Chapter One

Unexpected Meetings



It had been a generally pleasant day thus far. For one thing, lessons were a lot less dramatic, as the four who usually made them otherwise were uncannily quiet, the teachers mildly cooperative, and even the weather - calm and soothing. Moreover, you were meeting Lily in the library later, which alone was enough to make the worst of days positively filled with sunshine.

You should have known it would not last. When has it, ever?

For as you stare at the thing now walking back and forth over your four-poster bed as if it was a carpet, two things come to mind. First, the one occupying the boys' dormitory is not a Slytherin fifth-year; and second, the intended quick dash to grab the books from your trunk will not be as quick as you anticipated.

The bat-eared creature turns upon sensing your presence, and you immediately recognize it as a house elf. However, this revelation does nothing to clarify the purpose of one standing on your bed now, dressed in a snow-white loincloth and gazing at you in a mix of deference and something that seems almost like pity. Consciously, you realize that the look would have made you highly uncomfortable, had you not been so shocked already.

"Master Snape," squeaks the elf, apparently unaware that you are rather displeased to hear such an address and completely unaccustomed to it being delivered with this degree of reverence.

"Who are you?" you question, struggling to remain calm and not give in to the chilling feeling one experiences upon realisation that the situation is spinning out of one's control. Or rather, in this particular case, it may have spun well beyond your control already, as nothing seems to be happening at this exact moment.

"Kreacher is a House Elf, Sir. He has been sent to tell you many things, Sir. Things that will not be easy for Sir to hear."

"And who has sent you on this task?" you ask, trying and failing to keep the note of suspicion out of your voice.

"Kreacher cannot say, Sir. Kreacher is not allowed to say. He can only say what he is told, Sir," the elf replies.

"Well, I suggest you get on with it, as I have a rather urgent appointment which I cannot reschedule for your sake," you say. The elf does not need to know the nature of your appointment, you decide, desperately hoping that your premonition is wrong this time.

Instead of hurrying up as you had hoped he would, the elf only shakes his head sadly, making his snow-white hair droop over his ears.

"Miss Evans is not coming, Sir. It was Kreacher who had left that note, asking Master Snape to bring that book. Miss Evans did not ask to see Sir in the library."

This time, you are too shocked to even conceal it. Lily's surprised expression comes to mind as you remember passing her at lunch, hurriedly mumbling that you would be at the library at five. The shock gives way to anger, and your disposition is not improved by the elf's further speech.

"Sir had better sit down. Sir is not going to like what Kreacher is going to say now."

How could you possibly dislike anything else more than what this creature had already said? You fail to understand why you have not hexed your unwelcome guest soundly by now, as you would have probably done if you were in a normal frame of mind. Perhaps you are not. Perhaps this is a mere illusion caused by the fumes of the potions you had been inhaling for some five years now. Yes, they had all accumulated now to attack your nervous system. It is as good an explanation as any.

And as long as you are hallucinating, you might as well listen to what your hallucination has to say. You make your way to the four-poster opposite yours, from which you can observe the elf without shortening the distance between you two.

"Sir is not going to like this... but Sir needs to know. It is very important that Sir knows this," the elf quivers, apparently afraid to state what he has come to. You are beginning to lose patience. How else can you react if even a hallucination refuses to cooperate?

"Get on with it, then. I assure you a have a stronger stomach than most."

"In twenty-two years' time, Sir will be dead."

"Right."

"Sir will no longer be alive," the elf continues hesitantly, as though unsure you heard him the first time, or perhaps doubting that the meaning of his words was carried across. You nod to confirm your understanding and ask,

"May I enquire how you came across this bit of knowledge?"

"Kreacher cannot say, Sir."

"I see. Please go on."

"Sir will die in twenty-two years' time. But you see, a most terrible disease will be plaguing the world in the future. And no one is knowing how to make a cure for it. Many people have tried, but they are not having any successes, and they are not as good as Sir is being at potions when he dies."

"So you come to me now to ask me to make a cure for some future civilization, because apparently, I can manage it better than people with twenty years' worth more in knowledge, equipment and medical advancement?" you ask, not caring to keep the sarcasm at bay. What would be the point? This is a hallucination, after all.

"No, no. Sir is only to make a cure that will prevent Sir from dying in twenty years. Sir can be making the cure in the future, when he is alive again," says the elf with a reassuring smile, clearly under the impression that he has made you feel a lot better. Enough is enough, you decide.

"I see. And now I have a question. Why should I believe you? For all I know, you could have been sent as a joke by one of the more immature Gryffindors, although I fail to see the amusement in this situation - but that's alright, as I seldom share their mental level. I don't see a single reason to believe you. Care to name any? At least one?" you demand, finally deciding to put an end to this ridiculous daydream.

The elf looks at you sadly, as if he has been expecting that very question and does not wish to answer. Slowly, it says,

"Sir's Patronus is Miss Evans."

And that is when the hallucination shatters into reality.


* * *


When was the last time you had screamed? Not yelled at someone - those cases were aplenty; not shouted an order or a warning - those cropped up frequently as well; but screamed - out of pain, or fear, or both? You cannot remember...

When?.. Inexplicably, it seems so important that you remember. You gather your scattering thoughts and focus all of your remaining strength on thinking back to the past, almost oblivious to the slippery feel of blood under your fingers.

When?.. It must have been almost twenty years ago, you realize. Not because you remember that particular occasion - earning a Cruciatus was ridiculously easy those days. But simply because soon thereafter, something happened that had robbed you of the ability to hurt. When hit sufficiently hard, one often gasps instead of crying out. To scream, one then needs to draw a breath. You have not breathed ever since.

Why now, then? Another equally pointless, yet somehow meaningful question. Maybe... maybe because it was just like the time that took your voice away for sixteen years. You were trying, trying so desperately, only to be caught off-guard, your efforts rendered in vain, and you, for the second time in your life, left without a way out. Except that for which you wished sixteen years ago, but cannot afford to take now.

Unfortunately, no one seems to care as to what you can or cannot afford. You are going to die now, and there is nothing you can do about it. That is why answering those pointless questions was so important. Simply your mind's feeble attempts to keep you from understanding this simple fact. It was very kind of it, certainly - except that it seemed to fail to take the obviousness of the situation into account.

No. You do not give your mind enough credit. It was not the fact that you were dying that it was trying to conceal - but the realisation of this fact's meaning that it was trying to protect you from. Too late now.

No! Don't you dare think of that. Not of the ivy-covered rubble with a large wooden sign in front of it, covered in meaningless words. Not of the white marble tombstone with the two names engraved on it - after all these years, the pain of seeing one still made the presence of the other one irrelevant. Not of the inscription that you re-read time and time again, as if hoping that its meaning, as well as your way forward, would become as clear as you were told they were...

The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.

You failed to destroy death for her.

You are not allowed to think this now. Otherwise your mind may just play yet another trick on you, confuse the seeming desire of your heart with the real one - although which one is which, you hardly know either by now - and finally give some substance to the myths of the Shrieking Shack's being haunted.

So, don't think of Lily, don't think of her death, don't think of these years... don't think!

That may be problematic...

Then think of something else. For example, how many minutes you have left, at the current rate of bleeding... Not many, which is a relief. What time it is now... Probably around three in the morning, which is completely irrelevant. Why in the world that crate in the corner is moving... Who...

You hear a gasp and a rustle of fabric, and a pair of green eyes stares down at you. How perfectly ironic that the one you spent all night searching for is so kind as to make his appearance mere minutes before your end. You would smirk if you had the time and strength. But they must be saved for something else.

Both air and time seem to have thickened, because lifting your hand feels like the greatest effort you have ever attempted. You are almost thankful to the boy for leaning over you so you finally manage to grasp his robes. Only to find that you have run out of time. After sixteen years, you have run out of time when you needed it most.

You draw a ragged breath. It would be too much to hope for the blasted boy to come up with something, anything - he is simply staring at you listlessly, and you find yourself wishing he could simply read your thoughts now...

Oh, but he could... If only...

"Take... it..." you manage to rasp, using the last of your mind's strength to knock down the most powerful blockade of all.

If time seemed thickened before, it is simply suspended now, as both you and the boy are frozen in a bizarre tableau, him kneeling by your side as you are giving to him that which kept you alive, and now it seems perfectly reasonable that you did not die until now, for what could mere blood possibly mean compared to the silvery substance in the vial he is now holding with trembling fingers?..

You give him too much, but anything that is not too much would be too little...

You just gave him so much - can you make yourself ask one thing in return?..

"Look... at... me..."

The boy's eyes dart from the little vial to your face. You barely have the time to register the surprised and frightened expression, as it fades away, taking with it everything that you always hated setting your sight upon. Only the eyes remain, and everything around them, everything in the world, everything in existence seems to be simply... erased.

Yes. That is the way it should be. It was always like that.


* * *

It had been a week. A week since the Apparition of that elf; a week since you had found out that you were going to die in twenty-odd years; a week since your darkest secret had been revealed, laid bare for the empty dormitory to see and digest and upon failing that, bounced back to you.

What happened after the revelation was sufficiently trivial compared to what had already come to pass. You had to prepare an antidote for a poison of the likes you had never encountered, fuse it with a blood replenishing potion, while keeping your work away from prying eyes and being limited with supplies available in your environment and time period, and then travel two decades into the future to administer your potion to yourself in time in order to save him... Or was it 'yourself' rather than 'him'? You tried to avoid thinking along this line.

Just as well you never expected life to be fair, or you would have been in for one heck of a disappointment.

Well, you could refuse to go, naturally. But if you knew next to nothing about that elf and his sender, somehow you were sure that he was telling the truth. Perhaps it was because you had lived all your life amidst liars that you could distinguish his honesty with such certainty. A rarity such as it was bound to stand out.

So, you had gone against your better judgment and consented, for the first time in any issue related to someone except one person. You had started brewing the potion in the abandoned second floor bathroom - to the delight of the ghost who haunted it, and had kept the secret from even her, despite the reproachful bespectacled glances you were given when you pretended you did not hear any of her questions.

You had managed to obtain as many ingredients as you could by whatever means necessary and stumbled blindly through the overgrown path with a proverbial hourglass as the only thing to guide you.

It had been, possibly, the second most stressful week of your life, not least because throughout it, you were forced to avoid Lily much more than you would have liked. But now that the wretched week is finally over, you are ready, a flask of potion clutched in your hand, its results as unstable as the thoughts of its bearer sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting for the elf to make an appearance. Quite possibly, you have never been less sure of the outcome of your work - but what else could you be, given the conditions?

From whatever information that was revealed more than sparingly by the elf, you gathered that making up for the blood loss was the topmost priority, while the poison... The poison you chose to suppress rather than combat directly, as a poison suppressant for an unknown substance had a higher probability of success than a direct antidote for the same. Just as well, because the poison would only have the residual effect, which would kick in only provided the person in question lived long enough. Still, most of the poison that entered the wound would leave it almost immediately, as the blood would have no chance to take it to the rest of the body. At least, you gathered as much, and you could be lethally wrong.

Well, it would serve them right, you think to yourself bitterly. It is not like your own predicament in twenty-two years' time could possibly get any worse, but should you fail, that would only be fair to them - they being the mysterious senders of the elf - for making you work with such scarce information. Preparing an antidote without as much as a sample of the poison - the very thought let you understand that whoever was behind the elf had barely any idea of potion-making.

The expected Apparition sound rings sharply through the room, announcing your visitor's arrival. You watch him with an air of indifference, to which he responds with one of deep sadness, which only serves to make you all the more indifferent. But this time, your attitude has a purpose.

"Sir is ready?" he asks, and you stifle the wish to point out the ridiculousness of that question, settling for a curt nod instead. Why bother wasting your breath on a failed cause? You struggle to remain in the calm waters of indifference and not give in to the emotions the situation is liable to provoke.

"Sir will be needing this," he says again, extending his spindly arms, and you catch the sight of a long golden chain nestled in the wrinkled palm, a minute hourglass hanging from the chain and drooping over the edge of the thumb. You reach out for it, keeping your eyes firmly on the chain and away from that sad stare that would be sure to welcome your gaze if it wondered to the elf's face. Why is he watching you like that? Is it because in the time he had travelled from, you are already dead?

You shake the thought off, already calculating in your head how many hours it would take you to go forward to the midnight of June 17 - you have seen midnight repeatedly referred to as the best point to time travel to, it being almost out of the time stream as the momentary point between two days, and therefore, more likely to accept visitors without upsetting the rest of the time. The elf interrupts your calculation when he hands you a rucksack.

"Sir is needing this too."

"What is in it?"

"Sir will find out when he is needing them. He cannot find out before that. That which is in here is helping him do his job, but he cannot know at once. He is needing to be patient."

You nod as if you have never heard a more sensible explanation and sling the rucksack on your back. You then pull the chain around you neck and get ready to do the absurd that you have not yet allowed yourself to even think of in any other terms than purely theoretical ones, afraid of being dissuaded by common sense alone.

"Sir must remember, he cannot be seen."

Of course you remember. Does he think you have not done your research? That when your journey was first determined, you had not dedicated whatever free time remained in the course of this week to surreptitiously study every book on time travelling you could find in the school library? Did he think you were ignorant to the danger you were putting yourself and the time stream in? But once again, you settle for a nod. If this elf is so all-knowing, he would know that you are not among the Britain's socialites. In any case, when had words ever come to your aid?

You slowly reach for the hourglass, knowing that you may never return to the past you are leaving behind. You would feel sad, afraid, curious, but you remind yourself just in time that where you are going to, you will be as good as incorporeal and therefore, will not be able to feel.

Chapter Two

Unwelcome Guests



You feel… you are not sure, even. But the very fact that you feel seems to be bad enough. Whatever you may be now – whether dead or, however much dread the thought imparts, a ghost – you are not supposed to feel anything.

This is not right. This is not the way it should be.

You try to line up the facts, but encounter resistance as two of them seem to be unwilling to exist on the same line. You died. You are alive. One of these statements is bound to be false. It appears that something went wrong yet again.

You open your eyes carefully, trying to learn more of your situation and make a conclusion based on that. The darkness of the dirty room and the hardness of the floor you lie on are strangely reassuring – whatever happened, you seem to be where you last remember yourself. Maybe this is simply a brief spell of consciousness you have to endure before slipping away again, for good this time.

Something, possibly fabric, brushes your cheek for a moment, and you make to turn your head in the direction of the yet unknown irritant, only to be painfully yet efficiently reminded of this not being a good idea. Despite the reminder, you try to crane your neck again, disregarding the effect this may have on your wound – it matters little now. Something you cannot see pushes your head back into its original position.

"Stay still," a voice mutters out of thin air. For want of options, you comply and try to occupy your mind with further analysis of the situation. There is someone present in the room, and he – however quiet and almost purposefully muffled the disembodied voice was, you are almost entirely sure it was not female – seems to be busying himself with your wound.

With limited success, judging from a curse muttered under the breath of your unwelcome helper – so quiet you cannot make out the actual words, but accompanied with a sharp exhale usually indicating exasperation. The next moment, a blood stain seemingly hangs in the air, as if smeared on something… invisible.

Only the half-conscious state of your mind can excuse the fact that it takes you a few seconds to understand that your current guest is wearing an Invisibility Cloak. It cannot, however, be Potter. Even he would not be melodramatic enough to come back here, not even after… after you had been revoltingly melodramatic yourself.

Who is it, then? For a moment, you think you are about to have an answer, as the invisible fabric reveals a hand holding a wand, closely followed by another one, fingers wrapped around a potion vial. No further revelation takes place, however. From your prone state and given the dim light of the single candle in the room, you can see a person clad in black kneeling next to you, the upper half of his body still safely concealed from your view.

Unable to learn more and unwilling to waste your breath speaking, you observe the hands in the corner of your eye and think, trying to get your sluggish thoughts to cooperate and choosing a relatively safe direction to send them in – pondering the identity of your visitor. Most likely male, from what you have established earlier. Relatively young – definitely not old, judging from the glimpse you got of the hands. Knowledgeable in the ways of healing, at least by means of potions – judging from the fact that he seems to be administering some potion directly into your bloodstream using the conveniently located wound instead of pouring it down your throat and hoping for the best, which is what most people would do when presented with a potion and its recipient. Not a professional Healer, though – far too careful.

A hand appears in your line of sight again, holding the same vial, half-full this time, probably in front of the unknown helper's eyes – most likely, to evaluate the amount of potion already administered. The amount must prove satisfactory, as the vial is moved out of sight, either on the floor or into the person's pocket, and another one is retrieved. The hand is immobile for but a second – but that, coupled with the few seconds' view you got with the first vial, is enough for you to recognise the detail noticed by you unconsciously and trying to catch your attention ever since.

A jagged, vivid red line runs along the side of the palm, almost joining the wrist and the base of the thumb… so hauntingly familiar… because you remember, as if it was only yesterday, how you tried to catch a hot flask falling from the table and ended up with a mixture of a cut and a burn that healed reluctantly and served as a reminder against carelessness for weeks… You were sixteen…

Your breath halts for a moment before you resume it, purposefully keeping it even and your eyes closed, as if your wish to pass out again has indeed come true. Then, trying to be as discreet as possible, you move the fingers of your left hand across the floor, hoping for the fates to be on your side for once.

They are, you realise as you find your wand just within your reach and not across the room. Your fingers close on it as you wait motionlessly. Even though you cannot use your wand hand at the moment, the left one should be enough for what you intend…

In a matter of minutes, there is a soft tinkle of glass indicating potion vials being put away, closely followed by the feeling of cold and heat characteristic of the Episkey spell. Then a feeling of movement.

Mustering all the strength you can, you grasp the invisible fabric with your right hand just as the person is getting to his feet, and point the wand his way, unsure of your current ability to use non-verbal spells and settling for the verbal instead.

"Lumos!"

In the white wand light, you see an almost monochrome picture of a pale face framed by black hair and wearing an expression of mild surprise currently transitioning into irritation, the black eyes narrowing as their owner looks down at you. Somehow, it is the expression that lets you understand with crystal clarity that you are neither insane nor hallucinating. In fact, things indeed appear to be exactly what they look like… which, you cannot help but realise, may be a lot worse than any alternative.


* * *

You land in your dormitory with a dizzying stumble, with nothing but a few hours of sleep on your mind, as well as a vague hope that all of this will turn out to have been a dream when you wake up. But something prevents you from falling on your bed – something that looks painfully familiar.

For a brief moment, you wonder if you have gone too far back and have to relive the bizarre experience you have gone through all over again – but this time, the elf says nothing and hands you a rolled-up copy of what you assume can only be the Prophet. He gestures for you to open it and when you do, you have to search no further than the front page to understand which article the elf meant for you to see.

Severus Snape Found At Last.

Severus Snape, a known supporter of He Who Must Not Be Named, was found last night at his own residence of Spinner’s End. Found with him were potion ingredients of questionable nature which are still in the process of being investigated by the Ministry for Magic. Signs at the scene showed that Severus Snape was not the only human present, but the Ministry refuses to reveal any further information about the capture at this time.

As some may remember, Snape was one of the Death Eaters presumed to be dead after the Battle of Hogwarts of 1998. This was further testified by Harry Potter, whose testimony was the main reason for the lack of further inquiry in the matter. But now that the man is confirmed as alive, the Wizengamot have a lot to say and a number of questions to ask. The hearing will take place on Saturday the 16th where the final verdict will be given to the one who is believed to be the last living criminal of the Second Dark War…

“Sir knows what he has to do.”

You nod. Of course you do. It is not like you have a choice, or had one to start with.

Just as well you did not suddenly change your mind about the fairness of life… or the disappointment would have been even more startling.

You straighten yourself wearily, tugging the chain that is weighing you down far more than it would be reasonable, and follow the elf’s guidance. As you watch the golden hourglass spin, the details learned from the article line up in your mind. Battle of Hogwarts. Death Eater. Harry Potter. You are not sure which one of these bothers you the most, and you have no time to decide.

* * *

You land – not on the rough ground you met on your previous trip, but on a hard stone floor. You stumble, holding on to the Cloak that you had the sense to put on before your little jaunt through space and time, and quickly hurry to a corner from which you can observe with minimum disturbance.

It seems that you have arrived at your own self’s hearing, as the figure bound in the chair at the center is all too familiar. Every single member of the Wizengamot looks as though they would rather look anywhere but at you… No, at the prisoner in that chair, you correct yourself. You are not the man in the chair who inexplicably looks much, much older than the person you were tending to in the Shrieking Shack. It is not your eyes that look deader than dead, not your hair that is streaked with grey, not your wrists that the chains are coiled around like golden snakes.

You forcefully look away and towards the witness stand, where someone is talking at the very moment. A woman with long blond hair, who looks vaguely familiar, but the name escapes you at the moment. She seems to be the only one staring at the prisoner openly. Her gaze is full of hatred, but not answered – as the man in the chair seems to be looking at nothing at all.

She is being asked if she is sure, and she nods vigorously. By the time you are able to fully comprehend what is going on, the Wizengamot have raised their hands in agreement. Your… the prisoner’s fate is sealed.

No, you realize with a start as the man is escorted away. It is you. And your fate.


* * *

You know that you are supposed to feel something as you are being led out of the courtroom and then Apparated back to Azkaban while firmly secured between two guards. Somehow, you only want to laugh at the moment, and it is only the memory of Black doing the same that stops you. Then again, you cannot help but note the ironic similarity between his case and your own.

You must be insane to think that.

They think that the death sentence is a punishment for you. As usual, they – 'they' always being the rest of the world, with only one exception formerly and none whatsoever for a long time now – are ridiculous in their utterly shallow view of reality. Because the ultimate punishment is to take away something that is ultimately precious – and they all assume it to be one's life. You could almost pity them for not knowing better. Were you not so angry.

Ah, so you do feel something after all. The cold anger, surprisingly, is not directed at the Wizengamot, so eager to convict you and erase the last reminder of the war from their world, once again glossed-over but flawed at the core; nor at Narcissa, who obviously did not consider your life worthy that of her son's; but at whoever organised the whole affair in such an utterly messy fashion.

What can possibly be more ridiculous than to be saved, cooped up in complete isolation for three years with the sole purpose of developing a cure – with utmost care, as the disease in question did not yet exist at the time of your making of the cure, and your carelessness could cost the world dearly, upsetting time and bringing the epidemic before time – only to be arrested just as it was almost ready to be delivered? What was the point of traversing time and risking disastrous consequences, only to be thwarted when the most difficult parts – every single difficult part – had been successfully persevered?

Had they found you even a day earlier, some solace would have come from your smug knowledge of the fact that their actions constituted violation of the time stream, as your presence was not to be known until today, and whatever would happen to you then, the rest of the world was in a considerable mess, out of which no one but you could help it – the best part being the fact that you would not be around to give any more help to anyone. Had they found you a day later, nobility rather than smugness would have helped, in the knowledge of a job well done and, you have to admit, some expectation of aid on behalf of the messy organiser of the whole gambit, whose identity you had a general idea about, especially now that the things went so perfectly out of order. But to ruin the scheme with such brilliant precision, to fail at the one stage that resulted in the worst consequences... Not even the most disastrous ones, but certainly the most irritating ones, as they rendered the whole plan pointless… Yes, you have a very definite idea as to the cause of your current predicament. It is no different from the usual source of your headaches for the past decade.

The idea had merit, you have to admit that even now. Preventing your death just in time was rather ingenious, and keeping you hidden from the world while giving you a head start on the work you were kept alive for was bordering on elegant, even. But to miscalculate so ridiculously… You almost wish that the source of your trouble was here so that you could give it a long lecture, pointing out the flaws in the plan and delivering a speech on the dangers of upsetting the course of time. It would certainly help pass the hours before your execution, at any rate. You could be almost grateful for the Wizengamot for deciding everything so swiftly, as it saved a lot of tedious waiting.

Left unattended for a few moments, your thoughts take a different course, taking you back to the strange events of the night in the Shrieking Shack. The more you thought about it during those years, the firmer you established that you were not hallucinating back then. You have never hallucinated in your life, and if you were coherent enough to cast a verbal spell, your mind certainly had enough control to tell illusion and truth apart. Therefore, the truth, however ridiculous it may seem, remains to be exactly what you saw.

You were there. A younger copy of you, twenty-odd years younger. You would doubt the decision to send him – you, yourself, or whichever is more correct – to your aid, were it not for the knowledge that finding anyone competent enough would require divulging too much information, while using your younger self was perfectly safe. His memories would be caught up in a time loop and as good as in a different reality – since you certainly have no recollection of time travel.

Perfectly safe… No, not quite, even given the degree of responsibility you demonstrated at all ages, and the fact that your younger self most likely learned enough to understand the possible disastrous consequences of knowing too much about the future. Nevertheless…

It would have been so easy to warn him, to tell him how important some things were, how some things mattered everything and some absolutely nothing, how no price was too high for some things… How you should have understood some things and agreed to do anything earlier than you actually had offered, when it became too late and of no consequence.

What would have happened then? Quite possibly, you would not be sitting in this filthy cell waiting for your sentence to be carried out. Maybe you would have even less than you do now – you have long learned that it is always possible, even when one feels one has absolutely nothing left. Maybe you would have more.

Either way, you would not exist, you realise as you ponder the possibilities. Even if Severus Snape had indeed survived until this time, he would not have been the person who is currently occupying your cell. He would have been different – whether happier or more miserable, which, as you have also learned, is just as possible – but not you. You, with all of your memories, for whatever they are worth, would cease to exist the moment your younger self would have gone back.

Or rather, you would have never been. And that would come as a small mercy – at the long moment during which you would feel yourself fading away, losing yourself to timeless eternity, becoming just one of the ways your life could have gone, another path never taken, replaced by… ultimately you, but inadvertently, someone else. You would never know, of course. Except at that long moment, during which you would know that soon, you would never know…

You are surprised by the fact that the thought gives you a strange chill that usually accompanies dread. What comes as no surprise is the realisation that given the chance, you would brave that moment, however long it would last.

Chapter Three

Unlikely Coincidences



You briefly wonder, despite your earlier promise to the contrary, whether your plan is going to work. Possible reasons for failure are aplenty, and you know that should you examine the plan too closely, you will find all too many of them – too many to lose whatever confidence you may yet retain. You cannot believe that the day has come when you actually doubt the merit of thinking things through clearly before acting.

The 'plan', as you have unconsciously started referring to this ludicrous show of theatrics that even Narcissa Black could never fall for, came to you just after the hearing had ended, and the guards led you – your older self, the prisoner, whatever – away. Too stunned to realise that the room was empty save for her, you let your Cloak slip for a moment and only realised your mistake upon hearing a scream and seeing the pale blonde woman collapse to the floor in a dead faint. Only then did you recognise her.

You have to admit that now she looks hardly better than she did in the courtroom, still paler than the parchments on the study desk and watching her own back like a particularly jumpy hawk – not that she can see you, of course. You made sure to stay well-wrapped in the Cloak as you followed her out of the courtroom and to the nearest Floo, as you listened to her quavering exclamation of 'M-Malfoy Manor!' and smirked to yourself, making a mental note to refer to her as Narcissa Malfoy in your thoughts from now on, and now, when she cornered herself in the manor's study so conveniently. The odds seem to be in your favour, for a change. It is more than they had ever done before, and you have a fleeting thought of whether the proverbial fortune favours the reckless rather than the brave.

Stepping lightly, you enter into the study and close the door behind you with a snap loud enough to secure Narcissa's attention, yet soft enough to not attract any unwanted ones.

Just as you intended her to, she jumps at the sound as though she has been jolted.

"Wh-who's there?"

You remain quiet, silently wondering how low you can sink if you are indeed going through with this. Then again, Slytherins are supposed to use means to achieve ends... and Narcissa Malfoy, nee Black, is certainly not among those who would shame the name of your supposedly noble House... not by the lack of cunning, at least.

While you spend the time on pointless ruminations, she repeats her question, more shakily this time, but with a strange evenness, as though she knows the answer will not come until she figures it out herself. It appears that even at this age, Narcissa retains one of her weak points – telling herself stories and believing in them with all her heart. If anything could help you now, it would be this.

"Severus?.." she finally whispers, looking around with a haunted expression.

You silently move to stand directly in front of her and let your Cloak slip when you are in the right position.

For a moment, it seems like she is going to faint again – but somehow, she holds herself up, albeit not as straight as before. You briefly wonder why, and quickly realise that she is deliberately avoiding your gaze.

"Why did you do it… Cissy?" you cringe inwardly at the nickname you never thought you would use for as long as you lived.

"I… I… "

"Why did you condemn me to such a fate?" you continue in a low and sad voice, as befits someone you are currently impersonating.

Suddenly, all the shaking and quivering ceases, and Narcissa stands upright, straight as an arrow, finally raising her eyes to burn into yours, and you are momentarily taken aback by the emotion you see in them. If you had not known better, you would never have thought that this brand of fury existed in anyone other than yourself.

"I condemned you, Severus? Me? Is it all my fault? Is everything always my fault? No, don't bother replying to that!"

"Narcissa…"

"Don't bother, Severus! You hardly bothered when you were alive, so why start as a ghost? That would be a bit too cruel even for the likes of you."

"That's not true…"

"Oh yes, it is. You never cared about me, did you? Always running after that filthy Mudblood and thinking no one noticed, always thinking yourself smarter than everyone, and her – her better than anyone else. Well, guess what - I'm GLAD of what happened to her. Happy, you hear me?"

"Wait…"

You try to get at least a few words in, seeing that the conversation is definitely not going in any direction you could find acceptable. But it seems that stopping is one thing Narcissa is incapable of at this moment. She goes on at the speed that would have put the Hogwarts Express to shame.

"Wait? I waited, Severus – all our school years, I kept waiting, waiting for you to notice, waiting for you to say something even if it was a refusal, just waiting. Do you know what it is like to wait endlessly for something, for someone, Severus? Do you know how it feels, when every unexpected sound seems to be coming from them, the pointless hope that they may be just around the corner, waiting for you just as you have been waiting for them?

"But you never came, not even after we left school, not even after I married Lucius, not even after Lucius went to Azkaban. Not even when I came to you! I begged you for help, but all you could offer was pity, because you could not see what it was I really needed. Were you blind? No. You simply could not be bothered.

"Or perhaps, I should rephrase. You could be bothered, you could indeed – but only for her. She always came first, didn't she? And he by relation. You were more bothered about Potter than you ever were about me.

"When the Dark Lord fell and my family was reunited, why could I not feel the joy that a mother and a wife ought to feel? Because of you, Severus. Damn you to hell. Is that why you are here? Because even hell decided to throw you out?"

Enough is enough, you are not going to stand here and listen to the ramblings of this deranged woman without getting in a word edgewise. You contemplate her coolly as she halts her monologue to inhale.

"Are you quite finished?"

She nods stubbornly, as if agreeing to keep quiet, but showing no remorse for her earlier verbosity. Quite possibly, her speech of a few moments ago is more than she has ever said to you over the years that you have known her.

"Narcissa, you have just condemned me to a fate worse than death, and now you expect me to listen to your story and sympathise? Is that all you see me as? The heartless monster that ruined your entire life? Did I not help you when you came to me, maybe not in the way that you wanted, but in what way I could? Have I done nothing to earn your forgiveness in all the years that I have lived? Nothing at all?"

She slowly lifts her head and mutters,

"It's far too late now."

"No, it is not. It is never too late, Narcissa. Not for anything. You may be surprised to hear this, but I am not a ghost. Not yet, anyway, and I would rather the situation stayed this way."

"But who are you, then? What are you? Where did you come from?" Narcissa stumbles over her own words, staring at you, some strange glint appearing in her eyes. Whatever story she has just made for herself, you must make her believe it.

"There, there, I am positive that I do not need to spell it out for you. As I recall, you were always quite an intelligent woman."

You grace Narcissa with a light smile, and her mouth forms a silent 'O' as her version of the truth sinks in. It does not really matter what she told herself. What matters is that she believes it – and what she is about to say next. You wait in silence, and your heart misses a beat when she starts speaking.

"How much time do I have?"

"Not much," you speak, feeling a huge weight drop off your heart, which is very kind to start beating again now.

"Then I'd better hurry," she says, already on her way to the door. Just as she is about to step out, she stops and looks over her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Severus… for everything."

"So am I," you reply because it is what she wants to hear. After all, she is giving you back your life. The least you can do is give her false hope in return.

She says nothing as she leaves, closing the door softly behind her, and you wrap that handy Cloak around yourself once again. However, the Time-Turner is tucked safely into your pocket, as going back is far from your mind at this moment. Some parts of Narcissa's relentless babbling succeeded in catching your attention. No, going back to your own time can wait. You take out the rolled-up copy of the Prophet that the elf had given you and sit down on the coffee-coloured sofa. It is about time you engaged in some light reading and cleared out the more confusing parts of the story you found yourself in.


* * *

You wake up at dawn, as usual, and spend the first few seconds trying to figure out why your bedroom is so dark. These days, the curtains would always be drawn open, despite your long-time preference for perpetual dusk at any time of day, but you never argued, of course, and even grew to like the light lately. A brief glance around tells you that you have fallen asleep, fully clothed, on the couch in your study. You have practically lived here during your week-long work interrupted only by brief spells of sleep – and of course, at least one proper meal per day. At times, there would be trays and cups of coffee brought right to your desk and rewarded with tired yet grateful smiles – but you had to be present at the table during one meal, no argument. There was none, naturally. How could you argue?

The first thing you do is check on the state of the potion. It seems to be bubbling as steadily as before, and examining the drops of condensation on the glass cover tells you that the setback caused by your two-day-long absence during a crucial stage is almost compensated for now. It took you the best part of the week and a number of originally unexpected and hard-to-find ingredients to fix the damage – but all seems to be in order now that the potion has reached the necessary density again, that of spring water rather than undiluted Flobberworm mucus, and a proper lime green colour instead of a rotting ochre jelly. It was a miracle you returned before the results of your painstaking work turned to a tar-like mixture, and a sheer blessing that you turned the fire down to a minimum just before you-

You frown in confusion, observing the condensate drops form. Why did you leave? Where did you go? What was it that was so urgent that you were forced to leave the house before even taking care to conserve the preparation in a way that would have prevented this unnecessary rework? Tapping your chin thoughtfully, you rake your memories and find no recollection of the events of a week ago. What the hell? You shake your head. You will think about it later

Carefully transporting the contents of the cauldron into a large beaker that you fit into a self-assembled still, you set the work in motion, observe the first few drops run through successfully and step away from the desk. The still will now process the mixture drop-by-drop, completely ridding it of any undesired hard residue that may still remain. After that, you can finally continue where you left off, mixing fresh-squeezed aloe juice with cedar branches crushed in a copper mortar… yes, you will do that in a few hours, when the distilling is complete, as the ingredients must be freshly prepared. Until then, you can do that which was your first impulse when you opened your eyes, firmly stashed behind thoughts of work.

Your lips form a smile as you open the door, prepared to hear the sounds of running feet, or distant crashes, laughs or reprimands – sounds of life that you are completely isolated from in your sound-proof study, feeling sad about it and at the same time, glad, because you would never get your thoughts focused on work otherwise.

The door swings open, and your expecting ears ring with an avalanche of silence. You cannot remember when you last heard such absolute silence in your house – not the quiet of hushed sounds, but the empty feeling of there being no source of any. You pause in the doorway, looking around with your eyes only, not moving, not breathing, your hearing strained to catch at least a ghost of the usual sounds and pull them back to here and now. This is not right…

Suddenly, the weight of reality hits you with the force of a Stunner, and you almost stumble. It is happening again. Only worse than before. Considerably worse. You actually spent several minutes never doubting the world you were in, and it took you a full-blown collision with the reality to finally comprehend it.

With carefully measured steps, you walk to the kitchen, open the cupboard, take out a cup – just one, and don't you start looking for that mug covered with green and red flowers, it is not there! – and pour some cold tea. Then you sit at the table, clutching the cup with both hands, hoping for the damn still to work faster and trying to calm yourself. Nothing bad is happening, after all. Nothing you have not expected, either. It is even something you hoped for – or would have, had you dared to hope for anything anymore. It took you a few painful days to understand that you were not going insane – and possibly, for the first time ever, you did not wish that you really were.

If there is anything you are afraid of it is that these strange occurrences cease. You carefully place the empty cup on the table, get to your feet and go to walk around the house in the time you have until you can get back to work. You walk slowly and try to fix the details in your mind, as if anchoring yourself on the little things from your visions can somehow help you make them more real.

There was a carpet on the stairs – threadbare already, but quite functional, and the fastener on the fourth step up – yes, right here – always stubbornly out of place, resisting any attempts to fix it and eventually leading to a permanent Cushioning charm being placed at the bottom of the stairs, which in turn, led to the remaining three steps always being taken at a running jump ending in a happy laughing landing. And the banister… you run your hand along it as you walk upstairs. The banister was much smoother than now, polished by years of the same happy stair-jumper sliding down it several times a day. The left banister, if you look from the bottom of the stairs, always the left and never the right…

And in the second-floor corridor, the carpet was removed as it was causing too much trouble, and even in your sleep, you could always tell who was walking in the corridor, judging on the different squeaky floorboards they would step on… 'Could always tell'? You were never there, so how could you 'always tell'?

You stop in the middle of the corridor, knowing full well that there was supposed to be a flowerpot fixed on the wall here, right opposite the mirror, because the Abyssinian Shrivelfig growing in the pot turned out to be extremely vain and refused to bloom unless it could observe its reflection in the mirror, although no one knew how it could see anything – not even the brilliant inventor of this method, who nevertheless figured this out at the age of seven…

With a haunted look at the corridor, as if daring a faded Holyhead Harpies poster to appear at the leftmost door, you flee back downstairs, almost twisting your leg on the loose carpet fixture… which is not there when you look back.

The next few hours you spend carefully observing the almost-ready potion to collect in the beaker at the other end of the still. You are afraid to wander the house any longer, afraid of the mercurial quality of your surroundings… afraid that they would settle not in the way that they should. In the way that feels not right. In the way that all your life has been up until now. Usually, when finding themselves in a world that is strangely different from the one they are used to, people are afraid of being unable to go back. You, on the other hand, are afraid of being unable to stay.

When you finally take the copper pestle and start mashing the ingredients, you feel that somehow, your laboratory is becoming much more substantial than you, and finishing the potion becomes trickier than before. The feeling, however, is strangely reassuring, and you concentrate on the potion despite the difficulty, now convinced that it is the last thing you will be allowed to do. Out of the corner of your eye, on the very edge of vision, you see a cup at the other end of the desk, steam curling upwards from the surface of what, judging by the faint smell that probably finds it easier to travel between the two realities, is coffee. You know you will not be able to taste it, though, as only one of you can be corporeal at any given time… and you hope with all your heart that it will be that coffee cup, and not you.

Finally putting out the fire under the cauldron, you give one final look to your study. Little details are flickering in and out of sight, and now, in addition to the almost-tangible cup, you see an extra chair in the corner, an eagle quill placed as a bookmark in the middle of an Alchemy and Potioneering, an additional shelf on the wall, a silver and green pendant dangling on the key stuck in the keyhole of your ingredients cabinet…

You make it out of the house semi-consciously, feeling more like a ghost of yourself, but knowing full well that you are not. A ghost is something you could never become. You are ceasing to exist, but it is not the same as dying. You have died before – or almost, anyway. The sensation you are experiencing now is less unpleasant, by far. You thought that fading would feel cold – but instead, you seem to simply be dissolving in the sunlight around you… as if you were mist. Only mist, and nothing more.

It seems that as you dissolve, the tendrils of the same mist that you were reduced to are reforming themselves around the house, changing little things so gradually it would be invisible to anyone but someone who has watched the place waver between house and home so many times in the previous week and learned to believe in ghosts of images and sounds, ready to fuel their existence at the cost of his own.

Of course, it is not like that at all, you think with a faint smile, amused at the direction of your own thoughts, finally no longer restrained and kept in check. What it actually is, is simply the fact that you were right, some time earlier. The plan was not foolproof at all. Somehow, your younger self has learned enough… For the first time, learned it before it was too late.

Some part of your mind, barely corporeal by now, tells you that it was a completely, utterly irresponsible thing to do. But you also know that whatever the consequences may be, nothing would be able to stop your younger self. Not even you.

In all honesty, though, even were you able to… You would not try. The silver keychain, the squeaky floorboards, the bright light in the morning and the expectation of sound after the quiet of the potions study… some things are worth the irresponsibility.

* * *

Spinner's End is just as lonely as you recall. The absence of Eileen and Tobias adds little to the overall mood. The halls are just as silent as you remember, albeit dusty with age. A thin film of dust has formed to cover the furniture, the stairs and the banister, leaving the impression that the house had not been used in several years. But the kitchen and the study give away the intruder's presence, if only to those who know the exact location of every item in its place.

Your older self had apparently tried his best to be inconspicuous even in his own house. Practically living out of his study and doing little, if anything, to rearrange the décor of the house. The kitchen was used, but minimally so, and only when absolutely necessary. And the house most certainly did not feel used.

You are not in a hurry, feeling safe in the knowledge that your older self is still preoccupied with the unexpectedly continued hearing – and after making copies of the notes you will be needing to save humanity in the next twenty years or so, you wonder why you even bothered looking around the rest of the house. You will most certainly not miss this place. Could you possibly want to say goodbye to the place that was always too cold and unwelcoming to resemble a home? No, that could not be it.

As your eyes slide up and down the empty living room and hallway beyond, you promise yourself that this is the last time you are seeing the house again, and will do all in your power to make it a home one day.

Epilogue

Unbroken Promises


"I'm sorry."

"I'm not interested."

"I'm sorry!"

"Save your breath."

It was night-time. Lily, who was wearing a dressing-gown, stood with her arms folded in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady, at the entrance to the Gryffindor Tower.

"I only came out because Mary told me you were threatening to sleep here."

"I was. I would have done. I never meant to call you Mudblood, it just-"

"Slipped out?" There was no pity in Lily's voice. "It's too late, I've made excuses for you for years. None of my friends can understand why I even talk to you. You and your precious little Death Eater friends – you see, you don't even deny it! You don't even deny that's what you're all aiming to be! You can't wait to join You-Know-Who, can you?"

Severus opened his mouth, but closed it without speaking.

"I can't pretend any more. You've chosen your way, I've chosen mine."

"No – listen, I didn't mean – "

" – to call me Mudblood? But you call everyone of my birth Mudblood, Severus. Why should I be any different?"

The boy struggled for a minute and finally blurted out.

"Because you are different."

Whatever Lily was expecting to hear, this was not it. Her eyes opened wide in shock at the admission, and Severus took advantage of the momentary silence.

"Lily, I swear I will do anything you say. I will never utter that word again. I will never speak to Mulciber, or Avery, or any Slytherin ever again. I will even apologise to Potter, and even Black, for what happened. I will go to Dumbledore right now and tell him what the whole lot of Slytherins get up to. Just please, please…"

He did not care what he said, what promises he gave and what they would lead him to do. Everything had happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that he never got a chance to do that which he promised himself. Barely a week passed after he came back from his bizarre journey – and then everything shattered. Was it too late? No. He refused to believe that. It was not too late. He would not let it happen. No matter what the price would be.

Lily's eyebrows were travelling further up her forehead as she heard him stumble through his jumbled-up speech. But her expression was not as cold as it had been a moment ago.

"And I promise to never, ever hex anyone again, or even speak badly of Potter and the others to anyone... If there is anything else I should do and forgot to name here, just let me know. Please, Lily. I would do anything for you."

Severus was not even bothering to hide the desperation in his voice, and that was what seemed to affect Lily the most, hearing a tone that she had never heard before.

"Anything?" she asked slowly.

"Always," he replied, his face colouring as he realised what he had said and yet not regretting. He had never broken promises before – simply because he always avoided making them. Now, he had made one to himself, and this led to more, promises that seemed impossible, promises that he would never before imagine himself keeping, but now could not imagine himself breaking, either. Because a hint of a soft smile was spreading across Lily's face.

She looked as though she was about to ask more questions, but the intensity of Severus' gaze left no room for arguments.

"A – Are we still friends then?" he asked shakily, after some moments of strange silence, during which Lily seemed to study his face carefully.

Finally, she smiled all out.

"Best friends."