'But whether you believe or not has nothing to with anything. The Truth doesn't care what we think about it.' - Jakob Beer, The Fugitive Pieces.

Chapter Six

Despite what seemed to be the obvious evidence to prove the contrary, I still believed that there was a way of killing the Dark Lord. Why I kept on to this idea may have had something to do with the more obsessive aspect of my personality and the simple fact that revenge had been my main reason for living and that I was unable to shake it off or to even consider the thought that I might not wholly succeed. I had to, if only for the sake of my sanity.

But there had been a long pause, and a shift in interests since I had first began my killing spree, admittedly. I had been inactive for many years, taking up a post of residence at Hogwarts. I had kept my mind active though, my intuitions and magical abilities sharp and my general knowledge focused in the ongoing effort of keeping my family alive - I had had to keep abreast of the news: even the small pieces that would generally have been of no interest to anyone else were vitally important to me. Having a job under Dumbeldore's wing was incredibly useful in that regard; I had a good supply of reliable information and worthwhile opinions from him and my position endeared me more to my magical relatives who allowed me more freedom and hence gave me more rein to use their resources at my disposal (with the blessing of my great great grandfather of course, but as he was frequently advised by Dumbledore himself, we rarely came to blows over such things).

Once I had killed Dumbledore, all that came to an end. I was dead to my family, public enemy number two. I had the Order of the Phoenix and the Chosen One on my heels, not to mention a newly intimidated Dark Lord and reserved colleagues amongst the Death Eaters, all too desperate to avoid punishment or some such for themselves to offer much in the way of camaraderie. I had to provide something in the way of support for a woman desperately grateful, but desperately paranoid like Narcissa, and her equally troubled and troubling son.

I spent that year very much underground. What use did Voldemort have for a follower so vilified and able as Severus Snape? Keep him under lock and key, was his response. I was discouraged from leaving the Riddle House or any compound where he happened to make himself at home. My only use came as an informant of a latter degree, advising him on what action to take next, the flaws and weaknesses of any members of the Order.

So I had to be careful with how I visited my family (only Moralis and my great great grandfather and only at specific locations) and what I wrote to them and when I wrote to them. What's more, I was still supplying information to the Order, for the most part anonymously. It was a very dangerous time for me, understandably but also, and this should come as no surprise either considering how espionage runs in our family, a rather exciting one as well.

One thing that I knew for sure was that Voldemort was obsessed - and that in itself is a massive understatement - with the significance of Harry Potter in the Prophecy. He was not stupid: he had known, from the instant he had attempted to kill Harry as a baby that there was something he had misunderstood about the boy. Even though the final answer was simple enough (Love, it turned out), the implications were all too complicated. There was a repeated pattern in anything he had to do with the boy, the Dark Lord had realised. That repeated pattern was unequivocal failure.

However, I had also learnt as a closely affiliated member of the Order and from the other Death Eaters, that even magic was impossible between those two. The Reverse Spell Effect that had taken place after Lord Voldemort's resurrection had shaken all those who had witnessed it - well, you can imagine it: the faces of the dead, speaking and exacting their revenge as best they could. Of course it would have terrified any Death Eater, particularly one who hadn't done his homework as most of them hadn't. But no matter, neither the Dark Lord nor the Chosen One could even duel against each other effectively without wasting a good deal of time. Fortunately, I had learnt more from Dumbledore: the what had seemed to be merely absurd claims on Harry Potter as the Chosen One actually bore some weight. Not the spurious sort that I had assumed, when first the Dark Lord had heard the part that I had told him of what I'd heard of the Prophecy, but actual merit. From Dumbledore's (typical) reactions to any questioning he went under, I began to clutch wildly onto the bizarre theory that the Chosen One was actually... the Chosen One.

In the dramatic events that followed my cold blooded murder of Albus Dumbledore, I really began to believe this idea of mine. Partly because if it were true, Harry Potter was then my last and only chance at complete and final revenge, which excused my inactivity, and partly because I had nothing else going for me and was becoming concerned with my suddenly frail position as the Dark Lord's right hand man.

Suddenly, my direction became clear. I began to do my best to orchestrate the following events to my advantage. I persuaded the Dark Lord to use certain Death Eaters at certain times as guards of certain areas, I began to keep a close eye on Draco Malfoy to ensure that he, at least, would survive whatever it was that would take place. I got back into contact with my grandfather and had him shift gold about to the account of the Malfoy's as well as into the new ones I had set up for my children, so that they would have plenty to fall back on whilst I was, well, dead, as I had surmised the time. That was the only future I could really see for myself. After all, once I had completed my revenge, there was little to live for. My children were growing up and could do without me, I knew. Moralis would have the support of the family behind her. It was all very settled in my mind.

Aside from the link that was so well established in my head, I made several even more disjointed theories as to how significant Harry Potter was and how on earth I could use him to kill the Dark Lord. The fact that Harry Potter existed, began to confirm my before vague idea that the Dark Lord was indeed destructible. Looking back on it now, I can see that it was really a matter of luck that some of my ideas proved right. I say this because the grounds on which I based my assumptions were so irrational and spurious that only luck could have it that I was right in some respects.

Time went by and what measures that I had had the Dark Lord introduce were now standard and for a month or so, life was comparatively boring, because there were no other ways for me to do or influence anything apart from the small and practically insignificant steps I had taken. I had realised that all really rested on Harry Potter himself. Before I could make a definite move, I had to make sure that he was there or I would not stand a chance. But that was a hellish task; Harry Potter had left Hogwarts and there was practically no news of him. What news there was, was quite strange and at all odds with everything else I had garnered. My great great grandfather had done his best to have the boy watched, so my news was more reliable than that which the Dark Lord received, for instance, from Wormtail and company.

Every now and then, I would experience what I would have described as a sudden burst of inspiration. I was at that point half mad, I swear: elated and depressed and sullen in turns. I would find myself impatient and restless, unable to sleep, replaying delusions and fantasies over and over in my head as to how it would be, that final meeting between myself, Potter and the Dark Lord. The pressures of my life had truly gone to my head and as I barely saw daylight any more, kept man that I was, I had no real sense of how much time had passed. The various parts of my life were so far apart that I had become more than the near-schizophrenic that I had been the majority of my life. My mind, with all it's secrets and past scars and injuries and plotting, had turned in on itself. The 'how' when it came to holding myself together had a lot to do with the strange sort of madness that I was experiencing more than anything else.

A lot of it had to do with the fact that I was on such close terms with the Dark Lord and suspicious as he was of me, he kept on attempting to perform Legilimency, so I spent a great deal of mental power blocking him out effectively without seeming to do so deliberately. But also, most importantly, the man's freakish nature and obsession was rubbing off on me. I was becoming much like him in a way. Often, in trying to read my mind, he left his own dangerously open, even for a few seconds, and his thoughts and feelings would practically pour out to anyone sensitive enough. In the constant presence of this, it was no surprise that my mind had regurgitated on itself if only to protect itself.

Nonetheless, I latched onto the idea that if the Dark Lord were possible to kill, then it would only be by a fatal physical action. A knife to the chest, a slit throat. Poison? I prepared all these things to take advantage of the best opportunity when it showed itself.

I realised, following this line of thought, that something would have to be done about the remaining Death Eaters. Harry Potter was, by all appearances, a lone agent. There was no band of loyal followers with him apart from the usual second and third bananas. So no cavalry rushing to his rescue should he get trapped by vengeful Death Eaters or a gloating Dark Lord, and all would be lost. I had to prepare myself for the eventual murder of all of my colleagues which I would have to perform.

It would have been impossible.

There was no way that I could communicate this to my great great grandfather without betraying my secret. What's more, how would he have been able to dispatch the right number of Aurors or members of the WSS at the right time without destroying my - our - chances of killing the Dark Lord?

I simply had to be resourceful. Poison could easily get rid of the human Death Eaters. The werewolves... I remember when I first went through all this in my head, how I had winced at the embarrassing thought of me buying or making myself a silver sword to kill them with. It would have to be with magic then, but silver was a must, just in case.

Anyway, to physically kill the Dark Lord, the only thing that I could imagine Potter using was something like a sword. To humour myself, I tried to envision him wielding a gun of some sort, but of course I knew that that would be all too difficult not to mention ridiculous. I could hardly see Potter as being physically capable of killing him with his own hands and obviously a wand was out of the question.

It was not difficult for a particular sword to come to mind.

Once, when Dumbledore had called me to his office for a general talk - he often held such meetings with members of his staff and there were occasions in the school year when it was most strategic of him to do so - I had caught sight of a splendid looking ornament on the wall. It was a well polished sword with rubies encrusted on it's hilt and some dried blood on it's blade. Fascinated, I paid no attention whatsoever to Dumbledore and whatever he was talking about, I interrupted him abruptly by saying, "what on earth is that?"

Surprised, at the tone of my voice or the question itself, Dumbledore told me that it was a sword he had got in the school. There was always a sort of game that we played with each other: asking obvious questions or perhaps questions with double meanings and replying only to the question in it's literal sense. We annoyed each other a great deal in the process, but thoroughly enjoyed ourselves as well, I think.

"Where did you find it?"

"In the Chamber of Secrets."

I looked at him and he nodded. "Really, Severus," he said gravely. "In the Chamber itself."

Then it had clicked in my mind. "Damn," I said. "This is the thing that Potter whacked the beastie with." As I said, there were very rare moments when Dumbledore and I could get rather stupid around each other and that was one of them. Unsurprisingly, he laughed at that. "It is isn't it?"

"Yes. Gryffindor's sword, to be precise."

I had whistled at that.

So, in my rather desperate state of mind, it was actually an almost logical step to think that somehow the sword and Potter could be linked. Well, to be more precise, the sword and Potter and the ultimate destruction of the Dark Lord. It made such perfect beautiful sense in my head that I was surprised that I hadn't figured it out before.

My one goal was now to somehow retrieve that sword.

One such opportunity revealed itself when the Dark Lord had captured one of the members of the Order: Nymphadora Tonks. There was an uproar of jubilation in the Death Eaters ranks: she was considered to be a prominent member, one of the most meddlesome (according to our Ministry spies) and a blood-traitor to boot. Of course, she was tortured and kept for further questioning. I took my chance and went down to visit her on the pretext of doing just that.

"What do you know of Harry Potter?" I asked immediately upon closing the door shut behind me. She gave me a withering glance, coughed up some blood, then looked away. "Where is he? Is he safe? What has he managed to find?"

I think it was the last two questions that prompted her to speak to me. Her voice was low, lower than when I had first known her, and cracked. They had certainly done their best to break her down, and I was beginning to wonder whether they had succeeded. It didn't look as if it would take very long (she turned out to last all the way - she was a good deal stronger than she looked).

"He's safe," she said simply.

I began to sneer. "You don't know where he is!"

"Yes we do! He's safe! He's safe and that's all the information you'll ever need, scum!" She suddenly raised her voice and I was slightly taken aback. So, the Order didn't know of his whereabouts either. I had to think carefully of my next line of questioning.

"Hm," I said. "And as for the Order... what are your eventual plans...? We haven't heard much about your movements... it seems as if Lupin has given up on his fellow werewolves and is just content to observe them, for instance..."

She looked at me in shock. "You are sick," she shook her head. "I bet it's the guilt eating you up. Must feel terrible... You killed Dumbledore, like it was nothing, and look at you now! You're asking me what the Order is going to do - you expect me to actually answer you! You are sick. But you deserve it. You deserve to die."

"Be quiet. If you must shout, then scream: if they hear you talking to me, they will do even worse things to you..."

"I don't think that's possible."

I shrugged. "Just tell me: I need to know."

"Yeah, to tell your Dark--"

"Still getting reports from a certain Mr. Glow? Still following his advice, hm? I must say you've been remarkably successful so far, so that can only be the possible explanation... last week's brilliant win by the Order caused quite a stir among the Death Eater ranks..." I laughed humourlessly. It certainly had: Wormtail had received several hours of pain thanks to the supposedly faulty information he had supplied. How was he to know that Severus Snape had got the better of him once again. Ah, poor Wormtail: I almost feel sorry for him now.

Anyway. It was that which struck her.

"How do you know...?"

"How do you think!" I snapped.

She told me some things. I didn't expect her to tell me everything: she didn't trust me and if she had I probably wouldn't have taken her advice anyway; it would have shown she didn't even have the brains to be a good spy. What she told me was enough to keep my hopes up. Not enough for me to act upon, but enough for me to keep on getting myself ready. Finally, I asked her about Hogwarts.

"McGonagall's headmistress but I'd be careful about paying her a visit now..." Tonks had replied. "she might not like it."

I left Tonks, and made my way to my quarters to think. As far as I knew, the sword would still be in Hogwarts, and still in the Headmaster's - Headmistress' - office. I simply had to find an opportunity to leave the presence of the Dark Lord for long enough to be able to steal it.

But luck was on my side: with fewer wizarding children safe in Hogwarts, the Dark Lord was having a field day. Since Dumbledore's death, he had even managed to gather not a few to his side, those for whom Dumbledore's death had confirmed their secret, uncomplimentary opinions on the man. I was relieved to see that Theodore Nott was not one of them, (well, at least one of them had to be a success), though I knew he was still very good friends with Draco. Not only that, but due to the paranoia of their parents, a higher percentage of the young wizards not enslaved to the Dark Order, were at risk. It was not uncommon for me to find several Death Eaters walking down a corridor with a terrified child in their arms, a victim of kidnap ideal for blackmail and ransom. It was on one such evening, when the Dark Lord left some of us alone to deal with his young charges, that I made my excuses, pretended to go to my quarters and fled to Hogwarts.

I apparated at some distance from the Riddle House and then had to make my way quickly inside Hogwarts, due to the fact that one cannot apparate into the grounds of Hogwarts (which I had briefly forgotten on that night when I was trying to escape with Draco). Unlike Sirius, my Animagus form is thoroughly useless for stealth and secrecy, so I had to find different means of getting inside. Eventually, I was forced to climb for the greater part along the ramparts and buttresses, until I was able to get in through a window, strengthen the Disillusionment charm on myself and begin to attempt the theft of the sword of Gryffindor.

Of course, I succeeded: it meant a good deal more climbing and me cutting away the glass panes of the window in the Head's office to get in. When I had, I did my business quickly. The sword was still there, glinting in the semi-dark and when I drew it away, the steel sang.

It drew the attention of the slumbering former Head's, who had been feigning sleep whilst I cut away the glass, in order to give themselves a chance to see what it was. At first their eyes couldn't focus on me, but soon enough, they recognised me. We looked at each other in complete silence, they, shocked that it could be me who was standing there with the sword in my hand, and I, daring them to shout and call for help.

But no. "And what's stopping us from alerting the 'Mistress, eh young man?" Said an old witch with a monobrow.

I snorted. "The fact that this might actually work."

They all continued to stare at me intently, as if trying to shame me. "Do you think it would be best if I took the scabbard as well?" I asked.

"Why not the damn shield!" Another burst out who had been getting redder and redder with fury since seeing me and could now no longer help herself. "Why not a few of us, whilst you're at it!"

"You wouldn't be nearly so useful, I'm afraid," I answered truthfully. "This is for Mr. Potter: when it comes down to it, I think this blade will be far more effective against the Dark Lord, than smashing your portraits over him. It would probably stun him for a bit, but that would be all. Where is the scabbard?"

"For Mr. Potter?" One portrait, a man, repeated, whispering. In the darkness, I couldn't recognise him.

"Yes. A thrust through the heart ought to do it."

There was another silence, this one more uneasy than anything else.

"It's on that book case over there. Be careful, though."

"Of course." I put the sword into it's scabbard and with a quick spell, wrapped it in ordinary brown paper and charmed it so that it would divert the eyes of anyone who might see it. "Thank you," I said and strode to the window.

"Do you know where he is?" The voice called again. "Harry, I mean."

I looked at the portrait carefully and realised that it was Albus Dumbledore. I hadn't thought that he would be there already, but of course, much time had passed. Still, I wasn't surprised. I regarded the portrait carefully. It looked very much like him, but there was nothing particularly striking anymore. He was just animated portrait. There was his essence, oh yes, but none of the physicality and the sense of energy as before. But what was I expecting?

"No, I don't I'm afraid," I raised the packaged sword slightly. "But I'm preparing for him."

I quickly returned. The Dark Lord, fortunately, had not, and I was able to safely hide the sword in my room.

Life continued as usual. For another two and a half months, I heard no news whatsoever of Harry Potter. I wondered if he had been killed or simply got lost. I wondered so many things at that point. My hold on the Dark Lord, although strengthening to a certain degree, was not of the most desirable calibre. He listened to my advice obsessively, asked for my opinions more voraciously and intruded upon my mind less and less frequently. I began to worry in case this blatant favouritism should incur the wrath of my fellow Death Eaters, asses that they were. But no, I was quite within their limits - I became known for doing each of them one or two favours when the right moment came.

But then it happened. I no longer needed my great great grandfather's spies, because news had come that Harry Potter, the Chosen One was on his way. Each day, we got more and more news: of the people he had disposed of (to this day I somehow doubt that he actually killed anyone, but such were the rumours at the time), his bizarre route (meandering through local countryside and forest, rather than taking a direct route to the Riddle House), but most of all, the speed with which he was journeying. Within a matter of days, we all knew that he was somewhere within the village community, just outside the Riddle property. But where was he? What was he doing?

I began to take to dressing up in a long cloak with a deep hood and wandering through the countryside and woodland in an attempt to see him and tell him what next to do. Otherwise, he would have been a very dead Chosen One within a matter of half an hour or so.

It was not I who succeeded in doing this, but my grandfather who one day, mysteriously sent me a message to meet him at a certain spot just outside the village. Donning my cloak, I obeyed his summons and was most surprised to see Harry Potter sitting there in the clearing with my grandfather at a large fire. I kept to the shadows, and kept my hood up.

"Ah, hello Mr. Glow," my grandfather stood up politely when he saw me. "Mr. Potter, our informant, Mr. Glow."

I bowed slightly. "Good evening," I said, deepening my voice. Potter regarded me with a strikingly hostile and adult look in his eye. It told me that he had no intention of hurting me yet, and that I ought to get on with it. How appropriate, I thought, that this is the boy who will ultimately kill my adversary. "I have advice for you as to how to get into the Riddle House and kill the Dark Lord," he was about to say something, but I went on quickly, "no, please, listen: You must wait for a suitable signal. There are more than twenty Death Eaters in that House and they must be killed first: I and a few others will take care of that. Even if we don't succeed, the majority of them will be dead by the time you arrive. Mr. Prince here will then call for Aurors and the Order to get here to back you up. Do your best to remain hidden when you are in the House. I will lure the Dark Lord to you..."

"Really? How will you manage that then?" Harry's brow had furrowed and a strange sort of anger had set upon his face. He was tired and had seen too much, I could tell. It was all in his eyes. I nearly felt sorry for him.

I laughed, though. "If I don't, you just have to look out for his snake and she'll practically lead you to him. Or vice versa."

"Speaking of which," my grandfather chimed in, "Mr. Potter has something to tell you about that snake." I looked at him as best I could: there was something very authoritative in his stance. Since when had my shy grandfather been so upright and commanding? I rather liked the change, even if it did surprise me a little bit. Looking back on it now, though, I can see it was his way of controlling his emotions in front of me and Mr. Potter.

"Yeah," Potter began, almost casually. "It's a Horcrux... she is, rather. When you're done with the Death Eaters, see if you can kill her for me: she has to die before him, though, or I won't be able to kill him."

I was stunned for a moment, but then recovered. Damn, I thought: I realised that I would never have been able to kill the Dark Lord for the past seventeen years, if not longer. The mere thought rocked within me. I had been so close to failing, and had not even realised it. I swore over and over to myself in my head. Dumbledore had known... this boy had known... I was a fool... why hadn't I seen?... A Horcrux...

"Alright?" He asked, rather aggressively. I nodded mutely, stiffly.

"Well that's sorted," my grandfather said, clapping his hands together. "We'll be seeing you tomorrow, Mr. Glow."

Tomorrow?

"Already?" I asked, breathless.

"Oh yes," said my grandfather, suddenly grim. "Tomorrow. In the evening, mind you. Less visibility."

With that, I was dismissed.

Ah, but how glorious were those following hours, I can recall. There was no better time for me: I felt alive with purpose, and the excitement flooded through my veins and arteries like my life-blood. The Dark Lord was to be killed!

I got out my old stock of poisons and began measuring them out. He had said in the evening, so I prepared to add them to the food that the house elves would cook for supper. It was not uncommon for me to go to the kitchens from time to time: the house elves and the Dark Lord were used to it, so there would be nothing unremarkable about it. I had also prepared a silver solution that would prove fatal to the werewolves with the quantities that I knew they would ingest with their food (it was simply a matter of how quickly it would be absorbed into their bloodstream. How fortunate I was, that the average werewolve's metabolism is twice as fast as a human's. I was to learn that fact later from Mr. Khan).

As for Nagini... she was known to hunt alone. She would travel widely around the House and it's grounds: How was I to find her, yet alone kill her without arousing suspicion? The only way, I surmised, was to signal to Potter to get in and lead the Dark Lord to him, and to kill her once he was busy exchanging insults with the Chosen One.

Snakes however, I immediately realised, were not known for their ease of dying at a human's hands. Once again, magic was the best option: I would blind her first and then slice her throat. I didn't want to commit Avada Kedavra because I knew that if we were in the vicinity of the Dark Lord, the green light would be distracting and immediately summon the Dark Lord's attention.

Between preparing the poisons and the silver solutions, I was busy thinking of a way to lead the Dark Lord to Potter and a way to keep him alive until I could give the boy the sword. I was at my best, weighing up the chances, the possibility of failure, the possibility of success... my brain was abuzz, and for the first time in nearly a year, I was thinking clearly and logically: just as I liked it.

The hours passed. I slipped to the kitchens and added the poisons and silver solutions to the finished food, just before the house elves would serve it out: I didn't want their blood on my hands as well. They would prepare their own food later (a rule of the House), if there would be a later for them. I dished out Draco's serving of food myself, uncontaminated except with a powerful sleeping draught: I certainly didn't want him getting in the way. I gave it to him directly and watched him eat it (he didn't notice as I had left the room) and then fall sound asleep within a few minutes.

On returning to the kitchens, I saw some of the younger Death Eaters already queuing up to abuse the house elves and demand their supper, and felt a perverse pleasure in the knowledge that they were going to die within a matter of hours.

I left the kitchens and wandered around the House in an attempt to track down Nagini. I was unlucky this time. I had to make do with my recaptured knowledge of the corridor's of the House and then I went into the garden to kill the guards.

There were five of them, burly young men, built along the lines of Crabbe and Goyle who, in fact, were amongst their number. I easily dispatched of them, then I transfigured and buried their bodies. Looking at my sky, and then my watch, I realised that now was the best time to signal to Potter and my grandfather. Little did I know, though, that they were waiting in the gardens and had seen me getting rid of the bodies. For when I had finished my task, I saw Potter's face, full of rage and hatred, staring out at me from the midst of the rosebush. He remained where he was though but I could feel his hateful gaze lingering on my back as I went inside.

By now, the younger Death Eaters were in their quarters, dead, presumably. It was the older ones - Dolohov, Nott and such - who went for their supper now. We exchanged brief greetings, and I mentioned my worries for the guards: "They've become unusually quiet. I haven't seen one of them patrolling the grounds this evening."

"Well," Bellatrix had replied nastily. "The majority of them were your students, so why should you be surprised?"

I dipped my head in response, and made my way to the Dark Lord himself, to stay with him awhile until the news that most of his Death Eaters were dead would eventually arrive.

We chatted about inconsequential things, the sort of talk that always disturbed me far more than his rants and rages. We spoke of supplies, how tired we felt and for no apparent reason; how ineffective the Ministry were: how strange that the Order had become so comparatively quiet. We gently mocked the other Death Eaters and he me, and I... well, not so much him, but others a bit more.

It was half past seven when the news reached us: to my surprise, it was Greyback. He burst in through the door, looking haggard and grey, as if his skin were about to fall off his frame. His eyes were bloodshot and he was wheezing and clutching his chest. "Someone's... poisoned u-u-usss, master! Ev-everyone's..." then he fell to the floor, dead. I was very impressed with my efforts and congratulated myself mentally: it was all so dark and dramatic, stirring up just the sort of panic I had wanted. It would be in this panic that the Dark Lord's actions and response would be easy to shape to my will.

"What the--" I muttered. "Stay here, my Lord. I want to see what this is about." I put a look of grim determination on my face and for the first time in a long, long while, I let my mental guard down, letting what he presumed to be mild panic and wonderment stream from my mind. He was convinced by it and let me go, following me to the corridor. I went to the kitchens whilst he called for Nagini. Perfect, I thought.

In the kitchens, there were one or two of them who lay dying on the floor, and I put them out of their misery with little hesitation. As I made my way back upstairs around the House, to ensure that the rest were truly dead, I had to do the same repeatedly to those who had simply collapsed onto the floor instead of dying immediately: a silver blade to the throat for the werewolves and a swift turn of the head for the others. So far, so good, I thought to myself, as I checked into the rooms of the older Death Eaters. As far as I could make out, everyone was dead.

My next move was to track down Nagini. I had no idea how to go about this: at first I made my way back up to the room where the Dark Lord and I had previously sat and chatted. He was not there. Taking the initiative, I sped up to my own room and got the sword and it's scabbard out from the place where I had hidden them. I returned to the corridor just outside that room where the fire was still glowing, and then followed what I assumed had been his route when he had gone the opposite way to me.

After ten minutes of this, I could safely presume that he was somewhere downstairs. As I made my way quickly down the stairs, I heard someone following close behind me. I turned and looked up and there stood Bellatrix with a terrible look on her face. She had a curved knife and a wand in each hand, and an animal expression of complete fury as she regarded me. In the short time between us standing her and her literally flying down the stairs with a desperate roar of rage, knife and wand flailing, I could see that she had ingested some of the poison, though perhaps not enough: her eyes were bloodshot and her skin the same dead grey that Fenrir's had been. I let her come at me, moving aside only slightly so that she fell through her own momentum. She lay at the bottom, stunned before staggering to her feet and trying to attack me again. I could see now that if she kept it up, the poison would come to it's full effect and kill her for me.

But no such luck: she was still fast with her blade, though her lunges were a little off-balance and her footing precarious. I whipped out my wand and prepared to duel with her, but in her fury and haste to kill me, she would have none of that. I kicked her square in the chest and she fell back again. This time, it took her far longer to get up again and when she did, I saw the skin of her face sagging, ready to fall away.

"You!" Was all she could say. The word was slow and loud and long. "You... Traitor!"

Before she could attack me again, I grabbed her own knife and swiftly ran her through with it. I twisted brutally and let her fall back, coughing up blood.

Dropping the knife, I sped down the stairs to find that wretched Nagini. I could tell that a lot of time had been wasted and I knew that Potter was already inside. I was terrified that the plan, my careful, painstakingly rendered plan, would go amiss.

But no. From the large dining hall on the first floor, I could hear voices. I recognised them immediately: the Dark Lord had finally caught up with the Chosen One and I was too late - I had failed.

Carefully, I tried to open the door wide enough so that I could see them in the darkness. Potter was bleeding from the head and I could tell from long experience that the Dark Lord was exhausted. Could it be? I foolishly thought for a moment - could it be that they actually could do magic against one another? Waking myself up, however, I realised that nonetheless, Nagini would have to die first.

How fortunate I was that the little pet always stayed nearby to her master.

She slithered out from nowhere and entwined herself between my ankles, hissing and flicking her tongue. I knew she could smell the blood on me. I knew she could tell whose blood it was. I wondered what on earth she could be saying to her master. So, I backed away slowly, as if I were just going for a walk in the opposite direction and she followed me, her coils meandering, her eyes malevolent as her tongue kept on probing the air... flicking...

With a quick motion, I threw the knife at her, neatly slicing her head in half lengthways. I killed her with my wand for good measure, too far away for the Dark Lord to have picked it up. It was too quick for her to have uttered a warning to her master: she had eaten only recently and the meal still being digested in her belly had hampered her mental and physical prowess. Flushed with success, I froze when I heard the Dark Lord call for me: "Severus? Severus!"

I obeyed and took a long walk down the hallway, over Nagini's body, my steps echoing in the darkness. "Lumos," I whispered.

I got to the door and stepped across the threshold. I walked slowly, calmly towards the Dark Lord. "Yes, master?" I asked, calmly. He didn't have to tell me anything though, I could see in his eyes that he wanted me to give Potter a taste of my skills in the Dark Arts.

There was the briefest of pauses, the sort in which time stops and you can feel every hair on your body making it's slow growth upwards and every minute things sticks in your mind, until I threw the sword at Potter and shouted "Now, boy!"

The Dark Lord was distracted: the suspicious silence of his Death Eaters had been one thing, but the abrupt departure of Nagini from his mind was another and he was unprepared for what was about to happen. Granted, he was fast with his spellwork, but there was only one of him and two of us, and he couldn't even do magic against the one, either.

"Petrificus Totalus!" I shouted, binding the Dark Lord's body. Potter swiftly drew out the sword after the brief moment of his own amazement and swung wildly: the steel bit deep within the Dark Lord's neck, but only so. They both screamed, Potter in frustration and the Dark Lord in pain and anguish, pain which he had inflicted upon others for so long, but pain that he himself had never experienced in a very long time and anguish for the dawning of understanding that now was his time... his last Horcrux was destroyed. Potter wrenched the blade way, and I held the twisting, but rigid torso of the Dark Lord. His red eyes, inhuman and bright as blood looked at me in outrage but then... as with Old Nott... realisation. The stark change of expression both pleased and frightened me as the same time. I looked back into his eyes...

And I saw something new too: I saw my mother watching her husband die and her only child being tortured: I saw myself lying on that kitchen floor, dying. I saw so many things, memories that had been stolen from me. All this, in the sharing of his death. Ah, how I longed to die in that moment too, if only to get a deeper taste of what it was that I was glimpsing.

It was so, so quick, I almost wanted to stop Potter from delivering that final swing, from preventing me from seeing more of those beautiful memories... memories and the ability to retain them, that I had lost.

But I didn't. I let go of the Dark Lord's head and watched his face, the look of wonder mingled with fear and pain, as Potter hacked at the half-parted neck. His eyes never left mine.

Shortly, the head was severed, and soon, the Dark Lord was dead.

His eyes never left mine.

Potter died with the Dark Lord eventually: he had fulfilled his part. The Prophecy needed him no more.

The Order of the Phoenix had been summoned in time by my grandfather to sweep through the area. Potter had been almost gracious at their arrival, before collapsing, his body contorting and writhing as his spirit fled him. They had flocked to him, worried and terrified for the boy they loved. As he lay dying, looking at me with a carefully empty look, they too began to understand what had happened and why we were both covered in so much blood, none of it being our own. They were certainly very afraid.

I was arrested immediately, by an Auror I did not know. None of the Order could even look at me, even when I told them where Tonks was hidden.

Interviews of varying degrees of hostility followed. The tears of my wife and children followed. Letters of hatred and disappointment. Of admiration and wonder. All these things followed. Then Azkaban.

As it has been for the past three years.

Another of my memories came to me last night. But this was different, because I was actually standing there, watching everything happen. There was me, not so very young but still very small, sitting at the kitchen table, dwarfed by it, I looked so comical, eating my supper alone with a fork that was too big for my hand. I had never seen a memory like this, and I kept my eyes on my younger self. Then I heard muffled voices coming from another room some way down the corridor. The younger me barely reacts to this, just swings his legs back and forth under the table, but he stops putting food on the fork for a while and seems to be listening.

Suddenly my mother appears and runs down the corridor into the kitchen. There are tears streaming down her face. The younger me looks up, startled, and she wipes he face hurriedly. "My darling, I didn't know you were still here... I was just admitting defeat... I lost the screaming match." Her voice was so bitter, but she smiled too brightly, wiped her face with the sleeve of her cardigan again and shrugged her shoulders, preparing to do the washing up.

"Mama--" the younger me began. I had never heard myself talk, before. I had a small, husky voice with a strange lilt.

"No, no... don't you worry... we'll have a rematch next week probably..." then she started laughing. Or crying again. I couldn't tell which.

END.

(AN: I am hoping that this will encourage you to review. Criticism most welcome and indeed, wanted. Thanks to excessivelyperky and duj, for persistently reviewing this (!) and to disposabletengirl and Emerald Dragoness : I am glad that you found it that interesting, and I hope to find it on your favourites page!)