It Takes a Miracle

Chapter 17 – Without a thought, without a voice, without a soul

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The next several weeks had passed so fast that Gerry didn’t notice how the cold spring began to warm up a little in anticipation of the cold, northern summer. McGonagall kept her busy and Jay – entertained. The little free time that she had was spent at Quidditch matches, trips to Hogsmeade, or in the immense Hogwarts library.

She liked working with kids. The younger ones reminded her of her little brothers and their friends, and the older ones were almost like her own friends. She was happy when they succeeded, and offered encouraging words, extra tutoring time, and chocolate frogs when they didn’t. The students responded in kind, and often came to her no only for tutoring, but to share a piece of gossip, or complain, or even cry (the recent war was still too fresh in everybody’s memory). Gerry didn’t mind that, arguing that there was Professor McGonagoll to keep the students focused, but with her they could loosen up a bit. Of course, from time to time she had to fend off the pleas for direct help with homework, or requests for test questions in advance, but it wasn’t too much of a bother.

She finally met Harry Potter, who happened to be one very grounded and quiet boy. He graciously agreed to autograph his picture for her brothers, and the boys spent half of their life savings to send her a huge You-are-the-Best-Sister screaming card.

Yes, it was another good thing when Gerry could confess to her mother that she left the university for time being. At least her working at Hogwarts seemed to be consolation enough for Mrs. Ardant, because there was a notable absence of Howlers.

Feeling back on track once again, Gerry also didn’t have to avoid her friends any longer. The morning mail delivery quickly became a very enjoyable time, and she couldn’t believe she survived all this time being alone.

With potions and good food readily available, Gerry’s illness began to subside. Every now and then she would try to sleep on her own, and was happy to notice her nightmares were turning hazier.

“I am getting better,” she reported enthusiastically to Mrs. Doomsfield. They were sitting in an outside café, enjoying the midday, spring sun and ice-scream. “I don’t even take every dose of the Nerve-Relaxing Draugh.”

“It is good to hear, my dear, but you still have to be very careful.” The old-ladyish “my dear” sounded very funny in the mouth of a twenty-something year old girl (Mrs. Doomsfield’s appearance on that particular meeting), and Gerry snorted. “You should be very careful,” the “young” Mrs. Doomsfield repeated firmly. “It’s too early to claim a full recovery.”

Yes, Gerry knew that. When she spent a week recuperating from the Vita Redux which brought Snape back to life, the mediwitches kept warning her not to be deceived by visible improvements – a death-reversal Vita Redux required as much time to recover from as it took to create a new life. And hence, it wouldn’t be until autumn when Gerry could get rid of her illness completely, and start performing the rituals again.

But Gerry didn’t let herself dwell on it. She had accepted the fact that it would take her a very long time to earn enough money to repay her debt to the Order of Vita Healers for two unauthorized Vita Reduxes. She also consented to postponing her education for a while. And even if she felt a pang of jealousy upon finding out that one by one her classmates from university had secured job offers, Gerry could console herself with the fact that she was working already. In one of the most famous schools in the wizarding world. And her two-month tenure at Hogwarts could extend well beyond June, if Dumbledore’s hints about making Assistant Professor positions permanent were anything to go by.

And so, in all honesty, her life was good. Better than good. Or was it?

From that night, when Snape stopped by her rooms to inform her about the Headmaster’s decision and to issue his warning, the wizard had not talked to her. Not once. Not a word, not a syllable. Neither had he ever looked at her. Like there was no Gerry Ardant in his universe. No colleague of his, who tutored Transfigurations. No witch who worked in his lab for four hours every Saturday. No woman whose heart was hurting at the mere mention of his name.

The first couple of days were the worst. She just couldn’t stop sniveling. Several times a day it would get so bad, she had to run to the closest restroom to have a decent cry. Gerry was never the one for crying, but then she couldn’t stop herself. Crying seemed to be the only thing that brought her any kind of relief from the constant, maddening throbbing in her chest.

Then, the students began to whisper, the teachers began to look oddly at her, and McGonagall invited her for a “talk.”

While the older witch was busy with the tea set, Gerry sat nervously contemplating the explanations she might offer regarding her behavior. Nothing came to mind.

“Ms. Ardant…Gerry,” McGonagall began hesitantly. She paused, looking sadly at her assistant, and finally said, “Please, have some tea.”

Gerry nodded and took a cup. They sat silently for several moments, drinking, before the older witch asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Gerry slowly raised her surprised gaze at McGonagall and just as slowly shook her head. They both looked into their cups, and continued drinking for a bit longer.

“You and I know,” the older witch broke the silence, “the tears will not help.” She pursed her lips, as if punishing them for letting out something which they shouldn’t have, and eyed Gerry, waiting for response. Gerry nodded cautiously, and that was the end of the “talk.” They drank some more tea, but the conversation moved to other topics.

Surprisingly, the “talk” helped. That night Gerry cried for the last time and, fresh from yet another bout of tears and sobbing, made an astonishingly simple discovery – regardless of whether she fell apart or not, Snape would hate and despise her, but it would be rather difficult for her to live her whole life if she let herself become shattered over this. The next morning she forced a smile at breakfast, and by afternoon, she was back to normal. At least on the outside.

Apparently, it was much easier to love someone unrequited, when that person was far away. Last autumn, going through the rigorous training at the Order of the Vita Healers base, Gerry kept on thinking about the dark-haired wizard she saved once, his graceful hands, and magnetic, black eyes, and excruciatingly tender lips. And she kept hoping that one day there would be an owl for her. And she kept dreaming about their meeting, and what he would say, and what she would do, and how wonderful everything would be.

But, as Muggles were saying, “People plan, gods laugh.” And now, back at Hogwarts, as close to Snape as she was ever going to be, she was as far away from him as time and distance combined would never manage to remove her.

Simply seeing Snape in the hallways, or at meals, his black eyes burning with arctic cold but never stopping at her, would send Gerry’s heartbeat into a frantic rhythm, and she had to literally remind herself to start breathing again. Once, at a staff meeting, she accidentally almost bumped into him, and that event alone kept her body trembling for the rest of the day.

It was bad, so fucking bad. Painfully, dreadfully bad. But the worst were the four hours Gerry had to spend every Saturday brewing her potion in Snape’s lab.

While she measured, and chopped, and stirred, and said the incantation, he kept silent, looking over at her from time to time, but not really seeing her. In contrast to her first time there, Snape never got out of his desk anymore. He sat, his back straight and rigid, marking papers or reading, and every time his gaze would slide to her, Gerry could almost feel the icicles prickling at her skin.

Today was no different – cold glares and total silence. Gerry let out a barely perceptible sigh --she didn’t even expect anything different anymore. When would she finally accept it and move on? She bit her lip and began cleaning.

Tonight Jay invited her to accompany him to a Ministry dinner and ball in London. It was one of those events thrown in recognition of wizards and witches who fought in the recent war. This time Jay and several other school Professors were awarded by some Eastern European Ministry of Magic for their decisive actions in defending Hogwarts during the Death Eaters attack. Jay, who had already been to a number of these “dinner and ball” events, described them to Gerry as “boring but with good meal, free liquor and decent music.”

Gerry thought of her dress robes and the parchment with detailed descriptions of make-up and hair-styling charms, waiting for her in her rooms. She smiled slightly, recalling the last night’s brainstorming session with two seventh-year Gryffindor girls, who Jay asked to give her a hand with the ball preparation. The girls were pros. It took them less than an hour to put together the whole package – the robes and the charms, and they left assuring her that she would have such success with her new look, she would have to come back to them for more.

Gerry imagined herself wearing the make-up and hair-style charms on a daily basis and snorted at that. In less than a heartbeat, the icy prickling at the side of her face heralded Snape’s disapproving glare. Gerry bit her lip…

Her usual “thank you, good afternoon, Professor” dropped heavily to the floor, unanswered, as she rushed out. At the door to Snape’s office she ran into Jay.

“Why are you here?” she asked surprised. “I thought we were meeting at seven.”

“Just couldn’t stay away from you.” The young wizard grinned. But then he stepped in and explained, “Actually, I have something for Snape.” He held a small bunch of herbs in his hand.

“Oh. He is in the lab.”

“I’ll see you in the Entrance Hall in an hour.” Jay waved to her and added, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, “Can’t wait.”

She chuckled, “Oh, pale-e-e-ase!” and headed upstairs.


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He was sitting at his desk, not watching the young witch working on her potion. At least, he was making an effort not to watch her. However, the charmed Autoquill, which was supposed to write his comments on the essays he was grading, hovered motionlessly over one parchment for quite some time now.

“Aren’t you going to do some actual work?” the little voice in his head inquired coldly. Snape ground his teeth and grabbed another parchment from the stack in front of him. His Autoquill angrily began scraping on it, splashing red ink over some imbecile’s meager effort, as he concentrated on the sharp tip.

The last several weeks were just plain awful. It’d been almost a month since Malfoy Sr. was freed from Ministry’s jail, but there was no word on his whereabouts or his plans. It began to look like the hunt for the wizard could take a very long time.

At first, the wave of hatred that the release of his “old friend” raised in him gave Snape a so-much-needed boost of energy. He could almost feel like his old self again. Furious, striving, calculating, cold. Unfortunately, that didn’t last.

Day after day, drop by drop, his anger and resolve began abandoning him, and very soon he was back to where the release of Malfoy had found him – dying. Bloody Merlin, he could almost taste it, the bitter cold flavor of death. Just an accidental slip of his control, and no one – Voldemort, or Dumbledore, or Merlin himself -- would be able to stop his descent into its dark abyss.

He knew he was getting progressively worse. Such a mundane task as leaving his rooms every morning to face the day required more and more effort. He had to constantly push himself to do all that was expected of him -- talk, and listen, and teach, and glare, and scowl -- all the while waiting for the end of the day, when he could hide in his rooms, where he didn’t have to talk, or listen, or teach, or glare, or scowl. Unfortunately, beyond that, the nights, spent in pacing or staring into the empty fireplace, didn’t provide him with much of a respite.

Eating was another torture. Every morsel of food that made it into his stomach was fighting to get out the same way it came. At least once a week Snape had to transfigure his robes, bit by bit, to avoid unwanted questions regarding his weight loss.

Absolutely drained physically, he was straining to keep presenting an unaltered appearance to the outside world. And whatever it was that helped him in this endeavor – his willpower, potions, sheer luck, inattentiveness of others – he knew couldn’t last forever. Especially, when the urge to expedite the natural course of events was so strong.

Snape lost count of how many times he would catch himself inwardly discussing the pros and cons of yet another poison, while lecturing his students. He couldn’t say how many times he was mesmerized by a sight of a simple knife. His nightly patrols of the castle’s hallways would always end up on the top of the Astronomy Tower, where he had to grip onto the railing so hard his wrist bones would crack, because it felt so easy just to lean forward a little more, look down, and lean a little more, and… It could be just an accident.

To top it all off, the little nasty voice in his head was swelling to the size of a personal Oracle. It wasn’t content with bothering him only while he was getting pissed, or loitering aimlessly in his rooms. Yelling at him, accusing him, swearing, calling him every name in the book and beyond, it popped up in his head more and more often, breaking his concentration, impairing his actions, tearing apart the shreds of dignity he still was trying to preserve.

“A Slytherin with a guilty conscious,” he would mock himself. “How perfectly pathetic.” But there was no remedy for that, no help.

More than once Snape actually had to drop whatever he was doing at the time to beg for a moment of peace. More than once he found himself on the verge of tears, broken and defeated, hating his weakness, loathing himself. Nothing, it seemed, could silence the damn voice’s litany in his head, “Coward! Bastard! They all died because of you!”

And then there was…the witch. Since there was no hope of driving Ms. Ardant out of Hogwarts, he had to resign himself to the next best thing – pretending she wasn’t there. Pretending it didn’t make his hands shake just a bit harder, when his gaze would stumble upon her, laughing, chatting with someone or simply walking down the hallway. Pretending it didn’t send his blood boiling when he saw her flirting with Mr. Bloody Rag Clown, or folding lovingly yet another letter she would get with the morning post (was it from her dumb ex-fiancé, or some damn admirer?). Pretending he didn’t notice that he couldn’t think straight for hours after the girl almost bumped into him at one of the staff meetings. Pretending, just like right now, he didn’t care to find out why she sighed, and then smiled. Oh, bloody Merlin, why did she have to smile like that?

Snape consciously made an effort not to rub his temples to spell off the onset of yet another headache. His hands shook harder, but remained folded over his chest. Thank Merlin, he still had some control over his body.

He forcefully turned his attention to the parchment in front of him. “The Pepper-Up Potion was created by…” The words became blurry, as he fought to keep his eyes focused on the text. It was so bloody hard. Snape ground his teeth and intensified his effort.

These four hours when the young witch worked in his lab were the most painful hours of his week. And, although he would never admit it even to himself, these four hours were the most exquisite hours of his week as well. He also would never admit it even to himself how fervently he was waiting for these bloody Saturday afternoons, when he would have justification to look at the young witch, to think about her. He just had to make do with being totally disgusted with himself, and leave it at that. It was enough to listen to the nasty off-keyish singing in his head, “Slimeball’s looking at the girl, slimeball’s drooling over the girl. You are the greatest slimeball!”

The witch was done with the potion, and began cleaning the workspace. She scrubbed and washed the cauldron, wiped the table, and carefully put away the equipment. Only when he caught himself getting ready to get up and help the girl with a cabinet door that stuck, did he realize he was watching her. Again. Snape gave himself a mental slap.

“The grading, Severus, the grading,” the little voice snickered in his head, and he grabbed the next parchment from the stack in front of him as if some poor student’s homework was his personal enemy.

The girl left, mumbling her usual “thank you, good afternoon, Professor.” He didn’t answer, keeping his gaze glued to the parchment on the desk, and let his breath out only when he heard her opening the outside door.

But then… Snape raised his head, surprised to hear the sound of some commotion coming from his office – two voices, snickering… As he was about to go and investigate, in came the damn Mr. Rag Clown. Oh. Of course. Snape scowled – they had been laughing at him. Behind his back, yet again.

His look had probably expressed all the hatred and disgust he felt for the bloody bastard, because at the sight of him Carnavale stumbled as if over an invisible hurdle. But the young wizard recovered rather quickly, and smirked.

“Professor Sprout has sent this for you.” He shook a bunch of herbs in his hand.

“You can leave it on the table,” Snape hissed through his clenched teeth, and immediately clamped his mouth shut to make sure he wouldn’t curse the hated wizard into the next week.

Carnavale looked around as if searching for the right spot, but then just dropped the herbs carelessly on the worktable closest to him, and turned around to leave. “Good day, Professor.”

At the door, however, he stopped, smirked again, and added smugly, “Oh, and about your spongy grabs, Professor, I am afraid you’ll have to wait until tomorrow. As you may know, Professor Sprout and I, as well as a number of other Professors and students, are to be the guests of honor at tonight’s dinner at the Ministry of Magic.” He paused, eyeing Snape with mock concern. “I understand you haven’t been invited. Oh, well. Maybe next time.” He looked at his watch. “Look at the time. Have to go. Good day, Professor.”

Snape didn’t concern himself with the choice of words that flew out of his mouth the moment he heard the thud of his office door being closed. The stack of parchments, swept from the desk, spread all over the floor in what seemed to be a ruffled uneven carpet with red blotches here and there from spilled ink. Snape grabbed his temples and groaned. Of course he knew there was a dinner at the Ministry. And he knew exactly who was going to get awarded and for what, and who was going along. He may not participate in the social life of his colleagues, but he could hardly avoid learning all the sordid details of it, living in such a close proximity to everybody else.

Snape gave up and rubbed his temples. Blabbering fool! Arrogant idiot! Did he think he was the only defender of the castle? Did he think his stupid wand waving saved Hogwarts? That his mindless Apparating and Dissaparating combined with idiotic grinning helped to fend off the Death Eaters until the Aurors arrived? What would Mr. Carnavale say if he ever found out it was he, the greasy Potions Master, the distrusted git, who… No, nobody was supposed to know the truth. No one…

No one was supposed to know how he, having dispatched his students to safety, came back to guard the passageway opened only to the Slytherins. How he waited, trembling, his shaking hand clutching his wand, for the first faceless mask to appear from the hidden trap door. How he prayed, as he never prayed before, for that mask to belong to one of his enemies. “Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle. Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle,” he kept whispering.

However, the first several Death Eaters that tried to go past him were neither. That, nevertheless, didn’t save them. One after another they fought him and lost. And he stood there, his palm hot from all the unforgivable magic which passed through it, his voice hoarse from screaming the curses, and prayed.

Snape never counted how many gray-cloaked bodies fell to the ground there, but finally his prayers were answered. Both Neanderthals and their Neanderthal sons stood in front of him, looking confused at the wand in his hand and his maskless face. He smiled unpleasantly, and said, “How do you do, gentlemen? There were some doubts expressed regarding my ability to brew potions. I reckon I should address them, now shouldn’t I?” Then, almost in one lightning move, he produced a tiny black vial, cast a protective spell around himself, and threw the vial on the stone floor at the masked wizards’ feet. The glass shattered on the stone, and the freed black liquid detonated with a deafening bang.

The explosion blew to shreds everybody and everything in the room. For several long moments he stood motionless in the cocoon of his spell, surrounded by a dense cloud. When the dust settled, Snape looked around to see the walls, and the floor, and the ceiling all covered with pieces of something so small it was impossible to tell what they came from – clothing, skin, the wood from the portrait frames, human insides. With a swish of his wand, Snape got rid of the rubbish, and prepared for the next Death Eater who would come from the passageway. He still needed to face one more faceless mask - Malfoy.

If only he knew then that Lucius had been already apprehended… If only he knew then that the blast shook the pillars of the passage so hard, that several larger stones felt from the ceiling and blocked the way to the rest of the assailants… If only he knew then that Dumbledore, whose absence the Death Eaters used to time their attack, was already back in the castle, organizing the effort of school’s staff and Aurors, who came to help the defenders of Hogwarts. If only he knew it then, he wouldn’t have stood and waited any longer. He would have used his other black vial. But he didn’t know any of it, and so he stood there, wand in hand, waiting, praying. That was how he was found – alone in the empty room in the depth of the dungeons, two levels below the scene of the Death Eaters’ attack.

Very few people wanted to listen to his story about the secret passage, and sneaking assailants, and the explosion. Hell, very few people wanted to talk to him. Yes, Albus could detect some residual magic swirling in the room, and later on Mr. Ollivander reported the destruction of ten of his wands that was not related to the battlefield in front of Hogwarts castle. Still, there were suspicions and whispers, which remained at bay only because of Dumbledore’s interference.

But then, in all the excitement that seemed to overwhelm the wizarding world in the days following the end of the war, Snape and his questionable tale were largely forgotten. The Dark Lord was gone. Most of Death Eaters were either captured or disposed of. For the first time in decades the wizarding world, free of the dark wizards, happily busied itself with heralding its heroes, restoring lives, and enjoying the festivities.

At first he was furious. Not that he expected to be rewarded, but at least he hoped for some kind of acknowledgement of his services to the Light Side. But then, at a meeting of the Order of the Phoenix, it was decided to keep him in the shadow for a while longer. He could not really argue, could he? They were right - it was a very painful process of proving his allegiance to the Dark Lord in his second rising, and, with most of the Death Eaters still on trial, he shouldn’t be taken out of the game just yet. And so his participation in the defense of Hogwarts was officially downplayed (it was rumored he suffered from some memory-altering curse), his role in the war was never made public, and he had to carry on with his life as it was - not quite condemned, but not quite acquitted; not quite an enemy, but not quite an ally…

Snape swore softly. Why the hell was he thinking about all of it? Oh, yes, the Ministry dinner. Still, he thought it never bothered him that he wasn’t invited. Why should he care of the lost opportunity to waste his time on empty chattering and meaningless honors? Really, why?

Snape shook his head. In all honesty, he was much better served worrying not about rewards but about punishment. There was only one wizard – Albus Dumbledore – capable of attesting to his true role in the war. Most of the Order members knew about his work, but none had enough influence with the Ministry to be able to help him much. And so if something happened to Albus, Snape would probably find himself locked in Azkaban before he would be able to reach for the dose of deadly poison stuffed safely inside his robe pocket.

For a while, Snape contemplated the probability of getting a Kiss, before forcing himself to snap out of it. He looked around. The room was almost dark. How long had he been sitting there? An hour? A couple of minutes? Judging by the nauseating headache that had already spread to the back of his neck, he was there for quite some time. Snape rubbed his temples. He should get a headache potion and leave. Yes, that was what he should do. Still, he continued sitting in the dark.


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Gerry was having a ball. Literally and figuratively speaking.

The minute she walked into the Grand Hall filled with festively dressed witches and wizards, she didn’t stop enjoying the affair. The stuffy cocktail hour-and-a-half didn’t feel stuffy at all when one mingled alongside of Jay. Maneuvering effortlessly through the crowd and beaming his irresistible smiles at her, the young wizard managed to find the most interesting and fun people to talk to. Besides, the outfit the girls had created for her worked perfectly, judging by the complements and looks she was receiving, and for once in her life Gerry felt on a par with any beautiful witch present.

The award ceremony was short and sweet, the dinner was delicious, and when the music started, between the dancing, and drinking, and chatting, and laughing, the night flew by.

Gerry and Jay were among the last ones to leave.

“So,” the young wizard started playfully. His usual cheerful disposition that night seemed to be bubbling over the top. “Did my lady enjoy the festivities?”

“Yes, she did,” Gerry laughed. She probably drank more than she should have, but she didn’t care.

“Perfect,” he purred, reaching out to embrace her. “Are you ready to continue?” Gerry nodded. They were planning to stay overnight at her friend’s apartment in London and spend Sunday in the city. She smiled, leaning into Jay’s embrace, and the next moment he Apparated them.

The feel of Apparation didn’t mix well with the feel of buzz, which the alcohol had created in Gerry’s head. She almost retched, stumbling over her own feet when Jay let her go. But the young wizard quickly steadied her, and produced a small vial out of his robes. “I think it may help.”

“Potion,” Gerry thought absentmindedly, suddenly recalling the one conversation that night that left her distraught for a short while...

At the dinner table Gerry sat between Jay and McGonagall. At first they all politely discussed the weather, and plans for upcoming holidays, and such. Then, the conversation inadvertently drifted back to the war.

“I can’t imagine what I would have done, if I were in Hogwarts when all these happened,” Gerry confessed.

“You’d have done what all of us did – fight,” shrugged Jay.

“I just can’t believe that all of you went out to face the Death Eaters. I read about it in the papers, it sounded horrible,” she shook her head.

“One doesn’t think about it, dear,” McGonagall explained, sipping her wine. “You worry about the students, about your colleagues, your friends…”

“Some, of course, worried more about saving their own skin,” Jay said with contempt.

“Jay, please,” sighed McGonagall, “not again.”

“Yes, again!” the young wizard whispered angrily. “You were out there. I was out there. Derek was out there. They were.” He pointed at Harry Potter and his friend Ron Weasley, who sat across the table, and shifted their attention from the food on their plates to the Professors’ argument. “But he…”

“Jay.” The older witch’s voice acquired metal notes in it. “Not now.”

“Why not?” the young wizard inquired indignantly. “She bloody works with him. She should know!”

“What?” Gerry asked rather dumbly.

“Snape,” spat Jay.

Gerry stiffened, but forced herself to act nonchalant. “Snape?”

“Professor Snape,” McGonagall noted almost automatically, glancing quickly at the boys across the table. “Jay, I really think you should stop…”

“Stop what, Professor? Stop saying what all of us know, and for some reason are unwilling to discuss!” the young wizard interrupted her heatedly. McGonagall frowned, but then her look softened, and for a moment it seemed she wanted to explain something, to respond the young wizard’s challenge. But the moment passed, and her face tightened again.

“Jaymon Carnavale, that’ll be enough,” McGonagall stated firmly, and the young wizard grudgingly conceded.

However, a short while later, when the older witch was engaged in an animated discussion with an ancient wizard on her left, Jay whispered, “So, do you want to know about Snape?”

Gerry nodded, not trusting her voice, and Jay, a contentious sneer playing on his lips, in few quiet sentences told her a story of how the Potions Master was no where to be seen during the assault, and how he was found hiding in the dungeons afterwards blabbering about some secret passage and sneaking assailants.

“You know, there are even rumors about him being a Death Eater.” The young wizard’s whisper sounded more like hissing of a snake.

“Look how he hates us, Gryffindors,” the red-headed boy from across the table butted in. “Greasy git.”

Gerry glanced at his freckled face, twisted in disgust, and gulped.

“That is right, Mr. Weasely.” Jay grinned at the boys, and then turned back to her. “I am telling you, Gerry, Dumbledore is covering for him. But mark my word – one of these days the bastard will get his.”

“The bat is definitely hiding something,” Weasley confirmed. “I bet he was just biding his time to see who would have won – us or You-Know-Who. And now he is lurking in his dungeons, waiting for his buddies to get out of prison.” The red-head was spitting the words, nudging his friend, but Potter kept silent, looking totally uncomfortable.

“Why wasn’t he arrested then?” asked Gerry.

“The sly snake, he…” managed Jay, before McGonagall returned her attention to them, in effect ending the conversation.

The trading of battle stories that ensued right after made Gerry to forget all about Snape, and she didn’t think about him up until now…

She took the potion from Jay and stared at it. Were they right about the Potions Master? Was Dumbledore making a mistake in trusting him? Was it just a general dislike talking? She then shook herself mentally. “What do you care, girl? You are done with him. Or he is done with you…”

She swirled the vial in her fingers, biting her lip. Sober Up draught. “Do you want to share?” she asked Jay, but he shook his head and grinned. “Drink up. You need it more.”

She did, and instantaneously felt so much better that she smiled at Jay.

“All right?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”


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When a stronger wave of throbbing washed over his head, he rubbed his temples angrily and swallowed rising bile. Despite the darkness surrounding him, his eyes began to water. Deliberating if he should bother with the pain-relieving potion or go straight to his chambers for his regular weekly drink-yourself-into-oblivion session, Snape got up, but quickly sat back again. More like dropped back down. The room was rotating around him, and his legs refused to bear his weight.

Then the rotation stopped and it wasn’t dark any more. In fact, the room was lightened by torches as if someone invisible whispered “lumos.” But when Snape looked closer, it seemed that besides getting brighter the room had changed somewhat as well. However, he didn’t have the time to figure out what exactly had changed. At that moment his eyes were glued to the wizard crouched next to the sink in the corner. With his head buried in his knees, his hands clenched in tight circle around his folded legs, he would have looked like a big black ball of discarded robes if it weren’t for the slight shaking of his back. Was he crying?

“Hello,” tried Snape, but the wizard didn’t answer. He didn’t even move. Snape tried again. “Hello.” Yet again the wizard showed no sign of acknowledgment.

Snape was about to go and take a closer look at his mysterious visitor, when in walked Dumbledore. The older wizard swiftly looked around and, paying no attention to Snape, went directly to the wizard crouched in the corner.

“I figured you’d be here,” Albus sighed. The other wizard ignored him. The Headmaster stroked his white beard, a tortured expression on his face. Another sigh, and he continued, “We have developed a plan, and your help is imperative.”

He waited till the other wizard finally croaked, “Albus, are you blind? What do you expect me to do? I can barely move, for Merlin’s sake.”

“You don’t have to move. In fact, I’ll do all the moving, Severus.” The Headmaster forced a little smile.

Snape’s breath hitched. Severus? What was going on? Who was Albus talking to?

Meanwhile, the wizard in the corner slowly raised his head, and Snape froze – he was looking at his own face. It was shattered, pain-stricken, greenish in color, but it was his face. What the hell was happening?

“Let’s discuss, shall we?” The older wizard beckoned the other Snape to join him at the worktable. “I reckon we should talk here, since we’ll be talking about a potion.”

“A potion,” echoed the other Snape, and the Potions Master suddenly felt cold, so very cold. It couldn’t be, but the scene unfolding in front of him was familiar. It happened almost six months ago.

He came here straight from the hospital wing, as soon Poppy gave up and let him go. He came here hoping for… No, hope was not a word for Snape. He came here to conduct an experiment. He argued that if there were no physical or magical reason as to why his hands were shaking (at least that was what the mediwitch said), he would be able to speed up the healing if he occupied himself with the activity that was his salvation, sanctuary, and a source of enjoyment for most of his life. Unfortunately, the experiment didn’t go well. It took Snape some wasted ingredients, a destroyed cauldron, and several deep cuts on his left hand to realize he wouldn’t be brewing potions any time soon. Maybe never.

That was how Albus found him. Here. Crouched at the sink, after a long bout of retching. But wait… Snape frowned. Why would he be seeing this scene in Pensieve-like manner? Was he dreaming? He pinched himself to verify that he was very much awake. Was he hallucinating? With the amount of scotch he’d been imbibing lately, it wouldn’t be much of a surprise. Then again, the last time he drank any alcohol was the previous Saturday, and by now he was sure the last drop of the liquor should be out of his system. What was happening then? Was he going insane?

Meanwhile, Dumbledore coaxed his six-month-ago self out of the corner and laid down the Plan. Actually, it was a Contra-Plan to the one concocted by the Dark Lord. The Order of the Phoenix had decided that if Voldemort wanted to duel with Potter again, so be it. Despite all the protection placed around the boy, they realized that sooner or later the Dark Side would find a way to get to him. At least this time they knew what to expect.

“To the potion Voldemort made you create, we will respond with another potion,” Dumbledore explained. “We’ll need you to improve the Affection Draught.”

The other Snape looked at the older wizard with barely hidden astonishment.

“No, no,” the Headmaster chuckled, “we are not going to get Voldemort to acquire amorous feelings.” Then, he thought for a moment and added, “I don’t reckon it is even possible.”

“Thanks Merlin for small miracles,” murmured the other Snape -- he wasn’t convinced at all in the existence of miracles, nor believed in Dumbledore’s reassurance about not trying to make the Dark Lord fall in love.

“When Voldemort enters Harry’s mind,” continued the older wizard, “what does he expect to find there? Fear, hatred, in other words, matters he thrives upon; matters that help him manipulate people. But what is he afraid of? What has kept Harry safe all these years? Love. What made Quirrell burn? What made Voldemort almost disappear last time? Love.” Dumbledore paused, before finishing firmly, “And so, love should be our weapon.”

The other Snape listened carefully, although the expression of disbelief was obvious on his haggard face.

“Alright, alright, Severus.” The older wizard chuckled, stroking his beard. “Let me explain everything to you, before you ship me to St. Mungo’s psychiatric ward. Although, after all is said and done, you still might. In any event, here is our plan.” Dumbledore got up and began pacing as he talked. “I’ve been working with Harry lately, teaching him to protect his mind from Voldemort. And I believe that even though he doesn’t have your natural abilities, or my experience, the level of skill our boy has acquired should suffice for our purposes. When the opponent enters his mind, what Harry has learned to do is to retreat in an orderly manner – without panic, or loss of consciousness, or fruitless fighting. And that is what he will do in the duel. He will let Voldemort in, allow him to see some innocent memories, thoughts, but try to keep from acting on the Dark Lord’s command. For as long as he will be able to. The longer he will hold on, the harder Voldemort will push, and the more of his mind, so to speak, will be forced to enter Harry’s.

“At a certain point, and we will have to work out the details, the Affection Draught, or rather an improved version of it that we have to prepare for Harry, will be triggered to act. It shall envelope Harry’s mind and the part of Voldemort’s mind that will be there by that time. Imagine,” the older wizard looked at the other Snape smiling, “Voldemort’s mind being enveloped in love! Poisoned! What will it do? Run! Where will it run? Back to the safety of Voldemort’s own mind, of course, poisoning the rest of it. And that is where Harry will follow him, bringing instead of hatred, and fear, and pain, something the Dark Lord is afraid of the most – love.”

Finishing his speech, Dumbledore gave a triumphant look to the other Snape. There. The younger wizard’s face, however, didn’t lose the expression of disbelief.

“I know, I know, it sounds a tad far fetched,” shrugged the Headmaster, “but I believe it will work. What keeps Voldemort alive is his mind – he can always get another body, or survive without one for a while; there is no soul…”

The older wizard continued his explanations, but the truth of the matter was simple – Harry Potter was destined to kill Voldemort, their wands wouldn’t work against each other, and there was no physical death from which the Dark Lord would not be able to resurrect himself. In a short while, the other Snape was sucked into the discussion of the details of the Counter-Plan.

Sitting at his desk, the Potions Master watched silently as the conversation from six-months ago reenacted in front of him. There was definitely something wrong with him, he just couldn’t figure out what that was. His every attempt to get up, or speak and be heard, was in vain, and so he resigned himself to just sit there watching the past repeat itself.

In the interim the other Snape seemed to come to his senses. “But, Albus, we are talking about a sixteen year old boy.” He was whispering hoarsely, his voice damaged during a week of “friendly” talks in Malfoy’s dungeons. “Even with the potion and the crazy nut’s prophecy, right now Potter is no match for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He hasn’t the training, or experience, or knowledge. He will die, and we, all of us, will die with him. ”

“Yes, and no, Severus,” Dumbledore said. “Some of us very well may die, but I hope Harry will succeed in his mission.”

The other Snape gave the older wizard a look of complete incredulity. “Albus, are we talking about the same Potter? The boy, who except for his dubious powers, sheer dumb luck, and ability to get himself and those around him into dangerous situations, has nothing to speak for him? All the potions in the world will not help him to succeed.”

“You are too harsh on the boy,” Dumbledore chided softly.

“Am I?” hissed the other Snape angrily. “The boy is too emotional, too weak, too undisciplined!” He took a deep breath, forcefully masking his anger, and began again in a controlled, softer manner. “When the Dark Lord enters his mind in earnest, his powers enhanced by the Potion, how long do you reckon will it take Potter to give in, to stop fighting? I find it hard to believe the boy will be able to draw more than the puniest part of the Dark Lord’s mind in before his own will to survive, to stay Harry Bloody Potter, crumbles. And even if yet another miracle occurs - one of those which our boy seems to be a magnet to - and he manages to withstand the assault and to go after the Dark Lord’s mind, do you think, wounded and burned, the fucking snake will die without a fight? You do know what kind of images he can offer our Potter for his viewing pleasure? Blood, gore, horrors…” The other Snape’s shaking hands covered his face for a moment. But then he lowered them and continued even softer than earlier. “If the Dark Lord tells him enough times it was all Potter’s fault, the boy’s guilt will eat him alive before he has a chance to inflict sufficient damage to the damn snake’s mind. And then…”

“Severus, my dear boy, have faith…” started Dumbledore sadly, but was interrupted.

“What faith!” It would have been a scream if his voice weren’t scraped to the bone. “How can you expect…a boy to prevail over the Dark Lord in this combat? How! He has no will to win. He is too much the Gryffindor to have enough hunger to live despite anything, and everything...”

“I see your point, Severus, but…” the older wizard trailed away thoughtfully. “I have faith in Harry. And I have faith in you. You will create this potion, so that Harry can win.” He was quiet for some time, looking sad, almost dejected, the customary twinkle in his bright blue eyes missing. Then he continued, “I’ll see what we can do to improve our plan. However, as much as I would wish to, we can’t postpone this…fight for much longer. This is our chance. It might not be a big one, but it is all we have.”

Reluctantly, the other Snape spread a sheet of parchment between them and began to sketch the steps of brewing the Affection Draught, looking for ways to transform it into the Potion. Dumbledore observed him carefully, interrupting his work from time to time to offer a suggestion or ask questions.

Grimly, Snape watched the pair of men at the worktable and wondered if he had known then what he knew now - that their mad scheme would work, that he’d live to see the wizarding world liberated from the horror of Voldemort…that the potion Dumbledore and he had just finished discussing would utterly destroy him – would he had done anything differently?

Soon, the room around him shook and darkened again. Snape thought he might be losing consciousness. But then, once more, everything returned to its place and the light went on. There was no sight of the Headmaster or the other Snape, though. Instead, something else caught the Potions Master’s eye - there was a small copper cauldron, resting at the end of the worktable. He gasped, realizing instantly when and for what purpose this cauldron was used. So, it must be the night before the last battle. The night when he…

As if on cue, in walked the other Snape. This time, though, he looked somewhat better than during his conversation with Dumbledore, but it seemed his hands shook more. He quickly went to the cauldron and stopped, breathing heavily. One of his hands dived into his robes and whipped out his wand. The long wooden stick danced wildly over the reddish container.

The Potions Master didn’t want to watch it. He couldn’t watch it. One part of him wanted to run to his past self and stop him from what he was about to do. The other part silently prayed for it to be over and done with. He grabbed his temples, his long fingers dug painfully into the skin.

Meanwhile, the other Snape continued standing over the cauldron, his face twisted as if in pain, his wand shaking uselessly. Finally, he took a deep breath and began chanting. It was a spell of donation. As most of the members of the Order of the Phoenix, trusted professors of the school, Potter’s friends before him, Snape was also giving something he believed the boy would need dearly to win. However, he, Severus Snape, the most hated Hogwarts professor, a Head of the most disliked House of the school, a Death Eater slash distrusted double spy, a Slytherin through and through, wasn’t donating his love to strengthen the potion. And what would he know about a feeling like that? No, he donated something that none of the reckless Gryffindors, or timid Hufflepuffs, or know-it-all Ravenclaws could offer. He donated something that took him through the years, battered, wounded, despised, lonely, but alive. Something that in the looming battle may save the boy’s life. Snape donated a part of his obstinate, fervent will to survive.

When the golden thread settled into the cold liquid, the other Snape, his breathing ragged, his forehead damp, stepped away from the cauldron, as if afraid that were he to continue standing next to it, the copper pot would suck him in. However, in less than a minute he was back, his wand swishing with purpose, his lips chanting an incantation. It was another donation. A donation from a true Slytherin. This time the golden thread that slithered from the end of Snape’s wand into the cauldron was a part of his unwavering immunity to guilt.

Snape didn’t notice how his palms balled into tight fists, but now they were pounding softly at the desk top, the rhythm matching the wild beating of his heart. He watched as his six-months-ago self stepped away from the cauldron, swaying slightly, a bead of sweat sliding down his sallow cheek. He watched as the other Snape slumped down boneless onto the bench as if his legs refused to hold his weight for a moment longer. He watched as the wizard pointed his wand at his temple, casting one restorative spell, then another one.

Unrolling his fists, Snape looked at his shaking palms, grooves from his nails prominent on the white skin. He couldn’t watch his other self any longer. Shit! Foolish wand-waving! But who knew that the restorative spells would not work? Only much later had he learned that those kinds of spells worked off of one’s inner needs and desires. He probably didn’t want it badly enough. Then again, he never dreamt of surviving the final battle.

The room went dark again, and the next time the lights came on, Snape saw the girl…Assistant Professor Ardant walking in behind his other self into the lab. With his heart aching in the tight grip of an invisible hand, he watched her brewing her potion as it happened over a month ago, his taunting her, their fight. He saw her, her wand pointing at him, her beautiful face twisted in loathing and disgust. He saw, with a twitch of regret, his other self standing rigidly, the cold smirk securely fastened to his sallow face. Then, after the girl’s flight, the room darkened and rotated again, and then it was the next time the young witch came to work there. Then, the next time, and the next.

When Snape watched the reenactment of the scene from earlier that afternoon, the scene that ended with his clash with Mr. Rag Clown, something suddenly clicked – the herbs. However, by the time he had a chance to consider the matter closely, the lights in the room went on, and this time he saw his much younger self, poring over several steaming cauldrons.

For some reason, Snape remembered that particular day right away. It happened almost sixteen years ago, when he came here the first time after the disappearance of the Dark Lord, courtesy of young Potter. Sadly, he watched for a while his younger self - almost happy, almost free – working on Obtenio Potion. Bloody Merlin, did he really think back then that the worst was over? Could he have been that naïve? Shit.

Snape shook his head and forced himself to concentrate on his current situation again. The herbs. Of course, it finally came to him - he was experiencing memory-hallucinations. These kinds of effects were usually the outcome of prolonged inhalation of aroma of Sacred Datura that was freshly picked and placed in the confinement of a closed space. Snape would bet his yearly salary that there was at least a sprig of Sacred Datura in the bunch of herbs Carnavale brought for him earlier. Bloody pest wanted to make fun of him. A joke. That was what it was to them. That was what he was to them. A joke. That was why the rag clown laughed with the girl. Bloody Gryffindors and their moronic sense of humor.

He ground his teeth and glared at his younger self. He should never have come back to Hogwarts. Why did he believe Dumbledore? Why did he let the old wizard persuade him into accepting that there could be a new life for him and there could be a hope for atonement? It could have been over and done with sixteen years ago. It should have been poison his younger self was brewing. Then, no one would laugh at him. Never again.

The throbbing wave of headache brought Snape back to the present. Right, Sacred Datura. All he had to do was to get up and get rid of it. And then he’d think of something to make Mr. Carnavale deeply regret his choice of target. And surely enough, there were several options to make the life of Ms. Pet Project difficult. No matter how much he hated himself, while he was around no one had a right to make fun of him. No one!

He just needed to get up.
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A/N A huge thanks to my beta Odddoll