Trapped

Chapter 3: The Many Faces of Death

With a sickening thud the blade cut through flesh and bone and finally hit the underlying stone. Blood splashed. The drum again. Warm droplets of scarlet were raining down on his face. The taste of salt as his tongue licked over dry lips. Strange. He could still feel, taste. How was this possible? Was he a ghost? He didn't feel any pain anymore, only a strange numbness in his entire body. But as a ghost he shouldn't feel the pressure of the iron fetters, should he? Something was wrong. Definitely. Should he dare open his eyes?

There was a pool of blood on the gray stone surface, his blood, and it was growing steadily. But his neck still seemed to be connected to his body...

Then, realization hit him. This wasn't about death and beheading. No. They had cut off his forearm, the one with the Dark Mark. Irrevocably severed the bond ... Not that he minded that much. He had wished for the Mark to come off a hundred times and more. But not - this way.

With realization came the pain. It shot through his arm and shoulder like a fiery sword, stabbing and slicing and burning at the same time. And the blood was spilling freely, the ever-growing scarlet pool having reached his face by now, making him wonder if he was to drown in his own blood. He groaned. Bleeding to death might not be the worst way to die, though. The pain would slowly wear off and be replaced by a numbing sleepiness before he would slowly glide into darkness inescapable. Like a candle burning down. There might even be a fleeting moment of peace ...

"Behold the traitor!" The Dark Lord's voice again, cutting mercilessly through his silent musings. "And here, look at Peter Pettigrew, who gave his limb willingly to his Master, sacrificed it for a higher purpose. As a reward he received this magnificent and powerful hand of magical steel. Look at it! Isn't it beautiful? A remarkable gift for a most loyal servant. - But the traitor will receive nothing but pain!"

The last words echoed menacingly through the room, reverberating inside Severus's head. Pain. The cruel game wasn't over yet. What would come next?

Voldemort tapped Wormtail's magical hand with his wand. Immediately, it started to glow with increasing intensity, radiating sizzling rays of heat. The rat slowly approached the blood-splattered slab. Severus could feel the heat as if he was standing in front of an open furnace. It was almost singeing his hair as the balding wizard came to a halt beside him. Now, something really bad was about to happen. As if he hadn't had enough for one day. How he yearned for rest, oblivion, even death. But it would not come - not yet. He tried to steel himself against the oncoming pain, but there was no strength left in his mangled body. He was too exhausted to even keep his eyes open.

There was a motion where his left arm - or rather what was left of it - was chained to the table. Then excruciating pain. And the smell of burnt flesh. He screamed as Pettigrew pressed his white-hot claw against the bleeding stump, screamed and screamed until he finally sank deep into merciful oblivion.

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When Severus awoke from unconsciousness, he was in the dungeons again. Same cold stone floor, same moldy air. But now, a few strands of autumn sun were reaching the ground of his cell. And there was an unfamiliar smell ... It reminded him of something but the memory was constantly eluding him. What was it? - the smell of burnt flesh, his flesh. He gagged when the images of his ordeal came flooding back into conscious memory. His arm. The burning pain. The screaming ...

The pain wasn't that bad at the moment. As long as he didn't move, he merely felt a dull, pulsing ache in his left arm. His knees were hurting, too. But it was bearable in comparison to - the other pain. He didn't want to think of it right now. Didn't want to look at his mutilated arm. Had it really happened? Or was it nothing but a figment of a halucinating brain? Maybe he was just having a horrible nightmare, and would soon wake up in his comfortable and warm four-poster bed in his familiar Hogwarts dungeons. He would have a cup of strong black tea while still in bed reading the Daily Prophet, and then decide whether to have breakfast in the Great Hall or at his chambers. Probably the latter. He didn't feel too well today, not really hungry, and not at all ready to meet all those annoying dunderheads before he had to - in class. But another cup of tea would be welcome. He was terribly thirsty. His throat and lips felt all dry and sore. He only had to reach for the bell on the nightstand to summon a house-elf ...

The movement and the ensuing pain brought him back to bleak reality. Was he loosing his sanity? Was this the beginning of delirium? He was feeling hot, feverish, but was shivering from the cold at the same time. Probably he was just having a bad case of Influenza, and would wake up in the Hospital wing any moment, all this being nothing but a fever-dream. He had always shunned the Hospital wing like the devil shunned holy water. And, luckily, he was almost never sick. If he was, though, he had his private stores of healing potions and salves, and he knew how to use them. But now, he would give anything for a glimpse into Poppy Pomfrey's hazel eyes ...

Wonder whether they had already noticed his absence at school? Maybe not. It had been a Friday night when he had followed the impostor into the Forest. And since he had never been a very sociable person and preferred to spend his week-ends alone in his study, probably nobody would miss him yet. The students would certainly be ecstatic when finding out about their most hated teacher's mysterious absence after the week-end was over. What day was it anyway? He had no idea about how long he had been unconscious. Was it only Saturday, or Sunday already? His first class on Monday would be double Potions with the 6^th-years, all houses together. His most accident-prone class after the Weasley twins had dropped out so spectacularly last summer. No great loss if you asked him. Bright, but hopeless trouble-makers. If he hadn't been so wary all the time they would surely have blown up his dungeons on a regular basis, probably the entire school. This left Neville Longbottom, the bane of his life. Why the Headmaster had literally forced him to admit this brainless excuse of a wizard to Advanced Potions in spite of his abysmal grades he could only guess. Probably the boy's grandmother, an old friend of Dumbledore's, was behind it. Longbottom was brilliant with plants, he had to admit that, truly green fingers, and when herbs were involved in potions brewing, he knew a lot about their properties and uses. But let him get into the vicinity of a cauldron and the most unpleasant things would happen. Miraculously enough, there had never been a fatal accident - yet. The constant war between Slytherins and Gryffindors didn't help much, either. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy in one and the same class were bad enough. Add Hermione Granger, the insufferable know-it-all, to the explosive mixture and the result would turn out to be detrimental to any teacher's sanity. At least in a Potions classroom. No. The students certainly wouldn't miss him.

Would anybody miss him at all? Probably not. They would miss Snape, the spy, but not the person. And he couldn't even blame them. If it only wasn't so cold in here. He could almost feel his skin turn blue. And nothing to drink. Maybe they had forgotten about him? How long would it take to die of dehydration? Three days? No, certainly less than that after the considerable loss of blood. But what if he started to lick the moisture off the dungeon walls when crazed enough by the thirst? He had heard of people buried in an earth quake survive for many days in this fashion. The cold would kill him first, then. Couldn't be more than 45°. How long could one survive those temperatures without a cloak or blanket? And he didn't even have his shirt. A few days, maybe?

His head was throbbing with all the 'maybes' and the quickly rising fever. Best to think of nothing at all, clear the mind of all thoughts and emotions. He could do that. Had done it a hundred times as a spy. As Dumbledore's spy. Dumbledore with the twinkling blue eyes. Maybe he would miss him. The old wizard had a heart for almost any creature, even for an embitter, twisted ex-Death Eater. Yes, the Headmaster would miss him. And with the image of Albus Dumbledore in his mind, Severus fell into a feverish sleep.