The Furnace

Part 2 of 3

slag: [noun] 1. The dross, or recrement, of a metal

I climb the stairs from the basement with a grace I certainly do not feel, making no sound as I step through the doorway and into the hall. I call out to her in an uninterested tone:

"I'm taking a shower." A bit unusual for me to take a shower voluntarily, but I don't really care.

Something's wrong.

I sweep up the stairs and into the bathroom. I lock the door. I charm the door. Then I ward the room, and put up a silencing spell.

There. I need not pretend to be composed any more.

My wand's fallen to the floor, but I take no notice. My attention's focused on the pale, shaking man in the mirror.

I'm feeling... weak. Dizzy, fuzzy, not all here. I wonder briefly if I inhaled any toxic fumes downstairs.

The man in the mirror stares back at me. I look at him. Pale-faced, with skin both sweaty and greasy from the cauldron's steam. Hair a mess, unkempt, greasy as well.

What fascinates me the most about this sad portrait of myself is the streak of blood across my forehead, where I'd brushed the hair out of my face earlier. It's Soren's blood.

I reach a hand up to touch the red streak... the blood hasn't dried and it makes my fingertips red as well.

My sanity is a house, with me at the center. Something is pounding on the walls.

The house is shaking. I must be going mad.

I run my left had through my mess of black hair and spin away from the mirror, pacing to the other end of the room. Upon retracing that path, I find that my boots have left bloody tracks along the tile.

The house is shaking.

I feel dirty. The man in the mirror is looking hollowed out, as if he's just lost an important part of himself. His face suddenly changes to that of a young man wearing a silver and gray scarf, black eyes narrowed at me in an accusing scowl. He looks about fifteen.

His face changes again; he's now a red-haired young man, wearing the same scarf and the same scowl. He holds up his slit wrists in accusation, then lets out an unintelligible shout of rage, banging his fists at the glass between us.

I jump backward, away from the hallucinatory image of young Soren Anderson. I must be losing my mind.

I've lost my confidence. The invisible hand that pounds on the edges of my sanity acquires a voice.

"You're wrong."

I look down at the robes I'm wearing. Black, shiny, Death Eater's robes. I tear them off, throwing them in a heap near the door. I remove the bloody boots, my plain trousers, gray shirt, and underwear, and make a veritable leap for the shower.

The left knob is the only one I turn. In seconds I'm drenched in a gale of freezing water, gasping in shock. Good. I need to wake up from this nightmare.

The water becomes tepid, then warm. Now it's hot, and now scalding. I feel like my skin is going to come off in a sheet. Good. I scrub myself with the awful rough sponge of my wife's until my skin becomes the color of a cooked lobster.

I knew Soren, of course. Everyone in Slytherin knew him. He graduated as Head Boy when I was fifteen.

My first morning as a first-year at Hogwarts, he had helped me find Transfiguration class before heading off to his own.

Of course, I never was a social person. He'd been a friend to me during my first year, but after that I'd made friends with Lucius, and had stopped associating with him. We'd talked at Quidditch games and occasionally saw each other in the library, but that was where our acquaintanceship ended. I chose to use my ambition for power over others, while he used his to gain the power to help others. I was too good for him.

Perhaps my eventual haughty attitude toward him had been the cause of my great surprise when he'd pulled me aside before his graduation.

"I know we haven't really talked before, Severus," he'd said, "but I'll be leaving in a few days, and I might never see you again."

I'd snorted at him. "If you go to join the Gryffindors at the Aurors' Academy, then you most definitely will never see me again."

"Shut up, Severus. Look, I know your... friends... don't like me, but you used to. Just remember that before you were their friend, before you were even a Slytherin, you were Severus Snape. Be true to yourself! Too many of us take the wrong path to greatness... make sure you know which one you're on."

I'd forgotten his words until today. But now they scream at me from within my own skull as I envision him as a man, bound to a chair and bleeding, his face radiating betrayal and bitterness as I watch him die and do nothing to save him.

I see a Muggle woman, cradling her young wizard son. She had died because of me. The quieter Death Eater attack was to simply poison those who would pollute the gene pool. The boy had died first. What had he done, besides want to live?

I see the three Aurors who'd died at Malfoy's house last night ago. What had they done, besides want to preserve life?

And what of Soren? He'd died at my hands. No matter how much Juliette had contributed, I'd done nothing to save him. I'd cast Imperius on him, and I'd made him drink the poison that I'd brewed.

I'd taken the wrong path.

"No."

The house is shaking.

I'd taken the wrong path, and I'd known it.

"No..."

The force of my guilt is crushing what bit of sanity I have left. I am kneeling, face in hands. I don't recognize the voice as my own.

Purity of blood, intelligence, power. All great things. But not as great as life itself.

"No!" I am shouting now.

I'd taken the wrong path. The path of darkness, violence and death, all in the name of power. I am great, and terrible as well.

"NO!" I dig my fingernails into my scalp and scream the word, dragging my fingers past my forehead, cheeks, and chin. Once my hands are relieved of a job, I pound them on the unyielding stone, bruising them, putting hairline cracks in the bones, damaging what I've taken so much pride in.

The walls of denial and arrogance and intellect and false confidence that have supported me for the past three years come crashing down on me, and I lose myself completely in the tide of rubble that cascades around what's left of Severus Snape. For what seems like ages, I'm lost in a world of despair, regret and pain, unaware of anything but the atrocities that are exhumed from my memory and paraded in front of my eyes like grotesque marionettes. I see every step I took, every wrong turn I made to become the man I am today. I see the faces of every wizard, witch and Muggle who died at my hands, and each one laughs at me as I drown in the pool of blood I created.

---

How long am I lost?

The real world comes back to me slowly. I'm still on my knees in the shower, bowed over, my forehead on the cold stone.

The water is icy. I'm freezing.

I open my eyes slowly to take in the unchanged room. My eyes feel stiff, like they cannot open any further than a half-squint.

I sit back and brush my wet hair back, wincing as my hands run over the gouges in my forehead. My hands are bruised and swollen, with blood under the nails. My throat is sore from screaming that I barely remember.

I feel like the life has been drained from me.

A banging on the door brings me back a bit.

"Severus! Hey, stupid! Did you drown?"

I turn the shower off, step out, and fumble for my wand, lowering the silencing ward. My voice is little more than a hoarse croak.

"I'm fine!" I snap. What a lie. I don't think I'll ever be fine again.

"Well get to bed!" she says harshly. Her footsteps fade down the hall.

I look again at the man in the mirror. I have eight bloody gouges down my face. My eyes are red and swollen. My hands are purple and puffy along their outer edges. Despite how I look, I feel that I'm currently much better off then I should be.

After all, I should be dead. Isn't that much obvious? Waking up has given me a certain detached clarity. By tomorrow, I will be dead.

I lower the other wards on the room long enough to summon some clothes, then lock and ward the room once again. Once I've dressed, cleaned the cuts, and put up a reasonable glamour, I go over to the pile of robes on the floor and pull a small vial of red liquid from a hidden pocket.

The vial contains the last of a poison that I brewed two years ago. After all, it seems appropriate that I should die by the very sword I wielded.

The thought of stopping crosses my mind and is gone in as much time. I don't really feel like living, considering the fact that my entire life's been a monstrous mistake. I open the vial, drain it, and replace it in my robes.

The cramps begin immediately. I walk down the hall, fighting the urge to breathe shallowly and double over. I enter the bedroom and slip wordlessly into bed beside my wife.

The pain is intense, but I make no sound. I hold still, not wanting to be found out and saved.

A stab of pain splinters through my skull and I nearly cry out. My will is weakening, but thankfully, so is my body.

I'm dying.

Perhaps the gods will have mercy on me.

I take a final breath and am consumed by darkness.

Author's Note: Don't panic! Obviously, since this is a prequel to a story in which Severus is quite alive, he isn't going to die. Stay tuned for the conclusion, and please review!