To my readers—it seems like it's been so long since I updated! Of course, still my first fic, so I'm just getting into the swing of things with high hopes that all will turn out well.

Eyesuhkattspeleeng- My first reviewer! Yay! I certainly hope to keep updating this story. Maybe it will come out strange at first, in bits and pieces, but I am so looking forward to digging into Rowling's treasure chest of unused and conceivable ideas.

Yes, this is still a Snape/OC Fanfic. I'm keeping these first few chapters short because I haven't run into Snape yet, but I promise that it will come. Next chapter. Definitely. (if you read it, he will come!)

I always appreciate critique. If this story isn't going the way you thought it would (too bad, haha) or you have creative ideas, review! I can only fix things if they are located first.

**Anyhow, the ideas used in this Fic are mine, but Severus Snape and all other facets/characters of the Wizarding World of Harry Potter are the property of J.K. Rowling.


My cellular phone buzzed in my pocket. I answered the call from one of my best friends and long-time co-worker, Ben.

"Can you come down to the building in a few?" He asked.

I bit my lip, knowing I was onto something here...and he knew I hated giving up on a project. "What for?"

A bit of static cut through the line, then his slightly nasal voice came through again. "I just need some help on the Evans case, Amy. I've been slammed with papers, and…"

"Sure."

"Thanks, Vic. You're a doll."

I'd long suspected Ben liked me in a way deeper than just friendship, but I wasn't exactly interested in partially bald men with goatees who were around ten years older than I. But he always made me smile—that much I could credit to the poor man. He had a sense of charm that just broke through my swinging demeanors.

I rummaged through my pearl-and-black Ivanka Trump bag, finding my sunglasses and cursing to myself when I couldn't locate my car keys. I looked up and saw them on the library table, and frowned to myself. Why would I…? Oh well, no matter.

The room was big, airy, and –I'd always found— a little scary. Still, only a few other people were reading and I could only see one other person, a frumpy little lady with brown hair, browsing the tall bookshelves.

I did like the floor, though. I also liked the very beautiful, very intricate way they organized all of the tables and the books of the selves. Row upon row of old volumes, all meticulously organized, smelled like glue and spices that I couldn't even identify. The scents were nice, the room was always very cool…I loved to come here and just look at the books. But, I'd found that to be a bit unproductive most times, so I only came here on the frequent occasions that I needed new reading material or needed to do research for work. That was one grievous crime I could chalk up to the city library's record, I suppose—their computers were awful to use. They were just old and clunky, and you couldn't really do anything proper with them. I couldn't understand why the city hadn't replaced them already—they must be a hundred years old. They did act like my Aunt Camilla a bit: slow to commands, and always bitching right back at you when asked to do something, however polite you were.


Four minutes later, I'd abandoned my project for the time being, but my mind was still curious and reeling. Tracy, the assistant librarian, had agreed to keep my books saved for twenty-four hours, still pretending that some other gentleman or woman might actually come by demanding to read the same obscure reference books I was using.

I was cruising down Washington Street in the Mazda, and after stopping at just about every light, I turned into the parking lot where the firm was located. I went inside, and took the elevator to the third floor, where the office of the Lowell-Brewster Firm existed.

We worked copiously for the next two and a half hours on a case involving a mother named Evans who had filed serious criminal assault charges against an ex-boyfriend of hers. Pretty mainstream for our business.

I decided to head back to my work. After dashing through a Subway deli, I managed to be back at the Public Library by one-thirty.

I soon abandoned my epic quest for the second time, after running into a dead end. Literally. I had been following the history of my little townhouse, right back to its construction in the mid-late sixteen hundreds. Fascinated by the culture of Salem in general, this cute little town with such a difficult past, I'd wanted to learn where the roots of the town had come from. Ironically, the suburban area I had just recently bought into with the purchase of my low-maintenance, one bedroom home was not very well documented in the city records. Apparently a fire had accosted the City Hall, and most of the records existing then were completely incinerated. I could hardly find a shred of information from before 1750.

I was really only curious because not two weeks after moving in, I had located the hidden attic behind the closet door in my bedroom. I asked a friend to demolish the wall (not my specialty) as I put together the bed in the next room.

Kim suddenly shouted my name. I was a bit excited, but I did not expect to find what we found. There were old photographs, undated, unnamed, and the room smelled like mung beans.

Coughing like a couple of smokers, we retreated from the dusty old space to recover. Kim and I armed ourselves with hammers and kerchiefs, ready to tackle the mysterious old room. Boards had been nailed into the wall to cover up a charming old window that looked out of the side of the house, giving us both a lovely view of the neighbor's garage.

I was frazzled: why would a little room like that be sealed off in such a way?

The photographs could be dated as far back as 1846. They appeared to be taken of family members, and several were too dark or too blurry to make out.

What caught my eye was a shadowy man in the background of several pictures. He was young, clean-shaven, had dark eyes and hair, and always wore a hat and suit.

There was a time when I worried whether some undocumented things had gone on inside my house, possibly involving the dark-haired young man. After obsessing over that idea for about three days, I pushed it out of my mind.

I had a passion for dark and obscure things.


My cat greeted me at home. She purred and sprung up from her cozy bed on the black leather sofa to rub against my bare legs as I tried not to trip over her.

"Kitty, kitty, leave me alone," I griped. With one hand clutching the parcel I carried, and my heel pushing the door shut behind me, I managed to not trip over my precious darling feline.

I left the white and gold wrapped package on the kitchen counter with my purse and keys.

My shoes clacked loudly until I slipped them off. The blue Yves heels were my favorite go-to pair, because they were stylish, they did not clash with a flattering white skirt and sky-blue blouse, and they were comfortable.

Whoever said it wasn't fun to 'grow' a few inches?

Berenice, nicknamed 'Nisa', was the name of my female Singapuran. She was getting on in years, and I'd had her since I was eleven.

Whenever I was writing, working, or taking a shower, she was there with me. I liked her company, considering I was alone most of the time in my home, except for the occasional dinner parties I threw, when I kept her in the laundry room with her food and necessities. She was extremely shy of guests.

After an uneventful shower I returned to the kitchen, Nisa trotting at my heels.

I had forgotten about the package until I was nearly halfway through cooking a portion of couscous for myself. Obviously, I was such a social recluse and had not made plans for any one of my friends to come over to eat tonight.

That little present, so unassuming with its delicate gold tie, was begging me to be opened. I finished cooking my meal, though, avoiding temptation for another few minutes. Once I could sit down to eat I brought the box with me. It wasn't any bigger than my outstretched hand.

Nisa apparently hadn't touched this one. Usually the boxes I left on the counter had to go through their own routine-initiation process, compliments of Nisa's teeth. She loved to eat ribbons and all of the fake plants in my house were chewed up to some degree.

I untied the gold wire, noticing no card, no attachment. It must have been hand-delivered to the postal office. Someone had taken the trouble to find out my name and safety-deposit box number.

Someone had a copy of my key.

Puzzled, astutely puzzled, I still didn't see any kind of harm in opening the little gift, or whatever the hell it was the anonymous person had left for me to find.

I carefully tore the white wrapping paper.