Chapter 8: Past and Present
Snape started, squinting uncomprehendingly at the ceiling. He had been dreaming about broomsticks and white fluorescent lights, and for some reason porcelain plates with the word 'NMR' printed on the bottom. He stared some more at the ceiling before he heard Granger's voice from the fireplace.
"Oh, I'm sorry—I didn't know you'd be here."
Snape grunted in reply. He sat up and fumbled for his temporary wand, noting that Granger was looking up ruefully from the green flames. He hesitated a moment before flinging aside his blankets; he did not wish to be seen in such a state. "Has something happened?"
"Well… yes and no," Granger said.
"Perfectly clear," Snape muttered. "Tersus." A shock of cool air batted his face, and he nearly dropped his wand. "Idiot thing," he muttered.
"That isn't your wand."
"Brilliant as usual, Granger." He rubbed his eyes and noticed for the first time the thing lying in front of the fire. "Shit," he muttered.
Granger smothered a laugh. Snape felt a flush creep up to the edge of his ears; he hardly ever cursed, and only in front of Albus or Minerva or his cauldron. "Pardon," he said smoothly and bent down to pick up the copy of the Daily Prophet. He glanced at the headline, and in the next instant nearly tore the parchment, so tightly did he clench his hands in a convulsion of shock.
"I don't know how they found out. We Obliviated everyone at St. Mungo's, and I don't think Fred even knew…"
Snape had to force himself to relax his jaw enough to lower it for speech. "Indeed." One of the pictures was an old one of Potter, and the other, of himself, must have been from his sixth or seventh year. He could not remember on what occasion it had been taken. Thankfully the picture of Potter was from after the war had begun in earnest, which made him look, in a twist of irony, older than Snape.
"'HARRY POTTER RETURNS FROM TIME-TRAVEL ROMANCE WITH THEN-DEATH EATER SEVERUS SNAPE,'" Snape read aloud. "I was not a Death Eater then. They have their facts wrong." He felt alternately the urge to rip the tabloid into pieces, toss it negligently into the fire, or burst out with insane laughter.
"I know…" Granger said in a consoling voice. "And I don't know how they could have gothold of this…"
"I do," Snape said. He stood up and turned around. The short hallway was dark; none of the doors it led to were open. "Silencio."
"Is Harry still asleep?"
"You just woke me up, Granger."
"Sorry. Stupid question." She waited a moment before asking, "You know?"
"Yes," Snape said unhelpfully. He was less certain than his tone had been, but it was plausible, likely even. It would fit with everything else. "I see they have dragged Albus into this as well."
"Yes, bringing up the whole Grindelwald thing. Honestly, and Albus can't even defend himself!"
"No," said Snape, not adding that the old wizard probably could not be affected either. "Interesting. A quote from Lupin."
"It's completely innocent," said Granger. She added, after a pause, "He told me, this morning, that he regretted not having suspected earlier. They informed him that it was supposed to be an article commemorating the Order members on the occasion of Harry's return."
"Idiot," Snape muttered. He read a few more lines. "'He was close to a few people—mostly Slytherins.' I see that Lupin has forgotten about Evans."
"Lily? Harry's mum?"
Snape grunted in answer. He felt some of the tension drain out of his shoulders. The article, though conspiratorial and revelatory in tone, was mostly theories and had hardly anything concrete. Even the quotes they had managed to dredge out from Lupin and another Gryffindor whose name he did not recognize had no specific context. The only unsettling aspect was that most of the accusations were true.
"Interesting. Lestrange and Matellan."
"Yes."
Snape could hear the barest hesitation in Granger's voice. He crumpledup the paper and dropped it on the floor next to the fireplace. In the green firelight it looked particularly insidious, as though all sorts of curses were glittering on its surface.
"Albus never mentioned them to me," Granger said.
"No," Snape said. The curtains were drawn, but some light spilled in from the edges. Judging from its brightness, it was already rather late in the morning. "I don't think he even knows."
"Who does?"
Snape let his eyes meet Granger's. "Potter."
There was no reaction in her face, not that he had expected any. She was too experienced to let anything show. "Is there any truth then?"
"You should ask Potter, not me," he said. He realized that he was lying to her, for he could remember, clearly, Terrance Lestrange sprawled on the hearthrug, resembling more than anything else an expiring fish lying belly-up on the bank. He also realized that his lack of an answer was a definite move against Potter. It was as though he, Snape, were admitting there was truth in the conjectures-cum-accusations, that it was Potter's fault.
He sat without moving, and stared at the vertex where the ceiling met the wall. Another scene played out in his head, one that bubbled up without conscious bidding: that of his last encounter with Frost in Dumbledore's office, where he had tried to sway the headmaster with memories that only two others had witnessed. He shut his eyes, and opened them again when he realized that Granger was still there, waiting.
"Although I am sure Albus knows something about Lestrange," said Snape. "He was… involved, personally."
"I see," Granger said quietly. It was an inscrutable voice. Snape waited for her next words. "It's things that happened a very long time ago," she said, hesitantly.
Snape nodded curtly, knowing her meaning without her saying it. "Although not quite so long ago for Potter."
Granger bit her lower lip. "You said you had an idea of how the Prophet found out about this?" she said, changing the subject.
"Yes," said Snape. "Zabini." He smiled thinly. How appropriate that it should all be linked, as though connected by predetermined chains that had waited until now to reveal themselves.
"Blaise Zabini?"
Snape nodded. "When I was in his manor, he took the effort to inform me that he was in contact with an—entity that knew quite a lot about me. That entity happened to be an imprint of Lestrange that was left in this world."
"As in, a ghost?"
"Not quite." He paused, sifting through his mind again to make sure the facts were laid out without confusion. "I am not sure if you remember the Grimhild Fealty?"
Granger frowned. "No, I don't… it sounds familiar."
"It was one of the spells detailed in the Founder's Nest."
"Oh, I see. I don't remember it at all."
"It was not one of the better documented ones." In fact, they had practically ignored it—the spell was one that Salazarhad noted, but, judging from the lack of information, never attempted. It also happened to involve an orgy of soul and blood magic. Snape remembered being the only one who had taken notice ofit, only because it had reminded him of Terrance Lestrange.
"So what is it?"
"It follows the principles of a fealty spell. In this case, the vassal allows part of his soul to be sewn to 'the lord's leg,' if I recall correctly." He paused. "Salazar was even more vague than usual about the metaphors. But the vassal, being partially soulless, will then have powers of the ieiunita."
"Ieiunita?" Granger frowned. "Aren't they supposed to be related to dementors? And aren't they supposed to be mythical?"
"I suppose they are," Snape said dryly. "But I strongly suspect that Voldemort bound Terrance Lestrange by the Grimhild Fealty. I also have good reason to believe that Zabini attempted this with the boy, Niles."
"Really," Granger muttered. "Attempted—was he successful?"
"Not completely, but enough to clarify the communication he had established previously with Lestrange. As to what else this spell entails, I am unsure. Obviously the results were not satisfying enough for Voldemort to do twice."
Granger nodded. "I see. I'll have my magicists look into that. And I'll tell Ginny to keep an eye out." She sighed. "I'd like to ask you a favor, Severus."
"Yes?"
"Do you remember the potion we hypothesized that could trace the casterof an Obliviate?"
Snape nodded.
"You never attempted it, did you?"
"No, I did not."
"Could you? I would like to use it."
"Mm." He recalled only the general outline of how the potion should be approached. There were notes, though, that both he and Granger had assiduously kept. "It is a very complex potion."
"Which is why I'm asking you, Severus," Granger said. She had half a smile on her lips. "And I'll make sure you're adequately paid."
"I am not in need of the Ministry's employment, Granger," Snape said in a mild voice. But even as he said those words, he found himself wondering how true it was: the arrangements he had in the dens could not no longer continue as they had.
"Of course. But it's a matter of policy, and principle. Moreover, you'll be working for the Department of Mysteries, so you'll have your own patent—as long as you don't use it for the Dark Arts later on, which I'm sure you won't."
"I see." There was a pause. "How much is the recompense?"
"A hundred galleons down payment. Three hundred more if it's successful. This isn't counting supplies and ingredients."
Snape nodded once, sharply. "I will take it."
"Good. I'll send you a memo."
"There's no need," said Snape. He regarded Granger critically. "Who is it for?"
"Ginny Weasley. And… I don't think myself, but possibly." She pushed a hair back behind her temple. "Molly as well."
Snape frowned. "You believe—?"
Granger nodded. "Yes. Hopefully it'll come to nothing, but…" She glanced sideways at the room. "I'll leave you to Harry now. Your place is really peaceful, actually. I'd have expected it to be swarming with owls."
"They don't know where I live."
"Ah," Granger said, smiling. "Sometimes, I wish the same." She paused and indicated the Prophet, lying on the hearthrug. "I've been telling everyone neither yes or no, about that." She stopped again, glancing expectantly at Snape's face.
"That, you can continue," Snape said coldly.
Granger nodded with equanimity. "All right. I will see you later then. Say hullo to Harry for me."
"Yes," said Snape, and watched Granger vanish in a green swirl.
The fire was too bright in the ensuing silence. Snape had half the urge to put it out. The Prophet stared up at him from the ground, the pictures almost too cast in shadow to be seen—almost. Potter stared out with a sort of tired annoyance, and the picture of himself, half of which was caught underneath the fold, scowled and glanced upwards intermittently.
Abruptly, he snatched up the tabloid and held it close to the fireplace. Potter in the picture nudged his glasses higher onto his nose. It was a common, though often disregarded, notion among wizards that destroying photographs or portraits would bring bad luck on the person inside. Snape could remember his mother crouched in her rocking chair, cutting each picture of his father into smaller pieces with a pair of black-handled scissors. He remembered once finding, after shifting through the scraps of his mother's rage, a picture of himself, cut so that he no longer had a mouth, even after he tried piecing the parts together.
Snape turned and flicked his wand. "Finite incantatem," he said, and the silencing spell evaporated. After crossing the room, he stepped into the hallway and stopped short.
Potter looked up from the breakfast table. "Hey," he said, and smiled.
Snape nodded curtly, not trusting himself to speak. He continued down the hall and turned into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him. The copy of the Prophet, he noticed, was still in his hands. He dropped it in a corner with his Potions periodicals and filled his hands with water, watching the brief line of bubbles swirl like trapped marbles, before splashing it onto his face.
A few minutes later, he entered the kitchen, feeling considerably more in command of himself.
"Good morning," he said.
"Hi," said Potter. "You've an amazing house elf. Even the toast is good."
"Tibby is the landlady's, not mine," Snape replied. "I see you've had a cosmetic shift."
Potter put a hand self-consciously to his face. "Yeah, I figured it'd be better than walking around with that thing on my face." Snape watched the other man move his hands awkwardly to the table. "It's still a glamour. I'll have to figure out how to get it off permanently."
"Indeed," Snape said. Before Potter could say anything else, Snape tossed theProphet onto the table. "This morning's post, courtesy Miss Granger. Or Mrs. Granger-Pickering, I should say."
Potter stopped chewing and slowly held up the paper. Snape settled into the other chair at the table and began spreading marmalade onto his toast. He glanced occasionally at Potter's face, which was fixed into a tight, pale, half-knit frown.
"Granger has no idea how they found out," said Snape. He took a bite of the toast and chewed it slowly. There was a hollowness in his stomach, but he felt a strange lack of hunger.
"This stuff on Dumbledore," Potter said at last. He gestured, and it was a moment before he spoke again. "Is it true?"
"Grindelwald?"
Potter nodded.
"Yes, though I would not say the Prophet gave the most balanced depiction. Did you not know about it?"
"No, not at all. Albus never told me." He was silent. Snape observed Potter's face as discretely as he could. There was an ironic edge in the press of the lips, something that was entirely foreign to the Potter he remembered from four years ago. He wondered if he had noticed it twenty-five years ago.
"I see Albus kept secrets from you as well," Snape said.
"Yeah. The old liar." Potter put down the paper with a shake of his head. "I'm still surprised by what a shoddy hypocrite he was."
Snape frowned. "Albus?"
"Yeah, who else? I mean, he was madly in love with Grindelwald, or at least it seemed so, and all sorts of crap happened because of that. But he kept trying to keep me from having anything to do with you back then."
"I have no recollection of him taking so much interest in my love life."
"That's because I didn't tell you." Potter stopped abruptly, the Snape found himself curling his lips at the expression on the other man's face.
"Clearly." He took another piece of toast and began lathering on marmalade.
"Severus—"
"Don't apologize. Please."
The knife rasped against the edge of the toast like an old blade.He was always fastidious with his food; it came from the same instincts that directed him as he diced mandrakes, or cut gillyweed with the precision of light through a windowpane.
"Albus told me about Grindelwald a year after I joined the Death Eaters," he said. "I'd already killed a few Muggles by then. Two, I think, a woman and an old man. And an Auror that they'd caught loafing around Malfoy Manor."
"Oh."
Snape curled his lips. "Albus gave a rather contrived speech about how love can really blind someone, even to the end, and how difficult it was to finally defeat him."
"Grindelwald?"
"Obviously." He turned the toast in his hand, realizing with annoyance that it was impeccable now, and he would have to eat it. "Interestingly he was the only person on the side of the light who was of the same persuasion."
"You mean—?"
"Gay. Homosexual. The Death Eaters, on the other hand, were rather different. As long as you were reasonably attractive, meaning you weren't an ogre by the name of Crabbe, Goyle, Nott or Carrow, you were a pouf."
"I… had no idea." Potter fidgeted. "I always thought… well, I never really thought about it. I—don't think I was this way before I went back."
"Gay?"
Potter nodded. "Yeah, that."
"Probably Voldemort's influence, then."
Snape glanced up at the other man. The ugly fluorescent bulbs were off, and light from the garden window had flung itself across the walls, ghosting over the countertop and across Potter's chalk-white face like a diaphanous wing. Snape dropped his gaze to his half-eaten toast, for a moment having forgotten how to chew.
"Actually, I thought about that for a time, back then," Potter said. "The twenty-years-ago then."
"Mm."
"I decided… I decided that it can't matter. I mean, I've always had a bit of Voldemort in me, with the scar and everything." He made an aborted gesture at his forehead, and another aborted attempt at smiling. "I can't trace everything back to Voldemort."
"No. That would be morally bankrupt of you."
Potter nodded. "Yeah."
Snape finished the toast and wiped his hands. He could hear his rapid heartbeat only beginning to subside, gradually leaving him aware of his mind's fragmented ambivalence. This was a more eventful morning than he had had in a long time, discounting those spent in Zabini manor.
"I have some matters to attend to today," he said, standing. "I presume you won't need warnings about my potions laboratory?"
"Er—no. I'll stay out of it."
"Good. I'm afraid you won't find much of anything of interest in my flat, unless you would like to handle the owl post. Currently they're hopelessly lost, but if you like…"
"Owl post?" Potter's eyes widened as he glanced at the Prophet article. "Ah—no. They can stay lost."
"Good. There are some books in my bedroom that you may wish to peruse. I will see you again tonight, Mr. Potter."
"Don't call me that, Severus—"
"Mr. Frost, then."
Potter stood. "Jonathan. Call me Jonathan."
Potter's hands were held palms facing outwards. Snape noted, fingertips resting on the tabletop, as though for support. Snape swallowed and tried to work the name—any name—into his mouth, onto his lips.
"Frost," he managed. Then he turned and stalked out of the room, angry and disappointed for reasons he did not want to think about. "You're lucky I'm not calling you Mr. Riddle," he barked as he took down the pot of Floo powder. "Diagon Alley!" He stepped in, a tingling at the back of his neck the suppressed feeling of not turning around, or a silent gaze from two doorways away.
qp qp qp
"Ginny," Hermione said, looking up with a smile. "How are you?"
"Not bad." She smiled. "I just dropped Aaron a visit in St. Mungo's."
"And?"
"Well." Ginny shrugged and sat in the chair next to Hermione's desk. "They had to remove his bones and grow them over again because of the Bone-Shattering Hex, so we can't exactly go on a real date. But…" Her face dissolved into a grin. "You know, he looked quite terrified when he asked me out. I didn't tell him that you'd warned me."
"Good, or I don't know if he'd ever forgive me," said Hermione. She tapped her wand onto the teapot on her desk. "You are a terror sometimes, Ginny."
"Only sometimes." She shifted in her seat. "He told me about his dad."
Hermione nodded, a grim look on her face. "Did he?"
"He told you too, right?"
"Yes."
"He's really—calm about," Ginny said, frowning. "I'd never be so forgiving. I mean, to lie to your wife and kids for so long, and then abandon them for your gay lover."
"You have to remember how difficult it is for them," Hermione said. "Gay people, I mean."
"I know, but still." The teapot turned a light red, and began pouring tea into teacups by itself.
"What do you think of Harry and Severus?"
Ginny shrugged and took a cup of tea. "I don't know. I don't think anyone knows what to think. It's supposed to be okay to be gay, as long as you produce children anyway like a proper witch or wizard. But that was before the war and we started doing Muggle things, and wizards became more open about things like that."
"Muggles aren't exactly the accepting type either, but I see your point."
"Yeah. Actually one of the first things I thought was if this was why Harry and I never got together." Ginny gave a wry, somewhat sheepish grin. "If he was gay along, that'd at least assuage my ego."
"Yes," said Hermione, busying herself with her teacup. "That would explain things."
"You were around him a lot, do you think he was gay back then?"
"Well…" Hermione frowned and blew air on the surface of the tea. "There was Cho," she said carefully. "And then there was war, and nobody knew anything about anyone's sex life."
"Really. I knew all about your sex life."
"Ginny…"
"Hm. And Professor Snape."
"Yes, and Professor Snape," said Hermione.
Ginny sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. "You knew all along, didn't you?"
Hermione set down her teacup and met Ginny's eyes. "About Severus's sexuality, yes, for a few years at least. About Harry… not once before he disappeared."
"Disappeared or went back in time?"
"I told you, Ginny, there are some things I can't tell you—"
"But why not?" Ginny sighed. "Sorry, it just seems so ridiculous. I mean, if there wasn't anything to hide, I don't see why you and Harry and Professor Snape aren't just telling the truth. But I don't believe any of that filth the Prophet comes up with. I mean, 'mysteriously disappeared?' And two people, none of whom we've heard of. They must've done a lot of digging to come up with a story like that."
"A lot of digging, yes."
Ginny stopped and considered Hermione, the light blue shawl she had on her shoulders, the expectant bulge of her belly. Her hair was swept back and knotted firmly at the nape of her neck, so severely that the fierce curls looked almost mosaic-like against her head.
"I don't get it. I don't get it."
Hermione reached out a hand. "Ginny…"
"No, I don't get it," Ginny said, standing up before Hermione could touch her arm. "The war is over. Voldemort is dead. There shouldn't be any more of this hiding. I could understand if it's for your Department, or for Auror business, but it's not, it's Harry."
"Ginny, it isn't necessarily about Voldemort."
Ginny relaxed her shoulders for a moment, before tensing again. "Necessarily!" She pivoted on her heel and paced the room. "I wish I could throw something," she hissed.
"Oh, Ginny…" Hermione said and began attempts to stand up.
"Please," Ginny muttered, leaning over and putting a hand on Hermione's shoulder. "You look like an elephant trying to get off the ground."
"I'm sorry," said Hermione. "I know how you feel, but I really… I don't want to say anything before I'm sure of it. And maybe there really isn't anything to say."
"Harry is five hundred times more powerful than Hogwarts," Ginny said in a hollow voice. "I remember, when we calculated Voldemort's strength after the rituals, that it was a few hundred times that of Stonehenge. They're about the same, aren't they?"
"Ginny—"
There was a knock on the door.
"Come in," Hermione said.
Jack Demme entered, a few photographs in his hand. "Sorry for intruding," he said with a glance to both women, "but perhaps you would be able to help us. Especially you, Granger."
"Yes?" Hermione said, tapping her desk with her wand. The teapot and teacups hopped away, and Demme put an opened envelope on the table. Ginny leaned forward for a better look.
"It was originally addressed to a certain Severus Snape," said Jack Demme, "but with a secondary recipient if Snape could not be found."
"And I'm the secondary recipient?" Hermione said.
"Yes. These were the envelope's contents," said Jack Demme, putting two photographs on the table.
"Huh," said Hermione.
Ginny bit her lip. The pictures were of a young man, stripped naked, with chains wrapped around his neck, wrists, and ankles. The lighting seemed to come from somewhere far off and half-blocked, for the face was difficult to make out, and it was uncertain if the streaks across the pale torso were blood or dirt.
"Do you know who it is?"
"Oh!" Ginny said with a start. "I do."
"Do you?"
"And I do," Hermione said in a grim voice.
"Ah, both of you do," Jack Demme said dryly.
"It's that boy who helped us get to Harry at Zabini manor," Ginny said.
"Yes," Hermione said. "Niles. If my intelligence is correct, this boy could be of great importance. Do keep an eye on him, Demme."
"I see."
"And I'll get these photographs to Severus," Hermione said, slipping them back into the envelope. "Although I don't think he's going to appreciate it, really…"
"Should I even try asking what's going on?" said Ginny, after Jack Demme had left and shut the door behind him.
Hermione sighed. "Ginny, please. I'm sorry, but—"
"I know," Ginny interrupted. She smiled with effort. "It's just like old times again."
qp qp qp
Snape stepped out of the fireplace with a sigh. The silence always seemed deafening after the mindless throb of dance floor music. As he had expected, his efforts in the dens had been unsuccessful. Yes, the White Knight's agents had caught wind of a disturbance from above; no, they were not abandoning their positions (crackle trade was too lucrative); and no, nobody had seen that boy, though they had seen several that matched his description. If Mr. Vasse were so inclined, perhaps he could just take a walk through the alley a few streets down, where he could find plenty of such boys—? And just why was a mort customer so filled with questions—?
There had been no talk of the Daily Prophet, though Snape did not think the night crowd was the sort to chitchat about current events. Even the apothecary he had visited earlier was silent. It was a small blessing for a difficult day: a day, he thought grimly, that had not ended yet.
He crossed the sitting room, and then stopped with a frown. There was a noise coming from Potter's room, like garbled voices. He took a few more cat-like steps before realizing that it was music.
Snape grunted and swept into his potions laboratory. Trust Potter to pry into his room during his absence.
"Finite incantatem," he muttered, and the bundle of purchases swelled to its normal size. Monkweed would need to go into thecool cupboard, and the armadillo duodenum had to stay in darkness… He could still hear, from the other room, a tendril of music, curling and uncurling like a finger of mist in the last hours of morning.
He stepped into the hallway. The darkness was complete, except for the red-orange crack under the door, which seemed to flicker… It must be that the light was coming from the fireplace, Snape thought. He knocked gently.
"May I come in?"
There was a moment's pause, and the music ceased. "Please do."
Snape turned the knob and stepped inside. The fire was blazing brightly in the hearth, and the room was warm, almost stuffy. The bed, which had been neatly made just two nights ago, looked like a torn-open envelope, with sheets and pillows bundled haphazardly and hanging from the edge. There was a chair near the fire, and Potter was slouched in it, radio at one side, and a wine glass in his hand.
Snape frowned as he closed the door behind him. "I see you've appropriated a few items during my absence."
Potter nodded. "Yes. Sorry."
"There's no need to apologize. Is that… yes, that's the Pinot Noir that Albus gave me."
"Oh, I didn't…" Potter picked up the bottle and squinted at the label. "I'm sorry if you didn't want me to drink that."
"No need, Potter," Snape said. The bottle was about a third empty. He glanced critically at the other man; it was hard to tell what Potter's complexion was in the fiercely red light, and Potter seemed always to slouch like that.
"I didn't know you listen to Muggle music."
"I don't," Snape seated himself carefully on the edge of his bed and examined the wooden bin that was packed with audio tapes. "These were my father's. He enjoyed music."
"Oh. I see." There was a pause before Potter leaned over and picked up two items from the floor. "Hermione dropped by while you were gone and gave me these."
"Ah, my wand," Snape muttered. "Finally. I'll have to give Granger my thanks, and Miss Weasley as well—" He stopped, eyes fixed on the photographs in his hand. "Pardon me."
"You know who he is?"
Snape nodded. "You looked at these?"
"The envelope was open when Hermione gave it to me," Potter said. His head was inclined at an angle such that the shadows around his face and throat seemed particularly hollow. "She told me to tell you not to do anything Gryffindorish."
"She needn't have worried," Snape said, shoving the photographs back into the envelope. "I am not a reckless idiot."
Potter brought the wineglass to his lips in a measured, deliberate movement, and emptied it. "Severus," he said slowly, "is that boy…" He stopped.
"Yes?" Snape said, voice icy.
"Who is that boy?"
"Someone I met rather recently," Snape said curtly. "I believe he may be of great importance to us, especially with regards to how Zabini found out a few things that have recently made their way into theDaily Prophet."
"Met? Where?"
"I don't believe that is any of your business, Potter."
There was a snapping noise. "Not any of my business!" Potter shouted.
Snape frowned and stared at the other man's hands. "Potter, you've broken my wineglass."
"Sorry."
Snape lifted his wand, but before he could summon the incantation, Potter held the glass in his palm. "There. Fixed."
"Huh," Snape muttered. Wandless magic of an unimaginable caliber. All coiled inside this man with feverish eyes and a hollow face that looked almost too young to have gone through so much, too old to still be on the earth.
"So. You said you met this boy?"
"Yes," Snape said in clipped tones. "He was involved in a potions transaction I made a week or so ago." He paused before continuing. "He is only fifteen, but already addicted to crackle. I tried to help him, and I do not know if I succeeded."
Potter digested this in silence. "So what was that about? The photographs."
"He helped us find you in Zabini manor," Snape said softly. "If not for him, you would probably still be sleeping in a chunk of ice, or perhaps swimming in a crackle-induced haze."
"But he addressed the photos to you."
"Yes, because I helped free you, Potter. Zabini does not like me, and he knows that I would rather not see the boy die."
Potter grunted and shifted uncomfortably. "So he…" He paused. "You and he, you weren't—" He paused again. "Anything?"
"You, Potter, are a Gryffindor, not a Slytherin or Ravenclaw," Snape said coldly. "Good sense and intelligence are foreign to your brain."
"Sorry!" Potter said, throwing up his hands. "What was I supposed to think? I mean—" He indicated the envelope and gave a weak, shaky laugh, and then let his hands fall limply to his side. There was a pause. "You're staring at me, Severus."
"Mm." Snape leaned forward and began flipping through the tapes in the bin. "Hand me the tape recorder, Potter."
"Here," Potter said, and heaved the recorder to Snape's feet. "You're going to listen to something?" he asked, sounding almost cheerful after the emptiness of his earlier tone.
"Yes I am," Snape replied, and looked up. "And you are going to, as well." Snape switched the cassettes and pressed play.
Potter recoiled with a shout.
"Wrong place," Snape muttered.
"What's that? It sounded like…"
"It's an opera," Snape interrupted. "You might have heard of it. It's called Madame Butterfly, by Giacomo Puccini."
"Hm. Maybe."
"The story is simple and melodramatic. A Japanese girl falls in love with an American sailor in nineteenth-century Nagasaki. He leaves after a tryst, intending never to return, but she believes his promises and clings, pathetically, to the hope that he will come back to her."
"How does it end?" Potter asked, after a rather heavy silence.
"Badly. This should be about the right place…" He stopped, and turned down the volume. "Just a bit further. That was the love duet."
Snape kept his eyes on the rapidly turning wheel of magnetic tape. Out the corner of his vision, he could see Potter fidgeting. "So does the American sailor return at some point?"
"Yes, he does, towards the end. Ah!" he said, turning up the volume and sitting up abruptly. "Here it is. It's called, 'Un bel di, vedremo.'"
Potter frowned. "I thought it was called Madame Butterfly."
"The aria, not the opera," Snape hissed. "Aria—Italian for song—"
He stopped. A voice had begun, spinning out of the pluck of a harp and the thin halo of strings. Down a minor third, up again, down, and lifting halfway with a major second. Accompanied by the solo violin, touching the perfect fourths, and then settling, still lower, on a note backed by a faint chord of woodwinds.
"'One fine day, we'll see'"—Snape said quietly—"'a strand of smoke arising over the distant horizon of the sea. And then the ship appears, the white ship. It enters the port and rumbles its salute.'" The music swelled, became louder, and the voice arced upwards, gained the brilliance of a clarion. "'Do you see it?'" Snape continued, his voice tight, his eyes fixed on the cassette player. "'He is coming. But I will not go down to meet him, not I.'"
The voice descended, almost shyly, becoming solitary except for the alternating chords of the horns. "'I stay on the edge of the hill and wait a long time,'" Snape went on, "'but I do not grow tired of the long wait.'"
His gaze flickered upwards. Potter was sitting tensely, gripping tightly the arms of his chair, the expression on his face unfathomable for so quick a glance. Snape leaned back. "She—Butterfly—continues with her fantasy of what she will do once her American sailor returns. Hide herself for a while, hear him call for her as he climbs up the hill."
The music was now so quiet that the cracks from the fireplace could be heard again. Snape glanced up again, this time keeping his gaze. Potter was staring at him, his mouth open a little, his brows furrowed to form the dimmest of shadows above his eyes.
"She says, 'I will stay hidden,'" Snape said, '"A little to tease him, and a little'"—the voice, alone, quiet, became louder, and leapt to a searing high note—"'so as not to die at this our first meeting.'" Snape swallowed. He let his gaze drop back to the cassette player at his feet and continued, "'A little troubled, he will call for me, call the names he called me before.'"
The music had softened, rounding itself into an intimate tone, like water cupped in a hand. But a moment later, it changed into the urgency of a gathering gale. Snape opened his mouth, but shut it without saying anything. The voice was flinging itself higher and higher above the strings, swelling until the room was nothing but the voice and the music and the proud, deluded hope. Then the final note rang, almost drowned by the relentless flood of the orchestra, and Snape shut his eyes. He had forgotten this music. He was not like Butterfly. He was nothing like Butterfly. His hope had not been proud and unrepentant. It had been small, forbidden, forgotten, damnably persistent. And now it was gone, no longer a hope but a reality, sitting in a chair in front of him and staring at him with an expression torn between bewilderment and pain.
Snape stopped the tape. "You can listen to the whole thing if you wish," he said. "It's a very good recording: Maria Callas, Herbert von Karajan."
"Severus… I'm sorry."
Snape almost chuckled. "Give me the Pinot, Potter. I will need it if you continue to apologize like a first-year Hufflepuff."
Potter handed over the bottle. "You can use my glass, if you don't mind."
"I don't." He poured himself half a glass and drank it in slow sips. The fire seared his eyes comfortably, and the room was both hot and smoky. He wondered if Potter was going to sleep with the room as stuffy as a classroom in summer.
"If it's any consolation, I didn't want to be frozen for this long… or at least, I didn't want it consciously." Potter bit his lower lip and glanced up with an unfathomable expression. Snape met it, his own face neutral. "I don't even know what happened, really. One moment—one moment I was at Hogwarts, and then I wanted for everything to go away—the pain, the future—"
"You could have changed the future," Snape said evenly.
"I know!" Potter said, throwing his hands down. He stood up. There was not nearly enough room to pace. "I knew, and I didn't do anything." He ran his hands through his hair. The forehead, Snape noticed, was completely bare. "I didn't think I could do it—not whether I had enough magic to do it, but if I actually could."
Snape gave a skeptical grunt.
"I was scared."
"You? Scared?" Snape let his lips curl in a sneer. "It would be a plausible excuse from anyone else, but you, as much as you would rather not admit it, are Harry Potter."
Snape felt the bed lurch as Potter sat heavily next to him. "Have you ever thought, Severus, what it would be like to have more power than you could possibly imagine? Let me tell you—it's terrifying."
"Power corrupts," Snape said, holding the wineglass to his mouth. "Absolute power corrupts absolutely."
"I hope not," Potter muttered. "But I couldn't bring myself to do it. I was scared of what else I might do, being so… powerful. And at that point, I could have done anything."
Except change that blind alley called the future, Snape thought, but said nothing.
"I'd already killed Lestrange, and got Matellan killed—"
Snape held himself very still. It was one thing to know that those had happened, but to hear it—
Potter had stopped. He was staring intently at the fireplace, hands clenched into fists on his knees. Then he broke the pose, sitting back and taking a shuddering breath. "And other things, as well." There was a pause. "So that's why I was afraid. I was afraid of what I could do, or might do, and—that you would hate me for them."
"Well…"
"I know," Potter interrupted, "you're hating me now for what I made you go through and there's nothing I can say to that. You're right. I—deserve your hatred."
Snape sighed. "Potter, please stop this diatribe. It's foolish and wearying." He poured himself another half glass, trying his best to keep his hands steady.
Potter shook his head. "You have every right to hate me, Severus… But you have to understand!" Snape made an annoyed grunt; Potter had grabbed his upper arm, almost making him spill the wine. "I know it was nothing compared to what you went through, but it was hard for me too. It hurt every time to think of it."
"You were asleep, Potter. You didn't feel anything, or think of anything."
"No, before that," Potter said softly. "That's why I went into the ice, I think. I couldn't bear being awake and knowing what I had done."
"I daresay that was rather cowardly of you, Potter."
"Yes."
"How very unprecedented."
"You mattered too much."
Potter was sitting much too close, and Snape could see, from the corner of his eye, the other man's gaze fixed on him. Snape could feel sweat beginning to soak the back of his undershirt, trickling down the sides of his torso. He turned his head to tell Potter to move aside, but the words evaporated. Potter had darkened the color of his eyes, or they seemed different in the uncertain half-light of the fire. They looked almost reddish, Snape thought as their lips met.
They drew apart an indeterminable moment later, both breathing heavily. Potter's tongue flickeredout to lick his lower lip. The movement was quick, almost imperceptible, unsettling. Snape could feel Potter's breath on his neck, layering itself on the sheen of sweat that had gathered on his skin. They were completely alone here, Snape thought; it was almost as it had been all those years ago, in the dormitory, when the most casual of touches would send a sliver of ice down his spine. His gaze darted to Potter's own inquiring look, the familiar and unfamiliar hand resting palm-down on the coverlet, the fire flickering almost with shapes.
For a moment neither of them moved, and then Potter leant back and laughed weakly. "That was… nice. Just like twenty-five years ago."
"Indeed," Snape said. "Not so long for you." He stood, deliberately, the Pinot in one hand and the wineglass in the other. "I think… I will be retiring for the night. Shall I take these back?"
Potter rose and moved, slowly, to the chair next to the fire. "No. Leave them, please." There was an inscrutable smile on his face when he turned around. "It's a very good wine."
"I wouldn't recommend drinking alone," Snape said. He felt Potter's eyes circling his face, moving down his neck, to the steady poise of his arms, back up to the shoulders, and then, unseeingly, to his eyes.
"No," Potter said at last. "I won't stay up too long." He stepped forward, reaching out with both hands to take the wine and wineglass, and Snape found himself swallowing as their fingers touched. "Good night."
"Good night," Snape said. He strode to the door, let himself into the much-cooler hallway, and watched the panel of light disappear.
Heat still clung to him. He padded into the bathroom and flicked on the lights. The fluorescent glare struck the walls, the mirror, the sink like a dry wind. He stared at his reflection. The face that peered back looked old, haggard. There were lines about his mouth that he had not taken the trouble to notice before; at his temples, there were streaks of gray and white. The eyes were still as black as coal, but they seemed to come from somewhere long ago, shard-like remnants staring out of a distant time. Snape turned the tap and splashed water on his face; each handful felt icy, stale. He leaned closer to the mirror and frowned, still staring, as though the unwavering black eyes he saw could give him an answer from the airless past.
A/N: Thanks again to Procyon for the really speedy speta!
A/N2: It's the holiday season. Please leave a review!
