The Match and the Spark
18. Ready to Start
After his presence was no longer required at the Ministry, Severus had returned home. There was just one thing in mind he wanted to do. His body was tired, but his mind was not, and there was only one way to head off the repercussions of that conflicting state. He removed the phial of Dreamless Sleep he had purchased in Diagon Alley and downed it in one. Upstairs, he lay on the bed and waited for the slumber to come. A few hours of blissful nothingness would be a blessing after the day he had had.
So it was that he slept comfortably through the night, waking slowly early morning when the first dim light filtered through the curtains over his window. At the point of waking, he could not say the sleep had made him feel any better, physically. The lump on the back of his head throbbed; his shoulders and back ached with each protracted movement, and his face was bruised. He thought about getting up and finding something to tend to his ailments, but for the moment, lying in bed and feeling pathetic was a pastime he felt he could well indulge for a while longer.
There was nothing particularly to get up for, anyway.
He wondered what Granger was doing. How long would it take for the Aurors to get Selwyn into the hospital to dispel the curse he had placed on Weasley? By the end of the day, Weasley could be conscious, he realised. What a triumph for them all.
Severus sighed against the spark of resentment he felt; it was no good denying he had felt it. He resented anyone who was truly happy—always had. It was just one of many fundamental flaws he possessed. It was right up there with self-pity.
Granger was just lucky he hadn't lost control with Selwyn yesterday, he decided. He'd wanted to get the upper hand, and through remembering the firearm he had rashly placed in his pocket that day, he had achieved just that. Selwyn had never seen it coming, and his shock had been more than worth the lumps and bumps Severus had gone through to get to that point. Still, he wasn't sure that Granger was impressed to see him flashing such a weapon about. Maybe that's why he'd told her he'd wanted to pull the trigger—just to make her aversion a little bit more potent. Yet, for one wild second he was sure he had contemplated it, but he told himself he wouldn't have done it. He needed to know that he wouldn't have done it.
What must Granger think of him now? That he was unstable, perhaps? Maybe even dangerous?
In any case, he wasn't likely to see her again; he did not have to bother himself any longer about her. What she thought was immaterial. He was back to his own devices again… Back to square one.
The thought disquieted him in some way. Square bloody one; yes, he was back to where he began. Alone—with only his morbid thoughts for company.
He sat up in bed and put his head in his hands, grimacing against the pulse of pain that followed. Hadn't he already begun to claw his way out of the pit he had created for himself? And would this be the point where he would slowly slide back down?
It could be, he realised. But he didn't want to go back there; he knew that now. Was it selfish for him to want to pass a few hours of the day without dwelling on all that had passed? He had learned, recently, that occupying himself did not necessarily mean to forget what had brought him here. He was quite certain he would never forget all that he had to regret. He should try, at least, to function in a way that was a fraction of 'normal'. Who would begrudge him that?
Even if there was no one around to see it, he could try.
He would have to, he realised; and so he did try. Keeping busy would be his first task—passing the long hours of the day in a way that kept his mind stimulated. One day, he took down all of his books sorted through them. Another day, he spent hours rifling through several chests of potions he'd accumulated over the years, getting rid of those which had expired or simply of no use to him. But he soon discovered that organising his possessions could only sustain him for so long.
He ventured out to the Muggle shops next and sourced himself some new reading material. He got his cauldron out and made some bruise pastes for the knocks he'd sustained whilst losing his dignity with Selwyn. And during that time, he thought he could come to find enjoyment again in brewing just for the sake of it. As long as he kept his mind focused on the job. Perhaps he would just brew potions for the rest of his life, he thought dryly. Fill his house with any manner of concoctions, just because he could. After all, what else was there to do with them? Would anyone ever want to buy his potions?
Thoughts of the future did not inspire him. Taking each day as it came was enough for the time being.
Nearly a fortnight following the capture of Selwyn, there was a knock on Severus' door—an anomaly in his tenuously re-established existence. Unbidden, his thoughts immediately turned to Granger. After all, it was only she who had had cause to visit his house in recent times, and yet, if it were her, he was at a loss as to why she should come now.
Curiosity, rather than any inherent sense of politeness, impelled him to put down his book and go to the front door. It was dark outside, and the orange glow of the nearby lamp-post in the street showcased that it was, indeed, Granger.
'Miss Granger,' he said flatly. 'What have I done to deserve this honour, I wonder?'
She was someone who, he'd noticed, usually took his sarcasm with good grace. Not how he intended for it to be taken, certainly, but he could not deny it was easier than to have her taking offence at every little thing he said. Now, however, she ignored it completely.
'May I come in?' she asked quietly.
Severus shrugged and stood aside. He followed her and took his seat by the fire. She waited for him to give indication that she should sit also.
'Thank you, Professor Snape,' she replied formally to his half-hearted wave of his hand.
He thought they both might have winced. A certain part of him shrank away from establishing the certain air of familiarity that using first-names implied. But he had decided he would rather risk that than feel impatient every time she uttered 'sir' or 'professor'. Which she did often.
'Sorry,' she muttered.
He noticed then that she actually looked rather terrible. Her eyes were heavy with tiredness, her complexion was wan, and her hair was rather limp compared to the frazzled mass he was used to seeing. He allowed himself to admit inwardly that he felt concerned—intrigued, maybe.
'I am sorry it has taken me so long to come,' she began.
Severus hid a look of surprise. She had intended to come here? He wondered why on earth she should.
'But, I'm sorry to say, I have not had chance… Things have not been easy…'
Severus had not had much practice with tearful reunions, so he took her word for it. Perhaps they were more stressful than he realised. However, she evidently recognised his blank look, for she nodded. 'I thought you probably hadn't heard.'
He wasn't sure they were partaking of the same conversation, and his blank look remained.
She looked at her lap and smoothed her cloak repeatedly 'You see, um…' She gave a quiet resentful laugh. 'It um… It didn't work, you see.'
Severus felt his blood come to a halt in his veins. 'I'm sorry?'
She looked at him and her eyes shone with tears. 'Ron hasn't woken up! They got Selwyn to remove the curse, but nothing has changed!'
Severus watched uncomfortably as she pressed her fingers to her eyes and breathed heavily.
'I don't understand,' he admitted slowly.
'No one does.' She swallowed down a choked sob and she seemed to work hard to bring her emotions under control. He was grateful for it.
'The irony,' she whispered. 'The irony was too much for me to take, at first.'
Severus looked into the fire, feeling that she was right; the irony was rather ghastly. All the trouble they had gone to… Why on earth hadn't it worked?
'But,' she continued shakily. 'Selwyn is in Azkaban and won't be getting out in this lifetime. That is a result to be proud of, even if we'd not got everything we'd hoped for, hmm?'
'Of course,' he agreed in a murmur, feeling a spark of admiration from somewhere inside him that he usually paid little attention. 'But, are you so sure things are bleak for Mr Weasley? Tell me exactly what happened. Are you quite sure it wasn't Selwyn's wand? You said it had previously been broken and repaired.'
'That is what we first thought, but you see, the curse itself has gone. The Healers cannot find any trace of it. The effects, however, have not diminished. I think Selwyn knew it might happen, as he was unusually tractable, I heard, when the Aurors brought him to the hospital. And he burst out laughing when they took him away from Ron.'
Severus closed his eyes for a moment, able to imagine exactly the expression Selwyn might have worn. He frowned in thought. He supposed it was not unheard of for certain effects to remain after the removal of a curse, though he had not anticipated in this instance it would be so, especially to this extent. 'I fear, Miss Granger, that the curse should have been contained at the onset. It appears that its influence on Mr Weasley has become alarmingly strong in the meantime.'
She only nodded.
Severus felt his mind suddenly flood with possibilities. It was interesting, because now the curse was removed, and the source of the Dark magic removed, it was not entirely impossible that effects could not be treated. Theoretically, there was no reason why the effects could not be reversed.
'The Healers have tried an Invigoration draught, I take it?'
She nodded again.
Severus drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. Oh yes, it was very interesting. Why the hell had she taken so long to tell him about it? He got to his feet. 'Miss Granger, I have some matters I need to attend to…'
The look that passed over her face gave him significant surprise. 'Oh, sorry… I'm sorry for intruding.' She stood up blushing hotly, looking anywhere but at himself. With a curt 'goodbye', she hurriedly left.
Severus felt a twinge of conscience. He hadn't meant to be rude… He could feel a burst of energy coming upon him and he knew he had to capitalise on it while he could. She had looked… disappointed. It was novel, certainly… But he pushed any thought of her from his mind; he had no time for fathoming her out right now. Neither did he wish to give anyone false hope where there might be none; he'd keep his ideas to himself for now.
And ideas were all they were right now.
He knew exactly what type of potions the Healers used at St. Mungo's. Tried, tested, and authenticated potions. A variation on an Invigoration draught seemed to him the way to go. A standard one was not complex enough to overcome the Dark magic in Weasley's system. And Healers, of course, these days, were not encouraged to keep themselves well-informed in matters of the Dark Arts.
The old maxim was fight fire with fire. The Invigoration draught was being inhibited from working by the Dark magic. By introducing another element of Dark magic, to subsume or weaken the old of that which was already present in Weasley's system… And then there would need to be a way of neutralising, or siphoning out, the Dark magic that remained.
Granger had said the effects of the curse had been like the Draught of Living Death; well, he knew that potion inside out, as well as its cure. That would be his starting point.
He moved to his bookshelves and began pulling out texts that could prove useful, of which he had many. He knew he might have to venture up into the attic and find one of the more controversial tomes he had in his possession. Still, no one would need to know where he'd obtained his reading material.
Severus was rummaging through the clutter in his living room, looking for some parchment and a quill, and finding only a dried-up inkwell, when he felt a metaphorical cloud pass through his mind. He stopped and contemplated the mess he'd made.
What was he doing?
He had nothing. He had hardly any basic writing implements, let alone the space, the equipment, or the ingredients for embarking on a complicated brewing process! This was not knocking up a Headache solution in a mere matter of minutes. He could not do it in his house.
Where else was there?
He closed his eyes against the answer ringing loudly in his ears. Surely, he didn't care enough about Weasley to go to gallivanting off to Hogwarts—again? Merlin; surely, he was slowly cracking up?
He folded himself into his chair. It was the same conundrum as last time, really. It was not about caring, as such; it was about him possibly having an answer. He could decide for himself this time that this was the right thing to do. Selwyn had been right; he'd sat back one too many times, regardless of whether by choice or by design.
He could ignore that it was Weasley.
He could ignore Hogwarts. He'd been back before; he could go again.
And so, some few days later, he'd betaken himself back to the one place he dreaded above all others.
He'd chosen his old office in which to brew again. No one disturbed him in here. In fact, he'd ensured it so hardly anyone knew he was in the castle. He made sure he did not stay in the school any longer than he needed to each day. He did not take any meals or walks—he worked on the mixtures he was developing, and escaped home when his presence was no longer required.
But there was one interruption he was anticipating, and had been since he'd first arrived in the castle. So, when the door knocked during one of his brewing session, he felt he knew who it would be.
It would be Minerva.
She had not been in the castle when he'd arrived (Providence working in his favour, for once) and it had been Filius, along with Horace's full agreement, who had given him permission to make use of the dungeons and Hogwarts' brewing equipment. A few days had passed since then, but he had known she would not ignore him, as he endeavoured to do with her.
The door opened without his go-ahead and he was proven right. The Headmistress stood before him, as stern as ever. He forced himself not to look immediately away.
'Can't talk now,' he muttered irritably, making a show of stirring the potion in front of him. She didn't need to know it was a superfluous action.
'Talk,' she said quiet, ponderous voice. 'I've not come to expect nearly so much from you, Severus, unfortunately. But I don't mind waiting.'
To his horror, she closed the door and proceeded to sit at a nearby table. She pulled out a scroll and began reading it casually.
Severus looked into his cauldron uneasily. He could not stand here all day and pretend his concoction was at a critical stage. But if it was a battle of the wills she wanted, he could damn well try. He would start by sharpening his knife; he'd always found that action satisfying in moments of high tension. Maybe the sound would irritate her into retreating.
He almost sliced his hand off when she said blithely, 'I've never seen you in a Muggle jumper before. It makes you look almost commonplace.'
He resisted the urge to tug at said garment. He steadfastly ignored her, but after a few moments of quiet, she spoke again.
'I think it's wonderful what you are doing for Mr Weasley.'
Severus clenched his jaw, feeling his cheeks heat up a little. He knew what she was doing. These were no random observations; they were carefully measured to rile him up. And she knew he hated having attention drawn to himself.
He would not rise to it. He began skinning a Shrivelfig. It was unnecessary, but Horace wouldn't mind him wasting one or two.
'I heard you saved Miss Granger without thought for your own safe—'
Severus slammed his knife down. 'Minerva! Can you not see that I am trying to concentrate here?'
'I know you used to like to remind me how "woefully inadequate" my knowledge of Potions is, but even I can see you've skinned that Shrivelfig to within an inch of it's life!'
Severus flung the mutilated Shrivelfig onto the table. 'Fine; what do you want?'
She surveyed him for a moment and Severus felt entirely uncomfortable. It was situations like this he had hoped to avoid.
'Come and sit with me,' she ordered, producing a bottle of whisky and two glasses.
Severus grimly complied. If Dumbledore's panacea had been sweets; Minerva's had always been a stiff drink. He knew which he preferred.
He picked up the tumbler and resisted the urge to swallow it in one. That certainly would have been to play into her hands.
'Look at me, Severus,' she said suddenly.
He froze, but only for a moment. He raised his eyes stubbornly, and his expression was one as if to say, 'There!'
She nodded gently. 'I am glad to see that you can, I had wondered, you see, why you seemed to have difficulty—'
Severus groaned and closed his eyes, passing a hand over his forehead. 'Minerva, stop. I don't want to talk about this—about anything!'
'I do want to talk about it,' she pressed. 'You have not been able to even look at me, or talk me, and it has bothered me.' She faltered then, and Severus braced himself. 'I… I am sorry that we all believed… That we treated you—'
Severus could barely hear her over his impulses telling him to get up and go. 'Minerva, please, there is… We don't need to discuss this.'
'We do, Severus. I would like to think we could still be—'
'This is not what we do, Minerva,' he urged, hoping he didn't sound as desperate as he felt. He thought he knew what she was going to say before he'd cut her off. Friends. 'We don't talk about… such things; why start now? Just forget about it.'
She sighed a little and placed her palms flat on the tabletop. 'Severus, I can tell you resent me for the fact I believed you were loyal to Voldemort. I said some awful things to you during that time! I would like to think we can still be friends. Tell me what I can do so that it may be so.'
Severus stared at her wide eyes for several moments, full of disbelief. Then he felt laughter bubble up inside. He shook his head and allowed the chuckles to escape.
Minerva looked highly confused.
Severus only laughed harder before the bitterness took hold. Some people were just… priceless. All this time, she had been blaming her actions. He couldn't contain himself any longer. 'For Merlin's sake, Minerva!' he exclaimed in astonishment. 'You were supposed to think I was a conforming Death Eater!'
She bridled defensively. 'You do not resent that no one, no one, thought enough of you to doubt you?'
Of course, he resented it. He'd resented it every single bloody day he'd had to appear before hundreds of hateful eyes in the Great Hall, and more. The only thing that had kept him going was that he had known the danger of resentment. He could have let it consume him—drive him; but he'd had stronger motivations to keep his eye focused on the goal.
'There was no reasonable doubt, Minerva,' he stated flatly. 'I made sure there was not.'
She looked away, then, and it gave him a sense of triumph that translated into the impetus for him to continue with his next words.
'Isn't it obvious why I can't bare to face you?' he hissed savagely. 'I did kill Dumbledore, you know. Do you remember him? He was your friend.'
Silence stretched out between them as they each absorbed what had been said.
Minerva spoke first, her voice pensive. 'He was my friend, true. I'd known him for years; decades, even, and I thought I knew him, Severus; I thought I knew him. However, it transpires that I did not. I knew a Dumbledore, but I did not know the one which calculatingly manoeuvred every little piece in to place—the one who groomed a young boy; the one who asked you to end his life. I did not know that person, Severus.' She plucked at her sleeves a little uncomfortably. 'I miss him, of course, but I don't blame you for his death.'
Severus felt his blood rush in his ears, and he thought hard for something to say. 'I won't say that you are being too hard on him, Minerva, but I will say that I think he… preferred being the Dumbledore you knew.'
He was not normally one for offering comfort, especially when he wasn't even sure he believed his own words. Her answering smile was more of a grimace, and he felt she probably didn't believe him either.
'I hope we can put the past behind us, Severus.'
And that was the crux of the matter. He had been disappointed, secretly, at Minerva's obvious hatred of him during that time he was Headmaster. They'd been colleagues for years, and while there had often been friction between them, it had still meant something to him. Otherwise, why else would he feel the shame whenever he looked at her?
'As perhaps you may have been able to tell, I'm not finding it easy to put any of the past behind me.' He thought it might be a costly admission to make, but once the echo of his words had faded away, he found his discomfort was not as sharp as it might have been.
'It is not easy, in fact it is damned hard.' The corners of her eyes crinkled for a moment behind her glasses. 'But somehow, Severus, you will come to learn to live with it—'
'There is too much for me to get my head around, Minerva,' he interrupted swiftly. How he hated talk, sometimes. Words were just words, in the end.
'Then you must take whatever it is that troubles you and deal with them each in turn. You must reconcile yourself to the fact that the past cannot be changed, Severus. No one is going to condemn you for living a life, except for yourself. Locking yourself away in your house is not living.'
Severus huffed. 'Minerva, I much prefer it when you are your prim self, you know. If it's not Granger waffling on about being a good person, it's you giving motivational speeches!'
Minerva smiled despite herself. 'I'm just glad to clear the air between us, Severus, because I can't discard my primness for long, let me tell you! Now you have no excuse not to join me in my office for a chat when I desire it. I will leave you to your brewing and see you later.'
He scowled as she left, but inwardly, he felt a certain amount of relief and gratitude. He'd worried himself for so long over facing her again, to the point where he had decided he wouldn't ever do it. And he was sure he wouldn't have, had it not been for Granger dragging him here a few weeks back. He hated to think it, but it had been cowardly to ignore Minerva, but he hadn't wanted to see the disgust in her eyes that he felt sure would still be there, even after the truth about himself was universally acknowledged.
But things had not transpired to be so bleak as he'd imagined. He'd faced up to his shame she roused in him and found that it might be something he could learn to deal with.
There were many other things he should confront head on; things he had shunned for as long as years and years. He was a brave man wasn't he? That was the source of what integrity he had that he clung to.
He dealt with the memories every day—it was pathetic that he was afraid of the physical reminders. He should confront them, and face them, and as Minerva said, reconcile himself to them.
Severus got to his feet and stormed out through the dungeons with a determination and a purpose he had not experienced in a long time. He ascended steadily up through the higher levels of the castle. There was only one destination in mind and he forcibly blocked any thoughts from his mind that might serve to deter him.
He only stopped for a breath when he came to halt in the middle of the Astronomy tower. His first thought was that it looked different from what he remembered. He sighed and went to lean against the balustrade, looking towards the lake.
'This is where I killed you, Albus,' he whispered into the wind.
Severus turned and looked back around the tower, and he was struck by the fact that it was… just a tower. There was nothing to suggest anything had ever gone on here, and he wasn't sure whether that was right or not. Shouldn't there be some commemoration proclaiming this was where the great Albus Dumbledore had fallen? Still, he was glad there wasn't.
The stimulus he had felt from his talk with Minerva disintegrated into something far cooler at the grave realisation of what he was doing—what he had done in coming up here. He felt cold and tense, but oddly focused and calm.
He pushed away from the wall, knowing that if he could come up here, there was somewhere in else at Hogwarts he needed to go.
Dumbledore's tomb.
He approached it slowly and stared at the words engraved upon it for the longest time. Dumbledore, in his often tiresome omniscience, had never feared death. Death, he had always said, was but the next adventure. Severus had never found such proclamations comforting. Dumbledore may have had his own regrets to take with him into whatever semblance of afterlife there was, but he did not know what it was to die with a life unfulfilled.
Severus had been close to death once, and he couldn't help but wonder how he would have found death an adventure when life had been so utterly disappointing. In what way would the afterlife have been any different for him? If anything, it might even have been worse.
He turned away from the tomb. Dumbledore, ironically, was not the one to hear his regrets, for he wasn't sure the Headmaster had ever understood them in first place. Severus knew he had not understood precisely what he'd asked of him that night on the Astronomy tower.
Dumbledore had seen his death as a necessary sacrifice. In some ways it had been a selfless decision, and yet, Severus didn't think it had ever occurred to Dumbledore as being a selfish one, too. And maybe, Severus realised, it was better that it hadn't. Where would they be now if Dumbledore had not had strength and conviction for the things he had done?
And Severus realised his attitude towards his own death was just as cavalier as Dumbledore's had been. Where would they be if he had truly feared the prospect of his death and the uncertainty of what would have awaited him thereafter?
The answers to any of these questions, he would never really know.
And maybe he needed to remember that they were answers he never wanted to know. Yes, he had to learn to live with his past actions, but if he hadn't committed them, what would have been the alternative?
Take one for the team, as they say; that had been his role—the role he'd chosen.
Voldemort was no more; he'd done what he could to ensure it would be so.
What was more important than that?
AN: Thanks for reading : )