Ashes of Armageddon

Book Two



The Void



Chapter 35: Declivity





Alone in the large, spacious office that used to be Hermione Granger's, Severus Snape was reading over his own work, trying to find the error in the new Potion formula he had been working on. The error must have been rudimentary to have botched the potion in such a spectacular way, but even two days later, he could not find his own mistake.



He shook his head disdainfully. This did not bode well for him, and neither did his deteriorating physical health. He had anticipated it of course, both the decline in the mental alertness, and his physical deterioration, but for some reason he had hoped he would have more time. Three years of semi-normal life, not exactly deliriously happy years, but far from being utterly miserable either. Truth be told, he had gotten used to being alive and liking it, and he resented his inevitable demise sneaking up on him so soon.



A knock on his door interrupted his train of thought.



“Enter,” he said.



The door opened, and Hermione Granger walked in, smiling broadly.



“Sorry I missed your firecall earlier today.”



“Your secretary said you were in a meeting with the Minister of Magic.”



Hermione frowned instantly. “Did you tell her who you were?”



“I didn't.”



“You should have. She would have pulled me out.”



Severus smirked slightly. “That's not necessary. But now that you are here, perhaps I can exploit your young mind and sharp eyesight to help me find an error in the new formula.”



She pulled up a chair instantly, sitting at the desk across from him, and scanned the parchment thoughtfully. She frowned a little, and took a quill, and continued reading more carefully. Severus watched her with curiosity.



“Here,” she said finally. “Wormwood and Nundu claw trimmings will interact in a volatile manner, when Bezoar root is preceded by Thyme blossoms.”



He swore under his breath. He knew that, of course, but why did not he catch it? Was he really that far gone already, after only three years?



She looked at him with alarm. “How are you feeling?”



“Fine. Why do you ask?”



“Because had I made such an error in my sixth year Potions class, Gryffindor would have lost all their points instantly,” she said dryly. “You look sleep deprived.” He opened his mouth to argue, but she stopped him instantly. “Don't bother denying it. I am watching you. You are having microsleeps as we speak.”



He grunted something unfriendly, and snatched the parchment away from her.



“Thank you for stopping by,” he said, pointing to the door.



She smiled slightly, and had not moved.



“Hugo misses you,” she said quietly. “Can we drop by to your place sometime soon for another game of chess?”



“How soon?” he asked, not bothering to hide his reluctance.



“Tomorrow night?”



He winced slightly. “Now is not the best time. My place is a bit messy, and I've been spending far too much time inside. Perhaps we could meet in a park?”



“Sure,” she told him. “Tomorrow night?”



“Fine.”



She continued eying him thoughtfully, still not moving, but not asking anything. Finally, he lost his patience:



“Either say what you want to say, or leave. I don't have all day.”



“Well,” she murmured. “Are you sleeping?”



“Yes.”



“Nightmares?”



“No.”



She gave him another dubious look. “Well then. See you tomorrow night. Five, at Finsbury Park, same location?”



“Fine,” he said again.



“Maybe you should go home and get some rest now,” she whispered quietly. “You look like a ghost.”



He sighed a little, and relented. “You know, maybe I'll do just that. I am obviously not achieving anything useful here, in my current state.”



He left shortly after she had, and Floo'd straight home. Once home, he surveyed his surroundings with disdain. How could he let it get so bad? A bit messy, he had told her. That was an understatement of the millennium. The place was covered in filth, with litter, dirty dishes and piles of laundry scattered on the floor. He glanced into the kitchen and sighed. There were flies. There were mice. It would take less than ten minutes of cleaning spells to tidy everything up, but he could not be bothered. He was content to let his surroundings match his mental state. He collapsed on the couch, and stared into the ceiling vacantly.



It was the Dreamless Sleep, of course. The potion provided the taker with refreshing sleep, without the dreams to invade and trouble one's mind. Apart from the Killing Curse, this potion was probably the greatest clemency a troubled soul could get. And yet, it was not meant to be taken indefinitely. It had magical ingredients that simulated some REM activity quite well, but no human brain could survive permanently without natural, non-drug induced REM sleep. Severus Snape knew that as well as any other Potions Master or healer would, but still, he was not nearly ready to to give up on it, and take a plunge into the void that had been waiting for him at the end of every day, ready to claim him and consume him at a moment's notice.



He stood up abruptly, and made his way into the bathroom. He stripped, and then, on an impulse, for the first time in the last twelve months, took the Glamours off, all of them. Staring at himself in the mirror, he surveyed his own body with derision. Some sight he was, when not hiding behind something. The dark mark on his forearm, the slave-brand on his forehead, the blood-quill scar on his hand, and the word “Traitor” carved and burned into his chest. There were other marks, too; just three of them. A faded, barely noticeable line that ran across the fingers on his left hand, where belt had struck at one point, splitting his skin. Two marks on his backside, one from the crop, another from the belt. And that was all, really; not too bad, given that he had spent two months as Tom Riddle's favorite toy.



His scars from Buckbeak and Fluffy were gone; and so was the scar from Nagini's bite. Those had been healed during the time he had spent in a coma, before being handed over to Harry Potter/Tom Riddle hybrid. He resented that dubious generosity of St. Mungo's healers greatly, because now, his body was nothing but Tom Riddle's personal tapestry, with no other marks to offset those memories.



He got dressed again, without showering, and went back to lie on the couch. Dreamless Sleep, he took some more of it, and drifted off to sleep.



Nightmares, he thought with loathing, remembering Hermione's question. It would certainly have been normal to have nightmares after events such as those, but why should his body and mind bless him with a normal response to anything?



No, he had told her the truth. Over the last three years, he never had nightmares.



On the few occasions when he had attempted to wean himself off the Dreamless Sleep, he certainly had dreams – vivid ones, dreams of the events that had occurred at Godric's Hollow. But they weren't nightmares. Which was much worse, as far as he was concerned.



... To Be Continued...