Verity

by Ancalime Erendis

One shot. Two days after his flight from Hogwarts, Snape is confronted by a visitor. Mild language.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story, probably like so many others that have been posted at ff.n in the past three weeks, was not a story I ever intended to write or ever imagined I would have cause to write. It flows directly out of debates and discussions I've had with several friends in the wake of The Half-Blood Prince, some in which I've been preaching to the choir, others in which I've had to defend Severus Snape tooth and nail to people who, frankly, were not out to be swayed.
Much thanks especially to my friends Snarky, Bet, Janson, and the Omaha Werewolf for intelligent debate and well thought-out discussion, from which this story flows.
AE

Verity by Ancalimë Erendis

Sullen darkness had long since fallen and passed into miserable, inky night, the street long since deserted by signs of wakefulness, movement, or even life, when a huddled, shrouded figure stirred in the filthy street. It was impossible to tell anything about it but that it was blackened and defeated, a shadow rather than a life, and having no wish to live again—if it had ever truly lived at all.

Lifeless it might be, and yet it breathed, clinging to its misery-ridden, Godforsaken existence with a tenacity of purpose, a settled determination to finish some work before slipping fully out of the world of the living. Its footsteps were shuffling, but they were also solid and purposeful; this shadow had set its course, and to that course it held, whatever the consequences to itself.

Clouds had cloaked the moon and cast a broad pall over the stars, so that the only light touching either the shadow or its surroundings came from flickering Muggle street lamps, which shone poorly through the mist that had lately become all-pervasive. So weak was their illumination, in fact, that it seemed to call up ghosts rather than chasing them away. It was by their pitiful gleam, however, that the shadow came to realize that it was not alone in that drab graveyard of a lane called Spinner's End.

A second shadow crept delicately along the littered street, picking its way carefully but surely through piles of rubbish that would pose no problem for an adult of average size. This figure was small—much smaller than the one watching it—and had it been a substantial form with a human face, rather than a shadow-wraith, it could have been called a child. Wraith it was, though, and as such, it was every bit as alive—or dead—as the other breathing shadow there.

This smaller form either felt or sensed eyes upon it, for it paused in its progress directly across the street from its counterpart and returned with an observing stare of its own.

"Good evening to you, sir, and well met," it called quietly, in a voice that sounded somehow both young and old, childlike and commanding, vulnerable and powerful. "You needn't have any fear of my lingering long—I am only on my way home."

Its diction was old-fashioned, atypical even in the wizarding world, except, perhaps, among its older citizens. That, combined with the misty street and its ghoulish lighting, gave the vague impression that the shadow had stepped out of the realm of legend and lore.

"Then be on your way," the taller shadow told it, in the voice of a bitterly weary man.

The smaller shadow tilted its head to one side in a curious mannerism of pondering. "I can't," it replied after a moment. "You're in my way."

It spoke these words so matter-of-factly that the average person would be too surprised to make any immediate reply…but this taller shadow no longer felt himself to be a person and had never, to anyone's knowledge, been average.

"I'm across the street from you," he told it with a dark sigh, "and if you need me to move, I gladly will. Just leave me alone."

The small shadow discerned his weariness, but it also heard clues, which were anything but subtle, that his patience was forced and that his next words would probably give vent to the anger churning within him if he was not answered exactly properly.

"You don't stand in my way," it countered. "I cannot continue on my way until I have spoken with you; my name is Verity."

The taller shadow's shoulders slumped further in excruciating defeat. "There is nothing more you could say to me," he growled. "I know everything you could possibly tell me."

The small form crossed the distance between them in three strides, all unnaturally long, coming to a halt when it stood toe-to-toe with the taller shadow. It did not look upward, but he had the distinct impression of sharp, violet eyes that locked with his own. "If you truly did, I should not have come," it told him. "I go only where I am sent, and I have been sent to you."

"And who sent you?" he asked, sneering down at it.

"Do not ask for answers you cannot understand," Verity chided. "You have a brilliant mind, but this thing is beyond you. Even your mentor could not comprehend."

These last words drove all breath and speech from him for a long, anguished moment. "Why have you come here?" he asked, when at last he had got his voice back. His tone wavered slightly, whether from fear or grief or merely exhaustion, even he could not say.

Now Verity did look up, and he saw firsthand those wide, violet eyes, staring at him, examining him, and, worst of all, clearly reflecting him. "Two days have passed," it told him, "and you have not faced me or talked to me, yet you have presumed to speak for me. Would you rather not know for certain what I am?"

He snorted. "The facts are not about to change," he answered coldly, "and my misery is acute enough without your presence."

"Your misery is too acute for you to understand what is true without my explaining it to you," Verity stated.

"Understanding will change nothing," he growled through his teeth as the threat of his anger returned. "I have lost everything."

Verity again tilted its head to one side. "Have you, then?"

The taller shadow narrowed his coal-black eyes and glared balefully down at it. "What will it cost me to be left in peace?" he demanded—but behind the anger, there was also despair.

"Nothing more or less than a short interview," Verity replied. "Afterward, if you wish it, I will leave and never return again."

He considered briefly, but no other option readily presented itself. If there was any truth to what he knew of Verity, it would neither be pushed aside willingly nor leave him otherwise, and at the moment, it stood between him and the only refuge left to him. If he wanted to be left alone, he would have to deal with Verity first.

"I suppose you'll be wanting an invitation to tea, then?" he muttered, starting across the street with Verity in his wake.

"I am not a vampire," it countered coolly. "I can enter without an invitation of any kind, and, as you well know, I often do."

"I suppose so," he conceded, then, on coming to the door of his dilapidated residence (he refused to think of it as home), he entered, the small shadow still at his heels.

A silent incantation lit several candles, in whose light the taller shadow straightened and removed his cloak, revealing the sallow features of Severus Snape, erstwhile teacher and current fugitive. His face had grown gaunt and drawn in the two days since his flight from Hogwarts, and the presence of stubble gave him the look of a disreputable vagabond, which was further indicated by the untidy state of his clothing. Anyone else might have thought that he had not stopped running since his departure from his former place of employment; Verity knew that he had done far more crawling and slinking than anything else.

Verity also removed its cloak, and Severus found himself faced with an individual even more contradictory than he was. Verity was recognizable more or less as female, with the height and features of a small child, the shape of a young woman, and the eyes of a timeless sage. Her hair was black and long, divided into dozens of braids as thick as one of Severus' fingers, then piled untidily atop her head in such a way that they cascaded haphazardly down her back nearly to the floor. She was clad in a sleeveless dress of deepest black lace that came down to the middle of her calves—a richly made garment, to be sure, but one that had seen a good deal of wear and become ragged. Her arms were sheathed, from the bottoms of her fingers to just above the elbows, in black lace sleeve-gloves that were corset-laced and tied off with black ribbons that appeared barely to have survived several wars. The bottom of her skirt did not quite reach the tops of her stout black walking boots, which seemed to be at least two sizes too large and which were horribly scuffed. Her skin was the color of thin milk. The only color to her, in fact, lay in her glowing violet eyes and the pale pink of her lips, which seemed to turn simultaneously in a compassionate smile and a spiteful smirk and nearly every expression in between. It was difficult, if not outright impossible, to determine whether she was kind or cruel or somehow both at once and more besides.

She was, in short, simultaneously a beautiful and a terrible creature to behold, and Severus was unsure whether to welcome the sight of her uncloaked or to shy away from her.

"You've already spent quite enough time shying away from me, I'm sure," she said, as if in direct reply to his thoughts. "And if you do not welcome me with open arms and without reservation, it only proves your wisdom."

"How very comforting," Severus replied sarcastically.

"My purpose has never been to comfort," Verity countered composedly. "Sometimes I manage it; other times I accomplish the opposite effect." She arched inquisitive eyebrows. "Would you like some tea?"

Severus narrowed his eyes. "I'm not certain it's wise to talk here."

Verity gave him an ancient-seeming smile. "If you're worried about Wormtail," she said, "I can assure you that he is safely away and, moreover, that he's too stupid to think of leaving an eavesdropping charm when he doesn't expect you until morning."

"How very convenient."

Her eyes locked immediately with his, and he felt the cold, shivering chill of her gaze cut through him. "You know that I am incapable of deceit, Severus," she reminded him coolly. "I do not make things as they are; I merely report them as they are."

Severus glowered at her, but she was entirely impervious to it and instead busied herself with the task of making tea, as if she was the hostess and he the guest.

"I find it interesting, though not surprising, that you do not ask me to go to Hogwarts," she remarked as she set the leaves in to steep.

"There would be very little point," Severus growled. "They know everything they're intended to know, and even you couldn't convince them otherwise."

She turned her head to look at him but did not reply directly to his comment. "You're still standing?" she observed. "Sit down, for goodness' sake—you look ready to drop."

He was driven to a chair, not by her request but by shock at her words and the tone in which she delivered them. But for the feminine timbre of her voice, it might have been Dumbledore speaking to him, as the headmaster had done on numerous occasions over the past two years.

If Verity noticed, she gave no indication but instead turned her attention to the tea. "You take it black, of course," she said, almost to herself, "and very strong. I myself never cared for cream nor sugar, nor for anything else that might blunt the edge." She turned around again and handed him a cup and saucer, the former filled to the brim with a liquid almost the color of her dress. "In that respect, at least, you and I are very much alike, Severus Snape."

While he disliked being in any way compared with the frightful creature before him, he was forced to admit that, at least in general terms, there was truth in what she said. She was not one to blunt the blade of honesty, and he had always preferred the agony of unreserved torment to the doubt caused by a lesser punishment.

Verity poured out a cup of tea for herself, then sat carefully back in the chair across from him. She cut an almost comical figure once fully settled; her feet dangled over half a meter above the floorboards, and when she leaned forward to speak, he had the impression that her knees were closer to her ears than to the floor. It didn't help in the least that her teacup was large enough that she had to hold it in both hands, nor that she lightly bounced her feet, in their oversized boots, in rhythm to a song that only she could hear. Only her ancient eyes and his dark mood kept Severus from being truly amused.

"I've come here tonight," she told him quietly, "because you have made an art of the very thing I'm incapable of. It has saved you in the past, it will help to save the future…and you are using it to destroy yourself now."

Severus gave her a bitter smile that he ordinarily reserved only for his reflection in the mirror. "If you expect me to be surprised," he replied, "I'm afraid I must disappoint you."

Verity narrowed her eyes and rejoined, with a similar smile, "But I am also here because yours is not the only deceit that threatens to destroy you."

Severus frowned to mask the fearful fire that churned nauseatingly in his stomach. "I don't understand," he said—quite truthfully.

"Of course, you don't," she assured him. "Because you, like so many others, labor under the illusion that Nicolo Machiavelli was a saint."

He drew back as if he'd been slapped or splashed with cold water, his eyes widening in shocked anger. "What!" he demanded, his voice trembling dangerously. "What in bloody hell are you talking about?"

Verity did not so much as blink. She took a long sip of tea, watching him appraisingly over the rim of the cup she held in both hands, then swallowed in a childlike gulping fashion before answering him. "You wouldn't be angry if you didn't grasp my meaning," she replied calmly. "Confused, yes, but certainly not angry. To have it clearly out in the open, however, permit me to be more frank." She raised her eyebrows. "You, more than anyone else alive, now the true nature of Albus Dumbledore, and yet you insist on believing that he was somehow entirely the victim and that you are somehow entirely the villain. Is that not so?"

"You are entirely mistaken," Severus hissed through stiff lips.

She held up a quelling hand and looked reproachfully at him. "Enough," she commanded. "Just as I am incapable of deceit, I am incapable of being deceived. Albus Dumbledore may have been more congenial than you are, but his mind worked very similarly to yours. He was the general and the strategist, and when he devised his plan, he turned to you for help in its implementation because he knew he could count on you."

"Stop!" Severus ordered, his eyes blazing. There was no doubt in his mind of her being who and what she claimed to be, but that did not excuse her. In the end, she was nothing more than a little chit, speaking words she had no right to utter and leveling accusations that could not be permitted.

Verity was not put off. "You think he did it because of the stain on your record," she continued relentlessly. "Because he needed a villainous mercenary to do what must be done—"

"I murdered Albus Dumbledore!" Severus interrupted harshly. "In cold blood and with malice aforethought!"

"Malice against yourself, certainly," Verity retorted coldly. "I was there, Severus—I know what passed through your mind. It was hatred for yourself and for the action you must take, not a desire to see Dumbledore dead. Had you truly hated him, there are any number of ways far more cruel in which you could have killed him." She raised her eyebrows and smiled derisively. "Or do you mean to tell me that the Half-Blood Prince, inventor of Sectumsempra, had a sudden loss of creativity? You used the most merciful means avail—"

"I used an Unforgivable Curse," he snarled. "And do you mean to tell me that there is anything merciful about murder?"

"Dumbledore's death was necessary," Verity stated through her teeth. "And it was inevitable. I know what you never told anyone, Severus; I know that you worked obsessively for nearly a year to keep him alive after he destroyed the ring Horcrux. Neither one of you had any illusions that he would truly survive—his life was hanging by the barest of threads even before he and Potter went looking for that locket."

"He could eventually have healed," Severus told her stubbornly.

"He didn't want to," she countered flatly. "And you know it. How can you fail to, when he specifically explained his entire plan to you? Harry Potter needed to see him die, and the only way to ensure it was to arrange it."

Severus glared at her. "You make it sound so sanitary," he sneered. "Arranging a wedding, arranging flowers, arranging a death—it's all so very neat and tidy."

Verity raised her eyebrows and smirked, her child's face contorting into an unfeeling, dispassionate countenance of calculating scorn. "It was neat and tidy," she replied lightly. "No blood, no vomit—very little mess to clean up afterward."

With no recollection of having moved, Severus was on his feet towering over her, his cup and saucer smashed against the nearest wall with only a dark splash and downward trail of dark fluid to mark their passing. "How dare you!" he all but screamed. "How dare you make light of such a thing, as if his death meant nothing!" He heard the pounding flow of his blood racing, felt it burning through every vein and artery in his body. For her to think it, much less to say it—!

"And yet," Verity said, taking another sip from her cup, seemingly without a care in the world, "did you not think that very thing yourself when you hardened your heart to end his life? Is that not the very argument you presented to Voldemort when he demanded to know why you hadn't prolonged it—that time was short and a tidy death would give you more time for a rapid retreat?" She twisted one corner of her mouth upward in a look of dark knowledge. "Truth is truth, Severus, no matter who speaks it. I am willing to live with the hatred of people who don't like what I say, for the sake of Truth. You, similarly, are willing to live with the hatred of people who understand neither what you did nor why you did it. The difference between us is that I am content with my role, whereas you are not."

"And why should I be?" Severus demanded. "God knows why you were chosen to play your part—"

"Yes," Verity murmured ruminatively. "I suppose He does."

"—but I," Severus continued, ignoring her, "was chosen because I am the cold-blooded bastard everyone thinks me to be! He knew I was a murderer and could bring myself to do it! He knew that everyone thought me a traitor already and wouldn't be surprised by this! He knew that I could do it, that I would do it, and that I would go happily on with my life afterwards!"

"He knew nothing of the sort, you moronic twit!" Verity broke in testily, climbing up to stand on her chair. Even with that addition to her height, the now-sputtering Severus had to look down to meet her eyes.

"I beg your pardon?" he stammered, utterly confounded at having been so addressed by anyone, much less someone one-third his size.

For the first time that evening, Verity showed signs that her patience was wearing thin. She let out a growl of frustration, then put her hands on her hips and glared at him. "I said, Dumbledore neither knew nor even thought of most of what you've just attributed to him," she reiterated through her teeth. "And I called you a moronic twit, which is the most polite thing I could call you without compromising the truth!"

"Really."

"Oh, wipe that stupid sneer off your face!" she snapped. "It isn't becoming, and it only makes you look like more of a twit." She intensified her glare, which gave her the disturbing appearance of a demonic Shirley Temple with a mouthful of cod-liver oil. "Now," she said, in a voice that was not at all cute or dainty, "I don't care if you sit down or not, but I'd like it very much if you would kindly shut up and listen!"

Severus had no intention of sitting anytime soon, but her authoritative tone was enough to silence him—for the moment.

"Dumbledore chose you for two primary reasons," she stated, her eyes flashing in emphasis. "Firstly, because he trusted you completely and entirely, and secondly, because he knew you to be a man of honor."

Severus let out a harsh, bitter laugh. He couldn't help himself; it was ridiculously preposterous that anyone, particularly the upright and upstanding Albus Dumbledore, would think of him as honorable. "And would a man of honor murder someone who so thoroughly trusted him?" he asked sardonically, an unpleasant smile fixed into place.

Verity smiled grimly. "A man of honor, when made to see the necessity of a hateful action, will agree to perform it, no matter how odious he thinks it," she countered coldly. "And, when the time comes to make good his word…" She widened her eyes, which flashed again. "He will do it!" she breathed. "No matter what the cost to himself, he will do what he must for the sake of the greater good."

"And just what greater good do you think was served?" Snape growled. "With Dumbledore dead, the Order of the Phoenix is crippled, and Potter has lost the best protector and mentor he had! The Dark Lord's chances of victory have increased a hundredfold."

"If you truly believed that, you would never have agreed to his plan," Verity countered. "These are your misgivings, not your knowledge, speaking. As Dumbledore himself told you, Potter would never fully mature while he had a mentor to keep him safe. He needed to be pushed out of the nest, driven to pre-emptive action, and that would never happen while Dumbledore was alive. Something must happen to harden his resolve, and that something was Dumbledore's death—specifically, his death at the hands of the very enemy Potter was destined to pursue."

"Me."

Verity rolled her eyes. "You, sir, are a bloody nightmare to speak to!" she spat. "Always feeling sorry for yourself, incapable of listening to reason—thank God you're not married!"

"You bloody little—"

"Shut up!" she snapped. "Potter needed to see Dumbledore killed by a Death Eater, you dunderhead, and that is precisely what he saw! You didn't care for the headmaster's conclusions, but you saw the wisdom of them, which is why you agreed, however reluctantly, to his plan. You also saw, without Dumbledore pointing it out to you, that it would be a far better thing for you to do it than for Draco Malfoy. In the same act that hardened Potter's resolve, you planted seeds that will spare Draco your own fate."

What little color was left to Severus' face drained away. "What are you talking about?" he very nearly whispered.

"Draco is not a murderer," Verity stated. "Nor has he the heart to be a dedicated Dark Wizard—not without significant hardening over time. You knew from the beginning that he wouldn't have it in him to murder Dumbledore, just as he didn't have it in him to be much more than a spoilt, petty bully. He needed to see what Darkness truly was, without tasting it himself, to understand that fully." She shook her head. "Now that he's seen it, he will never embrace it, and as you well know, he's looking even now for a way to escape it. You knew that, after leaving Hogwarts, one of your tasks would be to act as a shadow-mentor to Draco, drawing him subtly away from Voldemort, saving him from your fate by offering him a chance that you never had."

"And why should I care what one selfish brat chooses to do?" Severus asked, keeping his voice low to mask its trembling.

"The redemption of one selfish brat could change the course of this entire war," Verity told him. "I find it hard to believe that you didn't think of that." She smiled knowingly. "But even beyond that calculation, you are not as heartless as you want the world to believe—nor as you've convinced yourself that you are. You care about Draco because you see something of yourself in him."

He stared at her, at a total loss for how to reply. He could deny her words, of course…but something within him knew them to be true.

"Knowing all of this, then, would you undo what you've done?" Verity asked softly.

Severus clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes. "Nothing justifies murder," he told her firmly.

Verity folded her arms across her chest. "You're right," she replied. "Murder is wrong." She shook her head. "I'm not asking if what you did is right, Severus—I'm not asking you to like that you did it."

"Then what?" he demanded, beginning to feel a bit bewildered.

Her sage's eyes widened in something suspiciously like compassion, and a heart-wrenching sadness took over her child's countenance, making her seem suddenly very old—older than Dumbledore, older, perhaps, than Time itself. "I'm asking if, knowing what can come of this, just as your mentor did…if you can live with yourself."

He stared at her, still standing there on her chair, looking simultaneously like a grief-stricken child and an old woman bearing the weight of eternity. "Am I not?" he countered, his bewilderment deepening.

"No," Verity replied, sounding anguished. "No. You are being devoured by self-condemnation and self-hatred. You wrap yourself so tightly in the knowledge of what you've done that you can't escape and so are savagely ripped apart by it. He begged you to see it through, Severus, and because you are an honorable man, you did. Yours was a hateful role, but you played it nonetheless, trusting that Dumbledore knew what he was doing, trusting that good could—and would—come of it. It was unfair of him to place you in such a bind when he clearly saw what you would do to yourself, and yet he did." Her eyes narrowed slightly as Severus' narrowed and he silently dared her to drop the other shoe. "Because Albus Dumbledore, like you, saw the necessity of it, and, like the Machiavellian general he was, he did what was necessary for the greater good, no matter what cost to his life or to your con—"

"That's a lie!" Severus interjected, knowing even as he said it that it was futile to argue.

"I can't lie, Severus," Verity sighed. "Sometimes I wish I could." She looked down and bit her lip, becoming to all appearances a little, lost child. "People prefer their comfortable beliefs, particularly where Dumbledore is concerned. No one wants to hear that he was fallible or that he could die, or that he was anything more than a sweet, kindly, grandfatherly gentleman whose strategy for victory amounted to warm-fuzzy-ing Voldemort to death." She shook her head. "But was we both know, he made mistakes and he did die…and he was a calculating warrior who saw the grand strategy and who was willing to go to nearly any length to achieve it."

"Dumbledore was a good man," Severus said raggedly, as if, having retreated that far, he would go no further.

"He was," Verity agreed. "As good as any man truly can be." She raised her eyebrows a touch. "But you are not the being of pure evil you mistake yourself for. So I will ask you again, Severus Snape: Can you live with yourself?"

Severus shook his head and sank back into his chair, scarcely noticing that Verity abandoned her perch and came over to stand beside him.

"I don't know," he said mournfully. "I don't know."

"Then you are already better than when I found you," she murmured. "Think on it, Severus…and in your thinking, find peace."

Her words were followed immediately by a clumsy crashing of the front door against the wall as Peter Pettigrew stumbled in with his arms full of parcels. He dropped several of them, apologizing profusely as he struggled to pick them up and Severus leapt to his feet in both irritation and sudden fear that Verity would be discovered there.

"Idiot," he snapped to Pettigrew. "Make a bit more noise to wake the neighbors—I'd so love to have them all for tea at four in the morning!"

Verity herself could escape through the back door if she was quick, but she had left her cloak in the entryway; Pettigrew would be sure to notice it if he was given much time at all.

"Sorry, sorry!" the little rat of a man squeaked. "I tripped over a—well, actually, it bit—but no matter, I encountered a—"

"I really couldn't care less," Severus hissed. "Why don't you shut up and make yourself useful elsewhere?"

Pettigrew scurried past him, and in turning to follow, Severus saw to his horror that Verity had not moved from her place beside his chair. She smiled strangely at him, and Pettigrew dashed straight past her without seeming to notice her at all, though he looked directly at her at least once.

How—?

"Be at peace, Severus," she said again.

Pettigrew, who had disappeared into the kitchen, poked his head out curiously. "Is someone else here, Severus? I thought I heard a voice…"

Severus opened his mouth, but when his eyes flicked to Verity, he found that she and her teacup—and, he suspected, her cloak—were gone.

"You really ought to stop experimenting with absinthe, Wormtail," he said coldly. "You're beginning to hear voices in your head."

And, ignoring Pettigrew's lame protests, he left the room and went to bed, Verity's question pounding endlessly through his mind.

"Can you live with yourself?"

He had first to determine whether or not he even wanted to try.