Chapter Nineteen
Driving wasn't easy. The roads were covered with snow and Claire could only go very slowly until she reached the motorway. By then snow had started to fall again and the bad visibility limited her to a very low speed. The snow changed into rain as she came south. She relaxed and accelerated only to meet the first traffic jam at six o'clock. A lorry had skidded on the slippery road and lost some of its cargo. The motorway was blocked for sixty minutes. When she reached the outskirts of London, commuter traffic had already started and she had to crawl along with hundreds of other cars. Then the crawl became a standstill. She tried the radio to get some information on what was going on, but couldn't find any. Built up traffic was common here,didn't make it into the news. Half-past nine. Her mobile phone rang.
"This is Harry Potter. We're waiting, where are you?"
"I'm stuck here," Claire almost sobbed, "I won't make it in time, don't wait any longer." "Right, I'll phone you again if there is news."
Claire put the phone back on the passenger seat, tears of frustration in her eyes.
In Azkaban the friendly guard took a deep breath before opening the door to cell 026. Encountering death wasn't easy, even if it was only a convicted Death Eater. He peered into the gloom. The figure on the bunk didn't move. Carefully the guard approached him, stood and watched. The prisoner was lying on his back, eyes closed. The guard bent down and could now see the minimal movement of the blanket - so he still lived. Amazing. The guard put down the breakfast tray and touched the forehead of the sleeping man. Cool, the fever was gone. He shook his head in wonder, this was a miracle. Gently he started shaking Severus's shoulder.
"Wake up, Snape, the warden wants to see you."
Reluctantly the prisoner open his eyes.
"The warden wants to see you, you must get up!"
Severus stared at the blurred shape of the guard and tried to understand the meaning of the words. So he was still alive. But he was so tired. His limbs weighed tons and his head was filled with cotton wool. In his confusion he forgot that he didn't speak to the guards.
"What?" he croaked.
"The warden wants to see you."
Severus tried to understand the words.
"What?"
"Are you deaf now as well?" Even the most sympathetic guard could become impatient. "THE WARDEN WANTS TO SEE YOU!" he shouted.
Severus analysed those words. What did they mean for him?
The guard sighed.
"Here – have something to eat. Can you sit up?"
The guard helped him into an upright position draping a blanket around his shoulders. Then he watched helplessly as violent coughing racked the thin body.
"This is porridge."
Severus felt a bowl being put into his hands.
"Or do you want to drink first?"
"Drink," he managed a hoarse croak again.
The guard handed him the jar and Severus drank slowly, enjoying the cool liquid in his parched throat. The guard reminded him of the porridge and he tried to eat, but could swallow only a few mouthfuls before his stomach revolted.
"Right, if you're finished, let's go."
The guard helped him find his clogs and stand up. The movement made Severus dizzy, he swayed and had to lean on the guard for support. Slowly they started to walk, Severus forced his tired legs to move, his chains clinking with every painful shuffling step. When they reached the warden's office at last, he panted as if he had run a marathon and was drenched in sweat.
He was leaning heavily on the wall, fighting the urge to let himself fall to the floor and sleep, while the warden knocked on the door and waited for an answer from within. Then he was pushed into the room.
"Prisoner DE 2564, Severus Snape," the guard announced.
Warmth surrounded him, after two years in a cold cell it made him sick, it made him drunk. Blackness enveloped him and he fell.
When he came round he was sitting in a chair, hands were slapping his face and calling his name. A glass of water was put to his lips and he attempted to drink while his body started to shake uncontrollably. He could see a large shape approach him; a deep voice spoke to him. "Severus Snape, I received a letter from the Ministry this morning. They have come across some new evidence, your case has been re-opened. You are to be taken to the Ministry at once. The trial begins at 10 o'clock."
In Severus' head the voice sounded from far away, he could barely understand the words and was unable to show any reaction.
The warden looked at the prisoner with an expression of shock and concern. How could he have deteriorated that much in only two years? He had seen the man on the day of his arrival. He had been thin and disfigured by his injuries then, but now he was skeletal, filthy and half-dead, barely able to walk on his own. This would throw a bad light on the way this prison was run, he would have liked to do something to improve the prisoner's condition, at least clean him a bit, but there was no time. 'Without delay' had been underlined in the letter. The prisoner had to be taken to the mainland by boat and there they had provided a portkey that would transport him directly to the courtroom. The warden shrugged.
"Take him away. And," with a final look at the shaking man, "find him a cloak."
Severus fell asleep in the boat and was only half-conscious when they dragged him out and tied his hand to the old car-tyre that had been transformed into a portkey. He felt the familiar tucking sensation in his stomach and soon found himself in the warmth again, this time it was the warmth of the cell next to the courtroom in the Ministry. Someone took the cloak away and he was led through the door. The moment Snape entered silence fell.
He knew there were people watching, he could see their blurred shapes, even smell their presence, but no sound of voices or of people moving accompanied his way to the chair. Slow shuffles, chains clinking, it cost all of his strength and concentration to walk upright between the two Aurors. He was determined not to show his weakness and faint, and was glad when he reached the chair in the centre of the room. The ominous chains didn't bind him this time, but there was no reason, he thought grimly, he was already shackled. A bell sounded and a voice announced the trial opened.
No one in the room listened. All eyes were pinned on the wretched figure that was addressed as Severus Snape, but bore no resemblance to the man most of them knew.
They saw a wreck of a man, an emaciated, dirty creature with a grey stubble on his head and face, dressed in a filthy, ragged prison uniform. They saw the heavy fetters, much too heavy for the stick-like wrists. Trickles of blood had appeared on his hands where the iron rings were cutting into the already infected flesh.
"…regret to say that this parcel was found among the estate of the late Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour. Nobody knows why it was kept there and was not made available at your first trial. The Minister's daughter discovered it two days ago hidden away behind some books. It is a very strange business, but with the Minister dead, there will be little chance of solving this mystery. The parcel contains a letter from Albus Dumbledore to the Minister of Magic, a pensieve and several bottles filled with memories. Albus' memories. They have been tested extremely thoroughly and have been proved genuine und un-tempered with. Both the letter and the memories fully confirm the statement Mr Snape made about his role in the death of Albus Dumbledore at his trial. Did you know about the existence of such a letter, Mr Snape?"
Here Snape was seized with a coughing fit. "Can someone hand him a glass of water?" Someone did and the coughing subsided, leaving Snape even more exhausted. A soft humming sound had started in his head that diverted his concentration from the judge's voice. The question was repeated. Snape shook his head. He had always hoped against hope that the headmaster would find a way of informing the wizarding officials about his potion master's vows, but when nothing had turned up, had resignedly thought that somehow Albus had not managed to do it in time.
"We therefore had to revise your sentence. The Wizengamot met again this morning and has cleared you of all charges. You will be accepted as an honourable member into the Wizarding society again, you will receive the usual payment as a compensation for the time you spent in prison. On behalf of the Ministry I apologize for the irregularities that led to the disappearance of the parcel and for the inconveniences it caused you."
He pointed his wand at Snape and the chains fell away, showing the raw and bleeding marks on his wrists and ankles. Severus lifted his hands and stared at them. The humming in his head had increased, the light in the room became dim and then he heard no more.
"This document entitles you to the possession and use of your wand, you will need it for retrieving your wand from the department of wand-security;" the judge handed a piece of parchment with a large seal to one of the Aurors, "and this one is the renewal of your apparition license."
A second parchment was received by the Auror, who then crossed the room to give both of them to Snape. He cast a look at the man now slumped in the chair.
"Sir, he's unconscious, I think he needs a healer."
The judge exhaled deeply and shook his head sadly.
"Take him to St Mungo's", he commanded. "The trial is closed."
Harry Potter watched as the lifeless body of his former teacher was put on a stretcher and carried from the room. So the man he had hated and believed to be a coward had protected his life and those of many other wizards in England for years at extreme personal risk. And as a reward he had been incarcerated. Harry felt guilty for not having seen through the man's disguise of arrogance and sarcasm earlier; guilty for being regarded as a hero while the real hero had languished in a prison cell.
A hand on his shoulder brought him out of his thoughts.
"Mr Potter, can you tell Professor Saunders about the outcome of the trial and that we are going to meet her at to St Mungo's?"
The shock about Snape's condition was still visible in Minerva McGonnagal's face.
Harry turned to go to the phone box he had used earlier in the day to contact Claire, leaving behind the other members of the Order who had found time to attend the trial. They looked as guilty as he felt.
Thanks to J.K. Rowling for the inspiring characters.
To Mark Darcy: Is this getting better? I don't like Wagner, neither the man himself (as far as I know him from biographies), nor his opinions, nor the texts and plots of his operas, especially those of Ring, nor his music, which simply is too bombastic and blatant. I prefer Handel or Mozart.