THERE were not many things left in this life that Peter Pettigrew wanted for himself. He had been bent, bruised, broken, battered, mentally and physically abused for his past transgressions. His friends, all of them except for Remus, were dead. Slaughtered in the cruelest of ways, and even if Remus Lupin were here in the room with him right now, he would rather be anywhere else, but in an enclosed space with the person who betrayed Lily and James Potter.
Peter Pettigrew was broken. A rat, with no one left in the world. The man was utterly alone. He had only one dream left alive in him, somehow, that he clung to and hoped for. The wizard dreamt of safety, peace, quiet, and security. Just a moment in time when he would be able to breathe without constantly fearing for his life. Without people like Severus Snape, who wanted to hurt him for his actions.
As it turned out, even that one simple wish had been too much for the rat to hope for. Merlin and God, those figures that he no longer believed in, had decided that Peter did not deserve rest.
If his fate was to look as it was planned, in their opinion, then Peter Pettigrew deserved the absolute worst.
Perhaps it was why he was not even allowed to die, why it had been Antonin Dolohov who had found him nearly strangled to death by his own silver hand that the Dark Lord had bestowed upon him following him sacrificing his own right hand as a reward. Dolohov had nursed Pettigrew back to health and when Peter was well enough and had regained his strength to hold a coherent conversation, Antonin had set out his servitude to him as though Peter was given a choice as everything had been up to him, but it wasn't. He had said they could quit at any given time.
But when he had protested and Antonin Dolohov had coated his words with bittersweet words of revenge and power of avenging his life gone wrong by helping him to take down Severus Snape, a man who had a part in making his life a living hell, well, he had not exactly been able to resist him.
Peter supposed too, that could have been the influence of the Imperius Curse he was under at the given time.
Peter Pettigrew stood trembling in front of the wooden door to The Leaky Cauldron. At some point in the near future, he was sure to be paraded in front of the likes of Severus Snape, and with that thought, his stomach coiled.
Not that he wasn't used to his stomach coiling if he remained in Dolohov's care, as his innards had grown tough on the corrupted stuff his new master fed him. Dolohov was of the mind that Peter made a better rat than a human and as such, gave him bits of food that were fit for rats, just barely enough nutrition, and sustenance to stay alive.
He was vexed with the feat of having Severus look at him. He was teary-eyed and crying all over again, wanting nothing more than to flee from Diagon Alley and Disapparate, wanting to rather slit his throat, just as the Dark Lord had attempted to do to Snape, than to see Snape's eyes throw daggers at him when it was revealed to him that he was alive, after all this time. But there was no way that Antonin Dolohov would ever let the coward take his own life.
If there was something the wizard was too patient about for the longest time, it would be letting Peter stay alive, and in the name of his throbbing, phantom fingers, Peter had no idea why, as he was not useful.
The moment passed Peter by as he stood staring at the handle of the door he knew he needed to grab. Everything outside the Leaky was still. He was still.
'Pop!' A sudden cracking sound—the unmistakable sound of someone Apparating, followed by another, which meant that there were two someone's. The waves of sharp alarm hit the wizard fast and hard. The abrupt and loud sound caused him to withdraw his shaken hand back into himself once more, muttering a curse under his breath as his teeth chattered.
Well, that was one way to be brought back to the present reality of his rather precarious situation. His hand, now furled into a fist, unfurled to clutch at his chest. The rough fabric of his dirtied pinstripe suit tangled within his calloused fingers, what was left of the digits that had not yet been cut off by Antonin in one of the wizard's fits of a bad rage.
Peter had always been easily startled throughout his life, and now, his jumpiness seemed even worse than ever. His hammering heart had just begun to slow down, and he very nearly jumped out of his skin a second time as he felt a rough and calloused hand clamp down on his shoulder.
He did not even need to turn and regard the first newcomer to see who it was.
"M-Master," he stammered, swallowing past a lump in his throat. "Why…" He hesitated, the question burning on the tip of his tongue, but he had to get the question out. He was sure, yes, he was sure, that someone, a Ministry employee, an Auror, perhaps, was bound to recognize them here at a crowded establishment like the Leaky. "Why are we h-here? Why not the—the Hog's Head, master?" Peter stammered nervously.
He painfully wrung his fingers together as he finally turned to regard his master, to find Antonin Dolohov staring at him listlessly with those dark eyes that were nothing but soulless pits that felt no emotion of any kind. His gaze nervously shifted from that of his master's to regard the second individual who had arrived arm-in-arm alongside Antonin Dolohov. He stiffened, recognizing the blonde witch as a tabloid reporter for The Daily Prophet.
"M-Miss Skeeter, a delight to see you a-again, as always," he whispered, awkwardly inclining his head in a show of respect.
The witch merely crinkled her nose at the rat's stench and pulled a face of disgust as she looked down her nose and through the lenses of her jeweled glasses at Peter as he sank into an awkward little half-bow.
Dolohov noticed and frowned, raising his wand threateningly and pointing it squarely at the tip of Peter's nose.
"Shut. Up, rat, or I'll cut out that tongue of yours that must be hung in the middle so it can wag at both ends," Antonin grunted as he pocketed his wand and pulled the hood of his robes up to conceal most of the features of his face. "I've told you twice now, we've had to meet our contact somewhere loud, where we'd not be spotted nor overheard. And don't even think of asking who our contact is, you'll find out soon enough, Not one more word out of you or I pull another tooth," Dolohov barked hoarsely as he caught sight of Peter opening his mouth to ask a follow-up question.
Though the moment the words were out of the taller wizard's mouth, Peter thought better of it and clamped his lips shut. Peter could only comply, shuffling behind his master and the reporter as Dolohov, in a show of chivalry, opened the oak door for Rita. It was, just as Peter had suspected, utterly crowded. There was barely enough room for them to stand flush against the wall as Rita led the way, expertly navigating through the crowd of patrons, making her way to the furthermost corner of the tavern on the first floor of the Leaky, where a cloaked figure lurked in the shadows.
It was a woman, he could tell that much by the cut of the person's silhouette if Peter squinted to try to get a better look, the gentle curves of her body, though the features of her face were concealed thanks to her hood.
Tom the barkeep, who stood by the dusty counter, merely nodded his head exhaustively to Rita Skeeter and to Dolohov as they passed, before returning to work on wiping the tankard in his trembling and arthritic claws with a frown.
Peter stared worriedly at their crowded surroundings, hardly able to make out a word between all the din of chatter from the tavern's other customers and the clanking of their plates. The wind outside howled loudly as Rita Skeeter, Antonin Dolohov, and Peter Pettigrew came closer towards the lone figure seated stiffly at the corner table closest to the back window, her manicured hands wound around a steaming mug of what smelled to Peter like fresh hot coffee.
Her fingernails were long, pale, and sharp, painted a dark maroon color, the color of deep red vintage wine.
"You came. All of you. I thought you'd not, especially not you, Miss Skeeter. After what happened to you the last time, I thought I made my position to you quite clear, Rita, that you were to stay away," the cloaked woman murmured in a smooth, silky voice, her tone light and pleasant, a stark contrast to her ominous appearance as she was clad entirely in black. She lifted her coffee mug to her lips to take a drink, revealing an emerald ring resting on her left ring finger.
The dark cloak and hood that obscured the witch's face made it nearly impossible for Peter to discern what this woman looked like, let alone guess as to who she was. Judging by her voice, however, one could tell by the refined way she spoke that she was a pureblooded witch and a formidable one at that, well-educated and confident in her abilities.
The stranger's tone suggested that she was not a witch to be trifled with, cold and distant, almost unfeeling.
Rita stiffened, a muscle in her jaw twitching as she slid into the booth and regarded their company for the next half-hour with contempt. "This is important, as you very well know, otherwise you would not have agreed to meet. We've both information that we can share that would benefit the other. This mutual arrangement can work well to both our benefit, provided that you cooperate with me and provide me the necessary information that I require, dear," she replied slowly, carefully leaning across the table, winding her slender fingers around her black Quick-Quotes quill. "No obstacle, not even you, will stop me from getting what I want, witch. Consider this an opportunity to lessen the stain on your family name, providing you give me what I ask for willingly," Rita growled lowly, careful to choose her words.
Despite Rita's forcefulness, obtaining information from her interview subjects was much easier when they were willing to speak to her. She did not want to pressure the witch into it, but she wanted to phrase her request for information on Severus Snape that her contact would be more inclined to make her own decision to help her. She looked down at the chipped but polished oaken surface of the table for a few moments as she collected her reeling thoughts.
Rita looked back up to the witch across the table with a small sigh, turning her quill over in her fingers as she rummaged with her other hand in her bag for her notebook.
"You have some knowledge of Severus, as I understand it, my dear," Rita murmured, eyeing the witch curiously out of the corner of her lowered gaze as she flicked through the several pages of her notes thus far on the mysterious enigma that was Severus Snape. He was by far one of her more fascinating subjects that her editor had demanded a book out of her on, a request Rita was only too willing to comply with, knowing that Severus's life story would make her millions.
As Rita lifted her gaze to the stranger's, she still could not see details of the witch's face as the witch had made no move to lower the hood of her cloak and reveal her identity to Antonin Dolohov or the rat, but she could clearly see the witch's eyes, burning brighter than midnight torches, and could see the revolt she nursed for Rita.
A pause was nothing that Rita could have hoped for, but after a moment, the witch spoke.
Out of the corner of her eye, as she turned her head slightly as Tom shuffled over to their table with their drinks, Firewhisky for Antonin, coffee for her, and nothing for the rat, she saw the witch dip her head, though she was regarding Rita as though she had lost her mind, and perhaps Rita had, but that was utterly beside the point now.
"I should hope so," she sniffed. "Considering..." A pause, as the witch drew in a shaky breath and continued speaking. "I am…well acquainted with him, as you very well know," she agreed, a harsh bite to her tone. "But then, Miss Skeeter, so are you. What more could you possibly hope to learn from me?" she asked, her tone sounding incredulous as her gaze shifted temporarily from Rita towards Peter, who had made no move to sit and instead cowered near the table. "I see you've...brought one of Severus's...' friends,'" she said, the contempt positively dripping from her voice as she stared.
Peter grimaced and squirmed as he awkwardly shifted his weight from one foot to the other, sincerely hoping discord wasn't about to break out in the middle of a busy Thursday night in The Leaky Cauldron.
"You're the rat, aren't you?" she asked, as she traced a manicured fingernail around the rim of her coffee cup.
Posed like that, it was not a question as she regarded the cowering short stout wizard, who looked like he wanted nothing more than for a hole in the floor to open and swallow him whole. Before Peter could respond, she continued.
"You're the one who betrayed the Potters to the Dark Lord. You…are an…acquaintance of Severus's, are you not? You were killed, I was led to believe, but I see you're back from the dead. You should have stayed dead," the witch growled.
Peter could feel the contempt in the witch's voice, and the frostiness of her tone sent a shiver down his back.
This woman, whoever she was, was obviously aware of what had transpired between himself and Severus all those years ago. Ever mindful of feigned courtesies, though this stranger did not deserve it, Peter awkwardly bowed.
"This is Peter, mum. Peter Pettigrew," Antonin barked gruffly as he took a swig of Firewhisky from his tankard and shuddering as the burning alcohol trailed down his throat as if his companion were a mere afterthought. "You need not concern yourself; his lips are sealed. But if his presence truly bothers you that much, then I can send him away," he said.
But the witch held up a manicured hand, cutting off Dolohov from speaking further. It worked, as the wizard fell silent but proceeded to glare at her.
"There is no need for that, Mr. Dolohov," replied the cloaked witch swiftly. "I trust your judgment." There was a pause as she regarded Antonin before tearing her gaze away and returning her attention towards Rita, who had requested to meet with her two nights ago via an owl letter here at the Leaky. "Even so, I am rather surprised at your audacity to ask to meet with me, Miss Skeeter. After all, your ah, attempts to obtain the information you need to complete your book didn't exactly work out for you in your favor, did it?" the witch asked her casually as she took another sip of her coffee.
"On the contrary," Rita interjected eagerly before the witch could speak. "My attempts haven't failed yet. Granted, they've…not worked as well as they should have, but my presence is enough to create an impact, and for now, that will do. Despite what you think of me and my methods, dear, I have a certain amount of patience. As long as I get the material that I want—"
The hooded witch lifted her hand nonchalantly to cut Rita Skeeter off from speaking any further on the matter. In most cases, this action would have earned a well-deserved Bat Bogey Hex by the proud and vain reporter, but much to Peter's astonishment, Rita stopped speaking and fell back against the backrest of the booth and waited with pursed lips, though there was an eager glint in the blonde witch's eyes, as though she were eager to see what their contact had to say.
"Speaking of what I want," interrupted the witch as she leaned forward, though careful enough to keep her face shrouded in the shadow, not letting the light of the overhead lamp illuminate any part of her face. "You have news that you impaired to share with me in your…letter. Severus is alive, Miss Skeeter, isn't he?" she asserted, her tone clipped.
Rita turned the quill a bit too quickly in her fingers, sending her Quick Quotes Quill accidentally flying to the floor. Embarrassed, she flushed and dove for it, quickly scooping it up and placing it haphazardly onto the surface of the table, right as Tom arrived with a large plate of chips for their group to share if they were hungry.
When Tom had gone, she looked back towards the hooded woman and caught the tail end of her flinch.
"As it happens," Rita said cautiously, "I do know, but first, you divulge what it is that I want. That is how this...arrangement of ours is to work, dear, or have you forgotten? There are…certain facts of his life that are not known, and I've not the evidence to make them believable to certain parties. I had hoped, considering your…connection to the man, that you might provide some context to the truth of these rumors that might make them seem more realistic. My editor and I are on a deadline, I'm sure you can understand the urgency of my... request. Please do keep in mind, dear thing, that if you continue to attempt to go against my efforts, it will only end poorly for you. With just one Patronus and a quick owl post to my editor, the whole world will know your dirty little secret. They'll lock you away in Azkaban Prison for it, perhaps let you suffer the Dementor's Kiss, and you will never see your son again. I take it that isn't what you want, of course, so I think it's in your best interests if you give me what I need, dear," Rita remarked, studying the witch's eyes, nothing more than two dark pinpricks peeking out from the darkness that her cloak's hood provided.
For a moment, there was a perfect stillness between the group. Neither Rita Skeeter nor their contact seemed to move. And then the other witch sighed, and the stillness was broken. She lowered her gaze slowly and rummaged through the compartment of her bag, where she removed a very old journal that was nearly falling to pieces.
The witch lifted her gaze and held it across the table towards Rita reverently, her eyes downcast on the book.
"This contains everything that you should want to know. You will find it most useful to your purposes, Miss Skeeter," she stammered as she placed the journal gently in Rita's outstretched and waiting hands. Rita held it as if it were her child, cradling it in her arms before slipping the promised prize into her bag slowly. "See it back safely to me," the witch said wearily. "It is the only one of its kind, I've worked on it for years without...certain parties' knowledge, and I will not take kindly to its ruin should you return it to me in less than the condition it is in now, and I would have you give me your word that this…book that you want to publish, will paint him in a positive light, Rita," she warned threateningly.
Rita nodded, barely able to force out her thanks as triumph sang in her veins. Blackmail was an art form in it itself that she had perfected over the years. She'd had her initial doubts that her plan would work, but so far, it had.
"I give you my word that every stroke of my quill and typewriter will write the truth," Rita smiled the same innocent smile that masked her personal vendetta. She proceeded to cover her mouth with her hand, seeing the witch's creased brow and hardened face as it was at that moment that the witch lowered the hood of her cloak, finally revealing her face. Beside her, she heard the rat let out a gasp and saw the wretch's face pale. She eyed Peter Pettigrew interestedly.
"M-master, that's—" he started to say, though he halted his words at hearing Antonin Dolohov let out a warning growl from deep in his chest.
"Quiet, Wormtail. Leave, don't make me say it again," growled Antonin. Peter did not need to be told a second time and immediately fell silent, mumbling an apology under his breath and shuffled away towards the bar to talk to Tom.
The witch that was seated across from Rita Skeeter and Antonin Dolohov was a formidable-looking witch, with her shadow-raven silky black hair pulled back into a tight sleek bun that brought to Rita's mind an image of a much-younger Minerva McGonagall. Eileen Snape nee' Prince proceeded to quirk a brow at Rita Skeeter and eyed the tabloid reporter for The Daily Prophet as though the blonde witch were nothing more than dirt stuck to the bottom of her heel.
The sides of her temple were streaked grey thanks to the curse of time, and her face was gaunt and drawn. The woman looked like a frightening aging witch, hiding behind her blustering and her pitiful threats. Something was troubling her greatly, and Rita suspected that it had little do with what she had relinquished over to her entirely of her own volition.
Eileen Snape did not immediately speak, instead, she waved a hand curtly for Tom to pour her another cup of coffee, into which, Rita was amused to see at Eileen's request, Tom pouring a shot or two of Firewhisky into the witch's drink and floating her beverage towards their table, setting it down gently in front of the witch with a lazy flick of his wand.
At first, Rita believed that the solemn witch considered that a little bit of alcohol may be needed to soften the blow of learning of the fact that there was a witch in her only son's life, and this witch was none other than the bastard Hans Hawthorne's daughter. Then, Rita keenly took note of how the witch's hands trembled as they wound around her cup.
Eileen was stalling, afraid of learning the dire fate that had befallen her son. After draining her cup and demanding another, to which Tom obliged, Eileen finally spoke as she braced herself, leaning against the booth's headrest, her face pale, her lips pursed into a thin, rigid line.
"My son?" she asked gravely. She inhaled sharply and seemed to hold her breath. "Where is he? He's alive? You stated in your letter that you had news of my son's whereabouts, Miss Skeeter, did you not? You promised me this much."
She did not look at Rita as she waited for the witch's answer, but down into her cup of coffee, waiting in dread for Rita's answer.
Rita paused as she looked at her, thinking how tired the older witch looked.
Yes, she was utterly exhausted. Eileen Snape was also looking annoyed at Rita Skeeter's intrusion into her family's life. Her brow was creased with deep lines. Eileen Snape was gravely worried for her son. Rita could see that much.
Rita had so many reasons not to speak, not just yet, letting the witch stew in the dozen or so possibilities as the imagined scenarios of her son's gruesome accident in the boathouse flitted through Eileen's mind, but she was quietly hyperventilating as if the words had been flowing uncontrollably against her throat, thumping on her temples.
"Your son is well enough. Severus is alive," Rita said, at last, enjoying watching the breath leave Eileen Snape's lungs slowly. Although the other witch was seated across from her, Rita could almost feel the dark-haired woman's relief. She imagined she heard the mumbled prayer of thanks she sent to the heavens, to whoever was listening to a pathetic witch like her.
A wave of cold anger slowly overtook Eileen's hurt.
"This entire time? H-he was alive?" Eileen voiced quietly, her words more of a hollow statement than a question.
Her mind reeled at the notions forming in her thoughts. Cruel sobs welled in her chest. She swallowed down hard and fought them back down. So, it seemed then, that her son had not wished her anywhere near him during his ordeal.
Had he even mentioned her once when he had regained consciousness?
"Severus, Miss Skeeter. You promised me information in exchange. Where is he?" she demanded, her tone hardening as her fingers curled around her cup's handle. She needed to know the mistreatment to which her son had been subjected.
She needed to know he was safe, that he was looked after. She wondered why no news was sent to her sooner, and why, of all people, she had to learn of her son's whereabouts and fate from Rita Skeeter, of all people.
"My son has surely been healing now a few days, weeks, even," Eileen followed logically, letting the words roll off her tongue as she spoke. "Why was no word sent to me at all that he lived? This whole time, my son has been alive?" she questioned Rita, partly hurt and partly uncertain.
"Barely," Rita corrected in a dry but professional voice. "The Dark Lord's snake that was reported to have taken your son's life, Mrs. Snape, very nearly did its job, were it not for her," she simpered, sensing immediately that she now had the older witch's attention. "And as for why no word was sent, it was on the witch's orders that this is kept secret."
"What? What did you just say? Witch? What witch? Who gave out this order to keep this a secret from me? Severus is my son, as his mother, I have every right to know. I should have been told that he was injured, Miss Skeeter!" Eileen asked in utter disbelief, as Rita mimicked a shocked expression too theatrically, her fingers fumbling around her glass of butterbeer, trying to look too bothered at the accidental slip of a tongue of confidential information. She hesitated.
"Nothing, Mrs. Snape, forgive me. I should not gossip," she nearly laughed.
A rueful sneer flitted across Eileen Snape's face as she scowled.
"Oh, please do not insult my intelligence, Miss Skeeter. Your entire livelihood thrives on the topic of gossip and slanderous lies. Your damned bloody poison-pen stories make for quite the conversation starters, don't they, and they certainly line your pockets with more Galleons than you could ever possibly know what to do with?" she asked Rita Skeeter contemptuously as she regarded her. "I know you know this woman, whoever she is. Who is she? Tell me her name, right now," Eileen demanded the tabloid reporter in as haughty a tone as she could manage to muster up.
Eileen paused as she glanced down into her mug of coffee for a moment, lifting the cup to her lips and drinking heavily, holding a swallow of the bitter beverage in her mouth for a moment before finally swallowing it, the scalding liquid going down her throat somehow hurt less than the news that her own son did not seem to want his mother to know of his accident that would have succeeded in killing him. She swallowed a lump in her throat, her mind utterly reeling.
Rita paused, allowing herself a moment to cherish the teeming anticipation and dread in the older witch's face as Eileen Snape waited impatiently for Rita to give a reply.
"Hans Hawthorne's girl, Dahlia. The witch is the one responsible for ultimately saving your son's life, but it has come at a cost. He is still not fully mended, and perhaps might not ever fully recover from the nature of his wounds, and she seems hellbent on keeping him sequestered," Rita spoke the words she had been itching to speak since they had arrived.
Perhaps, with any luck, Snape's mother's intrusion into their lives would get the prickly little Healer off Rita's back and allow her to conduct her investigation into Severus Snape's life as she personally saw fit, as her Animagus status was now registered with the Ministry of Magic, thanks to the little Granger bitch squealing to their newly elected Minister Shacklebolt, and she could no longer transform at will without Ministry officials breathing down her neck constantly.
Which led to her forsaking her Animagus form, for the time being at least, and choosing to obtain her information in more creative endeavors, such as blackmail. It was blackmail and the threat of revealing Eileen Snape's deepest, darkest secret to the entirety of the wizarding world that had convinced Severus's mother to accept her invitation to meet her and relinquish over her private collection of journal entries she had written of her life throughout these long years.
The blood drained from Eileen's face at the mention of Hans Hawthorne. She struggled to draw in a breath and leaned back against the backrest of the booth, her expression shocked. She had heard the tabloid reporter wrong just now, she was sure. What had this witch meant? Images of her son came flooding into her mind. Thoughts of her only son strong, vibrant, and full of life played in front of her eyes. Her son in the company of a Hawthorne was almost unheard of.
Her eyes grew wide and round as she desperately searched Rita Skeeter's face; their gazes locked.
Eileen Snape searched for any hint, any shred that the blond witch was lying to her now, attempting to goad her into anger to get a rise out of her, but she could detect no malice in her eyes.
Either that or the journalist had gotten skilled enough over the years of her career and learned to hide it well.
"How can you be sure? You have proof of this, Miss Skeeter?" Eileen asked harshly, feeling foolish the moment the words left her lips. Eileen Snape was a fool to ask the experienced reporter how she had come across this information.
She felt the need for the witch's error on this matter.
Rita cleared her throat and tugged on the silver pendant of a quill necklace she wore around her neck, biting down on her lip and pretending to look sympathetically across the table at Severus Snape's stricken aging mother.
The reporter paused for a moment to rummage in her bag for a manilla envelope, all the while Eileen Snape watched Rita's movements like a hawk. Rita drew in a breath and held it as she wordlessly slid the envelope containing the photographs that she had taken of Dahlia Hawthorne and Severus Snape, both outside of his home and in the graveyard yesterday morning. She peered at the wizard's mother in feigned concern and watched as Eileen fumbled to open the envelope with shaking fingers, the contents of the envelope spilling across the table's surface.
Eileen carefully plucked the photograph that was closest to her, one of Rita's secret personal favorites, that showed Hawthorne and Snape in a near intimate embrace, so close that their foreheads almost touched.
Eileen took in a sharp angle as she allowed her eyes to make a quick scan of the photograph, her finger running over the outline of her son's tall silhouette. Her chest constricted and she was suddenly finding it difficult to breathe.
She admittedly did not know what to make of this and was not sure which she was more upset with: the fact that her son had come so close to embracing the shrouded figure of Death like an old friend, or that a Hawthorne had been the one to save her son's life, and would now see Severus cut off from his last surviving family member he had left alive.
Hans Hawthorne had been a monster of the worst sort, one who had not deserved a swift death as he'd received, or so she had been informed. The wizard's death was less than a paragraph in the obituary section of this morning's edition of The Daily Prophet. The way that Hans's daughter seemed to be eyeing her son in this moving photograph, reaching for Severus's hand, and giving it a light squeeze, whispered a threat to her son's ambitions for his life, unhinging him from where she sat, rooted to her spot here in the old booth in the furthest corner of The Leaky Cauldron.
In her wildest dreams, she had never thought of her son capable of being tamed by attention, especially in the arms of a woman, but she would be damned if her only son would keep company with the likes of a Hawthorne.
The family was one of ill repute, and she could not—would not—allow Severus to bring further shame to their family name by keeping company the likes of this witch. She had heard stories of this Hawthorne girl from her neighbors in the new wizarding village she had moved to, a quaint seaside town in Tinworth following her husband's death.
How she was, once upon a time, almost engaged to the very wizard who stood across from her now, eyeing her with no small amount of contempt and spite in those listless dark eyes of his. How Antonin Dolohov was cast aside by Hans when the wizard had approached him to ask for his blessing to marry his daughter.
How Dahlia was said to have transformed into an eagle and flown away when she could not take any more of her father's abuse for the final time when she had turned seventeen—was she an Animagus? Or perhaps a Maledictus?
Regardless, the witch had left her father alone and to face his fate. She was rumored to have kept her father's body, and every night, lit a candle in his honor and spoke to his corpse that she hid in a closet, unable to let go of the monster who had assaulted her repeatedly, always torn between hating and loving him, condemning and cherishing Hans.
Dahlia Hawthorne had become a witch of many stories over the last few days following the news of Hans's death, but stories were for the gullible, and Eileen considered herself above the notion of digesting such stupid, disgusting lies.
"You could have told Severus or someone else in his life to send me word, that I feared if he…if he was dead…so close to death. I would have come to him immediately... I thought that...I thought that I had lost him..." Eileen whispered.
Eileen's voice cracked and trailed off as she lashed out at Rita Skeeter, her rage growing more uncontrollable by the moment at the thought of Hawthorne's child attempting to keep her from hers. Mrs. Snape could not understand why no one else had attempted to get word to her, that her son was alive and well, and that his company with a Hawthorne was less than desirable if this witch had turned out anything to be like Hans had.
"It would not have made a difference, Mrs. Snape, we all make choices in this life, the Hawthorne girl has made hers, just as your son made his, too, perhaps he did not wish to trouble you in regards to his ah...accident," Antonin barked in a hoarse voice, interjecting on Rita's behalf, shooting the blonde witch a withering glowering, silently warning her without words not to interrupt him. "But as for her, the girl, well...The Hawthorne witch is…ah…quite…protective of your son, Mrs. Snape. Hence the letter to you. She will not let anyone near him. Not even you, I suspect."
Antonin resisted the urge to smirk as he leaned back in his seat, folding his arms across his chest as he watched with a sense of smug satisfaction as he knew his words had hit their desired mark just now as Snape's mother's face paled.
Eileen Snape collapsed back into the booth. Antonin Dolohov's words sank into her flesh like smothering acid rain, burning her insides as her blood ignited hotter than dragon fire could flame, and she felt her cheeks flush bright red.
She tried to picture her son as a husband, a partner to a witch that Eileen could be proud of to call her daughter-in-law.
Perhaps, at thirty-seven, it was too late for her son to become a father to any children he might have with this witch her mind had created in this nearly-happy fantasy of hers, but Eileen thought she could be content enough in knowing that her son, after a lifetime of misery and suffering at her husband's hand, was finally happy. It was all she wanted for him. For a moment, she allowed the image to form in her mind. She saw her son tall and strong, shielding his family.
Eileen very nearly smiled at the thought of how protective he would be with any witch who held his heart, as he would have been had the Evans girl thought to give her son a chance.
Severus deserved that happiness and Eileen knew that, and did not wish to stand in the way of that.
But it was at that moment that the thought flitted across her mind that Eileen's brain reminded her that her only son was keeping company with the likes of Hans Hawthorne's girl. Her soft expression upon imagining her son living a life that she had always wanted for him following Tobias's death faded from her face almost as quickly as it had appeared. A heavy dark cloud found her lined and exhausted face and it washed permanently into her mind.
It was Hans's daughter who had infiltrated her way into Severus's life. Hawthorne with whom her son was likely sharing the more intimate secrets of his life and their family's goings-on with, judging her son and his choices, most likely, of which she had no right to do so.
"Hawthorne's daughter has no right to interfere in my son's life," Eileen murmured in a dangerously quiet voice, her jaw steeling with determination. "Regardless of whether she saved him. I will not have a Hawthorne with my son."
She sighed in frustration and pinched at her temples. She did not know why, of all the many problems that had landed on her lap since learning of her son's near-death, that this was the most troublesome.
She could not even fathom why it had become a dilemma when this was what she had wanted for him all this time, for her son to settle down with a witch who would make him happy, but to see with her own eyes Severus seemingly taking an interest in the daughter of Hans Hawthorne did not sit right with her and left a churning pit in her stomach.
She had to ingest this further.
As the thought pounded on her, so did the spiral of many possibilities. There was odd foreign anxiety that churned in her stomach and made her lose her appetite for the plate of chips that Tom had set in front of their table.
Her son's case could not have fallen into the worst of timings, she realized. Eileen Snape clicked her tongue, and, in her mind, she had already apologized to Severus.
"Miss Skeeter. I don't suppose you would know their location?" she inquired after Rita, thinking that, judging by the knowing glint in the blonde witch's eyes, that Rita did know where Hans's daughter had taken Severus.
"Home, Mrs. Snape, though if you were hoping to perhaps, catch a glimpse of this witch for yourself in person, rumor has it she's to spend some time in the morning in Diagon Alley," Rita remarked as she sipped at her drink, studying Severus's mother with raised eyebrows as she peered at the witch over the rim of her cup.
Rita's gaze turned to steel, her eyes shifting slightly before she replied. "I hope that I have your utmost confidence in my abilities, Mrs. Snape. I give you my word that I will paint your family in the purest of lights with the information you've so freely given over tonight. But if you still do not trust me, then why not see for yourself? Visit her, as she does not know of the ah, nature of your relationship with your son. There would be very little that she would suspect as to your motives for keeping her away from him. She'll be in Diagon Alley at eight in the morning, first thing."
Eileen furrowed her brows, wondering how on earth the witch knew of this.
"You know this how?"
Rita's smirk widened as she rummaged in the compartment of her purse for a moment, and plucked out a pair of long, flesh-colored strings, objects that Eileen thought she recognized as Extendable Ears, a Weasley's Wizard Wheezes product.
The corners of Eileen's mouth turned down in a frown. Elieen sniffed, thinking that her son was growing careless and distracted around Hawthorne's girl who now had him so wound around her pinky finger, that he could not bother to throw up an Imperturbable Charm around his home to prevent people like Rita listening in to what was intended to be private conversations. She frowned and rose to her feet, gathering her bag and slinging the strap over her shoulder.
"I see. You do have your ways then, after all. I can agree to that, Miss Skeeter, I suppose. It would seem then that I'm left with no choice but to take you at your word and attempt to speak with this witch before speaking with my son."
"It's still risky, witch, you going to see her," Antonin blurted out hoarsely as he stared at Peter Pettigrew in annoyance, who had shuffled back towards their table with fresh drinks for their group, not realizing that Eileen was about to leave and there was no need. Peter hastily apologized for any harm and quickly backed away from their table. "We cannot risk exposure, Rita and me. It is only because of Rita's…persuasiveness, that I am here," he growled, recalling how the witch had cornered him shortly after he had Disapparated from the Riddle House and had confessed everything.
She had seen the kidnapping of Dahlia Hawthorne and attempted murder in its entirety, having stolen an Invisibility Cloak from a wealthy businessman in Paris a few months back when doing a slanderous piece on crazy old Newt Scamander's grandson, Rolf. In exchange for his cooperation with her efforts, she would not turn him over into the authority of the Auror's at the Ministry, and to sweeten the deal, she had promised him a clear shot at Dahlia.
Hans had denied him her hand in marriage once, he was not about to take the rejection well again a second time if Dahlia refused his offer to provide for her a better life.
And he would be damned if he would let Snape stand in the way of achieving his goal. It vexed Antonin, to think of Severus obtaining such a beauty, such a prize to be won as Hawthorne when he clearly did not appreciate the witch.
Rita rose to her feet, nodding solemnly, and motioned for Dolohov and Pettigrew to join her. They did so, leaving Eileen to trail slowly behind them as they headed towards the front door of the loud tavern.
Rita's hand hovered over the chipped brass doorknob for a moment.
Just as she was about to twist the knob and step outside into the brisk cold night air and Disapparate to head for home to start compiling the new information for her book that she had just obtained, courtesy of her subject's mother herself, she paused and looked back towards Eileen Snape with intrigue glittering in her eyes.
"Are you perhaps not even a little bit worried, Mrs. Snape, that while your son remains in this witch's care, he remains in danger of becoming wound around her finger, losing the sharpness of his mind?"
Eileen Snape's expression turned sour as she jutted her chin out, slightly defiantly, and proceeded to look at Rita Skeeter with a look that was akin to disappointment. It was as if she had expected better of the tabloid reporter.
"My son, I should hope, would have a better head of sense than to take an interest in Hans's daughter, Miss Skeeter. The audacity you possess to even ask me such a question, Miss Skeeter, is presumptuous and quite frankly, idiotic. He cannot be taking an interest in her because I cannot allow it. Any other witch would do for my son, but not this Healer." She spat the word as though it were bitter poison that settled on her tongue and sharply turned her head to the left. Her fingers curled over the strap of her purse as she collected her thoughts for a moment before she slowly swiveled her gaze back around to meet Rita's. "Dahlia Hawthorne is the spitting image of her father, and we both know that man was nothing less than a monster and every bit the bastard wretch that his reputation over the years has painted him as. No."
Eileen shook her head vehemently to herself, as if already sure of her next course of action.
She breathed out a steadying breath and continued.
"I would not see my only son marry a witch who would kill him one day. Severus is the only family that I have left, Miss Skeeter. I won't lose my son. I don't want to get a letter learning of my son's death, the causation of which was an argument that led to her killing him, just like Hans was suspected to do to his wife if the rumors are true and to be believed," she sighed, frustrated, running a hand over her smooth sleek bun in the process. "Oh, Hans's wife fled, I know that, but she's not turned up in years. I wouldn't put it past Hans to have tracked his wife down and killed her."
Peter, who had remained silent throughout this entire exchange, swiveled his gaze nervously between Rita Skeeter and Eileen Snape, both women formidable witches. Mrs. Snape proceeded to shrug her shoulders nonchalantly before hoisting her bag over her shoulder and slipping on her gloves.
"I have given you what you asked for, Miss Skeeter, and I thank you for the information as it pertains to my son. I expect, in return for my… cooperation here tonight, in doing as you demanded, that you will remain true to your word and that you will keep the promise that you made to me, both in the letter you sent and here physically tonight. I want a proof copy of this book of yours the moment you finish it, and if one word paints my son or the rest of our family in any negative aspects, then not even Merlin or God will be able to save you from me, I'll see to it that you never publish again, much less take in another breath of air, Miss Skeeter. You would do well to heed my words," Severus's mother passionately threatened, hissing her words through clenched teeth as her hands curled into shaking fists.
The witch strode forward and wrenched open the door before Rita could make the move, stepping out into the cold night air without another word and without looking back behind her. Eileen Snape left Rita Skeeter and Antonin Dolohov alone outside The Leaky Cauldron, alongside a slightly troubled Peter Pettigrew.
Poor Peter had no idea what in Merlin's green earth had just transpired, and his rather disgruntled new master and the tabloid reporter were left outside to mull over their respective futures and what their next steps should be regarding Severus Snape and Dahlia Hawthorne.
Peter did not even have to look directly into his master's eye to know that Antonin Dolohov, regardless of whatever arrangement he had made with the likes of a witch-like Rita Skeeter and the deal that pertained to Dahlia Hawthorne, that the man was scheming something beyond what Rita had in mind. He would be taking matters into his own hands.
No matter the cost.