Though This Be Madness

[T]here is nothing either good / or bad but thinking makes it so. — Hamlet, Act II, Scene 2

Part II: Dementia

I've always hated showering at Hogwarts. That's no secret. Without fail the other boys would stare at my skinny legs and protruding ribs and scrawny hips. I know they were watching, gawking, hearing my embarrassment. And I always found excuses to shower late at night when they were all asleep. I'd forget occasionally, when absorbed in a particularly fascinating Potions or Dark Arts experiment, but their sniffs soon reminded me.

I can't remember when I last bathed, so it's probably time again.

I wait until I can hear four sets of snores—amplified to the magnitude of stomping elephants—before I begin. Rosier, Lestrange, Wilkes, and Avery are all happily slumbering now, so I crawl out of bed and cross the dormitory to the showers. Before I light the torches, I close the door and stuff a towel into the gap so the glare won't wake them. The sudden eruption of light blinds me for a moment, but when I've acclimated, I undress and turn on the water.

I open my eyes after wetting my hair, and the room is darker—not pitch black as the dungeons usually are without light, but like dusk. Some of the torches must have died. When I turn around to see which ones, this—thing—launches itself at me, clawing hands outstretched. As much as I try to fight down the noise, I can't help screaming when it sinks its gleaming fingernails into my arms. At first I think it might be a veela, but the absence of a beak disproves that hypothesis. I know how to fend off a veela, but this is no Dark creature I've ever read about before.

It looks female: it has breasts but no nipples and no pubic hair—just a smooth mound of gold skin where the hair ought to be. In fact, it looks to have no hair anywhere except on top of its head. What's there is shiny silver, like a mirror, and it stands out stiffly from the scalp, almost as if it's being blown up by a nonexistent wind. Though whatever this creature may be, the murderous intent in its silver eyes is unmistakable.

My wand is where I've left it by the lavatory. Fat lot of good it's going to do me across the room. So I grab the thing and try to pin her arms behind her back. A loud pop tells me I've dislocated something in the creature's body. Sure enough, her right arm now hangs limply, but that doesn't deter her in the slightest. I don't know how, but I manage to force her to the floor, and I close my hands 'round her throat, determined to kill or be killed.

The constant stream of water in her nose and mouth do not affect her, as she doesn't seem to need air. She merely struggles against my grasp, mirror-nails of her working arm wanting to scratch out my eyes. I lift her by the neck and pound her head against the stone tiles. The silver eyes go wide, so I do it again. And again. And again. Her hair breaks off in tiny shards, which melt when they touch the tiles, and she even bleeds silver, in a thick, glistening argent stream undiluted by the spraying water as it twists and turns and creeps toward the drain.

Whilst I'm trying to split open the creature's skull, I realise those damned Gryffindors must have sent this thing to attack me, just as they set Lupin on me. And then there they are at the door, proudly proclaiming their considerable guilt: Potter and Black and Lupin and Pettigrew, come to laugh at my terror. I don't know how they've got inside the Slytherin dormitories, but they laugh their heads off, pointing and taunting and calling me Snivellus.

When they reach me, the gold-silver creature disappears, but they still laugh. They still point and laugh. And I kick and bite and claw and punch to repel them. Get away from me, you Gryffindor bastards! Haven't you done enough?

I think I must have fainted, because the next thing I know, I'm in the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey tucks the blankets in snugly around my feet. I'm shivering, but I don't know why. The air all around me dances and shimmers from some unseen heat source. Shouldn't I be warm?

"Did somebody catch them?" I croak.

Madam Pomfrey starts at the question. When she turns to face me, she stares as if she has no idea what I've just said. I roll my eyes and try again, though my throat is sore and raw.

"Did someone catch Potter, Black, Lupin, and Pettigrew?" I pronounce slowly, as though speaking to someone especially thick. Thankfully I only have to stop once to swallow and catch my breath. "Or did they get away?"

Madam Pomfrey has never struck me as an idiot before, so why doesn't she understand plain English? She merely shakes her head, her brow furrowed in confusion.

"They sent something into the showers to attack me. I'm wondering if somebody's caught them this time."

As she approaches the head of the bed, she pulls the blankets up under my chin and then gives my shoulder a squeeze. "You've had a difficult night, Mr Snape. Don't try to talk. Save your strength. You need rest."

I glare at her.

You old cow! You hypocritical old cow! The last time you acted so bloody worried, and now you won't even listen! Why won't you help me? Don't let them get away with it a second time!

She backs away, a horrible look on her face.

Yes, I know you can hear me, Madam Pomfrey, so you tell those wretched Gryffindors that I'll get them for this. I'll have the last laugh. Slytherin is my strength, and I shall get them in the end.

"You shall, Ssseverusss," he whispers.

No one understands, my Lord.

"No one underssstandsss because you are ssspecial. Unique. And no one will ever underssstand you, excssept for me."

I want to turn on my side and pull my legs up to my chest, but I can't because I'm strapped to the bed. So I simply lie there, hot tears streaming from the corners of my eyes and trickling into my hair. At least Slytherin understands. For now, that must be enough to sustain me.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Finally the day of the much-anticipated staff meeting arrives. I sit through the usual squabbles regarding who is responsible for making certain the staffroom cupboards are fully stocked with coffee filters and scheduling next year's Quidditch matches and Hogsmeade weekends. I try my best not to fidget, but I must confess myself terribly worried about the boy. After Minerva has jotted down the agreed upon dates, I clear my throat to make certain I have my staff's undivided attention.

"Now on to the last order of business. Severus Snape: Has anyone noticed anything unusual in his behaviour during the past two weeks?"

They all start speaking at once, which I take as an affirmative, and I raise a hand to still their chatter. "One at a time, please."

Minerva nods at me from directly across the table, so I start with her.

"Professor McGonagall?"

"Well, not behaviour so much as ... aroma. My other students won't sit anywhere near him, as he refuses to bathe."

"How can he be nearly seventeen and so completely helpless?" Professor Sprout chimes in, shaking her head.

"It's getting so bad, even I can smell him," Professor Binns wheezes. "And that is saying something."

I nod thoughtfully. "And problems other than a lack of hygiene?"

Professor Slughorn raises a finger to get my attention. Severus has always been one of Horace's best students, so naturally he would have observed the boy more closely than the other staff. And I gather from his frown, and the way he twists the whiskers of his moustache, that his report is not promising.

"His brewing has been suffering for some time now, but I thought nothing of it until you asked us to observe him, as even exceptional OWL students sometimes have trouble with NEWT-level potions." He frowns again and wafts his fingers toward his nose. "The odours are confusing him, he says. Apparently he smells components he has not yet added and doesn't smell things he has added. But that is nothing compared to yesterday.

"First, he walked backwards into the dungeon, and then he rushed through brewing as though his life depended on finishing early. I haven't seen him so active in weeks. He even sliced open his palm in his haste because he didn't realise he was holding his knife upside down." Horace then gives a helpless shrug. "Severus has always been very methodical and almost overly concerned with safety. I'm worried he might hurt himself badly one of these days."

Another of my staff then gives an indignant sniff, and my eyebrows rise.

"You have something to add, Bartemius?" I ask, once I have divined from whom the noise emerged.

"No more than he deserves," Professor Crouch says with a dismissive wave. The indifference in his voice is betrayed only by the maniacal glint in his eyes. "Too much dabbling in the Dark Arts has finally driven him over the edge."

"Bartemius, that is decidedly not helpful. And I should appreciate it if, for future staff meetings, you would leave your personal distaste for your pupils at the door."

I then arrange my face into a benign expression, but Professor Crouch does not miss my warning tone. As fervent as he has always been in his quest against the Dark Arts, he quickly rises to my challenge, leaning forward and placing both palms flat on the table—all the better to glower at me. If looks could kill, I fear I would have nothing to look forward to apart from fertilising flowers.

"That's easy for you to say, Dumbledore," he hisses. "You don't know that boy and his penchant for the Dark Arts. You haven't watched him repeatedly cursing other students. You didn't see him last night, blasting holes in the ceiling of his dormitory, fully convinced that he was shooting down flies."

Despite their mutual dislike, I am most interested in what Bartemius has to say, and his account is every bit at telling as Professor Slughorn's: Severus appears to be having visual hallucinations as well as olfactory ones, and it is probably safe to assume that he may be hearing things, too. Professor Crouch has unwittingly helped me uncover another piece of the puzzle, and I am sure he does not care for the satisfied look on my face at all.

"And have you seen anything else?" I ask him with a serene smile.

"There is one other thing ... an incident last week in the showers ... but I'm sure you're aware of that, Dumbledore? Surely Madam Pomfrey told you all about it?"

He looks expectantly in her direction, and Poppy flushes. When she speaks, her tone is clipped, brisk, and efficient.

"There wasn't much to tell.... Mr Snape was in shock, and his hands and wrists had been broken in several places." She sits up a little higher in her chair, drawing in a breath to fuel what I am certain will be a bit of a tirade. "But you did a very thorough job of stunning him, Professor Crouch—I will say that much. He didn't make a peep for hours afterward, and when he finally did talk, he made no sense. Just a stream of incomprehensible gibberish, although he seemed very determined to convey whatever it was that he was trying to tell me."

Poppy has always been adamant about the students' safety—a desirable quality in any school nurse, I should think—and I am fairly certain I know what she is implying: that Professor Crouch has sublimated his ardent quest against the Dark Arts into some sort of miniature inquisition, which he has used as an excuse to hurt Severus. Bartemius might be fanatical, but I do not think he would stoop to abusing students. At least not yet.

"Thank you, Poppy," I say, nodding thoughtfully. I then turn my attention back to Professor Crouch. "I should like to hear your version of events all the same, Barty."

He bristles, since he loathes that name. Even I am not always above being petty and childish, as much as I hate to admit it. I rest my elbows on the table and press my fingertips together, smiling encouragingly. Bartemius scowls, but then he slumps back in his chair; he is finally ready to co-operate.

"By the time I arrived on the scene, Snape was huddled in the shower stall—naked and wet, clutching his legs to his chest, rocking back and forth. The other boys said they'd come running when they heard screaming. Supposedly he'd been beating his fists against the floor. When they tried to stop him, he turned on them—kicking, biting, and clawing. They said he seemed to have no idea who they were. So I stunned him, covered him with a blanket, conjured a stretcher, and levitated him to the hospital wing." He finishes with an uncaring shrug.

"Thank you, Bartemius."

Severus is undoubtedly having hallucinations, then, and unless I miss my guess, he has not showered since.

The list goes on and on: Professor Flitwick has noticed Severus muttering to himself on several occasions; Professor Sprout tells me she saw him glaring over his shoulder at a puffapod, warning the plant to shut up and leave him alone; Professor Vector reports that his Arithmancy work is riddled with some of the most simple errors in logic; Mr Filch found him attacking a staircase; Professor Sinistra says that lately he has been asking questions with no discernible meaning—just a series of seemingly unrelated phrases with the name of a star or a constellation thrown in; and Madam Hooch caught him masturbating on the Quidditch pitch.

Well, this is a knotty problem if ever I've encountered one.

If he were not under my personal protection, I have no doubts that Severus would have long since taken up residence in a padded ward at St Mungo's. He has already suffered quite enough due to my ignoring the previous warning signs. Therefore, I shall not allow him to fall by the wayside. But what could all this possibly mean?

Poppy and I stay long after the meeting, making notes of the boy's symptoms, trying, and failing, to ascertain what they could herald. We discuss various poisons, Dark magic, all manner of mind-control, use of illicit drugs (of both wizarding and Muggle origin), and myriad naturally occurring illnesses—both mental and physical. In the end, the only thing we can conclude with any degree of certainty is that we both very much doubt Severus could be faking such a wide variety of symptoms.

Madam Pomfrey promises to do her best to find out what is wrong, and if I know our dedicated school nurse, she will not confine her search only to body of knowledge of Healing in the wizarding world. Perhaps this condition is something only previously known to Muggles. Whatever ails Severus, however, I am determined that we will find the cause, and more importantly, the cure.

To that end, a week later I sit at my desk with a thick file of medical records spread out like a carpet before me. These papers are not only Severus' medical history, but his mother's, as well, whilst she attended Hogwarts and afterward. Of course, the boy's records are always available to me. Those of his mother, however, have been sealed ever since Mrs Snape's Kiss, although shortly afterward she was cleared of all charges in the matter of her daughter's untimely death.

The Ministry of Magic have a disturbing habit of attempting to blot out their mistakes in times of war. In my opinion, that is the last thing they should do. Admitting their failings would instil more faith in the institution as a whole. I have long held the belief that the truth is generally preferable to lies. Then again, I am not in Millicent Bagnold's shoes. Although we correspond regularly, I should not presume to understand the Minister of Magic's position.

On the other hand, Millicent owes me more than a few favours. I sincerely doubt there is a document classification secret enough that I could not gain access to the papers, and with the Minister's personal blessing, no less. My innocuous request for a medical file raised no suspicions whatsoever, and I can easily have the records back in Madam Bagnold's hands before the weekend is up.

According to his records, Severus sustained a broken right femur from an early flying accident. Apparently he put a Hurling Hex on his broom in order to entertain his sister, but the curse was a touch more powerful than he had anticipated. A note in the margin states that he was not sure if it was his right or his left leg that was broken. A little odd, considering that he was ten at the time. The rest is merely the usual: measles, mumps, dragon pox ... nothing stands out.

His mother's records are much the same. Except for a rather bad bout of the grippe when she was expecting Severus, there are only a few trivial items listed for Eileen Snape. It is a pity that Tobias Snape was a Muggle. For all my connections in the wizarding world, I fear that delving into the records kept by the Muggle National Health Service is beyond the scope of my influence. Still, I doubt his medical history would shed more light on this mystery. Even using my new Pensieve I can find no pattern that links all of these seemingly random threads. Despite the ordinary nature of the records, I make careful notes for Madam Pomfrey, since I should not technically pass these files along to her.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Find out what she knowsss. Hurt her if you have to."

I follow fiery red hair from Care of Magical Creatures, up the sloping lawn and through the darkened halls, waiting until its owner is alone. The Mudblood always has a gaggle of girls around her, but at least Potter and his gang have other things on their minds following Professor Kettleburn's lesson today. Potter is always sniffing around her. I think he fancies the little slut. Those Gryffindors could ruin everything.

"You know she'sss the missssing link between Potter and the Mugglesss. She has to be the ssspy who isss informing on you."

Slytherin urges me on as I track her, never closer than two yards. At that distance I can close the gap between us in two long strides when my opportunity presents itself, but I'm not close enough that she'll notice me before I'm ready.

"Make her ssscream, Ssseverusss. They always talk when they ssscream."

My moment has come at last. The filthy little Mudblood needs to pee, and she goes into Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Perfect. No one else would likely follow us in here, but I cast a quick Repelling Charm on the door all the same and go inside.

And then I wait.

She's chosen the middle stall, as Myrtle is gurgling in one of the U-bends at the end. We wouldn't want to disturb Myrtle, now would we, Mudblood? I listen to her unzipping the jeans she wears under her robes and then sliding down her knickers. And she hums a tune as she pisses. Why are Mudbloods always so happy?

I creep over behind the door of her stall, close enough to the sinks opposite that she won't see my feet from under the door. She's dressing again now, and she probably plans to take a good long look at herself in the mirror before going out into the halls to tempt the boys with her sluttish manner. Well, we'll see about that, Mudblood.

When the door opens, I quickly step up and grab her by the neck of her robes. I probably have hold of some hair, too, but the more it hurts the more likely she is to remember what I have to say. The Mudblood struggles against my grip, but I'm bigger and stronger. And besides, I have Slytherin on my side.

"Hurt her, Ssseverusss! Make her confessss!" he hisses.

"What the hell are you doing in here, Snape? This is a girls' toilet!" she screeches.

My only answer is to haul her across the small room to the opposite wall, where I slam her against the stone. She tries to dart under my arm to flee, but I'm too quick for her. I push her back against the wall and hold her there, my forearm against her throat, pressing the length of my entire body against her. Her green eyes are now wide with fear, and the look suits her. The slut probably thinks I'm about to ravish her. As if I'd foul my skin that way. I wouldn't give you the satisfaction, Mudblood.

"No! Stop, Severus! You're hurting me!"

"I know what you're doing, you filthy little Mudblood!" I hiss, ramming my arm into her windpipe. The green eyes get even wider.

"What? What are you—?"

"I know what you do on your holidays!"

"I don't know what you mean," she chokes out. She swallows then, and I'm confining her neck so closely that I can actually make out the muscles working against my arm through my robes. I must confess that I like the feeling.

"You know perfectly well what I mean. You go home and report to them and tell them all about me: where I live, what I'm up to, all my weaknesses! Do you enjoy being a spy? Does that make you feel important, Mudblood?"

"Severus, I don't understand! I don't know what you're talking about!"

She pushes against me with all her might, but I'm going nowhere. I don't like the shrillness in her voice when she screams, so I press harder against her throat, choking her. This time the green eyes bug. She looks almost like a porcelain doll with that white skin, fiery red hair, and glowing green eyes. I wonder if I dropped her, would she break? Would her head shatter into a thousand pieces at my feet? I lean closer, my face only an inch from hers.

"I'll have the truth, Mudblood, one way or another. I know how to make Veritaserum, you know. Three drops would have you spilling your innermost secrets to me."

My other hand has already moved to take a handful of red fire and slam her head against the wall, just to show her how serious I really am, when I seize up. I can only watch in impotent fury, as if I'm a hundred miles away, when she gives me another shove and ducks under my arm to escape. Neither can I move to break my fall, and my head crashes soundly on the stone floor.

When I come 'round, I've no idea where I am or how I got here. The circular walls are lined with portraits. On the many bookshelves, which stretch from floor to ceiling, silver contraptions whiz and whirl all around me. The noise is deafening. I try to clap my hands to my ears to muffle the sound, but I still can't move.

Suddenly the headmaster is in front of me, smiling as he always does. He's talking to me, I know, but I can't hear what he's saying over the incessant buzz of his instruments. Or is that the portraits? They're all talking, too—pointing and laughing at me. It's so hard to think when they're all breathing down my neck.

Stop staring! I'm not in trouble!

Maybe I am. Professor Dumbledore told me not to tell anyone about Lupin, and I haven't, but maybe they heard me thinking about it? I try not to think about what happened, but sometimes I can't help it because of the gypsum we've been using this week in Potions, or the Muggles. They're always trying to tell me what to think—using their electricity or radios or televisions on me. I don't know how they get inside my head, but I shall make a point to find out.

Something over the headmaster's shoulder catches my eye: white and silver light dancing on the walls. It reminds me of the glow off the gold-silver creature's blood, but it's coming from a Pensieve that sits on the headmaster's desk.

Or is it sitting?

As I watch, transfixed, the stone basin begins to vibrate and jerk, as if there's an earthquake, and then the bowl begins to spin. No, it's the liquid inside that's spinning. It rotates faster and faster, rising up above the basin in a great silvery vortex. When the column has nearly reached the ceiling, the top of the spout warps and bends toward Professor Dumbledore's head. It creeps closer and closer and I know it's going to swallow him up. Any second now it will have him.

But it doesn't swallow him. When the silver spout makes contact, it's immediately absorbed into the headmaster's body in a flash of bright white light. I think he'll be all right now, but he freezes in the midst of smiling again. His skin then begins to foam and froth, like so much wax and blood at a rolling boil in my cauldron, with sickening glopping sounds as the bubbles break the surface. The rapidly heated liquid slides off his skull, where it trickles down his beard and splatters on the floor at my feet. I can't look away or down because my muscles are still frozen, but I don't need to: I can hear and feel and smell every repulsive drop.

Those teeth continue to grin at me from where a mouth used to be, and his beard hovers in the air half an inch from his jawbone, suspended in the fleshless void. I try to move, to run, to get some help, but I'm rooted to the spot. Professor Dumbledore is dying just inches away from me, and I cannot do a thing to stop it.

Help me! Oh, God! Somebody please help me!