14: Snape's Worst Week

Sunday night was torture. She insisted on coming to read, even though he swore up and down that any conventional debt between them was null and void at this point. "But I like reading to you!" she'd protested, and he'd melted like a snowflake on a stove. Cursed girl, she could undo all his hard-wrought plans with a sparkling smile--she was almost as bad as Albus.

"Ned lowered one foot gingerly into the water. 'This water got dirt in it,' he said. 'If there's one thing I hates, it's dirt betwixt my nekkid toes'."

Granted, as torture went, this was a rather lovely sort, but agonizing nonetheless. Not even Faulkner could put Snape to sleep, not while he knew she was sitting just beyond arm's reach. He watched her shadow play on the curtain in the firelight. They had agreed, in a calm, intellectual discussion, that for sanity's sake they must keep their distance, at least until she could exert some control at Occlumency. A fine, intelligent, reasonable decision, which grated unendingly on his nerves whenever he saw her (and quite frequently when she was nowhere near, as well).

On Monday she had her meeting with her "Dumbledore's Army." He'd seen the meetings in her mind and admired her for coming up with the idea, even if they did glorify The Little Prat. Umbridge was not preparing these people for the horrors that awaited in dark places, and as far as Snape was concerned, she belonged in Azkaban for it. It was practically premeditated murder, particularly for the seventh-year students who would be leaving the school in only a few weeks. But then again, the entire Ministry was guilty of the same denial, and Snape knew he daren't speak up. If he became a target of the Ministry's attention, his past would turn any inquiry into a deluge, and many, many important plans would fall apart.

The DA meeting had gone horribly wrong. The "Toad Squad" (now with the officious title of "Inquisitorial Squad") had raided the meeting and Albus had, in his usual spectacular fashion, absorbed all of the blame and disappeared. Snape cursed inwardly for not keeping a closer eye on his House; most of the Toadies (Inquisitoadies?) were Slytherins, and he should have known about their plans. Lucius's boy had been in charge, of all things. Draco had shifted his focus to Umbridge, hoping to flatter his way into Ministry channels. Snape shook his head. Draco, Draco, Draco... You little idiot, you should resolve to stick with the Dark Lord if you really want to get anywhere. You have to focus your ambition, not spread it around. But perhaps you ultimately have more sense than any of us, lad. Snape had watched Draco grow up, the son of his best friend, and he couldn't help but like the boy, even if he was a bit of a twerp.

Hermione had been devastated and had not even come to read that night (undoubtedly terrified that she would be dragged into Umbridge's investigation). That alone was cause enough for Snape to despise Umbridge even further. Then on top of it all, Umbridge had promoted herself to Headmaster. This job was beginning to lose all of its attraction. If Albus didn't find some way to restore Hogwarts back into his control by the fall term, Snape reckoned he might have to move on. Perhaps there was an American school in need of a Potions professor, one which might even have room for a transfer student...

On Tuesday, the Weasley twins created a rather spectacular fireworks spell that had, to Snape's private delight, completely undermined Umbridge's authority on her very first day as the self-declared Headmistress. Those boys drove him crazy, but he had to admit (once they directed their hijinks at someone else) they did work some fine magic. Unfortunately, Snape's years in the Dark Lord's service had left him a bit sensitive to explosive sounds and sudden flares of green or red light. Walking around in the corridors was starting to feel like a perpetual ambush, and the last thing he needed right now was more pointless aggravation. To make matters worse, a glowing pink piglet with wings of silver sparks had flapped down his chimney and taken up residence in his private chamber and he hadn't yet managed to dispell the damn thing. He reminded himself yet again to bring a spray bottle back from the Potions laboratory--the Weasleys might make their fireworks Impervious to typical disenchantments, but water generally won over fire.

Wednesday had been the worst. The Little Prat was late for his lesson, as usual, and they'd just been getting started when Draco had burst in with the news that the missing Montague had finally shown up. As Head of House, Snape had to attend to the young man, but he made a terrible, terrible mistake. The magical fireworks in the hallways, and the figurative ones in his heart, must have strained him more than he'd realized for him to be so utterly careless: he had left Potter alone in his office. And Potter, being The Little Prat, had promptly stuck his nose where it didn't belong.

When Snape found Potter bent over the Pensieve, he reflexively moved in to kill him. Not out of anger, but because the memories he'd gathered and placed in that bowl were the crux to all of his most secret plans. Snape had automatically picked up the brass stiletto from its hiding place on the shelf before his cortex reminded his hindbrain that most of this knowledge had been set aside in order to save Potter's life. Ramming the long, narrow blade into the base of The Prat's skull would rather defeat the entire purpose.

Only then did rage swell up within him. How DARE he? Snape started to rip the little bastard from the Pensieve, but realized he'd better find out which memory Potter was snooping in. Morgan le Fay. THAT one. It could have been worse; he wasn't sure what he would do if Potter had poked into the plans. Nonetheless, Snape had suffered more than he could stand on account of the incident in question, and the fact that Potter had now observed it made him consider the stiletto again. He forced himself to toss it away before yanking Potter back into the office.

Snape was a master at controlling anger and fear, but perhaps it was all the strain of late, or perhaps it was just because he could--it didn't matter if Potter hated him even more--he allowed his control to lapse. "So." He was speechless, though, having been too busy resolving not to pith the boy like a bullfrog for dissection to compose a comment. "So... been enjoying yourself, Potter?"

At least the little bastard had the sense to be frightened. It was a shame that the Cruciatus Curse was as out of the question as murder. Looking into Potter's eyes and seeing the hint of pity building behind them only fueled his fury; Snape felt like ripping Potter's throat out with his teeth.

"Amusing man, your father, wasn't he?" Snape didn't even realize how hard he was gripping Potter's arm until the boy's whole body began to shake. He suddenly recalled Hermione's eyes as he'd crushed her shoulder. He had been in perfect control of himself that night and not damaged her, but this time... Snape didn't need the stiletto, he could kill Potter with his bare hands. He had to let go before he made a terrible mistake. Snape threw the little shit to the floor with all his might.

That memory... The events of that day were the spark that had ultimately burned him alive, though the skull-and-serpent on his arm was the only physical evidence of the damage. That incident had started the chain of events that ended in his pledge of service to the Dark Lord. Oh, he'd been well on his way long before his fifth year at Hogwarts, he couldn't deny that, but until that day there had still been a chance--he still had hope that there was a place for him in the world of sunlight, of laughter, of the living. But then he found himself hanging in mid-air, hexed with one of the spells he'd invented, by two young men who already had wealth and good looks and all the privileges those brought. They'd never gone hungry, or worn clothing pilfered from a washing-line, or tried to read cast-off books that were rotten with mildew. They had all the world laid before them, but they could find no better way to alleviate their boredom than to make him their toy.

And then Lily, whom he'd watched from afar since the first day in Potions, rose to his defense but smirked at the sight of his ragged underwear. A girl whose seemingly kind heart had made him reconsider his interest in Lord Voldemort, stood there and regarded the stigma of his poverty and misery with smug amusement--as though he had wanted or chosen or deserved that fate. As though it were anything other than the luck of the draw that Severus had been born a Snape instead of a Potter or a Black.

Some light inside his heart had finally extinguished at that moment, not to be rekindled until Albus Dumbledore had shown him the power of forgiveness (although the poisonous green light the Dark Lord favored had provided a handy substitute for several years). The turning point that had made his life an ongoing hell... and now The Prat had witnessed it firsthand. One retelling, and it would haunt him in jeering whispers for years to come. That thought was more than Snape could stand.

"You will not repeat what you saw to anybody!"

Damn you! Can't you be content that the very sight of you drives a spike through my ribs? Lily was dead and gone before the boy had ever known her, but Snape had loved her. And killed her. I led him to her without even knowing it, and you have her eyes, and you're the only one that can put a stop to him, my only goddamn hope. "Get out."

You slippery little shit, you push past my defenses just to show that you can, just as I brought that cursed Prophecy to the Master because I could. "Get out!"

If you push hard enough to find my Hermione, the Dark Lord will surely spot her in your mind. "I don't want to see you in this office ever again!"

Once more, the image burst intrusively into his consciousness, of Hermione kneeling at the feet of Lord Voldemort, this time a sacrifice to Potter's arrogance. Snape picked up the nearest object in a fury and threw it at The Prat. Shards of glass and dead cockroaches flew everywhere.

Damn you, Potter! You couldn't show me even a modicum of respect, could you? Now I have to break my word to Albus. Snape was panting in his fury, and smashed another jar filled with shrivelled salamander tails before he mastered his anger again. Raising his head high, he forced himself to assume his customary facade of cold indifference.

I will keep my promise to Hermione.

Friday night marked the beginning of the spring holidays, which were generally welcomed by both students and faculty, but not for the Potions Master. During his last class, his left forearm began to tingle, fairly inocuously at first, but quickly escalating into frank pain. Snape sighed. It took only four days for the Dark Lord to learn of Dumbledore's expulsion from Hogwarts. At least I hope that's the reason for this Summoning.

Fortunately, Snape was right again. He Apparated to the designated meeting place and sang like a bird, telling Voldemort everything he knew with uncharacteristic willingness. It was the first time in nearly twenty years that he was able to deliver a report consisting solely of the truth (and the whole truth, at that), since this matter was entirely between Dumbledore and the Ministry. In fact, it felt so unnatural to speak candidly that Snape interjected a few cautious (and untraceable) lies regarding his personal efforts to undermine Dumbledore. A few fibs here and there would ensure the proper sort of autonomic responses that Voldemort had learned to expect during interviews with Snape.

He had given up his tale a little too eagerly, though, and Voldemort was always suspicious of changes. By the time the Dark Lord released him from Legilimency, Snape was breathless and shivering from the violation of his mind. But alive, and therefore his secrets remained safe. He dropped to one knee to kiss the hem of the Master's cloak, and returned to Hogwarts as quickly as he could.

He was still trembling when he arrived in his dungeon, despite Disapparating at the far end of Hogsmeade to take a long, calming walk home. It was nearly 3:00 in the morning. He swept through his office in pitch darkness, pulling off his cloak and robes before even reaching his bedchamber. His shirt was clammy with sweat and sticking to his back unpleasantly. When that pink and silver piglet flapped up to greet him, he yanked off the shirt without even unbuttoning it and smothered the damned thing at last.

"Severus?"