A/N - I removed this story from ffnet about a year ago. After re-reading it, I realised how much I had improved as a writer, and was a bit embarrassed by how basic it was. I also never actually got round to finishing it, despite having the entire plot laid out in my head.
Well, those of you who know me, also know how much Alan Rickman meant to me. It was his performance in Robin Hood, which I saw in the cinema when I was just eight years old, which inspired me to become a performer in the first place. I loved absolutely everything he ever did. When he was cast as my favourite character in Harry Potter, it was like a dream come true.
And so, since his death, the plot of this unfinished story has been whirling around in my mind again. So I am rewriting it entirely. I obviously have loads of other stories that I still need to work on too, so hey, what's another WIP between friends?
Come say hello on tumblr - alatarielgildaen - and please do leave a review. Or just tell me how much you loved Alan Rickman too. Either way, I'll be happy to hear from you.
So this was it. Eighteen years of grief and misery, eighteen years of lying, eighteen years of kowtowing both to Dumbledore and to the Dark Lord, in order to lead the boy whose life he had promised to save for her to his death, and he had failed at the last moment. The vital piece of information that Dumbledore had entrusted him to pass on to the boy would be lost forever.
A terrible, hot, wet heat spread out from the point at his neck where the snake's fangs had pierced his flesh. With a very great effort he reached up to the place on his neck where the pain emanated and tried to staunch the flow. If he were still capable he would have laughed at the pathetic gesture.
He wondered what would happen to him after death. Would he go on to a better place? Had he repented enough for his terrible deeds to earn a peaceful afterlife? Or, more likely, would his failure work against him, meaning his soul would never find true serenity?
A shadow passed over him. A mud-bespattered pair of trainers and filthy, frayed jeans stepped into view. His eyes drifted in and out of focus for a moment as he tried to work out if he was imagining them. A moment later, the owner of the trainers and jeans knelt down beside him. Potter…
His heart leapt, causing a fresh surge of pain at the wound in his neck. There was still a chance that this worthless life could be of some use after all. With every last ounce of strength he possessed he grasped at the front of Potter's clothes and focused all of his mental energy on the memories that it was so vital for Potter to see.
"Take it," he gasped.
He was vaguely aware of the Granger girl conjuring a flask to catch his final thoughts, and offered up a silent prayer that at least she had the wherewithal to think, even if Potter didn't.
The flask filled quickly. Life was leaving him just as fast. And what if a hellish eternity of torment did await him on the other side? He had held fast to the belief that in death he may see her again for so long, but what if that was to be denied? He had to see her, one last time.
Blood was filling his lungs. He was running out of time. "Look at me," he said. He blotted out everything. The noise and smoke of battle. The excruciating pain. The hated face before him. Everything except those piercing green eyes. He focused on them, and on the only true joy he had ever felt; being looked on by those eyes with kindness.
Light faded from the world, and all was black.
…...
Except that it wasn't.
Light had returned and from many different angles; however, there weren't quite enough candles, and the fire in the grate wasn't blazing with quite enough intensity for this light to give any particular impression of warmth. His eyes were having a tremendous amount of difficulty on focusing on anything other than the light streaming into them, and he blinked furiously.
The stench of blood and smoke had also changed. Instead of the smoke of burning buildings and explosions, this was older, staler. Severus recognised it as tobacco smoke. And it was mixed with something else… the sharp tang of alcohol and the scent of food cooked by someone who really should avoid kitchens at all costs; burnt bread and over cooked cabbage.
The sounds were different too. No longer were his ears filled with the terrible shrieks of the dead and dying, or the constant rumble of destruction, but with the animated sound of conversation, although one voice in particular seemed raised and angry.
There was something oddly familiar about the place. He was terribly confused and disoriented, and still unable fully to focus, but from what he could gather, it looked, sounded, and smelled as if he were in the Hog's Head.
Very tentatively, Severus reached up to touch his own throat; it was whole and undamaged, and the excruciating pain he had been experiencing just moments before had entirely vanished.
Was this the afterlife, then? He had never been one to especially ponder the mysteries of life, or to dwell much upon his own mortality, but if he had been forced to hazard a guess regarding what came after death, the Hog's Head would be pretty far down the list.
A rough shove to his shoulder caught him off guard and he very nearly stumbled, only regaining his balance thanks to the fact that whoever had pushed him was also maintaining a very tight grip on his robes. The one raised and angry voice that he heard before shouted again, and through his confusion he forced himself to listen to the words. "….do you think you're playing at, eh, sunshine?"
"What?" he asked after a brief pause.
"You need me to repeat myself a third time? What do you think you're up to, huh?"
Another voice, one that was oh-so familiar, called out, "Is there a problem, Aberforth?"
Dumbledore. He had of course expected that he would encounter Albus here in the afterlife, but to learn of Aberforth's demise too? That was most unexpected indeed.
"Found this little toerag," — Severus felt another rough shove against his shoulder — "skulking around. Pretty sure he was trying to spy on you. You want I should call the Aurors?"
Severus furiously blinked his eyes once more, trying to get them to focus, and at long last his surroundings came fully into view.
Before him, sat around a small, rickety table in what he recognised immediately as the smallest of the private rooms at the Hog's Head, were Albus Dumbledore and Sybil Trelawney.
He could just about catch the image of his own reflection in the dark window behind them and was shocked to see the man who starred back. He couldn't have been older than twenty. Twenty-one at the most.
His breath caught in his throat. He had no explanation for what could possibly have happened, but he had returned to life. He had come back to a point where, once upon a time, he had made a decision that had the most monumentally tragic repercussions. This was the exact moment in time that he had heard part of that damned prophecy, and had gone running to the Dark Lord. This was the exact moment that he had set in motion the sequence of events that led to Lily's untimely demise. He was being given the opportunity to change everything.
"I don't know that the Aurors are entirely necessary. Not just yet, anyway," said Dumbledore, his voice light but with the air of authority that Severus recognised all too well. "We'll at least give young Mr Snape a chance to explain his actions."
With difficulty he tore his gaze away from his own reflection, and his eyes landed on Dumbledore. "I have to talk to you," he said.
"The floor is all yours," said Dumbledore with a wave of his hand.
"Alone," added Severus, wincing slightly as Aberforth's grip on his shoulder tightened.
Dumbledore's light blue eyes scanned him appraisingly, before the headmaster turned towards Trelawney and said, "Thank you. I should like to offer you the position. If you are able to wait for me in the saloon bar, I would be very happy if you were able to join me at the school this evening. Aberforth, please take Ms Trelawney to the bar for me. And look after her until I am done here?"
"Albus—"
"Now, Aberforth, if you don't mind."
Taking great care to ensure that he barged into Severus one more time with his elbow, Aberforth departed, while Trelawney floated past, looking as regal as her ridiculous over-sized spectacles and multiple shawls would allow her.
Severus watched them go then turned back to face Dumbledore. He was unsurprised to see that Dumbledore's wand was trained on him.
"You were indeed sent here to spy on me, were you not?"
"I was," confirmed Severus.
"Tell me, how is Voldemort these days?"
Severus flinched involuntarily at the use of the Dark Lord's name, expecting a group of Snatchers or Death Eaters to appear. It took a moment for him to recall that the name wasn't yet Taboo.
"Can't bear to hear his name, yet you have no problem doing his bidding," said Dumbledore, sadly shaking his head. "Tragic, really. You could have been so much more, Severus."
"I still hope to be," said Severus. "I am… sorry. I was foolish. I wish to come back to you."
Dumbledore's eyes narrowed slightly, then he shook his head sadly once more. Sighing deeply, he said, "I wish I could believe you, Severus. You almost had me. But while you use Occlumency against me, it is impossible for me to trust you."
Severus felt a desperate, sinking feeling. He had been able to lie undetected to the Dark Lord for so many years—a man who claimed to be the greatest Legilimens of all time—but he had never once been able to lie to Dumbledore. He could not return to the Dark Lord, but if Dumbledore wouldn't accept him either, he had nowhere to go.
"I have very good reason to be using Occlumency against you, Albus."
"And yet the fact that you are means that you have something to hide. We are at a stalemate."
A scurrying movement in the corner of the room caught his eye, and an enormous rat ran out from his hiding hole, grabbed a few morsels of crumbs on the floor, and ran back. The Hogs Head had never been synonymous with cleanliness.
The sight of the rat brought to mind another rat, one who was still alive, one who was still spying on the Order…. A sudden idea came to him of how he could prove his loyalty. "Wormtail..." he breathed.
"Wormtail?" repeated Dumbledore. "What is 'Wormtail?'"
"You have a spy in the Order of the Phoenix relaying information directly to the Dark Lord."
Dumbledore stood up and raised his wand, pointing it directly at Severus' face. "How do you possibly know about The Order?"
"Peter Pettigrew is working for the Dark Lord. And I can prove it to you." Severus rolled up the sleeve of his robes, and revealed the stark, ugly tattoo on his forearm. "Every one of his Death Eaters is marked with this. Pettigrew will have one. If he doesn't..." Severus swallowed heavily. It was very difficult to remember precisely what had and hadn't occurred. And of course he personally hadn't known at all about Pettigrew being the Dark Lord's spy until Black's escape from Azkaban. If Pettigrew hadn't yet turned on the Order… "You may call the Aurors and I will go quietly to Azkaban."
Something in his solemn tone must have touched Dumbledore, because the older man's response was to lower his wand and say in a kindly voice, "I don't think there will be any need for that. Not if you truly wish to come back to us. And if what you say is true, then you and I have work to do. Tonight."
For a moment, Severus thought about the day he had had. Woken up as normal, tried to turn a blind eye to the low-level rioting of a group of third year Ravenclaws, done his utmost to prevent a group of first year Hufflepuffs from being subjected to the Cruciatus Curse, sat in stunned silence at the news that Potter and his friends had broken into Gringotts, been told by both Dumbledore's portrait and the Dark Lord that he could expect Potter to break into Hogwarts next, watched as his beloved school was destroyed, been killed by the Dark Lord's accursed snake, and finally woken up back in 1980. He wanted nothing more than to go home, down an entire bottle of Firewhisky, and go to sleep.
But as there was no way he could voice any of this without ending up in St Mungo's, he merely nodded, and followed Dumbledore outside, and into the cold, night air.