FORTY-FIVE: Method in the Madness
Severus Snape awoke with the distinct impression that it was far later in the day than he had meant to arise. He threw off his coverlet, ran his hands through his limp hair and rose blearily, slouching off to the bathroom. He was halfway through his morning ablutions before the awareness ripped through him.
The Obscura.
Harry!
His analytical mind sifted through the events, even as his face paled, his breathing quickened, and his eyes unfocused with remembered strain. It was amazing Harry could speak at all, the way he’d been screaming.
Merlin – it was amazing Harry was alive, the way he’d been carrying on. At the time, he’d spared a thought to wonder at how much of a drama the Potter boy was making of the entire affair. Harry was not being subjected to torture of that painful intensity, not when the Dark Lord had not even bothered to show his face before striking. Potter simply had to be playing up the hero role, the way he always had.
Now Severus knew better. Even then, he had known, at least in some buried part of him, that Harry’s pain was very real...
Despite deriding the celebrity with which Harry had been graced, Snape had managed to swallow the picture the Prophet painted; the only difference between he and the rest of the Wizarding World was the jaundiced eye with which he viewed the heroic figure. He saw James as someone who had been afforded all the pleasures in life with none of their inherent responsibilities, and saw Harry as continuing his father’s legacy, albeit in an overblown, larger-than-life manner. Harry could crash a Charmed Muggle vehicle into an ever-present feature of the Hogwarts landscape; Harry could decide to take on a mountain troll at age eleven. The rules did not apply to the Boy Who Lived.
Harry hadn’t been a boy to Snape, he had been a concept; not a person, but the foundation of a corrupt mythos. In shame, he realized that the Obscura was not the moment he had known that a young boy would die; rather, it was the moment he became aware of Harry as a boy, a mortal, a mere Muggle-raised wizard-child, rather than the golden boy of Daily Prophet fame.
That night - because of his pain, his terror, and, Snape realized, drawing a tired hand over his features, largely because Dumbledore had refused him aid – Harry had become in Snape’s eyes what he had obviously always been: a child.
Dumbledore, who Snape had seen as the Potter boy’s patron, had tossed him to the wolves because it was necessary. While Albus Dumbledore was essentially good, he was far too old and far too wily to let one child’s suffering stand in the way of the war. Snape chuckled with barely-restrained cynicism, shrugging his body into house-robes. He was of no mind to go out into the world today...
...but didn’t he owe it to Potter? He had seen a hint of their shared past – should it not become shared once more? He silently debated. There was nothing in that memory that had been deeply secret, save that the boy’s Patronus could protect him from Voldemort – and shouldn’t Harry know that?
Slowly, Snape nodded to himself. His uncertain expression steadied, firmed. He stood from his bed and began to move rapidly, efficiently about his bedroom, selecting dark robes made of smooth, heavy wool, based on his examination of the small weathervane in miniature sitting on his desk. He moved into his labs, wondering whether he ought to start a new batch of Nutritive Draught for Madam Pomfrey before he left; the potion took two good hours at a moderate boil before it was ready. He should not be discussing the matter with Potter any longer than that...
He turned reflexively to the cabinet from his dream, and paused.
There was no cabinet there.
This was ridiculous, of course. There had always been a cabinet there. It had been his great-grandfather’s Potion cabinet; the man had built it himself, in Muggle fashion. Something about the dimensions had first amused Severus, then drawn him; it was a unique piece. I was as though, with every nail and tack, every arc and well-placed curve of the wood, the man had been lamenting that he lived in neither the Muggle nor the Wizarding worlds.
It was an apothecary chest, and Tiberius Snape had been a compounding apothecary. Severus would have thrown the piece away as soon as his mortar and pestle; and yet he found he had a foolishly vague memory of deciding that the thing had gone decrepit and tossing it out.
Blinking owlishly, Severus languidly raised his wand. “Finite incantatem?” he inquired.
The cabinet shimmered back into existence.
“Alohomora,” he added.
The lock sprang open.
Up until that point, Severus had held an illusion or two that perhaps, while Harry had been staying with him, recovering from his injuries, he had wanted to keep the boy out of his Potions stores. After all, he recalled a certain escapade involving the ingredients to Polyjuice Potion, and another with gillyweed.
Now he realized that, if anything, the spells had been chosen for their simplicity, perhaps so that Harry could use the cabinet if he wanted to. Finite and Alohomora were taught in first-year, after all. Why bother placing such flimsy protections, unless what had been hidden was meant to be found? The chest was like an unlocked door behind a curtain; anyone could open it, provided they knew where to look.
The Potions Master reached out to the small, brass knob, and it gave easily in his hands.
Snape couldn’t help but swallow at the sight of the wide-brimmed cauldrons which sat on its shelves, pewter no. 5’s, relatively small and fat... dozens of them, the drawers having been magically crowded away from the centre to accommodate their bulk.
Pensieves.
A handful of Pensieves were labeled, indubitably falsely; ‘the time when Sirius sicced his dog on you’ and ‘taking the Mark’ were a handful of the lovely memories the cauldrons promised.
Of course, he didn’t believe a word. Never mind that the words were in his own, lacy handwriting. If anything, that made them more suspect.
Hmm. The ones labeled ‘Disgustingly Awful Childhood Memories’ must be Harry’s... he must be the disgustingly awful child to which they belong... He snerked, appreciating the sense of humor inherent in the thing, but of course, that was his own sense of humor; he was bound to find it appealing.
For the space of a moment, he stood undecided, wondering if he ought to reclaim the memories. Remus’s words floated across the surface of his consciousness, the assertion that Dumbledore surely would have had a good reason for doing as he did...
Snape found he did not want to hear the reasons. Chances were, Dumbledore’s words would sound reasonable and be wise, but he was no longer certain that they would be right... a distinction that was as new to Severus as it was subtle. Lips thinning in determination, Snape drew his wand – (briar, dragon heartstring, thirteen inches) – and lay it gently against the swirl of memories in the nearest cauldron. Slowly, he raised his arm, dragging a fresh memory from the pile, and placed it against his brow, allowing it to slither, wormlike, into his flesh.
“Severus!”
Snape jumped embarrassingly high into the air before whirling impressively to glare at –
Oh. It was only Lupin.
“There you are, I’ve been looking all over!” Remus gave Snape the grin that the Potions Master had long since discerned was meant to be charming.
“What do you need now?”
Remus blinked, then sighed. “Honestly, Severus, must you always think the worst of me?”
“Once again, Lupin,” Snape replied, “it’s nothing to do with you. I think the worst of everybody. Besides, oughtn’t you be used to it by now? You didn’t suppose some of your impertinent buoyancy would rub off, did you?”
Lupin leaned slightly away from the other man, scanning his features. “What’s the matter?”
Snape opened his mouth to begin a tirade, or an evasion, or anything but what spilled out. “I am not certain what to do.”
Remus looked every bit as taken aback as Severus felt; the Potions Master watched the werewolf’s eyes widen in startlement, then slowly soften. Snape realized that the other man would see this admission as some sort of plea for help, and would follow that thought to its natural conclusion, given Lupin’s skewed logic: that now was the time to repay Severus for his earlier… kindnesses.
True to form, Lupin’s smile gentled, his eyes remaining serious and stern. Indubitably part of the reason Harry had chosen him for a confidante. “What is it, Severus?” he inquired. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“I highly doubt it,” Snape replied tightly, his hauteur regained. He began his progress down the hall again, heading more decisively for Gryffindor Tower. He was pleased to note that, for once, the werewolf was not trailing after him. He chanced a glance over his shoulder to note that Remus was doing a credible impression of a teakettle about to boil over.
Snape watched the other man submerge his anger, his chin rising in a cold civility that reminded him strongly of… well, himself, really.
“You doubt it, do you?” Remus inquired, voice chill. “After the opening salvo of ‘I don’t know what to do’? You don’t know what to do – but you don’t need advice.” When Severus opened his mouth to retort, Remus ploughed on over him. “Oh – especially not from some mangy werewolf. Of course.”
“How many times must I tell you, you egocentric fool, that my moods are nothing to do with you…?”
“But it is! It is to do with me!” Remus gestured angrily to himself. “It’s to do with me and James and Sirius and – and Peter! Eighteen years and you still can’t let it go! I’ve done everything possible –”
Severus felt a rising tide of anger lashing against his insides. “You?” he demanded with his trademark sneer. “You’ve done everything. I must have missed your tireless efforts to befriend me. Who helped you obtain your papers so that you could continue teaching here? Who researched how to bring your best friend – whom I hate, by the way – back from beyond a Veil he wasn’t meant to cross in the first place…?”
“You,” Remus said firmly, “and that’s what I mean. You won’t let me do anything for you, no matter how I try. You won’t let me repay you. And despite it all, I have been your friend, you know. Sirius isn’t my best friend anymore. He was, but he – he’s gone.”
Snape stared at the other man’s unwavering golden eyes and flinched. “Now you’re overtly manipulating me.”
“To what purpose?” Remus demanded, flustered.
The Potions Master couldn’t help but examine the other man’s face for the lie he wanted, needed to see there, but there was nothing save that Gryffindor earnestness and more than a hint of fond exasperation. Something jumped uncomfortably in his stomach, and he found himself teetering on the edge of Obscura.
“Severus?”
There was, he found, very little to say when someone had told you to your face that they were your friend even if you were not theirs. It was the sort of statement that had no ready reply.
“Severus, when someone proclaiming their friendship makes you get the vapors, that’s trouble, you know.”
He’s trying to cheer me up. Merlin preserve us. “Only Victorian witches get ‘the vapors’, Lupin,” he retorted weakly.
Remus shrugged. “Will you tell me what the trouble is, now we’ve had our requisite argument?”
It is almost as though he does not take me seriously at all, Snape realized with an unexpected stab of self-directed amusement. “Did Harry ever give you a book to look at? A storybook?”
Lupin looked mildly puzzled at the seeming non-sequitur. “I don’t believe so.”
“The story is about the battle between Gryffindor and Slytherin,” Snape replied, shaking off his dizziness and continuing down the hallway once again. “How they battled. But the reason that they fought is rather different from the explanation provided by the history books.”
“The story, as I remember it, is relatively vague,” Lupin supplied. “All I remember is that the battle became so dangerous that everyone from Hogwarts was sent away until it was finished. The fight was over something to do with the magical versus the mundane worlds.”
“They fought over whether they would remain connected to the Muggle world,” Snape supplied. “Gryffindor won, and with the aid of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, made Hogwarts unplottable, and so on and so forth. Slytherin, who campaigned to keep the worlds aligned, disappeared. The Potions Master covertly examined Lupin, awaiting his reaction.
After a small moment, Lupin nodded, slowly. “I see. But why? Slytherin was famous for his verbal attacks on the Muggle world.”
“He discovered something, then,” Snape replied. “Something so important that he was willing to put his views aside. Something so dangerous that Gryffindor was wlling to do anything to be rid of him. Harry and I discovered this secret on our own, through unrelated events, over the summer. The only difficulty is–”
“Voldemort,” Lupin supplied. “He knows what Harry knows, or he did until lately; and that is why Dumbledore was so insistent that the both of you forget the entire business.”
“Yes; precisely.”
Remus sighed, rubbing at his temples. “And – and now you know the truth.”
“Yes.”
“And you are about to tell Harry the truth.”
“Yes.”
“Which you purposely hid from yourself and Harry purposely hid from himself.”
“He deserves to know.”
“Why?”
“Because he is more than old enough to be capable of making his own decisions.”
“He chose to keep this information from himself,” Remus reminded him. “He has already made his decision.”
Snape shook his head. “He was under both my and Dumbledore’s influence at the time…”
“And what are you doing now but placing him under your influence alone, Severus?” Remus’s smile was wry. “If you want him to make his own decision, then let him make it – alone. Do not force knowledge upon him that he does not want. Harry has more than enough of that sort of knowledge already.”
Severus fell silent, considering the other man’s words. “Perhaps you are right.”
Remus smiled at him. “I know that I am.”
“I will allow him to make his own decision in this matter.”
“What will you do if he accepts the information?” Remus demanded.
“Harry can keep Him out, now. He has the ability to perform Occlumency in his sleep, literally, if he so desires. As for myself – I suppose that my career as a spy for – for Voldemort – is over.” A strange rushing sound accompanied the words in Severus’s head, and he shook away the sudden, treacherous feeling of freedom that threatened to drown him.
“And Draco Malfoy’s is beginning,” Lupin said softly.
“Yes. I will teach him everything I know. Everything that may help him survive this, as I have.”
Remus’s features twisted in sympathy. “I think I heard that Harry went out on – on a picnic of all things. Would you like me to go with you?”
Severus wanted to shake the man for not revealing this information sooner, wanted to snap out some sort of bitter retort, but the words died in him. “No, thank you,” he muttered, feeling thrown – then, “I’m certain I’ll manage,” with a hint of his old asperity.
I’m certain you will,” Remus said gravely, then smiled his best, most charming smile with, Snape couldn’t help but notice, a certain tinge of relief.
When Severus reached the large oak, the Granger girl was seated, her back propped up against the stoutness of an oak, absorbed in a book; Draco was playing with a snitch, releasing it only to snatch it out of the air mere seconds later; Harry was watching Draco, sneaking in a lunge of his own every now and again. Ron was staring at the two of them in something approaching wonder.
“Mother of Merlin!” Snape heard him intone as Harry and Draco began to shove one another in their quest for the snitch.
A particularly hard shove, and Draco tumbled inelegantly to smack his head against the roughness of the oak; Snape was by his side instantly, although he knew for a fact that one could not Apparate at Hogwarts.
Somewhat luckily for all involved, Harry got there first.
“Ow! Sorry, that looks like it hurt.”
“Bloody hell, Potter, let me up, will you? You’re crowding me.” Then, to Ron, “you’re right. I’ve been interpreting it as rudeness, but Gryffindors just invade your personal space, don’t they?” He noted Snape’s presence and blinked wide, grey eyes at him. “Oh, hello there, sir. Didn’t see you.”
Ron snorted in tandem with Hermione, and after a moment, Snape realized that they were implying that he was incredibly difficult to miss.
“What. Are. You. Doing?!” Snape hissed.
Draco cringed slightly against the back of the tree. “Picnicking?”
“Picnicking, Mister Malfoy?” Snape tore at Draco’s sleeve. “You cannot have it both ways. The Dark Lord will see this event in your mind, and –”
“ – and assume – when you tell him so, anyhow – that Draco’s just waiting on an opportunity to do me in,” Harry interjected, green eyes blazing.
Hermione jerked Draco free of Snape’s grasp and tugged at the other boy’s sleeve until the Dark Mark was concealed once more. “We haven’t forgotten or anything, sir. That would be difficult to do.” She offered Snape a wry smile, which faded with her next words. “But we can’t – we can’t leave him alone to fight this out. I couldn’t leave anyone to fight him alone like that, and Draco’s – he’s… it isn’t even his fight, is it? It’s Harry’s – and ours.”
“And yours,” Ron offered grudgingly, startling both Snape and Hermione.
“Indeed,” Snape replied, the redheaded boy’s words filling him with a sense of rightness. “It is my fight. And as it is mine, I understand it. It is not a child’s game.”
“I’m not a child,” Draco contributed unexpectedly. His grey eyes flashed with fear, but they met Snape’s, unwavering. “And I’m not playing games. I can do this.” He eyed the others. “But – but, uhm, not alone. I’d be mad.” His gaze found Harry’s, and a small, vulnerable smile lingered briefly on his lips before he turned to Snape again. “Harry’s been through it, hasn’t he? The – ” His attention flickered briefly to Ron. “The way you have. Sir. And I think I might just survive with his help and with yours. Maybe.” His shoulders hunched in and for a moment he tightly closed his eyes, as if in some silent prayer. “With luck. A lot of luck.”
Snape eyed the four teenagers gazing up at him, Harry warily but with hope dancing at the heart of his eyes; Draco’s face open as he’d seen it; Ron distrustful; Hermione patient and calculating.
For the first time he recognized them as a force to be reckoned with.
“Children,” he began, then paused. “You are children, Harry, don’t glare. You are children faced with adult decisions. And I must say that I am… surprised… and pleased… at those you are making. Draco – you are perfectly correct in your reasoning that you will need those whom you can trust in the coming years. Your choice – your most hated enemy – is both ridiculous and completely Slytherin. No one should ever expect your intentions to be honorable, and thus it is a worthy deception.”
“Thank you, sir,” Harry replied.
“Your deception, Potter?”
“Mine.”
“Hmm. Ten points to Slytherin, then.”
Ron and Hermione exchanged a significant glance.
“Finally, Mister Potter, I believe I have uncovered the truth concerning your whereabouts and why your memories were removed.”
“Memories – removed? Pardon?” Draco echoed. “You’re kidding, Potter, right?”
Harry shook his head.
“However, Professor Lupin and I… discussed things between us, and we both feel you should be able to make this decision free of adult influence. It should be your decision and yours alone, to make. If you desire this knowledge, come and see me first thing tomorrow, before classes begin. Otherwise, I will see you in Potions. Yes, you as well, Mister Malfoy. Madam Pomfrey can only keep you ensconced for so long. You’ve missed quite a bit as it is. I suspect, however, that Miss Granger will see her way to providing you with a summary of what you have missed?”
“Oh!” Hermione pinked, and Draco muttered something unintelligible.
“What was that?” Snape inquired dryly. “I prefer those with whom I converse to speak the Queen’s English, Mister Malfoy.”
“I was only saying,” Draco hissed, “that Ron and Yolande have been giving me my notes every day, and so I’m all caught up, thank you.”
Snape eyed Ron, who stiffened, returning Snape’s look glare for glare; that is, until Draco kicked him.
Ron stammered something that sounded like, “hope that’s fine by you, sir,” but by then Snape was too far into shock to care very much.
“Well, then,” he said. “Carry on, I suppose.”
“Yes, sir,” they chorused, looking very much like the Marauders at their most deceptively innocent. How odd that the thought didn’t really bother him.
Severus moved into the castle, already beginning to frame the events together, sort them in his mind. Every now and again, he found himself arranging the facts humorously, almost as though they were a story.
And there was only one person he would tell.
The End.