Severus Snape: A Call From the Darkness

Severus Snape

The dark magic diminisher filled a whiskey tumbler near the window by the kitchen sink. The tumbler itself was cloudy from overuse, a faded Stitcher's Inn etched on it—the name of the local pub his father had frequented and from which he'd purloined their glassware. The liquid inside glowed softly, attracting sunlight and transforming the dingy glass into something bright and ethereal. The vial of strengthening potion gave off a peppery scent that Severus could detect from across the kitchen. He'd brewed it in such a way that it targeted the vital organs, repairing them and easing recovery. The sleeping potion could take on many colors, depending on the length and depth of the sleep required. This one had a rose tint to it, indicating it was one of the lighter brews.

Severus sat on a wooden chair at the small kitchen table, ignoring his uneaten pot noodles in favor of staring at his potions. In theory, they were a solid beginning to recovery. In practice, they were exercises in frustration.

Every few seconds, an electric crackling came from the front room. Severus knew what he would see if he opened the adjoining door: Potter, still within the confines of the bed, fighting the wards. He'd spent the last three days kneeling by the invisible fields with contorted fingers, tiny sparks flashing where he touched, leaving behind a fading glow.

Severus had tried again that afternoon to note the movements of his fingers. If he could learn this new magic, he might have a better idea of how it was keeping him alive. If it was as innovative as he suspected, it may be something the resistance could use. The memory spell, in particular, would reap immediate benefits, as an enemy that could not be remembered would be nearly impossible to fight. But Potter had a sixth sense about being observed. Severus had busied himself with a book, only watching out of the corner of his eye, but Potter had caught a quick glance and immediately stopped.

So he sat in the kitchen and stared at his undrunk potions instead.

The pot noodle soup on the stove bubbled. He ladled some into a bowl. " Diffindo." The surface of the broth rippled as he sliced the noodles into smaller bits his nearly toothless companion could swallow.

"Toothless," he murmured, thinking of the garotte wire. "Ha."

He gathered the potions and soup on a scratched commemorative coronation tray. The bowl perfectly fit over the queen's face, giving her a surreal look straight out of a Magritte painting. Setting an anti-spill charm, he levitated the tray and brought it into the front room.

Potter wore a clean nightshirt, as Severus had removed and vanished his old rags at the earliest opportunity. He'd held those filthy garments at arm's length, his wand in the other, but had stopped before that final flick. A few inches to the left of the disintegrating shirt's front placket was the Triwizard insignia, the one worn by all the tournament players. Six years ago, he'd watched his least favorite student go into that maze, thinking him an arrogant fool. He hadn't seen him again until months later, in a thickly warded vault, when he'd finally convinced the Dark Lord of his loyalty. Six years. It felt like centuries.

Little remained of that arrogant boy. Despite the clean nightshirt and a scourgify, he had the look of a mummy discovered in a glacier after thousands of years. When he spotted Severus, he retreated to a corner of the bed, near his hoard of grimy crockery and spoons. After each meal, he added the newest additions to his collection, like a magpie. When they began to levitate away, Potter had covered them with his body, holding onto each rattling bowl for dear life, until Severus had relented and let him be. One might pity him, except for the eyes. The eyes stared at him and burned.

Levitating the tray of soup and potions, he carefully navigated it to the bed. Potter watched the tray pass through the wards with shrewd eyes, but Severus had woven the spells carefully and only used silent incantations. He could move things through the wards, but Potter could not get out.

The tray settled into a hovering position a few inches above the bed. He nodded at the bowl. "I'll have this one back. I'm tired of transfiguring new tableware to add to your collection."

Potter ran a crooked finger— snapped in half by a Carrow, his memory helpfully supplied—along the edge of the tray, eyeing the potions warily. He slid his gnarled hand— crushed under a boot heel—through the steam wafting from the broth, then brought his palm to his face, sniffing the scent clinging there. He took a few wheezing breaths, clutching his side— unknown or forgotten curse, likely burrowing into his lungs or pleural space until the lungs collapse and the victim asphyxiates. Dipping the spoon into the bowl and then pulling it out vertically, he extended his crusted tongue— excessive exposure to a potion with psychotropic properties—letting the tip gather a single drop. His gaze darted to Severus, studying his face.

Severus had too many years of practice to give away any hint of what he was thinking. Not that there was anything to hide when it came to dinner. "You can eat it. There are no potions in your pot noodles." Not anymore, at least. He'd already tried that. "And the potions on that tray are to help you. Do you understand?" Did Potter understand anything he said? Or was he simply madness and hatred, with nothing left of the boy—the human—he once was? A thought he'd refused to acknowledge finally rose to the surface, unbidden. Would it be a mercy to simply let the curses run their course? To let this wretched creature die?

No. He'd spent years preserving the life of Hogwarts' most infamous student, despite Potter's best efforts to end it. He would not lose a battle of wills to a feeble wizard who'd learnt a few tricks. He would take his medicine, one way or another.

Potter retreated from the tray, his gaze on the wand until Severus pocketed it. Then he watched Severus's hands.

He knew it would be another twenty minutes before another infinitesimal sip. It was an effective technique for detecting potions: wait and observe any effects before ingesting more. There were some poisons that could kill with just a few drops, but the damage could be limited or reversed by being cautious. He'd used the technique himself.

What he couldn't sink into that skull was that it was unnecessary. He'd explained he was attempting to reverse damage, but Potter either didn't understand or didn't believe him. Every one-sided conversation left him ready to scream incendio until the walls burned.

Potter's gaze flickered, and he crossed his arm over his chest, a clear sign of sharp pain. His Adam's apple bobbed as if he could barely swallow. Severus held his breath, wondering if the curses had reached a fatal point.

But he took a shuddering breath and dropped his arm. Another reprieve. How many did he have left?

It put his teeth on edge, this futile watching, knowing there was a chance he could save him, but unable to do a thing. He was so bloody tired of watching. He wanted to stun Potter into unconsciousness and pour the potions down his throat, set his bones, and carve away the darkness festering in his body.

The only viable answer was what he'd done in the dungeons: stun him into unconsciousness. But that had led to an influx of previously blocked memories. How much had the memory spell been inhibited by that lapse of consciousness? Like that blasted cloak of invisibility, the spell kept Potter alive. It protected him by hiding him. How much more would Potter be exposed if he were stunned again? He searched his mind for other possibilities, but came back to the only option: stun him, feed him the potions, then work his best counter-curse magic until Potter roused himself enough to fight back.

He took out his wand again. The time for waiting and watching was over. "I'm afraid I must use more robust measures."

Potter tensed, and something flared in his green eyes. It was too quick to catch, but Severus suddenly flashed on that day in his fifth year, when he'd said that terrible word and lost his best friend—his only friend, until Albus. That look in her green eyes immediately after. She hadn't been surprised. Even though he'd begged for forgiveness after, he'd known. In that moment, he'd known she'd been waiting for him to break her already fraying trust.

With Potter, it wasn't even fraying trust. It was the barest thread, the merest chance that Severus might not curse him, hurt him, force him to be helpless. Unlike all those other times, in the throne room.

Stupefy. The incantation was in his head, but he didn't say it, didn't point his wand. He couldn't do it. That thread, that slender thread of believing there was something worthwhile left inside him. Maybe it wasn't real, maybe Potter didn't feel it. But Severus felt it, and he couldn't bring himself to break it. It was all he had.

Impotent fury rose in his chest. He snarled and shifted his aim to an empty spot at the foot of the bed. He wanted to shred the sheets to pieces. " Reducto!"

A spot in the air above the bed sparked, but nothing else happened.

He frowned. The spark had appeared where the wards surrounded the bed. Touching the spot, he felt a warm, fluttering pressure at his fingertips, followed by a stony hardness when he tried to push further. He tried casting a cleaning spell on the bed . No effect. Circling back to the spot where he levitated the tray in, he gave it an experimental tap. Not a single place where he could get through.

"You couldn't escape the wards. So you altered them."

Potter kept his gaze trained on the wand.

He angled his wand and considered dropping the wards. But what then? Judging from Potter's taut muscles, he was ready for that. He crouched near the pile of crockery. Two of the bowls had fallen—or been deliberately broken. The sharp edge of a shard threw a jagged shadow onto the sheets.

He sank onto his stiff-backed desk chair and considered the stack of blank parchment. Perhaps it was time to inform the resistance. Concede defeat. If he couldn't help Potter, then it was best to send him off to someone who might get through to him—someone who wouldn't end up with a broken quill in his ankle.

He'd have to use obliviate to avoid any leaks about his attempts to heal him. Not that Potter was the chatty type these days. The perfect company for a spy. A pity his silent associate was so intent on murdering him.

To H. G., he wrote. Please see one bound wizarding savior, enclosed.

He crumpled the letter and rubbed his forehead. Now was not the time for levity. He needed to communicate the seriousness of Potter's condition, so they could…

Could what? Perform elaborate counter-curses in their scores of free time? Rely on their decades of experience in wielding dark magic?

If only he could restore his status as a double agent and rejoin the resistance. Heal him whilst his friends assured him of his good intentions.

To H. G.,

You're familiar, I'm sure, with Severus Snape, Death Eater and minister of the Dark Lord's regime?

You may find this somewhat implausible, but…

He vanished that letter, and the one before it. He knew he'd never send them the moment he began. He couldn't leave his post. He couldn't reveal himself to those who didn't have his ability at occlumency, and would betray him with their very thoughts if captured.

And if they knew Potter was alive, they'd want to retrieve him. They'd trust the Phoenix with information but not their precious Chosen One. He'd need to bring Potter part of the way, which was impossible in his present condition. Secret passages, undetected floo networks, evading capture whilst on the run. And Potter crawling behind him, or levitated and screaming.

He almost wrote a third letter. Dear Poppy… But it was another he couldn't send. Madame Pomfrey had been one of the many who disappeared into the prison camps. They'd both have to do without her skills in healing wounds and soothing agitated souls.

Potter dribbled three drops of the broth onto his tongue and swallowed slowly. Touching the glass that held the dark magic diminisher, he dipped a finger inside and examined a droplet, frowning.

"Moonflower ash, charred by dragon fire. A combination of newt's blood and lemon balm allows it to work with your own magic and fight what's afflicting you."

Stiffening, Potter's gaze snapped back to Severus's hands.

Brushing imagined dust from the cuff of his sleeve, Severus pretended not to notice. It was disconcerting to be stared at in such a way. When he was a boy, there had been a dog like that on his street. Tail missing, matted fur, and cigarette burns across its back. It never looked at anything but hands. Once, when he moved to pet it, the dog had yelped and ran away. His mam had scolded him. "Go near a cur and he'll have a bite of you, like as not."

He shook his head. Potter was not an animal. It took intelligence to create such spells. He was in there, somewhere. Thirsting for a way to use magic. "Would you like to know how it's brewed?"

Potter did not look away from his hands. But he remained still, head slightly cocked.

Opening a drawer in his desk, he withdrew a battered green case-bound journal. He knew all the brew instructions inside by heart, but it never hurt to keep old notes on hand to refresh his memory. He glanced at Potter. Especially these days.

" Inveni dark magic diminisher," he told the journal. It sprung open, the pages chattering as they parted and snapped into place on either side.

The brew was his creation, in his own cramped handwriting, but legible enough. " Geminio."

A page sprung into existence, a perfect replica of the one in the journal. Even down to the yellowing paper and torn-off corner. A memory flashed: Don't worry, Sev. You can use my notes. Geminio! And a freckled hand pushing loopy scribbles towards him. Such simple kindness, so freely given. It had always been so easy for her.

Watching Potter warily, he pressed the paper against the wards, the writing side facing the bed. The wards sparked, but the paper didn't burn, merely fluttering as if from a light breeze.

Potter pressed his hand against the wards on the other side. For a moment, Severus felt nothing but the rippling of the page. Then his hand sank slightly, and another hand met his, the thin paper separating them. Hard and bony, but warm against his palm.

The paper shimmered and a light electric tingle ran across his fingertips. Potter plucked at the edge of the paper and peeled it away from the wards.

"So there is a way through," he murmured.

Clutching the paper, Potter retreated to his corner. He held it close to his nose, scanning the page.

No glasses. It had been so long, he'd forgotten Potter wore them. "There are potions that can improve vision. Challenging, as they need to be tailored to each individual. But I'm eminently qualified. Interested?"

A single bony finger touched the bridge of his nose where his glasses used to sit. His hand trailed down to his fractured cheekbone, his expression unreadable.

Severus pointed to the potions. "Then drink."

One hand clasped the paper close to his chest. The other clenched and unclenched, as if miming the movement of holding the tumbler.

Severus held his breath. Perhaps he'd finally coaxed him into listening. Or worn him down, or offered a tempting trade. He truly didn't care at this point, as long as he took the potions and complied with a proper healing regimen. Once there were clear signs of improvement, he'd stop fighting so much, surely. He'd follow—

Heat pulsed in his forearm as his Dark Mark flared to life. Sweat broke out on his neck and the angles of the room lengthened and sharpened. Unable to do anything without incurring suspicion, he'd waited for the Dark Lord's response. Three days since he'd taken Potter from the dungeons, and this was the first time he'd been called. Did the Dark Lord remember now, as he did? If so, why hadn't the call come sooner? Was he being summoned for an inquiry or an execution?

The call was always painful, always accompanied by fear. But he'd managed not to grab his arm, like so many Death Eaters. He refused to show his pain to others if he could help it. He thought he hid it well.

But Potter knew. His gaze darkened, moving to Severus's arm. He slammed against the wards, as if to reach through and tear away the sleeve to reveal it. The wards sparked around his hands, brighter than before. He gave a full-body twitch and fell back, his mouth and eyes wide, clutching at his chest. His lips moved as if to call out, but the only sound was a gurgling choke. He jerked again, falling onto the bed and convulsing, sending sheets and cups scattering as his limbs flailed. The spasms quieted, then stopped altogether, his body going limp. His features fell slack and those burning eyes went still, like a mask with sightless eyes staring out from behind it.

A shiver rolled down Severus's back as his throat tightened. It had happened. He hadn't pushed hard enough, forced Potter to take the potions, and some curse had gotten to him. He stared at the body, willing it to move. It did not. The stillness seemed to chill the room. It had all been useless. He had been useless. Not quick enough, not clever enough, and now someone else was dead. He wanted to curse. He wanted to hex himself. But none of it would do any good. Nothing he did ever seemed to do any good.

You're worse than useless in this state. He took a deep breath and let it out. Clear your mind. Another breath, and he found the empty black place with thick stone walls, the place where nothing could get in. The snarl of his inner voice, the rapid thump of his heart—they were all outside. Inside, it was easier to move forwards. He could see what was necessary, no matter what he felt about it.

Potter… No. It was not Potter, not the person he swore he would… It was a body. He would put the body into stasis until he returned, until he knew how much the Dark Lord remembered. That would determine its placement. Returned to the prison cell, no one the wiser. Or found near the Ministry as part of a failed escape attempt.

A bitter bile filled his mouth. If only he could take Potter back to his friends to be buried, at least. To be remembered. He approached the bed, crouching until he was at eye level with the twisted figure. His friends would grieve, but they could lay him to rest.

You're letting in emotions. Clear your thoughts. He pictured the thick walls settling, not a single crack between the joints. Nothing got in, not even light.

Physically bringing the body to the resistance was too much of a risk. He never gave the resistance physical items unless absolutely necessary. Too much evidence to trace back to him. Reflexively, he stood and cast scourgify, removing any trace that he'd ever touched the body. He would need to scourgify the body as well.

Concentrating on steadying his hand, he silently cast the spell. A spot on the wards brightened, but nothing else happened. The bits of food residue under the broken fingernails remained.

Potter's alterations to the wards were still in effect. Unusual. A shiver ran down his core. Some spells remained after the death of the caster, in the right conditions. Or perhaps…

Clear your mind. Do not hope. Observe. He crouched again, bringing his face mere centimeters away from the wards.

The body lay on its side, the drape of the nightshirt obscuring any possible rise and fall of the chest. No movement around the nostrils, but the lips were partly open. Inconclusive.

Fine droplets scattered across the temple. This was normal for bodies, of course—the sweat glands release water upon death. Two droplets succumbed to gravity, running towards the face and into the corner of one eye. The eye didn't blink, didn't cease its blank stare. But there was the barest twitch. A post-mortem muscle spasm. Perhaps.

Long hours of study and practice had made him precise in his spell-casting. It was at times like these that it was worth it. He verbally cast the spell to drop the wards around the bed, but added a wand movement and a silent nonverbal addition that caused the wards to reset nearly instantaneously.

The body reanimated with lightning speed and pounced, holding a ceramic shard. The sharpest point slammed into the wards, centimeters from Severus's jugular. The wards rebounded with force, throwing Potter backwards.

Severus leapt up, nearly dancing on his feet. "Not this time, Potter," he crowed, sending sparks along the surface of the wards, illuminating the boundaries that still surrounded the bed. He cast again, using his regained control of the wards to turn the sparks into little fireworks. "Did you think you could fool me with your childish deceit?"

Potter snarled at him, baring his toothless gums.

If I'd dropped the wards, I'd likely be dead. Adrenaline surged through him, fear and jubilation making the edges of the fireworks shimmer. He shook his head and focused on the man in front of him. Potter kept testing him, kept thinking he could get the better of him. And that habit needed to be quelled. He leaned against the wards, towering over the figure on the bed. Potter scooted back, and Severus's relief mixed with the pleasure of besting someone, being faster and smarter and putting a dangerous enemy in his place. "If this is how you plan on using my kitchenware, perhaps it's time to limit my generosity." He spoke softly, savoring every small flicker in Potter's face." You can lap up your dinner off last week's newspaper, like the cur you are."

Potter spat at him. The spittle sizzled on the ward, hanging in the air between them.

Severus smiled, knowing it made him look twice as unpleasant and happy for it. He pointed his wand at him. "Stupify it is, then. I'll get those potions down your throat whether you like it or not."

Flinching, Potter shoved his hand into the sheets, searching for his shard whilst his gaze stayed on the wand. But then he stopped, firming his jaw. He pulled his gaze up, staring directly into Severus's eyes. Slowly and deliberately, he shook his head and tapped his forearm.

His wand already in position, Severus froze. It had been several minutes since the Dark Lord's call. He didn't have much time left before his absence would be noted.

Potter drew a line around his neck and into the air, miming a collar and lead. He gave the lead a jerk and pointed at him with a mocking smile. The message was clear. You're the cur. Go to your master.

Severus stared back, more taunts filling his head, more ways to bend Potter to his will. But the instinct that kept him alive drew tight, dragging him back to that empty place inside. Clear your mind. The Dark Lord will not wait. He broke off the stare and turned away. When he reached the door, he heard a new sound: a dry, jagged aspiration. Potter was laughing behind his back.