Where Do I Go From Here?

Thought you'd be getting pleasure, eh, Snape? No, for you, it's only pain.

Those words echoed through Snape's numbed brain, banging off every wall he had erected to keep intruders out and filling every corner where he hid his deepest thoughts. No one, save Dumbledore, ever possessed the power or, more importantly, the understanding and compassion to breach Snape's barriers, but this old man directly in front of him had just done exactly that in a matter of a few mere seconds.

"Do what you have come to do, then, Aberforth," Snape replied in a raspy, worn voice. He had the nerve, or the courage, to look the other man in the eyes as he said this.

Aberforth raised his wand in his gnarled hand, and it took every ounce of Snape's willpower not to turn his hand away at that instant. It wasn't because he was afraid of being killed, no; it was because seeing the hands of a man whose so much resembled Dumbledore's was like feeling the Killing Curse already striking him lifeless.

Instead of "Avada Kedevra," though, a sobering spell was elicited from Aberforth's wand, and Snape immediately felt the spell's intended effects. The alcohol-induced nausea had dissipated, and his vision had cleared.

He was truly at a loss for words now, and imagined that if he could see his own visage, he would have been gaping stupidly like a fish at the old man.

"Getting you drunk was only necessary to get you back here, you fool," Aberforth almost barked. "I can't exactly hold a decent conversation with an inebriated man, now can I?"

"What do you what?" Snape asked guardly.

Aberforth couldn't help the grim smirk that crossed his face. "You thought I intended only to kill you, Snape? Oh, no. When I said I would bring you pain, I meant it - do not doubt me. You have murdered my brother, and I have every right to despise the very sight or thought of you now. Albus trusted you implicitly for reasons that I never understood, but then again, he was always more forgiving than I was. But I know one thing: Albus was not a fool. He must have had his reasons for trusting you, and I should like very much to know what they were. I cannot help but to believe now, however, that you are nothing but a worthless traitor, but in the process of forcing you to relive in your mind all your contact and feelings associated with Albus, you will feel tremendous pain if you had even an inkling of love for the man. If you do not feel pain during said process, then believe me, you will most definitely feel pain afterward, when I find out that are you indeed a TRAITOR!"

Snape froze. Was Aberforth as skilled at Legilimency as Dumbledore had been? Why had Dumbledore never told him this? Damn the old man if he were still alive!

"And if I refuse?" Snape questioned.

"Why would you refuse? You are not the one calling the shots here, Snape. You are at my mercy now, young man."

Snape wanted to refuse point-blank. A part of him still held too much pride to allow himself to be examined as if on an operating table by even the most experienced physician. Everything was either life or death now.

"Why not just kill me, you old man?" Snape challenged, his voice growing impatient. "You could brag to all your friends in the Order that you found the traitor and did away with him, and in the process, exacted your revenge on the very man who murdered your beloved brother."

"Because I am not like you!" Aberforth yelled. "Despite my grim outlook on the ways of the world lately, I still believe, albeit probably in vain like my brother, that there is good in everyone. If you are somehow... innocent," he spat out the word with extreme distaste, "then you have nothing to lose."

"Very well," Snape muttered. He supposed that this may be his only chance to prove that he was not at least quite as vile a betrayer was everyone thought he was.

Aberforth stepped forward and pointed his wand directly at Snape's forehead and said, "Legilimens!"

For once, Snape didn't try to block anything. Having blocked so much for so long, though, he was now feeling raw, bare, and vulnerable. He might as well have just laid all his memories and thoughts out on a table for the world to examine, poke, prod, nudge... rip, tear, destroy. He saw what he imagined had to be every memory he ever had of Dumbledore, and one by one, they flashed before his eyes. He could feel ice cold hands ripping him open, tearing his flesh away from the muscle and bone, eating away his insides like an infestation of worms and maggots, and then, worst of all, the piercing of a thousand daggers through every part of his body. This was not the mercy of death - no, far from it. The Killing Curse was painless; this was the most excruciating sort of pain he had ever felt inflicted upon him in his life, and its source didn't have to be physical. No amount of Crucios from Voldemort or the Death Eaters could have compared, and not knowing what had actually happened in the process, Snape was now lying down on the dirty wooden placks on the floor, curled into a fetal position, and silent tears were streaking down his face, burning his skin.

At long last, Aberforth relented. The old man's hand was shaky, and he now looked with sorrow down at the man on the floor in front of him. Stooping to Snape's level, Aberforth laid a hand on his back and gently said, "It is over now, Severus. You don't have to explain anything. I now understand."

Snape looked up at Aberforth in disbelief and felt an enormously heavy weight lift off his chest. He felt he could breathe fresh air again, for the first time in days, someone believed in him.