Chapter One: To Be Or Not To Be

Prologue- To Be Or Not
To Be? 
Out of the night that covers me, black as the Pit
from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be for my
unconquerable soul. ''
In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced
nor cried aloud.  Under the bludgeoning of chance, my head is bloody,
but unbowed. ''
Beyond this place of wrath and tears, looms but the
Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years finds,
and shall find me, unafraid. ''
It matters not how strait the gate, how charged
with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate:  I am the captain
of my soul.--''
Invictus, William Ernest Henley.
Among leaps from
rooftop to rooftop, I ducked my head against the onslaught of wind-driven rain
and clenched my ebony-and-phoenix-feather wand in a death grip. The water
sheeting down over the rows of dilapidated brick houses did nothing to help the
situation. 
Chain lightning sliced
the night, betraying my position.
“We’ve got him!” Bellatrix Lestrange
screamed from my left side as everything went dark again. “*Avada Kedavra!*”
I threw myself off to
my right in a mad dash, panting from terror, heart hammering against my ribs. .
. . An emerald jet shot past my head, missing by mere inches. 
In the process of
dodging again, I lost my footing on the water-slicked tiles, narrowly avoiding
a six-story fall over the edge.
"You won't make it
through this night alive, Snape! We're finally going to put Dumbledore's lapdog
to sleep!"
"*Avada Kedavra!*"
Casting a rapid Impediment Jinx over my shoulder to slow time and gain ground,
I blinked rain from my eyes and regained my balance enough to make another jump
to the roof ahead.
In mid-leap, a dark thought crossed my mind . . .
'Maybe a fall would be
a better death for you than the Killing Curse; maybe you should just let yourself
drop and end it now. . .'
As despair closed in,
another thought struck me with the force of a lightning bolt: 
'You may not die
instantly. Instead, you could be left lying on the street below in excruciating
pain with your back or neck snapped; you either would be facing a slow,
lingering death alone, or crippled for life. And what about your Slytherins?
Who would protect them?'
My decision was made. I would send my Patronus for help, then, hopefully, try
and find a place to hide. Sending the message would likely betray my position,
but if it got through, Albus Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix would come
to the rescue.
How did I get in this
situation, you may ask? It began with an ordinary morning at Hogwarts School of
Witchcraft and Wizardry. . . .
“April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of
the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.”
—T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land, Section 1, Burial Of The Dead''
Sometimes I wondered why I was wasting my time with the students here, trying
to mold decent human beings out of empty shells. As far as I could see, it was
an unwinnable battle.
Then why did you agree
to become a professor? A small voice echoed in my head.
I gritted my teeth,
feeling the onset of a headache. I’d agreed because Albus Dumbledore had asked
me to, and I would have hurled myself in front of a Killing Curse for the old
man. After everything he had done for me, I simply could not refuse. It wasn't
all bad; I was able to make potions for a living and earn a comfortable salary
in the process. Had I tried to strike out on my own, a reformed Death Eater
setting up a shop from my home, a little flat called Spinner’s End in a
suburban area of Manchester, I wouldn't have lasted a month. Angry mobs of
vengeful innocents would have shown up in the night to burn both my home to the
ground and me at the stake. 
Not that I wouldn't
have deserved it. Therefore, Hogwarts it was, a safe harbor under Dumbledore's
beneficent gaze. Moreover, once I had begun my penance as professor and
shepherd to the idiot masses, I had discovered something startling: I liked it.
I didn’t like the students; I found nothing interesting about any of them or
the tedium of marking scream-inducing parchments. What drew me in was the dark
thrill of power the position gave me.
Power was the ultimate
aphrodisiac; the most addictive drug ever conceived. Nothing brewed in a cauldron
could hope to match it. Power was the reason I had joined the Dark Lord in the
first place as a bitter young man, and I had found it here in the unlikeliest
of places. It was pure power, too. What could be more powerful than holding
someone's mind, some would say their very essence, in your hands? Why, you could
make them anything you wished. If you were so inclined, you could destroy them.
I’d never done so, though I had been sorely tempted. McGonagall might dispute
that. She would say that I was well on my way to crushing Neville Longbottom.
It wasn't true, of course. It was hardly my fault that the boy had the mental
fortitude of a shucked oyster. He was weak because he chose to be, and I wasn't
about to change my demeanor to accommodate him.
If Dumbledore ever
became aware of my musings on this particular subject, he would doubtless be dimly
alarmed. ‘A lover of the Light shouldn’t hold such notions. Those on the side
of Good and Right should never crave power, and if they hold it, they should
never enjoy it.’
Power was neutral; the
people corrupted it.
Take Dumbledore, for
example. He had been Headmaster of our school for nearly thirty years. Yet he
seemed in no particular hurry to surrender the position to McGonagall or anyone
else. In spite of all the problems inherent to the title, he was quite comfortable
in it. Indeed, he had wasted little time in trying to regain it when Lucius
Malfoy had succeeded in getting him suspended for a time. He claimed— and I
believed him; Dumbledore was too good a man to be disbelieved—that he had been
in such a hurry to retake his place at the apex of the Hogwarts hierarchy
solely out of concern for the Muggleborns, but I had seen something other than
worry for others in those sparkling blue eyes. No matter what Dumbledore said,
he enjoyed his coveted status as Headmaster of Hogwarts and the prestige such
power awarded. Whether he chose to admit it or not, the lust for power had infected
him, too.
Speaking of corrupted.
. .  The Dark Lord was the most corrupted of them all.  I’d never
been involved in his Dark Revels, though I’d witnessed them as part of my job
as a spy for the Light. . . I shuddered and lowered my head as tears came to my
eyes.  Just remembering what happened during such Revels was enough to
make me physically ill.  So many times I'd wanted to take the victim's
place and spare them the torture . . . .  My life for theirs. What good’s my life? I'd failed . . . . I
wept silently. It would be so easy . . .
just two words would solve everyone’s problem: Avada Kedavra. I looked longingly for a brief second at my wand.
But another vow . . .
another vow kept me living . . . . . a vow I'd made a long, long time ago . . .
. A vow to the woman I still loved. I shook my head and deliberately put
my wand in a drawer out of sight.
I closed it just as the
fifth and sixth year students filed in.
"I still remember
the time Professor Snape beat Goldilocks Lunkhead," I heard George Weasley
laugh.
"He deserved that.
He was a no-talent hack," Fred laughed.
A pair of green eyes
met mine and lingered for a second. Seeing those eyes, the same eyes of the woman
I loved . . . caused a brief lump to form in my throat. A fresh wave of tears
threatened, making me deliberately crack my lids and blink to keep them from
falling.
"Last I heard he
was in Saint Mungo's," the owner of those eyes spoke up. "I can't
feel sorry for him though, he brought it on himself."
Malfoy spoke up from
one of the Slytherin tables. "I agree with Potter, he got a dose of his
own potion."
"I overheard some
news from there a week ago," I spoke up. "They managed to find out
how to reverse the memory charm, but he's told them he doesn't want his old
life back."
"I wouldn't want
my old life either if I was a thief and a no-talent hack.” Potter grinned.
"He tried to curse
you and Ron, Harry," Ginny Weasley spoke up. "He stole other wizards'
memories and experiences and profited off of them. . ."
"I believe I speak
for us all when I say two words: Good riddance."
I nodded emphatically.
"Thank you, Miss Granger. I know another two words that fit him. . .
"
"Buggering git?"
I heard Ginny speak up.
The corners of my mouth
quirked up in a very slight yet noticeable smile, I actually chuckled. “Yes, Miss
Weasley.”
Every eye turned to me.
“We need to start with everyone calming down." I cut in.
“That’s the first rule in my class. . . If you aren’t calm, your hands can
start shaking and you can miss steps because your thoughts can run away with
you. If this is the case, you're stressing yourself out.”
The silence in the room
was broken by a loud clatter as three athames fell to the floor. 
I winced, sighing.
"Okay, remember, clean your blades thoroughly before you use them, if
there's dirt on the floor it could have a rather explosive reaction if mixed with this potion. I've personally been
on the wrong end of this potion twice and I don't want it to happen to any of
you. And the first person that fires a hex in here will also be the last!” My
voice was rising. “There's a REASON I say no wand waving in my class; any
curses interacting with potions at the same time will have strange reactions;
this particular potion will react violently to dirt and curses: we'll have a
liquid version of Fiendfyre on our hands and I DO NOT WANT THAT LOOSE IN THE
SCHOOL!"
The three students in
question, Pansy Parkinson, George Weasley and Vincent Crabbe, nodded silently,
stood and headed to the water basin in the back of the classroom.
I saw Fred Weasley’s
eyes light up. “That could also make it a good weapon, couldn’t it, sir? Aim a
curse at the potion and. . . .”
I snapped my fingers.
“Exactly.” Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Longbottom jumping and wincing.
I winced as well, berating myself. The
poor boy’s already scared of you, and you make it worse? IDIOT! ''
Squeezing my eyes shut
and gritting my teeth, I forced myself to calm down. I saw him meet my eyes and
an apologetic expression passed over my face. By the expression I got in
response, he’d seen it and understood. “I’m sorry, Longbottom. I was yelling
because I’m scared. I’ve seen that incident happen before, first-hand. It was
in my second year; I was trapped in a classroom with it.” Already expecting the
shocked gasps that echoed around the room, I continued. “Thankfully, Professor
Slughorn knew what he was doing and was able to evacuate everyone. I made sure
he got everyone else out; I stayed behind trying to hold the flames back while
he got the other students out.” I’d stayed because someone I loved was trapped.
If it meant my life I’d gladly have given it for her. I fought my way through
the flames to her and gave her a Portkey so she could escape. “I got out by
changing into my animagus form and jumping over the flames. . .” I continued.
A sloshing sizzle tore me from my musings.
Whirling, I saw that a careless student had knocked over a boiling cauldron,
sending the scalding contents across the stone floor. Luckily, no one had been
within splashing distance. The culprit was now standing white-faced over the
mess. Longbottom. Again.☁
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