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.