall. Snape left to join them, and the Gryffindors headed off to their table.
They dedicate their lives
To running all of his
He tries to please them all
This bitter man he is
Throughout his life the same
He's battled constantly
This fight he cannot win
A tired man they see
No longer cares
The old man then prepares
To die regretfully
That old man here is me
Severus sat at his spot at the table, his fingers clenching into fists under the table, out of sight. He stared unseeing at his food, only taking a bite when Evan, to his right, prodded him with a curious glance. But his gaze returned ever so often to the old bastard sitting at the head table, an idiotic smile on his face as he chatted with Minerva McGonagall.
Thought you might be different, old man. Thought that-- but I'm a fool, aren't I? You look at me with those all-seeing blue eyes behind your bloody glasses, and it's easy to know just what the hell you see. It's written all over your face: Slytherin.
And don't I wear that label well? Don't I fit it? Oh yes. Slytherin, Slytherin, Slytherin-- and when it's a choice between me and your precious Gryffindors, it's no choice at all, is it?
Bastard. Blind bastard, useless senile fucking bastard-- how dare you look at me and label me...!
See if I give you Voldemort, after this. See if I do. You had your chance. Lost it, old man.
When you look at me and in your eyes I am unforgiven. Always-- unforgiven.
What I've felt
What I've known
Never shined through in what I've shown
Never free
Never me
So I dub thee unforgiven
You labeled me
I'll label you
So I dub thee unforgiven
Title: Unforgiven
Author: Lady Dien Alcyone
Rating: R for adult themes, male/male, darkie angstie, language
Summary: Another part to the Severus/Albus angst rockfic. Why? Because I'm odd.
Disclaimer: The gentlemen belong to JK Rowling, but seeing as she won't make use of them... ahem. Metallica owns the song.
Set immediately after the events of Death of Me.
