Fic: Untitled, companion to Blue
Jan. 22nd, 2006 03:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
asimplechordTitle: none yet, I'm open to suggestion
Warning: reference to mpreg
Genre: Gen
Disclaimer: If it looks like a character created by JKR, that's because it IS.
Summary: Snape's year-in-review thoughts from Year 3 through Year 7 of Harry's schooling. Companion piece to Blue, which was both a response to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
snarkyroxy's challenge and my twisted idea about why Snape might have used Wolfsbane as an excuse to go to Lupin's office that night in PoA. Unbeta'd, except for why_me_why_not's comments on the first section.
August 1994
“You must be prepared, Severus. This year, this school term, will be most productive for those who share our beliefs.”
I must have made the appropriate noises in response to Lucius’s sly, self-important declaration, for the conversation continued, touching upon his son’s expected progress in Potions and Slytherin’s chances for the Quidditch Cup. After a few minutes’ polite chatter, we took our leave of each other. Lucius left Knockturn Alley to meet Narcissa and Draco at Flourish & Blotts, and I returned to Slug & Jiggers Apothecary to finish procuring supplies for my personal brewing stores.
I cannot say that I am surprised by his pronouncement, after the contretemps at the Quidditch World Cup. Beyond that, my Mark has been slowly but steadily darkening since June. It was only a faint tracing, barely perceptible to a knowing eye, this time last year. Now its distinct shape is clearly discernable on my forearm, a sure sign that Dumbledore was right, the Dark Lord’s return is imminent.
The return of the mark of my youthful folly merely punctuated an already miserable summer, which has strained my health and my temper. Its ill beginning can be traced to the wretched Potter brat, of course. But if I am honest, I must admit that my own intemperance contributed as well; in a moment of self-indulgent weakness, I allowed myself succor in the embrace of Remus Lupin. My lapse, though immediately regretted and never repeated, held serious consequence. It was late in June that I confirmed the unexpected: I would deliver the werewolf’s spawn in the coming winter.
When I decided to approach Lupin to inform him of his impending fatherhood, I found his office empty, but a most curious piece of magic lay on his desk: a changing map, showing the occupants of Hogwarts Castle and environs. And when I saw Potter, Weasley, and Granger outside the castle walls, with Sirius Black nearby and Lupin on his way to meet them, I was unable to contain my rage and my glee. The former was a product of betrayal. Lupin, for all his overtures, had obviously chosen to return to his childhood friend and lover. But such glee – that I should be the one to capture Sirius Black and turn him over to be Kissed. I puzzled for an instant over the ‘Peter Pettigrew’ on the map. Surely it was a mistake.
I took up the parchment and headed out of the castle. As I followed the ever-changing tracks, I realized they were headed toward the Whomping Willow. More and more this had the hallmarks of a Marauder adventure, and it stirred memories I would prefer remained buried. When I reached the Willow’s base and calmed it, I found Potter’s cursed Invisibility Cloak. Armed with this, the map, and my wand, I felt secure enough to enter the tunnel.
When I approached the Shrieking Shack, I had to pause to steady my breath. Subdued panic from my proximity to the place that had nearly seen me savaged, anger and hurt at my current predicament, and triumph to have one over on Black at last and to receive an Order of Merlin out of it in the bargain; all combined to make it difficult to maintain my normal impassive demeanor.
Any of those wretched Gryffindors can confirm what transpired after my appearance in the Shack. Being struck by no less than three Disarming spells incapacitated me.
My return to consciousness was not pleasant. My entire body ached, I assume from being flung against the wall by the combined spells, and my head ached as well. The Weasley boy lay on the ground nearby, nearly comatose with pain, but the others had gone. I could hear a howl and a few canine whimpers in the distance, but ignored them. Lupin could rot for all I cared. I summoned help for the child and resumed my search for Black, Potter, and Granger. I found them unconscious near the lake and returned them to the castle. I greatly enjoyed tying and gagging Black.
I am certain that Dumbledore somehow arranged for Black to escape before the Dementors could be summoned, just as I know that Potter played some role in the escapade. Stupid child, making a scene, insisting that Pettigrew was alive, had been a rat for all these years. If I ever find out how he managed it…. But there was little to be done to prove my suspicions; as the Headmaster said, Potter, Granger, and Weasley had been isolated in the infirmary, and they couldn’t have reached the West Tower from there. The loss of the Order of Merlin was a bitter blow, I will admit. But equally painful was the sight of Remus Lupin the next morning at breakfast. He looked so much happier than he had all year, so positively lit with joy, even after the terrible physical pain of his monthly transformation, that I could not bear it. Of course my retaliation was bitter and vindictive – I do not fool myself into viewing my own motives with rose-colored glasses.
So Lupin was banished from the castle, and the students left for the holidays. Normally summer is my favorite time of year, but I was too ill to enjoy the blessed peace and silence. The dizziness, cramps, and nausea with which I had awakened in the Shrieking Shack worsened by the hour. Finally I was unable to rise from my desk without support. When I was able to drag myself to the infirmary, Madam Pomfrey confirmed my suspicions: the impact and spell damage from the multiple hexes had caused a miscarriage. Poppy’s discretion and competence are marvelous qualities, indeed; from her there were no questions, no lectures, no pity. She simply treated me, told me which potions would aid my recovery, and asked if I would care for a referral to a fertility counselor. I shudder even now to imagine such an interview.
When the Mark first began to darken, I put it off to simply being paler than usual. But as the summer and my illness passed, my color, sallow as it is, returned. Still the mark remained visible. Just this morning I was awakened near dawn by a twinge reminiscent of my old master’s call.
Thus Lucius’s cryptic warning was not a surprise, though it certainly was unwelcome.
This school year will be long and troublesome. I know it.
July 1995
‘Ssseverusss, my lossst sheep, my erstwhile ssspy…”
The hiss of the Dark Lord’s voice over my name sends a trickle of dread down my spine, but I prevent it from becoming a visible shudder.
The moment I have long feared has come at last. When Potter told his tale of Voldemort’s resurrection after the third task, I knew what Dumbledore would ask of me. I could not have refused, even had I wished to. The burning pain of his Call had tormented for long moments as we waited at the perimeter of the maze; only the knowledge that my absence from Tournament grounds would be noticed held me there. When I informed Dumbledore, his brow wrinkled with an emotion I had never before seen on his face: fear. Not of Tom Riddle, but for Harry Potter.
I suspected from the moment his name flew from the Goblet of Fire that there was someone at Hogwarts working against him, but I suspected Igor Karkaroff, never Moody. It was only when Mad-Eye disobeyed Dumbledore, removing Potter from the field of the contest, that I realized – all the missing stores, the accusations and odd behavior, even by Moody’s standards – he was an impostor.
While the sickening tale of Crouch’s plan was told, I girded myself for the task to come. My old master understands Slytherin cunning and self-interest. I knew that if I explained my allegiance to Dumbledore as a simple survival skill, he would probably accept it. I will most likely be punished for not immediately answering his Call, and I will not be trusted with sensitive information in the foreseeable future. But Voldemort values a spy in Dumbledore’s house too much to kill me or refuse my presence entirely.
I refocus my attention on the Dark Lord, awaiting his decree. When Peter Pettigrew, with his silver arm shining, steps out of the shadow, I manufacture a start of surprise.
“The Potter brat wasn’t lying about you last year, then, Pettigrew?”
“No, indeed, Snivellus. But I thank you for interrupting them, for distracting them enough later that I could escape. In return, I promise not to damage you… much.”
That is the way it will be, then. I brace myself, and both his and my Lord’s wands rise.
“Crucio!”
Late June 1996
A year ago I would have danced a jig at the news of Black’s death, but I am exhausted, so much so that I am almost indifferent to it. This has been possibly the most difficult year of my life.
The sight of Black and Lupin, cozy and snug at Grimmauld Place since last July, had been infuriating, given the discomfort I had endured in my return to the Dark Lord. I goaded them both, I know, but the knowledge that Black was sitting indoors, wasting his magic cleaning that wretched house, enraged me, particularly given some of the distasteful acts in which I was required to engage in my role as a loyal Death Eater.
As if that were not enough strain on my already short temper and drain of my few spare hours of solitude, Albus asked me to teach Potter to Occlude. The brat of course put no effort into his lessons, nor did he attempt to learn anything on his own. As angry as I was over his violation of my Pensieve, it was a relief to have him out of my dungeons.
The year worsened considerably when that foul Umbridge creature took over on the heels of Dumbledore’s vanishing act. The downward spiral culminated after exams with the interview in her office and the students’ flight to the Ministry’s Department of Mysteries.
The Dark Lord has raged ever since about the failure of his top lieutenants to capture either the Prophecy or Potter. I only barely escaped his wrath.
Much worse than Voldemort’s anger is Dumbledore’s disappointment. He trusted me to overcome my prejudice and hate of James Potter to teach his son to Occlude, and I failed him. I failed them both. For who else can teach the boy the restraint and the cunning he will need to vanquish his enemy?
Albus has been gone from the castle for several days, and he did not look well upon his return last night. He forwarded a potion recipe and requested that I deliver the philter and myself to his office this evening. I assume he has another task for me. I will not fail him again.
June 1997
I cannot cry. I will not.
Curse that wretched boy, and his mother and her promises. Damn Dumbledore and his.
I did not fail him this time. I am not a coward.
Potter had better be worth it.
July 1998
It is done. It is finally over, and I am free at last. Not on the run, no longer wanted by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Not required to return to a job for which I was unsuited.
It is thanks to Potter, all of it, and surprisingly, it does not pain me to admit it. We finally see each other for what we are, rather than what we expect to see.
When the boy found me, I was certain that he planned to kill me or to haul me to Azkaban. I would have acquiesced to the former. But he had no such intentions. Apparently Albus left him a letter and a Pensieve explaining my two Unbreakable Vows. He needed my help with the last Horcrux, the Ravenclaw shield, before he could destroy the Dark Lord. Once the fragment of soul enshrined in the shield had been destroyed, the boy left, and I heard nothing from him for weeks.
I woke in the middle of the night three weeks ago to a searing pain from my Mark, worse than any Summons had ever been. Minutes or hours might have passed when, abruptly as it had begun, the pain ceased. When I staggered to the bath and lit the lamps, I saw that the Dark Mark had disappeared. Entirely this time, with not even the faintest trace remaining.
Potter doesn’t speak of that night. I have not asked him, and I will not. I am perhaps the only person who has not, and I believe he finds my silence on the matter comforting. Weasley and Granger pester him to talk, to spend time together, to join them in Auror school, but he has declined. He says he has seen enough Darkness and violence to last a lifetime.
Lupin, who lost Tonks in the last days of the Struggle, focuses all his worry and affection on the boy. He objects to my presence at Grimmauld Place, but Potter is adamant that I stay here until the remaining Death Eaters are captured or killed.
Tomorrow the Daily Prophet will publish Potter's testimony to my innocence of Dumbledore’s murder.
I will walk through Diagon Alley undisguised for the first time in a year. I will browse the Potions section of Flourish and Blotts. I will meet Narcissa and Draco at the Leaky Cauldron for tea before they leave for Paris. Perhaps I will inspect one of the vacant buildings for its suitability to be a Potions laboratory and shop.
I am free.
Warning: reference to mpreg
Genre: Gen
Disclaimer: If it looks like a character created by JKR, that's because it IS.
Summary: Snape's year-in-review thoughts from Year 3 through Year 7 of Harry's schooling. Companion piece to Blue, which was both a response to
snarkyroxy's challenge and my twisted idea about why Snape might have used Wolfsbane as an excuse to go to Lupin's office that night in PoA. Unbeta'd, except for why_me_why_not's comments on the first section.August 1994
“You must be prepared, Severus. This year, this school term, will be most productive for those who share our beliefs.”
I must have made the appropriate noises in response to Lucius’s sly, self-important declaration, for the conversation continued, touching upon his son’s expected progress in Potions and Slytherin’s chances for the Quidditch Cup. After a few minutes’ polite chatter, we took our leave of each other. Lucius left Knockturn Alley to meet Narcissa and Draco at Flourish & Blotts, and I returned to Slug & Jiggers Apothecary to finish procuring supplies for my personal brewing stores.
I cannot say that I am surprised by his pronouncement, after the contretemps at the Quidditch World Cup. Beyond that, my Mark has been slowly but steadily darkening since June. It was only a faint tracing, barely perceptible to a knowing eye, this time last year. Now its distinct shape is clearly discernable on my forearm, a sure sign that Dumbledore was right, the Dark Lord’s return is imminent.
The return of the mark of my youthful folly merely punctuated an already miserable summer, which has strained my health and my temper. Its ill beginning can be traced to the wretched Potter brat, of course. But if I am honest, I must admit that my own intemperance contributed as well; in a moment of self-indulgent weakness, I allowed myself succor in the embrace of Remus Lupin. My lapse, though immediately regretted and never repeated, held serious consequence. It was late in June that I confirmed the unexpected: I would deliver the werewolf’s spawn in the coming winter.
When I decided to approach Lupin to inform him of his impending fatherhood, I found his office empty, but a most curious piece of magic lay on his desk: a changing map, showing the occupants of Hogwarts Castle and environs. And when I saw Potter, Weasley, and Granger outside the castle walls, with Sirius Black nearby and Lupin on his way to meet them, I was unable to contain my rage and my glee. The former was a product of betrayal. Lupin, for all his overtures, had obviously chosen to return to his childhood friend and lover. But such glee – that I should be the one to capture Sirius Black and turn him over to be Kissed. I puzzled for an instant over the ‘Peter Pettigrew’ on the map. Surely it was a mistake.
I took up the parchment and headed out of the castle. As I followed the ever-changing tracks, I realized they were headed toward the Whomping Willow. More and more this had the hallmarks of a Marauder adventure, and it stirred memories I would prefer remained buried. When I reached the Willow’s base and calmed it, I found Potter’s cursed Invisibility Cloak. Armed with this, the map, and my wand, I felt secure enough to enter the tunnel.
When I approached the Shrieking Shack, I had to pause to steady my breath. Subdued panic from my proximity to the place that had nearly seen me savaged, anger and hurt at my current predicament, and triumph to have one over on Black at last and to receive an Order of Merlin out of it in the bargain; all combined to make it difficult to maintain my normal impassive demeanor.
Any of those wretched Gryffindors can confirm what transpired after my appearance in the Shack. Being struck by no less than three Disarming spells incapacitated me.
My return to consciousness was not pleasant. My entire body ached, I assume from being flung against the wall by the combined spells, and my head ached as well. The Weasley boy lay on the ground nearby, nearly comatose with pain, but the others had gone. I could hear a howl and a few canine whimpers in the distance, but ignored them. Lupin could rot for all I cared. I summoned help for the child and resumed my search for Black, Potter, and Granger. I found them unconscious near the lake and returned them to the castle. I greatly enjoyed tying and gagging Black.
I am certain that Dumbledore somehow arranged for Black to escape before the Dementors could be summoned, just as I know that Potter played some role in the escapade. Stupid child, making a scene, insisting that Pettigrew was alive, had been a rat for all these years. If I ever find out how he managed it…. But there was little to be done to prove my suspicions; as the Headmaster said, Potter, Granger, and Weasley had been isolated in the infirmary, and they couldn’t have reached the West Tower from there. The loss of the Order of Merlin was a bitter blow, I will admit. But equally painful was the sight of Remus Lupin the next morning at breakfast. He looked so much happier than he had all year, so positively lit with joy, even after the terrible physical pain of his monthly transformation, that I could not bear it. Of course my retaliation was bitter and vindictive – I do not fool myself into viewing my own motives with rose-colored glasses.
So Lupin was banished from the castle, and the students left for the holidays. Normally summer is my favorite time of year, but I was too ill to enjoy the blessed peace and silence. The dizziness, cramps, and nausea with which I had awakened in the Shrieking Shack worsened by the hour. Finally I was unable to rise from my desk without support. When I was able to drag myself to the infirmary, Madam Pomfrey confirmed my suspicions: the impact and spell damage from the multiple hexes had caused a miscarriage. Poppy’s discretion and competence are marvelous qualities, indeed; from her there were no questions, no lectures, no pity. She simply treated me, told me which potions would aid my recovery, and asked if I would care for a referral to a fertility counselor. I shudder even now to imagine such an interview.
When the Mark first began to darken, I put it off to simply being paler than usual. But as the summer and my illness passed, my color, sallow as it is, returned. Still the mark remained visible. Just this morning I was awakened near dawn by a twinge reminiscent of my old master’s call.
Thus Lucius’s cryptic warning was not a surprise, though it certainly was unwelcome.
This school year will be long and troublesome. I know it.
July 1995
‘Ssseverusss, my lossst sheep, my erstwhile ssspy…”
The hiss of the Dark Lord’s voice over my name sends a trickle of dread down my spine, but I prevent it from becoming a visible shudder.
The moment I have long feared has come at last. When Potter told his tale of Voldemort’s resurrection after the third task, I knew what Dumbledore would ask of me. I could not have refused, even had I wished to. The burning pain of his Call had tormented for long moments as we waited at the perimeter of the maze; only the knowledge that my absence from Tournament grounds would be noticed held me there. When I informed Dumbledore, his brow wrinkled with an emotion I had never before seen on his face: fear. Not of Tom Riddle, but for Harry Potter.
I suspected from the moment his name flew from the Goblet of Fire that there was someone at Hogwarts working against him, but I suspected Igor Karkaroff, never Moody. It was only when Mad-Eye disobeyed Dumbledore, removing Potter from the field of the contest, that I realized – all the missing stores, the accusations and odd behavior, even by Moody’s standards – he was an impostor.
While the sickening tale of Crouch’s plan was told, I girded myself for the task to come. My old master understands Slytherin cunning and self-interest. I knew that if I explained my allegiance to Dumbledore as a simple survival skill, he would probably accept it. I will most likely be punished for not immediately answering his Call, and I will not be trusted with sensitive information in the foreseeable future. But Voldemort values a spy in Dumbledore’s house too much to kill me or refuse my presence entirely.
I refocus my attention on the Dark Lord, awaiting his decree. When Peter Pettigrew, with his silver arm shining, steps out of the shadow, I manufacture a start of surprise.
“The Potter brat wasn’t lying about you last year, then, Pettigrew?”
“No, indeed, Snivellus. But I thank you for interrupting them, for distracting them enough later that I could escape. In return, I promise not to damage you… much.”
That is the way it will be, then. I brace myself, and both his and my Lord’s wands rise.
“Crucio!”
Late June 1996
A year ago I would have danced a jig at the news of Black’s death, but I am exhausted, so much so that I am almost indifferent to it. This has been possibly the most difficult year of my life.
The sight of Black and Lupin, cozy and snug at Grimmauld Place since last July, had been infuriating, given the discomfort I had endured in my return to the Dark Lord. I goaded them both, I know, but the knowledge that Black was sitting indoors, wasting his magic cleaning that wretched house, enraged me, particularly given some of the distasteful acts in which I was required to engage in my role as a loyal Death Eater.
As if that were not enough strain on my already short temper and drain of my few spare hours of solitude, Albus asked me to teach Potter to Occlude. The brat of course put no effort into his lessons, nor did he attempt to learn anything on his own. As angry as I was over his violation of my Pensieve, it was a relief to have him out of my dungeons.
The year worsened considerably when that foul Umbridge creature took over on the heels of Dumbledore’s vanishing act. The downward spiral culminated after exams with the interview in her office and the students’ flight to the Ministry’s Department of Mysteries.
The Dark Lord has raged ever since about the failure of his top lieutenants to capture either the Prophecy or Potter. I only barely escaped his wrath.
Much worse than Voldemort’s anger is Dumbledore’s disappointment. He trusted me to overcome my prejudice and hate of James Potter to teach his son to Occlude, and I failed him. I failed them both. For who else can teach the boy the restraint and the cunning he will need to vanquish his enemy?
Albus has been gone from the castle for several days, and he did not look well upon his return last night. He forwarded a potion recipe and requested that I deliver the philter and myself to his office this evening. I assume he has another task for me. I will not fail him again.
June 1997
I cannot cry. I will not.
Curse that wretched boy, and his mother and her promises. Damn Dumbledore and his.
I did not fail him this time. I am not a coward.
Potter had better be worth it.
July 1998
It is done. It is finally over, and I am free at last. Not on the run, no longer wanted by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Not required to return to a job for which I was unsuited.
It is thanks to Potter, all of it, and surprisingly, it does not pain me to admit it. We finally see each other for what we are, rather than what we expect to see.
When the boy found me, I was certain that he planned to kill me or to haul me to Azkaban. I would have acquiesced to the former. But he had no such intentions. Apparently Albus left him a letter and a Pensieve explaining my two Unbreakable Vows. He needed my help with the last Horcrux, the Ravenclaw shield, before he could destroy the Dark Lord. Once the fragment of soul enshrined in the shield had been destroyed, the boy left, and I heard nothing from him for weeks.
I woke in the middle of the night three weeks ago to a searing pain from my Mark, worse than any Summons had ever been. Minutes or hours might have passed when, abruptly as it had begun, the pain ceased. When I staggered to the bath and lit the lamps, I saw that the Dark Mark had disappeared. Entirely this time, with not even the faintest trace remaining.
Potter doesn’t speak of that night. I have not asked him, and I will not. I am perhaps the only person who has not, and I believe he finds my silence on the matter comforting. Weasley and Granger pester him to talk, to spend time together, to join them in Auror school, but he has declined. He says he has seen enough Darkness and violence to last a lifetime.
Lupin, who lost Tonks in the last days of the Struggle, focuses all his worry and affection on the boy. He objects to my presence at Grimmauld Place, but Potter is adamant that I stay here until the remaining Death Eaters are captured or killed.
Tomorrow the Daily Prophet will publish Potter's testimony to my innocence of Dumbledore’s murder.
I will walk through Diagon Alley undisguised for the first time in a year. I will browse the Potions section of Flourish and Blotts. I will meet Narcissa and Draco at the Leaky Cauldron for tea before they leave for Paris. Perhaps I will inspect one of the vacant buildings for its suitability to be a Potions laboratory and shop.
I am free.
