𝙳𝙴𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙰𝙿𝙾𝙽𝚄𝙼 » 𝚂𝚂/𝚁𝙻

𝚇𝙸 >> 𝙾𝙵 𝙶𝚁𝙰𝚅𝙴𝚂, 𝙾𝙵 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙼𝚂, 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙴𝙿𝙸𝚃𝙰𝙿𝙷𝚂

< 1 MONTH, 1 WEEK, 4 DAYS >

"Severus."

A lambency on his arm. The snake turning red, breathing in, becoming sentient. And then a child, solus, feart, sitting in front of him on the floor. A dark presence to his left. One he remembers too well. The densest poltergeist he's ever handled.

The child is a girl. Dark-skinned, dark-haired. Somewhere around ten years old. Somebody loves her. Somebody has noticed that she's missing, or they will soon. She is crying. Severus instinctually yearns to assist her, to succor her, to kneel down and tell her that it will all be just fine, but he alas cannot. He's suspended there in place, his wand more scalding in its place under his robes than it has ever before burned.

A breath. "My Lord."

"You know you must do it," the reply comes. "You must either do it or you must watch."

His mind birls. It spins like the thick forces of a tempest, each thought magnetizing itself to others, expanding and expanding still as he scrambles for methods to extricate himself from all that has ever led up to this. This was entirely a misreckoning; every bleeding second of it. Joining this way of life, sacrificing all he has ever been, sacrificing this girl, should never have happened. Shielding his thoughts from the man next to him, he attempts to prolong the small, innocent life before him for as long as he can. And, truth be told, he cannot kill it himself. He can't kill anything when asked. He doesn't bear the strength.

He repeats the same excuse. Like a broken record, the same words fall that land every single time.

"If I am to spy for you," he replies, keeping his tone emotionless, his eyes denuded of every light he's ever seen, "I think it may be wise, My Lord, to note that I cannot have blood on my hands. My ties with the people you look for will be severed more quickly than the life itself. I will never secure an occupation there. We will know nothing."

So he is obligated to watch. He sees the extensive, waxen wand point forward. He makes torturous eye contact with the broken little girl.

It's seasonable that Voldemort is looking away and cannot see the sentiment that forces itself into Snape's cavernous, shadowed irises. He forces a smile at her, as if to say that it will be alright, that this isn't the last of her, that he'll be able to help her afterward. But they both know that he cannot.

Her eyes are defenseless and vast, painting canyons beneath the pressure of every wave in the vehement sea. They are full of life and love and opportunity. They have so much to survive for.

But they do not stay alive for it.

The curse hits her, and it's meteoric and bright and painless, but Severus still cannot help himself from looking slightly to the side; just enough so it appears as if he's watching with the contentment of a cat on a fishbowl, but he contrastingly sees not a thing.

The girl is limp, and she is gone, and he wishes her well.

"A fine performance, My Lord," he wrenches out, knowing that he'll be bedeviled by tears and sobs and existential hopelessness as soon as he's out of his watch. Voldemort displays a shimmer of pride, and his wand is tucked away. "What, if I may ask, was the name of that one?"

"Lottie," the Dark Lord replies triumphantly. "Charlotte Athens-Breene."

The name stays with him in complete permanence. Beleaguers his every dream. Haunts him even now.