Severus Snape sat in silence, whiskey glass in hand, letting the warmth of the alcohol rush through his veins. He needed this. He needed this respite from his day filled first with the students and their incompetence with what should have been an easy potion and second from the horrors which filled his thoughts, dreams, and quarters. He needed to numb himself for what he was about to do yet again.

It had been a mistake, an honest mistake. A mistake he was now having to live with every single day. How much longer could he do it before it drove him mad?

“Please help me!” a whisper-thin, high pitched voice said, sounding as though it were coming from the corner of the room.

Severus resisted the urge to look, knowing full well what he would find if he did. He couldn’t do it again. He needed far more whiskey to be able to do this again. And he would have to do it soon, or the smell would begin to fill his quarters once more. He had tried everything he could to keep this from happening, but even the strongest of wards hadn’t kept that… abomination… out of his quarters and away from his things.

It was just a mistake.

“Please, I think he’s sick!” the voice said again, begging, pleading with him to look. “Please help me!”

Severus downed his third glass of whiskey for the night and was rather disappointed to find the bottle was empty. Minerva and Albus had both had lengthy discussions with him about his drinking habits, even going so far as to demand he remove all alcohol from his quarters, but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t face this pain so frequently without its help, hangovers be damned. He didn’t even care that the position of Head of House had been stripped of him, or that he was on the verge of losing his job because of the drink. They didn’t understand, how could they?

They didn’t attempt the taboo and have to live with the repercussions of it’s failure.

The Dark Lord had perished, that was all anyone cared about. The Potters were seen as heroic martyrs for the cause, all three having perished in the attack with no one quite sure what they had done to cause his downfall. Some said it was a spell placed on the young child’s crib which caused the explosion that destroyed Lord Voldemort, others said it was the boy himself whose untamed magic was released. No one was truly certain, but what did it matter in the long run?

Their friends and families had been devastated by their deaths, and rightly so. Phrases starting with ‘if only…’ were heard routinely in conversation. If only we had been there. If only we had known Peter was a traitor. If only we had had a guard on duty. If only we could bring them back.

“Help me!” the voice said once more, shaking Severus from his memories briefly as he stumbled to his alcohol cabinet and pulled out yet another bottle of firewhiskey and drank from it, forgoing the act of attempting to pour a glass.

He had dabbled in the Dark Arts for much of his youth. He knew the taboos. He knew the risks. He knew, and still he foolishly thought he should try. He was willing to do whatever it took in hopes that it would work.

He never should have done it.

He was foolish, young, and certainly not in the right frame of mind to ever, ever have been attempting … that. And now he had to live with his decision.

“Please sir! I think he’s really sick!”

The Potters had been buried on Hogwarts grounds, under a memorial to all those who lost their lives during the war. It only seemed fitting at the time that they, the children of Hogwarts, be laid to rest so close to what had been their home for so many years. And the memorial was in a perfect location for a ritual to be performed. It was secluded, in an area of the grounds which was able to receive direct moonlight, and oriented facing west.

Under the light of the full moon, Severus had slunk from the castle, fully prepared to commit his life to the darkness which filled the emptiness of his heart. He would do anything, anything to have his Lily back in his arms. He had spent weeks researching the spells and rituals he would need. He knew once he performed this rite, he would forever be tainted. But he couldn’t go on living this life for a life without Lily in it was no life at all.

He still didn’t know what happened. He didn’t know where he went wrong. Was it the wrong candles? The wrong sacrifice? Was there too much blood? Too little? Had he brewed the potion too weak or too strong? There were so many variables and he couldn’t even begin to pinpoint what happened, all he knew was the rite had failed.

He had attempted necromancy, failed, and now had to live with the consequences.

He knew he still had the taint from it. He could feel the pull of the dark magic on his soul every day, dragging him further and further from the light. However great the pull of the bottle was, the pull of dark magic was greater. He wanted… no, needed… to perform dark magic regularly. It pulled at his soul and left him gasping as though he would drown. It enveloped every part of him and he couldn’t understand why. If he had failed so badly, why would he still be feeling it’s pull?

Then, one day shortly after the failed rite had been performed, he had come back from a late evening staff meeting and found his quarters to smell … odd. Had he left something sitting out for too long and the house elves hadn’t picked it up? It didn’t take him long to find the source of the stench and was appalled. Was this someone’s idea of a sick joke? Had someone seen his attempt and thought this was an appropriate reaction to have?

“Please, help me!”

Severus closed his eyes and let out a shaky sigh which quickly turned into a sob as he grabbed his dragonhide gloves and the heavily stained canvas bag. He didn’t know how many more times he could do this. He could hear the begging voice ringing in his ears every day, every waking moment. He could hear its whispers as he taught, its cries as he stalked the halls, its screams as he forced himself to attend the Quidditch matches. The voice would never leave him alone. Thankfully, he only had to do this once a month when the magic was strong enough.

Steeling himself for what he knew he would find, he wiped his eyes and turned towards the corner. ‘I did this,’ he reminded himself as he repressed a gag. ‘This is my fault.’

“Please sir! Please help me!” the spectral body of Harry Potter cried, holding out the decaying corpse of himself at fifteen months of age. “I think he’s sick!”

“Please stop doing this!” Severus begged, tears falling from his eyes. “He’s not sick. You’re not sick. He’s dead. I can’t fix this!”

“Please sir! Help me!” The seven year old specter begged once more as Severus took the body and gently wrapped it in the canvas bag, trying not to think of how much longer it would continue to be a full body which he was brought. Trying to ignore the muddy footprints the boy had tracked in as he walked from the gravesite.

Grabbing the shovel from beside the door and his travelling cloak, Severus strode towards the dungeon exit of the castle. He did this. He had to live with this. He would rebury the body. He would go back to his quarters, clean up the mud, and try to drink himself to the point he couldn’t hear the child crying that it was dark and he was lonely. He would teach his classes tomorrow with a hangover worsened by the screams of the specter haunting him. He would go to another meeting tomorrow where his drinking would be lambasted by his coworkers as the disembodied voice would beg him to wake the body. He would continue on knowing the soul of this child was the only thing he had managed to resurrect. The soul of this child would haunt him until the end of his days.

He just didn’t know how many more days that would be.