Mirror Mirror

Mirror Mirror

Epilogue : The Boy Again

Ministry of Magic, London, January 1982

The curse was followed by a stifled groan, and then the Auror spoke.

"Look, now you've got yourself a nosebleed. In your case that's likely to be lethal. It doesn't have to be like this. I don't have to hurt you. If you'd just cooperate... Come on, Severus, be a good boy..."

"Severe-us, please, not Sever-us, Mr Longbottom. It is Latin. I thought Aurors were supposed to be educated. And I prefer Professor Snape, if you wouldn't mind. Ten hours of enforced cohabitation in this room do not, in my opinion, justify any assumption that we should be on first name terms."

The door was ajar, so Stephen heard his son before he saw him. His voice was low and betrayed exhaustion, even if the tone was familiarly venomous. It struck Stephen that the enunciation was precise and the accent polished.

When he came in he saw the boy - well, he was a young man now, but Stephen found it impossible to think of him in other terms than 'boy' - looking slightly battered, yet sitting more or less composedly at a table, arms crossed in front of his chest and the folds of his cloak curling around the legs of his chair. On closer looking, he noticed bruising to one side of the boy's face, and some traces of clotted blood. The expression, however, was one of grim determination.

It was almost five years ago that Stephen had stood at the window, watching his son walk out of Lisle Street to he did not know where. It seemed longer. The boy had changed. His lankiness had given way to a kind of cool dignity and self-possession, and despite being obviously worn out he held his shoulders straight. His black robes and cloak, vaguely reminding Stephen of a monk's habit, were prim and well-cut. But his hair was still long and greasy, clashing strangely with the general neat austerity of his appearance; and his clean-shaven face with the black eyes and large hooknose was a cruel caricature of Septimia and Stephen combined.

His son looked up at him when he entered the room, and Stephen was struck by the expression in his eyes - or rather, by the lack of it. Young Stephen's eyes were like burns in a carpet, like dark pits, like unlit hallways leading nowhere. They had contemplated horrors, and their brilliance had been replaced with the kind of emptiness that comes from too much experience at too early an age.

There was no question that he was guilty. Stephen was not sure if he should feel pity. Whatever had happened, the boy had brought it upon himself, and he, his father, had certainly done everything within his power to keep him out of harm's way. He did not really know why he had come, but he was here now.

"You asked to see me," he said.

"Yes. Do send him away." The boy kept his arms crossed but pointed a long finger at the Auror seated opposite.

"Please leave us alone, Frank," Stephen said, and the Auror nodded and left. "And you, say what you have to say. But if you count on finding compassion in me that you have not found elsewhere, you are sadly mistaken."

"I had no such expectations." The boy stared hard at the table in front of him, avoiding his father's eyes. "Believe me," he said softly, "if I had seen any other option I would not have asked for you. I find you self-righteous and short-sighted, but you are the only Ministry official I would dare to trust."

"Why, thank you," Stephen snapped. "Now get on with it."

His son did not speak immediately. His gaze was fixed on the pentangle-shaped medal pinned to his father's uniform robes, the legend of which read, Order of Merlin, Third Class.

"A Third? Can't be too difficult to do better, then," he whispered tauntingly.

"We'll see about that," Stephen barked, incensed. "I told you to get on, boy. I haven't got all day."

"Very well, very well," the boy replied, undisturbed. "You see, my situation is a little bit ... complicated. I tried to explain to your Auror associates that I could not speak freely until I had conferred with Professor Dumbledore, but they refused to call him in."

"I am sure they have their reasons," Stephen grunted.

"Of course they have." The boy curled his lip. "They want to ship me off to Azkaban as quickly as possible."

"If you are a Death Eater I can't blame them."

His son ignored the comment and said, "It is important that Professor Dumbledore knows I am here. Do send him a message."

"How does Dumbledore come into this?" Stephen asked somewhat suspiciously. It would not be the first time his son tricked him, and he was determined not to let him get away with anything now.

"He is my employer," the boy said. "In more ways than one."

"You mean ..."

"Yes."

Stephen looked at him askance. "And you told the Aurors this?"

"Not in so many words, but I mentioned Dumbledore. Then Moody started to ask me questions about birds..."

"Birds." Stephen stared uncomprehendingly.

"Yes. Professor Dumbledore's pet phoenix, among others."

"I'm afraid you've lost me there."

"That is what I said, too. At that they concluded I must be trying to save my skin, and Longbottom got his wand out." He sighed. "It had been some kind of code, obviously, but I did not understand."

The boy paused for a moment and rubbed his eyes with his left thumb and index finger. Then he said, "Professor Dumbledore will vouch for me, and you are my only chance at alerting him."

"And why would I do so?" Stephen asked levelly. "I have understood from this that you are indeed a Death Eater. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"But you spied for Dumbledore."

"Yes."

"Let me get this straight, then: did he ask you to join the Death Eaters so that you could inform him of their activities?"

His son looked him in the eye and said, very quietly but unapologetically, "No."

Stephen nodded slowly. "I see. Now remind me why I should help you escape justice."

"I am not trying to escape justice," the boy said calmly. "I am trying to obtain a trial. And if you need a reason, I feel bound to point out that it is because of traitors like me that in this corridor Aurors are torturing Death Eaters instead of it being the other way around. Only insiders could obtain the kind of information that could bring the Dark Lord down." He smirked. "Of course it must be frustrating for you to realise that I accomplished more good through deviance than you ever could through decency."

"You insolent brat!" Stephen spat. He collected the file from the table and stood up, ready to go. "If you think I'll save your arse when your attitude -"

"Hear me out," the boy cut in, "... Father." Stephen thought the pause made it sound like an insult. Maybe it was. "I did not tell the Aurors about the spying because for all I knew there might be Death Eaters among them - or at least people affiliated with the Dark Lord; there are more than you would think. And the Dark Lord is not dead, contrary to what the Ministry likes to believe. It is not over yet. He might return. And when he does, Professor Dumbledore will need me. You are the only man here about whose allegiances I have no doubt. You will not blow my cover. Now please warn the Headmaster."

Stephen said nothing. He clung to the file, walked out of the interview room without another glance at his son and slammed the door behind him. In the corridor, he leaned back against a wall and gazed at the ceiling.

Alastor Moody came walking to where he stood. "The Dementors, then?" he growled.

Stephen sighed. "Not just yet," he said. He felt very tired and slightly nauseated, too.

He vacillated between fierce loathing and bland reason. He hated and despised the boy for choosing to dedicate his talents to working evil, for casting a slur on his family, for deliberately causing his father pain. And he grudgingly recognised that there had been an effort to make things right, to restore the balance, to correct the mistakes he had made. But it was too late, was it not? He had known full well what he was doing. Or had he not? Stephen had warned him, in any case. But then the boy had wanted to be - different, and he was young, after all, and unwise. He had reconsidered, and he had gone to his old Headmaster. Not to his father, who would have sent him away a second time, but to a complete stranger. And Dumbledore had trusted him, where he, Stephen, would not have. He hated the boy's defiance, his provocative manner, his tone. He hated how he reminded him of himself, how he was like a distorted mirror that showed Stephen all his own qualities and shortcomings warped into something vicious and detestable.

But he saw himself as a just man, and knew he would not be able to respect himself if he allowed the boy to be knocked out with truth potions and sentenced to living death in Azkaban just because he was Stephen's most glaring failure and therefore best obliterated. The boy deserved punishment for his wrongdoings, but recognition for what he did right. And afterwards - they would both have to live with themselves.

Stephen had always tried to do the right thing. It stung him that his son should count on precisely that, to be sure, but then again ...

The Chief Hit Wizard went to his office, took one of his three identical ball points, and scribbled an urgent message to Albus Dumbledore.

Finis