The Burden of Atlas

And so it was that after trips to the post office and grocer (including a special order for lemon curd and loose-leaf Twinings, but excluding any Muggle whisky) Severus returned home (home, it's home now...it has to be). He methodically put his purchases away in cupboards and the Muggle refrigerator, then he carefully chopped herbs for red sauce (his own recipe) and hovered over the Muggle stove until the pasta was cooked perfectly al dente.

He ate in silence (at least I've not started talking to myself, yet). Orders were opened and cataloged after dinner was eaten and dishes attended to. He took his evening tea sitting next to the front-facing window in the lounge (living room is what it's called here, if a flat little larger than a bedsit can be properly called living) and watching the Muggles go by.

Tonight, however, two dozen Muggles holding a nudist footrace accompanied by Pipes and Drums couldn't have stolen his attention from his tea cup as he swirled the dregs, lost in thought. If he held any truck with the noble arts of the seer (snort!), he would look for the answers to his as-yet-unformed questions.

But he did not.

Severus' brow furrowed as he placed his tea cup back on its saucer and left it on the table for the morning washing up. The furrow had blossomed to a full frown by the time he'd taken the few steps necessary to cross the room and shut the lights. He entered the only room of the flat that was unabashedly magical and shut the door behind him with a sigh.

"Lumos."

He toed off his boots, the only item in his wardrobe that he adamantly refused to go Muggle. His relatively well-made trousers (black) and wool jumper (also black) were carefully laid over the back of a straight-backed chair reminiscent of the one he always kept in his office for students, and shirt and socks were dropped unceremoniously onto the floor as he padded into the lav to see to his bedtime rituals. An absentminded wave of his hand sent the clothes on the floor to the hamper as he fell onto his woefully short (that old dormitory four-poster would be heaven in comparison!) bed.

"Nox."

It had been Severus' habit, since he was a boy, to recount the day's events to himself after retiring for the night. After years of practice he had honed the mental and observational skills, which allowed him to pick through details, re-play visual cues, mull over conversations, and digest information that he (both consciously and automatically) tucked away in his mind for later consideration. These skills proved very useful for, and were greatly enhanced by, his years of spying following the return of the Dark Lord (Voldemort...I can call him by name, now).

Although it is to these skills, as much as (if not more than) any others, that his ultimate survival can be attributed; it was a close thing. Even if a part of him wanted to believe that he'd never again need his ability to re-play the day as he had those terrible years, the rest of him was rather unfamiliar to optimism and hope and, therefore, stuck firmly with his modus operandi of 75% preparation and 25% paranoia. And, like many of his habits (of which there were more than a few, he'd be first to admit), it was a part of him: born of a boy's need to occupy his mind to block out the sound of his parents' oft violent (and always loud) personal exchanges, continued as a study aid (and to help better formulate plans for revenge against the merry gang of Gryffindors) during his years at Hogwarts, and practiced in adulthood in the subsequent foreboding of his faded (not disappeared) Dark Mark.

Tonight, like every night, Severus sprawled on the bed with his hands tucked behind his head, eyes open but unseeing, running his mental tally of every encounter and conversation. He smiled to himself as he recalled the dare, and Simon's look of shock as he was grabbed by the strange, dark man on the park bench.

Well, that was certainly good for a moment's entertainment, Severus thought as he chuckled inwardly.

He recalled the faces of the children who had dared Simon to approach him then hid themselves (cowards) and memorized them for future opportunities for, ah, entertainment in the park.

He went over the conversation (monologue) with Simon that began on the bench and ended at the door to the bookstore, sorting and labeling each small bit of information for easy access should he need it, later.

Let's see, young Simon was named after a great Roman emperor and philosopher, and he knows it. Excellent choice of namesakes; the stoics held a prominent place in my personal library at... Spinner's End.

Spinner's End, not home. This is home now. Severus sighed to himself before giving himself a mental shake and going back to task.

His clothing looks worn (but carefully-maintained), and the trousers are beginning to show his ankle, but he's clean. His brown hair is straight and floppy and in dire want of a trim. He smiles widely enough to show the gaps in his upper teeth waiting for his canines to erupt, and there is mischief in those hazel eyes, enough to give the Weasley twins a run for their Galleons.

He knows the Greek alphabet at...what?...nine or ten years of age. He lacks no confidence, but he's hardly arrogant. He seems to have no relationships with his peers, and I wonder why that is so...he's extremely bright, interested in books more than childish games, but that hardly seems like enough to alienate him. On second thought, it probably is enough...it was enough for me.

Severus frowned into the dark before continuing.

He is polite, has assigned tasks and does them without complaint, communicates clearly (and dramatically...he certainly possess a gift for storytelling), and is respectful of, and comfortable with, adults. I find him curiously pleasant company.

And he was raised by his mother, alone.

Ah, yes, the mother. Ursula.

She is friendly, courteous, and welcoming. And honestly so...the warmth of her smile (shy, but not hesitant) went all the way to her eyes. Hazel, like Simon's. Severus smiled to himself...it had been years, if a day, since he was greeted so warmly.

Although he was fully capable of voiceless, wandless, and nearly undetectable Legilimency, it was his practice to avoid it, even with Muggles. It was considered unconscionably rude, albeit extremely useful in spying...in fact, it saved his hide on more than one occasion. Being an exceptionally skilled Legilimens, however, meant he was able to pick up on stray thoughts and strong emotions without any intrusion whatsoever...and although he was sure some foolishly noble Gryffindor-type would object, he saw no reason why he shouldn't glean the air for the bits of information that littered the fore-minds of Muggles and the non-Occluded. He hadn't been sorted into Slytherin for nothing.

Honest. Yes, Ursula is honest. Although, unlike most Muggles (and especially unlike these loud American Muggles), she kept her thoughts largely to herself, Severus mused. Small amounts of emotion did slip out, enough to know that what she felt and what she said weren't at odds. As necessary as near-constant deception had been all his adult life, Severus held honestly... genuine and open honesty (not what passed for it in Gryffindor House, as he disparaged often and openly during Albus' too-frequent staff meetings)...in high regard.

And he looked forward to discovering the source of the waves of panic and fear Ursula broadcast. He hadn't a good puzzle to solve in quite a while.

Smarter than anyone? Despite her modesty, she does appear erudite, Severus admitted. It will be interesting to discover where her education lies, apart from Mediterranean alphabets, that is. She is well-spoken, and it's clear from the lazy drawl of her (delightfully!) rich alto that she was raised far from the land of flat vowels and harsh Rs. Simon seems to have both the peculiarities of dialect of his mother and this part of the country, he mused.

The mental cataloging continued apace.

Blonde hair, and I'd bet Sickles to biscuits it would hang a good way down her back if she didn't trap it that McGonagall-esque bun. She's rather pretty, I'd say, although she'd hardly get a nod from Playwizard readers. No, they'd not spare Ursula a glance...I doubt she's much taller than five-foot-two, and there's not a flat plain on the woman.

Not that Severus considered such a thing a flaw.

But it was also not as if he would willingly admit that to himself, either.

On Boxing Day, 1975, Severus Snape received his first...and last...kiss. At the end of the previous summer, he had wandered through the woods after choppers had been through, and there he found a lovely chunk of box elder with a knot that looked like starburst. He had an old Muggle pocket knife his father had discarded, and he spent every spare moment until winter hols (despite it being his OWL year) hewing away at that wood. He became proficient at self-healing those months and, quite frankly, was lucky he didn't manage to lop off a finger and have to explain to Madam Pomfrey that he kept Muggle weapons about. As he worked the wood, as he formed a lioness...sitting proudly on her haunches with a starburst on her head like a crown...he thought of his own... his Lily, his best friend. He finished it the day he returned home, scrubbing it gently with steel wool to take away the edges and then rubbing oil into the porous surface until it glowed. When Lily's pebble hit his window, he made his way outside, as he always did, and greeted her with the little figure. Her eyes lit up, teared up, and before Severus could grasp what was happening she had leaned in and pressed her lips to his. Then she scampered off, back to her house.

Severus had stood in the knee-deep snow for several minutes, the fingertips of one hand pressed to his still-tingling lips, before going back inside. He did not see her again until the train back to Hogwarts, and never thereafter could he catch her without one of her idiot housemates around. He could have, should have, just written down what he wanted to say to her, but he feared it falling into the wrong hands. He'd wait, he thought, until after OWLs, after they left for the summer and she was away from Potter and his merry band of imbeciles. Then he'd tell her how he felt...then he'd have his day.

That day never came.

And so he tucked that memory away, kept it close to his heart, and waited for the day when she'd realize what a pompous fool Potter was. She'd finally accept his apology, she'd lean in for another kiss. His intellectual vanity and naiveté resulted in stupidly taking the Dark Mark...still he waited. She married...still he waited. He would have waited forever for his day.

That day never came, and never would.

And an anguished Severus Snape presented himself to Albus Dumbledore, vowing to remain faithful to her memory...he'd protect her son, he'd teach and spy and anything else the old codger could think up, and he'd keep the memory of that one moment of true happiness inviolate.

He was, however, still a man. His body reacted automatically to sensory input as any young man's would, but the very idea of reacting to a woman not Lily was abhorrent to him. He willingly, willfully, became an emotional flagellant. At the first hint of attraction he'd begin mentally whipping himself; if his body reacted, he'd punish it for its infidelity by standing in a cold shower and scrubbing at his skin even as he scrubbed the offending images from his brain. He built walls of ice and cruelty around himself. He only left Hogwarts when necessary. He avoided socializing with his colleagues when he could and shoved them away with his sharp tongue when he could not.

Still, he'd notice the female forms around him. And punish himself. But as he grew older, and the random biological drive of the young man gave way to control, those occasions grew more and more infrequent. His body wouldn't react to any female form in his vicinity anymore, but it did react (and strongly) to...certain female forms. Those most unlike himself, with softness to cushion his sharp angles and...

And because he wouldn't...couldn't...admit to himself that he fancied a female's topography at all, much less one so unlike his Lily, he eventually convinced himself that his surreptitious appreciation of those rounded hills and shallow valleys was a respect for Classical beauty.

At least, that was one less punishment in those years of unending stress and pain leading up to the final stand of Lily's boy, that his body had to endure. He'd remained faithful to her memory...promises kept, Dumbledore's will be done.

Until tonight. Until one stray thought as he began to drift to sleep.

Right bit of totty, that one.

Severus gasped at the thought, eyes snapping open and staring into the nothingness of the pitch-blackness before him. He waited for that old familiar feeling, that urge to scrape his body's betrayal from his skin and his mind.

It didn't come.

He squelched rising panic as the comfort of his self-disgust deserted him, panic less about his attraction than the void inside him that was once filled with self-loathing. Once he got his breathing under control, but still feeling at sixes and sevens, he drifted into fitful slumber.

Perhaps he should have bought some whisky, after all.