Chapter 3 – The Hermit

Chapter 3 – The Hermit

The bright, Cornish morning sunshine flooded through the small, dirty windows of an otherwise cosy-looking cottage. All was quiet except for the faint susurration of the sea in the distance and the odd repetitive cry of the gulls that wheeled and soared overhead. There was no roar of cars or chatter of people. The only sounds that ever punctured the air around here were the sounds of nature. And that was exactly the way Severus Snape liked it.

He was now sitting in his favourite armchair, nursing a steaming cup of Earl Grey. To anyone who had known him in his former life, he looked pretty much as he always had: stern, with penetrating black eyes and jet black hair that hung in curtains around his pale face. He was still lean and still moved with a quick, graceful gait. The only thing that looked different about him was that he now bore an angry-looking, gnarled scar on one side of his neck, a scar that he kept hidden with his trademark high-collared shirts.

It had been over ten years since he'd got that scar, and as ugly as it was, Snape found he could live with it quite happily. After all, he had never been a vain man. And the circumstances in which he got the scar had, perversely, led to his escape. Because Severus Snape had always planned to escape the life he had been dealt, once his obligations to Lily and defeating Voldemort were completed. It just so happened that the incident with the snake actually saved him the trouble from faking his own death.

He had been planning his exit from the Wizarding world for many years and had begun to do so in earnest once his Mark had begun to burn again and he had realised Voldemort was growing stronger. He had drawn up his will so that, if he died, all the money from his Gringotts account would be left to a false name in a Muggle bank account. He'd even bought the cottage, in an isolated part of Cornwall, in which he could disappear once Voldemort was finally brought down.

Being rescued by the house-elf therefore wasn't just a life-saver; it had given him the perfect alibi for escape. He could not return to Spinner's End, of course; too many people, Death Eaters and colleagues alike, knew of its location. Apart from a few books and trinkets he wished he'd had the time to salvage, he didn't miss the old place much. It was filled with bad childhood memories and loneliness. Whereas with the Cornish cottage, Snape felt that he finally had something of his own which was not tainted by baggage and he could start afresh. The sea air and the remoteness of the location all helped to soothe his troubled soul.

Snape realised just how lucky he had been to have survived the snake attack, however. The injury to his neck had narrowly missed his main artery and through a sheer miracle had not punctured his oesophagus; otherwise he would have choked to death on his own blood. His vocal chords were also, mercifully, undamaged. He had, however, lost a great deal of blood, but it had been the venom from the viper that had posed the greatest danger of all. It was so deadly and immobilising, even if he'd had a bezoar on him, he could not have moved to use it. If the elf had waited even another minute or two, he would have surely died.

The elf had done well, though, in administering the potions. The anti-venom had started to work almost immediately, and the Blood-Replenishing Potions rejuvenated his tired body quickly. When he had come to, he had found himself still on the floor of the Shack in darkness, with the elf's large, orb-like eyes staring down at him. His neck had felt both sore and itchy, as the dittany set to work in knitting together his ripped flesh.

It had taken Snape a few moments to piece together what had happened; all the while the chaotic sounds of battle echoed around him. He had thought through his options and realised that if he had been left for dead, he could use the situation to his advantage and flee. Who would care about the traitorous former headmaster anyway? Most people would believe the Dark Lord himself had disposed of his dead body.

Grateful to find that he had still got the use of his voice, he had commanded the frightened elf to Apparate with him to his Cornish cottage, despite her protestations. The elf had had no choice but to comply, however, and after making sure the empty potion phials were retrieved, they had departed without further argument.

The elf had stood trembling in the middle of the lounge as the still blood-soaked Snape had lit a fire in the hearth and then collapsed in the arm chair. He had needed to think quickly about the future and how he was going to survive. His will would be sorted by the state. He would be able to live modestly from all the Galleons he had squirreled away over the years. And he'd already packed the pantry full with food, held fresh under a stasis charm, enough to last him at least a month, as well as a wardrobe full of clothes and some potion equipment and ingredients. What he had needed now was to make sure his new haven was kept a secret, with a spell stronger than the perfunctory measures he had taken so far. He had needed some way to make it untraceable. Unplottable, even.

Thanking once again his luck, his Slytherin cunning and his sharp wits, Snape had forced the elf to participate in a Fidelius charm in order to make the cottage Unplottable in much the same way the Order headquarters had once been. Once the charm had been completed, with his remaining energy he had cast a Disillusionment charm on himself before modifying the elf's memory. The elf, who had been clearly confused about her surroundings, had Disapparated immediately from the cottage, leaving Snape finally alone.

And his plan had worked. No-one had found him due to his inspired use of the Fidelius charm, and the Prophet had reported that he was amongst the fallen in the war. And no-one had even tried to contact him. Until, one year to the day after the Battle of Hogwarts, he had received a letter from Minerva McGonagall. He had been both surprised and annoyed that she had not simply assumed like everyone else that he had died. But Minerva had always been a stubborn witch, and she didn't give up too easily. And so he had received a letter from her every year since.

At least through her letters, he'd found out that it was she who had sent the elf. He had presumed it was Potter, but he hadn't dwelled on it too much. Why would he? He'd left that world behind him.

Snape now spent his days in solitude, either working on his own personal potions projects, reading, fishing, cooking, or studying. He was, more or less, happy. A quick glamour charm and some plain, dark Muggle clothing allowed him to wander into the village to withdraw money and buy groceries. Very occasionally, he might stop at the pub for a snifter of whiskey. But apart from those limited snippets of interaction with other people, Snape was essentially a hermit.

It was not often that he felt lonely, however. He was used to his own company and there were very few people, if any, whom he considered to be friends or whose company he wanted to be in. But he did want to keep up with the events that were going on in the Wizarding world, regardless of his absence. And for that reason, he had taken out subscriptions to both Potioneer Magazine and The Daily Prophet, using an alias.

Snape knew he'd never go back to living amongst wizards ever again. He did not want any supposed glory from his part in the war from Potter-fans or any comeback from pro-Voldemort supporters who had escaped doing time in Azkaban. He would certainly face a trial himself and could be put in Azkaban for Dumbledore's murder, no matter how necessary it had been for their plan to succeed. He was not going to risk incarceration when he had been incarcerated for the majority of his adult life by two masters.

He saw what had happened at Lucius Malfoy's trial through the reports in The Prophet. Of course, the slippery git would have got off with a few well-placed bribes thrown here and there, riding on the back of his wife's bravery during the battle. But Snape himself was convinced he would never have such luck. No matter who defended him or what witnesses were called to the stand, his record spoke for itself: a supposedly "reformed" Death Eater, let off once from the testimony of Albus Dumbledore, who then went on to kill the only person who had trusted him and who had, by all intents and purposes, been on Voldemort's side. Murder was murder, no matter what the circumstances. Even for the "greater good", he thought to himself with a curled lip. Harry Potter had tried defending him in the press, but Snape knew that the majority of people would be against him.

The scraping and tapping at the front window disturbed Snape from his reverie. After placing his cup of still-steaming Earl Grey down on the coffee table, he rose quickly, crossed the room and pushed open the tiny, dusty window. Two large, yellow eyes stared back at him, and Snape could not help but give a small smile. Just as he had expected, it was the delivery owl from The Daily Prophet; the same owl that had delivered his paper for the last two weeks in succession, in fact. He took the paper from the little owl's beak and pushed the window open yet further, inviting the owl to come in.

With a grateful hoot, the owl fluttered inside on to the window sill, where Snape always left a cup of water and leftover scraps from his breakfast for the occasion. This time, the owl was treated to some bacon rind, which she hastily devoured, and then took a long drink from the water Snape had provided. Once the owl was satiated, she ruffled her feathers and hopped back on to the outside ledge of the open window, allowing Snape to stroke the soft plumage of her head for a few moments before she took flight. He watched the owl soar up into the sky and away over the cliff tops before closing the window and returning to the comfort of his arm chair to settle down and read.

TRUNK-LOAD OF ILLICIT WANDS SEIZED IN MONTENEGRO, the headline announced on the front page. Snape frowned. Voldemort had spent much time in Albania over the years and had gained some influence in that part of Europe. Over the last couple of years, various Dark artefacts had been confiscated from the surrounding areas, and he wondered if it was part of a bigger picture somehow.

Still frowning, Snape turned the paper over to sports pages, wanting to catch up on the Quidditch news before sinking his teeth into what looked to be a very interesting front-page story indeed. Shaking the paper straight, he began to read.

AMAZING ARROWS SILENCE WASPS' BUZZ

It was near-perfect Quidditch conditions on Tuesday night for the match that everyone had been talking about since the start of the season: Lincolnshire's plucky Appleby Arrows seeking revenge for their last thrashing at the hands of long-term rivals, Dorset's mighty Wimbourne Wasps, writes Ginevra Potter, Senior Quidditch Correspondent.

The Arrows certainly looked relaxed with the advantage of playing at home, and the sell-out crowd was positively charged with expectation on what turned out to be a bright, crisp November evening.

The match concluded after just under an hour's play, with Arrows Seeker Abbott turning out some spectacular flying, stealing the Snitch from under a frustrated Chang's nose, leaving the final score at 170-250. Arrows fought bravely for a well-deserved victory, and all eyes must surely be on the return fixture at home to Wasps next Spring. The competition for the cup is certainly hotting up, and the Arrows have proved that, if their luck holds, they are certainly one to watch this season.

Snape gave a faint snort, his lip curling involuntarily as he stared at the slow-motion picture of the two Seekers replaying the dramatic Wronski Feint. He still found it hard to believe that Ginevra Potter, the youngest of the Weasley clan he'd taught at Hogwarts, was the new Senior Quidditch Correspondent for The Daily Prophet. The girl was still in her twenties, for Merlin's sake! Admittedly, she'd had a short but nonetheless dazzling career as Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies and had been captained for England a handful of times. But still, in his eyes, it seemed wrong somehow that someone so young could be called "senior" at anything.

Of course, he thought sourly, lip curling even more, once she had agreed to start churning out offspring, sired by her tedious and now thankfully less famous husband, there was no way she could maintain the physically demanding role of a Quidditch player. It seemed to Snape that Ginevra Potter took after her mother in her eagerness to squeeze out filthy, mewling urchins. Three before the age of thirty. What a waste.

Oh yes. Snape knew about the Potters' children. He knew about their wedding, too. He might be living away from the Wizarding world but, thanks to The Daily Prophet, he could keep up to date with everything that was going on, including births, marriages and deaths. Potioneer Magazine indulged his hobby, but The Prophet was like a life-line to him, his only link to the world he'd left behind. The Daily Prophet had become his substitute for real human contact. The Prophet, however, was soon to play a far bigger role in Snape's life than he ever imagined, and the hermit life he had enjoyed over the past decade would never be the same again.

Snape, blissfully unaware of the events to come, sipped at his tea and continued to read in peaceful solitude.