I confess to a deep, coursing satisfaction at the thought that, for the first time in twenty-aught years, I have left the teaching profession for no reason other than a desire to pursue other courses of action. To those who remain: do not contact me for advice, admiration, commiseration, or petty brawls. I am quit of the lot of you. Take your simpering requests for love draughts and stain removal slicks and cheering infusions to the questionably capable Potions Master who has replaced me. He seems far more likely to entertain your whelpish panderings.

I never imagined working from the home could be so excessively satisfying. My premises in Diagon Alley have been sold before they were ever occupied, and my laboratory and my gardens are all I need to maintain a mail-order practice. I never need deal with the idiots who order the brilliance I send to them, I have no difficulty with people who haggle for prices, for I overcharge every customer I have, and I can gleefully turn down any commission I wish, depending on my whims of the moment.

Life is good.

Surely the curtain will drop any moment now.

[private]

The magic returns.

Not at all as dramatic as I'd hoped it would be – no arising one sunny morning to feel that tingle in my arm again. It was as though every spell had to be relearned. Oh, faster, yes, of course faster – a matter of weeks, after the initial drain ended. And with it, came the pain of the Mark once more. Not searing as it was, but there. A steady dull thrum. A reminder.

Part of me wonders if, perhaps, it's due to the Nepalese magic that I still feel the pain. But there's no one to ask, nor would I given the chance. Perhaps the slow magical drain took the pain, but left me with remnants of it as a price. I'm beginning to wonder if I should resume my experiments in removing the Mark.

As though the scars from my previous attem

Foolish, all of it.

[/private]

[private]

Any fool who believes fame outlives life...

The monks live in a state of calm, and condemn their sacrificial brothers - more can be done alive, death is the coward's path. Embrace life, live, act, do, cling to connections. I have slept very little, if at all - a waste of time in the face of all I have left to accomplish The muggles draw closer to a deeper magic of their own - this sacred place so revered by so many religions. It is this sheer belief that gives power to the attempted magics of their simple monks.

Speed is of the essence. The proper arming of muggles with magic of their own will strip the dark lord - or any fool who masks himself behind the fallen throne of Voldemort - of the ability to hold a tortured muggle society against our wizarding community; turning the focus of his hatred inward. The full forces of the evil there will fall upon us, but we are infinately better equipped to maintain a steady footing under such pressure.

The only worry in me now is that of inaction - waiting, waiting, for the mark to flare. Lucius is not of his righ tmind (as much as he ever was), and I find myself waiting for that initial flare of pain that will bleed into me. Why, if the dark lord has returned, has he not summoned us to him? It is the anticipation that speeds me onward. I will not fall pray to him again.

I will make my fame without bartering for death.

[/private]

( muggle post to sirius )

I have removed myself from Hogwarts for what I believe to be the final time. While it does not escape me that I have said such before, this voluntary exodus rings more soundly for me than other departures have... I find myself dispassionate concerning the necessity of securing a replacement for the position. I wonder, I should say, if there will even be an enrollment in the course in the upcoming semester.

And then I remind myself that it is no longer my concern.

Headmistress, I tender my resignation, effective immediately, and should hope you do not find yourself terribly put-upon to house myself and my belongings for an additional three weeks in the multitude of empty chambers this castle seems to hold. I have moved down to the dungeons. What you do with the tower is your own concern. (Please inform any following inhabitants to remain wary of the continued output of 'mechanical pencils' from a small dimensional fold near the left of the fireplace. I shan't have an infuriated teacher tracking me down across the world to lay blame for personal injury suffered from slipping on the blast devices.)

( private )

Packing was infinately easier with the use of magic, and Snape was in the process of shrinking down a good deal of glass jars when he grimaced, his hand going automatically to the place where the mark had faded into near-invisibility. His own fool efforts to remove himself of the mark often made the muscle beneath quiver in aftershocks, even so many years later, and it was a familiar but annoying hurt. He absentmindedly dug his fingers into the hidden skin, trying to manipulate whatever pain the muscle was bearing there.

When he touched the mark, though, he had to stifle a hiss, and tore his sleeve upward, exposing the raw-looking wound that throbbed there. The skull leered at him and, as it darkened, Snape paled. Not Voldemort, surely... The pain would be more.

But, then, Voldemort, if he had returned, would certainly be less powerful than when they had banished him.

Resolutely, Snape found a piece of soft bandaging, wrapped his arm, and re-sized one of the jars he had been packing - a heavy painkiller. Then he cast about for a good bit of parchment, and whistled for Maleficent to send birds from the owlery. He sat down heavily, his back rigid, and stared out the window.

Time. He needed time.

Staffroom wagers that Ms. Moon would be the one to fail her assignment, and not Mr. Longbottom, have left me five galleons shorter today. Surely there is no need for Minerva to wager against ex-members of her own House. Still, my own shortcoming - I had thought that the boy would have learned enough by now to at least complete his own work. Clearly, I need to reassess my assumptions.

( private )

Any birthday that passes with a complete lack of recognition is a good one. Insipid enforced jovality is heavy enough during this season, and I'm somewhat grateful I was spared it in relation to my own person. It has been a productive year. I have no qualm at an additional step toward the grave.

Potions not on my doorstep by the end of the day will receive failing marks.

Do try not to disappoint me. For once.

Advanced Potions students, one of your ilk has completed her assignment with full marks. Consider the gauntlet tossed. I want completed, functional potions by the first of December. Please do try to recall that the class is pass/fail.

Furthermore, for those of you who have not encountered Hogwarts' new teaching assistant, or are particularly slow to comprehend (as I know several of you are), be aware that Draco Malfoy will be assisting in the marking of your final exams. Do try to refrain yourselves from juvenile posturing on my time.

Also, I have warded the dungeons, adjoining storerooms, my private quarters, and classrooms from Rita Skeeter. Should she wish to contact any of you in the future, kindly take that outside my halls as well.

( private )

I was interrupted by Longbottom a few days ago, when I was picking Belladonna. I managed to salvage the plant when I got it back, but it wasn't nearly enough, and I'm going to have to go out and root around in poisons for a few more hours. I detest gardening.

All students who have reported to me regarding their Advanced Potions propositions should do well to advance on their work as quickly as possible. Not that haste would do you any good at this juncture, especially certain individuals who should be in welding in lieu of potions classes, but there will be another deadline approaching in a few weeks and now is not the time to wander mentally.

[private]

I went to discuss Longbottom's potion with the Centaurs and had a good deal of abuse for it. I'd forgotten how agressive this particular pack could be...

No matter. The discussion is done with, and I've the bruises to show for it. Longbottom will survive the trip, should he find the iron in himself to make it. For my sake, I hope he does. Centaurs don't like to be disturbed without reason.

I've considered sending the dragon with him. How would the Centaurs react to an animated muggle object? Would they be offended at an imitation of life? Perhaps he'll at leave have the intelligence to contact me before he ventures in. He's shown more insight in the past seven weeks than he did in the seven years I had him as a student.

Must remember to ask Poppy for the Skele-Gro. These infernal ribs refuse to knit themselves.

[/private]

( owl from the ministry )

... I think it's time I start reading the Prophet again.

My unfortunate lack of forethought meant that the wings would not be removed, despite all efforts, after my return to my rooms. I've lost an entire night's work, too afraid to venture into the lab for brushing something with those feathers.

Most surprisingly, it was not the worst night's sleep I'd ever had. And when I woke this morning, they had molted, as promised.

What to do with all these feathers, though?



I hereby sign the confession to the murder of Minerva McGonagall. The woman's skin will be mine. No amount of debt will ever pay off the fact that she is responsible for George Weasley levitating me.


[private]

Garters. He was in garters.

I suppose it had to happen sometime - the eventual meeting, not the garters. I just hadn't thought it would be...now. Now, when everything is settling and old and painted over.

[/private]

Lack of sleep has led me to highly disturbing research utilizing Longbottom's irreparable cauldron and the silver content of the Wolfsbane potion. Black suggested smelting the silver with a base metal. If I can find the link between the mistake Longbottom made and the resulting magic-to-non-magic property, then the metals would not separate at the high temperatures required for the potion brewing.

Needless to say, I find it highly disturbing that the boy may have, as they say, come up with something. I'll have to owl him to have his notes sent over, and, for the first time, request that he attempt to destroy my lab for the sake of retracing his steps.

Lupin, how amenable are you to an experimental potion? I'm going forward with this whether you choose to utilize it or not; the results could be spectacular either way. But I need to know whether I should focus on tailoring it to your specific case before the Blue hits.

[Private]

I have spent far too much time agonizing over a this disgusting malady that is a lack of Patronus. The logical aspect of a Dementor makes no sense, anyhow.

The nature of a Dementor is to take happy memories. To cause us to relive our worst nightmares, and most painful experiences. To repel a Dementor, these happy memories must be called upon.

If I cannot summon a Patronus, how is it possible that a Dementor can still effect me? They both rely on the same aspect of humanity.

I never thought I'd come to this.

[/Private]

Nothing like chipping melted cauldron off of marble to welcome me back to my classes. Longbottom, though marginally improved (perhaps due to an ability to sit through class without positively wetting himself), insists on pursuing his interest in changing the solid state of my posessions. A new twist, though, would be that I can't simply swish-and-flick away the mess. I had to fetch a chisel from Hogsmeade.

Better melting, though, than the acid bath incident of years ago.

Minerva informs me there may be more students arriving. There will be no peace. And with the colder weather coming, it will only force their relocation from the out of doors.

I think I need to take up chess. At least it would be something to do.

[Private]

I think Longbottom may be on to something with the cauldron decimation...he's somehow tapped into Magic that can't be undone. A powerful resource, if it could be controlled. Should he ever find the discipline, it would be worth researching.

[/Private]

Good lord.

Neville Longbottom.

If, come spring, I have not been dragged into Azkaban, it will be the greatest of miracles.



Considering the short sign up of the class, I was surprised to even have three show up. Those three, in particular. Longbottom, at least, can admit he needs the work. Patil has always been an insufferable knowledge whore. But Moon? I fail to see why she should attend. She has always held the belief that she possesses more knowledge than all the teachers in the castle. I fail to see why she should return, with her current attitude of distain for learning.

I shall relish breaking her.

The Headmistress informs me that there may be late applicants to the class. Due to the diminutive status of the course, I shall be forced to admit any student who meets the required NEWT level until the end of the week. I cringe to think who might show up, next to this triumvirate of ineptitude.



For the first time since returning to Hogwarts, I am finding a scrap of comfort in these godforsaken rooms that Lupin assigned me. With Black's junk disposed of, and new wards in place, the Tower seems just as isolated as the dungeons once were.

A return to Hogwarts. A place I thought I'd never come again - at least, not in sound mind. And yet Hogwarts is exactly where I find myself once more. Though there is less of a feeling of homecoming than I had expected, there is something in not constantly glancing over one shoulder. The nominal safety offered by the school is enough to make it worth the other suffering I will no doubt face at the hands of its other habitants.

Additionally, the headmistress was foolish generous enough to offer me a University level position. In the quiet of my rooms, I find it amusing that she would ever encourage me to teach, considering our past animosity. But the underscore of Minerva McGonagall is that she is, and will always be, a generous woman. There is no helping some people.

Lupin, on the other hand... Not only my new employer, but also deputy headmaster and, apparently, introductory member to a charter group of sadists. The unmitigated glee he had in assigning me this room was apparent even before I stepped into it. And now that I have...

The restlessness already has me by the throat. I cannot sleep in these rooms. They are too bright by day - blindingly so - and too exposed by night. I will find no reprieve here.

I'm sure he was counting on that.

On a more disturbing note (if possible), the University level Potions class will serve to be no less than traumatic, I feel sure. Lupin informs me that at least one student has signed up. Considering my previous pupils, I find even that little knowledge to be highly discomforting.

Foolishly, perhaps, I ventured into Hogsmeade. The stifling rooms I've walled myself in have become too much lately - not only is there nowhere near enough room for my books, but my thoughts have threatened to spill from their confines as well. A library I once considered meagre in the shelves of my dungeon rooms now threaten to overtake the only habitable rooms in Snape Manor.

I detest the place. But giving up the Manor would mean losing the grounds, and - as reluctant as I am to admit - I find I have grown a fondness for the property since it has been returned to me. I would gladly raze the building itself, though, if I could find another home.

Too many things awaited me in Hogsmeade. I should have known to stay away longer. However much I want to find a use for myself again, it certainly isn't going to present itself in confrontations with former students. To add insult to injury, Potter's flea-ridden Godfather distracted me from my ultimate destination in Knockturn Alley. I shall have to return tomorrow, and hope to avoid recognition once more. The man brings me nothing but trials.

[private]

Worst of all, perhaps, was a moment of feeble sentimentality I offered Longbottom. Why I feel the need to establish any kind of current speaking relationship with the boy, I cannot fathom.

Black is going to make me beg for information on his wretched godchild, I can sense it. Damn him to the seven hells for his ignorance. No, I amend: Worst of all was not a moment of doddering emotion aimed at the toad-toating potions disaster that is Neville Longbottom. Worst of all was my regretable tolerance of Black. What masochism still resides in this skin that it feels minutely more at ease in the presence of the man?

[/private]

And at the end of it all, still too many thoughts to safely contain in these small rooms. I may have to begin decontaminating the other rooms, if only for the illusion of freedom and space. I fear my useless progenitors have left me with far worse than pixies and boggarts to hex away.