Chapter 15

TRUTH

A minute past midnight, Harry stood with Hermione and Ron, tapping his foot on the damp tile floor of Moaning Myrtle's lavatory. He tried to ignore the sobs coming from the end stall. Tonight the sight of him had set Myrtle wailing louder than the storm blowing outside. I'll make it up to her, he promised himself. After all of this was over, he'd steel himself for a visit and let her unload some more runes on him.

"What's keeping Dobby?" Ron muttered.

"Be patient," Hermione said. "You want him to make certain Professor Snape is asleep before he fetches us, don't you?"

I certainly do, Harry thought. Even so, these last few minutes of waiting were the hardest of the entire three weeks. To distract himself, he trailed his gaze over the toilet's mold-spotted walls. They appeared to be crawling. The rain outside had brought ants—legions of them. By the flickering light of Hermione's magical blue fire, he could make out nine separate lines. At least there aren't any spiders.

"I wish this were over," Ron said. "I already know what Harry's going to find out. Ever since our first Potions class, Snape's given me the creeps."

Hermione shrugged. "I just remember being embarrassed. I came to Hogwarts believing that I'd already learned everything there was to know from reading my textbooks. Professor Snape put me soundly in my place. I remember finding it a bit exciting having such an authority for a teacher. I didn't actually think him creepy."

Harry stared at her. "Not even when he said he could show us how to stopper death? I couldn't believe a professor would boast he could teach us how to make poisons."

"How to make poisons?" Hermione's eyes went wide in amazement. "Is that what you thought he was saying?"

"Of course," Ron said. "Death equals poisons. He was saying he could show us how to make poisons we could put in bottles with stoppers. What else could he have meant?"

Hermione blew out her breath, clearly exasperated. "Antidotes, you idiots. Exactly what he taught us last year. To stopper death meant to contain it so it has no effect—by learning how to make antidotes to poisons."

Harry's eyebrows knitted together. That interpretation had never occurred to him. From Ron's chagrined frown, he saw it was news to him, too.

"Well," Ron said grumpily, "remember the time Snape was so eager to poison Neville's toad? You've got to admit, that was creepy."

"I never said his teaching methods were gentle. He was just trying to emphasize the dangers of a badly made potion. And after demonstrating that Neville's concoction wasn't working, the professor would have given Trevor an antidote."

Ron cocked his head. "If that's your theory, why did you fix Neville's potion?"

Hermione returned a crooked smile. "Just in case."

The next moment, Harry heard a loud pop. He and his friends jumped, then turned to see Dobby grinning at them.

"It's time. Professor Severus is resting peacefully, ready to be liberated by Harry Potter."

When Harry entered Snape's office, the professor was lying silent and motionless on his massive mahogany desk—cheek to the blotter, arms akimbo, lank black hair tumbled everywhere. Only a slight flaring of his nostrils showed he wasn't actually dead. In succumbing to sleep, he'd knocked over a black metal statue of a gargoyle and rolled a crystal ball precariously close to the desk's edge. A lit candle a spare half-inch from Snape's splayed fingers told Harry how close they'd come to setting the professor on fire. The glass that had held the amontillado lay shattered on the floor. Some of the wine had splashed into four cages pushed up against the wall. The dozen fat white rats they housed were all sound asleep as well. Harry wrinkled his nose in distaste. Rats. Just the type of familiar he'd expect Snape to have.

Cautiously, Harry picked up the crystal ball and returned it to its stand. He wondered whether Snape had more success gazing into it than Trelawney had with hers. Obviously, he hadn't foreseen a house elf slipping Somnoleveritaphantasmagoria Powder into his evening goblet of wine. Harry just hoped he was conscious enough to be questioned.

Pulling his invisibility cloak low over his forehead, he began, "What is your name?" Hearing timidity in his tone, he coughed and tried again. "Tell me your name."

Slowly, Snape raised his head, drawn to attention by Harry's commanding voice. Thankfully, his eyes remained closed. "Professor Severus Snape," he answered. "Twelve Substantive Consummate Omnifarious Wizarding Levels with Honors, Certified Public Concoctionist, Grand Master Apotropaist, Head of Slytherin House, Potions Master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Harry shook his head. Even in sleep, Snape was protective of every scrap of respect he could get. To verify he was truly under the influence of Verita Powder, Harry now had to ask an embarrassing question—one Snape would never answer unless compelled. "Two years ago, in the Shrieking Shack, who took away your wand and knocked you out?"

Harry heard a rumble deep in Snape's throat. The corners of his mouth turned down in a horrible grimace. At last he spat out, "Those brats. Granger, Weasley, and Potter. With a spell I taught them."

Harry smiled. "And who was the servant of Voldemort, Black or Pettigrew?" Wherever Snape's loyalties lay, Harry surmised the professor knew the answer to that one. Either he really had thought Sirius a traitor and his grudging handshake the year before had been evidence that Dumbledore had convinced him of the truth—or, as Voldemort's other servant, Snape had known the truth all along and had been faking his righteous anger.

"Pettigrew," the professor snarled.

Good. Harry couldn't resist one more. "And who correctly identified him? You or—?"

"Those brats."

"Who was wrong?"

"I was wrong."

Harry took a deep breath. The time had come. "Tell me: to whom do you owe your loyalty?"

This time Snape didn't answer. His eyelids trembled as if he were trying to wake up. His thin lips quivered, fighting their compulsion to release his secret. Harry leaned forward, anxious to resolve the issue once and for all: Voldemort or Dumbledore? He watched lines furrow Snape's forehead as he struggled against the Verita Powder, until at last he groaned, "Lily."

Harry gave such a start that his cloak dropped from his shoulders. "Wh-what did you say?"

Snape ran his tongue across his lips as if recalling a sweet long forgotten. More softly, he repeated, "Lily." Then he sighed, breathing the name in tones of deepest reverence, "Liiiileee."

Quickly, Harry grabbed his cloak and hid himself in it. Snape was awake, that was it. Snape was awake and playing a trick on him. He couldn't possibly be talking about... "My moth—Lily Potter?"

Snape growled. "Potter. A mistake. A deadly mistake. Lily should never have become... Potter."

Harry peered out from between the folds. As impossible as it was to fathom, Snape was still asleep—and he was talking about his mother.

"Lily!" Snape's head lolled to one side. "So kind... so wise... so gentle, so... giving."

Harry watched Snape's scowl relax into a tender smile he'd never seen before. And he didn't like it one bit. A cold lump forming in his stomach, he repeated, "Giving?"

Drowsily, Snape nodded. "Too giving... gave everything for... that boy... Potter's son. Lily... she gave her life."

Harry went cold all over. In a very small voice, he answered, "That's what mothers do."

"Mothers?" Snape snorted so loudly, Harry feared he'd wake himself up. "Not my mother... the only thing she ever gave me was... my name..." His voice rose in a stilted imitation of a Mayfair dame. "Yes, darling. I thought having you in our lives would bring your father and me closer together... Instead, all you did was... sever us." His head sank to the desk, and his shoulders shuddered.

Oh, no. He's crying. Embarrassed, Harry looked aside. "It's not your fault your mother... didn't love you." And it's not my fault my mother loved me. When he stole another glance at the professor, Harry realized Snape wasn't crying. He was laughing. And the sound was bitterer than tears.

"Not even... a Christmas present... Posy picked them."

Harry frowned. Didn't people pick posies? Snape's mind was drifting towards the dream phase of the potion, leaving more questions than when Harry had begun. The ones about his mother were too disturbing. Resolutely, he returned to his original mission. "To whom are you faithful? Dumbledore or—"

"Door?" Snape raked his fingers through his disheveled black hair. "Waiting at... the door... faithful Posy... never gave her… even a Christmas present."

A house elf. Posy had been Snape's childhood house elf. Rich, snobbish, wizarding families always seemed to give them cutesy names like that. Exasperated, Harry said, "Forget Posy. Do you follow—"

"I did forget Posy." Snape's moan sounded bleak and lonely. "Posy... rosy... rosemary..." his head began rocking as if in time to a nursery tune "…pansy, fennel, columbine, rue... Even an elf has the right to pursue..." His words faded in a long sigh. "She's kind... and wise... and gentle... and..."

Harry gaped at Snape in horrified frustration. That hadn't been ten minutes—more like five. Three sleepless weeks slaving over Somnoleveritaphantasmagoria powder in Moaning Myrtle's dank toilet were going to waste before his eyes. Desperately, he shouted, "Tell me! Do you follow Voldemort?!"

Too late. Snape's eyes were moving rapidly beneath the lids. "Lily! Stay back! I see him, the foul Bandersnatch—slithering through the violets… Lily, I can save you...please, Lily... don't go..."

Harry stared at the sleeping professor. He'd lost him to phantasmagoria. And if he didn't leave soon, Snape would wake up, and he'd be in more of a fix than he'd ever been in before.

From the other side of the door that led to the staircase where Ron kept watch, Harry heard a clamorous crash as if every pot and pan in Hogwarts's kitchen had been heaved down the steps. Snape's eyelids started to rise.

Okay, now... Thoughts? Please comment!