chiraldream (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lesyeuxverts) wrote2008-03-03 09:48 pm
lesyeuxverts) wrote2008-03-03 09:48 pm
Messages from Nurmengard
Title: Messages from Nurmengard
Author:![[insanejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/ij-userinfo.gif)
lesyeuxverts
Beta:sansa1970, angela_snape, gingertart50, and piratesword
Word Count: 15k
Rating: R
Pairing: Albus/Gellert, Severus/James (unrequited), Severus/Harry
Summary: This was Albus's secret, and Severus shared it now.
Warnings: AU, voyeurism, underage (Harry is 17)
Disclaimer: Not mine.
AN: Written forteshara in ![[insanejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/ij-community.gif)
hpvalensmut.
There were no letters that passed through the diamond-paned windows of the Headmaster's office – there were no owls that left Nurmengard. Severus knew it, and that knowledge grew in him at night, creeping like a black coil through his heart.
It had not taken much to discover the secret. A word here and there, a look, an anniversary marked – Severus knew the history, and he knew the inner story of it too. Albus had never admitted to it, but Severus knew.
He pressed his lips together, tongue probing at the hollow tooth that held a perfect, undetectable poison. A spy had too many secrets to be safe, and Severus had his safeguard. Poison and Portkey always ready, he was prepared.
There was no choice in life or love. Severus kept the wards on the windows, looking every day to see if Albus had a letter from Nurmengard, looking for hope in that direction. He looked east, toward the sun and toward the prison – if there could be no hope for him, there could be hope for Albus. He'd never –
Albus pushed a cup of tea toward him, spoon clinking against the china. Severus took his tea sweet and strong, and he watched the swirls of sugar melting in the tea, the sugar cube dissolving as he stirred. There was no way for Severus to know if Albus and Gellert had ever shared a cup of tea.
There was no way for him to know if they had ever shared more than tea.
"I will not do it," Severus said. Porcelain cracked and liquid bubbled, a tiny tempest brewing in his teacup and frothing over Albus's desk, foam and froth soaking into the deep honey oak. "I will not do it."
"You have no choice, Severus. You swore an Unbreakable Vow."
The cracking of the teacup down its center, spilling the rest of the tea onto the desk, was not enough to soothe Severus. "You forced me to swear that Vow – you knew what the Dementors did to me in Azkaban. I'd have done anything, sworn anything –"
"There's nothing stronger than love in this world," Albus said, and the black coil tightened around Severus, squeezing until his breath caught in his throat. There was no way for Severus to know.
"You don't know that, old man." He forced his lips into a sneer and swept the remains of his cup onto the floor. He stepped on the saucer as he stood to leave, and it cracked under his heavy boots.
----------
Light streamed through the open door and spread out like a shuttered fan down the stairs, light and shadow on alternating steps in a kaleidoscope pattern that shifted and changed as Severus crept closer. Holding his breath, he was as silent as the gargoyles.
A warm hand came down on his shoulder. Without jumping, he turned. "Good morning, Headmaster."
"Severus. Good." Dumbledore thrust his hands into his wide sleeves, standing with his arms crossed over his chest as he watched Severus. "A very good beginning. I do believe that you'll make an excellent spy."
"I will do nothing of the sort," Severus said stiffly. He backed away from Dumbledore, taking a step up the staircase. He held himself still – he did not tremble, his breath did not hammer in his chest, he was not counting his heartbeats.
"I've come to apply for the Defense against the Dark Arts position."
"It's been filled," Dumbledore said. He took Severus's elbow and pushed him up the stairs, following so close behind him that their robes whispered together, swirling around them with every step. "I've managed to find a very competent instructor this year. I do have an opening on the staff, though … Professor Slughorn is retiring, and we'll need a new Potions Master."
Severus balked on the threshold, crossing his arms. His hand hidden by the folds of his sleeves, he touched his left forearm. Nothing burned.
"I can offer you more than Tom can," Dumbledore said.
Shaking his head, Severus turned away, but Dumbledore caught him by the shoulders, holding him there. Stiff and solid, Severus resisted him.
"Come," Dumbledore said, putting a hint of his will into the words. "We must speak."
He steered Severus over to the low easy chair by the fire, pushing him down into it and taking the opposite seat. "You know the mistake that you made, Severus – you wept for it, not an hour after you made it. I'm giving you the one chance that you'll ever have to redeem yourself. Don't undervalue it."
Severus rubbed his temples in tiny firm circles. "Crocodile tears, perhaps," he said. "I do not weep."
Looking straight at Dumbledore, he said, "You knew that I came here to make you that offer, you daft old coot. You knew that I regretted it – there was no need to manipulate or pressure me into it."
"I know that listening through doors has not served you well in the past."
"You presume to –"
"You presume on my goodwill."
Severus did not break away from Dumbledore's gaze. "I've no desire to be torn into mincemeat by both sides. If I stay, I'll not return to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. If I go, you'll have my death on your conscience."
"I've borne weightier burdens," Dumbledore said, but there was no heat in his gaze when he spoke. The wrinkles around his eyes deepened. "You've no idea, Severus Snape. Your petty childhood grievances and your petty sins are all worthless."
"Next you'll tell me that I'm worthless – that I'm worth nothing more than a quick sacrifice on the altar of the greater good." Severus folded his hands in his lap, hiding his bare skin in his sleeves, and his face was the only paleness that remained. The rest of his body was shrouded in black.
"Any man would be pleased to be worth as much … any other man would have been pleased to have been rescued from the Dementors … but you want more? I'll give you a teaching position here at Hogwarts and a memory of my own in the Pensieve."
With a flick of Dumbledore's wand, the Pensieve floated from a shadowy shelf over to the desk, scratching the smooth surface as it landed.
"What –" Severus asked. He let the word hang there. He could not finish the sentence.
"The memory of the afternoon after the incident in the Shrieking Shack," Albus said. "My interview with young Mr. Black, among other things."
Memories, soft and silken, floated in the Pensieve. Each was as malleable and changing as a river, and yet each was peculiarly constrained. They swirled together in silken locks, intertwined above and beneath, winding around one another in silver-solid mist.
Severus hesitated. He had never meant to come this far … he had never meant to be tempted, and now it was too late to return to the Dark Lord's side. There was no way forward but through knowing. He leaned closer to the Pensieve and saw an image floating in the silver bowl – James, as Severus had seen him last in life, his lips parted as though warm with breath.
He took the time to nod to Dumbledore before he leaned further and tumbled into the Pensieve, falling through the coils and twists of memories that were not his. He reached out for purchase, his arms windmilling in their voluminous sleeves. There was nothing graspable, nothing solid, and still he fell.
Severus landed hard in the shadows. His robes fluttered around him, the fabric billowing with the force of his fall. He was at Hogwarts, in the shadow of the castle – in the shadow of the tree.
Dumbledore was not there, and it was close to dark – the sun dipped lower as Severus watched, as he tapped his foot in the dampening grass. The dew gathered, late-summer and lovely, and the night-song of the forest began, chiming down Severus's vertebrae one by one.
He crossed his arms in front of his chest, folding his hands into his sleeves. He knew this night.
A motion made him turn and look. James Potter stood in the shadows near Severus. He lit a cigarette from his wand and took two lazy puffs from it before stomping it out on the dewy grass. "Where is he?"
They came, then, and passed through Severus as though he was insubstantial – Pomfrey guiding Remus, grasping him by both elbows. Drawn and frail, Remus looked deeper into the shadows, looked straight at James and nodded. Severus was caught by his eyes – the lines fanning out from each corner, and then Remus furrowed his brow and bent his head. He stumbled, and Pomfrey helped him.
James went back into the castle, and Severus was forced to follow, drawn after him like a needle to a magnet. It was James's memory, then – strong and solid, surviving in spite of his passing.
Severus ghosted hard on his heels, close enough to touch his ruffled hair, close enough to touch him.
Before long, Sirius Black hurtled into the Gryffindor common room, grabbing James by the shoulders and whirling him away from Lily. "I did it, I did it," he chanted. He pressed his lips close to James's ears and whispered, and Severus knew what he said.
Severus turned away. The Willow was visible through the window, its flailing branches dim in the fading light. There was a glow on the horizon, the rising moon, and although he did not need to see, the wide-paned window reflected the two boys. Blurred and indistinct, he saw James push Sirius away and dash for the stairs.
It was a small comfort.
The world swirled around him, and the next memory did not belong to James. When Severus landed, he stood in the office he had lately left, and Dumbledore stood there, inches away from Severus. He reached out, reaching through Severus, and pressed his hand against the window pane.
Dumbledore faced east, away from the sun. He reached out to empty air that was washed clear and golden by the afternoon. Like starched linen, the air crackled under his fingertips, the glass wavering and filling with bubbles. Each bubble popped as Dumbledore pressed a finger to it, and tiny hot droplets of molten glass fell, arcing to the ground. They fell to the east, catching the afternoon sun as they fell. Severus pressed his nose to the window and watched them land.
He turned away from the window, and the deep lines were erased from his face as he shrugged his shoulders. He pressed his fingers to his lips – Severus was close enough to see the tiny scars there, teardrop-shaped marks left on each finger by the popping glass.
"Enter," Dumbledore said, and as the stone gargoyle ground and as the footsteps echoed up the staircase, he set his face in deeper lines. He sat behind his desk and steepled his fingers and straightened his shoulders.
"Sirius Black," he said, Banishing the chairs in front of his desk with a wave of his wand. "I've no idea what flits through that lackadaisical, irreverent mind of yours, what quick busy thoughts keep you awake at night as you plan enough mischief to give Professor McGonagall ten heart attacks. I've no idea if you have any sort of stability, any thoughts that are serious – all matter, and no mirth – but even you, with your frivolous inattention to your schooling and your fixation on troublemaking, must be aware that we are in the middle of a war."
He slammed his fist onto his desk, making the teacups rattle on their patterned saucers. On his desk, a silver wheel whirled, spinning on its axis and making endless mobius loops.
"The world is darkened. Our world is threatened by Voldemort and his ever-growing shadow. If you intended to send one of our best and brightest students straight into his ranks, straight into the army that will be opposing us, then you have certainly achieved your aim.
One thoughtless, idiotic prank – a joke to you and your friends – could have cost Severus Snape his life. Do you imagine that he will be grateful to Mr. Potter for saving him, or anything other than resentful when I protect Mr. Lupin from the full force of the law? Do you imagine that in your years at Hogwarts, full years in which you took every opportunity to torment Mr. Snape – do you imagine that in those years, you have done anything other than renounce your family's beliefs?"
Black seemed to shrink, taking a step back from Dumbledore's desk. "I –"
"Silence," Dumbledore said, and his quiet tone was worse than any raised voice. Severus, insubstantial, felt the echoes of it roll down his spine, each shiver worse than the last.
"You have done nothing but enjoy the protection of these walls and abuse it for mischief, sheltered from the wrath of your family and the darkness of the coming war. You have played at jokes and tricks and nonsense and produced nothing of worth, Mr. Black … and in all your actions, you have driven several of the Slytherins away from the light. Your brother. Severus Snape. Evan Rosier. There is no telling how many of these students will become easy prey for Voldemort and his war once they leave Hogwarts and there is no counting the worth of them. They might have been saved, if it was not for you."
"Sir, I – I promise, I didn't –"
"You have enjoyed the safety of Hogwarts, and you have twisted that safety for other students. You used this school as a haven from your family and the coming darkness … and so it might have been for them, if it was not for you."
Dumbledore slumped in his seat, looking down at his desk. "Revenge and petty-minded pranks are beneath you. I thought that we had instilled a sense of morality in our students here, but apparently I was deceived."
He waved his hand, not looking up at Black. "You may go, Mr. Black. All privileges revoked, and detention with Filch for a month."
When the gargoyle had closed the door with a quiet, muted grinding – softer than the clamor made before – Severus was left watching Dumbledore slumped at his desk, tracing patterns in the wood and supporting his head with his free hand. His spine was sloped like the curve of a harp, and Severus could not bear to watch him. When he turned away, the memory dissolved in sparks and bubbles.
There was no space for breathing. Dumbledore put a hand on his arm – he was close, too close, and Severus let his eyes flutter shut for a second. "Yes?"
"You'll swear a Vow with me," Dumbledore said, his hand hard and insistent on Severus's arm. "You'll swear, and if you're ever forsworn, you'll die of it, Severus. I must be able to trust you more than anyone." He took a step away, his robes whispering around him as his hand fell away from Severus's arm.
"There are rooms in the castle for you – the house elves have cleared them already – and you've the summer to prepare for classes as you wish. When you are ready … when you are ready, come to me. There is much for you to learn if you are to be a spy."
Severus was not ready. He went down the spiral staircase, still awash with a fan of light, a flickering of shadows and darkness, and as he went, he bit through his lower lip until it bled. There was no space for breathing – there was no space for thought. The Dark Lord would not be pleased when he learned of this, and Severus could not keep it from him for long.
----------
It was Occlumency that hid Dumbledore's secrets. Severus woke, his cheek creased with the imprint of the pages he had slept on, and straightened his spine, hearing the vertebrae pop in the full silence.
The fire had died, and his dungeon rooms felt the full chill of the deep earth and stone insulating him from the summer sun. There was no warmth strong enough to penetrate these rooms.
Severus traced the spine of the book, and followed the stark ridges of the letters stamped in the leather. Occlumency, that was Dumbledore's secret – that was the means by which Severus was to hide his loyalties from the Dark Lord. If it was strong enough to hide Dumbledore's secrets –
Today was the anniversary of Grindelwald's fall. Albus did not come down to breakfast, and one of the scurrying, bow-legged house elves had come down from the tower, balancing a tray still full. He'd squeaked when he saw Severus, and the teapot had fallen with a crash, soaking the stones with tepid tea.
Dumbledore kept his secrets with Occlumency, but Severus – he traced the spine of the book again, pressing his finger against the title until the letters were imprinted on his skin – Severus would master the art of Occlumency as well. No secrets would be hidden from him.
----------
Severus broke when Dumbledore found the memory – Severus on his knees, whimpering with the Cruciatus, the Prophecy on his lips. Wavering walls fell, and his defenses were shattered.
He had spoken to the Dark Lord, and with no silver tongue and no clear intellect to save him, he had spilled the secret of a life that was not his to endanger.
"Your best is not good enough," Dumbledore said. "You must keep me from getting so far. Try again."
He raised his wand before Severus had time to take a breath. "Legilimens."
Severus scrambled to think of nothing, to clear his mind, and still he could do nothing but stand there, staring Dumbledore in the eye. He felt trapped, like a fly pinned between heavy glass sheets, exposed to the sun and incinerated. He was laid bare.
Dumbledore rifled through Severus's mind and saw all of his secrets. Hidden by those twinkling eyes, those wrinkles and that smile, Dumbledore himself had secrets to spare –
It was done. Severus's defenses snapped into place, pushing Dumbledore out, and like a gleaming silver fish caught on a line, he followed the arch of Dumbledore's thoughts, pushing back through the spell and into his mind.
A cottage by the river, sunlight captured in its windows and a bower of flowers growing in the garden – a dark-haired girl clutching a doll – a young man who stood straight and proud, peering through the cottage windows –
"Enough."
Pushed out of Dumbledore's mind, Severus fell back. He sprawled, his limbs askew and his robes wrapped around him and choking him like a shroud. "I didn't –"
"Enough," Dumbledore said again. He did not look at Severus. "Go. We resume at the same time tomorrow."
Going meant leaving the sanctuary of the Headmaster's tower, the lingering smell of strong tea, and the rhythm of his lessons. Severus went through Hogwarts, touching stone after silent stone, and was forced to be alone with his thoughts. There was no haven for him here, no refuge from that death that he was meant to eat, no solace for his sins and no redemption. This false penance grated on him.
Tracing his route to the library, he sat at the small table that had been his as a student. No one else had claimed it after he'd hexed it with a distraction jinx – and it was perfect for him, in a defensible corner and near the Restricted Section. He'd longed for knowledge then, had drunk it up from any source.
Now, Severus knew too much. There was no remedy for it, no way to wash the knowledge from him, and there would have been a kind of betrayal in forgetfulness. He had betrayed James, along with his wife and son, and he could not forget that.
With a sharp-tipped quill, Severus drew up lesson plans, filling scroll after scroll with notes in tiny print. Despite the pity involved in offering him the position, despite the fact that there had been nowhere else for him to go after he failed the Dark Lord, there would be no need to suspect that he had not earned his place here – he would not make Hogwarts ashamed to call him one of her own.
In this corner, he'd huddled behind his stacks of books, putting up forbidden shields and hiding from the Marauders. Black and Potter had been quick to torment him, Lupin and Pettigrew joining them. He'd not been given a fair chance, one against four.
He'd not given Potter a fair chance, telling the Dark Lord of the Prophecy.
And it was nothing to Severus, absolutely nothing, that Dumbledore had lambasted Black. It meant nothing to him. He'd seen the boy shrink with shame, curling in on himself like a snail retreating into its shell, and the fact that there had been more to it than the public punishment, the loss of privileges and the detention that hardly matched some of his other exploits – it was nothing against the fact that Severus had nearly been killed.
It was nothing. His life was weightless now, drifting in the balance between Dumbledore and Voldemort. Two masters, two spies, two sets of duties – no, Severus would never bear the weight of it for long. After the snapping point … perhaps some expiation could be made, his life set against that of the newborn child and weighed upon some cosmic scales.
Pince shooed him out of the library before the ink dried on his parchments – all of his glares had no effect. She remembered him as the snot-nosed boy who had –
Severus set his jaw and turned for the dungeons. He'd asked for quarters in the familiar stony corridors, underneath the crushing weight of the lake and deep in the earth where the snakes kept their dens. He'd be close to his students, in any case – in the worst of cases, he would be there. The stones sang to him, late at night. In their silence, there were echoes that resonated through the castle and lulled him to sleep.
He spent the night awake, uneasy in his new position as double-spy. Voldemort would find out before long – in the end, Dumbledore had done nothing for him. There was nothing that could be done for Potter and his family.
"Severus," Dumbledore said, his wand held loosely between his fingers, "you are not trying."
His teeth bared in a death-mask grin, Severus let it slip – he let Dumbledore see that all he'd gained were the whirling, false memories set up as a shield. He let Dumbledore see the wall, and nothing within, nothing of himself.
Dumbledore's wand slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly on the floor. "I see," he said. "Yes, I see indeed. You are a natural at this … very well done indeed."
Retrieving his wand, he used it to Summon a pot of tea from the kitchens, a plate of pastries, and a bowl of sugar cubes with silver tongs. "Milk?" he asked, and Severus shook his head, pushing away the pastries.
"No," he said. "Do not try to sweeten the truth, old man. If you are to command me in this war even to my death, then do not lie to me."
Albus froze as he poured, the liquid splashing over the rim of the cup and into the saucer. "Your death? Don't be melodramatic, it needn't –"
"Do not lie to me," Severus said again. His knuckles were white where his hands clasped the arms of the chair too tightly. He unclenched his fists, stretching each finger out until the joints popped. The sound echoed in the office, caught and held in the thin air.
Clearing his throat, Dumbledore said, "Well. Yes. Nothing … it's complicated or deadly, you know, Severus. You ought to look on the bright side, at least once or twice – see if a little sunshine brightens up your life …."
"We are in the middle of a war."
"Yes, well." Dumbledore took up three cubes of sugar with the silver tongs, dropping them into his tea and stirring until they dissolved. He splashed more tea onto the saucer, grimaced, and Banished it. "I need you to return to Voldemort and see if you can determine anything of his plans for the Potters. We've had no information at all, nothing beyond our suspicion that there's been a leak."
Raising his teacup, he slopped tea over the rim and had the grace to look abashed. "See if you can determine who the traitor is, won't you, Severus?"
"And I'm to believe that you don't already know the answer to that." Severus smoothed the cloth covering his left forearm, picking imaginary pieces of lint from his black robes. Dumbledore busied himself with his teacup and did not look – Severus snorted. If Dumbledore chose not to see …. He rose, pushing the chair back, and turned to the door. "I'll do my best to oblige you."
Obligation after obligation – they held Severus fast. He reported to the Dark Lord when his Mark burned and groveled at his feet. There was nothing but obligation here.
It was Avery who won the Cruciatus for being the last to appear, and Severus winced, his face turned down to hide his expression. Avery writhed for a long minute under the curse, his head thudding hard against the ground.
"You have failed me," the Dark Lord said, striding among them. "I want to know the location of James and Lily Potter. I have given you all the time that you said you needed, and you have returned with nothing. Empty hands, empty minds, useless, hopeless – go," he said, gesturing to the door. His sleeve billowed, and the light shone on his hair, glinted off his teeth. "Do not disappoint me again, or you will suffer his fate."
He kicked Avery as he strode to the door. Severus waited until his heartbeat had calmed before he Apparated away.
There was no need for Severus, in the end. The Potter's location was revealed – by Sirius Black, the bastard himself – and Voldemort had killed the Potters within hours. Their son survived. Black went to Azkaban.
Severus went to the ruins of the house that the Potters had kept in Godric's Hollow, the stones blasted by some curse and dark with soot. The house still stood, the wooden structure unaffected, the beams and roof still whole – but all the stones had tumbled down. It was an eerie and powerful curse. Severus tasted the Dark magic lingering in the air, stronger than he'd ever felt it before. Like salt strewn on a field, nothing of light or joy would flourish here for years.
Their corpses lay here, just inside the house – James and Lily, as entwined in death as they'd been inseparable in life. Severus knelt next to them, smoothed the frown from James's brow. The flesh was stiff and sluggish, not moving to his command … death had stolen James from him.
He had never belonged to Severus. Tracing the shape of his lips, Severus pulled a lock of Lily's bright hair from his mouth – it was tangled there, as though pressed to his lips for a final kiss. He smoothed the hair out before letting it fall, swinging against James's face.
It was not his place to be there, hovering at James's side. There was nothing – Severus closed his eyes as he Apparated.
There was nothing there for him.
He faced his classes the next day with a hangover potion still roiling in his gut. They'd the same reaction as all the wizarding world – overwhelming joy at the defeat of the Dark Lord. No one thought of the two bodies lying cold in their coffins.
He turned on the nearest smiling student with a sneer and a promise of detention.
Each student – as young as Severus had been, as young as James had been – he'd make each of them spend a hundred hours in detention and scrub the cauldrons a hundred times for every one of the Marauder's pranks. It would never be enough for James, whose face stayed forever young, forever hardened with death, while Severus watched himself age in the mirror, day after day.
He grew older, and James and Lily did not. Their child grew older, watched over by that horrible sister. The students grew older. While the days blended together and their world glutted itself on peace, growing lax and lazy and foolish, Severus watched over them, student after student, moving through the halls of Hogwarts, moving on with their lives.
----------
There had been nothing that betrayed the identity of the young man that Severus had seen – no portraits or photos, nothing. There had been a hint in Dumbledore's memory. He'd been fond of the man, that much was certain.
Severus pushed the last of his lecture plans aside and rose when Dumbledore entered. He pushed his bitterness aside – like over-brewed tea, gurgling down the drain. It was his own fault that he served two masters, rising to do their bidding like a puppet on invisible strings.
"Good," Dumbledore said, lifting up a scroll and peering at the lesson plan. "These are excellent, Severus. Your students will be lucky to have such a competent professor. I'm certain that many of them will pass their exams with flying color – no, don't frown at me. Look on the bright side of things, remember?"
"We're in the middle of a war," Severus said again. He had no other answer for Dumbledore's optimism.
"So we are," Dumbledore said. "Do you have any news for me?"
Holding his shields firm, Severus withstood the gentle push of Legilimency against his mind. "Nothing of importance," he said. "The Dark Lord is still looking for the location of the Potters, and is most displeased with us for not having provided it to him."
Whisper-soft, keeping his probe at a considerable distance, Severus cast Legilimens on Dumbledore. He used a thread of magic, a fine silver probe, and caught glimpses of blurred images, faint pictures seen out of focus, as though reflections in water or glass. He saw no trace of the young man that he had seen before, no trace of the cottage or the girl. There was a story there, Severus was certain of it.
----------
The earth lay cold and undisturbed over James Potter and his perfect, pretty wife, and the green grass flourished. Severus reached down, scraping his knuckles against the granite headstone. James Potter was dead, cold in his grave – Severus was sure that he still had the stiff rictus, the death mask of Killing Curse victims – and he had nothing to do with the world, with fresh air and sunlight.
He had no business haunting Severus. He had no right to send his son to torment his old enemy. Severus's fists clenched into hard balls, his joints grinding as he turned from Potter's grave.
It was nothing to him – nothing at all. Harry Potter was only a tool, a fly caught in Albus's trap, a wretched boy with no regard for rules or reason. It was nothing to Severus if the boy chose to creep around the castle at all hours of the night, risking his neck and suspecting Severus of the most heinous crimes. It was nothing to Severus if the boy looked exactly like his father had when he was young.
Turning to look at the grave again, Severus closed his eyes and Apparated back to Hogwarts. He landed at the entrance, slipping through the heavy iron gates with a whispered password, and he locked himself onto the school grounds, the gates closing behind him with a thud.
Albus was waiting for him at the door to the school, dwarfed by the stone archway. Severus slowed his steps, but came to stand in front of him at last. "Your will, Headmaster?" he asked with a short, mocking bow.
"Severus, I've told you –"
"Time and time again, yes. You've told me that an Unbreakable Vow does not make you my master, and I tell you that I believe it. What more do you want from me?"
They went down the corridor, their footfalls echoing in the nighttime stillness. Albus froze the stairs with a wave of his hand, and led Severus to his office.
"Harry already suspects you," he said, pouring two cups of tea.
Severus pushed his aside and went to stand by the window. He'd had enough tea and sympathy – he'd had enough of anniversaries. Eleven years ago today he'd sworn an oath, and he would keep it with his life. When he turned again, Albus was watching him.
"It's perfect," he said, taking a step towards Severus, his hand stretched out. "Your Occlumency is perfect – your acting is perfect. You'd fool Voldemort himself, if he were here."
"He soon will be, according to you." Severus shoved his hands into his sleeves, crossing his arms over his chest, and turned back to the window. "And you will send me to stand in front of him, with only my shields and my act to protect me, and you will sacrifice me, as you've always been ready –"
"Severus." Albus didn't need to speak, didn't need to chide Severus – his voice, his upraised hand, his slumped spine, he spoke volumes without words.
"Yes," Severus said. "I know."
He had always known, had always faced this, and he would endure it for a little longer. "What do you want me to do?"
Albus reached out, almost touching him. Severus felt the warmth of his hand and turned away, leaning against the cold window. Halloween was full of chills and omens, this year more than others. The thought ran down his spine, and he refused to shudder.
"Let him see you," Albus said. "Get someone – Argus, perhaps, or Irma – to bandage your leg for you. Not in the hospital wing, but in some public place where Harry can see you. He'll come to the right conclusions from that, now that he knows about the three-headed dog in the third floor corridor."
Albus had offered to be the Secret Keeper for the Potters, had wanted to protect them with his magic and his life. He'd taken the most precious Stone, one step away from Voldemort's rebirth, and hidden it here – and he could not keep it safe from one schoolboy.
Severus didn't look at him. "What purpose will that serve?"
"Harry's hatred and distrust of you will preserve your cover with the sons and daughters of the Death Eaters here at Hogwarts … and in the end, I've a feeling that it may prove more useful yet than that. Time will reveal everything, Severus."
The silver gadgets on Albus's desk clucked and whirled at his words, quicksilver-thin wings fluttering through the air and spirals rotating in endless loops. The magic or motors that kept them spinning were never silent, never ceased their cacophony of hums and whistles. Severus knocked two of them over, sending a short shower of sparks into the desk, as he reached for his cup of tea.
The sparks left scorch marks in the polished old wood, and Albus obliterated them with a wave of his hand. The tea was strong and thick with sugar, cloying and overwhelming, and Severus held the cup without taking a second sip, cradling it in the palm of his hand.
While he was silent, Albus looked to the east – Severus followed his gaze, and saw the first sliver of the moon rising over the horizon. It reflected in the diamond-paned windows, echoed in one pane after the other. Standing close to the window, Severus traced one of the crescents with his fingernail.
"As you will have it," he said. "Potter will hate me until the day he dies."
Severus went down the stairs without another word from Albus, descending into the dungeons in the flickering torchlight and half-grotesque shadows, and he made his way silently, ready to catch unwary students that dared to break the curfew. He was ready, all the while, to catch Potter.
Potter was the spit and image of his father – fit for trouble, ruffling his hair and flaunting his scar to impress his admirers, skating through his classes with the help of his friends rather than on his own merits, breaking curfew, breaking hearts – Severus caught himself. It had not yet come to that, but he'd watch the rosebushes and hidden corners in the school when it did. He'd not let a second Potter make a fool of half of Hogwarts, shattering hopes and making easy conquests.
It was Halloween, and Severus still kept the anniversary. His relief when he'd heard that the Dark Lord was dead – it had come hard on the heels of his release from Azkaban, his reprieve from the Dementors, and his promise to Dumbledore. His Unbreakable Vow –
Severus stopped his sweep through the castle. He'd seen it every day for the past decade, and he knew all of the corridors, all of the closets and all of the secret corners. He saw them every day. There was no occasion to revisit them. There was no need for Severus to let the anniversary of Potter's death make a sentimental, soppy fool out of him.
Here was the wall outside the Transfiguration classroom, the corridor where he'd stood, seeing Potter for the first time. Here was the corner where the four of them had trapped Severus, hexing him until he fell to the flagstones and gasped shameful pleas for a reprieve. They hadn't granted him one.
Here was the corridor where he'd seen Evans first smile at Potter, and here was the classroom where he'd found them snogging.
Anniversaries had no meaning, at the end of it all. Let Albus keep his calendar and his foolish, whirring silver time-pieces. Let Albus mark the date with solemnity and let him look to the east, all of his thoughts elsewhere on that day and on every other day of the year. Anniversaries were for fools, and Severus was not a fool.
He found no way to approach Potter the next day. He had awakened, stiff and sore from the dungeon cold, and the chill had settled into his bones, into his wound. He concealed his limp, as he went through the day – hiding it from the Slytherins who would sense weakness and exploit it, but letting it show when Potter could see it.
The ache grew worse, and Severus's makeshift bandages and potions did not ease it. If he'd gone to Pomfrey at the beginning and let her heal it – but secrets were his only currency, his only safety. No one could know that Albus trusted him.
It was Quirrell, and Severus knew it. The stuttering fool thought to conceal himself from Severus, but his forearm throbbed with every step he took toward Quirrell, and with every breath that he took in his presence. The Dark Mark responded to the presence of the Dark Lord, and it was painful.
Severus pretended that he did not feel the twitch. He did not react in the presence of the students, and he put on a show for Quirrell – he was the loyal Death Eater, suspicious and paranoid, his sympathies unquestionable and his disguise perfect.
His leg ached and his arm twinged, and it was a week before he managed to reveal his wound to Potter. A book confiscated, a show of spite, and Potter fell into his trap. Eyes hidden by his long hair, Severus watched Potter through the door that he'd left ajar.
Filch's ministrations were none too gentle, but Severus endured them, patient for the sake of the show. He let Potter see him, wounded and bloody, and took no satisfaction in the look on the boy's face as he fled. For all of Albus's plots and schemes, for all of his manipulation and intuition, it meant nothing to Severus – another Potter saw him weak and useless, another Potter hated him. The Unbreakable Vow held Severus in his place and kept him there to do his duty, and he knew that he would lose more than Potter's good regard before it was done.
The Dark Lord would not be so forgiving when he learned of Severus's betrayal – when he pierced through the shields and the acts to learn the truth. Severus, no more and no less than Potter, was a pawn in Albus's hands, a sacrifice ready to be made. For the sake of James, who'd never had the chance to live, who had died for freedom that he'd never known, Potter should have been more than a sacrifice and more than a tool. He should have been a boy, devoted to Quidditch and schoolwork.
Albus sent the boy chasing after the Dark Lord, gave him clues and traps and puzzles. He'd send him into danger unprotected. He would see the death and destruction of the last thing of James that was left on this earth.
Severus pushed Filch away without thanking him for his help, and strode out of the room, robes billowing around him. If it came to that, if his Vow allowed, if there was a way to keep something of James alive in this world – he would protect the boy.
In spite of his faults, Harry was the very image of his father.
Go on to part two
Author:
lesyeuxvertsBeta:
sansa1970, angela_snape, gingertart50, and pirateswordWord Count: 15k
Rating: R
Pairing: Albus/Gellert, Severus/James (unrequited), Severus/Harry
Summary: This was Albus's secret, and Severus shared it now.
Warnings: AU, voyeurism, underage (Harry is 17)
Disclaimer: Not mine.
AN: Written for
teshara in hpvalensmut. There were no letters that passed through the diamond-paned windows of the Headmaster's office – there were no owls that left Nurmengard. Severus knew it, and that knowledge grew in him at night, creeping like a black coil through his heart.
It had not taken much to discover the secret. A word here and there, a look, an anniversary marked – Severus knew the history, and he knew the inner story of it too. Albus had never admitted to it, but Severus knew.
He pressed his lips together, tongue probing at the hollow tooth that held a perfect, undetectable poison. A spy had too many secrets to be safe, and Severus had his safeguard. Poison and Portkey always ready, he was prepared.
There was no choice in life or love. Severus kept the wards on the windows, looking every day to see if Albus had a letter from Nurmengard, looking for hope in that direction. He looked east, toward the sun and toward the prison – if there could be no hope for him, there could be hope for Albus. He'd never –
Albus pushed a cup of tea toward him, spoon clinking against the china. Severus took his tea sweet and strong, and he watched the swirls of sugar melting in the tea, the sugar cube dissolving as he stirred. There was no way for Severus to know if Albus and Gellert had ever shared a cup of tea.
There was no way for him to know if they had ever shared more than tea.
"I will not do it," Severus said. Porcelain cracked and liquid bubbled, a tiny tempest brewing in his teacup and frothing over Albus's desk, foam and froth soaking into the deep honey oak. "I will not do it."
"You have no choice, Severus. You swore an Unbreakable Vow."
The cracking of the teacup down its center, spilling the rest of the tea onto the desk, was not enough to soothe Severus. "You forced me to swear that Vow – you knew what the Dementors did to me in Azkaban. I'd have done anything, sworn anything –"
"There's nothing stronger than love in this world," Albus said, and the black coil tightened around Severus, squeezing until his breath caught in his throat. There was no way for Severus to know.
"You don't know that, old man." He forced his lips into a sneer and swept the remains of his cup onto the floor. He stepped on the saucer as he stood to leave, and it cracked under his heavy boots.
----------
Light streamed through the open door and spread out like a shuttered fan down the stairs, light and shadow on alternating steps in a kaleidoscope pattern that shifted and changed as Severus crept closer. Holding his breath, he was as silent as the gargoyles.
A warm hand came down on his shoulder. Without jumping, he turned. "Good morning, Headmaster."
"Severus. Good." Dumbledore thrust his hands into his wide sleeves, standing with his arms crossed over his chest as he watched Severus. "A very good beginning. I do believe that you'll make an excellent spy."
"I will do nothing of the sort," Severus said stiffly. He backed away from Dumbledore, taking a step up the staircase. He held himself still – he did not tremble, his breath did not hammer in his chest, he was not counting his heartbeats.
"I've come to apply for the Defense against the Dark Arts position."
"It's been filled," Dumbledore said. He took Severus's elbow and pushed him up the stairs, following so close behind him that their robes whispered together, swirling around them with every step. "I've managed to find a very competent instructor this year. I do have an opening on the staff, though … Professor Slughorn is retiring, and we'll need a new Potions Master."
Severus balked on the threshold, crossing his arms. His hand hidden by the folds of his sleeves, he touched his left forearm. Nothing burned.
"I can offer you more than Tom can," Dumbledore said.
Shaking his head, Severus turned away, but Dumbledore caught him by the shoulders, holding him there. Stiff and solid, Severus resisted him.
"Come," Dumbledore said, putting a hint of his will into the words. "We must speak."
He steered Severus over to the low easy chair by the fire, pushing him down into it and taking the opposite seat. "You know the mistake that you made, Severus – you wept for it, not an hour after you made it. I'm giving you the one chance that you'll ever have to redeem yourself. Don't undervalue it."
Severus rubbed his temples in tiny firm circles. "Crocodile tears, perhaps," he said. "I do not weep."
Looking straight at Dumbledore, he said, "You knew that I came here to make you that offer, you daft old coot. You knew that I regretted it – there was no need to manipulate or pressure me into it."
"I know that listening through doors has not served you well in the past."
"You presume to –"
"You presume on my goodwill."
Severus did not break away from Dumbledore's gaze. "I've no desire to be torn into mincemeat by both sides. If I stay, I'll not return to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. If I go, you'll have my death on your conscience."
"I've borne weightier burdens," Dumbledore said, but there was no heat in his gaze when he spoke. The wrinkles around his eyes deepened. "You've no idea, Severus Snape. Your petty childhood grievances and your petty sins are all worthless."
"Next you'll tell me that I'm worthless – that I'm worth nothing more than a quick sacrifice on the altar of the greater good." Severus folded his hands in his lap, hiding his bare skin in his sleeves, and his face was the only paleness that remained. The rest of his body was shrouded in black.
"Any man would be pleased to be worth as much … any other man would have been pleased to have been rescued from the Dementors … but you want more? I'll give you a teaching position here at Hogwarts and a memory of my own in the Pensieve."
With a flick of Dumbledore's wand, the Pensieve floated from a shadowy shelf over to the desk, scratching the smooth surface as it landed.
"What –" Severus asked. He let the word hang there. He could not finish the sentence.
"The memory of the afternoon after the incident in the Shrieking Shack," Albus said. "My interview with young Mr. Black, among other things."
Memories, soft and silken, floated in the Pensieve. Each was as malleable and changing as a river, and yet each was peculiarly constrained. They swirled together in silken locks, intertwined above and beneath, winding around one another in silver-solid mist.
Severus hesitated. He had never meant to come this far … he had never meant to be tempted, and now it was too late to return to the Dark Lord's side. There was no way forward but through knowing. He leaned closer to the Pensieve and saw an image floating in the silver bowl – James, as Severus had seen him last in life, his lips parted as though warm with breath.
He took the time to nod to Dumbledore before he leaned further and tumbled into the Pensieve, falling through the coils and twists of memories that were not his. He reached out for purchase, his arms windmilling in their voluminous sleeves. There was nothing graspable, nothing solid, and still he fell.
Severus landed hard in the shadows. His robes fluttered around him, the fabric billowing with the force of his fall. He was at Hogwarts, in the shadow of the castle – in the shadow of the tree.
Dumbledore was not there, and it was close to dark – the sun dipped lower as Severus watched, as he tapped his foot in the dampening grass. The dew gathered, late-summer and lovely, and the night-song of the forest began, chiming down Severus's vertebrae one by one.
He crossed his arms in front of his chest, folding his hands into his sleeves. He knew this night.
A motion made him turn and look. James Potter stood in the shadows near Severus. He lit a cigarette from his wand and took two lazy puffs from it before stomping it out on the dewy grass. "Where is he?"
They came, then, and passed through Severus as though he was insubstantial – Pomfrey guiding Remus, grasping him by both elbows. Drawn and frail, Remus looked deeper into the shadows, looked straight at James and nodded. Severus was caught by his eyes – the lines fanning out from each corner, and then Remus furrowed his brow and bent his head. He stumbled, and Pomfrey helped him.
James went back into the castle, and Severus was forced to follow, drawn after him like a needle to a magnet. It was James's memory, then – strong and solid, surviving in spite of his passing.
Severus ghosted hard on his heels, close enough to touch his ruffled hair, close enough to touch him.
Before long, Sirius Black hurtled into the Gryffindor common room, grabbing James by the shoulders and whirling him away from Lily. "I did it, I did it," he chanted. He pressed his lips close to James's ears and whispered, and Severus knew what he said.
Severus turned away. The Willow was visible through the window, its flailing branches dim in the fading light. There was a glow on the horizon, the rising moon, and although he did not need to see, the wide-paned window reflected the two boys. Blurred and indistinct, he saw James push Sirius away and dash for the stairs.
It was a small comfort.
The world swirled around him, and the next memory did not belong to James. When Severus landed, he stood in the office he had lately left, and Dumbledore stood there, inches away from Severus. He reached out, reaching through Severus, and pressed his hand against the window pane.
Dumbledore faced east, away from the sun. He reached out to empty air that was washed clear and golden by the afternoon. Like starched linen, the air crackled under his fingertips, the glass wavering and filling with bubbles. Each bubble popped as Dumbledore pressed a finger to it, and tiny hot droplets of molten glass fell, arcing to the ground. They fell to the east, catching the afternoon sun as they fell. Severus pressed his nose to the window and watched them land.
He turned away from the window, and the deep lines were erased from his face as he shrugged his shoulders. He pressed his fingers to his lips – Severus was close enough to see the tiny scars there, teardrop-shaped marks left on each finger by the popping glass.
"Enter," Dumbledore said, and as the stone gargoyle ground and as the footsteps echoed up the staircase, he set his face in deeper lines. He sat behind his desk and steepled his fingers and straightened his shoulders.
"Sirius Black," he said, Banishing the chairs in front of his desk with a wave of his wand. "I've no idea what flits through that lackadaisical, irreverent mind of yours, what quick busy thoughts keep you awake at night as you plan enough mischief to give Professor McGonagall ten heart attacks. I've no idea if you have any sort of stability, any thoughts that are serious – all matter, and no mirth – but even you, with your frivolous inattention to your schooling and your fixation on troublemaking, must be aware that we are in the middle of a war."
He slammed his fist onto his desk, making the teacups rattle on their patterned saucers. On his desk, a silver wheel whirled, spinning on its axis and making endless mobius loops.
"The world is darkened. Our world is threatened by Voldemort and his ever-growing shadow. If you intended to send one of our best and brightest students straight into his ranks, straight into the army that will be opposing us, then you have certainly achieved your aim.
One thoughtless, idiotic prank – a joke to you and your friends – could have cost Severus Snape his life. Do you imagine that he will be grateful to Mr. Potter for saving him, or anything other than resentful when I protect Mr. Lupin from the full force of the law? Do you imagine that in your years at Hogwarts, full years in which you took every opportunity to torment Mr. Snape – do you imagine that in those years, you have done anything other than renounce your family's beliefs?"
Black seemed to shrink, taking a step back from Dumbledore's desk. "I –"
"Silence," Dumbledore said, and his quiet tone was worse than any raised voice. Severus, insubstantial, felt the echoes of it roll down his spine, each shiver worse than the last.
"You have done nothing but enjoy the protection of these walls and abuse it for mischief, sheltered from the wrath of your family and the darkness of the coming war. You have played at jokes and tricks and nonsense and produced nothing of worth, Mr. Black … and in all your actions, you have driven several of the Slytherins away from the light. Your brother. Severus Snape. Evan Rosier. There is no telling how many of these students will become easy prey for Voldemort and his war once they leave Hogwarts and there is no counting the worth of them. They might have been saved, if it was not for you."
"Sir, I – I promise, I didn't –"
"You have enjoyed the safety of Hogwarts, and you have twisted that safety for other students. You used this school as a haven from your family and the coming darkness … and so it might have been for them, if it was not for you."
Dumbledore slumped in his seat, looking down at his desk. "Revenge and petty-minded pranks are beneath you. I thought that we had instilled a sense of morality in our students here, but apparently I was deceived."
He waved his hand, not looking up at Black. "You may go, Mr. Black. All privileges revoked, and detention with Filch for a month."
When the gargoyle had closed the door with a quiet, muted grinding – softer than the clamor made before – Severus was left watching Dumbledore slumped at his desk, tracing patterns in the wood and supporting his head with his free hand. His spine was sloped like the curve of a harp, and Severus could not bear to watch him. When he turned away, the memory dissolved in sparks and bubbles.
There was no space for breathing. Dumbledore put a hand on his arm – he was close, too close, and Severus let his eyes flutter shut for a second. "Yes?"
"You'll swear a Vow with me," Dumbledore said, his hand hard and insistent on Severus's arm. "You'll swear, and if you're ever forsworn, you'll die of it, Severus. I must be able to trust you more than anyone." He took a step away, his robes whispering around him as his hand fell away from Severus's arm.
"There are rooms in the castle for you – the house elves have cleared them already – and you've the summer to prepare for classes as you wish. When you are ready … when you are ready, come to me. There is much for you to learn if you are to be a spy."
Severus was not ready. He went down the spiral staircase, still awash with a fan of light, a flickering of shadows and darkness, and as he went, he bit through his lower lip until it bled. There was no space for breathing – there was no space for thought. The Dark Lord would not be pleased when he learned of this, and Severus could not keep it from him for long.
----------
It was Occlumency that hid Dumbledore's secrets. Severus woke, his cheek creased with the imprint of the pages he had slept on, and straightened his spine, hearing the vertebrae pop in the full silence.
The fire had died, and his dungeon rooms felt the full chill of the deep earth and stone insulating him from the summer sun. There was no warmth strong enough to penetrate these rooms.
Severus traced the spine of the book, and followed the stark ridges of the letters stamped in the leather. Occlumency, that was Dumbledore's secret – that was the means by which Severus was to hide his loyalties from the Dark Lord. If it was strong enough to hide Dumbledore's secrets –
Today was the anniversary of Grindelwald's fall. Albus did not come down to breakfast, and one of the scurrying, bow-legged house elves had come down from the tower, balancing a tray still full. He'd squeaked when he saw Severus, and the teapot had fallen with a crash, soaking the stones with tepid tea.
Dumbledore kept his secrets with Occlumency, but Severus – he traced the spine of the book again, pressing his finger against the title until the letters were imprinted on his skin – Severus would master the art of Occlumency as well. No secrets would be hidden from him.
----------
Severus broke when Dumbledore found the memory – Severus on his knees, whimpering with the Cruciatus, the Prophecy on his lips. Wavering walls fell, and his defenses were shattered.
He had spoken to the Dark Lord, and with no silver tongue and no clear intellect to save him, he had spilled the secret of a life that was not his to endanger.
"Your best is not good enough," Dumbledore said. "You must keep me from getting so far. Try again."
He raised his wand before Severus had time to take a breath. "Legilimens."
Severus scrambled to think of nothing, to clear his mind, and still he could do nothing but stand there, staring Dumbledore in the eye. He felt trapped, like a fly pinned between heavy glass sheets, exposed to the sun and incinerated. He was laid bare.
Dumbledore rifled through Severus's mind and saw all of his secrets. Hidden by those twinkling eyes, those wrinkles and that smile, Dumbledore himself had secrets to spare –
It was done. Severus's defenses snapped into place, pushing Dumbledore out, and like a gleaming silver fish caught on a line, he followed the arch of Dumbledore's thoughts, pushing back through the spell and into his mind.
A cottage by the river, sunlight captured in its windows and a bower of flowers growing in the garden – a dark-haired girl clutching a doll – a young man who stood straight and proud, peering through the cottage windows –
"Enough."
Pushed out of Dumbledore's mind, Severus fell back. He sprawled, his limbs askew and his robes wrapped around him and choking him like a shroud. "I didn't –"
"Enough," Dumbledore said again. He did not look at Severus. "Go. We resume at the same time tomorrow."
Going meant leaving the sanctuary of the Headmaster's tower, the lingering smell of strong tea, and the rhythm of his lessons. Severus went through Hogwarts, touching stone after silent stone, and was forced to be alone with his thoughts. There was no haven for him here, no refuge from that death that he was meant to eat, no solace for his sins and no redemption. This false penance grated on him.
Tracing his route to the library, he sat at the small table that had been his as a student. No one else had claimed it after he'd hexed it with a distraction jinx – and it was perfect for him, in a defensible corner and near the Restricted Section. He'd longed for knowledge then, had drunk it up from any source.
Now, Severus knew too much. There was no remedy for it, no way to wash the knowledge from him, and there would have been a kind of betrayal in forgetfulness. He had betrayed James, along with his wife and son, and he could not forget that.
With a sharp-tipped quill, Severus drew up lesson plans, filling scroll after scroll with notes in tiny print. Despite the pity involved in offering him the position, despite the fact that there had been nowhere else for him to go after he failed the Dark Lord, there would be no need to suspect that he had not earned his place here – he would not make Hogwarts ashamed to call him one of her own.
In this corner, he'd huddled behind his stacks of books, putting up forbidden shields and hiding from the Marauders. Black and Potter had been quick to torment him, Lupin and Pettigrew joining them. He'd not been given a fair chance, one against four.
He'd not given Potter a fair chance, telling the Dark Lord of the Prophecy.
And it was nothing to Severus, absolutely nothing, that Dumbledore had lambasted Black. It meant nothing to him. He'd seen the boy shrink with shame, curling in on himself like a snail retreating into its shell, and the fact that there had been more to it than the public punishment, the loss of privileges and the detention that hardly matched some of his other exploits – it was nothing against the fact that Severus had nearly been killed.
It was nothing. His life was weightless now, drifting in the balance between Dumbledore and Voldemort. Two masters, two spies, two sets of duties – no, Severus would never bear the weight of it for long. After the snapping point … perhaps some expiation could be made, his life set against that of the newborn child and weighed upon some cosmic scales.
Pince shooed him out of the library before the ink dried on his parchments – all of his glares had no effect. She remembered him as the snot-nosed boy who had –
Severus set his jaw and turned for the dungeons. He'd asked for quarters in the familiar stony corridors, underneath the crushing weight of the lake and deep in the earth where the snakes kept their dens. He'd be close to his students, in any case – in the worst of cases, he would be there. The stones sang to him, late at night. In their silence, there were echoes that resonated through the castle and lulled him to sleep.
He spent the night awake, uneasy in his new position as double-spy. Voldemort would find out before long – in the end, Dumbledore had done nothing for him. There was nothing that could be done for Potter and his family.
"Severus," Dumbledore said, his wand held loosely between his fingers, "you are not trying."
His teeth bared in a death-mask grin, Severus let it slip – he let Dumbledore see that all he'd gained were the whirling, false memories set up as a shield. He let Dumbledore see the wall, and nothing within, nothing of himself.
Dumbledore's wand slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly on the floor. "I see," he said. "Yes, I see indeed. You are a natural at this … very well done indeed."
Retrieving his wand, he used it to Summon a pot of tea from the kitchens, a plate of pastries, and a bowl of sugar cubes with silver tongs. "Milk?" he asked, and Severus shook his head, pushing away the pastries.
"No," he said. "Do not try to sweeten the truth, old man. If you are to command me in this war even to my death, then do not lie to me."
Albus froze as he poured, the liquid splashing over the rim of the cup and into the saucer. "Your death? Don't be melodramatic, it needn't –"
"Do not lie to me," Severus said again. His knuckles were white where his hands clasped the arms of the chair too tightly. He unclenched his fists, stretching each finger out until the joints popped. The sound echoed in the office, caught and held in the thin air.
Clearing his throat, Dumbledore said, "Well. Yes. Nothing … it's complicated or deadly, you know, Severus. You ought to look on the bright side, at least once or twice – see if a little sunshine brightens up your life …."
"We are in the middle of a war."
"Yes, well." Dumbledore took up three cubes of sugar with the silver tongs, dropping them into his tea and stirring until they dissolved. He splashed more tea onto the saucer, grimaced, and Banished it. "I need you to return to Voldemort and see if you can determine anything of his plans for the Potters. We've had no information at all, nothing beyond our suspicion that there's been a leak."
Raising his teacup, he slopped tea over the rim and had the grace to look abashed. "See if you can determine who the traitor is, won't you, Severus?"
"And I'm to believe that you don't already know the answer to that." Severus smoothed the cloth covering his left forearm, picking imaginary pieces of lint from his black robes. Dumbledore busied himself with his teacup and did not look – Severus snorted. If Dumbledore chose not to see …. He rose, pushing the chair back, and turned to the door. "I'll do my best to oblige you."
Obligation after obligation – they held Severus fast. He reported to the Dark Lord when his Mark burned and groveled at his feet. There was nothing but obligation here.
It was Avery who won the Cruciatus for being the last to appear, and Severus winced, his face turned down to hide his expression. Avery writhed for a long minute under the curse, his head thudding hard against the ground.
"You have failed me," the Dark Lord said, striding among them. "I want to know the location of James and Lily Potter. I have given you all the time that you said you needed, and you have returned with nothing. Empty hands, empty minds, useless, hopeless – go," he said, gesturing to the door. His sleeve billowed, and the light shone on his hair, glinted off his teeth. "Do not disappoint me again, or you will suffer his fate."
He kicked Avery as he strode to the door. Severus waited until his heartbeat had calmed before he Apparated away.
There was no need for Severus, in the end. The Potter's location was revealed – by Sirius Black, the bastard himself – and Voldemort had killed the Potters within hours. Their son survived. Black went to Azkaban.
Severus went to the ruins of the house that the Potters had kept in Godric's Hollow, the stones blasted by some curse and dark with soot. The house still stood, the wooden structure unaffected, the beams and roof still whole – but all the stones had tumbled down. It was an eerie and powerful curse. Severus tasted the Dark magic lingering in the air, stronger than he'd ever felt it before. Like salt strewn on a field, nothing of light or joy would flourish here for years.
Their corpses lay here, just inside the house – James and Lily, as entwined in death as they'd been inseparable in life. Severus knelt next to them, smoothed the frown from James's brow. The flesh was stiff and sluggish, not moving to his command … death had stolen James from him.
He had never belonged to Severus. Tracing the shape of his lips, Severus pulled a lock of Lily's bright hair from his mouth – it was tangled there, as though pressed to his lips for a final kiss. He smoothed the hair out before letting it fall, swinging against James's face.
It was not his place to be there, hovering at James's side. There was nothing – Severus closed his eyes as he Apparated.
There was nothing there for him.
He faced his classes the next day with a hangover potion still roiling in his gut. They'd the same reaction as all the wizarding world – overwhelming joy at the defeat of the Dark Lord. No one thought of the two bodies lying cold in their coffins.
He turned on the nearest smiling student with a sneer and a promise of detention.
Each student – as young as Severus had been, as young as James had been – he'd make each of them spend a hundred hours in detention and scrub the cauldrons a hundred times for every one of the Marauder's pranks. It would never be enough for James, whose face stayed forever young, forever hardened with death, while Severus watched himself age in the mirror, day after day.
He grew older, and James and Lily did not. Their child grew older, watched over by that horrible sister. The students grew older. While the days blended together and their world glutted itself on peace, growing lax and lazy and foolish, Severus watched over them, student after student, moving through the halls of Hogwarts, moving on with their lives.
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There had been nothing that betrayed the identity of the young man that Severus had seen – no portraits or photos, nothing. There had been a hint in Dumbledore's memory. He'd been fond of the man, that much was certain.
Severus pushed the last of his lecture plans aside and rose when Dumbledore entered. He pushed his bitterness aside – like over-brewed tea, gurgling down the drain. It was his own fault that he served two masters, rising to do their bidding like a puppet on invisible strings.
"Good," Dumbledore said, lifting up a scroll and peering at the lesson plan. "These are excellent, Severus. Your students will be lucky to have such a competent professor. I'm certain that many of them will pass their exams with flying color – no, don't frown at me. Look on the bright side of things, remember?"
"We're in the middle of a war," Severus said again. He had no other answer for Dumbledore's optimism.
"So we are," Dumbledore said. "Do you have any news for me?"
Holding his shields firm, Severus withstood the gentle push of Legilimency against his mind. "Nothing of importance," he said. "The Dark Lord is still looking for the location of the Potters, and is most displeased with us for not having provided it to him."
Whisper-soft, keeping his probe at a considerable distance, Severus cast Legilimens on Dumbledore. He used a thread of magic, a fine silver probe, and caught glimpses of blurred images, faint pictures seen out of focus, as though reflections in water or glass. He saw no trace of the young man that he had seen before, no trace of the cottage or the girl. There was a story there, Severus was certain of it.
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The earth lay cold and undisturbed over James Potter and his perfect, pretty wife, and the green grass flourished. Severus reached down, scraping his knuckles against the granite headstone. James Potter was dead, cold in his grave – Severus was sure that he still had the stiff rictus, the death mask of Killing Curse victims – and he had nothing to do with the world, with fresh air and sunlight.
He had no business haunting Severus. He had no right to send his son to torment his old enemy. Severus's fists clenched into hard balls, his joints grinding as he turned from Potter's grave.
It was nothing to him – nothing at all. Harry Potter was only a tool, a fly caught in Albus's trap, a wretched boy with no regard for rules or reason. It was nothing to Severus if the boy chose to creep around the castle at all hours of the night, risking his neck and suspecting Severus of the most heinous crimes. It was nothing to Severus if the boy looked exactly like his father had when he was young.
Turning to look at the grave again, Severus closed his eyes and Apparated back to Hogwarts. He landed at the entrance, slipping through the heavy iron gates with a whispered password, and he locked himself onto the school grounds, the gates closing behind him with a thud.
Albus was waiting for him at the door to the school, dwarfed by the stone archway. Severus slowed his steps, but came to stand in front of him at last. "Your will, Headmaster?" he asked with a short, mocking bow.
"Severus, I've told you –"
"Time and time again, yes. You've told me that an Unbreakable Vow does not make you my master, and I tell you that I believe it. What more do you want from me?"
They went down the corridor, their footfalls echoing in the nighttime stillness. Albus froze the stairs with a wave of his hand, and led Severus to his office.
"Harry already suspects you," he said, pouring two cups of tea.
Severus pushed his aside and went to stand by the window. He'd had enough tea and sympathy – he'd had enough of anniversaries. Eleven years ago today he'd sworn an oath, and he would keep it with his life. When he turned again, Albus was watching him.
"It's perfect," he said, taking a step towards Severus, his hand stretched out. "Your Occlumency is perfect – your acting is perfect. You'd fool Voldemort himself, if he were here."
"He soon will be, according to you." Severus shoved his hands into his sleeves, crossing his arms over his chest, and turned back to the window. "And you will send me to stand in front of him, with only my shields and my act to protect me, and you will sacrifice me, as you've always been ready –"
"Severus." Albus didn't need to speak, didn't need to chide Severus – his voice, his upraised hand, his slumped spine, he spoke volumes without words.
"Yes," Severus said. "I know."
He had always known, had always faced this, and he would endure it for a little longer. "What do you want me to do?"
Albus reached out, almost touching him. Severus felt the warmth of his hand and turned away, leaning against the cold window. Halloween was full of chills and omens, this year more than others. The thought ran down his spine, and he refused to shudder.
"Let him see you," Albus said. "Get someone – Argus, perhaps, or Irma – to bandage your leg for you. Not in the hospital wing, but in some public place where Harry can see you. He'll come to the right conclusions from that, now that he knows about the three-headed dog in the third floor corridor."
Albus had offered to be the Secret Keeper for the Potters, had wanted to protect them with his magic and his life. He'd taken the most precious Stone, one step away from Voldemort's rebirth, and hidden it here – and he could not keep it safe from one schoolboy.
Severus didn't look at him. "What purpose will that serve?"
"Harry's hatred and distrust of you will preserve your cover with the sons and daughters of the Death Eaters here at Hogwarts … and in the end, I've a feeling that it may prove more useful yet than that. Time will reveal everything, Severus."
The silver gadgets on Albus's desk clucked and whirled at his words, quicksilver-thin wings fluttering through the air and spirals rotating in endless loops. The magic or motors that kept them spinning were never silent, never ceased their cacophony of hums and whistles. Severus knocked two of them over, sending a short shower of sparks into the desk, as he reached for his cup of tea.
The sparks left scorch marks in the polished old wood, and Albus obliterated them with a wave of his hand. The tea was strong and thick with sugar, cloying and overwhelming, and Severus held the cup without taking a second sip, cradling it in the palm of his hand.
While he was silent, Albus looked to the east – Severus followed his gaze, and saw the first sliver of the moon rising over the horizon. It reflected in the diamond-paned windows, echoed in one pane after the other. Standing close to the window, Severus traced one of the crescents with his fingernail.
"As you will have it," he said. "Potter will hate me until the day he dies."
Severus went down the stairs without another word from Albus, descending into the dungeons in the flickering torchlight and half-grotesque shadows, and he made his way silently, ready to catch unwary students that dared to break the curfew. He was ready, all the while, to catch Potter.
Potter was the spit and image of his father – fit for trouble, ruffling his hair and flaunting his scar to impress his admirers, skating through his classes with the help of his friends rather than on his own merits, breaking curfew, breaking hearts – Severus caught himself. It had not yet come to that, but he'd watch the rosebushes and hidden corners in the school when it did. He'd not let a second Potter make a fool of half of Hogwarts, shattering hopes and making easy conquests.
It was Halloween, and Severus still kept the anniversary. His relief when he'd heard that the Dark Lord was dead – it had come hard on the heels of his release from Azkaban, his reprieve from the Dementors, and his promise to Dumbledore. His Unbreakable Vow –
Severus stopped his sweep through the castle. He'd seen it every day for the past decade, and he knew all of the corridors, all of the closets and all of the secret corners. He saw them every day. There was no occasion to revisit them. There was no need for Severus to let the anniversary of Potter's death make a sentimental, soppy fool out of him.
Here was the wall outside the Transfiguration classroom, the corridor where he'd stood, seeing Potter for the first time. Here was the corner where the four of them had trapped Severus, hexing him until he fell to the flagstones and gasped shameful pleas for a reprieve. They hadn't granted him one.
Here was the corridor where he'd seen Evans first smile at Potter, and here was the classroom where he'd found them snogging.
Anniversaries had no meaning, at the end of it all. Let Albus keep his calendar and his foolish, whirring silver time-pieces. Let Albus mark the date with solemnity and let him look to the east, all of his thoughts elsewhere on that day and on every other day of the year. Anniversaries were for fools, and Severus was not a fool.
He found no way to approach Potter the next day. He had awakened, stiff and sore from the dungeon cold, and the chill had settled into his bones, into his wound. He concealed his limp, as he went through the day – hiding it from the Slytherins who would sense weakness and exploit it, but letting it show when Potter could see it.
The ache grew worse, and Severus's makeshift bandages and potions did not ease it. If he'd gone to Pomfrey at the beginning and let her heal it – but secrets were his only currency, his only safety. No one could know that Albus trusted him.
It was Quirrell, and Severus knew it. The stuttering fool thought to conceal himself from Severus, but his forearm throbbed with every step he took toward Quirrell, and with every breath that he took in his presence. The Dark Mark responded to the presence of the Dark Lord, and it was painful.
Severus pretended that he did not feel the twitch. He did not react in the presence of the students, and he put on a show for Quirrell – he was the loyal Death Eater, suspicious and paranoid, his sympathies unquestionable and his disguise perfect.
His leg ached and his arm twinged, and it was a week before he managed to reveal his wound to Potter. A book confiscated, a show of spite, and Potter fell into his trap. Eyes hidden by his long hair, Severus watched Potter through the door that he'd left ajar.
Filch's ministrations were none too gentle, but Severus endured them, patient for the sake of the show. He let Potter see him, wounded and bloody, and took no satisfaction in the look on the boy's face as he fled. For all of Albus's plots and schemes, for all of his manipulation and intuition, it meant nothing to Severus – another Potter saw him weak and useless, another Potter hated him. The Unbreakable Vow held Severus in his place and kept him there to do his duty, and he knew that he would lose more than Potter's good regard before it was done.
The Dark Lord would not be so forgiving when he learned of Severus's betrayal – when he pierced through the shields and the acts to learn the truth. Severus, no more and no less than Potter, was a pawn in Albus's hands, a sacrifice ready to be made. For the sake of James, who'd never had the chance to live, who had died for freedom that he'd never known, Potter should have been more than a sacrifice and more than a tool. He should have been a boy, devoted to Quidditch and schoolwork.
Albus sent the boy chasing after the Dark Lord, gave him clues and traps and puzzles. He'd send him into danger unprotected. He would see the death and destruction of the last thing of James that was left on this earth.
Severus pushed Filch away without thanking him for his help, and strode out of the room, robes billowing around him. If it came to that, if his Vow allowed, if there was a way to keep something of James alive in this world – he would protect the boy.
In spite of his faults, Harry was the very image of his father.
Go on to part two
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I just wanted to say the title's a problem: the prison is 'Nurmengard' not Nuremgard, according to my copy of DH.
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