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“I can’t fucking do this anymore!”
Dumbledore eyed the pacing man curiously. “Can’t do what, exactly, Severus?”
“This!” he yelled, flinging his arms out. “This! Meeting like this in fuck knows where, with fuck knows who watching-”
“You believe we are being watched?”
“EVERYONE IS BEING WATCHED!” Snape’s black eyes blazed with fury. “Every fucking one of us is at his beck and call,” he said, angrily dragging up his sleeve and brandishing his reddened Dark Mark in Dumbledore’s face. “At his fucking mercy.”
Dumbledore inclined his head. “But surely you knew this when you accepted his sign into your skin?” he enquired, mildly.
Snape rolled down his sleeve and glowered.
“Didn’t you?”
“…yes,” Snape finally admitted, his nostrils flared. “But back then I didn’t think I was going to rat him out to Albus fucking Dumbledore, did I?!”
“Are you telling me that you’ve had second thoughts?”
“Of course not!” he snapped. Seeing Dumbledore’s unimpressed expression, Snape took a deep breath, and composed himself. “…I just don’t think it’s wise that we correspond like this.” Snape stared intently at Dumbledore, daring him to argue. “Sending an owl to my workplace with a location and time? You surely can’t think this is safe?”
“…probably not.”
“And I’m no fucking use to you dead, am I?”
Dumbledore tried to hide his smile. “No. No, you most certainly aren’t.” He thought for a long moment and then he nodded. “Very well, Severus. I believe you are familiar with Manchester?”
Snape gave a short nod.
“I shall meet you by the entrance to Oxford Road Station, next Friday, at noon. If you cannot attend, please send me a howler about excessive Divination homework, and we shall postpone until a week next Tuesday.”
“And what if you receive an actual howler about excessive Div-”
Dumbledore peered at Snape over his glasses. “Really, Severus?”
Snape gave another short nod, taking Dumbledore’s point. “Just don’t open your post at breakfast,” he grumbled. “I’m not sure I can disguise my voice suffici-”
“All howlers are delivered to my office,” Dumbledore interrupted. “It doesn’t do for the students to see the Headmaster being publicly rebuked by disgruntled parents.” He checked his pocket watch. “Remind me, Severus, who was your sixth year Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher? We go through so many.”
“Professor Crickswain,” Snape replied, quickly. “She was good.”
“And I would be right in thinking that you covered dementors during that year?”
“Yes.”
“I suggest you re-read your old textbook before next Friday.”
Snape gave a short, insincere laugh. “Handing me over to Crouch, are you?”
Dumbledore returned his insincere smile. “Not unless you give me reason.”
Snape hated side-along Apparation. He hated not knowing where he was going; hated being at the mercy of someone else’s magic. He stumbled as he and Dumbledore landed, and he immediately crouched down, trying not to throw up.
“A little too rough for you?”
Snape straightened, embarrassed and shook his head. “I skipped breakfast, that’s all.” He glanced around. “Where are we?”
“Off the coast,” Dumbledore said, simply.
Snape caught sight of the building in the distance and froze. “Off the coast? Off the fucking coast?” His voice raised an octave. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I assume you did the reading,” Dumbledore said, striding forward.
“I’m not going in there!” Snape yelled.
“You’re not,” Dumbledore replied. “But one of the guards is coming out.”
“Is this a test?” Snape looked frantic as he saw the dark figure floating from the prison. “I’m on your side! I’ve told you everything, I swear!”
“I want you,” Dumbledore said, his wand firmly in his hand as he watched the dementor approach, “to utilise the techniques taught to you by Professor Crickswain.”
“Because I’m going to need them when I’m thrown in there?” Snape said, pointing his wand at the Azkaban building.
“Focus, Severus.”
The dementor swarmed over, and Snape took a deep breath as the dementor latched on to his face.
Dumbledore watched in amazement as the dementor fumbled, and then attempted to drain Snape’s happy memories from him – but each time, it came away with nothing. Snape was stood, stock still, his face blank, his eyes deadened. The dementor swirled around, and then swooped again – but still, it failed.
Agitated, it turned its attentions to Dumbledore, but before it could descend, Dumbledore pointed his wand and loudly cast, “EXPECTO PATRONUM!”
Snape jolted out of his self-imposed trance as he saw a brilliant white phoenix shoot from the end of Dumbledore’s wand and successfully repel the dementor. “A Patronus?”
The dementor retreated, and Dumbledore swiped his wand through the air, causing the Patronus to cease. He shrugged at his robes. “Yes. And what spell were you using, Severus?
“It’s a subsidiary of Occlumency. It blocks access to your mind, so the dementors cannot feed on your thoughts.”
“You block your entire mind?”
“I put a wall around happy memories, and I push negative thoughts towards the front,” he said, quietly.
“You impersonate the effect that the dementor causes,” Dumbledore said, softly. “Only, you do not allow the dementor access to feed on your happy thoughts. Either your wall is exceptionally strong, or….”
Snape sniffed loudly.
Sensing his discomfort, Dumbledore swiftly changed the subject. “I was rather hoping you’d use a Patronus.”
Snape barked a laugh. “I’ve heard about Raczidian, thanks.”
“And you place yourself on the same scale as Raczidian, do you?”
“…we both know that I have not been a good man.”
“I wish for you to try.”
Snape paled. “I do not wish to be devoured by maggots.”
“Tell me,” Dumbledore said, “did Professor Crickswain set the work of Professor Catullus-”
“Spangle,” Snape finished, nodding his head. “Yes.”
“And what do you recall of Professor Spangle’s work?”
Snape screwed up his eyes tightly, as if he was imagining the words forming on parchment. “The Patronus is the awakened secret self that lies dormant until needed,” he recited.
Dumbledore smiled kindly. “A pertinent passage for you to quote.” He passed his wand between one hand and the other. “A Patronus is the physical manifestation of happiness-”
Snape huffed.
“-and a true and confident belief in the righteousness of one’s actions can be enough to carry through a successful casting of the spell.” Dumbledore looked intently at Snape. “You do believe in your present actions, do you not?”
“Yes.” Snape stared back fiercely. “I’ve risked everything for this. For you. For her.”
Dumbledore nodded. “Then, I do not think you have anything to fear. I take it you remember the appropriate spell?”
Snape nodded.
“Then I shall recall the dementor.”
“And if I fail?”
“I shall intervene.”
Snape gripped his wand tightly as the dementor floated over, and he fought the urge to fling up his well practised wall. He drew in a breath as the dementor latched on, and he was almost overwhelmed as negative thoughts swarmed his brain.
It was so different to his experiences with his wall, where he was in total control of which thought lay where. Now, every bad experience was flashing before his eyes, replaying in vivid technicolour; Sirius Black, his father, James Potter, his mother, the blasted werewolf, the OWL exam, Lily, Lily, Lily…
He shook his head, trying to shake the thoughts and in the corner of his eye, he could see Dumbledore’s anxious expression, his wand pointing towards him. He knew he had to focus and he forced the usually hidden memory to the fore:
He lay on the grass, his feet bare, his oversized coat bundled up and placed beneath both their heads. “But it’s ok - you can swap money at the special bank,” he said, knowledgeably. “It’s run by goblins.”
“Tell me about school. Do we do normal subjects?
“Normal subjects?”
“Like History, and Maths, and Science?”
He grinned. “Sort of, but magical versions. So we do History of Magic, and Arithmancy, and Potions, which is sort of like Chemistry.”
“You know so much,” Lily said. “Which do you think will be best?”
“Potions,” he said, confidently. “When Da’s out, Mam sometimes puts a cauldron on. She lets me slice and stir sometimes.”
Lily snapped upright. “Really? Can I come and see?”
“You want to come to my house?” he said, flushing, and twisting his hands awkwardly.
“Yes!”
“I’ll ask,” he said, quietly. His heart hammered a little faster in his small chest as Lily slid her hand into his.
“You’re the best, Sev.” She smiled at him, and then suddenly, the scene spun. The playground was replaced by castle walls, and her face shifted, and her features matured. Her grin was replaced by a look of revulsion. “You’ve chosen your way, I’ve chosen mine.”
“No – listen – I didn’t mean-”
A blast of brilliant light caused him to recoil, and when he came to, he realised that Dumbledore had stepped in.
“Do you not remember the lesson?” he asked, gently, passing Snape some chocolate.
“Yes,” Snape said, shakily. “A single happy memory.”
“Then I must advise you,” Dumbledore said, seriously, “that your memory was not nearly happy enough.”
He hurtled down the empty corridor as fast as his short legs could carry him, the four Gryffindors in hot pursuit. He dived through a doorway, and was astonished to discover that he’d entered the Trophy Room. He spotted Lucius Malfoy in the corner peering through one of the glass cabinets, but before he could speak, Snape held a finger to his lips, and sprinted into the adjoining Armoury.
He weaved between the suits of armour, and nestled behind one furthest from the door, just making it into his hiding spot before James, Sirius, Remus and Peter burst through behind him.
“He’s got to be in here!”
“I thought I saw someone in the Trophy Room.”
“Snivellus wasn’t in the Trophy Room, Remus,” James argued, hotly. “We all saw him pile through the door.”
“Yes, come out, come out, Snivvy,” Sirius taunted, his wand drawn.
Snape’s foot shifted against a suit of armour, and the four boys whirled around at the noise.
“Expelliarm-” Sirius started to shout, but then was wide-eyed as he couldn’t finish his casting.
James frowned, and tried to take over. “Petrific-” He turned back to Sirius, and clawed at his mouth.
“Run!” shouted Peter, grabbing Remus’ arm and hurtling towards the door – but blocking the doorway was the taller, broader, and very much older, Lucius Malfoy, with his prefect badge gleaming on his robes.
“Well well well,” Lucius drawled. “Four young Gryffindors roaming the corridors after curfew. What do you have to say for yourselves? Black?”
Sirius shook his head, miserably.
“Potter?”
James glowered, his cheeks burning red.
“Back to your common room,” Lucius said, decisively. “All four of you. Now!” Remus opened his mouth to argue, but Lucius sneered. “And do not think of taking a detour. I shall be visiting Gryffindor Tower in five minutes for a discussion with Professor McGonagall. Could you imagine her reaction if it was discovered that you were absent?”
The four boys miserably traipsed out of the Armoury.
Once they’d left, Lucius turned back to the suits of armour. “Impressive, Severus. We are not usually taught nonverbal casting until at least fifth year, and only then if you have a competent Dark Arts teacher.” He hoisted the young boy from behind the suit of armour by his skinny arm. “I did not recognise the spell you used at all.”
“It’s a sticking spell,” Snape said, breaking free of Malfoy’s grip, and brushing his robes down. “They can’t cast nonverbally, so if I stick their tongues to the roof of their mouths, it stops them from using any spells against me at all.” He looked up, shyly. “And I cast it nonverbally so they can’t use it back.”
“My, you are a clever little thing, aren’t you?” Malfoy smiled, widely. “Sit with me in the common room tonight. I would like to discuss your inventive spells a little more.”
Snape smiled to himself as he followed the prefect out of the Armoury, out of the Trophy Room and down the corridor, a feeling of elation growing in his chest at the older boy’s words.
But then, the memory shifted, and this time, he found himself cornered. Four sneering teenagers had him pressed against the cold corridor wall, their wands pointed at his face. “It’s a pity Malfoy left,” Sirius jeered. “He always was your knight in shining armour, wasn’t he?”
“Riding in on his stead to save you, like the worthless princess you are,” James laughed, stabbing his wand under Snape’s chin.
“But now you’re alone,” Sirius smiled, and he pointed his wand at Snape’s face, and then a spurt of bright light filled his vision…
“Not even close to happy enough,” Dumbledore said, passing him another piece of chocolate.
Snape closed his eyes. “I don’t exactly have a wealth of memories to choose from.”
“You must have something, Severus,” Dumbledore said. “Rest for five minutes, and think carefully.”
It was impossible. Everything was tainted.
His happiest memories contained Lily, but the dementor seemed to be aware of this. It seemed to be revelling in his darker memories, gleefully drawing them to the surface and forcing Snape to re-live every second of his ex-best friend’s hatred, destroying the happy moments he was trying to focus on.
He watched, helplessly, as she turned her back in the corridor, scowled at him across the Great Hall, and ignored him in Potions. He grimaced as he saw her throwing her arms around James Potter as they were announced Head Boy and Girl to rapturous applause, and then that stupid slur screamed around his brain, over and over and over and over and over and over and over…
“I can’t,” Snape groaned.
“You can, and you will.”
He closed his eyes, and put Lily from his mind.
The first Quidditch match he saw Slytherin win. When Slytherin won the house cup in 1975. That time Regulus Black grabbed the snitch just as it was flying into James Potter’s outstretched hand…and Sirius broke his own broomstick out of frustration.
“Are you focusing on memories you personally experienced, or memories where you were a bystander?”
“Does it matter?”
“You should focus on your own successes.”
When he earned his first house points. When he brewed his first perfect batch of Draught of Living Death. His first ‘O’ in Defence Against the Dark Arts. The handwritten note from Slughorn, tucked into his NEWT results, which told him that despite stiff competition, he’d scored the highest in the year in Potions.
He opened his eyes, and saw Dumbledore standing over him. His expression was stern. “The memories you are using are not powerful enough, Severus.”
“…I don’t have anything else.”
“You must. Think harder.”
Snape pulled himself upright, and stood before the older man. “What do you use?”
Dumbledore gave a small smile. “You will not find inspiration for your own happiest memory merely by peering at mine.”
“I just want a hint. A clue. An idea of the sort of thing I am looking for.”
“What have you used already?”
“School stuff,” Snape muttered.
“Were you especially happy at school?”
There was a long pause. “I wasn’t especially happy at home either,” Snape grumbled.
“In such circumstances, it is common for witches and wizards to feel particularly elated when they received their Hogwarts letter.”
Snape shrugged. “But I always knew I was going to Hogwarts.”
Dumbledore looked thoughtful. “And what about other groups that you may have gained admission to?”
Snape looked horrified.
“Severus, the memory only has to evoke feelings of happiness. There will be no judgement,” Dumbledore continued, his voice low. “Did he make you feel happy, Severus? When you laid your forearm bare before him, and invited him to brand you? To own you?”
Snape stared at Dumbledore, dumbstruck. His mouth opened and closed, but he didn’t make a sound.
“It didn’t feel good to be accepted by those you so admired?”
“…you want me to use the moment I was marked as the basis for my happiest memory?”
“Is it your happiest memory?”
“No!”
Dumbledore smiled. “Then, by all means, use something else.”
He watched anxiously as the dementor descended, and he screwed up his eyes.
He traced the printed words with his tiny fingertip, and held the large wand in his small hand. He could feel the magic emanating from the wood; it didn’t feel quite right – as if it desperately wanted to play, but knew the boy holding it wasn’t its rightful master.
He flicked the wand, experimentally, surprised at how springy the light wood was – and then, with his tongue stuck into his cheek, he traced the words again. He could do this.
“Lum-ohs,” he said, seriously, but the wand didn’t respond. He paused, and peered at it, and then back at the book. “Lum-ohs!” he repeated.
He frowned, and traced his fingers back over the words. “Lum like lump,” he whispered. “Os like logos. Lum-ohs. Lum-ohs!”
It didn’t work, so he placed the wand back down and flicked through one of the other books – and then he saw it, and his lips sounded the word out under his breath. “Chaos. ChaOS. Os like chaos, not os like logos. Lum like lump, os like chaos. Lum-os. Lum-os!”
He picked the wand back up and swished it excitedly. “Lum-os!”
But still, the wand did not light. Sensing he was close to his goal, Snape grabbed another book and flicked through it furiously. “The moon cycles are called lunar…” He trailed off. “Not lu like lump,” he realised. “Lu like lunar. Looonar. Looomos!”
He grabbed the wand and pointed it upwards. “LOOOMOS!”
The tip of the wand lit, and Snape excitedly jumped to his feet. He swished the wand, casting the light around the dark attic, and then he crouched down and referred back to the page. “To ex-tin-gui-sh,” he read, slowly, “your wand, the in-can-tat-ion is Nox.” He grinned; that would be easy. “Nox!”
And all fell dark.
He swished again. “Looomos! Nox! Looomos! Nox! Looomos! Nox!” He spun around the attic, casting into dark corners, and then rapidly dousing the light. “Looomos! Nox! Looomos! Nox! Looomos!”
But then his vision swirled, and the light grew stronger, and no matter how much he shouted, “Nox!” the room wouldn’t darken again. “Nox, nox, nox, nox, nox!” he yelled, louder and louder, not caring if his parents would hear and discover his forbidden antics.
And then he realised that he was flat on the ground, sweat streaming down his face, still screaming the incantation. Dumbledore was holding the dementor off above him.
“Better.”
“But it still wasn’t good enough.” Snape groaned and covered his face with his hands, still brandishing his wand.
“Far closer. You almost sent out a non-corporeal form. What precisely were you thinking of?”
Snape eyed Dumbledore curiously, as he accepted a piece of chocolate from him. “The first time I cast a spell. When I was little. I took my mother’s wand.”
Dumbledore nodded. “A good choice. Success is a powerful emotion.”
“But?”
“…as we discussed, being accepted is perhaps even more potent.”
“No. No. I can’t use when I was marked,” Snape said, quietly. “I might have been happy at the time…but not now…”
Dumbledore settled himself on the grass. “Then rest, and think,” he said, indicating that Severus should sit next to him. “Success and acceptance, Severus. Success and acceptance.”
“For fuck’s sake!” Tobias slat his newspaper across the room. “Just fuck off outside, will yer!”
“I ain’t done owt!” Severus yelled back, banging the fridge door loudly.
“Last three minutes of the fuckin’ match, and you come down ‘ere and send the radio funny with yer fuckin’ doo dah wotsit!”
“Toby,” Eileen admonished, sharply. “Leave the lad alone. He can’t help it.”
“You don’t do it with your fuckin’ magic powers! Three fuckin’ minutes,” he complained, retrieving his paper from the floor, and scooping it back together. “That’s all I wanted.”
“Dunno what yer mitherin’ at,” Severus retorted, sulkily. “Won, dint they?”
“How’m I sposed to fuckin’ know, soft lad! Fuckin’ radio’s knackered, thanks to you!”
“Severus, go back upstairs,” Eileen said, firmly. “Tobias, you well know that the radio will be fine.”
“Yeah, when he’s fucked off it will be!” Tobias glared at his son, brandishing the now rolled up newspaper. “Go on wi’ yer! Fuck off!”
Severus looked up from his homework at the sharp knock on the door. “What d’yer want?” he called.
Tobias pushed the door of his son’s room open. “Speak t’yer.”
Severus capped his ink, and put his parchment on the floor. He moved over on the unmade bed, silently indicating that his father could sit next to him.
“S’alright,” Tobias said, leaning against the doorframe. “Yer mother says yer can’t help it. That fuzzy stuff.” He peered at his son. “Yer never used to do that. Just since yer been at that fancy school.”
“It’s one of the lessons,” Severus said, an impish grin creeping up his face. “How to piss yer Muggle da off.”
“Yer a cheeky fucker.” Tobias swung the door back and forth with his foot. “Grow out of it?”
“S’pect so.”
“School goin’ good?”
“S’alright.”
“Behavin’ yersel?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
Severus nodded, and reached for his parchment. “That it?”
“D’yer like it?”
Severus put the parchment back down. “Better than round ‘ere. Still school though, innerit?”
“Aye.” Tobias gave a short smile. “Not much fun, eh lad?”
There was a moment of silence, and Severus thought his father was about to leave, but then, he spoke again. “D’yer all wear them funny dresses?”
“Robes, Da.”
“Yer mam don’t wear ‘em.”
“Not round you. She’s got ‘em though. In the attic. I seen ‘em.”
“Bit girly on a lad. What’re them girls down the street gonna think if they see yer like that?”
“Not as bad as yer fuckin’ shorts,” Severus retorted.
Tobias looked down at his shorts. “Georgie Best’s, these were!”
“Best before 1971.”
“Cheeky shite,” Tobias said, reaching forward to clip his son lightly around the ear. “Bet yer don’t even know who he is.”
“I’m a wizard, not an ignoramus.”
Tobias paused. “D’yer ‘ave wizard footy, then?”
Severus shook his head. “There’s a game. On broomsticks. But it’s nothin’ like.”
“Yer prefer yer wizard stuff?”
“Mostly,” Severus said, quietly. A brief flash of hurt covered Tobias’ features, but he quickly masked it.
“Right. Let yer get back to it,” Tobias said, pulling the door shut. A moment later, it swung back open, and Severus looked up, startled. “United are playin’ on Saturday afternoon. In the cup.”
“Right.”
“Can yer try ‘an get ‘andle on yer witchy thing? …don’t want to miss owt.”
“It’s a shame,” Tobias said, running a piece of bread around his plate, mopping up the juices. “He used to like ‘is footy.”
“He isn’t going to dare come downstairs at all today after how you behaved on Tuesday night,” Eileen snapped, taking his plate from him and pushing it into the washing up bowl.
“I apologised!”
Eileen gave him a hard stare. “Did you actually say you were sorry?”
“More or less.”
Eileen huffed, and put the salt and vinegar back into the cupboard. “More or less. He’s only here for a couple more weeks.”
Tobias looked uncomfortable. “Can’t yer stop that witchy thing he does? Then he could listen to the match.”
“It’s emotional,” she explained, wiping down the table. “If he’s hungry. If he’s tired. If he’s upset. If he’s worried. If the team scores. If they don’t. If his father’s going to pitch a fit and scream at him for daring to exist.”
Tobias glared.
Eileen shrugged. “He’ll grow out of it.”
“But not by kick off,” Tobias muttered. He grabbed his keys, and his loose change. “I’m going down the club.”
“That’s it,” Tobias announced the next morning, putting the phone down. “Murphy’s lad can’t play, so we’re short. Gonna ‘ave to call off.” He peered at Severus, who was rummaging in a cupboard. “Unless…?”
“Da…”
“Leave the lad be, Toby,” Eileen said, not looking up from her ironing.
“Yer used to be good.”
“Used to be.” Severus opened the fridge door and stared into it. “I ain’t played in years.”
“Get yer ‘ead out of the fuckin’ fridge. Ain’t nowt in there for yer.”
“Yer tellin’ me,” Severus said, letting the door shut. “I’m starvin’.”
“Can’t be,” Tobias huffed. “Yer ‘ad breakfast half an hour ago.”
“Starvin’,” Severus reiterated. “I eat way more at school.”
“Fine. Play, and I’ll buy yer some chips.”
“Toby!”
“What?” Tobias turned to his wife. “I’m just offerin’.”
“It’s called bribery,” she said, sliding a neatly pressed shirt onto a hanger. She stared at her son. “Play if you want, but don’t let him guilt you into it.”
“What if we lose?”
“Don’t matter.”
“Still get chips?” Severus asked.
“Still get chips.”
“What if I play shit?” His eyes narrowed. “Still get chips?”
Tobias gave a half smile. “Yer yer mother’s son, aintcha? Yeah, yer still get yer chips.”
He wasn’t lying. He hadn’t played football in years – not since he left the Muggle school and got on the train to Hogwarts. His dad hadn’t been lying either. He wasn’t half bad. If he’d really put his mind to it, maybe he could’ve excelled at it – but then, he’d always known he was a wizard; he wasn’t interested in excelling at anything Muggle, because he knew he was going to drop it like a stone as soon as he reached eleven.
He stood on the rec, and juggled a ball between his feet, feeling awkward in his dad’s old shorts and baggy t-shirt. He lost concentration as the team came past him, and the ball flicked a little far away. He quickly cast a nonverbal Accio, and he almost laughed out loud when the ball curled back to his feet. He’d never thought of using magic whilst playing before; he certainly didn’t have the power or the skill when he was ten.
But what made him laugh inside was the fact that he did it so naturally. He really was a wizard. No wand. No verbal incantation. He’d just reacted. Severus kept on juggling the ball, a grin across his face.
“Yer playin’ keepy up?” An older teenager, nineteen or so, crossed the field. Severus vaguely recognised him. Robbie’s lad.
“Yeah.”
“How many?”
“Wasn’t countin’.”
“What’s the point if yer ain’t countin’?”
“Not played for ages,” Severus said, letting the ball drop.
“Ah, I remember yer. Toby’s lad, innerit? Yer be right.”
“Bloody hell.” The captain of the opposing team moved through the bar to shake Tobias’ hand. “This is yer lad, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’ve yer bin hidin’ ‘im? United’s youth team?” The captain shook his head. “Yer’d be top of the league if he played every week.”
Tobias’ chest almost burst with pride as he clapped Severus on the back. “Not bad is he, eh? For a scrawny ‘un.”
“Bugger me, he could give old Georgie a run for ‘is money.” The captain took a long drink. “Yer wanna get him signed up. See a few scouts.”
“Nah,” Tobias said, smiling ruefully. He ruffled Severus’ hair, as the lad sipped his ale. “He’s all brains, y’see. Takes after ‘is mother. Goes some posh school up in Scotland. Won a scholarship.”
“Some kids got it all, eh?” the captain said, raising his glass. “Well, good luck to yer, lad. And Toby, yer should be proper proud.”
“I am right that. I am that.” The captain moved away, and Tobias turned to Severus. “I ain’t like yer mam, lad. Ain’t that much good wi’ words. But I am right proud, even when I’m shoutin’ and carryin’ on.” He drained his pint. “Now, let’s get gone, and get them chips I promised yer.”
“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”
Dumbledore smiled as the creature danced out of the end of Snape’s wand, forcing the dementor backwards until it fled to Azkaban. “Fantastic,” he said, clapping the younger man on the shoulders. “I knew you could do it.”
Snape sat back on the ground, panting heavily. The last few hours had taken its toll.
“Now watch this!” Dumbledore cast his Patronus, and the phoenix flew before Severus. It paused, and then opened its mouth: “Meet me in Diagon Alley at 7.30pm.”
“Merlin’s beard,” Snape breathed. He laughed loudly, relief flooding him as he realised what the afternoon had been about. “That’s amazing.”
“Do not shy away from light magic, Severus,” Dumbledore said, quietly. “It is your Dark Lord’s greatest failing. He fears it.” He placed his hand beneath Snape’s chin. “This exercise today has proven what I already suspected.”
Snape took a sharp intake of a breath.
“You can walk the line.”
“The line?”
“Between Dark and Light.” His eyes twinkled. “Perhaps between magic and Muggle?”
Snape bristled. “…did you…”
“With me, Severus,” Dumbledore said, extending his arm – and then he Disapparated with a muffled pop.