Chapter 3 – In veritate Victoria

A/N: A response to the Potter Place Post-Deathly-Hallows Prompt Challenge using prompts 3, 10 and 18. Some might consider the characters a little OOC. Some organisations and Ministry of Magic departments are made-up.

For the Benefit of the Unforgiven

Chapter 3 – In veritate Victoria

Upon leaving my estimable host, I went back to my flat near Hyde Park and stayed up late, thinking and reflecting on that which I had undertaken. I saw now there could be no more serious talk about Death Eaters doing away with Severus Snape's body. If Lucius Malfoy had been convinced that his erstwhile friend had managed to leave the Shrieking Shack, I must give the matter serious thought. It was not so much that I wanted to restore the good Malfoy name; rather, I was more interested to know the truth as to what happened between the time Mr Malfoy claimed to have administered the antidote to Professor Snape and the time Harry, Ron and I arrived to claim his body. What was I? A bored bureaucrat. This mystery was the exact thing I needed to alleviate the tedium of my humdrum existence. A part of my brain reproached me for the presumption I had that I would uncover the truth. Yet another part of me feared that the truth would be too much for me to bear. Either way, it did not bode for me, yet I remained intrigued. Unable to quell the need to know anything that I stumbled into, I found myself madly flipping through the pages of De Lapide Philosophico and Synosius puzzling over the significance of the ouroboros and its connection to the lead casket.

"A serpent swallowing its own tail," I murmured, drumming my fingers on the desk as I was wont to do whenever I felt I had the illusory thread of something within my grasp and yet was unable to pull at it. So, what did I know? As a symbol of cyclicality, immortality, infinity, it played an important role in magic and alchemy. It has always been associated with self-reflexivity, as the ouroboros was deemed to be something that constantly recreated itself. I smiled wryly at that point, for it did remind me greatly of Professor Snape. He had recreated himself so to speak from Death Eater spy to member of the Order of the Phoenix, from bitter, self-centred wizard to sacrificial lamb. It was an apt symbol for him to select for himself, if it was indeed a clue as to what happened to him.

The more I thought on it, the more I became convinced that he was like the ouroboros ring sitting in the middle of my palm was a human embodiment of this symbolic cycle that began anew as soon as the last one ended. Was that what happened to him? Did he begin a new cycle for himself when the old one, namely his life as Severus Snape, former potions master and Headmaster at Hogwarts lapsed? If so, what sort of a new cycle was it? Did he begin life anew elsewhere under a new name? Or was Mr Malfoy too late in applying the antidote? No, I would not allow myself to think that. I must not, and should not speculate. Speculation leads to hope, and hope was often all too easily disappointed, as I learnt the hard way in my relationship with Ron. Every time I hoped he would accompany me to a museum or art gallery, he would brush me aside calling my interests too high-brow for him. Indeed, his lately arrived owl to me stated as much, and was in fact, his excuse for not accompanying Harry and me to Luna's book signing event on Sunday. He said he had already purchased season tickets to some dodgy team's Quidditch matches or the other, and could not see the tickets go to waste. Oh well, he can do as he likes. He and I have different tastes; that's all. He would laugh at me if he saw me now, pondering over the fate of a man who had been assumed dead and whose body was believed to have been destroyed. He would also rail at me for meeting up with Mr Malfoy and accepting this commission to find Professor Snape. Bah! What did Ron know about these things! Besides, the unsophisticated philistine did not have to know everything that went on my life.

"Yes," I said with a nod to myself, as I twisted the ring around to better examine it. "He does not have to know."

Then it struck me that the ring seemed to be half light and half dark. It seemed as though the top layer of it, that is the layer close to surface was darker than the bottom. Just exactly what I would have expected from my former potions master, I mused. He was Janus incarnate, half in the shadows and half in the light, quite like the ouroboros ring. While these aspects of the ring and I dare say his nature contrasted with each other, they were not in conflict. Indeed, I fondly recalled his lecture on the alchemical properties of the Draught of Peace. The Draught was supposed to be a liquid embodiment of opposites – the self-interested desire to kill another so that one might continue to live versus the innate desire to live quietly away from others so as not to do them harm. A neat irony now that the ouroboros ring was in my hand, for I knew it represented the alchemist's magnum opus, uniting the conscious and unconscious mind. What was it that the modern alchemist Carl Jung said? I rolled my chair over to the relevant shelf in my book room and pulled down volume fourteen entitled On Alchemical Materia. Flipping through the pages hastily and sustaining numerous paper cuts in the process, I finally came across the passage I wanted:

In the age-old image of the ouroboros lies the thought of devouring oneself and turning oneself into a circulatory process, for it was clear to the more astute alchemists that the 'prima materia' of the art was man himself. The ouroboros is a dramatic symbol for the integration and assimilation of the opposite, viz., of the shadow. This 'feed-back' process is at the same time a symbol of immortality, since it is said of the ouroboros that he slays himself and brings himself to life, fertilises himself and gives birth to himself. He symbolises the One, who proceeds from the clash of opposites, and he therefore constitutes the secret of the 'prima materia' which unquestionably stems from man's unconscious.

"Very interesting," I said aloud to myself. I have a habit of talking to myself when I work, I have always found it much easier to think when engaged in conversation. It is an idiosyncrasy shared by Luna Lovegood, which of course did nothing to enhance our reputations. "Reminds me of something I read earlier in Synosius. The ouroboros is a representative of the cycle of birth and death from which the alchemist sought release and liberation. Interesting and vexing." I drummed my fingers on the desk once again. Given all that I knew about the ouroboros, I was now convinced that it had something to do with the casket and the mystery behind Professor Snape's disappearance. And somehow, knowing the ouroboros would help one to open the lead box.

There were always wheels within wheels and fires within fires where Professor Snape was concerned, and the whole puzzle surrounding the casket and its contents were no exception. How was I to open it? I could not just pry it open. That would be barbaric, and who knows what sort of spell had been placed over it. It would be more prudent if I uncovered as much as I could about the casket first. I had a nagging suspicion that it was made from Welsh lead. Professor Snape's mother, Elaine Prince was Welsh, and the Welsh wizarding families always preferred using items made from their native areas than any Saxon import. As I knew little about Welsh magical items, I spent the rest of the evening learning all I could about Welsh artefacts, so much so that in my late night study, I had become quite an authority on the subject of collecting Welsh lead caskets.

The next morning, I pasted on myself the guise of an antique curio collector and trundled off to Diagon Alley. While there, I launched on a tour of all the shops selling old curiosities. I asked in particular for Welsh caskets and showed them the one in my possession but none of the shops could identify it. Since none of the shops recognised it, I was left with only one alternative. I would have to make my way into Knockturn Alley and solicit the services of the proprietor of Borgin and Burkes.

It saddened me to have to resort to approaching the unsavoury characters running the shop, but that was my destiny now. I had to find out all I could about the casket. I kept to myself, wrapping my cloak tightly around me as I stepped into the area the wizarding population of Britain called 'the dodgy end'. The post-war infrastructural effort had improved much of Knockturn Alley. For one, its alleyways were now widened and no longer as noisome. Its buildings were also no longer in want of repair. However, there was still something generally sinister hanging in the air of the place that I could not quite place. Humans and other creatures such as cats, dogs and rats seemed to scuttle about looking suspiciously over their shoulders. I shook my head as the third cat to look over its shoulder passed me. Despite the improvements made to the area, Knockturn Alley was the main haunt of the disreputable denizens of wizarding society. I, who am considered one of the new pillars of respectable wizarding society was out of place here. The stares thrown in my direction said as much, and I hastened my steps into 13B Knockturn Alley.

The shop bell above the door resounded in a maniacal cackle as I stepped into Borgin and Burkes, and a thin fellow popped up from behind the counter. This was the famous Mr Borgin. He looked a little worse for wear and was much more ill-made than I had remembered. His skin had now taken on the cadaverous yellow hue associated with rotting corpses, and his eyes were these great goggling things that took in everything within his range of vision as if he was being strangled by an invisible hand. "Good day, Miss Granger," he called out, rubbing his hands predatorily in a manner reminiscent of Charles Dickens's Uriah Heep. "What can I do for you today?"

"Mr Borgin," I said briskly, straightening the hood over my head as I stood before him across the counter. "What do you know of Welsh lead caskets of this make?" I brandished the box and held it aloft from his eager grasp when I noted his eyes glittering greedily.

"I would have to examine it first," he replied deferentially, his unctuous behaviour belying the sour look on his face.

"Only on the understanding that it is not for sale," I declared coldly, staring down at him.

He nodded his assent and held out his bony hands for the box. "This is excellent quality. The intricate workmanship places it in the sixteenth century. Used for storing jewellery in the old days," he rattled on, fully absorbed in turning the box this way and that in his appraisal of it. "How did you come upon this?"

"A dear friend's aunt whom I nursed died and left it to me," I lied without batting an eyelid.

"I will pay you for this, handsomely if the key is included."

A nerve twitched at the corner of my mouth in anxiety and annoyance. "It is not for sale."

He shrugged carelessly. "Excellent work this is. Burkes must see it if he can. Where is the key?" His beady eyes latched onto me curiously.

"What?" I blinked, stunned by the abrupt change in question. "You know how to open this?"

"So that's what you came for?" he laughed in an oily manner, his eyes narrowing. "Do not worry, I am the soul of discretion. We get all sorts here and I have the same code of ethics as Mediwitches and barristers."

"Which makes you very admirable, I am sure," I replied, struggling to keep my annoyance of his remarks under check.

"It is our business at Borgin and Burkes to know about all the curios prized by wizarding families," he continued smoothly, ignoring my sarcasm. "There is a kind of trigger for boxes of this make. You see the groves where the knotted pattern meets?" He pointed at it with his last finger. "They form these circular designs, a masterful trompe l'oeil. To the untrained eye, they look like Celtic knots haphazardly strewn together as a design, but to those of us who know." His eyes gleamed in delight at knowing something that I, the most intelligent witch of my generation did not. He then touched the side of his nose knowingly, smirking a little at my attempt not to harrumph at him. "We can instantly recognise it for what it is. The Welsh borrowed from Etruscan symbolic mysticism and developed a unique kind of magic that resonates in all the things coming from their marshes. These lead caskets were favoured by the Tudors for storing their baubles because they were notoriously difficult to open. The discerning witch, as you are, Miss Granger, will find it a valuable addition to your collection. Look carefully at the design here." He pointed at the intricate knots with the last finger of his right hand. "This is an Etruscan symbol taken to mean 'many'. It was so adopted because the ladies in the days of old liked to imagine they would have more baubles to add to these confines."

"I do not see any Etruscan symbol," I spat testily on cocking my head to one side. It was then that it dawned upon me. "The infinity sign," I gasped, looking up at the knowing eyes of Mr Borgin.

He smiled, parting his livid lips and showing his yellow uneven teeth to the best advantage. "Place the key in the right loop of the representation of the one thousand, and the casket should open in a trice."

"Thank you," I commented when he pushed the box back towards me. "You have been a great help to me. How much do I owe you for the trouble?"

"Nothing," he said firmly, meeting my gaze of disbelief with an amused one.

Instinctively, my lips curled in their own accord as I kept the lead casket. "What do you want in return?"

"What kind of a wizard do you take me for?" he asked in a more ironic than affronted tone. "But if Miss Granger can find it in her heart to purchase one of our items, I would be very grateful." He bent down and removed something from the glass casing of the counter. "Might I interest you in this talisman?" he enquired, holding up an ankh in perfect Prussian blue lapis lazuli. "It is guaranteed to bring strength and health to the wearer. From Kellia, don't you know? Known as the stone of truth, it offers protection and may lead you to find a most faithful friend. It usually goes for three galleons and five sickles, but for you, three galleons."

"Your oiliness is very refreshing." I flicked a wrist, signalling that I would take it. "That's daylight robbery," I grumbled, fishing for the right galleons in my coin purse.

"But robbery of an entirely legal nature," he said with an unctuous bow upon receiving the coins. An odd look then crossed his face. It expressed worry and a little embarrassment. "We all have to live, you know. Some of us do so by plodding along, others," he paused and jerked his head at the figures outside with their hands outstretched for alms. "They beg to be allowed to live. I choose the former," he continued, walking me to the door and holding it open for me. However, in so doing, he resumed what Shakespeare would call an 'antic disposition' and a thin smile. "Pleasure to have served you, Miss Granger. Please stop by again and favour Borgin and Burkes with your patronage soon."

I turned around and acknowledged his help with a nod before Disapparating home. Once there, I retreated to my favourite room. The day had been draining enough on me, and I needed a short repose. There was nothing I knew to be more conducive for raising one's spirit than staring at shelves-upon-shelves and rows-upon-rows of books. My study, or my sanctuary, as I called it was my true home within my home. Here, I was shielded from the glare of life's unpleasantness. It is only to be expected from the fair prospect of an airy book room facing south. Gliding to my desk, I rested my chin wearily on the bust of Plato and sighed. "It has been a trying day," I sighed again, divesting myself of the cloak, the casket and my purchase.

It was already late afternoon. No wonder I was tired. I had spent most of my day running around Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley. But it had been a productive day, I smiled at myself, watching the sun shine through the window at a steep angle. For a moment, just a fraction of a second, the silver ouroboros ring on my desk caught the sunlight and reflected a small ray onto the casket emphasising the meeting of the two Celtic knots into a rough infinity sign.

"Everything was right in front of me and I didn't see it. The bloody irony," I commented wryly, walking across the rows of books and running my fingers across their spines until I came to one about pre-Roman magic. "Why is it that we never see that which is so obvious? Mummy is right then. The more educated we are, they more we fail to think simply," I remarked with a bitter edge to my voice as I returned to my desk with the volume.

As I was not one to lament my shortcomings, I strove to prove that my unappreciated genius and largeness of mind did not desert me. This self-imposed task was largely successful as I came across numerous references to Etruscan magic that matched all that Mr Borgin had told me. The Etruscan numeral for one thousand, written as CIƆ was used in alchemical writings and had the same significance to Etruscan wizards as the ouroboros in modern wizarding alchemy. It was most certainly not a coincidence that the symbol CIƆ resembled an infinity sign. It was also most certainly not a coincidence that the ouroboros and the infinity sign mirrored each other. "The infinity sign equates to a double ouroboros or a double eternity. Doubly clever," I murmured, placing the ring on the grooves of the right side of infinity sign on the casket and pushed it into place. "A perfect fit," I smiled in self-satisfaction.

Then, as if answering me, a soft click came from the box and it cracked open, revealing a tiny slit. What was there to do other than open it fully? I did so and found it half filled with documents, mostly in Albus Dumbledore's handwriting. The inner casket was smaller in size and had a discernable seal. Leaving aside Dumbledore's papers for the moment, I cracked the seal of the second casket. A rolled up piece of yellowed paper burst out and rolled onto my desk. My hand almost reached for it before retracting again. A sense of overwhelming fear washed over me. I had not felt such nervous apprehension since my days on the run from Voldemort. What if Professor Snape was well-and-truly dead? What if the parchment did not reveal anything that I did not already know? Pushing aside all the errant thoughts of Professor Snape running through my head, I exhaled slowly so as to better focus on the task at hand. Resolutely, I unrolled the parchment and saw that it was stained with copper coloured droplets and full of my former potions master's spidery handwriting:

20th February 1998

I, Severus Tobias Snape, current Headmaster of Hogwarts, am a Death Eater under the service of the Dark Lord Voldemort, as I am a Member and spy for the Order of the Phoenix in the service of Albus Dumbledore. I give this statement to Argus Filch and Irma Pince, to be opened in the event of great peril to the Malfoy family who are now turned against the madness of the Dark Lord Voldemort's regime, Members of the Order of the Phoenix, and also to the academic staff and students of Hogwarts, to use as they see fit. I write this because it is my supposition that I likely do not have long to live. Everyday the sense of foreboding grows stronger. Everyday the Dark Lord looks on me less favourably. Everyday the Dark Lord's plans for the complete subjugation of Wizarding Britain come closer to fruition.

Dumbledore and I had already anticipated this before his death. He and I had frequently discussed the matter at length. I have already developed a counter-serum to Nagini's venom when brewing many of the venom-based poisons for the Dark Lord Voldemort's cause. Despite Dumbledore's attempts to persuade me to flee from the Dark Lord's service, I would not fly from my position. I had to remain in Hogwarts to protect the innocents. By staying behind, I was better placed to continue serving the Order in my turn. However, I allowed Dumbledore to make arrangements for a suitable plan of escape should I ever require it. He arranged for me refuge with some contacts he had made while on his grand tour. The wizarding monks of old Coptic Kellia would shelter me at the hermitage under an assumed name until I am able and/or willing to return to the fold of proper wizarding society. Should I decide the leave the protection of the monastic order, the monks would arrange for me a new identity.

I rubbed my brow with my free hand. It was not quite what I expected. Steeling myself against further surprising revelations, I read on:

The monks have agreed to this and have sent ahead a mute house-elf by the name of Tacitus to Hogwarts. Tacitus will act as a liaison between the monks and myself. He has an earring that is magically bound to the second button of my formal teaching robes. If I should be in desperate trouble and unable to extricate myself from danger, I am to touch the button and whisper 'veritas odit moras', he will then come for me and take me the monastery via side-along Apparition. I do not believe I will resort to escape, but if it should come to that, I will bow to circumstances.

A sigh escaped me when I came to the end of the paper. Was that what happened to Professor Snape? Was he really in some obscure Coptic Wizarding Monastery? I knew that the Kellia Monastery in Egypt celebrated the old wizarding pantheistic religion and that the monastery appeared as a deserted ruin to Muggles. But what were the odds that a house-elf from the monastery had transported him to safety? The irony of a mute house-elf named Tacitus was not lost on me. Tacitus was the name of a famous wizarding historian and orator, and this house-elf, his namesake, was mute. Gently placing the parchment aside, I pondered on that which I had learned so far. The facts pointed to the possibility of Professor Snape still being alive. Nitria in Eygpt should suit him. The wizarding monks spent most of their time in their own cells, praying and making handicrafts to trade for food, only coming together on Saturday and Sundays for communal meditation. Recalling all that was covered in the history lessons at Hogwarts' and knowing Professor Snape's character, I realised that the hermitage and the ascetic lifestyle it promoted was ideal for him. What should I do now? Should I go to Nitria then to interview the monks to enquire if he was still there? No, that would be too rash. I should have some form of confirmation that he was still alive and at large in the world. Perhaps the Dumbledore papers from the first casket would prove more illuminating? With that thought, I shuffled his letters and came across an interesting note the eccentric Headmaster wrote to Professor Snape:

I have looked over the place. Everything is in order. The living quarters are separated into communal and private areas. There are facilities where guests may be received, and the rooms are comfortable. My friend, Brother Cosmas, has assured me that your secret will be safe and will on no account go beyond him, your elder, and the house-elf. Additionally, Brother Benedict of Nursia has agreed to be your elder for the duration of your stay. In short, everything has been settled. The other things are being taken care of. If worse should become worst, Tacitus will bring you to either Brother Cosmas or Brother Benedict in a trice. Just remember that while you enjoy playing in the shadows, the light is just as important.

A. D.

"Why I am not surprised by this?" I sighed, skimming over the rest of Dumbledore's notes. First, he stage-manages nearly every aspect of Harry's life ensuring that he would be brought up as a suitable sacrificial lamb for the 'greater good'. Then, he controls nearly every aspect of Professor Snape's existence at Hogwarts by limiting what he could do for himself. Now, as evinced by his notes, he has extended his meddlesome reach into planning the Professor's alternative life after he is supposed to have expired.

Resting my head on back of my seat, I closed my eyes in an unsuccessful bid to ease the gears turning in my mind. I had learnt far too much, and was as yet unable to prove their veracity. I did not know whether I was suffering from 'information overload' as daddy would say, or whether I was warily weary of the twists and turns of all I had uncovered. Was I suffering from the fear of knowing too much? Or was I over-thinking things and worrying myself into a decline? Either way, I did not care. My one overarching flaw is this gnawing need within me to acquire knowledge and the truth behind it. One might even call it a curse, as Ron certainly did. Curse or not, it was a part of my character that I would not trade for all the Crown jewels.

Now that I knew what I did, I knew exactly what I should do. I should investigate the veracity of whatever I have unearthed, and if possible track Professor Snape down. But that can wait until Monday. For now, I need a nice, long, relaxing soak in the bathtub.

NOTES:

The Carl Jung excerpt is real and is taken from his Collected Works, volume 14, paragraph 513. I have taken some liberty with the title of Volume 14 as I decided to turn Herr Jung into a wizard.

'In veritate victoria' is Latin for 'victory lies in the truth'.

'Veritas odit moras' is Latin for 'Truth hates delay'.