Chapter 1— Be Careful What You Wish For
"Let me tell you this: if you meet a loner, no matter what they tell you, it's not because the enjoy solitude. It's because they have tried to blend into the world before, and people continue to disappoint them." -Jodi Picoult
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Severus Snape was lonely.
Not that he would ever admit it to himself. No. He would deny it with his last remaining breath if he had to.
But yes, he was lonely.
He looked around the seedy little pub in the furthest reaches of Northern Wales in the town of Porthdinllaen. The bar keep was talking with one of the locals; Severus could barely understand them. It was hard to believe they were still speaking the Queen's English.
He had been here eight months, fourteen days, and he was considered what the townspeople referred to as an 'outlier'.
He doubted if he lived in Porthdinllaen for the rest of the days, the locals would ever include him as one of 'them', but that was fine with him. One didn't live on a little island that was only accessible via a two mile walk when the tide was low and the sea fair in order to become Mr. Society now did one? The place encouraged isolation.
And this—this was how he liked it.
Eight and a half months of pure and blissful isolation. It was what he had wanted. And yet, the old maxim held true: be careful what you wish for, for you just might get it.
Albus had certainly given him his wish, and it was hell.
When he had followed Albus's instructions and gone to the Queen's Arms and opened the safety deposit box, Severus had found the deed to a cottage as well as a transference of a sizeable sum of gold to the identity of Simon Templar. A wand bearing that appellation made by Ollivander at Dumbledore's behest was also in the box. Having had to abandon his old one in the shack, Severus had shaken his head at the old man's thoughtfulness. For the thousandth time he wondered how could Albus have known?
The deed was to a secret-kept cottage on the isolated island of Porthdinllaen, muggle population: forty-seven, magical population: zero. Ollivander was the secret keeper for one Simon Templar, not that the old wandmaker would know or remember. And so, the night of the final battle, Severus Snape had ceased to exist. And on the dawning of that new day, Simon Templar was born.
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"Ye want anoother, Templar?"
Severus looked down at his scotch. He'd been nursing the one for quite a while, and the ice had melted. Casually, he tossed it back and shoved the tumbler to the barkeep.
" 'Poosed ta be quite col' this eve'n. Ole men li'e yer an' me, we feel t'chill' righ' een our boons, eh?" The bar keep laughed, plunking down Severus' drink in front of him. "Bu' would ye look'ee thar'? Bet she could keep uh man warm."
Severus looked up seeing the figure of a woman walking the coast; the surf just high enough to spray her with a fine mist. Her red scarf whipped wildly in the wind, competing for attention with the bushiest mane he had ever had the misfortune to come across. He took a sip of his drink and contemplated her through the glass.
No. That wasn't right. There was one other, a student, who had a mane as bushy if not more so than the woman walking by the sea.
He wondered if she survived.
He knew the Dark Lord was dead. He needed only the proof of his mark.
When the Dark Lord fell the first time, the mark was always a shadowy gray, and then it had gradually darkened to black on the night he had come back to his full power. Now, the mark was completely gone, leaving only a white imprint of where it had been. Easy enough to cover up. Easy enough to ignore.
And he had also had the proof of Albus's letter which had arrived via Fawkes of course. The letter never would have done had the dark bastard still been alive; in that Severus could trust.
He watched as the young woman hunched her shoulders against the wind and headed for the pub. Ah, now this would be interesting. Severus wasn't joking when he said Porthdinllaen bred isolation. Few were the visitors to this lonely stretch of land. Toby, the bar keep, quickly grabbed a dubiously clean towel and began wiping down his 'best' table. Severus rolled his eyes. Toby never did anything more than he had to, never went out of his way more than necessary in order to get a sale.
By putting forth this much effort, the man was positively besotted.
The pub door opened letting in a blast of arctic chill. The young woman adorned to the hilt in winter garb had the red scarf piled to her chin, obscuring the lower half of her face. And that wild mane quite covered the upper. Toby gestured grandly and smiled, baring missing and mossy teeth. To her credit, she did not falter, but headed towards the table he'd indicated, and Severus was disappointed when she sat with her back to him, facing the sea just as he was.
He knew it was pathetic.
But for a moment. Just a moment, he would have liked to have pretended the young woman was, in fact, sitting with him; his mind mentally deleting the space and extra table between them, even if it was only an illusion. He could have surreptitiously taken in her every detail, absorbed her for mental re-creation later. She would never have known he was staring.
But as it was… at least he could still hear her.
"An' wha' would a fi'e lassie li'e ye b' doin' in sooch a pla' as thi' on sooch a cold day?"
"Hot tea if you've any and a measure of drambuie, please." Her voice was soft and quiet, slightly husky in deference to the chill.
Severus liked it immediately.
However, she had ignored the barkeep's question.
"Alrigh' lassie. Anythi' ta warm oop ye insides?"
"No, thank you. Just the drink." She finished unwinding the scarf from around her neck and placed it on the back of her chair. For a small moment, Severus could view her in profile. Long lashes, petite nose, a frown marring the cupid's bow of her mouth. She was young, her face having just lost the rounded 'baby fat' of adolescence and settling into that of womanhood. Her jaw was well-defined, her chin ending in a stubborn point.
Lovely.
Taking another idle sip, he wondered what color her irises were. Tilting his head slightly to one side, he took in the tawny color of her bushy mane.
Brown. They would have to be brown. No other color would suit.
He watched as Toby sat the woman's drinks on the table and left her alone. She poured the dram into her cup of tea, and stirring slightly, took a sip. Severus did as well, administering a cool kiss to his glass, wishing for just a moment it was the unknown woman's lips he was savoring.
Pathetic.
He was truly pathetic… and lonely.
For many long moments, Severus studied the woman as she studied the surf. What did she see? he wondered. For although the spot was beautiful, although it was visually striking to observe, he did not think her mind was focused on the susurrations of the sea. No. Her mind was occupied with far graver matters if the hunch of her shoulders and the occasional tapping of the toe of her boot were anything to go by. She picked up her cup. He did as well.
It was becoming a ritual of sorts.
At length, Toby approached her again. "Ef ye'v come here a' low tide, lassie, ye need ta ge' a moove on. T' tide weel b' com'n in fash'." Severus mentally cursed the bar keep for disturbing their interlude. But he did have a point. The light in the already dim tavern was growing even more so, and if the young woman wanted a safe crossing from this backwater place towards civilization, she had better go.
Finishing her tea, she rose and quickly donned her bulky coat and scarf. Severus did the same, throwing a measure of bills on the table and making his way quietly out of the pub before the young woman had made it out the door. Quickly, he hid himself from view as he watched her trudge away from the village and toward the crossing point.
Disillusioning himself, he followed her hunched form, sometimes barely able to discern her small frame in the gathering gloam.
Half a mile from where she would cross, Severus watched as the young woman stopped. He stopped as well, straining to see what she was doing. His eyes widened as he saw her surreptitiously glance around and then pull a long stick of wood from the pocket of her long coat. With a wave, she turned and was gone.
The young woman was a witch.
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A/N: Don't know if I've done a disclaimer yet, but not mine, no money, only friends. Hugs to all.
-k