PML: The Last Straw, Part One

Severus Snape stumbled through the snow up to the Hogwarts gates and stood a few feet away, terrified to place his hands upon them. He had a feeling that the ironwork would spring to life and wrap itself about him: imprison him, sound an alarm, deliver him to the hands of the Aurors before he had a chance to say his piece to Dumbledore.

It's no more than you deserve, Murderer. You lost any right to such consideration the second you first chose to cast the Killing Curse.

Well, never let it be said he was coward. He might be a murderous, conscienceless bastard, but he was still a Snape -- and Snapes faced their fears and got on with it.

Of course, the only reason you're still a Snape is because the rest of them are dead, or Matthew as good as. What would His Lordship have thought of you now, Severus Snape?

He lunged at the gates, grasped the bars in his sweaty palms, pressed his body so close that he nearly bruised himself: beat his forehead against them, as if provoking them to attack.

He laughed at his idiocy (the still-rational part of his brain was alarmed at that), the chortles becoming hysterical until with a final, keening sob he wrenched himself off the gate, veered off to the side of the road, collapsed to his knees in the snow, and was violently ill.

Ten minutes later -- for the silent bell of Lord Snape's watch, tucked in Snape's waistcoat, had struck the quarter-hour against his ribs -- there was a rustling behind him, on the other side of the gate.

"I think perhaps you ought to show yourself," a soft voice noted, and someone cast Lumos with their wand: Snape wiped at his mouth and scrabbled around to face Albus Dumbledore, the bars of the gate still locked between them.

Snape fought to contain another fit of laughter -- Because your wards know I'm a worthless waste of life, sir -- and instead of speaking, he fumbled with the buttons of his left coat-cuff, finally ripping them and those of the shirt-cuff loose as well, and exposed his forearm to the light of Dumbledore's wand. The Mark was still clear on his pasty skin.

"Yes, I had guessed that," Dumbledore said, still in that soft voice. "And I repeat, why didn't you enter?"

"The wards will not prevent you from entering, Mr Snape: perhaps you were the obstacle. The question is, is it because you don't want to, or because you feel you don't deserve to?"

Snape stared back at him, unable to process what the blasted man was saying. He finally picked up his wands (both of them) from the ground -- by the tips -- and chucked them toward the old wizard's feet.

"I'm done," he said. "It's over. I didn't come to ambush you or make an idiotic scene, I... I just want to tell you what I know, and then you can call the Aurors."

Dumbledore watched him steadily for a long moment and then asked, "Why didn't you go to the Ministry?"

"Because there are Death Eaters in the Ministry -- I don't know who, but I know there are at least two of them -- and they'll see my evidence is discounted. MLE might believe you, though, and If I'm going down I want it to count for something, damn it."

"Are you in trouble with Voldemort? Does anyone suspect you are turning yourself in?"

Dumbledore muttered "Nox," to extinguish his wand, scanned the road anxiously, and said, "Come, Severus. Quickly, now." He opened the gate, scooped up the wands, and when Snape had staggered over Dumbledore grasped him by the elbow and pulled him inside, shutting the gates firmly behind them.

"My boy, shut up. You're in no condition to think or speak rationally at the moment, and I'd prefer to do it in my quarters in any case. Come along."

Dumbledore practically dragged Snape up the long drive, into the castle, and up the spiral stair to his office.

"How long has it been since you ate anything?" he asked, and flicked a warming charm in Snape's direction to dry his sodden trouser-legs.

The command in his voice tone got through to Snape, and he pulled himself into something resembling obedience.

Dumbledore sighed. "Go clean yourself up while I order something. You remember where the office loo is, don't you?" he asked dryly.

Snape simply stared at him, and Dumbledore snorted and gave him a gentle shove in the right direction, waving the loo door into existence.

He looked like hell, he noted in the mirror as he turned the tap on: he'd scraped his forehead against the gate bars, and it was seeping blood in places.

He looked, all in all, like a madman. Which was entirely appropriate, considering how he felt and what he was.

He splashed water on his face and rinsed his mouth, patted at the abrasions to stop the bleeding, and managed a rather pathetic pee (dehydration, he noted automatically, not surprising considering you haven't kept anything down for a while). Then there wasn't anything else to waste time with, so he went back into the other room.

Tea and warm toast waited for him. Dumbledore was over at the console table, fiddling with something: he glanced over his shoulder and said "Have a seat, Severus, and we'll talk."

"Do you always offer Death Eaters tea and toast?" Snape said, irritated by the man's veerings between authority and genialty.

"No, usually I don't offer them anything at all, but you'd be surprised how many I've had in here. Drink this up," Dumbledore said, and carefully placed a glass of liberally-watered whiskey in Snape's trembling hands.

"Why? You know as well as I that it doesn't go with alcohol. Besides, I'm afraid it won't be that easy," Dumbledore said. "A different technique is called for. I imagine you've got quite good with Occlumancy?"

"Of course -- had to," Snape grunted. "The bastard tumbled my mind the very first time we met. It was a matter of pride to learn how to block him well."

"I know precisely how you feel. Would you mind terribly if I tested your skill?"

"Your interrogation and Legilimency skills are rather pathetic, Head -- Dumbledore, if you have to --"

He didn't get the rest of it out: Dumbledore suddenly intruded into his mind -- without even meeting Snape's eyes -- and Snape nearly dropped the glass. And then the intrusion was gone.

"We can do this the hard way, if you insist," Dumbledore said calmly. "But I should prefer if we didn't. I should prefer," he added, "if you would honour me with your trust, although I understand that it's a difficult thing for you to give."

Snape set the glass on the side-table. "Go ahead," he said grimly, and wrapped his fingers about the chair-arms.

"Good. I shan't pry overmuch, I simply want to know your state of mind, then and now."

"When you joined him," Dumbledore clarified, "and how badly you want to leave him now."

It was a curiously comfortable feeling for once. Dumbledore wasn't tentative, but he was polite, if an intrusion could be interpreted as such; and he made no attempt to conceal from Snape precisely what he was looking for, or the thoughts and memories he accessed. And before Snape knew it, it was over.

"I see," Dumbledore said softly. "So you didn't know what you were getting into?"

"Didn't know, and didn't care," Snape said, taking the whiskey back up and sipping at it. "He offered what I wanted and I took it, damn the consequences."

"No, they were misrepresented to you. You couldn't have known that night that the Party would evolve into what it is today. Very few of us could foresee that, and those of us that did.... Well, for the time being let's say we are not totally unprepared. At any rate, I thank you for your trust, Severus."

"Very well, then, let's start with what set you off. Why you're so distraught you tried to bash your head open on the gates, for one."

"He's.... He's mad, absolutely mad. He's always kept the ranks in some semblance of control: there's always been a logical reason for the actions taken." He grimaced. "Or at least the pretense of a reason, given what I now know. But in the last couple of months, he's dropped the excuse of a political agenda."

"When I started, he kept me out of the active ranks -- the ones who make the visits to people. I stayed in the laboratory most of the time, and though I was encouraged to participate in some of the... more politically-oriented group activities, they were never overtly violent. Dark rituals, yes, because he said we needed all the help we could get to overcome the Majority's opposition, and a powerful wizard with the proper intent could control the malevolent influences. And they were never blood rituals -- then -- at least, not those requiring death.

"But this summer there was a difficulty of some sort -- some of the ranks were out of commission, I take it -- and I was sent out on what they called 'field work.' Persuation of three families that hadn't given their support. The first was successful, the second not but there was no bloodshed, but the third got... ugly. I don't know the family, but the man pulled his wand on Malfoy and fired at him -- Malfoy coordinates all the raids apparently -- and... it was an ambush: the Aurors were suddenly there, trying to disarm us. It ended up as a massacre. The attackers, and the entire family."

"Yes, I know about the incident," Dumbledore said. "It wasn't the Aurors, as it happened, it was us. We lost the Prewetts that night -- you might remember Gideon, he was a year ahead of you. Go on."

Snape raised a brow at the "us" and "we," but rightly concluded it was none of his business, and went on.

"Malfoy explained away the family deaths as a horrible mistake, he'd lost control of his men, the people had, unfortunately, been caught in the cross-fire -- but it wasn't, of course: it was retaliation and blood-lust, pure and simple, and Malfoy enjoyed it as much as the others."

"I.... Yes. I tried to stay with Stupefy and Crucio, but the fighting got rather rough. I think I struck one of the Prewetts."

"I'm aware of that," Dumbldore murmured. "But there were many Killing Curses thrown that night: impossible to tell, if you aren't sure. So this is how they get away with it, is it?" he mused, studying Snape's wands. "We've wondered why we can't trace the Unforgiveables back to Ollivander wands."

"Yes. Dolohov has a cousin who apprenticed with Gregorovitch, and he's quite good."

"Voldemort punished Malfoy, of course, but not much. By the time there was more field work called for I was back in the lab."

"It's all right for now, Severus -- let's just get through the information first," Dumbledore said firmly. "Go on, tell me what it does."

"It renders the drinker invulnerable to curses -- including Avada Kedavra. The literature claims it confers immortality as well, but I've been unable to confirm that: from the ingredients I've identified it appears extremely unstable."

"Mayan, quite old; it was called the Elixir of the Gods. I ran across a vague reference to it at Salisbury, and I've been researching it ever since I left."

"Merlin's -- no, Flamel wouldn't have known it, then, he had no interest in New World Native wizardry. But you've been unsuccessful?"

"So far. It's taken a long time -- learning to translate the Aztec and Mayan glyphs, acquiring the native ingredients, discovering their properties.... I've only just got to basic experimentation, and I've still not determined the two most crucial ingredients. I should probably be able to if he would let me use Muggle analysis techniques, but he won't."

"No, I... That raid made me stop and think, so I haven't been in a hurry to proceed."

"All this time he's been engaged in his own studies -- now that he has no place in the government, he's had plenty of time on his hands.... I'm rather certain in concerns some of Slytherin's later work, but I haven't been able to get a look at which texts he's consulting, so I've no idea if it's the philosophical texts or the Dark Arts research. The latter, I should think, considering the things we've done recently. My lack of progress on the potion seems to have spurred him on at that angle."

"You'd be horrified," Snape said bluntly. "He's brought in Karkaroff and Dolohov to train the new recruits, and I've taken advantage of that. I've plenty of time when I've reached an impasse in my own research."

"I can understand that. Not only your need to defend yourself if it's used against you, but the lure of it," Dumbldore said calmly. "Go on."

"I wasn't told outright, of course, but I gather from the Prophet that Malfoy's ruthlessness with the raids has gotten worse. And Voldemort did nothing to stop it: in fact, the rituals took a decidedly nasty turn. In September we had the first full blood sacrifice. It was a Muggleborn, a man who'd never crossed us, as far as I know. It was quick and straightforward, and although I wasn't particularly comfortable with it, I accepted that there were things I didn't know and it wasn't my place to judge. And," he admitted, "it was... beneficial. The power that was drawn out that night was simply incredible. The rituals have become a monthly event since then.

"Then in October.... We'd met for the ritual, we were preparing to leave... and Voldemort said we had a traitor in our midst. Someone who had to be made an example of, a coward who wanted to leave, who had betrayed us --"

Snape's hands were shaking again as he tried to fortify himself with another sip of whiskey -- but the glass was empty. Dumbledore poured him a cup of tea instead, stirring in several sugars, and made him drink half the cup before he continued.

"He came to me, but I couldn't help him -- never mind that now. Was he killed outright, or was he --?"

"Tortured. We were ordered to torture but not kill him. I thought he might be used in another ritual, but at the last we were told to cast Avada Kedavra, all of us, at once."

"Precisely," Snape retorted. "Do you want the truth, Dumbledore? That's what did it for me, more than the murder itself. The utter idiocy of casting upwards of twenty Killing Curses, when one would suffice. That's when I became certain Voldemort is mad."

"It's the firing squad principle," Dumbledore said. "None of you will ever know if yours was the one that took, and those of you with any conscience at all will always feel responsible. It's his way of ensuring you're unable to deny your own culpability. Do you know where they disposed of the body, by the way? The Blacks assume he's dead, but his mother is quite distraught over not being able to hold rites."

"A rubbish tip outside Liverpool. I was one of the lucky ones elected to take care of it. From what I gather it's a favourite site for concealment -- if there are more missing, I should look there."

"I'm not certain you want to hear this -- it gets far worse," Snape said grimly.

"Two months ago the field workers were been given free rein to torture the families they raid. Up to and including the rape of children -- one of the active ranks couldn't help but brag about it, otherwise I shouldn't have known. I hadn't been called upon for that atrocity, thankfully. And then tonight...."

He suddenly bolted for the loo and brought up the liquid he'd drunk, and lay prone on the tiles, unable to move.

He'd left the door open in the rush, and he heard Dumbledore run the tap and rummage in the medicine cabinet: a moment later the old man crouched over him. A cool flannel ran across Snape's face, and a vial was pressed against his lips.

"It will settle your stomach, Severus," Dumbledore said. "Take it, please. I can't force you to, of course, but there's no need to punish yourself to this extent, not when we've important things to discuss."

Snape dragged himself up to sit, back against the wall, and allowed Dumbledore to tip the vial's contents into his mouth; as they waited for the potion to work Dumbledore continued to wipe Snape's face with the flannel, and smoothed Snape's hair back from his clammy forehead as tenderly as Nanny had ever done.

"Wait, Severus. Let the potion work, let's get some water into you -- and some of the toast -- and then we'll continue."

"I'd hoped my last meal as a free man would have extended to more than toast," Snape mananged wryly.

"Probably shall -- I'd thought to give you a full breakfast later, after you've had a chance to sleep."

"What, behaving like a reasonable human being? I know you haven't seen much of that lately, Severus, but surely you know it when you see it."

He didn't, not really. The old man just wants to get everything out of me he can, before I fall apart....

But that didn't square with the delicacy Dumbledore had shown Snape's second year, when he'd tried (and failed) to pull that idiotic prank; nor with the kindness the man had demonstrated when first his father, and then Lord Snape, had died. But Snape was too distraught to puzzle over it long.

"You've always underestimated me, you know. Besides, you're doing quite a good job of being cruel to yourself. Do you think you can stand, now?"

The old man helped Snape up and back into the office, and insisted he have a glass of water and the toast before they continued.

"Tonight," Snape finally continued, "there was a celebration planned, it being the Solstice -- Voldemort uses the old festivals when it suits him. 'Dark Revels,' they've started calling them. And the highlight of the evening was another blood sacrifice. But this was different."

He peered at Dumbledore -- oddly needing one last look at the old man's face before it inevitably reflected the disgust and horror that Snape felt with himself -- and then stared down at his own hands, clenched on his knees.

"It was a child," he said softly. "A Muggle child, not that it makes a difference. There were jokes made about turning the festival on its ear -- the death of the old god, all that rot -- and the death of weakness. The rite was performed, and Voldemort killed her. And then...."

He swallowed. "Then we were allowed to... defile the body. All of us -- it was expected. Some of them considered it a treat, of course --"

He stopped speaking as he heard Dumbledore rise and stumble over to the window, cursing softly: the old man's considerable magic exploded through the room, seemingly sucking all the oxygen from Snape's lungs for a moment. His head spun and he briefly re-lived those horrific, wonderful moments: his immediate conviction that this was all wrong, terribly wrong; the Dark Magic as it coiled about him and everyone else in the room; his momentary disgust with the others' obvious relish for the act; his own sudden hunger for the feel of yielding flesh beneath his own, no matter whose or how got, or even that the who was now it -- and the flash of remembrance, as he'd suddenly had a moment of clarity in the midst of laboring over the limp, cooling flesh, of Gillian warm and sweet and living, wrapped about him --

"I'm sorry, Severus," he finally said gutterally. "I... saw it, just now, you don't need to go on."

"You're sorry? You're apologising to me?" And he began giggling uncontrollably.

The next thing he knew Dumbledore was looming over him, his face clenched in the old man's hands, being forced to meet Dumbledore's furious eyes.

"You're hysterical, boy -- not that I blame you. I was apologising for the intrusion: I was too angry to stop to ask you. Calm down."

"This is why the Dark Arts are forbidden," Dumbledore said, still staring into Snape's eyes. "People delude themselves into thinking they can control it, but it will always find a way to feed itself rather than remain submissive -- and its path is usually through the most primal instincts. You had just about as much choice in your actions tonight as that poor child had -- the fact that you knew it was wrong, even briefly before the Darkness claimed you, tells me that."

"Of course he knew: he expected it. That's precisely why he arranged things as he did. This entire process has been one of gradually accustoming those of you less likely by nature to indulge in such atrocities to accept them, to pull you in as deeply as he is himself. The problem is, he wasn't careful enough with you: his desire for that potion made him coddle you, prevent you from becoming deeply involved enough soon enough, for which I'm deeply grateful."

He finally released Severus and headed straight for the console table, poured himself a large Firewiskey, and collapsed into his chair.

"Yes. I took the time to go home and bathe, though. I don't think there's a square inch of skin that I didn't scrub raw," Snape said dully.

Dumbledore took a huge gulp of his drink, set down the glass, and buried his head in his hands.

"I'd hoped it hadn't got this far," he said, voice muffled. "I'd hoped there would be a way to redeem the rest, but if it's gone this far so quickly...."

"Not all of you, Severus, or you shouldn't be here," Dumbledore corrected him. "But so many.... Malfoy -- I take it you mean Lucius --"

"That would be helpful for confirmation. Do you know who precisely was involved in the raids you participated in, besides Malfoy?"

Dumbledore scrabbled on his desk for a clean sheet of parchment and a quill and passed them over: Snape tried to still the tremors in his writing hand, and began on a nearly illegible list.

"You warned your cousin before that raid, of course," Dumbledore noted, and Snape's hand stilled briefly.

"And do you know how that gutless worm responded?" Snape said grimly. "He packed himself and his wife up and fled. Didn't even warn the staff. He left a note for Malfoy saying they were leaving the country and we could make what we bloody wanted of that, but not to bother hunting for them. Malfoy was so enraged he killed one of the House Elves, and the others nearly killed our tutor and the groundskeeper. Probably would've killed our old Nanny -- she was Muggleborn, and would have been fool enough to fight them -- but Matthew'd packed her off to a Pensioner's home long ago."

"Ah, well, Severus," Dumbledore said, "he never had reason or opportunity to acquire courage and responsibility. I always felt His Lordship miscalculated a bit, sending him away...."

"I wouldn't say that, my boy -- you're here. He was quite right about you and your ability to adapt."

"You were thinking it. You're quite transparent to me at the moment, you know. Quite all right -- it makes this next bit easier."

Snape glowered at him -- he hadn't even felt the blasted man sneak into his mind that time -- and handed over the list of Death Eaters.

"You'll see. Tell me, Severus," Dumbledore said, "would you undo it if you could? Choose differently, were you given the choice again?"

"Why are you -- what does it bloody matter what I wish? It's impossible to change what's done."

"Yes, then, all right? Change my actions, my decisions -- give me a bloody Time Turner, why don't you, see if I can't muck things up even more --" He buried his face in his hands. "Fucking gods above, I wish I'd never been born."

"I don't think we need go that far," Dumbledore said mildly. "And you know damned well Time Turners don't work that way. Or do you? You always did your best to avoid Theoretical Arithmancy -- I suppose you decided Temporal Arithmancy and Time Paradoxes were a load of muck, too."

Snape wrenched his head up and stared at the old man. The bastard's -- he's laughing at me... He's been toying with me for the past hour.

"I think," he snapped, "that if you are quite through with your fun, you should call the Aurors. I've told you what I know: do with it what you will."

"Calm down, Severus. I've no intention of calling them just yet, and whether I ever shall is entirely up to you."

"You're quite right, you can't undo the past. But you have another choice to make, now. You can insist on throwing yourself on the sword, so to speak, or you can choose to do something useful."

"I thought I'd made it quite clear that I have no usefulness -- only to the Dark Lord, and I'll be damned if I continue with that."

"Let me rephrase it, then, since you're being willfully dense. You could be of great use if you were to appear to be loyal to Voldemort."

Snape laughed outright. "Spy? For the Ministry? Not bloody likely, not with blood on my hands. I'm for Azkaban."

"A group of people under my leadership who are determined to stop Voldemort. We've been convinced for a very long time that he poses a great threat to our world, and that the Ministry has not taken that threat seriously. It was Order members who opposed you at that third raid: the Prewett brothers were with us, and were extraordinarily gifted. I've been at my wits' end to compensate for their loss, and I had no idea how to do so -- until you showed up tonight."

"No, Severus -- I'm asking you if you would willingly return. It's quite different."

"You just said that if you were given the choice again, you'd choose differently. Well, I can't give you that: but I can give you the opportunity to make a difference in future. To contribute to the fight against him, rather than sitting in Azkaban."

"Would a few hours' torture, not matter how painful, be any worse than living with the Dementors? Re-living that last memory over and over again, having your brain slowly disintegrate until you're nothing but a vegetable?"

That hit home. To end up as his father had, the husk of a human being -- and not from a blasted, crippling disease, but from the Dementors' work and his own twisted conscience....

The risk suddenly seemed worth it -- possibly. It was a very big risk, after all: Black's last hour had been harrowing.

"And what would I get out of it besides staying out of Azkaban?" he snarled at Dumbledore.

"Besides the satisfaction of helping defeat Voldemort? Protection from Ministry insofar as I am possible. If you can name people, they can name you: when they're eventually brought to justice, they'll try to turn you in."

"You're implying two things -- first, that I can just walk away from this if he's defeated. Second, that he will be. If the Ministry isn't taking this seriously --"

"No, you certainly can't walk away from this, Severus. You're going to carry this with you for the rest of your life, no matter where you go and what you do: the question is what it will take for you to balance the scales, as it were, so you can live with yourself. Don't try to tell me you feel up to that right now, not after what I saw in your mind tonight.

"And you're quite right, we may fail. But defeating him is much more probable with someone on the inside, and I think you're it."

"But I'm not even a high-ranking member -- I'm stuck in the lab most of the time."

"Which is to our advantage, in many respects. You're not in the front lines: you're protected from the more hazardous duties. I suspect, though, that with a little diplomacy you may be able to gain more status. You know these people, Severus: you were at school with many of them. You know their weaknesses, you know what tactics work with them. Of course, you may have to ingratiate yourself to them, and I know that's not your preferred method of dealing with people."

"I'm sorry, my boy, but it's an honest comment based on seven years' observation. I don't think you've changed that much in the last few years."

"And there's no one else who would be at risk, correct? Pardon me if I'm making a great assumption, but there is no Mrs Snape that I've not heard of?"

It was madness, sheer madness. Fight the strongest Dark Wizard in centuries; deliberately lie to him, try to conceal my motives and allegiance despite the man's demonstrated skill at Legilimency; worm my way deeper into the organisation and deceive the others as well....

"In theory, yes," he said slowly. "But it's impossible. I can't keep up the appearance to the extent necessary...."

"Yes, it will take considerable play-acting. You shall have to subsume your personal feelings and abhorrance for whatever might happen. You're better at Occlumancy than you think, you know -- regardless of when you consciously began to feel uneasy, you've known in your heart for quite some time that this is wrong, and he hasn't sussed you out yet. You shall just have to work from the "Looks Like" principle."

"If it looks like a hippogriff, walks like a hippogriff, and smells like a hippogiff, it is a hippogriff."

"I'm not being flippant at the moment, not really. You shall have to behave like the perfect Death Eater. Even more, think like one: that will make your job in blocking any intrusions easier. Learn to shut off your conscience when you must, and allow part of yourself to appreciate the things they do."

"No, I'm saying you musn't let it bother you when you are in their company. You may use any reasonable excuse you like to avoid participating yourself -- lack of interest in certain bits, if you like, though if you're going to be admitted to certain circles you're going to have to resign yourself to... inflicting pain."

"Unconscionable? Absolutely," Dumbledore said quietly. "I'm asking you to go back and actively participate in many of the things that sickened you in the first place. The problem is, Severus, that while I would like to spare you that, to do so puts the whole business at risk. If I lie to you and send you back unprepared, you'll be discovered and killed. If I set limits on your behavior and the crimes you are free to perpetrate, again, I put you at risk. I have to trust that you will find a way to judge what you must do, and what you can avoid. And I have the gall to ask this of you because the stakes are higher than you can possibly imagine.

"Think of this, Severus: the man has been stymied at every legal attempt to gain power and influence within our world, and has now determined to gain it elicitly, through sheer brute force and Dark Magic. He's so desperate, in fact, that he's trying to gain immortality. Can you imagine? A madman of a dictator gaining control over our population? Do you really think he'll stop there? I don't. I think the Muggle World will be next."

He hesitated, and then moved to the portrait of an ancient headmaster, on the other side of the room. "Hullo, Hugh... Hugh?"

"Hugh, wake up," Dumbledore said more loudly, and poked at the frame: the portrait woke up with a snort.

"All right, all right, hang on," it grumbled, adjusted its robes, and swung open on its hinges.

Dumbledore unwarded a door in the wall, drew out several rolls of parchment, and returned to place them on the desk.

"Come here, Severus. I've not shown these to anyone... I recovered them from Grindelwald's house in Bavaria, after the war."

"His plans for the world. The entire world, mind you, not just ours. Do you read German?'

"Ah." The old man handed Snape's every-day wand back to him. "Try Transtextus."

Snape performed the charm -- pointedly handing his wand back to Dumbledore, much as he hated to do it -- and the Gothic letters danced about the parchment rearranging themselves, jostling each other and squeaking until Dumbledore ordered "Behave yourselves."

They immediately lined themselves up neatly, but the umlauts sulked over in the margins with no place to go.

"This," Dumbledore said, resting a finger at the middle of the second page, "was as far as he'd got: you know most of that from your History of Magic class. Read everything below."

"Quite a brilliant tactic, actually, if a bit predictable -- to sic his Muggle flunkey on the Muggles whilst he and his confederates dealt with us."

"Then dispense with the Muggle, and eventually turn on his wizarding friends," Snape summarised the text.

"Precisely. The alliances almost exactly paralleled the Muggle situation, too. Now, sooner or later it will occur to Voldemort that this is a possibility -- if it hasn't already; I think he's simply not as organised and methodical as Grindelwald was. Are you done?"

Snape nodded and stepped away: Dumbledore pulled out his own wand, cast Reverto Textus (the umlauts were obviously relieved), and moved back to the wall safe.

"The problem is, the Muggles are no longer as vulnerable as they were," he said as he stowed the documents, closed the safe, and nodded thanks to Hugh. "They have weapons that can do far more damage than at that time. They can obliterate significant numbers of a population, maim many others, and make vast tracts of land unusable for centuries -- and we have as yet no way to protect ourselves or limit the damage."

"Their leaders usually know of us, of course. But if they're faced with the threat of a Grindelwald or a Voldemort, they're likely to act decisively. Particularly if it's not in their own territory. So you see, we're not just talking about the fate of wizards, Severus, but potentially of hundreds of millions of ordinary people around the globe. You will have to forgive me if I give that a bit more weight than squeamishness, right now."

"That's a very good question, Severus. And the only answer I can give you is that those in power don't wish to believe that this is possible. It's quite ridiculous, really: it's as though they want to deny that a supposedly advanced race would be capable of such atrocities. They are convinced that only Muggles are savage enough to perpetrate that kind of chaos, not wizards -- Grindelwald being the notable exception, because he was of that Teutonic mindset that we Britons can't seem to understand or respect. They fail to accept that human nature is what it is, whether one is wizard or muggle. It's much more comforting to write the Grindelwalds and Voldemorts off as delusional -- although from what you've said it's probable that Voldemort is quite mad.

"What I need to know now, Severus," Dumbledore said, gently steering the conversation back to the main point, "is whether you are willing to take the risks and live with the unpleasantness involved, now that you know the potential outcome."

"I know. But you can't worry about the whole tapestry -- that's my job. You would need to focus on each task of your own, each small repair, and leave the large-scale weaving up to me."

"Why are you convinced you can't?" Dumbledore retorted. "There's an easy way to find out, you know." He walked behind his desk pulled the Sorting Hat down from its shelf, and brought it around to Snape.

"Now now, Severus, don't say anything to insult it: it will go out of its way to insult you back, it's quite cheeky."

"It's more than a Sorting Hat. You'll just have to take my word for it, until you've seen it at work. Would you, please?"

"Yes, all right, enough with the pleasantries -- we're short of time, here," Dumbledore said impatiently.

"Keep your socks on, Headmaster," it shot back. "I take it you want the full treatment on him?"

"Oh, damn and blast -- Fine. He's very sincere -- at the moment. But he's damnably stubborn, you know, and quick to take offence."

"He is, however, capable of setting his personal needs aside for what must be done. Not from altrusim, mind --"

"-- hush, you, I'm trying to concentrate. From general principles of honour, perhaps. Potential for a strong ethical code, though morals as such are lacking. That's quite all right, he's no longer in the mood to accept anyone else's as a matter of course -- learned his lesson there.... But the trust, Dumbledore -- his for you -- that's a very big problem. You haven't given him much reason to in the past."

"There are the little things -- that silly business with the points at year-end, you obvious preference for Gryffindors --"

"Then how about that business with the werewolf, hmmmm? Should've expelled Black outright after that, shouldn't you, but since this boy had no parents to object...."

"I did my best," Dumbledore said quietly. "Black's family wouldn't have taken him in, not after he'd run off. I couldn't turn him out."

"I did -- Wait one moment," Dumbledore said sternly. "That punishment wasn't made public, other than the points; how does he know?"

"Hah. Didn't like that, did he?" the Hat whispered in Snape's ear. "I like to catch him off-guard every now and then."

"All right, back to business," it announced. "Let me look around a bit more." It was silent for a moment.

"He's deeply wounded," it said matter-of-factly. "There are issues here that may never be resolved. He may never be able to live what you consider a normal life, Headmaster: he barely knows such a thing exists. Happiness is an unknown entity -- he has never learned how to find it within himself. For him, it is simply the absence of pain and annoyance -- yes, I know, boy, I see that," it said irritably when Snape mentally objected, "but even then you didn't believe it. You couldn't quite believe that she wanted you for you."

Snape was deeply humiliated at having that broadcast, and raised his hands to rip the blasted thing from his head.

"Wait, Severus, I beg your pardon," Dumbledore said. "Please confine yourself to more abstract statements," he told the Hat. "Exercise some delicacy."

"Hmmmmmph. Very well. He does not understand why someone should choose to do something unselfishly, for someone else's pleasure or benefit: he only understands duty and personal agenda. He can deduce intellectual rationales for others' behavior, but matters of the heart are beyond him -- even of his own. Abstract enough?"

"He does not fear death -- it would only end his difficulties, after all. He doesn't fear pain, either, though he'll try to avoid it, the way you all do. His fear is that he will become what disgusts him most: that he will become weak. Too weak to defend himself, to become reliant on others, too weak to resist the pull of the Dark. He cannot abide loss of control. The thought terrifies him.

"He will be loyal to you and your cause, but only from that sense of ethics and because he sees your opponent as a greater evil... my, that's not very complimentary, is it? Never mind, it's only because he chafes at the thought of being at your mercy. But you should understand that there is not, and will never again be, unquestioning loyalty from this one -- to anyone, because he deeply resents being used as your opponent has used him.

"He will challenge you if he thinks you are wrong. He will remember all slights, whether from friend or foe, and avenge them if he can -- even if he must wait years to do so. But he will not betray you, not with so much at stake.

"He's a prickly one and he'll drive you nearly mad at times, but he'll do the job the best he can: it's a matter of pride." It huffed out a sigh, and the brim rippled. "That's it, I think. As I said, he'll do."

"Thank you," Dumbledore said quietly. "Severus, if you would?" He reached for the Hat.

Snape pulled it off with trembling hands -- enraged, this time -- and shoved it at him.

"It could certainly do with less cheekiness," Dumbledore admitted, putting it back on its shelf, "but you see now why I think it's so handy. If it's any consolation, I force myself to put it on every once in a while. And I don't often like what it says."

"Satisfied? No, Severus, I'm not satisfied, and I don't put people through that lightly. Am I certain of you and do I still want your help? Yes. The question is whether you want to continue, after that."

"As my choices are a cell in Azkaban or fleeing to the darkest corner of the earth, I don't think what I want matters," Snape said.

"Yes, it does. There's always a choice, Severus -- although I admit I should be greatly disappointed if you chose to leave."

"Probably shouldn't have to. Either Voldemort will catch up to you, or he'll have those moles in the Ministry send the Aurors after you. I should certainly be willing to testify that you've expressed sincere remorse to me, but I'm afraid that won't carry a great deal of weight with the Wizengamot."

"Fidelius? You know, I don't know what I should do," Dumbledore said slowly. "I rather think you won't, however. And it's time we stopped mucking about with hypotheticals, Severus. Will you or won't you?"

Snape tried to stare him down, and couldn't: his eyes dropped to his own hands, and he thought of what they'd done in the past twelve hours -- Fuck that, the past four bloody years -- and realised that, no, he couldn't simply walk away.

He would always have the Prewetts' and Black's deaths on his conscience, whether he was directly responsible or not: he would have to live with the memory of what happened to that child and the other sacrifices, and his actions in regard to them. Those could never be expunged, nor could the crimes he might have to commit in future.

Somewhere in his pouring through Wainwright's books he'd read a bit about the old gods and religions, and remembered being amused by the Egyptian idea of the scales of justice -- the deceased's heart weighed against a feather. While laughable at face value, it had seemed much more reasonable than the shrill Christian insistance upon "being blameless" -- an impossible task, and one Snape had not been particularly interested in attempting, then or now.

But perhaps Dumbledore was right. Perhaps, if he did his best, a sort of balance could be struck.

"I think that's quite enough for now," Dumbledore said quietly. "We're both done in. Go lie down on the sofa, there, and get some sleep."

"You're about to drop, boy, and so am I. Go lie down, Severus, before I do something rash and hex your stubborn arse into a Body Bind."

That finally did it. Snape was exhausted, mentally and emotionally drained; his hands began shaking again, and he couldn't even pull himself from the chair to do as Dumbledore ordered.

"Come on, my boy," the old man said softly, and bent to help Snape from the chair and to the sofa. Dumbledore got him settled, conjured a pillow and blanket out of thin air, and tucked him in -- and Snape was too damned tired to care or object.

"We'll talk more in the morning," Dumbledore said quietly, "and we'll straighten out the arrangements then."

"How do you know I'll still be here?" Snape managed in a half-hearted threat, his words slurring.

"You will be, Severus," Dumbledore said, and lay a cool hand on Snape's forehead. "You haven't come this far to throw it all away by doing a runner. Somnifer."

The Last Straw: Part One