snarrymod (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} snarrymod) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} snarry_games,@ 2009-08-02 21:25:00 |
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| Entry tags: | fic, snitch |
Team Snitch Entry (FIC): "The Shadowless Hereafter" by Perfica
Title: The Shadowless Hereafter
Author: perfica
Team: Snitch
Genre(s): Literary, Alive and Kicking (EWE)
Prompt(s): Candle in the Window
Rating/Warnings/Kinks: PG15; Highlight if you wish to know: *Infidelity, Character Death*
Word Count: ~10,000
Author Notes/Disclaimers/Betas Without joanwilder’s encouragement, I would have ground to a halt. She, accioslash and loupgarou1750 (who always knows what I want to say no matter how badly I botch it) were responsible for putting the final touches to this story and I am, as always, immensely grateful.
Summary: "Mr Woodlock is a reporter from a very important periodical. He is here because he wishes to interview me on my time in the Great War."
And sometimes I wonder
Just for a while
Will you remember me?
-Tim Buckley
The lack of a convenient Floo terminal that would take me to my destination did not dissuade me; I merely Portkeyed to a quiet location within half a league of the house. Mrs Potter-Weasley had finally given permission to my editor for one of his reporters to attend her at their leisure. I took it upon myself to be the one to fulfil the transaction, having always been a keen reader of wartime histories, particularly those that chronicled the period of time when He Whose Name Shall Not Be Mentioned returned to complete what he thought was his destiny and moral obligation to the Wizarding world.
Even though it was just after luncheon, the air was chill and a stiff breeze rustled the long grass beside me. I passed a pleasant time briskly walking up hill and down dale until my eyes alighted on a house nestled snugly into the base of a small hill, a cheery chimney puffing out its welcome. I had just put my hand on the gate when a voice filled with suspicion spoke. "Who the devil are you?"
"Mr Woodlock, sir," I replied, casting my eye around the courtyard. It was as empty as the sky, nary a laying hen nor a lounging dog to be seen.
"Over here," the voice said, and I saw a man leaning against the western wall. He was of a standard height, his weight within normal parameters; there were no scars or other deformities to blemish his face. He looked like any other middle-aged Wizarding man, yet, as soon as I espied his nose in profile, I knew my mysterious fellow.
"Why, you're Professor Severus Snape," I exclaimed, opening the gate and fairly running to his side, hand outstretched in surprise and admiration. "I had no idea that you lived in this fair countryside. How came you here? I am to interview the Mistress Potter-Weasley on the trials and tribulations of her life with her beloved husband, the great Harry Potter, may he rest in peace. Perhaps I could impose upon you - ?"
"Perhaps you can go to Hades," the Professor said with a sneer. His black eyes flashed with deadly accuracy across my shocked countenance, then looked out to the horizon. "I ask your business not for interest in your duties, but to inquire as to your reason for trespassing upon my property."
"Your property, sir?" I said. "I was of the belief this dwelling and the land it resides upon belongs to Mrs Potter-Weasley, for it was she who invited me here. Am I mistaken?"
"As to who invited you to disturb my solitude, rest assured you are correct. I would no sooner have one of your kind in my domicile than I would an adder in my bed. As to the former question, I leave that for the good mistress herself to satisfy your curiosity."
With a sly grin at that final pronouncement, Snape flicked the hem of his robe, sending great clouds of dust in my direction. If I did not know better, I would have believed his actions were intentional.
"Kreacher?" he barked. "See that this man is taken care of."
The house-elf Kreacher led me with solemn grace into the parlour. He was a noble-looking beast, dignity apparent in every line. He wore a tiny coat of what looked to be sable or ermine and in its front pocket he had a pocket watch almost as large as one of his ears, its shine showing the obvious loving attention paid to it. He bade me to make myself at ease and, with a bow and a muted flash, disappeared to retrieve the lady of the house.
The room invited me to sit with numerous comfortable lounges and elegant leather footrests, but I could not find my ease with the plethora of people staring down at me from the hundreds of pictures that adorned the walls. Large gilded frames, tiny modest frames; all of which seemed to enclose red-headed individuals who watched my every move with interest. They poked sleeping companions to wakefulness so they could whisper about me behind their hands. They hissed to friends across the room to "Get a look at this one, would you? Who is he, do you think? Has our Ginny got herself a new fancy?"
I was fairly blushing and so uncomfortable that I should have spoken my displeasure at any second, when the heavy sound of someone descending the stairs held my tongue. Through the archway I could see Kreacher picking his way inelegantly down steps that were too deep for his short limbs and, behind him, the full chiffon skirt of what could only be my quarry.
"Mrs Potter-Weasley," Kreacher said, standing aside so his mistress could enter the room.
And she did, with as much calculated aplomb as a debutante attending her first ball. The chiffon skirt was attached to a corset, its stays straining against the still firm bosom of a woman who had recently achieved her prime. Mrs Potter-Weasley's hair was pulled up and back in the French fashion and, spilling over it and her shoulders, was a veil of the most delicately spun spider’s web. Her entire ensemble was black.
"Mr Woodlock," she said, graciously giving me her hand to kiss. I murmured my hello's into the back of her fine glove before the hand was carelessly ripped from mine. The mistress fell back into a settee with a heavy sigh, the mourning veil thrown off her face and tucked over one shoulder with alacrity, her legs outstretched so that the skirt rose up to show her ankles. I hastily looked away and noticed a pair of identical twins snickering at me from their vantage point above the fireplace. Another sigh forced me to look towards my hostess and I ensured that I kept my eyes above her shoulders.
"Oh, Mr Woodlock, what terrible days are these," she exclaimed, sniffing and pressing a delicate lace handkerchief to dry eyes. She seemed to await a reply so I did, agreeing with her most earnestly. She sighed again and picked up a small pewter bell sitting near her elbow. "Kreacher," she cried, ringing it impatiently. "Kreacher, I want you."
The creature appeared by her side with nary a hair out of place and was bid to procure afternoon tea. Within minutes our repast was prettily laid out, each of us with a steaming cup of tea in hand and a dish of delicate morsels on our knee. Once we were alone again, I cleared my throat to begin my patter, but before I could speak a word, Mrs Potter-Weasley took charge of the conversation.
"How dreadful you must feel after having to walk such a distance," she said, taking a large bite out of a cream bun. "If only the Floo was working, but my late husband contrived to block it when first we moved in - he was mortally against unexpected visitors – and I cannot get it to work again. I've had the best wizards and witches money could buy out to look at it, but to no avail."
"Well, he was the most powerful wizard of our time," I replied, rather cheekily.
Mrs Potter-Weasley, having finished her bun, took up a quiche and bit into it, looking down her nose at me.
"But it must be quite an inconvenience to you," I hastened to stammer. "Quite."
"If you only knew, Mr Woodlock," she said, seeming already to forgive my faux pas. "A widowed witch, stuck out here in the back of hill country, far away from friends and loved ones, with only a faithful servant to protect her. I hardly know myself most days and it is a burden to take in enough nourishment to sustain myself. 'Tis intolerably lonesome, Mr Woodlock, intolerably lonesome."
"And Professor Snape?" I interjected, cringing inwardly when I saw a fleet of emotions pass quickly over her face.
"Yes. Snape."
"If you don't mind," I asked, pulling a bespelled quill and parchment out of my coat pocket (for neither servant nor mistress had bade me to remove it), "I was wondering what exactly are the terms of your arrangement? You see, I have been under the impression that Professor Snape – "
"Is very much alive and in the flesh," said he of whom I was speaking. Snape leant against the doorjamb; I do not know if his choice of position was one of design, but it had we three in opposition, as if we were the points of a perfect triangle.
"What are you doing here?" Mrs Potter-Weasley hissed, leaning forwards. "You said you would not come up here while I was about."
"If I were to wait for you to leave the premises, I should not leave the dungeon in daylight hours," he responded casually. He flicked his wand and a cup of tea glided into his hand. "Who is he and what is he doing here?" he asked, appearing to desire to satisfy his thirst in both tea and knowledge.
My mouth dropped open; I had heard (as had everyone) of Professor Severus Snape's infamous rudeness, but to be on the receiving end of that bluntness, that obvious disinclination to accede to civilised social intercourse, was outrageous in such a day and age. Before I could speak my mind, the mistress interjected for me.
"Who he is and what he is doing here are none of your business!" she said, then proceeded to divulge everything. "Mr Woodlock is a reporter from a very important periodical. He is here because he wishes to interview me on my time in the Great War."
"The Great War," Snape spat. "'There was nothing great about it, as anyone who had actually fought would know. Feeling a little underappreciated, are you? Missing the accolades that came with being Harry Potter's wife? To my memory, you didn't seem to care so much about what the public thought while your husband was still alive."
"Shut up," she said. "Shut up or I'll have you put out into the cold where you belong."
"But you can't, can you, Ginny?" he mocked. "Nor can I have you and your ridiculous trifles thrown into the street, which you most assuredly deserve, but that blasted idiot would not allow it and I am too stubborn to give in. The only way either of us will be leaving Godric's Hollow is in a coffin."
"I hate you," Mrs Potter-Weasley said, her eyes now streaming with real tears, the lace handkerchief useless against such a tide. "I hate you and I wish you were dead again."
"As do I, my lady, since there is nothing on this earth that I desire," Snape said. With a delicacy that I did not expect from so bitter a personality, he placed his teacup next to a picture of Harry Potter himself, who was shaking his head with a distinct look of disappointment. Snape's lips thinned to almost nothingness; he took his bow of the picture and us and left.
After such a display I was sure that I would be sent off without another word spoken, but Ginny (as she asked me to call her after the previous spectacle, saying, "There's no point in putting on airs after you had to witness that.") begged me not to leave. We sat in near silence: she, sniffing repeatedly and blowing her nose into a much more worthy receptacle which she had pulled out from between her bosoms; I, plucking anxiously at a loose thread on the sleeve of my coat. Through the grand parlour windows I saw that light was fading; day was making its inexorable transition into night. Three or so songbirds landed nearby on the limb of a tall, leafless tree and fluttered their feathers, puffing themselves up before lifting off to find a place to sleep for the night.
"I'll be back in a minute," Ginny said finally, tucking both spent handkerchiefs back in her corset. "Don't go. Have some more tea."
It was closer to an hour before she returned than a minute and by that time I had consumed two cakes, six sandwich triangles and four cups of tea. She laughed as I impolitely stammered, and pointed me to the water closet. As I completed my ablutions, I spoke sternly to myself in the mirror, reminding my reflection that the mission I was on was much coveted by my peers, that success in this venture would no doubt lead to greater success in my career, greater acknowledgments by my employer and acclaim by the general public and that, at this late stage of the day, I had yet to write a blasted thing!
Kreacher was waiting for me in the hall when I had finally finished admonishing myself, and indicated that I was to follow him to the dining room. Ginny sat at the end of a table that could comfortably seat twelve but had been laid out for two. She wore the same outfit in which she had met me, but did make the concession of removing her veil for the evening meal. In truth I was not in the least bit hungry, but a reporter must do whatever is necessary to get a story.
Ginny ate and drank plentifully during our repast; it appeared as if the unpleasantness of the afternoon had had no lasting effect on her appetite. Kreacher stood motionless in the corner, watching as she refilled her own goblet on no fewer than four occasions. The fifth time, as more wine spilt onto the tablecloth than landed in her glass, he moved to switch the nearest carafe with that of water with such practiced ease that I wondered if this dance was not a nightly occurrence. Ginny either did not notice the deception or chose to ignore her servant's intrusion.
After dinner ended (with neither sight nor sound of Snape), we moved back to the parlour for dessert. I begged that we might sit and speak of the purpose of my visit, but she blocked my every attempt.
"Oh, don't be such a fuddy-duddy," she slurred. She handed me a clipped cigar and, throwing open the windows, bade that I smoke it. "It's so dreary here. Why not have some music? Why not have a little fun?"
"But the interview…my employer…"
"Rot the interview," she said, listing against the mantle. "Rot your employer and rot you!"
She laughed when she saw my face. "I was speaking in jest, Mr Woodlock. Can you not take a joke? You're as mirthless as Snape."
"Speaking of Snape – "
"No, we will not," she exclaimed, stumbling into a chair, her face pressed against her crossed arms. "I don't want to talk about him, or Harry, or me, or anything else in this stupid, stupid world. I just want...I want."
"What do you want, Mistress?" I coaxed.
"I want the world to turn back. I want time to start again. I want my family here – whole and hearty – and a husband that worships me and my children to be with me. Poor me…poor children."
She began to mumble and I leant forward.
"God damn Severus Snape. And God damn Harry Potter too. May they both rot in hell."
And with that, she fell asleep.
Kreacher appeared within seconds and I wondered if this was not the way that every night in Godric's Hollow ended.
"May I be of assistance?" I whispered. Kreacher shook his head and snapped his fingers. His mistress floated gently towards the ceiling and then out the door, presumably to be laid out on her bed.
"God damn it," I said, staring at the blank parchment crushed uselessly beneath my thigh.
I had not noticed the rain until it began to fall quite hard upon the sill. I hastened to shut the windows as the wind picked up and the flames of the candles that dotted the room began to flicker out. I scratched my head; it would be nigh on impossible to make my way back to Portkey to my own quarters in this weather and the absolute darkness of our surroundings made the journey a treacherous one.
"Sir?"
Kreacher, that masterful house-elf, appeared just as I was laying cushions on the floor and setting out my coat to make what little comfort I could in front of the fireplace.
"You must be silent," he said, resting a long, thin finger across his lips.
I followed him up the stairs, wincing as floorboards squeaked under my tread. Kreacher, having intimate knowledge of the house, made no sound.
We passed a series of closed doors that I assumed led to bedrooms until we came to one at the end of the corridor. Kreacher dug into his coat and brought forth a silver key that he used to unlock the door.
The room smelt faintly of disuse, although it was obvious that some care had been taken to maintain its upkeep. An unmade bed, a cupboard, a chair, a settee near the window – this was the entirety of the furniture.
"You sleep here," Kreacher said. "The Mistress shall not trouble you. Do not make a sound. If you should hear anyone walking outside your door, do not open it."
"Now see here," I hissed. "I thank you for your hospitality, but surely there is another room that is more suited to a weary traveller? One that holds a made bed, perhaps?"
"I shall come for you in the morning," the maddening elf replied. "Heed my words - let not Snape know you are here."
After he left I checked the door - he had not locked me in – but where was I to go on such a night? At this altitude the wind fairly howled at me and I spent precious minutes cursing under my breath and using a box of matches that were happily in my pocket to light the one candle graced me. I checked my timepiece and was unsurprised to find that it was very late, which no doubt contributed to my giving in to the situation so easily.
The bed, when I lay upon it, was cold and lumpy. The settee, however, was long enough and comfortable enough to rest upon, especially once I had rolled up my coat to use as a rough pillow.
The effects of a long day and two substantial meals soon had me nodding off. In the darkness of the room, the flame of my candle seemed a piercing torch to my heavy eyes. I do not claim to have supernatural inclinations, yet my rest was not easy. Perhaps it was the wind singing to me against the windowpane; perhaps it was the irregular scratch of branches against the glass – try as I might to block out the sounds, I seemed to hear muffled voices speaking to me. And try as I might, I could not discern the words, but the urgent cadence of their speech and the whispers of their fancies followed me down into my dreams…
When Harry Potter opened the door to his home on the day of his 40th birthday, he expected to find Ron, Hermione and their children. Instead, he found Severus Snape.
A very alive Severus Snape.
"Well, aren’t you going to let me in?" Snape asked.* * * * *
After two weeks of tests and scrutinies, Snape moved into Godric’s Hollow.* * * * *
"What’s he still doing here?"
"What am I supposed to do, Ginny? I can’t just throw him out into the street."
"Yes, yes you can, Harry. I don’t understand why you’re letting him live here."
Snape licked his finger and turned another page of his book. He had no doubt that Ginny was aware the house had excellent acoustics and that Potter was under the impression that their conversation was being conducted in stealth. Fortunately, it amused Snape to hear her and Potter arguing in the kitchen. He had forgotten that married people fought so often and with such superb skill.
"Well, you tell me what I should do. ’Hello, Snape, jolly good that you’re back from the dead and all that but would you mind moving out, dear chap? Why yes, I’m perfectly aware that you’ve no place to go and Merlin knows the Ministry doesn’t know what to do with you, but the wife says you’re making her feel uncomfortable .‘"
"God, I hate it when you put on stupid voices. If you can’t talk to me like a grownup, then just shut up."
"Ginny, he’s a war hero! Would you be acting the same way if it were Dumbledore that had turned up on our doorstep?"
"He’s not Dumbledore. In fact, I don’t even think he’s Snape."
"Oh, here we go again..."
"And there you go again making fun of me."
"Because what you’re saying is ridiculous! I’ve checked him out, okay? The Ministry has checked him out. If you don’t believe me, then believe them. He’s passed every single spell and he really is Severus Snape."
"Then why hasn’t he aged? Where has he been this whole time? People don’t just come back from the dead, Harry. What’s he hiding?"
"Oh, bleeding hell, nothing! He can’t remember, okay? He doesn’t know how or why or what happened. We’ve been through this a million times - "
"And we’ll keep going through it a million times more until you give me a good reason for him still being here."
"Because I want him to be, all right? He’s here because I want him to be here. The kids are at school and you’re always off and about doing your own thing...why can’t I have a friend to stay? The house is big enough and you didn’t seem to give a shit what I did when it was just you and me - "
"Now hang on a minute - "
"No, you hang on. You and I both know things haven’t been right between us for years and you can’t just jump up and try to tell me what to do because you’ve decided to remain Ginny Potter in name only. You wanted us to stay married for the sake of the kids? I said fine. You wanted to have an ‘on again, off again’ career? I said fine. You wanted to keep living here? I said fine. But I get a say in what happens in this house too, and I say that Snape stays."
Someone stormed upstairs and slammed a bedroom door while another someone stamped out the back door, knocking something over.
If Snape had been another type of man, he might have felt chagrined to be the cause of such an explosive argument. But every word spoken had been true: he really didn’t know how he had come to be alive. Given the choices of begging for a job at Hogwarts, slaving himself to the Ministry, attempting to eke out a living selling potions in a dingy store or living in relative comfort under the roof of his former thorn-in-the-side student, he had chosen the thorn.
Potter was happy to have him around and that was good enough.* * * * *
Snape had taken over a corner of the house and enlarged it to suit his needs. Despite the noxious smells and slimy ingredients, the dungeon seemed to suit Harry’s moods too, for he often spent hours there whiling away the time with Snape. The first few months had been awkward; neither of them had known how to get past the twin elephants in the room of Lily and Dumbledore, but a drunken evening that had started with remembrances of the war led to mutual laughter at some of the more ridiculous things they’d witnessed during their shared past and, in the morning, they’d woken with a mutual respect and matching hangovers.
Ginny was frequently gone for days at a time or, if she was around, chose to spend her time in her own apartments. Harry seemed to have no employment beyond flying for enjoyment and walking for exercise, a fact Snape had no compunction in teasing him about, calling him ‘Squire’ whenever he got the chance. Harry, much wittier in his maturity, referred to Snape as his ‘gentleman’s companion’ as they rambled about the moors.* * * * *
"Potter," Snape yelled through the parlour window. "Kreacher informs me that dinner is to be served when you’re ready."
"I’ll be in in a minute," Harry called over his shoulder as he leant on the front gate.
Snape sighed and put aside his paper. Wrapping a scarf around his neck and grabbing another for Harry, he joined him outside. "Thanks," Harry said, after Snape threw it at his head.
"It’s the least I can do for the man that has given me some semblance of life back."
Harry scowled. "Stop that. I never thought the day would come when I’d tell you to stop thanking me but cut it out, it makes me feel weird."
Snape’s laugh was gravelly but pleased. "Don’t take this the wrong way, Potter, but I’m quite impressed with the man you've turned into."
Harry bumped Snape with his shoulder. "I told you to call me Harry; I don’t enjoy flashing back to Potions class every time you speak to me. And listen, don’t you take this the wrong way, but I’m glad you missed out on the last decade or two. Most of it was complete rubbish and I find I quite like having a friend of my own age."
"Near your own age."
"Close enough. I think I could be older than you now."
"In real time, perhaps. We’ve both lived out the same amount of years, just at different times."
Harry nodded. "I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again - that is really fucking freaky."
Snape’s laughter this time was just as pleased.* * * * *
"Where’re you off to?" Harry asked, one leg kicked over the arm of the lounge.
"I thought I might visit with some friends. There are still people that wish to be seen with the mysterious Severus Snape, despite his intimate acquaintance with Harry Potter."
"Smart arse."
Snape paused at the door. "Is something wrong?"
"No."
"I’ve no patience for tomfoolery," Snape barked. "If I’ve offended you, then spit it out."
"I said it’s nothing, all right? Go enjoy your ‘friends’," Harry said, sneering.
Snape strode into the room, his robe snapping behind him. He loomed over Harry. "Speak, Potter, before I rip your tongue out from your head and wag it back at you."
"I just want to know what’s wrong with me. What the hell’s wrong with me that no one wants to stay with me?" Harry pushed up from his seat and pushed into Snape’s chest. "Ginny was right - there’s something poisonous about this place, or about me - "
Snape snapped. He grabbed Harry by the scruff of the neck and mashed their mouths together. Harry groaned and pushed forward. He and Snape fell back onto the floor, Harry threading his fingers through Snape’s greasy hair and climbing into his lap. Their hands bumped as they fumbled at their waists, pushing aside robes and trousers until they got to the hot, sweaty skin beneath. Harry cried out as he came, humping himself on Snape’s thigh. He pulled back for a breath and tasted blood; he’d cut his lip on Snape’s teeth. Snape panted up at him as Harry wiped his mouth, tracking the blood that smeared across his cheek. They caught each other’s eye, took in the mess that Harry had made all over Snape’s pubic hair, took in the fact that Snape was still painfully aroused, and started to chuckle. The chuckles turned into guffaws then moans as Harry nuzzled Snape’s neck and pulled him off with exquisite sweetness.* * * * *
As autumn solidified into winter, Snape started to share Harry’s excitement that his children would soon be home for the holidays.* * * * *
"You know, Potter," Snape said as he accepted a cup of tea from Kreacher, "I find myself becoming quite fond of my namesake. He is not yet a prodigy in potions, but he is certainly not the dunderhead one would expect, coming from such illustrious loins."
"Loins," Harry said, raising one eyebrow.
"Be silent," Snape replied, concentrating on the sugar bowl. "Idiot."
"Where’s Al?" Ginny asked, Lily trailing behind her and eating an apple.
"I don’t know. I thought he was with Jamie," Harry said, hugging his daughter to him. Snape slipped her a sugar cube and she took it shyly.
"Jamie? James! Al! Come and get your tea."
Footsteps thundered down the stairs and James burst into the room. "What’s up?"
"Tea time," Ginny said. "Get your brother."
"Don’t know where he is."
"Check outside," Harry said, "and do me a favour; put your broomstick in the shed like I - "
An explosion rocked the house. Dust cascaded from the ceiling and a number of commemorative plates fell from their perches, scattering sharp shards around the room.
"What was that?" Ginny asked, James cowering beside her. Snape lifted his head; he and Harry had grabbed Lily and sheltered her between them.
"Al? Al!" Harry screamed as he ran towards the dungeon.* * * * *
"He could have died," Harry said softly, running his fingers carefully through Al’s hair.
Snape stood at the end of the sick bed, his face impassive.
"I told you he was no good," Ginny said, flashing hateful eyes towards Snape as she wept by Al’s bedside. "This never would have happened if he wasn’t here."
"God, Ginny..." Harry said, rubbing red-rimmed eyes.
"She’s right," Snape said through gritted teeth. "I accept full responsibility."
"Now’s not the time, okay, Snape?" Harry interrupted. "Al...he’s hurt and we need to concentrate on helping him to get better. Nothing else matters right now."
"Of course. I understand." Snape leant over and squeezed Al’s toes through the blankets.
When Harry finally made his way downstairs, Kreacher informed him that Professor Snape had moved out.* * * * *
Three years later, a severe bout of whooping cough spread throughout the Wizarding world. Extremists blamed the increased interaction between wizards and Muggles, but statistics proved them wrong; it didn’t seem to matter if the person was Squib, pure-blood or had grown up with Muggles; the chances of people becoming infected depended on their previous immunity.
It spread quickly throughout the student population of Hogwarts, and the halls and dorms rang to the sounds of sniffling, uncomfortable students. All three of Harry and Ginny’s children had been spelled against the majority of childhood ailments, but Lily seemed to suffer the most. No matter what the doctors and nurses did, she could not be comforted, so was sent home to recuperate.
Harry caught it from her.* * * * *
"What are you doing here? I don’t want you here," Ginny screamed at Snape.
He held both hands out, a potions bottle in each palm. "I was informed that Lily was ill. I brewed these for her."
"I don’t want you here," Ginny said, tears streaming from her eyes. Ron pulled her gently into his embrace.
"Listen, Gin, I think we can use all the help we can get. Snape might be a right bastard but he knows his stuff. Let him help."
"You’re all the same," Ginny said, pushing Ron away. "Fine. Let the bastard help them."
"Them?" Snape asked.
Ron sighed as Ginny stormed out of the room. "Harry. He’s got it too. And he’s not getting any better."* * * * *
Snape set up camp in his old quarters and spent hours a day brewing potions. Kreacher was a whirlwind, popping back and forth between Ginny and whomever she was tending at the moment and Snape’s dungeons, bringing tonics and tea and coercing people into eating. Ron travelled between Godric’s Hollow and his home every day. Hermione was pregnant again and couldn’t risk getting infected.
"Thanks," Ron said as Snape handed him another batch of potions. They were at the bottom of the stairs and it struck Ron as funny that the only time he and Snape seemed to meet was in the middle ground of the parlour, between upstairs and dungeons, and usually at dusk.
"For Lily. Rub this one on her chest and have her drink this, two drops on her tongue every hour. These are for Potter. A bottle to be rubbed on his chest and back every hour when he’s awake, a bottle to be drunk after every meal and this is to be infused in boiling water and breathed in whenever he feels short of breath. If he refuses, feel free to push his face into the bowl."
"He’s asking about you," Ron said awkwardly. "Wants to see you."
Snape ran a hand across his face. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a month. "Is she improving?"
Ron sighed; he was used to Snape avoiding this particular conversation. "Almost as good as new. The doctor says to keep up whatever you’re doing."
Snape nodded and turned away, one foot already on the steps leading downstairs.
"Snape," Ron said, grabbing his wrist. "I don’t want to say much because...doctors can be wrong, you know? And Ginny’s upset enough as it is, Lily’s taken a long time to get better. But Harry...look, all I’m saying is..." Ron swallowed heavily. "He really wants to see you and I think you should go to him. If you ever had any real feelings - well, I just think you should go. And don’t leave it too long, for both of your sakes."* * * * *
In the darkest, quietest part of the night, Snape opened the door to Harry’s room. Harry was awake and alone and propped up against pillows, but Snape could still hear him struggling for breath. It was the first time they’d set eyes on each in nearly four years.
"Snape," Harry said, smiling. On every exhale, a high, thin, whistling sound escaped. Snape fought the urge to punch the windows with his bare fists, to blast out the walls with his magic.
Harry’s quarters were cosy; they’d taken on the appearance of a long-term invalid’s sickroom. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the corners, and candles burned on every available surface. A wireless played softly in the background.
"Can’t sleep?" Harry asked, gasping for breath. "Me neither. Come and sit down. You look terrible."
Snape grimaced and wondered aloud, "Have you looked in a mirror lately?" He walked clumsily to a chair beside the bed, Harry tracking his every move. The second he sat down, Harry leant over and clutched his hand. "Don’t," he said, as Snape tried to pull away. "It took you long enough to get here. It’s hard for me to speak or move around much. If a dying man wants to hold your hand, the least you can do is let him."
"Harry," Snape said, cradling Harry’s hand between both of his own. "Forgive me. I never - "
A coughing fit overcame Harry, and Snape put an arm behind his back, braced him and felt every tremor wrack through his body.
"Shhh," Harry said finally, leaning back on his pillow. His eyes slowly closed and a half-smile graced his face. "I like this song."
Snape sat in impatient silence waiting for it to end, then another one started. Harry sighed and looked so comfortable Snape found he couldn’t bear to break the peace. As one song bled into another, he too began to relax. The constant clamouring in his head died down into murmurs and his heart seemed to slow its beating.
"Stupid Dursleys," Harry said finally. His eyes struggled to open. "I knew they hated me, but I just always assumed that they took care of the basics. If I’d have known, I would have bloody vaccinated myself."
Snape moved Harry’s hand and, with painstakingly careful movements, sat beside him on the bed. He tenderly brushed Harry’s errant hair off his forehead. It amazed him how fragile a person could look yet still be alive.
Harry smiled and sighed, that terrible whistling noise ever present in his voice. "I like that. Don’t stop."
Snape leant over and kissed him on the lips, gently, reverently. "It’s not yet your time, Potter. I will be most aggrieved if you should leave me after having been so long without you."
Harry turned his head and nuzzled Snape’s face. "It was a stupid misunderstanding. We’re both idiots."
"Yes, we are."
There were tears on Harry’s cheeks and Snape brushed them away, not knowing to whom they belonged.
"Do you think I can call you Severus now?" Harry asked in a voice so tiny it seemed to be composed more of vibration than of air.
"Yes, you can. If I can call you darling...my heart...my own sweet Harry."
"I like that," Harry said. "My heart. My own." He shifted and grimaced, then his face relaxed into peacefulness. "I’m glad you came back to see me."
"How can I live without my soul?" Snape asked, watching the sun slowly rise over the horizon, watching every last painful rise and fall of Harry’s chest until, just as the first sunbeam of the new day crossed into the room, it rose no more...
I awoke to a dreadful howling and it took me but a moment to realise that the terrible sound was coming from my own throat. I pulled myself up from my reclined position and felt my forehead; it was covered in what I initially thought to be perspiration, but soon discovered to be water. It seemed that as I had been sleeping, powerful winds had flung open the window and the rain had beat down upon me mercilessly.
My sigh of relief was to be cut short; no sooner had I wiped my brow than the bedroom door was flung open.
"Harry?" Snape bellowed. "Is that you?"
I am not ashamed to admit that I feared for my life when I saw Snape, white-faced and tight-lipped as he realised it was I in the room, not an apparition of Harry Potter. He rushed towards me with great fury, pulling me up by my collar and shaking me roughly.
"How did you get up here?" he roared. "To whom were you speaking?"
"No – no one," I stammered, twisting uselessly in his grasp.
"Did you see him? To whom were you calling out?"
"Let me be," I said, struggling for breath. "I saw no one, nothing! 'Twas only a dream, I'm sure of it."
"What right have you to dream of him?" he spat. His breath was sour and hot on my cheek and I flinched at his unwavering gaze. "Who are you that he should come to you when I have been calling out to him, begging him to return for me? Why you and not me?"
With a snarl he hurled me to the floor and fairly threw the top half of his body out the window.
"Harry," he yelled out into the storm, paying no heed to the rain and wind that battered against his face, that tossed his hair into snarls. "Harry Potter! Don't hide from me, Harry. I'm not angry with you. I want to see you again…I've been waiting for you. Please, Harry, my heart, my soul, come back. Don't leave me again. I'm sorry. Forgive me. Forgive me, please, and take me with you."
My skin crawled and my heart palpitated at such a passionate display. I clutched my head and wondered why the rest of the household had not been awakened by the uproar. Snape continued to plead out the window, sobbing as he stated his case to whatever spectres might be passing by and I felt a trace of human compassion deep in my soul at one that was so obviously unhinged by grief. But the well of compassion can only sink so deep; I used Snape's distraction to make my way down the stairs and out the door before he became sensible to my actions.
The sun was making its advent above the watery horizon, a fact for which I was most grateful as I picked my way through mud and grass, so eager to remove myself from the situation that I paid no mind to the fact that I was without a coat (no doubt my erstwhile pillow was still under Snape's knee), nor did I seem to recall myself a wizard, it taking me to nearly my journey's conclusion before I thought to spell myself a shield that kept off the worst of the rain. But I did not chastise myself too harshly; my reasoning had been swayed by the events that had taken place so soon after waking from such vivid nightmares, and my muddy trousers and fevered brow were the last things on my mind as I pulled a thimble from my pocket and Portkeyed myself home.
Nearly twelve months had passed before I found myself again in the vicinity of Godric's Hollow. After collapsing inelegantly in my living room, I had changed my clothes and steeled my spine, then Apparated to my editor's office, ready to receive the full brunt of his wrath at having failed in my mission. But happily, the lack of material regarding Mrs Potter-Weasley was the last thing on his mind. In my short absence a scandal had erupted, one salacious enough that it would occupy reporters and readers from all around the Wizarding world for months. Marmaduke Mullins, the director of the London Enchanted Opera company, had been found dead in the apartment of Tiffany-Amber Allbright, a young and upcoming soprano. What was even more intriguing was the fact it took a week for the authorities to contact Mullin's wife, as it soon became known that she was holidaying with acclaimed Gobstones champion Prospero Demidov and Snur the Sagacious, one of the most senior members of Gringotts Wizarding Bank.
Even though I was late from the gate, my inquisitive mind and genial demeanour got me right into the thick of things, and I was able to gain a critical (and frank) interview with Lady Mullin's chambermaid. My hard-hitting exposé scored me many points with my editor, and I quickly rose through the ranks, stepping over colleague after colleague in my quest for glory. Within weeks I was being sent around the globe, chasing schemes and scandals and my name soon became synonymous with sensational journalism.
And then one day, whilst in pursuit of another lead, I looked in the mirror and did not recognise the person staring back at me. My eyes, once so open and trusting, were heavy with suspicion. My mouth, which had always been eager to smile, was downturned at its corners and seemed to telegraph its disgust with the world. And my once genial face seemed scarred at its edges from lines brought on by the indulgences of excessive liquor and a chronic lack of sleep.
I did not like the person I was turning into, nor did I imagine I would like the person I envisaged I would eventually become.
I contacted my new editor (the last one falling to the wayside as my star continued to rise) and she amiably agreed to allow me a fortnight off, owning that I had earned my rest and that a junior reporter might be sent to pick up the slack. As I packed my meagre belongings, my thoughts wandered in a desultory fashion: where to go and what to do? My eyes alighted on a loose thread at the end of a sleeve as I was buttoning up my shirt; I picked at it, and within seconds was mentally transported to the events of a year ago.
What some would call nosiness I call curiosity and it has always been a failing of mine. The distance of both place and time had softened my remembrances of Godric's Hollow and I was filled with a sorely missed interest in the purest pursuit of my craft. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to walk the hills of that land again, to feel the honest sun beat down upon my face, to smell the rising sweetness of heather as I strode towards what should have been my first journalistic coup. And yes, my pride had been sorely tested as I ruminated over the cowardly way I had taken my leave. I had often wondered if the abject terror I had felt at Snape's behaviour in my rooms that night was a sincere manifestation of his overpowering fury and loss or if it were my own weaknesses that had made the event into so pronounced a phenomenon in my thoughts. If nothing else, I was a gentleman and wanted to make my apologies to Ginny for absconding from her in so mean a fashion.
And with that notion firmly in mind, I resolved my heart and began my journey.
The front aspect of the house was much changed since my last visit. A generous pathway had been carved into the sod leading up to the gate, and through it, elaborate brickwork made the walk easy. Small pockets of brightly coloured pansies were dotted along the meandering path, and I stopped to admire their beauty as I walked its serpentine length. Having found a bunch with much fragrance, I picked a flower and inserted it into my lapel.
Not knowing who, or what, I might expect as a welcome, I kept a weather eye about. It was unlikely that Snape had forgotten me and I resolved to meet him with a straight spine and a steady hand outstretched in fraternity.
A liver-coloured bitch barked sharply at my entrance and, after sniffing my feet and finding me no threat, ambled back to her place under a shady tree, a squabble of puppies yelping playfully at their mother as she retook her post.
"Hello."
The voice was feminine and of the curious cadence of one who had spent her youth in the Americas.
"Good afternoon," I said, doffing my hat and bowing.
A young lady was lounging comfortably on a chaise, an open book in her lap. She removed a large sunhat from her head, the better to see me. "I haven't seen you before. Are you just checking in?"
My face must have shown my puzzlement, for she elaborated. "Miss Ginny's Bed and Breakfast. Have you come to stay?"
"I had," I said. "But I wonder if there are any rooms left?"
"Oh, I'm sure there's room," she said, closing her book and placing it into a handbag at her side. "There's a bunch of people staying but there's always room for one more, as Miss Ginny says. I'd show you in, but I promised a friend I'd meet him in town. Do you know the way or shall I call a house-elf?"
I begged her not to tarry on my account and returned her friendly wave as she closed the gate behind her.
"Lodgers?" I murmured as I made my way to the front door. "Surely Snape would not stand for such intrusion."
A sign outside the door confirmed that I was, indeed, at Miss Ginny's Bed and Breakfast. Passing through, I noticed the interior of the dwelling also showed definite signs of improvement; the banister and stairway itself shone with the oil of carefully treated wood and the windows of the parlour were flung wide, bright curtains shifting in the breeze as the pictures on the wall hallo'd me with good cheer.
A door at the back of the house opened and through it I heard a merry tune playing, as well as several voices talking and laughing.
"Litsy," I heard a voice call. "Litsy, I want you."
"Miss Ginny," I said as the mistress of the house made her entrance.
"Who - ? Why, it's Mr Woodlock," she exclaimed as she came towards me, hand outstretched in welcome. She shook my hand heartily and looked me up and down. "My dear sir, you look dreadful! Have you been ill?"
"Purely the excesses of my employment," I replied. "I bring no sickness to your house."
"Fah," she said, pulling me towards a lounge. "I would not turn away a friend." She sat next to me and I took the opportunity to look her over as frankly as she did me. Although she seemed plumper than when we'd last met, her face shone with good health and her skin was pink with vigour. She wore no black; her shift was as light and airy as the curtains in the room.
"I'm afraid I have not properly showed you friendship," I said. "The way that I left so abruptly on my previous visit...if I could only explain - "
"You have nothing to explain," she said, drawing herself up in her chair. "I heard the ruckus and have no doubt about what transpired that night."
"Professor Snape – "
"Is no longer with us."
I started. "Do you mean to say that he has left? I was sure he would not forsake his claim on this property."
"I mean to say that he has left this earthly plane and good riddance to him," she said with enthusiasm.
"Mistress Ginny!"
"Now, now," she said, "let us have no fake tears, you needn't feign sadness on my behalf and I doubt you were so fond of the man as to miss his presence. Severus Snape was thoroughly unpleasant in life and I have no doubt he continues to be a thorn in the side of anyone unlucky to meet him on the other side. But no more of him: Snape is gone and there's nothing to be done of it. Are you staying?"
It took me a moment to catch up to the sudden change in conversation. "I had planned on it and hoped to use the time to restore myself and complete our interview, if you were so inclined. But I happened upon an American lass on the front lawns who implied your house was now running under a different purpose?"
"'Tis quite a short tale so I'll let you have it now," she said. "I have guests in the garden and we were having such merry sport! There is singing and laughter and all manner of enjoyment. Oh, but it is so refreshing to meet new people and if one is able to stay at home and have them come to you, all the better for it."
"I don't wish to delay you. Please, let us converse at another time."
"Hush, when I say it is short, I mean it. No more than a fortnight after you left, Snape died. Knowing he had no friends nor kinsmen to claim him, I took it upon myself to see him buried."
"Of what did he die? I do not claim to have known him intimately, but he looked as hale as one could be when I left." Recalling Snape’s glittering black eyes and enraged passion, I had no doubts as to the strength of his constitution.
"The doctor was unable to say," Ginny said. "And really – does it matter? Kreacher found him in a room upstairs. He had thrown the windows open during a downpour and was seated by the window, candle stubs littering the entire sill. Stupid man. When Kreacher alerted me, I rushed upstairs to see with my own eyes and there he was. His face and hands were turned to the hills, as if he were seeking something during the storm. Stupid, stupid man."
I swallowed heavily. Surely my outburst had had no influence on the behaviour of such a madman, his actions coming so soon after my terrible dreams?
"With Snape gone," Ginny continued, "I had the peace to think about my prospects and la, you see it before you. A cosy home nestled among these beautiful hills, offering warm beds and comforting meals to travellers, a place where tourists from far and wide may come to stay in the house of Harry Potter himself and, if they are so inclined, to visit his final resting place."
"And that is?"
"Upon the moors, in the family kirk where Snape also lies. If I had it my way I would not have Snape share the grounds, but I was loath to combat the attentions of the Ministry. No doubt they would have wished for a pompous ceremony and atrocious statue, much as they did for Harry when he passed, and I had neither the time nor inclination to go through that again. Come," she said, leaning heavily on my knee. "Enough talk of what has gone on. Join me and my guests and we shall make a party of it."
"If you would allow, I find myself weary from my travels," I said. To be perfectly honest, my mind was reeling. "Will you think me rude if I postpone the meeting of them? I've a mind to set my possessions down and take advantage of the coming dusk to settle my mind and my stomach before our evening's repast."
"As you wish," Ginny said, with such an open face that I knew her not to be lying. "Litsy will take your things to a room and you may begin your amble. Dinner will be served at seven o'clock sharp, mind, so don't be late."
"Litsy?" I asked, taking my suitcase from my pocket and enlarging it with a modest wave of my wand.
"It’s the funniest thing," she said, eyes already wandering out of the room in her eagerness to rejoin her guests. "The day after Snape was buried, Kreacher disappeared. I know almost nothing of house-elves so I assume he took himself off to die, much as a faithful dog would, to spare a family the trauma of seeing its passing. I don’t think he ran off to serve anyone else, do you?"
"Well, I’m not sure - "
"Run along, dear," Ginny said, clapping her hands together sharply. "Enjoy your walk. Come back with a healthy appetite. Litsy? Litsy, come here. There is to be another guest at our table."
True enough, the sun was slowly setting as I turned out of the gate, away from the road and towards a gentle hill. My mind was abuzz with the new developments and, underneath all that, I was already starting to plan what my account of our interview would say when it was published.
The crest of the hill led down into the trough of another and I walked without taking much notice of my direction until I spied what looked to be a rusty gate in the distance. As I got closer I realised it enclosed a smallish patch of land that squared off a cemetery. The gate was only knee-high, so I took myself over it and spent a goodly amount of time inspecting the gravestones while moths fluttered from near and afar. There were a large number of Potters buried within the confines, some placed so long ago that their names and the dates of their birth and demise had crumbled off with old age.
In one corner I noticed a newer-looking stone, a regular monolith amongst its relatively modest neighbours. 'Harry James Potter,' it proclaimed in large letters, with a brief account of his history and familial connections below. The stone was white, glossy and altogether a thousand times more ostentatious than I expect the man himself would've enjoyed, from what little I knew of him.
To the left of it, a flat piece of black stone was embedded in the grass. 'Severus Snape,' it said, with two dates the only other ornamentation. No doubt it would seem peculiar to a passerby, that these two great men of our time would be in such close proximity in their deaths, when history itself had showed they were in such fierce opposition in life, but I found myself smiling with satisfaction. I still do not know if the dreams I had endured at Godric's Hollow contained the slightest bit of truth; however, if they did, I have no doubt that both Harry Potter and Severus Snape would look favourably on their final situation.
It soon fell dark as I made my way back towards the house and I entertained myself with the thought of pleasant company and good, elf-cooked food. Insects sang harmoniously to each other in the rushes and a large moon shone so brightly in the cloudless sky that I was able to pick my way through the countryside with nary a misstep.
I paused to catch my breath and to inhale the sweet aromas of harebells and heath when I heard the whisper of voices carried on the breeze. Turning back, I caught a glimpse of what seemed to be two people walking over the top of a hill. It was difficult to discern their figures in the gloom, but I noted that the silhouettes walked like men and were of a height with each other. I could not make out individual words, but the tones of their voices rang clear to me. One voice was deep, joyful, talking without pause as if to berate or inform, the other lighter, delighted, almost as if the speaker could not contain his happiness.
As I lingered, the figures stopped to embrace and take a moment or two to indulge in a kiss. I turned away as they walked over the hill, arm in arm. And I allowed myself to indulge in romantic thoughts, that they were indeed the souls of our two great heroes, whose tumultuous lives had gained them the reward of a blessed union after death.
I made my way back to a house that fairly blazed with laughter and light, my heart filled with fondness as I reflected on their loyalty, the constancy of their affection, the intertwining of two lives that had had their fill of misery and brutality, yet seemed to have found a single spark of joy towards the end of their days that had burned with enough passion to carry over to their unquiet slumber.
And as I shut the gate behind me, I was thankful that I had had some small part in knowing their minds, understanding their hearts and perchance, one day, sharing their story.
"I see a repose that neither earth nor hell can break, and I feel an assurance of the endless and shadowless hereafter - the Eternity they have entered - where life is boundless in its duration, and love in its sympathy, and joy in its fulness."
- Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights
MOD NOTE: POLL IS NOW CLOSED. THANK YOU FOR PARTICIPATING IN THE SNARRY GAMES.