Manoir Acajou (2/2), for ships_harry Title: Manoir Acajou Author: serpenscript Giftee: ships_harry Word Count: 13,500ish Rating: NC-17 Pairings: Severus/Harry Warnings: DH Spoilers, established character death, some EWE, spanking, angst, D/s, sexual situations Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Summary: After the war, Harry flees to France to escape his memories. But he can't escape his dreams... Notes: I hope you don't mind that I sort of rolled all the prompts into one huge snowball. Any faceflops or mistakes are due to my own failings, and not those of my over-burdened beta. Happy Hols, ships_harry!
Thursday, 6 August 1998
I do more of the 'touristy' thing today, and take a side-along trip to the top of the Eiffel Tower: much quicker than walking or even taking the lift, though I had to tip my guide heavily. From that high up, Paris looks miniaturised. Cars are matchboxes; I can't help but wish wars could be the same way. That the higher and further from them you get, the less they appear to be – the less they hurt.
I prefer to focus on a different kind of pain. The kind of pain that keeps me wiggling surreptitiously in my seat all through the play that evening. It was a good play – Beauty and the Beast, with the Beast played by a bear Animagus. Only I kept thinking the Beast didn't have enough buttons, or billow his robes dramatically.
Eventually I return to the Manoir Acajou, and let myself dream again of my own Beast.
Sleep finds me back in the graveyard. I wonder what to make of the strange dread curling in my stomach this time, and shiver when a ghostly breeze stirs. Reflexively I look down to check; thankfully I'm clothed in what I was wearing when I fell asleep, except for the trainers. But this part of the dream is normal; there's the grave, and the Triwizard cup, and Cedric lying on the ground where Wormtail killed him. It still makes me cold inside, but I walk over and sit down next to him; so it feels natural when he opens his eyes and turns his head and looks at me. "Hey, Cedric," I say to him. It feels inane, talking to someone whom you've watched die again and again.
He folds his arms up under his head and gazes up at the silvery sky; now he looks more like he's resting and less like a ghost, even if he is transparent. "It's not your fault, Potter," he says, matter of factly, which makes me blink. In all my other nightmares and dreams, Cedric's never said anything different to me. He's died, over and over again, and asked me, over and over again, to 'take his body back', but he never says anything new. And somehow, I want to believe that it's a little bit more than a dream.
"That's what everyone says," I say instead. "It's never my fault, but whenever someone stands next to me, they die. And I keep on living. And I can't help but think if I had just died – hell, I did die, Ced, I just came back! – that more people would be still alive."
"That's bullshite, Harry, you know it," Cedric says, rudely. I'm a little surprised. Even when he was steamed at me stealing his spotlight in the Triwizard Cup, he was never rude. "Hell, you've played Wizard's chess, haven't you? The goal is to protect your king and queen. So this time, you were our king piece, whether you wanted to be or not. And if some of us were rooks and bishops, knights and pawns," he gestures to himself deprecatingly on the last, and I realise there's a surreal parallelism between the four types of chess pieces and the houses of Hogwarts.
"It's not like a game of chess," I say hotly. "People are more than chess pieces!"
Cedric looks suddenly old and sad, and I realise he's looking at the ground; he can see the grass through the smoky contours of his hand. And abruptly, my anger is gone and I flop down on the grass next to him.
"Maybe it's not a chess game to you, Harry – but to Voldemort, it was," Cedric says. He holds out a hand, palm up, and there are suddenly four chess pieces: a pawn, a rook, a bishop, a knight. I frown at them; I know already from Cedric the pawns are the Hufflepuffs, and I have to admit I have to agree with him.
I pick up the knight and roll it in my fingers; I know this must represent the Gryffindors. "I'm guessing the rook is Ravenclaw, they're both birds," I say slowly. "But that leaves the bishop to Slytherin house, and that makes no sense."
"You're not thinking," he says sounding a bit like Hermione. "Whatever you believe, the church is still political, at least it was back then. And there's a fair bit of ambition 'vested' in the bishop. Also –" he places the bishop in my hand, next to the knight – "bishops have a habit of looking out only for their own. Their own parishioners – or Slytherins, in this case."
He smoothes out the grass between us and it flattens into a chess board; when he drops the pieces they scurry into place. I drop the bishop and knight, and they and the rest of the pieces appear like shadows from the grass to fill their places; a wizard chess set. Only this time, the pieces are wearing house colors. It looks out of place on a black-and-white board. "A war is a chess game when it boils down to it. And it's usually as vicious and violent as wizard's chess," he flashes a smile at me. "I heard about Ron's game in the Chamber of Secrets, so I know you know all about wizard's chess."
I shift uncomfortably. "Ron was the chess player," I feel obligated to point out loyally. "I just moved where he told me."
He surprises me by laughing. "That's all we chess players ever do, usually," he says, and sullenly, I flick over one of the pawns.
"You're not a pawn," I mutter. Somehow it's very important that he knows I believe that.
He picks up the pawn I knocked over and studies it. "We were all pawns, Harry," he says quietly. "Me, you, Dumbledore, Snape. Even Draco and Pettigrew were pawns. Doesn't matter what side we were on." He gazes at me keenly. "Even my dying played a role; it helped give you the impetus you needed. Right?"
I can't breathe. I can't tell him, now, that his death was useless, was nothing more than a senseless nightmare, not when hoping his death helped somehow is a comfort to him. And maybe, in a little way, he's right. Maybe because his death haunted me, I worked that little bit harder to prevent more senseless deaths.
He hands me the pawn; somewhere between his hand and mine it becomes a bishop. "Hey Harry?"
I know what he wants to say and I dread it, even as it sends a flutter of relief down my spine. I nod instead.
"It's time to stop dreaming about me dying. I don't want you to remember me as dead anymore." He picks up the tournament cup and mugs with it, flashing me a smile that used to have the girls swooning. It just makes me want to laugh at him, which was probably the point. "We were a good team in the end there. Remember that, ok?"
I don't want him to leave me alone in the graveyard, but I nod and wave to him. "Goodbye, Harry," he says, and disappears. So does the graveyard, though the pawn is still gripped tightly in my palm.
For a while I'm in a dream-limbo. I start to wonder if Snape was satisfied with a spanking, but eventually the darkness around me takes shape and I'm walking down that familiar stone corridor.
I'm tempted to turn back. My backside is still sore and my face flames just at the recollection, my cock giving a halfhearted twitch at the memory. I'm thankful that this time my dreams saw fit to clothe me in my standard jeans and too-large t-shirt; the stiff denim holds my cock down. With any luck, I should avoid embarrassing myself. I shouldn't even be going at all - but I can't make myself turn back. My traitorous feet carry me to the end of the corridor and through the bars.
Snape is pacing again; I wonder if tonight will be a repeat of last night, until Snape turns and sees me. The next moment I'm slammed against the bars and Snape's eyes are swallowing me. Too late I remember Snape is a Legilimens - and he bats aside my flimsy attempt at Occlumency. There are no secrets from the dead…
And then he's inside my head, rifling through my memories like Hermione through the shelves of the Restricted Section in Hogwarts. It doesn't take him long to find it, since I can't push it away from the forefront of my thoughts. He ruthlessly seizes upon it, thrusting me into the Pensieve of my own memory.
Cold air whispering over my arse and lower back and thighs and bits, knees and palms pressed into the rough stone floor. A heavy arm over my shoulders pressing me into the thin bony shanks of the Potions Master. And his hand falling hot on my arse cheeks over and over until the chill is gone and my backside is flaming, burning. Even my cock is burning and I don't know when pain became pleasure but each blow makes me whimper and wiggle and hump the legs that are attached to Snape, each crack of palm to skin is a jolt of fire to my groin and I don't want it to stop because fuck, punishment feels so bloody good and it's Snape, Snape who doesn't call me a hero or the Boy Who Lived (Again), Snape to whom I'm just Potter, and -
And I could swear that Snape's turned on too, that the bulge pressing against my ribs is an erection to match mine -
I'm abruptly thrust out of my memories and back into the present; Snape is nose to nose with me, and we're both breathing heavily. When he steps back, I almost whimper, because he was so close I could feel the heat from his body. But his hands are fumbling at the waistband of my jeans; a jerk, and the fly pops open, and my aching cock springs free.
I want the floor to open up and swallow me; how pathetic can I get, being turned on from the mere memory of being spanked? And to have Snape know I was turned on, and that it was more than just the spanking? That the fact that it was Snape was a turn on in and of itself?
The floor doesn't open up ans swallow me, the bars remain solid at my back. And Snape turns away silently to sit on the edge of the bed, watching me impassively. The scrutiny and the chill of the bars at my back wilt my erection a little, but I can't stop watching for Snape's next move.
I almost don't hear him when he finally does speak, in a low, taut undertone. "Take off your clothes." That's all it takes for my cock to twitch and harden again, and I'm sure my face must be glowing with heat. I shove the pawn in my jeans pocket, but my fingers are suddenly all thumbs.
I feel I should make a show of it - perhaps if my subconscious had provided me with a button-down, or at least briefs under my jeans, I would have made a better mimic of a strip-tease. But it only takes a moment to haul my t-shirt over my head and toss it aside, and another to shove my jeans down to my ankles and step out of them. But I'm amazed at how strangely erotic it all is, like nudity in and of itself was nothing special, but the intimate act of disrobing in front of watchful eyes gives the nudity meaning. His eyes keep undressing me, over and over, and I wonder if the act is as erotic to him as it is to me. His eyes are smoldering again, but I think it's lust and not rage.
A long-fingered hand is beckoning me closer, and when I'm within reach he clamps onto my shoulders, fingers digging in, and pushes me down onto my knees in front of him. His knees are splayed and...
Snape's turned on. This close, on eye level with his groin, there's no mistaking the bulge.
I'm not a poof - I don't think. But I know what Snape expects of me this time, and I.....I want to. So I free his cock with shaking fingers, and take a moment to look at him. He's longer than I am and then some, but not quite as thick. Ridged with veins and deep purplish in color. It fascinates me, though I can sense his uncertainty.
His uncertainty vanishes when I lean forward, open my mouth, and puff a lungful of hot hair over the head; his cock twitches and Snape's hands are suddenly buried in my messy hair - and his cock is pressed against my lips.
My first impression of Snape's taste is - salt. He's salty, a little bitter. I can smell sweat, musk, old fear. Overpowering lust.
I start simple, by licking him like a lolly. He doesn't seem to mind, judging by the hands flexing in my hair. I learn that he likes me breathing on his balls, tickling their lightly furred surface with nose and tongue. He shudders when I actually try sucking on his balls, nose pressed into the wiry curls surrounding the root of his cock. When I move upward and swirl my tongue experimentally around the glans and probe the salty slit, his hips buck involuntarily and push him further into my mouth.
I gag when it hits the back of my throat and try to move back, but his hands tighten painfully on my scalp and pull me back down on to him, forcing me to swallow him deeper. It gives me a moment of panic - fighting the gag reflex and something so big blocking my throat - but I tell myself, "it's just a dream, you can't really suffocate". And I vaguely remember Lavender mentioning once, when she was dating Ron, that the trick to deep throating is to yawn, and then keep yawning.
It's hard to master - but Snape's hands in my hair are unyielding, and his hips are bucking faster, harder. I learn to inhale/exhale in rapid shallow breaths in the moments he pulls back, and to yawn when he thrusts in, and to tilt my head back so there's a straight line from my mouth to my throat. As he speeds up it doesn't seem to matter what I'm doing, or if I'm doing it well; I'm focusing on getting enough air and not choking as he fucks my mouth. There's nothing gentle about this.
I can tell he's coming a moment before the hot viscous fluid hits the back of my throat and burns. And when Snape pulls back I crumble to the floor, gasping for air and coughing and trying to swallow the salty-bitter taste.
He tucks himself in and proceeds to ignore me; after several moments I pull myself to my feet and get dressed again, though I'm still painfully hard. I sit in my corner from last night, and pull my knees up and watch him. He hasn't said anything to me today, beyond telling me to undress. The pawn in my pocket digs uncomfortably into my hip, so I pull it out and study it, turning it over and over. But eventually I set the pawn on the floor and rest my head on my knees.
Even when I slip into dreamlessness, I still have a bitter, salty flavour on the back of my tongue.
I tell myself it's the taste of restitution.
Friday, 7 August 1998
Today I browse the shops in Wizarding Paris for gifts and souvenirs. I know Ron and Hermione will be angry with me for leaving without word – Ginny will be shredding anything she can reach, and McGonagall will be twice as stern to hide her worry.
Ron is the easiest to shop for; a vast selection of French chocolats – and a small bottle of potion for stomach-ache – will keep him happy, if glutted, for at least a day.
Hermione takes more time to shop for, but with the help of a translator I find a complete travelers' herbarium with footnotes on harvesting and usage. I have to shrink it twice to fit it into a box; Hermione will be thrilled, I'm sure.
I spend all afternoon searching before I find an appropriate gift for Ginny. It's a log of other witches through the ages who, like Ginny, came up with their own clever hexes and charms. It also offers simple guides for creating new charms, and includes space for adding your own. The book is old and handed down – there are charms and hexes scribbled in the margin – but I'm assured by the owner that none of the owners ever dabbled in the dark arts. I think Ginny will like adding her name to the heritage of clever witches.
McGonagall is easy to shop for, though I have no idea what I'm doing. I ask for recommendations for a witch who likes Quidditch, is fond of berry pie, and known to indulge after hours. I wrap up and head back to my room with a bottle of Jurançon et Pacherenc du Vic Bilh, which is an "intense, sweet, and creamy" drink. Even if she doesn't appreciate it, I hope she'll appreciate the idea behind it.
Friday night is a definite break in the routine. It doesn't begin with a trip to the graveyard.
It begins with Snape, with Snape's cell. And I'm naked again. It doesn't seem to matter because the moment I step into the cell, his hands are all over me, cold hands sliding over every inch of skin, before pulling me over to his bunk. When he splays his knees and frees his cock, I don't need any explanations. I just start laving his shaft with my tongue. Tension is radiating from Snape in waves, and I figure out why when he pushes me away from his cock and stands, pushing me face down on the bunk where he was sitting. The scent of his musk on the blankets is almost overwhelming, but my apprehension pushes that minor detail aside.
Snape kicks my feet apart so I am spread open to him, weight resting on my forearms and arse in the air.
I think I knew all along he would fuck me. But it never seemed real - I mean, it's not real. It's a bloody dream. But it sure as hell feels real and it bloody hurts when he pushes inside. Whatever Wizard Weekly may say, saliva is no kind of lubricant - though I suppose it's better than nothing. And I never plan to try this with nothing, thanks.
He doesn't prepare me at all. This isn't about me; this is about him. So I grit my teeth and clench my fists into the blanket as he roughs out a pace. After a few moments the friction still burns - ok, so it still hurts like hell - but it doesn't burn the same way, I guess. It's a bearable burn, and I begin canting my hips back to meet his thrusts, an action that earns me a snarl and his fingers digging into my hips. I'm pretty sure that means he likes it.
I'm surprised to find I'm getting turned on, though I'm struck by the absurdity of this dream. Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived, willingly offering his arse to be fucked by Severus Snape in a cell in Azkaban. Being fucked in the name of restitution makes a bizarre sense; fate, war, bad choices fucked Snape over. This doesn't matter, not really. A dream, an hour's time to balance a lifetime of loneliness.
I close my eyes, and let Snape fuck me into the mattress. It doesn't take too long, though I think I'll feel sore for days after. His rhythm falters and then there's no rhythm at all, just fast furious fucking, before time spirals to a stop, reverses, and resumes - he stiffens with a groan, thrusting spasmodically a few more times before slumping over me bonelessly to regain his breath.
I wince when he stands and pulls out; I'll definitely be tender for a few days, and I can feel his semen seeping out slowly. I feel well-fucked, though when I stand up I'm surprised to see my own chest painted in come. I don't even remember orgasming. Maybe it was just that mind-blowing.
Maybe it's because it wasn't about me.
After he's tucked himself back in, he sits on the bed. I sit on the floor; dream or not, I doubt he'd appreciate semen on the blankets. He has to sleep here; I just dream here. When I look over at him, he's turning Cedric's pawn over and over in his hands. It's Slytherin green this time, instead of Hufflepuff yellow.
"I don't want any more restitution. If there's any more to be done, let someone else pay it." He sounds world-weary, even in death.
I nod, just as wearily. "I hope you find the rest and peace you crave. You deserve it," I add. "It's long overdue."
He looks at me oddly, but sneers back. "I won't wish the same in return," he snarls, and for a moment he's like the old Snape that menaced all his potions classes.
I stand and offer him my hand; after a moment's hesitation, he accepts it; I feel a sudden, unaccountable warmth in my chest at shaking the hand of the man who hated me, looked after me, protected me, mocked me. Another chapter has closed.
I look him in the eyes - and offer a smile. "It's been an honour, sir."
The cell is whirled away into darkness, but it seems there's one more stop before dreamlessness.
There's no graveyard, no prison.
I'm in Hogwarts, on the Quidditch pitch. I'm wearing Quidditch robes, in bright Gryffindor red and gold; the sky above is blue and clear, and there's just enough of a brisk breeze to be invigorating. Without thinking, I lift my hand and shout, "Accio Firebolt!" and it comes soaring over the stands to smack into my hand. It feels wonderful.
Flying feels even more wonderful, though straddling a broom is a bit uncomfortable after such a fucking. but when I'm flying I can forget about Voldemort, graveyards and bodies and basilisks and killing curses. For a while, I'm content to perform corkscrews and flips and gravity-defying manoeuvres that would have the twins cheering and Pomfrey fainting with terror.
Something flutters by from the corner of my eye: a photograph. Without even thinking, my Seeker skills take over, and I'm caught up in a game of chase-me, find-me with the elusive picture. But I quickly learn that chasing a photo isn't like catching snitch; it's more like catching a will-o-the-wisp. Caught broadside on a draft, it hovers face up – only to slip-slide into the next taunting breeze. And it's a good quarter of an hour spent before I finally draw near enough, hand outstretched, to snare it – and freeze.
It's a photograph of Severus Snape. The same photograph I had filched and agonised over. And I know dream-Snape told me it was enough restitution, but all the same I can't quite let go yet –
But my moment of indecision makes my choice for me; another hand captures the photograph. And I realise only now that my chase has brought me alongside the stands, and alongside one particularly avid – and deceased – fan.
"Hey Harry!" Colin Creevey greets me cheerfully. "Did you know some of the first photographs I took at Hogwarts were of you playing Quidditch? Some of my worst photos, but I was just learning, back then." He perches comfortably on the railing of the box seats, unperturbed by the possibility of a long fall to the pitch below.
I clamber awkwardly from broom to stands and sit next to him, resigned to yet another farewell. "Why did you return? You were supposed to be somewhere safe!" I say, instead. "You should still be there now, taking pictures of the Quidditch games…"
I stop because he's beaming at me. "Oh, I still take pictures! I photograph a bigger place now, is all. It's different, but it's no less exciting to me, Harry!"
I shake my head. "Being a ghost isn't the same as living it, as growing up, as feeling and experiencing the world around you. You should still be counting birthdays, not deathdays!"
Colin's smile falters a little, then slips completely. "I didn't want to die, of course," he said earnestly, "but I don't regret it. I died doing what I always wanted – photographing what was really happening. You and Ron and Hermione and everyone – you were busy saving the world, right? I wanted to make sure everyone understood what that really meant. Not just the who, but the how and why. Some years down the road, people might not remember who I am, but when they look at my pictures, they'll see not winners or losers – but a war. A real war, Harry! Not something glorious and wonderful, but something that shows the best and worst of people." He holds up the photograph; it shows a flickering montage of different scenes from the battle. The best and the worst of Wizarding kind, as Colin had said.
Tears are running down my face. Were I anywhere else I'd be turning away, hiding them, wiping them away with a swipe of my sleeve, but it's Colin. And strangely, more than anyone, I think he understands just what this war cost.
"I was waiting for you, you know," he says, swinging his feet and staring out over the pitch with a faint smile, giving me time to dry my tears without scrutiny. "I knew you needed me." He holds up the photograph, which once again shows Snape, lying dead in his own blood. "Dumbledore said to tell you it's time to stop chasing ghosts and start going after the snitch again."
I swallow. Dumbledore said. "Yeah, and the last snitch he gave me opened at the close. At the end. At my death," I stress, but Colin only looks understanding.
"He said you'd say that too! But you know what, Harry? You're still alive! It was the end of one chapter, the start of another! Like Dumbledore said, 'Death is just the next great adventure' – only you've got a chance no one else has. You opened the door to death, and it just took you back to the beginning. The end was just the beginning!"
He holds the photograph in his open palm, and then before I can stop him, he crumples the photo into a little ball.
"What are you doing?" I yelp, reaching for it, but he blocks my hand with his wand, which he taps to his closed fist. When he opens it, there's a snitch.
A silver snitch.
"Make new friends, and keep the old – one is silver, and – " he reaches into his pocket and produces a battered, golden snitch with a faint seam around the center. Dumbledore's snitch. " – the other gold." He places the silver snitch into my hand; the other, he holds up. It flaps its crumpled wings for a moment, before zipping off over the pitch.
He watches it zoom around for a moment before turning back to me and folding my reluctant fingers over the silver snitch. ""You've won one game, Harry. Now it's time to start another game." He grins, the irrepressible Colin Creevey smile, and holds up his camera. "You won't be seeing me, but I plan to take pictures of everything you do, so make it something good!"
Make it something, good, huh. "I'll try. Uh, Colin – " I hate goodbyes, but Colin takes the need away.
"No worries, Harry! We'll be seeing you eventually. Waiting is easy here; it's getting here that's the hard part. So it's not 'goodbye,’ it's 'see you later' – right, Harry?"
I can't refuse him. I clutch the silver snitch and muster a smile. "Right, Colin. See you later."
Saturday, 8 August 1998
When I wake up Saturday morning, I'm somehow unsurprised that the photograph and golden snitch are gone from the bedside table. And I'm only vaguely surprised to find I'm clutching a silver snitch in my palm so tightly the fine veins of the wings are crumpled and indented into my palm.
I've had enough of vacationing. I'm tired of restitution too, though I savour the illusory sensation of being well-spanked and well-fucked. After all, the whole world is fucked up and it's time, I think, to just get on with it. A new snitch is in the air and a new game is in play.
I'm ready to reenter the world of the living.
Sunday, 9 August 1998
My entry back into the real world, however, isn't quite what I expected. When I tumble out of the floo at Grimmauld Place, I'm immediately mobbed by Ron and Hermione, Ginny, Minerva, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and others I can't immediately pick out in the hubbub.
"Harry! We were so worried, you didn't tell anyone where you went -" Hermione is fighting tears and hugging the breath out of me.
"You might let your best mates know you'd gone off and where, you know!" Ron says aggrievedly, but his face is pale and strained under his freckles.
"I just needed some space, a little time to get used to it all. I never wanted to be a - a hero," I say, and thrust the pamphlet from the hotel foyer at Hermione. "I visited Paris, saw the Eiffel Tower, played at being tourist. Was normal for a little bit, where no one would recognize me."
Hermione's frowning at the pamphlet. "You stayed at the Manoir Acajou?"
Ron looks back and forth between us, bewildered. "Manure? Bloody hell, Harry, you stayed on some farm when you could've stayed at the Burrow?"
I shrug as Hermione slugs Ron in the shoulder "It was the first Wizarding hotel I found. Why?"
She shoots us a look of disgust. "Manoir Acajou is French for 'Mahogany Manor', Ronald! Haven't you learned anything from Fleur?" She rolls her eyes before spreading out the brochure for Ron to see. "It's a place positively crawling with would-be seers and prophets. The castle's furniture is all made out of various types of mahogany, which all supposedly heighten one's 'eyes to the future' - " I snort a little as she mimics Trelawney's dreamy cant, "but it's not exactly the place to go for restful dreams."
She rolls her eyes again and sighs when I blink at her, not understanding. "Take African mahogany, for example. It enhances dreams. They claim that enough of the wood will boost a dream into near paranormal levels. Utter nonsense, all of it," she asserts confidently, closing the pamphlet in spite of Ron trying to peer at the French waitresses posing in the photographs. "Dreams are just dreams, Harry. A confused jumble of our subconscious, really. That's all, " she stresses at my dubious look. "No one's connected to your head anymore. Voldemort's gone. Your dreams are just that; your dreams."
She looks so certain; I wonder what she would make of the silver snitch in my pocket.
Minerva just looks relieved to have me back, and directs the chaos with the same unyielding manner she managed Hogwarts in Dumbledore's stead. Before you can say "Peter piper picked a peck of pickled peppers" or even "Berttie Botts every-flavour beans for every flavour situation", we're all settled around the table in the kitchen drinking tea like civilised people, and everyone's taking turns telling me what I've missed while I've been gone.
"Honestly, didn't you read the paper at all?" Hermione is rattling on, while Ron hands me a package. "Colin's ghost is gone, and no one really understands why, but we're all kind of relieved, since he was the youngest Hogwarts ghost since Myrtle..."
"Here mate, this showed up by owl for you about an hour ago. G'wan, open it!"
I open it while I half listen to Hermione talk about more memorials for dead people - I've had enough of the dead, thanks - but I stop hearing anything when the parcel unfolds and a chess piece drops into my hand. A pawn, to be precise.
A Slytherin green pawn.
Hearing the name Snape snaps me out of my shock. "What was that?"
Ron scowls. "First you run off ’cause you're upset he's dead, and now you're not listening when we tell you he's alive. Narcissa Malfoy found him first, but with Umbridge's help she dumped him in Azkaban, seems she was afraid that she'd be held liable for Dumbledore's murder, with her putting Snape under an unbreakable vow. No one even knew he was even alive until yesterday, when Narcissa realised that we already knew about the unbreakable vow." Ron snorts with disbelief. "Dumb luck, that - now she's on trial for imprisoning Snape. Nice thing about that is, so's Umbridge, the bloody toad."
I can't stop staring at the pawn in my hand. Boost a dream into paranormal levels. This is definitely paranormal. I think I'm officially barmy now. "So Snape's still in Azkaban?" I ask, and remarkably, my voice is level and calm even though I'm anything but.
Hermione's not completely fooled, and looks at me with concern. "They're keeping him in for observation," she admits. "They're worried he's - well, that he's gone a bit mental. He was heard talking to you, as if you were actually there."
Ron laughs, though he stops after a moment. I wonder what it is they're seeing on my face to go so wide-eyed.
"Harry, did something happen while you were in France?" Hermione asks carefully, and I pull out the silver snitch and hold it up along side of the pawn.
"Yea, I guess you could say that." The sheer absurdity of the situation finally strikes me and I can't help grinning at them madly. I know they'll think that I've gone 'round the bend, but I'm too caught up in this to care. Snape's alive. I down the rest of my tea, shove back from the table, and stride for the door.
A clatter of chairs and scramble of footsteps alert me to everyone following me, babbling questions.
"Where are you going - "
"What's going on?"
"Did I miss something?"
"You haven't even eaten yet - "
It's Minerva I give my explanation to, tossing the silver snitch into the air and watching its crumpled wings unfold so it can zip around my head like a small silver satellite. And I can't stop grinning.
"I happen to have it on very good authority that the snitch is now in play - and the new game is just beginning."
I leave the rest of them staring as I step out the door into the next great adventure. And it feels good.