Chapter 2: Behold the Traitor


When he came to, his entire body felt numb. He tried to open his eyes, tried to move, but couldn't. Not a fraction of an inch. At least he was able to breathe again. And think coherently. The snakes had obviously vanished. But where was he now? Definitely not in the Forbidden Forest anymore. This was a stone floor, moist and cold and covered in thick layers of dust and mud. A dungeon? The humidity and the rotten-moldy odor surely were tell-tale evidence of an underground location.

So, he was imprisoned in some dreary dungeon, half-poisoned and with broken kneecaps. No help to be expected and only the worst to anticipate. That pretty much summed it up. Damn.

The only positive aspect of his present existence was that he had not given away any information, yet. His self-induced allergy to Veritaserum had proven quite helpful once again. It was his most ingenuous safety measure. Not a very pleasurable experience, no, but effective. When Voldemort had fed him the serum after his return into the fold one and a half years before, he had almost thrown his guts up – together with the potion. The second time, it had been even worse. After another vomiting fit, he had passed out in a puddle of bile and blood. It had served its purpose, though. Convinced Voldemort of the impossibility to extract any information from him by using the Truth-potion. That left torture. But thanks to his superior skills in Occlumency, Voldemort had never mistrusted him more than his other Death Eaters, which had left his torture experience rather limited so far.

There were the sounds of heavy steps in the corridor. A door screeching. Somebody entered the cell – or were there two of them?

"Snape!" A painful kick to his ribcage. Severus groaned. Ice-cold water was being splashed over his head, finally shocking him out of his stupor. He opened his eyes. In the dim light that fell through a small window close to the arched ceiling, he saw a hooded figure bending over him, hands big as shovels. Goyle, no doubt. Then Crabbe couldn't be far, either.

"Get up, traitor! Master wants to see you," the brute growled without as much as moving his lips. Severus struggled to sit up, but was already grabbed rudely by two gigantic paws and hurled towards the other brute, Goyle's doppelganger, who was waiting in the doorway. They dragged him up a never-ending flight of stairs, every step painfully connecting with his damaged knees, and finally flung him down at his former Master's feet. The pain had left Severus dizzy and nauseous, and he was hardly able to lift his head to meet the Dark Lord's gaze.

"You do look pitiful, my child," Voldemort observed in mock-concern. "Poor Severus. I could heel you with a single flick of my wand, you know. I could do that. And I might even consider letting you live ... Under one simple condition: if you let me share your invaluable knowledge about the Order of the Phoenix. You could start by explaining your means of communication, for instance; that would surely merit the restoration of at least one kneecap, I'd say. Won't you reconsider, my child? It would spare the both of us a lot of trouble."

"Try whatever torture your perverted brain is able to concoct, I will reveal nothing!" spat Severus hoarsely, anticipating another bout of Cruciatus in return. However, the Dark Lord only laughed his bloodcurdling high-pitched laughter.

"Stubborn to the end. No less than I expected. I guess that leaves me no choice but to irrevocably severe the bond that has been connecting us for so many years. A pity. Wormtail!" He motioned to Pettigrew who was lurking about in the gloomy rear part of the hall-like room. The rat approached, almost stooping to the floor in reverence to his Master. Finally, Wormtail straightened and whirled his wand. A strange stone device appeared out of thin air, resembling a hybrid between a slab and a scaffold. This accomplished, the balding wizard put forth his exposed left forearm for Voldemort to touch the Dark Mark.

Soon, soft 'pops' announced the arrival of Apparating Death Eaters. They formed their usual circle. On the Dark Lord's sign, Crabbe and Goyle dragged Severus towards the stone construction, made him kneel before it, ripped off his cloak and shirt and pressed his upper body onto the smooth granite surface, face down. Immediately, iron bonds appeared and wound themselves tightly around his chest and outstretched arms, slicing painfully into his flesh.

A door opened, and a hooded figure entered the room. His hood and mask were scarlet instead of black, and he wielded an ax in his heavily gloved hands. Macnair, the executioner. He slowly approached the prisoner.

So, this was the end. Death by beheading. At least it would be quick, thought Severus darkly, much quicker than he had hoped for. And Macnair was an expert. No danger of becoming a second Nearly Headless Nick. If it wasn't for his painful position, which made his knees ache like hell, he could have faced death open-eyed and calmly. As it was, he was shaking with the pain and close to fainting. Not very dignified, exactly. Voldemort coming up to him and gently stroking back the strands of black hair, caressing his exposed neck with cold and claw-like fingers, didn't help with his nausea, either.

"Now, my faithful ones, we come to a parting," he heard the Dark Lord announce to the assembly. "Behold the traitor!" There was the roll of a drum following Voldemort's words. Then silence again, absolute silence except for the hammering of his heart. The blow would fall any second now, and then it would be over, no more pain, no more nightmares, no more Neville Longbottom ...

Another drum roll. He felt Macnair come closer, could picture him raise the heavy ax, holding the wooden handle firmly with both hands, the torchlight reflecting from the sharp and unblemished steel of the fatal blade, the perfect arc it described when it came swishing through the air in a perfectly smooth motion. The drumming ceased. Another second of silence.

Then, the ax fell.


TBC