The Man with Two Masters

Phoenix Song, Chapter two : The Man with Two Masters

DISCLAIMER : The characters and many of the situations described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

I'd like to thank my betas: LAxo, for her keen eyes and the unerring hesitation with which she will pronounce a sentence mangled beyond redemption, and WriterMerrin, for knowing what a compound predicate is and not being afraid to use one.

"Ah, Severus, I'm delighted that you were able to find the time to speak with me today." Though the words of the greeting were innocuous, Snape was immediately aware that Dumbledore was furious.

"Albus," he remarked in a noncommittal tone, seating himself opposite the headmaster's desk. No doubt the older man would come quickly to the point.

"What do I need to do, Severus, to impress upon you the gravity of your situation?"

"Of my situation?" His eyes wandered to find Fawkes. Phoenix. The word echoed in his mind and tingled in his gut.

"Your presence is absolutely vital in our fight against Voldemort. And yet yesterday you recklessly endangered your life."

Snape's eyes snapped back to Dumbledore. "Yesterday, Albus," he spat, "I saved a life...one of your precious Gryffindors, no less." Snape felt a cold anger rising in response to Dumbledore's reprimand. Leaning back in his chair, he crossed one leg insolently over the other and folded his arms. His voice dripped with sarcasm. "Do you hold my own more dear?"

"Is it such a surprise that I might?" Dumbledore's reply was swift. "The time for sentimental decisions has passed. We are at war, my boy, and I have but one spy placed as you are. The risk was not yours to judge."

How many years had Snape longed for this man to proclaim that his life had merit and was worth some sacrifice in order to protect it? And yet now, faced with just such a claim, the gesture was worthless, a cold-hearted appraisal of his value to the cause. Dumbledore's words twisted his belly. In a flash of memory Snape saw Hermione Granger's exposed chest rent and bleeding as the curse exploded. He blazed with anger on her behalf.

"And what if it had been Potter? You have always viewed some students as more expendable than others." As he spoke, Snape leaned forward, his hands gripping the arms of his chair.

"I . . ." Dumbledore broke off awkwardly, looking slightly ashamed for the first time in the conversation and dropping his eyes to the desk. One hand rested there in a loose fist, and as Dumbledore stared down at it, the wrinkled skin across his knuckles drew Snape's attention. Dumbledore looked old. The realisation was shocking and terrifying. When the headmaster spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper. "This is not about your childhood, Severus, but about your actions yesterday." Dumbledore continued, his voice once again under control. "I am relieved, of course, that Miss Granger survived. And grateful, too. However, entering her mind while she contained such a curse was foolhardy in the extreme. If she had lost mental control, you both would have died or suffered irreparable brain damage."

"Your logic is deplorable, Headmaster. Hermione Granger is as vital to the war effort as I am, if not more so. We have both seen the Arithmantic calculations: the girl is an essential element of the friendship those three share. Pureblood, half-blood and Muggle-born; male and female...there is potent magic in that combination. Think, Albus! What would Harry Potter have done were he to have found himself responsible for the death of his best friend? What consequences would her death have set in motion?

"My intervention was necessary. Only you or I could have managed the required Legilimency, and only I know the cure for Sectumsempra. I can't say that I expected your fawning gratitude, Albus, but I do confess that I had anticipated some small words of congratulations for having rescued the brains of the Gryffindor trio. I cannot see how my position as the Dark Lord's whipping boy outweighs the benefits of her continued presence at Potter's side."

Snape was on his feet, hands pressed against the surface of Dumbledore's desk as he leant forward, staring into Dumbledore's eyes. Both men were breathing heavily.

"Severus?" Dumbledore sounded tentative. With one hand he reached out to cover one of Snape's. "Sit down, please. I owe you an apology."

After several long seconds, Snape sat. As he did so, he pulled his hand out from under Dumbledore's and folded his arms across his chest.

"Thank you, Severus." Dumbledore took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his long nose with finger and thumb. "I was wrong. You did the right thing, the honourable thing. For the second time in two days, I find myself in the same position: in each case I placed the safety of a young man whom I love above the greater good. It seems to be a recurrent fault of mine. You are essential to our cause, Severus, but more importantly, I couldn't bear to lose you...I spoke out of fear, and I hope that you will find it in your heart to forgive me."

Snape felt Dumbledore's words in the involuntary clench of his stomach. Since the incident with Miss Granger the previous day, his emotions had been in constant turmoil. He was not in the habit of visiting the minds of his students, quite the contrary. Yet, as an accomplished Legilimens, the surface thoughts and emotions of those around him flickered constantly at the edge of his awareness...a brightly coloured kaleidoscope of intentions and desires. He knew, for example, whenever someone attempted to lie and laboured under no misapprehensions with regard to the fear and disgust that his presence engendered in the student population at large. The students of his own house were an exception, of course, and several of the upper-year level students, particularly those from Ravenclaw, managed to eventually replace their initial terror with a grudging respect. Nevertheless, Hermione Granger's opinion had thrown him. She had said that she trusted him, and she had meant it. The strength of her instinctive Occlumency shields had suppressed this information throughout the years of their acquaintance, but once he was inside her defences, her respect had coloured her thoughts with an intensity that was impossible to ignore.

Now, here was Dumbledore, apologising and openly confessing his regard. The thick walls of Snape's emotional defences were angled to withstand hatred and suspicion, letting respect and concern slip through into tender interior spaces with an ease he found terrifying. Staring at Dumbledore's tired face, Snape felt uncomfortably vulnerable.

The silence that followed Dumbledore's apology was charged and awkward. Snape threw out one hand in a gesture that was both dismissive and defensive. "Enough," he rasped. His throat was dry. "Sentimental words will achieve nothing."

"That, my dear boy," responded Dumbledore, with a wry smile, "is one of the few points on which we disagree."

Snape snorted with some amusement. "Few?" he queried sarcastically, quirking an eyebrow.

Dumbledore laughed with relief, the weak humour of their exchange had done more to establish a tenuous comfort between them than further discussion would have done. Dumbledore waved his wand and summoned a bottle of Firewhiskey and two glasses from one of the cupboards. Pouring two generous measures, he passed one glass to Snape.

"I think we both deserve a drink, don't you agree?"

Snape lifted his glass in reply and swallowed deeply. Afterwards, he rested the base of the tumbler on the arm of his chair and gazed across the table at Dumbledore.

"You will be happy to hear, Severus, that I finally took your advice and told Harry about the prophecy."

"It's a little too late for that, Albus." There was no heat in Snape's reply, merely resignation. "If you'd done so a week earlier, Sirius Black would still be alive and Miss Granger would not bear a scar that will stay with her the rest of her life."

For a moment Dumbledore said nothing, then he lifted his glass in a toast. "To Sirius Black, who died with the bravery with which he lived."

Snape followed suit. "To Sirius Black," he echoed, "the last of his line." He took a large mouthful, lowering his glass to notice Dumbledore eyeing him speculatively.

"Severus, tell me about Hermione Granger."

"What is there to tell? She lives."

"Nonsense. Something has changed. Though I can't say you have previously spoken of her with quite the level of vitriol that Harry Potter seems to inspire, neither have I had cause to think that you thought of her with anything but scorn."

Snape inhaled deeply and held his breath a few seconds before releasing it. Once again, his eyes slipped sideways to glance at Fawkes. She called me a phoenix. The words pressed forwards, but he couldn't bring himself to say them out loud; they seemed foolish. He was tempted to tell Dumbledore everything, and at the same time he was tempted to hurl his glass at the wall and run from the room...though he knew that last would merely postpone the inevitable. Dumbledore would get some version of the story from him somehow, he always did. Snape calculated his safest option: convey the general gist to Dumbledore, leaving the older man to come to his own conclusions.

"I think we're agreed that my attempts to teach Potter Occlumency were an unmitigated disaster." Snape couldn't help but let his lips twitch upwards at Dumbledore's dry chuckle. "His hatred for me was a poisonous component of each foray into his memories...and I have no doubt that the feeling was mutual. I had no reason to think that his best friends felt any differently. As a consequence, Miss Granger's mind came as a complete surprise. Firstly, the girl is a natural Occlumens. Indeed, were she not, I doubt that she would have made it out of the Department of Mysteries alive. Secondly, she doesn't hate me at all. She even seems to enjoy her Potions classes." Snape shrugged, feigning nonchalance in the vain hope of fooling a headmaster as skilled in reading body language as he was in reading minds. Behind his Occlumency shield, Snape shouted silently: I exposed the unblemished skin of her chest and watched her tender flesh rent open by a curse that my younger and eminently more foolish self invented. She should hate me, yet she would have thanked me. She called me a phoenix. "In retrospect," he continued, no sign of his thoughts visible on his face, "it is clear that with regard to Harry Potter I should have utilised the only pedagogical method that has yet proven effective: I should have taught Miss Granger directly and left her to pass the information and skills on through the process of educational osmosis. Don't laugh, Albus. I'm quite serious. You haven't had the dubious pleasure of attempting to teach anything to Potter or Weasley; it is Granger who provides the brains of the operation. As a first-year, she managed to solve my logic puzzle..."

"I see that still rankles . . ."

"I'd leave the sarcasm to me, Albus, you don't do it justice. As a second-year, Granger was the first to realise that the monster was a basilisk and acted with a foresight that saved her own life and that of another student, and we know she was experimenting with polyjuice earlier that year...at an incredibly early age. Dumbledore's Army was her idea, and I feel certain that she was behind whatever trick they managed to pull on Umbridge. At every turn, Granger has been there to help Potter; he wouldn't be alive today if she hadn't been.

"You may have apologised for the callous disregard you expressed for her life today, but what of the disregard you have displayed these last five years?"

Dumbledore was clearly offended at Snape's words; he sat up straight in his chair and drew his eyebrows together. Snape noted smugly that he had successfully distracted the headmaster from probing more deeply into the incident with Granger, as he realised that he did indeed care about the smokescreen he had thrown up. Interrupting Dumbledore before he could protest, he pushed on.

"I'm talking about the Defence Against the Dark Arts classes. These children are involved in a deadly war, Albus. What preparation have they had? Five years, five teachers: each one more inept than their predecessor. You must hire a qualified candidate this year, and if you don't, I will teach it myself."

Dumbledore sighed. "You're right, Severus. They have been under-prepared, though not for want of trying. Yet we've been over this so many times: the position is cursed and I cannot subject you to that risk."

"And, as I have replied each and every time, it was the Dark Lord who laid the curse. Appointing his loyal Death Eater to the position is the surest means to have the curse removed."

"Perhaps." Dumbledore sighed again, more heavily. "You would miss Potions, you know." He smiled lopsidedly at the younger man. The conversation was now safely travelling along well-worn paths, and equilibrium was restored.

"I know. Though few would believe you." Snape let his own lips soften up at one corner and raised one eyebrow. "They might be more easily convinced of my reluctance to let anyone else loose in my precious lab than of the pleasure I take from the subject . . ."

"Talking of teaching, Severus, I believe I can see a way to salvage something from our earlier argument. Next year, you must give Miss Granger private lessons."

Severus was taken completely by surprise. "I beg your pardon, Albus? You can't be serious."

"Why ever not? It was practically your suggestion after all. You can begin by ensuring that she has full control of her Occlumency and Legilimency skills and, from there, move onto advanced defensive techniques. By your own account, she is an apt student and does not object to your company. Since you no longer have the responsibility of teaching Harry in the evenings, you will have plenty of time."

Once again Dumbledore had managed to negotiate Snape into a corner. He opened his mouth to protest, but shut it quickly with the realisation that this time he didn't mind at all. Running one long finger across his lower lip, he sat back in his chair. Opposite him, humour twinkled in Dumbledore's eyes. Unwilling to capitulate too easily, Snape turned and looked at Fawkes for a long moment. It was his turn to sigh, and he did so as dramatically as possible. "Very well, Headmaster," he grumbled. "Your wish is my command."

Moments later, he stiffened suddenly. His left hand clenched involuntarily and his eyes widened with pain.

"Voldemort?" queried Dumbledore urgently.

Snape nodded curtly and stood.

"I can drop the wards in my office, and you can leave from here..."

"No, don't bother. I have to fetch my cloak and mask." Snape lifted his whiskey glass and emptied it in one swallow. As he threw a handful of floo powder into the fireplace and stepped towards his office, he heard Dumbledore's concerned farewell in the background.

"I'll wait up for your return. Good luck!"

Minutes later, Severus stood outside the Hogwarts gates. Several deep breaths sufficed to restore the composure that had eluded him in Dumbledore's office before he touched his wand to his dark mark and Disapparated away.

He recognised the Apparation Hall of Malfoy Manor immediately. No need for his mask here. He tucked it back into an inner pocket, straightened his robes and walked towards the drawing room. The corridor was oddly empty, and Severus wondered apprehensively as to the state of his erstwhile master's temper: the consequences of the Ministry incident could not possibly have left the Dark Lord in a pleasant mood. As he drew closer, he heard a pitiful keening that proved to come from within the room itself.

Narcissa Malfoy was slumped at Voldemort's feet weeping. At the sound of Snape's arrival, she staggered awkwardly to her feet.

"Get out," said Voldemort to the distraught woman, his distaste evident. "I have business here with the loyal professor."

Narcissa stepped away towards Severus, swaying slightly. She reached out and grasped at his sleeve. "Severus, please . . ." A note of sheer desperation marked her voice. The pale skin of her face was blotchy and a thin line of snot was streaked across one cheek. Snape looked down his nose at her hand, flaring his nostrils slightly.

"Ah, Narcissa," he drawled, removing his sleeve forcibly from her grasp, "always the gracious hostess." Sarcasm provided a useful release of his irritation. At his words, Narcissa drew a sobbing, hiccoughing breath and flinched as if he'd struck her. Throwing one last terrorised glance toward Voldemort, she fled the room.

Alone with Voldemort, Snape dropped to one knee and bowed his head. "My Lord," he said.

"My dear boy." The irony of the address was not wasted on Snape. "Get up. Come, have a seat. Have a drink."

Muttering his thanks at such a great honour, Snape rose and seated himself in the armchair beside Voldemort. Such conviviality was a rare occurrence. Either the ranks of favoured Death Eaters have been so depleted by events at the Ministry that I've been promoted by a process of elimination . . . or it's a trap. Or both.

"You know, Severus, there are those among the Death Eaters who doubt your loyalty."

Snape knew he was on treacherous ground. "Indeed."

Voldemort laughed, a hard, mirthless sound. "You don't seem too bothered."

Snape shrugged. "No-one could hope to fool the world's greatest Legilimens and survive."

"You speak the truth, my spy." Voldemort looked pleased, his red eyes narrowed slightly as a travesty of a smile shifted the planes of his flattened face. "What news do you have for me?"

"Dumbledore hasn't held an Order meeting since the debacle at the Ministry...it seems that he has been too busy answering owls from Fudge. The headmaster doesn't trust the bureaucracy enough to put them directly to work, and Fudge is so panicked that he is taking up time Dumbledore could have better spent elsewhere."

"And Potter?"

"The brat is sulking. He's unable to appreciate the luck that saved his own life and those of the students he took with him, or the irony that saw the man he raced to save killed as a consequence of his actions."

"Severus, you paint a promising picture of events I had seen as disastrous." Voldemort reached out his hand and allowed one finger to skid along the curve of Snape's cheekbone. Severus felt his breath catch in his throat and willed himself calm. Voldemort hissed out Severus' name, the sibilant sounds extended as his control over his voice lapsed momentarily. "I have underestimated the dangers you face on a daily basis. You must let me reward you . . . this coming summer Wormtail shall come and work as your assistant."

A spy to spy on the spy? Snape had absolutely no desire to spend time in Wormtail's company, let alone host him for months at a time. "My Lord, you are generous."

Still Voldemort smiled: it was unnerving. "Indeed, Severus, I am. Do you know why I invited you here tonight?"

"No, My Lord."

"I wish to share with you the details of a highly confidential plan."

"My Lord, I am honoured." Snape's senses were on high alert; he felt his imminent danger as a palpable force.

"I was very displeased with how events at the Ministry transpired." Voldemort's face darkened. "The prophecy was broken, my Death Eaters captured and my return to power made incontrovertibly clear...even to that idiot Fudge. Yet I have resolved to allow the Malfoy family a chance to redeem themselves."

The Malfoy family . . . Draco, he means Draco. Snape schooled his face into an interested expression.

"Yes," continued Voldemort, "the problem, as I see it, is not Harry Potter, but the presence of the interfering Dumbledore."

Don't dwell on it now, time enough later. Just react like a Death Eater. "My Lord..." Voldemort stopped Snape's comment with an upheld hand.

"Quite. Draco is aptly placed within the school and below the kind of suspicion you attract. I will give him a year. If he kills Dumbledore, he shall be honoured above all others."

And when he doesn't, he'll die. "Draco, my Lord? But he's underage..."

"He's sixteen, Severus. Both you and I had killed before our seventeenth year came to an end."

"My Lord, forgive my impertinence, but both you and I were more talented than Draco is now. He has some small academic talent, to be sure, but Dumbledore is an extraordinarily powerful wizard. Draco's chances of success are negligible!"

Voldemort smirked. "But it is a chance, none the less." He leaned in towards Snape, once again reaching to touch his skin. "Don't fret, my little spy. If Draco fails, I will ensure that you are freed by some other means: this year will be the last you spend answering to Dumbledore."

Snape repressed a shudder as Voldemort's fingers dragged the length of his chin. Thus the trap is set, the warning given.

Voldemort laughed. "A toast, Severus: to Draco!"

Snape wasted no time leaving Malfoy Manor. For a moment, he considered a quick visit to Spinner's End, but he knew that the obligations of his long evening were not yet complete. His arrival outside the Hogwarts' gates was marked by the customary observer: a tabby cat sat near the Apparation point, her tail curled neatly around her feet.

He glared at her. "Safe and sound," he snapped. "Be off with you."

The cat yawned and stretched before stalking into the underbrush with her upheld tail twitching. Her behaviour was an impeccable performance of supreme unconcern at his sudden arrival and the tone of his address.

Snape scowled after her and strode into the castle. The look of delight with which Dumbledore greeted his second appearance of the evening only deepened the scowl. The Pensieve lay ready on the desk. Snape began to siphon his memories of the evening into the bowl without bothering to respond to the headmaster's greeting. The silvery strands swirled innocuously, and for a moment, Severus imagined that they might be memories of anything, of something lovely and innocent, not of plots to kill one or both of the two men present.

He gestured presumptuously at the bowl. "After you, Headmaster."

Dumbledore looked back at him apprehensively. "Severus, are you alright?"

As a response, Snape merely gestured once more at the Pensieve. Dumbledore exhaled gently out from his nose, then leant forward and placed his face into the silvery liquid. Seconds later, Snape did the same.