"Free are those who can dance in chains."

(Friedrich Nietzsche)

A Dementor floated right in front of his door. It looked as if it grinned. Dementors did not grin. Its breathing was loud and unnaturally steady. It paused when it saw the quill on the floor. Then reached out a bony hand and the quill flew upwards until the Dementor grasped it.

A second later, Severus heard a sound that reminded him strongly of a belt cutting through the air. Instinctively he lifted his arm. His reflexes were still those of a Death Eater; he caught it. Had he been standing, the violence of the throw would have knocked him backwards.

Frozen and oddly wondering, he stood and watched the Dementor float away.

Some hours later, the cell was filled with rumpled-up paper. Some of it was covered in readable handwriting, some of it in calligraphy so bad that he would have hexed any student for it.

Some of it was perforated.

All of it was useless.

He broke the chocolate in twelve even bits and those again in three. And then took one bit. When he sat back down, he had to resist the urge to rock back and forward. Shit. How did Black live through this for twelve years? Posthumously, he had to take his hat off for the old cur. Maybe the knowledge that he was innocent had helped him through it.

Severus was not innocent.

His glance flickered again to the quill.

He knew where he should begin. They wanted to know, they should know. It didn't matter anyway. And they wouldn't temper justice with mercy.

If the Dementors kissed him, would he still be protected by Potter's Charm? Would he sit here soulless for a hundred years? Did he have a soul?

If he wrote due to fear or hope, he didn't know. But he wrote. He was no coward.

Severus started with the earliest memories.

When he was a little boy, five years old and already convinced that he was just utterly despicable, his mother would sit with him by the fire and tell, lost in thought, about the wizarding world, the Dementors, the Dark Lord. She painted him as the strongest and cleverest man in the world. Someone the mere sight of whom would take one's breath away. Told him about his magical abilities, the force of attraction. Severus listened, sucked up the information like a sponge. Eileen promised that if he was a good boy, he would one day be allowed to meet him, maybe even be accepted as a follower. She had once managed, but the bad Ministry caught her, took her wand, took her money. It was their fault she had to marry a dirty Muggle. She'd been excluded from the wizarding world, was even useless to the Dark Lord. Wandless and in a dirty marriage. She told Severus that his blood was dirty and he had to work hard to make up for that.

Severus believed this. He was five years old.

Many years later Severus found out, that his mother wasn’t merely following Voldemort but actually involved herself in some attempted murder and got caught. She was lucky that they didn’t bring her to Askaban.

At seven, he mastered the brewing of more than twenty poisons; they scared him, yet he was obsessed with them.

Eileen taught him; she even showed some scraps of affection towards him when he remembered everything. In those moments he wished that she wouldn't hit him with his own wet clothes the next morning, until the scars on his back reopened, until he screamed and begged and promised to be better. He wished she wouldn't call him a coward because he hid from her, or tried to run away. Over and over and again.

His father heard and saw nothing. He went to bed early, slept in late and was drunk in the meantime. The house permanently stank of cigarettes, sweat and urine. There was never enough food, but there was always booze. The carpets were old and mouldy, most of the furniture had been sold. Severus' clothes were always second hand, not that he minded, but he would have liked them to fit at least.

On most days, his school desk was empty. He hated school and the pupils hated him. He wasn't even allowed to show them his abilities, frighten them, earn some respect that way, but they sensed his difference and treated him like an outsider. And he was suspected a lot. Most of the time rightfully so. He had learnt early how to steal food. He never got caught, but they blamed him anyway. He was from a bad house with bad parents. His reputation had been ruined from the outset. His father had collected him. Pissed.

By now, Severus had forgotten why he was writing everything down. He was completely absorbed by the tormenting memories. The quill corrected gaps, nudged him to add ugly details.

At the age of nine he met Lily. So pretty and innocent. And a witch. Her flaming red hair, the humour, the absence of any dark qualities bedazzled him. She was always happy, friendly, open. She glowed. She didn't seem to be disgusted by his appearance, never did she make remarks about his ill-fitted clothes, about the obvious signs of poverty and neglect.

He was eleven. A Slytherin. She distanced herself from him in the first school days, his house scared her. Not that he could blame her when he looked at some of his housemates, and yet, he thought it was unfair to be passed judgement on entirely by the age of eleven. The hat wasn't omniscient, the sorted were children.

The Dark Lord had financed his whole education. Books, robes, everything. He'd never met him, but his followers. They impressed him with their heavy robes, their skills, their mask-like faces. Severus was obsessed with the books the Dark Lord had passed on to Severus. And he felt honoured. Worthwhile. Only much later would he learn that the Dark Lord had used those methods to win him as a follower, maybe he had known that it wouldn't be easy. It worked well.

Lily distanced herself even further, especially after he called her a... After the episode Potter had seen in the Pensieve he had hidden in the forest for two days before he gathered all his courage to apologise. She didn't accept and they never spoke again.

That was the day his world fell apart. There was no reason to join the light side any more. And fight for the rest of his life on the side of Potter and his friends. He wasn't welcome anyway and Severus owed Voldemort and his followers a lot. He lived off them. They had saved him and his family from homelessness, had paid his whole education and... and that was the most important point; had made him feel that he was worth the money.

At eighteen, he received the mark. He was branded, like a cow, and regretted it the moment it happened.

Nineteen. His first mission. He was supposed to steal a dark book. Darker than dark. As dark as Voldemort's soul by night. One of the most guarded books in the wizarding world, the grimoire written by Salazar Slytherin. By now, he was a gifted thief, there were no problems.

Then, for months, he brewed questionable potions for Death Eaters.

His second mission was one of the reasons he was here now, the reason why he was accused and the reason why he accused himself. Aiding and abetting the murder of James Potter and Lily Potter. The ministry was right.

The parchment was scratched and perforated at those parts, the handwriting hard to make out. But those memories were, thanks to the Dementors, crystal clear. They cut his mind like knives while he wrote them down shakily. While he wrote about the blackness that had become part of him on that day and had never let go again.

Days passed and he never slept longer than a few minutes at a time. The parchment was nearly finished and he had reached the last years. The Unbreakable Vow, his word to Dumbledore. And Dumbledore's ability to make him do anything and let it look like a second chance.

And Harry Potter. The green eyes. He caused them to look defiant and angry because he deserved it.

His writing was chaotic when he described how Voldemort killed Charity Burbage in front of his eyes and fed her to Nagini. Charity, the older lady with the queen's accent. She had once opened his eyes to the Muggle world, made him familiar with Bach and Händel and Dostoevsky. With Marlon Brando and the Internet, Immanuel Kant and Stephen King and yes, Severus had been impressed. The Muggles were developing, they had changed so much in the past decades and the wizards stayed put.

Slowly but surely, the Muggles were finding ways of being just as powerful, only with different methods.

His last year. The screaming and butchering. The Death Eaters were ruthless, sadistic. They murdered, raped, mutilated anyone who actively opposed them. Obsessed with the idea of ruling the world.

More obsessed with a child.

Severus could not understand anymore how someone wanted to be the slave of a maniac whose only goal seemed to be the hunt and murder of a schoolboy.

No one seemed to see how absurd and laughable that was. The Malfoys maybe, but by then, it was too late.

Two days later, Severus was finished. The last thing he'd written was the revenge of the Death Eaters. Oh, the quill made him write down all the details. It had been exhausting and unsettling and damn hard, but no one cared. There it was again, this terrible self-pity.

At least he hadn't lost his feeling for time. It was the night before day thirteen.

He never read his records even though he knew they were partially incoherent and illegible. Overly tragic and dramatic. Only the heartbreaking poem and the tears were missing. But it was the truth.

Records were public property. The idea of Rita Skeeter publishing it in the Prophet or interviewing him almost made him rip them apart. Almost.

It was his only hope. He did not want to spend the rest of his life in a cell with Macnair. The mere thought nearly knocked him out with fear. Not that he had great hopes of the Ministry, but no one should say he hadn't fought. He'd always fought and the quill was his witness.

He rolled the parchment, put it away as far as possible. Severus was worn-out, hungry and by now clinically depressed. His extremities seemed to be made of lead, every movement needed a great amount of self-discipline and effort. His mind was surrounded by cottonwool, his vision narrowed, no clear thought was possible.

When he opened his eyes it took a while to find his way back into reality. At the other end of the cell, meaning almost within hand's reach, sat two creatures, grey and blurry. He blinked and saw that it was Hermione and his lawyer.

They went through his writings; he would have liked to jump up and rip them out of their hands. Instead, he managed a rasping sound. At least they were polite enough to notice him and quit reading.

Johnson put it all together, even the crumpled-up bit, and called a guard. Then stood up, shook his hand, spoke some words he couldn't quite make out and left to hand over everything to the judge and the jury. It would be hours before it was all over.

'I'm proud of you, Severus...' Big brown eyes found the sunken black ones. Something hard broke inside him, like a furuncle and the intensity of his emotions duplicated, multiplied, became unbearable. His insides were turning into hot liquid.

The sound that escaped his throat would have been more fitting for a dying dog than for a human being. Thin arms were wrapped around him, he felt her heart hammering against him. Merlin, Severus was SCARED. He buried his head in his arms. There was no stopping, despite the battle he fought with himself. She whispered comforting words that didn't comfort. Convulsions shook his writhing body, tears splashed on the stone floor.

Hours later, the door was opened again, two guards waited for him to get up.

Get a hold of yourself, Severus.

They picked him up, almost carried him.

It was time.

This chapter would have been spiked with canon issues, nevermind spelling and grammar mistakes if it wasn't for the wonderful whitehound. Thank you again.