Memoirs of a Potioneer
The sun wafted through the white washed, foul smelling cell of a room, making the color almost painfully bright. He was growing so sick of the white—white bed sheets, white bed posts, white cement walls. Even the bars along the window were white.
That's where he spent most of his time, the window. Peering through the cold white bars, he had a clear view of an ever flowing crisp river running across a peaceful, flower laden meadow bordered with tall pines.
Thinking about it, he forgot how long he'd been in this room. Hell, he forgot why he was there in the first place. Just sitting on the bed, the muscles in his legs felt stiff from lack of use. He wondered vaguely if he'd been taken prisoner, if his true allegiance to the Order had been leaked to the Dark Lord. He shook the thought from his mind. If that'd been the case, he doubted he'd still be living.
Glancing around, he realized that it looked more like a hospital room—a cold, heartless, impersonal, false impression at attempted comfort. Had he been hurt, then? Was he injured in battle, perhaps? No, that wasn't it either. Other than a growing hunger and the tautness of his limbs, he felt healthy enough to suffice.
And then there was Hermione to think about, his pregnant wife of three years. If he really had been captured, he'd like to see Potter and Weasley try to leave her behind in their search for him. Feisty, that one, he laughed. But then his heart clenched with fear and pure despair at the thought of what would happen if the Dark Lord ever found her. Her and the unborn baby…
A knock sounded at his door, startling out of his reverie. Whoever the caller was did not wait for his welcoming statement. The thick, multi-locked door heavily swung open to reveal a uniformed man holding a night stick standing beside a tall, ancient man with snow white hair and a matching beard, adorned in rather extravagant robes.
Albus Dumbledore.
He remembered seeing Dumbledore just days before, scheming against the Dark Lord in his cluttered office at Hogwarts, hadn't he? But it seemed that Dumbledore had aged twenty years in mere days.
The tired old wizard smiled lightly, if even sadly, before saying, "Severus."
He nodded. "Albus."
Before he had a chance to launch into his pertinent questions, Dumbledore produced a chicken salad sandwich from a bag in his hand and handed it to Severus. "I am sure you're famished—I've eaten their food before, it's about as tasty as a boogey flavored Bertie Bott's bean."
Questions forgotten for the moment, Severus sank his teeth into the sandwich hungrily. Dumbledore politely held his tongue until the sandwich was gone. Finally, he said, "I assume you have some questions for me, Severus?"
"Albus, where am I? Am I a prisoner? If I am, why is it they let you walk in here like a bloody prophet while I remain behind bars? Has my secret been discovered? Has it been leaked that I am with the Order? And how's Hermione? I haven't missed the birth, have I?"
Dumbledore had been able to keep a small, patient smile painted on his mouth throughout the better half of the questioning. On the last two, however, the smile wilted, and he gave Severus a look of sheer pain.
Severus felt queasy. He'd seen Dumbledore's expression. "What's wrong with Hermione? Did she have the baby? What happened?"
Dumbledore placed a hand on Severus's arm, trying to comfort him, tears forming in his eyes. "Severus…well, the easy part first. The war is over, been over for nearly fifteen years. Harry defeated him—you should've seen the boy, Severus—"
"Fifteen years? Fifteen years?" That wasn't possible. The Dark Lord was at large, it seemed only yesterday. Fifteen years?!
Dumbledore sighed. "Yes, fifteen years. Please, let me finish—if you don't, I don't know if I'll be able too."
He gave Severus a pleading look, and he realized that never before had he seen Dumbledore so grief stricken. But hadn't he just said they'd won?
Dumbledore heaved a deep breath. "Voldemort had found out that you'd been spying for the Order. It turned out Mundungus Fletcher's tongue was looser than we thought. He'd been spilling our plots and plans to the dark side for weeks prior to the…to the incident."
"What incident? What happened, Albus, dear Merlin!"
"Voldemort swore revenge on you. And he knew your weakness, Severus—unlike the rest of the spineless Death Eaters, you cared not for your own life. The only way to hurt you was through Hermione…they killed her, Severus, twenty years ago."
And he remembered. Memories, like film clips on a movie reel, flittered through his tormented mind. He saw his and Hermione's cottage looming before him, a green skull and serpent drawn above it in the night sky. He saw himself stumbling, terrified, through the door way—and he saw Hermione. His beautiful, pregnant wife, lying in their living room, her brown locks tangled, her long lashes brushing against her cheeks—and a jewel incrusted sword thrust through her pregnant belly. He saw himself collapsing next to her, wrenching the sword out of her, covering the fatal wound with his hand, quickly becoming drenched with her blood…and as the tears cascaded down his cheeks, he saw himself leaning over her, kissing the cold lips of his dead wife.
Severus felt his stomach heave and empty itself on the floor beside him. He collapsed into a frightful heap on the bed, his whole body convulsing—he could not seem to get enough air…
Dumbledore felt his own tears silently slide down his cheeks. It had been he who had trailed after Severus into the house. The picture of that fully grown, often prickly man with tears dripping off his face, his arm draped protectively across his wife's stomach had been forever burned into the old Headmaster's retinas. Dumbledore had been visiting Severus, rehashing harsh memories every day for twenty years. It still pulled his heart each time. Having to tell a man their pregnant wife was murdered is the kind of thing that never gets easier.
The guard poked his head into the room as Dumbledore had seen him do every day for the last twenty years. "Like clock work," he muttered before calling for restraints. Six men entered the room carrying a straight jacket. This was when Dumbledore always took his leave. He could never bear seeing this intelligent, grown man reduced to such humiliation.
"Until tomorrow, Severus," he muttered, sweeping for the exit. Severus's screams followed him through the white halls.
The sun wafted through the white washed, foul smelling cell of the room, making the color almost painfully bright. He was growing so sick of the white…