The Overlooked

Twenty-Two

The thought had struck him with incongruous force as he stared down at the limp form of the dead girl, who lay sprawled across Celeste's faded Persian rug like a discarded rag doll. So the only way to truly escape Voldemort is to go the one place he dare not follow...into death.

Snape had stood to one side of the front parlor, trying not to reveal any disgust or horror at the results of Rhys Davies' handiwork. Behind the man's friendly blue eyes and open countenance lay a spirit as sadistic as that of Bellatrix Lestrange, if somewhat better concealed under normal circumstances. The fair-haired girl had been dead the second she stepped inside the door. And Snape had been powerless to do anything to save her.

So much death, so that one man...if you can even call him that...might live, Snape had thought. And yet perhaps I can turn death to my advantage. Surely if Voldemort thinks Celeste is dead, he will turn his energies in other directions.

During the grim business of disposing of the girl's body -- Snape managed to convince Davies that having the local constabulary swarming around Celeste's house would surely discourage her from ever returning, if indeed she meant to -- he had considered the problem, turning it over and over in his mind the way he would have worked at a particularly difficult Potions essay question back in his schoolboy days. And as always, it was a potion that presented the solution.

The fundamental problem of the Draught of Living Death was that it didn't truly mimic death. One could still detect respiration, if the victim were examined closely enough. However, the altered Draught Snape had observed in those unfortunate Muggles he'd cured a few days earlier at St. Mungo's provided the key. He'd been able to determine that they still lived, although with much greater difficulty than if they had been given the standard formula. But now that Snape knew how the potion had been changed, he thought he could refine it further, manipulate the proportions ever so slightly in order to bring about a true living death. His fingers itched to sort through his stores of ingredients, to begin the delicate task of refining such a risky concoction. First things first, however....

After they had lain the poor girl's broken body in an alleyway only a few streets from her flat (her direction having been determined from the identification in her wallet), Snape managed to part ways from Davies, saying that it was necessary for him to return to Hogwarts. The Welshman didn't bother to argue; no doubt he had been instructed not to interfere with Snape's comings and goings, as the Dark Lord still considered the Potions master's relationship with Dumbledore to be highly valuable. As much as Snape wanted to go directly to Celeste, he knew she was safe for the time being. Better that he should work out more of the details of his plan before broaching it to her.

He didn't want to admit to himself that he didn't know how to face her after standing by and watching as her friend was tortured to death....

The cool, moist air surrounding Hogwarts restored him somewhat. There was something about the fresh breezes which continually blew across the school's grounds that never failed to lift his spirits. Perhaps it was simply the thought of returning to the only place he had ever considered home.

At least this time Dumbledore was in residence, and listened to Snape's tale with an ever-increasing frown.

"A very bad business," the Headmaster said at last. "Voldemort's toll of innocents increases once more, I see."

Snape made no reply, but only stared down at his hands as they lay knotted in his lap, pale and somehow ineffectual-looking against the black sweep of his robes. If only he could have found some way to stop Davies --

"Severus." Dumbledore never raised his voice, but something in his tone made Snape look up. "We've all done things we aren't proud of, but you know in this case there simply wasn't anything you could have done to prevent this poor girl's death. Not if you intended to continue as one of Voldemort's trusted circle."

Perhaps that was true, but it did nothing to ease the sour taste of bile in his throat, or the sensation of impotent fury that still wanted to rise up and choke him. If Davies had known how close he had been to being on the receiving end of the Cruciatus curse himself....

"Very well," Snape said, his tone harsh. It had to be, to push its way past the constriction in his throat. "I'll make no apologies to you, Albus. But you can see how desperate our situation is. Celeste can't hide forever -- I can't conceal her indefinitely." He had to force himself to make that admission; it pained him to realize that he couldn't protect her for as long as necessary. "But I have an idea -- " Briefly he outlined his plan to alter the Draught of Living Death further, and to use it on Celeste. "It will have to be tested first, of course," he concluded. "I trust that Madam Pomfrey is still on the premises?"

"Yes," Dumbledore replied. "Although she was making noises about possibly going to Brighton soon."

"Then I'll get to work on the Draught immediately. Once it's ready to be tested, I'll contact Pomfrey to monitor the experiment."

Dumbledore raised a bushy white eyebrow. "And who is to be your test subject?"

Snape smiled thinly. "Why, myself, of course."

***

"You're absolutely sure, Severus?" asked Madam Pomfrey, crossing her arms and fixing him with one of her familiar no-nonsense stares.

"I wouldn't be much of a Potions master if I were afraid to take one of my own potions," Snape drawled.

She shot a dubious glance at the beaker of lilac-colored liquid he held. "Yes, but something so experimental -- "

"Only a small dose," he interrupted. "Duration no more than ten minutes. After that time, I should come out of it on my own. If not -- " he shrugged, in a gestures that seemed to say, Do your worst....

"Oh, very well," Madam Pomfrey said, her tone somewhat testy. "I suppose it's your own business if you kill yourself. You have the receipt, at least, so I know which ingredients I'm working with and in which proportions? No sense in giving you the wrong antidote just because I didn't know what I was dealing with."

Without comment, he fished a piece of parchment out of his pocket with his free hand and laid it down on the table next to which they stood. She picked it up, frowning as she read over its contents.

"Interesting," she said at last. "I don't see anything here that should kill you...I think...but it could get difficult if your heart decides to take exception to the combination of nightshade and wormwood."

"It will behave itself," Snape replied, although he felt the smallest stir of fear even as he said those words. During the past hour he had labored painstakingly over the potion, altering the proportions ever so slightly, and he thought he had gotten it just right...but there was only one true way to know for certain. Things could go wrong in potion-making all the time, which was why he had enlisted Madam Pomfrey to help with the experiment in the first place. "If not, I trust you will know what to do."

"Hmpf," was her only reply, but he thought he caught a glint of professional satisfaction in her pale blue eyes. "Then hand me the potion, and lie down, Professor."

They had been standing next to one of the beds in the Hospital Wing; during the summer holidays it was probably one of the least occupied places at Hogwarts. Feeling somewhat awkward, Snape did as Madam Pomfrey had instructed and stretched out on the narrow bed after letting her take the beaker which held the Draught.

"Ten minutes, you say." She frowned at the pale purple liquid inside the beaker. "Shouldn't this be clear?"

"In the unaltered version of the Draught, but not this one," Snape replied, feeling somewhat nettled. Was the woman presuming to question his potion-making skills?

Perhaps she had caught the note of irritation in his voice. Whatever the case, she made no further comment, but merely tipped the beaker against his lips and said, "Sweet dreams, Professor Snape."

And the world went black...

...only to return some time later, a wash of blurred light that slowly resolved itself into Poppy Pomfrey's face, which hovered worriedly scant inches from his own.

"...Severus?"

"I'm fine," he said, then attempted to sit up. To his surprise, his muscles failed to cooperate.

"I can see that," she replied tartly. "Don't bother -- you have some residual weakness from the potion. It should wear off soon. I'm making you some tea in the meantime."

"I'm sure that will do me worlds of good," Snape remarked.

"Well, I daresay it won't hurt, either." A lift of a sparse eyebrow. "So what was it like?"

What was it like? he thought. It was like...nothing. Like falling into a deep well. Whether that was a spiritual approximation of death, he couldn't say. He'd certainly never harbored any hopes or fears of an afterlife; this world and its burdens were enough for him. Let the next world -- if there even were one -- take care of itself.

"Like falling asleep," he said shortly. "Nothing more."

Pomfrey appeared unconvinced. "Hmm."

What it felt like to him was of no concern. Of supreme importance was how he had looked to Madam Pomfrey. Other than the lingering weakness, Snape could detect no side effects from the potion. "Did I appear to be dead?" he demanded.

"As a doornail," she said cheerfully. "No detectable respiration, no heartbeat. Even your skin got cool. I'm not sure what you're trying to prove with this, Severus, but it does create a most convincing imitation of death."

From somewhere she produced a large cream-colored cup and saucer. After a bit of a struggle, Snape managed to sit himself upright against the pillows and take the tea from her. To his surprise, it tasted quite good, and he drank it quickly. The heat from the liquid seemed to spread through his body, coursing along his veins and bringing a wave of much-needed strength with it. He raised an eyebrow at Pomfrey.

"Ginseng," she replied to his unspoken question. "Not magic, perhaps, but it does give one a boost. I expect you should be able to walk about in a few minutes. I'd tell you to rest a while longer, but I can see you're eager to be gone."

As he was. Now that he knew the potion worked, Snape wanted to rush back to the dungeons and pour off enough to take to Celeste. To be sure, he still needed to work out the details of how precisely he would manage to have Voldemort see Celeste's supposedly dead body for himself and then spirit her away quickly enough to revive her safely. He knew, however, that he couldn't risk any plan which would require her to be knocked out for longer than an hour. Even ten minutes had been enough to leave him with some residual weakness; sixty would be a risk, especially for someone who weighed so much less than he, but too small a dose, and there could be a danger of Celeste waking prematurely.

"Thank you, Madam Pomfrey," he said stiffly, and then managed to raise himself from the bed. He set the cup and saucer down on the bedside table and left the room, eager to be gone.

Once back in the dungeons, Snape did not bother to pack his Muggle attire, which would normally have been his first task when preparing to spend some time with Celeste. But he planned to Apparate in and out of her hotel room without anyone else seeing him, and for what lay ahead he guessed it would be better to travel light. An idea had begun to tickle at the back of his brain, a way to both rid himself of Davies and deliver a falsely dead Celeste to Voldemort. It might work.

He'd left a full beaker of the intensified Draught on his worktable, and Snape gathered it up, dropping it into a bag of heavy dark canvas that he used sometimes when gathering potions supplies in the woods surrounding Hogwarts. Then he turned, only to see Dumbledore standing at the entrance to his workroom and surveying Snape with a somewhat wistful expression.

"Have you thought, Severus," the Headmaster began, "what you will do if you manage to fool Voldemort? Will Celeste be able to hide herself away so completely that no rumor of her abilities will once again get back to the Dark Lord?"

That was the thorny center of the problem. Snape knew that Celeste would try to keep her skills at Divination secret, but could she manage to do that indefinitely, surrounded by Muggles? Part of the reason wizard-kind held itself apart from the ordinary world was simply that fear of discovery; it was much less difficult to keep magic a secret if all those who possessed magical abilities simply had little, if anything, to do with Muggles.

For a long moment, Snape remained silent. Then he replied, "I'm sure Celeste will do what she must."

"And what of you, Severus?" Dumbledore asked in return. "Will you do what you must, no matter how much it might pain you?"

Scowling, Snape crossed his arms and glared back at the Headmaster. "What are you trying to say, Albus?"

Dumbledore adjusted a fold of his heavy velvet sleeve. "I needn't tell you the dangers of memory -- not you, a master of Occlumency. Do you think the girl truly has the skills to block all recollection of what has happened to her these past few weeks? And what of you? With everything you must conceal, can you continue to hide her? What if Voldemort somehow manages to see past your deceptions one day? Do you want to take that risk?"

These questions were asked in the mildest of tones, as if the Headmaster were simply inquiring whether Snape wanted sugar or milk in his tea. But the longer Snape considered them, the more doubt twisted through him, clamping down on muscles and gut alike. Oh, so far he had done an admirable job in blocking his true purpose from the Dark Lord, but there was always the risk that he could be discovered. In the past he had thought the only price he'd pay for that weakness would be his own miserable life, but now he had Celeste's life to think of as well.

"What then?" Snape asked harshly, after an uncomfortable pause. "Do you want me to say that I should Obliviate her, erase all memory of me -- and magic -- from her mind?"

"Not only that," Dumbledore said, sounding calm as ever. "But once you're done, you must allow me to do the same to you. It is the only way to be safe."

How could he allow Dumbledore to do that? How he could let the only happy memories he possessed be erased, removed, so that it would be as if he'd never known Celeste, never felt her lips against his, never experienced the warmth of her body as she lay next to him? Not only that, but the sound of her laugh, the quick green glint in her eyes when he said something that amused her, the graceful curve of her throat -- everything that made her the woman he had come to love?

He wanted to hold on to all those memories, keep them close. Even if he had to let her go for now, for both their sakes, surely he could safeguard all thoughts of her, barricade them behind some mental wall that the Dark Lord could never breach. There had to be some other way --

But there isn't, a small, calm voice from somewhere deep inside told him. Not if you want her to be truly safe. Are you so selfish as to put your happiness ahead of her life?

There was only one answer to that question.

The words felt as if they were being dragged out of him. "If you're certain that's the only way."

Those all-seeing blue eyes met his. "Aren't you?"

Snape looked down. "Yes," he muttered.

"I found something the other day," the Headmaster said, apparently apropos of nothing. "Not sure where it came from, but oddments do have a tendency to collect in my chambers." He fished around in some hidden pocket of his robes, then drew out a delicate gold ring set with a smooth, unfaceted stone of a deep wine color. "Most unusual properties -- whoever wears it has their magical powers completely blocked."

Not something a member of the wizard world would care to use, Snape reflected, unless their powers had become a danger to themselves or those around them. Unfortunately, that described Celeste all too well. "You want me to give it to Celeste," he said.

"It could come in handy," Dumbledore replied.

That was an understatement. Snape had worried over the best way to ensure that Celeste's powers stayed blocked; no doubt her mother had continually cast Charms on the girl to make sure her magical abilities never had a chance to manifest themselves, but of course he couldn't do that. Not if he really intended to remove himself from her life. "I'll make sure she wears it," he said. Exactly how, he wasn't quite sure, as Celeste had displayed a lack of personal adornment unusual in an attractive young woman, but he would figure that out when the time came. And perhaps somewhere along the line he would also be able to divine the best way to tell Celeste that the only way to save her life was for him to disappear from it forever.

Snape cleared his throat. "I should be going. Celeste and I have much to discuss."

The Headmaster gave him a small, sad smile. "Yes, I suppose you do," he replied.

***

"You want me to what?" Celeste demanded. She still sat on the edge of the bed, hair mussed, pale slender legs dangling from beneath that ridiculous T-shirt she wore.

Snape thought she had never looked more beautiful. Perhaps it was simply because he knew that very soon he wouldn't remember what she looked like, or who she even was.

"It's the only way," he said, forcing her to meet his gaze, as if staring into her eyes would somehow give him the eloquence he needed. "The potion is perfectly safe -- I've tried it myself."

"I'm not worried about the damn potion," she retorted. "It's everything else! Why on earth must every memory of our time together be erased?"

"People make mistakes," he said. "Even I do. So far none fatal, but that means very little. Sooner or later, everyone's luck runs out."

At that she glanced away from him. He saw her small white teeth worry at her bottom lip. Since she hadn't given him a ready reply to his last comment, Snape suspected that she had begun to run out of arguments. Lively and quick-tempered she might be, but Celeste was no fool. After the inevitable protests died down, she would see the cold logic that dictated their course of action.

"But it doesn't have to be forever, does it?" she asked at last, with the smallest waver to her voice. Her eyes looked suspiciously bright, but so far she hadn't wept, not even after learning that Fiona was dead. Not because she didn't care, Snape thought, but because she cared too much. A loss of control now could be deadly, and she was holding herself together as best she could.

"No," he said slowly. "Of course not. I can't say how long -- weeks, months...years, possibly. But once Voldemort is defeated, we would have no reason to hide any longer. The Headmaster should be able to restore our memories."

""Should'?" she repeated.

To that, Snape had no ready answer. He could surrender the most important of his memories to the Pensieve if necessary, but Celeste had no such recourse. He had to trust that Dumbledore would be able to retrieve her memories somehow. Such things had been done in the past, but not on such a scale.

"Nothing is a perfect certainty," Snape said. "But Dumbledore is the greatest wizard alive. You have to trust that he will be able to help you."

"You're asking me to trust someone I don't even know," Celeste replied. Then she lifted her shoulders, so slender and frail-seeming under the oversized T-shirt. "But you trust him, and I know that doesn't come easy to you. So I suppose I shall have to as well."

A weight he hadn't even realized had been resting on him seemed somehow to lift from his shoulders. For some reason, he had been expecting a great deal more argument from Celeste. Perhaps she was merely so weary of hiding, and so burdened with grief over the deaths of her friend and aunt, that the sort of oblivion he offered had its own kind of attraction. Better that than the notion that she simply didn't care as much for him as he did for her....

"That's the only way I can get through it, you know," she added.

His knees had begun to pain him, kneeling on the threadbare carpet as he had, and Snape stood. "What do you mean?"

"If I tell myself this is only temporary, I can bear it." Celeste rose to her feet as well, and gazed earnestly up into his face. "Because if I have to think that I might never see you again, I might as well be dead, too."

"Don't say that," Snape replied, his tone fierce. "Never say that." He wanted to gather her into his arms, pull her against him, but for the moment he held himself aloof from her. If he allowed his control to crack now, he might never recover. A sudden thought struck him. "Can't you see it? What comes next?"

A small line etched itself between her brows. "I've never been able to see my own future. All for the best, I suppose. There are probably some things one simply shouldn't know. But..." She trailed off, the frown deepening. "Perhaps I can see what's in your future." Without warning, she reached out and took his hand between both of hers. Her fingers felt very cold and fragile against his skin. She shut her eyes, appearing to concentrate deeply.

Then her hands tightened around his, the grip intensifying almost to the point of pain. Snape opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. He could stand a little discomfort.

Just as suddenly, Celeste let go of his hand. Her eyes opened, staring at him without focusing. A low moan escaped her lips. "Oh, God...."

"What?" Without thinking, he seized her by the arms. "What did you see?"

"I can't -- " Gasping, she shook her head. "I can't tell for sure -- it wasn't clear -- "

Snape couldn't say how, but somehow he knew she was lying. No doubt out of some instinct to protect him, but whatever she had seen, it hadn't been pleasant. Perhaps she had seen his death. The thought should have chilled him, but instead he felt only an overwhelming need to know what her vision had contained. "You saw all too well, Celeste," he said coldly. "What was it?"

His abrupt tone seemed to bring her back to herself, and she pulled away from him. He released her arms without comment.

"It's not your death, Severus, if that's what you're thinking," she said, lifting her chin a bit. Good. If she had recovered enough to give him that familiar flash of spirit, then it couldn't have been too awful.

"Then what?"

She moved away from him to sit down on the bed once again. "I can't -- I won't tell you. If I did, it would change everything."

Snape had thought there could be no greater mental agony than the thought of parting from her. He'd been wrong -- standing here and staring down at her pale face, all the while knowing she had seen something she wouldn't reveal -- that was even worse.

"Celeste -- " he began, in warning tones.

"It's no good, Severus," she replied, sounding almost rueful. "Don't glower at me like that. Do you really want one of my last memories of you to be that frightful scowl?"

Probably not, but he wasn't about to let it go that easily. "So you'll tell me nothing?"

Celeste bit her lip. Then she said, "Only this. What you face now -- having to leave me, to erase all memory of me -- isn't the most difficult thing you will be asked to do. Just know that when the time comes, you must do it, because he asks."

"Do what?" he demanded, but she shook her head.

"That's all I'm going to say, Severus."

Frustrated, Snape turned from her and went to stand by the window. He drew one curtain aside slightly to survey the streets below but saw nothing unusual, just the normal crowds of Muggles who had finished one portion of their evening's entertainment and who were now in search of the next. He found that he hated them, hated their blundering complacency and mind-boggling ignorance. Useless, the whole lot of them, with their narrow view of the world and complete lack of magical ability.

Yet at the moment he would have happily traded places with any one of them....

"Severus."

He turned. Celeste stood very close, and looked up at him with pleading eyes.

"We have so little time left to us. Do you really want to waste it in useless argument?"

He wanted to say that it wasn't useless, not when she'd obviously seen some critical moment in his future, something he needed to know, but all protests seemed to fall away as he stared back down into her earnest face. All concerns evaporated as his body told him what he needed most right now.

Perhaps he wouldn't remember it after tomorrow, but he wanted to spend one last night in her arms.

The Overlooked --