The Dream of One Night

CHAPTER TWENTY

Severus

The attack on Mr Finch-Fletchley could not have come at a worse time in the year. End of term marks were due in the headmaster's office the day after at midnight. Fortunately, I would not be required to take a night patrol shift until Christmas Eve, allowing me just enough time to finish the last of my correcting.

The time right before Christmas also required an extra duty of me. In a few days, it would be the anniversary of my mother's death. Every year on the twenty-third of December, I returned to my home in the south of Britain to tend my mother's grave and check on our now empty family estate. Because of the recent attacks at Hogwarts, I assumed that I would have to forgo this year's pilgrimage. It pained me to do so, but I did understand that my mother was dead, and the students remaining over the Christmas holiday needed my presence more.

I spent the entirety of Tuesday afternoon filling out the students' term report sheets to be passed in that night. Avrille had not been at dinner the night before, and she had attended neither breakfast nor lunch that day. I was concerned but knew there was nothing I could do at the moment. Under the pretence of her missing an appointment with me, I had inquired of Avrille to Madam Pomfrey. Madam Pomfrey stated she had not treated Avrille in the infirmary this day or last, but she assured me she would check on her in her rooms before dinner. There was nothing else I could do but finish my own work and hope Avrille was well.

However, that was easier said than done. Quite often I found myself staring off into the distance with my thoughts wrapped around Avrille like my arms had been the day before. After she left my office, I had pressed my lips against the damp spot her tears had left on my robes. Her floral scent lingered on me for the briefest time before disappearing like her dried tears. My hands could still feel the smooth satin of her hair beneath them... Needless to say, it took me hours to complete marking which should have taken less than half that time.

When I eventually finished the students' report sheets, I knew I had to finally complete the task I had been delaying all week; Avrille's first term evaluation needed filling out. After a few minutes of rummaging, I managed to locate the form at the bottom of a pile of N.E.W.T. level students' essays. I placed it square in front of me on my desk and read over the questions. They were all very straightforward such as, "Describe the apprentice's general attitude throughout the first term" and, "Has the apprentice exhibited any behavioural concerns? Please explain with specific dates and details if applicable."

What to write? Avrille was the most sublimely perfect apprentice a professor could ever ask for. I obviously could not write the things I was thinking most of the time such as how just seeing a glimpse of Avrille in the corridors made my life finally worth living, and if she ever suddenly quit the apprenticeship I would most likely kill myself. Nevertheless, I set myself to try and fill out the form as dispassionately as I could.

As I slowly completed the questionnaire, I started to become paranoid. Was it obvious from my answers that I utterly worshipped her? I had nothing negative to report because she was ridiculously competent and even, I believed, over-educated for the apprentice position. Should I try to think of something to criticise just so it sounded more believable? I thought about what Pomona had most likely written. I knew Pomona adored Avrille, so it was unlikely that she would have anything negative to say. In the end I just did my best to answer the questions truthfully. I knew that even if I was not in love with Avrille, the answers would be the same. The fact was she was the best apprentice I had ever had, and that made me love her even more, not the other way around.

Avrille was not at dinner. Besides her absence, the staff table was actually quite full. I knew many teachers who normally would have returned home for the holidays were staying behind now at Hogwarts to help with the new security measures. Everyone was talking about yesterday's attack.

After eating, I gathered my paperwork and headed to Dumbledore's office. I found the headmaster seated at his desk, deep in thought as he was apt to be lately. He had so much more to bear than the rest of us, because, in the end, he would be the one held accountable for whatever happened to the students. The governors were already restless, and it was only a matter of time before things came to a head. Either we in the school would have to solve the mystery of the attacks, or the bureaucrats would force some sort of baseless, inconvenient resolution to appease the worried parents.

"Headmaster," I said quietly since Dumbledore was too absorbed in his pondering to notice I had entered.

"Ah, Severus. I apologise." Dumbledore straightened in his chair. "Your marks?" he asked as I handed him my folder.

"Yes sir, as well as Mistress Asphodel's first term evaluation."

Dumbledore opened the folder and quickly skimmed through the leaflets. "I have had a chance to read Pomona's evaluation already. She states Avrille is doing exceedingly well in her half of the apprenticeship. Would you say the same?"

"Absolutely," I replied. "Mistress Asphodel's performance has been exemplary. Although..." I paused. Even though I knew it was in Avrille's best interest, I still felt guilty bringing the subject to the headmaster's attention. "There is something on a different note I wanted to address. Minerva came to me yesterday with the schedule for the night-time patrol shifts. I would like to suggest that Mistress Asphodel perhaps be excused from the duty. Since she has had no visible restoration of any magic usage since starting here, I believe the threat to her own safety is greater than the benefit she might add to security."

Dumbledore nodded as he continued to scan the evaluation. "Yes, I quite agree. I regret that the situation here has been occupying all of my attention. I had wished to spend more time personally with Avrille for assessment, but the circumstances have rendered that impossible. I shall speak to Minerva about the patrol shift."

He closed the file folder and slid it into a desk drawer. Then he stood and withdrew several sheets from a stack of papers on the corner of the desk. He walked towards me as he glanced over them. "Yes, I see here she has put you down for Christmas Eve. Good. That won't interfere with your absence tomorrow, then."

"Sir?"

Dumbledore looked at me pointedly over his spectacles. "Tomorrow is the anniversary of your mother's death. I assume you shall be going back to your estate."

I was very touched that Dumbledore had managed to remember despite all the chaos of the past few months. "I had not planned on it. I didn't think it necessary considering the state the school is in."

Dumbledore placed his hand on my shoulder. "Severus, I appreciate every single day of work you have done these past few months. I am not so selfish as to impede your duty. Go home. The school will be fine for one night." With a pat on the back, he signalled that I was dismissed.

"Thank you, sir," I said gratefully and left the office.

I went to bed early that night, the first time in well over a week. I wanted to be well-rested and clearheaded so I could devote my full concentration to the tasks needing completion at the house. Because I neither lived there myself nor kept any servants or house-elves in my employ, there were several things I did every year to keep the house and grounds in a state of relative upkeep. For instance, each year I renewed the many charms cast on the house itself to keep it unimportant enough for notice by the local Muggle townsfolk and to shield the grounds from trespassers. My family had long ago made the entire property Inapparatable to keep out unwanted wizards, but I reinforced the old spells every year for good measure. I also had several simple yet effective charms to protect the house from damage from the elements. Of course tending to my mother's grave was the most important duty to me. I always did it by hand without magic, so it usually took me hours to remove what nature had accomplished during the last twelve months.

I woke early the next morning and dressed warmly since I would be spending most of that day and the next outside. I only went inside the house at night to sleep. The house still held too many painful memories for me, and even though those ill feelings faded slightly more with each passing year, I tried to be inside it as little as possible.

I had a hearty breakfast alone in my rooms then packed a small bag for the overnight. After sending the bag ahead to the house, I was all ready to depart, I had even donned my cloak, but something was still bothering me. I was still worried about Avrille. I had not seen her since the attack, and I felt uncomfortable about leaving her behind. But most likely Lavinia or someone else had been checking in on her... Even though it was depressing to think, Avrille really had no reason to need me here.

It would not do. I could not leave without letting Avrille know I had been thinking of her. For some reason our conversation at the Three Broomsticks came back to me. Miraculously, I remembered every single detail of that night, even the ones I found quite embarrassing. Recalling that night gave me an idea. I sat at my desk and wrote a quick note to Avrille. I re-read it several times to make sure it did not sound strange or unnatural. Even so, for good measure, I charmed the seal so that no one but she would be able to open it. There. Now at least I had something to look forward to when I returned.

Because it was still quite early in the morning, and the Hogwarts Express would not be departing with the homeward bound students until the afternoon, the castle was virtually deserted as I passed quickly through. Outside it was snowing, and the strong wind and ominous-looking clouds made it clear another storm would soon hit. I walked as quickly as I could down the hill to the castle gates. Once through, I could have immediately Disapparated, but I continued on to the village so I could mail my letter to Avrille. I wanted to be sure that when she received it there was absolutely no way she could contact me until I returned to the castle. I needed time to brace myself against seeing her again. Right now I was far too unstable and dangerously close to doing something exceedingly stupid like dropping to my knees in front of her and pledging my undying devotion. I needed time to rebuild my walls.

Despite the early hour, Hogsmeade was already buzzing with activity. Many people were out for breakfast or to finish their Christmas preparations. To my annoyance I had to wait in an exceedingly long line at the post office since it seemed half the village was there mailing Christmas cards and presents to loved ones. Once I reached the head of the line, it was literally seconds until I had paid and was out the door. But the wait hadn't mattered. It would be worth it if Avrille agreed.

As soon as I had exited the post office, I Disapparated. The snow was already falling heavier, and I had no desire to remain in that climate any longer than necessary. After an instant's concentration and a half turn on the spot, I was smelling the salty sea air and being misted with a cool drizzle.

I usually Apparated a few hundred yards away from where my land began. I believe the spot I chose was some sort of Muggle national forest. It was always guaranteed to be secluded and undeveloped, thus preventing any Muggles being startled by the sight of a man suddenly appearing out of nowhere.

A cool breeze blew rain into my eyes as I picked my way through the underbrush. The forest around me was silent, and I could hear the raindrops hitting the dead leaves coating the ground. I could have easily cast a charm to protect myself from the rain, but at the moment I was feeling miserable and wanted to be wet. I missed Avrille, and knew I shouldn't. Professors should not miss their apprentices.

Within minutes I felt a slight tingling as I breached the magical boundary separating my estate from the Muggle park. If a Muggle had been within even a half-mile of that boundary, they would have been suddenly gripped with an intense feeling that a storm would be fast approaching or perhaps a wild animal might appear, so it would be prudent to quickly return to their automobile and seek shelter somewhere far away. For a wizard whom I had not cleared for passage, which was of course everyone except perhaps Dumbledore, who could bypass any magical barrier if he really felt inclined to, they would encounter what would feel like a stone wall as a message they were clearly not welcome.

My mother's grave was situated at the far end of the estate under a large chestnut tree she had told me she climbed often in her youth. It was a beautiful spot, idyllic and tranquil. It was different in every possible way from the family mortuaries which were also located on the property. Every member of my mother's family was entombed there except her, of course. I had staunchly refused to lay her to rest within those cold, unfeeling edifices. Her life had been so dark and miserable that I wanted for her at least in death to always be free under the trees and sky. When my mother died, which happened during the darkest period of my life when I had been young and foolish enough to listen to the Dark Lord and allow myself to become a Death Eater, my father had been too far gone from drink to care what I did with her body. Therefore I picked that spot under the chestnut tree, and after her internment I sealed it with the strongest spells I knew to protect her from whatever twisted things my father might potentially do.

I emerged from the forest and was immediately greeted with the austere sight of the foreboding tombs and mausoleums, their rough granite exteriors appearing almost black from the rain. I purposefully chose my Apparation point long ago so that every time I visited here, I would have to walk past these crypts. I felt it especially necessary for me to view the tombs now to staunchly impress the fact that I had become far too involved with Avrille, and what I desired further was dangerous. The sight was immediately effective; I was already regretting sending that note to her just minutes before.

At the end of a row of mortuaries, I turned and stared hard at the tomb nearest to me. To an outsider it would seem no different from the dozen others surrounding it. But I knew this one was singular. It was the one containing what remained of my father.

I had received the owl on a summer evening shortly after the conclusion of my first year as Hogwarts' Potions master. It contained only four words: "Your father is dying." Perhaps if the message had come even just two years earlier, while I was still in Italy, I would not have heeded it. But now that I had finally established myself in the academic world, I wanted the satisfaction of showing my father in person that he had not been able to keep me down.

The letter had been sent by Hortense Alden, the old village Healer, who had been the midwife at my birth and seen my mother and myself through countless illnesses and "accidents." Upon arriving at her cottage an hour later, Hortense informed me that my father's drinking had finally taken the ultimate toll. She estimated he would not live through the next day. She said with the administration of detoxifying potions, it would be possible to keep him alive for perhaps another week, but even all the magical healing in the world could not save his life now that he had spent the greater part of it poisoning his body with spirits.

I asked her how long he had been seriously ill. Hortense's eyes shifted down guiltily as she replied, "Six months."

"And within all that time, you had not tried to improve his condition? Why was he not sent to St. Mungo's in London?" I had asked this more out of morbid curiosity for details than out of concern for the extension of his life. Hortense replied that she knew there simply wasn't enough money left to pay for the sort of intense treatment my father would have needed at St. Mungo's. And as for herself, my father would allow her nowhere near him, even as he lay dying.

My father had been a pure-blood fanatic. Since it was well known that Hortense had had a Muggle father from the village, my father never allowed her to treat him in the past. I suppose even an imminent, painful death was not enough to push aside such an old, deep-rooted prejudice.

"I sent for you tonight because I know he will not last much longer. I thought perhaps you might want to speak with him before the end and make your peace," Hortense had said. Then she apologised for not being able to do more for my family and saw me out the door.

The walk to my childhood home seemed to take seconds, even though it was nearly half a league from the outskirts of town where Hortense lived. The old place was still known as Greyadder House and had been in my mother's family for centuries, heralding back to a time when we were the richest wizarding family in the county. My great-great-great-grandfather had once owned the land that now made up the bustling town centre. He sold it little by little to Muggle investors at great profit until he had enough extra money to build his country home, the large stone edifice that was Greyadder House, up on a hill far removed from the quickly expanding Muggle village. There he sat until his death, lording over the townspeople until he passed it on to his son, and so on and so forth until it reached my mother. My maternal grandparents had died suddenly when my mother, Charlotte, was just out of school, leaving their only child the house and the good amount of wealth remaining after some was used to live comfortably through two Muggle World Wars. Less than a year after her parents' deaths, my mother married Septimus Snape, a wizard with a steadfastly pure-blood lineage but no money or connections. Within five years of their marriage, my father had squandered all the money left in Gringotts. This left my mother and me with virtually nothing and completely dependent on my father and his salary to maintain a hold on the house, its remaining furnishings, and the land.

The walk from Hortense's had passed almost instantly, and before I knew it, I found myself in my parents' bedroom. All of the velvet drapes were pulled closed, but unevenly as though someone had jerked them together while passing briskly by. On the bedside two of Mother's best aromapothecary candles flickered through the dim. They reminded me of her, fighting futilely and silently against the oppressive darkness which would inevitably overcome. I had never seen Mother use those candles when she had been alive, although I had been told one was generously used the night I was born to help her through the birthing pains. Since then, and until tonight, they had lain unused and safe in her cedar chest with the precious few things left after my father had plundered it for drink money.

The candles were exceedingly rare and potent. My great-grandmother had dipped them many years before, infusing them with rare herbs and oils that would relieve even the most excruciating suffering for as long as the wax melted from the wick. Throughout my life, they had been saved for the direst emergency, which had become more and more likely as the years progressed, and the Dark Lord's power grew. My father had steadfastly refused to allow me to burn one when my mother lay dying two years earlier, citing their value was too great to "waste" on someone who would no longer feel any pain in a few hours' time. I had never forgiven him that small cruelty. Now two candles sat dripping their precious wax into an even larger pool that seemed to be the remains of at least three candles before them. I stood perfectly still and allowed the sweet opiate air the fill my lungs and my mind. The house was empty. Hortense had mentioned that our one remaining servant had abandoned his position two days ago when it was apparent there was no more money to pay his wages. That left my father and I alone. He and I.

When I was a boy, I had dreaded times such as these. It happened once or twice a year. My mother, sick with exhaustion from the constant physical and emotional assaults, would flee to the home of one of her few remaining friends for a couple days of respite, gathering her strength to once more face the onslaught that was my father day after endless day. She never took me with her, assuming my father would never hurt his own son. She was wrong, but I suppose it could have been worse. After venting his fury at Mother's temporary flight on my small frame, he would soon forget the cause of his anger as he drowned himself in expensive alcohol and cheap women. When my mother would return a few days later, she would hold me close and promise through salty tears that next time she would take me with her, and we would never return. She had a cousin in France who could take us in. Or an uncle in Portugal. Next time, she would be prepared, and we would fly from our torment like two birds into the dark night. Once we were safely away, she would buy me the best clothes and trinkets money could buy. Knowing my passion for reading at an early age, I was sure to have the finest library on the continent. When I was home from school, we would spend every day by the sea and every evening in stylish cafés, mingling with the best of society as she had done in her youth.

After the third or fourth round of these promises produced naught, I stopped believing her. Oh I knew if she were at all able, we would have gone far away, but I also knew that she was incapable of ever openly defying my father. Besides, the money which could finance such an escape was long gone. Nevertheless, I still listened to Mother's promises and agreed assuredly that yes, someday things would be better but for now rest and don't worry about that at the moment.

But now... Now things were different. My mother was no longer there to protect that man with her pleading eyes. "He is still your father," she would say in her quiet way that was slightly more than a whisper but quiet enough so we were never overheard, "and I am still his wife. You must never raise a hand against he who brought you into this world. And... I will always still love him." Through death Mother had finally been able to flee the house she had come to hate with all of her being, in which all that remained now was a husk of the man she had loved so faithfully.

As I approached the bedside from the flickering shadows, I wet my fingertips and pinched out the aromapothecary candles' healing fire. The ordinary candles in their elegant iron sconces provided enough light by which I could still see my father's emaciated body. I Conjured a comfortable chair and sat in it, waiting... waiting for the drugged stupor of the room to lift. I wanted him to be in as much pain as possible before he died.

Sitting there provided me an unobstructed view of my father's sleeping face. I knew those features so well because they were mostly my own. A cruel twist of fate had given me the same jet black hair that matched his soul so well, his hard eyes, severe nose and chin, and sharp jaw-line. The illness had prevented my father from taking sustenance for over a week, and the drastic change in his appearance was a testament to it. His once haughty cheekbones were now jutting ridges over sunken cheeks. His jaw bore a three-day stubble, and the bed linens reeked of disease. My father had once been handsome in his own way, but it was the dark, angular handsomeness of a mad Greek god. My mother had been the complete opposite, fair of crown and rosy of complexion, a gentle Persephone too yielding to withstand the battering onslaught of a Hades' "love."

I do not remember how long I sat there watching him, perhaps an hour or two. Every passing minute increased my hatred of him as more and more memories of my childhood flooded me. It was as if the walls of the house were drenched with them, and they were seeping in through my pores. I could recall every single time Mother had to lock us in this room to protect us from my father's drunken rages. She would stand against the door as though by sheer will her slight frame would keep the madman out. When I was slightly older, I would hide under that very bed and devour books on the Dark Arts while my father fornicated with some Muggle woman in the parlour, memorizing every spell or scrap of information I could use to revenge myself on him someday.

My father stirred among the sweat-stained sheets and opened eyes that were cloudy and yellowed. I stood and Vanished the chair. I moved to the very edge of the bed so I would be the first thing he would see. Slowly, my father turned his head towards me, his closely shaven scalp making it look oddly misshapen. Even in the dim light I could see the moment when his eyes focused on my form. He smiled. I swear to God the bastard smiled when he saw I was there.

"Severus..." he croaked hoarsely. "My son..." He reached out a hand towards me. I looked down at it with contempt and let it hang uselessly off the edge of the mattress.

"Father," I acknowledged him coldly.

"You've... come... You've come back... home..." His speech was laboured and slurred as though the drink were still heavily in him.

"I have come to see you die."

My father withdrew his outstretched hand and with several pathetic movements managed to draw himself up to a half-sitting position. When he turned to me again his eyes were perfectly clear and gleaming malevolently.

"You little shit. Is... that all you have to say?" he spat.

I refused to rise to his bait. I stood with my arms crossed, my wand stored in my jacket pocket. It would be a complete degradation of my powers to waste a spell on the feeble carcass in front of me.

My father took a few shuddering, wheezy breaths as he looked me up and down. "I can't believe... the Dark Lord... allowed such a useless... whelp to serve him."

I smiled wickedly. Of course my father still believed I had remained faithful in my service to the Dark Lord. Indeed only the Order of the Phoenix and select members of the Wizengamot knew the role I had played in the Dark Lord's downfall. My father had had some old friends among the Death Eaters. The fact that I had joined them was most likely the only thing I had ever done to make my father proud in my life. He probably relished the idea that if he couldn't control me anymore, at least there was a supremely powerful Dark wizard who would do it instead.

"Ah, the Dark Lord... Such a shame about him..." I said silkily.

"Silence! You dare... mock... the Dark Lord?!" my father thundered, an amazing feat considering how much effort he was expending just to remain upright.

"Yes!" I yelled right back. "He is dead! Just as you soon shall be! And the world is a better place for it!"

A shadow passed over my father's face. That was the first time I had ever raised my voice at him. "You... you were a Death Eater. Have you... no respect for your Lord?" he asked hoarsely.

I laughed. "Since you are about to die, you might as well know that the only man I have served the past two years has been Albus Dumbledore."

"Dumbledore!" My father spat out the name as though it were the foulest word he had ever heard. "That Muggle-sodding fool?"

"Yes," I replied calmly. "I am teaching at Hogwarts now. Dumbledore considered the position well-deserved after the information I gave him helped bring down the Dark Lord and put several of your Death Eater friends in Azkaban."

My father sank back into his pillow. His eyes closed, and for a moment I thought he had passed on. Then he gave a quiet, malicious laugh.

"My little Severus... a traitor to his own blood." He opened his eyes once more and a mad grin twisted his hollow face. "Your life is just without fault now... isn't it?"

I felt a chill descend on the room then, but my father wasn't done speaking.

"So... you're all set up now at Hogwarts. Probably will find... a pretty little bitch to marry soon... have some brats of your own..." My father was still smiling. The air in the room was noticeably colder. The candle flames dipped low on their wicks, casting my father's face in almost complete shadow. It was then that I noticed, even standing a few feet away from him as I was, I could definitely feel a sort of pulsing heat emanating from the bed.

"Yes... a nice little slut to screw every night." My father's whisper was dangerously quiet. I should have taken out my wand right then. I don't know why I didn't. I suppose, though I didn't want to admit it to myself, that even bed-ridden with disease my father still terrified me.

"Do you think that after I die tonight, everything will just be perfect?" His voice rose. The wheezing was gone from his speech now. The words he spoke were clear and cold. "I will be damned if the House of Snape is continued by a traitorous weakling like you." From under the sheets where I had not been able to see, my father pulled out his wand. I found I was frozen to the spot.

He pointed his wand directly at my chest. By now I could feel the heat rolling off him like waves. In the depths of my mind, I knew what he was doing. I knew what all of it meant. I was unable to stop it.

In a voice that sounded like thunder, my father roared, "If a love you ever consummate, may you be damned to a place of bones, a place of death and decay, a place of never-ending suffering!

"Male Perdere!"

The wave of heat passed through me. I lost consciousness.

When I awoke, I was on the floor and unable to determine if several seconds or several hours had passed. Surprisingly, I felt completely fine. For a moment I lay there, listening for sounds of movement from the bed even though I knew there would be none. I had heard my father's last words; he had spoken a Death Wish.

The room was blanketed in complete darkness. As I stood I removed my wand from my jacket, where it never should have been, and waved alight the candles on the walls. As light burst forth, I saw on the bed exactly what I had known would be there.

My father was dead. His face still held the expression of manic exaltation it had borne as he cursed me. His lifeless hand still held his wand pointed straight out at the direction where I had been standing. I walked over and wrenched the wand away. I snapped it in half in utter fury then spit on the motionless corpse.

With his death my father had managed to destroy my life.