clxxi. drowning at heart

"I warned you," Severus said to the Headmaster seated behind his cluttered desk. "I warned you this summer that Slytherin would do something like this. I said he would seek to consolidate power after Selwyn's death, and now with Gaunt pressing his influence, Slytherin will do what he can to maintain power in the school."

Dumbledore watched the Potions Master's anxious pacing, balancing his chin on the knuckles of his only hand. The hour had grown late, the office illuminated by the subtle glow of candles set on the low tables. Dumbledore wore his night things, scarlet pajamas threaded with stripes of gold, completed by a night cap with a lion's fuzzy head for a tassel.

Severus had been unable to leave Slytherin's side until the red-eyed wizard waved him off, and only then did he dare come to the Headmaster, having to wake him in the middle of the night to deliver the urgent news of Slytherin's unfolding plans. If Dumbledore protested being stirred from his rest, he made no mention of it.

"Yes, I remember, Severus. We knew he would act, though we were not sure how until now." Dumbledore paused, and Severus stopped pacing, his robes settling about his legs. "You mentioned something quite curious after your last visit to the Sangfort home."

Severus glared at the man and had to take a breath, calming the needling burst of thoughts in his head to refocus his attention. "'If I cannot find quality, why not make it myself?'" he quoted, his stomach turning at the memory. "The statement had not made much sense at the time."

"What better way to bolster his own agenda than to make another impression of himself?"

"Because that worked out so well for the Dark Lord," Severus scorned, pacing again. From his perch, Dumbledore's interminably aggravating familiar warbled half a song and ruffled his wings as if readying himself to leap for Snape's shoulder. Severus jerked himself away, and Fawkes clacked his beak.

"Ah, that is not the kind of impression I mean, my boy." Dumbledore continued to watch him, though his eyes didn't quite track the motion, lost somewhere in the middle-distance, following paths Severus could only guess. "At the heart of things, Tom Riddle is an egoist. I don't believe he fully understood the extent of his arrogance until the…afterimages of his being decided they know better than their own self."

Dumbledore removed his chin from his hand and allowed Fawkes to fly over, giving the phoenix a place to perch. Around them, the many faces of Headmasters and Mistresses muttered to one another or continued to doze.

"The impression of which I spoke is the picture Tom would create that would resemble only those traits he desired; loyalty, cunning, and power. He will feign intentions of sharing influence, whereas we know he will do no such thing." Fawkes preened himself, and Dumbledore shifted him to the head of his chair, out of the way. "With an apprentice, he could—potentially—mold them to act only on his will. They would be an agent capable of challenging his enemies while remaining devoted only to the creature called Tom Slytherin."

Severus kneaded at his forehead as the Headmaster spoke, his thumb tracing over the scar tissue and missing hair in his left brow. "Capable of challenging his enemies," he repeated slowly, giving the words undue consideration. "His enemies would include you."

"Naturally."

"But additionally, that would also include Gaunt. Gaunt and—."

Voldemort. He only thought the name, and still, the inside of his left forearm prickled with sensation.

Dumbledore smiled, a serene upturn of his lips mostly hidden by his beard. "I would say that if our dear professor is considering an apprentice, he may feel my time as Headmaster is coming to a close, and he will no longer benefit from my presence. How very odd it is to consider our curious symbiosis, wherein I am both the shield and sword Minister Gaunt and Professor Slytherin wield against one another."

Severus didn't say anything, scowling at the carpet. Dumbledore would, eventually, pass away. It was an inevitability that Slytherin had been banking on for years; he needed only to maintain authority over the Board, and they would make him Headmaster when Dumbledore died. However, Severus didn't worry about it often; while Dumbledore was by no means young, the average life expectancy of a wizard extended over a hundred-and-eighty. Albus had only just celebrated his one-hundredth-and-thirteenth birthday in August.

"He would use this prospective lackey to harm you."

"No, I don't believe so. The bylaw clearly states any person suspected in influencing the death of a Headmaster or Headmistress of the school can never become Headmaster themselves." Dumbledore chuckled, stroking the long plumage of Fawkes' tail. "If there is one positive thing I can attribute to Tom Slytherin, it is his patience. He has not waited this long to misstep now."

"Even good men lose patience, and he is not a good man."

"But he is an ambitious one, and a version of himself who is more sound of mind than the others." Dumbledore looked to Severus and held his eyes level on the younger wizard. "I do not believe he has active designs on my life at this time."

"The keyword there, Headmaster, is active. Even passive designs reap results. Don't be a fool."

Severus finally stomped over and sat in his usual chair by the desk, burying his face in his hands to mask his frustration. For years, he'd understood the forced armistice between Gaunt and Slytherin would not hold. Like Dumbledore's death, it was an inevitability. Neither wizard would ever settle for anything less than absolute power, and with the Dark Mark returning on the arms of old Death Eaters….

Like a dam under too much pressure, something had to give.

"Which of our students do you believe will be most interested in Tom's proposal?"

Severus lifted his head, exhaling. "Who wouldn't be interested? Even those with no Dark leanings would be hard-pressed to ignore a prospective apprenticeship with a Master, especially one offered so freely. Derrick, Bragge, Crowle, Craft, Vuharith, Lestrange, Pucey, and Dread would be the most likely candidates, but others would enter for consideration."

"And who do you think Tom would be most interested in?"

He wasn't certain. Severus had to Occlude to estimate the madness of Slytherin's choices better, to separate emotion from perceived cruelty or impartial logic. But, truly, he thought the answer was all of them. Every student who dressed in green and silver bore Slytherin's attention, and his greed knew no bounds. If he could have every single one of them under his thumb, he would.

"Bragge, for her intelligence. He would choose Stokk if he needed another unassuming agent in the Ministry, but he has Pyrites now. Perhaps Lestrange, for his viciousness."

"Yes, it would be quite a coup for him, wouldn't it? Earning the loyalty of Bellatrix's son." Dumbledore sighed and adjusted his glasses. "I worry for the younger students, Severus. The revelations Tom has shared with you intimate his wish to manipulate a more impressionable mind."

"He intends for there to be a competition of some sort; I cannot imagine he thinks one of the younger students would stand a chance against the upper-years." Severus rolled his eyes. "Lestrange, in particular, would not be above sabotaging them to ease his way."

"That is true." Albus nodded as if to himself. Fawkes sensed his anxious mood and trilled, which only forced Severus to his feet to resume his disquieted pacing. He came to the window and looked out, but the world remained dark and veiled in the dead of night.

"And what of Harriet?"

Severus flinched and spun on his heels. "Potter is a fourth year," he snapped. "And not nearly so stupid as to give her name for his consideration!"

"I was not referring to Harriet's interest so much as Tom's interest in her."

"He is interested in all of the students," Severus prevaricated, facing the window again. His reflection appeared distorted in the glass, the pale outline of a face visible in the black mass of his body. His eyes came out as little more than black pits, shadowed and strange and unrecognizable.

"Severus?" Albus prompted.

"What?"

His feigning ignorance did not put the Headmaster off. "I know it can be uncomfortable thinking of Tom's interest in someone you care for—."

Severus choked, and no amount of Occlusion could stop his next outburst. "Don't be ridiculous!" he snarled. "I don't care at all for the horrid brat! She tests my nerves at every opportunity!"

"Then why do you hesitate when I ask after Tom's designs for her?"

Severus opened his mouth—and no sound came out. He tried again, to the same result.

"He—the girl annoys him. His opinion changes from week to week, but he's shared Gaunt's curiosity in her after what happened to Quirrel. From what I understand, he doesn't know if it was a fluke or something more." Severus flexed his hands and picked at an old scar at the base of his right thumb. "Difficult nuisance that she is, I assume Slytherin is waiting until she is older before making a decision."

It had been a gamble, teaching the girl a weakness in Slytherin's Shield Charm. She'd infuriated the wizard when she'd proved able to land a blow upon him, no matter how paltry. Snape only hoped that fury carried over into the wizard's pride and he'd write Potter off for her audacity.

"Harriet will not always be fourteen, Severus."

"Yes, thank you, Headmaster. I am aware of how time operates."

"Then you understand we cannot simply discount her role in proceedings because of her youth."

Severus whirled from the window, grinding his teeth. "She does not have a role in whatever twisted games Slytherin means to play."

"Severus—."

Whatever the Headmaster meant to say was cut off by the slam of the door as Snape left his office and descended the spiraling stairs. Severus saw no reason to stay; he'd delivered his message, and Dumbledore could do with what he willed.

"Bastard," Severus hissed through his crooked teeth, shoving his way past the slow-moving gargoyle. He stormed off toward the dungeons, thinking of his quarters and his bed and getting some semblance of sleep before dawn—but he stopped short, his breathing loud in the corridor's narrow confines. His hands shook.

It had nothing to do with caring. Why did everyone assume that because he wasn't a dewy-eyed Hufflepuff or sanctimonious Gryffindor that watching his students walk to their doom didn't affect him? Dumbledore didn't know about the book. He didn't know about all the names, the lines Severus drew through them, and the guilt that grew each time a young witch or wizard died or disappeared for a psychopath's desires.

Severus started in the other direction, climbing higher rather than lower into the depths of the school. He reached the Astronomy Tower in a few, short minutes, and he drew in the cold night air, letting the high winds bite at his face and bare hands. Severus leaned on the parapet's railing and cursed the Headmaster again.

He thought of Potter in Slytherin's hands, and his throat tightened and burned as if he'd swallowed a mouthful of glass. It filled his lungs and his stomach until he felt himself drowning at heart, blood rushing in his ears, his mouth bitter and dry and his chest hollow like an abandoned cave.

It was not about caring. It was about futility, exhaustion, fear. It was waking every morning with the looming knowledge of his own mortality, knowing each day might prove the day Slytherin's temper went too far, or Severus' perceived usefulness ran its course. It was the imminence of years passing, doom growing, the looming certainty of Potter's death becoming clearer and clearer like a developing photograph.

He lifted his right hand, stark white in the moonlight, and his eyes traced the hair-thin scar encircling his palm, disappearing into his rumpled sleeve.

Severus did not fear death. If anything, it'd be a bloody holiday after sloughing through the nightmare that was the Dark Lord's machinations. However, he did fear how his end would come about. He feared he would not die alone.

Which fate is worse? Severus asked himself. Potter under Slytherin's thrall or the girl telling him to sod off?

It was not about caring—and even if it was, did even Dumbledore assume him made out of stone?

He'd missed something in the office, a line of questioning Albus had cottoned onto while Snape's mind had been elsewhere. Why else bring up Potter? She'd not been relevant. The bridge between the girl and their discussion on other students hadn't been wholly abrupt, but the Headmaster had jumped a gap somewhere along the line—.

"Beautiful night," Dumbledore commented—and Severus nearly hexed the man, his heart crashing into his sternum. "The stars are quite lovely."

"Jesus Christ, Albus."

"Apologies, my boy, I thought you heard my entry." A smile twitched the Headmaster's beard, and Severus sniffed, forcing his hands away from his wand. "You were in such a rush, and I hoped to make sure you were well."

"Just peachy," Severus sneered, sparking a chuckle from the other wizard. "What more could you possibly want from me now, Headmaster? It's gone past two."

Albus peered at him with that singular, uncanny focus the Potions Master had never experienced from another, save perhaps the Dark Lord himself. The unpleasant sensation of having one's very self exposed and observed shook his bones, and Severus held himself firm, Occluding until he barely felt the wind, let alone Albus' regard.

The Headmaster joined him at the railing and surveyed the grounds. "I didn't have a chance to tell you the Ministry will be sending their first set of Aurors in the morning."

Severus was relieved he hadn't brought up Slytherin again, but he masked that relief with a derisive glare. "Already? It is not even October yet."

"Oh, I believe Minister Gaunt wishes for them to familiarize themselves with the grounds and their rounds."

"Nothing says international camaraderie quite like a mob of authoritarian hit wizards in a school."

"It is being billed as an extra security precaution for the children."

Severus snorted. "And Nifflers will fly out of the Minister's arse."

"You have such a way with words."

"I'm not paid to be loquacious. Or polite."

Albus laid his hand on his arm, and Severus froze, taken aback by the sudden contact. He stared at the older man's wizened fingers, and Dumbledore squeezed his wrist enough for the pressure to be felt through the thick wool sleeve and his heavy Occlusion. "Everything will be well in the end."

Severus said nothing.

Dumbledore turned from the edge of the battlement and urged Snape to follow him inside, out of the cold. Severus went, if only because the sharp clawing inside his abdomen had abated and he despised being a maudlin twat lamenting his life in the dead of night. He'd solve nothing worrying himself sick.

They walked together through the dark corridor, joined by the snore of sleeping portraits and the breeze's whine in the old window casements. Severus didn't think he'd sleep tonight.

Shuffling in his nightwear, Albus withdrew his hand from his dressing gown pocket and held up a palmful of lemon sherbets, offering one to his colleague.

"You keep sweets in your pajamas, Headmaster?"

"I had quite forgotten they were there."

The look Severus gave him clearly conveyed his skepticism. "You're going to rot what teeth you have left."

Dumbledore shook his hand in invitation, about to lower it—when Severus plucked one of the sweets from him and popped it into his mouth. The Headmaster was so surprised he stopped walking, and Severus raised one droll brow in response.

"No one will ever believe you."

With that, he gathered his robes around himself and swept away, leaving a flummoxed Albus behind.