Redemption

The first meeting . . . the initiation . . . the ritual . . . had been . . . . . . . . . intoxicating.

Being alone and lost in life could easily overwhelm a teenager, and at eighteen years old, Severus Snape had felt just that. Joining the Death Eaters, becoming one of them had meant a place, a purpose and most importantly a sense of belonging. The beliefs and duties of one of Voldemort’s followers had only been an added bonus.

Rising quickly through the ranks of the Dark Lord, Snape had easily become a part of his closest inner circle. The tasks were so easy, such an honor, that Snape had laughed with mingled pity and hatred at those who could not uphold the humbling duties of Voldemort. He had felt pleasure and satisfaction when inflicting those poor, hideous beings with the Cruciatus Curse. And he had done it all in reverence for his Dark Lord.

By age twenty-five, Snape’s devotion to Voldemort was utterly unswayable. His life, his soul, his utter being belonged completely to the Darkest of all Wizards. And it filled Snape with a sense of power unlike any other.

And then it had begun to change.

Targets began to increase. Targets that began to haunt Snape in his dreams.

At first he had cursed himself for being so weak, so pathetic like the others, and had begged for Voldemort to forgive his ridiculous dreams. And when the dreams ceased to end, Snape accepted that it was his Dark Lord’s way of punishing him for his failure to be stronger.

But the death toll for his leader began to increase with a disturbing rate.

And names that Snape knew he should not have cared for began to surface.

James Potter.

And then later Lily.

They were the first two he recognized of a long ago life that had been marked for a future death.
How many months, or even years until their death, was what kept Snape awake at night.

His own peace of mind began to self-destruct as he saw more names enter his list of those to dispose of.

They were for Voldemort’s entrance into the world. For the glory of the Dark Lord. Only the most honorable Death Eaters would be given such duties. Snape - be honored!

But the small sense of awareness . . . of conscience . . .began to drip back into his long frozen soul with molten by molten drip.

The breaking point had been three years later.

On the night that James Potter and Lily too were to be executed, Snape fled.

He knew it was useless, that Voldemort himself would go after the two, and that his only chance for pitiful redemption would be to reach the Potters first.

But cowardice took full control when he failed to respond to the burning pain of his arm for the first time in twelve years.

He fled.

He ran.

He flew.

He escaped to the only place he knew he would be safe from Voldemort’s wrath. And never in his entire life would Snape know that his cowardice of that night, his pathetic sense of self-preservation would return to haunt him for the rest of his waking days. In both his dreams, his waking hours, and his future classes, in the form of a small boy who would live.

But nevertheless, he fled to Hogwarts, his long ago school and home of the only man he knew would listen. Albus Dumbledore.

Sheet after sheet of intense rain poured onto him as he wove his way through the mountains, to the hidden site of Hogwarts. With a maniacal look in his eyes, Snape rode his broom to the front doors of the school, through the enormous entrance and down cold stone hallways, he knew he would have been told to destroy someday.

And when he reached the small crouched gargoyle that hadn’t moved since his days as a child, Snape let out one long horrible scream.

It was a scream that pierced the farthest reaches of the many towers.

A scream the held the last cries of a Death Eater whose reign had ended long ago.

A scream that called to the high heavens, Snape’s desire to end his former life.

It was a scream that brought him to his knees, his soaked and dripping form hiding the tears that poured from his face.

With his tattered and drenched robes clinging to the floor and his sodden form of hate and blindness and evil crouched before the staring gargoyle, his savior found him.

As the gargoyle rolled back, revealing the stunned form of Dumbledore, Snape broke down even farther, into heaving desperate sobs, the sins of his past rising before him in one incredible and overpowering moment. He wasn’t aware of the fact that only a year later, blinding flashes of green would destroy the world of a newborn and that had he reached Dumbledore before the horrible events of that future night were over, his story would never have been believed.

But his conscience had saved him five minutes early, and as the disbelieving forms of teachers began to appear in the hallway, his savior reached out and firmly hauled his form into the sanctuary of his office.

Only a few recognized the black hair and pale face. Only a few saw their former student relinquish his title as Death Eater that night.

He became aware of his voice babbling incoherently as his former teacher guided him up the staircase. Snape barely realized the words that broke from him as his sodden robes were removed and as he was eased into a chair.

The dreams didn’t let me sleep Albus . . .

As I killed her I knew it had to stop . . .

Then he asked me to take care of the other . . .

I don’t know where the voices came from . . .

Night after night I killed for him . . .

Her pleas to live were her last thing words . . .

I kept killing for him . . .

I began to see her in my dreams . . .

Killing for him . . .

I killed . . .

I killed . . .

I killed . . .

His conscious mind began to drift away.

It was too much to take.
Looking up into the all knowing eyes of his former teacher Snape saw for the first time where his life had truly led him.

And in one gasping breath he managed out the words his soul had begged to release.

Albus, help me.