Chapter 1
Disclaimer for this and following chapters: the Wizarding World belongs to JK Rowling. I'm just on a playdate.
Severus Snape would probably not have responded to the loud pop! had it not been for the throat-clearing that followed. House elves had come and gone from the dungeons all day, delivering and discarding. It being the last day of classes at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the potions master himself was engaged in clearing up the storerooms where he kept flasks and bottles for the students' assignments. Powders, preparations and pickled remains were meticulously itemized and lined in rows on the shelves. The students themselves, were thankfully, in their respective Houses, packing to go home for the winter holidays, leaving the castle and its professors in relative quiet. Professor Snape, however, did not have particularly ambitious plans for the break.
In more peaceful times, avoiding almost-certain death at the hands of a crazed magical overlord might have counted as ambitious; in these times, however, it was almost routine to him. The enchanted tattoo that was seared into his flesh burned black almost constantly now, and his arm shot with unbearable pain whenever Voldemort wished to see his faithful Death Eaters, himself included. For nearly two years he had been preoccupied with spying for the Order of the Phoenix, pretending that his position as a teacher at Hogwarts allowed him valuable access to both The-Boy-Who-Lived, and Dumbledore, enemies of Voldemort and his followers. When he was not shrouding his mind from the Dark Lord's Legilimency, he taught potions to hordes of ignorant students, preparing them for life in the real world beyond.
It was his job to enlighten them, he supposed. But their arrogance, born from youth and inexperience, as well as, quite often, stupidity, made it difficult for him to relish the assignment. And it was arrogant of him, or anyone else, to suppose that potions would save any one of them from Voldemort and his determination to overtake the Wizarding World in a reign of terror. If it were as simple as that, well…
A muffled cough came from behind him.
"What is it?" Snape snarled, turning around so quickly that a lock of his greasy black hair hit his sallow cheek and clung there. Before him was a house elf. It was not a Hogwarts house elf, however, or at least not any that Snape had ever seen in his years as student or professor at the school. This house elf was tall for his kind, and his head was not wide, as was usual, but long and narrow. His eyes were small and glassy, and every time he blinked, his ears gave a little twitch too, which gave him an oddly disconcerting appearance. On his feet were a pair of gaiters and his wrists held immaculately white starched cuffs, which somehow stayed on, despite his tiny frame. The house elf gave another little cough, bowed slightly, and in a voice much deeper than any of his Hogwarts counterparts, greeted Snape.
"Master Severus, Jeeves is pleased to accompany you back to Duslain."
At this pronouncement, Snape's eyes narrowed. "You're Grandmother's house elf?"
The creature gave another bow. "Jeeves had that position."
"Had?" repeated Severus sarcastically. "Has she dismissed you?"
The elf's face, previously set in an impassive expression, turned into a frown. "Madam Agrippina died this morning. It is Jeeves' duty to accompany the heir to his estate. Master Severus is the heir, and must return to Duslain with Jeeves."
His face set in an angry scowl, the newly-bereaved potions master strode past the waiting house-elf to the empty fireplace in his dungeon office, and flung a handful of powder into the grate. As the green flames shot up, he leaned into them.
"Albus," he called. "It seems I must leave immediately for a few days. Family business. It shouldn't take long."
Removing his head from the flames, Snape stood back up, brushing invisible dirt off his knees. He turned to Jeeves and his lip curled.
"So the old bat's finally snuffed it, eh? Well? What are you waiting for? I'm ready; let's go."
With a loud Pop!, the pair vanished.
Author's Notes: It's nice to be back in the world of fanfiction! This story probably owes a lot to the hundreds of other HP stories I've read in the three years I've been following the genre, so thanks to all those whose stories I enjoyed so much, and apologies if I don't always remember where I'm stealing ideas from!
The story title is a Roman festival held in mid-January, whose significance will become clear shortly. Duslain is derived from the Scottish Gaelic word duslainn, which means a gloomy, retired place. That will become clear shortly as well. And as for Jeeves? Well, I thought he was cute. He popped into my head, so to speak. ;-)