Day 1010:

Upon waking, I meditate upon the ninth form of Occlumency, Shadow Fortress. All emotion, all feeling must be compartmentalized, isolated and sublimated. I envision a featureless sphere of soot black coal, diamond hard, impenetrable. As I reach the final stages of the exercise, envisioning the last of the seals disappearing into the stone, the first hint of morning sun penetrates the sole high window of my cell. It fills the ten foot by ten foot granite-walled room that I have spent the last three years of my life inhabiting, illuminating every mote of dust and deepening the shadows in the corners. Some days, there is no greater threat to my composure than that single honey-coloured beam of light.

I perform my morning ablutions, followed by calisthenics. Voices echo through the long hallways from a distance. There are only a few inmates remaining within these walls; we happy few, Wizarding Britain's most despised and feared. Only when the last Death Eater is eradicated from the face of the earth will they let this mouldering heap of stones tumble back into the North Sea.

My breath fogs in the air as the temperature in the room drops to well below freezing. The Aurors have arrived with the first meal of the day, a thin soup of protein and caloric supplements lovingly called gruel. The steam pouring off the surface has more tooth. Outside the cell, I can see the pall of the two Dementors looming. I can feel the tendrils of their hunger questing at the surface of my thoughts. They find nothing. Not a single crumb. As for their terrifying appearance? I have served at the right hand of Voldemort himself and have seen far worse than their pathetic lot.

After eating, I take my clean set of prison garb from the guard. I ignore his clinical gaze as I remove my shirt and trousers. They examine me from head to toe, checking for any Sigils carved into my skin. Magic can only be suppressed, it cannot be eliminated. My skin tingles and itches under the harsh cleansing charm. I wait for the grunt that indicates I am deemed clean before dressing, placing my hands on the top of my head until they have retreated and closed the ironclad oak door behind them.

I finger the small stone in my palm and take my place in the centre of my cell. I close my eyes and in moments, I return to cataloguing of sections twenty-three through twenty-four of my library, Advanced Arithmantic Theory In Potions Making, Verdesante's Principles of Catalysis and Distillation, and Transmogrification and Other Esoteric Transmutation Methodologies.

The first opportunity for wandless magic occurs at mid-morning, when the Dementors are on the far side of the complex, attending to the few remaining inmates who are allowed to congregate in the prison courtyard. I assemble the small amount of raw materials required for the spell: the lifeless shell of a beetle, a few dead flies, a bit of dusty grey cobweb coiled around a dessicated leaf. Nothing specific, merely fuel for the transfiguration. I remember my astonishment when I discovered the charm she had encoded in her very first letter. Cheeky bint, to assume that I would be reading so closely. Not that she was wrong. The spell is small enough to go unnoticed by the Aurors, and in truth, ten years ago, I would have scoffed at its usefulness. Today, in this place, the ability to transfigure chocolate from a handful of detritus is all that stands between me and the madness that consumes every other inmate here.

It only results in half an ounce and the quality leaves something to be desired, but the taste, oh the taste... I close my eyes and let it melt on my tongue.

I shutter away my pleasure before they can sense it. Along with it, the memory of the dark-eyed girl who believes in me and my anticipation at the arrival of her next letter.

Day 1012:

Dear S.~
The day is drawing close when the Ministry will capitulate to our legal demands, and at the very least, permit you to pursue an appeal. We will journey through the darkness of their foul lies and emerge from the shadows into the light of truth. You have my word that I will not desert you. I have far too much respect for you, sir, to let you languish while we live in the peace and security bought with your sacrifice. Stay strong. And stay alert.
~H.


Her language is florid, her tone fervent. She gives them what they expect. There is no code. She knows better than to include a hidden message in every letter. She has also never used the same encryption method twice. They must certainly think we are lovers for the way I must pore over every scroll I receive from her. She is devilishly clever, that one.

Visitation rights to Azkaban have been severely curtailed. Only those on official business are allowed, and since she was only assisting with my defence, she has no official status in the eyes of the Ministry. As such, I haven't lain eyes on her since my trial and conviction. I do remember that she refused to shed tears as I was escorted from the courtroom. At the time, I mistook her stoicism for relief. Her reputation had been scarred enough by her tenuous alliance with me before the Wizengamot. Had she not been the one to present Albus' own testimony, I fear her fate would have been similar to my own. The post-War Ministry wasn't out for justice. It was out for blood. Mine and whosoever dared stand beside me.

It wasn't until later, in recalling those chaotic last moments of freedom, that I realized how deeply the verdict struck her. Gryffindors are notorious for receiving defeat with head held high. She was the picture of composure, an elegant young woman in dark business robes, clutching a sheaf of documents against her breast. I remember her as being quite stunning, my avenging angel brought low. But in my memories, her cheeks are wet. She wept for me. For the loss of my freedom.

This memory is locked away securely, folded between the pages that hold my years as her instructor and the later years of chaos as the war came to a close. It must appear to be of no consequence.

Before retiring for the night, I palm the small stone that has been my constant companion for the last six days. I close my eyes and recite the sixth form, Eye of the Storm.

Day 1013:

There is a storm battering against the thick stone walls. There is no crash of thunder, no howling of the wind. I can see the flicker of lightning high up in the rafters. I can see the air currents brushing through the cobwebs. I can feel the chill in the air, stealing the warmth from my skin, and finally from my very bones.

I close my eyes and her face, wet with tears, fills my vision. I hear the wind sighing in the corridor and it becomes her voice, whispering my name. She tells me to stay strong. Her words bleed into the long, low howl of another inmate being tormented by the shrouded demons, our duly appointed keepers.

I press the heels of my hands into my eye sockets, crushing away the tears I will not shed. I feel the sharp bite of frost on my cheeks.

Day 1014:

Dear S~
I hope this letter finds you well and if not in good spirits, at least in good health.
Your appeal will not be allowed to proceed.
I'm afraid that the Ministry has not been forthcoming with information about your appeal.
Make a comprehensive doppelganger of your routine.
Professor, I am at my wit's end. But I will not surrender. This is an injustice
Make it sentient and responsive to basic questions.
that is far worse than any committed in the history of the Ministry of Magic.
It is a lot to ask, I know, but you must trust me.
I am meeting with a man from Three Papers, their magical division of course,
You have a week.
and I hope to have word soon. Stay strong. And stay alert.
~H

I reread her letter for the hundredth time since it arrived just five days ago. There has been only one other and I fear it to be the last. Every shred of my magical energy is being poured into creating this doppelganger. Had she asked for a mere shadow of my image, I could have done it without a second thought. Provided I had a wand, and three meals a day, and a warm bed to sleep in.

I have had none of these things for three years.

And yet, for her, I dig deep and draw upon reserves I thought long since tapped. I have foregone the small morsels of chocolate, relying upon my Occlumency to shield me from the worst of the Dementors' insidious and pervasive presence. For her, I will wring blood from a stone.

Day 1015:

I am awakened by a very small, querulous squeak. I open only one eye and am amazed to see a sleek grey body squeezing between a gap in the stones. Black eyes and frenetic whiskers scan the air for danger. I dare not even breathe until it comes closer. Just a few steps to cross the room, even for a rat. Come into the trap, tasty morsel. Just a few more steps. Just within reach of my grasp.

My hand darts out and closes on the warm body. It squeals and writhes, trying to sink sharp teeth into my flesh. My lips curl as I smile, clenching my fist tight. In just a moment, I intend to return the favour. There is no question whether or not I will eat this creature while its heart still beats in its chest. It is too valuable a resource to be overlooked.

And I am starving...

I close my eyes and swallow, my mouth already watering. I bend my head, my lips parting. My eyes fly open as I hear the harsh bark of laughter outside the cell. The creature in my grasp crumbles to bits of fur and bone, ash and dust falling through my fingers. The laughter grows louder.

I will not give them the satisfaction. I close my eyes again, lying back on the cold damp mattress, and recite the third form, The Well.

Day 1016:

I am awakened before dawn, by the bone jarring sound of three harsh knocks at the door of my cell. I hear the sound of metal against metal as the lock slides back with a thunk. The hinges grind like iron teeth chewing stone. "Severus Snape. Arise and present yourself."

The granite floor is frigid against the soles of my feet. I palm the stone and stand, eyeing the hulking silhouette in the door. "Shacklebolt." His oiled leather cloak sheds the last of the frigid rain onto the stones, exchanging glistening water droplets for the deep and pervasive shadows of this place.

"Snape." He turns and speaks to the guard. "Leave us." The Auror hesitates only briefly before turning his back and returning to the corridor.

"To what do I owe this unexpected honour?"

His gaze meets mine, unwavering. His voice is deep and gravelled. "Your appeal has been denied."

The words strike like a fist. "Indeed. Well. So much for the new Order..." I do not yield before his imposing presence.

"The new Order has not forgotten," he answers. He turns and his cloak flares. As it settles, my eyes are drawn to the fluid gathers of the garment. There, between the folds, a flash of amber light. I throw my arm up to shield my face, and a hand grips my wrist, wrenches me forward through the shimmering barrier of magic. My stomach lurches as if I were Apparating, but my body does not feel folded or stretched. A threshold barks across my shins and I tumble forward into dappled shadow. A body, a woman's body, catches me, or more appropriately, breaks my fall.

"Severus," she whispers, her bright eyes seeking out mine with a fevered intensity. She pressed her fingers to my mouth, shushing me. "Cast your doppelganger. Do it quickly!"

My fist is clenched around the stone that has been my constant companion for the last seven days. I utter a word and turn, tossing it behind me into my cell, hearing it skitter across the floor as if from a great distance. It will sit undetected in the floor of my cell and the magic I have imbued into its very crystalline structure will seep into the room. The Snape that remains will fade over the next seven days, but I pray we shall be long gone before anyone notices the deception. The room spins as Shacklebolt turns toward the sound. As if through a clouded mirror, I realize I can see the entire circle of the room. I see the image of myself sitting on the edge of the bed, head in hands. Shacklebolt's voice rumbles inside my head. "Keep your mouth shut and do what they tell you to do." My double nods without even looking up.

Shacklebolt turns sharply on his heel and I fall against her. We tumble to what must be the floor of this space. It yields to our weight. Her hands are again clutching at me and she hisses, "Don't let go. I don't want to lose you in the interstice!" My hands find her in the darkness. Her hip, her shoulder, her cheek.

"Hermione," I breathe her name, a bewildered supplicant, thunderstruck in the face of her miraculous appearance. "What in the name of--" She silences me again by touch. I feel her hand on my jaw, and feel her breath on my lips. Her mouth is soft and supple, warm and sweet.

Her kiss is the taste of freedom.

~~~

Ministry of Magic
Corrections Department
London, England

Dear Minister:

This is my weekly status report on the health and mental fitness of detainee 497231, convicted murderer Severus Snape. The subject in question has ceased responding to all but the most basic stimuli. He does not exhibit any of the ritualistic behaviours mentioned in my previous status reports. He takes basic sustenance, completes all directives and instructions to the barest minimum, making no eye contact with the guards and making no demands for his personal well-being. He no longer exercises and he must be instructed to bathe. His weight is maintained at just under twelve stone and he made no objections when medical required that, due to a pest infestation, his head be shaved. I am pleased to report that he has become what the Ministry refers to as a model prisoner.

In Service To The Crown,
Walter Hathaway, Senior Auror
Azkaban, North Sea, Scotland

~ Finite Incantatum ~

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