Sick

By: Airelle Vilka

Professor of Illusions

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

            Sick.  That was how he felt.  Bloody sick.

            Stifling a groan that seemed far too passionate for him, Severus Snape carefully slid off the girl.  He hadn't even looked at her properly until now, when she did not struggle.

            My God, he thought.  So young.

            And she was.  Tiny little thing, barely conscious of her budding sexuality, her small breasts heaving incoherently between the sheets, out of rhythm with her heart.

            He'd tried his best not to harm her too much.  To stifle her choked sobs.  But she wouldn't cooperate, and screamed herself hoarse.

            The poor thing was stupid to do so.  But frankly, Snape didn't blame her.

            His hand reached out and brushed the girl's forehead, damp with sweat.  But this was not the brush of hope, or the lover's stroke of his partner after a night's activities, not the brush of reassurance, of love.

            He'd be a damned fool to think that.

            No, these were the fingers of pity.  He was the reluctant assassin stooping by a cooling, young corpse, sweeping its forehead and cursing a job that was necessary.

            Shifting his vision, Snape glanced at the antique Muggle clock in the corner.  Two.

            Voldemort's minions would be asking for her soon.  Perhaps he could awaken her with a potion, give her more strength.  Keep her a little longer, so she would not fall into the hands of the others.  The others, who had no mercy and took no intellectual pleasure in sex.  He knew them like the back of his hand.  They'd kill her for fun.

            Fun.

            A smirk, a faded spectre from his facial expressions of long ago, inched its way towards Snape's thin lips.  Look at him, of all people, being thoughtful.  The compassionate Death Eater; the Ministry officials would have a dear laugh at that.

            Licking away the smirk, he blinked at the girl from above, encompassed her skinny form, with its two starkly erect protrusions.  The organ below his abdomen stiffened, and he felt like disemboweling himself for the reaction.  By Merlin's wand, Nature was a merciless mother to mankind.

            Airelle would be horrified and angry if she listened to my thoughts at this moment, he realized with a hint of another quirky smile.  Then again, what was Airelle Vilka to him now?  Nothing, no one.  A best friend betrayed - or at least that was how her eyes had put it.  But she has forgotten me already, moved on with her life.

            Sitting in the darkness, Snape knew that the statement was not true, and cursed himself for knowing it.

            Death provided no escape; Voldemort had made certain of that.  You could not die as a Death Eater, unless it was for the Dark Lord himself.  No, it was no spell or coercion of any sort.

            No, something worse.

            He made you feel like you were too deep in to die.  You had to live with your deeds, and always remember them.  Over the years, Voldemort's power had grown on Snape, and he found himself trapped in the world he helped create--- like the sculptor, who designed the Minotaur's Labyrinth only to be killed later because he knew the way out.

            But Snape would not die.  He couldn't.  His life was now for his cause, or Voldemort's cause, to be exact.  That was what being a Death Eater did for you.  It took away the worries and pains of your life.  All the choices you wished you didn't have to make, it made for you.

            There was one catch, however: it also took away the rest of your life.  It made you a slave truer than any other - a willing slave to its power.

            Cringing at the Dark Mark burning in his arm, Severus Snape buried his head in the folds and folds of bed-sheets, moist with human sin.

            He felt sick.  So bloody sick.

            And saddest of all, he couldn't do anything about it.

FINIS

A/N: Short.  Written at 4:24 A.M..  Enough said.