Though This Be Madness

Then is doomsday near: but your news is not true. / Let me question more in particular: what have you, / my good friends, deserved at the hands of fortune, / that she sends you to prison hither? — Hamlet, Act II, Scene 2

Part XIII: Dire Situations

"My goodness, Severus! You look terrible!"

After a few seconds of discomposure that follow answering my insistent knock, Dumbledore stands aside to allow me to enter his chambers. Apparently my appearance is pitiful enough to have made the consummate gentleman forget his manners, even if only for a moment. That is quite a testament to how horrid I must look. Though however wretched my outward aspect, I must confess that I feel ten times worse, as I gather my robes around me, stepping inside Dumbledore's rooms.

"I'm sorry to disturb you so late, Headmaster, but I fear this can't wait until morning."

"Evidently not," he answers, nodding, and waves me toward a squashy armchair near the dying embers in his hearth. "Would you care for some refreshments?"

I shake my head, perching on the edge of the chair. I don't dare to relax into its depths, for fear that I may be unable to extract myself when I am ready to take my leave. Dumbledore apparently entertains no such worries, and he practically reclines in the chair opposite me, folding his hands in his lap. After watching me silently for a few seconds, he spreads his hands, palms up, and cocks his head to one side.

"What is it?"

I lick my parched lips, exhaling through my nose. "He's going after the Potters."

Which "he" is of course understood, and immediately every trace of drowsiness escapes from the wizened face. In fact, Dumbledore's eyes shine with a determination I've not seen in a long time. "You are sure?" he asks quietly, and I give a curt nod.

"I am absolutely positive. He said so himself tonight, in so many words."

Dumbledore ponders this information for another second or two before nodding, as well. "And did he say when?"

"No," I admit, shaking my head once more. Though I am certain the Dark Lord's plans would be far more elaborate than simply presenting himself on the Potters' doorstep and cursing the life out of them, he has unfortunately made no mention of the details. Until I know more, it is useless to speculate, and Dumbledore appears to know that, as well.

"Very well." He pulls his wand and a second later, a silver blur erupts from the tip, speeding out of the room and up his chimney. "I already have an Order meeting scheduled for tomorrow, but under the circumstances, I will sleep better if James and Lily stay at Hogwarts in the meantime."

Obviously he notices that my expression does not clear upon hearing that the Potters will be under his protection for the night, and the white eyebrows draw together in a frown. "Was there something else, Severus?"

"Unfortunately, yes," I reply with another nod. This is the difficult bit. How do you tell somebody you've come to think of as a father that your master requires you to kill him?

"What is it?" he asks again, and surprisingly, his voice is even more gentle this time. This might be easier if it weren't.

My throat is suddenly very dry, I find, though my eyes are anything but. "He ... he—wants me to—kill you." Despite the fact that my eyes are rapidly filling with tears, to the point that Dumbledore appears to be little more than a white blur, I must admit my astonishment as his expression transforms almost at once into a smile. How can he possibly smile at a time like this? "You think this is funny?" I hiss, narrowing my eyes at him.

"Oh, no, my dear boy," he answers, shaking his head with a dismissive wave. "This is—if you will pardon the expression—deathly serious, and I might even see my way clear to being upset, had I not already anticipated something along those very lines. I have known for years, however, that Lord Voldemort would prefer to have me out of the way. All modesty aside ... since I am considered to be the only wizard he fears, in addition to being an undoubted coup in terms of strategy, my death would also come as quite the blow to the morale of the Order especially, but also to the wider wizarding world." After pausing to watch me again for a moment, he asks, "Are you sure you would not care for some tea, at least?"

All I can do is stare at him. Tea? He's worried that I'm thirsty, when I've just told him that I am expected to kill him. The rumours must be true: he's lost his grip, finally. "No, I don't want any tea!" I snap, standing and turning away, as I fold my arms over my chest. Sometimes the old codger makes me so angry that I do want to throttle him. It's probably a good thing I don't have tea at the moment, because I likely would have smashed the cup against the wall by now.

"Now, now, Severus ... what was that little display of temper supposed to accomplish?"

"Don't patronise me, old man!"

When I wheel about to face him, Dumbledore wears an expression of near disgust, and I can tell it is all he can do not to cluck his tongue at me, to show his disapproval. But I don't give a damn. Maybe he's expected me to do him in all long. I'm not one of his precious Gryffindors, after all. Slytherins are born bad and bred to be evil, so of course we are nothing more than killers at heart. He did say that the Dark Lord would expect me to kill again, without hesitation, and he was not the least bit surprised to learn of my directive. I daresay that this has been his plan all along.

"Severus ... why has this upset you so?" he asks quietly, with the forced patience of one speaking to a small child.

"Because I don't want to kill you, you unfeeling bastard!" I shout at the top of my voice, digging my fingernails into my palms in an effort not to bloody the old man's nose. The silence rings from my outburst for a second or two, during which I clench and unclench my fists.

At last, Dumbledore shakes his head, his expression one of utter disbelief. In fact, I do believe this is the only time I have ever been fortunate enough to see the Headmaster gape. "Goodness gracious, Severus!" he answers, through something bordering on a laugh. "Of course you don't want to kill me, and I wouldn't hold you in nearly such high esteem if I thought for a second that you did."

I try, for several uncomfortable seconds, to formulate a response. My mouth also opens and closes a number of times, as well, indicating a long string of false starts in the interim. Finally, the only sound I manage to produce is a quiet, "Oh."

His expression transforms again—this time into a warm smile. "If I am not as upset as you would deem appropriate given the circumstances, it is only because I very much doubt it will come to that. Just because my death is the outcome Lord Voldemort may want, that does not necessarily mean he will achieve that particular end." He eyes me for a moment or two, as if watching to see if I manage to calm down on my own, and finally adds, "Now, are you sure you won't have a spot of tea?"

I finally acquiesce, slinking back to the chair and sinking onto the edge with a small nod, rather ashamed of my outburst, in retrospect, and not only because I am supposed to be able to keep my temper under control these days. Was this simply more of my previous paranoia, rearing its ugly head again? Of course he wouldn't have thought I wanted to kill him. What was I thinking? Staring into my lap, as I am, I hardly notice the cup and saucer placed into my hand. In fact, were it not for the soft clatter of china—due to the adrenaline-induced tremours—I likely would not have detected their presence at all.

"Are you feeling any better now?"

I nod again, after taking a small sip from my cup. It is a bit of a fib, as my mood has scarcely altered in the last minute or so, but being less than honest is easier than bothering to explain.

"I wonder what you must think of me, Severus," the old man says, and only then do I look up. His expression is ... stricken. That is the only way to describe the ancient face. "To even entertain the notion that I could so glibly sentence you to kill me ... Do you believe that I have no consideration for you at all, or for the state of your soul?"

Only after I've opened my mouth to reply do I realise that I don't have the first clue what to say. Many, many times I've thought just that: that Dumbledore had no consideration for me whatsoever. That I, as a Slytherin, was beneath his notice—except, of course, when he had need of me. And, to tell the absolute truth, I am not entirely convinced, even now, that he doesn't think that way, even if he would stop just short of requiring murder. Still, this is a conversation I would prefer to save for another time. Instead of answering, I allow a scowl and a non-committal shrug speak for me.

"Well, if I have given you that impression, I can only say that I am heartily sorry."

I shrug again. Were I a normal person, I could be reasonably certain that the fault lay with Dumbledore and not myself. As it is, I cannot be sure, since I have developed false ideas such as that one all on my own, many times before. So did Dumbledore give me that impression, or did I give it to myself? That is a damned good question. I have no idea how long I sat there in silence, when Dumbledore clears his throat.

"I must go downstairs to meet James and Lily, when they arrive," he says, rising. "They will be understandably distressed at being roused by my Patronus in the middle of the night."

"Certainly, Headmaster," I answer with a nod, setting my nearly untouched tea back onto the tray he summoned earlier as I get to my feet. Before I've managed to take even one step toward the door, however, he grips my upper arm, looking into my eyes with his usual piercing gaze.

"I know you presently have a great deal weighing on your mind, Severus, but do try to get some sleep," he says gently. "You have done all the good that you possibly can for this evening."

"Yes, sir," I tell him, nodding. Though that, I am also reasonably sure, will be a lie. I fear a long night of tossing and turning awaits me, Time-Turner or no.

* * * * * *

Only one night at Hogwarts, a partial one at that, and James is already growing restless. I fear this does not bode well for my proposed method of protecting him and Lily. Apart from my worries regarding the two of them, however, the meeting went well, and everyone—except for myself, of course—is in exceptionally good spirits. That will serve us well in the days ahead. With the last item on the agenda safely completed, the meeting around me soon dissolves into a number of separate conversations. I catch only a few snippets here and there, lost in my thoughts, until James commands the attention of the room, as he so often does.

"How did you word it, Lily?" he asks, turning to face his wife as he lays his arm across the back of her chair.

Lily smiles softly as she shifts the tiny bundle that is baby Harry in her arms. "I said I wasn't going to name my son anything with a number in it."

"Right," James answers with a grin, turning back to Frank. "So, James Peverell Potter the third was right out."

"It's pretentious," Lily cuts in, crinkling her nose in distaste.

"Hey!" James turns back to her, eyebrows rising. "That's my name."

"I know it is, darling," Lily answers soothingly, placing her hand on his arm. "But it's still pretentious."

Frank lets out a booming laugh, reminiscent of his mother, and claps James on the shoulder. "Bad luck, mate!"

"Well, I still wanted to name him after me dad," James answers with a shake of his head, "so we compromised."

"I wanted to go with Harold James," Lily adds, leaning her head down to nuzzle the baby's forehead. "Harold for my father, and James for his."

"But I thought Harold was pretentious, too," James adds with a shake of his head, "so we went with Harry, instead."

Lily pulls a face at the announcement, in front of most of the Order, that her father's name is pretentious, as well, but she says nothing. After all, she did only just say the same thing about both James and his father.

"I hope that he and Neville will be friends when they're older," Alice says, her cherubic face entirely lit up with a grin, which effectively pulls Lily out of the temporary emotional slump.

"I'm sure they will be." Lily smiles as well and pulls up a corner of Harry's blanket to wipe a bit of drool from the baby's mouth.

I take full advantage of the subsequent lull in the conversation, clearing my throat quietly. "James, Lily—if I could have a quick word with you both?"

Most everyone nods and rises from their chairs, making their way out of the staffroom shortly. Sirius is the last to leave, raising his eyebrows in James' direction, to which James nods, before he finally closes the door.

"Yeah, what's up?" James then asks, turning back in his seat to face me.

"We have a problem," I begin, folding my hands together on the table in front of me.

Lily sits up a bit straighter in her chair. "What sort of problem?"

"There was a prophecy made not too long ago—" I begin, but James promptly cuts me off. Patience, however, has never been his strong suit.

"A prophecy?" he asks with a frown, shaking his head. "What does that have to do with us?"

I sigh softly. "I was just getting to that." After clearing my throat, to make certain I have his attention, I continue. "This particular prophecy concerns the defeat of Lord Voldemort, and the child who will defeat him."

Lily hugs her child more tightly against her chest. "Is it Harry?" she asks, eyes wide with concern.

"That appears to be the conclusion that Voldemort has reached," I answer with a nod. "And obviously, because of that, the three of you are now in very real danger."

James gives a snort as he folds his arms over his chest. "And who told you about this prophecy?"

Sighing once more, I shake my head. "I'm afraid I cannot tell you that."

"Oh, nice," James answers, now rolling his eyes. "Is that why you sent us that Patronus in the middle of the night to bring us here? A tip from some dodgy character, and you won't even tell us who?"

This, sadly, is what I feared would happen, but I imagine James' reaction would be a hundred times worse if he knew whence these tidings came. With a sigh, I look from one to the other, wearing a pleading expression. "I heard the prophecy with my own ears, James, and I have since hidden away the soothsayer for fear of her safety, as well."

"I'm not hiding my family on a hunch, Albus!"

"James," Lily interjects gently, again placing a hand on his arm. "Maybe he's right. You don't want You-Know-Who to come after Harry, do you?"

He sighs, raking a frustrated hand through his hair, and then brings both hands up to scrub his face, as if he might wash away the danger with some nonexistent water. "Fine," he finally answers, lowering his hands with a sigh. "What—what do you want us to do?" One hand immediately goes around Lily's back, whilst the other clenches itself in his lap. In spite of the white-knuckled fist, I am gratified that James has decided to see reason.

"I intend to hide you both with the Fidelius Charm, and I will be your Secret-Keeper."

"No," James says immediately, shaking his head. "I want Sirius."

Pleased though I am that he has agreed to the plan—in theory, at least—I fear that Sirius would not be the ideal choice, and I tell him so. "I do not think that is a good idea, James."

"Why not?" he asks sharply, and his expression almost dares me to say something against his friend.

Unfortunately, I do have my reasons, even if he would no doubt not see it this way. "Sirius has been known to let important information slip when he is angry. I would feel better—"

But he cuts me off again. "You're never going to forgive him for that, are you?"

"James, this is not about my forgiveness!" I snap, wishing I could remain as calm as I would like, but the worry and frustration regarding this conversation appear to be taking their toll. "The consequences are so much more grave," I add, emphasizing the point by slapping my palm down on the staffroom table. "Your very lives are at stake!"

Lily looks from one of us to the other, clearly confused. Alas, I am not in the least bit surprised that she does not know the cause for James' ire and the reason behind my reservations. Tempting though it is to throw those past indiscretions in James' face, I manage to restrain myself. By this time, I have little doubt Lily knows that Remus is a werewolf, but on the off chance that she does not ... well, the conversation has already detoured more than I would like.

"I trust Sirius with my life," James grinds out slowly, between clenched teeth, effectively pulling me from my musings.

"I realise that, James," I answer, making a point to calmly clasp my hands in front of me on the table once more. "Sirius does have family ties with Death Eaters, however, and there is a spy amongst the Order. Until we have identified who it is, I would feel safer acting as Secret-Keeper for you both."

He turns to Lily, then, whose expression is unreadable, though she hugs baby Harry more tightly to her chest again. James sighs once more, facing me. "No," he answers simply, shaking his head. "You're wrong about Sirius, and I'll prove it. He is going to be our Secret-Keeper."

Lily looks, for a second or two, as if she is about to object, but she finally shakes her head. Sirius is the baby's godfather, after all, and evidently she is hesitant to admit her husband's trust might be misplaced.

"I beg you both to reconsider," I add then, quietly, even if my own knuckles have turned white with the pressure of gripping my own hands.

James shakes his head adamantly. "Sirius, or no one."

The ultimatum does not sit well with me, I must confess. I am not wholly convinced that being protected by a Fidelius Charm with Sirius Black as their Secret-Keeper is any protection at all. Still, it is obvious that James will not be moved, and so finally, after a long moment of silence, I nod. I can only hope that James is right about his friend.

* * * * * *

The Dark Lord is gone. Upon hearing the news, the first thing I did was to head to the nearest loo and check my forearm. The Mark has faded to an almost imperceptible orange, but I knew that it would have changed, even before I rolled up my sleeve. Some of the magic appeared to have left it, and for the first time in many months, my arm once again seems to be my own. I wish, however, that I could feel like celebrating the news, because though he has been defeated, the victory is a Pyrrhic one, at best.

Despite my best efforts, James and Lily Potter are now dead. I may have loathed Potter—in fact, there is no "may" about it—but I never wanted him dead.

When I knock on Professor Dumbledore's office door, his less than cheerful, "Come in!" indicates that he has heard, as well. And when I open the door, he appears to be writing a letter, frowning all the while. He looks up, however, and waves a hand toward the chair across from his desk. Even this horrid turn of events cannot keep him from his carefully crafted manners.

Following his example, I wait silently until he has finished sealing the envelope before I even try to speak. Still, what is there to say?

"This is not your fault, Severus," Dumbledore says quietly, breaking the relative silence in his office. The only other noise is his phoenix, sharpening his beak on a cuttlebone.

"How can you say that?" I ask immediately. "If only I hadn't told him that prophecy—"

"What good would that have done?" he asks sharply, but then shakes his head with a sigh. "If you had not, then you would be dead now, as well, in addition to James and Lily." When I shake my head, he adds, "Do you think Voldemort would not have learned of the prophecy eventually, regardless? He has spies in the Ministry of Magic, in the Hall of Prophecy. No doubt they would have eventually discovered that prophecy and who made it. He might have even defiled poor Sibyll's mind to retrieve the information, leaving her as nothing more than an empty shell—as good as dead, herself."

I know he's right, and yet, I still cannot repress the sigh fighting to escape my lips, as I lean forward, with one elbow on the desk, rubbing my forehead with the other hand.

"Besides, Severus—I am every bit as complicit in their deaths as you are." When I look up, he is shaking his head, that stricken expression on his ancient features once more. "You only took Voldemort the prophecy on my orders, to begin with." And again, he looks older than I have ever seen him. "Knowing James and Lily as I do—as I did, rather—I can honestly say both would have willingly given their lives to see him defeated. We must take whatever consolation we can from that, as well as the fact that their son survived."

Finally, I nod. "What should we do now?"

Dumbledore tilts his head with a slight shrug, as he rises to retrieve his cloak. "I have business in the Muggle world."

"The Muggle world?" I ask, eyebrows rising.

"Yes," he answers enigmatically, refusing at first to elaborate. Finally, however, he gives a resigned sigh and turns to face me once more. "The boy will need protection."

"The Potters' son?"

He nods. "Lord Voldemort will return, and when he does, he will set his sights on Harry."

"Surely you don't believe that prophecy rubbish?" I ask, shaking my head.

"I do not," Dumbledore answers with an adamant shake of his head, as well. "But Voldemort does, and so I must take steps to ensure the boy is safe. And you must be seen to commiserate with your fellow Death Eaters," he adds, pulling on his cloak. "We will have enough time to rest and regroup in the days to come, but we must keep up appearances, for the time being." The Headmaster then tucks the envelope into a pocket of his cloak, before opening the door. We walk from his office in silence, past the gargoyle, down to the front steps of the castle, and along the drive, though he stops just outside the winged boars, in order to give me another caution. "Do be careful tonight, Severus. No doubt some of your fellow Death Eaters will blame you."

I nod again. Of course they will, and I've a fairly good idea of just which ones. "I'll be fine, Professor," I assure him, pulling my wand to Disapparate. When I come to rest, just outside the gates to the Malfoys' manor, I take a deep breath to steel myself for the coming confrontation. Bellatrix will undoubtedly be there, and of all the Death Eaters, she is the most likely to lay the blame at my feet.

No sooner than the house-elf shows me into the parlour does she launch herself at me, wand quite forgotten, beating her fists against my chest. "You killed him, Snape!" she screeches. "You and your bloody Prophecy! You filthy half-blood traitor!"

I've barely time to flinch, much less deflect any of the blows, but in another second, Lucius strides forward, wrenching her away from me with a hand clamped around each of her wrists. "Stop it, Bella!" he bellows. "This won't bring him back!"

Only then do I realise that Bellatrix is crying—actually crying—but she quickly turns to face the hearth, wiping angrily at her eyes with her sleeve. "I'll find him," she answers through a barely contained sob.

"There's no hope of that," Lucius answers with a shake of his head, before turning to me. "Severus, do allow me to apologise for my sister-in-law. She has taken the news especially hard."

"It's all right, Lucius," I say with a shake of my head. I cast an uncertain glance at Bellatrix. Never in my life have I witnessed her crying. If it hadn't been for our recent falling out, regarding my disappearance, I might be expected to comfort her. We were friends at school, after all. Lucius gives me a small, bracing smile, taking in my apparent hesitation. Evidently, that is a good enough act to dispel any questions as to my loyalties.

Narcissa enters after a moment, carrying her chubby toddler of a son. Unlike her sister, she looks a bit relieved at the Dark Lord's disappearance—or at least until she spots me. Then she blanches. Though I haven't seen Draco in ages, I know better than to ask if I might hold him. She still hasn't forgiven me, but I cannot say that I blame her. Still, she manages to regain her composure after a few seconds. "Hello, Severus," she says by way of polite greeting. "Can I get you anything?"

"I'm fine, thank you," I reply, shortly before their elf brings in a tray bearing a bottle and glasses. That is elf-made wine; I recognise the label immediately, and Madam Pomfrey said it wouldn't hurt me to drink that. "Well, maybe just a sip."

Lucius' eyebrow rise. "I thought you couldn't..." A flicker of something dangerously close to suspicion crosses his face, but he shakes his head a second later.

As do I. "Elf-made wine isn't strong enough to hurt me," I reply, and his expression clears, as he nods, before pouring me a glass, in addition to one for himself and Bellatrix. Narcissa doesn't drink, however, as she has her hands full—quite literally—with a squirming Draco.

"We must decide what we are all going to do now," Lucius announces, heading toward an armchair with his glass. He sits, but doesn't drink straightaway, rolling his glass between his palms for a long moment. Like Narcissa, he is paler than usual, as well, though he does appear to have his wits about him.

After a moment, in anticipation of his telling me not to hover, I retrieve a glass and settle myself on the settee opposite him.

Lucius finally takes a sip and lowers his glass thoughtfully. "The Ministry will begin rounding up suspected Death Eaters before long. I think our best chance is to claim we have all been acting under the Imperius Curse. Giving mounds of gold to aid in their efforts couldn't hurt, either."

Behind him, Bellatrix turns from the hearth, making both a disgusted noise and face. "How quickly your allegiances change, my dear brother-in-law! Does loyalty mean nothing to you?"

"It's not a question of loyalty, Bella, but one of survival," Lucius insists, setting down his glass. "None of us is any use to the Dark Lord from inside Azkaban. And if he really is dead—"

"Don't say that!" Bellatrix shrieks, shaking two fists in the air.

"—then the dementors will soon be guarding the prison," Lucius continues, undaunted, turning in his chair to face her. "Don't let your ardour for the Dark Lord be your undoing!"

Lucius rarely raises his voice, so the fact that he has this time says, quite clearly, that he is unnerved. That, frankly, is as rare as Bellatrix's tears. Her displays of temper are so much more the norm. Like the one we are treated to now.

She fumes for a few seconds, glaring between the two of us, but then—without so much as a word—she crosses the room to retrieve her cloak.

Lucius stands, with a tense, "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to find him!"

He crosses the room in two strides and grabs her arm. "Don't be a fool!"

"Don't you dare tell me what to do!" Bellatrix pulls her wand, sparks flying from the tip. "Stay here in your comfortable little house, with your pretty little wife, and your perfect little son, and your filthy half-blood traitor of a friend." She pauses only long enough to sneer, draping her cloak over her arm. "When I find him, I will be rewarded beyond all of you—you mark my words." And with that, she storms out.

Lucius stares at the empty doorway for a long moment, as if expecting her to return, before he finally turns to Narcissa. "Aren't you going after her? She is family," he says, spitting out the last word as if it were rancid meat.

At his query, Narcissa merely straightens in her chair, clutching Draco to her chest. With the way he is squirming, I imagine he wants nothing more than to be put down so that he can crawl about the room. Considering that he might crawl to me, however, Narcissa is not likely to risk it.

"My place is with my husband and son." She looks as if she is going to say something else but, after a quick glance in my direction, thinks better of it. I suddenly feel as if I am intruding on something private, some argument that began before my appearance. The fact that Lucius chose to mention it in front of me, even obliquely, seems to be a mark of how close a friend he considers me. That could be useful, at some point.

Lucius finally nods, looking a bit relieved, and resumes his seat. "The only question now is, should we go to the Ministry first, or wait for them to come to us?" When Narcissa doesn't answer, he turns to me. "What do you think?"

"I have no influence with the Ministry," I answer, shaking my head. "So whether I give myself up or am dragged before the Wizengamot kicking and screaming hardly matters." Then I shrug. "Whatever the circumstances, Dumbledore will vouch for me."

Lucius' eyebrows rise again at that. "You're sure?"

I nod and shrug once more, raising my glass for a sip. "What can I say? He's a trusting old fool."

Seeing as he made me kill that woman under Imperio, I would like nothing better than to make certain Lucius rots in Azkaban until the end of his days. Since Dumbledore is sure that the Dark Lord will return, however, I do not have the luxury of petty vengeance. I must play the role of Death Eater convincingly still, and tell Lucius the best course to keep his sorry arse out of prison. Unfortunately.

"The Ministry will be much more inclined to believe your story," I continue, with a nod in his direction, "should you surrender yourself willingly and say that your recollection of the past few years is sketchy, at best. And, of course, as you said earlier, mounds of gold can only help your case."

Lucius nods and raises his glass, which he leans forward to clink against mine. "Here's to hoping that my dear sister-in-law doesn't make difficulties."

I give an amused, "Hm," followed by another nod. "I will certainly drink to that."