Much thanks to excessivelyperky for editing!

Love, Letters, and a Lack of Galoshes: A Chance for Redemption in Writing

"Why is a raven like a writing desk?" –Lewis Carroll

"Neither one has the soul of man."--me

Chapter 3

At one point in his path in life, Severus Snape came to the unfortunate conclusion that he was nearing the end of his tether. The thought was depressing but not unhappy for him, if only because he had so long striven for a goal that had wholly consumed his life. Knowing that his path was destined to end in a cul-de-sac, he was glad for the inevitability of it. He hated not knowing what to do, not being able to plan, not having any choice as to his own future. So, taking all this into account, he was glad to know that he was going to die with the closing of the war.

However, Dumbledore knew the consequences of his miserable plan to end the Dark Lord's power, and, from the first, encouraged Severus to not leave without a fight. It was, Dumbledore argued, understandable for Severus to passively let the winds take him as they might, for Severus had lived a harsh life, but the fact remained that it had been a desperately short life. The headmaster was adamant that Severus should exist in the happiness that that heretofore eluded him, at least for a little while. To achieve this, Dumbledore used his favorite trick—the guilt card.

"It would be suicide, Severus, not to take some preventative caution," he told the snarky Potions Master some months before his own death.

This had elicited only the least polite of scoffs from Snape. "At least it would be passive suicide, if that. I'm not begging the Dark Lord to turn his wand and do me in. What would you call the mission you have entrusted to me, headmaster? I'm sure that a century in Azkaban for your murder will vastly improve my quality of life. Or perhaps they'll find room for me in Nurmengard next to Grindelwald."

Dumbledore waved the question away with the complacency of an absent-minded professor swatting an annoying dragonfly. "That's different, Severus. I'm old, for one thing, and my death will be playing a key role in helping Harry end Voldemort. I'm more than an impediment—having me die is crucial to furthering all aspects of the plan. Your standing in the Death Eaters will be vastly improved. Passing on the Elder Wand will enable Harry to defeat Tom. Giving him a false sense of security will compel him to overdraw. And really everything else depends on me being out of the picture and most thoroughly dead. What purpose will your death serve? None but your own interests."

"You seem to think the only reason I should live is because my death is unnecessary." The realization was made blandly, but Snape's eyes betrayed his bottled anger. "What if it is what I wish? Does that make it more acceptable?"

"Absolutely not." Dumbledore was close to glowering himself.

Snape shrugged his shoulder with a jerk. "You yourself said, at one point, that my life was a never-ending suicide mission."

"That's misconstruing my meaning, and you know it. I don't want you to die, Severus, and I never have!"

"But if it ever had been necessary for the furthering of your plan to forfeit my life, you would have been quite calm about it, I should think," Snape lashed scathingly, gripping the arm of the chair with one hand. "You wouldn't even tell me. You'd just let it happen."

"No, Severus, of course I would tell you-"

"-You're speaking out of your arse, headmaster."

This crudeness being greatly uncharacteristic of Severus, Dumbledore regarded his Potions Master in shock, waiting for the expected apology. He received none.

Sighing, Dumbledore realized that his argument was futile, and gave in, seeing that Snape expected him to apologize. He made the concession.

"You're right, Severus," he acknowledged, "I likely would not have told you if I saw that your death was inevitable. But does it not restore some amount of your confidence in me to see that I am truly interested in preventing your death when it is clear there is another option?"

Snape sneered. "What kind of option is that?"

Glad to have the other's attention, even if it was pessimistic, Dumbledore bent his head and withdrew a small vial from his desk drawer.

Angry as he realized what the bottle contained, Snape rolled his eyes towards the ceiling.

"For the love of heaven, please don't tell me that you've skimped on the treatments for your hand?"

Gravely, Dumbledore nodded. "Severus, I've known for a long time that I'm almost ready to start my next great adventure. Do you think, with this in mind, that I would give up such a precious gift as tears from Fawkes for a rotting piece of flesh?"

"So you used nothing but my potions?" Snape asked in disbelief, his anger suppressed for the moment.

"Just so."

Throwing his hands up in the air with exasperation, Snape cried, "No wonder they haven't worked, then! I was counting on them to react in conjunction with additional application of the tears! I couldn't understand what had gone amiss! I thought it had something to do with exposing the brew to oxygen too early in the process; I nearly asphyxiated two weeks ago because I wanted to prevent a single breath of air from entering and start it oxidizing!"

"Nonetheless, Severus, I have saved these tears for you."

So saying, Dumbledore pushed the bottle across the desk with his good hand.

Snape glared. "I don't want them. You commence to apply them on your hand immediately, so that my cure will work properly."

"It's too late for me, Severus." Dumbledore nudged the bottle closer to the Potions Master.

Grudgingly, Snape took the bottle. "Well, how in the world will these help me?" he muttered savagely. "Fat lot of good it'll do if the Dark Lord gives me a good bout of Crucio and finishes me off with Avada Kedavra. Or do you imagine he'll tear me up with Sectumsempra, my own curse? That would be the pinnacle of irony."

Quietly, Dumbledore remarked, "I rather think he will kill you with his snake, actually. I think that is the irony that would appeal to him more. The snake eating the disloyal snake. It would be symbolic of your treachery."

"Which he doesn't know about yet," snarled Snape, gritting his teeth with ire.

"True, but one never knows. Besides, you yourself reported how he got rid of Bunnkins not too long ago."

"All the poor man did was come to you pleading for mercy on behalf of himself and his family," retorted Snape, sarcasm wet all over his words.

"Not unlike another unfortunate man who came to me some years ago," Dumbledore gently reminded.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

In the end, Dumbledore won, to a degree, eliciting a promise from Snape to search for something to prevent his death in the event of the inevitable fatal strike. Snape was certain that Voldemort would not use Nagini on him, though. In order to keep his promise to Dumbledore, he needed to try something other than a simple bottle of phoenix tears to heal wounds.

He briefly considered doing something with the Draught of Living Death, but there was no guarantee that if he managed to swallow the stuff before he died (which would be quite difficult if Nagini ripped out his throat) that it would prevent him from passing while under its spell. Several other options he considered in turn, but none seemed to fit the requirement of bringing a person back to life at any time.

While doing research that would rival that of the notorious Miss Granger, Snape came across a title that caught his eye: 101 Ways to Die, The Suicidal Maniac's Handbook.

He briefly considered killing himself right then and there, hidden beneath a few towering stacks. That would mean his search for the perfect life-preserver would be over and he would never have to deal with Voldemort or Dumbledore again. The book, as he flipped through it, even provided for this scenario:

If you desire to kill yourself in the library—a very popular place for scholars to end their own miserable existences—here are some methods that are used very often.

A. Simply drop a match. The entire library will go up in flames, with you in it. If you drop a tallow candle instead, perhaps near the curtains, it can even look like an accident. (Quite painful either way.)

B. Charm a book of volatile poisons to start producing the products it depicts. One that is particularly easy to spell is Poisons of the West and How They Taste by E. R. Vizitar, or Desperate: Delicious and Deathly Drinks by Sue E. Sidel. If you're good, you could make it look like an accident.

C. Topple a book-case over, bury yourself amidst the books, and then asphyxiate yourself. It will look like an accident. An evaporating poison we can recommend for the purpose is a mixture of. . .

Chuckling at the morbidity of it, Snape ran his thumb along the edge and let the pages ruffle past his fingertips.

The answer came, all of a sudden, when he saw:

Perago Vicis: The Romulus/Julius Death Contract

Once upon a time, there were two young men in ancient Rome named Romulus (not the twin of Remus, who founded Rome in the first place, but instead named in his honor) and Julius who were madly in love with one another. But they could not undergo any formal marriage contract normal between a man and a woman. Their families reacted with disgust at the affair, and tried to coerce them into falling into love with lovely young women. They held parties and feasts, but to no avail; the boys remained stalwartly in love.

Eventually, so fed up with their families and the lack of understanding they received, the lovers went to an old sage who promised to marry them and help them elope. The old sage encouraged Romulus to flee the town for a week, and for Julius to fake his own death. Then he gave Julius an older version of the Draught of Living Death, similar to that given to Aurora Rose (more commonly known as Sleeping Beauty) rather than the modern potion. Julius therefore appeared to be dead to all, and he was placed in his family tomb.

Then Romulus came, and carried Julius away on horseback, to a little hut that he had acquired. They were very happy there for some years, until a strain of plague came through their new village. To avoid it, they concocted a potion that would poison them and then take them back fifty years when consumed. Apparently, it worked, because there were two funerals recorded for a Romulus and Julius in that village: one in A.D. 103, when they apparently both killed themselves by poison, and one in A.D. 85 (meaning they probably went back to A.D. 53 initially, and then lived for 32 years before dying again), when one died of natural means and the other killed himself.

A rather obscure play, called Romeo and Juliet, by the great playwright William Shakespeare was inspired by this tale. To widen its appeal to Elizabethan audiences, he took creative license, turning Julius into a female, and stressing a feud between the families as being the predominant problem factor instead of the issue that was truly at hand. (Actually, political and family feuds were rampant in this age, look up Dante's abortive political career or anything about the Medicis to confirm this.) He also left out the only really significant part of the story—that of the Perago Vicis potion—because he was writing for Muggles, of course

But anyway, if the only reason you want to die is to get away from it all, or if you've just got the hankering to travel back in time after you die, this means of death is perfect for you.

The recipe followed, and Snape skimmed over the ingredients and equations. They seemed all in order, and easily malleable.

I wonder…life after death…Dumbledore probably would not see this as 'qualifying', since I'd have to abandon the life and reputation I've built for myself in this world. Ha! As if that's a concern to me! I just shall keep quiet about this discovery.

It seemed perfect. When he died, instead of dealing with the bothersome consequences—like Azkaban or martyr status—he would be able to literally start afresh.

Fifty years back was a bit too soon for his taste; he had no desire to run into himself, or live through two wars all over again. A hundred and fifty was easy to manage, however, with a few changes in some of the exponents and calculations.

Plus, he reasoned that if it were pumped into his bloodstream, then whenever he happened to die, by however method, then he would be able to live. There would be no fumbling with vials, no chance for mistake.

Except, of course, if the potion did not work. Then, Severus knew, it would be out of his hands. While not an exceptionally religious man, he did have faith in some deity that reigned over his life, as much as he hated the idea of serving three masters.

I don't expect it will work. I've screwed up the life I was given;why in the world would I be given a chance to try again? I don't deserve such forgiveness. If I were in charge of determining fate, I shouldn't give myself another chance.

He rather saw his death, and the consequent failure of his potion, as inevitable. After so many years of cursing his life, of living in the darkest shadow of sin, Severus did not believe that God, Zeus, or whomever or whatever gave him life would be pleased at his use of it. There was no reason to believe in a benevolent God, who was merciful, gentle, helpful, or clement, who returned good for evil, giving back pardon for hatred, preferring pity to vengeance, saving the mortal who had smitten him, kneeling on the heights of virtue. So much easier it would be for Fate to be angry with Snape—for every master the spy had ever known expressed no real praise, only displeasure—and therefore punish him, then to give him a second chance.

Besides, from a purely theological standpoint, Snape knew he ought to be in very bad standing for killing as many people as he had over the years, and even if his spy-work and protection of the students of Hogwarts made up for it all (as Dumbledore expressed fervently) he was incredibly riled at being forced to commit the murder of Dumbledore and further ruin what chance of redemption he might have had. Severus would not admit to himself that mercy might be available to him—after all, it was Dumbledore who insisted that he had a chance, Dumbledore who was asking to put an ever-greater sin on his plate, and Dumbledore who had never before showed concern over giving Severus the dirty work in favor of someone else. Dumbledore called it 'getting the job done right', but Severus interpreted it as 'you're a scumbag, just get on your knees and pay for it!'. It often felt like being at the mercy of the Marauders, who hated him for merely existing—nay, it was worse; at least their antagonism was outright, and not subtly expressed.

So, while he acceded to Dumbledore's request, he was also pleased, in a fatalistic kind of way, that he was not really trying to interfere with what ought to happen to him. Once he died, it was up to the entity in charge of life to either give it back to him, or not. It was not up to Dumbledore to figure out what the deities above wished.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

The third-to-last paragraph is taken from Les Miserables by Victor Hugo (BOOK FOURTH.—JAVERT DERAILED, CHAPTER I—JAVERT) and adapted to suit my purposes, because I think Javert and Snape are in pretty similar situations at this point.