The estate agent pushed the key into the grey, cobwebbed lock and stepped over the threshold. She hated these streets with a passion born of many evenings showing people around the local houses and coming away with nothing but complaints for her trouble. Glancing back at the street, she grimaced at the stench that rose from the river, which slumped along a few streets in the distance, wondering gloomily if she would get away with calling the cobbles that lined the road quaint. If the residents would just show a bit of care they’d find their properties would be infinitely more value. It was impossible to charge more than £50,000 for a house when there was a collection of shopping trolleys in various states of disrepair floundering about by the river’s edge. And that mill chimney; she looked up and saw the dark shadow that pressed down upon the ambitions of the people below it. Hard to have ambition, she thought, when all you have to look forward to is that monster gobbling you up everyday. Not much had changed really, since the days of the booming cotton industry. They didn’t make the fabric any more, but she knew that row upon row of women sewed together garments to pay for their husband’s drunken binges. There wasn’t much work for the men in a town devoid of hope or industry unless you counted the pickle works, and no one liked working there.
Still, at least tonight she wasn’t here to sell the property, merely facilitate some items’ removal. The room was heavy with neglect, dust lying in wait to make her sneeze. She felt as if she had stepped into the house of an old person, one who had given up on the normal things in life. The décor was outdated and covered with a layer of grime, dark wallpaper edged with discoloured paintwork abounded. Glancing at her paperwork before delving any further into the property she noted that the owner was indeed deceased; one Mr Severus Snape. Angela Davis had been in this line of work for a long time but she had never encountered a name like that before. Severus sounded positively ancient; a Roman hero, perhaps, or a philosopher.
The small sitting room had made her gasp; one thing she had not expected was to find a fairly ordinary front room looking like a venerable old library. The room reminded her of the ancient castle at Chillingham; it was a room reclaimed from decay and desertion. Three of the walls were completely lined with books and not your typical high street bookshop fodder either. These books fairly reeked of antiquity. Approaching the nearest shelf she looked at their gilt titles, but found them to be almost unreadable and gave up. Their bindings marked them as valuable and she made a rough guess that this was what was being removed from the property.
The grate was empty of anything but ash from some long-extinguished fire. Its mantle was devoid of any trinkets. In fact, as she looked around, she realised there was nothing personal in the room at all. There was not a single picture or indication that anyone with family every lived here. Passing through into the kitchen brought no relief from the air of despondency; if anything it made it worse. Her eyes were drawn to the ancient cooker that looked little used. There was no fridge, washing machine or dishwasher and she wondered what the old man did for cleaning. Probably just didn’t bother.
Upstairs was no better. A neatly made bed had not seen slumber for quite some time. She opened a drawer in the walnut dresser and found them empty save for a few grey pairs of underpants. With a shudder she swiftly closed it again and wandered to the wardrobe. Here she found some long black robes and nodded, as if this proved a long-held suspicion. The old boy had been a schoolteacher. Probably taught at the local grammar school before it was turned into a comprehensive and went downhill. Turning to leave, her eye was arrested by a piece of wood sticking out from beneath the bed. She bent and pulled out a picture frame. The room was so dim that she had to stand by the window to fully make out the image. It was a young girl in school uniform, pretty red hair and green eyes gazing at the camera with all the joy of youth. Angela felt a sudden hope that the old man had got to see his daughter before he died; she looked so lovely.
A long sigh escaped her lips. No storage space, no space at all to speak of really. Sometimes these houses had a Tardis-like effect and you stepped into spacious rooms with high ceilings. Not this one. It was a rat’s nest, and no mistake. At least the cast iron fireplace looked original. The young wives liked those, a lot. At least until they realised the work necessary to keep them clean and working efficiently. Chimney sweeps were not high on everyone’s list of essential tradesmen any more.
Her reverie was broken by a sharp knocking at the door and she hurriedly set the photograph on the dresser and clattered down the stairs to let the visitor “ she glanced at her paperwork again to be sure of his name “ in. Opening the door, she was greeted by the serious face of a young man who appeared to have fought the world and won only by the skin of his fingertips. She had never seen such a grave and intense face on one who was apparently so young. He nodded his head to her, hair flopping around wildly, and held out his hand.
“You must be Angela,” he said, his green eyes already looking beyond her into the abyss of the house. “I’m Harry, Harry Potter.”
“Good evening, Mr Potter,” she said, returning his firm handshake. “It’s a nice evening, isn’t it?”
“It would be if it weren’t for that horrible smell,” he replied, wrinkling his nose as if to emphasise the unpleasantness of it. “It can’t be the river alone that makes that.”
“Pickle works at the top of the hill,” she said, nodding to the right in the direction of the other mill that flanked the small town. “Used to be an old cotton mill but they converted it. Keeps the locals in work, but doesn’t do much for property prices.” She stepped back to allow him to enter.
He looked about him carefully, sadness taking up residence on his stern face. He had the look of one who was seeing what he had expected to see, but who found it profoundly depressing all the same. His expression changed when he saw the books and he gave a small, sad smile.
“His friends,” he said quietly.
“I beg your pardon?” she replied.
“These were his friends,” Harry repeated, “his companions. The only ones who didn’t…” He couldn’t finish his sentence. The car they had brought was filled with cardboard boxes, but he was beginning to doubt that he had brought enough. It had been wrong to bring Ron; he should have brought Hermione, she would have been right at home with this collection. Still, Ron could drive around the corner, Apparate with the boxes, and then come back for more.
“He liked his books,” she said. “I got quite a shock when I walked in here and saw them all. It must have taken a lifetime to collect these.”
“Yes,” Harry agreed, “but it wasn’t a long enough lifetime. He wasn’t even forty when he died.”
For once, Angela couldn’t think of anything to say. Forty? A man of forty living in this state? He must, she decided, have been a lonely professor “ either that or he wasn’t quite all there in the head.
“Harry, where do you want these?” Another young man came bursting into the small room, his arms laden with collapsed boxes. “All right?” He nodded to Angela, who introduced herself.
“By the window,” Harry said. “I think we might have to make a few trips.”
“Bloody hell, Hermione will die when she sees this lot. I knew Snape was a bit of swot, but this is amazing. He must have spent all his wages on books.” Ron took in the rows of leather with awe on his face. “It’s like the library at Hog“ school.”
“This gentleman,” Angela began, “was he a friend?”
Harry looked unsure of how to respond to that at first before finally making up his mind. “He was “ he was, yes, he was a friend.”
“I see,” she said. “And the young woman with the red hair in the picture, she would be?”
“Bit nosey for a house seller, aren’t you?” Ron asked, standing up after he had disgorged his cargo.
“That would be my mother,” Harry said, ignoring Ron’s complaint. “He was her friend too, at school.” He didn’t know why he was telling her this. Perhaps relating these things to a complete stranger gave them more solidity; everything still felt so unreal.
Angela glared at Ron and then returned her attention to Harry. “He died very young. Accident, was it?” It was always useful to know these things. If he’d died on the loo it wouldn’t do to linger in there with prospective buyers.
“He died fighting,” Harry looked at her with defiance.
“Oh, in the army, was he?” She added brave war hero to her list of anecdotes to woo clients with.
“In a manner of speaking.” A vision of Dumbledore rose in Harry’s mind. Severus had been the highest ranking officer in that particular army. He closed his heart to the prying woman, he had already said enough. “If you don’t mind, we’d like to do this in peace. It’s a bit personal.”
She nodded. “Of course, I’ll wait in my car. Just let me know when you’re done.”
She stepped back into the street and looked at the battered Ford Anglia with distaste. If they were using that, they’d need to make more than just a few trips.
It was a bright evening, brighter than they’d seen for a long time. Angela stepped out of her new Audi, her reward for being the best closer of sales in the past year, and jangled the keys in her palm. This was the thirteenth viewing she had conducted on this property and there had not been one flicker of interest. She had laid on thick the tale of the great war hero killed fighting, although she’d been deliberately vague on the details. She’d pointed out the rarity and the quaintness of the cobblestones, to which the general reply had been concerns for vehicle suspensions. Admittedly the now bare shelves in the sitting room didn’t help much. No one wanted to watch Coronation Street in a library bereft of books. The lack of telephone sockets and a shower were also proving problematic. With this in mind, she didn’t hold out much hope for this viewing either. She had a date with a young man called Kevin at seven so this would have to be a whistle-stop viewing.
Sunlight positively bounced off the cobbles and a brief flicker of hope shifted in her chest. Perhaps the sun was a good omen after all the rain. The water had made the river flow faster, dispelling some of the smell, and the council had been out and, in a moment of uncharacteristic care for the community, cleaned the river banks of debris. Street lamps had been repaired and a CCTV camera put here and there to control the louts who regularly came around and smashed them. The pickle factory had closed last month and the whole company gone to Holland, which just left the clothing factory and there was talk of a move to an out of town industrial unit. Costs were high on these old mills, and already a building company had expressed interest in turning the place into exclusive apartments. There was even, and her heart leapt at the notion, talk of this becoming a new property hot spot.
The house still smelled musty so she quickly threw open the windows and allowed the summer breeze to filter through. A quick search through the kitchen cupboards revealed nothing in the way of air freshener so she rummaged in her handbag and sprayed the room with some very expensive Chanel in an effort to mask the stale odours.
When the knock came it was cold and insistent, the sharp rap of someone used to having their demands met instantly. She rushed to answer it, hoping the client was in as much of a hurry as she was.
“Good evening,” she began in a bright manner. “I’m so pleased to meet you, please come in. I’m Angela.”
“Thank you, Miss Davis.” The woman was tall, taller than Angela by a good few inches and she instantly had the estate agent at a disadvantage. She spoke in the clipped tones of the well off, and her clothes agreed with her voice, even if they were a little on the extravagant side. Angela couldn’t help thinking that the woman’s cloak alone had used up more metres of silk than the whole of her wardrobe put together.
“The house is a little bare at the moment, as you’ll see, but provides an excellent opportunity to make your own mark on it. It hasn’t been lived in for some time now and would benefit from a little air, but apart from that there is nothing that needs doing beyond a few modernisations.” She paused in the middle of the sitting room and was about to continue her speech but realised that the woman wasn’t listening to her. Her client stood in the middle of the room, a distant expression on her face, and breathed very deeply and very slowly for a few moments. Not one to be dissuaded by something she didn’t understand, Angela pressed on. “And, of course, with the new apartments in the old mill this will become a real property hot spot. This house could well double or triple in value in a matter of months.”
“How much?” the woman asked, re-focusing her attention on the still chattering Angela.
Angela, thrown by the direct question had to fumble at her notes. “It’s on the market for £45,000,” she said quickly. “We’d have asked for more, but there’s no river view, and with a prospective new marina that would have created a premium.” Might as well add a marina to the possible new delights, she thought
“I don’t care for river views,” the woman said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’ll take it. You may contact my solicitor and arrange the details. It will be a cash purchase, or course, so I expect the details to be concluded quickly.”
“Of course… goodness.” Angela’s professional composure deserted her for a moment as she struggled to come to terms with the easiness of the transaction. “Do you want to see the rest of the house? I could show you around with pleasure.”
“There is no need,” the woman replied with a shake of her blonde head. “Would you give me a few moments alone, please?” It wasn’t so much a question as an order and Angela was quick to comply.
“Certainly, Mrs, erm…” Her paperwork rustled. “Mrs Malfoy. Take all the time you need.”
Left in the cold interior, Narcissa looked around the bare walls and blinked long lashes over her appraising eyes. So much had happened; so much had been destroyed. Lucius was still in custody, although it did not look like the charges would hold. He had already made numerous enlightening statements to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement that included several high-profile names, and it seemed only a matter of time before he would be released. Draco was a quieter child, but she had seen flashes of his old defiance which would see him through. They would regroup stronger than before. The Malfoys did not buckle for anyone.
She touched the chair that occupied the space facing the fireplace, running her fingers over its dusty back. That night was still vivid in her mind; the only one who would risk his life for her child. She had trusted him so much, and with good cause. That he had been a servant for Dumbledore counted for nothing against the service he had done for her son.
There was a time when she could have… But no, she brushed that thought from her mind. Lucius was her husband and always had been from the moment they met. They had been created with the sole intention of forming such a wonderfully strong match. Yet Severus had a depth to his soul that was touching; there had been a painful need there to be desired and to desire. He’d wanted Lily, that much had been obvious right from the start, but Lily had had too many scruples about his activities. Narcissa had not liked Lily Evans, liked her even less when she married that oaf James Potter, but Severus had seen something there, something weak that he had made strong.
So, life went on for her and her family, and Severus was dead. She didn’t know why she wanted the house. When she had seen that odious Skeeter woman’s snippet about the house being abandoned in the Prophet she knew she could not let the situation continue. That the area was below her was unfortunate, but it would serve as a reminder that even good can be found amongst the detritus of the poor. Looking around the room, she couldn’t decide if she would rip the décor out or leave it. No doubt this was a relic from his mother’s time here; dull wallpaper to match a dull woman. Everyone had been in agreement that Eileen Prince was about as noticeable as the air they breathed, yet she had produced a child like Severus. Strange, the way children can be so unlike their parents in so many ways and yet share exactly the same dreary looks.
She liked the fire, smiled at its pretty Art Nouveau tiles. It would be nice on a winter’s evening when Lucius was being particularly tiresome to get away from Malfoy Manor for a little while and come here. The shelves stared at her and she resolved to pick up some books the next time she was in London. She couldn’t pretend her reading tastes had been anything like the last owner’s, but it would be a nod to his memory.
“I’m sorry you died,” she whispered, and jumped as a rush of soot fell from the chimney and created a black cloud in the hearth. Stepping back quickly to prevent permanent soot staining on her white silk cloak, she smiled archly. “But I daresay you are not. I think you could not have lived after the fall of Voldemort, for without Potter to protect, what would you have had? You wasted a life on a woman you could not have. So intelligent, yet so fooled by love.” She walked to the door and hesitated in the hallway. “Love is a fickle thing that gets in the way of normal arrangements and yet you managed to make it something furiously heroic to the very end.”
A shimmer of warm air drifted in through one of the open windows, lifting the folds of her clothes slightly.
“Goodbye, Severus. I’m almost inclined to believe that we did not deserve you.”
The air shifted restlessly about the house as she left, touching every piece of the building, finding its way through cracks and gaps in doors. It reached the bedroom and was trapped by the window that had been left closed. Swirling around, it swept over the photograph and sent it clattering to the floor. As the front door opened, fresher air was blown in. Windows were closed, the door locked, and the house was still once again; left, as it so often had been, to its own devices.