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Verse IX of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc
By: Vain
10.7.2003 - 09.26.2004
Chapter Six II
The Reapers Reaping Early
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"We stand in a circle,
We stand in the square:
The power of numbers—
The power of prayer.
The churches are empty,
The priest has gone home;
And we are left standing
Together alone."
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My father is a monstrous human being. But he is a human being nonetheless. I remind myself of this as I walk the long, heavily wooded path that leads to Snape Manor. Snape Manor. My home.
The Wards that shield the manor from muggles also prevent direct Apparition. It would be too much to expect the old man to have sent me a portkey. That leaves me with a five mile walk to the house from the nearest Apparition point. Normally, I would have enjoyed the walk—used the distance to collect and center myself. Now, I simply wish it was over and done with and I was back in the quiet and shattered glass of my quarters. I must have done something truly awful to the House Elves, for now the only one that can bear my presence is the blubbering creature Crouch dismissed two years ago.
I find myself thinking of Potter and wondering what he is doing. Wondering if he is alright. Wondering if he still misses me.
Then I find myself trying to think of nothing at all—to Occloud my mind from myself and ignore the fact that this child has taken up residence under my very skin.
It is hot and I find myself wishing I had worn cooler robes, but my black, multi-layer work robes were the only clean ones I could find. For a moment, I seriously debate going back to Hogwarts to change, but my pocket watch tells me that it's 1:00 PM and I stepped into the boundaries of the Wards at exactly 12:30. I'm already on Snape land. I can leave now, but I know I'll not be able to return. The thought does not disturb me. There is little in the Manor that interests me—some portraits and heirlooms of my mother, the books in my father's study and the library, my paternal great-grandfather's potions' notes . . . Really, considering the size of the estate—mostly my mother's dowry—there are few things I desire from that place.
I stop in the middle of the road and turn around to look behind me. The dusty path vanishes in a curve and is hidden by tall, sickly looking oak trees, the yellow and red leaves turning the whole area into a fiery riot of autumn colors. There are no birds or animals in this place, nor have there ever been in my lifetime. Any creature foolish enough to roam onto Snape land usually met an unpleasant end as part of my father's 'research.' Creatures, both light and dark, quickly learned to avoid this place. The lack of life gives the forest path a dead, lusterless quality to it—like one of those muggle portraits that do not move.
I walk to the edge of the road and sit beneath a maple tree that looks dead despite its turning leaves. I allow my head to fall back to rest against the bark and stare up at a cerulean blue afternoon sky.
Why did I come to this place? I am besieged by a strange urgency—a profound need to return to Hogwarts. I feel out of place, as though I've lost something, and I know that if I take even one step backwards on the path, I'll not stop until I've reached the edge of the Wards and gone back to the school. To Dumbledore. To Potter.
I close my eyes.
Until I met Potter, I was not in the habit of running away. Strategically retreating, yes. Running, no. If I leave now, it will be running and I know that, but the idea of going even one step further towards the Manor—away from Potter (Hogwarts!)—is enough to make me feel ill.
I should return to Hogwarts.
Dread crawls up my throat like bile and I exhale heavily to rid myself of the sensation.
I should return, but I will not. I came here to escape Hogwarts—that brat and that sadistic old bastard—and the idea of returning like a beaten dog with my tail between my legs is smothering. I am not Sirius Black, and I do not do imitations. I will not return—even if the idea of going any farther makes me sick to my stomach and weary to my bones. Too weary.
It occurs to me almost vaguely that I should probably not be sitting here like this. After all, Father is not above releasing one of his 'pets' to patrol the grounds. My pocket watch chimes softly inside my robes, letting me know that somehow it's already 2 o'clock and the last thing I can think of before I drift off to sleep is a disbelieving pair of hurt green eyes.
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Narcissa knelt before the Dark Lord's dais, pale and shaken. A well-timed Crucio had caused her normally impeccable hair to fall free of its delicate jeweled bindings and it flowed down her back to her waist. The Curse had also added a flush of red to her pale cheeks and unshed tears magnified her blue eyes. The other Death Eaters—so rarely in the presence of Lucius's beloved wife without the wildly jealous Malfoy patriarch—circled her like jackals. She shuddered in fear and found herself desperately wishing her husband was here.
Was this really what he was forced to endure every meeting? How could he bear it?
"Lady Narcisssa . . ."
The Malfoy matriarch suppressed another shudder and tried to pass the tremor in her limbs off as the after-affects of the Unforgivable. If Lucius had endured all of this for years, she could stand a few more months. By then, hopefully Draco will have made sufficient progress with Potter that she could finally begin to formally pull away from Voldemort. By then, hopefully, she could get Lucius the help he needed.
Right now, they were so deeply entangled in both the Ministry and the Death Eaters that she didn't dare bring a Healer in to see her husband. Lucius was beginning to deteriorate too rapidly, and there was little she could do. If Voldemort discovered the true severity of her husband's condition, he would order the man executed to ensure that Lucius didn't accidentally reveal the Dark Lord's secrets. If the Ministry discovered Lucius's condition, they would put him in St. Mungo's, where the Dark Lord would no doubt have him killed. No matter what happened, Lucius was in danger. They needed an alliance with Potter soon.
"Lady Narcisssssa . . ." The Dark Lord repeated. His elongated fingers drummed in a slow, unhappy cadence in the wooden arm of his chair. "Have you understood me?"
The woman nodded jerkily. "I will bear the Glass to Hogwarts in Nott's stead."
"And your impetuoussss young Dragon, my lady?" The mocking curl he put into her faux title made her skin crawl.
The Black family was related—very, very, very distantly—to the Royal Family through a squib cousin who had married into the family that would become the Saxe-Coburg-Gotha House in the seventeenth century, thus giving rise in Pure Blood circles to the title of Lordship to the Heirs of the House of Black, regardless of the fact that in the muggle world the connection was unknown. The Royal Family eventually changed their last name to Windsor during the muggle Great War for political reasons, but Wizard Family Trees were updated by magical means, so such paper changes in the muggle world did not affect the Black family and the connection between the two Houses remained.
Lord Regulus and Lady Narcissa . . . They used to have such fun at the balls when they were younger.
"Draco has not replied to my last letter, but I believe he understands the . . . importance . . . of his complicity in this event. He will not interfere in your plans, Master, and will no doubt do all he can to make Potter—"
"He is not to interfere at all!" the serpentine man snarled abruptly. "Too often these days a Malfoy's attemptss to 'help' have bungled my planss. I will not allow thisss to continue." The Dark Lord leaned forward in his chair and pointed a long, boney finger at her. "Heed my words, Lady Malfoy, anyone—ssstudent, Death Eater, staff, or ally—who stands in your path is to be cut down. Whether that is your son, Albus Dumbledore, or Merlin himself. Do you undersstand me? I will not have my way barred by a sixteen-year-old half-blood, no matter what the prophecies say. Harry Potter musssst be eliminated!"
Narcissa dropped her head low in acquiescence so that she would not have to look at the manic gleam in the eyes of her husband's Master.
"Avery! Goyle! Crabbe and Jassperssstone!"
The four Death Eaters emerged and knelt before Voldemort beside Narcissa as he called them out.
The Dark Lord settled back in his seat and regarded the five of them with narrowly slitted red eyes. He lazily waved his hand in the air with a slow, caressing motion and the mirror most of those gathered had helped mend weeks before slowly rose up from the floor behind him and floated forward. A heavy black velvet cloth hid the shimmering surface from view. "You will accompany our dear Lady here to bear the mirror to Hogwartssss. I need not tell you not to break it or look at the glass. As thisss is a magical mirror, it cannot be shrunken or taken by way of Apparitttion. A portkey will deliver you to the edge of Hogsmead and you are to travel through the to deliver the Glassss to young Micah. He will be waiting at the southern edge of the Wardss to carry it forth. Severusssss knows nothing of this operation, and should he find out, I will know that you have failed. The successss of this plan depends on your ability to be . . . covert." His thin lips stretched slowly into a macabre smirk that revealed far more teeth than a human being should rightly have. Narcissa dropped her gaze again. "It would be most . . . unwissssse to fail me, my little serpents."
The five all nodded their heads in understanding. Far too much time, energy, and planning had gone into this to fail now, and—however much Narcissa desired to be free of the snare in which her husband had entrapped them—she knew that to fail the Dark Lord in this would surely mean her death. She would bear the mirror to Hogwarts if it was the last thing she ever did. This way, at least, she might try and regain her family's position in Voldemort's admittedly meager good graces and buy enough time for Draco to secure them a new alliance.
Still, as she rose and place the porcelain white mask of a Death Eater over her pale features for the first time in her life, she could not help but feel as though she were in over her head.
As though she were suffocating.
A murmured spell from Lord Voldemort changed her silk azure dress robes into the plain black robes of a Death Eater and Jasperstone took the lead, a fragment of a broken plate in his left hand acting as their portkey. Narcissa, Goyle, Crabbe, and Avery all removed their wands and carefully took the Glass from Voldemort with whispered Wingardium Leviosas.
"Be gone and make haste," Voldemort hissed, sending them on their way.
The other Death Eaters closed ranks behind them as they walked out of the once magnificent ballroom at a careful, measured pace to avoid jostling or shifting their burden unnecessarily. Walking in front, Jasperstone paused and turned to look over his shoulder at Narcissa. His milky green left eye chilled her as the blind orb came to focus on her. It looked eerie and unnatural next to the pale jade of his right eye.
"Don't worry," he told her in a deep, mocking voice, only slightly muffled by his mask. "Micah will not fail our Lord." The implied slight against Draco did not go unnoticed and the Malfoy matriarch's blue eyes flashed like broken ice behind her mask.
Then she simply sighed wearily. The heavy mask reflected the warm, moist air that could not escape through the narrow mouth slit back at her face. A twinge between her shoulder blades made her back itch. The heavy doors to Riddle Manor swung open before them and, as they stepped out, she had to avert her gaze from the western sky. The sun was barely beginning to sink and they were set to meet Jasperstone's son at the edge of the Wards at 10:00. They had roughly 4 hours until the meeting time. It was going to be a long evening.
Soon, the woman promised herself. A damp, chill wind blew. Soon this will all be over. Soon my family will be safe . . . I only need to buy a bit more time.
She only hoped that Draco understood that he had to keep Potter away from this Glass, whatever the cost . . . And that—for just once in his life—he was wise enough to simply do as he was told and stay safely in the castle this night.
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I awake near seven o'clock with another half hour of walking before me. The idea that I could have easily been killed rather horribly in my sleep does not disturb me nearly as much as it probably should. I spare a moment to wonder if he would mourn me before pushing myself to my feet in disgust.
Get the fuck out of my head, Harry Potter.
If I dreamed I can't remember it, and I try to distract myself with the shadows cast by the fading twilight as I walk. A chill settled on me and there is a curious ache in my joints that I cannot place. I suppose that's what I get for falling asleep outside in November.
As a child, I used to roam these woods for hours in search of herbs and mushrooms to use in potions. I slept outside more than I slept inside during the warmer months. Outside, at least I didn't have to be near my parents. My mother may have been a religious zealot, but she was easier to bear than my father. She, at least, did what she did out of love—even if she did love penance more than me. My father, on the other hand, was and is not capable of such emotion. He knows only jealousy and, even if he had the whole world at his feet, would still find something lacking.
And I am the product of this union.
The gables of the manor do not rise up against the horizon soon enough for me and the waning moon does not provide as much light as I would have liked for this journey. The wind blows cold, making me grateful now for my heavier robes and I finally come to a halt at the end of the road. A large iron-wrought gate topped off with a sinuous and archaic looking 'S' swings open with a groan of protest.
I step through slowly and something in my gut lurches.
The manor is a large, dark place. Five gables—one at each cardinal point of the house and the fifth dead in the building's center—rise two stories higher than the three visible stories, so tall they are almost like towers. The roof of the North Gable is missing entirely and it looks as though it was ravaged by an explosion of Longbottom proportions. The windows gape down at me, dead eyes that do not blink, and several shingles litter the ground. The lawn, its length carefully maintained by magical means, looks brittle and yellow. Unwelcoming.
I take in the subtle changes and the things that have remained the same with a blank gaze. My steps are heavy as I resume my pace, uneager to continue with this escapade. I do not know what I expected, but somehow this slow internal decay takes me off guard. This place was once my home.
The thought makes something throb deep inside me. This place was once the only world I knew, and now I would rather be any place on earth more than here. Except, perhaps for Hogwarts. Hogwarts was once my home, too. Now every time I look at the place all I can see is a pair of green eyes and a little boy for whom I'd give ten years of my life to fuck senseless.
Home is where the heart is, I suppose.
The massive front doors swing open before I can touch them, much as they always have, and I walk through them into the foyer, much as I always have. Twenty years . . . The last time I left this place, I was merely a murderer. Now I'm a murderer, Death Eater, spy, and pedophile. Father must be so disappointed in me. The more things change . . .
I should return to Hogwarts. The thought makes the damaged muscle in my left hand spasm.
There is no tired-looking House Elf to greet me today. No soft padded steps of a kneazle or scrape of crup claws (or anything else's claws) on the ancient, polished hardwood floors. I find myself standing in the foyer, feeling loose and disorganized, and straining to hear the whisper of faint Latin singing coming from upstairs. I hear it, a distant long-gone thing. But the voice is only in my memory: the shadowy strains of a woman with big blue-green eyes and oily black hair named Sourdine Gabriella Snape.
"Now kneel on the floor and press your palms together, angelo. Yes, just like that. Now bring them up to your face and repeat after Momma. 'Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper Virgini, beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato Joanni Baptistae, sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo, omnibus Sanctis, et tibi Pater: quia peccavi nimis cogitatione verbo, et opere: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem, beatum Michaelem Archangelum, beatum Joannem Baptistam, sanctos Apostolos Petrum et Paulum, omnes Sanctos, et te Pater, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum Nostrum.'"
My lips move in time with the memory. "Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem, beatum Michaelem Archangelum, beatum Joannem Baptistam, sanctos Apostolos Petrum et Paulum, omnes Sanctos, et te Pater, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum Nostrum."
All is silent.
I look around, taking in the heavily carved wooden panels, the tall grandfather clock directly in front of the door, the expensive rugs tossed about at even, perfectly planned intervals, all spotless and soft as new. I used to lie on those rugs for hours, staring at the ceiling, making potions in my head, and waiting for father to allow me into the study to speak with him.
"That boy needs to learn patience! I'll not have you raising that miserable little wretch up to be some spoiled milksop, Sourdine—it's bad enough that you fill his head up with all that outdated muggle gibberish!"
I take another step into the manor and a floorboard creaks beneath me in accusation.
"Boy!"
"Boy!"
I flinch reflexively.
"What the hell are you mincing about out there for? Get in here!"
"Did I call you here, boy! Go to your room and I don't want to here a peep from you until you're summoned!"
I scowl, angry with myself. Fear of a memory . . . This is ridiculous. I am ten times the wizard Aigris Désunis Snape is or ever was. I have more power in my pinky than that half-squib has in his whole body and here I am, cowering outside his door like a child. I fix my mouth in a firm sneer and turn to the closed double doors of the study to my right. The floor boards squeal as I stride over them, just as they did twenty years ago—just as he spelled them to do. The doors shudder open reluctantly as I approach and I give the corner of the left one a discreet, spiteful kick as I pass it. They boom shut behind me in a futile attempt to catch my robes. Another thing that remains the same.
It's actually a small room, plain and rectangular, with only one large window. When the sun sets, I recall, the red light pours in and catches the dust motes in the air, making the room look awash in flame. It's a pity I missed it. The walls are still paneled with plain, unadorned redwood and a plush green carpet is still in the center of the floor. Bookshelves still line the walls, bulging with their ancient tomes and scrolls, overflowing with parchments, and the occasional odd and end. Directly in front of me, the enormous fireplace, large enough for a man to stand in comfortably, is still cold and empty and the two leather chairs with their small round table between them still bear their familiar coating of dust, now as thick as it ever was.
My mother's portrait is still above the hearth as well. A layer of dust also covers that; Father had the spell on it overlaid, freezing her image in an eternally sorrowful position, legs tucked under her in her seat on the crimson, high backed chaise, long, silver-streaked hair tumbling over her shoulders as she buries her head in her hands. She was no doubt pleading with him not to freeze her portrait at the moment the spell was cast. I take in the folds and wrinkles in her elegant dress with a mixture of anger and scorn. Even in her death, he tortures her. And even in her death, she meekly accepts it as some sort of righteous penance. Stupid woman.
I look away, feeling ill. To my right there is nothing but another wall of heavily laden bookshelves, but to my left, farther up the length of the room and set directly in front of the window, is my father's desk. It is an old thing, small in comparison to my large, oaken desk at Hogwarts, but immaculately polished. There are piles of books on the floor around it and piles of papers and nasty-looking knickknacks piled in a chaotic jumble on the surface. A leather chair from the set in front of the fireplace is set at a diagonal from the corner of the desk, closest to the wall across from the fireplace. There is no dust on this seat, as it is the only seat in the study that the meager visitors to this room are permitted to use. My father's chair, the fourth in the set, is behind the desk and I blink when I see him there hunched over a bit of parchment.
The patriarch of my House has not aged well at all. He looks less like a man and more like a wisp of cracked, poorly dried animal hide. His fingers have become great, long, spindly things, like busy, writhing spiders attached to his wrists. Most of his hair has fallen out and what little remains has become limp and thin, a fine sheen of white through which the smooth, yellowed and blue-veined flesh of his skull shines in the flickering candlelight. He looks up at me, black eyes cavernous and dull, and his wet, blackish lips twist unpleasantly, reminding me of worms. He waves a skeletal arm at the chair indicating that I should sit, and I comply automatically, watching that spidery hand twitch through the air warily.
As I come closer, I can see that he's shrunken. Once tall and muscular, his frame is now little more than a withered bit of old meat clinging to a pile of bones. He looks emaciated and almost comically scarecrow-ish beneath the heavy drapery of his robes. I seat myself gingerly in the chair and watch him bend over his bit of parchment. His nose, a nose which I unfortunately inherited, is still the most prominent thing on his face. If anything, it seems to have actually grown, though that could be the effect of his skin shrinking into fine folds and clinging to his skull. One of those large, arachnid hands scrawls something on the bit of paper with a battered quill and it suddenly strikes me how very long his nails are. I shudder and allow my gaze to wander to the window as it always had when I was younger.
I note with vague apprehension that the enormous spider web in the left corner of the ceiling still remains. It actually seems to have expanded, and is at least a good foot wider than it was before. The wreck of human being across from me finally places down his quill as I search for the freakishly large specimen of Tegenaria agrestis that has seemingly occupied that web since before I was born. I've always suspected that my father spelled that creature to be enormous and long lived. No Hobo Spider is supposed to be the size of a man's head.
"So you're alive," he wheezes nastily at me in greeting. His voice is breathy, as though he can't quite get enough air. "And late nonetheless." He coughs then, a wet, painful noise, as though the words had cost him something vital.
My gaze slides back to him and I lazily flick a piece of hair out of my eyes. "Apparently." I deliberately drawl the word and watch my tone work over him like iodine in an open wound.
He snorts, an unpleasantly visceral noise. "Yes, well, if wishes were wings and all." His eyes rake over me and he makes another loose hacking noise behind his hand in obvious disapproval. "This is the product of a teacher's wage?" he sneers. "I had hoped that you'd be dead by now. Either Dumbledore or the Dark Lord has no doubt had cause to kill you a dozen times."
Something large, multi-pedal, and very much alive chooses that exact moment to skitter across his desk with a great deal of clicking noises. I watch in fascination as the thing sends a pile of books tumbling to the floor and several pieces of parchment flying into the air. My father emits a shrill shriek of victory, seizes a sharp letter opener from Merlin only knows where, and stabs the thing with a swift, violent movement. A sudden jet emerald fluid shoots up into the air. He does not seem to notice when it splatters all over him and his papers. He pulls the knife out of the pile of papers he's stabbed and holds it up, tip in the air. Speared along side a piece of green stained parchment is a something resembling a hairy, purple ball, roughly the size of my fist, with six spindly, claw-tipped legs projecting out of it. The legs twitch and spasm, claws working uselessly at the air, and an upside down pair of alarmingly human eyes look at me in terror.
The old man waves the dying creature in my direction. "Yet another failure," he rasps. The thing is emitting a low-pitch scream. My father smiles at me, a cadaverous expression, and flicks the letter opener to his left, sending the creature sailing off the blade. "At least it has the decency to die properly."
The thing hits the paneling of a bookshelf with a sickening crack, shrieks horribly, and lands on the floor with a wet noise. I look at it for a moment in disinterest before turning back to the man in front of me.
My father was . . . is a Pariomagus—one who uses magic, potions, and breeding to create new species out of old ones. It's rather like alchemy using living creatures. The practice has been illegal since 1156—two years after the Dementor Wars—and the penalty is an automatic life in Azkaban, but he saw little reason to allow that to deter him. He always used to threaten my mother that he would use me in one of his projects if she stepped out of line. In retaliation, she took a potion that rendered her infertile, thus insuring that I would remain his only legitimate offspring.
Aigris Désunis Snape never cared for his family, neither me nor my mother. His interest in her extended to her faithfulness, public appearance, and ability to bear him suitable sons and fodder for his experiments—a plan that went terribly wrong after she became barren—and his concern for me was only to see that I was suitable heir. By the age of two, it was clear that I would not be, so he began planning my disposal. The first order of business was to impregnate my mother again, but by then she had taken her own measures. When it became clear that I was to be his only legitimate heir (my parents' marriage contract forbid remarriage for either party regardless of the circumstances), he ceased to show any real interest in me at all, beyond using me as leverage against my mother.
Children are precious in Wizarding families—our numbers are small enough as it is—and to intentionally harm a child is an offense worse than the use of an Unforgivable. He therefore never physically abused me, but he certainly never loved me. Even his marriage to my mother was more like some sort of perverse revenge against her for ruining her womb rather than a real relationship. After my mother killed herself, House Elves and some of the tamer of my father's creations whom I stole away from him were my only companions.
My eyes flicker back to the ceiling—there's something profoundly disconcerting about looking at my father—and the slow glide of a hairy arachnid leg, thick as a human finger and far too long, catches my attention, drawing it back to the spider web. Father ignores me in favor of his piles of parchments once more, and I can feel my hand twitch towards my wand. The old man's breath rattles wetly in and out of his lungs, as though something were loose and broken inside him.
Exsanguis, I imagine saying. And that enormous spider would twitch and spasm and crumple in the way that spiders in pain always do as it literally sweated blood through its hair follicles (because spiders do not have pores like humans). And it would bleed itself to an anguished and ignominious death. I imagine the look on my father's face as I kill his pet. I imagine that the spider is his hands.
Or better yet: Eptum. Messy. And then the study would be littered small bits of bone and flesh and red human blood would mingle in with that of the dead purple creature and he would scream and scream and scream . . . I look away and force myself to loosen my grip on my wand. My left hand spasms convulsively.
"Did you call me here for a reason?"
The old man jumps and his head snaps up, staring at me in bewilderment, as though he'd forgotten I was here. The motion does not surprise me; he often forgot about me when I was younger. I think he prefers it that way, really.
He glares at me for a moment, thick lips twisting like night crawlers on wet pavement, before they settle into a sneer. He throws his quill down again and pulls back into his seat.
"Ungrateful little bastard," those shiny lips snarl. I feel nauseous and look back up to his eyes. He turns away, apparently searching for something now. Spindly finger jerk and twitch as he begins to rummage through the piles of papers on his desk.
"You're teaching Harry Potter now?" My eyes narrow at the sudden change of subject, but he continues, apparently needing no input from me. "Hmph. If I was you, I'd have poisoned the little mudblood snot by now. Wasting your time. Wasting your life! And you are the fruit of my seed!" A pile of papers topples over and he swipes a hand at me through the air as though dismissing the topic of my worthlessness once again. "Bastards and whores' sons, the whole Potter line."
Something inside me lurches at the idea of him talking about Harry. My Harry. He has no right—
My hand twitches towards my wand again and I make a fist to suppress the urge. Avada Kedavra I'd say.
I force my mind back to his rambling.
"Then marrying a muggle born?" He shakes his head and the light shines in a smooth curve on his skull. "Disgraceful. If Samael Potter had had an ounce of dignity he'd have killed his son for sullying pure blood. Fucking Potters. Harry Potter. You mark me; he's just the same as the lot of them. Bad blood—bad stock! All of them."
The man stops his rummaging to glare at me once more. A long finger, more than slightly reminiscent of that spider leg, points at me accusingly. "Have you nothing to say to redeem yourself?"
I watch in disgust as a bit of spittle lingers on his lower lip before falling onto his chin. I raise my eyes to meet his again and feel a powerful swelling of loathing for this man. It occurs to me that people like this—small, weak, petty, and vile—probably say Harry Potter's name everyday. But that does not mean that I have to like it.
Father huffs irritably at his failure to get a rise out of me and I wonder where the massive, dominating man from my childhood went. He changed after Mother died. He became silent, less . . . overwhelming. More a flash fire than a hurricane. I think he was lost after she died. However much he hated her, she gave him a focus point—a purpose. Now he is nothing more than a wispy bit of flesh trapped behind a desk larger and more impressive than him and surrounded by his continual failures. He turns back to his papers and resumes rummaging about.
I look away, wishing I was elsewhere, but knowing I have nowhere else to be. I should return to Hogwarts. I find I have nothing to say to this man. There once was a time when I would have gladly sacrificed one of my arms for a kind word from my father, a hint of regard . . . A scrap of any acknowledgement was once more precious to me than ambrosia. And now . . .
Now I wish this man would have simply died and left me in peace, such as my life is. I hold no feelings or regard for my father now beyond a low, throbbing resentment—a contempt that I cannot place or describe. It is worse than hatred, I think. He is not worth my hatred and I wonder that I ever believed he was.
Abruptly, his rummaging ceases and Father looks up at me, his face oddly devoid of emotion. "I am dying, Severus."
He says this as though I should have some sort of reaction. As though I should care.
Perhaps he is the one who needs to redeem himself. But I can and will not offer him any sort of absolution.
I tilt my head very slightly to the side. "Yes. You are."
"I am dying," he repeats emphatically, attempting to impress his urgency on me with a slight lifting of his hands. "And you are all I have to show for my life."
I press my thin lips into a narrow line. "What do you want of me then? I have nothing to offer you."
My father looks at me, his expressionless features looking waxy and artificial in the backlight of the slowly rising moon. "You are a rotten child, Severus. And the fault is my own."
The statement is so quiet, and his raspy, pained voice is so still, that for a moment I don't even register the words.
"What?"
"I never wanted children," the old man bites out, looking personally affronted. He glares at me as though I was to blame. "I never wanted a wife." The word is filled with venom. "I never wanted you and if I'd had my way, I'd have used you in an experiment long ago. But I needed a bloody heir—someone to leave my vast fortune" (here he made an all-encompassing gesture to the room) "to. And instead I got you. You—a poisonous, venomous worthless little shit. And you are all I have to show for my life's work." He sneered, but this time the expression is directed more towards himself, I think, than me.
I stare at him for a moment and feel something heavy and hot churn restlessly in my stomach. I felt like this the first time I cast Avada Kedavra—lightheaded and too heavy all at once. It was not disgust with myself for casting the Curse; it was empowerment from knowing that I could cast the Curse. My lips twist into a sneer that he was once capable of and I lean back into the uncomfortable, squeaky leather with a sneer.
"You are dying—" something flickers in his eyes as I say this, but he remains silent, "—and you have called me here to pat yourself on the back? Say that you did all you could? Claim it was 'bad stock?'"
His too-large Adam's apple bobs heavily as he swallows, but he says nothing.
My eyes wander towards the spider web on the ceiling again. The creature is half out of the grey mass of webbing and watching me now—front four legs resting lightly on the walls and eight black marble-sized eyes looking down at me. I watch it with indifference. When I was a child and the spider was slightly smaller, it bit me once. My father laughed as my arm swelled too big for the string bracelet my mother had woven for me and I screamed so loudly that the House Elves in the kitchen dropped the dishes. Mother came in and rescued me, sweeping me up in her arms while father simply watched and laughed. I was perhaps four or five at the time, and it was the day I truly began to hate my father. But a child's hatred is a fast, transient thing. Now, I find nothing inside me for this man, not even pity.
He wants me to repent—to beg forgiveness for my failings and transgressions and claim that everything that has happened was my fault. This . . . man . . . wants to die with a clean conscience.
There is no such thing as a clean conscience. Not in a world with Dark Lords, and Dumbledores, and green eyes, and Original Sin.
And I do not beg.
So I sneer at him, looking at him with a contempt that only a Death Eater could bring to bear. "You are a fool." My voice sounds curiously hollow in the over-crowded room. "Why have you really called me here? To ask for my 'absolution?' I have none to give you, Aigris Snape. You never cared for anything but yourself, both in your life, and now in your death. You lacked the resolve to dominate any forum or cause or excel at any task and so you have no choice but to surround yourself with your failures. You are correct—you are dying, Father. And I am all you have to show for it. If you need absolution, then you have no one to blame but yourself. Do not, however think that you have made me who I am; you have not. In fact, you disinterest in me has determined that you have had no bearing on my life whatsoever. You should be proud of that, at least; you have not raised a Death Eater."
His black eyes fix on me for a moment and something like understanding passes through them. Understanding and hatred. I have nothing to offer him and he knows it. The only thing he hates more than me is the idea of his elder sister in France inheriting the estate; that is the reason he called me here. I settle back in my chair, oddly relaxed in this room I used to hate so.
I match his sneer with my own. This man has no more power over me.
He hunches over slightly and coughs into his hand again. When he looks up at me, I can see that his palm is stained with blood. "I truly hate you, Severus. The very broken, sniveling image of your mother."
He coughs again painfully and I tilt my head to the side. He meant it when he said he was dying. He meant that he was dying right now. He waited until the last possible moment to get these affairs in order. I gingerly reach out and pluck the sheaf of inheritance scrolls off his desk and remove the red ink quill I always carry to grade papers in my spare time. I sign each of the papers in turn in a smooth, easy hand. "And you, Father, are a coward."
Out in the hallway, the old grandfather clock chimes eight times as I work over the papers and father's wet, strained breathing becomes more and more labored. I used to hate that clock as a child, it only clicked out more and more hours of my life—my mother's life—under the control of this man. Now, I find I do not mind its rusted hourly cries nearly so much.
Tonight, they are not meant for me.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Draco popped open his pocket watch and stared down at the ornately decorated face. The silver moon that currently occupied the foreground of the expensive heirloom grinned at him and winked with twinkling blue eyes that reminded him eerily of Dumbledore. The short minute hand ticked passed the four. It was nine twenty-one now. Granger and the Weasel had been gone for just over fifteen minutes and Potter still hadn't emerged. The Dumbledore blue eyes of the Man in the Moon twinkled at him once more, mimicking the stars behind him, and Draco slammed the watch shut with unnecessary violence.
His mother had sent him a letter with important information about Voldemort's latest plans to eliminate Potter and, though she'd told him—ordered him, even—to stay well and away from the Wards tonight, he had no intention of obeying her. This was a golden opportunity—a once in a lifetime moment. He'd be a fool if he didn't take the chance to prove himself to Potter now. That was what that little display on the Pitch was about, no doubt. Potter wanted proof of Draco's sincerity, and Draco's inability to say the name had undermined his overtures. It was a surprisingly insightful move for the harebrained Gryffindor to make; Potter had always struck him as the sort who leapt first and didn't take the time to look until he was halfway down the cliff face.
He had imagined that it would be a great deal easier to forge an alliance with the other boy and had been sorely disappointed when Potter had proven him wrong. But he was running out of time, and none of his other choices were favorable. Snape, he knew now, was a dead end. There was no one else he could think of with both the power, authority, and potential motive to Obliviate him, but—at least, until he knew what exactly the greasy old bat had blocked from his mind—there was nothing he could do.
Stormy silver eyes narrowed as the blond considered his Head of House. The moment he figured out what exactly Snape had risked so much to hide, he'd have the bastard's arse in a sling. And if he had his alliance by then, Potter would no doubt be more than happy to join him—their enmity was, after all, legendary. Particularly after last week. Even without dear St. Potter's help, tampering with a person's memory was illegal. Snape would be sacked for sure.
But first he had to work on Potter, then everything else would fall into line.
And he would make damn sure that Snape paid for interfering in Malfoy affairs.
One of the Library's tall double doors creaked open warily and a pale face capped by messy black hair peered out into the corridor cautiously. Draco pulled back into the shadows, more put of reflex than anything else. Apparently confident that he was alone, Potter slipped out of the Library with practiced ease and set off towards the master stair room with quick, surprisingly light steps. As the smaller teen passed Draco's alcove, a pale hand snaked out of the shadows and grabbed him by the wrist. To his credit, Potter did not cry out, or even stiffen; instead, the Gryffindor relaxed and used the pulling motion to spin 'round to face his captor, wand out faster than Draco would have believed possible.
The blond took a quick step back and hit the wall behind him, eyes wide. "Potter, it's me!"
The length of holly pointing at his forehead didn't shift an inch and Draco could barely resist crossing his eyes to stare at the tip.
Harry pulled his wrist out of Draco's grip and glared hatefully at his Slytherin classmate. "What do you want, Malfoy?"
"The same thing I wanted last weekend," the boy hissed in obvious agitation. "Now put that damn thing away before you take my eye out or something!"
The small mouth quirked into an eerie smirk that set Draco's skin crawling, but after a moment's hesitation the wand was lowered. Harry took a step way from the blond and ran a hand back through his hair, only succeeding in mussing it further. "Believe me, ferret, an eye should be the least thing you're worried about me taking."
Draco scowled and rose to his full height, pleased to see that he still had an inch or two on the relatively diminutive Potter Heir. "I was sincere in my previous advances," the proud young man explained, graciously ignoring the threat to his person. "I truly want an alliance with you."
"Go to Dumbledore then, and leave me in peace," the other boy snapped. "I want nothing to do with you or your smarmy family, Malfoy. Get that through your thick head. You've been nothing but trouble to me since the day we met in Madam Malkin's."
He turned to leave, but Draco grabbed his arm again and spun him 'round. "Do you think I'm stupid, Potter?" he snarled, barely remembering to keep his voice low. "Dumbledore is a manipulator on par with the Dark Lord himself! I will not allow myself or my family to be used any more than necessary. You of all people should understand that."
The other boy only glared, but could apparently not offer a retort to that.
"Now listen," Draco continued, pressing his momentary advantage. "I have received a communiqué from my mother warning me that the Dark Lord is sending something to Hogwarts tonight—something he will use to stop you. She told me to steer clear of it—to stay inside tonight and do nothing. I have the letter here in my pocket if you do not believe me." He pressed the palm of his right hand over his House badge, behind which, Harry knew, all Hogwarts' robes had a pocket mended on the inside.
He pulled his arm away from Malfoy again. "I believe you. About the letter, at least. So why aren't you taking her advice and hiding under a rock like a good little viper?" he sneered.
Draco blinked, startled by the venom in his voice. "Because there is a Gryffindor involved in the plot. There is a 'viper,'" he threw the word back at him, "in Gryffindor House."
Harry stiffened and he drew in a sharp breath, but he said nothing.
"This is your proof, Potter," the blond said. He made no effort to conceal his bitterness. "I will give you a traitor, and you will help me. I do not like you," he added, frustrated by his own bluntness. "I do not want some grand and sweeping friendship like you have with the Weasel and the Mudblood. I will not be your 'mate' or pal around with you at Hogsmeade, and we will not exchange letters or Quidditch cloaks. I only want to spare my family any more torture at the hands of Our Lord."
'Our Lord' was the only thing Harry had ever heard Draco say with more contempt and anger than he put into the word 'Potter.' It wasn't said—it was spat out like a vile-tasting potion. The Gryffindor Seeker could almost feel it splash against his skin, burning like acid.
Green eyes narrowed. "Who is it? The traitor?"
"I don't know. Mother only said that the Dark Lord had spoken several times of an informant in your House. She said that he's been using the informant to watch you all term."
"So what makes you think that this mystery person will be down there?" Harry snapped.
"One of my Housemates and this person cut a hole in the Wards—"
"Hogwarts' Wards are impenetrable."
"Nothing is impenetrable, Potter!" Draco snarled, eyes darting to the shadowed hall to makes sure they were still alone. "Think! What was Crouch always spouting: 'Constant vigilance?' Merlin's blood, what do you think he was talking about? Never let your guard down—ever! Now, a Seventh Year and this informant punctured the Wards to smuggle something in. A mirror of some sort. If it was you—if you had been the one to go through all the trouble of piercing the Wards—wouldn't you want to see what it was all for? Wouldn't you want to make sure that everything went right. You're a Gryffindor. What would you do?"
Harry's eyes darkened. "I'd tag along, whether I was invited or not."
"So what do you think our informant's doing right now? And even if they're not," the taller teen pressed, "I'm offering you Death Eaters, Potter. And a Slytherin to boot."
The jagged scar on Harry's forehead wrinkled and deepened as a frown contorted his brow in thought. "When is this meeting again, Malfoy?"
Draco smirked, the expression disturbingly reminiscent of Lucius. He reached in his robes and removed his pocket watch, flipping it open with an easy one-handed motion. The minute hand slid onto the nine with a soft click. His eyes flickered back to Potter's. "Fifteen minutes from now."
A muscle in the other boy's cheek twitched as he clenched his jaw. "Where?"
"The South field. On the far end of the Wards near the Forbidden Forrest."
Harry grabbed the rival Seeker's wrist and spun around sharply, tugging the Malfoy heir after him. "Come on."
"Wait! We can't just go barging in like this. Don't you have that cloak or something that—"
The brunet's grip tightened painfully. "It was confiscated." He looked back at the other boy as he dragged him down the hallway. "There is such a thing as stealth, Malfoy. Use it."
"Then let me go, so I can use it! It won't do either of us any good if Filch and his fleabag catch us."
Harry observed the struggling blond for a moment before releasing him with a dark frown. "If you're having me on, Malfoy, or trying to lure me into some sort of trap, so help me—"
"Trust me, Potter," Draco snapped haughtily as he fixed the wrinkled cuff of his robe. "I'm the one with everything to lose here."
Harry continued scowling, but said nothing and simply hurried after his yearmate.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
It is just after nine o'clock before I finish all the paperwork set before me. All the while, my father sits across his desk and glares at me from amongst his towers of junk. We do not speak.
My discomfort has moved beyond anything that I can pinpoint about being in this house. It is a lingering sense of unease. The feeling one gets from knowing a Grim is near, but not being able to see it. There is a curious sensation hovering around my Dark Mark—not pain, but nothing comforting either. I regret leaving Hogwarts today and find myself willing the time to pass more quickly so I can leave this wretched place, though some strange reluctance keeps me in my seat.
I should return to Hogwarts. There is a greater urgency to the thought than there was an hour ago. Or even a moment ago. I should return.
I have the strangest idea that Harry Potter is going to die without me there and I want to be there. I don't want him to die thinking I hate him.
Congratulations, Albus; you've turned me into a hypochondriac.
In the corner there is a curious clicking noise—my father's pet reminding me of its presence. My hand twitches all too readily towards my wand and I firmly grip the arm of the chair and resolve to keep my mind on the accords before me.
I should return to Hogwarts.
After the clock has struck nine times and the candle flames have been forced to leap higher than natural to enhance the light, I stack the scrolls together and then snap them shut before sliding the documents back into their casing. He watches me resentfully as I hand him the case. I say nothing and he growls, choking off into another painful bout of coughing, before rummaging through the mess on his desk once more. No doubt looking for the Snape Family Seal so that he can send the documents to Gringotts where they belong.
"You've been using yourself in your experiments, haven't you?"
He looks up at me sharply before looking away again, still searching. "What is it to you?" he growls, thick lips twitching heavily.
My eyes narrow and I find that I have no way to answer the question. Simple curiosity, I suppose. My father is barely seventy—a ridiculously young age for a wizard to die. But what other explanation can account for his current condition and vulgar appearance? There's something deeply satisfying to know that the only thing he ever cared for in his life—his work—is the cause of his painful decay. Poetic justice, really.
How desperately he must have scrambled to reverse the damage to his body when he realized what was happening to him . . . And how bitterly disappointed he must have been to know that he failed. As usual. No wonder he waited until the last minute to call me here. He must have prayed for a miracle. That he received none is more gratifying than any punishment I ever imagined for him as a child. I take in his fragile and emaciated frame and imagine him writhing under my wand beneath the Cruciatus Curse, screaming out his last breath. I take less satisfaction in the image than I normally would have. What would be the point? He is already dead.
Really, does it matter to me at all what he's been doing? I merely want the documents sent so that I can leave this place and be done with him. My quarters are still not fully restored after last weekend's . . . unpleasantness . . . and tomorrow I am to resume Occlumency with the boy once more.
I shudder at the thought. Quick and painful, that is how it will be. A rush into his mind past whatever flimsy barriers Albus has taught him to construct, and he will be more than happy to flee my office and leave me in peace. Just like last year. Just like things are supposed to be. He will remember what I am and how much he hates me and that I really mean nothing to him beyond the irritation of a biting fly, and he will leave. There is a sudden constriction in my chest, as though a great hand is pressing down on me, stifling my breathing, and I focus on my father's spidery fingers.
He will leave me.
Everything will be as it should be then. Before evenings by the lake, midnight teas, flattened, hard curves that fit into the palm of my hand, kisses that were not mine to take, and manipulative old men who foster monstrosities.
And I—fool that I am—desperately wish that I didn't have to turn back the clock. Wish for something that I cannot have.
What has this boy done to me?
Bile rises in my throat and I look away from those awful hands, an unaccountable ache settling in the crook of my left arm like a painful rebuke. How could I have forgotten this—what I am?
The dread rises full force, and it is an effort not to surge to my feet and leave this place. The walls are too close and too crowded and I just know that that old spider is in its hole cleaning its fangs.
No.
Don't think of that.
Don't think of it. Think of . . . think of . . . Green Eyes. And small, reddened hands. A bitten lip and a mouth that tastes like butterscotch. Heat and warmth.
I should not be here. I should return to Hogwarts. I clutch my arm tighter.
Black eyes pierce me from across the desk and Father waves a bar of sealing wax towards me to get my attention. "What are you looking all moony about?" he rasps.
I stared at him fixedly, a slow sneer twisting my lips, and allow the silence to be my answer. Trembling, his left hand plucks a lit candle off the corner of his desk and holds it over the scroll sheath. His right hand, also palsied, holds the bar of wax over the flame and the emerald green magical sealant melts and drips with runny thickness onto the casing. He moves with surprising agility then, dropping the still-soft wax and impressing the Snape Family Seal to the cooling sealant, leaving behind the neatly cut lines of the Uroboros, book, and rapiers. I look away as he casts a few simple binding charms on the bundle, bored with this and irritated by the treacherous nature of my thoughts.
Another twinge goes through my arm, and this time I cannot resist gripping at the area of irritation: my Dark Mark. I squeeze the flesh hard as the twinge grows and an unpleasant sense of dread washes over me. This is not a summons—the feel of that pain is unmistakable. But this is most definitely the work of my Master's magic. I squeeze until the bite of my nails presses through my robes, the discomfort grounding me in the midst of what feel strangely like panic and leaving the promise of bruises behind.
I look back up to find my father's yellowed eyes staring at me. No . . . staring at where I'm clutching my arm. I hesitate for a moment, vacillating between moving my hand and holding my ground. In the end, I hold my ground and meet his gaze challengingly. He sneers and tosses the scroll sheath on the table in front of me.
"Spell it!"
I wait a moment, just long enough to be insolent and let him know that my actions have little to do with his orders, and then remove my wand to add my own magical signature to the charms protecting the scrolls. My spells are much stronger than my father's and it take me only a moment to add them. He glares at me hatefully as my magic envelops his, locking the scroll with spells that he would never be powerful enough to cast.
Truly, sometimes the best revenge really is living well.
With a murmured 'Windargardium Leveosa,' I send the scrolls back to him. He snatches it out of the air with a fierce growl, black lips pulled tight over yellowed teeth as he snarls.
An owl swoops in then through the open window. Just a plain, ordinary, unedited owl, not one of my father's pets. It snatches the scroll from his hand and wheels around out the window again, as though it knew its fate had it stayed any longer. This place is surely poison, seeping out of the old man before me and staining the very ground beneath us. I sit up a bit straighter and cross my legs, resting my left ankle on my right knee, as though the air around me were contaminated by him. Perhaps it is. I shift my robes over my raised knee so that they fall a bit more naturally.
Father watches me with contempt. "Watch it, boy. Your ponce is showing," he snaps at me nastily.
My lips twist thinly and I smooth the thick material of my robes again, purposely transparent as I enjoy the feel of the soft fabric under my fingers. "Careful, Father." I smile my own nasty smile. "Your French is showing."
His French heritage, his mother's legacy, has always been an intensely sore point for him, and he forbade me to learn the language as a child. Of course, that didn't stop Mother from teaching it to me on the sly—an offense for which she paid heavily.
He curses and hurls the Seal at me with a hiss that would have done any parselmouth proud. "Out! Out with you now! Out of my house!"
I stand, slow and unhurried. I will not be intimidated by this man, nor will I be needlessly panicked over the pain in my arm. Never mind the fact that I would tear off my skin right now if I thought it could remove the brand's burning.
I need to return to Hogwarts. Now.
And yet, I linger.
Why did I come to this place? What does this house mean to me? This man? These creatures? That frozen painting and the spider in the corner? What does any of this mean? I should not be here.
It is time to leave.
Father also stands, long thin hands grasping for something else to throw at me. "Whore's son!" he screeches. "Out!"
He hobbles around the desk, gripping at the walls and anything else on hand to get at me, and it is almost comical to see this broken bit of oily, drapery-clad leather lurching towards me like a drunken marionette. I smoothly glide back a step and he pushes off the wall with a venomous hiss. He throws the candle holder at me and I neatly sidestep it. The battered silver hits a shelf, knocking loose a book and sending the contents of the entire shelf tumbling after it to the ground.
"Surely you should sit and rest, Father," I chide in a too-smooth voice. "A man in your condition . . ."
"You're your mother's work!" he half-shrieks at me, staggering into the center of the room without support. A clump of his hair slides down off the side of his skull with an unnaturally smooth motion and lands on the floor. My lip curls in disgust and I turn my back on him. I have had enough of this place. It is time to go.
Suddenly, he gasps and falls to his knees and I turn. Strangely enough, all I feel is a perverse sense of pleasure in watching him gasp and choke on the ground. I understand now why I came; I came home to watch him die.
"Severus . . ." One bony claw of a hand extends towards me imploringly and I take a small, careful step backwards. The hem of my robes sway and whisper just out of reach of his fingertips. I have no time for this.
I take another step backwards and the old man coughs and hacks horribly. Blood stains his purple lips and he reaches out once again, mouthing my name in obvious pain. The moonlight hits the window at just the right angle and the air turns a starling white, and then an almost crimson color as it streams through the tinted panels—the same color as the blood staining the floor.
My gaze lingers a moment longer, but I know I have to leave. . . . I know I have to leave.
"Sev—"
"Goodbye, Aigris Snape."
I turn sharply on my heel as he chokes on his own blood behind me, but then I pause at the door. I turn my head, taking in my mother's frozen sobbing, my father gasping in pain, and the moonlight flooding the room. I point my wand at the spider web in the corner.
"Letum."
The spider immediately drops out of its hole in the wall, long legs spasming as the spell destroys its internal organs, burning through its body from the inside out. It is not Eptum, but it is beautifully effective. And right in my father's line of vision.
I turn and pull open the heavy doors, ignoring the curses my father sends at me. The clock in the entrance hall reads 9:32 now. I've tarried here for far too long, and the throbbing in my arm now feels like a low level burn.
I will send a House Elf later to deal with the bodies and round up my father's pets. But now I need to go. Now.
The doors boom shut behind me and I feel the wards of the house shift, accepting me. He is dead then. But I feel nothing, aware only of the time, and, Dark Mark burning, hurry back home.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Albus Dumbledore was a very old man. He was also a very tired man. He had—quite literally—the weight of the entire world resting on his thin 168-year-old shoulders, and was armed with nothing more than a human heart. Human hearts were not meant to bear the weight of the world, no matter how remarkable the man in which they beat. And they most certainly were not meant to carry the grief that he carried. Grief that tore at him, bent his shoulders, and dimmed his eyes when no one was looking.
Most wizards did not live beyond 200. Some reached 250 if they were lucky. 300 was an accomplishment. At 168, Albus knew he was getting old and the time to pass the torch was rapidly coming. He knew that—even if he survived this war—he did not have long in the world. Really, in comparison with the century and a half behind him, the thirty years a head of him weren't a very long time at all. Long enough to see his children grow up, settle down, and live as happily as fate allowed. Which, when one really looked closely at the situation, that was all he genuinely wanted. No man, after all, asks for the roles history thrusts upon them—they merely have to make do with what they are given.
Unfortunately, making do was very difficult, and very tiring, which was why at 10:00 on November 5th Albus Dumbledore was slumped over his desk, head comfortably resting on a closed tin of lemon drops, snoring softly. Papers were scattered everywhere and a scroll rolled towards his rather impressive nose whenever he inhaled and then rolled away again when he exhaled. A smudge of ink stained his right cheek and a merry fire crackled in the hearth. Fawkes, who had finally had the decency to just Burn and be done with it, was sleeping soundly in the little pile of ash that would serve as his nest until his chick down molted and real feathers took their place. Really, it was a terribly homey scene. The only thing missing was a slightly too-short boy with messy hair and small hands sleeping by the fire, curled up with a book of fairy tales.
The missing piece of the picturesque scene was, in fact, not even in the castle any more. Something that would have sent Albus—had he been awake—into fits of anxiety. But, as it was, he was not awake, and therefore had no idea that two of the hands on his clock (one newly added) had the words 'mortal peril' scrawled up their arms in hurried, glowing scarlet ink. Nor did he know that a third hand that read 'slowly removing head from arse' in gold print was gradually moving towards the other two.
In fact, Albus Dumbledore was rather dead to the world, and would most likely remain so for quite a bit, because he had accidentally eaten his Dreamless Sleep lemon drops instead of his Pepper Up lemon drops—an act that, while unfortunate, was also forgivable. After all, at the root of things, Albus Dumbledore really was a very old man, and everyone is entitled to a mistake or two.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Translations and Notes:
Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper Virgini, beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato Joanni Baptistae, sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo, omnibus Sanctis, et tibi Pater: quia peccavi nimis cogitatione verbo, et opere: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem, beatum Michaelem Archangelum, beatum Joannem Baptistam, sanctos Apostolos Petrum et Paulum, omnes Sanctos, et te Pater, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum Nostrum. - I confess to Almighty God, to Blessed Mary ever Virgin, to Blessed Michael the Archangel, to Blessed John the Baptist, to the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul, to all the angels and saints, and to you my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, deed. Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault, and I ask Blessed Mary ever Virgin, Blessed Michael the Archangel, Blessed John the Baptist, the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul, all the Angels and Saints, and you my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God.
Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem, beatum Michaelem Archangelum, beatum Joannem Baptistam, sanctos Apostolos Petrum et Paulum, omnes Sanctos, et te Pater, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum Nostrum. - I ask Blessed Mary ever Virgin, Blessed Michael the Archangel, Blessed John the Baptist, the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul, all the Angels and Saints, and you my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God.
Tegenaria agrestis - is a member of the Hobo Spider family. The Hobo Spider nasty little hairy thing in an arachnid group referred to as 'European Household Spiders,' and can also be found England, Ireland, Wales, Scotland, most of western Europe, and most of North America. The ugly little bastards bite and, because they're venomous, can pack quite a wallop (so as you can imagine, Severus is not fond of his father's giant pet spider). For more information on Hobo Spiders and some images that will give arachnophobic people nightmares for weeks, go here: http : www. hobospider. org / european. html
Uroboros (Ouroboros) - The "tail-devourer;" the serpent biting its own tail. Originally it appeared in Egypt during 16th century BC, from which it migrated to Greek (where it was called 'Aion'), Phoenician, Norse (where it was called 'Jörmungandr'), and Hindi mythology. The Uroboros is the World Serpent. It represents perfection; completion; the full circle of existence uninterrupted; and the continuing cycles of life and death, end and completion, day and night, and end and beginning, amongst other things. In Thoth tarot, it is an element of the Magus I and an incarnation of the Universe XXI. In alchemy the symbol is linked to the god Hermes (Mercury) and is the purifying glyph. For the purposes of this story, I'm referencing the serpent incarnation of the Uroboros that appears as a single, perfect circle. The Uroboros forms the outer circle of the Snape Family Seal, in the center of which is a large open book in front of two crossed rapiers.
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