Chapter Text
It is damp in the cellar, and the damp is the reason it is not silent. The plucking noise of water falling to stone is endless, like the fall of sand in an hourglass, ticking out the seconds in this dark hole.
Humming softly to comfort herself, Luna hugs her knees and imagines what it would be like to be a water droplet: a wibbly-wobbly sphere of bluish-green water, falling from ceiling to earth to splatter and leave behind only the faintest trace of mineral residue. That is how stalagmites form. Time passes, water drips, a thin straw of stone grows from the floor, reaches into the air like the calcifying bone of some long-forgotten skeleton.
Luna lays her head on her knee and lets her straggly blond hair fall to the floor. She hadn’t meant to think of death again. Luna hums louder, and then the hum turns into a song, "Oh love's a treasure when first it's new..."
“What do you think you’re doing?” Snape asks.
“Singing.”
“Obviously. But for the sake of Merlin, why would you do that?”
“So I won’t be afraid.”
“Well, don’t Luna. Don’t. You aren’t supposed to sound like you’re having fun—oh bloody hell— it’ll blow our cover, Luna.”
Luna stays quiet for a few moments, turns a pebble slowly in her hands, before she says, “Headmaster?”
“What?”
“But aren’t you afraid too?”
“For your sake?”
“No, afraid of dying.”
Snape says nothing. Luna can see she’s truly bothered him now because of the funny way he holds his head, and how he tugs at his ear. Luna does not ask again; she only waits.
Snape’s drawling voice punctuates the silence. “No, I am not some schoolgirl, afraid of things that go bump in the night.”
In her misty, faraway voice Luna says, “It's not only school girls that are frightened of death. There's lots of reasons to be scared. You might be afraid of the dying part, since that’s the bit that probably hurts. Or, you might be afraid of what comes after the dying. Not everyone knows about the great dirigible plum in the sky, and the wise old grasshopper that sleeps in the clouds and pulls your soul up on skyhooks.”
Sarcastically Snape says, “I suppose I can thank you for informing me of these things, Luna.”
“Of course,” Luna says. "But you still haven't explained. Why aren't you afraid?”
Snape exhales and shifts to mimic Luna in posture. She looks at him sitting there with his knees bent and tucked close, his arms wrapped around his legs, and it occurs to her that he does not look very headmasterly anymore.
“Luna, if I tell you why, you must stop asking me stupid questions. Will you do that?”
“Probably not,” Luna says.
“At least pay attention,” Snape says wearily. “I’m going to tell you a parable.” Snape clears his throat as if he is in front of the blackboard again, and begins, “A man was walking in the market of Damascus when he came face to face with Death. The fellow was frightened and went to a wise man to ask what should be done. The wise man told him that Death had probably come to Damascus to fetch him away next morning, so he must flee. The man was terrified at this, and decided to ride to Aleppo.”
“Where is Aleppo?” Luna asks.
“It’s in, well, it’s in the state of Syria now, but I suppose before it was Babylonia.”
“And where is Damascus?”
“It’s also in— it doesn’t matter, you dunderhead. It’s well far away from Aleppo, that’s all you have to know. Did no one ever teach you geography?”
“You don’t offer that class at Hogwarts, headmaster, sir. And I was homeschooled before that. Daddy tried to prioritize the really important subjects, like heirology, philosophy, and singing.”
Snape grunts in annoyance. “Fine, then. I see that it was I that failed to teach you geography. Of course it was. Now be quiet.” Snape takes a grumpy breath, gathering himself.
“So this man rode from Damascus to Aleppo—which was a miserable ride—and having arrived he walked into the market place, and congratulated himself on having eluded Death. Just then, Death came up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. 'Excuse me,' he said, 'but I have come for you.' 'Why,' exclaimed the man, 'I thought I met you in Damascus yesterday!' 'Exactly,' said Death. 'That was why I looked surprised—for I had been told to meet you today, in Aleppo.'"
“Yes, and?” Luna asks, peering at him with her protuberant eyes.
“That’s the end.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Luna, you imbecile. There’s no point in being afraid of death. The logical thing is to accept that it’s coming. That man should have had a peaceful last evening at home instead of riding all night like a madman.”
Luna frowns and says, “I think that was a very silly story. That man would have suffered all night waiting for his death, even if he hadn’t gone running. And, at least he gave himself a chance.”
Snape turns to look her, and the sphere of light hanging above his forehead illuminates his countenance. His black eyes are fathomless, his cheeks shine bone-white, and his teeth clench in a crooked grin. Almost snarling, he says, “You’ve missed the whole point, Luna. It’s fate that he dies. He has no chance.”
Luna looks up at the ceiling, thinking. A drop of water falls on her nose and she giggles a little.
“I don’t think so,” she says. “Look.” Luna points at the ceiling.
Raising his wand so that the white light that shines at the end of his wand-tip rises higher above his head, Snape looks up. “What is it now? More Nargles?”
“No, look at the water.”
Snape stares.
Luna says, “Do you see how they all run along their own grooves—the water droplets? It’s like somebody laid out a blue-print there on the ceiling and they have to follow it.”
Snape catches a droplet in the eye and wipes it away bad-temperedly. “And?”
“And it’s not true. Nobody laid out a blue-print. The droplets wore those grooves in the ceiling themselves, and they wear new grooves in all the time.” Luna looks down from the ceiling, stares at Snape with her watery blue eyes. “Someone has to be the first droplet to come along and says, 'Goodbye dear fellows, I'm leaving to dig a new path. Do take care of the little ones while I'm gone. And remember to feed the venemous tentacula'."
“You think it’s that easy?”
“Maybe it is. Maybe you don't have to follow the slot that leads to being dead. Maybe you can jump right out of the groove you’re in.”
“I’m not going to torture myself fleeing from death, Luna.”
“Fleeing or sitting around twiddling your thumbs, I’m sure you’ll find a way to be equally unhappy either way, sir.”
It is this conversation that Luna thinks of most often in the days to come.