Continuation of Frozen Woe, part two
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The past. July 1, 1971. Morning.
He was home again, in the same room. Now there was sunlight streaming through the window, while he tried to write an essay for Charms that he was assigned only a week ago, on the last day of school.
"Severus!"
Her shriek blew through the paper-thin walls toward his room. He reluctantly capped his quill, and with a huff, pushed away from his desk and went toward the voice.
"Coming Mother," he hollered in response, as he quickly walked to the kitchen where his mother had (for once) been tending over the beans and rice which was to be supper.
"What is it, mother?"
"Your father wants you," she said. It looked to him that she was warning him of all the dangers his father could be, but Severus was not stupid. He at this point had realized that with people of position, you must pick and choose your battles -- most of the time bowing your head in servitude, waiting until the moment is right to strike.
The first thing he noticed about his father's office was its heat. It was hotter than he ever remembered, even at Hogwarts. His father was shuffling through papers on his desk. It was when those black obsidian eyes of age captured the younger's spark of rebellion that he was reduced to a little boy again.
"I have here," said his father, "several bills from your schooling. I notice several items -- most notably for hospital stays." He looked up at Severus, who wiped his forehead from the oppressive heat. "Explain."
"Around mid-April I fell with the flu," he said, "and had to spend two days in the Hospital Wing."
"Did you miss any school?"
"One day sir. But I assure you sir," he added hastily to the look of displeasure, "that day was forced upon me by the infirmaries, who said I was not fit to function."
His father muttered to himself. Severus noticed he had taken off his jacket and sat before him in his long-john top.
"It still doesn't explain this expense -- 'three days for cuts, bruises, pneumonia, and a broken left arm.' Explain."
Severus hung his head. He did not want to have to explain the incident which had put him in the hospital, it was still uncomfortable and embarrassing.
He felt his hands, and the sensation of perspiration and -- yes -- actually feeling warm to the touch was interesting. So it was possible, he thought. I can feel warm --
"Answer me now, dammit!"
Severus quickly let go of his hands and put them to his side. He looked at his father as solemnly as he could and replied:
"I got in a fight."
"A fight? With whom?"
He took a breath. "James Potter. And Sirius Black. And Remus Lupin. And Peter Pettigrew."
"Four at once?"
"Yes sir. In the rain."
For a moment his father looked at him in a sort of wonder, and something which could have been pride, maybe astonishment.
"Who won?" he asked.
It was Severus' turn to be shaken a little. It was not like his father to show interest in his activities. Actively he started searching for any signs of alcohol in the room. He found what he was looking for, a whisky bottle at the corner of the desk, but he was in no position to move.
"I think it's a little obvious who did, sir," he said. He waited for insults, if any, with hands clasped behind his back. Again he felt his hands which felt alive and waited.
"They kicked the shit out of you, boy?"
His father smirked, while Severus recalled the werewolf at the end of the tunnel. How he ran out like a little sissy boy, into the rain, still being caught by the werewolf, almost being torn from limb to limb....
"Yes they did, sir," he responded. Then, almost as an afterthought -- "Left me out in the rain to die, sir."
His father looked at the expenses again, then at his son.
"Don't they teach you anything at that school you're at -- Hickson or something?"
"Hogwarts."
"Hogwarts, whatever. Don't you learn to defend yourself there?"
"I take a Defence Against the Dark Arts class, but it is only against Dark Arts. And as far as I know, teenage boys are not a product of the Dark Arts."
Oddly enough his father laughed, as if Severus was trying to be funny. His laughter was foreign, and there was much wheezing at the end, betraying the mirth and merely colouring the laughter old. He stood still, listening to his old man guffaw and wheeze, guffaw and wheeze.
"You're a smart lad, you are." He pointed at Severus, and pulled up from a drawer a bottle of Odgen's fire whisky. So it was the alcohol talking.
His father took a sip, closed the lid, and placed the bottle on the table. "They might not be full of Dark Arts, but some run around as if possessed. You ain't possessed, boy, ain't ya?"
"No sir."
"Not by no thing, right? Or no woman?"
"No sir."
"Never let yourself be controlled by a woman, Severus -- they should be a breed of Dark Creatures themselves. Cruel and cunning, ready to pull your eyes out."
He took another draught from the bottle. For a moment he stared at Severus, who still stood silently.
"Shit, Severus! Sit down a sec! Relax! You're gonna bust a vein or give yourself an ulcer if you stand like that. 'T ain't natural!"
He did not want to be in a room with this man any longer, it was dangerous. He could smell the alcohol from his father's breath from here.
"Sir, mother wants me in the kitchen to help with dinner. If you'll excuse me..."
"If that old bitch wants you, then go ahead." He waved drunkenly to the door. "And drop the 'sir' shit. We're family! Call me 'Pop' or even 'old man'. You're makin' it sound like we're business hic associates!"
"Sorry sir, I can't do that, sir," he said and left the room rather quickly.
Back in his room there was a relief from the substance-induced conversation. The coldness was actually relieving to him now, after almost 10 minutes in that stuffy room from hell. It was quiet also, no drunken babblings of his father or weak whining of his mother, who seemed to just hang along for the ride. He left his work on the table and lays on his bed, hands behind his head, as he listened for the relative silence. At least until the quiet was broken again by the screams, he could think, and be, and actually enjoy the cold room. And though his hands were now cold again, with the temperature invading at his slightly opened jacket, he at least knew they were the product of nature, and not some manmade flammable material.
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The present. Still December 19, 1986.
When the owls come in, the following stream of cold air circulates through the huge room. It comes in behind the teacher's table, and causes Severus to pull his overcoat tighter. He doesn't look at the birds dropping mail into the plates of their recipients. This act blends itself into the background, a common occurrence that he has acclimated to.
Instead he turns to Minerva who is reaching for a piece of toast.
"Minerva?"
"Yes?"
"Did you have wood in your fireplace this morning?"
"Yes." She stops to look at him. "You didn't?"
"No."
"Such incompetence," she mutters, cutting a piece of sausage with her fork. "I shall have a talk with Dobby."
She skewers the sausage and swallows. Severus turns to his own meal...where a letter sat on top of his plate. By this time the birds had flown out, and he was left with this letter. He could only assume that it was dropped by a visiting bird, but he had no letter to expect. He looks to the left and right, surveying the eating student populace, searching for anything suspicious.
He looks at the letter again, flipping it over once, looking at the seal, which was a simple 'DF' entwined together. The address, too, was written in an unfamiliar script.
As he slips a finger under the seal, he waits for the punch line to this cruel joke. Woe betide the author, he thinks, and woe betide the author's friends, and woe betide that author's house, should anything happen to him.
The paper seems normal...he does not feel any unusual substances on the paper, nor detects any hint of nightsblade, or wolfsbane, or any number of poisonous inks which he knew.
So, after feeling for his wand still in his pocket, he read the letter:
Sir,
We regret to inform you that your mother, Lucretia Millicent Belindia Zenobia Dodona Belit-seri Omphale Snape, has passed away. She has named the Dulchemer Funeral Home as her executor. As her executor, we request your presence Saturday, December 21 at 1:00pm to settle her estate. Services will be held for Mrs. Snape at 2:00pm the same day.
We are sorry for your loss.
Lucienne Valentine
The first thought is one of sadness. But it is brief, and feelings of inadequacies, frailty, and general disgust left over from his childhood slowly quench the sadness of a family member's death. He folds up the paper, and sticks it in his pocket. What irks him now, more than the leaving of the woman who gave him birth, was the inconvenience on his life. He did not look forward to traipsing through the windy streets of Hogsmeade to go to an hour meeting and then come back again. For a moment all he can do is sit there, frozen in a brief uncharacteristic pause of indecision. All he does is stares at the populace again, some of them looking at him. Immediately he glares, and they turn away.
His mother is dead. Perhaps the full implications of this remark has not struck him yet. He supposes he should feel some remorse for the woman. After all, it's not everyday your mother dies, he reasons. But he is at work -- he must perform his role as taskmaster. To show any sign of sorrow is unacceptable. This thought runs once through his head, and it is strong enough for him to stand up, push in his chair, and exit through the staff side door.
***
He is before the Headmaster later that day. The papers are graded. The distillation demonstration has yet to come. He has nothing he could do in the interim.
The kindly head of Hogwarts looks up from his paperwork, takes off his glasses, and puts them gently on the desk.
"Yes?"
After seven years under his tutelage and five more under his employment, Severus still feels (and yes, marvelled) at the little ripple of respect from the Headmaster creates from this simple inquiry. He takes a tentative step into the room. He finds himself, eyes casted down, staring more at the decorative feet of the Headmaster's desk than the Headmaster himself.
"Sir, when I awoke this morning, there was no wood in my fireplace for me to make a fire."
"Yes, Minerva was telling me about that." There is almost a casual treatment of the issue that for some reason made Severus furious.
"She'll talk to Dobby and the other House elves during her free period this afternoon. Seems like this is only one event in a string of mistakes. Uncooked food reaching the students, unmade beds, no wood in the fireplace."
Severus quietly scoffs. Traitorous, inefficient House elves running from his cleavered hand flashes in his mind. He smirks.
"I'm sorry you didn't have any wood Severus; it was rather cold this morning. If I didn't have a meeting with Cornelius, I would have never gotten out of bed."
"But your duty as Headmaster--"
"You take me too literally, Severus. Always have." The Headmaster chuckles softly. "Yes, Severus, I suppose that the Minister of Magic would not take it in kind if I receive him from my bed. Though, I could have a bed made up here..."
He tilted his head in abstract thought, as if it were a novel idea to have a bed in the office.....
Severus, not really having a reaction to this statement, could only stand there dumbly. He forces himself to speak.
"I request leave for December 21st, sir. I shall be back before nightfall."
"Go ahead, Severus -- but if I may ask why..."
It is always the Headmaster's soft unobtrusiveness that makes Severus feel he was being connived out of his persona -- made to express his motives, to express his emotions, to feel.
"I have received a summons -- " Carefully he removes the letter that had been sitting in his pocket all day, from his enthusiastic sprint down the Potions hall to catch a student high on the fumes of a levitation potion, to grading those papers. He is aware of how cold his fingers are, yet again, as he passes the letter across the Headmaster's desk. The Headmaster openes it and read its contents with a gentle eye.
It is a moment before he looks up again, and gently folding up the letter, hands it back to Severus, unusually grave.
"I'm sorry, Severus."
"Thank you," is all he can say in return. For a moment the Headmaster's morose reflection upon the death of someone whom he never met made Severus, who admitted no feelings of deep-panged love such as he supposed was between a mother and her offspring, feel a little colder. He slipped the letter back into his pocket, and put his hands behind his back.
"If I may leave, sir --"
"Of course, Severus. "
The Headmaster's smile is warm, and inviting. He can not explain exactly what made his boss this...warm, but he felt himself smile feebly for a second, then exiting in his usual, hurried manner.
Outside the door it is better. He feels, not as if he was genuinely happy for the Headmaster's support, but as if he had been obliged to smile. Return the gesture of good sociability. Severus always both cursed and looked forward to this general warming up to human contact -- how manipulative it seems to him, to, by a sole expression of emotion, have another respond in kind. And yet, when it is genuine, as was the Headmaster's....
These are his thoughts as he went back to his classroom, to prepare for the next class.
***
"Mr. Walker. Mr. Walker, look at me when I am addressing you."
Tentatively the mousy-haired second year looked up at Severus. The boy's eyes were rimmed with red, and even as he stands there a tear escapes treacherously down his cheek.
"Mr. Walker, why are you crying?" Severus asks this in an almost offhanded way, as he looks to the potion, now threatening to bubble over. Thoughts of endless Scrubbing potions fills his head, as he looks back to the boy.
The boy known to Severus as Mr. Walker gasps once, and turns away from him, covering his eyes. A young girl next to him consoles him, patting him gently on the shoulder and whispering things such as 'It'll be okay, Charles." She then turns to Severus. "Professor Snape, sir, Charles just found out he lost his mother today. He's a little distraught."
He looks to the boy for a moment, his attention causing the boy to stop for a moment, as Severus contemplates the coincidence. It is this that perhaps causes his oddly quiet comment, lacking in his usual seething sarcasm.
"Well ... tell him to stop, Miss Dover. Or else I'm taking twenty-five points from Hufflepuff."
He turnes away artistically as he hears the collective effort to relax Mr. Walker. While he walks up to his desk, slowly, in combination with the 'shushes' and gasping sobs, he wonders if everyone was supposed to respond in such a manner to a mother's death. For him, truthfully, it seems impossible. Not now, not here, when he is about to take twenty-five points from a House for...grieving.
"Twenty-five!" Severus hollers over the gasps and encouragement. His back remains turned, as a powerful reminder of authority. When the sobs continue, he yells again.
"It will be fifty in about three seconds!" he hollers threateningly. He turns around and sees almost an amusing scene --
"One!" he yells.
--Mr.Walker's classmates have tried to place their mouths over their classmate's mouth, just to prevent sound. But it fails miserably --
"Two!" he yells again.
--the wracking sounds of grief echo in the dungeon classroom, he is about to give them detentions and forcibly kick out the boy himself --
Two children whisk Mr. Walker out the door as fast as their little legs can take them, and it is after the door slams close that he stands facing them facing immense silence.
"Three," he says quietly. The room is silent. He looks around at them, slowly, full of threatening stares.
"That's fifty points from Hufflepuff," he says slowly.
"But sir -- it stopped before you counted to three!"
Severus rounds on the little boy who dared question his authority.
"Twenty-five more points were added because now three of your classmates are skipping class."
He sees the boy want to protest -- his fuming and anger rose like a visible red line on his face.
Severus smirkes and feels the warmth the smirk brings. "Would you care to discuss my decision during detention, Mr. Scribner?"
The boy shakes his head no.
"I thought not. Now, the rest of you -- it will require quick work to save your potions now -- they have been on high heat for too long -- they are past the recommended point for cooling. If you're lucky your potion still might work, and this day would not have been a total waste."
He stands and watches the students turn their fires off, and for the foam teeming on the edge of the cauldrons to immediately sink down and collapse.
Continued in Part Three.