Chapter Five: The Deliverer and Lost Memories

I stare at my surroundings, dumbfounded. The man, Snape, has Apparated us to a very neat looking house. Snape releases my arm and touches my shoulder. I jerk away from his touch, sidling out of arm's reach my eyes never leaving him. He arches a black eyebrow at me, his face grim. "Is this how you thank your deliverer?" His voice is laced with sarcastic irony.

"Deliverer." I rasp at last, my face contorting in the same maniacal grin I had worn not so long ago in Azkaban. "What have you delivered me from?"

"Lucius and Peter." He says matter-of-factly. "And stop smiling like that. You know as well as I do that you aren't mad."

"Oh, I see. Once you figured out I'm not insane, you decided you wanted me all to yourself to torture, rather than let Malfoy have the fun. Now, where I come from, rescuing people involves releasing them from bondage, not interning them to something worse." My smile seems to twist into a sneer on its own. "Besides, I may not be very good sport, despite what Malfoy says, considering I might not last long under another cruciatus curse." I return in a voice dripping with contempt.

He frowns slightly. "I did not bring you here to torture you. Lucius had no practical reason to harm you, and neither do I."

"Then why bother rescuing me?" I ask, my mind beginning to reel, the sneer fading. Snape's lip curls.

"I would not have expected someone who has lived with no one to talk to for so many years, and who has, no doubt, learned the value of words, to waste them by utilizing them for such insensible questions. Now, go upstairs and into the bathroom. Clean your teeth, take a shower, and then put on the spare robes you'll find there." I raise my eyebrows, surprised. He holds up a hand to silence any other ridiculous questions I might have. "Go, before I change my mind and send you back to Lucius' mercy."

I stand in the bathroom, marveling at the clean tiled floor and walls. So white…and there are smaller tiles dispersed here and there, tiles full of color. Reds, greens, and blues, colors I had not seen since…then. I touch them in wonderment. I turn my attention to the sink, resting my hands on the cool white porcelain. Tentatively, I reach out and turn one of the brass handles, and watch in near disbelief as cool, clear water flows from the tap. I scoop handfuls of it into my mouth, reveling in the feel of clean water pouring down my parched throat. I had almost forgotten about the miracle of indoor plumbing, something that so many people take for granted.

Suddenly, something catches my eye, causing me to look up, and I'm staring at my reflection in the mirror hanging over the sink. The face I knew so well has changed dramatically from the visage I remember in some hazy memory. At one time, I might have been called attractive, but now, my cheeks are sunken in, as are my eyes, giving my face a skull like appearance. My hair has grown so much, that it falls knotted and greasy past my waist. At one time it had been a brownish-red, from what I can remember, but the years of filth and grime had turned it nearly black, with only slight bits of the original color peeping through the grease haphazardly. But what cause me to feel a sudden surge of panic were my eyes. They stare back at me, their whites now bloodshot and yellow, the irises filled with a dark void, an endless night.

True, I had left Azkaban, but Azkaban would not leave me as easily. I start

back from the sink, covering my face with my hands. "No, no, no!" The words rip from me violently. "That is not I! That cannot be I!" Hot tears pour from my haunted eyes, and I wipe at them viciously, an automatic reaction of trying to hide my emotions.

I don't know how long it takes for me to gather my thoughts enough to peel

off the rags that had once been my prison uniform, and step into the bathtub. But somehow I do it. I turn on the water, letting it blast first cold and then increasingly hot over my filthy body, until steam clouds up the bathroom. At first I stand there, my head hanging almost to my chest, before I finally find the incentive to pick up the bar of soap. I spend nearly an hour scraping the layers of dirt off until my skin is red and raw from the hot water and continuous rubbing, as if I'm trying to remove all the vestiges of the cursed prison from my person.

At long last I step out of the shower, dry myself off, and pull on one of the spare robes Snape had mentioned. The fit is a bit big, but after those scraps of cloth I mentioned before I could be wearing a circus tent and I wouldn't care. For long moments I stare into the reflection, somewhat modified by the careful cleaning, though my hair remains as knotted as it had been before, though slightly less greasy, the original color more visible now. I slowly leave the bathroom and walk downstairs.

Snape is standing at a table in the kitchen, perusing a scrap of parchment, and I spot an owl sitting patiently on a perch by the window. It turns its golden eyes on me and I stare back. I thought I'd never see one again, and yet here it was, hooting softly as I walk over and stroke its back gently. "Hello, bird." I murmur. Without so much a glance in my direction, Snape says, "Enjoy the shower, now that you've used up all of my hot water?"

I shrug and stand where I am. "I did. Now, what do you want, Snape?"

"To give you a pair of scissors." He says finally looking at me.

"Scissors?" I echo, startled. He reaches over and holds up one of my matted locks in his long fingers for me to see.

"To cut off this mess."

As I lean over a garbage can, cutting indiscriminately at the long tangled locks, I hear Snape moving around the kitchen. I chop at the hair ferociously, when, abruptly, smells of cooking fill the kitchen, causing my stomach to growl loudly and my mouth to literally fill with saliva. Finally, I finish, the hair short, sticking out in many cowlicks. I look like a Kneazle that's been caught in a hurricane.(1) I nearly laugh at myself, running a hand through my hair, before turning around.

Snape has put food on the table. A bowl of gently steaming soup, a loaf of

bread, a small salad, and a pitcher of orange liquid beckon me. I look at him and he smirks slightly. "Nice hair; quite an improvement. Now, sit and eat."

I comply without a word, pulling the food towards me, pushing away all questions. 'Never look a gift horse in the mouth, even if that horse is a slimy looking, hook-nosed stranger.' I think consolingly.

I eat slowly, carefully, basking in the warmth of the soup as it hits the pit of my shrunken stomach. It is like heaven. I rip off a piece of the loaf, dipping it gently into the soup, allowing the liquid to absorb into the bread before stuffing it into my mouth and chewing with unearthly vigor. Snape is silently watching while I eat. He stands next to owl, his arms crossed over his chest, his black eyes looking closely at me, and I can only imagine what he is thinking. Perhaps he is finally realizing he made a mistake by taking in a convict.

'No, he made a mistake years ago when he joined that group of mask toting terrorists and he knows it.'

I feel the urge to ask him what will happen if Lucius Malfoy discovers Snape had actually taken me into his home and given me food. At the same time I know I don't want to hear the answer. Instead of speaking, I concentrate on the food before me.

Once I start to feel slightly full (something I haven't felt in such a long time that I've almost forgotten that one can feel full of anything other than despair) I stop eating for a moment to pour myself a glass of the orange liquid. 'It's pumpkin juice. I haven't had this particular drink since…' An image flashes across my mind…one with blurred faces, happy laughter…someone's voice cuts through the mixed chatter, asking me how I've done on finals. I close my eyes, trying to cling to the picture, but it's like trying to hold water in my cupped hands. It slips away, leaving only a few drops clinging to the crevices of my consciousness.

I put my glass down with a clatter, standing abruptly. I need to leave, to get away from this clean place and its strangely generous inhabitant. I don't want these memories that weren't memories but only partially recalled glimpses of a life that I don't even consider mine anymore.

I rush from the kitchen, through the living room and to the front door, not noticing, not caring if Snape makes any move to halt my flight. In a flash I'm outside and running, the wind streaming past my face, racing through the bright sunlight, away from all thoughts of forgotten memories and a past that does not belong to me.



1 Scamander, Newt 'Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them' Scholastic Press Inc., 2001 (24-25)