Chapter 3
A/N: I should really, really be working on my major pop-culture essay that is due tomorrow, but this story has been on my mind all day and it's demanding to be written. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, I absolutely love receiving feedback.
Big thanks to my Beta, Le Chat Noir, for it is a dire task to wade through someone else's grammatical follies.
Her face was contorted into an expression of perplexity. Her hair hung in front of her eyes and forehead, the deep red a stark contrast to the paleness of her skin. He could make out the shadows of her lashes against her cheeks as she briefly shut her eyes and muttered silently to herself. She looked disheveled and out of sorts, which was both nauseating and charming. Paradoxical emotions were not unfamiliar to him, and he found that he invited the balance.
He saw the worst in people who thought themselves – unconsciously so – worthy of admiration. There was ugliness to be found in such beauty, and it was never too difficult to see. If one looked hard enough, all lovely surfaces would crumble and fade. Dilapidation does ruin a fine structure, he thought; it exposes it for what it truly is beneath the fictitious splendor that formerly incited admiration.
People are their foundations, not their paint and polish.
Her eyes looked upon her cauldron with a critical air. She swept her hair behind her ear impatiently and rested her chin upon her hand. She was thinking quickly, but her frustration was growing more obvious.
Her potion was not turning into the deep forest green that Slughorn said it should. In fact, it was a rather murky, swampy colour at the moment.
She was considering stirring the substance counter-clockwise - he could tell by the way she hesitantly held her hand. Given the properties of the potion, doing such a thing would be a wise action. It was a rather thick substance, and various mixing techniques would liquefy the materials more swiftly.
She knew this, but she doubted herself. He could tell by her sideways glances at her book and the frown that would cross her features when she stared at the substance simmering before her.
"Mudbloods lack instinct, it is a shame really." He mused.
He watched her face carefully beneath the cover his long, lanky hair. She was oblivious to his stare, which he knew she would find condescending and snarky. His stares rarely conveyed any other emotions. Her attention was focused solely on her potion, which was far beneath her usual standards. Whatever would the doting Professor say? Perhaps she might not even garner an invitation to the next meeting of brilliant minds and boastful social connections! Oh, the horror…
The room was growing loud with puzzled exclamations and flipping pages, Slughorn could be heard clearing his throat – a sign that the class was coming to an end within the next few minutes.
He could feel mild panic radiating from the flustered witch next to him.
It was mildly empowering, and slightly off-putting.
His hands moved of their own volition to push his open Potions textbook onto her desk. She glanced to the right of her see to see what object had made its way over to her without turning her head. Her eyes briefly scanned the well-worn parchment that was haphazardly decorated with various notes and anecdotes. Certain ingredients and methods had been crossed out and replaced with others in sloppy, childish script.
Reluctantly her fingers reached out to touch the parchment carefully, and her brows rose thoughtfully. She looked at him, but his eyes were on his cauldron while he made last-minute adjustments and checked the potion for the appropriate colour and viscosity.
He could feel her staring. He imagined her green eyes were wide with shock, albeit the delighted kind. Was she biting the corner of her lip thoughtfully as she did when silently assessing the actions of others?
"Thanks."
It was a whisper, barely audible above the frantic voices of those whose potions were so badly conjured that they were best dumped before igniting a fire or poisoning the innards of those unfortunate enough to be within their vicinity.
He watched her slender hands move with swift confidence as she followed her original intention to stir the mixture in a counter-clockwise motion. His notes had re-affirmed her original consensus, and he saw a glimmer of both satisfaction and pride cross her concentrated features. Later on she would question how he came upon such information as what was inscribed in the seemingly innocent, innocuous textbook. For now, she was simply relieved that her work was up to its usual standard.
"Bring your potions up to the front, please!" Slughorn's hoarse voice barely penetrated the exasperated menagerie of disgruntled voices that echoed throughout the dungeon. Still, the shuffling began as leather-clad feet padded across the concrete towards the Professor's desk with their poor excuses for potions clasped in their sweaty hands.
He could feel her eyes on him again as she pushed his book towards him and began to pack away her own personal effects. Her puzzlement was understandable; he had called her a Mudblood just a week ago – when she tried to help him out of a humiliating ordeal, nonetheless.
Well, she could consider this non-characteristic gesture to be his reluctant "thank you." He resented her interference, but she didn't truly deserve the grave insult he bestowed upon her.
Well, she did – as all Mudbloods do – but perhaps that moment was not the right time to speak ancient truths. She showed a modicum of nobility in his favor, and now he in turn saved her reputation as the most gifted Potion's student Hogwarts had to offer. Both had found themselves in a rather bothersome predicament, and both had now been "saved" by the one unaffected by such undesirable circumstances.
"Fair is fair, is it not?"
He began to swiftly pack his things away and stood, handling his concoction carefully. It was perfect, and he had no desire to let even a single drop be lost. He waited until the saw the backs of Potter and Black darken the doorway before standing, he had no desire to be "accidentally" knocked off balance as one of them ripped through the room with the haughty arrogance that the staff and students seemed to adore so voraciously.
He hated cowering behind his desk as he awaited their departure, but there were few other options available. He was in no mood to hear their uproarious laughter as the contents of his labor dripped onto his second-hand robes. He had heard it before, and every time it became increasingly unbearable.
Besides, Evans did not need to see him pulling at his robes frantically as the liquid burned through his clothing. Such a spectacle would surely only bring out her reluctant good-natured chastisements, and she would certainly laugh about it later in the Gryffindor common room. He had lost two pairs of shoes and three robes to Potter's "clumsiness" in the past few years, and galleons were harder to come by for one of his regrettable social standing.
Speaking of Evans, it was now her back that was darkening the doorway, but she turned to give the beaming Professor a bright smile and wave before exiting the room. It was such shameless showboating, very obnoxious indeed.
She had a lot to smile about because of him, and he knew that he should somehow find a way to remind her of that.
He stepped away from his table, but stopped short when a neatly folded piece of parchment caught his eye. His name – as in his actual first name and not a surly nickname – graced the visible side of the paper in thick, black ink.
He set his potion down and opened the note swiftly.
"Severus,
Thank you for letting me use your book, I really appreciate it!
Lily"
It was short and circumspect, a polite and formal show of gratitude. He folded it up as neatly as she had done and placed in his pocket carefully.
He could never have known it then, but that was the moment when his life as he knew it began.
The hours were passing slowly, as they often did when there was little to do. Boredom was detrimental to the mind, it made it idle and lazy, or cause it wander down dangerous terrain. Reflection was a painful, bothersome thing. The Headmaster disagreed with that notion, but he had been born with the innate ability – or talent – to rise above such trivial adversities as being consumed by the pain of years past.
Snape was not nearly as lucky, and he could say with confidence that he had far more to regret than most people.
Draco looked excessively pale at this point. Indeed, horror does affect one's pallor. A follower he was, but stupid he was not. The young wizard was able to infer where this story was leading, and the thought of his proud, bitter Potions Master exchanging favors with a Mudblood was outside the realm of his comprehension.
It had been skewered into his skull from infancy that a Pure-Blood Slytherin must acquaint themselves only with Witches and Wizards of similar breeding. To defy convention was to invite disgrace, and that – for some – was a fate worse than death. A boy with Malfoy's inbred ideology would fear the social suicide incurred by associating with dirty-blooded infidels. Such a concept was comparable to fraternizing with animals – creatures lacking in civilization and decorum.
"You were friends with a Mudblood?" Draco nearly spat the word as he spoke it. He sounded just like his father, only more aghast and less repulsed than Lucius would have been. Young Malfoy preached his sire's principles, but his disgust did not reach as deeply into his core.
"I would not call two mild encounters 'friendship', no." Snape said dryly.
"You believed you owed her something? She was a Mudblood, she had no right to even be at Hogwarts!"
Prejudiced indignation was so nauseating in those who spoke it without true conviction. He would change: in time his illusions would shatter and he would look upon the trivial politics of status with a more discerning eye. He would learn that those with the cleanest, reddest blood could fall hard and fast, and that those with brown-tinged veins could rise above the greatest of obstacles and prove themselves worthy of admiration and respect.
He would learn to hide that admiration and mask it with a sneer, and he would learn to praise a cause that no longer appealed to him. In time he would learn that life was about dishonesty and self-sufficient motivation. He would learn that guilt, anguish, and obligation touched those who once thought themselves invincible.
"Mr. Malfoy, if I am to continue telling you this tale, you should refrain from using the term 'Mudblood' loosely or with great frequency." Snape's words were clipped and his delivery slow, he was never one to speak quickly when conveying a serious message.
Malfoy raised an eyebrow questioningly.
"You surprise me, Severus."
"I surprise most people who are unfortunate enough to spend a great deal of time in my company."
"Well, if I am to be in your company for a long time," Draco began, "and I suspect I will -"
"Indeed." Snape added.
"Then I wont accuse you of sullying yourself with the Mother-Who-Didn't-Live."
Severus was silent. His lips parted slightly, but there were no words escaping. He could hear her again: that same voice that he heard for so many days during his youth. That voice that he could never allow himself to imagine fading out as her life was ripped from her body by use of those two words.
Did she scream? Cry? Yell out in horrified anguish?
The thought of sounds of pain emitting from her throat was almost too much to bear.
He had demanded that she be given the chance to live, and it had been in vain.
"Will you spare the woman?"
The cruel eyes of his master looked down on him with dull fascination. The pub was crowded and hot, the smoke filled air masking the features of the carefully hooded figure before him. It was rather noisy as well, but the boisterous nature of their surroundings provided greater secrecy than a secluded setting. The Dark Lord always said that the best disguise was no disguise at all, as people were daft enough to believe that those who planned in secret worked in secret.
He had a sort of perverse brilliance, his Master.
"Spare a Mudblood?" Voldemort was rather laconic and calm, and his reddened, serpentine eyes did not narrow or register shock at Snape's meek request.
"I will take care of…"
"You wish to dispose of her yourself, Severus?" Voldemort questioned mildly, his long fingers running along the rim of his fire-whisky mug delicately.
Snape felt his stomach churn and his breath become short. He was mad, absolutely mad for making the request that he dared to make. Yet, he could never live with himself if he did not.
"No, Master." He cleared his throat and coughed. "I think she would be an asset to our cause, she's very competent…"
"A Mudblood helpful to our cause?" The Dark Lord released what some may have called a scoff. Severus knew not what it was, but it didn't put him at ease.
"She has great talents, and will use them in your favor if need be." Snape straightened his back and laid his palms flat against the table. It was best to show confidence in such matters, even though the wizard before him demanded subservience and reverence.
"Hmm, perhaps I will consider…"
Snape felt – much to his disdain – a great flush return to his sallow cheeks.
"Yes?"
"If you keep the Mudblood under your control at all times and ensure that she will remain silent of her deplorable heritage and work with us accordingly, I will offer her life to her, in exchange for the boy."
Snape felt his heart sink to his bowels. No parent worth his or her salt sacrificed their child for themselves.
"She will refuse," Severus said flatly, his voice devoid of emotion.
"Do not doubt my powers of persuasion."
It was a demand, not advice.
"Yes, My Lord."
"I will offer the woman her life, and should she accept, I will bring to her you as…a gift." Voldemort chose his words carefully, his lips turning upwards into a smug look of satisfaction.
Snape was momentarily puzzled and eternally horrified to hear his request spoken in such crude terms.
"A gift?"
"A lovely, pliable present in return for delivering the prophecy. You may do what you like with her, chain her to your person and make her crawl behind you on her hands and knees for all eternity with a gag in her filthy mouth if you so wish it. I am not averse to rewarding my loyal followers, in fact, loyalty is deserving of rewards just as betrayal is worthy of punishment. Would you not agree, Severus?"
"Yes, Master."
Thus far Snape's plan had been mostly successful. He knew that the Dark Lord would be more likely to grant him a request after accepting the duty of spy and bringing back valuable information. He had managed to convince Voldemort to concede without daring to make light of his contribution to the Death Eaters cause, and he took pride in his cleverness in doing so.
Still, he had hoped that the Dark Lord would simply take Lily back with him by force – without truly harming her. Providing her with an ultimatum would be futile: she was not one to allow the life of another to be taken for her own protection. Especially not the life of her very own child – the child he would secretly abhor for a plethora of reasons until his last breath.
If Lily were made to be his personal plaything, her hatred would be severe. Yet she would be alive, and near him, and even if she hated him with all of her heart and soul, she would remain healthy and living. A world with a hateful Lily was better than one with no Lily at all.
In time, she would come to understand, and she would appreciate his concern for her well-being. Merlin knew, he would be the only one who cared at all for her come the revolution.
She may have not been able to save him from what she perceived to be a deadly threat, but he could save her. Perhaps, should she end up back at his side, she would come to accept that. Perhaps, someday, she would embrace it.
Or perhaps the cost was simply too great.
"I'm making a great sacrifice for your ungrateful arse, Ms. Evans," Severus thought to himself, "and I can only hope that you'll come to see that someday."