Severus was well-read; he read all kinds of books, and though he had a weakness for French literature and Potion research, he always made sure to pick a few titles which concerned topics he was less familiar with, such as ethnology, neo-Confucianism or even folkloristics. For that reason he had read quite a few works on psychotherapy, and he knew perfectly well that there was nothing healthy in using legilimency not only to protect himself from others, but to protect his mind from itself, too. Still, he had been learning for three years, and the building of mental barriers, though time-consuming, had been an essential tool in stabilising his mood. He felt more confident, less susceptible to strong emotional outbursts or nervous breakdowns: now he could, at will, shut down his mind, his indifference and coldness sometimes genuine.
They were the result of a sort of permanent self-censure which he had welcomed as a blessing.
Twice a week he met with the headmaster, every day he trained himself: his body and mind had come to crave the feeling of control it provided him, the stability, the intense skill mobilisation. Such a level of cerebral activity kept him sane, it would in the long term, and that was all that mattered.
"Severus", the headmaster greeted him. "Please take a seat."
Severus complied, removing his wand from the inner pockets of his robes mechanically and putting it down on the table before him. He glanced at the clock.
"How long, headmaster?"
The older man tilted his head, peering at him over his half-moon spectacles.
"Tonight you will attempt to keep me out. Is that alright with you?"
"Certainly".
"Would you like a cup of tea before we start?"
"No, thank you."
"Very well, then."
The headmaster's wand was the centre of Severus' attention. He stared at it intensely; as usual, he took a deep breath and laid his hands flat on his knees, straightening in his chair.
"Legilimens."
A wall. It was the first rule of mental protection – to build a wall, a sphere rather, to isolate oneself in one's own mind, to be exceptionally difficult to find. Severus felt Dumbledore enter; he felt the familiar, formidable strength break through his skull, searching, pressing against his mind, and he sat through the thunder in utter darkness, holding his whole being in his hands, staring at the tempest from within with redoubtable stubbornness. The trick resided in immense concentration and self-assertion. He should never, even for one second, forget himself, be tempted to look at himself through the eyes of the intruder. One was to resist even the burning gaze of the enemy inside, to keep the door shut at all costs.
Coherence. Clarity. Consistency.
He felt Dumbledore's rampant presence grow nearer. It was close, it was behind him, it was looking over his shoulder, pressing against his skull with colossal strength, breathing in his neck. He looked away. Grass. There was grass. He could picture it perfectly. He sat down in that grass and picked up a leave that was laying there, ripping it apart meticulously.
Blank and calm.
A sharp pain filled his skull. He winced – the leaf fell from his hand.
Compartmentalise.
He remained calm. He ignored the pain. He picked the leaf up again – it laid in his hand completely still – and in doing so he felt intense satisfaction fill his mind, for the leaf was still, so still, and all around there was a raging storm – and he could simply decide to shut out its sound, to shut out the voices, to focus on that leaf, to examine it meticulously. And so he did, and while doing so he also hid that feeling of satisfaction, for Dumbledore was not to learn anything, he was to be left in the dark. He was to be locked out.
"Are you loyal to Lord Voldemort?"
He heard the headmaster's voice somewhere above him, perhaps outside of him. Yes, he thought. See, he thought. And then he held them in his hand and projected them into the darkness – memories and feelings of death eater meetings, of his initiation, violent admiration, resolution. He added more, layers upon layers: disgust – disgust towards muggles, towards Gryffindors, towards his father, his town, himself – the longing to belong; pride.
It was an elaborate web of lies. The past was to be passed off as the present; feelings were dissociated from memories, used without one another. It was all a formidable invention.
The brewing of falsity for another to see.
A work of art.
"Now pretend. Pretend that I have successfully broken in."
That was more complex. Severus was an excellent occlumens – he had to resist as long as he could to make it believable. Then, being in absolute control of himself, he had to pretend to have lost all control over his mind, he was to project carefully chosen, curated memories into the void, to spread out feelings of confusion and anxiety for all to see without mixing them up with his actual state of being. And that was hard; it had to be believable enough, but not to him, never to him, he should not lose himself in his role, make the disquietude his, indeed lose control. He should never mistake the actor from himself: the disguise should not stick to his skin, and all would be well.
A présent le théâtre (…) Est en un point si haut que chacun l'idolâtre.
At present Theatre (…) has reached such a high state that all idolize it.
"Are you loyal to Albus Dumbledore?"
That was easier. He loathed the man just as much as he admired him, he was as grateful to him as he was angry with him, he could tinge each and every one of his memories with the sheer feeling of disappointment that had built up throughout his school years when he had realised that the powerful, all mighty wizard was also a heartless, cunning fool. That was nothing he should hide, it made it all the more credible; after all it wasn't Dumbledore he was loyal to, it was his own beliefs, his morals that had changed and were still changing. And that he buried deep inside himself, out of reach, permanently guarded.
The process brought him great satisfaction. The old man was a great legilimens, one of the greatest, and yet Severus had learnt to sense the emotions of that inquisitive gaze. He could feel, every time, the slight flinch that his disgust towards the headmaster provoked in the older man, the sadness, the repressed anger. It was so very telling. Severus had often been forced, of course, to let memories of his childhood slip, to show the headmaster his father, the one muggle he hated and despised and abhorred – the Dark Lord, the older man had told him, would understand it. And when confronted with Tobias' violent outbursts, the beatings and the screaming, his cowering mother, not once had the headmaster flinched. Not once had Severus felt any sadness or anger on his end: the cold, calculating eyes had kept watching, unfazed.
Only when Severus directed his disgust at the headmaster did the older man flinch.
Le traître et le trahi, le mort et le vivant
Se trouvent à la fin amis comme devant
The traitor and the betrayed, the dead and the living
Are good friends in the end, as you see
"Now resist."
It had come. The most complex task – the one that required pure skill and conviction and strength, not lies, not diversions. He was to resist Albus Dumbledore, to refuse him entry, to keep him at bay, to manage the walls and the pain and the voices all at once. The old man was a vicious intruder. He did what the Dark Lord would do, he always said. He had to do it; Severus had to be prepared. That was true. And yet, for someone to be cable of such deceit, of such malignant methods, of whispering such things in his ears – one was not only pretending. Dumbledore had an innate gift for manipulation, a deep-rooted, ferocious love for domination and control.
But Severus knew all of that, he was used to it, he was not surprised nor disappointed or alarmed. He did not train only to fool the Dark Lord – he trained to fool both his masters, he trained to gain internal freedom in exchange for a life of slavery. Dumbledore knew too much, had seen too much, and he would see nothing more unless Severus wanted it.
He looked up to the older man. He craved attention, approval, acceptance. There was still a child in him, and that child should remain well-hidden, especially from the headmaster.
Simultaneously he could feel and his hands still resting on his knees, motionless, and Dumbledore's furious attempts at breaking in. He winced, he felt himself wavering, but he did not lose control. All gaps could be filled – all assaults could be redirected. He resisted.
The intensity of the attacks increased. But he was calm, he felt strong: each strike brought him great satisfaction, they appeased him, he was the one in control, he could avoid each blow again and again and again. They pacified him. He was in command. His body and feelings were under the hegemony of his mind, something he had never known before. Until now, his emotions had always failed him, tormented him, ridiculed him.
The violence of the attacks was now unprecedented, unusual, almost barbaric. His hands clenched on his knees. Even the pain brought him a certain amount of pleasure – now there was something no one could take from him.
Then he felt it deep within himself, all of a sudden. Pure fury – formidable anger, resentment and frustration. It was not his. No, it was not his.
It was Dumbledore's.
Mon fils comédien ! Est-ce là cette gloire et ce haut rang d'honneur…
My son, an actor! Is there any glory and honour in that?
The headmaster could not break in. Severus knew this could go on and on, he knew that he was still less hardy than the older man – but Dumbledore would not break in. He would lose consciousness before that.
Albus Dumbledore could not get past his walls, no matter how loudly he roared outside, no matter the battering of his brutish, beastly power.
And Severus felt the man's feelings pervade his mind. It was as if the headmaster, having directed all his strength in a single point, could no longer afford to veil his emotions from him.
He felt fear, distrust, pure wrath; outrage, enmity, exhaustion.
He smiled.
We are alike, you and I
We crave control
Only you are too ambitious.
All I've ever wished for is to be in control of myself;
You, on the other hand, want the whole world.
That, headmaster, is your weakness.
The attack ceased suddenly. He was back in the office. Dumbledore had risen, his back turned on him.
"That will be all for tonight, Severus."
And Severus left.