cclvii. dwindling youth
No matter how many times he washed his hands, Severus couldn't get the blood off.
Visibly, the remnants had long since dwindled down the drain, leaving his hands as pale and clammy as a dead fish under the faucet's icy deluge. The red had disappeared from his nails, from his palm's lifelines, he'd even gotten it out of his cuff. That particular stain had left a vague discoloration against the white fabric in the distinct shape of a fingerprint.
But the blood was still there. It lingered.
Tears gathered and clumped black eyelashes, green eyes downcast, the whites tinged red—.
"I don't care about myself."
He could feel the impression of words under his fingertips, ragged valleys and hills, slashes bearing down into the bones like the careless carving of a child's hand using a penknife to leave their initials on a tree's side—.
Severus twisted the handle until the faucet shut off, and the last of the water gurgled in the sink. He lifted his gaze to the mirror and studied the hard, exhausted face reflected there.
He might be in Azkaban by morning.
A shuddering breath escaped him, and Severus ground his teeth, counting the seconds he inhaled and held the air in his chest. His head swam. His hands shook and curled into wet, cold fists.
Slytherin's fingers slid against the girl's neck, his mouth to her ear, the obscene hissing of an animal escaping his curled lips. Crimson eyes flicked to Severus, glittering with sadistic humor. Potter leaned away but couldn't move, couldn't escape—.
Severus shut his eyes, leaning forward until his forehead met the mirror's cold surface.
Be logical, he sneered in his own mind. My emotions don't control me. They're nothing. Disconnected, floating. Nothing there—.
Behind his closed eyelids, he saw the girl's tired face again. He could feel her hand shaking in his own, cold and as substantial as dust.
"I don't care about myself."
He'd looked into the face of a young woman only a shadow of her former self, a wizened replica of the girl who'd arrived at Hogwarts bursting with enthusiasm and snark. She'd grown gray, the color leached from her, warmth dwindling. Wet eyelashes haloing quiet eyes. Cold, weightless hands. Scars peeling back bloodless skin, encircling her like a shackle—.
Tom Riddle was killing her. The Ministry was. Dumbledore. Him.
He leaned off the mirror, pressing his hand there instead to lever himself farther away, leaving streaks of water on the glass. His Occlumency shields writhed.
A grating, high-pitched cough, the tap-tap of nails on a clipboard. "Progress for progress' sake—."
Slytherin's hand colliding with the girl's burnt cheek, Sangfort's grip on Severus' robes, keeping him in place, keeping him from taking that final step forward—.
Albus Dumbledore looked at Severus from across his desk, something like sadness in his blue eyes—.
"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—."
A youth spent like coins on dead eyelids, paying passage for past guilt from the moment she came into this world—.
He traced untidy letters scrawled in the margins of a Muggle book. "No one is beyond redemption but for those too cowardly to seek it—."
Familiar letters under his fingertips, etched into flesh one agonizing stroke at a time. "I must not tell lies—."
Severus looked into his own face, black eyes narrowed, his chest rising and falling on hard, angry breaths—.
It'd be easy. Just two words, and he'd remove the Umbridge problem completely. Who cared if he ended up in Azkaban for it? Who cared what happened to Severus Snape—?
His fingers on the girl's nape. Lightning captured under her skin, white veins crawling up the right side of her neck. A scar from a murderer. On the left, the brand of a prisoner. Under Severus' thumb, the mark of a servant. A slave.
"What if he hurts you? Because of—because of me?"
"I have made my decisions. You need only concern yourself with studying or protecting your own person."
"But if—if he does something, I won't be able to forgive myself. I can't stop myself from worrying."
Severus swallowed, turning away. There was blood on his hands. What would a little more matter? He muttered an incantation and blew out the lights.
xXx
He spent longer than he'd expected secluded in his rooms. He didn't leave until his shields ceased to be porous and unstable, and his own memories stopped leaking through his mind like a pervasive and irritating fog. When he returned to the Headmaster's office, Dumbledore was not alone. Severus stood back from the gathering and leaned his weight against the wall.
"—to wit, all detentions are to be reassigned to a member of Hogwarts' staff, under your authority as Heads of House," he said to the assembled witches and wizards. Dawn hadn't yet touched the horizon; both Flitwick and Minerva still wore their evening attire, Slytherin and Sprout both dressed for the day, with the latter already spotted with dirt from tending to the gardens. "Madam Umbridge or any official sent by the Ministry is not to be left in charge of the students."
How entirely predictable, Severus thought, silently furious. His attempts to thwart the Ministry in this matter did nothing at all.
Of the four Heads, Slytherin naturally had to be the one who complained. "I don't object to Umbridge's particular form of punishment," he said, earning scandalized looks from the others. He rolled his eyes. "Oh, do stop with the false outrage. It's no more barbaric than what Dippet allowed under his headship."
Dumbledore glared at him—actually glared, his robes less garish than his usual choice of clothing, the trailing sleeve smudged with black soot. He'd been in and out of the Floo, apparently. It wasn't often Dumbledore appeared physically annoyed or angry.
"No teacher of this institution has ever left a mark upon a student, no matter their antiquated stance on corporeal punishment."
"Naive," Slytherin drawled in reply. "But, have your illusions, Headmaster. It doesn't change my stance on the matter."
"Your personal beliefs have no bearing upon my order in this situation, Tom."
The air could have rippled from the tension drawing it taut as piano strings. "If Miss Potter had simply done as she was told," Slytherin spoke, his voice trailing into a cold, sinister hiss. "She would not have been punished. I instructed her not to antagonize Madam Umbridge, and she went out of her way to do so. Action, consequence. I heard what she said to the woman. My apprentice is lucky she was not expelled and will be happy to accept a few meaningless scratches in recompense."
"Did you not hear the Headmaster?" Sprout asked him, a frown pulling her mouth down. "The poor girl is going to be scarred from this."
"As I said, Professor—," Slytherin reiterated. "Action…consequence." To Dumbledore, he added, "Is this matter settled, Dumbledore? I have lesson plans to revise."
"Your word, Tom. You will protect the students. Your word?"
He answered as he ever did, a laconic wave of the hand as if brushing off a bothersome gnat, departing the office with a practiced flick of his robes. It didn't take long for the other Heads to follow, though Minerva delayed longest of all, both to harangue Dumbledore and to stare at Severus. She was the only one who'd noticed him there, and she opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it, shaking her head. She left through the door.
Only Severus and Dumbledore remained.
"He's capitulating too quickly to the Ministry's demands," Severus said, his voice deeper and raspier than usual, strained by fatigue and darker emotions. "Slytherin allowed her to disrespect him in the classroom, and now he's rearranging lesson plans to suit? Worse, he hasn't ordered me to do it."
The Headmaster turned in his seat—not toward Severus, but rather toward the window, resting his only elbow on the chair's scrolled arm, propping his chin on his open hand. The position caused his sleeve to slip and bare his wrist. Severus couldn't help but think how very fragile it looked. How weak.
"Headmaster, are you listening?"
"Mmm," Dumbledore answered. "Have I ever told you what Tom was like in school?"
Severus hesitated, having expected the conversation to go in a different direction. "I can't say you have, no."
"By all appearances, he was a good lad," Dumbledore continued, his gaze distant as it looked toward the grounds outside and the soft, warbling rays of dawn finally threading the sky. It had been a long, difficult night for more than just Severus. "But the first time I met him, I walked into his bedroom at the orphanage and knew he'd been stealing from the other children. I admit I could have handled the situation better, but I attempted to intimidate him. Or perhaps impress, I'm not sure. Ah, I guess it doesn't matter now."
"…the orphanage?"
"Yes. He resided at an orphanage. The Muggles of this country might have abandoned the practice for the most part, but group homes still exist, and religious organizations don't abide by the same rules as the secular community."
An image of Elara Black flickered in Severus' mind.
"Tom is part of the reason I petitioned so heavily for the Ministry to form the Department of Welfare and Muggle-born Placement. It was one of my first forays into politics after I fought Gellert and gained a measure of influence. You see, most everyone else at the school looked at Tom and thought him a brilliant, good-mannered boy. A moral man. They expected great things of him."
"And you didn't, Headmaster?"
"I couldn't say for certain, could never put my finger on any evidence to the contrary, and yet…I knew. At the time, I blamed it upon the environment of his upbringing, and though Tom had all but disappeared in those intervening years, I knew Wizarding Britain had not seen the last of him. I had hoped to prevent a similar situation in the future by pushing for the creation of the Department." Dumbledore sighed. "Were you aware Gaunt later used the existence of the Department and my own words encouraging its establishment to pass the Muggle-born Protection Act? As our dear Professor Slytherin said: action, consequence."
"I…I confess I don't know where you're going with this conversation, Albus."
The Headmaster straightened in his seat so he could see Severus again, the Potions Master still leaning against the wall, a large stretch of the office between them. "My apologies, Severus. I simply mean to draw parallels between how Tom was as a boy and how he is as a man. He fooled others into believing he was a compliant little boy, an upstanding student, and now, a pliable professor. You pointed out that he appears to be capitulating too easily, and I say Tom is not compliant, or upstanding, or pliable. What he is, is clever. He understands Madam Umbridge is making a lot of noise and a lot of enemies. He understands when he needn't do anything at all for a problem to work itself out."
Severus scoffed under his breath, and his fists shook inside his cloak's long, covering sleeves. "He expects to sit on his hands and for you to deal with her, then?"
"Should I hazard a guess, I would say Tom expects Gaunt to remove Umbridge." Severus' expression must have appeared more confused than he liked because Albus continued explaining. "I believe Madam Umbridge was told to treat Harriet harshly in hopes of pushing her into lashing out in a manner that would see her arrested or expelled. Now, if Madam Umbridge takes it upon herself to extend that treatment to other students—students of influential parents and potential allies for Gaunt—it will reflect poorly upon the Ministry, and he will be forced to retract his own agent."
"That will take too long." Severus pushed himself from the wall. "It will take far too long, and your belief is nothing but supposition. That seething cow will continue to attack the girl in whatever manner she can, and Potter is already permanently scarred. How much torture do you expect her to accept? How long do you believe she'll survive?"
Albus held up his hand, sighing. "Severus—."
"She's fucking dying, you fool!" The portraits gasped at Severus' thundering reply, and he stomped toward the Headmaster's desk until he had both his hands pressed to the surface, leaning closer to the man. "Every guess you make is another stone we're laying on that girl's chest, and it is crushing her. Do you know how long she must have sat there using the Blood Quill for it to reach bone? What punishment do you want her to undergo next? Perhaps another round with a werewolf? Another cup of poisoned tea? Another week in Azkaban, allowing that monster too—."
Severus' fingers fumbled at his own neck as if to scratch and claw at the skin, and he forced the limb away.
"You're out of line, Severus," Albus told him, silencing the outraged portraits. "I know you are worried. We all are. You are not the only one who cares about Harriet."
Severus snarled. "I do not."
The look Dumbledore gave him was nothing short of annoyed. "Don't allow your outrage to overshadow Harriet's strength."
"And how long will that strength last? How long until you have another Tom Riddle on your hands?"
A flicker of fear went through Dumbledore's face—as sudden as a glint of light across water, and entirely unexpected. What is he frightened of? Severus was missing something.
"You're dismissed, Severus. Do you need to cancel your morning classes to get some rest?"
Severus didn't answer him. He stormed out of the office, taking particular delight in how hard he slammed the door in his passage. His entire body fairly thrummed with fury, his magic high and pressing tight beneath his skin. A familiar itch trailed like nails down his spine, a voice crooning at his ear, reminding him of a needless recitation of the spells Severus knew could solve his problem in a heady blend of hungry, burning Dark magic—.
He headed to the stairwell, his mind centered on a certain witch who'd taken up residence on the fifth floor.
"Severus."
It was a testament to how riled his own thoughts were that he didn't notice Minerva waiting in the corridor for him, still wearing her tartan dressing gown. Her severe spectacles glinted in the shafts of sunlight starting to peer through the windows.
Severus kept walking.
"Don't you dare ignore me, young man."
He kept going, only to startle and nearly stumble when a tabby cat shot under his feet. "Damn you, Minerva—!"
The Animagus resumed her usual form in front of him, blocking Severus from continuing through the passage. "You're going back to the dungeons and will stay there for the rest of the day."
Her presumption lit his temper like a spark hitting dry kindling. "What?! Who are you to order me anywhere—?!"
"Severus Snape! You're going to leave that woman alone before you do something you regret!"
He stopped, realizing he'd been advancing on Minerva, and though the witch had held her ground, she'd also stiffened as if expecting to be shoved aside. That froze Severus in his tracks, and he forced himself to breathe. His hands shook.
"Why?" he asked—demanded, though he kept his volume modulated. "Regret and I are old friends, Minerva, and I would not regret taking that sow's life one bit."
"It would devastate Miss Potter."
He stared at her. Minerva stared back, her expression serious and unfaltering.
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Do I appear to be in a joking mood? Miss Potter is no idiot. After what that, that—." She mustered herself, struggling to find the right word and failing. "Beast of a woman forced her to endure, Harriet would know exactly why Umbridge was removed and why you were sent to prison."
"Maybe it would be for the best."
"No. The poor girl needs our support, Severus—your support, not your misguided, selfish sense of vengeance. For Morgana's sake, man. We're speaking of murder here. You cannot do this!"
Severus listened to her, holding himself still. Hesitant, Minerva stepped closer until she could reach out, and she gently lifted his arms by his wrists. She studied his raw, stinging hands in the new day's weak light.
"Potter would be fine without me," he said, but it was weak, as Severus didn't believe it himself. He could kill Umbridge, but Gaunt would send another in her stead. He could go to Azkaban, but Potter would still be here, still beholden to the monster that haunted Hogwarts' halls. Severus could disappear, but there would be more cuts, more scars, more fear.
—selfish sense of vengeance.
It was selfish, wasn't it? He wanted to kill her because it outraged him, because he couldn't do anything about the blank look behind Potter's darkening eyes. He could kill someone, but what comfort was that? What use was he?
He shut his eyes. Minerva gave his wrists a slight, tempering squeeze. In a quiet whisper, she asked, "Did it not tell you something was amiss?" Her grip upon his right hand shifted ever so slightly. His sleeve hid the thin, pearly scar wrapping about his hand and wrist, but Severus always remained aware of it.
He opened his eyes. "There's not much known about the Vow, Minerva. It often behaves in unpredictable ways, and the girl herself unknowingly sets its conditions. It does not burn because she is hurt or is being threatened. It hurts when she perceives herself to be in imminent danger."
"Ah. And I'm guessing this means it did not hurt last evening?"
Severus laughed, and were he a lesser man, he might have called it a sob. "No, you misunderstand. It didn't start to hurt because it never stopped. The Vow never stops hurting now."
A/N: I had several readers who were shocked Slytherin just sat back and let Umbridge do as she wants and boss him around. You just have to remember how he dealt with Karkaroff. Slytherin strikes when someone is at their lowest, and if he doesn't have to move to topple the dominoes, he won't.
Severus: "Just a little bit of murder."
Albus: "No, Severus."
Severus: "Just a little murder."
Minerva: "No, Severus."
Severus: "You guys are literally no fun."