The Killing of Regulus Black

Chapter Two

Moody and Dumbledore Apparated behind two overflowing and odoriferous garbage cans in an alley next to a pizza restaurant. They slipped from the alley into the Charing Cross Road, blending with a crowd so hurried and diverse that two wizards in dark gray mourning robes did not draw a second glance.

Moody kept his voice down nevertheless. "So who's this fellow you've found who can do what McMahan couldn't? When McMahan was the best Occlumens in Law Enforcement?"

"He is an Apothecary at St. Mungo's Hospital. And, I will venture to suggest, he is an even better Occlumens than Andrew McMahan was."

"There wasn't any better than Andrew McMahan," Moody retorted. "Except maybe you."

"Ah," Dumbledore said softly. "I may have met my match in the art of Occlumency, Alastor. And possibly my master. But here we are." The Leaky Cauldron loomed suddenly out at them, between the book shop and the record store. "You shall soon meet him yourself."

#

Moody and Dumbledore turned in to the Leaky Cauldron. Moody blinked at the contrast between the bustling, sunwashed street outside and the dusky quiet within. Dustmotes floated on the sunbeams that slanted through the narrow windows. One young wizard lazily levitated darts, one after another, arching them through the air toward a dartboard fastened on the wall. The few other patrons of the pub looked up from plates of sandwiches and mugs of butterbeer when the door opened, but then returned their attention to their lunches without showing further interest in the newcomers.

Dumbledore approached the bar with Moody right behind him. The proprietor looked up from the firewhiskey glasses he was polishing.

"Ah, Professor, there you are. I've reserved a parlor for you. To the right, behind the bar."

"Thank you, Tom. And the gentleman I told you about--?"

"He's here, waiting for you. Come a bit early, actually."

"Good, good!"

Dumbledore led, again, into the parlor, gesturing Moody inside and closing the door behind him. Moody, squinting into a gloom even denser than that of the bar and dining room, made out a dark figure standing before the fireplace. The figure turned, and Moody saw it was a man: a sallow-faced, stringy-haired and -bodied young man with intense black eyes.

"Severus. Good of you to come." Dumbledore inclined his head politely. The old wizard could be positively courtly, Moody knew, when he wished. Especially when he wanted something from you. Or, better yet, when he knew he'd got it.

The young fellow nodded back, with a jerky, clumsy motion of his head. Then his eyes darted to Moody.

"Alastor, this is the Apothecary I told you about," Dumbledore went on in his mildest, easiest tone. "Master Potioner Severus Snape. Severus, this is Alastor Moody, Chief of Criminal Investigations in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

Snape hesitantly stretched out one of his skinny hands and Moody took it. It felt like a dead fish, and he released it as soon as he decently could.

They sat down at a wooden table on one side of the hearth and helped themselves to the sandwiches and beer which were set there. Dumbledore ate and drank heartily. But Snape, Moody noticed, didn't seem to have any more appetite than he himself did.

"Master Snape," Moody said presently. "Potioner and Apothecary at St. Mungo's Hospital. I suppose Professor Dumbledore has told you why I'm here?"

Snape swallowed hard. "Yes."

"You know about the--" Moody glanced at Dumbledore, who nodded almost imperceptibly. "All right, then. You know about the Order of the Phoenix? The Headmaster's told you about Andrew McMahan?"

"I know about the Order." Snape spoke in a quiet monotone. Not much life to him, it seemed. "And I was acquainted with Andrew McMahan."

Moody's brows shot up. "Were you, now?"

"I met him briefly last winter. While I was working in Azkaban, on a project for the Ministry."

"The Dementor business, Alastor," Dumbledore put in.

"That project," Moody said. "So what was your part in it?"

"To formulate a potion which would increase the susceptibility of Death Eater inmates to Dementors."

Moody waited, but Snape did not elaborate. "Long story short, eh?" He looked at Dumbledore. "Still don't see what it's got to do with us, Albus."

"You resigned from the project, did you not, Master Snape?" Dumbledore asked.

"Yes. I found it--morally repugnant."

"Did you? Don't know, myself, that the Death Eaters are getting any worse in Azkaban than they gave out to their victims," Moody said. "Reckon you have to be a good Potioner, though. Wasn't every Tom, Dick and Harry Barty Crouch assigned to his pet project. Congratulations. But I don't need a Potioner."

"No, we don't," Dumbledore said. "Potioning is how Severus earns his living. We need him for his other talent. And for his connections."

"Albus tells me your other talent's in Occlumency."

"I am an Occlumens."

Odd how the gentle firelight, so kind as to put roses even in Dumbledore's old cheeks, did nothing for Snape. He was as pale as a parchment.

"And your connections?" Moody asked.

Snape didn't answer at once. Maybe he felt Dumbledore's suddenly intent stare. He didn't meet it, though.

"I am--I was--a Death Eater," Snape said.

For several moments, there was no sound in the room but Snape's hard, short breaths and the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Then, the legs of Moody's chair scraped loudly over the floor as he slowly stood up. He placed his palms flat on the surface of the table and leaned over it until his face was inches from Snape's.

"What did you say?"

Snape didn't flinch, as many a seasoned Auror would have done. The Potioner simply eyed Moody.

"I believe you heard me, Chief."

Snape was one ugly git. That was saying something, coming from Moody, who knew ugly, who saw ugly every morning when he looked in the mirror. But the man had a beautiful voice, like the sound of a woman's hand smoothing a silk robe.

"Let me see it," Moody said.

Snape knew what he meant. His hand went immediately to his left wrist. But it took a while. Under his robes, he was dressed up like a Victorian clergyman. He had to unbutton the sleeves to a frock coat and a shirt under that before he could roll them and his robe sleeve above his elbow.

Wise of him, actually, Moody thought. Nobody was going to see that Dark Mark by accident.

"Sit down, Alastor," Dumbledore said. "Let me pour you another butterbeer."

Moody obeyed. He sipped slowly, deliberately at his beer while Snape, just as slowly and just as deliberately, rolled his sleeves back down and refastened all his fussy little buttons.

Moody's beer was half-drunk when he set his glass back down on the table with a firm clack!

"You said you were a Death Eater."

"That is correct," Snape said. "I am one no longer."

"And have you been disaffected for a while? Or did you just wake up this morning, change allegiances and pay Professor Dumbledore a call, all before breakfast?"

Red splotches appeared in Snape's paper-white cheeks. "I mulled over my choices for some time, naturally--"

"Liar!" snarled Moody. "You want to know what I hate, Snape? A Death Eater who thinks he can walk free. And you want to know what I rather like? The thought of the Dementors in Azkaban, giving you lot a taste of your own medicine. Mind you, I didn't like it at first. Even fought against it. But that was before five Death Eaters ganged up on the Prewett brothers. That was before a couple more invaded the McKinnons' home and killed Marlene, her husband and their five-year-old twin boys. Before who knows how many of you--or maybe Voldemort himself--tortured Andrew McMahan to death."

Snape flinched at the sound of Voldemort's name. Then he said: "It was the Dark Lord himself who did it."

That got a rise out of Dumbledore, when nothing else had done. His jaw dropped and his eyes widened when he turned to Snape. "Severus! You went back to him after--?"

"After I spoke to you, yes, Headmaster. I had to. He called all of us through the Mark, to witness the initiation of an Auror." Snape looked at Moody. "And not just any Auror, Chief. One of yours, a member of your Special Unit. The Lord was very proud he'd turned Andrew McMahan."

Moody brought his fist down on the table. The cutlery tinkled and the glasses jumped. "You see, Albus? He's lying! If nothing else, he could never have gone back to Voldemort after talking to you, he could never have faced Voldemort with that in his heart! Voldemort would have seen it! He'd have fried this lying son of a goblin and eaten him for lunch!"

"But he didn't!" said Dumbledore. And, far from being dismayed, he seemed delighted. "You went back to him, Severus, after you had spoken to me?"

"Yes."

"After you had confessed to me. After you had repented what you had done in the Dark Lord's service and returned to the side of the Light. After I had accepted you into my service. You returned to Voldemort. You took part in an Initiation Ceremony. You ate Voldemort's death. You took his power. You did all that, and what you had hidden in your heart--remained hidden."

"Yes, Headmaster," Snape said. Only now he was looking at neither Moody nor Dumbledore. He was staring down at his plate, at the sandwich out of which he'd taken only a few bites.

"So," Moody said. "I think I know what you're saying, Albus. He's sitting here in front of us with a nice, big black lump of Voldemort's death in him and another nice, big red lump of Voldemort's power--because you can't take Voldemort's mortality away from him and put it into yourself unless you take his power along with it. Or else you'll die. And even Voldy won't get far by killing all his slaves."

"Correct, so far," Dumbledore said.

"And you think he's Merlin's gift because he's got what Andy McMahan couldn't take: the Dark Mark."

"Pretty much so, yes," Dumbledore said.

Moody tossed his head contemptuously toward Snape. "He's branded like the rest of Voldemort's slaves. He ate Voldemort's death. So how do you know he's not playing a double game? How do you know he's not here for Voldemort, spying on us?"

"Because, to paraphrase a rather famous Muggle work, a light shone in the darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not. Death is obscurity itself, but it bides its time and it knows its place. My death does not obscure my sight and will not until the day it consumes me. And I do not blind myself, by trying to give my death, which belongs solely and uniquely to me, away to others, as Tom tries to do. I can see around the death of Voldemort which lies in Severus Snape's magical heart, because it is nothing of mine, it has nothing whatsoever to do with me. I can see around it and through it. I see the whole of Severus's magical heart, I see all of the man himself. And that Tom can never do, even though he is as much a Magical Examiner as I am. Because Tom's death, inside Severus Snape's magical heart, obscures Tom's magical sight. And so he does not see all of Severus Snape. My guess is he sees very little. And nothing at all of what Severus truly wishes to hide from him."

Moody glanced at Snape. The unprepossessing subject of their philosophical discussion was staring at his sandwich again.

"So what you're saying is, because McMahan didn't have Voldemort's death in him--because he couldn't take it into his magical heart--Voldemort saw through him. Knew he was pretending to want to join him. Knew McMahan's true intention was to infiltrate the Death Eaters as a spy for the Order of the Phoenix."

"Close enough. It's true there was none of Tom's death in Andrew McMahan. Nothing to obscure Tom's magical sight."

"So he tortured Andrew McMahan to death," Moody said. He looked at Snape, whose face was half-hidden behind a veil of greasy hair. "So, Snape. Did you watch?"

Snape lifted his head. "I've done torture," he said. "Why shouldn't I watch it?"

"Oh, really?" Moody said softly. "And might I ask whom you tortured? Or does a gentleman never tell?"

"The MacGregors."

Moody stared. Sylvia and Mellitus MacGregor. Aurors, once. Now residents of the Janus Thickey Long-Term Ward at St. Mungo's Hospital. Permanent residents, permanently insane.

"You make me sick," Moody said.

"Is that so?" said Snape. "While McMahan settled your stomach, I suppose. And died a miserable failure. What good did that do you or your Order?"

"No!" Dumbledore cried, for Moody's wand was out before Snape had finished. Its tip trembled and sparked as he fought the urge to rearrange Snape's ugly face.

"Put it back, Alastor."

Slowly Moody slid the wand back into his sleeve. "All right, then." He spoke to Dumbledore, but, his vision grayed with rage, he stared at Snape. "I'm going to be charitable. I'm going to assume that, after sucking down Voldemort's death, this whore is still stuffed to the gills with Voldemort's power. And that's why he can't keep a civil tongue in his head."

"Don't say the Dark Lord's name!" Snape said.

"Enough, both of you!" Dumbledore snapped. "No, Alastor. I have not had an opportunity to remove Voldemort's power from Severus's heart." He could say the name, Moody noticed. But then, nobody, including mangy Potioners, told Dumbledore whom he could and couldn't name.

"I thought it more important for us to meet you first," Dumbledore continued. "Our next stop is St. Mungo's. I will remove the power there."

"Lucky you."

"Lucky him," Dumbledore retorted. "The excision of unabsorbed foreign power is quite painful."

Moody wasn't displeased to hear that. Nor was it in any way unsatisfying to see the fear flitting across Snape's features.

An odd, furtive defiance replaced it. "I am the only one who can get close enough to the Lord and his Death Eaters to spy on them for you. Anyone else you'd send would die as McMahan did, because no one else you'd send would be able to take the Mark. As I have done."

Snape stopped.

"And why is that, Severus?" Dumbledore urged gently. "For one must have the Mark in order to eat Tom's death and receive his power. Didn't you tell me so?"

"Yes," Snape said. His voice had fallen so low Moody could hardly hear him. "In order to take the Lord's Mark at Initiation, one must love him."

"And you...." Moody's voice trailed off. He couldn't finish the question.

"I love him," Snape said softly.

Moody couldn't rouse himself to anger. Snape's revelation, like a blow to the gut, had knocked the wind out of him. He could only stare, speechless, at the scrawny, greasy, entirely unremarkable-looking Potioner.

"Severus has a true two-chambered magical heart," Dumbledore said. "In one chamber is enshrined his love for Lord Voldemort. There also he hides Voldemort's power and Voldemort's death. In the second, entirely separate chamber, shrouded in the magic of Occlumency, Severus cherishes his love for his mother, Madame Serafina Snape. And lately I've been privileged to notice in that second chamber a growing esteem for me."

"Well, aren't you in good company?" Moody said. "Voldemort and this chap's moth--"

"Shut your filthy mouth!" Snape spat. His face had turned a nasty brick-red color, like that of a man on the brink of an apoplectic fit. "As if you were perfect; as if any of you were perfect! Who was it who sent McMahan to the Lord, who led him to believe he could actually deceive the Dark Lord? And why did he think he could sham the love he needed to take the Lord's Mark?"

"So Andrew got that far into the Initiation?" Dumbledore asked quietly. "Tom actually tried to Mark him?"

Snape did not answer at once. Moody watched light from the fire and shadows stretching out from the corners of the room sweep over his face. "The Dark Lord tried to lay his Sign into McMahan's skin," he said at last. "And when the Lord saw that the burning of his hand was not ecstasy, as it should have been, but torment--he did not let go of McMahan's arm until McMahan was dead."

The image flared again in Moody's mind: McMahan's battered body, dumped in a filthy crevice of Knockturn Alley, lit by the lurid green of the Dark Mark floating above.

"How long did it take?' he whispered.

"An hour."

"An hour?"

"I believe so. I didn't check my watch."

It had taken less time to put that broken body in the ground. And Moody had cursed his poor stump of a leg--had thought himself quite ill-used by fate--when that stump, inside his wooden leg, had ached after standing through Andrew McMahan's funeral service.

"You didn't check your watch," Moody repeated. "Too enthralled, were you? McMahan's death was too good a show?"

Snape did not answer. Nor did his expression change.

"I don't care how many hearts you have or how good an Occlumens you are. You oughtn't to be allowed to foul the Order by joining it. You belong in Azkaban."

"Better men than I have died there," Snape said. "But the Head of your Order believes I would be of more use working under him."

"It's true, Alastor," Dumbledore said, before Moody could spit out the obscenity on the tip of his tongue. "Severus is the only person I have ever known who could hide his heart from Tom."

"So we should reward him for it? He's a Dark Wizard, a torturer, a murderer for all we know--but we should just let that pass?"

"I've never killed!" Snape said.

"He has never killed," Dumbledore said with quiet assurance. "As for rewarding him--think again, Alastor. As the price of our acceptance and protection, I am asking Severus to betray one of the two people he loves best. I don't call that a reward. I call it punishment. Which seems to be what you're looking for."

"Spot on," said Moody. He turned to Snape. "Right, then. I'm not going to ask why you love Voldemort. That's a conversation for another day. I want to know why, if you love him, you can betray him. If he shouldn't trust you, why should I?"

The question seemed to terrify Snape. Moody saw that in the quailing glance he gave Dumbledore. Dumbledore looked back at him impassively, implacably.

The Headmaster could be cruel sometimes, Moody thought.

Snape averted his eyes. Then, reluctantly, he lifted them to Moody. "I love him. But I can't serve him. I have to find some way not to serve him. He wants to rule the whole world, to make the whole world eat his death, so that he will live forever." He stopped, as if he knew how bizarre that sounded. But he didn't try to take it back. "It's evil. He's evil. I can't live with it any longer. I can't live with myself."

No one said anything after that for a couple of minutes. With a loud crack and a plume of sparks, a large log in the fireplace split apart. There was no other sound until Dumbledore spoke again.

"I trust Severus Snape." Dumbledore spoke to Moody, but, with the heart-piercing gaze of an Examiner, he looked at Snape. And, to give credit where credit was due, the fellow held up under it pretty well. "He has explained his motives to me, and I find them acceptable." Dumbledore broke off and turned to Moody. "He has accepted the requirements I will make of him. Every fortnight he will report what he has learned in his dealings with the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters to you and me. He must never kill, no matter what the consequences to himself of his refusal to do so. He must avoid casting the other Unforgivable Curses. If he must cast one, in order to preserve his cover and his life, he must mitigate its effects as much as he can. And he must report and justify to us each use he makes of an Unforgivable Curse."

"And his reasons better be good," Moody said softly, looking at Snape.

Snape looked back, cool as ice. "They will be."

"Yes, Severus, they will," Dumbledore said. "Because you know that each use of an Unforgivable Curse darkens the power of your magical heart, so that it more resembles Tom's heart. Each Unforgivable Curse you cast makes you more like Tom."

Moody had to admit he relished the sight of that deep, cold fear settling in Snape's eyes. Though you had to feel sorry for the son of a goblin, too. He might not want to live with himself. But that was exactly what he was doomed to do.

Dumbledore rose. "Well, then. I think we all understand each other. Severus, I'll be attending the Conference of Magical Examiners at St. Mungo's next week, and I'll be staying on afterward for a few days to consult with Constance Meed. Wait for me to contact you then. We'll firm up the schedule of times and locations for your reports."

Constance Meed was Chief Magical Medical Examiner at St. Mungo's. Something occurred to Moody when Dumbledore said her name, and he opened his mouth to speak.

Dumbledore spoke first. "Yes, Alastor, I consulted Constance about Severus, too. What I've said to you about his heart is what she has confirmed by her own examination."

The thing was, Moody knew Constance Meed because she was an expert in criminal insanity. But, after another glance at Snape, he decided not to pursue that topic. He shut his mouth instead.

Dumbledore smiled. "You'll have no trouble making the next meeting of the Order, Alastor?"

"Oh, no, Headmaster, none at all."

"Good. I'd like to speak to you privately afterward."

"Right," Moody said. He waited for the other two men to precede him down the stairs and out into the Charing Cross Road. It was just an old Auror's habit he had, to bring up the rear, so nobody was behind his back and out of his sight, because how else was he to know what they were up to? He didn't have eyes in the back of his head, did he?

****

Author's Note: Readers of "Snape's Return" might notice that I've tweaked the events of that story to fit the universe as we now know it since the publication of The Order of the Phoenix.

They might also recognize the surname Meed. Constance's sister-in-law is Prudence Meed, of the Hogwarts Board of Governors in "Snape's Return".