I'm going to admit that the plot point that comes up in this chapter was an oversight on my part, but I do think that it works out in the long run. It suits the story for it to have happened, so we'll just call it a happy accident.
I was pretty careful when I plotted this story out, but … well.
Am I not human? Is it not human to fuck up?
Or something. I don't know.
One.
It was rare for Severus Snape to enter Dumbledore's office with the kind of look on his face that he wore today. The headmaster was used to his wayward professor being surly, angry, and sometimes he was darkly amused; but it was rare upon rare for him to be frightened. Indeed, the last time he'd been in this man's presence with this kind of naked worry exuding from him like heat waves had been that night, not so long ago, a lifetime ago, when he'd come to beg for an intervention.
"I must say, Severus," said Dumbledore, "you look perturbed. I dearly hope that there isn't anything wrong with your new office. I do know that I'm often accused of favoritism because I've yet to afford Slytherin House more modern accommodations, but . . ."
He trailed off.
Severus sat in front of Dumbledore's desk and drew in a breath that came out as a sigh.
"Something has occurred," Severus began, carefully, that I cannot explain no matter how many times I run it through my mind. I have viewed it from every angle of which I can conceive, and it still cannot be. Yet, it is." Severus eyed Dumbledore with a look that could have curdled milk. "Are you listening, Headmaster?"
Dumbledore leaned forward. "Tell me what is troubling you, Severus."
"Black," said Severus, and then he immediately held up a hand. "Yes, I know, I know, this isn't about that. Black said something to me recently, and it . . . concerns me greatly." He settled himself. "'You were desperate enough for self-esteem to join Voldemort, weren't you? I remember how we used to treat you, Severus. Hell, I still dream about it sometimes. I'd probably apologize, except for how you decided to get back at us.'"
Dumbledore frowned. His brow furrowed. His mustaches quivered.
"'You helped the monster that killed my best friends and made their only son an orphan.'" Severus cleared his throat. "I trust you understand the trouble here but, in case you do not, I will elucidate: he should not know this. Unless you tell me now that you've made a habit out of telling your favorite students about one of the most carefully kept secrets in your collection." He raised an eyebrow. "I am to be your instrument, am I not? I cannot believe that you would be careless with this piece of my history, and yet . . . you are the only source from which he could have possibly received that information, unless Black has a heretofore unknown talent for divination."
"He does not, to my understanding," Dumbledore said, carefully. "I see your point, Severus."
He spoke quietly, casually, like Severus had just warned him about gopher holes on the Quidditch pitch. All the same, the look on the old headmaster's face was grim. He didn't seem frightened, not the way that Severus clearly was—though he was trying mightily to hide it—but neither did Dumbledore seem unworried.
Somehow, he was—like he was in so many other avenues—a paradox.
"I will speak to Sirius," Dumbledore said, "and get to the bottom of this mystery. Thank you for bringing this to my attention."
Severus might have retorted, might have insisted on a more decisive reaction, except for the look in those bright blue eyes. It wasn't the look of a headmaster in the mood for discipline, nor an investigator in the mood for answers.
It was the look of an executioner sharpening his axe.
Two.
"Before you go making any rash decisions, my good man, I think perhaps we ought to have a discussion. Just you and me. Indulge me, won't you?"
Albus Dumbledore was never one to show when he was surprised. He always presented an ineffable front; he could not be caught off guard. It didn't matter what happened. Headmaster Dumbledore would not show any indication, to anyone, that he hadn't anticipated the entire affair.
This was true no matter who, or what, was speaking to him.
Even if it was a headmaster's portrait who'd never spoken a single word to him before.
Dumbledore turned, slowly, to face the wall of his predecessors. He searched over them all, one by one by one, until he landed upon the portrait who'd spoken up: Caius Labeau, a positively archaic man who'd once risen to Dumbledore's position from the humblest of beginnings in Ravenclaw.
Labeau wore simple clothes, nothing noteworthy; his shirt was the nothing-grey of rainwater mixing with dust. It was his eyes that drew attention: they never seemed to stay the same color for long; neither did his immaculately quaffed hair stay in one place. Its waves seemed to drift and swirl like the tides.
His smile was infectious.
Like leprosy.
"If you wish to have a conversation with me," said Dumbledore, sitting against his desk and watching the old, mysterious portrait carefully, "please, say what you must."
"Oh, come now," said Labeau, laughing quietly. "Must you speak to me like I'm a threat? I simply wish to advise my successor. Is that not my calling as a portrait in this office?"
"You have never spoken in all the time you have been a portrait in this office," Dumbledore said, "ever since you were first commissioned. Yet here we are, discussing . . . something. You will forgive me, I hope, if I find myself unwilling to believe that to be mere coincidence."
Labeau grinned broadly, showing his teeth. "All right, Albus, all right. You have me. I do have a specific reason to speak up now. Your Professor Black is something of a pet project of mine. I can explain the discrepancies between what he ought to know and what he does know. I can do it right now. Before I do, however, I must insist that you keep an open mind. I will enlighten you, if you wish to be enlightened. What I say, however, may not be intuitive."
"I see," said Dumbledore.
Caius Labeau reached down with his hands, gripped the frame of his portrait, and carefully lifted his legs out of it. He hopped down onto the floor of Dumbledore's office, dressed in a sharp pinstriped suit. He dusted himself off, then strode out in front of Dumbledore's desk and slipped his hands into the pockets of his slacks.
"Let us get one thing set up, here at the beginning, shall we?" Labeau asked, nodding his head. His hair continued to flow and swirl like smoke. "I am not a wizard, nor am I the portrait of one. I am what you might call a creature of near-human intelligence. I do believe, by the letter of your laws, that I would not be afforded the choice of carrying a wand." He licked his lips. "It is unfortunate for those laws that I have no need for one."
"I find myself wondering," Dumbledore murmured thoughtfully, "if this is how most people feel when I speak to them."
Labeau's shimmering, shifting eyes sparkled with some inner light. "I won't pretend I'm not delighted by that thought, Albus. I won't pretend at all."
"Might I ask what you mean about Sirius Black being a 'pet project?'"
"Ah. Well." Labeau cleared his throat. "Many years ahead of this one, he will be left destitute and unable to chase his own future, and so I will afford him the chance to shape his past. Many, many forces will wonder why I would opt into this, why I would step into such an arena as this world of yours." He shrugged dramatically. "What can I say? His plight spoke to me. The long and short of what I am saying is this: the Sirius Black you know is not solely Sirius Black, but an amalgam of him and a man who lived in a much grimmer world than this one, a world which stands at the precipice of . . . well, drastic change."
"You sent Sirius Black into his own past," Dumbledore said, "and he has merged with his alternate self."
"Correct."
"In this future of which you speak, the world from which he originally hailed, he is aware of Severus Snape's previous allegiances; he is unaware that he shouldn't know this information. He hasn't noticed."
"Correct," Labeau repeated.
"When did this . . . merger occur? To what moment did you send him?"
Labeau looked at once amused and incredulous.
"Come now, Albus. You know as well as I that there is only one answer to that question."