Chapter 2 - Dumbledore's Offer
Albus Dumbledore stood at the foot of a large, grey block of flats, and looked up. It was grim, he thought, noticing the way the main door into the building swung off its hinges, and graffiti covered most of the walls within reach of the ground outside. He paused just for a moment, appearing to listen, the hand in his pocket lightly touching his wand, before venturing into the building. What traces there were of magic in and around the building were extremely old; this was as Muggle a building as you were likely to find in a British city. And a suitable, if rather surprising place for a wizard to lie low.
He met no one on the way up to the seventeenth floor, though from the voices and music he could hear through the walls into the flats all around him, the place was far from deserted. To his disappointment, the electrical lift seemed to be broken, and Dumbledore had to resist the urge to use magic to reach his destination. It was a shame, as seventeen flights of stairs is no joke for a man his age, and by the time he reached the door he was looking for, he was out of breath. Nevertheless, he felt sure a cup of tea and a sit down awaited him on the other side of the door, which he now knocked.
After a minute, the door was opened, but only slightly, and a man shrouded in shadow looked out.
"It's only me," Dumbledore panted.
The man opened the door and let Dumbledore in. It soon dawned on him that perhaps he'd been optimistic in his hopes for a chance to rest here. The flat into which he had entered was bare except for an old stained coffee table and some torn curtains, which blocked out most of the light in the room. There was a pile of what looked like robes in one corner, and in another a pile of old newspapers and bits of cardboard. There was no light bulb in the socket above.
Dumbledore didn't say anything, and tried not to look too shocked at the state of the place.
"It's not much," the man croaked, "but it's cheap."
"And out of the way," Dumbledore added, looking again at the man before him. His eyes took in the dark, greasy hair which looked like it hadn't been combed in a while, the thin, sallow face and the shabby robes. Clearly uncomfortable with Dumbledore's gaze, the man broke eye contact and moved towards what was the door to the kitchen.
"I'd offer you a cup of tea, but the tea bags are pretty old. The previous tenant must have left them. You'll have to drink them at your own risk."
Dumbledore smiled and his eyes twinkled. "That's alright," he said, "a glass of water will do. Those stairs- I don't know how you manage them Severus."
Severus Snape, for that was his name, smirked, and went to fetch a drink for his visitor. Meanwhile, Dumbledore spotted the newspaper that was on the coffee table, which was only a few days old. On the front page there was a moving picture of Igor Karkaroff, flanked by Dementors. The headline simply read: "KARKAROFF TALKS"
Dumbledore didn't need to read on, he'd already seen the story, already been to the offices of the Daily Prophet, already argued with its Editor. He turned when Snape came back into the room, and took the glass of water from the younger man. Their eyes met, and Dumbledore said quickly, "There won't be any more stories. I've already spoken to them."
Snape looked back down at the newspaper and said nothing. They stood for a moment in silence. Then suddenly, Dumbledore sat down on the floor and crossed his legs, as though this were a perfectly normal situation. Clearly the stairs really had taken it out of him. Snape hesitated a moment, then sat down as well.
"So," Dumbledore said eventually, "how have you been?" There was genuine concern in the man's voice, but this did not encourage Snape to talk, as he had hoped.
"Alright."
"Found work?"
"No."
There was silence again. "I've been living off my savings," Snape said.
"Your father-" Dumbledore began hopefully.
"Not a chance," Snape snorted, "I haven't seen or heard from him since I was seventeen, and he made it very clear then that I shouldn't bother coming back."
Dumbledore's tone suddenly changed; perhaps he was impatient. "What do you intend to do then?"
Snape looked up, surprised at the question. "What am I meant to do?" he asked, his face clearly betraying the anger he felt.
Dumbledore didn't answer immediately, but sighed and caught sight of a kite being flown outside The red speck swooped and dived, and if he listened hard, he could hear the shouts of delight from the children below.
"Horace has decided to retire at last," he said, looking back at Snape, "He's been threatening to do so for years, but I suppose the war has taken its toll on him, and he feels it is time to move on."
That wasn't the real reason, of course. Horace Slughorn had remained at Hogwarts long after he'd wanted to retire for the simple reason that it was safer there than outside. It was clear to most people who knew Horace that if he was to leave Dumbledore's employ, it wouldn't be long before Voldermort paid him a visit. Now that the danger had passed, he could finally enjoy his retirement in peace and luxury.
Dumbledore went on, "Which means, I am in need of a new Potions Professor. And I want you to be that person."
Snape gave a short laugh, "You are joking. You want me to teach? At Hogwarts? Why?"
"Because I need a potions teacher," was Dumbledore's simple reply, "and you need a job. And somewhere else to live." He glanced round when he said this, before continuing. "Besides, it will allow you to fulfil your side of our agreement."
And there it was. Snape had wondered when Dumbledore would bring that up again, how long it would take him before he extracted from Snape what was due. Snape had promised Dumbledore he would do anything to keep Lily Potter safe. After the death of the Potters, he had extended this to the protection of their son, Harry. But Harry was just a baby, and, from what Snape knew of the situation, safely in the care of Petunia Dursley and her family. He would remain there until he turned eleven and would take his place at Hogwarts. But that was years away, surely Dumbledore didn't need Snape to go to Hogwarts now.
"This way you'll be well established by the time Harry arrives," Dumbledore said, as if he could guess what Snape was thinking. "There's really no reason to wait any time at all."
"Except I'm not qualified, or suited, to teach," Snape pointed out angrily, "And I can't imagine the governors will be happy, or the parents for that matter, now that they all know." He gestured to the offending newspaper.
Dumbledore looked like he was trying not to grin; his moustache twitched and his eyes glistened. "Oh, you don't need to worry about them," he said softly, tidying the folds of his robes.
When Snape didn't respond, Dumbledore looked up and said quite calmly, "You don't honestly think I could be persuaded, or intimidated, into letting you go, do you?"
He was, of course, quite right. With the Dark Lord gone, nobody could be in any doubt who the most powerful wizard in Britain was. Nevertheless, the arrogance with which Dumbledore assumed his authority irked Snape somewhat; it was the Dumbledore he remembered from his schooldays, the one who inspired in Snape a resentment that made it easier to join the Dark Lord.
Worried that this train of thought was visible to Dumbledore, Snape dropped his eyes. He still couldn't be sure just how much of Snape's inner thoughts Dumbledore had access to. In the moments after Snape had found out about Lily's death, he had been in such a state that he undoubtedly allowed Dumbledore to see the side of him that he hadn't allowed anyone else to see, and this unnerved him.
It had certainly made it easier for Dumbledore to trust Snape, but how long this would last, Snape couldn't be sure. And he felt vulnerable, knowing that Dumbledore knew such things about him, but unable to fully trust the old Professor. True, Dumbledore had so far kept him out of Azkaban, but he wouldn't put it past him to use Snape's weakness to manipulate him, and use him.
"So you're not going to run off and become Minister for Magic then?" Snape asked, changing the subject.
"Merlin, no," Dumbledore's reply was firm. "I'll leave that to Barty."
Ever since That Night, Emily Saxon had been a collector. An entire shelf in her bedroom was set aside for notebooks and journals, each full of information she had acquired about You Know Who, his Death Eaters and their reported victims. She knew their names, their histories, what they looked like, and who they knew.
It had started as a way of purging her mind of the memories of That Dreadful Night. Once written down it could be set aside. But instead, over the years it became something of an obsession. She kept newspaper articles, copied family trees, created timelines and, most importantly of all, kept it all up to date.
In the months after the war had ended, she'd filled several journals with details of the trials. Death Eaters that had previously only been hinted at were given names and pictures. Slowly, the pieces of the puzzle were falling into place.
These days, she rarely looked at the journal she'd started with. She didn't really need to. She knew well enough that the first few pages were taken up with drawings, vague images of what, of who she had seen That Night. None of them grasped the likeness of her brother's killer, and so alongside them she jotted down words that would describe the figure, and some that she'd added, not fully knowing why.
Long hair, dark. Tall. Almost certainly male. Possibly dark eyes - probably not green. Unpleasant face. Angry. Didn't laugh. Shadows and darkness… Spidery…
None of the newspaper cuttings in her journals so far were a match.
The day following Karkaroff's trial was spent in deep thought. She sat at the edge of the pond in the garden, sucking absent-mindedly on a sugar quill and dangling her bare feet in the water. Occasionally, something smooth would brush against her ankle, but she paid little heed to the fish now. She'd already added the details of the latest trial to her journal, and was left to ponder the questions it had raised.
Rookwood. The Ministry official. Snape. The Spy.
She sighed. She was getting nowhere. Abandoning this pointless exercise, she turned her attention to the letter her uncle had given her that morning. It had arrived several weeks ago, but he had 'forgotten' because he was 'busy'. She supposed she shouldn't resent him for that, but she was a little hurt when he told her quite firmly that he expected her to 'deal with it herself'.
The letter was from her parents' solicitor, Mr Bartlett, requesting her presence in his London offices on the 1st of September at 3pm. She would be turning eighteen that day, and so would be due to inherit her parents' 'estates, titles, and all articles therein'.
Mr Bartlett explained that he was a squib by birth, and after completing a Muggle education - a feat in itself, she thought - he had set up a legal practice dealing mainly with Muggles, but also with those rare individuals who bridged the divide between the worlds, such as her father.
Emily had of course known that Muggles became of age when they turned eighteen, but had thought little of her inheritance in the years since her parents' deaths. What did any of it matter, really?
She supposed there might be small treasures that would have some sentimental value, and she wasn't too proud to admit that her parents' gold would be useful, but she couldn't get excited about it.
In fact, she was rather apprehensive about the whole thing. Missing the Hogwarts Express wasn't a problem - she could apparate to the school in the evening, nor did she mind waiting a little longer before seeing her friends and classmates.
No, it was the thought that she might have to take possession of the house she'd been raised in, that turned her stomach. She found herself hoping desperately that it had already been sold. This final thought made her feel terribly guilty, and so to compensate, she'd quickly sent an owl back to Mr Bartlett assuring him that she would see him on the first day of September.
After Karkaroff's trial, Emily was disappointed to discover that she wouldn't be permitted to attend any more Death Eater trials. Instead, she had to go back to getting her information from the press and whatever Uncle Barty chose to let her know, which was frustratingly little.
The quality of the reporting of the press was sporadic. It was clear to Emily that their independence could not be relied upon. For example, apart from the day after Karkaroff's trial, there had been no more mention, let alone investigation, of Severus Snape, Dumbledore's spy. When she remarked upon this to her uncle, he confirmed, in a round about way, that sometimes the Prophet was leaned upon by the Ministry.
Uncle Barty held no affection for the press, and justified the Ministry's influence quite comfortably by saying it was always in the 'National Interest'. The press were meddlesome, amoral, cared only for a story, while he was out there, putting away criminals, and making Britain a safer place.
Howard Beardshaw, a former reporter at the Daily Prophet, had written a lengthy diatribe of the Ministry's tactics in dealing with Death Eaters after the war. He had warned of a Ministry that had little regard for the law, or for justice, that desired only more power to lock away its citizens and prop up its own demagogue of a leader, Bartemius Crouch Senior.
Although Uncle Barty had been enraged by this attack, he hadn't needed to defend himself, as the response from the public had been almost unanimously against the reporter. Letters and curses had flooded into the Prophet head office, accusing Beardshaw of being unpatriotic and a friend of You Know Who. Not only had the Editor of the Prophet been forced to sack his reporter, but Beardshaw had subsequently fled to France, where he apparently lived and worked with a group of wizarding anarchists, who wrote and printed leaflets nobody ever read.
Hearing Uncle Barty's authoritarian views on the press made Emily a little uncomfortable. She'd long harboured doubts about his justifications for the heavy hand of the Ministry, but wasn't confident enough of these doubts to voice them out loud. Having an independent and critical press would be nice, she thought, but if it hindered the government's efforts to defeat You Know Who and his Death Eaters…
In the end it came down to whether or not one trusted Barty Crouch and the Ministry, to act proportionally and to do what was right.
As his niece, how could she not trust him? He had promised her, only a few weeks after she had come to live with them, that he would do everything he could to bring those who had killed her family to justice. They had been at war then, You Know Who was increasing in strength and supporters, and they lived every day in danger for their lives.
Over the years, he had repeated this promise to her; every time she woke in the night screaming with terror, he had been there, cradling her as she cried, whispering he would protect her, that together they would defeat their enemies. He provided the stability in her life that she needed after the loss of her family, and the inspiration and determination to keep going.
It was he who encouraged her to study hard, to always be prepared. She applied herself vigorously to her studies; it made her feel less powerless, better able to defend herself should she be attacked again. It was hardly surprising, therefore, that Defence Against the Dark Arts became her favourite subject. Obtaining teachers for this post was hard enough during peace time, but during the last few years of the war, it became impossible.
Eventually, students had taken it upon themselves to learn from books alone, while the other teachers took it in turns to supervise the practical sides of the subject. A Duelling Club was set up, and older students taught the younger ones how to defend themselves.
A group of older students soon emerged whose skills went beyond the simple Disarming spell, who could handle themselves in a duel as well as many adults. Mostly consisting of prefects, and entirely devoid of Slytherins, these students patrolled the school, keeping a close eye on any sign of intrusion. They assisted the teachers in their magical defence of the school and its grounds, and discussed the practical issues of what to do should the defences of Hogwarts be breached.
Emily's rapidly improving skills at duelling earned her a place in this elite group of students even before she became a prefect. By the time she was in her sixth year, she was widely considered to be one of their most valued and experienced members.
After the war had ended, they had relaxed somewhat, and now met less frequently. But the danger had not passed entirely, and, for Emily at least, vigilance was still needed.
Author's Note: Yes, Snape did, while the war was still going on, apply to teach at Hogwarts, when Voldermort instructed him to. But I decided firstly that Snape would not consider himself suited to teaching. He's very young, only a few years out of school himself, and he isn't exactly a 'people person'.
Also, I decided that Dumbledore would refuse him the position then, after all he may not have been sure at that point that Snape was really trustworthy. But mainly it was because I wanted to set the story after the war was over.
