Snape's Dilemma

The door of Dumbledore’s office opened to reveal Severus Snape.  Crossing the threshold, he looked around the room at the delicate silver instruments on their tables and Fawkes the phoenix on his perch, with the air of a man assuring himself that nothing was amiss.  The one difference he noticed was a large, nondescript sack on the floor beside Dumbledore’s desk, apparently filled with something rather lumpy.  He walked forward to where Dumbledore sat behind the desk, his spectacles perched on the end of his crooked nose.  “Good evening, Albus.” said Snape. “You requested my presence, I believe?”

“So I did,” said Dumbledore, “and tonight it is for a dire reason indeed.”  Snape’s gaze lingered for a moment upon Dumbledore’s right hand, which looked withered and blackened as though it had been badly burned.  Following Snape’s eyes, Dumbledore added, “Incidentally, I must thank you again for stopping the spread of the curse to which I was subjected while destroying Marvolo Gaunt’s ring.  Were it not for your assistance, this injury would have affected far more than my hand.”

“It is of no matter,” said Snape.  “As you know, I share your goal of hindering the Dark Lord’s progress.  I assume it is for a similar reason that you have called me here tonight?”

“I am afraid,” said Dumbledore, his words still contrasting sharply with his serene expression, “that the circumstances with which I need your assistance tonight concern neither Lord Voldemort nor his followers.  However, as you will see shortly, they are entirely as dire as any of the Death Eaters’ activities so far.”

“Is it the ministry, then?” asked Snape, helping himself to a chair in front of Dumbledore’s desk. “Because if it is, surely you know that my assistance will not aid you much in that respect.  It would be a better use of your time to speak with Kingsley Shacklebolt.”

“No; my concerns with the ministry are no greater than they usually are, and I do not require your assistance in dealing with them tonight.  I think you will see shortly why this particular situation requires your attention more than that of anyone else.  However,” added Dumbledore, standing up from behind his desk, “I believe it would be easiest for both of us if I show you rather than attempt to describe it.”

Walking around the desk, Dumbledore opened a black cabinet beside the door to reveal his Pensieve.  He picked up the shallow stone basin, careful not to spill its contents, and carried it back across the room to place on his desk.  “You are familiar with my Pensieve, I believe?” he asked.

“Of course.” said Snape.

Dumbledore placed a hand inside his robes, and a moment later Snape’s expression revealed his surprise at what Dumbledore had withdrawn from it.  Instead of the usual bottle filled with a silvery memory, what Dumbledore produced was a flat, circular object with a hole through its center.  One of its sides was a plain shade of gray, while the other appeared to be covered in the same silvery substance that filled the Pensieve.  Dumbledore placed the object into the stone basin without comment, and a moment later it had disappeared beneath the shimmering surface.  “I haven’t seen one of those before,” said Snape. “Have you discovered a new way to store memories?”

“No,” said Dumbledore. “In fact, this object is a muggle invention.  I shall explain in a moment why I have used it.  But for now…” he gestured at the Pensieve, “after you.”

Snape stood up, and bent over the swirling mass inside the basin.  A moment later Dumbledore had joined him, and they both sank below its surface.

They were standing in what appeared to be a very dark room, with the only light coming from a faintly glowing wall in front of them.  Snape looked around, apparently at a loss for where he was, but Dumbledore merely pointed his wand at the glowing surface in front of them.  In an instant, the wall shone more brightly, then displayed an image as though an invisible paintbrush had flown across its surface.

Occupying the full height and width of the wall was a drawing, or perhaps a painting—it was difficult to tell.  It was a caricature of Severus Snape, rendered with enough skill that it was impossible to mistake for anyone else.  His dark eyes, his hooked nose, and the curtains of greasy hair were nearly identical to those of the Snape who now surveyed the picture with an expression of clear disgust.  The only difference was that the Snape in the picture was wearing a rabbit costume; a pair of floppy ears hung from either side of his head, and a puff of a tail could barely be seen protruding from the seat of his pants.

“This is what you called me here to see?” asked Snape coldly.  “I was in the midst of preparing my lessons for the next term, and you requested my presence to inform me that a student has taken it upon themselves to draw me dressed as a rabbit?  You could have merely sent me an owl; I will think of a suitable punishment as soon as the perpetrator is identified.”  He said these last few words as though the punishment would be quite different depending on who the perpetrator turned out to be.

Dumbledore did not respond, but merely raised his wand and pointed it at the wall again.  The image instantly cleared itself from its surface, to be replaced by another painting or drawing of Snape with an immense bulge under his black coat.  “As you can see,” said Dumbledore, “the same artist has chosen to depict you having accidentally consumed a male-pregnancy potion.  However, they appear to have overlooked the fact that this potion also has the side effect of causing purple tentacles to sprout from one’s neck.”

“And do you know who drew them?” asked Snape, the anger in his voice apparent now.  “Was it Potter?  If it was, I shall be certain to assign him detention for the time of his next Quidditch match.  I would benefit from someone to help me remove the nests of dead doxies from my file cabinets.”

“I am afraid that these pictures were not drawn by a student,” Dumbledore answered calmly.  “This problem would be far simpler to deal with if they were.  These images were taken from a type of muggle Pensieve known as a computer, which can store images and sounds, but cannot actually be entered as this one can.  Rather than in bottles, information is carried between one computer and another on silver plates known as CDs; that is what I placed into the Pensieve in order to show you this.

“However, there is another way to transfer images between computers, and this is what makes our situation so dire.  A great many of them are now connected to one another in something resembling the Floo Network, but which is known to muggles as the “internet”.  The muggle who drew these pictures—and yes, they were indeed drawn by a muggle—has shown them to muggles all over the world using this invention.”

Snape surveyed the image silently, as though considering Dumbledore’s words.  But before he could speak, Dumbledore had pointed his wand at the image once more.  As before, the image cleared itself from the wall and was replaced by another.

Snape let out a gasp of mingled horror and fury.  “I’ll KILL them!” he spluttered.  “No—killing is too merciful—the Cruciatus curse.  Until they have finally felt enough pain to regret having drawn me and Sirius Black having sex!”

“Alas,” said Dumbledore, a sympathetic expression upon his face. “I believe you are now beginning to appreciate the magnitude of this problem.  The statute of secrecy forbids us from using magic on muggles; an unforgivable curse would certainly be no exception.  I have several more of these pictures, but perhaps you have seen enough.”

“I have,” said Snape coldly, and a moment later he and Dumbledore were rising out of the Pensieve, back into Dumbledore’s office.

Dumbledore seated himself once again behind his desk; Snape returned to the seat in front of it where he had been previously.  “I don’t understand this,” said Snape finally.  “How have the muggles learned about us?  You’ve told us many times that your own enchantments make Hogwarts impervious to muggle surveillance.”

“I do not know.” Answered Dumbledore, and for the first time his tired dismay at the situation became apparent.  “I suspect an inside leak, but I could easily be wrong.  All I know is that while Miss Umbridge was having the owl post here searched last year, she identified several letters being sent from the school to a person by the name of ‘Rowling’.  But whether Rowling is a muggle, or is informing other muggles of our existence, I cannot say.  The one other thing I know for certain is that as long as we are ignorant of the source of this problem—as we will likely remain—it will be beyond the power of the ministry’s obliviators to solve it.”

Without waiting for Snape to respond, Dumbledore pointed his wand at the large sack sitting on the floor beside his desk.  It levitated over the desk, then upended itself to empty hundreds of letters into a heap beside Dumbledore’s Pensieve.  “These are letters from muggle children who wish to attend Hogwarts, mostly out of desire to meet you.  Our owl post has been crippled by their attempt to deliver them all, and our applications department is now swamped with the task of determining which of these people, if any, possess magical ability.  This one”—he pointed to a letter near the top of the heap—“Is from a young woman who I believe wishes to become your lover.”

Snape reached forward and removed the letter from the pile.  On its envelope, the name “Snape” was written in loopy pink letters, with the outline of a heart drawn around them.  He gazed at it for a moment before speaking again.

“I still don’t understand,” said Snape at last.  “You have personally commended me on my efforts to make myself unpopular.  You have said that I’m the cruelest teacher in your entire school, apart from when that Umbridge woman was here last year.”

There was the sound of a throat being cleared, and Snape and Dumbledore both looked up to see the portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black with an expression of disdain on his face.  “If you ask me,” said Phineas’s portrait, “none of them need more than a good whipping.  Why not let in a few, then cut a switch from the Whomping Willow?  It would beat the students on its own, and you’ll see how fond they are of Severus after he’s given them a few rounds with it.”

“Thank you, Phineas”, said Dumbledore, “but I’m afraid that whipping is no longer used as punishment in this school.”  The portrait gave a snort of disapproval and then fell silent again.

“What do you expect from me, then?”  Asked Snape, his temper rising once more. He was leaned forward in his chair; his hand looked like a claw, and he was clutching the love letter so tightly that it had been crumpled into a tiny ball. “I force Potter to miss Quidditch practice for my detentions.  I insult him and his family each chance I find.  I deduct points from Gryffindor house whenever I feel like it, yet generally ignore it when my own students break rules.  Are you suggesting that there is something else I ought to be doing in order to make people dislike me?”

“Indeed I am,” said Dumbledore.  “I am afraid that neither insults nor the selective application of discipline will be enough to alter these muggles’ opinions of you.  In order to dissuade them from their infatuation with you, you will need to do something far worse than any of this.  Something… unforgivable.”

“An unforgivable curse, that is?  I thought you had rejected my suggestion that I use the Cruciatus curse against them.  Or did you intend,” said Snape, a look of dawning comprehension on his face, “that I use it against a student?   I would willingly use it on Potter the next time I see him misbehave; I am quite sure I will not have long to wait.”

“I am afraid that the use of unforgivable curses as punishment has been banned at Hogwarts for even longer than whipping,” replied Dumbledore. “Even if it were not, however, do you think even such an excessively cruel punishment would have a lasting effect on the attitudes of these muggles?  I predict that they would have forgotten about it after less than a month.

“There are three unforgivable curses, one of which inflicts a type of harm that cannot ever be undone.  If you wish to forever destroy muggles’ fondness of you—and I am certain you will agree how essential this is—then the effects of your own deed must last forever also.”

“The killing curse,” said Snape blankly.  His face was expressionless now; it was no longer possible to tell what he was feeling.  “You wish for me to use the killing curse.  Against whom?”

“An excellent question,” replied Dumbledore, as cheerfully as though here were discussing the weather.  “I am sure you will agree that my suggestion would be far more effective if it were used against someone who is popular among muggles.  Based on the letters I have received—” here he indicated the pile with a wave of his injured hand—“the most popular wizards among muggles appear to be you, me, Harry Potter, and Sirius Black.  Yes indeed”, he said, responding to Snape’s incredulous expression.  “Despite Sirius’s reputation as a murderer, most muggles have been convinced of his innocence for almost two years.

“However, Sirius is already dead.  Harry cannot be allowed to die, being the only person capable of defeating Lord Voldemort, and killing yourself would defeat our purposes entirely.  Our goal, after all, is only to make muggles dislike you—you are far too valuable as a spy among the Death Eaters for us to be rid of you entirely.  As I am sure you can see, only one of our four options is viable.

“I admit it is unfortunate that I would not remain alive to continue helping the Order of the Phoenix, but perhaps you could also use this deed as a way to persuade Lord Voldemort that you are loyal to him, the better to betray him later.  If it is not too much to ask, I would appreciate you making sure that a few of his Death Eaters are present when you do so.”

Snape’s face remained expressionless, but when he spoke again, his voice carried a clear note of contempt for what he was being asked to do.  “I will be expelled from the Order,” he said.  “I will be forced to abandon my teaching post at your school.  Do you realize what an onerous task you are asking of me?”

“I do.” Said Dumbledore gravely, “but I am afraid our situation demands it.  However, I will also say that because we know in advance you will not remain at Hogwarts for more than another year, there is no longer any reason not to give you the Defense Against the Dark Arts teaching post which you have desired for so long.  As you know, I have refused to offer it before now because it is impossible for a teacher of this subject to remain at our school for more than a year.  But if you already intend to leave by the year’s end, this is no longer a concern.”

“And that is my repayment?” Snape spat; he looked livid.  “In return for me throwing away both of my jobs, I will have one year to teach my favorite subject?  If what you ask of me seems so small that you would offer this as a payment, Albus, perhaps it would be better for you to continue enduring these letters, and allow me the pleasure of exacting revenge on the muggles who have shown such artistic license in their pictures of me.”

Dumbledore was silent for a long time.  When he spoke again, it was in the oldest, most tired voice Snape had ever heard him use.  “No, it is not a repayment, Severus.  Think of it only as a consolation, for the cost of paying your final favor to this school.”

Snape did not respond.  He merely gazed at Dumbledore, and there was revulsion and hatred etched in the harsh lines of his face.

“Severus… please...”

Something changed in Snape’s expression, and he stood up.

“I will do as you ask,” he said flatly, and turned towards the door.  As he placed his hand upon the knob, however, he turned back towards Dumbledore.  “But allow me to warn you that it will not be enough.  My father was a mudblood—don’t dare correct me for using that word, after what you’ve asked me to do—I know how thick these people are.  It will only make them like me even more.”

And with that, Snape walked out of the room, the door slamming behind him.  Standing on his perch, Fawkes eyed Dumbledore with a shrewd look, as though mildly surprised by what was to come.