Alohomora
No time passes. No time has ever truly passed in this house. Passing of time means change. And nothing ever changes here. Fire burns low, leaving glowing embers behind. Cold air from the window still hanging ajar permeates the room. But those things do not qualify as change. Change – real change – only ever happens within. And that is something I am both blessedly exempt from and painfully robbed of.
I get up from my knees, replacing the chair in its place, Repairing the glass knocked over along with it, then turn my own armchair from facing the desk to facing the window. The darkened glass is now out of the way, and I can look out into the night without being confronted with a mirroring surface.
Time for the daily – or rather, nightly – exercise, one I had been trying hard to teach to Potter, only to find him as inept at it as at other innumerable things involving discipline. Empty your mind of all emotion. Good practice for someone who is still learning Occlumency, and a helpful exercise in control even for an accomplished Occlumens. For me, however, it had been unnecessary for many years now. Except possibly the month following Dumbledore's death, when I took meticulous care not to interject a mournful feeling into the atmosphere of exuberance surrounding the Dark Lord. The Only One He Ever Feared defeated, The Boy Who Lived robbed of his most powerful defender, Hogwarts virtually open for the taking… all that, by the hand of the now reestablished faithful servant. One of the most, if not the most faithful one, apart from possibly Bella the belle, whose devotion to him had long taken a turn towards something both sickening and sickeningly obvious.
The corner of my mouth curls up at the memory of her expression, of her barely concealed – oh, Merlin! – blush at my snide remark as to her failure at the Ministry. Women. Strange creatures. There is no understanding of their reasons for liking some men and not other, and no end to the most bizarre attractions imaginable. Instead of choosing someone who would be a good father for their children – the most natural instinct for selection of a mate – they are infatuated by power, swept away by popularity, or drawn in by morbid fascination… I feel a strange burning feeling on the left of my chest and reach in the inner pocket of my robes to see whether the picture kept there is spontaneously combusting for some melodramatic reason. There is no fire there, except for the flying red hair, so I tuck it back, musing that it would be a very poetic way to dispose of someone who holds the murderer dear. Present them with something small, silly and sentimental, with a likewise request to carry it over their heart, and watch them slowly succumb to a treacherous curse that would wear out their heart slowly, while they remain completely unaware and assured that the pain is coming from within their soul…
This picture holds no curse, however – no magical curse, that is – so the logical conclusion of the reason for my pain coincides with the illusion just described. I draw a breath and empty my mind. Cold, rational thought, no room for emotions or impulses, the only way to preserve one's sanity. Yet something is wrong. My mind is empty, yet it does not help in the least. My thoughts are cold and rational, but they are a picture of straight, clear lines drawn on a backdrop of a mind-boggling chaos. Explosions of indescribable colors where there should be solid blackness, as if a desperate artist had flung an entire palette of fluorescent paints into the dark waters of a still lake, ruining the perfect harmony of black surface and white moonlight.
For the first time ever I seem to understand what Dumbledore meant by saying that mind and soul can be one and the same.
It is dawning. I have not moved from my position, nor closed the window, despite the deep chill that usually settles in the body at the same time as the dew falls outside. It matters not whether one is inside or outside, naked or under several blankets – the chill comes from the inside, as if blood itself slows its flow in the veins. At times like this, having held another night's vigil over an unfinished essay, an unsteadily bubbling crucible, an unconscious prisoner or an uncomfortable thought, I would reach for a cup of hot tea, spiced up with cloves, cinnamon or Firewhiskey, depending on the circumstances. An influx of warmth would almost fool one into believing the feeling to be something more just than a hot liquid poured down the throat, and provided no one was around – in any case, I would not admit to this minor concession to the flesh in anyone's presence – I could close my eyes for a few brief and precious seconds, savoring the warm feeling and sometimes, very, very rarely, allowing in a smile, my highly infrequent visitor.
However, I am not feeling up to it right now. I am simply… tired. Another weakness of the flesh I have never shown to anyone. Maybe I should not break the tradition no one knows about. Maybe I should get up to my feet just enough to summon the large black kettle, restore the fire, and see if I have any of that bread left in what, for want of a better word, I call my kitchen.
I grasp the armrests, willing myself to get up, just a few seconds before a sound of footsteps appears barely beyond the edge of hearing. Am I imagining them? Fortunately, imagination is not something I possess in abundance. My movement halted, I remain seated.
From my position, I cannot see anything that is happening in the room. However, the careful creaking of the door and deliberately quiet footsteps tells me that my early visitor is alone, hesitant and has much to learn about moving stealthily.
I speak without turning my head.
'Came to have another stab at it, Potter?'
A creak of a floorboard out of rhythm indicates that my voice has startled the intruder. There is no reply, from which I surmise that Potter it is.
He approaches slowly, and I can see his face reflected in a corner of the treacherous windowpane. Pale, the scar on his forehead showing more prominently than usual, hair wet and sticking out at odd angles. The eyes escape my scrutiny.
He stops just behind my right shoulder and out of direct view, his left foot a few inches away from my wand, carelessly abandoned on my way from the fireplace. I make no attempt to reach it. Unless he points his wand at me and speaks Avada Kedavra, I can defend myself easily. Should he do that, however, I would just make a mental note to explain some things to Dumbledore should I meet him in whatever afterlife there is. At length.
There is no movement, no sound except for that of careful breathing. I just hope that the boy is not considering another attempt of anything heroic or melodramatic. In either case, I doubt I would be able to restrain myself enough not to throw a full Body-Bind at him, Levitate him out of the window and leave him to his own devices from there on.
Well? Go ahead, say what you want to say, and do me a favor by relieving me of your company. I never expected you to believe a single word I said. And how could you have, always the dashing hero, the savior of the day, believe that a coward like me could have done all that?
The thought rushes through my head, and I am grateful for my own advice of thinking before speaking. Were it not for Potter's presence, I would have smirked at myself. Who would have thought, Severus, that after all those years you still had it in you to be offended, nay, insulted by a seventeen-year-old. Did he hit a raw nerve? I was not aware you had any left.
Growing weary of the ridiculous silence, I break it with something better balanced.
'Do whatever you came here for, then, and leave me to enjoy the solitude you have disrupted in your very typical fashion.'
Because my much abused patience on your account has about run out.
The boy clears his throat and shifts his weight from one foot to another, causing me concern for the safety of my wand.
'No, I didn't. I mean, did not come to… have another stab.'
'Noble of you,' I intone under my breath, unable to not notice the change in his voice. It may just be the effect of wandering under the rain, but somehow it sounds as if its owner has gained several years of age overnight.
'I came to say that…'
Do you expect me to urge you on? You give me too much credit, Potter. My eyes do not leave the now visible brown bark of the tree just outside the window.
The boy draws breath, almost angrily. I hide my amusement.
'That…'
Did I hear something along the lines of 'damn' under his breath? Never had much experience at admitting something for a change, had you, Potter? It tends to hurt, just so you would know.
'I believe you,' he finally manages. I assume an ironic expression, raising my eyebrows just enough for him to notice, should he have figured out that he can see my face in the window. Something shatters inside my chest, something that was stretched taut for hours? months? years? I ignore it.
'What a relief,' fortunately, making each word drip with disdain is a skill I had mastered long ago.
A relief indeed, is it not, considering that I was losing my sleep over the issue. Come to think of it, I was, interrupts the blasted objectivity. I ignore it, boring Potter's reflection with my eyes. He stares back. Silence lingers. I let out a carefully weighted exasperated sigh.
'Was that your only purpose here? Then let me congratulate you on successfully accomplishing it.'
Now get out. Get out before you start crying and apologizing again. No more teary-eyed stares. No more awkward attempts at words that are reserved for others.
A memory floats out of nowhere. Tearstruck green eyes.
"Sev…"
I look over my shoulder, frowning.
"Sev, wait, please wait!"
I stop and do not turn. She circles me, trying to look into my eyes. Finally, she manages to push my hair aside, clinging onto my shoulder with her hand. It is difficult for her, as I am much taller. I make no attempt to make it easier.
"Sev, I'm sorry."
"That's alright."
"No, it isn't, I know it isn't, I know I should never have said that!"
"Everything is fine, Lily."
I try to free myself. She hangs on, making breaking free impossible without hurting her. I stand still, and she takes advantage of that by turning my face to look at her. I try to avert my eyes, to no avail.
"Sev… Please forgive me for saying that, I never meant to insult your mother, I just wanted to say that she should have taken better care of you, because…"
"Because?.. "
"Because…" it is her turn to look away.
"Because no child should be abandoned like that."
"She never did abandon me, Lily," I speak in a hollow voice. "My mother was a kind woman, and it is not the lack of letters from her that was making me unhappy, but the abuse she had to suffer at the hands of my father."
She stares at me for a few seconds, her eyes widening.
"Was?.. Sev! Sev, you… you never told… anyone…"
Looking down, I swallow. Suddenly she throws her arms around me, crying.
"I'm so sorry, Sev…" I can barely make out between the sobs.
"It's alright, Lily. It is I who should be sorry," I whisper, holding her. A few tears find their way down my cheeks and get lost in her sweet-smelling hair.
I come to my senses with a start, only to find the boy still standing where he was. Damnation. No more words reserved for others, Potter. Don't you dare. Don't you dare remind me whose life should have been a neverending plea for forgiveness.
I shoot him a burning look. Potter looks a little taken aback and makes a few uncertain steps backwards.
'Right… Right. Er. Thank you.'
I huff scornfully. One gratitude long overdue.
'I'll just get back to my job, then. Goodbye, Professor.'
One last chance… Let him walk away. Just one more death on my conscience. Why does it matter? Why does it matter now?
The boy turns, heading for the door slowly. Just a few more seconds, and it will be over. Even if you change your mind later, your pride cannot possibly survive running after him. Let him go. There is no forgiveness to be earned from the dead, and you care not for that of any of the living.
'Do not disappoint me even further, Potter.'
I'll be damned. I am damned. So why does it matter now?
'I did not know that was still possible,' the boy retorts, looking surprised, however. My reflection frowns at his, which appears lost for a moment before adding unsurely,
'Professor?'
Some part of me is laughing at the rest of myself as one would at a funeral of the enemy who never learned. I ignore it, continuing.
'There are a good many things in this world, Potter, that you are not even remotely aware of.'
'So what is this new way I can disappoint you in, sir?'
Expectation. Curiosity. Hope?
'By making me believe that your mother's brains were completely wasted on you.'
'In what way?'
Confusion. Frown. I stand up and for the first time during this part of the conversation, face him directly, crossing my arms. Defensive body language, the same part of me sneers. I keep ignoring it.
'Because I was under the impression that in order to receive even the meager grades you have, you had to have at least a rudimentary sense of logic.'
The mentoring voice feels easier to do, something I had gotten used to over the years. Potter looks at me in genuine puzzlement, an expression so often assumed by most of my students. I let out a sigh again, exasperation requiring no weighing and measuring now.
'What I am trying to say here, Potter-'
'Is that you thought I was smart?' he immediately cuts in, eager to return to his usual role of the cheeky student worthy of… damn it. Worthy of one person I should rather keep out of my mind now, if I intend to follow through with this plan, truly Gryffindorian in its stupidity and recklessness. The thought of Gryffindor helps me come up with a temporary retort, however inappropriate and petty.
'You do realize that by this alone you would have lost your house several dozen points, don't you?'
'I do, but we're not at Hogwarts anymore,' he replies immediately, pointedly leaving the end of the sentence void of any appellation. An example of subtlety I would not have expected from Potter of all people. Enough word games, then, lest you want to lose by virtue of underestimating your opponent.
'Thank you for stating the obvious. Now if you would be so kind to let me continue?..' I request with pointedly icy politeness. The roles reasserted, I permit myself a barely noticeable nod at his suitably wary expression.
'Had you had the capacity to think about this situation logically, you would have realized that in order to defeat the Dark Lord…'
Since when have simple words become so intimidating? Damn the reasserted roles, an interruption would have been very helpful at this moment. Another weakness of yours, Professor – relying on others' predictability to remain perpetual.
'…you are going to…'
Stop expecting helpful prompts already. You gave none, why should he?
'Yes, Professor?'
Surprise and impossibly reluctant gratitude hidden, I conclude,
'Need my help.'
Some quarter of an hour later, Potter is staring at me in a mixture of disbelief and skepticism, leaning to the back of same chair he had occupied previously.
'Do you actually expect me to do what you ask?'
'I have known you long enough, Potter,' I reply, 'to neither expect nor ask you to do things. I have offered you one chance to bring down the Dark Lord and, quite possibly, escape with your life. It is up to you to accept it or not.'
'But this… plan… it’s impossible, no other word for it!'
'Indeed? And what makes it so impossible? Pray enlighten me, Potter.'
I am not surprised. It would be typical, to waste my time and breath relaying the plan to the boy who never acknowledged any authority except his own questionable pride.
'You expect me to surrender to you-'
'Wrong, Potter! Wrong from the very beginning!' I cut off.
'As usual, you have failed to grasp the fundamental principle, rendering the understanding of the whole impossible.'
'Have I?'
'You can only surrender to an enemy, Potter.'
'And?'
I draw my wand and hold it so that the point is just below his chin, again. His face remains calm.
'And, were I your enemy, what reason would you give me not to blast you into oblivion this very moment or at any other point during our conversation?'
'As I said before, you would get more credit for delivering me to Voldemort in person.'
'What did I tell you about the Dark Lord's name? Locomotor Mortis!' I snap and watch Potter try to keep his balance.
'What about now, Potter? Why should I not simply deliver you to the Dark Lord, concluding this pointless discussion?'
He appears to consider the question.
'Because many details of the plan still must be discussed?'
'Outstanding grasp of logic there. Maybe I should have used this spell on you during class. It seems to manifest a yet unregistered effect of brain activity stimulation. Locomotor Libera. '
'Now relay your understanding of the plan again, this time with more thought.'
The boy sighs despondently.
'I am to allow you to put a Body-Bind on me, after which you deliver me to…'
'Yes?..' I prompt threateningly.
'Are you going to hex me every time I say the name?'
'Try me, Potter.'
'Fine! You deliver me to your… Lord, and stand by his side as he entertains himself at my expense. Then, I am told, you attack him from the back when he is least expecting it, while I am expected to take care of the snake.'
'That would appear to sum it up, generally correctly,' I nod. 'What seems to be the problem, then?'
'The main problem, Professor, is that you expect me to trust you.'
'Oh. Of course. How could I have forgotten. You do not trust me, Potter. Do you?'
Potter shifts his gaze to his none-too-clean footwear, looking agonized. I watch, arms crossed in front of me.
'I… I don't know anymore,' he finally manages.
'That is a definite improvement, Potter, which indicates a marginal increase in your intelligence. Only arrogant fools are completely certain about everything. However, from the very fact of you standing here looking uncertain I surmise that you have permitted yourself to trust me enough. Just enough not to ruin the entire scheme.'
'What do you mean?'
'Were you foolish enough to trust me completely, which would have been a grave misconception on your part, given the circumstances, you could have given it away by appearing too bold before the Dark Lord, shooting hopeful glances my way or, Merlin forbid, crying for help-'
'I would not cry for your help!' he snaps angrily. How many Gryffindor lioncubs have perished as a result of their pride? Many, too many.
'Your nerve is commendable. Your arrogance, less so, even though it will prove useful in the situation. However, my assertion remains valid. Should your courage fail you-' he opens his mouth again, ready to deliver an angry retort.
'Do not interrupt me, Potter! Greater men would break down in front of the Dark Lord. You have no idea of what he is capable of…'
And blessed you are.
'So… should my courage… fail me?..'
'It will not disrupt the plan. It will only be a natural reaction. You are free to beg for mercy as much as what remains of your pride after a few Cruciatus curses will allow you.'
'What if…' he swallows, trying hard to appear calm, which is not an easy task with the Unforgiveables looming ahead of one.
'What if he kills me with one curse and calls it a day? I mean… you won't have enough time then… will you? To handle both him and the snake? Or…'
'Or will I bother to battle him at all in that case, is that what you are trying to ask, Potter? Good. I can see you finally using your head. It would be far too foolhardy to assume my unconditional alliance. Now to your question. I would act according to the circumstances, but, and that is major "but", Potter, I do NOT think the Dark Lord will dispose of you easily. He owes you too much humiliation for all the narrow escapes. Besides, he had failed to kill you with the Killing Curse twice already. Were I him, I would rather employ several less sophisticated curses to the same effect. You would not believe how efficient the simplest spells can be in disposing of the victims. Take the simple Leg-Locker I used on you a few minutes ago. With just a minor adjustment it can easily be used to stop the heart or the lungs. A slight modification to a Bubble-Head charm will fill the sphere with a poisonous gas instead of air. Now, creative use of Reducio and Engorgio can…'
I stop, noticing that the boy looks rather sick. Vivid imagination can do that to people.
'If you are planning to throw up, Potter, the bathroom is over that way,' I point, making a face.
'I'm fine. Can we get back to the plan?'
'I believe the main idea should be clear now. Any questions?'
'Yes, actually. What are you planning to do about all the Death Eaters? It isn't like they will simply stand there and watch you curse… him.'
'Have you been listening attentively, Potter?'
'I think so…'
'Wrong again. You have missed a very important detail. I did say that this was your one chance. The reason being, tonight all Death Eaters are going to storm the current headquarters of what remains of the Order of the Phoenix. While I am to remain on duty, guarding the Dark Lord. And that, Potter, is another reason for him to delay your death somewhat. He would rather kill you publicly. Which does not mean, certainly, that he would refrain from torturing you for his own pleasure.'
'This is insane…' the boy mutters under his breath, rubbing his face with his palm.
'Your pardon?'
'I am actually going to hand myself over to Voldemort for torture and killing, and count on you, on you of all people to help me out! I must be mental.'
'That, or brave enough,' I agree. He stares.
'Then again, one does not necessarily rule out the other, especially in a Gryffindor.'
'Yeah…' he nods distractedly, then starts with a realization.
'What about the Order? What will happen to them? I must go and-'
'What you must do, Potter, or rather what a person in your position must do, is take the chance to strike in the heart of the enemy instead of dying a pointless death trying to protect your friends,' I speak coldly, staring him in the eye.
'No…' he looks away, shaking his head. 'I cannot do this. Something must be done… There must be another way…'
He slumps down in the same chair, burying his face in his hands. I observe.
'Except that there isn't, is there?' he looks up at me. I shake my head, feeling almost sympathetic with his anguish. So do you have it in you, boy? Show me what Dumbledore always insisted you had.
Sunlight flows in from the window as the sun makes it way through the morning sky. I walk over to the window and pull the curtains close, then rearrange the parchments on my desk, pick up the quills, cover the inkpot. Everything looks exactly the same as every day in the room now. Except that there is a black-haired boy sitting in one of the chairs, his head held in his hands as he painfully tries to figure out the right way to act. Should you survive this day and night, Potter, you will live to find that the right way can never be figured out. Right and wrong is one area where logic is rarely helpful, and this means something, coming from me. Logic has gotten me nowhere. But then, neither had my heart. Perhaps you will be more fortunate. Should you survive, of course.
'Well, Potter?' I ask quietly after there is nothing else left to tidy up in the room. He looks up.
'Have you decided?'
He bites his lip, closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath before looking at me, his face a picture of what appears to be genuine self-loathing.
'Yes.'
'Well done, Potter,' I say something he gave me no reason for the almost seven years I have known him. This time, however, it may just barely qualify as deserved.
'Er. Thank you. What must I do now?'
'Now, Potter, and this is of vital importance to the plan, you must get out of my sight and let me work on the details. Or did you labor under the delusion that my whole life up to this point was hanging on the probability of you blasting my front door off the hinges?'
Looking slightly uncomfortable at the reminder, the boy gets to his feet.
'Er. Right. When should I come back?'
I consider this, and am forced to a very unpleasant conclusion.
'Regretfully, Potter, I believe that it would be safer if you went nowhere until it is time for us to act. Wherever you may be based right now, this house is safer. You can go out in the yard if you wish, yet I recommend a Disillusionment charm, or that Cloak of yours, if you still have it. This is a Muggle area, so a low profile must be maintained at all times. Actually,' I note as I realize something, 'I highly discourage you from performing any magic with that wand unless specifically instructed by me or in case of true emergency. Therefore, the Cloak is compulsory should you wish to go outside.'
'Why?' he frowns.
'I will explain. Later.'
I glance at the grandfather clock in the corner.
'It is now quarter past nine. I am expected to assume my post with the Dark Lord in less than twelve hours. It would be unwise to appear before that time because of the risk of running into some Death Eaters. Therefore, find something to occupy yourself during this time. Be so kind as to stay away from my books, however. If I were you, I would savor the boredom, as it may be your last chance. '
The boy nods absent-mindedly, looking as if he barely comprehends my instructions.
'Potter!' I snap. He focuses on me. 'Did you understand everything?'
'Do not leave the area, wear the Cloak if going outside, do not use magic, stay away from books, enjoy the boredom,' he mutters.
'Correct. One more thing. You may not be aware of it, but you look as if you are about to collapse. I am not looking forward to Enervating you before time. The kitchen is through this door. There should be some tea and bread left. I assume you are capable of manipulating the fire and kettle without magic?'