Prisoners of Azkaban, Probationary Diaries August 2009, Prisoners #19-09-1979 and #09-01-1960
oooOooo
August 14, 2009
The Patils' visit met neither your nor my expectations.
You hoped they would offer to vouch for us, and that they would go through your lists, confirming deaths, verifying survivals.
I already knew they wouldn't do that. Clearly, they are much too [ink splodge] to vouch for us. And I hoped that Padma would have the sense not to cater to your obsession.
I understand your need, believe me. (I have my own lists to keep me awake at night.) But I do doubt your capability of confronting the facts at this time.
…perhaps I should apply this insight to my own disappointment.
I wanted facts as well, and got none.
I tell myself they are wiser than Albus Dumbledore not to trust prisoners on probation with any [ink splodge] details. Your lecture about war- and prison-induced paranoia (delivered ex tempore with footnotes, side notes, and addenda) reassured me concerning your mental state and—loath as I am to admit that—it was not completely without merit. Yet this lack of information leaves me uneasy.
Their unwillingness or inability to provide clues for the riddle of our release is worse, though.
I fear we were only set free to serve as decoy.
As do they.
Once already our futures were sacrificed for the Greater Good. Save your breath for that lecture. I agree: It was not completely without merit.
Yet we both know we will not survive a second time.
And I promise we won't have to.
One way or another.
Enough of that; that was yesterday.
The Patil chits cannot provide jobs for us. Hogwarts doesn't employ half-bloods or Mudbloods. And we must not get closer to the Ministry than we absolutely have to.
So this morning we went looking at the bulletin board in the post office. Jobs for ex-inmates of Azkaban aren't advertised in the Prophet, not even in Goyle's Quibbler.
I set out looking into a career as a professional de-gnomer or ghoul washer, with the option of trying my luck as a day-labourer collecting bat guano, unicorn dung, or squid shit tomorrow. You marched off to try your luck as window charmer, garbage vanisher, and owlery cleaner.
At noon lack of success led me to the Three Broomsticks. Four sickles, six knuts for a soup—I needed something fortifying before asking Aberforth for help.
A decision I regretted when I spat a mouthful of uncut cabbage back into lukewarm water thick with grease drops and tasting of soap.
"If you wanted me dead," I asked Abbott, "why wait to poison me now?"
She snorted, and shocked me for the second time. "I've always liked your sense of humour, Snape.—I hear you're looking for a job."
I only nodded. (A dunderhead would have figured that out by now; albeit a Hufflepuff, she never was a dunderhead.)
"If I recall correctly, you were a fair hand at cutting, chopping, and stirring?" she asked snidely.
"Possibly," I spat. "Why?"
"I'm looking for a soup-cook." She smirked.
…but I have a job now.
oooOooo
A/N: Many thanks to Mia Madwyn for looking this over, and to Annie Talbot and Aranel Took for discussing possible jobs for ex-inmates of Azkaban.