All That Burns, All That Rises

Part 1: All That Burns


CW: graphic violence, bodily fluids, references to torture, minor character death.

Note: I used a combination of British English and American English spelling to optimize British English text-to-speech programs.

Cover art posted with permission and created by:

U/-ocean-rain- on Reddit | Kuchee on Tumblr | Kuchi on AO3

Thank you!


Timeline:

Twenty-one years after the birth of Harry Potter.

Six years after the second rising of Lord Voldemort.


"Compromise is said to be the way of the world, and yet I find myself feeling sick trying to accept what it has done to me."

― Douglas Coupland

Severus Snape

Minister Severus Snape apparated to London, reflecting on how to best irritate the Carrows. It was just before nine o'clock, and the autumn dew still darkened the cracks between the pavement on Charing Cross Road. He stopped, looking down the street, his instincts as a spy kicking in. For a moment, it felt as though someone were watching him. But the only people passing by were oblivious muggles. He shrugged it off. He had more important matters to attend to.

Inside the Leaky Cauldron, the waft of fried chips and ale offered a companionable ambiance. But the patrons hunched over their tables, silent, the only sound the clattering of plates in the kitchen. Severus stayed long enough to make his presence felt - it wouldn't do to look as though he'd left for their comfort. After another moment of strained silence, he strode into Diagon Alley, taking the path that went past Twilfitt and Tatting's, and ended at the Prisoner's Yard.

It was much like one of those damp September mornings of Hogwarts, when he'd walked the grounds with Albus Dumbledore. Long walks, sometimes full of companionable silence, but more often a place where he shared the Dark Lord's plans, of who had died in the last attack.

There is still hope, Severus. Have you seen signs of dissension in the ranks? Of someone like yourself?

He had snorted. Among these Death Eaters? There is no hope to be found. They have been too corrupted by what they've done, and what was done to them.

Even the Malfoys? Every day, Draco becomes more withdrawn. Surely, for the love they have for their son—

It's too late for them. They committed to their course.

A pity. I had hoped once they realized what such a life would do to their son, they would make a different choice. I tried to talk to the boy, but he wouldn't listen to me. I wish the house rivalries were not such as they are. I think he might have found a friend in…

The memory faded, but Dumbledore's words of hope remained. The belief that someone, somewhere, might make a different choice. That there was, somehow, some future beyond this war, this life. Those words were his drumbeat on his morning march.

He headed for Twilfitt and Tatting's. The Carrows mentioned they would visit the shop before flooing to the Ministry of Magic. They'd ordered new velvet robes. If he ran into them outside the Ministry, they might have their guard down and divulge a little too much.

But beyond that, he needed to be in Diagon Alley - it was important for a minister to make the rounds, and to be seen making the rounds. To avoid the Prisoner's Yard, or to pass it with downcast eyes—such actions suggested one did not celebrate the glorious new world brought about by the Dark Lord's regime. He couldn't afford to look as though he mourned the past. Every action flashed his intentions like a Dark Mark in the sky.

A sensation crawled up his back, like he was being watched. He slowed his pace, making a show of staring into a shop window. Instead, he used the reflection and scanned the street behind him. The usual patrons, looking for some bauble to take their mind off the war. No one out of the ordinary. And yet, he couldn't shake the feeling.

At Twilfitt and Tatting's, a clerk swallowed heavily and put on a smile. "How can I help you, Minister?"

Severus waved him off, and the clerk gratefully slipped into the back. The shop was small and almost empty, and the Carrows were hard to miss. He resisted the urge to check the time. There was still a quarter of an hour before the Carrows would be at the Ministry, which left enough time to visit the Yard. A place he did not want to see, but where he needed to be seen.

The Yard was a flat area between a small charms shop and a boarded-up book shop. Dragon fire still blackened the pavement and the sides of the neighboring buildings. The execution stage in the center had been rebuilt, but the smell of ash and smoke still lingered, embedded in brick and stone. Goblins had brought in a new breed of dragon to guard Gringotts some years ago. It hadn't ended well.

The execution stage was empty at the moment. Too early in the day. In the air above the stage, names blazed to life, accompanied by a disembodied, accusatory voice:

Bridget Bishop

Sarah Good

Ursula Kemp

A steady scroll of history, of those executed for witchcraft. A reminder, and a promise of things to come.

The crowds grew thicker near the edge of the Yard, at the place informally called the Market. A recent prisoner revolt had damaged the wooden pens, and they'd been rebuilt quickly. The wood was so new that the edges bled sap, and pine cut through the air. Inside the pens, prisoners of lesser crimes stood with their arms bound. Outside the pens, money changed hands.

There were sharp eyes in the crowd. Ones that he'd seen before. The sensation of being watched returned, although now it was justified. Watchers, writing names in their little books. Names of those who looked away. Who did not attend. Who never bought.

Those eyes didn't need to watch here. The routine didn't change. Bids were made, money exchanged hands, and another prisoner moved from warden to owner.

Severus knew a few of the buyers. An older witch who worked in requisitions at the Ministry, who'd grumbled about needing someone to tend house whilst she worked longer hours for the war effort. He saw the familiar blond hair of Lucius Malfoy, arguing angrily with a vendor. A younger wizard—McClough, that was it—had lost his wife years ago, and the scarring on his face kept him from finding another. He pointed to a young witch, his eyes downcast. He might not look her in the eye, but he still handed over his money. And an older wizard who'd lost his whole family to the war and to the Dark Lord's purges—he stared at the names written in fire, his face twisting, and checked his pockets for galleons. Severus wondered if he would find comfort in having someone to blame, someone to punish. He would know if he looked into his mind. He didn't look.

"You don't understand," said a middle-aged man who was led out of a pen and given to a wizard in silk robes. He jerked his head, as if something had torn loose. His voice was hoarse, and his gaze did not meet the wizard, but ended at a frozen spot between them. "I have to go home. To my Hannah." His wispy hair floated with each shake. "She's only fifteen."

A young woman was led out next, her robes lovingly embroidered and her feet bare. Her shoulders tightened as Warden Umbridge and another witch haggled over the price.

The woman broke free from her guard, but she didn't run. She stood her ground, staring at the warden and the witch. Her voice was steady. "You exchange your gold and silver and say you own me, but it means nothing."

The guard grabbed her and pulled her back, but she wasn't deterred. "Who are you to decide my worth? With your numbers in your little ledgers?" Her voice rose. "You have no right. We were fighting for something. We won't be forgotten!"

The guard used a stunning spell, and she went limp in his hold. The warden and the witch exchanged glances. Clucking her tongue in disappointment, she handed back a few silver sickles to the witch.

A notebook snapped shut. A figure with dark red hair slid through the crowds and back towards the Leaky Cauldron. Ambitious, that one. And observant. He reviewed his own behavior. Had he shown some sign of sympathy or weakness? Surely not.

But the woman was correct. They had been fighting for something. They didn't deserve to be forgotten. Severus once again imagined being that dragon and burning the entire Yard to the ground. He kept walking in measured steps. One hundred and eighty-four steps would return him to the Leaky Cauldron, and from that fireplace to the Ministry, and that many more minutes through the day. It had taken two hundred and twelve steps to get from his rooms to Dumbledore's office. It had been over five years since the school had been closed, but he remembered counting, remembered the solid thud of the Headmaster's door.

We need you, Severus. If the war comes—and I think it will—we cannot win it without you. You must help him.

Help him. But who was he supposed to help? It had disappeared into the fog of the past. Had he truly forgotten? He could remember the steps, remember the air warming and drying as he ascended, but not the words they had said. Perhaps years of occlumency had that effect. Or perhaps he had run Dumbledore's words through his head too many times. They'd been rubbed smooth and shapeless, like old prayer beads.

Re-entering the Leaky Cauldron, he flooed to the Ministry of Magic. A guard near the entrance fireplaces in the Atrium offered a nod that was nearly a bow. Brushing the floo powder from his ministry robes, Severus scanned the crowds in the large room. Neither of the Carrows were here. Most likely, they were in their office upstairs, finalizing their plans for the next attack. They would resent his intrusion, his mocking smile, his implication that they did not have the intelligence or imagination to track the resistance. They would point out the brilliance of their plan, chests swelling like engorged ticks, and he would have his information.

He ran over his strategy, thinking of their reactions and how he would respond. Choosing his words beforehand, rehearsing it like a play. He did the same thing as a child in his attempts to make friends. Oh, are you reading Jigger's Potions book? He was quite an interesting fellow. Did you know he used to poison rabbits?

He'd since learned that acquiring information was easier than acquiring friends.

As he passed the Magic is Might monument, snippets of conversations circled his mind. Dumbledore, McGonagall, Lupin, all talking to him about something that he couldn't quite recall. A fog covered them, voices muffled with cotton, words lost.

That fog, swirling through his mental landscape. He'd dismissed the bleached-out memories so many times before. But when had it all slipped from his mind? Last week? The week before that? Months? Or was it years?

He circled the Atrium, past the guards who nodded respectfully, until he came upon the lift. After the Dark Lord took the Ministry, rebels had sabotaged the floos in the Atrium, and the lift had been installed as a temporary solution. But it remained even after the floos were repaired, as the Dark Lord had his own ways of entering and exiting the Ministry, and no one felt inclined to bring up the topic with him.

The lift worked magically, of course, sliding sideways and diagonally and through floors that existed only in wizarding space. The Dark Lord would not abide muggle technology, but even so, it gave the impression of mechanics, gears grinding as it moved. He wondered if the house-elves that installed it had simply thought the sound was part of the charm, like the brass doors and the glass-covered buttons.

Upwards led to the Carrows, to his own office, to the Dark Lord's throne room. Downwards led to the dungeons.

A broad-chested guard stood near the lift, his thick body leaning forwards in a half-bow. "Anything I can help you with, Minister?"

Deeper in the Atrium, another set of eyes watched, well-manicured fingers scribbling in a notebook. He'd darkened his hair shortly after his family had been declared blood traitors, muting the red. The ambitious one. Percy Weasley.

"No," Severus said. "I seem to have... forgotten..." This was absurd. The Carrows would finalize their plans and leave for their mission soon. He knew the two locations they might attack, but he needed to be certain. All of this forgetting could be chalked up to natural memory loss. He was simply getting older. He was...

He was forty-one. Hardly decrepit, especially for a wizard. And he'd spent twenty-four of his years honing his mental focus. This was no natural memory loss. Something had gotten through his defenses. A charm. A magical object. Or a person.

Percy snapped his notebook shut and slid it into his breast pocket, tapping the corners until they aligned with the seam. He strolled to the lift and parceled out a smile. "Good day, Minister. Not having any difficulties, I trust?"

"Taking over lift maintenance, Weasley?" He traced the outlines of the panel buttons. Floor Two, Three, Four... too many witches and wizards, with too many agendas. He couldn't get a sense of where the memory spell was coming from.

"I'm only concerned for your well-being, Minister." Percy's voice pricked like a needle. "You've heard about Minister Threstle?" He shook his head, his eyes downcast. "Tragic. So tragic. They say it was werewolves."

"Is that what they say?" He was losing the shape of it, the tide of the past dragging down any sense of what he knew and what he'd forgotten. He tried to hold on to it, that feeling of something, of someone, just out of reach. Someone that wanted to stay out of reach. At the edge of his perception, never quite worth his full attention.

"Threstle did have a tendency to wander about in the dark. What do you think he was doing, skulking in his office in the middle of the night?" Percy smoothed his tie, flicked non-existent lint off his fingertips. "I shudder to think."

Severus knew perfectly well what he'd been doing, and so did Weasley. Threstle was muggle-born, and it had been a full-time job to cover that fact under a mountain of documents and a web of freshly spun ancestors. Behind that office door, papers rustled with quiet desperation.

"It appears the investigation has closed," Severus said. "His office name-plate changed."

Percy stroked the edge of the notebook, nestled in folds of silk. "Just in time, too. My work requires a suitable amount of space. Still. To think of his grubby hands touching everything. I had the place thoroughly scrubbed. New door, too. Oak."

Oak, seven feet. He watched the sliver of Weasley's smirk. With a hemlock core.

But he was no better. He'd listened to those papers rustle past closing, and walked on. He couldn't afford to martyr himself for Threstle. That was the way it was. Someone whispered in someone else's ear, and the name plates changed. Another whisper, and they changed again. A quiet game of musical chairs. Only one floor housed permanent residents. The one with stone walls and solid locks.

That niggling worm in his mind had eaten away at his memory for a long time. Not months. Years.

He knew where he needed to go. "I trust you'll keep better hours than Threstle," he said, pressing the lift button. "See that you don't disturb me."

"Of course, Minister," Weasley called as the doors shut. "You'll never know I'm there..."

Severus let out a breath as the lift descended into the dungeons. Shadows seeped across the walls as the lift trundled down. The musk of mildew and unbathed bodies oozed in. He had been locked up here for three weeks, many years ago, and questioned on his role in the war—the first war. The smell of smoke from the torches reminded him of how he had paced, fists clenched until his knuckles ached, and wondered if Dumbledore could convince the judges, if Dumbledore was truly a man he could trust.

Silt had settled onto the stone floor, muffling his steps. At the main juncture, he paused, holding onto the loose threads of the past. The closer he got, the harder it was to remember what he was searching for. If he didn't stay focused, he imagined he would find himself blinking in the dim light, wondering why he had needed to explore the dungeons. It was an odd feeling to plunge in the direction of the mental fog.

In a crumbling alcove, one cell stood against each wall. A guard paced in front of all three, his wand whap-whapping against his palm. A large rat scurried from the tray slot in the bottom of a cell door, searching for crumbs.

The guard stabbed his wand at the rat. "Crucio!"

The rat tumbled onto its back and convulsed. Its grey fur rippled as it squealed and twisted.

Grinning, the guard brandished his wand with an imperious flourish, as if he imagined himself in Death Eater robes. "Avada Kedavra!" Green light flashed, and the rat fell silent.

The searing light of the curse left the guard blinking and squinting as Severus approached. "New prisoners are down that hallway, fourth corridor on the right," he said. It wasn't until Severus stood in front of him that he straightened to attention. "Minister Snape. Sir."

Legilimens. Severus used the spell silently, creeping into the guard's mind. The man blinked, but Severus kept his presence to a whisper. The man's thoughts were thick and slow, like old men crawling through the mud. Not what he was looking for. "The prisoners," he said. "Who do you guard?"

"All down this hallway, sir," the guard said, nodding vigorously. "I've one of the bigger sections. Said I was up for the responsibility, they did. Said I showed potential." He lifted his chin.

"Did they say to spend your time practicing curses instead of patrolling your section?"

The guard deflated. "No, sir. But I'm not shirking. I was told to pay special attention to this block here."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"Well, I was told... you see..." The guard coughed and ran a meaty hand through his hair. "I don't rightly recall at the moment, sir, but it was very important."

"I see. Who is there?" Severus pointed at the first cell.

"Herman Nesterly. Attempted sedition."

"And there?"

"That's Melinda Opperwright. Not there anymore, though. Execution last week."

Severus stared at the door. Execution last week. This week. Next week. And so often he had to watch, as another good witch or wizard died.

We all make sacrifices, Severus. How many more would die without your information? How many more will die if we lose the war?

For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to leave these dungeons. What difference did it make if some prisoner wanted to be forgotten? The days at the Ministry would be blessedly easier if he could forget what was under his feet. The people he could help only existed outside these walls, and they were waiting for a message from him. He should go to the Carrows, get the information. Do his duty to win the war. Even though he knew: they weren't winning the war. There would still be another execution, another prisoner at The Market.

You have no right.

He pointed at the final cell. "This one?"

"That's... that's... one of the prisoners. Been here a long time."

"Name?"

"He's... well..." The guard frowned, rubbing his chin. "It's on the tip of my tongue."

Something stirred in his chest. "Open the door."

The guard held the keys out apologetically.

Severus nodded. The keys were charmed, and only an official seal from a minister could set them to work. He didn't have his seal with him, but the Dark Lord ensured the keys would know a minister.

A diffindo spell sliced his hand, and blood dribbled on the keys. The Dark Mark emblazoned on them glowed for a moment, the teeth elongating and changing so they would fit the locks they were intended for.

The guard fumbled with the keys a long time, the lock for the third cell stubbornly refusing each one.

Severus noticed a second key ring with only one key, still hanging from the man's belt. "That one."

The guard patted the ring absently. "Oh, that's... that's for something else... special prisoner... something like that."

"Use it."

Another drop of blood, and the key slid in. The lock clicked, but the door had rusted in place. The guard gave it a shove.

It screeched open and slammed against the wall. Severus couldn't see far into the darkness, but he could feel the closeness of the heavy walls, the cold and wet sloughing off them. It was like being smothered in clay. A stench permeated the cell, a mixture of human waste, sweat, and rot.

Something scuffled, somewhere in the back. His pulse quickened.

"Come on, then," the guard called into the darkness. "A minister's come to question you." He slapped his wand against his palm. "You don't want me to come in there and get you."

More scuffling, but in the darkness, it was impossible to tell where it was coming from. Severus lifted his wand to cast lumos.

Something wet grabbed his leg, and he recoiled. In a rush, something—someone—scuttled between the two of them and out the door. The prisoner slithered, low to the floor, hugging the wall.

The guard growled and jabbed his wand into the air. "Crucio!"

Severus shoved him aside. A wall shivered as the curse bounced off it. The prisoner was moving fast, trying to reach the corner. He took aim. "Stupify."

The guard flushed. "If you'd let me—" He jostled Snape's arm, throwing his shot wide.

He wanted to slam the man's face into the wall. "Move aside."

The prisoner zigzagged as he reached the corner, anticipating a shot. Severus strode after him, keeping his hand steady, and threw three spells in quick succession. The second one hit. The prisoner slumped to the floor.

Severus was halfway to him when the forgetfulness ebbed. He knew what he'd find when he turned him over.

The prisoner had a thin face, marred from fractures to a cheekbone that hadn't healed properly. He searched the web of mottled skin that ran from the fracture to the forehead. One bit of scarring had nearly disappeared into the web. But it was still there. Shaped like a lightning bolt.

"Potter. That's it." The guard squatted, studying him, and poked the damaged cheekbone. "Been round the block a few times, hasn't he?" He laughed. "I wager you'll have fun with him, as well."

Severus closed his eyes, but Dumbledore was silent. So he repeated the mantra to himself: The war, Severus. Sacrifices. This is not your battle. The Carrows. The resistance. They're depending on you. They're waiting.

The guard toed Potter in the ribs between the remnants of his clothing. The sole of his boot left a grid of black mud on the pale skin. "I'll have to owl Minister Lestrange. I remember now, she used to love to pay visits. Generous with her tips, she was." He shook his head. "Harry Potter. Can't believe I forgot him."

His smile faded when he faced the point of Snape's wand.

"Obliviate," Snape said.

"Ah, Minister."

Severus froze. Potter hovered vertically in front of him, head slumped against his chest, hands curled in tight contractions. He'd passed several ministry officials and other visitors in the Atrium so far. They all saw the hovering prisoner and their mouths contorted for a second. Their stares moved to Snape's official Ministry robes, his face, his wand. And they hurried out of the way, gazes passing through Potter as if he didn't exist. Everyone except Percy Weasley.

Weasley had his notebook open, ready. He eyed Potter and frowned. "Interrogation?"

Potter's hair had grown long, and it hung in tangled snarls over his face. Weasley angled his head, trying to get a better view.

He only needed to move a few hundred yards to reach the exit fireplaces. He flexed his fist around his wand and watched Weasley's peering face for any sign of recognition. "I was unaware you'd been promoted since we last spoke. Should I now call you Minister?"

Weasley turned away from Potter, his mouth tightening. "Rank is not an issue here. We both work for the Dark Lord. And for the good of the wizarding world, of course."

"Of course. And you can surely realize that, for the good of the wizarding world, important Ministry matters should remain confidential. I cannot share sensitive information with a... what is your title again? File clerk?"

Weasley straightened. "Court Liaison. I track convictions, incoming criminals, cataloging and storing their property. I'm in charge of many powerful magical objects. Wand destabilizers, even ward breakers. I'm essential to the war effort." He eyed Potter again. "And I track outgoing prisoners. One simply can't move these dangerous convicts around indiscriminately."

"One can. If one is addressed as minister." He pressed on. The exit fireplaces were thirty feet away. "Don't fret. I'll return him when I'm finished. And if there's nothing left to return, I'll be sure to fill out the appropriate paperwork. I'll leave it for you to file. I understand filing is an important duty of the... liaison."

Weasley blocked his path. "He finds my services invaluable, you know. He's told me what a great help I've been. How important to the war effort."

"He told you?" Severus stared hard at Weasley, saw the nodding approval of Lord Voldemort behind his eyes. But his blue eyes were feverish, and it was difficult to tell what was real and what was the fantasy he liked to rehearse.

Weasley tapped his notebook. "I send in my reports. They'll see what you've been up to. How you disregard the rules." He shook his head. "I must say, Minister, this is not the sort of behavior I would've expected from you."

"And you, Mister Weasley." Severus could still see him at fifteen years old, in his Hogwarts uniform, his prefect badge polished to a sheen. Huffing loudly as his brothers elbowed him in the dining hall. "This is not what I would've expected from you."

Weasley's gaze faltered for a moment. He watched the press of people walking past, gazes darting to him and looking away. Gripping his notebook tightly, he stared back at Severus. "A name, at least." He squinted at Potter, as if trying to see through the layers of dirt. "Distinguishing marks. Scars."

"That would also be confidential." Severus lowered his voice to a whisper. "I've no doubt that your services are invaluable, Mister Weasley. Perhaps you should see to them, rather than loitering about the Atrium. I would hate to speak to him about your interference in ministry business. I abhor tattle-tales."

Weasley paled, his mouth going slack. Severus tugged the notebook out of his hands and slid it into the neatly hemmed silk pocket. Weasley flinched as he tapped it into place. "But I'm afraid I would have to. Open communication with our superiors is so important. To the war effort."

Weasley swallowed, his hand covering the spot where the notebook lay, fingers plucking at the pinstripes. But he didn't pull it out again. Severus stepped towards the fireplaces, Potter still hovering a few feet ahead. He could feel those blue eyes staring until he stepped through the fireplace and was whisked away in a gust of floo powder and ash.