Chapter 9 – The Calm Before The Storm

Chapter 9 – The Calm Before The Storm

Severus Snape's morning had started out well. He'd donned his plain Muggle clothing and taken a brisk dawn walk along the coastline that led from his cottage, eventually winding his way down to the tiny village harbour to watch the winter sun rise across the sea. The few boats that were moored there bobbed gently on the iron-grey waters to the melody of the clinking of rigging and the cry of the wheeling gulls. The clump of cottages that surrounded the bay looked like crooked teeth in an overcrowded mouth.

He had returned to his own cosy cottage with an appetite and a wind-nipped face and had breakfasted on some warming porridge with cinnamon and honey and strong, black coffee. Shortly afterwards, the unmistakable scratching and hooting at the window signalled the arrival of two owls. Snape rarely got letters, so it was certainly an unusual occurrence to see more than one owl vying for his attention. But there was one letter he'd been hoping for, and so he swiftly opened the window to let both owls in.

The first was instantly recognisable as the owl from the Daily Prophet: a small owl with large, yellow eyes and soft, grey plumage. The second was a tawny owl, her black eyes glinting with clear disapproval at the smaller owl. She was carrying a letter tied to her leg. Snape retrieved the mail from both owls and invited them onto the window ledge to take a drink before departing. The Prophet owl accepted the invitation, as usual, but the tawny merely clicked her beak and glared at the other owl, as if scolding her for being unprofessional, before taking flight.

Once both owls had departed, Snape crossed the lounge and sat in his favourite armchair. He turned the letter over in his hands. The addressee on the envelope was made out to his pseudonym, and the wax seal on the back bore the Potioneer Magazine logo. He felt his stomach swoop as he unfurled the thick, yellow parchment.

A smile began to form on his face, broadening with every line he read. By the time he'd finished the letter, there was a fully-formed smirk of victory etched upon his usually stern features. Potioneer Magazine had hailed his Wolfsbane discovery as nothing short of brilliant, and with his permission, would be applying to the Ministry of Magic for funding to begin experimental trials on lycanthropes next year. Moreover, they had invited him to their annual conference to announce the discovery in person. Of course, Snape would politely decline to attend, but he was thrilled to have such recognition of his work. Finally, he'd achieved something he could feel proud of without obligations to anyone else.

His self-imposed exile had given him the opportunity to live without fear of retribution, essentially free. The life he had chosen for himself after he had escaped from the Shrieking Shack would undoubtedly be deemed as no life at all by those who relied on other people for their own happiness, or who based their wealth solely on material things. But Snape had learnt self-reliance at a young age and that skill had become invaluable when he had been tethered to two masters. It was that very skill which had allowed him to act as a spy so successfully during the war, and which now allowed him to live in relative contentment with no one but himself for company.

But underneath his resolute independence ran a strong sense of justice and stubbornness. Snape wanted his pound of flesh. Snape wanted to claw back the long years that had been taken from him through incarceration, firstly from his own mistake of taking the Dark Lord's brand, and then from his allegiance to Dumbledore in order to defeat him. Snape felt that if he could live out the same amount of years in total freedom, doing whatever he wanted to do, then he could finally look death in the eyes without regret. Ten years he'd been free; another ten and his "life debt" would be repaid.

Although, in actuality, it had been three masters Snape had been in servitude to, not two. Lily Potter had undoubtedly been the catalyst for and the meaning of his actions throughout his life until his supposed "death", even as he'd walked the fine line between pleasing Voldemort and Dumbledore. And when Lily had died, he'd clutched on to the memory of her like a rosary and venerated her as the Madonna herself. He'd held on to every smile, every kind act and every sweet recollection, and crystallized them into the pure white diamond of his guiding light. He'd cherished her memory so vehemently that he'd banished any negative thoughts he had about her, instead deflecting his bitterness and anger onto everyone else and, especially, onto himself. She was the only good thing he'd ever had, and he couldn't let anything tarnish it.

Once the war, and essentially his reason for living, was over, Lily's hold on him had slowly begun to diminish. It was only after he'd removed himself from the Wizarding world that he had allowed himself to think about Lily as something other than perfect. He retraced his old memories and found in them the pain of rejection, the anger from her abandonment, the loneliness of losing his best friend, and the humiliation from her choosing James Potter over him. And by allowing himself to feel those negative emotions towards her, instead of blocking them out or channelling them elsewhere, he had therefore allowed her grip on his heart to lessen.

Snape unwittingly reaped the benefits of re-examining his emotions. He'd always thought that his love of Lily defined him so inexorably that any change in his feelings towards her would tear a hole in him that could not be repaired, leaving him bereft and empty. But it did not. Life went on. His nightmares faded along with his bitterness and anger. And, finally, he was able to be the master of his own destiny. There would always be a part of him that loved Lily, of course, but that love was no longer all-consuming, obsessive and idealistic.

With the smirk of success still traced on his thin lips, Snape carefully folded the letter from Potioneer Magazine, tucked it into his breast pocket, and picked up the Daily Prophet.

POTTER'S SON IN AUGUREY FLU DRAMA, the headline screamed.

In his past life, Snape would have felt a wave of triumph at any Potter-related misfortune. He was therefore surprised to find that the news of Potter's youngest son potentially contracting a serious illness did not stir any kind of happiness or vengeance in him. There was no glee, no joy to be had in the news. But neither was he saddened or concerned. He supposed indifference was an improvement of sorts.

His eyes flicked down to the picture of four-year-old Albus Severus Potter, staring shyly out from the paper with a finger jammed in his mouth. He had Potter's shock of black hair and facially he looked very much like his mother, but it was the shape of the eyes that caught Snape's attention. Lily's eyes. The eyes that had haunted him for so many years; the eyes that had mocked him when staring out of James Potter's features in the shape of Lily's son, now staring out of the face of her grandchild.

Albus Severus Potter. Named, Harry had said to the press, after two of the bravest men he ever knew. Snape personally thought it was a ridiculous couplet, even though he understood what Harry had been trying to achieve. But putting Snape's own name alongside Potter's still rankled him, no matter how noble the gesture.

And now the unfortunately named boy was lying seriously ill in St. Mungo's, undergoing all kinds of tests and suspected to have Augurey Flu. Snape shook his head. Shacklebolt's pandemic measures appeared to be for the most part successful in comparison to the Nogtail Flu outbreak, but there were always going to be some residual casualties, no matter what precautions were put in place. Still, the St. Mungo's Healers seemed be coping and there had been no fatalities as all the afflicted had responded to treatment.

Snape felt confident as he turned the page that this was just another storm in a Nose-Biting Teacup, and an opportunity for the Prophet to use the Potter name to shift more newspapers and create more hype about Augurey Flu. The press seemed to desperately want a death as a result of the virus. After all, "person gets a cold and then gets better" was not really a headline that demanded too much attention. The boy would undoubtedly be fine and none the worse for his misadventure, unless one counted the dreadful hospital food he would no doubt have to endure.

Yes, from where Snape was sitting, he was sure this would all blow over in a day or so.

He couldn't have been further from the truth.