Metaplot and Masterplan

3 - Snape

The dungeon was a place of quiet and order. Peacefully boiling kettles over merrily roaring fires presented an almost convincing sound scape of comfort; Snape's prison had become a refuge. Upstairs, the Slytherin mansion had become home to frantic activity, but Snape, the traitor, the Death Eater who could not be trusted, was not included in it. While others disputed the defeat and speculated on the Dark Lord's next measures, Snape was busy brewing poisons and bizarre, forbidden potions. He saw himself as privileged.

Evnissyen spent less and less time in the dungeon. He was called to meetings and gatherings; he was expected to be at the Dark Lord's side, to do his bidding. Snape was never called anywhere, not even to be tortured. In a way, he had ceased existing, something it seemed he had always desired. But however much he cherished his peace, whenever Evnissyen willingly told him some news, he listened eagerly.

"It appears there was a spy among us posing as Pettigrew," Evnissyen informed him after a meeting. "You should know the bloke - he went to school with you and was one of the Dark Lord's most secret agents."

Snape lowered his head once in silent assent, never neglecting the roots he was chopping up with a knife.

"This person infiltrated Davis' group and made sure that You-Know-Who had this strange, mysterious secret weapon with which he got us," Evnissyen told him. These days, neither Hogwarts nor its headmaster were ever explicitly mentioned in the Slytherin mansion; they seemed to bring bad luck. However, adapting the common euphemism for the Dark Lord for the chief enemy at Hogwarts seemed Evnissyen's personal idea of a joke; no one else used it. Or did they? Snape wasn't sure; he hadn't dined upstairs with the other Death Eaters for a while, but preferred eating whatever was brought to him down in the dungeon.

"Pettigrew was captured by the enemy, wasn't he?" Snape said, only moderately interested.

"It certainly seems so," Evnissyen replied. "There was no news of him for months."

"Maybe they made him talk," Snape suggested. "However, if I remember correctly, You-Know-Who doesn't resort to torture." While not mentioning Dumbledore's name, he saw the image of the old headmaster all the clearer before his inner eye - an ancient, benevolent wizard in whose blue eyes burned a fire that could be both heart-warming and devouring. For an eerie moment, he didn't know where he was, or why he should call Dumbledore the enemy. Hadn't he once been loyal to him? Confused, he touched the small bulk on his chest, a clay amulet hanging from a leather chord beneath his robes, as if it could help him make sense of the world.

"As far as I understood the Dark Lord, he made sure Pettigrew will be rather tongue-tied with the enemy," Evnissyen replied, a merciless gleam in his eyes.

In his present confused state, Snape took his words literally for a moment; he pictured Peter Pettigrew, small and insignificant, his tongue rolled back in his mouth, tied to his palate with strings coming from nowhere. No, that was silly. He had to get a grip on himself.

"The biggest problem is that we have lost a considerable amount of men-power, and, worse, the Dark Lord is losing his followers' trust. He needs a couple of smart, reliable people to turn matters in his favour, people who haven't just lost a son, people he can trust. What he needs are people who do field work among Muggles and wizards for him as well as people who guard this stronghold when others are working for him outside. Most of all, of course, he needs a new spy."

"Well, he will never trust me again, that much I know," Snape answered. "Also, I am wanted for a misdemeanour or two, so going back to the other side would be a problem, even if the Dark Lord trusted me."

"I know," Evnissyen replied. "Neither can I ever go back there. Officially, I am dead, and I admit I rather like it that way. I might do a couple of hit wizard jobs, though. Maybe I can take you with me; the Dark Lord knows I'll keep an eye on you. In the meantime, you have a much-needed job to do down here in the dungeon - and if you get bored, you could always do guard duty for the Dark Lord and maybe win back a part of his favour. After all, you still have a princess to receive from his hands, don't you?"

Right, he had come here to win the Dark Lord's daughter - or hadn't he? Again, he was confused. "You think he will let me do anything outside this dungeon?" Snape asked Evnissyen.

"You won't know if you don't ask," Evnissyen argued reasonably. "Of course, you may win only resentment. On the other hand, right now the Dark Lord needs every wand he can get. It might be a good time to advance in our rows again."

"Why are you telling me all this?" Snape heard himself ask. Sure, Evnissyen was his friend - if he was anybody's friend. However, trusting the man who was to blame for the torture and death of his own family would have been a folly.

"You know I like to see things moving," Evnissyen replied with an almost naïve smile. "I just don't like stagnation. For my taste, you have been in one place for too long."

"It is a peaceful place," Snape argued. "I like it." Something in the back of his mind told him he hadn't come here to brew potions and poisons; he had come here to achieve something. If he only knew what that something could be!

"I'll tell the Dark Lord you want a word with him," Evnissyen replied, disregarding Snape's objection. He turned on his heels and left Snape to chopping his roots.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Snape bowed his head to the ground, feeling both silly and apprehensive. Once more, he had come to the chamber of heavy draperies made of green velvet, of marble floors and precious ornaments to kneel before the gilded throne of the Dark Lord. Would he be tortured again, just out of habit?

"You may speak," the Dark Lord hissed. "If you waste my time with any trivialities, you will regret it."

Apparently it was not yet decided whether or not he would be tortured today. He had a chance yet to remain unscathed.

"It is, I suppose, a triviality, my Lord, and I regret wasting any of your precious time," Snape replied deferentially. "Yet I cannot rest before offering you my services - more of my services than you already have, that is. I know and accept that I am a despicable traitor whom you cannot wholly trust. However, if there was anything I could do, anything more than the humble services that am more than happy to perform for you, I wish you would let me know."

"Oh, you are not content with the dungeon any more?" the Dark Lord sneered dangerously, his red eyes flashing. Obediently, the six Death Eaters waiting on him chuckled at their Lord's superior humour - and at Snape's inferiority. Snape, however, knew that their views counted nothing. It was the Dark Lord himself he had to convince.

"In contrary, I am more than happy and content with my work, and I do not wish to shirk my duty. I only came to remind you, my lord, that I am far from overburdened, and if you saw me fit to serve you in more than one way in times of need, it would make me happy. Of course, the decision rests with you, my lord. As a known traitor, I accept that my Lord cannot wholly trust me, however much I strive to win back the trust I most foolishly destroyed many years ago."

"You are indeed a worthless traitor who does not deserve to be called a Death Eater," the Dark Lord spat. Yet somehow, he sounded undecided. Even the attending Death Eaters seemed to notice this; at first they vigorously murmured their assent, but one by one they stopped short.

"I know I am," Snape confirmed the Dark Lord's accusation, "and I most fiercely regret that I cannot offer you the services of a worthier follower, but only my own, which are forever soiled. If, however, you feel you can send me on duty under the eyes of a trusted Death Eater, I would be more than happy to do your bidding even outside the walls of this mansion." After all, he reasoned with himself, he already had - he had been sent on a spying mission with Evnissyen. Maybe he would be sent out again? It would be nice to step outside and see the sky again, he suddenly realised, and he was surprised at his own feelings.

The Dark Lord did not reply for a while; he seemed to be considering. Finally, he replied: "As Severus Snape, the traitor, you are indeed of no further use to me."

Snape bowed his head. Would he be killed now? "I apologize for the unforgivable act that rendered me useless to your service, my Lord."

"As Severus Snape, you are of no use to me," the Dark Lord repeated. "If you truly want to serve me, you will have to give up your name, your past and your memory. You will become one of my nameless fighters." There was a short wave of surprised murmur from the attending Death Eaters which gave way to absolute silence. They seemed to recede into the darkness as if in fear, leaving Snape alone before the throne to react to this rather unexpected revelation.

His name, his past and his memory? At first, it sounded like a lot to give up. Then again, what was his name to him? The name of his father who had hated him - and a first name that somehow symbolised the loneliness of his existence? Oh yes, his existence - it seemed dreary and unpleasant - as far as he could remember it. He knew that in rare flashes, some kind of past, even a half-forgotten loyalty, formed itself in his mind - but it was fleeting and confusing. Maybe the Dark Lord did not ask all that much for the chance to serve him, after all.

"Do with me as you please, my Lord - I am ready to serve you in any form," Snape replied.

"You do not understand," the Dark Lord snarled impatiently. "Like true loyalty, the sacrifice of one's name and past can only be given out of free will. I could put you under an Imperious curse - but curses can be broken. If you give up your memory to me, it is mine to peruse, and mine to give back as a reward if you earn it. Such a connection cannot be forced upon anyone even with the strongest curse."

Snape felt as if he was experiencing a dejá vu: Hadn't he given up his memory, his true self, once before? Suddenly he felt acutely that a part of his mind was missing, and that he did not want the Dark Lord to know, or to peruse that part at will. It was exclusively Snape's precisely because he had given it up. Would the Dark Lord be able to get access to these memories, too? He sensed a strange danger.

"Are you ready to become a nameless fighter?" The Dark Lord's voice was powerful like a gale now. Obeying him seemed so easy.

"Yes, my Lord," Snape heard himself reply. He was indeed ready.

"Then ready yourself for the cleansing ceremony."

With a flick of a white hand, Snape was dismissed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Snape arrived in his dungeon, someone had already brought him a robe of plain, undyed material complete with undergarments of the same kind. Snape understood this as a command to change for the ceremony, whatever it might be. Evnissyen was nowhere in sight, so he decided he had enough privacy to obey promptly. While taking off his slightly potion-stained robes, his fingers suddenly touched the clay object hanging from his neck with a leather cord - an ocarina, a little bulging clay flute. He weighed it in his hand for a moment. There was something to this object, something he had forgotten but believed to be important. Didn't he play this flute every now and then to some magical purpose? He wasn't sure. The best would probably be to surrender it to the Dark Lord as a sign of his absolute loyalty. However, he felt reluctant to do so. Should he keep it? But of what use could it be to a nameless fighter without a past or even a name?

Snape changed into the robes given to him for the ceremony, still undecided about what he should do with his strange possession. When he heard a knock on the door, he hastily hid it in a jar of frogeyes. Would he find it there? Would he even remember he had hidden it? Well, there was no time now. He opened the door for them to show them he was ready.

Or was he? The moment he saw the three blank-faced wizards, uniformly dressed in robes made of the same undyed material as his, he realised what he was letting them do to him. He cast a furtive glance behind to the now deserted potions dungeon, sure it was the last glance of his sanctuary he was granted, regretting the fact that he could not exchange even a few words of parting with Evnyssien. Sure, he might return here to brew further supplies for the Dark Lord, but would he still be himself then? He had agreed to relinquish his memories, his identity, even his name. It was time to say goodbye to himself, he thought as the followed his unknown guards along the corridors. Again, the icy paws of a dejá-vu toyed with his brain. Well, never mind. If he had come to give himself up, he might as well do it for good. It wasn't as if he had ever been a particularly memorable character.

Snape tried to concentrate on telling his guards apart, even noting which of them walked first and which of them held the key to all the doors, but he failed. Their clothes, their colourless, short-cropped hair, even their faces looked uniform if not altogether featureless. He could not remember having ever seen them before in the mansion, but maybe he had just forgotten about them. There was nothing about them to remember or recognize any longer. On the other hand, maybe his mind had already accepted it would be cleansed of memory and personality and saw little point in processing any kind of information it was destined to forget any minute now anyway. Therefore, Snape accepted that the three wizards were a group not made of individuals, a group into which he would blend; soon there would be no Severus Snape any more.

The three stopped in front of the door, unlocked it and pushed him through into a large room empty save for two plain stools and a large wooden tub. The floor was plain concrete, the walls stripped to their cracked plaster. One of the guards took off Snape's robes and put them on one of the stools. Another one pressed his shoulder and wordlessly guided him to the other stool, where the three of them shaved off all the hair on Snape's head and body, guiding him first to sit, then to stand. All in all, they had rather little to shave beneath the once distinguished eyebrows, Snape mused. After mere seconds, he was as bare as a plucked chicken. The thought did not appeal to him, but as he wasn't asked, he did not comment. Neither did he object to being scrubbed in cold water and to being exposed to the Dark Lord who now entered.

"Death Eater," the Dark Lord addressed him haughtily, "you have up to today been known among us as Severus Snape, the traitor. Do you wish to relinquish your name and past and become one of the nameless fighters?"

Standing naked and hairless before the Dark Lord, Snape could not help thinking that this was a bit of a rhetorical question.

"I do," he replied.

"Do you willingly give up your memories in my service to be rewarded or punished with knowledge of your self only at my will?" the Dark Lord asked.

"I do," Snape replied, watching Lord Voldemort raise his wand and point it towards his temple. All of a sudden, he vividly remembered being eighteen, just out of school, and receiving his Dark Mark from the Dark Lord. He could clearly remember the colours, the pain, the smell of his own burnt skin. It was not a happy memory, but suddenly he wanted to hold on to it with all his might. What was wrong with remembering his life? Something within him wanted to scream, to fight, to pick up the black hair shaved from his head and cradle this lost bit of his self in his last moments of consciousness. Yes, indeed, he had been here before. He had meant to jump off a high tower for reasons that escaped him entirely, and this was only the last step towards the edge. Re-establishing his self-control, he commanded his body and mind to comply while the Dark Lord took away his life.

"Severus Snape, you shall never again be known by this name," the Dark Lord proclaimed. "From now on, you will be nothing more than one of my nameless fighters. You will do as I wish, think what I permit you to think and remember what I permit you to remember. Goodbye for good, Severus Snape."

There was an orange light shooting into his eyes and blinding him, but there was no pain. There was only this sudden rush of energy, this flood of images, of sounds and smells, of knowledge. He was not sure whether the stream was entering or leaving his mind. Then he wasn't sure whether he still had a mind. Then he was not sure whether he was a he, or what he might be instead.

"I am at your command, ready to serve you, my Lord," said the nameless fighter.