It was a warm summer night and the crescent moon did not hang in the black sky as eerily as it did on All Hallow's E'en. No chill mist rolled through the silent graveyard either, but the dark figure hunched over at the base of the tombstone shuddered regardless. His quickened breaths did not form icy clouds in the balmy air, nor did a solitary owl ever shatter the stillness with a sudden haunting cry.
Snape was glad of it, hating his current task enough as it was, without all the usual cemetery clichés to add to the drama of the moment.
He threw one last glance over his shoulder, confirming that he was unobserved, and used his wand to pull one of Tom Riddle Senior's dry ribs up out of the earth. He wrapped it carefully in a fraying handkerchief and stashed it in his pocket, straightening up in preparation to apparate away from the scene of the crime before the Dark Lord noticed that his Dad's DNA was being filched from under his very nose. Not that he had much of a nose these days, Snape reflected.
He started violently as the Dark Mark flared painfully on his arm and tried to bite down on his panic. It was highly unlikely that Voldemort had found out so soon that the grave had been robbed, though he really ought to have set up some kind of wards now that everyone knew how he had managed to regain his body. Snape frowned. Actually, that was not true. Only Wormtail and the Potter brat were supposed to know exactly how he returned to corporeal power – the conceited little rodent had been unable to resist bragging to the other Death Eaters about his role that fateful night. Fatal night, as far as the muscle-bound Hufflepuff had been concerned. Diggory had been about as effective in the lab as a chocolate cauldron. A pity all Quidditch-addled dunderheads could not be so neatly removed from his life. Slytherin might actually win the house cup for once. Snape laughed a nasty silent laugh into the night and hurried to Voldemort's side.
No one else was present. The Dark Lord was…well, lounging, was the only word to describe it, in the little drawing-room behind the grand hall. Nagini's head lay in his lap and he was petting her fondly with a spidery white hand.
"Ssseverus," he dived in without preamble. "I find myself in sssomething of a quandary."
The potions master decided that the reduced formality entitled him to kneel up, instead of completely prostrating himself. He readjusted the rib-bone in his pocket to stop it sticking out and causing comment.
"Permit me the honour of assisting you, my Lord," he grovelled.
"I summoned you, my slippery spy, because of your extensive knowledge of magical substances and their use within our world."
Snape felt a small thrill of delight. A potions commission! At last, someone had recognised his genius and decided to help him develop his considerable skills in a research project! How long he had waited for this moment! All those wasted years playing nursemaid to a castleful of whining ingrates would be a thing of the past as he would boldly go where no potions master had gone before!
"I await you command, Master," he bowed low.
"In your expert opinion, Sssnape, which is the most comforting foodstuff in the magical world?"
There was a stunned silence. Nagini twitched the end of her scaly tail and stared at him expectantly. Snape swallowed.
"Foodstuff, my Lord?" he echoed in dismay.
"Indeed."
"Comforting?"
"Quite so. Your hearing seems to be in excellent shape tonight." Of the Dark Lord's myriad moods, Snape like 'sarcastic' the least of all. Except perhaps the time he'd had toothache and had spread his misery around the wizarding and muggle worlds, zapping randomly at his followers in between attacks. Green Thursday, the Prophet had called it, after all the Dark Marks which had littered the sky. Lucius grumbled about it as the woeful day when his brand-new Italian custom-made dragonsuede boots had been ruined forever by too much agonised rolling in the mud. There had been, he claimed later, a three-year waiting list to receive a pair.
Severus did not understand fashion, nor had he any wish to. He had scraped the filth off his ancient – but perfectly functional – black leather boots without a word.
"My Lord inferred that the biscuits, which I had the honour to provide the other day, were palatable," hazarded the potions master.
Snape's expertise did not stretch far in the culinary arena, either. At Hogwarts, food appeared at set times during the day. If he was too preoccupied to make it to the dining room for more than three meals in a row, he would become dizzy, at which point he would call an elf and request sustenance. The form which the sustenance took was of little concern to him, unless it was corned beef hash, in which case he vanished it when no one was looking. He had deliberated getting promotion within the Inner Circle by acquiring the recipe for corned beef hash and offering it to the Dark Lord as a new form of torture for captives, but his conscience had pricked him at the last minute. Not even Snape could be so cruel.
"Biscuits are all very well," the Dark Lord informed him airily, "Especially when accompanied by a nice cup of tea. But they are not sufficient for my purposes this evening. I require something altogether more…indulgent."
"Something delicious, Master?" he hazarded carefully.
"Yesss! Delicious and sweet and wicked!" Voldemort gazed into the middle distance, rubbing his hands together and making an effort not to drool over his serpentine familiar, who was looking at him oddly.
Snape bowed and assured him that he would do his best.
Back at Spinner's End he pulled out the Riddle bone and placed it on the table. So much for getting his much-needed rest and relaxation over the holidays.
Taking the precaution of locking Wormtail in the downstairs toilet, Severus subjected the bone to every rigorous test for every blood-borne disease he could think of, plus the ones which Bellatrix had discovered when they tested Pettigrew. He was still rather hazy on what exactly he was looking for – some abnormality, he supposed, which could explain the odd way the Dark Lord had been behaving since the resurrection. Something hormonal, maybe. He sighed as the last, obscure ancient Mayan spell yielded nothing worth knowing and nurtured the unlikely hope that the crazy witch would give up her crazy quest and leave him alone.
Tidying away his equipment, he dropped his best number six bronze cauldron on the floor with a clang when an orange ball of flame appeared from nowhere at his elbow.
"Merlin, Fawkes!" he shrieked, raising a threatening finger. "Are you trying to kill me?" The phoenix was not listening. He bounded up and down in the air, warbling urgently in a minor key. "What?" asked Snape, irritated. "Did the old man send you?"
Fawkes, evidently not in the mood for playing charades, tossed his pretty head irritably, seized hold of the potions master with his claws and yanked him through space with a crackly whoosh, which was more disorienting than floo powder and more nauseating than apparition.
His feet touched familiar soft carpet before his head stopped spinning.
"The Headmaster's office?" he snapped at the firebird. "Well, where is…"
He voice sank by about three octaves before tailing off completely. The carpet, desk, chairs, portraits, phoenix perch, gadgets and dish of lemon drops were all in their proper places. The sight which had just simultaneously stolen his speech and stabbed a six-foot icicle through his stomach was the groaning heap of lilac robes twitching on the floor.
"Oh no," murmured Snape.
Dumbledore was only semi-conscious, but recognised him just fine.
"Ah, dearest boy," he whispered weakly. "It exploded, you know."
"What exploded?" demanded Snape, already scanning the Headmaster for injuries and grimacing at the sensation of malevolent dark magic pouring off his right-hand side.
"Went with an al…almighty bang, dear me," his eyes were glazed over in a way that Snape did not like one bit. "Knew you could help me. So clever, Severus. Yes."
"Albus! Stay with me! What happened?" he threw himself down next to the old man and tugged off his garish outer robe. He exhaled with a hiss. Dumbledore's right hand was completely black and burned, a foul-smelling vapour swirling around it and slowly but visibly creeping up his forearm. The old blue eyes fluttered closed. "Albus! Don't you dare! Wake up! What exactly did you do? I need to know so I can help you."
It seemed that Dumbledore had taken himself off somewhere and been blown up in the act of destroying something powerful which was protected by a spell of exceptionally dark and evil proportions. Summoning book after book from the restricted section of the library, Snape finally succeeded in identifying the slow-burning curse known as Creeping Smoulder, but not before the damage had worked its way up past the headmaster's elbow. After another two inches, he found the ancient voodoo curse capable of halting its progress.
"I knew you would not let me down, my boy," said Dumbledore with unnatural cheerfulness as Snape tucked him into bed and tipped a strengthening solution down his throat. Snape stared.
"Let you down? Albus, are you mad? Nothing can be done with your arm. You have just lost the use of your wand hand completely!"
"I have another arm, Severus. I shall look forward to learning how to use my left," he beamed again. Snape's stomach gave a sudden lurch. Dumbledore had nearly died. The rock of ages and the only living person known to make the Dark Lord quake in his dark boots had almost been swept away – then what would have happened? The Light forces would have been dashing around like headless chickens trying to find a suitable replacement. Things were bad enough as it stood, with the old man visibly weakened and showing human frailty. There would be some serious partying in Little Hangleton when this story broke. He sighed heavily.
Any principles he may have had years ago about the advantages of good or evil had long been set aside in his interminable quest for a quiet life. The fervent aspirations of the disaffected young Snape watered themselves down into a vague hope of living long enough to become a cantankerous old man, instead of the cantankerous youth he had once been, or the cantankerous middle-aged man he was now. If he was leaning to the Light side rather than the Dark of late, it was mostly because, though both Dumbledore and Voldemort both went out of their way to irritate him, Albus' preferred medium of torture was the pre-breakfast staff meeting instead of the more direct Cruciatus curse. Fortunately, he had not been forced to pick sides during the interminable year of Gilderoy Lockhart's tenure as DADA professor. The sight of that cosmetically-enhanced lackwit first thing in the morning may well have sent him skipping to the Riddle Mansion clutching a basket of home-made fairy cakes with 'I (heart) my Dark Master' iced on the top.
"You know, dear boy," Dumbledore mused weakly, looking peaky against his animated Quidditch bedspread, "You're not half bad at Defence Against the Dark Arts, are you?"
Snape indulged himself by smacking his head against the carved oak bedpost, very quietly, just the once.
"No I am not 'half bad'," he ground through clenched teeth. "I am excellent!"
A tiny embroidered snitch whizzed past Albus' left ear as he turned to look at his colleague.
"So you are. I say, how about teaching Defence, instead of Potions, dear boy?"
Snape seized hold of his jaw and hoisted it back into position. He wanted to scream at the infuriating old bugger that he had consistently asked for the post for the last fourteen years, that he was so much better qualified than the ponces, neurotics, werewolves, frauds and raving lunatics who had inhabited that particular office over the years, that he would achieve much greater fulfilment and therefore be less inclined towards peevishness, were he permitted to engage in a job he actually enjoyed. His fingers also seemed to be itching to wrap themselves around that wrinkly throat. With a tremendous effort of will, he kept his accusations and lust for violence to himself. Instead, he just said:
"Yes."
"Splendid, splendid," beamed Albus. "You can start in September. Now, if I may trespass upon your time for one last favour, Severus?"
…….
It was ten minutes to seven in the morning and Diagon Alley was deserted, which was how Snape liked it. At this time of day, one could safely walk around without fear of being barged by elbows, prodded with shopping bags or accidentally stepping on small children. Not that Snape objected to breaking the odd tiny toe himself, but he found that doughty mothers had ways of expressing their consternation which could make one's hair curl.
He strode briskly past Ollivander's shop, boarded up and looking desolate since Voldemort had 'requested his assistance'. Fortunately, all attempts to trace him had proved futile, though the investigators who had looked over the mess (created by Crabbe, Goyle and Kevin the monkey that night) had concluded that the old wand-maker must have put up one hell of a struggle against his kidnappers.
Presently he arrived at Florean Fortesque's Ice Cream Parlour which was, predictably, in darkness, as even the most indulgent of parents balked at spoiling their overfed sprogs so early in the morning. Snape knocked for five minutes before a window above the shop creaked up and a loaded crossbow peeped out.
"Who's there?" demanded a groggy voice.
"I need ice-cream," Snape address the weapon, in lieu of any apparent human presence.
"We're closed! Come back in two hours," the voice sounded somewhat exasperated, and as the crossbow withdrew, Snape swore he heard a whisper of, 'time of the month, is it?'
"It is not for myself," the new DADA teacher supplied impatiently. He consulted the scrap of paper he had written on at Albus' dictation. "I require a Super-size Lush Lemon Tang-fastic Oomph Ultra-Juicy Citrus Sundae with lemon wafers, warm zingyfudge sauce, sherbet nuggets, sugar sprinkles, whipped cream, three mini everlasting-sparklers, a plastic monkey and a pink cocktail umbrella!"
The window flew up and a large curly head leaned right out above the street.
"Oh, Merlin! What's wrong with Albus!" demanded Fortescue, the picture of panic. "Hold on, I'm coming down!"
It transpired that each of Fortescue's regulars had a favourite dessert, which he prided himself on learning by heart. This particular concoction was Dumbledore's school-holiday treat, but he only requested sherbet nuggets and sugar sprinkles as a special pick-me-up when something really terrible happened.
Refusing to be drawn into the nature of the problem, Snape took a seat in the parlour to wait while the artist plied his craft.
"What's your favourite flavour?" he threw a speculative glance at the dark man and Snape watched his eyes flick to the tub of blood sorbet over on the 'special' counter. Snape scowled.
"Newt and anchovy," he sneered. Florean nodded with mild relief and provided him with a scoop of flecked green gloop in a little silver dish, presumably to entertain his visitor while he was carefully assembling the lemon monstrosity for Albus.
Snape looked around the shadowy café. Even in the early-morning light it was remarkably different from Ollivander's dusty rows of shelves. There, thousands of centuries-old wands idled in the dank rooms inside their crumbling boxes, waiting for the little wizard of their dreams to shuffle nervously though the door. The proprietor, looking as though he had manned the place personally since 382BC, would lurk in the shadows, full of premonition and sinister warnings as his merchandise rustled impatiently behind him, waiting for the destructive business of Choosing to begin. Some of the more sensitive eleven year olds were known to burst into tears on crossing the threshold.
Here, the tables and chairs were decorated with shifting patterns of rainbows. Florean, a huge man with a flowing mane of brown pre-Raphaelite curls and a laugh which could shake a four-storey building would jig gently in his frilly apron, full of jokes and humorous songs for his young customers. On every wall, a bright mural of big-eyed puffskeins and stylised unicorns cavorted merrily in an improbably-coloured landscape, playing leapfrog and licking ice cream cones larger than their own bodies.
"Hi, I'm Tiddly," beamed one particularly garish character in a vivid orange suit not unlike Dumbledore's bathing outfit, "Can I be your fwiend?"
On the whole, Snape preferred the wand shop.
"Nearly finished, Professor," chimed Florean, tugging the lid off a glittering bucket labelled 'Sherbet Nuggets'. "This will be a great comfort to Albus, whatever the problem is!"
"Comfort?" repeated Snape, thinking of his little chat with the Dark Lord.
"Surely, surely!" boomed Fortescue. "Most of my grown-up customers eat sundaes in order to make themselves feel better! There you go."
He handed the teacher an enormous structure of many alarming different shades of yellow, with the requested series of tasteless accessories sticking out of the top. Snape cast an eye-shielding charm on himself in order to survive the journey. Fortescue refused his offers of payment, instead reaching under the counter and handing him a pink cardboard hat with bells and pom-poms hanging off it. He raised an eyebrow with a hint of menace.
"Free hat for every boy or girl ordering a sundae with more than three toppings!" explained Florean. Snape looked at the hat and scowled.
"Albus will love it," he sighed. Then, remembering his other master, picked up a take-away menu and tucked it in a pocket. "You do sell dark chocolate ice cream?" he queried, keen not to repeat his earlier errors.
"Twenty-one different types!" he assured him.
"Perfect," smirked Snape. Sometimes, being a spy was easy. It was just a matter of multi-tasking.
…….
No Bellatrix this time, but she will be back! Yes, Wormtail is still locked in the toilet. Yes, there was some gratuitous Diggory-bashing – I think poor Cedric was the kind of outdoor-loving, sporty, popular, handsome type of goody-goody Snape would despise.
I know this fic is very silly and rarely makes a lot of sense, but thank you for reading it anyway! Sherbet nuggets for everyone! Yay!