No Treats, All Tricks
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There's a dull buzzing in his ears but he ignores it because he can, and he's used to ignoring things that annoy him, like students who hold no love for Potions, who disrespect his person on a daily basis with their sidelong looks, eyes dripping disgust and something that he can't quite put his finger on. He gives his head a little shake and straightens his cuffs into perfection. He then sets his shoulders and quickens his brisk walk.
The street is dark, with lamp-poles spilling weak yellowish light on the road, but he can see well enough. The air is heavy with pollution, though he doesn't much notice. Years of hovering over cauldrons has done more than simply damage to his hair.
There's a screech from a feral cat that slices through the night, and he tenses, fingers spasming towards his concealed wand, which is tucked into his muggle trench-coat. Then he relaxes, shoulders slumping. Just a cat. The moon, he notices, is swollen and luminous and just shy of epitomising peace, so he lengthens his stride in disgust. Part of him longs to spin on his heel and simply Apparate into a back alley, but he cannot, not tonight.
"Snape," greets Willson, a hunched-over old man with eyes that say goodbye instead of hello.
Snape nods shortly but otherwise passes by the other man, who is watering his plants after another long day's work. He rather thinks that no amount of water can revive Willson's garden, and then he clenches his hand into a fist, because he's not thinking about that, not tonight.
He walks for a while more, and sees groups of children rushing about, clutching little bags. He bares his teeth at one when they approach him expectantly, but feels no satisfaction when they squeak and rush away.
Eventually, he stands before his destination: The Queen's Lips, a simple but clean pub. Snape enters and finds himself a seat near the back, away from everyone else. The place is emptier than last year.
"Sir?" a pretty young thing asks. She's looking at him strangely. Has she been there long? It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, he thinks again, because those words are powerful, like Sectumsempra.
"Hot Toddy. Whiskey," he bites off. He's cold. But he's wearing a trench-coat. Still. He brings his hands together. They're shaking just the slightest bit.
"Certainly," she says. Her name-tag, pinned to her apron, reads Jessica. He's always hated Jessicas. What a banal name.
Snape stares into space. He conjures lists in his mind — he starts with the properties of anise, as it's hovering in his mind. He thinks he'll need anise, tonight. Helps him sleep.
"Here you go," Jessica says, placing his drink in front of him.
"Obliged," he says flatly. She leaves. He drinks.
And then he orders another drink. He's warmer. Not happier.
Time passes. He drinks slowly, head still clear but somehow impossibly full. His eyes study the crowd, absorbed in the flow of people as the clock ticks on. There's music, but there's still buzzing in his ears (but really it's in his head), so he can't hear it very well.
"Hi, there," purrs a voice, hoarse from drink, no doubt, and maybe smoking, he thinks, as her breath floats towards him.
Snape turns his head just so, enough to take her in. She's on his left, face brightened by interest. Her skin is dark, but whether from the lighting or genetics, he can't tell.
"Who are you?" she continues, the right side of her mouth curling upwards in a sultry display. She's not beautiful, but nor is he.
"James," he says suddenly, and he's so surprised that his fingers spasm again. The last mouthful of his most recent Hot Toddy is lost as the glass smashes into the floor. What was he thinking? He can hear the music; the people; the glass as it shatters; the hoarse-voiced woman saying —
"It's alright, James, honey, a simple accident — "
James. Why is he so bloody stupid? Because that's what he is, Potion Master or no, he's so bloody —
The woman's hand rests on his forearm. "Why don't I make you feel better, James, to make up for that broken glass? I'm Annie."
Annie. Sounds like anise. And tonight he's James. His eyes become hooded.
"Alright," Snape says, because her name is Anise (Annie) and because he needed her, even if she smoked just like his worthless father used to.
He pays for his drinks with muggle money, and pays extra for the glass, too, even though nobody but Anise noticed him break it.
Then he follows Anise, whose bright red dress is spread teasingly over her curvy body. He's always liked red. She drives, "Because I don't reek of Whiskey." A fiery kiss has him settling into the passenger's side. In all truth, he'd let her drive them straight into oncoming traffic, tonight, but he's not thinking of that, just like he's not thinking of magic, or unrevivable gardens.
That voice of hers — that blend of sexual power and cigarettes — whispers, "We're here, James. My motel."
He nods and climbs out, her hands twining around his arm, and then they're inside her room, which is number 21, and he feels so sick, so sick, so sick, even when he sinks into Anise. An image of The Queen's Lips flashes through his mind. He shakes his head slightly, and turns his attention to the woman underneath him, who is whispering so sweetly and so strangely to him, saying, "Bulls-eye, my arrow, shhh."
When they're done, they relax together, her legs coiling through his. The sheets are crumpled at the bottom of the bed. He's warmer now. He doesn't need them.
"Do you mind if I put the radio on?" she asks, kissing his hooked noise and tugging lightly on his long black hair.
"By all means," he says smoothly. He's warmer now, yes. But happier? He can't tell.
Anise sings along terribly, but at least quietly — " … you're shining down on me from Heaven … Like so many friends we've lost along the way …"
He stiffens impossibly, but Anise carries on singing, and he's on her bed in room number 21, and he thinks of Willson's garden, and how dangerous magic is, and the buzzing in his ears, and the children who were carrying their little bags, because it's the 31st of October, and Anise, who is actually Annie, and himself, whom he introduced as James —
No.
Lily.
Lily, who died at 21 mere years; who was unrevivable; who was killed by magic.
James, too.
He wishes he were James.
"Happy Halloween, James," Annie says, because she's not anise, and she can't help him fucking sleep.
His fingers spasm. "Happy Halloween," he rasps.