Theoretical
I cannot help but welcome my return to reality, trying my best to persuade myself that the mild nausea experienced is the result of small yet persistent amounts of smoke inhaled by my corporeal body, hunched over the severely charred Pensieve for what, judging from the clock on the kitchen wall, appears to have been a few hours. I am unwilling to admit, even to myself, the return of the old dislike for viewing my own memories. It had never been particularly pleasant, mostly for the objective reason of being forced to relive moments I had not relished even the first time. Another consideration was the strange, yet highly uncomfortable mix of forced detachment – how else can one feel when observing oneself from the side? – and repressed empathy. Not to mention that travelling through shreds of interrupted memories, and incomplete recollection of my thoughts throughout it, gave me a persistent feeling of suffering a form of dementia, possibly defensive amnesia. How many fates worse than that could there be, for someone who has always been trying so hard to discipline his so often disobedient mind?
Quite a few, actually, the mind in question supplements. I reach for the wand to replace my own memories in my head and the other one – in the vial, then put a logical conclusion to the Pensieve with an Incendio. It takes a degree of self-control to stop myself from performing the last action first.
For the remaining part of the day I find my thoughts scattering and refusing to cooperate, as I Repair the offensive cup neglected earlier, as I seek cowardly refuge in my tea-lore, as I force down some dinner, prepared the Muggle way to purposefully prolong my being occupied. In the evening, however, when the bags with half a dozen new tea mixes based on early summer flowers and herbs line the counter, and the cup rests in the cupboard together with the dinner dishes, I walk to the living room. Lighting the fire in the fireplace with my wand, I turn to look at the room and am filled with a sudden sense of sorrowful pity with an aftertaste of revulsion, as I seem to truly see my living room for the first time in weeks, or possibly months.
Dust lining the bookshelves that cover the walls. Which would not be as bad, were it not for an even thicker layer of dust on my working desk at the window, not a single disturbance to indicate anything being done at the desk or even taken from it – indeed, not even approached. The high-backed chair usually occupying its rightful place facing the desk and back turned to the window is currently in the opposite corner of the room – not quite in the corner, but close enough. The couch normally facing the fireplace – moved to a location not far from that of the chair. I am struck with the realisation that both the chair and the couch are positioned in a way that allows their occupant to see both doors – the one leading to the rest of the house and the front one – as well as the window. Slowly, I make my way across the room, trying to fully comprehend the nature of the person living in it.
Were it not for my knowledge of that person leaving the house only to make deliveries to the local teashop or wander the streets on particularly stormy nights, I would assume that the room spoke of someone who only ever comes home for brief spells of sleep – too brief to even bother with a proper bed, the couch sufficing for the few hours of shut-eye before being on one's way. Unfortunately, the above knowledge leads me to a more unpleasant conclusion regarding the occupant – rather than a person too busy to live in his house, a person too afraid to live, in his house or anywhere else. The room indeed seems to reek of fear. Everything in it – the armchair and couch turned to keep the entrances visible, the untouched desk, a book lying abandoned on the floor near the shelf it must have fallen from.
A person who has lost everything worth fighting for – and after all these years, finally admitted defeat. A person who was afraid to die – and yet did not muster the strength to live.
"Severus Snape," I speak into the silence of the room, trying to tie the name in with it, with the image of the person formed in my mind. Failing.
Severus Snape should have died on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. At best, Severus Snape should have been in Azkaban for a year already.
I can remember the days that followed my escape from the Hospital Wing. I was busy putting what little possessions I had in order, so as not to be called a slob in addition to the Death Eater and the murderer that I was. I was eagerly expecting Aurors at my doors. Two days, I gave them. Two days to learn of my disappearance and question whoever they could find about my location.
My wait, however, became prolonged as no-one showed up, and the initial attempts to have as little contact with the house as possible became a habit. By the time I realised that no one would come for me, the limbo of the state of expectation had become a status quo, a status quo I was unwilling to let go of at that point. So I gave myself another week, persuading myself that I had been simply given a brief respite to face the Wizengamot in a less faint condition, and another week insisting that the Ministry must have had a lot to do those days. Too busy to bring the murderer of Albus Dumbledore to justice. It sounded unconvincing even to me. Yet two weeks turned into four, months went by, winter came and left, spring brought summer, and here I was, for the first time seeing the life I have been leading for this year. Between the poles of living and existing. Not quite at the very end of the axis, but the second worst stage, possibly. Surviving.
Ironically, I feel that I have one and the same person to thank both for my failing to die when death was due and for escaping my rightful fate. Potter had saved my life. And judging from what I have seen in his memory, it was none other than Potter that persuaded the Ministry to leave me alone.
Who is to blame, then, for my turning into the person refusing to live beyond surviving, afraid to sleep at nights and unable to conquer his own mind?
Surely you are not trying to blame the child for this too, are you?
Who is to blame, then?
Any bright ideas, Professor?
With a few wand movements, I restore the room to its usual state, then force myself to move away from the mantelpiece to which I have just found myself leaning throughout the entire journey down yet another memory lane. Today must truly be a day to remember, so to speak. What day is it, come to think of it? I know it is June, the first half of it, judging by the plants and the stars, but what day?
My hand finds the mantelpiece again as the enormity of the question seems to press on me. I shake my head and make myself walk to the desk, lighting a few candles on the way. As I sit down, back firmly turned to the window, I ask myself another one. What is it that I was trying to achieve throughout this year? What have I done, apart from surviving?
The answer comes quickly. Memories. The deliberately careful and thorough viewing of the memories seemed to have an underlying purpose, and only now do I realise it. Some part of me, the part that was unsettled with the wrongness of being alive and free, has been trying to lead me through a set of motions and close the circle logically. It was just a classical passing of one's life in front of one's eyes, only stretched out in time. What would the next step be?
I twirl the wand in my hands, well aware of both the answer and the fact that my current expression can possibly be best described as 'horrified'. It must have been indeed long since I last tried to discipline my mind, if I was blind enough to allow it play such tricks on me. On me! My own mind!
I dedicate the next few hours to Occlumency exercises, disgusted by the need to use the candle flame during the first hour, failing to concentrate properly otherwise. Me!
The revulsion at that, however, soon takes its place with the rest of the emotions, leaving me nothing but cold, cool, rational thought. The last impulse that is safely tucked away is a strange feeling of satisfaction at having discovered my condition, however belatedly. The accompanying thought of the actual circumstances that forced my eyes open is locked up as well, however logical it may be.
It is time now to analyse the issue that had been safely filed away for months, until deliberately – quite deliberately – unleashed today. The uncharacteristic behaviour of a certain individual in respect of another. That would sum up the problem in general terms.
Now, the best way to analyse a situation that is impossible to recreate for a reliable study basis is to try to model it with an appropriate analogy. I have always found that the study of potions has greatly helped me to analyse human behaviour. There is no reason it should fail this time.
Why would a potion – a person – with a known set of ingredients – traits – react differently with another, different from the very definite reaction exhibited in a number of cases that sufficient to constitute a sound statistical sample?
Very well. Case in point: a potion displays hitherto unmanifested properties. All potion ingredients remain unchanged. Question: what is the reason for such? A first-year theoretical problem.
The First Potions Axiom states that a blend of a specified set of ingredients, combined in a specified fashion, will exhibit the same properties under the same circumstances of application. Corollary One: if a blend of a specified set of ingredients exhibits properties different from those manifested under the specified circumstances of application, the process of its preparation has differed from the specification. Corollary Two: if a blend is known to contain a specified set of ingredients combined in a specified fashion, the reason for the manifestation of different properties is a change in the circumstances of its application.
Answer: the potion displays hitherto unmanifested properties due to the change in the circumstances of its application. The exact reason may be given only provided a detailed description of the brewing process. That, or a repeated experiment.
A detailed description will have to suffice, thank you very much.
Unfortunately, however correct the above solution is, it does nothing to further my analysis. For however hard I try, the changed circumstances, namely my being gravely injured, still fail to make me imagine Potter either rushing to my aid or spending time by my sickbed.
I hold my head in my hands, trying to contain the splitting headache. Somehow, the usually helpful method for analysis seems to come apart under my very fingers.
Desperate, I turn to another one.
Case in point: addition of an unknown ingredient causes a potion to display a different reaction upon contact with another potion. Question: what is the added ingredient? Description of reaction: see Attachment One.
I reach for a quill and a piece of parchment, jotting down my Attachment One.
Irritability. Nervousness. Denial. Anger. Restlessness. Pro-
My quill scratches the parchment as I stare at the word I was about to write. This cannot be right. I force my hand, telling myself to continue writing down the impressions and verify their reliability later.
… Protectiveness. Stubborn refusal to depart. Sadness.
Or rather, grief?
Worry. Persistent attempts to make contact. Addressing an obviously absent person. Acknowledgement? Gratitude? Relief. Insistent gratitude.
I regard the list, fighting the urge to add more question marks to it, and an even stronger urge to scrap it and toss it in the fire. Nevertheless, I stare at the parchment, almost daring the words to disappear. They stare back defiantly. The worst thing, however, is that I fail to find any flaws in the impassive list in front of me, followed by a question.
Question: What is the added ingredient?
Answer: …
Oh damn. It is impossible. It does not make any sense. Except that unfortunately, it does. And therefore, it is not. In fact, it is the only possible answer to the problem at hand.
My hand scrawls a word on the parchment, and only after a minute of blank staring at it do I realise how correct it appears there. Smiling bitterly, I suppress the wish to grade the solution. Nothing short of 'Outstanding', even if it took me a year to solve it. One year. Or seventeen?
The good thing about problems, however, is that they remain written down and theoretical. It is when they suddenly spring to life from the parchment in front of one that they become difficult. Part of me wonders whether teaching is a perpetual attempt to escape from the real life problems by surrounding oneself with theoretical ones.
The fire seems to go out. I get to my feet, not intending to stoke it. Tonight, I will not be sleeping in the living-room.
Of course, the chances are that tonight I will not be sleeping at all, wherever. Yet no matter what nightmares may plague me in the bedroom that I have been avoiding for a year, I realise as I Tergeo the dust from the room, I would rather spend the night there than in the same room with the desk, with the parchment, with the thoughtlessly scribbled word that locked in place with horrifying precision.
Realising the familiar train of my thoughts, I grin darkly and go back to the room to carry the parchment with me. Folding it so that it can be propped up on the bedside table and only the last line is visible, I lie down, fully clothed, refusing to put out the candle and stubbornly, as if staring the parchment down can possibly change the meaning of its contents, bore the two words with my eyes.
Answer: Lily.