Faith by Aethyr

The scene swirled around them, and rather than ejecting Snape and Harry into the reality of the present day, changed instead to a different memory. They were, Harry saw, in Snape's office; memory-Snape sat in his usual seat, and Dumbledore had pulled one of the students' chairs up to the desk. There were a number of potions – most of which Harry did not recognize – on the desk, clustered around a large mixing-bowl.

“I have made some improvements,” said memory-Snape, unstoppering a vial of something viscous and red, “mostly to counteract one of the more stubborn degenerative elements of the curse, but also to spare you some of the pain.”

“Thank you, Severus. It is considerate of you.”

Snape did not reply; he poured the potion into the bowl, which was already half full of water, and stirred the liquids together with a glass rod. “Here,” he said, pushing the bowl towards the Headmaster.

Dumbledore rolled up his sleeve; Harry noted, with growing dread, that the curse had travelled past the Headmaster's elbow, and the joint itself was shrunken and burnt. Dumbledore's lower arm could no longer move of its own accord; he had to lift it with his other hand and place it into the basin.

“And here,” said Snape, uncorking another vial and pushing it towards Dumbledore's good hand. “I've experimented with this one, also. I have not, however, been able to make any significant progress.”

“No matter – I am sure you have done your best. Nerve regenerators have always been rather tempermental, I am told.”

“Yes, quite.”

Dumbledore drank it down, favoring memory-Snape with a grimace as he replaced the empty bottle on the desk. He produced, from the sleeve of his robe, a small drawstring purse. “Lemon drop?” he asked, offering the Potions master the bag.

“No, thank you.”

Dumbledore chose one for himself and popped it into his mouth with particular glee. “I suppose you are not the one in need of a palate cleanser,” he said around the sweet.

“Indeed. I would, however, register my surprise at your non-diabetic constitution, and remind you that your sugar intake cannot possibly be healthy.”

Dumbledore chuckled a bit, remarking, “Yes, well, that hardly matters anymore.”

“It matters. You matter, quite a lot.”

There was something in his voice, or perhaps the set of his shoulders or the line of his jaw, that gave Dumbledore pause. “Is there anything I should know, Severus?” he asked, in quite a different tone.

“I presume you noticed the drastic improvement of the Vanishing Cabinet on Thursday,” Snape said.

“I did. What of it?”

“I believe the Dark Lord's eye is shifting towards Hogwarts. I speak not in my capacity as informant, but rather because I feel it to be so.”

“And you know, Severus, that I value your insight as much as I do your information.”

Memory-Snape nodded, and continued, “I spoke with Narcissa Malfoy two days ago. She believes she has reason to fear for her son. There is talk – among some of the Death Eaters, only, as the Dark Lord has given no sign – of an assault on the school within the year.”

“I see. What do you make of it?”

“I would say that Lucius, and even more so Narcissa, are exceptionally perceptive in this regard, for all that Narcissa herself is not Marked.”

“I must –” Dumbledore stopped quite abruptly, minutely tilting his head, as if listening to a sound inaudible to the others. “The wards,” he said a moment later. “Come.”

Dumbledore reached across the desk, grasping Snape's shoulder with his good hand. The air swirled around them and compressed in what Harry recognized as the sickening sensation of Apparition – the Headmaster could, apparently, Apparate within Hogwarts itself. They landed a little ways into the Forbidden Forest.

Dumbledore drew his wand and waved a drying spell over his arm. He then tapped the air in front of them, and the ghostly image of a rat appeared at their feet.

“Pettigrew...” memory-Snape hissed.

“He's gone now,” Dumbledore remarked. “It would appear that he was reconnoitering the premises, then?”

“Possibly. He is the least noticeable Death Eater not already keyed into the wards. There are some things that an insider, by virtue of being an insider, would not know.”

Dumbledore sighed. “I remember. Come, there is no more to be seen here.” They began making their way back to the castle.

“You know, Severus, that this means I must ask more of you. I need you to be in a position, after I am gone, to be granted Headmastership of the school by Tom Riddle. I would trust no one else to take care of the children.”

“After you are gone? I would remind you that you cannot leave, that you must be the one to, as you say, 'take care of the children'.”

“You do an admirable job with your Slytherins, and I predict you will do similarly well with the other children.”

“I am flattered, of course, but you do not deceive me, Headmaster. You are merely avoiding the question.”

“I was not aware, Severus, that there was a question. You did give me your word.”

“It was conditional, as you well know.”

“I have good reason to think the condition will be fulfilled, Severus.”

“It does not have to be.”

“It will be. It is within my power to guarantee it.”

“Perhaps,” said memory-Snape, turning upon him with sudden ire, “and perhaps you take too much for granted. Perhaps I no longer wish to be part of this harebrained scheme of yours. Perhaps I do not want to do it anymore – I never did – and I will gladly accept the consequences!”

“No, Severus. As hypocritical as it may seem, you are necessary, and I am not. You agreed to it, and that is all we need discuss.”

They came to the edge of Hagrid's pumpkin patch, and Dumbledore turned away to greet Hagrid, who waved back while restraining an enthusiastic, barking Fang with his other hand. “Very well, Headmaster,” memory-Snape spat at the back of Dumbledore's head. With a twitch of his robes, he turned and, alone, stalked up the path to the castle.

“Someone blow up a cauldron today or summat?” said Hagrid with a grin, shouting across the rows of pumpkins.

“Something like that,” Dumbledore replied, shaking his head, “something like that. I shall leave you to your garden, then.”

Memory-Snape was already far ahead on the path; Dumbledore did not attempt to catch up to him, but made his own way back to the castle. The sun was high, the grounds were green, and the lake sparkled like a jewel, but in his step was a world of weariness that followed like a shadow, or a Grim.