Forgiveness

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This chapter was beta'ed by Drusilla of Perfect Imagination.

Chapter 18

There are no war monuments to Spies. Spies were never given a shrine in the ancient style of the Gallic warrior* bent over the mortal wound in his breast, bravely facing his death in the countenance of superior forces and greater aggression. No mounted figure was ever depicted of a Spy in his winking disguise as a dastard.

No, Spies did not get that treatment. Shadows did not make a pretty picture; they merely lent themselves to the chiaroscuro of the Hero's triumphant emergence in the golden light. The Hero received the monuments, the recognition, and the glorious return of the body on his shield. The Spy, he died in alleyways with a knife in his back, in the corners of dungeons by torture, sometimes by his own hand, but mostly a little at a time, the horrors in which he willingly participated wearing away his psyche like water on sandstone. The Spy's physical death did not matter; he died of the poison of his profession second, by minute, by hour, by day from the moment he assumed the duties. The length of his service was measured in acts of betrayal, treason and brutality all committed in the name of the Greater Good.

If a Hero's hands were examined, the dark blood on them would be that of his enemy. The Spy's hands contained bright flecks and splotches of the crimson liquid from many donors, most of them innocent.

The Hero's soul was never in question; he gave the good fight and died, or survived with a few bad dreams. The Spy was assumed not to possess one, and therefore sent out time after time with no regard for it. The Spy, if he returned home, was met with suspicion, hostility and dismissal. The nightmares were debilitating recreations of every horrific event in which he participated.

No, soulless, cowardly traitors never graced a monument. They were merely discarded after they became immaterial... human flotsam at the foot of the Hero, the crushed skull under the focal figure's heel.

Severus had realised this early in the game and so erected in his mind his own monument to himself and the others recruited along the way. Lucius was next to him on this dais of his mind, his flowing locks and superior sneer a perfect foil for Severus' shadowy presence in the sculpture, really more a hint of Severus than an image. Weasley was below, seated at their feet. His job had been relatively easy so far, though it was soon going to be much more perilous. Fudge was an utter incompetent, and Scrimgeour too political to take note of a relative nobody - Arthur Weasley's son, prim, priggish Percy who donned his seamless facade each day with the greatest skill and ease. He worked well in that capacity. He had been trained almost from conception by a blustering mother, a weak-willed father and six, barely-tolerable siblings. Even weak Lupin might have a place, though somewhere that Severus would not have to view him, without a doubt.

Miss Bulstrode, Mr. Zabini, Miss Greengrass, Miss Brown and Mr. Nott were depicted as the infants they were. They really deserved better, but Severus had limited their work to protecting students and guiding the Carrows away from the Heroes. The glory always came back to the Shining Ones, whether they were the Golden Trio living in the wilds, or the Bumbling Trio who remained at Hogwarts.

There were other Spies, too numerous to depict, too deep undercover to ever emerge safely. Severus would leave them their anonymity, their representation in his monument would be the dais on which the war was won. The base material would be made of subterfuge, intelligence and a cunning bravery disguised as cowardice and wrapped pain.

He had told the Portrait Albus this philosophy one particularly horrible evening after the Carrows had committed to teaching the fine art of Crucio to the students - the two monsters' wizardly guinea pig of choice, of course, those students hapless enough to serve detention that evening. Even Filch was horrified. Admittedly, his disapprobation stemmed more for the mess the Carrows created for him to clean rather than concern for rule-breakers. The smell of shit, piss and vomit still clung to Severus’ robes. The dark Headmaster was not sure if some of the clinging effluvia were his own or not.

As the former Slytherin Head spoke, Albus' eyes twinkled gravely. No doubt, the old coot was enjoying Severus in full whinge and without the benefit of alcohol or mind-altering potions, something he was relying on with alarming frequency these days. The bleak dissertation became ridiculous to the dark wizard's own hearing and he ended up laughing until tears ran down his face as Albus dryly reminded his Spy-turned-murderer of just who was dead in the room and by whose hand. Albus had always been able to cut through Severus' darker moods.

Even as pigment, oil and gesso, the old man was a manipulative cunt while still being entertaining.

&*&*&

Severus awaited Antonia's arrival in the commissary, his breakfast coffee and toast before him. Mari attempted to slide an egg onto his plate, one that he Vanished with a scowl. The creature was beyond irritating as she smiled and completed another stealthy food-related move with a bowl of porridge. Severus fixed the Brownie with a deadly glare, but began eating the oatmeal, sugar and cream concoction, deciding that since the creature had gone to the effort of making it just the way he liked it, he may as well consume it.

He saw Antonia enter the cavernous room and drew out a slim packet from his second-best robes, donned that morning in honour of the visit to Meridian, Stella's school and the solicitor. She waved at him as she approached the table with her customary bagel and coffee. "I see Mari has you eating."

"She doesn't know her place," Severus complained between bites.

"Good." Antonia pinched his ribs through the protective layers of cloth as she slid into the seat beside him. "She's making you gain weight."

Severus sneered his response as he pushed the packet toward Antonia. She placed her hand on his. "Honey, these gifts aren't necessary."

Severus felt his cheeks heat. He whispered fiercely, "Do not call me that imbecilic name."

"Oh?" Antonia's guileless gaze met his as she stroked his fingers. "Would you prefer Darling or Sweetums, maybe? How ‘bout Cutie-pie?"

"I would prefer my given name," Severus snapped and was answered by Antonia's throaty chuckle. He frowned at the gift as he snatched his hand back. "Well, open it."

Antonia slid a blunt-tipped fingernail under the Spellotape and let the plain wrapping fall open. Inside the packet lay a small brooch in the form of a flower made of bone and shell that Severus, himself, had spelled together. Her eyes darted to his. "Severus, you've given me a gift every day this week. You don't have to do this, I'm already impressed."

Severus clicked his tongue on his teeth. "That's hardly likely."

"Severus, quit selling yourself short,” Antonia warned with a whispered hiss. "Now, why all the little gifts? You're making me feel bad that I haven't gotten you anything."

Severus returned his attention to his meal before answering. Cold porridge was disgusting. Antonia bit into her bagel, making a great show of chewing. A bit of the cream cheese stuck to her cheek, marring the milky surface. Severus smirked. "It seems your face wants to eat, also."

"What?" Antonia asked as Severus pantomimed a wiping motion. "Oh, damn."

The doctor pulled a serviette from the dispenser on the table, and then scrubbed at the wrong side. "Did I get it?"

Severus leaned toward her and with a deft flick of his handkerchief, removed the offending clump. "To answer your earlier question, I realise you find my ways antiquated and quaint, but I did tell you I wished to court you. The courting process begins with gifts, and if you accept them, I speak to your parents. Further intimacy occurs after a marriage is contracted and I pay a bride price. To use your Yank vernacular, it's an English thing."

"It's also sexist," Antonia replied with more than a little heat. She ate another bite of her bagel before saying, "I want to court you, too."

Severus snorted. "Women do not court, and if they did, I have no family for you to contact."

"Well, there's Joseph Pony and Stella. If you're thinking about 'contracting a marriage' as you put it, don't they need to be involved?"

Severus winced at her reference to the boy. Joseph Pony's behaviour of the last few days had been challenging and hostile at best. He seemed to be trying to recover from letting Severus see his breakdown. He doubted the boy would respond well to Antonia's reference to Severus as family. "I... Marriage isn't the only aim of courtship... Do not put words in my mouth."

"If I have to get engaged to get - how did you put it? - further intimacy, I think I'll have to speed things along a little bit. You're a sexy beast, Severus, especially when you're being coy." It was Antonia's turn to bestow a smirking countenance upon him. "I think I'll start with the gifts today. I'll find something in Meridian that's not black, not a book, and definitely not what you need. Maybe a leopard print thong would do."

Antonia laughed while Severus scowled, his normally sallow face blazing. "You are impossible."

"Yep, and that's why you like me." Antonia swept Severus with a heated look. "Dig in; we have a lot of things to do today. Shopping for just the right thong takes time."

&*&*&

While Stella and Joseph Pony bought school supplies with the voucher Severus gave them, Antonia and he made their way to the solicitor's office in an unprepossessing storefront on the cracked and dusty Main Street of Meridian. An older woman with pince-nez glasses attached to a chain that hung around her neck, and a high, blue, beehive hairdo greeted them warmly before turning to the door behind her and with a grating twang shouted, "Dicky! Dr. Dance is here with your ten o'clock, that English fella with the immigration problem."

"He'll be right with you," she said in a normal tone as she turned back to the waiting Potions Master. "Just make yourself at home. There's coffee or tea if you want it."

Severus demurred politely and assumed a seat next to Antonia. After a few moments, a short man with pale blue eyes, transparently blond hair, a bit of a gut and a deep tan, entered. Severus thought he looked like a well-cooked mushroom. The man stopped before them. "You must be Mr. Snape. I'm Richard Holman; nice to meet you."

The man gave a sharp bow to Severus, and with a nod to Antonia, he ushered the Potions Master into his office. It was a cosier version of a rat's nest, with oddments and heavy legal tomes gracing almost every surface. Paper and parchment drifted in piles over the dull green carpet of indeterminate age. A heavily overburdened ashtray perched precariously on top of a stack of paperback Louis Lamour novels to the side of the desk, explaining the extremely musty, cigarette-laden funk of the room. Severus had not been able to stand that particular odour since he had given up smoking eleven years ago. Overhead, a squeaking ceiling fan stirred the air just enough to make Severus' eyes water and his nose stuffy. The man leaned back in his seat, his hands crossed over his gut, as he looked Severus over. After a moment of nearly cat-like concentration, the man picked up a quill and said, "So, Mr. Snape, Toni tells me you need to clear up your immigration status and quick. Tell me how you entered the country."

After an hour of consultation, in which questions of Severus' loyalties in the war, his assumed death, subsequent acquittal, and his strange family situation were all discussed in detail, the lawyer -as Severus was reminded he was called - summoned a book and began reading it. Severus shifted uncomfortably as his body began exhibiting the strain of the interview with his customary aches and flares of pain in his back and extremities.

After a few moments of intense searching and even more time spent in frantic scribbling, the man stated, "You're in luck. The immigration laws, after nine-eleven, changed radically for Muggles, but wizarding laws remained relatively untouched due to the influx of Muggleborns after that war of yours."

Severus quirked his eyebrow in interest. The man continued. "We can get you a visa based on your expertise. You do have documentation showing you completed an apprenticeship and your subsequent employment at… Hogwarts?”

"No." Severus drew a long breath, hoping not to sneeze. "My exit from Scotland did not allow me to gather all the pertinent information from my Gringotts vault."

"You have a way to get it? Someone you can trust?" The man's gelid glance returned to the parchment. "We'll need that to begin the paperwork, otherwise... Well, we'll just have to come up with another way. Toni says you're important to her research."

"I have one person I might contact." Severus shuddered to think of approaching Aberforth Dumbledore again, the only person who knew him to be alive in the whole of the UK. Any activity on Snape's behalf might bring unwanted attention from the Ministry. It was a delicate operation, and all that was available to use was a sledgehammer. "I should be able to direct him to my vault. Now, what will be your fee for all this work?"

&*&*&

Severus knew the consequences of the night's fiasco would be dire. Albus' insane plan to school Potter in Occlumency had not only blown up, but had gone off like a Muggle atomic bomb. He glared at the Pensieve into which the boy had delved as if he had a right to it. It was rather more like rape, Sev, old boy, than right, Lucius' voice said in his mind. Lucky bastard that Snape was, his conscience had the voice of one of the most ruthless men he knew, second only to the Dark Lord. Even after his change of allegiance, Lucius Malfoy was a man no one crossed more than once. Severus let his head sink into his hands as he scrubbed his fingers along his scalp in an attempt to alleviate the pain that was quickly turning to a debilitating cluster headache.

He should destroy the memories, but was loathe giving up anything he had left of Lily. He had so little, only a few childish mementos gifted over their short idyll of a childhood friendship. He had no photos. His memories were all he had. He drew the Pensieve toward him. As he emptied it, one agonising memory at a time, it struck him anew what Potter had revealed of himself in their lessons.

Potter, far from being the pampered brat that Severus knew his father to be, was one of a special class in Hogwarts annals, one of the Lost Boys. Surely, there had been others, but none so tied to each other by their shared backgrounds of neglect and abuse as was Tom Riddle, Severus Snape and Harry Potter. Severus supposed Dumbledore would be their Captain Hook, pulling strings to effect the outcome he desired.

Severus wanted to flinch away from and deny the images of Potter’s life, but could not. He knew Petunia Evans too well to be able to delude himself any longer. The boy's life could have been superimposed on Severus' own, less the beatings, alcoholic parents and of course, the whole taking of the Dark Mark. Tom Riddle's life had been much the same, according to Dumbledore. And Potter carried that dark core that both Severus and Riddle had exploited to their own benefit and damnation. If it were not for the boy's arrogance...

Severus smirked at his analysis of the boy. Who, at fifteen, was not arrogant? Who, at that juncture, thought they could not conquer the world single-handedly? Who did not know better than the adults around them did at that age? Severus, if he were honest, would have to say he had been all the things of which he had accused the boy: Arrogant, Dark, Shabby, Undeserving, Unlovely and Unloved. Even now, as Dumbledore used up Severus to defeat Voldemort, he was those epithets and more. Moreover, before Potter was done with his life, he would have one more thing in common with the selfsame Greasy Git. Potter would have to become a murderer or they were all fucked. He hoped the boy was strong enough.

Severus had not been, and had gone mad for his effort.

It might have been easier for Snape to maintain his distance with the boy if he did not have those damnable eyes. Every time he saw the boy's hate, he relived the night that Lily had decided he was not worth her time. That had been the night of his own slide into hell; his descent into Darkness so consuming that he could still feel it eating at his soul, festering, even as he tried to make amends for his sins.

Severus replaced the last memory from the Pensieve and then Vanished the cockroaches and the broken glass before he swept from the room. He wanted... he wanted to...

He wanted to die.

He had wished for it after Lily's death, had tried for it the night Voldemort returned, sought it regularly since then... but he always carried on; his duty to Lily's son kept him going. He could only hope that when the war ended he would be dead. There would be no time, then, for self-examination, for recriminations, for condemnation. He would simply die and be cycled through the cosmic meat-grinder. He hoped when his soul returned to earth that he would not discover more duties to fulfil. Otherwise, when he entered Tir Na mBeo, he might opt for a more permanent death, the Celtic equivalent of soul suicide*.

How many times had he held the vial of poison to his lips, and how many times had he flung it from him, disgusted by his own cowardice? He would do his duty and be rewarded with death... He would claim it as his right, whether in battle, at the hand of a friend or by his own. It was ironic, that thought. His speech to his first years told them that Potions could put a stopper in death, and yet, Severus longed for the self-same Thanatos he said he could stave.

Damn Potter and his prying. Severus had a job to complete and no time for maudlin self-analysis.

He entered his chambers, and downed a bottle of Dreamless Sleep, the only way he could attain a state of rest these days. He fell across his monkish cot, still clothed, and he slept; not the restful slumber of the righteous, but the narcotised sleep of the damned.

Tomorrow was another day.

&*&*&

They found the children outside Miss May’s Robe Emporium. Joseph Pony had been shunted to the side of a group of girls which included a giggling Stella, several of them were giving the older boy flirtatious looks. Joseph Pony looked displeased. Severus could well imagine his own reaction to being amongst such a crush at any age, and he took great satisfaction in stalling Antonia’s progress where he knew his apprentice would see them.

Joseph Pony’s set jaw and narrowed eyes were the only outward sign that the boy had noticed the adults. He said something to Stella and pointed his lips in their direction. Stella turned. “Daddy! Come on guys, I want you to meet him and Dr. Dance. She‘s his girlfriend.”

Twelve sets of knowing eyes settled on Severus and his companion as Severus inclined his head to Joseph Pony and his masterful play. The boy merely sniggered and turned to look in the display window. Stella and her gaggle descended on him. “Daddy, these are the girls in my class this year.”

She ran through names he would never remember, placing them with faces as varied in hue as any class at Hogwarts. All the young teens seemed ill at ease as he greeted them as he would any of his former students, formally and with reserve. Stella pulled him to the shop, her retinue in tow. “Daddy, when Joseph Pony and me went to the school to pick up the supply list, we found out that we’re going to have a formal and all the eighth graders can go.”

“That is interesting, my dear,” Severus replied, sounding stiff to his own ears. “We have much we need to accomplish today; have you bought your books?”

“Yessir. But Daddy...” Stella motioned him to her. He bent, not as much as he would have last year. The girl had grown a bit over the summer. “I wanted to go and try on some dresses with my friends, and Joseph Pony wouldn’t let me. Can you go in with me? We don’t have to buy it yet, but I don’t know what’ll look good. Can you help?”

Severus heard a suppressed snort from Antonia. “My dear, perhaps Antonia might be the best person for that job.”

The doctor stepped forward. “You know, I think it would be a good idea, and then I could shop for that little gift we spoke of this morning, Severus.”

“What gift?” Stella asked as the group entered the shop. Antonia merely smiled as she waved playfully at the two men through the glass door. Severus felt a definite tension headache beginning at the base of his skull.

&*&*&

AN: *For those interested, the sculpture described is a real one. A picture of it can be found on Wikipedia. Just type in Dying Gaul in the search bar. It will take you right to it. It is one of my favorite war sculptures. The pathos is brilliant and the subject is just beautiful.

**I don’t remember which book I read it in, but Celtic religion, as reconstructed by modern-day Pagans is said to have a doctrine of the transmigration of the soul, and a concept of soul-suicide/death. This reincarnation belief is not to be confused with Eastern philosophies that contain elements of Karma and Dharma. In Celtic reincarnation, the person gets to choose whether to go back to Earth, stay in the Happy Lands or die off completely. There is no learning process but what the person chooses to learn.

Tir Na mBeo: The land of the Living or the Happy Lands. From Wikipedia’s article on Celtic polytheism.

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