The Other Side Of The Dark: Chapter 29

Moody stared at Snape as he lay in a restless sleep. The Pensieve had told him almost everything he wanted to know, and there was nothing else to be had. Anything else – like, how did Snape decide the Lestranges and Barty Crouch were guilty – would have to wait until Snape got his memories back and recovered enough to answer questions.

Moody considered the issue. Now his back was repaired, Snape was in much better shape than he had been. Blood pressure still a bit on the low side, but no longer dangerously so; and his heart was surprisingly strong. He came to a decision, and got out his wand.

'Enervate.'

Snape awoke with a start. Moody grabbed his wrist and checked the pulse. Yes, everything fine.

'Okay,' he growled quietly. 'I've finished with your Pensieve. I'm going to give you back all your memories, so brace yourself.'

Snape lay there looking apprehensive as Moody stumped over to the table. He checked his pocket for a vial of valerian, just in case the shock was too much, then picked up the Pensieve. He turned round and moved to the foot of the bed.

'Ready?' he asked.

Snape nodded.

Moody turned the Pensieve over. The contents swirled out in a fine mist, curling and twisting like smoke, then surged up the bed towards their owner. Snape's body stiffened as the silver fog engulfed his head, and Moody watched both hands clench on the bedclothes. He found himself drawn to the ghost hand, those long thin fingers ending in that impressive array of fingernails, currently sunk into the surface of the bed. And he'd thought they were mere vanity! In his head he replayed the moment when those talons had suddenly grown from the end of Snape's fingers and wondered how he'd done it. No normal human could do that – and physically, Snape was a normal human.

A normal human gasping with shock as if someone had just poured icy water over him. Snape lay wide-eyed and completely conscious, panting at the ceiling as the last of his memories returned to the inside of his head. Moody went over and peered into his patient's eyes, finally giving a grunt of satisfaction.

'Right,' he said. 'I'm going to see what the others are doing down in the kitchen. Then I'll be back. There are still questions I want to ask you, so use the time to get your head straight.'

Moody closed the bedroom door quietly, and glanced down with his magical eye. Two floors below him was the cavernous kitchen, and he could see a small group of people sitting around the end of the table. Kingsley Shacklebolt was talking animatedly, occasionally jabbing his forefinger at various sheets of parchment laid out in front of him. Dumbledore, Minerva, Tonks and Lupin sat in apparent silence, paying him their utmost attention. And in the corner, unnoticed… was a strange area of displacement.

Moody frowned, and concentrated his magical eye. The edges of the walls didn't quite match up properly. It was as if he was seeing that small section of the room through a block of glass.

He looked up and let his eye spin three hundred and sixty degrees. Snape lay in bed with his good hand over his face, shoulders shaking… Phineas Nigellus had suddenly reappeared in his frame… in the corner, inside the wardrobe, was the house-elf, back to normal and looking indecisive… through the wall, into Potter's room… no one there.

Moody drew himself up, stumped quickly along the corridor and shoved open the door of Harry's room. It was empty except for the owl dozing on top of the wardrobe; books and parchment were strewn across an un-made bed. Moody rummaged through the mess. A book in a foreign language was open, a mirror-like object carelessly lying across the two pages. In a glance, Moody was able to see that the device could render the pages readable in English, and that the pages in question told the reader … how to become invisible.

He took a moment to read down the page, then flicked through a few more. His normal eye narrowed in anger. Then it fell on the buckled roll of parchment, yellowing with age... and Moody gave an exclamation as he recognised his own report. He grabbed together all the pages, rolling them loosely before shoving them into his pocket. Then he picked up the huge old book and the translation device, and stormed back into Snape's room.

Severus pulled himself together with an effort. The blurry voids in his mind were closing as the missing memories untangled themselves and sank back into his consciousness. The shock was subsiding, and the iron bar of his self-control was rising through the confusion, something solid, a compass in the dark.

He skimmed through them all, images flashing past his mind's eye as he reviewed all that he had allowed Moody to discover. Dobby had done well in exacting that promise out of the silly old fool. He knew perfectly well that Moody would never let him go, however innocent he might be: so far as Moody was concerned, he was an irredeemably dark wizard and always would be.

But now Moody would have no choice. He had made a binding contract, with a magical creature vastly more powerful than himself, that he would let Snape go in exchange for everything in the Pensieve. The corner of Severus' thin mouth twitched into a manic, lopsided grin. So the stupid old man still had questions, did he? Well he was going to find himself unlucky!

Severus concentrated. The walls of number twelve, Grimmauld Place faded until they were visible only as pale outlines, a three-dimensional sketch of a building. Beyond them, the wards Dumbledore had placed on the house revealed themselves to him as a fine mesh of golden threads, laced around and through the substance of the walls, floors and ceilings, from the lowest foundations to the chimneys on the roof.

And there were the extra wards created by Alastor Moody. Thick, unsubtle black lines in a honeycomb pattern, knitted into the gold on the exterior wall, enclosing the room in a box-shaped cage. Severus focused harder, visualising his hand pushing against those black lines. They resisted, then began to buckle outwards. Almost there!

There was a crash as the bedroom door flew open. The sudden noise broke Severus' concentration, and he cried out as the wards suddenly snapped back. He blinked rapidly, trying to restore his normal vision. Then the ugly, scarred face of the old Auror was inches from his, the magical eye spinning madly, the normal one sharp and narrow with fury.

'What the hell were you thinking, giving that boy a book like this?' Moody thundered.

Severus shrank back into the pillow in one involuntary movement, and was immediately angry with himself for the automatic fear reaction. He responded with an icy glare.

'Who I choose to give my things to is no concern of yours,' he replied insolently.

Moody glowered. Then he shoved his large, rough hands under Severus' armpits and hauled him upright, roughly propping him into a sitting position against the headboard. Severus recoiled violently at his touch, but the old man was bigger than him, and much stronger.

'I've just seen what's in that book,' the old man growled. 'And I've seen some of it in practice in your memories. Okay, I'll admit you weren't there when Alice and Frank were attacked, but it makes you no less responsible, and no less a monster!'

Moody let him go, and Severus sagged against the wall, trembling. He struggled for composure and tried to speak; but the words wouldn't come out. Moody wasn't listening anyway.

'That young boy, with his connection to the Dark Lord, is currently down in the kitchen, listening to things he shouldn't, thanks to what's in that book you've given him,' he stormed.

The colour was rising in Severus' face, fury burning in his eyes. 'I have given him a book which tells him how to control his mind!' he raged back. 'I performed a dangerous spell to keep the Dark Lord out of his head! And I risked my very soul to save him from Dementors, after he had gone off on his own, when you lot had no idea where he was!'

Moody scowled. Severus leaned forward, resting his good hand on the bed, the anger forcing his breath out in sharp gasps. 'You think I'm a monster? he panted. 'Frank is dead because of you! How long did you wait before coming to find them? Your precious bloody alarms! Alice said you'd come! She believed in you, and you… you…'

His voice trailed off. Moody was watching him with narrowed eye, grim-faced but suddenly no longer angry; waiting. Severus swallowed, regaining his breath before continuing.

'She said there was someone else in their department,' he whispered, not taking his eyes off Moody's face. 'Going back a long way. And then they were attacked. Frank, somewhere far from home. They knew exactly where to find him.' Tears suddenly filled Severus' eyes; he couldn't stop them. 'He wouldn't break, so they brought him back and tortured his wife in front of him. But neither of them gave in. They endured unimaginable agony, and lost their minds… but they didn't give me up.' He began to sob, and the words were almost unintelligible. 'You sold them out. It was you… it was you…'

Moody watched him break down, and said nothing. Then he gave a grim sigh and came to sit on the edge of his bed, facing Snape's shuddering form.

'I don't know why my alarms didn't work,' he said distantly, his temper suddenly gone. 'I've never been able to work out why. I thought they went off too late – well, obviously they did. But what ultimately set them off was you and that obscene piece of dark magic. Not that I'm saying I wouldn't have done the same, in your place. But if you hadn't got there and done what you did, the alarms wouldn't have gone off at all.'

He another sigh, bitter and heavy. 'Not unreasonable, the suggestion that it was me who set them up,' he mused. 'Wonder if anyone else thought of that? Except I didn't know where Frank was that day. He'd risen through the ranks a bit since the time I brought him with me to Malfoy Manor. He no longer had to clear things through me. So, who knew where he was going that day?'

He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and threw it to Snape, who was starting to recover.

'Get a grip on yourself, I want to ask you a few questions. Then, if I like the answers, you can go.'

Snape, his face flushed and wet, glared round at Moody. 'No! You made a bargain: my freedom for the Pensieve. We kept our half of the deal – you keep yours. Or face the consequences!'

Moody gave him a thin smile, his normal eye glinting nastily.

'Go on, then,' he said. 'Leave, if you think it's as simple as all that. After all, you're quite right: I got the Pensieve, and I agreed to release the wards if it answered all my questions.'

A wild look had entered Snape's eyes.

'So, the wards should have already gone. Off you go, then!'

Snape gazed at him, then around at the room. Moody waited. Snape remained where he was.

'Now,' Moody growled quietly. 'There are a number of possible reasons why the bargain hasn't worked out the way you planned. My bet is that when your elf friend gave me my options, all he was thinking about was saving your life. But, coincidentally, that was my foremost concern as well. After all, you can't stand trial if you're dead. And that would mean that essential to the agreement is the proviso that you live. And if I believe – genuinely believe – that letting you go will lead to your death… the contract itself will help to bind you.

'Which brings you right back to the situation of waiting upon my good graces for your release.'

Snape looked as if he was about to cry again.

Moody shifted into a more comfortable position.

'Let's start with a few details regarding what you remember of the attack on Alice and Frank. What brought you to their house at that time?'

Snape leaned back against the wall, staring into space. 'You didn't watch everything in there, did you?' he said in a small, lost voice. 'Maybe that's why it hasn't worked.'

'Just answer me, Snape.'

Snape bit his lip. 'I gave Alice a necklace,' he whispered. 'A pendant in gold and red; Gryffindor colours. I made the whole thing, even the gold itself from ore, the glass from sand on the beach outside my father's house. Instead of a stone, I set a vial containing four drops of my blood.'

'Four?'

'One more than I give the demon.' Moody watched Snape's gaunt profile as he gave a shuddering sigh, and continued. 'I told her if she was ever in trouble, all she would have to do is hold the vial and think of me, and I would know, and would come to her.

'She wasn't wearing it when the Death Eaters came. They destroyed her because of me, and there was nothing I could do. Afterwards they left her and Frank for dead. After they had gone, Neville came out of his hiding place and put the pendant in his mother's hand.'

Snape closed his eyes, swallowing hard. 'He was there when I gave it to her. Who would think a child that age would understand so much?'

There was a long silence. Moody wondered if that part about the necklace had been in the Pensieve at all; yet, thinking of all the things that had been there…

'All those memories of you and Alice together,' he said. 'Why did you remove those? If you really loved her, I'd have thought you'd have wanted to hang on to them in the event of a Dementor attack.'

Snape raised a trembling hand to his face, saying nothing. Tears crawled from the corners of his eyes to fall in a hot stream, and he turned away.

Moody watched him grimly. 'You couldn't bear to think of anything relating to her because you'd lost her forever. Yes?'

Snape nodded silently, clutching his face.

'And you had nothing to do with that attack?'

Snape made a croaky noise which Moody interpreted as "no".

'So how did you know the Lestranges and Crouch were involved?'

Snape sucked back his grief, momentarily hiding his face in the handkerchief. When he spoke, his voice was stronger.

'Neville saw it all. I looked into his mind and saw everything.'

Moody remembered the screaming child he had taken to St. Mungo's. They said they had needed to use some major memory charms on him to help him block out the memory of his parents' destruction. If only someone had been able to see what the child had seen! But the healers had told him there were signs the little boy's mind was already starting to repress large sections by the time he'd arrived.

That memory would have exonerated Snape and fingered the Lestranges, Crouch… and Lovelock.

'Professor Lovelock… that was a teacher from Hogwarts, was it?'

Snape nodded, red-eyed but calm once more. 'He taught Defence Against The Dark Arts. I never knew he was a Death Eater until I saw him there.'

Moody nodded thoughtfully. 'That spell you did which killed him… that was the full version of the thing that almost got you expelled in your first year, wasn't it?'

Snape nodded, his eyes suddenly guarded. Moody regarded him for a moment. The question on his mind wasn't entirely relevant, but… he had to know.

'Why did your father teach it to you, and at such a young age? I think it's one of the most vile pieces of magic I've ever encountered.'

'He didn't teach me it,' Snape whispered, no longer meeting Moody's gaze. 'I learned it by myself. He taught to read when I was very young, and I had a free run of all his libraries. He encouraged me to learn as much as I could, and I … I did.'

Moody sighed and gazed towards the window. Snape waited. 'Is that it? Is that all you wanted to know?'

Moody turned back and studied him beadily. What a mess. Skin and bone, clumsily shaved head, eyes pitted and staring in that battered, haggard face.

'No,' he replied. 'Why did you do yourself so much damage?'

'That is none of your business!' Snape retorted, suddenly animate. Moody smiled inwardly; he had touched a nerve. 'If there's nothing more about Alice and Frank –'

'You can go when I say, and not before; and if you want to go at all, you'll answer any question I put to you. If you're finding it difficult, I've got some veritaserum which should help.'

Snape gave him the most conflicted look he'd ever received from a suspect under questioning; he was momentarily reminded of Lupin the day before. Moody smiled to himself again. You want to tell me, don't you? Maybe we don't need potions, just a bit of direction.

'What did you use? It reminded me of some sort of whip, several fronds, with maybe glass or bone plaited in to it. And you look as if you've been starving yourself for months. You really wanted to hurt yourself, didn't you?'

Snape glowered. Moody held the glare for a moment before continuing.

'There was some mention that you were in the middle of something when you rushed off to save young Potter from Dementors. And the wounds were fresh. What were you up to that meant almost killing yourself?

'If I let you go, you'll be going straight back to it, won't you? All my hard work wasted. And next time you might actually die. Before, I wanted you to live to face charges from the Ministry. I'm not entirely convinced that wouldn't still be a viable plan. But now I find out there's this thing about a demon you have to maintain. So I have to let you go. But if you die…?'

'I won't die,' breathed Snape. 'You don't understand what I'm doing –'

'So explain it.'

Snape seemed to be searching for the words, and when they came they were jerky and awkward, as if the effort was costing him a great deal.

'My first sacrifice came after I'd left the Dark Lord. I take the blood from my left hand – the same side as the heart. The same side as the Dark Mark. The demon… said my blood wasn't as pure as my father's. That I was a murderer and I… I belonged to him, and that through me he would be able to get back into the mortal world. The wound took weeks to heal.'

A desperation had crept into Snape's eyes and voice. 'I began hunting through my father's libraries for something to fix the damage I'd done. Then, a year ago, I found something I had been working on a long time ago; before my father died.'

'How did your father die?' Moody broke in, unable to restrain himself.

Snape stared at the bedclothes. 'Old age,' he mumbled. 'He was almost five hundred years old. He said he only lived as long as he did because he had to teach me what to do.'

There was a long silence. 'So, what was it you found, then?' Moody prompted.

Snape looked up under his brows, and for the first time Moody could see something more than the hooked nose to remind him of Anzori Snape. A slight slanting to eyes which were set more deeply than was at first apparent. Snape's black eyes glittered at him.

'Sacrifice has been made for over four thousand years,' he whispered. 'A contract sealed in blood, passed down an unbroken line; a never-ending curse upon the eldest son. But I thought I found a way out.

'We lived in England for a while. Father bought a house in the North of England, and we stayed there during the Christmas and Easter holidays, returning home for the summer break. There was an old church in the nearby town, next to the ruin of an abbey, high on a cliff. I used to go there, when I could.'

'Searching for the eye of God…' Moody growled.

Snape gave him a hard, bitter look. 'Do you think that funny?'

'Do you see me laughing?'

Snape looked away, folding his arms across his sunken chest, and stared back at down at his blanket.

'I believe that if I atone for the things I did, that God will give me the power to send the demon all the way back to hell,' he said flatly. 'No more sacrifices.'

Moody nodded, his expression grim and angry. 'You really believe that, do you?'

Snape said nothing.

'Your dad would have thought like that, wouldn't he?'

Snape closed his eyes. The ghost of his hand tightened on his arm, sinking into it.

'He was hard on you, wasn't he? Few words of praise, and a sound thrashing every time you stepped out of line.'

A dark flush rose in Snape's face, but he remained silent.

'Believe it or not, I am familiar with the belief system you claim led you to inflict these lethal wounds on yourself. It's a theme in many religions. Physical pain, material deprivation, "punishments" – to bring purity and redemption. Except they don't, Snape. They cleanse guilty consciences, but they don't change a damn thing, no matter how much you inflict on yourself in penance. You're as guilty when you finish as you are when you start.

'And deep down, I think you know that. That's why your digestive system has practically shut down: you've starved yourself so long, your gut is ready to start eating itself. It's why you almost bled to death on the moor, why I've had to pour vitalis potion into you eight times a day.

'Because it doesn't matter how much food you deprive yourself of, or how hard you hit yourself and what with: it's not enough. Nothing can take away the things you've done.'

Snape gave a choking sob, his shoulders hunching as he sank his head down almost to his chest and covered his face with his hand. Really missing all that hair now, aren't you? Moody thought spitefully.

'You're a self-deluded coward,' he growled mercilessly. 'You want to be punished? Give yourself up to the Ministry. But you won't do that, will you? Because if we go deeper into your motives, we'll find that all this has got nothing to do with punishment and redemption. It's about power.'

He heaved himself awkwardly to his feet, momentarily towering over Snape, and glared down at him. 'Your father hurt you, and made you feel helpless. Beating yourself is an attempt to rewrite what he did to you, to take back some sense of control. You dress it up in finer motives, but that's all it is.'

'No,' mumbled Snape, staring at him from between his fingers and looking confused, 'no, you're wrong –'

'Well here's an option for you to consider, Snape. You want to be punished? I'll do it. I'll hurt you as much as you want, and I won't leave a mark on you. And then you can run off home and do what you have to, conscience clear. How's that?'

Snape stared up at him, aghast. Moody smiled nastily, his normal eye glittering. 'Otherwise, you'll stay here with me until it's time to feed the demon again. Every seven years, wasn't it? Your hand was bleeding on the night Frank and Alice were attacked, fourteen years ago last March. That means you must have already made your sacrifice for this time round, doesn't it? You're mine for another seven years, Snape. Have a think about it while I'm gone.'

Severus lay curled on his side, good hand covering his face. The shocking conversation with Moody, coupled with the confusion generated by the sudden return of all his most painful memories, had left him feeling vulnerable and weak. There was a terrible pressure building up in his heart, and he wanted to scream, or cry – but, right now, he found himself unable to do either. Years of hiding his feelings, his vulnerabilities, had left him unable to express them easily. They disappeared into the depths of his mind, bottled up, out of reach until the pressure was too much, and then they exploded. Ironic, really, given his ability for Occlumency.

Moody was wrong. Oh yes, he had a point; he was, in many ways, quite correct. But he was quite wrong about Severus being deluded. A father like Anzori did not allow delusions. Rational thought, cause and effect, and the acceptance of responsibility. Those were the things which lay behind everything Severus did, and always would.

No. Severus had researched, and planned, and explored theoretical possibilities. And he had prayed.

Someone like Moody was incapable of understanding faith; there were no words available for him to make him understand.

Everyone thought it was all about who had the most power. Learn as many spells as you can, practise until you can do them without a moment's thought; gain, absorb, learn, grasp…

But there were things out there which would, by their very natures, always be more powerful. How could anyone hope to triumph?

By giving all your power to God from whom all power comes, and asking him to save you.

An old book in an old church next to the ruin of an abbey. Pages opened at random, towards the end. A man saying he would die, but conquer death and rise again, and lend his power to those who believed in him. Drink the wine, for this is my blood… whoever drinks my blood remains in me and I in him…

You accepted you were weak. That you knew nothing and understood less. That you were small, and worthless, and insignificant. And then… you offered what little you had to the most powerful thing out there, said, 'I am helpless and useless without you; give me your strength, for without it I am nothing'.

A blood sacrifice of such enormity that hell had irretrievably lost its hold on humanity. Death was overturned; the adversary brought low forever. Absolute redemption for anyone who wanted it, by the absolute grace of God.

The power to force the demon back had been there for two thousand years. And Severus had been the first Khvalibog to find it. How ironic, when they were named for the grateful prayers of those they had saved all those centuries ago: Praise to God!

Severus remembered the Dementor's hands closing around his throat. Forcing himself to put aside his power had taken almost all his effort, for he knew his faith was weak. Yet he also knew this could work: he had put it to the test when he faced Karkaroff, only a year ago. He'd had his wand in his hand, talked about the forgiveness of the Dark Lord, prepared to duel right up until that very last moment – when suddenly a voice spoke in his head. It wasn't like hearing an actual voice, it was more like the inner voice of his conscience; yet somehow separate, more definite, more distinct. "Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven; fear not the one who can kill the body, but the one who can kill the soul." And at the moment when Karkaroff had uttered those deadly words, Severus had let his wand fall, held out his arms to certain death, and forgave Karkaroff his murder with all his heart. And the Killing Curse had rebounded on its sender.

But that was easy next to this. Severus had entirely believed that Karkaroff was no better than him, and the idea of trying out God's mercy had been an inspiration of a second. (And in retrospect, wasn't there something about not putting the Lord your God to the test?) Maybe that success had been some sort of fluke…

Believing himself forgiven of all the terrible things he had done was too difficult. Dimly came the subtle idea that maybe the problem was his own failure to forgive himself, the deep-seated belief that he was essentially unforgivable. So he had tried the old muggle ways of atonement, thinking that if he felt punished for his crimes, the concept of forgiveness would be easier. But, as Moody had said, no matter how much, how hard, how long, it hadn't been enough.

Now it was too late. Now was the test, and he could only hope his faith was strong enough.

The fear was overwhelming. He thought removing his bad memories would help, but if anything, it had made it worse. All those horrible emotions with no memories to underpin them – as the Dementor pulled him close and opened its terrible mouth, he thought he would go mad. His last prayer had been a silent scream of terror from the most primitive part of his brain: save me, I'm scared! And, at that point of supreme hopelessness, misery and despair, came…

… a golden, shining moment of utter peace. He was loved. He was forgiven.

The power of God filled his wasted body and surged into the Dementor. His soul watched, consumed with joy as the dark creature disintegrated in the Glory; watched as tiny points of silver light shot away from the shards of darkness. All those souls the monster had eaten were free at last.

As the light faded he felt his body draw him back. He yielded willingly, vaguely aware that it seemed to be dragging him down further than it should. As he sank deeper into darkness, it crossed his mind that perhaps he had gone to far in his efforts to atone; and then he saw his father.

'Severus,' Anzori said; and the hard face was smiling, eyes filled with warmth and love. 'I am very proud of you. Hold on; don't let go. I'm coming to get you.'

And there we have it: the second chapter I meant to post on Friday and didn't, plus one of the two I was planning to post next week. Thank you very much for the reviews! (Yes - making Sev evil as a final twist would have been something, but I've had the whole story mapped out for over a year now, and that was never part of it. Also, I don't think it's actually supported by canon, so far, anyway.)

Two weeks til the Half-Blood Prince!

S.

July 3rd, 2005