The Match and the Spark

1. Life Extended

Severus Snape shifted impatiently on his settee and closed his eyes tightly. There was only one thing on his mind, and it was something that recurred in his thoughts with, perhaps, unerring regularity.

It was his own fault that he was still alive and not six feet under as he'd anticipated would be his state come the climax of the war.

It was all his own fault—that was the most galling thing.

His own fault—no one to blame but himself. How much easier would it be to have someone on whom his ire, his resentment, and his disappointment, could be focused? It would be cold comfort, but comfort nevertheless. Instead, he could only rail at himself; curse himself for the situation he was in now.

It was six months of nothing. He wondered, sometimes, if it really had been six months, already. It must have been, though. He'd watched the leaves in the garden turn from green, to red, to nothing, and the evenings change from light, to dusky, to complete darkness. Six months, at least, must have passed.

And what had he done in those six months? Nothing… What was there for him to do? Nothing…

Days often spent just lying on the settee, staring up at the peeling ceiling, and cursing himself for his fixation with Potter. Because that was why he was alive—why he'd done it. Potter was the reason he'd not been able to let himself slip fully into the darkness that had awaited him in the Shrieking Shack. Potter was the reason why, with his last ounce of strength, he'd reached into his robes and tipped a phial potion onto his lips. His work had not been done. Potter had still been in danger, and he'd vowed to protect him always.

The best bit, the bit that always made him cringe with anguish, was the pointlessness of his action. As if one phial of antidote could have reanimated him enough that he could have pursued Potter, ensuring his longevity once more! His throat had been torn—his life seeping across the floor. While not dead, he'd certainly been done for, regardless of any pathetic attempt to revive himself.

But then someone had found him. He wasn't even sure who it was. Some Auror, perhaps. He could blame them, of course, but it was still his own fault. He'd prolonged the inevitable for too long, and now he had to pay the price for his foolish action.

Six months was nothing to what lay ahead, of course. Twelve months; eighteen months; twenty-four months; thirty-six months…

His days were spent mostly in silence. Sometimes he'd put on the old record player that he'd charmed to function without electricity. He had some old classical pieces Dumbledore had given him that he sometimes liked to play. The soft strains often added a clarity to his thinking that he liked, carrying him away in his thoughts, after a fashion. Thoughts of Dumbledore, of Voldemort, of Lily, of Potter, of his mother, of his father, of himself… There was much to deliberate over—a lifetime to deliberate over, in fact.

Sometimes, he could be so absorbed in his thoughts, so lost in certain memories, that hours could pass without him even realising it. He would awaken, almost as if from a dream, out of his imaginings and feel disorientated and, oddly enough, tired. He wondered if the last twenty years were finally catching up with him, but whatever it was, at times he felt a weariness that went into his very bones.

Why did he not end it all himself? Some days he gave it real thought. It could hardly be considered that he was living a full and prosperous life, and there was no one around who would be hurt by such an action, not really. It could be easily done. He had enough self-hatred and disgust inside of him that he did not doubt he could turn his wand on himself and be successful.

But he couldn't—knew he never would. He might entertain such thoughts and sigh with the prospect of such freedom, but he could not bring himself to act. Something held him back. He was not a coward in life and he did not want to be one in death, either. Though what did it matter, really? Self-respect—did he even have any of that left? One more stain was hardly likely to make a difference. Nevertheless, the remnants of his self-respect and pride would sustain him for the time being.

His existence was probably no less than what he deserved. A lifetime of dwelling over one's sins with not even the faintest prospect that one might atone for them—that was the underlining of his existence. Whatever good he might have done for Potter or Dumbledore had been offset by the bad he'd done for Voldemort. Maybe, in the balance of things, he'd even things out with regard to good and evil, but what remained? A man fundamentally flawed, mired in regret, and if not filled with complete hate at the world around him, then certainly resentment. Some might say they were one and the same, however.

Yet, there were days when things did not seem entirely bleak, when getting up and doing things did not seem so utterly difficult, and so he performed the basic functions needed to sustain his continued existence, which, actually, wasn't a lot. A walk once a week to the corner shop to buy the basics, and that was it. He needed very little.

Of the world, both Muggle and Magical, he had no idea. He shunned newspapers, having no desire to read of anything. Such blissful ignorance he had never known before. He had no visitors—he'd made it clear that he was not to be disturbed when he'd received the first Owl from Hogwarts following his release from St. Mungo's. Potter had also written, via Hogwarts, but that missive had gone straight in the fire. He'd received another missive via Hogwarts, too, this time from Hermione Granger. Minerva knew better than to divulge his whereabouts to anyone whom he did not wish to know them. Minerva had written that Miss Granger wished to speak with him; well, he had no desire to speak with her. That letter had gone in the fire unopened. Official looking epistles had arrived during the first few weeks of his recovery—they'd gone in the fire, too. If the Ministry needed him for anything that badly, they could come and get him.

These were the rare moments of disruption to his routine. Sometimes his front door would knock, and the sound, so foreign, would cause him to freeze with surprise and anticipation. His breathing would increase, and then it would pass. He never opened the door, but no doubt it was only ever some Muggle selling something or wanting to talk about religion. It was the same with the letters. He would be briefly curious about what they contained, but then the apathy would come upon him and as soon as the parchment became ashes, the instance was gone from his mind.

He had quiet, though, and solitude, and despite everything, it was like a balm to his frayed nerves. His mind might turn to the dark torment of regret, but he was alone. He was unbothered. He was answerable to no one. To indulge in stretches of listless, black moods, to revel in such incapacitating ennui was, perhaps, paradoxically, exhilarating. There was nothing else, but to be, and for a man who had not been allowed to do that for many years, there was a certain inherent sense of relief.

It was not peace, in the truest sense of the word, but it was calm, and in actual fact, he wasn't sure what more, if anything, there was to expect.

Thus, there were days when he almost felt an odd sense of contentment. He felt like he could enjoy living on his own in a way he had not when he had been surrounded by others. Some days, he felt he might like to force his troubled thoughts from his mind, fight off the lassitude, and get up and do something. The urge would come upon him in a burst of positive feeling. He would think of his cauldron, and of brewing, and while the impulse was upon him, he would sneak to the nearest Apothecary, collect some ingredients, and then return with the idea of spending the afternoon brewing.

But, afterwards, the same thing always happened.

He would place his cauldron over the burner, but could never bring himself to light it. He would raise a knife to a Shrivelfig, but could never bring himself to skin it. What was the point? Staring into the darkness of the cauldron, it was all he could ever wonder: What was the point? What difference was it going to make? No one needed his potions; not even he did. He could not brew for pleasure anymore—there was no pleasure to be had. Six months without chopping, without stirring… What was another month? The ingredients he bought would be shoved in the cupboard until they deteriorated, or until they were brought out during another urge that would end up being thwarted.

Maybe if he had a purpose—a job, perhaps, his outlook would be different. But it was too easy to exist without one. When his money ran out, maybe he'd have to find one. Where? How? He did not know. His money would last a long time yet, however. He had very little expenditure. He had no bills to pay; all Muggle utilities having long since abandoned the house in Spinner's End. He had no need of them. He could conjure water from his wand; have light from his candles; heat from his fire.

Nevertheless, there were days, of course, where he had to leave the confines of his little terraced house. Neither, was it always to venture only several yards to the nearest shop for food or candles (he was probably the only one in the whole town who regularly bought them). It had taken him a while to find a shop that sold your ordinary, bog-standard candle—he wanted none of these sickly smelling scented ones. No, sometimes, he was forced to venture further afield, but those times were, thankfully rare.

And that was why he was half-heartedly standing in his bedroom, pulling on a jumper.

It had become apparent that he was running low on Muggle money. Therefore, a trip to Gringotts' bank would have to be in order. He considered that it would probably be better for him to open a Muggle bank account, and then he could use one of those cards, but he couldn't be bothered with all the hassle. The trip to Gringotts' itself was never too bad on his nerves. The goblins said precious little to him, beyond what was necessary, and that was the way he liked it. It was venturing into Diagon Alley that he shied away from. He might bump into any former acquaintance there, and he dreaded such an occurrence.

But he could hardly go to Gringotts' in disguise, even if he could be bothered with that sort of thing. The times before he'd remained unnoticed, and he continually hoped that his luck would continue. There were certain things in his favour—he looked slightly different now than he used to. For one, his hair had been unceremoniously hacked off by the Healer who'd initially treated him—something about it being plastered to his neck with blood. Such a mundane occurrence had actually unsettled him. For a few weeks, he had found himself uncomfortably reminded of both Potters whenever he caught a glimpse of his reflection.

Still, it was growing out again, now, and as it became longer, it lay flatter. In truth, he rarely sought to look at his reflection. He'd become lax with regard to shaving, even though all that was needed was a flick of his wand, but sometimes he'd leave it for weeks. Because when he did see his reflection, perversely, he loved that he outwardly reflected what he felt like inwardly. He looked tired, he looked drawn, and he looked, maybe, ill, too.

He could also cover up unobtrusively when going out now. It was winter. It was often cold and wet. To go out, he would put a cloak on over his clothes, giving him just enough warding against the chill, but not so much that he could not feel it. The cold seeping into his bones was one of the few reminders that he was, indeed, alive, and not some dispossessed spirit wandering the mortal plane without purpose. He pulled the hood of his cloak low over his head and no one would be any the wiser to his presence.

He left Spinner's End at nine o'clock that morning, when the bank opened its doors. He appeared in the cobbled street and for a moment, the light hurt his eyes. The discomfort soon passed—it was not a bright day. The sky was leaden when he'd left, and it was leaden in London, too. Winds gusted down the alley, lending a chill to the air that made even him curl his hands deep into his pockets. Gloves would have helped, he decided belatedly. Did he even own gloves anymore?

He made for the bank immediately, and once inside, he was served straight away—no dithering or dallying, for which he was grateful. He was taken to his vault, whereupon he scooped out a bagful of coins, and thence to the exchange desk. It was all over within a matter of fifteen minutes. The goblins hadn't blinked once at his presence. His thoughts were only focused on the fact that once outside he would Apparate straight into his living room.

He could not have known that some trifling occurrence would conspire to wrong-foot his very existence.

He pulled his hood over his head before leaving the bank, and he cut an unremarkable figure as he pulled open the door and walked out onto the steps. Almost immediately, a particularly furious gust of wind accosted him, blowing the hood of his cloak entirely back from his head. Suddenly, he was completely visible, and he felt a fleeting swell of irrational panic inside him. He wrenched the fabric back over his head. But there were few people about. No one cared about the extremely mundane fact that he was simply a man standing on some steps.

He breathed deeply, angry at himself. But it was then that he heard it—the one sound he always feared to hear on his rare visits to Diagon Alley.

'Professor!'

His head snapped involuntarily towards the sound, and as soon as he had control of his faculties again, he looked away. He would ignore it. He didn't want to know who it was.

'Professor, wait!'

The voice was getting closer, but he seemed almost frozen to the spot. They were after someone else… But, he'd seen. He'd already seen Hermione Granger running towards him.

He would not speak to her—did not want to speak to her.

'Sir!'

She was at the bottom of the steps. He closed his eyes, focused with all of his might on his living room, hurriedly turned on the spot, and crack!

The world stopped spinning, but he did not open his eyes. For a moment, he did not dare to. A feeling of cold dread swept through him with a shiver and his palms suddenly became clammy. She'd touched him. He'd hesitated for too long, and he'd felt a touch on his arm as he'd Disapparated.

He swallowed and opened his eyes, looking downwards to see confirmation of what he had feared. Quickly, he looked upwards with reflexive distaste. He had Disapparated and brought two of Hermione Granger's fingers with him.

He cursed her stupidity, even as a feeling of sickness settled in his stomach. Sickness at the sight of the dismembered fingers, or at the prospect of what he would have to do, he did not know. And he would have to do it. His stomach clenched and he reached into his pocket for his wand.

Why couldn't she just leave him alone?

He conjured a handkerchief and gingerly bent down to retrieve the appendages. He let out a long breath and mentally steeled himself. Then, heart heavy, he closed his eyes and Disapparated away.

AN : )