Disclaimer: All rights belong to the inimitable J.K. Rowling.

Too Deep for the Healing

Chapter 25

The Mist

He was walking towards the place where the attack of the Death Eaters had almost cost him his life. Going back there in the dark and the cold made him uneasy, and it even occurred to him that Narcissa might lure him into a trap; however, since he had turned to her with a request this time, he was obliged to trust her. Naturally, they could have met in the village, but it was very much like Narcissa Malfoy to refuse to see him, just out of pride, in or near the house where she was about to celebrate with her family.

The lights of the camp were soon veiled by the snowfall, but he knew the way roughly, and he struggled ahead by the dim light of the non-magical lantern he was carrying. The weather was getting colder and harsher as he approached the winter wetland, and the snow under his feet became deep. He did not consider turning back when the snowfall developed into a full snowstorm - and it was too late to turn back when a gust of wind knocked the lantern against a tree and the light went out. He was covered in snow, but he did not stop to sweep it off his cloak and his hood. He continued walking doggedly in the same direction, towards the sheds – they could not be far now.

He wondered if the usual winter conditions had been 'enhanced' by magic as part of the security system in the camp. (Tighter security measures were probably deemed necessary when so many convicts were allowed to leave the fenced area at the same time and large numbers of visitors were arriving in the village.) He could only guess how much time had passed like this, but it seemed he should have already arrived; yet no matter how he was peering through the snowstorm, he could not discover any shapes that might be the sheds. He kept looking for them, reluctant to admit the possibility of having already missed them, the possibility of having gone the wrong way, the possibility of being lost in the starless night.

He did glimpse some glimmering light eventually, and he could only hope that it was coming from the sheds, and perhaps from Narcissa, or maybe the bog-guide who led travellers across the wetland. It was unlikely that many other people were prowling the place in that weather and at that hour, though a few more visitors might be arriving that late – but only a few. After some hesitation, he set off towards the light, which kept disappearing and reappearing at the distance, without getting any nearer; yet it was the only light he was able to see.

By the time the snowstorm petered out and visibility improved, his sense of direction had become as confused as his sense of time, and he could not tell whether he had been following a straight path or a curved one. He kept staring at the mysterious light as though for support, when he recognized, with a jolt of self-reproach, the smoke-like substance around it. How could a one-time Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher allow himself to be deceived by such a commonplace instance of dark magic? He was even able to make out the outlines of a strange creature, but the vision lasted only a moment. The wind whistled past his ears as the light that had guided him went out for the last time, and he was standing in complete darkness under a cloudy night sky, far from any man-made lights. Only the cold brightness of the snow illuminated the landscape.

He did not need to see anything in order to know where he had ended up – hinkypunks always left their victims alone in places where they were in most danger. He was far into the frozen bog, at the mercy of the elements and the wild creatures of the place, and he had no idea which way the village (or the camp) lay. He peered into the darkness again, and listened. In some respects, being alone would be the luckier option, but even that was an unlikely hope. Though he could not see any movement, and the whistle of the wind would disguise the sounds of quiet steps or light wings, he was almost certain that wetland dwellers, with some dark creatures among them, were lurking nearby, waiting for their moment to come…

Once again, he felt completely helpless without a wand. He had not even brought along a makeshift wand-substitute for fear that the tighter security control at the exit would discover its magic. What was he going to do without any tools or weapons? If he saw stars in the sky, they would serve as points of orientation – he knew the night sky as well as any other educated wizard. But the sky was an unchanging black and the landscape dark and unknown.

Yet, standing still would not take him anywhere. He chose his way at random, treading carefully on thin ice that could crack under his feet any minute. He imagined Devil's Snares thriving in the depth… He felt increasingly cold, with no hope of shelter nearby, and he could not blame anyone but himself. The whole idea of a real Christmas present for Irene appeared ludicrous now – as if it was possible to pretend they were having a real holiday! Merry Christmas, you idiot, he thought with self-deprecating irony. Narcissa had left the sheds long ago, and Irene might have to wait for him in vain tonight…

The wind unexpectedly stopped and the only noise he heard was his own panting ... it was frighteningly loud. He tried to quieten his breathing, to calm his heartbeat even, as he peered ahead once more. He could see nothing but some dull and damp greyness, impenetrable for the eye. The mist … He had nearly run into the mist that marked the final boundary anyone from the camp could reach without an official and experienced guide. As Weasley had said, escapees would get locked into it and the guards would be alerted at once… As a matter of fact, in his current circumstances, being found by the guards seemed almost like a solution – but at what price?

He imagined Tanner gloating over his bad luck if he were found locked in the mist, having tried to run away and caught in the act... That would certainly make Tanner's Christmas… No - freezing to death would be a more welcome option than enduring the guard's triumph and suffering another humiliating punishment.

He backed away, but the mist seemed to be approaching - a blinding, suffocating presence, draining away his strength, until he could delude himself no more: He was surrounded by its inescapable magic and had nothing else to do but wait for the worst like an animal in a trap. Desperately, he tried to keep a cool head – panic would only make matters worse.

As though in response to his thought, he suddenly heard an eerie, unfamiliar voice:

"A few more moments and he will panic!"

The voice was sinister and cold as though it was the mist speaking to him, and Snape could hardly keep himself from screaming out.

"As soon as he panics, the alarm will be set off," the voice continued gleefully. "A little bird in a cage, isn't he?"

Damp laughter sounded, as Snape continued fighting against the terror that was about to overcome him. As long as he was brave, he was not completely defeated. But it seemed to be a losing battle.

He heard a voice again – a different, kinder one this time.

"If he knew what power he has, you'd have no reason to be so glad," said this other voice. "If he recognized the magic at his disposal, if he were able to truly master it, what would become of your petty tricks?"

The power and the magic he had at his disposal? His mind began working at a frantic speed struggling to understand the meaning of the words wherever they had come from. The damp laughter sounded less self-satisfied now and the kinder voice continued as though it was singing an odd lullaby.

"… he took out the stone that had the power to recall the dead, and turned it thrice in his hand."

The voice kept echoing in his mind. "… turned it thrice in his hand… the power to recall the dead… the stone that had the power…"

The stone… He reached into his pocket and took out the small stone with the strange carving on it, the last remainder of a handful of Hogwarts soil. Could it be …? He remembered Lily appearing to him on another cold night. Had it happened by means of that thing? He was rather certain that he was not at liberty to recall her again and again … it would be impertinence beyond measure. There were others, of course...

He almost recoiled at the thought. Why would he want to recall the dead? He might be one of them very soon... how could they help him live? How could they help him get back to Irene once more? Still, if they were only able to save him from being caught in the mist, it would be worthwhile… He was in no position to be picky. Without thinking of anyone in particular (except for Irene, but she was one of the living), he turned the stone thrice in his hand just as he heard another peal of damp laughter.

"How indeed? How?"

Suddenly the grey wall of mist lit up, and he was surrounded by people … misty figures themselves, yet each radiating a faint light – the dead he had recalled.

Eileen Prince Snape's troubled face bent over him, and he, completely unprepared for such a meeting, gazed back at her, forgetting for a moment the immediate danger and trying to think of something to say to her…

"I'm so sorry, son," she whispered, but she offered him no help.

Suddenly a more familiar figure stepped to him – she looked the same as he had already seen her twice. So Lily had come to him nevertheless. He almost apologised for the inconvenience he was causing her when he saw that she was not alone this time. James Potter was by her side, the wizard Snape least wanted to see. He turned away before Lily could talk to him, scanning the small crowd of figures approaching from various directions.

He did not even recognize everyone. A stout man wearing medieval armour, with a weather-beaten face and a mane like a lion's, stared at him hard.

"You could still try for that sword, you know," he growled, "that is, if you chose me -"

"The sword!" a sarcastic, sharp voice interrupted. "And much use would it be to him at the moment!"

A wizard Snape had only known from a portrait appeared in a different form.

"Professor Snape!" the wizard cried. "Whatever happens, remember you have been and you will always remain a Headmaster of Hogwarts! You don't need any swords to be sure of that!"

Snape was getting weary of this bizarre cavalcade of people of the past, and it seemed the mist was laughing at him again…

"Know your heart's desire," said yet another woman's voice, and Snape recognized Charity Burbage.

"I wish I had been able to save you," he muttered.

This was the first time he had both felt the need to speak and known what to say. It was difficult to meet her eye though. Yet, considering how often he had seen her die in nightmares he could not control, he managed tolerably well.

"I could not have come here otherwise," she nodded.

His mouth was dry. He wanted to say something about Charity's niece as well – or to ask a question perhaps, but something prevented him. Charity, however, was watching him with apparent interest.

"But now you need help," she said finally.

How could he ask her? How could he expect Charity Burbage of all people to help him? He could not even bear her gaze for long.

"Look, Severus," she said.

He looked up. A tall, bearded figure was standing silently in the background apparently waiting for Snape to notice him. Later Snape could not recall how all the others had disappeared or how the mist had retreated, but all of a sudden he was alone with Dumbledore. His feelings were mixed, to say the least.

"So you have found it after all," said the light-and-shadow likeness of Dumbledore. "I tried to keep it from you."

That was a strange greeting from someone coming back to him from the afterlife, but Dumbledore could not surprise him any more.

"Keep it from me?"

"The Resurrection Stone," Dumbledore clarified, "the stone that has the power to recall the dead. It was in my keeping for a while… Now it is yours," he added kindly.

Snape thought of how he had been checked for magical devices perhaps a thousand times in the past six months - how had he been able to carry such a powerful magical object unnoticed?

"The Resurrection Stone cannot be detected with the usual magical means," Dumbledore explained. "It can hide quietly in a ring or in a piece of sports equipment or even in a handful of forest soil - until someone discovers its use, which does not happen very frequently, I must tell you."

"You tried to keep it from me?" Snape repeated slowly. "When?"

"You were quite close to it once," said Dumbledore. "I didn't want it to destroy you as it had destroyed me." He raised the hand that had died before him. "You were needed alive."

"I know," said Snape, his mouth twitching.

How did Dumbledore dare to remind him?

"But never mind," Dumbledore continued as he began walking lightly on the ice, with Snape following him closely. "You didn't need the Resurrection Stone to recall people from death."

"What are you talking about?"

"You saved my life," Dumbledore replied. "You made it possible for me to live and work another year. You saved Harry's life several times, I know. It was a nice job, Severus. You saved Draco and you saved other students from mortal danger. You helped Harry defeat Voldemort. That's more than anything you could have achieved by using that stone."

"Recalling people from death …" Snape echoed as though in a dream.

Probably the loneliest Headmaster of Hogwarts ever, he had been surrounded by the dead anyway – only the dead, every day, all the time. With such a tool, he could have at least chosen the company he preferred - what harm would it have done? But he remembered seeing Lily with James Potter by her side and he gave a slight shudder. It might not have been much good after all.

"The stone could not have done the trick, Severus, not really. It would not have been worth the risk. The dead may be able to do you a small service now and then, but you need the living more than them. Look at me. I'm here, but I will leave you eventually, although I am able to show you the way wherever you want to go."

Snape stopped.

"Anywhere?" he asked abruptly.

Dumbledore nodded.

"Anywhere."

Snape turned around, casting a tentative, perhaps longing look at the mist behind. But he rejected the idea at once. Getting across the mist would not solve anything.

"I agree," Dumbledore said quietly. "Besides, you don't need me to show the way there. The mist will show you any time."

"But I couldn't get through it by myself," Snape replied reluctantly.

Dumbledore cast a faint, delicate smile.

"You have never really tried, have you?"

Snape felt a constriction in his throat. What did Dumbledore know about him? It would have been a relief to pour all his bitterness on the old man, but it was impossible. This Dumbledore was much more distant than the living Dumbledore used to be. They walked in silence for a while.

"Not even I know enough of the secrets of the Resurrection Stone," Dumbledore mused, "though I had spent a life-time looking for it. But I guess it is safer to use it when it is not a purpose but a means only – and, of course, it matters what you need it for. You seem to want life much more than a conversation with the dead."

"Why did you come here then?" Snape demanded. "To show me my way - again?"

Dumbledore shook his head.

"Only to give you directions," he answered. "The destination is your choice."

"I sometimes think I have run out of choices," he said, feeling a stab of irritation at hearing Dumbledore's favourite word.

"You're wrong," Dumbledore said mildly. "A lot must happen before one runs out of choices."

"Well, a lot has happened to me!" he snapped.

"And you still have a choice," Dumbledore replied.

Snape once again experienced how difficult it was to argue with his late boss and commander. But he needed a few minutes to calm down.

"I can't believe I still need you," he muttered. "After all this time…"

"I feel honoured," Dumbledore said. "But you are doing well without me, Severus … quite well."

"Oh, of course … is this what you meant for me all along?" Snape hissed indignantly.

"No," Dumbledore replied, glancing around. "This was not my intention. But we both knew the risks, and we knew what was to be lost or gained… My job is finished and I'm not going to give you any more tasks. But you can still fight on… if you choose to fight."

"How could I still fight when I'm buried in a prison camp alive? And what for? Who needs me?"

"If you find a purpose, you will find the means. Your chances to change your life have never been better. As for who needs you … that's a question you must answer for yourself."

Snape swallowed hard.

"Someone is waiting for me in the village nearby," he said after a pause. "I promised … to go there tonight."

Dumbledore nodded.

"You will go to the village then," he said.

Soon, or at least much sooner than Snape had expected, he caught sight of the sheds. Narcissa must have already left, but he was alive, and that was quite an achievement. He looked back only once – just in time to take a last look at the fading figure of Dumbledore. He was aware that he had just missed a unique opportunity to ask the really important questions and to say all that troubled him, all that he had told the old man in his mind so many times – but he could not feel the regret too deeply. He was filled with longing for Irene, who would not be waiting for him in vain after all. Feeling the Christmas roses under his cloak, he headed for the second shed with renewed hope.

It was easier to find his way around now – the sky had cleared up, and the area was illuminated by the moon and the stars. Entering the shed, Snape lit a single match, and he immediately found the very small and very light parcel Narcissa had left for him, carefully wrapped in several layers of wrapping paper. She had kept her promise after all. He was about to step out of the building to open the parcel by the light of the moon when he heard a noise. He froze. There were steps outside the shed, though he could not hear any voices. But no one tried to enter. Whoever was there, they either had not noticed him or were not interested. He waited for a while; then he quietly slipped out of the shed.

As he walked past the first shed, he heard a noise again; and then someone spoke.

"I will do anything for you," said a drawling voice.

He instantly recognized Draco Malfoy. Well, well ... Narcissa was not the only one in the family who thought of the sheds as an ideal location for secret communication. Did she know what her son was using the place for? (Draco was repeating the promise - what was he hoping to get in return?) Poor Narcissa... Unless she herself had brought over a pureblood girlfriend she deemed eligible for her precious son, Draco could only be messing around with a Muggle girl from the village - hardly the kind of business Narcissa would approve of.

He hurried off, lest he heard more of those silly words. The night sky was quite clear now, and he only needed to know that he was safely alone. He stopped under the moonlight with an excitement similar to the one he had felt receiving a rare present in his childhood. But he was nervous, too. It was unlikely that the parcel could contain anything really suitable for Irene and for the occasion. After all, how could Narcissa understand … Yet, it would be wonderful to give Irene something special … a real present. He stared at the small parcel in his palm and carefully removed the wrapping paper.