Snape took a healthy swallow, and felt the alcohol hit his empty stomach and the warmth race through his blood. He only gradually became aware that Dumbledore was still standing behind him, one thin hand pressed into his shoulder, calming and reassuring him. He took a deep breath and began again.
"We were called last week -- Malfoy, Nott, the Lestranges -- me, of course -- and a new one, one I didn't recognise. Voldemort said it was the usual raid, but we didn't Apparate; he gave us Portkeys, which I thought very odd -- I'd have suspected some kind of ambush, had Nathaniel and Bellatrix not been with us. We activated the Portkeys; when we'd arrived I found that Voldemort had accompanied us."
Dumbledore gave his shoulder another squeeze, and moved to sit in the wing chair opposite Snape, who kept his eyes fixed firmly on the glass in his hands.
"I didn't recognise the place, but I suspected it was far more westerly... Wales, perhaps -- it was warmer, with quite craggy terrain.... At any rate, we approached a house and Voldemort sent Nott and the new man to cover the back door, and the rest of us in the front."
Snape laughed bitterly -- but there was, Dumbledore was worried to observe, a faint note of hysteria under it.
"I didn't expect to see Potter. I should have -- I should have known Voldemort wouldn't accept failure after that first attempt." He risked a glance at the older wizard. "I assume you'd invoked Fidelius after that first time -- not that I sought Potter out, mind you, but he's... never very far from my thoughts."
"I did not perform the ritual, though I suggested it," Dumbledore admitted and nodded solemnly in acknowlegement -- though not understanding. It was a great pity, he thought, that Severus had never been able to move beyond that regrettable incident, and that he blamed James Potter for Sirius Black's irresponsibility.
"In any case, Bellatrix and Lucius threw the first Crucios at him; he'd been careless, didn't have his wand to hand. Nathaniel and I followed, and then Bellatrix... she started being more... creative. I heard Voldemort enter the house and start up the stairs, and I slipped away and followed him as soon as I was able."
He needed another sip of whisky before he went on. Thank the gods Dumbledore didn't press him for particulars: he didn't wish to relive what Bellatrix Lestrange had done to James Potter. The woman had been mad with bloodlust.
"Voldemort was speaking to Lily when I reached the head of the stair -- reasoning with her -- I couldn't believe it, at first. I heard Nott and the other one break in through the back door and join the others about then.
"Lily wouldn't step aside, and refused outright to give Voldemort the child. She pleaded for his life. And then Voldemort killed her. An Avada Kedavra, blessedly. And then he tried to do the same to the child...."
Snape took a shuddering breath and froze.
"Take your time, Severus," Dumbledore said gently. "There is no rush." His concern was growing by the minute, however: Severus Snape had participated in countless raids, seen far more blood shed than on this occasion: but he was still on the verge of collapse, nearly a week later.
"The spell hit the child, but it... it rebounded, somehow. I know it hit the boy, because he screamed -- not that he wasn't anyway, but this was pain, not fear.... It was as if the spell bounced back onto Voldemort, somehow, and he -- he went up in flames, very briefly, like a flash fire. The force of it knocked me off my feet, and I hit my head against the newel post. I blacked out for a bit.
"When I came to, he was cr-- crawling past me down the stairs, and trying to call for the others.... Nothing human should look like that. It wasn't even a normal burn, somehow -- I don't know how to explain it --"
"It was magic," Dumbledore quietly supplied. "It causes a burn on the surface, and a kind of slow internal combustion. I've seen it before."
"What in bloody hell causes it? I've never seen Avada Kedavra rebound, let alone cause that type of reaction."
"It's a very simple and ancient magic, Severus. I suppose it could be called Mother's Love."
Snape looked at him disbelievingly.
"Oh, I'm not saying that is its' actual name, my boy: but it's what caused Voldemort's spell to act the way it did. Love and Sacrifice are far more powerful than any other sources of magic, and Lily harnessed both. She was far more powerful a witch than most people gave her credit for, you know. Go ahead."
Snape puzzled this through for a moment, and then gave up and continued.
"The others finally heard Voldemort -- how they could have missed what went on upstairs I don't know, but they did -- and they got him outside. One of them must have come back and set fire to the lower floor -- leaving me behind, as it happens," he said with a trace of bitterness. "Didn't even come up to look for me. I managed to get up and check to see that they'd Apparated, and then I -- I got the boy out of the house." He shot an anxious look at Dumbledore. "Is he all right? I shouldn't have simply left him out there, I know, but I -- I wasn't thinking clearly, and I was afraid if they came back to check they'd put two and two together --"
"He is all right, Severus, and it worked out for the best," Dumbledore assured him patiently. "You were wounded yourself, and I'd told you to protect your cover."
"Is he --"
"He's in safe hands. Not here, but well out of the reach of any meddling and watched by one of us. Your message reached me within the half-hour, you know -- apart from sitting in a filthy nappy for longer than I'm sure he liked, he wasn't harmed by your actions at all."
Snape fell back in the chair, and the trembling in his hands noticeably lessened.
"I would like to ask you, though -- were your hands bleeding at the time?" Dumbledore casually asked Snape. "When you picked the boy up?"
"Yes, they must have done. Why?"
"He had blood on his face -- his forehead -- but we didn't think it was his."
"I saw the scar when I set him on the ground. I tried, but I couldn't heal it -- I must have smeared blood on him."
"Ah. That explains that, then. I rather think young Mr. Potter will carry that scar for life," Dumbledore noted. "A souvenir from Voldemort."
The old wizard refrained from adding further comment, and simply filed the information away in his brain. There were some interesting implications there that Snape hadn't gotten: but Dumbledore rather thought now was not the time to enlighten him.
"So you went to ground for a while?" he prodded Snape.
"A few days. I went to Malfoy's estate, then. They turned me away at first -- it took a while for Lucius to get the message that it was me, somehow -- and when he did, he took great interest in how I'd got out alive. I said I'd been unconscious and barely made it out before the the staircase collapsed -- didn't even look in the rooms upstairs."
"And what did he say of Voldemort?"
"He didn't have to. They had the body -- what was left of it -- in the Malfoy crypt. It was simply disintegrating.... Every so often another bit would just fall into ash. They were working desperately to find some way to preserve it, but even the ash seemed to... just disappear."
"You're certain it was Voldemort's body?" Dumbledore said intently.
"Yes. His rings had fused to the skeleton... that's all they were able to salvage, in the end. All that was left."
"Including Slytherin's ring?" Dumbledore asked intently.
"Yes. Why?"
"That clinches it, then. Others can possess it, but only the Heir can actually wear it without violating the geas attached, and the consequences are quite immediate and nasty. They couldn't even have substitued another corpse; you'd have seen quite a spectacle if they had. Presumably that's why Lucius didn't rip apart the remains to get it either, no matter how badly he'd like to be acknowledged as the Heir."
"Oh. There was something else that was strange, though..."
"Yes?"
"The corpse didn't feel right, somehow. His signature -- the residue of his magic -- it wasn't there. Is it possible his essence was destroyed...?"
Snape took a look at Dumbledore's grave face and sighed. "I suppose that's too much to hope for."
"I'm afraid so. And I rather doubt that young Harry bears that scar merely as a battle wound. The prophecy may seem to be fulfilled, technically, but only time will tell."
A knock at the office door made Snape jump.
"It's only Madam Pomfrey, Severus," Dumbledore assured him. "I want her to look at those hands." And with a wave of his own, wandless hand he opened the door for Pomfrey.
"It's nothing, Sir, I don't need --"
"It's not negotiable, Severus. Poppy, would you --?"
Dumbledore motioned her over and watched as Pomfrey unwrapped Snape's hands and clucked her tongue disapprovingly.
"And you a Potions Master," she said sternly. "Good gracious, Mr. Snape, you know better than to let them get into this state."
"Been busy. Nowhere to brew," he retorted sullenly.
"And you couldn't have gone to the nearest Apothecary? Too proud to use someone else's work, I suppose," she sniffed, and he glared back at her. (It was probably true, as it happened.)
She whipped out a jar of Burn Healing Paste and began gently working it into the peeling, ulcerated skin.
"Last time I used this on you it was a rather different portion of your anatomy, young man," she observed.
Snape didn't appreciate that either, though Dumbledore did. To save the man further embarrassment he took Snape's glass over to the console table and refilled it, and by the time he returned Pomfrey was done with both medicating and verbal needling.
"Thank you, Poppy," he said gravely. (Someone had to, and from the thunderous look on Snape's face Dumbledore knew it was up to him.)
"You're not going to send him off in this condition, are you?" she said accusingly. "He looks ready to drop --"
"No, Poppy, I'm not such an old ogre as that," he retorted. "He'll stay right here tonight, in my guest room -- no, Severus, no grumbling, it's another non-negotiable point. You can fuss over him all you want in the morning, Poppy."
She nodded her approval and directed a sharp "Sleep, and leave those uncovered until bed-time," to Snape. And then she bustled out.
There was a long silence between the two men before Snape finally, faintly observed, "And to think that when that harridan first came here, we boys thought she was a bit of all right."
Dumbledore chuckled. "She was, wasn't she? Still is -- Filius has had an undeclared and unrequited passion for her for years. She's very fond of all the students, you know -- that sharp tongue covers a great deal of affection."
Snape let out a disbelieving snort.
"Well, my boy, what do you think it best to do now?" Dumbledore asked thoughtfully.
"I've no idea, but you probably have," Snape retorted sourly.
"I think I have, actually." The old man stared at the ceiling and innocently twiddled his thumbs. "Burkett's planning on retiring next year, you know."
Snape froze. "No possible way," he eventually managed. "Not the slightest chance. Are you serious? A Death Eater teaching at Hogwarts --"
"Former Death Eater, Severus, former."
"But there are bound to be arrests -- a trial --"
"Quite so. The arrests are starting tonight, in fact -- which is one reason I wanted you safely here. And for a few more days as well, if I can manage to keep you. Alastor Moody's already begun with the lower ranks -- Barty Crouch, Karkaroff.... I merely wanted to confirm what happened that night in Godric's Hollow before he proceeded with the others. We shall have a bit of a time making some of the charges stick -- I'm fairly certain Lucius Malfoy will wriggle through the net; he always was particularly slippery...."
Snape stared at him, aghast.
"But that's it, then. I'm of no earthly use to you now. I can't even tell you what they're up to -- Malfoy said they were disbanding, but I don't believe that for a moment --"
"I will not give you up, Severus," Dumbledore said firmly. "You and the information you've given have proven invaluable to the Order -- more than I think you know -- and you will not be going on trial. You have my word."
Snape's jaw worked convulsively for a moment and then he slumped back in the chair, paste-smeared hand over his eyes.
"What would you do if you could, Severus? What would you like to do, given the chance?" Dumbledore urged him.
"Study," came the throaty reply after a long silence. "Study, research. Find myself a lab in the middle of bloody nowhere and with nobody and simply... be."
Dumbledore had rather expected that.
"Then why don't you? For a year or two, at least. Go back to university, get a second degree if you like --"
"With Salisbury redundant? And with no income? Not bloody likely."
"There's Oxford or Cambridge, you know."
Snape dropped his hand and stared at the old wizard, and uttered -- for the first time, and far from the last -- "Are you mad?"
"I'm often told so, but I refuse to believe it. I'm quite serious. You could chose Pharmacology or Chemistry -- I always had a sneaking suspicion you would have liked to study Alchemy with me, had you not been so deeply into Potions -- and those disciplines are similar enough to ours to present no problems for someone of your intelligence."
"Even if I were mad enough myself to seriously consider it, the monetary issue still stands."
"Surely you have something laid by --"
"Oh, I do," Snape retorted savagely. "Their money, or got by -- Look, it doesn't matter; what matters is I won't use it. I won't touch it anymore, not even to...."
Snape held his damaged hands up, and Dumbledore realised exactly why the young fool hadn't bothered to treat his injuries: too proud, yes, but too proud to spend even a few knuts of what amounted to blood money.
Dumbledore bit back a pitying remark -- it would likely send the man flying out into the night, at this point -- and decided that sternness was best.
"Now look here, my boy," he said grimly. "You can't live on air, and I think you'll have to face the fact that your options are severely limited. No matter how well I'm able to conceal your participation or defend you if I can't, there will always be people out there who will make it impossible for you to work in the better businesses. You'll be lucky to find a place at some dingy Apothecary's -- or even worse, in Knockturn Alley. I don't want you to end up there: I suspect you're just as aware of the dangers with that as I."
The blood drained from Snape's face, and he wordlessly admitted that Dumbledore's assessment was probably true.
"You could emigrate, I suppose, but there's always the possibility that trouble would follow you: best to face it here, where there are people who understand the situation. So what I propose is this: you take one or two years to do your studying -- reorder yourself, your thoughts, explore some new things -- and then you come back to Hogwarts and take over from Burkett. The money is not an issue -- you can take what you have and throw it from the top of Gringott's, if you like; I can loan you what you need until you --"
"No." Snape shot to his feet and paced the room, Dumbledore's anxious eyes following him; Snape absently ran a hand through his hair, liberally greasing it with the Burn Healing Paste, before he winced at the pain.
"You don't understand," he finally managed, voice tight. "That's what got me into this to begin with. They didn't offer me money itself; they offered me something I wanted more -- or the means to get it. They paid my way through Salisbury, so I shouldn't have to ask my cousin --"
He stopped at the bay window that overlooked the lake and stared into the blackness beyond, unable to continue.
Sweet Merlin, Dumbledore thought. So that's how they bought his soul.
"I won't do it again," Snape finally choked out. "I may have been a damned fool once, but I won't make the same mistake twice."
Dumbledore let the tension in the room ease for a bit before he mildly offered, "I wasn't offering it for nefarious purposes, you know. It was strictly a business proposition, and I fully expected you to pay it back with interest, you nitwit."
The mixed look of shock and outrage on Snape's face when he turned to stare at the old man was quite gratifying.
"You sign a little document all tied with pretty red ribbon that says you'll pay me back the principal and reasonable interest; you go, you study, you take a degree; you teach at Hogwarts until the loan is repayed; and then we re-assess the situation." Dumbledore shrugged innocently. "Once the... purely monetary debt is repaid, you can leave, if you like"
Snape collapsed onto the window-seat. "It's rather more expensive out there, you know," he said grimly. "You'd be stuck with me until it's repayed, and if I turned out to be a rotten teacher -- and I shall --"
"I rather think not. Not where the subject matter is concerned, certainly, although I don't deny you'll be a demanding bugger. And if it truly doesn't work, we could agree to terminate the contract at years' end and you could find work with the Muggle degree."
Snape turned away again to stare out the window.
"I don't have any children, you young idiot," Dumbledore stated with affectionate exasperation. "It's not a hardship for me, you know. And you may have the school solicitor put whatever safeguards you like into the agreement. No strings attached other than repayment."
"It can't possibly be that simple," can an eventual, muttered retort.
"It can be, if you wish." Dumbledore shifted thoughtfully. "And, on the other hand.... As I indicated, I'm not convinced that this is over, not truly. I think it entirely possible that we'll have to face Voldemort again -- and next time he'll be desperate and even more dangerous. You've been the best operative I've had, Severus; I'd hate to face him again without you. Part of me wants to keep you close to hand in the event, though I don't fancy sending anyone back into that situation."
"It won't work," Snape stated baldly. "Malfoy distrusts me now -- not that he ever really did. I'd never be accepted back."
"I doubt that. If that were the case you wouldn't have made it out of the manor alive. So your usefulness on that account is still viable. It depends, of course, on your willingness to go back. On how far," Dumbledore said slowly, "your conscience is urging you to make reparation."
"At the moment," Snape said tightly, "I'm willing to tell whatever conscience I have to sod off."
"I'm sure you are. I know the feeling, and I can't blame you," Dumbledore said quietly. "But I also suspect that you've quite enough regret to live with, and you'll want to avoid it in future."
Snape's shoulders hunched over at that, but he refused to comment.
"At any rate, I want you to think about the offer for a while before your pride leads you to throw it away," the old man said gently as he rose and crossed over to Snape. "I am knackered and I'm going to bed. Think about it, Severus -- make yourself comfortable, help yourself to another whisky or two, and then try to get some sleep. We'll talk about it again in the morning, hmmm?"
And with a final affectionate pat on the younger wizard's shoulder, Dumbledore toddled off to his most comfortable pair of socks and his bed.
He eventually settled back into one of the confortable chairs by the fire, a fresh glass of whisky in hand, and stared into the flames.
What a bloody bollocks he'd made of his life. No real career, no accomplishments of which he could be proud -- even his Mastery was bitter for him now, given how it was acquired, and his most skillful, inventive potions turned to evil uses.... Reputation tarnished, rightfully, by his willingness to take the Mark and his whole-hearted acceptance and participation in all that Death Eater implied....
Merlin's balls, if only I had a Time-Turner.... I'd go back and try to smack some sense into the fool I was. The fool I am.
Dumbledore had certainly hit the mark where regrets were concerned.
Fawkes simply couldn't take it any more -- it was impossible to ignore the misery coming off this young one -- so with the avian equivalent of a sigh he flew over and perched on the back of Snape's chair and trilled softly.
"Go away," Snape muttered.
Fawkes eyed him warily and shifted back a bit, but refused to leave.
"Bloody nosy bird," Snape added as an additional insult, and ignored him.
Dumbledore's right, Snape thought grimly. No prospects to speak of.... I can't even appeal to Matthew now -- slammed that door shut myself.
Snape sat up for another good hour, running through the possibilities in his head, coming up with arguments and counter-arguments and trying, desperately, to refute the sensibility of Dumbledore's proposal. When he finally fell asleep, lulled by the warmth of the fire and the whisky he'd imbibed, Fawkes softly began singing, and shifted on the chair so a single Phoenix tear dropped on each of Snape's scarred, oozing hands.
Albus Dumbledore, lying sleepless with worry in his bed, heard the Phoenix song, knew what it meant, and finally fell into a comforted, healing sleep himself.