Severus stared down at the goblet in his hand and idly swirled the dark
liquid about. He gazed in, trying to lose himself in the cyclic movement, but
to no avail. There was no escaping this. No, there was never any escaping this,
he told himself for the thousandth time. He set his goblet down on his desk and
leaned back in his chair to stare up at the dungeon ceiling. How many times had
he done this, too?
They had lost another one. One of Potter's lot. A young man named Michael
Corner. Snape remembered him from his classes, a quite intellegent young man
who actually showed great promise in the art of potion making though Snape
never told him such.
Now he would never have the chance.
He figured he should be used to it by now.
Most people would think he was used to it now. That he was hard and cold and
unfeeling. That was good, Severus would prefer that they thought that. It made
him feel less vunerable. It made him seem less vunerable.
He knew the truth.
Every time someone died... he couldn't escape the grief... the regret.
He remembered when he had notified Theodore Nott's parents of their son's
death. He had died protecting a group of first year students in the Hufflepuff
tower from a group of Death Eaters...
Of course they were infuriated. They couldn't understand how their son could
'turn on his family, his own flesh and blood.' There was a very simple answer
to that question: Theodore was a good man; a much better man than his father
had ever been. And where the boy's parents had not cared, he had. Theodore was from his own House; he was his
responsibility. Severus had come to know the boy fairly well, in and out of
class. He had a great urge to prove himself but... he also had a heart. A great
heart that would have ultimately kept him from pursuing any position of great
authority is traditional Slytherin fashion. But he was a good boy, a kind soul
and that sort of thing effects people in some ways...
But now he would never have the chance to prove himself.
Severus grabbed his goblet and took a bitter swig.
'A fine thing to do, drink youself into daze,' he chastized himself. 'A great
deal of good that will do.'
It didn't matter.
He was vunerable. It was best to forget that, if only for just a little
while...
It was always the decent ones that died, it seemed.... And always the young
ones. It had always been that way, of course. Young wizards and witches so
eager to please and prove themselves... they always ended up dead.
Regulus Black was a prime example. The things that boy had done... they were no
different from what the Potter brat and his friends did. They always tried to
do their interpretation of 'the right thing'. For young Regulus, 'the right
thing' had always been to please his parents. He remembered their beaming faces
when they told him that their son was joining his ranks.
Severus was sure their faces still beamed when they learned of his death.
But Regulus's had not.
Even worse than the deaths of his students was that of Regulus Black. If there
were any reason he would ever feel any emotion towards Sirius Black besides
utter rage and spite, it would be his sympathies for the other mans brother.
Because he had been there... and there was no worse fate than betrayal at the
hands of your allies.
'Please!' he had cried. 'Igor, Walden!'
Severus had not done the task himself. Instead... he had lured the boy to this
seculded place far in the depths of the Riddle home. He tried to hide himself
in the shadows, away from Regulus's fearful eyes. But the boy saw him.
'Severus!' he had yelled. 'Please! Severus, don't let them kill me!'
But it wasn't those cries that haunted Severus's memory the most... it was the
laughter. MacNair and Karkaroff's jeers at the pleading boy. They jested him in
his dying moments, asking him go beg, to plead for his life.
In the end, none of it mattered. Severus had turned his face but still seen the
flash of deadly green light. He had
still seen the boy's dead body on the floor of that cold, damp basement.
Sitting there, drink in hand, he wondered if anyone had ever moved the body.
"Severus!" someone called out from his study. A moment later, MacNair
burst through the door. "Severus you bloody lump. Get up! He wants to see
you!"
Severus looked down at the mark on his arm. The dark mark glared back up at
him, his sleeve already rolled up. He had known, of course. But this time he
wasn't going to answer. He was done answering.
"Severus!" MacNair growled. "Have it you drunken bastard! Now!
He's demanding to see you!"
He looked from the mark to the other man's face and nodded.
"I know."
With that, Severus whipped out his wand and pointed it at MacNair.
"Give my best to Regulus."
There was a flash of green light and MacNair fell. Severus didn't even remember
speaking the words.
They were so natural.
Calmly, he drained his drink and then looked over at a small vile on his desk.
He grabbed it and pulled out the stopper, placing it gently on the desk be side
his now empty goblet. The potion bubbled and fizzed as it met the room's
atmosphere. He secured his rolled up sleeve with a thin piece of string and
took a deep breath.
His vision was hazed, but that was he wanted. He didn't want to feel
anything right now.
Especially this.
As he poured the potion over his forearm, he didn't feel it eating away and
mutilating his skin.
He didn't feel it.
He didn't want to feel it.
He was invincible now.