Confessions of an Executioner

The cells in Azkaban are smaller than I expected. Small and cramped, so it's impossible to stretch out and you sleep huddled in a tight ball, when you sleep at all. Not that it matters, of course. If you find yourself inside a cell in Azkaban, its size is the least of your worries.

My time here thus far has been consigned to introspection. One thing never runs short in Azkaban: time to think. Ironic, since that's the one thing many of us would give our lives to avoid. I think often of the day I was first brought here, when a perverse part of me hungered to test myself against the prison's infamous guards. Dementors have no weapons but those a victim brings with him: emotion, memory, the capacity to be hurt. How could they affect me? What happiness could they siphon from my life? What demons of regret could they bring to mind that I did not already face, day in and day out, in the private hell I have made of my own existence?

I believe they will drive me mad in the end.

It is a known and documented fact that prolonged exposure to dementors will always end in madness. I can hear the results of lifelong sentences through the walls of my cell at all hours. They cry out for their family, friends, for freedom, and for death. Others have been here a matter of months, or mere weeks; not much longer than my own stay. Above all, these proclaim their innocence to the heedless air. Even those who once stood defiant and recounted their crimes with no trace of contrition, lifelong Death Eaters of the inner circle, even they never last long. There is no hope in their pleas, no expectation of being heard by sympathetic ears. They cry out in self-defense, as a last resort against the encroaching insanity above which they teeter on a razor's edge. I believe what drives prisoners mad in Azkaban is the guilt. Guilt, shame, and regret--of all the ways to destroy a man, these three may be the most absolute, for they force him to destroy himself. All the same, an innocent man might stand a fighting chance here. I suppose that's how Black managed it. Whatever his failings, he always considered himself a good man and innocent. Typical of Black: even two years dead, he finds new ways to taunt me. Would that I had his assurance.

I mean to last until my trial. There will be a full trial, Crouch's legacy notwithstanding. The public needs closure, and all that. It will doubtless condemn me to a lifetime in this very cell, but something inside me insists that if I can only keep my sanity so long, if I can accomplish nothing more in this life than to look them all in the eyes once more and speak my truth and hear that one of them, any one, has forgiven me, that will be enough.

To this end, I fight the madness. When dementors crowd in close and the weight of my own memories threatens to overwhelm me for good, I think of Hogwarts. It takes a concentrated effort and all the Occlumency skill I possess, but I can remember Hogwarts. Not the first time, not the misfit living in terror of a gang of Gryffindor boys. I remember my return, years later, and the feeling I had of coming home for the first time. I remained suspect to many, an outcast with dubious past and more weight already on my conscience than anyone should have to bear. There was only one man who welcomed me and trusted me unequivocally, but he was the only one that mattered.

Why? Why did you give me that chance, Albus Dumbledore? And how could you, after all those years, snatch it away just as completely? Didn't you know? You took my life from me that night as surely as I took yours.

I would have broken the Vow, had he asked it of me. I tell myself that I would. But he did not ask, so I will never know, and that glimmer of uncertainty will give me no peace. He said once, I seem to recall, that at times we all must choose between what is right and what is easy. What choice did I make? Was it within my power to save him? If he had not spoken--Severus... please--if he had not released me from my indecision, if he had wanted to live, would I so readily have granted his request? Would I have obeyed and killed him if doing so had not preserved my own pathetic skin? Doubt--if you live with it long enough, self-doubt can debilitate almost as much as guilt.

The part that stings me most, perhaps, is that I will not be tried or imprisoned for killing Albus Dumbledore. Such a punishment I might accept, in light of my own ambiguous motives. But in the short span of a year Dumbledore has been all but forgotten, his murder mere evidence to be used in convicting me of a far greater crime, in the eyes of the wizarding world. I am on trial for the murder of Harry Potter.

Never mind the details. Never mind the circumstances that required Potter to die in order for the Dark Lord to meet his end. Such intricacies of the Dark Arts remain beyond the comprehension of the Ministry's most studied Aurors. They would not believe me if I told them so. Nor will they believe me when I tell them how Bellatrix Lestrange died, by her own spell, unwittingly proving--if anyone else had been there to see--that Potter could deflect a killing curse on the day of his death every bit as well as he could sixteen years ago. In my more optimistic moments (and they are few enough) I picture myself speaking persuasively from the chained chair in the Ministry courtroom, driving home my arguments with logical precision. I could not have killed Potter, just like that, with the Avada Kedavra you accuse me of. I would have been the one to die. Don't you see, something more has happened here? Look, here is the locket, here is the cup, the snake is dead, the boy dead, all destroyed. Don't you see the Dark Lord's body?

Of course, the last is mere wishful thinking on my part. Turns out it was not strictly necessary to kill the Dark Lord after his last Horcrux was destroyed, thanks to his clever use of Potter's blood to reincarnate, which linked his fate to Potter's on yet another level. No, the Dark Lord's physical form, borrowed as it was, had the infuriating temerity to vanish immediately upon the destruction of his soul, and I was left standing alone over Potter's body when they found me. Then there was the further inconvenience of his shade emerging from my wand under priori incantatem--Potter's shade, not the Dark Lord's. I'm reasonably sure the only thing that kept Minerva from killing me on the spot was her conviction that a quick death was far too good for me. If the woman's brains have not been too addled by recent events, she'll bring Dumbledore's portrait to testify at my trial--or what was left of it after the battle, at any rate. Did Bellatrix really think it necessary to fire a Reducto curse at each portrait in turn immediately upon entering the Headmistress' office? Most of them survived by ducking out of their frames, but none saw enough to serve as a witness. Still, Dumbledore is my best hope--my only hope, really. If he can exonerate me of his own death, and if he believes the rest of my story, I may have a chance of convincing the Wizengamot.

If he testifies. If he believes me. If, if, if. He may side against me after all. Dumbledore was as susceptible to grief as anyone, though he hid it better than most. And he always had a blind spot when it came to Harry Potter. His portrait will have taken the news hard; he loved Potter as a son. As for me--he trusted me, relied on me, and I flatter myself that he may have afforded me some measure of respect--but he never loved me. Potter always came first in his eyes. I fought Quirrell jinx for jinx, but it was Potter who received credit for saving the Sorcerer's Stone. I recaptured Sirius Black, who tried to kill me if no one else, and Potter was allowed to help him escape. And Potter was immobilized on the astronomy tower to save his miserable life from his own stupidity, and to stand as witness and judge as I was chosen to murder the closest thing either of us had to a father. Why?

Then there are times when I stop seeking explanations, for after all, what more explanation is needed? I was one of the Dark Lord's closest supporters, a Death Eater of the inner circle, part of the old crowd at heart if not by age. Those men and women were my family, my confidants, all I had in the world. I betrayed them, plain and simple, and for what? For a twinkle in an old man's eye and a hint of possible forgiveness for my sins. Face it, Snivellus, your sins are unforgivable. It's the ninth circle of hell for you, the traitor's circle, whichever way you turn. But Dumbledore--I would never have betrayed Dumbledore. The thought never entered my mind--until the night I found him on the roof of the astronomy tower, defeated and dying, and he begged for me to end his agony. In that moment I wanted nothing more than to forget everything he had taught me about loyalty and trust.

Potter didn't beg, for life or death. He went with more dignity than I expected from one his age. I will never forget the way he looked at me, grim determination in James Potter's face and steel in Lily Evans' green eyes, and the last thing he said was Best get on with it, then. Brave words. Only a Legilimens could have detected the fear behind them. I wish I had been more--more what? Comforting? The last words anyone ever spoke to him were Kindly hold still, Potter, and you may even survive.

In one way, I think he welcomed the release. He had seen too much, and lost too much, for the rest of his life to become more than a haunted one. Not that his friends will understand this. Young Miss Weasley will break down in tears, most likely, and sob about how much he had to live for. Miss Granger will address the Wizengamot, eloquently I'm sure, on the subject of Potter's life, his fine noble character, his contribution to society, and how the least he deserves in return is to have his murderer brought to justice. Weasley may not say anything consequential or even coherent, but his mere presence will lend support enough to their case. For all I know, they will be right. Maybe there was another way. The Dark Arts are complicated at best. Even Dumbledore had no knowledge of the spell that cut through Potter's protection and took his life along with the Dark Lord's. I still have no idea how Potter came to learn it himself.

I wish they would allow me a Pensieve, for the trial. I realize it's considered too great a risk and by no means foolproof, but I know just what I would show them: the moment of calm after the battle in the Headmistress's office, where Potter fled in order to draw the Dark Lord away from his friends. The Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore's Army still clashing with Death Eaters in the corridors of Hogwarts, but the office quiet, after Potter successfully Stunned the Dark Lord and Bellatrix died screaming her rage, when Potter lay crumpled on the floor struggling to rise, weakened by the destruction of each Horcrux in ways he was finally beginning to understand. This was when I first made my presence in the room known.

You, Potter gasped, barely audible--I might not have heard him were I not still performing Legilimency at the same time. You dare...show your face...after all this--I saw his hand stretching toward his wand, then, and I stepped between it and him, just to be on the safe side.

I am in no mood to bandy threats, Potter. Let me make myself clear. Listen quietly, and I will give you some information you may want to know. Try to move, and I will kill you without bothering to explain myself first.

Of course, his first impulse was to take the least reasonable course of action, lifting himself on one elbow and using the added height to lunge for his wand, as if he could have covered those few feet of ground in his condition. I don't need to hear anything you have to say.

What about what really happened last year?

What was I trying to accomplish? Why should I explain myself to Potter, of all people? Because there was no one else, that's why. He knew at once what I meant; he must have replayed that horrible scene in his mind nearly as often as I had. I hoped it would pique his interest, that I might finally be able to release the secret that weighed so heavily on my soul, but the look he gave me was pure hatred, not curiosity.

I was there. I saw it happen.

I know you saw it! I think I was angry. Frustrated, certainly. But of course, because you were there you know exactly what went on that night. You couldn't possibly have missed anything important!

You said the words. The killing curse. An accusing voice, and accusing eyes to match, green as the jet of light from my wand when it hit Albus Dumbledore square in the chest. The killing curse. Ach, why else do they call it Unforgivable?

I never denied that I killed him.

You won't get away with it, he whispered fiercely. You'll pay.

I know. It was more that I wanted to admit, but it got his attention at last. He didn't say anything, and my Legilimency spell had begun to wear off, but I could tell by his face that he was listening. Suddenly, I didn't know what to say next.

He was already dying.

I don't believe you. Of course not. What had I expected?

You were with him. Think. He couldn't even stand.

That potion he drank--he said it wasn't fatal!

This was news to me. I knew a potion was killing him, but if he lied about its effects, lied to Potter, no less, it could only mean he didn't intend to get my help in time. That he had already given up hope for himself. That he, in fact, planned his own death for that night, and Potter and I were both but unwitting tools. I had thought the Legilimency spell gone, but so great was Potter's distress that I myself could not avoid a flash of the horrible image that plagued him now, of Dumbledore in a dark cave, raising a goblet to his lips. And of Potter, picking up the goblet when it fell from his hands, refilling it, as he had been instructed, helping Dumbledore to drink--Why didn't he come straight to me? I could have saved him. Even later, once they returned with the locket, if he had only asked I might have--might have been able to--the Unbreakable Vow had no time constraint, so long as Draco wasn't involved--

Enough. I know where that train of thought would lead. Get a grip on yourself, Severus. Take control of your own mind.

I thought Potter would be angry when I learned about the potion. He wasn't. I got the impression he was simply beyond caring. Then I thought I should be angry, at least as angry with Potter as I was with myself. When had he ever followed orders before? I should have been livid.

He pretended not to notice the tears in my eyes. I ignored the ones on his face.

It was you, wasn't it, he whispered. In my mind, helping me fight. At first I thought it was Voldemort, trying to distract me, but--

Your utter failure to master even basic Occlumency appears to have paid off. His lack of effort on the subject had exasperated me at the time, but I was grateful enough to find his mind open during the battle, thus allowing me access to images through which I could convey my warnings. How else would he have known that the Death Eaters who came in by the main entrance were merely a decoy, and the Dark Lord had taken one of the secret passages? That the masked figure dueling with Longbottom was Draco Malfoy, but if Draco were attacked he and Narcissa would both abandon the fight? That the password to Minerva's office was still 'Acid Pops?'

About that time, Potter regained enough strength to manage a sitting position. The Dark Lord gave a twitch, his first sign of overcoming the Stunning spell. I Stunned him again. Potter flinched and pressed his hands against the floor. Surely he must have understood by then.

I can feel what happens to him. Not through the scar; this is different. It's gotten stronger, ever since--

He was afraid to say it, as if somehow it wouldn't be true unless he did. But I couldn't afford to wait on his resolution.

Ever since you started destroying his Horcruxes. Each one weakened him a little farther, the last more than the first. But they weakened you as well. Do you know why?

He had no choice but to say it now. Still he waited, hesitated, through what I can only imagine was an intense inner battle, before he realized there was nothing to be gained by denying it. I'm the sixth Horcrux.

Very good, Potter. The sixth Horcrux. Then you know what must be done?

He looked at me with wide eyes. Lily Evans' eyes. In James Potter's face. Enough of that! She's gone, both of them are, and you can't take back the day on the lake edge when you said you didn't need help from filthy little Mudbloods like her.

Fool! Who knows what might have happened but for that day? That was the last chance she gave me. I was too proud to ask for another. Why didn't I hold my tongue? Mudblood, yes, but what of that? A better Mudblood than I ever was, for all my Prince ancestry. She deserved better than James Potter. She deserved better than either of us. What would she think of a man who could only cope with his own guilt by taking it out on two mere boys? Potter stood up to me, always, but Neville Longbottom will never know why I hated him so. What I saw when I looked at him. The boy who might have lived. Whom the Dark Lord might have feared, might have chosen, might have marked as an equal and left the Potters in peace.

And yet where would that have left me? Harry Potter and the Dark Lord weren't the only ones to have their lives forever altered by a few lines of prophecy. I didn't think of it as betrayal, not at first. I didn't plan to renounce the Death Eaters, just to help a newborn and his family elude their deaths for a little longer, in payment of an old debt, you understand. So I resolved to deliver my warning--and found myself face-to-face with Albus Dumbledore, the only one the Dark Lord ever feared, the enemy of all I stood for. If there was ever a time in my life when I abandoned hope of survival, it was that moment.

Of course, killing was not Dumbledore's way. If he had tried, doubtless I would have died a Death Eater, unrepentant and defiant. I may have been afraid, but I was prepared. He didn't try to kill me. Instead he offered me another chance, another life, and I grasped at that chance with all I had. Not to save my life--that I would have refused--but he made his appeal to a part of me long forgotten, with sentiments I would hear echoed, years later, a simple declaration: You are not a killer. Draco denied being tempted by Dumbledore's offer of asylum, when he told me of it. But in the final battle, eager as he was for its commencement, I saw him use no spell more damaging than an Impediment Jinx. It seems Dumbledore was right about him.

He was wrong about me. I had become a killer less than a year out of school, with Death Eaters watching my back and the Muggles screaming and cowering before me. I remember I hesitated, much as Draco did, but I had no one there to offer me a way out. They were only Muggles, and in the darkness each one of them had my father's face.

So went my initiation, of sorts, into the Dark Lord's service. I had schooled my mind not to think too closely on that night, but it came back to me with Dumbledore's words. Only this time, instead of the father I had feared and hated for years of my childhood, the only Muggle face I could see pleading for its life belonged to Lily Evans. I tried, didn't I? I tried to save her. I listened to Dumbledore when he said that I could atone for all I had done, that even a killer need not remain so. I believed him.

Did he have any idea it might come to this? Talk of forgiveness is all well and good in the abstract, for a man like Dumbledore in a position to give second chances. I have to believe the offer was genuine. But when push came to shove and ugly things needed doing, I suppose I was the obvious candidate; I was already lost. That's all I was good for, in the cause of the Order: a spy, a traitor, an executioner. That's the purpose of an executioner, is it not--to kill those who must die, out of duty rather than volition, to protect more innocent beings like Draco and Potter from the act of murder and all it entails? I showed no mercy, gave no second chances. I couldn't. Such chances were not mine to give. Do you hear me, James? Lily? I had no choice!

I won't pretend it was the hardest thing I've ever done, or the cause of my greatest regret. I was not about to balk at a chance to end the war in a single stroke, and a few minutes' understanding hardly negates years of animosity. All the same, there was a moment when I realized, as he did, that there was no need to cling to our hatred any longer, and I could afford to look back at what might have been if only one of us had been less proud, and willing to let the past be past. For the first time in the seven years I had known him, I almost felt sorry for him. It must have been a disappointment, to hear that he had a power the Dark Lord knows not, and then to learn that this power could aid his struggle only by giving him the reason, and the strength of will, to sacrifice himself. Why did I ever envy him that?

I could not say how long I stood over him, lost in thought, before the present situation intervened again. There was a distant thump from below us, followed by muffled voices shouting They went in here, I'm sure they did. What's the password? Where's McGonagall?

You have to help me, Potter said then. The others--they'll never understand. He gave me the spell then, two simple words, strange and at the same time with a sickening ring of familiarity.

It took us forever to figure out, Potter said with a bitter twist to his mouth. The scroll where we found it wasn't even in English. Hermione had to learn a translating charm. Tell her--

I have no intention of risking my neck to deliver messages to your friends. Harsh, maybe, but hardly unreasonable. I was wanted for murder.

No, remember this. It's important. Hermione thought the Avada Kedavra was invented first, but it was the other way around. The killing curse came from the incantation to destroy a Horcrux. It should--it should work. You're attacking the Horcrux, not me directly, so the protection my mother gave me--

A risk I preferred not to spend any more time contemplating. I raised my wand. Are you quite finished, Potter?

His face paled and his head snapped back to follow my wand.

Tell them, he continued, a note of urgency in his voice now. If they find you, tell them that.

I said nothing. In the silence, running footsteps marked the progress of whoever had just managed to get past the gargoyle entrance.

Potter closed his eyes. Best get on with it, then, he whispered.

The snake had died. But then, the snake didn't have a scar where the Dark Lord's soul had struck. As if it was contained only in that spot, a target separate from the boy himself. A small target, but I was close enough.

Kindly hold still, Potter, and you may even survive.

He didn't survive. But you knew that already.

I've told no one Potter's last words. Aside from my near complete isolation from human contact, I somehow doubt that Miss Granger will care overmuch about the derivation of the Avada Kedavra. One would expect the great Harry Potter's last words to have more meaning, somehow. The killing curse came from the incantation to destroy a Horcrux. The way Potter spoke, it sounded as if they had discussed the possibility before. A human Horcrux, as the link between a spell for destroying Horcruxes and one for killing. It made sense. She might see it. The girl once solved the puzzle I set before the Sorcerer's Stone, after all, and Potter clearly expected her to take my word for this. They both may have found clues of which I know nothing.

Of course, the news that Potter was a Horcrux could shake her up a bit. I can't imagine why he would think it so important that she know, after the fact. Perhaps he simply wanted his friends to understand the reason for his death, in case it gave them some measure of comfort. If so, he miscalculated. By mere silence he could have secured revenge for his parents, Sirius Black, Dumbledore, and--to an extent--himself. What better way to comfort his friends than to let them see justice done? I'm surprised Potter was willing to pass up such an opportunity by risking information that could point to my true intentions. You're attacking the Horcrux, not me directly. As I had already surmised, this was the only way to bypass Lily Potter's protection. If Miss Granger believed I had used the Horcrux spell to kill Potter, she would have to conclude that I had purposely destroyed the Dark Lord's last Horcrux, knowing it would bring about the downfall of my supposed master.

Remember this. It's important. He didn't just risk it, did he? He insisted that the truth be known. Tell them. It's almost as if....

What am I saying? Do I really think Potter would care in the least about keeping me out of Azkaban? That he weighed the consequences and chose his words based on what I would need to defend myself in court? That even with his celebrated power the Dark Lord knows not he could ever forgive me for--for anything? That would take a power beyond reckoning.

And I think he did just that. I don't pretend to know why; I surely would not have done it, were I in his place. But I believe he tried to help me. Perhaps I have gone mad after all. What makes me think I can earn forgiveness from a single survivor of this war, much less from Potter himself? They won't listen, in any case. I don't know why I bother to wait for a trial, when I know I stand condemned. What is it I truly want from them? I've mentioned forgiveness, harped upon it, but who among them has the power to forgive me? Those I have wronged most are gone, and the fault is nearly all mine. No, I've been chasing shadows, seeking among the living for what only the dead can offer. Albus Dumbledore. Lily and James Potter. Sirius Black. And Harry Potter, who thought to avenge them all, but joined their ranks instead. It all comes back to Harry Potter. The world knows him as the Boy who Lived, the Chosen One, with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord. I shall always remember the schoolboy, his father's son, and the years we spent at odds. But I see now he was his mother's son as well, the young man who with his last breath found it in himself to give me, so recently a mortal enemy, the one thing I needed from him.

A power indeed.