A/N: This is a one-shot that I've had bouncing around in my mind for the last chapter or so of 'A Lightning's Tale', and I had to get it out before I continued on with that story.

On that note, let it be said that this story has NO relation to ALT at all. Completely different universe, people. This version of Dumbledore, the Order, Severus, Lucius, and the Dark Lord is NOT the same as the ones in ALT. Just wanted to make that clear.

This is my first experiment with writing a story in present tense and it was, to say, a very interesting complication.

WARNINGS: Slash—though not rated for sexual content and not sexually explicit. A bit of violence and torture, discusses disturbing things. Although I don't believe that there is enough of it to categorize the story as "Horror", there are a few elements of it. You have been warned.

The Most Unkindest Cut of All

For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel.
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar lov'd him!
This was the most unkindest cut of all;
For when the noble Caesar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
Quite vanquish'd him: then burst his mighty heart…

(Julius Caesar, Act 3, scene 2, 181–186)

The whitewashed brick walls of the long room clash horribly with the hastily erected metal bars, which form three sided cages in a long strip down each wall. It was never meant to be a prison, but it is the most heavily warded room in the ministry and—in the short time available after the Final Battle—thus the only place to quickly stash the members of Voldemort's Inner Circle.

And they're all there. Avery, the Carrows, Dolohov, the Lestranges, Macnair, Rookwood, and, of course, Lucius Malfoy. The last surviving members, missing one notable person.

They're quiet. Aside from Rodolphus Lestrange's wheezing gasps (he'd been hit with a rather nasty rib-breaking spell and it was suspected that he'd punctured a lung) and Alecto Carrow's quiet muttering, there is no noise at all in the prison cells. They are resigned to their fate; they'd taken a gamble and lost, and now they would pay the price.

Lucius Malfoy sighs and looks down at his bound hands. The chains are strong: magic-proof, breaking-proof, and even muggle lock-picking-proof (and he is sure Potter's the one responsible for that last one, damn him). He sits idly, his back to the brick wall, hands hanging between his raised knees. He appears, for all intents and purposes, to be a haughty aristocrat lounging in acute boredom—not a man waiting for his death sentence. His eyes flicker up to meet Rabastan Lestrange's in the cell directly across from him and they exchange a slight, humorless smile.

The door bangs open. Chattering voices echo down the corridor and into the long room. Various prisoners' eyes glance up to scan the intrusion before looking away indifferently. As members of Voldemort's Inner Circle, they tend to regard interrogators other than themselves the way extremely vain princes regard dung-covered peasants.

Amateurs, the lot of them.

A group of noisy people burst into the previously silent room—all color, flashes, and loud words. Ladies and Gentlemen, the Order of the Phoenix has arrived. Honestly, Lucius sometimes wonders how on earth his side lost the war…before he remembers with a dull sigh. Ahh, right. The traitor. Wonder what they decided to do with him? Probably award the bastard an Order of Merlin, that son of a…

He's rather unsurprised when the Order stops outside his cell. After all, he's worked hard to project the image that he's Voldemort's number one man, and only the Death Eaters in this room know otherwise. They'll never breathe a word; even in death, the thought of what the Dark Lord would do to them is far more frightening than anything these Burnt Pigeons might try to accomplish.

He absently notes that Mad-Eye Moody, probably the only Order member that the Circle has any respect for, is among those sent to question him, and he's mildly surprised that Potter isn't. Then again, Potter was never a fan of degrading and mindless humiliation. If the boy hadn't killed his beloved Lord…but he had. It was no use thinking otherwise.

In a show of deliberate disrespect—subtle, oh so subtle, too; he doubts whether the birds consciously realize what he's doing—he refrains from so much as twitching as they draw near. No acknowledgment, nothing. This is the height of a Slytherin's power, but compared to the Dark Lord (and, of course, Severus) he is but a subtle shadow of mockery.

"You, Malfoy," one of the Order (Jones, Hestia Jones, he remembers) sneers at him, "What, no worry about what's going to happen to you? No attempting to buy your way out? Well, it won't work, whatever you're planning!"

Lucius exchanges another glance with Rabastan around the Order's legs. Rabastan rolls his eyes and mouths 'idiots' and Lucius is hard pressed to hold in a smile. As if he would try to get out of this. They won't give them the Kiss—no, Potter had outlawed that, even threatened to overturn the Ministry if it came to it—they'll simply be sent through the Veil, like all previous prisoners that were too important to leave alive. No, he would do nothing to stop his death. He'd do nothing to stop himself from joining his beloved Lord once more; whether in Heaven or Hell, he didn't care.

The Order is chirping amongst themselves again. They appear to be at a slight impasse, and Lucius learns to his amusement that they are not actually supposed to be here. Rabastan and Bellatrix are having a quiet breakdown of giggles—silent, of course, they have some dignity to maintain. He doesn't blame them. The Great Albus Dumbledore doing something illegal? Never!

Said Headmaster turns a disapproving look on both his Order and the snickering Death Eaters. The birds quit peeping, but that only increases the amusement from the Dark side. As if the Headmaster's 'disapproval' would work on any of them. Really.

The Order attempts to shut the Circle up with only words (obviously, spells in a forbidden area would be a bad idea), but they don't have Severus or the Dark Lord's skill with the things, and thus fail hopelessly. Lucius tunes them out in wiry amusement, until one phrase catches his attention.

He sits up abruptly, pulling the attention back to himself. Idly, his mind notes that Rabastan and Antonin Dolohov also register the name and are likewise suddenly focused on the conversation.

"What did you say about Severus?" he asks intently, with quiet power. Like a silence spell the Circle shuts up, all eyes focusing eerily on the Order members.

"I said that it's a wonder Snape put up with you lot for so long," Nymphadora Tonks, his niece-in-law, snaps at him. "I have no great liking for the man, but after everything he did to help the Light side win this war, I can't help but show some respect. After all, if it wasn't for him, we'd have all been—"

She continues to talk, but Lucius has completely lost all sense of presence. He's faded into a silent world of white shock, the words to help the Light side win reverberating through his skull over and over, like some obscene bell tolling out a death cry.

And suddenly he's laughing. Hysterically. He's vaguely aware of Rabastan and Augustus Rookwood dissolving into similar states of unstableness, while Bellatrix stares off into space, face white with shock, unable to comprehend that Severus—dear Gods Severus—would do such a thing to her beloved Lord.

And of course it was Severus. He'd never suspected, not once, not even when he was checking his own wife and son's loyalty, he'd never imagined that Severus would betray their Lord. It's inconceivable, implausible, ludicrous!…and yet it makes so much sense. It explains how the Order always knew, no matter how many security spells the Dark Lord put up; and why they'd failed so completely in the end.

Through his insane laughter, he notes the Order's utterly bewildered expressions, their harsh demands for a reason to the madness that has seized the surviving Circle members. He can hear, distantly, Rabastan exclaiming that the Order was damn clever, as none of them would have ever suspected Severus Snape of all the people in the world. The Order demands a deeper explanation, but Lucius is lost to the shock and morbid hilarity of the situation.

Of course it was Severus. Of course.

It's dark and damp, but then again, potions labs are always dark and damp—it just comes with the definition. The faint glow of moonlight enters through a long window at the far end, the only observer to the dark figure moving about the tables and cauldrons with graceful ease. A pinch of ground sage to that cauldron, four leaves of aconite to another, seven clockwise stirs and one counterclockwise half-turn to a third…it is all a dance, perfectly choreographed. The dance of a master at work.

For such a master, though, he does not look well. His robes are tattered and bloodied, as though he went through a great battle and never bothered to change afterwards. His hair is black and stringy, greasy with potion fumes, and hangs down into his face. Dark circles surround his eyes and his visage is deathly pale, lined with extreme exhaustion.

He carries himself like a broken man, like one who has been fractured beyond repair and is only continuing because he must.

One stir here, a sprinkle of water there, and the dance continues.

It is his eyes that draw the most attention. Set in a marble-like face, they are chips of shattered obsidian, an endless agony and grief written in their depths.

He pauses for nothing in his dance, until at last he appears satisfied with his work. His gaze drifts towards one dark corner before jerking away. He sets down his stirring rod and puts his head in his hands.

Malfoy Manor, 1979, All Hallows Eve

The main study at Malfoy Manor was not the ideal place to hold court, but it would do for the time being. Large and dark, with a wonderfully long desk to spread out an enormous amount of paperwork (honestly, who knew taking over a country would generate so much paperwork) –yes, it would do for now, at least until headquarters could be repaired.

The Dark Lord regards the young man—barley out of childhood—sitting across from him. Snape's face is very pale and taunt, but blanker than a block of marble and about as cold. His eyes, however, burn with an animalistic fury found rarely outside of protective mother grizzly bears. Voldemort knows that his own hold a similar expression.

"Tell me again what is happening at Hogwarts," the Dark Lord demands of the young potions master. There's a slight note of disbelief in his tone, along with a slowly growing surge of livid anger—though none of it is directed at the man in front of him.

And Snape talks. He describes once more how he (despite having no previous experience in the field) was appointed Head of Slytherin House, even though he'd only been a staff member for one month. How he'd used his own personal experience to make the connection that just because there was no record of child abuse didn't mean that it wasn't happening.

How he'd used his status as Head-of-House to get his hands on the medical records of the students…and how he'd found example after example of abuse going on. How he'd realized that most abused children got sorted into Slytherin, followed by a few in Hufflepuff, a couple in Ravenclaw, and the very, very rare one in Gryffindor. How he'd used his connections with the students (because for the sake of grace, everyone third year and up remembered him being there as a student) to gather more information. How he'd finally made a list of every child being abused in Hogwarts—not most of them, thank the gods, but there were far too many, at least one from every year.

"And Dumbledore did what, exactly, with this information?" Voldemort cuts off his report, "Did he perchance explain why nothing had been done to solve this problem previously?"

The young master is silent for a long moment, and the Dark Lord realizes that he's grasping tightly to the reigns of very fragile control.

"Nothing," Snape whispers. "He did nothing. The Headmaster," and here he breaks off with a slightly choked laugh, "The Headmaster does not believe in child abuse. Families wouldn't hurt their children, he said. Families love each other."

Snape bites off the phrase abruptly, staring blankly at the surface of the desk and gripping the arms of his chair until his knuckles turn white.

Voldemort doesn't blame him. If half of what Lucius told him about this man (or rather, about his childhood) is true, then Dumbledore could not have picked words that would hurt him worse if he'd tried. Ironic, that the leader of the Light's utter faith in love is probably what drove the potions master straight to him.

"Surly the old fool is intelligent enough to realize that this will get out?" the Dark Lord asks incredulously.

Another broken laugh from the young man in front of him, and Voldemort feels worry—an emotion he hasn't truly felt in who knows how long—starting to grow.

"He ended the discussion. He hid all the medical records, those of anything that does not happen during the school year that is, under severe notice-me-not spells. He can't get rid of them entirely; otherwise I'm sure he would have. He obliviated Madam Pomfrey, and then he tried to obliviate me. He thinks he succeeded."

Silence. Utter silence.

A fly could be heard buzzing around the study. Any other moment and one of the two of them would have done away with the insect with the flick of a wand. Right now, they have far more important things to think about than a minor annoyance.

Voldemort is somewhat shocked. He'd known, of course, that Snape's Occlumency shields were strong enough to prevent obliviation—that was half the reason Snape was his spy at Hogwarts. But though he'd prepared for the possibility, he'd never thought Dumbledore would actually go that far. It was…nonsensical.

"Alright," he says into the silence. "You're going to have to handle this problem at Hogwarts, as it is clear that no one else will do so. Outside, though, is another issue. We have to get those children out of those homes, as well as take care of any future problems. I'll assume that you'll handle most of those instances."

The young man nods.

"Good. Feel free to use whatever violence you need to. Make sure it's attributed to the Death Eaters. It will discourage child abuse and increase recruitment." He pauses for a moment, seriously contemplating what he's going to say, before deciding that it is too important of an issue to worry about personal image.

"If you need to, bring the children here. They will not be injured under any circumstance, no matter what side they or their parents lean towards. If they are Light, we will, obviously, modify their memories before they leave." He sighs.

They sit for a while in silence. The Dark Lord contemplates the problems at Hogwarts and how on earth Dumbledore managed to screw up so badly. At last, Snape stirs.

"Why?"

The question burns through the silence, a thousand thoughts rolled into one.

"Why, my Lord, are you so willing to risk this operation to help children?"

It's a rather ambiguous question, Voldemort thinks. While on the one hand it is genuine—Snape really does want to know why he would act so fast on this issue—it is not the question the young potions master is really asking.

Why are you aiding me with regards to this problem? Voldemort interprets. Why are you, the evil dark lord, finally doing something about this issue, when no one else will? And another, far more hidden one: Why didn't anyone help me? Why didn't anyone do anythingat all?

It's a surprisingly brave query. After all, it takes a certain type of person to question the Dark Lord when he has made up his mind on an issue. Members of his own Inner Circle are unwilling to voice objections to his plans, and yet this very young man is demanding an answer without a hint of remorse or fear. This, Voldemort thinks, this is what will either win him Snape's eternal loyalty or drive him away forever. And he can answer with nothing but the blunt truth. Voldemort sighs.

"Because I can," he replies softly, "Because Dumbledore, too, failed me when I desperately needed his aid, and although I was too late to save the most recent generation" your generation…you "I will do everything in my power to help the next."

Snape's eyes snap up to meet his for the first time. Onyx and scarlet lock onto one another in a quiet moment of complete understanding and a common goal. No more words are necessary. In a moment Snape will leave the office and go back to Hogwarts to begin his underground campaign against child abuse, and the Dark Lord will continue on with the endless piles of paperwork surrounding him.

But in this one brief moment, a connection is born.

The Inner Circle finally resembles prisoners who will meet their death in a few hours. Ironically, their instability has nothing to do with their upcoming fate.

Lucius, after long moments, manages to cap his hysterics and looks around to see how the others have taken this…revelation…that the Order tossed out like it was old news. Probably was.

Bellatrix—dear Mordred Bella, who was already drifting into insanity—stares straight ahead, still white with shock. She'd most likely go to her grave like that, as this was one blow too many.

Rabastan is giggling across the way—eerie, unnerving giggles that send shivers down the spine. The Order members are attempting to get information out of him, as he was the last one to reply to their demands, but at the moment he's lost in his own morbid, horrific hilarity.

The others hang between these two states, in shock or hysterics. It's a cruel blow, delivered with such carelessness. Ironic, that a simple phrase could shatter the sanity of the strongest, closest, most loyal organization in decades if not centuries. The Order could not have achieved this level of hysteria had they tortured the Circle for months on end. Yet just one phrase…

Slowly, they begin to calm down and return to reality.

"I don't know why you're all so shocked," Kingsley Shacklebolt comments, "I was under the impression that Death Eaters are the most paranoid bastards around. Surly you must have expected something like this when you noticed Snape wasn't in these cells with you?"

"We thought he was dead," Rodolphus manages to gasp, summing up all their thoughts on the matter. Lucius idly wonders if he'll survive till his execution.

"Why on earth didn't you suspect Snape?" someone asks in genuine curiosity. Ahh, Gryffindors' greatest failing: the inability to let something go.

Lucius decides to direct the conversation away from that question for the moment; it's been ingrained in him for so long to never let out what Severus means to the Circle that he's unwilling to do so now.

"Why did you trust Severus Snape of all people to spy for you?" he asks idly. The birds twitter amongst themselves, debating what he could do with this information. Lucius actually meant nothing by the question, the real one he wants to ask is why did Severus betray them…but he doesn't think that these idiots know the real answer, and anyway, it doesn't really matter why he betrayed them, just that he did.

Come to think of it, the whole mess probably has something to do with Potter. Mordred knows, Severus hated the boy's father, but he never approved of hurting children. And when the Dark Lord deliberately targeted a baby…

The Order is chattering at him again, going on and on about how loyal to the Light Snape was, and how they had their reasons for being sure of this—reasons which they wouldn't tell him. He doesn't mind, and the other Circle members (those who have broken out of their shock, that is) find the situation very amusing. Gallows humor and all. Poking at a fresh wound to make sure it really does hurt just as much as remembered. No one ever claimed that the Inner Circle weren't masochists.

"You actually trusted Severus?" Walden Macnair taunts.

"Don't you know what he did? Who he was?" the others continue.

"What do you mean?" demands Moody, "Snape was Voldemort's potions master!"

The entire Inner Circle flinches (in unison) at the Dark Lord's name—they had long since learned to never, never call him that—but otherwise finds Moody's response hilarious.

"Oh for pity's sake," Amycus Carrow exclaims, speaking for the first time since their capture, "Of course Severus dealt with all of our potions—the other idiot we had working in the labs blew up Headquarters time after time. And when Severus went to Hogwarts to teach, we had to move five separate times due to explosions in the first year. But do you mean to tell us that you have no idea what else Severus did? None at all?"

Blank looks from the Order. More laughter from the Circle.

"What do you mean?" the metamorphmagus demands, "Snape didn't do anything besides potions. And even if he did, he wouldn't have meant any of it; he was planning on betraying you all along. He's a Light follower."

The statement sends the Circle into even greater hysterics.

"You think that Severus—" Rabastan pauses in a fit of giggles before continuing, "You think that Severus is Light?"

"He helped our side win, of course he's Light!" The birds were becoming outraged at the Death Eaters continued defiance. This isn't how prisoners are supposed to act.

"Severus Snape Light?" cackles Rodolphus, "You're mad. He's the Darkest member of the Circle. Right up there with our Lord."

"Now, now, I cannot permit you to drag Severus through the mud. Severus Snape is no more Dark than I am," the Headmaster pronounces with soft omnipotence.

More hilarity. The Carrows are in stitches, Augustus is leaning against the bars of his cell for support, the Lestranges—not Bellatrix, though—are giggling. Avery yells something to the Order about locking the Headmaster up, because if he compares to Severus, he must be really, really Dark.

Lucius actually grins—a genuine grin—at the absolute sincerity in the Headmaster's tone. The Old Fool has no idea. No idea whatsoever.

"Severus Snape is the Darkest person I know," Lucius intones quietly.

"Shut up, Malfoy! You just want to see him in prison too. Well, it won't work. You're Voldemort's right hand man, his second in command, you can't fool us," someone shouts defiantly.

"Well, yes, I am the Dark Lord's Right hand wizard. However, the Dark has always favored the Left, not the Right. It's the Light side that believes the Right hand is dominant. And I am most certainly not the Dark Lord's second. That position belonged to Severus."

Momentary silence. Then the denials start. Rabastan rolls his eyes at Lucius again.

"You're lying!" an Order members snaps, "You're the one who controlled the Ministry, you led the raids, you corrupted the officials. Besides, everyone knows you're You-Know-Who's highest ranking person!"

The Circle blinks at the Order for a moment, exchanging 'are they serious' glances.

"Umm…Slytherins" Augustus comments, "Do you really think we'd advertise who our second most powerful person was? Lucius was a front. A damn good one" he adds with a wink at the blond, "But a figurehead none the less."

"Nonsense," Tonks says, "Malfoy was You-Know-Who's second. It is a fact: it's all over the files in the Auror Department."

"Not quite, girl," Lucius murmurs, sneering as she gets riled up, "I might have been the Dark Lord's 'Voice' and promoter, but Severus was his second.

"He was our Lord's Dark Prince."

The moonlight continues to filter through the window, occasionally obstructed by the rare wisp of cloud. It remains the only observer to the dark figure drifting silently about the room.

Potions completed, the master sets to bottling the concoctions into various sets of glass vials, which he then packs into wooden crates. He prints neat labels in perfect, legible handwriting, all beginning with Healing Potions followed by the contents of the box.

Pepperup

Fever Reducer

Pain Reliever

Blood-Replenishing

Murtlap Essence

Skele-Gro

Sleeping Draught

A list of straightforward direction and dosages is placed in the top of each crate before it is sealed. The crates are stacked, one on top of the other, in the middle of the lab, the only clear space in the room.

Though he works quickly and efficiently, the master pauses in his efforts now and then, squeezing his eyes shut or raising a hand to his face—as though caught up in some phantom pain or agonizing memory.

His movements are stiff and lackluster with exhaustion, but before too long all the potions in the room are bottled, labeled, and stowed in the crates. He pauses and examines the stack of wooden boxes which have taken over his lab.

Fourteen crates, two of each potion. Fifty vials to a crate. All clearly labeled, all with easy-to-read-and-follow instructions. A weeks worth of work, done in one night.

He is, after all, a master at his craft.

Drawing a wand from his belt, the master performs a complex spell, intoning the Latin incantation and following with a soft "Hogwarts Infirmary". His voice is deep and melodic, rich like an ancient culture and as smooth as oiled silk, yet it aches with an unfathomable grief.

The crates vanish for their destination in a small flash of light. The master sinks into a hard wooden chair, rubbing his eyes with long, potion stained fingers. He lets his head rest in his hands for a long, long moment, before shaking it gently and raising his eyes to a small black cauldron still bubbling softly in the darkest corner of the room.

His penetrating gaze pierces the cauldron as if it holds all of his hopes and dreams. He stares at the dark corner for boundless time, tearing his eyes away reluctantly. He looks around his lab, cataloging all the tasks which must be completed now that the potions have been made. Another quick glance at the black cauldron, before he turns to straighten up the room.

His eyes make contact with the crescent moon outside, and he stares out the window for a long minute. Onyx pools flash with immeasurable pain and he closes them briefly, an expression of sick horror flickering across his face.

"Why?" he rasps to the silent night, "Dear Merlin, why did it have to be me? Was there no one else?"

But he already knows the answer and he turns back to his task with the air of a defeated man. Someone who did the right thing, who did what no one else could do—but for whom the cost was too high.

Far, far too high.

Malfoy Manor, 1979, The Winter Solstice

The roaring fire crackles and sparks, illuminating the two figures seated around a small table. They're locked in an animated discussion, voices rising and falling in a cadence of sound as points are brought up, discarded, elaborated on, defended, and/or acknowledged. Hands gesture with quiet elegance to emphasize an idea—no extravagant jerking, but that is unnecessary, as even the smallest twitch of a finger can communicate displeasure, annoyance, interest, agreement, and a thousand and one other emotions. They are, after all, Slytherins.

A half empty bottle of wine—a good year, too—sits on the table between the men, along with two occasionally sipped glasses. Next to it, an abandoned chess game rests, having been long since forgotten in favor of more captivating activities.

Such as the lively discourse currently occupying all of their attention.

A light knocking on the door goes unnoticed as a more heated point of contention is brought up once more, and a moment later Lucius Malfoy enters. He raises his eyebrows with amusement at the scene in front of him, but waits patiently for his Lord and his Lord's guest to notice his presence.

Handfuls of minutes later and Lucius is fighting to keep his silent amusement contained. He finds it hilarious that the two most paranoid people he knows are completely oblivious to their surroundings when in an intense, highly competitive debate. Yes, his decision to introduce this particular person to the Dark Lord was the best choice he ever made.

Undoubtedly, the guest is the only individual capable of holding his own against the Dark Lord in any argument. The fact that he had no qualms about telling the Dark Lord that he is wrong and then proceed to correct him…well, it is no wonder the Dark Lord finds his servant fascinating, captivating.

They make quite the pair: two brilliant geniuses contemplating the finer points of magical theory and creating whole new branches of unexplored magic simply by discussing possibilities; two masters of the Dark Art (the two Darkest of the Dark people to walk this earth), though, of course, this is not their only field of mastery; undeniably the two best duelers in Europe and, quite possibly, the entire world.

They're breathtaking in their intensity, and Lucius will follow both of them to the end of time. And it is both of them, for he knows—unconsciously—that this person is the closest thing the Dark Lord will ever have to a friend, and there must be some privilege to accompany this position. The young man will always be the Dark Lord's servant, but unlike all the other Inner Circle members, he will also be something more.

Lucius, realizing that his Lord is unlikely to ever notice his presence if he remains quiet, clears his throat.

The Dark Lord and his guest jump slightly, jerking their wide eyes towards him. He's hard pressed not to laugh, for they bear an uncanny resemblance to startled cats, and he knows they can read his amusement in his eyes.

Lucius delivers his message quickly and leaves his Lord and guest to their unfinished discussion. The two men can hear him laughing as he walks away down the corridor and they exchange a look of mild annoyance.

Voldemort takes a sip of his wine and leans back in his chair, eyes locking onto his companion once more.

"Now," he murmurs into the quiet, "Where were we?"

And Severus rests his sharp, intense gaze on his Lord and allows a slow smirk to curl across his lips.

Silence permeates the makeshift prison, where just a moment ago loud accusations rang. The Circle members have stifled their hilarity, content to watch the Order's reactions to this piece of information.

"There's no way in Hell that Snape's the Dark Prince!" someone snarls at last, "He was on the Light side. He would never do the things the Dark Prince is accused of. You're just trying to ruin a war hero!"

And that breaks the Circle's determination to simply observe, and they dissolve into various states of amusement again. The birds are livid, absolutely furious at this perceived injustice to their own spy, and so terribly, terribly naïve.

Lucius leans his head back against the stone wall, letting his eyes fall shut and a small smirk to cross his face. He knows what the Dark Prince is accused of doing—after all, he was present for over half of the atrocities.

The most memorable bodies of the Dark Prince's victims were grotesquely dismembered and sexually mutilated; the corpses often suspended in air by a sharpened pole shoved up the rectum or vagina (depending on the sex of the victim), leading to a long, excruciating death by the force of gravity; their screams silenced by carved off genitals which were then stuffed into the mouth, or, in the case of the few female victims, lopped off fingers which served the same purpose. A ghastly death, one which truly showed the humane side of Avada Kedavra; at least the Unforgivable offered a quick, painless demise.

What the Order doesn't know—what the official records don't know—is that every single one of these 'victims' was an instigator of severe sexual abuse of a child. That every 'victim' had to repeatedly rape a minor to be sentenced to this death. That the 'evil Dark Prince' had turned around and walked every one of those children through relentless therapy, giving silent comfort and support no matter what side of the war the child chose to follow.

That to this day there was a silent, tiny minority from every house at Hogwarts (and every generation during the years he taught there) who would follow Severus Snape to the ends of time for what he did for them; who would obey his every request and would willingly throw themselves in front of a curse to save their quiet protector. The fact that he never once called on them or asked anything of them (and never would) only heightened their devotion.

To Lucius's amusement, the Old Fool apparently decides that this accusation is far too much and proceeds to lecture the Circle members on their tactless and outright horrifying lies. After a few minutes of this treatment, he interrupts the Headmaster.

"Ahh, but how do you know that Severus isn't the Dark Prince?" Lucius asks, idle curiosity with an underlying knowledge that is hard to refute.

The Headmaster regards him with disappointment, though for what Lucius has no idea.

"I believe, Mr. Malfoy, that I know Severus Snape better than you do. And I'm firmly convinced that the man I know would never have committed these atrocities."

Lucius arches an eyebrow at this bold statement. He can see Rabastan gaping incredulously. Walden and Augustus exchange disbelieving glances and Alecto shakes her head at Dumbledore's naivety.

"The Severus Snape you knew was all an act," Lucius says with quiet assurance, "You have no idea of what Severus is capable of, and you most certainly do not know him better than I do. Only two people can claim that position and they're both dead."

The Dark Lord. Lily Evans.

Severus's master and his first friend. The only two people in this world he truly, truly cared about. Ironically enough, he played a significant role in both of their deaths.

"Mr. Malfoy, I believe you are mistaken. It is to you that he presented his act to, not to me. He would have no reason to, after all. I was always there for him when he needed me."

And suddenly, inexplicitly, Lucius is furious. It doesn't make sense; Severus sliced the Circle's world to bits when he betrayed them—and Lucius is still having a hard time wrapping his mind around the fact that the traitor was Severus.

Yet right now, despite all Severus has done to them and their Lord, Lucius feels an incomprehensible urge to defend him from this slander; to make the Old Fool eat his words because of how little he really understands who Severus Snape is; to show this entire group of people exactly how badly they failed the potions master.

Looking across the way, he can see that Rabastan holds a similar opinion, if one is to judge by the burning in his eyes. He knows, without a doubt, that the rest of the Circle is likewise inclined.

In a soft voice full of cold fury he begins.

"Oh really. There whenever Severus needed you, hmm?

"Where were you when Severus showed up on that first night, eleven years old and beaten to a pulp? Were you the one to heal his wounds and attempt to stop him from cowering in the corner like a kicked dog?

"Where were you when he returned year after year from the most abusive household I've ever had the displeasure of witnessing? Where were you when the seventh years pooled all their healing knowledge—Dark and Light—to put him back together time and again? Where were you when a twelve year old had to learn how to do complex healing spells wandlessly so he could survive the upcoming summer?"

The Order stirs uncomfortably, curiosity keeping them quiet. Lucius isn't surprised. Severus is a very quiet person, and it is doubtful that he ever told anyone a thing about his past. He isn't done yet, though. Time to rub some more salt on the wounds when they're still fresh.

"Where were you when the Gryffindors—that beloved quartet of yours—bullied him into the hospital wing time and again? Oh, that's right, you encouraged them. 'Boys will be boys, after all' and all that rot. Let them get off with trivial punishment, quietly encouraging them to continue with their actions. Your golden Gryffindors could do no malicious wrong, could they? Why would you protect a small, ragged Slytherin who was obviously lying? He was going Dark anyway…as if."

Lucius bites this phrase off contemptuously. The Order mutters to themselves, but dares not make too much noise so as to discontinue the revelations. The Headmaster is white, his lips a tight line of fury, but Lucius is too far gone to care.

"Were you the one to find him at his house that summer after his fifth year? Of course not, you were nowhere near the premises. Lily Evans, of all people, was the one to owl me, claiming she felt something was wrong and that I needed to get him out of there and out fast. Unbelievable, isn't it? They might have broken their friendship the previous year, but the mudblood was inarguably the sole person outside of Slytherin to give a damn about him.

"Do you know what I found when I arrived there, Headmaster? Tobias Snape had carved Severus's mother to pieces with a butcher knife…in front of him, I might add. I won't give you the details of the state Severus was in, but he was lucky to still be alive with the sheer amount of blood he had lost.

"Were you there, Headmaster, when Severus magically broke the bonds that tied him up and used the knife which had murdered his mother to stab his father to death? It was rather bloody, I must say. We had to heal the body to hide the evidence, there were so many wounds. I'm sure you know the official story: Tobias Snape committed suicide after killing his wife. The Circle, the Dark Lord, and Lily Evans were the only people to know otherwise.

"No Headmaster," he finishes into the horrified silence, "You most certainly do not know Severus better than I do…not when you missed so many key moments in the making of the man he became."

The master moves about the lab with a graceful ease, replacing ingredients, straightening shelves, rinsing vials and various tools. A chime rings into the quiet, and he gently sets down the set of knives he is washing, snags a clean stirring rod from a nearby counter, and moves over to the darkest corner of the room, where one final potion brews.

Three stirs clockwise, a half-turn back. A pinch of dried bloodroot leaf, finely ground. Five unicorn hairs, freely given. One full turn and another half back. A dash of spring water. Seven pomegranate seeds. Two more clockwise stirs, and then three counterclockwise.

The potion simmers. It is the color of liquid moonlight, transparent and a golden-silver. It gives off a dancing light, which illuminates the normally pitch-black corner, casting fluttering shadows about the room. The light softens the harsh edges of the counters and shelves, graduates the change between shadow and light, making the entire room appear ethereal, celestial, like something out of a mystical dream.

It is easily the most beautiful thing the master has ever made. It looks as if it should belong in a fairy tale, where a handsome prince tips the potion to a sleeping beauty's lips, awakening the princess and living happily ever after.

The master finishes with the potion for the moment, resets the timer, and turns back to his task at cleaning and stowing the knives.

At the end of the pile, he pauses in the act of putting away the last one. He holds the long butcher knife in his hand, gazing at its flat surface as if to study his reflection in the wide blade. An expression of longing creeps over his face and he runs his fingers down the metallic surface, testing the edge, a contemplative hunger slinking into his eyes.

With a sigh, he replaces the knife in the rack with the others. "Not yet," he murmurs to himself, wrenching his gaze away from the deadly, sharp objects. He goes to sit in his hard chair, but a shadow crossing the window catches his attention.

He grips his wand hard—the potions master has many enemies still at large in the world, all of whom would love to see him dead—relaxing his grip only when he recognizes the familiar silhouette of an owl against the moonlight. With quiet, gliding steps, he walks over to the window and let the bird in.

A ministry one, by the looks of things, its carriage indicating a self-important air found only in the messengers of the dignitaries. The master relieves the owl of its burden and sends it back off into the night. He remains by the window for a long while, running his fingers over the thick, expensive parchment. After a moment, he walks back to his chair, sinks into it, and breaks the seal on the letter.

…it is with great honor that we present you with the Order of Merlin, first class. To receive this prestigious award, please present yourself to the ministry at…

…on a personal note, we are very grateful for your efforts to the Light side in the war. Mr. Potter has made it clear that it would have been impossible to kill You-Know-Who without your aid. There is no way we can express our gratitude for this immeasurable help. Please let us know if…

The letter falls from his boneless grasp, fluttering to the floor with barely a sound. The master sits perfectly still, his gaze bend downward and focused on his hands—the same position as when he read the damning words.

His face is the picture of anguish, eyes burning with unfathomable agony and grief that blaze through the dark reaches of his soul. He remains motionless save for his hands, which shake faintly.

A soft hitch in his intake of breath and his hands fly upward. He buries his face in their depths.

A long, long moment passes, and still it is only the slight, imperceptible shaking of his shoulders that indicate he is crying.

The Dark Lord's Headquarters, 1980, Beltane

Moonlight filters through the glass-paned window, bathing the room in soft shadows and pools of silver. It illuminates the tall canopy bed covered in black silk sheets, which provide a sharp contrast to the snow-white skin of the two figures intimately entwined in the bed's depths.

Soft, unsteady breathing fills the air as Voldemort rolls over on top of his potions master. He gazes down at Severus, in awe of the first genuine smile he's ever seen to grace the young man's face. Severus quirks an eyebrow at him in silent question of his intense study and Voldemort cannot prevent himself from leaning down and capturing those thin lips with his own.

They are silent lovers, the occasional gasp or soft, breathy laugh the only indication that they are engaged in anything of carnal nature. Lips and tongues meet in a haze of pleasure, fingers slide over satiny skin in gentle caresses, long limbs entwine, shift, and cling.

As the night draws to a close, they collapse back, finally sated and content to lie curled against one another. Voldemort runs long fingers through Severus's inky hair and lightly down his spine, watching as his potions master stretches against him like a wildcat—fierce and deadly, but for the moment content and dozing. Dark Lords simply do not cradle people to them (or do anything of the like), but Voldemort thinks he can make an exception, just one, for Severus.

There is no need for quiet reassurances or affirmations of affection. Though they will never say the words aloud, every movement, caress, trail of lips over skin, and firm kiss states what they cannot.

'I love you.'

The Order warbles amongst themselves once more. They have not taken the revelation of Severus's past well at all—though none of the Circle is surprised. Despite the fact that many of them fought in a war, the birds are incredibly naïve when it comes to malicious actions.

Lucius finally breaks off the silent conversation he's been holding with Rabastan to glance at the Burnt Pigeons. To his consternation, he finds the metamorphmagus is not joining in with the other members of the Order, but rather gazing intently at him in silent contemplation.

"Why," she asks, killing the conversation around her, "Were you so very surprised when I said that Snape was on our side, that he had betrayed you?"

Lucius looks her straight in the eye. A damn inconvenient time for the Black blood in her to finally make an appearance. Though, the Order would have found out eventually. Possibly.

To delay the inevitable for as long as possible, he replies with a question, the implications of which he's been toying with in his mind for a while now.

"Why don't you ask him yourself?"

"I'm afraid that simply isn't possible," the Headmaster answers, "Severus is in a secure location he made during the war that we don't have access to. It's not very easy to contact him at the moment."

The Circle is silent, exchanging knowing, incredulous glances.

"You mean to say," Rabastan states, in his best 'I really can't believe this' voice, "That you just left Severus alone? Completely alone? You haven't sent someone to check on him and make sure he hasn't killed himself yet?"

Chaos. That is the only way to describe the Order's reaction. The Circle isn't much better. They know, with a surety that the Order's protests cannot shake, that it is unlikely anyone will ever see the potions master alive ever again.

"Nonsense," the Old Fool says solemnly, "Now that Voldemort" flinches "is dead, Severus has no need to hide himself away. He's finally able to leave the Dark and join the Light publicly. He has everything to live for. There's no reason at all that he would kill himself!"

Silence.

"Have you listened to nothing that Lucius has said?" Alecto asks, incredulously, "Severus is as Dark as they come."

"And he has nothing to live for," Lucius adds quietly, "In aiding your side, he gave up and lost everything. No, Severus has no reason whatsoever to continue existing."

Malfoy Manor, 1980, Midsummer's Eve

Voldemort glances around the study with a sigh. Really, he had to find a better replacement for Severus, this was the third time they'd had to move in as many months. Lucius Malfoy, although a gracious host, was simply not capable of supporting the number of Death Eaters the Dark Lord needed to be near him. Perhaps he'd address that problem tonight.

A quiet knock on the door breaks him from his thoughts.

"Come in," he calls, sparing one final look at the hopeless amount of paperwork that the desk has managed to accumulate.

Severus and Lucius enter, dressed in Death Eater robes but carrying their masks—Lucius's the standard white and Severus's a brilliant silver.

They bow.

"Ahh, I need to speak with you both before tonight's meeting. Lucius," he turns his attention to the blond, "There is a task which I need you to take on. It will be long-term and rather dangerous—only the members of the Circle will know what it is you are doing."

"Of course, my Lord," Lucius replies, unafraid, unwavering in his loyalty despite the Dark Lord's warning. It is this loyalty that assures Voldemort that Lucius is perfect for this position.

"As you know, tonight I will introduce Severus as my Dark Prince, my second. That is, I'll introduce him this way to the Circle. To all others, especially the public, no one will know who the Dark Prince is, and you will be my second. You'll be the figurehead, the public face with which we introduce our goals.

"That is not to say you are not very important to the cause. Severus will remain at Hogwarts; his work there—although not directly helpful to us—is indispensable and too important to stop. You will work the ministry, bribe the politicians, keep the Circle out of Azkaban for as long as possible, etc. Do not endanger yourself or your position—claim whatever excuse you need to should your status as one of mine be found out.

"Your goal is to be my 'official' second. Naturally, this will not show up in the ministry files just yet, but for those who are already convinced of your guilt—that is to say, the Order—you will be the highest-ranking Death Eater.

"In reality, this position will belong Severus, but I want no one outside of the Circle to know. Are you capable of doing this?"

Lucius tilts his head to the side, a slow smirk flickering across his features as he contemplates the situation. The Dark Lord was by no means demoting him, for he'd already accepted Severus's status, probably before the Dark Lord even realized what Severus meant to him.

"I would be delighted," he says quietly, a hint of satisfaction creeping into his tone at the sheer Slytherin-esque plot.

Voldemort dismisses him and as the door closes he turns to Severus, who has remained unmoving and silent during the discussion.

"And you, my Prince?" he murmurs softly, "Are you satisfied with the way things will turn out?"

Severus lifts his dark, intent gaze to his Lord's scarlet eyes, a small crooked grin twitching at the corners of his mouth.

"Very" he breathes near silently.

Voldemort crosses the small space that separates them, lifting one long, pale hand and gently brushing the back of his fingers against Severus's cheek. His potions master leans ever so slightly into the caress, and Voldemort's lips twitch in a dark smile.

He leans forward and kisses his Dark Prince gently.

"In a world and time filled with uncertainty and change," he states with quiet conviction, "The one thing I am always confident of is your loyalty to me."

His niece-in-law is at it again, demanding an explanation for the reason they didn't suspect Severus.

"It just doesn't make sense!" she snaps, at the end of her patience, "You were You-Know-Who's second, and even you were under suspicion from him on occasion!"

Lucius gives a soft laugh, exchanging an eye-roll with Rabastan.

"How often must I inform you of this? I am not the Dark Lord's second. That was Severus."

Rabastan seizes the moment to taunt Dumbledore once more.

"What, you mean the great omnipotent leader of the Light really doesn't know what Severus was to the Dark Lord? He, being the perfect little informant, didn't tell you?"

The Order is not amused. They yell obscenities at the Circle, criticizing them, their families, their magic, and anything else they can think of.

The Circle is not impressed—after all, they lived with Severus for years, the man who could reduce a full-grown, 'nasty-evil-Death-Eater' to tears in three sentences flat (or less, if he was feeling particularly vicious).

They share a few discrete glances, holding a quiet conference in the way only Slytherins can, with twitches, eyebrows, and gazes communicating sentences faster than words. It's not entirely inevitable that the birds will find out what Severus was, as only the members of this room know and they have been sentenced to die the following morning. And it is highly unlikely that Severus will tell anyone.

And yet, they are all struck by an urge to for once and for all show the self-righteous bastards just how badly they screwed up. And this information would do that irrevocably.

Lucius breaks through the chaos in his softest, mildest tone that carries the weight of a deadly secret.

"The reason none of us suspected Severus, not once, especially not our Lord, is because he was the Dark Lord's Dark Prince," he states quietly, "His most trusted adviser. His companion. His lover."

Silence. Utter, shocked, disbelieving silence.

A grin graces his lips as he continues.

"Up until now, I would have argued that Severus was the Dark Lord's most loyal, devoted follower, who would do anything for him. And I know—despite what all of you appear to think—that no matter whose side Severus is really on, our Lord's death will have absolutely shattered him. I doubt he'll still be alive when you finally find wherever he is. He's always had a thing for suicide."

Frozen silence. The Order simply cannot believe what has been said; that Severus Snape, of all people, was the lover of the Dark Lord.

Bellatrix Lestrange utters her first sound since the revelation that Severus had betrayed them. She lets out a low, cackling laugh that rings with insanity and hilarity and grief. The result is horrific, and the noise snaps the Order into action.

They race out of the room, shouting at each other, dysfunctional as always. The Circle can hear them all the way down the hall, yelling that they had to save Snape, that no one deserves to die, that they'll stop him from killing himself and make him all better again, that You-Know-Who must have doused him with some evil spell to make him do those things, or that Malfoy was just lying to them as usual.

Hypocritical bastards, the lot of them.

Lucius leans back against his cell wall with a dark smile. He knows, without a doubt, that the Order will not find Severus alive. That Severus will join the Dark Lord before he—or any of the rest of them—does.

He knows that when he walks through the Veil of Death come dawn, he'll find his beloved Lord and the Dark Prince waiting for him on the other side. He does not know if he'll find them attempting to eradicate one another's souls or if they'll be locked in a soul-searing kiss.

But they will be together. He is certain of that.

They are simply inseparable.

A soft hissing fills the lab, causing the potions master to raise his head and glance towards the corner. His face is stained with tears, eyes bleak and tired, aching with grief. He stands slowly, drifting across the room in measured steps, and he peers into the cauldron.

The brilliance of the liquid throws dancing shadows and ripples across his face, like a beam of light reflecting off the surface of water. Two tears drip down his chin and fall into the concoction, but he pays them no mind.

Tears of genuine grief will only add to the potency.

He takes a clear glass rod and stirs the potion seven times clockwise, with one half-turn in the opposite direction for every full circle. A low humming fills the air, similar to that created by a wooden stick stroked about a metal bowl, and by this sound he knows that the potion is complete.

The master pours a ladle-full of the draught into a large crystal goblet. He vanishes the remaining liquid with a flick of his wand, taking the goblet and gliding over to the long window, where the crescent moon floats in the dark sky, serenely watching the world.

The crystal goblet acts like a prism, casting thousands of tiny rainbows about the room as the light of the potion reflects through its surface. Beautiful, ethereal, the goblet seems to be filled with luminescent nectar, a diamond shell capturing liquid moonlight.

With the hint of a smile grazing him lips, the potions master toasts to the crescent moon, downing the potion and letting it swirl around his mouth before swallowing. It tastes like clear, cool spring water, with hints of mint and honey, and the very slightest note of raspberries. Soothing, delicious, refreshing, pleasing to the senses.

Ironic, that a potion which is so beautiful, so light, so brilliant, resembling so very much an Elixir of Life, is really the darkest, deadliest poison in existence.

It just emphasizes the fact that appearances can be deceiving.

Hideously complicated, no one has made the concoction since the time of Salazar Slytherin, though thousands have tried. It is a credit to his capabilities that he has succeeded.

The potions master crumples to the floor, the poison coursing through his body, stealing his life away by the second. Dark eyes gaze up at the night sky, awareness draining from their depths. A small smile twitches at the corners of his mouth, and he breathes two syllables, the words dripping like musical notes from his lips.

"My Lord."

His breaths stop, eyes fix in place—locked on the moon.

The empty goblet rolls a few inches from his relaxed hand, a single remaining drop of the lethal liquid hanging from the rim.

The Final Battle, 1997, All Hallows Eve

With a feeling of sick horror Voldemort turns around, searching the battlefield for one face. The tide has long since swept against the Dark; the Light advancing across the war zone, decimating his minions left and right.

None of that matters at the moment, though. He's finally, finally realized who the traitor is.

Scarlet eyes sweep the expanse of the field, cataloging the Order and Aurors meeting the sea of black robes and white masks. He ignores them all, his gaze seeking out the one he knows best—the one he thought he knew best.

And there, in the small gap between the armies of the Light and those of the Dark, he finds him. His lover is dressed in black, bloodied robes and his mask is gone, leaving his face open to the Dark Lord's scrutiny.

Onyx eyes lock onto scarlet.

Voldemort simply cannot comprehend that Severus, his Dark Prince, is the one to betray them, to abandon their cause. He's completely oblivious to Harry Potter charging towards him with the intent to kill. He doesn't twitch when deadly curses fly past his head, missing by inches. He's unaware of how many Death Eaters he's lost, of how many of his Circle are dead or captured.

He's unable to tear his eyes away from the absolutely stricken gaze of his lover.

Voldemort feels a Sectumsempra rip his chest open, spilling his life's blood down his robes and into the trampled grass. The irony of the moment strikes him and he laughs, a high, cold, broken laugh—Potter might have cast the spell, but the curse which would to be his downfall is one that Severus invented.

He falls to the ground gracefully, a Dark Angel chopped down by the armies of the Light. He can feel Potter approaching him, puzzled, curious, wondering what trick he might have up his sleeve.

No trick, he wants to say, because it was the Light side that has pulled the cruelest trick in the book, though he doubts they even realize it.

Voldemort lets his eyes fall shut, his body becoming colder and colder as his blood drains away. His mind flashes to his lover—well, it's never really left his lover, but the blood loss is making him incoherent and he can't cling to more than one idea at a time.

He briefly wonders why, remembering how grief-stricken his Prince was at the betrayal in his Lord's eyes—grief-stricken, but filled with a determination to continue fighting for the opposing side.

He discards the thought. The why doesn't matter as much as the fact that Severus did betray…

Dear Gods…his own lover. The one person he trusts—trusted—above all others in the world. The one and only person he ever lov—

No. Can't think about that.

A single tear runs down his cheek, sliding off and into the grass.

His body is numb, cold, pain hunting his mind like hounds on a fox. It's only a matter of time now, before the end. Despite a lifelong obsession (fear) with the subject, he does not wonder about what awaits him after death; he spares no moment to consider whether he'll be in Heaven or Hell, damned either way.

His final thoughts rest on Severus, and he thinks he could understand, perhaps, why his lover betrayed him…if he had enough time for his potions master to explain the reasoning.

:~:

When they find his body, the last wisps of his spirit having just departed, they want to burn it, bury it in Azkaban, cast it into the depths of the Sea, mutilate it, degrade it, throw all their hatred upon his corps.

Potter stops them, kneeling down and lightly brushing his fingers along the Voldemort's cheek, where the wet track of a tear remains. He rises slowly, Incendio-ing the body with a flick from his wand, before conjuring a wind and letting it scatter the ashes of his enemy over the battlefield.

'It's rather fitting,' he thinks (as he turns away from the Order's furious yells and protests), 'that no one will know Voldemort's final resting place'. And he wonders, in the back of his mind, what it was that drew his enemy's thoughts at the moment of his death.

For what force or emotion, on this side of eternity, could make the greatest Dark Lord in centuries weep?

It's a happy, cheerful ending. The victors, after all, write the history.

Finite Incantatem

Well, that's that. Rather depressing on the whole.

Notes:

1. Severus did betray the Dark Lord. I'd like to image that he did something a bit more drastic than simply spy: feed everyone strength-reducing potions, create an army of golems and then have them not work, get rid of the non-human allies...something like that. Something which would cause Voldemort to suddenly understand that Severus was no longer on his side. But as for what he did? Up to you.

2. Way back in their first real meeting, when Voldemort answers Severus's "Why" question, he does not answer incorrectly and thus make Severus betray him from the start. In this moment, he wins Severus's eternal loyalty…until he betrays his own principle (and Severus's one uncompromising line) by attacking a baby (Harry). Which, for clarity, is at least a year and a half after they became lovers. Just wanted to make that clear. Severus is absolutely on the Dark Lord's side until he decides to attack the Potters.

3. Severus's past...really, I can't take complete credit for the idea. The basis of the idea goes to Goblin Cat KC in "Oath Breaker: White Roses Under Snow". I simply elaborated a bit on it.

4. The Inner Circle is a way more loyal to the Dark Lord than in either the books or most FF. They would do anything for him, which is why they're all so surprised when Severus betrays Voldemort.

Anyway, that's all for now, folks.

Riddle

(Fully edited April 2015)