"Lily Evans?" Andromeda squinted as her brows creased in thought. "I don't remember anyone by that name in our House. Evans is not a wizarding family name, though. I suppose she was half-blood much like Severus."
Narcissa pulled out her wand and waved it over the broken pieces of china. "Reparo," she said and then levitated the reconstituted cup back onto its saucer. Only then did she lift her gaze back to her sister. She smiled at Andromeda's obvious confusion. "She wasn't in our House. She was in Gryffindor. And she wasn't half-blood. She was Muggle-born. You might know her better as Lily Potter. She's the mother of your grand-son's god-father, Saviour of the Wizarding World, Harry Potter," she finished with a flourish.
Andromeda blinked. Once. Twice. Then her eyes bulged tellingly. "What kind of twisted joke is this, Narcissa?" she spat, sounding both incredulous and irate.
Narcissa leaned back in her seat her grin becoming one of satisfaction. "This is not a joke, I assure you. In fact, I'm a bit embarrassed it hasn't occurred to me before. It's just the school was a while back and with everything that has happened since... it simply slipped my mind but it fits. It fits perfectly! Everything makes sense when viewed from this perspective."
Andromeda shot her an ugly look. "Anytime you might wish to explain yourself is excellent from my perspective."
Narcissa smirked unable to contain her jubilation. This was just beautiful! If only they could prove it! Because Narcissa was looking forward to knocking down the triumphant side of Light a peg or two. Besides, she was a social pariah; there wasn't much for her to occupy her time with these days. She could certainly use a hobby. "I'm surprised Sirius and your son-in-law didn't happen to mention any of this to the Chosen One and his friends. Then again maybe they didn't want to be reminded of the fact that their Gryffindor Princess, the sainted Lily Potter, nee Evans, used to run with a dirty, little Slytherin."
Andromeda seemed stunned. "Harry's mother and Severus Snape used to see each other back at Hogwarts?"
Narcissa giggled waving a dismissive hand towards Andromeda. "Your time with Gryffindors has indeed made you naive, my dear sister. No girl would have been caught dead with Severus Snape! It would have been social suicide. And Lily Evans was pretty, very pretty, and popular... so popular in fact that she had admirers even in Slytherin, Muggle-born though she was. While Severus... Severus was always a little odd... brilliant but odd. The brain isn't exactly visible and what was visible of him didn't paint the most attractive picture in any sense of the word. Not to mention the fact that he couldn't afford a single piece of candy while visiting Hogsmeade. He couldn't exactly gift his beloved chocolates... or anything else for that matter."
"What difference does it make?" snapped Andromeda.
"I know you like to think of yourself as a martyr for love, Andromeda, but this is a lovely home with all the markings of a comfortable life. You should have seen the Muggle dunghill Severus used to occupy. Humiliating as that might be, I'm certain being a slave to the Granger girl is actually an improvement. No woman is romantic enough to follow a man into a half-collapsed hut where she would have nothing. In any case, Lily Evans married James Potter, the wealthy, pure-blood Seeker hero of Gryffindor all the girls who didn't want Sirius dreamed of. I could almost admire her for that. Sirius was disowned but Potter kept all his fortune."
"Until both Lily and James Potter died very young by their baby boy's crib," commented Andromeda acidly.
"You don't have to explain to me the horrors of war, Andromeda," muttered Narcissa matching her sister's tart tone as she was sitting up stiffly in her chair. "Anyway, reverting back to the matter at hand, before they had a falling-out of sorts, Severus used to follow Evans around like a lost puppy. It was so obvious he was in love with her, it was disgusting. The entire school knew... Nothing came out of it, of course. The only part more evident than Severus' feelings was the inevitability of Evans moving on to greener pastures. Lucius even theorized at some point that Severus might have been heart-broken over the entire affair. He swore there was even brooding involved. Then again Severus joined the Dark Lord shortly after graduating from Hogwarts and Lucius assumed he had simply moved on."
"You never forget your first love," said Andromeda, a faraway look plastered on her face.
Narcissa swallowed over a suddenly dry throat. She looked at her long-estranged sister with genuine sympathy. "If you are right," she continued after a brief pause. "And Severus truly turned on the Dark Lord then it all started with the threat to Lily Evans' life."
"We need to speak to him," said Andromeda gravely. "I can visit Hermione Granger... perhaps obtain a private audience with Severus."
"What are you going to do if he confirms everything we suspect but there is no proof of his innocence?"
"Then we will fabricate some!"
Narcissa began to laugh, the sound airy as it reverberated around them. "I knew there was a Slytherin buried somewhere deep within you just dying to come to light."
Andromeda glared at her. "My inner Slytherin is not the issue here. The crux of the matter remains: if he was really on his side, then why did Severus Snape kill Dumbledore?"
To that Narcissa had no answer to give. Andromeda had a point: even if Severus could be acquitted of being a Death Eater, the murder charge would not go away. It was enough to keep him either a slave or in Azkaban for the rest of his life, especially as he had done it by casting an Unforgivable. To prove that the side of Light had convicted one of their own would be vindication after the travesty that had been Severus' trial but it would be a hollow, incomplete one. There could be no justification for Dumbledore's murder.
"Perhaps he had grown tired of Dumbledore's sermonizing," offered Narcissa.
Andromeda winced but then a devious look entered her eyes. "Come now, Cissy, if any of the Hogwarts professors were to kill Dumbledore, they would have done it on any of the many occasions he forced everyone to sing that awful school anthem."
Narcissa laughed but it was cut short. "The last time you called me Cissy I was 12-years old."
Andromeda hid her small, fond smile behind a shrug. "You could've come to see me and my family at least once, you know."
"So could you," retorted Narcissa.
"What would your husband have had to say about that?"
"Before or after I was finished cursing him?"
It was Andromeda's turn to laugh.
# # #
Pansy could not understand why so many pure-bloods hated Muggles. The difficulties of working without magic more than made up for the crime of their mere existence. She had considered both suicide and resignation numerous times during her first day waiting table at Malcolm's bakery. Sometimes she had considered those two recourses at the same time, unable to decide which one would end her suffering faster.
The Muggle shoes she had transfigured had caused her blisters within an hour and their short, sturdy heels she had judged comfortable had tuned the soles of her feet in square inches of pure agony. The temptation to take out her wand had nearly overwhelmed logic and basic common sense on more than one occasion. The Slytherin in her had refused to bested by a Muggle job, though. So she had stayed on until the end of the day even as she felt nauseated and had to wonder many times why being a Muggle waitress wasn't the forth Unforgivable Curse. The Cruciatus couldn't possibly hurt more!
Malcolm's bakery was just as small as it had seemed to her the night he had hired her after she had been tossed out of Knockturn Alley as damaged goods. Until recently he had been running it exclusively with his family but as its popularity grew, it had become obvious he needed to hire help.
After lunch, Malcolm had suggested she took a break so Pansy staggered uncertainly to the tiny, one-way alley behind the bakery where she slowly sank onto the pavement. Struck by sudden inspiration she kicked off her loafers then sighed. It was pure bliss! Who knew that the simple act of taking off one's shoes could be so rewarding?
"You need trainers."
Startled Pansy jumped back to her feet. It was only Zahara, Malcolm's wife, however.
"I came out for a smoke," explained Zahara as she made the short trip to stand next to Pansy. She held out to the witch a square white package with a bulky blue stripe in the middle. "Want one?"
Pansy peered dubiously at the slim, white stick sticking out of its sheeting. She was aware that Muggles habitually smoked something called cigarettes, unlike witches and wizards who preferred the pipe exclusively, but she had never tried one. She reckoned that she might as well help herself to some Muggle comforts if she had already plunged head-first into the insanity of taking a job among them. She gingerly eased the cigarette out of its pack.
Zahara clicked on a small metallic box and a short flame burst out of it. Pansy could not believe her eyes. This was a lot like magic. Did Muggles practice their own kind of magic? And if they did, how come nobody in the wizarding world seemed to know about it?
Zahara touched the flame to the end of Pansy's cigarette then lit up herself. Pansy put the cigarette between her lips and drew on it curiously. The taste on the back of her tongue was different from that of the pipe but she had to admit it wasn't bad. It was milder and less tangy but definitely interesting.
"You know," Zahara began, startling Pansy out of her contemplation of the Muggle smoking contraption. "Malcolm has told me a few things about you after last night... I hope... I realise this is awkward and I don't want to embarrass you but if you need help, you can come to us. For instance, Malcolm didn't think to ask... you know how men can be... Do you have a place to stay?"
Pansy wasn't embarrassed, she was humiliated but then again she was currently accepting charity from the Malfoy family and striving to escape that predicament by way of a Muggle job she found hard to do. Humiliation seemed to be the new norm for her. Her cheeks burning, she looked away. "I am staying at a friend's house," she replied. It was true enough.
"Oh... that's good!"
She studied Zahara out of the corner of one eye. She shuffled her feet appearing to cast for something else to say. "Our youngest just loves this band," she said as an uncomfortable silence had begun to fill the space between them.
Pansy looked around, confused as to her meaning. Zahara pointed to an open window carved into the building in front of them. A steady, angry staccato did indeed beat out of it spilling unfamiliar sounds above Pansy's head. Of course, Muggle music would be playing in the heart of Muggle London. Pansy had had no experience with it before.
I'm worse at what I do best
And for this gift I feel blessed
"You'll meet her when she comes over after school," Zahara continued but Pansy was only half listening.
The words of the song made absolutely no sense to her and the music was bizarre, unlike anything that could be heard in the wizarding world. Wizarding music was simple and flawless, and Pansy didn't have any in-depth knowledge of it. That was the domain of refined souls such as Daphne and Astoria Greengrass. This melody was sheer cacophony, jumbled and twisted like a knot of feelings that were hard to unravel. The singer—a man—was yelling about something and the rhythm had a burning fury encased within it that seemed to resonate to the impotent rage and frustration that at times threatened to overwhelm Pansy. She wanted to shout like that man sometimes but it went against everything she had been taught as a Parkinson and as a Slytherin. But then so did bringing Muggles food until your feet bled.
She drew on her Muggled cigarette thinking. Perhaps her new job didn't go against everything that made her a Slytherin, though. Self-preservation was a deeply Slytherin trait, after all. Many witches and wizards despised Muggles, they just were usually more discreet about it than most Slytherins. Only a Slytherin would have accepted a menial job in the Muggle world in order to survive. Suddenly the notion was no longer degrading but almost empowering.
She turned to Zahara, the stub of her dying cigarette dangling between two of her fingers. It really hadn't been bad! "What is the name of the band your younger daughter likes?"
# # #
Severus would have given anything to be able to perform a silencing charm. He even raised his hand in the air, watching the yellowing spots that came with potion making now much faded from his whitening skin, and traced the wand movement with his fingers. The pang was nearly unbearable. There was no crack of magic itching to burst from his skin. It was as if the collar around his neck had killed that crucial part of himself that had been his only comfort in so many dark times before.
Without magic he felt adrift, falling with no chance of finding anything to grasp onto in order to keep himself upright. Right now worse than even the harrowing loss of magic were the screams coming from downstairs and travelling through the walls until they reached his ears in a muted fashion. He couldn't make out words but then he had no interest in the precise topic of Granger and Weasley's quarrel.
The young love birds fought a lot and often. It wasn't any different from school really when his Legilimency abilities had caught an astounding amount of animosity between the two supposed friends. He assumed that as adolescents the fighting had seemed exciting but now as they were hurtling towards adulthood, it was starting to turn exhausting.
He would have spied on them for no other reason than to alleviate the extreme emptiness of his days as Granger's slave but her relationship with Weasley was so dull and predictable they were actually more boring than staring at the walls. Weasley obviously wanted to marry his mother which Granger was decidedly not. Since both were oblivious to this readily apparent truth, they fought. It beat having nothing to talk about, he expected. The two of them had nothing in common other than Harry Potter. However, with Voldemort dead, even that subject was growing stale. So that left Granger and Weasley with nothing but the screaming matches.
Granger was currently busy with her research for a reform of the house elf system that Severus was certain said elves would resent her for and helping out the relatives of those who had gone missing during the war track down their loved ones. So Weasley, who clearly received massive favouritism in Auror training due to his status as a war hero and Harry Potter's friend and hence had abnormal quantities of spare time, was jealous and constantly demanded she spent more time with him. And Granger did the one thing even Severus knew one was not supposed to do in a romantic entanglement: failed to let sleeping dogs lie. She brought up Weasley's past misdeeds and petty jealousies. Things always escalated quickly past that point and built to the explosive conclusion that had Weasley slamming the door after him and Granger crying. Usually by that time Severus was done cursing the day he had been born.
He thought the word tempus without thinking. Nothing happened except the twinge of absence getting worse. Stifling a sigh, he glanced to the clock on the bedside cabinet. Weasley and Granger had approximately another hour of yelling to do. He almost wished his head-aches hadn't let up. As the days had bled into weeks, his throat had been steadily getting better too. Incredibly enough, he realised he would miss the pain. It had been a familiar friend keeping him company in the endless days he spent roaming Granger's dully posh abode with nothing but a pretentious and repetitive collection of Shakespeare to entertain him.
It was a new brand of torture, this lack of purpose and activity. Since the Cruciatus incident, Granger had been doing everything in her power to see as little of him as possible. If it was a bid to punish him for baiting her, Severus was forced to admit that it was working. The barrenness of his days was driving him insane. Unfortunately, it wasn't doing it fast enough. He feared he would soon be reduced to snarling back at Granger's ill-tempered cat just to break the routine. He wished Granger were back to torturing him. At least, that was familiar territory.
Even as his thoughts strayed down that path, he had to wonder why he had baited her the way he had. The reason buried at the back of his mind unsettled him some more. As if his many regrets and nightmares weren't enough. What was unnerving was not that he thought along those lines but the impossible to curb need to know. It astounded even him. He hadn't been aware that he cared so much for the so-called cause of the Light. He had always been convinced he was doing everything for Lily, to expiate his guilt, to pay his debt to her. And that was a big part of it, of course. He still loved Lily with an all-consuming fierceness.
He still needed to know, however. That he had done the right thing. That he had backed the right side. That the victors could build a better world. That they did embody everything that was good and filled with light as Dumbledore had seemed so keen on making everyone believe. That Severus' sacrifices had meant something. That the scorn and hatred he was enduring were not senseless. That he had been ready to die for the correct cause. That he had not helped replace a monster with a group of cynical bureaucrats. If he could believe that, he could accept the shame of being a glorified slave and the emptiness of his current existence.
Yet the moment the first Crucio had passed Hermione Granger's lips his conviction had started to wobble and it had been wavering ever since. He tried to console himself with the thought of the lives he had helped save but the dead were just as many.
The Aurors guarding him at St. Mungo's had taken great delight in reading him the list of the dead and the missing with the goal of stressing the heinousness of his crimes. For every life he had saved, there seemed to be two or three he had failed to protect. Technically, his true side had won the war but it felt like a loss. He knew that most Slytherins had been expelled from Hogwarts, that his House, the House of his mother, was living its last days, the victors too busy assigning collective blame to discern individual guilt.
Surely Voldemort needed to be stopped and Severus himself needed to pay for what he had done. But if victory wasn't the beginning of a new and better reality, if the divide not only continued to exist but also deepened within the wizarding community, hadn't all that blood been spilled in vain? Hadn't he ripped his soul for nothing? It had bigger than his own personal redemption, bigger than all of them, it had to mean something. Something that would heal the profound division in their society. Only then could the rise of a new Dark Lord become unthinkable. Otherwise, two wars had come and gone for nothing because they were only biding their time until the third one.
Slytherins were not the type to take anything lying down. They would remember this pain and this humiliation. They would remember how their children had been treated and how prisoners of war had been made into slaves. And one day, not very far into the future, a charismatic madman or madwoman would seize upon that desire for vengeance and the circle would begin anew.
The slamming of a door that reverberated all the way to him distracted him from his bleak musings. It seemed that Weasley had decided to start his parting routine early that evening. He wondered how Granger, who was not a dunderhead, could not see where they were headed. Severus had no doubt she would marry Weasley and soon. Then twenty or thirty years down the road when the fights would have lost all of their youthful lacklustre and the awkward silences would have grown to occupy most of their time alone, they would have nothing but their undoubtedly many children and avoidance tactics left between them. Granger was certain to become Minister for Magic and Weasley was certain to live in his wife's shadow just as he had once lived in that of his siblings and of Harry Potter. And his resentment would grow, while his many insecurities would drive his jealousy to new heights matched only by Granger's accumulating frustrations.
Since magic marital bonds were impossible to dissolve, he expected Granger would have to end up introducing her pure-blood future husband to the Muggle concept of couple's therapy. Either that or one day one of them would come home to find the other in bed with someone half their age in a desperate bid to recover something long-lost, and it would all end up in a bloody murder-suicide affair. That should at least make Rita Skeeter happy!
He shook his head. That decided it then. He was indeed losing his mind, albeit too slowly for his tastes. How else could he explain his sudden preoccupation with the future Mr. and Mrs. Ronald Weasley? He needed to go back to planning his own suicide. That was slightly less morbid.
TBC