Hogwarts
August, 1982
The day before the beginning of term, Professor Severus Snape, former Death Eater and now newest faculty member (as well as youngest) at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, climbed to the top of the astronomy tower. The hem of his black robes billowed about his feet from the wind as he reached the top of the steps, then turned to survey the land below.
For some reason, when he was a student, it hadn't really occurred to him that Hogwarts was located in Scotland. He supposed he was aware of the fact, but somehow it never made an impression on him as it suddenly did just then when his gaze lit onto the vast purple swathes of heather blanketing the distant moors. He tried to think, but decided he'd never been up here this time of year, at least during daylight hours. The land surrounding the school was...Well it was beautiful, really. Apparently, he hadn't bothered to notice until now.
It never had to be so though, for him. Hogwarts was many things to Severus Snape, but most importantly there was something which it wasn't-his father's house-and that made all the difference. Strange, that he should be back again, and in this capacity. As an adult he loathed schoolchildren as much as he had when he was a schoolboy himself, and his lips pursed with the bitter irony of his current situation. At least, as a professor, those tiresome creatures would be forced to show him at minimum the appearance of respect, and he'd have the pleasure of handing out detentions at will to those who did not. In that regard, anyway, his tenure here as a teacher would be an improvement over his schoolboy days.
However, it still irked him greatly that Dumbledore denied him the privilege of teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts. Severus knew that his knowledge of the Dark Arts was vastly superior to that of the bumbling imbecile who was hired instead. Dumbledore didn't tell Severus in so many words, but Severus suspected that the headmaster was still leery of Severus's predilection for such things, perhaps even assuming that Severus would actually teach the students how to perform the Unforgivables, and upon each other, too (not a bad idea, Severus thought with grim amusement). At any rate, he was hired to take over Slughorn's position as Potions master, since Dumbledore remembered very well that Severus had been one of the best Potions students in his year.
One of the best.
It could have been worse. He could have been hired to teach Divination, for instance. But the dissipated woman whose prediction had led to the downfall of both Voldemort and the one thing in the world that had mattered to Severus had the happy fortune of teaching that worthless class instead. So, Potions it was.
He'd spent the greater part of the last two weeks setting up his office, his living quarters, and his classroom to suit his needs. He didn't require much for his personal comfort, but his orders to the Apothecary in Diagon Alley were numerous, detailed, and often obscure. He even obtained some ingredients from Knockturn Alley. No silly Amorentia potions would be brewed in his class; unlike Horace Slughorn, Severus was not sentimental. Instead, the students will learn the Draught of Living Death, the uses of the bezoar, and even perhaps attempt (and inevitably fail) to concoct the newly invented Wolfsbane potion, for who knows but that Dumbledore might decide to let yet another werewolf attend Hogwarts during Severus's tenure. Severus wearily supposed that one of these days he'll end up teaching a vampire. The fact that one hadn't been admitted to Hogwarts already (at least as far as Severus knew) was more surprising than not: Dumbledore was a collector of sorts, and he enjoyed his strange little pets. Like a true heir of Godric Gryffindor's legacy, he favored Muggles and Muggleborns above all. And like a true Slytherin, Severus had no use for Muggles, as the only ones with whom he'd ever interacted were tiresome fools. That one of the most brilliant witches he'd ever known had been a Muggleborn was another thing entirely.
The wind had died down a bit, and from Severus's vantage the world seemed silent, almost at peace. Merlin knew that the wizarding world, anyway, was enjoying a peace it had not experienced for nearly ten years, and even before then there had been the simultaneous Muggle and Wizarding Wars. For some, the nightmare was over. For others, it had just begun.
Not since Halloween the year before had the now faded Mark on Severus's forearm given even the faintest twinge. He was one of the few persons with that mark who were not now in Azkaban, two others being Igor Karkaroff and Lucius Malfoy. Both cowards in their own way, they'd done their best to pretend they'd never truly been Voldemort's men. Severus cynically supposed that, as Lucius was one of the wealthiest wizards in Britain, the Ministry of Magic probably accepted Malfoy's lies along with the gold that Malfoy undoubtedly slipped into Ministry coffers. A coward, yes, but Lucius was no fool.
Severus had neither money nor cowardliness. All he had was cleverness, and loyalty. And his loyalty had been, and always would be, with one person and one person only. The single time he'd let that loyalty slip, he'd lost everything.
At that moment the wind stirred, this time from the south-and there it was, the scent of the lake, the murky mud of the unfathomable depths overlaid with the delicate essence of the cattails along the banks: a scent he always associated with her, since it was exactly similar to the smell of the river near Spinner's End where they would hide away in summer, and here in Hogwarts he and she would sit by the lake itself and study their homework or gossip about the dunderheads and fools in their respective houses, especially criticizing Potter and his gang of hooligans and hatching schemes to "get them brilliantly" as she'd say in her silvery voice and the sting that arose in his eyes right then was not from the wind but memory's everlasting ghost.
He shook his head impatiently and blinked the tears away. If things come to pass as Dumbledore predicts, then the Dark Lord will rise again, and Severus must remain stalwart. Occlumency fails when one's emotions are compromised, and one day-in a year, in ten years, in twenty-he will have to face the Dark Lord's withering gaze once more, and in no way can he permit the wall of his mind to be breached. He would give his life to protect Lily's son if he must, and if (or when) the Dark Lord returns, then his mind must be as unforthright as the grave.
But not yet...not yet. There was still time. Never enough time to grieve, perhaps, since his grief was never-ending. But time enough to remember that the grass by the river near Spinner's End had been green, once, and that once upon a time his heart had not lain in his chest like a dead bird in a cage...