Chapter 1
"The Position"
It was hot. It was extremely, disgustingly, overbearingly, hot.
Sunlight streamed in through the small, charmed window cheerfully. It didn’t matter that little dust motes danced in the light, or that birds chirped and frogs croaked, ready to begin their day–nothing should have even stirred in this oppressive heat.
No. All that mattered were the bloody sunbeams frying lily-white shoulders to a nice, crisp red.
The beams fell over a long bed done in black silks and cotton. The single occupant of the luxurious bed didn’t seem to mind, not yet at least, that he was drenched in sunlight; no, rather instead he slept deeply and comfortably, stirring only when the heat began to tighten his skin. The quiet was deep, almost unnatural and would have been so if this room wasn’t located in the deepest, darkest part of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and the occupant of the bed wasn’t Severus Snape.
The semi-cool air of the dungeon did nothing to appease the sweat peppered over his forehead, along his upper lip, down the naked length of his spine. One deep brown eye opened, then the other, and he absently regarded the pillow under his cheek. Like yesterday, the day before, and the day before that, it was obvious the cooling charms he’d meticulously placed around the room had done nothing to block out the oppressive heat. The stones themselves were sweating like pigs in the sunshine and he couldn’t bear to stand before his cauldrons today even if he tried.
He rolled over onto his back, hoping against hope to cool himself down a bit as he finished waking up. The charmed window, for there weren’t windows this deep in the castle, let more of the heat in, making his already hot body all the hotter. His sheets weren’t helping either and he turned his head to glower at the wet silk.
He lifted his wrist, reminded himself to make a stop at St. Mungo’s sometime soon to adjust his vision again, and squinted at the wet face of his watch.
Eight thirty.
He sat up slowly and exhaled slowly through his nose. His bones, old with the rest of him, groaned; his knees popped and his back gave the most embarrassing creak when he pushed the loo door open.
The reflection peering at him above the sink looked nothing like he was supposed to look–old before his years, hair graying, skin pale and pulled too taut in all the wrong places. His mouth was severe, his eyes sharp despite the crows feet decorating the corners of each. His finest feature.
He snorted at himself and turned to the loo.
Severus stopped to dress himself in pajama trousers before he ambled to his kitchen. The house elves, Merlin bless their little pointed heads, had left a tray on his kitchen table, though it had already been some time–the milk server was covered with condensation and the tea was luke warm at best.
This wasn’t the hottest summer Hogwarts had endured, but it most certainly wasn’t helping Severus’ temper. The hotter it got the further his patience was tried and as many of his colleagues (and the house elves) had realized early on, steering clear of him while the earth was baking to a nice, golden brown was, by far, the most intelligent thing to do if one liked his head precisely where it was.
Nevertheless, he poured himself a cup, the slightly cool liquid delicious on his tongue (and rather slimy, but he ignored that part), and went into his study.
When he opened the door he thought that he’d suffocate–the wave of heat pouring from his rooms was immense. He gagged at it and hastily cast cooling charms, grabbed his planner and retreated back to the kitchen.
Today was going to be quite an interesting day, that much he knew. He shoved his messy, greasy hair out of his face and opened the planner. His flowing, though nearly illegible, script looked up at him.
Wednesday, June 13th
– Staff meeting at 9. Take calming draught before attending.
– Answer Mrs. Geddon–no, you are still not opening a mail-order apothecary, Severus. You have neither the time or the patience to brew aphrodisiacs and performance potions, remember?
– Begin restoring Poppy’s stores, estimated time: two weeks and four days. Running low on ingredients for strep throat elixer, though have all for cold, flu, and ear ache. Extend to three weeks if you go to Diagon Alley for anything.
– Don’t forget the calming draught. Meeting will most likely be about D.A.D.A position.
Severus sighed down at the book and took another long drink of tea. Like the platoons of men who haunted the fourth floor at Durmstrang and the permanent infestation of pixies at Beauxbaton, Hogwarts’ open secret was that no one could hold the damned Defense position down without succumbing to some unspeakable horror.
In the twenty-two years Severus Snape had worked at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry–dear Merlin, had it been that long?--he had watched nine Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers walk in and out of the hollowed halls that made up the Defense wing. In his opinion, nine teachers in the span of twenty years was not at all what Severus would call conductive to the students retaining any information at all about defending themselves against dark creatures.
Severus could have firmly trounced all those who had passed in that Department, aside from Remus Lupin. Even so, it was his bloody fault that Albus had reprinted all of the ads in the newspapers and contacted old friends to offer them the position, because the night after the brats went home for the semester, Lupin went to bed and never re-awoke.
Minerva found him when he didn’t meet her for their morning tea. An hour later Poppy declared him deceased simply of sickness that should have killed him years ago and that no foul play was afoot. In fact, she said, the man had been dying for weeks, but it seemed he’d been holding onto the last threads of life until the children went home for the summer holiday. As to not frighten them, the dear, she’d fussed.
The bastard got to go peacefully. And nobly.
Severus hated him for it. It wasn’t difficult hating a dead man and Severus did so gracefully–he held unbiased grudges, whether for the living or dead. He and Lupin had come to respect one another, all those years working together, but honestly, this was too much. It was desperately unfair in that Severus knew for a fact that he would more than likely die screaming and begging for mercy and Lupin just fell asleep.
The only good thing to come from it was the fact that the Marauders were finally gone. Good riddance to them all.
And if he brought white roses to the grave in which Lupin had been laid to rest every week, a lovely plot off of the Quidditch Pitch where none of the students were allowed to go, than it was his own bloody business.
Severus heaved a deep sigh and rose again, setting his tea cup in the sink for washing later. He had less than an hour to dress and prepare himself for dealing with Dumbledore and his slight eccentricities, as Minerva put it. Eccentricities. Hah! The man was going senile before their very eyes but honestly, who wouldn’t? Two wars in one lifetime was enough to send anyone to a retirement villa years before their time.
Severus showered and dressed quickly. Even though he desperately wished to put himself in his cotton armor, it was much too warm for such rubbish and he’d rather not end his career by drowning in his own juices. He dressed in simple trousers and shirt, top robe thrown over it to keep some wizardly modesty, took the calming draught, and swept from his rooms.
The castle was empty of children, though nearly every faculty member had stayed behind for the summer holiday in an effort to rewrite antiquated lesson plans and hopefully, if all went well, introduce a new department. Albus rather thought the brats needed to become aware of the magic of art ...designing, sculpting, and utilizing the finer arts as both a weapon and a skill to be used in the outside world.
Severus thought it a load of rubbish, but as no one listened to what he said anyway, he let sleeping dogs lie and kept to his dungeons.
He sighed, dug into his pocket, and shoved a chocolate mint in his mouth before he opened the staff room door.
His colleagues were all deep in their own conversations and barely registered that Severus had come in. None and didn’t give him a second look as he sat down in his assigned seat between the empty Defense Against The Dark Arts position and Astronomy. Sinistra nodded at him curtly before continuing her conversation with Flitwick, something about why lunar eclipses made for excellent charm work on certain days of the year, but Severus honestly didn’t give a rat’s flying arse about it.
Severus understood that he had never been and would never be a part of these people, not in any way that truly mattered. He distanced himself because they did not understand his nature and chose not to deal with him. He didn’t mind it–he didn’t need anyone’s bloody pity.
He was a spy. An ugly one at that.
He had teetered the rope of spy for so long that it was old. It had worn at his soul until he’d been molded into just what his two masters wanted–a puppet and plaything to pass on messages and play their endless little games. It was the price he’d paid for his sins, but it made living almost unbearable, at times.
The damning thing was, Severus had entered this life upon his own doing. He had walked this path and he had taken his pain with his pleasure. His mistakes had been his own, his triumphs had been his own, and he still had the only thing Dumbledore could ever promise him. Dignity. Regardless of those who did not trust him, regardless of the advantage he held in Voldemort’s circle, regardless of his limitless paranoia, he had his dignity.
Except for once instance.
Potter.
Oh, yes. Potter. Like fools and the damned he had not taken heed of the Headmaster’s warnings, of his colleagues' pleas. No, for the first time in his life he had selfishly thrilled in Potter’s life with him. He had loved Harry, had given him pleasure and in the end, sent him away in pain.
Finding him meant everything.
Shifting a bit in his seat, Severus steepled his fingers and looked out over the stained tips at the men and women he called his colleagues. They had all gotten a first row seat any Death Eater would have killed for–they were all there when they saw Harry Potter break.
Fifth year, the death of the mongrel.
Sixth year, dreams, visions and death. So much death.
They had won.
It didn’t seem to matter that he was lying in dust and dirt and blood. Everything was very quiet, the screams had finally stopped, and the rain was pouring, as if washing away all of the cries. The blood ran in rivers down the slopes of the lawn.
It had been so very long, ages and centuries it seemed, since he’d just watched the sky. He hadn’t been called out into the daylight for so long that at first, when it started, he had been blinded by the heat and warmth of the sun. Nothing had warmed him in so long that he’d almost faltered, looking up at the cloudy sky...not too bright, but not too overcast, either.
The perfect weather for a battle.
They’d fought. Many had died. Come to think of it, Severus wasn’t entirely sure if he was dead himself. He did know he’d been left behind on the field, just as he knew he was only a few minutes away from joining those who had given their lives for the cause. Around him, corpses were still locked in powerful enchantments and curses....some still smoldered, others still twitched, and yet still others were dancing with Jelly Leg hexes like bizarre marionettes with their strings hanging by a thread.
He didn’t see much, eyesight marred with the blood dripping into his eyes. Severus had watched, unable to move or speak, as Harry dropped his wand, and it had taken Severus a moment of stunning terror to realize he’d done it on purpose.
Voldemort never saw it coming, never could have imagined Harry would reduce himself to animal savagery, and such was the beauty of the boy’s last ditch effort. Potter grasped the Dark Lord’s wand with both hands, cracked it into two pieces, and proceeded to choke the life out of the sorcerer, suffocating him, breaking brittle bones in the man’s neck and throat with all the determination of a suffering sixteen year old boy who’d had enough.
Severus sat there bleeding in the rain and watched as Potter murdered Voldemort in cold blood.
When Harry looked at him, his young face had twisted into a parody of Severus’ own, smirking grimly with just a flash of red teeth. In that smirk there was so much power that it had terrified Severus to the pit of his dark little soul. In that smirk was a victor who had suffered for too long, and was now free.
"We won."
"We won," Severus croaked, as Harry collapsed.
Potter was alive and that was all that mattered. The ethereal spark that lived in him like a carefully fanned flame, having come so close so many times to being put out, still burned with life and hope.
That’s all Severus could have ever asked for.
The following year the people whispered of Voldemort’s third return, not dead at all and being reborn as they spoke. Together, the headmaster and Severus both agreed that after Severus’ actions in the Final Battle, he would need to prove himself and get back in the inner circle.
Oh and he had, with innocent blood on his hands. Severus was in.
And everything that had meaning in his life was over.
They had laughed at his limp. Harry had stumbled, struggling with his clothes, tears sliding down cheeks white and translucent as snow. Trembling. It was the most vivid image in Severus’ memories; his beautiful tyro curling and withering at the taunts and laughter of his schoolmates.
Severus searched for him. Weeks turned to months and months to years, and still Severus hunted every corner of the globe, exhausted all of his sources, tread and doubled back through all of his leads.
"’Life is not a farce; it is a ridiculous tragedy, which is the worst kind of composition,’" Severus murmured to himself.
He was startled by the voice beside him. "I didn’t know you liked Swift, Severus."
"He was a sarcastic bastard who did nothing but ridicule his fellows in beautifully barbed witticisms and barely veiled critiques on government and social standing," he said to Sinistra, who’s smile broadened. As an ex-Slytherin herself she had always understood the fine selections of his words, even if she didn’t agree with them. "Of course I like him."
She grinned and he was sure she would have traded another comment if Dumbledore hadn’t ambled in with Minerva on his arm at that moment. As always, the elderly man was swathed in a velvet nightmare–today’s choice sparkled, whizzed, and the little lions, badgers, ravens and snakes adorning it seemed to be alive and moving over the thick material.
Minerva was flanking him to the left, hand on his elbow with a thick packet of paperwork under one arm, and she spoke up over the dull roar of conversation in her usual no-nonsense tone of voice. "Everyone, everyone, let’s settle down. I’m glad to see you’re all here," She gave a pointed look at Severus himself and several of the teachers chuckled.
"Ahh, hello." Dumbledore smiled and with grace foreign to most men of a hundred and seventy, settled in the large chair at the head of the table. "A lovely day for a meeting. We have much to talk about." He tapped his wand on the table top and the tea service appeared right where it always did, with hot tea and biscuits. Just looking at it made Severus sweat. "Professor McGonagall, will you do the honors?"
"Of course." She stood and rapped lightly on the table that had been in this room for more centuries than anyone cared to think about. "Please come to order, Staff Meeting one...ah..." She glanced down at her notes. "One thousand, eight hundred and forty two. We will be making a log of the meeting as always, and if any of you have any questions afterward, please feel free to come to my office."
Dumbledore, being Dumbledore, leapt right in. As was customary, they first discussed all of the houses themselves, whether there was anything anyone needed for the year. The Ravenclaws had several broken pieces of furniture that would need replacing before the new term; the Hufflepuffs, according to Madame Sprout, desperately needed new desks for the boys dormitories after a battle of wills destroyed the last two decent ones. Heathens. Granger mentioned offhand that she would like new bed drapes for the Gryffindor girls’ dormitories, and then all eyes fell on Severus.
"I need nothing."
Minerva arched a brow. "Surely you haven’t forgotten the broken chalkboard?"
Ahh. Yes. At the end of last term his chalkboard had been forfeit to the Slytherin Capers. He rather thought that he could have dredged it up from the bowels of the lake, but when he’d tried, he’d found that the merpeople had already confiscated it.
"No, I haven’t forgotten. I am decrepit and advancing in my years, not a doddering old geezer. That title belongs to our headmaster," Severus answered smoothly. He didn’t have to look at Albus to know the man was smiling, or that his colleagues were staring at him, horrified. "But surely there is an unused chalkboard somewhere in the school, or an equally useless item that could be Transfigured to fit my needs. A new purchase is unnecessary."
Minerva’s lips quirked once before pushing back into a severe line, and so the meeting went on.
Talk turned to the age old question: if they should move the brighter students up a year. As always it was shot down (for a score of reasons Severus really didn’t care about) and finally, the topic came around to what they were really all here for.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts position.
Severus had long ago accepted that he would never be given the job. He had wanted it once upon a time–who else could teach defense against such a terrible magical force than someone who had once been neck deep in it? That was the problem though--Severus was obviously a little too familiar with the Dark Arts and made his colleagues uncomfortable.
He didn’t care one lick but Dumbledore did. Damn Gryffindor ideologies to the furthest reaches of hell.
He barely listened as his colleagues all babbled incoherently to one another. He didn’t really care who was going to be the next Defense teacher–it wasn’t him, now was it? Dumbledore didn’t even bother breaking the news gently anymore...twenty two years of working at Hogwarts told Severus that he’d be in the dungeons, over his cauldrons, until the day he died.
What a thoroughly demoralizing thought.
"Have you gotten any new applicants, headmaster?" Flitwick’s squeaking voice drew Severus from his own dark thoughts.
"I have a few. One in particular, however, has the most promise. Severus?" Severus’ heart leapt even as he let his eyebrow arch at Dumbledore’s question. "Could you stay after the meeting, please? I have a special assignment for you."
Assignment? His heart settled back into place. Special assignments from Dumbledore, more often than not, led to bloodshed of some sort, broken bones, and a Cruciatus or five.
Although his very nature regarded patience a stupid game, Dumbledore didn’t send him anywhere unless it was of utmost importance. He was a powerful tool in Dumbledore’s cat and mouse game with Voldemort, and the man wouldn’t risk him unless it was necessary.
So he waited, Merlin bless him, until everyone had finished asking questions and debating such idiotic things as whether or not there should be a special room made for cats as there was the Owlery, whether or not they should hire a third teacher to take Binns’ place (this one was always met with a resounding no–who else knew Wizard history like Professor Binns? And he was teaching for free) and how the curriculum could be moved around to accommodate art, which of course was going to be a very popular subject. The new teacher, a Ms. Isabella Clooney, had already been hired and sat stiffly and a little shyly beside Granger.
Severus kept quiet. He badly wanted to burn the ears from their heads when they actually sat around him and wondered whether or not to move the Potions classroom from the cold and drafty dungeons, dungeons that gave the brats frightful colds in the winter. When it too was met with a no (mostly due to Severus’ death glares), the meeting was adjourned. It took another ten minutes but, when finally, finally Hooch and Hagrid went off to do whatever in Merlin’s name they did with one another to cause such love-sick eyes, Severus rose and stalked over to Dumbledore’s chair.
Thank Merlin he’d taken the calming draught.
"Ahhh, Severus," the man didn’t even look up from his paperwork, rifling through it hastily. "Yes, yes. Why don’t you sit?" He glanced up over his spectacles. "I’ll be with you shortly, Minerva."
McGonagall looked entirely put off by the dismissal but acquiesced regardless, leaving Severus alone with the headmaster. A place he would have rather swallowed Bubotuber puss than be, mostly due to the fact that when Albus had him alone anywhere, Severus felt uncomfortably aware the man could see right into his very black soul.
As soon as the door snapped shut, Dumbledore pushed a stack of paperwork his way. "Severus, I have a special assignment for you.’
"So you’ve said. Order business?"
Dumbledore had the gall to look amused. "Not quite. As you know, there were several people who applied for the Defense Position," he ignored Severus’ snort, "but I already have the person I want in mind. However, he lives in France–near Beauxbaton. I need you to retrieve him for me."
Oh. That was entirely different. The Ministry, in a fit of abject stupidity, had decided that any wizards from abroad would have to go through a lengthy screening process before being admitted into the country. Something to do with security or what not to keep Death Eaters out. A load of rubbish. Voldemort set up portkeys and floo networks for his supporters not only to his lair, but to other key parts of Europe and encouraged use of them at every opportunity. If Severus went the normal routes, he’d have to convince the Aurors that he wasn’t bringing a freshly tanned Voldemort back from the Riviera.
Hand it to Jack Bones. Imbecile.
"Ah. So you would like me to...bring him back."
"Yes, within the next few days, if you could. He’s working at a clock shop on Ligne Street, and goes by the name of Nicholas Chekit. He’s quite qualified; he has done an extensive amount of Deflective Spell work and has over ten years of experience." Albus closed his folder and stood up with creaking bones and a low sigh. "If you could leave tomorrow morning Severus? We need to have him welcomed properly and show him the job. It’s...Wednesday, yes? Have him here by no later than Sunday."
Four days? To get a Wizard in the country? "Headmaster, it won’t take me very long at all. I’ll have him here within the day."
"Mmm." Albus beamed at him. "A few more days won’t hurt, will they? Besides, Severus, you need a bit of a break. Go and enjoy yourself. Please, draw as much as you need from the expense account. I trust you still have your Gringotts key?"
The pity the words implied scraped Severus’ pride like nails down his waterlogged chalk board.
He had once considered himself a wealthy man; he had saved tirelessly for two decades until he’d built himself up a small fortune, for whatever it was he wanted to do with it. Buy a house, take an extended vacation, retire and live quite comfortably for the rest of his days, it was all at his disposal.
As the days and weeks passed and Harry Potter did not return to Hogwarts, Severus used every galleon he had earned in finding him. He did not tell anyone–he was so paranoid of someone finding out about this, especially those whom had trusted him to do right by Harry, that he cast a charm so no one would suspect. He dipped into the money his father had left him–more than enough to sustain himself comfortably for as long as he lived and then some, but Severus hated using the family money more than anything else on the planet.
His godforsaken bastard father.
To be reminded of that very person grated on his last nerve, so much so that Severus turned on his heel and with a bang of door hitting framework, left the staff room.
OR
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