Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world belong to J. K. Rowling. This is for fun, no copyright infringement is intended.
Author's note: Sorry it took so long but real life was really busy. Thank you for your reviews.
- Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Potions classroom
... should have seen what he gave me, first lesson, the Draught of Living Death ... never had a student produce finer on a first attempt ... I don't think even you, Severus...
Slughorn's booming voice continued to echo through Snape's head as he stared at the battered looking door of the corner cupboard in his old classroom, arms crossed tightly in front of his chest. His eyes tracing the scarred and discoloured wood, rough from the steam of countless potions.
He must have opened and shut that cupboard more than a hundred times in the course of the years, handing out scales and textbooks and other school supplies to students or putting them back in. Always knowing it was there in the bottom, hidden in shadows and protected by the enchantments he had placed upon it such a long time ago. Feeling its magic weaken as time went by, fading until it was nothing more but a faint memory of the powerful pull it had once been. When even far away from Hogwarts he had always known it was there.
... never had a student produce finer on a first attempt ... I don't think even you, Severus...
Maybe the last spells had finally worn off. It would certainly explain Potter's sudden and rather spectacular improved brewing skills because while Slughorn was ignorant and an idiot and only interested in his own welfare he sure knew his potions... And Potter had had to owl for his own book, not expecting to be allowed to continue the subject.
... I don't think even you, Severus ... I don't think even you...
No. Not even he.
Snape slowly unfolded his arms but instead of reaching out he turned abruptly and found himself striding back across the room towards the door, just as he had done at least three other times since that fateful Christmas party. Telling himself yet again that he had more important things on his mind than the whereabouts of an old copy of Advanced Potion-Making. Even if it had been the one thing he had treasured most from the moment he had pulled it out of a dusty box with his mother's old textbooks and had first marvelled at the delicious sounds of those strange words so difficult to read for a seven-year old.
Shoving these thoughts roughly aside Snape scooped up the long black travelling cloak he had left near the entrance before extinguishing the few torches he had lit with a flick of his wand and flinging the heavy door shut behind him. He was supposed to meet Dumbledore outside in less than a half an hour and he didn't intend to be late. He had just enough time to get rid of that Boggart Filch had discovered in one of the third floor classrooms.
An angry scowl darkened Snape's sallow face as he stalked down the dimly lit dungeon corridor.
How anyone could employ a Squib as caretaker in a castle with hundreds of would-be witches and wizards would be forever beyond his understanding. Any kind of small magical creatures were BOUND to be drawn by them and most had little problems to seep through the wards around the school grounds designed for far more dangerous intruders. Sometimes he really felt like the nursemaid of the castle. Especially since Filch had started bothering him even with things he had formerly taken to McGonagall or Flitwick now that they - how had he put it? - 'finally' had a 'competent' Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. He wouldn't be the least surprised if Dumbledore had had a hand in that too.
Snape snorted disgustedly, causing some first-years in the Entrance Hall to squeak faintly and nearly melt into the hour-glasses as he headed for the next staircase.
No, he held no illusion whatsoever he'd have got the job if the old headmaster hadn't wanted Slughorn back at the school for some obscure reasons. Not even now when it didn't matter any more. And keeping him busy would just fit Dumbledore's wretched sense of humour ... as would be dragging him on another night hike through the Forbidden Forest while lecturing him about his not-existing progress in uncovering Draco Malfoy's plans. As if he needed to be told that he seemed to have lost his so carefully cultivated grip on the boy at the most inconvenient of times.
Bellatrix Lestrange and her blasted jealousy. The woman had done more damage than he had thought possible in one summer. But then of course Draco had been easy prey considering the circumstances. The seemingly infallible father suddenly openly unmasked as a Death Eater and imprisoned in Azkaban. Probably the disturbing discovery that the normally so composed mother was now sometimes weeping behind carefully locked doors. Not to mention to be assigned a terrible task under dead threat from one of the most dangerous men of this century. If man was still the right term.
A shifting flight of stairs forced Snape to stop and change direction and he swore unpleasantly under his breath because of the detour. Some things he would definitely NOT miss! Climbing up the steps to his left his thoughts returned to his earlier musing.
Ah, yes, Draco and his stubborn pride that didn't allow him to admit defeat even if it was obvious his usual cocky bravado was coming crashing down on him the nearer the end of the year drew. Well, at least Dumbledore cared for the boy as much as for any other student in his school even if he was a Slytherin and was deeply concerned for his safety. Because he was bound to fail the task set by the Dark Lord. The old headmaster knew that as well as he - Snape - did. Draco was many things and most of them were not good but he wasn't a killer. Not yet, not face to face. In a few years maybe - after life taught him some ugly lessons but no, not yet. Although he might well end up killing someone by sheer accident in his current despair. But that was something totally different.
Rounding a corner Snape nearly walked into a group of chattering fifth-year girls that scattered quickly in abrupt silence after one menacing glare. Smirking in dark satisfaction he proceeded down the corridor. It wasn't like he would have that pleasure much longer. A sharp frown replaced the smirk at that thought.
He couldn't help being somewhat impressed with Dumbledore's determination to do anything - ANYTHING necessary to defeat the Dark Lord. And with his insight that time was working against him.
He was no longer the man a young Death Eater had turned to so many years ago despite his seething animosity and still lasting anger ... they both knew it. He was still powerful, yes, the fight in the Ministry had proven that beyond any doubt. He was still the only wizard the Dark Lord ever feared, the head of the Order of the Phoenix, leader of the resistance. Yes. But fifteen years were a long time for a man of his age even in wizarding world. And each year to come would turn chances more against him because they counted twofold, threefold, fourfold for him but not for others.
His death on the other hand - especially from the hand of a traitor within his own ranks - would hopefully make the Dark Lord careless enough to give Potter the tiny advantage that decided over triumph or defeat. It would force Potter to mature quicker and more effective than he ever could under the old man's protective wing, giving him the strength and burning determination he would need to follow and maybe survive the path set for him by a faceless, merciless fate. And it would unite the wizarding community in grief and shock and the desire for revenge if only for a short time. Maybe it would even serve to smooth the ruffled feathers of the Ministry although it was doubtful Potter possessed the diplomatic skills for that and it didn't really matter anyway.
Not to mention that there were possibly a million more reasons Snape couldn't even dream about and Dumbledore would never tell him. Even if it was him to take the full blow of public rage. Even if it was him to take the role of the traitor. But then - and Snape couldn't help a cynical sneer at that thought - he had long since given up any hope to win this annoying popularity contest called life.
Pushing open a door to the right Snape strode into the empty classroom behind it and shook his cloak off his arm, draping it over a chair. Looking around his eyes fell instantly on a waist-high cupboard opposite the entrance, shaking ominously now that the creature inside was feeling a human presence in the room. Slowly he closed the door and took out his wand.
Of all dark creatures he found Boggarts the most ... unsettling. Of course it happened extremely seldom the shape-shifters actually scared someone to death but just the concept of using one's deepest fears was a bit uncomfortable. Therefore he had always been somewhat grateful that he had only encountered two of them so far in his entire life.
The first one - he had been five or six - had assumed the form of his father. His mother had found him and had actually embraced him a little awkwardly what had scared him just as much because it was so unlike her normal behaviour, she had never been good at showing affection... Had assured him almost gently and with a confusing trace of guilt in her voice he hadn't understood that his father would never lay a finger on him. In the end it was one of the few things she had ever been right about when it came to his father for the man had never touched HIM.
The only Boggart he had met in his adult life had become a werewolf - no doubt courtesy of Mr Moony, Prongs, Padfoot and not to forget Wormtail. But by then he had had some very detailed ideas how to deal with that kind of monster. The Boggart had experienced a rather unpleasant surprise.
Still smirking smugly at the memory Snape pointed his wand at the cupboard and the door burst open, banged against the front of its neighbour and bounced back, coming to a halt half-ajar.
For several seconds a strange silence vibrated in the big deserted room; echoed loudly, inaudibly, threateningly through the deep - too deep - shadows in the enclosed space. Then a vague, sliding movement in the darkness, the soft rustle of clothes. The still door slowly swung outwards as if on its own. Dark robes whispered quietly on the floor, billowing as a long leg stretched out almost gracefully.
Snape's lips opened slightly.
Leather soles creaked gently on stone as the figure shifted its weight and ducked with terrifying elegance through the narrow opening. Big - way too big - for the small space it came from but there nevertheless, unfolding in leisurely grace until it, until HE straightened to his full height, allowing greasy black hair to fall on his shoulders. And then it - and then HE started turning, agonizingly slow, first the head, then the shoulders and then the rest of the body, revealing a sallow face with harsh lines and an enormous hooked nose, framed by the curtain of dark, glistening hair.
Obsidian eyes bored into obsidian eyes.
And then Severus Snape in front of the cupboard almost lazily lifted his hands and smoothed down the front of his robes while Severus Snape in the middle of the room watched in disbelief. Leaving streaks of something wet, something crimson on the dark cloth. Curling his upper lip in a knowing sneer.
An indignant shriek outside the room - "No! Give that back! Colin!" - children's laughter and pounding footsteps of a wild chase down the corridor.
Severus Snape in the middle of the room gasped abruptly as if jerked awake from deep sleep while Severus Snape in front of the cupboard made an angry gesture as if to advance on his prey. But Severus Snape - the real Snape or at least the part of him that was still functioning, the cold, emotionless part that had kept him alive through countless meetings with the Dark Lord - stepped back and brandished his wand.
"RIDDIKULUS!"
The Boggart stumbled and blinked. A moment the two faces that looked like some kind of sick twins stared at each other. Only that the Snape in front of the cupboard now had long, grey, almost white hair and a beard that fell down on his chest. Deep lines of age were etched in his harsh features while one hand was gripping a knobbly walking stick.
And just the thought he could ever live that long - after what he had done, after what he was doing, after what he was GOING to do - was ridiculous enough to rip a bark of hysterical laughter from Snape's throat.
And mirthless as it was, it held enough bitter amusement that the Boggart burst in a fading puff of black smoke.