1973-1974 Schemes and Revelations
Minerva McGonagall was in Poppy's office, when they heard the shy knock on the door. She was picking up the list of supplies she would need to order for the Hospital Wing — something that was normally done in the weeks prior to the beginning of the academic year. But this August there had been an attack on one of the most popular bars in London. The place had been blown up by four or five anonymous figures with masked faces, leading to two casualties and more than fifty people admitted to St. Mungo's. Naturally, there had been a shortage of supplies, so the Deputy had decided to wait until things cooled down.
What was most curious about this attack was that it was unlike any other in the past twenty years. There had been targeted ambushes recently, but no mass attacks since Grindelwald's fall. People were undoubtedly and understandably scared — frightened even —, but what scared Professor McGonagall most was the seriousness with which Dumbledore had taken the news. Of course, it was a very serious matter and the fact that the perpetrators were still yet to be found was all the more cause for concern. But the way Dumbledore was constantly hopping between his office, the Ministry, and even attending congresses of the International Confederation of Wizards in France twice was prompting her to think there might be more to this attack than met the eye. Ignoring his duties toward the school and the students was not something the Headmaster was known for, yet since the teachers had first gathered on the first of August, McGonagall hadn't seen him more than thrice.
But back to the knock on the door, Minerva was still skimming over the list, when the matron answered the call to reveal the subject of a discussion the two witches had had about a month prior. Severus Snape was standing in the doorway, and the hostility in his eyes was enough to frighten anyone less intrepid than the stern Transfiguration professor. There was a change to his appearance other than his hard eyes and it took Minerva a second to realise it must have been his nose.
Snape glanced at Professor McGonagall. Her presence there seemed to give him a pause because she could swear for a fleeting moment there he looked more like a terrified animal than the menacing facade he was trying to portray.
On her part, Poppy seemed as surprised to see him there as Minerva. The students had only just been sent to bed after the welcoming feast and the Gryffindor Head knew for a fact that the usual suspects — Sirius Black and James Potter — associated with trouble with Snape were in their common room.
"Yes?" Poppy turned to him inquisitively.
"I, er, might need to come back later," the boy replied with another glance toward Minerva.
"If it is my presence that bothers you, Mr Snape, I was just leaving," she said, and folded the paper with the listed supplies.
She saw the healer nod her thanks, and stepped past Snape into the infirmary, and from there into the corridor.
Once she and Snape had been left alone, Madam Pomfrey turned to the intruder, "Well?" This was a most unexpected visit from him — coming to the Hospital Wing not only voluntarily, but of his own accord.
"I broke my nose," the boy stated boldly as if it was the most common of occurrences, nothing more than a slight change in the temperature outside.
Poppy had already noted this, of course, so she ushered him out into the infirmary and toward one of the hospital beds.
"And how exactly did that happen?" Waving her wand in front of his face, she watched as he stoically swallowed the pain that went with fixing a broken nose.
"I fell down the stairs," Snape replied with a cheeky smirk that made it obvious he was not expecting to be believed.
"Are you sure you don't wish me to inform the Headmaster of... this?" Poppy gestured around his scrawny frame.
"Yes."
With one long, resigned release of breath, the witch allowed the tense silence to fill the room, while she tried to find a way to stir the conversation in a different direction.
"Mr Snape, there is something I wished to speak with you about..." the matron began hesitantly. "It would be best if we were somewhere more private." And she gestured toward her office.
After a moment, the boy stood up, and followed her. Madam Pomfrey had prepared two versions of this conversation, and she would choose one depending on the result of her little test. She extracted the file of the Slytherins, then scribbled some notes inside. The notes disappeared.
"You can sit down, if you wish," she said, then turned back to the door and performed a few privacy charms. A vibrant sound announced that the door had been locked. "That is for your own peace of mind," she hurried to explain. "You are free to leave whenever you wish. Just tell me, and I will open the door." Snape was still looking at her sceptically, accusingly, and with a sense of fear around him. He remained silent, but accepted the invitation to sit.
"You are not Severus Snape, are you?" Madam Pomfrey started carefully. She watched for a reaction and it was almost instantaneous.
"Who else would I be?" he said harshly. "I would hardly choose to be a half-blood and associate with filthy muggles, if I were pretending to be someone I'm not."
But the matron was not fooled. "Yes," she replied thoughtfully. "I believe that would be true if you had a choice." The boy seemed to shrink in his seat. "You are Severus' brother, aren't you?"
She had tried her best to put as much gentleness into her voice as possible, but the boy's reaction was inevitable. He stared at her as though she was the devil himself, horror colouring every single feature of his face and reflected in his hunched, defensive posture.
"My brother died twelve years ago," he said.
"Oh, but I believe he is somewhere in the castle," Pomfrey persisted. This was a risky guess, but if she'd assessed the situation correctly, she had met Severus Snape in the castle before.
"Some people believe the moon does not exist, but that doesn't make it true," Snape replied. "Frankly, I have no idea what this inquiry is about. I am sure the Ministry can provide records of my brother's death."
"Mr Snape, you may not recall, but I promised you before that your secret would be safe with me. I am a healer," she reasoned, hoping that that would work better with a sceptical Slytherin, "Harming students is the exact opposite of my intentions."
"A foo- a person, who believes in family curses, would think that killing Prince twins would protect the students. My family has done precisely that for centuries."
"A foolish person, yes," Poppy voiced what Snape had refrained from saying. "Allow me to say that I am no fool, Seuthes. I only wish to help you."
It was as though the boy was petrified at the mention of his name, and Madam Pomfrey hurried to administer a Calming Draught into his system.
"Are there any differences between your appearances?" she inquired once Snape was lucid enough to understand the words. "I should be able to fix any inconsistencies in your mien."
"How did you find out?" the boy asked, completely ignoring the question.
And Madam Pomfrey launched into an explanation — about that strange visit after Christmas in his first year, about the magical files, about the Daily Prophet... By the end Snape was once again feeling lightheaded, although Poppy suspected her story hadn't been the only cause for that. It must be difficult to know a secret you've been keeping your whole life has suddenly been revealed. With a vial of Dreamless Sleep, she sent him to bed.
Albus Dumbledore was a patient man, but lately people had really taken to making it seem otherwise. Take for example Minister Eugenia Jenkins — a competent leader, or at least that's what Dumbledore had thought until recently. Until she had proposed that they invite Voldemort to the Ministry and discuss his political stances. What he aimed to achieve, and what sacrifices he was willing to make in order to meet the government halfway. A perfect opportunity for Tom to infiltrate the Ministry and Eugenia refused to see it.
And what remained for people on the Continent, if even the ones living only miles away from the occurring attacks were perfectly content with deluding themselves that Gellert was in Germany and therefore they were safe?
The Headmaster was not allowed such delusions, and as much as it pained him that the peaceful times of devoting his life to the education of witches and wizards in Britain was over, there were more important things he had to take care of. Overseeing Hogwarts would have to fall into the capable hands of Professor McGonagall, though no doubt many things would slip through the cracks without him there. It had to be done.
It wasn't only bad news, however. Filius had just informed him that his seventh-years had founded a duelling club and that he had approved of it. And quite timely it was because, unfortunately, the children would need the exercise. As much as he'd tried to hire competent Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers, Dumbledore couldn't truthfully say that he had been successful.
And that new club turned out to be the best thing to have happened to Hogwarts since Quidditch. Or since the last duelling club. Or since... well, anyway, it was a hit. It first started with the Ravenclaws joining their friends. Then, of course, the Gryffindors with their infamous will to prove themselves were fast to take on the challenge. And after about a week, the meetings of the club had become an all-House event like very few before had managed to accomplish.
It was Lily Evans who got little Snape to poke his head out of the deep hole he'd got himself into ever since Easter. She knew now about his mother and didn't take to heart the harsh comments he was still using in order to push her away. Instead, she let him talk, and once he figured that out and closed his mouth, it was her turn to tell him everything on her mind. He was actually a really good listener, even while pretending that he didn't care.
During one of these one-sided conversations Lily had shared a few things that had been bothering her for some time. Like why would muggle-borns be inferior, and why did pure-bloods have non-magical children, and why did muggles have magical children, and why... At this point Severus usually stood up and left, unwilling, for some reason, to discuss these things with her. Nevertheless, each time Lily insisted that she would get to the bottom of this. And that he was going to regret disengaging from these conversations because she would otherwise have credited him in the book she was going to write about this.
Lily's efforts were fruitful, but only if you counted an apple tree with a single apple as such. Because progress was slow and her friend was still closed in himself. At least she'd seen him go to the Hospital Wing a couple of times, maybe that would help... That was until she dragged him to one of the Duelling Club's meetings, and his skills were challenged by one of the older Slytherins, whom Lily did not know.
"Looks like half-breed has joined his mudblood friend in serving as a wiping rug for the floor," the boy said, earning himself a withering look from Evan Rosier, and a round of cheers from the group around him. Later, Lily would learn of the boy's name and associates — Yan Travers, a Death Eater wannabe. Though Lily wasn't exactly sure what a 'Death Eater' was. The name sounded bad enough.
And that did it — for the whole of ten minutes Severus forgot all about his misery, and put all his might into the fight — firing spell after spell, curse after curse, rolling to the side to avoid wasting time on defensive charms, and even resorted to physical kicks and punches a few times, which were admittedly quite pathetic. If Lily had to be objective about it, that Severus got a week's worth of detention that day was only fair. Those spells had looked frightening to say the least, and had left the dozens of spectators staring agape with a mixture of awe and horror.
Yan Travers was one step ahead of the rumours about him. He wasn't a Death Eater wannabe, he was a Death Eater, period. The red dot — the Mark new recruits sported — on his left forearm spoke of this. And as the 17-year-old he was, Travers was eager to prove himself, to earn himself a name, and a higher standing in the Dark Lord's ranks.
For him, the means by which he was going to accomplish this was to recruit new members. That was the task the Dark Lord had given him. And his Slytherin senses were just strong enough not to let the brutal attack he'd suffered cloud his judgement. The Snape brat was just the target he'd been looking for.
That week Travers used the Hogsmeade trip to apparate to London. He landed on a broad street, identical stock brick houses with their rakish gardens flanking both sides of the road. The boy spun in his spot a few times, trying to decide which way he was supposed to go, then with a confident step headed toward one of the houses. A short wall made of black bricks, and a heavy metal door demarcated the plot from the pavement. The white rims of the windows and door contrasted with the otherwise gloomy house, but fitted nicely with the matching ones on the neighbouring buildings. All in all, it was every bit the ordinary home of an old Cockney.
Travers knocked on the door, and after a moment was admitted into a kitschy corridor, much longer than the house was supposed to hold. The walls were lined with paintings — portraits of deceased members of the family, or depictions of heroic feats —, and other heirlooms (a goblin head on a plate; a seared arm, the sign next to which labelled it the arm of the inferi form of some Ignatius Dolohov, 1347; and other such cheerful expositions).
"Master is waiting for Yan Travers in the drawing room, sir," a house-elf squeaked, and started down the hall. The boy followed.
"Well, welcome, Travers!" a grating voice from behind startled him. Travers had heard the voice enough times to know that it belonged to the portrait of his host's father. "How nice to see you."
"I don't share the sentiment," he replied tersely, and pushed the door to the drawing room open.
New Death Eaters were assigned an overseer, with whom they were supposed to share the details of their plans, in order to prevent making foolish mistakes. For Yan Travers that person was Antonin Dolohov, who was currently sitting on a posh crimson sofa. In front of him sat Narcissa's sister — Bellatrix Black.
"This your pet footman, Dolohov?" the latter asked, having noticed the newcomer first.
"That remains to be seen, Bella. I vouched for him, remember. He's good for more than that. Have you any news, Travers?"
Following the outstretched arm that was offering him a seat, the boy joined the others around the table, and turned toward his warden. "The best. I've found us the perfect target. His name is Severus Snape."
Before Dolohov could even comprehend the statement, Bellatrix was on her feet. "Snape!" she shrieked. "I have never heard that name, Travers! And do you know what that means? It means filthy blood. Filthy blood, Travers! That thing has no place tarnishing our Lord's name!"
"Calm down, Black!" Dolohov ordered harshly, but it was no use. The woman continued to yell until he was forced to silence her with his wand.
"You will pay for that!" Bellatrix spat, on her way out. "I will ask the Dark Lord that I personally deliver your punishment."
That done, the remaining occupants of the room relaxed slightly. With the raging witch gone, they could get back to the reason for this meeting.
"All right, Travers. Tell me about this Snape scum."
And Travers did. He told him about Snape's strengths — his potions and duelling skills, and his interest in Dark Magic that had become apparent in his affray with the slimy half-breed. He didn't spare and Snape's weaknesses — his blood status, his disgusting manners and clothing, his tendency to hang out with mudbloods. Oh yes, the little scum was trying to hide it, but three days of spying on him had been enough for Travers to find that that mudblood — a Gryffindor no less — was the only one Snape spent time with.
And these weaknesses were what they were going to exploit in order to lure him to darkness.
"This is confidential information, Travers," Dolohov said conspiratorially once the younger man had finished his tale, "and I'm only telling you this because it might serve our purpose. Marcus Avery joined our ranks this summer. Well, not quite, but it'll have to suffice. From what I gather, he must be in the same dorm as Snape, all right?
"So here's the plan. You come from a rich family, you have enough gold to make this happen. You will offer mudbloods money in exchange for making Snape's life a living hell. Preferably Gryffindors. If that doesn't work, try the Hufflepuffs, but you'll probably have the best luck with the Ravenclaws. Some o' them mudbloods are desperate enough that they'd do anything for a magic knut. Once you've done that, you go find Avery and tell him what's up. If he doesn't agree to help, send word, and I'll talk to Macnair. He'll make him see reason. What we need from Avery is to protect our half-blood, and hammer in his head that mudbloods have no place in our world. You stay out of the way, let them do the work for you."
Severus was standing on the landing of the stairs that led to the room inside the trunk. His brother was lying on the bed, shooting down flies that had somehow managed to infiltrate even this secluded, insignificant part of the world.
"Time to get up and see the sun," Severus said, and shot a Stinging Hex at the other boy. Seuthes hadn't left the room since his meeting with Pomfrey. Severus, meanwhile, had gone to her of his own accord multiple times to make use of the help she was offering. And was now the exact replica of his twin, including all the insignificant details. In appearance. He was aware that he hadn't been as cautious as he ought to have, but he had made the matron swear a Vow that would inform him if she ever broke it. He did know some more efficient methods that would prevent her from revealing the secret in the first place, but those were, unfortunately, considered Dark Magic. And practising Dark Magic in front of a member of the faculty wouldn't be a very wise decision.
"I am not poking my little finger out of this room," Seuthes replied with certainty, and continued his meaningless activity.
"Stop wallowing in self pity because you're really beginning to get on my nerves." A penetrating laugh was his only answer, and Seuthes was now walking on really thin ice. "You have exactly thirty seconds to get up before I go out and tell Potter every single thing about you."
"Come now, Severus. You and I both know you wouldn't do that. It is against every single aspect of your nature."
"No? You keep believing that, while I'm out there giving the password for this place to the Ministry. Because I'm tired, Seuthes. Tired of you doing whatever the fuck you want without any regard for me! I don't want to deal with this either! I too lost my mother, and I too am at risk because of Pomfrey's little revelation! But you know what? If I go out right now, nothing is stopping me from concocting all sorts of lies about you. I might be able to come out scot-free, but you... you are a dead man, Seuthes. Will you trust faith to save you? Will you trust people like Black or Lestrange to show you mercy? I wouldn't."
"Are you finished?" Seuthes asked, and for the first time in months his mind seemed clear, his voice ice cold. But then the unpleasant mask slipped back in place. "I believe your thirty seconds have passed. And yet you're still here. What an unexpected turn of events, isn't that so? It appears I know you better than you do yourself."
"You are a hopeless moron, Seuthes," Severus stated impassively, keeping his voice as calm as he could manage. With one swift motion the bed exploded from under his brother, and he was sent flying across the room and crashing against one of the hard walls.
Ten minutes later, a limping Seuthes was intercepted by none other than the source of his distress.
"Well, I know for a fact there wasn't a meeting of that horrid Duelling Club today," Pomfrey's voice came from his right. Turning toward it, Seuthes saw the woman standing a few steps above him on a staircase that led to Slughorn's storeroom. "I would love to hear from which stairs you fell this time."
Seuthes froze. Number one, he didn't want to interact with any living being at all. Number two, he wasn't caught up with whatever Severus had been doing in the last few days, so his character would seem inconsistent to the more observant eye. Which, of course, will not be a problem with the witch in front of him, but that fact could only manage the exact opposite of offering comfort. Number three, the matron was the last person he wanted to see... ever.
Still speechless and unable to think, he didn't even protest when the woman pushed him down the corridor, and through a tunnel he'd never seen before led him to the infirmary.
"Don't tell me this is Seuthes for once!" Pomfrey exclaimed, sounding almost cheerful, once the two of them were away from prying eyes... and ears.
"Let us celebrate," the boy replied coolly, and flopped on one of the numerous beds. It had been more than a month since he'd last been here, and he would've been perfectly content with increasing that time to maybe... a hundred years. Yes, that sounded about right.
"You really are Severus' gloomier half, aren't you?"
"You sound as if you're his best friend," Seuthes laughed mirthlessly.
"Not quite, I'm afraid. But I have become fond of you over the last two years."
"I couldn't say the s—"
"Tut," Pomfrey interrupted him. "First I will fix you up, and then we'll talk."
"Then I'd rather you don't fix me up at all."
The woman didn't even have to say that he had no choice. She simply got to work, clearing up the blood on his hand and leg, and applying a salve on the bruising of his limbs where he'd hit the wall.
"So what happened this time to cause this?" she inquired once she'd sent the jars of balms and salves back to their shelves.
"Take a guess."
"I am not listening to another tirade against Mr Black, and least of all against Mr Lupin," Pomfrey said sternly, and fixed him with a reprimanding look.
"Pity. You got it wrong anyway. This is the handiwork of my 'less gloomy half'."
The matron seemed taken aback by this response, but didn't comment, choosing instead to change the topic of discussion. "Has he briefed you about our arrangement?"
"That we should tell you if we're in trouble? Yes. I couldn't convince him that Obliviate would be a better option."
"Good thing one of you has a head on his shoulders," Madam Pomfrey said seriously, but her eyes were dancing with mirth. More sternly, she added, "That spell is almost as bad as the Imperius Curse, Mr Snape. Many things can go wrong while casting it, and a 13-year-old like yourself shouldn't even be considering it. Now go out and get some sun, you're white as a sheet," she repeated Severus' command, and pushed him out the door. He felt her watching him as he made his way down the marble staircase, and didn't dare take the right turn toward the dungeons, choosing the wooden door that led to the grounds instead.