He gently shook the coffee mug, watching the flecks of cream bob on the surface. The myriad coffee rings on the table catalogued his activity for the last two hours: drinking coffee and sinking into a black despair. A few crumbs evidenced a concerned house-elf’s attempt to nourish him; the sandwich had not been well-received, and the benevolent elf had magicked away the remains from the wall before gravity had conquered the sticking power of mustard.

This was a fairly common event for them too; the Potions master had been called away many times since his return, and the elves kept a special kind of coffee on standby for such occasions. It was a strange Muggle brew called ‘decaf’. The Headmistress had demanded it, and they had complied. So far, Professor Snape had not noticed the difference. They weren’t sure if there was a noticeable difference or if the man just drank the coffee without tasting it. Either way, things were slightly calmer since the Headmistress had gifted them the Muggle wonder.

In his personal potions lab, Snape continued to brood. At one time, this small room had been an escape from everything. Far away from the classrooms and lost in myriad twisting and turning corridors, it had been his sanctum. Glistening bottles and neatly arranged ingredients had lined the shelves, cauldrons had bubbled away, and he had mastered some of the most complicated potions known to Wizardkind. The curved table had cocooned him as he worked, the arc allowing him to easily reach the ingredients laid out on the table’s surface. Muggles called it ergonomics; he called it common sense. It had been wonderful.

Now it was barren. The Ministry had decreed that his status as Potions master did not require such ancillaries. The shelves held nothing but dust, and the cauldrons had been sold. The closest thing to a brew in this room was his coffee. It had been an almost devastating blow, contrived by a Ministry endeavouring to destroy him, but they had failed to understand Severus Snape. His passion was not rooted in potions, but expressed through potions. Although the inability to delve into potions had been crippling, Snape had derived a significant amount of pleasure from his little Ministry-approved tasks and helping Professor Sprout with her gardens. It was his secret pleasure to walk through the courtyard late at night, listening to the insects, the flutter of bats’ wings, and seeing the soft glow seeping from the windows in the towers. Certain Aurors would be irritated no end to discover that Snape was actually content with certain aspects of his existence.

The coffee scalded his lip as he took a hefty sip. If only he could find a way to free himself from the Ministry. He took another sip. It was impossible. The only way to escape Ministry control was to die. He wasn’t quite prepared to go that far. A Dark Lord, the Order, Harry Potter, Dumbledore, vengeful wizards and personal despair had not managed to finish him off; he wasn’t prepared to let some pencil-pushing, untested Aurors push him over the edge.

A patch of sunlight had slid down the wall and slightly to the left, marking out the start of the day and the passage of the last few hours. Despite the slow progress of the sun through the heavens, Snape felt as though it had purposefully raced ahead in a bid to further depress him. He’d have to leave soon. Feeling nauseous, he pushed the mug away from him and stood. Better get it out of the way.

The door closed with the smallest whisper and then blended into the wall, leaving no clue that a doorway existed. He stared at the hidden door—how easy to lock himself away! Shuddering, he straightened and turned away. He had duties.

Unsurprisingly, Minerva was waiting near the main entrance. He paused, taking time to study her. She was pacing back and forth past the door, her hands constantly discharging her distress by clasping each other, or straightening her hair, or smoothing her skirts. Knowing that she was nervous for him made his chest clench, and a wave of affection warmed him. Inhaling shakily, he continued, increasing the weight of his step so she would hear him approach.

“Severus,” she said as she turned to him, becoming the pillar of strength that had supported him all this time.

“Minerva.” He stopped in front of her and ignored the looming door to his right. “On my desk, you’ll find the reading list and tasks for Rhine and Longbottom. They’ll need to complete the set task under exam conditions.”

Minerva smiled and gave a curt nod. “Filius said he’d mentor them today, and Pomona will collect the plants you need. I can go through your student list later today, but—”

“Minerva!”

His voice cut through her rambling, and she snapped her mouth closed, a delicate blush colouring her cheeks. “Yes, well. I’m sure you can sort that out when you get back.”

“Indeed,” he said softly, flashing her a smile. “If Professor Sprout could start harvesting, then that will be incredibly helpful.”

The large grandfather clock thundered out each passing second, uncaringly bringing the appointment closer. Snape licked his lips, and while unspoken words hung between them, he turned away to reach out for the door handle. A gentle weight on his arm made him look back, and he saw Minerva’s white face: a startling contrast against the gloomy backdrop.

“Take care and hurry home.”

He felt his eyes widen at her choice of words, and his breath stuttered: home!

Home.

It was such a simple word; in itself, there was very little to it… you didn’t even have to make that much effort to say the word—a mere sigh would be enough. Yet! The word hit him like a Bludger to the gut. It knocked the wind out of him… Even brought tears to his eyes. His lips flapped uselessly for a moment, and then, he smiled.

“I will.”


~X~


He bent double, clutching his belly while his free hand scrabbled to grip the back of the chair. Retching, he rested his forehead against the chair back and focused on his breathing. Beyond the blood pounding in his ears, he managed to catch the sounds of the Healers scurrying to transfer his severed memories into the Pensieve. It was so horribly disorientating. They always took too much! He’d warned them about the risks; he’d even begged for longer sessions so they could take fewer memories at any one time. They hadn’t listened; they enjoyed watching him suffer as his mind reeled from its rape, and they took pleasure in the notion that each time they ripped out his memories, he could lose parts of his mind and memories. They gloried in the slow destruction of Severus Snape.

“Get him in the chair, for Merlin’s sake!” snapped out a voice. “We don’t want him puking again.”

Hands grabbed him, hauling him up to shove him down on the chair. The world span out of control, and he clung to the table to ground himself. Moaning, he gripped his hair, hoping it would stop his head from spinning and using the pain to focus his mind. Closing his eyes helped to alleviate the worst of his symptoms, but that horrible sensation of moving while sitting was still playing havoc with his emotions and guts. At least, he couldn’t see them sneering at him. He loathed this! Despised it! Dreaded it! But he couldn’t do anything to stop it. And that was far worse.

“Now, Snape,” someone said with vicious sweetness, “you know what to do. Are you going to be nice, or do we have to convince you?”

Swallowing the bile, Snape opened his eyes. He wished he could summon a glare; he’d even be pleased with something approaching disdain, but years of this had ground him down. He couldn’t even curl his lip. The Healers had left; they’d done their deed. In the room were three Aurors: one was the Auror from the river, but he wasn’t in command here… The old man sitting across from him was in charge.

“I know… what I have to do,” he whispered. Using the table for support, he stood, mentally threatening his legs not to buckle.

The old man watched him. He rarely spoke, relying on his second to snap out orders and dish out insults, but there was something about the thin wizard that bothered Snape immensely. The mouthy Auror was just hot air, but Auror Cross was something else.

In the centre of the table was the Pensieve. It shimmered, and the stolen memories swirled inside. Such a device had spared him so much grief and shame in the past, hiding those memories which plagued him, but now, it was his own personal hell. It revolted him.

“Today,” Cross said in that steady and slow voice of his, “I want to go back to the discussion between Riddle and Snape, regarding Dumbledore’s execution.”

Snape heard, and his heart skipped a beat before plummeting to his stomach. Without the specific memories, he had no clear idea what Cross was referring to, but he knew that he had killed the Headmaster; repeated images of the old man falling from the tower scurried through his mind. Supporting memories informed him that the Dark Lord had arranged a meeting with the view to assassinating Dumbledore, and he recalled admitting to Bella that he had accepted the task. But when the time came, what had he done? How had he felt?

“And then,” he continued remorselessly, “we shall study the Burbage murder.”

His mind reeled again: Charity’s murder? Was I there when it happened? Did I see it? Waves of nausea burnt his gullet; he knew that he had, even if he couldn’t remember. Disturbed memories of Minerva’s ashen face and a devastated faculty paraded through his thoughts. I don’t want to know!

Snape glanced across at Cross; he didn’t care if his expression was pleading. Cross knew how Pensieves worked and knew how to make them work on individuals. The old man was acutely aware of how to use the memories to break a man’s mind.

When memories were taken, any directly associated memories and emotions were cut off, isolated from the conscious mind. However chains of memories could still be accessed and followed, but without key elements, those memories could be damning and confusing, generating false notions and suppositions about what had happened. Using Pensieves this way was akin to brainwashing.

Added to that, the memories were usually simply scooped back up into the mind, so the impact was not as noticeable—just a mental reshuffling as the brain reintegrated the memories—since there was no real need to ‘experience’ the memories again. However, in Cross’ method, the owner of the memories enters the Pensieve, experiencing everything as the scene unfurls. You can’t dissociate either. Just as you can’t sever a missing limb to ease the phantom itch, so you can’t stop the reaction to what is observed. It is simply impossible not to feel what you felt at the time. It all comes back, just as it had been… almost as if experiencing it for the first time: all the emotions fresh and raw.

It was cruel and barbaric. The Ministry had worse things than Dementors these days. His fellow cell mates had screamed themselves hoarse before collapsing in exhausted heaps. They had screamed out their guilt and remorse for things they’d never done: all because their Pensieves had convinced them otherwise. It was the highest form of torturing for confessions: effective, legal and irreversible.

The chatty Auror grinned and shoved his fingers in the swirling mix of memories; his fellow subordinate did the same, but without the smile and the same vigour. Cross placed his clipboard on the table and stood. Snape knew that a rearing cobra would be less terrifying.

“After you,” Cross said, politely gesturing towards the bowl.

Snape felt lightheaded and sick to his stomach, but he managed to straighten himself and extended a trembling hand towards his hated memories.

Merlin help me! he thought desperately as his mind was drawn into hell.


~X~


Neville admired the honeysuckle; his professional eye was searching for the colour shift as the flowers aged. Already, he could see the deeper shade of yellow, which would lead into the orange, maybe a subtle pink if they were lucky. And he had picked a good time to check the health of the plants; the scent was increasing in intensity as the evening drew in. Butterflies still nipped between the flowers, eager for the last sips of nectar before the evening chill sapped their energy, and it looked as though an optimistic bird had tried to build a nest in the lower stems. All in all, it wasn’t a bad job.

Satisfied that one thing had gone to plan, he plucked a flower, twirled the delicate yellow flower between thumb and forefinger and then daintily sucked out the nectar from the bloom’s throat. Smiling, he tucked the empty flower in a free buttonhole on his jacket. He let out a chuckle; in this part of Scotland, the honeysuckle was said to help keep witches away. And he hadn’t been surprised to discover the flower had been banned from the school grounds during Dippet’s tenure. Obviously, Pomona either didn’t hold with the notion of the flower inciting ‘inappropriate thoughts’ in young women or knew that the girls would be thinking about such things with or without the flower.

He let the scent soothe him as he walked around the garden, checking on the recent planting areas. It had been a strange day. He had spent much of last night, worrying about his first mentor meeting with Snape, only to discover Professor Flitwick had taken over the role for the day. Somehow, the worry had shifted from meeting Snape to, paradoxically, not having the meeting with Snape: where was he?

All through his school days, Snape had not missed a lesson as far as he could remember, so what had dragged him away today? While pondering, he checked the leaves on the hellebore for slug damage, but the ragged edges looked like they had been torn rather than chewed: the copper strip along the edging stones seemed to be keeping the slimy pests out.

There was nothing wrong with the garden. He knew that beyond doubt; he just felt drawn to it. He spent much of his time here, either working or relaxing. It had occurred to him to ask Minerva if he could arrange for some seating. He guessed that about eight stone benches could fit around the outer edge. It would be a lovely place to sit and recharge. Suddenly feeling sheepish, he knew he stayed in here because it was completely new. He had no memories associated with this place; no one had died here, no one had wept or screamed. He wouldn’t see some mark and know that it represented some intense suffering.

He paused. Was that why so many of the teachers had added something to this garden? Snape and Pomona had done the planting and related Herbology tasks; Flitwick had charmed the fountain to affect the water as it did; Minerva had designed the fountain itself, which Hagrid had built and connected to the underground stream. He was sure the others had added something to this remarkable place. Was this their mark upon this place? Was this their phoenix from the ashes?

Sniffling, he dug in his pocket for his hanky. The longer he stayed in it, the more precious it became. He felt foolish for putting off coming here. His reasons for staying away had been nothing but excuses. Sighing, he wiped his nose. The years of anguish trying to do the impossible had been a waste; he could have done what everyone else had done and combined his needs with his life, rather than letting his need take over. He knew that his project to cure his parents could not possibly have been delayed—he was no closer now after ten years of solid research—if he had immersed himself in teaching when Pomona had first asked him. However, the dark days… weeks… would not have swallowed him whole.

He looked down at the base of the fountain, studying the quarter-circle that had been set aside for Slytherin. The flowers, herbs and plants had been sensitively planted to complement and support each other. Knowing that Snape had selected and planted these made him appreciate it more. The blooms were subtle, the scent barely evident, the arrangement gentle and unassuming, but the plants themselves were powerful. They had rich cultural heritages, and were strong plants for potion ingredients… It neatly illustrated deception. He smiled: how Slytherin!

But there was something odd about it. He felt the smile slip as he delved into the mystery. There was nothing odd about the choice; nothing really out of the ordinary about the way they’d been planted… but there was something! Did one of them seem out of place or….

“Neville!”

Rhine’s voice shattered his contemplation. Stifling the frustration, he looked up and waved.

“Do you want a butterbeer down in Hogsmeade? Hagrid and few of the others are going down… Apparently this is the last chance to kick our heels up before the students arrive.”

“Sounds good,” he said. The conundrum of the flowerbed was forgotten, but Neville planned to work on it later. It wasn’t going anywhere, after all.


~X~


“Clean him up!” demanded Croft.

“Come ‘ere, Snape,” someone said gruffly.

Before he had chance to act upon the orders, rough hands grabbed him by the hair and hauled his head off the table. Wincing and protesting weakly, his head was pulled back until his throat flared in pain and the internal scarring seemed to close off his windpipe. Gurgling, Snape frantically patted and pulled at the hand ripping hair from his scalp.

“We’re just trying to clean you up, mate,” said Croft’s accomplice. “No need to get all fidgety; you ask anyone, and they’ll say that cleaning you up is part of our duty of care.” There was another vicious tug on his hair. “Preventing us from performing our duty of care will only result in us being firm, do you understand?”

“Let him go, Burke,” said the other Auror.

“Come on, Peters,” griped Burke, “I’m only doing what I’m paid to do.”

The hand let go, and Snape fell forwards, swallowing rapidly to moisten his dry throat and massaging it in a bid to ease the pain. He couldn’t care less about the pieces of partly digested food clinging to his hair.

Peters glared at Burke before casting a quick glance towards Croft; the old man was making notes on his clipboard. All he ever did was make notes. What was the point? Snape had nothing more to give them. Peters shuddered. Sometimes, he wondered just what these two were after.

“Snape, can you lift your head for me?”

Burke tutted and folded his arms. “Don’t mollycoddle him,” he spat out.

Snape lifted his head, but couldn’t focus on the Auror standing in front of him. Everything was blurred, and sounds came to him as though he were underwater. A hand cupped his chin and lifted. It wasn’t gentle, but it did Snape no harm.

Peters lifted his wand to Banish the vomit and blood from Snape’s face; he had bitten down on his tongue while watching his own memories. When the tip flared, Snape reacted. Peters lunged back when Snape lifted his arms to protect his head and tried to scurry away over the chairs. Burke burst into laughter, whooping and egging Snape on; in the far corner, Croft’s clipboard clattered to the floor when he stood to better observe Snape’s panic.

“All I did was start the spell,” Peters said frantically. He reached out, trying to stop Snape from falling over the furniture, but such was his momentum that Snape hurtled over the obstruction and cracked his head against the wall. The dull crack echoed around the small room, but the injury wasn’t severe enough to knock Snape unconscious. Whimpering, he curled up into a ball, and cradled his damaged head.

Peters stared, his mouth agape and his heart hammering. Licking his lips, he ran his fingers through his hair and looked around for support. Burke was snickering and watching Snape with vicious glee, and Croft was taking notes. What is it with these people? Peters thought angrily. Taking the initiative, Peters yanked the chairs out the way and rushed over to assess Snape’s condition.

“Perhaps giving him the memories back will help?” he suggested. It had been mentioned in his training that such trauma could be due to forced memory extrications and eased by their return. He stood and pulled the full Pensieve towards himself, ready to scoop the memories back into Snape’s skull.

“It won’t,” said Croft tonelessly, but his gaze was intense when Peters looked up.

The young Auror frowned and shook his head as he processed Croft’s declaration. It didn’t make sense.

“In this test,” Croft explained patiently while sliding the bowl away from Peters, “we do not return the Pensieve memories.”

That went against everything he’d been taught! Peters gaped at the explanation. Croft smiled benignly and withdrew his wand. To Peters’ horror, Croft aimed the wand at the memories and said something which left him weak at the knees, breathless and terrified.

“Evanesco!

“Now,” said Burke with a feral grin, “you said that you understood what was going on in ‘ere. We are conducting ‘ighly important research which will benefit the Wizarding community. Snape, ‘ere, volunteered ‘imself, quite gallantly, to ‘elp us out.” He paused and placed his hand on his chest. “I admit that I was a bit rough, and I could ‘ave been more sympathetic, but I’m not used to ‘aving people resist me… I was a Warden for nearly eight years, and that leaves a mark on you.”

As Burke spoke, Croft lifted his wand again. Peters’ eyes were locked on Burke’s face; he never saw it coming.

“Obliviate!

“I wish we didn’t have to keep doing that,” Croft said with genuine remorse. “Pretty soon, his memory will be permanently affected.”

“Well, when you finally crack on with things, maybe you won’t ‘ave to.”

“I need time to break down his pre-existing memories, Burke. There is no point in generating false memories if he has strong contradictory ones,” he said irritably.

Burke grunted and grabbed hold of the young Auror. “Just so long as you remember that we want what ‘e knows about the Dark Lord and the spells ‘e taught ‘em all. Snape was closer to ‘im than any of the others. The little maggot should know more than all the others put together. Your plan comes second, you ‘ear?” he said firmly. “Come on, lad.” He led Peters out of the room and into the brightly-lit corridor.

Croft watched them leave and then Stunned Snape before levitating the limp wizard into the chair. He cleaned the vomit away and healed the bruise on his forehead; he even repaired and tidied Snape’s clothes. By the time Snape was conscious, it looked as though nothing had happened.

“How do you feel?” Croft asked.

Snape blinked and looked down at the pen hanging expectantly over the clipboard. “Empty,” he replied honestly.

“I suppose that you cannot elaborate upon that,” Croft said sadly while scratching out something on the board. “What about your Pensieve?”

The dark man looked nervous and paled dramatically. “I… I… spoke with the Dark Lord; we discussed Dumbledore’s murder.”

Croft nodded slowly, inwardly smiling as he caught sight of Snape scratching at the remains of the Dark Mark beneath his sleeve. “Did you have any other similar conversations?”

Snape frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t think so.” He straightened and shook his head. “No, that was all.”

“No conversations with anyone else?” He held Snape’s gaze; he knew from past experience that Snape was weaker after these sessions: Legilimency was infinitely easier. So when Snape lied and said no, Croft knew that the man had spoken to Dumbledore and Bella Lestrange about it. He made notes about the next set of memories to eliminate.

“Now, onto Charity Burbage’s death,” he said swiftly, delighting in Snape’s grimace and the beads of sweat gathering on his brow.

The questions went on and on. Croft had to admit that Snape was by far the strongest of them. The others hadn’t resisted for quite this long. Burke wanted it over and done with, but had been mollified by the snippets Snape had divulged about the Dark Lord and the magics he had possessed. No doubt, he had spent time perfecting the new curses he’d learnt via the remaining Death Eaters. Once Snape’s memories of the Dark Lord’s teachings had been found and shared, then he could focus predominantly on his own goal: Snape admitting he had served the Dark Lord faithfully and his pledges to the Order had been a lie. He wanted Snape to spend the rest of his life plagued with regrets and hates: friendless and despairing.