A Shadow in the Looking Glass
I. Kafkaesque
By: Calliope Confetti
Gone. Dead. Words choked out in a state of raw devastation echoed in his head at every reminder of her. Fresh of another meeting with Dumbledore, Severus wandered down the path to Hogsemeade, with no real purpose—slave to the brain's automatic impulses. The trees had undergone self-immolation in protest of winter, leaving only a few leaves clinging like embers to skeletal branches, writhing against an ashen sky—you have me thinking in images of death, Lily. The wind rustled the leaves and sent some dipping on the breeze, skittering across the cobbled path. When he reached Hogsmeade, he found himself drawn to the inviting light of The Three Broomsticks and the muffled sound of jovial noise inside, so he entered the tavern and hung his cloak on the rack near the door. A wall of antlers mounted on panels loomed behind him, along with the bust of a doe, a sight that sent him staggering backward, the doe's accusing eyes following him as he fell into a chair.
Everything reminded him off his greatest mistake—the antlers of dead stags, the keyhole he'd pressed his ear against so eagerly, when he'd overheard the prophecy that changed everything; he remembered the times he and Lily would sit and have a drink as friends and how she was kind enough to pay for his before he even noticed, although he had happily intended to spend the last of his meager allowance on their tab, but this one good memory was no consolation. Bathed in amber tavern light, Severus lay across the pub table, watching beads of condensation form and slip down the glass of firewhiskey growing warm beside of him. His brain felt like a beacon for close range signals, the bits of information and conversation around him bouncing off, hardly registering.
The smell of stale cigarettes and spilled beer hung thick in the air. A rowdy group of young lads swayed and chanted butchered folk songs in the corner, while students paired studying with butterbeer and quiet conversations with their classmates. Madam Rosmerta leaned too far across the bar to the delight of the eager men sitting there, ogling her and making bets amongst themselves as to which one of them could slip a galleon down her cleavage without her taking notice.
A grizzled old wizard and his friend, a nervous-looking scholar donned in a fez hat and a pair of pince nez, sat directly in front of him, holding their playing cards guardedly, putting forth their best poker faces—Severus noticed the nervous one failing miserably even though he sported three aces. After showing their latest hand, the scholar whooped and the other wizard gave a gravelly grumble before conceding he'd been bested. The two then sat back on their bar-stools, hands clasped around the handles of the pewter mugs they put to their lips with almost synchronized regularity.
"Added any new items to that collection of oddities you call 'authentic magical artifacts,' Chamberlain?" asked the grizzled one.
"Not lately, but now I think I'm the market for something new. How kind of you to buy it for me, Henderson," his friend replied, flipping a shiny silver coin from his winnings demonstrably.
"Perhaps, you're in the market for a magic mirror?" suggested Henderson.
Chamberlain laughed. "Do I look like bloody Snow White?"
"Certainly not. I've heard tell of a mirror that can bring back the dead."
"I've heard whispers of the same. A fool's pilgrimage if I've ever heard of one," Chamberlain scoffed.
"I thought the same thing, but I've been asking around. There seems to be some truth behind the claims. Of course, one can't bring them back in toto. I heard tell it's more like bringin' back a ghost."
Severus tuned out everything following the man's initial description of the mirror. "Where, pray tell, might one come across such an artifact?" he asked, lifting his head.
"Blimey, I thought he was passed out!" Henderson remarked to his friend before addressing Severus, "It ain't polite to eavesdrop, you know."
"You were speaking at such a volume I would've had to actively try not to hear you," countered Severus.
"Forgive my friend, a 'drop of the cratur' and he's looking for a fight. The rumors I heard said the mirror is in Italy—Venice, more specifically—there's a guild of wizards there that fiercely guards the trade secrets of making magic mirrors," Chamberlain explained.
Severus stroked his chin in thought for a moment, before throwing some coins on the table next to his untouched glass of firewhiskey and exiting the pub.
"Who's that odd chap?" the scholar asked Madam Rosmerta, who'd come by to collect their empty mugs.
"Ay, that's Severus Snape—rumored to be a death eater, now reformed. They've all 'reformed' now," Madam Rosmerta replied, making air quotes around the word.
"I assumed he was the town drunk," Henderson confessed.
"That role's already taken by you, ya' old sod. Nah, next term he's gonna be teaching yer kids, who I suggest you return to. I'm locking up for tonight."
Severus fought his way through the throng of students being herded by their parents through the streets of Diagon Alley. The cobblestones were dusted with snow, while the streetlamps were twined with garland and hung with wreaths, and a large tree had been erected near Gringotts, the white monolith rising above the other businesses. The leaning shops with their half-timbering and thatched roofs all presented lavish window dressing, advertising their seasonal wares. Madam Malkin dressed her enchanted mannequins in Christmas robes and other finery, while the owner of the Magical Menagerie posted a reindeer outside the store. Even Ollivander had tied a red and green ribbon around the same solitary display wand that had sat behind the shop's grimy glass for as long as Severus could remember.
Severus dodged the hands of children holding sticky candy-canes as he cut down a narrow alleyway, which provided a shortcut to Diagon's darker sister street, Knockturn Alley, where he felt infinitely more at ease. In his window, Borgin had perched a Santa hat on the skull of a dragon skeleton posed in simulated flight. He entered Borgin and Burkes, hoping for some relief from the winter chill, but the store remained cold and drafty as ever, with its distinct dusty odor and the occasional nauseating whiff of formaldehyde. There were grimoires under glass, including large volumes bound in human flesh; thieves lights were hung upon the wall like decorative sconces next to crooked alchemy engravings, and raven stones were boxed near standing raven skeletons.
The hunched Borgin had his back turned, examining vials of quicksilver-like unicorn blood, when Severus approached the counter. "Borgin, have you ever heard an authentic account of the existence of a mirror said to possess the power to bring back the dead?"
"If you're asking if I have one in the shop, then the answer's no. I've got a collection of scrying mirrors in the corner," Borgin answered. Severus turned to look at the shelf of dark mirrors, most of them covered by black veils, all of them covered in dust.
"That's not quite what I'm after," Severus muttered, rolling his eyes as he withdrew a galleon from his pocket and slid it across the glass counter to Borgin, who snatched it up greedily.
After plying him with gold, Borgin elaborated, "We've all heard the rumors about the mirror—I've heard it called 'Speculum Speculorum' or…"
"'Mirror of Mirrors,'" Severus whispered.
"Right. But most of those are a game of Chinese Whispers gotten out of hand. There are plenty of mirrors with magical qualities, but one with such dark qualities and extensive power is not known to exist with any certainty," Borgin explained.
"What do these rumors say?"
"Well, they say the mirror's maker went mad as a hatter for one. Most of them say it's in Italy, guarded by a group of wizards versed in esotericism and mysticism—a collective of alchemists and the like. But Severus, take it from me, if such an object did exist, I'd have tried to sell it to you long before now, because if it did, it'd cost a ghastly galleon, that much is known."
The rumor of the mirror maker's descent into madness failed to faze Severus; in his mind, he was already there.
"And tell your friend Lucius that Chimera taxidermy he sold me was fake—just a bunch of animals hacked up and sewn back together into some unholy Frankenstein beast! One more sleight of hand trick like that and he's banned! Banned, you hear me?!" shouted Borgin as Severus turned to leave.
"Lucius is one of your best customers," Severus reminded him with a smirk, leaving Borgin muttering under his breath as he was forced to acknowledge of the truth in Severus's words.
Severus had urged Dumbledore to meet him at a public place known to both of them, insisting that Albus stay off his doorstep for now and forevermore, but when he heard the knock at his door only a half hour prior to their meeting, he knew that in total Dumbledorian fashion and disregard, he just decided to show up there anyway, having gleaned his address from the Hogwarts's registrar. With a heavy sigh, Severus finished buttoning his dress robes and located his summons before reluctantly walking down the stairs to meet the headmaster. He overheard his mother and Dumbledore conversing in the usual pleasantries.
"Pleasure seeing you Eileen, but I must whisk your son off for a bit. I'll have him back by suppertime latest—" promised Dumbledore as he ushered Severus out the door.
"She knows about the trial, headmaster," Severus interrupted, realizing Dumbledore's overzealous to-the-point-of-being-obvious attempt to conceal the reason for their meeting.
"Dear boy, call me Albus. You are joining the faculty soon."
"Old habits," Severus murmured.
They stepped out into the small courtyard behind the row house, where Albus offered Severus his arm so he could disapparate them. Before performing the spell, he said, "Your mother is a lovely witch—rather a lot like you actually—a quiet, studious young lady. And your father?"
Annoyed at the headmaster's waffling, Severus snapped, "Can we forgo the niceties today? I can't say I'm feeling up to chit chat. If you must know, my father is a muggle, currently locked up for cracking my mother's skull one-too-many times. The police simply couldn't ignore it or dismiss it as 'falling down the stairs' any longer." His brutal reply succeeded in silencing Albus for a time and prompted him to perform the spell to launch them to London.
Unfortunately, Severus failed to silence him for long; when they touched down in the capital, Albus went on, "Are you familiar with the legal process?"
"I've read up on it a bit, but no, I'm new to the courts, which I'm sure will come as a surprise to you," Severus muttered.
"Well, you'll be called upon in alphabetical order, and they will escort you into the room, where you will await Barty Crouch. Upon his arrival, you will be strongly encouraged to take veritaserum, but what most don't realize is, you can refuse it. It is imperative that you refuse it. I will insist upon it myself when I'm called to testify on your behalf. After all given testimony, you'll be escorted out to await the verdict. Simple really."
"Simple," Severus echoed, only half-listening. They entered the Ministry by floo, first Albus, then Severus, before he proceeded down the corridor step-in-step with the headmaster, their boots clacking on the floor in rhythmic time. Severus flinched whenever he saw the bursts of green from the floos flanking the cavernous hall in his peripherally vision, as they reminded him of the killing curse.
"Are you nervous, Severus?" Albus asked kindly, but Severus decided not to dignify him with a response.
Severus watched the faces of the ministry workers as he passed, their eyes widening before they leaned over to whisper to a colleague or two. Two guards led a man by his shackles, a man Severus recognized as a fellow death eater. The man stopped and gaped at Severus walking free as his captors moved onward, pulling the chains taut until they beckoned for him to follow or face the consequences. If Severus thought he was capable of feeling anything more than numb, it may have affected him, but he simply pressed onward, marching beside Dumbledore. They both crowded into an elevator with several others before embarking on a rumbling, jostling ride with the screech of metal scraping metal into the depths of the ministry.
"This is where I leave you. Good luck Severus." Albus patted him on the back before departing.
Severus walked into the courtroom, listening to the sound of muted echoes of hushed conversations among those present, and he took his seat in the inquisitory chair as instructed, where he looked up at the dementors hovering near the domed ceiling, circling like vultures behind an invisible barrier. Finally, Barty Crouch shuffled into the room wearing an oxford cap and judicial robes, with the affidavit tucked under his arm. Severus eyed him boredly, silently challenging him—do it, send me to Azkaban. The dementors will find little sustenance in me. Already, his life had begun to feel like a personal cloud of swirling dementors following him everywhere
The proceedings were routine until a panel of former death eaters turned witnesses for the ministry were called upon to give testimony on his involvement in their organization. Looking mildly interested, Severus listened as they regaled him with remembered tales of his brutality and enmity, raving about his involvement, which obviously surpassed the cruelty of any of their evil deeds—thought Severus with a mental roll of the eyes. An account of Severus accidentally attacking a fellow death eater made him laugh.
"I'd forgotten about that," Severus chuckled, earning him a sharp dig of the nails to his shoulder by Dumbledore.
"I'm not here to deny to those present this young man's involvement in the Dark Lord's uprising. However, intent is critical. Imagine yourself a lost young man, looking for meaning, looking for leadership, bullied by his classmates, urged to join the cause by his friends. Put yourself in his place. When it came down to it, Severus renounced the Dark Lord and came to the side of the light—he joined the Order and took up a dangerous, difficult assignment as a double-spy for us. Severus Snape has spoken remorse, but more importantly, he has demonstrated it. I ask for leniency and conditions. As agreed, Severus will take up the position as potions master at Hogwarts next term. Hogwarts—the home of his childhood where he thrived without incident or issue, academic, legal, or otherwise. Under my watchful eye, I guarantee he will not stray again."
Severus's fingers tapped a morse code S.O.S. on the arms of his chair, his anger boiling mercury-quick in his veins.
"Well, Severus Snape, with Dumbledore's endorsement, I think that those conditions are tenable, don't you agree?" said Barty.
"Yes," Severus hissed lowly.
"Very good then, you are thereby released on your own recognizance. Report back here every six months for three years to ensure you're meetings the conditions set forth by this court, and we will have no further issue. Dismissed."
With the bang of the gavel echoing painfully in his head, Severus nodded until Dumbledore dug his nails into his shoulder again, prompting him to add, "Thank you, your honor."
When the door swung shut, it made a loud whooshing noise that echoed in his brain along with the fading gavel. When they exited the building, Severus's skin felt so hot that the bite of the winter chill felt refreshing as he ran ahead of Albus until he could no longer see the Ministry.
"You know nothing about me, nothing! You crazy old codger. How dare you use my upbringing against me?" Severus snarled.
"I used it in your favor," Dumbledore responded calmly.
"In my favor?!" Severus snapped with a burst of mad laughter. "Do you have any idea how humiliating that was for me? No! So long as I jump when you say jump and clarify exactly how high. You cannot manipulate me the way you manipulate everyone else. If there's one thing I could best you at, it would be manipulation."
"That's nothing to be proud of, Severus."
"You certainly seemed to be!" shouted Severus.
"You shouldn't be afraid to be vulnerable, Severus. Others can't help us if they don't know we're in need of it," Albus said softly.
"None of your pithy witticisms right now, Albus!"
Albus's smile never faltered, an observation that futher infuriated Severus.
"Does anything upset you? I want whatever potion you're guzzling by the look of you. Christ!" Severus shouted.
"We must discuss the details of your position, Severus," Albus reminded him.
"Not today," Severus spat, "You can throw me in Azkaban yourself if it suits you, but I'm finished dealing with you today. And don't you dare follow me home, or they'll be dredging your body out of the river on cinderblocks."
Albus seemed only mildly amused by Severus's outburst, and he made no move to follow him home.
Severus slammed the front door and kicked off his boots before kneeling on the floor near a glass-fronted cabinet full of liquor.
Frightened, his mother emerged from the kitchen and approached him, "Severus?" she addressed him carefully. "What's wrong? Are you being sent to Azkaban?" his mother gasped, horrified and holding a trembling hand to her lips.
Severus glowered at her, "No."
"Then why are you so distraught?" she asked, confused.
"I don't really think that's any of your concern," Severus shot back, gripping a bottle of vodka violently by the neck as he rose up to her menacingly.
She cowed to him but didn't back down. "Of course it is. I'm your mother."
"Biologically yes, but I've heard one has to actually earn the epithet," Severus snapped.
"Severus, it scares me when you act this way. You're acting just like your father—"
"Don't!" He bellowed, although he backed away from her at the insinuation he was anything at all like his father.
"Mother," he put mocking emphasis on the word, "Dumbledore can be unbelievably cruel. He uses and abuses people before discarding them, almost as methodically as the Dark Lord himself."
"You no longer have to call him 'the Dark Lord,' Severus," his mother gently reminded him.
"At this point, I am Pavlov's dog," he flashed the ruddy remnant of the dark mark and added, "You get burned enough times, the name refuses to form."
"You're not attending the funeral of the Evans girl? I saw it in the papers. You two were such good friends," his mother asked quizzically.
"I'm afraid my presence would be unwelcome," Severus muttered, at least happy his mother had no deeper understanding of the details of that whole mess.
"I'm sure she would've wanted you there," she said encouragingly.
"Funerals are for the living, mother. I'm uncertain whether I fit that distinction any longer," he remarked.
"Nonsense, Severus, don't talk like that," his mother cautioned.
"When did you say you were returning to your new home and the new man who doesn't know you're a witch or that you have a wizard for a son?" Severus asked pointedly.
"I will tell him eventually, Severus," she whispered.
"For all I care, you never have to tell him. It's just funny that you're so critical towards me when you're no paragon of morality yourself. And you didn't answer my question."
"I just wanted to make sure you were coping okay," she said softly.
"It's a bit late to adopt this supportive, conventional motherly role, don't you think? Just because Tobias is in jail doesn't mean the last twenty years did not happen as they did. Just as I'm prohibited from attending her funeral because of my actions, you must suffer the consequences of yours. I'm not going to harm myself, if that's why you insist upon remaining here with me," he muttered as he looked past her eyes to her mind with cold, calculating severity.
Unaware of her son's skills as a legillimens, his mother appeared taken aback. "It's not as if you never set a precedent of such behavior." she argued, seeming wounded. Suppressed tears strained her voice as she added, "And your father…you don't understand. You don't know what it's like to—"
"Oh, I know what it's like. His hands were around my throat as often as they were around yours. Perhaps, you've forgotten," his tone was poisonous.
"I'm sorry, Severus," she whispered contritely. Words that would've stopped him dead in his tracks before now had no effect, as he went on, pretending he hadn't heard her.
"If you wish to stay, that is your choice. From this point forward, I intend to render myself mute and deaf, whether by will or substance," he stated firmly, still gripping the bottle of liquor by the neck.
"Fine, you can call me if you need me," his mother replied.
"The phone has been disconnected here since you moved out," Severus reminded her.
His mother smirked in the way her son often did and countered, "I thought you were a mute."
Severus scowled in response. Before departing, she hugged him and kissed him on the forehead, but he held his arms rigid at his sides and neglected to return the gesture.
The seconds of the minutes of the hours of the days of the month ticked by with agonizing slowness, as if time had congealed itself. Every day, Severus would startle awake in a haze of alcohol- and dreamless sleep-induced confusion, staring at the clock-face shifting in his double vision, looking from it to the window to determine whether it was day or night, although it hardly mattered to him—the nightmares did not discern or discriminate between day and night, why should he? His house had begun to smell like the tavern—the smell of alcohol and stale cigarettes and muted misery.
Most days, he languished in bed, twitching restlessly in his sleep or lying awake but catatonic and unblinking, staring at the wall. Each time he woke up, he rifled through his cabinets for a new draught of dreamless sleep from his dwindling supply to throw him back into sweet, merciful oblivion again. He'd developed a massive tolerance to the potion, so that he required a formidable dose to even take a nap. The alcohol potentiated the potion and added another layer of cushioning between himself and his pain.
Old yearbooks were strewn about at random, with the corners dog-eared on pages featuring Lily's photograph. Seeing her face hit him like a sucker punch to the gut, but he kept looking in a longing form of self-flagellation. Intrusive thoughts plagued him—images of worms wriggling in empty eye sockets, the imagined sound of Lily screaming, hallucinations of demons hovering in the curtain folds.
In moment of desperation, he longed to turn his wand on himself, but he doubted he even had the strength to carry out the deed. He nibbled on crackers only when the volume of his growling stomach climbed above the roar of his thoughts. One morning, Severus heard a knock at the door; he cursed under his breath when he realized it was likely Dumbledore come to find him again. He sat on dirty kitchen floor, hiding out of sight until the visitor left, but the knocking came urgent and insistent, unrelenting, until he crawled into a standing position and walked mechanically to the door, commanding his brain to put one foot in front of the other.
When he threw the door open, he was astounded to see Lucius standing at the threshold with Narcissa. Their upturned noses wrinkled at the pungent smell of the river, and they cast disdainful glances at their surroundings. Seeing them in Cokeworth was like superimposing a new negative over an old photograph, so that everything familiar appeared incongruous and odd, completely out-of-place. Severus had a sudden inclination to simply slam the door again, but before he could complete the motion, Lucius jammed his walking stick in the door and stepped into the house without invitation, followed quickly by Narcissa.
Bottles of dreamless sleep littered the floor, some with bits of sticky potion oozing out of them onto the carpet, others empty and discarded haphazardly about the room, apart from their stoppers. Lucius shot him a questioning look as he waded through the glass.
"Can't sleep," Severus answered, his voice hoarse from sheer disuse. Narcissa stood near the door for a long moment, one foot drawn up and looking as if she just spotted vermin before tiptoeing into the sitting room. The alcohol seeped from Severus's every pore as he kneaded his brow and plopped down into a leather armchair with torn upholstery and gestured to the well-worn couch across from him, where they reluctantly took their seat. They sat perched on the very edge of sofa, almost hovering, as if contact with it would dirty them.
Lucius cleared his throat and Narcissa gave him a sharp elbow to the ribs and a sidelong glare, forcing him to speak first, "Severus, the fall of the Dark Lord has been difficult on all of us, but we haven't heard from you in weeks, so we were concerned as to how severely you are taking things. Are you alright?"
Their expressions towards his disheveled appearance spoke to that severity; when Severus unfortunately caught himself in the mirror, he reminded himself of Jim Morrison, the Paris years. Severus centered his glare directly on Narcissa, knowing she'd put Lucius up to this. He finally answered with one word. "Fine," he flashed them a sinking, insincere smile that made the muscles in his face hurt. "How did you find this place? I don't recall divulging the details of my whereabouts."
"The registrar at Hogwarts," Lucius answered, and Severus kicked himself for forgetting to remove his name from that damned list.
"He's on the board of directors now," Narcissa said proudly, looking up at her husband in admiration, as if she couldn't resist a little status plug. Severus shrugged and poured himself a glass of wine, extending the bottle to them with a raise of the eyebrows. Another elbow to the ribs and Lucius was apprehensively entering the kitchen to fetch two more glasses. Severus and Narcissa sat in awkward silence until she picked up a yearbook which was splayed over the arm of the sofa and laughed. "Severus must be feeling a bit nostalgic," she projected her voice so Lucius could hear her in the kitchen as she flipped through the pages. "Do you remember the year I wore that strapless dress on picture day?"
"Yes, the photos were taken only from the shoulders up. Your photo looked like you weren't wearing anything. Everyone called you 'naked Narcy' for a year," Lucius replied, and Narcissa shook her head with a dry laugh. Severus watched her eyebrows arch thoughtfully as she repeatedly flipped between the dog-eared pages.
"So, the rumors were true," Narcissa whispered finally, so that Lucius wouldn't overhear her. "Lily Evans?"
Severus felt a dull feeling reminiscent of what shock once felt like, before the news of her murder, before his breakdown. "We girls talk of these things," she said as she leaned in and added, "We've all fooled around with muggle-borns. We just don't take them home to meet our families," Narcissa finished with a wink. As the realization set in, she looked at Severus the way he'd seen her look at Draco, a helpless little thing in desperate need of mothering.
Severus heard Lucius thoroughly washing his wine glasses under the sink for several minutes. "Don't worry, he doesn't know," Narcissa said softly. Upon Lucius's return, the awkward silence lingered in the air like acrid smell of alcohol and the palpable sense of a man who'd given up.
"How's your sister?" Severus asked pointedly, and Narcissa shrank in her seat as if she hoped it would absorb her. Sighing, he asked, "Don't you two have better things to do to occupy your time? Newly married and a child. Seems like a nuisance to bother with me, don't you agree?"
"We just thought with the fall of the dark lord and what happened with your parents..." Narcissa began.
"Come stay with us for a bit, Severus," Lucius interrupted, hoping to avoid any talk of emotion, for which Severus silently thanked him.
"We've got all that extra room," Narcissa added, casting another faux-furtive reproachful glance around the room.
"I have a feeling this is not an offer, so much as an intervention," Severus replied.
"Well," they said in unison as Lucius laughed and they exchanged knowing glances. They stared at him like he was an exhibit behind glass, with wide eyes and forced twin smiles.
"I suppose," Severus conceded, "if I haven't got a choice."
"You don't," Narcissa added encouragingly. "Now, gather your things, and Lucius will help clean this place up." Lucius performed a nonverbal cleaning charm with a grimace, as if even thinking at the garbage would contaminate him, placing the many vials and wine bottles into bins.
"I'll be there straightway. I first must pack and settle some things. I'll be right behind you," Severus stressed when he saw the doubting looks on their faces.
"You'd better be, or we'll send someone back to fetch you," warned Narcissa as he led them both to the courtyard, where they disapparated with an audible crack, leaving him alone to pack. When Severus considered his friendship with the Malfoys, he realized that he liked the fact that Lucius and Narcissa lacked the ability to pity anyone, even such a hopeless case as himself. He also appreciated that they so loved to talk about themselves; it took the onus off of him to come up with scintillating conversation. Although Severus couldn't determine whether he was impressed with their social resilience or repulsed by it and the general lengths of their depravity, he enjoyed their friendship regardless. Maybe, being around other people would force him back to normal—normalcy by osmosis.