In Memory of Severus Snape
Aug. 31st, 2011 11:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
abstractconcept Title: In Memory of Severus Snape (Part 7 of ???)
Authorthe_con_cept
Pairing: Snarry
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Kinks:: (none so far) WIP
Disclaimer: Belongs to J.K. Rowling
Summary: More than twenty years after Voldemort’s death, Snape discovers Harry in long term care at St. Mungo’s with chronic memory problems. Snape doesn’t care that Potter can't remember the war, his family or his schooling, but Severus Snape will be damned if he lets Potter forget him.
Betas Mexta <3, and all further mistakes are entirely my own.
Dedication: Forswansong33, for helping me with that dreadful citation assignment as well as all those other assignments. You are an amazing friend. &hearts
In Memory of Severus Snape
Part 7
There was a knock on the front door. Snape glanced at the clock, seeing it was almost two. The interviewee was right on time, which boded well. He opened the door and stared. “You’ve got to be joking,” he said flatly.
The man stared back. “No. Or I would have said, ‘Knock, knock,’ instead of actually knocking. Or perhaps I would have said, ‘Why did the Potions Master fake his own death?’ I’m not sure I know the punchline, but I suspect you do.”
Snape felt an angry heat rise in his face. “Go the hell away,” he snarled. He made to slam the door, but found a foot stuck in the opening.
“If you don’t want me contacting the papers and trumpeting your triumphant return, you should play nice. Anyway, I am actually interested.”
Snape quietly seethed. “Fine. Come in if you must.” He stepped back, glowering at one of the few applicants for the job of assisting him with Potter. The man eyed the couch dubiously before taking a seat and giving him an unctuous smile. Snape sneered at him. “And what exactly are your qualifications for this job?” he challenged.
The interviewee crossed his legs and smiled a quick, slick smile. “Well, I’m very good looking.”
“And that’s a qualification to care for a mentally unbalanced former hero in what way?”
There was a pause. “Heroes like shiny things. You’ll certainly find me easy on the eyes.”
They heard a bang and Harry came running into the room. He’d had a minor meltdown earlier, suddenly convinced he was being poisoned and blasting the tea set to smithereens. Snape had doused him with Calming Draught—almost an irony, that—and then put the boy to bed to read, but it seemed as though that had worn off.
He glared at them, his hair wild and his eyes even wilder. “Malfoy,” he snarled. “Bring a friend because you’re too much a coward to kill me yourself?” he added. “Speaking of which, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
Snape harrumphed and crossed his arms over his chest. Of course Potter had forgotten who he was again. But Draco jumped to his feet, beaming, and shook Harry’s hand, hard. “Potter, what an absolute joy. See, Snape, old boy? He remembers me.”
Ugh. Much as Snape hated to admit it, Draco had a point. It was more than Snape could say, at any rate.
Harry looked absolutely baffled. “Why are you shaking my hand? Are we . . . are we friends now?”
“Best friends,” Draco assured him syrupily.
“Harry, be a dear and go get some biscuits for our guest,” Snape suggested. Harry did so, though not without many a puzzled, backward glance.
Draco examined his nails with an air of smugness. “I also take dictation.”
“I’ll be dead before I hire you.”
“I thought you already were. What happened?” Draco asked.
“I faked the whole thing and lived as a young, gorgeous blonde. And then Potter happened,” Snape explained grudgingly.
“Well, I suppose I can empathize with wanting to be a young, hot blond. And now you’re wanting a ‘nurse?’ I’m afraid I don’t do costumes, I’m happily married and I may not be what you’re looking for, but I have to admit I’m intrigued.”
“Don’t be stupid. I’m just looking for someone to make sure Potter doesn’t get into trouble when I’m not around.”
“I can do that. He’s always been easily distracted,” Draco said.
“Well . . . you are the only candidate,” Snape sighed.
“Seriously? I’m—the only candidate?”
Snape shrugged. “The only viable candidate. Of course, I only told the Weasleys and Fanny Farfingale about the position. I wasn’t sure how to word an ad—‘Formerly dead Death Eater requires help with Boy Who Lived’? I’m pretty sure I can guess the kind of response I’d get to that.”
“Ha ha ha; must bring own death ray?” Draco suggested.
“Yes, exactly. The only other person who even showed up was Neville Longbottom, and he took one look at me, turned white and passed out. I sprayed cold water on his face to rouse him and upon awakening, he grabbed the nearest object—a decorative urn—and started to bash me about the head, screaming about dark magic and how I could take his life, but I couldn’t take his fluxweed. With Potter’s help I eventually fought him off and tried to explain things, but he still seemed suspicious. To be frank, I can’t see hiring someone who might try to take my head off with an umbrella when my back is turned.”
Draco nodded. “You really can’t blame him,” he said. “You were an absolute monster to him back at school. I think a lot of your former students might have done the same.”
Snape smiled. At least he’d left an impression on some of them. He had been good at swooping out of nowhere and deducting points, using his considerable grasp of the Queen’s English to make schoolchildren widdle themselves. Those had been good days.
Draco looked around the sitting room. “What a lovely place you have. It’s so . . . homely. I mean—homey. Cosy. You know.”
For some reason, Snape felt a bit defensive. It definitely wasn’t up to Malfoy Manor standards. It was simple, the curtains damasked, chequered blue and white, the seats cosy old couches or cheerful wicker chairs and tables, all painted white, but all notched and dinged here and there; soldiers of the decorating campaigns they had seen over the years, the tried and true veterans who had stood the test of time, of the Great Moves, of the Rearrangement Of Which We Do Not Speak.
But really, it was just a simple little house, thatched on top, with square windows looking out to sea. There was a funny little rocking chair that rocked all by itself. The whole place fairly screamed of doddering old aunt and uncle who’ve invited you for a nice cuppa and why don’t you tell them a bit about yourself? It was . . . cosy. Snape was gradually getting to like it, whatever Draco thought.
“A bit different from what we’re used to, you and I, isn’t it?” Snape put in. “Back then it was all about showmanship. Curses that rent the air and set the sky on fire . . . a room stripped bare so all eyes would be on . . . him. . . . dark, ugly things—in jars, in books, in our very heads, all struggling to get out.”
Draco shivered. “Things are different now,” he said too loudly. “After the war was over, I volunteered at St. Mungo’s. Well, it wasn’t exactly a choice. It was suggested very forcefully by the Ministry that the Malfoy clan make some sort of recompense and, rather than go to Azkaban, it was hinted community service might be an option. I think Potter may have been behind that, actually,” he said with a half smile. “And so I ended up at St. Mungo’s. Funny, but once I started, I was rather hooked.”
“You were at St. Mungo’s? What an unlikely coincidence,” Snape replied in genuine surprise.
Draco nodded, not noticing Snape’s look. “Research and development,” he said. “Mostly worked on potions for the immunization of childhood diseases.”
This nearly knocked Snape back on his heels. Draco Malfoy? Working to save the world? Or at least make it a slightly less odious place? How did that possibly work? The world was, Snape considered, rather more odious for Draco’s presence in it. “But you left.”
Draco looked up. He shook his head a little. “What? No. Not exactly. Cutbacks. Temporary, supposedly.” He sighed, resting his chin in his hands. “They said they’ll call us back once things are sorted. Maybe. I can’t help but feel a former Death Eater might not be the first to get the owl.”
“Indeed.” Snape gave this some thought. “But are you prepared to work in a non-research role? Certainly some research could be valuable, but much of what you’ll do will be tedious and undignified. I don’t need an academic. I need a nurse, a help-meet and a babysitter. I need someone to make sure that damn fool Potter doesn’t blow his own head off when I’m not looking. And the pay isn’t even very good,” Snape added anxiously. He didn’t have very much to give.
Draco gave this consideration, tugging at a loose thread on the cuff of his robes. “To be honest—which I make it a point not to do, and it’s served me well—we’re not really all that hard up for money at the moment. But I’ve grown accustomed to having a job. And working at St. Mungo’s, well, I don’t suppose you’d really understand, but . . . that was the first time I really felt I’d done anything, well, good. Like I was contributing to society in my own small way. I know it sounds stupid, Snape— it’s not like I have this crazy urge to do good deeds. It’s more like doing good deeds has become . . . . some sort of bad habit I can’t break. Volunteering at St. Mungo’s was one of them,” he drawled.
Snape blinked at him, unbalanced. “I think I understand,” he said weakly.
Potter returned with the biscuits. “Malfoy,” he snarled. “What are you doing here? And you’ve brought a slimy friend, did you?”
“Just came for your delectable biscuits,” Draco ad-libbed. “Thanks for saving my life, by the way.”
The paranoia and curse-machine that was Harry Potter ground down. “You—wait—what?”
Draco smiled, keeping eye contact. “You know—the fiendfyre. I wanted you to know I appreciate it, even if . . . even if Vincent didn’t make it. You gave me a second chance, and I’m here to repay you.”
“Well. Er. I mean, I guess that’s all right,” Harry said, still suspicious, but the ice cold fury had clearly become a little wetter when put up against Draco’s passionate remorse. “Don’t . . . do it . . . again, though,” he warned. He rubbed his head a little. “I think I’m going to go lie down,” he told Snape, who nodded.
Well, that was interesting. Draco had a wonderful talent for keeping Harry off balance.
“What will my duties be?” Draco inquired.
“Oh, just keep an eye on him,” Snape replied. “Watch out for mood changes, stay on top of conniption fits, keep a log of what he remembers when, feed him, make sure he’s wearing adequate clothing and not his underwear on his head, change his bedpan,” Snape extrapolated with a little glee.
“Do I give sponge baths as well?’ Draco asked archly. “Or is that your job?”
Snape hated that, after all these years, Draco still had the ability to ferret out that weak spot and then jab at it. “No. Just play nursemaid, if that isn’t too much to ask. And whatever issues you’ve had in the past, if I find the boy injured in your care, we shall have to inquire whether St. Mungo’s even has anyone skilled enough to remove a bedpan from one’s rear end. Is that clear?”
“I DO NOT NEED BEDPANS, EVEN WHEN I’M HAVING A BAD TURN!” Harry’s voice roared. He was obviously still listening in, and incensed. “AND WHILE I’M NOT OPPOSED TO THE IDEA OF A SPONGE BATH, I’M NOT HAVING ONE FROM DRACO MALFOY. ALSO, I THINK I SHOULD GET A SAY IN ALL THIS!”
Snape and Draco exchanged a look. “Well, have your say, then!” Snape shot back. “But though you dislike Mr. Malfoy, I did intend to run references on him. I certainly wouldn’t have let him in here without the appropriate background checks.”
Harry was quiet a while. “I GUESS IT’S OKAY, THEN, SO LONG AS YOU TRUST HIM. BUT IF HE GETS ANYWHERE NEAR ME WITH A BEDPAN, I’LL GO UPSIDE HIS HEAD WITH SAID BEDPAN. UNDERSTOOD?”
“Deal!” Draco shouted.
Snape lowered his voice and leant in. “Are you positive you want to do this? Potter can be a handful and you never did get along well with him. And though you won’t be allowed to abuse your position, you may need to use a firm hand.”
Draco gave him a salute. “Just call me Matron Malfoy,” he said with a bright eye.
Snape sighed. “I suppose it could be worse. I can’t think how just at this moment, but I’m almost certain it could be worse.”
Previous/Later Chapters on IJ right now:
One Two Three Four Five Six Seven
Author
the_con_ceptPairing: Snarry
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Kinks:: (none so far) WIP
Disclaimer: Belongs to J.K. Rowling
Summary: More than twenty years after Voldemort’s death, Snape discovers Harry in long term care at St. Mungo’s with chronic memory problems. Snape doesn’t care that Potter can't remember the war, his family or his schooling, but Severus Snape will be damned if he lets Potter forget him.
Betas Mexta <3, and all further mistakes are entirely my own.
Dedication: For
swansong33, for helping me with that dreadful citation assignment as well as all those other assignments. You are an amazing friend. &heartsThere was a knock on the front door. Snape glanced at the clock, seeing it was almost two. The interviewee was right on time, which boded well. He opened the door and stared. “You’ve got to be joking,” he said flatly.
The man stared back. “No. Or I would have said, ‘Knock, knock,’ instead of actually knocking. Or perhaps I would have said, ‘Why did the Potions Master fake his own death?’ I’m not sure I know the punchline, but I suspect you do.”
Snape felt an angry heat rise in his face. “Go the hell away,” he snarled. He made to slam the door, but found a foot stuck in the opening.
“If you don’t want me contacting the papers and trumpeting your triumphant return, you should play nice. Anyway, I am actually interested.”
Snape quietly seethed. “Fine. Come in if you must.” He stepped back, glowering at one of the few applicants for the job of assisting him with Potter. The man eyed the couch dubiously before taking a seat and giving him an unctuous smile. Snape sneered at him. “And what exactly are your qualifications for this job?” he challenged.
The interviewee crossed his legs and smiled a quick, slick smile. “Well, I’m very good looking.”
“And that’s a qualification to care for a mentally unbalanced former hero in what way?”
There was a pause. “Heroes like shiny things. You’ll certainly find me easy on the eyes.”
They heard a bang and Harry came running into the room. He’d had a minor meltdown earlier, suddenly convinced he was being poisoned and blasting the tea set to smithereens. Snape had doused him with Calming Draught—almost an irony, that—and then put the boy to bed to read, but it seemed as though that had worn off.
He glared at them, his hair wild and his eyes even wilder. “Malfoy,” he snarled. “Bring a friend because you’re too much a coward to kill me yourself?” he added. “Speaking of which, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
Snape harrumphed and crossed his arms over his chest. Of course Potter had forgotten who he was again. But Draco jumped to his feet, beaming, and shook Harry’s hand, hard. “Potter, what an absolute joy. See, Snape, old boy? He remembers me.”
Ugh. Much as Snape hated to admit it, Draco had a point. It was more than Snape could say, at any rate.
Harry looked absolutely baffled. “Why are you shaking my hand? Are we . . . are we friends now?”
“Best friends,” Draco assured him syrupily.
“Harry, be a dear and go get some biscuits for our guest,” Snape suggested. Harry did so, though not without many a puzzled, backward glance.
Draco examined his nails with an air of smugness. “I also take dictation.”
“I’ll be dead before I hire you.”
“I thought you already were. What happened?” Draco asked.
“I faked the whole thing and lived as a young, gorgeous blonde. And then Potter happened,” Snape explained grudgingly.
“Well, I suppose I can empathize with wanting to be a young, hot blond. And now you’re wanting a ‘nurse?’ I’m afraid I don’t do costumes, I’m happily married and I may not be what you’re looking for, but I have to admit I’m intrigued.”
“Don’t be stupid. I’m just looking for someone to make sure Potter doesn’t get into trouble when I’m not around.”
“I can do that. He’s always been easily distracted,” Draco said.
“Well . . . you are the only candidate,” Snape sighed.
“Seriously? I’m—the only candidate?”
Snape shrugged. “The only viable candidate. Of course, I only told the Weasleys and Fanny Farfingale about the position. I wasn’t sure how to word an ad—‘Formerly dead Death Eater requires help with Boy Who Lived’? I’m pretty sure I can guess the kind of response I’d get to that.”
“Ha ha ha; must bring own death ray?” Draco suggested.
“Yes, exactly. The only other person who even showed up was Neville Longbottom, and he took one look at me, turned white and passed out. I sprayed cold water on his face to rouse him and upon awakening, he grabbed the nearest object—a decorative urn—and started to bash me about the head, screaming about dark magic and how I could take his life, but I couldn’t take his fluxweed. With Potter’s help I eventually fought him off and tried to explain things, but he still seemed suspicious. To be frank, I can’t see hiring someone who might try to take my head off with an umbrella when my back is turned.”
Draco nodded. “You really can’t blame him,” he said. “You were an absolute monster to him back at school. I think a lot of your former students might have done the same.”
Snape smiled. At least he’d left an impression on some of them. He had been good at swooping out of nowhere and deducting points, using his considerable grasp of the Queen’s English to make schoolchildren widdle themselves. Those had been good days.
Draco looked around the sitting room. “What a lovely place you have. It’s so . . . homely. I mean—homey. Cosy. You know.”
For some reason, Snape felt a bit defensive. It definitely wasn’t up to Malfoy Manor standards. It was simple, the curtains damasked, chequered blue and white, the seats cosy old couches or cheerful wicker chairs and tables, all painted white, but all notched and dinged here and there; soldiers of the decorating campaigns they had seen over the years, the tried and true veterans who had stood the test of time, of the Great Moves, of the Rearrangement Of Which We Do Not Speak.
But really, it was just a simple little house, thatched on top, with square windows looking out to sea. There was a funny little rocking chair that rocked all by itself. The whole place fairly screamed of doddering old aunt and uncle who’ve invited you for a nice cuppa and why don’t you tell them a bit about yourself? It was . . . cosy. Snape was gradually getting to like it, whatever Draco thought.
“A bit different from what we’re used to, you and I, isn’t it?” Snape put in. “Back then it was all about showmanship. Curses that rent the air and set the sky on fire . . . a room stripped bare so all eyes would be on . . . him. . . . dark, ugly things—in jars, in books, in our very heads, all struggling to get out.”
Draco shivered. “Things are different now,” he said too loudly. “After the war was over, I volunteered at St. Mungo’s. Well, it wasn’t exactly a choice. It was suggested very forcefully by the Ministry that the Malfoy clan make some sort of recompense and, rather than go to Azkaban, it was hinted community service might be an option. I think Potter may have been behind that, actually,” he said with a half smile. “And so I ended up at St. Mungo’s. Funny, but once I started, I was rather hooked.”
“You were at St. Mungo’s? What an unlikely coincidence,” Snape replied in genuine surprise.
Draco nodded, not noticing Snape’s look. “Research and development,” he said. “Mostly worked on potions for the immunization of childhood diseases.”
This nearly knocked Snape back on his heels. Draco Malfoy? Working to save the world? Or at least make it a slightly less odious place? How did that possibly work? The world was, Snape considered, rather more odious for Draco’s presence in it. “But you left.”
Draco looked up. He shook his head a little. “What? No. Not exactly. Cutbacks. Temporary, supposedly.” He sighed, resting his chin in his hands. “They said they’ll call us back once things are sorted. Maybe. I can’t help but feel a former Death Eater might not be the first to get the owl.”
“Indeed.” Snape gave this some thought. “But are you prepared to work in a non-research role? Certainly some research could be valuable, but much of what you’ll do will be tedious and undignified. I don’t need an academic. I need a nurse, a help-meet and a babysitter. I need someone to make sure that damn fool Potter doesn’t blow his own head off when I’m not looking. And the pay isn’t even very good,” Snape added anxiously. He didn’t have very much to give.
Draco gave this consideration, tugging at a loose thread on the cuff of his robes. “To be honest—which I make it a point not to do, and it’s served me well—we’re not really all that hard up for money at the moment. But I’ve grown accustomed to having a job. And working at St. Mungo’s, well, I don’t suppose you’d really understand, but . . . that was the first time I really felt I’d done anything, well, good. Like I was contributing to society in my own small way. I know it sounds stupid, Snape— it’s not like I have this crazy urge to do good deeds. It’s more like doing good deeds has become . . . . some sort of bad habit I can’t break. Volunteering at St. Mungo’s was one of them,” he drawled.
Snape blinked at him, unbalanced. “I think I understand,” he said weakly.
Potter returned with the biscuits. “Malfoy,” he snarled. “What are you doing here? And you’ve brought a slimy friend, did you?”
“Just came for your delectable biscuits,” Draco ad-libbed. “Thanks for saving my life, by the way.”
The paranoia and curse-machine that was Harry Potter ground down. “You—wait—what?”
Draco smiled, keeping eye contact. “You know—the fiendfyre. I wanted you to know I appreciate it, even if . . . even if Vincent didn’t make it. You gave me a second chance, and I’m here to repay you.”
“Well. Er. I mean, I guess that’s all right,” Harry said, still suspicious, but the ice cold fury had clearly become a little wetter when put up against Draco’s passionate remorse. “Don’t . . . do it . . . again, though,” he warned. He rubbed his head a little. “I think I’m going to go lie down,” he told Snape, who nodded.
Well, that was interesting. Draco had a wonderful talent for keeping Harry off balance.
“What will my duties be?” Draco inquired.
“Oh, just keep an eye on him,” Snape replied. “Watch out for mood changes, stay on top of conniption fits, keep a log of what he remembers when, feed him, make sure he’s wearing adequate clothing and not his underwear on his head, change his bedpan,” Snape extrapolated with a little glee.
“Do I give sponge baths as well?’ Draco asked archly. “Or is that your job?”
Snape hated that, after all these years, Draco still had the ability to ferret out that weak spot and then jab at it. “No. Just play nursemaid, if that isn’t too much to ask. And whatever issues you’ve had in the past, if I find the boy injured in your care, we shall have to inquire whether St. Mungo’s even has anyone skilled enough to remove a bedpan from one’s rear end. Is that clear?”
“I DO NOT NEED BEDPANS, EVEN WHEN I’M HAVING A BAD TURN!” Harry’s voice roared. He was obviously still listening in, and incensed. “AND WHILE I’M NOT OPPOSED TO THE IDEA OF A SPONGE BATH, I’M NOT HAVING ONE FROM DRACO MALFOY. ALSO, I THINK I SHOULD GET A SAY IN ALL THIS!”
Snape and Draco exchanged a look. “Well, have your say, then!” Snape shot back. “But though you dislike Mr. Malfoy, I did intend to run references on him. I certainly wouldn’t have let him in here without the appropriate background checks.”
Harry was quiet a while. “I GUESS IT’S OKAY, THEN, SO LONG AS YOU TRUST HIM. BUT IF HE GETS ANYWHERE NEAR ME WITH A BEDPAN, I’LL GO UPSIDE HIS HEAD WITH SAID BEDPAN. UNDERSTOOD?”
“Deal!” Draco shouted.
Snape lowered his voice and leant in. “Are you positive you want to do this? Potter can be a handful and you never did get along well with him. And though you won’t be allowed to abuse your position, you may need to use a firm hand.”
Draco gave him a salute. “Just call me Matron Malfoy,” he said with a bright eye.
Snape sighed. “I suppose it could be worse. I can’t think how just at this moment, but I’m almost certain it could be worse.”
Previous/Later Chapters on IJ right now:
One Two Three Four Five Six Seven
no subject
Date: 2011-09-05 10:06 pm (UTC)This story is brilliant - lighthearted (thus far), oddly poignant and absolutely hilarious without ever crossing into crack!fic territory.
Your Snape is delicious. I prefer my Snape dark, but the picture you paint of Snape here is fabulous. I love his dry humor, perfectly deadpanning at every opportunity. He seems to take everything with a grain of salt, just kind of contentedly meandering through his life in a post-war world. He is wickedly funny, constantly delivering snark.
I've found myself laughing several times per chapter. This fic is wonderful. Oh, and Lockhart's cameo? Priceless.
Until next time . . . :D
no subject
Date: 2011-09-08 05:18 pm (UTC)I tried to give Snape one or two bastardy traits, but I think not having to be a spy might mellow him just a little. :)