Chapter 13: Weakness

November 5, 1995

Severus Snape

White stone, and the smell of lavender. And the sky… so clear and cold that it was silver, layered over with more silver in the form of slashed ribbons of cloud. Snape was standing on a bridge, beneath which came the roar of a wide and surging river, and as he cast his gaze up the snowy stone path that snaked into the mountains, he could see a castle poised like a bird of prey, as if waiting for the perfect moment to strike… Durmstang.

But what was he doing there? He hadn't been to the Bulgarian institute for so very long… not since 1988, and he didn't recall planning a trip east. His last experience in Durmstang had been quite enough.

When Snape turned his head to the side, he found himself standing next to Daskolov, his old Potions Master under whose apprenticeship he gained his own Mastership. Yes, the face was unmistakable, with craggy, wrinkled cheeks, humongous black eyebrows and beautiful dark blue eyes that seemed far too young for his distinguished features. As usual, the man wore his midnight blue teaching robes with dark, salt-and-peppered hair sprouting out from the centre of his skull in every direction.

He was talking- and had obviously been talking for quite some time, but for all that he wracked his brains, Snape could not recall what Daskolov had said up to that point.

"…we wait, passing our time in solitary, spinning away the years in silence, building up layers upon layers of our genius, all unnoticed, until we have formed a veritable castle of works… and what exactly do we do with it? That's right, nothing, nothing, never anything! And why? Because the world does not understand or see the magnitude, the beauty of what we have created. Oh, we publish it in a journal or two, but who ever reads that? No, the focus of the world is on the Weird Sisters, on Quidditch, on the latest shenanigans of the government in charge. What art is noticed, what genius goes to waste because we live in a world of fools? Empty shallow husks that do not live… they simply exist, sucking up oxygen to feed their ungrateful and lethargic forms while the Great Men of the world fade away in the dark. You understand me, don't you, Severus?"

"I understand that the majority of humans are fools. But I also understand I might believe that because they don't comprehend the beauty of Potions- something for which I cannot blame them, as it is a subtle and delicate art."

"My dear boy, I was not talking just about Potions… I was talking about LIFE. You can understand Potions and still not live. We know many of our colleagues who are nothing but dust covered old relics, prancing on and on about the same old theories that they were taught back in their school years. And as for the 'Modern Potioneer'? Taking their philosophy and energy for progress from the mouths of their peers, peers which first heard the words from their peers, who heard it from their peers. There is no one original under the sun, be it in the field of Potions or otherwise. You, Severus, are the first one I have had cause to hope for."

"Master, whatever do you mean?"

Daskalov huffed impatiently. "I don't make a habit of complimenting people, but as you are able to finish your apprenticeship I probably won't the opportunity or inclination to say this another time. So listen. In you I see the potential to be 'A Great Man'. In you is passion combined with genius, poetry combined with mathematics. You have the soul of an artist and the brain of a scientist. You stand out from the rest of this pathetic sea of humanity. If only you would make use of that which you have."

Snape's mind reeled all the way into the back of his skull as he tried to process the enormity of the man's words. Never had he ever said anything remotely complimentary to him… he had often heard him bemoan the lack of great men, but never had he indicated that he believed Snape could be one.

Ah. It was a dream.

At that realisation, colour suddenly surged up all around him, the hedges soaked in the golden green of sunlight, the lavender's scent flaring strong and heady, and the chalky granite feeling solid underfoot. Yet at the same time, the lucidity of dreaming filled Snape with bitter disappointment, compounded with a sense of grim self-mockery. 'Of course old Daskalov would never say that. The man was so obsessed with himself and with his resentment for his own failed greatness that he could never see greatness in anyone who wasn't already dead.'

But since it was a dream, and Snape's inhibitions were low, he allowed himself to fall prey to the indulgence of his ego, and to take control of the fictitious conversation.

"I feel I have been using my talents to a significant degree already." He said, his words feeling more substantial and direct than anything else in his already vivid dream.

"Teaching in some fat British school?" the old man snorted, his colossal eyebrows raised in derision. "You could revolutionise the Potions field, you could be the next Circe, Caspar, Kornilovaravitch, or Viridian. Write books, send the newspapers into convulsions with your new inventions. BE someone, Severus. I wouldn't have taken on a tedious long-distance apprenticeship if I didn't think working with you on the summer holidays would be a privilege for me one day. Don't make me regret it."

And, losing grip on the dream's direction, Snape found himself solemnly promising to become 'Great', forgetting the fruitless years that had in actuality passed since the time of his apprenticeship ending.

But at Snape's words, Daskalov's face suddenly shifted into a derisive mask. "Oh, you will become great, will you? Well, despite you having the potential to do it, I happen to know that you never will be able to. And you know why? Because you, Severus Snape, are a pathetic weakling."

Snape stared at Daskalov as if petrified, unable to look away from his glaring eyes that drew him in like a whirlpool torrent of darkening storm. And as he continued to stare, the world dissolved around him, the clear blue sky slamming into chaos while blue electricity and torrenting blood filled his vision. Then, a knife of agony shredded the dream into a million, painful pieces, but where this pain came from, Snape could not say, nor could he understand if it were affecting him, or another person, or if it were a physical or emotional sensation. He had become a beast, voided of intelligence and instinct in the face of pain and fear.

The world had not yet cleared of the roiling shades and shooting sparks, but Snape became aware of a voice chanting the words 'weak' over and over again.

And then the voice claimed its owner, and the dream focused in on the faces of young James Potter, flanked on either side by Sirius and Wormtail. In that same moment, Snape was conscious of the fact that his body had been flung backwards, back, back, back until it impacted with something hard. And then he was falling down, tumbling down the main Hogwarts staircase, in just the same manner as he had done years ago after being ambushed by the Marauder gang.

The scene shifted again, and he found himself encircled by the foursome, the gazes of the first three gleeful and malicious, and of Lupin, as always, guilty and pitying.

"You seriously can't escape, can you?" James taunted, shooting some painful curse at him- what curse it was his dream demurred to specify.

"This is sooo easy, he just takes it." Wormtail joined the fray, both in word and curse.

"Look at you, cringing on your skinny arse. What an amoeba." Sirius was scornful. "We OWN you, bitch."

And again, the chant of 'weak, weak, weak, weak' was caught on the wave, the cry thronging with a thousand hated voices.

And then it wasn't just the young Marauders that surrounded him with taunts and curses, but the entire Order, the Death Eaters, Voldemort, Daskalov, AND Dumbledore, all repeating the words of the Marauders, or adding their own tailored jabs.

And Dumbledore, so terrible, so triumphant- so unlike the man he knew to be his friend- said, "And you will never be a great man. Because we are your master."

Whether or not the dream would have continued, Snape was never to discover, as at the sound of someone's voice, he was jolted upright, awake, and very aware of the firebrand agony that shot through the entirety of his body.

It was just a dream… but it was frozen in his mind with all the vividness and terror that it had contained. What it meant, he knew not, and nor did he have the time to discover such a thing, for from the fireplace, a familiar head was peering blindly out at him.

Rolling his eyes and letting his head drop back down, he groaned less than growled, "Lupin."

November 5, 1995

Remus Lupin

Lupin had tried calling several times already that evening, and Snape had not responded. Knowing that if he missed a single night's worth of Wolfsbane he would be consigned to endure the maddening mind loss of lycanthropic transformation, Lupin was calling every half hour with ill-restrained panic. He was running dangerously low of floo powder by this point, and the clock had struck 3 AM- soon it would become much too late. Close to despair, Lupin told himself (just as he had told himself the six previous attempts) that this would be his last call.

The floo connection would never show the interior of the house if the occupant's location had a fireplace with blocked visuals, and so where on the previous calls Lupin had been treated to a scene of Snape's empty living room, on his final throw, he found he was unable to see anything at all. After a frightening moment in which Lupin considered he might have broken the floo system, he regathered his wits and again called out for Snape.

"Severus, are you there? It's getting really late, and I haven't had my Wolfsbane. Where the devil are you?"

To his immense relief, he heard a low mumble. Lupin raised his voice and again called out again, after which a weak voice uttered his name in confusion and, by the sound of it, half-hearted annoyance.

"I say, Snape, what on earth has been going on? I am nearly about to miss my Wolfsbane!"

There was a silence for a moment, and then Lupin nearly blushed at the cacophony of curse words that erupted from the fireplace.

Once Snape had finished, Lupin spoke once more. "Did you forget? Anyway, it doesn't matter, but are you able to make it now?"

"Yes, come in. One moment, I will unlock the entrance for you."

(For Snape, concerned with security, had allowed voice passage, and enabled a spell known only to himself to unlock Lupin's travel facility.)

It took Snape a bit longer than Lupin had expected, and he was surprised to hear muffled curse words and groans for that duration.

"It's unlocked." Snape's voice sounded extremely tight for some reason- was he angry?

Not sure whether to feel penitent or outraged, Lupin travelled through the floo, and found himself Snape's bedroom, where its occupant was leaning clumsily against a plush black bed with a rumbled coverlet. And… well, it was rather difficult to describe just how horrific Snape looked.

His thin chest rising up and down with pronounced effort, Snape's body was wrapped in bandages, and his face was so white it had taken on a kind of frozen minty hue.

"Good God… what happened?"

"Nothing to bother you." Whereas before Snape might have uttered it with a chilling smoothness, now it came out in a gargling croak. "I will make your Wolfsbane now."

"Um… what?" Lupin hurried over to his side. "No, no, I don't think so. I'll have to take the transformation this moon, because there is no way you can possibly prepare the Wolfsbane for me in this condition."

Snape then told him all manner of interesting things about his mother in terms the like of which Lupin had not heard from him since their days in as Hogwarts school-boys. "And I am making the soddin' Wolfsbane so you can scram until I am finished, do you quite understand?" he finished, pausing to take a deep, shuddering breath. His eyes were quite set, and Lupin knew there probably wasn't anyway talking him out of it. But just looking at his pitiful little frame, garbed only in a thin pair of pyjama pants, Lupin's conscience smote him…

'Yet another reason to feel guilty.' For, that evening, in light of his revealing conversation with Tonks the night before, he had called with the intent of making a lifetime's worth of apologies to Snape. But probably now was not the time for such a declaration.

Purple-lids closely shut over his eyes, Snape held his wand between a bird-like claw, and waved his wand, removing the majority of his body restricting bandages before Lupin could stop him. Then, he waved the wand in the Accio motion. A moment later, a potion containing something black and sludgy flew into his other hand, and without a word he downed the liquid.

An instant later, Snape's colour (what little there was on a given day) returned, and his eyes seemed to clear somewhat.

"Now, where were we?" his voice seemed stronger too, and he waved his hand absently, conjuring a shirt while he turned his attention on Lupin. "Oh yes, I believe I was telling you to remove yourself from my rooms while I prepare your potion. Having a wolf scampering nervously about is not going to expedite the brewing process."

"Nor is you toppling over in a heap when whatever that stuff was wears out." Retorted Lupin, eying the empty bottle with distrustful eyes. Of course he wanted the Wolfsbane, but he had never seen Snape… or many people, really, looking as ill as Snape had a moment ago. "I am staying here, if you insist on making the potion."

"As you wish." Snape shrugged coldly, and walked out of the room, leaving the door ajar.

Supposing Snape was actually too tired to argue with him, Lupin followed, determined to make sure that if Snape fainted, he wouldn't be falling into a cauldron of boiling Wolfsbane potion.

Inside the laboratory, Snape set to making the Wolfsbane, depositing some pre-prepared ingredients into a cauldron before slicing up some delicate chilled leafy plant.

"Are you sure I can't assist you?" Lupin urged, but Snape wheeled on him, irritation evident on his harsh features.

"Yes, wolf, you really can… by going to that side of the room and staying there."

Snape wasn't joking, so, feeling somewhat abashed, Lupin moved away and positioned himself next to Snape's desk, carefully scrutinizing him for any signs of weakening.

But alas, watching a man stir a cauldron doesn't prove interesting after a time, so Lupin found his attention wandering to Snape's desk. To his surprise, it was quite messy, which was odd, given what he knew about the man's fastidious nature. It was half-hazardly strewn in a wealth of paper, ink wells, and, strangely enough, Muggle lead pencils, as well as books and scrolls of all sorts. One of the book covers caught his attention, The Principles of Neuro-science. His eyes growing wide with shock, Lupin recognized it to be a Muggle book about the science of the human mind… quite a complex subject too, if his meanderings among the Muggle world lent his memory any credit.

Intrigued, he leaned to look closer at the papers on the desk, which were covered in Snape's jagged handwriting. He had to admit, he couldn't make much sense of the jargon, so unintelligible were the words and symbols that slashed across the pages.

But then one word leapt out at him- Imperious. Over and over again, the hideous curse mixed in with dozens of illegible Latin and English words and mathematical equations- Imperious, just repeatedover and over again. Lupin brushed the top papers aside to study the ones beneath, and again, the same word… a shiver trickled its way down his neck… Snape! What was he doing? Doubt soon enveloped Lupin, and his mind was quickly filled with all kind of frightening suppositions.

"I don't know what you are thinking, but you are wrong." A wry voice wrenched Lupin back to the reality of the situation, and he found himself once more flushing with shame as he met Snape's knowing eyes. Weak, invalid Snape with his pale, pointed face and bony little elbows pointing out under tucked up shirt-sleeves... what a successful day of penance this is turning out to be.

"I'm not thinking anything, Severus." Lupin hastened to assure him, not quite able to sift the guilt from his expression.

"You don't understand any of those papers." For once, Snape's voice held no mockery- he said it merely as a weary statement of fact. "But you think I am the progenitor of dark and evil doings, Satan's scribe."

"Who?" Lupin said automatically, although the identity of the unknown name interested him not a jot. His mind was warring with itself between feelings of guilt for his own mean suspicions and his irritation for what a part of him judged as Snape's self-pitying and dramatic indulgences.

"Never mind." Snape's lips parted unnaturally into a cold smile (had the man any idea just how creepy that was?) and he turned his attention back to the cauldron.

Determining that he ought to start trying to make a habit of giving Snape the benefit of the doubt, Lupin rallied himself and asked, "Well, what was it then, Severus? Please tell me, I am not going to make any judgements."

Snape's left eyebrow arched dubiously, as if to say, 'I have heard men speak of such a thing, but never seen it.' But leaving the eyebrow to voice such negatives, Snape himself nodded. "Very well. It's merely a research project in the aims of detecting the Imperious curse when applied to a human. I hope to present it to the Order… when it is finished."

It took Lupin a moment to comprehend the full extent of what Snape had just said with so blasé an air, and when he had quite finished staring stupidly at the other man, he found himself quite in need of sitting down. Plumping himself down in Snape's desk chair, he swallowed. "Oh, was that all it was?" he enquired weakly.

The balls on that man! It was beyond comprehension… it was almost sacrilegious- to dare to believe one could defeat an Unforgivable would be to rob it of its power and its evil- to reduce it down to a mere incantation and concentration of magical particles. But if anyone was atheistic towards superstition, it was Snape. It occurred to Lupin to yet again doubt the man, but he was tired of guilt and uncertainty. He had come that night come to apologise, and by Merlin, he intended to do it!

"I'm sorry." He continued, trying to force a laugh. "I didn't understand… I will say I don't understand. I don't understand you at all, man, I really can't. You are so decent yet you insist on pretending otherwise."

Snape rolled his eyes, "I said, I am not-"

"Not decent, not kind, I know, I know. But Severus, people who have not been treated with kindness tend to never be very good judges of what it is." Lupin walked towards Snape, nervously tapping his fingers against the hem of his shabby tweed coat. "I haven't been kind to you, you know. Of course you know, and you hate me for it." It was time for La Grande Apology.

But just as Lupin drew in a deep breath to say his piece, Snape interrupted, jutting his chin out, his mouth drawn down into two black vertical lines. "Not for that. I hate you for being kind to me."

….

"What?" Shock was a suitable description for Lupin's state of mind.

Snape continued, his voice rawer than Lupin had ever heard it. "Guilt and duty are terrible reasons to be kind. Kindness is a terrible thing if it isn't accompanied with a genuine liking for the person. It's disgusting without that. I find it vile. I hate it."

Lupin had no words. He wanted to deny being kind to Snape, but he knew he had been kinder to him than most people, despite the wrongs he had also done him. And now, here was Snape, throwing the whole thing up in his face. Had the man any idea just how difficult it had been to be patient and to hold his tongue during the year of teaching that he had to bear in Snape's company? Had he any notion of how hard it had been to smother his resentment when the vindictive Potions teacher outed him as a monster to the children he had genuinely began to love. To bear Snape was enough of a trial, to be pleasant to him should have earned him Nirvana! And yet, here was Snape demanding that Lupin should like him, or not bother with any of it.

Lupin flung his hands in the air with resignation. "I can't measure you out."

"I suppose that's part of my problem." Snape mumbled, and Lupin thought he heard his voice catch in his throat. But when he looked at the potioneer, he found himself wincing in the heat of the glare that was radiating his way.

"Kindness is nothing but the empty peddling of human effort. There are only two valid reasons for kindness- as payment for a service or from friendship born of mutual fondness."

Lupin found he could not answer Snape, so fell into introspection, turning the words over in his head while Snape returned, with a serenity so steady as to certainly be contrived, to his potion.

Silence must have reigned for some minutes before Lupin found the insight to respond. "You are a proud man, I think, Snape, and you are an idealist. You don't think anyone should love you without liking you, that's what you mean, isn't it?'

"Love is nothing and does not last, wolf." Snape's eyes wandered to the side of the room, his hand falling from the stirring rod. "I don't want your pity or your guilt, really. Because they don't have anything to do with me- the guilt and pity is all of your own making and I am then only acting as a receptacle for your benevolence."

Lupin wanted to be angry at such a damning surmise of what he knew to be his genuine actions, but he found he could not fight Snape, not when the man was being so open with him… so strangely open… almost as if he wasn't quite himself…

Then, in exactly the same instant that Snape's head lolled to one side, Lupin rushed forward, only just catching the man in his arms before his head could slam against the stone floor.

Snape was still conscious, but his eyes were bright like stars. "I haven't earned your kindness. So I hate it." And then his eyes shut, and his body dropped into a deadweight faint.

Holding Snape's thin, fragile body in his arms, an indiscernible emotion gripped his belly. Apologies could wait. Words were just words, after all.

November 5, 1995

Snape

Snape knew he must have fallen asleep again, but he could tell he hadn't dreamt anything. Dreams usually left a particular taste in his mouth. He wanted to open his eyes, to not waste whatever time belonged to him that day, but the pain that locked his body down made such an action ill-advised. Next, he found himself tempted to utilize Occlumency to subdue the agonising sensations, but again, reason reigned him in. How to distract his mind then? To open his eyes seemed as great an effort as standing, so he relied on the colourless sensations to understand his situation. The scent of pine and ammonia indicated that he was in his bedroom, as did the soft feel of his mattress, but he could hear the gentle breathing of an individual issuing from a corner of the room- perhaps Pomfrey, watching over him during the night?

Another reason to keep his eyes shut- he had no wish to have to converse and answer pointless interrogations about his relative state of health.

And in any case, memories were flooding back to him- far too many to be processed at once. To begin with, he had conquered the Imperious! And such is my reward. He thought with surly humour. For his moment of glory had been witnessed by a spying little Gryffindor boy- whichever Weasley twin it had been, Snape doubted the brat's intent had been friendly.

And then of course, the Death Eater meeting- but no, he had no desire to think on that. It had been enough to recall the events to Dumbledore- the marks had been clearly left on both his body and his occlumenic walls and he would not allow it to seep into his emotional being. So up another wall, and down another memory- buried, for the time being.

But he allowed himself the remembrance of one scene. At the meeting's end, when he lay sticky with blood and sweat, his brain screaming with the effort of retaining the occlumenic shields and his flesh tingling with the strange non-sensation of utter physical trauma. He could see black and red, and because of the convex manner of his vision, he illogically supposed himself to be staring at the insides of his eyelids. A thick lock of white hair slapped down in front of his face, and a pair of eyes, seeming humongous and dark, peered out at him, and a moment later, he felt a hand grip his shoulder, and then everything went black again- probably, thought Snape in retrospect, because Lucius's Apparitioning had caused Snape so much pain as to render him unconscious.

Of course, there was the hospital wing, with the old man who obviously still preferred his reports to be iced with blood.

And the dream…. That strange dream. Whatever had made him think of Durmstang at a time such as this? His vile ambition had sept into it… would he never be rid of it? "In you I see in you the potential to be 'A Great Man'" Daskalov's words still resounded in his mind. But then also "you will never be a great man. Because we are your master." Owned. Shackled. Snape's pride struggled against the idea while his self-loathing portion snidely stated bondage to be the correct state of being for a man such as he. We are your master. That he was a slave was not news to Snape- he believed himself to have accepted it a long time ago. So why should it now bother him, and in such a way? Was it because he had just solved the Imperious puzzle, and was still riding high on the elation of that success? Either way, to rail against such necessary bondage would do no good.

He didn't want to think about the dream. He didn't want to think about the Death Eater meeting. He wanted to cry. Pathetic. So he decided that it would be a wiser idea to go back to sleep, which is what he did.

How long he had slept he could not have known, as his sleep was troubled by images and doubts… and by a nagging sensation that there was a memory left of the last few day's events that he not recalled.

His thin sleep was broken by a distinctly masculine snore that came from the other side of the room, thus eliminating Pomfry as being his breathy observer. And then Snape remembered.

Circe! What a spectacle. It had been the Conquistador's Tonic that had caused him to act like such a fool. He had given the brew its fanciful name when once held in its drunken throes, and as he had little intent of publicising such a dangerous potion, he had no cause to be embarrassed at its name. Being generally a tee-totaller, he was well aware of the potion's pitfalls. Although it had the power to abolish nearly all sensory pain and to bring mental and physical energy, Snape found that under its influence he was nearly entirely incapable of retaining his occlumenic shields, and his mind moving in tandem with his mouth- a loss of facility which he found highly disturbing. The things he had said to Lupin…

Snape's eyes snapped open and he let out a heavy curse- a bad habit he seemed to have been revitalizing over the past few evenings. He must have been significantly loud, as he heard Lupin's snore break off into a kind of snuffle and then, -"Severus, are you awake?"

"As awake as you are, I suppose." He sighed, shutting his eyes again. He didn't want to have to look at the wolf. "I should tell you, the potion I ingested has ill effects on one's mental stability. I probably said some rather ridiculous things- it would all have been very nonsensical."

"It didn't sound nonsensical. I haven't thought of much else since."

Snape shuddered at Lupin's pitying tone and hurried to change the subject. "What time is it… what day is it?"

"Tuesday- it's about 6 pm."

"Wolfsbane-" again Snape cursed.

"It's fine." Lupin interrupted him amidst another torrent of 'Northern chimney-street' vernacular, as Lucius would have termed it. "I drank it."

Snape stilled, trying to recall if he had even managed to finish brewing it. "That probably wasn't a wise thing to do." He said stiffly.

"No, it was fine." The sound of wood dragged across wood indicated that Lupin had pulled up a chair to the side of the bed. "Really, Severus, after suffering through that disgusting stuff these last few years I've come to be able to recognize the scent and colour quite well. Wolf senses, you know. You'd finished it."

"Then… what are you still doing here?" Snape was far too tired to bother spiking his voice with poison.

"You collapsed. I got you back into bed, and then Dumbledore came in- he said I should stay with you a few days, so that I can get my Wolfsbane and you can get a nurse."

Seriously? The crafty old coot. The prospect of having to spend concentrated time with Lupin was not something that Snape instantly thought appealing.

"I supposed he said it was an arrangement of symbiosis." Snape snarked. "And that I was to have no choice in the matter."

Lupin did not dispute that, but merely inquired mildly, "Would you like me to go?"

Afterwards, Snape would tell himself that it was out of the strategic need to ingratiate the wolf, but at the time, he had no idea why exactly he had answered 'no' instead of 'yes' the man's question.

So Lupin stayed.