My Life in the Suicide Ranks

My Life In The Suicide Ranks

The brilliance of autumn doesn't care whether we're at war, or at peace.

Orange-yellow, coral-red, burnished gold, deep crimson, rust and drab olive green, the trees continue their display whatever goes on at their feet. The sky seems to never stand still, running from partly sunny, to overcast, to thick misty fog occasionally pierced by the sun. The wind rustles the grass, causing it to swirl like drops of dye in water, in as many shimmering colors as the trees.

John Constable himself might have envisioned hundreds of black-robed, white masked warriors beneath the microscopic detail of his foliage. Maybe even the debris, the unfortunate Muggle bodies contorted into strange shapes, the smoke and the occasional flash of green light.

We are soldiers performing a duty. To make the world more hospitable for our kind. Sacrificing a few to make room for the many. A good leader always has a way of making his followers feel heroic, like they're contributing something great to humanity.

Even if all you can see in your immediate vicinity, is a victim shrieking at the point of your wand.

Under this magnificent orange-red oak, I have just exploded a farmer's small cottage. Under that golden maple glowing in the sunset, some of my compatriots are having their way with the farmer's wife and daughter. Their cries get under my skin. Make it stop...

A moment later it mercifully does stop, courtesy of the green flash I see out of the corner of my eye.

Later on, we pick up a solitary wandering wizard and fling him against a tree, for fun. I hear a crunch as his back breaks, and brace myself for more cries of agony before once again, my comrades show me mercy and put him out of his misery.

The tree he was slammed against was a deep, brilliant red. Redbud? Hawthorn?

We march on until we find a broad, misty valley to make camp in. I can barely see the thin sliver of moon above as the Dark Lord makes his audience. He gathers us round and tells us to prepare for the Aurors tomorrow. He congratulates us on our good work today--and then my ears are pierced by more anguished yells. Not again--

Cruciatus is a lottery. Even if he's pleased with your work, you still may not escape. Whenever, wherever he feels like casting it, he will. I suspect much as he likes inflicting the pain, he enjoys even more being in the position to ease it afterwards. To be the torturer, but also the savior, the healer...

Tonight is not Crucio night for me. So tomorrow it very likely will be.

The next morning begins cold and misty. A delicate hoarfrost coats some of the leaves. I am just barely awake, and my stomach is growling-- when was the last time I ate?-- when I hear our sentries call out the alarm. The Aurors are here, they said. They're here and they're approaching fast.

We weren't expecting an ambush. Tonight I may well get the Cruciatus for sure--though he's largely unpredictable, it does seem that whenever there has been a communication failure, I'm one of the ones he singles out.

Out from the valley we see them, swarming over the hills like ants. There is an eerie silence as they catch up to us, and, as one, we face them.

For a split second, nobody moves.

The calm before the storm, as it turns out, is a very appropriate expression. Another split second later, and Aurors and Death Eaters have detonated, fighting man-to-man, to the very death. Wands are used but so, too, are bare hands.

I am as good with my wand as any of them. I cast my share of green flashes--perhaps if I work hard enough, I can change the Dark Lord's mind-- erase my laziness and poor judgment, whatever I'm guilty of, from his memory.

Today, the trees and we have reversed. The frost has frozen them; we, on the other hand, are now the swirling colors, the blades of grass, the dots of green and gold and orange and red on a single oak leaf.

Through it all I gradually become less and less conscious of my surroundings. I feel almost... dreamlike. As if detached from my body, I see myself standing there, in the middle of a sea of fighters, and not moving. I'm holding my wand in front of me like it's something useless. My eyes are large and unreadable.

I walk through the crowds, a killing to my left and a killing to my right, and nobody notices me. The black of the Death Eaters and the gold of the Aurors swirl all around. On and on I press, as if my feet are enchanted to not stop walking.

... I look up and find myself in the middle of a small grove of hazel trees, where the mist is even thicker. The fighting is in the background by now. I turn and face the battle, then turn away... and I crouch down next to a particularly large tree, cover my head with my arms and shake. I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.

To think it all came to this... I came to them to make myself strong... to transcend my past... my failures...

I hold my wand out in front of me, and with the last remaining ounce of my strength, I swallow and form the word:

"Apparate..."

He couldn't have looked more shocked if I'd grown three arms out of my head. As he ushers me from the edge of the Forbidden Forest, through the grounds and then the gates of Hogwarts, up to his chambers, he says nothing. Only his eyes express anything.

"Severus? ... What are you doing here?" he asks, after we're safely out of sight of everyone else. His face is drained of all color, his eyes distressed.

What can I say? What is the right thing to say?

Voldemort will find out.

I don't care.

I take a deep breath and finally say, "I... I... can't do this. Not anymore. Albus... please. Help. I can't do this." Then I hang my head and fold my arms. I close my eyes... tightly, in shame.

A moment later I feel a touch on my arm. I open my eyes, and there he is... but there is no trace of rebuke on his face. Only sadness... and sympathy. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet but firm. "You don't have to do this."

Then his hand squeezes my arm a little tighter.

THE END

The title of this fic comes from a Tears for Fears song, "My Life in the Suicide Ranks", from the Saturnine, Martial and Lunatic album. Its lyrics really don't make much sense; just that the music and the lyrics combine to produce a feeling of dreaminess and suffering, as if sleepwalking in the middle of a battle. It definitely felt very misty to me.

John Constable (1776-1837) was a British painter of landscapes, renowned for his effect of using multiple flecks of color to give a richness and aliveness to his foliage.