Chapter 3

O' course it sounded crazy, and Tom would have tapped his head knowingly – barmy! – if someone had-a come into his pub with such a fool tale. And it might yet turn out that he was mad, or at least mistaken.

But he didn't think so. The gesture had been Snape's, no question, and it weren't so far-fetched to think that maybe the man weren't dead. They'd never actually found his body, had they? Once the dust of the Battle had settled, a whole team of Aurors had gone to the Shrieking Shack to fetch his corpse, or so the story went. . .only he hadn't a-been there. Just a big patch of dried blood and nothing else.

Nor Tom wouldn't be surprised to learn he'd gone into hiding, neither. Harry Potter had cleared Snape's name, officially anyway, but there was plenty of folk who was skeptical about the whole "Snape-the-double-agent-hero" story. Making himself scarce was not a bad idea, truth be told.

And a publican. . .well, that made sense, too. Beer-making was a potioner's art, after all, and Snape could easily have found a position for himself now that craft micro-brews were all the rage. Even the not-fancy White Oak had one. (In fact, Tom was seriously considering installing a local-brew line at the Leaky Cauldron; he'd been thinking that maybe old Sluggie Slughorn wouldn't be opposed to making a few galleons as an artisan brewer.)

And it made sense for Snape to go to ground among the Muggles, too. He'd be able to fit in, having been raised with 'em. And that would explain why he'd been so unsettled when Tom had showed up at his Muggle hideaway, someone from his old life. . .must have given him a nasty turn, poor bloke. No wonder he'd been so swift with the Legilimens. Desperate, more'n likely.

Tom's coffee had gone cold, and he whispered a quick warming charm. His first idea had been to rush out into the street after Snape, but then he'd thought better of it. Snape was a crafty one, no doubt about it, and it was never a good idea to challenge any Slytherin without making a plan first.

Thus nightfall found Tom once again making his way to the White Oak pub. He didn't bother with his glamour, though; obviously Snape had recognised him, so they might as well just be direct about it. He'd decided it would be best to confront Snape while he was on duty at the bar in a room full of Muggles; less chance of hexes and Disapparating and whatever. Give Tom a chance to show he meant no harm.

As to what he did mean. . .well, Tom wasn't sure. But they were mates now, of a sort – one always shared a bond with another bartender, no matter how different one's pubs – and Tom had a sense of wanting to show Snape that fellowship.

He watched through the pub window for a few minutes before venturing in. Snape was behind the bar as expected, his hair tied back again, a white towel slung over his shoulder. He kept the bar queue sorted with no difficulty at all – not an easy skill to master, that, but Tom figured that a man who had kept control of classrooms full of rowdy youngsters would have no trouble managing a crowd of drinkers. Like baby unicorns, drinkers was, really: once they started suckling their ale, they were docile as lambs. The odd brawl aside, o' course.

He entered unobtrusively as he could, but he could tell from Snape's momentary stillness that the man had registered his presence. Magical signatures would be strong in a Muggle place like this. So he took a seat at the far end of the bar (avoiding the chair of old Billy Goslin the regular), and let his wand peek out at the end of his shirt cuff. Might as well at least let Snape know he'd been rumbled as magical. Fair was fair.

The dark eyes narrowed as Snape drew a pint of Bateman's and slid it along. "Directio lingua," he muttered, and Tom knew that his next words would be audible to Tom's ears alone. "Wait for me after last call, and don't even think about trying anything. I warn you: I duel to kill."

Well! Tom ran a hand over his head and took a gulp of beer. A big one. This might end up being more of an adventure than he'd bargained for.

In the event, though, it turned out to be just the sort of adventure Tom liked best: a conversation.

And a story.

- / - / -

Snape waited until the last of the Muggle drinkers – Billy Goslin, and what a garrulous old codger he'd turned out to be – had stumbled out the door before he threw the lock and spoke his next words to Tom.

"What do you want?"

Tom spread his hands in supplication. "Just a chat, is all, Mr Snape."

The pale jaw tightened. "I don't know who you're talking about," he said. "My name is Wilson."

Tom shook his head. "It's no good, you know. You can change your face, but not your self. The real you is in your moves. Old Mad-Eye Moody taught me that."

The jaw continued to work. "What do you want?" Snape repeated.

"I told you, nothing but a chat. I didn't come looking for you, you know. I told you the truth: I'm here on holiday."

"In Skegness?" Snape's tone suggested that he couldn't imagine anyone would come to Skeggy except under duress.

Tom grinned, hoping that his obvious toothless state would show him as the harmless old duffer he really was. "For sentimental reasons, Mr Snape."

"I told you, my name is Wilson. And I suppose you just happened in here by coincidence?"

"Coincidence, yes. I like pubs, you see. But not those plastic touristy things. Something real." He leant forward. "You have nothing to fear from me, Mr Snape. I'll leave this minute if you say the word, and you'll never hear no more about it." Tom was sincere, though he just as sincerely hoped that Snape wouldn't take him up on this offer. He was too curious.

Snape sneered. "If I were the man you seem to think I am, I'd call you a liar. You'll go straight to the newspapers – "

Tom felt the blood rush to his cheeks, and he knew that his whole head was glowing red with rage. The very idea! He surged to his feet.

"The v-v-very idea!" he sputtered, indignation making his voice thick. "What do you take me for? I'm a barman! I live by the code, the brotherhood – it's like them Muggle what-do-you-call-'ems – confession-men, they listen to people's sins and never tell. I'm a man of honour, Mr Snape! And you a barman yourself now! For shame. Think you'd know better."

Snape stared at him with that dark-eyed stare, and slowly, gradually, like a candle melting, his very bones shifted, softening here, tightening there, nose lengthening, chin sharpening . . .until finally the movement stopped, and the real Severus Snape – hook nose, stringy hair, knife-edge cheekbones, the lot – stood motionless in front of Tom.

It was a brave act, to be vulnerable in this way, and Tom found himself unaccountably moved. Mind, probably Snape wasn't really risking much; if it came to a duel or something like that, there was no question who'd win. And in a pinch, Snape could. . .

Merlin! He could! Tom felt his mouth drop open.

"Here!" he said, putting his hand on his wand and speaking as sharply as he could over the fear that had suddenly knifed itself into his heart. "You're not thinking of trying to Obliviate me?"

Snape twisted his lip. "What do you take me for?" he asked. "Unlikely as it may seem to you, Weatherbroom, I live by a code, too. And breaking the Obliviation taboo is not part of it."

He turned away, weariness clear in the droop of his shoulders, and Tom felt a twinge of guilt.

"I mean it, you know," he said. "I'll never breathe a word of having seen you. So don't start thinking you'll need to be moving on or anything like that. You can spend the rest of your days anonymous in Skegness if that's what you want."

Snape retreated behind the bar and began tidying the usual after-closing clutter of empty bottles and tattered napkins. Tom understood; sometimes you just needed that solid wooden barrier between you and the world.

"What I want and what I get are usually two different things," Snape said, but he sounded more resigned than bitter.

Tom took the chance of sitting down again, and when he didn't get tossed out on his arse, he felt a little emboldened. "And you thought you wanted this? Life in a Muggle pub in Skegness?"

Snape loaded a glass into a dishpan, and then another. And another.

"My family," he said, just when Tom had decided that he probably wasn't going to say anything at all. "My family wasn't one for holidays. It was all my father could do to keep food on the table, once the mills failed. And once the drinking started. But before all that, there was one summer – spring, actually. May. We couldn't afford high summer season. Da somehow saw his way clear to taking my mother and me to the seaside. I was about six. We came here. Skegness. We froze our arses off."

"Skegness is. . .so bracing," Tom murmured, and Snape snorted.

"In a word. Three days in a grotty little caravan. Cheap, greasy food. Saw a sad Muggle magic show." He loaded more glasses with a crash. "I loved it. Fucking loved the lot of it. "

Tom was touched. "And you've been in love with this town ever since?"

"Hardly," said Snape. "It's a shit hole."

"What? But. . .then why are you here?"

"And that's your business how?"

"Not my business at all," Tom said, as mildly as he could, and then lowered his eyes and stayed silent. In his long experience, nothing encouraged other people to talk more than sympathetic silence. If they wanted to talk, that is. If they didn't, well, no amount of supportive listening would make them. But if even a small part of them wanted to unburden themselves or justify themselves or even just rant, then the mere presence of a non-judgmental listening ear would usually do the trick.

So he waited. Truth be told, he fully expected Snape just to sneer at him and show him the door; the man's ability to keep himself to himself was legendary.

But maybe time and circumstances had changed him. Or maybe the world didn't know Severus Snape as well as it thought it did.

Because after a few minutes, he spoke.

"I stay in Skegness because no one from our world bothers me here. Most of the time." He stared at Tom pointedly. "And I also stay because I once told the tale of my childhood visit to a. . .friend. . .at Hogwarts."

Tom waited, for obviously there was more to the story, but evidently Snape had said all he intended to say. He'd finished cleaning up behind the bar, and now he took a set of keys from his pocket.

"Work awaits me in the back room, Weatherbroom. I'll see you out."

There was nothing for it but to leave, and Tom reckoned it was for the best, anyway.