The Road Less Traveled

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Mudblood ... Mudblood ... dirty blood ... blood that was filthy ... polluted ... the word ran through Lily's mind; all its meanings, all its perversions, tumbling together, piling up on itself, flowing through her thoughts like a stream of garbage.

She had known what it meant, how it was used in hate, but knowing and experiencing were two different things.

His voice had spat venom at her like an attack, and she could feel the scars. He scarred her in that second. In that second, he had stripped her world away, taking from her all innocence, all her stupid belief that if you treated someone with kindness they would respond in kind.

Naiveté had clothed her until that moment, kept her warm and soft in the belief that the world could be good. Now she was naked, shivering in the cold reality that the world was sharp and cruel. And she hated him for it.

Hated him in a way she didn't even know was possible, until his poison contaminated her and suddenly she was capable of all the things she most despised. 'Snivellus', she had called him that, and she had left him there ... so that Potter and his gang could ... God ... and she had meant it ... she still meant it ....

The first sob was explosive, torn out of her like a shot. Prepared for the next, she beat it back down inside her with the kind of strength that only came in times of desperation. She would not cry. She wouldn't! They would not win.

Her head bent over her transfiguration text, Lily stifled the sobs, choking on them, ignoring the need for air in a desperate attempt not to show weakness.

The light shifted, barely noticeable except for the way that the top half of the page darkened. Not looking up, she muttered, "Move Potter, you're blocking my light."

Silence.

Then the shadow shifted away, spilling new light onto the page. Realizing the reaction was far too quiet for James's attention-drawing ways, Lily's hand inched towards her wand. Just let him try anything, and he'd find out how good at charms she really was.

Lifting her eyes from the page she hadn't been reading, Lily sought out her observer, unconsciously choosing the appropriate charm - nothing humiliating or hurtful, but difficult enough that he'd think twice before making another move.

Even as her fingers closed around the comforting wood of her wand, she knew it wouldn't be needed.

He stood a good twenty paces off, robes disheveled, patches of grass and mud still stuck to them in a way that could have only come from being ground into the earth. Consistent with that assessment, red abrasions were starting to appear on the right side of his face, and a small trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.

All traces of the abuse would be gone by morning. The school nurse had a way with such things. In fact, Severus could probably take care of most of it himself. Probably does, she amended the thought. Too proud to seek out assistance, he had probably learned how to take care of his injuries after Potter's first 'little amusement'.

But he hadn't taken care of them yet, hadn't even bothered to wipe away the blood. Instead, he stood there, quietly, defiantly, letting her take in the fruits of her fellow-Gryffindors efforts - her efforts. She had inflicted them just as surely as Remus, who stood by and did nothing, or Peter, who cheered. She had given them permission.

Deciding she at least owed him an acknowledgement of her handiwork, Lily slowly dragged her gaze along the length of him, not sparing herself any sickening detail. Finally satisfied that she would be able to recreate the image in her mind every night for the rest of her life, she met his eyes.

Prepared for either hatred or self-pity, she got neither. Insolent and unrepentant, they seemed to ask, 'Have I been punished enough? Are you satisfied?'

No, Severus, I'm not. I can't show you my wounds, can't stand here as a graphic representation of your sins. Tomorrow when you're all healed, we'll be the same - unmarked, but still bleeding. Show me your scars tomorrow and maybe I'll be satisfied.

They stayed that for what seemed like an eternity - gazes locked, communicating without speaking - each privately daring the other look away first. Finally, with a curt nod of understanding, he broke the connection, picked up the bag that lay at his feet and walked away.

Had he really understood? Did she even care?

*****

Yet it seemed that he did, perhaps more than she wished him to. Two days passed and he appeared before her again, then three days after that, and so it went for almost two weeks. Each time he stood off at a distance waiting until she acknowledged his presence, forcing her to take in each new set of wounds, and every time she met his eyes, they asked the same questions.

She didn't understand why her answer was never yes.

She liked to blame it on his pride, on his stupid arrogant refusal to apologize. If he had just said I'm sorry, she could have forgiven him on that first day. Two simple words, how hard could it be? Two simple words and she was almost positive she could have let it go.

Instead, he simply sought out punishment from the hands of another. He must have sought it; the attacks were occurring too frequently. As awful as Potter and Black were. they weren't vicious enough to hunt him down, too much effort. Snape was only amusing if he was convenient, and he'd obviously been making himself very convenient.

Her suspicions were confirmed when she overheard them talking in the common room.

"It's getting boring."

"Oh come on James, Snivellus hanging upside down? You have to admit that was funny."

Potter chuckled. "Yeah, that was, but it's not as much fun now that he just stands there. Where's the humor in that?"

"You're right. It's becoming stale. What we need is something fresh and original."

Lily didn't stay to hear what fresh and original idea they came up with. She had the sickening feeling that she'd bear witness to it in excruciating detail before the week was out.

Her intuition proved to be far too accurate. She had started to let herself hope that either Black and Potter were saving their brainstorm for a 'brilliant' opening to their sixth year, or Severus had given up on whatever he was trying to accomplish. Luck was not with her.

It was the day before they were all scheduled to leave for summer. She had been walking the grounds in her ritual effort to take in all the green she could before heading back to the endless blocks of row houses and gardens so immaculately kept that nature had no place.

He was waiting for her at the entrance to the school.

She felt his presence more than saw it, so completely did he blend with the shadows as though he had found a way to absorb them. His personal habit of doing that was one of the reasons why so many students found him creepy. There was really nothing inconspicuous about Severus. From his manner to his personal habits, he stuck out like a sore thumb, one of those people everyone knew of even prior to being singled out by Potter. Yet somehow, there were times when your eyes passed right over him like furniture or trees.

Lily had heard the whispers that it was magic ... not so far flung here of course ... and she almost believed the rumors, at least she would have if it weren't for the fact that he'd been doing it since he first came to Hogwarts.

That was how she met him, if anyone really ever met Severus.

That first heady day, when she'd been so overwhelmed - excited and terrified all at once - she'd needed a quiet place to catch her breath, some place away from the crush of students who all seemed to know each other, some place where she could be alone so that she wouldn't feel so lonely. The back car of the train had seemed perfect, piled high with extra luggage and uncomfortable enough that everyone would rather cram together towards the front.

Well, almost everyone.

Lily had been resting her head against the window, looking out on the never-ending expanse of countryside and trying to figure out exactly which direction they were headed, when she became uncomfortably aware that someone was looking at her. Not a passing glance either, but rather the kind of look you felt deep inside. Taking a breath for strength, she had slowly turned her head ...

To meet the most striking eyes, she had ever seen. Striking not because of their color or beauty, but because of the way they saw you, right through all your outside pretensions and defenses to where you were uncomfortably naked and vulnerable. They saw places in you that you tried to avoid seeing yourself.

Squirming a little under the force, Lily had flashed him a nervous smile.

And he had blinked, as though surprised to be smiled at. He had blinked and almost ashamedly dropped his gaze back to the book resting in his lap, and as he did so he became almost nothing, just another form in the mass of forms. He pulled on inconspicuousness like a cloak, so that you would never guess what lay behind that curtain of hair.

He looked at her the same way now - right inside where her petty grudges and unforgiving nature were hidden, and while it still made her squirm, this time she looked right back.

In comparison to all of Potter and Black's other amusements, he seemed relatively unscathed, but there was something ... vulnerable in his eyes. A small crack in his armor that she had never seen before, and then it was gone so quickly that she might have imagined it ... except Lily didn't think it was possible to imagine something like that.

Severus was always guarded, seemingly as impervious to other's scrutiny as she was susceptible to his. But now ... now, she had seen inside him, for just the briefest of instants she saw through all his defenses and pretenses, and it left her cold.

It was Lily's turn to drop her gaze ashamedly.

Trying to look anywhere but his eyes, she scanned his face and that was when she saw it - his nose swollen out of proportion, like some grotesque caricature. God, Potter, you ass ...

She bet they had laughed, and she knew Severus had just stood there while their laughter, cold and cruel like hyenas, pounded him. She hoped they were still laughing ... so hard that they choked on whatever food they had snuck back for their victory feast.

His eyes were still on her, but she couldn't look at him because she knew the questions his eyes would ask, and she still didn't have any answers. She just wanted this to stop.

Stepping forward Lily took out her wand and murmured the charm to reverse the damage. Still avoiding his eyes, she whispered, "Stop it. Just ... stop."

Severus snorted. "They won't get trouble ... Potter and Black ... they never get in trouble ..."

"You think I care about them?" She nearly spat the words as her body shook with anger. "Stop indulging yourself. You're not a victim, so stop pretending."

Not waiting to hear his answer, she ran into the school.

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Ignoring the complete darkness of his professor's quarters, Snape stripped as he entered, leaving the clothing in his wake. Later his more meticulous nature would kick in, but for now nothing was more important than losing all traces of this day.

He could never get far enough from his work ... not the teaching, that was merely perfunctory routine requiring minimal thought and just the right amount of disdain. No his real work, the all-consuming focus of his life, required him keep his mind sharp, his hands fast, and his emotions icy as he suppressed all his own desires for a far larger purpose.

Funny, it sounded so noble when he thought about it that way, but standing here, under the scorching water, washing blood off his skin and smoke out of his hair, he felt anything but noble. Hard to feel like a white knight as you watched the evidence of your destructive power flow down the drain.

How did I ever used to do this?

He found himself asking the question more and more frequently. These days he restricted his movements to the fringe of the dark-wizarding world. The lowest of the low who weren't powerful enough to be taken into Voldemort's circle, but who still heard things and were more than willing to share them ... for a price because after all information was one of the more profitable commodities for them. And the price they asked of him was, of course, one of his more profitable commodities - poison.

Still, reprehensible as his free exchange of horrible death for information might be, it was a far cry from what used to be his daily activities, death up close and personal - acids on skin; hallucinogens in food; poison forced down throats. Oh yes, Voldemort had once had many creative uses for Snape's skills.

How had he managed then?

I was angrier.

That was really the key. Fifteen years ago he'd been angry with the world, full of self hatred, and a need to slowly drive himself mad. Now ... now everything had mellowed into bitterness and cold efficiency. While it made him more dangerous, it also made him less bloody.

Pulling back his wet hair, Snape moved towards his desk for what had become a personal ritual. As he pulled out the intricately carved ebony box, the tiniest quiver ran through his hands, a phenomenon considering the flawless precision with which they usually worked.

Snakes curled and curved over the exterior in a seamless web making the box solid. Passing his hand along the surface, he whispered to them in a language that he didn't understand. Suddenly edged in green light the serpents writhed into a pattern, separating out to form a seam so that the box could open. Lifting the lid, he removed the green silk pouch and unfolded it, careful not to touch any of the objects it contained.

There were twenty-one in all. Twenty-one remnants of twenty-one lives cut short by his hands. Slowly his eyes moved from one to the next as he took inventory -- a brooch with a jewel missing, a man's handkerchief singed at one edge, cracked spectacles ...

It had amused Voldemort to no end that Snape collected these trinkets. 'The curator' he had called him, as though some day his trusted lieutenant would place them all on display for children to look at in awe.

Oh yes, the Dark Lord had been amused, so amused that he made Snape the present of the box, 'something worthy of your collection'.

Of course, like all the Death Eaters, Voldemort thought his Potions Master took them as souvenirs, a reminder of times past. Well, he did in a way ... but not to smile at them over a glass of fine wine, reminiscing about happier days ... not that Snape had ever done anything but give that impression.

No, he took them for a far different reason. He took them because Death Eaters destroyed families, entire lines decimated in one night. If there was a village ... well, it wasn't there by morning. Someone had to remember them. They deserved more, but he could at least give them that.

Besides, no matter what greater purpose he had been serving, he deserved far worse than a cushy job teaching pubescent brats while exploring his own intellectual curiosity. This way he got it.

Stop indulging yourself. You're not a victim, so stop pretending.

Lily's voice chastised him as he began selecting tonight's memory. No doubt, she would hate this collection, self-indulgent, adolescent bullshit that it was. She had no tolerance for such things. You played the cards you were dealt, and any time spent feeling sorry for yourself was simply wasted. That was how she saw her world.

God, he had hated her naiveté almost as much as he loved her strength.

Sometimes, he thought he did this out of some twisted form of spite, a way to laugh in her face, a way to say to her ghost 'I am not the man you loved, the man you created. You have no power over me.' Sometimes he did it because the screams of memory were the only thing that blocked out the ever-present whisper of her in his mind.

Mostly though he did this because it was how he coped. Despite being able to reason through complex, intellectual problems with nothing more than quiet solitude and his mind, when it came to emotions he needed something tangible, a reason to scream, to rage, to bite back tears and pour another glass of wine.

And it worked ... in some crude way. It didn't mend him, he was too far beyond mending, but it patched him up a bit, pinned together his scraps and made him decent.

So who will it be tonight ... Automatically, his eyes moved to the object in the center. No matter whom he chose, he always started here.

The watch had long ago stopped keeping time, succumbing to neglect and age, not surprising considering its make. Cheap and overly showy, it was the kind of thing you bought at one of the better shops in a small backwards village, not the best shop, just one of the nicer ones where someone would spend a little more money than they usually did. Despite its humble origins, the timepiece had been loved, not cared for, but loved. Scratched and dented it had tumbled around in a pocket for years, polished often with equally cheap polish that had formed a light film over the surface.

That wasn't what always drew his attention however. No, what his eyes always went to was the chain attached.

Made of multi-colored yarn, it didn't really qualify as a watch chain, but he didn't know what else to call it. It had been woven together in a crude pattern, interspersed with a series of knots that only made sense in the mind of a young child. Really it was hideous, but the young Auror had worn it with such pride.

They should never let them have families.

Taking a deep breath he reached for the watch, letting his mind set the stage. It had been mockingly bright and cheerful that day, perfect spring weather. Voldemort had been steadily gaining power for months now, so much power they were all drunk off it. This was to be a masterstroke, the ultimate display of power, ten Aurors struck down in their homes in broad daylight. The Dark Lord had been planning it for weeks, and likewise Dumbledore had been planning a response from the information which Severus had supplied.

From what he understood, his information had saved nine lives that day, not that it mattered much. All he remembered was the two lives that had been taken when the tenth plan went to hell. There should have been three extra wizards to oppose them, and the girl ... the girl shouldn't have been there at all ...

As senior wizard, the kill had been his privilege. Never before had he wished so hard to be a little further down the pecking order. He had even briefly considered turning on the Death Eaters in some kind futile act of nobility, but that exactly what it would have been terribly noble and terribly futile. Besides Dumbledore had always made one thing very clear, he was irreplaceable.

He had done this countless times, but even so, as his fingers wrapped around the unnaturally warm metal, he was unprepared for the rush of memory as it overtook reality.

Oh yes it had been very bright that day ...

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