Disclaimer: Characters are the intellectual property of J.K. Rowling
Author's note: This is the last part of the fic, although I've been toying with an epilogue because Snape and Dumbledore are so much fun to bounce off each other. Thanks so much for reading, and please review :0)
That row of icicles along the gutter
Feels like my armory of hate;
And you, you … you, you utter . . . .
You wait!
--Beyond Words, Robert Frost
The next morning Severus found he had fallen asleep in his clothes, and that an unusual lightness filled him. He glanced at the clock and saw that it was still early. Nestled beside him in the bed was his book, warm and quiet as a sleeping cat. He set his hand briefly on the cover for a moment. Something told him Dumbledore had returned. Severus slid out of bed and went into the washroom, where he drank a large quantity of cold water directly from the faucet, and shaved with a razor whose owner was unknown to him. Then he went downstairs and called out "hello?" to the air, sunbeams, and dust motes in between.
"Hello, I'm in the office," said Dumbledore's voice, muffled from distance. Severus went to the room he'd spent most of the previous night in, and knocked on the door. "Come in," came the cheerful reply. Severus took a deep gulp of air into his lungs and pushed the door open.
"I'm here, Sir."
"Please take a seat, Mr. Snape," Dumbledore said, gesturing to a chair. As Severus sat, he felt a pang of nervousness rush through his body.
"Yesterday, I went to London to discuss your case with the Ministry. I have convinced them that you may be more useful to them outside of Azkaban, and I intend to pursue this line further on your behalf, but first I have to ensure that we are on the same page – which as I'm certain you're aware, will require you to share some information with me now."
"Of course. What do you want to know?"
Dumbledore pulled on his beard for a moment, then he asked, "What did you do last night to occupy yourself?" Severus tensed; was this some kind of trick question? He wondered if Dumbledore knew that he had been high, of if he'd some how found out about the journal.
"I smoked and read, mostly."
"Ah, one of my books?"
Severus could feel himself start to blush, which was odd, because he was normally an excellent liar. "For a while, Sir," he said faintly. Dumbledore gave him a perplexed look.
"What exactly did you read, Mr. Snape?"
Severus opened his mouth and shut it. Then he decided to put everything on the table. He walked over the book-shelf and retrieved the book. He placed it in Dumbledore's hands and sat down on the floor beside the chair he'd been in previously. "I'm sorry. I just couldn't put it down once I knew what it was – I had no idea you used to be like that, Sir," he said, quietly bracing himself for the worst.
Then Dumbledore laughed. "Oh, it's all right, Severus. The fact that the wizard who defeated Grindelwald clung to appeasement until long after it was fashionable is one of history's open secrets. Not what I'd call my finest hour, but people were all too happy to forget about it once I helped win the war in such a sensational manner." He paused and looked at amusedly at Severus, "I think there must be a lesson for you somewhere in that, eh?"
"Indeed, Sir…" Severus hesitated, unsure of the appropriateness of his next comment.
"Hmm?"
"Well, to speak candidly, I actually respect you more for it, as I now have a slightly better idea of how you became the shining emblem of goodness and humanity that you presently are."
Dumbledore smiled wryly and looked up at the ceiling. "Isn't funny that I more or less had to embrace war to achieve that standing?" He tugged on his beard again and peered at Severus over his spectacles, "what do you make of that, Mr. Snape?" he asked airily.
"I don't see anything wrong, or paradoxical about it, personally. But then, my moral compass likely leaves much to be desired."
"Oh, speaking of your moral compass, Mr. Snape, I know this is a terribly routine question, but why did you leave the Death Eaters?"
Severus shifted in his seat. He had expected this question, but he was surprised by how badly he wanted to answer it. "The decision wasn't a complicated thing, Sir," he began, "a close friend of mine was hurt in a fight that broke out with some Aurors. We managed to get him into a muggle hospital through a contact, but he died that night. I stayed with him for hours, in this little curtained room, piled with machines that were supposed to keep him alive when we, with all our fancy magic, couldn't. He was hooked up to all these wires and tubes, lying there with his mouth half open. It wasn't anything like it looks in the media – you could feel in the very air of them room that he couldn't be woken; it made him look unbearably fragile. I was in there for five hours, afraid – and I was too afraid to touch him more than once on the arm.
"I'm told he died within the hour of my leaving. After that, well, Sir, I was rattled."
"Understandably; please continue."
"I started to realize that I didn't want to go out that way: Alone, in some dismal canvas box, under a false name, and with nothing to recommend me except a momentary show of regret from a few psychopaths. From there, it wasn't long before I wished I hadn't done some of the things I had done, and one day that list of things included becoming a Death Eater.
"I tried to ignore it for a while because I was good at moving drugs, and that gave me the respect of some powerful people, but the fact was that their high opinion of me meant little when at the core of my life, I was consumed by a fear of getting blown to pieces doing something I had grown to be ashamed of. Drug trafficking…" he paused and made an impatient movement with his hand, as if words could not illustrate his distaste for the industry. "I wanted a better existence. There was something else, too, the last straw, you might say, perhaps the result of some idiotic personality quirk, but insufferable to me nonetheless: As you know, Sir, I happened to be present when a prophecy was made at the Hog's Head Inn, and, naturally I made sure it was relayed back to my master as it appeared to concern Him."
"Only to be expected, Mr. Snape."
"Right, but now He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is convinced that the child in question belongs to James Potter. I don't like Potter. I don't like thinking about Potter –it agitates me," he paused and picked at a stain on his sleeve. "I don't like thinking Potter is special, nor do I believe any son of his is likely to be special, regardless of whatever wiser and more talented people than myself are insisting," he nodded curtly in Dumbledore's direction, "but in any case, the matter is further complicated because I am in his debt. Horribly and eternally, I owe James my life. Therefore, the thought of seeing him pointlessly martyred leaves me—uneasy."
Dumbledore raised an eye-brow skeptically, "uneasy?"
Severus sighed and waved an exasperated arm in no particular direction, "More than uneasy. I hate the idea: James is not special, and even if the prophecy does refer to his son, that fff—man saved my life. If the Dark Lord kills James, and He will, it shall be on my head because I gave Him the information, and if—or when this happens, not only will James die smug, knowing that some poor, mislead people out there are going to think he's a hero, but I am going to feel like a filthy, dishonourable git for God knows how long."
"Hypothetically you would be responsible for an aspect of James' death, yes, but at the moment he and his family are hidden well."
"I hope so," replied Severus in a low voice, and his thoughts were a poisonous jumble of memories centering on James. Oppressive heat expanded in his chest as he thought of that—of Potter and his idiotic—that idiotic night when they—and how they reduced him to—so now he was forced to—A sudden sting of jealousy and loathing pierced Severus as keenly and vividly as arousal. Unnerved by the emotion's physicality he looked around the room for some calming distraction.
"Thoughts, Mr. Snape?"
"Oh, sorry, nothing really. Anyway, soon after all that I left, and went into hiding – the rest you probably know."
"Enough, anyway. Thank-you, Severus. Now, I'm curious, how did you envision yourself helping the ministry?"
"Probably spilling all the out-dated information I possess, going to Azkaban for a while, and trying to find some kind of a job when I get out," he shrugged.
"Is that what you want?"
"What do you think? No, Sir, it's not what I want, but I made a mistake and I know I have to pay for it."
"Well, Severus, the ministry is not interested in your – as you so aptly put it—out-dated information. They are however, considering an alternative to Azkaban for you: You are to resume your old post in the Death Eaters if you can, and report back to the ministry. If you do well, you most likely can avoid going to Azkaban altogether. How does sound, Mr. Snape?"
Severus bit his lip. The irony was not lost on him: He had gone to such troubles to get away from the Death Eaters, and now the ministry wanted him to go back and continue his drug-peddling. He ran a disappointed hand across his forehead. "How long do you think they'd put me in Azkaban?" Dumbledore frowned at him, surprised at the question.
"I don't know, exactly, but much longer than you'd want to be there, I can promise," he replied sternly. Severus shot him a defiant look. Dumbledore continued, "I would avoid that place if I were you and was given the opportunity, Mr. Snape. It may be hard to imagine the fear, the dark, the misery, and the loneliness there, here in this pleasant house, on this pleasant morning, but, Severus, I cannot stress to you enough that our prison system is lamentably barbaric: It was never designed to redeem people, it was meant to destroy criminals. Do you understand?"
Severus nodded mutely. He sat motionless on the floor, staring at some spot, trying to collect himself. "They'll kill me on sight," he muttered at last.
"Our sources say that you're more missed by Voldemort than you may know: If you returned with the right account of yourself, you would probably be all right."
"But I don't want to go back to them. I went to such lengths to distance myself," Severus replied in a barely audible monotone.
"I know," said Dumbledore kindly, "but Severus, your choices have consequences that you have to live with. I was the last person who wanted to go to war in the thirties; myself and much of Britain were desperate to avoid a repeat of the Great War. As you know, we made all sorts of ridiculous concessions in the name of peace. Now, were our attempts at avoidance successful? No, of course not. We had to face our demons.
"So Severus, I implore you to be wiser than I was: take responsibility for your life. Please don't do yourself an injustice and crawl into some wretched hole in Azkaban because you are afraid to deal with the consequences of your actions."
After these words, the room became very quiet for a time as Severus sat in thought. "All right then," he sighed suddenly. "All right then, what now, Headmaster?" he asked, and his voice was determined.
