Truth or Dare

Prologue: A Day in the Life of Severus Snape

"Mr. Finnegan, what color did I say the Inside-Out Solution was supposed to be?"

"Uh... dark green, sir."

"And what consistency ought it be?"

"Thick, like honey, sir."

"Precisely, Mr. Finnegan. And, pray tell, what is the color and consistency of your solution?"

"Cyan and watery, sir."

"Ten points from Gryffindor for failing to accurately follow directions and for that eye roll. Mr. Thomas, I expected better of you. I would advise you to aid your partner rather than drool over Miss Brown. Five points.... Ah, Messrs. Weasley and Potter. I don't seem to recall allowing a ludicrous amount of overtime for completion. If you find it so necessary to socialize, I feel it my duty to take off fifteen points each.... Wipe that smug look off your face, Miss Granger, don't think I didn't notice you did all the work. Five points off, Miss Patil for not doing your share."

The rant had become routine by now, and Severus Snape barely thought twice when commenting before each Gryffindor cauldron. It did not half bother him that he usually could not find anything wrong with Miss Granger's potion-she had become remarkably sensitive at just how long she could brew the potion quickly, but not too quickly to arouse his wrath, as well as keep very quiet. She had slowly restrained herself from raising her hand so much in his class. He did not know how other teachers faired, but he found it a relief. He usually made up for the lack of points taken from Hermione's potion by taking extra points from Potter's and Weasley's potion, with whom he usually found a myriad of mistakes but could only realistically punish one or two at a time.

"Now here, Messrs. Potter and Weasley, is the way a potion should be brewed. Note, Mr. Finnegan, the dark forest green and precise consistency. You are free to bottle, Mr. Malfoy."

How he hated licking Lucius' son's boots. And the boy had no talent of his own in Potions. Draco only made a point to keep Miss Granger within his line of vision, then copied her motions. But Mr. Malfoy did have one redeeming quality, and that was his deviousness. The boy knew how to cover his tracks, even under the sharp eyes of the Potions Master.

A sudden explosion behind Snape made him freeze, then sigh. As suspected, the cauldron had been contorted as it tried to bend inside-out. Neville had made the potion far too strong. Now the floor was trying to bend....

"Mr. Longbottom, perhaps we should be keeping records of how many cauldrons one person can destroy in seven years. You will stay after class and clean the mess you've made. You are incredibly fortunate that the solution was volatile but not corrosive. No, Mr. Longbottom! Put out the fire first, you fool of a boy! Use what microscopic common sense you have!"

There was a smattering of sniggering from the Slytherin side of the room, and Snape whirled to face them.

"Is everyone finished? Fine. Leave your cauldrons here. I'll store the solutions and cauldrons for the next class myself. Now get out of my sight!"

Students scurried from his presence; even the Slytherins knew when Snape's patience was being tried.

It took only a short time for Longbottom to clean his mess, and under Snape's menacing glare, Neville scrubbed double time. Then, like a little mouse, Longbottom fled the room, leaving it mercifully empty.

In the absence of anyone else, Snape exhaled heavily. He was spy for the Headmaster, uninformative spy for Lord Voldemort, whipping boy for Lucius and Wormtail, whose head was so bloated it could be mistaken for a dirigible, and Hogwarts' resident actor. Having to maintain a dual façade of the biased Slytherin favor for the students and the cold but calm exterior for the teachers was no easy task, especially to fool both the Headmaster and McGonagall--who knew him better than a mere passing acquaintance--into believing he was coping.

Not to mention his headaches from feigning twenty-twenty vision. He was lucky he had such an acute sense of smell, a Potions university-level requirement, otherwise he would have a time of it running into desks and cauldrons and students.

As was his habit between classes, he retrieved his glasses from the bottom left drawer of his desk, polished them, and set them on the considerable bridge of his nose. They were rimless and rectangular, similar to McGongall's, but thicker. Cruciatus left its mark in more ways than one. He supposed he was lucky to even be able to see. There were rumors that some of the followers lower in the ranks than Death Eaters, like the notorious Black Dogs and Cats' Paws, were completely blind.

Between hours, with his glasses on, he took his chance to painlessly read essays. Ravenclaws (and the occasional Hufflepuff and Gryffindor) despite their lack of depth, if not imagination, were often the most accurate to read and were corrected less often. When he wanted to relax, he usually chose one of these. Slytherin essays were the most entertaining; a virtual cornucopia of original ideas comparable to Ravenclaw profundity of established ideas made for enjoyable afternoons, but only if he was prepared for prolonging his headache. Too many times the ideas discussed were off-topic, ranging from slight digression to completely out of the Quidditch stadium. It was enough to make even the most laid back of professors frustrated, and Snape was certainly not laid back.

Ravenclaw essays, that's what he needed today. And his next class was seventh-year pre-university levels, with seminar and potion theory coupled with communal brewing. Easily his most enjoyable class. Doubtlessly a majority of them called him a bastard to their friends, but he was confident they unconsciously appreciated the challenges he forced upon them.

However, late afternoon class was first-year Hufflepuffs, and though a more eager class was never found, their everlasting pokable bubble of positivity and never-ending optimism was relentlessly stifling at best.

A murmur of footsteps began echoing in the classroom, and Snape put down his quill and hid his glasses. When the first seventh-year walked in the door, Snape was leaning against the front of his desk, arms crossed, leering, and ready for his next performance.

~888~

Dinner was always a difficult affair. On his left was Flitwick and to the right, Hooch. Hooch was manageable, preferring the conversation of Sinistra to her right rather than risking disdainful rejection, but Flitwick, despite his tiny stature, had a surprising strength of will and perseverance that even Snape could not waver. Snape had many times told Flitwick he could put his dialogue up his arse, but in vain.

"One of your students, Severus, made a remarkably astute observation in my advanced Charms class today," Flitwick squeaked. "He pointed out a discrepancy in my usual lecture on inanimate object curses. I gave him twenty points, of course, and adjusted my curriculum. The thing about your Slytherins is that you wonder whether no one ever noticed the discrepancy or they just didn't have the courage to enlighten me...."

As Snape tended to do, he tuned out, turning his thoughts inward. Tonight, all second- and fifth-year essays had to be graded and next month's lessons had to be more specifically planned. Also on the list, he included several potions he had been meaning to brew for some time.

A sharp, glittering silver stab of pain exploded in his left arm, and it was all he could do not to grunt from the effort of masking the fire.

"Flitwick," he managed to say through clenched teeth, "I regret that I have to leave you. I seem to recall an engagement I had previously forgotten. Tell the Headmaster I will meet with him later tonight as planned." Snape knew the code would be comprehended by the Headmaster, and Dumbledore would be waiting for him in the private study off of the Headmaster's office when Snape returned.

One of the staff rumors was that he had a woman who he consistently visited weekly. Lord Voldemort would be highly amused at the assumption.

He took the usual back staircase in which he stored his Death Eater cloak and mask. The way led him quickly out of Hogwarts protection so that he could Disapparate.

~888~

Lord Voldemort sat on a throne of carved stone, proud and malicious. His eyes flashed when he saw his personal traitor. But the Dark Lord was flatteringly convinced that he provided Snape with more challenge and intrigue than his arch-nemesis. Lord Voldemort had made the fatal error of underestimating Severus Snape.

However, Snape's 'loyalty' to his Dark Master did not hinder the abuse that regularly came his way.

Snape knelt and crept to Lord Voldemort's boots. He kissed the left sole--something only he, as a traitor, was forced to do--then slunk to the side, slouching sulkily. The Dark Lord had not kicked him tonight. He did not know whether to interpret this as a good sign or not of the events to follow. Lord Voldemort seemed distant, and it was several minutes after all the Death Eaters had assembled before Lord Voldemort looked up and addressed them.

"It has come to my attention that festivities in Malfoy Manor traditionally follow our meetings." He paused. No one replied, but waited for the Dark Lord to continue. If he had wanted an answer, he would have asked a question. "And at these festivities, you 'borrow' Muggles and Mudbloods as toys, disposing of evidence as soon as you're through with them. It has also come to my attention that you have not had one in months. And yet you have never told me of any of this. Are you ashamed of it? Do you think it counterproductive? Do you think I would disapprove? How do you presume to know Lord Voldemort?" He sat back with a lazy smirk. "Why have I never been invited, Lucius?"

Lucius Malfoy bowed quickly. "My lord, I thought you were otherwise occupied and would not like to waste your time frivolling."

Lord Voldemort bored his glittering red eyes into Malfoy's. Malfoy shifted uncomfortably under his glare. "You accuse yourself of wasting time? You know how I punish idle workers. . . . Yet, I do not find this messy self-indulgence unprofitable. Did it never occur to you that I did such things before the founding of the Death Eaters?"

He gestured toward an open door. "In that atrium, I have five young Muggle girls and one Muggle boy-child. I wish to observe your ways with them. I'll tell you if you should be ashamed of them or not."

Avery and MacNair shared a lecherous look, then joined Nott in passing into the hall. Bellatrix Lestrange was not far behind.

"Aren't you joining us, Severus?" Lord Voldemort asked, outwardly pleasant, but his words were underlaid with unblemished steel. Snape did not even move an inch.

"Snape never joins the fun," Lucius explained, anticipating a sharp blow for Snape.

"I see," Lord Voldemort murmured, raising an eyebrow. "Any reason you wish to share with me?" The tone suggested that he answer.

"I catch my own food," Snape said quietly.

"It would not hurt to take one only one time, Snape," Malfoy argued. "You spend all your time with those potions of yours. What are you working on now, old boy, a potency potion?"

If Malfoy was looking for an indignant retort, he was mistaken. Unfazed by the insult, Snape stood still where he was and refused to move.

The Dark Lord laughed. "In that case, I have another assignment for you, Severus, if you are not planning to entertain yourself with us. I find it tedious myself, but torture never ceases to wonder me."

Lord Voldemort handed Snape a rolled parchment.

"Deliver this to the recipient personally," Lord Voldemort commanded before leaving Snape there alone.

~888~

Snape stumbled into his quarters well after three in the morning. He had belatedly decided to join the torture of the Muggles to avoid the Dark Lord's piercing scrutiny as he explored the fortress in which Lord Voldemort had barricaded himself, and the effort of casting so many energy-driven curses exhausted him. Then he had reported to Dumbledore, telling the Headmaster the names of the girls being tortured and other new little details Snape had managed to collect. These little bits of information were the only things that kept him alive, that made him feel he was still worthy to live. Dumbledore had given him a verbal punishment well enough when he had first turned back to the Light, and his quiet disappointment, even when Snape had been a student, had always been far more effective than his loud anger for Snape.

Snape fell into bed without removing his outer garments. He had a class next day, but he could not bring himself to grade the essays for the remainder of the night.

So with that, Snape fell into a trouble sleep and dreamed of fat unicorns, hands raising, and books piled to the sky. His face was drawn and haggard, and he tossed in his sleep.