A Reflection of Himself

This all had to be some cruelly sick joke, right? It simply had to be, what with the way he could just play with him like this. As Snape apparated instantly to the place where he was being summoned, he felt his stomach lurch inside. He wanted to vomit and spit, cursing the Dark Lord, more so cursing himself for being ever-so-foolish all those years ago. The mark still burned, though, and its fire was consuming, and there was no way to deny it or the one who had placed it there.

Oddly enough, Voldemort was standing near a fire on this particular horrific occasion, his snakelike, twisted form silhouetted against the blazened reds and oranges behind. The seeming-portrait was very much alive, something a sadistic painter would have created, merely for shock value to torment its onlookers. Keeping his mask firmly in place, Snape briefly shielded his eyes from the sight and turned his head away.

The commotion of arriving Death Eaters was still fresh, wearing on mercilessly through the frigid air all around them. In a terribly dazzling array, their hoarse voices mixed and mingled with the fire's glow as it danced off the bare limbs of trees, their skeletons yet another reminder of the foreboding death brought by winter and the Dark Lord himself.

Somewhere amidst the crowd, Snape knew Draco would be present, and admittedly, he had not had much time to spend with the boy, working on honing his spying skills. Whenever he had seen Draco, though, the boy seemed withdrawn and reclusive, which, for someone like Snape, was saying something. Now, in this deep, dark forest, was not the time for questions. The murmurs and excited talk alike came to an abrupt halt when Voldemort finally addressed them.

"Welcome, my Death Eaters," he greeted them, as was customary. "The raids have been going well. With that, I am quite pleased. Thanks to you, there are less Muggles and Mudbloods in the world as we speak."

Snape impatiently waited for him to say something worthy of knowing, something revealing, something interesting. Then, Voldemort said something that threw him. "As you know, we have discussed our plans in great details and at great lengths these past several months."

We have? Snape found himself wondering, then realized how foolish he was acting in letting his guard down. Quickly ensuring the barrier was back in place, Snape looked on emotionlessly.

There was utter silence for several long, stretched-out minutes. Voldemort began to lazily pace the length of the diameter of the circle in which they stood, then walked the perimeter, simply watching them, saying nothing. Then, stopping, he said in a low hiss, "However, some of you have been a disappointment. You have taken me for a fool, and a fool I'll be made no longer. Yes, you know who you are. Do not deny it. Some of you... are not loyal."

Oh, dear Merlin, Snape thought, the realization of Voldemort's words sinking in. He stopped himself before any more thoughts could surface and form.

But Voldemort was not looking at Snape. His eyes were resting on Draco. "Young Malfoy," the Dark Lord addressed him.

Unable to keep himself from trembling, Draco asked, "Yes, Master?"

"Step forward, please." The calmness of Voldemort's voice was deadly.

Draco stepped forward tentatively, trying to keep his eyes on Voldemort. He was failing miserably.

"Remove your mask," Voldemort patiently instructed. With shaky hands, Draco did so. Now, there was no hiding the fright on his face, in his pale eyes. He was completely afraid.

"You took the mark. You knew what giving yourself to me meant, and yet, here it is, merely six months later, and you are pathetically standing in front of me. Do you deny it?"

"I live only to serve you, my lord," Draco replied mechanically.

"Liar!" Voldemort suddenly bellowed, causing Draco to flinch and fall to the ground, begging at his master's feet. Voldemort, disgusted, stepped back. "Do you defile me with your disgusting hands or filthy lips! Crabbe, Goyle, restrain him!"

The fathers of Draco's former thug-comrades wrapped their burly arms around him, holding him firm and tight. He knew there was no escaping now. Voldemort now approached the struggling youth and stared at him straight in the eyes, and feeling the Dark Lord penetrating his mind, Draco tried feebly to block him, but Voldemort was already in too far. He saw visions of Draco with Harry Potter and of Draco alone, regretful of his decision to join the ranks with the Dark side. During this process, Snape looked on, unable to do a thing, knowing that if Voldemort saw a vision of him teaching Draco Occlumency, he would be the next one to go, if not already.

Snape would have had to be as inhuman as Voldemort to not want to stop Draco's tormenter, but he knew that if he dared to act, his life would be forfeit on the spot, leaving Dumbledore and the rest of the Order without their trusty spy. If, for nothing else, Snape would stay alive as long as he could, hoping his service was ultimately benefitting the greater good. Now, though, he had to wonder: How much did he really know of Voldemort's plans? Did he know anything at all? If he knew nothing or next to nothing, perhaps Voldemort had already found him out and was purposefully hiding information from him. What good would he be, then, he wondered? A spy who could give nothing useful to the side of Light?

As he swallowed down the last shreds of pride and self-worth, Snape's own words he had so harshly and unfairly hissed to Sirius nearly two years prior came back to bite him hard: "Merely that I am sure you must feel - ah - frustrated by the fact that you can do nothing useful for the Order."

But Snape could stand there, helpless and berating himself as much as he wanted, wishing now, too late, that he would have spent more time with Draco. He released a breath he didn't know he had been holding, causing the Death Eaters on either side of him to glance at him for a second. Had they not donned their masks, he knew quizzical looks would have covered their faces. He ignored them now, though, and turned his attention back to the scene before him. He was resigned to being able to do nothing.

"So," Voldemort now whispered curtly. "It is true, then. You are a traitor. I had my suspicions months ago, and now it has been confirmed. You know what happens to traitors, young Malfoy."

Draco swallowed his tongue.

"Do you have anything to say?" Voldemort asked, prematurely amused at anything Draco might say.

If this is truly my end, Draco thought, finally finding his courage, then so be it, but I'll have the last word yet. Even in his last moments before death, Draco possessed that Malfoy pride and arrogance.

Glaring loathingly at Voldemort, Draco twisted his mouth grotesquely, sucked in his breath, and spit in his pale, reptilian face. "Go to Hell," he breathed aggressively between clenched teeth.

Voldemort was not amused. Bringing a hand to wipe the saliva from his cheek, Voldemort just as soon flicked his other hand, which held his wand firmly, in Draco's direction, bellowing two words that would end his life.

"Avada Kedavra!"

A green flash of light and then... there was no more struggling from Draco's smaller form sandwiched between the two brutes-for-men. His head flopped forward onto his chest like a rag doll, and his body went limp. Crabbe and Goyle unceremoniously dropped his body, leaving Draco's crumpled form lying on the already dead ground. His eyes stared lifelessly into the clouded night sky.

Witnessing the death of one of their own was always unsettling for the Death Eaters, so silence was once again hanging thick and heavy in the air. Snape closed his eyes, though very briefly, hoping that there would be some mercy for Draco in the life beyond. Voldemort, still breathing in the adrenaline of what he had just done, began pacing again, very quickly, every step measured and precise.

"Now you have been reminded yet again of what happens to traitors," he told them at large. "Throughout the years, most of you have failed me in some way or another, and yet, there are others who seem to go above and beyond," he said these last words strangely, pausing, then continuing, "the call of duty that is required for a Death Eater. Yes, my dear friends..." Voldemort sneered here, having uttered the word "friends" like something that tasted rotten on his tongue and lips. "Yes, yes... some who pose as important officials in the Ministry or elsewhere, who have many ties, who know who to rub elbows with, and who take those clueless, foolish creatures and puppet them into our schemes."

Here, he stopped pacing, and Snape realized the Dark Lord was standing directly in front of him. "What have you to report, Snape?" Voldemort inquired suddenly, as if purposefully changing the direction his one-man conversation was going.

"Dumbledore is in the dark. He knows nothing of your plans, my lord."

"Hmmm, very interesting," Voldemort murmured thoughtfully, stroking his bald chin as if he had a beard there. "Isn't this an interesting thing to hear, my Death Eaters?"

Some of them laughed, and Snape felt his stomach drop. The next moment he knew, he felt Voldemort trying to penetrate his mind. Voldemort probed, but all he found was blankness, interspersed with memories that meant nothing to him. Finally, after several excruciating minutes, Voldemort relented. He stared at Snape for a long time then, trying to glean the smallest hint that was cause for his suspicion. Snape, of course, had come to believe months ago that the Dark Lord had his suspicions where he was concerned, but now those beliefs were confirmed.

"What are you not telling me, Snape?" Voldemort demanded.

"I deny you nothing, Master."

"While I can find nothing to the contrary that you are defying me, neither can I find something which would prove your loyalty to me. You have always tried my patience, Snape, but perhaps you have outlived your worth as a spy for me. Perhaps Dumbledore is not as foolish as I once suspected, and he simply tells you nothing useful anymore. Then again, with my own suspicions about you, why would I tell you anything useful? You are walking a thin line, Snape, a very thin line. You say you serve me, and yet... where is the proof?" Voldemort raised his forehead where his eyebrows should have been.

"What proof would you have me show, my lord?"

"You are constantly near Dumbledore and Potter. Bring me the key to their destruction or bring me them, and then you will have proven yourself."

"Of course, Master."

Voldemort then smiled evilly. "Well, now that we have that cleared up, it is time you received your punishment. You didn't really think I would allow you to return to the old man unharmed, did you?"

Snape said nothing, knowing that speaking at that moment could result in the loss of his tongue - literally. "I shall let your brothers have their way with you, for it is not just me that you harm with your foolishness, but them as well, and they certainly are longing to release their anger."

Voldemort motioned toward his ranks, saying, "Do anything you wish to him, just do not kill him."

Then, all hell broke loose. Snape had been on the receiving end of curses and hexes and fists and feet many times before, but not to this extent. To describe what happened next would be agonizing and perhaps beyond words. They hexed him with every dark curse in the book, and they kicked him and punched him, twisted him, and bit him. When they had finished with him, he was left a bloody mess on the ground, barely conscious, no part of his body left unmarked with bruises, lacerations, and burn marks. Voldemort called an end to the meeting, the apparent point of it having been only to punish those who he suspected of betrayal.

When everyone else had disapparated, Snape was left lying on the cold, hard ground, his hair caked in blood, sticking to his face, covered in a grueling mixture of mud and blood. He could barely raise his head, but in terrible pain and with blurred vision, he saw Draco's stonecold body lying a few feet away. He tried in vain to stand, but couldn't even support his weight on his arms as he tried to push himself up. He fell back to the ground, breathing raggedly, knowing his right arm was broken, along with a few ribs.

Struggling the whole way, Snape used his good arm and that side of his body to initiate moving in the direction where Draco's body lay. Crawling on his belly, reduced to travelling like a snake, Snape finally made his way to Draco's corpse. The very least he could do would be to take the body back with him. He knew he would have to explain everything to Dumbledore, how he had just stood by and watched as Voldemort killed Draco mercilessly and then was beaten to near death himself.

Gripping around Draco's torso with his left arm, Snape closed his eyes, feeling extreme nausea coursing through him, knowing he could pass out at any second. Not even sure if he had enough energy left in him to apparate properly, he concentrated fully on doing so, and when he opened his eyes again, he was lying on the grounds just outside Hogwarts, near the Forbidden Forest. With Draco's corpse clutched as tightly as he could in his arm, he tried dragging the body across the muddied grounds. The dead weight combined with his own practically dead weight made this impossible.

"Damn you, boy," Snape murmured in pain, pathetically hitting the corpse in the chest. "Damn you, damn you, damn you." He choked out the words half-heartedly, much more in anger at himself than Draco. In between ragged breaths and coughing up blood, those words felt like more punches or hexes to his being, but they penetrated far deeper, leaving bruises whose scars Snape knew would never heal.

Too tired to cry, in a dry sob, he whispered, "I've failed you. I'm sorry... so sorry."

Apologizing to Draco repeatedly, hoping his soul would hear it, Snape left the body and began slumping across the grounds alone. He made it only as far as Hagrid's hut when he closed his eyes and passed out, releasing into the cold, night air a desperate cry for help.

Back where Draco's body had lain moments before, something very strange and unexpected happened. Out of thin air, something translucent began to materialize and take on form and structure. His skin and hair were paler than they had been in life, but looking at his ghostly hands, Draco began laughing hysterically, his head rolling back, his eyes on the sky.