AN: This is set after the Final Battle and could potentially be canon. There is strong language, but no graphic depictions of violence. I don't own Harry Potter.

Another Perspective

Transcript date: May 10, 1998

Interviewee: Poppy Pomfrey

Interviewed by: Kingsley Shacklebolt

Re: Investigation of Severus Snape (posthumous)

I barely saw Snape while he was headmaster, but there was one notable occasion: he showed up in my office long after midnight, trembling all over and bleeding through his robes. I hadn't seen him up close since before he killed Albus Dumbledore.

"I know you hate me," he said, "but it's bad." And then he passed out.

My healer's oath prevented me from walking away, but my own moral compass would never have let me, even if it were an option. Don't misunderstand me, I felt as angry at and betrayed by him as any of my colleagues. On another occasion, I might have been tempted to leave him there. But I hadn't had to patch up students who had been tortured on his orders for a couple nights in a row, so I suppose I was feeling charitable. And I never could resist a soul in need.

So, I got him into bed and began running the usual diagnostics. As horrible as he'd been, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of pity. You must remember, I saw him grow up. He spent a lot of time in my infirmary as a student. I suspect he was abused at home, but he was always so careful not to say anything incriminating, and it was harder back then to have guardians investigated without an outright confession on the child's part. Then, of course, he joined the Death Eaters, and You-Know-Who wasn't exactly known for his kindness, even to those who followed him. Once he turned spy for Dumbledore, I had to patch him up pretty regularly, especially in the early days. Eventually he stopped coming to me, unless it was particularly bad, like that night. I think his pride got in the way. He never said so explicitly, but I believe one of his biggest fears was that someone would see him in a moment of weakness. It's quite sad, really.

Anyway, he had obviously been tortured. There was the usual Cruciatus, but also deep cutting hexes and burn marks. I treated him as best I could. All the injuries would scar since they were the result of Dark Magic. He'd always had scars, even when I first saw him at eleven years old. He claimed he'd fallen down the stairs, but no fall leaves belt-buckle-shaped marks like that.

He regained consciousness while I was wrapping his midsection. He wasn't truly aware of his surroundings or what he was saying. I know because he began talking, saying things like, "Doesn't seem fucking worth it."

I said, "I beg your pardon?" and he mumbled, "He said it would all be worth it. He fucking promised. At least maybe I'll get some fucking rest now. Fucking Dumbledore. 'It'll all be worth it' my ass. Fuck the greater good. I'm tired. Fucking nose-less, snake-faced maniac puts the 'dick' in 'dictator.'"

He went on like that until I gave him Dreamless Sleep. He always swore like a sailor when he was in pain. He didn't show it otherwise, never whimpered or screamed or even made a pained expression, so that was how he let it all out.

He slept much longer than he should have, even with the sleeping draught. I wasn't surprised. He was running on fumes. The fact he had made it to my office would have been incredible even if he'd been in perfect health to begin with. And he was certainly not in perfect health to begin with.

It was the next evening when he woke. I saw panic all over his face before he put on his usual, expressionless mask.

"How long have I been out?" he asked.

"Almost twenty-four hours," I told him.

He practically flew out of bed. By rights, he should have collapsed, but he didn't. His body had been through hell, but the man had fortitude like none I've ever seen. He said, "I'll be going now. You will tell no one about this if you value your life."

I'm not sure why I did, but when he was almost at the doors, I quoted, "'It will all be worth it'" and he froze instantly.

"What did you just say?" he asked without turning, in that low voice I'd heard him use to issue threats.

"Last night you said that Dumbledore promised you it will all be worth it," I said. "What did you mean? What game are you playing, Severus Snape?"

I must have been feeling brave that day, to question him like that. At the start of the year, he'd given a big speech about the repercussions of undermining his authority, with "total elimination" being a possibility, depending on the severity of the transgression.

There was a very long silence, during which he didn't move a muscle. Then, finally, he spoke.

"The headmaster asked many things of me," he said. "The end goal is great, but sometimes the cost feels greater."

"What is the end goal?" I asked.

"To be rid of the Dark Lord and all who follow him."

He finally turned back to me, and I saw that his mask was gone again. I don't know how to describe the look on his face. It was the look of a man who had given up.

"Do you know the personal cost of committing an act as heinous as murder?" he asked me. I didn't. "It splits the soul. It's a terrible thing. And yet, when the headmaster was dying, he asked me to do it. It would persuade the Dark Lord of my loyalty. It was the perfect plan. And the only price was my soul. He said I was sparing him, that my soul would come to no harm by saving an old man from a slow and painful death."

Then, I had to strain to hear him as he whispered, "But if that's true, why do I feel that split every single day?"

"You're still on our side," I realized.

The corner of his mouth quirked up.

"Why tell me now?" I wanted to know.

The change was instant. His expression became cold and he straightened, and he must have drawn his wand, although I didn't notice at the time. "Because you won't remember this in the morning. Obliviate."

I know. You're about to ask me how I can remember this story to tell it. That's another story in itself.

The day after the Final Battle, I went back to my rooms. We had dealt with the worst of the wounded and called in healers from St. Mungo's to assist. I trusted my colleagues to wake me if anything went wrong, and I needed the rest. There comes a point in medicine where you are no good to anyone if you are too exhausted to tell a bad contusion from a mild fracture.

When I got to my rooms, a house elf appeared in front of me. It held a small vial in one hand and a letter in the other. The elf informed me that "Headmaster told Genie to make sure Mistress Poppy got these after Headmaster's death."

I thanked the elf and dismissed it without thinking much about it. All I cared about right then was sinking into bed. After some sleep, a hot shower, and a good meal, though, I realized that the vial contained memories. I'd received a Pensieve from my late husband, so that's how I watched them. There were two: the first was my own, the memory of that night, the one I just recounted for you. The second memory, I realized quickly, was his. It was the same night, from his perspective.

You-Know-Who had tortured all his followers in a rage after Harry, Ron, and Hermione broke into Gringotts. He was especially hard on Snape, though, because he felt that Snape was not being a strict enough disciplinarian. The Gringotts break-in was the straw that broke the camel's back, so to speak. That night was also the straw that broke Snape's back, or almost broke it, since of course he carried on afterwards. He never entertained giving up as a real possibility.

But I felt how tired he was in that memory, how depressed. As soon as I spoke, he knew he'd said some things during his pain-induced haze that he would have to Obliviate me for. It was almost a relief, to have the opportunity to share that bit of his side of things. You see, everyone hated him, and he wasn't as immune to it as he seemed. It all took its toll. He was like a pot ready to boil over, he needed to let out some of the steam. But he would never have spoken to anyone just for the purpose of speaking to them. It was too risky and too self-indulgent. So, he took the chance when he saw it. He'd have to erase my memory either way.

I wanted to be mad, but it's hard to mad at a dead man, and harder to be angry with a man who you realize was doing his best and struggling terribly. I still fault him for a lot of things, but now it seems a bit hypocritical. In his position, I don't think I could have done better.

Anyway, that was the only time I really spoke to him. I like to believe that brief moment of honesty made him feel better. I think it did. I didn't remember the letter until after I'd viewed the memories. It was just a single piece of parchment, and it said, "Thank you."