Summary: Death was different from what Snape had expected. In particular, Death hadn’t expected Snape and sends him back to earth. If only he hadn’t told Potter about his memories! But a certain werewolf is always prepared to help those in need.
Genre: Humour
A/N: Thanks again to azure_rosa for the beta! And thanks to all of you for your lovely comments :)
Snape stared disbelievingly into the man’s sparkling blue eyes. He couldn’t possibly be serious! Thinking about his last actions on earth and their presumable consequences, he started to feel decidedly nauseous.
“That is preposterous! Potter is scrambling about down there, knowing about my memories! I wanted them all to be on the guilt trip of their lives and consider me a martyr! I can’t just go back and say ‘Hi, um, by the way, I’m fine!’” he complained desperately. They wouldn’t even grant him his well-earned glory posthumously!
“Stop whining. You’ll return to earth, period,” the man said, starting to sound a little irritated. He tried to cross his arms as well and failed miserably due to his enormous belly. He snorted in annoyance.
“Come on, there are so many dead people here… nobody will notice if you let me go in.” Snape realised he was grasping at straws. Maybe that overworked goalkeeper had a heart somewhere beyond his eccentric appearance? Obviously, this was not his lucky day. The man seemed not amused.
“I’m doing my job 24/7, pushing around this unreasonably heavy gate, trying to tick off the correct names on these never-ending lists – which is hard enough by itself, but now YOU are coming, demanding SPECIAL TREATMENT? I’m fairly sure mankind has invented war only in order to get on my nerves, but this is the height of insolence! You’re not even able to die properly, and I’m supposed to fix it? Who do you take me for? Social services?!” he yelled, his face turning an astounding shade of red. To be on the safe side Snape stepped back a bit; he already had a sufficient collection of dirt on his robes and felt he could do without cerebral matter from the man’s exploding skull. Luckily, his head proved quite stable; merely adopting the shade of an overripe strawberry. Snape was too fascinated by the play of colours to listen to even half of the man’s rant, but he seemed to go in circles anyway.
“… any time for hobbies, no, I have to listen to the constant wailing of people who – I quote – ‘can’t possibly have died by that tiny bit of free falling’ and the like, and now you’re here, wanting the exact opposite – I didn’t make the rules, and…”
“What’s with all the yelling? Can’t you try to lower your voice a bit, please? My headache is killing me anyway…” Snape spun around quickly. The voice sounded familiar… and indeed. In that moment he would have bet his ass that he had already arrived in his personal version of Hell. He, the loner, was standing among millions of people, had to struggle with unearthly bureaucracy and then he had to meet THAT BLASTED WEREWOLF! But maybe there was a bright side to it – if his anger caused him to have a heart attack, he might get to walk through the gate after all.
“What…?” Fatty stared at Lupin in confusion.
“It’s a bit loud,” he repeated patiently and smiled at his opponent, who seemed on the verge of going mental. Snape was almost induced to smile, but of course that would have meant to give his archenemy credit, and that was clearly out of the question.
“You… you’ve got to be kidding! You’re another one! Are you all insane down there?!” The man was definitely knackered.
“Another what?” Lupin raised his eyebrow sceptically while the realisation began to dawn on Snape. Was it possible that the wolf shared his fate? “And who do you think you are anyway, talking to me in that tone?”
Snape couldn’t help but admit that this was indeed an excellent question. He had allowed the man to yell at him all the time without even knowing who he was talking to… (almost) dying had obviously mellowed him. Well, worse things happened. For example, the prospect of spending eternity with Lupin. Maybe being sent back to earth wasn’t so bad after all.
“Who am I? That depends on which culture you’re coming from. For some I’m St. Peter” – he patted his white beard – “for others I’m Charon, the ferryman across the river Styx” – he waved his paddle – “and for some I’m just Death” – he smoothed his black cloak – “or various other figures people associate with the end of life.”
“I didn’t know about the culture riding through the Gates of Heaven on a choleric walrus.” Snape sneered and watched the man’s chin trembling from suppressed anger. The dry cough coming from Lupin’s direction sounded suspiciously like laughter.
“THAT’S ENOUGH!” Peter-Charon was back to yelling and seemed tempted to divert the paddle from its intended use. “Get lost, both of you! I’ve got a business to run here!”
“One more question, if I may,” asked Lupin with his inimitable calm voice. The man gnashed his teeth in anger. “What happened to Nymphadora Tonks?”
“DEAD!” bellowed Death, very tactfully. “At least one of you managed properly!”
“Okay.” The werewolf nodded emotionless, leaving Snape to wonder what the heck that was all about again.
“Another question,” he said and enjoyed the expression on St. Peter’s face for a moment. “How are we supposed to get lost?”