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Eileen loved Tobias. She loved him. Loved him more than she did herself, her son, her life. The moment that she laid eyes on him, she knew that man was destined to be her husband. She had sworn to make it so, cost her what it might.
And it did cost her a great deal. Eileen was not your average half-blooded tramp. She was a Prince. Certain expectations came with that surname.
Of course, the Princes were by no means a privileged family. They had not the wealth of the Malfoys or the prestige of the Blacks or the pleasant dispositions of the Weasleys. Oh, to be sure their blood was pure! Their lineage had never been tainted by the blood of Muggle-borns, let alone actual Muggles. They inbred as much as anybody did on their island, keeping with local traditions and maintaining a degree of purity that made up for their lack of worldly comforts. That alone was enough for any worthy pureblood family.
Their exclusion from the Pure-Blood Directory wrinkled her father years after its publication, however. He had accused the author of discrimination on the grounds of faith, although what little notoriety his fussiness had warranted served to corroborate the editorial decision to cut out the House of Prince. Wizarding families as a rule kept to their heathen roots whereas the Princes were good, stout, God-fearing Catholics. Perhaps they were proper heathens once upon a time, but that must have been a very long time. Eileen’s father claimed their ancestors had been converted by blessed Patrick himself.
She wondered whether it was true that hers was the only pureblood family that insisted on attending church. Nobody at school had a permission slip from their mothers allowing them to skip the Hogsmeade trips in favour of the little stone church over the hills. Eileen was escorted by the old caretaker himself – though sometimes his young bug-eyed apprentice did the honours – to and from church; while she knelt at the confessional booth he would smoke a pipe in the garden.
That had to be the reason for their exclusion from the Directory. Not even the Weasleys with their funny habits mingled with Muggles as much as the Princes did. Every Sunday outside of Hogwarts she spent at church, sitting next to Muggles during sermon. Her father never said a bad word against them so long as they were Catholics.
Strange then that her parents had disowned and disinherited Eileen for marrying Tobias. Muggle or not, he was a Catholic just like them. A bred and born English Catholic, her Toby was as pious a man as her own father; though with how her parents raged and wailed, spectators would have been forgiven if they assumed him to be a Presbyterian. They might have even preferred a Presbyterian, Eileen thought unhappily, so long as he was a wizard.
She didn’t care. She loved Tobias, and he loved Eileen.
They had met at church on Sunday, God’s Day, at around two o’clock. Both were on a pilgrimage to the abbey on Iona. Eileen remembered the day clear as crystal. She had spent the morning hours at the pew, praying for the salvation of her soul and that of her parents and her grandparents and great-grandparents etc. But between the usual supplications of mercy, Eileen had also prayed to the saints Valentine and Priscilla for true love.
At twenty, Eileen had never kissed or been kissed. Never the one to hem and haw, her mother informed her early on that she was not a good-looking girl. She was not even plain, which made life all the worse at Hogwarts where the common-faced girls got together with equally mediocre boys who thought themselves better than her ilk. Ugly little girls like Eileen had not a chance at school, especially when seated right next to the gorgeous daughters of the nobler pureblood houses.
Yet when she rose from prayer Eileen saw him standing before a shrine. He had caught her staring as he lit two candles at the feet of the saint. Eileen had blushed and glanced to the side. Toby was a handsome man. Uncommonly handsome, actually. It was a shock to her that a man as beautiful as him had sailed to Iona on pilgrimage; she had assumed handsome men snobbish and superior, bowing to nobody except their scarlet women. Imaigne her surprise when he then smiled at her! Her! A slight, sallow Irishwoman garbed in a darned coat and a weather-beaten green scarf fraying at the edges.
But he had smiled at her. He smiled at her, and Eileen knew that she loved him.
Eileen loved Toby. Tobias was everything to her. Nobody mattered except him. Her father had threatened her if she married him she would have violated a commandment. Promised her that she would never see the gates of heaven, nor ever be embraced by himself or her weeping mother. It did not matter. Eileen had no more business marrying some lackwit wizard with whom she went to school than she had to be in heaven; and if hellwards she was bound then Toby would go with her. He was her husband. He married her. Wizarding world be damned – they were one flesh, one heart, one soul and cursed be whoever that came between them.
Her father stripped her of her dowry and inheritance. Her friends cut ties. Her mother tried to the very last to persuade her, assured her that if she said the word then she would find a way to annul the marriage. She promised to take Eileen home and make the world forget that the marriage ever took place.
Eileen denied her. As punishment for her disobedience, her mother slapped her so hard blood trickled down her nose. Eileen felt neither anger nor hurt by it. Only sadness. Her mother cried inconsolably and that was the last she ever saw of her.
They had wedded within a year of introductions. A honeymoon was out of the question. The Snapes were worse off than the Princes, and her dear husband had five worthless siblings in need of constant financial support. Eileen learned quickly that unless she wanted to wind up in a workhouse, forever separated from Toby, she would have to pull her weight.
So she worked and worked. As a waitress, as a greengrocer, as a tutor. Eileen even got on her knees and scrubbed the floors of the rich folks’ houses across the river until she fell pregnant. Hard labour every last one, and not quite worth it too. The wages were meagre and once she had her son nobody wanted to hire a mother. Not willing to work alone, however, Eileen finally unboxed her dusty cauldrons and did what she best.
The weary and bruised women of Spinner’s End were grateful. Eileen meanwhile saved up a tidy sum of cash which came in mighty handy whenever there was a workers’ strike.
Behind the bathroom mirror she kept a cache of bottles, each filled with a different poison and its respective antidote. Hers was an eclectic collection. Eileen kept the classic recipes known to every housewife (magical or otherwise) – demon’s dance and sweetsleep, the strangler and nightshade, crushed fireplum seeds and plain old cyanide – as well as her own inventions. Some were crude things she had thought up in class long ago, others were tried and tested on her own dear husband. Many in fact were brewed especially for her Toby.
Eileen would never kill Tobias. She loved him. He was hers!
But he was also a man, and men were not above making mistakes. She had sacrificed a great deal for him. Eileen had left Ireland and exchanged the charming Prince Cottage for Spinner’s End, she had borne him a son and suffered his brothers and sisters, she defended his rights against the world and she loved him. Tobias was not an easy man to love, but she loved him anyway.
Once she had read in a marriage book that it was as difficult to make a man unlearn his errors as his knowledge. Her Toby made the matters worse for he was more muleheaded than most. Before he became her husband, Tobias was a son and a brother. Constantly he prioritised his wretched siblings over herself and their son. He sent them money that by rights ought to have gone to their own account, to their son. He worried for them and bled his heart for them when he should have done it for their son. Eileen had given him their boy to love, but instead he loved them most.
The iceberg grew large beneath the water. Beyond his parasitic family were his habits and accusations. Those were the worst. Eileen could tolerate his brothers and sisters but those habits and those wretched accusations were another thing.
Not a soul could accuse Toby of indolence. If anything, she wished he was more indolent. Always, always he worked himself half to death either at the machines or at the desk of that Evans. Then he would come home, accuse Eileen of hard-heartedness, and disappear for weeks at a time. When he returned no explanation was ever given, but the smell of drink and heartache clung to him like perfume.
As her husband Toby had a right to discipline her with a beating if he saw fit. That street went both ways, however, and Eileen as his wife had a right to teach him lessons too. Being a woman, she lacked the physical strength to batter him as he did her. The poisons instead did her work.
To his credit, Tobias never flinched from his punishment. He told her that she took his beatings so graciously he could do no less by her. That made Eileen happy. She didn’t care that he beat her. Quite the opposite, his strength was a comfort. Lanky boys did not nothing for her. Eileen loved that Tobias was broad-shouldered, that sinewy muscles corded under the skin of his arms. The way he lifted pounds of cotton and operated the heavy machinery stoked a fire in the pit of her gut.
Not for anything would Eileen give it up; if she had to endure the occasional beating then so be it.
The bruises were a badge of honour, anyway. To her. For a man of his beauty, Tobias was not at all vain. He paid very little attention to other prettier women that threw themselves onto him. When his friends at the pub joked at his monogamous ways, he cited the vow he said to Eileen at church.
Eileen loved him for it. She loved him. Fact that he took her, an ugly woman, to wife was the highest compliment. That he beat her with a passion was proof that he still cared after these many years.
But he was getting indifferent. Every year Toby cared less and less. Work was too hard, the pay too low, and his siblings died one by one. Eileen would have consoled him as much as he wanted, and he let her kiss and touch and love him, but it rankled her that his real comfort lay in drink and smoke.
Eileen could have killed that Evans from work. Her Toby was cleverer than everybody in town and that clerk – the daddy of that awful girl across the river – knew it. Took advantage of it too. He pushed his pens and papers onto her overworked husband and offered not a cent of compensation for it.
Toby came home exhausted on days like these. He would grab a bottle of gin and a pack of cigarettes instead of her waist. Then he stood like a fool by the window, smoking and drinking and drinking and smoking until it was time for work again.
Eileen tried to comfort him. She praised him, wept for him, swore to kill for him…but nothing worked. Toby would press chaste kisses to her temple before returning to the bottle and cigarette. On weekends he would disappear.
At their next shared breakfast, Eileen would pop open a flask of poison in front of him and pour into his tea.
Toby would drink it. He always drank her tea – he was brutish, not barbaric. That’s why she loved him so much.
On the first night following the poisoning he would demand the antidote. Eileen would refuse him. “I’ll give you the antidote,” she would hiss, “when you deserve the antidote.”
“I’ve work on the morrow, woman.”
“I know. Seems to me you’re fonder of work than you are of me.” She would jab a finger into his chest. “Tell me honestly, Toby, do you like Evans more than you like me? Or does he have you please his wife same as you please his superiors? It’s me to whom you’re bound, not him!”
Toby would slap her across the face.
This interaction would repeat itself for the next week and a half. Each altercation increased in intensity until Eileen, blue with bruises, wailed on the floor and burns lacerated Toby’s arms. His beatings lengthened each day to make up for his waning strengths. Around the eleventh day he would be too sick to batter her properly, although his fury compounded by the empty bottles of gin more than compensated.
But he had a good heart, her Toby did. Unlike some other men, he never beat her after first blood and when the argument was done it was not in him to leave her sobbing. Toby would wipe her tears. He’d lift her in his arms like they were newlyweds again, and caresses filled the remainder of the night. Next morning, Toby would apologise for his neglect with real earnestness. He’d get on his knees and kiss her hands and swear he loved none but her. That there was nobody but her. He was hers and only hers.
“You know I’m a rough man, Sprite.” It was a real bad fight they had this time. One that left her with a cracked collarbone and him trembling as a result of the Cruciatus curse, but he called her by her nickname so it was okay. “Can’t make speeches, not like I used to when I was young, but you know what I am.”
“Do I?”
“’Course you do. I’m yours, aren’t I?” Toby smiled. She loved his smile. “You’ve dealt with me like no other woman in Britain would have. Bear with me a little more, Sprite. I won’t make promises I cannot keep. We’ll never leave Spinner’s End, I think. The factory’s going under but Evans has to keep me if he ever wants to idle away another afternoon. I’ll work as long as I can and maybe,” he chewed his lip like he did when they first spoke at Iona, “maybe we’ll have just enough to see Severus properly situated. He’ll look after us then. Can’t do it by myself though. I need you at my side.”
“Isn’t he a very good boy?”
“He is. Nobody smarter than our boy, darling poppet.”
“Only I could have given you a son like him.” She stared at him, eyes burning. “Say it.”
Toby laughed. “Only you could have given me a son like our Severus. Another woman would have birthed me an idiot.”
“And you can’t suffer idiots.”
“No, I can’t.” He wrapped his arms around her thighs and pressed his head against the jutting bone of her hip. “Christmas break is soon. Maybe we could do something nice together. Get his mind off…”
“I’m glad they’re friends no longer,” said Eileen haughtily. “The less we have to do with them lot across the river, the better.”
“Severus doesn’t think so.”
“Severus doesn’t know better.” Eileen curled over Toby, wrapping her thin arms against his back. She drew in a deep, sharp breath. Her man smelled of sweat and cotton and rain – the scents of honest labour. She loved him for his diligence. “What should we do then, hm? What do you propose?”
Toby chewed on his lip. “I could buy him a new book to read.”
“He’ll finish it in a day.” Eileen dropped onto her knees to curl into his chest. “We could try not to fight, love. He riles up too much when we fight.”
“Well, he’s got to stop it. We’re married,” he said sternly. “Married people fight. You’d think a lifetime of watching us might have taught him that. He shouldn’t go red with anger at it.”
Eileen scowled and pinched her husband. “That’s because he’s nice, Toby. Our Severus is a nice boy!”
“You don’t think he’s too soft or dull? The way he works himself up into a frenzy and storms out of the house when we bicker?”
“Ach, he’s just a sweet lad who loves his mother,” she said. “And with that redhead menace out of the way, he’s got no friends no more. You know he doesn’t get on with the lads here at Spinner’s End.”
“He could. He could if he tried.”
“No, he couldn’t! Same as I never got on with your friends’ wives.” Eileen gritted her teeth. She snapped her neck upwards and stared at him. “Your friends’ wives. Their sons too. They’re not laughing at Severus and me behind our backs, are they?”
“Why would they be?”
“I don’t know. Because we keep potted plants?”
“The women know you brew,” said Tobias, “and they know Severus got that green thumb from you. Why’d they laugh?”
“Because we’re strange,” she said.
“You’re not strange. You’re nice. You’re nice! And our son is nice! You said so yourself.” Tobias kissed her forehead. “If anybody should be whispered about it’s me. I’m not nice like you.”
Eileen clung to him, worried. “How’s the…” she coiled her arms around his neck in case he threw her off, “How’s the numbness, Toby?”
“Not that bad, poppet” he admitted. “A little numb this week, I am. That just might be the poison.”
She pinched his arm. “If you need to fight me then fight me. Severus will understand. He knows about the despair and numbness. He won’t begrudge his daddy the relief.”
“He begrudges me every crack of the belt,” he muttered.
“Because I’m his mother, Toby. Don’t tell me you never got into a rage when your father beat your mother.”
Toby huffed indignantly. “My father’s worse than me.”
“Aye, but Severus don’t know that. He’s just melancholic and sad a bit. Like your brother.”
“Which brother?”
“The living brother, Toby.”
Tobias brightened. “That’s a good thing. Selwyn’s a good man. Might be we can invite him over this winter. He’ll talk some sense into the boy. Explain to him that once a man has a wife these things are just inevitable. He won’t understand our fights until he’s got a woman of his own.”
Eileen highly doubted that their son would ever ‘get a woman of his own’. She had dreamt of her son often lately, and always he was lonely. If he were indeed like Selwyn then loneliness would be as much a part of him as Toby was of Eileen.
The thought of Severus alone made her sad. He was a nice boy, her son. But if he turned out like Selwyn then it wouldn’t be so bad. Eileen tolerated him the best of her in-laws. Selwyn Snape had the decency to pay back his brother for the many years of fiscal aid. The others just went off and died with their debts. She had not a shred of mercy for them. Just as long as her son wasn’t like his other uncle, she reckoned he’d be alright.
“Maybe we could try not to fight just the once,” continued Toby. “It’s not good for Severus’ nerves to scream and storm off, and if he thinks to avoid us by sleeping at the riverbank then it’ll be the death of him. This winter’s promised to be cold.”
“Might be good for us too, my dear,” said Eileen. “Go a bit easy on the vocal chords.”
“You never were concerned before for our vocal chords.” He raised a brow. “What’re you playing at? You preparing for something special? Should I maybe get myself a new tie?”
“You should definitely get yourself a new tie. Take me to a restaurant and the like.” Eileen grinned. “Rumour has it that Evans’ wife might be seeking my favours soon. You’ll be promoted at last! I know you will.”
For the love of their son they tried. Eileen busied herself at the cauldrons; Toby took a care to keep her sweet. Their progress lasted all throughout November – though they nearly relapsed out of spite when their neighbours commented on how quiet their house had become – and Eileen wondered if the new routine might stick. It kept Toby home, and that was the crowning jewel of her grievances. She would sooner have him safe at home beating her than wandering the night without a soul to watch out for him.
Should he be promoted, she thought, he will never again have to drown his miseries in drink. Toby’s hardworking. He’ll take his new duties serious and they’ll keep him busy. I’ll keep him busy. I’ll be his drink and smoke from then on. See to it he’s not overworked by that awful man again.
But Evans’ wife never sought her favours, and when December came without a hint of pay raise or promotion Toby returned home in a rage. He struck Eileen repeatedly, pulled her hair and threw her against the wall – all of which she could have withstood – before leaving the house, pale and bleeding from a series of hexes.
Nobody saw her Toby for the whole of next week.
Eileen was so furious with him she came up with a new sort of poison in a single night. When he returned the next Monday Eileen threatened to fly over to Ireland forever unless he drank the ladleful. Tobias swore he would so long as it was it his tea.
Notwithstanding the hexes she cast on him, he was still her husband. She obliged. Brewed him three mugs of builder’s tea, well-sugared, and ensured he drank to the last drop.
It was not until Sunday, God’s Day, at around two o’clock that Eileen cut her own throat.
***
Taking the National Express was always a fucking nightmare. Severus had no choice though. Ever since he and Lily had fought at the end of last year he had to put himself through the miserable four hour journey between London and Birmingham. From there he would then hop on no less than three different bus lines to drag his sorry self to Spinner’s End. Yippee.
December was frightfully cold this year. Some on the news compared it to the Big Freeze of 1963. Severus had only been a baby, but he bet that this winter would be one to remember too. Frost doilies laced the bus windows, and thick snowdrifts blanketed the dreary landscape of the Black Country. Severus did not dare to cast spells to warm himself. Not until he was well at home with his mother’s wand in hand.
He wished he was already seventeen. Then he could have cast a heating spell to warm him to sleep rather than be an unwilling witness to the break-up happening right in front of him.
Frankly, it was a relief to reach Digbeth Station if only to get far away from that sobbing moron and his teary, though implacable, ex-girlfriend.
You could tell Severus was nearing Cokeworth once the buses grew emptier and emptier. You could tell he hit Spinner’s End once the only souls on the street were the local sluggers with whom he had the misfortune of sharing First Communion. They exchanged nods and kept to themselves.
Severus banged at the door of his house without ceremony. When no answer came he rolled his eyes and reached for the key hidden between two loose bricks – a courtesy of his mother should she be out chasing his father. He shut the door with a bang. “I’m home!” shouted Severus. “If you even fucking care!”
His rudeness was often met by a harsh scold and a slap to the nape from his mother and from his father, depending on his mood, a snide remark or a proper thwack of the rod. Given that today was also Sunday, his father would have been twice as harsh – cursing on God’s Day was unacceptable to Tobias Snape. Severus braced himself for the assault.
Yet by the distinct lack of a walloping, Severus concluded that neither of his parents was home.
The house was cold. Frost doilies had followed him home from the bus and crept unbidden inside the house. A fine layer of dust covered the furniture, which itself was knocked around the floor. Severus dropped his school bag by the kitchen door and set about to tidy the place. It wasn’t his mess, but he lived here so he might as well.
Judging by the mess it was possible that his father had gone ‘wandering the night’ and his mother, whether out of impatience or jealousy, had followed him. Bet they haven’t even bought the groceries.
Remnants of a breakfast haunted the table. Nothing had gone to rot because of the cold, though not a single thing Severus saw seemed safe for consumption. He threw the lot into a garbage bag, stacked the dirty plates by the sink, and shrugging on his father’s coat went outside to get rid of the rubbish.
Severus did it the old-fashioned way just like his mother taught him: he walked across the street and shoved the waste bag into their neighbour’s bin. His mother hated their neighbours. They were never nice to her, so she decided that she won’t be nice to them. Severus maintained her policies out of solidarity.
That done Severus walked down the street until he reached what his mother considered to be the third holiest site in the country following Iona Abbey and the smallest church on Whitley Bay where she had married his father: the fish and chip shop that spared her the trouble of cooking dinner on Sundays.
Its owner was a round, friendly-faced man called Mickey Mellows. His father’s friend, Mickey knew Severus’ order even before he got to the counter. “You back already from that fancy school of yours?”
Severus reached over the counter to help himself to Mickey’s cup of tea. “It’s Christmas break.”
“So it is,” said Mickey, shaking oily chips onto parchment. “My Kathleen’s home now too, you know. Her school’s not so fancy as yours in Scotland, but it’s got fine alumni. Shame you’re not a girl,” he laughed. “Then you could’ve gone with her there. She would’ve liked a familiar face.”
“I bet,” said Severus, restraining a snort.
Kathleen Mellows had as much love for Severus as he had for most Slytherins. She tolerated him because they were both of Spinner’s End and that was it. Last they spoke was at the start of June when their fathers had forced them to chat while they themselves drank beers inside the chippy.
Still, Severus could not insult the daughter of the man frying his squid. He smiled as pleasantly as he could at Mickey, promising he would come say hello to Kathleen and her mother on behalf of his own family.
“And you bring your da with you,” said Mickey as he handed Severus the grub. “We haven’t seen him here or at the pub for more than a week. Not even his mates at work know where he’s gone.”
“Probably roaming the snow-laden heaths of our country.” Severus pushed forward the coins he had earned selling potions of the curious variety; had exchanged them for Muggle currency off a Squib in Hogsmeade. “It’s not odd for him. You know that.”
“I know, but in this weather?” Mickey whistled. “You tell Toby to come here. I’ll have hot wine and gossip waiting for him.”
His good nature had an infection quality. Severus bit down a smile, yet allowed a joke, “What’s the news from Leningrad, Mickey?”
The man made a big show of looking over his shoulders in case a bunch of commies were listening in on them. Severus snorted at the antics. Of his father’s many friends, Mickey was the most tolerable. Sure, his theatrics could be bothersome on occasion but that was better than reeking of drink.
Mickey leaned very close and whispered so low Severus nearly shut his eyes (as if that would sharpen his hearing, fucking idiot). “Shuffling of management at the factory. Word is that red-haired bloke lording over your da is gonna be sent to another branch. In Birmingham proper.”
“Fancy,” said Severus, and he did mean it. Birmingham was a wealthy city, and since it had been blitzed to smithereens during the war its counsel built new clean homes for its people.
His father had a notion of resettling them to Birmingham where they might at least live in a cleaner house when the pub bombings occurred. Since Severus was too busy with his studies at Hogwarts – and not to mention that he was struggling with a horrific condition called being fourteen – he had not paid attention to the news much. All he knew was that six Irishmen were arrested unfairly.
His father was convinced that Severus, who had taken after his Irish mother in appearance and had a penchant for wearing black, would be the next to be wrongfully arrested the next time the IRA fancied an explosive night at the Workshop of the World.
“Good for the women too,” continued Mickey. “I hadn’t known red hair could be so persuasive, but the sooner Evans leaves town the better. I mean,” he leaned against the counter, “there’s only so many workers’ daughters he can grope before he’s killed by one of their daddies. Thank God you’re a boy! If anybody would’ve given him a beating it would have been our Toby!”
Severus smiled awkwardly. His father could kill; he had killed. In the war. Severus also knew that his father had brawled with several men over his mother, so perhaps he might have killed Mr. Evans if he had looked at her the way he did at Kathleen Mellows and the rest of Spinner’s End girls. But it wasn’t the red hair. Severus was not that out of the loop to be ignorant to the fact that Mr. Evans always gave the girls seven quid to keep them quiet.
Snatching his hot greasy dinner, Severus assured Mickey that he would send his father his way once he got a hold of him. When that might happen was indeterminate. The longest his father had disappeared was three months right after Uncle Josiah shot himself in the head. His mother had thought that he had killed himself too until she found him wandering on the outskirts of a monastery, praying.
Severus had his dinner by the dirty river. Oil filmed over the water’s surface, a result of the dye bleeding from the factory. Above him the sky darkened from blue to purple to black. As was the usual way of things, Severus found himself missing the Scottish Highlands. The stars twinkled brightly there. The air was cleaner too. He remembered just arriving at Hogwarts and how green he had become from breathing in clean air for the first time in his life. Lucius had joked that if Spinner’s End was razed to the ground then its denizens would sooner die from the shock of seeing a wildflower than exposure or hunger.
The grease ran down his chin. He wiped it off with the back of his hand and licked it as to not waste a single drop. Squid and chips settled at the pit of his stomach, warming him better than any mug of butterbeer.
Severus wandered the neighbourhood for several more hours. Spinner’s End was ugly by daylight, but at night it almost passed for something more than a dunghill. Very few houses had the lights on at this hour. Candles were still the done thing around here and given how the factory had slashed wages earlier this year the local housekeepers were more eager than ever to be frugal.
Eleven candles burned on the upper windowsill above the Mellows’ chippy. Kathleen must have been the recent favourite, he observed. Seven quid went a long way at Spinner’s End.
He returned to his own house past midnight. His parents were still not home. Rolling his eyes, Severus moved to beat the Primus stove into working. It took more than a few strikes but in the end it sparked and huffed and finally began to burn.
A great reluctance overtook him at the prospect of going upstairs. Severus’ room was the tiniest and draughtiest in the house. His mother had quilted him blankets made of bits of leftover fabric his father brought from the factory. Most years it was enough to keep him from freezing to death, but this year was cold. It was cold. It was dark, and it was cold.
Shrugging into his mother’s dress robe, Severus snuggled into the worn chair and kicked back to finish his reread of North and South. It was his father’s favourite book, and his mother was partial to it as well. They had read it to Severus many times when he was very little. Once Severus was old enough (about two or three) he would read passages to them when they were too tired to do it themselves.
He read and read and the Primus stove burned and burned. Soon the room was warm and snug, and Severus threw the dress robe onto the little worn sofa. He wondered if he would have to wander about Spinner’s End inquiring after his parents. It was three in the morning and they were yet to return. Usually they had the decency to have one of them meet him at home. That they were both gone and for so many hours on the day they knew he was to arrive.
Severus chewed on the lining of his cheek. He hoped his father had not drunk himself to death, or that his mother had not slashed her wrists somewhere downriver as she regularly threatened to do. It was in her to do it. She knew it hurt his father. If she wanted to kill herself then fine, but Severus’ aunt Agnes – his father’s favourite sister – had slashed her wrists and died by it.
A curious smell whiffed in the air suddenly. Severus frowned. He set the book down and got to his feet. The smell was rotten, but the cold sort of rotten. Like the damp that ate away the wooden walls of their church. It came from upstairs.
It better not be the wardrobe, he thought as he went to investigate. His father had built that wardrobe for his mother on some anniversary. If the mould or the rot had gotten to it then maybe his mother might inflict a warning slash to her wrist to frighten his father into upkeeping it. She said he loved her more when he was frightened, just as she loved him most when he made her sad.
“That’s just love, my dear,” she had said, smiling. “If we were not in love then what cause would we have to scream and bite and beat each other? Indifference is worse, I promise you. Nothing is worse than to mean nothing at all to them whom you love.” She sniggered. “Might as well kill yourself then, I say. If there’s no love then what’s the point?”
Severus thought it was a strange sort of love. But it worked for his parents, mostly. They had their issues, but theirs was not a loveless marriage. They loved each other. They loved each other. Nobody could say that they didn’t.
***
The morning was crisp and cold and beautiful. No better morning for a day of fun and thrills, or to plan their pranks for the next term.
The Marauders had successfully convinced their mothers to let them stay at Hogwarts for Christmas break. Beyond the excitement of spending the holidays with his best mates, Remus was just glad to spare his parents awkward explanations to their new neighbours. Maybe this time they might be able to spend two years in one house rather than moving again in the summer. With him gone for the winter, suspicions would rise much later than usual. It would be good for his mother, too. Her knees had begun to ache from deep-cleaning houses she had to leave in several months.
Remus slipped into his jumper and jeans, ran a hand through his hair, and joined his friends on their way to the Great Hall. And there was another benefit to staying at Hogwarts! The creature comforts here were unbeatable. Last morning the breakfast consisted of thick slabs of bacon, warm bread, tubs of butter and marmalade, and fruits that in the Muggle world would cost a fortune this time of year; and as a prefect Remus had access to additional luxuries that only the richest of pureblood could afford. The bath alone was worth a kidney if you asked him.
Most of the student body had gone home for Christmas, obviously. Very few students remained at Hogwarts so it was a special treat to slouch on the benches and eat your fill at the table without people at both your sides jabbing their elbows in your sides. Sirius in particular enjoyed this rare advantage. Every morning he would throw his arms over their shoulders, stretch his legs, and like a king open his mouth to catch whatever sweet morsel James threw.
Personally, Remus was more grateful for the absence of one particular student. Had he stayed for the holidays then Sirius and James would have been too agitated, or too excited to take things slow. After the incident at the Shrieking Shack followed by the scene by the lake, the bad blood between them and him boiled over to a degree Remus had previously thought impossible. Thank Merlin he’s gone home, he thought. Else Sirius would have chased after him like a hunting hound all winter long.
But Remus counting his blessings far too quick when a pale figure in faded thirdhand robes met them at the entrance of the Great Hall.
Snape had always been a thin, waifish kid. In first year he stood out amongst his Slytherins for his shabbiness; and next to Lily he was downright ghastly. It was often a topic of discussion which clammy cave he had slithered out of to come to school. James thought it was rich that Snape would act as he did when he was the one with greasy hair and ill-fitting robes and a face that only a mother could love – and even of that the Marauders were not in full agreement.
Looking at the Slytherin now, Remus wondered if a mother could indeed love a face so empty and…Well. Dead.
Somehow Snape had grown paler since they last saw him exactly one week ago. His skin – already an unnatural white at the best of times – was bluish at the fingers and around his black eyes, themselves disturbing in their own way. His eyes were special, Remus knew. James was near obsessed with them. Part of the reason he and Sirius bullied Snape so much was to get a rise out of him, to find ‘the human hidden beneath that cold, slimy Slytherin flesh’.
There was nothing in them now. Neither angry nor sad nor pleased. Just dead.
“All right, Snivellus!” said Sirius, thrilled. “What a surprise to see you here, although it shouldn’t be!” He clapped James’ back. “Didn’t I tell you his own mother can’t stand him?”
“You’re one to talk given your mother,” snorted James. “But far as I can recall not even Walburga ever sent you to school early from holidays. Guess we should come together and write a letter of consolation to Mrs. Snape. She’s only got a few more month to wait until Snivellus is a man grown and then he’ll be out of her hair forever.”
“And out of ours too, Merlin willing,” said Peter between them. “What? Your own mum couldn’t bear with you for more than a week? What’s wrong with you, Snivellus?”
Remus braced for an altercation that never came. Snape barely acknowledged their presence, let alone that they had mocked him. Remus could have shaken his hand for the outstanding display of maturity, but truth be told the Slytherin boy was far away. His body was there, yet the mind…
Snape blinked slowly. He furrowed his brows as though just now seeing them in front of him. Without a word, he walked past them towards his own Common Room.
The lack of response which Remus applauded was met with disappointment by his friends. “What’s his fucking problem?” said Sirius.
James shrugged. “Might be he’s not realised yet that he’s back at Hogwarts. How Evans had the kindness to be that charity case’s friend evades me.”
Sirius was almost of a mind to run after Snape and hex him, but James, seduced by the delicious smells in the air, already entered the Great Hall for breakfast.
Once they sat down at their table Sirius and James shifted their attention to Peter. Recently they had taken to teasing Wormtail for his crush on a girl that Sirius had snuck into their dorm to snog with after classes.
Considering himself an expert on women, James sat across him to tell him that it was not for the Marauders to eat off other men’s plate (even if that plate belonged to another Marauder). Sirius meanwhile, an actual expert on women, advised Wormtail to first date an ugly girl. “The hot ones won’t touch you unless you’re seen kissing a girl. Any girl. Like my uncle Alphard says: ‘only a starving woman will settle for a floppy fish’.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“If you can’t understand it, Peter, then you’re beyond saving.”
“Means you gotta prove you’re not a floppy fish,” said James helpfully.
Remus sunk his teeth into a cold sandwich when the owls swept into the Great Hall. A large parcel fell onto James’ lap. Of all their parents, his were the sorriest to see him stay at Hogwarts. Mrs. Potter wrote a long letter detailing every tiny thing her son had missed at home. James read it aloud while Sirius tore open the brown wrapping paper revealing a fruitcake large enough to feed the entire House of Gryffindor.
Sirius and Peter received nothing from their mothers, which wasn’t uncommon so caused no distress. Remus hadn’t received anything from his own mother, but still an owl flew over him to deliver his copy of The Daily Prophet. Around December the articles mostly recapped the past year and set the expectations for the new. Nothing interesting, if Remus was honest, but there was satisfaction to be had to be seen reading the papers.
Today’s edition was different. Starkly different. Instead of a cheesy picture of a ministry official at a charity event or an official holiday statement from the paper itself, a bold headline marked the front page: A Nightmare Before Christmas; Pureblood Witch and Muggle Husband Found Brutally Dead! Murder-Suicide Suspected!
Beneath the horrific words were the portraits of a man and a woman. An unlikely pair by the looks of them if Remus was honest. The man was handsome. A single look at him bespoke his melancholy. Yet with an aquiline nose and bright, gleaming, intelligent eyes the fellow resembled the Hollywood heartthrobs his mother admired despite the sadness about him. Remus wondered how much happier the man would have been if the picture printed was magical. His mother might have cut it out for herself.
The woman moved in her picture, however, though it did nothing for her. She was thin-faced and ugly. Her brows too heavy, her skin too bloodless, her eyes too big. But unlike the man she was smiling in her photo. And when she laughed she was almost pretty. Her hair was black and thick, bound in a long braid looping around her head. A rosary of silver and pearls hanged around the long white column of her neck, which Remus thought curious. Seventeen years a wizard and he had never seen a pureblood to wear anything religious.
Remus was fond of a good murder as any man. He skimmed through the article – not wanting to really read it while James sighed over the goodness of his mother – when his stomach dropped.
He reread the paragraph to make sure it was not the trick of the eye. No. No, it was not. There in clear black letters were the names of Eileen Prince and her husband, Tobias Snape.
“Give me that!” Sirius yanked the paper out of his hands. “What’s gotten you in such a terror? I would’ve thought passing exams would have put the horrors behind us.”
Remus snatched the paper back, ignoring the cries of protestations. His breakfast was forgotten. His appetite was dead and gone anyway. The article was too harrowing.
Ministry investigators believe that witch and husband died in a murder-suicide at their house on Spinner’s End Sunday evening. Eileen Snape, nee Prince (42), and her Muggle husband Tobias Snape (53) were found dead by their son Severus – currently a student at Hogwarts – when he arrived home from school for the Christmas holidays. Due to the abnormally cold weather, their bodies were well-preserved which let the investigators to thoroughly analyse the causes of their respective deaths.
According to the extensive coroner’s report, Tobias Snape had ingested a high dose of a homemade slow-acting poison. The poison was of a magical nature, and as Mrs. Snape was the only witch in residence in their area it is likely that she had poisoned her husband herself. It is known that wives Muggle and magical both kill their husbands in this manner every day, dear readers, but what was truly horrifying in this case was that the wife had killed herself within an hour of the husband’s passing. While we cannot provide pictures of the crime scene due to its graphic nature, believe this reporter when she says that she does not exaggerate the coroner’s report. Turn to page 15 to read further on this case that shook both our world and that of the Muggles.
On page fifteen there were two more pictures. The first was that of a wedding. Tobias and Eileen, Snape’s—Severus’ parents, were snapped leaving a small church by the sea. Their hands were clasped tightly together. In her free hand Eileen held a small bouquet of white flowers; her black hair was elaborately braided beneath a sheer veil. Next to her was her happy husband. He was kissing her cheek.
At the bottom of the page was the second image; it caught the funeral. A sharp pain stabbed through Remus to see Severus at the cemetery. Save for a priest, the boy stood alone amidst snow and ice. His head was cast down. Like his mother, Severus also held a small bouquet in his hand. Little white flowers bound with a bit of string. He placed it atop the snowy graves. Then he turned sharply to stare at Remus, or rather the photographer. The black eyes burned with anger.
The article went as followed:
Neighbours and friends of the victims say the couple were passionate. Eileen Snape was born a Prince, a pureblood family of Irish origin. She had wed her husband despite her parents’ disapproval and abandoned the Wizarding World for his sake. A woman of her character naturally found a man with a temper to match it, dear readers! All the Muggles we interviewed claimed that Tobias Snape was as strong in his rages as his mirth. According to the acquaintances, a murder-suicide was not inconceivable. In fact, once we consider the facts it does become a very natural conclusion to a most unnatural union!
Eileen Snape was a talented potioneer. She had passed the subject with flying colours while a student at Hogwarts, and though married to a Muggle it is apparent she did not let her skills rust. No conclusive evidence had been established, but it is extremely likely that the witch sold potions to her Muggle neighbours to make ends meet. Investigators have additionally found stacks of notes detailing her own experiments and their effect on test subjects. Her favourite subject happened to be her own husband.
Yet I urge you not to hurry to conclusions! Mr. Snape was no helpless Muggle as some activists will be quick to frame him. Working at a local factory [a large workshop where Muggles work with loud metal machines], Mr. Snape was described by his friends as the strongest of the lot. Even in his fifties they insist that he had the strength of a man half his age. His physical robustness was naturally useful at work…and at home where he beat his wife. The Snapes’ neighbours confirmed that Mr. Snape regularly struck Mrs. Snape behind closed doors.
The exact circumstances cannot be described, but the coroner’s report declares that bruises in every stage of healing marked Mrs. Snape’s cadaver. Investigators have also confirmed that there was a violent altercation between husband and wife on the day of their deaths. Mrs. Snape suffered a black eye, a broken lip, a broken clavicle, and a sprained ankle as a result of a fall from the flight of stairs (whether accidental or intentional is left for my dear readers to decide) whereas Mr. Snape was found with hex marks across his flesh as well as nerve damage from a repeated casting of the unforgivable Cruciatus Curse.
“We believe that Mrs. Snape had poisoned her husband sometime in late November or the start of December,” said Auror Anna Nicholson. “The current theory is that Mr. Snape had discovered that his wife had tampered with his meals and a fight occurred as a result. He had beaten Mrs. Snape very badly and she retaliated with curses.”
“Did Mr. Snape die as a result of the Cruciatus Curse?”
“No,” said Auror Nicholson. “The coroner decidedly ruled out curses as a cause of Mr. Snape’s death. The poison acted slowly, but it acted. Mr. Snape died because of the poison given to him by his wife. We cannot tell what poison specifically he had consumed as it was an original recipe, but I tell you when it killed him it did it quick.”
“And what of Mrs. Snape? Is it possible to take your life as she did?”
“It’s…rare,” said the auror. “Most people cannot bring themselves to slash their wrists. How can they then be expected to do the same to their throats?”
You read it right, dear readers! When investigators broke into the house, they found the couple dead on the floor of their bedroom. Tobias Snape had collapsed on the floor – the poison having stopped his heart – with his wife on top of him, her arms thrown around his neck in an embrace. Shortly after the crime scene was investigated, the aurors set to take the bodies to the coroner. Auror Marcus Young had been tasked with lifting Eileen Snape off her husband. As he did, he and his team were disturbed to discover an ugly red wound savaging her throat.
Sirius, James, and Peter had been reading the article with him. They had gone quiet. The reporter had a sick fascination with Mrs. Snape’s suicide. Nobody cut their own throats, after all. Nobody cut throats at all nowadays. The reporter went on to have a long conversation with Auror Nicholson on the manner. Essentially what the suicide method told the aurors was that Eileen Snape, nee Prince was as troubled as the bubbles in her cauldron. The woman had scores of gentle poisons in her cupboard, and she chose to mutilate herself.
Eileen and Tobias Snape are survived by their only son, Severus. We reached out to him for a comment on his parents’ untimely demise as well as to hear his thoughts on what could have happened. The youth had nothing to say except that, “They loved each other.”
“But your mother poisoned your father, and your father beat your mother.”
Severus Snape scowled and, in a waspish tone, insisted that, “To them that was love. I didn’t say I agreed with them, did I, now?”
Mr. Severus Snape declined to give any further comment on the matter.
Remus finished reading the last line when Snape entered the Great Hall. Madam Pomfrey dragged him to the Slytherin table by the arm. She sat next to him on the bench and forced him to drink a potion. She also made him eat breakfast, succeeding halfway: Snape drank a cup of pumpkin juice and nibbled on a bit of bread. When the nurse pressed him to eat a fried egg or bacon or literally anything more substantial, he snapped something harsh at her and fled the scene. Sighing, the nurse followed him.
“Do you think he has any other relatives left?” asked James quietly.
Remus looked down at the paper, at the picture of the funeral. On it Snape stood lonely in the snow, clutching a small bouquet of little white flowers. “I doubt it.”
***
Uncle Selwyn might as well have been another dead Snape for all the help he offered Severus. His mother had never liked her in-laws, and Severus understood her well. He remembered as a toddler listening to her berate his uncles and aunts. She hated them. Despised them. “Parasites,” she hissed when his father was working. “Parasites the lot of them. No better than Nifflers with how they rob your father blind. Were it not for your daddy’s good heart and conscience, they’d be dead in the street.”
His uncle Selwyn was admittedly the least hated by her. He had paid back a part of his debt to Severus’ father, and sometimes had a kind word to say to his sister-in-law to whom the rest of the Snapes never warmed.
Not that they were friendly. Eileen still wanted Selwyn dead and would have in all likelihood killed him if Tobias had let her while Selwyn openly called her ‘the Irish bitch’ that had seduced his honest brother.
“I wish my mam had killed you,” said Severus coldly.
“And I wish Eileen had killed herself without dragging my brother into the grave with her,” said his uncle Selwyn, “but we don’t get what we want, do we, boy?”
Selwyn Snape had much of his elder brother in him. Although he was shorter and plainer of face by birth, and greyer in the hair on account of his Protestant ex-wife, Selwyn had to him a reservation and sombreness that Eileen had found so enchanting in her husband. They even looked the most alike of their siblings, both being tall, lean fellows with a hardness to their knuckles and sockets that pushed through the skin and swallowed their blue-grey eyes.
Selwyn was colder than his father though. Severus’ mam said once that she was glad that her husband had blood in his veins instead of the milk that ran through his second brother. Twisting under his gaze, however, Severus wondered if maybe instead of blood or milk his uncle Selwyn had ice coursing through him.
His gaze was cold, disapproving. For all the love Selwyn had for Tobias, it never translated to Severus. Too much of his mother in him.
“My da lent you a total sum of a hundred and twenty-two pounds over the last seven years,” said Severus with a surety he did not feel. His father had lent Uncle Selwyn at least that much but knowing him it could have been more. Way more. Severus just had the proof for that amount. “My mother mentioned you were paying it back.”
“Aye, and I’ve been covering my siblings’ debts to Toby too.”
“You going to cover them now that da’s dead?”
Selwyn darkened. For a moment, Severus was of a mind that his uncle meant to snuff the cigarette on the skin of his forearm. Severus flinched and snapped his arms under the table. Across the hall, the pub owner eyed them with concern.
The pub was two streets north of Spinner’s End. That’s where the grandchildren of the first Irish hands lived. What few Muggle friends his mam had dwelt here, and the pub owner especially heard her speak ill of the leeches growing fat on her husband’s blood.
His uncle lit tossed the cigarette aside. Then he lit another. “How can you ask me that, boy? Notwithstanding your…abilities, you’re Toby’s son. His only son.” Selwyn slowly exhaled a plume of smoke. His lip was bloody from chewing it – a nervous tic, according to his father, from the days of the war. “I wish Toby had beaten you more. Might be he could have beaten your mother’s sin outta you.”
Severus shrugged. “He had tried.”
“I know his wallops,” huffed Selwyn indignantly. “He’s always been too soft, our Toby.”
His mam said the same. Severus wondered what world she and Uncle Selwyn inhabited where his father was soft and gentle and kind. The man whom Severus called da was as hard and cold as the machines at the factory and the buckle of his belt.
Uncle Selwyn must have read his mind longwise. “He was,” he insisted. “Toby could have been anything. He could have been a historian. He wanted to be a historian, wanted to learn about them Romans.” He glanced up at Severus. “Named you after an emperor, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“See? Could’ve been everything. He should’ve taught and learned.”
Severus simply could not imagine his brutish father by a blackboard. Besides, “He didn’t have the money for a proper education.”
“He could’ve been a musician. Your mother loved his voice, I know that. When he sang,” Selwyn nearly smiled, “Eileen would thunder down the stairs to sit at his side and sing next to him. What happened to his guitar? My gift to him it was.”
“Broke,” said Severus curtly. His uncle did not need to know that his parents had pawned it to pay for a new second-hand uniform to replace the thirdhand set ruined at the Black Lake. “Getting another would’ve been too expensive.”
“That school of yours is too expensive.”
“Da wanted me to have a proper education.”
Selwyn gritted his teeth. Then he shoved a hand into the pocket of his patched coat and slammed on the table a wad of cash. Severus snatched it with the same roughness. In the shadow of the table he counted the notes and saw it added up exactly to a hundred and thirty pounds.
“The extra is my last gift to you,” said Selwyn. “That’s my debt to your da covered. Your ma can’t haunt me now.”
Severus chuckled, though it sounded more a hiss, as he hid the money in the inner pocket of his coat. “Last gift?” he asked. “What? You’re going to kill yourself too?”
“Boy.” There was a sharpness to Selwyn’s tone; it was sharper and crueller than his father’s ever was. “You’ve outgrown your childhood. It came to an end the day your mother slashed her throat. How old are you?”
Severus stared. “Seventeen,” he said. “Seventeen, this coming January.”
“Seventeen,” repeated Selwyn. “That’s old enough. Toby was supporting the family since fifteen. That money’s for you to use wisely. Consider that the last bit of financial support you’ll have from your da. I won’t be here for you so don't come crying if you waste it all on something stupid.”
“Are you actually going to kill yourself?”
“Why shouldn’t I? I’ve no family left.”
Severus clenched his hands into fists. A stone lodged in his throat. Mam was right, he thought bitterly. “Can I ask when you’re going to off yourself or is that information also exclusive to your relatives?”
“Just look for me in the newspaper,” said Selwyn tiredly. “And keep praying for your father. Don’t have to for the rest of us, but never stop praying for him, alright? Get him through purgatory quickly.”
“I don’t need you telling me my filial duties,” snapped Severus. He staggered to his feet and glared down at this wretched filthy Mudblood who hadn’t even come to the fucking funeral; how his father could have loved him dearer than his own wife and his own child—
The next morning the aurors sent him to school.
Severus had wanted to stay home. He didn’t buy their excuse that it was ‘inappropriate’ for him to stay in his damn house just because his parents’ blood happened to stain the walls a bit.
They packed him off to Hogwarts as soon as he came back from him meeting with Selwyn. Promises and consolations showered down on Severus the whole journey. Their words rang hollow, especially after the news broke when they had promised that it would not. Now everybody could read and gawk at his mother and father, laughing and tittering at their breakfast tables when the Snapes’ own table would never again be full.
Severus had a notion to follow his uncle’s example and kill himself too. He could have done it. Hell, he could have gotten the Marauders to do it for him given how eager Black was to see him dead anyway.
Then he heard that Madam Pince was off on holidays. Severus gasped to himself. The Restricted Section.
***
Snape was a freak. That was common knowledge around Hogwarts. Normal witches and wizards didn’t learn a slew of dark spells by their eleventh birthday, and Remus had sometimes speculated what kind of a household the Snapes were if their kid just had access to dark books.
Every wonder and guess he ever had was currently answered by a flood of articles on the murder-suicide. The Daily Prophet attempted to keep it professional by inviting Muggle-friendly speakers and Pureblood supremacists alike to discuss the matter; the latter camp celebrated the news with a series of inflammatory articles arguing for further segregation. Now that they had tangible proof of ‘the Muggle threat’ to the Wizarding World, they sunk their claws onto the memory of the deceased Snapes.
James more than anybody read the articles with astonishing interest. Remus pitied him more than anything. The Potters came straight out of Peter Rabbit so James had a difficult time wrapping his mind around the case.
“How could he have beaten her?” he kept asking. “She’s his wife! And how could she—Why did she let him get away with it? She was a witch! Couldn’t she have hexed him?”
“He looks strong,” said Sirius once. “What’s it say he works as?”
Remus skimmed through one of the many articles. “A factory worker.” At Sirius’ questing look, he explained, “It’s kind of a like workshop with severely worse conditions. You ever see the men at the London docks?”
“Yeah.”
“Snape’s dad was cut from their cloth.”
“This article says they loved each other!” cried James. “A tale of star-crossed lovers!”
“That’s The Quibbler you’re reading, mate,” said Remus sternly. “Of course, they’d run a story like that. Star-crossed lovers kill themselves when they can’t get married; the Snapes meanwhile did get married and lived together long enough to have Snape.”
James was about to protest when Snape himself entered the Great Hall, putting an end to the conversation. James grabbed the newspapers and threw them on the floor beneath the table. Then he grabbed Sirius by the arm and pulled him into an entirely different conversation about Quidditch.
The Marauders had avoided Snape since the news hit the papers. It seemed…Well. What’re they supposed to do? Be bosom friends with him right after his parents’ untimely demise?
They never saw him anyways. Snape rarely left the library these days, choosing to haunt the Restricted Section with Pince on holidays.
Remus first saw him two days after the awkward encounter at the entrance of the Great Hall. He had come to the library to check out a book on grindylows when he heard a loud sob. Initially he brushed it off as Moaning Myrtle seeking attention outside of her allocated bathroom. The sobbing continued as he browsed the aisle until it turned into a scream. Remus dropped his schoolbag and rushed towards the direction before stopping dead in his tracks at the Restricted Section.
Circled by tall bookish towers, Snape hunched over a book on poisonous brews. His shoulders trembled violently; he was biting the knuckles of his right hand so hard as to draw blood. Tears and sweat fell onto the yellowed pages, and behind the curtain of black hair Remus saw him murmur out the recipes. The blood drawn from his knuckles stained his lips and teeth red.
Remus had walked out of the library. What was he supposed to do? What on earth could he have done? They never liked each other, and after the incident at the Shrieking Shack Remus knew he wouldn’t be welcome.
And yet nobody had said a kind word to Snape since his return. Even the teachers avoided him. The boy was every sort of unpleasant, but to have no comfort after…. Articles upon articles dissected his parents’ lives and he hid in the library with his books on dark magic.
“I’m going to offer him our condolences,” said Remus.
“What?” said both James and Sirius. The former continued, “Are you crazy? Snivellus? You’re going to talk to Snivellus? Why?”
“I am taking the higher ground here! We’ve been gossiping about him this past week while avoiding him like we never have before.”
James looked at him like he was an idiot. “Yeah, because look what his old man and woman did. It’s—I’m not—No. No, we’re never talking to him again, lads. I mean it. We can’t be seen beating Snivellus even if he is Snivellus.”
“In a way, his parents did him a favour,” said Peter. “Nobody will bother him now.”
At the Slytherin table, Snape twitched and clawed at the bandages wrapped around his hand. Remus thought it strange how his neck, head, shoulders, and legs twitched but never his hands. Steady, stern. A potion master’s hands.
“I won’t be bothering him,” said Remus stubbornly. “And what’s going to happen? We’re in the Great Hall and McGonogall is up there at the teachers’ table. She’ll interfere if something happens.”
With that said, Remus gathered every bit of his Gryffindor courage and headed towards Snape.
During the Christmas holidays, students were permitted to have their suppers later than normal; and as there were significantly fewer of them consequently they were less candles floating in the air. The dim orange glow flattered Snivellu—Snape. In that light, Remus thought, he could almost be a Severus.
He stood quietly next to him, waiting for the Slytherin to acknowledge him first. Remus stood for three minutes when he realised that he was not as interesting as the book Snape was reading. He glimpsed on the aged pages; it detailed the logistics of necromancy. Underneath the book was a cut out from The Daily Prophet. A picture of Mrs. Snape, laughing and twirling the silver rosary around her neck.
Snape stopped scribbling in his notebook. Carefully he peered through the black curtain of his hair. No sooner did he see that it was Remus than he shut the book with a decisive swat. Just as quickly he hid the picture of his mother. “What do you want?” he all but snarled.
“I’m here to offer my condolences,” said Remus politely, “and that of my friends.”
Whatever Snape had expected, it was definitely not that. His large eyes slowly blinked and he pushed a hand through his hair as if seeing Remus better would make sense of the sentiment.
Remus thought very well of himself. Thought he and Snape deserved a pat on the back for this charming little interaction – the longest peaceful meeting between a Marauder and Snivelly in years – and already imagined the points added to their respective hourglasses.
Then Snape struck him hard in the jaw.
Remus fell flat on the ground, startled. Across the hall the Marauders shouted and protested; by the sound of them, they were climbing over the tables. McGonagall also piped out from her seat at the high table, threatening them with disciplinary action.
“Your condolences?” said Snape, shaking. “You’re offering me your condolences? Why?”
“Because—”
“‘Because it’s the right thing to do!” said Snape in a mocking imitation of Remus. He raised his leg and proper kicked Remus between the ribs. “And what good are your condolences? Are your condolences so special that they’ll undo their deaths and bring them back?”
“I didn’t—”
Snape kicked him again. His arm flew high in the air, and as it flung downwards at Remus was caught by Sirius.
Physically Padfoot was stronger by half than Snape. He lifted him off the ground and threw him against the nearby wall. “Maybe your parents should’ve killed themselves sooner seeing how you fucking turned out! Remus was being nice to you!”
“So I should be honoured?” Snape’s laugh had a hysterical edge to it. “I should be honoured!” He clapped repeatedly and laughed louder. “Of course! Of course, I’m so stupid. It was only a show of the Gryffindor valour and honour and bravery that tempted Lupin to come offer his condolences. I suppose I should have taken that night as an honour as well, Black?”
Sirius gritted his teeth. His own hand balled into a fist that undoubtedly would have dislocated Snape’s jaw were it not for McGonogall stepping between them. Knowing Sirius’ temper, she took him aside (while warning Snape and Remus to stay where they were). Remus clambered to his feet, rubbing the hurt from cheek.
“You could’ve told me to leave you alone,” said Remus. “You never had a problem with that.”
“What reason have I to trust that you would have left? Zip it,” said Snape harshly before Remus answer. “I don’t want to hear how you’re not the one that antagonises me the most.”
Now that was libel, and dead parents or not Remus would not stand it. “Well, it’s the truth! Whatever bad blood we have is nothing compared to the feud between you and Sirius and James. Look,” he rubbed his temple, “I really just wanted to say I’m sorry for your loss.”
Snape chewed on his nails. He ripped several strands of hair and cracked the knuckles of his left hand. “That’s why you came to me at the Great Hall of all places on school grounds to give me your worthless condolences,” he said with quiet resentment. “You could’ve done it in the library. I know you heard me. You saw me too.”
Remus tried not to let his upset show. “Tell me honestly: would I have been welcomed then?”
The black eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you sick of yourself? Really, like—haven’t you had enough of yourself?”
“What?” Remus stepped forward but Snape flinched and took a backward step away from him. “Care to elaborate?”
“No, actually,” said Snape. “I don’t think I will.”
Precisely at that moment McGonagall sent Sirius back to the Gryffindor table. She hurried towards Remus and Snape, already raising her voice to scold them for bickering when she told them to be silent. Snape shot her a nasty glare full of hatred, but Remus was focused more on Snape himself. To be more precise, he was caught up in the startling observation that his hands had begun to shake.
They both received a verbal walloping from McGonagall. Both got detention they would have to serve for the remainder of the Christmas holidays, although Remus counted his blessings that they were not punished in a joint manner. Scrubbing cauldrons with Snape would have been a nightmare.
He did not see or hear a whit of Snape until the end of next week. According to the younger Slytherins – those not yet entangled in the rivalry between their house and Gryffindor – Snape took to hiding in the darkest corners of the dungeon.
The next time he saw Snape was on Sunday night atop the Astronomy Tower. Remus’ detention of the day involved him wiping the blackboards clean in every classroom in the castle. By the time he reached Professor Sinistra’s classroom it was midnight. Eager as he was to get done with the task, Remus opened the door without a care for the hour though once he saw him he very quickly went quiet.
Snape sat on the edge of the windowsill. His legs dangled against the outer wall of the tower. The winds howled with a vengeance, and snow rushed into the classroom furiously. Remus had to shield his eyes from the onslaught of sleet, but Snape was unbothered by it.
“What’re you doing?” asked Remus gently as he could.
“You can go. I’ve wiped the blackboard already.”
“Thanks,” he said, “but what are you doing up here?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Like you’re about to do something stupid.”
That earned him a snicker. “I guess I might do something stupid. Wouldn’t that make you Marauders happy.” Suddenly, Snape twisted around to face Remus directly. “So? What’re you doing here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Typical.”
The horned moon illuminated the otherwise dark classroom. Shining light silvered Snape’s skin and sharpened the haggard features by casting shadows. Remus swallowed. It was worse interacting with Snape by himself. Back in second and halfway through the third, they had normal conversations when by themselves. Friendly, some might have said.
Remus set down the basin full of chalky water and walked to stand by the window. Below the snow flurried twice as angrily, beating at the stones that built the tower. The ground, hidden by a layer of snow and sleet, appeared impossibly far.
“My uncle flung himself into the River Irwell this week,” said Snape nonchalantly. “Jumped off the bridge and downriver he went.”
Remus started. “Was it an accident?”
“No more than my mother’s slashed throat was.” Snape leaned towards the edge, and Remus readied his wand. “Drowning is an ugly death. The river spat my uncle up too soon for the process to commence, but most drowned bodies are soft and puffy like Yorkshire pudding. My mother had the right of it, cutting her throat. She still looked herself when—.”
“The newspapers say that the cold preserved her,” said Remus.
“It did.” Snape looked down at the whirlwind spinning up the tower. “If I were to fall off this tower,” he said, distant and hollow, “the newspapers won’t call me ‘preserved’, I don’t think. Have you ever seen what happened to bodies that fall from cliffs or skyscrapers?”
“No.”
“Neither have I,” said Snape softly. “I’ve only read about it. From this height, I reckon a person would break apart like a fallen egg. Bits of them would remain intact, and from those bits the coroners could try to sew me back together.”
“Snape,” Remus took him by the arm and for the first time in seven years it did not end with assault, “I’ll walk you to the Slytherin dormitory.”
“I’m not going to kill myself, Lupin.”
“You looked like you were.”
He snorted. “What would it matter if I did?”
Before he could bite down his tongue, Remus said in the quietest voice, “Everything.”
The look Snape gave him was strange. Neither cold nor hot, neither friendly nor hostile. Just…strange, but very human. It must have come from the part of him that James and Sirius were desperate to drag to the surface.
Snape refused to engage in conversation the entire route to the dungeons, would not even say goodbye or good night. Come morning, the silence continued. It lasted the next day, and the next, and then the whole week, term, and year.
The silence never broke, and Remus had all but given up the hope of ever speaking with Snape again, until the autumn of nineteen ninety-three.