You'll never guess how totally baffled I was when a few days ago, I noticed that my story was a featured one! Those wonderful people of mugglenet fanfiction don't notice their authors if they do that, it seems. I'm shocked and pleased and incredibly surprised. Thank you very much, admins and reviewers. I would never, ever have expected this.
So, finally, here is the update. Bear with me, it's the time of my final exams and I'm also writing another story.
This chapter was betaed by rambkowalczyk.
9 Cold Turkey
“Are you suggesting that I look like a dead American bird, Lupin?” Snape’s irritated voice rang after him as they entered the Eyrie.
Remus went into the drawing room, took off his cloak which was damp from the early dew and lit the fire in the grate. A tall grandfather clock with a pendulum told him that it was ten past four in the early morning. Professor McGonagall was probably still asleep. She was sleeping in the main bedchamber of the Eyrie, which was the most spacious. There was only one guest room, so one of them would have to sleep on the sofa today.
“I forgot you don’t socialise with Muggles,” Remus smiled wearily as he sat down. He had spent many years away from England and away from the wizarding world, with Muggles all over Europe and America, while Snape had never left the wizarding world at all.
“Cold Turkey means to abruptly quit consuming a substance you’re addicted to. Which is not to suggest that I think you’re doing drugs or anything like that. Or are you?”
Snape stood behind an armchair, one of his pale hands on the furniture. It was hilarious to imagine Severus Snape with a drug habit, Remus thought. The man was living the life of a monk, and apart from his social skills, he was the most disciplined man Remus knew. Remus thought himself disciplined, as being a werewolf required a fair amount of discipline, but now and then he would indulge in the small pleasures of life: a bar of chocolate here, a spiced tea there... of course he had never laid a finger on drugs, not even alcohol, because drugs and werewolves didn’t mix well. But he knew people who had. Snape wasn’t one of them.
And yet he wasn’t saying a word right now.
“Snape?” Remus asked, now serious. Still the man remained silent. His face was a stony mask, but his fingers were trembling.
“You can’t just deny it,” said Remus helplessly. “I mean, now is not the right time to... to be in a bad condition. Maybe it’s something we could get you.”
“Shut up!” Not bothering to be eloquent any more, Snape slid into the armchair. His tall form shrunk and he rubbed his forehead. He had given up. “I need a Pensieve.”
“A Pensieve?”
Remus knew of them, they were used to look at memories and to store memories outside your head. But Pensieves were rare “ and illegal. He wasn’t quite sure why, he had never seen or used one himself. “Pensieves are addictive?”
“Not necessarily,” Snape explained sullenly. “Dumbledore uses it too, and he isn’t addicted. But if you use it too often, then you start to rely on it. And if you put too many of your memories into a Pensieve, then it induces a lightness in your mind. That is what is addictive.”
Remus was thunderstruck. He didn’t know what was stranger: Snape being addicted to a memory storing device or Snape admitting it. “But why do you use one if you know that?”
Snape sneered, but very unconvincingly. “I have to, Lupin. I’m an Occlumens, yes, but I can’t risk that the Dark Lord obtains certain information if he breaks my mind.”
Shivers ran down Remus’ back from the casual way in which Snape mentioned Voldemort breaking his mind. Even more so because he had seen his fair share of people who had broken minds and hearts. There had been times when he had considered himself among them. Then he remembered something else.
“Um... Severus... last year I had a conversation with Harry and Sirius ... Harry was telling us about something he had seen in your Pensieve.”
Incredible anger flashed in the potions master’s eyes and he sat upright again. His voice was suddenly sharp as cutting steel. “What? Did he want to amuse you with stories of old times?”
“No. He was very upset... he was blaming Sirius and his father and was asking us if it was true what he had seen. I know it was true but that’s not my question. Why do you store that information in the Pensieve? It’s of no value to Voldemort, I would think.”
“You’re wrong about that. I dispose of memories like this one to make sure I stay rational and cold during my contact with Voldemort. The more emotional nonsense you carry around with you, the easier it is for a Legilimens to enter your mind. It’s distracting.”
Whether this was true, or a lie, or a half-lie, Remus wasn’t sure. It made more sense to think that when training Occlumency with Harry, Snape had wanted to hide those embarrassing thoughts. But maybe it was also true that Voldemort could use them against him.
“But that means... does that mean that you have put all of your childhood memories into the Pensieve? What do you even remember?” Remus knew Snape’s history well enough to know that Snape had a hell of a lot of disturbing emotional memories. When he realised that it was probably a bad idea to ask Snape such a thing so directly (really, it would have been impolite towards anyone), it was too late to take it back.
“I know what kind of a childhood I had without you reminding me of it,” Snape said angrily. “I put inside what I necessarily have to hide. And it’s not everything. I keep those memories the Dark Lord knows and likes, so he won’t become suspicious.” Snape said that with a cruel kind of satisfaction, as if he knew how horrible Remus would find it.
“The ones he likes?”
“I’m a dark, hateful man, don’t you remember?” An awful laugh accompanied this, a sound that barely deserved the name ‘laugh’. “He likes ... looking at the things which made me that way. It amuses him. It makes him sure that I won’t betray him.”
It was scary to realise the extent to which Snape had given up himself in order to serve Dumbledore. He had altered his personality, had twisted himself into a lie to please Voldemort. He had kept the darkest memories he had, and put away the lighter ones, so Voldemort would never suspect that Snape had any reason to change sides. Of course that didn’t leave much room for him to grow into a real, stable, healthy person.
“And all those memories are now in the Pensieve?” If so, then they had a problem. The Pensieve was at Hogwarts along with Regulus Black. A possible Death Eater spy had free access to Snape’s deepest secrets.
“That’s the problem. They’re inside my head right now.”
Suddenly, a lot of pieces came together to form a whole picture in Remus’ mind. During the past days Snape had been unusually emotional. At times he had seemed a lot more human, too. Was it because he had all his memories inside his head and not just a fraction of them? Was this the real Severus Snape resurfacing? It must be painful for Snape, but actually it might be a good thing.
Snape was still sitting in the armchair, looking pallid and weak. He stared at his hands and mumbled something to himself.
“You should rest, I think. Maybe drink something.”
“I cannot afford this right now!” Snape barked but quickly deflated again. “I have to get better immediately. A calming potion will do...”
“I don’t think you should mess with your mind any more-“
Their loud talk had woken up Professor McGonagall, and the elderly lady was standing in the door frame watching them. They both fell quiet.
“What have you found out?” she asked tiredly. Remus remembered the graveyard.
“The tomb is empty. But someone had been inside it, alive. There were scratches and blood on the inside. We don’t know what happened. And we have another problem now. Do you think you could return to Hogwarts and fetch us something from Severus’ chambers?”
“It would be dangerous,” Minerva answered and pursed her lips in doubt. She yawned and conjured some strong tea. “What is it?”
“A Pensieve.” She raised a brow but said nothing.
+++++
It was eight in the morning. They were still sitting in the drawing room, that is, Remus was sitting. Snape lay with his head on a pillow on one of the sofas. He was shivering and sweating at the same time and while his teeth were chattering, he seemed unusually eager to talk. He was instructing Remus how to brew a calming potion with the few ingredients they already had . Remus had to work and stir with his uninjured hand. His finger was still missing. It could have been regrown, but he had decided not to do that. He had bitten it off just like Peter had, and he would keep it like that until Peter was dead.
“Add the lime-blossoms. She was only fourteen. Salvia.”
“Was that her name?” Remus asked as he put the lime-blossoms inside the kettle. Snape had been talking about his sister, although sometimes he seemed to confuse her with his various aunts or his pet toad.
“No, you moron. Add the salvia,” Snape snorted. “Her name was Mildred. Bloody stupid name. She was to marry Rabastan Lestrange but fell in love with a Muggle from our village. The family of the spouse had to restore their honour...”
Remus almost dropped the whole bag of salvia into the small copper kettle. “They killed a fourteen year old girl to restore their honour?”
But Snape seemed to have forgotten the topic and was suddenly talking about something else. “Dumbledore and Voldemort really have a lot in common. When I meet the Dark Lord, he looks into my mind to assure himself of my loyalty. When I came to Dumbledore, when I change sides... well the price I had to pay for his faith in me was baring all my memories to him. Every single one. There are no secrets between us. Would you do that? Would you let him see your inner beast? Pulverised bezoar.”
“If I were Dumbledore, I’d probably let him. He wouldn’t judge me. But Dumbledore knew that you were able to deceive Voldemort, didn’t he? Why does he trust you then?” Remus was careful not to sound as if he didn’t trust Snape. Because, really, he did.
“Because he hopes. And Voldemort also knows that I have secrets. He knows that I’m working for Dumbledore. I’m a double agent, and both of them know it. Each of them thinks I’m more loyal to him than to the other...”
Snape laughed hoarsely. Remus was very glad that they were safe and alone. Right now, Snape was pouring out all his secrets to him and some of these things could have cost him his life if they got to Voldemort’s ears.
“Three drops of nightingale’s blood... would use Hypnos’ Tears, but we’ve got none... pineapples.”
Remus found the nightingale’s blood in a tiny, nut-like capsule and added it to the potion, but there were no pineapples anywhere. “I don’t think we’ve got pineapples,” he said worriedly. It wouldn’t help to conjure a pineapple; the ingredients of potent potions had to be naturally grown. But Snape shook his head, blinking rapidly.
“Don’t you see all those pineapples?” he asked with a hysterical voice. “That witch is mad! Why did she put all those pineapples on the shelves?”
There were no pineapples on any shelves, just books. Snape was hallucinating and it seemed to scare and amuse him at the same time. “We cannot eat all those pineapples. We might have to feed them to the squirrels.”
And so the hours went by, with Snape becoming considerably less coherent and Remus brewing the potion. It had to boil for three quarter of an hour and then Snape drank it, but it didn’t help much. At least he stopped talking. Remus was hoping that there was no lasting damage and that these were just strange withdrawal symptoms.
Finally, at half past ten, McGonagall returned. She looked flushed, but carried an object wrapped in old linen. She carefully unwrapped it and put the cloth aside after she had placed it on the table. It was a stone bowl with runic symbols on the broad edge, and a silvery, half liquid and half vaporous substance inside it. So this is a Pensieve, Remus thought.
McGonagall threw Snape a worried glance. He lay on the sofa in a fitful drowse and still looked very sick.
“Were you seen by anyone ?” Remus asked.
“Yes, I saw Miss Granger, but she seemed alright.”
If Hermione looked alright, then Harry was probably alright as well, Remus realised with relief. It worried him greatly to know that Harry and his friends were alone at Hogwarts, with no one to protect them. All of the other teachers were under Regulus’ spell.
“But someone has been in Severus’ chambers and his office. The cabinet I found the Pensieve in was broken into. Perhaps someone has been looking for the Pensieve.”
“We’re lucky Severus didn’t have his memories in it. ” Remus got up and shook Snape by the shoulder. “We’ve got it.”
Snape rose groggily and stared at the stone basin. The light substance was reflected by his dark, bloodshot eyes. He reached for his wand and tapped the glittering surface, twirling it around like spun sugar. Flashes of images appeared inside the whirling mass.
“Someone has been using it,” Snape said hollowly. “There are memories inside it.”
“Whose could they be?”
“Dumbledore’s.” Snape said. “But I didn’t think he had left any of his memories here ... I don’t know about Black. If he has been going through my things...” Snape didn’t sound angry, only very tired and dazed. At least he wasn’t seeing any pineapples.
“Why would someone put his memories inside a stranger’s Pensieve?” McGonagall wondered.
“As a message,” suggested Remus. “As a trace “ maybe a false one. We should look at them, though. A false trace is better than no trace.”
All three of them stared at the shallow basin. They moved closer, looking deeply into the ceaselessly moving substance. Snape tapped it with his wand and it started to move faster, around and around until it darkened like smoke and a blurry image appeared. After a few seconds, they were pulled inside the Pensieve as if by portkey, tumbling headfirst into a stranger’s memory.
The drawing room seemed to drop aside and they were in another room. They saw Dumbledore, sitting in his office, talking. But the memory was strangely blurred and cloudy, and they could not understand Dumbledore’s voice. Suddenly Dumbledore looked at them with his piercing eyes and fell quiet. Where the person Dumbledore was talking to should have been was only a human-shaped shadow with no recognisable features. He could turn around, but there the memory got even blurrier.
“I know that look,” Snape said beside Remus. All three of them were standing in the room like ghosts. Snape looked a lot better all of a sudden. “Dumbledore is doing Legilimency.”
“But on whom? Why can’t we see him?” Wondered the Transfigurations Mistress. She studied Dumbledore closely and then clucked her tongue. “Oh... but this must be an older memory! He hasn’t worn that hat for eighteen years...” She smiled melancholy.
“Is it Dumbledore’s memory?” Remus asked.
Snape shrugged. “I don’t know. It is strange that we cannot see who he is talking to. That person should be right here where we are standing.”
But before they could answer that question, the memory became even hazier and then completely vanished in a blur. It was as if the memory had been hastily ripped out of someone’s head, or as if it had been damaged by something. Instead of the office they suddenly saw nothing but darkness.
There were no odours inside the Pensieve, but what they heard was a distinct scratching noise and muffled gasps, as if someone was suffocating. Wails of panic and pain filled the lightless claustrophobic place they were in.
“It’s his vault,” Remus realised, and noticed that he was whispering. He couldn’t even see the others and felt paralysed because he couldn’t feel his limbs or see anything. A few seconds longer, and he would start to panic as well, caught up in this bodiless void. Maybe this was a trap and they would have to stay here forever...
“Black’s grave?” he heard Snape ask, and the known voice calmed him down, but again they were pulled away.
The sudden change was blinding. Instead of a tight, black hole they were now standing in the open forest on a grey winter day. Without having to move, they were pulled forward between the trees as the person whose memory they saw moved forward. Strangely, there was nobody else to be seen.
Remus was happy to have escaped the dark pit. Being imprisoned in dark and tiny places was one of his oldest childhood fears. When he had still been very young, he had to endure his transformations in the coal cellar under their house. But at least then he had known that another day would come and someone would open the door. The person in Regulus Black’s grave probably did not have such hopes.
The forest seemed to be very wild and old. Remus liked the forest; it was a part of his nature he wouldn’t deny. The forest represented freedom, and purity and calm. Maybe it was the heart of the Forbidden Forest, because there was no path, no trace of civilisation and it looked familiar to Remus. It was winter, the sky was grey and the earth wet. They crossed a brook that was partly frozen over and in the distance they could now spot a huge grey rock among the fir trees. Not a single bird was singing.
“I think this must be Regulus Black’s memories,” Remus observed. “The last one was certainly his.”
This memory, in comparison to the first two, was clear and undamaged. They could discern every dead leaf on the ground and every shade of grey in the sky. And then they saw the most wondrous thing:
In the middle of the wild wintry forest, on top of a rock, there grew an apple tree. And the apple tree bore sprightly leaves and pink and white blossoms at the same time, and also golden apples that looked as delicious as they had never seen apples look before. The tree was small and old, and yet heartbreakingly beautiful amidst the rough wilderness. It was like a reminder of spring, an old, eternal source of blossoming life and love, a recollection of summer, warmly shining upon the lonely wilderness. They felt drawn to it by a strange longing, even though it wasn’t real but only a memory.
And finally, as they were only a few more steps away from it, they saw a figure leaning against the tree, sleeping peacefully under its rich, heavy branches. He was a very old, white-bearded wizard with long hair. His head was resting against the trunk and small blossoms and dew drops were caught in his white hair. His slender hands were folded in his lap, while eyes were closed and his mouth was relaxed and smiling, as in the deepest of sleeps. It looked as if he had been sleeping here for centuries undisturbed.
“Albus!” Professor McGonagall exclaimed, but they were already pulled out of the Pensieve.