Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns everything in this story. It would not exist without the publishing phenomenon that is Harry Potter.

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Lullaby and goodnight

My darling goodnight,

Bright angels beside

My darling abide.

Lay thee down, now to sleep

May your dreams be so sweet…

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It is the year 2006, and Severus Snape is sitting on a kitchen chair. He cannot see or move for there is duct tape over his mouth and eyes. His hands and feet are also bound to the chair with a thin greasy rope. The rope is light blue. The only other blue thing in the room are the lips of the man who used to live in the house. The man, who came home six hours ago to the dark mark, rushed horror-struck into his home, and found his wife and two sons dead.

Snape has no idea he’s seated four feet away from this man, who was strangled by the same rope now binding his arms and legs. Nor has he any idea of where he is. He has been sitting here for a long time, however, and would be puking his head off from disorientation –if his mouth hadn’t been taped shut.

The last thing Snape glimpsed, before he was blindfolded, was a patch of cloudy night sky…framed with the tips of black trees. He will never forget the chilly stillness of that hour. Or how the clouds and trees rose up silently and refused him a last glance at heaven.

That was a long time ago, more than seventy-two hours at least. Snape sighs through his nose. He knew from the very beginning, that there was something wrong when he apperated at that Deatheater meeting. They were there already, all of them, waiting. Quiet, with flickering eyes behind masks, like venomous snake tongues. It was Lord Voldermort who approached him, and struck first.

“Severus,” he said, “you are late, and more wretched looking than usual. Wretched,” he repeated, screwing his wand into Snape’s Dark Mark like a cigarette. “Nothing gets under my skin more than traitors…”

Don’t say anything. Just don’t say anything, they will want you to beg. Do not beg.

“You haven’t heard a word I just said, have you, Severus?”

After that it was like a nightmare of the worst sort: where nothing surprises you. And Snape of course, could not wake up.

Now Snape could people in the house. Well, Deatheaters anyway. They slam doors and walk around. After a while, Snape hears some footsteps coming towards him over the linoleum floor.

“Stupid bastards, can’t even clean up,” an irritated voice mutters. Snape hears the Deatheater dragging something nearby him away, and moments later, the Deatheater returns. Snape feels the rope being vigorously tugged back and forth; within seconds it falls away. Then the chair is jerked out from under him, and he falls to the floor, which has a cold, sickly sweet smell.

The Deatheater grabs Snape by the shoulders. He throws him against a wall covered with pinned up pictures of crayon dogs, trees, and sunshine. Then he knees Snape in the stomach and hits him in the nose. Hard, so there is only a sharp tingle before the hot itch of bleeding starts.

He’s going to kill me. I’m going to die right here. In a room I can’t even imagine… with a goddamn thumbtack in my ass, thinks Snape as the Deatheater bangs his head against a wall. Or maybe it’s the ceiling…

The Deatheater grabs Snape by the shoulders again and starts to push him in some direction. It’s only then that he realizes the Deatheater has been talking to him almost the entire time. “…You’re going to the basement to wait for Malfoy and Macnair. Once they get here you’re going bye-bye, pal,” says the Deatheater, slightly out of breath, his very voice smirking.

A door opens and Snape feels a blast of cold moist air hit him. After tripping down three or four steep steps his hands find smooth cement and a grubby rug. The door bangs shut, and the lock rattles several times, shooting out blue sparks.

Feeling his stomach twist again, Snape deftly rips the tape off his mouth and vomits blindly on the floor in front of him. Then, more gingerly, he removes his blindfold and looks around. Above to his left, there is a window, letting a shaft of milky light spill across the barren floor. To his right: the heater and water tank. Other than that, there is a fridge, and pink fiberglass walls.

Wiping his nose with the cuff of his sleeve, Snape struggles to his feet and walks on shaky legs to the window. He props his hands up on the windowsill and looks across the yard. Tree shadows dance over the lawn, like someone wearing an invisibility cloak, and leaving nothing but footsteps in the dew. He cannot see the stars.

Blinking, Snape turns back to the darkness of the basement. In the room, deep in the shadows, it looks as if there is a person kneeling below the window. Maybe there is.

“Do you think I’ll go to Hell?” He asks out loud.

Yes, replies a voice in the back of his mind.

“How can you be sure?”

You asked the question.

“I saved Harry Potter, didn’t I?”

He hates you.

“Everyone hates me,” mutters Snape, not quite out loud.

Yes, everyone. And with good reason too.

“Shut up.”

James didn’t go to Hell, nor did Lily.

“Shut up.”

James didn’t hate you when he died.

“Shut up,” repeats Snape.

Are you hurting? Do you feel pain right now?

“Shut up. No, shut up.”

Forgive yourself, it’s the only hope you have.

“Oh god, I wish it would just be over.”

It will be, soon.

The moon sunk; there was now no light in the room, except that from the crack under the door. The shadows from the tree have long since retreated to the back fence, but Snape can still see them, faintly cast by dimming starlight.

Blue sparks suddenly shower down from the lock, scorching the back of his neck. He doesn’t notice them at all; he is deep in conversation. The door opens.

“I need some sleep, I can’t sleep…Yes, well; but all I have is nightmares…”

Macnair and Malfoy exchange looks with raised eyebrows. “What the hell?” Macnair echoes the confusion in both the Deatheaters’ minds.

Then a smirk appears on Malfoy’s face. “He’s lost it, Macnair. Stay here, I’ll go see if the Lord is in the mood for a good laugh.”

Macnair shrugs indifferently.

“No James, don’t you see? I’m not like you. I can’t be…what—Would you? Who are you to judge me?”

“Would you stop that crying, pussy?” Macnair snaps from the doorframe.

Snape looks over at him, and gives him a half comprehending look. “God have mercy on your soul,” he murmurs, and turns away.

“What was that, Severus?” Laughs a voice behind Macnair. “Getting religious are we?” Both Snape and Macnair jump at the voice. It is, of course, Lord Voldermort. “Don’t waste your breath, Severus,” he says. “You know where you’re headed.”

“I’m so tired, the room is spinning around me, has that ever happened to you, James?”

“He’s talking to James Potter?” Malfoy asks; looking as if it is taking all the control he possesses to not laugh. Macnair nods, and Malfoy doubles over, covering his silent laughter with a hand.

Suddenly Snape leaps up and slams Malfoy against the wall in front of the basement steps. “I hate you! I can’t stand you, just shut up and leave me alone!” He then catches Malfoy by the collar and throws him at the ground.

Taken by surprise, Malfoy is sent sprawling, half stunned across the floor.

“I said be silent! Stop it, that wasn’t my fault! SILENCE!” He isn’t looking at Malfoy when he speaks.

Snape grabs Malfoy’s wand, points it at Voldermort, and yells: “AVADA KEDAVRA!” Green light flies out of his wand, but nothing more happens. “Avada…K-k…”

He drops the wand, and doesn’t move otherwise.

“My Lord, what happened?” Malfoy gasps.

“It didn’t work, that’s what Malfoy. He’s lost too much of his mind to keep his powers,” Voldermort replies, sounding reasonably calm. “Put your arm down, Severus.”

Snape’s arm falls dead at his side. Then his legs give out under him and he falls to his knees, leaning against the wall. “Master?” He whispers, a single tear running down his cheek.

“What?”

“I’m in a bad dream, aren’t I?”

“Yes, Severus.”

“Wake me up, Master. Please.”

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