Chapter Two
The Pensieve
Snape leaned back heavily into his leather chair.
He rubbed his eyes warily, with his finger tips before looking across his large wooden table, to where an odd stone basin sat. He rolled his wand absent mindedly between his finger tips, as he took in the strange markings etched into the basins stone surface.
They were runes, and they spoke about wondrous events that could be brought back to be half-relived. "Half-relived?" murmured Snape inquisitively. What could that possibly mean?
The receptacle looked quite dull upon first glance, but Dumbledore had always assured Snape that it would bring him a type of comfort; for things that can only be relived in the mind. Snape had seen the basin countless times in Dumbledore's office, and had often been invited into the headmaster's office, while he pondered over the luminescent substance inside the basin.
An odd shimmering blue light lit Dumbledore's face, in an unforgettable way. It was during these moments, Snape had learnt to wait until he was spoken to before speaking with the headmaster. Albus Dumbledore often engaged with Snape in the most interesting discussions, after dwelling over this basin.
Dumbledore had referred to the basin as a pensieve. An incredibly rare receptacle Snape had read about as a student at Hogwarts.
Pensieves were few and far between, and every single one was unique. Modern day pensieves in particular were unreliable, and therefore the creation of a pensieve was scrutinized so closely that only the utmost dedicated witch or wizard produced one. It was a well known fact that pensieves were only ever as accurate as the mind from which the memories placed into the pensieve came from. Newer pensieves had often misrepresented and destroyed the slithers of memories placed within them, driving their users mad with the distortion between reality and memory.
Older pensieves dated back so far, that they had outlasted any living descendent of their creator.
The pensieve sitting before Severus Snape had been there since the founders of Hogwarts established the school of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Dumbledore informed Snape that it had in fact been produced at the school by Rowena Ravenclaw and that she had fashioned it herself. She understood and valued the mind in such a way, that she was able to create the first pensieve, and obtain the ability to ease the burden on her mind whenever there was something else she wished to dedicate her mind to.
Snape placed his wand down upon the table, and reached across to the pensieve.
He felt somewhat apprehensive about using it, but Dumbledore's word was more than trust-worthy, and the pensieve had held countless memories and thoughts in it, that were far more valuable than Snape's.
He traced the engraved runes with his finger tips.
The pensieve was oddly warm to the touch; Snape raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"How peculiar…" he whispered.
He dropped his hand into a pocket of his robe, and drew from it a small glass vial. In it a silvery strand slithered about, it was not of vaporous or liquid form. He raised the vial to his face, and looked closely at the shimmering strand as it coiled about delicately.
Suddenly a brilliant flash erupted in his office.
Hot flames burst into life, and doused everything in the office with a fierce golden light. Snape was used to this form of communication, and hadn't flinched in the slightest. The noise of the flames was piercing, but subsided just as quickly as they had occurred. Nothing in the room was damaged by the flames; in fact they had no effect on anything at all.
Snape raised his eyes to the ball of flames that sat burning brightly in mid air.
They quickly subsided, and from the middle of the flames appeared a single golden feather. It glistened brilliantly, and began floating to the ground gently.
It was the single feather of a phoenix. Dumbledore's method of communication was highly effective, and most staff rejoiced at the sight of the single golden phoenix feather – as it signaled for the gathering of all Hogwarts staff and students in the Great Hall. The sorting ceremony was about to begin.
Snape dropped his gaze back to the glass vial, which he still had raised in his hand.
So precious was this particular memory that he couldn't bear being parted from it. He both loved and loathed this memory, and it held as much power over him today – as it did all those years ago.
"Lily… Why is this all I have left of you?" spoke Snape.
His voice was calm and controlled, just like it always was. He had learned long ago, to shield his emotions and bury them deep down; so far down, that they couldn't be penetrated even by the power of an extremely proficient legilimens.
Occlumency was no longer an art to Snape, for it had become a way of life.
He took in one last gaze of the vial, and its contents before slipping it back into the pocket of his robe.
He picked his wand off the table top, stood up and straightened his cloak.
The phoenix feather had since vanished; presumably back to Dumbledore's office. The Headmaster never plucked feathers from his familiar Fawkes, the phoenix. Rather, the phoenix offered as many feathers as were necessary for summoning the professors – and the same feathers were re-used time and time again. The phoenix gave, or took feathers as professors came and went. Snape took one deep breath through his long hooked nose and proceeded towards the door.
He pulled the heavy dungeon door open, and stepped through but not before taking one last look over his shoulder at the pensieve.