Epilogue, Take 2
Aug. 4th, 2007 08:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
christinex1001In more ways than one. I tried to post this earlier today, and LJ had a complete and utter conniption fit dealing with 7K of cut text. They really need to work on that. So I'm trying again. (Fingers crossed)
All reviews/comments are welcome, although if you're not on my LJ f-list, they will be screened. But don't worry -- I'll unscreen 'em when I get the notifications from LJ in my email.
Epilogue
All was darkness and pain. He only wanted to shut his eyes one last time, let oblivion sweep over him and take him away.
For some reason, his hand wouldn’t listen to what his mind and heart were saying. As if possessed by its own restless spirit, it scrabbled away at his right pocket flap, refusing to lie down and die. His fingers closed around the vials within, and it was as though the smooth glass awakened some last spark in his mind. Anti-venin, it thought. Coagulating Serum.
He knew he was alone. The boy had gone, and so had the Dark Lord and his pet. No one would see him lift the first vial to his lips, watch as he choked down the bitter fluid within. It seemed to course through his veins like fire, burning as Nagini’s venom had not. The flames pulsed down the length of his arm, giving him the strength to raise up the second vial and swallow its contents as well. With that one came a cool, dark flood, settling the panicky rhythms of his heart.
A sort of peace settled over him. He knew that, somewhere beyond the place where he now lay, Harry and Voldemort must be facing off, that the future of the wizarding world could very well be decided in the next few moments, but he also knew he did not yet possess the strength to rise and participate in such epochal events. No, he could only lie here on the hard wooden floor of the Shrieking Shack, smelling dust and blood and the unmistakable scent of decay. The blood was his, but the Coagulating Serum would have stabilized him enough that he was no longer in immediate danger, although at some point he would need real intervention by Madam Pomfrey or another healer.
Your hastiness has undone you once again, Voldemort, he thought. You were so sure of yourself…so sure of me…that you never thought to check whether I carried any potions with me which would protect me against your snake. And yet how could I not, I who have seen you use her as your executioner on more than one occasion?
He laughed, a sound that came out as more of a rusty chuckle. Then he coughed, wincing as the convulsive motion sent new waves of pain through the wound at his throat. With a grimace, he reached up and unwound his cravat, and then retied it around the gaping gash in his neck. That would hold things for a time, but not forever.
It seemed to take a century for him to roll over on his side, another eternity for him to sit upright. Had he known pain like this before? Perhaps, after learning what had happened at Godric’s Hollow. But that wound had been in his heart, and this agony was centered in his throat….
He found an old chair with its seat broken out lying on the ground next to him, and he wrapped his fingers around its frame to help him to his knees, and then finally to his feet. His legs shook under him and threatened to collapse at any second, but after he had stood upright for a moment he thought he might be able to manage a step or two. Tottering forward, he headed toward the door, then stopped, considering.
If he went out the front he would emerge not far from Hogsmeade, where no doubt he could get help. On the other hand, did he want anyone to know that he lived until he ascertained who had triumphed in this last, fatal conflict? It would be wise to remain undetected, which left only one alternative.
Lowering himself back down to his knees seemed folly after all his effort to stand upright, but Snape knew the only way to get out of the Shack without being seen was to take the secret passageway which eventually emerged between the roots of the Whomping Willow. Besides, after he had stood for even those few seconds, his knees had begun to feel curiously weak. Perhaps the best way out of here truly was on his hands and knees.
“Lumos,” he murmured, and his wand glowed blue at the tip, guiding him over to the trapdoor and then on down into the damp-smelling tunnel below. Gritting his teeth, he began to inch his way forward.
If it had taken him an eternity to gather the strength to even stand, he did not want to guess at the gaping enormity of time it required for him to pull himself forward, inch by agonizing inch, until at last he began to feel the ground slope upward and he knew he was almost at his destination. The blasted tree began to shudder the second he started to crawl out of the hole in the ground, but Snape lifted his wand a bare inch and said, “Stupefy!” It was easier than trying to find the knothole that would paralyzed the damned thing.
Immediately the tree froze, and Snape dragged himself along the ground, feeling the telltale warmth at his throat that warned him the Coagulation Serum was beginning to wear off. Just a few more inches, just far enough to get out of reach of the bloody Willow….
He collapsed few yards away from the terminus of the passageway, gasping, the breath rattling in his throat. All seemed strangely quiet. Surely the Dark Lord’s forces and Hogwarts’ defenders must still be battling somewhere within the castle grounds? But he heard nothing save the wind in the trees, and then, so faint he could have imagined it, the sound of voices. They were not voices raised in anger or despair, but rather the low, purposeful hum of people carrying on some sort of conversation. He could not make out any individual words, nor could he distinguish whose voices they might be.
With a groan, he raised his head to look toward Hogwarts and saw its outline strangely altered, as if towers had given way and battlements collapsed. No Dark Mark hovered above the sections that still stood, however. Only a faint fingernail moon kept watch over the school.
Was it possible? Had Potter actually defeated Voldemort? And if that were the case, then the boy must surely be dead. Something inside him twisted at the thought, but his mind told him coldly that he, too, would soon be dead if he didn’t get himself indoors and seen to by Madam Pomfrey.
Hogwarts had many secrets and many passages, some of which were only accessible by those who had true need of them. Snape knew of such a corridor that let out not far from here, one which would lead him directly to the dungeons. It had been useful in the past for nabbing foolish students who had thought to wander the grounds after hours.
No one saw his painful progress across the open field that lay between him and his destination. When he finally gained the opening to the passageway, he murmured, “Alohomora!” and then dragged himself inside, pushing the door shut behind him with his foot. Not so far now…just a few more yards….
The door to his own quarters swung open at his whispered words. Crawling, he hitched along the floor, feeling the blood dampen his cravat with every labored movement. Finally he reached the bed and hauled himself up onto it, collapsing at last with his head on his pillow, his entire body screaming agony at him.
At least if I die now I will die in my own bed, and not left to rot like a piece of refuse in that forsaken Shack, he thought.
But dying seemed a poor option after all he’d just suffered, so he clenched his jaw and whispered, “Withy!”
A minute dragged by, and then another. Snape had begun to wonder whether the little house-elf who usually attended him had perished in the battle when she finally Apparated into the room with a “cra-ack!” that seemed to split his eardrums.
“Prof -- Professor Snape?” she quavered, staring down at him with eyes so wide they looked as if they took up half her head.
“For now,” he replied.
“They said you were dead -- that you went with He Who Must Not -- ”
“Enough,” he cut in. Whatever additional calumny had been heaped on his head after this latest incident would have to wait. “Listen to me, Withy. Go find Madam Pomfrey. Bring her here. Tell no one else that you’ve seen me.” He coughed, and lifted one hand to his throat to feel the warm blood seeping between his fingers. “Go now. Bring her at once!”
“Yes, Professor,” the house-elf squeaked, and Disapparated.
His commands seemed to have drained the last of his strength, and Snape let his head loll back against the pillow as he shut his eyes. A strange warmth had begun to spread through his limbs, one that felt welcoming and soothing. Surely it was enough just to lie here, to let the world slip away….
The door was flung open with a crash, and from very far away he heard the clatter of heels against the flagstone floor. Poppy Pomfrey’s voice exclaimed, “Severus Snape!”
He did not have the strength to make a caustic rejoinder, but merely nodded once.
“I didn’t believe -- I didn’t think it possible -- ” But even as she stammered her surprise, he felt her deft hands unwrapping the blood-soaked cravat from around his throat, heard her murmuring a healing spell to knit the torn flesh back together. Cool glass touched his lips, and he swallowed the Blood-Replenishing potion she gave him, tasting dittany and the sweet-tart flavor of pomegranate juice. The potion swirled through his veins, encouraging the cells within to multiply and replace the blood he had lost.
After a moment he began to believe he would not die after all. The deceptive warmth and the red haze that had accompanied it slipped away, and he opened his eyes to see Pomfrey staring down at him as if she had seen a ghost. Or perhaps an Inferi, he thought, since the castle is far too populated by ghosts for anyone who lives here to be startled by them.
Instead of the hatred he was sure he would see reflected in her face, he saw only awe and a strange sort of shame-faced sorrow. He blinked. Perhaps something had gone wrong with his eyes….
“He saw you die,” she said. “Harry told us -- and he told us what you had done -- how you were working for Dumbledore all along -- ”
“He lives?” Snape interrupted.
“Yes,” she replied. “And Voldemort is gone. We’ve won, Severus.”
He had never thought to hear those words. Hoped against hope, but as the weary years had worn on and Voldemort had gained in strength, Snape had begun to think that this would be a war without end, toil without reward.
“I must tell everyone,” Pomfrey went on. “Tell them you survived, that you lived to see the Dark Lord vanquished -- ”
“No.”
Eyebrows knitted in confusion, she stared down at him. “Why on earth not?”
Instinct had led him to make the denial, but he knew his decision was the correct one. It would have been so much easier for everyone involved for him to be a misunderstood martyr, a man they could properly mourn once he was gone from this earth and could trouble them no more. He doubted that many of the wizarding world would truly wish to face their misconceptions about him and give a living Severus Snape the credit he was owed.
“Easier that way,” he said at last. “You may tell McGonagall, but no one else.”
Still looking perplexed, she replied, “If that is what you wish.”
“I do.” And he closed his eyes again, feeling that the exchange had drained what little energy the potion had given him.
Whether or not she agreed didn’t matter. At least Poppy Pomfrey was a professional in the things that mattered; after heaving a little sigh, she bustled about, magically whisking away his bloodstained garments and wrapping him in a nightshirt she must have found in a dresser drawer. After that she pulled the covers up over him and whispered, “Sleep then, Severus. I daresay you’ve earned it.”
He was only too happy to oblige -- the darkness swirled up and took him away, and he left all thought of the world behind.
***
In the days that followed, Poppy Pomfrey was as good as her word. No visitors came to see him -- not even Professor McGonagall. Withy came and went, bearing with her the simple, nourishing food Pomfrey had decreed would be the best thing to speed him back to health. He ate, swallowed the potions Madam Pomfrey left behind for him, puttered with his books, and tried to ignore the restlessness that seemed to increase with each passing day.
Snape tried to tell himself it was the simple unrest any long-term convalescent might experience, but somehow he knew it was more than that. From time to time he could hear far-off banging and clattering, and a few times a hollow boom! that seemed to shake the building to its foundations. Apparently the rebuilding efforts were already underway.
More than a week had passed before McGonagall -- now acting Headmistress, as Madam Pomfrey had informed him -- deigned to visit him in his chambers, a suite he had begun to look on as his prison. He tried to ignore the fact that it was a prison of his own making.
When McGonagall entered she looked tired and careworn, not at all as happy as he had thought she would be, considering that Voldemort had been defeated at last.
She stood in the center of the room and stared at him as he sat at his desk. Although he still felt the need to lie down from time to time, his strength had almost fully returned. Soon he would have no excuse for hiding in here like an errant first year trying to avoid Filch.
“I wish to apologize,” McGonagall said, her tone stiff. Her faded blue eyes met his, and he could see the annoyance battling with shame within.
“For?” he inquired, and set down his quill.
“For thinking ill of you,” she replied, sounding stiffer than ever. “For wishing to have been the one to push you out that window.”
At that admission he almost laughed. Poor McGonagall, whose sense of duty and pride would not allow her to speak to him until she had told him the truth first. “I can forgive you that, Minerva,” he drawled, “considering the circumstances.”
His words seemed to make her even more uncomfortable. She looked away for a second, then forced her gaze back to him. “I also wish to apologize for not coming to see you sooner, but I have had much to occupy my time.”
“So I guessed,” he remarked. “How goes the reconstruction?”
“Well enough.” The thin line of her mouth softened almost imperceptibly, and she added, “But that is not what I wish to speak to you about.”
“I thought not. Then what?”
“What are your plans, Severus? Poppy tells me you are almost healed.”
That was a good question, one he was not quite certain he could answer. “I do not wish to take up my previous post, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Not at all!” she replied, looking indignant. “Hogwarts would be honored to have you. But this wish to stay down here, concealed, avoiding everyone -- how long do you truly think this can go on?”
To that he had no real answer. He could not avoid the world forever -- it had a nasty way of pushing itself in, of violating one’s privacy. At the moment he could understand the motivations of certain wizards who had found the press of the world too much to bear and who had become hermits. However, spending the rest of his days in an isolated cave did not sound overly appealing, either.
“As long as those involved can keep their mouths shut, I suppose,” he said, after an uncomfortable moment had passed.
At his remark McGonagall’s eyes narrowed slightly. However, her tone was mild enough as she went on, “I have come across something in Dumbledore’s study which might help you to make a decision.”
“Really?” he inquired, arching an eyebrow. “Did the Headmaster name me in his will?”
“Nothing of the sort. Actually, what I found belongs to you.”
Feeling a flicker of surprise, he asked, “To me?” He had spent his entire sojourn in the Headmaster’s office feeling like an usurper, and had done as little as possible to make the chambers his own. If he had left anything more there than a few spare quills, he would be astonished.
“Yes. I would appreciate it if you would accompany me to his study so you can see it for yourself.”
He would very much have liked to have declined, but he also felt a stir of curiosity within him. Whatever she had found, obviously McGonagall thought it was of some importance. “Oh, very well, then,” he said in ungracious tones. Then he pushed back his chair and stood.
“A quick Invisibility Charm, I think,” she said, and murmured the words of the spell. After she was done, she eyed him critically. “That should hold until we get to the study. Just stay close.”
So he followed her out of the dungeons, up the stairs through a Hogwarts which still bore signs of the great battle that had waged here -- walls with holes blown clean through them, scorched tapestries, portraits with their occupants fled to who knows where. But he also saw rebuilding all around as well, scaffolding in place as staircases were rebuilt, wizards he didn’t recognize performing the intricate task of replacing broken stained glass and shattered stone floors.
At last they reached the gargoyle who guarded the entry to the Headmaster’s -- Headmistress’s, Snape corrected himself -- study. It had appeared to have suffered some damage, as its face seemed to have been repaired by someone who had left the stone monster with a permanent squint. Still, it swung out of the way following McGonagall’s tart, “Pygmy puff!”
As he entered, Snape found himself in a place that seemed the least altered of all the castle. During his tenure as headmaster, he had not bothered to make any changes; he’d had enough to do, maintaining a façade of loyalty to Voldemort while at the same time making sure that the Dark Lord’s lackeys didn’t do permanent damage to any of the students under his care. To his surprise, he saw the grayish stone bowl of the Pensieve sitting out on one of the tables. Ranged next to it were a series of small bottles which must hold someone’s memories.
“What business do I have with that cursed thing?” He could not forget how it had betrayed him in the past, could not forget handing over his memories of the girl he had once loved to the boy who was her son.
For some reason McGonagall looked very somber. “You’ll see, Severus. All of those memories are yours. You entrusted them to the Headmaster two years ago.”
Two years ago? Snape wondered. He couldn’t recall anything from that time period which was so dangerous it would require removal from his memory for safekeeping. Then again, how on earth could he remember, if those recollections had been neatly siphoned from his mind?
“I hope it’s nothing that would have helped us win the war sooner,” he remarked, his caustic tone an attempt to cover the unease that roiled inside him as he looked at the neat row of bottles. So many of them….
“Nothing like that,” McGonagall said, and there was the oddest note in her tone. Almost a quaver, if one could ever expect such a thing of the formidable Transfigurations professor. “I’ll leave you to it, Severus….”
And with that she gave him a brusque nod and then disappeared back down the stairs. He stood in the center of the room, quite alone, as the Pensieve seemed to stare back at him, like an unblinking eye.
“Ridiculous,” he muttered, then strode over to the table and picked up one of the bottles. It was neatly labeled “SS 96, #1.” And so they all were, in a sequence ending in the number twenty.
Nothing for it, then. Setting his jaw, he pulled the stopper out of the bottle and poured its contents, silvery and graceful as a unicorn’s mane, into the wide stone bowl. Then he took a breath and set his face into the swirling fluid.
He was in Manchester, he saw, on one of his infrequent pilgrimages to his mother’s grave. From there he went to a small book shop, and watched in some astonishment as an unknown young woman -- whose face nonetheless gave him a most unexpected twinge -- appeared to levitate a book right off the shelf. This unexpected display of magical ability intrigued him so much that he followed her home, only to see she had set herself up as a psychic. And he, determined to prove she was a fraud, had suddenly discovered that this woman, this Celeste Jenkins, was no more a Muggle than he was.
And so it went. Bottle after bottle was poured in the Pensieve, as he feverishly went from memory to memory, reconstructing the tale, feeling his heart stabbed anew as he realized his feelings for this girl who had been hidden from the wizard world, as she gave him the greatest gift any person could have -- the gift of a loving heart. But then came the crushing realization that she could never be safe while he worked as a double agent for Voldemort, that they must be separated, their memories stripped from them forever --
At last Snape lifted his head from the Pensieve, feeling as if it had just happened the despair and pain he had experienced as he walked that last time up to Hogwarts, knowing that in a few moments he would never remember Celeste Jenkins had even existed.
But I do, he thought, with a sense of bitter triumph. Dumbledore kept the memories for me, against this day --
This day, when Voldemort was defeated. This day, when Snape would finally be free to go to her, to tell Celeste the terrible truth of the love that had been torn from both of them.
The pain of a doubtful hope was almost as agonizing as the pain of that unspeakable loss. It had been two years, after all, and Celeste was a young, vibrant, beautiful woman. No doubt she had found someone else to fill her lonely days, someone who would have been all too happy to make a pretty girl welcome in a strange town….
“You will go to her, of course,” came McGonagall’s voice from behind him, and he whirled. The Headmistress stood there, watching him with eyes that showed an unexpected sympathy.
“You knew?” he demanded, feeling a rush of irrational anger course through him. So many private moments, so many unexpected weaknesses he had revealed -- how much of his memories had she seen?
“I only found out just today, Severus,” she replied. “I discovered the memories as I was cataloguing the contents of the office. I did not see all of them -- just enough to know that you must be told. There is no need for her to be hidden any longer, is there?”
Logically, no, but something in him quailed at the thought of going to Celeste in Birmingham and telling her that the sour-faced man who confronted her had once been her lover. What guarantee was there that she wouldn’t laugh him right out of her life?
“No,” he said, after a brief hesitation. “I will, of course, have to consult with Madam Pomfrey, see if she deems me fit for travel -- ”
The excuse sounded pathetic as soon as it left his mouth, but McGonagall forbore making any comment save for a murmured, “Of course.” Then she moved past him and went over to the desk, lifting from it a slim red-bound book Snape recognized immediately. Celeste’s journal.
“I found this as well,” the Headmistress continued. “You should return it to her. I think it will help.”
He took the slender leather volume from her, thinking it strange that something which contained memories of such vital importance should be so inconsequential in appearance.
“I think you’ll find something written inside the back cover that should be of assistance,” McGonagall said.
Without comment Snape turned the book over and opened it from the back. Neatly printed along the gutter where the paper curved into the spine was the direction: 26 Edgehill Road. “So it would seem,” he replied. Somehow seeing Celeste’s address written down made her all the more real to him. Would she still be there, in the shabby little flat she had secured for herself two years ago? Or would she have moved on to better things?
“I will send Madam Pomfrey to you in your quarters. I would assume you need a little time to prepare?”
In answer Snape merely nodded. He had kept his Muggle clothing, now hidden away in his wardrobe behind a row of identical high-necked black frock coats. Much as he preferred his wizard garb, he knew this upcoming meeting would be difficult enough without sweeping down on Celeste like an overgrown bat.
McGonagall did not bother to reply, but merely cast another Invisibility Charm and escorted him back down to the dungeons. Then she sailed off, murmuring something about fetching Poppy.
Feeling as if he’d somehow been maneuvered, Snape set Celeste’s journal down on his desk and then went to change. At least he could be ready to go by the time Pomfrey get here. And after that --
After that, he would have to trust to fate. What other choice did he have?
***
The street seemed both strange and yet oddly familiar, a dissonance Snape attributed to having no true memory of it, but only the recollection he had viewed in the Pensieve. A bright sun shone overhead, showing every detail of faded paint and sooty brick. His plain black Muggle clothing felt uncomfortably warm. Then again, his robes would have been even worse.
Unlike the district where Celeste had lived in Manchester, which had boasted a collection of houses and shops and pubs, this street seemed purely residential, making it more difficult for him to loiter in an unobtrusive manner so as to survey the house at number 26 and determine whether Celeste still lived there. A pot of bright geraniums sat on the front stoop, and that seemed very much like her -- or at least what he recalled of her from his memories in the Pensieve. Then again, he doubted that she was the only denizen of Birmingham to have flowers located on her doorstep.
As he hesitated in the spot directly across the street from Celeste’s home, wondering whether he should cross or not, and trying to ignore the suspicious glare of the elderly gentleman who had just emerged from his own flat to collect the post, her door opened, and Celeste emerged. The sight of her standing there, mahogany hair gleaming in the sun, was like a physical blow. Snape sucked in his breath, watching her as she descended the front steps and took off at a brisk pace up the street. She was real after all, not just a dream or a memory.
And she’ll be gone soon if you don’t follow her, you fool, his mind reprimanded him, and Snape shook his head slightly and hastened after her, staying to his own side of the street but walking briskly enough that she stayed within eyeshot. His pursuit reminded him forcibly of that first time he had seen her, and of how he had trailed her back to her home.
Only in this case she was going in the opposite direction, to a destination that could be work or shopping or even a date, although he doubted the latter, simply because she was dressed casually, in a plain white shirt and black trousers. Besides, it was not quite five o’clock in the afternoon, not exactly an optimum time for a dinner date.
He had an panicked moment when she clambered aboard a bus and he was forced to dash across the street -- to the accompaniment of much honking -- before hauling himself aboard. The crush of people inside prevented him from spotting her immediately. Then came another few seconds of panic when the driver asked for his fare and he was forced to dig through the Muggle money he had stuffed into his pockets at the last minute. From the look on the bus driver’s face it was apparent that the coin he dropped into the till was far too large, but better that than come up short.
Snape reached up and grimly hung onto the railing overhead, his gaze roving the crowded interior of the vehicle before he spotted Celeste almost all the way in the back. She, too, stood, her slender form swaying as the bus lurched from stop to stop. Finally, after an extremely uncomfortable span that felt like hours but was probably no more than fifteen minutes, she alighted in a busy section of town dotted with pubs and restaurants. Here it was easier to stay out of sight among the crowds, and he trailed along after her until she ducked into a handsome pub that boasted one of the largest collections of draught pulls he’d ever seen in his life.
Several people called out, “Selena!” and she grinned before pulling a dark green apron off a hook behind the bar and gathering her hair into an elastic band so that it would stay out of the way. Snape hovered near the door and then spotted an empty table a few feet away. He sank gratefully into a wooden chair, mind churning.
So Celeste was now working as a barmaid? He supposed one could make decent money at it, and certainly the pub looked prosperous and clean, but he couldn’t help contrasting the life she must have here in Birmingham with her quiet existence back in Manchester.
However, her current occupation at least made their first contact relatively simple. She must have seen him sit down and came over a moment later, the friendly smile he remembered so well lifting her mouth.
“What can I get for you, then?” she asked, and her voice was the same was well, sweet and clear, with its trace of Northern accent.
He cleared his throat. Of course he had no idea what brews were available in the Muggle world. After an awkward pause, he replied, “What would you recommend?”
“Dark or light?”
Well, there was a question. He stared at her for a moment, then realized she was asking what sort of ale he would prefer. “Erm…dark, I suppose.”
“Dragon Smoke Stout? That’s a good one.”
The name sounded almost like something he would order at the Three Broomsticks. “Yes. I’ll try that.”
She nodded and moved off, while he tried not to stare. So he had been able to see her and speak with her, although not in the manner he had imagined. He had hoped that their reunion would take place somewhere more private. The pub, although not nearly at capacity, already had at least ten or so people at the various tables, with more seated at the bar. In the background, a football match played on the television.
It was hard to imagine a more prosy or Muggle-ish venue, and Snape ground his teeth in impatience. If Celeste had just started her shift, then no doubt it would be a good long while before she was done for the night. Perhaps it would be better if he just drank his stout, made his way back to her house, and waited for her there.
“Here you are,” she said, and he looked up to see her set a pint glass filled with dark liquid in front of him.
“Thank you,” he replied.
Celeste smiled again, but this time her expression appeared somewhat hesitant. With a slight sideways tilt of the head, she asked, “Have you come in here before? It’s just that -- well, I can’t quite place you, but I could swear we’ve met.”
For a second he could only stare at her. Then he managed, “We knew each other back in Manchester.”
Her look of confusion only deepened. “In Manchester? Odd…I can’t recall exactly…”
“Perhaps we can talk when you get a break.” Not exactly what he wanted, but he knew he couldn’t ask her to leave when she had just begun to work.
“All right.” She opened her mouth, as if she had meant to say something else, but then someone at the far end of the bar called out, “Selena!” and she hurried off.
The next hour was one of the most excruciating of his life. He sipped at the quite excellent stout and pretended to watch the football match on the television set, but instead he regarded Celeste from beneath lowered eyelids as she went about her business, taking orders, trading jokes with customers she obviously knew very well, wiping down the tables as they were vacated before the next group came along to occupy them. Luckily it was a Wednesday evening, so the place wasn’t quite as crowded as it would have been on the weekend, but it was still busy enough.
At length, though, the influx of patrons slowed a little and the hour inched on toward six-thirty. Celeste had looked in on him once or twice to see if he wanted another stout, but Snape knew that one was enough. He did not want to have this discussion with her while his mind was clouded with drink.
Finally she came over, clutching a pint glass that looked to be filled with water. “Nigel said I could take a break,” she said, with a quick jerk of her chin toward the balding individual behind the bar who appeared to be the owner or manager. Then she pulled out the chair that faced Snape’s and sat down. Her brows drew together as she regarded him with the frank gaze he remembered so well. “I’ve been racking my brains,” she went on, “and I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to remember how we met. Friend of a friend?”
“We first bumped into each other at Plunkett’s,” Snape answered. At least that was the partial truth; after all, he had first seen her in the used book shop.
Celeste’s frown lightened a little but did not disappear completely. “That was a favorite haunt of mine. Are you a collector of books…?” And she trailed off as she appeared to realize she had no name to give him.
“Severus,” he said. “Severus Snape.”
An odd flicker came and went in her mossy hazel eyes, but he couldn’t be sure whether that was because the familiar syllables had awakened some deep memory within her, or simply because it was, after all, a very uncommon name. “Well,” she said, after a brief pause. “You’d think I would remember a name like that!”
Not knowing what else to do, Snape laid the journal on the tabletop before her. “Perhaps this will help.”
Looking puzzled, she reached out for the book and opened it, then flipped through a few pages. “But this -- this is my handwriting!”
“Yes.”
“But I don’t remember ever keeping a diary -- ” Biting her lip, she paged back to the flyleaf and shook her head as she read the inscription. “‘The diary of Celeste Jenkins.’ That’s not even my name!”
He had known this was going to be difficult, but it was only now as he faced her that Snape realized how painful it was to see her confusion, to see the result of the Obliviation he had performed on her. “It was, once,” he said softly.
Her mouth tightened. “Look, if this is some sort of a joke, I have to say I don’t find it particularly amusing.” Deliberately she shut the book, then made a motion as if to stand. “I really need to get back to work.”
There was only one thing he could do. In desperation, Snape grasped her by the wrist with one hand and pulled the ring he had given her, the one that had blocked her magical abilities all this time, off her finger. Even as she opened her mouth to protest, he said desperately, “Look into my mind and see!”
Her eyes met his, and he willed the memories back to the surface: their first meeting, his revelation that she was wizard-born, their training sessions, his dawning regard for her, that impassioned kiss they had shared on the quay at Aber. The nights they had spent in one another’s arms.
He felt the shock and dismay radiating out from Celeste, the struggle within to somehow make sense of all he had shown her while at the same time reconciling it with the life she had led here for the past two years. Finally she wrenched her wrist from his grasp and pushed herself away from him. All the color had drained from her face.
“Everything all right over there?” called out the man from behind the bar, who began to take a few steps in their direction.
“I have -- I have to go,” she gasped, then stumbled away from the table and out the door.
Cursing to himself, Snape grabbed the journal and hurried after her. She had only gone a few paces, and so he was able to catch up with her easily enough.
“Celeste -- ”
She turned haunted eyes on him. “Who are you -- what are you?”
“I should think you would have figured that out from the memories I showed you.” Damn it, was the girl going to continue to ignore the evidence of her own eyes and mind? “I am a wizard -- and you, Celeste Jenkins, are a witch.”
That statement, delivered in the sort of cool, cutting tone that regularly sent his students into nervous sweats, seemed to finally penetrate her panicked brain. Celeste came to a sudden stop at the corner, then looked at him as if she had never really seen him before. “All that was true,” she said at last.
“Yes.”
“And I couldn’t remember it because you took those memories away.”
“Yes.”
For a moment she was silent. Snape could practically see the wild thoughts darting through her mind. “And you’ve come to me now because -- ”
“Because it is now safe to do so. The Dark Lord has been vanquished, Celeste. The evil that once haunted your dreams is finally gone.”
She nodded, then gave a quick glance at the busy streets around them. “Then I suppose we’d better discuss this somewhere in private -- ”
***
The place had changed somewhat, Celeste giving even the dingy little flat a touch of her own personal warmth. She had painted the walls a soft sage color, and slipcovers concealed the worn upholstery of the couch and wing chair in the living room. And the flat now smelled faintly of spices and beeswax, the same combination of scents Snape knew he would always associate with her home back in Manchester.
Not knowing what else to do, he had sat down on the couch, but Celeste seemed too agitated to take a seat as well. Finally she paused a few paces away from him and demanded, “So what exactly were you expecting of me? For us to simply pick up where we had left off?”
Not what he had expected, but perhaps what he had hoped. “I expect nothing, Celeste,” he said coldly, his brusque tone an attempt to mask the confusion he felt. “I simply felt you deserved to know the truth.”
“How do I even know it is the truth? Maybe you’re just using -- I don’t know, hypnosis or something!”
Several retorts came to mind, but Snape said only, “I gave you the evidence I had. You admitted that the journal was in your own writing. How, pray, do you explain that?”
“I can’t!” she burst out. “That’s the whole bloody problem, isn’t it? I can’t explain any of this, and now I feel as if I’m going mad!”
“You aren’t mad.”
She snorted. “Oh, well, I’m so glad that’s settled!”
Damn McGonagall and her ridiculous notions of what was right and wrong. If it weren’t for her, he’d still be safely back at Hogwarts, secure in his chambers. Wouldn’t it have been better not to have known at all, if this was the way things were going to work themselves out?
Suddenly Celeste stalked over to the coffee table, where he had set down the journal. She picked it up, appearing to read furiously, her gaze moving across the pages at a rapid rate. “It’s definitely my writing,” she said. “Although I know things like that can be forged. But it sounds like me, too.” Frowning, she shut the book, then stared down at Snape. “I suppose there’s only one way to know for sure.”
She dropped the journal on the table, and then sat down next to him on the couch. He eyed her askance, not sure what she was up to.
And then she leaned in close to him, reached out with both hands to draw his face toward hers, even as her lips met his. The shock of her touch seemed to make every nerve ending in his body burst into sudden life, and he could do nothing but sit there and drown in her kiss, the taste of her mouth all the sweeter because he’d thought he’d never experience it again.
After a long moment she pulled away and remarked, “Well, that explains it.”
“Explains what?” he asked, feeling rather like the unfortunate Keeper of the Chuddley Cannons, who had once been hit by two Bludgers and a Quaffle all at once.
“Why every other time I’ve tried to kiss someone during the past two years it’s just felt wrong.”
Her words should have reassured him, but instead Snape asked, in forbidding tones, “Every time?”
“Oh, yes -- all three. Makes me quite a tart, I suppose.”
In his opinion, that was three too many, but he refrained from comment, but merely lifted an eyebrow.
Apparently not put off at all by his expression, Celeste smiled a little, the familiar dimple showing at the corner of her mouth. “Well, I was alone in a new city. How was I supposed to know I was still taken? Those memories were gone. So I tried going out with a few different people -- and every time they kissed me goodnight, I felt horrible, as if I were doing something wrong. After the last one I just gave up. But you -- ” and the dimple deepened -- “you felt absolutely right. However, I think we should make sure.”
She leaned in toward him again, and this time Snape felt sufficiently recovered to wrap his arms around her, to feel her slender form press against him even as their lips met once more. The memories he’d recovered from the Pensieve had only hinted at how sweet she would be in real life. He clung to her, not wanting to let go.
But at last they did break apart, his breathing coming somewhat unevenly. Celeste’s cheeks were flushed, but he caught a glimpse of the wicked glint in her dark green eyes. “Yes, I think that settles it. No wonder I really didn’t want to kiss anyone else.”
And he had never even thought of such a thing during the past two years, all the time believing himself alone and hated, rejected so many years ago by the one woman he had ever allowed himself to care for…all along oblivious to the fact that another woman had had the courage to love him for himself, without doubt, without hesitation.
“So you do believe me,” he said at last, his voice sounding hoarse and rusty, unused. Perhaps the scar tissue on his throat was bothering him.
“Yes,” she replied. “There’s a great deal you’ll have to fill me in on, because I’m sure even that -- ” and she pointed at the journal -- “doesn’t cover everything. However, I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time for that.”
He nodded. A strange warmth filled him, one so unfamiliar that it took him a moment to recognize what it was. Then he realized it was happiness, sheer joy that the woman he thought he had lost had, through some miracle, been returned to him. There was so much he wanted to say to her, so many things to be planned and decided upon. But, as she had said, they would have plenty of time for that in the future.”
“Yes,” he said, and smiled at her. “We’ll have the rest of our lives.”
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All was darkness and pain. He only wanted to shut his eyes one last time, let oblivion sweep over him and take him away.
For some reason, his hand wouldn’t listen to what his mind and heart were saying. As if possessed by its own restless spirit, it scrabbled away at his right pocket flap, refusing to lie down and die. His fingers closed around the vials within, and it was as though the smooth glass awakened some last spark in his mind. Anti-venin, it thought. Coagulating Serum.
He knew he was alone. The boy had gone, and so had the Dark Lord and his pet. No one would see him lift the first vial to his lips, watch as he choked down the bitter fluid within. It seemed to course through his veins like fire, burning as Nagini’s venom had not. The flames pulsed down the length of his arm, giving him the strength to raise up the second vial and swallow its contents as well. With that one came a cool, dark flood, settling the panicky rhythms of his heart.
A sort of peace settled over him. He knew that, somewhere beyond the place where he now lay, Harry and Voldemort must be facing off, that the future of the wizarding world could very well be decided in the next few moments, but he also knew he did not yet possess the strength to rise and participate in such epochal events. No, he could only lie here on the hard wooden floor of the Shrieking Shack, smelling dust and blood and the unmistakable scent of decay. The blood was his, but the Coagulating Serum would have stabilized him enough that he was no longer in immediate danger, although at some point he would need real intervention by Madam Pomfrey or another healer.
Your hastiness has undone you once again, Voldemort, he thought. You were so sure of yourself…so sure of me…that you never thought to check whether I carried any potions with me which would protect me against your snake. And yet how could I not, I who have seen you use her as your executioner on more than one occasion?
He laughed, a sound that came out as more of a rusty chuckle. Then he coughed, wincing as the convulsive motion sent new waves of pain through the wound at his throat. With a grimace, he reached up and unwound his cravat, and then retied it around the gaping gash in his neck. That would hold things for a time, but not forever.
It seemed to take a century for him to roll over on his side, another eternity for him to sit upright. Had he known pain like this before? Perhaps, after learning what had happened at Godric’s Hollow. But that wound had been in his heart, and this agony was centered in his throat….
He found an old chair with its seat broken out lying on the ground next to him, and he wrapped his fingers around its frame to help him to his knees, and then finally to his feet. His legs shook under him and threatened to collapse at any second, but after he had stood upright for a moment he thought he might be able to manage a step or two. Tottering forward, he headed toward the door, then stopped, considering.
If he went out the front he would emerge not far from Hogsmeade, where no doubt he could get help. On the other hand, did he want anyone to know that he lived until he ascertained who had triumphed in this last, fatal conflict? It would be wise to remain undetected, which left only one alternative.
Lowering himself back down to his knees seemed folly after all his effort to stand upright, but Snape knew the only way to get out of the Shack without being seen was to take the secret passageway which eventually emerged between the roots of the Whomping Willow. Besides, after he had stood for even those few seconds, his knees had begun to feel curiously weak. Perhaps the best way out of here truly was on his hands and knees.
“Lumos,” he murmured, and his wand glowed blue at the tip, guiding him over to the trapdoor and then on down into the damp-smelling tunnel below. Gritting his teeth, he began to inch his way forward.
If it had taken him an eternity to gather the strength to even stand, he did not want to guess at the gaping enormity of time it required for him to pull himself forward, inch by agonizing inch, until at last he began to feel the ground slope upward and he knew he was almost at his destination. The blasted tree began to shudder the second he started to crawl out of the hole in the ground, but Snape lifted his wand a bare inch and said, “Stupefy!” It was easier than trying to find the knothole that would paralyzed the damned thing.
Immediately the tree froze, and Snape dragged himself along the ground, feeling the telltale warmth at his throat that warned him the Coagulation Serum was beginning to wear off. Just a few more inches, just far enough to get out of reach of the bloody Willow….
He collapsed few yards away from the terminus of the passageway, gasping, the breath rattling in his throat. All seemed strangely quiet. Surely the Dark Lord’s forces and Hogwarts’ defenders must still be battling somewhere within the castle grounds? But he heard nothing save the wind in the trees, and then, so faint he could have imagined it, the sound of voices. They were not voices raised in anger or despair, but rather the low, purposeful hum of people carrying on some sort of conversation. He could not make out any individual words, nor could he distinguish whose voices they might be.
With a groan, he raised his head to look toward Hogwarts and saw its outline strangely altered, as if towers had given way and battlements collapsed. No Dark Mark hovered above the sections that still stood, however. Only a faint fingernail moon kept watch over the school.
Was it possible? Had Potter actually defeated Voldemort? And if that were the case, then the boy must surely be dead. Something inside him twisted at the thought, but his mind told him coldly that he, too, would soon be dead if he didn’t get himself indoors and seen to by Madam Pomfrey.
Hogwarts had many secrets and many passages, some of which were only accessible by those who had true need of them. Snape knew of such a corridor that let out not far from here, one which would lead him directly to the dungeons. It had been useful in the past for nabbing foolish students who had thought to wander the grounds after hours.
No one saw his painful progress across the open field that lay between him and his destination. When he finally gained the opening to the passageway, he murmured, “Alohomora!” and then dragged himself inside, pushing the door shut behind him with his foot. Not so far now…just a few more yards….
The door to his own quarters swung open at his whispered words. Crawling, he hitched along the floor, feeling the blood dampen his cravat with every labored movement. Finally he reached the bed and hauled himself up onto it, collapsing at last with his head on his pillow, his entire body screaming agony at him.
At least if I die now I will die in my own bed, and not left to rot like a piece of refuse in that forsaken Shack, he thought.
But dying seemed a poor option after all he’d just suffered, so he clenched his jaw and whispered, “Withy!”
A minute dragged by, and then another. Snape had begun to wonder whether the little house-elf who usually attended him had perished in the battle when she finally Apparated into the room with a “cra-ack!” that seemed to split his eardrums.
“Prof -- Professor Snape?” she quavered, staring down at him with eyes so wide they looked as if they took up half her head.
“For now,” he replied.
“They said you were dead -- that you went with He Who Must Not -- ”
“Enough,” he cut in. Whatever additional calumny had been heaped on his head after this latest incident would have to wait. “Listen to me, Withy. Go find Madam Pomfrey. Bring her here. Tell no one else that you’ve seen me.” He coughed, and lifted one hand to his throat to feel the warm blood seeping between his fingers. “Go now. Bring her at once!”
“Yes, Professor,” the house-elf squeaked, and Disapparated.
His commands seemed to have drained the last of his strength, and Snape let his head loll back against the pillow as he shut his eyes. A strange warmth had begun to spread through his limbs, one that felt welcoming and soothing. Surely it was enough just to lie here, to let the world slip away….
The door was flung open with a crash, and from very far away he heard the clatter of heels against the flagstone floor. Poppy Pomfrey’s voice exclaimed, “Severus Snape!”
He did not have the strength to make a caustic rejoinder, but merely nodded once.
“I didn’t believe -- I didn’t think it possible -- ” But even as she stammered her surprise, he felt her deft hands unwrapping the blood-soaked cravat from around his throat, heard her murmuring a healing spell to knit the torn flesh back together. Cool glass touched his lips, and he swallowed the Blood-Replenishing potion she gave him, tasting dittany and the sweet-tart flavor of pomegranate juice. The potion swirled through his veins, encouraging the cells within to multiply and replace the blood he had lost.
After a moment he began to believe he would not die after all. The deceptive warmth and the red haze that had accompanied it slipped away, and he opened his eyes to see Pomfrey staring down at him as if she had seen a ghost. Or perhaps an Inferi, he thought, since the castle is far too populated by ghosts for anyone who lives here to be startled by them.
Instead of the hatred he was sure he would see reflected in her face, he saw only awe and a strange sort of shame-faced sorrow. He blinked. Perhaps something had gone wrong with his eyes….
“He saw you die,” she said. “Harry told us -- and he told us what you had done -- how you were working for Dumbledore all along -- ”
“He lives?” Snape interrupted.
“Yes,” she replied. “And Voldemort is gone. We’ve won, Severus.”
He had never thought to hear those words. Hoped against hope, but as the weary years had worn on and Voldemort had gained in strength, Snape had begun to think that this would be a war without end, toil without reward.
“I must tell everyone,” Pomfrey went on. “Tell them you survived, that you lived to see the Dark Lord vanquished -- ”
“No.”
Eyebrows knitted in confusion, she stared down at him. “Why on earth not?”
Instinct had led him to make the denial, but he knew his decision was the correct one. It would have been so much easier for everyone involved for him to be a misunderstood martyr, a man they could properly mourn once he was gone from this earth and could trouble them no more. He doubted that many of the wizarding world would truly wish to face their misconceptions about him and give a living Severus Snape the credit he was owed.
“Easier that way,” he said at last. “You may tell McGonagall, but no one else.”
Still looking perplexed, she replied, “If that is what you wish.”
“I do.” And he closed his eyes again, feeling that the exchange had drained what little energy the potion had given him.
Whether or not she agreed didn’t matter. At least Poppy Pomfrey was a professional in the things that mattered; after heaving a little sigh, she bustled about, magically whisking away his bloodstained garments and wrapping him in a nightshirt she must have found in a dresser drawer. After that she pulled the covers up over him and whispered, “Sleep then, Severus. I daresay you’ve earned it.”
He was only too happy to oblige -- the darkness swirled up and took him away, and he left all thought of the world behind.
In the days that followed, Poppy Pomfrey was as good as her word. No visitors came to see him -- not even Professor McGonagall. Withy came and went, bearing with her the simple, nourishing food Pomfrey had decreed would be the best thing to speed him back to health. He ate, swallowed the potions Madam Pomfrey left behind for him, puttered with his books, and tried to ignore the restlessness that seemed to increase with each passing day.
Snape tried to tell himself it was the simple unrest any long-term convalescent might experience, but somehow he knew it was more than that. From time to time he could hear far-off banging and clattering, and a few times a hollow boom! that seemed to shake the building to its foundations. Apparently the rebuilding efforts were already underway.
More than a week had passed before McGonagall -- now acting Headmistress, as Madam Pomfrey had informed him -- deigned to visit him in his chambers, a suite he had begun to look on as his prison. He tried to ignore the fact that it was a prison of his own making.
When McGonagall entered she looked tired and careworn, not at all as happy as he had thought she would be, considering that Voldemort had been defeated at last.
She stood in the center of the room and stared at him as he sat at his desk. Although he still felt the need to lie down from time to time, his strength had almost fully returned. Soon he would have no excuse for hiding in here like an errant first year trying to avoid Filch.
“I wish to apologize,” McGonagall said, her tone stiff. Her faded blue eyes met his, and he could see the annoyance battling with shame within.
“For?” he inquired, and set down his quill.
“For thinking ill of you,” she replied, sounding stiffer than ever. “For wishing to have been the one to push you out that window.”
At that admission he almost laughed. Poor McGonagall, whose sense of duty and pride would not allow her to speak to him until she had told him the truth first. “I can forgive you that, Minerva,” he drawled, “considering the circumstances.”
His words seemed to make her even more uncomfortable. She looked away for a second, then forced her gaze back to him. “I also wish to apologize for not coming to see you sooner, but I have had much to occupy my time.”
“So I guessed,” he remarked. “How goes the reconstruction?”
“Well enough.” The thin line of her mouth softened almost imperceptibly, and she added, “But that is not what I wish to speak to you about.”
“I thought not. Then what?”
“What are your plans, Severus? Poppy tells me you are almost healed.”
That was a good question, one he was not quite certain he could answer. “I do not wish to take up my previous post, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Not at all!” she replied, looking indignant. “Hogwarts would be honored to have you. But this wish to stay down here, concealed, avoiding everyone -- how long do you truly think this can go on?”
To that he had no real answer. He could not avoid the world forever -- it had a nasty way of pushing itself in, of violating one’s privacy. At the moment he could understand the motivations of certain wizards who had found the press of the world too much to bear and who had become hermits. However, spending the rest of his days in an isolated cave did not sound overly appealing, either.
“As long as those involved can keep their mouths shut, I suppose,” he said, after an uncomfortable moment had passed.
At his remark McGonagall’s eyes narrowed slightly. However, her tone was mild enough as she went on, “I have come across something in Dumbledore’s study which might help you to make a decision.”
“Really?” he inquired, arching an eyebrow. “Did the Headmaster name me in his will?”
“Nothing of the sort. Actually, what I found belongs to you.”
Feeling a flicker of surprise, he asked, “To me?” He had spent his entire sojourn in the Headmaster’s office feeling like an usurper, and had done as little as possible to make the chambers his own. If he had left anything more there than a few spare quills, he would be astonished.
“Yes. I would appreciate it if you would accompany me to his study so you can see it for yourself.”
He would very much have liked to have declined, but he also felt a stir of curiosity within him. Whatever she had found, obviously McGonagall thought it was of some importance. “Oh, very well, then,” he said in ungracious tones. Then he pushed back his chair and stood.
“A quick Invisibility Charm, I think,” she said, and murmured the words of the spell. After she was done, she eyed him critically. “That should hold until we get to the study. Just stay close.”
So he followed her out of the dungeons, up the stairs through a Hogwarts which still bore signs of the great battle that had waged here -- walls with holes blown clean through them, scorched tapestries, portraits with their occupants fled to who knows where. But he also saw rebuilding all around as well, scaffolding in place as staircases were rebuilt, wizards he didn’t recognize performing the intricate task of replacing broken stained glass and shattered stone floors.
At last they reached the gargoyle who guarded the entry to the Headmaster’s -- Headmistress’s, Snape corrected himself -- study. It had appeared to have suffered some damage, as its face seemed to have been repaired by someone who had left the stone monster with a permanent squint. Still, it swung out of the way following McGonagall’s tart, “Pygmy puff!”
As he entered, Snape found himself in a place that seemed the least altered of all the castle. During his tenure as headmaster, he had not bothered to make any changes; he’d had enough to do, maintaining a façade of loyalty to Voldemort while at the same time making sure that the Dark Lord’s lackeys didn’t do permanent damage to any of the students under his care. To his surprise, he saw the grayish stone bowl of the Pensieve sitting out on one of the tables. Ranged next to it were a series of small bottles which must hold someone’s memories.
“What business do I have with that cursed thing?” He could not forget how it had betrayed him in the past, could not forget handing over his memories of the girl he had once loved to the boy who was her son.
For some reason McGonagall looked very somber. “You’ll see, Severus. All of those memories are yours. You entrusted them to the Headmaster two years ago.”
Two years ago? Snape wondered. He couldn’t recall anything from that time period which was so dangerous it would require removal from his memory for safekeeping. Then again, how on earth could he remember, if those recollections had been neatly siphoned from his mind?
“I hope it’s nothing that would have helped us win the war sooner,” he remarked, his caustic tone an attempt to cover the unease that roiled inside him as he looked at the neat row of bottles. So many of them….
“Nothing like that,” McGonagall said, and there was the oddest note in her tone. Almost a quaver, if one could ever expect such a thing of the formidable Transfigurations professor. “I’ll leave you to it, Severus….”
And with that she gave him a brusque nod and then disappeared back down the stairs. He stood in the center of the room, quite alone, as the Pensieve seemed to stare back at him, like an unblinking eye.
“Ridiculous,” he muttered, then strode over to the table and picked up one of the bottles. It was neatly labeled “SS 96, #1.” And so they all were, in a sequence ending in the number twenty.
Nothing for it, then. Setting his jaw, he pulled the stopper out of the bottle and poured its contents, silvery and graceful as a unicorn’s mane, into the wide stone bowl. Then he took a breath and set his face into the swirling fluid.
He was in Manchester, he saw, on one of his infrequent pilgrimages to his mother’s grave. From there he went to a small book shop, and watched in some astonishment as an unknown young woman -- whose face nonetheless gave him a most unexpected twinge -- appeared to levitate a book right off the shelf. This unexpected display of magical ability intrigued him so much that he followed her home, only to see she had set herself up as a psychic. And he, determined to prove she was a fraud, had suddenly discovered that this woman, this Celeste Jenkins, was no more a Muggle than he was.
And so it went. Bottle after bottle was poured in the Pensieve, as he feverishly went from memory to memory, reconstructing the tale, feeling his heart stabbed anew as he realized his feelings for this girl who had been hidden from the wizard world, as she gave him the greatest gift any person could have -- the gift of a loving heart. But then came the crushing realization that she could never be safe while he worked as a double agent for Voldemort, that they must be separated, their memories stripped from them forever --
At last Snape lifted his head from the Pensieve, feeling as if it had just happened the despair and pain he had experienced as he walked that last time up to Hogwarts, knowing that in a few moments he would never remember Celeste Jenkins had even existed.
But I do, he thought, with a sense of bitter triumph. Dumbledore kept the memories for me, against this day --
This day, when Voldemort was defeated. This day, when Snape would finally be free to go to her, to tell Celeste the terrible truth of the love that had been torn from both of them.
The pain of a doubtful hope was almost as agonizing as the pain of that unspeakable loss. It had been two years, after all, and Celeste was a young, vibrant, beautiful woman. No doubt she had found someone else to fill her lonely days, someone who would have been all too happy to make a pretty girl welcome in a strange town….
“You will go to her, of course,” came McGonagall’s voice from behind him, and he whirled. The Headmistress stood there, watching him with eyes that showed an unexpected sympathy.
“You knew?” he demanded, feeling a rush of irrational anger course through him. So many private moments, so many unexpected weaknesses he had revealed -- how much of his memories had she seen?
“I only found out just today, Severus,” she replied. “I discovered the memories as I was cataloguing the contents of the office. I did not see all of them -- just enough to know that you must be told. There is no need for her to be hidden any longer, is there?”
Logically, no, but something in him quailed at the thought of going to Celeste in Birmingham and telling her that the sour-faced man who confronted her had once been her lover. What guarantee was there that she wouldn’t laugh him right out of her life?
“No,” he said, after a brief hesitation. “I will, of course, have to consult with Madam Pomfrey, see if she deems me fit for travel -- ”
The excuse sounded pathetic as soon as it left his mouth, but McGonagall forbore making any comment save for a murmured, “Of course.” Then she moved past him and went over to the desk, lifting from it a slim red-bound book Snape recognized immediately. Celeste’s journal.
“I found this as well,” the Headmistress continued. “You should return it to her. I think it will help.”
He took the slender leather volume from her, thinking it strange that something which contained memories of such vital importance should be so inconsequential in appearance.
“I think you’ll find something written inside the back cover that should be of assistance,” McGonagall said.
Without comment Snape turned the book over and opened it from the back. Neatly printed along the gutter where the paper curved into the spine was the direction: 26 Edgehill Road. “So it would seem,” he replied. Somehow seeing Celeste’s address written down made her all the more real to him. Would she still be there, in the shabby little flat she had secured for herself two years ago? Or would she have moved on to better things?
“I will send Madam Pomfrey to you in your quarters. I would assume you need a little time to prepare?”
In answer Snape merely nodded. He had kept his Muggle clothing, now hidden away in his wardrobe behind a row of identical high-necked black frock coats. Much as he preferred his wizard garb, he knew this upcoming meeting would be difficult enough without sweeping down on Celeste like an overgrown bat.
McGonagall did not bother to reply, but merely cast another Invisibility Charm and escorted him back down to the dungeons. Then she sailed off, murmuring something about fetching Poppy.
Feeling as if he’d somehow been maneuvered, Snape set Celeste’s journal down on his desk and then went to change. At least he could be ready to go by the time Pomfrey get here. And after that --
After that, he would have to trust to fate. What other choice did he have?
The street seemed both strange and yet oddly familiar, a dissonance Snape attributed to having no true memory of it, but only the recollection he had viewed in the Pensieve. A bright sun shone overhead, showing every detail of faded paint and sooty brick. His plain black Muggle clothing felt uncomfortably warm. Then again, his robes would have been even worse.
Unlike the district where Celeste had lived in Manchester, which had boasted a collection of houses and shops and pubs, this street seemed purely residential, making it more difficult for him to loiter in an unobtrusive manner so as to survey the house at number 26 and determine whether Celeste still lived there. A pot of bright geraniums sat on the front stoop, and that seemed very much like her -- or at least what he recalled of her from his memories in the Pensieve. Then again, he doubted that she was the only denizen of Birmingham to have flowers located on her doorstep.
As he hesitated in the spot directly across the street from Celeste’s home, wondering whether he should cross or not, and trying to ignore the suspicious glare of the elderly gentleman who had just emerged from his own flat to collect the post, her door opened, and Celeste emerged. The sight of her standing there, mahogany hair gleaming in the sun, was like a physical blow. Snape sucked in his breath, watching her as she descended the front steps and took off at a brisk pace up the street. She was real after all, not just a dream or a memory.
And she’ll be gone soon if you don’t follow her, you fool, his mind reprimanded him, and Snape shook his head slightly and hastened after her, staying to his own side of the street but walking briskly enough that she stayed within eyeshot. His pursuit reminded him forcibly of that first time he had seen her, and of how he had trailed her back to her home.
Only in this case she was going in the opposite direction, to a destination that could be work or shopping or even a date, although he doubted the latter, simply because she was dressed casually, in a plain white shirt and black trousers. Besides, it was not quite five o’clock in the afternoon, not exactly an optimum time for a dinner date.
He had an panicked moment when she clambered aboard a bus and he was forced to dash across the street -- to the accompaniment of much honking -- before hauling himself aboard. The crush of people inside prevented him from spotting her immediately. Then came another few seconds of panic when the driver asked for his fare and he was forced to dig through the Muggle money he had stuffed into his pockets at the last minute. From the look on the bus driver’s face it was apparent that the coin he dropped into the till was far too large, but better that than come up short.
Snape reached up and grimly hung onto the railing overhead, his gaze roving the crowded interior of the vehicle before he spotted Celeste almost all the way in the back. She, too, stood, her slender form swaying as the bus lurched from stop to stop. Finally, after an extremely uncomfortable span that felt like hours but was probably no more than fifteen minutes, she alighted in a busy section of town dotted with pubs and restaurants. Here it was easier to stay out of sight among the crowds, and he trailed along after her until she ducked into a handsome pub that boasted one of the largest collections of draught pulls he’d ever seen in his life.
Several people called out, “Selena!” and she grinned before pulling a dark green apron off a hook behind the bar and gathering her hair into an elastic band so that it would stay out of the way. Snape hovered near the door and then spotted an empty table a few feet away. He sank gratefully into a wooden chair, mind churning.
So Celeste was now working as a barmaid? He supposed one could make decent money at it, and certainly the pub looked prosperous and clean, but he couldn’t help contrasting the life she must have here in Birmingham with her quiet existence back in Manchester.
However, her current occupation at least made their first contact relatively simple. She must have seen him sit down and came over a moment later, the friendly smile he remembered so well lifting her mouth.
“What can I get for you, then?” she asked, and her voice was the same was well, sweet and clear, with its trace of Northern accent.
He cleared his throat. Of course he had no idea what brews were available in the Muggle world. After an awkward pause, he replied, “What would you recommend?”
“Dark or light?”
Well, there was a question. He stared at her for a moment, then realized she was asking what sort of ale he would prefer. “Erm…dark, I suppose.”
“Dragon Smoke Stout? That’s a good one.”
The name sounded almost like something he would order at the Three Broomsticks. “Yes. I’ll try that.”
She nodded and moved off, while he tried not to stare. So he had been able to see her and speak with her, although not in the manner he had imagined. He had hoped that their reunion would take place somewhere more private. The pub, although not nearly at capacity, already had at least ten or so people at the various tables, with more seated at the bar. In the background, a football match played on the television.
It was hard to imagine a more prosy or Muggle-ish venue, and Snape ground his teeth in impatience. If Celeste had just started her shift, then no doubt it would be a good long while before she was done for the night. Perhaps it would be better if he just drank his stout, made his way back to her house, and waited for her there.
“Here you are,” she said, and he looked up to see her set a pint glass filled with dark liquid in front of him.
“Thank you,” he replied.
Celeste smiled again, but this time her expression appeared somewhat hesitant. With a slight sideways tilt of the head, she asked, “Have you come in here before? It’s just that -- well, I can’t quite place you, but I could swear we’ve met.”
For a second he could only stare at her. Then he managed, “We knew each other back in Manchester.”
Her look of confusion only deepened. “In Manchester? Odd…I can’t recall exactly…”
“Perhaps we can talk when you get a break.” Not exactly what he wanted, but he knew he couldn’t ask her to leave when she had just begun to work.
“All right.” She opened her mouth, as if she had meant to say something else, but then someone at the far end of the bar called out, “Selena!” and she hurried off.
The next hour was one of the most excruciating of his life. He sipped at the quite excellent stout and pretended to watch the football match on the television set, but instead he regarded Celeste from beneath lowered eyelids as she went about her business, taking orders, trading jokes with customers she obviously knew very well, wiping down the tables as they were vacated before the next group came along to occupy them. Luckily it was a Wednesday evening, so the place wasn’t quite as crowded as it would have been on the weekend, but it was still busy enough.
At length, though, the influx of patrons slowed a little and the hour inched on toward six-thirty. Celeste had looked in on him once or twice to see if he wanted another stout, but Snape knew that one was enough. He did not want to have this discussion with her while his mind was clouded with drink.
Finally she came over, clutching a pint glass that looked to be filled with water. “Nigel said I could take a break,” she said, with a quick jerk of her chin toward the balding individual behind the bar who appeared to be the owner or manager. Then she pulled out the chair that faced Snape’s and sat down. Her brows drew together as she regarded him with the frank gaze he remembered so well. “I’ve been racking my brains,” she went on, “and I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to remember how we met. Friend of a friend?”
“We first bumped into each other at Plunkett’s,” Snape answered. At least that was the partial truth; after all, he had first seen her in the used book shop.
Celeste’s frown lightened a little but did not disappear completely. “That was a favorite haunt of mine. Are you a collector of books…?” And she trailed off as she appeared to realize she had no name to give him.
“Severus,” he said. “Severus Snape.”
An odd flicker came and went in her mossy hazel eyes, but he couldn’t be sure whether that was because the familiar syllables had awakened some deep memory within her, or simply because it was, after all, a very uncommon name. “Well,” she said, after a brief pause. “You’d think I would remember a name like that!”
Not knowing what else to do, Snape laid the journal on the tabletop before her. “Perhaps this will help.”
Looking puzzled, she reached out for the book and opened it, then flipped through a few pages. “But this -- this is my handwriting!”
“Yes.”
“But I don’t remember ever keeping a diary -- ” Biting her lip, she paged back to the flyleaf and shook her head as she read the inscription. “‘The diary of Celeste Jenkins.’ That’s not even my name!”
He had known this was going to be difficult, but it was only now as he faced her that Snape realized how painful it was to see her confusion, to see the result of the Obliviation he had performed on her. “It was, once,” he said softly.
Her mouth tightened. “Look, if this is some sort of a joke, I have to say I don’t find it particularly amusing.” Deliberately she shut the book, then made a motion as if to stand. “I really need to get back to work.”
There was only one thing he could do. In desperation, Snape grasped her by the wrist with one hand and pulled the ring he had given her, the one that had blocked her magical abilities all this time, off her finger. Even as she opened her mouth to protest, he said desperately, “Look into my mind and see!”
Her eyes met his, and he willed the memories back to the surface: their first meeting, his revelation that she was wizard-born, their training sessions, his dawning regard for her, that impassioned kiss they had shared on the quay at Aber. The nights they had spent in one another’s arms.
He felt the shock and dismay radiating out from Celeste, the struggle within to somehow make sense of all he had shown her while at the same time reconciling it with the life she had led here for the past two years. Finally she wrenched her wrist from his grasp and pushed herself away from him. All the color had drained from her face.
“Everything all right over there?” called out the man from behind the bar, who began to take a few steps in their direction.
“I have -- I have to go,” she gasped, then stumbled away from the table and out the door.
Cursing to himself, Snape grabbed the journal and hurried after her. She had only gone a few paces, and so he was able to catch up with her easily enough.
“Celeste -- ”
She turned haunted eyes on him. “Who are you -- what are you?”
“I should think you would have figured that out from the memories I showed you.” Damn it, was the girl going to continue to ignore the evidence of her own eyes and mind? “I am a wizard -- and you, Celeste Jenkins, are a witch.”
That statement, delivered in the sort of cool, cutting tone that regularly sent his students into nervous sweats, seemed to finally penetrate her panicked brain. Celeste came to a sudden stop at the corner, then looked at him as if she had never really seen him before. “All that was true,” she said at last.
“Yes.”
“And I couldn’t remember it because you took those memories away.”
“Yes.”
For a moment she was silent. Snape could practically see the wild thoughts darting through her mind. “And you’ve come to me now because -- ”
“Because it is now safe to do so. The Dark Lord has been vanquished, Celeste. The evil that once haunted your dreams is finally gone.”
She nodded, then gave a quick glance at the busy streets around them. “Then I suppose we’d better discuss this somewhere in private -- ”
The place had changed somewhat, Celeste giving even the dingy little flat a touch of her own personal warmth. She had painted the walls a soft sage color, and slipcovers concealed the worn upholstery of the couch and wing chair in the living room. And the flat now smelled faintly of spices and beeswax, the same combination of scents Snape knew he would always associate with her home back in Manchester.
Not knowing what else to do, he had sat down on the couch, but Celeste seemed too agitated to take a seat as well. Finally she paused a few paces away from him and demanded, “So what exactly were you expecting of me? For us to simply pick up where we had left off?”
Not what he had expected, but perhaps what he had hoped. “I expect nothing, Celeste,” he said coldly, his brusque tone an attempt to mask the confusion he felt. “I simply felt you deserved to know the truth.”
“How do I even know it is the truth? Maybe you’re just using -- I don’t know, hypnosis or something!”
Several retorts came to mind, but Snape said only, “I gave you the evidence I had. You admitted that the journal was in your own writing. How, pray, do you explain that?”
“I can’t!” she burst out. “That’s the whole bloody problem, isn’t it? I can’t explain any of this, and now I feel as if I’m going mad!”
“You aren’t mad.”
She snorted. “Oh, well, I’m so glad that’s settled!”
Damn McGonagall and her ridiculous notions of what was right and wrong. If it weren’t for her, he’d still be safely back at Hogwarts, secure in his chambers. Wouldn’t it have been better not to have known at all, if this was the way things were going to work themselves out?
Suddenly Celeste stalked over to the coffee table, where he had set down the journal. She picked it up, appearing to read furiously, her gaze moving across the pages at a rapid rate. “It’s definitely my writing,” she said. “Although I know things like that can be forged. But it sounds like me, too.” Frowning, she shut the book, then stared down at Snape. “I suppose there’s only one way to know for sure.”
She dropped the journal on the table, and then sat down next to him on the couch. He eyed her askance, not sure what she was up to.
And then she leaned in close to him, reached out with both hands to draw his face toward hers, even as her lips met his. The shock of her touch seemed to make every nerve ending in his body burst into sudden life, and he could do nothing but sit there and drown in her kiss, the taste of her mouth all the sweeter because he’d thought he’d never experience it again.
After a long moment she pulled away and remarked, “Well, that explains it.”
“Explains what?” he asked, feeling rather like the unfortunate Keeper of the Chuddley Cannons, who had once been hit by two Bludgers and a Quaffle all at once.
“Why every other time I’ve tried to kiss someone during the past two years it’s just felt wrong.”
Her words should have reassured him, but instead Snape asked, in forbidding tones, “Every time?”
“Oh, yes -- all three. Makes me quite a tart, I suppose.”
In his opinion, that was three too many, but he refrained from comment, but merely lifted an eyebrow.
Apparently not put off at all by his expression, Celeste smiled a little, the familiar dimple showing at the corner of her mouth. “Well, I was alone in a new city. How was I supposed to know I was still taken? Those memories were gone. So I tried going out with a few different people -- and every time they kissed me goodnight, I felt horrible, as if I were doing something wrong. After the last one I just gave up. But you -- ” and the dimple deepened -- “you felt absolutely right. However, I think we should make sure.”
She leaned in toward him again, and this time Snape felt sufficiently recovered to wrap his arms around her, to feel her slender form press against him even as their lips met once more. The memories he’d recovered from the Pensieve had only hinted at how sweet she would be in real life. He clung to her, not wanting to let go.
But at last they did break apart, his breathing coming somewhat unevenly. Celeste’s cheeks were flushed, but he caught a glimpse of the wicked glint in her dark green eyes. “Yes, I think that settles it. No wonder I really didn’t want to kiss anyone else.”
And he had never even thought of such a thing during the past two years, all the time believing himself alone and hated, rejected so many years ago by the one woman he had ever allowed himself to care for…all along oblivious to the fact that another woman had had the courage to love him for himself, without doubt, without hesitation.
“So you do believe me,” he said at last, his voice sounding hoarse and rusty, unused. Perhaps the scar tissue on his throat was bothering him.
“Yes,” she replied. “There’s a great deal you’ll have to fill me in on, because I’m sure even that -- ” and she pointed at the journal -- “doesn’t cover everything. However, I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time for that.”
He nodded. A strange warmth filled him, one so unfamiliar that it took him a moment to recognize what it was. Then he realized it was happiness, sheer joy that the woman he thought he had lost had, through some miracle, been returned to him. There was so much he wanted to say to her, so many things to be planned and decided upon. But, as she had said, they would have plenty of time for that in the future.”
“Yes,” he said, and smiled at her. “We’ll have the rest of our lives.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Wow
Date: 2007-08-05 07:16 pm (UTC)Re: Wow
Date: 2007-08-05 08:54 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading and commenting, though!
no subject
Date: 2007-08-06 06:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-06 09:22 pm (UTC)Now my biggest problem is that I told people I'd work on that LOTR/Gorendil fic as my next major WIP, and all I want to do now is write the SS/HG story that's been boiling in my brain for the past few days. Sometimes I really wish my muse would get her shit together.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-06 08:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-06 09:20 pm (UTC)Fanfiction as catharsis...I like it!
no subject
Date: 2007-08-14 01:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-14 05:52 pm (UTC)I am so happy...
Date: 2007-08-15 08:18 pm (UTC)And the beginning of this epilogue is so snapelike I wonder where the vials were in the real book...
I would love to see a sequel... ;-)
I don't have an LJ account, I am grublue from fictionalley.
epilogues
Date: 2007-08-16 05:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-19 05:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-19 08:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-20 12:32 am (UTC)hmm I did have one detail I did not like in your fanfic, smoking, seemed out of character and a disturbance to the atmosphere. I cannot imagine Snape smoking. Smoking, some kind of magic pipe, if you must have it, might add to the character's personality and attune the reader to the atmosphere, for other types of personages, but the cigaretes just don't fit in. It looked like this line appeared to fill in awkward pauses. I beleive as a good writer which you appear to be, you can put in something else.
I wonder, when JK was doing her work whether she intended it to be for 10 year olds only. Severus's unforgivable end points to such option. As I recall, mainly pre-teen kids see the world in black and white. If someone does soemthing bad, it's bad, no matter what motivations drove him to do it. I bet at least for some kids - all, the dark and scary teacher, lacks are horns and tail. Yet, even the kids must learn to deal with shades of gray which constantly accompany life. Giving Severus most ungreateful death felt heartless. He was hurt in many different ways and I'm positive a lot of people can identify hurts with their own experiences, although those are much less intense. JK's ending simply robbed people of hope, mercy and redemption.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-20 04:34 pm (UTC)I tried to remember where I had Snape smoking (because I hate the habit and certainly wouldn't have him do it), and then I realized you were probably referring to the scene with him and Celeste in Wales in the pub where they got dinner. People were smoking in the pub, but Snape wasn't. I just made an observation that usually he hated the smell of cigarette smoke, but for some reason in those surroundings it didn't bother him as much. I guess I wasn't clear enough.
I made a similar comment to my husband over dinner, that JKR had created a character far more complex than she had probably originally intended, and in the end, she just didn't know what to do with him. So she killed him off in a pointless way (I knew he probably wasn't going to live, but having him killed by that $%#@! snake -- and over a complete misconception on Voldie's part -- made me so frigging angry it's not even funny). So, as you said, JKR stole his chance for him to redeem himself in the eyes of the world. Harry knew the truth, but I'm not sure how much of that truth he ever revealed (a concept I'm going to explore in The Quality of Mercy, the fic I'm writing now).
On a totally unrelated topic, I checked your profile and saw that you're going to UC Davis. That's where my sister went to college. Small world, huh? :-)
no subject
Date: 2007-08-21 03:51 am (UTC)I must have misunderstood/misiterpreted the smoking part. It is a foul habbit. Sometimes when I am interested I speed up the reading too much and might miss details.
Do you still add your fanfics to the fanfic.com? I will keep an eye out for the sequel.
I have a rather leghtly comment to make about 'killing off complex characters' part but it's around 12pm for me. I will write it tomorrow.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-21 03:41 pm (UTC)I envy you being in Canada -- it looks so beautiful there. And frankly, right now I'd like to be anyplace that isn't 95 degrees with humidity hovering around 10%. My face feels like it's about to crack! (I complain about California a lot, but I figure I've earned the right to, since I was born here.)
I post everything on fanfiction.net. I know people complain about its overall bugginess and the fact that anyone can post just about anything there, but it is the biggest site of its kind. I also post my HP stuff on Sycophant Hex (The Overlooked is in Occlumency, while my new story is on Ashwinder) and at fictionalley. The new one isn't a sequel to The Overlooked -- it's just another Snape fic.
I'm interested to hear what you have to say about killing off complex characters. I'm not going to say I haven't done it myself from time to time, but I always try to make it plausible and (dare I say it?) necessary.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-21 05:50 pm (UTC)I always wanted to visit California, it sounds like the kind of climate where I would fit in just fine. Although I bet you have more bugs there than we do here. Bugs have preferences for nice, toasty places. Not that I'm calling California a jungle, as I'm sure you weren't calling Canada a North Pole. =)
I've heard complaints regarding the fanfic.net before. I don't agree with them. It is undoubtedly one of the largest data bases who keeps organised layout, easy access and reasonable speed to process your requests, despite being so large. Not to mention it earned my trust because it never pestered my computer with any viruses. Something I cannot trust with smaller, unknown websites. Although friends sometimes can point out few good ones.
Do you go under the same pen name on Syco Hex as LJ? It might be easier to pinpoint your stories there than on the huge website. I am very curious how you will handle Snape farther. In my opinion he is one of the most difficult characters to deal with in fanfiction. I mentioned before how some authors do wrong trying to change him into a nice guy, however what is also wrong, is to make a mistake by having him act like a cranky, old bag. He does not snap at people right and left when it's uncalled for. Even when they're being complete asses to him, Snape always finds some educational and I must say rather polite ways of rebuking them. His duel in Chamber of Secrets with the Blond (yes, I mean it in most stereotypical way!) proves it. The guy was acting like the most arrogant jerk towards Snape and having a nerve to claim it was too easy to block the spell which knocked him flat on his back. It would have being only too easy to call the guy a liar or insisting on another demonstration without considerable contraint of power this time around but Snape keeps it professional and even gives a half smile to discharge any potential for a real fight. He always makes a point without spelling it out directly for the brainless. A lot of fafic writers would simply have Snape call Lockhard a choice of rude words in such situation. It's a very tricky line to play between rude and unwilling to be friendly but within etiquete bounds. In any case, this is my favorite scene ever. I nearly fell off the couch and suffocated in great laughing convultions when Lockhart announced 'my ASSISTANT Professor Snape'. Can two men be any different? LoL But I'm straying away from whatever point I was making.
As for 'killing off complex characters' part: I have not fully read the books, however I have come upon multiple quotes and summeries regarding Snape. I got an impression that in the books he seemed a lot more hopeless than in the movies, more bitter. Also physically (since moral already got discussed) the book quotes have me imagine him to be a lot uglier. An animal I could compare Snape to in the book would be an old bat but in the movie I would say a raven. There is a certain inconsistency between movie and book representation. Learning of Snape's death is even less forgivable because in the movie he is played by a barely disguised hunk that makes real women drool. If they wanted to make his death easier they should have picked an actor two heads shorter and much skinnier with a haggard look lingering about him instead of mystery and power aura. Not to mention you cannot hear his voice in the book. His VOICE! If I dare discuss this any farther I will sucumb to the dangerous fangirl syndrom and begin to mutter incompetent phrases with unrestrained gleam in my wild eyes.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-21 08:33 pm (UTC)Actually, it's not so bad for bugs here...at least not like the Southeast. Ants and spiders and flies, etc. but not too much of the scary stuff. (Once I heard about palmetto bugs I vowed to never visit Florida...although I may have to rethink that now that they're opening a Harry Potter them park there.)
People complain about ff.n because there's no quality control -- you have to figure out for yourself if a fic's worth reading. So I can see why people get tired and fed up, especially in a fandom as huge as HP. But you also get the biggest variety there. I do like their layout as well, because I hate reading huge blocks of text in sans serif font. It makes a story look like my DVD player instructions or something. Sycophant Hex also allows you to choose the font, which I really appreciate. And yes, I'm ChristineX every place I post -- it's just easier that way, even though I took that name from POTO fandom and I'm not even writing in it much anymore.
You're right -- Snape is a very difficult character to work with. I try to give him the respect he's due. After all, he's enormously intelligent, and has had to take on dangerous work behind the scenes for which he never got any real credit. He's bitter and sarcastic, but he's not an ass. Luckily I tend toward sarcasm myself, so that part isn't too tough to write for me. ;-)
I agree that Rickman's Snape is probably more attractive than JKR had envisioned the character (although I think she had a lot of input on casting, so he can't be that far off). However, because of comments about Snape looming over other characters, etc., one gets the impression that he is fairly tall, or at least taller than average. (I don't go by the illustrations in the books because I don't think that artist got him down at all.) Also, Alan Rickman is a lot older than Snape is in the books. At the time of his death, Snape was only 39 years old (give or take, depending on which timeline you go with). However, I'll agree with you on the voice. Glory hallelujah! I always hear Rickman's voice when I write Snape...the two are inextricably linked at this point.
But I'll stop there as well so I don't turn into a rampaging fangirl. :-P
no subject
Date: 2007-08-22 02:58 am (UTC)Is Snape described looming over students or adults though? Even a short adult can loom over 11 year olds.
I was not aware that JK had this much say in castings. I'm keeping my fingers and toes crossed that maybe the movie making people have a slightly different purpose for Severus in mind then the one JK had if they made him more attractive. Right now I have an urge to get a wand and turn our dear JK into a house elf and ask her kindly to iron her hands or smack her head with a lamp.
Ah, perhaps it is not so bad to fall ill with the fangirl syndrom occasionally. Although I'm a humanities student I would take his potions aka chemistry class any year just to hear him speak. He would hate having me there considering my absolute hopelessness when it comes to math and sciences. But failing that class would be worth it. =D On a less crazy note, I beleive he got stuck in a wrong job. He would make an insanely awsome wizardry university professor rather than elementry school educator because his passion for what he teaches sips through even though students are too young to appreciate it.
p.s. I absolutely LOVE your avatars. Did you make them yourself? They're gorgeous. Also I don't know how you can make them vary from post to post. I tried changing mine but avy changes for every single previous post if I try.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-22 11:37 pm (UTC)Well, he was described as looming over students, but by the time they get to be fifth or sixth years a lot of them aren't so short anymore. (I mean, look at how Neville shot up!)
Yes, I remember reading somewhere that JKR did have a good deal of input on casting. Not the final word, perhaps, but if someone really didn't fit she would say so. And I'm not exactly thrilled with her right now, either. (Along with millions of other readers, I'm sure.)
I agree that he had the wrong job. Although since they don't seem to have higher education for wizards, I'm not sure what Snape would have done. I could have seen him happy doing research or something.
Avatars -- some I've made, and some I've gotten from other people. You should be able to choose a different one for each post just by using the drop-down menu in either the reply or the post window. However, I did pay extra to have 110 pics, so I have LOTS to choose from. Isn't the regular amount 10 or something?
no subject
Date: 2007-08-26 02:33 am (UTC)In class students sit don't they? He should be towering above them even if they are tall.
High school students injure their own psyche without help from teachers, IMHO. I was never intimidated by strict teachers and cheered for them when they zotted particularly nasty students. Some students are so rude - first they don't do homework and then tell the teacher out loud in class that the assignments are stupid and teaching is stupid and the teacher sucks. You have to be a saint to put up with it.
Considering the variety of teachers at Hogwarts, Snape fits in just fine. Just take a look at the DADA teacher 4th year. That one looks like he lived underground for ages. And divinations teacher is a lot scarier than Snape. I think teachers need to be strict in Hogwarts because it has that private school vibe. It is one of the best schools, they have reputation to maintain. So, they can't have students acting like slobs.
p.s. Have you ever hear a song Dove Vai by Medea? It might be awsome to listen to it for inspiration before tackling a fanfic with Snape in it.
another p.s. I checked out the site. I enjoyed some of the art there too. One of the artists captured the students in HP class in a comical fashion that made me laugh.
Alternate epilogue
Date: 2007-08-27 02:27 am (UTC)The Overlooked epilogue on Occlumency devastated me. It was extremely well written as usual but so very sad. While I don't resent the ending that Jo gave Severus (afterall, it is her story and we have the fanfic avenue to manipulate her characters in ways that suit us) I felt passionately that he deserved a happy ending for all that he did over the years. I was somewhat emotionally fragile after reading DH and when I read your ending I can't remember if I left a comment on Occlumency because I was so affected but I did wish for the link. Well, I have it and have finally read your alternate ending.
Wow! And what an ending it is. I could accept your version with no problem at all. Only a dunderhead would not cover all the bases and we all know that Severus was not a dunderhead. I'm much happier after reading this chapter and will be able to re-read The Overlooked again now that I can ignore the first epilogue and jump right to this one. Thank you for sharing your story. I enjoyed reading every chapter and looked forward to new postings. Because I enjoy your style of writing, I'll be sure to check out your new Ashwinder story as I don't believe I've read it yet.
Re: Alternate epilogue
Date: 2007-08-27 05:12 pm (UTC)And now I'm happily exploring my non-dunderhead AUs where Snape survives, because I just think he was far smarter than JKR gave him credit for. ;-)
My only wish now is that the queue on Ashwinder would speed up. It's so darn slow. I've had Chapter 2 of my new fic waiting for more than a week now!
Re: Alternate epilogue
Date: 2007-08-29 01:06 am (UTC)Re: Alternate epilogue
Date: 2007-08-30 05:45 pm (UTC)Your awesome epilog
Date: 2007-09-27 03:04 am (UTC)The Overlooked
Date: 2007-11-08 01:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-09 07:57 pm (UTC)In some aspects, I prefer your canon-appropriate ending. It is much more elegant and beautiful. This one feels somewhat lacking, but I can't really explain it. As much as I would love Severus and Celeste to enjoy life together, this epilogue just didn't fit the rest of the story. It feels much more open-ended than the other one.
Though I have to say that I kind of expected a baby to be thrown in somewhere, since you went to such trouble to mention her pills several times, which, in fanfic at least, is a relatively predictable indicator of future pregnancy in the story.
Overall, the story was incredibly wonderfully written (and I'll be leaving reviews on Occlumency, as Kyerie) and I am glad to have read it. Enjoy NaNoWriMo.
~Kay
no subject
Date: 2007-12-10 07:18 am (UTC)Thank you for sending the link
Date: 2008-02-10 03:28 pm (UTC)Re: Thank you for sending the link
Date: 2008-02-10 07:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-08 05:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-08 11:54 pm (UTC)Love the icon, BTW!
Amazing
Date: 2008-12-22 05:38 am (UTC)And not to sound redundant, but to reiterate what everyone else on here has said I found Snape's death completely ridiculous in DH along with quite a few other things.
But I won't blather on since everything has been pretty much covered by others. All I can say is you have an amazing amount of skill as a writer and I always enjoy reading what you have to write. Hopefully someday I will be able to boast of the same skill.
Long live us Californian Writers!
You are my new hero
Date: 2009-01-11 04:19 am (UTC)Re: You are my new hero
Date: 2009-01-11 10:54 pm (UTC)I think writing that second epilogue for The Overlooked was my own version of therapy. :-P God knows I cried buckets while writing the "canon-compliant" one. It's funny -- I managed to avoid spoilers before DH came out, but I still knew Snape was going to die. When I got to that part, I teared up a little, but mostly I felt numb. It was only afterward, when it had begun to really sink in what JKR had done to Snape, that I turned into a gigantic weepy mess. Good thing my husband is fairly tolerant of my obsessions. :-P
Out of curiosity, how did you find my story? Through the new
Re: You are my new hero
Date: 2009-01-12 02:08 am (UTC)Re: You are my new hero
Date: 2009-01-12 07:22 pm (UTC)Yes, I tend to write a lot of OCs, and the Mary Sue witch hunts annoy me. Luckily I haven't had many people say my characters were M-Ss, but the prejudice in fandom can be somewhat overwhelming, especially if you're somewhat new to fanfiction and have never even heard of a Mary Sue before. :-P
no subject
Date: 2009-02-02 04:30 pm (UTC)Simply phantastic, and utterly satisfying (and both epilogues are great, the canon and the fanon one).
You know, I just dug my way through The Overlooked at Sycophant Hex, and I want to congratulate you for creating an OFC with a brain, with wit and humour, believable and lovable at the same time. Plus that you managed to keep Severus Snape firmly in character (which is a miracle, given the myriad of fics where he's either the brooding sadist or the dark, menacing sex god. *shudders*). I buy "your" Snape absolutely, and his love story with your delightful heroine rings absolutely true.
After knowing from personal experience how difficult it can be to write an OFC without tumbling into the "Mary Sue"-trap (or ending up being accused that this is just what the lady in question has turned out to be), I sincerely pull my hat and bow to you for managing one of the very rare Snape/OFC-tales I really enjoy. You made me laugh several times, you moved me deeply, and you gave me a shining piece of brilliant writing, loaded with wonderful details that still hum in my mind. Bravo.
I've added The Overlooked to my favorites list, and you as an author, too. Thank you again.
no subject
Date: 2009-02-03 02:04 am (UTC)The whole Mary Sue thing is so discouraging. I absolutely adore writing OCs, and they've gotten such a bad rap (possibly deserved to some extent, but still...).
I actually don't read much (any, ha-ha) fanfiction, so the trope of "Snape as sex god" is pretty amusing to me. I have a feeling if you looked up "repressed" in the dictionary at Hogwarts library you'd find a picture of Severus Snape (possibly placed there by the Weasley twins).
Not quite overlooked
Date: 2009-07-11 03:20 pm (UTC)PS- Congratulations, you've become the second author to make me cry. But in a good way =)