25 December 1982
Cokeworth Village, Cokeworth
Evening skies painted the sky in swathes of pink by the time that anyone in the Evans household had deigned to roll themselves out of their naptime positions. The sleet had let up some, allowing for the sun to peek through the dark clouds and Jean could've sworn that she'd gleaned the edges of a burgeoning rainbow as it crested over the rooftops of the little village, but it was gone just as quick. Nevertheless, Grandma Daisy had declared it perfect weather to go for a post-Christmas dinner walk around the village. Although that might've been less to do with the weather and more to do with the rambunctiousness of the children (and the dog) after they had devoured bowls of bread & butter pudding and trifle. Sugar-powered toddlers were unnatural things; they defied the laws of physics.
So, bundled up in layers of coats, warming charms and with walking canes in hand (and the men now free of their decorations) the Evans-Potter-Dursley clan made their way along the sleet-iced streets, in a poor attempt to walk off some of the Christmas dinner and catch up on the lives of their children & grandchildren. At least, that was the intended idea; instead, Harry & Dudley ran ahead to play amongst the tall weeds that rang the length of the river; just roughhousing with each other as they burnt off the last of that sugar. Jean, herself, found her head revolving on her neck as she gazed about in wonder at all of the different little nuances of this little English village.
Cokeworth Village was a quaint little place in the Pennines; one that reminded Jean of a combination between Hogsmeade Village and other small Yorkshire towns that resided within the same area. It was the kind of place that interwove the fantastical feeling of a comforting home (one, not unlike the Weasley's Burrow) with the harsh realities of modern-day life. Throughout all of the corners of the village, there lay evidence of the old mill town that it had been its origin. Because of that very reason, Jean felt like she had stepped right into one of Grandma Daisy's fairytales.
From the old Grenwick Mill and its accompanying silos that sat upon the hill (going by local legend, the old abandoned silo was haunted by the ghost of a young prairie girl who lured you in with her pitiful cries and then pushed you down the stairs, to your death), to the town centre itself. Lined with buildings made of stone and painted in strings of ivy, the village of Cokeworth may have of looked fantastical, but it still held the basics of muggle life. Like The Iron Crumb pub on the corner that famous for both its beers & its pies, and the farmer's market which burst to life in the town's square every Saturday.
There was the old chapel, Saint Winnoc's (named for the Patron Saint of Millers), which was built from the thick blocks of stone and it stood tall, despite its age. Jean liked St Winnoc's; mostly because it reminded her of the church at the end of her street that her mother took her to, every Sunday. Mum was quite religious—as was Grandma Aggie—and both women enjoyed visiting places of worship, just as much as they liked photographing them. Across from the chapel sat the town's local bakery, Drury Lane, which infamous for the Halloween incident of 1963. Most of the elder generation never talked about what happened, but whenever it was brought up, they'd spare each other secretive smiles.
And in between the two sat Ferrum's Forge (where the Potters plus two, had emerged from the floo), one of the few magical places dotted about the village; because the metallurgy store was one of the few that catered to both magical & non-magical patrons alike. Even trudging up Penshaw Grove, one could see the tips of the rooftops of Spinner's End. Almost a five minute walk away, the tenement block of houses known as Spinner's End, was a block of buildings that had been stitched together and one (of which, she had it on good authority) that had belonged to her previous potions professor and one-time headmaster, Severus Snape.
To their left, sat a river which ran through the heart of the village. Once pristine and beautiful, this laneway of water now lay at their feet in a disgustingly brown colour that would turn anyone's stomach; such was the result of years of factory use and pollution. Further ahead, however, lay the scrub where the Evans sisters and Snape used to play as children; there, on the outskirts of the factory town, where only weeds and field mice now grew. As they walked along the river's edge, through the thicket of wildflowers, Jean was amused to note that Petunia (and, in turn, Dudley) kept well away from the overhanging trees and loose branches that loomed over them. She consciously placed herself & her son on the riverside, away from the trees, leaving Vernon to trudge through the undergrowth that grew there, beneath the canopy.
If you didn't know the backstory, you probably wouldn't have even seen anything wrong with it (except maybe that it was a little odd to want to keep a young child so close to the water's edge). But as Harry had once told them after viewing Snape's memories, there had been a memory of his mother, his aunt and Professor Snape when they were children. In it, the two magical children sat facing each other as they talked of the magical & muggle worlds, whilst the elder Evans sister sat high in the branches of a nearby tree, listening in. It was there, that the seeds of Petunia's jealously grew and in that same thicket where Snape had weakened the branch to collapse beneath her weight. It had been where Petunia had fallen from the tree, and where the wizard had induced such a terrifyingly paralysing fear of heights in the muggle girl. Whose to say if she really deserved it?
Trotting along the cobblestone path, Jean was shaken from her reverie by the high giggles of children up ahead. It did little to distract her from the dull aching cramps that she had been feeling since she'd woken. They'd mostly been abated by the various potions & medications, but she had none of that right now, so she just grit her teeth bore it. White knuckles clenched around the hilt of her cane as she tried to suppress the hiss that threatened to make itself known. The last time she'd felt something like this—or, more accurately, when this all began—was when her newly-minted Dark Mark (courtesy of that damned eldritch egg) had reacted to the cursed scar engraved on her wrist.
Dark called to dark, like called to like. This time, it appeared that the newly-imprinted eldritch mark had collared her tight around the neck, and sang loudly & proudly in tune with the other dark magicks in the area (however faint). Her cursed scar still ached, of course, but it was drowned out by the feeling of fire ants dancing beneath her skin as it crept down her shoulders. Although it got her back to the past and she knew it was just something she would have to get used to, Jean was really starting to hate that damned eldritch egg.
Just as it had been painful to see the Potters so young and alive when she had first travelled back in time, it was rather odd for the witch to see her old potions professor as he was. With limp hair collected about his shoulders, a nose made crooked from some old injury that never quite healed right and the sweeping black robes that jostled from side to side as he helped his frail mother sit down at one of the outdoor tables at the local pub. Eileen Snape (neé Prince) wasn't much a beauty, there was no denying that, especially as frail and sickly as she was. Dangerously slim and baring—what must've been a Snape trademarked expression. It was one of familiar sullenness with brows furrowed in irritation that was painted on her long and pallid face.
Hunched over at the waist and clinging tightly to her son's offered arm, Eileen appeared rather sour-faced and sallow even from this far off. At forty-five years (barely into the infancies of a mage's lifespan), she was barely a couple of decades older than either of the Potters or the Dursleys, but Jean knew (thanks, again, to Harry's trip into Snape's memories) that Snape's childhood had never been the most friendly. Even Harry, who had been kept in a cupboard under the stairs and starved for most of his childhood, had felt sickened when he saw what had happened to their potions professor. That didn't mean she forgave him for what he'd done, of course, he was still a jackass.
A statement, Jean thought, That's supported by all of those newspaper articles. During the burgeonings of the First Wizarding War, not long after Snape had first gotten his Dark Mark, he had attended a Death Eater raid on the very village in which he had grown up in. His father, Tobias Snape (an abusive muggle man with a wild temper & a foul hatred for magic), had been the first of his many, many, many victims to fall to his wand. Whatever had happened during that raid had been enough to both cement his place in Voldemort's inner circle and scared the boy child right into the arms of Dumbledore. Whatever had happened, had turned this boy-child into a double agent (although for which side, no one truly knew).
Jean wasn't sure how she should—or would—feel about seeing her old potions professor again; mostly because her feelings towards the man had always been…conflicted at best. On the one hand, he had been a conceited slave driver with a clear biased for his snakes and an obvious dislike for know-it-alls, lions & muggles (really anything that reminded him of his lost childhood love). He had been a Death Eater and a spy (Dumbledore had often said that if either side knew where his loyalties truly lay, then he would have of been dead long ago); a right hand to both men.
But on the other hand—according to Harry's stories of Snape's memories—the man was more of a silent protector. Not of Harry, because the greasy-haired man couldn't look at the bespectacled boy without seeing his former bullies, but because of the smallest of traces of Lily in him. And to Harry, apparently Snape's years of snide backhanded comments and downright abuse was all forgiven just because he had cared for his mother. Jean didn't see it that way. In fact, Jean couldn't help the petty vindictiveness that swelled within her heart whenever she thought of the times she had blighted the man & gotten away with it. Like that time in her first year when she had set his robes alight during a quidditch game, or during second year when she had stolen potion ingredients from his personal stores to create a (successful) polyjuice potion.
But Jean wasn't the only one to take note of the Death Eater-slash-teacher-slash-spy. To her left, Lily inhaled sharply as she caught sight of her old childhood friends, her fists clenched tightly at her sides. Ever since an incident during their sixth year at Hogwarts, where Snape had called Lily a "…filthy mudblood…!" following both the stress of their O.W.L.s and the Marauders' bullying. After that, what little of their friendship had been torn to shreds; much to the delight of Sirius and the guilt of James.
(Privately, Jean though that Lily had been much too sensitive to take something such as a swear or slur spoken in anger thus far. She had been called "Mudblood" more times than she could count and you didn't see her ruining a lifelong friendship over it. No, instead, she simply punched Malfoy square in the face and broke his nose, or enacted magical—permanent and slightly illegal—revenge on the guilty party).
The closer the group walked to the Slytherin pair, the more tense and awkward the atmosphere became. Jean wasn't sure if the Evans grandparents knew about the details about what had happened between the two (former) friends. Or if they only knew that the pair had had your typical teenage falling out at school; one that was severe enough that neither of the mages had recovered from. Or even if, Lily had explained it away as the two just naturally drifted apart as their lives moved in two different paths. Either way, it was considerably tense.
The Snapes had yet to (outwardly) acknowledge them, though both Padfoot, James and Petunia had also grown incredibly tense; even going so far as to flank around the redhead in a subconscious & protective formation. In a stunning show of solidarity, Petunia sneered at Snape alongside James & Padfoot (can dogs even sneer?) in much the same manner that she often reserved for talking about the unnaturalness of "magical folk" in general. Or how she had reacted to that pile of dog shit that Dudley had nearly stepped in earlier.
The last thing Severus Snape had wanted to see was the banes of his existence running around Cokeworth, this late on Christmas day. But there they were; seated in one of the few outdoor tables of The Iron Crumb and bundled up in warm layers & charms. Directly across from, sat his frail mother in much the same state, as the pair celebrated the Yuletide with their usual minimal festivities. Most days, he couldn't stand to be in his childhood home, not without looking around a corner to find the ghost of his father or staring upon a mark on the wall (long since scrubbed clean) and seeing the remnants of his own handiwork.
Which was why the mother & son duo had taken to getting out of the house as much as possible. They could always sell it, he supposed, but like most pureblooded witches his mother was stubborn to a fault and would not leave the shack until that she died. And even then, he suspected she would not leave, perhaps instead haunting the gardens that had blossomed in the wake of his father's death.
Casting his gaze out across the town centre, it didn't take long for the halfblood to catch sight of the Marauders & co; their little entourage standing out like wildflowers bursting through embankments of snow. Just as it did every time that Severus looked upon Lily and James, a feeling of great pain & jealousy swelled up inside him. Here was a man who had everything that Severus had ever wanted, who had inflicted pain upon others and still gotten the girl. A girl, mind you, who had loathed his guts for upwards of six years.
And then there was Lily, beautiful, sweet Lily—his Lily—who danced about with hair so red that she looked like one of those Hesperides from the magical tales that he had loved as a boy. A bright flower who had once looked at him like he had hung the stars in the sky and had the answers to all of the world's questions. But now? Now she turned to that bespectacled bastard with that same look and she turned to that damned deer like he could answers her questions. Together, Severus & Lily had been inseparable—untouchable—magnetic. Until it had all come crashing down and all because of them.
Beady eyes eventually trawled away from the pair that wrought him so much turmoil in his life, skipping over the muggle sisters & her equally muggle family that left a sour taste in his mouth, and instead landed upon the curious gaze of the child he had been tasking with investigating. It was just about the last thing Dumbledore had asked of him since the Potter's move not a year prior, because the Potters were, in the headmaster's own words: "…sealed up tighter than a maiden's legs" Which, when reading between the rather vulgar lines, meant that wherever they had moved to, the family was now sealed & warded up so tight that no even the esteemed Supreme Mugwump could find or get to them. If Severus had to guess, the only kind of place that could afford that kind of long-term security was the old pureblood houses; so, they'd probably returned to the old Potter Manor. Hence why none of Dumbledore's spies could get to them and why the old man had come to the newly-minted potions master, in the hopes that the (former) spy could dig up what he could not.
The Slytherin's gaze narrowed on the girl (resolutely ignoring the young children who danced about their feet as they waved sticks in the air and hollered about magic & monsters), as he fell back into old habits. Messy curls had been slicked back into a braid, although several rebellious strands still managed to escape, framing the child's curious and calculating gaze. An obnoxiously floral dress fell to her knees and an overtly large cardigan that slumped around her shoulders like she was playing dress-up.
A fond smile that had previously spread across her lips as she watched the village life around her, had been replaced by something else entirely. It was an intelligent look, one he often saw when looking in the mirror. Severus was quick to note the walking cane in her hand, summarising that the witch had either not yet been awake for a very long time, was still recovering from the traumas of war (weren't they all?) or it was simply a token from the Potter vaults. But it was none of this was what really called out to him; no, that was nothing in comparison to how the Dark Mark—his Dark Mark, the one he had foolishly burnt into his skin—called to the strange witch. A Dark Lady, perhaps? The thought curdled his stomach even as it surfaced, but it seemed like the only thing that made sense. Like called to like, afterall, his mark to hers.
Severus shivered at the implications that flittered through his mind as a great & trembling fear took root. His mouth ran dry, his heart rate jumped and he was sure that he had paled a few shades, making his already ashen complexion appear almost ghostly. There was only one person he knew of that could instil such a fear in him, and that man had remained sequestered in the bowels of his most loyal follower's homes. Currently, that was the Malfoy Manor. So, unless his Dark Lord had been grooming this Dark Lady to take his place…
Either way, Severus felt his stomach drop when he realised that this child (if she truly was that)—this Dark Lady—had been living with the Potters—with Lily—this whole time. Dark & Ancient magicks had been present at Godric's Hollow on that fateful night; he was clueless as to how no one had yet to put it together. Was this what Dumbledore was so afraid of? Was this what he was searching for? Was she to be the next great Dark Mage born in the wake of another? Only time would tell, he was sure, but this time Severus wasn't sure if he would be able to survive it. Those calculating eyes told him so.