lxxxi. misery loves company
Severus hated the holidays.
He said the same thing every year, and every year the sentiment deepened; he despised the juvenility of it, the forced cheer, the interruption to his schedule. He cherished the brief, fleeting respite when the dunderheads first departed and quiet descended, as if the whole of Hogwarts held its breath—but then the stillness shattered; the castle mourned, his colleagues meddled, and Severus worried himself to distraction over Slytherin's plotting.
He hated the Yule time—and that had nothing to do with the fucking snake roaming loose in the school.
The Chamber of Secrets. The moment Severus saw the writing on the wall, he—and Dumbledore—both knew Gaunt was testing the waters, testing his own power and Slytherin's hold on the student body, probing for weakness. No one else could find the Chamber, not even Albus bloody Dumbledore himself, and so the only person capable of opening it was Slytherin—or Gaunt, or Voldemort, or Riddle. It was all the same wretched person in the end.
The situation cycled back to the events of summer, beginning with Gaunt sending out lackeys to find the Potter girl. The Minister knew something odd had occurred with Potter before the Mirror of Erised shattered, and he shouldn't know anything at all; they had a traitor in their midsts, one informed by the Minister on how to open the Chamber and move the Basilisk. It was curious that this informant knew to relocate it somewhere Slytherin couldn't find; the schisms between Slytherin's and Gaunt's minds made themselves apparent at the worst possible junctures.
"Black and Potter are up to something," Severus said as he leaned into the wall by the Headmaster's hearth. Night sunk fast over the highlands, lacing the stones with a harsh, biting chill that raked its claws against his bones. "Though it hardly needs saying."
"Oh?" Albus commented from behind his desk, having the audacity to pretend he didn't understand what Severus meant. "How so?"
The Potions Master thought it obvious; if Potter dumping hot cider down her front that afternoon like a twit hadn't been clue enough, then Black's stiff, blank expression confirmed his suspicions. Neither could lie to save their own skins.
"I didn't pursue them. I found my time better served keeping Slytherin preoccupied instead of chasing those idiots about like a madman herding spiteful cats."
Albus chuckled, blue eyes bright, and then sobered, turning his attention inward, following thoughts beyond Severus' knowledge. "She knows."
"Who knows what?"
"Harriet knows about the Basilisk—or, I should say, Harriet knows the creature set loose from the Chamber is a snake, not that it is a Basilisk."
Severus stared, and the cold at his back reached deeper, past his skin and bones and into his heart, a psychosomatic spasm curling his fingers in upon themselves. "How." It wasn't a question, and the Potions Master was sure he didn't want the answer. What if they'd...missed something? A curse laid by Quirrell? New curses were made every day, and who knew better what had occurred before the Mirror than the girl herself? Who else better equipped to speak the language of snakes and open the way in the Chamber?
What if she was being controlled? What if—?
"She can hear it," Dumbledore said, ignorant of Severus' building terror. "I imagine it scared the poor girl half to death the first time it spoke near her."
"Why didn't she come forward, then?"
"Why does any child hide information? Because she was uncertain and afraid. Her upbringing with Petunia and Vernon—." And here Severus saw a shadow of the man Voldemort still feared, no matter his diminished power and ability. For the Potions Master, thoughts of Tuney curdled hot and hateful, surging with the kind of terrible longing that swayed him toward the Dark Arts; a lust for violence, for retribution, for ten long years of his wrist burning in agony every time she and her dumb waste of a husband raised a hand to the girl. Dumbledore's anger was a different beast entirely; it was cool, quiet, and subtle. It existed in his eyes, in his voice—and it cut all the more deeply for its reservation. "—has taught Harriet caution when approaching adults with her concerns."
Stubborn, obstinate brat.
"It weighs heavy on my heart, Severus, the thought of him whispering madness in the child's ear. Should he learn of their shared ability, he'll seek to corrupt her. We can't let that happen. Harriet is good, and in the end, that goodness will be what saves her and those she loves from Tom Riddle."
Love. Severus almost rolled his eyes; Merlin spare him from Albus Dumbledore and his crackpot notions on love. Love did nothing but sow discontent in wayward, unsuspecting hearts. Severus had loved Lily—not as a sister, not romantically, but in the way one loves the constant and simple things in their life: a cool breeze on a summer day, a comfortable place to rest after a trying day, the shoulder upon which one cries and sheds their woes. Not that Severus ever cried, but Lily had always been the first one he'd see after rowing with his father. He could still remember the feel of her warm fingers sticking Muggle plasters over his cuts.
She was part of the building blocks he'd built his life upon. From the time that they were seven-years-old, it had been Severus and Lily, two constants sharing a single sphere through their formative years—and then she was gone, gone like summer days and cool breezes and comfortable places, plunging Severus into an undying winter of his own fucking making. Oh, he'd placed the blame on everyone else when it happened—on her, on Potter, Black, Pettigrew, Lupin, on that worthless dickhead Slughorn who couldn't spare a stringy half-blood an iota of attention, on Dumbledore and McGonagall and the blasted Dark Lord—when it always came down to two horrid syllables escaping his own bloody mouth.
In the end, love brought Severus nothing but servitude, and it was still the only part of him worth a shite.
The Headmaster poured himself a small hot toddy and offered one to Severus, but the Potions Master declined with a jerk of his head, not meeting his eyes.
"Are you sure, my boy? It is Christmas, after all."
"No. I imagine Slytherin is still awake and—slithering."
Dumbledore sipped his drink and pursed his lips, not quite holding back his smile. "Ah, perhaps there is something to the old adage of 'no rest for the wicked.'"
"Are you referring to me or to him?"
"Never you, Severus."
The Potions Master snorted and flicked his hair back from his eyes. "Of course, Headmaster," he drawled. "If you're interested, I do have a theory on what Potter and Black are up to."
"Oh dear."
"Indeed. I informed you of a theft from my private stores?"
"Yes, you did."
"I provided you a list of the possible potions one might intend to brew with those missing ingredients—among which was Polyjuice Potion." Severus' black eyes glinted in the firelight and he crossed his arms, gritting his teeth. "Earlier this afternoon, I noticed Sinistra acting oddly, and her shoes were quite similar to the pair for the girls' uniform, aside from their size. At dinner, she was dressed differently and didn't seem to have any memory of our meeting in the staff room. She mentioned having a, and I quote, 'lovely afternoon with Miss Black discussing various ephemerides and their impact upon transmutation Transfigurations.'"
Dumbledore covered his mouth with his hand, looking very close to laughter, which only served to further infuriate Severus. "Do you truly think our wayward trio capable of brewing Polyjuice Potion? They are only second-years, Severus."
"Black? Merlin, no. Potter and Granger?" Severus considered the idea again, just as he'd been doing all afternoon, ever since he glimpsed Sinistra's curious choice in footwear—ever since he first took note of the missing ingredients, really, and theorized Potter and her cohorts might have gotten into his stores somehow. He wasn't an idiot; the timing of their visit to his office and the theft were suspiciously close. If he had a shred of proof, he'd ruin their wretched little lives, but for now, he'd settle for making them miserable. If he didn't strangle all three first. "Potter and Granger could do it, especially if Granger coached the girl."
"If you're right, Severus, what do you believe Miss Potter learned?"
"Too much. Slytherin was particularly loquacious today. If it was, in fact, her masquerading as Sinistra, she does know it's a Basilisk now."
Dumbledore sighed. "Oh, Harriet," he murmured, shaking his head.
"You do realize I'm going to give her and Black detention for the remainder of break, correct?" Possibly into next year, doing some of the foulest ingredient prep imaginable.
"I think, under the circumstances, I will allow it." The Headmaster rubbed his brow, then returned his attention to his drink. "I've asked Minerva to give Mr. Longbottom detention as well."
Severus almost laughed. "What? The precious Boy Who Lived in detention? How scandalous."
"Like dear Harriet, Neville has become indelibly curious about the Chamber, but he is not as...well, let's say circumspect as Miss Potter and her friends."
"You mean he's a bloody, dunderhead Gryffindor who wouldn't know discretion if it kicked him in the face."
"That's not what I said, Severus."
"No, it's what you meant." He leaned off the wall and slunk over to one of the chairs in front of Dumbledore's desk. He Summoned the rum and a cup, pouring himself a mouthful and forgoing the tea. They drank in silence, the fire crackling in the grate, the winter winds buffeting the tower walls, and Severus finished his rum far too soon for his liking. Bloody Potter was going to be the death of him. "So...you don't suspect the girl is the one behind the Chamber's opening?"
"No. Harriet is a reticent child, but she knows her own mind. I fear we may be playing host to a far more insidious host."
Severus sunk into his seat, leaning into his hand, pale fingers splayed across his face. He studied the Headmaster, the minutiae of the older wizard's expressions and subtle movements, the steady whir of silver instruments interrupting his own introspection. "You think it's another one of his homunculi."
"Possibly."
"For fuck's sake, Albus!" Severus' empty glass flew and crashed into the hearth. Fawkes shrieked on his perch. "We're barely treading water as is, torn between Gaunt and Slytherin! We're well and truly buggered if he has another one! How is he making them if the Dark Lord isn't even alive?!"
"But he is alive, my boy. Simply not in a state conceivable to you or I. Did incident with Quirinus prove nothing to you? As for how he makes them, I cannot say."
"Not 'cannot.' You 'will not' say!"
"Fine. I will not say, for I do not know for sure, Severus. I have only my suspicions."
And a distinct lack of trust, the Potions Master sneered in his own thoughts, steepling his hands together. Morgana save them if another clone of Tom bloody Riddle reared its foul head.
Discussion turned to pettier and more inconsequential topics, and eventually McGonagall joined them, the Scottish witch worked into high dudgeon over the Weasley twins' latest atrocity, to which Severus gave his usual suggestion of expulsion. Minerva rounded on him, hat askew, and scowled.
"And what of your own students, Snape? Are they behaving?"
Severus shared a blank look with the Headmaster. If one can call potential larceny, lying, and identity theft behaving.
"As docile as lambs, Minerva. As docile as lambs."
xXx
Severus' feet moved without a sound upon the cold stones as he wandered into the castle's depths.
Curfew had long since passed, giving way to snoring portraits and lazy, tired ghosts, winter thick and chilling as it seeped into the halls and fought against the wavering warmth thrown by the guttering torches. Severus himself was little more than a taut, narrow shadow drifting against the wall, walking carefully, a faint blush in his face from that third glass of rum he knew he shouldn't have had. Bloody old goats.
He found no students out of bed, no familiars causing mischief, no Peeves, the light in Slytherin's office gone dark for the night, Filch passed out and snoring with Trelawney and a dozen bottles of sherry in the staff lounge on the sixth floor.
There was no snake, no Petrified children, no writing on the wall, which was all well and good, because some blighter kept killing all the fucking roosters, and Severus wasn't stupid enough to think he could surprise a Basilisk while half-pissed and survive.
He returned to his office like a knackered reptile creeping back to its den and collapsed in his chair, groaning at the frigid cold that had stolen into the room after the fire had died earlier in the evening. He couldn't be arsed with lighting it again, and so he only waved a hand at the candle on the desk, letting its paltry glow give the room color and shape.
Gifts cluttered part of the floor and the counter where he worked with smaller cauldrons or personal brews. It would shock most of the student population to know the dreaded Dungeon Bat did, in fact, receive presents for Yule—but always the same gifts, from the same people, thoughtless trinkets and items bought in bulk when the pure-blood families did their yearly shopping for tokens meant to be sent to acquaintances for posterity's sake. The heap consisted of the same standard potions manuals nabbed off the bargain rack at Flourish and Blotts, packages of quills, parchment, and cheap ink. Lucius and Narcissa always sent him the same bottle of Blishen's every year, despite the fact that he'd—mostly—given up drinking.
Except for when obstinate old Gryffindors badger you into it, idiot.
He'd end up binning most of the items without bothering to shuck the paper. Severus sneered at the familiar shapes and packages—and then his eyes caught on something not so familiar.
The old families used the same, ubiquitous wrapping paper, another staple of their seemingly infinite ability to channel the same, stupid trains of thought, but this gift had been folded together in what looked like standard parchment paper, sealed with far too much Spell-O-Tape. Severus flicked his wrist and let his wand fall into his hand, waving it at the innocuous package so it floated over and dropped onto his desk without a sound.
After two detection spells failed to find anything amiss, Severus stuck his wand back into his sleeve and tore the parchment open.
Something dry and fragile brushed his fingertips as it fell to the desk's top and the Potions Master found himself staring at a loose pile of shed snakeskin. From under the skin, he slid free a brief note.
Professor Snape,
Thanks for watching us this summer. Hermione told me Horned Serpent skin is rare, and I hope you find it useful.
- Harriet Potter & Elara Black
P.S., Elara said not to put her name on the card but I did anyway.
Severus sighed as he read the note again, folding the torn parchment in his fingers.
The brat really is going to be the death of me.
A/N: Snape chapters are always fun to write.