THE SANDGLASS
By Nenya Entwhistle

Beta'd by Ziasudra and Lesameschelle.
Note: This story has been rearranged from last time and will remain strictly PG-13.

Time is a tricky thing,
It ebbs and it flows,
Where it goes, who knows?


June 20, 1968 (Severus is 8)

Severus: Drogo says he doesn't know when he'll come back. It's been weeks, actually, almost two months since I last saw him. I don't know why I want him to come back to this meadow that my father hates. It's not like he's useful to me. My books have more information about history and magic than he does, but some of the things he says are interesting.

I wonder why his visits are sometimes closer together and other times they drift weeks apart. I remember seeing him that first time and not seeing him for months after, then seeing him several times within a two week period. It's strange how things squeeze together and then come apart.

The skies are darkening and the clouds are gathering. I should go in. He's obviously not coming today and maybe not even tomorrow. It could still be weeks, and I don't know why I'm even waiting. He's just a ghost, a nobody, and I gave him my name.

What would Father say?


April 3, 1968 (Harry is 18, and Severus is 8)

Harry: The metal file burns in my hand. I look down: Day 3, 3-4-68, Severus is reading, wait two hours for him. So I sit down in the clearing, covered from the view of the austere manor by some well-placed trees. Too bad I don't have a way to measure time. Normal watches are pretty useless at Hogwarts, and the wizard one I have isn't much use with waiting. It'd only tell me what I should be doing, waiting, which is exactly what I am doing

The sun travels westward across the sky until it lowers itself into the horizon. I wonder if enough time has passed, but when I look at the file it still says I should be waiting. I wander aimlessly around, marveling at the stark beauty of the landscape. Who knew Snape grew up in such a place of untraditional loveliness?

"You're back," Severus the boy says. "I didn't think you'd come back this fast."

I almost tell him that I was just here, but then it clicks what the stupid file was telling me. That I wasn't here yesterday… that it is now a few days later in this time. Odd, how I've skipped days in his time. I slowly nod and shift my insubstantial body until I'm facing him. "It seems I have wandered back."

"Where do you go when you wander?" he asks, looking at anywhere but at me. It's like he's trying not to seem too interested, but there's a note in his voice that says he is quite curious.

I would have shrugged if he was facing me. Since he's not, it's a rather useless waste of movement. What was Moody always telling me? Never, ever waste movement. You never know if you'll have a chance to get it back. I cringe and wonder how he'll take the fact that I'm supposed to be at a training session that I'm not going to attend. It doesn't matter if I'm only gone for five minutes my time. I'm always too exhausted to do anything when I go back.

"Did you hear me?" he snaps.

Impatient, impatient boy. What would happen if I ignored him? The older him would just stalk off, but something tells me that this younger Severus wouldn't. He'd stay and just keep staying until I did pay attention, or leave—and that makes me inexplicably feel for him. I know how it is, to be unwanted.

"Yes, I heard," I say. "My mind was just thinking of an answer."

"You have a slow mind," he sneers.

"You have the time to really think when you're dead," I answer simply.

His lips curl up and then press together and thin out. It's like he can't make up his mind what he wants his expression to show. I think it's comical and I would laugh, but somehow if he's anything like the older Snape—he'll take offense. I suspect child Severus would throw an inner tantrum instead of making a derisive comment. Or maybe he'd do both.

"That could be just an excuse," he accuses.

"Or a wise aphorism."

His eyes pop open at that word, then narrow again. "Are you trying to use big words to impress me?"

I shake my head, but I'm not so sure how that works when you're a ghost. I can imagine myself doing it, but moving my body as a ghost is a lot about thinking myself along. The lack of a physical body means I don't have something I can intuitively control. There is nothing tangible to manage, it's all a mental game—Moody should be proud of me. I'm building my bloody focus.

"Well, are you?" young Severus demands.

Why would I be? It was the older him that frequently shows me up with words I don't… I blink—it would be too ironic if I was the one that taught the word to Severus only for him to teach it to me.

"Do you not know what the word means?" I ask, trying to keep my voice even. "Aphorism?"

He scowls. "That's not an answer."

"I used it because I thought you knew what it meant." I glide closer. "But I'm guessing you don't?"

His irritated expression deepens and he shakes his head with ill grace.

"A word similar to aphorism would be saying," I explain.

"Then why didn't you just say that?" he asks in exasperation.

I sink down until I'm at his level. "Sometimes you make me forget you're not an adult."

His aggravation disappears. He looks pleased, something I've not really seen on Professor Snape's face before. It transforms his face and makes him look more like a child than I've seen him since that day—the day when my heart hauled me forward.

"Do I really?"

For some reason, this is important to him. So I nod as best I can and say, "Yes, you do."


August 3, 1998 (Harry is 18)

Harry: "Where have you been, Potter?" Moody demands, sticking his face into mine until we're almost nose-to-nose. "You should have been here hours ago."

"I apologize," I say softly, not bothering to explain myself. It would only anger him further if I told him the truth of where I had been. "I forgot the time."

"You don't just forget to come in to training, Potter. You have disrespected not only me, but also your fellow Aurors-in-training. And that is all you have to say?" His voice is rising and rising in volume. "That you forgot the time? That's it?"

I cringe inside, but make sure not to let it show. It would be a sign of weakness, and Moody has taught us to be anything but weak. It doesn't make it easy though, and I'm not sure if I succeed. I've gotten better, I know. I still need to be better than what I am. I have to be like a mannequin—that's Hermione's analogy from what she's heard from Ron and me.

"And it's the second time this week," Moody manages to almost hiss. "You have been a good trainee thus far, but your recent behavior makes me reconsider if you are serious about being an Auror."

My main focus has changed, I'll be the first to admit, but that doesn't mean I don't want to be an Auror. I have this people-saving thing. I know it. My friends have told me again and again until I get that I do. And while helping young Severus is surely a good thing, I still want to do more. That requires being an Auror. I will finish what I've begun.

"I don't know why, but I've just been out of it this week." I make myself sound pathetic, desperate, and all the things I should be feeling but I'm not. "I really am sorry." My green eyes drift to my fellow trainees, some of which I know far too well—like Ron and Neville—and others I don't, like the ones from other Houses and those not from Hogwarts. "I apologize to everyone."

I'm humbled, and Moody has a barely perceptible smile. He's satisfied. I let myself feel relieved, and I can see the corner of his mouth tilting up just a bit more. Has my Unspeakable done what Albus has always tried to teach me? To be kindly manipulative? Dear Merlin, I'm becoming like him.

But I'm still myself, and I know my eyes are honestly guilty.


July 10, 1971 (Severus is 11)

Severus: "Don't!" I plead, my hands grabbing my father's robes and trying to stop him from destroying the last portrait of my mother that there is. "It's the only one we have. The only one of her. Don't burn it, please, I beg you."

It cost me much to say this, when I know he'll think me weak to rely so much on this single, two-dimensional thing of paint, canvas, and wood. I might no longer be able to hear her voice, but at least I can see her smile and her amber eyes glowing with what I think is a love I'll never know again.

"Still your mother's son, aren't you?" he snarls, his fist digging into my robes as well as my flesh. "I thought I beat that out of you months ago."

I shudder as his eyes turn a sickly yellow color. "Please don't, Father."

"I am not your father if you persist in this pathetic weakness of yours," he whispers harshly. "She is gone and she'll never come back. It's better just to forget that she ever existed, worthless thing that she was."

I close my eyes and try to shut out the vision of my father's hatred. Merlin, how could he despise someone he once loved so much?

My cheek inflames from the crack that throws me against the wall. "Have your wretched painting. You and she deserve each other."

He stalks past my fallen form and slams the door shut. I open my eyes and glance at the portrait lying on the floor, face down. I don't want to lift it up. It's too easy to imagine what I'll see. She always cries when he burns her.

I huddle into a corner, wrap my arms around myself, and wish my friend would come to me.


July 19, 1971 (Harry is 20, and Severus is 11)

Severus: It was hot out here hours ago, but the sun has since faded into the horizon and the moon has started to rise to its peak. He still has not come. I doubt he's coming. He has never arrived this late before. It's hopeless and I should go in, but it's easier to ignore the wild look and madness growing in my father's eyes when I'm outside. I don't think it will be long before his sanity is damaged irreparably.

But soon it won't matter, soon I'll be going to Hogwarts. It doesn't matter that our galleons are low and that I'll basically be a charity ward—being poor doesn't matter. It's the magic I crave, the texts I want. And I can get away from my father, take my mother's portrait somewhere safe and maybe I can find a way to reverse the silence.

"Boo!"

I jump and turn around, glaring at Drogo's immature antics. Sometimes I think he's more of a child than I am! "You do realize that wasn't the least bit scary?"

"Then why did you jump?"

I don't that question worthy of an answer, so I grit my teeth instead.

I feel his cold air, though it doesn't chill me, coming closer and spreading near me. "Why are you upset?" he asks. His voice is gentle and kind. It's like my mother's, I think, though the memory of her is fading—dying. "Don't deny it, I can see that you are."

"Don't pretend to understand everything about me," I snarl instinctively. "You don't."

"Severus," he murmurs, "tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing, absolutely nothing."

I feel his hand or something like it go through me. It's like he forgets he's a ghost, thinking that he can still comfort me with touch. I wish he was real; I wish I could cling to him and have him hold me. It's been so long since… anyone has held me.

"You know you can tell me. You know I'll listen."

And I do want to tell him, I've wanted to tell him for the longest time, but he wasn't here when he should! Where has he been? It's been a very long time since his last visit, nearly two weeks. In the beginning, yes, he didn't use to come that often. But as we became closer, he started coming around more. It's not like he has other obligations. He's just a bloody ghost. He can go wherever he likes, whenever he wants, no matter if he has a stupid curse on him or not.

"Why did it take you so long to come?" I accuse. "I needed you days ago and you weren't here!"

His face looks as resigned as a ghost's can be. Drogo has told me how hard it is, trying to create the image of movement and facial expression is even harder. It's the reason most ghosts just tend to have a blank look or one perpetual expression. It's easier just to remember how to tug your face in one way. But Drogo always tries to fit the face to the situation like a real person. Too bad, like any person of flesh and blood, he falls short.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I haven't been feeling well… the curse is just pulling at me even more. Sometimes, I think it's getting stronger."

Sometimes, I just think it's an excuse. But when I look carefully at him, I actually notice he looks tired. He must be feeling it so much that it's being expressed without him having to imagine it so. I almost feel guilty enough to take back my harsh words, and yet I don't. It would horrify my father if he knew I backed down—not that he's sane enough to do anything but destroy what's around him, including himself.

"I really did try to get here," my ghost says. "You know I'm not the type to lie."

"No," I mutter. "You remind me of a Hufflepuff."

Drogo laughs and the sound goes straight to my ears like music. I rarely hear such a happy sound here at the Snape Estate. Nothing but splintering wood and broken glass. I wish that it was the opposite, but it's not.

"It's your father, isn't it?" Drogo guesses.

I slowly nod. Though, it's not like it's a hard thing to realize. There's only one person that can really get at me. My father's the only one who really matters to me. He's the only one that can get under my skin and penetrate my façade of stone and ice. After all, he's a Snape and he's the one who taught me how to put on a front. I've learned it well, but not well enough to use it successfully against him. It's unfortunate.

"What did he do this time?"

I tuck my knees under my chin and hold them tight to my chest. "He tried to destroy my mother's last portrait, the one that's in my room."

Drogo doesn't always know what to say, and when he doesn't, instead he just tries to hold me with his arms as if he were real. He's not, of course, and so his arms go right through me. But it doesn't matter. It's nice to be touched, even if it's by cold arms.

"He didn't, did he?" my ghost asks hesitantly. He's afraid for me and sad too. How like him.

"No, but he nearly did," I whisper, leaning against the tree and wishing I could lean against him. "He broke the frame, but the canvas is all right."

"That's good," he says.

My only response is: "I guess so."


August 30, 1998 (Harry is 18)

Harry: "You will be formally allowed into an Order meeting next month," Albus declares, peering at me with his round and gold spectacles. "I assume Moody has taught you what protocol to follow when Aurors meet. Virtually the same is required in our meetings. The elders speak first and then those that are younger—unless the discussion is open."

I incline my head respectfully to my former Headmaster, and the man who has mentored me despite much difficulty. "Of course, sir."

"You know you can call me Albus, Harry." He smiles and his eyes twinkle a bit. "I think I've told you that more than once."

I nod. "You have."

"For your first meeting," Albus remarks, shifting back to his former topic as if he has never left it, "you will be guided by Severus through the elaborate new protections that have been set in Grimmauld Place," Albus remarks. "It will probably be quite a surprise to you how we have changed it, but the wards are the strongest they have ever been."

I wonder why Albus chose Snape of all people to show me the way past the wards. There are easily a number of others he could choose. I'm sure Remus would be happy to show me—if he wasn't in France. I forgot that he's over there, gone for who knows how long trying to persuade the werewolves there to join us in this war that threatens to spill into their own lands. It's much the same on more legal diplomatic fronts. Hermione's one of the up and coming members of our Ministry delegation. And my mind's drifting—I can see the understanding on Albus' face.

It's too easy nowadays to lose one's self in thoughts, too many thoughts. "All right," I agree. "When should I come?"

"The next meeting's scheduled for September 17," he says, rising from his seat and his wand appears out of nowhere into his hand. He doesn't ask me if I'm ready. I almost think that's where Snape gets his Legilimency attack mentality. Did Albus teach him that like he teaches me now? "Infractum ossis!"

I dodge the bone-breaking spell, thanks to my Auror training, and settle myself onto the balls of my feet—ready to move in any directions at the warm-up curses he'll throw my way until we get down to the real business.

"Legilimens!"

I shield my mind like an impenetrable glass wall. He can see the images that I allow, but he can't pull them out. I can feel his displeasure and his approval. I'm improving and he knows it. Soon all he'll see are dark shadows of what used to be full revelations.

I push him out of my mind and shout: "Expelliarmus!"

"Protego!" My spell is battered into dissipation. And so it begins…

TBC

A/N: So exhausted. Let me know what you think (as always). It's much appreciated.

Thanks to Never Odd or even (thanks), Clodia (I haven't decided if Harry will stay in a ghost or not, but he remains so for the next 20k and the other questions, you'll see. Re-P.S. Thanks! I'm grateful for readers like you who tell me what they think), Paula (It only gets easier and easier as you get used to it, I just threw a lot of stuff at once), Melissa Jooty (The format is, even if the storyline is different from TTW. I try to be different. I'm glad you think the characters are IC. I don't like it when they are way OOC and there's not even an attempt to explain it. I do try to validate my changes in personalities as best I can. I'm glad you're intrigued. Hope you'll keep reviewing, definitely one of the best and most encouraging ones I've received so far), Dragon Smile (thanks! There's definitely more Drogo-Snape coming), and Rowana S (yeah it's on Schnoogle).