Chapter Text
When, three nights after Lily’s death, Severus finds himself standing quietly in Dumbledore’s office, he can’t tell which one of them is more surprised.
“Severus?”
He likes being called Severus, though he’ll never admit it. There are few people who are on first name basis with him – few people who want to be. It’s different with Dumbledore, of course. It always is. Dumbledore calls the Dark Lord by his first name; it’s hardly more than a show of power.
“Why are you still here?”
There was neither fear nor anger in Dumbledore’s voice. Neither relief nor curiosity. Severus replayed the words in his mind, but he could not tell what lied beneath them. A genuine question, perhaps. Why is he still here, in Hogwarts, in Dumbledore’s office? Why is he still here, breathing and being alive, as if he has the right to it?
“I made a promise.” He says. His mouth is dry, voice on the edge of a croak.
Dumbledore stares at him, openly and calmly. “I know,” he says, with a small nod. “But I have not been able to keep up my end of the promise.”
For the first time, Severus sees him as the Dark Lord does. When he was younger – maybe a year ago – he had not understood. What could possibly be frightening, or awe-inspiring, about this man? He was, at best, a gentle man. A man who smiled sweetly, and spoke honestly, and showed himself as he was. A bare man. Severus had always strongly believed that only a fool would show the truth about themselves – but then again, maybe that said more about himself than it did about Dumbledore.
Now, it is the bareness that frightened him. How could one survive war, loss, humiliation, and suffering, and still be open and gentle and bare?
Dumbledore stands there, watching, waiting. He does not have his wand in his hands; instead they rest next to him as he leans against his desk. There are dark circles underneath his eyes, and deep lines showing the sleepless nights. Streaks of grey run through his hair, which Severus could not remember being there before.
His mouth is dry and his throat clicks when he swallows. He finds that his desire to serve Dumbledore comes more readily now that he understand his true power. This willingness, or perhaps it is a need, to throw himself at Dumbledore’s feet, is followed closely by an even stronger fear of rejection.
“Then I want to make a new promise.”
At this, Dumbledore arches his eyebrows. It is a feeling of its own – the feeling when your life depends entirely on someone else’s decision. It’s a familiar sensation, by now.
“What about Lily?”
Severus is used to reading between the lines. The Dark Lord speaks in riddles, in half-truths and half-promises and half-threats. Dumbledore’s honesty is a slap in the face. With nothing but a word, the image of her is ruthlessly jerked from the depths of his mind. No legillimency, no tactics, no games. Severus turns his head away, clasps his own arm, and runs his thumb up and down the Mark through his sleeve. He blinks a few times, trying to dispel the image of her.
“She is dead,” he replies thinly, forcing himself to unclench his sweaty hands.
In the back of his mind, he realises that, not long ago, he would have cried. Would have thrown himself at Dumbledore’s feet, not unlike the first time they had made a promise. He used to cry a lot; just like his mother. Had earned himself the nickname Snivelling Snivellus and lived up to it. Crying had been, to him, an embarrassing display of emotion. Pathetic. Weak. Annoying.
Now, he doesn’t shed a single tear, and that disturbs him far more deeply than any crying ever did. He wishes the blood on his hands would stir any fear, disgust or loathing within him, but it doesn’t. He wishes the memory of Lily would throw him on his knees, weeping for forgiveness, that it would suffocate him in equal measures of shame and self-loathing. But it doesn’t. How typical for him to realise the value of something and then lose it in the same breath.
Dumbledore looks at him, without hiding his doubts. How bare, Severus thinks again, and he feels as though the mere gaze of Dumbledore strips him down to his bones as well.
“If I remember correctly, you said you would do anything for her.”
“I would have died for her,” he hisses through clenched teeth. Oh, how he wishes he had died. He doesn’t think he will ever stop wishing for it. God knows he would give his life any moment, if it would mean anything. But it doesn’t.
Reluctantly, he looks up, into Dumbledore’s eyes. He hates looking into their eyes. Dumbledore’s. The Dark Lord’s. He learnt the hard way that the eyes are the window to the soul, and he is terrified of letting anyone see the hollowness behind his eyes. Caught up in hiding his own miserable self, he forgets, sometimes, that other people’s soul can be glimpsed in their eyes too.
Dumbledore’s eyes are cold and hard, and that takes him aback. There is no pity in them, no compassion or understanding. Not that he thinks he deserves them, but he realises that he had expected to receive them anyway. Severus’ eyes flicker away hesitantly, before he can force himself to look back into the clear blue of his eyes. Still nothing. Severus’ guts twist.
Only later he will realise that it is exactly that lack of emotions that pushed him over the edge. That, had Dumbledore shown any hint of understanding, Severus’ instincts would have kicked up, and he would have weaved together half-truths smoothly and beautifully and without skipping a beat.
“I know you would have died for her,” he says, quietly, tiredly. “For her. Not for me. Or am I wrong?”
“I,” Severus begins, stopping himself before anything wrong can come out. His hands are trembling, and he clenches them into tight fists.
“I don’t know what you are doing here, Severus,” Dumbledore continues, turning his head to gaze through the window. “You came to me for her, but now she is gone. What do you want to stay for?”
Something snaps inside of him, and equal measures of anger and magic burn tightly in his chest. He has Dumbledore’s cloak in his hands before he knows what he is doing.
“She is dead,” he snaps, and the words ring in his head, making him dizzy. “I would have died for her, you know I would, I would have- would have- anything! But I can’t live for her. I can’t live for someone who’s- she’s dead. She’s dead. Because of me. That’s not- I can’t- I can’t.”
Dumbledore does not shake him off. He does not grab for his wand. He does not hold Severus. Does not shush him the way he once did. He only looks at Severus, very tiredly so. Almost as if he knew this was coming.
He sighs, and Severus suddenly feels light-headed. He has never stood this close to Dumbledore, never held his smooth robes in his hands, never seen the coolness of his eyes so clearly.
“I can’t give you what you want, Severus.”
Severus’ hands are trembling worse than ever when he pries them off of Dumbledore’s robes. His knees are weak but he refuses to kneel. “You can,” he breathes. “I can still give you anything, anything you ask of me. I can still spy for you. Anything. Anything. All I want- all I want is to avenge her.”
For the first time that night, Dumbledore looks sad. He closes his eyes for a moment, and Severus realises that it’s all in vain. Dumbledore has decided all along that he would no longer need Severus, had tried to play along with Severus’ little theatre, but alas, now it was time to tell the truth.
“You may stay.”
Severus repeats the words over and over again in his head. He’s not sure he understands them well. His voice is barely audible when he speaks. “Stay?”
Dumbledore then carefully reaches for Severus’ face, gently holding his cheek, their eyes meeting once more. Severus waits for the invasive feeling of magic slipping into his mind, but there is nothing, only Dumbledore’s soft, deep voice. “You will promise me this,” he says, “That, to the same extent as you would have died for Lily, you will live for me.”
The words resonate in his head, but he has the distinct feeling that he is yet to understand their true meaning. He waits, and waits, but Dumbledore does not fetch any ink, or chalk, or even his wand.
“Your word, Severus?”
Maybe it is the tiredness. Maybe it is the events of the past few days – the losses and the victories. Maybe Dumbledore is a fool for being bare after all.
“My word?”
He can’t help but ask, and he can never quite keep the sarcasm out of his voice. What is the worth of a liar’s word? He was a spy, perhaps still is. Lying is his second nature, and Dumbledore knows this damn well.
“If I cannot trust you, without binding you to me, and forcing you to obey me, then I want you to leave.”
Leave. The word is said louder and sharper than he expected. The silence after is tense and heavy, and Severus feels bare once more. He hates it; hates being seen for what he is. A disgusting liar. But he is desperate, he really is, and maybe Dumbledore can see that too.
“You have my word.”
It sounds bad. The words don’t fit in a mouth like his. He couldn’t make them sound honest if he wanted to, not unless he was made to kneel and kiss ass and feign sincerity for his life.
Dumbledore says nothing, but nods solemnly, leaving Severus’s question – whether the man was a true fool or a true master – unanswered.
Without another word, Severus retreats to his chambers. A small thought crosses his mind – that he would like to change Slughorn’s furniture – but it sounds so dream-like to him that he shakes it off and just climbs underneath his blankets. Despite the tiredness, he sleeps poorly that night, contemplating the worth of a promise if it is nothing more than a promise.