Severus: A Portrait of the Potions Master as a Young Man

A Portrait of the Potions Master as a Young Man

By Daphne Dunham

Chapter 13: In Which A Life Is Taken... And Another is Formed

* * * * *

It was a ruthless existence. Severus knew it; he felt it. It crawled across his pallid skin when the Dark Lord beckoned him. It quaked in his bones when he mixed potions for Arsenius Jigger each morning. It beat in his heart at night when he reached to take Jane in his arms. And it was precisely the reason why he had been repulsed when Jane told him she was pregnant.

The pregnancy hadn't been planned, and Severus could scarcely conceal his horror upon learning of it. They would be young parents, of course, but they were not the only ones: several of their former Hogwarts classmates already had children - couples like the Potters and Longbottoms. This did little to comfort Severus, though, who instantly felt quite confident in his lack of ability to make a suitable father figure. He had not, after all, had a particularly exemplary paternal role model in his own life, and he was most concerned that he would prove a similar failure. Consequentially, Severus loathed the idea of tormenting another generation as he had been tormented.

But his apprehension was rooted much deeper. It wasn't just youthful selfishness or the memory of Darius Snape that haunted Severus. It was that it seemed a foolish if not downright irresponsible thing to him to bring a child into such a world as this - a world which was increasingly precarious everyday. Murder. Revenge. Greed. Life was a tapestry of violence. Severus knew this; he had seen first hand the basest, most desperate actions a man was capable of. What's more, he had found that he himself was capable of the same vile deeds he once loathed. Consequentially, he could not in good conscience introduce an innocent - his own child - into such a life.

As Jane stood before him, begging him to want his own child and unable to comprehend why he didn't, Severus wanted to tell her all this. He could scarcely count the number of times since Regulus Black's death that he'd wanted to tell her the truth, that he was a Death Eater, that he was a murderer, that he was unfit to be in the same room with her let alone be her husband. Tonight, however, it seemed much easier to ignore that dreadful nagging within

"You've been taking the Draft, haven't you?" Severus asked accusatorily, as if it had been her alone who was responsible for the conception of the child growing within her.

"The Draft is not always completely effective, Severus," Jane reminded him patiently but firmly. "Even when made by the most competent of potions-makers."

"That's nonsense, Jane," he scoffed. "Who made the potion?"

"You did, Severus," she replied so plainly that if Severus didn't know her better, he might have said she being downright smug.

A flush rose in Severus' cheeks at that, and his jaw worked silently for a moment as he tried to formulate the proper retort. As usual, Jane was right: contraceptive potions were not infallible, and he was confident enough in his brewing abilities to be certain he had not made a mistake. Statistics, it seemed, had had an unseemly hand in the matter. Fortunately, there was a remedy.

"Is that so?" Severus hissed at last. "Well then, I suppose I'll have to make another potion, one that can get rid of it - rid of the baby, I mean."

He had spoken the words more for dramatic effect than in earnestness, but this didn't lessen their sting, and once he had said them, he knew there was no taking them back. Jane was a strong woman. There had been precious few times in her life that Severus had known her to cry, and yet as she stood staring at him with complete appellation at his suggestion, there was a distinct wateriness within her eyes.

"I hope you don't mean that, Severus," Jane whispered, recoiling and bringing her hand protectively to her womb.

She would never completely forgive him for this, Severus knew, no matter what he ever said or did to try to convince her to, and even as he stalked out of the house and slammed the front door behind him moments later, a piece of him had to admit he didn't blame her.

* * *

Weeks had passed since Severus had seen Evan Rosier. However, as he watched the casual manner with which his friend slipped into the seat beside him that night, it became immediately obvious to Severus that Rosier's conscience - assuming he had one to begin with - had somehow made a remarkable recovery following the murder of Regulus Black.

"Trouble in paradise, mate?" Rosier asked.

It was a typical night in Knockturn Alley - dreary and rainy and filled with its usual miscreants. The central inn and pub, The Churlish Boor, was no different. It was a grotty, dimly lit place with poor ventilation and a proprietor who cheated at card games and was as likely to stab you as let you in the door. The food was questionable at best, and the Firewhiskey was served by large-breasted wenches - squibs and failed witches. Their décolletage provided a not-so-subtle indication that, for the proper sum of Galleons, they could be cajoled into taking a room upstairs in order to satisfy more thirsts than that for alcohol.

The Churlish Boor's clientele were of the same surly breed. There was Mundungus Fletcher in the far corner inevitably trying to make a quick Galleon on some illegal wands, and Severus was fairly certain he had seen the wizard on the opposite end of the bar in the headlines of that morning's Daily Prophet article documenting a break-in at the Ministry. Rosier himself had made headlines not too long ago: As a suspect in the disappearance of Regulus Black, he'd made the Magical Law Enforcement's most wanted wizards list. Since then, evading Aurors had become Rosier's primary occupation.

Upon his friend's entrance, Severus only continued to stare sourly into his Firewhiskey. "She's having a baby," he grumbled miserably. It wasn't the friendliest greeting, of course, but then again, he and Rosier had been through too much together to bother with formalities anymore.

"Who is? Not that redhead from Sheffield? It's not mine - I swear it! She was a bit of all right, mind you, but Florence would have had my balls on a silver platter," Rosier protested, his objections too ardent to be convincing.

"Not anyone you've buggered, you self-absorbed twit," Severus hissed through clenched teeth, turning to glare at him. "My wife. Jane. She's pregnant."

"Right," Rosier replied, nodding as if he knew all along whom Severus was referring to. "Of course, Snape, there's one error in your logic: How do you know I haven't shagged Jane?" he teased with his trademark grin.

As usual, Evan Rosier had tempted the boundaries of decorum, and he promptly found himself the well-deserved brunt of Severus' wrath. In an instant, the hook-nosed wizard had seized Rosier by the collar of his robes. Sparks shot from the end of Severus' wand, leaving tiny scorch marks on Rosier's grey cloak, as he thrust it towards his friend's face.

"If you ever insult my wife again, I will end you," Severus seethed. Rage and Firewhiskey combined to make his voice especially husky, and alarm instantly registered across Rosier's otherwise handsome face.

"Bloody hell, mate, I was only joking," Rosier said quickly, his own tone an octave higher in panic. "Humblest apologies if I ever implied that Jane was anything but pure and true."

Severus paused, although his eyes still smoldered. In a pub like The Churlish Boor, a row such as this attracted no special attention from management or bystanders. In fact, there was generally very little dark and deadly that did attract special attention in Knockturn Alley; such was standard here. Consequentially, had Evan Rosier been anyone else beside Evan Rosier, his long-time best friend, Severus would not have hesitated to blast him to Hades for such impertinence, and although he firmly believed that Rosier could have benefited greatly from punishment such as he was prepared to administer, Severus lowered his wand.

"You did a bit more than imply," he retorted, straightening his robes and siphoning off the rest of his Firewhiskey into his mouth.

Rosier at least had tact enough not to dispute this. "Cheer up, mate," he said instead. "It can't be that bad... Except for the dirty nappies and the constant crying and the fact that Jane's figure will never be the same again, of course."

"I can only say that if this is your best attempt to cheer me up, you have failed abominably," Severus informed Rosier, tilting the bottle of Firewhiskey towards the mouth of his glass.

"Sorry," the latter chuckled. "What do you want me to say? That I shudder to think what the world will be like with another you running around it?" he teased.

Grumbling under his breath, Severus rolled his eyes with disgust. He didn't know what he had expected Rosier to say to him, but he certainly was not in the mood to be teased. Upon seeing his friend's exasperation, Rosier only laughed harder. He had always, after all, found Severus' sulking intensely amusing, and provoking him never failed to entertain him. He raised his glass of Firewhiskey in a celebration of having vexed Severus Snape once again.

It was just as Rosier was bringing the glass to his lips, though, Severus noted, that his eyes suddenly fixed on something by the entrance of the pub. The color drained from his healthily flushed cheeks, and it was difficult to miss the panic rising in his darting eyes. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

"Fuck! - er... look, mate, I'd love to stay and continue this little chat about the finer points of fatherhood," Rosier said with sudden anxiousness. His eyes were still set cautiously on the door, and he was half out of his seat even as he spoke. "Unfortunately, I've got to pop out for a bit, so cheers and give my best to Jane."

Severus watched, puzzled, as Rosier ducked into the crowd. He glanced around in attempt to discern the meaning of his friend's sudden departure, and then he saw them. Brandishing wands and an unmistakable air of authority, three figures had entered the bar. They stood out amongst the unsavory, suspicious-looking crowd typical of The Churlish Boor, and as he promptly recognised the trademark grizzled countenance of their leader, Alastor Moody, Severus knew who they were.

Aurors.

They were a Death Eater's nightmare, and Severus paled at the sight of them. He had heard all about them, how these Ministry employees claimed to be just and moral as they upheld the law and punished the guilty. Severus knew better, though. He knew they had brought in countless Death Eaters - some only suspects - and imprisoned them in Azkaban without so much as the decency of a trial. Just last week they'd finally managed to capture Igor Karkaroff. He'd been promised his chance to speak before the Wizengamot, Severus heard, but no date had been set yet, and there was widespread doubt among the Death Eaters that their brother would be given the chance to defend himself at all.

Moody looked determined tonight. Perhaps it had been a tip from a trusted source or some careful sleuthing that led him to The Churlish Boor. Either way, Rosier's hasty departure made it perfectly obvious whom it was that he feared the Aurors were determined to apprehend this evening: him. His suspicions were confirmed as Severus promptly saw Moody pointing to a figure in the distance. Severus followed his stare. Sure enough, a sandy-colored head was making its way through the pub, towards a stockroom at the far corner and the chance for hiding offered therein.

He'd never make it, Severus noted with alarm as he surveyed the path of pursuit. The stockroom was too far, too close to the path of the Aurors. They'd surely catch Rosier before he could conceal himself within. But as his eyes fell across the room, Severus saw that there was hope yet, a better way; he saw that there was a stairway. The stairs lead to the upper floors of the building, to the infamous bedrooms above, and these bedrooms, Severus quickly realised, was where there were windows and doors, closets and crevices - all means by which to escape or hide. The staircase wasn't far from where Severus was standing. It was closer than the stockroom, anyway, and although retreating upstairs would buy them mere moments, it might be enough.

Having already seen Regulus Black die in this battle of wills, Severus was damned if he was going to sit idly by and lose another friend. The Aurors may have spotted Rosier, but Severus was closer. There was still time for him to do something, and without premeditation, he knew exactly what that something was: he had to find Rosier before the Aurors did; he had to help him escape. If he didn't, Rosier would surely pay the price with his life. The decision may have been made in an instant, but it would affect Severus for a lifetime. However, as he presently found himself desperately pushing through the throng in the direction he'd last seen his friend, there was no time to think of the consequences.

"Rosier!" Severus called, grasping his friend by the collar of his cloak the moment he was close enough to reach it.

The sandy-haired young man turned with a start. There was a marked difference in his countenance - his eyes were wider than usual, and he had the haunted looked of someone keenly aware that any moment could easily be his last.

"Snape, you stupid sod, what the bloody hell do you think you're doing?!" Rosier shouted, his eyes pleading. He already had the death of one friend on his conscience; he scarcely needed another. "It's me they're after - not you."

Even as he spoke, though, Severus was already dragging him away from the stockroom of The Churlish Boor and towards to the staircase. "You'll get yourself killed that!" he snarled. "Come on."

Rosier silenced abruptly. He'd grimly noted the urgency in his friend's black eyes, and he knew it was futile to protest. After all, the years had taught him that Severus Snape was always - for better or worse - right. There was no time to waste in argument even if he could have proffered a coherent point of contention.

The din of the raucous conversations taking place around them rang in their ears, drowning out the shouts of the approaching Aurors as Severus and Rosier made their way across the pub. They pushed and shoved against the thick, sprawling crowds which stood shoulder-to-shoulder, wall-to-wall. At one point, Rosier even collided with a rather rotund wizard. The latter's Firewhiskey-soaked stomach quaked with rage as he stood up and bellowed a series of expletives after them. Were the situation not so dire, Severus was certain his friend would have had a joke to crack about the scene. Fortunately, the prospect of Aurors seemed to have sobered him somewhat.

"Sorry, mate," Rosier said instead, the manners inherent in his elite upbringing refusing to fail him even as Severus tugged at his robes urgently, dragging him towards the stairs. Rosier ducked away just as the drenched wizard's fist reached out to make contact with what would have been his nose had he not moved.

And then Severus saw it: the stairway was mere paces away. In a moment, he could reach out and touch the banister, and as he stumbled up the stairs, Rosier anxiously at his heels, he could see Moody below, still struggling through the reluctant mob.

"They're getting away!" Moody growled.

It was a little optimistic an appraisal of the situation, Severus thought, as despite having put some distance between them, he and Rosier were still far from escaped. Having reached the top step, though, they were at least a bit closer. Quickly, Severus sized up the situation. The upstairs was as bleak and bustling with the same class of crowd as the pub beneath. The sounds of sin creaked and groaned behind the bedroom doors that lined the corridor, and the air was acrid, thick with a haze of cigar smoke and Firewhiskey.

"Bloody hell, mate," Rosier gasped as he surveyed the series of closed doors and panting bodies. "There's no where to go!"

But Severus wasn't listening. Already, his mind was working. Indeed, contrary to Rosier's assessment of the scene, there was a place to go. "This way," he ordered brusquely, indicating an open bedroom door at the end of the hall.

The room wasn't far, yet it seemed to take an exorbitant amount of time to reach it. Impatiently, Severus forced his way past the drunks and the wenches, dragging Rosier by his cloak in one hand and extending his wand defensively with the other.

"Fancy a shag, do we?" asked a lusty brunette wearing too much lipstick as they waded past.

Severus knew that any other night, Rosier would at least have paused at such an offer. Tonight, however, was different. Rosier's eyes cascaded longingly over the wench's figure, over the curve of her hip, her tight-fitting corset, and the creamy tops of her breasts which overflowed above.

"Not tonight, love," he choked before stumbling forward. He may have regretted that there wasn't time for a shag, but much to Severus' relief, he apparently realised that - worse yet - there never would be time again if he didn't manage to escape tonight.

Pushing past another wench, Severus burst through the deserted bedroom. It was a drafty room with bare walls and a leaky ceiling. The plunking of raindrops into a tin basin on the ground seemed eerily prophetic, each drip counting away the seconds to their inevitable doom. Hardly a den for romance, Severus noted, although he supposed that romance really had little relevance in a place where sex, like any other commodity, was traded for a price.

"Now what, mate?" Rosier asked desperately as he slammed the door shut behind them. "It won't take them long to figure out what's happened to us, you know."

"Then I suggest we find a way out of here," Severus replied matter-of-factly as he scanned the room, thinking fast for a means of doing as he recommended.

Even as he spoke, there was a rising commotion in the hallway outside. The Aurors, it seemed, had finally managed to ascend the stairs, and by the startled choir of screams which reverberated throughout the shabby floor, it sounded as though they were presently raiding each room in search of Evan Rosier. Indeed, it hadn't taken them long at all to pursue them.

"There!" Rosier said suddenly. "The window."

Severus looked skeptical as he crossed the room to stare out the cracked glass. The rain fell heavily outside, and a gust of wind whipped the moisture at his face as he threw the window open. As he peered out, though, he saw that there was a ledge - a ledge wide enough to stand on, he thought, and within arm's reach from the ledge was the familiar iron form of a fire escape. It was rusty and missing rungs, and Severus was not entirely convinced it was safe. Such a path was precarious, but there were few other options.

"Come on, then," he said impatiently as he ushered Rosier forward. "They'll be here any moment."

The pounding and screaming of the Aurors on their raid drew still nearer. It was so close that they could distinguish Moody's husky inflection in the clamor now. There was not a moment to spare as Rosier crawled out the window and into the rain. Severus followed behind, hoisting himself onto the fire escape. It creaked and groaned in protest against their combined weight, and although he was not conscious of having done so at the time, Severus held his breath in anxiety as he inched along it. Just a few more steps. Just one more step.

By the time his boots touched the street below, Rosier had already broken into a sprint, winding down the deserted dark alleys which stretched behind the infamous shops of the Knockturn high street. Severus had been about to follow suit when sudden shouting from above distracted him. He looked up to see Moody half out the window above him, wand raised eagerly in the chase. Their eyes locked across the darkness, and although their features were barely distinguishable amidst the rain and shadows, Severus would never forget that instant. The moment seemed to drag on as that magical eye swirled in Moody's skull, frantic and trying to memorize him. Moody was fixing him, he supposed, in his mind, adding the image of Severus Snape to his repertoire of criminals. There was no turning back now; Moody had seen his face and with a little research would be able to identify him. Turning on his heel, Severus began to run after Rosier. They were both marked men now.

Severus wasn't sure where they were headed, but he could scarcely recall having ever run so fast in his life. In his panic, he was only dimly aware of his heart thundering against his ribs, of his breath which seemed never enough, and of the cold rain which had soaked through his robes to his pallid skin. He knew they could not have gone far, as it was impossible to have traversed vast distances on foot. However, it was quite an education in the backstreets of wizarding London, and Severus had soon lost count of the number of turns and twists he and Rosier had made in their path.

Still, the Aurors advanced. Despite the corners that Rosier and Severus turned or the alleys they ducked down, they remained on their heels, Moody leading them. He blasted curses at their feet in attempt to impede their progress and shouted incoherent instructions to his two companions. Severus had never expected a man of his age to have such relentless energy, such zeal. It appeared that Moody's reputation for constant vigilance was not underestimated.

They were along the Thames now. The blackness of the river met the blackness of the night, and in such darkness, Severus could scarcely see Rosier ahead of him. All he could do was listen - listen to the pummeling of the rain on the cobblestone and the crashing of their feet resounding above that. Rosier's pace was slowing now. Severus heard his footsteps gradually lessen in frequency, and then he felt him. Rosier was tugging on his cloak, pulling him off the street and into an alley.

"Bloody hell, Rosier, what do you think you're doing?!" Severus seethed. "They're right behind us!"

Rosier only shook his head. He panted, trying to catch his breath as he leaned against the abandoned factory building behind which they were hiding. Like the other buildings that lined the street, it was a somber structure, and its crumbling red brick and boarded windows revealed that it had long been in disuse.

"No, mate, I think we've lost them," he explained. "Have a listen. They're gone."

Cynical, Severus paused, straining his ears through the rain for any indication that they were not alone on the street. He heard the sound of their urgent rasping for air as they tried to catch their breath. He heard the lapping of the Thames against its banks and that of the wind against the brick of the tall buildings dwarfing them. He did not hear, however, Alastor Moody shouting or footsteps echoing, magic-producing muttering or cloaks fluttering. As Rosier had observed, the whole alley was unexpectedly and most unnaturally still.

It was too quiet, in fact, and every bone in Severus' body told him it was a trap. Something about the suddenness of the silence seemed suspicious. Considering the rigor of the Aurors' pursuit up until this point, Severus found it unlikely if not downright inconceivable that they would have randomly abandoned their mission now. No, he quickly decided. They had other plans: the Aurors were trying to lure them out of hiding with a false sense of security.

"No," he whispered in horror, "it's a bloody trap."

Rosier paled. Severus could see the pastiness in his cheeks even in the darkness. White as a ghost, he was, and as he stood there, the rain pelting his shoulders, Rosier felt almost as though he was already dead indeed. After all, if the Aurors had gained such an advantage as Severus suspected, he may as well have been.

"I've got to make a run for it then, mate," Rosier heaved desperately. "It's my only shot."

If it wasn't for the fact that Rosier promptly clenched his teeth in determination and stepped away from the wall in preparation for action, Severus would have dismissed his comment. It was clear, however, that he was serious. In a resolve tantamount to suicide, he was going to run.

"Are you mad?" Severus protested, stepping forward to block his friend from venturing back out to the alley. "They're out there waiting for you. They'll kill you the moment you step out onto that street."

"I've got to try at least. I can't go to Azkaban - I'd rather die than go there!" Rosier insisted, pushing past him.

"Bloody hell, you stubborn git!" Severus raged. "You don't stand a chance on your own."

Rosier was emphatic, though. "But I've got to go alone, mate," he told him urgently. "You've gotten me this far, and I'm grateful. But you've got a family now - you've got to stay out of this. Don't bollocks it all up like I have."

There was an odd twinkle in Rosier's blue eyes as he looked at Severus, a combination of resolve and a flawed sense of nobility. In the next instant, he was moving forward again, heading towards the dark quiet street at full sprint. Severus lunged out to grab Rosier, to stop him from making a potentially deadly mistake, but it was too late: he caught only a handful of the hem of his cloak, and as he fell forward, face down in a puddle, even that much eluded him. Wiping mud from his cheek, Severus looked up just in time to see Rosier dart into the dreary alley.

It was Moody himself who stepped forward first. Wand raised and glowing with a simple Illumination Spell, he emerged from the shadows and served as a one-man barricade to Rosier's path. The light cast an eerie hue across his wrinkled, scarred face, and his voice was gruff and relentless when he spoke.

"You're surrounded, lad," he growled. "Come quietly and there'll be no trouble."

There was no mistaking the look of panic which promptly coated Rosier's face. The sandy-haired wizard reeled around in disbelief only to find the other Aurors appearing from behind crumbling monuments and deserted buildings. Each had his or her wand poised for attack should Rosier resist. There was nowhere to run, no outlet for escape. It was hopeless.

The events that took place next occurred in mere seconds, yet they seemed to stretch on much longer. Severus wasn't particularly surprised when he saw Rosier raise his wand. He had, after all, said he'd rather die than go to Azkaban. It was unclear to Severus who actually cast the first spell, though. It might have been Rosier in a last frantic attempt to save himself; it might have been an Auror in an act of defense against Rosier's open defiance. Either way, the alley was soon alight with sparks and flashes from curses and hexes.

Within moments, there were scorch marks on the buildings, rubble in the streets, and shouts in the air. There were few passersby in this part of the city and at this hour of the early morning, but those unfortunate enough to happen by the scene had stopped to stare. Muggles, wizards - in the rain and confusion, Severus wasn't certain anymore who was who anymore, but it didn't matter. Instead, he wondered how long Rosier, outnumbered, would be able to survive.

And then Severus had his answer.

Moody was advancing on Rosier. They were on the pier now, Rosier backing up towards the water as the grizzled Auror cornered him. There was nowhere for him to turn now; cold black water surrounded him on three sides and certain Azkaban on the fourth. There was something like a trapped animal in Rosier now - a wildness in his expression that said that although he knew it was futile to resist, he was going to do so anyway. Better to die than to spend a lifetime as a captive. Holding his breath in the shadows nearby, Severus watched apprehensively. If he wasn't careful, Rosier was going to get precisely this wish.

"Don't be foolish, lad," Moody tried to reason with him. "Lower your wand."

The way Rosier clung to his wand, though, made it immediately evident that logic was useless on him by this point. He had come too far to surrender. "Never!" he cried, shaking his head defiantly.

In the next instant, Rosier did the most foolish thing yet that night: he aimed his wand menacingly at Moody, teeth clenched and ready, perhaps, to kill. Barely before the incantation had escaped his lips, Moody retaliated. One moment, there was a burst of light from both their wands. In the next moment, Moody had a hand to his nose, which was bleeding profusely. Rosier, however, was tumbling backwards, arms flailing. He was on the edge of the pier now, and as he lost his balance, his arms thrashed all the more desperately at the air, at the nothingness that was there to save him. An involuntary scream escaped his lips as he crashed, back first, into the water below.

It was difficult to distinguish Rosier's cries over the rain and river. He struggled valiantly against the Thames, but it was useless. The storm surged and the angry current swept over him. The black water enveloped him, breaking over his head and pulling him further out, further down the river. Rosier was gasping for breath; he was gurgling, howling. He was bobbing up only to be pulled down. He was, Severus realised with dread, drowning.

Severus watched as that familiar blonde head vanished from sight. His shouts faded, and his splashing lessened in frequency and intensity. Then, there was nothing - no sounds but the pummeling of the rain and the clapping of the Thames against the banks. In the darkness, it was too difficult to tell if Rosier had been pulled under the water indefinitely or if he had been dragged too far down the river to see. Either way, a damp, untimely death was promised him.

Trembling, Severus withdrew and leaned back against the wall of the abandoned factory which had concealed him from sight. It was the same wall Rosier himself had stood near just moments before. The damp bricks pressed into him, leaving faint imprints on the back of his robes. Each mark served as a grim reminder that everything he had just witnessed, as shocking and impossible as it seemed, had been real.

A stark chill ran through Severus' veins, and he shivered involuntarily. In a matter of mere hours, Rosier's lifeless body would wash ashore further downriver. There would be great gasps of grief from Florence Feather; her fiancé may not always have been faithful, but she loved him just the same. Solemnly, Rosier's mother would box up his flat, folding his robes as she wondered what she would have had to sacrifice to what evil powers in exchange for the chance to have spent one last moment with her only son. There would be an article in The Daily Prophet outlining the events that lead to Rosier's demise, hailing Alastor Moody a hero. In time, no one would remember the jovial young man, the sandy-haired wizard known for his loyalty and wit. If they recalled Rosier at all, it would be as a criminal, a fugitive and murderer - albeit a reluctant one - whose own stubborn foolhardiness had lead to his death.

But Severus would know the truth. He would never forget his often misguided but generally well-intentioned best friend. The evening had been a grim reminder for him of his own mortality, how Rosier's fate could just as easily have been his. He had, after all, only just narrowly escaped with his life. What Jane and the baby would have done without him had it been his corpse the Aurors were now concentrated on retrieving from the Thames, Severus did not know. Nonetheless, he knew better than to wait around and find out.

* * *

The confusion that resulted from the scene of Rosier's death had proved a useful diversion, and after slipping deeper into the safety of London's darkest shadows, Severus had Apparated back to the cottage. He stumbled up the walkway and towards the front door, weak with the horror of all he had just witnessed. It went without saying that he had felt better, and he knew he certainly had looked better. His sheath of hair clung to his head and neck in dark, damp clumps. His cloak, soaked and mud-stained, had taken much abuse over the past few hours and was now torn and frayed, and as Severus staggered through the front door of the cottage, he trembled uncontrollably.

The foyer was dark and silent. The faint ticking of the grandfather clock in nearby study was the only sign of movement in the house. It was only when he looked up that he saw her: Jane, sitting at the top of the stairs in her nightgown. A solitary candle burned at her feet. Down to a mere stub, it illuminated the hallway, casting a mysterious glow across the blue hem at her ankles. She had been waiting for him, patiently watching the door below for this very moment when he returned. It was clear to him that despite the lateness of the hour, she hadn't slept. There were grey shadows under her eyes and a pink puffiness in the corners that revealed she had spent the majority of her evening crying instead. Undoubtedly, Jane had been bemoaning their quarrel over the baby, tormenting herself as she recounted each horrible moment.

"Severus!" she gasped with relief when she saw him.

In an instant, Jane was bounding down the stairs towards him, hurrying to wrap her arms around him as though in hope that the strength of her embrace could squeeze away the bitterness of their last conversation. So much had changed in the short time that had passed since he'd last stood before her, and watching her move towards him, Severus couldn't help but think of Rosier's final words to him.

You've got a family now, Rosier had pleaded with him. Don't bollocks it all up like I have.

As he rushed forward to meet her half way on the staircase, her bloodshot eyes and his sodden cloak were at once utterly meaningless. Their argument of earlier seemed trivial, and Severus was instantly flooded with remorse - shame for the cruel things he had said to her and for the sheer selfishness of his reaction. It was a regret he would carry with him for the rest of his life. Standing on the third step from the bottom, he clung to her desperately. His arms scarcely seemed long enough, strong enough. If they were, he would have wrapped them around her again and again to ensure that she never left his side.

It had taken the death of a friend to force Severus to realise that he had things most men would willingly give their lives for - a home, a wife, a child on the way. He had jeopardized it all tonight, gambled it because of his own recklessness and lack of appreciation.

It was a mistake he did not intend to duplicate.

* * * * *