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Chapter Eleven: And After This Our Exile
Severus was the last to arrive in the Dark Lord's paneled conference room, his fellows leaving his customary seat at the left hand empty for him. He'd been immersed deep in the bowels of a library, rendering him nearly impossible for the messenger to find. He wasn't sure yet if he was glad of that eventual discovery or not. With a deep bow to the tyrant, he glided gracefully to his seat.
"I have good news, my friends."
As always, it took all of his legendary self-discipline not to stare at Voldemort's mouth while he spoke. The irreverent and dangerously inappropriate voice lodged in the back of his head was incessantly curious as to whether or not the Dark Lord had a forked tongue like a snake. If he actually watched the man speak, he was afraid that he would too intently stare for any trace of the edges whistling through his lips on certain word sounds. Quashing the voice ruthlessly, he gave the man on his right every appearance of attention.
"After so many months of set backs, we finally have news from Russia." Tom Riddle's vermillion eyes gleamed from the narrow slits in his pale skull, traveling over each man in turn. "Antonin Dolohov, were he here, would be rising in eminence for his successes."
"He caught the Weasley bitch?" Claudius Parkinson asked eagerly, praying fervently that the hopeless task had been taken from him.
"No," their Master answered curtly, his thin lips twisting in a scowl. "No, that directive still lies upon you, Parkinson. But Dolohov has felled the great Kingsley Shacklebolt."
His face a carefully expressionless mask, Severus allowed himself to feel a sharp pang of regret. He didn't know if this Shacklebolt was the real one or not, but the memory of the man who had almost been a friend brought about fresh pain with its loss. Even with that, his mind was already turning things over, weighing how this could alter the board. It would take out a major player, but were the pawns surrounding him capable of stepping into his shoes? Which pawns had he been given to take into the villages and cities of the Old World?
Lucius watched his formed friend fiercely, scrutinizing him for any kind of wayward thought. He had long had his suspicions of the former spy, kept silent all these years at the risk of angering the Dark Lord, but he had watched Severus as much as it was possible to without giving himself away. He had not, however, grown particularly adept at translating what his eyes told him, and all he could see now was an indication of mild interest and pensiveness.
"My Lord, how did the Auror fall?" The question was politely offered by a young woman whose name Severus could never quite recall. She was rather young to be in such a position but the rare times she spoke in these meetings showed her to be of an intelligent nature. Ruthlessness must lie closely beneath the surface, however, for there were very few women allowed to step fully into the rank of Death Eater, and only Bellatrix had before occupied a place in the Inner Circle.
"One of his spies turned traitor to him and surrendered him to an ambush by Dolohov and his men," Voldemort condescended to answer. "His companions escaped when he fell to Dolohov's curses."
"And why is Mister Dolohov not here to accept his accolades?"
A hush fell over the already quiet room, every eye on the young woman audacious enough to question their Master. Voldemort narrowed his eyes but couldn't see anything but the vaguely puzzled frown of someone trying to figure out a riddle or problem. "Dolohov fell not long after Shacklebolt," he said slowly. "They injured each other greatly in their duel. It was merely to our luck that the Auror fell first.
"This means, however, while we may have a short time for celebration, we must make certain Russia cannot be taken over by one of the man's toadies. We cannot afford to have so large and powerful a nation at odds against us, not with the depth of magic they have at their disposal."
Severus nodded along with everyone else, knowing it to be true. Russia was steeped in very old magics. Many of their village witches, toothy grandmothers who rarely used their magic for more than simples or poultices, could drop a full grown wizard with a crook of their finger. Life magics, it was whispered, and therefore death magics as well. Beauxbatons and Durmstrang had always insisted on employing Russian healers for their infirmaries, convinced that their native strengths would pass on through their talents. Severus had found that theory rather silly, but Russian healers were still in high demand in England and on the Continent.
He knew that it came in part from how uncivilized much of Russia still was. They had kept the old ways for longer than nearly anyone else. But for all their power, they were often as wayward children, playing games in their own little world without any kind of understanding of what they could perform on the world stage. He had the feeling they were learning, first from Shacklebolt and next from whoever stepped into the empty shoes. For the first time, he realized that the world was not going to suddenly be a euphoric utopia simply because Voldemort was no longer in it.
The world would still have politics and intrigue, still have violence and murder and all manner of savagery. The basic impulses of mankind were not going to change simply because they lost a figurehead that promoted it. Yet things weren't going to return to a status quo, either. They weren't going to return to the way things had been before the second war. They had lost too many people, too many good people, and lost many a guiding light. More importantly, the children had learned to think.
There comes a point in every child's life where he or she must make a choice that defines the rest of it. It is a simple enough choice when all is said and done, merely a yes or no. That choice, that simple choice, is merely to decide whether or not he or she will begin to think for themselves. In his mind it sounded ridiculous; of course they would think for themselves! But how much evidence had he received that many never did? Narcissa Malfoy, certainly, had gone unprotesting from her father's house to her husband's, with nary a singular thought between them.
These children though…These precocious, ruthless children had learned to think, to plan, to strategize. They had learned to manipulate players on the world stage and they cared little for the cost of their actions so long as they met their goal. Was it truly as easy at that? He wondered again what their plans might be for after, if there was an after. What were they intending to do if they got what they wanted?
He cleared his throat delicately, waiting to see if the Dark Lord would acknowledge him. It was a chancy thing, speaking without being spoken to, but he wanted too to see if the grace he'd been given with creating Charlie's poison still held.
It seemed it did. "Yes, Severus? You had something to add?"
"What is being done with the body, my Lord?"
"The body?" The tyrant frowned thoughtfully, curling his fingers around the narrow stem of the porcelain tea cup. "You believe something should be done with it?"
"My Lord," he replied deferentially, his dark chocolate voice the envy of most of the men in the room, "they have brought about many a token who we believed already dead. Shacklebolt is included in this. His body, or what we may have falsely thought to be his body, hung from the walls for many months. I would like to be certain if this is truly the man we seek."
"Meaning?"
Severus chose his next words very, very carefully, aware of his Master's eyes narrowing angrily. "With your permission, my Lord, I should like to perform the sigil test on the body, if we can have it returned to us. As with the former Mister Weasley, there is a way to determine if this is truly Kingsley Shacklebolt or if it is a clever imitation. For that, however, we would need the body to be delivered to us here, or I should need to journey there."
"No," Tom said absently. "You're too valuable to me, Severus, and I won't have you risked in foolish journeys where any may prey upon you. I shall order the corpse brought here. Perform whatever tests you wish."
"My Lord is most gracious," he murmured, bowing his head.
"Only when it suits me to be so." The fearsome gaze leveled on the hapless Parkinson, making the other man swallow hard. "Dolohov has given his life in a most noble endeavor, but has success to show for it. What success have you to show for your efforts, Claudius?"
Pansy's father plucked anxiously at his silver-trimmed robes, trying to avoid his Master's gaze. "She and Potter are protected much more stringently than Shacklebolt, my Lord. She is impossible to get on her own. Even their appearances are staunchly guarded. Unlike the Auror, they speak only to small crowds, people they've specifically chosen as safe to be near. We have tried, my Lord, many times, and have only three dead agents and a house-elf to show for it."
"Avada Kedavra." The long, thin wand pointed at Parkinson almost lazily, the flash of green light engulfing the room. When it cleared, the man lay slumped in his chair, lifeless with his face fixed in a rictus of fear. "Miss Clemens, the task is yours. See that you do a better job than your predecessor."
The young woman nodded respectfully, her name suddenly flashing into the Potions Master's mind. Ishtari Clemens, one of his Slytherins, a few years behind the Golden Trio and their cohorts. But her hair had always been short then, falling forward to hide her face. She was one of the few he had known almost nothing about, but then, the child rarely spoke to anyone, much less to him. Her glossy black hair was long now, worn in a braided crown so as to highlight the fiercely beautiful features of her Persian mother. Liquid eyes, so dark a brown as to be nearly black, flickered back and forth in the space before her, considering her options.
She'd been betrothed in the cradle to Blaize Zabini, his mind added, information pouring in with the floodgate of his memory opened. Their mothers had been friends, their fathers business partners, and both families had seen the match to be one of great advantage. Unlike so many other birth-arrangements, Blaise and Ishtari had been friends all their lives, comfortable in the idea of wedding each other. So far as he knew, neither had formed a serious attachment during or after the war, though they'd both had their dalliances to be sure. She bore watching, he decided. She had risen to prominence during the war; there had to be a reason.
It was nearly two weeks before Theodore Nott returned to London with the ersatz Shacklebolt in tow. A visit with Nocturne had confirmed his suspicions; whatever gambit they were making, it wasn't an entirely false one. The black bishop that had stood for the former Auror, one of four black bishops on the board, had been replaced with a fourth knight. For the first time, he had noticed a third rook in the vicinity of the black king and queen, but couldn't begin to guess what that meant. For now, though, it didn't matter.
He directed the delivery of the corpse to the sublevel in which he'd previously worked, preparing the chrism with a meticulous touch. By the time he finally unwound the sheet, he nearly snorted. It seemed the test would be unnecessary after all, which anyone would have known had they bothered to even look at the cargo they were carrying.
He had no doubt that the man currently lying on his table had indeed seemed to be Kingsley Shacklebolt, but whatever means he had used had faded with his death. Severus observed the closely cropped black hair, the dark brown skin and broad nose, knowing the name would come to him in a minute.
Dean Thomas.
Yes, that was it. He nodded slowly, tugging at the neat braid in which he'd bound his hair to keep it out of the chrism. He'd been one of the Gryffindors, but never so blessed with the attention of the Golden Trio. He'd been Muggleborn; he remembered hearing Weasley complaining about the stationary poster of the West Ham football team. The margins of his papers had always been covered in little drawings and doodles, quite talented though Severus loathed their appearance on homework and tests. As he'd grown into his skills as a wizard, so too had his artistic talent developed, the two merging to create entire murals of moving characters. He'd been responsible for the roaring lion banners at the Quidditch games; Luna Lovegood had been responsible for the roaring lion heads.
He took a deep breath, reminding himself that he could be fooled in this as easily as anything else. The chrism was already prepared and wouldn't keep; it didn't make sense to waste it. Too, it didn't hurt to make sure he was telling Voldemort the right thing. It wouldn't do to have another fake show up and not know it for what it could be.
Opening Ollivander's record book, he found the line for Thomas, Dean, tracing it with one finger through all the information. Ten and a half inches, dragon heartstring, made of yew. At the end of the line, nearly damaged by the edge of the page starting to curl with age, was the sigil that was the visible representation of his magical signature. He studied it carefully, emblazoning it on the back of his eyelids. When he was sure he had it, he took a deep breath and reached for the chrism and brush.
The clear, gleaming liquid glittered with the suspended gold dust, an almost oily trail on the dead man's chest as he painted. With the last brush stroke, the dust activated and sent a flare of golden light through the room. When Severus brought his arm down from before his eyes, the chrism was gone. In its place was a black burn in the form of the sigil.
It was definitely Dean Thomas. He knew he should go immediately to the Dark Lord, inform him of the discovery such as it was, but he simply set down brush and bowl and leaned against the lab table, his arms folded across his chest. Plots within plots, he told himself. What was the plot within this?
If it hadn't been too dangerous to put into writing at the former Ministry- and more importantly make him feel like a certain Gryffindor know-it-all- he would have made himself a list. Seeing things in writing had always helped him find the links more easily. But, it was dangerous, and it was foolhardy, and he would just have to go about it the hard way.
This was not proof that Kingsley Shacklebolt was dead. Perhaps Shacklebolt had been the man on the Ministry gates, perhaps he was still alive in Russia. What then did that make the dead Mister Thomas? Was he the false Shacklebolt, the voice of Dumbledore's men in Russia? If so, then was he an accident? A genuine loss to the men of the Dark Lord? Was he a deliberate sacrifice, meant to set some further plan into place? If he wasn't Shacklebolt, what part did his death play in the elaborate subterfuge?
He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a pounding headache pulsing behind his temples. Oh, they were good. He admitted, rather reluctantly, that he had a great deal of catching up to do. He hated that feeling. He knew who some of the players were but not how to get the information he needed. He couldn't place any faith in Nocturne or Thanatos telling him, and he didn't think Lareine actually knew all the pieces.
Having lost track of time, he couldn't begin to guess how long he stood there next to the body of his former student, immersed in his heretical thoughts. Giving himself a mental shake, he cleaned his materials and tucked the sheet neatly about the deceased young man, a murmured Nox extinguishing the lights in the room as he left it.
He paused at Miss Sigurdson's desk when he saw the Dark Lord's office door closed. The blonde glanced up at him disinterestedly, twirling her quill in her ink-splotched fingers. "May I help you, Lord Snape?" she asked politely.
"Is the Dark Lord available?"
She thought about it for a moment, her pale blue eyes scanning the appointment sheet at her elbow. "He is with Lord Malfoy at the moment. Would you like me to ask him if he will see you?"
Severus inspected his silver and emerald signet ring, weighing his options. "Tell him, if you please, that I have made a discovery about the body, but am content to wait his leisure."
The young woman nearly smiled at him, her face lighting up in a way that was unexpectedly pretty. "You sneaky man," she chided mockingly. "You know very well that he'll insist on seeing you immediately. Why not just save me the trip?"
He smirked at her, cataloging her reaction in the back of his mind. He had heard of her teasing before but it was always other men. She'd never dared tease him. He wasn't entirely sure what that meant, a feeling he was rapidly becoming accustomed to. "The dance of courtesy must be obeyed, Miss Sigurdson. I would not dare presume otherwise."
Dimples deepening, she shook her head and got to her feet, dainty heels clicking on the tile as she walked to the door. Her head poked inside, her long braids bouncing at the small of her back. He couldn't hear what she said, as the office had multiple privacy and silencing charms about it, but she returned a moment later and resumed her seat at the desk. "As I guessed, Lord Snape, he wishes you to go straight in."
"Thank you, Miss Sigurdson." His dark eyes passed over the folded crossword on her desk, seeing several gaps in it. "I believe you may find 34 down to be 'vivienne'."
She looked down, reading the clue as the rumored mistress of Merlin. Counting the spaces and matching what letters she already had, she laughed merrily. "Why, thank you, Lord Snape."
Still frowning bemusedly over the odd interaction, Severus passed into the office and closed the door behind him. "Thank you for seeing me, my Lord." He bowed deeply, his braid swinging over his shoulder with the dipping movement.
"Always for you, Severus."
Glancing at the blond aristocrat, Severus could see that his presence wasn't universally appreciated, but he somehow thought he could live with that. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything?"
"No, of course not. Lucius was just telling me of plans for the anniversary celebration."
"Oh?" He raised his eyebrows at his old friend, sinking gracefully into the chair indicated by a sweep of the hand of their mutual Master. "I'm so sorry to interrupt, I'm sure the plans must have been fascinating."
Lucius only glared.
"What is it that you've learned, Severus?"
He crossed one leg over the other and laced his fingers together, tapping the index fingers against his lips. "The body is not that of Kingsley Shacklebolt," he reported. When Voldemort began to speak, he cautiously continued. "I do not know if that means that Shacklebolt was already dead, or if he hides still."
"Whose body was it?"
"A former student named Dean Thomas. He was a Gryffindor in the same year as Potter, Weasley, and Malfoy."
He carefully hid his smug smile at Lucius' unintentional start. Mentioning his son nearly always got some sort of rise out of him; unfortunately it usually also got a reaction from the Dark Lord. Fortunately for him, the despot was too involved with the new information to notice.
"You are certain of this, Severus?"
"Yes, my Lord. The sigil confirmed it. It is definitely the Thomas boy."
"What else do we know of him?"
While he dutifully repeated what he'd recalled, none of it particularly incriminating, he kept an eye on Lucius. The man had proven to be particularly volatile of late; was his former friend losing hold of himself?
Tom Riddle tapped his long, slender fingers o the edge of his desk. "We know little more than we did before," he sighed. "What does this Dean Thomas mean?"
Severus didn't answer, but one wasn't really required.
"My Lord," Lucius began unctuously, "might I respectfully suggest that the boy's body be hung on the gates like the others? It is time the people were reminded that we eliminate our threats."
"No!" Both men looked at their sovereign in surprise and modulated his harsh tone. "No. We are moving past that time."
"But my Lord-"
"No! Do not question me on this, Lucius. We are moving past the time of savagery, where every death must be met tenfold. If we are ever to prosper, we must gain a touch of civility. Burn the body so that it cannot be used by anyone else. We must find out if he was the one masquerading as the Auror. Lucius, worry no further about that silly celebration; someone less capable can take over it, as it requires no great skill. You will take Dolohov's place in understanding what is going on in Russia."
"I will be honored, my Lord," he replied lowly, inwardly seething. He had made a very cushy existence for himself, essentially creating a role for himself as the Dark Lord's social planner. Being out in the field was not his idea of comfort. He glared daggers at the Potions Master, irrationally blaming him for he saw as his demotion.
"Severus, see if Lareine knows any madams in Russia; see if she has any contacts that may be of use to us."
"Thank you, my Lord."
It startled a laugh out of him, a genuinely delighted laugh coming from the man who had transformed himself past all recognition of humanity. "You are that fond of her then? Good, good! Go to her then, Severus. Go visit your love."
Rising to his feet, he bowed once more and left the room, nodding a farewell to the suddenly intriguing Miss Sigurdson. He was off to do the Dark Lord's bidding, but somehow he didn't think it would be Lareine he went to see in order to obey completely. And somehow, that thought wasn't as unsettling as he thought it should be.
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Severus held his breath as he carefully added five drops of siren's tears to the simmering brew in his cauldron. He didn't want to accidentally breathe in any of the sickly sweet fumes that the tears were famous for. Homer had expounded upon the danger of their songs; he'd never recounted the danger of every piece of them. The few foolhardy men who had landed upon their island immune to their songs had found their scent, their touch, to be equally intoxicating and debilitating.
Picking up the glass stir rod, he pulled it through the thick potion in an odd crisscross pattern, neither clockwise nor counter-clockwise but rather in a hatch mark or grid. When he slid the rod out of the potion so as not to drip any, the sparkling black shimmered into a pale green, softer than mint. Now it had to simmer for three hours on low heat before he could add the next ingredients in what he hoped would be a viable potion. Possibly a cream, he reminded himself with a frown. The equation he'd used to determine the viscosity had come through muddled and inconclusive. As much as he hated it, he was just going to have to wait and see how it turned out.
He crossed his private lab to a table he hadn't used in any of the preparations, sinking down onto the stool and looking over his notes. If this worked the way he wanted it to, it was a possible way to neutralize Nagini.
It was a long shot, and he knew it. Even if it did work, how was he going to get it administered to the damn serpent? And, he grimaced, he didn't know how to deactivate the Horcruxes. If he had the book he could possibly do it, but he thought there had to be more to it than that. Albus Dumbledore had been a very powerful wizard and the ring had destroyed him. There had to be more to it than mere power. He would tell Lareine, let her pass it along to whoever could make the best of the information. If the back of the book hadn't been lying, then Nagini was the only one left. If only he'd been able to look at it more closely!
The hand not holding a quill curled into a fist in helpless fury. Granger's research had always been impeccable and he had no reason to doubt that she had been any different in this regard. Pulling a fresh sheet of parchment towards him, he wrote a note to himself in fluent Latin, a language with which he knew most others to be unfamiliar. He'd done that since his youth, just after leaving Hogwarts. The Potions Master with whom the Dark Lord had assigned him to apprentice had been a nosy old coot, constantly mucking about in his apprentice's personal notes. However, in an appalling deficiency in an academic, the man had known neither Latin or Greek, and the young Severus had thereafter put all of his notes into the classical languages.
A knock on the door startled him, sending his hand twitching reflexively for his wand. He trained it at the door, steady despite the tension thrumming through his veins. "Who's there?"
"Begs pardon, Master Snape, but owls has arrived," came the squeaking voice of a house-elf on the other side of the door.
Frowning, Severus released the wards and opened the door for the servile creature that came in holding an un-struggling barn owl. The elf's long ears lay flat and drooping, his tennis ball eyes watery as he looked up at his person, clearly expecting some sort of punishment for interrupting his work. Ignoring the creature for the moment, he took the envelope tied to the owl's leg and inspected the blood red seal.
And snorted.
The Gryffindor crest had been pressed into the scarlet wax, gold dust bringing the lion into relief against the shield. He had a feeling that whoever had sent the letter had been fully aware of the irony involved, and he mentally applauded them. Then he turned the letter over and read the address: Greasy Git of the Dungeons.
Lips twitching in rare humor, he laid a hand gently on the servant's quivering head. "Peace, Asphodel," he murmured, feeling the trembling ease slightly. "Is the owl to wait for a return message?"
"Yes, Master!" The watery eyes only grew more pronounced with the creature's relieved smile. The owl twisted its head around to regard them both impassively.
"Then care for it, please. I will bring up the message when it is ready."
"Yes, Master." Asphodel bowed lowed and backed out of the doorway before running pell-mell down the hall and up the stairs. All the elves in the Snape house knew not to Apparate within the house lest they disturb some delicate working in the lab below.
Reclaiming his seat, Severus slid his wand under the seal to crack it, laying the letter out flat. It took him a moment to place the handwriting, but he knew it was familiar. Small and neat but slanted forward at a severe angle, as if the ideas were rushing faster than the hand could follow. Either feminine or rich pureblood, and looking at the small circles above the i's he decided it must be feminine; males generally just made a vague slash with their quill, only taking care that it appeared above the correct letter. There were a few smears in places, smudges that looked like someone had dragged their hand through the wet ink, and it clicked. Ginny Weasley, for whatever reason, had written him a letter. After all, she was the only left-handed female he knew in the players. Bringing one of her Potions essays into his mind, he compared the script and nodded slowly, sure now of his theory.
He smoothed the creases in the letter and began to read, his chin propped on one fist and his night-dark eyes vaguely amused.
Well, if you're actually reading this, you've grown up more than I would have suspected, to have been able to continue past the childish appellation.
"Impertinent chit," he snorted.
However, I'll have you know that most of us haven't really moved past that. In our minds, you're still the Greasy Git of the Dungeons, the Bastardly Dastardly Bat, only know you also receive the title of Dumbledore's murderer. I can't even count the number of times we made Harry go over that night, the number of times we studied it in pensieves just to try and figure out what actually happened, and you know, we still haven't decided upon anything? Theories abound, of course, but the only two people who know the truth are you and Dumbledore, and he wouldn't tell us anything about it back when we were still in a position to access his portrait.
Which leads us to the main question: what are you up to? You should be flattered, Snape. You've occupied more of our discussions recently even than Tom. Our clever friend informs us that you've decided to enter fully into our little game, but I'm not so willing to simply allow that. You have a great deal to answer for, and more importantly, you have a great many answers to give, the foremost of which is Can we trust you?
I'm sure that lack of trust is something you're quite used to, so don't expect an apology for the offense I doubt you're even feeling. You're too intelligent to think that it's in any way unfounded. We aren't still in Hogwarts, we're not still children thinking you're the bogeyman come to reap unfairness upon us. You were a spy- a very, very successful spy- for many years. You balanced your life upon a fine web of lies, truths, and half-truths, keeping your footing by means of misdirection and concealment. You murdered Dumbledore, whatever the circumstances. You are Tom's left hand, and perhaps more truthfully his right hand if Malfoy's degeneration is to be believed. You are 'too valuable to risk in foolish journeys'.
I'm well aware that you created the poison that killed my brother, but you can be forgiven for that as we're the ones who made it possible and necessary for him to take it. You are very good at preserving your own skin, which in other circumstances is a trait I might even applaud. I know too that you've had plenty of opportunity to harm or betray my fellow conspirators, Lareine not the least of them. You don't know enough, but you know too much, and you could make things very difficult for us in Spain and London.
So why aren't you? Severus Tobias Snape, WHAT are you doing? We need to know so that we can factor you or not into our plans. I'll admit that you have the potential to be very useful; you're well placed, you have experience in this, and you have the ability to custom-create Potions that could have a great deal of impact. I simply don't trust you.
So make me trust you, Snape. Give me a reason to believe that you won't betray us as it certainly appeared last time. Give me a reason to tell you more, to tell you of our plans and how you could assist in them.
If you can actually succeed in that, then you'll have deserved every precious piece of information.
It wasn't signed, but then he hadn't really expected it to be. He absently continued to smooth the creases, ruminating on what he'd learned.
They had someone in the Inner Circle, or some way in which to eavesdrop on the conferences. Her quotation had been sly but present. They knew too of Malfoy's teetering, but it wasn't through Nocturne, Thanatos, or Lareine, as Lucius hadn't been allowed back into the Lair. They hadn't had a celebration there in some time, so there had been no reason for Voldemort to plead partial clemency for his lieutenant. Pansy, perhaps; she would have been able to observe the blond man in her visits to his wife, but her father had died in the meeting which supplied Miss Weasley's reference. How would she have acquired that?
Most importantly, though, they were willing to give him the chance. Even with the acknowledgement of his sins, they were willing to see if he could prove himself.
Which begged the question: could he?
Could he prove himself to these judges who could hardly be labeled as impartial?
The letter demanded an answer but not necessarily an immediate one, so Severus Snape settled in to do some serious thinking. By the time he had come up with something he thought might work, it was time to return to his potion and sprinkle in the powdered kirin horn. After stirring it widdershins for twenty consecutive minutes, he took a pair of tongs and delicately dropped in a blazing sunstone, watching the solution erupt into licking green flames. When it cooled, the flames extinguished and revealed a silky ivory cream, looking more like a ladies cosmetic than a near-deadly tranquilizer.
He glanced over at the long King Cobra trapped in a cage on a shelf far above the reach of any nifflers, who were known to have a penchant for eating serpents. No, he would test it later. Now he had a test of a different sort to accomplish.
A scant half hour later, he dripped wax onto a parchment envelope and pressed his signet ring to imprint the pattern. With a stasis charm cast over the cauldron to prevent any dust from polluting the cream, he left the lab and walked through the sprawling house to the kitchen, his appearance sending the house-elves into a flurry of panic.
He silently held up the letter and Asphodel quickly calmed the others, gently lifting the owl from the makeshift perch in front of the window and bringing it over. "We's feds and watersed it, Master."
"Thank you." He tied on the letter, stroking one finger along the feathery tufts above the owl's ears. "You know where this goes, I believe."
The owl hooted softly and nipped his finger, though not strongly. Asphodel opened the window and the messenger bird took off, feathers shivering into invisibility.
Severus raised an eyebrow but couldn't help but dissolve into quiet laughter. Invisible owls…Merlin, these students really had thought of everything.