Lachrymose Part Two
Light From A Dead Star
AN: This concerns the time period of the story. The story is taking place in the spring of 2003. Harry is twenty-two, because in the spring of 2003 he would be. I realize Snape appears much younger than he would in 2003, no matter what the season, and that the picture on his fridge was dated 2002. I meant to do that. Trust me.
I.
I'm stretched out on my bed with my feet at the head and so that I'm looking over the end, lying on my stomach, at home in my apartment in Muggle London with a slew of photographs spread out on the floor in front of me. Galatea is sitting on the small of my back, her tail twitching against my thighs. Below me is a montage of mysteries. Snape's smirking twenty-seven year old face juxtaposed with the harsher image of the Snape I knew. Thirty-two glossy magic photographs stay still, because not even magic can make the dead rise. Five of those are turned face down.
Last, I have my six stolen, muggle snapshots. Six pictures; three questions. Why is Snape young again? Where is he now? Who is Arienette?
I've been staring at these photos for hours. I know the answer isn't going to be found in my bedroom. I let my fingers brush the shiny surface of the picture of Arienette. She's not much older than I am, curly dark brown hair and brown eyes. Straight white teeth and healthy skin. She's pretty, but she's not drop dead. Maybe that's just jealousy though.
Yes, jealousy. I admitted that to myself three hours ago when I spread out these photos. It's irrational. It's idiotic. For all I know her skinless body is decaying in the ocean she's gazing at in this picture, but it sure doesn't look like it would be. So she's just another symbol of how betrayed I feel, she's just another clue, and she's just another mystery.
I pause in my mental tirade, back up a few thoughts. Decaying in the ocean…the ocean! Of course! I don't know who Arienette is, but there has to be someone who does, and how better to find out than to investigate? I jump up, upsetting the cat, who meows in annoyance and then jumps primly to the ground and steps delicately around the photographs and out the door. I've already thrown the closet door open and ripped a few shirts from their hangers. I've got some packing to do.
* * *
The San Juan Islands are about as far from England as you can get without going to Proxima Centari. At least it feels that way. I can't apparate because they're too far away. So I'm stuck apparating from England to Rhode Island, Rhode Island to Montana, Montana to Washington. I rent a car when I reach Seattle, Washington, and take a ferry to Orcas Island, which, I've been told by locals, is where the picture was taken.
The ferry takes almost two hours to reach the Friday Harbor, on Orcas, and staying in my car makes me feel claustrophobic, so I get out to wander the upper decks. I give the cafeteria worker one greasy American dollar in exchange for some greasy American coffee, but I can't find any sugar, so I drink it without. I really don't care what my coffee tastes like, so long as it is, in fact, coffee.
There's not a whole lot to do on this boat. There's a play area for little children, with a few five year olds are running up and down its plastic expanses, and there's a small arcade where muggle adolescents are feeding coins to video games. I remember Dudley used to love video games, and I walk over, digging in my pocket to find the right amount of money. I die in thirty seconds, tops, and decide that video games are stupid anyway.
When we finally reach Orcas Island I'm about ready to die of boredom. I drive into the town and promptly get lost trying to find a hotel. The streets are small and packed with people. It's nearly summer, and there are just enough tourists to make driving impractical. I manage to find a hotel with a parking lot and quickly procure a room.
After I've unpacked I return to the front desk with my picture of Arienette on her little rock cliff, looking out at the ocean. The man at the cashier doesn't seem busy, so I walk over. "Hi," I greet him, smiling as politely as I can. "I'm not from around here and-"
"You couldn't be, with that accent." He grins at me pleasantly. "No one is really from around here. Most of the homes are further out on the island, not in town. What can I do for you?"
"I'm looking for this spot," I tell him, and hand him the picture. "Do you know where it is?"
"Sure! That's about a twenty, maybe thirty, minute drive from here. It's a camp sight. I can get you a brochure if you like. It has directions in it."
"That would be very nice, thank you."
He hands me the pamphlet with a smile. "Are you here on your own?"
"Yes, I'm working, actually."
"Must be important if you've come all the way from across the pond."
"It is."
"Well, just let me know if there's anything I can do for you. If you're going to go camping, you'll want supplies, and I know the best stores in town." He smiles at me again, and it's striking how sincere he can be so easily. How easy it is for him to smile.
* * *
I drive out to the camp sight that afternoon, and I'm not sure what I'll find. I half expect Snape to be waiting for me, or this Arienette to just pull herself out of the water like a mermaid and tell me all the secrets I'm searching for.
The ocean is beautiful from here. The camp sight is full of tents, each with a picnic table and a spot to build a fire. There are trees and bushes blocking the road from the area, and the site is on a hill, sloping gently downwards, leveling out, then going down again until it levels out at a gravel path. Beyond the path is a small field of pale, dry grass, some trees, and then the ocean. As I walk closer I see that the grass gives way to rocks, creating a rocky cliff that you can climb down and across, until you're at the edge of the pounding waves. Kelp floats by, brown and green, and there's a steep rock cliff with a cove at the bottom and a few people kayaking. I wonder how they got down without falling, but I've got more important things to think about, because I've found the spot in the picture.
I glance from my photo to the spot, trying to see her there, to get some sense for who she is, or was, or whatever. I reach out for her identity and close my fingers around salty air, around campfire smoke and nothing substantial. It's getting dark.
* * *
"…and they were never seen again. And that's why it's haunted now."
I'm walking to my car when I hear two girls talking in hushed tones. Something about the way they sound stops me, and I walk over to them, where they're sitting on a log. The girl who had been talking looks up at me first, her bright eyes flashing. Her friend glances up as well, quickly shifting and fluttering her eyelashes at me. I sit down on the sand in front of them.
"Hullo," I say, and the first girl's eyes widen a little at my accent. What is it with Americans and British accents? I ignore it. "I couldn't help hearing your conversation. What were you talking about?"
"The Witch's Hut," the flirty girl says, still trying to give me the best view of her chest. "It's over there, next to those blackberry bushes." She motions with her chin, and I look over to see a small, dark structure. The whole thing is about three times as big as an outhouse over all. I look back at the girls, raising an eyebrow.
"It's haunted," the first girl breathes. "We've been coming here for years, and we can never find a way into it."
"What makes you think it's haunted?"
"I just…feel it," she blushes. "The island is full of haunted things. And that one, that's not the strongest but it's got something weird about it. Like…something left over." She starts blushing again. "I know that sounds insane."
"On the contrary," I tell her. "I find it very interesting. How does one go about reserving a spot here?"
* * *
The next night, with some help from my hotel managing friend, I am setting up a tent within view of the house. The girls I met yesterday have been flitting about the camp site, giving me sight seeing advice, asking about England, showing me how to climb around on the rocks and explore little caves they've found. I've nothing better to do, so I let them lead me around. When they disappear with their families for a few hours I take the opportunity to sit in what I'm beginning to think of as Arienette's spot, gazing out at the water.
A long way off there is a pod of whales. Orcas, someone near me says. They come every year, which is how the island got its name. Killer whales, some people still call them. An endangered species almost. I watch them for as long as they are in view.
My real job here starts after dark. In my tent, I lay awake, steeling myself for whatever may happen. Then, wrapped in a heavy jumper, I apparate into the so-called Witch's Hut.
To start off with, there are no witches. The girls would be very disappointed. It's just a dark, empty shack that looks like it was used for storage a few years before time began, and now it's overrun with spider webs and mold. I wrinkle my noise and flick my wand. "Lumos."
The shack is a little more interesting when it's well lit. For one thing, there's a small area in the middle that looks like a fire pit. The charred wood and ashes have been cold for a very, very long time, but someone was here. I do a brief search, unsure of what I'm hoping for. Another cryptic letter maybe, or a photograph or a body. There's nothing. Just the long dead fire and the feeling that I'm as close as I'll get tonight.
"Where are you?" I whisper. "And who are you?" But I'm not sure if I'm
talking to Snape or Arienette.
II.
I move myself back into the hotel the next day, to the sorrow of my two little fan girls. There's nothing I can do out here in the wilderness and, while I would under normal circumstances be tempted to stay, there's something about the air in this camp sight that just rips away my breath.
Thus I am left with no significant clues. I've been to the camp sight they stayed at; I've seen her seat and what may or may not have been a midnight rendezvous. I'm stuck. There's nothing I can find here, but there's nothing I can find anywhere else either.
I spend the next two days searching beaches and the town. I drive out to the various tourist locations, hoping for a feel of them, for a sense that they've been here and left something behind. I find nothing. The town is crowded with life; there's a marina and ice cream and bookstores and a million things to do and see, but none of them are Snape.
The beaches are a little bit more useful. They yield just as little material evidence, but there are times I can catch the scent of him on the wind, the magical imprint of his existence on the world around him, or a fading trace of glamour. I have to wonder if I'm not making it up.
It's Sunday when I pack my car back up and get ready to leave. The ferry, cursed boat, won't be round till five in the afternoon, so I decide to visit one more beach. I drive my car out to Cattle Point, driving between long grasses, under grey blue sky, past farms and a light house until I reach the ruins of what I believe must have been an early fort of kind. There are thistles growing all round, and a steep path down to the beach. It almost isn't worth it, but I feel a hint of magic here, and I want to follow it.
I climb down the path to the rocky beach bellow. The waves are beating against a natural rock wall, and a ways off there is a long line of dark rock outcroppings where the gravel of the beach ends. I make my way towards it, the sense of magic growing as I go.
On one side of me is the ocean, a line of seaweed and kelp it's driven onto the shore marking where it can reach at high tide, and the gravel turns to sand nearer to the water. On my other side is a collection of driftwood and logs pushed up in storms. There are a few crumbling log forts that some idiot child must have made. I shake my head and continue walking, my feet crunching over the ground.
The dark stone ground is covered in seaweed and tide pools when I reach it. Barnacles and hermit crabs, even some starfish, it is a treasure trove of aquatic life. There's a congregation of vultures further along, and I make my way towards them, wondering what they're up to. I have a sinking feeling as I approach, their dark feathered bodies hiding their meal from my sight. I'm up wind of it, so I don't smell it, but they smell me, and the birds take to the skies, their dark wings circling until they land on the cliff above me and watch with reproachful eyes.
I take a few steps closer, smelling the sweetly disgusting scent of rotting flesh. Blood and bones and broken mottled fur. It's a baby seal, and I cover my mouth with my hand before moving on, incredibly relieved.
The throb of magic is getting stronger. Snape is here; I can feel him. I can almost fucking taste him. So I let myself be drawn along by this magical thread, over slippery rocks and barnacles, until I feel sand under my feet, and look up to find a steep sandy path leading to the light house I passed earlier.
I'm dizzy with the feel of enchantment as I get nearer to the building. Its windows are boarded with cardboard; broken glass lines the edges of its stone base. Below me I can see the ocean foaming against the rocks, a few seals surfacing here and there. I step up the structure and lay one hand on its side. The dizzy feel of magic is overpowering, and I step back, nearly losing my balance. I have to get inside.
* * *
There are times I really love being a wizard. Apparating is one of them. It isn't that you just vanish and reappear. Your molecules have to realign themselves, scramble and unscramble themselves to get you through solid rock. There is a moment, though it's so short you barely notice, when you are not yourself. Your DNA is not your own. Your atoms could run away from you then. And it's the greatest danger off all, because if you can't recall your body and make it take shape again, you'll end up splinched, and half of you will be in another room.
I realign my molecules on the inside of the small lighthouse. It's pitch black, and I whisper the words to light the room. Small. It's small and cold and damp, with spider webs and broken glass. A narrow flight of stairs leads to the top of the lighthouse and the beacon. I begin my slow climb.
I'm at the top step when something knocks me off my feet. That growing sense of magic concentrates itself into a force, rushes past me in a wave of darkness blacking out the sun and a sound like howling. Stones and broken glass; I'm going to die. I'm going to hit the floor below me and crack my head open and die.
But I don't. Something is there, and it catches me. The darkness at the top of the stairs is still raging, still howling and whipping itself around like a living shroud. But whatever has caught me is dragging me closer into a firm embrace, one arm wrapped protectively around my chest as the other points a wand and sends a shower of sparks flying towards the creature up above. It shrieks its fury down at us, and I'm enveloped in dark, my eyes sliding shut before I can ever see the face of my saviour.
* * *
I wake up in the sunlight.
No. That's not right.
I wake up in a bedroom. There's sunlight spilling through the windows, a kind of yellow glow staining the whole room golden. I feel like all my bones have been taken out, polished with acid, and then reset inside of my skin. I groan, closing my eyes again.
There's a rustle near my side and then a low, familiar voice. "Harry? Are you hurt?"
I almost chuckle at the words. They're so familiar. And in that voice I'd almost think I was still dreaming. I open my eyes and look straight into a velvet black pair directly above me. The face is all wrong, too soft and too young, and the hair looks clean and smooth. The deep lines and creases are gone, clear white skin and a full lower lip in their place.
And then I start freaking out.
"Holy fuck!" I sit bolt upright, ignoring the throb in my head. His hands push back on my shoulders, trying to get me to lie down. I struggle. "Don't touch me! Don't fucking touch me!" I look about frantically. Where the hell is my wand?
"Calm down, calm down," Snape's voice sounds strange. He sounds…patient. Like he's soothing a skittish horse. That is so stupid I start panicking all over again, clawing at him until he grabs both my wrists in one hand and slams them onto the pillows above my head. My shoulders hit the mattress with a thud.
"I said calm down, Potter."
I glare up at him, my breathing ragged. He glares right back. "Get the hell off of me," I growl. "I swear to Merlin Snape, I will hurt you so terribly if you don't…"
"How are you going to do that without your wand?" He smirks. I blink. The effect of his facial theatrics is rather different now that he looks like this. "You never listened to me when I stressed the extreme importance of alternative forms of protection."
"Like tearing Muggles apart with your hands?" I grimace and flex, trying to get away. "What the hell have you done to your face?"
This is, perhaps, not the most relevant of questions, but I'm certainly curious about it and, light headed as I am, it just sort of pops out. Snape smiles. "Noticed that, did you? I'll let you in on a little secret; all the really famous wizards use a glamour."
So he's purposely created the illusion of youth around himself. "Why?"
"I suppose it makes them feel like they're holding everyone's attention that much better."
"Fuck you," I hiss. He's being his old self, so supremely difficult.
"Is that any way to talk to me after I've just saved your life?" He sniffs haughtily. "I go to all the trouble of following you on your little crusade to get yourself killed and this is my thanks. Well, I suppose it's to be expected. It really was silly of me to think that you'd grown some sense of courtesy in the past five years."
I've given up fighting him by now, and I'm just glaring. "I'm not playing this game with you," I tell him. "I'm not going to give you that satisfaction."
"Oh, but you already have." He releases me and stands, looking down. It suddenly becomes extremely important to keep him in this room.
"Who is Arienette?"
He narrows his eyes and flashes me a frown. "That's none of your business."
"I don't care what my business is; I want to know! Did you kill her? Was she your lover? What? Where is she?" I can feel myself getting hysterical, but I don't really care and I couldn't fight it if I did. He's got me pinned with that intense stare again, but his eyes betray nothing. That part of him, at least, is not young.
"You were sent by God to punish me," he finally says.
I laugh. "There is no God, and you punish yourself."
"In that case I may assume you are not being sent after me like a demented avenging angel?" He raises an eyebrow with practiced ease. "Go back to London Harry. Go home and forget about this, and move on."
"Are you saying this out of the goodness of your heart," I ask, "or because you're scared I'll catch you?"
His face is only inches away before I can even blink. And now I can definitely see more than a flicker of emotion. Anger. If nothing else, I have always been able to make him angry. I force myself to smirk, as he pulls away. "You're scared," I challenge him.
"Go back to sleep," he suggests, and I feel my eyelids dropping with
the weight of exhaustion. Damn him, I think, and then I'm asleep again.
III.
I wake up alone after sundown, with a crisp white envelope on the bedside table by my glasses and wand. The sheets are drawn up to my neck, carefully tucked around me. It feels weird, waking up without an alarm clock, without the sound of the radio. I've been missing it, I realize, the routine and regularity of it. This is just so like Snape; that he can come into my life five years too late and ruin everything again.
Well that's just fine. I push the covers off and reach for my glasses. I reassure myself with the weight of my wand in my hand, and then reach for the letter, knowing I'll regret it.
"Dear Harry," I read. "You always ask the wrong questions. What have I done to my face? Who is Arienette? These things cannot possibly be of any importance to you. You are a very troubled young man, and I suggest you seek the light of God. He's just worked wonders in my life. His forgiving presence can be a reminder of my own imperfection and my own inherent value, both at once. It is comforting, to turn back to how this all began and reflect upon the light that moves in all our lives. I do hope you'll consider this.
"I must thank you as well, for looking after Galatea for me. I had meant to return for her, but she seems quite attached to you and I would hate to disrupt that. She bonds difficultly, but then, so many creatures do. How easily do you bond, Harry Potter? How much love does it take?
"I suggest you return to London and close this case. Try to think back to when you were most at peace, and find the Lord's presence in your happiness. Love, Severus."
Flabbergasted, close the letter and stare blankly into the dark.
* * *
London is darker now, and my flat is colder. All the scalding coffee in the world cannot warm me, and the radio wakes me each morning at half past six. Routines. I cannot live without my routines.
It's been a week. I returned and wrote my report on the mission before returning to the paperwork. Snape's presence is curled in the back of my mind, twined with something much more potent, something that remains a chilling shriek on the edges of my dreams at night. That thing at the top of the stairs, proving that some things are haunted.
And of course, I went right to it, jumped right in without caution, like always. And, as always, he was there to save me. Should I count how many times I'd have died without him? I don't believe I can count that high.
I can almost hear his voice.
"Mister Potter, how perfectly typical of you to rush in head first and endanger yourself yet again."
"Mister Potter, can we please go one day without my having to save your life?"
"Dear Harry, you always ask the wrong questions."
What are the right questions? What would I ask if I had him here now? Why did you save me? Why did you always save me? Why were you following me? Why did you do it, any of it? I would ask him why, not what or who. But I'm in danger of letting this become too personal, and while Abernathy may assure me that it's quite all right to be so dedicated to my work, this obsession exceeds a healthy work ethic.
I told him that I have no clues. That I have no answers. That we might as well put this whole thing aside until we receive new information. I lied.
I do a lot of thinking at night, when I can't fall asleep, and I can never fall asleep. I think about all sorts of things, like what happens when we die or whether plants can feel pain. I think about what I'd hoped to do with my life when I was ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen. I think about Snape, and all his damned letters.
And that's the thing. Snape's last letter makes no sense if I take it at face value. Snape may have changed, but I sincerely doubt that he's found a higher purpose through Jesus. Even if he has, he would never urge someone to follow his example. So what is it he's trying to tell me?
Long nights I lie awake, staring at where the ceiling would be if I could see through the darkness. And that's just it, isn't it? Snape wants me to see the light. Go back to beginning, he says. Look back to how it all began. And where was I the happiest? All signs, I think, point to Hogwarts.
Who is Snape's God then? Who is it he is mockingly referring to? A forgiving power bent on reminding him not only of his own worth, but of his own short comings. Dumbledore, of course. So Snape wants me at Hogwarts, but beyond that I know nothing. And I am not prepared to waltz into Hogwarts after all these years and face an enemy like Snape. So I tell Abernathy I am, in essence, clueless.
Or I do until the tests on the body come back.
The body found in Snape's cellar was originally assumed to be a hapless Muggle. However, inquisitions around the town proved that no one had gone missing. The body had been sent to a Wizarding laboratory to be identified. And one morning, while I'm trying to drown myself in coffee, Abernathy dumps the results on my desk. Dudley Dursley died of blood loss, aged twenty-two.
Funny how you can't recognise someone without skin.
Don't get me wrong; I don't care that the little shit is dead. He and
I haven't spoken since I graduated and moved out. I'd just sort of forgotten
him, I suppose, as much as I could forget anyone like Dudley. But I understand
Snape's meaning. This is a threat, plain and simple. It doesn't matter
that I don't care about the corpulent corpse, because it's someone who
should be close to me. It's family. And in the future it might be someone
I'm less ready to surrender.
* * *
"Assistant Director Abernathy?" I knock on his door and wait less patiently than I'd like to admit to. He opens the door magically a few seconds later and calls me in.
"Harry, my boy! It's so good to see you. Please, have a seat." I sit across from him, pretending to smile. "So, what can I do for you today?"
"I think I may have found a clue in Snape's last letter to me, sir," I tell him.
"Ken, please call me Ken." His smile is singularly irritating. "What's this about a clue?"
"You see si-Ken, I was thinking about what Snape could mean with his religious psychobabble. He's not exactly religiously devout, you know. And I believe he wants me to go to Hogwarts."
Abernathy steeples his fingers and looks like he's concentrating very hard on this information. "Interesting. Very interesting. Hogwarts you say? Well, I suppose the only thing for it is for you to go then."
"Sir, this could very well be a trap," I remind him. "Snape is a dangerous criminal. Do you think it wise to simply meet his veiled requests head on?"
"Harry, this agency is not about hiding and cowardice. You of all people should know that. It is our duty to be the Wizarding community's first line of defense."
"To rush in head first and without fear," I murmur.
"Exactly!" He claps. "That's it exactly Harry."
I pause. "May I request that Aurors be sent to protect Hogwarts while I investigate? For the students' safety."
"Of course, of course. I'll get some people from the higher divisions on it." He beams at me. "You're turning into such a little private investigator. A regular Sherlock Foams."
"Holmes," I correct.
"Whatever. Muggle thing. Never cared much for it," he rambles on, standing and shaking my hand vigorously as he ushers me from his office. "Now go out there and get him!"
* * *
Galatea and I take the train to Hogwarts. We're alone, but the trains still run. Or maybe they only run for me. I don't care.
Seek the Lord's presence in my happiness, Snape had commanded. Dumbledore's presence in my childhood at Hogwarts then. I feel that I should expect something awful, but I don't know why. Dumbledore saved my life. He took care of me, watched out for me, offered me understanding and kindness in a world where I had nothing and no one.
I haven't seen him in four years. After the war we kept in touch for a short while, during the reconstruction. Then things just sort of got in the way. I was busy with my new job, constantly on missions, constantly battling evil. And after that, after I joined the homicide units, well, it just felt too strange to talk to him again.
As I step off the train, my suitcase in one hand and Galatea in the other, I see Hagrid. He's gotten older; his shaggy hair not quite so dark as I remember. "Hullo Harry," he greets me gruffly, enveloping me in a quick hug. "I haven't seen you since you was seventeen!"
"Hello Hagrid," I smile up at him. "How's everything up at the castle? Did the Aurors arrive?"
"Eh…they're here all right," he scratches his head. "Things aren't exactly wonderful up there, if you get my meaning." I stare at him blankly as he shrugs. "You'll understand when we get there. Come on then, let me give you a hand."
As he takes my suitcase Galatea hisses fiercely at him. There's a coach waiting for us, drawn by something other than horses. There's a slight disruption of air, and then we're off, toward Hogwarts and whatever puzzle it is Snape has set up for me to work out now.
I'm not looking forward to it.
