Distance and Magnitude

Phoenix Tears, Chapter Thirteen : Distance and Magnitude

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 LAxo and WriterMerrin for their sterling work beta-ing this chapter.

The day after Severus delivered the sword to the trio and two days after Christmas, he was summoned by Voldemort.

"You alone, Severus, of all my Death Eaters, have yet to fail me . . ." Voldemort trailed off, one hand stroking Nagini between the eyes. The snake hissed gently and butted her head up into his palm.

"You honour me, my Lord."

Variants of this conversation were becoming typical.

For several minutes, neither man spoke. Twirling the stem of his glass absently in one hand, Severus stared into the fire and savoured a mouthful of one of Lucius' finer vintages. Patience, he reminded himself, is a virtue.

"The Potions master you studied under in Germany, Severus, where is he now?"

"Theophrastus Zelenogorski?" queried Severus, startled; the question was unexpected. "He retired some time ago. I understand that he returned to his native Bulgaria. I haven't heard from him in years."

"But you could find him?"

"I have his address somewhere." Severus regarded the Dark Lord curiously. Where is this going? he wondered.

Voldemort sighed. "There is something I need you to do, Severus: go to Bulgaria and find your elderly Potions master." Reaching into his robes, the Dark Lord drew out a framed photograph and passed it to Severus. "I need to know who this is. Zelenogorski is old enough and well-connected enough that he should know. Above all, Severus, you must be discreet."

Severus examined the laughing young man displayed in the photo. He stood in the sunshine, blond hair flung back over his shoulder, his hands on his hips. With a tap of his wand, Severus duplicated the image, passing the original back to Voldemort and tucking the copy safely inside his robes.

"Very good, my Lord," he conceded, draining his wine and rising to his feet. He gave Voldemort a low bow. "I shall leave this evening."

"Excellent." Voldemort waved a languorous hand in dismissal. "Make yourself a Portkey. I'll have Runcorn overlook the infraction at this end; since Bulgaria is notoriously lax, you should have no difficulties there."

Severus bowed again, turned on his heel and strode to the door.

Zelenogorski lived in a tiny town, far up in the Rila mountains, beside the ominously named Ledeno ezero, or "Icy Lake." Severus donned his warmest robes and a heavy travelling cloak in preparation. Once he'd checked the co-ordinates of Zelenogorski's address in Dumbledore's battered atlas, a Portkey was simple enough to produce.

The headmaster's portrait, for its part, had been uncharacteristically mum on the subject of Severus' newly assigned task. Severus took it as a blessing.

"Be careful," Dumbledore remarked at last as Severus fastened the last of his many buttons and firmly gripped the letter opener he'd transformed into a Portkey.

"As always, Albus," replied Severus and pressed the tip of his wand to the strip of ivory held in his other hand. "Portus."

With a flash of blue light, a sharp, tugging sensation behind his navel, and an uncomfortably extended rush of movement, Severus was transported from the warmth of his office into the middle of a blizzard. A bitter wind lashed his face with snow, and he struggled to maintain his footing. Where he thought to have found a house, Severus could make out little at all. Certainly, there was no welcome splash of light, no lit windows, no promise of a roaring fire.

Struggling forward against the elements, Severus realised that there was a building present only when the bulk of it blocked the wind and he stumbled forward, suddenly free to move with less difficulty.

"Lumos," he muttered, illuminating a curtain of snowflakes. Behind him, the snow was driven almost horizontal by the force of the wind; in front, it drifted gently into a sheltered courtyard. The house, just visible despite its proximity, was clearly abandoned. The nearest window was boarded closed, and the deep drifts of snow testified that no-one had been in or out in the recent past. Severus sucked in an irritated breath and let it hiss from between his front teeth.

Rotating slowly, he scanned his limited field of vision through narrowed eyes. From what he had seen on the map, the village itself was not far away. In this weather, however, a kilometre or so on foot might be the death of him. Taking his bearings carefully from the lay of the house, he struck out for the road and was disproportionally relieved when he found it only minutes later.

At some point earlier that day, the road had been ploughed, and both sides were lined with mounds of displaced snow almost as tall as Severus was himself. The drifts provided some protection from the wind, and the snow on the roadway itself was less than a foot high. Reassured, Severus set off for the town.

Twenty minutes...and innumerable Warming Charms...later, the lights came into view through the snow. Severus could not read Bulgarian, but even he could parse the creaking old-fashioned tavern sign and recognise it...with delight...for what it was.

"Nox," he whispered, tucking his wand into his sleeve and out of sight. Pushing open the heavy door, he stepped into a tiny antechamber where he stomped the snow from his boots and brushed the worst of it off his shoulders. Only then did he pull open the internal door and step into the blessed, welcoming warmth of the well-lit pub.

The barman greeted him with something completely incomprehensible.

"Entschuldigung bitte?" replied Severus.

"I said, it's a nice night for a walk," repeated the barman laconically, this time in German.

A hard snort of laughter escaped Severus unexpectedly. "Well said," he responded, squinting slightly as his eyes adjusted to the bright light and walking towards the bar.

The tavern was almost empty: two older men sat off in one corner, playing dominoes on a weathered wooden table, and a dark-haired woman sat at the bar with her back to the door. The barman was the only other occupant, and as Severus approached, he pulled a shot glass out from under the counter.

"This will warm you," he informed Severus, filling the glass with a crystalline liquid and pushing it towards him.

Gratefully, his fingers closed around the glass. Out of habit, Severus blew lightly across the surface of the liquid, checking it for poisons with a non-verbal charm, then he swallowed it down. The alcohol burned a trail to his stomach like a mouthful of molten steel; seconds later, warmth blossomed in his belly and spread, like tingling, crackling fire, to the tips of his extremities. His toes curled in appreciation.

"Another?" asked the barman, the bottle held out towards him.

"Ja!" replied Severus, nodding curtly but vigorously.

The barman looked perplexed for a moment and then laughed as he filled the glass. Holding up one finger, he admonished Severus gently. "You are in Bulgaria now: you nod for 'no,' shake for 'yes.' Understood?"

Always a fast learner, Severus shook his head.

"Very good."

The second shot went down as nicely as the first had.

"Now," added the barman, "you should ask me your question. No-one comes to the Ledeno ezero in December without good reason."

"I'm looking for an old friend of mine," replied Severus, "Theophrastus Zelenogorski. I had an urgent research question that I thought he might be able to solve."

"Aye," sighed the barman, shaking his head. "The old man passed two years ago. You're too late, I'm afraid."

At the edge of his peripheral vision, Severus caught a whisper of movement as the dark-haired woman at the end of the bar turned towards him. He swivelled towards her automatically as she began to speak.

"Better late than never, Severus," she remarked, in English. Her accented voice marked his name in an all-too-recognisable way.

His wand was out before she'd finished, held below the bar and shielded by his body so that only she would have seen it. Disbelievingly, his eyes raked her familiar face. As always, she was smiling. "Vector," he stated, his invocation of her name not quite a greeting.

"Here, I'm known as Ana," she replied. "Ana Sedenova."

"Old friends?" asked the barman, still speaking in German.

Septima Vector, once Anastasia, now Ana, turned and spoke to him in Bulgarian. Still smiling, she spoke again to Severus, "Have a glass of wine."

Is this a trap? What is she doing here? Severus had pushed his left hand into his pocket, and it closed firmly around his Portkey. He could activate it and be out of there in seconds.

"Put your wand away," instructed Ana. "It's the height of bad manners to wave it around in a pub."

The barman had wandered off and returned with a clean glass and a bottle of wine. He poured Severus a generous measure and topped up Ana's glass. Severus didn't move.

"I know what you did," murmured Ana, "and I know why you did it."

Severus swallowed. His throat was unaccountably dry. "What are you talking about?" he managed, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

Unfurling her napkin, Ana spread it out on the counter. Pinching two fingers, she pressed them to the soft tissue paper and then spread them wide. The space she demarcated opened like a window, revealing the shifting strands of her graphical matrix. Poking and prodding with her index finger, she zoomed in and shifted the perspective until only two lines remained visible: one black, one the colour of the red wine that filled her glass. Sweeping into the frame from opposite directions, the two lines crossed and wrapped each other once in the centre, before spinning off, back the way they came.

"The matrix never lies," she replied, pushing the serviette along the bar so that he could see the image more clearly. "I have been expecting you for some time now."

For several long moments, Severus said and did nothing, his eyes fixed on the unexpected diagram. Then, imperceptibly, his shoulders relaxed. Pulling out the stool adjacent to Ana's, he sat down, tucking his wand back into his sleeve yet holding his arm poised on his knee so that the tip of it covered the spot where she sat. If need be, he could have it out in the blink of an eye.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"To talk." Vector...Ana...smiled. "I confess, with some slight embarrassment, that Hermione Granger was several steps ahead of me. I only worked what happened out after the event. At that stage, though, I put two and two together . . . and, as you might imagine, such simple arithmetic poses no problems for a mathematician such as myself."

Severus inclined his head in a gesture of acknowledgement that gave nothing away, and took a sip of his wine. It was rough, but maintained a certain rustic charm...a far cry from the smooth beverage he'd sipped beside Voldemort earlier that evening.

"What are you doing here?" he asked next. Of all the gin joints, in all the world . . . he thought wryly.

"Oh, I came here with Viktor. Once the children started arriving en masse, we thought the mountains safer than the suburbs of Sofia."

Krum. "Then,"...his heart beat quickened..."the students are with you?"

"Yes, indeed. Thirty-eight of them, along with a number of Muggle-born adult wizards. We had so many children here that it became easiest to start a school. That way they stay occupied. Of more importance right now, however," continued Ana, "is the matrix. I've calculated as much as I can on the information I've got. I was hoping that you would be able to help me rectify some of the omissions."

Provide information? Severus swirled the liquid in his glass and watched the ripples move across the surface. A small tendril of elation unfurled in the pit of his stomach. For months, he'd been isolated, with only the slightly-insane portraits of ex-headmasters for company. He'd been fighting with Minerva, sneering at students, and risking his life to drop hints of danger that everyone ignored. He'd had to pass hours in conversation with Death Eaters he despised. He'd been forced to watch his friends, wards and colleagues tortured and killed before his eyes. Now, for the first time since Dumbledore's death, he was faced with someone who was willing to learn from the information he'd so awfully and painfully collated. There was nothing he'd like more than to pass on what he knew.

"I suppose I can survive the interrogation," he sneered, "but I'll need another glass of wine."

Ana, to nobody's surprise, smiled.

It took an hour and a half for Severus to answer all the questions she could think of. He relayed everything he knew about the Death Eaters and their movements, Voldemort's plans, the situation at the Ministry, circumstances at Hogwarts, the inmates of Azkaban, the movements of surviving Order members, the Muggle-born Registration Committee and the broader British political scene. He even passed on all the details he had surmised about Harry Potter's task and his current movements; Ana knew more about most things than Severus had anticipated.

"If it proved necessary," she asked as the conversation wound to a close, "you could contact Hermione?"

The presence of Granger's hair, safely bottled and tucked inside his robes, weighed on Severus' conscience as he considered the question. Phineas' portrait and Dumbledore's Deluminator came to his mental defence. He nodded.

"Good. You saw her recently," stated Ana. "How did she seem?"

"She . . . she seemed well." Severus paused momentarily, then added, "She was asleep, however, so I cannot speak about her state of mind."

"Oh," Ana looked up from her notes...an indecipherable mixture of Greek letters, Arithmantic fragments, Arabian numerals and shorthand abbreviations. "That's a shame. I imagine she would have liked to talk to you. Anyway, thank you. You have been very helpful."

"Perhaps you can answer a question for me," replied Severus on sudden impulse, pulling Voldemort's framed photo from his robes. "Do you know who this is?"

Ana took the frame from his hand, tilting it towards her to view the picture clearly. Her eyebrows shot up. "I take it modern history is not your strong point," she remarked.

Severus scowled.

"Really, Severus," continued Ana, shaking her head in mock despair, "it's Gellert Grindelwald."

Grindelwald...Albus...the Elder Wand. Severus' synapses fired rapidly, and with a jolt, he realised the importance of the photo to his own life expectancy. If the Dark Lord works out that Dumbledore ended up with the wand, my own life may be forfeit. Despite several glasses of wine and two shots of burning liqueur, he managed to maintain a politely interested expression.

"Indeed?" he said dryly. "Thank you." He tucked the photograph back into his pocket and stood to leave.

"Seriously, Severus," said Ana, gesturing with her notebook, "thanks for all of this. It may prove invaluable. If anything else comes to mind, don't hesitate to write. Ana Sedenova...don't forget."

"I have money," he remarked, ignoring her thanks and reaching into his pocket for Eurogalleons.

"Leave it, it's my shout and I've more than enough Leva. Take care of yourself, Severus; this awful year is not yet over."

Meeting her gaze, Severus held it for a long moment. "Take care of the students," he replied finally.

Ana smiled.

Severus swept his travelling cloak around him and made his way out into the cold of the mountain night. The snow had stopped, but the wind was still bitter, and Severus shivered in the few seconds it took to take out his wand and Portkey. With one last glance through the window, where Ana was laughing as she settled up with the barman, he pressed his wand to the smooth ivory of his letter opener. "Portus," he muttered, and with a violent jerk in the centre of his torso, he was wrenched away.

The Dark Lord took the news of Zelenogorski's death with an unanticipated equanimity; Severus' good standing still held. As proof of that, he had to spend most of his last week of holidays observing the entertainment at Malfoy Manor. While he took a small and vicious comfort when Travers and Selwyn were punished for their inability to capture Potter, the experience as a whole was dreadful.

Lucius was sullen, Draco cowed, Bellatrix manic as ever. Jocelyn, he was pained to notice, was still the silent obedient child with watchful eyes that she'd been since the summer with her ex-mother. The friendly, cheeky girl he had known last year had been replaced by this newer model of Slytherin behaviour. And since her holiday presence at Malfoy Manor had been framed to impinge upon Voldemort's notice as little as possible, she was also gaining a thorough education in the most typical of pureblood childhoods: confined to the nursery and attended by house-elves.

Once, when Severus hadn't been there, the Dark Lord had demanded to meet the newest Malfoy. According to what Severus had heard from Draco, the meeting had been uneventful: Jocelyn had kept her eyes down and her mind closed, she had answered Voldemort's questions politely, and the Dark Lord himself had displayed vestiges of the charm he'd had in his earlier incarnation. Still, the very idea made Severus skin crawl; he wanted Jocelyn safely away from the manor and back at Hogwarts.

Yet Severus couldn't even feel properly happy when the school term began, for the Carrows returned to Hogwarts with a renewed sense of purpose and an unmitigated zeal towards the punishment of recalcitrant students. As if that wasn't bad enough, Rita Skeeter had sent him an unanticipated Christmas gift consisting of a copy of The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore, inscribed with a personal message.

Dear Snapey, she written on the flyleaf in virulent green ink, I thought you'd particularly enjoy chapter eighteen!

He flipped through the book quickly, searching for chapter eighteen, his gut and teeth clenched with fury and dread. There: "Politics or Pedagogy? The Case of Severus Snape."

Of course, the chapter began, Dumbledore's penchant for troubled young men did not end with Grindelwald . . .

She'd raked up the details of his manslaughter trial, of course, and every sordid detail of his young life that was available as a matter of public record: his father's abuse, his mother's depression, his own drunken behaviour and the blow that accidentally cut short his father's life. The trial, she implied, was rigged, with Severus' innocence in doubt and his pardon achieved only through Dumbledore's influence. She emphasised Slughorn's refusal to speak in his defence, listed every rumour of his dalliance with the Dark Arts and each of his connections to known members of Voldemort's circle. The whole was laced through with implications that Severus had spent much of his time on his knees, his mouth wrapped around Dumbledore's dick.

Severus was shaking by the time he reached the end of the chapter. Throwing the book roughly to the floor, he drew his wand to destroy it. Only then did he catch sight of the pictures. Two young, fresh faces stared up at him from where the book lay open on the floor: Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald.

Has the Dark Lord seen this? he wondered, frozen into a duelling position, his wand pointed at the book. No, of course not. The Dark Lord was busy in Eastern Europe seeking answers that, in truth, were to be found closer to home.

Severus bent and picked up the book, smoothing a hand reflexively across the damaged binding. He couldn't destroy every copy of Rita's book, which meant that sooner or later, the Dark Lord would come across the image. Better for the knowledge to come from Severus himself. That, in itself, might be enough to ensure his survival.

"Everything alright, Severus?" asked Dumbledore's portrait, roused from his slumber by the violence of Severus' actions.

Severus ignored him. How long can I draw this out?

"Severus?"

The concern in Albus' voice cut through Severus' ruminations, and he glanced up. "Nothing important, Albus, I was just expressing my appreciation for Rita's new book." He held up the cover so that Albus could read it.

The portrait's face fell. "Ah." The old man hesitated. "What does it say?" he asked, trying and failing to achieve a nonchalant tone.

"Why, Albus," replied Severus, aiming for and achieving deliberate nastiness, "if you're interested, I could always read it to you."

Funnily enough, he did. The book was over nine hundred pages long, and the task took him most of the term. The hour or so each evening spent reading to Dumbledore quickly became the most restful period of his day. Since the majority of his time was spent struggling to maintain control of the Carrows...who had decreed themselves responsible for the punishment of all students...the "best" part of his day was purely relative.

To his surprise, the shared experience of Rita's book led to several revealing conversations. Dumbledore denied nothing, contradicting only Rita's conclusions and not the facts she based them on. By the end of "Dumbledore's Childhood," Severus felt that he knew his wacky old mentor far better than he ever had before. They'd shared discussions about the lure of power, talked about Dumbledore's mistakes (who knew that he'd even made any!), and bonded over a discussion of Ariana's blocking.

"So that's why you behaved so strangely when you heard about Jocelyn?"

Albus bowed his head in agreement.

"To be honest," replied Severus, for the two men were being far more honest with each other than they had during Albus' life, "I thought you were displaying signs of senility."

Albus graced him with a wry smile. "Who can blame you?" he asked. "There was no other obvious explanation."

To himself, Severus admitted that his talks with Dumbledore were made more precious by his knowledge of impending death: there was only so long he could put off informing Voldemort of the identity of the laughing thief. The only other silver lining to that ominous dark cloud was his certainty that Voldemort would finger Severus as the threat. As long as Severus kept his mouth and mind closed, the Dark Lord would never suspect Draco, and thus, even in death, Severus would fulfil the promises he had made to Albus and Narcissa.