Chapter 2: Home Improvement or This Is not My Beautiful House

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Chapter 2: Home Improvement or This Is not My Beautiful House.

Once he accepted death, Snape found the afterlife to be rather enjoyable, despite the metaphysical rules he was forced to follow. The mysterious Handbook for the Recently Deceased provided rudimentary information on the spirit world, yet it was confusing and poorly written. Both vague and technical in nature without any detailed explanations, it reminded Snape of that ages-old Divination textbook Unfogging the Future. The instructions for reading tea leaves were a prime example of that textbook's frustrating absurdity, exacting with the requirements for the tea, water, and pot used in the steeping process, but no specific analysis of the dregs, leaving it wide open to the subjective interpretation of the reader.

From the inadequate guidebook to the afterlife, Snape learned that if a ghost remained on earth, he or she was confined to the site of his or her death, and the duration of house arrest would be ninety-nine years. If a ghost breached the physical limits of the containment, he or she would encounter dangerous, constantly shifting spatial and temporal anomalies.

It also failed to mention the loss of his magic. No more charms, jinxes, hexes, curses, or the like. He still kept his wand close at hand for... what? Comfort perhaps? Simply out of habit? In short time, he became inured to his deficiency. He didn't miss it all that much, though, because ghosts possessed special powers all their own. Walking through walls, passing through floors and ceilings, ghosts could manipulate matter in ways the living – both magical and Muggle – could never accomplish.

The book didn't explain why Snape was blessed with the ability to move objects – for instance, holding a book and turning the pages – an action more attributable to poltergeists than ghosts. Sir Nicholas would be jealous of that because while he liked to read over Dumbledore's shoulder, he had forever complained about how slow the old wizard was to turn the pages.

Snape realized death had other benefits that far outweighed the negatives. No need to waste time on necessities like eating and sleeping. Ghosts didn't require sustenance like the living, and technically death itself was a form of sleep, a cessation of voluntary bodily functions. But he did like to indulge in an evening brandy by the fire, more out of ritual than actual pleasure, although alcohol had the same intoxicating effect on spirits as it had on flesh-and-bone human beings. And the afterlife had a service comparable to Hogwarts' own Room of Requirement; sensing a legitimate need existed, appropriate assistance was delivered. This explained the sudden appearance of the roaring fire and fine brandy during his first evening in the Shrieking Shack.

Another positive feature was the cessation of his glandular secretions – no malodorous sweat or sebaceous oil to muck up his personal hygiene. Never again would he worry about little niceties such as taking showers or brushing his teeth. That was fortunate because the Shrieking Shack didn't have the luxury of running water.

But what the Shack did have was a very large library, shelves filled from floor to rafter with books of varied subjects both Muggle and magical. Snape didn't understand why Dumbledore, on the one hand, had thought to stock Lupin's halfway house with reading material, yet had ignored modern conveniences like indoor plumbing. Surely the werewolf would have preferred to freshen up after his transformations rather than read mid-twentieth-century chick-lit. Valley of the Dolls, indeed.

But hands down, the best part of being dead – for Snape at least – was the solitude. No dunderheads threatening to create cauldron-sized holes in the dungeon ceilings. No little orphan Harry reminding Snape of his childhood nemesis. No insufferable know-it-all regurgitating textbook knowledge calculated to impress all but the most discerning of educators. No Death Eater-wannabe godson wavering on his racist beliefs. No predictable-as-clockwork, megalomaniacal sociopath bossing him around. No evil, manipulative do-gooder guilting him to commit heinous acts all in the name of the "Greater Good." Just Snape enjoying the delightful company of himself alone.

Day in, day out, the routine was the same. He would ensconce himself in the library, reading from sunrise to sunset, time mattering no longer now that he had all the time in the world, so to speak. Then, he would retire to the sitting room to enjoy his evening before a roaring fire. Finally, he would rest a bit in one of the bedrooms because sleep had been a luxury rarely afforded him as a double agent. He didn't require it, but wanted it, nevertheless. To be alone with his thoughts and to consider... nothing.

He lost track of time, being unable to journey outside to procure the latest edition of the Daily Prophet. He knew nothing of current events or the outcome of the war, nor did he care at this point because he was dead.

The afterlife was good for Severus Snape until the day he learned his peace and quiet would be no more, irrevocably changing his eternal existence forever.

Snape spent that afternoon in the library, enjoying the mostly delightful company of the Bennett sisters of Meryton; he found Jane and Elizabeth tolerable, Lydia and Kitty insufferable, and Mary was his favorite. But a familiar Scottish brogue caused his ears to prick up, transporting him back to modern day Hogsmeade and the Shrieking Shack.

At first, he thought his ears were playing tricks on him. It happened often enough, confusing random, errant noises for voices. Birds twittering, leaves rustling, gusty winds hissing through minuscule gaps in the decrepit, old house. But there was no mistaking the distinctive purr of Minerva McGonagall.

Snape peered out the front window, careful not to ruffle the curtains lest he give away his presence. On the porch stood proof his ears had not deceived him. It was indeed his former colleague accompanied by the short in stature, yet long on charm, Filius Flitwick.

Minerva cleared her throat, leveled her wand at the doorknob and spoke in a loud, clear voice, "Alohomora." The door to the Shack opened with aching slowness, its rusty, arthritic hinges protesting with a prolonged groan.

"That's it? Too easy." Her moue seemed to indicate disappointment that her first foray into crime – breaking and entering – wasn't more challenging.

"A bit anti-climactic, eh?" Filius chuckled. "All it took to lift the enchantment was the magic of the Headmistress."

Minerva's in charge now. Ergo, the Dark Lord has been vanquished, Snape thought, indulging in a brief, self-congratulatory smile before turning his attention back to the scene outside.

She grasped the knob and began to pull the door shut when she paused. "Shall we have a look around?" Her voice hinted at eagerness, but her strained smile seemed hesitant.

"Of course, Minerva. Curiosity doesn't kill cats in reality." Filius smiled as he directed her inside with a courteous sweep of his arm. "Ladies first."

She glared at him as she strode past, then waited for him in the foyer. She remained almost frozen in place, turning in a tight circle, trying in vain to fully view the entire first floor without moving from that one spot.

"We don't have to do this, you know," Filius reassured her.

Her sigh was heavy, imbued with the same remorse reflected in her glistening eyes.

"No, Filius, I don't have to be here, but I want to, nonetheless. I owe him that much, at least." She lit her wand with a silent Lumos as she climbed the staircase to the second floor, the little wizard following mere steps behind.

Snape trailed them, but kept a safe distance. His spy instincts impelled him to shadow Minerva as she sniffed around the Shack like a niffler searching for shiny gold objects.

She took her time, traveling from room to room, scanning each one with methodical precision. First, she looked at the walls, then the furniture and knickknacks. Finally, she devoted most of her time to the inspection of the floors, concentrating on the willy-nilly footprints decorating the dusty boards.

Filius ventured off on his own, paying no more than a cursory glance to each room. "How strange. I can't find the bathroom. I don't think there's running water in this house." He called out, "Minerva? Minerva, where are you?"

"I'm... I'm in the master bedroom," she stammered, her voice rough and fractured.

Flitwick found her crouched on the floor next to a man-sized silhouette, a ragged outline painted darkest red.

She squeezed her eyes tight to hold back the tears that threatened to drown her vision. "We shouldn't be here."

Snape nodded in agreement. My sentiments exactly. I didn't ask for a visit from the Welcome Wagon.

Filius draped his arm around her shoulders. "Right. We can leave whenever you are ready."

Minerva stood up, transforming from weepy witch to stern schoolmarm in the time it took to wipe her sodden face with a freshly conjured handkerchief. "That's not it, Filius. I meant this place shouldn't be desecrated in the name of urban development."

What is she babbling on about? What "urban development"?

"I agree, but it wasn't our decision to make, Minerva. In the end, the almighty galleon prevailed. The Board of Governors called it a 'win-win situation'. New housing outside the village proper will provide space for more businesses to open in Hogsmeade. And because the school owns this property, we'll benefit from the rental income."

Rental income?

"But it's so disrespectful to Severus. Why did they opt to renovate this place rather than raze it?"

Renovate the Shrieking Shack?

"To honor his memory, I hazard to guess. And rentals in this unit will be highly subsidized because of the circumstances surrounding the Shack. Some lucky tenants will catch a real financial break."

Minerva's whole body shuddered. "It's all so unseemly. If they want to honor his memory, why not commission a memorial, or a plaque, at least?"

Honor me? He laughed to himself. Oh, the irony. My true loyalties must have come to light.

Filius shook his head. "This is the Hogwarts Board of Governors we're talking about. They may be wealthy, but a more tight-fisted bunch I've never met."

A long silence fell between them. Minerva returned to staring at the Snape-shaped stain on the floor.

Filius pulled at her hand, wrenching her from the past and the myriad of emotions she was undoubtedly experiencing. "Let's go back to the castle, shall we? Some tea will do us both good."

They descended the stairs with Snape close behind. Short of the front door, they paused for one last look around, memorizing every detail of the creepy, cobwebby, haunted house décor.

"Is there anything worth salvaging here?" Filius wondered.

Minerva was quick to answer. "The books of course. I'll make arrangements with the contractor to move them to Hogwarts. He can decide if there's anything else of value to keep."

As they departed from the Shrieking Shack, closing the door behind them, they also closed an important chapter in wizarding history. The site of Severus Snape's last stand would never be the same again.

He watched his former colleagues as they retreated with thoughtless ease. He envied their freedom of movement, the one useful liberty he lacked in his afterlife utopia. He sank down onto the sitting room sofa, defeated, head dropping into his waiting hands.

"The wizarding world can't even let me rest in peace. Tomorrow this place will come crashing down around my ears. And my books, my one and only diversion – no, my salvation – are to be taken away? The afterlife is a bitch, just like her sister life."

He was motionless for Merlin only knew how long. Soon, though, an idea took root in his head, changing his self-pity to self-righteous indignation.

"So they think they can trash my home and steal my books? Over my dead body!" He sprang from the couch and made a beeline for the library. "Tonight, I research. Tomorrow, I go a-haunting."

He hunkered down in the ugly, floral wing chair and plotted his preemptive strike of spectral taunting. He assumed that his ghostly manifestation would operate in much the same manner as his previous embodiment, garnering respect through the judicious application of intimidation. His afterlife of peace and quiet depended upon his ghostly abilities to generate such extreme terror as to force the workmen to drop everything and search for a change of undergarments. His ultimate goal was to chase away the living from the Shrieking Shack and put a stop to that ridiculous plan to remodel it into a multi-unit apartment building.

At this moment, it was imperative he learn all he could about effective haunting. His one and only source of information on life after death was the disappointing Handbook for the Recently Deceased. He found but one terse passage on the subject.

'Haunting should be kept simple. A prolonged wail can be very effective, but remember to modulate the moans between low rumbles and high-pitched screams. Avoid hiding behind white sheets, as this is considered cliché and won't scare even the most gullible of people. The repetitive opening and closing of windows with a concomitant gust of wind is a classic technique...'

"What useless tripe. For all it imparts concerning the pertinent details of the afterlife, a better title would have been Pamphlet for the Recently Deceased, or perhaps even Muddling Through on One's Own: Vague Suggestions for the Recently Deceased."

Snape stared into the flickering flames dancing in the hearth. For a split second, he considered tossing that infernal book onto the fire, but rational thought overruled his impulsive knee-jerk annoyance.

"Perhaps one day it will reveal some long forgotten minute detail that might be the difference between death and... well, not death. But for the time being, I must depend upon myself alone to provide satisfactory haunting."

A/N: I have no additional tidbits – juicy or otherwise – to impart here. If you enjoyed reading this, then my work has been a success. If you really, really enjoyed reading this, then tell me about it in a review, gentle reader.

Next up: Snape discovers that haunting is a talent which doesn't come naturally to all ghosts.