Corinthians
"Close your eyes. Let my words wash over you. You are safe now."
- Welcome to Night Vale
The next time Snape sees Lily Evans' son in his church. It's not on a Sunday. It's Friday evening, and most young men that age are speeding down the road with their radios blasting some defiant drivel, probably on their way to sneak into bars or brothels, or worse. And yet, here the brat is. Pale and dark-haired, but those bright eyes, that slight smile, make him look startlingly, achingly like a black-and-white yearbook picture of Lily. Someone that vivid would hardly talk to something as wooden as a cross on the wall, so Snape stays in the same room, offering mute company.
"It's OK, you know..." Eyes as green as the carefully watered church lawn meet Snape's, and for a second, in the stained-glass light, it almost seems like Lily's son is about to add something deep and meaningful and transcendent.
The moment passes, and the boy slouches, his hands joined over parted knees, clasped hard enough so his knuckles are white. "...you don't need to watch me," he continues in a defiant mumble, "I won't steal anything."
As if I'd let him stay if he looked any less of an innocent.
Snape stays still, stays near, and waits for the right moment to move closer. It's much like tending to the feral cats out in the shed: all about persuading them to believe again, bit by bit, that no harm will come to them within these walls.
Harry's gaze travels along the empty aisle, back and forth across the pews. "I probably shouldn't even be here." He shrugs and huffs, as if admitting a weakness. "I don't really pray."
It's Snape's cue to sit down on the same pew as the boy, back straight, shoulders firm against the stiff wooden seat, leaving a safe arm's length of distance.
The boy looks up at him. He shuffles and knocks his knee into the stiff back of the pew with all the clumsiness of someone who'd never been told not to fidget during service as a child. "How do you pray?"
It's almost a sensible, scholarly question to ask of a pastor, but the tone of Harry's voice makes the question personal. Prying. Seekers. The boy's probably not being deliberately nosy, but for a brief second, Snape is caught unaware. He composes himself with a downward stare and pieces together a reasonably acceptable answer. "Use your imagination, and suppose that God exists. Then use your capacity for trust, and think of what you would want to ask Him. Then ask it. I have been told it makes many feel better."
The boy's glance sweeps up to the crucifix, then to the direction of the cemetery, as if considering the difference between them. "How would that make anyone feel anything? Talking to someone who never answers back! It's pointless."
Snape bites back a far less patient growl. "Instead of pestering me, you could tell Him."
"Fine," the boy closes his eyes. His glasses are smudged. His lip, bitten. This is how the boy must look like, as he deals with loss by keeping a tombstone clean. "But do I have to trust him to even talk to him?"
It's a startlingly sensible question, coming from someone so young. "What reason do you have not to?"
"Well, you know... It's just strange!" Those green eyes are suddenly shifty, the boy blinks and adjusts his glasses. "Do you think he really hates me?"
Hates you? Snape frowns, regarding the boy suddenly with all focus and suspicion of an adult knowing full well how bitter it feels to be a teen and an outcast. How can anyone hate an innocent? "Who told you that?"
"Books, church," The boy shrugs. "Who doesn't!" His eyes cloud over as if hearing someone speak, and he winces. He may not attend my services, Snape thinks, but his aunt, uncle, and cousin are here every Sunday. He knows well the mournful squeak of his pews, under the burden of Vernon Dursley's looming presence. Have I done this? If so, what will it take to undo?
"None of this is about hate," Snape says carefully. At least he hopes not, after all this time of wrestling with his own doubt. "Sometimes we may feel as if no one cares. That's not true."
"Liar. It's right there in your book!" Harry snaps. "If God doesn't hate me why would he make others think I'm an -" Harry chokes and his mouth curls thinly in an expression Snape knows too well is not cruelty but pain. "-abomination?"
"You're wrong," slips past Snape's lips faster and harsher than expected. He realizes with dread that it's the worst possible thing to say.
"Forget it." Harry jumps to his feet. "This is a mistake. Sorry I bothered you."
"Wait! Harry!"
Snape reaches out, but Harry pushes past him.
The Bible in Snape's hands is knocked out of his grasp. It falls open at Corinthians.
"Harry?"
Pastor Snape is too old for this, certainly too old to chase after lost young men. Instead he bends to pick up his book. With yellowed fingertips he traces the part of scripture which he has never used in his sermons, but knows by heart nonetheless.
… neither the sexually immoral, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor men who practice homosexuality, nor thieves, nor the greedy, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God. And such were some of you. But you were washed, you were sanctified, you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God.
When the painful verse stings his eyes and steals his breath and echoes pounding through his chest, he turns the page with a shaky hand, forces himself to inhale and release his breath in a deep sigh. God, grant me serenity... forget courage, forget wisdom, serenity is good enough! Please let me have that!
How do you pray? the boy had asked him.
Snape huffs a pained sigh. He lowers his gaze from the crucifix to the floor at his feet and simply breathes. Not easily. But then, nothing worthwhile in this world is easy.
There are verses in the Bible which do not speak of hate, which speak of humanity and humility, of compassion and courage. Snape speaks of them every week, he ought to know.
Next Sunday, as usual, Snape speaks the advice of King Solomon. Let your eyes look straight ahead, fix your gaze directly before you. Make level paths for your feet and take only ways that are firm.Practical, solid as ever.
On the next Sunday, he tries something new: Jonathan stripped himself of the robe that was on him and gave it to David, with his armor, including his sword and his bow and his belt. Reading the verses feels a bit like baring a part of himself he'd rather leave hidden, but he keeps speaking, even and calm, of loyalties and values of human companionship. Of friendships and kindred souls. He speaks of brotherhood: a family chosen in spirit rather than bound by blood.
As he looks up, there are unblinking green eyes staring intently at him from a remote pew. An odd sense of warmth settles over him, almost like satisfaction.
Snape is not the most fiery speaker ever known to the faith, but the resonant bass bell of his voice reverberates through the sterile white clapboard of this chapel, captivates this small-town audience every Sunday. This is his element. He can work miracles with his voice. Listen to me, he thinks. Just listen. Trust me. Let this help you. Let me help.
Harry used to be relieved to stay on the farm when Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia dressed Dudley in his Sunday best and disappeared for several hours. There were hogs to feed and stables to muck out and the mountain of chores seemed like a holiday without Uncle Vernon hovering over his shoulder.
But now, attending Pastor Snape's sermons is far from an inconvenience, especially if Harry picks a spot behind the Dursleys instead of next to them.
Snape can talk! He can really, really talk! Hearing him reminds Harry of being eleven again, and crouched under the staircase at midnight, pressing his ear against the dying radio, just to make out the words in the transmission past the crackle of noise: distant echoes of a wider world, far beyond the town's familiar limits. Pastor Snape's voice is slow and dark like molasses, and it soothes him. It makes Harry stay and it makes him listen.
It's a game of sorts. When Harry keeps watching him. But isn't that what you're supposed to do in a church anyway, pay attention to the pastor? Nowadays, when Harry stares at Pastor Snape during prayer, even sizes him up shamelessly while every other eye is closed, Snape doesn't look away. He just speaks evenly, calmly.
"Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven..."
Just as his voice lulls Harry into a peaceful trance, Snape gazes right back into the mute challenge of Harry's stare, and when he has captured Harry's full attention, only then he smiles: slow and sure and triumphant, the bastard. And the moment stills, in silence. Even Snape's voice fades away and all Harry hears is the beat of blood in his ears. All he feels is the burn of a coal-dark stare and it even makes him wonder, for just a second, if Snape is staring deep enough to read his mind.
"… lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."
Harry feels the traitorous heat spread from his cheeks all the way to his belly, and for the first time, breaks the stare and bows his head.
"...For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever."
Argh, Harry thinks. Stop that! Stop it right this minute. I am not that easy to fool! Not like the rest of them around here. I don't believe whatever you say just because you read it out of a book. It's all lies anyway. We're born and then we die, and that's it! Why would I ever want otherwise? It's not like anything they say will happen to me after I die will be fun!
But it's not really true that Harry doesn't believe in anything, not any more. Harry does believe in one thing now. Or at least he's starting to, in any case. He believes that Snape believes. Some belief apparently runs deeper than bowing your head during service and mouthing all the right verses. And Snape must have that. But how?
Harry's intrigued, and that, apparently, makes all the difference on how he chooses to spend his Sundays.
On the way back from Brighton, Snape leaves the windows down, letting the grocery bags on the back seat rattle like wind-filled sails. Three miles to Pleasant Hope, he spots the twin reflection of headlights on the glasses of a lonely hitch-hiker.
When Snape recognises the lonely figure as Harry he slams on the brakes.
The boy isn't standing idle: he's walking steadily, against the oncoming traffic. Not that there's much traffic heading back into Pleasant Hope at the moment. Snape leans out the window and calls out, "Good evening. Do you need a ride to town?"
Harry looks at him and shakes his head somberly. "No, not that way. But thanks."
Snape eyes him. Harry's school bag is slung over his shoulder. The bag's stuffed so tight the zipper won't close. One tattered sock hangs out like a panting puppy-tongue.
"Pastor Snape, do you know if there's a church, or a shelter in Brighton, or..." Harry doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to. "Something that's open late."
A young thing like that out on the streets of Brighton late at night? They'll chew him up and spit him out, glasses and all. Snape narrows his eyes, digs in his trouser pocket for his wallet. "Do you have any cash on you?"
Harry bends down and dutifully holds up a rolled up paper cylinder, all fives and tens, looks like, then tucks it back into his left shoe. His stern glare stops Snape from even offering a fifty. Somehow he knows that the boy will not accept.
Snape sighs, and pushes the passenger door open. "Get in," he commands gruffly. "You may sleep on my couch this week."
"I have money!" Harry protests. "And I'm old enough to work! I don't need charity."
"Nonsense! You can tend to my garden as payment," Snape cuts him off. "It'll do my old knees good to save my kneeling for work instead of weeding, and it'll give you some proper work to do."
Harry snorts but climbs in.
Snape eyes him suspiciously. The snort warrants an explanation.
"Your knees aren't old," Harry protests in response to Snape's stare. "No older than the rest of you, anyway! Not that the rest of you is old either! Knees and back and everything in between. I mean, it's fine! Great even!"
Snape hmphs his disbelief and plants himself further into the car seat. It wouldn't do for Harry to somehow parse sudden approval from his body language. But on the bright side, the flustered banter does seem to distract the boy enough for Snape to take him back to Pleasant Hope without further protests or offers of payment. He counts it as a small victory.
After bringing in the groceries, Snape pulls worn but clean linens out and spreads them across the couch. He gives one of his pillows to the unexpected guest. He surrenders a near-empty cupboard to the wrinkled, scrunched contents of Harry's bag.
He doesn't think of dinner until the groceries are stacked in the small refrigerator, and then he slaps together grilled cheese on toast. Snape holds out a plate with a double triangle of bread and melting cheese, gooey enough to stretch between the slices. Harry grabs the first skillet-hot slice off the offered plate and bites in, inhaling the grilled cheese sandwich with the speed and carelessness only a starving teen can achieve. I'm an idiot, Snape thinks, I should have offered him something sooner. He probably hasn't eaten since breakfast. If then.
"Um sorry," Harry looks up, timid as a stray cat, mumbling past a half-chewed slice. "I guess we were supposed say something first before the meal."
Snape smirks and quotes a particularly feisty old nun he'd met years ago. "No time. No meat. Good God, let's eat!"
Harry snorts out a mouthful of toast crumbs. "Actual grace! Don't you do that? What with all the," he gestures around and toward the church next door. "You know."
"I was both graceful and genuine." Snape assures, and arches his eyebrow. "Unless you want your hand held?"
Harry's cheeks turn as pink as Snape's peony blooms out back.
Snape could almost keep up the teasing, now that he knows it works so splendidly, but instead he mentally chastises himself for teasing an innocent, hands Harry his second slice and heads off to the kitchen. There he rummages through the cupboards and fridge for a can of spam and a pair of eggs to break open onto the hot skillet.
Naive brat, Snape thinks almost affectionately, the only difference between what he believes and what I do is that I have no problem acting out of necessity, or responsibility, and he just won't stop voicing the questions others rarely have the guts or the brains to ask me.
But he doesn't say that. Harry believes in people - in good people - above everything else, and somehow he believes in Snape, and Snape finds himself incapable of shattering that blind, unwavering trust.
