Disclaimer: Thanks to J.K. Rowling for allowing me to take her characters for a lengthy stroll through my imagination.
Eleven
The Snows of Winter
Harry squinted into the dusty confines of the Leaky Cauldron. With a wide grin, Ron was waving them over to his booth. Hermione weaved her way among the empty tables and slid into the bench next to her husband as Harry shook the icy raindrops from his cloak before hanging it on one of the pegs by the door. His eyes always needed a few extra seconds to adjust to the pleasant dimness of the pub’s interior.
For a single heartbeat, he felt like they were back at school, huddling over a problem late into the night in the Gryffindor common room. Their faces had often been lit only by the dying fire in the huge grate then, their voices mere whispers so as not to be overheard in the adjoining dormitories. A furtive movement from the corner of his eye brought him back to the present with a heavy thud. But it was only Tom, the proprietor, approaching with the luncheon menus in hand.
Harry ordered a Butterbeer for himself, well aware that he was expected to return to his desk later that afternoon. His request for an extra hour to accommodate a small birthday luncheon for an old school chum had not been questioned, but he didn’t want to look like he’d been over-celebrating, either. Kingsley might be looking for him after the account he’d given earlier of Remus’ state of mind.
“You seem uneasy, mate,” Ron observed as Harry darted a look around the deserted room. “Would you feel more comfortable sitting so you could keep your eye on the front door?”
Harry issued a sharp laugh. “If I can’t trust you two to watch my back after all these years…”
“Besides, you can see the door leading to Diagon Alley without any trouble,” Hermione added.
“That too.” Harry sighed. “Things have been tense; I don’t have to tell you that. Remus is being drawn into this more than is good for him.”
“Is he convinced it’s Greyback?” Hermione posed, her features laced with concern.
Harry nodded glumly. “Kingsley still wants him to review the roster of all those who’ve been sentenced to Azkaban and see if he recognizes the faces of any other werewolves. The data is still being compiled.”
“Blimey! That’s a lot of folks!” Ron protested. “It’s been six years “ seven if you consider when he was last undercover. Wouldn’t it be easier to just work through those belonging to other werewolves?”
“If that bit of data was included in the court records,” Harry allowed. “All too often, it’s not.”
“How could such an important fact be missing?”
“Any competent defense attorney would have seen to that,” Hermione stressed. “Such information is prejudicial, to say the least. A skilled advocate would want to ensure his client was judged impartially under the law.”
“But what if he’d bitten someone?” Ron threw out. “Surely it’s not irrelevant then.”
“Most cases were brought for different reasons,” Harry explained. “Being a Death Eater or just consorting with them to overthrow the government was the most common charge after Voldemort’s defeat.”
“No one would want the tribunal to assume the defendant was involved in treasonous activities simply because he was a werewolf,” Hermione supplied.
“But that’s grossly unfair!” Ron shook his head in disgust.
“It was established that Greyback recruited followers from among those amassed in the werewolf encampments. Although such evidence is circumstantial at best, you see how the Wizengamot might associate one with the other.” Hermione’s tone held steady despite the distress than made her eyes glisten wetly.
“And you’re all right with this? Both of you?”
“It does no good to call them a bigoted bunch of blowhards,” Harry commented softly.
“Despite the fact that Harry’s being quite charitable,” Hermione noted with a hollow laugh. “I can’t just turn my back on these people because our justice system is flawed.”
“I thought your career goal was to change all that,” Ron insisted.
“It still is, sweetheart. But sometimes change has to come in small increments so it’s not rejected outright,” Hermione pronounced stoically.
“Official Ministry line,” Ron dismissed as he took a long draw from his glass. A brave shaft of sunlight penetrating the golden lager belied the seriousness of the conversation.
“Remus’ words,” Harry attested solemnly.
“Idealism tempered with realistic expectations, I believe he called it,” Hermione echoed. “He warned me that I wouldn’t be able to chuck the entire legal system out the window despite the temptation.”
“Just be glad you didn’t have to plough through the regulations firsthand, mate,” Harry allowed. “It’s even worse when you see such ignorance wrapped in the trappings of justice.”
Briefly, he outlined what his recent research had unveiled: how werewolves were held fully liable for any acts performed under the full moon, even though they could not recall the incidents themselves. Ignore that they could not testify in their own defense or provide an alibi, they were considered guilty by virtue of not taking precautions to property contain themselves. An attack resulting in the creation of another werewolf was automatic grounds for imprisonment, provided the victim could identify his assailant. In this, werewolves could sometimes get a break as most victims were too traumatized to be able to differentiate one snarling snout from another. Yet Harry couldn’t help but think how easy it would be for someone to be unjustly railroaded by an unscrupulous victim. If a bite victim died, the sentence was absolute: the werewolf was executed for murder most heinous. No life sentence in Azkaban, no extenuating circumstances that might label the actions as self-defense or subject to a lesser charge of manslaughter or wrongful death.
“Even more unsettling is that many feel these same guidelines should apply to werewolves at all times,” Harry concluded grimly. “Even when the events in question did not occur during a full moon.”
“A rabid dog receives more consideration!” Ron ranted.
“No, a rabid dog is treated exactly the same,” Harry argued. “Euthanized for the protection of society at large without being made to feel the pain of death “ or so they say… Except that a werewolf would know what was coming.”
“As long as there are those who would classify them as beasts, it will not change,” Hermione pronounced with a grimace. “Thank Dolores Umbridge for that. It was her legislation which ignored the requirements that a werewolf must be able to reproduce to be considered a beast. It has long been the standard by which naturalists confirmed the presence of a new species: it had to be able to give birth consistently to one such as itself. If it required two different species to achieve the result, then it was classified as a cross-breed.
“If they had remained under this classification, werewolves would have been considered part human “ giving rise to the argument that they should be entitled to human rights for 28 out of 29 days. But instead, Umbridge countered that because werewolves and vampires could create their own kind by the transference of blood and saliva, this was synonymous with live birth as required for all other magical creatures including elves, goblins, giants, hinkypunks, merpeople, centaurs, thestrals…well, you get the picture.”
Ron urged the conversation in a less stressful direction. “I’m beginning to see how a slimy git like Greyback could escape prosecution all these years. Who fingered him in the end? I remember Remus categorically refusing to become involved in what he claimed was a losing battle.”
“That’s the most ironic thing of all,” Harry whispered as he swung his head about to make sure they remained the pub’s sole clientele. “Greyback confessed. Proudly proclaimed how he’d viciously gone about recruiting others to his lifestyle.”
“Even targeting children, if you can stomach that,” Hermione interjected.
“To read his book, he must have considered it a great honor to be selected,” Ron scoffed.
“Just a ploy to win his victims over,” Hermione clarified. “Convince them that they were being admitted into an elite force.”
“Didn’t the Wizengamot also convict him of being a Death Eater?” Ron pressed.
Harry shook his head to the negative. “No tattoo.”
“No one dared to denounce him would be my guess,” tendered Hermione.
“A regular agent of retribution, he was,” Harry remarked sourly. “More of Remus’ words.”
Ron caught Tom’s eye for a refill as they all took a moment to place their lunch orders. Once they were alone again, Hermione took up the threads of the conversation. “So has Kingsley recruited your assistance in this assignment, Harry?”
She was caught short by the dejected look Harry gave her. “Hardly,” he grumbled.
“But all the research…” Ron prompted.
“For my own enjoyment apparently,” Harry admitted with a mirthless chuckle. “Kingsley said I was too close. He’s only allowing me to provide very limited, peripheral assistance.”
“That must smart,” Ron commiserated.
“He’s right, though,” Hermione maintained in a thoughtful tone. “Kingsley, I mean.”
“Remus is his friend also,” Harry argued. “He and Remus worked very closely to organize Voldemort’s defeat.”
“In a professional capacity,” Hermione pointed out.
Harry was not giving in so easily. “He’s been a guest at our house countless times.”
“That’s just it…” Hermione began tactfully.
“I see her point, mate,” Ron cut across. “Despite their years of association, Kingsley doesn’t face Remus over the breakfast table each morning, doesn’t play with the man’s children each evening.”
“All the more reason I want to help him,” Harry moaned.
“I think your companionship alone will do that,” Hermione soothed “Trust in Kingsley’s judgment.”
Undaunted, Harry turned his attention to Ron. “What’s the view on the international front, Ron? You’re the only one of us who has access to such information.”
“Any ideas we can incorporate ourselves?” Hermione posed.
Ron shrugged noncommittally. “There’s not as much as you’d think. Werewolves are banned from competing in Quidditch matches unilaterally. Bulgaria does allow them to coach, however.”
“And the reasons for these regulations?” Harry inquired, recognizing that inspiration often lurked in the most innocuous corners.
“Altercations during the full moon?” suggested Hermione.
Ron gave her a look of withering contempt. “How difficult would it be to schedule matches so they avoided the full moon? Even at Hogwarts, we barely competed once a month; the Quidditch pitch was used only for practice at other times. It’s not like they have to share the field with any other events “ that’s true in professional leagues as well.”
Catching on to Ron’s tone, Harry prompted, “You have a theory. I can see it lurking in the corners of your eyes.”
“Nothing I can prove,” Ron harrumphed.
“Let’s have it anyway.”
“I think it has to do with parity,” Ron offered tentatively. “Werewolves have abilities the rest of use don’t share.”
“Their resistance to cold and disease,” Hermione encouraged.
“Their stamina under all sorts of adverse conditions,” Ron elaborated. “Madam Pomfrey said as much when she tended to Remus’ injuries in the cave.”
Hermione shook her head slowly as she tried to grasp the elusive tendrils of memory. “All I remember is being terrified that we had only condemned him to a slow and lingering death; that drowning would have been preferable.”
“Think back on all the good-natured scolding Madam Pomfrey gave him,” Ron recalled. “Claimed that anyone else would have been more cooperative by allowing such pain to render him unconscious.”
“But that would have trapped him in his Animagus form!” Hermione sought to follow.
“And she said she understood the tremendous fortitude it must have taken Remus to hang on, to not succumb to that which was easy,” Ron continued.
“Tonks warned that his stubbornness caused him to imperil himself needlessly,” Harry volunteered as he remembered snatches of conversation between the two concerned women at Remus’ bedside. “But that doesn’t make any sense…”
“Yes, it does!” Hermione surmised eagerly. “Remus willfully turns his back on the fact that he’s a werewolf. You’ve seen him do it time and time again. It’s more than just his insistence that he’s just like everyone else. He wills it to be so. Any extra abilities he might have gained in the process are tainted by his self-hatred and he refuses to acknowledge them.”
The sensation of Remus’ iron grip rose unbidden in Harry mind. Remus had been distraught, frightened at having been woken up from a deep sleep. When the same thing had occurred at Hogwarts, he had been practically begging Harry not to leave him alone with his inner demons. Hermione was on the right track; Harry was certain of it.
“So Remus’…condition is not without differences,” Ron attested. “Added stamina and visual acuity…”
“Prowess,” Harry supplied.
“Factors that might give an unequal advantage in Quidditch,” Ron concluded.
“So their exclusion may not be simply prejudicial?” Hermione mused.
“Not initially, no,” Ron confirmed. “As to the different attitudes in Bulgaria, I can only conclude it might have to do with the greater concentration of werewolves in the remote mountainous areas.”
“You have census data?” Hermione’s eyes lit up.
“Only rumors, I’m afraid.”
The glow from the hearth provided little warmth deep within the dungeons of Hogwarts castle. Still, it was considerably warmer than the conditions outside where an arctic wind had been howling among the ramparts since mid-day, depositing a thick blanket of snow. Hard to believe it was only afternoon to gauge by the iron grey skies just visible through the long, narrow slits at the end of the corridor.
Surveying the expanse of his domain, Severus Snape was satisfied that all was as it should be. The thick wool rugs covering the stone floors and the deep leather upholstery provided their own sort of comfort; not to be surpassed by the excellent vintage he had just uncorked. The luxury of unbroken solitude was something to be savored at the end of a long day of supervising inattentive hordes bent on their own destruction.
The low flames caught the deep glint of the emerald ring he wore on his index finger. It was the sole adornment he allowed himself, yet somehow fitting to his position as Head of Slytherin House. His wife had instructed the jeweler to design it to look like an heirloom, or so she had told him when she presented it to him. It had pleased him very much that she should go to so much trouble to accommodate his idiosyncrasies. In return, he made an effort to dress in less funereal fabrics when at home; but he had long since concluded that black was the only practical color to resist all manner of potion stains. If the students found the color intimidating, so much the better. Did they not see that school robes were traditionally black for the very same reason?
As he raised the goblet to his colorless lips, the jewel glowed in sharp contrast with the blood red wine. Green and red, the traditional colors of Christmas. Even in his own chambers, he couldn’t escape it, Snape’s inner voice complained; the entire ruddy castle seemed intent on force-feeding everyone with holiday cheer. Not that he wasn’t looking forward to three blessed weeks without the daily army of dunderheads, mind you. Even though his overly gregarious in-laws would descend upon him before long, he could always find an excuse to leave them to their own merrymaking. Perhaps he would even accept the invitation from his distant cousin in Romania to go ice fishing in the mountains. He had no doubt that copious quantities of the potent local vodka would be involved, but who could begrudge their attempts to keep winter at bay?
His pleasant contemplations were interrupted by a flash of evergreen flames among the crackling logs. Snape’s scowl deepened when he recognized Lupin’s features among the embers.
“Severus, could I impose upon you for a moment of your time?” Remus proposed genially. “Minerva suggested I would find you here.”
Snape instinctively defended his turf. “I don’t take kindly to being interrupted in my private enclave, Lupin. Is this about the Headmistress’ infernal holiday tea party? If I had known attendance was mandatory, I would have removed myself to the Hog’s Head.”
Even amid the coals, Snape could discern Lupin’s features were perplexed. “Forgive me, Severus, I had totally forgotten about that…” he hesitated.
Such confounded indecisiveness was not part of Lupin’s usual demeanor. Snape would have expected the man to be annoying everyone left and right with hearty wishes for a joyous holiday. Making an immediate decision, Snape drawled, “If you’re intent on skiving off today, I have no overpowering objections to you joining me.”
With a curt nod, Lupin’s face crumbled into molten ashes as the fire flamed high with holly green flames. Damn his traitorous subconscious for succumbing to the Yuletide conspiracy surrounding him, Snape grumbled to himself.
In the next instant, Remus was standing among the flagstones before the hearth and shaking the last of the Floo Powder from his hair. He looked around with a rather dazed expression. “You’ve remodeled,” he observed succinctly.
“Minerva’s doing mostly,” Snape acknowledged with a shrug. “She’s convinced everyone benefits from her meddlesome ways.”
Remus smoothed his palm over the buttery softness of the wing-backed chair to which he had been directed and wisely kept his mouth shut. He tried to decline Snape’s offer of wine only to be told rather gruffly, “Only a boor drinks alone in front of another. Is it your intent to insult me?”
Unable to counter such an argument, Remus accepted the heavy goblet. Sirius had preferred red wine as well, the thought rose from the depths of his memory. Tonks gravitated almost exclusively to white so he was pleasantly surprised when the dark tincture proved to be particularly mellow and agreeable. “Very nice,” Remus muttered. “Can’t say I’ve ever encountered a red that didn’t pucker my mouth with dryness.”
With an amused half-smile, Snape turned the bottle in his hands so the label was visible. Then he waited for Lupin’s jaw to drop.
“That’s hardly table wine!” Remus protested. “Surely a grand cru like that deserves to be saved for a special occasion.”
“And here I thought you knew very little about wine,” Snape offered sardonically. “As everyone seems intent on celebrating the season, why should I begrudge myself a little indulgence?”
“Severus, I…”
“Just enjoy the wine, Lupin. Perhaps it will put us both in a better mood,” Snape suggested smoothly, the resonance of his voice seeming to compliment the wine lingering on their tongues.
“I’m surprised you didn’t volunteer to guard the front doors if you weren’t interested in attending the tea party,” Remus remarked conversationally.
“Consider it my Christmas gift to the students. With no one hovering in their wake to deduct house points, fogging up the windows with longing will be that much more enjoyable.”
“They’ll be out the great doors by now. The snowfall was winding down last I looked.”
“So they’ll be building snowmen in effigy,” Snape noted with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m hardly an art critic. Are you?”
Remus laughed in spite of himself. “Can’t very well set fire to snow, can they?”
“Not without Flitwick’s help!” Snape shot back. “The Incendiary Charm is notoriously finicky in cold weather.”
Refilling their goblets, Snape crossed his ankles upon the small footrest. “Why aren’t you celebrating with the others, Lupin? It’s so unlike you.”
Remus looked into the fathomless eyes that betrayed nothing, yet he sensed the man before him already knew the answer to his query. Hadn’t Snape had his privacy stripped away as a lad when the Daily Prophet had zeroed in on his less than ideal home life? Granted, it had been a relevant fact in his legal case, but admitting it before the Wizengamot would have been humiliating enough; the Prophet had paraded it before all of Britain.
“I was hoping you could enlighten me on Greyback’s role in Voldemort’s hierarchy,” Remus began tentatively.
“Quite an imposition, wouldn’t you say?”
“I tried to find the information elsewhere--”
Snape cut across him impatiently, “”but the Order failed to locate the secret archives where the Dark Lord spelled out his plans for world domination so anyone could betray him.”
“How ever did you manage to keep your head in that maniac’s presence?” Remus commented with a wry laugh.
“Wine has a tendency to unleash my tongue,” Snape allowed with a dark laugh of his own. “Obviously, I avoided drinking anything in the Dark Lord’s presence.”
“Healthy fear of poisoning, too.”
“Lupin, what makes you think anyone is going to take Greyback’s ranting seriously? It’s nothing more than his attempt to lay down a nest egg while he’s incarcerated.”
“There are things he says that lead me to wonder…”
“Wonder what exactly? We’ve already established that he’s drunk on his own ego!”
“Perhaps among his disjointed braggadocio there might be a kernel of truth.”
“Other than his twisted odes to the misunderstood torture of the moon?”
“So you have read it,” Remus whispered through dry lips.
“One would have to be living in a vacuum to have failed to notice it. If I didn’t know it was illegal for merchants to employ Compelling Charms…”
“He seems to imply he was playing two sides against the middle,” Remus posited with a frown.
“Self-aggrandizing delusions.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. It could be two factions within Voldemort’s camp.”
“An often fractious lot,” Snape conceded.
“Who coordinated his activities? Surely someone so crass would not have dealt with Voldemort directly.”
“Do your memories of that regrettable night fail you? His main cronies were the Carrows. Crabbe and Goyle might have dealt with him on occasion. Genetic throwbacks all.”
Could Alecto Carrow be the woman Greyback was referring to? It just didn’t seem right to Remus. “Was the Carrow sister in a position of power; could she have offered him a deal behind the others’ backs?”
Snape chuckled derisively. “She was lucky to find her shoes in the morning. What do you think?”
“What about Bellatrix? She was powerful in her own right.”
“She would not have sullied her aristocratic fingers,” Snape maintained. “Any descriptions of the woman in question?”
“Not really,” Remus allowed with a note of regret. “He mentions her wide-mouthed smile in one place… Let me see if I can find it for you.” Remus started to draw the book from his jacket pocket only to be forestalled by Snape.
“No need. Your powers of observation have always been thoroughly reliable. Such wording doesn’t quite fit Bellatrix. Now if he’d mentioned how her cherubic mouth belied the demonic presence within…”
Remus chuckled appreciatively at Snape’s dead-on characterization. “He described it like the maw of a snake.”
“Words that would make any Slytherin proud.”
“Except that snakes can unhinge their jaws to swallow their enemies whole,” Lupin volunteered solemnly.
“Could it be he was referring to Bella’s temperament?”
“Doesn’t strike me as a figurative description. Greyback’s more a visceral type.”
“Yet he waxes poetic about the moon,” Snape pointed out.
“Only because he sees it as a deity outside of his sphere,” Remus clarified. “His opinions of his associates are much more down to earth.”
“There were no other females at the meetings. Narcissa was never a Death Eater, just chained to one “ or two, if you consider Draco.”
“I’ll just have to keep looking,” Remus conceded with a weary sigh. With a start, he looked around the room in confusion. “Did you finish grading all the end of term exams already? I didn’t think you had an assistant.”
Snape smiled enigmatically. “Seems rather unsporting to present them with their inadequacies right before the holidays, don’t you think?”
“But to give them false hope…”
“Is still better than no hope at all,” Snape retorted.
“Perhaps you have a point,” Remus capitulated. Had his own performance been that hopeless in Potions, he wondered. Years later, the only thing he remembered clearly was how he could barely stomach Slughorn’s lessons, the stench of all the misbrewed potions permeating his very skin by the end of class. Scalding water and a scrub brush were often required to make him feel clean again.
“I don’t suggest you follow this line of inquiry from home,” Snape suggested with a knowing lift to his eyebrow. “You haven’t been this morose since… Bloody hell, Lupin, I can’t even come up with a proper put down. That’s how out of character it seems!”
“So it’s my fault you’re caught at a loss for words?” Remus gave a hollow laugh. “Afraid I’ll usurp your special niche with the students?”
“It’s a contest you would lose.”
“Undeniably.”
“And confuse your own children in the process. I bet you haven’t even been to see them today, have you?”
“They’re at their French lesson this afternoon,” Lupin announced matter-of-factly.
“A tutor already? Really, Lupin, aren’t they allowed to just be children? Miscreants, if one believes Filch’s grumbling.”
“The two of you have pretty much sewn up antisocial behavior for the entire castle.”
“Glad to know my efforts didn’t go unnoticed,” Snape returned with his viperous smirk.
“As for tutors, they’re with Bill Weasley’s wife one afternoon a week. It’s more of a play date; but Fleur likes to speak with her girls in French and, well, Phoebe and Teddy are like little sponges at that age.”
“How old were you?”
“Closer to eight or nine,” Remus allowed. “My grandmother insisted I learn to read English first. The other languages I added after finishing school, when I found myself with extra time on my hands.”
Snape nodded knowingly. “I, too, felt at loose ends after Voldemort’s first fall. So much in my life had changed irrevocably.”
Remus took a long thoughtful swallow as Snape refilled his glass. “You’re right that I should probably put things aside for a few weeks, gain some perspective.”
Snape resumed his relaxed pose in his chair, allowing the comfortable silence to permeate the room. Lupin was free to speak of what was troubling him if he wished or maintain his wall of privacy. It was no more consideration than Snape expected for himself.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to have to describe lycanthropy to a three-year old?” Remus muttered as he stared dismally into the depths of his glass.
Despite Snape’s stony face, those quiet words struck a chord with his own decision to remain childless. Garrulous gargoyles, he would be blaming the infernal wine tomorrow as he dared to respond, “You’re a man who thinks things to death, Lupin. Surely you considered this scenario when you decided to start a family.”
“Of course, but I expected the issue would come up when they were a little older. With Teddy, it happened quite naturally; I was able to ease it into the conversation when he asked about the origins of our family name. But with Phoebe…I was so afraid someone might say something to her in passing and then it would be a hundred times worse.”
“Because of Greyback’s manifesto?” There was no telling how many nutcases would attach themselves to the coattails of the latest fad. He couldn’t deny Lupin was right about that.
Remus nodded, the flames from the hearth lending his eyes an amber glow not unlike those on the cover of the damnable book. But the haunted look that blazed forth was clearly that of a man of conscience, not a maniac. “I couldn’t even find the words,” he admitted in a strangled voice. “Tonks had to do it. Phoebe is always clamoring to help with the preparation of the Wolfsbane Potion so that allowed her to lead into it.”
Severus couldn’t help but think Lupin was wrong to suppose his children would see him as a monster. He could transform before them, threaten them with slavering jaws, and after their screams subsided, they would wonder what they had done to provoke him. Hadn’t he done much the same during his own childhood? Hoping to be the unmagical son his father desired above all else, as if simply wishing to be a Squib could make it so. It was only later when he realized the futility of his childhood fantasies that he had come to embrace the inevitable, daring to hope that as a wizard he would be able to escape this purgatory where no correct response or action existed. If only he could fade away into the cracks in the wall, perhaps that action alone would satisfy both his parents equally. For as long as he tried to embody what his father desired, he earned his mother’s derision for being so much less than what he was. Yet at the same time, she would punish him for angering his father with his blatant displays of ‘oddness,’ as his father called it.
How could they not think the constant contradictions would lead him to despair of ever being accepted, let alone happy? Certainly not while he remained at Spinner’s End. Yet it had taken him years to harden his resolve to the point where he could envision himself leaving everything behind. The small, disconsolate child in him would always resurface and demand its due. Such was the innate trust and love which came to children as naturally as breathing. Not that he was about to bare his soul to anyone, grand cru or not. He would just have to trust Lupin was the sort who would embrace his sacred paternal duty to not abuse his children’s unwavering devotion.
Steeling his resolve, Snape provided, “It could have been worse, Lupin. At least you didn’t have to admit to your child that you were a shameless, unmotivated drunkard and a wife-beater.” Or worse, Snape thought to himself, but left it unsaid. “Not that my father was ever that forthright with me.”
“Somehow it’s not the same…”
“Sure it is. You wanted to be left alone to live in your own private hell while you were at school and so did I.”
“But I was wrong to think that way. It literally changed the way I looked at life “ and my place in it “ once I knew that others accepted me after learning the ugly truth. No one would have classified you as less than human once they discovered your family secret.”
“No, I had that all sewn up myself.”
“And nobody knew? All the time you were a student…”
“I’m sure Dumbledore knew, but he was practically omniscient.”
“What about Lily? Did you ever confide in her?”
“More than anything I wanted to keep that reality separate from the brief moments I spent with Lily. She was part of the wonderful wizarding world that would be my ticket away from my squalid existence. Even her Muggle home was a golden paradise compared to my dingy house at the arse end of the earth.”
“Something tells me it didn’t work out that way.”
“No, paths cross in all different ways. And even though she never said anything, never indicated she didn’t wholly buy into any excuse I’d given her, Lily knew.”
Amid the seemingly eternal stonework of the dungeons, it was remarkably easy to lose one’s self in nostalgia. Like it was only yesterday, Snape silently recalled that it had begun even before he had boarded the Hogwarts Express for the first time. His long-awaited letter from Hogwarts arrived and his father, Tobias, had not been pleased. It was one thing to have a son who had nothing in common with him and quite another “ make no mistake “ to have one who was just like her! In his alcohol-soaked brain, Tobias had seen all mother and son chats as nothing more than collusion against him.
It was all laid bare in the man’s eyes when he’d grabbed Severus by the neck and shoved him into the brick wall by the fireplace. Severus had blocked out the incoherent ramblings being shouted into his ear as he did his best not to gag on the smell of stale Firewhiskey on his father’s breath. He struggled to remain still so his father would forget about his presence just as he hoped the man would forget about the Hogwarts letter before his mother returned from work. Luckily, he didn’t have long to wait before his father lurched into the next room for some spare change for the pub. At the slam of the backdoor, Severus could finally relax; but with his first deep breath came an agony which literally sickened him with its intensity.
In a haze of pain, he stumbled out of the stifling house and sought refuge in the only place he knew: the leafy green cathedral of the nearby park. He struggled to sit with his back against a familiar tree in the shade, hoping the gentle breeze would soothe the rivulets of sweat running down the sides of his face.
It might have been hours, it might have been minutes later that Lily found him. She spied his familiar form from a distance and waved joyously to him.
“It came just like you said it would! My letter to Hogwarts!” she breathed as she threw herself happily on the ground beside him. “I would have been here sooner but Professor Dumbledore himself came to inform my parents that I was a bona fide witch!”
It was only then that her eyes had truly focused on him and noted he was practically delirious with pain. “We need to take you to hospital!” she insisted.
“No!” he barely croaked as he squeezed his eyes shut. He reached out to catch her arm only to be engulfed in a wave of agony that left him panting for breath.
“Severus, please be reasonable,” Lily implored. “You need to be looked at by a doctor.”
“A Healer,” he corrected her weakly.
“Can you at least tell me what happened?” she begged as she gently brushed his overlong fringe from his forehead. The look of concern in her eyes deepened as she touched his clammy skin.
“Bullies, ambushed,” he managed, trying to cover up for the indignity of having shamed his father once again.
“Will you at least let me take you to my house?” she beseeched. “My mum will know what to do.”
“No hospital,” he’d made her promise over and over again as he allowed her to guide him the two blocks to her home.
Mrs. Evans had taken one look at him and insisted they call his mother at the nearby mill.
“Please, Lily, don’t let her call,” Severus had struggled to form the words. “They’ll dock her pay and then claim she’s unreliable. Please, Lily….”
A whispered conference had followed in the next room as Severus lowered himself shakily onto the nearest chair. It was all he could do to keep the room from spinning.
When Mrs. Evans returned, she guided him gently but firmly into the kitchen to try to ice down his injuries. “Where does it hurt, Severus? Can you tell me that?”
“Not sure," he’d gasped as a gentle pull on his upper arm practically made him collapse. With expert fingers, Mrs. Evans gingerly examined his upper torso through his threadbare shirt, finally determining that he seemed to have cracked his collarbone.
“I’m not sure a doctor could do much for that,” she explained with kind eyes. “Much the same happened to my younger brother when he fell out of a tree.”
“How did they treat Uncle Howard?” Lily asked as she flashed a reassuring smile at Severus.
“Put his arm in a sling to keep him from moving the bones unnecessarily,” Mrs. Evans replied as she returned with an old pillowcase. “Despite the pain, the bones will actually knit themselves in about two weeks time. Not that anyone was able to convince Howard of that over his screams that day.” Mrs. Evans had looked at Severus very curiously at that point, but then added in a light-hearted tone, “But Howard was much younger than you and somewhat of a cry-baby, as I recall.”
“Severus is preparing to step out on his own, Mother,” Lily announced. “He got a letter today just like I did. Didn’t you?”
Severus nodded. Through gritted teeth, he tried to add a smile “ only to abandon the attempt when the shiny stove hood reflected more of a grimace.
Taking Lily’s cue, Mrs. Evans chattered on about the astounding news that kind Professor Dumbledore had imparted to her today. In no time, she had Snape propped up in a sea of pillows on the sofa before the ‘telly’ as she called it. She left Lily to find some old movies to pass the time as she returned with a plate full of oatmeal and raisin biscuits and two tall glasses of milk punch.
“I took the liberty of crushing some aspirin into yours, dear,” she advised Severus in a reassuring tone. “You won’t taste the bitterness over the honey and allspice. Let me know if you need a refill, though. Lily’s not familiar with the recipe.”
With that and a stern look in Lily’s direction, Mrs. Evans left them alone for the remainder of the afternoon. Between sips of the sweet concoction Severus was certain contained a generous measure of brandy, his pain was muted to a manageable roar.
At some point, Petunia wandered by and gave him a disparaging look on her way to the kitchen. She returned with a mug of tea just as Severus was asking Lily a question about the ‘cowboys and Indians’ who were galloping across the screen.
“I don’t have to ask whether he received a letter also,” she huffed at Lily, ignoring Severus as if he were nothing but an unsightly stain. “Totally unfamiliar with our world.”
“There’s no need to be rude,” Lily issued crossly to Petunia’s back before returning her attentions to Severus. “She’s just jealous, Mum said.”
Snape nodded wordlessly in return, too weak to retort to Petunia that he knew plenty about the Muggle world, practically grew up in it; he was just unfamiliar with television.
They fed him tea and sandwiches before Mrs. Evans insisted on driving him home. “The pain will return tenfold if you jostle yourself with walking the distance on foot. I’ll let you off at the end of the block if you prefer.”
He remembered waving awkwardly to Lily with his free hand as the car had driven off into the distance. When he was certain they were out of sight, he carefully untied the makeshift sling and folded the pillowcase into his pocket. Cradling his arm in the same position as best he could, he walked to the end of the lane just in time to see his mother emerge from her double shift. Hardly daring to breathe, he waited for her to cross the rickety bridge spanning the roaring river.
One look into her son’s unfocused eyes told Eileen Snape much of the story. She motioned for him to wait on the front steps as she made sure there was no one else waiting for them inside the somber house at Spinner’s End. Once inside, a quick motion of her wand located Severus’ injury and repaired the fracture.
Her last words to him before sending him off to bed were, “I don’t care how bad the pain is. If I catch you drinking again, I’ll break your other collarbone!”
But it had not ended there. He remembered another instance when Lily had found him staring glumly out at the river. They were fourteen or fifteen and she had brought a summer picnic to enjoy while the boats floated by in the lazy current. Work at the mill had been scaled down and many of the nearby residents were now employed in transporting goods downriver. Catching a familiar face on the shore, the workmen often waved merrily as they passed by Severus’ favorite spot in the lee of the weathered iron bridge.
The bright colors hurt Severus’ eyes, or so he told Lily as he squinted through gauzy lids to maintain his composure. A pointless exercise in nobility as she had noticed him cradling his right wrist almost immediately.
“It’s nothing, Lily,” Severus insisted. “I tripped like a berk on the stone steps at the top of the levy. Here I was feeling like I had avoided that drunken lout “ can’t believe he was only two years ahead of me in grammar school “ and I do something like this!” He smiled ruefully into her eyes as he artfully spun his story. “The worst part was that he laughed himself silly until he threw up his beer. The smell was worse than the humiliation, I assure you.”
She had not truly been fooled; deep down Severus had known that. But she had been kind enough to let him believe for a little while longer. She giggled at his story and then asked him point blank if he knew how to knit bones with his wand.
“Don’t give me that under-aged magic tripe, Sev. That’s only for small children. I know full well the Ministry can’t tell who’s done magic, not without examining the wands in question. All you have to do is use my wand and perform the spell inside your house where your mother routinely uses magic.”
Severus thought it best not to correct her as, technically, her explanation was true. In reality, his mother rarely worked magic as it so enraged his father that it was akin to facing a rampaging hippogriff. Instead, he’d shaken his head ruefully. “I might manage if it were my left wrist that needed mending, but I can’t wield a wand except with my right hand.”
“Something to remedy next term,” she suggested matter-of-factly. Then she excused herself to go to the nearby chemist.
He’d tried the wordless numbing spell his mother had insisted he master, drilling him until he felt his eyes would cross. In his frustration, he’d been tempted to ask her if she used it on her heart, but self-preservation won out. Not that it was of much help in this instance, Severus grumbled to himself; its effects were transitory and superficial at best.
Lily returned minutes later with a stretchy bandage and some fat wooden knitting needles that she wrapped tightly around his wrist. The relief had been so immediate he almost grabbed her up and kissed her impetuously. But he’d never taken that irrevocable step as his bandaged arm lay awkwardly between them.
“Perhaps I should go see if I can get a wee bottle of peppermint schnapps to dampen the pain a bit,” she suggested, but her smile turned into a frown when she saw his frightened eyes. “You think I’ll get busted? The worst they can say is ‘no’.”
“Please, Lily, everyone around here knows my mother,” he pleaded. “I wouldn’t want her to get the wrong idea about how we spend our summer afternoons.”
“Right. Forgive me for not thinking that one through,” she responded lightly as she dung out some Butterbeers from her hamper and generously uncapped his.
He would have never forgiven himself if she’d run into his father at the pub. No doubt after he made some ungentlemanly remark as the barkeep dispensed her the schnapps with naught but a sly wink.
It was a few days later when his mother was double-checking his wrist had healed properly that he’d been put on the spot.
“Evelyn told me what happened the other day,” she began conversationally.
Severus stiffened immediately as Evelyn’s husband was the local chemist.
“Don’t twist so or I won’t be able to make a right assessment,” his mother scolded. “Then you’d have to rewrap your wrist all over again.”
She’d known all along, Severus’ mind screamed as he willed himself to remain impassive.
“Good thing your friend had the foresight to seek out a Muggle remedy,” Eileen continued unhurriedly. “Evelyn asked me how your sprain was and I told her it was healing nicely.”
How had they connected Lily with him, though? He never got the chance to pose the question as in her next breath, his mother added, “Your schoolmate is quite memorable with her thick red hair and easy smile. Lots of idle tongues in this town that would be better served with other hobbies.”
“Yes, Mum. I promise to be more discreet,” Severus heard himself say. “Her name is Lily Evans, she’s in the same class as me.”
“I don’t want to suggest you shouldn’t have any friends, Severus. Merlin knows, you won’t find anyone suitable at Spinner’s End. Just meet her on her side of town from now on.”
She did not have to mention that the less his father knew about his friends, and anything else having to do with Hogwarts, the better.
“I’ll remember, Mum,” he’d promised solemnly, not daring to give her a quick hug. Hugs were for small children only, he’d gotten that icy message years ago; but somehow it had never totally taken root.
“And. Severus, take this bit of motherly advice: choose the mates who accept you for who you are. Those who fear wizards are just as intolerant as those who are jealous of their abilities.”
She had not met his eyes as she left the room, but her message had been clear: don’t make the same mistakes I did. Don’t marry someone who will revile you for what you cannot help being.
It had been advice he had taken to heart, doing his best to avoid the misconceptions that had destroyed his parents’ lives. But had he really succeeded? Human nature was too prone to repeat itself. Just compare Petunia’s jealousy with the feelings of inadequacy that had made his father detest his own son. Nor could it be argued that Petunia’s attitude was nothing more than a teenaged pique; he knew full well her beliefs had hardened even more in adulthood. Was his father’s drunkenness any different than his own misguided desire to lose himself among the delusions of power offered by the Death Eaters? Hadn’t they both ended up destroying their wives and offspring in the process? No, he hadn’t avoided his father’s legacy at all; he’d just found a pathetic way to apply it to the wizarding world.
He downed the last swallow of the fabled Bordeaux and caught Remus regarding him patiently. “I never claimed to be as rousing company as one of the Headmistress’ get-togethers,” Snape noted dryly.
“Quite all right,” Remus replied. “I’m not complaining about a bit of fine wine and contemplation.” Then amid the soothing susurrus of the cracking fire, he added, “Harry doesn’t blame you, you know.”
Snape sat bolt upright in his chair. He’d felt no feather touch of Legilimency; there hadn’t even been any direct eye contact. The intensity of the look he raked over Lupin said it all.
Remus emitted a soft chuckle. “Not as inscrutable as you thought, eh?”
“And you’re an infernal incubus, you know that!”
“Truly, Severus, how many times have you gone down that well-worn path? It was a foregone conclusion on my part.”
“No wonder the Gryffindors can’t get any pranks past you.”
“That’s just past experience,” Remus scoffed. “You were more of a challenge…I take it I was right.”
“Not exactly, but I wasn’t far from it,” Snape admitted. “I suppose my trail of self-flagellation is rather predictable.”
“My point is that it’s incorrect. Harry no longer blames you. True, there was a time in his youth when he jumped to some conclusions without seeing the complete picture, but he’s grown beyond that.”
“He has every reason to blame me,” Snape allowed in a hollow tone. “I was the agent who delivered the prophecy to his parents’ murderer.”
“An ambiguous prophecy that could have been interpreted in a myriad of ways. You were a pawn just like Harry himself when he was lured to retrieve the prophecy from the Department of Mysteries. It was Voldemort who decided how he would interpret its meaning and decided to put stock into it in the first place.”
“Now you sound like Dumbledore. You didn’t find an old hairbrush of his, did you?”
“I’m hopeless at potions, you know that. And Polyjuice is hardly one for amateurs.”
“Still, it was never my intent that Harry discover that particular truth. Dumbledore was of the opinion that it should have been expunged once I joined the Order.”
“The two of you put your great minds together and no one considered Sybill Trelawney might just be a loose cannon?” Remus laughed at the absolute irony of it.
“If I’d known of her insatiable thirst for cooking sherry, I might have. Still, who was she going to tell while barricaded in her stuffy tower? Her crystal ball?”
“I take it Dumbledore was against a Memory Charm, then?” Remus chortled.
“As scatter-brained as she’s always been, who know what kind of damage would have been wrought?” Snape argued.
“Would that have been damage to her or to the poor schmo who had to penetrate her foggy mind in order to cast the charm?” Lupin shot back.
Snape laughed outright, a rich sound that reverberated against the stone walls. “Perhaps that’s why Dumbledore was so dead set against it!”