A/N: Argh. This hasn't been beta'd, so I'm sorry. Please could you act as my betas and point out anything you don't like? Cheers m'dears! xxx
Chapter 3 – Close Encounters
Harry knew the shadow of the alcove could not hide him indefinitely, not even through sheer-will power, wishing that it would. However, it did offer him a moment of seclusion in which to gather and reorganise his turbulent thoughts.
It was painfully ironic: he had entered the Great Hall with the carefully perfected emotional and physical control of Yoda, cultivated at the instigation of Dumbledore no less, the benevolent, understanding old man who had his best interests at heart, really, and half an hour later he was reduced to the raw nervous state of an inmate of a psychiatric ward. The irony? He was positive that the kindly old Headmaster was responsible for that too!
Harry was torn between venting his childish rage by pounding furiously against the stone wall or simply rendering himself unconscious. He almost his smiled at his novel approach to problem solving, though unfortunately, he did not have the luxury of either option. Now was definitely not the time for this.
Laboriously, Harry began the slow meditative procedure to calm his erratic breathing and return him to some semblance of restraint.
He was in shock. He was furious.
I've been used! Again!
The bitterness of this thought was overwhelming and Harry placed a clammy palm against the cool stone in an effort to ground himself, re-establishing a tenuous connection to reality. The stone seemed dry and slightly brittle to the touch, grains coming away on his clammy finger-pads.
A part of Harry's mind wanted to berate himself for overreacting. But he was not overreacting. Harry felt completely justified in his outrage that the man he had invariably trusted over all the years had once again taken advantage of him.
But, sexual exploitation? This time Dumbledore had plunged to new depths in humiliating Harry before his friends, his teachers, even his goddamn enemies. And those that weren't laughing at him were planning their impending marriages.
Harry allowed his head to fall forward into his hands. Mr. and Mr. Zabini? Does castration suddenly seem like a plausible alternative? His over-taxed mind seemed to take temporary refuge in caustic sarcasm. It was just too degrading. Especially considering Harry's entirely heterosexual orientation. He wasn't homophobic, not by a long shot, but… well, women just had all those endearing squishy bits. It was what was expected.
Harry groaned.
If there was ever a time to re-evaluate his orientation he decided firmly that now was not that time. Not if his preferences were all that stood between himself and Snape.
Now, that was a sobering mental image that guaranteed to keep him batting for the het. team for life.
Harry shivered as the adrenaline that had been pounding through his veins seemed to desiccate and leave him vulnerable to the draught of the hallways. His skin prickled uncomfortably as he considered his options.
Gryffindor Tower was not one of them.
Too small a space, too many enemies, too many Hermiones. His saliva gained an acerbic taste at the unpleasantness of that thought. Since when are my friends the enemy? It was unsettling to say the least. Steady, dependable, studious Hermione, his friend for over six years.
His third friend in the entire world after Ron and Hagrid.
And she was lusting after him like a wanton? The most desire she had expressed for him in the entirety of their friendship was a platonic kiss on the cheek. That was as much of an indication of her disinterest as anything. After all, she'd never dared to kiss Ron… Ron, whom she'd obviously loved for years in that close-guarded kind of secrecy that meant the whole bloody world knew except for Ron and herself. For someone with an IQ to rival the Muggle genius Einstein, she really could be dense sometimes.
Harry could just feel the smile that tugged at his lips at the memories before the oppressive weight of his situation clamped down on his facial muscles, causing them to freeze in a pained rictus.
And now Ron's angry as hell.
So, if he couldn't turn to his friends? Teachers. Once again the ghastly image of the greasy-haired potions professor seemed determined to drive out his sanity. Harry ground his teeth in consternation. Fucking… interfering… Dumbledore!
That was it!
Dumbledore.
The man who got him into this crisis situation in the first place. Harry felt his frustration and pent up anxiety augmenting to the point that he felt himself capable of striking the fragile old wizard in the face, for once shattering that constant illusion of control he constantly projected. Harry felt that he could derive a petty pleasure from that, at least.
No, I'm not going to start taking things out on OAPs… Not even scheming, controlling ones! He took a few deep calming breaths, imagining that secluded place in his mind where he could detach. The place had resorted to so many times over the past months to escape the strain of workouts, the pain of endurance tests, the guilt and grief over his loved ones and that nauseous, prickly impression that could only really be attributed to being Harry Potter, Media Sensation and Boy Bloody Hero.
He counted slowly down from ten before setting his jaw in determination.
Dumbledore.
Harry had assumed that the corridors would be deserted. He had assumed that the ravenous student body would be distracted by the abundant welcome feast for at least an hour longer.
Yet, Harry had also assumed that Dumbledore would automatically sense his urgency and be there waiting for his angry arrival, as he had done so many times over the previous years.
If Harry had stopped to think at all he would have realised the contradiction. But Harry was not exactly thinking straight when he set off in his overly-confident gait along the corridors that would lead him to the familiar gargoyle leering protectively before the ascending staircase to the tower rooms.
Then he heard it. The echo.
His footsteps progressed evenly across the stones, his heels connecting solidly with the floor.
But there was another sound. Softer, muffled. Syncopated almost perfectly with his own measured tread, so that for the length of a corridor Harry thought he was imagining it, perhaps blaming it the slight drag of his soles along the flags. But half a life-time of paranoia and the expectation of a slippered tread stalking him through the shadows on the instigation of the Dark Lord, 'Avada Kadavra' poised on the tip of their tongue…
Harry blinked and sought to pin-point the faint discrepancy in the sound of his footsteps. There it was again, the echo. Harry stopped abruptly and spun in his tracks.
Nothing.
It was gloomy in the narrow space and the sombre wall-tapestries cast palls of deeper shade, which escaped the sooty illumination of the wall brackets. It was empty. Harry's eyes narrowed in suspicion. He was positive he had heard something. Something that sounded distinctly like the sound made by someone desperately trying to be silent. His body was as taught as a bow string, poised. When he spoke he was momentarily proud to have maintained a completely level voice,
"Come out!"
Still nothing. No movement interrupted the perfect stillness. Harry's eyes flicked from side to side, trying to detect any different qualities within the darkness. Slowly, he let out the breath he had unconsciously been holding and allowed his muscles to relax. Feigning casualness he did not truly feel Harry turned back to his original direction.
He only managed a few more steps before his straining ears heard it again: the discrepancy in his footfalls. This time he didn't even bother to turn as he froze in place.
"I know you're there." He paused to allow his words to pierce the cloying darkness shrouding the edges of the hallway. "Come out where I can see you, instead of skulking like a coward!"
Harry did not see the slender silhouette detach itself from the others obscuring the recesses, but he heard the padded footfalls as the figure moved up behind him. Harry felt the instinctive cold trickle of dread disappear down the nape of his neck and follow the course of his spine.
His gut clenched suddenly when an elegant hand came to rest on his thigh.
Harry's worst fears were realised when the shadow spoke – when it spoke with the sultry Italian burr of Blaise Zabini.
"Well, well Potter." Harry felt the ghostly susurration of dry breath against his ear and the tiny hairs quivering in heightened awareness. He forced himself to stand his ground and not run screaming for the hills as the exotic accent added in a disgustingly self-assured tone, "well, well, well…"
Harry bit down hard on his tongue, squeezing his eyes closed as he did so, hoping the throbbing pain he had caused would do something to alleviate the surrealism of the situation: the elusive torch-light, the sudden warmth of another body at his back, the uncomfortable pressure of something digging into his thigh… His mind wilfully blanked, refusing to even consider what that could be.
After a moment of silence, almost vibrating with the electric tension, he gulped and attempted speech.
"Zabini, you're starting to sound a little repetitive there."
Harry's synapses flared as, in response, a gravely laugh vibrated pleasantly against his fraught skin. Harry could feel his skin blush under the tickling caress.
He was about to retch. He needed to retch.
Harry swallowed the impulse immediately. He would not give Zabini the satisfaction of seeing him vulnerable. He'd be giving the Slytherin's just too much ammunition against him. Harry gritted his teeth as his cynical imagination supplied the headline, "Harry Potter's Emotional Trauma sees him Retch at the prospect of Physical Intimacy". His mind even decorated the thought with Capital Letters, that seemed to mock him cruelly.
Suddenly, he was recalled to the moment with a sickening lurch at the sound of Zabini's voice.
"Ah, Potter…" A pause. "Harry…" It was barely a murmur, poignant in its complete absurdity, its utter lack of genuine emotion. It made Harry's hand clench instantly into tight fists at his sides. It made Harry bite back down on a hysterical laugh..
"It's Potter, Zabini. Always Potter. Understand?" Harry blamed the unusual huskiness to his vocal timbre on the uncomfortable panic-induced constriction of his vocal chords.
"Oh Harry, so cold… You were cold to me before, I remember… I tried to forget you, but…surely I can simply be Blaise to you now?" The voice's Tuscan lilt made his voice sound like the purr of a well-satisfied cat, assured of its favourite place by the fire. It was smug, it was seductive and it was instantly insulting. Coupled with the feeling of a confident hand seeking out the fork in his legs, Harry let out a yelp of surprise and indignation.
"Bloody He…"
Harry was truly disgusted with himself as his body responded instantly, unbidden, to Zabini's gravely voice and intimate contact. Suddenly the hand began to draw languid circles over his traitorous groin.
Harry didn't dare so much as breathe, captivated by the horror of the moment. The torchlight wavered uncertainly.
He pressed his eyes so tightly closed that lights blared on the inside of his eyelids and his lips framed a faint groan, something lost halfway between arousal and revulsion.
Meanwhile his mind whirled through a list of inventive expletives and plots inevitably culminating into Blaise Zabini's untimely yet painfully gruesome demise.
However, the embarrassingly evident stimulation left by the casual brush of Zabini's hand certainly cleared one thing up: Not so straight anymore, am I?
Harry's body tensed immediately under Zabini's unhurried ministrations. He felt the hand pause on his crotch, where it at been kneading gently, taking advantage of the roughness of Harry's uniform against the responsive hardness beneath. Harry felt too dirty and violated to even notice his own greedy response.
He felt the tall Slytherin press tight against his rigid back, the ghost of lips being brushed against the indent between his shoulder blades, the boy obviously feeling the taught strain of Harry's muscles. But instead of withdrawing, the hand ghosted upwards along Harry's chest to run salaciously over the hard contour of his abdominals.
"My, we have been busy over the summer, Harry…" That was enough. That arrogantly casual exploration of Harry's chest left him almost spitting with wrathful resentment. Then there was the squeeze of his arse.
"How… dare… you..." In an instant of red blurring his vision, Harry felt himself whirling to face the beautiful Latin assailant before hoisting him bodily by the throat to pin him in one violent, fluid motion up against the wall, legs dangling uselessly above the ground. Harry felt momentary rush of satisfaction at his easily superior strength against his dark-haired opponent, who was as tall and quidditch hardened as the rest of the Slytherins strutting in their own superiority. Harry took a perverse pleasure in letting the back of Zabini's head crash back heavily against the calloused stone wall. Zabini's eyes temporarily unfocussed.
But Harry was closer to the other boy than he had anticipated, pinning him with his own body weight. He was aware of warmth exuding from the flesh pressed against his own and even more so of the prominent bulge making itself known against the inside of Zabini's thigh.
Zabini, it would seem, was equally aware for it was barely a second before he weakly rediscovered his voice. His speech was impeded by the pressure of Harry's hand against his delicate larynx.
"Oooh, aren't we a… dark horse… Potter. But then, I… s'pose a Gryffindor always would be the… dominant type." Then his lips curled to frame that arrogant laugh endemic to all Slytherins and Harry's stomach performed a lurching revolution.
His breathing seemed loud and ragged to his ears in his fury and Harry felt his palms sweating against the coolness of Zabini's narrow throat, sure his finger tips were leaving bruises. Right then he couldn't give a damn.
This was Blaise Zabini, cold-blooded heart-breaker, Slytherin, calculating bastard and dorm mate to Draco-fucking-Malfoy. Who else had stood silent and mocking all these years by the evil little bastard's side? Harry shoved him again, harder, hearing the other boy's breath hitch in pain.
"Shut up, Zabini. I said no before and I meant it. You're a viscous little shit and I want nothing… and I repeat NOTHING, to do with you, d'you understand?" Harry brought his face close enough to see the pupils widening in Zabini's auburn irises as his oblique frame blocked out the light.
"Now, I'd advise you to think closely about how much these…"
Harry's knee sought a cruel target.
"…mean to you, next time you want a quick fumble! Clear?" The parting word was equivalent to a spit in the face as Harry inflected it with as much venom and seething malice as he could muster against his crumpled opponent.
Harry did not look back as he strode away from the encounter, encumbered by the burgeoning need in his trousers that he simply refused to acknowledge. He did not even hear the whistling gasps of the boy curled into a loose foetal position behind him through the thundering of his pulse in his ears.
It was a Harry, borne on a thundercloud of wrath and guilty pleasure that caught sight of the familiar gargoyle looming before him.
Albus Dumbledore was old. He had seen too many winters melt into too many new springs to not be painfully aware of that fact. However, with his ever-present twinkle behind his half-moon spectacles Dumbledore had thought he was doing remarkably well in delaying the advance of the years. He had had a long, long time to perfect his boundless optimism and constant aura of calm.
Though sometimes it was sorely tried.
"FIZZING WHIZBEE!"
The violent roar of an enraged Harry Potter could be heard from the base of the narrow staircase, assaulting the pained gargoyle with every possible wizarding sweet he could think of. Dumbledore winced as the crescendo of candy was interrupted by an exclamatory,
"Let me IN you SMUG PIECE OF MASONRY! NOW!"
Even as the incensed command ascended to the old man's study, fracturing into multiple echoes from the fissures lining the inside of the stairwell, it seemed to communicate that the originator of the noise was in no hurry to take a tea-break from his verbal assault.
The headmaster steepled his gnarled fingers under his chin, obscuring them behind his cascade of snowy beard.
He would let his young pupil vent as much anger as possible on his innocent door-guardian. Perhaps he would feel better after he had done so. Not that Dumbledore envied the leering stonework: Harry Potter in a towering rage was not an experience for the faint hearted.
Dumbledore sighed; a long papery sound that blew his long moustaches out from his lips like tissue streamers.
A blink and the sound of an ancient gramophone squeaked into motion, churning out a crackling version of 'J'attendrai' that did all but drown the increasingly high pitched cries of, "SUGAR QUILLS! BLOOD LOLLIES! DAMN IT!"
The headmaster tried to focus on the heart-rendingly sentimental strain of melody. Sometimes the affinity he seemed to occasionally feel with his misguided ex-student Tom Riddle was closer than he'd usually dare to admit. After all, right now Dumbledore was not uncertain that a good 'silencio' would not be in order for the outraged adolescent below, hardly an ethical practice usually employed with students.
Dumbledore had sympathy for Voldemort sometimes. Being the leader of a high powered movement was nowhere near as easy as he often made it appear. At least his supporters weren't all grovelling, malicious sycophants like the Death Eaters. Thank Merlin, for small mercies…
After all, Dumbledore loved his followers, each and every one. He prided himself on his endless capacity for affection and good-humour. He had gained his position of responsibility through trust and empathy. Yet how could that be more different to Voldemort, you might think. You would be wrong to think so: affection was just as much a means to achieve an end as fear; another twisted facet to the many edged-blade of manipulation.
But unlike Voldemort, he had recognised love as a considerably more powerful tool than fear. It bred conviction; it rendered people vulnerable and strong in just the right proportions.
The translucent blue eyes drifted dreamily over his capacious quarters taking in the patchwork assortment of oddities that served to make it a cosy haven and retreat from the tumult of school-life.
As the old man hummed innocently along with the music, it would have been virtually impossible to detect the unsavoury train of his thoughts. The music suddenly hiccupped as the needle wobbled in its inwards spiral before once again returning to the gentle undercurrent of ambient murmuring. "Tout le jour et la nuit, j'attendrai toujours… ton retour…"
"COAKROACH CLUSTERS!" The issue was unavoidable. Harry's voice was losing some of its conviction as the futility of his yelling seemed to be sinking in. This only seemed to make the blue eyes narrow further.
He had expected something to happen – but not quite this.
He'd planned so carefully. Dumbledore was hardly renowned as the greatest wizard of his age, and given an Order of Merlin to boot, for being careless in his preparations! Behind his withered congenial exterior lay the calculating intellect of something in between a philanthropic genius and a criminal mastermind.
Once as a child, over a century stretching between the reality and the memory, he had heard something from his own cantankerous headmaster during a telling-off for attempting a foolishly ambitious piece of conjuring involving a rabbit and a certain Sorting Hat…
"Albus, true wisdom lies in its concealment. Only fools boast. It is healthy to be reminded that strongest weaken and the wisest err."
Well he had certainly erred this time. No matter how well he had concealed his wisdom behind his bumbling disguise of an eccentric old man with outlandish taste in hats and a penchant for sherbet lemons…
"SHERBET LEMON!"
Dumbledore sighed. Harry would give up soon. He had every right to be angry but it took a lot of energy to be that furious with an inanimate sculpture for such an inordinate amount of time and Dumbledore was not planning on letting him in, password or not.
He merely had to sit it out in the squashy comfort of his chintz armchair, tapered boots propped up on a low footrest that seemed to be snoring gently under the weight. The old wizard noticed with idle concern that one of the golden tassels was looking particularly limp lending the stool a forlorn look of neglect. With a single flick of his wand it seamlessly repaired itself. The stool gave a little gurgle of pleasure in its dreams.
The potion seems to have had certain minor… side-effects.
The Headmaster's narrow pink mouth jerked into a small smile as he contemplated the understatement. Well, hardly side-effects. The elixir was doing exactly what it was intended to do. Doing it a damn bit too well, in fact.
The blue eyes glazed slightly at that other unforeseen complication: the only potions master he would consider competent enough to deal with this level of delicate brewing was… well, incapacitated.
The wry smile reappeared, splitting the old man's face into a myriad of fine creases. Bested by his own potion, no less! Now, Dumbledore was a man with more than a healthy respect for irony.
The Headmaster used him wizened fingers to gently rake the length of his impressive beard free from tangles, a habit he had gained over the recent couple of decades.
Sabotage? Surely not. Severus was loyal and had Dumbledore's implicit rust. A long past rivalry with James Potter and a public distaste for Harry was not sufficient motive to botch one of his own potions. No, the man's pride alone would forbid him from doing it.
Besides, if Snape had foreseen the effects of this new, enhanced brew he would have perhaps been a little more cautious and prepared himself an antidote. The prospect of Severus Snape, meticulous to the last, deliberately making himself giddy with sinful hormonal impulses for none other than Harry James Potter was ridiculous in the extreme. Laughable.
But even if his sallow skinned ally had been double-crossing him all along, if he too appeared smitten with Harry merely to disguise his own guilt…? What would it achieve? Nothing. Dumbledore had taken careful note of those affected and the potion had seemed to be indiscriminate between houses and sympathies. Besides, what advantage would his Dark Friend gain from rendering the majority of his most faithful potential Death Eaters immobile by hard-ons?
Harry. Now, that's an interesting possibility… Perhaps they were intended to hurt Harry. After all a virility potion of that strength was enough to override even the basic instincts of subtlety and caution. And if the object of lust was denied thinks could get nasty. Very nasty.
The Headmaster's blank gaze did little to project his frustration. This was ridiculous. The potion was not even intended to produce that scale of reaction. It was a delicate brew, designed and created for a localised target, tailor-made for the person in question.
It was designed to hide itself in the blood-stream, secreting its subtle magics slowly at first: a general impression of warmth when Harry was nearby, a heightened sense of awareness of him, his actions, his scent, a careful widening of the veins to produce a slow blush… It was a refined art! Not this hapless stampede of primal instinct.
Dumbledore's hand moved carelessly to the inviting bowl of glossy sweets that seemed to have miraculously appeared at his side. He judiciously plucked a bulbous yellow sherbet from the top of the mound and untwisted the transparent wrapping before popping into his mouth. He sucked it pensively, crunching the vacant plastic into a small ball in his palm.
He recalled summoning Professor Snape to his office to discuss the Plan when it was still in its first stages of conception. Though, of course, when the Headmaster invited someone to discuss a matter, it tended to involve very little in the way of actual discussion.
Discussion involved the other individual being actively allowed to participate in the conversation.
No, Snape was summoned to be told of the Plan. His exceptional skills with a cauldron, and his unusual understanding of the… darker elements of magical brews were invaluable to the Plan's fruition. The Amor Deciptus draught was one of the rarest of its kind, a distant relation to its newer, better-recognised and infinitely more legal relative: the Amortentia love potion, personal favourite of Gilderoy Lockhart.
No doubt the Amortentia was the stronger in effect of the two brews, both based around the careful infusion of damiana and nettle, which instantly caused a powerful infatuation in the drinker upon the intended object who was specified by the careful addition of a lock of hair. But its effects had a similar impact to a steam-roller on the delicate human nervous system, belied by its delicate opalescent sheen and tantalising smell.
The Amor Deciptus, however, worked a far subtler magic, and a far darker purpose. Like many of the banned arts, a simple lock of hair would not suffice: this potion required human blood. The magic locked onto the ruby plasma, searching for that illusive whisper of identity it carried within it – the faint magical signature of its owner. That's how it sought a target.
Then it acted in much the same way described by Professor Snape, himself, in his traditional entrance speech to intimidate the First Years: it ensnared the mind, it beguiled the senses. It crawled through the drinker's veins like a virus, connecting every gland, every organ, every thought to the potion's object, drawing them inexorably together.
The damiana-nettle base was common enough, requiring the plants to be stripped down to their lowest foliage and steeped in boiling water before being crushed to a fine paste with a pestle and mortar.
It was what came next that required an expert potion-master's talents.
Innumerate careful additions and manipulations had to take place at precise intervals, the mixture frequently stirred for varying lengths of time counter-clockwise with an ash wand, ancient runes and sigils drawn in the powdery fumes rising from the shallow cauldron, and the blood to be added at just the right time to turn the viscous mixture colourless and sweet. But what was most important was the presence of the full solstice moon. The potion had one chance, and one chance only for success. If something were to go wrong it would be a whole year for the opportunity to arrive again.
It was a regretful feature of the older arts to depend so heavily on astrological cycles. Modern magic had advanced in leaps and bounds since then, and 'primitive methods' had been discarded in favour of more practical alternatives. But some still claimed that the traditional methods remained the most powerful.
This potion was strictly outlawed by the Ministry, described by the Department of Dangerous Substances as the "liquid Imperius". The potion's object lost all free will, completely oblivious to their addiction to the drinker, thriving off their scent, their voice, their every gesture. The effects would creep up so gradually that it was almost impossible to notice the potion's influence, yet it would even be capable of turning the bitterest of enemies into blissful lovers.
Exactly what the Headmaster had had in mind.
To his credit, the sombre potion's master did little more than narrow his eyes when he heard of what was intended for his favourite pupil.
"But Draco should make this kind of decision of his own free will. There is still hope for him to reach the right conclusions by himself." The professor's voice was flat and deliberately emotionless.
Dumbledore had been expecting the protest and merely nodded sagely. "Young Mr Malfoy is no longer in the fortunate position where his personal choice is a matter that concerns him alone." Snape's eyes darkened dangerously as Dumbledore continued, "his animosity towards Mr. Potter, much like your own for his father and Sirius Black, has been growing to dangerous levels over the past two years."
The old man was satisfied to see the black-robed man flinch slightly at the bitter memory, so he continued, "it is now his final year here and he will soon no longer be under my jurisdiction. It is becomingly infinitely more likely that he will make an active attempt against Mr. Potter's life, encouraged by his father who has already made an attempt in person with the use of Voldemort's old diary." Snape flinched involuntarily at the name, but Dumbledore barely noticed. "I'm sure you need no reminding Severus. I am sure that young Mr Malfoy will consider defecting to Voldemort a great privilege and opportunity, and no doubt his influence amongst his fellow house mates will influence their decisions in this matter also."
Dumbledore waited until he had the beetle-black eyes locked firmly by his piercing gaze before adding, "as I recall your own reaching of the, how did you put it… right conclusions?... came a little too late." He didn't miss the instant tightening of Snape's jaw, but finished all the same.
"I refuse to put more lives at risk."
Now the black eyes looked positively haunted. They both knew to what he was referring to. It had been in the year of 1977 that Snape had been a student in his final year at Hogwarts, and it had been that year in which he had gained his Dark Mark. Dumbledore had always suspected he would, of course. After all Severus Snape had been young, foolish and Slytherin. Not to mention frighteningly intelligent and painfully disillusioned. Dumbledore had been disappointed that a student with so much potential had succumbed so easily to the allure of the Dark Arts, but he had considered it "his choice to make."
Unsavoury recollections of a pasty, greasy-haired youth being tormented by his broad-shouldered Gryffindor counterparts was perhaps a measure of how much of a "choice" it had really been for Severus Snape. Sirius Black and James Potter had not realised the narrow line that Snape was precariously balanced upon between Light and Dark.
No, they had condemned him as a Death Eater at first glance. So much for the fabled Gryffindor fairness.
They did not realise that it was they, greater than any promise of power and glory, that drove Snape straight to the Dark Lord's side; the desperate need to escape a life debt to the boy he had hated and envied and hated envying. And Albus Dumbledore had done nothing to interfere.
It was barely five years later before James and Lily were killed and Sirius locked away in Azkaban for their murder. It took five years of death, destruction and Cruciatus for Snape to finally come to his senses and make the decision he should have made at the very beginning. Five years too late.
The memory was as vivid as an image perfectly preserved in a penseive:
The young man, framed in the doorway, his sallow features piqued and livid, beads of sweat quivering on his high forehead and sliding along the bridge of his hooked nose. His dark hair hanging in damp tendrils about his hollow cheeks and his eyes darted about the room like those of a caged animal, frenzied and delirious. The last vestiges of daylight had illuminated his features with its rosy cast and made him look feverous and flushed.
Severus Snape had staggered the last few steps into the room before sinking gratefully to the floor, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his right hand clutched at the sleeve of his robe in a vice-like grip. Something had been glistened through the gaps in his narrow fingers, something slick and crimson: the Dark Mark had secreted a putrid mixture of ink and blood.
He had confessed everything then. Fear, regret, sorrow and desperation. The people he had sentenced, tortured and murdered. Each emotion had been alien and frightening on the once-implacable features of the Death Eater. He had been swept up by the power at first – his first experience of respect. But the death of the Potters had unbalanced something in his mind – he had helped kill a man who had once saved his life – and as much as he had desperately tried to forget a Life-Debt could not be forgotten. The remorse had hit him all at once like a sledge-hammer.
Snape understood why Dumbledore had to act this time. But he didn't have to like it.
"I understand your concern for the boy, Severus, but remember… the potion can easily cease to be administered the instant Mr Malfoy's change of allegiances becomes confirmed. He will never even be aware of the difference."
A silence stretched between them; a battle that didn't require words or wands. Finally Snape gave a small smirk. Even that small gesture seemed to cost him a considerable amount of personal anguish. Nevertheless when he spoke his voice regained some of its characteristic sneer,
"Draco and Potter? It'll take far more than my skills to make that one ever happen on this side of hell." He turned to face the door, and added with a barely audible sigh of defeat, "Madame Pomfrey will provide me the sample of blood that I will require."
With that he had left, perhaps not even hearing the quiet, "thank you Severus."
Sucking on his sherbet lemon, lost in his thoughts nearly a year later, Dumbledore did not even consider the other explanation for his potion's failure. Well, there was nothing he could do about it now. Events would simply have to play their course – without interference.
Down below, faced with the implacable stone features of the gargoyle Harry was almost ready to cry with frustration. There was almost no room left in him for anger. He had shouted, cajoled, begged, abused and run through the entire inventory Honeydukes twice over at varying volumes and still the entrance remained stubbornly locked. Dumbledore was either out; unlikely. Or simply refusing to see him.
There was one last, hopeless, whisper of "chocolate frogs…" before he turned, took a deep breath, and without once looking back, began the dejected trudge back to Gryffindor Tower.
He had nowhere else to go.
