Disclaimer: Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, Minerva McGonagall, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Draco Malfoy, and all these other people are characters belonging to J.K. Rowling. I claim no rights to them, their surroundings, or their situations. Much to my sorrow.

--- 13 Snape: The Whips and Scorns of Time

He was seventeen, spinning madly in circles, experiencing a sense of terrible deja vu, and about to honk up his lunch.

"Potter, you ruddy great oaf. Leave off, won't you?" Lily Evans was frowning up at him from some fifteen feet below, as that miserable blighter James Potter gleefully twirled his wand, sending Snape into another series of rapid, stomach-turning mid-air somersaults.

"C'mon Evans, it's all in good fun. Snivellus doesn't mind, see? Having the time of his life, he is..." Potter sniggered at his own presumed wit. The only other Marauder present was Sirius Black, who was thoroughly enjoying the show.

Lily put her hands on her hips and fixed Potter with a venomous glare worthy of a Slytherin. She was lovelier than ever, green eyes snapping dangerously, the drape of her robes offering captivating clues to the curves and hollows that lay beneath. "James Potter, you are an unbelievable prat. You are not in the least amusing, and if you do not put him down this instant, you can forget about ever getting closer to a date with me than sitting in the same section of the Quidditch stands!"

Potter stopped and looked at her in surprise. That alone would have won the lady Severus' undying gratitude, since it also meant that he stopped spinning long enough for his stomach to find its way back to its proper place.

"So then, what you're saying is that if I lay off old Snivvy, you'll go out with me?" James grinned in that way he thought women found so irresistible, and he was right, the cocky bastard; whatever quality of attraction it was that he possessed in such abundance, he only seemed to acquire more with each passing year. Even Lily, once too intelligent to be taken in by his breezy charisma, wasn't completely immune anymore.

"I'll consider it, possibly," she said, casting her eyes down in feigned indifference. Strike that, Severus thought, he was going to vomit.

"Right, then." Potter's grin turned malicious, and he gave a careless wave of his wand. "Finite Incantatum!" Snape dropped like a stone, unable to suppress a yelp of alarm.

Again it was Lily who came to his rescue, having dealt with Potter often enough to anticipate some such foolishness. Her own wand was already in her hand. "Wingardium Leviosa! I swear, Potter, you are the absolute end! I have half a mind to renege..."

James made a mollifying gesture as Snape drifted safely to the ground, only to tumble over the moment he touched down, still too dizzy to catch his balance. "Aw, come on, don't do that, Lily. I've only been trying for three years to get you to say yes. Look, no hard feelings, right?"

He walked over and hauled Snape up by the scruff of his neck. "Books, Sirius?" he called, and Black levitated the Slytherin's scattered textbooks into a neat pile, which Potter plucked out of the air and shoved into Snape's arms, depositing his wand on top of the stack with a distinct warning glance. "There you are--good as new and off you go, mate."

With a clap on the shoulder that almost knocked Severus over again, James turned and walked back to Lily with all the pride of a magnanimous conqueror who'd just granted a reprieve to a condemned enemy. "So, what are you doing tomorrow evening?"

"I said I'd consider it, James."

"Brilliant! Consider it a date. Tomorrow, seven o'clock, Gryffindor common room." Potter winked and gestured to Black, who got up and stretched hugely with much popping of joints, then grinned and winked at Lily and loped off after his cohort.

Too nauseous and disheartened to think about a counter-attack--which would only guarantee the next time would be that much worse, at any rate--Snape had already begun to turn away, clutching his schoolbooks to his chest and wishing he had his Apparation license so that he could conveniently disappear. At least there hadn't been a large audience this time...

"Severus..." He halted and turned back, astonished that Lily even knew his proper given name. She came up and smiled tentatively. "You all right?"

He swallowed hard and nodded, tongue-tied as he nearly always was when the Gryffindor girl was around.

"Good. You know," her voice dropped conspiratorially, "he only comes after you that way to show off for his beastly friends. Maybe if you got on better terms with some of your own Housemates, you wouldn't make such an easy target, and he'd have to sod off."

He looked away, not quite sure what to say. She was stating the obvious, and it wasn't as easy as all that. Still, he knew she meant it kindly. "I-I'm not v-very good at making friends," he muttered, feeling the blood rush to his face; how was it he could recite long and complex incantations from memory, but couldn't spit out a simple statement of fact in Lily's presence without stuttering?

"Well, you've not got much to lose in trying, have you?" There was genuine sympathy in her luminous green-eyed gaze, and it countered any sting the candid words might have inflicted.

Stuck for an intelligent response, he nodded again, and Lily dropped her eyes; perhaps sensing, in that mysterious way that women had, how she was affecting him. "Well, think on it, anyway. I'll see you around, Severus."

He watched mutely as she walked off, pondering what she'd said. While it was true that his attempts at socializing usually ended in disaster, it was equally true that he hadn't tried in a long while.

In retrospect, he couldn't blame Lily for where her advice had led him. She'd had no way of knowing that the Death Eaters were recruiting among the Slytherin seventh-years at that time; or that they had already singled him out as a likely candidate, and were waiting for an opportune moment to draw him into their web of malice.

He knelt in the ruins of a pleasant little house, clutching a small slender hand that had already begun to cool, struggling to draw in air past the consuming grief that threatened to burst his heart. He wished it would. It would be so much easier than this, to taste this bitter fruit of his own murderous jealousy and spite.

Somewhere in the background, a baby was shrieking. James Potter's son, still impossibly alive...and here before him, not three feet from her husband's mutilated remains, lay the one who had paid such a terrible price for the child's survival. Brilliant green eyes stared glassily at the sky, devoid of warmth, of pity...of anything at all.

"Lily, please, I'm so sorry. Please don't go. I tried so hard, I thought that I'd persuaded him...it was the others he was after, you were supposed to--to be all right--" But she'd already gone, he knew. And in his heart of hearts, he knew, too, that this is what she would have wanted--to save her child, and to be with James.

He bowed his head, bent nearly double with agony, and wished that he could weep.

Other men wept at moments like this. Why couldn't he? Had he become so inhuman in the Dark Lord's service that he was to be denied even that small, pitiful surcease?

Too wrapped up in his misery to hear the approaching footsteps, he startled violently when large hands fell onto his shoulders from behind. "Leave her, Severus. The Ministry will be here at any moment. We have to go..."

He sat back and pulled off his Death Eater's mask, turning to gaze up into Lucius Malfoy's impassive grey eyes with a sudden ferocity that inspired the older man to backpedal hastily a few steps.

"The Dark Lord?" Severus asked, wondering whether Lucius had any idea how close he was to an excruciating demise at that moment. He still thought them friends. But the only thing holding Severus back was a disinclination to further defile this place with bloodshed.

"Gone...I've retrieved his wand, but I can't find a trace of him. Whatever the Potter woman did, he must have had no counter to it." Removing his own mask, Malfoy eyed Lily's corpse with uneasy disdain. This only confirmed what Snape had already surmised; the Dark Mark on his inner left forearm had ceased to trouble him for the first time since he'd received it.

"And the child?" He stood slowly, moving to place himself between Malfoy and Lily, unwilling to expose her remains further to that cold grey scrutiny.

"Oh, the brat's fine. He'll have a bit of a nasty scar, but he's squalling fit to wake the dead." It took every iota of self-control Snape possessed not to wipe the smirk off of Malfoy's face. Three or four Unforgivables would do the job nicely... "Given what he's just seemingly done to our Lord and Master, I rather think I don't care to have a go at him. Severus, we really must be off."

"You go on ahead...I'll catch up with you shortly."

Lucius hesitated, clearly not satisfied with this arrangement. But one more good look into the younger man's flat black eyes convinced him that it would be prudent not to argue. With a sigh, he raised his wand. "Very well, then, I'll see you presently..."

With that, Malfoy Apparated away. Severus turned back to the empty shell that had once been Lily Evans.

With tender care, he arranged her stiffening limbs in a semblance of peaceful repose. He smoothed down the tangled hair, and straightened out the twisted fabric of her simple, unpretentious robes.

Then, hesitantly--knowing he hadn't the right, but also that it was the last chance he'd ever get to touch that beautiful face, as he'd longed to do for so many years--he passed his hand over her eyes, closing them for the final time.

Malfoy was correct, it was past time to go. Still, heedless of his peril, he remained, bowed over the lifeless form, and said the things to her he'd never found the courage to say when she had lived.

That he'd thought she was beautiful. That he'd admired her strength and conviction. That he was grateful for all the times she'd intervened on his behalf; and sorry, so very sorry that he had ever called her a Mudblood.

That it was chiefly for spite over her marriage to Potter that he'd finally joined the Death Eaters; and for her sake, when he'd come to understand her danger, that he had gone to Dumbledore to confess. That he had remained among the Death Eaters as a spy, risking everything for the chance to turn aside the Dark Lord's wrath.

Too little, too late. For all the good he'd done, he might as well have been holding the wand that killed her.

There was a crash and an oath in a deep basso profundo from a few rooms away. Heavy footsteps rattled the debris as the owner of the voice approached. The baby's screams reached an ear-splitting crescendo.

He fought down a powerful desire to leap up and strangle the child himself--James Potter's son, the child who should have died in her place! Let them throw him into Azkaban; he'd more than earned it.

But he could not do that; Harry Potter was all that now remained of Lily Evans. Perhaps, too, his only chance to escape the hell that surely awaited him for his failure to protect her.

Instead, having no desire whatsoever to share his grief with the likes of the half-witted half-giant, Severus bent to swiftly whisper a final promise. "Your son will be famous, Lily, and there will be those who will hate him for what took place tonight. I failed you today, but the life-debt stands. If my path should ever cross his, I will protect him to my last breath. I swear it."

By the time Hagrid stepped into the room, Severus had Apparated away to mourn in bitter solitude.

"Tired of waiting, Severus? Well, don't worry, I daresay it shan't be much longer now." Malfoy's voice was cheerful, almost jovial, and a number of choice rebuttals came to mind. Unfortunately, Snape was incapable of delivering them at the moment.

He stood ramrod straight, cursed blind and dumb, bound by powerful enchantments that ensured his complete immobility. He'd been standing that way for hours, and he ached in every joint. His arms were bound behind his back, shoulder joints strained to the brink of dislocation. The heat was stifling, and his mouth and throat were dry as dust. Sweat trickled unchecked down his back beneath the heavy black fabric of his robes and shirt; oddly enough, that relatively minor discomfort was driving him mad more than anything else.

That, and the relentless burning sensation in his left inner forearm.

All around him, he could hear the movement and the low speech of others, but no recognizable words came through; it all blended into a dull background hum, laced through with the anticipatory tension of what was to come. Personally he was trying not to think too closely on it. He'd found himself in this position just once before, and he shuddered involuntarily to recall how perilously close he'd come to breaking that time.

The ordeal up til now had been expressly for the purpose of wearing him down, he knew. It didn't concern him too much. He was stronger now, more experienced, and much better equipped to withstand whatever punishment the Dark Lord saw fit to dole out once the real trial began.

Only this time, his worse-if-wiser self whispered tauntingly, the stakes were a great deal higher, and Voldemort knew it as well as he did.

The sounds of activity drew nearer and louder. He recognised most of the voices; a few were unfamiliar. All quite young, those. Not Hogwarts students, he was fairly sure. He wondered with a certain detachment whether the young ones had any better idea what they had got themselves into than he had, years before, when he'd first joined the ranks.

If not, they were about to find out, Merlin help them...

The air grew closer around him, and though the voices fell silent, he knew he was surrounded on all sides by Death Eaters. His heart rate picked up a bit; he turned his attention inward and concentrated on slowing it down.

It was imperative that he remain calm and in control, or he was worse than dead. It was as simple as that.

There was no sound to herald the Dark Lord's arrival, no tangible change in the air. Only a sudden fierce, searing pain where he was Marked, and a sense of dread that settled in the pit of his stomach and refused to go away.

"Release him, Lucius." At those three simple words, delivered in the high cold voice he remembered too well, an icy stab of panic shot through his gut. He quelled it, only to feel it resurge as Malfoy murmured the counterspells that freed his limbs and restored his sight.

The first thing that greeted his slightly blurry gaze was the grotesquely misshapen, snakelike face of Voldemort. Dear gods, it was every bit as horrific as Potter had described! Stumbling forward as circulation returned painfully to his extremities, he dropped to his knees, knowing that he'd be 'reminded' in short order if he failed to do so.

"Very good, Severus. I am pleased to see that you remember that much of decorum, with everything else that you seem to have forgotten."

He bowed his head, knowing better than to speak without permission. Calm. Remain calm and you live. He focused on keeping his respiration slow and steady, and took in the Dark Lord's words from a safe distance he created within his own mind.

"Look at me, Severus."

He raised his head obediently and forced himself to look into those cold, flat, bloody crimson eyes. It was easier than he'd expected. Unlike human eyes, they were like opaque mirrors, reflected nothing of the soul within. Unnerving, yes, by their very nature; but incapable of conveying emotion.

But within seconds he'd realised his danger--though Voldemort's eyes couldn't forewarn him of the Dark Lord's intent, they were perfectly capable of reading his own. Breathing a silent thanks to Dumbledore for his top-rate lessons in Occlumency, he smoothed over the surface of his thoughts, burying deep all telltale signs that might contradict the lies he was about to tell; bringing those lies to the fore, where Voldemort could seize upon them and be satisfied of his veracity.

The assault did not come at once, however. Voldemort held his gaze for only a few moments, then began to move, pacing a slow circle around his errant follower. "We missed you, my friend, at my rebirthing party. I was sorely disappointed to realise that you had not appeared when your brethren arrived, most aggrieved...perhaps you will enlighten us as to what other pressing business kept you away, on so momentous an occasion?"

Snape had expected this; he'd already explained his reasons to Lucius and the others, but naturally Voldemort wanted it from the hippogriff's mouth. "I was surrounded by enemies when the call came, Master, and I could not get away immediately without arousing suspicion. The grounds of Hogwarts are warded to prevent Apparation. I came as soon as I was able to slip away undetected."

"Yes, quite," Voldemort murmured, "far too late to be of any use, but let us pass over that for the moment. All of this leads me to my next question: what you were doing there, holed up in the stronghold of my greatest enemies? Word has it you'd been tried and acquitted, become a close confidant of Dumbledore, even spied upon us for him in the final days...why, if I'm to believe half the rumors, you're practically his right-hand man!"

Voldemort's tone was casual--almost negligent--which Severus knew to be an extremely bad sign. "All of my children have been forced to hide behind distasteful facades to survive, of course. Much as it disappoints me, I must concede that my return would have been greatly complicated, had every Death Eater been consigned to Azkaban.

"But Dumbledore...he is a man of great resourcefulness. It almost defies belief to think that you've managed to remain there all these years, beneath his very nose, faithful to our cause, just...biding your time.

"If I didn't know better, my good friend, I'd label you a turncoat. And a fool to boot, for daring to appear before me here, in the midst of my faithful." Arms crossed, the hideous creature drummed his unnaturally long, spidery fingers thoughtfully against his biceps. "The game you play is deep and dangerous...but a fool you have never been, Severus. And therefore I am obliged to conclude that you are also not a traitor."

Having circled his penitent a half-dozen times, the Dark Lord now stopped and faced him, reaching out to rest his hands on Snape's shoulders. His flesh crawled at the contact, several layers of fabric notwithstanding, but he sublimated his revulsion and kept still, keenly aware that his life depended on it.

"This is what I have concluded," Voldemort repeated, speaking almost gently, "but you do understand, of course, my beloved servant, that I cannot leave such a thing to chance. I must know beyond any possibility of doubt where your loyalties lie."

"Yes, My Lord," Snape said without hesitation, his face an expressionless mask. Inwardly he braced himself, well acquainted with Voldemort's preferred method of interrogation.

"Excellent." Stepping back a few paces, the abomination removed his wand from within the folds of his robes with the same casual motion as a Muggle might take out his cigarettes. He glanced around at his Death Eaters and made an expansive gesture. "Any of you may feel free to join in, as the spirit moves you...but do let's attempt not to get carried away, hm? Whatever the outcome, I wish him intact."

Without further ado, he extended his wand. "Crucio!"

It was many hours later that Albus Dumbledore leaped to his feet in alarm, as his alleged right-hand man came staggering out of his fireplace unannounced...haggard, exhausted and barely capable of stringing two sentences together, but alive. And still in possession of his secrets.

Confused, random images from long ago and much more recently tumbling over one another in his mind, he seized onto the soft voice that he could not at first place. It spoke from a vast distance, and the name seemed only vaguely familiar, evoking a fleeting impression of large innocent brown eyes, bright with curiosity. But it was a welcome respite from what had come before, summoning no evil phantoms from the dark recesses of his memory to torment him.

The hospital. A fresh surge of panic threatened, though he couldn't clearly remember why, only that the place frightened him nearly as badly as the Dark Lord. He lost track of the voice briefly, and nearly despaired.

Then a new, dim awareness intruded on the impenetrable blackness that had fallen in the wake of the dark dreams. Someone was holding his hand. He focused on that with all his strength, the simple tactile sensation of warm living fingers wound around his own. That lifeline drew him back toward the surface, near enough that the comforting voice came through once again.

NO! Don't leave, he wanted to shout. Don't be quiet. Let me hear you, sweet child, you are the only thing keeping the evil at bay. Talk to me. For the love of god, don't leave me to face these demons alone!

The silence seemed to last an eternity. He fought toward consciousness, struggling to break through, to make himself heard, to give an answer that she might understand. The dreams were pulling at him, trying to drag him down again; promising in hideous whispers to drown him in his own pain.

And she didn't. She went right on speaking in low, soothing tones of things that he knew, familiar things that brought solace rather than fear, and the specters were driven back. Only vaguely did he understand her words, for the most part, but it was no matter.

As long as the voice was with him, he could rest.

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