Memento Mori

Rated M (for later chapters, though there are some instances of not-so-subtle innuendo in the first)

Featuring evil!book!Snape and Emmeline Vance

Summary: Emmeline Vance is dead. She'd like to tell you how that came to pass.

Note: most of this writer in the wee hours of the night, which are also the wee hours of the morning. Also, if you haven't seen Casablanca, don't tell me that you don't get the quotes, go see the movie. It's the greatest romantic movie ever made.

Excuse: My betas abandoned me. They are- for the most part- buried with midterms/ finals/ college applications/ SAT Prep. I, however, am operating on a different schedule, so I'm not dealing with all the same crap. Well, I am, I'm just dealing with it at a slower, more leisurely pace. Already elongated story short, this story was not beta'd. There are four more chapters to come, and if anyone wants to beta those, I'd be forever grateful.

Disclaimer: I have no money, don't sue me.

Chapter One: Dawn
I keep- I kept. Kept. You will forgive me if I have trouble to using the past tense when speaking about my life? I was alive not long ago.

At least, I feel that I was alive not long ago. But death lasts so much longer than life, and time is relative.

But, I digress. Allow me to return to my narrative.

I kept a small flat in London. It was a muggle flat. There are wizards and witches who would, or would have, disapproved of such a thing. There are those who find muggle inventions inferior to magic. I will grant them this: they can be much more problematic at times. But I always found that when they worked correctly, they were relaxing. To do magic is to use energy. Electricity, running water, those things are simply there. One need not constantly expend energy to reap their benefits. I found them relaxing.

Found. The word seems heavy in my mouth. It is so much rounder and fuller and richer in sound, in tonal quality than its present tense counterpart. Perhaps I will come to like it in time. Perhaps.

My flat. It was small. It was neat, clean. The walls were, and, probably, are, white. The kitchen, living room and foyer were all combined. The lighting was wonderful. The floors where carpeted in light blue. The kitchen surfaces were all chrome, highly polished. I cleaned them myself. Elbow grease is good for the soul, that's what my father used to say. He was a mechanic, my father. A good man. A muggle.

But again, I digress.

My flat was clean to the point of being sterile, for I never had any guests. Nor was I there very often. I spent most of my time at work; I was a research assistant to a one Mr. Atlas Bumbledee.

I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that this was not his real name.

My job. Research assistant to a man who wrote three hundred and seventy-five manuscripts, none of which were ever published on a large scale, on the most bizarre, arcane, or simply useless topics imaginable. He paid me handsomely, as well he should.

Should have, I mean. Meant? Mean. Meant. Good God.

It was exhausting work. It was not dull, but no matter how much one loves books, after a time one comes to realize that there is no substitute for the symbiotic energy of another human being. Books tire you, and only give so much energy in return. The right person, on the other hand, can be like the fountain of youth.

I was thirty-five. I looked forty-eight. I hadn't been on a date in seven… ten… fifteen… Fifteen years. I rarely slept, and when I did, it was usually at a desk, or on a couch in someone else's home. Mr. Bumbledee's, perhaps, or another colleague, from one of my less reputable jobs.

I was a member of the Order of the Phoenix, you know. There are some people in my position who can still say that sentence in the present tense, but I am not among them. I didn't think about the possible necessity of tethering my ethereal self to the earthly world. Like so many fools, I lacked foresight and told myself I had no fear.

But I had nothing but fear. I was afraid of mirrors. I was afraid of my apartment. I was afraid of old family pictures, of my friend's significant others, of my bed, of the calendar. I was afraid of anything that reminded me of my solitude. But mostly, most of all, I was afraid of being old. I was afraid of growing old alone. I was afraid of dying alone.

Well, at least I know one of those fears was groundless. It wouldn't have happened to me if I'd wanted it to.

Even in the end, I'm not sure I did.

But I digress.

After the Death Eaters raided the department of Mysteries, after my employer roped me into my second and considerably less lax job, after the bickering, the suspicion, the months of endless, fruitless surveillance, I went home.

It was after a particularly unpleasant meeting of the Order. Our resident swot and resident ass Severus Snape had spent as much time as possible reminding his fellow warriors- pitifully vain word, I've always thought- of the terrible dangers he faced each time he double-crossed the Dark Lord. Our resident codger Alastor Moody had spent an equal amount of time dishing out the most heinous verbal abuse he could (my ears still burn from it). Our fearless, exhausted leader had snapped at everyone, and called it a night. A miserable, unfinished, unproductive failure of a night.

I had never been fond of Alastor. Additionally, I had always pitied Severus. Snape. Snivellus. Whatever you wish to call him. In retrospect, I had terrible taste.

Foolish women usually do.

I was tired. I was apathetic. I went home.

I had not been home since I joined the order.

I couldn't sleep.

Insomnia is no longer a problem for me, and I have learned to be grateful for small favors.

I had not been home in eleven weeks, but it felt like a lifetime. I had come to miss the simple cleanliness, bright light and cool air of my flat as much as I come to hate its emptiness.

I remember how I unlocked my front door, the key was small and flashed silver-bright in the dim hall light, and slipped in. I opened my door as little as possible, and closed it as quickly as I could.

I had been told on more than one occasion that everything a person does reflects their emotional life. Perhaps the door was a metaphor.

I turned on my light. The light switch was just of the right of the deadbolt lock, nestled between the doorframe and a protrusion of wall, the left side of one of my two small closets. The other was in my bedroom. The main space in my flat was lit by seven light bulbs, all set in the ceiling. They gave off white light, painfully bright.

I had a coat rack and a mat for shoes close to the door. Beyond that, there was the living room, and slightly to the right of that, and behind it, was the kitchen.

My living room was Spartan, to say the least. It was furnished with exactly (exactly) five items. Five. Item the first: A gray three person couch. Soft, but not overstuffed. Upholstered with velour. This created the "back wall" of the room. Directly behind it were a small open space, and then the tiny hallway that lead to my bedroom. Item the second: A small light stand, on which there was no light. It was made of a sheet of blue-ish glass and four metal rods brushed with chrome. This was next to the left arm of the couch, at a slight angle to it. It generally functioned as the resting place for a book. That night it was adorned by The Tale of Genji (Penguin Classics, unabridged, translation by Royall Tyler). Item the third: A single armchair, a perfect match for the couch. Situated to the left of the light stand, again at a slight angle, but nearly perpendicular to the couch, it formed the left wall of the room. Item the fourth: A coffee table, also made of blue-ish glass and chrome-brushed metal. I rarely used it. It was the permanent home of a remote control, and the occasional home of a solitary metal and black rubber mug. Last, but not least, item the fifth: A flat panel, wide screen, HD, LCD television, wall mounted. My guilty pleasure, and my one great indulgence. I almost always found myself satisfied with whatever was on (I had nearly every channel imaginable), and when I wasn't, I could turn to the book on the light stand.

I took off my shoes, hung up my coat, and went to my kitchen. I made myself a cup of tea (green), and a slice of toast (white bread and butter in a frying pan, like I learned from my father). I took what passed for a meal in my lonely little one-woman world and went to sit on my couch.

I turned on the television, I channel surfed. News. News. Worse news. Fake news. Reruns. Campy movies. Classic movies. Pornography. News.

I decided to settle in for the better part of "Casablanca", a movie I knew by heart. It had been a favorite of both my parents.

I picked up, mouthing the words right along, with Ilsa, at "play it once Sam, for old time's sake." If my mouth hadn't been full of toast when he began, I would have sung along with him. (You must remember this / A kiss is still a kiss / A sigh is just a sigh / The fundamental things apply / As time goes by.)

I have had- is that right? Is that how I say it? I'm not sure.- friends who begged me to sing and friends who begged me not to. I could carry a tune, but my voice was low and rough for a woman's, in speech and song.

I drank my tea, ate my toast, placed my mug and plate in the kitchen sink, washed my hands, went and curled up on the couch properly. I watched Ilsa and Rick kiss "as if it were the last time". I muttered every line under my breath.

It was five-thirty in the morning, and Renault was "shocked, shocked to find that gambling" was occurring in Rick's bar when my doorbell rang.

My first reaction was fear. Terrible, paralyzing fear. I felt cold, my chest constricted, my throat dried out.

The bell rang five times before I peeled myself away from the couch.

When I opened the door, the fear retreated. Or, at least, became subordinate to shock.

A haggard Severus Snape stood at my threshold. We stared at one another for a moment, and my mind did the most foolish and inexplicable things imaginable. I panicked, because I had dirty dishes in my sink. I panicked, because I was afraid he might kiss me. (You must understand, that worry was utterly irrational. He have no indication that he would, I merely worried that he would. I worried that he would because, secretly, I hoped that he would.) I panicked, because I knew I must have looked terrible.

You must remember that I had not any male visitors in a very, very long time. Minerva had come by now and then for a cup of tea, but she offered me very little in the way of companionship. She certainly did not offer me the possibility of sexual gratification. I realize that most people would not view Severus Snape as sexually attractive, but a foolish woman is often a desperate one, and lack of sleep has been known to impair the judgment of greater people than myself.

He looked terrible. Worse than usual, I mean. His sallow skin had taken on a green-ish gray pallor, and his eyes looked sunken, ringed with dark circles. There were bags under his eyes as well, something I had never seen before. All the years I had known him, it had been as if his body were simply too thin to manufacture the extra skin, but now, there they were. Dark, puffy bags.

The look in his eyes was just as troubling as the decline in his already decrepit looks. He seemed more haunted than usual, and certainly a great deal more tired. Exhausted was the word.

The movie had warmed me up, and his appearance had rendered my heartstrings thoroughly plucked. I stuttered, I stumbled over myself and my words, but somehow managed to invite him.

He didn't stagger, exactly, but he came as close to that as I had ever seen him. He sat- sat with the kind of force only the dead tired can muster- in my armchair. He raked his fingers over his face, and held his head in his hands. I could tell he had a story to tell me. He radiated the subdued, arresting energy of the master story-teller.

I knew that, no matter how long or fantastic the tale, I would listen. I listen because of boredom, loneliness, desperation, compassion, any excuse I could give myself.

I would listen because of a deeply hidden, inexplicable schoolgirl crush I barely knew I retained.

I would listen because my libido drove me to listen, because of the very faint hope that at the end of his recitations, he might seek physical comfort from the only warm body in the room. (I didn't even know, then, whether or not he was straight. I suppose I still don't, though I have a considerably better idea of his sexual preferences.)

The first light of dawn was creeping in through my windows.

I closed the door.

On screen, Ilsa was speaking with (or, rather, somewhat desperately at) her husband. "Victor, whatever I do," she said, "will you believe that I, that-" And her husband, interrupting her: "You don't even have to say it. I'll believe."

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