It Takes a Miracle

Chapter 16 – You can stop the pain if you will it all away


00000
Before she opened her eyes, she thought with surprise about her headache and a taste of rotten sand in her mouth. Her recollections of the previous night’s events were hazy at best, and her every effort to concentrate was too painful to yield any results except for wincing.

“Shit,” she murmured peering from under her eyelashes. The world was just too bright for her this morning, and she dived back under the blanket.

Several moments had passed before her eyes were completely open, and she took a chance to yet again try to recall what happened to her yesterday. Little by little, it all was coming back to her – the potion brewing, the fight with Snape, the drinks with Jay, the kiss…

Gerry gingerly sifted through yesterday’s events, memories of which were livening up, and becoming more vivid and detailed by the minute. With that, the situation at hand was also becoming clearer, and Gerry groaned as her mind wrapped itself around it. It was not good at all. It looked like the winning combination of her temper and her stupidity, with a light touch of her carelessness, pushed her in a tight corner. Yet again.

Shit. Just fucking great. Gerry groaned for the second time, burying her face into the pillow. How could she cause so much damage to her own life in one day? There’s got to be a reward for an achievement like that. How could she be so immature, so foolish? In the course of several hours, she had an all-out clash with a professor of the school, which she had just started working at. Then, as a result, she abandoned the unfinished potion, and now was facing an undetermined amount of time when she wouldn’t be able to control her dizzy spells, let alone the fact that a set of perfectly good ingredients could now probably be considered wasted, and she might be asked to compensate for it. And, to top it all off, she let herself get so drunk that she almost ended up in bed with… Oh fuck. Now she may lose her best friend here. Shit, shit, shit!

How could it ever come to this? Last afternoon she went to Snape’s lab with the best of intentions – she wanted the truce. She thought she would show him how good she was at potion making. She hoped she would finally be able to apologize properly for her behavior last Sunday. She planned to explain to him she would never invade his lab if it weren’t vital to her to have that potion. She wanted… Oh Merlin, she wanted him to at least stop scowling at her.

“Dream on,” thought Gerry bitterly. With the acuteness of her umbrage to his behavior having dulled overnight, she felt absolutely miserable about her own conduct, and the consequences she was about to face. Snape would most probably make sure she was fired before Monday. The utter bastard he was, he wouldn’t hesitate to go and complain about her – the screaming row, the wasting of his time and ingredients, the assault on him, and all. And of course, he would be right, because notwithstanding all the nasty things he had said, he had let her work in his lab, he had provided everything he was asked of, and HE HAD NEVER POINTED A WAND AT HER.

It was breakfast time when Gerry strode purposefully out of her rooms. She knew what she had to do, and the hangover headache that had firmly settled in the back of her head was an excellent reminder of what she set herself to remedy.

Riding the stairs down to the ground floor, she was calm and resolute. If worse comes to worse, she would behave as a mature adult and accept the consequence of her actions. No matter how harsh those consequences were going to be, she would be able to handle them.

The giggling of a couple of young students in front of her pulled her out of her sad musings, and she felt a little smile tagging at the corners of her mouth. However, the very next moment she caught a glimpse of a tall black-robed figure sweeping towards the Great Hall, and her resolve vanished. She stepped off of the stairs gingerly and, instead of turning to the Great Hall as groups of students around her did, she headed in the opposite direction.


00000
It seemed he didn’t step, but felt into the hidden archway that led to the back stairs. His vision fogged, Snape stumbled all the way down, grabbing fiercely at the railings or clawing the wall stones to regain his balance when he would stagger over two-three steps at a time. He fell once, ripping the helm of his robes, the sharp pain shooting in his hurt knee. But he jumped back up, and continued his frantic descent. He didn’t feel the burning of his palms scraped raw on the rough surfaces of the metal and stone. He didn’t care about the hardness of cold stone walls, which he collided with mercilessly, failing to turn on the landings. He didn’t pay attention to the protests of his lungs unable to receive sufficient amount of air. He had to move.

The fury, a pure unadulterated fury, exploded inside him, when he saw the two of them kiss. His first reaction was to lunge, to grab, to curse, to scream, and it was really a miracle he managed not to. Only when running down the stairs, he let go, and the flames of his fury, which were scorching his insides, began to spill out in hissed curses.

He took his first full breath when the icy air of dungeons hit his nostrils. Coughing from the sudden assault of cold on his lungs, Snape rolled down another several flights of stair until he reached the lowest level of dungeons. He collapsed gasping for breath, clenching his hands to his chest, his heart pounding painfully at his ribs.

As soon as his breathing had evened, Snape ripped out his wand out of his robes, and cast a silencing spell. And then he howled…

It was much later, when he was sitting slack against the wall, the last of his fury dissolved into a subtle ache clamping at his heart, he could begin to think straight again.

Bloody Merlin, what was happening to him? Why? Had he lost his mind completely? Was it because of the Potion again? Was it because of…the girl? He’d seen people kiss, hadn’t he? He’d been living in the castle surrounded by hormonal teenagers for years. Yes, from time to time, in addition to the common point deduction, he thought about hexing one couple or the other. But howl!

Snape growled, his hands clenching into tight fists. Only now he began to notice how hard and cold were the stones he was sitting on and leaning against. Only now he began to feel the sweat that covered his body despite the icy air of the dungeons.

“May be it is just madness?” Snape thought with surprising relief. Somehow the idea of being locked in a padded room at St. Mungo’s didn’t scare him as much as it should have.

“Would you not love that?” the little voice in his head mockingly inquired. “No responsibility, no guilt?”

Of course, he would love that. No need to pretend to be someone he wasn’t anymore. No need to exert this tremendous, excruciating effort of going through the motions of his daily activities.

Unfortunately, after a short deliberation with his sniggering little voice, he had to admit that he was lucid most of the time. Well, all the time, except for… Yes, except for his close encounters with the bloody witch!

When Snape was sweeping through Hogwarts’ hallways the next morning, no one would suspect anything. The black billowing robes, the scowl, the arrogance imbedded in every step – nothing could tell an uninformed observer about the night spent howling the throat raw, or sitting on the cold floor, chilled to the bone and sweating at the same time.

He took his place at the High Table, and pushed his plate closer, fully intended to have breakfast. As an afterthought, he looked around the noisy Great Hall, happily bursting with life, and suddenly realized something - the young witch was not in her place. Neither was the bloody Mr. Rag Clown. His appetite gone, all Snape could do was glare at the students and grind his teeth. Neither was improving his mood.

Most of the students and teachers had left the Great Hall, having finished their meal, but the two people Snape was waiting for, although he wouldn’t acknowledge it even to himself, never showed up. It became obvious they would not, when it was only he and Sprout left at the High Table. Suddenly, the decision he made several hours ago, for which he was still inwardly struggling with his little voice, became undisputable. He hushed the bloody nuisance with venomous “sod off,” and went to Dumbledore.

“Headmaster, I need to talk to you.” He strode firmly into the office guarded by gargoyle.

“Of course, Severus, do come in, have a sit,” the older wizard greeted him warmly. He was sitting at his desk, a steaming cup in one hand and a biscuit in the other. “Tea?”

“No, thank you,” he answered meaning the “tea” and “have a sit.” Then, without a preamble, he declared, “Albus, the girl has to leave.”

“Severus?” The Headmaster looked oddly at his younger visitor over his half-moon spectacles.

“You’ll have to hire somebody else,” Snape insisted. “I, personally, find it hard to believe she was the best candidate for the position in the first place.”

“Severus...” The older wizard frowned, his gaze losing the customary kindness, but before he had a chance to continue, the younger wizard, who thus far remained at the door, made several steps toward the Headmaster’s desk and asked forcefully, “Why is she here? Because you felt sorry for her? Or you wanted to thank her for her foolish attempts at usefulness last July? Is there any other way to express your bloody gratitude?”

“That is enough!” During Snape’s speech, the Headmaster had drawn himself to his full height, and now was leaning heavily on his desk, looking harshly at the Potions Master.

“Why?” Snape was so angry, he began spitting. “Wasn’t dealing with Potter enough of a punishment for me? Why do you keep saddling me with conceited worthless idiots, who think the world is in debt to them for their mere existence!”

Only when he finished speaking did he hear a sharp intake of breath somewhere near by. Snape turned swiftly and was met with a gaze of maddeningly-blue eyes, opened wide and filled with anguish. In his haste to tell the Headmaster what he thought about the old wizard’s “for the greater good” rationalizations, Snape didn’t notice that one of the armchairs in front of Dumbledore’s desk was occupied. In it sat the young witch, her legs folded under her, her small form sunk into the worn cushions.

He was a spy for too long to not to be able to sensor his reactions. Without missing a beat, he arched his brow and uttered in a low menacing voice, almost a whisper, “So, you are here already. I wonder why.” He smirked. “Came running to complain about the unfair treatment of the great potion-brewer you no doubt consider yourself to be? Or…”

“That is enough!” bellowed the Headmaster. “Severus, you will apologize to Ms. Ardant for your outrageous behavior immediately!”

“Or what?” Snape was beyond caring. His smirk got more prominent, and he continued looking at the young witch with contempt. “She will fight the both of us?”

“Severus? Gerry?” Dumbledore moved his gaze from the younger wizard to the witch.

“Oh, how convenient,” the Potions Master said softly. “Did you forget about drawing a wand at the Professor of this school?”

It didn’t seem possible, but the young witch sunk even deeper into the cushions of the armchair as if trying to shield herself from Snape.

“I wonder, what you did mention,” he sneered at her. “You did come here for something, now didn’t you?”

“Actually, Severus, I invited Ms. Ardant,” said the older wizard, anger lacing his words. Snape slowly turned to look at him. The Headmaster was eyeing him with his most stern expression, the one which reminded anyone in the vicinity that this was a wizard responsible for bringing down two Dark Lords. “I invited…”

Dumbledore was interrupted by the sound of shattering glass. The girl got out of the armchair, forgetting about the cup she was holding. Now the cup, or what was left of it, laid in pieces under her feet, and the dark stain of spilled liquid quickly expanded on her light robes.

“Headmaster, I have to go,” she murmured, made several unsteady steps, and then rushed to the door. Neither Dumbledore nor Snape stopped her. The first only managed a belated “Ms. Ardant,” and the second, the waft of vanilla and peach still in his lungs, used all of his strength on keeping himself from collapsing.

“This was one of the most disgraceful scenes I’ve witnessed in a long time.” The older wizard moved toward Snape. “Would you care to explain yourself, Severus?”


00000
She kept fidgeting in her seat, uneasy about hiding the truth from the old wizard. Thank you, the job was great. Thank you, the kids were fun to work with. Thank you, there were no problems with colleagues. Thank you, the accommodations were comfortable. The tea in her cup had no taste at all, and Gerry was desperate to finish it, excuse herself, and leave the Headmaster’s office.

She had run into the old wizard earlier, while hovering around the Great Hall, and, preoccupied as she was, she didn’t notice how, but had accepted his invitation to stop by for “tea.” Now she had to sit there, carefully feigning a lively interest in conversation, cursing herself inwardly for her cowardice and lack of common sense.

“I should’ve gone after Snape,” she thought, frustrated and anxious at the same time. It could have been over by now. Then again, wouldn’t she have faced yet another public confrontation, which would anger the Potions Master even more than the first one? Although, she doubted he could get any angrier with her than he was already. As it was, she should be thanking all deities that Snape had not come to complain to the Headmaster yet, or the conversation she was having with the old wizard wouldn’t be as pleasant. Shit.

However, as if in response to her thoughts, the very next moment the old wizard announced, “I reckon we will have an addition to our little party.” Gerry heard the door behind her banged open, and froze when the all-too-familiar voice stated firmly, “The girl has to leave.”

…She sat on the bed staring at her trunk, half-packed, the sleeve of one of the robes hanging loose over the rim. She didn’t know what she was waiting for. Maybe they sent their “you’re fired” letters with an owl. She looked anxiously at the open window. Or maybe she would be required to apologize to Snape before she was thrown out. Or maybe, just maybe, they’d let her work, but give her some kind of punishment.

She was chewing violently on her lip. Stupid, stupid, stupid girl. She should have confessed last night’s incident herself. Better yet, she should not have pointed a wand at Snape! And she definitely shouldn’t have run from the Headmaster’s office.

Gerry moaned. Stupid, stupid, stupid girl. To run away like that, without an explanation, without an attempt to defend herself. There was a great job she stood to loose! What was wrong with her! Had she gone completely insane? Why did she stop thinking all together every time there was Snape involved? Gerry squeezed her eyes tight shut – oh, she knew too well why. All too well.

Of course, she never doubted the Potions Master didn’t like her, but despise her like that? Consider her worthless? Blame her for accepting a pity loan from Dumbledore? Every word, uttered in the deep, silky voice, slapped her, cut her, and left her aching and bleeding. Gerry collapsed sobbing, burying her face in the pillow. “I should have never come here…”

The rest of the day went in a blur. Between crying, and frantic packing, and attempts to write a resignation letter, and pacing, and sitting motionless, and cursing, and crying again, Gerry didn’t notice how the bright light of the sunny day gave way to the half-tones of the dusk. She couldn’t believe she was falling apart like that, but there was nothing she could do to stop this insanity. In a rare moment of clarity she would stop to take a deep breath and try to rationalize the situation, but then words “conceited worthless idiot” rustled in her ears uttered, in that damn voice, and the pacing, and cursing, and crying, and packing would begin again…

It was sometime after dinner, which she obviously didn’t go to, when Gerry, completely exhausted, was curled in her bed. Her mind, after hours of struggling, was beginning to accept the reality of her situation – she was deeply despised by the wizard that she loved, and she was about to loose a job that could help her survive. With that understanding, a strange calm came over her, and so, when she heard a knock at her door, she didn’t ignore it as she did several others during the day not being able to face anyone.

It was Jay. He was unusually hesitant and sad. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Oh yes, she completely forgot there was another issue she was supposed to resolve today.

“I wanted to say something to you if you don’t mind listening,” he said.

“Okay.” She beckoned him to come in, which he did after a short pause.

She sat on the sofa expecting him to join her, but the young wizard remained in at the door.

“Jay?” She looked at him inquisitively.

“Look, Gerry.” He finally walked all the way in and closed the door. “I wanted to apologize for last night. I am really sorry. It was…”

“Yeah, we both had too much to drink.” She shrugged - bigger issues were of her foremost concern.

“Gerry, look, it was not like that, not at all,” the young wizard began feverishly. “I do…like you. I thought you and I…” he trailed off, weakly gesturing between the two of them. Gerry kept silent, looking puzzled at him. Jay tried again, “I thought we might, you know… I am… And you said there was no one… And…”

She was eyeing him with disbelief – he was never the one lost for words. But then suddenly it became clear. Oh.

For the first time since she knew him, Gerry looked at Jay. Really looked at him. Right in front of her stood a young wizard with a contagious grin, which seemed a bit lopsided at the moment, and mischievous bright eyes. He wasn’t as handsome as Valerius – Jay’s mouth was too wide, his nose reminded her of a duck’s beak, and the color of his eyes changed between yellowish-green and brownish-gray. And he wasn’t built all that well – short and slender, he could pass for a teenager still in the process of filling out. But he could make her laugh. And she was never bored with him around. And he would never plan her life for her. And he would never call her “worthless conceited idiot”…

She didn’t notice how the tears pooled, and then spilled over the rims of her lower eyelids, until Jay’s eyes became wide with angst and he fired out, “Gerry, please! I am sorry I mentioned that. Forget about it. Come on. If you are not interested, you are not interested, all right? And last night…It was…er…”

“…too much alcohol,” she stiffened a sob. “Jay, I’m sorry. Merlin, I am such a wreck tonight.” She made an attempt to smile. “You are my only friend here, and I’d rather not spoiled that with…umm…complications. Okay?”

After a short hesitation the young wizard nodded, the somewhat forlorn expression, which surfaced while he talked, gone. He quickly crossed the room to Gerry’s sofa, sat, and brought the fireplace to life with a flick of a wand.

“Now, all the trifles taken care of, we have to make a decision about the important stuff.” Jay fished a little package out of his robes, and muttered an enlargement spell pointing his wand at it. The package ballooned to an unhealthily huge size bag stuffed with Honeyduke’s confections. “Here.” He put the bag on the sofa between two of them. “I was planning to… Never mind. If we’re friends, we’ll eat these together.” He pulled at the blue ribbon, and the bag opened, the rich aroma of sweet chocolate, and vanilla, and cinnamon, and brown sugar spread throughout the room. Gerry’s stomach gave a loud grumble, and Jay flashed at her a grin of understanding. He snapped his fingers, and in a few short moments a happy house elf served them dinner.

An hour later, Gerry and Jay were lounging on the rug in front of the fireplace. Jay, his usual cheerfulness returned with a vengeance, was giving her minute-by-minute recap of his day, from the moment he woke up curled around the toilet bow. In lively details he went through confiscating a couple of butterbeers from seventh year Hufflepuffs, and a conversation with McGonagall about best remedies for a hangover, and an attempt to help Sprout that ended in a fistfight with one of the mandrakes, and so on and so forth. Gerry was laughing so hard, she forgot all about her own day. And then, there was another knock at the door.

“Ms. Ardant.” He stood there, in the shadowy hallway, his black robes and black hair dissolving into the darkness.

“Professor,” she said and gulped audibly, the last burst of laughter died on her lips. She felt how her whole being stiffened suddenly as if preparing for a punch.

They stood for what seemed to be an eternity, neither of them making a move, or uttering a sound. At last, Gerry ventured weakly, “Would you like to come in, Professor?”

“No. There is no need,” he stated firmly, and there was so much contempt in his voice that her hand, which was in a motion of beckoning him in, froze in the mid-air and then fell down helplessly. She nodded jerkily, bit her lip, and tried again, “So, you…”

“I am here on the request of the Headmaster.” He was looking somewhere over her head. “You are to resume the potion-brewing as scheduled next Saturday.”

“Er…” she began, but he continued as if he didn’t hear her. “Your potion is with Madam Pomfrey. Feel free to pick it up at your convenience.”

She nodded again, her mind slowly catching up with his words. So, she wasn’t fired. She could have her potion. Everything was back to normal. Normal?

A shudder went through her, when he leaned close, leaving mere centimeters between his nose and her face. His eyes glistened maliciously, and Gerry’s breath hitched as if she was drowning in the black bottomless pools.

“You point your wand at me ever again, Ms. Ardant,” he hissed, “you will live to regret it. No one will save you.”

Somewhere on the outskirts of her conscious Gerry knew she had to say something. Apologize? Explain? Defend herself? Confess her love? Oh, Merlin, no… She whimpered. He was close, too close, and her head began to swim.

“Professor Snape.”

Swiftly the Potions Master straightened up and looked behind Gerry.

“Mr. Carnavale.” Snape’s face twisted as if he was in pain, but a moment later a customary mask of contempt settled and the thin lips curled in a sneer. Barely glancing at Gerry, the Potions Master spat, “Ms. Ardant.” He then turned on his heels and strode away, his robes billowing behind him.

When the door closed, Jay said grinning, “I suspected you needed a rescue. That bloody greasy git, what does he mean bothering people in the middle of the night?”

She didn’t say anything, and Jay’s grin slowly subsided. “Did he upset you? Just tell me, he’ll pay for it.”

Gerry shook her head, avoiding his gaze. The young wizard moved closer and touched her arm lightly. “Gerry?” She shook her head again and fought the sob. She didn’t want to cry again. No!

“It’s nothing, really,” she said finally, but sounded unconvincing even for her own ear. “Last night…” she trailed off, too afraid she would start crying if she was to continue.

“Last night…” the young wizard urged her, but she just bit her lip. “Wait, last night… You were running from dungeons, weren’t you? It was because of Snape you wanted to get drunk last night, wasn’t it?” Jay contemplated, cocking his head to catch her gaze. “Wasn’t it? Bastard.”


00000
By the time Dumbledore finished berating him for his behavior towards Ms. Ardant, Snape was seething.

“Albus, the foolish girl pointed a wand at me! In the Potions lab! You do understand the potential consequences. If you don’t give a damn about my sanity and my life, think about Hogwarts’ property. You are a Headmaster of the school. You should be concerned with such matters.”

“Severus, it takes time for most people to get used to your…er…approach to personal and professional interactions. And you know it...”

“It has nothing to do with my approach!” Oh, he was furious. “The girl can’t hold her tongue! The girl can’t control her temper! The girl is a bloody liability! Her profound incapacity to think before rushing in puts all of us in danger.” The old wizard’s features softened a little, but before he opened his mouth to respond, Snape shot, “And please spare me you assurances she is not a Gryffindor!”

An hour later he was pacing his rooms, the raw mixture of anger and helplessness choking him. Of course, what did he expect? That the girl would just disappear from his life? That Dumbledore would accommodate him and for once punish a Gryffindor? That he wouldn’t feel this rotten? Bloody fucking Merlin!

However, as bad as Snape’s morning went, the rest of the day didn’t turn any better. In the afternoon he was in Dumbledore’s office once again.

Without preamble, the older wizard pushed a parchment towards him. “Read this, Severus.”

The writing was hazy – the decoding spell was probably wearing off. It didn’t take long, though, for Snape to read it. There were only three sentences: “Malfoy Sr. was released last night, a week ahead of the previously scheduled date. The news of his release is to be announced in Monday’s Prophet. Aurors, who were assigned to follow Malfoy, lost him in Tibet.”

“Shit,” Snape hissed glaring at the parchment on the desk, as if trying to ignite it with his stare. Apparently his old “friend” still had plenty of influence in the Ministry, and enough money to sustain that influence. “How reliable is this source?”

“Very reliable,” the older wizard answered grimly.

“I’m going after him,” stated the Potions Master, his palms rolling into shaking fists.

“You can’t.” Dumbledore shook his head, and gestured the dark-heard wizard to the chair. “Sit down, Severus.”

“I’m going after him,” Snape repeated, disregarding the Headmaster’s words. “I have to. He will try to recreate the Potion.”

“Sit down, Severus.” This time the older wizard’s words sounded as a command, but Snape kept on standing, staring at the parchment. “We will get him, I promise,” continued Dumbledore. “Severus, he is just a dark wizard, who wants to get his hands on a dark potion. Don’t make it personal.”

Snape shuddered, raising his gaze to look at the old wizard, his eyes wide as if he couldn’t understand what the bloody hell it was Dumbledore had said. “Albus, it is personal.”

And how could it not be? Everything that had to do with Malfoy was personal to Snape, the good and the bad, and the worst. It was Lucius’ unexpected interest in him that kept him more or less protected from being taunted and hexed by his fellow Slytherins back in school. It was Lucius’ encouragement and his clever veiling of a number of aspects of the service to the Dark Lord that facilitated Snape’s entry into the Death Eaters’ circle. Not that he wouldn’t have gotten there by himself, sharing his dorm with the likes of Lestrange and Rosier. Still, it was easier to hold Malfoy responsible for his own lapse of judgment. And later on, over the years, the association with the blond wizard, that was as much a bothersome necessity, as it was a strange comfort of association with someone who came from same roots – an old pureblood line. But, of course, the last encounter with his “friend” took the meaning of personal for Snape to the extreme.

It all started with an obscure potion known only in remote corners of Tibet. Malfoy had discovered it last summer during one of his scouting expeditions around the world in search of an ultimate weapon of conquering said world. This potion was believed to allow the drinker to achieve an enormous level of mental concentration. Originally, the potion was used to enhance the meditating experience, but He-Who-Couldn’t-Be-Named (oh, what the hell, Voldemort), to whom Malfoy presented it, decided that it could be useful for more practical purposes. Like putting a superior level of magical energy behind a spell which would strengthen the potency of it (and the Dark Lord wasn’t considering the betterment of Accio or Alohamora).

Snape was instantaneously put in charge of brewing and perfecting the potion. From the unreliable and rather weak source, he managed to create the Potion. The result far exceeded the Dark Lord’s expectations – one sip of the brew and a Cruciatus curse became a curse of Painful Death. Snape was generously rewarded, and the Potion could have become just another little project in a series of little projects in the Dark Lord’s all-consuming quest for power, if it wasn’t for two things – Voldemort’s love for cheap theatrics and his obsession with the disposal of his prophesized “equal,” Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived. Somehow, the Dark Lord had connected these two, added the Potion to the mix, and created the Plan. He was going to show to the whole wizarding world the superiority of his powers, bending the will of the supposed Savior for all to see and then getting rid of him altogether.

Suddenly, the Potion became too important for the Dark Lord, and all the doubt in Snape’s loyalty to the Dark side, the doubts that often made him a “punching bag” for his fellow Death Eaters and Voldemort himself, flared up with renewed force. The Plan had to work, and so the Potion and its brewer had to be completely reliable. Snape didn’t know any of it until the day when he passed out drinking scotch with Malfoy, and came to hanging suspended on the chains in Malfoy Manor’s dungeons.

The first words that came out of his “friend’s” mouth were, “This is not personal, Severus. You do understand that, don’t you?” And then he smiled, pointed a wand square at Snape’s chest and cast a Cruciatus.

They, Lucius himself and his goons, Crabbe and Goyle Srs., worked him thoroughly. “Will the Potion work in battle? Have you told anyone about it? Who is your true Master?” The questions came at the peaks of pain, then - short respites, when his “friends” were listening to his clipped answers, and then the torture would be resumed again. Day after day, night after night for one excruciatingly long week. At the end they didn’t even bother to ask anymore. They just laughed, and sent his body through agony again, and again, and again.

Even now, almost six months later, two of his tormentors eradicated together with their spawn in a blast engineered by his own hands, Snape still couldn’t think about that week without getting covered in a thick sheen of cold sweat. Up to this day he wasn’t sure how he made it out of Malfoy Manor alive, although frankly there wasn’t much life left in him when he was dropped at one of the darker corners of Knockturn Alley, a bloody, filthy mess of shredded fabric, torn skin, and broken bones...

Snape shuddered again, still staring at the now almost invisible words on the parchment in front of him: “Malfoy Sr. was released last night.”

“I am going after him,” he whispered more to himself than to Dumbledore. “You can’t stop me.”

“I can and I will,” the older wizard stated firmly and stood up looking heavily at the Potions Master. “Sit down, Severus. Have some tea.”

After a short hesitation, Snape slumped into one the chairs and glared defiantly at the Headmaster. “Albus, let me do it. I need to do it.”

…After he was found in the Knockturn Alley, Pomfrey spent almost ten days trying to put him back together, although the shaking of his hands never went away. He was burning with humiliation, trying to curtail the discussions of how this or that particular wound had come about. The compassionate mediwitch didn’t insist, but when he would catch her taking care of his injuries, unaware of being watched, he could see the wet stripes on her wrinkled cheeks, and it would make him desperate for revenge. No one could put him in a position where people were compelled to feel sorry for him, and live to tell the tale. No one.

There were only two things that made the situation remotely bearable. It seemed he did manage to convince his tormentors of his loyalty to the Dark Lord and that there was no foul play with the Potion, and he learned about the Voldemort’s Plan.

Frankly, the Plan seemed to be more like a whim of a twisted, delirious mind than an outline of actions, but what would one expect if the creator of it was a madman? The Plan called for yet another duel between the Dark Lord and Potter, the boy who became a hope of the wizarding world, the symbol of the Light Side. The difference from all the other duels these two arch-enemies had had so far was that this time around Voldemort had a secret (or so he thought) weapon in his arsenal – the Potion. With his magical strength enhanced and concentrated by the Potion, using the mental connection he shared with the boy, the Dark Lord believed he would have no problem bending Potter’s will to his own. And what could be better than to have the alleged Savior of the wizarding world publicly, without visible threat (Voldemort even thought about appearing wandless, since his wand didn’t work on Potter any way) or intimidation, kneel in front of the Dark Lord and renounce Dumbledore, et al? He might even make the boy kill the old idiot. Why not? This could be better than all the Dark Marks in the sky and faceless masks. This could be a spectacle to behold…

“How much does Mr. Malfoy know about the Potion? Will he be able to brew it by himself?” The older wizard stayed forcibly calm. He conjured a tea set and offered Snape a mug of dark steaming, liquid.

“He knows some. But he will need a very good Potions Master.” The mug in his hands burned his palms and the drops of tea sloshed over the rim with some of the more violent shaking, but Snape didn’t notice any of it.

“He will come to you,” Dumbledore stated. “We will wait for him.”

If the mug were made out of glass, it would have shutter, so tight was Snape’s grip on it. He wanted to scream. He wanted to yell at the old oaf that he couldn’t wait, that he must do something. He wanted to throw the mug at the wall and run out of this unbearably hot office back to his dungeons where no one would be able to see him – the Master’s puppet, the pathetic excuse for a Potions Master, the damaged soldier left behind because of total uselessness.

“Drink your tea, Severus,” as if from afar came the calm voice of the older wizard. “And have a biscuit...”

The walk through the darkened hallways of the castle often gave Snape a modicum of respite from his anxieties. It allowed him to reflect on the events of the day and helped to solve the most pressing problems. Of course, some point taking from unruly brats, who suddenly felt an urge for a night stroll, did add a nice bonus to Snape’s walks.

Tonight, however, it seemed no amount of walking would help. He understood Albus’ reasoning. Of course, it made much more sense to wait for Malfoy here, in Britain, than run around an unfamiliar country looking for a very dangerous wizard who knew the territory infinitely better. Especially knowing why Malfoy went there in the first place. Still, the logic just wasn’t working for him tonight.

“He’ll come to you, Severus,” Snape kept repeating Dumbledore’s words to himself. “He’ll come to you, and we will get him.” Blind old fool! He didn’t want to “get” the slimy bastard. He wanted to KILL him!

“There could be traps,” Dumbledore argued. Fuck the traps! He knew who he was dealing with! Didn’t Albus forget he was the bastard’s “friend” for almost twenty five years? He wasn’t afraid of the blond shit. Hell, he wanted to…

Suddenly, Snape stopped dead in his track. Could it be… Did the old wizard sense it? Did he Legilimaze him? Did Albus know what decision had formed almost instantaneously in his mind when he learned about Malfoy? Was his yearning that obvious? Oh, what a perfect way it would have been to die like that, taking his worst remaining enemy with him. And now what? Shit!

Shit! Now he needed patience. And a lot of it.

He was suitably angry when he paused before knocking at the young witch’s door. Everything concerning the girl was not important now. Rubbish. Utter useless rubbish. No concern of his.

The girl was slightly disheveled, but he didn’t let himself ponder on that fact. He quickly collected himself, and coolly proceeded with the business he came there for. He didn’t flinch as the girl seemed to shake and stop breathing when he hissed his warning to her. Only when he saw the bloody Rag Clown sauntered casually out of her sitting room, his robes undone at the top, goblet of wine in his hand, Snape felt a stab deep in his heart and almost lost control. Then, he shrugged mentally, “It was supposed to happen,” and left.

Hours later, in his rooms, going over all the possible ways of taking his revenge on Malfoy, from time to time he would stare at the empty fireplace and wonder what it was that hurt so much.
…
…
…
A/N A huge thanks to my beta Odddoll