The
elegance of dicing, slim slivers sliced by a blade honed so fine
it could separate soul from solid form. It was soothing, precise.
Order from chaos, the minutia of perfection. This is what Snape
loved. Making a safe place for himself, and only himself, amongst
the squalor and suffocating miasma of teenaged angst.
He
piled the shaved moonstone and crushed madder root to one side of
the cutting board, giving his wand a swirl to stir the smoking cauldron.
He knew without smelling, without the necessary tests, that it was
perfect. It was always perfect, smooth and pure. Here, in the dungeons,
creating the potions he so loved, he could pretend there was nothing
but the chop and sliver, the measure and stir. No complications,
no frustrations.
Out
there, however, he had to be a teacher, the feared teacher, the
absolutely, positively most feared teacher. That had its own balm,
he had to admit, but still. He appreciated the sanctuary that Dumbledore
provided him in Hogwarts, and he knew that the children were lucky
to be taught by a true potions Master, not just a standard educator.
However, the miserable little vermin were everywhere, demanding
and rebellious. He couldn’t get away, though his house was
better than all the rest: privacy was respected above all else.
Even they were still adolescents, though, claiming the right to
be adults when they had no fundamental concept of what it was to
be alone.
Yes,
alone- the bane of adulthood. You leave the hallowed halls and are
thrust out into the naked solitude of responsibility. It was enough
to whither the most fearless heart, if they were smart enough to
realize what was coming.
As
he had.
Choices,
choices, always leading down rough and dangerous paths, but he knew
what he was getting into, dark marks and dark revels. After all,
it couldn’t be worse than where he’d come from- Black
and his merry band of sadists. They could turn even the least miserable
day into a looming pit of despair.
A real
gift, he supposed. They certainly had had a future in the torture
of vulnerable minds. What a marvel some of them ended up the poster
children of heroic defiance, dying in the name of what was pure
and true. Even now, Remus was still bucking the system.
He
had to give this current incarnation of the Defense of the Dark
Arts teacher credit, as he swirled the few remaining last minute
ingredients into the wolfsbane potion. A weaker man would have given
up, hied his shape-shifting tail off to more tolerant climes, like
Morocco or Cleveland. But he stayed and tried to make a difference.
Admirable.
Suicidal.
In
the end, it was the same. Remus would fight; he would lose; he may
or may not survive. Remus would have the support of Dumbledore,
of that atrocious Potter and his appendages, Weasley and Granger,
and the students loved him. But in the end, as despised as Snape
was, as beloved as Lupin was, they were the same. Alone.
It
had a sort of poetic irony, that on this day in particular, he was
making a potion for the only man in the school that could possibly
understand. It made him awfully hard to hate- to hate for doing
nothing when a word would have sufficed, for touching the brilliance
that only teenagers in their full, oblivious prime could manage.
So many long years of hate and it came down to this, a steaming
chalice waiting for a drinker: possible salvation for another month
more.
Snape
wondered if anyone would come and offer him a magic drink to make
it all go away, even for just a little while.
But
the door remained obstinately closed, the world on the one side,
Snape on the other. As it had always been. As it would always be.
He added a sprinkle of powderized pixie wing and settled down to
wait. The laboratory was cool and dim, the shadows dancing at the
corners of his vision. If he were a fanciful man, which he was decidedly
not, he would have imagined fairy godmothers or other creatures
waiting to grant his wish. But they were mere shadows, wrapping
the eaves in trailing black ribbons.
A soft
knock, tentative and afraid of rejection. Lupin’s shaggy,
tired visage peeked around the corner, and Snape’s heart gave
a painful twist at all that had been and all that would never be.
“Professor Snape?”
The
professor in question grimaced. “Remus. Do come in.”
“Is
it ready?”
“Drink
up.” Snape handed the chalice over two-handed, careful not
to spill a drop.
Remus
tilted an eyebrow. He gave a sniff and shook his head. “No
chance of pumpkin flavor next time?”
Snape
growled, black eyes narrow. “Charming as always, Remus.”
Swallowing
quickly, the werewolf stuck out his tongue, “Bleeehhuuerg.
That’s just awful.”
“I
do it on purpose you know, the hopes that you’ll drop dead
of the flavor alone,” Snape deadpanned.
Lupin
blinked, then shook his head. “Oh, Severus, you never change.”
The
sharp retort died on Snape’s lips. Was it true? Was he fated
to be the same forever, trapped in black-clad misery? He wasn’t
sure, but the introspection was too painful to consider. He kept
those thoughts wrapped in a chrysalis of jet, hard and unyielding,
and he certainly wasn’t going to shatter it over one casual
comment. He sighed, flicking and swishing to clean the cauldron
and chalice of any remnant of the potion.
“Perhaps
not. But perhaps the unthinkable will happen and I’ll teach
class tomorrow in Dumbledore’s favorite fuchsia robes and
sparkly dunce’s cap. Stranger things have happened.”
The
sandy haired teacher chuckled. “Thanks for the potion, Severus.”
He turned, hand on the door. “And Happy Birthday.”
Snape
blinked in shock as the door shut behind the other professor. No
one had wished him happy birthday in years. He didn’t even
know how Remus had found out-- probably Dumbledore, the old meddler.
Unexpected, but not unwelcome. Stranger things indeed, he sniffed
to himself.
Staring
at the rows and rows of jars and tins, Snape fingered the parchment
with the list of potions to make for Poppy. No point in wasting
the day, after all. Things to chop, potions to make. Snape pulled
out the next set of ingredients and focused on the task at hand,
content to be left alone in elegant solitude.
~Fin~
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