Chapter Nine : Snape's New Worst Memory
"What on God's good earth has happened here?" Minerva McGonagall's stern voice seemed to demand a bracket be put on all the affliction she was witnessing, "Explain yourselves, all of you! Albus, why is Harry so upset? Severus, what have you done to him?"
"Would you care for a sherbet lemon, Minerva?" Dumbledore asked, smiling fatuously.
McGonagall cast him an exasperated look. "Albus! Really, I think the time for sherbet lemons has well gone past!"
"If you would allow me, Minerva-- I believe that Professor Dumbledore has been put under the imperious curse," Snape decided hastily to perpetuate his initial lie.
Harry suddenly looked over at his former potions master with a glimmer of hope in his eyes, who met his gaze, carefully taking his optimistic reaction in.
"The imperious curse!" McGonagall, on the other hand, looked like she would faint, "But by whom, Severus? The man has gone right dippy!" The older witch pointed to their wizened headmaster who had begun to do an Irish step dance on top of a student's desk.
"That—"Severus replied disinterestedly, "remains to be seen. For the time being, however, I have confunded the man to ensure our safety."
"Well!" Minerva replied, ruffled, "That certainly does explain it!"
She turned to the loopy old man, "Come down from there, dear, or you'll break your neck!"
Harry looked up beseechingly at Snape, "So he's definitely under the imperious curse, Professor? None of that…you know…before?"
"Of course not, Harry," Snape assured him protectively, "Undoubtedly, you noticed that Professor Dumbledore was not himself tonight."
Would the boy accept this ad hoc fabrication? Snape prayed that he would; he could not have a suicidal Potter. Watching the boy lose it like that -- that had been just too much for him to bear.
"I feel so stupid," Harry sighed resignedly, "I'm always jumping to the wrong conclusions."
Snape tousled the boy's hair affectionately, "Pretty thick you are, Potter!"
"Severus Snape!" chided Minerva McGonagall, turning around from tending to a confunded Dumbledore, "That wasn't very nice!"
"Well, I'm not very nice. Am I Potter?" Snape spat with feigned seriousness.
"No sir. You're a big meanie," Harry replied, grinning.
"Harry Potter! You had better apologize to Professor Snape!" McGonagall scolded, distressed by the boy's recklessness, "One of these days he might just whack you upside the head if you're not careful!"
"No, Minerva. That's really not—"
"No, Professor McGonagall is right. I am sorry, sir, for all the trouble I've caused you over the years. And I'm sorry for calling you names. Honestly, you're the smartest professor I've ever had. I owe you a lot, Professor Snape," Harry smiled genuinely at his embittered former potions master.
When I get my hands on you Potter!... Severus Snape thought to himself as he fought to swallow the massive lump that had risen in his throat during the boy's heartfelt apology, I'm just going to have to give you the biggest hug you've ever had!
"I suppose I forgive you, Potter," Snape smirked unsurprisingly. Only Harry could tell that he was gloating.
"Oh come now, Severus!" Minerva McGonagall took him to task for his apparent impassiveness, "If that wasn't just the sweetest thing a student has ever said to you…"
As grateful as Severus Snape was for his ability to tell that timely lie, he knew that no such deceptive device existed to save the old man's life. After Dumbledore's river-dancing episode, the curse from the Peverell ring had only spread further through his ailing body, rendering him bedridden by Christmas.
Snape would never forget the looks on all their faces as Professor McGonagall told them that their beloved, indomitable headmaster had taken ill. Most of all, he would not forget the watery emerald eyes of the little one he had told first.
He had gone out on a limb and given Harry a new potions set for Christmas, knowing that the poor boy had hardly anyone left to give him Christmas presents. It had been different before, when the boy had had his reckless godfather and Professor Dumbledore to look after him in that way. It had always seemed that the orphan belonged to somebody else, somehow. He had always been a little celebrity; everyone seemed to love him almost automatically. Fans quickly become friends and in those earlier days he always seemed to be surrounded by admirers, often the same children who would call Snape cruel names. Other than the emotional blight Dumbledore had dealt him, Snape supposed that is why he could not stand the boy in those earlier days; he was more popular than James Potter. But lately, Snape began to see some of himself in Harry, regarding him more and more as a mistreated, sad, little outcast turned saviour against his will. The boy had even begun to excel at potions under the tutelage of Professor Slughorn, a fact that made Snape very proud, although just a little jealous that he had not been the one to discover his talent.
Happy Christmas Harry
Please meet me down by the Forbidden Forest at 9:00 A.M.
From Professor Snape
That is what his note to the boy had read. It had looked and seemed so awkward. He had wanted to say more but he had not been sure how to word it without overdoing it and sounding uncharacteristically effusive.
When he had first drafted the note, his intention had simply been to meet Harry down by the forest, out of view, so that they could have a little talk in earnest and so that he could give him a Christmas hug (their close bond had still been a secret at the time), but when the news came from the hospital wing that Professor Dumbledore had been admitted, their Christmas morning meeting took on a more solemn purpose.
Harry had run towards him down the snowy hill, wearing a new sweater knitted by Ron Weasley's mother, no doubt. The boy had been so eager to see him that he had lost his footing on the way down the slope, taking a tumble that had left him sprinkled with the white powder.
"Are you all right?" Snape called out to him, even though he knew he was.
"Yes sir!" Harry responded resiliently as he picked himself up, still grinning from ear-to-ear.
As he came closer, Snape saw that he was holding a wrapped present, "Happy Christmas Professor Snape!" Harry chimed and thrust the small package into his arms before Snape could refuse. "Open it, professor! I got it for you!"
Without speaking, Snape quietly opened his first and only present he would get that year. It was a leather-covered book, which said on it in gold titling: "Potion-Making Through the Ages"
"Harry… thank you," he spoke softly as to not hasten his own tears, "this is a very thoughtful gift."
"I love my potion set that you got me! It's really cool. I needed it something awful, too, as Neville has basically broken nearly all my old flasks---"
"Harry, there is something I need to tell you," Snape cut him off gently, "It's Professor Dumbledore; he's not well."
"Oh no! Did he catch a cold? Or…" Harry stopped in mid-sentence as Snape suddenly put his arm around his shoulders and gave him a warm squeeze.
"Professor Dumbledore is not going to make it, Harry," Snape forced himself to say, his voice wrought with complicated emotion, "I'm so sorry."
The sobbing was immediate, severe, uninhibited, simply awful.
"He can't die! It's Dumbledore! He can't, can he?" Harry wailed as Snape continued to hold him.
"His immunities have been weakened by the imperious curse, Harry," Snape made up as he patted the boy on the back, "We have no control over how his body reacts to the healing spells. It seems that the entity that now occupies him invaded him with death in mind. There is nothing we can do except to say goodbye…"
"But it's too soon!" Harry cried, "I wanted him to see me graduate from Hogwarts. I was going to become an Auror. I was going to make him so proud…"
"Professor Dumbledore has had a good, long life, Harry. He can't tell you so right now, but I know that he really, really loves you and I know that he is already so very proud of you. Come now, he wouldn't want you to cry so…"
God forbid you find out different, thought Snape with quiet fierceness.
Snape was almost sobbing himself as he continued to hug Harry. It hurt him to have to coddle the poor boy with those empty words, knowing that none of his own difficult expressions of affect could ever in any way compare to the colourful and merry overtures with which the whimsical old wizard had revered him.
