Chapter 4 : Secundus Vicis
The light that started to filter through his closed eyelids was enough to make him squint, and he was suddenly aware that he was alive. Or at least he thought he was alive.
As though to test the theory, he peered out from under heavy lids in an attempt to ascertain his surroundings. It seemed he was alone and it was quiet. Slowly opening his eyes all the way, he took in the sparse furnishings of the small room before him: he was lying on a bed, a small wooden nightstand to his left. On its surface was a dusty, antique lamp and a white clock that long ago seemed to favor repair. A lone window split the length of the longest wall and a paneled door stood just beyond the foot of the bed. To its right, in the corner, sat an old rocking chair; over its rise, a quilt was draped haphazardly.
Is this some kind of hospital or institution? Severus wondered.
Just then, there was a knock at the door. Severus tensed and watched the entrance to the room closely, a pang of unease and fear flooding his body. He felt stiff and sore and knew he would be at a disadvantage if he needed to move or react quickly. He immediately thought of his wand, but before he could attempt a nonverbal location spell, the door to the room opened slowly and revealed a familiar, yet unexpected face.
Aberforth.
When Severus did little to hide his surprise and confusion, Aberforth slipped into the room and closed the door behind him quietly. As he turned back around, he began to speak, but stayed rooted to the spot where he had entered.
"Hello, Severus. I just came up to check on you. You are safe here. You had a serious injury but you seem to be recovering well. I'm sure you will have a lot of questions, but for now just rest and I will tell you everything soon." Aberforth regarded Severus cautiously for a few moments, as if he was unsure how Severus would react to the information.
For Severus' part, he just lay there, his mind murky. He was trying to make sense of how he came to be in this place – wherever he was – and why Aberforth would be looking after him. What time was it? What day was it? What happened? Severus closed his eyes in an attempt to stem the flow of thoughts and briefly wondered if he would be able to speak. His throat felt raw and scratchy as he tried to swallow into it, and then glanced instinctively at the nightstand for some water.
Aberforth caught the glance and surmised its meaning quickly. He brushed past the bed and disappeared into a doorway on the other side of the nightstand – one previously unnoticed by Severus. When Aberforth reappeared and held out a glass of water, Severus realized that room must be an adjoining bath. When Severus didn't move to accept the water, however, Aberforth set the glass gingerly on the nightstand and went to resume his position near the door.
Severus was not sure he would be able to move his limbs on his own yet and did not wish to endure the indignity if he should attempt to grab the glass and fail. So he waited, and said nothing.
Aberforth seemed to take that as his cue to leave and slipped back out of the room in much the same way he had entered. When the door closed with a soft click, Severus slowly rolled his head to the side to regard the glass of water. The light from the room was dancing in the clear liquid, and as it shone through the glass, it cast rippling patterns onto the furniture's surface. Severus' attention wandered briefly.
So I am alive, he thought. What does that mean?
As though his mind was waiting for him to ask precisely that, it began to awaken, revealing a spinning canvas of scattered images and colors and events and faces – some familiar, some not – barraging him with visuals until he could no longer decide if he was watching real memories or exhaustion-induced hallucinations.
But one word did manage to push through, precise and unmistakable.
Phoenix.
SSHP-SSHP-SSHP
Aberforth found his routine changed little in the days that followed. In between customers at his pub downstairs, he busied himself with bringing up food trays and fetching books and newspapers for Severus, but otherwise did not attempt any further conversation.
Severus had been a good patron of his pub in the days before the war – and curiously, had always protected the place from Death Eaters – something Aberforth never quite understood but was grateful for nonetheless, as nothing would turn his regulars away from the door faster than a sniff of trouble. Aberforth knew enough about the guarded man he was looking after to understand that when talk was warranted, Severus would initiate.
And that was exactly how it happened, on the eighth day after Severus' arrival. Aberforth had just set down a lunch tray on the nightstand when a soft, harshly rasping voice cut into the silence.
"Thank you."
Aberforth froze momentarily as he processed what he heard. Lifting his eyes, he found they met the lucid, black eyes of his guest, and it caused him to stand upright again. It was then that he took in Severus for the first time since entering the room: sitting up in bed, propped on pillows and leaning against the headboard, a book folded in his lap. The pallor of his skin appeared a shade warmer than it had the day before; the angry scar on his neck less swollen. The improvement seemed encouraging, if slow.
Before Aberforth could stop himself, a clumsy question tumbled out. "For what?"
Severus swallowed and blinked for a long moment. When he reopened his eyes, he whispered, "For helping me."
Aberfoth scoffed lightly. "Don't thank me, it was Fawkes who saved your life." He paused, a slight sneer coloring his features. "No doubt something Albus orchestrated…"
At these words, Severus looked pointedly at Aberforth as a dawning comprehension started to settle over him. He then directed his eyes downwards, somewhat unfocused, remembering the word that kept haunting his subconscious.
Phoenix.
Of course – phoenix tears!
Absentmindedly, Severus reached a hand up to his neck and pressed his fingertips to the raised and tender scar that had formed there. Images flashed in his mind: Voldemort. A giant snake in a floating, fluid cell. The Elder Wand. The searing pain of a poisonous bite followed by the helpless drain of hot blood on exposed skin. A dull thud as he hit the floor. Green eyes. Harry.
Harry.
With a sudden jolt of panic, he sat up straight in bed and then immediately regretted his action as the room began to swim before him, his head throbbing with confusion and disorientation. A light touch to his shoulder told him that Aberforth had moved and was attempting to guide him back to the support of the pillows behind him.
"You should keep still, Severus. With or without Fawkes, you still need time to heal properly from your injuries."
Just then, there was a sharp rap to the glass from outside the window. Severus leaned back, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to gain his bearings again, and therefore did not notice when Aberforth opened the window to admit yet another guest. A soft caw and a rustle of feathers forced Severus out of his haze and he glanced over to the sill. There, perched on the wooden ledge, were the vivid reds, ambers and golds of Fawkes' plumage. Set amongst them was the uncannily wise and watchful gaze of the enigmatic bird.
Severus regarded Fawkes for a moment before his mind was barraged with questions. He turned to Aberforth.
"What of Voldemort?"
"The boy defeated him," Aberforth replied.
"Potter?" Severus inquired, needing to be absolutely sure.
Aberforth nodded, the relief evident on his face despite his weary countenance.
Severus exhaled soundly while he considered the implications of this. When he continued with more questions, he found that Aberforth obliged him with answers as best he could, and for the better part of an hour, the two men went back and forth until everything was clear in Severus' mind. Except one thing.
"So the wizarding world thinks I am dead?"
Aberforth's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "Yes."
"Yet if someone should return to the Shack to retrieve my body, it will not be there."
Aberforth's eyes twinkled, eerily reminiscent of Albus. "Correct. But neither will the Shack. I burned it after Fawkes saved you that night."
"You burned down the Shrieking Shack?" Severus asked, alarmed, then remembered the newspapers he had been reading (although the timing of everything had been unclear). "That was you?"
Aberforth hummed noncommittally and shifted his stance. "Well, it's not as though anyone will miss it – blasted eyesore if you ask me. A good riddance." He shuddered slightly and crossed his arms over his chest.
So the wizarding world thinks I am dead, killed by Voldemort – then burned to ashes in the Shack by an unknown aggressor.
Then, as though prodded by some invisible force, Severus' thoughts quickly turned to Harry Potter. He had given his memories to Harry. Abashedly, he wondered what Harry's reaction had been. Then, with a start, he realized that handing them over must have yielded the desired effect – just as Dumbledore surmised it would – that something contained within Severus' memories was the key to the downfall of the Dark Lord.
So I had a hand in killing Voldemort after all, Severus mused, feeling vindicated by that knowledge. Then, wondering again at how he had come to be in Aberforth's care, he asked one final question – his voice still barely above a whisper.
"How did this task fall to you?"
Aberforth, who had taken to staring at a thread-bare rug on the floor, looked up and met Severus' eyes at the query. A familiar, piercing blue stare told Severus everything he needed to know.
SSHP-SSHP-SSHP
Three weeks later, Severus found himself pacing the confines of his small room above Aberforth's pub, completely healed and altogether restless. As he gazed out the window onto the streets of Hogsmeade below, a thought that had plagued him for the entirety of those three weeks came rushing back with a vengeance.
The wizarding world thinks I am dead.
The gravity of that began to settle thickly upon his mind. What would become of him now? He could not just wander out the front door of the pub and idly reinsert himself into society. Frankly, even if it were possible, the idea held no merit – he had no purpose there anymore. As it was, he often wavered between bouts of melancholy and relief – at times wishing he had just perished as he expected and prepared to do, and other times grateful for a second chance.
But was this a second chance? And to what end? Being cooped up in Aberforth's home for the rest of his days or facing banishment to some corner of the globe where no one knew his name?
"What would you have me do, Albus?" Severus whispered to the silence of the room. After a long moment, he sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed, dropping his head into his hands.
A knock at the door roused Severus from his thoughts and he scrubbed his hands over his face before instructing Aberforth to enter. When Aberforth didn't speak right away, however, Severus followed the man's gaze – it was fixated on his hands, which were holding a small, brown parcel and a tightly-wound scroll.
Aberforth looked up as he held out his hands. "Albus left these for you. Now that you've recovered, I think it's time you have them."
After setting the items in Severus' hands, Aberforth turned and left the room, closing the door behind him. Severus looked down at what Aberforth had given to him and felt his heart thump loudly against the walls of his chest. Time seemed to tick by slowly and he wasn't sure how long he stayed like that. Eventually, he picked up the scroll and unrolled it.
A familiar, loopy scrawl read:
May one who is dead to the world find salvation in rebirth.
Severus let out the breath he had been inadvertently holding and looked away from the parchment for a moment, thinking. When he looked back, he reread the note several more times, his brows furrowing in consternation, trying to absorb all possible meanings. Curious – if not a bit cautiously – he looked over at the small brown parcel he had set next to him on the bed.
Unwrapping the paper carefully, he removed the lid. Severus was alternatively stunned and confused by what he saw. Inside was a small crimson egg, its delicate surface peppered with faint brown speckles.
A phoenix egg.
Reverently, he traced the shape of it with his forefinger, daring only the lightest touch. He had only ever seen illustrations in his potions texts and reference materials. They were extremely rare, phoenix eggs, and were endowed with incredible magical power.
When he turned the box around slowly to inspect it further, Severus noticed a small slip of paper cradling the underside of the egg. Gently, he reached in and removed it, and as he did so, his finger also touched something rigid underneath, and so he withdrew that object too – a small glass vial containing a bluish-green substance. Then, unfolding the piece of paper, he found five words:
Venenum Reservo
Unum ingenero tergum
Severus' mind labored for a moment as he tried to place it. He immediately recognized venenum as the Latin word for "potion" but reservo did not jog his memory. On the next line, he knew unum meant "one" and tergum meant "back" or "previous." His Latin was rusty but the construct of the second line seemed to indicate an incantation of some kind.
Just then, he caught a glimpse of Dumbledore's partially-rolled scroll again and a few of the words echoed in his mind.
… salvation in rebirth.
Severus' pulse jumped into his throat as he realized what this must mean. Imbibing a potion – the one in his hand, perhaps? – when combined with a phoenix egg and the incantation created some sort of rebirth by harnessing the egg's inherent magic. But what kind of rebirth?
Severus looked again at the slip of paper. Then suddenly, it came to him, and he inhaled sharply.
Ingenero.
He whispered the translated word out loud. "Generation."
The word hung on his lips for several moments as he realized what this was in his hands; what Dumbledore had given to him: it was a de-aging potion. Specifically, one that would send him backwards in age by one generation.
It appeared he already had everything he needed, too, save for one thing.
A decision.
SSHP-SSHP-SSHP
The next two weeks dragged by slowly as Severus did his best to ignore the contents of the nightstand drawer. His internal monologue raged a war of wills with itself as he both argued and pondered the gift from Dumbledore.
What is he on about, wanting me to de-age? What purpose could that possibly serve?
But the more Severus fought the idea, the more it got under his skin, and slowly he started to see reason with it. What other options did he have, really? Following his current life trajectory was looking more tiresome and bleak with each passing day.
Then, one afternoon on the start of a new week, Severus sighed deeply as he finally resigned himself to his new fate – whatever it may entail. Once again he seemed to be at the mercy of someone else's machinations, but at least this time he stood to gain something from it – a life. His own life: one that he could create as he saw fit; one without fear of retribution from enemies hiding in shadows or around every corner; one where he was free. Or as free as Severus Snape was ever likely to be.
He would take it. He would take it while he still could.
After all, he had nothing to lose by trying. And with that, he had made his decision.
Pulling the drawer to the nightstand open slowly, he took a deep breath and pulled out its contents one by one, as though observing a ritual. Uncorking the vial, he combined the egg with the potion and moved to stand in front of the bathroom mirror. Pausing for a moment, he intoned a reminder to himself.
Nothing to lose.
Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes tightly and poured the potion into his mouth. After he drained the vial, he swallowed thickly and recited the incantation.
He remained in that position for several minutes, unsure of whether or not he should move, and waited. When nothing appeared to be happening, he lifted his head and sighed. But when he reopened his eyes and focused on the image in front of him, it was with shock and disbelief and wonder.
Staring back from the mirror was the eighteen-year-old version of himself.