Though This Be Madness

[T]he play's the thing / Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king. — Hamlet, Act II, Scene 2

Part X: Deliverance

"Where will you go?" I ask Severus after a long silence.

"Don't tell me the great Albus Dumbledore isn't clever enough to keep tabs on me!" he snaps, turning back to glare at me.

My only answer is to take off my spectacles and rub my eyes. I suppose it was foolish of me to expect him to welcome my help, especially after having known the freedom of being out on his own. I have no wish to restrict him unduly, of course, but I cannot allow him to go about hurting people when he is not properly medicated.

"Home," he says then, simply, and I can but frown.

"I am afraid that you no longer have a home to go to, Severus. It was sold, along with your possessions, to cover your debts."

"You're lying."

"I only wish I were," I say, exhaling with a sigh. "I think you will find that Lucius Malfoy now holds the deed to the house in Spinner's End. We can write to him, if you like, but I have no doubts that he will confirm what I have just told you."

His glare resumes, and it is almost as if I can hear what he's thinking: that I have an answer for everything. Of course, that is only because I am telling him the absolute, unvarnished truth.

"Very well. I see that you are determined not to believe me. So, why don't you choose a different memory? One you are reasonably certain I do not know about. Perhaps after you left school?"

"You've probably done those, as well," he grumbles.

"I am a busy man, Severus," I say with a soft chuckle and a shake of my head. "I fear that I simply do not have the time to go trawling inside your head in search of memories that I might wish to alter."

He continues to glare, and clenches his jaw as if he is biting back another sharp retort that is poised on the end of his tongue, but he pulls his wand and once again presses the tip to his temple to withdraw another memory.

The scene I observe inside the Pensieve is the interior of large, lavish sitting room. When Severus' hosts come into view, I recognise them at once: Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. When I have followed him inside, I try to watch both the past and present versions of Severus carefully. The present one peers at Narcissa's face intently, and although the past version is avoiding her gaze, I am certain he sees something we do not. He shakes his head, still looking away, when Narcissa asks if he wants to hold the baby, so she lays her son gently in his bassinet. After she and Lucius have departed by Floo, Severus' head turns this way and that, apparently trying to locate the source of some non-existent sound.

"What are you hearing?" I ask.

"Scratching in the walls," he mumbles, scowling.

"Insects, perchance?"

"Beetles," he mutters, distracted, before suddenly turning to face me with one eyebrow raised. "How did you know?"

"That is a common hallucination amongst schizophrenics."

We follow as he levitates Draco's bassinet down the cellar stairs and bars the door, but we are bathed in darkness until he lights the torches. When he has, the Severus at my side begins to breathe rapidly. Draco appears to be sleeping peacefully until the past version of Severus shoves his fingers down the poor child's throat, as if to clear away some obstruction. The baby turns fairly red, trying in vain to scream.

We both turn at the sound of the cellar door being blasted off its hinges, although the past version of Severus does not seem to have noticed. He is too busy waving his arms in the air to fend off the "beetles." As she rushes down the stairs, Narcissa drops her gloves and a pair of opera glasses that she didn't have before they set off. She must have forgotten them, and when they returned, they could hear the baby's screaming. Whilst Narcissa lifts Draco into her arms, Lucius pulls Severus away from the bassinet.

"What were you doing to my son?" he demands, gripping Severus' arm so hard that his knuckles whiten.

Severus does not reply. He simply stares at Lucius with a bemused expression, as if he hasn't heard him at all.

"I think that will do," I say quietly, taking hold of Severus' elbow once more. When we've landed in my office, he sinks into the chair in front of my desk, as if his legs no longer wish to support his weight.

"I never meant to hurt him," he feebly whispers, looking very pale.

"I know that, Severus," I answer gently, squeezing his shoulder.

"I thought I was protecting him."

"I know."

"Dear God, what have I done?" He leans forward, with his face in his hands and his elbows on his knees.

"No irreparable harm, I am sure."

"I'm glad one of us is," he mutters behind his fingers, attempting to shrug off my hand.

I take that as my cue to leave him be. I could not be certain how much he would allow me to comfort him, but now it appears I have my answer: not at all.

"Lucius and Narcissa will forgive you," I say gently, sitting. "And the boy is so young, I doubt that he will even remember what happened."

"That's not the point!" Severus snaps, finally looking up.

"Then what is the point?"

"I love Draco! I would never hurt him! But you've just shown me a memory in which I do just that. What am I supposed to think?"

"I know this is difficult for you," I say gently, "but when you are not taking your potions, you are capable of hurting Draco, even when you think you are doing nothing more than protecting him."

He looks away.

"You would never choke a baby under normal circumstances, Severus, and if you have been taking the potions, you would not have seen those beetles. Therefore, you would have had no cause to hurt him."

When he faces me again, his eyes shine with unshed tears, and I can only imagine what he has been through—a struggle of almost Sisyphean proportions. The potions make him feel abnormal, so he stops taking them. That makes him feel normal, but that is when the real abnormalities begin. Then he cannot communicate what goes on inside his head in a way that outsiders can understand. The poor boy. At times, I almost wish I could reach inside him, remove his disorder, and place it inside my own brain. The majority of the wizarding world already thinks me mad anyway. How much more could schizophrenia damage my reputation?

Alas, taking his condition into myself is not an option, so I can only support him in any and every other possible way.

"That was not you, Severus," I say softly. "This man I see before me now who feels so much remorse at having hurt an innocent baby ... that is the Severus Snape I know. But you must continue to take your potions each and every day, even if you feel that you are well and no longer have need of them. Otherwise, this—" I wave toward the Pensieve. "—is the result."

I do not know what I expected him to say or do in response, but it certainly was not to raise his wand to his temple again. I quickly rise from my chair, suddenly afraid the boy means to do himself harm. My fears are soon laid to rest, however, not only because of his small smirk at my hasty ascent, but also because he merely draws his wand away from his temple with another memory attached. Once he has placed that recollection in the Pensieve, I nod and walk around the desk, curious as to what memory he wishes me to view this time.

For a moment after he prods the silvery surface, the contents of the Pensieve swirl, but the image soon clears to reveal the mouldy stone walls in the cellar of what appears to be a large house. Severus bends his face to the basin, and I follow him inside forthwith.

"We have a present for you, Snape!"

Walden Macnair emerges from the shadows, dragging a large brown bundle tied with rope along the floor, and even in the dim light, I can see that something is moving beneath the fabric. Lucius Malfoy helps him set the bundle upright and dissolves the cords with his wand. They both unwrap the brown material to reveal a naked, terrified, battered and bruised woman. She tries her best to cover herself with her long red hair, but Lucius takes a handful and marches her over to a large stone altar in the centre of the room. He forces her down on the top, and Macnair conjures more cords to bind her, spread-eagled, upon the stone.

"Please, don't hurt me!" the lady gasps in a frantic whisper.

Severus doesn't seem to notice his "present." Not like the other Death Eaters, who watch this spectacle with hungry expressions. All except one other, that is: Regulus Black stands apart, his back pressed firmly against the wall, as if he very much wishes that he could be absorbed into the stone.

There are times that even I forget what I am watching is in the past, such as when Evan Rosier approaches the poor woman, pulling up his robes. She screams for help and pleads pitifully to be spared as he forces himself upon her, and my hand is already halfway inside my robes to retrieve my wand before I remember that I can do nothing but observe this sad spectacle. Except, perhaps, to take some satisfaction in the fact that Rosier has since been killed whilst attempting to evade Aurors.

All the Death Eaters take a turn at her (again, save for Severus and Regulus), and I try my best to keep the shock and disgust from showing on my face. Severus does not need to witness either, as he appears to have more than enough of his own to contend with at the moment.

"You want a go, Black?" Lucius asks, lowering his robes once he's finished with her.

Regulus shakes his head, eyes wide, and presses himself further into the wall.

"Don't worry—there won't be any half-blood spawn to upset your mother," he continues, smirking. "We'll see to that. Or Severus will ... won't you, Severus?"

The Severus in the memory seems to jolt awake at being addressed, and he approaches the woman then as if on cue, a horrible smirk plastered on his face. He carries something long and black that appears to be quite heavy, as he is half-dragging it across the floor. The ominous scrape of metal on stone has set the poor woman to screaming again, and soon I see why. This pole looks as if it has come from a fence—a heavy wrought iron rod with a spike resembling an arrowhead on one end. The tip of the spike is noticeably shiny, more so than the remainder of the metal. I imagine it has been meticulous sharpened to that cruel point.

"Oh, God, no! Please, no—please, don't hurt me! Somebody help me! Please, don't kill me! Oh, God! Spare me, sir! Please!"

When he reaches the woman, Severus shoves the rod inside her, in his own grisly parody of the violations she has just endured, and she shrieks in a blood-curdling scream that echoes off the walls. As she tries to fight the intrusion in any way she can, the woman's back arches, whilst blood gushes from between her legs. Finally she goes limp, apart from a few errant spasms, and more blood trickles from her nose and mouth.

"Good God, Snape!" Wilkes breathes, with an expression that is almost admiration.

Again, Severus does not seem to notice. He simply turns away with a sigh, heading back the way he came, although he comes to an abrupt halt in front of Regulus Black, who is still dumbstruck and pressed against the wall. Turning quickly, he pulls Regulus away from the wall by the neck of his robes and slams him hard against the stone. Severus then twists his hand in the cloth, lifting until the boy must stand on tiptoe to keep from choking.

"You've always had it in from Cliodna!" Severus hisses. "If I ever hear you say anything about my cat again, you will be very sorry indeed."

This statement is followed by gales of laughter from the other Death Eaters, but once more, Severus does not seem to notice. He simply resumes walking. Neither does the Severus standing next to me seem to notice; he does, however, sway dangerously, his skin ghostly white. As I wrap my arms around his waist to steady him, I conclude that we have seen quite enough of this memory, as well, and I take us back to my office shortly. But the man I lead out of the Pensieve is a mere shadow of the one I followed inside. I also help him into the chair, and this time he does not protest.

After I have made certain that he will not fall onto the floor, I conjure some tea and a flask of brandy. Madam Pomfrey has said that he should refrain from strong drink, of course, but under the circumstances, I think we may dispense with that particular rule. I pour a generous splash into one cup and follow that with tea and milk, but Severus decides to forego the tea altogether, reaching for the flask instead. Well, it will not go to waste. A nip of brandy may do me some good at the moment, too.

His hand trembles violently when he raises the flask to his pasty, quivering lips. The last time I saw Severus so pale and shaken, he was sixteen and had just come from facing down a charging werewolf. Even the arm that holds the flask is folded tightly over his chest, as if to protect himself. Clearly he did not know what he would find in that memory, and in a way, I am honoured that he trusts me to the extent that he allowed me to witness this revelation, painful though it has undoubtedly been—for the both of us.

I must confess I knew all along that the Death Eaters were capable of such depravity, but having seen it first hand is unsettling, to put it mildly. Schizophrenics are rarely violent, even when they are neglecting their medications, but once again Severus appears to be the exception to the rule. Yet I know he would never do such a thing when in his right mind, however disagreeable he might, on occasion, be.

In a moment, Severus straightens in his seat and sets the flask down on my desk, taking a deep breath. He is still deathly pale, even if the tremours have subsided.

"I'm ready to go, Headmaster," he says, in barely more than a whisper.

"Go where?" I ask quietly, eyebrows raised.

"Don't play games with me, old man!" he snarls. "I'm hardly in the mood." After another deep inhalation, he adds, "Where do you think?"

I take a bracing sip of tea and walk behind my desk to sit. "Azkaban?" I ask, setting down my cup and saucer, and he gives a curt nod. "I see no reason to turn you over to the Ministry, Severus."

He simply stares in narrow-eyed disbelief for a long moment. "You condone murder now, do you?"

"No, I do not," I reply, quietly still, but firmly. "What I saw in that memory was not murder, Severus. I daresay you did not know what you were doing. In fact, I would imagine you knew no more what that memory contained than I did, until we both saw it just now."

"But I killed that woman!"

"And you can do nothing more for her, Severus, but you may be able to save dozens just like her—perhaps even hundreds—from meeting a similar fate."

His face draws into an intense scowl, and again folding his arms over his chest, he hunches even further into himself. And I can hardly believe that I am entertaining the sort of notions I am. After everything he has been through, my first thought is instinctively how I can use him to my best advantage in this war. I suppose I should not be surprised. After all, the Sorting Hat considered putting me in Slytherin for a reason. No matter what either of us may want, Severus will have to return to Lord Voldemort's service sooner or later. I do hope, however, that it is later, rather than sooner.

I realise with a pang that we are now consummately dependent on one another. He needs my silence regarding this crime he has committed, and I need information concerning Tom Riddle's plans. But can a schizophrenic be trusted to spy? Well, desperate times do call for desperate measures. And when the crucial moment arrives, I have no doubts that I shall be able to contrive a plausible tale to account for his change of heart and subsequent decision to return to our side.

"You want me to spy for you, then?"

Over the years, I have been continually amazed at the boy's sharp, logical mind, as well as his intuitive grasp of magic—a woefully rare combination amongst wizards, I must admit. Severus clearly possesses one of the greatest minds of his generation. A boy after my own heart—or brain, as it were—so I am not surprised in the least that he has followed my train of thought to its inevitable destination.

"In short, yes."

After a few minutes of silence, he reaches out with his wand to remove his memories from the basin. I have made my point, I believe, so we have no more need to lose ourselves in his thoughts. When he has finished, I decide to give him a moment to mull things over, so I rise to put the Pensieve away in its cabinet. This cabinet once housed my spirits, but I have since removed them all in order to set the boy a good example. And now it makes a perfect home for my Pensieve. Which is rather large. Did I really used to drink so much?

I am brought back from my musings by the clearing of a throat. "You do realise what you are asking me to do?"

"I do," I reply, once again taking my seat. "Quite likely even more so than you do. After all, Lord Voldemort—" He flinches at the name. "—already believes you to be a murderer, so he will expect you not to hesitate, should he order you to perform such acts in the future."

If possible, more blood drains from his pale skin, but even so, he nods. "And if I refuse, you'll turn me over to the Ministry, is that it?"

I shake my head. Far be it from me to cast the first stone. "No, Severus, I will not. I meant what I said before: I do not honestly believe that you deserve a life term in Azkaban for something you scarcely remember having done. In fact, now I think of it, I do not believe we may dismiss the possibility that Mr Malfoy had you under the Imperius Curse. I daresay you are rather accustomed to hearing voices, many of which give you orders."

The boy's eyebrows rise momentarily but then contract a second later. He is no doubt well aware of how the Imperius Curse operates. Granted, resisting Imperio should be aided in part by the differing structure of his brain, as his predisposition to Occlumency would dictate. The two are remarkably similar—so much so that many have attempted to have Legilimency classified as Unforgivable, as well. Severus has been hearing these voices for so long that he likely does not give a second thought to attempting to resist. Or rather, he had not given resisting a second thought before today.

"At any rate, if you do not return to the Death Eaters soon, whatever the reason, your life will be forfeit. You have already failed to answer your master's summons once since you came here—"

"When?" he asks sharply, going paler still.

"The first night you spent in the hospital wing. You weren't lucid enough to remember. And I would imagine that Voldemort is already making plans to have you killed upon your return. If, however, you were to bring with you a peace offering, he might dissuaded from such a course."

"What sort of peace offering?"

I give a small sigh. "I do not know yet, but you are safe, so long as you remain at Hogwarts. I can offer you my personal protection until such a time as we have a suitable bargaining chip."

His eyes narrow again, and he seems to ponder his options for a long moment. Eventually, he comes to the same conclusion I have. "I don't have much of a choice."

"I am afraid not," I say with another sigh, "although if you would prefer to simply disappear, I can hide you more completely than you could possibly imagine. I cannot force you to spy, of course, but I thought you might want the chance to make amends."

He snorts quietly, but I can tell, nevertheless, that my words are getting through to him.

"You are already well placed within the organisation, so that would save me the trouble of having to insinuate someone into Lord Voldemort's inner circle. I could not have wished for a better operative, even if you weren't already a superb Occlumens—which you are, without even having to try. That is an advantage that cannot be discounted. He will find absolutely nothing in your thoughts that could possibly betray you. It is my belief that someone with your particular talents can do much more good outside the walls of Azkaban than within them ... although your volunteering to be taken to prison was undoubtedly a fine gesture."

"My particular talents?" he asks with an incredulously raised eyebrow.

"You know more about the Dark Arts than anyone I have ever met, Severus ... with the possible exception of Lord Voldemort himself."

"You flatter me," he replies in a bored tone, rolling his eyes.

"And yet," I continue, raising my voice slightly to carry over the interruption, "I have never seen you use them except to defend yourself. You have a strong sense of personal ethics that prevents you from doing so."

He scowls then, but I doubt that is because of the compliment I have just paid him. "Won't he find it suspicious? That he doesn't find anything in my thoughts, I mean. You said my condition prevents anybody from penetrating my mind."

"That is true. I myself have had access to none of your thoughts that were formed after your symptoms began to manifest."

He nods slowly, evidently deciding for the moment not to ask why I have invaded his brain. "So won't he find that suspicious?"

"I think not," I answer with another shake of my head. "You will find, Severus, that a Legilimens—however skilled—is often his own worst enemy. He penetrates a person's mind with a particular question pervading his own thoughts, and the mind of one unskilled at Occlumency will then naturally provide the answer to that question. For instance, if Voldemort had occasion to question a follower's loyalty, when he penetrated that follower's mind, the mind would either provide evidence of disloyalty or else show nothing at all. One cannot prove loyalty, after all, only disprove it. The mind of a skilled Occlumens would also fail to provide evidence of disloyalty, by suppressing it, and there is no easy way to tell the difference. Voldemort is just arrogant enough to consider a lack of evidence proof that such evidence does not, in fact, exist."

After a long moment of frowning, apparently deep in thought, he meets my gaze and gives a resigned nod. "I'll do it."

My chest suddenly swells with pride. I had known in my heart that he would accept, but to hear him actually say the words is something of a relief. I would have allowed him to leave here with his secret forever intact, and he has chosen instead to risk his life ... to tread the more difficult, but clearly right, path. In doing so, he has more than lived up to my expectations of him, and I daresay his great grandfather would be exceedingly proud. A quick glance at Everard's portrait shows that I am correct: He beams down at the boy from his frame.

"What if the Dark Lo—You-Know-Who asks—"

I shake my head once more, and he falls silent. "Call him 'the Dark Lord,' Severus. You are supposed to be his servant, after all. Referring to him by any other name will likely get you killed."

He swallows, as if to gather his courage to again pose his question. "What if the Dark Lord asks where I have been all this time?"

"Tell him the truth," I say with a slight shrug. "You were taken ill, but you returned as soon as you could. You will have to invent enough tales in the days to come. Best to keep things as simple as possible, when you are able."

He only nods.

"Why did you want to look at that particular memory?" I ask him, gently, after a moment.

Severus takes another deep breath before answering, tracing his lower lip with one long, thoughtful finger. "I'd been seeing her all week—that woman ... flashes of her face. But I thought it was a hallucination. I wanted to make sure. I never thought..."

"I know, m'boy." He doesn't appear to have noticed the slip this time, but I can understand his wish to no longer be called a boy, especially after today. I shall make more of an effort to avoid using that term in reference to him in the future.

Neither of us speaks for a bit, but for the first time today, the silence is not troubling. I know that Severus believes me now, and he will not attempt to flee. Furthermore, he has now seen what he is capable of when he is not taking his potions; he will not neglect them again. Madam Pomfrey will no doubt have to refresh his memory with regards to the proper regimen, but I imagine his continued diligence will now be assured. I rise after another moment and place my hand on his shoulder. Although he flinches just a little, this time he does not pull away.

"Now, if you would be so good as to accompany me, Severus, I will show you to your quarters."