Chapter 3: Haunting Is Harder Than It Looks

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Chapter 3: Haunting Is Harder Than It Looks

Severus Snape sighed. One of those chest-collapsing, my-problems-are-more-important-than-yours sighs. Sulky, sulk, sulk. He hadn't invented self-pity, but he had perfected it, made it an art form.

This evening, he wallowed in self-pity as he drank brandy and stared at the fire. This once joyful night-time ritual had become somewhat lackluster now that he sat on the bare floor instead of the ugly floral wing chair. Except for the hideous wallpaper that mocked his aesthetic sensibilities, the sitting room laid empty. Every stick of furniture, every painting, every knickknack, and every book – so sad, that – had been removed from the house earlier that day. The kitchen was bare, stripped of cupboards and counter-tops, and several non-load-bearing walls had been torn down as well in preparation for the remodeling set to begin tomorrow.

His attempts to scare the workmen from the Shrieking Shack had failed utterly. The men were too absorbed in their task to notice books and tools moving on their own. Snape's otherworldly moans fell upon ears deafened by the harsh sounds of whirring saws and knocking hammers. He had lost the battle, but he wasn't about to concede the war.

"I'll be damned if I'm forced to spend eternity here living with Merlin only knows who. I simply must step up my haunting efforts. Didn't that blasted book mention...?" He pulled the Handbook for the Recently Deceased from his pocket and flipped through it, searching for the only dog-eared page marked for easy reference. Once located, he skimmed the page, looking for the obscure passage he had read weeks ago. The heading, 'If You Need Help,' couldn't have been more hidden if it were a Horcrux.

He scrambled to his feet and read the instructions aloud. "Draw a door with an accompanying knob." Using a charred, half-burnt log, he outlined a door with the obligatory handle, leaving a sooty smear on the burgundy and gold fleur-de-lis flocked wallpaper. "Please," he drawled as he rolled his eyes, "what idiot would draw a door without any means to open it?" He stepped back to admire his artwork, then read the next step. "Knock three times to open the door." He applied three sharp raps to the faux door, then waited for... The book didn't mention what to expect.

Soon, an intense white light poured from the perimeter of the 'door,' and the wall shook violently. Before he knew it, he was peering into a generic waiting room decorated in earth tones and shag carpeting made popular in the early 1970s. Sitting at the reception window was a smiling, familiar face dotted with freckles and framed with ginger hair – coloring that blended well with the décor.

If Fred Weasley weren't wearing a name tag, Snape could have easily mistaken him for his twin brother George. "Hello, Professor Snape."

"Mr. Weasley, what are you doing here?" he questioned in a voice equal parts confusion and command.

"I work here at the Afterlife Help Center," Fred replied without a hint of irony.

"But that means you're..." He was dumbfounded, unable to accept that this young man, his former student, no longer walked amongst the living. What had happened to him?

"Dead. I'm trying to make the best of it, though. Keeping busy." He managed a shaky, yet reassuring smile. "Anyway, Professor Snape, you're early for your appointment."

Snape raised an authoritative, yet inquisitive eyebrow. "Mr. Weasley, I don't have an appointment."

"I know that, sir," Fred said matter-of-factly. "But you've only been dead three months and already in need of assistance?"

Snape nodded, hoping his scowling countenance would neutralize the embarrassing flush traveling across his cheeks.

"You're going to use up all your help vouchers. During your time on earth, you are only allowed three visitations here with your caseworker and one on-site call."

"Well, since I'm already here, can the caseworker see me now?" Snape asked in an over-the-top, solicitous voice. He thought if sweet-talk worked for Lucius Malfoy, then why couldn't it work for him, too.

Fred nodded knowingly. "Have a seat, Professor. I'll see if he's available." The young man rose up like steam over a cauldron and glided away, his steps echoing long after he disappeared from view.

Snape settled into a boxy orange Naugahyde chair; he found it surprisingly comfortable. A disorganized pile of magazines, varied in subject matter and age, sat upon the glass and chrome coffee table. He perused an issue of Witch Weekly heralding Gilderoy Lockhart as the year's winner of the "Most Charming Smile" award.

"This must be out of date," he snorted. "He hasn't had anything to smile about since early 1993."

He was engrossed in an article comparing and contrasting the trifles of England and Ireland when a lilting tenor voice interrupted his concentration.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Snape. Please follow me."

Before him stood a handsome young man with wavy, dark hair and warm gray eyes accented by feathery laugh lines at the outer corners. He wore a three piece suit made of sumptuous dark blue velvet and a plum satin shirt opened at the neck to reveal a gaudy chain of heavy gold links.

With narrowed eyes, Snape scrutinized the young man from his follicles to his footwear, shiny in both instances. The man appeared too young, too inexperienced to give advice on anything other than pimple creams or how to score with teenaged girls. "No offense, but are you my caseworker?"

The young man laughed, or rather barked; it reminded Snape of a gentleman from his past. "None taken. I get that reaction all the time. I've worked in the Center for twenty years, ten of them as a caseworker. I'm highly qualified, despite my deceptively youthful appearance. We'll talk in my office. I think you'll be more comfortable there."

The two men walked through a sterile hallway, its white painted walls and shiny linoleum floors illuminated a sickly green pallor by the flickering fluorescent lights above. Every door they passed looked ordinary, except for one that caught Snape's attention. This door had a window, and through it, Snape saw endless darkness punctuated by an occasional floating spirit. But these were not the blithe spirits that witty playwright Mr. Coward had in mind.

These were mirthless, tormented spirits wasting away, falling apart; their skin and sinew held onto their bones by the thinnest of fibers. The anguished expressions on their faces spoke of unbearable emotional and physical pain. Snape looked away, unable to watch this macabre dance any longer; his own heart – no matter how small and black it was – ached to see such suffering.

"That's the Lost Souls Room," the caseworker explained. "It's for displaced ghosts, the exorcised who have no final destination. Not exactly hell, but it isn't heaven either. You don't want to end up there. Let's keep moving."

They passed more nondescript doors until they reached his office, behind yet another unremarkable door. Once adjusted to the dim lighting, Snape scanned shadowy walls of shelving lined with dusty glass specimen jars, each one filled with slimy bits of flora and fauna in colorful, disgusting liquid media. A large, imposing desk stood sentry before the fireplace, cold and empty.

He felt the blood – what little he had left – drain from his face, and his shaky legs threatened to give out. The caseworker grabbed Snape by the arm and led him to a chair, an uncomfortable one, but sturdy and stable, nevertheless.

"I see by your reaction you recognize your old office. It's a decorating trick; the office changes to suit the needs of each individual client. I apologize if it caused you any discomfort. I'll just change it back."

He waved his arm in a wide arc, and Snape's dungeon office dissolved into a warm, yet bland setting with tan walls, maple furniture, cream-colored club chairs, beige shag carpeting, and chrome lamps. "I'm rather fond of Swedish modern. Are you familiar with Ikea, Mr. Snape?"

"Never heard of it, Mr...." The caseworker hadn't yet introduced himself. Snape scanned the office, searching for clues at to his identity. On the tidy desktop, he spied a rather thick manilla folder bearing his own name and sitting directly behind an engraved brass name plate displayed prominently at the forefront of the desk. "Mr. Black."

"You don't recognize me, do you?"

"Your face is not ringing a bell with me," Snape replied with a tinge of impatience.

"I'll always look eighteen years old, but had I lived, I would be just this side of forty, like yourself. I was behind you but one year at Hogwarts."

The metaphoric light bulb above Snape's head lit up. He was relieved to learn his caseworker was an ally of sorts, but well-honed spy instincts prevented his complete relaxation. "Regulus Black."

He nodded and held out his hand in a polite gesture. Snape didn't hesitate to shake it. "Pleased to make your acquaintance again, Mr. Snape. Do you prefer I address you in this formal manner?"

"My given name is fine, since it's what you had used previously."

"Very well, Severus, and you may call me Regulus."

With the pleasantries out of the way, Snape steered the conversation into business mode. "I have many questions and concerns that this book..." He paused to retrieve the Handbook for the Recently Deceased from the pocket of his robe, then lobbed the tome onto Regulus' desk with such spine-breaking disregard that Madame Pince and librarians all over the world would have shuddered in horror. "I wouldn't even consider this tripe to qualify as a book. To call it that would be disrespectful to real literature."

Regulus nodded knowingly. "I'll give you that. It's poorly written and in dire need of updating. Ask your questions, and I'll answer to the best of my ability."

"I assumed upon my death I would be denied entry to heaven. Yet why am I still here on earth?"

"That's easy to answer. You have unfinished business."

Only one question volleyed, and Snape could feel his impending headache taking root right between his eyes.

"Potter triumphed over the Dark Lord. I did what was expected of me. I spent the better part of my adult life playing guardian angel to that ungrateful child, watching over Potter, protecting him so that he could live to fulfill his destiny."

"Apparently, a higher power has decided you've missed something. You are the only one who can solve that mystery."

"Indeed," he replied, hiding his disappointment behind a mask of indifference. "What is the purpose of confining a ghost to the site of their death?"

"It's a means of controlling spirit migration. If ghosts were allowed to roam freely and choose their residences, then beautiful, warm weather destinations, like the South Pacific for example, would be the most haunted places on the planet, deterring the living from vacationing and... well, living there. Makes for bad economics. However, ghosts with work visas are welcome in the Caribbean to aid in the voodoo industry. Once you fulfill your purpose on earth, or spend ninety-nine years in the Shrieking Shack, you will be free to move wherever you like."

Snape suspected that wasn't the entire story and pressed for more details. "Am I to assume that you and Mr. Weasley died here at the Center?"

"Can't get anything by a sharp Slytherin, eh? I died in a seaside cave in Britain. Mr. Weasley died at Hogwarts. We chose careers in public service rather than confinement. That option is available to you as well, Severus. However, I don't think you have the necessary temperament to be a civil servant." From the mouths of babes – actually, middle aged, yet youthful in appearance – came the unmitigated truth.

Snape would be stuck in his personal Hogsmeade hell unless he could travel safely beyond its borders.

"Tell me about the spatial and temporal anomalies outside the Shrieking Shack."

"An impressive bit of technology, that. Can you believe it isn't wizard-made magic?"

Snape raised a blasé eyebrow to convey his astonishment – or lack thereof – at this revelation.

"Yes, courtesy of those ingenious closet monsters," Regulus answered his own query.

"Closet monsters?" Snape wondered if the young man was making this story up as he went along.

"Yes, it's mostly a Muggle affliction, so I'm not surprised you haven't run across one before. They are monsters who live in children's closets, coming out at night to scare the daylights out of them. Except they actually don't live in the closets. They work in a factory utilizing technology that collects the children's screams and converts it to energy. The factory houses a vast collection of doors which allows them access into the closets. That particular technology was modified for spirit containment in the afterlife. If a ghost travels beyond the limits of their earthly confinement, he or she is transported at once to harsh, unfamiliar territory filled with dangerous pitfalls and murderous creatures. Each breach morphs those hinterlands into a different wilderness with different hazards to confront."

Upon hearing that discouraging information, Snape felt as though he'd leaped out of the cauldron and into the fire. He pinched the bridge of his nose so hard as to leave two red oval indentations upon his pale skin. "That was vague at best. My current situation at the Shrieking Shack is unbearable, but the alternative is inconceivable. Have you no further information to impart?"

"Sorry, Severus, but I'm a caseworker, not an engineer. For the record, not one spirit has been able to break the system, and many have died trying, becoming lost souls forever more. However, you are a highly intelligent and resourceful man; if anyone could do it, my Galleons would be on you. Tell me, what exactly do you find so distasteful about your, erm, living arrangements?" He absent-mindedly tapped his fingers on the case file in front of him.

Snape scowled at the annoying, youngish ghost. "As we speak, my home is undergoing renovation, a misguided attempt to gentrify Hogsmeade and raise funds for Hogwarts. This means I will be forced to share quarters with any Tom, Dick or..." He winced as he continued, "Harry. I would prefer to spend the first ninety-nine years of my eternity alone."

"What are you doing talking to me, then? Your time would be better spent trying to drive the workmen from your home. No construction means no tenants, no-one to disturb you. Some effective haunting should do the trick."

That irrepressible Snape sneer began to blossom on his lips. "Don't you think I've tried that already! It didn't work."

He could no longer tolerate the child-like face of Regulus Black smiling at him, so he looked away, staring instead at the intricate grain patterns of the light wood desk.

"From the account I read, your attempts to scare the men looked like a bad Benny Hill sketch, and that's not saying very much." Regulus slammed his fist against the desktop, startling Snape from his self-pity stupor. "Stop fooling around, Severus. Don't play nice, play dirty. You're Slytherin; you should be good at that."

He fixed the young man with a glare so sharp it would have made seventh-year students cry. "Just how am I going to do that, Black? I don't have my magic anymore," he hissed, icy venom dripping from his words.

Regulus stood abruptly, toppling his chair in the process. He shouted, "You're a mean, angry, ugly man, Snape. Show them your fury. Don't be afraid."

Snape's famous self-control hadn't cracked yet; he held on to it by a thin, taut thread unraveling with each ticking second. He leapt from the chair and stalked around the desk to stand mere centimeters from the other man, towering over him, intimidating him with a steely glare and tooth-baring snarl.

"Are you calling me a coward, Black?"

The young man didn't flinch, or jump, or make any large-scale movements other than the smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth. This calm demeanor in the face of rage was the reason why Regulus Black was the caseworker of choice for the most ornery of ghosts. His arrogant smile marred the casual elegance of his haughty, handsome face, a prominent feature of the aristocratic Black family.

"Why, I don't have to. You already believe yourself to be one." He hadn't said the magic word, but he might as well have.

Snape grabbed the man by his wide lapels and jerked once. His eyes were widened in anger, his breath came in hard, short puffs, strong enough to ruffle Regulus' hair. Then, it happened without any warning. Snape could feel the heat pouring off his body like a blast furnace, but didn't comprehend why. Only Black could see the changes in the wrathful ghost.

Chalky white skin – spoiled by a smattering of pockmarks upon his cheeks – turned a moldy shade of green. Like poppies punctuating a grassy meadow, a bounty of juicy red boils cropped up in no particular pattern, tumescent almost to the point of bursting. Cracked gray lips strained across furry yellow teeth. Eyes blazed, an intense, dark red – the color of stagnant blood – engulfing the black centers. Wispy black smoke appeared when he exhaled, the sulfurous odor hinting at more than simple periodontal disease.

Snape appeared a technicolor disaster, compared to the monochromatic mess he was every other moment. His transformation was both instantaneous and hideous. He felt only heat, a drastic change from the cold that had permeated every cell of his body since his death. He expected fear to be rolling off Black like slime from a Flobberworm, but he sensed no tension whatsoever. The young man seemed to be quite relaxed in his clutches, wearing an incongruous smile.

"Erm, you really need to see yourself," Regulus spoke, breaking the dense, awkward silence. "There's a mirror in my top drawer made especially for imaging ghosts."

"I don't trust you," he growled. "It could be a trap. I suggest you get it."

Regulus reached into the desk, pulled out an ordinary-looking hand mirror and gave it to Snape, who was still clutching him with one hand. He took but a moment to examine the mirror, searching for hidden buttons and booby traps. Once satisfied it was merely a mirror, he glanced upon his reflection and found himself more pleasantly surprised than shocked; his smile made him appear even more grotesque, his crooked teeth like a dilapidated picket fence. He let loose his grip on the young man to preen a bit in the mirror.

"Do you think this look will adequately terrify?" he asked in earnest, still admiring himself in the looking glass.

Regulus chuckled as he smoothed the anger-induced wrinkles from his dandy suit. "More than satisfactory, Severus. You are quite fearsome when you're riled. Remember that feeling and call upon it for haunting. I think you can relax now."

Snape closed his eyes and inhaled a deep, cleansing breath of peace and serenity, and then he exhaled a long, hot breath of ire and hate, expelling all negative feelings... well, most of them. Another glance in the mirror revealed his former ugly, yet striking face had returned, none the worse for wear.

His Slytherin compatriot gave him a congratulatory pat on the back, causing Snape to flinch, not from Regulus' cold hands, but because he was unaccustomed to such congenial contact.

"You are ready. Now go forth and clean house." Regulus offered his hand once more and Snape reciprocated, although this time the handshake was more genuine and hearty.

"Thank you for your... assistance. I sincerely hope I won't require it again. I'll show myself out."

He nodded farewell, snatched the useless Handbook for the Recently Deceased from the desktop and departed. As he walked through the antiseptic corridor back to the reception area, he ignored the room of lost souls, passing it without so much as a curious glance. Into the waiting room, he passed Fred Weasley at the front desk and bid him goodbye with a perfunctory nod. He crossed the threshold of the Center into... He supposed it was the Shrieking Shack, but nothing looked familiar at all.

Snape scanned this new environment with experienced, wary former-spy eyes. It was quiet, no longer polluted by the sounds of crashing walls, knocking hammers, or buzzing saws. Logically, he knew he was in the Shrieking Shack, but the late-twentieth-century, creepy style had vanished. No more dark wood, heavy drapery, wall sconces, or fuzzy wallpaper. In its place were creamy white walls, recessed lighting, mini-blinds, and nubby, neutral Berber carpeting. He stalked from room to room, shocked that the construction had been completed during the brief time he spent at the Afterlife Help Center.

Damn temporal anomalies.

Every room – kitchen, dining room, lounge, bedroom, study, bath – looked the same, new and clean, but indistinct with no character or style whatsoever.

Perhaps I could contact Laura Ashley on behalf of the new resident. Granted she's dead, but even her interior decorating style would be a vast improvement over this vanilla custard fiasco.

In each room, miniaturized packing boxes were stacked with meticulous organization and marked with neat, even lettering. Before Snape could further ponder this as yet unknown person's decorating sense, he heard the jingling of keys and the turning of a lock. His instincts forced him to hide, despite his certainty that he would go unnoticed, so he pressed himself into a corner, taking comfort in the dark shadows that swallowed him. He observed the intruder – nay, the house-mate – he would be forced to endure for the foreseeable future, or until he could scare them away with his new, effective haunting skills.

The front door swung open with no warning, as the formerly squeaky door had been replaced with a cheap, yet decidedly more quiet, steel one. A feminine voice pierced the silence. "We're home. Give me one moment, and I'll let you out, boy." She sounded familiar to Snape's ears, but he would need to search deep within his memory to put a name to the voice.

He couldn't see her face because it was dusk, nary a sliver of light in the flat.

Stupid girl, he chastised her in his thoughts. When you enter a darkened room, the first order of business is illumination. You cannot tell what danger lies in wait.

He could see her form outlined in the darkness; he admired the curvy hips and full breasts beneath the clingy T-shirt and tight jeans. He noticed her head, twice the size of a normal human head, or maybe she sported very big hair. A sense of dread infused his ghostly body; it recalled to memory the persistent foreboding he had experienced during the Triwizard Tournament three years ago when he had correctly predicted the return of the Dark Lord.

She bent down to release her familiar from its cage; it took a few cautious, tentative steps, yet never strayed far from its mistress. When the woman spoke again, Snape's worst fears were realized.

"A place to call our own," she purred while scratching the beast behind its ears. "Welcome home, Crookshanks."

Well, doesn't that beat all. I'm stuck here with Hermione bloody Granger. The hell outside these walls might be the best option after all.

A/N: Thanks for your patience, gentle readers. It took three chapters, but Hermione Granger is in da house! Take one angry, bitter ghost, add a feisty, intelligent young woman, and you get... Let the games begin!

The Lost Souls Room is of course taken from Beetlejuice. Likewise, the closet monster concept comes from Pixar's Monsters, Inc.

If you like this story, tell me about it. Reviews feed the muse and give the author a protective layer of warm fuzzies, so invaluable during this frigid winter.

Next up: Snape perfects his haunting technique at Hermione's expense, of course, but she has her own obsessive agenda to attend to.