DISCLAIMER: All Harry Potter people, places and things are the work and property of J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury, Raincoast, Scholastic, yadda yadda yadda. If anyone thinks I invented this stuff, they must have been living under a rock for the past 4 years--and in that case, why the hell are they reading HP fanfic anyway? I'm also making no profit from this, so please don't sue--all you'll get is an ancient laptop and a decidedly eclectic book collection.

A/N: And here's the man we all know and love, our surly Potions Master. My Snape Muse wouldn't let me keep him away for any longer than I have.

Thanks very much to my reviewers, though I notice no one asked what Eve is teaching; so either no one noticed that I didn't mention it or it's more obvious than I thought (I'm thinking it's the latter). :-)

Enjoy!

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Chapter 2: Prices Paid

Eve wasn't entirely certain she remembered the route to the Headmaster's office correctly, but much to her surprise she found the stone gargoyle rather quickly. As she reached the door to his office, she hesitated a moment, preparing herself, but she still had to stifle a gasp at the sight inside.

Her surprise wasn't at Snape's injuries. She'd prepared herself for those, and they couldn't be very bad if Dumbledore had sent her to deal with them, but she had forgotten to prepare herself for what else would meet her eyes. Namely, the sight of someone in Death Eater regalia sitting only five feet away.

The first thing she saw was the mask, resting on Snape's knee. The stark white face looked even more threatening with the black cloth of his robes the only thing visible through the eye holes. The long, enveloping robes, the hood, the mask...the sight of it sent a chill down her spine, but she forced herself to shrug it off and take a look at Snape himself instead.

He sat leaning against the back of the chair, his face turned away from her for the moment. There was a nasty-looking cut across the back of his right hand, the only one visible at the moment. She could see the top of his head over the back of the chair and his hair looked as unkempt and greasy as ever.

Eve stepped into the room and closed the door, the noise appearing to catch Snape's attention as he stiffened slightly and sat a little straighter. As she walked around to look at him, she saw that his face was much more drawn than she remembered, a little more heavily lined as well. His left arm was hugging his side, as though he'd hurt either his arm or his ribs, and there were a few bruises coming up on his face. A cut near the hairline appeared freshly scabbed over.

Snape's eyes were closed as she approached and so when he finally spoke, she started, not expecting it.

"Sorry I'm late, Headmaster, but I was unavoidably detained." His voice was heavily laden with sarcasm. Well, at least it sounded like the Snape she knew.

"Sorry, but I'm not the Headmaster," Eve replied, swallowing and straightening her shoulders. She was a professor now, she shouldn't be cowed by Snape, yet she still had to fight the school-child's instinctive fear of a tyrannical teacher.

His eyes snapped open, searching her face for a moment. "Berger, what on earth are you doing here?"

"Professor Dumbledore asked me to check on you and see if I could help."

"What are you doing at Hogwarts then?" he replied, with a slight note of irritation. As though it was her fault he hadn't been clear in his question.

"I'm a teacher here." Snape always managed to get her back up.

"Of what?"

A slight smile twitched at the corner of her lips but she decided not to torture him (or push her luck) by asking why he couldn't guess. "Muggle Studies."

Snape made a noise in the back of his throat which Eve decided to interpret as an expression of "should have known that."

"And why would Dumbledore ask you to help me?"

"Because I have some magical first aid training, and Madam Pomfrey isn't here. Now will you let me look at you, or would you rather I let those bruises come out?" Eve was careful not to sound testy, there would be no use in getting Snape in more of a temper than he was in already.

Snape didn't answer, but he sat back in his chair and rested his arms on the armrests, as much a sign of acquiescence as she could hope for.

Eve approached him nervously, concentrating on his injuries and trying to forget who it was sitting in front of her. The bruises were easy enough to take care of, a quick spell erasing the blue-purple cast they'd taken on, though those areas would still feel a little tender for a couple days. The cuts were a little harder. Though not bleeding freely, they were fairly deep, and while she could heal them, she wouldn't be able to remove the scars. Those would have to wait for Madam Pomfrey's return. Using a scanning spell she found that he had, indeed, broken a rib. That was another one she couldn't quite heal. First Responders weren't taught more than the simplest healing spells. It was more their job to patch holes, stabilizing injuries until a Medimagus or Healer could tend them. It was pretty much like Muggle first aid; they didn't set or cast broken bones or sew up lacerations, just tried to stop any bleeding or keep a broken limb immobile until the patient could get to hospital and be seen by a doctor.

As she was tending to Snape, his last question kept echoing in her head. Why had Dumbledore asked her to help him? Madam Pomfrey wasn't there, yes, and Dumbledore was busy. All right then. But surely there were others who knew at least as much as she did. Almost everyone at the Ministry had taken the First Responder course; it was required. Surely someone else amongst the staff could have done it. Snape probably had the right knowledge as well, though it was sometimes dangerous to do such things on oneself. Flitwick would know though, as well as others. Why had Dumbledore picked her, then?

Then again, who knew why the Headmaster did a lot of things? He was brilliant, yes, but could occasionally seem a little dotty.

"I can stabilize your rib and heal these cuts, but you'll have to see Madam Pomfrey so she can finish the healing and remove any scars," she said, her voice sounding unnaturally loud in the silence.

"No doubt she would insist upon it anyway," Snape muttered, but Eve didn't show that she'd heard, and simply continued with her work.

She had done all she could for Snape by the time Dumbledore entered, and she noticed Snape's shoulders straighten as he appeared to attempt to sit more naturally. It was as though he didn't want his injuries to be obvious to the Headmaster, though it must have been painful to sit so with his cracked rib. There's no medical cure for stupidity, though, Eve thought, though she decided not to warn Snape again about seeing Madam Pomfrey, undoing his effort at hiding his condition.

"Ah, feeling better, Severus?" Dumbledore asked as he entered, eyes twinkling ever so slightly.

"Yes, Headmaster," Snape replied somewhat tersely, Eve thought.

Eve excused herself, carefully closing the door behind her before heading back down to the staffroom. The large table had been cleared away and tea and coffee had been placed on a buffet table on one side of the room. Eve grabbed a cup of tea and a couple digestive biscuits, then headed for one of the overstuffed armchairs, seating herself carefully so she wouldn't spill her tea. Her chair wasn't in one of the conversational circles, but Eve was more than happy just to listen to the others for a while, as she mulled things over.

The teachers began to drift off to their quarters, the long day of travelling finally catching up with them. Eve decided to go to bed when she realized she'd been staring at the cold contents of her half-full teacup for at least ten minutes. She said goodnight to the other teachers, then left the staffroom. But there was one thing she wanted to do before going to bed.

Instead of heading up the staircase, instead she walked over to the double doors to the Great Hall, and pushed one open, its hinges creaking arthritically. She stepped just inside the doors, then shut the door behind her.

The hall was lit only by the blue-white moonlight that streamed in through the tall windows and the enchanted ceiling. Looking up, Eve could see the night sky outside, the billions of stars that she couldn't see in the city.

She walked into the hall, her footsteps loud in the stillness. The four long house tables were still exactly as she remembered, though they were shrouded in shadow. At the end of the hall was the teachers' table, and the large throne Dumbledore sat in. It felt eerie standing in the middle of the hall when it was so dark and quiet, seeing it without any students in it. She was so used to being there at mealtimes, when the voices of the castle's inhabitants rang off the stones.

Eve sat on one of the benches lining the Gryffindor table and tilted her head back, looking up at the stars. She was home.

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Snape didn't watch Berger leave, but waited for the click of the door latch before speaking. "I thought you usually informed the staff of new hires?" he asked, idly.

"I did. You missed that meeting, I believe," Dumbledore said gently. Snape cast his mind back, trying to remember. When on earth had he missed a staff--ah. Early July. Dumbledore gave a slight nod, obviously seeing the change in Snape's expression, and continued on. "Was there a meeting tonight?"

Snape nodded. "At least half were there, I think. It was in a ruins this time. A monastery, judging from the shape. There were no built pathways around it, though, so I don't think it's one open to the public. Or rather, not a large touristy place."

"Do you remember any details? Would you recognize it?"

"I'd probably recognize it if I saw it. But I couldn't give much of a description."

"This sounds like the first time he's used this meeting place."

"It seemed vaguely familiar--possibly he used it in the last war. But it was the first time since his resurrection, yes. So he'll likely use it again."

Dumbledore nodded slowly. "Do you remember anything that was discussed?"

"Little that is useful. I'm certain now that he does have a contact in the Ministry, they're a relatively recent convert and someone in a fairly prominent place. I don't think they've been to a meeting yet, though. Or if they have, he's never pointed them out, even just by intimating that the person responsible for...July 5th...is on site."

Dumbledore was watching him with that almost searching gaze, and Snape instantly threw up his mental defences. The Headmaster would not usually use Legilimency on him without asking first, but there were times when Snape had the feeling Dumbledore was doing it because he knew Snape would refuse. Or perhaps it was just him being a paranoid git.

"Is there anything else you want to tell me?" Dumbledore asked, watching him carefully.

Snape shook his head. Dumbledore always used that as an opening, in case Snape felt like talking about a mission he'd been sent on. It was enough of a prod to make Snape not feel like he was whining, or couldn't handle whatever he'd done, but not a direct enough question to sound like prying. If Snape didn't want to talk (which he often didn't) he didn't have to. The option was always there, however.

"All right. Do you want anything to eat? Dinner has ended but I can ask the house elves to send you something."

"No. When is the formal dinner?"

"Friday, Madam Pomfrey will be back on Sunday, and Professor Flitwick will be back on Thursday." Dumbledore stressed Madam Pomfrey's name particularly.

Snape tried not to roll his eyes at the Headmaster's less-than-subtle reminder to see her for his injuries, and concentrated on standing from his chair without moving awkwardly or betraying how much it hurt. It was obvious Dumbledore knew, anyway, but he still had his pride.

He made his way down to the dungeons as quickly as he could, gasping for breath by the time he reached them. Pain radiated all through his left side, with sharp stabs of it whenever he breathed too deeply. Gingerly he took off his Death Eater robes and stuffed them in the back of his wardrobe, then pulled on a nightshirt before lying down on his bed. He still needed to take something for the pain, but just wanted a couple minutes of rest first, just to get his breath back. Besides, there wasn't any chance of him sleeping with the pain in his side, or the pounding in his head. Carefully running his fingers through his hair, he could feel a goose egg on the back of his head. He hadn't told Berger about it, as she didn't need to know.

Just his luck he'd been the one standing in the front room doorway, when it was McNair who should have known about the man elsewhere in the house. He was the one that had been watching, after all. But McNair had screwed up--had thought the woman was the only one in the house. Neither of them had known any different until Snape had felt something whack him in the left side, followed quickly by a blow to the back of the head which made stars burst in front of his eyes. He wasn't sure whether he'd actually lost consciousness or whether the concussion had just erased his memory of what had happened after that, but the next thing he knew McNair was helping him up and there was a man lying dead on the floor inside the room, a cricket bat lying nearby. McNair had cast the Dark Mark and had waited for Snape to Disapparate first.

The reminder of earlier events wasn't helping his headache any. God, he hoped Dumbledore hadn't been poking around in his brain. He still felt like such a bloody idiot about that incident in July, or rather, how he'd reacted to it. Obviously Dumbledore still remembered it clearly.

Based on information from the new Ministry informant, two of the Death Eaters had been able to kidnap one of the high-ranking witches in the Department of Mysteries, as well as her children. "For leverage," one of the Death Eaters had chuckled darkly, as he'd dragged two little boys into the forest clearing where they were meeting. Her interrogation had been as revolting as it was useless. She didn't know what the Dark Lord had wanted to find out, and eventually he'd had her and her sons killed, only after hours of torture. Snape had blocked the details out--consciously or unconsciously, he wasn't sure--but could still remember their screams. Still see the romper pyjamas on the one, the kind with the feet in. And remembered being violently ill when he'd returned early the next morning. The Dark Lord didn't often do such things so publicly, wary of any of his followers knowing too much, so it wasn't often Snape had to watch such torture while pretending to enjoy it. His nerves had been completely shot from what he'd seen as well as trying not to reveal his true feelings. He'd gone straight to his rooms, sending a message to Dumbledore in a very shaky hand, then paced his room restlessly.

Why didn't I wait to send the note, or at least take a Nerve Calming Draught beforehand? Snape thought, still mentally kicking himself. But no, he'd forgotten to take any precaution, and so he'd practically been a basket case when Dumbledore had arrived moments later. He hadn't stopped pacing as he'd told Dumbledore everything that had happened, obviously on edge, his hands shaking slightly.

Worst of all, he'd voiced the thought that lurked at the back of his mind in those worst moments. "I can't do this anymore, I can't," he'd said, in a low voice, almost to himself.

But he hadn't just said it to himself. Dumbledore had heard, and that made the whole situation even more embarrassing to think of in the days, weeks, months afterward.

Dumbledore had looked at him with a slight expression of sympathy on his face, saying calmly, "I will not force you to do this, Severus, if you feel you cannot any more. I will not pretend that your assistance in this way is not extremely useful and being deprived of this source of information would not help our efforts any. But far better that we lose a spy and retain a Potions Master than to lose both if the strain became too much."

Snape hadn't replied, and had offered no resistance when Dumbledore has suggested he get some rest, fetching him a Dreamless Sleep Draught first. Snape had slept well into the next day, and it was only when he woke and remembered the night before that he realized what he'd said--what Dumbledore had said--and had felt like bashing his head against the wall with his own stupidity.

It had been a moment's madness, brought on by an unusual amount of stress. He was certain he could handle his role, had told Dumbledore so, but there was that facial expression Dumbledore had had a few times since, one of concern and pity. The expression that Snape hated the most. It really was unbelievably annoying, particularly as he knew he had only himself to blame. He had let his guard down for an instant, and had been paying for it since. He could handle being a spy. He could see all manner of atrocities and cope without giving away any emotion whatsoever. There were just some things that even he could never get used to, no matter how many times he saw them. The kind of things which haunted him some nights, which nibbled away at the soul.

Snape shook off the thought; he was getting disgustingly maudlin. The pain in his head and side had abated somewhat, and so he slowly manoeuvred himself off his bed and shoved his feet into slippers before padding over to his office door. There, he headed for the locked cupboard where he kept his more potent ingredients and potions.

A red bottle sat beside a goblet on the table next to the cupboard, and as he spotted it Snape could feel the taste of bile at the back of his mouth. The mere sight of the bottle make his stomach turn, for more than one reason.

Brilliant move, leaving a borderline-legal potion out in full view. Pull yourself together, for God's sake! he thought, unlocking his cupboard. Picking up the crimson bottle, he watched the dark liquid slosh around inside it for a moment, one finger picking at the corner where the label was beginning to peel off.

The Superego Potion.

He really would have to be more careful about putting it away; if anyone broke into his office and saw it, or worse yet, stole it... While it wasn't the sort of potion that would automatically get him thrown in Azkaban, it was a decidedly suspicious thing to have lying around.

Suppressing what Freud called the "superego", the little voices in your head that governed right and wrong, it allowed--or forced--the drinker to do the kinds of things which would give any sane person nightmares. It was the only way someone like him could survive, someone who had to use the Unforgivables. The ones where you had to want to hurt--or kill--and had to enjoy it.

It was Dumbledore who had first suggested it, back when he had first come to the Headmaster and accepted the role of spy for the Order. Had he gone on a mission after that change of heart, everyone would know it the instant he went to do an unforgivable, and if he'd refused or tried to weasel out, the suspicion would have killed him just as quickly. The only way to stay a spy was to find a way to do the things any other Death Eater did without hesitation.

It could be fine tuned of course; it had to be. The ratio was simple enough. Measured in units of 100ml, a 1:0 potion-to-water ratio created a psychopathic state. Completely unable to control one's actions, the darkest, most twisted parts of one's mind were let loose, ready to do anything to anyone. It was this which made the potion a controlled substance.

1:1 was little better. It offered slight control of one's actions but still no argument from one's conscience. It allowed for planning and delay but no choice between doing something or not doing it.

The Dark Lord's favourite ratio to use was 1:2. Like the Imperius curse, it forced the drinker to do whatever evil things came to mind or were ordered, but unlike its spell equivalent, did not turn someone into an automaton. Imperio was too easy, creating a blissful unconcern in the victim which was, to the Dark Lord and his followers, rather unsatisfying. With the potion, enough of the conscience was let through to force the victim to hear in the back of their mind that little voice screaming that what they were doing was wrong, but they could not disobey orders. The torture was not only afterward, when they saw what they had done, but as they committed unspeakable acts on their loved ones, unable to stop themselves.

1:3 was the preferred ratio for Snape's uses. It gave him enough desire and subconscious enjoyment of the spells to allow him to perform them when necessary, but let enough of his conscience to come through to try and find some other way of dealing with the situation. It also helped block Legilimency, though he still had to be on his guard when the Dark Lord was near. But it also allowed his conscience to speak, and so every action he made was with the running commentary of This is wrong, you shouldn't be doing this, how can you live with yourself...? running through his brain. And there was no reprieve when the potion wore off. Everything one did under its influence was recorded in memory, including the sadistic aspects of one's actions, which, despite what most people probably thought, he took no actual pleasure in. Far from it. Then again, he never got to give an Unforgiveable to someone he'd enjoy hurting. There was no welcome oblivion waiting for him, except, when he was lucky, in sleep.

He stuffed the bottle in the back of his cupboard, feeling the taste of bile at the back of his mouth. The end of the potion's effects was always heralded by violent retching, though he was never certain whether it was the potion that caused that reaction or the full return of conscience and revulsion at the actions performed under the potion's influence. Lucky for him he usually Apparated to somewhere near the edge of the Forbidden Forest or along the road leading to Hogwarts, and there was always a convenient bush or tree nearby.

Measuring out the dose of pain remedy into a conjured goblet, he locked his cabinet once more and shuffled back to bed, his rib complaining as he crawled under the covers. Closing his eyes, he tried to block the memories of what he'd seen, the things that kept coming back to him, particularly tonight, when Dumbledore had reminded him of the incident in July. The things he'd done under the influence of that bloody potion.

...The delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses...[1]

Somehow it was worse when you knew what you were in for, with that potion.

Not for the first time, the question crossed his mind what he would do when it was all over, when, if, the Dark Lord was defeated. If the Dark Lord won, well, there would be no end of course. He'd just stay as he was, a spy, a traitor, living on a tightrope, trying not to take one false step, which eventually he would. That wasn't the outcome that he wondered about.

But how on earth would he live in a peace?

He'd never believed Voldemort was really gone, had had the shadow of the Dark Mark on his arm during those fourteen years to make him doubt that Voldemort had ever really gone away. So he'd never considered how he'd cope, or what he'd do when his duty was finished.

But if Voldemort was defeated, never to return...what would he do then? How could he have an ordinary life, for the next hundred and ten years, with the sort of memories that bounced around his head?

Snape turned onto his right side, punching his pillow and shaking off the thought. Enough foolishness. Odds were he wouldn't live to see peace anyway. Not that he had some sort of death wish, but he'd long ago faced facts; he was playing a very dangerous game, one that he was bound to lose sooner or later. The only thing that mattered was getting as much information as possible while he still could. No sense in thinking about afterward at this point. He'd deal with that problem when it actually faced him.

With a wave of his wand, he extinguished the lights in his room, laid his head on his pillow, and settled into sleep.

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[1] From HP and the Philosopher's Stone, "The Potions Master". Like we don't know that speech off by heart? :-)