Visitation
"Every time we touch, hey I don't knowJust tell me where to begin,'cause I never ever felt so muchNo I can't recall any love at allBaby this blows 'em all awayIt's got what it takes,So tell me why can't this be love?" Van Halen ('Why Can't This Be Love?' song in the album 5150 1986.)
AN: I've been accused of using obscure terminology by my lovely niece, so dear reader: in order to spare her and you several trips to your encyclopedia of choice, I'll define a few terms: The Gordian knot was a physical puzzle, one no one could untie until Alexander the Great sort it out by cutting it with a sword. A tesseract is a generalization of a three-dimensional cube into four dimensions; the fourth dimension is a really powerful concept formalized by Riemann and Hinton in the second half of the 19th century that allows modern physics and mathematics to exist as we know them. I have the awful vice of creating adjectives from given names. M.C. Escher is one of my favorite artists, who specialized in optical illusions and engraved these nightmarish architectures of stairs that lead back to the point of departure and doors that open into the abyss. The word Escheresque, used to describe Dumbledore's mind in the fic, comes from him. Putative, the title of this chapter, comes from the Latin putatus, considered or believed to be. It is an adjective, so it should be accompanied by a noun. When you start a phrase saying something is widely believed to be true… isn't it often the case that you don't share in that belief? In regards to what is widely believed about Severus, without being necessarily true, I'll let you pick the best noun. There are plenty to choose from.
Chapter III: Putative
It was the black one with the white mittens, Mr. Paws, who first noticed the man in the black hoody sitting on a bench in front of the corner store in Wisteria Walk. Hood was hiding behind a newspaper while nursing a Styrofoam cup of tea. The early hour, coupled with the man's all black attire, the fact that the beverage laid untouched on the flimsy white laminate table and that he was constantly looking over the newspaper would have been enough to arouse the half kneazel's suspicion. But what really tickled its whiskers was the ghost standing beside Hood.
The wraith, unseen to non-magical beings, made no effort to hide that it was watching the children coming and going down the street on their way to the park. The thing jolted and grabbed the man's shoulder as soon as Scar and Fat Butt walked by. Hood had taken a quick look over the newspaper, nodded and growled something between teeth to the ghost, whose eyes had hungrily followed Scar and Fat Butt as they made their way to the jungle gym.
Alarms went off inside Mr. Paws' head. Arabella had been adamant to impress on the clowder that they should be especially mindful of the comings and goings of Scar. So Mr. Paws jumped from his observation post besides the window flower box, which was empty save for a bunch of all but dead hydrangeas and went to tell the clowder's human mum what he had seen.
Of course that ruffian Mr. Tibbles, the tabby, had wanted to steal the black's thunder and ran to the kitchen to tell Arabella. The white, Snowy, and the calico, Tufty, were lounging by the fireplace and wouldn't be bothered, the females liked to take their lead from the clowder's cat mother; which had been a fancy show cat. They acted all prissy and posed. Even though everyone knew they were terrible gossips and loved the ruckus.
Stupid Mr. Tibbles, Mr. Paws was able to outrun the tabby and be the one to tell Arabella, but they had lost enough time so that when they came back to the window, Hood had already stood up. He was edging his way towards the park, making it look as if he were warming up for a run. Clever bastard. If it hadn't been for the wraith floating besides him, Mr. Paws may not have been believed. The world is an unfair place, but sometimes justice prevails and Mr. Paws got a fat oily sardine for his troubles.
Arabella looked out through the tiniest crack in her cheap nylon chiffon curtains at the young man ostentatiously doing calisthenics on the sidewalk. Hood, as Mr. Paws had called him, was dressed in a black tracker suit and sneakers. Black from head to toe, with a hood and long sleeves, the only thing visible of him were a pair of pale hands, a long hooked nose and raven black bangs. His hands were so pale that at first she had thought the man was wearing gloves, but upon a second inspection she realized he wasn't. The lad had pale spindly hands that twitched like a spider attached to his sleeves, the whiteness was only broken by the greenish blue markings of the veins beneath. It was summer but the morning was windy and the skater boys always used hoodies, sunshine or rain. So even though she suspected he was older than the youths usually loitering around the neighborhood in skateboards, he didn't look out of place. And yet, for some reason he was out of place. Even the sport clothes looked off on the young man. Something was not right. A cold chill ran down Arabella's spine.
She might be a squib, but she knew magic when she saw it. In fact, she had enough magic of her own to be able to see things. There was a faint silver shimmer by Hood that told Arabella there was indeed a ghost out there. There had never been a ghost on her street before and to her knowledge no one had died violently of recent. Least of all a wizard or witch. Something like that wouldn't have escaped her clowder's vigilance. Squibs were not as dumb as wizards thought, at least Arabella wasn't, so she quickly realized the implications of the ghost not belonging to the street. Merciful Merlin! She'd heard of it, and she had thought rumors about ghosts that were not linked to a place but that, through some vicious spell, haunted a person were just that, rumors.
Live long enough and you get to see everything. Arabella was the only daughter of a timid witch heir to a tired bloodline who could barely lift a wand and who had married a good Muggle who was an Anglican Pastor; and yet she only prayed when the going got really rough. She clasped her thumb, index and middle finger to a point, with the other two fingers tucked in her palm and touched the point to her forehead, over her diaphragm, on her left shoulder and then on the right one, reciting the Trinitarian formula in her mind. That was a dangerous wizard, if he walked with the dead. What a way to start her morning! With a bloody necromancer, dressed in Muggle clothes going after the boy. If she were to believe Mr. Paws, which she did because it was the most trustworthy half-kneazel of the clowder. She didn't like what was going on out there one bit. She needed to contact Dumbledore ASAP.
She looked sternly at Mr. Tibbles, she wasn't happy with the tabby's sneakiness, but at times it could be useful: "Follow those people out there, be careful not to be noticed, especially not by the ghost. And don't let the boy get out of your sight, unless the man in the hood does something. If that happens, come right back here to report. If I'm not in the house send Tufty to find me."
The calico was crafty, it could find a needle in a haystack blindfolded and with two paws tied together.
Mr. Tibbles' whiskers trembled as if to ask the woman to clarify what she meant by something.
Arabella scoffed impatiently: "You know what I mean. Anything the Muggles are not supposed to see. Now go! You've made us lose too much time already!"
With a little indignant huff and a dismissive swing of its tail, the tabby left through the cat door. The rest of the clowder, having lost all interest in what was going on outside, returned to their posts and carried on with their morning routine.
Arabella wished she could do the same. The Floo Network was not connecting. She'd already sent an owl to Hogwarts, but it was summer and the man wasn't going to be there. He must have left a forwarding spell, but who knew when her letter would be delivered? This seemed urgent enough to need immediate reporting. She sighed, she was going to have to go to Mr. Davies'. Another sigh escaped her lips. The old wizard lived twelve blocks away and was a bit senile, but he still fancied himself a heartthrob. Arabella sincerely doubted the mean old man had ever been one. And she could bet her life savings that the man was going to misinterpret the reason for her visit.
In one last desperate attempt to avoid having to deal with the aged Casanova, Arabella tried to connect through her own Floo once more and all she got was a greenish gook that stuck to her chimney. She knew the shabby youngster that had connected it hadn't done a good job. Of course they had sent the newbie and a lazy one at that. That is the usual treatment squibs get from wizards, even those who still haven't learned to charm their pimples. The little fool reeked of badly crafted bubotuber potion… Most wizards think squibs are fair game for pranks and defrauding. If she sent an owl to the company she was only going to be ignored, it would take a trip to London and a shouting match to get it sorted out. It was too much to bear without even having had her Earl Grey.
Cursing the Floo Network's technician and the bleeding necromancer, she shoved her keys inside her purse and grabbed a plum colored umbrella from the stand by the door. Mr. Davies was senile, but he could be very enthusiastic when pursuing his pastimes. The last time she'd had to borrow his Floo the man had grabbed at her bum and wouldn't let go, before she'd had time to explain what she was doing in his house. It was a good idea to arm herself with something to keep him at bay just in case.
Even though the sky was a perfect shade of rosy blue, she also tied a flower print scarf over her hair rollers and put on a light sweater before going out. She didn't have time to comb her hair or change out of her moo-moo house dress. She also didn't want to risk being seen by Hood, so she had to walk in the opposite direction of the park and take a detour, adding three whole blocks to her route.
She wished a gruesome death upon all conman and all bloody necromancers in the world. And she also wished a fierce rash somewhere really uncomfortable on old pervert neighbors. Arabella carried on mumbling curses and walking at a brisk pace towards a working Floo Network station that she could use to do the job the greatest wizard of the world had entrusted her to do.
Dressed in Muggle sport clothes Severus Snape felt utterly ridiculous, but Lily Evans Potter, as the entity that haunted him insisted on being called, had a good point to make in regards to it helping him blend in the neighborhood.
Her exact words had been: "What do you think will happen when people see a man skulking about the kiddies' park? Unless you have an invisibility cloak, any other spell is just a strong suggestion to turn a blind eye. Small children are hard to fool by illusion spells, because the distinction between what is real and what is not is still not fixed in their minds. I read a lot on child's development when I was expecting Harry. You are more likely to be noticed by them. Kids are not believed when they blabber about fairies and ghosts, but in this day and age, when a bunch of them start talking about the scary man in the black gown spying on them, grownups are going to pay attention. You don't want people to think you are a pedo, do you Sev?"
Severus started running on the gravel path that surrounded the edge of the park. He sure as hell didn't want to be confused for a pedophile. Wouldn't that be something? He barely even tolerated people in general and children in particular held no appeal whatsoever to him. In fact, of usual he couldn't care less about them. A harsh statement for someone who was a teacher by profession. Though, truth be told, he hadn't entered that career path entirely by choice. As a war criminal his career choices had been limited. Besides, of late his tastes seemed to have veered away from the living. Suddenly he was thankful of the hoody that hid his blushing cheeks.
He had somewhat come to terms with that. What he couldn't fathom was how on the nine circles of hell had he ended up in that kiddies' park in the first place? Of all places for Voldemort's former lieutenant to be found, that forsaken place was one of the worse. Why with a certain child with a notorious scar being bullied by an ugly fat kid not six feet away from the gravel trail where he was now running...
Severus stifled an exasperated moan. He wasn't supposed to know where the boy was. It had taken him the better part of July to make what he hoped were untraceable inquiries in order to figure it out and half of August to come up with a plan to approach the place undetected. Yet, if someone saw him there and recognized him, he'd be in a whole lot of trouble. And given the fact that his face had graced the pages of the Daily Prophet and of every public owlery in England on Most Wanted Posters throughout most of the war, it'd only take one curious wizard or witch to doom him. There was no way he would escape Azkaban a second time, not even through his relationship with Dumbledore, if he still had one after the Headmaster found out he had gone behind his back.
If that happened the Aurors would have a field day with him before handing him to the Dementors. Almost five years after what the Ministry trumpeted as Voldemort's demise, the detail of inept fools was no longer following him daily, but he still was on their crystal balls. There were some active Aurors who remembered the old days and who would have loved to have a go at the guy who had done away with their friends and family while he was a part of the Death Eaters. And yet there he was, risking his life and his freedom because the alleged ghost of the woman he had loved had looked up at him from his pillow with teary eyes and said that she missed her boy terribly and could he please, please let her have one tiny, little look at him.
Small children were not the only ones who had a hard time distinguishing reality from illusion. He growled under his breath. How do you call a twenty-six year old man who has an imaginary friend? More than a friend actually… He and his personal apparition had gotten really close over the last couple of months. For the first time in years Severus had gone back to the house in Spinner's End for the summer break and, along with a truckload of things that needed fixing, he had found that the occasional visitor that he had in his rooms at Hogwarts could follow him there and settle down as if the house were her own. That ghost was like no other he had met. He blushed some more.
Like everyone in the wizarding world he had heard of necromancers who consorted with the spirits of the dead, but consorted was usually understood to mean using the ghost to obtain information or to carry out small tasks. It was considered a Dark Art because it implied linking the soul of a dead person to the wizard's own soul and it was usually done with dishonest intentions. Like binding the spirit of someone recently deceased and use it to obtain information that betrayed the trust of someone who the ghost knew while he lived. Ghosts cannot actively lie, they can remain silent, but there are ways of making them speak. As for the tasks, say you had a ghost poison the food of your rival in the kitchen while you paraded yourself in front of the other guests in the dining room, thus creating an alibi.
Very few wizards were powerful enough to cast the soul spells needed to bind a ghost to them. And, in the relatively few cases in which a spirit failed to go through the veil, the dead were typically bound to a place of significance to them, either the place they had lived in or the place they had died in. The rumors went on, but what little actual knowledge there was of how to do the did was not enough to call it an art, dark or whatnot. Whatever experiments the chaps at Mysteries were doing in regards to the veil, the results were only known to a selected few. Death remained the great unknown. And most so called Necromancers were in reality posers who used illusions to con the feeble minded.
Now Severus with the unwitting help of the Headmaster and the dimwit Arithmancy teacher of Hogwarts had managed to attach a dead spirit to the soul he wasn't quite sure he had. Though Necromancers were supposed to be the ones wrangling the spirits and in his case he felt he was the one on a leash. The things that his particular haunting had done to him were writing a whole new chapter in the history of Necromancy. Not that he could ever publish that chapter in any serious magical publication. Aside from a certain section of The Spruce Wizard Weekly he'd always despised, he couldn't think of any periodical that would receive his musings. And he'd certainly never publish them under his own name. He swallowed down a bout of nervous laughter at the thought of it: Dear Spruce Weekly, I've recently found myself sharing rooms with the naughtiest ghost ever…
Of course there was another possibility: that the wish spell had created a very accomplished illusion of the woman he had loved and that he was slowly descending into madness by indulging in that illusion. Though if it all came from his mind, it was coming from part of him he had never been aware of and that tapped into depths of unfulfilled want he would have never thought he possessed.
He couldn't really figure out which scenario would be worse. Whatever the case, he knew he should stop, but that accomplished illusion was hard to deny. Every time he had tried that succubus had profited from his pent up desires to do things to him that effectively prevented him from exercising any resistance. After five years of the game, the apparition was a master at playing him like a fiddle. A twisted part of him enjoyed the music. Who was he kidding? A sick part of him craved it.
He forced himself to stop that line of thought and go back to the real issue: Insane, that's how you call a man who consorts with a ghost the way he did. Never mind that the ghost may have groundings on a wish spell gone awry. There was no way around it, he was off his trolley and should have been looking for help in riding himself of the curse while he still had a semblance of life, instead of...
"I thought you said he was well, Sev. He doesn't look happy at all. That awful fatty is bullying him."
He replied with barely moving lips, slowly enunciating each word: "I said the boy was alive, Lily. I never said anything about him being happy." He scoffed haughtily: "You grew up with Petunia. Honestly what were you expecting? And that awful boy came out of the same house your boy did. You may want to be kinder when you speak of your nephew."
The ghost frowned looking at the swings where the fat boy was twisting the arm of the boy in glasses behind his back: "You are probably right, he looks just like Vernon. I don't care who he is, he is hurting my Harry. Tell me again why shouldn't I go there and slap the little pig?"
His voice went so low that only the ghost could hear him: "Because if you do I swear on your grave that I'll quit Hogwarts and bury myself in the deepest jungle in Congo, where I'll devote the rest of my days to investigating odd plants and their properties and you'll never lay eyes on your boy ever again."
"Blimey Snape! You don't need to get your knickers in a bunch. Mine was a rhetorical question."
"Mine was a promise. Don't try me, Evans Potter. Cross the line and not even your little tricks will serve you to twist my arm into doing your bidding."
"Twist your arm, Severus, really? So now I'm a bully?!"
"You married into a family of them."
She hissed leaning towards him, brushing against his right arm: "Then you must be a masochist, because you seem to really get off on my little tricks. Just yesterday you were loudly..."
She didn't finish her quip, she yelped mid-sentence and disappeared as an old man in showy white, red and blue polyester sleeveless t-shirt and matching running shorts popped into existence on the other side of him. The old man seemed to have Apparated mid-jump. With a small jolt the man's slim legs landed on the gravel trail. He began running as soon as his tricolor Reebok GL 6000's touched the ground, making the royal blue pom poms on his ankle socks bounce rhythmically. He easily kept pace with Severus. The old man was in surprising good shape for someone who looked like a 60s relic, with a coltish built and a long grayish white mane tied on a loose ponytail; his broad forehead was capped with an equally loud tricolor band; and his long white beard was kept in check with a millefiori glass bead. He was wearing a pair of black aviator sunglasses to hide his eyes. The blue orbs the color of lighting would have been a dead giveaway. Still it only took a sideways glance for Severus to realize the man's identity.
He felt like a child who's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He muttered: "I can explain."
"I should expect you will, Severus, but you've already attracted enough unwanted attention, for now keep running," the man replied curtly.
It was the first straightforward order the man had given him since he had started working for him. Even when he was playing the double agent for that Machiavellian bastard, Dumbledore always managed to phrase everything as a polite suggestion. As if Severus Snape, a man eighty years his junior and in a very compromising position, had a say in what they were doing and could refuse him at his pleasure. Perhaps that was why he felt compelled to obey him.
Severus kept running and as he did the gravel turned into tarmac beneath his feet. The park gave way in a seamless transition to an empty rural dual carriageway. The outline of a group of rickety brick houses under a colliery chimney appeared first on the left road and the familiar silhouette of the church's tower showed on the right road just round the bend. Severus Snape's alchemist nose could perceive the familiar pungent smell of the Cokeworth River before he could see it. Dumbledore was bringing him home. He didn't know if he should feel relieved or afraid.
Dumbledore slowed down in the last leg of the road to the house in Spinner's End, keeping a leisurely tempo for about ten minutes. Whatever the man intended to do, he sure wasn't in a hurry. The only sounds that accompanied their journey were the beat of their sneakers on the pavement and the cadence of their breaths. Severus hesitated before entering Spinner's End proper, why he still cared about what the neighbors may think was beyond him, so he collected himself and pushed onwards. By the time he reached his door, Dumbledore was already there doing stretches.
He flickered Severus a quick grin while he measured his heartbeat with two fingers to his neck and a huge airborne golden pocket watch that looked like it had floated right out of Lewis Carroll. The size of the watch made Severus do a double take. Dumbledore noticed and replied to the unspoken question: "I'm old, Severus, I would need my reading glasses to make use of a smaller watch. I don't have them on me, I left home in a hurry," And then he punctuated: "You should stretch too. You have been running for about an hour now. One should always cool down after a run."
Dumbledore had even timed his run, so his spies must have picked him up since he was sitting in the convenience store. That man had a very impressive network. Severus had known that there was no way he had left the boy without some sort of vigilance. But he hadn't expected them to be good enough for him not to notice when he was being noticed. None of his magical warnings had gone off and to the best of his knowledge, he hadn't spotted anyone spying on him with more conventional means. Once more he had underestimated the Headmaster. That was something the man encouraged.
Some people think inside the box, some outside and for some, like that blasted man, the box was actually a tesseract spinning in the 4th dimension. The fourth dimension was an intriguing concept the old wizard had introduced him to. Dumbledore only looked the part of a scatter brain, but Severus Snape had never met anyone more focused, save perhaps Tom Riddle. Though Riddle was fixated with thoughts of glory, revenge and defeating death. Dumbledore's was a gyroscopic attention that could fix in several concurrent topics with different degrees of concentration, going back and forward with uncanny speed. And yet he was never superficial, his mind could dip deep into an issue and float right back like a cork, just to go into a completely different direction within seconds. Coupled with the wide array of subjects that caught the man's fancy, his mind was really hard to untangle.
Always with his permission, Severus had tried to follow the Headmaster's train of thoughts a couple of times out of curiosity. He'd barely managed to keep up with the Echeresque locomotive that followed demented trackless roads of physical impossibilities. He always felt his attempts at using Legilimens on the man left him more exposed than achieving the goal of exposing the other wizard. They always ended when he realized Dumbledore was looking at him. Each and every time he had broken his concentration to find the Headmaster's chilly blue eyes on him. His face usually sported the most disturbing look of understanding. The closest Severus could come to describing the feeling he got after one of those sessions was that he felt like he did in the teenager nightmares in which he looked down from the blackboard only to realize he was naked in front of his classmates. Every time Snape had tried to lay the other wizard's mind open, he was laid bare like a mollusk without shell.
He had often wondered if the reason Dumbledore was such a gifted Occlumens was that his mind felt like a really bad drug trip. With so much going on at any given time, Severus doubted anyone could read him in any meaningful way. It was just not worth it, so he had stopped trying.
"Can I stretch inside?" Dumbledore rose an eyebrow and Severus said: "I have nosy neighbors."
As if on cue a window's curtain cracked open in the house next door. Dumbledore shrugged and cleared the doorway with a slightly mocking bow.
Reining in his impatience at the old man's buffoonery, Severus flickered his wand and opened the door. He got in without turning around to see if the Headmaster had followed him. And he began stretching.
The sound of the door closing loudly behind his back startled him and made him look up at the Headmaster. The old man had taken off the sunglasses and hooked them on the front of his t-shirt. He was leaning against a wall with loosely crossed arms over his chest, one leg put forward, the other resting on the wall, waiting for him to finish.
When he noticed Severus was looking at him he planted both feet on the floor and spoke: "Would you mind if I get a glass of water? I'm thirsty after the work out."
It sounded like a reproach and Severus felt the need to defend himself: "Come now, Headmaster, this may not be the most hospitable abode, but you don't need to ask to cast Aguamenti…" He hesitated: "… unless you want me to do it for you?"
Dumbledore denied as he called forth a glass from the kitchen and filled it without making use of his wand: "I didn't came here to be waited on by you, Severus. But I'm an old fashioned man with an old fashioned sensibility. I hate to impose on others or abuse their hospitality. And you are one of the few wizards I know who fully understands the consequences that even the simplest transfiguration imposes in terms of dark energy displacement for all the wizards in the vicinity… I wouldn't dream of conjuring without asking first. It is common courtesy not to take what may not be willingly given."
Ah, so he was going straight for the jugular. Leave it to the old Headmaster to find the most convoluted way of calling him an ungrateful sot. Severus pinched the bridge of his nose while closing his eyes for the briefest moment to gather strength. Once more he was on the bench, having to explain himself to a hostile audience. Business as usual then, Severus Snape looked unfaltering at his accuser: "It is not what you think."
The Headmaster smirked: "So your Legilimens has finally vanquished my Occlumens. You have such a light touch that I didn't notice it."
He inhaled sharply: "I've given you no reason to mock me, Professor Dumbledore."
Dumbledore sighed: "I'm sorry if I've offended you, Professor Snape. You are not the first to tell me I have an inopportune sense of humor. I was just wondering, if you are not using Legilimens on me, what makes you so sure you know what I'm thinking right now?"
He bowed a little: "Headmaster, let me assure you that even using Legilimens I wouldn't dream of presuming to know what is going on inside your head. I cannot figure out how is it that you do."
Albus Dumbledore laughed, unbridled, head tossed back, tears welling up his wrinkled eyes, midriff shaking. And when he was done, mirth still lighting up his countenance, he said: "It's not always easy. My mind does tend to fill to the brim, which is why I find keeping a Pensieve so useful… Why don't we start with what I'm not thinking then? I'm not thinking that you have betrayed me. I'm not thinking you went to search for Harry Potter with the intention to harm him. And I'm certainly not thinking that you are a dangerous Necromancer especially when you are dressed like a Muggle angst filled adolescent. Wherever did you find that outfit?"
Severus Snape was irked but the tension in his shoulders relaxed a bit, enough for him to feel sufficiently confident to scan the Headmaster's tacky outfit from head to toe with a raised eyebrow.
The gesture was followed by another more moderate bout of laughter from Dumbledore. At least someone was enjoying the exchange. Once he caught his breath, the Headmaster went serious: "Regardless, I have a moral obligation towards the boy and towards the people who trust me as the acting chief of the Order of the Phoenix. So I must ask: what were you doing out there in the company of what I'm told was an unbound ghost, Severus?"
He didn't even ponder before replying with the truth: "We…" He cut himself short, cursing his stupidity for confirming what could have only been a suspicion that the man had no way of verifying. Dumbledore had the oddest effect on him. He rectified: "I just wanted to have a look at the boy."
Dumbledore seemed not to notice the faux pas, but with that man you could never know: "You don't strike me as the kind of man who gambles his life for the sake of mere curiosity. What was the hurry to have a look at the boy? You know he is going to come to Hogwarts in a couple of years, you just had to bid your time and you could have your fill of him as a student."
Severus Snape drew breath in, this time he gave himself a few seconds to think, but quickly decided that it was simpler to say the truth, or part of it: "I wanted to see him now because he is her son and I wanted to see how much of her he had in him."
The Headmaster nodded pensively: "I see…" He sighed: "Please believe that there is nothing further from my mind than prying into your privacy, Severus. But the personal connection can work both ways, for the boy is also his son. So once again I'm compelled to ask: Whose ghost was with you?"
He stiffened: "I'd rather not tell. It is private and has no bearing on the matter of the child's safety."
Dumbledore nodded again: "Fine, can you at least assure me that it is not one of your former Death Eater associates or anyone who would ally with Tom Riddle?"
"I can, you have my word that the ghost is not a Death Eater nor Voldemort's ally. I can also assure you neither the ghost nor I mean ill to the boy."
"Are you aware that dealing with ghosts is a very dangerous business?"
He chortled in disbelief: "Is the Order of the Phoenix concerned for my safety now?"
"It depends on what you understand by concern. Despite popular belief I do have a personal life and I was not immediately available when the message alerting of your excursion arrived. It was received by other members of the Order. Regretfully they didn't see it in the same light I do. So I'm not speaking in the name of the Order when I express concern for you. Severus, I may be overstepping my boundaries here and, if I am, you have my deepest apology. But over the past years I have hoped that our relationship has evolved from mere colleagues into one of a more personal nature. I have come to consider you a friend and I'm worried about you."
He didn't know how to reply to that, he didn't try.
Dumbledore searched his eyes with those blue beams of his but when Severus refused to meet them, he had swung his head from left to right: "I don't want to impose on you any longer, I shall leave you now."
With a swish of his index finger the glass of water he had been drinking from went to the sink, was washed thoroughly with a soapy sponge, rinsed and set gently on the dish rack.
Severus Snape watched in disbelief: "That's it, you are just going to ask me a couple of questions and take my word on it? Aren't you afraid that I'll go right back?"
Dumbledore smiled: "What would be the point in asking you anything, if I couldn't take your word on it? I trust you. And I trust your intelligence to not take that unnecessary risk again. I'm expected back for brunch and I don't want to keep my friend waiting. He has a very busy schedule and so do I, so we don't get to see each other as much as we'd want. Before I leave, though, I've been casting left and right and I would like to renew my space pocket spell before using yet another Portkey."
"You need a Portkey to go home?" He caught himself too late. What was it about Albus Dumbledore that made him feel and act like an eight year old? He sighed: "Sorry, it is not of my business. I didn't mean to pry."
"For reasons entirely beyond my control I seem to be famous nowadays. I deal with it the best I can, but I won't impose that on my friend. It would be hard to keep our privacy living here, so we don't. I only use the rooms in Hogwarts when I'm unable to commute home. We own a house in Gibraltar, which is still British, an Overseas Territory. Portkeys are theoretically easier to trace so the Ministry requires you to use them for any form of overseas travel. I try to be a law abiding citizen in as much as possible. But Portkeys at times conflict with the use of a space pocket. Of usual I wouldn't be bothered about a minute loss of matter, but I have something rather delicate inside my pouch now. My friend and I arrived home in the early morning and, when news of your escapade reached me, I had to leave in a hurry and I forgot to take it out. Would you mind if I cast the renewal here before I leave?"
"By all means do, and help yourself to any material component you may need. You'll find anything you require in the shelves right there."
"That is very kind of you," he said as he took out a canvas of about 24 by 18 inches from his pouch. The painting was covered with a cloth tarp. Dumbledore levitated it with his wand while he looked around, until his eyes fixed on a couch in the living room: "Would it be too much trouble if I set it over this couch for a moment while the spell is ready?"
"Go ahead." He agreed and then curiosity got the better of him: "Can I ask what it is?"
Dumbledore smiled coyly and Snape had to blink to make sure he wasn't seeing things.
The older wizard answered while he renewed the space pocket spell: "This is embarrassing. The painting is an extravagant birthday gift. Due to the war we didn't have a chance to properly celebrate my 100th birthday. So we decided to do something especial for my 105th, we've been in the International Chamber Music Festival in Breiteneich Schloss in Horn, Austria all week. Since the school year is upon us, for a grand finale, last night we dined on my favorite waterzoï at Graindorge and then we took a stroll down Champs Elysees. I know going to Paris to have Flemish food sounds demented, but I like the place and love their shellfish soup. And I was the birthday boy, after all. Why was I telling you all these? Oh right, the painting... When we reached La Place de l'Étoile my friend presented me with this glorious canvas. Afterwards we went to the Roundhouse in London. Since the non-magi abandoned it in 1983 it has become a vampire venue. I'm an old acquaintance of the lead singer and the drummer of the band Hemophilia, you might have heard of them, their new album Bleed has been on the wizarding radio… No? In any case they are a very charming half-vampire couple and they invited us to watch them perform. The cocktails in that place are surprisingly good, given that most patrons don't drink alcohol. Except if you count, shall we say second hand? I don't know if you are aware that vampire bites have an effect that is similar to some opiates on the donor, without the detrimental secondary effects of such substances. I don't mind helping dear friends and that is an added perk. But we must have overdone it last night, because I crashed in bed dressed as soon as we arrived home and completely forgot to take the painting out of the pouch. I only slept a couple of hours and barely had wits enough to conjure this running outfit." Smiling wickedly he finished: "If you think this makes me look barmy, imagine me apparating wearing a bloodstained tuxedo in the middle of Little Whinging. Vladislav's table manners leave some to be desired."
Severus felt overwhelmed by the barrage of information, it was hard to process and when he did, he felt wretched: "I'm sorry, Professor Dumbledore, did I just ruin your birthday party?"
"Oh no, not at all. Nothing could have ruined this birthday party. I've been having a couple of months' worth of fun. I didn't expect my friend to go all out, but I'd lie if I said I didn't enjoy myself." He giggled: "And we didn't even need to use the Felix we'd brewed."
Merlin's wand! Snape looked befuddled at the most feared wizard in the world who had just giggled like a schoolgirl and admitted nonchalantly to befriending dark beings and using illegal potions. This was a completely unexpected side of the Headmaster.
"Would you like to see it, Severus?"
"I beg your pardon?" he replied, feeling quite confident that no, he didn't want to know anything else of the colorful personal life that people didn't believe the Headmaster had.
It was disturbing enough to know that the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot had a scar which could only come from a magical tattoo in the shape of the London underground over his left knee –clearly visible with those horrid shorts he was wearing- and that the man knew of the effects of vampire bites and opiates from firsthand experience. Of all the people in the world that he could have imagined as party animals the Headmaster was not even on the list.
"The painting… Would you like to see the painting?"
That sounded innocent enough: "I don't know the first thing about art, but I'd like to see it, if you don't mind showing me."
Dumbledore took off the cloth tarp covering and revealed the naked figure of a woman who sat on a pedestal. She was cradling a swan's head as the bird flew towards her with outstretched wings. Snape recognized the mythological motif of the Spartan queen Leda, who had been seduced by Zeus in the guise of a swan. Oh boy, the Headmaster was full of surprises.
Albus Dumbledore looked at the canvas lovingly: "I first saw this painting in 1949 thanks to Prince Matila Ghyka. We met during his ministry in the UK. The prince was born in 1881 too, though in Romania. He died in 1965 but we shared a common interest in the golden proportion. He was the mathematician who calculated the harmonics for the artist and when I first saw the painting I was quite taken by it. I was dealing with the backlash of some personal issues and this image helped me get back on my feet. The friend who gave it to me has recently managed to be of service to the artist, Salvador Dalí, and when the man's gratitude offered to repay him, he remembered how much I like this painting. The artist is notoriously greedy, André Breton made an anagram of his name calling him avida dollars for his cupidity. I can only imagine what my friend must have done to get him to agree. For sure it was not copied by hand but casting Gemino, still it is a perfect twin. I wouldn't want to risk damaging it."
Severus inspected the painting and said: "That's odd, everything is weightless. Not even the water is touching the sand."
Dumbledore chuckled: "You are very observant Severus, most people feel estrangement in front of the painting but it takes them a while to notice why. That is those who do not censor it outright. They focus on the naked woman and the beast, even if it is implied that Zeus is an Animagus. And even though it is a calculated staging, in which every single element was placed with a purpose in mind and which was made according to the specifications of Fra Luca Paccioli's treatise De divina proportione (Of Divine Proportions). Most people think the whole thing is…" He paused in search of a euphemism and settled on: "off color. Dalí does have a penchant for theatricality and he loves to shock traditionalists."
"You don't have to be observant at all to notice the oddness or the purposefulness of it, this is quite obviously staged and it is clear the mythological theme is just a device."
The Headmaster smiled approvingly: "Indeed, but you'd be surprised at just how many people dismiss it as pornographic. I will coincide there are erotic undertones, though not in the sense of indecency." He laughed softly: "Only a true artist can turn a scientific insight into erotic poetry."
"Huh?"
"Dalí was well aware of the advancements in physics on regards to the discontinuous nature of matter, as well as the probabilistic models that explain the particles constituent of it. And in this painting he turns that into a comment on the nature of connectedness and intimacy. It is true that nothing really touches anything else in the painting. The Spartan queen, for whom the artist's wife was the model, floats an inch above the pedestal that floats above the water and the sand that do not touch each other. Dalí brings forth the reality of separateness to make a point. Look at Leda, Severus, her hand seems to cradle the swan's head but falls just short of it. And the swan's wings speak of an embrace that won't happen for it is physically impossible for matter to merge. The Universe has more void than matter in it and yet…"
"And yet…?"
"And yet our need to reach out and connect is so great that we still try. Even in the face of certain defeat we try and there is a measure of triumph in the sole attempt."
"I don't think I'm following you."
"Love is both journey and destination. And love is never futile, Severus"
He scoffed: "Please, Headmaster, I hardly think that what amounts to a depiction of bestiality can pass for the paragon of love."
"Depictions of Leda and The Swan usually fall in one of two types: a violent rape, like the one you will find in WB Yeats poem in which the hapless girl yields to the superior force of the god or a prurient rendering of an act of perversion found in cameos, engraved gems and oil lamps kept in bed chambers for the purpose of titillating the senses. Hitler is said to have kept Paul Mathias Padua raunchy version in his bedroom. But this painting is different. There is a wealth of tenderness in Leda's gesture and the swan, though still a beast, does not seek to impose with his embrace. Love sanctifies even the basest engagement and we stand in the presence of love here, Severus. Dalí manages to make Leda and the transmutted Zeus into a couple, in despite of their obvious differences and of the physical impossibility of becoming one, they become an inseparable twosome and a motif to pursue our dreams."
He didn't know what to say, so he shrugged it off.
And then Dumbledore did something completely unexpected, with one stride he closed the gap between them and grabbed his face by both cheeks. His touch was gentle, but Severus Snape was too shocked to do anything but stare transfixed at the crazy wizard's lighting blue eyes that were uncomfortably close to his.
His breath brushed his face as he spoke hurriedly: "Merlin knows I should hold my peace. But I can't stand aside while a young man of your potential wastes away chasing smoke. I understand more than most that wounds that run deep need time to heal. I also know that the best way of pushing someone away is giving them unsolicited advice. There is so much light inside you that it would pain me to see you throw it away on the shadows in your head. You are too young to turn your back on life, Severus. Don't let the weight of your guilt prevent you from moving forward…" He sniggered: "Like I'm one to talk." He pulled away and put the painting back in his pouch: "Now for sure I've overstayed my welcome." He gave him a sad little smile as he opened the door: "Please try not to hold this against me. As a matter of fact, let us chuck it up to me still being out of sorts from yesterday's libations."
The Headmaster disapparated and the ghost appeared before he had regained his bearings.
"Well what about that? Albus Dumbledore is gay. I should have known. I remember thinking that the man was a catch when they showed us his pictures from when he defeated Grindelwald. I couldn't figure out why he wasn't married. Wonder who this posh friend of his is? Someone rich, for sure, if he can take him all over the map and give him that kind of gift. Famous too, if they have to live abroad, though the fact that they are both men may account for it. The wizarding world is not known for its tolerance… Imagine that, being friends with a prince. Staying a week in Austria, dining in Paris and having drinks with a half-vampire rock band, plus a one of a kind gift for the birthday boy." She laughed bitterly: "I had to beg James to take me to Madame Popina's when I turned 20. I've never really liked birthdays and the last thing you want when you are facing your own mortality is to have to cast Scourgify on a mountain of dishes because your husband's idea of fun is celebrating home with friends, his friends, mind you. Guess I wasn't the sort of girl you'd…"
Snape was not paying attention to her. His mind was holding onto two pieces of crucial information: The ghost was real, at least real enough for others to see her and for that bloody Machiavellian wizard to know exactly who she was either by deduction or by a glimpse. And she was the same, just as she hadn't in life, she didn't care a whit for him. He had risked his life for her to have a glimpse of her son. He had jeopardized the relationship with the only person alive who still believed in him. And all she could think about was what a sad lot she had gotten in life because she hadn't gone to Paris for her bloody birthday?! Severus Snape had little experience on what love is, but he had abundant experience on what it is not and in all the many ways in which people try to pass lesser goods for the real article.
The next coherent thoughts he had were, first: What was I thinking? And the second was the realization that he hadn't been thinking at all. He had been letting that succubus drag him by his nether regions. And if he let her, she would keep doing it until he was dead and buried too. The conclusion his sharp mind, which was built to favor the Gordian knot solution, came to was lapidary: I can't let that happen. Whatever this is, it ends now.
With a swish of his wand he changed the stupid Muggle outfit for a fleece robe and with another swish turned the tracker suit into a pile of cleaning rags. He was going to burn the sneakers, but that would have to wait. Without pause he opened the door in the bookcase that led upstairs, he went to the bathroom with the ghost trailing behind him. He didn't bother closing the door as he filled up the bathtub.
"Come on, Sev! You can't be angry at me. What was I supposed to do when Dumbledore apparated? It would have been worse for you if I had stayed."
He took off the robe and got in the tub without giving any indication that he could hear or see her. Not even when the ghost frowned, nor when its clothes disappeared and she got inside the tub with him. He laid down his head on the edge, closed his eyes tightly and thought about the process of making pimple-curing potions, beginning with the extraction of the bubotuber pus. And when the ghost rubbed against him, he retreated deep within his mind, just like he did when his father was beating him.
The ghost finally gave up and stood with flashing silver eyes. She spat at him: "This isn't over, Sev."
As she disappeared, he allowed himself a smirk. He thought, while lathering a cloth on his homemade cedarwood soap and vigorously washing his back: Ah, but my dear, it is.
AN: OK, despite what Snape wants to think. No, it's not over by far. But I wrote this chapter because I felt there has been an imbalance in the last two and he doesn't strike me like the kind of man who'd allow anyone to treat him like a lap dog. This evens the field but the game is just beginning. And now, for a rather lengthy afterword you are all welcomed to skip:
Thanks for the review, knowing someone is enjoying one of my fics always makes me happy. Happy enough to answer what is clearly a rhetorical question: I'm glad you didn't ask, Frank, you've guessed right that magic in my version of the HP Universe is indeed bounded more explicitly by the laws of physics, but the change is not significant, me thinks. I'm actually proposing magic is a fifth fundamental interaction that fits in The Standard Model and ties in with the existence of more energy and matter than expected (dark matter-dark energy). According to me the magic boson is the ultimate carrier particle, capable of defying our current understanding by interacting between all other fundamental forces. I think that way I can handle a whole lot better the time traveling, transmutations and the apparent defiance of thermodynamics of magic in canon HP.
You don't need any of those assumptions to read my fics, but I do need to have some guidelines to write them. This is the only way this poor Raving-claw can work things out. I like my flights of fancy to end in safe landings instead of obstreperous crashes. I'm slightly obsessive too, for example: I'm fretting because though the Reebok GL 6000 was indeed released in 1986, I'm not sure it was before the summer. So it is within the realm of possible I have Albus wearing anachronistic footwear and while I'm sure no one gives a damn about it, I kinda do. The point is that I love JK, but the way she introduced time traveling in her universe had me bracing for a very rough landing.
I hold onto the belief that anything but a universe bounded by clear rules will go chaotic pretty fast, magic or no magic, chaos is bad, in fics as much as in life. Entropy is what gives a direction to time, as our Universe travels inexorably into dissolution. It is so beautiful that every single life form is fighting against inertia (the tendency to return to prior states of chaos). For me that is pure poetry. I've posted a better explanation in my profile of what I think is the science in magic. I mostly use it for an ongoing Gelbus fic but it works for this one too… And yeah, I'm working out a thought experiment to explain magic through science because that is just how crazy I am.
Now on how much this story actually fits canon, understood as timeline, locales, characterization and such, I usually try not to divert too much from it, again I'm obsessive; but I do take liberties like changing Cokeworth into a Black Country coal town instead of the textile town that is depicted in the novels. Hey, it is still in the Midlands and by the 1980s it could have been both. Anyways, much as the Kurosawa's 1950 film called Rashōmon in which 4 different people tell 4 different tales about the same rape-murder, I think the versions of any event depend greatly upon who is telling the story. I'm taking Snape's perspective and back then he was not the most reliable narrator. My Severus is experiencing either the visitation of an undead entity or some form of mental breakdown…
The jury is still out on that one. He is powerful enough to fool others into thinking his delusions are real. And he is in his twenties. I do hold to a bioelectric explanation of how magic works within the human body, so it could very well be a textbook case of schizophrenia. I have some thoughts on it and on the Obscurial Syndrome. Keeping it short I think a certain mutation of their acethylcholine receptors makes wizards and witches more prone to certain neurological illness like schizophrenia and epilepsy, and since some of their cells act as very nifty Na-K capacitors, if left unchecked they can short or even go bum-bum. But those ideas are still a work in progress, I've just recently started reading about neuroplasticity. The idea that people can alter their delta waves by will is so exciting!
Mental health issues –mine and the characters'- aside, we all curate our memories to fit into our self-service or self-disservice narratives. We can only explain ourselves ex-post facto and the way we feel about it colors the way we remember what happened. Say that you are burdened by guilt, you will see all through those particular lenses. I think that is the value of stopping once in a while to take a walk down memory lane and reassess things from a firmer footing as you grow older and, hopefully, wiser. Shedding new light on old wounds can really help heal them. Severus Snape is growing up in this fic, so his perspective on his guilt and his relationship with Lily is going to become more nuanced, as it should. I really like him so I hope to be able to do justice to his journey.
Finally Yikes! This chapter came within an inch of veering into a Snapledore. I've never thought of that as a viable couple and now my fingers itch of want to write one… Anyways, I think I managed to salvage the chapter in the name of character development and the next is going to be pure Snily goodness.