Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
A/N: What Snape does with the Pensieve is shown in my other fic, Controlled Remembrance. If you're interested :)
There was another life I might've had, but I am having this one.'– Kazuo Ishiguro
.
Sixteen
He reassured himself that there was no deeper purpose to the visit, that all he needed was a reprieve from the oily hostility and sullenness that blanketed the house, the street, and the people who lived on it. That thicket of trees by the river had been his refuge since childhood and he had made his way there more times than he would care to count, either alone, or – not. This was just part of the usual routine.
Only a furrow between Snape's eyebrows betrayed his discomfort as he strode along the path and tried to direct his mind away from unpleasant memories. But there were so many– even as he tried to distract himself from the events of that disastrous occasion after the DADA paper, fragments of tangential information flashed across his mind, leaving behind thoughts as vivid as a brand.
One in seven Ministry of Magic employees is Muggle-born. Leach was the first Muggle-born Minister for Magic.
He had, with his newfound free time, done a little research for – justification purposes. Whether the justification was meant for Lily or for himself was something he preferred not to dwell upon.
Eventually, he reached the familiar grove and ignored the pang in his chest as he weaved through the tree trunks with the ease of habit. It was just as he remembered from the previous summer, and the summers before that: the cool shade under the tree branches, the glimpses of a river, the breeze that sometimes blew gently between the trunks. This place remained, an oasis of stability in unpredictable terrain.
He settled himself on the ground, leaning gingerly against one of the tree trunks. As he rested his head against the gentle slope of the trunk, treacherous thoughts started resurfacing in his mind. This time with little to distract him, he could but sink into a quagmire of replayed scenarios and questions.
So many questions. Crowding with the 'what ifs' were 'whys' and 'how did it go so wrongs'. He watched the glitter of water through the trees without really seeing it, as his mind kept going back to that instant. Those few moments which had changed everything and destroyed something irreplaceably precious.
His fingers pressed hard into the ground until their tips turned white, as his thoughts replayed again and again like a damaged gramophone record.
He knew, deep down, that he didn't really hate Muggle-borns. How could he? How could he hate them when she – no. He hadn't meant to call her that. He could never hate her.
Hate was a strong word.
And so is Mudblood, a voice whispered at the back of his head, making him cringe slightly. He didn't hate Muggle-borns so much as despise them slightly for their tendency towards ignorance. But ignorance could be resolved, and he honestly didn't think there was anything inherently inferior about them. It was clear that the Ministry was employing a growing number of Muggle-borns (and look at the Minister).
Though he would never admit it to the other Slytherins, he had no problem with such a reality. He only wished fiercely that she knew the latter, and that there was some way he could convince her of this fact.
But what good was this introspection now? Knowing that it was hopeless did not, however, stop him from wanting so desperately that he could feel his chest constrict. It had been eighty-seven days since the incident. Somehow without consciously keeping a tally, he knew that figure off the top of his head.
And suddenly he felt a burning sense of shame and loss. To make himself a smaller target of his self-censure, he drew his knees to himself and wrapped his arms around them, but still the memories came.
Eighty-seven. One in seven. Lily and that air of finality as she turned away. They wouldn't leave him alone.Whyhowwhatifwhatifwhatif. . .
His grip tightened.
Just then, he heard a twig snap and he turned towards the source of the sound, only to see –
She froze as their gazes locked, her eyes slightly widened in surprise and consternation. A growing pit of horror and dismay formed in Snape's stomach, and he sat frozen, not quite knowing how to react, what to do, what to say –
This was only supposed to be a routine visit.
Lily was the first to recover, her face closing off even as she made no attempt to turn around and walk away. She stayed motionless, the filtered half-light casting odd shadows on her face and making her expression harder to read. But she said nothing for a long while.
He managed to gather his wits after a long moment, and avert his eyes as her gaze suddenly became too heavy for him to bear. He remained seated with his arms wrapped around his knees, and it suddenly felt like a shameful protection that lay between them. All his research, all his self-justification, all the lines of reasoning that he had formed in his head now sounded garbled and useless. His carefully geared up courage had deserted him.
It was, after all, so much easier to explain himself to an imaginary Lily than to the real Lily face to face.
Eventually she spoke, her voice flatly polite. "Hello."
Snape's insides twisted. Nothing had changed.
"Evans." His voice sounded like it was detached from the rest of him.
"I wasn't expecting – " the leaves rustled as she shifted her foot. Snape wasn't looking directly at her, but he followed every movement from the corner of his eye.
Silence fell again, and with each passing moment the knot in his stomach tightened.
Then she spoke again, this time looking at the ground, her auburn hair falling forward and hiding her face. "Well I suppose I'd better leave you," she said, her voice reverberating oddly in his ears.
In his mind's eye, he could see himself calling out, asking her to wait, to give him a chance to verbalise the jumbled pleas and arguments that were threatening to burst out in a torrent. And yet, they were held back by – by a confusing mix of somethings he couldn't quite define.
He listened to her departing footsteps, frozen to his spot, and it was only until much later that he realised they had taken a long time to die away.
.
Eighteen
Of all the people he thought he'd ever willingly end up at a pub with, Narcissa Black was ranked somewhere in between Celestina Warbeck and Remus Lupin. Even though he'd never held any public enmity against her, nor she him, she was four years or so older, and he was still at an age where such a gap in maturity was significant.
He was barely two months out of school (though hardly wet behind the ears), while she had been a fully qualified witch for a while now. In addition, rumour had it that Lucius Malfoy was interested in pursuing a courtship, and it was never a good idea to get on the bad side of a Malfoy.
Still, here he was. And here she was.
All in all, it was a slightly surreal outcome of a chance meeting at Flourish and Blotts.
It had been going reasonably well so far; Narcissa's aura of haughty reserve did not completely obscure a dry wit and keenly perceptive gaze. They appreciated each other's caustic observations without having to exaggerate their reactions, and shared a common, ironic view of the world. While Snape did not see how she would ever be seriously interested in him, nor he her, that did not stop him from having a pleasant time.
". . . And she said that over her dead body would she ever go back, though I suspect even her cold mortal remains wouldn't be accepted back, judging by the manner of her departure," she said, a slight smile playing about her lips. "Mother was beside herself."
"I'm surprised you even went to talk to her," he said, grimacing as he knocked back his fifth glass of Firewhisky.
Narcissa shrugged carelessly. "I don't approve of her marrying that Mudblood, of course, but someone has to balance out all that hysteria and ill will. The atmosphere in my house is terribly depressing these days." A tinge of disdain coloured her last words.
His humourless chuckle disguised a slight wince at the slur.
"Time to move to a new one, then."
She did not answer him immediately, choosing instead to take a leisurely sip of her Gillywater. The clink of glass on the wooden counter top was a tad more careful than it could've been.
"Perhaps. But I'm terribly fond having a room to myself. I'd rather not give it up so soon."
"I hear there're plenty of rooms in Malfoy Manor," he said absently, staring into his empty glass. He'd instantly understood that moving out and living alone for a Black was not an option that fell within reasonable boundaries.
Narcissa raised a pale eyebrow. "Malfoy, hmm?" In the dim lighting of the pub the hand wrapped around her glass seemed luminescent.
There was a pause, before she said with a slight smile, "Like I said. I'm terribly fond of having a room to myself."
"And of Butterbeer?" he said smoothly.
"And of Butterbeer." He looked up to find her looking at him with the hint of a challenge in her eyes.
Without breaking eye contact, he slowly lifted his glass to salute her. "Well then. It's an empty glass, but here's to autonomy. And speaking of which, I should get another."
He could tell that she was deciding whether or not he was mocking her as she stared speculatively at him; he had come a long way since losing control in front of Lily. There was a certain feeling of liberation that came with having little to lose.
After a long moment, Narcissa relaxed and narrowed her eyes appreciatively. "To autonomy," she said, lifting her glass. "For just a little while longer. And the glass is always empty for you, isn't it, Severus?"
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," he said.
She shot him an amused look. "Oh come now. I wasn't in your year in Hogwarts, but I do pay attention to my surroundings you know."
One heartbeat. Two heartbeats.
He knew that his expression had closed off, even as his voice took on the silky trappings of casualness.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
He could feel her gaze on him, swift and piercing. Perceptiveness, he reflected with some irritation, was a double-edged sword.
Choosing his next words with care, he said, "And why were you even concerning yourself with students four years down? Didn't you have better things to do?"
A touch of boredom, some sarcasm and a smidgen of dismissiveness. He prayed that it wasn't overdone, and cursed the Firewhisky that was addling his senses.
Narcissa's lip curled slightly, but when she next spoke, it was in a surprisingly thoughtful voice. "When I was in school, I had to deal with my share of male attention. . . Yours wasn't obvious – but I suppose when your time isn't taken up by unnecessary chatter you get a proper look at the people around you. I've – always enjoyed observing people anyway."
It was done with a veneer of casualness, but her next words were unbearably blunt. She said, "It was the Evans girl, wasn't it?"
His gaze was frozen on the liquor bottles on display, even as his mind raced at a million miles an hour. And he thought, that he'd get to keep this one secret, this one thing–
"You are mistaken." His words were frosty.
Silence reigned for a long while, as the crowd chatter receded into a distant buzz. Narcissa studied him in an unhurried fashion, her fathomless blue eyes fixed on the rigid set of his jaw, the pallor of his skin, appraising, weighing the options available. Snape's hand was clenched so tightly around his glass the tips of his fingers were white.
"Severus?" she finally said quietly. "You're right."
He said nothing. He'd learned a painful lesson on the value of silence.
From a distance away, the barman glanced over at them, then looked away with a knowing look in his eye as he resumed wiping a glass.
"I was mistaken," she said.
He stirred slightly.
"I saw something where there was nothing."
The liquor bottles blurred slightly, even as he kept staring resolutely at them. "I'm waiting for the forthcoming condemnation," he managed, with an echo of his previous smoothness. How easily, how resignedly the words slipped off his tongue! He allowed a wave of self-disgust to sweep over him.
There was a pause, before she gave a short, rather ironic laugh. "Perhaps some other time," she said, her expression flickering between distaste and an odd curiosity. Then she signalled to the barman, who nodded. Turning back to meet Snape's guarded eyes, the corners of her lips curved up in a tiny smile as she spread her hands in a peacekeeping gesture.
"Now let's get another round, shall we?"
.
Twenty-one/Twenty-two
There were moments when he threw all reason and restraint to the wind and allowed himself to hate Dumbledore freely. So much for being the only wizard the Dark Lord ever feared – what was the use of all that if he couldn't even keep the people under his protection alive, so what if he'd had a plan, when had it failed to keep her – them – her safe?
Somehow, his hatred of the Dark Lord felt muted, distant. He'd known, even as his master had promised to spare the mother, that it was hardly a guarantee. Even as his wand had been the one to do the deed, it was difficult to conjure the searing flashes of loathing that he occasionally directed at Dumbledore – Dumbledore, whose promises had also amounted to nothing, whose precautions had failed utterly. And –
(It was sometimes difficult, in the deep silences of the night, to not just reach out to his wand and point it at his temple, the syllables of the Killing Curse on the tip of his tongue.) As penance, he told himself. Anything to ease the guilt, anything to lessen this burden.
But then –
"Make sure it was not in vain. Help me protect Lily's son."
Yes – yes, he would do that. Dumbledore was right, curse him. Self-pity helped no one.
Snape had rather more faith in his skill in Occlumency than in Dumbledore's respect for his privacy. However, it did not stop the Headmaster – damnthe old fool – from seeing too much, knowing too much. . .
"If I may, Headmaster," he said repressively, one time after a private strategy discussion. "I would like to borrow the Pensieve tomorrow night for – research purposes." It was hard not to sound pained as the words left his mouth.
It had taken a great deal of internal debate to make the decision, topped with some delusional hope that Dumbledore wouldn't refuse (or openly guess his motives – he didn't know which was worse). It was to be only once a year. Just once. He would not permit himself further indulgence.
There was a long and tense pause, in which Snape kept his eyes resolutely fixed onto Dumbledore's blue gaze. Then, the latter sighed.
"I'm touched by your faith in me Severus," he said, not unkindly.
Don't think I don't know what you really are, Dumbledore, he didn't say. Instead, he kept his face impassive even as his eyes betrayed the irrational flare of anger.
"Thank you."
He ignored the almost accusatory glare of the carved pumpkins on the way back to his office.
.
Thirty-four
"And you believe Potter?" he said shortly when Dumbledore called him to his office two days after Black's escape.
The Headmaster met his gaze calmly. "I do," he replied. "You too would know that he is telling the truth, Severus, if you but utilised the means at your disposal to verify it."
Snape's jaw was rigid and he scowled at Dumbledore, even as the latter remained immovably composed. The silence was left to coagulate in the air for a long moment.
Finally, he capitulated. "You called me here, Headmaster?" he said in a voice that poorly masked his still-simmering anger.
"Yes." Dumbledore sat up straighter in the throne-like chair, his light blue gaze sharpening slightly. "Harry has informed me of a recent development concerning Sybill Trelawney; it seems that the signs pointing towards Lord Voldemort's return are appearing with greater frequency."
Snape became very still. "And?" he said.
"A servant who escaped two nights ago will help Lord Voldemort rise to power once again," Dumbledore replied, a grave note entering his voice. "Not all prophecies are fulfilled, but it seems that in this we are not so fortunate. Pettigrew's flight will set into motion a series of events for which we must prepare. I thought it best to keep you informed, and – to ask if you are still willing."
There was a long silence, broken only by the occasional rustle from Fawkes on his perch.
Finally –
"Don't insult me," said Snape very quietly.
Dumbledore nodded, his expression unfathomable but for a slight softening about the eyes.
"Thank you, Severus."
.
Thirty-six
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock)
Dear Professor Snape,
I am pleased to inform you that you have been offered the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. Please find enclosed your teaching contract, a general outline of the previous seven years' curricula, as well as the full list of textbooks used. Should you choose to accept this offer, please include your choice of textbooks in your reply. I await your response by no later than 15 July.
Yours sincerely,
Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore
Headmaster
The corners of his lips turned up slightly in spite of himself – a small, childish part of him anticipated the look on Potter's face for when he found out.
.
Thirty-six
Perhaps he and Narcissa Malfoy, nee Black, shared more in common than he'd originally thought. The pale, frantic woman who had knocked on his door one day earlier had barely resembled the Narcissa he'd known. She had been desperate, determined, willing to acknowledge the unthinkable but unwilling to acquiesce. Even willing to go against the Dark Lord's wishes for the sake of her child.
Her large, tear-filled eyes had bored into his own as she'd begged. "You could do it. You could do it instead of Draco, Severus. . ."
Of course, she had left him with no choice but to agree, especially with her belligerent sister present (not that he hadn't already given his word to Dumbledore). But as she had pleaded, in her desperation to save what was precious, what was important, he had had the uncomfortable impression that she'd instinctively understood his sympathies more than she let on.
". . . help him. . . see he comes to no harm. . ."
(A cold, windy hilltop, hide them all, keep them safe, please.)
Though he would never admit it to anyone, he had been, perhaps, a little kinder to Narcissa than he would have been to someone else.
With small, efficient movements, he dressed himself. His fingers slipped the first time as he tried to fasten his cloak. But then it caught on the second time.
It was time to give Dumbledore his weekly report.
.
Thirty-seven
The night was still young when he returned to the Headmaster's chambers. With a mutter and a distracted flick of his wand, the fireplace erupted into merrily crackling flames and he sank into the closest armchair, letting his wrists dangle over the squishy armrests as he closed his eyes.
Christmas had never been a spectacularly celebratory occasion for him, but the festivities had been exceptionally dour this year.
He had quashed any feeling of awkwardness at taking the Headmaster's elaborate and rather uncomfortable seat in the Great Hall (really – how had Dumbledore tolerated that thing?), and ignored the dark looks shot at him on his first few days there with superb ease.
Staff meetings, however, had been trickier, with the majority of the staff treating with him with resignation and stiff politeness at best and poorly-concealed contempt at worst. It didn't bother him overmuch on a personal level, but there were a million and one passive-aggressive ways in which the teaching staff could make his job more tedious and difficult than it needed to be, and they took most opportunities to ruthlessly exploit this.
That, on top of reining in the Carrows when required, meant that he sorely needed a drink to cap off the term. He opened his eyes a crack.
"Accio Firewhisky."
He caught the bottle as it flew towards him, and eyed the glass on his desk contemplatively; turning his attention back to the new bottle, his lips twitched and he broke the seal, taking a measured swallow.
.
More than a few measured swallows later, when his head was unpleasantly fuzzy and his movements rather less controlled, the musings hit him like a brick.
It was easy, in this poorly-lit room with its ornate trappings and few distractions, to let his mind wander, and in its inebriated state it took the opportunity to veer embarrassingly close to despair. With an effort, he redirected his train of thought to something else.
The Lovegood girl had been taken a few days ago; a routine visit to Malfoy Manor confirmed his hunch that she was being held there. It was difficult to tell whether it was a better or more miserable prison than Azkaban - bone-chillingly awful as the Dementors might be, they still lacked the vindictive streak that undoubtedly ran through some of the current inhabitants of Malfoy's home. His mind involuntarily drifted to a particular scene at the drawing room, where there had been a revolving figure, a stolen wand, and yet another murder. . . He and Charity Burbage had been colleagues for almost five years.
("How many men and women have you watched die?")
("Lately, only those whom I could not save.")
How many more? he wondered. His lip curled slightly.
Perhaps the ongoing conflict would lead to so many deaths and refugees that Britain's wizarding population would be irreparably damaged. Then it would be up to Muggle-borns and half-bloods to repopulate Wizarding Britain; the thought of what the Dark Lord would say to that made him snort.
The fire cast its flickering light on his thin, impassive face as he sat alone with his thoughts, swallowed by an overlarge bedroom. Then a scoff escaped him; it was Christmas, for crying out loud.
Setting the bottle onto the side table with a loud clink and a generous measure of loathing, he drew his wand and said, as clearly as he could manage, "Expecto patronum."
The doe erupted from the tip of the wand. She cantered around the room, illuminating the impersonal space and temporarily banishing the shadows with her soft, silvery glow, before stopping in front of him. He stared at her, his expression unreadable, and she walked slowly forward till her beautiful head was mere inches from his nose, looking back at him patiently. The well of loneliness threatened to engulf him, and a burning sensation in his eyes intensified until he could feel the drops of hot liquid roll down his cheeks; his mouth was set in a tight line. But he did not look away.
Finally, when he could bear it no longer, he shut his eyes and let the tears flow freely. When next he opened them, the room was empty.
.
Thirty-eight
After news of the debacle at Malfoy Manor reached him, Snape decided that it was time to start on the final phase of his commitment to Dumbledore. In the privacy of the Headmaster's bedroom, with wards to warn him of anyone approaching, he set a quill to parchment, suppressing the squirm of distaste in his chest.
Potter,
You may not trust me, but you have thus far placed your trust in Dumbledore – by extension, you would be wise to place your trust in his portrait. . .
After he was done, he examined his letter critically; it would have to do. Placing it in an envelope marked 'To: H. Potter', he strode through his chambers and into the Headmaster's office. He eyed the portraits, wondering whether it was wise to trust that they could convey the message to Potter, to lure him up to the office when the time was right. He pulled at the side of Dumbledore's portrait and placed the envelope in the cavity, muttering a select few enchantments that would ensure that only Potter would be able to read it as it really was. This was the backup.
And yet –
It was a poor backup on many levels, he admitted to himself, and it would only be relevant if Potter was in the castle – but still better than nothing. The ideal would still be to meet Potter face-to-face; it would make for a much more convincing and forceful argument. He had his Patronus as proof of his allegiance, and thick-headed though the boy might be, he should at least be able to connect the dots in this instance.
But that night, as he sat at his desk, an old, scrupulous instinct pushed him to start assembling a list of relevant memories, just in case.
.
Thirty-eight
"The Dark Lord has your wand," Snape remarked, while in the midst of settling some paperwork. It was a comment made to an empty room, and not for the first time the thought surfaced that the Headmaster's office was rather too large.
A slight rustling behind his chair told him that Dumbledore was awake and listening.
Not wanting his voice to crack or show any sign of weakness, he pressed on. "It is a recent acquisition - perhaps just a few days old."
This time, Dumbledore spoke. "I was afraid of that," he said heavily, and something in his voice made Snape's self-restraint crack enough that he stood up and turned abruptly to face the portrait. Dumbledore met his gaze steadily.
"I suppose not everyone knows how and why they die," said Snape, and he could feel his lips twisting up in a mirthless half-smile. "I'm not going to ask you why your wand is so important to the Dark Lord - I daresay I shall find out sooner or later - but what was your plan regarding it? Out of plain curiosity."
A look of regret flickered across Dumbledore's lined face but he replied in an even tone, "The wand's power was supposed to be extinguished at my death, if everything had gone according to plan. I was - " he stopped.
"I'm sorry, Severus," he said simply, after a long while, and the sorrow in his voice made the twisted expression on Snape's face fade slightly for its sincerity.
Snape knew that the apology was not merely for this; some things were beyond the control of even Albus Dumbledore. Though his hands were clenched so tightly that his fingernails bit into his palm, he managed a stiff nod of acknowledgment, before turning his back on the old man and settling himself down to continue perusing the report.
From the moment he had seen Dumbledore's wand held loosely between the Dark Lord's fingers, he had known that it was only a matter of time.
.
Thirty-eight (death)
Severus Snape was neither a coward, nor a fool. Even as he took brisk strides towards the Shrieking Shack (towards his end), Lucius's words echoing in his ears, his mind rang cold and clear and purposeful, looking back on the past seventeen years and all it entailed.
Seventeen years of duplicity, lies, and loneliness. Seventeen years where his only meaningful interaction had been with Albus Dumbledore, whose eyes had been too keen for comfort, who had always understood and respected human connection better than Voldemort ever could, and had pulled all the right strings, knowing, knowing. . .
Seventeen years and it would end tonight.
He cast his thoughts further back, and thought of auburn hair and green eyes, of kindness and genuine interest. Where he was never 'that Snape boy', or 'Snivellus', or a means to an end. He had been that end in itself, and it had mattered to him. Perhaps some would say it had mattered too much, but Snape hadn't cared overmuch about other people's opinions of him in a long time.
(Back then, he hadn't comprehended the full scope of the reason behind the breakdown of their friendship, but now he understood, and had done so for a long while.)
He still had to pass on to Potter that all-important information, but if he couldn't, the office portraits would take over. And after his last duty had been discharged, it would be over. That single purpose that had driven him all these years would be rendered irrelevant. And that guilt –
That guilt would never be reconciled, for the deed could never be undone. But if it meant that it could go some way towards repaying. . .
The door loomed ahead of him, shabby and old. A sudden, stray thought wondered at why he had added to the list that memory of himself accidentally blasting off George Weasley's ear; it was shut down.
He breathed in deeply and thought of a little girl and boy in a grove by the glittering river. He breathed out. Then he knocked.
A pause.
"Enter," said the cold voice.
He pushed the door open.