Chapter 13 – A Birthday Surprise

Chapter 13 – A Birthday Surprise

It was true to say that Severus Snape was not expecting any kind of correspondence on his birthday; for many years now, the ninth of January was just the same as any other winter's day, and he didn't see why his forty-ninth should be any different. So to receive a letter, carefully tucked inside his morning's Daily Prophet, was a complete shock.

At first, he thought it might be junk mail; after all, the Prophet did sometimes come with flyers, and the New Year traditionally saw sales in some of the wizarding world's more popular shops, all hawking for trade in the post-Christmas lull. But on closer inspection, he saw that it was actually a thick piece of parchment with his name handwritten in neat, loopy script on the front. The writing was far too big to belong to Minerva and too legible to belong to Benedict Bung, the editor of Potioneer Magazine. In fact, he didn't recognise the handwriting at all. And there was absolutely no one else he could think of who would be sending him a letter on this day of all days. Puzzled, and more than a little curious, he unfolded it and began to read.

Dear Mr. Nobel,

Ginevra Potter

One of Snape's eyebrows quirked characteristically upwards in surprise. Ginevra Potter was inviting him to a Quidditch match? The very idea seemed laughable. And he couldn't help but feel a little affronted at first; he'd managed to stay under the radar for so long, after all. Ginevra would have had to have done some serious snooping in order to trace his pseudonym, and that thought rankled him as an invasion of his privacy. He supposed that, as she worked for the Prophet, it wasn't too hard for her to track him down by looking at old subscription records. Still, he had to admit that it had taken some cunning and persistence on her part, even if the intrusion felt annoying initially. Ginevra had clearly wanted to express her gratitude to have gone to such lengths to find a way to send a letter. And what she was proposing had certainly piqued his interest, once his annoyance had subsided, because it had hit on one of the things he sorely missed about the wizarding world: Quidditch.

These days, he followed Quidditch avidly in the Prophet, and whilst Ginevra's reports were, dare he admit it, lively and engaging, they were no substitute from being up in the stalls, with the roar of the crowd in his ears and drama unfolding in front of his eyes, a hundred feet up in the air. It had been well over a decade since he'd been to a match and longer still since he'd seen an international game. Added to this the promise of exceptional seats and hospitality meant that Snape was sorely tempted to accept.

He ruminated on the letter for the rest of the day, finally weighing up his decision over a birthday treat of elf-made wine and soft cheese that evening. If he accepted, it would be his first outing in to the wizarding world for ten years. He wasn't used to company. Maybe the crowds would be too much for him to handle? And also, there was no way he was going to reveal his true self to Ginevra; he'd protected his identity for so long that he wasn't prepared to expose it now. But how else could he attend the match and keep his identity intact? After all, the simple glamour charms he'd been using when venturing out into the Muggle world might not be enough to render him completely unrecognisable to Ginevra after teaching her for five years at Hogwarts. He supposed he could grow a beard and tie his hair back, but even that coupled with glamour charms probably wouldn't be enough, either. He supposed he could attend the game and then modify her memory afterwards, but that seemed somewhat drastic for the sake of watching a Quidditch match. Then, the idea hit him. Of course! It was so obvious that he could not suppress the smirk that crept on his lips.

Polyjuice Potion.

Polyjuice Potion took a month to make, and he had just over a month from today to brew it. A well-prepared batch, taken and swigged occasionally from a hipflask, would see him transformed for long enough to sustain the duration of a match. He had boomslang skin, knotgrass, fluxweed, Sal Ammoniac and Antimony already in his own stores, and the lacewing flies and leeches would be easy enough to find. He had no doubt that his apothecary of choice would have all the additional ingredients he needed. Plus, it would be simple to find a hair from one of the unsuspecting fishermen down in the village.

But his acceptance of Ginerva's invitation was conditional upon him attending the match with her alone; he had no desire to be in the company of her tedious husband or any of the well-meaning Weasley clan, or to be surrounded by noisy, excitable children. Or, for that matter, to be circled by a throng of VIPs and press all vying for Ginevra's attention.

And so, after careful consideration, Snape drafted his response and sent it back with the next morning's Daily Prophet owl.

* * *

Ginny could barely believe the letter that landed on her desk the very next day. She was fully expecting a polite but firm rejection from the reclusive Mr. Nobel, not an acceptance to her proposal under the condition that it would be her company only he would be keeping. She wrote back via the Prophet once more and confirmed that yes, it would just be the two of them in the press box; the opponent's press box was on the other side of the pitch and, regrettably, her family were unable to attend this particular match. She also gave him instructions on where and when to meet her at the Daily Prophet headquarters. A few days later, Mr. Nobel responded in kind, confirming he would be "delighted" to attend the match in that case.

Ginny was very much looking forward to the match now. Mr. Nobel had accepted her invitation and had therefore given her an honour that he had not even bestowed to his peers: the chance to meet him. She had no idea if he was thirty or a hundred-and-thirty, but she could not deny that the thought of an enigmatic man requesting her company alone was rather alluring. She knew it was silly, but she had not told Harry of this new development. Why should she? He had no interest in the man who saved his son anyway, so as far as she was concerned, Harry didn't need to know that she had arranged to meet him. And anyway, having a secret all for herself felt good and gave her something to look forward to. Merlin knew she needed it. She found herself counting the days until the match, hoping that when the day finally came that she would not be disappointed by Mr. Nobel's company.

* * *

Snape himself was also looking forward to the upcoming game, despite his earlier reservations. It felt thrilling to be venturing back into the wizarding world in such an illicit manner, where no one would know his true identity. The deception excited him and appealed to his Slytherin nature. And he was just one potion away from once again experiencing the rush of the fast-paced, glorious sport of Quidditch.

Snape had brewed Polyjuice Potion enough times in his life to barely need to follow the instructions. Still, he would brew this potion with as much care as if it were his first time. The lacewing flies had stewed nicely for twenty-one days, the leeches were unsucculated, and the horn of a Bicorn, which had been lunar extracted, was powdered to perfection. All of his ingredients except one, in fact, were prepared to be assembled into the potion, ready for the match this evening. The outstanding ingredient was also the final one which needed to be added to the potion: the Extract of The-Transfigured-Being-To-Be.

For this ingredient, Snape had to venture out in public. After casting his usual glamour charm to slightly alter his appearance and donning his usual Muggle clothing, he made his way down to the little ramshackle pub in the harbour. "The Ship Inn" was all but deserted in the early afternoon, apart from the grizzled landlord talking in a thick Cornish accent to a burly, middle-aged fisherman with tanned skin, blue eyes and dirty blond hair, swigging a pint of ale at the bar.

Snape was hoping to find someone a little more sophisticated, but beggars most certainly couldn't be choosers, especially as time was against him. He supposed it didn't really matter, after all; the fisherman was different enough in looks from himself and would have to do.

Snape ordered a shot of whisky and took a shabby seat at a table facing the bar. He'd noticed that there were several stray hairs on the shoulders of the thick navy jacket that was draped over the back of the fisherman's chair. All he had to do was wait until the fisherman went to the bathroom, and then he could seize his chance.

His plan worked ridiculously well. The fisherman drained his pint after a few minutes and headed off towards the bathroom. Seeing his cue, Snape downed his shot and quickly went to the bar and ordered another. Whilst the barman was distracted by pouring him another drink, Snape carefully retrieved the hairs from the fisherman's jacket and stowed them in a little tin inside his breast pocket. By the time the barman had served him and the fisherman had returned, no one was any the wiser.

Snape didn't really want the second whisky, as he didn't want to cloud his potion-making. So instead, he made a great show of checking his non-existent watch and cursing the time, and he bade the landlord a hurried farewell.

Several hours later, Snape was hovering above a slowly-bubbling cauldron, the contents thick and mud-like. With skilful fingers, he plucked one of the hairs from the tin and dropped it into the potion. The potion hissed and bubbled frantically before turning a deep teal colour. It reminded Snape of the ocean. Snape adeptly ladled some of the potion into a tall glass, and the rest he siphoned off into large hipflask. But before he could drink the potion, he needed to undress; the fisherman, although roughly the same height, was much stockier than Snape, and he didn't want his clothes to tear as he transformed.

Standing naked and in front of his full length mirror, Snape finally drank the potion down. It was briny, and yet not unpleasant. It tasted like the essence of the sea. Not a second after he'd finished the last drop, his transformation began. His skin started to tickle as it darkened and became tanned, his scalp began to prickle as his hair shortened and turned a sandy blond colour, and his arms, legs and shoulders all became weighty and bulkier. Pin-pricks of light stubble appeared on his chin, and his penetrating obsidian eyes changed into sky blue whilst his nose shortened and flattened. Within a minute, the man in the mirror was unrecognisable.

Snape examined his body carefully. He noticed with arrogance that the fisherman appeared to be just as blessed in the downstairs department as he was. He flexed his muscles and examined his thick, weathered hands, marvelling at the contrast to his own alabaster hue. He felt heavy and ungainly, and decided to practice walking up and down a few times. He needed to look comfortable in his skin, not like some clumsy Neanderthal, after all.

When he was confident he could move in a fluid, natural way, the next step was to Transfigure some of his clothes to fit. Snape decided his dark Muggle clothes covered by his cloak would be inconspicuous enough. As he stared at his newly-clothed form critically in the mirror, he thought that maybe his jumper was just a little too tight around the arms and his jeans a little too snug around the thighs, but there was little that could be done now. He was running out of time, and he had just twenty minutes before he was due to meet his hostess for the evening.

And so, swiftly stashing his wand and hipflask inside his cloak, Snape headed to the seclusion of his garden in order to Apparate directly to the headquarters of the Daily Prophet.