To say that dinner was awkward was an understatement of massive proportions. Fortunately the ground-level dinning hall was not only wide but also benefiting from a ridiculously long table. Spiral black and burgundy candles floated above, lending soft, gauzy light to the atmosphere. It was all rather surreal and Citizen Kane-ish. Though she would have preferred to eat in her room, given how her earlier confrontation with Snape had gone, she still came down for dinner, determined to relay her conversation with Professor Mcgonagall to him.
"Good evening," she said warily, taking the only seat still available, the one across the very long table from him.
He looked up from his plate but it was difficult to make out his expression from that distance and in that light. "Good evening," he replied, his tone impervious to any reading.
The fine china set looked as expensive as she remembered it, as did the silverware and the ornate crystal glasses. Cagey served her a kind of beef dish. Food here was always rich. The elf filled her glass too, though she didn't usually drink, before going away.
"I talked to Prof… to Minerva the other day," she said after taking a few bites of that odd beef stew. It wasn't bad, albeit too fat for her palate.
"Did you now?" he enunciated acerbically.
"She invited me to hold a few guest lectures at Hogwarts."
"Congratulations are in order then." His tone held no congratulatory note in it.
"Thank you," she said, pretending not to notice the manner in which he had spoken. "She said she'd been wanting to visit you but you turned her down every time."
He meticulously stabbed at something on his place, took a mouthful and chewed for long minute. "I don't think that neither Minerva, nor I can endure the burden of gratitude hovering above us. We have always been civil to each other but never friends. I see no reason to pretend that we are now."
"Has it ever occurred to you that we don't want to pretend to be your friends just because we feel obligated to you?" she began carefully, attentive to avoid rising her voice again. "Has it ever occurred to you that we simply want to apologize for misjudging and mistreating you?"
"Tell me this then: do none of your and your friends' apologies come from a place of obligation?"
Hermione took a sip of her wine. It was tangy to the taste and she had no appetite for it but she needed something to do in order to stall before answering him.
"Nobody feels obligated," she said, not sure that it was the truth. "We're just grateful for everything you've done. Our victory would not have been possible without you."
He waved a dismissive hand and took a gulp of his wine as well. "It's a gratitude I would gladly wish to be spared from. You should feel yourself released from feeling or expressing it. Also, please, tell your friends and Minerva, for that matter, to try and do the same."
"Including the gratitude she wanted me to send you for the new brooms you'd sent the Slytherin quidditch team?"
"Since my former house's team routinely defeated the team of her own former house, how sincerely grateful do you imagine her to be?"
Hermione decided to ignore that particular jab. "Anyway, she also wanted me to tell you that since you would not return to your former job of teaching Potions, she would like to invite you to sit on the Hogwarts Board of Governors."
"Is the reconstruction going that bad?" he asked conversationally. "Very well, I will send her a sizable donation from my newly found fortune but I have no intention of ever again connecting myself to that place in any shape or form."
"Actually, Minerva insisted that no donation was necessary but that she needs you if she is to build a better Hogwarts that will produce less dark wizards and witches."
"What possessed her to think that I of all people could help her with that? I am dark wizard myself, a former Death Eater and former head of the only house at Hogwarts that created more of my kind."
"You're not a dark wizard," she said quietly.
"Truly? Don't you think I should be the judge of what and who I am or I am not?"
She shook her head, abandoning her utensils on the side of her plate. She had lost her appetite. "You spied for Dumbledore. You almost die saving us all."
"But first I was a genuine Death Eater, a dark wizard and a faithful follower of Voldemort."
He was baiting her. She could tell. "You betrayed him."
"In order to betray somebody, one must first pledge allegiance to them. Would you like to know what one had to do in order to become a Death Eater?"
Hermione hid a wince. "You were cleared of all charges. Twice."
"Some, and I doubt they are in the minority, would say that I escaped just punishment twice."
"You couldn't convince the entire Wizengamot that you are villain. What makes you think you can convince me?"
He didn't answer that one immediately, his mouth forming a single, narrow line, his face turning to cold stone. She had noticed this kind of reaction before whenever his trial came up. When he spoke again, the words were stilted and dripping with venom. "Many were cleared by the Wizengamot, not just me. Might I remind you of the Malfoys? They only had to pay a fine that barely made a dent in their considerable fortune. Therefore, one can only conclude that the Wizengamot is easily swayed."
"They were still clamoring for you to receive the Dementors' Kiss before Harry testified." Hermione shuddered, as the memory of the trial asserted itself, recalling the angry cries and the angry glares, as Snape had been dragged in, looking as if he were at death's door and leaning heavily on a cane, a mere shadow of the man they had known. Harry, who had volunteered to defend him when nobody would, had rushed forward to support him only to be held back by disproportionately heavy guard, given that their charge could barely stand. She, Ron and Minerva had exchanged uncertain glances. Luna had been uncharacteristically quiet and even Neville, who had once so feared Snape, had appeared worried. They had all been afraid they would fail to save the man who had protected them for years and had been instrumental in their victory against Voldemort.
"Well, then it seems that it is I who is indebted to Potter, not the other way around," he ground out at long last, saying Harry's family name as if it were an obscenity.
Of course, now they all knew why Snape detested Harry's father. Her heart went out to him. She had been bullied at Hogwarts too, but at least, she had not been alone. She had been surrounded by friends who had supported and defended her at every turn. She had even scored a few victories against Draco, who was not the sharpest the tool in the box, while his cohorts were utter idiots. But James Potter and his friends had been smart and far better organized and they had never let up. And Snape had only had Lily and after a misplaced insult spoken in a moment of anger, he had lost her too. She couldn't imagine how much harder things had been for him.
"Harry doesn't think so," she said after a pregnant pause and took another small drink of her wine.
"Thankfully, I no longer have to concern myself with what he thinks or doesn't think. He's no longer my responsibility."
They were interrupted by Cagey clearing away their plates in the blink of an eye in order to bring the second course: a thick and viscous soup that looked wholly unappealing. Hermione still took a few spoonfuls out of courtesy. It tasted as weird as it looked. Outside the wind howled like a restless werewolf underneath a full moon, pushing against the uneven barrier of the ancient windows. This house needed a major renovation but Hermione was uneasy suggesting it. She didn't want to give him the impression that she was making herself at home here.
She sneaked a glance across the table at him. He seemed entirely too focused on his soup and not inclined to continue their conversation.
"Minerva would be expecting an answer," she tried again.
"Then she would be expecting it for a very long time," he barked back.
"She won't accept your donation without you taking your place on the Hogwarts Board," she pointed out. "You're not the only one capable of being stubborn, you know."
His face might have been obscured in shadows but the glare he shot her penetrated them in order to bear into her own eyes. "You have conveyed the message entrusted to you. You claim not to want an annulment. Why are you still here then?"
"Throwing me out during dinner doesn't demonstrate the best of manners," she supplied. Early in their so-called marriage, he had lectured her a few times on her supposed lack of manners. It felt satisfying to throw it all in his face.
"I do not care at present," he bit back testily. "Feel free to let yourself out. Preferably right at this moment."
"I am your wife, if only on paper. You can't just throw me out. This is supposed to be both our house."
That had turned out to be the exceptionally wrong thing to say. His spoon clinked as it dropped back in his soup and his chair flew up against the wall. He stood up in an instant, his robes rustling and ruffling in dark haze around him as he did. His wand was in his hand and poised but no spell was forthcoming. Just to be on the safe side, Hermione pulled her wand too but hid it in her lap, her fingers clenched tightly around it.
"Get out," he commanded in that imperious manner of his. "Now!"
He really should know by now that Hermione was not one to be ordered about, even if the one attempting it was quite possibly the most powerful wizard in the world right now.
"No!" She calmly, demonstratively took another spoonful of that awful soup.
He lowered his wand but her triumph was short-lived. "Oh, go annoy that visiting Frenchman of yours!"
That did it. Hermione jumped to her feet too. "How many times do I have to tell you I'm not sleeping with Louis-Philippe or with anyone else for that matter?"
"How many times do I have to tell you I do not care what you do, as long as you do it as far from me as possible?"
"Fine," she bit out, wondering at the feeling of defeat that came over her. She stowed away her wand. "I'll be gone first thing in the morning." She turned to leave but his voice called after her.
"Make sure to take the hypocritically well-meaning wishes of your friends with you as well."
She whirled around. "They are not hypocritical."
He put away his wand too. "If you and your friends had truly meant me any good, you would have let me die. Or at least, allowed the Dementors to have me."
"You don't mean that."
"First, you won't let me be the judge of what I am. Now you're not letting me be the judge of what I mean. It's all you and your saintly friends do. Obligate everyone to conform to your narrow view of what and who they should be."
Hermione started to tread towards him. "Don't you understand? You're free! Dumbledore is gone. So is Voldemort. You can start anew, have a life of your own and be happy."
"Happy?" He scoffed. "You naive, silly child!"
She stopped right in front of him. He was again glaring down in that way that made her feel like a hapless bug he was studying. But Hermione was nothing if not relentless. Everyone who knew her could attest to that. "Is this about Harry's mother? Look, I know you loved her but it's okay for you to allow yourself to move on. This thing with us will be over soon. And you can find someone else and have a family, children of your own…."
His gaze only darkened further. "What do you know about love?"
She saw his wand going up a split second too late.
"Legilimens," he said simply.
Even if Harry had not mentioned them, albeit seldom and reluctantly, Snape's exceptional skills with Legilimency and Occlumency were beyond obvious, given that he had managed to trick even Voldemort himself. He tore into her mind like a vicious storm taking apart a house that happened to be on its path. It didn't exactly hurt but it wasn't comfortable easy. He sifted through her memories as if they were pages of a book, pushing aside her resistance if it were nothing. Still, resist, she did, or at least, she tried, summoning all her fury and accumulated frustrations, as she attempted to fling him out.
Do you think your emotions are going to stop me?
His poison dipped velvet baritone was derisive as it echoed within her head.
No, they make it easier for me.
He parted her fury like a wave, sinking in deeper and deeper, tossing aside her defenses as if they were broken toys merely cluttering his way. She attempted to struggle and fight back, even if she had no recourse, to weapons in her arsenal, the few Occlumency skills she had been taught at Hogwarts sliding off his like water, making no dent. She could have asked him to stop, begged him to even, but she refused to give him the satisfaction.
Yes, he echoed in her head again. Beg for me to stop and I shall.
Do your worst, she sniped both out loud and in her mind.
That was most unwise!
Her latest defensive move only spurned him on and he cracked her mind opened like he would a nut.
She's a nightmare… honestly… no wonder she hasn't got any friends.
How romantic, Snape commented dryly.
Get out of my head, she yelled.
Ask nicely and I might.
She summoned all her mental forces to cast him out only for him to brush them off as if they were lint on his immaculate dark robes. It was then that she felt the touch, the faintest of promises of the mind hidden behind the potency of the spell he had unleashed upon her. It was like touching live current, equally awe-inducing and fearsome, magnificent and bright and terrible. It was the hint of a mind like she had never even thought possible, let alone hope to experience for herself. She stopped resisting at once, enthralled and eager to sense more of him but it didn't come. He glided past a few memories of her and Ron, one kiss here, one of them holding hands there, another of them talking by the sea; he even found that of her dancing with Viktor Krum. Then he withdrew as swiftly as he had invaded, barely scratching the surface of her mind and of her few memories of love.
Hermione staggered backwards, feeling behind her until she found the wall for support. She was trembling just like the branches of the trees outside had to be in the vicious wind sweeping through the night. She heard come closer but she shrank back, not because she was worried about a repeat of what had just happened, but because she was embarrassed, thinking that he left her mind so quickly, because the little he had seen had been mediocre or even unpleasant.
"I… I think… I'll go back to my room now," she stuttered, mortified to hear her voice sounding just as rattled as she felt. "Thank Cagey for dinner for me," she added in a rush.
She spun around and hurtled out of the hall, focusing to keep her feet as steady as she could. Then she jogged to her chosen bedroom, her mind a whirlwind. She shut the door after her with a hand that had yet to stop shaking. A lightning cut through the sky, spilling a blinding gleam of light into the darkened room. It mirrored the all too brief experience of touching Snape's mind almost to perfection.
# # #
He sat in ridiculous 18th century armchair with an impossibly high and ornate back by the window in the closest bedroom to the potions lab, watching the play of lightnings crisscrossing through the wet darkness of storm outside. Thunder cracked every now and then, enhancing the feral beauty of the display of unleashed nature. In retrospect, he regretted touching the girl's mind, though what he had done wasn't even a small fraction of what he had put her friend Potter through when attempting to teach him Occlumency. It wasn't that her mind was dull and uninteresting; he hadn't really seen enough of it to form an opinion, nor had he sought to. But then what had he been hoping to achieve by it? To show her that all she knew of love was mere teenage infatuation. What did it matter? That was all many people knew of love, even if they lived for a long time. Sometimes teenage infatuation blossomed into something steadier, deeper that lasted people through the years. He had been head of a house at Hogwarts. He had seen it happen often enough. And sometimes it didn't. It hadn't happened for her and Weasley. It was probably happening for others just now. What did it matter? What difference did it make to him?
She had infuriated him, however, with her absurd claims that he could be happy. Happy? Him? She really was a silly girl with her head filled with childish, romantic ideals. But then, though she had lived through a war, true horror had escaped her, because she hadn't been the one to commit it. What was her greatest crime during the war? Robbing a bank maybe? What was that compared to what he had done during two wars? No, Hermione Granger and her precious friends had managed to make it through the war not only with their lives but most importantly, with their hands clean. They had no idea how truly blessed they were. Silly children, the lot of them! No, Hermione had no concept of what it meant to plunge your hands so deep into blood and filth that you could never be clean again. And she had the gall to assert that he could be happy. Even worse, that he could find someone else, when she, herself, had reacted to the notion of him touching her with sheer horror.
To consider that there could be someone else for him other than Lily was blasphemy to him. He would rather stop breathing, not that his life meant much to him, anyway. Granger didn't understand because, of course, she didn't. Because to her, love was a game children played, with hand-holding and clumsy kisses and whispered promises in the face of impending death when one would certainly not live to keep them. But even if she had had a better understanding of what Lily was and always would be to him, her own reaction to the prospect of physical intimacy with him should have clued her in as to just how preposterous the idea of him finding someone was.
Not that he blamed Hermione for her revulsion. He had a mirror, he could see himself. He could imagine how much worse he was in the eyes of a beautiful young woman such as herself. Furthermore, he knew what she didn't, what he hid beneath his ample robes. It wasn't just the disfiguring scar Nagini had left him with, but the others as well. So many others, covering just about every inch of him. Scars given to him by his father, by the boys at the Muggle school he had gone to before Hogwarts, by James Potter and his friends at Hogwarts, by the battles of two wars, by the Dark Lord himself when Severus had failed or displeased him. Even by Hagrid's ludicrously named cerberus. There hardly had been a creature in his life—man or beast—who hadn't scarred him one way or another. Some scars were not visible, but others made hideous marks marring his skin.
It was one thing he couldn't, not even in his darkest hours, reproach Lily, either. Going for the handsome athlete, the Gryffindor hero with perfect skin and perfect hair, the boy all the girls dreamed of, even those in Slytherin. No sane woman in possession of a pair of functional eyes would have chosen him over James Potter. That part, at least, he had always comprehended.
Though he didn't often imbibe, especially not after what had happened the last time around, he regretted not having had more wine at dinner. These were thoughts better entertained with an alcohol blurred mind. Thoughtless, thoughtless girl! What did she know of love and pits of despair it could drive one to! Unbidden, the memory of finding out about Lily's engagement slipped through. He had found out from the odious Daily Prophet where the announcement had been printed. He had gone out then to do something he had never done until then: find himself a woman to spend the night with. The shame of it still weighed on him but he had wanted to prove himself as well to Lily, who would never even know, that he didn't care, that she hadn't shattered him all over again. He still remembered and felt the guilt of the morning after, as if he had just cheated on the woman he loved, the woman about to be married to another man.
It had happened a few more times after that and every time it had ended with a variation of the same. With him at Spinner's End, curled on his bed, crying in his pillow and begging for the forgiveness of an absent Lily. He had always felt that each encounter chipped at the purity of his love for Lily. He couldn't even conceive how much worse a full-blown relationship would have felt. When Lily died, he had stopped entirely, living only for the things he could do in her memory. Now he was out of those too. He sank further into his chair, letting the familiar tidal wave of grief wash over him. Once that had subsided somewhat, he started regretting what he had done to Hermione.
It wasn't the girl's fault, after all. Surely, she was grating and an unwelcome presence in his life most of the time, but their marriage had to frustrate her too. It had to be hard to search for a partner when everyone thought her to be a married woman. Still, despite his assurances and the initial terms of their marriage, his ego had been bruised. The man with whom she had been photographed had a good ten years on her, but he was still younger than Severus, and devastatingly handsome. Add to that the obvious, albeit unsurprising, disgust he elicited in her and he had lashed out. It was all for naught, of course. He would have never accepted her ill-conceived invitation, even if she had meant it. She was painfully young and she was… she had been his student. And above all and despite everything she had been through, she was still pure of heart. Certainly pure enough to believe love and happiness were still available to him. There was no way he would have laid his blood-stained hands on her and dragged her down to his level. There had to be an end to the number of lives he spoiled and here it was where he drew his line.
He pried himself out of his seat with some difficulty. Though he was overall more or less himself again, he still had the occasional tremor in his right side. Despite this, the bed did not present a welcome respite. The dreams came when he slept. They had been coming steadily since before Lily's death. And in his dreams it was never his enemies who screamed but his victims.
# # #
A year earlier
They were huddled together in the drawing room of Professor Mcgonagall's Hogsmeade cottage, Hermione, Harry, Ron, Pomona Sprout and Mcgonagall herself. The air was fraught with frazzled nerves and the utter discomfort of the conversation they were having, despite the fact that Mcgonagall had made them tea and served them scones and jam.
"So there's definitely going to be a trial?" Hermione asked. "What about the evidence we gave?"
Sprout and Mcgonagall exchanged a look. The first spoke up. "Severus was never well-liked by… well, anyone. Some felt he had escaped justice after the first War. And then there's Dumbledore… Albus was beloved and respected. Many are crying for his killer to be punished in an exemplary manner."
"But I've explained…," Harry started, staring at his tea cup as if it contained the answer to all their questions and doubts.
Snape's memories had colored Harry's perception of Dumbledore but how and to what extent he was yet to tell his friends. Hermione and Ron shared a look of their own. Harry sat at Ron's elbow, pale and grim yet resolute. Whatever decision he had taken was a foregone conclusion, he had only to impart it to them as well.
"You might have to do it again before the Wizengamot," Mcgonagall said, sympathy evident in her voice.
At Hermione's side, Ron cringed. Hermione understood. Defending Snape once and in writing had been complicated enough for all of them. A repeat of that in public would not be easy on any of them. Yet it had to be done. Without Snape, they would have never won the war.
"I don't understand. Doesn't he have any friends?" Hermione interjected, hoping there might be someone else who could take on the burden of defending Snape. "Or family?"
Mcgonagall looked down, took a measure sip of her tea before she carefully placed the cup back on its delicate, cream-colored saucer. "I've only known him to have one friend."
"My mother," Harry added quietly.
Mcgonagall and Sprout both nodded. Mcgonagall continued. "As for family, his mother was disowned by her parents when she married a Muggle. The Prince line is old and very prestigious."
"Like the Tonks and the Malfoy?" Hermione wanted to know.
"Older still," Sprout replied. "They were initially from Florence, weren't they, Minerva? I am not sure how far back they go in Italy but they claim that all the way to Ancient Rome. They came here in 1513, I think, when Niccolo Principe married an English pure-blood witch. In time, they changed their surname to the English version of Prince. They are exceedingly wealthy too. Do they still have properties in Europe?"
Mcgonagall scrunched her face in a short-lived grimace. It was obvious she didn't think much of the family of Snape's mother, despite their wealth and prestige. "Your guess is as good as mine, Pomona. However, I do know this: they believe believe in the supremacy of the pure-bloods just like the Tonks and the Malfoys do. As far as I know, neither of them has ever acknowledged Severus' existence for he is a half-blood, you see. His only cousin went to Ilvermorny so I doubt the two even ever met. With both his parents having passed away while Severus was still at Hogwarts, there really isn't anyone else left."
Sprout confirmed Mcgonagall's story with an inclination of her head. "I've never heard him to speak of anyone… a friend, a relative.. or something else…. He lived at school, spent most of his time in his lab or in his House. I'm not even sure…. Minerva, did he go anywhere during the summer?"
Minerva frowned, deep in thought. "I think he did sometimes. Where to, he never said. One would assume he went to his parents' house in Cokeworth."
This is getting sad, Hermione thought. The two professors before her had worked with Snape for years, came in contact with him on a daily basis and yet they seemed to know so little about him. They knew more about the awful family who had rejected him for the crime of having a Muggle father. Was he that disagreeable to his colleagues too or was it more to the story that met the eye?
Throughout their talk, Ron had been busying himself buttering a scone, adding jam and eating it. Now that he was done, he finally spoke up. Hermione guessed he had been ruminating.
"Are we sure Snape doesn't deserve to stand trial and be punished for what he did?" Ron wondered. "Just because he spied for Dumbledore, it doesn't mean he didn't awful things as a Death Eater. It doesn't mean he didn't kill Dumbledore. He's not exactly innocent, you know."
Hermione lowered her gaze to her lap. Nobody argued Ron's. It was what they were all thinking. It was what she, herself, had been thinking on and off ever seen they had gone to retrieve Snape's body for a proper burial only to find him still alive. Just barely and at death's door but alive, nonetheless. Nobody wanted to give voice to it but Snape's death would have been easier on all of them. It would have saved them and the entire wizarding world of a lot of uncomfortable questions about the war and its implications.
Harry's expression darkened. "If there's to be a trial, it's not for us to determine guilt or innocence but for the Wizengamot. But first they need to have all the facts. We can't just let them feed him to the Dementors. We owe him too much." He paused and took an audible breath. "I'll volunteer to defend him."
"Git! He'd hate that," Ron commented.
"That's just a fringe benefit," Sprout said with a wry smile.
Determination colored Harry's face. He wore the look of someone about to be forced to eat a particularly nasty dish but who was firm about doing it, anyway. "Whether he likes it or not, I'll still defend him and testify before the Wizengamot. He was ready to die for me to live and win. He very nearly did! He could have saved himself and told Voldemort that he wouldn't become the true owner of the Elderwand or what a mistake he was making in going after me. His silence, not to mention his years of service as a triple agent, saved me. He saved us all. It's my turn now!"
Mcgonagall gazed at him with proud affection. "What can we do to help, Harry?"
"I need a spell. I have to be able to show the Wizengamot everything I saw of Snape's memories. And I do mean everything. Everybody knows Snape, the Death Eater. I'll show them Snape, the man."
# # #
Severus had known he wouldn't survive a second war against Voldemort. He just hadn't known how, when or where it would happen but he had known that it would. It made little difference to him. He had been ready to die ever since he had held Lily's dead boy in his arms. He had been hoping for death or at least, the Dementors' Kiss ever since the first war had ended. But Dumbledore had robbed him of that. Mind you, not because he cared for Severus but because, much like Severus himself, Albus had realized that the Dark Lord was not truly gone and that he would return one day. And then Dumbledore would need his spy infiltrated in Voldemort's inner circle. So it was fitting that Dumbledore, who had robbed him of the peace of death the first time, would be the one to help him get it now.
Severus imagined there wasn't a witch or a wizard out there who wasn't clamoring for his head. The only reason he was in St. Mungo's instead of Azkeban was because they wanted to make an example out of him. He was a traitor to both sides and the killer of a popular wizard most loved or at least, liked. And everyone detested him. They should get satisfaction now. He had no doubt he was headed for the Kiss. He couldn't care less. As long as it provided oblivion.
He had been told by an elderly and maternal mediwitch that he had been in a coma for three months after being found half dead in the Shrieking Shack. Apparently, he couldn't catch a break, because, despite a few close calls during his coma, he had, against all odds and expectations, survived. Furthermore, he was getting better and stronger every day, which meant that his trial would happen soon. Nobody would wish for him to regain his full strength and make a break for it. He had no intention to do so but then they didn't know that. That was why his only visitors had been the heavy guard he had been placed under. Not that he expected anyone else to come.
Nobody bore him any affection at Hogwarts, which was just as well. He didn't like them, either, and downright hated that place. Even the students in his own House, whom he had nurtured and cared for them the best he could, given Dumbledore's preposterous idea of placing him of all people anywhere near children, would want to distance themselves from him, lest they would be tainted by association. He couldn't blame them. They were Slytherin, after all. Also why bother with a dead man walking who wanted nobody's tender feelings, anyway? No, he preferred to know the Slytherins as safe from the wrath of the winning party as they could be. He knew better than anyone how Slytherins had been treated even before the rise of Voldemort and things had only gotten worse after the first war. It would be so much more worse now. He almost regretted that he wouldn't be there to protect those in his House. Almost!
# # #
Everything about the trial had been designed to humiliate him. Severus was not surprised. He had expected as much. It was fortunate then that he had grown inured to humiliation. The mediwitch in charge of his care had attempted to get him a reprieve, appalled that a man in her care, who was barely able to stand at that, was to be dragged before the courts. Severus had told her not to bother. Still the woman had persisted, much to his annoyance. Why couldn't they just let him die? It served the mediwitch right that both the Ministry and the Wizengamot had walked all over her objections.
He had caught glimpses of himself before his guards had taken him to stand trial. He had always been thin but now he was downright gaunt, the skin of his face so pale it was nearly translucent, stretched as it was over protruding cheekbones. His dark eyes looked devoid of their usual edge, dull and blood-shot, while his hair hang about his face in overgrown greasy strands. Beneath the high color of his customary black robe, Nagini's bite throbbed. He had a steady tremor in the affected half of his body and the cane was making him look even more as an invalid. But then life had never afforded him any dignity. Why should his death be different?
He was dragged unceremoniously before the Wizengamot then dumped just as unceremoniously on the chair in the center of the room. His head was swimming and his stomach roiled. Pain shot sharply from his neck and spread in his veins lighting fast. Every nerve he had felt as if it had just been seared with a red-hot poker. He had a moment of disorientation and fervently hoped he would not humiliate himself further by vomiting what little bile he had in his stomach. He had refused to eat that morning. What was the point? He was a dead man, anyway.
The moment he had appeared, the entire courtroom erupted with sounds that hisses around him like the voices of a thousand and more snakes. He was able to discern a word here and there. Murderer! Death Eater! Traitor! Slytherin! Justice for Dumbledore!
He saw a host of Hogwarts professors and students in one of the front rows. They all looked worried. What did they have to be worried about? They would soon get justice for their precious Dumbledore. Oh! They probably feared he would tell the truth about his role as a triple agent and receive lenience. They shouldn't be concerned. He had no intention of doing that.
Potter walked to stand by his side. Was that a blazer he was wearing over his jeans? Why so formal, albeit in Muggle clothes? He had probably come to ensure his conviction. After all, he had been an eye-witness to Dumbledore's murder. Potter began to speak and the entire place fell silent at once. Oh right, Potter was the Chosen One!
As Potter began to speak, he lifted his wand and cast a spell that projected a gauzy dome over the room. Images began to fill it almost instantly. And then Severus wished vomiting had remained the greatest embarrassment to fear that day. Potter left no stone unturned. He eviscerated Severus precisely and methodically for all to see until he stood there, stripped of skin and muscle, with his raw, bleeding insides for all to see. It was cruelest thing anyone had ever done to him. Crueler than seven years of torment from James Potter and the Marauders. Crueler than all of the Dark Love's punishments. Crueler than what Dumbledore had asked him to do, taking pound after pound of Severus' flesh until he felt like he had nothing left to give. But apparently he did and Potter was taking it away increment by increment.
His head whirled and his vision got momentarily blurry. He wanted to scream and beg. Beg for mercy and for Potter to stop. To stop exposing some of his most precious secrets and memories for all to gape at. To stop exposing him for who and what he was and had been. A terrified, lonely boy from the wrong of Cokeworth terrorized by a pack of his stronger, better looking and more esteemed classmates. An unloved man pining over a woman married to another. A spy forced to do atrocious things for both sides. Alone, hated, scorned by all, made to sink neck-deep into blood, horror and filth so that others could keep their hands clean and their souls blameless. A contemptible, pathetic creature miles away from the formidable wizard and professor he had been trying to project himself to be.
He wondered if he would be finally allowed the Kiss if he killed Potter right there and then. But he had no wand and his powers were still not restored yet for he was still too physically weak. He was shaking, the robe drenched in cold sweat at his back, his collar stifling. Surely the Wizengamot would not fall for Potter's ridiculously transparent attempt to appeal to their sentimentality and let him walk a second time. Surely there was still at least one or two cool heads among them and surely those would prevail. They had to condemn him. If he had been in their shoes, he would have done it without a second's thoughts. He had doled severe punishments for minor rules infractions committed by the students of Hogwarts. Surely these idiots had the sense not to let the Death Eater who had killed Dumbledore go free.
When Potter was finally, mercifully done and his projection dissipated into a myriad of tiny glimmers dispersing over the room, a stony silence befell them all. Severus' wandering gaze fell on Hermione Grange. Her eyes were filled with tears and a pity so cloying he really thought he would vomit now. She actually tried to smile at him. She was struggling to be reassuring, he could tell. Oh, how he wished for his wand so he could hex that impertinent Miss Know-It-All. She had no right to pity. And Potter had had no right to tell. Those were his memories! The last drop of blood shed to protect her child. The last weapon handed over for the defeat of Voldemort, a piece of his very soul, and Potter, son of his father that he was, had taken ownership of it and was misusing it. These memories, they didn't belong to Potter. They were his or at least, they had been. They were a weapon to be utilized once then holstered forever. But Potter, much like his father, only took and took and it was never enough.
That was not why I showed you all this, he wanted to shout.
But it was all for naught. He would have only humiliated himself further, if that were even possible. It was done! Potter had squeezed his heart of the last drop of blood and thrown the dried husk on the floor for the entire Wizengamot to examine.
It all happened in rapid succession after that. He was exonerated. Then Kingsley Shacklebolt stood up from the Minister's seat and recommended Severus was given the Order of Merlin, First Class, along the with the other War Heroes. Granger mouthed something he couldn't understand. He hoped she was furious at how it had all turned out. It served her right for daring to pity him. The hall started to whirl faster around him. The bite twinged. He felt a hand on his shoulder and he tried to wrench himself away. He had enough of touches at St. Mungo's. He saw no reason he should endure more, especially from Potter. Across the room from him, Granger lurched from her seat. He thought she might be screaming. What now?
"Help!… He needs him…."
The words, spoken in a high-pitched, nearly hysterical woman's voice, vibrated in his ears as if from far away before darkness finally deigned to claim him. At last!
TBC