The Old Coral Shoebox
(a vignette that concludes the Familia Ante Omnia saga)

As far back as she could remember, Saturnine Eileen Snape had always had a thing for photographs.

It started when she was a little child growing up in a dysfunctional Cokeworth family. It stayed with her when she discovered the wonders of Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It got worse when she travelled the world and bought her first camera.

Take a glimpse at five slices of life, taken at different times, showcasing Saturnine's life and her relationship with her family.


As far back as she could remember, Saturnine Eileen Snape had always had a thing for photographs.

If asked about it, she would deny it. But she often snuck into her parents' bedroom to peer into the worn-out, coral cardboard shoebox where her mother kept her rare family photographs. Mindful to leave the box in its usual spot at the bottom of the rickety wardrobe, Saturnine was diligent to the point of ensuring that she left every single photograph in the correct order.

Of course, the young child with the long dark-brown locks bunched up in twin pigtails was careful never to be seen by her parents during her darting moments of larceny. She had retained the ever-important lesson of never incurring her father's wrath long before she learned to write her name.

For some reason that she couldn't explain—not even to herself—Saturnine also withheld the knowledge of what she sometimes got up to from her older brother. Perhaps it was because Severus didn't share her interest in frozen moments captured on film. Or maybe it was that she knew, deep down, he would be unhappy to discover her questionable pastime. And there was little that Saturnine disliked more than seeing the disappointment in her brother's gaze. Still, she couldn't help but peek occasionally into the old coral shoebox.

More than a well-kept secret, the collection of immortalised slices of life was a wondrous treasure. Captivating items that they were, their most astonishing quality was that they moved. These wizarding photographs were like looping short films printed on solid paper. An impossibility made real. And Saturnine was drawn to them, as she was attracted to anything magical.

Her mother, Saturnine knew, was a witch. She could cast spells with a wand, like the people in the stories she'd read about in the living room's dusty old books. A real witch who had gone to magic school when she was younger. The place where Severus would soon go when he turned eleven. A school where she, too, would go one day—and that day couldn't come soon enough.

Even though she was a witch, Eileen Snape, née Prince, seldom used magic in front of her children—and never before her husband. For though he had married a witch, Tobias Snape didn't like magic—not at all. The mere mention of it, his children knew, could make the old man sour faster than curd left in the sun. Thus, nothing in their house was magical, and the act itself was never performed.

Saturnine's attraction to all things magical was another thing she couldn't explain. It came from deep within—a desire she couldn't smother. It was not unlike how she felt when presented with a sweet or chocolate bar—she couldn't say no. It was also a lot like that indescribable need she sometimes felt to get close to Severus and nestle in his warm embrace—particularly when a storm thundered outside, or she'd just had a nightmare.

Saturnine wasn't familiar with any of the people smiling or goofing about in her mother's moving photographs—not even by name. Except for the occasional sight of a younger version of her mother, she didn't recognise anyone. But that didn't stop her from enjoying watching them and their antics in the short, looping printed films. In no time at all, she had given each of them a nickname and sorted them by order of preference. Her favourite was a plump, middle-aged man—nicknamed Peregrine—who sported a large bowler hat and a weird moustache. He stood next to a pretty woman that he kept trying to peck on the cheek. The blushing lady, known to the young girl as Miss Savanah, wore a long dress with ruffled sleeves. Another pair Saturnine was fond of was Trudy and Judy. The two women had to be sisters. They looked so much alike; they could be twins if one wasn't a full head shorter than the other. Judy held a heavy-headed rose in one hand, and Trudy tried repeatedly to take a whiff of its scent.

There were about two dozen strangers—young and old—kept safe in the worn-out shoebox, each living their own looping slice-of-life for young Saturnine's amazement. None of them left her more perplexed than the elderly woman who never smiled. The slender woman, with heavy brows and a long, pallid face, wasn't as lively as the other characters. She did very little but stand there, looking bored. A Prince, through and through, she was the only character Saturnine had no nickname for. She simply called this stranger Grandma.

Riveting as all the wizarding photographs were, none of them held Saturnine's attention quite like the plain Muggle photograph in the third spot from the top. She couldn't remember who had taken it or why. But she knew that one would always hold a special place in her heart—and it was the one she looked at most. It was of her and Severus, captured a few years ago. The two of them were sitting on the sofa, in the spot nearest the fireplace. Severus had a book in his hands, and Saturnine was curled up on his lap, listening with a pleased smile on her face while he read out loud. Frozen for eternity on the still frame was the Snape children's favourite pastime of many afternoons and evenings. More often than not, they read in their bedroom but sometimes had to come down to the living room to warm up. And it must have been on one of these occasions that someone had captured the moment.

Saturnine often debated with herself whether to take that favourite snapshot with her. She could keep it hidden between the pages of one of her books, and no one would ever know it was there—only her. Then, she would be free to look at it whenever it pleased her—without fear of being seen.

If she took it, would her mother notice its absence? Did she look into the old shoebox as often as her daughter did?

No, Saturnine berated herself, you can't risk it. If she ever were to be caught stealing anything from her parents, it would hurt. And so it was that she always placed it back in the worn-out, coral cardboard shoebox—third spot from the top.