A door slammed, somewhere further down the corridor. Snape stared furiously at the walls of his cell. They had not questioned him. They had not listened to him. They had not even accused him. Was this fair justice? He thought again of Alastor Moody, his fists clenching involuntarily. He had ignored Snape's requests to speak with Dumbledore. And he had taken Snape's wand. He wouldn't be surprised if it were by now snapped in two. It seemed as if, for Moody, it was enough that he suspected Snape -- the outcome of any trial was merely a formality. Snape had been disarmed before Moody's body-bind curse had worn off, and all he had been able to do was glare with frustration.
They had bound him more securely with unbreakable silver ropes, and brought him here, to the Ministry of Magic, in almost total silence. The gleaming cords had reminded him of the night he had been initiated into the Death Eaters. Lord Voldemort, binding and controlling that hapless man. The man Snape had tortured. The man Lord Voldemort had killed. Snape shook his head -- would he ever dislodge these memories? He cast around for something to distract himself with. A patch of sunlight glowed on the left-hand wall. Its slow creep toward the corner told him that sunset would not be long. And then, when night was truly fallen, the Veritaserum would be ready. What would happen if he were not back at his house by then? Would the Lestranges realise something had happened when he failed to contact them? How long before the Dark Lord discovered his capture?
A light tapping on the window caused him to look up for a moment, but it was only an insect, drowsy with the cold, trying to get in. Where was Dumbledore? But, even if Dumbledore were to vouch for him, what would happen? If the council released him, word would soon spread. How could he continue his work as a spy if his cover was blown? His master would hunt him down. The Death Eaters would destroy him. He would achieve nothing if his secret were revealed. Perhaps his best course of action would be to admit his guilt, to confess to being a Death Eater. Let them send him to Azkaban! He resolved to keep secret his new alliance with Dumbledore. If only he could speak with Dumbledore before the hearing. How much longer would they make him wait?
The lopsided glow of sunshine was broken by the bars on the window. Imprisoned. Was this what his uncle saw every day? Bars across the light? Would Azkaban be like this? At least, if he were found guilty, the threat of retribution from his master would finally be removed. He would be safe, in an odd kind of way, inside those thick stone walls. He thought that he might even prefer the confines of one building, rather than continue to live with freedom and vulnerability. The prison's distance from the mainland, and the reputed harshness of the weather -- these were minor problems compared to facing his master's anger. He was being cowardly, he knew. But this way he would be sure of peace -- and survival. Somehow, since his meeting with Dumbledore, Snape had lost the urge for death. And besides -- Snape smiled -- the guards at Azkaban might be open to a little bribery. There had been talk, a few years ago, of introducing trolls as the main guards of the prison, but the majority of wizards on the council had been against such a move. This was to his own advantage -- there could be no possibility of negotiations with trolls, but men* could always be corrupted. His time with the Death Eaters had shown him tha--
There were footsteps, the rumble of voices in the corridor, and he knew they were coming for him. The council was ready. His trial was about to begin.
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* This is based on my perhaps erroneous assumption that the Dementors were not the original guards at Azkaban.