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Damn you, lj, for making me break this story into bits. Pressing onward:
The Liar and the Auror
by Trismegistus
Part II
Likely it was the whistling of the teapot that woke Potter. At any rate, the Auror stumbled down the stairs not long after Snape had seated himself at the table and set about eating his toast and jam.
To Snape's infinite satisfaction, the dark circles under the boy's eyes indicated that he'd slept as uneasily as Snape.
Potter stood for a moment in the kitchen doorway, yawning hugely. He looked down at his rumpled clothing in mild dismay - Snape noted happily that he at least was wearing a proper set of fresh clothing, by virtue of this being his house, and took immense satisfaction in that fact.
Although he didn't say anything, he let his eyes rake the Auror from head to foot, taking in Potter's scruffy trousers and vastly wrinkled Muggle-style polo shirt.
"You could have at least made me breakfast," Potter said peevishly.
"Oh, I didn't dare wake you," he responded with venomous sweetness. He'd come to a conclusion that morning, while the bastard was still asleep. If Potter was here on official duties as an Auror, then he was as trapped with Snape as Snape was with him, for all that this assignment might be the fulfilment of Potter's long-standing vendetta. It was a revelation, and Snape fully intended to make Potter's stay as uncomfortable as possible without pushing the man into arresting him out of sheer frustration.
Potter treated him to an icy glare from those moss-green eyes before stalking over to the countertop. He paused, then shot Snape a surprised look from beneath his unruly fringe.
"You cook like a Muggle."
Snape's eyes swept over his kitchen - the refrigerator; the countertop appliances; the grease-spattered stovetop, yet to be cleaned; the dishes drying in the rack by the sink. "Obviously."
"Why?"
Why indeed? Potter appeared genuinely puzzled by this belated observation. Fine Auror you make, Snape longed to tell him, if such trivial matters throw you off balance.
"Why not just use magic?" Potter continued. "It's easier."
"I fail to see what any of this has to do with my suitability or lack thereof for a cell in Azkaban," he said, and met Potter's eyes with a sardonic arch of an eyebrow.
"Fine," Potter grumbled, rather surprising Snape that he'd conceded the point at all. "Where do you keep the bread?"
Snape motioned to drawer near the sink and returned his attention to his meal.
"Mr Potter," he said after a few minutes had elapsed. "As it appears that you intend to eat all of my bread and a good deal of my fruit as well, what compensation I can expect to receive for housing you here during the course of your 'Observation?'"
"The fact that your innocence is established beyond doubt should be compensation enough," said Potter archly.
"So the Ministry allows its officials to live like kings on the backs of the unfortunates it chooses to investigate?" he said through gritted teeth.
Potter looked as if he were about to protest Snape's defamation of the Ministry's methods, then paused and reconsidered. "Yeah," he said. "That's about it. Not much you can do about it either way."
There was nothing Snape could say in response to that, so he had to content himself with ignoring the bastard's presence to the best of his ability, hoping that Potter felt the chilly silence in the kitchen intensely.
"All right, then," said Potter finally, rising from his chair. "Let's get this over with." Snape noticed he left his dirty dishes where they sat on the table.
"Get what over with? I can assure you I'll make a dreadfully dull subject for interrogation." It was true - Potter could administer all the Veritaserum and Truthspeaking spells he desired; he'd never wrangle any sort of confession out of Snape. Snape had nothing to confess.
Still, the thought of being forced to speak of his reasons for leaving, his reasons for becoming a Muggle, left a cold sheen of sweat on his palms. He swallowed around the thickness in his throat.
"Oh, I'm sure of that," Potter said dryly. "But we aren't doing an interrogation, Snape. Not until we've finished the Investigation."
Investigation? What was the bastard on about?
Potter was still talking. His voice had taken on a measured, didactic quality; Snape knew he was reciting Ministry law again. "You may remain present if you wish; however, any attempt to obstruct or otherwise interfere with the proceedings will be construed as an admission of wrongdoing.
"If you are currently in possession of any illicit items, including but not limited to: grimories; contraband wands; necrophilic paraphenalia; magical creatures or parts thereof; reagents; potions; potions bases; or other magical items prohibited from public ownership by International Wizarding Law, declare them now." Potter paused. "Do you have any illicit potions?" he asked. He sounded slightly curious, if a little bored.
"No," Snape replied through clenched teeth. Potter looked him deep in the eye and then continued with his recitation.
It appeared that Potter was preparing to search his house from the foundations to the eaves for any sign of wrongdoing. Snape had spent a sleepless night preparing himself for all sorts of humiliations at the bastard's hands, but this had not been one of them.
This was, in some ways, worse than Veritaserum. The potion would have compelled Snape to tell the truth, yet the truth he told would be nothing less than the truth as he saw it. His possessions could not speak for themselves. Potter was free to draw what conclusions he would from them.
No, that was not it at all. Under the effects of Veritaserum, Snape would only have been forced to give Potter the answers to explicit questions. But now, Potter was going to see the whole of Snape's life, defined by his material possessions, spread out before him.
It was a violation.
Potter had stopped talking some time ago. A small smirk was toying at the corners of his mouth. "Ready, Snape?"
He schooled his face into its blankest and most imposing mask and said simply, "Yes."
"All right."
Potter started in the kitchen, making quick work of the cabinets, refrigerator, and pantry. They went next to the basement, which was unfinished and contained little besides the furnace, water heater, washer and dryer.
"Do you use these?" Potter asked curiously.
"No, Potter. They are merely here for ornamentation." A small part of him thrilled to hear his former imperious tones creeping back into his voice.
"Watch yourself, Snape," said Potter edgily, and the thrill evaporated.
Then it was back up the stairs to the living-room. Here, Snape began to feel much more nervous. Although the room was sparsely furnished by Muggle standards, it was the heart of Snape's home, for here he kept his books. They lined all four walls, except where the shelving was broken by the front window, the fireplace, the desk, and the doors to the kitchen and hallway.
It didn't appear at first glance that there was much in the room to search, but Snape was too well-versed in Auror methodology to believe that Potter, Auror that he was, would ignore the books.
And true to his expectations, Potter spent the better part of that afternoon pulling his books off the shelves one by one, flipping through them, casting spells of revealing and magic detection, carefully reading all the notes Snape had scrawled in the margins.
Snape found the experience both harrowing and exhausting. He had never, never... Even while living under the close scrutiny of Dumbledore and the Order during the first War, he had never...
After his return to the Light, his rooms at Hogwarts had been enchanted so that the presence of every magical object within was detectable to Dumbledore and the Order, should they wish to be made aware of them, but no one had ever set foot inside his chambers. They had never been searched. No one had ever seen where Snape lived, his private possessions...
He had been able to take whatever he wanted into and out of his rooms, and so long as the items weren’t magical, no-one but him knew that they existed. But now... His personality had never been laid bare to such an extent. Each book told Potter more about him, the parts of himself he didn't dare show to others, and Potter had his hands all over them.
He felt as though he couldn’t breathe.
Standing and watching Potter laboriously examine each book was exhausting, so he sat down on his sofa and stared blankly at nothing. It started to rain, small droplets pattering on the window at his back. The sound alternately soothed him and set his teeth on edge.
“It’s five o’clock.”
Potter’s voice startled him as he sat, not sleeping but very much lost in his own morbid thoughts.
“You will one day realise, Potter, that time will not stop at your behest.”
Potter ignored the comment. “You aren’t going to have dinner?”
“I’ve no appetite.”
“Oh,” Potter said. And then, “These are all Muggle books.”
“Your command of the obvious astounds.”
Potter was silent for a long moment. “You don’t have to be unpleasant, Snape.” His voice was bitter, reproachful.
“Don’t I?” he snarled, bile rising in his throat. “Tell me, Potter, how am I to react when you invade my life for the second time? It wasn't enough that you--” He broke off suddenly, panting. He should not have reminded Potter of that day and the Pensieve.
“It isn’t as if I wanted to do this.” Potter’s voice hitched strangely on the words.
“Oh, I’m sure. But tell me,” he spat, “given the circumstances, of the two of us, who would you rather be?”
Potter stood silently, a dangerous expression on his face. He looked for all the world like a cornered animal, although by rights it was Snape who should be feeling so. Former student and two decades Snape’s junior though he may be, Potter was the one who had both authority and the entire weight of wizarding society at his back. He was the Auror, the hero, the official. Snape was, and had always been, the outcast.
Yet it was evidence of the bastard’s disgusting sense of self-importance that he looked just as angry and persecuted as Snape felt himself.
“Fine,” said Potter softly. “We can finish this after I eat.”
Snape waited until Potter had left the room to sink slowly back onto the sofa. He was absolutely exhausted, and he knew he must look drawn and deathly pale. He could hear Potter moving about in his kitchen, slamming cabinet doors, rattling china, stomping about on the linoleum.
He could care less about the brat’s temper. He was finding it difficult to care about anything at this point.
The noises stopped as Potter presumably set about eating his meal. The shadows in the room deepened as the winter sun set behind its veil of cloud. One by one the streetlights came on; their illumination sent Snape’s shadow shafting across the worn carpet.
The silence was complete, save for the occasional noise of a passing car.
Potter reemerged in the doorway. “Have you even bothered to move?”
“I wouldn’t want you to think I was concealing evidence while you dined in my kitchen, none the wiser.” By now it should have been clear, even to an imbecile such as Potter, that there was no evidence to hide, nor had their ever been.
“How much is left?”
“What?” He no longer tried to disguise the weariness in his voice
“Your house,” Potter said testily. “How much of it is left?”
He shrugged slightly. “The garage. The bedrooms - mine and yours. The study. The upstairs bathroom. The storage space.”
“Then lets get them over with,” said Potter grimly.
The horror of having Potter rifle through his clothing and toiletries paled in comparison to the Auror’s inspection of his books, and so the rest of the investigation seemed to pass fairly quickly, by comparison.
Either that, or Snape had descended into the lazy calm of shock. He thought it highly likely, given the circumstances. Then he wondered with amused detachment whether someone in shock could be aware of that fact at all, and if they were, was it really shock?
At the very least, Potter made mercifully short work of the guest room and bathroom. The study gave him pause, as Snape had known it would. The room was comparatively large for such a small house, but contained very little aside from several large, locked chests sat at intervals around the floor, well away from the windows.
Potter shoved past Snape, knelt by the nearest chest and began running through the standard Auror arsenal of revealing spells and trap-detection incantations. Something seemed to surprise him, and he stopped and began the investigation anew. His suspicions confirmed, he moved to each of the other chests in turn and investigated them as well.
He looked up after he'd finished with the last one, light reflecting off of the lenses of his glasses so that Snape found it difficult to look him in the eye. "These chests are all warded," he said, as Snape had predicted he would. "They're the only things in the house with spells on them."
"I don't know how I managed myself, Potter, before you were here to keep me informed as to the state of my material belongings," he said icily.
"What's in them, Snape?" Potter returned in equally icy tones.
"Why don't you open them and find out?" he sneered.
"I'd much rather have you do it for me."
Snape realised with a sudden stomach-twisting lurch that Potter had drawn his wand. He couldn't read Potter's eyes, thanks to the light reflecting from the lenses, but judging by the steadiness of his hand and the coldness of his voice, he was deadly serious. Once again, Snape had pushed too far. Potter was an Auror; he would have easily identified the ward on those chests. It was not an elaborate spell, its effects merely making it physically impossible to open the chests without the proper key. A simple Alohamora was all that was needed to open them by magical means. That was all Snape had intended to convey with his words, but of course Potter must think the ward was there to disguise some sort of trap.
As would any wizard, let alone an Auror alone in the house of a man he did not trust.
"Very well," he whispered, withdrawing the key from his clothing. Potter started as he put his hand into the pocket; the boy was obviously expecting some sort of magical attack. Snape wondered how he'd react upon finally discovering that Snape was essentially incapable of one, but quickly dropped that line of thought. It, like so much else these past twenty-four hours, did not bear thinking about.
He stalked about the room, unlocking each chest and throwing the lids open so that their contents were exposed - heaps of Knuts, Sickles, Galleons, all shimmering in the powerful illumination of the room's steady electric lighting.
Potter was struck dumb by the sight. Snape took a slight, twisted satisfaction at the idiotic expression on the man's face. Surely Potter had twice as much, fifty times as much money, and yet he was staring at Snape's chests as if he'd stumbled upon buried treasure.
"You- you're rich," he said finally.
Snape said nothing in response, and his silence seemed to break Potter free of his fascination. "Where did you get all this money, Snape?" he demanded, voice hardening. Potter's suspicions were plain on his face - bribery, murder, extortion of the sort the Dark Lord had been fond of committing during his rise to power.
"I assure you, it is my own money, Potter, and I came by it all quite legally."
Potter had his wand back up, and judging by the look in his eyes, he was less than convinced. "If you're lying to me--" he began.
"I am fully aware of the consequences," Snape snapped back. "And so I am not wasting my time trying to lie. The money is mine."
"Then why the spells?"
"To prevent Muggles from disturbing their contents."
Potter's sceptical expression did not falter.
"Oh, use your head, boy!" he snapped, irritated and throwing caution to the winds. "A first year could easily dispel these wards with naught but his wand and determination. Do you really think I would be so careless, were I guarding the contents of these chests from other wizards?"
Potter blinked, obviously stymied by Snape's logic. "You're worried about Muggle burglars?" he said stupidly.
"You don't believe Muggle burglars would be interested in carrying off gold and silver?" he responded. That he was more worried about the possible consequences of rumours concerning the chests' contents than he was potential theft, he left unsaid. Potter would most likely be unaware of how interested the Muggle government would be to hear that he had chests of odd gold and silver coins hidden in his house.
"There's nothing in the chests but money?" asked Potter finally.
"You are more than free to empty them all and find out for yourself," he responded. It was inevitable that Potter would help himself to the money; Snape reckoned he might as well encourage the man to get it over with sooner rather than later.
Potter stared at him for a long, hard moment. "Fine," he said, grudgingly. "Lock them up and replace the wards."
Now it was Snape's turn to stare. Was the man being serious? He was alone in Snape's house with a small fortune at his fingertips and all the authority and credibility of an Auror at his back, while Snape lacked any comparable advantage. There were no witnesses. And yet Potter was not going to take any?
Anyone would have done that.
No, any Slytherin would have done that. But Potter had been a Gryffindor, and Gryffindors prided themselves on their alleged honour. If Potter were to take the money, he would lose all ability to lord his mantle of superiority over Snape.
Snape had never been more thankful for that misguided devotion to morality. His existence depended on those Knuts, Sickles, and Galleons.
Once the all the chests were locked and re-warded so that nothing save Snape's key could open them, he led Potter back down the hallway. Potter made as if to pause at the door to the spare bedroom, but Snape swept by him.
"You will have examined that room in great detail last night," he said. He raised an impatient hand as Potter made as if to protest.
"Do you take me for an idiot, Potter?" he asked, his voice the barest of silky whispers. And then, when Potter grudgingly shook his head no, "Then refrain from treating me as one. As you will doubtlessly have blasted the room with every spell, charm, incantation, and cantrip known to an Auror, there is no reason for us to pretend that you need do it again today."
Potter's lips tightened, but he made no further comment. The Auror investigated the bathroom quickly, then moved on to Snape's bedroom. He made an especially long and thorough search of the room, as Snape had known he would, and so he was well prepared for the humiliation of letting Potter handle his clothing, his bedclothes, and his other necessary articles.
It was one in the morning when Potter paused his investigation of Snape's nightstand. Heavy circles ringed his eyes. "All right," he said. "Enough. I'm going to bed."
"And my garage?" Snape said silkily. "You're certain you'll be able to sleep without knowing what Dark abominations may lie concealed within?"
The open hatred in Potter's glare stunned any further comments from his lips. Snape returned the look with equal venom until Potter wordlessly left the room and proceeded into the bathroom. Snape wondered, as he listened to the sound of the Muggle toilet flushing and the water spiralling from the tap into the basin, what the boy was doing about the appropriate toiletries. He resolved to burn his toothbrush and towels first thing the next morning.
He was fully prepared to wait out another sleepless night, but he must have fallen asleep while waiting for Potter to finish, because when he next opened his eyes it was late evening and he was lying atop his bed, still in his clothes.
He lay there for countless moments. The house was absolutely silent.
He knew better than to believe that Potter was gone. He rose slowly, a dull throbbing echoing throughout his head, and pulled a fresh jumper and pair of dark grey trousers from his chest of drawers. He dressed slowly, then headed downstairs.
Potter was sitting at his kitchen table, eating the last of his cold cuts. Snape noticed that he was wearing new clothing for the first time since invading Snape's house. He hadn't brought it with him, and Snape wondered where he'd come by it before remembering that Potter could most likely still cast magic. If Potter had been imbecilic enough to Accio fresh clothing... A sudden horrific vision of Potter's latest adolescent Muggle ensemble speeding down the street to his front door flashed across his mind's eye.
"What potions are you brewing, Snape?" Potter asked without preamble. Snape continued to find the deep, commanding tone of Potter's voice unsettling; he was still half expecting it to crack on every other syllable. Yes, his mind reminded him. Potter is a adult now, and an Auror, and you had best not anger him.
"I see you didn't bother to wake me before your little foray into my garage." He stalked over to pantry and set about fixing himself supper.
"You said you weren't brewing any potions, Snape," Potter said, rising from the table, the ever-threatening wand making another appearance.
"Wrong," he snapped, whirling to face the bastard. "I said I was housing no Dark abominations. Which," he added, "I am not."
Potter's green eyes flashed.
"I didn't ask you to correct me, Snape," he spat. "What are you up to in there? Brewing a--"
"As anyone trained as an Auror should know," he cut in savagely, "Most of those 'potions' are nothing more than nonmagical simples, tisanes, and spirits."
"And the rest?" Potter spat back.
"Are the most basic of mixtures for healing common ailments and simple household injuries. Potions," he continued, "which any first year ought to be able to recognise and brew after his first month of schooling. Although I should not be surprised by your lack of knowledge. Your aptitude for the subject was always abysmal."
"You haven't changed at all," Potter said softly. "Still as arrogant and spiteful as ever."
"Come now, Potter. Must we resort to primary school taunting?"
Potter's flush deepened and something flickered deep within his eyes. After a moment Snape realised it was defeat, and he turned triumphantly back to the meal he meant to prepare.
"Although, I suppose," said Potter breezily once his back was turned, "that primary school taunting is one of the few things you're capable of doing well, Severu-- I mean, Lucius."
A cold emptiness unfurled in the pit of Snape's stomach and he turned slowly to face Potter, all the blood draining from his cheeks and lips. How did he know?
The Auror sat calmly at Snape's table as if he were a king presiding over his court, an ugly sneer twisting the corners of his mouth and hatred burning in the pits of his eyes. His expression reminded Snape of nothing so much as Lucius Malfoy - that sneering, superior complacency that Snape had always detested.
"Oh, yes, I know," said Potter coldly, triumphantly. "Ever since I checked you into the hospital and there it was for all the world to see on the Muggle licence in your wallet - Lucius S Snape. Still pining for your old master after all these years?"
Snape found he could force no words past the thick rage in his mouth.
Potter smiled, a cold, despising smile. "It's almost a pity he didn't survive to see you now, Snape, using his name, living like a Mug--"
"SHUT UP!" Snape roared; he could take no more of this.
Potter was on his feet in a blur, wand out, his discarded chair clattering across the kitchen floor. "DON'T YOU FUCKING TALK TO ME THAT WAY!" he snarled, face a deep angry red. "I'M NOT YOUR STUDENT ANYMORE AND YOU'D BETTER DAMN WELL WATCH YOURSELF!"
"Lay one hand on me, Potter," he snarled, lips bared in a scowl, "and you will live to regret it."
Potter advanced across the floor until the distance between them was closed. "And what exactly are you going to do, Snape?" he demanded, voice low and angry. "You may call yourself Lucius, may even think you're him, but if you think for a moment that taking his name will give you one tenth of his aptitude, or his disgusting charm, or his power, you are dearly mistaken. You will never be anything aside from an ugly, angry, second-rate wizard."
Your father would be proud of you, brat, he thought. His insults were as disgustingly quick, but yours are much more perceptive. But out loud he said, "I was just thinking, as I stand here looking at you, with your tangled hair and your underfed body, that you resemble no one so much as your dear godfather."
Potter eyed him uncertainly but said nothing, and so he continued in a conversational tone, "I was wondering if it was something you've consciously cultivated since the bastard's demise, or if it's merely a look common to all pitiful, worthless little pricks."
He could actually see Potter's heartbeat accelerate through the thin material of his t-shirt. "Draw your wand, Snape," he said, and his voice was deadly, chillingly, emotionlessly calm.
Snape remained motionless where he stood.
"Draw your fucking wand, Snape." Potter repeated the command, a little more loudly, anger shining through the cracks in his voice.
Snape allowed the barest trace of a smile to twitch at the corner of his lips. What a dangerous game they were playing now.
"Draw. Your. Wand."
"And if I said 'no'?"
The impact knocked the breath from Snape's lungs as Potter pinned him against the wall. He knew in an instant he'd gone too far. Never, never, never, in all those years of taunting the boy, of watching Draco taunt the boy, of watching him fight the Dark Master, had Snape ever known Potter to resort to physical violence.
"WHERE IS YOUR FUCKING WAND?"
Potter had an arm across his throat, pressing cruelly, preventing any air from reaching his lungs, and his wand in the other hand, the tip point blank against Snape's temple. His eyes were dark, fiery, his lips bloodless, his expression murderous.
Snape stared at him in fear and fascination. So this is what the Dark Lord must have seen before he died. Sparks danced across his eyes, he couldn't breathe, and Potter was still raging at him.
He did not want to give in. He did not want to admit defeat to Potter, not now, not after all these years.
He did not want to die.
"WHERE IS YOUR FUCKING WAND?"
"I DON'T HAVE IT!" He knew the pitiful image he must present, backed against the wall with Potter's arm across his throat.
"What?" Potter hissed in disbelief.
"I do not have it, Potter. It wouldn't matter if I did. It's useless here." And there it was, laid bare before Potter - his absolute weakness, his vulnerability, his failure.
"You can't be bloody serious," Potter said. He was still frightfully angry, but his voice was no longer as loud. "No wizard is ever without his wand."
"No wizard indeed," said Snape, and try as he might, he couldn't keep the self-pity and disgust from his voice.
Potter's jaw tightened and something flashed in the eyes behind his glasses, gone so dark that the green was almost black. He glared at Snape for a second in silence, the slowly withdrew his arm.
Snape raised a hand to massage his bruised throat.
"What are you talking about, Snape?" Potter said at last. His voice was barely above a whisper and Snape had to strain to catch the words. "Tell me everything. Now." The raging madman of a moment ago had vanished, and the Auror had once again taken command.
"I don't carry my wand because I am no longer a wizard," he said at last, hating Potter more fiercely with each word. Damn the bastard for finally drawing this out of him. Snape had known this moment would have to come, either here or in front of the Auror Court, but his utter loathing of Potter had not lessoned with the foreknowledge.
"Yes you are," Potter said. "You can't just turn Squib." And then, with true interest as the thought occurred to him, "Have you been cursed?"
"Yes," said Snape wearily. "No. Not..." he drew a deep breath and tried to compose himself. "Not exactly."
Potter crossed his arms over his skinny chest and prepared to wait for an explanation.
"I haven't been cursed by anyone. I don't know that there are any other wizards within leagues of this city," he said. "It happened naturally."
His calm tone seemed to enrage Potter. "It does not happen NATURALLY, Snape," he shouted. "You cannot just turn into a SQUIB!"
"You can in this country," he said wryly.
Potter's eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth to protest.
"Oh, you don't believe me?" said Snape. "You never were one to take the experience of your superiors at face value. Well." He extended a finger toward the microwave sitting on the kitchen counter. "Transfigure that," he commanded.
"Why?" said Potter. "So you can hex me as soon as my wand is off you?"
"No," said Snape with as much patience as he could muster. "So I can prove a bloody fucking point."
"Fine," said Potter. "Into what?"
He threw up his hands. "Anything. Whatever you desire. It doesn't matter."
Potter turned slowly to the microwave, glancing over his shoulder at Snape with deep suspicion.
"One false mo--"
"Yes, yes, I know."
Potter glared at Snape for another long moment before turning to the microwave and casting a Transfiguration spell with a confident, almost lazy flick of his wand.
Nothing happened.
Snape could easily imagine the bastard's incredulous expression, though Potter's back was turned.
Potter squared his shoulders, raised his wand, and executed the gesture again, slower this time, more deliberately.
The microwave seemed to grin at them from where it sat atop the counter before its form wavered and slowly dissolved into that of a meerkat.
"What the hell is going on?" Potter whispered. "It's as if..."
"The spell can't get out," he said quietly.
The erstwhile meerkat leapt from the countertop and pattered off into the dining-room as Potter whirled to face him, anger and confusion warring for control of his expression. "How the hell are you doing it, Snape? You don't even have your wand."
"For the last time, neither I nor my wand has anything to do with it," he said, heat slowly creeping back into his voice. There should be no doubt left in Potter's mind. Had the boy actually become less intelligent upon leaving Hogwarts?
"But it doesn't make sense," said Potter.
"On the contrary, it makes a great deal of sense." He had Potter's full attention now. "Did it never occur to you to wonder why wizards never settled the Americas?" he continued remorselessly, "though they surely knew of them centuries before Muggles?"
Potter was silent, transfixed.
"There is precious little magic on this continent, Potter. And the longer you stay, the less of it you will have at your disposal."
Potter turned and stared out the window for long moments, watching the cold January rain slicing across the backyard.
When he turned back to Snape his face was livid. "You weren't going to tell me," he said.
"No, obviously."
"You were going to wait until I'd lost all my magic and then attack me!"
"With WHAT, Potter? FOR ONCE USE YOUR HEAD! I HAVE NO MAGIC. I--" He cut off, panting with anger, and returned Potter's icy glare pound for pound.
"That's not true," said Potter. "You're brewing those potions out there," he tilted his head toward the garage. "And you cast wards on those chests last night. I saw you do it."
"And if you were at all perceptive, you would have seen how utterly exhausted I became after doing so." He didn't want to talk about this at all, how long years of living in this country had neutered his every ability, but Potter had wrenched this much out of him; why not speak of the rest as well?
"Even the simplest of spells now requires a great deal of exertion to cast properly."
Potter was still gazing at him. "You're telling the truth," he said slowly.
"Oh, bravo," Snape sneered. "Now that I have you convinced, would you kindly remove yourself back to England?" And I hope you fall from your broom and drown en route.
"No," said Potter slowly.
"What?" He couldn't believe his ears. He'd thought that - at the very worst - Potter would spend a few more minutes mocking him before returning to the Auror Court with tales of Severus Snape's humiliating Muggle existence, but not in a million years had he thought that Potter would stay.
"Because I came here to do a job, Snape," Potter said softly. "I'm here to Observe you until it's proven beyond a doubt that you aren't in league with the Dark."
"Potter," he said slowly, as if talking to a very young child. "You have seen that I have only the most basic of magics at my ability. What use could the Dark possibly make of me?" The self-pity was plain in his voice, no matter how he tried to hide it.
Potter shrugged. "That's what I need to find out. So you might as well cooperate."
He wanted - dearly - to fight, to force Potter out. But if the bastard was still capable of such a complex Transfiguration, Snape would be no match for him. "Very well," he whispered at last. "It seems I shall have little choice in the matter." As in so many other things where the wizarding world is concerned, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. "But you would do well to realise that I need not acknowledge you aside from the most basic of courtesies."
"I wouldn't dream of anything more," Potter said softly.
They quickly settled into an unspoken routine. Snape would rise early in the morning, bathe, fix himself breakfast, and then head into the garage to begin his day's work just as Potter emerged from the first floor.
Snape would end his work at about noon, prepare and eat his lunch, and then return to the garage for another hour or two, this time to attempt salvaging what he could of his fading potion-brewing abilities.
After that he'd head to the living-room, where he read or studied until dark, then back to the kitchen for another meal, and then upstairs to bed.
What Potter did during the first half of the day, Snape was never certain. Although hours could pass without him catching a single glimpse of the Auror, he knew Potter was never very far away. He certainly never left Snape's house. Occasionally Snape would hear Potter moving about while he was working in the garage, poaching Snape's meticulously labelled leftovers from the refrigerator or running his few sets of clothing through the washer in the basement.
They said nothing to each other for a matter of weeks, until the day Snape looked up from the antiquing cauldron to see Potter standing backlit in the kitchen doorway. The boy was in the same set of clothing he'd been wearing that night in the hospital - baggy khaki trousers and wrinkled shirt, and his hair was in characteristic disarray. Snape wondered why he didn't just cut it.
Potter's voice broke through his bemusement. "Tell me, Snape," he said. His voice was strong, sure, but it lacked the commanding tone of the other day, what Snape had come to think of as Potter's Auror voice.
When no further illumination appeared to be forthcoming as to exactly what he wished Snape to tell him, Snape raised an impatient eyebrow.
"Yes?" he said lightly.
Potter's gaze never wavered, but he began to look as if something were troubling him.
Snape's carefully prepared alloy was rapidly cooling. "Mr Potter," he said, producing a fair imitation of his old Potions Master tones, "If you would be so kind as to conclude this interrogation, so that I might continue in peace?"
Potter absentmindedly brushed the tips of his hair from his shoulders. He took another few moments before speaking. Then he met Snape's eyes. Snape could see that his eyes were troubled, even behind the thick glasses.
"Why Lucius?" he said at last.
The question, so unexpected, surprised Snape so that he didn't immediately answer.
Potter took his silence for reluctance. "You hated him," he said, his expression bewildered. "So why choose his name?"
"You find this extremely troubling, don't you?" he said in wonder. He didn't see why it should matter to the boy, regardless of the fact that he'd drawn an incorrect conclusion.
"But why?" Potter pressed. "You were better than Malfoy. If only because you were on our side," he hastened to add.
"Damning me with faint praise, I see," he said wryly, and then, "Don't be an imbecile, Potter."
"Malfoy was disgusting!" Potter exclaimed. "Arrogant, racist, evil, cruel--"
"I am more than aware of the man's many faults," he said wearily. "However, I did not choose to call myself after him."
"No one else made the choice for you," Potter said, passing down the few steps into the garage. He stopped midway across the floor, eyes narrowing as he caught sight of Snape's workbench, the crucible, and the various liquified metals.
"Alchemy?" he asked.
"Very good," he said; although he was not currently pursing Alchemical pursuits, it was close enough. "I wouldn't think you capable of handling the distinction between Potions and Alchemy."
"I'm an Auror, Snape," he said. "Don't patronise me." And then, "Why Malfoy's name?"
He shut his eyes. He was tired of this cat-and-mouse game, but that didn't mean he was about to let Potter command him like a child.
"I will repeat slowly, Potter, so that your faculties aren't unduly challenged. I did not adopt Malfoy's name."
"Oh, come off it," Potter snarled. "Do you think I'll believe that?"
"So we will continue to be both blockheaded and stubborn today. Very well. Allow me to answer your question with one of my own. Potter, we are all well aware that your conceit knows no bounds, but do you honestly believe that you are the only person to carry your given name?"
"Don't be bloody ridiculous," he snapped. "Of course not. What has that to do with--"
It was actually quite amusing to watch comprehension dawn across Potter's face. "Yes," said Snape. "Exactly." He turned his attention back to his alloys, but to his surprise, Potter was not about to let the subject rest.
"If not Malfoy, then who?" he said.
Snape sighed. Prevarication would be a wasted effort. He might succeed in fooling Potter, but the truth would be all too readily apparent to the Ministry and the Order. "It was my father's name," he said at last.
"Really?" said Potter, as if the very idea of Snape possessing a father was an utterly foreign concept.
"Yes," he sighed. "Lucius Severus Snape. It was a simple matter to adopt his identity and procure the appropriate Muggle identification."
"Why bother at all?" Potter asked. The Auror's voice was empty of anything save curiosity, hard though it was to believe. "You have your own identity."
"Lucius is an uncommon name, certainly, but how many Muggles do you know named Severus? Since I did not desire to have Dumbledore and his precious Order on my scent in a heartbeat, I had to--"
He'd said too much, as Potter had no doubt intended him to do.
When he next looked up to meet Potter's eyes he found the man staring at him coldly, clinically. Calculating. His next words were only too predictable.
"And why were you trying to escape the Order in the first place?"
He'd just confirmed Potter's every suspicion, and he had nothing to blame for it save his own idiocy. Even had Potter come here unconvinced of Snape's innocence or guilt, there was no way those words would have left him in any doubt.
"Because I find exile eminently preferable to the humiliation of being removed from my job."
Potter's look of surprise was both immediate and genuine. Snape could hardly credit it - certainly the boy had heard the rumours - but there it was.
"Removed from your job?" he repeated. "By who? When?"
"By your dear supporters," he said bitterly. "Surely this is common knowledge."
"Dumbledore never said anything," Potter said slowly. "We came back for Autumn term and there was another Potions Master in your place.
"So no, it isn't common knowledge."
"And it never occurred to you to ask what had become of me?" he sneered.
"Of course not! We were just glad to be rid of you."
The words were not unexpected, but they still stung him dearly, even after all these years. "How remarkably crass, even by your standards," he spat softly.
"Oh, shut up, Snape," Potter spat back. "What did you expect? It isn't as if you've ever gone out of your way to be pleasant to people."
The lump had settled back into his throat, and it was hard to work words out around it, but he managed nonetheless. "I have found precious few who are willing to give me the opportunity."
He'd fully expected Potter to make use of this admission in formulating another barbed retort, but incomprehensibly, the boy did not. He made no move to leave the garage, but neither would he meet Snape's eyes.
"So this is what you do here, then?" he said finally, gazing at the shelves of weakly-brewed potions, the tools, the workbench of cooling alloys, although his words were clearly meant to encompass the whole of Snape's life.
"Yes," he said wearily. "I am as you see me, Potter."
Potter swallowed, nodded once, and then finally turned to leave Snape in peace. Snape hailed him right as he was about to shut the door behind him.
"Thank you, Potter, for leaving before you begin gloating over my downfall."
Potter flinched as if physically struck. He half made as if to turn back to Snape, but then stepped into the kitchen, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Stanton rang later that morning. Snape hung up the telephone and turned to find Potter standing behind him, a bemused expression on his face.
"Potter, it is merely a telephone. I'm certain you've seen its like before."
Potter seemed to remember himself at the sound of Snape's voice. "Who were you talking to?"
"A business associate," he said cautiously.
"'Business associate?'" the Auror parroted. "You have 'business associates?'"
"Yes, Potter," he sighed. "Unless you believe the Dark Lord's adherents make a habit of ringing me on weekday mornings."
Potter actually smiled in response. And then, "What do you do here, Snape?"
He didn't want to trust Potter's apparent calm; he'd already fallen into that snare once already. Yet a great deal of tension seemed to have been diffused during their confrontation in the garage, enough that he found he could meet Potter's eyes. But try as he might, he could find nothing but mild curiosity in their depths.
"Tell me one thing," he said at last. "If, at the end of your sojourn in my presence you find no evidence of a continuing association with the Dark, can I expect further harassment from the Ministry?"
"No," said Potter. Again, Snape searched his eyes, and again he could find nothing hidden in them.
"Very well. Come along."
"Where?" Really, the boy could make even the simplest of conversations excruciatingly prolonged.
"To meet my business associate."
Potter's expression registered clear disbelief. "You're inviting me?"
"You'd follow anyway," he said darkly, heading toward the hall closet and his winter coats. "So I might as well dispense with the useless formality of refusing to take you along."
There was nothing Potter could say in response to this, and he knew it. He said nothing as he trailed after Snape to retrieve his coat, which Snape noted he'd hung in the closet alongside Snape's own clothing.
He opened the door and they both stepped out onto the front step. The day was cold but sunny; unusual weather for this time of year. Somehow, it made the leaden greys of the dead lawns and leafless trees more bearable.
Yet the ever-present wind whipped their hair about their faces, and Potter hunched his shoulders and turned his back to it while he waited for Snape to lock the door. He checked the knob twice and then led the way down the street into town. For once in his lifetime, Potter remained blessedly silent, and so Snape was almost able to ignore the Auror's presence entirely, which he did with blissful abandon.
They arrived at the coffeehouse after a brisk thirty minutes' walk. The blast of dry, heated air as the door swung shut behind them was jarring, and Snape stood for a moment, trying to blink some moisture back into his eyes. Beside him, Potter removed his glasses and scrubbed a hand across his face.
Snape wondered for a brief moment if they were, against all odds, early, but just then he caught sight of an older, smartly dressed man seated at a corner table. The man looked up and noticed him as well. "Lucius!" he called warmly, and motioned the two of them over to his table.
He shot Potter a quelling look before the boy could open his mouth and ruin things, and then led him to Stanton's table, weaving deftly between the closely-packed tables.
Several years ago, in a fit of nostalgia, Snape had given Stanton a good deal on some of his 'rare' Dobunni staters, all because he'd been starved for the sound of a familiar British accent. To his surprise, rather than abusing this ridiculous display of sentimentality as any rational man would, Stanton had seemed genuinely grateful for the gesture. Although they had not exactly become friends, they continued to do a great deal of business with one another during each of Stanton's periodic visits to the Americas.
Stanton rose from his chair and warmly clasped Snape's hand in his own, much to Potter's obvious surprise. Snape introduced Potter as his cousin (much to Stanton's obvious surprise), and then pointedly ignored the Auror as he set to discussing customers, accounts, requests, and pricing with Stanton.
Their conversation was broken only by the occasional pause as they stopped to sip their coffees, or by the waitress stooping to refill their mugs during her periodic tour of the establishment floor. Snape had fully expected Potter to become bored or even agitated during the long, esoteric dealings, but contrary to form, he appeared to be paying them both rapt attention. He even interrupted the conversation himself on a few occasions, although he always addressed his questions to Stanton.
Snape sipped uninterestedly at his coffee while he waited for Stanton to explain the finer points of 5th century BC die-casting to Potter. The boy was applying himself to the conversation with a sort of fevered attention Snape had never seen anyone but the Granger brat exhibit. If only Potter had directed that attention to his studies, and not breaking every conceivable rule in place at Hogwarts... But then Stanton finished with the boy and turned to inquire as to the possibility of obtaining some Zhou-era spade currency for a client.
They were very rare items. As it happened, Snape suddenly discovered that he did indeed have one or two in his possession, so he set to the finer details of negotiating their wholesale value.
Eventually they came to an agreement about pricing, and Stanton turned to securing several more items from Snape's 'rare' collection. Then the conversation strayed to broader topics, at which point, and to Snape's utter surprise, Potter made himself quite useful.
Like most Muggles, Stanton had no idea that any other world aside from his own existed, and so he regarded Snape as nothing more than an expatriate countryman. Snape could easily handle most of the conversational topics to which Stanton leaned: country life in the south of England, spates of bad weather, agriculture. But when Stanton veered from these topics into more political or cultural arenas, Snape was utterly at sea.
It seemed Potter had recently spent no small amount of time in the Muggle world, or at least studied its current trends, for he soon engaged Stanton in a lively discussion of a new novel and then a few of the modern television programmes.
At long last Stanton pulled an antique pocket watch from his coat and announced that he'd best return to his hotel, as his wife and two eldest daughters were most likely waiting for him.
Snape asked Stanton to send his regards, though he'd never met the family in question, and then solidified his plans to meet Stanton later on that week bearing the promised goods. Stanton clasped hands with Snape once again and then the three of them made their way to the till, settled their bills, and left.
It had been a remarkable success, Snape reflected, given all the potential for disaster to occur. They dawdled for a few minutes in the car park, during which time Potter even fielded Stanton's questions as to their familial relationship (Lucius never mentioned any cousins, he'd said, smiling all the while at Snape) with remarkable composure.
Stanton offered them a lift in his car, which Snape refused, as compared to brooms, the things were ridiculously claustrophobic. He stood with Potter while Stanton eased his automobile into the afternoon traffic. Stanton beeped his horn once, and then he was gone. All in all, the afternoon had been rather a success.
Of course, Snape reflected, the glorious calm of the past two hours could not possibly persist forever with Potter still about.
They'd hardly turned the corner before Potter began peppering him with questions. "You're an antiques dealer?" he said, staring at Snape in a mixture of disbelief and incredulity.
Snape found this irritating. "That should have been readily apparent, even to you, Potter," he said.
Potter was silent for the space of six paces. "Why?" he said.
Snape stopped mid-stride and turned, the wind whipping his coat about his legs. "Because it earns me a great deal of Muggle money through a minimum of human contact."
Potter's mouth dropped. "Oh," he said. And then, "But where do you get all of them? The coins, I mean?"
"I should have thought that was obvious," he said. "I don't 'get' them, Potter, I create them."
"You create them?" Potter repeated stupidly. "How? Where?"
Really. Had Snape not known better, he would have thought the boy a simpleton. "In my garage," he said. "Obviously."
"Obviously?" said Potter, still adrift in a sea of incomprehension.
"Yes," said Snape. "Potter, when you were carefully examining my every last possession, did you fail to notice the dies, the casting equipment, the books about antique coinage?"
"Yes, but..." Potter said slowly. And then with accusation in his tone, "You said you were doing Alchemy."
He sighed and wrapped his coat more tightly about his chest; an evening chill was borne on the wind. "No, Potter, you assumed I was doing Alchemy." He paused and considered. "Although a knowledge of that art has certainly helped me perfect my replicas."
"You weren't talking replicas with Stanton," Potter accused.
"No, obviously not. I take wizarding currency, melt it down and recast it into 'antique' coins, which I sell to Muggles who are apparently willing to pay great sums of money for the things. As far as Stanton is concerned, come next Thursday, I will be handing him original specie."
This announcement truly upset Potter. "That's disgusting, Snape! He trusts you and you're lying to him. They aren't real coins - they're worthless!"
"Considering that the currency I'm destroying to make those coins is both older and rarer than the currency I claim to be selling, I rather think not," he snapped, and then turned and continued down the street, Potter tagging at his heels like an especially yappish and persistent chimerhua.
"It's still dishonest!"
"And what would you have me do?" he demanded, not bothering to meet the man's eyes. "I had never set foot in the Muggle world until two decades ago. I have no Muggle connections, skills, or education. What else am I fit for?
"It may seem a simple step for you; you were raised as one of them," he continued. "But I assure you, Potter, it is a struggle for me. Had I realised at the time of my departure how ridiculously naive I was being, I doubt I would have been able to leave in the first place."
Potter blinked owlishly behind his fringe. "I didn't think about--"
"Oh, obviously," he said.
"And you're..." Potter began, then shut his mouth and sank into thought.
They passed the rest of the walk home in silence. They were both huddled once again on the doorstep, Snape unlocking the door, when Potter apparently changed his mind. "And you're happy like this?" he blurted out. There was no hostility in his tone, but neither did it sound as if he believed it possible.
"I am...content," Snape said at last.
Potter seemed to want to say more, but did not. Snape opened the door and bowed Potter through with a sardonic flourish of his hand. The Auror disappeared upstairs and Snape went about preparing his dinner as usual.
I am...content. It was true; at the very least, more so than when he had lived at Hogwarts. He was occasionally...lonely, to be sure, but that had been the case for most of his life. He stared out the window at the dark evening sky and watched his reflection, pale and hollow-eyed, as it mirrored him eating dinner.
That evening, Potter emerged on the staircase as Snape was making himself comfortable in the living-room.
"Why do you have all these books, Snape?"
"Because I enjoy reading." He spoke with the long-suffering tones of one used to explaining simple matters to the extremely daft.
"But they're all Muggle books."
"Magical ones would be less than useful, given my present circumstances."
Potter clomped down the remaining stairs, absentmindedly tucked a lock of hair behind one ear and reached for a random volume. "Culpeper's Complete Herbal & English Physician," he read. "You really find this interesting?"
"You should know, having read all my notes in its margins." He turned his attention back to the book open on his lap, eager to end the conversation.
"I know," said Potter at last. Something in his tone made Snape look up from his Paralcelsus.
Potter was now seated in the wingchair next to the fireplace, where he was waiting for Snape to meet his eyes. "It was the first thing I felt truly uncomfortable doing since I came here," he said matter-of-factly. And then, "I'm sorry."
Snape began to prepare something biting about how Potter had best be sorry for it, but the words dried on his lips. Potter was being, of all things, sincere.
To his surprise as well as Potter's, he nodded dumbly, and then proceeded to ignore the boy for the remainder of the evening.
And so another variation on their routine was established. That evening, and on each that followed, Potter came to join Snape in the living-room. He never spoke more than a word or two to Snape, and never deigned to touch a book himself, but he appeared each night without fail. At first, Snape found Potter's mere presence to be extremely disconcerting, but as the days wore on he realised the man had, unbelievably, no intention of doing anything save sitting. Let Potter waste his time; he could stare at Snape all he wanted, and he would never see the slightest hint of Dark, no matter how badly he longed to discover it.
After that, Potter's presence barely registered at all.
Snape was at his work again several days later. Stanton had rang earlier in the week to say that he was attending a dealers' showing in another city and wouldn't be able to receive the coins from Snape personally. Which had turned out just as well, given the fact that Snape could not get the alloys to mix correctly.
"Bloody. Fucking. Hell!" he spat as yet another wretchedly obvious mistake emerged from his die. This coin was easily within his means to create; he could not fathom why he'd turned out nothing save failures thus far.
"Language," admonished a dry voice almost directly behind him.
He jumped; when the hell had Potter come into the garage and how much had the man observed? "That's rich, coming from you," he intoned, not bothering to turn around.
"What do you mean by that, Snape?" The retort was immediate but carried no real ire.
"You know precisely what I mean," he responded, discreetly wiping his sweaty hair back from his face. "I well remember how horrifying your language was at Hogwarts."
Potter gave a short bark of a laugh. "You're prob'ly thinking of Ron, mostly," he said.
Snape straightened and gave a long-suffering sigh. Potter was no longer the vengeance-obsessed wretch who'd first put him under house arrest, but he was just as annoying in this new incarnation as well. "Have you come here for the sole purpose of tormenting me?" he inquired.
There was a pause as Potter considered. "Not entirely," he said at last.
Snape squeezed his eyes shut. He was bound to develop all manner of nasty ticks before Potter's blessed return to England. "Then may I ask," he gritted out, "to what I owe the pleasure of your company this time?"
"'S nothing to eat," Potter said immediately.
At that he did turn around. "And whose fault would that be," he said icily. Potter's green eyes were laughing at him behind the glasses and the unruly tangle of fringe.
"No idea," the boy responded impishly. "But you'd probably best think about getting some more."
"Unfortunately," said Snape, "as you show no signs of leaving, it has become my intention to starve you to death."
"If I don't eat, neither do you," said Potter.
"If my own death by starvation is the price by which I may secure your demise, so be it."
Potter snorted and crossed his arms about his chest. "I could almost think you were being serious," he said.
"Oh, do not doubt that I am being serious," he said silkily. "It appears that death is the one manner by which I might be free of you, and thus I have no choice but to pursue it."
Something shifted minutely in Potter's expression. His gaze shifted from Snape's eyes to some indeterminate corner of the garage. "Well, there's no food anyway. Just so you know," he said, and then removed himself back to the kitchen.
Snape sent a dignified sniff after him, then returned his attention to his work. Yet try as he might, he could not get the coins to cast correctly, and he finally gave it up for a lost cause. At least he was in no hurry to get the order finished, as he could now post it to Stanton at any time within the next month.
And there were more pressing matters to attend to. After searching most of the house, he finally located Potter in the study, where the boy had evidently been practising wand gestures every day.
Potter's expression was delightfully sheepish when he realised that Snape had been observing him. "So this is what you've been doing every morning," Snape said.
Potter squared his shoulders defiantly. "Yes," he answered.
"It's a pointless exercise," Snape informed him. "Your skill will continue to wane, no matter what you do in an attempt to save it."
Potter shrugged, although the gesture did not look as nonchalant as Potter doubtlessly hoped it had.
"Idiot boy," he snapped. "You're wasting your time. It has already been proved that I pose no threat to you." He attempted ire, but his pleasure at finding Potter worried about his declining skill was such that the words were not as scathing as he would have wished.
"Now come along."
Potter eyed him warily. "Where?" he demanded.
Snape arched a brow. "I am feeling charitable at the moment," he said, "and I plan to buy some more food this afternoon."
"So why don't you run along and buy it, then?"
"Because I am not feeling so charitable as to spare you from the joys of Muggle commerce."
"I'm not paying for anything myself."
Snape shot him a withering look.
The sheepish expression returned. "All right," the boy said at last.
これで以上です。
The Liar and the Auror
by Trismegistus
Part II
Likely it was the whistling of the teapot that woke Potter. At any rate, the Auror stumbled down the stairs not long after Snape had seated himself at the table and set about eating his toast and jam.
To Snape's infinite satisfaction, the dark circles under the boy's eyes indicated that he'd slept as uneasily as Snape.
Potter stood for a moment in the kitchen doorway, yawning hugely. He looked down at his rumpled clothing in mild dismay - Snape noted happily that he at least was wearing a proper set of fresh clothing, by virtue of this being his house, and took immense satisfaction in that fact.
Although he didn't say anything, he let his eyes rake the Auror from head to foot, taking in Potter's scruffy trousers and vastly wrinkled Muggle-style polo shirt.
"You could have at least made me breakfast," Potter said peevishly.
"Oh, I didn't dare wake you," he responded with venomous sweetness. He'd come to a conclusion that morning, while the bastard was still asleep. If Potter was here on official duties as an Auror, then he was as trapped with Snape as Snape was with him, for all that this assignment might be the fulfilment of Potter's long-standing vendetta. It was a revelation, and Snape fully intended to make Potter's stay as uncomfortable as possible without pushing the man into arresting him out of sheer frustration.
Potter treated him to an icy glare from those moss-green eyes before stalking over to the countertop. He paused, then shot Snape a surprised look from beneath his unruly fringe.
"You cook like a Muggle."
Snape's eyes swept over his kitchen - the refrigerator; the countertop appliances; the grease-spattered stovetop, yet to be cleaned; the dishes drying in the rack by the sink. "Obviously."
"Why?"
Why indeed? Potter appeared genuinely puzzled by this belated observation. Fine Auror you make, Snape longed to tell him, if such trivial matters throw you off balance.
"Why not just use magic?" Potter continued. "It's easier."
"I fail to see what any of this has to do with my suitability or lack thereof for a cell in Azkaban," he said, and met Potter's eyes with a sardonic arch of an eyebrow.
"Fine," Potter grumbled, rather surprising Snape that he'd conceded the point at all. "Where do you keep the bread?"
Snape motioned to drawer near the sink and returned his attention to his meal.
"Mr Potter," he said after a few minutes had elapsed. "As it appears that you intend to eat all of my bread and a good deal of my fruit as well, what compensation I can expect to receive for housing you here during the course of your 'Observation?'"
"The fact that your innocence is established beyond doubt should be compensation enough," said Potter archly.
"So the Ministry allows its officials to live like kings on the backs of the unfortunates it chooses to investigate?" he said through gritted teeth.
Potter looked as if he were about to protest Snape's defamation of the Ministry's methods, then paused and reconsidered. "Yeah," he said. "That's about it. Not much you can do about it either way."
There was nothing Snape could say in response to that, so he had to content himself with ignoring the bastard's presence to the best of his ability, hoping that Potter felt the chilly silence in the kitchen intensely.
"All right, then," said Potter finally, rising from his chair. "Let's get this over with." Snape noticed he left his dirty dishes where they sat on the table.
"Get what over with? I can assure you I'll make a dreadfully dull subject for interrogation." It was true - Potter could administer all the Veritaserum and Truthspeaking spells he desired; he'd never wrangle any sort of confession out of Snape. Snape had nothing to confess.
Still, the thought of being forced to speak of his reasons for leaving, his reasons for becoming a Muggle, left a cold sheen of sweat on his palms. He swallowed around the thickness in his throat.
"Oh, I'm sure of that," Potter said dryly. "But we aren't doing an interrogation, Snape. Not until we've finished the Investigation."
Investigation? What was the bastard on about?
Potter was still talking. His voice had taken on a measured, didactic quality; Snape knew he was reciting Ministry law again. "You may remain present if you wish; however, any attempt to obstruct or otherwise interfere with the proceedings will be construed as an admission of wrongdoing.
"If you are currently in possession of any illicit items, including but not limited to: grimories; contraband wands; necrophilic paraphenalia; magical creatures or parts thereof; reagents; potions; potions bases; or other magical items prohibited from public ownership by International Wizarding Law, declare them now." Potter paused. "Do you have any illicit potions?" he asked. He sounded slightly curious, if a little bored.
"No," Snape replied through clenched teeth. Potter looked him deep in the eye and then continued with his recitation.
It appeared that Potter was preparing to search his house from the foundations to the eaves for any sign of wrongdoing. Snape had spent a sleepless night preparing himself for all sorts of humiliations at the bastard's hands, but this had not been one of them.
This was, in some ways, worse than Veritaserum. The potion would have compelled Snape to tell the truth, yet the truth he told would be nothing less than the truth as he saw it. His possessions could not speak for themselves. Potter was free to draw what conclusions he would from them.
No, that was not it at all. Under the effects of Veritaserum, Snape would only have been forced to give Potter the answers to explicit questions. But now, Potter was going to see the whole of Snape's life, defined by his material possessions, spread out before him.
It was a violation.
Potter had stopped talking some time ago. A small smirk was toying at the corners of his mouth. "Ready, Snape?"
He schooled his face into its blankest and most imposing mask and said simply, "Yes."
"All right."
Potter started in the kitchen, making quick work of the cabinets, refrigerator, and pantry. They went next to the basement, which was unfinished and contained little besides the furnace, water heater, washer and dryer.
"Do you use these?" Potter asked curiously.
"No, Potter. They are merely here for ornamentation." A small part of him thrilled to hear his former imperious tones creeping back into his voice.
"Watch yourself, Snape," said Potter edgily, and the thrill evaporated.
Then it was back up the stairs to the living-room. Here, Snape began to feel much more nervous. Although the room was sparsely furnished by Muggle standards, it was the heart of Snape's home, for here he kept his books. They lined all four walls, except where the shelving was broken by the front window, the fireplace, the desk, and the doors to the kitchen and hallway.
It didn't appear at first glance that there was much in the room to search, but Snape was too well-versed in Auror methodology to believe that Potter, Auror that he was, would ignore the books.
And true to his expectations, Potter spent the better part of that afternoon pulling his books off the shelves one by one, flipping through them, casting spells of revealing and magic detection, carefully reading all the notes Snape had scrawled in the margins.
Snape found the experience both harrowing and exhausting. He had never, never... Even while living under the close scrutiny of Dumbledore and the Order during the first War, he had never...
After his return to the Light, his rooms at Hogwarts had been enchanted so that the presence of every magical object within was detectable to Dumbledore and the Order, should they wish to be made aware of them, but no one had ever set foot inside his chambers. They had never been searched. No one had ever seen where Snape lived, his private possessions...
He had been able to take whatever he wanted into and out of his rooms, and so long as the items weren’t magical, no-one but him knew that they existed. But now... His personality had never been laid bare to such an extent. Each book told Potter more about him, the parts of himself he didn't dare show to others, and Potter had his hands all over them.
He felt as though he couldn’t breathe.
Standing and watching Potter laboriously examine each book was exhausting, so he sat down on his sofa and stared blankly at nothing. It started to rain, small droplets pattering on the window at his back. The sound alternately soothed him and set his teeth on edge.
“It’s five o’clock.”
Potter’s voice startled him as he sat, not sleeping but very much lost in his own morbid thoughts.
“You will one day realise, Potter, that time will not stop at your behest.”
Potter ignored the comment. “You aren’t going to have dinner?”
“I’ve no appetite.”
“Oh,” Potter said. And then, “These are all Muggle books.”
“Your command of the obvious astounds.”
Potter was silent for a long moment. “You don’t have to be unpleasant, Snape.” His voice was bitter, reproachful.
“Don’t I?” he snarled, bile rising in his throat. “Tell me, Potter, how am I to react when you invade my life for the second time? It wasn't enough that you--” He broke off suddenly, panting. He should not have reminded Potter of that day and the Pensieve.
“It isn’t as if I wanted to do this.” Potter’s voice hitched strangely on the words.
“Oh, I’m sure. But tell me,” he spat, “given the circumstances, of the two of us, who would you rather be?”
Potter stood silently, a dangerous expression on his face. He looked for all the world like a cornered animal, although by rights it was Snape who should be feeling so. Former student and two decades Snape’s junior though he may be, Potter was the one who had both authority and the entire weight of wizarding society at his back. He was the Auror, the hero, the official. Snape was, and had always been, the outcast.
Yet it was evidence of the bastard’s disgusting sense of self-importance that he looked just as angry and persecuted as Snape felt himself.
“Fine,” said Potter softly. “We can finish this after I eat.”
Snape waited until Potter had left the room to sink slowly back onto the sofa. He was absolutely exhausted, and he knew he must look drawn and deathly pale. He could hear Potter moving about in his kitchen, slamming cabinet doors, rattling china, stomping about on the linoleum.
He could care less about the brat’s temper. He was finding it difficult to care about anything at this point.
The noises stopped as Potter presumably set about eating his meal. The shadows in the room deepened as the winter sun set behind its veil of cloud. One by one the streetlights came on; their illumination sent Snape’s shadow shafting across the worn carpet.
The silence was complete, save for the occasional noise of a passing car.
Potter reemerged in the doorway. “Have you even bothered to move?”
“I wouldn’t want you to think I was concealing evidence while you dined in my kitchen, none the wiser.” By now it should have been clear, even to an imbecile such as Potter, that there was no evidence to hide, nor had their ever been.
“How much is left?”
“What?” He no longer tried to disguise the weariness in his voice
“Your house,” Potter said testily. “How much of it is left?”
He shrugged slightly. “The garage. The bedrooms - mine and yours. The study. The upstairs bathroom. The storage space.”
“Then lets get them over with,” said Potter grimly.
The horror of having Potter rifle through his clothing and toiletries paled in comparison to the Auror’s inspection of his books, and so the rest of the investigation seemed to pass fairly quickly, by comparison.
Either that, or Snape had descended into the lazy calm of shock. He thought it highly likely, given the circumstances. Then he wondered with amused detachment whether someone in shock could be aware of that fact at all, and if they were, was it really shock?
At the very least, Potter made mercifully short work of the guest room and bathroom. The study gave him pause, as Snape had known it would. The room was comparatively large for such a small house, but contained very little aside from several large, locked chests sat at intervals around the floor, well away from the windows.
Potter shoved past Snape, knelt by the nearest chest and began running through the standard Auror arsenal of revealing spells and trap-detection incantations. Something seemed to surprise him, and he stopped and began the investigation anew. His suspicions confirmed, he moved to each of the other chests in turn and investigated them as well.
He looked up after he'd finished with the last one, light reflecting off of the lenses of his glasses so that Snape found it difficult to look him in the eye. "These chests are all warded," he said, as Snape had predicted he would. "They're the only things in the house with spells on them."
"I don't know how I managed myself, Potter, before you were here to keep me informed as to the state of my material belongings," he said icily.
"What's in them, Snape?" Potter returned in equally icy tones.
"Why don't you open them and find out?" he sneered.
"I'd much rather have you do it for me."
Snape realised with a sudden stomach-twisting lurch that Potter had drawn his wand. He couldn't read Potter's eyes, thanks to the light reflecting from the lenses, but judging by the steadiness of his hand and the coldness of his voice, he was deadly serious. Once again, Snape had pushed too far. Potter was an Auror; he would have easily identified the ward on those chests. It was not an elaborate spell, its effects merely making it physically impossible to open the chests without the proper key. A simple Alohamora was all that was needed to open them by magical means. That was all Snape had intended to convey with his words, but of course Potter must think the ward was there to disguise some sort of trap.
As would any wizard, let alone an Auror alone in the house of a man he did not trust.
"Very well," he whispered, withdrawing the key from his clothing. Potter started as he put his hand into the pocket; the boy was obviously expecting some sort of magical attack. Snape wondered how he'd react upon finally discovering that Snape was essentially incapable of one, but quickly dropped that line of thought. It, like so much else these past twenty-four hours, did not bear thinking about.
He stalked about the room, unlocking each chest and throwing the lids open so that their contents were exposed - heaps of Knuts, Sickles, Galleons, all shimmering in the powerful illumination of the room's steady electric lighting.
Potter was struck dumb by the sight. Snape took a slight, twisted satisfaction at the idiotic expression on the man's face. Surely Potter had twice as much, fifty times as much money, and yet he was staring at Snape's chests as if he'd stumbled upon buried treasure.
"You- you're rich," he said finally.
Snape said nothing in response, and his silence seemed to break Potter free of his fascination. "Where did you get all this money, Snape?" he demanded, voice hardening. Potter's suspicions were plain on his face - bribery, murder, extortion of the sort the Dark Lord had been fond of committing during his rise to power.
"I assure you, it is my own money, Potter, and I came by it all quite legally."
Potter had his wand back up, and judging by the look in his eyes, he was less than convinced. "If you're lying to me--" he began.
"I am fully aware of the consequences," Snape snapped back. "And so I am not wasting my time trying to lie. The money is mine."
"Then why the spells?"
"To prevent Muggles from disturbing their contents."
Potter's sceptical expression did not falter.
"Oh, use your head, boy!" he snapped, irritated and throwing caution to the winds. "A first year could easily dispel these wards with naught but his wand and determination. Do you really think I would be so careless, were I guarding the contents of these chests from other wizards?"
Potter blinked, obviously stymied by Snape's logic. "You're worried about Muggle burglars?" he said stupidly.
"You don't believe Muggle burglars would be interested in carrying off gold and silver?" he responded. That he was more worried about the possible consequences of rumours concerning the chests' contents than he was potential theft, he left unsaid. Potter would most likely be unaware of how interested the Muggle government would be to hear that he had chests of odd gold and silver coins hidden in his house.
"There's nothing in the chests but money?" asked Potter finally.
"You are more than free to empty them all and find out for yourself," he responded. It was inevitable that Potter would help himself to the money; Snape reckoned he might as well encourage the man to get it over with sooner rather than later.
Potter stared at him for a long, hard moment. "Fine," he said, grudgingly. "Lock them up and replace the wards."
Now it was Snape's turn to stare. Was the man being serious? He was alone in Snape's house with a small fortune at his fingertips and all the authority and credibility of an Auror at his back, while Snape lacked any comparable advantage. There were no witnesses. And yet Potter was not going to take any?
Anyone would have done that.
No, any Slytherin would have done that. But Potter had been a Gryffindor, and Gryffindors prided themselves on their alleged honour. If Potter were to take the money, he would lose all ability to lord his mantle of superiority over Snape.
Snape had never been more thankful for that misguided devotion to morality. His existence depended on those Knuts, Sickles, and Galleons.
Once the all the chests were locked and re-warded so that nothing save Snape's key could open them, he led Potter back down the hallway. Potter made as if to pause at the door to the spare bedroom, but Snape swept by him.
"You will have examined that room in great detail last night," he said. He raised an impatient hand as Potter made as if to protest.
"Do you take me for an idiot, Potter?" he asked, his voice the barest of silky whispers. And then, when Potter grudgingly shook his head no, "Then refrain from treating me as one. As you will doubtlessly have blasted the room with every spell, charm, incantation, and cantrip known to an Auror, there is no reason for us to pretend that you need do it again today."
Potter's lips tightened, but he made no further comment. The Auror investigated the bathroom quickly, then moved on to Snape's bedroom. He made an especially long and thorough search of the room, as Snape had known he would, and so he was well prepared for the humiliation of letting Potter handle his clothing, his bedclothes, and his other necessary articles.
It was one in the morning when Potter paused his investigation of Snape's nightstand. Heavy circles ringed his eyes. "All right," he said. "Enough. I'm going to bed."
"And my garage?" Snape said silkily. "You're certain you'll be able to sleep without knowing what Dark abominations may lie concealed within?"
The open hatred in Potter's glare stunned any further comments from his lips. Snape returned the look with equal venom until Potter wordlessly left the room and proceeded into the bathroom. Snape wondered, as he listened to the sound of the Muggle toilet flushing and the water spiralling from the tap into the basin, what the boy was doing about the appropriate toiletries. He resolved to burn his toothbrush and towels first thing the next morning.
He was fully prepared to wait out another sleepless night, but he must have fallen asleep while waiting for Potter to finish, because when he next opened his eyes it was late evening and he was lying atop his bed, still in his clothes.
He lay there for countless moments. The house was absolutely silent.
He knew better than to believe that Potter was gone. He rose slowly, a dull throbbing echoing throughout his head, and pulled a fresh jumper and pair of dark grey trousers from his chest of drawers. He dressed slowly, then headed downstairs.
Potter was sitting at his kitchen table, eating the last of his cold cuts. Snape noticed that he was wearing new clothing for the first time since invading Snape's house. He hadn't brought it with him, and Snape wondered where he'd come by it before remembering that Potter could most likely still cast magic. If Potter had been imbecilic enough to Accio fresh clothing... A sudden horrific vision of Potter's latest adolescent Muggle ensemble speeding down the street to his front door flashed across his mind's eye.
"What potions are you brewing, Snape?" Potter asked without preamble. Snape continued to find the deep, commanding tone of Potter's voice unsettling; he was still half expecting it to crack on every other syllable. Yes, his mind reminded him. Potter is a adult now, and an Auror, and you had best not anger him.
"I see you didn't bother to wake me before your little foray into my garage." He stalked over to pantry and set about fixing himself supper.
"You said you weren't brewing any potions, Snape," Potter said, rising from the table, the ever-threatening wand making another appearance.
"Wrong," he snapped, whirling to face the bastard. "I said I was housing no Dark abominations. Which," he added, "I am not."
Potter's green eyes flashed.
"I didn't ask you to correct me, Snape," he spat. "What are you up to in there? Brewing a--"
"As anyone trained as an Auror should know," he cut in savagely, "Most of those 'potions' are nothing more than nonmagical simples, tisanes, and spirits."
"And the rest?" Potter spat back.
"Are the most basic of mixtures for healing common ailments and simple household injuries. Potions," he continued, "which any first year ought to be able to recognise and brew after his first month of schooling. Although I should not be surprised by your lack of knowledge. Your aptitude for the subject was always abysmal."
"You haven't changed at all," Potter said softly. "Still as arrogant and spiteful as ever."
"Come now, Potter. Must we resort to primary school taunting?"
Potter's flush deepened and something flickered deep within his eyes. After a moment Snape realised it was defeat, and he turned triumphantly back to the meal he meant to prepare.
"Although, I suppose," said Potter breezily once his back was turned, "that primary school taunting is one of the few things you're capable of doing well, Severu-- I mean, Lucius."
A cold emptiness unfurled in the pit of Snape's stomach and he turned slowly to face Potter, all the blood draining from his cheeks and lips. How did he know?
The Auror sat calmly at Snape's table as if he were a king presiding over his court, an ugly sneer twisting the corners of his mouth and hatred burning in the pits of his eyes. His expression reminded Snape of nothing so much as Lucius Malfoy - that sneering, superior complacency that Snape had always detested.
"Oh, yes, I know," said Potter coldly, triumphantly. "Ever since I checked you into the hospital and there it was for all the world to see on the Muggle licence in your wallet - Lucius S Snape. Still pining for your old master after all these years?"
Snape found he could force no words past the thick rage in his mouth.
Potter smiled, a cold, despising smile. "It's almost a pity he didn't survive to see you now, Snape, using his name, living like a Mug--"
"SHUT UP!" Snape roared; he could take no more of this.
Potter was on his feet in a blur, wand out, his discarded chair clattering across the kitchen floor. "DON'T YOU FUCKING TALK TO ME THAT WAY!" he snarled, face a deep angry red. "I'M NOT YOUR STUDENT ANYMORE AND YOU'D BETTER DAMN WELL WATCH YOURSELF!"
"Lay one hand on me, Potter," he snarled, lips bared in a scowl, "and you will live to regret it."
Potter advanced across the floor until the distance between them was closed. "And what exactly are you going to do, Snape?" he demanded, voice low and angry. "You may call yourself Lucius, may even think you're him, but if you think for a moment that taking his name will give you one tenth of his aptitude, or his disgusting charm, or his power, you are dearly mistaken. You will never be anything aside from an ugly, angry, second-rate wizard."
Your father would be proud of you, brat, he thought. His insults were as disgustingly quick, but yours are much more perceptive. But out loud he said, "I was just thinking, as I stand here looking at you, with your tangled hair and your underfed body, that you resemble no one so much as your dear godfather."
Potter eyed him uncertainly but said nothing, and so he continued in a conversational tone, "I was wondering if it was something you've consciously cultivated since the bastard's demise, or if it's merely a look common to all pitiful, worthless little pricks."
He could actually see Potter's heartbeat accelerate through the thin material of his t-shirt. "Draw your wand, Snape," he said, and his voice was deadly, chillingly, emotionlessly calm.
Snape remained motionless where he stood.
"Draw your fucking wand, Snape." Potter repeated the command, a little more loudly, anger shining through the cracks in his voice.
Snape allowed the barest trace of a smile to twitch at the corner of his lips. What a dangerous game they were playing now.
"Draw. Your. Wand."
"And if I said 'no'?"
The impact knocked the breath from Snape's lungs as Potter pinned him against the wall. He knew in an instant he'd gone too far. Never, never, never, in all those years of taunting the boy, of watching Draco taunt the boy, of watching him fight the Dark Master, had Snape ever known Potter to resort to physical violence.
"WHERE IS YOUR FUCKING WAND?"
Potter had an arm across his throat, pressing cruelly, preventing any air from reaching his lungs, and his wand in the other hand, the tip point blank against Snape's temple. His eyes were dark, fiery, his lips bloodless, his expression murderous.
Snape stared at him in fear and fascination. So this is what the Dark Lord must have seen before he died. Sparks danced across his eyes, he couldn't breathe, and Potter was still raging at him.
He did not want to give in. He did not want to admit defeat to Potter, not now, not after all these years.
He did not want to die.
"WHERE IS YOUR FUCKING WAND?"
"I DON'T HAVE IT!" He knew the pitiful image he must present, backed against the wall with Potter's arm across his throat.
"What?" Potter hissed in disbelief.
"I do not have it, Potter. It wouldn't matter if I did. It's useless here." And there it was, laid bare before Potter - his absolute weakness, his vulnerability, his failure.
"You can't be bloody serious," Potter said. He was still frightfully angry, but his voice was no longer as loud. "No wizard is ever without his wand."
"No wizard indeed," said Snape, and try as he might, he couldn't keep the self-pity and disgust from his voice.
Potter's jaw tightened and something flashed in the eyes behind his glasses, gone so dark that the green was almost black. He glared at Snape for a second in silence, the slowly withdrew his arm.
Snape raised a hand to massage his bruised throat.
"What are you talking about, Snape?" Potter said at last. His voice was barely above a whisper and Snape had to strain to catch the words. "Tell me everything. Now." The raging madman of a moment ago had vanished, and the Auror had once again taken command.
"I don't carry my wand because I am no longer a wizard," he said at last, hating Potter more fiercely with each word. Damn the bastard for finally drawing this out of him. Snape had known this moment would have to come, either here or in front of the Auror Court, but his utter loathing of Potter had not lessoned with the foreknowledge.
"Yes you are," Potter said. "You can't just turn Squib." And then, with true interest as the thought occurred to him, "Have you been cursed?"
"Yes," said Snape wearily. "No. Not..." he drew a deep breath and tried to compose himself. "Not exactly."
Potter crossed his arms over his skinny chest and prepared to wait for an explanation.
"I haven't been cursed by anyone. I don't know that there are any other wizards within leagues of this city," he said. "It happened naturally."
His calm tone seemed to enrage Potter. "It does not happen NATURALLY, Snape," he shouted. "You cannot just turn into a SQUIB!"
"You can in this country," he said wryly.
Potter's eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth to protest.
"Oh, you don't believe me?" said Snape. "You never were one to take the experience of your superiors at face value. Well." He extended a finger toward the microwave sitting on the kitchen counter. "Transfigure that," he commanded.
"Why?" said Potter. "So you can hex me as soon as my wand is off you?"
"No," said Snape with as much patience as he could muster. "So I can prove a bloody fucking point."
"Fine," said Potter. "Into what?"
He threw up his hands. "Anything. Whatever you desire. It doesn't matter."
Potter turned slowly to the microwave, glancing over his shoulder at Snape with deep suspicion.
"One false mo--"
"Yes, yes, I know."
Potter glared at Snape for another long moment before turning to the microwave and casting a Transfiguration spell with a confident, almost lazy flick of his wand.
Nothing happened.
Snape could easily imagine the bastard's incredulous expression, though Potter's back was turned.
Potter squared his shoulders, raised his wand, and executed the gesture again, slower this time, more deliberately.
The microwave seemed to grin at them from where it sat atop the counter before its form wavered and slowly dissolved into that of a meerkat.
"What the hell is going on?" Potter whispered. "It's as if..."
"The spell can't get out," he said quietly.
The erstwhile meerkat leapt from the countertop and pattered off into the dining-room as Potter whirled to face him, anger and confusion warring for control of his expression. "How the hell are you doing it, Snape? You don't even have your wand."
"For the last time, neither I nor my wand has anything to do with it," he said, heat slowly creeping back into his voice. There should be no doubt left in Potter's mind. Had the boy actually become less intelligent upon leaving Hogwarts?
"But it doesn't make sense," said Potter.
"On the contrary, it makes a great deal of sense." He had Potter's full attention now. "Did it never occur to you to wonder why wizards never settled the Americas?" he continued remorselessly, "though they surely knew of them centuries before Muggles?"
Potter was silent, transfixed.
"There is precious little magic on this continent, Potter. And the longer you stay, the less of it you will have at your disposal."
Potter turned and stared out the window for long moments, watching the cold January rain slicing across the backyard.
When he turned back to Snape his face was livid. "You weren't going to tell me," he said.
"No, obviously."
"You were going to wait until I'd lost all my magic and then attack me!"
"With WHAT, Potter? FOR ONCE USE YOUR HEAD! I HAVE NO MAGIC. I--" He cut off, panting with anger, and returned Potter's icy glare pound for pound.
"That's not true," said Potter. "You're brewing those potions out there," he tilted his head toward the garage. "And you cast wards on those chests last night. I saw you do it."
"And if you were at all perceptive, you would have seen how utterly exhausted I became after doing so." He didn't want to talk about this at all, how long years of living in this country had neutered his every ability, but Potter had wrenched this much out of him; why not speak of the rest as well?
"Even the simplest of spells now requires a great deal of exertion to cast properly."
Potter was still gazing at him. "You're telling the truth," he said slowly.
"Oh, bravo," Snape sneered. "Now that I have you convinced, would you kindly remove yourself back to England?" And I hope you fall from your broom and drown en route.
"No," said Potter slowly.
"What?" He couldn't believe his ears. He'd thought that - at the very worst - Potter would spend a few more minutes mocking him before returning to the Auror Court with tales of Severus Snape's humiliating Muggle existence, but not in a million years had he thought that Potter would stay.
"Because I came here to do a job, Snape," Potter said softly. "I'm here to Observe you until it's proven beyond a doubt that you aren't in league with the Dark."
"Potter," he said slowly, as if talking to a very young child. "You have seen that I have only the most basic of magics at my ability. What use could the Dark possibly make of me?" The self-pity was plain in his voice, no matter how he tried to hide it.
Potter shrugged. "That's what I need to find out. So you might as well cooperate."
He wanted - dearly - to fight, to force Potter out. But if the bastard was still capable of such a complex Transfiguration, Snape would be no match for him. "Very well," he whispered at last. "It seems I shall have little choice in the matter." As in so many other things where the wizarding world is concerned, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. "But you would do well to realise that I need not acknowledge you aside from the most basic of courtesies."
"I wouldn't dream of anything more," Potter said softly.
They quickly settled into an unspoken routine. Snape would rise early in the morning, bathe, fix himself breakfast, and then head into the garage to begin his day's work just as Potter emerged from the first floor.
Snape would end his work at about noon, prepare and eat his lunch, and then return to the garage for another hour or two, this time to attempt salvaging what he could of his fading potion-brewing abilities.
After that he'd head to the living-room, where he read or studied until dark, then back to the kitchen for another meal, and then upstairs to bed.
What Potter did during the first half of the day, Snape was never certain. Although hours could pass without him catching a single glimpse of the Auror, he knew Potter was never very far away. He certainly never left Snape's house. Occasionally Snape would hear Potter moving about while he was working in the garage, poaching Snape's meticulously labelled leftovers from the refrigerator or running his few sets of clothing through the washer in the basement.
They said nothing to each other for a matter of weeks, until the day Snape looked up from the antiquing cauldron to see Potter standing backlit in the kitchen doorway. The boy was in the same set of clothing he'd been wearing that night in the hospital - baggy khaki trousers and wrinkled shirt, and his hair was in characteristic disarray. Snape wondered why he didn't just cut it.
Potter's voice broke through his bemusement. "Tell me, Snape," he said. His voice was strong, sure, but it lacked the commanding tone of the other day, what Snape had come to think of as Potter's Auror voice.
When no further illumination appeared to be forthcoming as to exactly what he wished Snape to tell him, Snape raised an impatient eyebrow.
"Yes?" he said lightly.
Potter's gaze never wavered, but he began to look as if something were troubling him.
Snape's carefully prepared alloy was rapidly cooling. "Mr Potter," he said, producing a fair imitation of his old Potions Master tones, "If you would be so kind as to conclude this interrogation, so that I might continue in peace?"
Potter absentmindedly brushed the tips of his hair from his shoulders. He took another few moments before speaking. Then he met Snape's eyes. Snape could see that his eyes were troubled, even behind the thick glasses.
"Why Lucius?" he said at last.
The question, so unexpected, surprised Snape so that he didn't immediately answer.
Potter took his silence for reluctance. "You hated him," he said, his expression bewildered. "So why choose his name?"
"You find this extremely troubling, don't you?" he said in wonder. He didn't see why it should matter to the boy, regardless of the fact that he'd drawn an incorrect conclusion.
"But why?" Potter pressed. "You were better than Malfoy. If only because you were on our side," he hastened to add.
"Damning me with faint praise, I see," he said wryly, and then, "Don't be an imbecile, Potter."
"Malfoy was disgusting!" Potter exclaimed. "Arrogant, racist, evil, cruel--"
"I am more than aware of the man's many faults," he said wearily. "However, I did not choose to call myself after him."
"No one else made the choice for you," Potter said, passing down the few steps into the garage. He stopped midway across the floor, eyes narrowing as he caught sight of Snape's workbench, the crucible, and the various liquified metals.
"Alchemy?" he asked.
"Very good," he said; although he was not currently pursing Alchemical pursuits, it was close enough. "I wouldn't think you capable of handling the distinction between Potions and Alchemy."
"I'm an Auror, Snape," he said. "Don't patronise me." And then, "Why Malfoy's name?"
He shut his eyes. He was tired of this cat-and-mouse game, but that didn't mean he was about to let Potter command him like a child.
"I will repeat slowly, Potter, so that your faculties aren't unduly challenged. I did not adopt Malfoy's name."
"Oh, come off it," Potter snarled. "Do you think I'll believe that?"
"So we will continue to be both blockheaded and stubborn today. Very well. Allow me to answer your question with one of my own. Potter, we are all well aware that your conceit knows no bounds, but do you honestly believe that you are the only person to carry your given name?"
"Don't be bloody ridiculous," he snapped. "Of course not. What has that to do with--"
It was actually quite amusing to watch comprehension dawn across Potter's face. "Yes," said Snape. "Exactly." He turned his attention back to his alloys, but to his surprise, Potter was not about to let the subject rest.
"If not Malfoy, then who?" he said.
Snape sighed. Prevarication would be a wasted effort. He might succeed in fooling Potter, but the truth would be all too readily apparent to the Ministry and the Order. "It was my father's name," he said at last.
"Really?" said Potter, as if the very idea of Snape possessing a father was an utterly foreign concept.
"Yes," he sighed. "Lucius Severus Snape. It was a simple matter to adopt his identity and procure the appropriate Muggle identification."
"Why bother at all?" Potter asked. The Auror's voice was empty of anything save curiosity, hard though it was to believe. "You have your own identity."
"Lucius is an uncommon name, certainly, but how many Muggles do you know named Severus? Since I did not desire to have Dumbledore and his precious Order on my scent in a heartbeat, I had to--"
He'd said too much, as Potter had no doubt intended him to do.
When he next looked up to meet Potter's eyes he found the man staring at him coldly, clinically. Calculating. His next words were only too predictable.
"And why were you trying to escape the Order in the first place?"
He'd just confirmed Potter's every suspicion, and he had nothing to blame for it save his own idiocy. Even had Potter come here unconvinced of Snape's innocence or guilt, there was no way those words would have left him in any doubt.
"Because I find exile eminently preferable to the humiliation of being removed from my job."
Potter's look of surprise was both immediate and genuine. Snape could hardly credit it - certainly the boy had heard the rumours - but there it was.
"Removed from your job?" he repeated. "By who? When?"
"By your dear supporters," he said bitterly. "Surely this is common knowledge."
"Dumbledore never said anything," Potter said slowly. "We came back for Autumn term and there was another Potions Master in your place.
"So no, it isn't common knowledge."
"And it never occurred to you to ask what had become of me?" he sneered.
"Of course not! We were just glad to be rid of you."
The words were not unexpected, but they still stung him dearly, even after all these years. "How remarkably crass, even by your standards," he spat softly.
"Oh, shut up, Snape," Potter spat back. "What did you expect? It isn't as if you've ever gone out of your way to be pleasant to people."
The lump had settled back into his throat, and it was hard to work words out around it, but he managed nonetheless. "I have found precious few who are willing to give me the opportunity."
He'd fully expected Potter to make use of this admission in formulating another barbed retort, but incomprehensibly, the boy did not. He made no move to leave the garage, but neither would he meet Snape's eyes.
"So this is what you do here, then?" he said finally, gazing at the shelves of weakly-brewed potions, the tools, the workbench of cooling alloys, although his words were clearly meant to encompass the whole of Snape's life.
"Yes," he said wearily. "I am as you see me, Potter."
Potter swallowed, nodded once, and then finally turned to leave Snape in peace. Snape hailed him right as he was about to shut the door behind him.
"Thank you, Potter, for leaving before you begin gloating over my downfall."
Potter flinched as if physically struck. He half made as if to turn back to Snape, but then stepped into the kitchen, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Stanton rang later that morning. Snape hung up the telephone and turned to find Potter standing behind him, a bemused expression on his face.
"Potter, it is merely a telephone. I'm certain you've seen its like before."
Potter seemed to remember himself at the sound of Snape's voice. "Who were you talking to?"
"A business associate," he said cautiously.
"'Business associate?'" the Auror parroted. "You have 'business associates?'"
"Yes, Potter," he sighed. "Unless you believe the Dark Lord's adherents make a habit of ringing me on weekday mornings."
Potter actually smiled in response. And then, "What do you do here, Snape?"
He didn't want to trust Potter's apparent calm; he'd already fallen into that snare once already. Yet a great deal of tension seemed to have been diffused during their confrontation in the garage, enough that he found he could meet Potter's eyes. But try as he might, he could find nothing but mild curiosity in their depths.
"Tell me one thing," he said at last. "If, at the end of your sojourn in my presence you find no evidence of a continuing association with the Dark, can I expect further harassment from the Ministry?"
"No," said Potter. Again, Snape searched his eyes, and again he could find nothing hidden in them.
"Very well. Come along."
"Where?" Really, the boy could make even the simplest of conversations excruciatingly prolonged.
"To meet my business associate."
Potter's expression registered clear disbelief. "You're inviting me?"
"You'd follow anyway," he said darkly, heading toward the hall closet and his winter coats. "So I might as well dispense with the useless formality of refusing to take you along."
There was nothing Potter could say in response to this, and he knew it. He said nothing as he trailed after Snape to retrieve his coat, which Snape noted he'd hung in the closet alongside Snape's own clothing.
He opened the door and they both stepped out onto the front step. The day was cold but sunny; unusual weather for this time of year. Somehow, it made the leaden greys of the dead lawns and leafless trees more bearable.
Yet the ever-present wind whipped their hair about their faces, and Potter hunched his shoulders and turned his back to it while he waited for Snape to lock the door. He checked the knob twice and then led the way down the street into town. For once in his lifetime, Potter remained blessedly silent, and so Snape was almost able to ignore the Auror's presence entirely, which he did with blissful abandon.
They arrived at the coffeehouse after a brisk thirty minutes' walk. The blast of dry, heated air as the door swung shut behind them was jarring, and Snape stood for a moment, trying to blink some moisture back into his eyes. Beside him, Potter removed his glasses and scrubbed a hand across his face.
Snape wondered for a brief moment if they were, against all odds, early, but just then he caught sight of an older, smartly dressed man seated at a corner table. The man looked up and noticed him as well. "Lucius!" he called warmly, and motioned the two of them over to his table.
He shot Potter a quelling look before the boy could open his mouth and ruin things, and then led him to Stanton's table, weaving deftly between the closely-packed tables.
Several years ago, in a fit of nostalgia, Snape had given Stanton a good deal on some of his 'rare' Dobunni staters, all because he'd been starved for the sound of a familiar British accent. To his surprise, rather than abusing this ridiculous display of sentimentality as any rational man would, Stanton had seemed genuinely grateful for the gesture. Although they had not exactly become friends, they continued to do a great deal of business with one another during each of Stanton's periodic visits to the Americas.
Stanton rose from his chair and warmly clasped Snape's hand in his own, much to Potter's obvious surprise. Snape introduced Potter as his cousin (much to Stanton's obvious surprise), and then pointedly ignored the Auror as he set to discussing customers, accounts, requests, and pricing with Stanton.
Their conversation was broken only by the occasional pause as they stopped to sip their coffees, or by the waitress stooping to refill their mugs during her periodic tour of the establishment floor. Snape had fully expected Potter to become bored or even agitated during the long, esoteric dealings, but contrary to form, he appeared to be paying them both rapt attention. He even interrupted the conversation himself on a few occasions, although he always addressed his questions to Stanton.
Snape sipped uninterestedly at his coffee while he waited for Stanton to explain the finer points of 5th century BC die-casting to Potter. The boy was applying himself to the conversation with a sort of fevered attention Snape had never seen anyone but the Granger brat exhibit. If only Potter had directed that attention to his studies, and not breaking every conceivable rule in place at Hogwarts... But then Stanton finished with the boy and turned to inquire as to the possibility of obtaining some Zhou-era spade currency for a client.
They were very rare items. As it happened, Snape suddenly discovered that he did indeed have one or two in his possession, so he set to the finer details of negotiating their wholesale value.
Eventually they came to an agreement about pricing, and Stanton turned to securing several more items from Snape's 'rare' collection. Then the conversation strayed to broader topics, at which point, and to Snape's utter surprise, Potter made himself quite useful.
Like most Muggles, Stanton had no idea that any other world aside from his own existed, and so he regarded Snape as nothing more than an expatriate countryman. Snape could easily handle most of the conversational topics to which Stanton leaned: country life in the south of England, spates of bad weather, agriculture. But when Stanton veered from these topics into more political or cultural arenas, Snape was utterly at sea.
It seemed Potter had recently spent no small amount of time in the Muggle world, or at least studied its current trends, for he soon engaged Stanton in a lively discussion of a new novel and then a few of the modern television programmes.
At long last Stanton pulled an antique pocket watch from his coat and announced that he'd best return to his hotel, as his wife and two eldest daughters were most likely waiting for him.
Snape asked Stanton to send his regards, though he'd never met the family in question, and then solidified his plans to meet Stanton later on that week bearing the promised goods. Stanton clasped hands with Snape once again and then the three of them made their way to the till, settled their bills, and left.
It had been a remarkable success, Snape reflected, given all the potential for disaster to occur. They dawdled for a few minutes in the car park, during which time Potter even fielded Stanton's questions as to their familial relationship (Lucius never mentioned any cousins, he'd said, smiling all the while at Snape) with remarkable composure.
Stanton offered them a lift in his car, which Snape refused, as compared to brooms, the things were ridiculously claustrophobic. He stood with Potter while Stanton eased his automobile into the afternoon traffic. Stanton beeped his horn once, and then he was gone. All in all, the afternoon had been rather a success.
Of course, Snape reflected, the glorious calm of the past two hours could not possibly persist forever with Potter still about.
They'd hardly turned the corner before Potter began peppering him with questions. "You're an antiques dealer?" he said, staring at Snape in a mixture of disbelief and incredulity.
Snape found this irritating. "That should have been readily apparent, even to you, Potter," he said.
Potter was silent for the space of six paces. "Why?" he said.
Snape stopped mid-stride and turned, the wind whipping his coat about his legs. "Because it earns me a great deal of Muggle money through a minimum of human contact."
Potter's mouth dropped. "Oh," he said. And then, "But where do you get all of them? The coins, I mean?"
"I should have thought that was obvious," he said. "I don't 'get' them, Potter, I create them."
"You create them?" Potter repeated stupidly. "How? Where?"
Really. Had Snape not known better, he would have thought the boy a simpleton. "In my garage," he said. "Obviously."
"Obviously?" said Potter, still adrift in a sea of incomprehension.
"Yes," said Snape. "Potter, when you were carefully examining my every last possession, did you fail to notice the dies, the casting equipment, the books about antique coinage?"
"Yes, but..." Potter said slowly. And then with accusation in his tone, "You said you were doing Alchemy."
He sighed and wrapped his coat more tightly about his chest; an evening chill was borne on the wind. "No, Potter, you assumed I was doing Alchemy." He paused and considered. "Although a knowledge of that art has certainly helped me perfect my replicas."
"You weren't talking replicas with Stanton," Potter accused.
"No, obviously not. I take wizarding currency, melt it down and recast it into 'antique' coins, which I sell to Muggles who are apparently willing to pay great sums of money for the things. As far as Stanton is concerned, come next Thursday, I will be handing him original specie."
This announcement truly upset Potter. "That's disgusting, Snape! He trusts you and you're lying to him. They aren't real coins - they're worthless!"
"Considering that the currency I'm destroying to make those coins is both older and rarer than the currency I claim to be selling, I rather think not," he snapped, and then turned and continued down the street, Potter tagging at his heels like an especially yappish and persistent chimerhua.
"It's still dishonest!"
"And what would you have me do?" he demanded, not bothering to meet the man's eyes. "I had never set foot in the Muggle world until two decades ago. I have no Muggle connections, skills, or education. What else am I fit for?
"It may seem a simple step for you; you were raised as one of them," he continued. "But I assure you, Potter, it is a struggle for me. Had I realised at the time of my departure how ridiculously naive I was being, I doubt I would have been able to leave in the first place."
Potter blinked owlishly behind his fringe. "I didn't think about--"
"Oh, obviously," he said.
"And you're..." Potter began, then shut his mouth and sank into thought.
They passed the rest of the walk home in silence. They were both huddled once again on the doorstep, Snape unlocking the door, when Potter apparently changed his mind. "And you're happy like this?" he blurted out. There was no hostility in his tone, but neither did it sound as if he believed it possible.
"I am...content," Snape said at last.
Potter seemed to want to say more, but did not. Snape opened the door and bowed Potter through with a sardonic flourish of his hand. The Auror disappeared upstairs and Snape went about preparing his dinner as usual.
I am...content. It was true; at the very least, more so than when he had lived at Hogwarts. He was occasionally...lonely, to be sure, but that had been the case for most of his life. He stared out the window at the dark evening sky and watched his reflection, pale and hollow-eyed, as it mirrored him eating dinner.
That evening, Potter emerged on the staircase as Snape was making himself comfortable in the living-room.
"Why do you have all these books, Snape?"
"Because I enjoy reading." He spoke with the long-suffering tones of one used to explaining simple matters to the extremely daft.
"But they're all Muggle books."
"Magical ones would be less than useful, given my present circumstances."
Potter clomped down the remaining stairs, absentmindedly tucked a lock of hair behind one ear and reached for a random volume. "Culpeper's Complete Herbal & English Physician," he read. "You really find this interesting?"
"You should know, having read all my notes in its margins." He turned his attention back to the book open on his lap, eager to end the conversation.
"I know," said Potter at last. Something in his tone made Snape look up from his Paralcelsus.
Potter was now seated in the wingchair next to the fireplace, where he was waiting for Snape to meet his eyes. "It was the first thing I felt truly uncomfortable doing since I came here," he said matter-of-factly. And then, "I'm sorry."
Snape began to prepare something biting about how Potter had best be sorry for it, but the words dried on his lips. Potter was being, of all things, sincere.
To his surprise as well as Potter's, he nodded dumbly, and then proceeded to ignore the boy for the remainder of the evening.
And so another variation on their routine was established. That evening, and on each that followed, Potter came to join Snape in the living-room. He never spoke more than a word or two to Snape, and never deigned to touch a book himself, but he appeared each night without fail. At first, Snape found Potter's mere presence to be extremely disconcerting, but as the days wore on he realised the man had, unbelievably, no intention of doing anything save sitting. Let Potter waste his time; he could stare at Snape all he wanted, and he would never see the slightest hint of Dark, no matter how badly he longed to discover it.
After that, Potter's presence barely registered at all.
Snape was at his work again several days later. Stanton had rang earlier in the week to say that he was attending a dealers' showing in another city and wouldn't be able to receive the coins from Snape personally. Which had turned out just as well, given the fact that Snape could not get the alloys to mix correctly.
"Bloody. Fucking. Hell!" he spat as yet another wretchedly obvious mistake emerged from his die. This coin was easily within his means to create; he could not fathom why he'd turned out nothing save failures thus far.
"Language," admonished a dry voice almost directly behind him.
He jumped; when the hell had Potter come into the garage and how much had the man observed? "That's rich, coming from you," he intoned, not bothering to turn around.
"What do you mean by that, Snape?" The retort was immediate but carried no real ire.
"You know precisely what I mean," he responded, discreetly wiping his sweaty hair back from his face. "I well remember how horrifying your language was at Hogwarts."
Potter gave a short bark of a laugh. "You're prob'ly thinking of Ron, mostly," he said.
Snape straightened and gave a long-suffering sigh. Potter was no longer the vengeance-obsessed wretch who'd first put him under house arrest, but he was just as annoying in this new incarnation as well. "Have you come here for the sole purpose of tormenting me?" he inquired.
There was a pause as Potter considered. "Not entirely," he said at last.
Snape squeezed his eyes shut. He was bound to develop all manner of nasty ticks before Potter's blessed return to England. "Then may I ask," he gritted out, "to what I owe the pleasure of your company this time?"
"'S nothing to eat," Potter said immediately.
At that he did turn around. "And whose fault would that be," he said icily. Potter's green eyes were laughing at him behind the glasses and the unruly tangle of fringe.
"No idea," the boy responded impishly. "But you'd probably best think about getting some more."
"Unfortunately," said Snape, "as you show no signs of leaving, it has become my intention to starve you to death."
"If I don't eat, neither do you," said Potter.
"If my own death by starvation is the price by which I may secure your demise, so be it."
Potter snorted and crossed his arms about his chest. "I could almost think you were being serious," he said.
"Oh, do not doubt that I am being serious," he said silkily. "It appears that death is the one manner by which I might be free of you, and thus I have no choice but to pursue it."
Something shifted minutely in Potter's expression. His gaze shifted from Snape's eyes to some indeterminate corner of the garage. "Well, there's no food anyway. Just so you know," he said, and then removed himself back to the kitchen.
Snape sent a dignified sniff after him, then returned his attention to his work. Yet try as he might, he could not get the coins to cast correctly, and he finally gave it up for a lost cause. At least he was in no hurry to get the order finished, as he could now post it to Stanton at any time within the next month.
And there were more pressing matters to attend to. After searching most of the house, he finally located Potter in the study, where the boy had evidently been practising wand gestures every day.
Potter's expression was delightfully sheepish when he realised that Snape had been observing him. "So this is what you've been doing every morning," Snape said.
Potter squared his shoulders defiantly. "Yes," he answered.
"It's a pointless exercise," Snape informed him. "Your skill will continue to wane, no matter what you do in an attempt to save it."
Potter shrugged, although the gesture did not look as nonchalant as Potter doubtlessly hoped it had.
"Idiot boy," he snapped. "You're wasting your time. It has already been proved that I pose no threat to you." He attempted ire, but his pleasure at finding Potter worried about his declining skill was such that the words were not as scathing as he would have wished.
"Now come along."
Potter eyed him warily. "Where?" he demanded.
Snape arched a brow. "I am feeling charitable at the moment," he said, "and I plan to buy some more food this afternoon."
"So why don't you run along and buy it, then?"
"Because I am not feeling so charitable as to spare you from the joys of Muggle commerce."
"I'm not paying for anything myself."
Snape shot him a withering look.
The sheepish expression returned. "All right," the boy said at last.
これで以上です。
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*runs off to read more*
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Thanks, chica. This damn story is the reason your birthday fic is so late, so I'm glad there's no hard feelings:-)
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*scoots off to read more*
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Excellent characterisation and development of Severus' character, and a show of Harry being strong. I like it!
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This is fantastic! I can't believe I've only just found it!
I love the gradual unfolding of Snape's backstory... Though-- ouch on America sucking magic out of people. It's not that bad, is it? :-)
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He seems to loathe having Harry there, but every time he is with him he seems to become a undignified angry wet puppy. Harry in the first part of the chapter is not just arrogant, but cruel and awfully mean. Snape seems to know this and instead of telling him his thoughts, like: "Congratulations, Potter, your father would be proud of you. You seem to throw insults easily, though you have the perception you father lacked, etc, etc." he instead says something emotional that instead of hitting hard where it should, it just makes Harry angrier. After being at a very prominent disadvantage, I think his only line of sanity would make Harry have a really bad time in there, instead of Harry just complaining about the lack of food. He is in a very undignified situation, and you tell us he is trying to get by with bitter words and scathing replies, but you show us the opposite. Especially because he can't tell Harry the hard, insulting replies Harry actually deserves to hear, but Snape doesn't have so much of a problem spewing about his "downfall" for Harry to use against him. I just can't get this weakness of him.
There were some masterful replies to which I shuddered to, even though they just made point of making Harry realize Snape was really affected by him ("It appears that death is the one manner by which I might be free of you, and thus I have no choice but to pursue it") It's like ever since Harry arrived, he is the center of Snape's world, enough to make him say those dreadful things, like Harry and Harry alone is the main reason for this distress (instead of the Wizarding World as a whole, or the simple memories, or the reminder of lost magic; for Snape to accuse Harry of being very self-centered and arrogant, Snape is giving him too much importance himself)
Other than that, I'm glad Harry realizes Snape is not the person he thought he was, but I don't want Snape to give up so easily, as you are currently making him do it. I'm very much aware this story is already finished, so I wouldn't really ask you something like "I hope you do" because you already did something.
The moment the story focused on Snape working actually made a 180 degrees change, so I'm going to read more.