Disclaimer: I don't own anything. It's all inspired by the genius that is JK Rowling, who we will forever be indebted to. I'm just having fun using what she gave us.
(Note: This is my first fanfic story, so go easy on me. I'll try to update every week, if not sooner, but no guarantees considering my homework and all.)
Shattering the Mask
Chapter 1
It was dark in Hogsmeade. The winter night had set in early, chilling the fallen snow all the faster, converting it to ice that slicked every road and alley. Doors and window shutters were locked and charmed against the wind and the frost and smoke poured from the roaring fireplaces within homes and business establishments. Only the rare, uncurtained window showed any life at all and those all seemed to belong to the Three Broomsticks, which shined like a beacon at the center of the village. Its patrons swayed, in the midst of the thwanging music emitting from enchanted instruments in the corner, drinking themselves to oblivion and beyond.
Rosemerta shoved the firewhiskey out of sight after a disgruntled, and completely toasted, old wizard had attempted to engage in a duel using the broken leg of a stool, that his opponent had fallen on and crushed, as his wand. She disarmed both fools, the other a long haired middle-aged youth with a piercing through each nostril, who had been holding his own wand backwards, and escorted them out of the pub, hauling each by the back of their collar.
As she turned back into the melee, she noticed four people creeping along the shadows that lined the street. She drew her wand and stepped into the wash of light from the doorway to watch them approach, incredibly aware that the two imbeciles and the wrestling drunks behind her would be no aid in case of an attack. But, before she could summon a Patronus to send in warning to Dumbledore, the four stepped near enough to reveal some of their details. She relaxed when she noted that they appeared to be four young people, warmly wrapped in cloaks that did not resemble, at this distance, the Death Eater robes that had begun to haunt her nightmares. The tallest, a blonde with a goatee and an ear piercing, offered her a tired smile as they drew near.
"'Ello then. What do you four want, I wonder," Madame Rosemerta asked, regaining her good humor. She leaned against the door frame, appearing to block their entrance.
"Sorry for the late hour, milady," the blonde replied, cockily, a mocking smile decorating his face, which she considered more than a bit handsome. "But we're just parched tonight and were wonderin' if you might spare us some of your reputable kindness and offer us the services of your establishment."
"Well spoken, lad." She laughed and was echoed by Filander who had wandered up, drunk off his arse, behind her. She shoved him out of the way and gestured that they enter with the same motion, which they did. She led them to the only empty table, one in the back of the room, and watched as they each sat down.
The other three member of the blonde's group finally removed their hoods with the sighs of relief at being out of the cold. There were two girls and two boys in total, and each sat next to, what she assumed was their prospective partner. The four looked young and ragged, but then who was she to judge considering the state of her hair after the night's events. She flicked out her wand and slashed at the air between them. The candles that were lined up along the middle of the table burst to life and illuminated their faces.
"What'll you have then?" She asked.
"Four butter—" The blonde started to say.
"Butterbeers? Really Ax. What are we, 12?" The other male interrupted, equipped with dark hair and a strong jawline. "Make that four fire whiskey's, dear lady. The quicker the better." The girls giggled in their chairs and shook their heads at their friend in disbelief, but didn't contradict him.
"Hmph." Was all Rosemerta said, jotting the order down in thin air with the tip of her wand, writing in thin smoky letters that disappeared a few seconds afterward. She muttered something about "kid's today" under her breath, but was soon distracted by the two wrestling goons on the far side of the room who were in the process of over-turning a table.
The four young people at the table watched her go and waited until the sound of the life inside the bar had drowned out any chance of being over heard. Nathan, the dark-haired boy, sat back in his chair and dropped the smile that still lingered on his lips. Isis and Sabrina stopped giggling and sagged in their seats instead, and Axle watched them each in turn, wringing his fingers around each other without realizing it, in the way of nervous habits.
"So," Nathan muttered.
"So," Axle echoed. "So here we are, at last."
"It's now or never, isn't it," Sabrina replied glumly from where she sat against the wall. The candles on the tabletop were only partly responsible for the deep shadows under her eyes "We have to face the facts now, I suppose. Either here, or in front of the gates to that damned castle." She scrubbed at her face with her hands and dark bangs leaped forward to shadow her further, bangs that she didn't bother to wipe away.
"You know what I think," Isis said, sitting up suddenly and crossing her arms. "I think we're over-thinking this whole thing. I mean, honestly, it's not like your uncle could see you after all these years and NOT invite you to stay. I mean, he's the only blood family you have, right? And didn't you say he was kind of cool?"
Sabrina raised an eyebrow at her. "Well yeah, when I was a kid he was cool." She gazed at the wall beside her, noting the crack that ran up its length to a point just below the ceiling. "But it's been years. And he was always a little…"
"Menacing. Dark. Like a bat that comes out of nowhere in the middle of the night to torment your dreams," Axle supplied, attempting to sound genuinely helpful. Sabrina chucked a lit candle stick at him, which he had to swat away with his hand, and then hurriedly douse with his wand before the matron had the chance to look their way.
"I was GOING to say 'stern,' actually, Axle."
"You can throw flame balls at me all you want, Bri. I remember him from his visits. He's a prat, no doubts about it."
"Why are we here then?" She growled at him, from across the table. She turned back to the wall to hide her scowl when Madame Rosemerta appeared with their drinks, and then back to face him when she was gone. "What other choice do we have?"
"I just don't see why we need the help is all," Axle muttered into the rim of his foaming cup. He swallowed a mouthful of whiskey, and winced as it went down, scalding his everything.
"You mean besides the fact that we can't turn a corner without running into a Death Eater raid? There's a WAR going on, Axle, and if we don't watch our backs, we're going to be smack dab in the middle of it without a hint of warning or even the hope of back-up."
"Alright, that's enough." They both turned to look at Isis, who was swirling the contents of her mug, but hadn't yet taken a sip. "Every time. Every TIME I let you two at it, one of you ends up with a bruise the size of a grapefruit," she looked pointedly at Sabrina, "or an arm full of bite marks," she said, turning to look at Axle, who rubbed his arm self-consciously over the old wound her words reminded him of. "What do you say, Nate?" Their dark haired companion was already a third of the way into his mug.
"I say, if we were having doubts, we should have taken care of them already." He grinned. "Guys, we're here already, so quit biting each other's heads off and enjoy the moment. The whiskey is excellent!" He said the last loud enough to carry over to Madame Rosemerta, who huffed exasperatedly in their direction, but with a hint of humor in her expression.
"To us!" He cried, suddenly, raising his mug above their heads, requesting a toast. "And to the coming hospitality of our soon-to-be adopted uncle!" The other three looked at each other, shrugged, and clinked glasses before bringing them to their lips, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, relaxed into the hum of their little piece of stolen paradise. Sabrina was the last to disperse her lingering thoughts about the reception they would be getting from Snape once they actually managed to work up the energy and courage to meet with him. The last thing she recalled before surrendering herself to the call of nerve numbing alcohol was of summoning an image of him, the last memory she had of him: tall, with volumes of greasy hair and a thin build, always wrapped in layers of black, he had been watching her cast a spell, and he'd been smiling.