Though This Be Madness

Sith nor th' exterior nor the inward man / Resembles that it was. What it should be / More than his father's death, that thus hath put him / So much from th' understanding of himself / I cannot dream of. — Hamlet, Act II, Scene 2

Part VIII: Decompensation

Dinners in Wiltshire have always been one of my favourite pastimes, even if I can't always make out what my hosts say over the Muggles' chatter. In the library over coffee and brandy, Narcissa turns toward me and smiles. I barely flinch when her face transforms into a mask of cracked corn with bits that fall onto the perfectly glossed rose of her lips and the satin in her lap.

I wonder how well corn goes with Mozart.

When she asks if I want to hold Draco, I tell her no. I want to, of course. He's so sweet and beautiful and perfect, but I can't hold him. I don't tell her why, because she'd only look at me that way again. Though I do pet his perfect silver head. Good thing, that. The Muggles can't control him with that fair hair.

Those blasted electricity-mongers! Why can't they leave me alone?

My robes don't seem to be working any more. I endured their constant prattle for a full year before I read that black absorbs more electromagnetic radiation than any other colour. With my black hair, I was an easy target for their transmissions. After I'd worked out the secret, I started wearing only black, so my robes could diffuse the rays and keep more of them from reaching my head. I could tell a difference for a while, but the Muggles have now caught on, so I'll have to find another way to defeat their plans.

Pity I can't go about with a cauldron on my head all day. That might make it harder for them to control me. At least for a while—until they've found a way around that, as well. Though the Ogden's seems to help.

Lucius and Narcissa are going to the opera tonight, and they've asked me to sit with Draco whilst they're out. Apparently they are between nannies at the moment. Not that Narcissa would be excessively picky. Oh no! She smiles again, causing more bits of corn to shower into her lap, as she tells me that a good Squib is hard to find.

I'll have to have Cliodna spayed. The last time she had kittens, the afterbirth came out of my mouth. I certainly don't want to go through that again.

I don't mind sitting with Draco at all. I love this sweet baby so much that my chest feels as though it will burst. When his little fist grasps one of my fingers, I want to pick him up and whisk him away from all the troubles of life. But I can't. These hands are simply too small. I might drop him.

Not long after the green light fades, I hear scratching. I can't see them yet, but I feel them drawing nearer with my every breath. I won't let them hurt you, Draco. I promise.

I'm afraid to carry his bassinet, but I feel certain I can levitate the thing with no trouble, so I take him to the cellar. Surely they won't find us there. Unfortunately the scratching grows ever louder once I've shut and barred the door behind me. I'm almost afraid to light the torches, but I have to find them.

When I do, I see them everywhere: silver beetles crawling all over Draco's bassinet. In his nose and out his mouth. I try my best to dig them out, lest they choke him, and he screams at the top of his little lungs. He is scarcely two weeks old, and I won't let his life be lost to these silver scarabs that continually haunt me.

I can't hex them, as I might hit the baby as well, but I do try to Banish them. They turn on me then, in an angry silver swarm, invading my nose and mouth instead. But at least they've left poor Draco alone.

The next thing I know, Lucius has my arm in a grip like a vice, pulling me backward and away from the baby. Draco is screaming again, as Narcissa rocks and coos to him whilst Lucius stares at me with a puzzled expression. I can't imagine why. I was only trying to protect him.

They don't ask me to look after Draco again.

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

I wish I knew where Severus is. I have not heard from him since July last, and I am growing increasingly worried about the boy. For some reason, I cannot help thinking of him as a boy still, even though he must be twenty now. Despite not having heard from him, I have heard troubling things about him. He has been dismissed from his post at the Department of Mysteries, and his assets have been seized to cover his ever-mounting debt. I doubt there is even enough in his Gringotts vault to pay for his mother's care.

When they forced the door to his home, he was nowhere to be found. What they did find, however, was equally disturbing: mountains of rotting cat food piled in a bowl, and rubbish sacks full of pristine litter. Apparently he has once again been imagining that his cat never died.

And now I find myself at an auction of the contents of his home. I hope to salvage as many of his personals as I can afford, in the vain hope that I may one day see him again to return them. One familiar face in the crowd immediately catches my attention: Lucius Malfoy. I can only guess why he is here, but something tells me his aim is not anywhere near altruistic as mine. Once the bidding starts, his motive begins to present itself. He is interested in any shall we say less than inocuous books in the family's library, as well as brewing materials and prepared potions. No doubt he hopes to find some poisons hidden amongst these phials, and his wife has the skills to discern the riches from the refuse.

I know it would pain Severus to lose all these things, but I must save my meagre resources for more important items ... namely a particular portrait I am certain will be on the block today. I do not even waste ten Knuts on the battered Occlumency book I gave him so long ago, deciding to slip another copy from my collection into his things. He will never be any the wiser.

And there it is: lot number seventy-three. Lucius' lip curls when he realises that I am determined to add this portrait to my day's plunder, and he bids against me with a vengeance, pale nostrils flaring with each nod of his head. I cannot compete with the Malfoy fortune, of course, but seeing as he is so young, I doubt Lucius has heard of Everard Prince. Not even Severus knows the portrait that hung so long in his home was of such a famous Auror and former Headmaster of Hogwarts, but I am loath to think of its being thrown out or destroyed. I cannot imagine the thrill of winning alone would prompt Lucius to spend an exhorbitant sum for a memento of one of Severus' distant relatives.

In the end it appears that I am correct: the gavel comes down on my final bid of six hundred and fifty Galleons, whilst Lucius thumbs through his programme as if he could not care less. Unfortunately, the house itself is too rich for my purse, so he snatches that up easily. As I have never known him to be especially interested in real estate for its own sake, perhaps he will allow Severus to buy his family home back one day.

Once I've returned to Hogwarts, I take my purchases into my private study. The subject of the portrait blinks and shields his eyes when I have pulled the brown paper from around his frame. "Dumbledore?"

"Hello, Everard."

"Where am I?" He leans forward as far as he can inside the canvas to take in his surroundings. "I thought I was in Liverpool."

I nod slowly and pull up another chair in front of the one where I have balanced him for now. "You were. I take it you slept through the entire auction?"

He raises an incredulous eyebrow, looking startlingly like his great grandson in the process. "What has that boy done now?"

I frown and press my fingertips together. "Funny you should say that, since I was about to ask you something remarkably similar."

His other eyebrow rises now, as well, and then he frowns.

"How long has it been since you have seen Severus?"

His frown deepens. "A fortnight, at least."

"And how did he act?"

"Now you mention it ... very strange. Disturbed..." He pauses and closes his eyes, as if trying to picture the scene in his mind. "Walking oddly, as if he had weights on his ankles, and muttering to himself with his hands clenched into fists..."

I nod solemnly. Alas, I had suspected as much, but to hear a confirmation makes me sadder still. When I look up, Everard is eyeing me with suspicion.

"You know something, Dumbledore. Tell me!"

After a long, slow breath, I begin to explain. I feel certain that Eileen would have wanted him to know everything.

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

I am Alpha and Omega—both the merciless and the one who begs for mercy.

Black mutters something under his breath as I pass him. I didn't hear what he said, but I didn't have to. I know what he meant. Purchasing a handful of his robes, I slam him against the wall and wrap my fingers in the material until I can lift the little invertebrate off his feet. He's on tiptoes now, and I twist the fabric until his eyes bug.

"You've always had it in from Cliodna!" I hiss at the reddening face before. "If I ever hear you say anything about my cat again, you will be very sorry indeed."

"Kill him, Ssseverusss..."

I pull him back and slam him hard against the stone until silver blood trickles down his forehead from underneath his hair. But soon enough I tire, despite Slytherin's command. I drop him and continue down the hall to my room, each of my thunderous footsteps punctuated by a gasp or sputter or cough from behind me. Only after I've closed the door and leant against the wood do I realise my cat is dead. And I am certain that Regulus Black killed her. Just like your brother, aren't you, Black? You'll pay for that. Just you wait.

Perhaps I should have listened to my Lord Slytherin and killed you on the spot.

My clenched hands are covered in blood, and my robes are soaked, as well. I don't feel any pain, but I cannot suppress a stabbing fear, and I run to the lavatory, stripping off my clothes as I go. I have to find out where I'm bleeding. Though I've washed until the water runs clear and all traces of blood are gone, I find nothing. No wounds. Not so much as a scratch. I close my tired eyes with a sigh.

When I open them again, the water has transformed. Now silver rushes from the tap, and even after I've backed away, it crawls over the edge of the tub, then leaps to the floor, rolling across the tiles toward me. My back strikes the lavatory door, and the silver water starts to wend its way up my leg. I slap at my skin to get it off me, but I'm not quick enough. It simply breaks into smaller beads that continue to scale my body, so I try to at least scrape it off my torso and neck before it reaches my mouth.

"Snape! Snape! Are you in there? Where the hell could he be?"

I shake my head. The silver is gone, but someone is banging on my chamber door, as if trying to break it down. I quickly leave the lavatory to go answer, while my door is still attached to the hinges.

"Yes?" I say, a bit testily, after I've finally stopped the damned knocking. Rosier's eyes widen, and I've just realised that I have forgotten to dress. Thankfully, my cloak is within easy reach on a hook behind the door, so I retrieve the thing and wrap the fabric around myself. "What do you want?"

He gives me a contemptuous look. "I'm the one who's been knocking for fifteen minutes. What do you have to be so annoyed about?"

"I was asleep," I grumble.

"Must be nice," he mutters, already turning to go. "The Dark Lord wants to see you. And for Merlin's sake, put something on."

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

I have scrutinised every newspaper I can think of, and not even a whisper of what might have become of Severus. Is he dead? I know Poppy said his disorder would not kill him, but he may have found himself in a duel that he could not handle, or he could have attacked someone and landed himself in a Muggle gaol, or heaven knows what. At least I know he hasn't attempted to take his own life, or he would have come back here. Then again, perhaps not. Can I even be certain that my spell worked?

Everard has been kind enough to keep watch for any trace of him at the Ministry. If he attacked a witch or wizard, I am certain he would have been taken there. Unless he is working for Voldemort, that is. I shake my head and rub my tired eyes. I do not want to think that Riddle has the boy in his clutches. In his demented state, he would have been easy prey, but would Tom want a lunatic in his ranks? At least I cannot imagine he would give Severus a pass simply because he was not in his right mind when he joined up. Of course, Tom Riddle is a bit on the insane side himself, so why should he not surround himself with madmen?

A soft knock sounds on my door, and Professor McGonagall enters, carrying a tea tray. She has been worried about me lately, and it is no wonder why. I have been worried sick myself, and I've not had a proper meal or a restful night's sleep in weeks. Why did I not think to plant some sort of tracking device on Severus before I sent him off into the world?

After she has poured my tea, Minerva lifts the saucer and moulds my unobliging hand around the cup. Protesting would do no good, I fear, as I know that determined look all too well. So I nod and take a sip, then nibble a biscuit, though I haven't the slightest interest in food.

"He'll turn up, Albus," she says gently, patting my forearm. "Don't lose heart."

Against every odd imaginable, I hope with every fibre of my being that she is right.

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

The Ogden's isn't helping any more. Muggles in my head, day and night. What would the Dark Lord say? He wouldn't want a follower who's being controlled by Muggles. He'd kill me just as soon as listen to my excuses.

I keep looking behind me to make certain there's no one following, but the whispers. No, I don't want any coffee, you daft cow!

"You bloody freak! You've killed your mother!"

It won't bring her back.

I can't take this any more, but what's out there may be worse. It must be here somewhere. But nothing looks or smells right. I don't recognise a thing. These bottles all shimmer and mock me with their shiny surfaces and mysterious contents. I pull things off the shelves left and right, frantic to find the proper one.

These shelves have never been such a mess! What an insufferable lack of organisation! I used to know where everything was.

"Yes, Prime Minister. I have the forms here."

I had a perfect system. Somebody has been mucking about with my things! Have the Muggles been here? Or those damned Gryffindors again?

I'll show them. I'll make them pay. All of them! I am the One, and I shall make them pay!

Tired. So tired.

The Muggles are getting closer. I can smell them. But I can't stop now.

"Take it, Ssseveruss. It'sss yoursss."

Give it to me, you filthy Muggle! It's mine, not yours! I've earned it!

"Well, it's more the fact that he exists, if you know what I mean..."

Sectumsempra!

I slash my wand through the air, splitting his chest like an over-ripened melon. Take that, Potter! I hope you die and rot in hell!

"Ssshow them my power. Kill yourssself."

I try to obey, but I can't. I'm afraid, my Lord.

He only laughs at me.

Ophelia smiles, twirling the skirt of her little grey robes. She holds out her hand, presenting me with a daisy that she tucks behind the ear. Then she takes this hand and leads me through the broken glass and out the door, between the winged boars. I hope her feet aren't cut.

"Sleep, Sevwus."

I curl up on the floor with my baby sister in these arms. I've missed you, Ophelia. Thank you for taking pity on me.

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

On my way downstairs to procure some hot chocolate, I run into Severus—quite literally. My quick steps cause me to give him a light kick to the chest before I am even fully aware of the recumbent form obstructing my path. He must have wanted to see me rather badly to have camped out in front of the stone gargoyle guarding my office. Head pillowed on his hands, he lies directly on the floor, with his fingers wrapped in the cloak to keep them warm. And as always, his hair hangs in his face. One ear is the only part of him not shrouded in black. Little wonder I did not notice him until I had stumbled over him, although my treading on him does not seem to have deterred him. He grunts and shifts but sleeps on.

After several months with no word of him, my relief at finding him on my very doorstep is a bit overwhelming—not in the least because two nights ago a young man matching his description was apprehended for demolishing an apothecary in the Muggle part of London. When the police attempted to detain him, however, he flung terrible curses at them and Disapparated. I could only hope he had not splinched himself somewhere. And last week, another sallow-skinned, black-haired young man was arrested for exposing himself in a train station. He was successfully taken to gaol but Disapparated before he could appear in court. Those reports were mildly unsettling, but I found myself hoping that the incidents did indeed involve Severus, if only as proof that he was still alive.

Something about the way he looks reminds me uncomfortably of vagrants that I have seen sleeping in the London Underground. My heart bleeds for him, and I kneel down to wake him. At once I know he has been lax in taking his potions, as he looks and smells terrible—a piquant blend of various bodily odours, urine, train exhaust, and whiskey.

"Severus?" I ask, whilst attempting to rouse him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. He finally stirs and blinks at me, although he does not appear to know who I am. "What are you doing here, m'boy?"

He mumbles slowly in response, as if each syllable requires tremendous thought and effort. "Midn' ... care ... snow..."

I am surprised at how quickly my mind fills in the blanks to string these words together into a coherent message. Somehow I am attuned to him in ways I do not completely understand, most likely from having once taken up residence, however briefly, in his mind.

"You didn't know where else to go?"

His glassy stare penetrates me for a moment, and then he nods, which also appears to be an almost insurmountable task. "Mead ... nubble..."

I blink for a moment, before I put it together that he has likely been looking for me. "You've found me, Severus. It's Professor Dumbledore. I am right here."

"Nubmle ... ore?"

"Yes, Severus. I'm right here."

He smiles then—that same eerie smile from long ago that does not include his eyes—and, strangely, he lays his head on my shoulder, which brings a tear to my eye. Over the years I have come to look on my students as my own children, even long after they have left school, and this prodigal son in particular has oft pervaded my thoughts. Instead of killing a fatted calf for a feast, however, I feel a visit to the hospital wing would be a more fitting celebration of his return.

"Can you stand, m'boy?"

He moves his head around in all different directions. I cannot be certain, of course, but I think that he is attempting to nod again and having much less luck than before. I do not wait for a more conclusive answer, however, and work my hands beneath his cloak to take hold of him under each arm. As I stand, I try to drag him upright. After a second or two, he seems to get the general idea; his legs shift so that he can plant his feet on the floor and push himself the rest of the way up. Good thing. I am getting a bit long in the tooth to do this the old fashioned way.

Severus accompanies me the hospital wing, docile as a mouse. The only odd thing about his demeanour—apart from his appearance, that is—is the blank expression on his face, and how he keeps looking around in all directions, from ceiling to floor. I can only imagine what he might be seeing at this precise moment, but I hope, whatever the visions are, that they do not frighten him. Normally one would judge such things from a person's expression, but if there is one thing I've learnt about Severus' condition, it is that looks can be deceiving.

Our school nurse is the lightest of sleepers. I have never been quite sure if this is natural trait on her part, or if she has trained herself to awaken at the slightest sound. Whichever is the case, Severus and I are no more than ten paces inside the empty ward before I see a dim light in her office, bleeding through from the bedchamber beyond. In mere seconds, she is at my side, taking the boy's pulse without a word, brows knitted in concentration, as I try to explain to him that he needs to lie down. Madam Pomfrey pulls a curtain closed around the bed, despite the dearth of patients, I suppose in case any of the staff happen by. A patient's privacy is always paramount in her mind.

"Do you happen to have any of the potions he needs on hand, Poppy?"

She smiles. "Of course. I had Horace set some aside for me, in case of an emergency."

A second later, she opens the curtain and steps out to retrieve the potions in question. I take the opportunity to cast some cleaning charms on Severus' body and clothes in her short absense. He looks and smells a great deal better when Poppy returns a few minutes later. I then conjure some straps to keep him still, whilst Madam Pomfrey rolls up his sleeve to administer his potions.

"Good heavens!"

As she yelps, she drops his arm and jumps backward, as if his skin has scalded her. Her wand clatters on the floor, and she pales, backing away from the bed, with her hands held up in front of her, in a gesture of warding off something evil. I quickly walk around the bed to examine the boy's arm myself. There, shining red on his pale skin, is a foreboding yet regrettably all too familiar calling card: the Dark Mark. I can only shake my head sadly. This is exactly what I feared might happen.

When I step back to give the nurse access to her patient, she simply stares at him as if he were a harbinger of the Black Death.

"Poppy, the potions, please," I say, as gently and patiently as I can.

She gapes at me, and then shakes her head. "Professor Dumbledore, do you realise what these people have done?"

I take a deep breath and sigh. Then I continue, forcing my voice to remain calm. "Yes, Poppy, I do. But I also know that Severus needs your help right now, and as a Healer, you are required to treat him."

Lips pursed in extreme distaste, she glares at me, but she doesn't move. "He's a Death Eater!" she hisses, her tone more venomous than I have ever heard it. "They can all go to the Devil together, for all I care!"

Even after another deep breath, I find that I must work very hard to keep my voice calm. I don't succeed entirely. "Until Severus is lucid enough to tell us how this Mark came to be on his arm, we should treat it as a consequence of his schizophrenia."

She shakes her head again, though her expression softens a little.

"This is a symptom, Poppy—nothing more. And we both know that Severus is a very sick young man."

"Obviously!" she snaps, going rigid again.

I have almost completely lost my patience now. "Severus is here because he made a magical oath to return if he attempted suicide. This Mark clearly troubles the better wizard inside him, even if he is not aware enough of his situation to understand what he has done."

She starts to step forward but then hesitates, biting her lip.

"Please, Poppy! Help me to help him. Please?"

Before I even can note her reaction this time, Severus yelps and bucks against his restraints. The Mark on his arm has suddenly gone from bright red to black. His master is summoning him, and he is evidently in a great deal of pain, as well. He begins to mumble excitedly, but only on occasion can I pick out a few words that resemble English, and then it is something about beetles.

Bearing witnessing to this sad spectacle has apparently done more to convince Madam Pomfrey than my entreaties because she immediately bends, retrieves her wand, and steps forward to treat him. Thankfully these potions work more quickly than their Muggle counterparts, which often require a month or more to take full effect. And Madam Pomfrey already knows the proper dosages, or did when he left two years ago, so Severus should be back to normal in no time.

Whilst she attends to him, I lay a hand on his forehead, gently brushing back his hair. "He is a slave to that Mark now, Poppy," I say quietly, and neither can I keep the trace of sadness from my voice. "And he will likely remain one for the rest of his life."

She nods silently, crying now, and my eyes are rather misty, as well. The poor, poor boy.