Snape is drenched in sweat when he realizes where he is and what he had done. All night, he had been having an intense fever dream.
Now the bells of the church strike six and he is lying among the dusty room on the lived-in couch in the damp heat. The last place he wants to appear is the Hippogriff Society Charity Ball. The ball with Granger, Draco, Harry, the entirety of the crew present, he wishes he'd never promised to come. Every part of his body wants to make an excuse- stay on the old couch, curl up into the cushions in self-loathing. But he knows he will never forgive himself if he does that.
Slowly, he tilts his head. The last rays of sunshine leave a memory trace on the floorboards. The smell of old carpet and the legs of the old cupboards below him. Suddenly the room seems like the most comforting place in the world- one he never wants to leave.
Hermione would not be upset if he stayed. She is more than capable of solving everything herself. If anything, he is more of a hindrance than an aid. However, what is the alternative to helping? Spending his final days lying in the grubby basement of St. Michaels, waiting for the priest to finish his sermon. The sounds of organ music reverberating above. Now his own breathing scraping at his brain, annoying him to no end. He made a promise and he had to keep it.
Perhaps what finally made him rise from his bed and dress was the thought that he would muck it all up again if he didn't take this one last shot. Success or no success with his mission with Satan, there was Hermione. And it didn't matter if he needed her or not, he wanted to be there. Why had her opinion mattered?
Dressed in a clean shirt, every step towards the large doors felt like the final Judgement Day. Anxiety and regret like never before overcoming him. Every step he made down the cold street taunts him. The lights of the street lamps would dim and some paper advertisement flew off its post. A couple of bottles crash in the distance crackle.
Finally, up ahead the crowds are more packed and the lights of Buckingham Palace flash ahead. He stands for a minute, considering what he might find there and turns towards the fish shop. It is a way down, but he feels compelled to visit there one last time. Surely all of London had to be at the event as the Minister had called for a national holiday. All of the 'cousins' working at the shop would also be there. Then the Boss would have no choice but to take him. Or perhaps, he would open those large doors and there would be no one behind them.
Now the shop looms closer and closer and it seems like he'd gone frigid. Until he finally notices he'd been shivering for a while and he holds his arms close to his chest before realizing for wimpy it makes him look.
The first scents of the building reach him, now rotting and disgusting. He wants to hurl. The shop is dark, not a single soul in sight, but he can't be certain. And he can't think of anything but the disgusting smell of fish like he'd been gutted himself and now reeking. The outline of the counter up ahead. Thin and white and crystal-clean. Too clean. His own shadow is now before him on the floor and its head touching the tip of the table where the little girl once sat. The little girl who'd stared at him in horror.
He'd half expected something grotesque as he made his way through the shop. He'd of course seen many horrors, but no amount of murder sensitized him to the sight. The linoleum tiles now giving a sticky scent. And he'd almost slipped as he took his first steps, grabbing a chair to balance himself.
"Evening," he calls into the black, his head tracing the dancing shadows. But the shadows stood behind the scenes and not a single sound from a carriage or Muggle car behind him.
With hard footsteps on the jolly tiles, he passes the counter and registers into the backroom. Two tinted windows made of glass give a glimpse into what lies beneath. More than ever he wishes he had his wand with him, or some form of protection (though he knows the Evil behind would not succumb). He snatches a spreading knife from the condiment jars, a dull substitute for his sturdy darkened wand. His hand hovers the door, much like Hermione would have been trained to do on one of her sessions. Or that he would have trained her to do. The door, to his surprise, is chilled. Then he yanks his touch away and realizes his fingers are burnt. His fingers- burnt. First the blood on his back, then his senses revived, then his weight returning and now his fingers pricked at the touch. He shoves the door with his foot and glimpses what is inside.
Nothing.
It would be safe to enter. Heart pounding subsided, he pushes the door with his foot again and his head feets the granite counter behind him. It seems like two eyes were glaring right at him. Eyes from the darkness that hadn't been there before. Shit. What was he so afraid of? Years of practice lost had made him weak. In fact, he is completely at one with the floor, like he was committed to it. One more deep breath and he pushes through the door, but not without leaving his knife on the counter. It would not protect him, and if he should be killed now, it would be without looking an ill-equipped wuss.
Three steps in and nobody glares back at him. He'd imagined it. His breath hisses through his teeth and he looks to the left when a flash at the corner of his eye causes him to whip back. Nothing again. He looks forwards and is met with absolute horror and flesh. Enough to cause him to stumble down into the floor for real.
"Well, Snape!"
A shift in the darkness means the figure is moving towards him. He gauges how large it is from the steps, but they are light as a feather. The eyes float much higher in the air and it was unusual that the touch of its foot was so soft. Snape wondered if his death would be quick or drawn out of him with fangs like before. But the figure taunts him with its absence.
"I've come," he replies. His shoulders betray him, huddled close to his neck. The spot where he'd been poisoned by the fangs of his previous Master's serpent.
"So I see. You've grown dull of the festivities already?"
Snape backs away as he rises to his feet. There are no fangs at his neck nor a strike against him. If the Boss wanted him gone, he would have already done so, unless Crooks was correct and death wasn't his final goal. Either way, he meets the opposition standing.
"What do you want with me?"
"You have something to offer?" the voice replies. It ripples along the walls as if they were standing inside a gourd. Each plosive flicking Snape's ears and sending a nip through their hollow shells.
"No." It was the truth.
"You're the Dark Underlord?"
The sound of lips opening into a grin came from the Boss. "Flattering. A man of your intelligence can't possibly believe such a character would have time for simple conversation?"
"Answer me straight."
"But you are bold. I could take you right now, you know?"
"You haven't…yet."
"Let me ask you a question. Would you prefer to be taken straight away to his presence or slowly: piece by piece. Like a little morsel?"
Snape hears the sound of slurping which he can only assume is one of the vile-smelling fish creations slipping down his throat. Then, as if it was smacking its fingers of the aftertaste. Finger by finger. If it had fingers at all.
"Show yourself," Snape asked, again weighing whether he'd actually want his request to be granted. No longer feeling fear, he felt annoyed. Annoyed he had come. The character before him was very clearly not the Boss, but some pathetic impersonator who was trying to taunt him and waste his time. In fact, he would not be surprised if this was one of the Cousins dressed up and playing a simple trick on him.
"I've enjoyed you, Snape. Why don't you run along back to the Minister's gala, and have a ball? Enjoy your final night."
Snape backs to the doors and opens them wide, letting the moonlight reveal his partner. The light reflects off the steel rods and plays among the pots and pans on the ceiling. But just as easily as it appeared, the stranger disappeared. On the counter, a fish head suckled dry to the bone winked at him.
"Just tell me what you want? What is all of this for? Answer me!"
Snape knocks the condiment jars on the floor and is surprised they contain exactly that: mustard and vinegar. He rings open the register and finds a few spare galleons inside. The whole place is completely normal. Like nothing out of the ordinary had just happened to him. And it causes him great rage. He thuds the register into the wet mixture on the floor. An array of menus with jolly children nibbling at chips joins the recipe.
The reverberation echoes from the posters on the walls.
"If you're set on scaring away my customers, might I suggest doing so with magic," says a lady in a 50's dress with a bucket of fish sticks in her hands. Her plastic smile curved into a C.
"There are no customers." He flips a chair across the floor.
"No magic. No Combos." With each accusation, another item flies across the room. The lady with the curved smiles divides in half as he claws the posters.
"And no Satan."
"Oh, I wouldn't be sure of it." Now the voice comes out of the chef painting into the front doors of the building. He throws them open and is blinded by the light and splashes of red.