The Darkness Drops Again
Okay, here's the deal. I love drama, but I don't usually write it. I've decided to try this, and I don't know whether I'll continue it. I'd really like to, but I'm pretty busy. And it partially depends on the response I receive. I'll put up a couple of chapters and see what happens. If I decide to continue this story, it will be a massive undertaking. It begins on the night of Voldemort's return, and it will (ideally) end with Snape's death. There will also be several flashbacks (especially within the first few chapters) that cover events such as Snape's decision to take the Mark and the personal training he received from Voldemort and the other Death Eaters. Unless I mess something up accidentally (in which case I'll try to fix it if you point it out to me), this fic will be compliant with all seven books.
Those of you who enjoy poetry or have read my other fics may recognize the title of this story as a line from William Butler Yeats' poem, The Second Coming. (I've been obsessed with that poem for well over ten years.)
Word Of Warning: This will be a dark fic. Although I never doubted his loyalty to Dumbledore, I don't adopt a particularly optimistic view of Snape as a person. Many fanfic writers depict him as a character who made a mistake, got in over his head, and then turned his back on it all (except to do his job as a spy, of course). But in my opinion, the fact that he ultimately did the right thing (and was capable of love) does not automatically make him a virtuous person. I will portray Snape as a man who was awed by Voldemort, seduced by the Dark Arts, and willingly immersed himself in an atmosphere of evil. If the level of violence in this fic increases dramatically (which it probably will), I'll be forced to change the rating from "T" to "M."
Disclaimer: None of this is mine – not even the title of my story (alas and alack!).
Chapter 1: The Call To War
.1.
He's calling.
Severus Snape grimaced and clutched his left arm in surprise. He'd been expecting this. He'd known it was going to happen. But acknowledging the inevitable on an intellectual level isn't equivalent to coming to terms with it emotionally. The Dark Lord had risen again, just as Dumbledore had foreseen. If not for the undeniable evidence of his imminent return in the form of the increasing clarity of the Mark, Snape wouldn't have believed it possible.
Everything would change. No… everything had already changed – in that one surreal instant, made tangible by the burn of the Mark, the world had been utterly transformed. Karkaroff would flee. Muggle-borns would go into hiding. Families would be destroyed – either torn apart in a literal sense by murder, or fractured from within by conflicting allegiances.
And the world became less than it was, he mused silently.
He released his arm quickly and ensured that his expression remained impassive. Without turning his head, he glanced at the wizards and witches nearest to him, trying to determine whether they had noticed his brief, involuntary reaction to the Dark Lord's call. No one looked troubled. They had no need to feel concerned. They were happy and excited – eagerly awaiting the outcome of what was, ultimately, a very trivial contest. In all likelihood, it would be a long time before the people around him saw or accepted the truth. For him, however, denial was hardly a viable option.
But he did not envy their blissful ignorance. It would betray them in the end.
He scanned the crowd, searching for Dumbledore. When his eyes found the Headmaster, he discovered that Dumbledore was watching him attentively. It was as if he was already aware. Had he somehow sensed the Dark Lord's return? Snape gazed deeply into his eyes, willing him to understand what had transpired. After a few seconds, Dumbledore nodded fractionally and turned away.
There was nothing to do but wait.
It was a long wait, and anxiety quickly set in. Accustomed though he was to frustrating delays, this situation was undoubtedly unique. It required great force of will to avoid fidgeting and sighing with impatience. His mind wandered aimlessly, and his thoughts acquired a manic quality. He wasn't sure how much longer he could bear it…
And then they appeared.
Potter and the other boy. Cheers erupted from the stands, and everyone leapt to their feet. Snape stood immediately and squinted his eyes at the front of the maze. Potter was weeping openly, and Diggory was still. Too still. Snape thrust his way through the bustling crowd, which was gradually realizing that something was very wrong. Mixed with the cheers were screams and gasps. And soon, the cheering died away altogether, replaced by the sounds of panicked shrieks and disconsolate sobbing.
By the time Snape pushed his way through the crowd, Dumbledore was already kneeling over Potter. The first words out of his mouth were spoken in a choked whisper: "He's back! He's back. Voldemort."
Despite Snape's anticipation of this information, Potter's words sent a chill up his spine. They were spoken so despairingly and with such certainty – it made the reality of the Dark Lord's return seem all too concrete. Shouts of, "He's dead! Diggory's dead!" went up throughout the crowd. While Dumbledore attempted to persuade Potter to release Diggory's body, Snape fought off his own dizziness and alarm and turned back to the crowd, which was quickly descending into chaos. For long minutes, he absorbed himself in the task of controlling the horrified observers, until Dumbledore called his name.
"Severus!"
Snape turned abruptly to look at the Headmaster
"Come! It's Alastor – he's taken Harry."
Snape nodded curtly. The urgency in his voice brooked no argument. Dumbledore left the other professors in charge of the crowd while Snape and McGonagall rushed to accompany him.
.1.
Hours later, Snape was changing into robes he hadn't worn in 13 years. He was duly disturbed by the night's events. It had been Crouch all along! That twisted little bastard! And Fudge was a fool – it was hardly surprising that he had refused to listen to reason. He was in denial, and he would do everything in his power to guarantee that the rest of the wizarding world remained oblivious. And now Snape had to work alongside Sirius Black? What a disaster.
But he pushed those trivial concerns to the back of his mind. Dumbledore had ordered him to run several errands, and as a result, he was dangerously late. The Dark Lord would be very displeased. Snape had assured Dumbledore that he was prepared, but that statement wasn't entirely true. Though he knew what he had to do and felt confident in his abilities, he was afraid. But the fear he felt had little to do with the promise of physical torture. His fears were more abstract. He was returning to the man he had willingly made his master – the man whose beliefs and deeds were integrally intertwined with Snape's identity. Both teacher and tormentor. Paradoxically loathed and venerated.
Unwilling to waste additional time by traveling to the Hogwarts gates, he approached the fire in his quarters and flooed to his house in Spinner's End. Then he brushed the ashes off his robes and donned his mask. He hesitated for only a moment before pressing his fingers against the Mark on his left forearm. For several seconds, there was no response, and Snape stood in his living room rigidly, queasy with apprehension.
Then the Mark burned for the second time that evening, and he promptly Disapparated.
.1.
As the loud crack of his Apparation resounded throughout the silent graveyard, the gathered Death Eaters turned to look at him. For a moment, Snape was struck by the visceral terror in the atmosphere. He walked forward determinedly, and his comrades parted for him slowly. As his path cleared, he saw the Dark Lord for the first time in 13 years. Cold red eyes glared at him contemptuously – eyes capable of expressing neither mercy nor pity. Those eyes knew him. Despite the mask, he knew that his identity was secret only to his fellow Death Eaters. Staggered by the palpable aura of power projected by the dark wizard, Snape stopped in his tracks, momentarily unable to continue his approach. After a few seconds, when Voldemort made no move to speak, Snape willed himself into motion. When he came within approximately 10 feet of his master, he halted again. Overwhelmed with emotion and overawed by the presence of the Dark Lord, he fell roughly to his knees.
Though he carefully concealed the specific contents of his thoughts, he made no appreciable attempt to repress his emotions – there was no need. As long as the Dark Lord could not discern the details and implications of his sentiments, they were of no detriment to him. The flood of emotions which raced through Snape at that moment were expected: Fear, excitement, awe, avidity. The absence of such feelings would be considered unusual at best, and suspicious at worst.
He bowed his head in a genuine show of deference, and the manifest reverence with which he regarded his master was far from contrived. Trembling imperceptibly with trepidation and exhilaration, he raised his head and gazed intently into the cruel eyes of the Dark Lord. Fighting to keep the tremor from his voice, his words came out in a harsh rasp:
"My Lord…"
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