Firebrand

"Ten points from Gryffindor Potter." Snape gave the infuriated Harry a superior smirk, while the Slytherins laughed raucously at the outraged expression on Harry's face. Other Gryffindors sported the same strained look as Harry, but fumed silently, unwilling to incur Snape's wrath onto them. Harry, on the other hand, wasn't as controlled as his fellow housemates.

"I didn't do anything." Harry glared right back at Snape, green eyes glittering. "Sir," he ground out belatedly.

"And that, Potter," Snape said calmly, "is the problem." Turning around, Snape began to walk away from the Gryffindor, but Harry seemed to be feeling extraordinarily brave that day - either that or he was feeling extremely stupid.

"What are you trying to say?" His voice was suddenly as cool as Snape's had been, dangerous, rigid with control. Snape paused, every limb still. Even the Slytherins stopped laughing at the Gryffindors, as slowly, purposefully, Snape turned to face Harry.

The whole dungeon where the Gryffindor and Slytherin sixth years had Potions was silent; even the slimy walls and the bubbling Potions seemed to be waiting with bated breath. No one in all the history of Potions had ever dared questioned the Potions Master in such a manner.

"Mean? Mean Potter? It means that you are an arrogant little boy who thinks he is above his betters, just like his father, simply because he can play Quidditch. That is what I mean. It also means," Snape continued, coldly, "that you have earned yourself two weeks' detention." Icicles dripped from Snape's tone, and for a moment, everything inside the slime-covered dungeon froze. With a whirl of his black robe, Snape turned away from Harry, and the spell instantly broke into a furious babble of voices, which Snape ignored.

When the bell finally rang to signal the end of double-Potions, Snape stalked into his private workroom without so much as a glance at anyone else. His arm containing the Dark Mark was throbbing painfully, and Potter's blathering had sharply reminded him of it. Reaching out for a Potion that would numb the pain a little, Snape popped the cap of the vial, and drank it, his face twisting in disgust at the taste. Immediately, the throbbing dulled, and Snape frowned, lifting the sleeve of his robe.

There it was. The Dark Mark that Voldemort had given him seventeen years ago. Ever since the Dark Lord had allowed Snape back into his service, it had been constantly aching, if not outright hurting from the Dark Lord's constant summons. Snape felt regret course through him, and pushed the sleeve down. However even though he could hide the Dark Mark, he could never hide from his memories...

***

"How would you like power Snape? Real power?" Lucius Malfoy stood in front of Snape, his eyes glittering maliciously.

"What kind of power?" Even at nineteen, and in a drunken stupor at that, Snape was cautious; years of being bullied by his father and then the self-proclaimed Marauders had taught Snape to always be wary. At least, Snape thought bitterly into his cheap Firewhiskey, I'm free of them. Even if I don't have a roof on my head. Snape gave a snort into his drink, feeling melancholy. Sure his parents had bucket loads of money as a pureblood wizarding family, but his father, the sadistic idiot that he was, had decided that Snape had needed to "make his own way in the world." He had then proceeded to throw his only son out of the house with no more than the robes he had on.

"Well Snape?" Malfoy gave a smirk as Snape jerked his head up from its drooping position. "What do you say?" Snape didn't answer, willing Malfoy to buy him some more Firewhiskey from the seedy barman, so that he could continue to drown his sorrows. Malfoy seemed to sense this was what Snape wanted, however; he did not comply. Instead he stuck his head next to Snape's greasy one, his face a mask of badly veiled distaste. "No. No more for you Snape. Not until you answer. Do you want to join the Dark Lord, to give all your skills, all of your self to the Dark Lord? You will be repaid handsomely; the Dark Lord rewards those faithful to him."

Snape looked drunkenly up at Malfoy, trying to get his morose mind functioning to some degree. He had, of course heard of Voldemort when he had been in Hogwarts; he had caused major hysteria with his Muggle and wizard killings. His parents, of course, had approved whole-heartedly with the Muggle-killing attitude Voldemort had, although Snape himself hadn't really cared less. All he had cared about at the time was surviving the Marauders' pranks and learning more about the Dark Arts. Certainly he hadn't cared about making friends, especially as the Slytherins were all shady, untrustworthy people, and all the other houses were filled with nitwits, fools, or arrogant big heads. Or, Snape thought with a drunken smirk, a mixture of all three. Like Potter.

"Well?" Malfoy had removed his perfectly slicked hair from next to Snape's greasy head, which had only gotten greasier in the days that his father had thrown him out of the house. Impatience laced through Malfoy's voice, and Snape, through his drunkenness, could tell that Malfoy was getting truly annoyed with him, as well as the seediness of the pub they were in. The smell, Snape had to admit, was still amazingly pungent, even when drunk, but, rats, cockroaches and other rodents and insects aside, the bar was affordable, especially with Snape's somewhat skimpy purse of two Sickles.

"You have three seconds to answer Snape. Do you wish to serve the Dark Lord and help him in purifying wizards or not? Yes or no Snape, I am losing my patience."

Snape could literally feel the fury radiating off Malfoy, and within a split second he made his decision. After years of constant bullying from his father and then the Marauders, Snape wouldn't mind a bit of power...to be able to hold sway over someone. Standing up abruptly, and giving a drunken stagger, Snape lifted his cup, slopping Firewhiskey onto his robes.

"Yes!"

***

"Seyla Cemetery, midnight, a week from now. Be there."

Snape nodded mutely at Malfoy's words, then turned to leave the bar - one that was indefinitely more respectable than the one Malfoy had found Snape in, with its marble furnishings and lack of rodents and insects. In fact, Snape himself had upgraded; since he had met Malfoy, he had been able to take care of himself pretty decently, with the money Malfoy provided. Not that he didn't have to work for it; Malfoy had made sure he earned every Knut.

The most memorable task had been killing several Muggles that the Dark Lord had wished to die. It had been quite simple - all he had to do was walk up, and say Avada Kedavra. A flash of green light and they were dead, quickly, painlessly, not a hint of blood marring the stone wall the Muggles had attempted to shield behind. He had managed to kill two of them with the Killing Curse, while his companion, Theodore Nott, had taken deep pleasure in torturing his two Muggles with the Cruciatus Curse. Snape had watched in abject fascination as the victims of the Curse had writhed round on the ground, their bodies convulsing, their screams piercing the cool night air. While Snape had learnt about the Cruciatus Curse, he had never seen its effects before. Needless to say, Snape had been thoroughly surprised when he had noticed that one of the Muggles had begun hitting his head against the stone wall, dashing his brains out from the pain of the Curse. Nott had not bothered doing the Killing Curse on that victim, instead they had left the man to die, watching as his blood ran freely down the wall next to his dead brethren.

The hardest part of that assignment had been learning how to do the Killing Curse, and, while Snape was a fast learner when it came to the Dark Arts, it had taken him just over two weeks to get it right, by practising on various animals. Considering how he had never really cared for Muggles, that job had been the easiest, but it had been the first time he had ever taken a life from someone, watched someone die, and it had made him feel...invigorated. Powerful.

Even though Malfoy provided the money, Snape still didn't trust him - he was too much of a smooth talker, too slick for Snape's liking. It was obvious that the feeling was mutual and that given the choice, Malfoy wouldn't want to be near Snape's greasy head. However, in a week's time, Snape would finally be formally welcomed into the Dark Lord's service.

This didn't really stir any feeling in Snape though. All he felt was deflated, and leaving the erstwhile establishment, Snape couldn't help but wonder if maybe this wasn't the right choice. The stars outside glittered as Snape stood outside the pub, the marble glinting in the crescent moon's artificial light. Shaking his head abruptly, Snape cleared his head, reminding himself that this was what he wanted. To be in the service of the Dark Lord. To have power.

***

The wind tore at Snape's cloak, trying to throw him off-balance as he held steady. Beside him, Death Eaters, already initiated, were being blown about, before putting Shielding Charms around themselves. From what he had heard from Malfoy, there were other candidates here tonight who waited for the Dark Lord to enter them into his service. From beneath his hood, Snape tried to see if he could tell who these other candidates were, wondering if one of them was Nott.

However, before he could even adjust his eyes, a quiet shift in the air indicated that someone had Apparated into the middle of the circle. Immediately, the Death Eaters fell to their knees and crawled forward, kissing the ground, and murmuring "My Lord, my Lord..."

Snape felt somewhat disgusted at their behaviour, before he himself looked up, right into the Dark Lord's eyes. His eyes were unnaturally red, and they were boring right into Snape's own coal black ones, burning through him it seemed, and into his mind. Instinctively, Snape shielded himself from Voldemort, clutching at his Occlumency training. In response, the Dark Lord smiled, his mouth curling upwards slightly. As the Death Eaters moved back from kissing the Dark Lord's robes to resume their original positions, Snape saw a fat snake slide forward, its tongue flickering, tasting the air. The full moon glinted off the snake's gleaming scales.

A hiss emitted from Voldemort as the snake moved forward, and Snape realised that he was speaking in Parseltongue when the snake halted. Walking forward, the Dark Lord lifted a hand.

"Who is here tonight to become one of my inner circle, to be my faithful servants? Step forward, and be welcome." The words sounded strange in the Dark Lord's mouth, as if they should be welcoming him, not the other way around. His silky words threaded through the night hypnotically, and whether what he was doing was right or wrong, Snape didn't care anymore. Instead, he stepped forward, towards Voldemort...and his future...

***

Seventeen years. It had been seventeen years since Snape had been gifted with the Dark Mark from Lord Voldemort at Seyla Cemetery. Certainly, the young man he had been was gone now, his naivety stripped from the moment Voldemort had touched one cool, lifeless feeling finger to his skin, and murmured, "Morsmordre."

The pain had been searing and hot, but unlike the other five candidates, who had received the Dark Mark before him, he had not flinched, he had not even made a noise. Only a flicker of his eyes had betrayed him, as the Dark Lord watched his expression carefully. When the pain was finally over, the Dark Lord's lips had curled upwards, his eyes glittering slightly as he nodded to Snape in acknowledgement, welcoming him into his inner circle of Death Eaters.

In his years as a Death Eater, Snape had been powerful, holding sway over people who could have easily died with two words, watching them gabble and beg for mercy as he used the Cruciatus Curse on them first; their eyes filled with fear as they watched their loved ones die before their eyes. Or, in the case of some, Snape had watched as they battled with the Death Eaters until their last breath, never giving up. Watching. Never had Snape truly enjoyed wielding the power of death, even though it had been intoxicating at first. After that, it had become boring, mundane...but then; Snape had faced Dumbledore, who taught him the gift life was. Snape snorted - not the drunken snort of a naïve nineteen-year-old who had just been thrown out of the house with only two Sickles to his name - but a derisive, bitter snort at the general unfairness of life.

After Voldemort had been defeated, he believed that he would never have to face him again, that the Dark Mark on his arm would never burn again. How wrong he had been, to be lulled into a false sense of security, that he was somehow free of the firebrand.

Lifting his sleeve once more, Snape stared at the Mark. It had become blurrier as the years had passed with Voldemort's downfall. Even so, Snape could remember it as clearly as the day he had received it, the serpent protruding from a skull's tongue.

A sudden searing pain shot through his arm, and he looked down at the Mark, which had blackened. The Dark Lord was calling him again. For a moment, Snape sat, staring at the Dark Mark, before standing from his seated position, pushing his sleeve down, as he stalked out of his dungeon, and out of Hogwarts.

The night air hit him, crisp and fresh, as the Hogwarts gates closed with a quiet clang behind him. Removing his wand from his sleeve, Snape raised it, ready to Apparate to the Dark Lord...ready to Apparate not just towards his future...but his destiny...