It Takes a Miracle

PART 2

Chapter 11 – Even in death the life goes on


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Snape never liked to chaperone Hogsmeade weekends. There was no way around it, though. Once every term he had to do it. Now, after the defeat of Voldermort, these weekends had become even harder to manage than before, if that was possible. Today was no exception: students were too happy; Hogsmeade’s shopkeepers were too cheerful; and, to top it off, the weather was beautiful.

Snape spent some time prowling the streets of the village. He scared a few students and deducted a healthy number of points from each House to make sure that no outrageous mischief was going to take place with him in charge of this outing. Now he could have his drink without worrying about unruly students.

He headed to a tiny bar in a shady alleyway on the outskirts of the village. The good thing about the bar was that none of the students knew about the establishment. The owner, a dirty bear of a man, did not advertise, preferring to serve only those who he knew personally. That did not make any commercial sense at all, and Snape suspected there were illegal substances available behind the counter, but never intended to prove it. This was the place where no questions were asked, and Snape wasn’t one to complain. Here, nobody bothered him. Perfect.

He walked up to a shabby old house with a broken window on the second floor. There was no sign or pointer, but Snape knew exactly what to do. He looked around to confirm that no one was watching him, touched the door with his wand and muttered something under his breath. The door opened with a screech, and Snape stepped into a smelly, dimly lit room with a bar counter and several empty tables.

He got his drink and took it to one of the tables. He sat gracefully, stretched his long legs, and took a sip of his scotch. Amazingly, the place served really good stuff. Snape looked at his watch and figured that he could spend at least an hour here before going out and taking all the dunderheads back to school.

The liquid in Snape’s glass rippled notably as he lowered his drink slowly to the table (at least the barkeeper knew by now to give him his scotch in an oversized goblet). Although the shaking of his hands had become much less severe lately, he, who had perfected the fluidity of movements, took even a tiny spill as an insult. He was told that there was some hope for a complete recovery, but he doubted it – it had been over three months since his hands were damaged, and he should have healed by now. The fact that he hadn’t drove him mad. A Potions Master, who couldn’t chop ingredients, or stir, or measure, or… What a joke. Then again, what did it matter? Hopefully, today Dumbledore would finally meet with him.

He handed his resignation to the Headmaster on Wednesday. If Albus was surprised, he did not let it show. All he said was that before he signed the papers they would have a talk. Since then, the old wizard had been skillfully avoiding the Potions Master.

“He’ll sign them,” thought Snape calmly. He took a sip, and involuntary swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “He has no reason not to let me go. I bet, he will try to talk me out of it, and then will wish me good luck.” He was sure that Dumbledore did not suspect his true intentions. Why should he? The war was over. Life was good. Have a lemon drop.

Snape snarled. He had a very simple plan, which he thought of over and over again. He would leave Hogwarts and return to Spinner’s End. Nobody would question his decision to retire considering the fact that he couldn’t make the simplest of potions with his shaking hands. He would wait a bit and then have a nice little blast, which would level his damn house, and raise a couple of yards of land around it in the air. People would assume that he just couldn’t stay away from potions, and… A simple accident. No suspicions. No traces of anything. Not that there would be any one left to care about his blemished yet-again honor. Still, he could not make himself commit a simple suicide. Besides, he did not want to have Hogwarts be associated with something like that. Better be a nice clean blast.


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Gerry woke up, when the morning was still night, and the dark skies behind her window didn’t reflect any signs of the rising sun. She was tired. She needed to sleep. But she knew that any attempt now was going to be futile. Without the potion there was no hope of falling back to sleep, but she would not waste the precious liquid for a mere couple of hours of shut-eye. And so Gerry settled for yet another torturous vigil.

She hated these early hours. Well, to be absolutely truthful, she hated nights, period. The late hours, the early hours, the in-between hours. Hours when she couldn’t fall asleep tossing and turning endlessly. Hours when she slept, screaming and crying through her customary nightmares. Hours, like these, when she lay awake staring into the ceiling, or the wall, or the window, forcing herself not to think for the umpteenth time just how she could’ve fucked up her life so completely so fast.

She didn’t want to think about it. What was the use, if nothing could be done? Gerry sighed and turned to face the dirty wall. Absolutely nothing. She sighed again and lay on her back. If only she could get a decent job… If only she could pay for school… If only she could...

“Oh, stop it!” she snapped.

When the first rays of the rising sun peeked through her window, Gerry drowsily, limb by limb, dragged her body from under the covers. In the bathroom, while going about the morning routine, she carefully avoided looking at her reflection in the mirror. At least the thing was Muggle, otherwise she would have to endure some unpleasant remark concerning her appearance. Not that she cared. Still, she’d rather avoid the nasty comments.

Having finished a cup of coffee in lieu of breakfast, Gerry was almost out the door when she noticed a gray owl tapping at her window. The owl didn’t look familiar, but she let it in and untied a letter from its leg. Before she had a chance to take a closer look at the letter, the extremely annoying voice of her alarm clock began its lecture in a high whining voice.

“Another minute, Missy, and you will be late. That, my dear, may result in a loss of your job that you can’t afford to lose.”

Ignoring the clock, Gerry concentrated on the letter. When she saw who it was from, she had to sit down and take a deep breath. Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Her fingers trembling, Gerry opened the letter and skimmed it quickly. No, there was no mention of Snape. Right, why would Dumbledore write to her about Snape? No reason at all. Gerry took another deep breath and read the letter. Apparently, Dumbledore was planning on being in London tomorrow and offering her to have a dinner with him in a restaurant of her choice.

“That would be nice,” Gerry thought wishfully. She would love to have dinner with Dumbledore. The only trouble was, she absolutely could not afford it. No way, no how. The last time she was able to pay for her dinner was a lifetime ago.

The alarm clock was jumping out of its case. It started shouting insults and demanding action from Gerry, who kept on sitting with the letter in her hand. She had to start moving. She would write “thank you, but no, thank you” after work. She looked at the letter for the last time and saw a P.S. at the bottom (which she could have sworn was not there a minute ago). In the P.S. Dumbledore was letting her know that he would be in London on official school business, hence all of his expenses, including a complimentary dinner for two, would be fully reimbursed. Gerry laughed out loud - the old wizard was incredible.


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He was fuming. He was so sure that today he would finally have “the talk” with Dumbledore. “The talk” that would set him free. But the old fox was avoiding him like a plague.

Snape took a sip. Lately, he figured out a way to get thoroughly drunk without bathing himself in alcohol. With no need for decorum in his own quarters, all he had to do was to drink straight from the bottle. Even the worst of shaking his hands achieved, when his self-control would be severely diluted by scotch, didn’t result in much of spilling. Besides, why bother with glassware, when smashing a bottle into the wall was infinitely more satisfying – noisier and no need for repairs.

“Damn you, Albus,” Snape thought angrily, recalling his conversation with Minerva.

“He is staying in London for dinner, Severus,” explained the witch. “There are some people he wanted to meet.”

“I’ve been trying to meet with him for three days,” spat Snape, but McGonagall only shrugged nonchalantly, ignoring his tone.

The first bottle went to hit the wall. Snape’s gaze followed it to the point of breaking and then lazily moved around the room. It used to be quite cozy here – a little fireplace, a soft leather chaise, even a decent-sized window overlooking the lake. Nice place to read, to relax… It felt somehow odious now. Like it belong to someone else. Someone who didn’t like it here at all… Someone who couldn’t pick up after himself, but would never let a house elf in to clean… Someone who stank of alcohol and despair… Someone who shouldn’t be here at all…

Snape took another sip and had to use both hands to rest the bottle next to him. Grimly, he thought that he never used to drink this much before. Before the war… Before the Potion… The Potions… Shit, he always could find other distractions to numb the pain, to silence the doubts: there were books to read, and potions to prepare, and research to conduct… Nothing worked anymore… Nothing, except for this…

Snape sipped again, thinking that it was truly a shame for a Potions Master to resort to this crude stuff. On the other hand, he wasn’t really a Potions Master anymore, so he could discard the unsupportable arrogance. Which he had... Besides, he only needed to last until summer. Who cared how? The alcohol wiped out his memories, and thoughts, and feelings. At least for a short while. It all would come back later, of course, in full force, crushing Snape under its weight, making him powerless, making him weak… Making him pathetic… But for a short while it would be better…

Snape’s vision was getting blurry, and he closed his eyes to avoid the nauseatingly smudged view of his living room. He realized right away that it was a mistake, because almost immediately onto the back of his eyelids sprang the images he never wanted to see again: the cold dark dungeons of Malfoy Manor, the laughing faces of Crabbe and Goyle, their wands pointed at him, his body, or whatever remained of it, hanging lifeless on the invisible chains in the middle of the room…

Snape’s eyes flew open. Wasn’t he drinking to forget, not to recall? Bloody fucking shit. The two Neanderthals (with their Neanderthal sons) had been dead for three months, and still they continued to torture him. To laugh at him… They were all laughing at him…

He threw a bottle at the wall, and regretted it almost instantly. It was still half-full, so in addition to the pile of broken glass, his living room now had a puddle of very good scotch. Shit. Snape reached for his wand, but after a moment of hesitation left the broken glass and the puddle intact – the night was long, and there was no point to cleaning the mess, which he planned to amplify in the next several hours. Instead, he “accio’d” another bottle, and gulped a mouthful. The hot prickling spread all over his body.

“Just a bit more,” he promised himself, hoping against all hopes that tonight he would manage to pass out without going through the “trial.” But his tired mind, longing for oblivion, was giving up the control too willingly, lowering its guard too fast. And so, the little voice in the back of his head, which used to be just a unpleasant nuisance, was beginning to rise (as it did way too often lately), turning into a righteous prosecutor with the only accused – him. Snape gulped another mouthful, and managed to brace himself for the torture.

He cringed only a little when the customary first question hit. “Why you?”

Somewhere deep inside, his Slytherin personality choked in indignation, “It is a completely inappropriate question. Don’t answer it. You did what you were supposed to do – survive.” But he couldn’t ignore the question, he gave away the right to, and so he tried to answer: lucky? skilled? He would never admit it to anyone, but the sheer dumb luck was definitely on his side during the war. As to the last battle, to be absolutely truthful, he didn’t even remember how he survived it. He came to when it was all over. But in the assault on Hogwarts, he fought, tooth and nail. He had a purpose then, didn’t he? Besides, saving the children, obviously. Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle. Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle. The three names he kept repeating all through the attack. They couldn’t laugh at him anymore: Malfoy was awaiting trial (unfortunately for Snape, the Aurors got the blond fox before he managed to enter Hogwarts’ grounds), and his two cronies had their bodies blown to shreds by one of Snape’s more innovative uses of potions (they made it in alright, but then they had a little “chat” with the Potions Master).

Snape smirked unpleasantly, taking another sip from the bottle, but the “trial” was far from over. Rather the opposite, the accusations were attacking his partially inebriated mind like a pack of hungry wolves.

“You betrayed your friends, didn’t you?”

“They were not my friends.” The smirk slid from his face leaving a pained expression in its stead.

“They were when they defended you in school, weren’t they? They were when you took the stupid Mark, weren’t they? They were when you gloated together over the “used” bodies of unfortunate Muggles, weren’t they? They were your friends. You were like them. No, you were worse. You are worse. They, at least, didn’t turn on you.”

He really didn’t do well with guilt, or remorse. And now, his will incomplete, Snape was crumbling under the agonizing weight.

“You’ve sold your old friends, but you didn’t do much for your new ones.” That wasn’t fair, not at all. But was life ever fair to Severus Snape? Not when he deserved it, not when he didn’t. “You could have saved a lot of people, but you chose not to. Killing somebody to keep your cover as a spy is still a murder.”

Snape gulped at least a quarter of a bottle in one go. His breath hitched as his throat struggled to accept the searing assault of the alcohol, but nothing could compare to the pain that reaped through his insides. He was never a praying type, but at this moment he would pray to any deity for relief. Who would listen to a scum, though? Indeed, who?

The room suddenly was full of shadow-like people: children and adults, wizards and Muggles. They just stood there, looking at Snape. He knew who they were. Some he recognized, some – he didn’t, but he knew all of them died because of him.

“Look at them, remember their faces!” bellowed the voice in his head, not so little anymore. “Savor the fruits of your labor – death and destruction!”

Snape closed his eyes and brought the bottle to his lips. When he made the decision to contribute to the Potion, he knew it would come to this. He just hoped he would be able to handle it better. He sighed and force more scotch in, not paying any attention to the bile slowly rising from the depth of his stomach. Death by choking on his own vomit seemed bliss to him right now.

“Look at them, coward!”

Snape carefully opened his eyes, but didn’t see shadow-like people anymore. Instead, he found himself in the middle of a ghostly field - dirty snow covering the ground, black leafless trees sticking their naked branches up.

“Recognize this?” Yes, it was the place of the final battle. “Do you see all those wizards and witches you could have saved?” Snape gasped as one by one the bodies, twisted in agony of death, began to appear here and there, spread on the dirty snow. He thought he recognized Tonk’s bright pink hair, and Kingsly’s dragon-hide cloak, Weasley’s gift, and…

“What happened in the final battle?” the prosecuting voice interrupted, “You, one of the best duelists in the country, were knocked out almost right away. Did you even try to fight?”

“I don’t know… I don’t remember.” Snape was desperately trying not to snivel. He dropped to his knees, burying his face in his shaking hands. “I don’t know… I don’t remember…”

“How convenient,” the little voice said softly, back to its usual sniggering self.

It took Snape some time to force himself to calm down a little, but he managed. After all, he spent a lifetime perfecting his self-control...

“It is because of the Potion. It is only because of the Potion,” he persuaded himself, although he knew better.

Finally, he carefully opened his eyes. He was sitting on the chaise in his empty living room, pressing a bottle of scotch to his chest. He was shaking all over, as if the temperature of the room suddenly dropped below the freezing point. Taking the bottle to his mouth, Snape forced in another gulp.

“Oh, come on, already,” he urged the scotch to poison his blood, to numb his mind. “I can’t take it anymore.”

“Why can’t you?” the little voice nastily chuckled. “A murderer, a turncoat, a coward, and a liar – what a combination. And before the war you thought that being a greasy ugly git was bad, and worried about your non-existent honor. Idiot.” Snape shook his head, swallowed a quick mouthful of alcohol and coughed, wondering if he should really wait for summer. More like if he could wait for summer. He did have a nice collection of undetectable substances that could end anybody’s misery quickly and painlessly. What must he wait for?

“Why did you survive?” the mean little bugger was rising again. “You shouldn’t have, you know that, don’t you? You didn’t deserve it, bastard. You know you’re taking somebody else’s place, don’t you?”

“I know!” Snape screamed out loud, and threw another bottle at the wall. Under the accompaniment of shattering glass he whispered, “I am sorry… I am so sorry…”


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Gerry spent two days guessing what it was Dumbledore wanted to talk to her about. She had no doubt in her mind there was a good reason for the old wizard to extend an invitation like that to her. She went from the most far-fetched explanations like “he is in town and has nobody to go to a restaurant with” to the ones she feared the most like “he wants to know if it was me who didn’t leave the fucking Death Eater the way he should be – dead”.

Gerry was so preoccupied with these musings that she completely forgot to take care of more mundane things, such as what to wear, and what to do with her hair. So, when Saturday night came, it hit her with full force - she was going out with one of the most famous wizards in the world, the hailed hero of the recent war, and she didn’t give a thought to her appearance. Considering the fact that Gerry hadn’t gone out in quite some time, it was shaping up to become a big problem.

Gerry managed to leave the store early, so she would have some time to get back home and make at least an effort to get herself presentable. Rummaging through her skimpy wardrobe, she soon realized that she had absolutely nothing appropriate. The couple of dress robes she owned were hanging on her thinned frame, and no amount of transfiguring made them fit her well. She was really no good at tailoring spells, was she? Gerry looked sadly at her reflection in the mirror, thanking all the gods yet again that it wasn’t a talking one.

But no matter how bad the robe sat on her, at least it didn’t try to run away, like the hair, which outright refused to get styled in any kind of form or fashion. Gerry didn’t want to be late, and so with an angry scowl she spelled her long tresses into a simple ponytail. There. She considered her reflection for a moment longer, and admitting total defeat, turned around to leave.

The restaurant she had picked was not the most expensive or posh, but it had class. At this hour it was quite busy, and even with the reservations Dumbledore had made, they had to wait to be shown to the table. Standing in the hallway with the old wizard, Gerry kept berating herself inwardly. She could’ve picked a simpler place, couldn’t she? She could’ve spent more effort on her clothes, hair and make-up, couldn’t she? But it was too late for that now, and desperately trying not to fidget, Gerry was chewing violently on her lip and silently urging the maître d' to get them seated as soon as possible.

Dumbledore, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying himself tremendously. He was already there, chatting with an ancient couple, when Gerry walked in. After all the greeting and introductions, and necessary pleasantries, the couple left and Dumbledore turned to Gerry, smiling.

“I reckon I should thank you for choosing this establishment. My friends just informed me that it is one of the “hot” spots. Is it?”

The old wizard’s blue eyes were twinkling brightly behind his half-moon glasses, and Gerry gratefully felt herself relax a bit. It was impossible to stand next to Dumbledore, all amiability and good humor, and agonize about clothes and the like. Besides, the wizard was so famous and dressed so…er…cheerfully that out of two of them, he was the one to draw all the attention.

He was wearing one of his more festive robes (Gerry’s week at Hogwarts revealed the Headmaster’s tastes to be a bit on the extravagant side, so now she wasn’t shocked by a bright yellow garment embroidered with purple constellations), and a hat to match. The said hat swayed back and forth every couple of minutes, when yet another passing wizard or witch stopped to greet the Headmaster.

Finally, they were seated, and Gerry, with a sigh of total relief, hid from the rest of the hall behind a tall bush planted in a barrel next to their table. Dumbledore looked apologetically at her.

“They all went to Hogwarts, Ms. Ardant. I am a part of their childhood.”

“I understand, Headmaster,” Gerry readily dismissed the apology. “It’s alright. And you can call me Gerry.”

“Shall we order then, Gerry?” the old wizard smiled.

From the start, their conversation took a pleasant, unassuming tone, and by the time the salad was eaten, Gerry found herself laughing at the old wizard’s stories from his teaching days. From there, somehow they switched to a heated discussion of the latest Quidditch Championship game. By the middle of the main course, she totally forgot to worry about either her unsuitable appearance, or the reason Dumbledore had invited her. She felt so comfortable in the old wizard’s company, that she also stopped pretending she wasn’t that hungry, and practically shoved the food in her mouth.

“So, Gerry, how is your research? Does it have to do with…that thing of yours?” The questions came as a big surprise.

“I am sorry, Headmaster, but…” The young witch was looking at Dumbledore furring her brow. “What research?”

The wizard didn’t answer right away, regarding Gerry thoughtfully.

“What research?” Gerry asked again dumbly. But then it hit her. “Oh, oh… Oh, yes… It’s going fine. I am working on it… It’s…yes…”

She stopped realizing how unconvincing she sounded. The old wizard was still looking at her, patiently waiting for the rest of her explanation. However, Gerry didn’t make an attempt to continue. Instead, she glued her eyes to a lonely squashed pea, left on her plate.

“I had a tea with Professor Lee recently, and he told me that one of his best students just left the University, rather unexpectedly, to pursue an independent research.”

Gerry’s ears felt hot, and she kept glaring at the pea.

“What happened, Gerry?” the old wizard asked softly. “Does it have anything to do with Mr. Tresini?”

Gerry sobbed. Suddenly, the three months of sleepless nights and exhausting days, of lack of money and ever-present sickness, of absence of hope and friends – it all came crushing down on her, and Gerry couldn’t stop talking about her dirty little flat, infested with all kinds of insects, and mindless job in a butcher shop, that paid next to nothing, and the University, that she missed so much…

Dumbledore interrupted the flow of her tale. “Mr. Tresini…”

“No, no, he has nothing to do with any of it!” Gerry protested.

The old wizard nodded and tried again. “Why did you have to leave the University?”

Gerry paused for a moment before confessing, “I had no money. I couldn’t afford to pay for anything. I needed a job.” She really wasn’t good at lying, and finally she had to a chance to tell the truth that she hid from everybody for so long. At least a part of it.

“And you couldn’t do the apprenticeship for the same reason,” guessed Dumbledore.

Gerry stiffly jerked her head down. She appreciated the chance to talk about her situation, but she didn’t want to appear needy or ungrateful. She would be able to solve her problems. She was a big girl.

“Why didn’t you try to get a professional job? From what I understand, you are excellent in Transfigurations, and Herbology. I am sure, that the job…whatever it is you do in the butcher shop…is not the best application of you skills,” said Dumbledore.

Gerry hesitated, but frankly it was too late for doubts. So she explained, “I have this…problem, Headmaster. The dizzy spells. Sometimes I just blackout. It is hard to find a place for somebody who drops to the floor every couple of hours or so.” She sighed. “At least in the shop, I can fix everything I mess up, when I fall.”

“There are potions for that, my child.” Dumbledore’s eyes were full of concern.

“Yes, well…” Gerry almost whispered, “they cost a lot.”

The old wizard took a sip of his tea and said kindly, “Have a piece of cake, my child. It looks delicious.”
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A/N A huge thanks to my beta Odddoll