Unlikely Coincidences
You briefly wonder, despite your earlier promise to the contrary, whether your plan is going to work. Possible reasons for failure are aplenty, and you know that should you examine the plan too closely, you will find all too many of them – too many to lose whatever confidence you may yet retain. You cannot believe that the day has come when you actually doubt the merit of thinking things through clearly before acting.
The 'plan', as you have unconsciously started referring to this ludicrous show of theatrics that even Narcissa Black could never fall for, came to you just after the hearing had ended, and the guards led you – your older self, the prisoner, whatever – away. Too stunned to realise that the room was empty save for her, you let your Cloak slip for a moment and only realised your mistake upon hearing a scream and seeing the pale blonde woman collapse to the floor in a dead faint. Only then did you recognise her.
You have to admit that now she looks hardly better than she did in the courtroom, still paler than the parchments on the study desk and watching her own back like a particularly jumpy hawk – not that she can see you, of course. You made sure to stay well-wrapped in the Cloak as you followed her out of the courtroom and to the nearest Floo, as you listened to her quavering exclamation of 'M-Malfoy Manor!' and smirked to yourself, making a mental note to refer to her as Narcissa Malfoy in your thoughts from now on, and now, when she cornered herself in the manor's study so conveniently. The odds seem to be in your favour, for a change. It is more than they had ever done before, and you have a fleeting thought of whether the proverbial fortune favours the reckless rather than the brave.
Stepping lightly, you enter into the study and close the door behind you with a snap loud enough to secure Narcissa's attention, yet soft enough to not attract any unwanted ones.
Just as you intended her to, she jumps at the sound as though she has been jolted.
"Wh-who's there?"
You remain quiet, silently wondering how low you can sink if you are indeed going through with this. Then again, Slytherins are supposed to use means to achieve ends... and Narcissa Malfoy, nee Black, is certainly not among those who would shame the name of your supposedly noble House... not by the lack of cunning, at least.
While you spend the time on pointless ruminations, she repeats her question, more shakily this time, but with a strange evenness, as though she knows the answer will not come until she figures it out herself. It appears that even at this age, Narcissa retains one of her weak points – telling herself stories and believing in them with all her heart. If anything could help you now, it would be this.
"Severus?.." she finally whispers, looking around with a haunted expression.
You silently move to stand directly in front of her and let your Cloak slip when you are in the right position.
For a moment, it seems like she is going to faint again – but somehow, she holds herself up, albeit not as straight as before. You briefly wonder why, and quickly realise that she is deliberately avoiding your gaze.
"Why did you do it… Cissy?" you cringe inwardly at the nickname you never thought you would use for as long as you lived.
"I… I… "
"Why did you condemn me to such a fate?" you continue in a low and sad voice, as befits someone you are currently impersonating.
Suddenly, all the shaking and quivering ceases, and Narcissa stands upright, straight as an arrow, finally raising her eyes to burn into yours, and you are momentarily taken aback by the emotion you see in them. If you had not known better, you would never have thought that this brand of fury existed in anyone other than yourself.
"I condemned you, Severus? Me? Is it all my fault? Is everything always my fault? No, don't bother replying to that!"
"Narcissa…"
"Don't bother, Severus! You hardly bothered when you were alive, so why start as a ghost? That would be a bit too cruel even for the likes of you."
"That's not true…"
"Oh yes, it is. You never cared about me, did you? Always running after that filthy Mudblood and thinking no one noticed, always thinking yourself smarter than everyone, and her – her better than anyone else. Well, guess what - I'm GLAD of what happened to her. Happy, you hear me?"
"Wait…"
You try to get at least a few words in, seeing that the conversation is definitely not going in any direction you could find acceptable. But it seems that stopping is one thing Narcissa is incapable of at this moment. She goes on at the speed that would have put the Hogwarts Express to shame.
"Wait? I waited, Severus – all our school years, I kept waiting, waiting for you to notice, waiting for you to say something even if it was a refusal, just waiting. Do you know what it is like to wait endlessly for something, for someone, Severus? Do you know how it feels, when every unexpected sound seems to be coming from them, the pointless hope that they may be just around the corner, waiting for you just as you have been waiting for them?
"But you never came, not even after we left school, not even after I married Lucius, not even after Lucius went to Azkaban. Not even when I came to you! I begged you for help, but all you could offer was pity, because you could not see what it was I really needed. Were you blind? No. You simply could not be bothered.
"Or perhaps, I should rephrase. You could be bothered, you could indeed – but only for her. She always came first, didn't she? And he by relation. You were more bothered about Potter than you ever were about me.
"When the Dark Lord fell and my family was reunited, why could I not feel the joy that a mother and a wife ought to feel? Because of you, Severus. Damn you to hell. Is that why you are here? Because even hell decided to throw you out?"
Enough is enough, you are not going to stand here and listen to the ramblings of this deranged woman without getting in a word edgewise. You contemplate her coolly as she halts her monologue to inhale.
"Are you quite finished?"
She nods stubbornly, as if agreeing to keep quiet, but showing no remorse for her earlier verbosity. Quite possibly, her speech of a few moments ago is more than she has ever said to you over the years that you have known her.
"Narcissa, you have just condemned me to a fate worse than death, and now you expect me to listen to your story and sympathise? Is that all you see me as? The heartless monster that ruined your entire life? Did I not help you when you came to me, maybe not in the way that you wanted, but in what way I could? Have I done nothing to earn your forgiveness in all the years that I have lived? Nothing at all?"
She slowly lifts her head and mutters,
"It's far too late now."
"No, it is not. It is never too late, Narcissa. Not for anything. You may be surprised to hear this, but I am not a ghost. Not yet, anyway, and I would rather the situation stayed this way."
"But who are you, then? What are you? Where did you come from?" Narcissa stumbles over her own words, staring at you, some strange glint appearing in her eyes. Whatever story she has just made for herself, you must make her believe it.
"There, there, I am positive that I do not need to spell it out for you. As I recall, you were always quite an intelligent woman."
You grace Narcissa with a light smile, and her mouth forms a silent 'O' as her version of the truth sinks in. It does not really matter what she told herself. What matters is that she believes it – and what she is about to say next. You wait in silence, and your heart misses a beat when she starts speaking.
"How much time do I have?"
"Not much," you speak, feeling a huge weight drop off your heart, which is very kind to start beating again now.
"Then I'd better hurry," she says, already on her way to the door. Just as she is about to step out, she stops and looks over her shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Severus… for everything."
"So am I," you reply because it is what she wants to hear. After all, she is giving you back your life. The least you can do is give her false hope in return.
She says nothing as she leaves, closing the door softly behind her, and you wrap that handy Cloak around yourself once again. However, the Time-Turner is tucked safely into your pocket, as going back is far from your mind at this moment. Some parts of Narcissa's relentless babbling succeeded in catching your attention. No, going back to your own time can wait. You take out the rolled-up copy of the Prophet that the elf had given you and sit down on the coffee-coloured sofa. It is about time you engaged in some light reading and cleared out the more confusing parts of the story you found yourself in.
You wake up at dawn, as usual, and spend the first few seconds trying to figure out why your bedroom is so dark. These days, the curtains would always be drawn open, despite your long-time preference for perpetual dusk at any time of day, but you never argued, of course, and even grew to like the light lately. A brief glance around tells you that you have fallen asleep, fully clothed, on the couch in your study. You have practically lived here during your week-long work interrupted only by brief spells of sleep – and of course, at least one proper meal per day. At times, there would be trays and cups of coffee brought right to your desk and rewarded with tired yet grateful smiles – but you had to be present at the table during one meal, no argument. There was none, naturally. How could you argue?
The first thing you do is check on the state of the potion. It seems to be bubbling as steadily as before, and examining the drops of condensation on the glass cover tells you that the setback caused by your two-day-long absence during a crucial stage is almost compensated for now. It took you the best part of the week and a number of originally unexpected and hard-to-find ingredients to fix the damage – but all seems to be in order now that the potion has reached the necessary density again, that of spring water rather than undiluted Flobberworm mucus, and a proper lime green colour instead of a rotting ochre jelly. It was a miracle you returned before the results of your painstaking work turned to a tar-like mixture, and a sheer blessing that you turned the fire down to a minimum just before you-
You frown in confusion, observing the condensate drops form. Why did you leave? Where did you go? What was it that was so urgent that you were forced to leave the house before even taking care to conserve the preparation in a way that would have prevented this unnecessary rework? Tapping your chin thoughtfully, you rake your memories and find no recollection of the events of a week ago. What the hell? You shake your head. You will think about it later
Carefully transporting the contents of the cauldron into a large beaker that you fit into a self-assembled still, you set the work in motion, observe the first few drops run through successfully and step away from the desk. The still will now process the mixture drop-by-drop, completely ridding it of any undesired hard residue that may still remain. After that, you can finally continue where you left off, mixing fresh-squeezed aloe juice with cedar branches crushed in a copper mortar… yes, you will do that in a few hours, when the distilling is complete, as the ingredients must be freshly prepared. Until then, you can do that which was your first impulse when you opened your eyes, firmly stashed behind thoughts of work.
Your lips form a smile as you open the door, prepared to hear the sounds of running feet, or distant crashes, laughs or reprimands – sounds of life that you are completely isolated from in your sound-proof study, feeling sad about it and at the same time, glad, because you would never get your thoughts focused on work otherwise.
The door swings open, and your expecting ears ring with an avalanche of silence. You cannot remember when you last heard such absolute silence in your house – not the quiet of hushed sounds, but the empty feeling of there being no source of any. You pause in the doorway, looking around with your eyes only, not moving, not breathing, your hearing strained to catch at least a ghost of the usual sounds and pull them back to here and now. This is not right…
Suddenly, the weight of reality hits you with the force of a Stunner, and you almost stumble. It is happening again. Only worse than before. Considerably worse. You actually spent several minutes never doubting the world you were in, and it took you a full-blown collision with the reality to finally comprehend it.
With carefully measured steps, you walk to the kitchen, open the cupboard, take out a cup – just one, and don't you start looking for that mug covered with green and red flowers, it is not there! – and pour some cold tea. Then you sit at the table, clutching the cup with both hands, hoping for the damn still to work faster and trying to calm yourself. Nothing bad is happening, after all. Nothing you have not expected, either. It is even something you hoped for – or would have, had you dared to hope for anything anymore. It took you a few painful days to understand that you were not going insane – and possibly, for the first time ever, you did not wish that you really were.
If there is anything you are afraid of it is that these strange occurrences cease. You carefully place the empty cup on the table, get to your feet and go to walk around the house in the time you have until you can get back to work. You walk slowly and try to fix the details in your mind, as if anchoring yourself on the little things from your visions can somehow help you make them more real.
There was a carpet on the stairs – threadbare already, but quite functional, and the fastener on the fourth step up – yes, right here – always stubbornly out of place, resisting any attempts to fix it and eventually leading to a permanent Cushioning charm being placed at the bottom of the stairs, which in turn, led to the remaining three steps always being taken at a running jump ending in a happy laughing landing. And the banister… you run your hand along it as you walk upstairs. The banister was much smoother than now, polished by years of the same happy stair-jumper sliding down it several times a day. The left banister, if you look from the bottom of the stairs, always the left and never the right…
And in the second-floor corridor, the carpet was removed as it was causing too much trouble, and even in your sleep, you could always tell who was walking in the corridor, judging on the different squeaky floorboards they would step on… 'Could always tell'? You were never there, so how could you 'always tell'?
You stop in the middle of the corridor, knowing full well that there was supposed to be a flowerpot fixed on the wall here, right opposite the mirror, because the Abyssinian Shrivelfig growing in the pot turned out to be extremely vain and refused to bloom unless it could observe its reflection in the mirror, although no one knew how it could see anything – not even the brilliant inventor of this method, who nevertheless figured this out at the age of seven…
With a haunted look at the corridor, as if daring a faded Holyhead Harpies poster to appear at the leftmost door, you flee back downstairs, almost twisting your leg on the loose carpet fixture… which is not there when you look back.
The next few hours you spend carefully observing the almost-ready potion to collect in the beaker at the other end of the still. You are afraid to wander the house any longer, afraid of the mercurial quality of your surroundings… afraid that they would settle not in the way that they should. In the way that feels not right. In the way that all your life has been up until now. Usually, when finding themselves in a world that is strangely different from the one they are used to, people are afraid of being unable to go back. You, on the other hand, are afraid of being unable to stay.
When you finally take the copper pestle and start mashing the ingredients, you feel that somehow, your laboratory is becoming much more substantial than you, and finishing the potion becomes trickier than before. The feeling, however, is strangely reassuring, and you concentrate on the potion despite the difficulty, now convinced that it is the last thing you will be allowed to do. Out of the corner of your eye, on the very edge of vision, you see a cup at the other end of the desk, steam curling upwards from the surface of what, judging by the faint smell that probably finds it easier to travel between the two realities, is coffee. You know you will not be able to taste it, though, as only one of you can be corporeal at any given time… and you hope with all your heart that it will be that coffee cup, and not you.
Finally putting out the fire under the cauldron, you give one final look to your study. Little details are flickering in and out of sight, and now, in addition to the almost-tangible cup, you see an extra chair in the corner, an eagle quill placed as a bookmark in the middle of an Alchemy and Potioneering, an additional shelf on the wall, a silver and green pendant dangling on the key stuck in the keyhole of your ingredients cabinet…
You make it out of the house semi-consciously, feeling more like a ghost of yourself, but knowing full well that you are not. A ghost is something you could never become. You are ceasing to exist, but it is not the same as dying. You have died before – or almost, anyway. The sensation you are experiencing now is less unpleasant, by far. You thought that fading would feel cold – but instead, you seem to simply be dissolving in the sunlight around you… as if you were mist. Only mist, and nothing more.
It seems that as you dissolve, the tendrils of the same mist that you were reduced to are reforming themselves around the house, changing little things so gradually it would be invisible to anyone but someone who has watched the place waver between house and home so many times in the previous week and learned to believe in ghosts of images and sounds, ready to fuel their existence at the cost of his own.
Of course, it is not like that at all, you think with a faint smile, amused at the direction of your own thoughts, finally no longer restrained and kept in check. What it actually is, is simply the fact that you were right, some time earlier. The plan was not foolproof at all. Somehow, your younger self has learned enough… For the first time, learned it before it was too late.
Some part of your mind, barely corporeal by now, tells you that it was a completely, utterly irresponsible thing to do. But you also know that whatever the consequences may be, nothing would be able to stop your younger self. Not even you.
In all honesty, though, even were you able to… You would not try. The silver keychain, the squeaky floorboards, the bright light in the morning and the expectation of sound after the quiet of the potions study… some things are worth the irresponsibility.
Spinner's End is just as lonely as you recall. The absence of Eileen and Tobias adds little to the overall mood. The halls are just as silent as you remember, albeit dusty with age. A thin film of dust has formed to cover the furniture, the stairs and the banister, leaving the impression that the house had not been used in several years. But the kitchen and the study give away the intruder's presence, if only to those who know the exact location of every item in its place.
Your older self had apparently tried his best to be inconspicuous even in his own house. Practically living out of his study and doing little, if anything, to rearrange the décor of the house. The kitchen was used, but minimally so, and only when absolutely necessary. And the house most certainly did not feel used.
You are not in a hurry, feeling safe in the knowledge that your older self is still preoccupied with the unexpectedly continued hearing – and after making copies of the notes you will be needing to save humanity in the next twenty years or so, you wonder why you even bothered looking around the rest of the house. You will most certainly not miss this place. Could you possibly want to say goodbye to the place that was always too cold and unwelcoming to resemble a home? No, that could not be it.
As your eyes slide up and down the empty living room and hallway beyond, you promise yourself that this is the last time you are seeing the house again, and will do all in your power to make it a home one day.