8. A Homecoming
A few days later, something very much out of the ordinary happened.
The Double Potions lesson had started out quietly, but it seemed that Professor Snape was out of luck lately. Apparently, he had forbidden his house all kinds of attacks on Gryffindors for the time being, probably as a punishment for their failure. But to make it not too easy for them either, the class had been appointed the brewing of a very tedious Potion that needed the repetition of complicated processes, and demanded a lot of attention. The lesson seemed to draw out unbearably, at least for the Gryffindors, when suddenly the door of the classroom banged open with a crash which seemed to be its usual way of admitting people that demanded admission unexpectedly, or of Snape himself.
The sixth-years started at the unexpected interruption, for which at least half of them were doubtlessly very grateful.
Standing in the doorway was someone who looked to have come a long way, and mostly on foot, dark Muggle clothes ripped and dirty.
When the tall and dark-haired visitor approached and stepped into a pool of yellowish light from the torches, those students familiar with the Muggle world could see that what the stranger was wearing might have been construction worker's gear at some point. It was paint-stained, rather used, and of a variety of shades of grey now.
From the visitor's left hand dangled heavy work-boots, tied together by their laces, and brought the class's attention to bare, blistered feet and, by that, to an amazing insensibility to the cold of the stone tiles of the dungeon floor.
These feet were elongated, narrow, very flat and short-toed, somehow looking not quite made for walking and, hence, probably very sore at the moment. Right now, they were also extremely dirty and scarred, and apparently bleeding in places; soiled like the clothes the visitor wore, like the matted hair, and the hands. Attempts at cleaning were visible, but had been rather futile and merely resulted in smearing grime about.
Someone in the front row where the Slytherins sat, started to snigger.
"Do we have Muggle slaves to do the dirty work now, instead of house elves? And are they not allowed any shoes or clean clothes, either? Why are they allowed in the castle at all then, muddy misers?"
"Severus!"
The name rang out through the classroom.
The sniggering stopped dead. The voice startled them all – it was low, hoarse and husky, but unmistakeably that of a woman, and this strange woman had just addressed the acerbic Potions Professor by his first name – an event unheard of!
Some students stared on open-mouthed. The manner of address bewildered everyone present except the intruder and the man thus addressed, who likely was more used to hearing it than they. Snape probably even thought of himself using it, while some of the students hardly could wrap their minds around the idea that the Potions master HAD a first name at all. They never thought of their austere Professor as being in possession of such a thing. It just did not fit the picture, even if they'd happened to have overheard other teachers addressing him thus on occasions.
Snape turned, facing the tall woman, but gave no sign of surprise or recognition. He strode toward her in his most menacing manner and stopped in some good distance.
"Silva," he acknowledged.
"I have to talk to you."
Snape looked the woman in front of him up and down, but oddly, there appeared to be neither sneer nor contempt in his attitude, as every student would have expected of him should ever a person dare to drop in on a lesson of his unannounced, and in a state of disarray like that. But then, this apparently was no stranger. Professor Snape's attitude was one of quiet, rather disinterested appraisal or assessment, much like a that of a doctor's, of the victim of an accident.
"Is there any chance of leaving my lesson be and waiting, till time's up? Of cleaning up meanwhile, maybe, and getting those feet dressed in the hospital wing?"
He did not ever address her directly nor use her name again.
"No. Now."
There was neither embarrassment nor sympathy in the attitude of either of them, nor were excuses ventured on the woman's side.
The woman apparently named Silva made a step forward as if to touch the Potions Professor's sleeve, and by that came to stand in the full mock daylight of one of the dungeon's high-up windows.
When she straightened her back to look up into the face of the Potions Professor opposite her, a kind of collective gasp seemed to escape the class, Gryffindors and Slytherins alike, so very strongly did the Professor and the dishevelled woman looked like each other.
Both were pale, but with her, this looked rather natural. Her nose was much smaller, yet no less beaky than his; in that woman's face, it gave her a benevolent if stubborn air, a bit like that of a friendly owl. Slightly arrogant, too, maybe...
Apparently, she had tried to clean her face, too – there were some faint smudges of dirt on her cheeks, but generally, she had succeeded there.
Dark, pale, witchy, and quite good looking... This was something none of them, not even the most adorant Slytherin, would have been able to reconcile in anyone bearing even the faintest likeness to Severus Snape...
The Professor and the visitor wore their hair in a similar fashion and length. The woman's was as straight, but a bit lighter than his, unless the layers of dirt and dust were confounding the impression. Her eyes were lighter, too, a kind of flecked hazel if the dungeon dimness could be trusted. They had the same wide mouth, but hers was a little less tight-lipped and bitter, no creases, yet faint lines showing.
Something about her made the students gape.
Snape's neutral attitude on taking in the appearance of this woman, who must surely be a close relative of his, seemed all the more amazing as, in the stronger light, the outfit she wore looked worse than that of a beggar: baggy grey army-type below-the-knees that might originally have been of another colour, with densely crammed cargo pockets, and a rather large shredded sweat shirt with the logo of a construction company, sagging in every direction, and cut off at all openings, on top a tee of indefinite colour. Everything the tall woman wore was stained with old grease or dirt. It also had at some point been spattered with paint of different colours. The material seemed soaked, probably with sweat, and looked like nicked from a roadside ditch after an accident.
Yet even with the lines of exhaustion in the woman'sface, and her generally dishevelled appearance, she exuded willpower. There was a hint of desperation, too, in her attitude.
Professor Snape was very likely annoyed at this person's appearance. From anybody else, one would expect polite questions as to the stranger's health, and an offer to use the bathroom to clean up a bit. There might have been a welcome, even. The Professor though, with a short nod towards the door, brushed past her, abruptly as ever, and headed out. The woman, turning on her bare heels in a swift movement familiar to all present, followed suit.
The door slammed shut.
Whispers started instantaneously, mostly stating the obvious, as gossip goes.
"They are relatives! Must be his sister... or cousin?"
"But a lot younger, no?"
"Wow, who'd thought that Snape had relatives at all – poor woman... Silva Snape, that would be, then?"
"I bet that's a cousin... Snape can't possibly have a sister or something, honestly! He probably hasn't even got parents, that's what I think!"
Sniggers.
"Maybe that's his aunt. See, as aunts and uncles can even be younger than yourself..."
"Oh, shut it!"
Laughter went up, the noise level was rising. The commotion was mainly on the Gryffindor side of the room, the Slytherins apparently being paralysed or in a state of shock, brought about by the unexpected news about their head of house.
"But that would still mean he'd have a brother or sister... "
"Urgh!"
"And why can't she be his niece then, you prat?"
More laughter. No-one was bothering to whisper any more.
Much the same had, with Snape in his third year only, been the words and thoughts of his schoolmates, when the girl Silva was called forward for the Sorting, many years ago...
"A bit more round in the face, not quite as pale..."
"It only looks better on her!"
"No big deal, that!"
"Freckles, did you notice? Snape with freckles!" That was Ron, still whispering. But he was heard no less. Giggling ensued.
"You're kidding! That was the lights! Dirt, that was!" protested Seamus, who seemingly feared having anything in common with a Snape.
The agitation and laughter in the room were constantly growing.
"She's tall, did you see, almost as tall as him! Good-looking..."
"Iieeeh! You can't be serious! Come off it!"
"She's about half a head shorter than him!"
"But you know, that still makes her tall. And she DOES look good!"
"A good-looking Snape... I do believe this is a memorable day..."
"You know, to be honest, I think he himself..."
"DON'T even THINK that!"
"Could she possibly have been in Slytherin, too?"
"Brrrh, but do wash her first – she's dirty like – like a Muggle road worker! The stuff she wears looks like she came here on foot through a mud in a rain, and had to run all the way! Like she slept in those clothes for three days in roadside ditches!"
That was Pansy. This assessment was, if rather off-hand even for a guess, a fairly precise assessment of how said woman had spent her previous days.
"She IS good-looking. She is..."
"And what if she's his daughter?"
"Merlin, STOP IT! You are giving me images I won't get rid of in months!"
Not that anyone cared.
"No, too old for that all right, don't you think?"
"I don't' know... you're right, probably..."
"But she should bathe and get some decent clothes... "
"You said that before, Malfoy, and I do think she will, rather sooner than later! You don't really believe that anyone'd prefer to run around like that, do you, seriously? Maybe you yourself would, though, and it's only your headperson forcing you to wash every day?"
"I'll wash your mouth right now..."
Someone got up, starting to approach the other house's tables, but was pulled back to his seat by a friend.
"Wait till we see her again, you'll see for yourself!"
"Two or three years his junior, don't you think?"
"More! She might be his daughter, after all!"
Seemingly, this only hit home fully now.
"OOOOOOOH NOOOOOHH!" Shrieks from the girls, even the Slytherins.
"Don't you dare to ever say that again!"
"Come on, she must be ten years younger than him, at least! A hundred years! He's so OLD!"
Harry silently agreed with Ron and all the others, going on about the interruption, and the likelihood of that woman being Snape's sister, but didn't really bother to become involved in the debate. It was pretty amusing, though.
But then, the things Dumbledore had let him see with the help of the Pensieve had shown Harry a different man, who had not been scowling and glowering all of the time, and hard, besides being younger, and apparently so very different in general. Before, he had never thought that someone bearing any likeness to Snape's face could look good at all. Hence, there might be other things that were not known about Snape - yet.
The woman called Silva had not had any of the Potions master's rigidity about her, but moved fluidly, regardless of exhaustion
What urgent message might she bear that would get Snape to leave the room instantly, though?
All of a sudden, Harry was absolutely sure, much to his own surprise, that he had seen this woman before, but he was positive that it had not been in the Pensieve whenever he'd looked into it. In the cemetery, with Voldemort? No, not her! And it had been nice, good for him… Maybe at the Quidditch World Cup? Maybe there, too, in passing, but that was not it. Long before that... more often... Quite some time ago, it must have been... And he was sure it had been a positive encounter. The memory refused to become clear, but it did feel good. Surely, her likeness with Snape confused his memory.
The students jumped in their seats when the door slammed again, and their teacher was back – in his foulest mood ever.
Snape's robes were swirling behind him, and the icy anger he exuded made them fear the worst for what was left of the lesson. Luckily, there were only a good twenty minutes to go.
He snarled: "Silence! As you will have spent the time I had to leave you unattended wisely by preparing the appointment for today, your doubtlessly failed potions should be ready for testing in ten minutes. Gryffindor first!"
Now this was unjust, just like him!
With relief, Snape noticed that the brats at least had not demolished the classroom, either in fight, or in failure. Even Longbottom's cauldron was still in position and did not look as if about to leave it of itself in any direction.
The students cowered appropriately over their cauldrons and beakers at this address, and tried to concentrate on their preparations. Most had of course not used the time of his absence to continue brewing in the concentrated manner necessary, except for that Granger girl, and even she had been perturbed by the gossip and banter.
The Professor noted with some contentment that time was running dangerously short for everybody. The outcome would likely be house-points deduced and a generous hand-out of detentions... for Gryffindor alone, as usual.
The next thing that happened was, though, the brooding and tense atmosphere of the lesson being interrupted again, this time by Peeves who drifted through the closed door crooning a song obviously mocking the Professor's visitor to the ugly little melody of mocking that children sing nyah-nyah-nyah to:
Oooh, little Miss Snape,
pretty white nape,
cries for her brother
who doesn't love her!
Has run away...
But the poltergeist didn't get any further than that, or at all close to the student's tables. The Professor had his wand out like lightning and conjured up something like a pale phosphorescent net that hurled itself at the poltergeist. Peeves, laughing maniacally, rushed out through the door which, a split second later, once more banged open for the Potions master, now chasing the poltergeist, and slammed shut again, leaving the class to itself again.
The students started to laugh and talk, more carefree this time. This lesson was not that bad – not boring for once, to be sure.
When the Professor returned this time, he was comparatively relaxed, but seemed to be brooding and distracted. Snape did not bother to bid them silence, but demanded their potions to be turned in right away, regardless of their state. He 6dismissed them plainly and did not set them homework.
This was an event unheard of in all the years of his teaching and generated sounds of surprise and amazement from various parts of the room.
Snape corrected himself instantaneously: "Three feet on the interaction of the Calamus and Dragonwort, or Bistort, roots, – you'll need that knowledge for Friday's brewing, so you better not forget. Class dismissed!"
This was moderate by the Potions Professor's standards. There was a Potions class before Friday. Ron groaned no less. Another amazing point was that there were about ten minutes left to the end of class. The Gryffindors in particular stumbled out of the room as fast as they could, in fear that the Professor might notice and call them back, or being given the extra homework they got from Snape all the time on account of their being 'utter dunderheads with no talent for Potions at all'.
Considering their Professor, Hermione said: "Snape almost gave away what we'll brew next Friday, and that it'll be dangerous not to pay attention to this homework. He even mentioned another name for that dragonroot plant! Now he might have done that for the Slytherins, but never for us! I think he really must be upset. Wonder what this Silva woman... what she's here for?"
Ron said: "I wonder if she's really his relative. I can't believe it!"
Harry had nothing to say to that, wondering vaguely what effect the events might have on Snape's mood.
He was racking his brain to find out where he'd seen the woman before.