Sunday May 13
I, Severus Snape, have started this diary to keep myself from going insane. Otherwise committing my inner thoughts to the written page would be out of the question and certainly a dangerous thing to do. So much has changed in these past few months though that what was certainly impossible is now the normal operating procedure for the day.
I could be worse off. I could have been executed with others. I could have lost my life like Lucius in the final battle between the Dark Lord and Potter. As usual, I have survived although to what extent you could call this surviving. A small cell at Azkaban prison is indeed just surviving. A daily ration of food, some exercise and long periods of nothing. At night I can hear in cells next to me the weeping and screams of the unfortunate ones who have transgressed. Should anyone consider us a civilized clan should spend some time here. They will come to a different conclusion.
I owe my existence to Narcissa Black Malfoy. Her appearance at the tribunal worked wonders on the judges. Of course the Blacks still, even to this day, wield considerable power in the wizardry world. She credited me with saving the life of her only son. It is an act I still question the intelligence of. But her widow's tears and heartfelt pleas for my life worked. The judges could not resist once she began and felt that she had lost enough.
I have been deprived of my freedom and my powers. I know they put a potion in my food and drink that robs me of the abilities I once had. I was a potions expert at one time, and I can smell it in the slop they serve me and in the water I drink. I can feel it in the sheets of my cot and can detect its residue in the soap they give me. It is everywhere. I suppose they are frightened of me, for at one time I was as powerful as some they admired and some they feared. They must feel they have to permeate me with it to keep me subdued.
There is no use in lamenting about it any longer. What is done, is done. In a way there is relief in this cell. I no longer have to hide or worry about what is about the next corner. I no longer have to mask my inner self, although allowing the Dementors to have access to that might kill me. I get an occasional visit from some new member of the Ministry. They are always sending someone to interrogate me and see if I know if other Death Eater still run amok. Always someone new. After I get done with them they refuse to come back.
My captors have been gracious enough to allow me paper and quill. Most likely they feel what harm could it do. They do take the quill back each time, fearing that I might be able to use it as some sort of weapon. Idiots. I am too tired to bother with them and do not care to waste my energy. Of course if I had my wand back that might be a different story.
My jailers have notified me I will have a guest tomorrow. That means an extra clean up for me and the return of my old clothes. Azkaban prison does not want to offend the delicate senses of the visitors. The jailers do not want what really happens here to be made public.
If they did there would be fewer of us in here and these jailers would be out of a job.
Tuesday, May 15
I have now been blessed with access to the bath twice this week.
At one time hot water and steam meant little to me. Now these precious elements are a comfort that I crave and wait for weekly. I should have more visitors and these lovely baths would occur twice a week all the time. Perhaps Narcissa Malfoy could do me the honors, since she is partially responsible for putting me here. Yes, that would be a fine idea. That way I could get my bath twice a week and get to smell that lovely perfume Narcissa likes to wear. Oh, she can boo-hoo for the entire visit about her poor dead husband and what a little wanker her son has become. He was not worth saving six years ago and he is still not worth saving now.
I have donned my old familiars. My frock coat has seen better days. The cuffs are a bit frayed and the color has faded some. It seems a tiny patch has been made on the hole in the front near one of the buttons. The damage that Potter's wand made on me that last time we met. A feeble attempt to make me presentable and hide the past at the same time, no doubt. However the chance to get away from prison garb is refreshing.
I have had to wait while the room is made ready for my visit. I have been wondering what silly fool has volunteered this time to come chat with the old professor. Certainly it will be some pasty faced want to be who has a strong desire to impress his superiors. They all have that idea, to come and pry the information from me. They all want to return with the intelligence of where the Death Eaters have flown to. Heroes is what they think they will become.
So little these dolts understand. They want to imagine the Dark Lord's movement is dead. Like a bonfire that raged out of control and ate up its kindling and air, the movement is extinguished or so they want to think. It is their fear that will not allow them to rest easy and it should not. The Dark Lord was a powerful force in our world. We seldom see wizards with such strength and vision as he had. The fire has never been put out entirely. Embers have flown here and there. The ideas and the protocols have been around for eons and they will never expire. These notions were not new when the Dark Lord first asserted them. A new generation will cull them and make them their own. But Aurors and the Ministry refuse to see that and so they do not search in the right places. No, they come to me and ask me silly questions about dead comrades. They should be out doing their business. It is easier to badger an old, sick man than it is to go about putting the flames of hatred out, is it not?
I hear the footsteps of my jailer coming, his keys jingling at his side. They will shackle me and escort me to the visitation room. There, for a few hours, someone new will be asking the questions again. And, as usual, I will not have the answers they seek.
I hope they brought some better tea than the last time.