Title: The Goblet, Placed Upright
Spoilers: 1-7
Category: Drama? Humor? Angst?
Pairing: implied S/L, Albus Severus Potter.
Summary: The ghost of a dark man converses with a boy playing in the woods: Snape discovers his namesake. Based loosely on the meanings of two names [re:A/N and the question: What is in a name?...Redemption?
A/N: Wow. I haven't tried my hand at fanfiction in years, and now I've put out two one-shots in the span of two days.
AN IMPORTANT NOTE, pertaining to title and topic of this fanfiction:
The title is based on the symbolic meanings of the term "Albus" and the name "Severus."
Albus: One of the sixteen figures of western geomancy, the albus can be represented as a goblet, set upright. It is a favorable—though weak—figure, depicting peace, wisdom and purity.
Severus: Alexander Severus was the last in the Severan line of Roman emperors, and was considered "virtuous in an age when vice reigned almost supreme."
Please do enjoy.
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"Hiya!"
The dark man stares. To be entirely fair, he's not exactly dark anymore: transparent is more like it, and silvery, though the shining translucency of his cloak and hair are a charcoal-like shade. A little perplexed, he glances around the clearing, but there's no mistaking it: the little boy is looking directly at him, a goofy grin on his green-eyed face. There's little question: the boy can see him.
"Who are you, Mister?"
The dark man gestures to himself, just to be certain. The boy is not supposed to be able to see him, not unless he wills it. But the kid nods eagerly, and the man clears his throat and tries to glare threateningly. "I am….a friend." He knows he doesn't look very friendly, and adds—with an uncharacteristic softening around the eyes—"A friend of your Grandmother Lily's."
The boy wrinkles his nose and twists his lips to the side, deep in thought. The tiny newborn hippogriff that has been tumbling around him suddenly kicks and rears impatiently, wanting attention, and the boy's hand falls heavily on it, absentmindedly stroking the feathers. "So…why are you here? Why aren't you with her?" He pushes a handful of that obnoxious Potter-black hair out of his eyes, adding, "She's in Heaven," like it's an afterthought.
'Of course she's in heaven, you irritating child. She's an angel, and always has been.'
The dark man thinks this, but he doesn't say it. Instead, he merely raises his eyebrows threateningly and says, "Shouldn't you treat your elders with more respect? Enough with your foolish questions. Continue playing." He orders it, like the idea of "playing" can be commanded and mastered at will. Which is ironic, seeing as how it's one of the few things he himself has never been able to master.
The boy pouts, rubbing two stubby fingers along the little hippogriff's head, and appears to make an honest attempt to turn his attention back to his play. The dark man can see how the boy is visibly struggling to keep his mouth shut. Inevitably, he loses the war: he is, after all, a Potter.
"What are you doing here?" the boy asks innocently, directing his question to the scampering animal instead of the ghost, as though that will make a difference.
The dark man sighs noisily, exasperated, and frowns at the boy. "You're just like your father, aren't you? Stubborn and nosy, too curious for your own good and too proud to shut up." He doubts the child has even caught on to half of what he's said. The boy is too young and innocent, if alarmingly reminiscient of Potter in looks and attitude, to understand that both he and his father have just been insulted. "I'm here to look after you, Albus."
The boy grins. "You know my name!"
The man rolls his eyes, annoyed beyond control.
"Why are you looking after me?" The high voice persists. The ghost rubs his temples: he didn't know he could still get headaches in this form, but apparently, trying to have a coherent conversation with Potter's offspring—or avoid a conversation with Potter's offspring—still manages to overpower him. He glowers. Then, to his utter horror, the boy asks, "Are you like my fairy godfather?"
"What?" the man gasps, appalled. "Merlin! No!"
"Then why are you here?"
"I told you," the man snaps irritably. "To protect you."
"Are you a Patronus?"
The boy really is dense. "A Patronus is a spell," the dark man snaps. He thinks of his own Patronus. He has always made a career of thinking, and has had even more time to do so now that he is dead, and he has come to the conclusion that his Patronus, the silver doe, is caused not only by his love for Lily, but that it is a manifestation of the fact that all of his happy memories—the ones he uses to conjure the protective charm in the first place—center around Lily. Lily, watching a sunset on the lake with his head in her lap…Lily, younger, red hair flying while he pushed her on the swing and surrounded her with clouds of charmed butterflies and flower petals…Lily, laughing…Lily, Lily, Lily.
"So are you one?" the boy repeats.
The ghost stares at him, trying to see if there is anything at all going on behind those brilliant green eyes. "No," he enunciates slowly and clearly.
"Then why are you protecting us?"
It's amazing that he can hear his own immaterial teeth grind together. "I made a promise to your Grandmother Lily."
"But she's dead."
The ghost closes his eyes. He doesn't remember talking himself into such circles even with Potter, but then, this boy is a good deal younger. Potter had probably been just as thick-headed when he was six, too.
"I know," the dark man says with careful patience. Even without blood circulation, he knows a vein in his temple is throbbing as he struggles to keep his voice under control. "We were friends when we were alive, and after she died, I made a vow to protect her offspring." The offspring that should have been his, he amends silently. In some dark corner of his mind, he thinks briefly that maybe the reason he hates Harry Potter so much is because he could have been his own son. It could have been his black and glossy hair that the young wizard sported, and perhaps he could have shared with the boy the family that he himself had never had. We were both homeless orphans, he thinks morosely, almost wistfully, and then slams that particular door shut with something akin to revulsion.
"Sooooo……" the boy looks down at the hippogriff, which is now curling contentedly in his lap. "….What are you, then?"
The man pinches the bridge of his rather generous nose. "A ghost."
"Why?" the boy asks.
"Because…." Here the man pauses, sighs, and shoots the boy a dark-eyed glare. "Because I chose not to go on. Do you understand? I chose to continue in what I had promised to do." It's mostly true. Protecting Lily's descendents had been his only reason to live for a long time, and it is part of him now, more a part of him than Spinner's End, or Hogwarts, or even the mark that still mars his forearm. Their safety has been all that matters for a long, long time.
Nevertheless, no small part of him is also revolted and terrified at the thought of seeing Lily again—Lily, eternally happy with Potter on her arm. He's glad to have this excuse to not go on, to stay on this plane. He isn't stupid: he knows that even if, on some small chance, he was to get into heaven—well, it wouldn't be heaven for him. He tries to look intimidating, imposing, and prays that the boy won't ask any more questions, but of course Potter's spawn is oblivious.
"So you're protecting us instead? All of us?"
"I was," the man says icily. "Now I think I'm going to go Obliviate this conversation from my mind."
The boy remains clueless. "Okay."
A sneer skins the man's lips back from his teeth. Briefly, his mind skitters over the arrogance of James Potter, Senior, and his obnoxious bullying. He thinks of all the times Harry Potter has glared at him from across the dungeons and hallways of Hogwarts, with his hatred and contempt and his self-righteous eagerness to condemn. James Potter the Second seems just as arrogant and pig-headed as his predecessors, and Albus himself seems on the road to the same magical mediocrity and self-absorbed conceit. Perhaps, the dark man admits, it is unfair to judge a six year old so quickly and harshly, but when has he ever seen something generous spring from the Potter line? Better to defend and fortify oneself now than to think for a minute that something of Lily, something benevolent and open-armed, and loving, could be found in these children of hers.
He turns to go, knowing he'll be back as soon as he has re-mastered his invisibility. In some ways, he finds himself unable to stay away from this family. Ensuring their well-being is entwined with his very identity.
"Wait a minute!" Albus says suddenly, causing the ghost to half-turn. He's leapt to his feet, causing the hippogriff to tumble to the ground with a squawk. "What's your name?"
The man curls his lip. Briefly, he entertains the idea of calling himself Uncle Severus, but that's far too cliché and fanciful for him. He thinks of all the stories Albus' father has probably told, stories of the nasty Potions Master and his dreadful appearance and horrifying punishments. He has no doubt that the name "Professor Snape" is synonymous with "Dementor" and "Boggart" in this child's mind, so he has no qualms using it.
"Professor Snape," he says with a cynical sneer, and turns on his heel to leave.
"Wotcher!" the boy says brightly, excitedly, far too happily, freezing the man in his tracks. The ghost turns slowly, stares at Albus as the boy beams up at him.
"You're named after him too!" the boy tells him, grinning ridiculously.
Snape's eyes narrow. "Excuse me?"
"You're named after the Hogwarts headmaster!" Albus grins. He has a scant few freckles on his round cheeks, doubtless inherited from his Weasley blood, and his green eyes are barely-visible crescents in his face, he's smiling so hard and wide.
The ghost's eyes narrow. He think the child has his timelines all screwed up, but doesn't feel like explaining that he is, in fact, the former headmaster of Hogwarts. Instead, he zeroes in on the one thing that doesn't make any sense at all, and asks dangerously, "What do you mean, I'm named after him, too?"
The boy can't stop grinning. "It's my middle name," the six year old says happily. "Not Snape, I mean. Severus. Albus Severus Potter."
Snape is under the illusion that his blood has frozen in his veins, which is ludicrous, he knows, since he has no blood. "I beg your pardon?"
Albus leans forward confidingly and whispers, with great reverence, "My Dad says Severus Snape was one of the most brilliant and de—" he stumbles over the word "—devoted headmasters Hogwarts ever had, and one of the smartest and bravest men he ever met. Ever." He beams delightedly, knowing he's gotten the story right.
The ghost of Professor Snape stares down at him, eyes implacable, unmoving. After a moment, he starts to turn again to leave, pauses, and lifts one immaterial hand. Awkwardly, he pats the boy on the head, and it's like a breeze ruffling the glossy black hair. Quickly, he whirls away, his charcoal-silver robes swinging insubstantially through the child as he stalks into the treeline. Just before he disappears, he glances back at Albus, and there's a strange little curl to his lip. It doesn't sit comfortably on the man's pale face, but is also the first expression Albus has seen on the man that doesn't appear to be angry.
"I will…see you again, young Mr. Potter," the ghost tells him, looking incredulous, and pleased.
Then, he vanishes.