Chapter 1

Chapter 1

He woke, sweating and breathless, jack-knifing upwards and clutching his heart.

For a few moments, he was disorientated. It was dark and cold in the room, the thin mattress uncomfortable under his bruised body. The musty smell of long-abandoned fabric lingered in his nostrils as he blinked furiously trying to control the panic that threatened to overwhelm him. His breath sounded loud in the room, and he was horrified to hear an almost-whine behind each exhalation as he calmed himself, drawing upon his Occlumency for help.

Within a few seconds, he knew where he was. He was alone. He was in his childhood bed at his parents' house in Cokeworth. He was safe.

He collapsed backwards onto the sagging bedding, holding his arm over his face, fighting to return his breathing to normal as he came to terms with his situation.

Snatches of the nightmare that had woken him flashed into his mind. The twisted look of satisfaction on the warders' faces as they sent him crashing to the floor once more, the dank and rotting smell of the cell in which he had lived in solitary confinement for the past month. The scritch-scratch of the Dementor's nails on the walls and bars of the cells, the overwhelming sensation of despair and horror.

Abruptly, he twisted and pulled himself upright once more, seeking to banish the memory of his recent imprisonment in Azkaban by the abrupt physical movement. His sore and abused muscles obligingly complained, and he welcomed the pain as he swung his legs from underneath the thin blanket and musty eiderdown that he had scrounged from one of his mother's blanket boxes to cover himself last night.

He rested his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees, for a moment until the worst of the muscle spasms had passed, then tilted his watch into the dim light that slanted through the window from the streetlamp outside. It was 5.30 a.m. He had slept for three hours.

He needed a piss.

Slowly, he rose to his feet and padded out of his bedroom, along the landing, and into the bathroom. He pulled on the light switch cord and blinked as the harsh light from the dangling bulb illuminated the small, cold room. The smell of damp and decay was worst here in this area of the house. There had always been trouble with the plumbing since he could remember, and the lack of an air vent in the room had caused the development of a great colony of mould to develop in the corner of the room where the bath stood. The mold began around the lip of the bath and spread along the lines of grout between the tiles. Further circles of it were spreading on the ceiling above the bath and around the edges of the cracked and poorly maintained wooden window frame to the right of the old mirror over the sink.

The pressure from his bladder was insistent.

He turned to the old toilet with its poorly mended, cracked cistern lid, raised the seat and grimaced slightly as he let a stream of urine flow into the pan. He noted dispassionately that the colour was quite dark. After he finished and tucked himself back into his skiddies, he reached around the side of the toilet and poured some bleach into the bowl before flushing it. The smell of the disinfectant was harsh in his nostrils, and he recoiled slightly as his eyes began to smart.

He turned on the taps at the sink and waited a few seconds until the water stopped running a sickly yellow colour, then washed his hands, shaking them dry before wiping them on his underpants. His face itched, and he raised his head to look at himself in the old mirrored cupboard above the sink.

Dark, shadowed eyes stared back at him from a face that was gaunt and ravaged. Three weeks' worth of stubble darkened his jaw. His nose, broken once more in prison, had healed reasonably well, but there was further evidence of his recent stay, at the pleasure of the Ministry, in the crisscross of small scars on his forehead and brow line. It had been hard for some of the warders in Azkaban to accept that he had been as innocent as he had claimed. He turned his face to the right and looked at the raised scar tissue on his neck. The regenerated skin was shiny and taut, the scars only partially covered by his beard growth. He ran his fingers lightly over the bumpy, twisted skin and hissed as the nerves in his neck reacted sensitively to the touch. How the guards had enjoyed learning that little weakness, he remembered grimly.

Slowly, he pulled back his lips from his teeth and opened his mouth. His teeth, never his best feature, were yellowing and uneven. He could see where he had lost two molars on the bottom right-hand side of his jaw, but the damage had healed with no evidence of lasting infection. He grunted in satisfaction and hunted about in the small bathroom cabinet for a toothbrush, finding one that looked relatively unused as well as a miraculously unopened tube of toothpaste.

He brushed his teeth, paying careful attention to his gums, scrubbing until he could taste the metallic tang of blood along with the spearmint of the toothpaste. He spat out the residue and rinsed his mouth. Carefully, he replaced the brush and tube in the cupboard and closed it.

He straightened up in front of the mirror and paused, looking critically at the stained shirt that was hanging off his frame. Quickly, he fumbled with the buttons and pushed the shirt backwards, off his shoulders, until it fell to the floor.

Always thin, he was prepared to accept that now he looked emaciated. Thirty-eight years old – what a catch.... His lips twisted sardonically as he looked over the mottled flesh that was stretched over his chest and ribs. His hips jutted forwards above his boxer shorts. His collarbone cast a shadow over his thin chest, and his ribs were clearly evident. A network of bruises and poorly healed cuts and gashes traversed his body, his arms, his upper legs. He remembered the origin of most of them. Some of them had occurred in this room. He shivered involuntarily. With his shirt off, the unpleasant chill of the air in the unheated house was even more penetrating.

Turning away from the mirror, he swept up the crumpled shirt from the floor and padded back to the bedroom. He was fully awake now and not likely to be able to get any more sleep. He had better think about finding something to eat and lighting the back-boiler so that he could get some heating into the house.

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Three hours later, the ancient coal-fired boiler lit, and three tins of chilli con carne and one of peach segments consumed, Severus Snape was beginning to feel a little easier.

He sat, stretched out in the ancient armchair in front of the boiler, warming his feet in front of its glass-fronted door. He had found his stash of Muggle clothing, a pair of plain black jeans, a flannel shirt, and an old sweater, and the clothes felt comforting and warm. He had raided his father's chest of drawers for fresh socks. He could not bring himself to wear the old man's Y-fronts and so had elected to wear no underwear until he could replace his own. His stained shirt and old boxers were the first things that he had burned in the back boiler after he'd got it to light. Shortly, he would take a bath, once the water had heated up sufficiently. His skin was itching to be thoroughly clean again.

Idly swirling a glass of his father's best whiskey in his hand, regardless of the early morning hour, Severus caught himself watching how the liquid clung to the sides of the tumbler as he rolled it around and around. The early morning sunlight was weakly illuminating the kitchen in which he sat. Dust motes circled lazily in the convection currents from the heater, tumbling unhurriedly through the atmosphere. He looked around the kitchen again, his eyes moving from the formica table tops to the old gas cooker with its eye-level grill and slightly ajar oven door. Every surface was in need of a thorough dust and clean. Severus remembered with a faint pang the times when, as a young boy, he used to help his mother keep the kitchen neat and tidy. "Respectable," his mother had said. "We must keep things respectable, Severus."

Thoughts of his mother threatened to sour his relaxed frame of mind, and he turned his attention away deliberately. He flicked a glance at the plastic, wall-mounted clock over the twin tub in the corner of the room and noted the time and date. December 7th, 1998. Then he took another slug of the whiskey and revelled in the delicious sensation of the burning liquid as it journeyed down his gullet. He had lots of time.

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She came awake in a hot, suffocating embrace. Outside the small bedroom, she could hear enthusiastic shouting and undefinable banging and scraping noises, as if large pieces of furniture were being dragged across the floor.

Behind her, Ron moaned in his sleep and clutched her more tightly, his heavy arm around her waist and chest, his hand possessively about her breast. Thick, hot breath on her neck and shoulders made her more uncomfortable, and the old eiderdown wrapped about her tightly only added to the sensation of being trapped and restrained.

She flicked her fingers, and her wand came into her hand, enabling her to cast a quick Tempus Charm. Before she could read the flickering green numbers in the air, there was a discreet knock at the door, and Molly Weasley entered the room, balancing a teapot and two cups on a tray. Molly froze for a moment on the threshold, seeing Hermione tucked into the same narrow bed as her son, but then Hermione saw the older woman seem to shake herself and then smile as she came bustling into the room.

A look of mutual understanding passed between them, and Hermione relaxed a little too. It was one thing sharing a room with your friend because of the pressure of accommodation, quite another to be discovered in his bed by his mother.

"Good morning, dear," Molly said, fussing with the tea things as she set them down on the empty bed beside her. "Is he awake yet?"

Ron groaned, flashed his mother a bleary eye and rolled away from Hermione, stuffing his head under one of their pillows. A few moments later, his snore caused both women to smile. Hermione struggled to sit up without jolting Ron too much. She was still fighting the blush that was staining her cheeks and neck.

She had not intended to sleep with Ron again last night. There was a desperation to the way he had clung to her. Since she had come back to the Weasleys' house from school on December 17th, Ron had barely let her out of his sight, following her around the house and gardens, making every excuse to cuddle and hold her. Sleeping with him had become an extension of their mutual neediness, and she could not help but feel that it was an attempt to cover up the horrible emptiness that both of them felt now that the war was over and all they had to cope with was the peace.

What was even more disconcerting about the situation was the fact that Molly was so seemingly accepting of their sexual relationship. Before the war, Hermione suspected, her reaction to finding her son in bed with his girlfriend in her house would have been entirely different.

She stared at Molly as the older witch fussed with the tea tray, preparing both cups, then lifting the lid of the teapot and stirring its contents with a whispered charm.

The Tempus Charm had dissipated, and her watch was on the dresser at the side of the room. "What time is it?" Hermione asked.

"Nearly nine," Molly replied, pouring a stream of tea into a cup. She set it beside Hermione on the little rickety bedside cabinet and flashed her a thoughtful look and a slight smile. "I'll leave you... two... to get up. Bill and Fleur will be arriving soon, and to be honest, I could do with a bit more help getting the kitchen organised. Harry and George have moved the tables, but I fear for my crockery if I let them set the lunch places."

Guiltily, Hermione made to push the covers away, but Molly stopped her with a hand on her arm. "No, don't," she said quietly. "I didn't mean it that way. Ginny can help me, or Arthur for that matter, if I can get him out of his shed.... Please take your time."

Ron let out another whimpering snore.

"More nightmares?" asked Molly.

Hermione nodded and shivered. "Both of us," she said simply and clutched the counterpane to her chest.

She felt out of control, like she was riding a Hippogriff and could not dismount. She was nineteen years old, and she felt forty. Her life was mapped out before her and consisted of marriage, children, and watching Ron tinker in his shed.

"You are welcome, dear," said Molly quietly as she shut the door behind her.

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Severus trod heavily downstairs. Without thinking, he pushed the door open to his front room. The curtains were drawn back, and the watery light of the December morning slanted through the dirty window panes. It was raining. He could hear it spattering on the glass in the quiet of the room. Rain in Cokeworth... of course. He walked over to the window, deliberately ignoring the coffee table as he moved past it. He parted the net curtains and looked into the street. No one was about. The houses on the opposite side of the road were in shadow. He could see Christmas decorations in some of them. One was boarded up and looked abandoned, neon graffiti was sprayed over the metal cages that covered the windows and door of the property, a confused jumble of words and symbols layered aggressively over each other. He looked further down the street and saw nothing but the usual parked cars, rain covered tarmac, and broken pavements.

He stretched his back experimentally and heard it crack as the vertebrae at the base of his spine shifted. He sighed and scratched his face. The cheap disposable razors in the bathroom cupboard had been rusty, and he hadn't trusted them to do the job without leaving his face and neck cut to pieces. He looked bad enough already. Mentally, he added razors to the shopping list in his head, alongside new underwear, food, decent toiletries, and engine oil.

He needed to go out.

He felt a moment of uncertainty, which he quickly quashed, ashamed of himself. Of course he could walk around these streets. "Don't be so fucking stupid," he muttered under his breath. Reluctantly, his eyes slid to the low coffee table in the centre of the front room and the Ministry parcel that had been carefully laid upon it last night. His eyes rested on the gold and purple packaging, the primly rolled scroll poking out of the end of the packet, and the dark tip of his wand. He tightened his jaw into something like a sneer, tuned on his heel and went to find a pair of shoes he could wear.

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Hermione walked downstairs into a chaotic scene of noise and activity. The long table in the centre of the room had been laid, and there was loud laughter and chatter as Molly organised her family around her. George and Charlie were supervising the potato peeling, charming the skins to wrap themselves around each other until each could be banished into the compost bin. At the cooker, Molly was frying bacon and sausages, the fat spitting and hissing as she cheerfully removed the cooked rashers and added more.

Harry and Ginny were preparing sprouts, heads close together as they competed to strip the little vegetables in time with each other and the loud music playing on the radio. Percy was talking with his father near to the sink as the charmed scrubbing brushes washed the pots and pans from breakfast. Arthur had a slightly glassy expression on his face as listened to his son, but he smiled and nodded while Percy gestured enthusiastically about something with the half-eaten bacon sandwich in his hand.

At the table, little Teddy Lupin was sitting in his highchair while his grandmother Andromeda carefully spooned porridge into his mouth. As Hermione paused on the bottom step, she saw George send a potato peeling directly at Percy's head and then hold his hands up innocently as his older brother wheeled around furiously to remonstrate with him.

Hermione sighed. Family. Christmas was about family. She felt a harsh lump in her throat suddenly as her vision began to swim.

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Severus had dug about in his old wardrobe and found the army surplus greatcoat that he had bought as a teenager from an Oxfam shop in Manchester. Although it smelt a bit fusty, like everything in the house, it was serviceable and reminded him a little of his old frock coat. Digging into the large pockets, he was also pleased to find a crumpled-up fiver among some old tissues and sweet wrappings. That, plus the little Muggle money he had already liberated from his emergency stores under the floorboards of his bedroom, was enough for his grocery shopping for now. Kicking his feet into a pair of old shoes, he shrugged the coat on and did up the discoloured brass buttons. The coat was made of heavy woollen fabric and felt good on his thin frame.

Thus suitably clothed, he grabbed the small bunch of house keys from the kitchen table, and then he pushed open the back door and walked down the concrete path across the back yard to the coal shed by the back gate. The gate was set flush into the high wall at the back of the house. It was secured by two bolts and a large iron padlock.

Severus paused before the old coal shed and pulled open the rickety wooden door. He felt down the damp brickwork until his fingers rested on a small key that hung on a nail. Long fingers flicked the key into his hand, and he withdrew it. Fastidiously, he brushed away the dirty cobwebs from his sleeve and then used the key to open the padlock on the back gate. Without thinking, he pocketed the padlock and shut the old gate behind him firmly with a well-practiced tug.

He ignored the large brown eagle owl that had swept past him and was now perched on the coal scuttle by the back door.

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She could still feel Molly's arm holding her tightly about the shoulders, and Hermione blew her nose and smiled a watery grimace of gratitude.

"Alright now, dear?" she said quietly.

Hermione nodded. "Better now. Thank you, Molly," she said, her breath hitching slightly on her reply. "It was just seeing everyone, you know... together..."

Now that her stupid crying fit had abated, the others had got on with their work, encouraged to do so by Molly's urgent shushing.

Andromeda shot her a look of sympathy and understanding that made her feel even worse.

"I know you miss your mum and dad, sweetheart," Molly said. "But I hope that you will look at us now as your family... particularly now, after all...." She smiled encouragingly at Hermione and flicked her eyes upwards at the unmistakable noise of her youngest son coming downstairs.

Ron could not be subtle if he tried. Hermione flushed again at Molly's obvious innuendo and fought the sour, panicky feeling that it engendered in her stomach.

"Hermione, love, could you pass the mince pies? Ta."

Utterly oblivious to the atmosphere around the table, Ron headed immediately for a cup of coffee and a bacon sandwich and then flopped down opposite her. He had put weight on since the summer, but the dark circles under his eyes and the haunted expression on his face could not be hidden by any amount of calories Molly that could get into him. He was still rangy and tall, taller than most of his brothers and his father. She felt a surge of affection for him as she pushed the plate of pies across the table towards him. He picked up two in his large hand and began to eat them, messily.

"Oy! Little brother!" Charlie shouted, flicking a peeling at him. "How about some help with these potatoes, then?"

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The rain was insistent but not heavy. A thin drizzle settled on his face and caused him to wipe his hand through his hair to push it away from his face as he stalked along the street, shoulders hunched, avoiding the puddles on the street as far as he could. He didn't want to get his feet wet.

Two streets along, and he came to the corner shop, its battered front a familiar and depressing sight. A rudimentary series of fruit and vegetable boxes sat outside the door, covered over by plastic sheeting to protect the contents from the rain. Snape paused and picked up two apples from the nearest box before walking up the two shallow entrance steps and opening the door.

The door jangled cheerfully as he pushed it open, and he walked cautiously inside. He relaxed fractionally as he saw that there was only the shopkeeper within, a bored-looking Asian teenager standing behind the high till desk. Snape nodded a greeting to him, then focused on finding the things he needed.

Ten minutes later, and most of his shopping list filled (including, rather surprisingly, the engine oil), Severus was retracing his steps back towards Spinner's End. The two plastic shopping bags swung rhythmically by his side as he walked. He passed a woman pushing a squirming infant in its buggy, her hair drawn back severely from her face in a tight pony tail, and two young men both wearing baggy jogging suits and peaked caps set jauntily on the back of their heads. He kept his head down, right hand shoved into his pocket as he passed both groups, avoiding eye contact and carefully stepping to one side, giving them ground.

At the junction between Sharp Street and Coke Row, Severus paused. His fingers traced the outline of the old padlock key that he had impulsively taken from the coal shed. Why wait? He hefted the weight of the two shopping bags in his other hand, turned left and walked stiffly down the side street towards the lock-up garages at the end of the dilapidated cul-de-sac.

His feet scuffed the uneven pavement as he walked, and he wondered if the old car was even still in his father's garage. He hadn't seen it in years, even when he'd spent time at the house between terms when he had worked at Hogwarts. He had wanted nothing to do with anything the old man valued.

The rain spattered on the plastic bags in his hand, and he quickened his pace as he approached the bend in the street, unconsciously squaring his shoulders and bracing himself, lest anyone be lying in wait to jump him around the blind corner. Part of him imagined that drug addicts on the lookout for anything to sell must have tried to break into the garage a long time ago, but he was prepared to bet that Toby's security measures would have been sufficiently effective enough to guard against the usual opportunistic thieves that operated in this area. That was why he'd brought the engine oil, after all.

What we have, we hold, yer little shit. His father's voice broke through his jumbled thoughts, and his features twisted at the memory of his dad's face, vivid in the harsh electric light of the dank garage, the smudge of engine oil on his stubbled cheek as he leaned down and stared at the young boy beside him, unflinching.

Severus rounded the corner and relaxed slightly as he saw the little square at the end of the street was empty. Facing him was a series of concrete garages, each door of corrugated steel painted council blue, some scrubbed clean and kept well, others covered in graffiti or fly posters advertising local events or long passed elections. He counted along the right-hand side until his eyes came to rest on the fifth garage, its blue door virtually obscured by years' worth of detritus and propaganda. He looked about him quickly and walked closer to the door, searching for the padlock that would have secured it in place.

True enough, a large iron padlock, somewhat rusted with lack of use, was firmly attached to the lip of the steel door and a sturdy iron hook embedded in the concrete ground. Severus smiled, gently lowered his shopping to the ground and fingered the small set of keys in his pocket.

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A few minutes later, with the aid of a smear of engine oil for lubrication, the old padlock sprung apart. Severus straightened up, yanking the metal lip of the garage door open and grunting with satisfaction when he heard and felt the stiff hinges of the steel door begin to shift. The door swung outwards and upwards.

He blinked a bit and pushed his cleaner hand through his hair again to clear his eyes.

Within the garage, his father's pale grey Mark II Ford Cortina stood mutely before him.

Snape couldn't help himself from grinning.

"Wish I had a grey Cortina / whiplash arial, racing trim," he murmured under his breath. "Cortina owner, no-one meaner / Wish that I could be like him.*" Lyrics to a song had never been more appropriate, and less so at the same time.

There was a brief and annoyed chitter behind him, but he picked up his shopping without turning around and walked purposefully into the garage.

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"You coming out for a quick scratch game until we lose the light, Ron?"

"Nah, mate, I'm fine right here, eh, sweetheart?" Ron answered, shifting his hold on Hermione a little, but then encouraging her to sink back against him. Feeling flustered and a little upset by her own reaction – she had been relieved when Harry had suggested that Ron go outside with him and a little stifled by the heat of his body – Hermione retreated back into her orderly thoughts of gratitude and warmth for the love and support of Ron and his family. There could not be anything else, could there?

It was mid-afternoon when Harry, Ginny, Bill, Percy, George and Charlie had laughingly re-entered the quiet kitchen of The Burrow, bringing with them a blast of freezing air and snowflakes as well as the good-natured disagreements and accusations of cheating that inevitably accompanied such family games. Hermione winced at the sudden noise and twisted up and out from Ron's embrace. He looked up at her, his eyebrows drawn together in a hurt question, and she without thinking snapped, "I'm going to the toilet, okay?" before wheeling away and taking the stairs two at a time.

Behind her, she heard Ginny telling Ron to leave her alone for a bit until she had calmed down. Oddly, that was just as annoying.

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She didn't go to the bathroom, but onwards and upwards, trying to put as much distance as she could between her and everyone downstairs.

She ended up in the tiny attic room, tucked snugly into the eaves of the house, with its peeling wallpaper and low ceiling, sobbing on the camp bed in the centre of it.

She missed her parents.

She missed them.

And she missed the quiet of Christmas.

Only children were supposed to crave the company of others, but Hermione had never regretted not having siblings. She was not spoiled or self-absorbed; rather, she enjoyed her own company and the personal satisfaction of reading, research, and discovery. Home life at the Grangers' had been neat and orderly. Both of Hermione's parents were methodical scientists, both thoughtful and quiet. All three of them enjoyed reading rather than watching television. Hermione's father had had a computer at home, but its use was confined to work emails and some desultory 'surfing'.

Hermione felt fresh tears well up as she imagined the last time that she saw her parents, both reading quietly, her father's glasses perched on the end of his nose as he became lost in the latest academic journal.

Now she would not have that ever again. The Memory Charms that she had carefully layered on top of each other had proved so strong that to try and break them might cause both of them irreparable damage.

So, no more quiet Granger Christmases.

She cried for a little longer and then pulled herself together, dashing her tears away with rough fingers. She remembered little Teddy, whose parents were dead, not living a happy and oblivious life on the sun-kissed Gold Coast.

She would just have to get over this silly phase and get used to her new life as a Weasley.

She needed to find a washbasin to clean herself up – she supposed that she looked bloated and horrible from crying and that would attract even more attention when she went back downstairs.

As she pushed herself off the little bed, she heard a determined scratching noise at the small window of the room.

Hovering outside and trying to gain entrance was a large mottled-breasted eagle owl.

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Severus spent half an hour working on the Cortina while the rain rattled on the old metal of the garage door. It was enough time for him to establish that Toby had lavished more care and attention on his bloody car than on his family.

Everything was in working order apart from the inevitable flat battery. The tyres were still serviceable, as far as he could tell, and the spark plugs seemed to be completely clear from any rust damage. As a precaution, he changed the oil in the sump and checked the oil filter for any condensation, but he could not find any. He just needed to find a new battery, and the car should start.

As he worked, he steadily ignored both the memories of his father that sprang up around him in this place as well as the increasingly frantic attempts of the Ministry owl who was still trying to deliver its letter.

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Hermione tugged the little wooden door open and stood back, allowing the owl to flap unceremoniously into the tiny bedroom.

Once it had righted itself, with much hooting and screeching, and found a perch on the little cane chair beside the bed, it held out one of its clawed feet to better enable her to detach its message.

"For me?" Hermione asked the bird, surprised. The eagle owl hooted again, more firmly this time.

Who would be writing to me from the Ministry? Hermione thought to herself as she fiddled with the ties to the parchment envelope around the bird's leg. The only people that she knew who worked at the Ministry were sitting downstairs, and they had no need to contact her so officially.

She freed the letter and turned the envelope over in her fingers. There was her address on the front: Miss Hermione Granger, The Smallest Attic Room, The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon.

She looked again at the owl, who was regarding her with great disdain.

"I'm sorry, I haven't got anything to eat up here," she said apologetically. The bird shook out its feathers almost like a shrug.

She flipped the envelope over. The official Ministry seal on the rear seemed to be encircled by another design, one that appeared to shimmer and move before her eyes. She frowned and focused more carefully. "Department of Mysteries," she read carefully as the imagery flashed in and out of sight.

Why would anyone want to contact me from there? she asked herself again, but her heartbeat was speeding up and her mind whorled with interest.

She snapped the wax seal below the printed design and opened the envelope.

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Severus wondered how long it was possible to ignore an owl from the Ministry.

What had started as a spontaneous gesture had mutated throughout the afternoon and early evening into a game of obfuscation, delay, and destruction.

He had walked past the owl at the garage, the metallic rending noise from the old steel garage door shutting having startled it sufficiently to get it airborne. On his way home, tucking his chin into the collar of the great coat to stay out of the swirling, bitter wind and sleet, he was dive-bombed by the wretched bird until he had begun to swing the plastic bags with his groceries inside over his head to keep the bloody thing from actually hitting him. He was grateful that no one else was around in the shitty weather to see the ridiculous sight.

Once home, he had shut the door and stoked up the fire in the stove. Eventually, the screeching from the two birds had grown to such a level that it sounded as if someone was being attacked outside his back door and he had relented and let the bloody things into the kitchen, whereupon he had detached the letter from each bird and quickly thrown the small parchment envelopes into the fire of the stove. Both owls gave him such a look of fury and annoyance that Severus laughed out loud – the first laugh he had had in days. It surprised him to hear his own voice, rough and cracked from ill-use and injury.

Accepting a piece of bacon each from his outstretched fingers (each nipping a different digit), the birds flew out of the window in a flurry of affronted feathers.

Three hours later, to his amusement, the smaller of the birds was back with another letter tied carefully to his leg. Having delicately untied the letter and immediately tossed it into the greedy flames of the little stove, he endured about half a minute of angry bird-rant before the aggravated avian allowed itself to be ushered out of the back door.

Then, at ten o'clock, he was startled out of a doze in the battered old chair by the dying stove by the same bird battering on the window of the back door, screeching to be let in.

He winced as he got to his feet and shuffled across the peeling Lino floor to where the animal was scrabbling for attention.

He pulled the door open, shivering at the blast of icy air that surged into the kitchen, and the bird flew past him, landing on the back of one of the old kitchen chairs. This time, as he approached it, the bird seemed to pull its leg away from him, chittering loudly. It was dark brown, small, and mottled in appearance, and Severus idly wondered what breed it could be before reaching again for the Ministry envelope tied to its leg.

The bird nipped his hand sharply and flapped its wings at him. Severus pulled his hand back quickly.

"What?" he asked, his voice slightly muffled as he sucked at the small wound on the back of his hand.

The bird chittered at him again, short, staccato phrases, punctuated with irritable whistles.

"You only have to see the fucking things delivered," Severus growled.

The owl whistled and twittered at him again, clearly offering a different view. As the bird twitched, Severus could see the envelope's Ministry seal glittering in the dim firelight.

Mmmmm... Delivery and return? he mused, intrigued despite his better judgement, and Severus began rooting about in the leftovers from his evening fry-up for something to tempt the owl to relinquish its letter.

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It took him a minute to read its contents, a further few seconds to find a working biro in his mother's kitchen drawers, and less time than that to write his curt response at the bottom of the invitation.

"Here," he said shortly, offering the ripped envelope back to the mollified bird. "Sorry it's been a wasted flight."

He looked down at his hands and realised that they were shaking. He could feel his heartbeat increasing as the stress response began to kick in. He fumbled for the top of the whiskey bottle and poured himself a generous drink, forcing himself to calm down as he welcomed the familiar burn of the liquid down his throat.

Focus! Concentrate.

He took a deep breath, then finished of the scotch in another choking gulp.

You have things to do, he told himself sternly. Don't let the fuckers win.

He checked the time from the old clock on the wall.

He needed to go out.

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The following day, he fitted the new car battery and started the Cortina for the first time.

The car battery had been easy to source. He had bought it from a small group of local youths hanging about in front of the local off-licence at the other end of his street. Once he had described the kind of battery he needed and offered to buy them a bottle of vodka and forty fags in return for it, the small group had disappeared for a short while before returning – full of cocky self-assurance and adolescent expectation – with the requested item in an old plastic bag. Snape did not need to ask where they got it from. Twenty-five years ago, it would have been him in that group.

He feathered the clutch for a moment and slipped it into first gear, releasing the handbrake and applying a little pressure to the accelerator. The car slid forward obligingly under its own power.

He braked, toed the clutch again and pushed the gear stick into reverse. The car moved backwards into the garage.

Snape ran his hands over the thin plastic steering wheel with satisfaction.

He could travel. He could get to Lily's grave.

Who needs fucking magic, anyway?

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A/N: Many thanks to those of you who have taken the time to review - I truly value your comments and encouragement.

This story is brought to you with the aid and support of beaweasley2, nagandsev and Clairvoyant... and is set in a world that was invented by, and is the sole property of, JK Rowling. Bows low.

*Lyrics copyright by Tom Robinson Grey Cortina, 1978