Chapter 1: Is This Hell Fresh or Has It Expired?

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Chapter 1: Is This Hell Fresh or Has It Expired?

Death. La Mort. The Big Sleep. Take a dirt nap. Push up daisies. Kick the bucket. Bite the dust.

Severus Snape gave a bit of thought to the subject of death and all its euphemisms. He always expected to die at some point during the war. He wished for death to be quick and painless, to shuffle off this mortal coil in a quick, timely fashion. It would be his reward, his one consolation for a lifetime of servitude to the wizarding world's most manipulative masters, one evil and one... well, not-so-evil, but heinous, nonetheless.

He was despised in equal measure by Death Eaters and members of the Order. There was no telling which side – evil or good, Dark or Light – would take credit for snuffing out Severus Snape. Or which specific enemy – supposed friend or true foe – would hold the instrument of his demise. And what would that instrument be exactly? A wand, simple, yet powerful, would make the most sense. But nay, the final blow to the über-vigilant double agent wasn't delivered through the business end of a wooden stick.

In the end, Severus Snape was killed by a fucking snake. Voldemort's big fucking snake with her big fucking bite radius, tearing out almost half of the pale column of Snape's neck and taking with her the tender flesh of his skin, sinew, and several vital blood vessels.

A wand was the obvious weapon of choice for most magical people, but not for Voldemort. A dramatic villain, he forced others to do his dirty work because if he shouted "Avada Kedavra" one more time, what little soul he possessed – one seventh of his original, issued-at-birth soul – would shrivel up and blow away. Besides, using his pet snake Nagini as a weapon was akin to what Muggles called multitasking; with one big bite, one less person blocked Voldemort's path to world domination, and Nagini indulged in a little nosh, too.

It was ironic the perspicacious Potions master had arrived at his final meeting with the Dark Lord without any of the accoutrements a spy-cum-Potions master would be expected to carry on his person. No dittany, no Blood-Replenishing Potion, and no antivenin. No Plan B. His actions, or lack thereof, were an open invitation to death: "Drop in any time. There's football on the telly and beer in the icebox. I can open a can of those little cocktail wieners, if you like." Snape couldn't be arsed to save his own pathetic, miserable life because he didn't want to. He had nothing to live for anymore.

The last thing he remembered was drowning in Potter's beautiful, green eyes – Lily's eyes – as he steeped in a rapidly cooling pool of his own sticky, congealed blood. In the moments before he lost consciousness, Snape had released a carefully engineered stream of silvery, ephemeral memories calculated to lead the Chosen One to make the right decision. But, oh, how he had wanted to blurt out, "You must die in order to defeat the Dark Lord, you idiot boy."

With the delivery of those memories, all his obligations had been satisfied. His life debt to that opportunistic wanker James Potter had been paid in full. Likewise, he had honoured the memory of his childhood friend by watching over her obstinate, insolent whelp, saving his sorry arse on more than one occasion. He had kept his promise to Dumbledore, protecting the students of Hogwarts from the sadistic Carrows and other assorted Death Eaters. There was nothing left to tether him to the wretched, unhappy life he had endured for so long.

Snape was more than ready to move forward to the next phase of his existence. He waited for some distinct sign to announce his arrival to the afterlife. An antiseptic white tunnel bathed in a beckoning, blinding light. A spirit floating above his own body, staring at the macerated, blood-drained remains as the floor beneath changed colors, the cheerful, bright red oxidizing to a gloomy black.

Yet there was no sign, no harbinger. Nothing. It reminded Snape of Christmas mornings spent with Tobias.

Severus: "Did Father Christmas visit us last night? What did he bring me?"

Tobias: "Right on the nose, boy."

It was time for Severus Snape to take fate by the bollocks. Tightly squeezed eyelids shot open. A glance to the right. A dizzying head swivel to the left. He bolted upright, feeling nauseated, rubbing his eyes before scanning his surroundings again.

"Oh, bloody fucking hell! I'm in the Shrieking Shack? Am I even dead?"

Shaky hands performed a cursory self-assessment. Two arms. Two legs. One torso. One head. One set of naughty bits. One neck... yes, one neck. One dry and intact, albeit cold neck. He looked at the floor surrounding him. No pool of blood.

"Maybe I'm not dead. Could someone have healed me while I was unconscious? A house-elf perhaps. Or maybe that over-achieving Girl Guide Granger."

He stood in one swift, graceful movement, but crumpled to the ground in a black heap, his numb, faltering legs unable to support him. After rubbing them vigorously to encourage circulation, his next attempt was successful. He smoothed his hands over his robes, removing numerous wrinkles and a thick layer of twenty-year-old dust which had taken hold of the luxurious gabardine wool fibers of his outer garment. Time to analyse the situation.

"The Dark Lord thinks I'm dead, and so does Potter. I should cut my losses and hightail it out of here. Out of England, for that matter. I hear Fiji is nice year-round. A quick trip to Gringotts for funds and Spinner's End for personal effects, then South Pacific, here I come."

He sighed and shook his head in self-chastisement. "I spent the last seven years of my life ensuring the Boy Who Lived endured, despite his constant attempts to thwart me. I should ascertain if he needs any assistance to fulfil his destiny, becoming the sacrificial lamb of the wizarding world. A few more minutes at Hogwarts won't kill me as long as I remain discreet and Disillusioned."

He spoke the incantation as he touched his wand to the top of his head. Something was amiss. He didn't feel the familiar sensation of cold liquid dripping down his back and could still see his body. He performed the spell again with perfect elocution of voice and wand gesture, but the results were the same. He tried again and again, but nothing changed. If that Einstein* bloke was right and insanity was doing the same thing over and over again but expecting a different result, then Snape was riding Ozzy's crazy train to the Janus Thickey Ward at St. Mungo's.

On his fifth attempt, he swore that he felt an icy, cold prickle imbue his entire body. He could still see his body, but he was certain the Disillusionment Spell had taken effect. He stalked from room to room in the Shack, searching for a mirror to verify his handiwork. The hunt ended in the main floor sitting room where an ornate, mahogany-trimmed mirror hung over the black marble fireplace. Snape held his breath as his eyes travelled from the dusty mantle, with its collection of tchotchkes, to the tarnished, black-veined mirror. He exhaled and blinked a few times to guarantee that the sight before his eyes was not due to age or poor lighting.

Nothing. No ugly mug staring back at him. No penetrating black eyes boring holes into his skeletal visage. Now he was a wizard on an adrenaline-fuelled mission: obtain a status report on Potter and the battle raging at Hogwarts. Long, lean legs carried his lithe frame from the lounge to the front entrance. He turned the knob and swung open the door with such force that the resultant breeze blew back curtains of greasy hair, almost stripping the oil from it in the process. He didn't notice the strong, icy wind that nearly pulled the door from its hinges. He stepped from the ramshackle, old house in the Scottish highlands into... a frigid, desolate white desert.

What the fuck? Did someone cast a weather charm to add to the merriment of the battle? Or was the doorknob a Portkey?

It looked like a scene inside a quality-control-rejected snow globe, one comprised entirely of whirling, twirling, glittery flakes, yet devoid of a quaint cottage, city scape, or funny snowman. The gale-force winds kicked up, and his robes and hair whipped about him, further obscuring his vision. This new development called for a change in plan.

"I'm going back inside. Potter and the Order are on their own until this settles down."

Snape turned around to find the Shrieking Shack had disappeared from view. Not just hidden behind the cloud of dense, swirling snow, but missing, as though someone had Disillusioned it in the very moment he stepped out from the doorway. He searched for the invisible house, groping the stinging, ice-filled air like a blind man searching for a clear pathway to navigate through an unfamiliar home.

Nothing. It was as though he had been transported to Antarctica, the most godforsaken, isolated region on the face of the earth.

Or maybe I am dead, and this is the ninth level of hell.

He wandered the freezing, blank landscape for what seemed like hours, searching for... He didn't know. There was a distinct lack of flora and fauna, no landmarks whatsoever. The terrain was flat, an endless blanket of deep, compacted snow crunching beneath his thick-soled boots. Despite the hostile environment and its blizzard conditions, Snape felt dry and only mildly cold, the same level of discomfort he had felt when he was back in the Shrieking Shack. He didn't understand why he was impervious to the elements or why he wasn't tired, having covered many kilometres without ever retracing his steps. His exhaustion was more mental than physical. He couldn't comprehend how he could be in Hogsmeade, Scotland one second, then Bum-Fuck, Antarctica the next.

He plopped to the ground to ponder his curious situation. Before his arse could settle into the well-packed snow, he heard a high-pitched howl rising above the gusty wind. Well-honed, twitchy spy reflexes went into fight-or-flight mode. Snape leapt to his feet and searched the vast white horizon for the source of the noise. He spotted a tall, ape-like creature covered with long, dark hair, bounding toward him with fierce determination.

Not willing to wait for a formal introduction, Snape turned tail and fled. He aimed his wand over his shoulder, targeting the creature now fifty meters away and closing the gap. He shouted a variety of hexes that were guaranteed to level a human, but nothing stopped the stampeding ape-man. It didn't help that the wand seemed to be shooting blanks. No sparks or streams of light issued from it, despite Snape's malicious intent. Running out of options, he considered stabbing the creature with his wand. It was so close that Snape could feel its foetid breath tickling the back of his neck.

But fate grabbed the world's unluckiest wizard by the bollocks and pulled him to safety. Still running at top speed, Snape crashed headlong through the front door of the Shrieking Shack, which had just reappeared where moments ago stood the empty juncture of null and void. He scrambled to his feet and turned around just in time to see the snarling, hairy monster disintegrate into countless grainy particles and blow away in an anticlimactic, windy swirl.

The raging blizzard outside the house melted away, transforming to reveal the charming village of Hogsmeade with its familiar cobblestone streets and thatched cottages, a sight which Snape welcomed with a tight smile and a lung-deflating sigh. Relief faded into annoyance; he slammed the door shut, bidding a final farewell to the mysterious creature and its strange, permafrost habitat.

Slow and weary legs carried the sanity-challenged wizard to the sitting room where he collapsed gracelessly into a dust-imbued, flowery chintz wing chair situated by the hearth. His head fell back. Eyelids shuttered gritty, sticky, red-rimmed eyes, and he pinched the bridge of his nose with a vice-like grip. If the crease between his brows could talk, it would have screamed.

"A brandy might salvage this fucked up day," he mused. "A drink with medicinal benefits to numb my brain and warm my body."

Roar. The quiet of the Shrieking Shack was shattered by the sound of a fire bursting to life in the empty grate. Trickle. Then the sound of liquid pouring into a glass. Snape's eyes shot open upon hearing the unexpected noise. Given the day's weird occurrences, he didn't think twice about these gifts suddenly popping into existence. If only I had known I would benefit from such largess, I would have asked for a loose woman.

He grabbed the snifter and swirled the translucent reddish-brown liquid before plunging his monumental nose into the tulip-shaped glass, inhaling the rising fumes of the intense, fruity liquor. He quaffed that brandy as though he were downing the antidote to a quick-acting poison. He stared at the fire, mesmerized by the crackling, undulating, red-orange flames and the bursts of colorful sparks that accompanied the occasional fiery pop.

"This has to be the strangest day of my life." He sighed and sipped the dregs of the liquor, savoring the rich flavor as it slid down his thoroughly intact throat. His eyelids drooped as he succumbed to the bone-weary exhaustion he had staved off for the last year or more. "I just wish I had some plausible explanation for all this," he pondered.

Thud. His eyes snapped to attention as the sound of silence was disturbed yet again. This time, the noise came from a book dropping from quite some distance onto the side table next to Snape's chair. He grabbed the book and shot a cursory glance at the title before tossing it back on the table. His face dropped to his hands in despair; he would have smothered himself with his own hands if he thought it would do him any good.

"Oh, fuck. Once again fate buggers me. I am dead, and it seems my afterlife is just as miserable as my life was."

The discarded text, Handbook for the Recently Deceased, sat innocently on the side table, but it mocked him, nevertheless.

*There is no evidence to suggest Professor Einstein made that statement. Current consensus attributes the quote to author Rita Mae Brown in her book Sudden Death, but she may have just paraphrased the quote found in Narcotic Anonymous "Basic Text" of November 1981.

A/N: This story has been a pleasure to write, despite the number of years it took to complete. It has been over four years in the making, its progress, or lack thereof, hampered by real life and other writing obligations – hello, sshg_exchange! I plan to post new chapters weekly as long as the stars align and life allows.

According to an African proverb, it takes a village to raise a child, and this story, my brainchild, so to speak, is no exception. The team of alpha- and beta-readers may have changed over the years, but that doesn't diminish my fondness of and undying gratitude to all these lovelies: astopperindeath, BrenaMarie, kittylefish, nagandsev, Proulxes, pyjamapants. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

The title of this story and some of its plot elements come from the 1988 film, Beetlejuice.

Next up: Snape learns to love the afterlife and some old friends pay him a visit.