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“I’m afraid I must agree with Alastor, my boy.”
The blue eyes, with twinkles absent, were chips of ice.
“Some spots never come off."
Power crackled around the old wizard as he raised his wand. Snape half-heartedly raised his own, even as the part of his mind not yet numb with fear reminded him there was a limit to the creature’s ability to simulate magical power.
His mouth opened and closed, but spoke no incantation. He found he could only stare, appalled, at the contempt on Dumbledore's features - the exact expression he had once worn on a wild hill top… You disgust me…
“Severus?"
Another Albus Dumbledore stood behind him.
The real Dumbledore peered through half-moon glasses at his dopple-ganger, which was still brandishing its wand, wizened and terrible.
“This isn’t your usual, Severus.” said Dumbledore, for all the world as if they were discussing an essay Snape had turned in, “Your subconscious seems to have imagined me a couple of inches taller, with a rather stronger hook to my nose. I must say, the wind whipping through my hair and beard is achieving quite the effect."
Snape gritted his teeth against a few choice profanities, and slashed his wand.
The boggart Dumbledore lowered its wand, slowly. Suddenly, it held out its other hand, which was full of small yellow sweets.
“Sherbet lemon, my boy?” it smiled brightly.
It was the best Snape could do. He remained stone-faced, but the Dumbledore beside him chuckled, and the boggart Dumbledore turned to him.
Crack!
Snape froze. He was staring at himself, on all fours on the floor.
The boggart version of himself was in a particular set of black robes that Snape knew for a fact was currently in a locked and warded trunk in his quarters.
The Snape on the floor laboriously raised its head. Its face was bloodied.
“He said you were a fool to send me to him.” it croaked, voice hoarse, it seemed, from screaming, “he wanted you to know that."
It collapsed to the floor, expiring before their eyes.
Snape flicked his widened gaze to Dumbledore beside him. The old man looked his age, expression entirely mirthless, a terrible, faraway look in his eyes as he stared down at Snape’s body on the floor. Then he smiled sadly and waved his wand.
“Riddikulus."
The boggart Snape on the floor sprang to its feet. It wiped what was now clearly ketchup from his face.
“April fools!"
Snape felt his jaw drop at the sight of the wide grin strongly reminiscent of the Weasley twins on his own features. Dumbledore gave a great, hearty laugh.
The boggart burst into dust.
Silence fell. Snape realized his mouth was still open and clicked it shut.
“Well, Severus, I hope that puts to rest any concern you might have regarding my ordering Alastor to search your office. I’ll be having a word with him about that, in fact.” said Dumbledore, whose expression had become grave once again.
Snape gave a jerky nod. He turned to leave.
“Severus.” Dumbledore halted Snape in his tracks, “I would trust you with my life and Harry’s. I imagine you were perfectly aware of that already, but forgive an old man and his habit of repeating himself. Goodnight."
**
Four months later, when the Mark burns, it would be the memory of this exchange that glitters behind Snape’s eyes before he swirls from the room to return to the Dark Lord’s fold.