CHAPTER TWENTY

Severus

The attack on Mr Finch-Fletchley could not have come at a worse time in the year. End of term marks were due in the headmaster's office the day after, before midnight. Fortunately, I would not be required to take a night patrol shift until Christmas Eve, allowing me just enough time to finish the last of my work.

The time right before Christmas also required an extra duty of me. In a couple days, it would be the anniversary of my mother's death. Every year on the twenty-third of December, I returned to my home in the south of Britain to tend my mother's grave and check on our now empty family estate. After the most recent attack at Hogwarts, I decided to forgo this year's pilgrimage. It pained me to do so, but I did understand that my mother was dead, and the students remaining over the Christmas holiday needed my presence more.

I spent the entirety of Tuesday afternoon filling out the students' term report sheets, to be passed in that night. Avrille had not been at dinner the night before, and she had attended neither breakfast nor lunch that day. I was concerned but knew there was nothing I could do at the moment. Under the pretence of her missing an appointment with me, I had inquired of Avrille to Madam Pomfrey. Madam Pomfrey stated she had not treated Avrille in the infirmary this day or last, but she assured me she would check on her in her rooms before dinner. There was nothing else I could do but finish my own work and hope Avrille was well.

However, that was easier said than done. Quite often I found myself staring off into the distance with my thoughts wrapped around Avrille like my arms had been the day before. After she left my office, I had pressed my lips against the spot on my robes where her face had rested. Her floral scent lingered on me for the briefest time before disappearing like her dried tears. My hands could still feel the smoothness of her hair beneath them … Needless to say, it took me hours to complete marking that should have taken less than half that time.

When I eventually finished the students' report sheets, I knew I had to finally turn my attention to the task I'd been delaying all week; Avrille's first term evaluation needed filling out. After a few minutes of rummaging, I managed to locate the form at the bottom of a pile of N.E.W.T. level students' essays. I placed it square in front of me on my desk and read over the questions. They were all very straightforward such as, "Describe the apprentice's general attitude throughout the first term" and, "Has the apprentice exhibited any behavioural concerns? Please explain with specific dates and details if applicable."

What to write? Avrille was the most sublimely perfect apprentice a professor could ever ask for. I obviously could not write the things I was thinking most of the time, such as how just seeing a glimpse of Avrille in the corridors made my life finally worth living, and if she ever suddenly quit the apprenticeship I would most likely go drown myself in the lake. Nevertheless, I picked up my quill and began to fill out the form as dispassionately as I could.

As I slowly completed the questionnaire, I started to become paranoid. Was it obvious from my answers that I utterly worshipped her? I had nothing negative to report because she was ridiculously competent and even, I believed, over-educated for the apprentice position. Should I try to think of something to criticise, just so it sounded more believable? I paused and thought about what Pomona had most likely written. I knew Pomona adored Avrille, so it was unlikely she would have anything negative to say either. In the end I just did my best to answer the questions truthfully. I knew even if I was not in love with Avrille, the answers would be the same. The plain truth was that she was the best apprentice I had ever been assigned, and that made me love her even more, not the other way around.

Avrille was not at dinner. Besides her absence, the staff table was actually quite full. I knew many teachers, who normally would have returned home for the holidays, were staying behind now at Hogwarts to help with the new security measures. Everyone was talking about yesterday's disturbing incident.

After eating, I gathered my paperwork and headed to Professor Dumbledore's office. I found the headmaster seated at his desk, deep in thought as he was apt to be lately. He had so much more to bear than the rest of us, because in the end, he would be the one held accountable for whatever befell the students. The governors were already restless, and it was only a matter of time before things came to a head. Either we in the school would have to solve the mystery of the attacks, or the bureaucrats would force some sort of baseless, inconvenient resolution to appease the worried parents.

"Headmaster," I said quietly since Professor Dumbledore was too absorbed in his pondering to notice I had entered.

"Ah, Severus. I apologise." Professor Dumbledore straightened in his chair. "Your marks?" he asked as I handed him my folder.

"Yes sir, as well as Mistress Asphodel's first term evaluation."

Professor Dumbledore opened the folder and quickly skimmed through the leaflets. "I have had a chance to read Pomona's evaluation already. She states Avrille is doing exceedingly well in her half of the apprenticeships. Would you say the same?"

"Absolutely," I replied. "Mistress Asphodel's performance has been exemplary. Although …" I paused. Even though I knew it was in Avrille's best interest, I still felt guilty bringing the subject to the headmaster's attention. "There is something on a different note I wanted to address. Minerva came to me yesterday with the schedule for the night-time patrol shifts. I would like to suggest that perhaps Mistress Asphodel should be excused from the duty. Since she has had no visible restoration of any additional magic usage since starting here, I believe the threat to her own safety is greater than the increase she might add to security."

Professor Dumbledore nodded as he continued to scan the evaluation. "I quite agree. I regret that the situation here has been occupying all of my attention. I had wished to spend more time personally with Avrille for assessment, but the circumstances have rendered that impossible. I shall speak to Minerva about the patrol shift."

He closed the file folder and slid it into a desk drawer. Then he stood and withdrew several sheets from a stack of papers on the corner of the desk. He walked towards me as he glanced over them. "Yes, I see here she has put you down for Christmas Eve. Good. That won't interfere with your absence tomorrow, then."

"Sir?"

Professor Dumbledore looked at me pointedly over his spectacles. "Tomorrow is the anniversary of your mother's death. I assume you shall be going to your estate."

I was very touched that Professor Dumbledore had managed to remember despite all the chaos of the past few months. "I had not planned on it. I did not think it necessary, considering the state the school is in."

Professor Dumbledore placed his hand on my shoulder. "Severus, I appreciate every single day of work you have done these past few months. I am not so selfish as to impede your duty. Go home. The school will be fine for one night." With a pat on the back, he signalled that I was dismissed.

"Thank you, sir," I said gratefully and left the office.

I went to bed early that night, the first time in well over a month. I wanted to be well-rested and clearheaded so I could concentrate fully on the tasks needing attention at the house. Because I neither lived there myself nor kept any servants or house-elves in my employ, there were several things I did every year to keep the house and grounds in a state of relative upkeep. For instance, each year I renewed the many charms cast on the house itself to keep it unimportant enough for notice by the local Muggle townsfolk and to shield the grounds from trespassers. My family had long ago made the entire property Inapparatable to keep out unwanted wizards, but I reinforced the old spells every year for good measure. I also had several simple yet effective charms to protect the house from damage from the elements. Of course tending my mother's grave was the most important duty to me. I always did it by hand, without magic, so it usually took me hours to remove what nature had accomplished during the last twelve months.

I woke early the next morning and dressed warmly since I would be spending most of that day and the next outside. I only went inside the house at night to sleep. The building still held too many painful memories for me, and even though those ill feelings faded slightly more with each passing year, I tried to be inside it as little as possible.

I had a hearty breakfast alone in my rooms then packed a small bag for the overnight. After sending the bag ahead to the house, I was all ready to depart, I had even donned my cloak, but something was still bothering me. I was still worried about Avrille. I had not seen her since the encounter in my office, and I felt uncomfortable leaving her behind. But most likely Lavinia or someone else had been checking in on her ... Even though it was depressing to consider, Avrille really had no reason to need me here.

It would not do. I could not leave without letting Avrille know I had not forgotten about her. For some reason our brief conversation at the Three Broomsticks came back to me. Miraculously, I remembered every single detail of that night, even the ones I found rather embarrassing. Recalling that night gave me an idea, a plausible reason for reaching out to her. I sat at my desk and wrote a quick note to Avrille. I re-read it several times to make sure it did not sound strange or unnatural. Even so, for good measure, I charmed the seal so that only she would be able to open it. There. Now at least I had something to look forward to when I returned.

Because it was still quite early in the morning, and the Hogwarts Express had already departed with the homeward bound students the day before, the castle was virtually deserted as I passed through. Outside it was snowing, and the strong wind and ominous-looking clouds made it clear another storm would soon hit. I walked as quickly as I could down the hill to the castle gates. Once through, I could have immediately Disapparated, but I continued on to the village so I could mail my letter to Avrille. I could have just left it in her box or relied on a school owl, but I wanted to both avoid possibly running into her as well as ensure a delay between when I sent the letter and when she received it. I wanted there to be absolutely no way she could contact me until I returned to the castle. I needed time to brace myself against seeing her again. Right now I was far too unstable and dangerously close to doing something exceedingly stupid like dropping to my knees in front of her and pledging my undying devotion. I needed time to rebuild my walls.

Despite the early hour, Hogsmeade was already buzzing with activity. Many people were out for breakfast or to finish their Christmas preparations. To my annoyance I had to wait in an exceedingly long line at the post office since it seemed half the village was there mailing Christmas cards and presents to loved ones. Once I reached the head of the line, it was literally seconds until I had paid the postage and was out the door. But the wait hadn't mattered; it would be worth it if Avrille agreed.

As soon as I had exited the post office, I Disapparated. The snow was already falling heavier, and I had no desire to remain in that inclement climate any longer than necessary. After an instant's concentration and a half turn on the spot, I was smelling the salty sea air and being misted with a cool drizzle.

I usually Apparated a few hundred yards away from where my land began. I believe the spot I chose was some sort of Muggle national forest. It was always guaranteed to be secluded and undeveloped, thus preventing any Muggles from being startled by the sight of a man suddenly appearing out of nowhere.

A cool breeze blew rain into my eyes as I picked my way through the underbrush. The forest around me was still, and I could hear the repetitive patter of raindrops hitting the dead leaves coating the ground. I could have easily cast a charm to protect myself from the rain, but at the moment I was as miserable as the weather and wanted to feel it. I missed Avrille, and knew I shouldn't. Professors should not miss their apprentices.

Within minutes I felt a slight tingling as I breached the magical boundary separating my estate from the Muggle park. If a Muggle had been within even a half-mile of that boundary, they would have been suddenly gripped with an intense feeling that a storm would be fast approaching or perhaps a wild animal might appear, so it would be prudent to quickly return to their automobile and seek shelter somewhere far away. For a wizard whom I had not cleared for passage, which was, of course, everyone (except perhaps Professor Dumbledore, who could bypass any magical barrier if he really felt inclined to) they would encounter what would feel like a stone wall as a message they were clearly not welcome.

My mother's grave was situated at the far end of the estate, under a large chestnut tree she had told me she climbed often in her youth. It was a beautiful spot, idyllic and tranquil. It was different in every way possible from the family mortuaries, which were also located on the property. Every member of my mother's family was entombed there, except her. I had staunchly refused to lay her to rest within one of those cold, grim edifices. Her life had been so dark and wretched that I had wanted at least in death for her to always be free under the trees and sky. When my mother died, which happened during the darkest period of my life when I had been young and foolish enough to listen to the Dark Lord and allow myself to become a Death Eater, my father had been too far gone from drink to care what I did with her body. Therefore, I picked that spot under the chestnut tree, and after her internment I sealed it with the strongest spells I knew to protect her from whatever twisted things my father might do in one of his uncontrollable and inevitable rages.

I emerged from the forest and was immediately greeted by the austere sight of the foreboding tombs and mausoleums, their rough granite exteriors appearing almost black from the rain. I had chosen my Apparation point purposefully long ago so that every time I visited here, I would have to walk past these crypts. I felt it especially necessary for me to view the tombs now, to impress the fact staunchly in my mind that I had become far too involved with Avrille, and what I desired further was dangerous. The viewing was immediately effective; I was already regretting sending that note to her just minutes before.

At the end of a row of mortuaries, I turned and stared hard at the tomb nearest to me. To an outsider it would seem no different from the dozen others surrounding it, but I knew this one was singular. It was the one containing what remained of my father.

I had received the owl on a summer evening shortly after the conclusion of my first year as Hogwarts's Potions master. It contained only four words: "Your father is dying." Perhaps if the message had come even just two years earlier, while I was still in Italy, I would not have heeded it. However, now that I had finally established myself in the academic world, I wanted the satisfaction of showing my father in person that he had not been able to grind me into the dust.

The letter had been sent by Hortense Alden, the old village Healer, who had been the midwife at my birth and had seen my mother and myself through countless illnesses and "accidents." Upon arriving at her cottage an hour later, Hortense reported what I had already known, that my father's drinking had finally taken the ultimate toll. She estimated he would not live through the next day. She said with the administration of detoxifying potions, it might be possible to keep him alive for perhaps another week, but even all the magical healing in the world could not save his life now that he had spent the greater part of it poisoning his body with spirits.

I asked her how long he had been seriously ill. Hortense's eyes shifted down guiltily as she replied, "Six months."

"And within all that time, you had not tried to improve his condition? Why was he not sent to St. Mungo's in London?" I had asked this more out of morbid curiosity for details than out of concern for the extension of his life. Hortense replied that she knew there simply wasn't enough money left to pay for the sort of intense treatment my father would have needed at St. Mungo's. And as for herself, my father would allow her nowhere near him, even as he lay dying.

My father had been a pure-blood fanatic. Since it was common knowledge that Hortense's father had been a Muggle from the village, my father never allowed her to treat him in the past. I suppose even an imminent, painful death was not enough to push aside such a deep-rooted prejudice.

"I sent for you tonight because I know he won't last much longer. I thought you might want to speak with him before the end and make your peace," Hortense had said. Then she apologised for not being able to do more for my family and kindly saw me out the door.

The walk to my childhood home seemed to take seconds, even though it was nearly half a league from the outskirts of town where Hortense lived. The old place was still known as Greyadder House and had been in my mother's family for generations, heralding back to a time when we were the richest wizarding family in the county. A Greyadder ancestor over two hundred years back had once owned the land that now made up the bustling town centre. He sold it little by little to Muggle investors at great profit until he had enough extra money to build his country home, the large stone edifice that was Greyadder House, up on a hill far removed from the quickly expanding Muggle village. There he must have sat until his death, lording over the townspeople until he passed it on to his son, and so on and so forth until it came into the possession of my mother. My maternal grandparents had been killed when my mother, Charlotte, was just out of school, leaving their only child the house and the good amount of wealth remaining after some was used to live comfortably through two Muggle World Wars. Less than a year after her parents' deaths, my mother married Septimus Snape, a wizard with a steadfastly pure-blood lineage but little money and few connections. Within five years of their marriage, my father had squandered nearly all the money left in Gringotts. This left my mother and me with virtually nothing and completely dependent on my father and his salary to maintain a hold on the house, its remaining furnishings, and the land.

The walk from Hortense's had passed almost instantly, and before I knew it, I found myself in my parents' bedroom. All of the velvet drapes were pulled closed, but unevenly as though someone had jerked them together while passing briskly by. On the bedside two of Mother's best aromapothecary candles flickered through the dim. They reminded me of her, fighting futilely and silently against the oppressive darkness, which would inevitably overcome. I had never seen Mother use those candles when she had been alive, although I was told one was generously used the night I was born to help her through the birthing pains. Since then and until tonight, they had lain unused and safe in her cedar chest with the precious few things left after my father had plundered it for drink money.

The candles were exceedingly rare and potent. My great-grandmother had dipped them many years before, infusing them with rare herbs and oils that would relieve even the most excruciating suffering for as long as the wax melted from the wick. Throughout my life, they had been saved for the direst emergency, which had become more and more likely as the years progressed, and the Dark Lord's power grew. My father had refused steadfastly to allow me to burn one when my mother lay dying two years earlier, citing their value was too great to "waste" on someone who would no longer feel any pain in a few hours' time. I had never forgiven him for that small cruelty. Now two candles sat dripping their precious wax into an even larger pool that seemed to be the remains of at least three candles before them. I stood perfectly still and allowed the sweet, opiate air the fill my lungs and my mind. The house was empty. Hortense had mentioned that our one remaining servant had abandoned his position two days ago when it became apparent there was no more money to pay his wages. That left my father and I alone. He and I.

When I was a boy, I had dreaded times such as these. It happened once or twice a year. My mother, sick with exhaustion from the constant physical and emotional assaults, would flee to the home of one of her few remaining friends for a couple days of respite, gathering her strength to once more face the onslaught that was my father day after endless day. She never took me with her, assuming my father would never hurt his own son. She was wrong, but I suppose it could have been worse. After venting his fury at Mother's temporary flight on my small frame, he would soon forget the cause of his anger as he drowned himself in expensive alcohol and cheap women. When my mother would return a few days later, she would hold me close and promise through salty tears that next time she would take me with her, and we would never return. She had a cousin in France who could take us in. Or an uncle in Portugal. Next time, she would be prepared, and we would fly from our torment like two birds into the dark night. Once we were safely away, she would buy me the best clothes and novelties money could buy. Knowing my passion for reading at an unusually early age, I was sure to have the finest library on the continent. When I was home from school, we would spend every day by the sea and every evening in stylish cafés, mingling with the best of society as she had done in her youth.

After the third or fourth round of these promises produced naught, I stopped believing her. Oh I knew if she were at all able, we would have gone far away, but I also knew she was incapable of ever openly defying my father. Besides, the money which could finance such an escape was long gone. Nevertheless, I still listened to Mother's promises and agreed assuredly that yes, someday things would be better but for now rest and don't worry about that at the moment.

But now … Now things were different. My mother was no longer there to protect that man with her pleading eyes. "He is still your father," she would say in her quiet way that was slightly more than a whisper but soft enough so we were never overheard, "and I am still his wife. You must never raise a hand against the man who brought you into this world. And … I will always still love him." Through death Mother had finally been able to flee the house she had come to fear with all of her being, in which all that remained now was a husk of the man she had loved so faithfully, and who had deserved none of it.

As I approached the bedside from the flickering shadows, I wet my fingertips and pinched out the aromapothecary candles' healing fire. The ordinary tapers in their elegant, iron sconces still provided light, by which I could take in my father's emaciated body. I Conjured a comfortable chair and sat in it, waiting … waiting for the drugged stupor of the room to lift. I wanted him to be in as much pain as possible before he died.

Sitting there provided me an unobstructed view of my father's sleeping face. I knew those features so well because they were mostly my own. A cruel twist of fate had given me the same jet black hair that matched his heart so well, along with his steel-coloured eyes, severe nose and chin, and sharp jaw-line. The illness had prevented my father from taking sustenance for over a week, and the drastic change in his appearance was a testament to it. His once haughty cheekbones were now jutting ridges over sunken cheeks. His jaw bore a three-day stubble, and the bed linens reeked of disease. My father had once been handsome in his own way, but it was the dark, angular handsomeness of a mad Greek god. My mother had been the complete opposite, fair of crown and fresh of complexion, a gentle Persephone too yielding to withstand the battering onslaught of a Hades' "love."

I do not remember how long I sat there watching him, perhaps an hour or two. Every passing minute further renewed my hatred of him as more and more memories of my childhood flooded me. It was as if the walls of the house were drenched with them, and they were seeping in through my pores. I could recall every single time Mother had to lock us in this room to protect us from my father's drunken tempests. She would stand against the door with her arms outstretched, as though by sheer will her slight frame would keep the madman out. When I was slightly older, I would hide under that very bed and devour books on the Dark Arts while my father fornicated with some Muggle woman in the parlour, memorising every spell or scrap of information I could use to revenge myself on him someday.

My father stirred among the sweat-stained sheets and opened eyes that were cloudy and yellowed. I stood and Vanished the chair. I moved to the very edge of the bed so I would be the first thing he would see. Slowly, my father turned his head to face me, his closely-shaved scalp making it look oddly misshapen. Even in the dim light, I could see the moment when his eyes focused on my form. He smiled. I swear to God the bastard smiled when he saw I was there.

"Severus …" he croaked hoarsely. "My son …" He reached out a hand towards me. I looked down at it with contempt and let it hang uselessly off the edge of the mattress.

"Father," I acknowledged him coldly.

"You've … come. You've come back… home." His speech was laboured and slurred as though the drink were still heavily in him.

"I have come to see you die."

My father withdrew his outstretched hand, and with several pathetic movements, managed to draw himself up to a half-seated position. When he turned to me again, his eyes were perfectly clear and gleaming malevolently.

"You little shit. Is that all … you have to say?" he spat.

I refused to rise to his bait. I stood with my arms crossed, my wand stored in my coat pocket. It would be a complete degradation of my powers to waste a spell on the feeble carcass in front of me.

My father took a few shuddering, wheezy breaths as he looked me up and down. "I can't believe … the Dark Lord … allowed such a useless … whelp to serve him."

I smiled wickedly. Of course my father still believed I had remained faithful in my service to the Dark Lord. Indeed, only the Order of the Phoenix and select members of the Wizengamot knew the role I had played in the Dark Lord's downfall. My father had had some old friends among the Death Eaters. The fact that I had joined them was most likely the only thing I had ever done to make my father proud of me in my entire life. He probably relished the idea that if he couldn't control me anymore, at least there was a supremely powerful Dark wizard who would do it instead.

"Ah, the Dark Lord. Such a shame about him," I said silkily.

"Silence! You dare … mock … the Dark Lord?!" my father barked, an amazing feat considering how much effort he was expending just to remain upright.

"Yes!" I yelled right back. "He is dead! Just as you soon shall be! And the world is a better place for it!"

A shadow passed over my father's face. That was the first time I had ever raised my voice at him. "You … you were a Death Eater. Have you … no respect for your Lord?" he asked hoarsely.

I laughed cruelly. "Since you are about to die, you might as well know that the only man I have served the past two years has been Albus Dumbledore."

"Dumbledore!" My father spat out the name as though it were the foulest word he had ever heard. "That Muggle-sodding fool?"

"Yes," I replied calmly. "I am teaching at Hogwarts now. Professor Dumbledore considered the position well-deserved after the information I gave him helped bring down the Dark Lord and put several of your Death Eater associates in Azkaban."

My father sank back into his pillow. His eyes closed, and for a moment I thought he had passed on. Then he gave a quiet, malicious laugh.

"My Severus … a traitor to his own blood." He opened his eyes once more and a mad grin twisted his hollow face. "Your life is just without fault now … isn't it?"

I felt a chill descend on the room then, but my father wasn't done speaking.

"So … you're all set up now at Hogwarts. Probably will find … a pretty little bitch to marry soon … have some brats of your own." My father was still smiling. The air in the room was noticeably colder. The candle flames dipped low on their wicks, casting my father's face in almost complete shadow. It was then that I noticed, even standing a few feet away from him as I was, I could definitely feel a sort of pulsing heat emanating from the bed.

"Yes … a nice little slut to screw every night." My father's whisper was dangerously quiet. I should have taken out my wand right then. I don't know why I didn't. I suppose, though I didn't want to admit it to myself, that even bed-ridden with disease, my father still terrified me.

"Do you think that after I die tonight, everything will just be perfect?" His voice rose. The wheezing was gone from his speech now. The words he spoke were clear and cold. "I will be damned if the House of Snape is continued by a traitorous weakling like you." From under the sheets where I had not been able to see it, my father pulled out his wand. I found I was frozen to the spot.

He pointed his wand directly at my chest. By now I could feel the heat rolling off him like waves. In the depths of my mind, I knew what he was doing. I knew, with my senseless hubris, that I had driven him to it.

I was unable to stop it.

In a voice that sounded like thunder, my father roared, "If a love you ever consummate, may you be damned to a place of bones, a place of death and decay, a place of never-ending suffering!

"Male Perdere!"

The wave of heat passed through me. I lost consciousness.

When I awoke, I was on the floor and unable to determine if several seconds or several hours had passed. Surprisingly, I felt completely well. For a moment I lay there, listening for sounds of movement from the bed, even though I knew there would be none. I had heard my father's last words; he had spoken a Death Wish.

The room was blanketed in complete darkness. As I stood I removed my wand from my coat, where it never should have been, and waved alight the candles on the walls. As small flames burst forth, I saw on the bed exactly what I had known would be there.

My father was dead. His face still held the expression of manic exaltation it had borne as he cursed me. His lifeless hand still held his wand pointed straight out in the direction where I had been standing. I walked over and wrenched the wand away. I snapped it in half in utter fury then spat on the motionless corpse.

With his death, my father had managed to destroy my life.

Author's Note: I'm adding a note here to restate that, yes, this account of Severus's family history contains some elements that are not consistent with canon. I'm fully aware that in the books, Severus's parents were Eileen Prince, a witch, and Tobias Snape, a Muggle, so please do not point that out to me in a review, like some people have in the past (although I always appreciate any other constructive criticism or compliments!). As I said in the note after Chapter One, I wrote a good chunk of this story before Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince book was released. At that time, I was able to make Severus's past whatever I wanted because we knew so little about him. I wrongfully assumed the Head of Slytherin House would be a pure-blood. Once HBP came out, I decided to keep my own versions of Severus's parents that I had created because, as you've just read, having his father be a wizard is vital to my plot. Thank you for your understanding, and I hope you're enjoying my story so far! ~Renny