'Tis the season for... er... angst. Warning: some bad language in this chapter.


"It is a time when one's spirit is subdued and sad, one knows not why; when the past seems a storm-swept desolation, life a vanity and a burden, and the future but a way to death."
– Mark Twain.


Christmas brought with it fresh and damning evidence of just how much of a struggle Hermione had ahead of her. On Christmas morning she walked into the staff room early, hoping to get there before everyone else did, and surveyed the room; the house elves had stacked each teacher's gifts neatly on their usual chair. She was saddened but not surprised to notice that the only chair with no parcels on was Severus' corner seat. She actually had got him a gift, after weeks of internal debate with herself, but to have her be the only one to give him a present would somehow be more humiliating than if nobody did.

Making herself a cup of coffee, she was surprised when the next person to walk in turned out to be Severus himself. Gathering her wits, she greeted him brightly. "Merry Christmas, Severus." He grunted vaguely in reply and came to pour his own coffee. "What brings you here?"

"It's a feast day," he growled in his early-morning voice, several octaves deeper than usual. "I am commanded to be sociable." Scanning the chairs, all piled high with brightly coloured packages except for his own, he sneered in a tired sort of way and went to sit down.

"I take it you're not surprised," she commented cautiously. "Was it always like this?"

"Not quite. Dumbledore usually gave me something. Always tasteless and normally useless. But he was the only one, and I always wished he wouldn't. There are only so many ways of destroying garish socks."

Glad that he could joke about it, even if it had more than a hint of gallows humour, she smiled slightly and took the small box from her pocket. "Hopefully this is neither tasteless nor useless. I was going to leave it on your chair until I saw the room."

It was another of those rare times when she caught him totally off guard. After a moment that lasted far too long, he shook off his frozen mood and very cautiously took the package as though he expected it to bite him, staring at it with an unreadable expression. Just short of the moment when she would have prompted him to actually do something, he shifted and dug into his pocket, unearthing a small fabric pouch and tossing it to her. Surprised, she fumbled the catch and almost dropped it.

"Don't get excited," he warned her sardonically, sounding more like his usual self. "It's not for you."

Bemused, she turned the little cushion over in her fingers; it seemed to be stuffed with dried leaves. Hermione sniffed it cautiously and felt her lips curve into a smile as she looked at him. "Catnip, Severus?" She tried to smother the smile and attempted a stern voice. "I disapprove of recreational drug use." He snorted softly, and she lost the battle to remain serious. "Crookshanks, however, does not. On his behalf, I thank you. Now open your present before everyone else shows up."

She had thought long and hard about what to get him. Anything too personal would have either made him suspicious or sent him further into his shell; anything too impersonal was pointless. Nothing expensive, in case he thought it carried an obligation; nothing cheap in case it was insulting. That was before she'd touched on his personal tastes and opinions. All in all, it had taken weeks for her to find the solution, and now she hoped fervently that she'd guessed correctly.

Their conversation outside the caravan about smoking had been the inspiration. She'd bought him a new Zippo lighter; his old one was both plain and looked like it had been through a car crusher. This one had his initials in raised relief on one side, the double S standing out. He turned it over very slowly in his fingers as though he had no idea what it was.

"Light it," she told him. Glancing up at her through the curtains of hair currently hiding his face, he hesitated for a long moment before doing as he was told; as the flame snapped up, a familiar scent filled the room.

"Woodsmoke," he said in surprise.

"So you don't reek like the alley outside a pub," she told him, repeating his words from that early conversation. "There are a couple of other charms on it as well... It won't need refilling, and it won't get damaged. Your old one is so dented, it looks like an abstract sculpture."

He was staring at it as though he had never seen anything like it before, the little flame reflected in his eyes. Voices outside heralded the approach of some of the other teachers, and his head came up sharply; abruptly closing the lighter and shutting off the flame, he put it in his pocket with the wrapping and hesitated, looking between her and the door almost furtively. "Thank you," he said hastily. "It is... thank you." As the door opened, he snatched up yesterday's Prophet and snapped it open, effectively hiding behind it. It was a shame that something as simple and innocent as a Christmas present should be such a shock to him, but overall Hermione felt that it had gone quite well, under the circumstances – as well as could be expected, perhaps.

The rest of the morning passed in happy conversation as the staff members compared presents, laughing and mocking one another cheerfully. Severus had progressed from hiding behind the newspaper to folding it on his knee to do the crossword – with a Muggle ballpoint pen, she was amused to notice; he was still ignoring everyone, but not as ostentatiously as he usually did, and seemed part of the background rather than conspicuously apart from it.

"Who's that from, Hermione?" Minerva asked cheerfully as Hermione reached the final gift in her pile.

"I don't know," she replied, puzzled. "There's no label. And I've had presents from everyone I expected."

"A secret admirer, perhaps?"

She snorted. "Hardly likely, given that I live here, unless one of the students has a crush or Neville's going to throw his girlfriend over for me."

"Don't even joke about that," he told her. "You'd both kill me."

"True."

"Well, open it. Maybe there's a note inside," the Headmistress suggested.

Frowning, Hermione turned the small box over in her fingers before removing the green and gold paper. It looks like a ring box... She opened it and gasped in surprise. It was a ring, a solid silver band carved into the head and forequarters of an otter at one shoulder and with an otter's paw print on the other shoulder. It was simple and well made, and one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen.

"Oh, that's lovely," Minerva declared, looking over her shoulder. Other staff members grew interested, and before she could protest the ring had been passed around, discussed and admired.

"An otter? That's an odd choice for a ring, isn't it?"

"It's your Patronus, isn't it, 'Mione?" Neville said.

"I never knew that," Minerva commented.

"I don't think anybody outside the DA did, really. I never had to use a Patronus in the war," Hermione said absently as she reclaimed her gift and tried it on; it fit the middle finger of her right hand perfectly.

"There's no note. Do you know who it's from?"

"I... think so," she replied slowly.

"Is it a secret admirer after all?"

"No. It's from a friend," she said firmly, and just for a moment let her eyes flick past Minerva to the corner where Severus was apparently wholly absorbed in his crossword. He didn't appear to have looked up throughout the conversation, but his total lack of reaction was in itself a giveaway.

"Must be a good friend, to think of something like this." Minerva was definitely fishing; she saw a hint of a smirk crossing Severus' face, betraying that he was listening after all.

"I'm not sure, but I'd like to think so," Hermione agreed, and had the satisfaction of seeing him drop his pen.


There was a small parcel on her desk when she reached her rooms that evening. It turned out to be a glass vial full of a familiar silvery swirl, and a note.

Happy Christmas, Hermione. I didn't want this to arrive with all the others; it's better you look at it privately. I suppose it explains why I'm happy to help with... taming the wild horse, shall we say? I think you'll find it interesting, and hopefully useful.

Luna.

Frowning, Hermione studied the little vial of memories, before being interrupted by a meow. She looked down at Crookshanks and smiled, pulling the little packet of catnip out of her pocket. "Here, Crooks. Severus says Merry Christmas. I'm going to be busy for a while, so amuse yourself," she told him, tossing him the toy. He fell on it, pinning it down with his paws and rubbing his face against it ecstatically. "Don't overdo it," she told him dryly, heading for her living room and her own small Pensieve.


As soon as Hermione saw the first memory, she understood her friend's gift. She found herself in the familiar confines of the Potions classroom, standing beside an eleven-year-old Luna and watching as a younger and less scarred Severus Snape swept into the room, every bit as compelling as she remembered despite his unattractive appearance. "You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion making..." Hermione bit her lip, smiling. Apparently he used that speech for every new intake of students. Then again, she had to admit it was memorable; even now she still recalled every word, and found herself mouthing along with him as he spoke to the obviously impressed and intimidated students.

Fleeting memories of other Potions lessons followed. Lessons with Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff seemed to have been far less tense and hostile than those with Gryffindor and Slytherin; there were no troublemakers, no feuds. Without his favourite and least favourite Houses, Snape seemed far more neutral and more flexible in his approach; he barely insulted a single student that Hermione could see, and lost his temper only once in what appeared to be Luna's third year when a Hufflepuff boy came perilously close to causing an accident that probably would have killed him and most of his classmates.

As the lessons progressed, his demeanour changed. By the end of Luna's second year he was noticeably more short-tempered and less forgiving, presumably due to all the problems with Remus and Sirius that had been taking place at the time, although naturally Luna hadn't known anything about it. At the start of her third year he seemed back to normal – which was still so far removed from his normal attitude in her own lessons that Hermione could scarcely believe what she was seeing – but around half way through the first term there was a lesson that was far more like what she would expect from him; he stormed in late, in a towering fury, looking as though he hadn't slept in a week and snapping at everyone, taking points for the flimsiest of reasons and generally acting as though he was facing an entire class of Harry Potter duplicates. The third-year Luna clearly hadn't had any idea why he was acting like this; the adult Hermione watching the memory could see Snape's visible agitation as he paced back and forth across the classroom, rubbing his left arm almost constantly and looking from side to side restlessly. Obviously this was when the Mark had started darkening on his arm.

Lessons throughout that year, for the Ravenclaws, had grown a little better after that initial outburst but began steadily declining shortly before Easter – presumably as the Mark grew clearer and the danger of Voldemort's return crept ever closer. In each lesson, Hermione could see clearly how Snape looked more tired and more stressed out, and made a mental note to re-examine her own memories of her fourth year for similar signs.

She had expected more of the same in Luna's fourth – and therefore her own fifth – year, but she was wrong. Snape had apparently used all his energy maintaining his usual attitude when policing the Slytherin-Gryffindor lessons; he seemed not to have any to spare for the Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff classes. His attitude was almost apathetic; he left the students largely to their own devices, as long as they worked quietly and didn't destroy anything. Students in Luna's classes seemed much better behaved than Hermione's classmates had been, and there were very few who did anything that would incur his wrath; just as well, since he was excessively harsh in punishing even small transgressions. It seemed to Hermione that he was punishing them for disturbing what moments of peace he could find rather than for whatever crime they had actually committed.

The next memory was of Luna serving a late detention with Snape for accidentally spilling her potion during one of his bad moods. Luna was desultorily scouring cauldrons, and by the look on her face was daydreaming about something else entirely – probably Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, Hermione told herself, smiling – when both she and the watching Hermione were startled by the sound of Snape dropping his quill and hissing. Hermione watched in fascinated horror as the Potions master reflexively clutched at his arm; he was apparently being Summoned, something she had never seen personally. "Miss Lovegood," he rasped; Luna appeared not to notice, but Hermione could see and hear how much he was struggling for control. "That will do for this evening. I have a prior engagement that had temporarily slipped my mind. Take a message to the Headmaster's office informing him that I will be out for the evening, and then you may go." As a confused but compliant Luna left the room, Hermione heard him whisper under his breath, "How high will the price be tonight, I wonder?"

The next memories were of Defence lessons. The content here was a little different, since Luna was a year younger than Hermione and had been learning the OWL material that the Gryffindor should have learned under Umbridge. As with the earlier Potions lessons, however, the atmosphere was far less hostile for the most part and the lessons went more easily. Snape looked older and more tired than ever, noticeably thinner than he had been in early Potions lessons, and the shadows beneath his eyes grew deeper every time the memory shifted. His moods seemed more changeable; one lesson he might be all but slumped in his chair, assigning the class a chapter of the textbook to read in silence and seeming not to have the energy for anything else, and then in the next lesson he might be pacing restlessly back and forth barking questions at them and ridiculing the answers. Hermione noticed times when he was limping and clearly hurt, and times when his eyes were haunted, and once she even half-thought he was hung over.

Finally the memories shifted to Luna's sixth year. Hermione watched eagerly; she knew only the sketchiest details of what had occurred at Hogwarts while she had been off hunting Horcruxes. The first memory was of the start-of-term feast; the deadened, lifeless look in Snape's eyes was as pronounced as she had ever seen it as he stood and addressed the school as Headmaster, and his voice sounded equally dead as he announced the changes to the faculty and curriculum for the coming year. He looked even older, and it was jarring to recall that he had only been thirty seven at the time. He seemed unaware of the hatred in almost every face as the school silently glared at him, but Hermione could see the bitterness in his dark, tired eyes as he spoke. She couldn't even begin to imagine what he must have been going through. He had done exactly as Dumbledore had instructed, and his reward was to be universally despised and left to struggle on alone.

The next memory was of the adult Luna addressing an empty room. "The next few memories are very dark, Hermione. It wasn't a good time. But you need to see the whole picture."

Hermione understood what her friend meant as the scenes unfolded. Luna had been working closely with Ginny and Neville; the three of them were punished frequently and severely. The near-identical memories seemed to roll on without end, making Hermione feel ill, but after a while she noticed a pattern. When it was the Carrows who inflicted the punishment, Snape was always present and frequently took over after a short while; when the Headmaster was cursing them, there was nobody else in the room. From an outsider's perspective it was difficult to judge, but her friends' screams and convulsions didn't seem as severe in the latter instances. Some of the memories were hazy, too, showing signs of tampering.

Finally the memories changed, moving away from scenes of torture and horror to more everyday images. Snape was present at meals irregularly, and seemed in worse health every time he appeared. The Headmaster's office was forbidden to everyone, including staff members, without an appointment; there were rumours from the more daring students that sometimes when they ventured to walk past the gargoyle guarding the door, they heard raised voices from inside. Luna herself was being worn down by what was happening; Hermione saw one or two instances of sleepless nights, with the implication that it was a regular occurrence, before a night when Luna was curled up on a windowsill in the Ravenclaw common room, staring out of the window with a puzzled expression on her face. Hermione joined her and observed the dark figure of Severus Snape walking the walltops below the tower. That became a recurring theme in the memories that followed; Luna had seen him walking around at night over and over again.

Once, Luna witnessed the Headmaster travelling up the drive towards the front door of the castle. He was limping badly, staggering almost, and weaving a little as he made his unsteady way back to the sanctuary of Hogwarts, holding his left arm across his chest.

An apparent bad dream sent the younger Luna out of her dormitory one night and sneaking down to the kitchens for a cup of what appeared to be hot milk; she was unfortunate enough to encounter Snape on the way back and actually cowered back from him a little. Hermione felt sick to see that reaction in her friend; watching Snape's face, she rather thought he felt the same, for all that he showed no expression save for a scowl.

"Out of bed past curfew, Miss Lovegood?" he asked silkily in his most dangerous voice.

"Y-yes, sir. I – I couldn't sleep and I thought a warm drink might help... I'm sorry, sir..."

He looked at her with his eyes glittering maliciously, sneering and looking every inch the villain, before the strength seemed to drain out of him and his shoulders slumped as he beheld the young girl staring at him in abject misery and terror.

"In future when you can't sleep, stay in your dormitory or common room," he said tiredly. "It's safer. Go to bed." Luna stared at him, wide-eyed. "Get out of my sight before I change my mind," he snapped, sending her running. Before the memory drew her away, Hermione heard him mutter under his breath, "Will it never stop?"

The memories faded, and Hermione found herself again facing the now-adult Luna speaking to the empty room. "Well, there you go. I hope it helped. I've forgotten a lot, I think. But looking back, I always felt that something wasn't quite right, that things weren't quite what they seemed. I did notice that there were times when he seemed to be hurt; after the Ministry, when you told me about the Order, I knew why. In that last year, though, after Dumbledore died... I didn't have any idea at the time, of course; I hated him as much as anyone. But when he cursed us, it never hurt as much as when the Carrows did it. And my memories of those times didn't always match up to Neville's or Ginny's – I think some of them were faked, so everyone thought we'd been tortured but we didn't actually suffer the damage. And sometimes he wouldn't curse us at all; he just gave us detention with someone like Hagrid. Once I saw him that first time, I noticed him walking around at night quite a lot, and realised he wasn't sleeping any better than I was.

"And you've just seen the time I saw him return from what must have been a Death Eater meeting. The next morning I found blood on the steps outside the doors. That was when I really started wondering what was going on, because if Snape was really the villain working for Voldemort, why would he have been punished so severely? Why did he never seem to enjoy what he was doing? And why did he seem to be suffering – the insomnia, his generally looking unhealthy? That time outside the kitchens wasn't the only time I accidentally ran into him after hours; I like to walk around when I can't sleep, too. I think he realised that that was why I was doing it. He never punished me for breaking curfew; once the Carrows were with him, and he stopped them from hexing me.

"But don't fool yourself, Hermione. Most of those memories of torture were very real. If his curses didn't hurt quite as much as those cast by the Carrows, they were still very bad indeed. He put all of us in the hospital wing at one time or another. Whatever his motives, whatever he was going through, whoever else he served, he was still a Death Eater. What he did to us was just as real as his betrayal of Voldemort. It was necessary, and he clearly took no pleasure in it, but it still happened. We didn't suffer any less just because he was suffering too. I'm sure he'll tell you the same if you ever manage to get him to talk about it. It's about the dark as well as the light; you have to see the whole picture.

"Anyway, I hope all this helped you see him from a different perspective. It's a part of him you didn't get to see. Your lessons sounded very different to ours, and you weren't there for that final year. You wanted a different view, that's why you came to me, so I hope this helped. It's not a very cheerful Christmas present, is it? Let me know what you think."


Dear Luna

Thank you so much for the memories. They were very helpful; I've resolved to go back and look at my own memories more dispassionately now to see what else I can puzzle out with hindsight. You're right that they weren't very cheerful, but I wouldn't have expected them to be, and you're right, I did need to see the whole view.

I want to apologise for you having to go through that, but I'm trying to get out of the Gryffindor habit of apologising for things that weren't my fault – a certain Slytherin keeps telling me off for it. Still, you know you have my sympathy, for what it's worth.

I doubt I'll ever manage to talk to him about it, somehow. I can't see him ever trusting anyone enough to open up that much, and to be honest I don't know if I want to hear about it. Knowing what he's done isn't the same as having to confront it – yes, I know, I'm in denial. I'm trying not to be. If I'm ever going to be friends with him I need to accept the dark as well as the light... I'm working on it.

I think there's a chance of us being friends, though. He actually got me a Christmas present! Not that he admitted it, of course. There was no tag, no note, but it had to be from him. It's a silver ring with an otter on it – I'll show it to you when I next see you. I may never take it off; it's simply beautiful. I know it could have been from someone else, but not many people know about my Patronus and I've told you about the conversation we had about totems. Besides, he was watching when I opened it, even if he was pretending not to.

He's a difficult man to interact with. I can't thank him for the present – he really has a problem with being thanked, even for something as simple as passing a pen, for some reason. It makes him really uncomfortable. I don't know what he thinks about the present I gave him – I went with the lighter in the end. I know he liked it, but he didn't seem to know how to react. I hope I haven't made him paranoid; I don't think he'll believe that it was an innocent gesture. It's all about striking the right balance with him, not going too far.

I know I like a challenge, but this one might be beyond me!

Thanks again for the gift, and Merry Christmas.

Hermione.


Dear Hermione

You're welcome. I'm intrigued by the ring – I didn't picture him as the jewellery type myself. It's a break in the pattern, which I'll have to think about. Yes, you've drawn me in to Project Wild Horse now (and yes, I am going to keep calling it that. If nothing else it means that we can talk about it in front of other people – very sneaky!) and I'm going to be analysing all the details you give me, so keep me updated.

What you say about his not liking to be thanked is interesting. There are several possible reasons. One is that he's simply not used to it – nobody's ever actually said, "By the way, thanks for dealing with the megalomaniacal psychopath and enduring endless torment for us, we couldn't have succeeded without you," have they? If it comes to that, I shouldn't think many people have said, "Thanks for passing me that pen," either. Or it might be that he's uncomfortable with the whole concept of debt and obligation – that's what's behind thanking someone, after all. Or maybe he just doesn't like having attention drawn to the fact that he's done something nice!

An image came to mind when I read what you said about finding the balance. I found myself thinking of a blacksmith working with cast iron. It's brittle; it will bend and can be shaped, but only if you're very careful. A fraction too much pressure and it will snap. Maybe he's reached that point already, but I don't think so, not quite. Maybe you can save him from that, soften the iron a bit so it can be worked with safely. Am I on the right lines here?

Luna.


Dear Luna

That's a beautiful metaphor, actually. I'm going to keep that image in my mind when I deal with him. I'm not sure how the Astronomy Tower fits in, though – I'm pretty sure that even in the wizarding world the cast iron doesn't hug you and let you cry on it!

Anyway, I want to tell you about what happened on New Year's Eve...

Hermione had been with her fellow staff members until midnight, with the notable exception of Severus who was nowhere in sight. After wishing them a Happy New Year, she had gone to bed, only to be woken an hour later by a distressed Crookshanks pawing at her hand and meowing loudly.

"What?" she mumbled drowsily, opening one eye. "Get your toy stuck behind the bed again? It can wait 'til morning."

Crookshanks meowed more insistently, butting his face against hers. Frowning, Hermione sat up and looked at him. He jumped to the floor and padded over to the door, turning back to look at her and meowing again.

"You want me to follow you." She sighed and swung her legs out of bed, reaching for her robe. "All right, fine, but if Timmy's stuck down the well, I'm going back to bed." It was freezing cold in the castle; she took a few minutes to get dressed, ignoring her cat's increasingly loud demands. Tying her hair back out of the way, she gave the cat an exasperated look. "For Merlin's sake, Crooks, what is it? Is one of the students in trouble?"

Her familiar made an annoyed sound that was presumably a 'no' and pawed at the edge of the half-open door. Pulling her shoes on, she sighed and followed him out into the corridor. "Someone else, then?" He meowed in response and darted off, stopping at a bend in the passage and waiting with his tail twitching impatiently for her to catch up. Stifling a yawn, Hermione froze as an idea occurred to her. "Is it Severus?" Another meow.

Wrapping her robe more tightly around her, she followed the cat, walking faster now and taking short cuts through some of the hidden passages as they descended to the dungeons. "Is he hurt?" Crookshanks huffed out a breath through his whiskers, rumbling. "Not hurt. Well, that's something. But you think I need to go to him?" He meowed. "You know, Crookshanks, my life would be easier if you just broke down and talked."

She wasn't sure what to expect when she cautiously spoke the password and entered his chambers. His rooms were in darkness; she stood by the door and let her eyes adjust, listening to the faint music and recognising Leonard Cohen. The depressing music was a bad sign, as was the fact that she could smell whiskey – a lot of whiskey. "Severus?" she half-whispered uncertainly.

"What are you doing here so late, Professor Granger?" his voice drawled from the shadows. "A dungeon is hardly the place for a night-time stroll."

"Well, it's snowing outside, so I decided to stay in," she replied sarcastically, peering into the darkness before giving up and drawing her wand. "Lumos." He was sprawled in an armchair on the far side of the room, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the light cast by her wand. The bottle on the table at his elbow was almost empty; Leonard Cohen's voice faded and was replaced by someone equally cheerful who sounded like Nick Cave. "This is an unconventional way to celebrate the New Year. Most people try for something a little more positive."

"I've never been much for following the crowd. What are you doing here?"

"Crookshanks was doing his Lassie impersonation."

"Bloody cat's as interfering as his mistress," he muttered. "Scratched my hand trying to stop me pouring a drink."

"Maybe he thought you'd had enough," Hermione replied tartly, moving to sit in the chair opposite him. "Why are you doing this?"

"Never really needed a reason."

"Come off it, Severus. You're not as drunk as you're pretending to be. If you'd really drunk as much as seems to be missing from that bottle, you'd be unconscious. What's wrong? Don't you like the New Year?"

"Difficult to say, as it's only about an hour old, but so far, no, not really."

"You know that isn't what I was asking, so stop being facetious. What's wrong?"

"What's right?" he countered. "This year won't be any different from the last one. The same mistakes, the same stupidity, playing out over and over like a stuck record. It's all so fucking pointless."

She had never heard him swear before. Then again, she'd never really heard any wizard swear before – creative oaths about Merlin notwithstanding. But somehow from a man like Severus, the foul language was even more shocking. "Well, that's a cheerful attitude, even for you."

"Well, it is," he insisted. "Everyone thinks of the new year as a time of hope, making resolutions, looking forward. Nobody stops to realise that the resolutions are all broken by February and that there's nothing to look forward to. How did you celebrate the millennium?"

"What? Oh... I was in Grimmauld Place. The surviving Order gathered to see it in together."

"How charming," he sneered. "I was in New York, in Times Square. There must have been hundreds of people there. Everyone joined in the countdown, and at midnight they all cheered before everyone started singing Auld Lang bloody Syne, and for just a moment I could feel it – everyone was thinking exactly the same thing, united, and there was a real feeling of hope. For just a moment. Then a fight broke out, and the riot police had to come in and break up the crowd, and things went back to normal at one minute past midnight. I realised it was all false. There is no hope for humanity. We're our own worst enemy."

"Well, if that's really true, Severus, then what's the point in getting up in the morning?" she challenged him. "What are you doing here? If it's all so pointless, it would have made more sense to kill yourself years ago." That was a harsh and terrible thing to say, but the hollow tone in his voice had shaken her and she was desperate to get some sort of reaction from him. "What did you go through it all for?"

"Damned if I know," he replied flatly. "Didn't do me any good, did it? And I didn't really achieve anything much. He wasn't the first Dark Lord the world has seen, and he won't be the last. Sooner or later one of them is going to win. Might as well have been him. Hasn't changed anything much, has it? People still commit ghastly crimes, people still cling to their prejudices like teddy bears, people are still afraid of the dark. There's still evil and darkness and hate. And in a few years, there'll be another He-Who-Was-An-Anagram and it'll all start up again and play out the exact same way, except maybe this time we'll lose. It's like a revolution. Do you know why it's called a revolution? Because it always comes around again. People die, and nothing changes."

Hermione was silent for a while, unable to speak as she tried to imagine actually feeling like that. Did he truly believe what he had said? She desperately hoped it was just the alcohol and his mood; because if this was truly how he saw the world, then he was broken beyond repair. Potentially, there was a great deal riding on her answer, and she thought for a while before speaking.

"That's the whole point, Severus. People are still able to choose to be wicked and prejudiced and afraid; people are still able to be people. The good and the bad. If the Dark Lord had won, there would be no choices. We'd be his slaves, his puppets, or we'd be dead. We're afraid of the dark because we still know the difference between the light and the dark, and we choose to try and stay in the light. Maybe one day that will change; maybe we will lose. Maybe not. But here and now, we won, and the world is able to continue as it always has rather than descend into empty night. It's not all darkness."

"This part is," he replied after a moment, and she sensed they were getting to what really bothered him.

"Nobody is beyond redemption, Severus, not even you."

"Easy for you to say. Have you ever actually killed anyone?"

"I don't know," she replied honestly. "Battles are confusing things. I have no idea if any of the curses I used hit their targets or not, and I have no idea whether they proved fatal or not. But I have cast spells with the intent to kill, yes."

"In battle, in self defence, in defence of your loved ones. There's no honour in it, and certainly no glory, but it's clean, in a way. Imagine a different scenario. Imagine facing a helpless, unarmed captive, and killing them – often unnecessarily slowly and brutally – purely because someone told you to. Imagine if it was someone you knew. Or if it was a child. Or anyone, really, because it doesn't really matter who they used to be once you've reduced them to so much meat. Imagine doing unspeakable things to helpless victims, over and over again, and watching worse things happen, and doing nothing to prevent it. Just standing and watching. All because some smug sanctimonious bastard insists that it's for the greater good, that you doing nothing is somehow important, that it is necessary for you to soak yourself in blood and tear your soul apart, and because whenever you close your eyes you can see the dead who you owe a debt you can never pay."

The words were spilling out of him in a torrent; he was talking so fast he stumbled over his words.

"And when you've attempted to grasp how that feels, add other kinds of pain. Imagine being tortured over and over again, often for no reason except that your master is bored or irritated. Imagine other forms of torture, imagine being used for entertainment. Imagine feeling that whatever happens to you, it's somehow better than what you've been forced to do to other people, trying to tell yourself that, to make it somehow noble when it really, really isn't. Imagine trying to take pride in your strength, trying to find some good in the fucking cesspit of your life, trying to find something that isn't rotten right through. And then finally being allowed to leave, bleeding and torn, and going to a different master and reporting yet another failure to a different shadowy room full of people who utterly despise you for what you've done in their service and who don't know you're hurt but wouldn't care if they did, who would be pleased that you were hurt because they would think it's the least you deserve and you know they're right."

He was shaking violently, and if it had been anyone else they would have been crying. Hermione would rather he started crying; anything would be better than the desolation she saw in his eyes. He was in hell.

"And imagine all of that going on for years, almost every day, until everything begins to blur together and you can barely tell when you've been wounded any more because you can't remember a time when you didn't hurt somewhere, somehow. You can't remember the faces of the people you've killed and tortured because there have been too many of them. You've got more scars than normal skin and you can't remember how you got most of them any more. The world's getting darker every day and you know you're a part of that darkness, that you're making it worse in the hope that by doing so you'll let someone else stop it. And there's nobody left on your side now, because you've turned on your own and bitten the hand that feeds you, bitten it clean off, and there's not a single person left alive who doesn't hate you and yet no matter how much they do despise you it will never, never be as much as you hate yourself, and you can't fucking stop. There's no way out, all you can do is go further in and hope that it will end soon, except there's no hope left in you any more."

Hermione was fighting not to be sick, unable to stop the tears streaming down her cheeks. Nobody could imagine what he was describing, but she was getting close enough to leave her shaking under the strain of trying to cope with just the description. The reality would have broken her within days. How had he been strong enough to survive?

"Then, just when you've all but given up, the last remnant of your life falls apart. The one person who has any use for you at all decides that you're not useful any more and turns on you. Not because he's learned what you've been trying to do, not because you've finally been able to tell him what a sick bastard he is, but just because he doesn't need you any more. Now nobody needs you, you have nothing to offer anyone, and all you can do is try and justify the unjustifiable and lie in your own blood praying for death only to have even that denied to you. Finally, it's all over, and you can crawl away to lick your wounds and taste the bitter knowledge of knowing that you have no place in the new world you helped to create because anyone who recognises you will try to kill you on sight and you want them to. You want to die so much that you know you don't deserve it, that death is too easy for you after what you've done, so you force yourself to live in a world that doesn't want you and is too good for the likes of you. Trying to rebuild some sort of life with what remains of your soul. And you speak to me of redemption?"

He stopped talking, gasping for breath, panting as though he had been running. Seizing the whiskey bottle, he drained what was left in several long swallows, gagging on the raw liquor before hurling the bottle across the room to shatter against the wall. The ever-present music had stopped at some point while he spoke, and now the silence crowded in on them in the almost complete darkness.

"I can't imagine that," she said finally through her tears. "You know I can't. I can't even begin to imagine it."

Crookshanks had jumped into Severus' lap, making a low rumble of distress and rubbing his face against the wizard's hand, trying to offer comfort. Slowly his breathing quieted; he seemed unnaturally composed given his sudden outburst. "Then imagine something else," he said hoarsely. "Imagine the aftermath. Imagine seeing people every day who have no idea how fortunate they are to still be alive and free. Imagine watching them waste that gift in the same stupid mistakes, over and over again. Then ask me why I don't think the New Year is generally worth celebrating."

It was as if everything he had said previously had been about someone else entirely, as if he had never said it at all. That couldn't be either normal or healthy, but if it was how he coped, if he could cope in any way with everything he had told her of, she had no right to stop him. Hermione dried her eyes on her sleeve, taking a deep breath, trying to think of some incredibly meaningful and deep words to say, to try and reach out to him. Abruptly a small voice in the back of her mind that sounded remarkably like Severus himself told her that wasn't the way to go, and she changed tactics.

"Are you done?" she asked tartly.

He blinked at her, nonplussed, then seemed to rally. "For the moment."

"Good; because you were starting to get a little repetitive." Hoping that her instincts were right, she leaned back in her chair. "I'm not Albus Dumbledore. I don't have any wonderful speeches about love and sacrifice. You're right; people are stupid, and life isn't always pleasant, and yours has been worse than most. But that's not the whole story. It's very Gryffindor of you to only see one side of things, you know. There's light as well, or you wouldn't have anything to see the darkness by. Even your life has had some good things in it. There was Lily, when you were young. There have been moments with your colleagues, even if it's just a semi-civil conversation over breakfast, or times when you were on their side – against Umbridge, for example; don't tell me you didn't enjoy opposing her. Your Potions work – I've watched you brew; you get something good from that. Little things – your books, your music, your origami. If it was all darkness, you wouldn't have survived, and don't give me that speech about death being too good for you."

He was staring at her, and for a moment she was afraid that her instincts had been wrong, that she'd done more damage to a man already damaged beyond healing; but then he smiled slowly for the first time, a real smile of genuine pleasure, with no bitterness and no mockery to be seen. It was a nice smile, even with his crooked teeth. She smiled back at him, relieved if somewhat confused; she had absolutely no idea why this approach had worked or how she'd known that sympathy wouldn't have reached him. His smile broadened, and then he began to laugh softly, the rich deep rusty laugh she had heard only twice before. Shaking his head, he began stroking Crookshanks, who started to purr softly.

"Thank you, Hermione," he told her sincerely. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled in a long sigh, stretching in his chair and settling back more comfortably. "I would like to say that I am not usually a maudlin drunk, but since I only get drunk when I am depressed, that would be inaccurate. Let us say that I am not usually a self-pitying drunk."

"You're entitled to feel a little sorry for yourself," she told him. "Just not quite as much as you were. Not everything you did was pointless, you know. And speaking as someone who you've personally saved on more than one occasion, I for one am quite glad you bothered."

He started to laugh again, and she joined him as it occurred to her just how utterly ridiculous this all was, and because she remembered what he'd said and if she didn't laugh she would start to cry again and that wouldn't help either of them. Their combined laughter echoed through the silent dungeons, and when it finally faded he had relaxed and closed his eyes, which were no longer desolate but calm and somehow gentle.

"Go to bed, Hermione," he told her without opening his eyes. "And take your feline Lassie with you. I'll be fine now."

"All right," she agreed, realising just how late it was. Standing, she crossed to him and picked up Crookshanks from his lap carefully. Shifting the cat's weight in her arms, she touched his shoulder gently before turning away. At the door she paused and looked back at him. "Happy New Year, Severus."

"If you say so," he replied with a small smile. "Good night."


Hermione's ring can be seen by going to wantitall dot co dot za and searching 'silver otter ring'; it's the second result.