Severus Snape and the King of All Night's Dreaming

It was the last day of August, 1991, and Severus Snape was dreaming.

Severus Snape rarely slept, and even more rarely dreamt. There were, in his opinion, other methods of dealing with stray thoughts and memories than dreaming; safer methods, methods which allowed one control over the process of sorting the wheat from the chaff: the memories which Severus would present to any half-competent Legilimens who attempted to invade his mind from the memories which had to be buried deep in the dark recesses of the subconscious–

Nevertheless, it was the last day of August, 1991, and Severus Snape was dreaming.

It would be a long time before he would dream – or, indeed, sleep – again, he knew; and he wanted to use the opportunity to do so while he still could afford it.

In his dream, Severus Snape was standing in front of a gate. Beyond the gate, there was a tall staircase, made of white, marble steps; the staircase led to a castle, barely visible in the distance through the mists in which the castle was shrouded.

Severus studied the gate carefully. Then, he folded his arms and sneered.

"Do you really think that you can fool me with ivory?" he asked the world in general. "Where is the real gate?"

"Here," he heard someone reply.

Severus twirled around, wand at the ready, and saw himself.

Or, upon closer inspection, not quite himself. The appearance of the man who was standing in front of the other gate – the real gate, the gate of horn – differed from Severus' own in one very important aspect: while the eyes of Severus, black and brilliant, were essentially human in appearance, the man's eyes were nothing but two deep pools of shadow. Besides that, the two might be exact twins; even the other man's attire was an exact copy of Severus' robe.

Behind the man and the gate of horn lay the entrance to the castle. It was guarded by three creatures. One was a gryphon; the other a serpent; the third one was a thestral, the same as Severus' Patronus. They watched Severus closely, but for now, did not react. Not even the gryphon, and this came as much a surprise as it was a relief.

The man in front of the gate of horn continued, unmindful of the undergoing careful inspection of his persona, "It is fortunate that I can welcome you at last to my kingdom, Severus Snape. I have almost come to fear that I would have to seek you out in the waking world. I see," he added, "that I need not introduce myself–"

"No. You do not," Severus answered curtly. Inwardly, he was seething: even the voice of the man sounded the same as his own. "Any imbecile who has read the Paginarum Fulvarum would know who you are, Prince of Stories and Master of Dreams."

The man looked Severus evenly in the eyes, "Well spoken," he said, "Half-Blood Prince and Master of Hogwarts."

"What is this to mean? And what is the purpose of this– masquerade?" Severus nearly hissed out; by now, he barely contained his anger. First, the assumed looks; and now, the name-calling–

However, one did not insult Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, in his own kingdom.

"Regrettably, you will understand before soon," Dream replied, still speaking in Severus' own voice, "Rest assured that we shall speak of this, and many other matters, before we part: we must, I owe it to you. For now, do walk with me, Professor Snape."

In silence, they both crossed the gate of horn and entered the castle; then, they crossed many a hall of the castle, each hall different and each one filled with dreamlike visions. They went past the library which housed the books as of yet unwritten, and never to be written, but all-too-oft dreamt of; the librarian interrupted his work and looked at them in surprise; and then, looked in equal surprise at the book he was holding, a book which his master had been reading intently for quite some time before he had returned it. Severus Snape did not know that, and would never learn that, but the book which the librarian was holding held his own name as its author; it was a work on Potions which would take him no less than seven years to complete, but which would change the field forever–

At last, they entered a dining-hall. Therein stood a long table, with two places set. Morpheus took one; Severus sat in the other; then, the table and the room shrunk, so that they could talk effortlessly.

"There is much of which you must be made aware, Severus Snape," said the King of Dreams, "A great deal of history for me to speak of. Perhaps you would care to eat or drink something while I speak?"

There was a brief silence as Severus Snape considered the offer, and the truth behind the offer. At last, he said tentatively, "Once, when I was younger – much younger," he corrected himself almost instantly, "I used to dream of–"

He did not finish: there was no need to. The latkes appeared on his plate, freshly fried into the perfect gold colour, smelling just as they ought to; just as they used to smell when Mother used to make them, in that other time which had passed with his introduction to Hogwarts and its atrocious, elf-prepared fodder.

Severus looked into his own face, seeking signs of disapprobation of the presence of plebeian foodstuff on a monarch's table; but there were none. In an oddly human gesture, Dream had put both of his elbows on the table, and had rested his head in the palms of his hands; evidently, Severus thought with no small surprise, he was unsure himself of how to proceed–

Abruptly, Dream raised his head, and looked straight into Severus' eyes; his face was blank and expressionless, just as Severus' when he was Occluding. "Do eat, Master Snape," he said, conjuring a glass of white wine for each of them with a wave of his hand, "You must remember this conversation when you return to the waking world; eating my food and drinking my drink will make it so." With that said, he turned his eyes away again.

Severus finally took a bit of a latke. It tasted just as he had expected: perfectly. This was, after all, the stuff of which dreams were made–

As he chewed the food, he studied his companion at the table. Morpheus; Oneiros; the Sandman; the Dreamweaver; the Shaper of Forms; the King of Dreams and the Monarch of the Sleeping Marshes, His Darkness, Dream of the Endless – the Librum Fulvarum Paginarum mentioned only some names of the... entity who personified and ruled over the eponymous aspect of mortals' existence. Dream was said to be proud, cruel, easily offended and quick to anger; and also, deeply conscientious and unusually devoted to his duties–

At that moment, however, he appeared to Severus to be – lost. Lost; here, in the heart of the Dreaming, in the seat of his power–

That, and all the allusions to some history which Dream owed to the Potions Master – not even to mention the fact that the Oneiromancer was wearing his face and speaking in his voice – made Severus himself apprehensive. What was his business with Dream? Or, to put it more correctly, what was Dream's business with Severus Snape?

As if in reply to Severus' thoughts – although surely not in reply to them, Severus made sure of that – Dream quietly started to speak.

"On the tenth of June of the year nineteen-sixteen, a wizard by the name of Roderick Burgess–"

He paused for a moment, seeking recognition in Severus' face; finding none, he continued:

"–performed a ritual described in the Magdalene Grimoire. Its aim was to trap my elder sister–"

"What?" Some fool actually attempted to imprison Death? Even Voldemort had not gone that far–

Dream looked straight at him again, and continued, "The ritual failed; or rather, to be precise, it did not bring the expected result. My sister was not imprisoned. I was."

Ignoring Severus' look of incredulity, he continued, "For the better part of this century, I remained imprisoned; I broke free only three years ago, in 1989. Once free, I exercised my revenge on Roderick's son, Alexander – Roderick himself had died, and so, escaped my wrath–" A grimace crossed Dream's face; Severus' own face. The Potions Master wondered what happened to Alexander Burgess; whatever it was, it would not be pleasant. 'The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children,' he thought; and then, shuddered. The Potter brat would be starting Hogwarts the following day; suddenly, he wished that the conversation never finished, that he could remain in the Dreaming–

Dream's voice – his own voice – recalled him to the conversation. "That, however, is not important to the matter whereof we shall speak today, Master of Potions. What is important is that, while I remained imprisoned in the house of Roderick Burgess, I could not properly fulfil my duties. This occasioned multiple calamities across all planes–"

Dream broke again, and took a sip of wine from his glass. "Eventually," he picked up in a very different tone, "the powers I am to control found themselves other outlets. Certain – individuals – have become endowed with powers which, if the matters had taken their proper course, would have lain within my exclusive domain–"

"Am I to believe, King Dream, that my presence here is linked to that unfortunate happenstance?" Severus asked, cutting to the point.

For all it looked like – and Severus knew his own face well enough to see what it looked like – Dream was actually grateful for this brusqueness.

"Yes, Professor Snape," he said, "A greatest wrong and a most unnatural crime has been committed against you. You have inherited – not one, but multiple aspects of my function; and within those, the aspect that is the most fundamental to it, the one that lies at the very crux of my existence–" His voice broke again; and then, suddenly, he added, "No mortal should be forced to endure this burden; no mortal–"

Severus looked at the pained expression on Dream's face and probed further, "And so, you have sought me out in order to relieve me of this... burden?"

"I would that I could," Dream answered, with such sudden vehemence that Snape could not help but believe in his words, "But I cannot. If only I still had the Ruby, I could collect the mythopoietic sand that clings to your heart and soul– But the Ruby is shattered and gone..."

His voice trailed off as Dream was lost again in his private thoughts. Severus Snape finished the latkes, took one final sip of the delicious wine in his glass, and abruptly pushed his plate away from himself, making enough of a noise to drive his host's attention back to himself.

"Then pray tell me, King Dream: why am I here?"

"You are here, Professor Snape, because I must explain you how the spark of my power within you shall affect your existence," Dream answered, visibly collecting himself. "I owe it to you; it is the least I can do – even if, alas, it is all I can do. May I offer you a walk in one of my private gardens?"

Severus assented with a nod; they both left the room, which, as Severus noticed when he turned around for a moment, disappeared behind them. In Dream's hold, all rooms were Rooms of Requirement.

They walked down several halls, in silence again; eventually, they came out of the castle into a beautiful garden, fashioned in no style Severus could recognise. He wondered for a moment what mad horticulturist's dream could have spawned this place; because it was clear that not even magic could recreate this place in the waking world.

"Do you know where the boundaries of my domain lie, Master Snape?"

"I know that you are the Shaper of Dreams, the patron of poets and prophets, Lord Morpheus," Severus replied carefully.

"You cannot shape dreams. Nor are you a poet or a prophet."

It was definitely not a question; Severus accepted the statement in silence.

"You have never written a line of poetry in your life, not even in your teenage years – which, I should know, is a rare feat. And you have always scorned Divination in school."

That, too, was true. Severus was once again fast growing apprehensive of his interlocutor's omniscience. Although, to be fair, he thought, Dream himself had previously confided his private matters to Severus; matters of which he could not have found it easy to speak. It would hardly be credible that he would touch upon Severus' history without reason.

"After school, however, you have become involved in a certain affair regarding a prophecy–"

Severus gasped; no, this was getting too close to his comfort zone–

Dream continued, unmindful of Severus' unease, "You have revealed its content – or a part of its content – to one of its subjects; thus assuming, however indirectly, the mantle of a prophet."

Startled, Severus attempted to ask for further explanations; however, Dream did not allow him to speak, continuing his own talk, "As for your lack of poetic inclinations – I doubt that the majority of Hogwarts' alumni should ever forget the speech with which you introduce them into the mysteries of the subject you teach; or your carefully phrased comments on their essays into Potions–"

Severus smirked. Yes, that much, at least, fit: he had always been proud of his gift of elocution, even if he could only ever exercise it on the dimwits he taught at Hogwarts–

"Although, of course, Potions, howsoever you might excel at them, are not your favourite subject matter, Severus Snape. This title is reserved for what you," the slightest trace of contempt appeared in Dream's voice, "wizards, call the Dark Arts. Tell me, Severus Snape, why do you love what so many of your fellows fear and hate?"

The eyes of the Potions Master narrowed. Even in his dreams, it appeared, he was to account for the sole passion of his life. Well, so be it!

"The Dark Arts, King Dream," he said, "are many, varied, ever-changing and eternal. They are not for the common fool to meddle in; they call for both intelligence and imagination, and demand constant presence and readiness of mind; and they promise a quick – or sometimes, a slow – and painful death for one who approaches them heedless of the risks–"

He interrupted suddenly.

"I see," he said simply, "Yes, at last I see of what you might speak, Lord Morpheus."

"No," Dream answered, incongruously sadly, "You do not; not yet. If your chance involvement in matters of a mantic nature, your way with words and your inclination towards the unfixed and the mutating were all you have received of me, this conversation would not be taking place; I would gladly let you live your life till its due conclusion– Alas: it is not to be so."

"I am the Shaper of Dreams, Master Snape," he continued after a momentary break, which Severus filled for his own purpose with wondering if Dream would ever reach the point to which he had constantly alluded since the beginning of their conversation. "Dreams are illusions, half-truths or complete untruths which nevertheless reflect the truth, whether a truth one might admit to oneself in the waking world, or, much more often, a truth which one will not. Dreams are the dark mirror of unreality which reflects the reality– Have you not heard it spoken that the Endless personify not only the aspect of existence which they are, but also the opposite of what they are?"

There was another pause, and then, Dream continued, "Through dreams, mortals are forced to confront with the side of them which they would much rather remained hidden; for only through that confrontation, they can change and evolve. That, in short, is my function, my duty; my raison d'être–"

"I effect change. Through dreams, stories and prophecies, I effect change. Not as cataclysmic as my irresponsible younger brother," a grimace of disgust crossed Dream's face, "but I do. But you already know this, do you not, Professor Snape?"

"I believe... I can imagine," Severus said weakly.

"Good," Dream stated flatly, "Because – to a very limited extent, mind it! – you will fulfil this function, whether willingly or not. You may attempt to prevent the revelation of a truth; it will be revealed nonetheless; you may be present in a place by accident; your very presence will serve as a pretext to occasion a change. You will speak truth, half-truth, or lie; and in lying, you will still reveal a truth – or a side to a truth which all others will have had by the time forgotten, or will have chosen to keep hidden. It has already begun, years ago, with the prophecy and all that resulted from its revelation; it will become worse."

Severus paled. "Potter," he stammered.

Dream paid him no heed. Now turned away from Severus, he continued – now that the topic had been breached, words seemed to come easily at last to the Prince of Stories–

"And that is not yet all, Severus Snape. There is one more aspect of the matter to be considered..."

"What now?" Severus nearly screamed out in anguish, "Is it not yet enough?"

"As I have once told that inestimable compatriot of yours, Master Shakespeare," Dream continued, still not looking at Severus, "the Prince of Stories is, in his fashion, an island: whilst all around him change, in stories, and oft, through stories, he himself has no story; he may not have a story; he may not change–"

"You, too, will effect change, Severus Snape; you shall never change, not until the day my sister meets you."

The words were stated with all the finality of a verdict; Dream twirled around, and Severus once again looked into his own face, and heard spoken in his own voice:

"I am Dream of the Endless; I am defined by my function. My duty and my responsibility are enough to justify my existence. But you– I pity you, you poor thing: you are a mortal. To be denied the opportunity to grow and mature– It is the greatest crime and wrong that can be committed against your kind–"

Dream slumped down to a park bench, and hid his face in his hands again; it was as if all his energy had left him with the last words he had spoken.

Severus Snape folded his arms, and looked coolly at the figure curled up below him. His black eyes glittered with anger: being on the receiving end of someone's pity had never gone well with him; and having been called a 'poor thing' certainly had not improved his mood.

"I neither need nor want your pity, Dream-King," he said, "If it is even me, poor mortal thing that I am, that you pity– Are you not sure that in pitying me, you do not pity yourself, Dream of the Endless?"

The figure on the bench looked up, straight into Severus' eyes; a single star glittered in the deep pools of shadow. "Careful, Master Snape," Oneiros warned, "You may, to a large extent, be me; but I am not you. Do not dare attempt to ascribe to me your mortal convictions–"

And, then, suddenly, he was on his feet; and looking like Severus Snape no longer. Now, he was slightly taller, and his black hair was no longer a curtain, but an unruly mop on his head. Instead of a wizard's robe, he was now wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. His face was also different; only his eyes stayed exactly the same–

In short, but for the eyes, he looked precisely like James Potter had when Severus Snape had last seen him.

"Matthew," he called out, not moving his eyes from the Potions Master.

There was a flutter of wings, and then, a raven appeared. It perched on top of the bench, and said, "Yes, boss?"

"Matthew," Dream said, "This is Severus Snape, Potions Master of Hogwarts. If ever you hear from a raven that he requires your assistance, you are to lend it without delay–"

"Master Snape," he bowed slightly his head in the Potions Master's direction, "This audience is over. If ever in the waking world you find yourself in need or want of my advice, call to the nearest raven. Beware, though, that a King's time is precious, and pray do not waste it on trifles."

"His Darkness may rest assured that I most certainly will not," Severus replied, with deadly calm. The raven looked from the one to the other, and sharply took in breath.

"I thank you for your hospitality, Lord of Dreams," the Potions Master continued, impeccably polite, "Can you advise me on one last matter – how am I to leave your kingdom?"

The twin pools of shadow watched him calmly; and then, the King of All Night's Dreaming said simply:

"Wake up, Severus Snape–

-----

The wake of Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, took place in January, 1993. At that time, a monster was said to be on the prowl in Hogwarts, released from the Chamber of Secrets by the Heir of Slytherin. Severus Snape walked the corridors of the castle night after night, in a vain attempt to stop the Heir and the Heir's monster. He did not sleep; did not dream; did not wake.

He had his duties and responsibilities to take care of.

-----

Disclaimers and notes: (1) The Endless and The Sandman series of graphic novels belongs to Neil Gaiman and DC Comics. Everything Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling. I really am not making money out of this story. Just a bit of mostly harmless fun.

(2) In the Sandman timeline, this story takes place between The Season of Mists and A Game of You.