clxxxvii. a quiet man's anger
The harsh clicking of the vials being jostled together complemented Severus' black mood.
What didn't complement his mood was the presence of Albus Dumbledore lingering at the door to his lab. Or, on second thought, perhaps it did. There the man stood in his spangled attire, appearing far too saintly for his own good, and the sight of him after yet another long, sleepless night kindled impotent rage in Severus' chest.
The bitter cold outside had left his hands chapped and dry. The skin had split along his nails, and Severus had already ruined one potion this evening from blood contamination like a foolish amateur. He longed to settle in a hot bath or in his bed, but dawn kissed the horizon already, and he had classes to teach.
And miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.
"The trial went much as you would expect," he said to the Headmaster, refusing to look up from his work. The metal ladle clanged against the inside of the iron cauldron, and the ice-blue liquid hissed thin rivers of steam where it sloshed against the surface. Severus dribbled the concoction into vials already slotted into the wooden holder. "Most of the participants stumbled about in the dark, barely able to hold their wands straight from stuttering in terror until Slytherin called an end to the farce."
Severus saw Dumbledore nod from the corner of his eye. "And the injuries?"
"The house-elves you bade him to make use of prevented anything catastrophic. I fished Vandran and Burke out of a pond they fell into after treading on the thin ice. Sterling managed to get kicked in the chest by a Thestral, and Crowle burned herself like an idiot attempting to make a torch." A rough grunt left Severus, and he added in a nasty tone, "And of course, I've been brewing multiple batches of Frost Bite Salve to administer for the rest."
Dumbledore exhaled. "Nothing terrible, then," he murmured, and Severus didn't mention how he'd nearly been clawed to shreds by an Acromantula as he stalked the forest, making sure none of the idiots wandered too far. House-elves were efficient but not particularly clever or aware of nuances. Neither Dumbledore nor Severus had trusted them to fully comprehend what imminent danger for underage witches and wizards. Hence, Severus had spent the night tromping through bracken and praying a Centaur didn't use him for target practice.
"How did Harriet do? Miss Black, Miss Granger?"
Severus scoffed. "They never went into the forest. They cheated with that little toy of theirs and returned to the castle within minutes of Slytherin doing the same."
Dumbledore stroked his beard, watching as Severus poured the last trickle of salve into the waiting vials and shoved the rack aside to cool. The Potions Master hefted the cauldron from its iron rack and walked it to the sink.
"I find myself unsure as to whether I should be pleased by their ingenuity or worried they performed too well." The old man chuckled, though he lacked his usual chipper attitude. "Ah, perhaps both, then."
Severus ignored the comment. "As I said, this trial was much as we expected it would be: an easy way for Slytherin to cut those he deems unworthy of his time."
"How many advanced?"
"Thirteen of the original twenty-one. Crowle, Dread, Sterling, Darker, Grim, Zabini, Vandran, and Burke will not be receiving another invitation. He's put out over Dread's less than spectacular showing and—in his own words—believes Crowle could be put to better use somewhere else. Overall, those he truly wishes to test made it through his petty game."
"And when will he hold his next trial?"
"For the most part, he intends to mirror the timeline of the Tournament. He believes it will keep Slytherin House's attention on itself rather than participating in the school at large." The first rule of any abuser: isolation. Severus had witnessed Slytherin's slow needling for years, the painless pins he slid into his puppets without their awareness, and how he formed wedges between his chosen and the rest of the student body. He isolated them, then adored them, showered them with praise—and then, of course, perpetuated the actual abuse. The kernels of disappointment sown like poisonous weeds, the small hexes, the shoves, the slaps, the curses—.
Severus swiped his thumb across his brow. His hands burned from the cold despite the sweat beading his skin.
"What do you assume he will do next?"
"What do you assume, Headmaster?" Severus snapped, his eyes flicking to Dumbledore for one moment, then away. He ran water into the soiled cauldron, then flicked his hand at the rack of similar vessels, a new cauldron replacing the first. Severus' wandless magic proved less than stellar at the moment, meaning the cauldron fell with a resounding thud and cracked the stone worktop. "I doubt you wish to hear the postulations of your servants."
Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment, whether in irritation or a bid for patience, Severus couldn't tell. The man had always done remarkably well in concealing his emotions when he wanted to. "I do not regard you in such a manner. I have not, and will not, think of you as such."
"Of course, Headmaster."
"Severus."
"I do not know what he will do. Frighten them, I assume. He hasn't the time for breaking in frightened dogs."
"Severus."
"Did you require something else?"
"I would appreciate it if you looked at me, my boy."
Severus paused in his work for long enough to allow his eyes to rise to Dumbledore's in a manner they hadn't for several weeks. Not since the Headmaster spelled Severus into a wall in his own office.
"I have apologized for what occurred between you, myself, and Alastor. I cannot apologize again for my behavior if you are unwilling to accept my sincerity. But I will not have you thinking you are a servant, Severus."
"No? I only need to pretend to be one, then?" Snape's lip curled, his body turning toward the workbench. "How unfortunate that playtime never seems to end. When do pretend and reality cease to be separate entities, sir? Is it still pretend when I have to debase myself at every opportunity to simply fucking exist?"
Dumbledore stepped away from the door, closer to Severus, who stiffened on instinct as if about to be struck. But Dumbledore had never struck him—not as Slytherin did on the regular, or how Riddle used to before the war ended. Perhaps it was because of that fact that Severus could not bring himself to let go of the Headmaster's actions in his office. He'd felt the bruises and betrayal sting in harmony for over a week.
"There is only one master of Severus Snape," Dumbledore said, his blue eyes keen and unrelenting. He settled his hand over Severus' chest, just above his heart. "And he is a good man."
Severus stared at the older wizard for several seconds more before he had to look away. He retreated to the workbench and summoned ingredients from the lab's open storage, muttering an excuse about needing to brew more potions.
What bullshite, he thought, morose. I'm never my own master.
Whether or not Dumbledore would take the hint and leave remained a mystery, as a moment later, a heavy knock landed upon the door. Severus didn't know who it could be at this impossible hour—Filch, perhaps, or a prefect with an emergency to report. Not Slytherin. He had other miens of summoning Severus if he desired to do so.
Sighing, Severus dropped his potions knife and went to the door. "What now?"
He didn't know who he expected, but it certainly wasn't Nicolas Flamel.
"Oh. So zis is the right room," the Frenchman commented as he passed Severus without waiting for an invitation. Severus blinked. Flamel carried a soft, parchment-wrapped package that he set aside on a table as he took in the lab and came to face Dumbledore. "Ah, Albus. Your Deputy Headmistress told me where I could find you. Very helpful woman, Minerva is."
It was strange to see the Headmaster taken aback. Apparently, he hadn't been expecting Flamel's visit. "I will have to thank her, then. Forgive me for asking, but what are you doing here, Nicolas? Is everything all right? Is Perenelle well?"
"Perenelle and I are in good health, oui." Flamel leaned against the table at his back as he spoke and crossed his arms. Severus didn't know the man very well; they'd been introduced, briefly, in the summer and had crossed paths on occasion in Grimmauld Place. Severus had the impression Flamel did not much care to interact with people he had no intention of getting to know and that Severus himself fell into that category.
Still, for all his lack of personal knowledge on the wizard, even Severus could hear the frosty note in Flamel's tone, the irritation that vibrated from his stiff shoulders under his waistcoat and plain brown cloak. Moreover, the look he directed toward Albus was decidedly unfriendly.
Severus closed the lab door and returned to his workstation, turning his back to the room.
"I have 'ad a letter," Flamel began, speaking slowly, precisely. "And it told me a very strange tale. A curious story about a competition—but not zee Tournament, as it were. No, zis competition is being held by Slytherin, and Harriet has been encouraged to enter."
"Ah. I had expected Harriet to write you earlier."
"Non. This letter was not from Harriet. I zink the sender preferred to be anonymous. I expect, like most children, she did not wish to inform her guardian she was about to do somezing incredibly stupid." Severus thought it telling that Dumbledore made no objection to Flamel referring to himself as Potter's guardian. He heard the alchemist step closer to the Headmaster. "À quoi penses-tu? Huh, Albus? C'est de la folie!"
Dumbledore exhaled. "Calmez-vous, s'il vous plait, Nicolas—.
"Non, je ne vais pas me calmer!" Flamel shouted. "You are going to get that poor girl killed, Albus, mon Dieu! Tell me your reasoning for encouraging this, for I cannot see it. I cannot see why you would risk her in zis manner!"
"Our best chance at protecting Harriet from him is to ingratiate her into the protection of his counterpart—."
"Protection?! Connerie, Albus!" Something shattered, and still Severus kept his back to the room less he be sent from it like an eavesdropping child. "He protects nothing! Not even his own being! Il le casse comme du verre! Careless, cruel boy!" Flamel panted for breath, the strain in his voice evident. "I worry more about what Slytherin will do than I do Riddle. He is an immediate threat."
"You are not giving Harriet enough credit. She is young, and she is a child, as you say, old friend, but these are not shields she can hold against her enemy. They are not barriers that have stopped Tom in the past, and we—I—have failed her too many times to deny her the ability to defend herself. We cannot always protect her when our own time is limited."
Severus had heard the same arguments from the Headmaster before and would hear them again before all was said and done. But Albus Dumbledore did not understand what it meant to be Slytherin's, what it felt like to have that pale hand at your arm or on the back of your neck. What it felt like to have that wand turn toward you, never knowing what spell might come flying at you next.
Severus knew—and Potter would too, if this madness persisted. She would not escape unscathed. She may learn from him, she may even learn enough to protect herself, but one day Slytherin would slip, would get angry, and he would hurt her, just as he hurt Severus. Severus might have relegated himself to being Slytherin's whipping boy, but the girl—.
His fingers tightened about the knife in his hand.
"You are forgetting somezing. What of ze curse, Albus? What will being in his presence do? Et si cela aggravait l'Horcr—?"
Dumbledore cleared his throat, interrupting Flamel. "I'm afraid our dear friend Severus here speaks French as well, Nicolas."
"Je me fiche de ce que le garçon entend." Flamel released a heated breath, and parchment crinkled as he picked up his package again. "Snape! See me to ze castle doors."
Severus considered telling the alchemist to shove it out his arse, as he wasn't a tour guide for stroppy dunderheads no matter their fame, but he simply set the knife aside and turned. "Very well."
To Dumbledore, Flamel said, "We will continue zis conversation later. You should expect a Howler from Perenelle, I fear. She is not happy with you, or with me for that matter."
Dumbledore nodded, resigned, looking older than he usually did in the murky green light of the lab. "Of course, Nicolas. I look forward to hearing from you."
"Ça va, Albus."
Severus opened the door, his expression bored, and Flamel passed through it with nary a glance at the thoroughly chastised Headmaster. However, Dumbledore did spare Severus a raised brow on his way out, to which Severus returned a brief glower before allowing the door to slam shut again.
Flamel refrained from speaking until they'd reached the head of the corridor, at which point Severus could feel the shorter man's eyes burning a hole in the side of his face. They slowed to a stop.
"And you, boy?" Flamel said. "What do you make of zis? Are you pleased enough to watch 'arriet walk into danger mortel if it means you are not in her place?"
At first, Severus did not reply, though the angry retort that rose to his mouth threatened to burst out on its own. "My name," he drawled. "Is Professor Snape. Not boy. Have a care, Master Flamel."
"Oui? Ah, but you see, you will always be a boy to me." A hard expression passed the usually jovial countenance of the alchemist. "I have walked zis earth for more than six hundred years, and I am not fooled by zis face of yours, where you act like it does not matter. Or that you are not afraid. I know better. I am no fool."
"No, you're a relic." Severus stood several inches taller than Flamel and so had to bend his neck to hiss at the other wizard. How dare he say I'm afraid. How dare—! "You're a doddering old fence-sitter who's spent much of his time skirting the field, never daring to get deeper in mud drowning the rest of us. So you condescend when it pleases you, calling me boy, coming to scold Dumbledore while we've lost body parts to this fight. Where were you when I had to cut off the rest of Albus' cursed arm? Where were you when my eye melted out of my fucking head?"
Flamel frowned.
"You dare to presume—dare to come here and turn your nose up at me as if I have not bled enough for this cause? It didn't matter to you before, Flamel, but you've six hundred years to your name and no legacy, and now you've found something you wish to keep, something worth more than the gold and the years you've taken for granted. Six hundred years, and you can do nothing for the girl as you shove off this mortal coil, nothing but watch her suffer just like the rest of us poor, simple mortals."
Severus sucked in air, not realizing he'd gone breathless with fury, that his heart pounded against his ears like falling hammers. Flamel's dark eyes studied Severus as his snarled retort echoed in the corridor's confines. Luckily, no one would be about at this hour, not even Slytherin. It was not yet time for him to come crawling out of his lair.
"You are a cruel boy, much like Riddle," Flamel muttered. "But perhaps it takes a cruel boy to betray one ally and write a letter to another, hmm?"
Severus froze. "I haven't a clue what you're on about."
"Non? As I said, I am not a fool. You wrote me ze letter when Harriet did not." Flamel heaved a tired sigh. "Perhaps you are right, and maybe one day you will be cursed to know how age can make you…négligent. How it can leech empathy from you as years pass, and it becomes very hard to care. Until suddenly you do, and yes, the years before do not matter quite so much then." Flamel grimaced, a haze of slow, meandering grief lingering in his gaze. "She has a way about her, 'arriet. She has seen very little compassion or joy in her life, but she does not hesitate to extend it to others. The world has not turned her bitter, or angry, or entitled. Where others 'ave sought me out for what I could give to them, Harriet Potter wrote to me to give of herself. She gave her sympathy, her regret. She did not want eternal life, or gold, or power. She wanted magic stories. She wanted tales of faraway places, tales about people falling in love, or outsmarting silly villains. She wanted stories as proof the world was still beautiful beyond ze little slice of Hell Tom Riddle saw fit to bequeath her." Flamel shut his eyes, deepening the lines about his face, then opened them again. "It seems I 'ave become ze mortal man who cannot keep someone he cares about from harm."
The pair of wizards levied each other a dark look and did not speaks for a moment. Still, the corridor hummed with silence, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Severus wondered what in the world Albus was still doing in his lab. Maybe he took the Floo out. Or was waiting to badger Severus more on his return. Merlin spare him the latter.
"You wrote ze letter to tell me of the competition because you care, yes? Because you hoped I would change Albus' mind. I was not sure at first. I thought maybe Monsieur Black or ze werewolf did it. But non." The corner of Flamel's mouth tipped upward. "It is a curious curse scar you have on your right wrist, Severus."
Severus twitched said wrist at his side so his robes covered it.
"I imagine others 'ave not noticed. You are not a man who invites scrutiny, and Albus' eyes are not what they used to be—but mine? Mine are still as perfect as ever."
"I have many scars, Flamel. They do not need you to make up fatuous little narratives for them."
Flamel held a hand up as if to ward away Severus' barbed tongue. "Évidemment." He narrowed his eyes and studied the Potions Master again, his gaze flickering from his black boots, to his scarred hands, up to his austere face and lank black hair. Severus did not like the feeling of being scanned for defects. He had many of them. "I can trust you to take care of her, oui?"
"I do not need your trust or opinion to do what is right."
"Non, I said nothing of what is right. I trust Albus to do what is right, even if it is hard. Even if it means endangering Harriet in a stupid competition neither of us agrees with. You? I trust you to protect Harriet, even if it means protecting her from what is right."
He suddenly thrust the package he'd been carrying into Severus' chest with enough force to knock the air out of him. Severus clutched at it despite himself, wheezing.
"Zat is for Harriet, from Perenelle. Her dress robes. Be a dear and deliver them for me, yes? I am needed at home."
Before Severus could protest being reduced to the role of carrier owl, Flamel walked off without him, taking the stairs with the speed of a much, much younger man. Severus cursed under his breath and wondered if hexing world-famous alchemists in the back was at all sporting.
Probably not. That didn't mean Severus didn't try, however.
A/N: Officially half-way through 4th year.
Severus briefly quotes Robert Frost: "The woods are lovely, dark and deep, / But I have promises to keep, / And miles to go before I sleep, / And miles to go before I sleep." There's some depressed/almost suicidal allusions in the poem that fit Severus' grim mindset.