Disclaimer: everything you recognise belongs to Jo Rowling.
Thanks to my betas Dacian Goddess for her efficient help in translating this story from French to English.
Chapter 1. The Turnrobe.
"Good evening, Wormtail. It's not customary to send a letter so late in the day."
The rat jumps and wriggles. One would nearly believe he's on the verge of wetting himself. I've been dreaming of getting rid of him for a long time. Maybe I'll be able to do it now, and with the Dark Lord's blessing, no less. I snatch out of his hand the parchment he still hasn't had the time to tie to the owl's leg.
"Mister Potter,
Today's password to enter the Dark Lord's place of residence is 'Animagus.'
Your friend."
The rat is a snitch! I wonder whom he hasn't betrayed yet. And how long has he been leaking information to the enemy? I need to question him without delay, if the contents of the message are any indication.
He's afraid, as he should be, for I won't have an ounce of pity.
" Crucio!"
I can see the ex-Marauder writhing in pain on the floor. I keep the curse on him long enough to weaken his resistance, which shouldn't be long; he's such a coward.
"Since when have you been passing information to Potter? What did you tell him?"
He's braver than I thought. His eyes weakly defy me.
"Crucio!"
No time to dither. This time, I keep the curse on him for a bit more time. I regret to see that he's curled in a foetal position; I wanted to aim at his balls. I settle for his knees, instead.
"Will you speak?"
And he speaks. He's given Potter information about where the Dark Lord had hidden some very precious objects to him; he's warned Potter about Death Eaters' attacks, which explains why we never managed to get a hold of Shacklebolt. It's time to finish him off.
"Avada Kedavra!"
No more rat. Still one Marauder to go. But before I can rejoice in the fact, I must warn the Dark Lord about Wormtail's treason and about the probable attack tonight. What's that noise? Shit, they're already there! It seems they weren't deterred by not knowing the password after all. Better safe than sorry—I Disillusion myself before flinging myself into the fray: there are some duellers of very good calibre within Dumbledore's fan club.
I assess the situation: I've got several cuts on my arms and legs, my robe has had it, a hex has created a monk's tonsure on the side of my skull, and my left hand is shaking. I don't dare imagine how I would be if I could be seen. That old harpy McGonagall is responsible for my current state. She couldn't see whence she was being attacked because she'd lost her spectacles; that was my luck. This allowed me to have the upper hand on her. I even treated myself with the luxury of treading on her dead body before facing my next opponent.
I glance around me and notice that I am very near to the centre of the operations: three meters from me, Harry Potter faces the Dark Lord, who is hopping up and down in Nagini's blood. "Reducto!" screamed the snotty-nosed boy, and under my dumbfounded eyes, my master is reduced to ashes … and doesn't come back. I know he is no Phoenix, but did he not assure us that he couldn't die? Did he lie to us? Or would Potter be more intelligent than I credited him for? Anyway, victory is switching sides, and so am I. Without an ounce of remorse, I've become a turncoat, er, turnrobe. It's not as if I'm very fond of everyone in my former side. At last, I will be able to give the three Lestranges what for. I only regret not having the time to cast a bit of Cruciatus on Bellatrix.
All of a sudden, I fall on the floor, as stiff as a ramrod. I think the green light has given away my position, and the Petrificus Totalus that followed has cancelled the effects of the Disillusionment spell, for I am recognised. Hexes, jinxes and insults fly towards my body, now lying reluctantly on the cool floor. However, somebody I don't know blocks them effortlessly. This somebody appears in my field of vision; he's Shacklebolt! I've never been so glad to have failed in his capture.
"Severus Snape, you are under arrest for belonging to an illegal organisation know as the 'Death Eaters' and for the murder of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore."
I fear this last small detail will be my ruin. I'll have to find an idea to get off, no bawdy pun intended. I'll probably have time to think of something when I wait in Azkaban for my trial.
I've had them! I've pulled a fast one on them all! All I had to do was to take credit for Wormtail's activities, and I've been acquitted. I've even managed to make them buy that Dumbledore had orchestrated his death with me. Really, the Wizengamot's members must be senile. But let's see how things proceeded.
Two days after my being captured, and one and a half day after I imagined my plan, I was tried. The Minister of Magic, Scrimgeour, was in charge of the hearing—though he seemed a bit deaf to me. He was proudly sitting upright on the bench in front of me. His hands were free and were holding his wand, while I was chained to the prisoner's chair. At least it was warmer than in Azkaban.
"Severus Snape," he thundered, "you've been brought in front of the Council of Magical Law to be tried for your membership to a proscribed organisation known as the 'Death Eaters' and for the murder of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot."
"I cannot deny that I have been a Death Eater, but if you have read the file about my trial in 1981, you should very well know that Dumbledore himself refuted the fact that I was still one of them."
"You lied to him, and he believed you."
"Do you really think Dumbledore was that naïve?"
There, I've hit a weak spot. How to justify the old codger's trust in me without ridiculing him? Nevertheless, Scrimgeour quickly regains his composure.
"Then, enlighten us about the whys of Dumbledore's trust in you."
"I was spying on the Death Eaters and on the Dark Lord for him. The information I provided him, then Potter, with was crucial."
That was the moment when Wormtail's treason became beneficial. Since he was dead, I could just as well pass myself off as Potter's informant.
"Crucial enough to kill an old man?"
I openly sniggered at his question.
"You forget that Dumbledore was a very powerful wizard, the only one the Dark Lord had ever feared. But I didn't have much choice. Narcissa Malfoy tricked me into making an Unbreakable Vow to protect her son, Draco. She added a last minute clause to it, stipulating that I had to carry out her son's mission if he seemed to be failing.
"You probably already know that said mission was to kill Dumbledore; and you know what happens when one doesn't respect a promise made under an Unbreakable Vow. I had told Dumbledore about the risks that I had taken to keep my cover with the Death Eaters. He thought the information I had access to was more important than his life. He ordered me to live 'whatever the cost'. Those were his very words."
Turmoil seized the courtroom. Insults and spit were directed at me, and the Aurors had a very hard time bringing order and quiet back. At least, when the silence was back, Potter was called to testify. He confirmed that he could never have overcome the Dark Lord without the information he'd received after Dumbledore's death. His exact words were, "Voldemort would probably have imposed his power on the Wizarding world if not for our anonymous informant. We all owe him our lives." I had a hard time keeping a straight face.
"Pray, tell us which information exactly you passed to Mister Potter, Snape," a witch seated two ranks behind the Minister asked me point-blank.
I recited everything Pettigrew had confessed. Each time, Potter nodded his approval. Step by step, the expression of hatred and scorn on his face was replaced by astonishment (the gaping fish look didn't suit him at all), then by admiration. That was too much. To be admired by Potter! Do you know what the moronic boy said at the end?
"I sincerely feel sorry for everything you had to endure to help me. I'm grateful to you for the sacrifices you've made for the common good." Some emotional witches even shed some tears in sympathy. They oozed with sentimentality, as if their brain had been addled by too much sugar. I felt disgusted.
The verdict was as following:
1/I was tricked by Narcissa Malfoy. Under the pretence of asking for protection for her son Draco, she had me swear an Unbreakable Vow to carry out the deed, should he fail in his task.
2/If I didn't obey the Unbreakable Vow, I would have died, and the Order would have lost their only spy in the Dark Lord's Inner Circle. Dumbledore had insisted that that was unthinkable—one would think that my nose is so long because I've uttered so many lies, but I can assure you that I am not related to Pinocchio in any way.
3/Dumbledore's death, which he himself had ordered, had been the means to make sure I could go on to feed Harry Potter with the information that had lead to Lord Voldemort's demise.
Conclusion: I was pardoned. If Dumbledore had ordered me to kill him, like they were all convinced, this wasn't a murder anymore, but a suicide with assistance. I was not quite acquitted, for I was heavily fined for having been a Death Eater. I have twelve months to pay this debt, or I will see the seaside resort in the North Sea again. All my savings will be spent acquitting it, but I am free. I'll think of my economical survival later.
Actually, my economic survival has become a problem very quickly. The fines that were imposed to me were superior to my savings. True, I had lived a few months without salary after handing in my Killing Curse-signed resignation from my teaching position, and so I found myself somewhat impoverished. I had the luck of a devil in this matter. Had I believed in God, I would have thought that my—split—soul would head directly toward hell in the afterlife. I was offered a job even before I sent out a single resume.
That was a good thing, because I still don't know how one writes a resume. To be taken on as a Death Eater was rather straightforward; the Dark Lord gave you a try-out—usually, it consisted of casting a Killing Curse on a random Muggle—and if you succeeded in your task, you were recruited. As for my job in Hogwarts, one could say that I was hired through my connections.
All of this just to say that on a beautiful rainy August morning, the Weasley twins knocked at my door to offer me the position of head of the research and development laboratory of their company, WWW (Weasley's Wizard Wheezes). They wanted someone who could help them meet their customers' requests. And as I was to be the only one working in this laboratory, I didn't see why I couldn't be its head.
I took some precautions, however. I requested that the contract was magical. I asked for some particular clauses to be put in it: they wouldn't insult me, or cast spells on me, or worse, use me as their human guinea pig for my own creations, at any time of night or day. They must have really needed me, because they signed everything without batting an eyelash. I suspect they'd been influenced by the ambient sentimentality as well. I've had to cast bug-repellant and journalist-repelling spells all around my home for months. They wanted to know "how does one feel when they have to kill their best friend?" Obviously, they didn't pay a whit of attention to anything I had said. After all, I never said that Dumbledore was my best friend, did I?