Christmas, 1981
But there is no sleep when men must weep
Who never yet have wept:
So we—the fool, the fraud, the knave—
That endless vigil kept,
And through each brain on hands of pain
Another's terror crept.
Alas! it is a fearful thing
To feel another's guilt!
For, right within, the sword of Sin
Pierced to its poisoned hilt,
And as molten lead were the tears we shed
For the blood we had not spilt.
Slughorn retired that semester and left in early December, leaving them short a teacher and a head of house. Potions were a dying subject and had been for decades. Why would wizards risk poisoning themselves or blowing up their homes when there was a handy apothecary a moment of apparation away?
It just so happened that Dumbledore got Snape released from Azkaban with an official pardon around the same time. Awfully convenient, if you asked her. She wondered how much pressure Albus had placed on Horace to get him to retire mid-year.
Snape moved into the castle a week before Christmas, dragging along a single battered trunk. It looked like one he would have used for school.
She did not see much of him until the holiday arrived properly. Minerva could not stand to see her remaining family with Robert’s death still so fresh, and she elected to stay at the castle to celebrate with the staff and students who remained.
Before the annual staff party, Albus invited her to join him for tea.
“Young Severus has lost his way, I think.”
Albus had a uniquely British talent for understating the obvious.
“I am assigning you to serve as his mentor.”
The jerk of her hand sloshed tea into the saucer.
“You can’t be serious.”
“You are an exemplary professor and head of house. Severus will require guidance if he is to be successful.”
“Do not ask this of me.”
Her friend and mentor stared at her with piercing blue eyes, as if he could see into the depths of her soul.
“This is not only for his benefit, Minerva.”
She flushed, her infamous temper coming to the surface despite the control she’d developed over the years. There was no arguing with Albus.
Minerva was determined to do as little as possible to pacify her old friend. She knew she could use this power to hurt Snape. She could micromanage his duties, discourage him, and criticize his clumsy attempts. What business did the man have, being a teacher? Did he care for young minds, would he protect the students of this school?
Severus Snape was twenty-one years old and had no job experience outside of St. Mungo’s. They had not accepted him back to the hospital after his Death Eater status had come to light, even with a full pardon. They must know, as she did, that it had not been earned.
How could he be expected to pull the shambles of Slytherin house together once again? For Merlin’s sake, he had attended school with many of them! How was she meant to help him gain their respect? It was impossible. He was too young, with no training, and lacked the skills necessary to be successful.
She was quite sure she could convince him to quit by the end of the spring semester.
The staff party that Christmas Eve was especially exuberant. Voldemort’s defeat at Godric’s Hollow was still fresh, less than two months earlier. They were not only celebrating the holiday. They were celebrating their freedom from tyranny and fear.
Dumbledore had connections in Hogsmeade, and there were tables laden with elf wine, butterbeer, mead, and crystal decanters of fire whiskey. Another table held every type of sweet from Honeyduke’s and the tea shop had sent over special blends. The house elves had outdone themselves with food and decorations.
Flitwick led some of the staff in Christmas carols at an enchanted piano.
Snape was dressed in plain black robes, stark white collar buttoned high at his throat. Azkaban had not been kind to him. He was tall, and yet she guessed he couldn’t weigh more than nine stone. His dark eyes were unreadable as he sipped at his drink and watched from a corner of the room.
She had enough to drink that Minerva thought she could handle a relatively civil conversation with him.
“The headmaster has assigned me to serve as your teacher mentor.” Her voice was clipped but the drink softened her tone enough to still be considered professional, if cordial.
He made eye contact, and a headache started to bloom behind her forehead.
“I am in good hands then.” The young man smirked at her and she could not tell if he was mocking her or not.
She took another drink, trying to dampen her dislike. “I will not be easy on you. You will find my expectations demanding. Teaching is not for everyone.”
That ambiguous smirk only grew. “Professor, I’ve spent my entire adult life in service of a madman. Do you believe yourself more demanding than he?”
She flushed angrily but had no retort. What could she say? Snape was inoculated to the threat of authority. He was no longer afraid of her, if he had ever been.
He reached inside his robes and pulled out a small parcel, wrapped in plain butcher paper and tied with string. “For you.” Snape held it out to her.
Reluctantly she took it but did not open it. She would not give him the satisfaction. No doubt he wanted to see her reaction, this whole gesture must be some ploy to disturb her.
“I’m afraid I have nothing for you.” The idea hadn’t even occurred to her. She was not embarrassed by this.
He shook his head and brushed dark hair from his face. “It is a gift. I did not expect anything in return.” Snape pushed away from the wall he had been leaning against and she thought he wobbled as he stood. “Happy Christmas, Professor. Goodnight.”
He left, only stopping briefly to speak with the headmaster on his way out.
Minerva enjoyed the rest of the party, perhaps a bit more than she ought to. There was more to drink than any of them could have consumed, although they all did their best.
As they stumbled their way back to their rooms, Minerva felt the small package’s weight in her pocket. With a sigh of frustration, she opened the damned thing, wanting to get it over with.
It was a small book, a muggle book. It was a paperback copy of Phaedo, which takes place hours before the suicide of Socrates. She did not remember much of it but knew it discussed the immortality of the soul.
Minerva tentatively opened the cover and found a cramped inscription on the first page. “Only the dead have seen the end of war.” – Plato
She was suddenly furious and clenched the book tightly in her hands. What was that supposed to mean? Could he be threatening her?
Minerva held the gift so tightly her knuckles went white, and the beginnings of arthritis protested.
Well, he could answer for this, surely. She’d go down to the dungeons now and demand to know what he’d been thinking.
Her fist pounded against the wooden door that had, until recently, belonged to Slughorn. It gave way under her hand and swung open to reveal a dark sitting room. Minerva hesitated, then entered. “Snape, you’ve left your door open.” Her voice was swallowed by the dark of the room, there was no answer.
She tried to swallow but her mouth and throat were dry, despite, or because of, how much she’d had to drink. A few steps into the dark room she bumped into an end table and sent it crashing to the floor. She swore and looked up, expecting Snape to come baring down on her.
All she could hear was the sound of running water. There was a light at the end of the hall and she walked toward it as if pulled by an invisible string. The rooms smelled of stale booze and rancid food. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. What had he been doing here these past weeks?
Minerva knocked firmly on the wooden door with light around the edges. “Snape? I’m coming in.” Something was wrong, she could sense it. She held her wand tightly in one hand and turned the knob with the other.
The door led to a large bathroom that looked identical in layout to her own. The walls and floor were tiled green, a large Greek bath took up most of the floor space. Snape was curled up in the bath as the water ran out over the edge and flooded the room. His hair, longer than she’d ever seen it, fanned out behind him. She was bizarrely reminded of the famous painting of Ophelia’s suicide.
Unlike the unfortunate character from Macbeth, Snape was still breathing. He looked up at her, unfocused and hazy in a way she’d never seen before. Half a dozen bottles of wine, whiskey, and who knew what else, littered the edge of the bath. Some had been knocked over, either by carelessness or by flooding.
For a moment Minerva was frozen by indecision. She shouldn’t be here. It was highly inappropriate. This wasn’t her mess to clean up. Something told her that if she left to find someone else, he wouldn’t be here when they arrived.
In the end, he still looked too much like one of her students for her to be completely unmoved by his plight. Without the sneer and high-necked robes, he looked so much younger. He’d been crying.
Minerva flicked her wand and stopped the running water. The taps dripped slowly as the pressure equalized. The water soaked the hem of her robes.
She’d had too much to drink to be dealing with this.
“Can you stand?” She was numbly surprised at the softness of her voice.
The young man didn’t say anything but shook his head slowly, his hair slid through the water like dark snakes in the grass.
She walked toward him briskly, her boots splashing water across the flooded tile floor. “Give me your hand.” Snape groggily raised his left hand out of the water and reached for her.
Minerva recoiled before she could stop herself.
He’d been at it, done something gruesome to it. Pink water ran down the arm as it mixed with his blood. His entire forearm was an open wound.
“You absolute bampot!” She summoned a towel with a flick of her wand and knelt on the wet floor to wrap the wound. “What were you thinking!?”
The smell of whiskey became overwhelming the closer she got to him. His breath was sour and she wondered if he’d been vomiting. “Mm fine.”
Minerva was startled to hear his childhood accent underneath his slurred words. “Mr. Snape, you are not fine. Now keep pressure on that arm.” Once he had taken control of the towel she leaned back and muttered a spell to drain the bath and another to dry the floor. The last thing she needed was for either of them to slip and crack their heads.
“It’s p’fessor.”
“What are you babbling about?” She snatched up another towel and threw it in his direction without looking. “Cover yourself up.”
“M’not Mr. Snape, it’s Professor Snape now.”
She rolled her eyes and regretted it immediately when it made the room go a bit spinny. The urgency of the situation had helped sober her up, but not entirely. Minerva helped the skinny man out of the bath and into the sitting room. She left him on Slughorn’s old couch for a moment while she got a fire going for light and warmth.
When Minerva turned around to face him, she found Snape had removed the towel from his arm and was prodding at the ruin with a professional touch. “What did you do to yourself?” She asked, aghast. “You’ll need to go to St. Mungo’s. Poppy left after the party this evening.”
He looked up at her and the emptiness of his expression made her uneasy. What could have possessed him to do such a thing? It was not a small amount of damage, the wound was grizzly.
“My wand.” His voice was hoarse and low, barely above a whisper.
Minerva transfigured a roll of parchment into a roll of bandages and approached him. “All you need at the moment is to sit still, Snape. Once I’ve wrapped this up we can get you dressed and head to the hospital.”
The young man sighed in frustration and threw his right hand out, the muscles in his arm strained. “Accio.” She nearly laughed at the conviction in his voice as he commanded magic to obey him. He was well and truly blootered, injured, and without a wand. The idea that he could control his magic under those circumstances was absurd.
As if in defiance of her expectations, the black wand zipped through the open bathroom door and into his open hand.
Minerva was gobsmacked. Severus Snape was practically still a boy, his magic far from mature. Wandless magic was impossible for many grown wizards and required power, control, and focus that few possessed. She watched, transfixed, as he healed the flesh of his arm. It was no magic she had seen before, he was singing. The pale flesh of the arm knit back together, leaving no sign except the grey outline of the dark mark branded into his skin.
For a moment she was speechless but anger soon overtook her. “This is what you do, is it? Tear yourself apart and then put the pieces back together?” He was such a waste.
He had the temerity to scoff at her. Even dripping wet, wearing only a towel, and drunk off his arse he was still laughing at her. “I tried to cut it out. His mark.” Severus ran his thumb over the ridges of the faint skull. “I want to be rid of it.”
“You idiot child!” His head snapped up and he stared at her in bewilderment. “You had a gift! You could have been an incredible healer, you would have saved lives. Do you have any concept of the good you could have done, the benefit you could have been to this community? Instead, you’re drinking yourself to death, cutting yourself open, and what if you had passed out in the bath? You traded your talents and potential to a man who stole your freedom and your future. Now he’s dead and you’ve squandered everything. You’ve nothing to show for it.”
Her hands shook with emotion, she wanted to strangle him. As much as she hated to admit it, Severus Snape was incredibly gifted and he’d wasted it all. There were good and kind people with only a fraction of his abilities. He didn’t deserve them.
“That might have been the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” He leaned back, head tipped over the back of the loveseat, and his hair dripped water onto the stone floor.
He infuriated her. “Why did you give me that bloody book?”
Snape did not lift his head to look at her, he stared at the stone ceiling instead as if searching for constellations in the cracks. “Phaedo? I enjoy quoting philosophy at you, and I wanted to ensure you could keep up.” He chuckled and Minerva started to worry he’d had too much to drink. “Your face wrinkles up like you’ve bitten into a lemon. It’s amusing.” Definitely too much to drink.
“You are impertinent and drunk.” Minerva crossed her arms and glared down at him. “What was that note then? Some dig— about Robert?” She bit back the choking heat in her throat. She would not show weakness in front of this man, this arrogant child.
He finally decided to look her in the eye. “Who is Robert?” Unbidden, her mind bubbled over with memories. Her brother, the battle, his death, the hours spent searching the rubble for his scattered body, his funeral.
No, she didn’t want to think about this. Snape’s eyelids fluttered and he rubbed at his temple listlessly.
“My brother, killed by death eaters. I’m not surprised you don’t know his name.”
He frowned and turned his face to watch the fire. “I didn’t know. That was not my intended message.”
Snape couldn’t even have the decency to apologize for his participation in her brother’s death. He had been ignorant to his sin, the great wrong he’d done her. Her baby brother had been rent in two, and Snape had been ignorant, he had not carried Robert with him like a millstone about his neck.
Somehow that was worse than if he’d been taunting her.
“What the hell did you mean by it then?”
“I wanted you to know that the war is not over for me.”
Minnie stared at him, stricken.
The young man continued, “I’m not really here to be a teacher. I expect I’ll be lousy at it. Headmaster Dumbledore does not believe the Dark Lord is truly dead. I am here so that when my master returns to power and calls me to him, I will be in a strategic position to regain his trust. Dumbledore wanted me at Hogwarts so that when the Dark Lord returns, I will be too valuable to discard. He will welcome me into his confidence, his faithful follower all these years.”
He was rambling. Minerva didn’t think she’d ever heard him say so much at one time. His words thoroughly chilled her, but she pushed the feeling away. It was not only his words, but the way he said them with such nonchalance, as if signing away his future at Albus’ request on the chance that Voldemort may return one day was of no consequence.
When he spoke again, it was only a ragged whisper. “I did things. I know I do not deserve this chance, but I am going to fix what I broke.”
Minerva shook her head slowly, shaken by the raw honesty brought on by the drinking. “Severus, you will never be able to fix what you’ve done. This will not bring you peace.”
“Excellent,” he yawned and rubbed tiredly at his face. “Peace was never my thing anyway.”
He was such a child still.
“It is late.” Minerva twirled her wand and dried her robes. She almost asked him if he would be all right — she had found him drunk and injured in the bath — but Minerva remembered the conviction in his voice. The war is not over for me.
Well, the war wasn’t over for her either. She supposed he’d known that, when he chose the gift.
“I expect to see you at breakfast in the morning, assuming you can manage to keep yourself alive that long?”
He chuckled drunkenly and tipped over so he could lay across the couch. “Happy Christmas, Professor.” The delivery was so dry she almost thought he was sincere.
She set an alarm spell that would wake him with the sensation of freezing water, a little disappointed she wouldn’t be here to see the effect.
“Good evening, Professor Snape.”