AbstractConcept (the_con_cept) wrote in fanfic_fanfic,

Pardoning Snape, Free to Good Home

posted by: abstract_concept in fanfic_fanfic

Name: the_con_cept

Length of fragment: 756 words

Fandom: HP

Main characters and/or pairing(s): Possible Snape/Harry, but it can go where ever you want.

Rating: Nothing graphic, so I’d say this bit is PG-13, though it’s a bit darkish in tone.

If you think you can do better (and chances are you can) go for it!

Other notes: This is your standard beginning for wrapping up the "Snape-gets-captured and vindicated (or at least pardoned) scene", for any fic that needs such a thing. I have too many of these, I swear. I really like this one, but the fics I’m doing right now don’t need this scene. If you want any clarifications, feel free to hit me up, I’m at tangled_feet@yahoo.com beyond that, it’s all yours baby.


It was almost a shame that no one ever asked. No one spoke to him at all, anymore. Oh, he’d gotten away with it—so to speak—he’d walked free after killing Dumbledore, and harbouring Draco after the boy had managed to kill off the youngest Weasley girl, and being caught right in the thick of Death Eaters as Voldemort fell.


            Thank the gods for Veratiserum. It was probably the only thing that saved his neck—they’d had him on the ground, the Ministry officials swarming around, voices echoing in the muggy air, calling for one of the few ‘tame’ dementors left to come and do its duty, and he’d lost all composure, grovelled, tripped over his own tongue trying to explain, dug his fingers into the loam and watched them gouge trails of black earth as he was dragged away.


            And then Potter had spoken, saying, “No. We’ll give him a fair trial. Then we’ll let the dementors have him.”


            Severus wept with relief, and cursed himself every moment afterward for his weakness. Sometimes he thought it would have been better to die that day—or to lose his soul, which was rusted and battered and worthless by now, anyway. Other times, he remembered the dementors, remembered watching them converge on Grimmauld Place, remembered Remus Lupin’s screams of terror become hollow, remembered—


            But justice was mercifully slow.


            By the time Severus came to trial, the dementors had all been destroyed—by decree of Harry Potter, it was said. Not that the boy had any right to be making decisions like that—but a word in the right ear, or in his case, any ear, would see it done.


            And on the stand, they’d given him Veratiserum. Pure, smooth, clear, and rich. It bubbled in his veins and the words had frothed on his tongue, fomenting his sins and sending them to burst in the light. Luckily, most of them had been done with good intentions, and the justifications had trickled out, as well. It was difficult to convict a man of murdering someone who was dying, when that ‘murder’ had gained the side of the light so much.


            Of course, only Albus Dumbledore had known that, and Albus Dumbledore was dead. But they’d given Severus Veratiserum, and Veratiserum is not something one can argue with. They debated for days about what to do with him—should they hang him, or strip him of his magic, banish him, keep him in prison?


            Severus had sweated in his sleep. They believed him, but it hardly mattered. They wanted him dead. They wanted him dead. They had enough reason. Every night he dreamt of nothingness coming to swallow up his consciousness, and every day he read his books, and paced in his cell, and stared up through the bars at the fading sunlight. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he counted every breath, and every heartbeat, and clung to the notion that his life was worth something.


            He wasn’t certain he could even convince himself.


            During sentencing, he’d been allowed to speak. So many cold eyes were on him, so many relatives of the dead, so many bitter, bitter enemies. He’d swallowed, and he’d done his best. He spoke of an unhappy childhood, of course, and the headmaster who became something like a father to him, and his gruelling sacrifices for the Order. He talked of Draco Malfoy dying in his arms, blood trickling from his shapely, pureblood mouth, and of promises broken, and regret that gnawed at his heart and mind.


            He couldn’t have done anything differently. Surely they could see that. And he sat, trembling slightly, and patted his face with his sleeves, watching the Ministry Members from the corner of his eye. They did not look convinced. They did not look compassionate. Lips were thin, eyes were dark, harsh lines engraved themselves on every face.


            Severus Snape was going to die.


            And then, that damned Potter had to say his piece, again. “He isn’t a kind man,” Potter told the Ministry. “He’s a bastard, when you come right down to it, and he made my life hell. He killed and he tortured and he probably even enjoyed it. But…the evidence supports his story. The evidence suggests that, in killing Dumbledore and becoming a traitor, at least, he’s innocent. I…can’t see killing a man on evidence like that. Part of me wants to. I mean it. But I reckon it wouldn’t be right, and I’ve killed enough already. It has to stop somewhere, doesn’t it?”

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