Three o’clock came and Patrick’s mind continued to bounce from sending hopeful prayers for Severus’ life to hopeful prayers for his afterlife. The low burning lantern was the only light in the room, making it hard to see if the pale face was any more waxen, but the rise and fall of Severus’ chest assured him that his friend was still among the living.

As sleep weighted his eyes, Patrick was struck by the similarities of this night and one almost seventeen years earlier, along with one obvious difference. At least on that night, Severus had been able to leave of his own accord.

…A loud crack resounded through the rectory, causing Patrick to drop to the floor, his hand clenching spasmodically around the hilt of his wand. Fear, thick and all the worse for being known, roiled through him. He listened hard for the shouts and screams that should follow, the sound of crumbling buildings, breaking glass, and the destruction of his small home. Nothing came. Garnering up the resolve that came from spending his childhood in the war zones in Northern Ireland, he peeked out his window, barely twitching the curtain. Scanning the darkening streets—for the sun set early during the winter months—he barely spotted a shadow hesitating near the church gate. The form was inky black, slightly darker than the dusk-hued sky around it, except for its face and hands. They were as white as snow. Death Eater, then. A new one to hunt us.

Memories of history lessons rushed through his mind, ones that had been reinforced by the Bloody Sunday Massacre in Londonderry. He remembered being glad that his family had moved to the outskirts of Belfast in December of ‘71 just a month before Bloody Sunday, a joy that had faded soon afterwards. At that time he had been dreadfully afraid that at least the Wizarding World would take the Massacre of ‘72 as permission to hunt the Celts as they had done under the rule of Elizabeth I. That fear had proved ungrounded, but the skirmishes, the traps, the ambushes … they had left their mark. One that had caused him to accept a small Wizarding village in the middle of the Republic of Ireland as his parish when he was offered one this year. Here he hadn’t faced the constant fear of attacks, of walking through streets and praying that no one would be blown up, or shot, or cursed. He had heard of Death Eaters, but they seemed to be mainly concentrating on the British Wizarding Community, and now one stood outside his gate.

Letting go of the curtain, he walked to his front door, his wand firmly in his grasp. Yes, the grounds of the church were sanctified, but this man was part of an organization that might defile that sanctity. Knowing he would only use defense spells, he walked out onto the front porch, his eyes searching the gathering gloom. He spotted the patch of white near the church’s door. Something about the man—he was sure it was a man—felt different than he had expected. There was no feeling of threat. No, the feeling that he perceived was of someone fearful, someone lost and uncertain. Maintaining his grasp on his wand and keeping it in a defensive position, he walked towards the church and the Death Eater. His feet crunched on the path, causing the night air to seem to ripple as the man spun about. He was now close enough to see that the pale patch was a face not a mask.

“Greetings. What brings you to Saint Mary’s?”

The man’s head turn slightly as if he was contemplating the church before facing him anew.

Patrick prompted again, “Is there a way I can be of service to you?”

The face dropped and was masked by a flow of either hair or a hood before he could pick out any truly distinguishable characteristics.

A voice, soft and young, answered him. “I… I don’t know. The priest.” There was a pause before he continued, “Do you know where he is?”

“I’m Father McKinney, the pastor of this church.” Patrick watched the man disappear in the now black sky – night had fallen. Tensing, part of him was still expecting a wand to be drawn against him, he waited while praying that nothing horrible would happen tonight. White hands, ones that he had noticed earlier, appeared out of the folds of darkness and the man straightened up. A feeling of resolve collected in the air about them.

“Father, I am not here to cause any harm, please lower your wand.” The words were enunciated clearly, as one who was trying their best to be understood.

Instead of lowering his wand, Patrick raised it. “Lumos.” Light bloomed around them, showing him his shadowed guest. It was a man, not much younger than himself, dressed in voluminous black robes, with black hair hanging to his shoulders. Dark eyes peered at him, squinting a bit in the sudden light. “Now that we can see each other, how can I aid you?”

The young man pressed his lips together, a haunted uncertain look filling his face. The words, when they came, flew out of him. “Penance. I need to go to confession. Even if He won’t forgive me – I know He won’t – but I need to ask.”

The certainty that he was facing a Death Eater came back full force. A small part of him wanted to say that it was outside of the scheduled hours, that the young man should come back in the morning after Lauds – the morning prayer at sunrise. He hushed that part and walked towards the church doors. “He will always forgive. The day He died on the cross, He carried with Him all our sins – everyone from the beginning of time to the end of time. He was the ultimate and last sacrifice – one that granted us forgiveness.”

The dark head shook side to side as he followed Patrick to the confessional. “That was almost two thousand years ago, how can He have already forgiven my transgressions?”

Patrick stopped next to the confessional. “Because the Holy Trinity—I AM—Yahweh—take your choice what you call Him—is the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end …so time has no meaning to Him. He knows you, He knew you before the day you were born, He knows what you have faced and what choices you will have to decide between. He knows the yoke you carry and will walk with you to help you bear it. It is just the way it is.”

Gesturing the young man into the small cubical, he slipped into the other side. He knew the information he just dumped on the man was a lot and hard to digest – most of it you had to believe based on faith, and he wasn’t quite sure how strong Shadow’s faith was. He spoke the Benediction and then waited to see if Shadow would need prompting.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been ten years since my last confession.”

The familiar feel of the Seal of Confession settled around him. The start from the other side of the screen made him wonder if Shadow had ever been to a wizard priest before. His magic made the Seal a true physical thing…

Remembering, Patrick let a small smile curl his lips. That confession, one he had originally thought would gloss over the years, had convinced him he was dealing with a detail-oriented person with a very good memory. By the end of it, he knew more about the politics in the House of Slytherin than anyone would ever want to know unless they were a member. He also had a fair idea of how the Dark Lord – a title he began to use after all his talks with Severus – and his Death Eaters worked. He also knew of a prophecy that gave him hope, and just what position Severus held in both camps. The fact that Severus was a spy made it challenging to satisfy the sacrament’s demand to amend one’s life, but over the years he and Severus had managed.

He stood up and stretched before walking the few steps to Severus’ bedside. This close, he was able to see a slight flush to his cheeks, and the paleness of his lips had lessened. Maybe, my friend, maybe God has more plans for you.

Pushing a strand of hair out of the traces of sacramental oil, he caught the furtive movements of Severus’ eyes under his lids. He cast a quick prayer Heavenwards that they were good dreams. A mutter, one that sounded almost like the Lord’s Prayer, made Patrick think maybe his prayers were being answered.

…Lost in dreams of the past, Severus found himself sitting in the back of a church. It was barely seven o’clock on Sunday, but the small sanctuary was over half full. Just being there, he could feel the peace and rightness of it filling him. As part of his penance, Father McKinney had told him to attend Sunday Mass and keep the Commandments as his position allowed. As best as I can, eh? How is a spy not to bear false witness? He heaved a mental sigh. I’ve got to try. I’m Slytherin enough to figure a way around. Focusing back up front, he listened to the readings. He was fairly certain the Irish priest had not expected him to appear back at Saint Mary’s to fulfill his obligations, but he felt more welcome here than anywhere else.

Before Hogwarts, his mum would take him to Mass every Sunday. He distinctly remembered being looked down upon because of his religion, but Mum wouldn’t have it any other way. She was proud that the Prince family line was one of the few wizarding lines to escape Henry VIII’s mandate to join the Church of England. He wasn’t sure which other ones succeeded in keeping to the religion of their birth and choice, but he never heard another Slytherin mention Mass or any other definitive clue. That was one of the reasons he stopped practising his religion when he started Hogwarts. Even during the summer, Da had helped him get out of attending; Da was Agnostic and didn’t care one way or another, but he did allow Severus the choice. Then Severus was neck deep in sin and the Death Eaters before he realized that what he was searching for wasn’t found at the Dark Lord’s feet. No, what he wanted was found at the foot of the Cross, but by then he had believed he was so stained that even He couldn’t accept what Severus had become, and certainly could never forgive it. That all changed when Dumbledore extended him a second chance, albeit with strings attached. If the Headmaster could do that, then surely God could. He would accept whatever God threw at him as long as he could once again feel the peace he had enjoyed sitting in church with his mum.

Standing, he listened to the Gospel, letting the words still his roving thoughts. The familiarity of the words spoken in an unfamiliar accent lulled him to a peaceful place. He knew what was to happen next – the homily and then they would start the Liturgy of the Eucharist. It was like stepping onto a loved, worn path. One where you knew each step, each turn, but the scenery changed slightly, making it new and interesting still.

As the final hymn was sung, Severus slipped out the door, hoping to escape the notice of the priest. As comfortable as he was at this church, he didn’t wish to talk to someone who knew so much about him. His luck was the same as always.

Father McKinney waved at a few old men before walking to him. “Welcome back to Saint Mary’s.”

Severus stepped back slightly, preparing to flee the moment he had a chance. Rather inanely he said, “Thank you, sir. The…service was good.”

Understanding filled the hazel eyes looking at him, and Father McKinney gave him a gentle smile. “Thank you. I do hope to see you next Sunday.” With that, he walked back to talk to the men he had waved at earlier.

There was blur of other Sundays, of other meetings with Patrick, learning the priest’s patience, his quick wit, and understanding nature. Gospels turned into homilies which faded into conversations.

And then, early one morning, outside the rectory…

“Good morning, Mr Snape.” Father McKinney’s friendly voice startled Severus back to full alertness. Yes, he had even revealed his name to this priest.

Considering the reason for his visit, Severus could not manage even the faintest of smiles. “I need … I am sorry, I don’t know your hours, but I need…” His eyes darted towards the church door and he could feel Father studying him. Then the man walked up the stairs past him and opened the church door.

“For you the hour is now.” Father McKinney ushered him into the church and once again led the way to the confessional.

A sigh of relief left Severus’ lips as he stepped into the small cubical. Hearing the preliminary Benediction, he felt a fragment of peace invade his troubled heart. He would be listened to and forgiven. One person would know the full truth of what happened on the latest of many raids, and God would know how remorseful he truly was…

§§§§§

Patrick watched as the sun touched the windows, brightening the room. His gaze shifted to Ignatius crossing the room, then to the still form on the bed. No, wait. He noticed a subtle movement. “He’s still breathing.”

Ignatius’ steps faltered for just a second, then he rushed over to his patient. “Let’s see if we can get him to drink the other half of both potions.”

McKinney picked them up off the table and offered one to Ignatius. “Should we clean the wound again?”

Shaking his head no, Ignatius gently lifted Severus’ head and pressed the Blood Replenisher to his lips. “Come on, lad, drink it up. It’s the best thing for you.”

The pale lips cracked open and let the potion slip through. Patrick quickly gave him the antivenin while Severus was swallowing. A summoned cup of water was also offered, and when Severus finished it, Ignatius set the empty cup on the side table before he lowered Severus’ head back onto the pillow. “Come, Father McKinney, he will be fine without you for an hour. Join us for Lauds.”

Patrick flipped the blanket’s bottom edge up. “Once I take his shoes off. He can’t be comfortable sleeping in them.” His heart lifted slightly when the monk helped. “We can change his clothes when we get back.” He smiled at the look Ignatius threw him.

“And you can get some sleep. I’ll let the Abbot know about our guest after Terce.”

Patrick was surprised, but wasn’t going to argue that Ignatius was going to wait until after the midmorning prayers. As the early morning prayers progressed, Patrick gave thanks for Severus’ continued survival and prayed that this would lead to a new start for the Potions Master. Upon returning to the Infirmary, he settled back onto the chair he had occupied for the last several hours. He shot back to his feet when he noticed black eyes watching him.

“Severus!” Patrick leant over his bed, smiling broadly. He heard Ignatius’ gasp of surprise, and then felt the monk push him gently to one side.

“The antivenin, can you take a painkiller with it?” Ignatius wrapped his fingers about a thin wrist as he watched for any sign of an answer from his patient.

“Yes,” whispered Severus. Ignatius gently released him and headed for the potions cabinet as Severus shifted his attention to Patrick. “You … you should … your parish …”

“I’ll go back in a bit. I called in another priest for morning Mass.”

“Drink this.” Ignatius pressed a small vial against Severus’ lips. “It should help the pain, and don’t talk too much; those muscles need rest to heal.”

Severus swallowed dutifully.

“Before you go back to sleep, let’s get you more comfortable.” Patrick began undoing the buttons on Severus’ clothes. “I’ll clean these up for you, but until then, you can wear one of the Infirmary’s nightshirts.”

With Ignatius’ help, he divested Severus of his clothes and helped him into a soft cotton shirt. “Settle down and rest. The world will keep for now.”

Eyelids slowly covered dark eyes as Severus drifted back to sleep. Patrick folded Severus’ clothes and set them next to the bed as Ignatius tucked the covers over his patient. He knew he owed the older monk an explanation and the man had been waiting patiently.

Gesturing Ignatius to the other side of the room, he sat on the edge of another bed. “Ask.” He nodded towards Severus’ bed. “I will answer what I can.”

“First, I am sorry.” Ignatius held up a hand to stop Patrick’s dismissal of his apology. “I have served as a healer for many years, treated people on all sides of a conflict equally. I shouldn’t have balked when I was needed. We are all His children; therefore, all of us deserve His help.” He sank onto the edge of the bed next to Patrick’s. “Now, how did a Death Eater – one of You-Know-Who’s top ranked men – become a member of your parish?”

“It was near the beginning of the year the Potters died. He Apparated to the church just after sunset. He … he asked to go to confession. I couldn’t refuse him. Next Sunday he was in the pews for my early morning Mass. He’s been a regular since then. About six months later, he came back for a second confession, and there were others. He taught at Hogwarts, so he would leave Sunday morning to attend Mass. During the summer and holidays he would stay around and visit.”

“How did your village take the news that he was an active Death Eater? His name was splashed over all the papers last summer.”

“Most are holding out to hear what he says. There’ve been too many smear campaigns and cover-ups for them to believe the paper.” Patrick knew Ignatius would understand he was talking not only about the Wizarding War, but the Troubles as well. “They’ve heard the rumors that he was actually a spy…working for the good side. And it helps that all year he’s been asking for prayers for the children and professors, and that he lights three candles before Mass at the foot of Mary’s statue.”

Patrick knew those candles were lit as special prayers for Potter and his two friends. The Sundays when Severus did not make it to Mass, Patrick lit four candles. Three for Severus’ intentions and one of his own for Severus’ safety.  

Quietly he added, “He hasn’t asked for Sanctuary yet, but if he survives and the British Ministry comes calling for him, I think he should.”

Ignatius frowned. “He … I don’t know what to believe about him. The news, it’s grim. My sister’s children have told me stories of him for years – they went to Hogwarts. The papers are not helping now. They paint him with the blackest brush.” He frown deepened. “He killed Albus Dumbledore.”

Patrick flinched, wishing with all his might he could tell all the planning that went on with that action. He truly hoped that Potter would tell the world, as he was the only one who could – the Seal made sure of that. “But the sternest of professors might be the best one, the one with your interest closest to their heart. They just might not know how to properly show it.”

Ignatius snorted while nodding in agreement. “That doesn’t explain him killing the previous Headmaster.”

“I …” Patrick swallowed hard, sweat popping out on his face as his hands trembled, letting him know his intended statement was too close to the Seal. “He ….” his throat spasmed as his mouth snapped shut.

Blue eyes widened in understanding. “Never mind! It doesn’t matter. You have reasons to believe in him, and it is obvious they are locked behind the Seal.”

Patrick glared at the still figure across the room. “Everything of importance is locked behind the Seal, he made sure of it.”

Ignatius looked from Snape to Patrick. “You truly trust him?”

“With the soul of every man, women, and child in my parish. With everyone here at the Abbey.”

Ignatius nodded slowly, his eyes searching Patrick’s face before switching his attention back to Snape. “I’ll do my best for him, but he still may not make it. That he woke up briefly is a good sign. His mind is still functioning, but he can rapidly deteriorate. Get some rest, and then head home. He’s worried you are not there, and that will affect his healing.”

“I’ll rest in the chair near his bed. Let me know if he turns for the worst, please. He deserves a friend at his side …”

“I’ll summon you.”

Sighing with relief, Patrick settled onto the wooden chair only to have it transfigured under him into a soft wing-backed arm chair. A quick look showed Ignatius putting his wand away.

“I’ll wake you when it is time.” Ignatius left the room quietly.

Closing his eyes, Patrick drifted off hoping that Severus would have pleasant dreams.

Severus shifted into a more comfortable position, causing the sheets to rustle as they untucked.

…And he found himself settling onto the wooden pew in the spot that had, over the year, become his. It was the final Sunday of Advent and Severus couldn’t think of another place he would rather spend it. He was making a mental note to check with Father McKinney about the upcoming Christmas Mass schedule when the old wizard who typically sat nearby smiled at him. Severus’ return smile shocked him – he had thought he would never be able to smile again after Lily’s death – but at the same time, it felt right. Turning back to the altar, he gave his attention to Father McKinney.

It wasn’t until after Mass that the ramifications of that smile were made known to him. He was outside of the church, deciding on how he wanted to spend his free day, when his pew companion approached him.

“Mornin’.” The grey head nodded towards Severus. “We’ve sat next to each other nigh on a year now, figured it’s safe to approach ya. I’m called Simon Kirwan. Father says yer a professor at a boardin’ school.”

Severus fought against fleeing. He had wished peace on this man, shaken his hand as a sign of peace, and it had been returned. Kirwan was right; after a year they should introduce themselves. “Morning. I am Severus Snape, and Father McKinney is correct, I teach at Hogwarts.”

“Are ya on holiday now?” Kirwan’s grin had broadened. “Me wife, she was a professor in her day – taught Charms at Elder Oaks, that’s our Wizarding School here; it’s a bit smaller than Hogwarts I’ve heard, but it’s just as good. Any rate, she’s been tellin’ me that ya had to be the best one at yer school. She’d say ‘The mean ones care. They know what’s what. This world’s not nice, and the pupils have to learn to work with it.’ Any rate, if ya have a moment, ya could come by and see her.”

Severus glanced over at the Father, wondering if he would have a moment later to sit and talk to him if he went. It was a fairly new addition to his Sunday morning ritual, but for the past month they would have breakfast at the rectory after Mass. Father McKinney had invited him, saying it was adult time, and Severus couldn’t refuse. It had truly become grief counselling, but at least Father McKinney was better at it than Albus.

The priest’s hazel eyes flashed his way before darting towards Kirwan and then back. A small nod towards him let Severus know that it was okay. “I’ll stop by.”

Kirwan led them down the small alley-like streets into the heart of the small village and then back out again. “We live in a small place just around the corner.” He stopped for a moment before turning towards Severus, his eyes bright. “Do ya have yer robes? I’ve seen ya in them a time or two – mighty impressive – and I know Mara would love to see them.”

Raising his eyebrow, Severus wondered if he should please Mara, but in truth, he couldn’t come up with a reason not to. “Give me a moment.” Reaching into a jacket pocket, he pulled out his folded, shrunken, robes. A quick flick of his wand had them their normal size, and with a well practised move, they were over his shoulders. “Shall we?”

Kirwan grinned broadly as he finished leading the way. The lady sitting in a wheelchair with a knitted blanket over her legs was not what Severus expected to see. “Mrs Kirwan,” he nodded slightly over the outstretched hand he had taken.

“Simon, ya brought him!” As her smile flashed at his pew companion, Severus wondered what had put this kind lady in a wheelchair.

Later that day, after breakfast with Father McKinney, Severus burrowed deep into the Restricted Section hoping to find a book on curses preferred by the followers of Grindelwald. As it turned out, Mara Kirwan had been cursed while defending her students near the end of the war against Grindelwald. She had won, but the effects of the curse were slowly becoming more and more pronounced. Just this past year, she became confined to the house.

The quiet determination in her faded brown eyes had struck a chord in Severus. Here was one place where his love of the Dark Arts might have a positive effect…

§§§§§

Patrick woke up to a soft brush on his hand. Blinking, he caught his wand as it attempted to roll off his lap.

“Head back to your flock, Patrick.” Ignatius’ voice was low, as if he was trying not to wake Severus. “I am off to inform the Abbot of our guest.” A small disc was pressed into Patrick’s hand. “Here, this will warm and light up when you are needed. Use the portkey to the Infirmary when it does.”

Patrick stood, catching the blanket, and dropped it into the arm chair. With one last look at Severus, he gathered the folded clothes and turned to leave. Ignatius’ last words followed him.

“Expect the worse, but pray for the best.”

Patrick Apparated to the churchyard and marveled at the sight that greeted him. The village was decorated as if there was a celebration being held, but the people he could see all looked as if they were grieving. Glancing down at his outfit, he deemed it suitable to go find out what happened. He quickly set Severus’ clothes just inside his door and headed out.

Walking down the street, he could hear snippets of conversation, and when he reached the square he knew he was smiling. Severus would be happy – the Dark Lord did die this morning during Lauds service…and Potter lived. They could discuss the timing of it later, after Mass this Sunday…

His thoughts stumbled as grief blindsided him, clutching at his throat while wrapping tight bands around his chest. There might not be a conversation later.

Dropping onto a doorstep, Patrick raised his hands to his face, only to stop and stare at the bloodstained one. Severus’ blood. It was between his fingers, around his nails, in the folds of his knuckles, staining his wrist and the sleeve of his habit. The tears that he had been fighting all night broke loose, coursing freely down his face while his other hand covered his mouth, trying to block the sounds of his sobs. His eyes never left the bloodstained hand.

Fingers settled on his shoulder, tightening in comfort, but he was unable to look up. Maggie Sheehan’s words broke through the absolute silence that seemed to enshroud him.

“He… he’d be happy about this, Father.”

The sound of tears in her voice allowed him to gain enough control to look up, and he found himself surrounded. His eyes trailed from face to face, automatically placing them at various Masses, and was comforted by the fact that there were people from both the early morning and the midday service. Slowly Severus had become part of this community, of this village, and he was truly one of their own.

“They can’t find him.” Brian Magee tightened his hand on Patrick’s shoulder as he spoke. Patrick wasn’t sure if it was to be a form of comfort or to keep him sitting. “The tale that’s comin’ out is that he was loyal to Dumbledore, that Potter learned it somehow at the last minute – he used it to taunt You-Know-Who. Severus would have loved that.”

Patrick’s eyes turned back to his hand, still outstretched, still stained with dried blood. “Potter taunted the Dark Lord?” As soon as the name was off his lips, he jerked his eyes back to the crowd. He watched as the shadow of fear touched them briefly, but was brushed away. “Sorry, it’s what Severus calls him and I’ve become used to it after all these years. Shorter and more precise than You-Know-Who.”

Mara Kirwan reached for his outstretched hand, her eyes taking in the dried blood. Her fingers stopped just short of touching his fingertips. Only then did he realise whose steps he’d collapsed onto. “Do you know where our Severus is? The British Ministry’s going to start a manhunt soon as they cannot find his body. We need to protect him.”

Knowledge born from experience was in every face from young to old. All of them had lived through the Troubles in one form or the other. It hadn’t touched this area of Ireland as much as in the northern counties, but if they hadn’t seen it personally, they knew someone who had. They had also lived through the Terror of the Dark Lord, some more than once. The older generations, like Mara and Simon, had even seen Grindelwald’s time. In the time after the war – or in the case of the Troubles, the battles – justice was not always properly served. Many never received a fair trial, and every one of them knew that Severus was perceived as being on the losing side.

Patrick looked back at his hand, wondering what Severus would want them to know. Nothing – he wanted them to be protected. Knowing he couldn’t do that, he brought his hand to his lap and clenched it together with his other one. Sharing this information would get word back to the British Ministry, there was always one who would be on the other side, but it was what it was.

“Sev –” The name caught in his throat, causing him to stop and recentre. He had to be strong again. Standing up, he brushed a hand down the stole that he had never removed, and surveyed his congregation. “Severus is being taken care of.” The gasp from the crowd made him shudder slightly. “He … might not make it.” Shaking his head slightly, he clarified. “It’s doubtful he’ll live to see the sunset, but he did see the sunrise.”

Mara glanced back at his hand. “You preformed his Last Rites.”

It wasn’t a question, but he nodded yes as he didn’t trust his voice to hold out. The crowd quieted down, their exuberance from the knowledge that Severus was alive falling away. “He … he needs our prayers.”

Raising his eyes from the somber faces to the decorations flying about the square, he let a small smile curve his lips. “And he would want us to celebrate his victory. Vol … Vold … Voldemort is dead.”

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