Thanks for the reviews, everyone -- see, I am getting a little more back on track!
Eleven
A pounding on his door awakened Snape. He blinked against the darkness for a moment, then said, "Lumos!" The tip of his wand glowed with blue light, and he snatched it up from its resting place on the bedside table.
Minerva McGonagall's voice came through the door, sounding uncommonly agitated. "Professor Snape! Are you in there?"
"A moment, if you will!" he snapped. He knew McGonagall would not be intruding on his rest without good reason, and so he did not waste time in trying to dress. Instead, he pulled on the shabby dark gray dressing gown that lay across the foot of his bed and then hurried to the door.
The Transfigurations professor showed the same signs of a hurried toilette; a thin gray braid lay across her shoulder, and she wore a truly hideous woolly plaid robe. Her blue eyes, usually sharp and no-nonsense, were now filled with worry. "It's the Headmaster. He's returned, but he's in a bad way -- he needs you -- "
"Where?" cut in Snape.
"Back in his chambers. His hand -- his arm -- "
Snape didn't wait to hear the rest of it; he would find out for himself soon enough. Pushing past McGonagall, he sprinted down the hallway in the direction of the Headmaster's office. He heard her muttering to herself as she hurried after him, but as his legs were much longer than hers, he outpaced her easily.
When he reached the gargoyle Snape snarled, "Treacle tart," and the statue immediately moved out of the way. At least Dumbledore hadn't changed the password during the past few days.
His headlong rush slowed, however, as Snape caught sight of the Headmaster, who appeared to have collapsed on the overstuffed armchair normally reserved for visitors. Dumbledore's face was pale and shone with a thin sheen of sweat, but that wasn't what claimed Snape's attention. The Headmaster's right hand, barely visible beneath the enormous swath of cut velvet that made up the sleeve of his robe, had somehow blackened and twisted, looking like a tree scorched by a forest fire.
Then Dumbledore opened his eyes and looked directly at Snape. The bright blue gaze seemed somehow dulled. "Severus," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It appears I have need of your assistance."
Snape went immediately to the Headmaster and knelt down next to the chair, taking the maimed hand in his. The flesh felt as dry and cold as that of a mummy, as if all the blood and fluid had been drained out of it. "What have you done this time, Albus?" he inquired, the coolness of his tone belying the inner shock he felt at observing the alteration in Dumbledore's hand.
"Removed a little evil from the world, Severus," Dumbledore replied, still in that same strained murmur. His glance strayed to his left hand, to a ring Snape had never seen before, a heavy gold thing with an oddly cracked black stone in the center.
"What is it?" Snape asked.
"The ring of Salazar Slytherin -- and one of Lord Voldemort's Horcruxes, I am certain."
"One of -- " Snape began, mind churning. Of course, he and the Headmaster had discussed this idea before; Dumbledore had thought for quite some time that Tom Riddle's diary had actually been a Horcrux, not simply possessed by an evil memory. "How many are there?"
"As to that, I don't know -- ah, Minerva. Thank you for being so prompt in fetching Severus here."
Casting a quick glance over his shoulder, Snape saw a slightly winded McGonagall enter the room and pause a few feet away. "That's what did it?" she asked, her gaze fastened on the Headmaster's withered hand.
Her horrified gaze brought Snape back to why he had come here. Time enough later to discuss theories and speculation. For now he had to focus on saving Dumbledore's arm.
Snape pushed the heavy velvet sleeve back and saw with consternation that the blackness which had consumed the hand had begun to move upward along the older man's forearm. If he looked closely enough, he thought he could actually see the slow progress of the poison or curse or whatever it was; it seemed to flow sluggishly along under the skin, like a tide of tainted black water.
"A powerful curse," Dumbledore said, each syllable seeming to require more effort for him to pronounce. "Of course such a thing as Voldemort's Horcrux would be protected..."
But what kind of curse, and what could possibly counteract such a spell? If it had been protecting the Horcrux contained in Slytherin's ring, then it would be something subtle, something not easily neutralized. The pulsing blackness beneath Dumbledore's skin seemed to mock him.
"How long?" he asked. "How long has it been since the curse first touched you?"
"An hour, no more," the Headmaster replied. His voice sounded even more weak, if possible.
Damn. Judging by the progress of the curse, Snape had less than half that time to come up with some sort of viable antidote or counterspell. He lifted his eyes to the perch where Fawkes made his home and knew immediately that the phoenix could be of no help here. The magical bird was clearly in its last stages of decline before final molting and rebirth; it drooped there looking like a plucked turkey.
"Yes, Fawkes cannot help me now," Dumbledore murmured. "Poor thing, he's feeling quite guilty."
Snape said bitterly, "His timing is impeccable."
The Headmaster closed his eyes, and a tremor went through his body.
"Severus!" McGonagall's voice shook.
Ignoring her, Snape returned his attention to Dumbledore's withered hand. Very well, then -- if the Horcrux had truly been contained within Salazar Slytherin's ring, and if Voldemort himself had set the curse, then Snape guessed that the Dark Lord had used some sort of snake venom as the catalyst. But which?
The blackness of the hand and arm suggested a venom that was proteotoxic -- flesh-destroying -- rather than neurotoxic. Good thing, or Dumbledore probably would have been dead already. Snake venom was not often used in potions, due to the difficulties involved in obtaining it and the generally dark nature of the magic involved in making such concoctions, but Snape had studied the subject quite thoroughly in his younger days, fascinated by both the slightly illicit nature of the topic and its connection to his own house of Slytherin. If the venom used was indeed proteotoxic, then that narrowed down where it could have come from. Probably some type of pit viper, and an Old World one that -- Snape doubted that Voldemort had bothered to import snake venom from the Americas.
"Stay with him," he told Minerva, then climbed to his feet. "I know what to do."
Disbelief mingled with terrible hope in the Transfigurations professor's face, but she merely nodded and went to Dumbledore's side, even as Snape pushed past her and pounded down the steps. An irrational part of his mind was glad that it was summer term and late at night as well; at least there was no one around to see him running down the corridors like a madman, bare feet slapping on the stone floors and his shabby dressing gown flying out behind him in a poor imitation of his professorial robes.
All the way down to the dungeon his brain kept working furiously, inventorying the contents of his private stores and hoping that what he had on hand would work. He did have a variety of venoms and anti-venins, locked carefully away from prying eyes, but it would need to be more subtle than that. Mixed with the minutest distillation of hellebore -- the plant's purgative abilities would be of use here, and then with a tiny pinch of dittany for purity --
Snape entered his office and went immediately to the small door which led to his storehouse. Moving quickly, he selected the jars of the common ingredients he needed, then went to the apothecary's chest that stood up against the far wall and murmured the words of the counterspell to open the locked drawers. Those drawers held the snake venom he hoped would be the vital component in an antidote to the poison coursing through Dumbledore's veins.
To make haste without being hasty -- that was the difficulty here. He could not let the fear that had knotted itself in his gut touch his mind, could not give in to the worry that he had pushed back into a dark corner of his soul. The delicate balances must be preserved, the cauldron heated just to the point of simmering but no further, or it would break down the delicate chemical relationships that would make the ingredients work as a coherent whole and not as a collection of elements that were toxic on their own.
A clock with a grimy face hung on the far wall of the office, but Snape did not dare lift his eyes to note the passage of time. Instinct took over, the sharpened reactions that had honed his natural talent into something far greater. At last a beaker of glistening opalescent fluid glimmered from between his anxious fingers, and Snape stoppered it, then pounded his way back up to the Headmaster's office.
Minerva met him at the entrance, her face looking whiter than ever against the plaid of her dressing gown.
"He isn't -- " Snape began. No, that was an impossibility. Dumbledore couldn't be dead. The universe wouldn't allow it.
"Not -- not yet -- "
"Not at all," he said grimly, moving past her to where Dumbledore sat slumped in his armchair. Snape once again knelt beside the chair, then placed the beaker against the Headmaster's lips. "Drink this, Albus."
The older man's eyes never opened, but his mouth parted slightly, allowing Snape to tip the gleaming fluid in. A second passed, then another.
Snape wouldn't have known which prayer to utter, even if he'd known any at all, but he waited grimly, offering an unspoken plea to whatever forces guided the universe that Albus Dumbledore wouldn't be taken from them so soon. Not now, when so many people were depending on him for guidance in these dark times.
The crepey eyelids fluttered. Then Albus opened his eyes, their blue a memory of the days before the gray pall had descended on the country, before the dementors roamed freely. He smiled. "Well done," he whispered.
Looking down, Snape saw that the dull black which had moved under Dumbledore's forearm seemed to be retreating. It gathered back down into the hand, which remained a withered husk. A moment went by in silence, but those blackened digits never regained any semblance of life. Mouth twisting, Snape shook his head. From a few feet away, Minerva McGonagall uttered something that sounded like a stifled "Thank goodness."
"A small price to pay," Dumbledore said, his voice sounding stronger now. "A hand for a piece of Voldemort's soul? I would have given much more."
An incomplete victory felt like no victory at all to Snape. Perhaps he had had too light a hand with the hellebore -- perhaps the dittany should have been added a few seconds later --
"Severus."
Forcing his gaze upward from the Headmaster's withered hand, Snape saw Dumbledore watching him carefully. The older man smiled a little, then said, "No one else could have done what you just did. Such evil magic will always exact its toll -- you would be naïve to think that I could escape completely unscathed."
Snape knew that Dumbledore was probably right, but still the sight of the Headmaster's blackened fingers angered him. Knowing there was no point in arguing the matter further, he asked instead, "Do you think the Dark Lord has any idea of what you've done?"
Dumbledore shook his head. "A Horcrux contains a piece of his soul, but the whole reason for a Horcrux is to enable the dark wizard to live on when other parts of him have been destroyed. That is why I believe Voldemort is still blissfully unaware that yet another portion of his soul is now gone."
How strange that the destruction of a piece of one's soul could be so unnoticed, like a fingernail paring or a lock of hair that had been cut away and discarded. Snape had had ample evidence over the years as to how little humanity remained to Voldemort, but somehow Dumbledore's comment made him realize that what they fought could very likely no longer even be called a man -- the Dark Lord was simply that, a being of vast power and utter darkness.
McGonagall stepped forward at last, shaking her head. "Albus, you must rest. You're still white as a sheet -- "
"Ah, wise Minerva. I must confess that I feel somewhat...drained. If you will assist me, Severus?"
And immediately Snape offered the Headmaster his arm, helping the old man to his feet. McGonagall moved swiftly to Dumbledore's other side, and between the two of them they managed to get him through his office and on into the bedchamber that occupied the other side of the tower. Only a few seconds after the Headmaster's head had touched the pillow his eyes shut once more, and Snape and McGonagall moved quietly back into the office. A reassuring snore drifted out of the bedchamber.
"I'll stay with him," Snape said immediately.
Minerva McGonagall opened her mouth as if to utter some protest, then shut it tightly and gave a small nod. "But I will come back in the morning, so you can get some rest," she said, in tones that did not invite any argument.
He inclined his head. It would be foolish to exhaust himself by maintaining a round-the-clock watch; by morning, Dumbledore should be out of the worst of danger. "As you wish."
"I do." She hesitated, then said, "That was very good work, Severus."
Luckily she spared him the effort of making a reply by pulling her dressing gown more tightly around herself and then marching, stiff-backed, out of the room. No doubt the effort of giving him a compliment had used up whatever stores of energy she might have had remaining.
He stood for a moment in the center of the office, watching the tiny gilded instruments as they shimmered in the candlelight, all the time making their tiny whirring noises and letting off infinitesimal puffs of smoke. Fawkes let out a weary sigh, and tucked his drooping head under one wing. Then Snape went to the armchair Dumbledore had previously occupied, sat down, and prepared himself for a very long night.
As Snape had hoped, the Headmaster was much improved in the morning, although not quite ready to be up and about. Minerva McGonagall sent Madam Pomfrey in to take over nursemaid duties, and Snape escaped to his own quarters to steal a few hours of sleep. He had been so worried about Dumbledore the entire time he had quite forgotten about Celeste Jenkins, but once Snape laid himself down in his own narrow bed he found it quite difficult to get the rest he knew he needed. If Voldemort had somehow managed to lay hands on the girl Snape felt certain he would have been summoned to the Dark Lord's presence, but for some reason that thought did little to comfort him. He should be doing something. He should be there in Manchester, looking out for her.
But Dumbledore needed him more than Celeste Jenkins did...perhaps. Now that the antidote had been administered, and the Headmaster was in Pomfrey's care, was Snape's presence even required here at Hogwarts? He couldn't stay indefinitely at any rate; within the next day or so he would need to return to Spinner's End. But before then he could go back to Manchester, check to make sure that Celeste was all right, and give her the first Occlumency lesson. She had done very well with the Expelliarmus spell. Perhaps her knowledge of that one defensive charm would be enough to take an attacker off guard for those vital few seconds that would allow her to escape, since any Death Eaters Voldemort sent after her would no doubt be expecting a helpless Muggle as their prey.
Still, he couldn't be sure of that, and the chance that she could be discovered at any moment preyed on his mind. The only way he could catch any sleep was to promise himself that he would go to Manchester and reassure himself as to her safety, as well as to teach her the beginnings of Occlumency. None of Voldemort's followers were much good at Legilimency, so she would not have to be particularly adept to put them off the scent. And as he finally fell into the oblivion he sought, he told himself that his concern over Celeste Jenkins was merely fueled by a desire to keep an innocent out of Voldemort's clutches -- that, and nothing more.
Snape overslept, and cursed himself for his weakness. But there was no help for it, although he had hoped to return to Manchester by midday, to get to Celeste's before she began to see clients, none of whom seemed to show up before three in the afternoon. By the time he had risen, dressed, looked in on Dumbledore, and hastily eaten a piece of bread and butter, the day was wearing on toward four o'clock. All of his Muggle clothing was still at Spinner's End, which meant he had to go to Manchester wearing his customary professor's robes and simply hope that no one would be around to note his precipitate arrival in Celeste's backyard.
The little bit of sun that had managed to peek out the day before had once again been eclipsed by a layer of dank, low-hanging gray clouds. Snape Apparated into the yard, wand out and ready to Obliviate any Muggles who might have had the misfortune to see him. But his luck held on that point at least; the neighbors' yards and the alleyway were as deserted as they had been the previous morning. Perhaps they were all on holiday.
He knocked, knowing that he had once again ignored her requests and had come here without any prior notice or warning. But if the bloody girl couldn't even cope with receiving an owl, he was damned if he was going to muck around with Muggle post or telephones to accommodate her. He could handle her irritation. After all, he spent very little time worrying about whether people liked him or not...
This time Celeste took even longer to answer the door; he'd had to knock once more before it slowly swung outward. At least today she was dressed -- unfortunately in jeans and one of her vaguely Renaissance-looking tops -- but her expression was far from welcoming.
"I'm with a client," she said with a frown. "Is it really so impossible for you to let me know in advance when you're coming over?"
"Get rid of him -- or her," he replied. "We have work to do."
Her eyebrows lifted. "Get rid -- who the bloody hell do you think you are?"
"I assure you, whatever petty concern has driven this person to seek your services is of far less importance than our work together."
"Oh, I'll just let them know you said that!" For a second Celeste glared up at him, green eyes blazing, but after he took a step toward her, fully intending to push his way past her into the kitchen, she moved aside and slammed the kitchen door. "Don't you dare," she said, catching his arm before he could advance any further into the house. "Just wait in here." And then she let go of him and stalked out into the hallway, muttering under her breath.
While Snape couldn't say he actually enjoyed her being so angry with him, he was relieved that at least she'd had the sense not to continue the argument. The kitchen was as good a place as any to linger, so he leaned up against the counter and waited.
Within five minutes Celeste was back, angry color still flushing her cheeks. "You probably just cost me a client, Severus! What the hell was so goddamned important?"
"Your life," he said quietly.
She went very still, watching him out of wary eyes. "You've heard something else, then?"
"Not exactly," Snape replied. "But you are fooling yourself if you think that one spell will be enough to keep Voldemort's Death Eaters at bay."
For a moment she was silent, obviously weighing over his words in her mind. "I suppose you're right," she said at last. "But this dropping in -- maybe we should just make our own appointments."
"I regret that my current schedule is somewhat irregular," he said stiffly, wondering why he should feel annoyed that she'd want to schedule him in the way she would one of her clients. "And since you don't want me to send an owl -- "
"Oh, stop with the owls already," Celeste snapped. "Really, if it's that bloody inconvenient -- " She shook her head. "Just have them come to the back door at least."
Perhaps it was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. "Of course."
"Would you like anything?" she asked then, her tone brisk, discarding the argument. "Cup of tea? Glass of water?"
"Nothing, thank you."
"Suit yourself." Celeste opened a cupboard and pulled out a heavy greenish glass, then went to the refrigerator and poured herself some water from a pitcher inside. "So what is it today? More Expelliarmus? Shield charms?"
"Occlumency."
For some reason she started a bit at that, splashing water on the butcher-block countertop before recovering herself. Without comment she retrieved a dish towel from a drawer and blotted at the mess, then hung the damp piece of cloth from the refrigerator door handle. "Oh," she said. "Guess I should have known that was coming."
"We did discuss it previously," Snape reminded her, wondering why she should seem to ill at ease. Then again, he supposed for someone who made a practice of going into other people's minds it might be rather disconcerting to be on the receiving end of such attention for once.
"Of course," Celeste said automatically. "Well, the reading room's all set and ready to go, so -- " Letting the words trail off, she straightened slightly and then headed out of the kitchen, with Snape following behind. Although that last comment had sounded off-hand and relaxed enough, it was impossible to ignore the tense set of her shoulders through the gauzy shirt, or the nervous way she had tugged at the tail of the garment as she walked ahead of him.
As she had said, the table with its crystal ball had been returned to its place in the center of the room, with two chairs facing one another on either side. Celeste pulled out one of them and sat down, carefully placing her glass of water on top of the embroidered piano scarf that served as a tablecloth.
Snape took a seat of his own and sat facing her, his hands folded on the tabletop. "Occlumency," he said, "is the art of concealing one's thoughts and emotions from external forces, specifically those who would employ Legilimency against one. Although Lord Voldemort is a highly skilled Legilimens, those who are looking for you are far less gifted. However, that does not mean that you should let down your guard. It merely means that simple blocking will serve, instead of the sort of selective obfuscation which is the only way to prevent self-betrayal." He looked across the table at Celeste, who nodded slowly, even though her face was still pale with worry. Strange; he would have thought she'd be slightly reassured by knowing she wouldn't have to master the more advanced aspects of the art.
"Clear your mind," he went on. "Most especially you should focus on removing any thoughts which involve magic, or your background, or the fact that you are anything except the Muggle everyone believes you to be." His eyes narrowed slightly as he noticed the slight tremor of her hand when she raised it to push a lock of hair back over her shoulder. "This includes any thoughts of me. Should any of Voldemort's followers learn that I have been training you, I would be placed in jeopardy as well. If possible, you should avoid eye contact. A Legilimens will always try to force you to meet his eyes. Do you understand?"
"Yes." Her voice sounded far steadier than she looked. She took in a long breath through her nose, her mouth clamped shut. With her eyes cast down toward the embroidered table covering, she said, "I'm ready."
Snape nodded, then murmured, "Celeste…"
To her credit, she did not glance up at him. He thought he saw the faintest jerk of her chin when he spoke her name, but she remained as she was, studiedly staring down at the pattern of twining leaves and multicolored flowers that decorated the piano scarf. Even though she would not meet his gaze, he continued to stare at her, looking at the dark crescents of her lashes against her cheeks, the curve of her eyebrows above the downcast eyes. He reached out to her mind then, sensing nothing at first. Very good -- coming up to her first defense felt like walking into a dense fog bank. He could sort out no individual impressions, no betraying memories.
Perhaps she had learned over the years to shield herself naturally; it made sense, considering how closely she worked with other people's minds. Although Snape had never had to consciously shield himself from one of Voldemort's followers -- only their master -- he had a good sense of their abilities and felt fairly certain that the defenses Celeste had put up now would be sufficient to prevent them from learning any more about her. But he worried that wouldn't be good enough -- perhaps Voldemort had someone in his employ who had hidden his or her abilities from Snape even as Snape had hidden his true motivations from the lot of them.
So he probed more deeply.
Flickers of memory, of random images, surged around him. Still they were commonplaces -- running to the store, feeding the cat, arguing the merits of a lacy shirt in a shop window with a plump fair-haired girl of about Celeste's age. Nothing incriminating, nothing that any follower of Voldemort would associate with anything but the most mundane of Muggle existences.
But then he caught a glimpse of her stacking the dishes from their dinner together. Again, nothing of note there -- unless one ignored the feeling of longing that suffused the entire memory. Frowning, he pressed further, even as he saw Celeste dig her fingers into the embroidered flowers that lay beneath her hands. What had caused her to be filled with such yearning?
Snape could feel her fight against him, feel her mind rally against his, even as it summoned images of laundry and grocery shopping and sitting at the pub while laughing at someone's joke. Very good, Celeste, he thought, but it wasn't enough. Because her memories of the pub became linked with an image of a tall black-haired man, a man around whom all the aching desire seemed to swirl and then come into focus.
To center, it seemed, on himself.
He blinked, and pushed his chair back, breaking the contact. Impossible -- he must be reading those memories incorrectly --
"Was that -- was that terribly awful?" she asked.
Snape forced himself to look at her. The worry had never left her eyes, but something in her pale face told him that she had no idea of what exactly he had seen.
"No," he said, his voice a harsh rasp. He cleared his throat, then went on, "Not bad for a first attempt. I pushed you harder than perhaps I should have."
"No, I don't think so. You just want me to be able to protect myself."
True enough, but Snape knew he would never be able to forget what he had seen in her mind. Oh, perhaps there had been hints and clues before, but he had ignored them, remained oblivious. It was easy enough, when he had never been the recipient of such feelings before.
How was it possible? How could a young woman such as Celeste Jenkins -- bright, beautiful, talented Celeste -- have ever come to care for him, Severus Snape, black bat of the Hogwarts dungeons? Had she no idea of who -- of what -- he was?
Of course she didn't. He hadn't bothered to tell her anything of the less savory aspects of his past. Perhaps he, weak fool that he was, had enjoyed being with someone who knew nothing about him just a little too much. And now -- now --
He stood. At least by now she should be somewhat used to his precipitous comings and goings. He knew he had to get out of here now, someplace away from her worried green eyes and the damned sweet smell of her hair, someplace where he could think. "Keep practicing," he snapped. "And don't take on any new clients, no matter what."
Celeste's face was resigned. "You're leaving."
"I must."
If she thought he was lying, her features didn't betray the fact. Perhaps she was learning something from him after all. She only nodded and said, "I'll practice." The dimple briefly resurfaced in her cheek. "And I promise I won't talk to strangers."
Snape couldn't ask for anything else. He could only hope that her luck would hold, that her anonymity would shield her for a while longer. Just long enough for him to try and process this new information, and to figure out how he could possibly be around her, knowing what he did.
All he needed was time. Time to come up with the best way of telling Celeste Jenkins that loving him was hopeless...
...and time to convince himself that he couldn't possibly feel the same way about her.