Mnemosyne

Mnemosyne

The future is built upon the bones of the present and the ashes of the past.

***

The potion stopped bubbling momentarily as Snape threw in a handful of bitter milkwort, then rapidly returned to a boil. Snape stirred twelve times clockwise, then counter-clockwise, his mouth twisting as he thought of the reasons for this particular potion's existence. The Order of the Phoenix was a pathetic match for Lord Voldemort and his legions of Death Eaters. Impossibly outnumbered and outmaneuvered, their only hope lay in gaining some insight into the future direction of the war. Of course, quacks like Trelawney were useless for such a duty. Time and again, Dumbledore stressed that the most important task was to prepare Harry Potter for the battles ahead. Much as Snape admired the Headmaster, he would sooner put the fate of the Wizarding world into Trelawney's hands than Potter's.

No, what was needed was certainty regarding the course of the war. Although tedious to prepare, the Mnemosyne Potion was a relatively simple concoction. The only reason for its rarity was the sacrifice it demanded: sixteen years' worth of memories in exchange for a single year's foreknowledge of the future. Time, it seemed, was a greedy beast.

One last time, Snape placed his wand to his temple, drew out the long and silvery thread of a memory, and added it to the Pensieve already full of swirling, vaporous threads. If he had looked in, he would have seen himself washing human blood from his hands for the first time, and the shock that finally shattered his composure as he realized that the evidence of such an unspeakable crime could be removed. The way his hand had trembled as he returned to Dumbledore's office, and laid his white mask on the Headmaster's desk. Years spent teaching squabbling children, and trying to convince himself that the darkness was truly past. The bitterness of failing to prevent the return of the Dark Lord. His exhausting daily struggles as a member of the Order of the Phoenix...

Snape hesitated for a moment as he lifted the Pensieve above the simmering cauldron, but his hands were perfectly steady as he poured its contents in. The potion hissed, bubbled violently, then suddenly became still. Snape dipped in a ladle and brought it to his lips. The taste of the potion was slightly reminiscent of the Draught of Living Death.

***

Snape woke up cold, disorientated, and sprawled on the floor of an unfamiliar room. He tried to remember why he was there, and failed. Nor could he recall entering the room, or even what he had eaten for breakfast. The only thing he could remember was that a summons would be coming soon. As he felt the Dark Mark burning on his left arm, Snape departed with a sigh of relief.

"Legilimens!" the Dark Lord hissed without preamble as Snape stepped into his presence. Memories darted to the surface of Snape's mind eagerly at the command. He was ten and desperately trying to call up some emotion other than disgust as his mother wept in a corner. He was fifteen and suspended upside down in midair, loathing Potter and Black with every fiber of his being. He was eighteen and being initiated into the Death Eaters, the sense of belonging felt more intoxicating than the rush of power. He was thirty-eight and grinning as Hogwarts burned, basking in the glory of their victory.

In between was nothing but a dark, featureless void.

"Welcome back Severus."

"My Lord, I was not aware that I had ever left," Snape answered as he reverently kissed the hem of his Master's robes.

Lord Voldemort's thin lips lifted into a rare smile, "No, now you have not."

The End