Chapter 4

Those Who Thrice Defied Him

Severus Snape opened his eyes in a sudden confusion, visceral fear knifing through him as he sought to find his bearings. He lay face down on the floor, a bump forming on his cheek and raw sawdust tasted on his tongue. Disoriented, he jerked his head around in a panic…and finally noticed the familiar surroundings.

He was on the floor of his home potions lab – tiredness and worry must have overtaken him as the Dittany worked its magic. His flashback had felt so real, as if he had been sorted that first day only moments ago. He looked down at his right bicep – the gash and closed and sported a scar that appeared several days old. Chewing the plant's leaf wasn't as effective as taking the actual essence potion, but it certainly got the job done.

Snape pushed himself to his feet and ran his palm along the old books lining the lab. Advanced Book of Brews, Poisons and Antidotes Vol. III, Chaucer's Potent Potions… finally he spied a dog-eared version of Magical Drafts, Draughts and Potions. He quickly flipped to the Essence of Dittany page and got to work.

Brewing a potion was an intensely personal process for Snape – he treated each concoction as if his very life depended on it. He was a loner and besides the precious few years he had with Lily, his best friends had always been books. A voracious reader as a young boy, he had digested everything he could lay his hands on in his Grandfather's house and local library. He very quickly moved on from reading about magic to applying it, and soon the gifted wizard discovered he possessed a natural talent for inventing spells and recipes.

Snape's attention to detail and creativity was what set him apart from his peers, his prowess in two contrasting traits. He treated even the most mundane of ingredients with meticulous care, as a five star chef would treat a prized cache of truffles. Brewing always calmed his frayed nerves, eased his constant state of tension – it was his natural anti-depressant. The endorphins flowed and Snape achieved a "runner's high" when a potion emitted the perfect scent or turned the perfect shade of color.

Essence of Dittany was a powerful healing potion, and as such, it required a deft touch and expensive ingredients. Snape's potions lab may have appeared drab and commonplace, but it held a treasure trove of the world's rarest ingredients. His personal supplies rivaled the storerooms of the wizarding world's most famous hospitals and institutions.

Snape glanced at the book – it called for three dittany leaves to be rolled up, chopped and dumped into a simmering cauldron full of other herbs. Snape smiled to himself as he closed the book and returned it to its place on a shelf. Rather than rolling and chopping the leaves, he shredded them with his fingers and slowly dropped the bits into a bubbling cauldron at three second intervals. The potion immediately turned clear and translucent – the author of Magical Drafts, Draughts and Potions would have immediately revised his recipe if had witnessed what had just happened.

By clandestinely meeting with Dumbledore earlier, Snape knew that he had irrevocably crossed a threshold from which he could never come back from. The Dark Lord would never forgive such an absolute betrayal – He had killed for much less. If Lord Voldemort ever discerned the truth, if Dumbledore ever shared his secrets, Snape would swiftly pass into the hereafter and utter pain would have accompanied him on that journey.

The day Snape realized that the Dark Lord had interpreted the prophecy – the prophecy he himself had carried back to Him! – as a death sentence for Lily's child, Snape had never hesitated. There was no hand wringing, no internal struggle of where his loyalties lay, no weighing of the pros and cons. Snape had immediately decided his time as a faithful Death Eater had come to an abrupt end and reached out to the one person who might have the capacity to help her.

Snape didn't have any allusions in regards to his about face; he knew his reasons were borne from selfishness and greed, even lust. The death, pain and destruction caused to thousands of other people had given Snape some pause, yet he had always remained true to the Dark Lord's cause. But the moment he had discovered that Lily was in danger, he acted altruistically for the first time in his life; he behaved as if the Dark Lord had marked Snape himself for execution.

His mind raced back to a cold night a few weeks earlier – he had requested an audience with the Dark Lord, seeking a favor. Unlike many of his dark brethren, he had never once asked for compensation or rewards and the Dark Lord's interest had been piqued when Severus had finally come calling for something.

Let me find them for you! – Snape had begged his master. Entrust me with finding the Potter family my Lord, I'll not fail you, I'll bring the child to you. When he got high pitched laughter as an answer, Snape had begged for her to be spared – Please! My Lord…I…I desire her. Can I have her as my reward? Eventually, Snape had pretended to accept the Dark Lord's suggestion of finding a more worthy prize – yes my Lord, of course, a pureblood witch would make for a much more suitable wife.

Lord Voldemort should have paid more attention to the desperate pleas He heard that night.

Within an hour of that audience, an owl had been dispatched to Hogwarts from a house on Spinner's End. Such a simple method of communication in the wizarding world, the Owl's message held no charms of concealment or complicated protection spells. No one would ever have imagined that anything of importance would be sent in such a common way during such troubled times. The letter had contained a simple message in cramped, scrawled handwriting:

Professor Dumbledore, please meet me tonight near the southern hills of my childhood home – The Half Blood Prince.

He used the nickname Dumbledore himself had affectionately given him during his second day at Hogwarts. The head of the Slytherin house, Horace Slughorn, had seemed so obsessed with one's background and family affluence that Snape had been too terrified to ask the walrus shaped professor about how to obtain second hand textbooks. Unable to sleep that first night, Snape had awoken at first light and sat alone in a dark corridor, wondering if he was going to get in trouble for not having the required textbooks on his first day. Would he get detention? Would the others laugh at his stupidity? Oh God, the last thing I want to do is draw negative attention to myself! How embarrassing his first class would be, the only one who couldn't afford a lousy textbook…

"Ahh, young Master Snape. I noticed you last night at the sorting. Took the Hat a solid five minutes to place you."

Severus looked up in fright, at bespectacled twinkling blue eyes. "Yes, sir. It kind of, well, it ummm, sort of had a conversation with me."

"Very interesting indeed. Master Snape, don't fret about being placed in Slytherin, some of the brightest wizards I've ever known were half-blood or muggle born from your house, and many came from humble beginnings," Dumbledore exclaimed. He somehow knew what fears had been playing on the young boy's mind. "And of course, we have programs in place to help those students who cannot purchase new books. You're the son of Eileen Prince, are you not?"

Shocked at what he heard, Severus simply nodded.

"She was a wonderfully gifted witch as I recall. Top notch Gobstones player, a School Captain I believe." With a wink, Dumbledore gently took his hand and led Severus over to a handsome boy watching the pair talk.

"Cornwall, this here is young Severus Snape. Please show him where and how to apply for used textbooks."

"At once Professor. Right this way, Severus is it? So, what do you think of Hogwarts?" Severus looked back at Dumbledore and gave a tiny smile, small yellowish teeth peeking out from thin cracked lips.

"Take care, Half-Blood Prince!"

Once Snape had sent that owl off into the night, his destiny had forever been altered – all this trouble because of that forsaken prophecy! He wished he'd never crept up those blasted stairs and heard that delusional maniac's ramblings. With her coke-rimmed glasses and shabby clothing, such a wretched, disgusting woman. Endangering the only one that ever made me happy, had ever given me peace, the only one that ever accepted me for who and what I am…

The healing draught finally cooled and turned a light shade of emerald, Snape took a long slow sip. The Essence of Dittany could be applied topically, but ingesting it nearly tripled its efficacy. Snape slumped to the ground in a drowsy haze as the warm brew slowly coursed through his body. His thoughts floated back to that horrible night, that goddamn prophecy…

Once his mark began to burn, Snape stalked off from the Lair with a servile Acolyte following a step behind, mirroring his every step. They strode out into the thick wet air of the Scottish highlands, a red sun receding behind the mountain tops. Snape's mark continued its annoying burn, angrily urging him onward. He stopped just outside the village nestled below the Lair, the castle's looming shadow casting a pall over everything.

The Acolyte rushed up and tied a traveling cloak around Snape. He turned to look at her – a beautiful and timid creature, with smooth white skin and full red lips, scared to meet his dark gaze. As a Death Eater he could have told her to do anything and she would have gladly obeyed – fetch me food, bring me drink…give yourself to me, right here, right now!

The Acolytes unquestioningly followed orders and willingly submitted themselves to any whim or desire of a Death Eater, Demon or Banshee. Snape sometimes felt that they were even more ardent believers of the cause than many of his fellow marked brethren.

"Go now, run along – back to the castle."

"Yes sir, at once. You require nothing else?"

Snape turned around again in annoyance and the Acolyte dropped an old boot at his feet and scurried off to play sycophant to the next waiting Death Eater. Snape's gaze was drawn to the ground as the old boot trembled and turned to a shining bluish hue. He reached down, grasped tightly, and felt a familiar jerking feeling…

Hogsmeade was a quiet, picturesque village that one might find gracing the face of a postcard – thatched cottages, cozy coffee shops and cute boutique stores lined the cobblestone streets. There was an ever present merriness that floated around the village, the town had a welcoming air to it. When one strolled down the streets, a contended feeling would pass through them, as if they may have had just a little too much food or wine that day.

Snape kept the collar of his traveling cloak upturned in defiance of the chilly night wind as he made his way to The Hog's Head bar. He entered and quickly took a table in the back – submersing himself in the shadows, as was his natural inclination in any social setting. He wanted to gather his thoughts and emotions before taking a room for the night and preparing for his meeting.

The interview was scheduled early the next morning on the Hogwarts campus; he would be taken straight up to the Dumbledore's office to meet the man himself and present his qualifications. Why did Dumbledore even consent to meet with me? How had the Dark Lord orchestrated the interview so quickly? Amazing what He can do, no task is out of His reach.

Snape suddenly became aware of his surroundings – the grimy interior of the bar and unsightly appearance of the late night patrons brought a disgusted grimace to his face. He finally had money to spend, but old habits die hard and he had made his way straight to this run down hovel. He was no longer a poor little kid from Spinner's End – he had seen and done things that would make most grown men squeal in terror. He was armed with knowledge that wizards twice his age would never attain, commanded a fierce magic that coursed through his very blood – his days of spending the night at places like The Hog's Head were over.

Snape decided to secure lodging at The Three Broomsticks instead and rose from the darkened table. But at that moment the door to the bar swung open, and he quickly sat back down in stunned silence. A good-humored Albus Dumbledore strolled in, shouting a greeting to someone over his shoulder.

"Good night to you as well Percival!" exclaimed the famous wizard as he started towards the back of the bar, but someone to his right drew his attention. Dumbledore stopped and stared down at a man in a heavy cloak, his face covered, a thick smoking pipe jutting out from a small mouth. A greenish haze swirled about the man, smoke lazily drifting out from the pipe.

"I didn't know you allowed Mundungus back in, good for you," Dumbledore cheerily said to the barkeep. "I see you're finally learning to forgive."

That innocuous comment seemed to rouse the apathetic barkeep into action. He leapt to his feet with a roar and came around the dusty bar. "Mundungus! You filthy little sneak! How'd you get back in here?!"

The man with the pipe threw off his cloak and sprinted for the door. "I'm tryin' to relax a bit! Gimmie a break!"

The barkeep chased the stocky little man out of the bar and into the night air. Dumbledore continued towards the back of the bar, it appeared as if he was headed directly to Snape's table – alarm bells began ringing in the young Death Eater's head and he slinked further back into the shadows. Oh my God, has he spotted me? Coming here was a mistake!

"Albus! What brings you to The Hog's Head this chilly eve?" enquired a tall man sitting at a table near a dirty stairwell, directly opposite from Snape.

Dumbledore stopped, but continued to stare into the shadows Snape was cowering under. How can he see me? I'm completely hidden! Snape's hand twitched and he slowly reached for his wand. His shaking palm gripped the cold wood and he slipped the magic stick slowly out from his traveling cloak. Dumbledore continued to stare at the shadows with narrowed eyes for a long second, but then abruptly turned around and strode over to the man who had called out, a merry bounce in his step.

"Good evening!"

"Join me for a drink?"

"Not tonight Gideon. Have an interview to conduct, Hogwarts' business."

"Here in The Hog's Head? Come off it old man."

"Oh, it's true," Dumbledore chortled. "I'm thinking of discontinuing your favorite subject, Divination, but wanted to conduct one final interview. I believe she's waiting upstairs for me at this very moment."

"An interview here?" Gideon Gilliard replied as he looked unbelieving towards the back stairs. He then turned back and then winked knowingly. "Sure, I understand Albus."

"I'm not sure you do Gideon. Now, you must excuse me, enjoy your night."

Snape watched Dumbledore vanish up the stairs, his heart pounding in sync with each step.

I'm just imagining things – Dumbledore hadn't noticed a damn thing. And what luck! He was here now, conducting another interview.

Snape took a quick look around the bar, slipped out from the shadows and padded up the stairs. He entered a long narrow hallway with old wooden doors, fresh torches burned in iron sconces lining dirty walls with cracked wallpaper. He soundlessly slipped his wand from his robes and pointed it down the hallway.

"Audienta" Snape whispered, waving his wand up and down.

One by one sounds emanated from each of the doors as if Snape was standing right in the rooms themselves. The fourth door on the right was the one he was looking for – Dumbledore's voice echoed from it for a few seconds.

"Yes, Sybill, I understand. I'm sure I'll be able to reimburse you for your traveling costs…Yes, even if you cannot provide receipts. Now I must ask that we begin the interview."

Snape stole a quick glance behind him and then slowly approached the door, a solitary thief in the night; each step was a gentle raindrop as Snape moved as quietly as a church mouse. He finally reached the door, heart pounding in his ears, palms slick with nervous sweat. His mouth tasted dry and he suddenly felt very thirsty; he pressed his ear to the door and closed his eyes…

"Really Sybill, I must be going."

"No Albus, please wait," squeaked Sybill Trelawney in an ethereal voice. "Don't go! I …I…"

"Oh my…Sybill can you hear me? Are you alright, my dear?"

Then Snape heard a harsh, hoarse voice that seemed to thunder down from the heavens.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches...Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies..."

Strong hands appeared from thin air and wrapped themselves around Snape's chest; he was flung headfirst down the hall. His skull bounced off the floor and he smashed into a heap at the top of the stairs. Eyes watering, he looked up and thought he saw Dumbledore standing the hallway. Impossible! It couldn't be!

Snape struggled to his feet and began sliding down the stairs as fast as he could. He could hear the barkeep's angry roar from above as fled the bar and tore into the black night. Only one thought was going through his mind at that moment.

I must speak with the Dark Lord!