After about a week, Harry was ready to scream. His close friends had been patient and understanding, but the rest of the school had mobbed him, badgering him for details of his latest adventure. Being in the limelight made him extremely uncomfortable. The silver lining of the situation was that he had the opportunity to tell others of Snape's heroism. He was very hazy about the particulars of their experience, partly out of his reluctance to relive the whole awful experience, but mostly out of respect for the Potions Master's privacy. All anyone knew was that Snape had helped Harry out of a very dangerous situation.
Hermione and Ron were blessedly patient about the ordeal. They waited until Harry had fully recovered and was willing to talk. Harry favored them with an almost-complete recount of his nightmare. He even told them about Sirius' trick with the Veritaserum but wisely omitted Snape's coerced responses. All he would say was that Snape seemed to have little reason to be kind to the world. His two best friends were astonished that their surly, detested professor had been the one to try to protect Harry's parents. They couldn't quite reconcile that with the Snape that they knew.
Harry found similar reactions in his classmates. They had all listened incredulously to his tale, then shaken their heads in disbelief. It simply made him want to pull his hair out. After talking to Dumbledore, it was agreed that he should give away as little detail as possible regarding Snape's double role. He had learned the hard way that anyone could secretly be a Voldemort sympathizer, and Snape would be in danger if the truth leaked out before he had fully recovered. It hurt Harry to see the way the treated someone who should have been regarded as a hero. If it felt that way to him, how must it be for Snape? He was no doubt used to it by now, but that didn't mean that it hurt any less. He remembered how it had been to be ostracized when the whole school thought he was the Heir of Slytherin. At least then he had had Hermione and Ron. Lupin's words came back to him. Who did Snape have to turn to?
His kidnapping and near-death had left Harry feeling strange, as if he was now slightly out-of-sync with the rest of the world. He felt greatly changed, while life continued as if absolutely nothing had happened. He had difficulty relating to others, even his friends, who fortunately remained as supportive as ever. When Snape finally emerged from the Infirmary, a bit weak and shaky but as surly as ever, Harry had hoped for someone to relate to. But Snape wanted nothing to do with Harry, or anyone else, it seemed. The man had never been a social butterfly, but he seemed to draw into himself even more, spending most of his time locked in the dungeon, only appearing for meals or classes. Harry was certainly not familiar with the man's habits, but something about him seemed… off.
Hostilities with Slytherin House had reached a new level. The House of the Serpent wanted answers – all they knew was that their beloved Head was ill, and he had been in the presence of three Gryffindors with a known grudge. They were not about to listen to any of Harry's carefully-edited explanations. They had been relieved when Snape resumed his teaching duties, but the tension remained in the atmosphere, and scarcely a week passed without some kind of inter-house conflict. Strangely enough, Severus remained apathetic. He seemed to give his Slytherins far too much leeway in the classroom, but he knew how to manage his rebellious charges and had made it plain that any rule-breaking would be punished quietly but severely. Most shocking of all, he had cancelled his office hours and turned all detentions over to Filch. His door had always been open to his charges in the past. They were bewildered by the change and lashed out at its perceived cause.
Snape's shift in behavior did not go unnoticed by the staff. Being used to the prickly professor's moodiness and occasional outbursts of temper, they saw it as nothing to remark on. He had gradually formed a casual working relationship with his colleagues, occasionally joining them for tea or intellectual debates, but his private life was strictly off-limits. They still shuddered at the vicious hexing Snape had heaped on Lockhart after a few blatantly invasive remarks. If anything was troubling Severus, it was certain that he would not discuss it, and would fully resent the intrusion of anyone foolish enough to try.
Harry entered the Potions classroom with an oddly heavy heart. It was the last Potions class of the year, and while the rest of his classmates were beyond elated, he couldn't help but feel somewhat sad. He was never very talented in Potions, and certainly their professor's sharp tongue and irrational stripping of points had made the class a living hell in the past. He couldn't help but wonder if he was starting to lose his mind… but Potions with Snape had forced him to push his limits, helped him to learn patience and attention to detail. Gradually, he had become adjusted to the acerbic comments flung at him. It was just Snape being his usual irritable self. He tried to console himself with the thought that he would be spending the summer with Sirius, at last! No more Dursleys to torment him!
To his astonishment, he spotted Snape already seated at his desk, staring blankly at a thick, dusty tome. A shiver of apprehension ran up the young man's spine. The Potions Master was a creature of habit and had started nearly every class since Harry's first year by bursting through the door in a flurry of ferocious energy. To see him sitting quietly just seemed… wrong. He took his own seat, darting glances at the front of the room through lowered lashes. His fellow Gryffindors took their seats around him, chatting softly, not quite daring to risk Snape's ire. None seemed to find anything out of the ordinary. As the time for class arrived, the students all dutifully got out their quills, parchment, cauldrons, and potions ingredients. They sat in total silence, wondering if this was some sort of test. None would hold it past the foul-tempered professor to strike points for the smallest cough or fidget. They sat and waited… and waited. After several minutes, despite their best intentions, the room was filled with quiet restless movement. At long last, Snape looked up from his text, as if noticing their presence for the first time. “You are prepared for once, I see. Very well. Today we will be reviewing what you have learned of basic first aid potions.” He stepped over to the blackboard, and for a short time, an air of normalcy returned. Snape lectured on the origins and primary applications of the most useful potions, then assigned them an anti-inflammatory draught for the practical part of the lesson.
The fifth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins bent to their task, expecting to feel a looming shadowy presence behind them, hot breath falling on their neck as a silky voice insulted their latest attempt (for the Gryffindors, anyway). But nothing came. Snape sat behind his desk, idly flipping through a few thick, dusty books, or slashing away at an unfortunate essay. From time to time he would glance up, frightening the students back to their work. They weren't sure which was scarier. At least they had grown accustomed to Snape's stalk-and-swoop. This was something unusual and unexpected, and when it came to their Potions Master, the unusual and unexpected was very much feared. Instead of seeing it as a chance to goof off, they found themselves on their best behavior, waiting for the axe to fall. But it never did. When Longbottom's cauldron erupted in a spectacular shower of failed potion, Snape barely glanced up. “Clean it up, Longbottom,” he said in a weary tone, flicking another page aside in his book. The hapless Gryffindor scrambled to comply, and the rest of the class relaxed. They had expected another massive eruption from the front of the room.
The Gryffindor half of the classroom was fairly grinning by the end of the class. They had managed to go an entire period without a single point deduction or threat! The Slytherins seemed rather bemused but unwilling to rock the boat. Snape's eerie calmness might just be the eye of the storm, and they certainly did not want to be around when the tempest broke. “Wow, that was incredible!” Ron observed, smirking at Malfoy on the way out, who glared. “Something sure has changed Snape, and certainly for the better. He should have near-death experiences more often!”
Hermione scowled at him sternly. “That's an awful thing to say! Although, I have to admit that today's lesson was particularly enjoyable. If I manage to stick to my study schedule, I should be able to do fairly well on the final exam. I do feel bad for whatever Professor Snape suffered, but I can't argue with the results.”
Harry frowned deeply. He wouldn't presume any familiarity with the irritable Slytherin, but the professor was certainly behaving oddly. It really had been nice to have a peaceful class period, but part of him almost missed the sharp comments that had kept him on his toes. He watched Neville shuffle past and was surprised to see a groove of worry carved into the chubby boy's brow. Of all people, the shy Gryffindor should be pleased at the class's outcome, but he seemed upset and unsettled.
Harry deliberately placed himself by Neville's side at dinnertime. The boy's behavior after Potions had piqued his curiosity. Thankfully, Ron was too embroiled in a discussion with Seamus about the Chudley Cannons to pay much attention to him, and Hermione was busy creating yet another draft of her study notes. Neville made small talk easily enough, though he was self-effacing on any personal topic. Harry was trying to think of the best way to broach the topic when his eyes wandered to the Head Table. Snape was there, his head bent over his plate, greasy black hair partially obscuring his gaunt, hollow cheeks and perpetual lines that grooved his face. 'Ooh, he does not look good,' Harry thought, and then mentally kicked himself. How could he expect Snape to look?
“He looks awful.”
Harry jumped, his jaw falling open. Of all people, he'd never expected Neville to notice. Then again, Longbottom had probably developed a survival instinct where Professor Snape was concerned. “Yeah, he really does,” he said rather lamely.
Neville's round face took on a thoughtful look. “Something's not right with him. More so than usual, I mean. Something bad's going on. It's a wonder that no one else has noticed.”
“I think they noticed, but most of them just don't care.” Harry could not keep the tone of anger from his voice. No matter how horrible the man had been to all of them, surely he deserved better than this?
“Maybe we should tell someone.” Neville began to tear his napkin into little shreds. He was not looking forward to such a meeting. Even around the teachers who liked him, he felt clumsy and stupid.
After dinner was over, they found themselves in McGonagall's office, nervously shifting before the Transfiguration professor's desk. Neville twisted his hands, suddenly wishing he could be anywhere but here. The little bit of courage he'd managed to muster was gone. Was Snape really worth all this? Surely they were all overreacting, and the Potions Master would be absolutely livid if he ever caught wind of it.
“I fail to see your point, Mister Potter,” the stern-faced woman said pointedly.
Harry just managed to stifle an exasperated sigh. “The point is that there's something wrong with Sna – erm, Professor Snape. He hasn't been the same since we managed to escape from the Death Eaters. I wondered if there was anything that we could do for him.”
“And do you feel the same, Mister Longbottom?” Neville cringed but nodded timidly. He hated calling attention to himself! McGonagall was not as cruel as Snape, but she was certainly almost as difficult to please. She harrumphed and arranged her robes about her, taking a moment to find the appropriate words. “While your concern is appreciated, it is unwarranted. Professor Snape is well-accustomed to looking after himself. He would not appreciate students meddling with his private affairs, and I am not about to encourage such behavior. As I am sure you well know, recovery from illness does not happen overnight. I assure you that your Potions Master will be fully mended before long and resuming his usual habits. Any action on our part could very well worsen his condition. I suggest you focus your attention on your upcoming exams and do not waste your time worrying over things that are not your concern.”
Harry hung his head, chagrined. “Yes, ma'am. Thank you, Professor McGonagall.” Neville unglued his tongue long enough to murmur his own apologies, never lifting his eyes from the floor. They left the office silently, not speaking until they had reached Gryffindor tower. They did not see McGonagall close the door behind them, sighing and rubbing her face tiredly.
* * * * *
Snape entered the staffroom with a heavy, dragging step. He dropped his slight frame into his usual chair and sat staring at his clasped hands. Gone was the usual flowing grace; the stalking, measured step that was his trademark. It was enough to earn him a few surreptitious glances, but no one was courageous or foolish enough to comment. As reclusive as he was, Snape was still known to participate in the odd conversation or two, especially where Slytherin House was concerned. Even if he chose not to offer commentary, he still obviously listened, occasionally offering a nod or a sneer. Today he seemed determined to shut out the entire world, and when Severus got into one of his moods, it was just best to let him stew. No one was in the mood to be verbally eviscerated… although Snape did not seem to have his usual spit and fire. In fact, he looked positively morose.
All chatter ceased as Dumbledore entered, trading brief greetings with the staff. Snape barely acknowledged his presence with a grunt. After a few pleasantries, the staff meeting began in earnest. The usual topics of curriculum were discussed, as well as disciplinarian issues and other pressing business. Once the general issues were out of the way, attention sharpened and backs sat a little straighter. It was time for Albus to announce the appointment of next year's DADA professor. After a few teasing remarks, the Headmaster finally broached the topic. “As you all know, Professor Handley's one-year term has come to an end. While he has been quite a satisfactory professor, it was never his intention to accept the position on a permanent basis. Considering the recent change in political climate within the Ministry, we are now free to explore options that had previously been unavailable to us. In the interest of cooperation in the escalating war, attitudes towards supposed 'dark creatures' and unfavorable genetics have come into a more favorable light. After quite a bit of wrangling and maneuvering, I was able to secure the services of a most eminently qualified educator. My friends, it is my great pleasure to announce the return of Remus Lupin to the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts.” He fell silent, allowing the news to sink in.
Murmurs of approval were exchanged across the table. The various professors of Hogwarts looked at each other and nodded, for once quite pleased with Dumbledore's decision. Then, inevitably, all eyes swiveled toward Snape, the sole naysayer, the eternal pessimist. Without fail, he had vetoed each candidate on a yearly basis, and vehemently so. His animosity against the werewolf was certainly no secret, as was the reason for Lupin's abrupt resignation at the end of his single year of teaching. There were always the whispered rumors that Snape secretly lusted after the position himself and would stop at nothing to get it, despite being passed over year after year. If there was one to rock the boat, it certainly would be Snape. They waited silently, practically holding their breath, for the tirade to begin. For Severus to pound the table, offer half-curses in that cultured yet blade-sharp tone of voice that held his students spellbound with fear. They waited for something that never came.
Severus lifted his eyes from the table, looking slowly at each of his coworkers in turn. His eyes were carefully hooded, his features arranged in a neutral expression. After he had garnered their undivided attention, he spoke softly, forcing the others to lean in to hear his words. “I doubt there is anything I could say to sway your decision. For once, I suppose I will save my breath. Give the position to Lupin; he is welcome to it.” He did not utter another word for the remainder of the meeting.
* * * * *
Once the gathering was over, he stalked back to the dungeon, head held high. He did not know why Albus bothered pretending as if his opinion mattered. The old man was kind enough to allow him to vent his spleen in private, slandering and cursing the latest DADA appointee, until he was reduced to angry sputtering. Then Albus would con him into taking a cup of tea or a lemon drop and make some inane comment, until Snape had quite forgotten the original reason for his pique. Of course, his misgivings had always borne fruit. Just look at the recent parade of losers: a host body for Voldemort, a charlatan, a werewolf who could have easily bitten any hapless student, and a Death Eater posturing as a loony old Auror. If only Albus would listen, just once! No matter what Dumbledore said to smooth things over, it still hurt.
He took refuge in his dungeon sanctuary, his hands busying themselves in the calming rhythm of potion-making while his mind whirled. Truth be told, Lupin's return was just the icing on the cake. He had to grudgingly admit that the man was a capable instructor, and of course everybody loved him. He was kind and patient and so goddamn loveable. It was enough to make Severus sick. Dumbledore's censure had hurt so damn much after Lupin had resigned. It was the only time in his employment that Albus had formally reprimanded him. The man had been gentle but firm with him, his eyes and voice illustrating just how disappointed he was. Snape had felt thoroughly sick. He had worked so hard to redeem himself, to protect the ungrateful wretches under his tutelage. Couldn't anyone see what a threat Lupin posed? How disastrous the night's events could have been had the werewolf come upon some unsuspecting student? The blasted man had been protecting Black all this time! The man may have been acquitted of murder, but Snape knew that he harbored the instinct all the same. Why could no one see it but him?
Then again, he supposed it should not come as a surprise at all. Albus had always favored his golden boys, the revered Gryffindors. He had been an absolute fool to think anything had changed, to think all the sacrifices he had made had been worth a damn. Dumbledore had tried to help him find worth, to believe that perhaps he deserved a decent life and could be worthy of a second chance. But it always came down to the same thing. Where his golden boys were concerned, Albus would forever have a blind spot. Severus could never hope to compete. As Dumbledore had shown him all those years ago, when he was still trembling from his brush with glistening fangs and blood-hungry eyes, his life was worth less than nothing. Who would care about a greasy, socially inept, ugly Slytherin?
He supposed it was not their fault. Being loved was what the Marauders did best. No matter their ridiculous pranks or cruel jokes, they were smiled upon by all. Despite their diminished number, it seemed that little had changed. Within the walls of Hogwarts, they were near-gods, free of the rules of mortal men. Black could slit his throat right in Dumbledore's office, and the Headmaster would chide the man to play nice and send him on his way with a pat on the head. The Slytherins, however, were slighted and regarded with suspicion. With a single word from the Sorting Hat, they had been branded with a label, a name stained by previous generations. Snape knew that he was the only one who dared to stand up for them. But he could only do so much.
His work was done here. He had finally fulfilled his obligation to both James Potter and Albus Dumbledore in safeguarding their precious chosen one. He knew in his heart that he could never come close to redeeming the horrors he had wrought in the name of Voldemort, but he had worked his fingers to the bone all the same. He had spent half of his existence leading a double life, until not even he was sure where the truth ended and the lie began. All debts were paid. Harry was safe. Lupin had the skills to pick up where Snape would leave off. The boy would learn to defend himself properly, even if it killed him.
He had never expected to have the luxury of choosing his own death. He had prepared himself for the near-certainty of prolonged torture at the hands of his former colleagues, and then a very painful and messy death. At his lowest points, when the stress of spying was taking its toll, death seemed like a welcome respite. He had never dreamed that he would survive his unmasking. To him, death seemed to be a welcome companion, close but just out of reach. On the few times that he had let the fancy take him, he had chosen his ideal death. He had wanted his death to have meaning and purpose, in some way to make up for the sins of his life. When Pettigrew had raised his wand against Harry, he had seen his chance to wipe the slate clean, to balance the scales once more. If only that foolish boy had not gotten in the way! Such thoughts were undoubtedly foolish, but he cared little. He had been cheated of a noble death, but he would not be denied for long. This method was far from noble, but it was all that was left to him.
At last, the potion was ready. He held the ladle aloft, watching the golden liquid drip lazily into the cauldron, forming gentle ripples. He had been preoccupied by death from a rather young age. When his home life had become unbearable, he would weep for an end to his existence, for an angel to carry him on golden wings to a land that knew no pain or loneliness. He had long believed that he was undeserving of the smallest measure of love. He had been called a mistake, a disappointment, a freak; first by his parents, then by his peers. The bleak feeling had lifted for awhile at Hogwarts. Despite the regular teasing and ostracism, he had thrived. He cared little for the opinion of others, and although their rejection hurt, he had learned to bury it deep inside. Nothing mattered to him but his studies and his overwhelming drive to succeed, to prove himself. It was a lonely existence, but he was used to being alone. He accepted the fact that friendship and belonging were things not meant for one such as him. He had managed to get by, using his dream of becoming a Potions Master to fuel him. But then that awful night in the Shrieking Shack had shattered the world as he had known it. In that moment that he spotted the small boy on the floor, writhing as he changed into a feral werewolf, Snape had been frozen. A morbid part of him wanted to resist as James dragged him away, wanted to feel the stinging pain of fangs sinking into his neck. He had wanted to die. It was only his stubborn streak, his refusal to give in, that had kept him alive. How different things might have been if he had not survived.
He had never expected to live as long as he had. When he had realized the true meaning behind the skull and snake tattoo on his arm, he had surrendered to the darkness within him, beckoning him to oblivion. He had realized midway through the act that it was a foolish wish and for once resolved to do the right thing. He had gone to Dumbledore to confess his sins fully aware of what awaited him. Azkaban, eventual madness, and perhaps the Dementor's Kiss. He would suffer for his actions before his death. He was more than happy to become Dumbledore's double agent, gladly suffering and sacrificing for the side of Light. That he had arrived at this point was something unanticipated. He was still alive. It was not to be borne. So many had died, a number by his own hand, so why should he continue to exist? Dumbledore had instinctively known that he would not take his life while trying to find redemption. And for half of his life, he had given everything to that goal. Now he was left feeling hollow. What did he have to show for his life? His academic honors, of which he had been so proud, now seemed cheap. He had come upon much of his knowledge through Dark means. What was left to him now? Students who despised him, staff who barely tolerated him? The only people who had accepted him had tried to warp him into a monster and now actively sought his head. With Harry safe and his career as a double-agent over, there was nothing more for him.
It was time. At long, long last. He felt a heavy weight lift from his heart. He had imagined this moment for so long, craved it in the darkest night of his soul. Every Christmas he had had a private little ritual, kept carefully hidden from even Dumbledore himself. Every year he would brew a little potion of hemlock and arsenic, ladled himself a goblet, and admired it. He would swirl it around, watching the patters form and break. He would hold it to his nose and inhale, admiring how the most deadly poisons could smell so sweet. He would tip the goblet until a drop hung by a very thread, poised above his hungry mouth. He would lick his lips, imagining the biting kiss of the first drop, how its honeyed sweetness would spread across his palate. And every year he would cast it aside and weep bitter tears, denied the release he so craved. It had not yet been earned. But now. Now was the time. Death had been waiting so patiently for him all this years and would no longer be denied.
He carried the goblet into his bedroom and sat down on the mattress, feeling it give beneath him. He no longer cared that school was not yet out. He no longer cared what impact his death would have. The students would no doubt be elated by his demise. His Slytherins… well, they would survive, it was what they did best. By the next term, they would have forgotten all about their creepy former Head of House. He no longer cared what Albus would think. With his golden boys returned, the loss of one lowly Slytherin would barely cause a ripple. Life would go on. But not for him.
His lips touched the rim of the goblet, the touch cool and welcome, almost like that of a lover. The deadly elixir lapped at his mouth, and he parted his lips, drawing it in and swallowing it down. His throat worked until the entire cup was drained, and his tongue lapped up the remnants. Great Merlin, it tasted even better than he had imagined. Release was at hand, and it was sweet. It was not every man who could brew his own destruction, his own liberation.
Still, it was not perfect. There was something missing. Even now, as his vision began to dim and his heart to slow, his hand groped about until it bumped against a sculpted handle. A bitter smile crossed his face as he lifted the dagger, the light glinting off its surface. In one brutal movement, he moved the blade downward, slashing through skin and tissue. Blood erupted in a sudden fountain, staining his surroundings in a crimson spatter. It felt somehow right, finishing the job he had begun nearly twenty years ago. He could feel his pulse as it fluttered unsteadily, forcing yet more blood from his body. He sighed, his head falling back, sinking completely into relaxation. He had dreamt of this moment for so long….
A soft cry tugged at his dwindling consciousness. He forced his heavy eyelids open as an arm cradled his head, forcing him to sit up. “Where is it?” a voice demanded harshly. He turned his head away, unable to bear the deep disappointment and sorrow in Albus' blue eyes. He could deny Dumbledore nothing, not even in this. A trembling hand gestured toward his desk. In a flash, the elderly wizard was back at his side, placing the bezoar that normally served as a paperweight under his tongue. A surprisingly strong hand gripped his sliced flesh, working feverishly to staunch the flow. A small voice within cried out in angry protest. No! He would not be denied! He had waited for so long! Had he not earned this? There was no more time for reflection, as blackness licked at the edge of awareness, and he surrendered to it gratefully. Farewell.