My name is Severus Snape
Feb. 19th, 2015 09:13 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alt_severusI am a member of the Order of the Phoenix.
When I was eighteen years old, I joined Voldemort and his cause, seduced by pretty promises and stirring rhetoric. I realised quickly that stirring rhetoric was as false as the man who espoused it. Tom Riddle, better known as Voldemort, does not care about wizarding culture; he does not care about pureblood heritage. He is a halfblooded wizard who has seized power through deception and held it through his own atrocity and through tempting his followers to layer further atrocity atop his, and his hatred and persecution of Muggles and Muggleborn wizards is due to nothing but a desire for revenge upon those in his past he believes to have slighted him.
Those who hold power will call these the words of a traitor and a convict, but like so many others, my twelve years in Azkaban were for nothing more than possessing knowledge that was inconvenient for Riddle's plans, not as punishment for any of the crimes I committed while under his aegis. Azkaban is full of men and women guilty of no harsher crime than threatening the equilibrium or the image of Riddle's soi-disant utopia. The streets of New London are full of men and women guilty of crime after crime that will never be prosecuted.
You know this. In your heart of hearts, you know this is not the utopia you were promised, no matter how hard you try to convince yourself of the beauty of the Emperor's new clothes. You know you have been sold lies, and have paid far too dear a price for them. You know that no matter your rôle, your labour — your belief — is being used to prop up the paper tiger of the Protectorate; you may believe you love your country, but your country does not love you. It cannot. The Protectorate, like its ruler, has no heart to offer you, only fear and famine. The Protectorate takes the honest honour of its citizens and spends that coin on atrocity with the greatest of glee. The Protectorate endures because Riddle is able to persuade others — both those who rejoice in cruelty and those who are simply trying to live their lives — of the rightness of his orders, and because he and his followers have established very high penalties indeed for dissent.
I say to those of you who follow him, whether you have been inducted into his mysteries or simply are willing to follow him in exchange for what few scraps of power he will let out of his hands: You are being used. Your actions do nothing more than lend legitimacy to a corrupt and bankrupt régime. You may seek power; you receive powerlessness. You may seek fortune; you receive fear. You may seek advancement; you receive atrocity. The Protectorate has no future. It cannot endure. All its shining promise is nothing more than gilt painted over rotting wood.
I will not condemn you for your belief: we are made to want a cause, a nation, a purpose. But no matter what you have done, no matter what mistakes you have made, no matter how closely you feel you are tied to the rise and fall of Tom Riddle's failed state, it is never too late to make a different decision, as I made a different decision, as so many others have. Free yourself now, before you too are a victim of Riddle's paranoia.
Riddle has sworn some seventy Death Eaters since his rise to power began. Thirty of us are dead or fled. How many of those thirty were killed by Riddle himself because he knew he had lost our allegiance? What did Dominic Selwyn know, to make him willing to sacrifice his life in the hopes of ending Riddle's? How many of the remaining would flee, if they felt they could?
When I was eighteen years old, I joined Voldemort and his cause, seduced by pretty promises and stirring rhetoric. I realised quickly that stirring rhetoric was as false as the man who espoused it. Tom Riddle, better known as Voldemort, does not care about wizarding culture; he does not care about pureblood heritage. He is a halfblooded wizard who has seized power through deception and held it through his own atrocity and through tempting his followers to layer further atrocity atop his, and his hatred and persecution of Muggles and Muggleborn wizards is due to nothing but a desire for revenge upon those in his past he believes to have slighted him.
Those who hold power will call these the words of a traitor and a convict, but like so many others, my twelve years in Azkaban were for nothing more than possessing knowledge that was inconvenient for Riddle's plans, not as punishment for any of the crimes I committed while under his aegis. Azkaban is full of men and women guilty of no harsher crime than threatening the equilibrium or the image of Riddle's soi-disant utopia. The streets of New London are full of men and women guilty of crime after crime that will never be prosecuted.
You know this. In your heart of hearts, you know this is not the utopia you were promised, no matter how hard you try to convince yourself of the beauty of the Emperor's new clothes. You know you have been sold lies, and have paid far too dear a price for them. You know that no matter your rôle, your labour — your belief — is being used to prop up the paper tiger of the Protectorate; you may believe you love your country, but your country does not love you. It cannot. The Protectorate, like its ruler, has no heart to offer you, only fear and famine. The Protectorate takes the honest honour of its citizens and spends that coin on atrocity with the greatest of glee. The Protectorate endures because Riddle is able to persuade others — both those who rejoice in cruelty and those who are simply trying to live their lives — of the rightness of his orders, and because he and his followers have established very high penalties indeed for dissent.
I say to those of you who follow him, whether you have been inducted into his mysteries or simply are willing to follow him in exchange for what few scraps of power he will let out of his hands: You are being used. Your actions do nothing more than lend legitimacy to a corrupt and bankrupt régime. You may seek power; you receive powerlessness. You may seek fortune; you receive fear. You may seek advancement; you receive atrocity. The Protectorate has no future. It cannot endure. All its shining promise is nothing more than gilt painted over rotting wood.
I will not condemn you for your belief: we are made to want a cause, a nation, a purpose. But no matter what you have done, no matter what mistakes you have made, no matter how closely you feel you are tied to the rise and fall of Tom Riddle's failed state, it is never too late to make a different decision, as I made a different decision, as so many others have. Free yourself now, before you too are a victim of Riddle's paranoia.
Riddle has sworn some seventy Death Eaters since his rise to power began. Thirty of us are dead or fled. How many of those thirty were killed by Riddle himself because he knew he had lost our allegiance? What did Dominic Selwyn know, to make him willing to sacrifice his life in the hopes of ending Riddle's? How many of the remaining would flee, if they felt they could?
