The Long Road to Damascus

THE LONG ROAD TO DAMASCUS
by Morrighan



PART 4: Twisted Phoenix





It was raining over Hogsmeade, not heavily, but with the kind of monotonous persistence that indicates many more hours of rain to come. The sky was a pale anonymous grey, the land beneath it dulled and subdued by its influence.

The chickens were not deterred in the least by the rain or the cold, but flocked eagerly round Hagrid's foot with excited whoops and squawks, pecking affectionately at the toe of his wellington boot. The ground inside the coop was slippery with mud, and Hagrid had to wedge his foot firmly against the chickens' trough to stop it from sliding. He picked up the pail of grain by his other foot and swung it over the wire, preparing to pour it into the trough. The chickens' gossiping intensified: Breakfast Breakfast Breakfast!

Hagrid was just tipping the pail when, out of the corner of one eye, he saw Fang prick up his ears, turning his head to look behind him. Fang had been sitting a little way off, nonchalantly feigning disinterest in the ritual at the hen coop. He'd once had a nasty peck on the nose from a particularly obstreperous cockerel, and, softy that he was, had kept well away from poultry ever since.

"What've yeh heard, Fang?" Hagrid asked, unconcernedly, but Fang's only reply was to start running off in the direction of the road to the castle, his tail waving enthusiastically behind him. "Fang! Heel!" The dog took no notice. Hagrid hurriedly tipped the grain into the trough and retreated from the hen coop, pausing only to wire the entrance together again before chasing after Fang. "Fang! Come ‘ere, yeh great dafty!"

Hagrid was still fifty yards away when Fang reached his destination: the main drive to the castle, empty except for a solitary stranger who was walking slowly in the direction of the castle. Hagrid ran faster, his boots squelching messily in the soft ground. "Fang!" he roared, more to alert the stranger ahead of him than from any expectation that Fang would listen to him. But he was too late -- Fang had reached the stranger and greeted him with enthusiasm, knocking him flying into a puddle and landing in a satisfied heap on the stranger's chest. Hagrid was just in time to pull him off before he started licking the stranger's face.

That face was the first shock of the morning. It was a mess -- mangled and bloody, covered in cuts and scars. It looked like he'd had seen the wrong end of the Excoriatus curse some time in the recent past. The eyes that stared up at him were as pitch-black as his own, but glazed and unfocussed -- empty eyes. Hagrid found himself hoping that this was just the shock of Fang's overenthusiastic greeting. Fang, bless him, was no featherweight, and people often seemed a little overwhelmed after meeting him for the first time.

Hagrid reached down and pulled the stranger to his feet, trying to ignore his odd appearance. The kid -- he looked quite young -- seemed familiar, but Hagrid, who rarely forgot a face, couldn't place him. He must have been a student here some time in the last ten years, surely.

"Sorry ‘bout that," Hagrid said, a touch breathlessly. "Don't mind Fang -- there's no harm in ‘im really. Just hasn' had his walk yet this morning. All right there?"

The stranger nodded dumbly. He was swaying slightly on the spot and Hagrid put out a hand to steady him. "Tell yeh what," he said. "My hut's not so far from here. I'll find yeh a dry robe an' we c'n get them scratches seen to. All right?"

The kid looked at him uncertainly. "I ... I need to see Dumbledore," he said.

Well, that was a different matter. "You gotta appointment?"

The kid shook his head and Hagrid hesitated, scratching his chin, his brow furrowed. Dumbledore had told the staff at dinner last night that he was expecting guests this morning and wasn't to be disturbed, but -- "Well, I dunno about that," he said hesitantly. "I think he's busy all this morning. He's a busy man, Dumbledore. Lots of calls on his time. I c'd see if McGonagall c'n help you. She's his deputy, see?"

"I need to see him." The same dead voice. No explanation, no elaboration -- and those unnerving eyes! Who was this kid? He was starting to make Hagrid nervous.

"Well ... he did say as he wasn't ter be disturbed. I c'd take yeh to Madam Pomfrey. She c'n fix your face up an' I'll see if Dumbledore can see yeh later."

"Face?"

It was at that point that Hagrid started getting very worried. Whatever mess this stranger was in, the Excoriatus Curse didn't even register. This sounded like real trouble. "So ... Why d'yeh want ter see him?" he asked cautiously.

The stranger stared blankly at him for a long moment, as if he'd totally forgotten why he was there. Hagrid's unease, if it were possible, deepened further. "Information," the stranger said at length. "I've got information for him."

Hagrid gave in. "I'll see what I can do. You come along with me." Under normal circumstances he wouldn't have dreamed of disturbing Dumbledore, but he couldn't help feeling -- well -- that these were not normal circumstances. He put the lead on Fang and left him tethered to a tree, and then steered his unexpected visitor in the direction of the castle.

Hagrid took one of the smaller paths to the castle, one that led, not to the main entrance, but to a small door set in the base of one of the towers. The door led through the North wing of the castle, which was almost entirely given over to teachers' quarters, and Hagrid took a far longer route than necessary through it, half-hoping to meet McGonagall or someone else -- anyone -- who could take the lad out of his hands without having to trouble Dumbledore. They didn't meet a soul.

When Hagrid finally stood before the gargoyle that led to Dumbledore's office he still had no idea if he was doing the right thing. What if his visitor was under the Imperius curse or something? He watched the kid surreptitiously for a moment, but he was doing nothing more dangerous than standing there quietly, staring at the ground.

Hagrid hesitated in front of the gargoyle, opened his mouth to speak, and then hesitated again. He hesitated a third time for good measure, and then spoke the password quickly before he could think better of it: Cockroach Cluster.

The gargoyle sprang aside, and Hagrid led his visitor up the gliding spiral staircase. Feeling very unsure of himself indeed he knocked on the door at the top. It had clearly been locked, for it did not open to them automatically, and it was a good fifteen seconds before Dumbledore opened it by hand.

"Ah, Hagrid. Is there a problem?" he asked briskly.

Hagrid hesitated again. "I'm sorry, Professor Dumbledore sir," he said. "But it's this man. He -- "

Dumbledore glanced casually over at Hagrid's companion, and Hagrid saw his normally genial expression freeze on his face. His heart sank. Knew I'd got it wrong, he thought, ashamed at his lack of foresight. Shoulda gone straight ter McGonagall. Shoulda let her handle this.

The silence lengthened as Dumbledore stared at the visitor Hagrid had brought him. The kid was looking fixedly at the floor, but after what seemed an age raised his eyes slowly to Dumbledore's face and immediately dropped his gaze again. It was almost as if he was -- ashamed? Hagrid was puzzled. Why had the kid wanted to see Dumbledore so badly if he couldn't even look at him, let alone go near him?

The long seconds of silence were starting to make Hagrid twitchy. Dumbledore was still watching the young man, his features frozen into impassivity. It must have been a minute or more before he broke the silence.

"Severus Snape?" he asked softly, his voice doubtful, almost disbelieving. The stranger raised his head again, and for a fleeting instant met the Headmaster's eyes. He dropped his gaze again and nodded briefly.

"Thank you, Hagrid. You were quite right to bring him to me. You'd better come in, Severus."

As the intruder followed Dumbledore into the circular office beyond, Hagrid happened to catch sight of his hands. They were as bloodstained as the face, the blood caked thickly around the fingernails. With a sickening jolt he realised that those scratches on the lad's face had had nothing to do with the Excoriatus curse. His next reaction was of guilty relief that the kid was out of his hands. At least Dumbledore would know what to do. Dumbledore always knew what to do.

Great man, Dumbledore.

* * * * *

Snape followed Dumbledore into the room and watched as Dumbledore shut the door firmly behind them and took his wet cloak from him, hanging it on a hat stand by the fire. He wasn't thinking about that he was going to do -- he wasn't thinking about anything. He just stood there, by the door, waiting unresistingly for whatever fate awaited him. "Before we do anything, Severus, let me take you to Madam Pomfrey to deal with your face."

It took a moment of incomprehension before the sounds gained meaning and became words. Madam Pomfrey. Matron. Hogwarts. School. He shook his head dumbly. No.

Dumbledore looked as though he was going to say something, but clearly changed his mind. "Very well. But you had better let me seal up those scratches. They may not trouble you, but many people would find your appearance a trifle ... unconventional."

Snape shrugged, and Dumbledore led him over to an East-facing window where the light fell full on his face, and, placing a hand on the top of Snape's head to steady it, began to draw the tip of his wand lightly over the lines of the ripped skin.

Now this was an ordeal that he had not expected. This was pure undiluted terror. Dumbledore's face was directly before him, barely an arm's length away from his own, full of a merciless blazing brightness -- and in the midst of that face the ice-blue eyes, which had never before seemed so terrible. The touch of Dumbledore's hand against his scalp seemed to him to burn like fire, its firm weight preventing him from escaping the implacable face before him. It took all his self-control not to flinch away from the wand's tip -- to knock it away and then turn and run, back to the hazardous safety of the shadows that had spawned him.

He reminded himself that the motionless face watching his own so closely was concentrating only on repairing his injuries, but that expression -- surely of nothing more than extreme concentration -- had all the pitiless intensity of a drill bit.

Finally -- at last -- the wand and hand were removed, and Dumbledore stepped away from him to inspect his handiwork.

"That should do well enough for now," he said briskly. "I am not a trained mediwizard, so you will need to get them seen to properly later. If you want to wash, the sink is over there."

Snape walked over to the sink obediently, and washed his face and hands. He could feel faint raised lines where the scars had been, but there was no more blood.

When he returned, Dumbledore was seated at his desk, and waved him into one of the two chairs opposite. There were cups and a teapot at one end of the desk, and he watched unthinkingly as Dumbledore poured two mugs of tea and passed one over to him. He cupped both hands round the mug, and felt the radiating heat of the tea gradually easing its way through his fingers. The rest of his body still felt cold and sluggish.

Dumbledore was adding sugar to his own tea, and Snape watched the gnarled fingers abstractedly. One ... two ... three spoonfuls of sugar, the slightly lopsided circles with which the tea was stirred, the soft clink as the spoon was laid down on the saucer. The Headmaster took a sip of his tea, and then settled back in his chair, as if he had not a care in the world. Snape never noticed the closed, guarded expression in the light blue eyes.

"Now, Severus," Dumbledore said at last, "What can I do for you?"

It seemed too much effort to speak at first, and he sat there in silence for a few moments before he could bring himself to move. Then, slowly and deliberately, he removed the wand from his belt, holding it carefully by the middle instead of in the spell-casting position, and reached over to place it on the desk in front of Dumbledore, almost out of his own reach.

"I wish to give myself up," he said.

Dumbledore said nothing. He did not touch the wand, but his scrutiny of the young man before him became more intent. Snape tried to look him in the face but found he could not. After a moment he forced himself to continue.

"I have been doing terrible things," he said lifelessly. "I've been working for Lord Voldemort. I'm one of his Death Eaters -- I've killed ... so many people." There was no answer, and Snape braced himself to tell the worst. "Headmaster ... I was one of those who destroyed the Welsh school."

He heard the sharp indrawn breath the Headmaster gave, felt him start to his feet -- and when he looked up he saw Dumbledore standing over him, wand in hand, with eyes that blazed with cold fury. The force of his gaze had been painful even when it had signalled nothing but detached scrutiny; now it burned with barely-restrained power, with all the brightness of magnesium in the flame.

"You tell me this! You have the nerve to come here -- to Hogwarts -- and tell me you were involved in that massacre?"

"I came to surrender." He was mumbling, and some remote corner of his brain despised him for it.

"But you came here. Why? Did you need so badly to throw your guilt in my face?"

Snape stared at the ground. The anger and pain in the Headmaster's voice could be read all too clearly. He heard Dumbledore move towards him and then felt the tip of the wand pressed to his forehead. He tensed instinctively, and then relaxed. The fear of death that had held him back earlier had evaporated now. So much easier this way. So much quicker and cleaner.

"There are many who would kill you without a qualm for what you have just told me," Dumbledore said harshly. "Consider yourself fortunate that I am not one of them. I would not debase myself for the likes of you." The wand tip was removed, but Snape did not look up.

"Is it murder to destroy a mad dog?" he asked softly. "I would have done as much myself ... but I didn't have the courage."

"You are no dog, Severus. You have the power to choose your actions -- and with that power comes the responsibility for them. You have abused that power through your own choice, in the worst possible way. A mad dog would have more excuse for its actions."

The Headmaster fell silent, and when he spoke again his voice was measured and even, the raw emotion it had displayed before held under tight control. "You should never have come here, Severus. Do you understand me? Had I known that you had been involved in any way in the destruction of Ysgol Hud Myrddin I would have had Hagrid take you straight to the Ministry. I would never have allowed you to set foot in Hogwarts or its grounds." He reached for a bell that stood on the desk beside him. "Unless you have anything further to say I will send for Hagrid now, and have him escort you to the Magical Law Enforcement Headquarters."

"Headmaster," Snape said quickly before he could allow himself to think better of it. "I need to ask -- "

"A favour? After what you have told me, what right have you to ask favours?" Again, that burning rage, laced with an icy contempt that Snape had never thought to hear in the Headmaster's voice. He did not dare look up at him, though he could feel the heat of Dumbledore's gaze on him. A tiny corner of his brain kept saying, with infuriating naivete, I thought he would listen ... I thought...

Dumbledore sighed impatiently. "Ask if you must. You can hardly expect me to help you."

"L -- Lily." He stumbled over the name awkwardly. "It was Lily who found out who -- what I was, Headmaster. She's gone to give me up -- the Aurors are probably looking for me already. They'll want me to stand trial." He could see the anger in the Headmaster's eyes and burst out unhappily, "Don't mistake me, Headmaster -- I'm not trying to escape justice ... I don't wish to." The words deserted him and he had to force them out, one at a time, deliberately. "Headmaster, I know too much. If I stand trial, anyone who testifies against me will be in danger -- grave danger. Lily must not testify against me. I'll give a full confession, with Veritaserum if you want -- anything -- but don't let them place Lily -- or anybody else -- in danger because of me. I've damaged the world enough already. For my sake don't let my trial hurt anyone else."

The reply was silence, heavy and oppressive. He felt the Headmaster's eyes burning into him for what seemed an eternity.

"And this is your only request?" Dumbledore asked slowly. "Why? What brought on this ... change of heart?"

I -

He had to force himself to speak it, had to prise out every word from deep within himself to lay it before the Headmaster. The story sounded pathetic and inadequate in the cold light of day, a sorry, sordid, shaming tale. That he had attempted to kill Lily, that he had not prevented his friends from killing the Muggles in the pub, was despicable and unjustifiable in ways that he had never realised before.

"And those scratches on your face were of your own making?" It was not really a question.

"Yes."

Dumbledore sighed softly. "If you told the Ministry what you have told me, you would not be sent to Azkaban." He paused, seemed reluctant to continue. "You would be handed over to the Dementors to be executed." The distaste in his voice was clearly audible.

The Dementor's Kiss... Snape drew in a shuddering breath, feeling suddenly cold. So that was to be the penalty. However painful and drawn-out any death could be, it did at least mark an end. But this brought no end with it. Most, he imagined, would say that it was no more than he deserved. And were they wrong?

He looked up slowly and met the Headmaster's eyes, feeling once again that anomalous mixture of calm hopelessness that had been his companion in the hours before dawn. "So be it," he said softly.

"You would not resist such a fate?"

"No." My life is over. It hardly matters what becomes of me now. "Just so long as you don't let them put Lily in danger for my sake -- just so long as I don't get the chance to hurt anyone else. It's the least I can do." "Then it is too little, too late."

Snape flinched involuntarily at the words, his body tensing in the face of Dumbledore's anger as the Headmaster went on. "You say that it is the least you can do: you are exactly right. There is much that you could have done for the world, had you chosen. But you chose instead to serve Voldemort." The words rang out loud and resonant in the silent room, like the tolling of a bell heard too close. "You have spent five years as a Death Eater. You know what you have done -- you know how serious your crimes have been. Now you tell me you want me to hand you over to the authorities so that you can be executed -- as if that could wipe out what you have done. But it is not enough, and it never could be, however terrible your punishment is. What reparation will that make to the families of those you have injured?"

"I -- If I could make amends I would -- but I can't -- nothing can wipe out..." His voice trailed away. Pointless to protest to good intentions; stupid to protest at all, in that contemptible, self-pitying whimper. This was no more than he deserved, and less -- so much less -- than many law-abiding wizards would have given him.

Dumbledore said nothing, and Snape could feel those terrible eyes boring into him, twin searchlights that pierced through him, exposing all the dark places of his mind in their pitiless glare. When the Headmaster spoke again the anger had left his voice: there was just pain -- pain and a deep heartfelt grief. "Severus -- child -- what brought you to this? Why did you let yourself follow him?"

Dumbledore's anger had been hard to bear; his grief and disappointment were almost unendurable. Snape tried to find words -- any words -- in which to answer him, but there were none. He shook his head dumbly. His reasons had been so insufficient. Boredom, anger with the world, the unhealthy fascination with the Dark Arts that he had possessed since childhood. All inadequate. Stupid.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and the words felt like they had been dredged up from deep inside himself.

Dumbledore was watching him again: he could feel the pressure of his gaze and shrank back into his chair, but the Headmaster's voice when he spoke was sad and gentle. "Severus, do you remember what I said to you, the night James Potter saved your life?"

He remembered, far too well.

(This room, eight years ago. Himself seated in this very chair, trying to hide the fear of what he had just witnessed behind an incandescent fury that deceived nobody. James Potter standing a little way from him, calm, collected, and oh so dignified -- not at all like someone who had just risked his life to save his bitterest enemy. Dumbledore, sitting at his desk, looking from one to the other of them with a very serious expression, telling him that he should thank Potter for saving his life. His own angry refusal. Potter walking out, telling Dumbledore he wasn't bothered either way. And then Dumbledore turning to him with an expression even more serious, and telling him that he was in Potter's debt for the rest of his life. And when he laughed scornfully, saying that he'd have nothing to do with Potter if he could help it -- )

"Yes. You told me that Potter had given me my life." He inhaled slowly, painfully, the tiny sound drowned by the utter silence of the room. All he could hear was his own heart, slowly beating its lopsided rhythms. "You told me to use it well, for my own sake, if not for his." And if I had listened -- "It's too late for that now."

"Is it? Yet you are here now," Dumbledore said quietly, surveying him speculatively over the top of the half- moon glasses. "Lily didn't go to the Aurors, you know. She came to me."

Snape lifted his head and stared at the Headmaster, uncomprehending. There was a heartbreaking sadness in the Headmaster's eyes, and something else. Something -- calculating?

"James gave you your life; Lily has given you more even than that, if you choose to take it. And now you have surrendered to me. You have placed your life in my hands. If I were to give you a second chance now, would you use it well? For both your sake and mine."

"I ... Headmaster, you're looking at a murderer."

"Yes. You have been a murderer -- but I'm not talking about the past, Severus. I'm talking about the future. The past is past; what the future holds is up to you."

I have no future.

"I am not offering you freedom or mercy," Dumbledore continued, "and I will not offer you death -- you will still stand trial for your crimes either now or later, and pay the price for them. But if you truly are sorry for what you have done -- if you genuinely wish to make amends for your actions -- then I can use your help."

"I -- Yes." The words came out as a whisper. "If I can do anything..."

"I want you to go back to Voldemort. I want you to spy for me."

Go back. To Voldemort. An instant - an instant only of incomprehension, and then the dawning horror. "You want me to -- Oh God! I -- " He whispered, and then stopped, fumbling for the words. "Headmaster, if I go back to him... You don't understand, Headmaster, I'm not safe. You don't know how easy it would be for me to go back completely -- to start killing again. I can't be trusted." It had been hard to speak but now he could not stop, the words tumbling and stumbling, incoherent but all too clear. "You don't know what it's like, you've no idea -- you can't have -- what it's like when you want to kill. It's like a fever in the blood, it's a constant itch somewhere at the back of the skull -- it calls to you -- and when you do it -" His voice trailed off, and it was a moment before he could continue, in an unsteady voice. "I didn't just kill because I was ordered, but because I enjoyed it. If I go back to that again -- You don't know how easy it was ..."

His voice cracked and he could feel tears -- shameful, humiliating tears -- rising up inside him, threatening to overflow. He stood up abruptly and half-ran, half-stumbled to the window, where he stared at the relentless rain outside as he strove to regain control of his face and voice. After a few seconds he felt a hand on his shoulder, and Dumbledore pulled him round to face him, staring into his face with bright, fierce eyes. "Severus, listen to me. Do you wish to make amends for your actions or do you not? If you do, then do so. It is as simple as that."

"You don't understand! If I go back I'd probably be killing again within days. I -- " He stopped, and swallowed awkwardly, willing his fragile self-control to stand firm.

"No. I don't think you would," Dumbledore said firmly, his voice slow and deliberate. "You didn't come to me lightly, Severus. It wasn't self-interest or damage limitation that led you here." He reached out and touched, very lightly, one of the new scars that covered his former pupil's face. "It took a lot to bring you to me, didn't it?" he asked softly. "It caused you a lot of struggle and pain. Do you think that can be set aside so lightly? You're not who you were two days ago. Do you really think you could just -- revert -- without a struggle?"

His voice became more urgent, and his grip on Snape's shoulder tightened perceptibly. "You've come this far, Severus. Don't give up now. If you truly desire to make amends then do it. I believe you can and I am giving you the chance to do so. Don't cast it away lightly." He removed his hand from Snape's shoulder and said to him in a softer voice, "You are not a dog. You have the responsibility for your actions. Take it. Use it -- and use it well."

Snape stared back at him, the fear naked in his eyes, fear not of the Dark Lord or the Dementors, but the far more potent fear -- of himself. The Headmaster continued, in a detached, factual voice. "What I am asking of you will not be easy. It will be dangerous and difficult, and, if you put a foot wrong, probably fatal. Think carefully before you decide. Take your time. If you still feel unable to help me, I will have you taken to the Ministry and let them deal with you. If you accept my offer ... well, we'll discuss this further." He returned to his chair and lowered himself into it, leaving Snape standing alone at the window, staring out into the rain.

The grounds were not empty now. He could see three boys outside, crossing the lawn under the cover of a huge red golfing umbrella, their faces hidden under its shade. They walked slowly along, in the direction of Hagrid's cottage in the distance. Their robes were black; the robes at Ysgol Hud Myrddin had been the creamy white of unbleached wool.

But for the accident of birth and language, they too might have been numbered among his victims.

"I don't deserve your kindness," he said bitterly. "I really do not deserve it."

"This is not kindness. I need help that only you can provide, if you so choose. I am not offering you an easy task, or a safe one."

Snape continued to stare out of the window, looking over the top of the Forbidden Forest to the mist-veiled mountains beyond. I wanted an end, he thought dimly. I wanted to be out of temptation's way -- out of harm's way. And now...

And now, he had a choice. On the one hand, the Ministry, and the Dementor's Kiss, the punishment that awaited him. On the other, the Dark Lord, and his own despicable past life, which by some miraculous alchemy he had to turn to good. And if he returned to the Dark Lord? Either the Dark Lord would catch him, subject him to torture or to whatever ingenious torment seemed most fitting, and, eventually, kill him -- or the Hit Wizards would track him down, send him to the Ministry and have him executed. Looked at practically, there was very little to choose between them.

Except for one thing: the towering monument of Dumbledore's trust.

It was unmerited, undeserved, illogical, and Snape was dimly aware that only a day before he would have despised the Headmaster for offering it. But it was warm -- the only warm thing in a world that seemed suddenly all too cold.

To be offered such unmerited trust -- to be given the opportunity, if not of redemption, then at least of making some partial amends -- it was almost beyond belief. And at such a price! But was any price too high to pay for that trust?

The three children had gone, and for that he was grateful. To see their slight figures and ungainly gaits had twisted at his heart. If anything could prevent ...

"Yes," he said finally. "I can do it. I will do what I can." His voice sounded thin and feeble in his ears. He took a deep breath and attempted to pull himself together. "After all, I don't suppose you get potential spies every day," he said weakly.

For the first time that morning Dumbledore smiled, a fleeting bittersweet smile that touched his eyes only for the barest instant. "No ... I can't say that I do." And then it was gone, and his face settled back into its solemn mask. "Well done, Severus. And thank you."

Snape leant against the alcove of the window and shut his eyes for a moment, trying in vain to contemplate the enormity of the decision he had just made. Spy, undercover agent, saboteur. Traitor. Oath-breaker.

No. It was too strange to take in -- too complex and alien, and he was so tired. He could feel the room spinning slowly round him, a tilting, disorienting spin that he always experienced when he'd missed a night's sleep. He opened his eyes and the feeling gradually receded as his eyes adapted protestingly to the light of day.

There was a sudden flurry of wings from a corner of the room, and as he looked round, the phoenix, Fawkes, landed on his shoulder in a blaze of red and gold feathers. The phoenix looked down at him, examining him with bright, dark eyes, lively and inquisitive, tilting his head first one way and then the other, as if to view him from every angle. Meet your master's newest acquisition, he though wryly. One Death Eater, slightly foxed.

Fawkes continued to scrutinise him closely and then lowered his head and let a single tear fall onto his forehead. He flinched, half expecting it to sting or burn, but it ran gently down his face with a touch as light and soft as summer rain. It brought memories with it, of her smile, and her trust, of the warmth of her hand in his. What had she ever seen in him? And, whatever it was, was it enough to help him now?

He raised his hands slowly to his face and touched where the scratches had been: the scars were gone, save for the faintest of raised lines. The phoenix took off again, and Snape felt the wing feathers brushing gently against his cheek as Fawkes flew back to his perch.

He walked slowly back to his chair and flopped into it. "So what happens now?" he asked wearily.

"Now? Breakfast would seem like a good idea."

"Breakfast?"

"The first meal of the day. Generally considered the finest repast known to man or beast."

"I know what -- " He stopped abruptly, realising he was being teased.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. There was a slight smile on his face. "That's more like it, Severus. I was beginning to wonder if you were an impostor after all. No -- actually I was about to go down to breakfast when you arrived. I don't suppose you've eaten either." He picked up a small silver bell that stood on a table next to him and rang it twice. There was a soft popping sound and a tea-towel-clad house-elf appeared. It bowed low, its batlike ears almost brushing the carpet.

"Professor Dumbledore Sir?"

"Ah yes. Barky, isn't it? Could you provide breakfast for my guest here and myself?"

"At once, Professor Dumbledore. What foods is you wanting?"

"Whatever you have got left from breakfast, Barky."


"That will do very well. Thank you. Oh, by the way ..." The house-elf, who had disappeared, popped suddenly back into the room. "My guest here ... You haven't seen him, you don't know him, and you guard his secrets as you would my own."

Barky's face took on a faintly affronted expression at this. "Of course, Professor Dumbledore," he said, and vanished immediately. There was a distinctly reproachful tone in his voice.

A second later there was a soft pop and a pair of plates appeared on the Headmaster's desk, each containing two kippers and thickly buttered bread rolls. A jug of milk and two empty glasses appeared a second later, and Dumbledore looked a touch embarrassed at this.

"Ah. Perhaps I should have been more precise," he said. "I always drink milk with breakfast, and the house- elves have never quite realised that not everybody does the same." He picked up his own plate and passed the other to Snape, who took it absently. "Well, eat up, then. No point in letting good food get cold."

Snape ate the salty fish with mechanical obedience -- it could have been anything for all he cared. He was vaguely aware that he hadn't eaten since the previous morning, but there was no hunger -- he just felt tired and slightly sick. At least he was gradually beginning to feel warm again, and the grey haze through which he had been viewing the world began to dissipate, the room around him regaining the colour and definition it had always had. It occurred to him suddenly that he was indeed hungry, and he began to eat faster. He even drank some of the milk, savouring its slight sweetness, a quality he'd never even noticed it possessed before.

He finished the food and set the plate back down on the desk. It vanished immediately.

"Better?" Dumbledore asked, and Snape nodded. "That's good." He thought for a moment, his fingers steepled under his chin. "I will ask you once more. Are you sure you are willing to spy for me?"

"Yes." He spoke quickly, allowing himself no time to think about the future. "Yes," he said again, more firmly. "I'll do whatever I can, whatever it costs me."

"Very well." Dumbledore regarded him narrowly over the top of the half-moon glasses. "Now, if you are ready," he said, "there's quite a bit I'd like to know. Would you mind answering some questions for me?"

Snape nodded. It occurred to him suddenly that this moment was the significant one -- the moment of commitment, the final point at which he could turn back. He had agreed to help Dumbledore, but he had not yet done anything. If he spoke now he would be committed irrevocably to his new course of action.

At this point, if he so chose, he could weave Dumbledore such a web of lies as would set him and his vigilantes back years and send many of his most able helpers straight into the Dark Lord's hands. The Dark Lord would reward him greatly for turning such a situation to his advantage; Dumbledore would never even suspect him. If he played his cards correctly -- and he would -- he would escape both justice and retribution, from either side.

Or, if he so chose, he could break the oaths he had sworn to his master, betray his secrets and many of his fellow Death Eaters, and then, almost certainly, be hunted down by the Dark Lord's security mages and killed, like the vermin he undoubtedly was.

There was no question at all which option would be safer for him. He contemplated it for a short moment, and then rejected it, angry that it should even have occurred to him.

"You'll need Veritaserum, Headmaster," he said.

"No Veritaserum. It is your responsibility alone to speak truthfully or falsely as you will. I will not take that responsibility, or that choice, away from you. I will then have the enviable task of deciding whether you have spoken truthfully or not."

Snape laughed incredulously. "You cannot be serious, Headmaster! Surely nobody in their right mind would accept my word without proof." He sighed, frustrated by the Headmaster's obstinate folly. "Headmaster, I insist. I will say nothing unless ..."

His voice trailed away as he noticed, for the first time, the peacefully poised Sneakoscope in the exact centre of the mantelpiece.

"You ... That was ..."

"You see?" Dumbledore said gently. "The Sneakoscope has been there all along. If you had been attempting to deceive me at any point I would have known immediately. You did not."

A fine spy you're getting, Headmaster, if he can't even notice what's right under his nose. "Maybe not ... but -- Headmaster, there are a hundred ways to fool those things -- it was one of the first things the Death Eaters taught me. How do you know I didn't use a stasis spell on it when I first entered the room? Or a shielding charm on myself?"

"You didn't. I was watching you closely, and you have not had the opportunity to cast any spells since you entered the room. As to the shielding charms, I would hardly have been able to repair your cuts if you had been using one. And besides ... since you have only just noticed it was there -- "

Snape looked dubiously up at the spinning object on the mantelpiece. In truth there were only six ways of fooling Sneakoscopes, five of which required a wand. Right now he did not have the strength for the sixth, even if he had wanted to. "All the same, Headmaster, I would prefer to use Veritaserum."

"Severus," Dumbledore said very seriously, "There will be no Veritaserum. It is unnecessary."

"No. It is necessary -- for my sake, not for yours. I don't want there to be any doubt about whether my word can be trusted or not. Your minions may not be as trusting as you are -- I hope very much that they are not, for your sake." He fished in the pocket of the Muggle shirt, and brought out a tiny bottle, still there from the misadventures of the previous day. "Veritaserum," he said firmly. "I'm taking it, whether you will or no."

Dumbledore smiled at that, and, remarkably, there seemed to be warmth in his smile. "Very well, Severus, since you insist. But let me provide the potion." He went to a cabinet that stood beside his desk and returned a second later with a small bottle that was almost the double of Snape's, filled with a clear colourless liquid.

Snape took the bottle from him and inspected it with professional interest. It was not the best that could be had - - but it was not far off. He nodded approvingly and uncorked the bottle, noting the lack of odour, and then added three drops of the liquid to his now-cold cup of tea. He hesitated for a moment, and then added a further two, before stirring the tea with the thoroughness of the trained potioner.

"You know it is unwise to exceed three drops, Severus," Dumbledore said. Snape made no acknowledgment of the comment and drank down the entire mug of tea.

It had always astounded him, how fast Veritaserum acted. He was still setting the cup down when the slight numbness it brought on began to steal over him. The light-headedness and lassitude followed a few seconds later.

"I am ready," he said in the flat emotionless tone that was symptomatic of Veritaserum at work, his speech slurring slightly as its grip over his mind and body tightened.

Dumbledore surveyed him closely for a long moment, his eyes dwelling on the mass of incongruous curly hair, tangled and matted with blood. "Very well," he said. "We'll start at the beginning, then. How did Voldemort's followers first make contact with you?"

* * * * *

The clock had just struck noon when he finished. Dumbledore had proved to be a thorough and methodical questioner, without any of the artifice, the swift changes of subject, the sudden bursts of hostility, that a Death Eater would have found essential for interrogation. It seemed he had an interest in everything: the organisation and hierarchies of the Death Eaters, their modus operandi, the locations in which they met. In particular he asked a lot about their recruitment procedures and how the recruits were trained. It occurred to Snape for the first time how little the outside world knew of the Dark Lord and his followers.

The Veritaserum had worn off a little under half an hour before, as Dumbledore had been asking about the raids in which Snape had participated, leaving him to struggle through the words without the potion's help. Only once had Dumbledore stopped him, and that was when the subject of the Welsh school came up. "I don't need to know the details," he'd said, sounding upset and tired. "Just give me the names of those involved. Nothing more."

It had been a relief -- it had been beyond relief -- when Dumbledore had declared that he had heard enough. His face was bleak and forbidding, and Snape was reminded anew of the brutality of his past.

They sat in silence some minutes before Dumbledore finally spoke, still with that stern, forbidding expression on his face. "There are two conditions," he said, "under which you undertake this for me. The first is that you do not kill by any means, whether magical or not." Snape opened his mouth to speak but Dumbledore held up a hand. "No, it will not be easy -- I do not know how you will get round this prohibition when you are working for Voldemort, but you must find a way. You have the intelligence and ingenuity to do this -- and do it you must. There must be no more deaths by your hand." Snape bowed his head in acceptance. "As to the other two Unforgivable Curses -- I imagine that they are not so easily avoidable. Nonetheless I would ask you not to use them, if any alternative at all is available. Remember that each time you use one of them, you are committing an unforgivable act against your victim, and one that will be laid to your account should you ever stand trial.

"The second condition is this: that you must never enter Hogwarts or its grounds again -- under any circumstances. I dare say this will be an inconvenience both to you and myself. I will find other ways to make contact with you, and you will abide by those. Do you understand me?"

Snape nodded, mute. All too clearly, Headmaster.

"There is one other matter," Dumbledore said briskly. "If you should be killed -- "

‘When', headmaster, ‘when'. "If I die, headmaster, tell Lily ... Thank her for me. Tell her that what she did was not in vain."

"Certainly, Severus. And your family? Do you want them to know that you have been spying for me?"

"Nero and Aggie? Tell them if you wish. I don't suppose for a moment that they'll care." He could imagine their reactions. Nero, plump and suited, saying in his plummy faux-aristocratic voice: "Was he really? How very singular. Well, Severus always was a law unto himself." Agrippina, her hard face waspish: "A double agent! Well, I knew Sevvie was stupid -- but I never thought he'd be that stupid."

"As you wish. Is there nobody else whom you would wish to tell?"

"No ... Nobody." It was probably symptomatic of the emptiness of his life or something equally telling, but Snape found he didn't particularly care. If Dumbledore noticed the one obvious omission he did not comment on it. "Very well. Then we had better -" Dumbledore stopped abruptly as he saw Snape tense, heard him gasp in pain. "Are you all right?"

Snape clutched convulsively at his left arm, feeling it shake under his touch. The summoning -- he was so used to it that it scarcely even registered -- had never felt like this before. He gritted his teeth as the pain flooded through him in waves. "The Dark Lord's summoning us," he choked out. "If I don't go he'll-"

"One moment. May I see?"

Snape pulled up his sleeve impatiently, and Dumbledore examined the mark in silence for a few seconds. He even touched it, very gently, with a long forefinger, and watched as the young man flinched and wrenched his arm away.

"Very interesting. Thank you, Severus -- I won't keep you longer."

"So what do I do now?" He could hear the edge of panic in his voice, and despised himself for it. Childish, Sev, childish. Get a grip on yourself.

"Just act normally," Dumbledore said calmly. "Obey all orders and don't take any risks. Don't make contact with me, or anyone else: I'll be in touch with you as soon as I can." He stood up from behind the desk and picked up Snape's wand, and then gathered Snape's cloak from the hat stand. He handed them back to him as they reached the doorway. "Whatever you do, be careful ... And good luck."

Snape turned to go, unaware of Dumbledore staring after him as he descended the stairs.

* * * * *

Dumbledore stood in the doorway watching, long after his former pupil had disappeared from view. It was quite possible that he had just made the gravest mistake of his entire career.

He had just sent a young man with a violent past into a situation where he would be surrounded by violence, and was expecting him -- somehow -- to keep himself untouched by it. It was as foolish as sending a recovering alcoholic to work at a brewery, and as cruel. And here, too, the stakes were so much higher. If they had not needed that information so badly -- if anybody else at all had been available --

God knew, the situation was bad enough. The Ministry, if they would only admit it, were all but on their knees, and the Irregulars (as he called his small band of vigilantes) had suffered heavy losses over the last few months. They'd tried, repeatedly, to plant spies among Voldemort's supporters. Three of them had wound up dead within weeks; the fourth had tried to assassinate him under the influence of the Imperius Curse. The spies they did have were all on the edges: people who lived in the shadows, but who, for whatever reason, were willing to pass on what little they knew -- overheard conversations in dingy pubs, cryptic scraps of parchment, thirdhand gossip.

Well, now he had his spy. He'd learnt more in one morning than in the entire previous ten years, and he'd sent the boy back to learn more for him. But what he had set in motion, he had no idea.

He sighed and shook his head. What was done, was done. Too late to worry about it now.

"Knut for your thoughts, dear," said a voice at his elbow, and he turned and smiled weakly in the direction of the voice as his companion removed her invisibility spell.

"Arabella! I'd almost forgotten you were there." The woman who had appeared by his side was a short elderly witch dressed in Muggle clothes with a hearing aid in one ear. The bird-like frailty of her build was belied by the shrewd cynicism of her face, and the assurance with which she handled her wand, which was still pointing through the open doorway. "Actually I was just wondering if I was the greatest fool in wizardry."

Arabella took the door handle from him and shut the door firmly on them. "Not really. Just a little more trusting than is generally considered wise in this wicked world. Alastor and I usually manage between us to keep you from making an idiot of yourself, but today -- "

"Yes," Dumbledore said heavily. "Today. That's exactly the point. I have no idea what exactly I have unleashed on the world. But to send him to the Dementors-" He sighed. He had not moved from the doorway so Arabella took his arm and steered him to a chair in front of the fire, pushing him into it with strength that her tiny frame did not reveal she possessed. "Arabella, you know how I opposed the use of the Dementor's Kiss. I would not have it used on anyone. No -- not even on Voldemort himself."

"I think I can safely say you're in a minority there," Arabella remarked drily. "Most people would be quite happy to have the likes of your young friend summarily despatched."

"I cannot agree. It solves nothing, just as Azkaban solves nothing. Oh yes -- it gratifies our desire for revenge, but revenge does not heal us, and it cannot help those whom we have lost. Throwing them into Azkaban does not make our criminals less criminal, and it does not prevent the recurrence of the crimes we are punishing." He gazed thoughtfully into the fire, as if trying to trace the outlines of a better world in its embers. "I would sooner see them freed of whatever pushes them towards the dark. I would have them put their crimes behind them and rebuild their lives on a sounder basis -- willing to help those whom they have injured, and cancel out their debts by more reliable means than imprisonment. I would have them rise, phoenix-like, from their own ashes into more worthy lives."

Arabella took the other chair by the fire, and, removing her glasses, polished them thoughtfully. There was an unexpected tenderness in her face. "I know, Albus. You would heal the world, if you could. And I honour you for it. But it's not possible -- people don't change. Not in any fundamental way."

"Don't they, Arabella? Do you really believe that?"

There was no answer to that. Arabella said nothing.

"I didn't trust him when he came into the room, Arabella. I'm not so sure that I do now. You certainly don't -- I can see it in your face. But Fawkes did. That is what is so remarkable: Fawkes trusts him."

"Hmm..." Arabella turned and scrutinised the bright red and gold bird, who looked back at her with intelligent amusement. "I'm not sure I agree with your judgement on this one, young man." She turned back the Headmaster, and was relieved to see that he looked less upset. "That kid. Tell me, what was he like when he was here? You must have known him when he was a student here."

Dumbledore pondered this for a moment. "Oh yes. I'm afraid he was a most unpromising child. Objectionable, arrogant, defensive, very vindictive. He had an encyclopaedic knowledge of hexes and their uses -- and, I'm afraid, he used it. His first action on arriving here was to establish himself as somebody you didn't push around. Within his first month he'd duelled -- and beaten -- every single bully in his own house, and a couple in the other houses."

"A bully himself, then?"

"Not really. He didn't push around those weaker than himself, but that was only because it was more challenging to bring down his equals -- or his superiors. I lost track of the amount of times he and young Sirius Black got into fights with each other."

"And when Voldemort first appeared?"

"Well ... that surprised me somewhat, especially given the suspicions about his father. Severus wasn't one of the loud Voldemort supporters that some of the Slytherins were -- we kept a very careful eye on those, as you can imagine. He had an almost psychopathic indifference to it. ‘People die all the time. What difference does it make?' He seemed to have no sense of the way the world should be."

"So -- one of those. I know them well." Her smile was bittersweet, heavy with hundred-year-old memories.

"And his friends too ... All of them now serving Voldemort. There are times, Arabella, when I wonder if I have failed completely in my duty to the world. We always take such trouble with the Slytherins, as you know."

Arabella smiled grimly. "I know. Back in the 1860s we were left pretty much to chance. That's why there's been so much trouble this century. At least you and Vindictus do what you can."

"Well, we did take precautions in this case -- and they failed, dismally. You remember that he mentioned Evan Rosier as one of the Death Eaters?"

"The one who died back in January? Yes."

"Well, he was always one of the more ... dependable ... Slytherins. He was illegitimate, but his father, I believe, came from an old Hufflepuff family. Professor Viridian and I encouraged him to mix with Severus' crowd because we thought he might be a good influence on them -- and now I find that he, too, joined Voldemort."

"Yes. Well ... Who knows what lies underneath? After all, you hardly expected young Severus to turn up here this morning, did you."

"Well, no. I must say I didn't" Dumbledore pulled out a red and white spotted handkerchief and wiped his forehead. "You know, I can safely say that that was one of the most tiring mornings of my entire life."

"I'm not surprised, Albus. It looked hard work." Arabella chuckled grimly. "Birth is a messy business; rebirth doubly so."

"If you say so, Arabella. I'm not sure I'd have put it quite like that."

Arabella removed her glasses and polished them pensively on the corner of her cardigan. "You know," she said thoughtfully, as she resettled them on her nose. "That was most disconcerting. Every time I looked at him, I could have sworn I was seeing Kezia. If it weren't for his height he'd be her very image. Particularly with that hair of his -- so exactly like hers."

"You knew Severus' mother?" Dumbledore looked abruptly across at his companion, who merely polished her glasses at him again.

"Yes," she said thoughtfully. "After Grindelwald was killed I spent three years in Israel, working for a Muggle charity in Jerusalem. The Israeli magical community have almost nothing to do with the Muggles, so I saw very few of our lot out there. I ran into Kezia quite by chance, just after I arrived there. She'd have been about sixteen, and running a bit wild -- passing herself off as a Muggle and the like -- all the things pure-blood kids do to annoy their parents. Very proud, with a terrible temper -- as hot-blooded as they come. I'd have said she was the last person in the world you'd expect to marry a Snape."

There was a long silence, as the two ancient magicians both thought their own thoughts. The fire was burning low, and Dumbledore used a charm to transfer another log onto it.

It was Arabella who spoke first.

"She's a most remarkable young lady, isn't she, that Lily Potter."

"Oh yes. She always was. She has this -- knack -- of altering the world. Lily can change people simply by meeting them in the street. Even Voldemort can't do that."

"Did she know what would happen, do you suppose?"

"You mean, when she asked me to wait until the morning before calling the Ministry? Yes, I've been wondering that as well." He sighed, but this time there was no sadness in it. "As to that ... well, I suspect we'll never know."

* * * * *

Four minutes late.

The school grounds were empty again, as the rain continued to fall steadily. Snape had chosen a path that was not overlooked by the castle, and started down it, forcing himself not to break into a run. The soil underfoot was thick and miry, clogging the treads of the heavy Muggle boots. A momentary flash of recollection reminded him that this was a path he had once walked with Lily. He lengthened his stride and continued, seeing the cover of the Forbidden Forest ahead.

Nine minutes late.

Once he reached the cover of the forest, he allowed himself to run, trying to calculate as best he could the quickest route to the edge of the grounds. Branches whipped at his face, dripping brambles caught at his cloak, and the evergreen leaves he brushed past sent cascades of water over him. He was drenched again by the time he reached the school boundary, and stepped over it, panting at the unaccustomed effort.

Twelve minutes late.


Sixteen minutes late.

He snatched his wand up and then disapparated again.

He had miscalculated the apparition slightly, and landed almost directly in front of Lord Voldemort. The Dark Lord turned and looked intently at him, his face blank and unreadable.

"Master - I regret my lateness!" Snape burst out, trying to get his breath back. He came forward and prostrated himself before his former master.

"Rise." He did. "Why are you late?" He stammered something inadequate about a potion coming to the boil, aware that he was explaining too much, repeating himself.

Somebody in the circle sniggered, and he recognised Lestrange's voice. It was not hard to guess what Lestrange was thinking.

The Dark Lord was looking piercingly at him. "I think not." He let the words linger in the air as he surveyed the young man in front of him. Snape tried to keep his mind blank, squashing down the fear that kept intruding. "I do believe our young friend's been out wenching. Just look at him."

Belatedly, he took stock of his appearance. He was out of breath, and his robe was already creased and sweaty. His mask was so crooked it was a wonder he could see out of it. Gauging their master's mood, the other Death Eaters laughed. To his shame, he could feel himself going red. Unbidden, Lily's face came into his mind. The Dark Lord was still looking intently at him.

"A red-haired young lady, is she not?" he said casually.

How dare he! A wave of incoherent rage washed over him, bitter resentment at the intrusion. He embraced it instinctively, drew it around himself like an invisibility cloak, the first layer of defence around a storm- damaged soul. Lord Voldemort started to laugh, a low amused chuckle at his outrage.

"That is better, my young friend. Pleasant as such diversions undoubtedly are, you should not allow them to stand in the way of your duty. Take your place in the circle, and let us begin. We have much to do."

He took himself to his place, holding on to his anger as to a life raft. Only safely within the anonymity of the circle did he let himself relax. He was back, he was safe, and he was not suspected. Yet.

All he had to do now was the impossible.