Chapter Six

A/N: Readers please heed my warnings, this chapter is exteremly dark. My darkest yet, so much so that it unsettled me to write it. Murder is dealt with in this chapter, as well as faith/religion (Catholicism), and having a crisis of faith. If anyone has an issue with these topics, please skip this chapter and read my other author's notes at the end of the chapter. Thank You, CordyAngelSeer.

Chapter Six

Sleep was evasive. It was not as if Snape needed more than a few hours on any given night, but he despised the feeling of restlessness that consumed him as he tossed and turned. Realizing that no rest would come this night, he plodded out of bed and into his living quarters. The fire needed to be stoked. Long strides carried him to his reading chair and butler where a bottle of aged firewhisky awaited him. He decanted a snifter and downed the shot in one gulp before collapsing boneless into his worn wingback.

He set the glass down and threw his head back, eyes closed. He was so fucking tired. He could feel it in his bones: weariness, begging for resolution. He didn't know when it had happened, but eyes green that once haunted his every conscious and subconscious thought had lightened into orbs of hazel tinged with the faintest specks of amber. Eyes that were warm and inviting, honest, void of ulterior motive.

She was his innocence.

"Mo Anam," he breathed in toast, taking another shot.

The thaw had just settled upon Hogwarts. It was a late bloom this year; the weathered floorboards creaked with every step. Ivory keys yellowed with antiquity were caked with dull, listless, grey dust. He came here to contemplate his misspent youth. This place was the catalyst that drove him further into the thrall of the Dark Arts. Decrepit, and some would say beyond repair, the Shrieking Shack represented a festering pit of blackness, haunted by ghosts and sins of the past.

Snape took in a lungful of air, stale and tinged with the flavor of sawdust and cobwebs; he exhaled slowly. His fix of nostalgia, like a smoker craving his nicotine, he welcomed the bitterness and regret.

His nose twitched; sniff, faint... The scent of blossoms. He sniffed again. Cherry blossoms.

"No!" he gasped.

Memories of auburn hair and emerald eyes. Lily, his sweet Lily, who smelled of spring and sunshine, of cherry blossoms. Lily, who was now bone and earth, decayed.

"Lily," he rasped, tears leaking from ducts he had believed no longer worked.

Floorboards creaked, wand at the ready. "Who is there?" he growled, hex on his lips.

"Professor Snape?"

Snape relaxed a fraction. It was Hermione Granger, her Muggle jeans coated in a layer of filth. The girl looked as if she'd been crying, if her damp cheeks and puffy eyes were any indication.

"Miss Granger, why, may I ask, is a fifth-year prefect in this abysmal hovel instead of attending to her duties?" His eyebrow arched, awaiting her answer.

"I came here to think, sir." She looked down, embarrassed that her professor had happened upon her during a private moment.

"I like being alone, Professor. I embrace my solitude."

Snape was shaken by her response; so young and yet she spoke as if she had resigned herself to defeat and bore its burden with apathy.

His gut clenched.

Snape poured another shot. He remembered that day well; her eyes enervated, she had given up.

"Miss Granger?" The Potions master was out of his element; emotional students were not his forte. He took a tentative step toward her.

"You miss her," the Gryffindor stated matter-of-factly.

Black eyes narrowed. "Forty points for speaking of matters which are none of your concern." Venom dripped, his tone matching his eyes.

With the courage of the lion and of housemates who had come before, Hermione brazenly reached out and firmly grasped his forearm where the dark mark lay covered by layers of linen and wool.

"Miss Granger!" He pulled away, but she held firm. "Remove yourself from my person this instant, or you shall..."

"You're a good man, Professor." She released him, removing herself from his personal sphere, her legs hitting against the back of an overturned chair. A cloud of dust and dander erupted, causing student and teacher to sneeze.

"Do not presume to know me, Miss Granger. And please spare me the task of listening to you prattle on with meaningless platitudes."

Hermione shrugged, unfazed by his verbal throttling. "Yes, Professor Snape."

His eyes followed as she left the shack, not once looking back.

It was in that moment that Snape vowed to himself that he would see no harm come to the slip of a girl who had touched him, had uncovered his soul not yet completely decimated by the whims of madmen.

His fourth shot dropped to the carpeted floor. The burn; he was being summoned. Deliberate steps carried his lissome form to the mahogany chest of drawers in his bed chamber. Silver mask was removed from its velvet casing as robes austere in nature with the coloring of midnight were slung over his shoulders. Warding his room, he vanished into the labyrinth that was the dungeon sub-chambers. Feet followed paths traveled hundreds of times. On hands and knees, he scraped through the last tunnel, pushing himself upward and out of the rotted, hollowed out tree trunk, his entrance in and out of the castle when summoned, and into the cool night. A quick Scourgify saw his robes free of muck and debris.

Legs hurriedly carried him to the edge of the Forbidden Forest where he Apparated with a sharp crack!

"My Lord." Head bowed, Snape prostrated himself in front of his lord and crept forward to kiss the hem of ruby robes.

"Risssse, Sssseverusss, and join your brothers," the Dark Lord hissed.

Snape melted into the ranks, taking his place between Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange.

"My loyal followers, what news have you?" Slitted eyes surveyed the mass of black-robed figures. Snape stepped forward, eyes locked onto his lord's, opening his mind to the inevitable infiltration.

"Dumbledore, my Lord, is growing weaker by the day. In his infirm state, his tongue has become loose. The fool fears death, fears Potter will lose."

He felt the mental gust of invasion as his lord silently entered his mind, rifling through images of the Potions master's last counsel with the headmaster speaking on mortality and Potter's short-comings concerning non-verbal spells and on the boy's unease and inability to successfully cast an Unforgivable. Flashes of Dumbledore's gnarled hand barely able to hold his tea cup and of the Golden Trio's disagreement at dinner were pulled to the forefront of Snape's mind. Snatches of the everyday were laid open, essays being graded, detentions overseen. Scenes flickered forward, staged incidents of purposely botched healing draughts that laced the Old Fool's lemon drops.

With a dull throb, he felt the tug as the Dark Lord withdrew from his mind. A feral grin crossed thin, scaled lips.

"You have done well, Severusss..." he hissed. "Dumbledore should do well to fear hisss demise. Lord Voldemort shall be victorious."

Snape stepped back into place among his brethren, a self-satisfied smirk hidden behind his mask.

"My Lord," Malfoy deferred, head bowed, "Fudge has been reticent regarding placing the initiatives of pedigree requirements for entrance to Hogwarts into place." Malfoy's breath was held; the Dark Lord did not tolerate unfavorable news or its messengers.

Wand twirled idly between skeletal fingers. "Then might I suggest, Luciusss, you line his pockets with your Galleons," Voldemort hissed in reprimand.

Abashed, "Yes, my Lord," Malfoy slinked back next to his sister-in-law, grateful to have escaped the Crucio.

Nagini parted the crowd, slithering towards her reptilian master; the hisses and spits of Parseltongue were shared between familiar and wizard. Rubbing the massive snake's head affectionately, the Dark Lord addressed his audience, "Nagini informs me that Pettigrew has supplied ample entertainment for tonight, my loyal followers."

A ruckus erupted, bloodthirsty, with Death Eaters keen to slate their lusts. The doors of the old Riddle Mansion's ballroom opened; Yaxley, Greyback, and Dolohov emerged. A group of women and children, Muggles by the look of them, were struggling against the bonds of their captors.

Bellatrix licked her lips in anticipation. The cheers of Snape's fellow Death Eaters grew louder.

"Fenrir has a taste for young blood," Lucuis leaned over and whispered to Snape, nodding his head in indication to a girl no more than four, whose chubby, little fingers clung to the skirts of a middle-aged woman, dazed, who kept repeating, "My baby."

Out of his peripheral vision, Snape saw the girl; she was unremarkable, one in a line of many, and like the rest, she would be dead by morning... if her body held out that long.

Death Eaters had begun to section off, surveying their spoils for the night. Snape felt his stomach lurch; Greyback had claimed the little girl. There would be nothing left come morning.

Bile rose in his throat; he Disapparated. At the edge of the Forbidden Forest, he tore his mask off the metal, scratching his cheek before he doubled over in a fit of dry heaves. The women brought forth for entertainment at revels never fazed him; they were a means to an end, culmination. But, the children... Gagging, he wiped the spittle from his mouth. Removing his Death Eater garb, he made his way back to the castle to give his report.

Severus did not utter a greeting as he entered the headmaster's office. "Fourteen Muggle women and nine Muggle children." His tone was clipped and to the point.

"Tea, Severus?" Dumbledore gestured to the tea service nestled between his desk and Fawkes' perch.

"No, thank you, Headmaster." Snape remained standing. He watched as the older wizard popped a lemon drop into his mouth.

"I must say, Severus, you have really outdone yourself with this latest batch." Dumbledore offered the bowl to his Potions master, who declined with a wave of his hand.

"Fudge is dragging his feet on the pureblood mandates. It appears Lucius is not the only wizard lining the Minister's pockets."

Dumbledore shrugged, not surprised. "Interesting," he wheezed out.

"The Ministry has seen fit to send Delores Umbridge and Yaxley to begin registering all Muggle-born students currently attending Hogwarts. Safety precautions they say."

Snape's heartbeat quickened. Outwardly, he remained impassive. "I believe the Nazis deemed such 'safety precautions' the Nuremburg Laws, Headmaster."

The irony was not lost on Snape; the Dark Lord incorporating the ideologies of racial superiority from a Muggle tyrant. He wondered if Riddle kept a well-worn, dog-eared edition of Mien Kampf on his bookshelf.

"If that is all, Headmaster, I shall take my leave." Severus excused himself. His heart leapt with excitement; Umbridge would be returning to Hogwarts... A pity though, she would not be leaving.

Alone in his rooms, a throaty, maniacal cackle reverberated throughout his chambers; he trembled with need.

With great care, he hung up his robes and polished his mask before replacing them in his chest of drawers. Inching the false shelf from the second drawer, he fingered the bundle of green silk. Gingerly easing it from the hiding place, he unraveled the silk slowly, the swoosh of the material a siren's song to his ears.

The hilt of the blade was of heft, gilded and forged of Vermeil. He brought the cold metal of the blade to his palm and drew down. The twitch of pain arousing his pleasure further, the need burned within him, begging to be sated.

Globules of red leaked through the line of broken flesh. Clenching his injured hand into a tight fist, he watched as blood spilt from between his fingers and onto the blade.

"Baptized in my blood, so shall I shed blood."

As he had done hours before, Snape made his journey to the Forbidden Forest and Apparated.

The streets of London were littered as Snape emerged from an alleyway, cloaked in shadows he called home. Eyes scanning the passersby.

A woman, small in stature, perhaps in her mid-fifties, ash-blonde hair grey with age, skin yellowed, wrinkled; fat hung from her midsection. He entered her mind; she moved past him, cigarette butt flicked into the gutter. He waited, watched, slowed his heartbeat. He moved, stalking forward, keeping his distance, his step nonchalant, a deliberate pace, unnoticed. A crowd had assembled at an intersection, waiting for the light to change.

He weaved his way through the throng; nicotine and rose oil offended his keen sense of smell.

The light changed.

Footfalls pounded payment; street crossed, she broke away. He melded into the dark of night. Oblivious of her predator, she continued. A street post lamp flickered, cars parked, dilapidated flats lined narrow streets.

Startled eyes, wide, hand covering mouth, thwarting attempts to scream.

"Ssh." His breath warm, tickling her ear, he pressed himself against her, shifting his prey, drawing them into an alcove between the tenements.

"Mother is the name for God, on the lips and hearts of all children." Low tones whispered into her ear, "A mother should never lay her hand upon a child." He released her; disillusioning himself, he left the alley, leaving the woman badly shaken.

He continued on his way, up the street and around the corner. St. Mary's Church called to him. Ending his charm, Severus entered, knowing the door would be unlocked. Dipping his stained fingers into the holy water, he crossed himself.

His left hand clenched the onyx-beaded rosary in his pocket. It had belonged his grandmother, Clara Snape, nee Kiernan, who had immigrated to London with her older sister when she was six years old to escape the violence after the Easter Rising of 1916.

St. Mary's was his boyhood church. Snape had longed for summers when he would stay with his grandmother. She was a kind and decent woman, nothing like his mother. She was devout in her faith, a value she passed on to her grandson as they attended Mass daily. He walked up the aisle, genuflected, and eased into the pew.

With rosary in hand, he prayed.

Snape felt a hand rest on his shoulder. "Severus."

"Father," he said, not looking up.

The priest gave the man's shoulder a squeeze.

"Would you like me to hear your Confession?"

"Please."

Father Coates had been Severus' childhood confessor and remained so to this day. The elderly priest made his way to the confessional. Snape would follow in his own time; he always did.

"Amen." Last bead prayed, he crossed himself and genuflected as he exited the pew.

He entered the confessional. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession."

"Go on, my son."

"I've taken another life, father... God help me, but I did..." It was the same confession for each life he was bade to take. Twenty-seven in total.

"Yes, my son, go on."

Severus remained silent, guilt eating away at his soul.

"Murder is a Mortal Sin."

"I know."

"Do you repent and ask His forgiveness?"

"I do."

Father Coates assigned Severus his act of Penance and Contrition.

"I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

"Forgive me, Father," wand raised, "Obliviate."

He exited the confessional and ran from the church, Apparating back to the Forbidden Forest. The darkness was leaching into his soul, the Dark Mark... He was violently ill. Falling to his knees, head thrown back, he cried.

"What do you want from me?" Sobs wracked his body. "Am I a wizard or a Muggle? Is this my punishment for a mistake made nearly twenty years ago?"

God above, help him, but had he known that taking the Dark Mark would mean the erosion of his soul, he never would have done it. Had he known that bearing Tom Riddle's mark also meant allowing evil to course through his veins, he would have taken his life, for it would have meant others would still be alive. Men, women, and children whose lives were ended by his hand because his Lord had commanded it of him.

He was to blame though; he knew it. Fault lay heavy on his shoulders, and he would not shrink from bearing a burden he brought upon himself. Miss Granger thought him a good man. He was not a good man; he was man broken beyond repair.

"God, don't let my sickness touch Hermione... My love damned Lily... I...I can't harm Miss Granger."

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A/N: To my beta, SeverusLovesUs, you are amazing for getting me through this chapter and encouraging me. I had my reservations about this chapter and its content, but your words of praise and letting me know that this was a turning point for the story that needed to be told. I thank you so much :)

A/N: This version is a heavily editied version of what I originally intended to post, but had a change of heart. In the original version Snape kills the woman. I felt exceedingly uncomfortable with Snape's actions and decided not to post it. Thank you for your understanding...CordyAngelSeer.

A/N: The lines Father Coates recites can be found at HYPERLINK "http://www.wikipedia.org/wiki/confession"

"Mo Anam" means "My Soul" in Gaelic. Also, I played with Severus' lineage and religious beliefs. I am Catholic, and this section of the story is not meant to been seen as a mockery of faith or to bash, disrespect, or misrepresent religion. That is not my intention for writing this chapter, so please don't take it as such. I am merely trying to show a crisis of faith and of conscience. Severus is a half-blood, so, what belief system do you adhere to when one is divided as such and following a madman, and how can you reconcile, if at all? I also played a bit with the mythos of the Dark Mark, and by bearing it, you also bear the taint of Voldemort's evil. That is not to say Severus is absolved of the heinous crimes he has committed; he is responsible for his actions, regardless of the Dark Mark or not. And Snape is trying to come to terms with this and his guilt.

A/N: The scene with Snape and the woman on the street is based on a scene from the film "The Crow"