Though This Be Madness

[U]se every man / after his desert, and who should 'scape whipping? / Use them after your own honour and dignity: the less they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty. — Hamlet, Act II, Scene 2

Part XIV: Dismissal

My last appointment of the day before tea with the Minister of Magic comes as no surprise whatsoever. Severus is nervous—as I would be, were I in his position—regarding the meeting I will be having this afternoon. Although he has not spoken since entering my office, I can tell. He wrings his hands in his lap, which is something I have not seen him do for few years now, and there is undeniable fear in his eyes. This is a far cry from his normal manner. In the past few months since Lord Voldemort's fall, he has settled into a comfortable routine and has, in my opinion, acclimated quite well to living and teaching at Hogwarts. At least until today. His agitation this afternoon is perfectly understandable, however, and hopefully, it will only be temporary, as well.

"Do not fret, m'boy," I tell him quietly, with a shake of my head. "This meeting is more or less a formality. I will vouch for you—with only as much detail as is absolutely necessary—and I very much doubt that charges will even be filed."

His expression goes from worried to confused in what has to be record time. Not two seconds later, however, he frowns and shakes his head, as well. "No, it isn't that," he answers, and his gaze once more falls to the hands in his lap. "I know you'll vouch for me. I told Lucius Malfoy that very thing not so long ago, even." He shrugs and adds, "I explained it away by saying that you're a trusting old fool, but I was never worried about that."

My eyebrows rise. If my testimony was not his concern, then I wonder what brought him to my office today. He was most insistent regarding this appointment, even if my schedule was full to bursting. I have already opened my mouth to ask him what is worrying him, then, but I am distracted when Fawkes suddenly leaves his perch, giving two flaps of his wings before he settles on Severus' shoulder. His eyes widen momentarily, and then he fairly scowls.

Despite the fact that Severus is obviously not at all pleased by my pet's unexpected display of affection, I could not be more so. Knowing him as I do, I know that Fawkes would never show such attention to anyone who is not completely loyal to me. It simply is not in a phoenix's nature. After all the suspicions in the past, all the times Severus was convinced that I was attempting to control him for some nefarious purpose, Fawkes' landing in his shoulder could not be a more welcome occurrence. At least to me.

"Get off!" Severus snaps at the bird, rolling his shoulder in an attempt to make Fawkes take flight once more.

My phoenix is a beautiful bird, and I could ask for no better pet, but he is also a large bird and not light by any stretch of the imagination. I daresay a swan of comparable weight landing on his shoulder would be no more desirable. So, although I am pleased beyond words, I can also understand Severus' point of view.

"That will do, Fawkes," I say quietly.

Fawkes cocks his head to one side, surveying me through one dark, beady eye, before he pushes off Severus' shoulder and returns, docilely, to his perch. Once he is settled, and no longer appears in danger of accosting my guest, I turn back to Severus.

"Forgive me," I say, but he only shakes his head. I cannot entirely control my pet, and he undoubtedly knows this. I take a deep breath, then, leaning forward in my chair and folding my hands on the desk in front of me. "If you are not concerned regarding my testimony, what is it then? What is troubling you so?"

He raises his gaze to meet mine for a short instant, before looking down at his lap once more. "I, ah ... I worry that they—the Wizengamot, I mean—might be able to connect me to that Muggle woman's murder." His eyes flick up in my direction again, before he looks down, and from the movement of his (now unburdened, at least physically) shoulders, I can only guess that he is twisting his hands even more vigorously than before.

That is certainly a valid cause for concern. Or it would be, if the Ministry concerned themselves with the disappearances of Muggles. Alas, they do not—not to the extent that I believe they should, at least—but that is too harsh an indictment of the powers that be, so I will spare him the tirade, just now.

"I sincerely doubt that they will forge such a connection, Severus," I answer with a shake of my head. "A random Muggle woman, snatched with no rhyme or reason? The odds are very much against it, I do believe."

His shoulders work less violently now, and he looks up again. "But if they do?"

"If they do," I continue, in as patient a tone as I can manage, "then I will do everything in my power to convince them that you were not capable of understanding what you were doing at that particular point in time." I lower my head then, regarding him seriously over the top of my spectacles. "If it does come to that, do I have your permission to furnish them with your medical records, as evidence to support my claims?"

Severus fairly scowls again at the prospect. I know that he finds his condition to be an embarrassment, and were his ailment to become common knowledge, he would more than likely be forced to resign his employment at Hogwarts. I also hope that it would not come to that, because inside these walls, I may offer him protection as well as employment. Outside them, I can guarantee neither.

Finally, after a long moment of thought, he gives a hesitant nod.

"Very well," I reply, nodding myself. "But I am almost certain that it will not come to that."

When he looks up again, his attention is immediately drawn to the clock when it chimes, and I give another nod, rising from my chair. "I really must be going now, Severus," I say with a sigh. I wish there were more I could do just now to reassure him, although we both know that there is not.

With a resigned nod, he rises as well, forcing his hands to remain at his sides, I am certain, instead of twisting them even more as he leaves my office. Outside the gargoyle at the foot of the spiral staircase, I give him a bracing pat on the shoulder, and a reassuring smile, before we part.

Once I arrive at the Ministry, I am immediately shown into Millicent Bagnold's office. The tea things are already laid out, and she smiles, setting aside a letter and pulling off her reading glasses, letting them dangle from the cord around her neck. "Good afternoon, Albus," she says, gesturing toward the chair across from her desk. "How are you?"

I take a seat, with a smile of my own, as she begins to pour the tea. "I am very well, Millicent, thank you. And you?"

"Fine, fine," she answers, handing a cup to me across the desk.

This is not the most conventional means of providing evidence, I daresay. Given my position in the Wizengamot, as well as my close, personal friendship with the Minister of Magic, my request for private testimony was naturally heeded. Doing so over tea and cake, however, is only an added benefit. Although before we launch into the particulars of Severus' case, we take a few moments to have a pleasant chat, while the cake steadily dwindles, and until the cups have to be refilled.

"So ... this Potions master of yours," she begins, stirring her second cup and leaning forward in her chair. "He was a Death Eater, correct?"

I nod, grateful that she has decided not to mince words. "Severus Snape was indeed a Death Eater; however, he rejoined our side before Lord Voldemort's downfall and turned spy for us, at great personal risk. He is now no more a Death Eater than I am."

She makes sceptical noise. "And you expect that little proclamation to sway the Wizengamot?"

"I do not," I answer, with a shake of my head. "I do, however, expect it to sway you."

"Albus—" she begins in a warning tone, but I do not allow her to finish the admonition.

"How long have we known each other, Millicent?"

The stern look she has been giving me is replaced, momentarily, by a wistful smile. "Seventy-five, or is it seventy-six years?"

I nod. "And in all that time, have you ever known me to extend my neck in such a fashion for someone whom I do not fully trust?"

"No, I cannot say that I have," Millicent says with a sigh, setting down her cup. "But you have to understand my position, Albus. After all the destruction He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named caused, people want justice."

"Justice, or revenge?" I ask, raising my eyebrows.

She tilts her head, giving me a sad smile. "Perhaps a bit of both. But can you really blame them?"

I nod once more. "I can—if they intend to exact that revenge on those who have done no wrong, and have in fact done much good."

Millicent eyes me for a long moment, before sighing once more and taking another sip of her tea. "There is more to this matter than you are telling me."

Now a slight shrug accompanies my nod. "There is. I would be a fool to deny it."

"But you won't tell me what?" she prompts, eyebrows rising.

"Not unless absolutely necessary."

"Not even off the record?"

This time, my eyebrows rise. "I was under the impression that none of this conversation was on the record. Apart from my little proclamation, that is. You may feel free to quote me on that."

Millicent's lips purse rather unattractively, and she moves them back and forth for a few seconds, in a gesture reminiscent of sloshing a collutory around one's mouth before expectoration. Sans collutory, of course. "Very well, Albus," she says at last, with a resigned nod. "I am going to trust you on this, and I hope that it does not come back to haunt me."

"I can give you my most sincere assurances, Millicent, that it will not," I answer quietly, with a smile.

After perching her reading glasses on her nose once more, she pulls a quill to her, followed by a piece of parchment, and scribbles down a note. "I will quash any charges Magical Law Enforcement intends to pursue with regards to one Severus Snape."

"Thank you," I reply, giving her a warm smile.

"Don't bother to thank me," she said, looking up briefly with a positively evil grin, although she does not cease writing. "If and when this issue rears its ugly head once more, I will more than likely be retired, and you can deal with the repercussions."

"I will happily do so," I answer with a chuckle, shaking my head. "Although not as Minister of Magic. I have absolutely no interest in your job, Millicent."

"None at all?" she asks, and now she does stop writing, blinking at me for a second before she resumes, shaking her head. "Yours is the only name I've heard bandied about, whenever I've mentioned retirement. Well, apart from Barty Crouch."

I cannot say that I consider Bartemius to be especially suited to the post, especially given his fanaticism during the war, but ... better him than me. Regardless, I give a Millicent a smile. "Then I wish him the best of luck. But I have taken up far too much of your time already, and I too must return to my true calling."

"Nonsense," Millicent answers with a dismissive wave. "I always have time for an old friend." A second later, however, she removes her glasses again, peering at me intently. "You really trust this Snape fellow, do you?" she asks, before moving one earpiece of her glasses to her mouth.

My first impulse, I regret to report, is to say that I have to trust Severus. What other choice is there? I do not, however, tell Millicent that. Such a declaration would hardly be conducive to her taking his part with our peers on the Wizengamot. At this precise moment, Severus needs as many advocates as he can get. Starting with me.

"Of course I do," I answer, with a nod. "Do you think I would allow him to teach children, otherwise?"

She removes the earpiece from her lips with a sigh. "No, I suppose you wouldn't," she answers, replacing her reading glasses on her nose once more. "Well, I will do all I can for him, Albus, and I will let you know straightaway if it seems that there will be any complications."

"Thank you again, Millicent," I say, rising from my chair. "And I do hope that you have a pleasant evening."

"Likewise," she answered with a nod, already engrossed in her next bit of correspondence, so I cheerfully see myself out.

All she can do is quite a bit, I know, so I am not the least bit surprised when Severus' name appears on the list of suspected Death Eaters cleared by a subcommittee of Wizengamot, without formal charges ever being filed. More troubling is the presence of Lucius Malfoy's name on the same list, but that cannot be helped at the present time. I would much prefer for a few true Death Eaters to walk free than for innocents like Severus to suffer unduly. Or at least that is how I felt before the attack on the Longbottoms.

I can only hope that Severus did not have any involvement in that unfortunate affair—unwittingly or otherwise, and I curse myself for even thinking such a thing. He has not been acting oddly, so he is evidently still taking his potions. I suppose that I must simply have faith in him. After all, Fawkes would never have taken to him if I could not trust him, as well.

* * * * * *

I have to be exceedingly careful with new people, which poses a problem, as I average forty new faces in my classroom in any given year. My third year of teaching, I had a pupil whom I invented entirely. Thankfully, he was a well-behaved and quiet boy, so my other students never witnessed my talking to him—or worse, shouting at him—during lessons. In fact, I don't recall that he ever spoke as much as a single word in three whole terms. I should have known, I suppose, from the silver hair, but that is not always as simple as it may sound, in theory. Not when one's mind is so very practiced at deceit. And I cannot very well ask my other students, "Can you see this person, as well?" What on earth would they think?

The Headmaster was confused, naturally, when I turned in exam results for little Kevin Tipton at the end of the summer term. Considering some of the hallucinations I have experienced, however, this polite Ravenclaw first year was a welcome change. In fact, I cannot be certain that my mind did not decide I could use a friend. He was undoubtedly a natural at Potions. Thankfully, Madam Pomfrey was good enough to help me adjust my dosages, and there have been no repeats—or at least none of that magnitude. I still experience the occasional hallucination, and I am naturally more prone to them whenever I am tired or stressed, but my days of fabricating entire students appear to be over.

On the other hand, Professor Dumbledore suggested that I start taking attendance on the first day of the autumn term, to help identify any such apparitions straightaway. I cannot be certain that my crafty mind will not discover another way to outwit me in the future, but so far, his advice has helped.

At least until recently. It doesn't help matters that I now have a pupil who can change her appearance at will. Miss Tonks' Metamorphmagus abilities appear to have fully manifested at some point during the previous term, and now she can change her facial features as easily as she might change her clothes. Every time I take the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws for Potions, I have to make doubly sure that she is the same person I have been teaching for five years, and not some new, insidious manifestation of my symptoms. Luckily, she seems to be fond of bright, garish pastels and doesn't come to class with silver hair. I am not sure how well I would cope with such a thing.

The girl is convinced that I hate her, I am certain, when nothing could be further from the truth. But I cannot very well explain that her appearance—or the mercurial nature thereof, to be more precise—frightens me. For one thing, that wouldn't be very professional. For another, it would be more than a little hypocritical, considering the number of students who find my appearance frightening. So instead, I must simply suffer this burden in silence, and hope that the girl confines her shape shifting to others' lessons. And, of course, I hope that she will choose to opt out of NEWT-level Potions. Despite her dreadful clumsiness, however, she is a fairly good potion-maker, so I doubt that I shall be so lucky.

Once the bell sounds, I step to the front of the room and perch just on the edge of my desk. "Before we begin today's lesson," I begin, looking out over the sea of (thankfully familiar) faces, "I think it appropriate to remind you that next June you will be sitting an important examination, during which you will prove how much you have learned about the composition and use of magical potions. After this year, of course, many of you will cease studying with me. I take only the very best into my NEWT Potions class, which means that some of us will certainly be saying goodbye."

Here, a few students always sit up straighter in their chairs, and another few mime cheering that they think I cannot see. Yes, I am schizophrenic, but I am not blind, thank-you-very-much. Well, not that any of them know about my condition. Professor Dumbledore thinks it a good idea that no one know, apart from my fellow members of the staff. With the pervasive stigma attached to mental disorders, parents would begin pulling their children out of Hogwarts left and right. In fact, they would likely be more alarmed at my schizophrenia than to learn I was a Death Eater.

After clearing my throat, I continue. "But we have another year to go before that moment of farewell, so, whether or not you are intending to attempt NEWT, I advise all of you to concentrate your efforts upon maintaining the high pass level I have come to expect from my OWL students." Now, there is a general commotion as students get out textbooks and Potions kits, scales and cauldrons. I pause for only a few seconds, to allow the din to die down, before continuing.

"Today we will be mixing a potion that often comes up at Ordinary Wizarding Level: the Draught of Peace, a potion to calm anxiety and soothe agitation." And a potion with which I have been intimately familiar over the past several years, but I fail to mention that. "Be warned: if you are too heavy-handed with the ingredients you will put the drinker into a heavy and sometimes irreversible sleep, so you will need to pay close attention to what you are doing." Again, one group of pupils sit up straighter, and the other group roll their eyes at me. No, I am not exaggerating, you insolent pint-sized delinquents. Would you like the names of a few Incurables at St. Mungo's who did nothing more than have a sip of a badly brewed Draught of Peace?

"The ingredients and method are on the blackboard." I wave my wand in that direction, and the instructions I wrote out before the lesson appear. "You will find everything you need in the store cupboard." Another wave of my wand, and the door opens. "You have an hour and a half ... start."

Almost immediately, Miss Tonks' hand shoots into the air. Today her hair is a bright, florescent green, but other than that, her appearance is unaltered.

"Yes, Miss Tonks?" I ask, with a soft sigh, and unfortunately, I cannot quite meet her eyes. I can only hope, again, that she doesn't notice.

"Er, yeah, Professor," she begins, a finger planted on a page in the textbook, whilst her gaze shifts back and forth between the location in her book and the blackboard. "I think you've made a mistake with the recipe." Leave it to her to read ahead. "On the first line, it says to cut the caterpillars lengthwise."

I give her a curt nod, still not meeting her eyes. "I am aware of that, Miss Tonks, but if you cut the caterpillars diagonally—as I have indicated—you will find that you achieve better results."

"But the book says—"

"I know what the book says," I snap, a bit impatiently. I have made cauldronful after cauldronful of this potion, myself. I know the best way to produce it, regardless of what this author may think. "Books are written by people, who are fallible, and therefore, those books may also contain mistakes."

For next year, however, I shall have to look into finding a new textbook. One that does not include incorrect instructions for the Draught of Peace.

For a moment, she looks as if she is about to answer back once more—probably something along the lines of I am a person, as well, and so I can make mistakes just as easily—but she appears to think better of it at the last second. After all, I do have a reputation for taking points unfairly from any House but Slytherin, which can be useful on occasion. Like now. Besides, her precious ninety minutes to produce the potion in question are steadily slipping away. So, she puts her hand down, finally, and the colour of her hair mutes a bit as she begins cutting up her caterpillars—diagonally, I notice. Good. At least I got through to her.

Just a bit over an hour later, I look up from the papers I am marking, through the haze of steam pervading the classroom. "A light silver vapour should now be rising from your potion," I say, rising from my desk. Miss Tonks' hand goes up again, though not nearly as quickly as before. I also can't help noticing that her hair is barely green at all, now. Just a faded silvery-white, with only the slightest hint of green. I've already opened my mouth to ask what she wants (this time), but I don't have the chance.

"Professor Snape, I don't feel very well," she says, slowly. Her eyes then roll, and she slumps sideways in her chair, a trickle of silver trailing from the corner of her mouth.

Several other pupils, in rapid succession, keel over sideways in their chairs as well, and a cold chill washes over me, as I try to think what exactly might have caused this. Never in my life have I heard of a Draught of Peace so potent that the fumes alone put the drinker to sleep. Though Miss Tonks is in the worst state, as she has obviously drunk some, as well. I arrive at her worktable in three strides and reach out to check for a pulse, when it dawns on me.

Silver.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, folding my outstretched fingers into my palm. When I've opened my eyes again, Miss Tonks is conscious, with bright green hair, and she stares at my fist with wide eyes. "Is something the matter, Professor?" she asks, in a tense voice, almost as if she thinks I am about to strike her. The other students are wide awake as well and all staring at me, too. I draw my hand back slowly, swallowing, and shake my head. With the silver vapours this potion produces, apparently I didn't notice the hallmarks of a hallucination. Not straightaway.

"Ah ... no, Miss Tonks," I finally say, with another shake of my head. "Your potion looks excellent," I tell her then. To cover the awkward moment, I add, "As I said, cutting the caterpillars diagonally produces the best results." After clearing my throat, I turn to the class at large. "All of you, fill one flagon with a sample of your potion, label it clearly with your name, and bring it up to my desk for testing. Homework: twelve inches of parchment on the properties of moonstone and its uses in potion-making, to be handed in on Friday."

I return to my desk at the front of the room, resisting the considerable urge to bury my face in my hands, but with difficulty. Instead I sit and lean an elbow on the wood in front of me, reaching up to rub my eyes. The murmurs all around me in the classroom sound like the students, but at the moment, I cannot be entirely certain. It is easier, and less painful, simply not to look as they clear away. Finally the bell rings, effectively rescuing me from the embarrassment, and thankfully, once the classroom has emptied, there is silence. Real, unimagined silence. Thank God. At least, until a timid voice rings out through the room, echoing off the stone walls in the pervading quiet.

"Professor ... are you okay?"

I drop my hand from my eyes with a start and look up, to see Miss Tonks standing there, frowning down at me with anxious, but thankfully dark, eyes. My gaze meets hers for only a fraction of a second, before I swallow again and look away. "I am fine, Miss Tonks," I answer, a bit more shortly than I intended, before adding a quiet, "But I do thank you for your concern."

After a long moment of feeling her eyes on me, she finally nods and turns to go. I am fine, unfortunately. For me, this is fine. Or as fine as I ever will be. At the very least, I will know to be more careful when it comes to conducting this particular lesson in the future.

* * * * * *

"Quirrell? You can't be serious!"

Severus blinks at me through narrowed eyes, in that surprised yet suspicious look that I have come to know so well.

"And just what is wrong with Professor Quirrell?" I attempt to keep anything resembling mirth from my face and out of my voice, as Severus does not especially care for it when I become amused at his predicament. This time, however, my question could not be more sincere.

"What's wrong with him?" he asks, faintly, gazing at me as if I sprouted an extra head this morning. "He's afraid of his own bloody shadow these days. That's what's wrong with him."

Severus' classroom manner might not be the most conventional, but if I had begun my career with teaching students who remembered me from my own school days, I cannot say I would not overemphasise sternness, either. He simply has not bothered to alter his approach to teaching since then, to keep order during his lessons. Order is, after all, exceedingly important to him. We each have our own style; Hogwarts would be rather bland if we did not. And of course the students have certainly been performing well, as far as their scores are concerned. I do believe that teaching Potions is where Severus belongs, even if he might want the Defence job.

When Professor Wigworthy retired, in order to write his book, I thought the opportunity an exceptional one. This turn of events afforded me the chance to promote Severus to Head of Slytherin, as well as hire Quirinus to take over the vacated Muggle Studies post. I must admit I had not expected Quirinus to apply to teach Defence—especially following his disastrous sabbatical. So in that way, I certainly take Severus' point. Alas, my pool of applicants continues to dwindle yearly, however, and as I had only one other candidate for the position this year, I hadn't much choice. The other applicant, of course, is sitting across from me just now, but when I reminded him to submit his curriculum vitae at the beginning of the summer, as usual, I thought he fully grasped the situation.

"Forgive me, Severus," I answer with a shake of my head. "When I asked you to apply for the Defence position every year, I thought you still understood that it was merely to keep up appear—"

"Don't patronise me, old man!" he snaps, the suspicious look replaced at once with a glare. "I may not be as clever as you, but I knew perfectly well what you meant."

That causes me to smile, which I fear only arouses his ire more. The expression, however, is only because I believe Severus is every bit as clever as I am, even if he has considerably less life experience in terms of years. Then again, in terms of the hardships he has experienced, he could no doubt teach me a thing or two, and he certainly has, if I am honest with myself.

"If you did not want the post yourself, Severus, then what precisely is your concern?" I ask, once again repressing the smile in deference to his pique.

"My concern," he continues, and I can tell he is trying very hard not to speak through gritted teeth, "is how the students are to obtain a proper grounding in Defence if their teacher cannot even lecture them on the subject without twitching. Quirrell will be a laughingstock."

That is unfortunately true, and Quirinus has been the object of derision during his Muggles Studies lessons for the past year, as well. On the other hand, were I to ask for his resignation due to the pupils' less than generous opinion of him and his teaching abilities, I might have to let Severus go, as well. He is far from popular, except amongst his Slytherins.

"I fear that is simply my cross to bear," I answer at last, before handing him the rolls for this year's Potions students.

The glare resumes in full force; obviously Severus does not care for my disregarding his concerns this way, but it cannot be helped. Not with the rumours circulating with regards to the Defence post. Pickings are slim, and likely to remain so for the foreseeable future.