Serpentigena

Chapter 10: Snow White

Snape crawled forward, his stomach heaving. He had already thrown up everything in his stomach down to the acid that lined it, and was so weak he couldn't stand. Helplessly he touched the still-warm skin of the girl that he had almost let himself love, the child with the morbid humor and the love of potions that rivaled his own. His gazed trailed from her black eyelashes down her sprawled arm to her clenched fists. With trembling hands he straightened her limbs as the other Death Eaters did the same for Voldemort, untwining her hand from the thorns and the long white fingers of her father, pulling her other arm from it's wild stance. He frowned as he realized that her right hand was clamped around something: upon further inspection it turned out to be a tiny bottle, no bigger than two of his fingers, filled with a clear fluid.

Snape smiled, and downed the bottle without a second thought. Luckily for him most antidotes were basically the same, harmless if taken needlessly, but ineffective if they weren't made to counteract the poison taken. Luckily for him, Josephine knew her potions. Luckily for him, he would live.

It took a few seconds for his muscles to stop knotting. By then most of the other Death Eaters had fled or were crouched near the body of Voldemort, their fingers frantically searching for a pulse, a twitch, an exhale, anything to prove to themselves that the man they had given their lives to wasn't dead. Snape took advantage of their distraction to crouch near the fireplace and activate a Speaking charm to connect himself to Dumbledore's office.

Once he had leaned into the fire, he saw that Dumbledore was not alone inside his office. Neville was there too, his face contorted with something as close to fury as Neville Longbottom had ever come. "Headmaster!" Snape greeted him.

"Ah, Severus, you have news?" Dumbledore said, getting out of his chair. He floated majestically over to stand nearer to the fireplace.

"They're both dead," Snape said grimly, blinking soot out of his eyes. "Josephine and Voldemort. We need to dispose of the bodies."

"I'll contact the Ministry and have them send someone," Dumbledore replied, his eyes grave. "Voldemort will most certainly be burned, to prevent any resurrection attempts."

"I don't want the Ministry," Snape growled. Neville blinked in surprise at this uncharacteristic display of temper from the sarcastic Potions Master. "They'll put her on display, when she should at least be buried respectfully—"

Dumbledore shook his head. "I personally will see to it that Josephine is buried, Severus. If necessary, I will come down there myself and supervise the removal of the bodies."

"I would be reassured if you did," Snape said curtly, pulling his head out of the fireplace and back into the castle. The room was now completely empty of Death Eaters: Voldemort had been arranged into a more dignified pose, sitting in an armchair with his head thrown back against the headrest. His wand was in one hand, the other held a bit of green ribbon, a last vestige of Slytherin. Josephine still lay on the floor, smiling peacefully, her dark hair fanned around her head. There were no marks on her: she appeared to be in blissful sleep. One hand still clutched the rose.

"It must be enchanted," Snape thought aloud, reaching for the rose, but pulling back his hand with a snort at his own idiocy. He should know better than to reach for something enchanted, especially when he didn't know a damn thing about it! He wrapped his hands in the hem of his robes and picked it up, and then held it to the fireplace to see it better. It was still perfect, even coated with half-dried blood—the blood of Slytherin.

There was a knock on the door. Dumbledore poked his head in. "I came as quickly as I could, with a burial detail and as few Ministry workers as possible. They only want Voldemort, Severus," he whispered.

Snape nodded and threw the rose onto the fire, watching the flames lick it into nothing in an eye blink. He did his bit with the Ministry, nodding politely and helping two other men carry Josephine outside to the mortician.

When his help wasn't needed anymore, he snuck back inside and spat on Voldemort's shoes.

Curiosity drew him into the next room, where Voldemort and Josephine had talked for those agonizing long minutes. The huge hearth was littered with the ashes of the dying fire, casting a sickly yellow light on the contents of the room: a few armchairs, a broken vase, and what seemed to be most of the contents of Josephine's potion shop scattered on a table. He walked towards it and jumped a foot when his foot crunched.

Snape bent down and felt the broken glass, smelling a nauseating odor that reminded him strongly of—smelling salts? Frowning he ran a hand over the stones, pulling it away saturated with a clear fluid that reeked of Awakening Charms. Thoughtfully he ran his hands through the shards of glass, ignoring the tiny cuts he received from the pieces. Why was this one broken? Was there a purpose to it?

"A powerful Awakening potion…" Snape mused, picking up the pieces and dropping them, listening to the sharp little sounds they made. "Josephine broke it…or Voldemort broke it…but why?"

He closed his eyes. A crisp image of Josephine lying on the floor, looking as if she only slept, smiling blissfully, appeared on his eyelids. "As if she was only sleeping!" Snape shouted, clenching his fists around the pieces. "The Potion of Eternal Sleep!"

~~

Georgina Petersen had been a mortician for most of her life, all of thirty-seven years. Still, she was taken aback at the freshness of the corpse delivered to her that afternoon. It was a girl, seemingly barely out of puberty. There was nothing wrong with her, except tiny red marks on her right hand. The man who delivered the body to Georgina had told her that the girl had no living relatives, and her guardian could not be found. Her name had been Josephine, no last name, and she was scheduled for public burial later that night.

"Buried in a hurry," Georgina muttered as she straightened the thin legs and folded the hands on Josephine's chest. "You were a pretty one," she said, reaching for her makeup kit. Georgina was tempted to make the girl up as Snow White: she had the porcelain skin, the black hair, and (when Georgina peeked under her closed eyelids) lovely blue eyes. The only thought that restrained her was that Snow White had woken up: this girl never would.

She painted the girl's lips red, arranged her hair, and covered her legs inside the casket with a blue velvet blanket. Georgina pursed her thin lips. Something was missing. After a few minutes of thought, she added a necklace of polished jet beads to the white neck.

"There," she said, smiling victoriously. The girl may have had no one that really cared that she was dead, but she would go to the grave looking marvelous!

Georgina had turned to her next customer, an eighty-year-old man, when the door burst open behind her. She screamed and wheeled to see a disheveled man racing from coffin to coffin, his hair hanging over his face like a mask.

"Josephine?" the man cried, knocking off lids and upending coffins like they weighed nothing. "Where is she?" he demanded, his black eyes dark in his sallow face.

Silently Georgina pointed, her face turning an unflattering shade of puce.

The man grabbed the thin shoulders and lifted her out of the box, propping her up against the table. "Josephine? Wake up!" he whispered, then muttered some magical words and let go of her shoulders. The girl flopped onto the floor like a rag doll. "Damn!" the man whispered. "You've got to wake up! I can't make the restorative! You're the only one who knows how, and…" he trailed off, pulling the limp figure towards him, and rested his chin on her shoulder.

The silence in the room was terrible and long. Josephine stayed silent, wilted inside the circle of Snape's arms. Georgina sank to the floor, her hands trembling. Snape's face, already desperate, began to melt into sadness terrible to look at.

This is why I have no friends, Snape cursed himself, and this is why I don't like people! Because people are lost and can't be regained, because those you love are the favored victims of darkness.

Josephine stayed waxy and unmoving, her thin face peaceful in a way Snape didn't understand. "You're not dead," he whispered in her ear. "I know that you're just sleeping." There was no response. Frantically he searched his mind for any other way to break the spell besides the antidote: there was none.

"Sir…er…sir," Georgina said her voice cracking most unbecomingly. "If I may speak, that girl is…"

"Don't say it," Snape snapped.

Georgina swallowed. "All right then. Are you her guardian? I can't release her b—er, her, to you otherwise."

The man stared down at the relaxed face, seeing that the fury and anger/pain that had been written into the set of her eyebrows, the wry twist in her mouth, was gone. The cynicism she had gained layer by layer in childhood and her self-hatred had vanished, leaving only eternally peaceful sleep. It would be wrong to take that from her, somehow. "I am her guardian," Snape said without expression. "Forgive my behavior. The Ministry has only recently told me that Josephine died, and I was distraught."

"That's all right, then. I've seen worse," Georgina said, pulling Josephine out of the man's now-loose grip. She smiled reassuringly at Snape. "It's good to know that someone cares about her." She smiled, a pretty smile in such a painfully plain woman.

Snape couldn't bring himself to smile at the kindly mortician, but he managed a quick shake of her hand before he fled. His face was stone as he walked down the street. If I walk a little harder, a little faster, I can fly away too. I can get to that place where Josephine is. It wasn't until he was locked in his office, his face buried in his hands, that he allowed himself to cry.