Perhaps because so many people died in the war, their unspent life energy had merged with the vital force.

The weather that spring was especially beautiful. Barely mid February every tree, weed and bush was in full bloom, their bright blossoms too harsh against still winter-black bark. Potted plants were straining in their confinement, like animals in a zoo, futilely trying to escape. Yet even with every flower, very leaf of grass, every bird singing to the fullest of their ability, it simply was not enough for spring to release its pent up splendour.

In the minds and bodies of men, spring brought an upsurge of illness and suspicion, adulteries, drunken brawling and pregnancies.

The wizard population, never plentiful, was suffering severely under their losses. Since the wartime population needed replenishment, pregnancies were considered a good sign. But rumour had it that children born in that year were really the souls of those who had died in the war hurrying to be reborn so that they could live out the allotted years of their lives. It was whispered that they would not live long.

For the last few days, Severus Snape had been drowsy during the day, but wide-awake at night. When he woke up at dawn, he heard the birds twittering outside of his window, and for no discernable reason at all he felt happy, full of inexplicable expectations. Although his heart seemed to become lighter, giddy, floating, it was an empty joy. Like a balloon released by a toddler, it would rise directionless, no more than a few feet, and then drop into nothingness, leaving only an indefinable sense of loss and disappointment. He was restless and eager for action and yet lethargic. Severus felt like catkins upended by a sudden gust, too light and too powerless to fly far.

By summer, the balmy spring air had turned to smouldering heat.

Not even the night gave reprise from the heat of the day.

A blast of hot air caught his cloak, making it cling uncomfortably to his body. The forest carried the scent of decay, of overripe fruit ready to burst, sweet and pungent and nauseating. Sweat formed under his mask, running down his cheeks.

The wind picked up and he finally could make out the dim shape of the initiate moving towards them. A girl this time.

She stood proud before the barrier, chin stuck out defiantly, white robes fluttering ghostly in the breeze.

Accompanied by the rhythmic pounding of wood on soil, the stone circle lit up. His wooden staff felt heavy in his hands, more burden than honour. The moment they ceased their eerie drumming rhythm the Dark Lord’s voice filled the clearing.

Marlene McKinnon!

“Yes”.

Do you come willing?

“Yes”.

Do you come knowing?

“Yes”.

Do you come true?

“Yes”.

So Enter!

He felt his hands moving of their own accord, felt more than heard, the dull sucking of wood hitting the ground. Severus watched in anticipation as the barrier was lifted and she stepped inside. Hands seized her and he could almost hear the familiar whisper of the ritual words.

McKinnon stumbled into the stone circle and the eerie pounding stopped.

She knelt, bowed her head as she had been instructed to do. Severus Snape nodded in approval.

The Dark Lord stepped into the light, resting his hand tenderly on her brown curls. Severus could almost hear him in his mind, too, could feel his presence in his head once more, revelling in the treasured memory of acceptance.

But something was amiss. Torn from his bliss, he focused on the small figure crouching before his master.

It started as a low susurrus, deep and dark and vibrant, a single stone disturbing the depth with its ripples. He saw the Dark Lord reach out and pull her to her feet. Red light encompassing them, pulsating.

The humming swelled and ebbed, like a wave reaching sallow waters, crashing toward the shore. It’s pitch getting higher and higher.

And into the mind-blowing noise the verdict came:

It echoed in every mind, making the hooded figures cringe in pain and discomfort.

Then die!

The high pitch whine climaxed in a searing flash of red, making everyone’s ears and minds shake in the aftermath.

The light that had cocooned her retreated into her, creeping under her skin, only to break, glaringly white, from her mouth, her eyes.

Her screams echoed on into the silence. She staggered on, away from their master. The staffs once more hit the ground in a dooming heartbeat rhythm.

Her mindless body stumbled towards the honour guard.

No whispers this time, but angry screams. Staffs hit her body, breaking it, making it stumble on and on.

Angry voices screaming

TRAITOR

with every thud.

Then it was over. Severus Snape looked at the broken body in disgust.

How dare she.

It was the next day that the Dark Lord called him.