Chapter Three: Ancient Waters

Severus Snape loped, barefoot, beside the sapphire sea. It was long his habit to run at dawn, to be out in the air before the heat set in, to pass the squid boats as the fishermen returned from their night's labors. It was his privilege to start his day in that between-time, as some were moving to rest and others just waking, as the night was yielding to the day.

As he well knew, great beauty often rested in the spaces inbetween.

It was a privilege, too to move this body, push it, ask from it, receive its response. Though he had always kept himself fit, for to become weak was to die, it was now with pleasure that he extended, tested, grew stronger. Not for combat, though he would be ready should that come again, but moreso just because his body was there. Because to feel the body's pleasures and pains was precious to him. Because those pleasures and pains were the stuff of life.

It had been twenty years since he'd begun his life here, and still, he found himself surprised by the simple joy of freedom.

He pushed his speed as he ran up the steep path to his cliffside cottage. He reached the crest just as the sun moved above the village rooftops, exploding amber light onto the whitewashed walls. It was his favorite moment of the day. His body heaved with effort, his lungs gasped for air, sweat stung his eyes. He looked over the momentarily violent beauty of his home with gratitude.

Thank you Lily. Thank you for my life.

SSSS

At first, it had been...odd to move about the world incognito. When he arrived in the village, there had been no expectations of him, only the avid curiosity of a small community with a newly arrived stranger in its midst, a stranger who intends to stay. There had been some wariness, for who came to Arki but daytripping tourists in August? But there had been no revulsion in their eyes. Once he had revealed himself to be a scholar, he was viewed even more positively. Strangers had smiled at him, over time warmed to him, invited him in to their homes for simple meals. Children had ignored him, and then waited expectantly for him to return the balls that had rolled to his feet. Over time, he had simply become one of the island's dramatis personae, the strange pale man who lived with his books on top of the hill.

When he had bought this simple cottage years before, he had had little expectation of surviving the war, much less ever making his way to its peaceful setting. But he had planned carefully for the possibility, nonetheless. Using a variety of untraceable intermediaries, he had purchased this small plot of land, with its clean, spare dwelling, sight unseen. At the time, its location on a cliff top seemed a wise tactical advantage. His modest savings, removed to a muggle bank in Switzerland, were sufficient to provide him with a comfortable existence. Thankfully, he had planned well, for though he hadn't expected to survive, survive he had.

On this tiny island, with this simple life, he suspected his monetary assets might even outlive him. He had already decided that any legacy he left behind would go to Lily's grandchildren. James. Shudder. Had Potter chosen the name just to torture him? And Albus Severus. He snorted aloud. Who would saddle an helpless infant with a name like that? At least in providing amusement the legendary Gryffindor sense of justice never failed to deliver.

Pompous moniker or not, Lily's blood flowed through Potter's get, and that, in itself, was reason enough for his worldly possessions to go to them despite the vague nausea he still felt in considering the chosen one. It was knee jerk, really. For in saving the spectacled menace he had won this life for himself, and that, if nothing else, should earn him a bit more tolerance. But some habits were simply too ingrained to break.

Like reading the Daily Prophet, for instance. It was a rag, of course. Barely even journalism. He had rarely read it in his former life, but here? He read it compulsively. He knew it was complete indulgence to have it sent here. Once again he used a series of intermediaries, the net result of which was a monthly shipment that arrived via muggle post in a heavy cardboard box several months after publication.

But arrive, it did, allowing him enough of a glimpse into the goings-on in the magical world to assuage his vague but persistent curiosity. It was through this rag that he learned the details of the final battle. If he smirked to read of Naginis ignominious defeat at the hands of Longbottom of all people, well, given the scars that encircled his throat like a macabre necklace, that was within his rights.

It was in this rag that he read Potter's passionate, (and tearful, if the picture of Potter at the pensive was to be believed) exoneration of his person. When he'd read it, when he'd seen that his most private, most cherished, and most reviled secrets were splayed about in public for the world to read, he had waited for the bitterness, waited for the sweet dark emotion to wash over him. But it never came. At worst, he felt mild contempt. Damned Gryffindors. Couldn't see real injustice when it spat in their faces, but determined to correct the appearance of injustice at all costs. Oh, well, what did it matter anyway? That Severus Snape had died in a pool of tacky blood and bitter venom. This Severus Snape? He ate eggplant, and goat, and fish pulled fresh from the sea. He lived in a home drenched in sunlight and perfumed with the tang of the ocean.

Still, he was heartily amused to witness the meteoric shift Potter's revelations brought about in his image. Severus Snape, reviled murderer of Wizardkind's most beloved White Wizard, became Severus Snape, Dumbledore's right hand man, and most celebrated martyr of Voldemort's reign. He'd been tempted, almost, to order Rita Skeeter's "Misunderstood Bat of the Dungeons," purely for its entertainment value, but given the complications of processing such an order discretely, as well as the shite-to-substance ratio of her previous tomes he had ultimately decided against the exercise. Some things, perhaps, were better left unknown.

He was, however, absurdly touched to read that Minerva had collected his posthumous Order of Merlin, First Class. She had been the closest thing to a friend that he had had at Hogwarts, and she was the last person to lose faith in him. Her tribute to him...well, it moved him to see her remember him fondly. According to the Prophet, she collected his award and had it hung in the headmasters gallery at Hogwarts, in lieu of the portrait that rather stubbornly failed to materialize. (And wouldn't materialize for many years to come, if he had his way about it.)

That missing portrait, combined with the never-mentioned disappearance of his body, should have caused a furor of is-he-dead-or-isn't he rumors and Severus Snape sightings. But the paper remained adamant that Severus Snape had shucked off this mortal coil, and for that, he was truly grateful.

SSSS

Though the golden trio's truly newsworthy days were over, it gave him some satisfaction over the years to follow the details of their lives, which the Prophet religiously reported. The engagements. The professional choices. The marriages. The births. The very ordinariness of it gave him quiet pride. These lives they lived would not have been without him. In some small way, though he would never admit it, he considered the continued existence of those three dunderheads one of his life's better accomplishments.

And so it was with detatched regret that he read Ronald Weasley's obituary, three months after the date of his death. It did not engender grief, though the emotion he felt was tinged with sadness. But he noted with some interest that the event felt somehow important to him. A milestone of some kind. Who knew why? But it felt to him as if it should be marked somehow.

That evening, as he watched the sun set over the Eastern Aegean sea, he made a point of toasting the red dunderhead.

May you find life beyond the veil to be as satisfying as I have been promised it will be...and may whomever they send to greet you be greatly beloved by you.

Travel Well.

He lifted his glass of Ouzo to the obstreperous sky, and quietly tipped it back.

End Chapter Three

AN: I have never been to Greece, much less to Arki, which is considered one of the more remote Greek islands. But the raw beauty and historical significance of Greece made it a likely retreat for our hero. So I'm taking a chance and doing my best to set this is on a real island, to which I have never been. In order to do that, I will need to make a few adjustments to reality here and there. To the residents of Arki, it is my intent to honor your island...please forgive me if I distort aspects of it from time to time.

If any of you have direct experience with Greece, and wish to provide me with insights into Greek life that I can work into the story, I would be most grateful.