Chapter 1 - Alive Again
On a quiet night, not unlike many others, a harrowing sound ripped through the air, announcing its presence like ominous thunder. It echoed through the empty walls of a cold room and died away, replaced by something quieter, and yet far more sickening and sinister.
As the cold wind thumped against the shattered windows of the Shrieking Shack, a lightning bolt set the sky ablaze, its blinding light tinging the gloomy chamber with a hundred different shades of blue.
Dark shadows shifted on the floor as the sudden light illuminated Severus Snape's mangled body. He was lying down on the floor, staring at the ceiling; his eyes murky and unfocused as he waited for death, alone and forgotten. As the light slowly faded into blackness again, a strong gust of wind rattled the broken windows. The remaining glass covering the rotten panels trembled precariously over his body.
Severus' fingers raked against the wooden floor, wood splinters lodging themselves under his skin. He gathered his strength, craning his neck as his black eyes darted frantically from one corner of the room to the other; but there was no one there. The boy had long since left, leaving him to die on that filthy floor.
His gaze wandered to the open door; his dark eyes gleaming weakly in the dim light. Greasy strands of hair fell over his face, shame washing over his features as he realised that a part of him was praying that someone would walk in and put an end to his misery.
He gritted his teeth, the metallic taste of blood heavy on his tongue. Did he truly wish to die that desperately or was he just afraid to survive?
Perhaps the boy had been right: he was a coward after all.
Bile rose in his throat as memories of that night flashed before his eyes. He shuddered, the sound of the wind growing muffled as he remembered the jet of green light bursting from his wand; the Killing Curse hitting Dumbledore square in the chest. Dumbledore's small smile, as he'd fallen from the edge of that tower, still etched in his mind.
What an easy way to die, he thought bitterly. He loathed to admit that as he had stood there, watching Dumbledore's body being swallowed by darkness, he had been tempted by death, lured by the simplicity of it.
Severus' mouth thinned as he realised that that had hardly been the first time. The first had of course been in Dumbledore's office, when after all their efforts Lily had still died, killed by his own stupidity.
Had he not changed since that day? Was it wrong to ask that the pain would cease? Could he truly be considered a coward for desiring such a thing?
Severus lifted his head from the floor, trying to gather some strength; nausea flooded him. He felt a sharp twinge of pain in his neck and the revolting sound he had been hearing grew louder.
With difficulty, he dragged his right hand closer to his body, pressing it against the slimy skin of his throat, his eyes narrowing in pain. He tried to breathe, but nothing happened, and suddenly, fear crept in his veins, primordial survival instincts stirring inside him.
Funny… maybe he didn't wish to die after all.
He ground his jaw, his hand pressing harder against the bleeding wound, his heart hammering in his chest. His throat tightened, his nostrils flaring. The grip he had on his throat was painfully tight now, his fingernails clawing at his mangled skin. He inhaled, waiting for a fresh waft of air to fill his lungs.
At first, nothing happened; then his neck burned with pain.
His eyes widened as pain exploded in his chest, his lungs squirming in pure agony at the lack of oxygen. He writhed on the floor and before he could stop himself, his nostrils flared again.
Severus' eyes gleamed with hope, because this time he felt something come through his throat; but it wasn't air.
The metallic smell of blood inundated his mouth, blinding his other senses, choking him. He coughed until his throat was raw. A few blood vessels burst in his eyes, leaving them as garnet as the rest of his face. He could feel more blood gushing through his fingers. With his head throbbing so hard that he thought it might explode, he gagged, coughing and dreading he might soon spit his own lungs.
He tried to move, to find some comfort from that unbearable pain, but his muscles were no longer responding.
Why was it taking so long? He thought, his nails digging deeper into his throat. Was it not enough? Had he not suffered enough? Why had he not died looking at her eyes?
Lying helplessly on the floor, hot tears gleamed in his dark eyes. He looked at the deserted room, clenching his teeth. Perhaps it was true what people said. No one wants to die alone, no matter how much they think they deserve it. And to think that a part of him had actually hoped that death would redeem him.
He grimaced at the thought, for the truth was that in the end his death wouldn't make any difference. Lily was gone, dead, and after his miserable departure from this parody of life, she would remain as dead as before.
Would she want him to die in such a way? Would she want him to suffer for what he had done? He knew he deserved death. Indeed, he deserved agony and more.
His eyelids trembled, his throat tightening as tears streamed down his gaunt cheeks, disappearing in the crimson pool of blood beneath him.
Had she suffered like him when she had died? Had he possessed the strength, he would have grabbed his wand and ended it all, to hell with cowardice. He gritted his teeth as his eyes filled with blood.
There was no point in prolonging that agony, not now, not when he could no longer pretend to die staring at her beautiful eyes.
And yet, as a waste of a human being as he was, he would have given anything to see her one last time. It wouldn't have been any different from asking for a bloody miracle, and miracles did not happen in Severus Snape's life, he had personally seen to that. With his face glued to the floor, Severus stilled, awaiting the moment in which his heart would stop.
Slowly, his body began to relax, slackening its desperate grip to life. Before he knew it, his heart stopped and he was no longer in agony. The corner of his lip curled upwards, tracing the weary outlines of a half-smile; it was over.
He silently waited, anticipating the moment in which his conscience would leave him. He longed and prayed for death with all his might, but it did not happen.
For a moment that seemed to last an eternity everything was black; then his heart gave a hollow thud and he was pulled back. His fingers flexed involuntary, the sound of his restored heartbeat echoing painfully in his ears, his chest aching.
Something beneath the mangled skin of his neck was tingling, stretching like a snake shedding its skin.
Severus' eyes snapped wide open and all of a sudden, he managed to scream. He felt the poison move once through his body, infecting his wounds. His heartbeat grew louder, the blood coursing through his veins, his head threatening to explode.
It was pain beyond anything he could imagine and he wanted it to stop, anything to make it stop.
He clawed at his chest, almost tearing apart the dark fabric in his drenched fingers. Again and again he screamed, and just when he thought his heart would finally stop, it slowed down again and he knew no more.
When Severus's eyes opened once more, the sky was still dark outside and the night had grown quieter. The shattered windows of the Shack were no longer rattling and the wind was now nothing more than a light breeze. He let out a choked groan, his black eyes gleaming weakly in the moonlight.
He lifted his chin, looking up and studying without real interest the wooden beams creaking lightly on the ruined ceiling.
He frowned. Even through his blurred vision he could tell that nothing around him had changed. And yet, for a moment he had thought he had died, he had been sure of it. A deep crease formed between his eyebrows.
He tried to focus on his surroundings, desperate to remember; but his brain felt numb, his thoughts no more tangible than thin air. His memories of what had happened after the boy had left were veiled and confused, his attempts at remembering giving him the impression of trying to peer through a thick veil of mist.
He sighed, the silence around him strangely soothing.
He could hear nothing but his own breathing and the gentle caress of the wind. But something was wrong and as soon as he realised the physical impossibility of his own breathing, a new rush of fear flooded him.
Forgetting any previous tiredness, Severus' heartbeat increased, every muscle in his body stirring painfully as he tried to move.
He tried to raise his head from the floor to no avail, for his torn muscles instantly succumbed to the dead weight of his head. He hissed, the blood pumping deafening in his ears. How long had he been unconscious? Was it hours? Days? Why was he still here?
Groaning in pain, Severus's hand moved to reach his throat, trembling at the prospect of what he might find. He closed his trembling hand around it and flinched, his sensitive fingertips slipping on what appeared to be slimy, mangled skin.
He pursed his lips, his hand trailing down the left side of his throat, a cold shudder travelling down the length of his spine as he touched what felt like rugged scar tissue.
Torn between revulsion, fear and relief, Severus faltered, his expression oddly blank as a foreign feeling of warmth permeated through his skin, the memory of his gruesome death mended forever under those long, angry scars. He took in a deep breath, savouring the chilly air, welcoming the dull ache in his throat.
He was alive, but why?
He gulped, looking warily around him, half-expecting to find someone by his side, not knowing whether to thank or curse them; but no one was there. Severus' brow furrowed in confusion. His fingers touched the scars on his neck. Had someone tended to his wounds? They must have. But who? Who on earth could have possibly wanted him to live?
Had it been his allies, who thought him a murderer and a traitor? Or the Death Eaters, who had loathed and resented him for his position in the inner circle? Severus sneered, for both parties would have gladly watched him die and burn.
Spies weren't well liked in wars, especially if the spy in question was a poor, vicious half-blood who had never made a particular effort to be liked by society.
Indeed, at the age of thirty-eight, Severus Snape, former Headmaster of Hogwarts and the Dark Lord's right hand, could have hardly called himself popular. He had never been loved in his youth and things hadn't improved much with age. He scowled, disgruntled.
Quite frankly, he would've been lucky to find a single person in the whole Wizarding World who would not have deemed appropriate to leave his body to rot there. That was how popular and loved he was, Severus thought, his lips curling in a sneer, an expression that did nothing to improve his less than attractive features.
Had it been the much more pampered and adored Harry Potter to save him? The boy had loathed him almost as much as he had, but Severus knew that famous Harry Potter would've gladly saved his worst enemy if that meant being cheered and adored by his fans. Wasn't that what his blasted father had always done?
"And you're being really ungrateful. I heard what happened the other night. You went sneaking down that tunnel by the Whomping Willow and James Potter saved you from whatever's down there"
Severus gritted his teeth, bile rising in his throat. Oh, yes, he could already imagine a stock of endless articles, the press going on and on about the Chosen One's uncanny display of humanity.
He cringed, unable to conceive owing a life debt to such self-centred cretin. He sneered, his hairs bristling as he shuddered with the utmost disgust. Still; a small voice inside him told him that perhaps that wasn't completely true.
Now that there was no longer the urgency of giving him his memories, Severus could see quite clearly that, weirdly enough, Potter had shown no joy in the face of his demise. There had been no hatred in Lily's eyes, something that for some reason had left a bitter taste in his mouth. Hate he could easily deal with, but pity?
Had the boy truly come back? Severus' face paled. The thought that Potter might've come back after viewing his memories, or worse that he might have shown them to the world, causing him to feel mildly sick. Yes, Potter was too much like his worthless father to pity him. He would no doubt relish in showing the world just how pathetic Severus was.
Still, the boy couldn't have sealed his cursed scars, no matter how much the thought of his cheering fans or the fulfilment of his own saviour complex might have tempted him.
Regardless of his intentions, Potter junior didn't possess one bit of his mother's extraordinary talent, not an ounce of it.
Perhaps… Miss Granger? He forced himself to consider, his sneer getting more pronounced.
The insufferable know-it-all had probably some feeble grasp of healing magic. The fact that she didn't sport a pair of bright green eyes and a lightning shaped scar, was enough to make her, if not a welcomed saviour, a less despicable candidate to be in debt with.
However, Severus could not fathom why she would find in herself to pity Dumbledore's murderer. He scowled; he was currently running out of options, for the last member of the Golden Trio was most certainly out of question.
He groaned, too tired to think clearly, his face pale and grim as he looked at one of the shattered windows. He could see nothing but the dark sky and the pallid outline of a new moon. He frowned, that couldn't be right, he could have sworn that the moon had been nearly full.
He forced himself to stumble to his feet, his legs trembling with the effort. The room swayed around him, the walls moving in and out of focus as the blood rushed to his head. Had they won?
He shut his eyes for a few seconds, leaning against the wall and fighting an increasing sense of nausea. He could have done with half a dozen potions, he thought, his hands covered in cold sweat. He blinked until the blurred floor slowly came into focus; the sight before his eyes turning his blood cold. A shiver ran down the length of his spine, his face turning as pale as the moon reflected on the black pool at his feet.
His nostril flared when he registered the sickening smell of his blood. He was drenched in it, drops of it falling from the tip of his hair to the floor beneath. Severus shuddered. He stared at the bloody prints marking the wooden slats, the blood leaking through its cracks like water. He swallowed, his face as white as a skull, as white as the man's who had tried to murder him.
There was something wrong. He shouldn't be alive, he thought, the sickening smell surrounding him nearly causing him to throw up.
He touched his throat, the scar tissue rough and uneven against his fingers. He winced, acknowledging that even though the wound seemed to have been healed, the blood on his neck was anything but dry.
He couldn't have been unconscious for more than a few hours, he pondered, feeling a little queasy.
Well, that changed quite a lot, quite a lot indeed. As a matter of fact, it couldn't have been a student to heal him. An ugly grimace formed on his lips as he assessed the pool at his feet. With that kind of injury, he would have been doomed even if someone had miraculously Apparated him straight into St. Mungo's.
Severus glanced anxiously at the open door leading downstairs. He flexed his fingers, ignoring the uneasy feelings in the pit of his stomach; his instincts telling him that his survival must've been connected to some despicable form of Dark Magic.
Indeed, he would've begun questioning whether someone could've turned him into a Dark Creature hadn't he felt the loud beating of his heart under his skin. Severus ran a hand through his filthy hair, looking around and thinking that as unnerving as it was, no answer would come to him from staring at those walls.
If only a few hours had passed, there was probably still a battle raging outside and he was in no shape to fight. Loathing the pathetic state of his body, he closed his eyes, listening.
His features scrunched up in concentration, his ears trying to catch the faintest of sounds. But he could hear nothing but the wind. No muffled screams nor explosions, nothing but the complete lack of the smallest sound that one could possibly associate with an infuriating battle. He gritted his teeth, both angry and displeased.
His eyes moved to the door, the old parquet creaking as he walked towards the stairs, striding on his unsteadying legs. He crossed the room, lingering on the threshold as he nearly stumbling on his feet. He frowned in confusion.
There was something… wrong with his body, he considered apprehensively.
It felt weak and unbalanced and very much unlike his own. He shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. And while he hadn't consciously thought about what he was doing, Severus found himself strangely reassured when he realised that the large hooked nose beneath his fingers was as ugly and hooked as it had been a few hours before.
He scoffed, feeling rather foolish, because there truly was nothing wrong with his body. It was only to be expected that he would feel vulnerable after the ridiculous amount of blood he had lost; his brain wasn't working properly.
While his fingers closed on the rotten banister, holding it so tightly that the wood creaked, another peculiar thought emerged from the depths of his mind. He stared at the floor and blinked, a crease forming between his eyebrows. Was the floor… closer?
He blinked again, irked by those thoughts. He was losing his mind. He could barely walk upright, of course the floor would look closer. Casting those unreasonable thoughts to the back of his mind; Severus started to descend the stairs, the hand resting on the banister barely able to support his weight.
His free hand tightened uncomfortably around the carved handle of his wand, his left hand unaccustomed to the feeling of it, the quick wrist movement necessary to cast the most complex spells foreign to those fingers. But it would have to do, he had no choice but to hold the banister with his dominant-hand if he wanted to get past the stairs. And after all, he had practiced enough with his left hand that he would still be able to cast some basic defensive charms. That and a few minor curses.
Severus stared at the steps in front of him, feeling nauseous and dizzy.
He leaned against the banister, continuing his descent, unable to shake off the absurd notion that, somehow, even in his weakened state, it should've been easier to support his weight, that somehow, the arm supporting him should have been stronger.
Five steps and he'd be on the ground floor, he thought, frustrated. Refusing to accept that he was indeed too weak to descend those last steps without aid, Severus released the banister, his right foot leaving the rug covering those last steps.
He was just about to reach the step below when his legs gave out. There was a sharp intake of breath and then, before he knew it, he was falling forwards. Waving his arms like a fool, Severus's eyes widened with horror. He tightened his grip on the wand, holding it for dear life.
Alas, before his wrist could complete the necessary motion to arrest the fall, his face had already collided with the hard-wooden floor. He rasped, the world turning temporary black, his mind flooding with a hundred profanities.
As soon as the pain started to fade, his face flushed with shame and embarrassment. Unable to stop himself, he looked around, fearing that he might not be alone, that there might be someone ready to laugh at his back, ready to take advantage of his weakened state.
Severus would've bet all he had that his stupid students would've paid galleons to see him sprawled on the floor like that; he was sure of it. The feared and hated Potions Master now reduced to a pantomime of himself; too weak even to conquer five simple steps. What an amusing sight indeed.
Clutching his nose with both hands, Severus gritted his teeth, his filthy hair falling disorderly on his face. He waited for the pain in his nose and chest to subside, tracing his thin mouth with the tip of his tongue and pondering the damage. His upper lip had split, but unbelievable as it might have sounded nothing seemed to be broken.
He licked his lips, grimacing as he stood up. Merlin help him, he could barely stand after his stunt. He hated that wretched place, ever since Lupin. He froze, gulping as his eyes set on the tapestry, the walls bearing the signs of the savage beast that had nearly killed him two decades before. He shuddered as he unwillingly remembered how such claw marks had come to be.
The sharp fangs of the werewolf were bared as it advanced towards him, its muscles tensing beneath the grey fur as it prepared itself to bounce, ready to take his life. His breath grew shallow, his trembling hands cold and sweaty, the grip on his wand suddenly less secure.
Fucking Lupin, he thought, refusing to dwell any longer in that wretched place, his weakened state not helping him in keeping a clear mind.
Severus rubbed his forehead, a drenched strand of hair sticking to his lips. He spat, his mouth twitching with revulsion as his tongue caught the taste of dust and blood. It was in that moment that something moved in the corner of his eye. He startled, the grip on his wand tightening, the marks on the handle imprinting painfully on his skin, filling his mind with cold lucidity.
His head snapped to his right as he prepared himself to fight, but as soon as he saw what had caught his eye, his face lost what little colour it had left.
No… No, that wasn't possible. He was losing his mind and sanity. He must've…
Severus looked down at his body, paling at the sight, his eyes immediately finding his face on the mirror. He raised a hand, startling when the boy mirrored his gesture, his thin, long fingers touching his cheek, his face covered in blood.
He let out a strangled cry.
Severus Snape had many faults, countless of them, but he had always been a man that had taken pride in his cold, logical nature. Was his mind finally failing him? Had he fallen prey of some sort of delirium? He took a deep breath, feeling lightheaded, for he knew he was not dreaming, his previous stunt down the stairs had proved him that much. He closed his eyes, his limbs aching.
He twisted the wand between his fingers, thinking hard. Was he hallucinating? Was it the snake's venom?
Unlikely.
He had run too many tests on the blasted beast to have any doubt about it. He picked up a few slimy strands of hair, pushing them back so that he could have a clear view of that teenage face.
His face paled even more as he stared at the mirror, tracing the outlines of those forgotten features; the skin and bones underneath feeling both solid and alarmingly real. He shuddered, a horrible grimace contorting his youthful face.
Merlin, he looked young, too young for his own liking. Panic engulfed him; this was nothing short of a nightmare.
He pursed his lips, shock slowly turning into anger. If that was real, if he was neither dreaming nor hallucinating, the only remaining explanation was that someone had done that to him. And he would make sure that they'd pay.
He looked at the scrawny teenager, the corner of his lips pulling downwards with loathing, the sneer on his face making him look utterly ridiculous and nothing short of a petulant child. He averted his eyes, unable to look at himself for more than a few seconds.
Good Lord, was it even reversible?
Severus took a step back, his face growing rather pale as he looked once again in the mirror. His mind seemed to be intact, but what if he could not reverse it?
He gulped, the thought of spending the rest of his life looking like that causing him to feel mildly ill.
He stared at that forgotten face. He stared into the boy's eyes, finding them old and weary and almost disturbing when paired with that face. He trailed his long fingers down the irregular surface of the mirror, frowning.
Why though, he thought. Why would anyone do that to him? In normal circumstances he would not have hesitated to say that the purpose was obviously that to ridicule him, but these were not normal circumstances. Indeed, they could have simply enjoyed the spectacle of watching him die, unable to breath.
He looked warily at his face, the complete absence of wrinkles and stretched skin an awful reminder that he was unlikely to be older than the stupid dunderheads he had the misfortune to teach.
How old could he have been? Fifteen, sixteen at most? Severus could not help but feeling queasy at the mere thought.
An amusing sight indeed. How though? Had it been a spell? A youth potion? What sort of cretin would give it to a dying man? Severus glanced at the ceiling, his gaze distant and unfocused as his mind went through a hundred different theories.
No… a youth potion would not have reacted well with the bleeding, let alone stopped it. It must have been a spell, it had to be; either that or something had gone very wrong with the healing process.
Perhaps someone had tried to transfigure his body to a point in which his throat had still been whole and intact. It was possible, theoretically speaking, but it would have been extraordinarily dangerous and a heinous form of magic, for it would have involved violating the very order of nature. The only wizard he would have thought capable of even attempting such a thing had been his former Master, the same Master that had carelessly murdered him.
Severus shuddered. And yet, it could not have been the Dark Lord. That monster had survived by being barely alive and more than a shadow, his face looking barely human after he'd come back from death. Dark Magic would not have stopped the Dark Lord from casting such a spell on himself, regardless of the price.
Severus let out a hollow laugh. The last thing the Wizarding World needed, the last thing he needed, was another Dark Lord around, especially one to whom he owed his life. He grimaced, his filthy hair sticking to his gaunt cheeks as his gaze focused on the dark tunnel in front of him.
Dark Wizard or not, he refused to lock himself in the Shrieking Shack and hide like a coward.
His eyes fell on the black wand clenched in his pale fingers.
"And if it does fall into his grasp, I have your word that you will do all in your power to protect the students of Hogwarts?"
Severus' mouth twisted with displeasure, his knuckles growing white, his face pale and lifeless. He had made a promise. He needed to know if the boy was still alive, he needed to know who had won.
He needed to protect the students. If there was indeed still a battle raging on, he had to find him. Merlin help him if Potter died before he could fulfil Dumbledore's plan.
As he shut out the possibility that he might soon found himself facing a graveyard, Severus stared at the tunnel where he had almost died twenty years before. Where he would have died not a day older than the face he was now wearing.
The irony was not lost to him.
Clutching the wand in his hand, Severus moved purposefully towards the tunnel entrance, his robes billowing as he limped through it, his figure soon swallowed by the darkness.
A/N: After more than five years of writing, here is the first chapter of this story. There will be no character bashing, I very much lean towards introspection and I tend to like morally grey characters.
Severus is not a saint, he has both good and bad qualities; but there is a reason why he acts the way he does. The same applies to the other characters. Having said that, I'm not a native speaker, so apologies for any mistakes you might find. I can only promise that the writing will get better. A good chunk of this story has already been written, the next chapter will be updated in about two weeks.
