Chapter 41: The Dark Lord's Enemy
"You know nothing!" Snape shrieked, hysterically swiping the glass of Firewhisky from the table. It shattered on the stone floor.
"It's quite easy to guess, Professor," Ryan said calmly. He gestured at the floor, and the broken shards of glass flew back together, reforming the cup in a seamless display of magic, like time flowing in reverse. The spilled liquid, however, remained a dark stain on the stones.
"Many people attended Hogwarts with you," he continued, a flicker of genuine concern in his eyes. He worried that Snape's fragile mental state might one day lead him to see death as a salvation.
"Be quiet! Just be quiet!" Snape hissed, cornered and desperate, his voice a strange mix of threat and plea.
Ryan poured another glass and pushed it across the table towards him. The two of them were frozen in a tableau of silent confrontation: one leaning back, his body tense and coiled; the other leaning forward, a calm but relentless pressure in his gaze.
He's still resisting, Ryan thought. Time to raise the stakes. The Potters' names should be enough. He could see that Snape was a soul balanced on a knife's edge, and any added weight would send him tumbling. And right now, what Snape needed most was to finally let it all out. This is a gamble, Ryan admitted to himself, a bet on who has the greater influence over him… Recalling what he had read in the history books, he spoke a single name: "Lily Evans."
For a moment, Snape froze. Then, the dam broke. The sound that erupted from him was a raw, primal scream of anguish and rage, a sound of such profound and overwhelming grief that Ryan was momentarily stunned. So this is the sound of a complete breakdown, he thought with a morbid curiosity, leaning back in his chair and discreetly activating a small, half-finished crystal sphere—a "crystal-camcorder," one of his side projects, which could record moving images.
The screaming seemed to have made Snape thirsty. He grabbed the glass and downed it in one gulp. Ryan refilled it. Snape continued to scream. Snape drank again.
Before long, whether he was truly drunk or just pretending, Snape began to mumble. He spoke of his childhood, of a meeting that had brought light into his world, of a friendship that had endured even after the Sorting Hat had sent them to different houses. He spoke of diverging paths, of words spoken in anger, of a final, bitter parting of ways. He spoke of Sybill Trelawney's prophecy, and the terrible choice he had made when he had still believed in Voldemort.
In Snape's slurred words, Ryan heard a story of love and adoration for Lily Evans, and a deep, burning hatred for James Potter. He was sure that if Voldemort had spared Lily's life that night, Snape would have remained one of his most fervent followers. In fact, Ryan had a strange feeling that Snape's only regret about James Potter's death was that he hadn't been the one to kill him.
The whole story was a mess, a tragic opera of unrequited love, schoolyard bullying, and pure-blood prejudice. The only normal person in the entire melodrama, it seemed, was Lily Evans. She was the hero of her own story.
"Can prophecies be changed?" Snape asked again, his voice thick with drink.
"Does it matter, Professor?" Ryan said softly. "You're not asking me if the prophecy can be changed. You're asking me if Lily Evans would have forgiven you."
"But not even a Time-Turner can alter a fixed point in history."
"As I see it," Ryan said, his voice firm, "the only person you truly wronged was Lily Evans." And that was the truth. The young Snape and the Marauders—none of them had been saints.
He noticed a fire in Snape's eyes that not even the strongest drink could extinguish. "What's past is prologue," Ryan said, standing to leave. "It's time to turn the page, Professor. If not for yourself, then for her."
In the empty dungeon, Snape stared at the ceiling, lost in his memories.
.....
The Headmaster's Office.
"Mr. Welles," Dumbledore said, clad in his pajamas, "as a young man, you should have more consideration for an old man's sleep schedule."
The only thing old about you is your skin, Ryan thought, but he cut straight to the chase. "I've just heard about a prophecy from Professor Snape. I thought, since you were still awake, we could have a chat about it."
"Severus was willing to speak with you about such matters?" Dumbledore looked genuinely surprised.
"He was... reluctant," Ryan said, holding up the crystal sphere. "But I used a few of my… communication techniques. He has been bottling it up for too long."
"Remarkable, Ryan. It's rare to find someone with your talent for communication…"
"As rare as the other person in Professor Trelawney's prophecy?" Ryan countered. "That is not a flattering comparison, Headmaster. Let's talk about the prophecy."
The portraits of the past Headmasters all leaned in, their painted ears straining.
"Of course," Dumbledore said. "But since you and Sybill are both Seers, it is best if you see it for yourself." He opened a cabinet and retrieved a shallow stone basin, its rim carved with ancient runes. A silvery, swirling substance filled the basin to the brim.
"A Pensieve?" Ryan noticed the disappointed looks on the faces of the portraits.
The two of them stepped into the memory.
"The Hog's Head?" Ryan asked, recognizing the grimy pub. "I would have thought an interview for a teaching position would be held in your office."
"One makes mistakes," the pajama-clad Dumbledore said, standing beside his younger self. "I did not have a full understanding of this type of prophetic magic at the time. To be honest, I had no intention of hiring a Divination professor at all. But as Sybill was the descendant of a true Seer, I felt it was only polite to grant her an interview."
"So she made a real prophecy during the interview?" Ryan asked. He saw the younger Dumbledore growing impatient, about to end the interview with a classic "we'll let you know." Just then, Professor Trelawney fell into a strange, trance-like state, and in a deep, raspy voice, she spoke a prophecy about the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord. For a Seer, Ryan thought, she really has no sense of style. No mystique, just… creepy.
"So, Professor Snape only heard the first half?" Ryan asked, hearing the sound of someone fleeing from outside the door in the memory.
"Yes," Dumbledore confirmed. "At the time, Severus only brought that half of the prophecy to Voldemort."
"'Those who have thrice defied him'…?" Ryan asked, incredulous. "Headmaster, I have a question. How skilled were James Potter and Lily Evans at magic at that time? Were they both Archwizards, just a few years out of school? If so, how was Snape ever able to hold his own against them?"
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