If You Are Prepared

Most people lean towards Snape being very close to Voldemort, but I
can't see how. Given Rowling's timeline, he would have been about
21 when Voldemort fell, Evil Overlords don't have 21yo geeks as major
players in their organisations! Nor do Evil Overlords nearly topple
governments and take over countries with 12 or 13 followers.

So I think Voldermort's organisation was much bigger than the few
Death Eaters we saw in Goblet Of Fire, and that Snape was not one of
those intimates. He was a recruit being groomed for bigger things,
but at the time of his defection he was not one of the inner circle.

Voldemort may not have known it was Snape who foiled him at the Quidditch
match, may have thought that Snape didnt know it was the Dark Lord who
was after the Stone, but if the speech in Goblet Of Fire about missing
Death Eaters does refer to Snape, then he won't be welcomed if he suddenly
turns up....

So he can't. He has to spy in other ways.
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If you are prepared...
======================


"Severus," said Dumbledore, turning to Snape, "you know what I must
ask you to do. If you are ready.. If you are prepared..."

"I am." said Snape.

They had talked about it after the business with Quirrel and the Stone.
Late of an evening in the Headmaster's study.

"He was not destroyed Severus" said the Headmaster, staring into the fire.
"And if he did it once..." The words trailed off into the silence.

"It must have been sheer luck he found Quirrel. And a broken reed
that was. What are his chances now?" said Snape, not really wanting to
think about the Dark Lord and what Albus was going to ask for.

Did ask for. "If he came back, if he found a better vessel, we would
need some way of tracking him. Some way to know where he is, what he
is planning. "

Severus Snape had been just one of many, branded for what he was, a
soldier in a Dark army. Most of them only ever saw Voldemort when they
were Marked, or at one of the very few big gatherings held when he was
at the height of his power and about to topple a world.

He'd had more contact with the Dark Lord than most footsoldiers, which
was not something he saw as a distinction. The first of course, was
the burning of the Mark into his skin and the casual dispensation to
study Chemistry. But there had been others here and there, orders for
certain potions, him being sent up with reports of actions when his cell
leader needed an errand boy.

And that once, when he'd been given a lesson about how you *obey* orders,
you do *not* question, you do *not* weaken, you do as you are told and
keep your damn mouth *shut*.

That had been his first, although not his last, experience both of
Cruciatus and of the way that the Dark Lord could wrap your soul around
his little finger, and make you believe he would give you everything
you wanted, while he ground your face into the dust.

He'd remembered that, here in this office, so long ago, when Dumbledore
had asked him to go back to the Dark Lord, to spy on him, to help bring
him to justice. Remembered it, nearly thrown up with the fear and with
the shame of the longing for the voice and what it promised. But there
was no choice, not really, not given his other memories, not given the
reality of the promises.

And now here he was, 12 years later, and the same question was going
to be asked, the same sacrifice...

"I was not of the inner circle Albus. And while I did see more of
the Dark Lord than most, I am not on his list of intimates and I most
certainly don't want to be on that list! Besides, he knows I'm no longer
with him, he knows I've rejected him. I would be walking to my death
if I went."

He knew the Headmaster realised this. But it had to be said.
If Voldemort returned, Albus wouldn't be the only one wondering if a
former spy could become a current spy.

That's as far as they got that night, but the following year they
discussed it again, still stunned from the events in the Chamber. And he
damned himself thrice over that night, for no reason he could determine.
Except perhaps the Weasley girl's face, Granger stone cold on the floor,
and the terrible feeling of violation. Riddle had got into his sanctuary,
hiding wasn't possible any more.

"I couldn't just walk up to him Albus. even if I knew where he was, even
if he decided to call me, a minor player, instead of consolidating the
inner circle." A pause as he tried to talk himself out of saying it.

"But there is another possibility."

He'd found it by accident almost, when he'd been wondering about a
detector for the use of Polyjuice. He'd been drawn into a side alley
associated with True Appearance and Plotting, and the possibilities had
intruded themselves upon him.

He had a connection to the Dark Lord burned into his arm. Not very
visible now, but he knew it was there. He could perhaps use it as
a guide. A connection to travel along. Not in person, but remotely.
A technique related to both Pensieve and scrying pool, where remote
feelings, words, memories were projected along the link, controlled
(he hoped) by his own desires to see what he needed to see.

He had no idea if it was practical. But there were precedents, rather
well known ones. Not that you would cite Grindelwald and his use for
his slaves in an academic paper, but this was hardly material for Ars
Alchemica.

Do not enquire too closely into previous uses for these techniques, and
most definitely do not enquire too closely as to whether the flow from
source to end point on his arm was as strong as the flow from endpoint
to source, do not enquire if the connection could flow either way and
the monster he watched could watch him. Was watching him.

They discussed it. The spells needed. The physical objects to be
ensorceled. The potion to draw the essence from the mark, free his mind
to take the path, and to allow him to remember what he saw. They did
not discuss the possible consequences. The chances of death or insanity
from the procedure, the chances of death or insanity if he were caught.

He didn't know why Albus never brought it up, he didn't because if he
did, he'd lose what courage he had. So they discussed everything but the
consequences. Discussed it as a potential tool, as a possible response
to Voldemort's return. Both of them hoping he'd never have to do it.

It wasn't until the Dark Mark hung over the World Cup match that it came
home to him that he really would have to do it.

So here he was, preparing it. The crystal scrying bowl had been enchanted
months before, tested with Albus's own blood, it would do what was asked
of it. He just had to ask the right questions, provide it with the right
information, drawn from the Mark on his arm. And generate the power to
make and drive the connection.

The potion was, unfortunately, quite quick to brew. Most powerful
things were finicky and took forever, this was finicky, took a lot of
power and concentration, and was ready far too quickly for his taste.

He worked his best shield charm then, just in case some fool would take
it into their head to come all the way down here, questing for him,
their unguarded thoughts muddying the picture, breaking the thread
that kept him anchored. Never mind that it would shield him from help,
there was no one who could help him do this.

Sit in the chair, put the scrying bowl on the desk, breathe deeply of
the fumes from the goblet to start the process, cut into the not-skin
of the raised black mark, watch blood run over it and fall drop by drop
into the bowl.

As the liquid swirled, resenting the invasion, he poured the draught
down his throat, long experience of such things allowing him to ignore
the taste and the way it seemed to claw its way down his gullet and sit
sullenly in his stomach before it tore at his frontal lobes, muttering.

Chanting softly to focus his mind and his power, feeling the ache
start behind eyes and heart, he stared into the bowl, seeking the Lord
he had sworn to serve, who had promised him heaven and given him hell,
who some part of him still wanted to grovel before if only he could hear
that voice talking of all the sweet world as he desired it.

Funny how it wasn't possible to tell people about that. Everyone who
described the Dark Lord described him as repellent, which he was.
But he could speak to your soul and you would cast an Unforgiveable on
yourself to hear him again.

He ignored the funeral drum in his head, the jerking of his heart, the
bonedeep ache in his arm, ignored the nausea and the fear, and followed
the black thread through the unreal landscape of millions of minds until
he found the one he wanted, followed the call, the burning, rode the flow,
followed the link between him and his Master.

whilst being and doing all of those things, because if any one of those
powerful mages, let alone the most powerful one he was linked with,
felt anything wrong, he was worse than dead.

He lasted about ten minutes, he calculated later, before he fainted from
pain and exhaustion. And he remembered almost nothing.

As time went on, he could do it for longer. Get clearer images, make
out more words. And the residual muscle spasms and headaches and blurred
vision didn't last as long either.

Which, he supposed, was better than the reverse.

Because there was no choice about this spying. About this lonely,
desperate, striving in the bowels of the uncaring school, gathering
scraps of information that might save a life or change an outcome. That
might change the odds just enough.

Of course going in person would have been easier. The Killing Curse
is a quick way to die, even Cruciatus would be preferable to this.
But it wasn't about being easy. It wasn't about what he would prefer.

He had a duty. He had a debt to pay.

And so he paid it. In the currency of pain and fear, all alone in the cold
stone room. Wishing he could be doing what everyone thought he was doing:
facing the Dark Lord in the open, on his feet.

But a role like that is for heroes, not for him.

Not for him.

Heroes are young and handsome and good at games. They don't have greasy
hair and crooked noses, they don't spend their time in dungeons.

Everyone knows that.

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