Intermission: Gloom's Own Country
"Severus."
"Severus."
"Severus!"
It seemed that he heard the name everywhere, now that the Dark Lord had instructed him to look for it and think of himself that way. Albus called him by it when he wanted Snape to talk to him about some new strategy in the war against the Dark Lord. McGonagall called him that when she wanted to warn him against harassing her precious Gryffindors—not only that, but she expected to be called Minerva. Moody, whom Albus had hired to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts this year, grumbled it as an ironic greeting when he stumped past him in the halls.
And all the while, Snape—Severus—became more and more aware how much he despised them.
The death of Harry had broken them, all of them, in ways that it should not have, given that the supposed object of the prophecy, the Potter brat who looked most like his father, was still alive. Albus's eyes were misty often now, as if he saw the end of his life approaching and was half-glad. Some essential snap had gone out of McGonagall's voice. Moody taught grimly, as if he expected his students to survive rather than triumph.
And James Potter came to the meetings of the Order of the Phoenix looking as if someone had roped him and dragged him through the mud behind a Granian.
Snape enjoyed those meetings more than he could say. He must, of course, give false details about Death Eater tactics and make sure it contradicted none of what he had said so far; he must dance around Albus's constant attempts to make him more accessible and friendly to the others; he must know that on leaving these meetings, he went straight back into the world that made him so uncomfortable, the world of Hogwarts where he taught useless information to the children of his enemies. But for a brief hour or so—the Order of the Phoenix never gathered in one place for longer than that, these days—he could stare at his worst enemy's face and know that he had helped kill his son and was going to find out and deliver up the location of his other, and Potter had no idea.
On this day, when he came into the room, Potter was the only one there. Snape made his footsteps as silent as smoke, and came up beside him before he could hear him or turn around.
"Si—" Potter began, turning his head. He seemed to forget that Black was dead, too, half the time. He jumped in enormous surprise, and his throat worked as he swallowed. Then he said, "Severus."
"James," said Snape. It was the first time he had ever willingly done as Albus told him, and called another member of the Order by his first name. Potter tensed, his hands flexing over the arms of his chair. Snape took a seat across from him, watching him carefully all the while, noting the way his head tilted and the hazel eyes behind his glasses seemed to widen in time to his panicked breathing.
"What do you want from me?"
It was the barest whisper, but Snape heard it. He made sure not to give any sign of how much it pleased him. "I want what you want, James," he said. "The defeat of the Dark Lord, and the freedom to act in accordance with my views again." Only the first part of that sentence was a lie.
"You're lying," Potter breathed.
Snape could suppress his first, startled reaction, too. No one knew the details of his spying; many of them did not even know that he had been in the graveyard when Voldemort rose, or that he regularly went back into his Lord's service. Potter was merely striking out, hoping to hit a nerve, not aiming at what he knew would frighten Snape or expose him as a double agent. "About what?" he asked blandly.
"Wanting the defeat of You-Know-Who." Potter stood and stalked towards him. "I know you would be just as glad to see him take over, so that you could have the pleasure of torturing my wife and son."
As usual, Potter saw this great war of ideals and hatred and revenge all in terms of himself. Snape did not allow a muscle to move, nor the bland expression to leave his face. "Whatever lies you must tell to accustom yourself to working with your schoolboy enemy, Potter," he said, and looked away.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
The spell bound him to the chair, of course. What Potter didn't know was that Snape commanded enough wandless magic, in situations of intense rage, to break the binding and stand. And this had abruptly become a situation of intense rage.
He let Potter get a few steps closer, wand bouncing in his hand. He wanted to destroy the man, not merely wound him.
"Severus," Potter mocked. "I know you're lying, Severus. You know you're lying. You're as black-hearted as you ever were, and I don't know why Albus trusts you. You only remain part of the Order so that you can carry information on our activities to—" He took a deep breath and forced the name out. "Voldemort. You knew more Dark Arts than the rest of us put together when you came to school for your first year, didn't you? I always wondered where you learned them. Now I think I know. You grew up in gloom's own country. Albus told me a little about your childhood, the last time I asked. Not that I think what your mother did to you excuses the way you've acted to my own children, just to make that clear. In fact, it only makes me wonder if you ever actually broke free of her influence."
Snape felt a white light build behind his eyes. It burst out of him with a soundless roar that rattled the windows of the meeting house, though Snape doubted it shone through them. The Order had spells up to shield the sights inside the house from spying wizards as well as nosy Muggles.
When he could see again, the heaviness was gone from his limbs, and Potter lay on the ground, stunned, barely breathing.
Severus wasted no time. Potter was still only wildly guessing, but he might inspire the other Order members to begin distrusting him, and that would ruin Severus's own plans for remaining a double agent. And there was what he had said about his mother.
No one talked about Eileen Prince to Severus's face. Or behind his back, for that matter, and he silently promised himself that Albus would also feel his wrath, as soon as it was safe to exercise it.
He knelt beside Potter and drew a small vial of silver potion from his robe. He had created this potion, but hadn't tested it thoroughly yet. For the most part, he wouldn't have used such a liquid even on his worst enemy, because it might cause less pain than Severus wanted to create.
Now, he did not care. Or perhaps he had the faith, implicit in some Potions Masters at flying moments like an artist's faith in his work, that this one would achieve what he had made it to do. He poured it carefully down Potter's throat, and then massaged his throat muscles until he swallowed.
Then he sat back and waited until those hazel eyes fluttered and focused on him. "What happened?" Potter muttered.
"You're going to forget what really happened," said Severus, his voice calm and stern. "You'll remember that I came in, called you James, and we had an amiable discussion. It shocked you, and you accused me of being a double agent, but I reassured you I wasn't, and you believed me. Do you remember all that?"
"Yeah," Potter breathed. "Yeah, I do." He extended a hand, and Severus grasped it, pulling him to his feet. Potter pulled his hand back at once, then nodded as if embarrassed. "I'm sorry I accused you—Severus."
"Not at all, James," said Severus, and then took a seat on the chair as they waited for the others to arrive. He could feel the silver potion stretching through Potter's veins like a liquid Imperius. He had only to whisper orders, and Potter would do what he wanted. The effect was more like a Memory Charm than Imperius, in that Severus would need to create new memories to convince him what he did was his own will, but it worked. And by the time the other members of the Order arrived, Severus and James were laughing together, and Albus smiled serenely as if his ridiculous policies had really achieved this all on their own.
Severus smiled at him, and showed none of the rage that lay inside him, gnawing on its own chain.
Albus. You fool. You do not know what you have waked in me. But you shall see son enough. How I hate you, old man.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
Snape rose with a yawn, the strips of the dream feathering around him and falling away. This time, he didn't wake up with much hatred, other than a remembered crust of hatred towards Dumbledore. He felt satisfied, as if he had accomplished something in the dream that pleased him very much.
He shrugged, and checked on his potions. The purple one was almost a game now; he made it more deadly little by little, and sometimes it smoked and overflowed and otherwise refused to obey what he asked of it. The silver potion, which would help to heal gaping Occlumency wounds like the ones Harry had suffered from Tom Riddle's attack in his second year if Snape could ever perfect it, lay shimmering in a cauldron beside that.
He turned to face the round of Potions class and the dunderhead students he would have to teach, most of them without even a tenth of Draco's or Harry's or Granger's competence. But he felt less resigned about it than he usually did, almost as if this life had been his own free choice.
He felt, for a moment, as if he walked in morning's own country.
