Written for QLFC Round #2
Team: Wigtown Wanderers
Position: Beater 2
Prompt: Spinner's End
Additional Prompts: 2. (quote) 'Freedom is still the most radical idea of all.' — Nathaniel Branden. (word) lovely, 13. (dialogue) "What a thing to say!"
Words: 2272

Thanks to CUtopia, Kage Kitsune, AelysAlthea, VanillaAshes, and MagicalButts for betaing!

"Freedom is still the most radical idea of all." ~ Nathaniel Branden

Severus Snape made his way to his personal library, walking briskly and with obvious purpose. Without slowing his pace, he swung open the heavy oak doors and bypassed the strategically-placed plush armchairs, not even looking at the vast array of books. He was headed towards a cluttered bookshelf, where he put his hand on a slightly battered copy of A Beginner's Guide to Potion Making and pulled.

The book didn't come off the shelf; it wasn't supposed to. Instead, it neatly swung back, and soon the bookshelf twisted around to reveal a secret passageway. Not batting an eye at this, Snape ducked and entered and found himself in a hidden room.

One wall held a door that led into a large storage cupboard, but the door was closed and padlocked. Another was covered in shelves and drawers full of pots, barrels, and jars. There was obviously some sort of organization to that, if only to him. The third wall was lined with colorful vials of all shapes and sizes, some of which were labelled.

In the middle of the room stood a large table with cauldrons, empty and half-filled vials, and other materials for potion-making. The room was utilitarian, not as impressive as it should have been—and it should have been very impressive.

Severus Snape, one of the world's most prominent Potion Masters, had just entered his laboratory.

He stopped before he reached the table, the purpose that had marked his steps suddenly gone. Sighing, he looked around and lowered himself onto a nearby stool where he buried his head in his hands, gloomily lifted it to look at the various brewing potions, and hid it once more.

It would have been a strange sight to anyone. Here was this wizard, one of the most powerful men of the era, on the verge of tears. The habitual frown had given way to a look of deepest sorrow, but he buried his head not from prying eyes—for there was not a person anywhere near—but to spare himself from seeing it.

Severus Snape had everything. He lived in a grand house with tall ceilings and large windows, with ornate parquetry and a balcony overlooking a garden, with several different bathrooms and bedrooms and plush couches in all four sitting rooms. He had multiple school awards for potion-making hung on the walls—he was somewhat of a protégé in the area—and an unlimited amount of potion supplies.

He was still relatively young, only a few years past thirty, and there was no reason why he should be crying in a dungeon. Any man would have killed for such a reputation and such a living—any man except for this one. He hardly walked through the house, kept the windows closed against prying eyes, and let the garden descend into ruin after firing his gardener.

There was no reason for his behavior except one: Severus Snape had everything except his freedom.

It had been years since he'd last seen the sun, years since he had last talked to someone who wasn't an enchanted mirror, and even the latter recoiled from him in disgust.

If anyone asked them, his neighbors would say that he didn't exist—but they weren't trustworthy witnesses. Spinner's End, where Severus Snape lived, wasn't a lively street. Identical brick buildings lined either end, all dreary and dirty. It was only his house that stood out, and that only for its size. The lavishness of the interior barely compensated for the squalor of the outside because no one ever saw it.

In full truth, the lavishness of the outside didn't compensate for the squalor of the outside at all. For Severus Snape, who'd spent his entire childhood dreading returning to Spinner's End after school or the playground, the place was a nightmare.

He just couldn't leave.

Because that was his curse. Snape's aversion to his childhood home had once made him swear never to return. It had worked for a while, and he'd lived in a small but expensive flat in London, but the death of both his parents had caused him to come back. "Good riddance!" he'd said then, just ready to sell the house, but he hadn't gotten the chance to.

A bitter man, his hatred for the house and the street had only grown since his imprisonment there. He had the extraordinary ability to remember every insult and every compliment ever given to him—but there had been so many more insults.

Perhaps that was why Petunia Evans, who'd experienced his hatred of humanity after her sister had denied him, had paid a witch to curse him.

Snape didn't know the particulars of how to break the curse—"Until you get rid of the evil in your heart!" the witch had said—and was now completely discouraged.

Wallowing in self-pity was beneath him, but surely a man in his situation was to be given some slack.

Snape sighed and wiped his tears. He would get nothing done that day. For years he's been trying to find a way to end the curse, but maybe it wasn't meant to be. He stood and left the potions lab, closed the secret entrance behind him, and marched through the halls of his mansion in the direction of his bedroom.

He had almost reached it when a yell from the garden reached his ears. Curiosity getting the better of him, Snape ran outside; since the garden was part of his property, his curse allowed him to enter it.

There, on the ground in one of the rosebushes, was a boy. He was clutching a broomstick and looked to be in his late teenage years, and just now seemed to be opening his eyes. He sat up and his eyes met Snape's. To his credit, he didn't scream, just grimaced.

Snape scowled. "What are you doing?"

"I was trying to catch the quaffle, sir," the boy said. "Someone threw it too far, and it got caught up in a gust of wind, and I flew after it, and then I crashed here."

"The quaffle—"

"You do know what quidditch is, sir?" he asked. "It's just… you look like a wizard, so I thought you—"

"Yes, I know what quidditch is. What a thing to say! What if I was a Muggle?" Snape scowled again. Stupid game. Stupid kids. "Don't answer that. And don't interrupt, boy."

The boy scowled, but didn't say anything.

"Now, given that you've crash-landed in my garden and you seem to still be in one piece," Snape continued, "I suppose it's only fair that I confiscate your broom and ball until you make it up to me."

"Fair—"

"No interruptions, I do not like repeating myself." Snape thought for a moment. "Yes, I think that's the best course of action." He pointed his wand at the broomstick and quaffle and nonverbally sent them into his house. "Come tomorrow morning, and I will give you your task."

He turned and swept back into the house, leaving the boy to figure out how to get out of the garden.

Evidently, the boy had managed to get out, because Snape was woken at seven in the morning the next day by the ringing of his doorbell. He didn't like early wake-up calls, but the prospect of his garden being fixed made him feel better… well, not better, exactly, though the prospect of making the kid pay for his mistakes made him feel better.

But when Snape finally opened the door, it wasn't the kid he saw. It was a woman of indiscernible age, with short hair and shrewd, hawk-like eyes.

"Yes?" Snape said sharply.

"You've got my star player's broom." She didn't seem at all intimidated. "And my quaffle. I don't know what makes you think you can boss around a sixteen-year-old kid you don't even know, but I'm here to take them back."

"Your 'star player',"Snape's lips curled into a sneer, "fell into my rosebush. Aside from invading the privacy I've spent years protecting, he ruined a sizable portion of my garden and broke one of my trees as he was falling from it. It is only fair that he rectifies that."

She looked at his house suspiciously. "No offense, but I'm not letting a kid in here."

"So what are you going to do?" Snape paused, seeing her think, and sneered. "It's not like you're going to do it instead, is it? No one's that good a person."

She gazed up and pierced him with a look. "You know what? I am going to do that."

Snape was floored. In his whole life, he'd only known one truly kind person. But even she'd disappointed him and that had led him to a reclusive life and fraternization with questionable parties. By the time he'd changed his lifestyle—and done so of his own free will—she'd wanted nothing more to do with him.

There was no way that this sharp-faced and athletically-built woman was so selfless. She didn't even know him!

"Are you now?" he asked, putting as much doubt into his voice as he could.

"Yes." Her voice was firm. "I offer quidditch practices to aspiring players during the summer holidays. They come here from all over and play together. If anyone should be punished for destroying your garden, it's me. They're my players and I should have kept a closer eye on them."

Snape nodded. He wasn't sure if he believed her words, or if she'd said them just to placate him, but he gestured her inside. "It's just the garden you're going to have to work on. I'll leave you there, and be kind enough to leave you your wand."

With the woman situated in the garden, Snape retreated back into the house. He watched her at first, but saw that she was hard at work and let his attention wander to a book. It was the last book he had in his library that he hadn't read. It, like all the books before it, might hold the answer to his curse.

It didn't.

By the time Snape finished reading it, dusk had settled over Spinner's End and he called the woman in from the garden. She entered the parlor looking dirty and tired, but the gleam in her eyes hadn't dimmed. Even covered in dirt and sweat, she looked determined and victorious.

"Are you finished?" Snape asked.

"Yes," she said. "If you want new flowers, I'm going to have to return tomorrow to plant them, but your garden no longer looks like something out of The Monster Book of Monsters."

He sneered. "I'll see about that."

But true enough, when he looked out the window, the garden was as docile as it hadn't been in years. The grass had been cut, the flowers had been returned to their respective flowerbeds, the birdbath had been cleaned, the wild ivy had been tamed. The broken tree and ruined roses had been trimmed.

He nodded at her; saying 'thank you' was beyond him at that point.

She nodded back, and her straight-set mouth curved up into something resembling a smile. "You'd do better to not underestimate people like that. You never know what the future can bring, and using the past to justify the present and future can only bring you so far."

He drew his eyebrows together. "Excuse me?"

"Not everyone is the same. You have to give people chances. You have to give the future chances." She nodded at him again. "I can let myself out."

And without giving him a chance to say anything, she turned around and headed for the door.

Snape was stunned into silence. It had been so long since he'd talked to someone that he hadn't known what to do, but one conversation had laid bare his fears. His bitterness and hatred had made him a recluse even before the curse had trapped him in the house.

And that woman—whose name he still didn't know—had spoken to him like an equal, despite his doing his best to scare her away. She'd taken the boy's place, and something told him that she had done it out of the goodness of her heart, not just to prove a point.

He spun on the spot and ran through the house after her. By the time he reached the door, she was already on the street.

"What's your name?" he called from the threshold, unable to cross it.

She stopped walking. "My name?"

"Yes." He tried to clear the usual coldness from his face. "I'm Severus Snape. Who are you?"

"My name's Rolanda Hooch," she said after a short pause. It was clear that she was unsure about his sudden sociability, but he didn't care.

"Rolanda Hooch," he said. "Rolanda Hooch, come here tomorrow. You can tell me all about your philosophies: not assuming about people and such."

He hoped she'd agree, but she didn't say anything. She just looked at him strangely and walked away, and he was left waiting. For a moment, he doubted her once more. What sort of person left someone mid-conversation?

But she returned the next day, carrying rosebuds to plant in the garden.

He was a long way from finding a means of breaking his curse and gaining his freedom, but in the meantime, he would talk to her and learn all about the world. He would learn about people, and about goodness and kindness, and he wouldn't always believe or agree with her, but—and Snape knew this for a fact—the bleak days of his punishment would seem shorter, and his bitterness would dim.