Severus Snape: Puzzle Pieces
Severus Snape
The animatronic snowman bounced as the tinny sound of "White Christmas" hissed from the Tesco speakers. It wasn't even the good version of the song, with Bing Crosby's soothing bass-baritone. Some pop star sang the lyrics over the whine of synthesized instruments.
May your days be merry and bright…
The florescent lights flickered in time to the pounding in his head. A scratching sound rasped underneath it all, like nails on a chalkboard. The scent of cinnamon was heavy enough to choke. But he couldn't move. The snowman's lifeless eyes pinned him to the spot.
Scratch, scratch, scratch… Merry and bright…
"Sir?"
The voice spoke directly behind him, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. A stout man with a five o'clock shadow approached, wearing a blue Tesco shirt, his neck bulging over a tight collar. His tag read, "Manager."
Scratch, scratch, scratch… Merry and bright…
Why wouldn't that song stop? It didn't sound right. The speakers were warping the vocals. It almost sounded like…
Going to die…
The drumming of his heart kicked up a notch. "His name was Harry, you know."
The manager frowned. "What's that?"
"Bing Crosby. His real name was Harry. His nickname came from his favorite comic strip character. Bingo." He'd rather liked The Perishers, and imagined himself living in the railway station like the orphan Wellington. Nobody ever nicknamed him Wellington, though.
Bing. Bingo. What a strange word. He tried it out on his tongue. "Bingo, bingo, bingo."
The manager hesitated. "Could you stop?" He pointed at the shelf.
Severus looked down. His fingernail gnawed away at the metal edge of the shelf. Scratch, scratch, scratch. He'd etched P-O-T into the beige paint.
The manager rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the letters. "Did you need a pot?"
Severus pulled his hand away. "I was only…" but words failed him, and he couldn't think of an explanation. There was no explanation, really. Except Potter. He needed to remember Potter. The memories of Potter he'd locked behind his shield were gone, and it had become habit to move his fingers in the shape of those letters. He couldn't forget Potter.
"Hey, I know you," the manager said. "Snape, right? Sebastian, or… Something a bit odder than that. Sigmund?"
"Severus," he said automatically. He stopped and looked up and down the aisle. Did the Dark Lord already suspect? Had he been followed? "How do you know me?"
"Jeremy Loach. From Georgette Primary, remember?"
A thick-waisted boy, laughing. "I remember." His voice sounded faint and far away. "You used to throw rocks at me."
Jeremy made a face. "I was a child, you know. And you were…"
Standing up in class, everyone staring. Expected to explain why muddy spots covered his uniform shirt. No, ma'am, he wouldn't go home and change. No, he wouldn't explain why not. Staring hard at her sensible shoes, refusing to admit it was the only school shirt he had. Stumbling over his words while the teacher shook her head. Stiff and formal when addressing him, keeping her hands behind her back when others got an encouraging squeeze on the shoulder. And him, scowling, quiet, standoffish. "I wasn't a child. I know."
"Well, we all knew about your… Anyway, you've done all right." He gestured at Severus's white button-down and black trousers.
"It's important to blend in." He smoothed down the front of his shirt, wishing he could wear his thick wool robes. He felt protected in his robes. "I buy them in bulk."
Jeremy fell silent for a moment. "That's good," he finally said. He brightened. "Hey, what about that mate of yours–"
No, stop talking, stop. Push back the memories. Wall them up. But there were no walls, and they rose and swirled. He clenched the shelf.
"Ginger lass, right? You two stuck together like glue. What was her name?"
The overbright aisle disappeared, replaced by grass and dappled sunlight. Lily, listening avidly, her eyes bright. He needed that brightness, devoured it like an animal crawling from a dark hole after a long hibernation. A brightness that shouldn't ever dim, so he didn't tell her a few things about the magical world. Dark things. He told himself they didn't matter.
Accidentally catching her eye in sixth year, that brightness gone as she stared at him, her nose wrinkling before she turned away. He wrinkled his nose back for the sake of his Slytherin housemates, even as something suffocating seized his throat. He had to. She'd made her feelings clear, and he needed to survive. That was all he could think about. Survive until seventh year, and then he would be gone. He would be safe.
And then back at Hogwarts, in his office. The picture in the paper, announcing her murder. Carefully cutting it out with shaking hands. His family didn't have a camera. It was the only picture he had of her.
"Whatever happened to her?" Jeremy asked.
"She died," he whispered.
A sharp intake of breath. "How?"
Another memory swelled, bloated and ugly. On his knees in front of the Dark Lord, that fateful word spilling from his lips: "prophecy."
And the Dark Lord inside his mind, seizing the memory. "Very good, Severus."
He'd devoured the praise, not thinking, not realizing. Not until it was too late.
No more. He couldn't tolerate this flood of memories. He scrambled to put it behind his occlumency walls, and found nothing. The memories burst forth again, as fresh as the day she died. Something grabbed his throat, and he sobbed, the sound echoing loudly in the aisle. Clutching the shelf, he bent his head and tried to curl his body up against it, hoping that maybe the bouncing snowman might cover it all up.
"Hey. Sorry. It's none of my business, really." Another long silence. "It's just that we're closing, and you're the only one still… ah… here."
That startled him out of his thoughts. He glanced towards the front, where the long windows showed the dim winter sun. "It's not that late." Had he gotten confused again? Did muggle shops close in the afternoon? Or did the sun set later than he remembered? He looked at Jeremy, bewildered. "Is it late?"
Jeremy searched his face. "Closing early. It's Christmas Eve. You know that, right?"
That's right. He'd come to do his shopping because they'd be closed tomorrow. He'd run out of tinned foods yesterday. Too distracted, he hadn't paid attention to how much food he had left. "I know," he said as confidently as he could. He pulled his trolley close and brandished a plastic-wrapped hunk of meat. "I'm making roast beef." He hadn't bothered with a large meal for Christmas since Hogwarts closed down, usually reheating a frozen shepherd's pie or some tinned chicken curry for the occasion. But cooking was something that helped order his thoughts. Simple tasks, that was it. Make a list of simple tasks and do them.
"Great." Jeremy's smile showed too many teeth. "Let's get you rung up."
Severus nodded, but his gaze drifted back to the snowman's lifeless eyes. The movement was hypnotic. Obscene. Bounce, bounce, bounce. His gaze unfocused, and two sets of painted eyes drifted to either side and wormed into his head. His eyes ached as they dried, but he was having trouble blinking. Blinking would give everything away.
"Severus?" Jeremy's gaze darted up and down his body.
That was bad. People thought he needed help when they looked at him like that. He wasn't blending in. He grabbed the snowman and shook it in his face. "I was only trying to decide." He forced confidence and authority into his voice. "I shall purchase this."
"Good choice." Jeremy planted a hand between his shoulder blades, steering him to the front.
The transaction with the cashier passed in a blur, but the icy drizzle outside roused him. He'd forgotten his coat.
Jeremy stood with him, giving instructions to the teenaged cashier who locked the door behind him. He paused, looking at the fat pendulums of bags in their hands. "Where's your car?"
"Car?"
Jeremy nodded and let out a sigh. "Let's get you on the bus, then."
"But I can…" Apparate. He froze as the walls of Hogwarts rose around him. His gangly teenaged arm extending his wand in the Great Hall, where a ministry instructor warned about splinching. Practicing, determined to master it. Apparition meant he'd never be trapped in Cokeworth, never end up like his father. Pressing his lips together, he pushed the memory away and shook his head. "I can't tell you that."
"That's all right." Jeremy nodded towards the bus stop.
In the end, Severus had fretted so much over the correct change that Jeremy accompanied him, and walked him down Spinner's End. Abandoned row houses stood on either side, two vast looming walls of brick and boarded windows. The silence was deafening.
On the front step, Jeremy hesitated. "Do you have someone you can call? A sister, maybe?"
"A sister." His mother, her face tired, getting him ready for school while his father loomed. Stop shouting, will you? I was only late this month. You think I'd risk another with the dosh you bring home? "They barely wanted me."
"A friend, then." Jeremy glanced down the empty street. "I can't leave you like this." He fingered the outline of a square object in his pocket.
A mobile, most likely. Every muggle had a bloody mobile now, ready to call the authorities whenever they found him wandering the streets. He'd had to duck behind some bins and disapparate once when a police car had pulled up next to him. It was only when he got home and stared at his reflection in the windowpane that he realized. He'd written "Potter" across his hand and, at some point, pressed his hand to his sweaty forehead. The writing had transferred, and he'd been walking about with letters scrawled on his face, like a complete lunatic.
Apparently, whoever he'd spooked hadn't spotted the "P," because the article in the local paper the next day mentioned a disoriented "Otter Man" who shouldn't be approached.
He needed to rally, or Jeremy would connect the dots and then the authorities would know Otter Man's address. Polite but firm men in NHS uniforms would cart him off to a muggle mental ward for his own good. He could escape, of course. Probably. If he had the presence of mind to grab his wand before they restrained him. "I'm fine, really." His face was wet. Only the drizzle, he hoped. He wiped at it, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. "I lost touch with someone a few months ago, and it's… affected me."
Clattering steps sounded from behind the front door, and Jeremy perked up. "Oh! You have someone, then?"
Something, more like. "Chair." He glanced at Jeremy. "Cherry. My cousin. Visiting for Christmas."
Loud, sharp steps clattered at an inhuman speed, sounding more like castanets than feet.
Severus cleared his throat. "Clog dancer."
Jeremy's shoulders relaxed, and he smiled. "All right, then." He gave Severus a long look, as if he wanted to say more. But all he said was, "happy Christmas."
Severus nodded and waited until he was well down the street before opening the door. Chair bounded up and danced around him excitedly. It nudged his bags as it circled.
"I got nothing for you, Kindling." Chair combined the worst qualities of a pet, child, and roommate: excitable, noisy, and it never slept. If he had neighbors, they'd be out for his head. He'd considered putting Chair in the attic, but that would concede defeat. Potter would need Chair when Severus found him and brought him back. When Potter was ready to accept help. Maybe Potter would return on his own, remove this curse from his mind. Yes, any day now. Severus pressed his forehead against a wall, torn between laughing and screaming.
Chair ran to the cupboard and tapped it with one leg. It had discovered the boxes of old Christmas decorations and tried on several occasions to drag them out.
"I didn't get a tree. There's no need for tinsel or lights." He paused. "Wait a moment." He rummaged through his bags until he found the snowman and placed it on Chair's seat. "There you go. Quite festive. Now leave me in peace."
Chair tap danced along the floor as the snowman bounced to the beat. Chair ran in circles and abruptly halted, the snowman launching from its seat and bouncing off the cupboard door. It landed on the floor, denting its cardboard packaging.
"Ingrate." Severus surveyed the state of his house. He kept his books organized and his floor swept (simple tasks, simple tasks), but the walls would have given him away to Jeremy Loach. They were covered with "Potter" in big letters, small letters, ink, scratches, and charcoal.
The kitchen was no better. Potter, in scorch marks and dried red sauce, and stabbed into the drywall with a steak knife. Potter, remember Potter. He'd clung to one distinct memory: the back of Potter's head and the bright colors of his Triwizard uniform as he walked into the murky shadows of the hedge maze. Detestable Potter, that face reminding him of his helplessness, and those eyes reminding him of his mistakes and regrets. He'd had no idea how much worse it could get. That battered face, those burning eyes.
After stowing the groceries, he grabbed two potion vials on the counter and downed them like a shot. The first helped with focus and the second numbed his face, to hide his unraveling. Other draughts on hand could suppress emotions and memories, but he had to be careful. Such things could numb and slow his thoughts, and he couldn't afford that. More than once, his fear had warned him and his wits had saved him. What he needed was his occlumency, and no potion could give him that.
The morning after Potter's attack, he'd woken to Chair prodding at his loosened ropes. His head pounding, he'd cursed and stumbled and finally worked himself free, then immediately searched the house. He knew it was useless—the front door was open. The wards were still up, but Potter had only needed to weaken them enough to slip through.
On instinct, he'd tried to shove his frustration and anger behind his occlumency shields. But instead of their solid presence, he'd grasped nothing but thin air. And into that void flooded memories: Potter, feeding him that vile potion, drawing on the magic of the Mark. Those memories dragged other memories in their wake: hanging helpless by Potter and his gang, the entire school watching; the Dark Lord burning the Mark into his arm. And strung behind that was a rotting sargassum of memories and feelings, dredged from the depths and disgorged over him in a smothering weight.
He'd striven to center his thoughts and rebuild his walls, to hold back the tide. But the potion's strange slickness remained, and each imagined stone slipped away into the swirling darkness. Amidst all the remembered feelings, a fresh fear lapped at him.
Severus finished cleaning the vials when another scratching noise arose. He stared down at his hands, but it wasn't his restless fingers. Someone at the front door? Pushing the kitchen door ajar, he listened intently, wand at the ready. Nothing. He sagged against the doorframe. His house was no fortress, but it was a barrier against muggles with their mobiles, and Death Eaters with their probing eyes and minds.
Something near the baseboard scuffled, and he grunted. Mice. He'd set wards to prevent pests, but Potter's breakout must have given them an opportunity to scurry in. He should've bought traps at Tesco. Now he'd be stuck with them for Christmas.
He sank into his armchair, where his few rare occlumency books sat on the side table. The first he'd acquired rested on top: The Secrets of the Magical Mind. He touched it gently, caressing the cracks spiderwebbing across the red leather cover.
All his life, his emotions and painful memories attacked and overwhelmed him. It had only gotten worse as a teenager, fumbling over spells he'd carefully practiced as his body seized. Struggling to think through the bombardment. It had made him weak and vulnerable to mistakes. Such terrible mistakes.
And then, occlumency. The spell had been a revelation. Invaluable for a spy, but that wasn't why he'd learnt it. He'd wanted something to give him the assurance and control that Sirius Black and James Potter always had and he'd always lacked. He wanted to stop feeling like a raw nerve. Exposed.
It was a rare skill, although the opposing skill, legilimency, was pushed heavily by the regime for interrogations. That only made occlumency rarer, as the Dark Lord had passed an edict to burn books that mentioned it, to keep the population defenseless.
He picked up the volume and paged to the last section he'd read:
…thus, an occlumens can not only block a legilimens, but deceive one. To begin, isolate a specific memory and visualize it disappearing behind a physical barrier…
But the passage slipped away, replaced with dark-blooming memories. The words blurred and jumbled. He set the book aside and clung to the armrests. For God's sake, he'd had more control as a child. But he'd grown dependent on his occlumency to hold back all the dark things that clawed and bit at him. Too dependent.
So far, no one had cast legilimency on him, but it was only a matter of time. The Dark Lord still searched for Potter, and had grown increasingly agitated as searches had proved fruitless. Severus was supposed to be out there now, searching on the Dark Lord's behalf.
He laughed darkly. He'd already searched the old rebel bases, the abandoned Burrow, and even slipped inside the home of Potter's muggle relatives when they were out. Nothing. Potter had disappeared, just like Hermione. No sign of them as prisoners, no notice of their deaths. But still gone, somewhere. What good was the Phoenix when there was no one to give information to? He'd failed those he swore to protect. And soon…
Going to die…
His supposed search for Potter had given him an excuse to stay away from the throne room, but it wasn't good for his reputation to be out of the Dark Lord's sight for so long. The Dark Lord grew suspicious of followers who avoided him, whose minds he couldn't readily plunder.
He thought he'd finally had a spate of good luck when the Dark Lord had not summoned a Death Eater meeting in the last two months. According to rumors, he'd barely used his throne room, disappearing for weeks at a time. Severus hadn't the energy to speculate the way others did, simply marveling at the unexpected reprieve. Things never went his way. He didn't know what to make of it.
And then he'd heard about the destruction of Hogwarts.
Everyone thought it was symbolic—the end of the old way of life. But it had chilled his spine. Hermione had told him about the diadem found at the castle. The Dark Lord would never have risked its destruction unless he knew with absolute certainty that the horcrux was no longer there. He knew someone had found it.
The only advantage Hermione had left was that the Dark Lord remained ignorant of her search. The only advantage any of the imprisoned resistance members had was that they had little valuable information to offer. But if the Dark Lord worried over the undoing of his horcruxes, then no one was safe.
Severus had sent inquiries to the various prison camps, and things had indeed changed. Interrogations of resistance members had doubled in length and intensity. Any interrogator with a hint of talent in legilimency was quickly promoted. The interrogators were not instructed on what to search for, so the questions and legilimency were far-ranging, and the reports of what was discovered spared no detail, and were all sent to a central office in the Ministry, where clerks organized the data into long lists. It was a bureaucrat's dream—Percy Weasley must be in heaven.
Little did Weasley know that he'd played a part in the horcrux hunt. Severus had unearthed details of the locket from Weasley while marooned at Azkaban. He'd intended to follow up at the Ministry once he'd checked on Potter, but those plans had gone to hell. He'd spent over a month holed up in Cokeworth, only communicating with other wizards through the post, making plans as he confirmed that the Dark Lord continued his long absences.
A week ago, he'd finally girded himself and gone to the Ministry, when most of the staff had taken time off for the holidays. He'd swept across the nearly empty Atrium as his thoughts tumbled about. Despite the chill, sweat had beaded his scalp and temples. He'd surreptitiously wiped it away, grateful that his limp hair already looked perpetually damp.
Staff at the absolute bottom rung of the ladder got holiday shifts, and the clerk at the records office had all the authority and experience of a first-year left to cat-sit. It only took a deep scowl and barking voice to be left alone in a labyrinthine records office walled with towering file cabinets and evidence drawers.
Weasley had been busy—the endless flow of prisoners meant a flow of acquired objects coming from sites of capture, each one catalogued: charmed knives, boots, and cloaks. Weasley might condemn Umbridge for her theft, but he was no better, the thievery of those in power taking on a sheen of respectability through neat rows of handwritten entries.
Too many of the items brought forth memories, and he struggled to focus. But finally, he found a description—"locket, oval, gold. Unusually cold to the touch. Possibly charmed."
Unusually cold. Hermione had mentioned the coldness of the diadem. He scanned the document. A notation rested at the bottom: "see Log Book 257-A."
Bloody bureaucracy. It took some time to find the log in question, and then the item number. Acquired from Umbridge, registered by Weasley, and then formally requested by the Dark Lord. All the boxes ticked, just as Weasley liked.
The final entry held the Dark Lord's signature, dated a few weeks after the first, along with a note: "Examined for magical properties. A curious object, but of no discernible use." Below that, Weasley's handwriting, simply noting, "re-logged. Drawer 578."
Severus frowned. That couldn't possibly mean…? He checked the log again, then strode to a section of drawers. Drawer 578 was locked.
Severus glanced at the young clerk but knew his request would be logged. He quietly worked the lock, weaving his way through his memories for the more complex spells, until the mechanism gave way with a click.
There, laying on the green velvet lining, was the locket.
Severus glanced to the right and left, expecting a trap. It couldn't be this easy. But no Dark Guards seized him, no Death Eaters appeared. The clerk stared aimlessly into space at the front desk.
He slid the locket into his hand. It didn't feel especially cold, or special. It was rather ugly, if he were being honest. Tarnished gold with an overly gaudy decoration of gems that felt mismatched. This was the secret to the Dark Lord's immortality? If so, why had he returned it in such a dismissive manner? It was one thing to hide behind bureaucracy, but if it were truly a horcrux, he wouldn't leave it to be kept in a drawer in a ministry office—would he?
He certainly couldn't ask. But there were ways to test it. He turned the locket over and silently cast diffindo. A scratch appeared on the back of the locket. It could be easily damaged, when horcruxes, according to Hermione, were nearly impossible to destroy.
Severus stared at it for another minute and then made a decision. He used geminio and created a duplicate of the locket, then slipped the original into his pocket. He filed all the papers back in their proper place, offered an intimidating scowl to the clerk, and left.
Severus pulled the locket out now, studying its features in the fading winter light. He'd run multiple tests, and still it remained entirely innocuous. Hermione had said that Dumbledore was certain the locket was a horcrux. Had Dumbledore been wrong? Or was there a means of removing a horcrux besides destroying the object? And if so, where had it gone?
The answers to his questions lay with the Dark Lord himself. Severus would have to face him, eventually. If for no other reason than to destroy the one definite horcrux—Nagini. He'd found a few references to horcruxes in his books on the Dark Arts. As rare as horcruxes were, it was even rarer to use a mortal creature to hold them. But there were some advantages. The body becomes stronger and more malleable, shaped by the soul fragment inside. Perhaps even a powerful alternative to imperius, the soul commanding the body beyond pain or even self-preservation. Nagini certainly followed the Dark Lord's commands and demonstrated more power than any normal serpent.
A crash interrupted his thoughts. Chair had opened the closet and dived in, sending boxes tumbling to the floor.
Severus cursed and leapt to his feet. "Get out of there, Kindling. I told you—there's no tree to decorate. I'll throw you into the cold garden on Christmas Eve. Don't think I won't."
Chair used its rail to nudge a back shelf, upending its contents. An old milkcrate brimming with boxes careened into the front room, spilling its contents across the floor. Old board games and jigsaw puzzles had been inside, and confetti of brightly colored cards, fake money, and puzzle pieces spilled across the floor.
Chair scrambled out of the cupboard, running through the mess and trampling the boxes.
Enough of this nonsense. He shot an immobilization charm at Chair, freezing it mid-stomp. When he touched its back rail, he felt it vibrating with restrained energy, but it wouldn't break through the spell, like Potter. It was just a chair.
A wave a fatigue hit him and his headache returned with a pounding vengeance. A cleaning spell would take care of the mess, but the words of the incantation jumbled and scattered. He knelt on the floor and sorted things back into their crumpled boxes. It should all be thrown out, really. He couldn't remember the last time he'd played a simple game. Chess with Albus, perhaps, before Potter arrived at school and they'd lost much of their free time. The simple days, before so many things had gone wrong.
He drew on that single memory of Potter he could hold in place against the deluge: a lone figure disappearing into the labyrinth, slipping into the darkness between the hedgerows.
The box for the jigsaw puzzle had seen so many hot summers and damp winters it crumbled to particles in his hands. He should throw it out. Throw everything out. Memories of his parents screaming at each other flooded his mind. He should burn the bloody house down.
He took a deep breath. In and out. Empty the mind. Focus on simple tasks.
Chair had found a box of ornaments before it had been immobilized. A glass globe rolled out and stopped near him. He transfigured it into a large jar, charmed it unbreakable, and dumped a handful of pieces inside.
One puzzle piece showed the back of a man's head with a mess of hair, and a memory of the puzzle image came back to him. It was an old painting, Wanderer-something. A man stood on a rocky outcropping, back to the viewer, gazing out at a landscape thick with fog. Severus fitted together pieces until he had the shape of a man with unruly hair—a faceless man staring into the distance. Wanderer. Was he wandering because he was lost and fearful, or with the contented wandering of an adventurer? It was impossible to tell. Where have you gone, Potter? Have you found a way to travel, and are well on your way to your friends? Or did you tumble down a slope and lie broken and bleeding somewhere?
He tossed the man into the jar along with all the other pieces and shoved it into the cupboard.
Another mouse nearly ran over his foot, scuttling into the cupboard before he shut the door. Severus ground his teeth. Whole families of mice were likely nesting in the abandoned house on the other side of the wall, but his wards were secure. He'd reinforced them after Potter left. And yet it still felt as though he were forgetting something. Something that was not quite right.
He circled the house, checking for weak points. It reminded him of that first day he'd brought Potter home, how he'd searched while Potter worked his memory spell. Where had he hidden that day? His memories fluttered in a dizzying swirl until he caught the one he wanted. Right, the cupboard. He'd thought at the time—
For a moment, everything snapped into focus. "Idiot," he whispered.
He'd thought at the time that the cupboard, filled with books and boxes, didn't have nearly enough space for a grown man, even as thin as Potter was.
His gaze slid to Chair. Even frozen in place, it was vibrating, leaning towards the cupboard.
He'd been unconscious when Potter had left, but Chair didn't sleep. Wherever Potter had gone, Chair had witnessed it.
A series of levitation spells flung everything out of the cupboard to land in a pile near the window. Chair, unfrozen, clattered to the cupboard's back wall.
Severus ushered it away and examined the wall his house shared with the next. Concealment spells blanketed the corner. He ended them and discovered a visible seam that ran from ceiling to floor. Just there, the wards were weak enough to let several mice—and perhaps something larger—slip through.
The missing food he thought he'd simply lost track of. Mice weren't known for making off with tinned curry.
Potter had put on a show about getting the front door open before knocking him unconscious, so he wouldn't see where he'd actually gone. The only place Potter could go, with his agoraphobia.
Severus pressed against the crack, and the wall slid open. A dark space gaped, large enough to step through.
"Bingo," he breathed.
-Chapter Notes-
I looked up whether Bing Crosby was a bass or baritone (bass-baritone, apparently) and discovered his real name was Harry. Too perfect of a coincidence not to include.
Referenced painting: Wanderer above the Sea of Fog by Caspar David Friedrich