The Upper Hand

The sallow, guilt-stricken face swam listlessly across the shining white surface of the cloudy substance. Framed by greasy black, he was a stark contrast to the contents of a pensieve. Somehow unfitting to its purity.

Albus sighed heavily, drawing the tip of his wand from his temple, a new strand of memory clinging to it. As he did so a different voice came charging through his head: "...and you still say 'there is hope for him yet!?'"

"I do," he whispered out loud, swirling the tip of his wand in the basin, and the shifty face of Severus Snape swirled neatly into the determined, wholesome face of James Potter. "If it was only that easy--"

He jerked out of his reverie by the sound of feverish knocking upon his door. Hastily he rose, replaced his pensieve in its cupboard, and hurried to open the door. There stood James and Remus, wide-eyed and panting, expressions startlingly reminiscent of the times they had visited his office as students. Albus could hear the soft sounds of more footfalls approaching them from the shadows of the spiral staircase.

"Come in," he said heavily, and stood back to allow them entrance. As they took their seats, Peter Pettigrew also scurried inside, perhaps a little more out of breath than the other two, and seated himself next to James in a chair that had materialized out of thin air only seconds previously.

"Albus," said James earnestly as Albus walked slowly to the other side of his desk, staring intently down at the wood. "I've just spoken to Snape."

"I see," said Albus, seating himself opposite the three young men.

"He admitted it to me, being a Death Eater," James continued breathlessly, his fingers drumming impatiently against his knees. "Just now, outside! He may as well have blurted out: 'I work for Voldemort,' Albus! I followed him out to his carriage--cornered him," added James with an ill-disguised hint of pride. "And I said I knew he was a Death Eater, and he didn't deny it, and then I said, 'you didn't deny it,' and he said 'no, I didn't...'" He trailed off, staring fixedly at Albus.

Still, the old man did not reply. He felt a repressing sense of déjà vu, as though he had replayed this scene multiple times within his head in anticipation. It was as though he knew exactly what would be said, what would be asked, as though he had been working out how to answer, how to reassure and alienate James in the same breath, for a hundred years...

Now the moment was here it merely felt heavy and stale. James was staring at him with a forceful, almost indignant gaze, as if he couldn't fathom how Albus could take such a startling bit of news without so much as looking up at him. Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew sat on either side of him, and the emotional support (though Minerva might refer to it as 'egging on') flowing from both of them was palpable. Remus, calm and subdued, as always. And Peter--

Albus was struck by the sudden impression of the stout young man sitting there and had to blink. It wasn't uncommon for James to approach a dilemma such as this with an escort of two. It was, however, extremely uncommon that the man sitting on his right hand side should be anyone other than Sirius Black.

"If you wouldn't object to a minor change of subject, James, where is Sirius?"

At this James's demeanor became decidedly uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat, crossing his arms. "I didn't think he'd... Well I didn't really want to... I mean, you know how he is about Snape,' he concluded lamely, tracing a small circle on the left arm of his chair with his right index finger. It was clear he felt guilty, as though he had betrayed his best friend by not sharing this important information with him. In truth, Albus was quite surprised himself. He could assume James's reasoning, however, and felt a small rush of pride at his unusual choice of sensibility over emotion.

"You thought he might get carried away with his newfound Auror's responsibilities?" said Albus with a small smile.

James shrugged. "He's got enough to worry about right now," he said quietly, his tone split between self-reassurance and a genuine concern for his best friend. Remus reached over and gripped his shoulder briefly.

Several moments passed in silence, and Albus tapped the steeple of his fingers against his lips as he considered his options. Remus was muttering something to James, who continued to look down at his hand. Peter was staring at the edge of his desk, hardly blinking, as if waiting tensely for something to happen. An uncanny impulse to order him out rushed through Albus's mind for half a second before it was pushed out of the way by more thoughts of Snape. He dismissed this as evidence of the wear his nerves had been taking lately.

All the while that face swam in the forefront of his mind just as it had in his pensieve moments ago: unhealthily thin and white, lank hair shadowing dark, mendacious eyes, and thin lips that could either be smiling or snarling without any distinguishing between the two. Any sensible person would cast Severus Snape away without a second thought. But Albus had never been considered an exactly sensible person. And he knew things... He knew things that Snape himself had never guessed he knew...

Snape had fashioned himself a new composure, a rock hard, completely obscure disposition these days, but Albus remembered a boy who came back to school from every vacation covered in bruises, hobbling but trying to hide it by adopting a kind of predatory stroll that intimidated younger students. Albus remembered a boy who had always been the victim, but viewed the world through the eyes of the oppressor. Albus remembered a boy who came back from Christmas holiday and locked himself in the prefects' bathroom for eight hours with nothing but a razor...

And most of all, Albus remembered the girl Minerva brought to his office the next morning, who begged him not to confront Snape. 'It won't do any good if you try to talk to him... Send him home and he's sure to do it again, and he'll refuse any help you try to give him,' she had said. 'Please sir, I'll look after him... Look, I talked to him all night long, trying to keep him awake, and I don't think he really wanted to do it.' Albus could still hear her voice ringing earnestly in his head. 'He just thought he didn't have any hope left.'

She had offered him the hope of friendship, and he had ventured out of the shadows for two years. And then she was gone, and Albus had watched helplessly as the boy fell into the clutches of pureblood aristocracy, of dark ambition, and of his father's wishes.

Was it possible that Albus could offer him the same hope that Charity Meisner had given him? Would he accept it? He regretted now more than ever the mistakes he had made in anger on the eve of Severus Snape's graduation from Hogwarts: sending the letter home to his father even when he knew what would come of it, even going so far as to question his deceased mother's love for him... Albus shook his head.

He sat quietly, staring over his younger colleague's head at the cupboard door in the distance. Though the door was shut, a tiny crack of white light, like thread, shone mistily. He could see, in the unfocused foreground of his vision, the three of them beginning to stare expectantly at him. "Albus..." James said softly, his brown eyes wide and anxious. "What do you want me to do?"

"You, James?" said Albus, fixing his eyes back upon the boy. He chuckled softly, then reconsidered. "Snape will be back on Monday to teach," Albus replied thoughtfully. "Find him in the dungeons before he leaves, and tell him I wish to speak with him in my office. Say no more than that, and tell him the password."

"You think he'll come?" asked James.

Albus did not reply for a moment, trying to still the frenzied emotions and thoughts whirling about inside of him. A light, shivering chirrup floated toward him, and in the corner of his eye he saw a flash of red as Fawkes ruffled his feathers. A hushing sense of calm descended over him, and he found the stability to look back up at the three men awaiting his answer. He looked steadily into James's deep brown eyes--eyes that begged him for reassurance even knowing it was in vain--and said: "That is his decision. We shall see."

James was not satisfied. His lips thinned and his fingers gripped the arms of his chair as he leaned anxiously forward. "But do you think he'll come?" James nearly whispered, his eyes clamped on Albus's face, searching.

"To tell you the truth," Albus said as steadily as he could, "I cannot say. It will be resolved, James, in some way or another," he added as a flicker of horror crossed the young man's face. "Don't worry yourself--You are hardly involved in this matter, and for that you should feel grateful, not responsible." The tiniest hint of bitterness slipped through into his tone with his last few words. James apparently had not detected it, as he sighed softly and nodded his head in acceptance.

James needn't worry himself. James was hardly involved. James was not responsible for the well being of anyone but himself and his family.

Albus was responsible for the rest of the world.

***

"C-can I...have s-s-slippers now...please?"

"No, Charity, it's not time for breakfast yet."

"But I...I see the-the sunshine--"

"That's not sunshine, it's my wand. See? I set it over there on the table. And besides, there aren't any windows in here."

"Can we g-go look out the w-wind--"

"Let's just stay right here for now, Charity."

It was a quarter past four in the morning, and Charity had had another nightmare. Severus realized, with a rush of guilt, that he was relieved for the excuse to stop attempting sleep.

His mind had not let him alone since he had closed the carriage door. Its subconscious instinct was to thoroughly analyze the sources of stress in his life as a means of finding either reassurance or a solution, but tonight he found that all it got him was a confirmation of hopelessness. There was nothing for it but to wait.

And so he was.

He was sitting on Charity's bed with her in his lap, his arms around her middle and his face in her matted hair. Her tiny fingers clutched at his forearms, as if to reassure herself that he was really there. Feeling guilty once more that he was receiving comfort in equal amounts as she, he closed his eyes and held his arms around her more tightly, just treasuring what were surely the last moments of calm and quiet in his life.

They were back at the Snape manor, and Severus was grateful now more than ever of the complete solitude of the place. He would be spared any social interaction until Monday morning. His stomach clenched unpleasantly at the prospect of his imminent confrontation with Potter. He knew Potter would seek him out no matter what... Perhaps with a cohort of aurors at his back...His faithful sidekick, Black, probably...

Severus could picture, with disgusting clarity, the triumphant look on Black's face as he unrolled a scroll bearing a warrant for the arrest of Severus Snape. He would read aloud, in a booming voice so that all who passed in the corridors would hear, all the crimes which Severus had committed in the past five years. He would smile widely as he announced that the Ministry couldn't bother to offer him a trial, as they had obvious proof in the form of a confession (of sorts), and that he would be sent straight to Azkaban to serve a life sentence. Then he would shake his head jauntily, flicking his glossy hair out of his eyes, and say, 'take him.' Potter would then casually mention that he had the Ministry's permission to take custody of Charity, that she had already been removed from the Snape mansion and taken to his house by Ministry officials.--

"Ouch, Sev, you're squeezing m-me!"

"What? Oh, sorry..." He slackened his grip on her immediately, as if electrocuted. It was then that a wave of horror truly descended over him, releasing him from his numb state. Maybe they're right, he snarled inwardly, his jaw clenching in fury. Maybe I'm not fit to raise her. All I ever do is hurt her... What do I know about raising a kid? It's not as if I've had a good role model to refer to when it comes to parenting...

He thought for a moment about what he would do if he ever came across an issue with Charity that he didn't know how to address. She was five now, but she wouldn't be five forever. What would he do? Would he ask himself, 'what would my mother do?'

He snorted aloud. Good one, he thought. Though I don't think lying, cowering, and trying to run away would do me much good in my case, would it? Uninvited, another thought popped into his head from nowhere: 'what would my father do...?'

A shock of terror ran all through his body. How could he even think that? He looked down, seeing his own long, spindly fingers looking so huge and muscular compared to the miniscule, chubby ones resting on his arms. Silently he took one of Charity's hands and placed the palm against his own. She looked up at him bemusedly, but he paid her no attention, his eyes widening as he registered that her entire hand, fingers splayed, didn't extend past the radius of his palm.

What would his father do?

He gave a small, shuddering gasp, letting her small hand drop. A sudden blaze of rage filled him so that he shook with it. He was suddenly so sickened by the mere thought of Senan Snape that it made him nauseated. To think what his father would do to his own daughter, his own daughter! if he was still alive made Severus feel, for the first time, entirely justified in murdering him. In fact, it made him feel glad...

He remembered vividly the night his mother had...left.... He remembered the frenetic gleam in his father's dark eyes, the crazy laughter, the panic that had filled him at the realization that this was no ordinary beating... He could still feel the repeated ringing of his father's knuckles against his skull, against his chest, against his nose, against his back, against...

If anyone ever approached Charity that way, Severus thought, I'd kill them just the same way...I'd kill him all over again...

A different image flared into life within his head. The image of this exact expression on a different countenance, of the mad shine of red irises, the wide smirk of a lipless mouth that hissed his name as though addressing him in Parseltongue--

"SEVERUS!" squealed Charity suddenly, and he jerked away from her, thinking with horror that he had perhaps been squeezing her too tightly again. But to his surprise she was gripping his arms even more tightly, scrambling back against him, twisting around to hide her face in his chest...

He looked up and realized with a jolt that the face that had just been occupying his thoughts was now staring at him from across the room, wearing the same horrible expression.

"M-My Lord!" he choked in terror, automatically attempting to fall at the Dark Lord's feet. He was impeded by Charity, who was screeching so loudly and flailing so violently against him that he had to grab the bedpost for support.

Lord Voldemort chuckled softly. "Still tending to the nursery, I see?" he sneered. For a moment Severus thought the Dark Lord's laughter had echoed in the small room, but then he saw two cloaked and hooded figures step into the room after him, stopping on either side. "My, but doesn't this remind you of our little chat just the other night? The family resemblance is staggering, Severus... I can't help but notice that both of you seem to adopt the same pitch when you shriek..."

There was a shout of laughter once more from the Death Eaters flanking him. His breathing was ragged now, his arms limp around the struggling Charity, who was acting for the life of her as if she was trying to burrow herself right into Severus's body and hide. His eyes flicked from Voldemort to each of the two bulky Death Eaters (obviously Crabbe and Goyle), feeling a newfound surge of terror as he realized that both of them hand their wands out and pointed directly at him.

"So surprised to see them, Severus?" said the Dark Lord, taking another step forward and leering even more widely. "I would think someone of your intelligence would have realized you couldn't evade me for long...but no matter. It is only a precaution... There needn't be any force used against you tonight if you cooperate..."

"Cooperate?" Severus croaked, unconsciously tightening his hold on Charity.

"You didn't think I would let your loyalty wane this far without retribution, did you?"
"My loyalty, Lord?" Severus asked, willing his voice to remain steady though his heart skipped a beat. "My--my loyalty has never--would never--"

"Is that why you have deliberately failed me, Snape?" Voldemort hissed, his face suddenly only inches from Severus's. He stared into the Dark Lord's fierce gaze, feeling his own eyes widen. "You have betrayed me!"

"Never, my Lord!" Severus said, his voice rising in panic.

"Do not lie!" Voldemort shouted, his high voice shaking with fury. "Did you truly believe you could outwit me? Did you think I would not know that you had betrayed me to, of all people, that mudblood-loving puppet of Albus Dumbledore's, James Potter?"

Severus froze.

"Yes," continued the Dark Lord, his voice dangerously soft. "I know, Severus. I always know. And now, unluckily for you, so does Dumbledore!"

Severus remained completely silent, hardly breathing, waiting for the fatal blow...

Lord Voldemort took a step back, away from him, seeming to grow calmer in decisiveness. "It is time for me to remind you to whom you are indebted," he said quietly. "You owe me a life, Severus, and I shall not rest until it is given."

This is it, Severus thought with a thrill of foreboding. This is the end... He bowed his head, waiting patiently to be blinded by brilliant emerald--

"Take her."

And suddenly, taken by surprise, a kicking, screaming, biting Charity was being prised from his grasp.

"NO!" he bellowed as Goyle pulled her away from him. He tried to hold on but slid off the bed and onto the floor in his vain effort. One of Charity's socks slid off in his hand as lost his grip on her ankles. "Leave her be! What are you doing with her?! Leave her be!"

As she struggled in Goyle's arms, twisting and screaming for her brother, the Dark Lord bent low, speaking lowly to Severus: "I knew she would come in useful," he whispered.

Staring in horror past Voldemort, Severus was forced to witness Goyle deal Charity an unforgiving slap across the face as she bit into his arm. He lurched instinctively toward her, screaming something incoherent and profane at Goyle, but was instantly thrown back against the bed by an Impediment curse from Crabbe. As his head crashed against the bedpost he saw nothing but dazzling white light. Blindly he scrambled to his knees, blinking as the room around him came back into focus.

"S-S-SEVER-SEVERUS!" Charity sobbed frantically, scrabbling against Goyle's burly forearms.

"You owe me a life, boy!" Lord Voldemort repeated casually over her screams. "It is your choice whose life you give! Deliver me the Potters, or..." he smiled thinly, reaching over to run a pale finger over Charity's tearstained cheek. She froze instantly in Goyle's arms, her eyes widening in blind terror. (Probably in memory...)

"PLEASE!" Severus bellowed, shuffling forward on his knees and abandoning all pride. "Kill me! Take me! Anything...but please--"

"Anything?" Lord Voldemort repeated softly. Severus stared at him in horror as a thin smile curled his Master's lipless mouth. Severus heard his own voice mocking him from memory, crying out: Anything...!

"I have given you far more than your share of mercy already, boy," said Voldemort coldly, his smirk fading as he jerked his hand behind him in signal to Crabbe and Goyle. "You do not deserve to be put out of your misery yet."

There were three loud pops, and very suddenly the room was deafeningly silent. Severus found himself staring at the empty doorway opposite him.

He was alone, crouched on his knees. He had dragged the sheet off the bed with him and was now clutching it on either side of him, staring as blankly as he had that night five years ago and entertaining the exact same feeling of terrified emptiness. Should he move, blink, break the void of silence in any way, the realization of what had just happened would come rushing in over his head, and he didn't know what he would do.

His body sagged to the side, a strange paralysis consuming him. He stared.

He felt his eyes begin to dry as his unfocused gaze continued to linger on the desolate doorway before him. And then he made the mistake of blinking.

Suddenly his chest constricted, making him gasp for breath. His hands convulsed on the bed sheet and he was dimly aware of a faint ripping sound as they wrenched it upward. "No..." he heard his voice rasp. "No. No!"

Hyperventilating, he glanced down and saw Charity's small sock still clenched in his left fist along with a handful of sheet. Dropping the sheet, he raised the sock to his eyes, holding it delicately between his thumb and forefinger as if it were made of the most fragile glass.

She--she wasn't really gone, his fractured mind stuttered. He hadn't truly lost her yet (he couldn't bear the thought). The Dark Lord had said...deliver him the Potters. Deliver him the Potters, and she would be all right. She would be returned to him unharmed. Unharmed...

Severus wanted so terribly to cling to this, to think it was true, but he knew...deep down, he knew... It was as clear as the subtle scar on his wrist: He had known men as desperate as the Dark Lord was now... He had known men who would do anything, anything, no matter how sick, no matter how wrong...

A horrible blackness seeped through his veins like death, blinded him, wrapped around him so tightly he knew he would never breathe again when he realized that Charity was as good as dead. He would never see her again. He would never hold her in his arms again. A myriad of tiny memories came flooding back to him; things that had seemed so inconsequential, so stupid, he now realized were the things that had been holding him together for the past five years. Now he could feel himself crumbling, melting, ripping at the seems and falling in a million tiny pieces to the floor, to blow away in a cold draft, to scatter aimlessly along the dark corridors of his manor where his memories would imprison him for all eternity...

He could not look into her face and find a reason to carry on, because he had lost her.

She could be with Potter right now, said a horrible voice in the back of his mind. He couldn't help but notice that this voice, which seemed to penetrate his thoughts when he was frozen in despair, took on a tone terribly like the late Senan Snape. Safe and sound, perhaps being rocked back to sleep by that self-righteous bastard--the one who offered to help you, as if you were incapable of taking care of her yourself...And obviously...

It was at this moment that the voice of Albus Dumbledore rang through his head, drowning out that of his inner tormenter.

'How much do you love Charity?'

"ENOUGH!" Severus bellowed, dropping the sock and the sheet to clasp his head, as if he could block the old man's voice out.

'You love her enough to keep her to yourself; that is no challenge. I am asking you if you love her enough to do what is best for her.'

"SHUT UP!" He slammed his fist into the post of Charity's bed, causing the wooden frame to emit a dangerous, rattling squeak.

'I have offered you a hand. I have offered you assistance. You have refused, and therefore you take full responsibility for your actions. Whatever happens--'

"No more, no more," he moaned frantically, jumping to his feet.

'Whatever consequences arise from this are entirely--'

"My fault," he whispered, looking down at his hands and seeing blood long ago washed away shining on them. "She's gone..."

Now Dumbledore had finished, his father's memory took one last stab:

And for that, you can blame yourself.

The next ten minutes were a violent blur. He didn't feel the sharp pains he should have been feeling as he ripped down Charity's hangings, heaved on the posts of her bed until they splintered and broke loose, sending him flying backward, throwing her bedside table against the stone wall...He didn't feel anything at all. He was jolted to his senses when a jagged splinter of wood from one of the bedposts the length and width of his index finger found its way into his palm, and blood began to drip off of his fingertips.

He stood very still, staring at his hand and breathing heavily. He ripped the splinter out in satisfaction, unflinching. The end of it was razor sharp, darkened by his blood. Seeing it seemed to relax him, and he lowered it to his wrist almost automatically, closing his eyes resignedly as he did so.

He felt the ragged tip of it against his skin, felt the blood from his palm seep from it onto his arm. Behind his eyelids he saw himself making a vicious slash, saw blood spattering the floor...It would be so easy, ending it now...He pressed down slightly, feeling several small pinpricks as his skin was barely punctured.

'Sometimes you just have to keep trying, keep going, even when it seems pointless...Even when it feels like living one more day would be more painful than dying here and now...Just try and find some hope; there's always hope--'

There was a hollow clatter as the wood fell to the floor. Severus opened his eyes, not to see his blood rushing from his body, but to wipe away three tiny beads of it from an already scarred wrist.

This was her child, not his. And he couldn't--wouldn't--give up on her again. His pride didn't matter anymore; his stupid pureblood ideals were worthless as he remembered her soothing voice, her beautiful face...

"I remember, Charity," he whispered, running his fingertip over the thin white scar. "I remember everything."

***

By half past five, he was standing before the stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance to Dumbledore's office. The castle was dark and silent, stippled with silvery shadows. A wave of dread slid over him as he realized he had no idea what the password was. He remembered his first staff meeting as though from two lifetimes ago (in actuality, only a week ago); he remembered standing in front of this gargoyle, saying the password Dumbledore had told him in his last letter--

"Fizzing Whizbee," Severus said tentatively...to no avail. He snarled under his breath, feeling his hands begin to shake. "Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans! Droobles Best Blowing gum, dammit! CHOCOLATE FROGS!" he bellowed, his voice echoing down the silent corridor. Still the gargoyle remained tauntingly still. Severus took three steps back, whipped out his wand, and recklessly yelled, "REDUCTO!"

The jet of light glanced off the gargoyle's folded arms and, as if it were a mirror, shot straight back at his chest. He soared at least ten feet backward through the air and crashed into a suit of armor, causing it to fall over and burst apart; bits of steel and weaponry slid and rolled in all different directions, making a racket loud enough to wake the whole castle.

Severus cursed loudly. His head was throbbing where the corner of a shield had struck him and there was a hollow ringing coming from somewhere within his skull.

"Severus?" said an astonished voice. He looked up to see the stone gargoyle sliding easily shut behind Albus Dumbledore, who was wearing a long and extravagantly embroidered nightshirt and matching cap. His expression looked concerned rather than angry, as Severus had expected.

"Headmaster!" Severus exclaimed, jumping to his feet and tripping slightly over a bit of mail as he started toward Dumbledore. "I need to--"

He broke off, feeling suddenly confused. He needed to what? To confess would be pointless; the Dark Lord had already told him Dumbledore knew... He steeled himself, took a deep breath and muttered, "I need your help."

Dumbledore said nothing, but stared intently into his face for a long moment. Then:

"Come with me," he said curtly.