Orpheus

Chapter 21

By Pigwidgeon37

The drab daylight spilling in through the small window near the ceiling was pale and dirty, like stale water. It had to be early morning, Severus assumed, maybe eight o’clock. He had spent hours awake, straining to catch some noise, however faint, however irritating, to give his brain something to latch onto. But there hadn’t been anything, just the solid silence. The narrow, hard cot had given him a backache. He was feeling worn and dirty, the sweat of fear and emotional stress a disgusting second skin he would have liked to wash off. And he longed to clean his teeth. Severus sighed and closed his eyes again, drifting in and out of a light doze, from which he was woken by the sound of a fist pounding at the door of his cell.

“Get up!” a voice shouted, “The Minister is coming to see you.”

He slowly sat up and smirked. Those were the tactics of psychological warfare honed through the centuries. No better way of making people feel inferior and weak than denying them the most basic dignity and hygiene, and walking into their prison groomed, perfumed and embodying refined civilization. He knew that only too well. He’d used that method many times. It worked even better if the prisoner wasn’t of the same gender—not that it had been a problem for the Death Eaters, as there had been female ones, too.

Even though the knowledge did come from a source he despised, it was knowledge all the same, and right now Severus was grateful he possessed it. Potter might think he had an advantage, but Severus wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction. He might be unwashed and smelly, and his clothes crumpled, but even if he were covered in rags and eaten by vermin, he would never allow Potter the feeling of being superior. This, and not respect, was what made him rise from his cot—Potter was only of medium height, and Severus fully intended to tower over him, just as he had done back at Hogwarts.

He heard the sound of quick footsteps echoing in the corridor, coming nearer and nearer, heard the heels of the guard’s boots click together when the man stood to attention, and then the faint crackling sound of wards being undone. The door swung open, and the Minister stepped into the cell. Severus had deliberately positioned himself near the window, his back turned towards the entrance. At the sound of the door closing, he slowly turned to face the younger wizard and greeted him with a short nod.

“I suppose you know why you are here?”

“And a good morning to you, Potter.” The Minister cringed when his former teacher addressed him like he had the schoolboy, but said nothing. Severus remained standing where he was, unmoving, without uttering a word. He wanted Potter to make the first move.

At long last, the Minister spoke. “Stubbornness will get you nowhere, Snape. I know what you were planning, I have the notes. And I am not going to discuss your motives, because they don’t interest me.”

“How very fascinating. Given your lack of interest, you might just as well leave, I suppose.” He turned his back to Potter again.

“I don’t think so. You know that the punishment for high treason is death?”

“High treason.” Severus snorted. “Did Malfoy put that preposterous idea into your head?”

Potter’s sharp intake of breath told him that this had been unexpected. “Mr. Malfoy has done nothing of the kind. Your actions are pretty self-explanatory, I daresay.”

“My actions?” Severus decided it was time to turn round again. “And what exactly would my actions be?”

“You betrayed my trust. You induced me to provide you with Ministry money to finance your very own plans.”

“And you truly believe what you’re saying? What do you think I’d have used the Draught for? Bring back the dead?”

“As I said, your motives are of no interest to me.”

“I beg to differ. My motives are of paramount importance here.”

“That,” Harry replied with a razor-sharp smile, “is your point of view, Snape. Which, incidentally, doesn’t count. You were researching a potion that has the power to bring back Voldemort. That is what counts, nothing else.”

Had he not been sure that he’d spoil his chances, Severus would have laughed out loud. “Excuse me? I took part in killing Voldemort, why should I want to bring him back?”

“I have no idea. But why should you have kept both the name and this property of the Draught a secret, unless you intended to use it?”

“Potter.” Severus’s voice was a mere whisper. “Potter, I know you feel betrayed. But don’t let that hamper your logical abilities.” Provided you have any, he would have liked to add. This was just too bizarre. “Nobody would ever have learned about this use for the Draught of Life, because it’s highly dangerous.”

“Nobody?” Now the Minister’s smile was decidedly unpleasant. “Not even Hermione, I suppose?”

Mentally thanking the deities for this unexpected cue, Severus replied, “Of course not. Especially not Hermione. She’d have gone to exhume Weasley and resuscitate him, had she known.” Forgive me, Hermione. But I’m doing this to protect you.

“Just as I thought. So you are the only one who knows.”

“I am, indeed, the only one who knows. Apart from Draco, of course. But don’t let that get into your way, as it is certainly a very minor detail,” Severus spat, voice dripping with irony.

“I suggest that you think less about Mr. Malfoy and more about yourself, Snape. Because it seems that you’re misjudging the situation you have got yourself into. You’re facing a trial, and if the jury has any common sense, the outcome is quite predictable. People don’t react well to little experiments such as yours.”

The feeling of dangling above an abyss and rapidly losing his grip was back with a vengeance. “Potter, you’re taking this too far. I’m a highly decorated war hero. I have fought Voldemort at your side. We went through that year of training together—do you really believe I planned to bring Voldemort back?”

“Are you implying,” Harry said tonelessly, “that I should… trust you?”

Oh gods, Severus thought, I know where this is going. And if he uses that argument, there’s no way I can convince him. “Yes,” he said aloud, “That is exactly what I am implying.”

“You know that this is not possible anymore. Not after…” He didn’t finish the sentence and shot Severus a hard stare.

“You had already lost her, Potter. You just didn’t know it.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you betrayed me once, and certainly would do so again. A fact that is still fresh in people’s memories. And I’m not the only one you betrayed, don’t forget that.”

“You…” Severus closed his eyes against the onslaught of helpless fury. “You’re going to hold my betrayal of Voldemort against me?”

“No, I’m merely pointing out that you are capable of… let us say, changing your priorities rather abruptly. You would have killed Sirius Black in cold blood, back in my third year, without even listening to him. Merely because of a schoolboy grudge—and that was long after you had, er, reordered your priorities. You participated in Death Eater activities after Voldemort’s second rise to power. Or have you conveniently forgotten that?”

"I have forgotten nothing, not a single sordid detail from my past. But you might want to consider that I thought Black was guilty—"

"Did you?"

Against his will, Severus had to sit down on his cot. He had been ready to cope with Potter's anger, indignation and hurt pride. But not with the man’s evident determination to destroy him. Scraping together whatever self-control he possessed, he willed his body to relax, for fear that he might collapse from adrenaline overload. He took a few deep breaths and felt his heartbeat slow down. "Why, Potter? I won't ask you 'What have I done to you' because I know what I have done to you. But does it justify this? Did you love Hermione that much? And is… using the law for your own ends your idea of being a responsible Minister of Magic?"

"Hermione?" Potter sounded genuinely surprised. "This isn't about Hermione. It seems that you are completely misunderstanding me."

"Not about… But what on earth is this about? You're sending me to my death because I didn't tell you the whole truth about the Draught of Life?"

"I have no intention of sending you to your death, Snape. And as for my reasons—I should have known you wouldn't understand. Nobody endangers my country, Snape, not even a highly decorated war hero like you. Nobody. You are going to pay for your crime, just as Creevey did. I didn't hear you beg for his life a year ago in the courtroom."

Unable to overcome the weariness that suddenly crept into every tiniest fibre of his body and paralysed his brain, Severus leaned back against the stone wall. "So what are your intentions? Why quiz me about my knowledge of the law if you don't mean to have me executed?"

"I merely wanted to make sure you knew what is awaiting you unless you… cooperate."

"Cooperate." There were no chances left for him to spoil, so he laughed, but it didn't bring any relief.

"Yes, cooperate. I have come here to propose a deal."

Severus pushed himself off the wall and bent forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. "I am curious to hear what deal you are suggesting."

"As you said," Harry began, pacing back and forth in the narrow cell, "we have undergone a year's worth of training and purification rituals together. I haven't forgotten it. There still is… some kind of bond, I think you might call it. Therefore I'm going to offer you a choice. These are your options: as Minister of Magic and supreme judge of the Wizengamot, I have the possibility to commute your death sentence to life imprisonment at Azkaban."

"Good heavens," Severus breathed, "I suppose that's what you call mercy?"

"Or," the minister continued, unperturbed, "you might work for the Ministry."

Tiredly, Severus raised his head to look up at the younger wizard. "Work for the Ministry?" he echoed, "Do you think you might tell me more about it?"

"Certainly. There are always… delicate tasks the Ministry has to accomplish, though without getting directly involved. Bad press and such," he added with a smirk. "Voldemort may be dead, but that doesn't mean others don't get a little too, er, ambitious from time to time. They have to be surveyed and, if necessary, got rid of. Gringott's, for example, now and then make use of our—I suppose you could call them agents… Rogue curse-breakers, clients who think they're cleverer than the Goblins, and the like. Are you following me?"

"I think I am," Severus said slowly. "Am I wrong in assuming that I would have to be officially dead?"

"You are absolutely correct in assuming that. Execution, new life, new identity—the payment is not too bad, either. Absolute secrecy, of course."

Bile was rising in Severus's throat. He swallowed. "Does that mean that Hermione—"

"I said 'absolute secrecy', Snape. That includes, of course, also Hermione."

"But…" He was grasping at straws, and he knew it. "But you can't execute me without a trial, even if it is going to be a fake execution."

"You will have your trial. And you will, of course, confess. And then, there will be a public execution. We have the formula, don't we? How long does that… Draught take to be ready?"

The formula. Oh gods. He wanted to laugh and roll on the floor, gouging out his eyes so at least he wouldn't be able to cry. The formula. That useless, faulty agglomerate of words and numbers. If he was lucky, it wouldn't do anything. If not… well, little did it matter what exactly he died of. He was the Messiah, the bloody world's fucking saviour—he had to sacrifice himself, whether he wanted or not. He couldn't tell Potter that he had rendered the formula unusable, he had to go through with the charade, drink the concoction, let himself be executed and die. That, and only that would persuade the Ministry that the research hadn't been completed. Otherwise they'd get Hermione to do their bidding and recreate it. He had to choose death, real death, not the fake performance Potter had planned for him. And maybe, maybe it was even better that way.

"Two days, more or less," he answered Potter's question. "Although we haven't tested it yet…"

"Doubting your own skills, Snape?" Harry laughed. "I never thought I'd see the day. So you have made your decision?"

"Yes," Severus said, unsure whether his voice wasn't going to break. "Yes, I have made my decision. Everything is better than Azkaban."

*

Harry’s agenda had always been quite crammed, even back when he was an ambassador; it had become more crammed when he was elected Minister of Magic, and since his separation and ensuing divorce from Hermione, his appointments had become even more numerous, scarcely leaving him the time to move from location to location between one and the next. He had expected his meeting with Snape to last a little longer, though, and therefore walked back to his office at a more leisurely pace than usual.

He didn’t dwell on the scene that lay behind him but rather concentrated on what was going to be next—a rather tedious meeting with the president of the broom makers’ guild—as was his habit. Only late at night did he sit down, sometimes at home but more often at his office, and jot down a few notes and thoughts on the events of the day. The talk with Snape had gone well, all things considered, and so he would merely have to go through his agenda later, cancel a few appointments in favour of the trial he’d have to preside at—not that it was going to last very long—and contact his spymaster to make arrangements for Snape to be trained.

On his walk along the corridor to his office, he passed a short, fat wizard with a highly polished bald plate that reflected the torchlight. He nodded his greetings at the man and moved along, realizing only seconds later that this was the very person he’d had an appointment with. Wondering and slightly angered that the other had left, he opened the door, already mentally preparing his speech to his assistant, who hadn’t informed him instantly that the meeting had been cancelled. He closed the door and strode over to his desk.

“Good morning, Harry.”

Harry whirled around, his hand at his left cuff, ready to draw his wand. But he stopped in mid-movement. “Albus?” He mechanically passed his fingers over his already impeccable hair and adjusted his glasses before covering the short distance between himself and Dumbledore and shaking the old wizard’s hand. “What brings you here? This is truly a lucky coincidence, as Mr… Mr…” He searched his memory for the name, but couldn’t come up with anything.

“Braxnell.”

“Of course. Mr. Braxnell seems to have cancelled our appointment…” He fell silent, because Dumbledore’s expression suggested that Braxnell, the president of the broommakers’ guild, might not have left entirely of his own accord.

“A fortunate coincidence indeed,” Dumbledore agreed amiably.

“Y-yes. May I… er, offer you something? Tea, perhaps, or coffee?” Harry was feeling increasingly uneasy—there was something in Dumbledore’s look he didn’t quite like.

“A cup of tea would be nice, thank you.” Dumbledore sat in one of the antique armchairs and gestured for Harry to have a seat as well. The Minister, who momentarily had the eerie sensation that the earth was turning the wrong way round, nodded and rang for a House Elf.

“As to what brought me here,” Dumbledore said, “I suppose you might have an inkling.”

As things were, the two events of Dumbledore’s visit and Snape’s imprisonment had been floating in diametrically opposed corners of the Minister’s mind, so that he gave the other wizard a rather puzzled look. Then the coin dropped. So did the room temperature. “If you are here on Snape’s behalf, I am afraid you are wasting your time,” he said stiffly, shooting the House Elf, who was serving their tea, an impatient glare.

“Given my age,” Dumbledore replied, “I would indeed regret very much to be wasting any time I am still allowed on this planet. But I am sure you are going to tell me why Headmaster Snape is currently held prisoner.”

“There is not much I am able to tell you, due to… er, certain circumstances. It has been brought to my knowledge that Snape was attempting to brew an illegal potion which, had he succeeded, might have had unforeseeable consequences—negative consequences—for this country and maybe the whole world.”

“Hmm… And has Headmaster Snape admitted as much?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact I was just returning from his cell when I, er, found you here.”

“So you have been able to clear up the misunderstanding?”

“There was no misunderstanding. He was informed of the charges to be levelled against him and of the consequences, and he admitted to being guilty as charged. We wouldn’t even need a trial, but for democracy’s sake he shall have it.”

Dumbeldore’s face had become deadly serious. “Harry, you must tell me what Severus is being accused of.”

“I am sorry, but that is impossible. This matter must be kept as secret as possible, otherwise the consequences might—”

“I know about the oath that binds you, Harry. And I also know that you can undo it. So could Severus and Hermione, but they would have to do so together, in your presence, and this does not seem likely to happen.”

“It must not happen,” Harry said calmly. “Nobody must know. It is too dangerous.”

“You will have to testify at the trial.”

“I am the supreme judge, not a witness.”

“But you can hardly hold a trial and accuse Severus of something that cannot be revealed.”

“It has been done before. Besides, there are… certain aspects that may be revealed.”

“Then tell me about those.”

“I am sorry, Albus, but you will have to wait till the trial. This is my last word.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly. The Minister clearly wanted him to leave but he didn’t budge. “Why, Harry?” he finally asked. “You know Severus well, after everything you have gone through together. Do you really think him capable of committing this heinous crime, whatever it may be? Or are there… other reasons?”

Without looking at the old wizard, Harry deposited his teacup on the table, with a little more force than necessary, so that the tea spilled over the rim and into the saucer. “Why,” he said, his voice hoarse with anger, “Why does everybody seem to think that I had Snape arrested for personal reasons? Do you really think I’m that immature? Do you really think I would have a man sentenced to death merely because he stole—”

“Death?” Dumbledore put down his cup as well and stared at the Minister. “Death, Harry? What can he have done to deserve—only very few crimes are punishable by death. Not even murder warrants a death sentence! What on earth can he have done to—”

Harry raised a hand to silence him, and it was testament to Dumbledore’s bewilderment that he actually stopped talking. “I take it that, if you promised not to tell anybody, not even Hermione, you would keep your word?”

“You may trust me, Harry. But you must tell me.”

“Very well then. Promise.”

The two men rose and shook hands, then Dumbledore sat down again, whereas Harry started pacing the office. “Have you ever heard of the Draught of Life?”

Dumbledore’s eyes went wide behind his spectacles. “Of course, that was what Lily and James—”

“I see that you haven’t forgotten anything. Snape tried to recreate it.”

A moment of stunned silence followed, then Dumbledore said, “But how would that endanger the country? It protects people against the Killing Curse. What illegal use could it possibly be put to?”

“I cannot talk about this property of the Draught. But what I am not bound to keep secret is another effect it has. Or didn’t you know it has the power to bring people back from the dead?”

The old wizard’s face went ashen. “No. I had no idea. Are you sure—”

“Yes, I am sure,” Harry cut him off briskly. “And this, my dear Albus, casts quite a different light on the situation, doesn’t it?”

Dumbledore didn’t answer this question but instead said, “I still don’t see the possible danger for the wizarding world.”

“But it seems rather obvious. Apart from the fact that resurrecting the dead is a very dangerous business, there are many whom we wouldn’t want back among the living. One in particular. One with whom Snape was quite, er, well-acquainted.”

“Harry,” Dumbledore said quietly, “Harry, this is absurd. Severus would never—”

“How can you be so sure? Think of the reward that would await him. Do you think he isn’t aware of that?”

“Apart from the fact that this is completely preposterous, do you have any tangible, concrete proof that this is what Severus intended? Because I am sure he hasn’t confessed anything of the kind.”

“He has not. And how, pray, should anybody be able to prove or disprove intentions unless they are put into action? Or are you suggesting that we wait until he brings back Voldemort and drag him to court then? The safety of this country is my topmost priority, Albus, and I will do anything to ensure it. Anything.”

Dumbledore withstood the temptation to bury his face in his hands. He had seen Ministers come and go, good ones and bad ones. He had stood his ground against Fudge who, in spite of being quite stupid, had been very conscious of his position and the privileges that came with it. But Fudge had made wrong decisions out of vanity and because, deep down, he was terribly insecure. Not so Harry. Harry Potter had turned into a fanatic who believed in his cause, and since none of his choices had ever brought any harm to him—not lasting harm, at least—and the total sum of these choices had ultimately led to Voldemort’s destruction, he had developed this damn self-righteousness, this holier-than-thou attitude. And he wasn’t stupid. His arguments weren’t of the same kind as Fudge’s, easily proven wrong. Harry knew exactly what he was saying, he had thought it through. The premise of his logic might be faulty, but there was no way to prove it.

“You might be content with breaking his wand and exiling him from the wizarding world,” Dumbledore said.

“This isn’t about me, Albus. This is about everybody and their right to live a peaceful, happy life without having to worry about Dark wizards being resurrected. What Snape attempted to do is high treason, and there is only one punishment. Death.”

For a long while, the last word hung in the stillness of the room like a dark shadow. Harry had returned to his desk where he was leafing through a pile of parchments, while Dumbledore remained seated in his chair, trying not to wallow in self-reproach just now, because he had to find a way of convincing the Minister that he had chosen a wrong, not to mention perilous, path. Despite his best efforts, though, he didn't quite succeed in damming the tide of thoughts—when had the boy he had known turned into the man he didn't know anymore? Had there been a point in time when he, Dumbledore, might still have had any influence on Harry's choices and actions? If there had been such a point, they had careened past it long ago, in their mad race against time and Voldemort. It must have happened then. The other three—Moody, Flitwick and Severus—had been older, they had seen other things in their lives than just one single goal. Maybe not Severus, but his single-mindedness in pursuing his aim had sprung from different motives. Severus. He was the reason Dumbledore was here, and there had to be a way to make that stubborn young man recognize that what he was planning was wrong.

"Harry," Dumbledore began again, "are you sure, absolutely sure of being able to judge Severus's motives? Don't you think that his past actions should be considered as well? The story of his life proves—"

"The story of his life is a story of betrayal, Albus."

"That is one way of seeing it. You could also say it is a story of sin, repentance and atonement. He has been Headmaster of Hogwarts for more than ten years, and in some ways a better Headmaster than myself."

"I heard that Tom Riddle was an excellent Head Boy. Grindelwald, unless my memory fails me, was Headmaster of Durmstrang for a long time, and the period of his tenure was one of great prosperity for the school." Harry shook his head. "No, Albus, you arguments are cheap and you know it. Or should I remind you that it was Hitler who turned Germany into one of the top industrial nations? Evil intentions often yield surprisingly positive results."

"True. But you might want to consider that the opposite is true as well."

"Should it ever transpire that my judgment of Snape was wrong, I am prepared to take full responsibility."

The Minister flinched when Dumbledore rose from his chair, blue eyes blazing with fury. "Responsibility?" he repeated, "Responsibility? Do you even know what the word means, Harry?"

Despite his old age, a furious Dumbledore was still a force to be reckoned with, but Harry's instinctive reaction to it had been just that: instinctive. He was far too conscious of his own considerable power and authority to let himself be guided by a mere reflex that belonged to years long past. He slowly got up from his chair and leaned forward, his fingers clenching around the edge of his desk. "Yes," he said calmly. "Yes, I know what responsibility means. You hammered it into my brain year after year, so I wouldn't forget it. Responsibility means putting yourself, your feelings, your life, down at the bottom of your list of priorities. It means sacrificing what you want to the greater cause. It means taking care of those entrusted to you, without even considering whether you like it or not. It means being afraid but not running away, because you know that if you run, people are going to die. It means severing bonds you hold dear, because being close to you would endanger the people you love. It means—"

"There is no war anymore, Harry," Dumbledore interrupted him quietly. "The lesson you had to learn was a hard one, and you were far too young to learn it. But it is time to let go. There is peace in this country now. Responsibility doesn't mean the same now as it did fifteen years ago."

"Stop—" Harry pointed a trembling finger at Dumbledore, his face white with rage "—stop patronizing me. Stop telling me what I have to do and how to do it. I have given this country everything, over and over again, from my eleventh birthday on. I have done my part in freeing it of Voldemort, I have given it a democracy, a constitution and a future it can look forward to. So don't you dare—" he rounded the table and approached Dumbledore until they were almost standing nose to nose "—don't you dare tell me what's right and wrong. I will. Not. Tolerate. It."

"Harry—"

"This conversation is over." Harry strode to the door and opened it. "Good bye, Albus."