Disclaimer:
I don't own any of the Harry Potter characters and certainly not Severus Snape (although I truly wish I did). I just like to have them run around in my sometimes twisted little world.
Ghosts Of The Past
January has always been a chilly month, especially here at Hogwarts, but this year it is deathly cold. Everywhere snow is covering the grounds and has painted the whole landscape white. Only occasionally I can see the green of grass or conifers shimmering through, but they don't have true colour. Everything looks muddy and dull in winter – and so is the mood of the students.
The Christmas holidays are over, the new term has started and everyone is busy with the new curriculum. Naturally, I am not. I am not a teacher anymore. I haven't been teaching for a long time, longer than I care to remember, and when I am entirely honest with myself, I must admit that I have missed it a bit – but not too often. I have been far too busy to miss the life I once had when I was still the Potions master at Hogwarts. But it's good to be back, although I cannot say why exactly I have returned, and on this particular day – not that it would matter.
Slowly, I stride through the corridors, my cloak dragging behind me, and look at the new faces that are swarming the castle. Sometimes I think I recognize someone but then I realize that so many years have passed and everyone I once knew has left Hogwarts. The students I knew as children have grown into adults, who lead new lives and couldn't be bothered with their old school. Maybe they will return for a reunion some day – Like I did today, even though there isn't a reunion and I haven't been invited. No one seems to mind though. In fact, no one even seems to notice me. Students and staff walk past me, minding their own business and I don't blame them. I dare say, no one even cares. They probably don't even remember my name. The thought saddens me a little. For nearly two decades I have been a Hogwarts teacher and now I am yesterday's news. Times change and people change with them. I wonder if I have changed as well …
"Yes, very much so!"
A cold shiver is running down my spine as I perceive the somewhat familiar voice from the past behind me and slowly I turn around.
"Granger …" I whisper, because there she is – not even twenty yards away, talking to McGonagall.
"I must say, I like these changes a lot, professor," she praises. "You have outdone yourself, really."
"Oh, you are exaggerating, Miss Granger," McGonagall replies, modestly, only to bite her lip, instantly. "I'm sorry, I mean, of course, Mrs Weasley."
She smiles, apologetically, but Granger makes an appeasing gesture.
"That's quite all right, professor," she answers. "You may call me 'Miss Granger', if you want. It feels nice … makes me think of the old times … when things were still good …"
With that she gazes into the far, but without really looking – at least her eyes are not focused.
"Aren't things good anymore?" McGonagall enquires after a short pause.
"Hmmm?" Granger says, suddenly emerging from her reverie.
"I don't mean to impose," McGonagall declares. "But it almost sounds as if you are not particularly … happy …"
"Is it so obvious?" Granger retorts, sarcastically.
"Well …"
"To be honest, professor," Granger begins to explain out of the blue. "Things are miserable at the moment. My marriage is not exactly roses and sunshine, like I had imagined when I accepted Ron's proposal. I knew of course that he was not the sharpest quill in the ink pot, but I had never thought that he was actually a few crumbs short of a whole rock cake!"
I press my lips together so I would not throw out a laugh and as I look at McGonagall I realize that she has to suppress a snigger as well.
"That is not funny," Granger establishes. "Sometimes I even think I had been better off with marrying the Mountain Troll that Professor Quirrell let into the castle on Halloween in my first year at Hogwarts."
McGonagall frowns.
"Is it really that bad?"
"It's even worse!" Granger says with a sigh. "I was awfully misled, probably still drunken from happiness about Voldemort's defeat, and now I am stuck in a marriage that is only held together by two innocent children, who are still too young to understand what I have to endure, day in, day out."
"How old are your children, Miss Granger?" McGonagall wants to know, elegantly changing the subject.
"Rose is nearly ten and Hugo is eight," Granger replies. "Gosh, I cannot wait until they go to Hogwarts so I can finally file for divorce!"
As soon as she has uttered the words, she slaps her hand before her mouth and stares at McGonagall startled.
"Did I say that out loud?" Granger whispers, but McGonagall just blinks at her, sheepishly.
"I didn't hear a thing," she lies, politely, and Granger sighs in relief.
"You mustn't tell a soul, professor," she begs. "No one can know. Not yet."
"I have no idea what you are talking about," McGonagall maintains, putting on her serious face. "Now, Miss Granger, back to business. You have seen the whole castle, I believe. Is there anything else you want?"
Granger smiles sadly.
"What I want I cannot have, I'm afraid …"
"I meant, do you wish to inspect the rest of Hogwarts grounds or will that be all for now?"
Granger clears her throat.
"If you don't mind," she begins. "I should like to visit the dungeons."
"The dungeons?"
Granger nods.
"I don't understand …" McGonagall begins, but Granger interrupts her quickly.
"Call it a fancy," she says, evasively. "But I would really like to see them once more. In fact, it's the place I was especially looking forward to."
"Indeed?" McGonagall asks, astonished. "And why is that?"
"I don't really know," Granger answers with a mysterious smile. "Maybe because of the atmosphere …"
"The atmosphere hasn't changed," McGonagall explains, stiffly. "It is still as gloomy as it was when you were a student here."
"With one difference," Granger adds.
"What difference would that be?"
"The teacher," Granger answers.
"Naturally," McGonagall replies. "Well, if you insist … May I show you the way?"
"I believe I still know the way to the dungeons," Granger answers. "I have been down there once or twice before and I don't think that the access has changed much. It's through that door, isn't it?"
With that she points at the concealed entrance that only I used to take, because I was the only one who knew about its existence, and I start wrecking my brains how Granger can possibly be aware of it.
McGonagall seems to be shocked as well, especially, when Granger touches the hidden mechanism that opens the door without making a noise and gives way to the secret passage, leading downwards in a spiral staircase.
I frown, sullenly. Is there anything this girl does not know?
But as I glare at Granger I suddenly realize that she is hardly a girl anymore. She can't be. So many years have passed. I wonder how many …
Ten? Twelve? Fifteen?
No. Sixteen years …
Merlin help us all!
I remember the last time I saw her. It was in spring 1999, when she graduated, together with Potter and Weasley, who she had shanghaied into returning to Hogwarts to finish school after their year off. Granger is a grown woman now. And yet, to me she seems ageless, though I cannot deny that there is something different about her – a new aura, so to speak, with a hint of empirical knowledge mixed with the waft of wisdom that only maturity can give. Intriguing, this human paradox – same and change, both in one. She appears to be thinner, too, for the sharper outline of her body cannot be down to smart tailoring alone and her hair looks better behaved …
Lost in thought I stare after her as she is about to disappear in my secret passage, closely followed by McGonagall, and finally emerging from my strange musings I quickly hurry after them, just in time before the door falls shut again.
It is dark in the secret passage. I can hardly see my hand before my eyes, but I still know my way around. This was my territory after all and I haven't forgotten anything about it. The spider webs are new, though. They weren't around when I used the spiral staircase in the old days.
Suddenly faint light falls into the small tower, when Granger opens the door at the bottom of the staircase and I descend the stairs more quickly, so I can keep the pace with her.
As soon as I stand in the dungeon corridor a warm fuzzy feeling makes my body tingle. I am home. This is my kingdom, where I reigned, oh, so many moons ago and slowly I approach my former realm.
"It looks different," I hear Granger's voice from within the Potions classroom. "Not as clean as it used to be."
"It's clean enough," McGonagall replies. "As far as dungeons go …"
"It might be cleaner, though," Granger says and I have to agree with her.
Even from where I am standing, which is in the doorframe and a decent distance away from Granger and McGonagall, I distinctly detect dirt all over the room – even in places, where dirt definitely doesn't belong. In fact, my former classroom is filthy!
"You must have a word with the current Potion's teacher about hygiene, professor," Granger suggests. "Obviously, he doesn't take things as seriously as necessary, don't you agree?"
"Actually, I think that Professor Finnigan does a wonderful job," McGonagall maintains.
"What?" I gasp, as the faint image of a boy covered in soot flickers up in my memory. "Finnigan?"
"What?" Granger shrieks, apparently shocked. "Finnigan?"
"Yes."
"Seamus Finnigan?"
"Yes."
"Seamus Finnigan as in 'I-blow-up-everything-that-cannot-hide-at-a-moment's-notice'?"
"His skills have very much improved!" McGonagall justifies Finnigan's poor results that I can vividly remember from the old days.
"Oh," Granger says, raising an astonished eyebrow. "So he blows up a cauldron only every other week, then?"
"Well …"
"Please, spare me the details," Granger begs, shaking her head in disbelief. "I really don't need to know."
"It was between him and Neville Longbottom," McGonagall explains. "But I rather chose to have Longbottom take the job as Herbology teacher, succeeding Madam Sprout, who, unfortunately, had an unpleasant encounter with a very furious Giant Venus Flytrap, her own breed, I might add, and consequently was committed to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries."
"What?"
"Oh, don't be alarmed," McGonagall adds, quickly. "Nothing happened, really – to the Giant Venus Flytrap at least. It's still sitting very comfortably in Greenhouse Nine, which is inaccessible for students. Madam Sprout on the other hand … well, let's just say, the parts of her, which have not been devoured, are quite all right."
Granger gasps in shock, but McGonagall waves her hand, dismissively.
"Anyway," she continues. "I decided to leave Potions to Finnigan. There wasn't another option, to be honest. When Professor Slughorn retired last year, people didn't exactly beat the path to the dungeon doors, if you take my meaning."
"I'm afraid I do not take your meaning, professor," Granger replies, poignantly.
"Let me put it this way," McGonagall answers with a sigh. "The job as Potions teacher really is not that popular, principally if one considers Professor Slughorn's predecessor."
"Yes," Granger says, thoughtfully. "Those are big boots to fill, indeed."
"That is hardly the reason," McGonagall contradicts.
"What is the reason, then, you reckon?"
"I dare say it's mainly because the dungeons aren't the happiest place to spend one's life in."
"I sort of liked it down here," Granger establishes. "So did Professor Snape."
I cannot help but smile about the most respectful way she speaks my name. Maybe I have misjudged her greatly in all those years in which she was my student, who I found an insufferable know-it-all and even called her that on more than one occasion. I must have been wrong …
"Surely the two of you were the only ones to feel that way," McGonagall retorts. "Personally I detest these horrid rooms and if it was solely up to me, I would certainly lock up the dungeons and throw away the keys!"
She huffs, dismissively.
"Then again," she adds. "I cannot possibly imagine a better place to brew all those stinking concoctions in, so I put up with these damp dwellings, leaving Professor Finnigan in charge, and stay away as far as I can, pretending the dungeons don't even exist."
"If I didn't know any better, I would say, you have engaged Seamus on purpose, so he might blow up the dungeons!" Granger accuses.
"Well …" McGonagall answers evasively and Granger shakes her head, sadly.
"Poor Hogwarts," she mutters under her breath. "Apparently, the dungeons are doomed to go down the drains either way."
McGonagall chuckles.
"Who cares?"
"I care," Granger insists. "And I simply won't have it!"
With that she pulls out a piece of parchment and a quill.
"I will note that down in my report," Granger announces. "And when I return in a couple of months for another inspection, I truly hope that things here in the dungeons will have improved."
"What do you expect me to do?" McGonagall snaps. "Dismiss Professor Finnigan on the off chance to find a better replacement? Perhaps a neat-freak such as Snape?"
I flinch a little when I hear her speak my name as if it was something disgusting and I must admit that it hurts.
"No one on earth will ever be able to replace Professor Snape," Granger says, silently. "He was one of a kind. A great teacher and a brave man. I shall never forget him. Never."
How soft her voice sounded just now … as if she appreciated my work – or more even, as if she appreciated me …
"Well, I think that will be all, then," Granger adds after clearing her throat. "I have to leave now, because …"
She pauses, pocketing the piece of parchment and the quill.
"There is one last visit I still have to make."
"Oh?"
McGonagall blinks astonished.
"And who do you intend to visit?" she enquires. "Madam Sprout's Giant Venus Flytrap, perhaps?"
Granger smiles, mysteriously.
"Your predecessor, headmistress!"
McGonagall doesn't comment on this surprising disclosure, instead she follows Granger out of the potions classroom and I watch them walk past me into the corridor, either of them too lost in their own thoughts to notice me.
When everything has fallen silent in the deserted corridor again I finally decide to move away from the door frame and slowly enter my former classroom, standing exactly where Granger stood just a few moments ago.
The air still smells strongly of potion ingredients and fire logs, but I also detect the whiff of lemon and lotus leaves and a painful feeling of regret nearly makes me sigh.
Just one more day spent here in my old dungeons, teaching classes, brewing potions … but, alas, it will never be again. I do not belong here anymore. I have moved on …
"Back again, Severus?"
The familiar voice behind me, which I haven't perceived in a very long time, but recognize nonetheless, makes me flinch and slowly I turn around to face the disturber of my peace.
"Just like you, it appears, headmaster," I retort, wryly.
Dumbledore just smiles.
"I am no longer headmaster of Hogwarts," he answers, mildly. "As you of all people should know, since it was you, who … disposed of me."
"Yes, I remember," I reply, gloomily. "Actually, not one day passes that I don't think of the incident at the Astronomy Tower back in June 1997."
I exhale deeply.
"And of how you made me fulfil my promise that night," I add.
"Severus, please …" Dumbledore tries to appease me, but instead those two words send shivers down my spine.
"Exactly," I whisper, shuddering.
"It can't have been that bad, can it?" Dumbledore supposes and I throw a laugh
"You haven't got the faintest notion of how it depressed me," I answer, sharply. "Removing you and assuming your job … It still stresses me sometimes."
"I take it from the tone of your voice that you are a tad angry with me."
"A tad?" I snort. "That's *a tad* underestimated, I'd say."
"So, you are mad at me?" Dumbledore ventures a guess.
"Yes," I confirm.
"After all this time?"
"Always."
"I see …"
Dumbledore nods, slowly, and there is a long pause.
"Will you still accept my best wishes on your special day?" he eventually asks.
"And what special day would that be?" I retort.
"Your birthday, of course," Dumbledore says, smiling. "Today is the 9th of January."
"Oh, is it?" I answer, evenly.
"Severus," Dumbledore admonishes me. "Surely, you haven't forgotten your date of birth, have you?"
"No, I haven't," I reply. "It's just that I stopped celebrating my birthday the year I turned 38."
"That is a long time ago," Dumbledore remarks. "And yet, you haven't changed a bit since then. You still look the same."
"So do you."
"Thank you, Severus," Dumbledore says, indicating a little bow. "That is most kind of you to point out."
"You're quite welcome."
"Am I?" Dumbledore replies. "I shall take it as a compliment."
"And you should," I retort. "Because it was meant as one."
"Really?"
Dumbledore raises an astonished eyebrow.
"I'm impressed, Severus," he confesses. "You never passed me a compliment before."
"I never passed anyone a compliment before."
"Indeed," Dumbledore agrees. "I dare say, Death becomes you."
"Yes, it does, doesn't it?" I say, thoughtfully. "Death is so easy. It's quiet and peaceful …"
"Life can be quiet and peaceful, too."
"But living is much harder," I establish. "It was agitating and painful. At least, it was for me. I am glad that it's over. I am quite content now."
"Don't you have any regrets?"
I shrug.
"A few, perhaps," I answer. "Too few to mention, though."
I look at Dumbledore, intensely.
"And those few I have are … private."
"Well, you have always been a very private man," Dumbledore establishes. "Hardly anyone at Hogwarts knew anything about you."
"Except for you."
"Except for me," Dumbledore confirms. "I even found out your birthday."
"Probably by browsing through my private belongings, including my diary."
Dumbledore chuckles amused.
"You never had a diary, Severus."
"And how would you know?"
Dumbledore smiles at me.
"Intuition," he answers and I roll my eyes.
"So you did browse through by private belongings," I fret.
"But I didn't read your diary."
"You just established that I never had one!"
"Well, that's the trouble with intuitions," Dumbledore says with a sigh. "They can be false. I rather hear the truth from the horse's mouth."
"This horse is not telling you anything anymore!" I snarl.
"That's your privilege, of course," Dumbledore replies and I mutter an unclean curse that Dumbledore chides with a click of his tongue, which upsets me even more.
"When will you stop treating me like a stubborn child?" I demand.
"When you stop acting like one."
I inhale deeply, forcing myself to stay calm.
"Anything else?" I ask with suppressed anger in my voice. "Or are we done here?"
"Why?" Dumbledore retorts. "Are you so eager to leave?"
"I am still a very busy man!" I maintain, which is a bare-faced lie, because, frankly, I haven't been occupied for a couple of years.
"Indeed?" Dumbledore asks, provocatively. "How is afterlife treating you, then?"
"Pretty good, actually," I answer. "It's never dull."
"No complaints?"
"None whatsoever."
"Tell me, which was the best part so far?"
"The years in which I have been haunting Potter," I answer, instantly and truthfully. "I nearly drove him mad."
"Oh, Severus, did you have to?"
"Yes," I say, plainly.
"Why?"
"Just because I could!"
"No, seriously, Severus, why?"
"Purely out of fun," I answer. "I am entitled to some fun, am I not?"
"Well, of course you are, but …"
"And it was great fun," I quickly interrupt Dumbledore, before he can make me feel guilty about my admittedly juvenile behaviour. "Well, at least it was for me. I cannot say about Potter, though, but I reckon he didn't like it so much, that I suddenly popped up, when he had never expected it. I enjoyed it immensely, for a while, especially the funny faces Potter used to make. But, unfortunately, the fun didn't last for long."
"What happened?"
"Ah, you know me," I retort. "I get bored so easily. After a while frightening Potter didn't satisfy me anymore. Besides, I ran out of ideas how to terrify him. That's why I left him alone eventually. Not without scaring the wits out of him, of course – if he ever had them."
I snigger at the mere memory of Potter's peaky face, when I bid my final goodbye to him, making a brilliant exit that would have made any good Shakespearean actor go green with envy about my dramatic skills.
"You are decidedly vile, Severus," Dumbledore taunts me. "Even in Death you hold a grudge against people."
"Not against all people," I improve. "Only against Potter."
"You hold a grudge against the Boy Who Lived Twice?" Dumbledore asks, incredulously. "The boy who ultimately triumphed over Voldemort?"
"Ha!" I spit. "He could never have done it without my help! If I hadn't given Potter my precious memories in the first place, he would never have succeeded!"
"But Harry certainly made it up to you, Severus," Dumbledore adds for consideration. "You can hardly deny that."
"Yes, I can."
"No, you can't!"
"I can too!" I insist, defiantly, which makes Dumbledore sigh in defeat – or so I thought.
"Will you, please, be reasonable for a second here?" he beseeches me.
"I am reasonable," I reply. "And Potter got what he deserved for what he did to me!"
"And what exactly did he do to you, Severus?" Dumbledore enquires.
"He existed!"
"But it's hardly his fault!" Dumbledore retorts.
"That's debatable."
"Severus, the boy never did anything as bad to you as you did to him."
"Meaning?" I demand.
"Oh, don't play dumb, Severus, you know exactly what I mean!" Dumbledore rebukes me. "Wasn't it you, who belittled him from the first day he entered Hogwarts? Wasn't it you, who constantly mistreated him in class and beyond? Wasn't it you, who made Harry Potter's life miserable?"
I open my mouth to contradict, but Dumbledore doesn't let me.
"And yet," he adds instead. "Wasn't it him, who cleared your name, making you a war hero? Wasn't it him, who demanded that your portrait had to be hung in the headmaster's office? Wasn't it him, who arranged for you to receive the Order of Merlin, First Class, posthumously?"
"I had rather have received it when I was still alive," I growl. "Preferably for the capture of Sirius Black, which Potter foiled and on top of it with your help!"
Dumbledore inhales deeply.
"I am not going to respond to this accusation," he says, dignified. "All I am going to say is this: You know perfectly well and beyond any shadow of doubt that Sirius Black was innocent and therefore receiving an award for his arrest wouldn't have been rightfully deserved."
Folding my arms before my chest, I purse my lips, but Dumbledore suddenly begins to chuckle.
"What?" I hiss.
"Oh, look at us, Severus," Dumbledore says, placidly. "Two former Hogwarts headmasters, quarrelling over some stupid stuff that happened ages ago …"
"Look at us?" I repeat. "What's there to look at?"
I raise my hand and stare at it.
"We are translucent, for Merlin's sake," I state the obvious. "We are ghosts."
"Yes, Severus," Dumbledore agrees. "We are."
"Then why have I come back to Hogwarts?" I muse. "I could have gone anywhere, so why did I come here?"
"Unfinished business, perhaps?"
"I cannot say," I admit. "All I know is that I wanted to see the place again, see what changed and what stayed the same …"
I sigh.
"But why would I still care?" I wonder. "It should all be the same to me – the students and the staff and the school in general. It really shouldn't bother me anymore. I am dead and gone ..."
"Maybe you are not as dead and gone as you think you are."
"I have been dead for seventeen years!" I retort. "I am long gone!"
"And yet, you are not forgotten," Dumbledore replies. "People are still thinking of you, even talking about you, despite everything you have done. You made an impact on their lives and as long as you are still remembered, you are not truly dead and gone."
I take a moment to let the full meaning of that message sink in.
"You're right," I finally admit. "I haven't come back to Hogwarts. I have always been here …"
I chuckle.
"So, basically, I have cheated Death!"
"Oh, you have not cheated Death, Severus," Dumbledore contradicts. "You have outsmarted her."
It sounds like a compliment and against my will I smile, proudly – not a smirk or a sneer, but a genuine smile, one I couldn't possibly produce when I was still alive. It feels good – more than good, actually. It feels magnificent.
"What?" Dumbledore asks. "What are you thinking about?"
"I think I want to celebrate my birthday this year for a change," I confide. "After all, it's my 55th, if memory serves."
I look at Dumbledore invitingly.
"Would you like to join me for a friendly chat?"
"I thought we just had one," Dumbledore replies.
"Yes, but maybe we could continue it at a more comfortable place," I suggest. "Like the Hog's Head."
"The Hog's Head?"
"It's a lovely little pub in Hogsmeade," I explain. "A bit gloomy, perhaps, but …"
"Yes, I know," Dumbledore interrupts, impatiently. "My brother Aberforth owns it. Still."
"Imagine his surprise, then, when you turn up out of thin air," I add for consideration. "Literally, I mean."
"Hmmm …" Dumbledore muses, undecidedly, but I am not fooled by his hesitation.
The distinctive spark in his bright blue eyes is a very reliable indicator that he likes the idea.
"Well?" I ask, nonetheless. "Are you up to some fun?"
"All right," Dumbledore agrees. "Let's spook the wits out of my dear brother."
"And out of his pet goat, too," I add, portentously.
"Mildred?" Dumbledore marvels. "She is still alive?"
"Astonishingly, yes," I huff. "Annoying animal! It used to eat my cloak, when I frequented the pub in the old days. Over the years it ruined about seven of them by chewing on the hems and it cost me a sizable fortune to have those cloaks mended. One of them, my favourite, was destroyed beyond repair and your brother couldn't be bothered to offer even a small compensation for his goat's wanton destruction, to be quite …"
I stop abruptly, when I see a sardonic grin forming on Dumbledore's lips and I am not sure whether it is naked spite or rather gleeful anticipation, but it is certainly an expression I have never detected before on his face and for the first time in my life I stand in awe.
"It's payday, Severus!" Dumbledore whispers, most mischievously. "And I swear we will get our money's worth!"
As much as I want to I cannot possibly move. Never before his voice has sounded like this and so I just gape at him, speechlessly.
"What's wrong with you, Severus?" Dumbledore demands. "Are you petrified?"
Still lost for words I shake my head.
"Ill, perhaps?" Dumbledore suggests. "Because you certainly look a bit pale …"
He chuckles as if he had just made a good joke, but I still remain motionless.
"Really, Severus, this is becoming quite scary," Dumbledore says after a long silence. "Why in the name of Godric Gryffindor are you staring at me like a koi carp? Cat's got your tongue?"
"No, I just …" I begin, forcibly tearing out of my stupor, only to find that I cannot possibly explain my amazement, because there are no words for it at all. "It's nothing. I'm fine, headmaster … I mean, sir … I mean …"
I heave a sigh.
"Ah, well, come on, Albus," I then capitulate. "What are we waiting for? Let's paint the town red!"
"Red?" Dumbledore asks, confused. "Why not green?"
"Because."
"But green is also a most beautiful colour."
"I would still prefer red," I admit.
"Why, Severus," Dumbledore gasps. "You are not changing sides, are you?"
"No," I answer, trying to sound dignified. "I am just fond of primary colours."
"Yes, of course you are."
Dumbledore gives me one of his knowing smiles, which, naturally, I pretend not to have seen, then he moves towards the dungeon door and out into the corridor.
I, however, stay behind for a moment longer and as I look around I cannot help but wonder: If remembering me means that I am not truly dead, then I am possibly going to be around here for a quite a while – and, oddly enough, I don't hate the idea at all.