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The Severed Souls by Magical Maeve

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The bunker was, if anything, colder and gloomier than the last time they had been here. There was now a hint of mildew on the walls that Maeve hadn’t noticed before, and she caught the faint odour of dampness. Severus had laid Harry on one of the beds that they had occupied earlier, and it hurt Maeve to look at him. His face was the same colour as the greenish walls and his limbs lay in an ungainly twist on the grey blanket. His school clothes were tattered and ruined from the snake’s bites, and his glasses sat forlornly on the tiny locker that stood at the head of the bed.

“So, Severus,” she said, turning her gaze from the stricken boy “ no, Harry was no longer a boy. “What happens now?”

“I must go and speak with the Dark Lord, and after that I have some other things to attend to. You will stay with Potter. See that he does not attempt to leave or contact anyone. Use any means at your disposal. It is vital that the world believes him to be dead.”

“And are you going to let me in on your grand scheme?”

“Not just yet. There are things I need to set in motion first.”

“Such as?”

“All in good time.”

“How will you prove to Voldemort that he is dead,” she asked shrewdly.

“His blood is on my clothes.” He gestured to the dark stains that marred the front of his robes. “Potter’s blood now flows through the Dark Lord’s veins, and like always recognises like.”

“And what if the blood is not enough? What if he demands a body?”

“He will not.” He clenched his jaw in defiance of her suggestions.

“I think you should prepare yourself for the fact that he might,” Maeve insisted.

“DO NOT TELL ME… ” Her frown cut off his prospective tirade, and she nodded to Harry.

“Do not raise your voice when there is a sick man in the room. Go and do what you have to do, but be safe.” She moved towards him and gave him a slight kiss, her face still a tangle of disapproval. “And be prepared for the fact that Harry will probably be awake on your return. Be prepared for some explaining and some repercussions.”

“I leave it to you to calm him down before I have to face him.”

“You think I can do that? You think I can erase the past six years. I came close once, Severus, but Dumbledore’s death has caused a deeper wound in your relationship with him than I can ever make better with mere words. You have to make this right.”

“Very well.” And without another word, he was gone.




In the Forbidden Forest a slender, blonde-haired figure stood over the body of a large serpent, his wand hanging by his side. So near “ so very near to achieving his aim. To be let down by an ineffectual snake, and to have the beast discovered by that prat Weasley, was just very bad luck. Still, there was an upside; he now knew that he was more than capable of using the Killing Curse, albeit on a beast. It had been easy enough to lure Longbottom out of the castle with a forged note from a certain Miss Lovegood. Draco still wasn’t sure why Voldemort wanted the dull boy dead. Perhaps he had decided to give him an easier target. And yet, he had still failed. He would have to plan something a little more watertight next time. And there would be a next time. Draco Malfoy was not about to give up on his task now.

He stepped further back into the hostile Forest and backed straight into the arms of Roderick Rampton.

“Well, Mr Malfoy, that was certainly interesting.”

“What the hell do you want?” Draco snarled, twisting out of the strong arms that had suddenly gripped him.

“I’m after escorting you back to the Dark Lord. He especially asked me to, being as you are one of his favourite projects.” The flippant look that Roderick so often wore was gone now, replaced by a sniping, shrew-like attitude that immediately made Draco more defensive.

“And what if I’m not ready to go back just yet? I haven’t finished my mission.”

“Now, that’s no one’s fault but your own, is it? You had one attempt at this, Malfoy, and you failed. It’s time to finally face the fact that you are frighteningly useless. You would have been better off staying with your dear mam and hanging on to her apron strings.”

Draco looked troubled for the first time since embarking on this. He had been so sure he would be successful, so convinced that this time he would not fail. He looked quickly at the man before him, furtively trying to catch something of his fate behind the eyes of the man before him. He had expected Rampton to be a good Legillimens and block him immediately, but the man didn’t even seem to be aware of the use of Occlumency against him. As Draco lifted the veil of the other man’s mind, he suddenly realised why. And now he was more afraid than ever.




As the earth plunged deeper into darkness, a young woman made her way from the elegant Georgian town house that she currently occupied and quickly glanced around her before disappearing into the night with a gentle murmur of a noise. A few seconds later, she reappeared in the grounds of an overgrown garden, her delicate ankles catching on some sprawling ivy. She pressed her lips together with frustration, detangling herself from the vegetation. This meeting was, at best, clandestine. At worst, it was positively criminal. The sight of the slumbering house before her made her blood race, however, and she knew that the possibility of being discovered in this act was a risk she was more than happy to take.

She stumbled onto a path that was cracked, weeds soft beneath her feet, and followed its course up towards the building. This was the first step to her taking back her property, and she would stay here until she found what she was looking for “ as long as the man she was meeting actually turned up. Jenny had reached the large French windows now and pressed her smooth palms against the cold glass. This would all be hers soon: her windows, her bricks, her mortar, her grass, her home. It had been a complete travesty that that ogre of a man had taken it all from her family and handed it down to his dysfunctional son. Moving around, she found herself walking past what appeared to be a very ragged-looking herb garden, and then a wall interrupted it. Beyond that the gardens were blocked from her view. A smile crossed her face as she rounded the corner of the building to take her first look down the long driveway. She couldn’t help a feeling of grudging gratitude at the fact that Severus Snape had left lamps burning down the length of the gravel-filled approach to the house; it was rather security-conscious of him. Jenny smiled again at the thought that his security measures were failing abysmally. She was keen to use his brain in the possible fight against Voldemort’s increasingly bizarre plans, and even keener to see his face when she finally proved he had no right to this house.

“Enjoying the view?” The deep voice made her jump, despite her steel resolve, and she turned hurriedly to face the man who was going to help her get this house back.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!” she snapped. “And yes, I am enjoying the view. I’ll enjoy it even more when you find me this evidence you believe exists.”

“Oh, I will, my darling. It’s a big house, though, so it might take some time.”

“I don’t care how long this takes,” she insisted. “We will find the necessary paperwork to prove your theory.”

“Come along then,” Roderick said, holding out his hand to be taken. “I’m sure with your pretty head and my brains, we won’t have too much of a problem.”

They did have a problem, however. The lamps were not the only security measures that Severus had placed on the house. Roderick went through several charms to try and open the dark front door, and none of them worked. He even tried merely rattling the door handle, but it was stuck fast.

“He’s not going to leave it unlocked,” Jenny snorted scornfully.

“Stranger things have happened. He’s made no secret of the fact he doesn’t particularly like the place.” Roderick frowned at the door, defeat making him annoyed with himself. With nowhere for his anger to go, he grew rather morose. Rifling through his memory, he dredged up another few desperate charms, but repeatedly failed.

“You know, it could just be something as simple as a password,” Jenny said, after she had grown tired of seeing him struggle. “What would he use?”

“Of course,” Roderick groaned. “Keeping it simple, eh, Snape?” Roderick knew there was only one thing it could be and he muttered under his breath the word “raven”.

“Fantastic!” Jenny said, feeling a swell of excitement as she heard the lock click open. This would be her first time in the great house that had belonged to the Fitzwilliams for centuries. This was her birthright; this was a place that contained all that she was and all that she had been. Here she would find true peace of mind.

The house swaddled her in its comforting hallway. The deep musky smell of the panelling was her first sense of the place her ancestors had built. She allowed her hands to linger over everything, touching the past, making contact with her world. And then she felt a howl of pain run up her arm. She hid it well, but she knew something was amiss, something that would probably make itself evident in the near future. For now though, she was answering only the call that would restore her property to her.

“Where do we start?” she asked, once the pain had subsided sufficiently to allow her to speak.

“You take the library, I’ll take the study.” Roderick wafted his wand at the lamps and the hallway was suddenly filled with warm light. “And now, at least, we can see where we are going.”

“Very well. Be thorough,” she warned. “We must not miss anything.” And without asking for directions, she walked down the corridor and located the library with her first attempt. Roderick, in direct contrast, had to open several doors before finding the leather-bound study. The overpowering feeling of dead animals made him uneasy, transported back to his own father’s study. These houses, what was it that made people lust after them? Was it merely tradition and a sense of it being their home, or did they really want the actual buildings for their size and importance? He would have happily burned them all. It had been the best thing that had happened to Maeve. The thought of Maeve and her burned house brought him back to the reason for being here. If he proved his theory correct, then how would she react?

Roderick began with the desk, as it was the most obvious place to start. It contained nothing but headed notepaper, an inkpot, quill and sealing wax. If there had been a seal, there was no sign of it now. He tested the desk for hidden drawers and crevices, but it seemed to be a rather more honest piece of furniture than these desks usually were. He gave it up as a waste of time and moved across to the piano; a strange object for a study, he thought. Its keys were dusty, and he touched one to test its tune. A dull, flat note rang out and he knew it had been many years since it had been played. There were a few bookshelves in here, and he pulled the books down in a methodical manner, shaking loose their leaves for any concealed documents.

Jenny was doing exactly the same thing, but her task was rather larger. There were hundreds of books in this library, some centuries old. She was rather more careful with her shaking than her cohort, conscious of these books’ importance. Already she felt so at home. It would be a real wrench, when the time came, to leave and go back to the rented house in London. It was a nice enough place, but it was someone else’s history, someone else’s past. She could see herself in here, doing research on the exhibits in her gallery, surrounded by portraits “ where were the portraits? She glanced at the blank walls, devoid of anything except the heavy, masculine wallpaper. They must be somewhere. That would be the first thing she took care of when she retook this place.

Back in the study, progress with the books was slow. Roderick had worked his way through half of them and had now moved to the other bookcase that stood by the window. The layers of dust on the tops of the volumes suggested that these books had not been looked at in many years, and he sneezed several times as he removed the first few. He got to the second row and pulled several off at once. Once he had looked through them, he made to put them back, and his fingers connected with a small burr on the side of the shelf. He worked at it, aware that this was not some accident of carpentry. Trying to find some give, he eventually realised it was a peg that would lift out, and as he pulled the cube of wood, he heard the whole bookcase groan. Long disused cogs and workings creaked into life, and Roderick grinned at the awful cliché that was a hidden door embedded in a bookcase. The people that built these houses had such ridiculous, monotonous, ideas. For the first time, the thought of the tunnels at Rampton Court reminded him that his family were probably odder than most, and he felt a strange, unexpected pride in that.

If he had anticipated stepping out into the hall, or another large room, he was mistaken. He stepped into what amounted to a box room, and he imagined the room next to the library would have a strange corner taken out of it to accommodate this usurper. The room was empty except for a small walnut chest that shrank against the far corner. Bending down, Roderick unhooked the large clasp and pushed the lid back. By the light of his wand he realised that it was full of papers and photographs, and he pulled out the top layer.

Severus’ mother had been beautiful ” that was his first surprise. The second was that Kentigern had been a vigorous compiler of his wife’s movements. Trips to London, visits to friends, days in the country “ all were recorded. Roderick doubted she knew that her days had been quite so well-documented. He was also fairly sure that she wasn’t aware of the stack of photographs that had been taken of her in unguarded moments. Here she was standing before Ollivander’s in Diagon Alley, looking about her nervously, another with her smiling at a stallholder as she bought ice cream. There she was walking through a park, leaves obscuring the camera’s view of her and then… Roderick’s hand trembled ever-so-slightly as he found the first piece of a paper trail that he hoped would lead him to the correct destination.

She was standing on a beach, the sun just beginning to droop on the horizon, and standing just a little too close to her to be simply a friend was a man whose image he had seen before, a man who had been killed and whose father still mourned in his own quiet way. Vervain Snape had been having an affair with Albert Gryps’ son. He had had this suspicion ever since he had seen that picture of Albert’s son back at the old man’s house. The resemblance to Severus Snape had been striking, from the hooked nose to the black hair. They had even shared the same unmistakable eyes.

Two hours later and Roderick had everything he needed, plundered from the chest that had been so carefully hidden. The birth certificate was the only thing he planned to hand over to Jenny, everything else he tucked away in his robes until he next saw Maeve. He was going to be the one to tell her this news; the thought of the look on her face amused him somewhat.






Harry had begun to get restless, his head grating against his pillow as it moved from side to side. Words dropped from his mouth, mumbled, muttered syllables that didn’t make sense. Maeve placed a glass of water on the locker and sat on the opposite bed. She had no idea what she was going to say to him when he awoke. How could she even begin to introduce the concept that he was now, technically, in the thrall of the one person he hated almost as much as Voldemort? She had passed the time since Severus’ departure by pacing the corridors of the bunker, memorising each twist and turn of the corridors. But she had eventually grown nervous at the thought of Harry alone in this room and had returned to his bedside to find him in this life-limbo.

The incoherence continued for a further hour, until finally, painfully, he opened his eyes and blinked rapidly at the onslaught of light.

“Harry,” Maeve whispered.

He coughed some of the dead air from his lungs and began to scrabble against the bedclothes. “My glasses?” The words were barely there, but Maeve understood and reached for his spectacles. Placing them carefully on his face, as if he were a small child, she spoke again.

“Harry, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry?” He struggled to sit up, his body weak and lacking in blood.

“Stay still for a bit,” she said. “You lost a lot of blood, and the poison will still be in your system.”

“Poison?”

“You were bitten by Nagini.”

“I don’t remember… ” he said, unable to complete the sentence.

“You where bitten by Nagini at Hogwarts. Remus brought you to Grimmauld Place so that we could help you.”

“We?” He opened his eyes again, some of his senses finally returning. “This isn’t Grimmauld Place!” Now he did sit up, his head swimming as he did so. Maeve placed a supporting hand at his back, concerned lest he fall from the bed.

“I’ll tell you all about it when you’re feeling better.”

“Don’t….” He paused and gasped for breath. “Don’t talk to me as if I was five. Who is we?”

“Harry, I need you to be calm. You are still very sick, and I don’t want you to do yourself any further harm by getting excited.”

If she thought her words would have a calming effect, she was sorely mistaken. Harry was quick to look around him, and even quicker to make the connection between her and her husband. Something about the bunker made him feel oppressed, made him understand the true nature of what he was doing here. He turned green eyes to Maeve, startling her with his understanding.

“Am I free to leave?” he asked, his face repelling any lies she might have had for him.

“It’s not that simple.” She found that she couldn’t hold eye contact with him.

“Usually, when people say things like that, they mean no.”

She turned away, regarding the sickly-coloured walls with sudden, and feigned, interest.

“Well?” Harry’s voice, despite his recent incapacity, was strong, demanding.

“Harry, it really isn’t that simple.” Maeve turned back to him, meeting his gaze once more. “There are other things to take into consideration.”

“AM I FREE TO LEAVE?”

“No,” she said, flinching at his raised voice. Why was everyone shouting at her? “No, Harry, you are not free to leave, not at the moment.”

“Why not?” His voice chipped at her, cracking her veneer of control.

“Because… ” She floundered, searching for an adequate answer. When she failed, she gave him the only answer she had. “Because Severus has plans.”

“Have you betrayed me?” Harry continued with his line of uncomfortable questions. He pushed away Severus’ name for now, wanting to get a clearer picture of his situation first. “Are you the same as him? What did it take to get you to become one of them, Maeve? Does your father know?”

“Harry, don’t insult me. I have not become a Death Eater. Severus is no longer a Death Eater. He has a plan to convince Voldemort that you are dead. If Voldemort believes you are dead, then we have a better chance of catching him by surprise.”

“Snape would do nothing that didn’t serve Voldemort in some way,” Harry spat. “What makes you think he won’t come back with Voldemort and his cronies in tow? What makes you believe in that snake of a man?” Harry was radiating pure fury, kept in check only by his weak body.

“Harry, who do you think saved your life after Nagini bit you? I helped, but it was Severus that, once again, came to the rescue. Tell me, why would he have done that merely to have you killed?” She sat heavily on the bed. “Why would he?”

“I don’t know,” Harry mumbled, thrown from his path of righteous indignation. “All I know is that I’m stuck here, and I don’t want to be. If Voldemort is to believe I am dead, then who else has to believe I am dead?”

“Everyone,” Maeve said. “From Remus right up the Minister. Everyone has to believe you are dead.”

“Ron? Hermione?” He paused. “Ginny?”

“Everyone, Harry.”

He gave a low moan. He had no idea what to accept as the truth about his confinement here, but the thought that his friends believed him to be dead caused such a contraction of pain in his heart that he slumped back onto the bed.

“You can’t let this happen, Maeve,” he said, looking at the damp-spotted ceiling in despair. “You have to find a way to let them know.”

“I’ll see what Severus says,” Maeve replied. In doing so, she conceded, quite clearly, to her husband’s authority over what they were doing, and this brought Harry back up to a sitting position.

“When did you bow down to him?” he asked. “When did you give up and let him walk all over you? He’s evil. He killed our best chance of finding the Horcruxes and beating Voldemort!”

“He is NOT evil,” Maeve snapped, realising that she was not doing a great job of calming him down. “He killed Dumbledore at Dumbledore’s request. Harry, you have to believe this. Severus has been instrumental in the finding of Horcruxes. He is working even now to ensure that Voldemort is removed from his position of power.”

Maeve stopped talking as she remembered the plot to depose Voldemort from within. Had Severus been right about that?

“And how is he going to do that?” Harry asked scornfully. “I thought only me, you and Neville could manage that feat?”

“I think the Horcruxes have made things more complicated,” she said. “But, even setting aside removing him… ”

“Killing him,” Harry said with venom.

“Killing him,” Maeve agreed. “He is creating havoc; killing and maiming so many. He needs to be tempered until all the Horcruxes have been found. Severus has been asked to help with that.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Harry groaned. His hatred of Severus was so potent that he was almost incapable of hearing anything rational about his former Potions master. “Why would he do all of this?”

“Because he is fundamentally a good man, Harry. How many times must we have this discussion?”

“How can he be a good man when he has done so many evil things?” Harry was now looking ashen-faced again, and Maeve decided the time had come to bring a halt to the conversation.

“You need more rest. Severus will return later today. You must speak with him. The only way forward now is for you two to set aside whatever you believe about each other and come together to defeat a common enemy. Do you understand that, Harry?”

“I understand you are asking the impossible.”

“Then you need to make it possible.”





Voldemort was in particularly good spirits when Severus arrived in the tunnels beneath Rampton Court. He swept through the subterranean world wearing Harry’s blood like a talisman, heading straight for the cavern that Voldemort usually occupied. He was there now, crowing about something to Peter Pettigrew. When Severus entered, Peter drew back, scratching at his face with agitation.

“Severus, you have missed my latest piece of… what shall we call it, Wormtail?”

“Art, master,” Pettigrew said with a fawning smile. “It was a piece of art.”

Voldemort gave a tight smile and nodded his agreement. “Yes, indeed. It takes a degree of artistry to bring down an ancient, and important, monument like Stonehenge. But it toppled like the ridiculous dominoes that the Muggles are so fond of. And it was no loss to us. The wizarding world had long since forgotten its true use. I think the last occasion of anyone telling the time using such an antiquated method was in 1576.”

“Stonehenge,” Severus said coldly. “Very good, my lord. Very… enterprising. Anyone killed?”

“No, unfortunately.” Voldemort’s sense of victory dissipated, and with it, his good-humour. “What brings you here?”

“I thought it would interest you to know that I managed to kill the Potter boy earlier today.” The cold front that Severus maintained would have kept the ice caps intact for several more years, and Voldemort froze. He looked carefully at Severus, not quite sure if he had heard correctly.

“Kill him?”

Peter Pettigrew was now sniffing and hopping from one foot to the other in agitation over how his master would take the news.

“Nagini did most of the work, it must be said. Although what Nagini was doing at Hogwarts, I cannot say.” He looked at Voldemort, not really expecting an elaboration.

“I had need of something,” Voldemort said. “She worked alone. I was not aware that she had feasted on anyone. Where is she, Wormtail?”

“I believe she is hunting still, my lord.”

“I shall need to see her immediately on her return. So” ” he turned back to Severus ” “you have killed Potter. You were aware that I wanted that particular treat for myself?”

“It was a matter of good judgement, my lord. I had neither the time to consult you or the inclination to save the boy’s life yet again. As you can see, his blood still covers my robes.” Severus indicated the dried patches that had now become almost indistinguishable from the cloth they had marked.

Voldemort moved towards him with graceful, long steps. Once he had drawn level, he dropped his head and examined the patches. To Severus revulsion, his flicking tongue shot out and licked at the robe, tasting the bitter tang of that which was contained within his own veins.

Severus watched as he seemed to savour the taste, his tongue moving around in his mouth.

It was several moments before he spoke again, and this time he looked at Severus critically.

“And the body?”

Severus stiffened, unable to believe he had been so stupid as to not listen to Maeve. Of course she had been right, of course. How could he ever have anticipated that Voldemort would take him at his word?

“Has been concealed.”

“I should like to see it. I should like the opportunity to defile it as is appropriate.”

“Very well.” Severus glanced at Pettigrew, who was smiling to himself over something. “I can retrieve it, although it is not in good condition.”

“No hurry,” Voldemort said, waving a waxy hand in the air. “I have some business to attend to in Germany and will be travelling with Wormtail here. We will be gone for a week, at least. Preserve the body in the state it is in and keep it safe.”

“Germany, my lord?”

“Yes, surely you’ve heard of it: quite a large country just to the of France. Full of Germans, apparently.”

Severus completely missed the attempt at sarcasm. “I know where it is. I merely wondered what business you had there.”

“And since when has my business become your business, Severus?”

“I like to be kept informed of progress,” Severus said, offering up an insincere smile.

“Indeed. Well, I shall be visiting some former allies of ours. You will have heard of them, I am sure “ The Knights of Walpurgis?”

Severus managed to control the look of alarm that almost crossed his face. “The Walpurgis are a formidable opponent. I had no idea they still existed in the form they did when Salazar used their model as a base for his own followers.”

“Oh, they exist, and they do so with some aplomb. Deep in the Harz Mountains, people have been disappearing for years. Rumours abound.” He gave another of his half-smiles. “We go to discuss bringing their own particular brand of zeal to the wider public.”

“That is an intelligent move,” Severus said, his heart sinking at the prospect of yet another vicious group brought to Voldemort’s side.

“I like to think so. Well, you have had enough of my time. Go and attend to whatever business you have, and I will see you back here some time next week.” He turned from Severus before Severus even had the chance to bid him goodbye. It was all the dismissal he needed, and he was striding away with a heavy load dogging his steps.

One week in which to present Voldemort with the corpse of Harry Potter. One week. This was going to take some thought, and before he could move on he needed to contact Jenny Fitzwilliam and inform her of the Dark Lord’s intention to bring the Knights of Walpurgis into the mess that was this war. And beyond that lay Harry Potter himself. A living, breathing, livid Harry Potter, who would, no doubt, be quite happy to make an attempt on his life.



Albert Gryps had returned home late that night. He liked a drink in the local, but he was usually home before eight. Tonight he had stayed until they called last orders, not wishing to let go of his glass and succumb to the dreary news he had been given that afternoon. Maisie had had to practically prise him from his seat in order to close the pub up, and had watched, a worried crease on her brow, as the old man shuffled wearily home.

“Ten to one he’s had bad news,” she said to her fellow barmaid, Claire. “Looks like he’s the weight of the world on his shoulders. Poor old sod.”

“Lonely too,” Claire mused, patting her bottle-blonde hair, thankful, suddenly, that she had a boyfriend to go home to.

“Poor old sod,” Maisie repeated, closing the door on Albert’s retreating figure.

He unlocked his front door and stepped into the hall, hanging his coat up “ the solitary occupant of the four coat pegs that had once been filled by an assortment of garments. Albert stepped into his sitting room and looked around him, wondering how many more opportunities there would be to spend quiet evenings in here, surrounded by his earthly belongings.

Cancer. The doctor had edged around the word with other, more soothing, words before finally placing lung and cancer together and delivering his damning news. Albert had nodded, listening as the prognosis was given. When the doctor had finished, and Albert had ruminated on the fact he had lung cancer and yet had never smoked in his life, he asked the two questions that are uppermost in the minds of people in his position. Is it curable, and if not, how long have I got?

The doctor had said it was inoperable with a toothy smile that suggested he had just given Albert wonderful news. Albert nodded again, his neck beginning to ache from so much agreement. He wouldn’t be drawn on a timeframe in which Albert could say goodbye to the life he had lived so quietly. All he would say was that the cancer was ‘well-advanced’. Albert took this to mean months rather than years, and left the surgery with mixed feelings.

On the one hand, he had lived a good life, a long one. With the exception of the loss of his son, he had been happy; as happy as a person can be when one third of their life has been cut away. When this disease claimed him, he would be able to join his wife and son and say goodbye to the loneliness that sometimes made him melancholy.

But Albert felt that there was something left undone, something left unsaid, and he didn’t have the first idea what it was. He closed his curtains and slumped down onto the chair, looking about him with an air of defeat. He had always felt there was something he needed to do. When he had seen Harry Potter in the pub that day, he had thought the feeling would finally go away, that this was the thing he needed to do. But he had felt the familiar lack of resolution the morning after that meeting, and he knew he was still unfulfilled. And now his time had almost run out. He would join his wife and son, but might never know what he had failed to do in life. His tired, old head fell forward onto his chest, and for the first time since his wife had died, Albert cried tears of frustration and sorrow.




Harry was sitting up and sipping a glass of Restorade, which Maeve had made using herbs from the small meadow in front of the bunker, when Severus returned. Severus would have skinned her alive if he had seen her out in the open, picking plants as if she were in her own garden back at Rathgael, but she had needed to do something productive. Harry heard the heavy door swing shut and looked to Maeve, who had changed and was now sewing the tears in her dress from earlier.

“Please, Harry,” she said, setting aside the fabric and thread. “Please, for the sake of everyone, believe in him.”

Harry put the glass down and threw the bedclothes to one side. “It depends on what he says. He’s not very good at saying the right thing. And he’s never going to convince me that Dumbledore needed to die.”

“Severus brought you a change of clothing from Grimmauld Place. Why don’t you take your time and get changed while I settle him down.” She moved to one of the other beds and picked up a bundle of robes. “Don’t use too much energy, though. You are still very weak.”

He grabbed the clothes from her, mumbling about being “perfectly all right,” and walked towards the shower room. “I can’t promise anything,” he said over his shoulder. “And don’t forget, I want Ginny told.”


Maeve walked towards the entrance, as reluctant to have this whole confrontation as Severus had been to face Voldemort earlier. It was getting very late, and all she really wanted to do was go to bed and sleep for a very long time. Severus didn’t say anything when he saw her. He pulled her towards him with arms eager for a breath of comfort and inhaled the smell of her hair, ignoring the scent of fresh air he found there.

“Did you accomplish everything?” she whispered into his shoulder.

“After a fashion,” he said, pulling away from her and pushing the hair from her face with both his hands, taking the time to look at the one person he felt at home with. And he felt he had need of a home now.

“I think I have managed to calm Harry a little, but he’s still angry.”

Severus looked at her blankly, as if the name Harry Potter meant nothing.

“Severus?”

“I don’t have the inclination to deal with Potter tonight.” He allowed his hands to drop and regarded her closely. “You were right. I should have listened to you.”

“He asked for the body, didn’t he?” All thoughts of an I-told-you-so were evaporated by his worn expression. “I’m sorry. What will you do?”

“I don’t know yet,” he replied. “I have a week to come up with a plan. He is going to Germany to agitate some support.”

Maeve could hear in his voice that his heart wasn’t really in this conversation, in the same way he hadn’t been interested in Harry. An instinct forged from knowing him so well told her that something else had happened in the time he had been gone.

“What’s really bothering you?” she asked, her words gentle.

“You know,” he began, “it is said the son often takes after the father. Do I take after my father?”

Maeve misunderstood his intentions and thought this was something to do with her mother and his father. “Severus, we have been through this before. You are nothing like your father. He was an evil, stupid… ”

He cut her off with a raised palm. “There is a reason for that,” he said slowly. “It seems the deceits go ever onward and we are never to be let in peace.”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“Let’s say that I can understand how you felt when you realised that Niall O’Malley was not your real father.”

“Severus, you are talking in riddles. Please, just explain to me what happened.”

“I went to see Jenny Fitzwilliam after I had seen the Dark Lord. It was late, but she agreed to see me. I was not anticipating finding her in quite so good a mood. It seems that she and your friend Rampton paid a visit to Darkacre earlier this evening, and they broke into my property.”

Maeve’s face paled slightly. “They did what?”

“It seems they were after some documents that would prove I was not the rightful owner of the house.”

“Roderick wouldn’t… ” But she couldn’t finish because she knew that’s exactly the sort of thing that Roderick would do.

“He would, and he did. This evidence is apparently quite extensive, although I’m not sure it disproves my claim to the house. It does, however, prove quite conclusively that I am not Kentigern Snape’s son.”

“If your face didn’t look quite so serious, I’d say you were having me on. You can’t be serious. It’s ridiculous. It seems no one has a clue who their real parents are.”

“Life is full of nasty little twists and turns.”

“But,” she said, her face suddenly brightening, “unless your real father happens to be Voldemort, then surely he can’t be as bad as Kentigern.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh! It’s not… no, you couldn’t be Tom Riddle’s son.”

“I am not the Dark Lord’s son,” Severus said, just managing to keep the involuntary shudder the thought provoked at bay. “Apparently, my mother was driven into the arms of a man named Stephen Gryps. He was my father. Fortunately for us both, he is now dead.”

This produced almost as dramatic a reaction as if he had said that Voldemort was his father.

“I don’t believe it!” she screeched. “It couldn’t be… surely?”

“Couldn’t be what?” Severus asked.

“Albert Gryps; the man that lives in Godric’s Hollow. Now I come to think of it, he has a huge nose too.”

Severus ignored the unintended insult and looked at her thoughtfully. “Whilst I would like to think that there is meaning behind that, I doubt it.”

“We should pay him a visit.”

“Why?” He shook his head.

“He could be your grandfather, or your great uncle or something. Aren’t you just a little curious?”

Severus might have been annoyed with her upbeat attitude to this had he not been more than aware she had already been through such a personal upheaval. In both their cases, they had been freed from the blood connection to men with questionable characteristics, but she had immediately known her real father. He was afraid that he may well come from a long line of mediocrity. And she was right, he was curious, now he came to think of it.

“So, Snape, the coward returns.” Harry’s voice filled the grim entrance as he struggled into view. “Finally come to face up to what you did, have you?”