He had been about to set off on another surveillance expedition when he had felt the Dark Mark burn and had Disapparated instantly. His reaction was instinctive, beyond the levels of rational thought. He didn't even know where he would appear, or who would be there – but he could remember being told of the summoning power of the Mark. Had it been Malfoy or the Dark Lord or who had explained this? His memory was obscure – over the past few months he had successfully managed to suppress all thoughts of the events of that first day, that first trial.
He Apparated to what looked like the entrance hall of a mansion. Light shone past a half-open door. Peering through the gloom as he walked cautiously towards the light, he could see no other Death Eaters. Was it a trap? Perhaps the summons only came when the Dark Lord had to punish one of his servants? Panic rose in his mind as he quickly tried to recall any way in which he might have disobeyed or betrayed his master. He knew well enough how swift and merciless the blow would be. He stood in the doorway, uncertainly.
"Come in, Severus," said a cold voice from the shadows. "You do well to fear me, for I could indeed destroy you."
Snape swallowed, trying to subdue his fear, and stepped into the room. Lord Voldemort was standing by the window, looking out at the darkening sky. To his surprise, Snape found that he wasn't going to beg and plead for his life. He still had pride, then? He stood up a little straighter.
"But you are fortunate," continued Voldemort. "I have heard much praise of your work – especially your knack for shadowing people, learning their habits." Snape nodded, trying to look pleased, trying not to think of what had happened to those people. The Bones family, the Prewetts. "And now I find that I need someone with the skills you possess to carry out a special mission."
There was a pause. Seeing the Dark Lord again had awakened his memories of that first meeting. He was reliving each moment, now, as his master looked on. He couldn't stop himself. The oath. The branding. The discomfort of the mask – although with each meeting he had attended he had come to rely more and more on the security it provided, shielding his face from the eyes of his fellow Death Eaters, hiding his emotions. The man, writhing on the ground. The man, begging for mercy even in death. To distract himself, he looked up once more. Voldemort was smiling. "What is it you wish me to do, my Lord?"
"It will be a simple task for you, my shadowy friend. Although if you succeed I shall require greater things of you. However, for now you have merely to discover the identities of any children, whether pureblood or mudblood, born at the end of July."
Snape was taken aback. This wasn't what he had been expecting at all. Children? The Dark Lord had never mentioned children before. He felt a twinge in his arm. He must answer. "Very well, my Lord."
"Use any means necessary to complete this task. I will give you one month, and then," Voldemort's smile vanished – his face seemed devoid of all humanity, "you will be summoned. Go. Now."
Trying as hard to suppress his feelings of relief as he had the earlier panic, Snape disapparated at once and reappeared in his own shabby house. Wasting no time, he sent a note by owl to Lucius Malfoy, informing him that the current surveillance mission had been cancelled – but saying no more than that. There were hierarchies of information within the Death Eaters. Either Lucius would know of Snape's new mission, or he would not – either way, it was not Snape's place to tell him.
Even now, even here in his own home, he could not relax. He might be safe from the Dark Lord's eerie ability to sense his emotions, but he had to be constantly on his guard against his own thoughts. For the last few months he had survived only by trying to avoid any kind of self-examination. He was not always successful and had found that it was best to do, to be active. But he could not find the energy even to get out of his chair. He was tired, tired of trying to ignore the realities of his life. He had been naïve to think that there would be some nobility in allying himself with Lord Voldemort. He could see that now. He was a servant, with no more control over his own destiny than a house-elf.
A wave of anger and self-revulsion blasted through him. He had caused death. He had caused pain. Was he such a coward, such a pathetic man, that he couldn't even face up to the facts of his life? A small voice in his mind told him that, logically, these things would have happened whether or not he was a Death Eater. If he, Snape, had not discovered that the Prewetts were enemies of the Dark Lord, then somebody else would have. In a way, he was sparing some other faceless person – they would never have to face the blackness of their own souls. But he had been through this argument with himself before. More denial. If he was so proud of sparing another soul – why had he not spared his own? He already knew the answer. Stupidity. Pride. Vengeance. Potter and Black - so arrogant in their boasts of standing against the Dark Lord. It had taken Snape only moments to decide that he would stand against them. Must he always be so impulsive?
He leant forward, his head in his hands. As he had realised, on the day he received the mark upon his arm, there could be no going back now. He had no choice, but to survive as best he could.
With a sigh, he reached for a quill. Children? First he would need to write to Rookwood...