Title: Accounts Past Due
Author: Librasmile
Loglines: Taking the Dark Mark is not the only youthful indiscretion that comes back to haunt Severus.When an old personal debt comes due, Severus is forced to choose between saving himself or giving someone else a second chance at life.
Rating: R for suggestive situations and just to be on the safe side. Mild cursing. No graphic sex or violence.
Word Count: 4,448 words minus author's notes, summary, etc.
Author's Note: Originally written in one night for the final snapecase. Slightly expanded from there.
~Chapter I~
Although she had been a woman of ordinary prettiness in life, Severus had to admit that Maya Wardley made an uncommonly lovely corpse. As the line of attendees shuffled past the open casket he found himself clutching his hands in his robes. It was a gift of Death, he decided. Death's finality had imparted to her a poignant stillness she had never possessed in life.
The woman had never been able to sit still and the only thing that had been able to make her voluntarily stop talking was the Dark Lord's presence. THEN she knew well enough to shut up. He was not now, nor had he ever been, a fan of mindless chatter. Case in point was the woman next to him who knew wisely to keep silent. Still at the time, he had needed Maya's mindless chatter. The distraction of her incessant buzz, not to mention her easy virtue, had helped him corral his sanity, kept it locked and penned securely in place when all it had wanted to do was make a break for it and disappear past the far horizon.
For that alone he owed her.
But also…she had not married well.
As he and his companion returned to their previously vacated pew, his eyes skimmed across to the desolate man sitting in the front row with a little girl by his side. Maya's widower was stringy and pallid, a weedy-looking mouse of a man whom The Daily Prophet obit said worked for a branch office of the owl post as a mail sorter. But since the paper had also reported the elimination of that office a few days later, Severus wondered if the man had any current employment at all.
He thought of the powerful men Maya had entertained in her younger days – because her affections had certainly not been restricted to just him. Walden McNair. Rodolphus and Rabastan LeStrange ( since Bella had never hexed Maya, he assumed Madame LeStrange had not been squeamish about sharing her husband or brother-in-law with her friends ). Augustus Rookwood. Benjamin Yaxley. All of them were forceful, formidable mages whose magic suffused the very air around them. This man had the look of a bureaucrat who spent too many weeks stuffed in his paper-packed office trapped like a veal. His funeral robes were all but threadbare and barely pressed, whether because grief had left him unable to pull himself together enough in order to summon a straightening charm or because he couldn't afford new robes, Severus couldn't say. He would not be surprised if the latter were true. Even his shoes still showed signs of scuffing, although Severus guessed that a valiant effort with a polishing charm had been made. His eyes slid briefly to the little girl. She seemed presentable enough. Her hair, the same soft brown of Maya's own hair, was neatly pulled back into two braided pigtails on either side of her head. Some kind soul, because he couldn't imagine her wreck of a father managing it, had put her in a sweet little dress of white, with white tights and shoes, the traditional dress for children at funerals. Her soft brown eyes, again Maya's own, were wide, sad and baffled. Every so often, she swallowed as if holding back tears, and every time she did so the corners of her mouth tightened, displaying the dimples her mother had used to attract her suitors. Severus had recalled tracing his fingertips along the originals.
He shuddered and turned away.
As he retook his seat his companion slid in next to him, a bit too close for comfort. He leveled an irritated glare at her. It's not as if they needed to cram in. The turnout was merely adequate, hardly a cause for conserving space. The majority of mourners seemed to come from the widower's side of the family, meager though they were. Besides father and daughter, the front pew was occupied by a plump matronly woman with what would have been a pleasant face if it weren't currently screwed up with what Severus identified as anxiety rather than grief. Beside her was a man of about the same age but considerably taller and beefier than the widower. He had short-cropped steel-grey hair that looked like it was happier under a hat rather than exposed to the open air and a kindly face that was also marred with tension. His big, meaty hands, which, based on the callouses that Severus could see, seemed to denote a lifetime of manual labor, kept opening and closing as if trying to grasp of something vexing.
Surreptitiously, he scanned the rest of the crowd. Again, they seemed mostly from the widower's party – low-level clerks and civil service workers, some still in their uniforms, which made Severus wonder if they'd had to miss a few hours of work to come pay their respects. Save him, none of the old crowd had attended. The entire group smelled of the kind of petty desperation that came from working too hard for too little money or dignity. On the robes of the uniformed workers he could spot the embroidered brand names of shipping companies whose offices lined the docks of Navigation Alley. Other robes bore name tags with the logos of the counting houses of Numeric Alley. And he could have sworn he saw one or two caps from the green grocers and bakeries along Basic Alley. He took another subtle glance at Maya's widower. His robes lacked a name tag or brand name and the cut of the worn fabric indicated at least an attempt at professionalism at one point. That and his pallor told him the man might have found an inside job, probably another Ministry post or perhaps a Gringotts-related position. The worn fabric told him it was definitely a low-level position with little future at best and no cushion for extras – like an unexpected funeral. He kept his expression carefully neutral as he forced down his distaste and something darker. Is THIS what Maya had fallen to?
For a brief instant the memories of his father's funeral and his mother's flashed across his mind's eye. Tobias Snape's funeral, the denouement of a death Severus had happily hastened along ( and which the local court had fortuitously ruled self-defense thanks to a timely magical assist from Lucius Malfoy )*, had been held in a similarly tatty little chapel. He remembered peeling plaster walls, patched glass window panes and cheap, albeit cushioned, folding chairs. The heat had been stifling, the turnout had been poor, the meager flowers already wilting, and the afters consisting of thin, sugary punch in plastic cups with stale cold cuts and cookies served on paper plates.
Severus' grandfather, Rev. Silas Snape, a fire and brimstone sort, had preached the funeral, frequently tossing baleful looks at Severus and his mother as if wishing he could conjure the fires of hell to consume them both right then and there. Thankfully, Severus had been too concerned with his ailing mother to care what the man was saying or doing. Eileen Snape had been catatonic through the whole thing. She could move and walk if you urged her up and pointed her in the right direction. She could eat and drink if you held the cup to her mouth and fed her the food. But she could neither speak nor gesture. It was as if his father had somehow taken her with him when he'd died.
She also had not married well.
As if under Imperius, he rose and sat, rose and knelt, and gave the responses as the service required, all the while lost in memory.
His mother's funeral had been glaringly different.
After his father's funeral, he had taken his mother and fled to the Malfoy estate. To his everlasting gratitude, Lucius had actually issued the invitation and welcomed them both with open arms. Even today, he was never sure just how much Lucius' welcome had had to do with the Dark Lord's request that his newest Death Eater be fully supplied to meet Lord Voldemort's potions requisitions with minimal delay. While he'd certainly have cause to suspect ambivalence on Lucius' part after his mother's death, to this day he couldn't pinpoint even one instance of resentment from Lucius, or indeed from Lucius' wife Narcissa, over Eileen's brief sojourn there. Lucius had dearly loved his own mother, Severus recalled.
Eileen's funeral had been held in the Malfoy family chapel, a gloriously Gothic space of soaring stone arches and ethereal light filtered through the sparkling, jewel-like panes of stained-glass windows. Her coffin had been beautifully fashioned from gleaming, polished oak, whose cushioned interior had been lined with soft satin. Narcissa had apparently stripped the Malfoy family's greenhouses bare to supply the riot of lilies and roses. Most generous of all, the service had been conducted by a minister from the local Adorant** church, a denomination that somehow managed the improbable feat of staying on the Ministry's good side with respect to Muggles and Muggleborns while yet resisting the anti-Slytherin prejudice that seemed to be infecting so much of their society. He would be forever grateful for that. Given his own preferences, Lucius would have chosen the family chaplain to preach the service. But, given Eileen's ill-fated marriage to a Muggle and the clergyman's virulently anti-Muggle sentiments, that hardly could have turned out well. The pews had been packed with purebloods, not just the core of the Dark Lord's inner circle, like Bellatrix and Rodolphus LeStrange, but others as well, including Augusta Longbottom and Helena Prewett. Even Bathilda Bagshot had hobbled her way in.
Severus had sat in the front pew with Lucius on his right and Narcissa, tightly clutching his cold, trembling hand, on his left. He'd neither wept nor sobbed, but the tears had flowed nevertheless. Graciously, neither Malfoy took notice. Those had been the last tears he'd shed until Lily's death.
Maya had taken him to bed that night.
It hadn't been the first time nor would it be the last. But from that point on she became something of a steady companion for him. Her bed became his soft place to land whether he needed to celebrate after a successful raid or commiserate after a failure. It was only after he'd turned on the Dark Lord had he realized just how much Maya had saved him from becoming a complete monster. Killing in arguably honorable combat was one thing. Compared to modern Muggle jurisprudence, Wizard law and custom was refreshingly retrograde on that score. But the debaucheries that happened afterward, the tortures, the rapes – confined to the inner circle and hidden from the rank and file – were kept at a distance for him because he was known to prefer Maya's bed. Not even the Dark Lord had pressured him to join in since he was routinely hopping into a pureblood woman's bed. And the association had been further advantageous. Maya was Bella's friend and Bella was the Dark Lord's undisputed favorite. Having Maya's good regard muted Bella's tendency to sniff out and eliminate potential rivals. Bella never turned on Maya because, Hufflepuff that she was, Maya's loyalty was unshakable, her magic was never strong enough to rival Bella's, and Maya was smart enough to never test Bella. Instead, Maya played the class clown, the boon companion, the happily subordinate hanger on. Maya made him laugh and forget all about blood and terror and eternal retribution. Maya had helped keep him sane.
He bowed his head as if in prayer, hoping that no one could hear his teeth grinding. For all her sins, she had deserved better than this, this tatty send off. Without thinking he grabbed his companion's hand, gripping it tight. From the corner of his eye, he saw her head jerk around in surprise before her gaze turned speculative. Her hand squeezed back as she settled back into her pew and returned her now self-satisfied gaze to the funeral program.
Demeter Spencer was prettier than Maya. Where Maya's hair was merely brown, Demeter's was a particularly alluring – and, he suspected, potion-enhanced – shade of blonde that complimented her skin tones rather delectably. She had a sweet, trim figure that she showed off in the leg-baring skirts and tailored jackets that Muggle business women preferred, although today she was sensibly dressed in sedate, dark robes. He had to admit she had a sharp wit and pragmatism that appealed to his own innate cynicism. And she had so far managed to seduce him into having afternoon tea with him on a regular basis – although for him, regular meant anytime her request matched a timeslot with no student detentions, staff meetings, or potion-critical moments.
True, she had a habit of crossing and uncrossing her legs that drew his eye to her shapely ankles and up from there. And he quite appreciated the way she'd lay her suit jacket aside and lean over just enough to give him an enticing glimpse of the cleavage that usually lay demurely covered under her jacket buttons. And more often than not, her fingers would brush his or she'd lay a hand on his arm while making a point or laughing at some sharp observation about their colleagues.
But they spent much of their time hashing out the budget for Slytherin House ( something he took full advantage of; playing nice with the school accountant could only add up to more funds for his house ), or sitting quietly doing paperwork. It was a pleasant time. As a graduate of the Cornwall Institute for Practical Magic, Demeter had none of the house prejudices that came with a Hogwart alumnus. To her, Slytherin was simply a name – although he had no doubt that had she been born with a full measure of magic she would have landed in his house without a second thought. She neither despised him on principal nor constituted a threat to him.
Normally – fiduciary advantages notwithstanding – he wouldn't have given her the time of day. After all, the headmaster made the final decisions on any budget and Slytherins didn't waste time with subordinates when they wanted something, not when the top man was accessible. He'd learned over the years how to play on the dotty old man's sense of fair play to get at least the critical things Slytherin House needed. But having Demeter's favor meant he could nibble around the budget unnoticed, procure the little treats that Minerva usually managed to wrangle for her Gryffindors. Plus, getting an edge on his rival house – no matter how minor – was ALWAYS satisfying. He would be the last one to deny it gave him a frisson of pleasure to see Minerva's lips purse as if sucking on a sour lemon when she cottoned on to just how many little advantages his house had managed to score over the last few months. It wasn't his fault that there was no corresponding male staff of appropriate age that SHE could use to similar advantage. Nor had he openly rubbed her nose in it. That was not his way, no matter how much he enjoyed getting ahead of / tweaking the old lioness' tail. Nor, to his grudging respect, was it Demeter's. While she'd made it subtly clear she was seeking his attention, she kept a professional front around others.
Still the fact of their time together, that he was spending any amount of social time with any legally of-age female in the vicinity had been enough for the other faculty to notice. They hadn't yet figured out how to twit him on it without getting hexed. When they did, he had no doubt Minerva would be – covertly – in the lead. For now, however, he couldn't spare the energy to care. Between teaching, researching, house duties, and his extracurricular duties as Harry Potter's glorified nursemaid-cum-bodyguard, he normally had little energy to spare period.
But that was before this year, the year of the Dementors. And Sirius Black's escape. And Remus Lupin's return. When he counted up the dark clouds that had gathered over his life this year, he almost wanted to laugh. Almost. Whether he managed to actually end this year with his life snuffed out was anyone's guess, but by his own lights it was in no way unlikely. Together, Black and Lupin had come close to killing him when he was 16 before the headmaster let them both off with a slap on the wrist. And it was the headmaster's intervention at the end of the last war that kept him from being thrown to the Dementors in Azkaban. The fact that his superior and supposed protector had invited and/or allowed two of his own personal death threats back into the school did not bode well for his chances. Sirius Black's escape was just a bonus.
So Demeter Spencer's pursuit of him was an unexpectedly welcome diversion. Nay, a desperately needed one. True, given a bit of scheduling and enough funds and he could easily and discreetly relieve his tension at any one of the upscale salons in Leyden or, if he wasn't feeling particularly picky, the more downmarket houses in Knockturn Alley. But…they never were fully satisfying were they? Transactional sex was always a bit tedious wasn't it? All the skullduggery of not being found out, absurdly easy but ultimately boring. The tedious haggling over which act cost how much and for how long. Eventually it just became tawdry and demeaning and truth be told, visiting whorehouses was certainly not something he ever envisioned doing more than once or twice for either a birthday visit or a dare.
To find himself doing so repeatedly – typically during summers or semester breaks; Dumbledore certainly wouldn't condone him abandoning his charges for base gratification – hadn't made him feel any better about himself. After a while one wants conversation, amusement, a challenging exchange of ideas, camaraderie. Even perhaps an actual ally. Or hell just a companionable cup of tea.
Besides, the shameless hussy had been pursuing him all year. Far be it from him to deny himself. He might call her shameless but she was a perfectly respectable-looking and gainfully employed woman whose presence in his life could hardly hurt HIS reputation.
He had no idea what had put the notion into her head to get him into her bed but now that he looked around at this pathetic little gathering, he finally had an idea.
She wanted to marry well.
Abruptly, the corners of his mouth began twitching. The notion that HE was her target almost made him laugh out loud. And then suddenly he WAS, although he swiftly turned it into a semblance of a coughing fit. His companion turned to him in concern and began briskly patting his back to ease the spasm. He waved her off, not unkindly. The mingled looks of annoyance and sympathy from the other congregants faded back into attention to the interminable service.
It was too absurd for words, really. She considered HIM, the double-crossing, double-agent Death Eater to be a good marriage prospect? He drew a shuddering breath to will away another laughing fit. Maya would LOVE this. She always DID get a good joke. He missed her.
He could imagine what she would have said if he could have told her. So what are you waiting for? It's not as if you're going to do any better anytime soon. If you were, you would've done it by now. Look at me. Look at my widower. Do you really want to end up coming home to the female version of that?
He snorted at his imaginary Maya. She's not even a Hogwarts alum. You know what that means don't you?
Of course, his imaginary Maya countered. But it's not like a respectable full-powered witch will have you. You know what they did to me after the Dark Lord fell.
He did know. Not at first. He'd been too consumed by shock and grief over the death of Lily Potter and the urgent need to safeguard her son to give thought to anything else. In the months, nay year, later when he was finally able to think about other things, Maya had already been hung out to dry.
Lucius had mentioned it in passing. She'd been tried and convicted by the Wizengamot – not for murder, treason, rebellion, dabbling in the Dark Arts, use of the Unforgivables, or any of the other crimes the Death Eaters had been convicted of. She had been damned for merely associating with them. And for that, she'd had her wand broken and her magic all but destroyed. Oh she'd escaped Azkaban and even full squib-dom but for someone who had graduated as a full-fledged witch from Hogwarts, it was a devastating humiliation. Her family, anxious to stay on the Ministry's good side and to convince the world that Maya's Death Eater loyalties were an aberration rather than the result of their family philosophy, turned their backs on her. Severus couldn't imagine anyone, even light-hearted, always laughing, devil-may-care Maya not feeling that.
She couldn't even make a decent living, not with her diminished magic. The only reason she had escaped lifelong probation was because they could curb her magic. Werewolves had wolfsbane, the convicted had Witherwitch. That fiendish little potion was taken monthly, sometimes daily, to block full expression of her magic. She had to take it for life and the Ministry would be monitoring her to make sure she did. That last was really just a petty humiliation. After a year of taking it, no one's magic would come back. There was even some evidence that it withered away the magic that was passed on to one's children, making them squibs or all but.
He spared another look at Maya's daughter. The poor thing was snuffling now, snot running down her nose along with the tears. Beside her the plump matron was holding out a handkerchief and clucking anxiously. The girl's presumed father was oblivious. Other than her mother's dimples, brown eyes and brown hair, the child was as weedy-looking as the father. Maya had always been, not fat or even muscular, but of a normal, average, healthy weight and vitality. He couldn't tell if the child's stringiness was a result of heredity or that damned potion.
He wished he could examine her, or better yet let Poppy do it. It seemed wrong that he as a potions master couldn't have done something to help Maya escape the potion's effects. It felt wrong that he couldn't have done something, anything to help her way back when.
The thought was illogical, he knew it. Back then he would have been useless in that regard. Despite his service to Dumbledore, he'd only just escaped Azkaban himself. Furthermore, he was convinced that had Dumbledore not made him potions master at Hogwarts, he would have been forced to swallow that potion too. In his case, it would have been a death sentence. The potion could only work safely – although "safe" was loosely defined - on wizards of average magic. Those who were stronger, or exceptionally strong, which constituted most of the Dark Lord's inner circle, would eventually be fatally poisoned or go mad – which amounted to the same as death in his book.
He certainly wouldn't have lived long enough for the school accountant to set her cap at him.
He shifted uncomfortably. He was a fool for bringing her here. The woman could only get the wrong impression about his intentions. Yet he hadn't wanted to come alone. He had guessed that few if any of their old associates would attend. And he had been right. He was the only one. And as the only one, the last thing he wanted to do was remind anyone of Maya's dark past. Still he would have expected that someone, anyone from the old days might have given her a hand. What would it have cost for Lucius to write a letter, make an anonymous deposit in a blind Gringotts account? She could have left the country, started over. He leveled a glare at the still numb widower. She would never have had to go crawling to such a piss poor excuse of a wizard for help.
At the front of the chapel, the officiant called for a moment of silent prayer for the welfare of the deceased's soul. Severus bowed his head and closed his eyes against the thought, A bit late, don't you think? And if some part of his brain decided it'd heard a Maya-inflected voice saying Better late than never, he wisely decided not to acknowledge it.
"Professor Snape?"
He looked up, surprised. How long had that silent prayer lasted? Had he fallen asleep? When had the service ended? One minute, Maya's widower had been sitting with a bowed head in the front pew, the next he was standing next to his pew with his weedy daughter in tow. The grey little man looked as timid and shaky as a mouse facing a cat. Behind him, the plump matron and the steel-grey haired man looked equally anxious if less likely to topple over in a strong wind.
Briefly, Severus looked around. The pews had all but emptied. Demeter stood next to him, her exit blocked by his still seated form.
Ignoring the fact that the silence had obviously lulled him into losing track of the number of passing moments, Severus pulled his robes around him and rose to his full intimidating height to stare down his nose at the man, who gulped and backed up a pace.
"B-b-begging your pardon, professor," he stammered. "B-b-but, there's a reading – I mean a will – I mean reading of a will. Maya put you in it. So you see-" He gulped again. "We need you there, sir. That is…if…you'd be so inclined to come." He exhaled gustily and pulled out a limp handkerchief to mop his brow.
He stared in shock. Maya had a will? He was IN it? He stared at the remnants of her little household. Nothing in their manner or dress indicated anything of value to be had. This sad little funeral had been an insult. Then he froze as a chill went down his spine. Wills weren't just for bequests but also requests. Maya wanted something from him.
So his guilty conscience hadn't just been toying with him after all. It was simply giving him fair warning. Somewhere, some force in the universe hadn't forgotten his debt to Maya and now it was time to pay up.
His black gaze fell on the child before him. He only hoped he could deliver.
He inclined his head. "Lead the way."
~Fin Chapter I~
Author's End Notes: Maya Wardley first shows up in For the Price of My Familiar, I didn't expect much from her but she just wouldn't go away. I know I said it earlier but she was in Hufflepuff and yes she is a pureblood. Hope you like her!
*For more on this read For the Price of My Familiar.
** "Adorant" is the name I came up with for a wizard Christian denomination taking its name from the 3 wise men or magi (i.e., magicians ) who followed the star of Bethlehem to where the infant Jesus was found and adored him as a newborn king. This event is known as the Adoration of the Magi. Hence, Christian wizards in this denomination are known as the Adorants. In their faith, that event, the Epiphany, is the foundation of their belief that God's grace extends to wizards too. ( Yep, just can't shake those 8 years of Catholic school *grin* )