Severus’ head will not stop thrumming with sound. He slowly exits the woods of Hogsmeade, taking the path into town: his head is slightly bowed, his gaze concentrated not on his surroundings, but instead upon his own shoes. They are made of deepest black dragonhide, and they make neither a sound nor a footstep on the ground: no one ever comments on how suspicious this might make him, for no one ever suspects he is a spy. Many Hogsmeade villagers have commented to Severus in the past on this eccentricity of his, as if he might break out in a smile and invite them over for tea, as other Hogwarts staff would, as if he might make friends.

Severus Snape does not have friends.

Severus Snape has dragonhide shoes of deepest black, and they shine in the light, the hide curved around his thin feet. He will concentrate on his shoes, and he will not pay attention to the swarming voices in his head, each crying out for attention – this is a dangerous game he is to play with Bartemius Crouch, and for what? So that Crouch might leave Caine alone for a week or two?

Severus knows well that he will not be able to hold Crouch’s eye. He is not a handsome man, nor a charming one – Crouch has merely decided he desires some sort of enigma, and he will soon become bored with what little Severus has to offer, in his double meanings and sarcastic speech. Crouch wishes to be worshiped, and Severus is not about to do that – even were he to pretend, the Dark Lord would become suspicious.

The Dark Lord will be suspicious anyway – but no, the conversation they had about Severus’ predilections. He might easily be assumed to be following the Dark Lord’s insult as an order, a guideline to follow. That is a small boon, Severus supposes, and will cover his tracks when it comes to Caine.

“Professor Snape,” an elderly voice says, and Severus suppresses the deep-seated desire to turn on his heel and walk away, as he might do with one of the students if he had so much to think about. Unfortunately, adult society has never allowed his disinterest in human contact to truly flourish.

He turns his head.

Rabbi Michaels stands with his hands loosely clasped in front of his chest. He wears a dark robe that has been fashioned after a Muggle style of the late 19th century: it is double breasted, with pockets, tight sleeves, and a vest that looks similar to a waistcoat, though the skirt is normal in its design. 

“Rabbi,” Severus says cautiously. The Rabbi Michaels is watching him, his face aged and wrinkled with a great many lines, his eyes a brown so light it seems almost yellow in the evening torchlight.

“You don’t wish to speak right now,” he says softly. “My apologies: I shall leave you be.” He reaches out, and when he touches Severus’ left hand hand, Severus feels the lack of callouses on the other man’s hands – he has soft hands, even in his old age. Severus is too surprised and uncertain to pull away, and the rabbi holds his hand only for a few long seconds before he says, “It will all be fine in the end, my boy. Whether you believe in God, whether you believe He has a plan for us, or not… The universe balances itself out. All will be well: sacrifices may be made to reach this equilibrium, but all will be well.” The old man releases Severus’ hand, and Severus says nothing as he watches the old man move slowly away, his neck bent, his knees slightly unsteady, in the direction of the Cauldron’s Wax.

Severus stares at his own hand, feeling the lingering warmth of the other man’s hand on his own skin: Severus has bony fingers, scarred palms and bad circulation, and his hands are eternally cold. Banal and ridiculous as they might have been, the rabbi’s words ring through his head, and overpower his mind’s latent desire to repeat key phrases again, and again, and again. For that, at least, he is grateful.

Tonight, he will rest early, he thinks. His bed calls to him with the song of a siren, and he is desperate to lay down flat on the most remotely plush service – even the heather plants are looking unfortunately comfortable, down here in the village.

And yet—

Severus frowns. The frown deepens, twisting his mouth: he feels his brows knit together as they lower, and he stares with a sudden, grim understanding up the path out of Hogsmeade – the path that leads into the mountains. Completely silent, he sees the slow press of invisible boots upon the slightly damp path, pressing against the grass or soil for a moment and then coming away, leaving new prints in their wake: nobody, as of late, is using the path up into the mountains, as the Acromantula are settling into their new home and growing bolder with each passing day. There is no tell-tale shimmer from a Disillusionment charm – Severus can see that this is the work of an Invisibility Cloak, and he abandons the thought of his bed entirely.

Potter.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

Severus bides his time before he grabs the boy, following after him with a Disillusionment charm in place upon his own head. He had waited in the clearing, methodically ripping part of his skirt hem into pieces to keep from going absolutely mad, and then the boy had appeared as invisibly as he’d disappeared, and Severus had followed him to the Shrieking Shack’s broken fence, then returned to his own quarters via the Floo in the Hog’s Head – a private connection, fortunately, that can only be utilized by himself.

He had waited in the corridor, taking the time to calm himself.

His father had been prone to rages of apoplectic proportions, throwing dishes and plates – either at the walls or at Severus and Mother – and Severus has always been deeply aware of the tendency in himself, and has tried to stray away from it.

“Severus,” Lucius had once murmured to him, disapproval dripping from his words like venom. He had come to meet Severus at King’s Cross station, that Severus might stay with he and Narcissa for the summer as he approached a summer placement in an apothecary in Bottlesford, near Malfoy Manor. Lucius had touched his shoulders, his jaw, examining him as if searching for damage, and yet ignoring the new cut on the side of his face – a gift from James Potter. “Rage is so unbecoming, my friend, and so undignified. If you wish to truly hurt someone, you ought remain cold as ice as you do so.”

Cold as ice. Severus can be cold.

He grabs Potter by the shoulders and hauls him like a barrel, all but throwing the boy into his office: the boy stumbles, but seems otherwise unruffled as Severus sweeps away from him. He clenches and unclenches his fists, feeling himself entirely unable to be calm – how can he be calm? The boy is not merely foolhardy, or stupid – he is absolutely insane! “Oh, good,” Potter says. “You’re awake.”

“Who performed the Fidelius Charm for Gilderoy Lockhart?” Severus snaps out. It is best he ask this question first: any other question will lead to his positively losing his head.

“Let me get the lies straight in my head before I start answering questions,” the boy says. Severus stares directly at him, and he crosses his arms over his chest, in order that they not be free for other things – such as strangling.

“He said I sounded like a factory man, said it was for the best that I’m studying Potions, as I’ll be just great for stirring a vat in a Sleekeazy’s potion manufactorum. Said he might be able to convince his father to give me a job if I kiss up to him a bit!”

“You are pacing. This is not what I meant by cold.”

“Well, what would you do!?”

“Thank him gracefully for his offer and perhaps mildly suggest that unlike him, you do not need to rely on nepotism to succeed.” Severus had paused, his jaw set, his stare aimed forwards: for the barest few seconds, he had stopped his pacing of Lucius’ aviary, and had slowly turned to face the older man.

“That’s rather good,” he had said, reluctantly. Lucius, quietly cooing at the dove on his hand, had merely nodded his head. Thinking back, Lucius had been so very young – he had very little of the muscle he put on in the years to come, and although he was broad, he was also rather lithe. Severus had often thought he resembled the birds he so adored: ready to take flight at any moment. “Let me teach you a spell to take care of that cut, shall I? You’ve enough scars without us marring your face a little more.”

“Professor?” Severus is sitting down. When had that happened? He feels slightly faint, his head spinning a little more than it ought, and he presses his lips together. Tipping his head back, Severus searches for any sign of poison within his body: a rather subtle, but complex piece of wandless magic that allows one to search for defects within themselves. All seems well… He must merely be overtired – it would not be the first time he has worked himself to exhaustion. He leans his chin forwards again. Potter is looking down at him, his eyebrows lowered, his expression betraying a mix of worry and confusion.

“In the storage cabinet to the left of the door. Third shelf, fourth bottle from the left: it is contained within a volumetric flask, and has a lilac colour.” Potter moves immediately, opening up the cupboard and looking for the bottle in question. Leaning forwards, Severus catches his reflection in the glass face of his grandfather clock: he looks rather pallid, but not especially more than usual.

“Here,” Potter says. Now, at least, he appears cowed instead of giving himself over to the cheek he seems so determined to display in Severus’ presence. Severus takes the flask, carefully pouring a measure of its contents into a Conjured glass, and knocks the substance back in one smooth movement. “What is it?”

Severus hands the glass to him. Potter takes it, and he brings it to his nose, as any good Potioneer would. Severus watches the way his nostrils flare as he inhales. It occurs to him that Potter’s nostrils flare in exactly the same way Lily’s had used to, but he is too busy to feel melancholy, and dismisses the emotion as soon as it arrives. The potion is already beginning to take effect, dancing over his skin and making him feel replenished from the bottom of his very soul – Liquid Sleep lasts only for a short time, three hours at most, and can be very dangerous if ingested too often, but it is a valuable stopgap when needs be. Already, the insatiable chatter of overlapping memories and voices are entirely quiet, and he no longer feels so irrationally close to the edge.

“Smells of elderberries,” Potter says. “Elderberries and something coppery, a tang… Some kind of blood?”

“Not blood,” Severus corrects cleanly.

“Is it actual copper? Oh, it’s brewed in a copper cauldron?” Potter frowns, scrunching up his nose – Lily had never done that, but he had seen the experience once or twice on the face of James Potter, when he had been concentrated on a particularly awful Hex or, later on, on Lily herself. “Restorative potions are brewed in copper cauldrons.” He sees the thoughts cross over the boy’s face as he tries to puzzle out the conundrum, and he wonders if the boy would be so studious without the thread of the Dark Lord looming over his head.

What a thought.

“It is far beyond NEWT level, Potter, though I am reluctantly impressed you deduced so much,” Severus mutters, taking the glass back and Vanishing it into the ether; the flask he stoppers, and returns to its cupboard. “Liquid Sleep is the rather unimaginative name for the potion – supremely difficult to brew, and subsequently very rare. For a very short time, it offers the user the sensation of a good night’s rest, although it will quickly poison you if you become in any way reliant on it.”

“You must think I’m insane,” Potter says as Severus sinks slowly into the chair behind his desk; Potter hops up onto the desk himself, precociously and without care for the disrespect of it all. Severus finds, with the bliss of a faux night’s sleep between his ears, that he does not care enough to disallow it.

“I do indeed think that,” Severus agrees, in a mild tone. “You crept into Hogsmeade in the middle of the night, disappeared into a place occluded from discovery alone, and now you return and tell me, Severus Snape, that you plan to lie directly to me. Do you consider that to be a remotely intelligent idea, Potter?”

“I’ve lied to you before,” Potter points out.

“Is this your way of calming my ire, Potter? It isn’t effective.” Potter puts his chin onto his hand, staring into space for a moment.

“Do you have a Pensieve?” he asks quietly. “I think I’d rather show you what happened rather than explain it – I’m worried I’d miss something.” Severus keeps his expression perfectly neutral, his gaze on the boy’s face. There is something in Potter’s expression that is unfathomable, his eyes deep with something Severus has never seen.

“The Headmaster has a Pensieve, but he is asleep, Potter,” Severus says quietly. “Are you truly worried you would miss something? Or did something different happen, something you cannot voice?” Lockhart is potentially still completely mad, and alone with him and his cabal of witches, any number of pains could have befallen the boy.

Potter sighs.

“Theo was so sad,” he says. “About Abraham Hamish. And you know that Draco is… Well, he’s getting better, I guess. I just… I suppose I don’t know what I’m doing. What I’m supposed to be doing.”

“You are supposed to be getting an education,” Severus says.

“Those are Albus’ words, not yours,” Potter says. Severus lets his expression show the wry smile that comes to his lips. It has been a long time since he has felt so well-rested, so completely calm and unstressed: the effects of the potion are so subtle, and yet he wishes he could never be rid of them.

“Very well, then,” Severus says, looking up at the boy, perched on his desk like some wayward animal. “Then to quote Albus once more, I shall ask a question of you: what do you want to do?”

“Kill Death Eaters,” Potter says immediately. He says it as if he has said it before, as if he has practised the answer in the mirror, perhaps – and maybe he has. Maybe he truly believes this is what he wants, what he needs to do.

“You do not want to kill Death Eaters,” Severus says, very softly indeed, so softly that Potter cranes forwards on Severus’ desk to hear him. “Potter, you don’t know the first thing about killing.”

“What if I did?” Potter asks.

“What if you did? What do you mean? What if someone were to teach you?”

“No,” Potter says. “What if I was already a murderer? What if it didn’t matter that I might kill more people? You wouldn’t have to worry about me being innocent, you know.” He looks so old. It strikes Severus the more that he looks at the boy’s strange, youthful features, so full as they are with adult purpose, and it is so much worse than Maxie Caine’s powerless machinations, so much worse.

“My worry is not your innocence,” Severus says. “The weight of someone else’s soul against your own, a debt that you owe to the very world for changing its balance… It is impossible to repay, much as you might try. Even killing only Death Eaters.”

“All the Death Eaters have to die,” Potter says. He doesn’t look at Severus, but instead looks across the room, his eyes staring at, but not truly seeing, the contents of Severus’ office bookshelf. His voice is full of grim purpose: Severus thinks of himself at Potter’s age, so fascinated by the allure of the Death Eaters, the power they must wield with the Dark Lord to teach and command them. How wrong he had been… And what if Potter is wrong now?

“Their elimination hardly falls to you,” Severus says.

“Then who does it fall to? Albus won’t do it.” Albus is probably thinking I will do it, Severus considers saying, but it would be cruel to do so – to both himself, and to Potter. Potter is looking at him, and he says again, “What if I did?”

“What if you—?”

“What if I killed someone?” This is a grim hypothetical. He is meant to be angrily interrogating the boy about Lockhart, not listening to his teenage, desperate fantasies of murder. What is Severus supposed to say? What comfort or guidance can he possibly offer? He— “What if I killed Stan Shunpike?”

Severus freezes.

Potter’s expression is completely serious: there is not even the barest hint of irony or dark humour in his tone or in his pale features, and Severus is very glad at this moment that he took the Liquid Sleep. He wouldn’t lose his temper at this, even sleep deprived, but he certainly couldn’t remain calm in the face of such a confession as this – and a confession it most certainly is.

“Let us see. If you would explain to me how such a hypothetical situation might have arisen?” Severus speaks very delicately, leaning forwards in his seat. His fingers steeple themselves together in his lap, and Potter looks resolutely down at his own.

“Hypothetically, uh, I would’ve been walking home. I walked a lot around London this summer, on my own, and no one really stopped me… I know I shouldn’t’ve, but I just needed the space. I’d been at someone else’s house—”

“The Muggle boy?” Potter’s eyes go abruptly wide, and he stares Severus in the face, as if it is completely unthinkable that Severus might have grasped so simple a detail of the boy’s private life – so private that he wears it on his sleeve. But perhaps Severus is being unfair: if Potter has kept a murder entirely secret, there may well be more complex issues hidden beneath that idiotic mess of dark curls.

“Yeah. So I was walking back from Adrian’s, um, and I was on the bridge. Saw Stan, and he sort of… He said he was on the way to a meeting, and wouldn’t he be pleased? And I was like, who’s he? And so Stan grabbed me, but I had a fag in my hand, so I burned him with it – he dropped his wand, and it rolled right into off the bridge and down into the Thames.”

“Shunpike was stabbed,” Severus says. There is a beat’s worth of a pause, and then Potter reaches into robes, unbuckles a strap, and places a sheath on the desk. Severus takes the knife from its leather encasement, examining it: it is a six inch dagger, well-made, well-balanced. “Do you have other blades, Potter?” Potter hesitates, then slowly reaches into his satchel, removing another blade.

“You have to be careful,” he says.

“I shall endeavour not to drive it through my own thigh,” Severus says, and Potter shakes his head, his expression supremely grave.

“No, I mean… I killed the Basilisk with this. It’s goblin-made: it imbibed the venom.” Severus does not bother to control his expression: he lets his eyes widen as he stares at the boy, the shock hitting him hard in the chest. So not only has the boy killed a man, but he has been carrying a knife imbibed with one of the most corrosive—

It clicks into place.

“Rickard Mulciber died of heavy damage to his neck, caused by some manner of acid, we believed. Would I be correct in attributing his death to this knife of yours?” Potter nods. “Tell me the rest of Shunpike’s story, first.”

“I pulled out that knife and stabbed him.” Potter stands awkwardly in front of Severus’ desk for a second. “That’s the rest of the story.” Severus represses the urge to laugh: it would be tonally inappropriate, and would perhaps give Potter an overtly accurate representation of Severus’ feelings on the subject of murdering Death Eaters.

“Very well: tell me what happened with Mulciber.”

“Well, I went down into the village, and I was so… Crap. I never realized how crap I was, but I couldn’t do anything – and I mean, I’m okay in a duel, I suppose, but I didn’t know any of the basic healing charms, and I couldn’t even conjure a stretcher for Angelina Johnson. I couldn’t do any of the magic that was actually necessary… And then Mulciber, we were fighting – I lost my wand, and he was so big, he lifted me right off the ground and pinned me up against one of the walls. I stabbed him in the neck – my knife was the only thing I could reach.” Potter breathes in, moving to sit down on Severus’ desk once more, and then he says, very quietly, “He said I couldn’t kill him. You’re Harry Potter, he said. You can’t.”

“What did you say in response to that?” Severus asks.

“I didn’t say anything. I just stamped on his neck until he wasn’t talking anymore.Didn’t realize how much effect the venom would have at the time.” The sheer brutality of it is difficult to imagine alongside Severus’ image of Potter within his own mind: the boy is what Pomona might absently describe as “plucky”, and Severus can easily imagine him in unlikely, but ultimately harmless scrapes, even having seen him in proper duels or under threat. The idea of the boy killing a grown man in cold blood, with knives, with magic, or even with his own hands (or feet, as the case may be), is entirely incongruous with the idea Severus has built up in his own head.

“Do you feel guilty?” Severus asks.

“No,” Potter murmurs. Pressing his lips together, he seems to consider his question before he poses it: “Does that make me a bad person?”

“Perhaps,” Severus says. “As much as Albus may disagree, morals are a matter of opinion. Do you believe it is justified to kill Death Eaters, if the end goal of defeating the Dark Lord is to be reached?”

“Yes,” Potter says. “Have you ever killed a man?”

“Yes,” Severus says.

A long silence spans between them. Potter does not look away from him, instead keeping his gaze directly on Severus’ face, and under his scrutiny, Severus feels genuinely uncomfortable. What is it, he wonders, about Potter’s gaze? It is not merely the guilt of Lily’s death, which Severus knows himself to be responsible – there is such a deep intensity in it, so very focused, so full of emotion. Severus considers asking if Albus knows, but he knows immediately that Albus does not know – the boy is obviously a more accomplished Occlumens than Severus had given him credit for.

“Lucius said to me, a few days before he died,” Potter begins. He stops. Opens his mouth: closes it again.

“If you are worried that I shall be upset at the mention of my deceased friend, I might assure you I have a stronger constitution than you believe of me, Potter.”

“It seems stupid.”

“You have told me much stupider things tonight, I should wager.”

“He said you say that I’m stupid a lot, but you don’t really mean it. That I’m not stupid, that I just think I’m more important than I am. In the scheme of things, I mean. He said, um, “If you stop holding the world on your shoulders, it won’t shatter,” or something like that.” Severus cannot quite parse out what precisely the boy is trying to engender in saying this, so he takes a moment to think over what has been said.

“I do not believe you to be stupid. Foolhardy, undoubtedly. Prone to unwise decisions; lacking strategy; your manner—”

“I don’t need a laundry list of my character flaws right now,” Potter interrupts him. “I need— I need mentorship. Lockhart, he was trying to… I don’t know, he was high on mushrooms or something, and I think he was really trying to be a mentor, or whatever, but he’s insane.”

“You believe you require mentorship in the act of murder?”

“When you say it like that,” Potter says, rather accusatively, “It sounds very stupid. But I just need— I don’t think I can deal with this on my own, and I actually think it would probably be worse if I did, and you don’t trust Albus.”

“What does my relationship with Albus have to do with this?” Severus asks, immediately. “Do you distrust him?” The thought alarms him, but Potter doesn’t seem especially angry about Dumbledore’s tendencies.

“No,” Potter replies, shaking his head. “I just… Look, Albus is kind of thinking of me as a kid. And I know I am a kid, but I’ve also lost my ability to be a kid. I kind of have to be more now. Madam Pomfrey is going to start teaching me some mediwizardry, and I’m going to start exercising, getting more fit, and I— Could you just teach me how to be less shit?”

“Potter, you are no more a “shit” wizard than the moon is made of pastry,” Severus says tiredly. It occurs to Severus that this is the longest conversation he has ever had with any student, let alone Potter; this is probably the longest conversation he’s had with somebody other than Albus in quite some time. “You are fifteen. You have yet to complete your O.W.L.s.”

“But you could help me,” Potter repeats. “You wouldn’t tell Albus.” Wouldn’t I? How many sides must I take in this war?

“And in what way would this benefit me?” Severus asks, crossing his arms over his chest once more and leaning back in his seat. “Why, Potter, should I assist you?” Potter shrugs his shoulders, crossing his own arms over his chest and mimicking Severus’ haughty look.

“I’ll grade your first and second year essays.” Severus laughs. It has long been his policy not to laugh in front of students, in case they misunderstand the dynamic between Severus and the irritating children around him, but this is too good not to see the humour in: Severus’ teeth are bared, and he is aware that he looks savage when he laughs. There is something savage in the smile Potter has on his own face. “Shake on it?”

Severus’ palm presses against Potter’s, his own handshake firm, and he wonders if this is the greatest mistake he shall make of the year, or if things will get worse.

“I have more stuff I should tell you,” Potter says. “About tonight. And about— Lockhart.” Severus slowly nods his head: when Potter begins to talk, he listens intently. Severus is accustomed to listening when others speak, taking in what he can and analysing their every word, but there is very rarely an occasion when he is alone with another person who is speaking only for himself to hear. The thought is strange, and Potter is so young, and yet not young.

But if Severus helps him, will he not have a better chance of surviving? Undoubtedly.

b04; b02; b09; ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ a90; c1; a89; ~ b09; b02; b04;

Severus lies in his bed, on his back, his gaze upon the ceiling. Outside, the sky is beginning to lighten as the sun threatens to rise, and he knows he will only be able to snatch a few scant hours of sleep before he is forced to rise. The Liquid Sleep is beginning to wear off, now, and he feels the desperate need for rest settle into his very bones, his flesh, his skin, once more.

He thinks of what Potter had told him about his meeting with Lockhart – about how Lockhart had acted, how open he’d been. Lockhart, a student of divination… The thought is strange to Severus, and not at all a comforting one. Diviners are often dangerous: they can become so confident about the future, whether they are good at the magic or not.

Where do his loyalties lie? He reports to the Dark Lord, but means it not; he reports to Albus Dumbledore, but feels shackled by his bonds; and now, Potter. He is not a leader, of course, but Severus is to keep his secrets, and to aid him in further deception – and why? Because there is no better alternative.

Were Albus to think of the boy as a murderer, even of Death Eaters… Severus shudders to think of how cold Albus might become. Even Potter ought not see that side of his Headmaster.

And then Caine: had Severus really agreed to edit his war reports? Where will he have the time? Even if he makes Potter go through the first through third year assignments, Severus will be in desperate need of a Time Turner, if only to sleep!

And Crouch, says a sneaky voice in the back of his mind, sultry and dark, what will we do about him?

Severus stares at his ceiling. “Fantôme,” he says. His own voice sounds hoarse from lack of sleep and overuse. The cat appears beside him, steps neatly upon his chest, and digs her claws deeply into his flesh as she makes herself comfortable. She settles with her well-padded backside upon Severus’ shoulder, her tail forming a sort of scarf beneath his chin, and her whiskers pressed ticklishly into his navel.

It is perhaps the most uncomfortable position she has ever chosen to lie in, and with the weight of her body and the softness of her fur as a blanket, he is asleep within moments.

Bartemius Crouch follows him even in his dreams.