Metanoia - The Conversion of Severus Snape

Mondays were tedious. After watching the Quidditch practice yesterday, he had reinstated the second chaser. The third looked miserable, but had really not performed up to par. The new Seeker was passable - marginally. If they practised hard for the next month, they might be respectable at their second match. Slytherin vs. Gryffindor was the last match of the year, so they would have time.

But enough distraction. Snape looked down at the stack of parchment before him. Why had he assigned essays from all his classes last week? He would have to plan these things better. He'd finish the third years, so they'd be ready for tomorrow, and deal with the rest later. He sighed - eleven inches on the magical properties of moonstone, written by thirteen year old witches and wizards. This wasn't so much tedious, as it was painful. The transition from a world-class potions lab to a school was more drastic than he had anticipated.

He reached for his quill, then stopped with a jolt. His arm. He did not need to look at it to know - he was being called. What could it be now? He took a deep breath and considered the possibilities. Maybe the Dark Lord just wanted a report. He could come up with something about Dumbledore, surely. He even had some vague idea of what the Order was up to, and could reveal the non-essential parts. And if He wanted the Potters, he could claim ignorance as fairly as anyone - the family had disappeared a fortnight ago, and if Dumbledore knew where they were, he was hardly likely to let it drop at the staff table.

He closed the door to his office, and made his way up the stairs. Hearing the noise emanating from the Great Hall, he cut across to the staff entrance before making his way up to Dumbledore's office. Sure enough, the Headmaster was still at the head table, overseeing the festivities of a Halloween feast. Snape marched up to him, considering his words in such a public setting.

"Peppermint, Severus?" Dumbledore offered, smiling benignly at him.

"No, Headmaster. I'm going down to the village tonight."

Dumbledore seemed to catch his tone, and the twinkle faded from his eye. He glanced at Snape's hands, which were not empty. "Quite alright. Travel safely." He did not voice his questions or concern, but his creased brow revealed his discomfiture.

With a terse nod, Snape turned on his heel and left. He stepped out into the cool evening; a wind was picking up. Some dried leaves skittered across his path, but he made his way to the Gate without meeting anyone.

Once he stepped through and off the path, he opened his satchel and removed a silver hat. He tapped it with his wand, and it transfigured into his Death Eater mask. Then he tapped the satchel, and donned his robes. With a backward glance at the school to make sure he was not observed, he Apparated.

***

There were only a few Death Eaters at this gathering, but the Dark Lord was not alone. Snape was thankful for his mask; he didn't know why he had been called here, and he didn't want his uncertainty to show. They were silent, waiting, but few others joined them.

The Dark Lord spoke suddenly. "Friends, I have good news. As you know, I have sought out the Potters for some time now. Recently, they have eluded me, hiding behind the Fidelus Charm. But tonight, I can announce that their Secret Keeper has betrayed them, allowing me - "

Snape choked. He could not prevent the strangled cry from escaping his lips. The Dark Lord stopped in mid-sentence, fixing his red slits of eyes on Snape. He closed the distance between them, and quick as a snake, his hand plucked aside Snape's mask. A long white finger caught his chin, and their eyes met.

Snape was falling; the room was a swirl of grey fog. Memories flickered across his vision, too quickly to distinguish beyond flashes of colour. Through it all, the red eyes did not fade or blink. Then, crystal clear the memories paused. A girl was sitting in the Hogwarts Library. The afternoon sun slanted through the windows, turning her red hair to glowing copper. She sat by herself, absorbed in the book she was reading, a thoughtful look on her face. Her almond-shaped green eyes stood out against her light grey jumper. Lily, the first time Snape had noticed her, as a girl. She was in her third year; it was March, he thought. Then, sickeningly, the image began to peel away as if a corner had come loose. He moaned, but could find no words to protest. His mind fell into blackness.

Lucius had watched in shocked fascination as the Dark Lord confronted Snape. The tall young man had crumpled to the floor emitting a strangled moan. Lucius thought he heard Snape cry out, "No!" but the sound came from a long ways away. The Dark Lord stepped back, but Snape did not move. He lay on the ground, like a boneless doll. He suddenly spoke, his voice a harsh croak. "My Lord... my life... is yours... forever." He looked up then, his black eyes lifeless and unreadable.

The Dark Lord laughed - an unpleasant sound. "You know I reward my faithful servants. Why did you not ask me to spare the girl?"

"My Lord..." Snape began, then paused. He swallowed. "My Lord, I did not dare suggest that you change your plans."

"Do you dare it now?" The Dark Lord looked amused.

"Master, you know what I wish. Decide as you wish." An anguished look crossed Snape's face, but it was the anguish of a glimmer of hope.

The Dark Lord turned, addressing the gathered Death Eaters once again. "The Potters foolishly chose their Secret Keeper from among our ranks, allowing me to attack them in their home, where they are cut off from all help. I will send a clear message to the Order of the Phoenix, and all those in the Ministry who still oppose us, that to defy Lord Voldemort is to ordain the death of your children. James Potter will not survive this night. Nor will his son." He paused. "The Longbottoms will be next, but no family who opposes me will be safe."

The Dark Lord swept from the room, and the other Death Eaters Disapparated, or followed him to prepare for this...raid. Snape did not move until the room was quiet - empty. Only when the silence filled the room, filled his ears, filled him, did he dare to stir. He had been thoroughly cast aside - but being ignored was preferable to being killed. At least, he thought so. His mind was fuzzy, still reeling. He could not think. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. He looked up, and saw with a start that he was not alone. Another Death Eater stood not ten feet from him. The black boots closed the distance between them. Who...? He instinctively glanced up at the face, but the blank gaunt mask and overshadowing hood taunted him. His raised eyes met the outstretched hand above his head. A signet ring - Malfoy. A terrible shudder passed through his frame, and he spat rather than accept that hand. "You..." he said, his voice a hoarse whisper, as he scrambled inelegantly to his feet. His voice trailed off, his rage inarticulate, unfocused. "You brought me to this!" he practically shrieked, his voice strange and shrill. His hand went for his wand; Lucius' was already out.

"Now, Severus, be reasonable." He flicked his ebony wand warningly, but Snape was beyond reason. He muttered a string of incoherent curses. "Surely I did not bring you anywhere you did not wish to be?" Lucius asked, patronising as always. He deflected the Stinging Hex aimed at his shoulder. Severus was clearly not up to form tonight. "In fact, I seem to recall that it was you who asked to be brought to Him." A full shield charm was needed to block the next one - and it seemed rather nasty, too. "Do not pretend that your eyes were not wide open - foolish trust does not become you."

"Shut up, Malfoy." Low and dangerous, but still not himself.

Malfoy quickly side-stepped the next bolt of light aimed at him. "But as for your current predicament, Severus, I must say that I could not foresee that you would share your mother's poor taste. You brought this on yourself. Blood will out, I suppose. Pity - you showed such promise."

"Crucio!" Snape snarled. If Malfoy intended to reply, informing him what bad form it was to use Unforgiveables on fellow Death Eaters, he never got the chance. He threw himself sideways, rolling when his shoulder hit the ground. As soon as he regained his feet, after tripping slightly on the hem of his robe, he aimed a (silent) Petrificus Totalus at his friend, but Snape recoiled as quickly as a snake. Lucius' hastily cast shield charm blocked the next attack, and bought him enough time to cast his own counter-attack. Snape blocked his Confundis charm, which was just as well - the man's mind was addled enough already.

Several silent curses later, both men were still up, though Lucius had a cut on his cheek and had lost his mask. Snape sported a welt on his leg and a torn robe. Uneasily, they circled the room, eyes trained to wands. They had observed each other in battle before, but never on opposing sides. Belatedly, Lucius realised they were evenly matched, despite Snape's earlier lack of control. Just what had the Dark Lord done to him? "What is wrong with you?" Lucius hissed, and strangely enough, that seemed to work where his curses had failed. Snape stopped, stricken, a look of anguish on his face. Taking advantage of this lull, Lucius aimed one last curse. To his surprise, Snape Disapparated without a word.

***

Snape fled. He could not face anyone right now. He needed to be alone - utterly and completely alone. But he couldn't face the warm confined quiet of his house, either. He needed something raw - something colder and more impersonal than he was, to keep the emptiness that filled him at bay. He Apparated. He knew exactly where he was going - the place had sprung up in his mind, before Lucius even spoke. But he didn't have a name for the place. It was just there, and he knew.

The roar filled his ears first. It was dark, and he could barely see the rock-strewn beach. He looked up; scuttling clouds blocked the stars from his sight. The wind hissed, driving the water to dash upon the rocks. He listened to the discordant tones for a moment, the sound washing over him. But it did not bring release. He sank to his knees, not caring that the sand and gravel would catch in his robes. His head bowed and his body shook in a single convulsion, but no tears came to his eyes.

He had not even realised that that moment, that memory, was what he had been holding onto all this time. That was what had given him the courage to defy the Dark Lord. That was what had pulled him back from the brink. And now it was gone. It had been plucked from his memory, leaving only the knowledge of its absence. If he tried to recall her, only blackness and loss were there to taunt him. He was broken. He cursed himself. How could he be so weak? How could... how could something foolish like that matter so much? He had been, what, fourteen? A mere boy. He was supposed to have grown up since then. It wasn't right. He cursed the Dark Lord. He hated being putty in that man's hands, being gloated over and cast aside - being known.

The wind blew his hair across his face, whipping it into his eyes. Annoyed, he reached up to brush it aside - and froze. The sleeve of his Death Eater robe had slipped down, and the welts of the Mark were clearly visible on his left forearm. He stared at it dumbly for a moment, transfixed. All his hatred and loathing concentrated on this one object before his eyes, this object that connected him to his Master. He drew his wand and pointed it at the offending skin. He could get rid of this hateful, shameful reminder! "Sectumsempra," he murmured, and drew a deliberate line across the skull on his skin. The pain seared; his teeth clenched, and the intake of his breath was a hiss. Again he slashed, and once more again. Then he dropped his wand and tried to ignore the dull burning in his arm. His mind wandered into blackness.

He did not know how long he had been there when he felt the first raindrops. Surprised, he looked up, then down at his arm and saw the blood comingling with the water, blearily washing away. He roused himself, groped for his wand, and healed the foolish wound - Dark Marks could not be got rid of so easily, he was sure. He looked at the wand in his hand, as if seeing it for the first time. Why did the slender stick of black walnut feel strange in his hand after all these years? His mind seemed strangely clear. If he could trust the Dark Lord's mercy, Lily would survive this night. Though, she would doubtless be upset by the deaths of Potter and the boy. And he was to blame... he had been the one to tell the Dark Lord the prophecy in the first place. She would be furious, without anyone to take it out on... And there, shining clearly, was his answer. He would confess to Lily, make her realise that he was the perfect target for all her frustrated rage. With any luck.... Well, he only deserved it if she killed him. He knew he could work her into a panic, a rage even. He was so good at escalating situations, drawing out anger and focusing it on himself. His lip curled. That was one thing he could thank his worthless father for, he thought. He stood, shakily. The storm had intensified; the rain lashed his face in sheets. The sound of the waves crashing on the rocks had penetrated his mind and body. For a moment, he wondered idly if his heart would stop beating when he could no longer hear it. He Disapparated.

He was standing before the gates of Hogwarts on a quiet, dry night. He got his bearings, and then spoke softly, unlocking the gate. So strange, that Dumbledore would give him the keys to this place. He shivered, then walked up the path towards the ancient castle. His sodden robes clung to his back, letting the night air snake in and chill him. The stars were visible here, faintly illuminating the path, but he did not look up at them. Silver light illuminated Hagrid's hut, near the eaves of the forest. He pushed the heavy oak doors open, hissing when his sore left arm complained. The entrance, though only dimly lit, seemed strangely bright after the darkness of this night. It was not empty, and Snape automatically recoiled at the approach of another person.

"Severus?" a voice called. "I saw you outside." The Headmaster had waited up for him, then. Dumbledore descended the last of the marble stairs and crossed the hall quickly, stopping in front of his young Potions Master. One glance took in Snape's bedraggled appearance, but a look of concern crossed Dumbledore's usually cheerful countenance when his eyes rested on Snape's face. "What happened?" he asked quietly.

Snape laughed, a horrible, harsh, bitter sound. He struggled to find his voice for a moment; it seemed so out of use. "Tonight? Everything." Snape met the gaze of the blue eyes that were studying his face. "James Potter," he spat the name, "will not last the night. He and his son may already be dead." He did not know what he felt when he saw Dumbledore's face ghostly pale in the dim light. Was it fear or satisfaction or guilt? He was beyond caring.

The Headmaster recovered quickly, though. "And Lily?" he prompted.

Snape looked away, suddenly unable to face anyone, least of all Dumbledore. "The Dark Lord," he began, and then swallowed, "may... let her live. I don't know." Dumbledore placed a hand on Snape's arm (his right one, he thought thankfully).

"And why would he do that?" Dumbledore asked, his quiet voice sounding magnified in the otherwise silent hall.

"I... he broke my defences tonight." Why was it so hard to breathe? "He offered to spare her... as... as a gift to me." The words began to tumble out. "He saw... what she meant... to me. I... I couldn't stop him. I'm sure he will kill me the next time we meet."

Dumbledore gently pulled his arm, guiding him towards the stairs to the dungeon. It was only when they reached the bottom of the stairs that Snape realised he was crying. Why now? he thought idly. Dumbledore released him at the entrance to his quarters. With a wave of his wand, a bottle appeared in mid-air. "I suggest you drink this - it's Poppy's Dreamless Sleep potion."

"I know," Snape said tiredly. "That's my handwriting on the label." He was in no mood to be agreeable, and he glanced at the old man almost against his will.

Was that a smile that flickered across Dumbledore's face? "Good, then you can trust the contents. I'm afraid I must beg your forgiveness for leaving you like this. We can discuss what you have - and haven't - told me tomorrow. But now, you need rest and I need to take care of some things. Until tomorrow, then?" He waited for Snape's response.

Snape nodded dumbly, a single jerk of his head. He took the proffered bottle and entered his room. He heard Dumbledore's footsteps receding down the passageway. He was back. Not home. This place would never be home. He was constrained to be here. He scowled at the darkness. Damnable rooms. The house-elves had banked the fire so it burned low. He kicked at his furniture and made his way over to his bed, lighting the candles with his wand. Before he sat down, he glanced down at his robes and saw how filthy he was. Not a bath, not tonight. He was too tired, and did not relish the thought of feeling water on his skin. He couldn't be bothered right now - tomorrow would be soon enough. He peeled off his sodden robes, leaving them in a grimy pile on the floor. He pointed his wand at the washbasin, filling it with water. Then he took a towel and dabbed at his arm, brushing away the dried blood and slick of salt from the sea spray. Then he did the same for his leg. He swayed slightly on his feet. When he was satisfied that his arm would not get infected, he removed the rest of his clothes and pulled on a clean nightshirt. He flopped on the bed and lay on his back for a moment staring at the ceiling. Then, half rousing himself, he reached for his wand to extinguish the candles. Seeing the bottle Dumbledore had given him, he grabbed that instead. He raised it in a silent toast. To dreamless sleep... may I never awake. And then downed it. He dropped the bottle on the floor, then fell back against the pillow, senseless.

***

He woke with the taste of sandpaper in his mouth, accompanied by a swollen tongue and splitting headache. With a weak groan, he pulled the covers closer and rolled over, hoping to sink back into oblivion in their warmth. It didn't work. Tentatively, he blinked. The room was dimly lit, but that didn't help - this room was always dimly lit. He stared at the ceiling and frowned, trying to remember if there was a reason he was supposed to be awake. Since no panic surged through him at that thought, he felt at ease to consider other questions. Why did he feel so awful? What had happened last night? Memory started to return, and he wished it hadn't. The summons.... The Dark Lord... Malfoy... the sound of wind and waves... the beach... Dumbledore... that stupid potion. That must be why his head was so muddled this morning. He considered just going back to sleep, but he knew that would be useless, so he got up. He rubbed his head; he felt disgusting. His skin was clammy and grimy. Definitely time for a bath - and that would delay the inevitable of facing the world. Being a professor had its perks, he had to admit, though a private bath didn't really make up for having to put up with students. Then he snorted. After all, he could have had his own bathroom if he didn't work at Hogwarts, anyway.

After the bath, Snape returned to his room, feeling a little better. Though he had to reflect, as he dressed, that being clean didn't quite compensate for being sure that Malfoy or the Dark Lord would bring his life to a painful end in the near future. Or one of Potter's friends. Or Lily. This didn't bother him as much as it should. Maybe the potion hasn't quite worn off yet, he thought. Or maybe he just felt safe inside Hogwarts. Surely Dumbledore wouldn't let anyone in to... well, maybe he wouldn't keep Potter's friends out. It was only a matter of time before Black.... Snape froze, in the process of towel-drying his hair. Who had Potter used as Secret Keeper? Why hadn't he thought of that last night? Surely it was Black! And now Black had betrayed his own friend. Snape's lip curled. Perhaps he would go looking for Black, then. He wouldn't kill him right away, of course. He'd tell him exactly what sort of scum he thought he was first. Though, if the Dark Lord had done the questioning, Black was likely already dead. Pity. What a strange day. He nonchalantly accepted the certainty of his own death, and was sorry that Black was already dead. He glanced in the mirror and scowled. He looked ready to face the school, but he didn't feel it. What day was it, anyway?

Tuesday. Strange...the weekend seemed a long age ago. His first class was third years. He sighed. He hadn't finished grading their essays last night. At least they no longer gave him looks of betrayal every time he did something differently than Slughorn. That man had been here forever, and the classroom was stamped with his presence. He dragged himself up to the Great Hall, lost in his thoughts.

The chaos that greeted him when he arrived brought back his splitting headache. What the... The usual breakfast chatter had reached fever pitch, and jubilant youths were tossing all sorts of things into the air - fanged frisbees, pumpkin juice, school books and some concoction from that infernal joke shop that emitted sparks. Why were the children acting this way? He spotted Professor Flitwick perched on a stool at the end of the staff table, seemingly oblivious to the mayhem around him. "Flitwick," Snape called impatiently, "what the blazes is going on here?" His look was murderous, and Flitwick almost squeaked as he jumped up to reply.

"Haven't you heard? You-Know-Who has been defeated! The Headmaster cancelled classes and there's to be a feast tonight!" He paused, taking in the completely stunned look on Snape's face. "Er, I guess you haven't heard, then. Well, now you know. Oh, before I forget, Albus would like to see you in his office. 'At your convenience,' he said."

Snape turned on his heel and left without a word, his black robes billowing behind him. Breakfast forgotten, he stalked towards the gargoyle on the second floor that led to the Headmaster's Office. "Liquorice," he snarled when he reached it. He ran up the revolving stairs and banged on the door.

"Come in," the familiar voice called.

Snape wrenched open the door, stalked over to the desk and leaned both his hands on it. "What happened?" he asked.

Dumbledore looked up, as unperturbed as ever. "Please, take a seat." He gestured with his wand, and one of the chairs obligingly waddled over. Snape sat down, his black eyes never leaving Dumbledore's face.

The Headmaster sighed. "Voldemort went to Godric's Hollow last night, as you said, and entered the Potters' house." He hesitated, then continued gently. "There were three deaths. James' body was found on the doorstep." Snape was not breathing. "Lily was upstairs; she died near the crib where young Harry was found - alive."

Snape made an inarticulate sound in his throat; he was gasping for air. "No," he rasped, barely a whisper.

"Yes, I'm afraid so." Dumbledore's face was more careworn than usual, melancholy.

"But... Flitwick said... Sir, the students are celebrating!" Snape finally managed.

"That is because Voldmort also did not survive the attack last night."

"What?!"

"His own killing curse seems to have rebounded on himself," Dumbledore explained.

"I don't understand." Snape couldn't be more specific. Right now, the entire world seemed upside down.

"Neither do I, at least not fully," Dumbledore replied.

Snape's face was a study. His usually unreadable features were distraught, as he tried to bring them back under control - and failed miserably. Finally, they settled into a look of despair. "This is my fault. The Dark Lord never would have targeted the Potters if I had not told him that ridiculous prophecy." He stilled, and the despair gave way to a growing hatred as he remembered his thoughts of the morning. "But they would still be alive if that traitorous Black" - he spat the name, " had not sold them to Him!" He stood up suddenly, his eyes blazing at Dumbledore. "You told me you would see them safe! Couldn't you find a better Secret Keeper? One a bit more trustworthy or responsible? One who would not sell out his own brother?" Snape spun around, unwilling to look Dumbledore in the face. But Dumbledore did not need to see his eyes - his tense back and clenching fist revealed his internal agony.

"Severus." The mere sound of his name acted like a blanket, dousing his anger and rage, calming him against his will. Damn the man, he thought uncharitably. "I too am grieved by the loss of James and Lily Potter. There have been too many deaths, too many losses in this long war." Slowly, grudgingly, Snape turned to face him. He knew what Dumbledore meant by "losses" - he was hardly the only former Hogwarts student among the ranks of the Death Eaters. "But now it is over - at least for a time." He sighed again. Snape felt a thrill of fear pass down his spine as he suddenly noticed what an old man Dumbledore was. He had always been old, of course, but that hadn't mattered before. He fervently hoped Dumbledore would still be here ... when? His shook his head to clear it. "And for that, Severus, I must thank you."

His eyes shot up, boring into Dumbledore's again. "Hardly, Headmaster," he said harshly. "Last night, while the Dark Lord was murdering the Potters, I was standing witless by the darkened Sea, wallowing in self-pity."

"Yes," said Dumbledore, a frown troubling his face. "You haven't told me everything, yet." Gently, he asked, "Severus, do you recall why you were there instead of here?"

"Oh yes, quite clearly," he bit out bitterly. "I fled. Spineless, despicable creature that I am, I could not follow...the Dark Lord, I could not face Lucius Malfoy, and I could not find you. I did not raise a finger to help them," he practically sneered. Dumbledore's look of compassion was unnerving him.

"Before you are too hard on yourself, I should tell you that you returned to us moments after the defeat of Lord Voldemort."

Snape snorted. "How do you know that? I could have been keeping you from him."

"No, you did not. Headmistress Evelyn Wright had reported his attack to me before you arrived." Snape's jaw clicked shut, surprised, and he looked at the Headmaster suspiciously. How? "Her portrait at the Potters' home in Godric's Hollow was regrettably destroyed last night, but she managed to return here undamaged." He glanced up at a rather plump witch who was unconvincingly dozing in a portrait above his head...but her slightly flushed cheeks gave her away.

"Now Severus." His voice resumed a more business-like tone, which did not brook denial. "You must tell me what happened when you went to him last night."

Last night? That seemed ages ago, now. Haltingly, Snape pieced together the events of the previous night, dispassionately sharing them with the silent man seated in front of him. He picked idly at the window frame as he spoke, his eyes roving the carpet and the clutter...but avoiding Dumbledore and the portraits. He could not even face Dumbledore's bird right now. He did not tell everything, but Dumbledore no doubt read between the lines. The man was too perceptive for his own good.

When he fell silent, Dumbledore waited a moment, and then asked a single unexpected question. "Had you ever been to that beach before, Severus?"

Surprised, Snape looked up. "No. I don't even know where it was." Now that he thought of it, it did seem odd. How had he gone there at all?

Dumbledore nodded; it seemed he had expected that answer. "I imagine the Dark Lord had been there, though."

"You mean, he... sent me there?"

"More or less. To keep you out of the way."

"Well, it worked," Snape said bitterly. "You claim I only returned after he was...no longer...well..." He still couldn't think of the man as dead. The Dark Lord wouldn't die. It was... unbecoming.

"But do you realise that young Harry Potter is alive?"

Snape blinked. That piece of information was so incongruous, he had failed to accept it earlier. Now it finally went in. "How?"

"How indeed? How can anyone survive a killing curse cast by Voldemort?" Snape flinched. An impatient grimace flitted across Dumbledore's face, but he continued without comment. "The only magic that can do that, as far as I know, or rather guess, in this case, is the oldest and deepest kind - the power of love and sacrifice. No other counter-charm would have a chance. Lily died to save Harry. And that means," he continued gently, as the words sank in, "that Voldemort gave her a chance to live."

"No." With this whispered protest, all the remaining blood drained out of Snape's face. He stumbled, and fell heavily into a chair.

"Yes," said Dumbledore, "he acted on your suggestion. Lily would not have lost her life if she had not insisted on coming between the Dark Lord and baby Harry. But because she did so, her son was protected from that curse. It rebounded... onto the man who cast it. He brought about his own demise. This time."

Snape looked up, despair etched into his face, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "What do you mean, this time? Is he coming back?" To kill me? he didn't add. He noticed that all the portraits were watching Dumbledore intently, now, awaiting his response.

Dumbledore frowned. "I don't know," he finally said, softly. "No one has ever survived a killing curse before." He paused, concentrating. "But Harry Potter may not be the only one who escaped with his life last night." He looked at Snape, considering, and then allowed his gaze to shift to the young man's left arm. "Is the Mark still visible?" he asked softly.

Without a word, Snape unbuttoned his cuff and lifted his sleeve, revealing the Dark Mark as clear as ever, though perhaps slightly fainter.

He looked at Snape again, his penetrating gaze demanding. "What do you know about Tom Riddle's real plans?"

Snape laughed harshly. "Only the foolish Death Eaters think defeating the Ministry is the ultimate goal. The rest know that their Master is seeking immortality. He doesn't exactly share what he's done with the rest of us, though."

"Of course not," murmured Dumbledore, frowning at Snape's use of 'us' to describe the Death Eaters. "But he has done something. He has changed a great deal since he was a student here." Snape stirred, but said nothing. "He seems less human - I doubt he could be killed outright. No," he sighed, "Voldemort will surely return one day. In the meantime, we can prepare." He gazed at the room in front of him for a moment, clearly not seeing it.

Then he roused himself, and turned back to Snape. "But I am forgetting myself - have you had your breakfast yet today?" Snape looked at him stupidly. "Though of course a second breakfast couldn't hurt," he said with a smile. He conjured up a tea kettle, a plate of toast, and various pots of jam and marmalade. Snape suddenly realised he was starving; when had he last eaten? As he started on the toast, Dumbledore poured them both tea. He handed the ridiculous teacup to Snape, and then continued. "I hope you will be willing to stay at Hogwarts, at least until the end of this year?" Dumbledore asked politely. Snape choked on his tea, putting down the cup shakily. Trying to keep the fear from his eyes, he looked Dumbledore in the face and said, "I have no intention of leaving this school, Headmaster."

"I rather thought not," said Dumbledore with a quirk of a smile. "But I was, forgive me, not thinking of your own protection. I will need you here."

Snape snorted. "What for?" he asked derisively. "An example and cautionary tale for the students? Will I be paraded around as the ex-Death Eater?"

Dumbledore looked at him over the tops of his spectacles. "Of course not. Don't be ridiculous. Though it is true that I had hoped you might serve as an example to the students, particularly those in your house."

Snape made a face, which Dumbledore deliberately misunderstood. "More sugar for your tea?" he offered. Snape declined.

"Transitions are always difficult, as you yourself know," Dumbledore resumed the conversation. "I imagine it will be even more so for those students who view this past night's events as a cause for fear, not celebration."

"I view it as neither - it is a time of mourning," Snape said, daring the Headmaster to contradict him.

Dumbledore sighed. "I agree with you, of course - but that is not what we will see in the papers or on the streets. And that is why I need you to help your students through this. They won't trust me, because everyone seems to think that nothing can hurt old men who have seen it all before. But they will believe you."

Snape fought to hide the smile that was twitching at the corner of his mouth, but it escaped into a smirk. "Sir, I am not as...warm as you are. No student will come to me looking for guidance or help. And if they did...I would send them to you."

Dumbledore laughed, though it was more brittle than usual. "True enough! But your presence and example is what I am counting on. I have seen what you've done with Slytherin House in your first two months here, and I would like to see it continue. Do not give them reason to wish for Lord Voldemort's return."

At the hint of praise, Snape stiffened, and his face closed off again. He abandoned the teacup. "I can try, Headmaster," he said, standing abruptly. "If that is all?"

"Yes, for now. This will be a long and weary day."

*** *** ***