Secret Snarry Swap: Closing Time Title: Closing Time Author:emilywaters76 Prompted by:windwingswrites Other pairings/threesome: Mention of past non-explicit Snape/Regulus, Snape/Remus Rating: PG-13 Word count: 3,000 words Content/Warning(s): (highlight for spoilers) *Angst* Summary: Everyone knows what he used to be: a condemned criminal, who couldn’t handle the time in Azkaban and agreed to the memory-removal program to enable him to start a new life. For all intents and purposes, he’s a new man. Nobody seems to fault him for that. Except perhaps for one man named Potter. A/N: For prompt #24: A case-fic/mystery of any sort. Romance may or may not ensue.
Closing Time
The detention cell is small, but the window is large; it overlooks the prison grounds. The bars on the window are surprisingly thin; it seems that it should be enough to stretch one’s hand to bend them, pry them apart, and slip out. Slip away.
Slipping away isn’t going to happen – Snape knows the looks to be deceptive: the slender metal rods will sooner slice his body in twain than let him out.
He spends most of his time sitting by the window and watching the lonely figures of the guards pacing the courtyard. They look tired and gloomy, and Snape can’t fault them. October is always miserable.
He spots another figure, smaller and thinner, walking the courtyard as if he’s walking to his own execution: head held high, back straight, and looking so determined that it makes Snape smile. He knows that look – only someone who is scared shitless can look so determined.
He shuts his eyes and begins to count.
One.
Two.
At five the figure disappears from the courtyard.
At sixty-three, he hears the sound of the footsteps and the clanging of the keys.
At seventy-two, the door to the cell opens.
“Potter,” Snape says, turning around.
“What the fuck, Snape?” Potter says by way of greeting.
“You’ll have to be more specific than that.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
Snape does, of course, but he doesn’t budge.
“I want to know what you were thinking!” Potter continues to fume as he paces the floor of the cell.
“Sit down, Potter, you’re making my head spin.”
“Do you even have a head?” Potter all but shouts at him.
“I believe that’s supposed to be my line,” Snape replies dryly. “Sit or get out.”
Predictably, Potter sits down.
“I still need to know what you were thinking – to agree to this?” Potter says, a bit more calmly now.
“The decision seemed rather simple, Potter. Fifteen years in Azkaban, or a chance to start a new life, have a job, a house to come back to –“
Potter actually manages to look miserable. Snape can’t fault him. When he first was given the choice by the solemn-looking Ministry of Corrections clerk, Snape laughed in his face. Agree to have all of my memories removed permanently and have them auctioned off, and then begin a new life as a new person? Snape repeated, giving him a rather nasty smile. Thanks, but I think I will do the time.
He did two years of that time. He didn’t know what it was about the place that drove him insane. It was mind-numbing, oppressive like Merlin-knows-what. It smelled of decaying flesh and mildew, and even though there was no mildew and no dead bodies anywhere, Snape could swear he smelled them.
The space between the grey stone walls that was his cell seemed to be getting smaller and smaller every day. He was suffocating and freezing at the same time, and he couldn’t credit that a place now permeated with heating charms could be so bloody cold.
He likely would have gone insane, if not for Potter’s visits.
Potter, who had saved his life, who had tried to get him acquitted and wasn’t able to, now came to see him once a week, steady and sure.
Snape had learned to tell the time of the year by the way Potter smelled. Sometimes, Potter smelled of sunshine and sun-burned grass, sometimes, of fallen leaves and morning mist. There were times when it was the smell of Christmas trees and snow. Snape never said anything, just listened to Potter’s talk about the life outside, talk about what would happen when Snape got out. Snape listened to all of that and resisted the insane urge to pin Potter to the wall and sniff him.
It took Snape two years to realize that he wasn’t living most of his time. He was only living one hour a week, when Potter came by and brought with him the glorious fragments of the outside world, and told him about what was out there. The rest of the time was just the dreary monotonous non-being, and waiting for that one hour a week.
That – and the memories. Too many to number, too many to just ignore. He remembered the oddest things – the way the sunlight touched Lily’s hair once, the way Albus used to stroke his beard while hiding his smile in it, the way Black used to rage and rave whenever Snape came near him, glorious madness flashing in his sunken eyes, the way Potter used to tilt his head defiantly while trying to stare Snape down… and more – the memories of Potter’s visits: those seemed to pile up, grow into each other, force the other memories out, overshadow them, or, perhaps, over-brighten then. Eventually Snape realized that, soon enough, Potter would be the whole of his life, and nothing else would matter.
After that, the decision was easy.
“Snape, be truthful with me,” Potter asks, almost begs, quietly, tiredly. “You can’t not understand what it’ll be like. Your memories will be just taken away from you…”
Snape smiles. He supposes it’s pointless to keep clinging to his privacy; after all, soon enough all of his memories will be someone else’s possession, to be laughed at, wanked to, enjoyed, horrified by, studied – and ultimately, it doesn’t matter.
“Yes. And they’ll be someone else’s problem then,” Snape says dryly.
“They aren’t a problem, they are YOU!” Potter raises his voice, but calms himself down before the entire thing can escalate into an argument. “Can you imagine how it’ll be? Really? Slowly forgetting all that you are, while everyone is getting their hands on what you used to remember? Why did you agree to this?”
“Morbid curiosity, perhaps,” Snape says, smirking. “I can’t help but wonder how many will flock to get a piece of me, when they wouldn’t care to have me in their world.”
“That’s not fair,” Potter says softly.
“All things considered, it’s more than fair. In return I will get a wand, a respectable job that I can do, a place to live, and the protection of the Ministry. And freedom to move unrestricted throughout the Wizarding world. You ought to know, Potter, sitting in one place gets rather tiring.”
“But – “ Potter seems ready to cry. “You can’t. You just can’t.”
“You’re assuming the memories mean something to me at this point. They don’t.”
“How can they not? All the things that you did in the war, they must mean something to you!”
“Why should they, if they don’t mean anything to anyone else?”
Potter looks stricken.
“They mean something to me,” he whispers.
Snape gives him an indifferent look.
“Then, perhaps you should buy some.”
* * *
The proceedings turn out to be much what Snape had expected them to be, and he himself smiled through most of it. It is surprising how many wanted to buy something. A former Slytherin student, who had evaded the Ministry’s attention, comes to buy all of Snape’s knowledge of Potions. Someone from the Auror Department buys Snape’s knowledge of the Dark Arts; Snape has to admit that it’s reasonable, he doesn’t really resent that. He’d have given that freely, if someone had asked.
Another minute later, Snape realizes that he’d forgotten something else –and tries to remember what that was. Then, he flushes, realizing that someone’s bought his memories of sex. Snape can’t help but wonder who on earth would want to have his memories of a quick shag with Lupin, a two-year affair with Regulus and countless nights of lonely wanking. Whoever it is, they shouldn’t have paid much for that.
Someone else makes a purchase: a researcher buys his memories of childhood – likely wanting to find out what makes the monsters tick. Snape lets them go.
It goes on and on.
It doesn’t hurt, nothing does, not until the moment Snape sees the familiar face in front of him, and the impossibly green eyes flash with despair. All other memories gone, he stares at Potter and remembers him, all of him – and nothing else. He remembers where his face gets its stern features (James), and he remembers why his eyes look so glorious (Lily), and he remembers where Potter learned to smile this way – mildly and shyly (Lupin), and the desperate mirth that flickers in his gaze (Black, definitely Black).
Snape stares at Potter and can’t look away. It seems impossible that one can remember so little and so much at once.
It seems unreal that one can remember so much with this much intensity and still live.
“I want to buy what’s left,” Potter says quietly. “Everything.”
“That’s not possible,” the auctioneer says. “You have to be specific.”
“I have to be specific,” Potter repeats bitterly.
“I’m afraid so. The regulations state that one needs to specify the parameters of the purchase…”
“Fine,” Potter cuts him off, still staring at Snape point-blank. “I’ll buy everything that has to do with my parents. And my godfather. And Remus… and…”
“And…?” The auctioneer asks.
“And me,” Potter whispers, never looking away.
* * *
The man without memories sits in a room he doesn’t recognize. He doesn’t know anyone in this crowded room, and come to think of it, he doesn’t know who he is, either. He looks around, perplexed, trying to work out what had happened to bring him here. He can’t.
The crowd begins to disperse. The man stares into the faces of the people, wondering if he’d recognize anyone. He doesn’t, though one of them seems to recognize him, because the impossibly green eyes are fixed on Snape.
“Mister Potter, you should leave now,” someone says.
“All right,” the stranger agrees.
Potter. The man wonders if the name should mean something to him.
Then, he sees two uniformed people approach him. He doesn’t recognize the uniform or the faces and gives them a puzzled look.
“Severus Snape,” one of them says, giving him a wand, “Welcome. You’re now considered a new person under the Wizarding law, and thus, you’re entitled to protection, care and respect of your fellow-men. Following a brief course of rehabilitation and occupational training, you will be assisted with securing gainful employment and will be able to live your life any way you choose.”
Snape stares at them, not knowing what to say.
“Do you have any questions?” one of them asks mildly.
“Yes. Where will I live?”
“Your property will be returned to you by the Ministry. You own a house in Halifax.”
“I do?” Snape is surprised by the news. “What kind of house?”
“Well, it’s in the Muggle neighbourhood, it’s… it’s large.”
“Is it warm?” Snape asks for some reason.
“I believe it is.”
Snape finds himself smiling, even if he doesn’t know why.
* * *
The bookshop closes late, but Snape stays another hour to shelve the disordered volumes and review the records of the day. He knows that the shop did well, they didn’t lose any money and he’s certain they didn’t overcharge anyone. One hundred percent accuracy seems important, although he can’t explain why; it’s not like anyone would be angry or upset, if he did make a mistake.
Snape finds that people, for the most part, are remarkably understanding, eager to overlook an honest error, eager to lend a helping hand. Everyone knows what he used to be: a condemned criminal, who couldn’t handle the time in Azkaban and agreed to the memory-removal program to enable him to start a new life. Nobody seems to fault him for that. For all intents and purposes, he’s a new man.
He is free to move away, free to choose any other part of the world to live in. Snape considered it, and decided there was no point. Everything is new to him here – the Diagon Alley he’s still not quite used to, Gringotts, where his money goes every week, and even his own house back in Halifax, where he Apparates every evening.
He likes his house well enough; it is spacious and comfortable, and anything upsetting that had occurred there is now forgotten.
It’s warm, always warm, and for some reason Snape enjoys that.
And yet, every evening he finds himself lingering in the shop just a bit longer than necessary. He stands by the window, his fingers tracing the steel-coloured vertical blinds. He looks outside, into the deserted street, sometimes glistening with freshly spilt rain, sometimes dusted with snow…
He notices a lonely figure walking Diagon Alley. Something about it seems familiar – though Snape can’t quite explain why, he is certain he’s never seen this sort of impossibly straight posture and the determined gait.
Snape is startled to realize that the visitor is heading straight for the bookshop.
Snape counts.
One. Two. Three.
At seventeen, the doorbell rings.
“I’m afraid you’re too late,” Snape tells the visitor. “I’m about to cash out.”
“I am not buying anything,” the visitor says. “I’m here to see you.”
The impossibly green eyes fix on Snape with alarming intensity. Why Snape finds it alarming, he can’t explain.
“Go on,” Snape says guardedly, and then remembers the name, “Potter.”
“You remember me,” something like hope flashes in the visitor’s eyes.
“Of course. I never forget a face. You were in the auction room. You were asked to leave.”
Potter looks stricken. Snape thinks he doesn’t like that.
“I’m sorry,” Snape adds, just because it seems the right thing to say.
“I bought your memories,” Potter says suddenly, defiantly. “Not all, but a lot of them.”
“You are aware, of course, of the prohibition against talking to the New Men about their memories.”
“I don’t care,” Potter glares at him. “I can give them back to you, if you like.”
“I am afraid that’s not permitted.”
“I don’t care,” Potter repeats stubbornly.
“I do,” Snape says. “I value my life, and yours as well.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“No. But all life is valuable. That was the first thing we learned in rehabilitation.”
“Right,” Potter says with surprising bitterness. “As if you needed the rehabilitation to learn that.”
Snape stares at him, almost wishing he could – if not remember – then understand where that bitterness is coming from, and why this one particular person isn’t willing to let the old things pass away.
“I meant something to you,” Snape guesses finally.
“Yes,” Potter says. “And I to you.”
“Something good?” Snape asks.
“I’m not sure,” Potter admits. “But it was important.”
“I’m sorry,” Snape says again, and this time, he almost means it.
“Yes, me too,” Potter whispers. “I wish you hadn’t chosen to cash out so soon. You could have waited, you know.”
“I was told that my Azkaban term was fifteen years,” Snape says. “That’s a long time to wait.”
“I visited you as often as they let me,” Potter says. “Once a week for an hour. I’m sorry it wasn’t enough.”
Snape stares at the young man he doesn’t know and has never known, green-eyed, dishevelled, almost frightened, terribly determined, defiant and shy all at once.
He doesn’t remember what Azkaban was like, and he doesn’t know Potter, and he certainly can’t weigh what he doesn’t know against what he doesn’t remember, but somehow he wonders if he should have waited. He can almost picture it – allowing himself to be reduced to the tiny speck of awareness, dormant between the grey stone walls for hours, days, nights and weeks – only to come alive for one hour at a time and revel in meaning something to someone for that one hour. To do that – and have Potter become the whole of his life. To need nothing else, to want nothing else. To become his.
Potter gives him a brief, guarded look.
“What do you want me to do with your memories?”
“They aren’t mine anymore,” Snape points out.
“Right,” Potter whispers. “They are mine. I own you, Snape. Imagine that.”
“Not me,” Snape denies at once. “Just a part of me.”
Potter crosses the distance between them and stands so close to him that Snape can feel the heat emanating from his body – a fragment of impossibly warm summer day in the middle of the autumn twilight. Potter smells of the sunshine and the sun-drenched fallen leaves, and Snape resists the ridiculous urge to pin him to the wall and sniff him.
“Are you happy?” Potter asks quietly.
“What?”
“You know. How is... everything?”
“All right,” Snape says quietly, never taking his eyes off Potter. “Everything is all right.”
“Your house?”
“It’s comfortable,” Snape replies, and adds for some reason, “Warm.”
“I’m glad,” Potter says quietly, and his voice breaks just a bit. “Back there, in Azkaban, you always looked like you were freezing to death.”
“I can’t imagine what that’s like,” Snape says honestly. “I’m never cold.”
Potter gives him a quick nod and steps back. Then, quickly, hastily, as if afraid to change his mind, he retreats. The door slams shut behind him.
For a while Snape stands by the window and stares at Potter’s thin lonely figure, heading into the darkness of the night until the shadows embrace him and take him in.
Snape turns around then and walks back to the register to cash out.