A Oneshot: Distorted Reflections
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter world belongs to J. K. Rowling.
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One would think memories faded and feelings dissolved after being left alone for so long.
But just when he thought nothing could ever disturb his sleep again, a tone of voice, a scent, an object in view would bring everything back in a second. To retain his sanity, he swallowed up that memory, determined not to let it have an effect on his daily life beyond the subconscious. And only for the second in which the memory surfaced was there evidence of a disturbance in his normal thought train: his black eyes might flash mixed feeling, the upper lip might twitch in annoyance, or his eyebrows lower. These nuances were evident only to him; no one else knew to look for them, as they only added to his usual menacing appearance.
Severus Snape stood over a cauldron, black robes slightly billowing near the floor. Fading memories are a cruel myth, he thought, scrutinizing the murky jar in his hand. Damn. I have to throw this out. He threw the jar over his shoulder and it flew with a smash into a large metal drum shoved up against the dungeon's stone wall.
If only memories could be handled so easily. If only they could be tossed into a metal drum and thrown out when their aftertaste became bitter and ugly in one's mouth.
But the mind had an uncanny way of keeping the most unwanted memories fresh and alive. Another reality of life, thought the Potions Master as he moved across the room. It was the way things worked; just another uncomfortable fact of life that human beings had to deal with daily. Flies never went away; one merely swatted them to temporarily relieve the annoyance.
Snape grabbed another vial from his shelves and walked briskly back to the cauldron. He glared at this one, saw no defects in the solution within, and in a fluid movement uncorked the vial and measured some of the contents into the cauldron. Whispering an incantation, the solution mixed in with the rest of the cauldron's contents on its own accord. The professor took note of the time, washed his hands thoroughly, and left the potion stewing as he went into an adjacent room for a cold drink.
His living room doubled as his study. Dull stone walls kept the air cool and dry. Two chairs, upholstered in dark brown suede, sat in front of a fire in one corner. Bookshelves lined one wall, containing books on potions and a few ancient dissertations on subjects of taboo in the wizarding world. The small fire danced shadows around the room while a dim ball of white light floating near the ceiling in the center kept the rest of the room slightly lit.
He took a moment to mix the drink, then sat down in one of the chairs, leaning toward the fire, his elbows on his legs. He kept the green goblet in both hands and studied the fire intensely.
One memory continued to haunt him, despite his continual search to find a rationale that would keep the memory in logic-constrained hibernation.
He allowed the memory to come, feeling the regret and bitterness it always conjured. The Shrieking Shack… pointing his wand at Sirius Black, ready to kill him at the slightest move. His accustomed cool demeanor didn't hide the loathing he had for the Secret Keeper's childhood idiocy and the betrayal of Lily and James. The audacity of the worm to presume innocence of the murders and convince the child of his victims that he had no part in the two aurors' deaths!
The news of Potter's parents' death had hit him as it had hit the rest of the wizarding population. He merely chose not to wail like a fool. He felt revulsion at the thought of James and the Marauders, but far more revulsion toward any of Voldemort's nefarious murders. The Potions Master hadn't lost all of his heart in the service of the Dark Lord.
Back in that Shrieking Shack, he was as equally angry at young Potter for wanting to defend Black, his parents' betrayer. He was certain Potter was not in his right mind. Of course, Potter never was in his right mind with his celebrity status, but that night he dared to defy a professor in his arrogance.
Of course, in the end, Harry Potter was right.
So Sirius' near-death experience at the Potion Masters' hands was added to the killing Snape had done under Voldemort's service.
And then those memories wanted to force themselves into his mind: memories of screams as Avada Kedavra was pronounced, memories of pleading victims' eyes…
He forced these away. He had changed from the killer he was.
Have you? wondered his conscious.
Yes, of course he had. He could not change what happened in the past, but was quite capable of controlling himself presently.
So why were you so ready to kill Sirius? asked the same voice.
There is an obvious rationale for that one, he explained to himself, coolly. Anyone in his position in the Shrieking Shack would have done the same if confronted with Black and the escapee's power over three of Hogwarts' inexperienced students.
Anyone? queried that annoying pest of a conscious.
Snape rose, putting the untouched drink on the table beside his chair. Hurriedly, purposefully blanking his mind, he walked into the other room. Glancing at the potion, he took his wand from his robes and waved the heat in the potion away. He spooned a dose into a vial and placed it on the table next to him. The rest of the potion he disposed of with another wave of his wand.
Another year at Hogwarts would begin tomorrow. Voldemort's power had risen to astronomical proportions, according to Sybill Trelawney, but no one needed her divinations to know the Dark Lord was back and powerfully so, especially Severus Snape. He had felt the burning call weekly this summer and had to pretend loyalty to Voldemort too many times for his liking. It reminded him of the old days, days he had almost forgotten as Potions Master at Hogwarts.
Screams, wide eyes, green light, bodies…
He glared at the vial on the table and shivered involuntarily. Turning on his heel, he returned to the brown chair beside the fire and downed the contents of the goblet. Then he stared into the empty glass, versions of himself on a green background staring back.
Where was he in his brooding?
Sirius Black, whispered his conscious. The innocent man you almost killed.
But of course, thought Snape bitterly.
That Black had come close to breathing his last breath in that Shrieking Shack was beside the point. He hadn't. But he died anyway—died a hero's death, in the throes of battle.
And of course Black had tried to kill him in the Shrieking Shack, many years earlier. It only seems fair that the favor was returned. Between them, feelings were mutual. At least, they had been.
Severus Snape stared even harder into the green glass…
The minor guilt he had felt about Sirius' near-death experience at his hands was rationally explained away then.
So many more, though… So many… How could he tack rational explanations to the deaths of his victims as a Death Eater?
You can't, said that voice.
The Potions Master stood, cleaning the goblet and placing it back into his cabinets with a few simple spells. He whispered the fire away, not wanting to be disturbed by Floo-exploiting idiots, and turned the white ball of light into a dark sphere with a point of his wand. Walking through the darkness, he entered his laboratory and dimmed the ball of light in there to a point where he could hardly see the vial sitting on the table.
He grabbed a stool sitting in a corner, plunked it in front of the table, and now looked at the potion. His reflection in the light green liquid was uncannily a dark twin of what he saw in the green goblet.
Too much deliberation at one time had to be bad for a man's psyche.
So stop deliberating already, he told himself.
But he couldn't stop. He had to know before he drank the contents of the vial if there was any way he could rationally explain his continuing existence.
He already knew the death toll his existence had forced upon the wizarding and Muggle populations, and none could be excused.
Had he saved any lives? Only a few as a spy for the Order of the Phoenix, he thought bitterly. Those few weren't enough. And how many would ever be enough? Was it worth living through his own torment at the Dark Lord's hands? Was it worth being continually reminded of the past?
A knock sounded heavily upon his chambers' front door, the sound magically magnified.
Only one man would have the audacity: Dumbledore.
Snape grumbled and walked through his study to open the door.
"What is it, Headmaster?" spat out the Potions Master, his black eyes dull.
Dumbledore's crystal blue eyes gazed at Snape from behind his half-moon glasses and disapproved of what he saw. This disapproval wasn't at all unusual, for the Headmaster had many a bone to pick with a professor who didn't treat his students civilly, but for once he disapproved of something else.
The Potion Master's appearance had degraded, if that was at all possible. It betrayed the condition of his soul, and Dumbledore had a problem with his professors breaking down right before the Sorting Hat Ceremony.
"Severus, the first years are crossing the lake. I expect you to be there next to me when they arrive."
The Potion Master mumbled under his breath noncommittally, but a light had entered the darkness of his eyes and Dumbledore knew he would see Snape there, as on time and cynical as usual.
"Good day, Severus."
Snape closed the door and growled at it. Damn Dumbledore, always showing up at the most inconvenient of moments.
Again entering his laboratory, he threw a characteristic glare at the vial, and it was miraculous the contents didn't turn to stone under such disapproval. Then, before the temptation could sweeten, he pulled his wand out and waved the potion away. Just to be sure, he threw the vial into that metal drum and listened for a satisfying smash. He was disappointed; that particular vial was annoying strong.
A quick shower and change of robes left him only half as greasy as before, but thoroughly clean, and he made his way to the Great Hall.
The first years had yet to arrive, but the rest of the students were present, sitting at their respective House tables and chatting up an annoying ruckus. He nodded, straight-faced, at the Slytherin table and some had the courage to grin in response. He could tolerate it from the Slytherin House, he supposed; it made them more humane than the rest of the students would admit. But it still grated on his nerves.
So to relieve the tension, he glared at the Gryffindor table. A few students jumped, but not Potter. The-Boy-Who-Lived hadn't even seen the glare. Well, this was his sixth year here. The Potions Master had to put up with Harry Potter and his fanclub for only two more years.
Fuming, he took his accustomed place beside the Headmaster.
Dumbledore didn't waste any time in greeting him of course. The wizard was too nice for his own good, but he could get away with it.
"Good evening, Severus!"
"I would agree if children were not present, Headmaster," replied Snape acidly, scanning the tables before them and, to his satisfaction, getting at least one glare at Potter in that the boy saw.
Dumbledore chuckled. "Well, I believe your displeasure is about to increase."
The first years walked in, looking irritatingly nervous.
Students, whispered the voice. The students are why…
Yes, he interrupted. Now shut up.
~Finis~