Failure
The atmosphere within the aged sanctum had grown to a brooding intensity. More than an hour had passed, but neither of the room’s occupants seemed to have noticed as they engaged in eager conversation. The Dark Lord, his pale features framed by the room’s dim light, reclined comfortably within his high-backed chair as he listened raptly to his young companion, carefully interjecting with both questions and praise, feeding the boy’s desperately wounded pride.
Shortly after the Dark Lord had demanded a demonstration of Severus’ latest charm, at which he had eyed with a growing and greedy hunger, Voldemort casually inquired into the younger man’s latest potions work, knowing full well he had spent the better part of a month locked away in his manor’s laboratory, perfecting his work. Seeing the glint of pride flash across his young companion’s eyes, Voldemort felt a satisfied grin curl across his features, and he leaned forward to listen to his eager companion.
Upon his suggestions, the younger man had disappeared to retrieve evidence of his work, returning with a portfolio of loose papers and a collection of dog-eared texts he’d written within the margins of. As before, Voldemort sat back and listened as Severus detailed his latest work, letting his mind wander to contemplate the boy before him.
That was until the relative tranquillity of the room was suddenly shattered, as the ornate mirror dominating the far wall of the antiquated study suddenly burst into life, casting the room in its flickering emerald light.
Severus bit back a flinch, the mirror’s sudden activation having caught him off guard, as he was deep into his fervent explanation of his most recent hypothesis: a potential improvement to the classical Edurus potion in order to prolong its effects in combat. The Dark Lord, on the other hand, seemed entirely calm, if quite aggrieved by the sudden interruption of their meeting, as he casually turned his growing glower towards the now glowing mirror.
The imposing visage of Walden Macnair, one of the Dark Lord’s original knights and most trusted followers, promptly came into focus, his steely eyes managing to radiate a cold cruelty even through the gently rippling, mercurial surface.
“My Lord,” the figure bowed his head, addressing his master with the formality befitting his good breeding, “we have set the muggle hovel’s ablaze and cleansed the land of their filth.” There was a flash of light to Macnair’s right, causing him to turn and briefly drift from focus within the mirror’s surface before he swiftly turned back to face his Lord, his sneer having deepened.
“However, my Lord,” Macnair stopped, seeming to think briefly, before he continued, “our efforts seem to have attracted the attention of Dumbledore’s ramble. Blood-traitors and mudbloods, the lot of them!” Another flash, and Macnair turned away once more, his unfocused visage seeming to bark some order, the details of which were lost to the two-way mirror he was undoubtedly using to communicate. A second later, his form came back into focus as he readdressed his master, “How do you wish for us to proceed, my Lord?”
Voldemort's eyes narrowed with keen interest. At first, he was furious that he or his meeting would be interrupted for such trivial nonsence, especially as he was grooming his newest and most promising tool. But he knew Macnair, and the details of this interruption intrigued him.
Despite the seemingly banality of it, he knew Macnair would not have been fool enough to trouble him with such news if he thought this fight could be lost. Nor would he ordinarily seek approval for something as simple as engaging their enemy in the field. Moreover, Macnair knew very well of his audience with Severus; Voldemort had been sure to inform him personally. Despite his bluster, Macnair was every bit a cunning Slytherin, so why risk his ire?
As he contemplated this strange turn of events, he silently tracked Macnair's sneering gaze, it landing upon his young companion beside him. The boy, for his part, returned an impressive sneer of his own, as he faced off against the older wizard. It was then that the pieces came together, and a sly grin curled its way across Voldemort’s features as he admired his old friend's cunning but rather bold move. This was Macnair playing at politics, undermining the young upstart half-blood, who had seemingly risen out of nowhere to the inner circle, whilst also demonstrating his worth to his Lord. Not only did Macnair know of this meeting, but unlike many others, he knew that Severus was not to take part in any raids until Voldemort himself ordered it. Casting his gaze back to Severus, he could see the frustration boiling under the surface, while Macnair now wore an almost taunting sneer, his lips having curled up into a slight smirk. It appeared Macnair had landed his blow, bruising the younger man’s ego.
Having come to his conclusion, Voldemort straightened to address Macnair, only to pause. He could simply respond to his request, ordering his forces to engage their enemy without acknowledging that which underlies his request. But he thought a moment longer as his critical eyes drifted back to his young companion and his determined sneer. A sly grin snaked its way across Voldemort’s features as a plan started to form. This was an opportunity he would take full advantage of; he would answer Macnair’s cunning with his own. Not only could he deal yet another blow to that old fool and his precious Order, but he could use this as an opportunity to test Severus. Not to mention, the inclusion of his young companion would subtly put Macnair back in his place, letting him know that his Lord knew exactly the game he was playing. A vindictive satisfaction grew within him at the thought—after all, his old friend had interrupted his meeting to play his petty politics.
Turning to the younger wizard, Voldemort placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension there, before finally addressing Macnair, “As always, you bring good news, my old friend.” Voldemort made sure to enunciate the word friend with a dripping saccharine tone.
“Yes, slaughter the filth, like you did the muggles they so adore! But,” Voldemort pauses, lifting a finger, making a point of clarification, “bring young Severus here with you.” He pushed Severus to stand, forcing him forward, and to the full attention of Macnair, “Let him share in your glory, old friend.”
Upon hearing this, the slight satisfied smirk that had tugged at the edges of Macnair’s lips slipped, his features contorting into a deep grimace. However, with the practiced grace of true pureblood, he dipped his head into a shallow bow and muttered his response, “Of course, my Lord.”, before his visage vanished from the mirror, its glow beginning to fade.
Feeling rather pleased with Macnair’s clear frustration, Voldemort now turned to face the slightly stunned younger wizard. “Severus,” his voice a low, commanding whisper, “this is your opportunity; join the raid and prove your worth. Show them,” he gestured dismissively towards the now-still mirror, “why they should respect you. Show them your true worth to our cause." Standing from his chair, Voldemort placed a firm hand upon the younger wizard’s shoulder, declaring, with an air of clear finality, “I know you will do me proud, Severus.”
Nodding stiltedly, Severus felt the weight of the Dark Lord’s words pressing down on him. This was his chance; he would not fail him.
“I will not disappoint you, my Lord.” he replied, forcing his voice steady despite the nerves he felt.
Then, with one final nod of approval, the Dark Lord dismissed him.
With one final bow, Severus left the warm, firelit study, exiting into the cold stone hallway of the ancient manor. Stood alone within the darkened space, the tension within Severus’ body was palpable. The weight of the moment evident upon his face as he forced his mind to focus, desperately relying upon his skills in occlumency to contain his roiling nerves, presenting in their stead a cold and determined sneering veneer.
Wasting no more time, Severus drew his ebony wand, its smooth, familiar length lending some comfort as his slender fingers felt its faultless surface. Finally, picturing his destination, Severus gave one well-practiced flick of his wand, and he was gone—disapparating on the spot with a thunderous crack, echoing down the lifeless, stonewalled hallway in his wake.
Apparition—it was a familiar, if still disconcerting, sensation for Severus as his whole world suddenly went black, and he felt a forceful tug at his navel. The air was forced from his lungs, and in an instant, he felt his body being drawn out impossibly thin. The tension rapidly built, his body feeling as if it would soon be torn to pieces—sundered at its most base level.
But, just as quickly as it had started, it ended.
Severus’ vision suddenly returned as he was thrown out into the cold night air, stumbling upon the uneven cobbled street of a small, secluded muggle village, nestled deep within the confines of the Peak District.
Gathering his breath as he waited for his senses to fully return, Severus slowly raised his head, hoping to take in his surroundings and orient himself; however, when his eyes finally refocused, the scene that greeted him was one of utter devastation.
The village was ablaze. Thatched cottages, which lined the thoroughfare of this once picturesque community, were consumed by the raging infernos of cursed flames, the screaming roar of which was near deafening. Acrid, choking smoke plumed high into the night’s sky, blotting out the stars and forming an oppressive grey blanket, reflecting the dancing flames below, casting the village in its hellish hue.
Dragging his stunned gaze from the hypnotising inferno, Severus took in the destruction around him. Framing the streets themselves were the smouldering husks of muggle cars, some of which had been rendered down to nothing more than their innermost skeleton. While large stone rubble was strewn across the cobbled path, the remnants of drystone dividing walls, which appeared to have been sundered by some unknown force.
As his mind began to make sense of the carnage surrounding him, Severus realised that hidden amongst the stone rubble were the charred and bloodied remains of butchered muggles, their tortured faces contorted to reflect the unthinkable pain of their final moments. Severus then watched in stunned awe as ever so gently ash began to rain down from the blotted sky, settling upon the mutilated bodies like virgin snow.
His stomach churned at the sight, the steadfast determination he’d felt moments before crumbling under the visceral reality before him. Tearing his eyes from the terrible scene, Severus forced every ounce of his willpower to stanch the flow of emotions that now threatened to consume him. He reprimanded himself for such weakness; they were just muggles, he told himself. But the words rang hollow in his mind.
Forcing himself to refocus on the task at hand, he gave a practiced wave of his wand, and a faceless white mask materialised in his open hand. Securing it firmly in place, Severus felt some reassurance as the claustrophobic feel of the mask lent some sense of disconnection from the scene around him as he again scanned the street before him, this time looking for signs of his comrades.
Walking further into the village, following the signs of destruction, Severus soon heard the distant scream of spellfire and muffled cries of combat coming from further in the village. Picking up his pace, Severus began to run towards the distant sound, pushing all thoughts of the carnage around him from his mind and focusing solely on the task at hand—he would prove himself worthy. He imagined the faces of the Marauders, of Potter, of all those who had taken everything from him. He felt his anger flare, and as he raced forward, he used this to fuel a singular and violent determination deep within.
Travelling deeper into the village, Severus quickly came upon an area relatively untouched by the devastation he’d seen thus far, with many of the thatched buildings still mostly intact. Confident he was nearing the source of the fighting, as the cries of battle grew clearer with every step he took, Severus readied himself, preparing to rush that final distance and prove himself against those pathetic fools.
However, he was suddenly torn from these determined thoughts of revenge by the familiar, if unexpected, baritone of Mulciber—a past dormmate of his and one of the very few people he could call friend. He, alongside Avery and Wilkes, had joined the Death Eaters prior to himself, being sponsored by their fathers, who all currently occupied positions within the Dark Lord’s inner circle.
Although the voice was raised, it was muffled, coming from somewhere within a nearby cottage. Severus stilled, listening carefully and trying to decipher what was being said, when suddenly he heard a loud crash and several more raised voices. Without thinking, Severus bolted for the cottage, bursting through the open door, when he heard an almost inhuman scream coming from upstairs. Rushing up the narrow stairway, wand raised, Severus crashes through the doorway of the first room he came to, wand in hand and ready to engage whatever enemy he was to find inside.
But instead, what he found inside stopped him in his tracks, leaving him in a stunned silence.
The room, which had likely once been a study of some kind, was a scene of utter destruction—broken furniture, singed fabric, and scattered papers littered the floor. The wallpaper hung in tattered shreds, and the air was thick with the smell of burnt wood and ozone from recent spellwork. Within the room stood three Death Eaters—the broad-shouldered figure in the centre Severus knew without any doubt was Mulciber, just as he knew the lanky frame of Avery stood to his right and the squat shape of Wilkes to his left.
But it was not them that had stopped Severus in his tracks. No, it was what the three leering figures stood encircling that shocked Severus so. There, sprawled upon the floor, was the quietly sobbing form of a young woman. Her arms and legs had been forced away from her own body, held flush against the hardwood floor, by the invisible force holding her captive. Long strands of the girl's light brown hair, matted with blood, now stuck to the pale skin of her tear-stained face, her body twitching with the aftershock of whatever curse she’d been struck with as a breathless and desperate sob escaped her lips.
Severus' rushed entrance had caused quite the shock within the room, the three Death Eaters all having spun around, their wands ready to greet the intruder. However, upon seeing the figure they recognised as Severus, despite the mask covering his face, they’d simply spluttered a string of insults, chastising him for startling them so. However, Severus noticed none of this, his mind having gone blank, desperately trying to come to terms with the sight he saw before him; his eyes remained locked onto the woman before him.
Too occupied by the image of the woman before him, Severus missed the sadistic glee in the eyes of his friends as they turned their attention back to their captive.
Severus had yet to realise it, but the carefully crafted walls of his mind, fitted so skillfully to hold back the torrent of emotions and memories best not examined too closely, began to waver, their foundations having already been weakened by his shocking arrival within the smouldering village.
Now, unable to help himself, Severus continued to stare helplessly, in a state of muted shock, as the woman before him cried upon the floor. It was then that he saw it; he hadn't at first, his shocked mind and her distressed state having obscured the fact, but now as he watched her, he realised he recognised this woman. Her light brown hair, warm hazel eyes, and milk-white skin—this was not some random muggle, but someone they knew—Mary MacDonald, a muggleborn Gryffindor from their year. Although she’d never stuck particularly close to the more self-righteous of her house, he had heard she was rumoured to have accompanied the fools in joining Dumbledore’s Order.
It was then that Severus was struck by another thought, one that almost undid him. She hadn’t just been some Gryffindor; she'd been... she’d been friends with her. It had been MacDonald that Severus had begged that awful night, at the portrait just outside of the Gryffindor common room, at the end of his fifth year.
Severus physically shook himself, frantically trying to stop the flow of memories, as more cracks appeared in his failing walls.
It was then that the slender figure of Avery stepped forward, entering Severus’ narrowed field of view. He watched silently as Avery, with a malicious and gleeful laugh, lifted his wand and, with a flick, cut through the fabric of MacDonald’s top, exposing her pale breasts. Severus watched the terrible realisation flicker across MacDonald’s face as she began to cry out, thrashing desperately against the magic holding her in place. The Death Eaters simply laughed, jeering as her breasts moved freely in her fruitless attempts at breaking free.
Severus watched helplessly, struggling against his own mind as he felt a growing sense of panic build, desperately trying to strengthen his mental defences. For a second, it even seemed to be working; his eyes grew cold, and his mind detached from the situation unfolding around him.
That was until those pleading hazel eyes met his own, and in that moment he saw her pain, her desperate fear, and something in him shattered. His walls crumbled, and Severus was suddenly overcome with emotion. As MacDonald begged for help, Severus’ mind was flooded with memories of his mother’s desperate screams as she tried to fight off his father. In that moment, he felt just as small, just as useless as he had then, hiding scared as his mother was abused and broken by that filth.
Entierly unaware of Snape's inner turmoil, Mulciber and the others were clearly amused by MacDonald's pleas, as they began to berate the poor woman, spewing their foul vitriol and mocking taunts as she struggled against her restraints, her voice breaking with each helpless cry.
Of course, Severus heard none of this; his world had become muted. He watched the woman before him struggle as his mind was assaulted and undone by the chaotic flow of unchecked memories. His delirious mind began blurring the lines between memories and the reality before him. Soon a cruel amalgam of haunting wails rang out through his mind, as MacDonald’s desperate cries became his mothers, and his mother’s became her’s.
The visions morphed, shifting as Severus’ brilliant mind raced, working against him to conjure fragments of yet more painful memories.
But then, suddenly, the shifting vision stilled, solidifying as his unconscious mind was finally satisfied with the hell it had birthed.
Severus watched with crystal clarity as, upon the floor before him, lay the restrained woman, her pale skin near luminescent in the darkened room. Her body shook with each hitched breath, as finally her fatigued, tear-stained face lifted to meet his, and Severus’ heart stopped—gone was any trace of MacDonald or his mother. In their stead, hauntingly beautiful emerald eyes stared back at him as tears ran down her perfect, alabaster cheeks.
Those eyes… those terrible, beautiful eyes. Severus struggled to breathe, unable to look away as her eyes, so filled with that awful, heartbreaking betrayal, screamed their silent accusation as they stared right through him, piercing his very soul, leaving him feeling hollow as if his heart had been ripped from his chest.
Hidden behind the porcelain mask, secret tears now streamed down Severus’ face. Paralysed by the scene, he was transported back to that terrible midsummer’s day, all those years ago, as he destroyed what little good he had in his miserable life.
Then, without warning, the most gut-wrenching, awful cry of pain Severus had ever heard cut the room, causing him to flinch violently, dragging him from the whirling mess of his own thoughts. As he looked up, Severus watched in stunned disbelief as Mulciber, apparently having grown bored of the woman’s cries for mercy, strode forward, wand raised, and bellowed the incantation of the cruciatus curse. The wicked smile upon his lips grew ever broader as he watched the lithe figure besieged by unimaginable pain; her muted cries were now mere whimpers, as her lips had sealed shut, the convulsions which wracked her body having locked her jaw tightly shut.
In the leering face of Mulciber, he now saw the blurred image of his father as he stood over the bloodied and beaten figure of his mother. Only now, it was not his mother; it was her. It was Lily.
And, just like that, Severus finally snapped.