A/N: Just a small note concerning the average intelligence of most of the teachers in this story: A few people have pointed out critically that my portrayal of Dumbledore, McGonagall, Tonks etc. is pretty negative, and that they'd never be so stupid. I agree that I'm rather playing the black-and-white card in this aspect of the story, but if one takes a look at Rowling's depiction of the teachers' actions, 'stupid' is not exactly an unfitting description. Just one example: McGonagall states in the very prologue what she thinks of Harry's relatives, and yet she never checks for the boy nor even questions him after she becomes his head of house. During the phases of the following books in which Harry is pretty much mistreated by everyone around him (second year, fourth year, fifth year), she never even bothers to talk privately to him, which to my mind would be the duty of every even remotely competent teacher in such a situation. Instead, she leaves a student that would be her responsibility to the machinations of Albus Dumbledore, who did, in fact, train Harry Potter in the art of self-sacrifice to prepare his willing death in Book Seven. That's canon, people. My teachers are not that much worse…
0o0
Sailing to Byzantium
"You have to get out of this room, Master Snape," Shadow said calmly, touching Snape's elbow, and Snape raised his head in tired irritation. He wasn't even awake enough to fall out of his chair.
"My work is here," he answered curtly, his eyes darting towards his patient for the thousandth time today.
To call the state Potter was in now 'sleep' would have been flattery. He was lying flat on his back, one arm stretched out by his side, one dangling from the cot that Snape had transfigured from his couch. His breath was shallow and slow, only visible because Potter was so painfully thin. Snape had tried to remedy that again and again, but even nutritional potions didn't help anymore. The Fading was eating him from within, and there wasn't a damn thing Snape could do.
"No one could question your devotion to your work," Shadow said, and Snape twitched in surprise. He'd almost forgotten the other man's presence.
Ignoring that the Prince of Vampires was standing by his side because he was too tired and worried. Pathetic. But Snape couldn't even bring himself to feel embarrassment.
"Then leave me to it," he said, not bothering to grumble. After a life of constant anger and irritation, Snape had very few feelings left in the face of Potter's dying.
"No."
Before Snape had even time to realize what was happening, Shadow had taken hold of him and lifted him from his chair as if he were a little boy. Hands too quick to see, not to mention avoid, were straightening his clothes, and suddenly Snape was standing upright close to his chamber door, robes without wrinkle and as presentable as he'd been for days.
Shadow was opening the door for him, standing still and waiting expectantly like the parody of an old fashioned valet.
"I can't simply leave him here on his own," Snape protested. He saw little use in protesting against his mistreatment by the vampire's hands, and against his own will he caught himself feeling for his little tattoo. Shadow had been so quick.
Shadow smiled thinly.
"I would never expect you to," he answered simply, opened the door fully and gestured for a middle aged man, a druid judged by his attire, to enter Snape's private quarters.
Brilliant. Not only was the vampire constantly inviting himself into Snape's rooms, now he was bringing along guests.
But before Snape could ignite this spark of resentment to a full blown rebellion against Shadow's manhandling, Shadow bowed to the druid, took Snape's elbow, and practically dragged him into the corridor.
"This is Eldridge," he told Snape. "He is a renowned Healer among the druids and has been acquainted with everything that is known about the Fading. He will keep both eyes on Harry while we talk. He is also in possession of a portkey that the old woman created. Should something happen to Harry, you will know it immediately and can use a portkey to return here. So do not worry, Master Snape. All has been taken care of."
Still, Snape hesitated. He would be damned if he lost Potter to an incompetent idiot after all he'd done. He didn't trust Healers. They always took themselves too seriously, thinking they were Galen's gift to humanity. This man might well decide to tackle Potter's problems on his own, and then it would be too late…
Shadow seemed to follow his thought process. He leaned forward, all smooth lines and sharp teeth, and addressed both Snape and the Healer.
"Ayda spoke to him," he said silkily. "Extensively. And I believe he knows how displeased my vampires would be if he didn't follow my orders in minutiae. Healer Eldridge knows where his duties lie."
Snape met the man's eyes, saw the fear in them, and agreed. Healer Eldridge was obviously too terrified not to follow his orders. He looked just like a Hufflepuff after his first lesson in Potions.
"Very well," he agreed, too tired to continue the argument. "Lay on then, MacDuff."
Shadow sent him a darkly amused, Eldridge a disbelieving and very impressed look, and they were on their way.
It took Snape most of the way up to the Headmaster's office to clear his head and realize that he had once again been manoeuvred around by Potter's insufferable friends. The thought angered him, and that felt surprisingly good.
Now that he thought about it, he couldn't remember when he'd last been really, truly, righteously angry. The effect was refreshing, and while he contemplated the irritatingly smooth movements and gestures of Shadow, who was walking in front of him, he wondered if the medicinal benefits of anger might be used for a potion.
It was a much more pleasant topic for thoughts than the dying Potter in his chambers.
They reached the open entrance to the Headmaster's office and walked up the stairs. The gargoyle had refused his services since Dumbledore had been 'deposed', and Snape couldn't help but notice that the scowl on its face looked even more sullen than usual.
But that thought was driven from his head, along with all others, when he reached the office and was confronted with its new setup.
For a moment, he thought that he had gone mad. It seemed like the only logical conclusion, for how could Dumbledore's office have turned into this?
The desk had been pushed to one side and the room enlarged to leave space for a circle of chairs that were held by old women and bearded men, clothed in long white robes, by young and lethal looking vampires in black clothes of various styles and by Tonks, Pomona Sprout and Minerva, all three looking motley and rather mundane in comparison to the other groups. To their right, four centaurs stood, silent and solemn, closing the circle and towering over the others.
It looks like the freaking Council of Elrond, Snape thought disbelievingly and had to suppress hysterical laughter.
"Finally," Ayda complained from her place in the circle, her grubby looks contrasting sharply with the dignified men and women around her. "And let me say that you're looking just like one of Shadow's less attractive vampires, Master Potions Master. Regular walks in the sunshine can help with that, you know?"
The first impression of dignity and elegance evaporated. The vampires looked slightly affronted, and Minerva's lips thinned in preparation for a reprimand. Snape sat down without answering, and for a moment he wondered whether to be irritated that his usual role of sarcastic troublemaker would be taken by Ayda tonight. Then he decided that he was too tired to play for such an illustrious audience, anyway, and thankfully leaned back against the chairs back rest.
Being Potter's healer was hard enough. No one could expect witticisms on top of that.
Ayda seemed to realize that he wouldn't buy into their usual double act tonight, for something in her face changed and she turned towards Shadow.
"Took you long enough," she said. "Got lost in the dungeons, eh? Or did you snack on Eldridge, on the way?"
Shadow stiffened slightly, and his mien became even more majestic.
"Do you not think that we have more important business than that, woman?" He asked sharply, but words would never hurt Ayda. Snape very much doubted that even stick and stones could. Or battle axes, for that.
"Right ho, then," she said enthusiastically, in such a ghastly imitation of good breeding that Shadow's right eyelid actually twitched.
The solemn druids to her right and left didn't bat an eye, though, and Snape really wondered just why they had chosen her as a leader (except for the knife part. But could you really build a government on the ability to efficiently cut throats?).
Realizing that his thoughts had begun to drift off, Snape sat straighter and forced himself to concentrate. He was bone tired, more exhausted than he could ever remember, but he'd be damned if he let it show. Keeping up appearances had always been the key to his survival, and as soon as Potter (died) was healed, there would be a whole new can of worms waiting to be opened. As things stood, he didn't even know whether he would have a job to return to a week from now.
"We have called this council," Ayda continued. "To determine the future actions of our alliance. For the moment, all is quiet on the Hogwarts front, and the council of teachers has agreed to continued cooperation."
She jabbed her chin at Tonks, whose hair immediately changed to a meek brown, to Pomona, who nodded easily, and to Minerva, whose whole body oozed disapproval. Cooperation looked different, Snape thought, at least where the Assistant Headmistress was concerned.
"So at the moment everything's stable," Ayda said. "What we have to discuss now is what to do once Harry's dead."
Shadow at Snape's side stiffened even more.
"The course of the future is not yet determined," he said gravely, and Snape saw vampires, centaurs, and even a few druids nod their agreement.
"By all means, keep your rose tinted glasses, vampire," Ayda said coolly. "But we'll have to move quickly when he dies, and…"
"Or the stars might not take him and we can gaze in quiet retrospection to receive their will," Chairon announced, and all the centaurs threw back their heads in agreement. It seemed that no one was ready to share Ayda's pessimistic outlook.
She however simply pursed her lips.
"Oh come on, you people," she complained. "I'm not trying to ruin your party, but it's necessary to face the facts. We need to determine when to pull out, how to control the information flow, and, most important, how to prevent Voldemort from returning if the brat doesn't get through his memories in time. He's already dying…"
"He is not dying," Snape said, punctuating every word and articulating clearly. Everyone in the room heard what he didn't say: I won't let him.
And Ayda paused. She seemed to take a good look at Snape, even leaning forward in her chair to study him.
"And you will vouch for that?" She asked quietly, all of her attitude gone. "You will bear the consequences if you happen to be wrong?"
And Snape thought of the potion vial with its accompanying spell that he was carrying around at all times. He thought about the promise he had given, about killing Potter. He thought about destroying a soul forever.
"Yes," he said, his voice strong despite the exhaustion. "Voldemort will never rise again. I will see to that."
Still Ayda's eyes studied him, old, without mercy and an understanding that frightened Snape and soothed him at the same time. She nodded.
"Very well," she said. "Then we will take your word for it. You are, after all, the one Harry chose for this task."
"A choice favoured by the stars," Charon said, and to Snape's surprise, most of those sitting in the circle nodded, even those he didn't know.
Next, the damned vampires will start hugging me, he thought with unease.
For a moment, the council seemed ready to break up and resume the day, but then Minerva broke in, her lips even thinner and her face strangely eager.
"However, there are still important things we need to discuss," she announced. "A school doesn't run itself, and with all the extra occupants, things are a mess. We need to organize a few things, if nothing else."
Ayda rolled her eyes – what was it with these two? – but she and the rest of the group settled back into their chairs.
Snape wasn't ashamed to admit that he dozed off while the others discussed provisions, meal times and cleaning duties for the provisional stables the centaurs used (the house elves had refused to come near the centaurs for an odd reason Snape didn't care to understand). His usual role during staff meetings was to be as unhelpful as possible and throw in a few sarcastic remarks now and then. Since Ayda was filling that slot rather nicely, Snape didn't see the use of listening to the nagging and bickering. Vampires especially could be surprisingly irritating, considering that they had no use for normal human facilities.
Therefore the sound of hurrying steps on the stairs and the door bursting open roused him rather more violently than if he had paid attention, and it took him a moment to understand what the newly arrived druids were babbling about.
Then he jumped from his chair, adrenaline replacing the exhaustion with a nice, buzzing feeling. He would pay for that later, a distant part of his mind commented, but most of his mind was occupied with the news.
"How the hell could Dumbledore escape?" He shouted, activated the portkey back to his chambers Shadow had given him and found with a sinking feeling that it didn't work, then rounded on Ayda. "Didn't you place guards on him, you old coot?"
Ayda's eyes snapped to him, then in rapid succession to Shadow, Chairon and one of her druids.
"You centaurs check the ground and first floor, druids the rest of the castle. We will take the vampires to the dungeons. Quick, now!"
There was nothing batty or eccentric in her voice now, only power and direction and a terrible, terrible anger, and Snape finally understood why even Shadow respected the woman, irritation or not.
But he didn't care about that right now, nor about the shocked faces of his fellow teachers. There was an urgency in his mind that he remembered from the war, the desperate need to move as fast as possible, to get things done.
Because he didn't need Ayda's commands to tell him that Dumbledore would most likely head to the dungeons, and he didn't need the lethal speed of the vampires to realize that they might very well be too late.
Potter was in the dungeons. Protected only by two vampires and a druid, and those wouldn't be a match to Albus Dumbledore on a bad day. And Potter could barely stand upright by now…
I swear, if the old man kills my patient, I will gut him myself!
Shadow had vanished in a blur of motion as soon as Ayda had finished, having probably already reached Snape's chambers before they had managed to descend the office-staircase. But Snape wasn't sure if speed would help the Prince, for this was Albus Dumbledore, who had warded Hogwarts against Voldemort during the war, had warded the castle so thoroughly that no Death Eater had ever managed to enter it, and if Snape wasn't completely wrong, he'd had help.
"We will have words about this, Minerva," he growled towards his colleague, who was hastening along with them. "And if I find that you were involved in this…"
"Oh, stuff it, Severus," Minerva hissed. "Just because you are friends with all sorts of unsavoury people now doesn't mean that I can't give you a tongue wagging. You created this problem by opening Hogwarts to strangers, not I. We could have found a solution among ourselves just as we always did, instead of involving vampires and… and druids. You blew this situation out of proportion, not I."
Snape stared at her.
"You didn't forget the little detail about Voldemort returning, did you?" He asked while they descended the great staircase. "How could I blow that out of proportion, even if I tried?"
Minerva tut-tutted, but she sounded slightly out of breath and the effect was more like that of a wheezing engine.
"That's not what I'm talking about, Severus, and you know it very well. I never doubted that the situation was serious, but to imprison the Headmaster? All he wanted was to spend a little time with Harry, to make sure that his favourite student was alright. You have no idea how much he loves the boy, and how he missed him over the years. All he wanted was to talk to him, to bury the past and re-connect. Albus is the greatest wizard of this and the last century – is it really too much to ask if it gives him his peace of mind?"
Despite the hurry the were in, Snape stopped in mid-stride and whirled towards her. He couldn't believe what he heard, he just couldn't believe it.
Unbidden, images rose before his inner eye – Lily's face, white as a corpse's, the small and dirty cupboard Potter had called his home, the Chamber of Secrets and Voldemort and the blood and dirt and stink of the torture chamber. He thought about Potter holding on to his life with fingernails and teeth, fading away day by day, both in this life and the terrible world of his memories, and he wanted to take Minerva by the throat and throttle her.
"He is dying, Minerva," he hissed instead, wishing that words were arrows and could pierce through her thick armour of righteousness. "His body is failing him bit by bit, and instead of resting, he has to confront the most painful memories of his life, and all you care for is Dumbledore's peace of mind?"
Some part of her determination faded, but she held onto it with Gryffindor stubbornness.
"You said that he wasn't dying," she disagreed. "Just a few minutes ago."
And Snape took a deep breath, closing his eyes and willing the fury to back down. He turned away from her, brushed his black robes into place and resumed the hurried walk to the dungeons. She kept pace with him, her expression still inquisitive.
"I lied," he said shortly, and all the lies he had seen this past week echoed through his mind. "I lied, because if I give him up, I need to prepare for destroying his soul, and whatever you think of me, Minerva, you can't expect me to see forward to that."
She had the impertinence to rest a soothing hand on his arm.
"It won't come to that," she said consolingly. "Perhaps Albus will…"
All the fury snapped back into him with the force of a thunderstorm.
"Albus will not help with this," he thundered. "Albus will only make things worse, because he cannot comprehend that Potter is more than his eager puppet. No lemon drop in the world can ever make this right, and if you'd seen the things I've seen, you wouldn't trust Albus in a ten-mile-radius around the man! How can you be so blind, Minerva?"
She actually opened her mouth to answer, but then they reached the entrance to Snape's chambers and the scene they met thankfully took her words away.
His door had burst from his hinges and was lying half way across the corridor. Two vampires were lining the threshold; Snape couldn't see whether they were unconscious or dead, and the druid Eldrige had collapsed not far from them, his staff still clenched in his hands.
Five druids were busy at work countering the wards that surrounded Snape's living room layer after layer. Without even raising his wand for a diagnostic charm, Snape knew that they wouldn't succeed, not in time.
He focused on Shadow and saw that the Prince of all vampires was busy with the wards as well, slicing through them one at a time. 'Slicing' in the literal sense of the word.
He had a silver knife in his hand, artfully ornamented and obviously very old and powerful, Shadow's expression showed deep concentration and a lot of pain, and as Snape watched the vampire's hand reaching through the wards, burning and bleeding and healing at the same time, Snape realized that only the vampire's sheer power and age protected him from combusting right on the spot. He was risking his unlife, his very existence to get to Potter, but he was still too slow.
For Dumbledore had already reached the dying man. He was sitting on a chair by his bed, with his back to the door and thus to them, and was talking earnestly. Potter was listening. His skin was grey with exhaustion.
Only when Snape saw Minerva's face pale and heard her shocked gasp did he realize that she hadn't seen Potter once since Ayda and the others had invaded the castle. He had kept Potter in his chamber for days now, and the only guests had been Shadow, Ayda and now and then Chairon. Minerva really hadn't had the slightest idea how bad things were standing with her former pupil.
Potter had half drawn himself up from his lying position on the couch, and his elbows were trembling. His eyes were bloodshot and his lips tinged blue. He looked almost translucent, and when he opened his mouth to talk, the dry skin of his face wrinkled like that of an old man.
But although his lips formed words, and Snape strained to listen, all remained quiet. Dumbledore had been here long enough to add a silence ward to the package, and Snape once again glared at Minerva.
He didn't care that she looked as contrite as he had ever seen her, now, or that her eyes were glistening unnaturally. He didn't care that she turned to him beseechingly, all of her righteousness gone.
"I didn't know," she whispered.
"You just had to listen to me, woman," Snape hissed. "You just had to use your head. But instead of thinking for yourself every once, you caused this. His death will be on your shoulders, and so will the death of his soul."
Minerva shuddered, and for a moment Snape worried that she would actually break down in front of him. Well, he'd be damned before he began consoling crying females. Having to heal Potter was quite enough.
But then she caught herself, nodded once, and whipped out her wand.
"I know these wards nearly as well as he does," she said, control snapping back into place. "Let me see what I can do."
Though the silence wards inside his chambers still held, isolating the rooms against outwards sound, the wards against listening fell first, fat lot of good that was. Now they would have to listen to Dumbledore while countering his deeds, and if that wasn't a cheering thought.
Still, Snape leaned forward slightly, trying to catch as much of the conversation as possible, if only to gauge the effect it would have on Potter.
"I only did it for the greater good, my boy. It was necessary," Dumbledore was saying, no, arguing, and Snape realized that he must have arrived even sooner than they had thought. No way to tell how weak Potter was already, then, he thought grimly. And of course the infuriating man was discussing morals with the Headmaster instead of concentrating on keeping his strength!
"But what is this greater good if not the protection of innocent children, Professor?" Potter asked, and despite all Snape was relieved to hear him speak, tired and croaking, but very much alive. "What value does peace have if it is built on such a sacrifice?"
"This peace was not built on sacrifice," Dumbledore disagreed in the tone that had convinced countless wizards and witches over the years, in the tone of the leader of a light. "It was built on faith, on my faith in you, dear boy. I knew you could do it, if given the strength you needed."
"But I didn't do it, Professor," Potter whispered. "I couldn't. I wasn't ready, and if you'd listened to me once, if you'd once talked to me and told me the truth, you'd have known that. Instead, you let them walk to their slaughter without a chance to understand what you were asking of them. You let them die blind!"
"I let them die loved and loving," the Headmaster disagreed, but he sounded not so sure anymore. "And I hoped they would be safe."
"They were brutally murdered, Professor," Potter's quiet, exhausted voice said. Snape didn't know what the man was talking about, and right now he didn't care. He wasn't supposed to talk at all! He should be resting in preparation for the next set of memories. But Potter talked on, tired, balancing on the edge between the last drops of his strength and the abyss. And still the barrier was humming, separating them.
"He was tortured and sliced open like a fish," Potter now said, his voice terribly resigned. "And he never understood what was happening to him, because you had promised him something, and the great Albus Dumbledore could never be wrong."
Through the shining blue hum of the secondary barrier, Snape could see the white haired head of the Headmaster sink, as if suddenly laden with a terrible weight.
"And not only did you not take their death on your shoulders, Headmaster. You gave me the responsibility. As long as I live, their blood will be on my hands because I couldn't save them. It took me years just to live with that thought, not to mention be whole again. That isn't a legacy anyone deserves, not even I."
There was a long silence, broken only by the humming of the wards and Shadow's hisses of pain. Snape couldn't see what the Headmaster was thinking or doing. He only saw how Potter trembled and weakened before his eyes, and he was frantic with worry now.
"Harry, my boy," someone then said, and the voice was so changed, so broken, that it took Snape a moment that to realize that it was Albus Dumbledore, great wizard of the light, who was speaking. "I don't know how to say how sorry I am."
Potter did not accept the apology, but something softened around his eyes, and the paper-like lips seemed less thin.
"I have already forgiven you," he said quietly. "And there's no way to change the past. But as my friend Ayda would put it: You need to put your money where your mouth is, Headmaster."
A snorting sound to Snape's left alerted him to the position of said friend, and Potter's eyes darted into the same direction. He very nearly smiled.
"And the first step would be to let them in," he added. "We have quite an audience, you know?"
Dumbledore's head turned towards them, then, and his frailty was a shock to Snape.
He knows what he's done, now, he couldn't help thinking. I didn't expect it to hit him so hard.
Dumbledore waved his wand, the wards collapsed and vampires, druids and teachers rushed into the room. Snape was by Potter's side in an instance, checking his vital signs and summoning more strengthening potions that the man could possibly consume, but he still spared a look at the defeated form of his Headmaster, who was escorted off by Minerva, three druids and a dozen angry looking vampires.
For the first time since Snape had known him, Albus Dumbledore looked like a man without hope, like a sinner who could never been forgiven. The past was a burden that could break every back.
As if feeling Snape's eyes on his back, Dumbledore once more turned around. His eyes searched for Snape's and met them, only to dart away again in obvious turmoil. He opened his mouth to speak, but then his tired gaze touched Potter and the dying candle of his life force.
He nodded once, if in acceptance or resignation Snape couldn't say, then gave a curious little half-bow.
"You save him, Severus," he said quietly. "Do what I couldn't. Please."
And turning back around to Shadow, Dumbledore withdrew his wand and offered it to the Prince of Vampires.
"I assure you that I will fully cooperate from now on," he said, and left the room.
After this, nothing will shock me ever again, Snape thought grimly, his eyes resting on Dumbledore's bowed back, then on Potter's worn and fading smile.
But he was utterly wrong, or rather foolish enough to believe that there couldn't be worse things than shock and surprise waiting in Potter's mind. And so he was wholly unprepared when, two days later and nine weeks after Potter had been captured in his memory time, they entered a moment very different from the usual torture.
It was the most terrifying thing Snape had ever seen.
A/N: Back again after too long an absence. It's as if every time I have everything under control, fate comes back around and kicks me in the unmentionables. Suffice it to say that my husband is very, very ill, and I have no idea how much time I will have over the coming months. Forgive, but take my update as a sign of good will. This story will be finished, some day. I'm sorry.
The title of this chapter refers to a poem by Yeats, by the way. Here are the relevant stanzas:
THAT is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity...