10: The First He Couldn’t Fool

Chapter 10: The First He Couldn't Fool

'My condolences, Miss McKibben. Your father was a real asset to the Ministry. Diligent, punctual, ...'

One had to hand it to Nadezhda, Snape thought, watching her from across the room. She knew how to act and how to present a perfect façade.

How many hands she had shaken at her father's wake, Snape did not know. What he did know, however, was that she was doing it perfectly. She thanked everyone for coming, Ministry employee and follower of the Dark Lord alike, and let herself be patted on the back, while her face was an inscrutable mask and her green eyes void of any kind of emotion. The perfect pureblood woman: self-controlled, poised and focused on her task which – today – was to play the grieving daughter.

It had been two weeks since her father had been murdered. He had been found face down in a puddle of his own blood in a dark alley in Little Hangleton on the early morning of November first. 'Ministry Employee Murdered By Dark Wizards', the Daily Prophet had reported later that day, and normally, such a headline would have triggered quite a reaction. But on November first, the news of Duncan McKibben's murder had drowned among bigger and more important ones. After all, James and Lily Potter had been murdered the same night, and You-Know-Who had gone at last. Hence, Snape doubted that anyone had really cared about how and why Duncan McKibben had fallen victim to Dark wizards. And the one member of the Magical Law Enforcement who actually had questioned the possibility of McKibben having been murdered in that alley, had strangely enough misplaced his report only a few days later and then been overcome by the sudden urge to move to Canada. And with him leaving, the case had been closed and quite quickly been forgotten.

'Poor girl,' Snape heard an old witch to his right whisper to her companion. 'She's all alone now. Her father was the only family she had. What will become of her now?'

She will finally be free, Snape thought. Obviously, the old witch had no idea about what kind of life Nadezhda McKibben had led while her father had still be alive. Not that Snape knew much of it either, Nadezhda had never spoken of her life at home. But a few minutes spent in McKibben Manor had been enough for Snape to draw conclusions.

It was a cold house, filled with expensive drapes and curtains, dark wooden furniture and portraits of wizards and witches from the oldest and purest of Wizarding families. And despite all the pomp, Snape couldn't help but be reminded of his own childhood home at Spinner's End. There had not been any satin curtains or Mahogany desks, of course, and the walls had not been hung with portraits of important and influential people. But the feeling of the house at Spinner's End had been the same. Like McKibben Manor, the house where Severus Snape had grown up, had commanded silence and obedience, and all its inhabitants had known that insubordination would be as severely punished as the dragging of feet in the hallway, speaking too loudly in the dinner table or chewing one's food with one's mouth open. And Snape imagined that Duncan McKibben had been just as rough in applying his rules as Tobias had been when he had tried to beat the magic out of his son. If one listened carefully, one could still hear the echoes of leather belts and muffled cries.

At least, Snape thought mournfully, he had had his mother. Eileen had rarely stood up against her husband. She had been too afraid of his temper and his fists. But when Tobias had been away or passed out on the sofa, Eileen had spoken to her son, told him about the wonders of magic and spun tales about the wonderful life he'd lead once he entered the Wizarding world. And she had always mended his bruises and broken bones, hugged him and then rocked him to sleep. Nadezhda, however, had never known the healing and consoling touch of a mother's hand or heard tales of a better world. All she had known were the tales her father had told her, tales filled with lies and endless hatred towards the race that – according to him – was to blame for all the misery in the world.

Thankfully, and against all the odds, Nadezhda had at some point stopped listening to her father and learnt how to think on her own. For some reason, she had started to question her father's teachings, and he had not managed to poison her heart completely. And now her father was dead, and Nadezhda would finally be allowed to breathe, to express her own thoughts and live according to them. Hopefully, there was still time for her to learn how to.

'Such a sweet little thing. I am so glad Narcissa and I could help her through this hard time.'

Snape had to fight hard not to sneer at Lucius Malfoy's comment. As if the Malfoys really cared about Nadezhda McKibben. Narcissa might, but for Lucius, helping an orphaned young witch was nothing more than a publicity stunt. Merlin knew he needed to work on his reputation now. And as was to be expected of a Malfoy, Lucius was doing a great job!

When the Aurors had come knocking on his door, he had put on a show that had made the best actors in the Wizarding world go green with envy. And when he had been done, everyone had been convinced that poor Lucius Malfoy had been put under an Imperius Curse by a vicious Death Eater, who had threatened the lives of his wife and son, and that no one was more relieved than him to see Voldemort gone. Certainly, some bags of gold had also helped to make his story more believable, as had some well-placed threats. However, the opinion of the public was not as easily bought as certain Ministry employees, and so Lucius had been forced to find other ways to woo the masses. And what better way than to take care of the distraught daughter of a murdered, highly regarded wizard? So Lucius paid for a pompous funeral, and Narcissa had organised a tasteful wake. And everyone was touched and taken in by their compassion. Surely, such helpful self-sacrificing people could not be followers of the Dark Lord.

'You know,' Lucius continued in a conspiratorial whisper, 'once things have calmed down, I think we should marry Nadezhda off to Barty. They do like each other, after all. Can't you just imagine the beautiful, pureblood babies they will produce?'

Snape just gave a non-committal grunt. There were so many things wrong in Lucius' proposal, that he did not even know what to correct first. For starters, Barty and Nadezhda did not like each other. Barty was still under Bellatrix's spell and his infatuation just a side effect. And Nadezhda most certainly held no warm feelings for Bartemius Crouch, Junior. She had only used him to survive.

And besides, Barty had bigger problems at the moment. There were wizards – some Aurors, for example – who thought that he was associating with witches and wizards he should not be associating with. He was, after all, the son of the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and there was an unwritten code about the things he should be doing. But just because he was his father's son, Barty had so far been given the benefit of the doubt. So far, no one had questioned him about his associates. How long being his father's son would help him, however, was unclear, and for the time being, Barty would be well advised to keep a very low profile. Getting married to a schoolgirl was most certainly not on his current priority list.

'I hear the Potters are being laid to rest today as well.'

Snape felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. 'This is none of my concern,' he brought forth between gritted teeth. 'And I doubt it is any of yours, Lucius.'

Lucius shrugged. 'I thought you'd be happy to see your arch enemy be put into the earth. In any case, it certainly explains why Dumbledore isn't here. One might think he would at least have the decency to show his support when one of his students loses a parent and attend the wake. But that old codger has never been one to hold on etiquette. I will have to see to it that Hogwarts gets a more suitable headmaster soon. I wouldn't want Dumbledore around once Draco is eleven. Imagine the ideas he'd put in the boy's head.'

Once more, Snape chose not to comment. In fact, he had not even heard the last bit of Lucius' rant. Dumbledore was, as Lucius had deduced, at Godric's Hollow, taking farewell of James and Lily Potter. They had been members of the Order of the Phoenix, after all. Hence, it was only natural for Dumbledore to attend their funeral. Just as natural as it was for Snape not to attend. How would it look if he showed up at the funeral of his arch enemy, as Lucius had put it so nicely, and the women who had refused to talk to him for far too many years? How would it look if he, Severus Snape, a former follower of Lord Voldemort, showed up at the funeral of the Dark Lord's last two victims? It wouldn't do, that much was clear. And so Snape had been sent to McKibben Manor instead, and Dumbledore had promised to come around later.

Thankfully, Lucius did not insist on Snape giving him an explanation about Dumbledore's whereabouts, but decided to continue rubbing some elbows. And Snape, in his turn, took his chance to slink into the shadows and out of the room.

~ ~ ~

Much like the rest of McKibben Manor, the garden was a sombre place. It was well-kept, of course, just as it could be expected, but it was lifeless and loveless. Tall limewood trees towered over the gravel pathway that led down to the lake, and at its shore, an old willow tree cast its mournful shadow over the grey waters. There were no flowers blooming anywhere. Of course, it was November, and the season for flowers had long since passed for the year. But Snape doubted that there were ever any flowers at all. Flowers needed sunlight and love, two things which McKibben Manor was sorely lacking.

The mists hung thick over the lake, and there was a drizzle, and Snape regretted not having taken the time to retrieve his cloak. But after his talk with Lucius Malfoy, he had just wanted to be alone for a while. And there he was now, all alone, seeking refuge under the branches of the willow with no intention of returning to the house any time soon. He would get soaked, but for the time being, he couldn't even muster the energy to cast a Water Repelling Charm.

Leaning with his back against the trunk of the willow, he closed his eyes and let his mind be flooded with the memories of a night two weeks ago, the longest night of his life.

He had arrived at Gordic's Hollow a few hours before sunrise on November first. He had not slept at all that night and had felt exhausted, both mentally and physically. But he had not had the peace of mind to rest after he had brought Nadezhda back to Hogwarts. He had needed to see with his own eyes what impact the Dark Lord's last spell had had.

Hidden from sight by a well-performed Invisibility Charm, he had lingered by the garden wall of the Potter house, watching the Aurors and other members of the Magical Law Enforcement going through the rubble, looking for clues to what had happened earlier that night. After they had left, Snape had himself approached ruins, treading carefully as not to leave a trace. Just like the Aurors before him, he had been looking for answers and explanations. Just like the Aurors, he had not found any.

How long he had stumbled around in the debris, Snape did not know. But when he had finally turned his back on the ruins, swearing that he would never return, he had been so empty and forlorn that he had not even noticed where his feet were carrying him. Aimlessly, he had wandered around Godric's Hollow and somehow ended up in the graveyard, under an ancient willow. There he had cried. Silently, the tears had rolled down his cheeks, and he had neither tried to stop them nor bothered to wipe them away. Eventually, the morning breeze had dried them for him.

Now, two weeks later, under the willow by the lake, Snape took a shuddering breath and squeezed his eyes shut even tighter. He would not cry any more, he told himself, bringing his hands to his face as to smother any treacherous tears that could have managed to escape from behind his lashes. But he found his cheeks wet from the drizzle, and he could not tell if the liquid on his fingers was drops of rain or tears.

Sniffing and shaking his head, he opened his eyes and let his gaze wander out onto the lake, where a flock of swans had gathered. They didn't seem to mind the drizzle. Majestically, they glided in and out of the mists, soundlessly, like ghosts.

'I found an injured cygnet down at the shore the summer before I came to Hogwarts. I had an elf help me nurse it back to health in the boat house. When my father found out, he presented the elf with clothes and wrung the bird's neck. I think he fed its corpse to the dogs later.'

Snape slowly turned his head. He had no idea how long Nadezhda had been standing beside him, and he did not care. There was a pain in her voice that made him forget that she might have seen him wipe away his tears, and a pleading look in her green eyes that prevented him from doing anything else but listen to her. She was looking straight at him, but Snape doubted that she really saw him. The ghosts of the pasts that were haunting her eyes surely prevented her from focusing on anything.

'I hated my father so much for so many years,' she continued. 'I hated the stories he told me and the way he treated me. But most of all, I hated the way he ignored me when he had no use for me. And so I did everything for him. For that, I hated myself.'

Snape understood her only too well. He knew how horribly wrong it felt to be glad to receive a beating, just because it meant that one had not been totally forgotten.

'When did you stop believing?' he asked quietly, almost afraid that the sound of his voice would break the spell that seemed to have been cast beneath the branches of the willow. But to his relief, Nadezhda kept on talking.

'The year Charles came to Hogwarts. As a Muggle-born he had no idea who the McKibbens were. He had no reason to endear himself with me because I had a lot of gold or an influential father. He just wanted to be my friend, and I learnt that Muggles weren't the monsters my father had made them out to be.'

'And then you started questioning.'

'And paid dearly for it.'

Snape nodded. He knew that Nadezhda bore many scars, both on her body and in her soul, many of them as ugly and infected as the one on her left wrist. It was still festering and needed to be treated with dittany two times a day.

Slowly, Snape reached out and wrapped his hand carefully around Nadezhda's bandaged wrist, covering it as if the warmth of his hand could speed up the healing process. But he knew it would do no good. As was the case with most wounds caused by Dark magic, this one would never fully heal.

'Some wounds never heal, Nadezhda,' he told her. 'All we can do is learn to live with the scars and be proud that we lived through the pain.'

'I know.'

Her voice was as soft as a breath of spring, and as Nadezhda put her right hand onto his, Snape was reminded of warm summer rain that gave life to withered plants and dried-out fields. And somehow, he had the feeling that Nadezhda's touch had given him life before.

'Thank you for being here, Professor Snape.'

'It is the least I could do,' he answered, still staring down at the little hand that was lying on his. 'As your Head of House, it is my duty ...'

'I realise that you'd rather be somewhere else today.'

'Somewhere else?' Snape frowned and looked up. 'And where would that be, Miss McKibben?'

Nadezhda shook her head. 'Forgive me, sir. It's none of my business. It's just something I have overheard. Mr Malfoy mentioned the Potters and ...'

'And?'

Any other student would have flinched at the sudden iciness in Snape's tone, but Nadezhda didn't. She held his gaze steadily, and Snape could see a compassion in her green eyes he had not believed her being capable of.

'Their funeral is held today. I ... I somehow assumed you would like to take farewell of your peers. Then again, they were Gryffindors, so ... I'm sorry, sir. As I said, it's none of my business. Pretend I didn't ask.'

As she let go off his hand, Snape let go off her wrist in turn.

'The Headmaster has arrived,' Nadezhda announced, lowering her eyes to the wet ground and taking a step backwards as if she were preparing for flight. 'Your duty has been fulfilled, Professor. You are free to leave.'

She didn't look at him anymore, and as she turned to go back to the house, Snape had no words to call her back. And somehow, he had the feeling that the young witch knew more than he wanted her to know.