One More Nibble
One More Nibble
Rated: M (a bit of strong language, rating probably too harsh)
Summary: Severus Snape receives some bad news. The story has gone through some changes since it first appeared in the 2003 Severus Snape FuhQ Fest.
PreSlash. SS/HP
Fair servings of both humour and angst. Complete.
Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns all of it. I can only admire Severus and Harry from a respectful distance. No money is being made from this work. (Trust me, I'm broke.) No copyright infringement is intended.
ONE MORE NIBBLE
Albus Dumbledore nibbled the fluted, chocolate edge of his coconut cream cup. The man's dedication reminded Severus Snape of a caterpillar consuming a tasty leaf. Each dainty bite followed a spiral pattern as the candy spun at a snail’s pace between the headmaster’s right thumb and forefinger. One more nibble and I swear you are a dead man. After almost an hour of ingesting chocolate brownies, cockroach clusters, and raspberry creams, each morsel enhanced by an inane story featuring one of the duller inhabitants of Hogwarts, death was too kind a fate for Professor de Sade.
Dumbledore rattled on, blissfully unaware of his impending demise. His latest tale featured the colossal blister currently residing on the bum of Professor Sprout’s third cousin twice removed. An image of the headmaster’s nude figure bodysurfing through Hogsmeade on a tidal wave of pus assaulted Snape’s consciousness. His initial feelings of shocked horror transformed into an acute sense of desperation via intense revulsion. He couldn’t remember if Dementors made house calls upon request. But perhaps, if he were to appear at the gates of Azkaban with lips puckered, an obliging Dementor would accept a walk-in client. Almost anything, including the Dementor’s Kiss, would be an improvement over this candy-coated tenth circle of the Inferno.
Snape followed the trail of chocolate smudges. They began on the shimmering, brown tips of Dumbledore’s fingers and continued across the gleaming surface of his desk and the piles of urgent correspondence from the Ministry of Magic. In silent testimony to the old coot’s eccentric sense of humor, wayward globs of chocolate now decorated the noses of several portraits on the wall. The former headmasters dozed on uninterrupted by their successor’s spontaneous display of artistic license. Their enthusiastic snoring rattled the ornate silver frames. Naturally, Dumbledore’s avalanche of snowy white hair and beard remained pristine. For the fourth time in less than twenty minutes, Snape, with the utmost discretion, crossed his eyes, ever so slightly, and peered down at his nose. The tempting canvas was still clean thanks be to Merlin.
Bloody hell. His muscles were starting to tense up again. The throbbing pain at the base of his skull was becoming more acute. If not for the pair of sunglasses perched upon his nose, appropriated from a seventh year Ravenclaw at the end of last term, Snape would have throttled Dumbledore right at the start. He glared at the wanker's garment of choice, a plaid monstrosity of lime and magenta. Flocks of embroidered orange dragons played leapfrog in a circle around Dumbledore’s wide collar, cuffs, and belt. On each jump, their flapping wings kept them briefly suspended in the air. When the scaly beasts returned to “solid ground,” there was a rude noise indicating a possible surplus of baked beans on toast in their diets. The headmaster loved baked beans on toast. However, thank heaven, the scent of cloves and cinnamon hovered in a permanent cloud above Dumbledore. It prevented Snape from being able to confirm his suspicions. Each one of the absurd creatures glared back at him. Their forked tongues fluttered in Snape’s direction.
Focus on your mantra. Yes, that’s better. Choke. Choke. Choke. Oh, if only he would.
“Severus, did you hear that Hagrid has a new recipe for treacle fudge?”
“Fortunately, I had not.” If Snape squinted and tilted his head slightly to the left, he could almost pretend that chocolate tentacles were bursting out of the wretched brownies. He watched them slither across the desk. They curled around the headmaster’s wrists, chest (fully clothed) and throat. One accommodating tentacle stuffed a very large cockroach cluster into Dumbledore’s mouth. It blocked out the man’s incessant droning. Snape could see the insects’ antennae wiggling madly before the lips were clamped shut. Then the bands of vindictive confectionary began to squeeze.
“No? Well, let me tell you all about it then, dear boy.” The tentacles disappeared in a puff of wishful thinking. “Have another sweet, aren’t they marvelous?”
“I have yet to consume the first one.” Snape’s words were tart, but his expression remained inscrutable. His fingers twitched once, itching to massage away the headache that had migrated to his temples.
“Do try one of these. They’re a new favorite of mine.” A small square packet with an offensive orange wrapper sailed through the air and dropped into Snape’s lap. “The Americans can be so clever at times. I wish Honeydukes would stock them. Maybe I should make a subtle suggestion. What do you think?”
“Subtle suggestions never seem to work on you.” Snape placed the package on the arm of the chair and, without a moment’s consideration, ignored it.
“So, as I was saying, Hagrid has a fascinating new recipe for treacle fudge.”
Snape took a sip of his cold tea. Even the most vigorous warming spell eventually waned and he couldn’t summon the heart to recast it. The news is going to be nasty, very nasty indeed.
Dumbledore reached for another coconut cream cup. His fuzzy face possessed an orgasmic expression bordering on religious ecstasy. It brought to mind the dining habits practiced by Snape’s roommate Machiavelli Borgia. Eyes constricted to narrow slits of pleasure and lips curled upward with a hedonistic grace were attractive on a two-month-old kitten. Regrettably the same could not be said for the ancient headmaster of Hogwarts.
Snape watched him with distain. Another nibble, another turn of the caloric wheel, another choreographed step in an intricate tea-time ritual, all plotted, crafted, and implemented by that sadistic bastard with a death wish. After years of painful experience, Snape understood the rules according to the Universal Law of Albus Dumbledore. The length and complexity of the tea-time ritual was in direct proportion to the nastiness of its purpose. And its purpose, without fail, was to impart a piece of news that was catastrophic.
With no hints (of substance) forthcoming, Snape elected to guess. He thought of his parents. What could be worse than being married? I shall be compelled to marry Voldemort in a desperate, but brilliant gamble to save the wizarding world and to redeem my irredeemable soul. Snape performed a mental snort accompanied by an invisible roll of the eyes. As if my soul needs atoning. Despite persistent rumors to the contrary, I have no such concerns for my soul, thank you very much. All those "holier than thou" gits who think otherwise can just sod off.
The tea-time ritual to announce the selection of Remus (I-Am-So-Desperate-For-Friends-That-I-Will-Allow-Said-Friends-To-Use-Me, A-Flea-And-Tick-Ridden-Cock-Sucking-Werewolf, As-An-Instrument-To-Murder-You-Without-Raising-So-Much-As-An-Eyebrow-In-Protest) Lupin as the new Defense Against Dark Arts instructor had stretched on for over an hour before Dumbledore finally dropped the other wand and confessed his choice.
I shall be compelled to marry Harry (My-Brain-Really-Is-Smaller-Than-A-Golden-Snitch) Potter in a desperate, but brilliant gamble to save the wizarding world and redeem my irredeemable soul.
Snape picked restlessly at his jacket before catching the unguarded movement. Once again, he smoothed out the wrinkles in the ebony fabric that flowed down over the length of his thigh. Without thinking, his fingers, in a well-practiced and deliberately inconspicuous gesture, inspected the chain of buttons running from just under his chin to his waist. They ensured that each one was securely closed. Dumbledore poured another cup of tea. Snape consulted his watch. The arrow pointed to the phrase “You’re doomed.”
Sirius (He-Didn’t-Die-An-Instant-Too-Soon, The-Fucking-Murderous-Arsehole) Black, a recent and most unwelcome immigrant from the great beyond, will be the new Defense Against Dark Arts professor. Upon his acceptance of the post, I shall be compelled to marry the (Fill-In-The-Blank-With-A-Vile-Word) ghost in a desperate, but brilliant gamble to save the wizarding world and redeem my irredeemable soul.
That last idea plucked at his nerves with the skill of a classical guitarist. Snape’s long thin fingers tightened around his teacup. He was weary of being teased, weary of being the punch line for someone else’s foolish joke, the victim of yet another innocent prank. But Severus, it’s harmless. It’s for your own good. You exist therefore you deserve to be tormented. Snape stared into his cup with vague hope. Perhaps, the green tea leaves clustered at its bottom would reveal an escape route. As of that moment, the Dementor’s Kiss may have been unobtainable, but he would have graciously accepted a raging case of insanity and the resulting lifetime vacation in St. Mungo's as a consolation prize.
The garish orange candy wrapper crouching on the arm of the chair caught his attention. “Reeces” the large yellow letters all but screamed. Below, in a less obtrusive font, were the words, “two peanut butter cups,” peanut butter? Snape neatly pulled open the end of the wrapper and took a hesitant sniff. The chocolate smelled atrocious, but the scent of peanuts offered a less strenuous and more aesthetically pleasing alternative to first-degree murder. The knots in his muscles untied for the first time since that morning at breakfast when Dumbledore had commanded him to appear at four o’clock tea. Hanging metaphysical “out to lunch” signs over each eye; he abandoned his intellectual and emotional moorings to the here and now.
Submerged in a memory, Snape feels as if he were watching a Muggle film. He sees himself as a boy not much older than six. He is huddled inside his bedroom closet. Long black hair covers his tear stained face. Painful looking red splotches mar his pale complexion. The stagnant air inside the closet threatens to suffocate him. Feeling feverish, he presses his forehead against the cool wood of the shut door.
The periods of silence are worse than the growled threats and curses, the crisp sound of open-handed slaps and tight-fisted punches. Would his mother’s eyes ever open? Was she still breathing? Father had promised not to kill “the bitch” if Severus did as he was told and kept his stories to himself. The house is quiet like a tomb. “Mummy, mummy please, please, please mummy, please, don’t go, please, mummy,” he begs in a high-pitched whisper. A voice inside his head admonishes him to stop his whimpering or else his father will come, but he can’t contain his panic as his uncertainty evolves into a keening lamentation. The door of his room creaks open. Swallowing air in ragged gulps, Snape frantically wipes his eyes and nose with the cuff of his sleeve. “I’m sorry, father. I know crying is wrong,” he stutters. “Please don’t be angry with me, please.”
“Raven?” His mother is alive! “Where is mummy’s sweet Raven?”
For a moment he is too stunned to speak and then he cries, “Mummy, mummy, I’m here, I’m in here!” The closet door swings open and he collapses into her arms. “Mummy, mummy, don’t go, please, don’t go.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Raven,” she says, her voice light and musical to his ear. “I won’t leave you.” Her embrace is his safe place, a paradise filled with warm skin, soft cotton, and the hint of flowers. She presses kisses on the top of his head and then gently wipes his face with a wet cloth. Looking up at his mother for the first time, he sees the ugly bruise spreading across her cheek, the reddened skin gradually turning to mottled shades of brown and blue. Again tears sting his eyes and he clings to her arm. “It doesn’t hurt me, Raven. Nothing can hurt me when I’m with you.” She bends down and kisses his damp eyelids. “I love you.”
He stares at his mother in awe, worshiping her pale, strained face, sad, ebony eyes and the stray curls of chestnut hair that had escaped from her tortoise-shell combs. “I love you too, mummy.”
She hugs him. “That’s my sweet Raven.” His mother kisses his ear. “He’s gone for the whole day. Shall we go downstairs and have our treat, then?” He nods and buries his nose in her hair, becoming lost in a field of fragrant blossoms. Holding his hand, she leads him downstairs to the kitchen. He sits on a chair at the worn oak table. Soon he is drinking cold milk and helping her to make a sandwich. Whenever he was frightened, his mother always rescued him and then together they sit and talk over peanut butter and blueberry jam sandwiches. “Don’t forget to give yourself plenty of jam, dear. I know how much you like those blueberries.”
His mother smiles at him and he grins in return. She reaches over to brush her fingers against his cheek and suddenly he has to struggle to sit still. He desperately wants to jerk his head back, to push away her hand, to scream at the top of his lungs, but he forces himself to accept her touch. Biting his tongue, he tastes blood. It's so much easier when he's hysterical with dread, when he doesn't have the opportunity to think. Then he can sink into her embrace and forget everything else.
“Raven, look at me,” she says, pressing her palm to his cheek. “Not all touches are bad, my love. Don’t ever forget that. You won’t be here forever. In a few short years you’ll be a student at Hogwarts and then you’ll have so much fun.” He watches her expression brighten just with the thought of her son attending the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It is as if someone had cast a Lumos spell. “Once you’re there life will be different, Raven. You’ll have friends to play with and you’ll learn all kinds of wonderful magic.” She leans over and kisses the tip of his nose, not allowing his involuntary wince to discourage her. Her lips shift to his temple. “When you graduate, you’ll be free. You can fly away from here and never return. You can forget.”
Repressing his timidity, he caresses her dark bruise with trembling fingers. “You’ll fly away too, won’t you mummy?”
She kisses his forehead and replied, “Someday, Raven, someday I’ll fly away too.”
Snape returned to his untenable reality with a craving for peanut butter and a newfound determination to end Dumbledore’s tea-time farce. Abandoning all pretenses, he sat his teacup on the corner of the desk, removed his sunglasses, and retrieved the Daily Prophet from his leather satchel. With a serene frown that bordered on being not quite pleased, he flipped through the pages of the publication until he reached the crossword puzzle. Helping himself to one of Dumbledore’s quills, Snape cringed when a smear of chocolate invaded his personal territory. Disgraceful, disgusting, inevitable, ah, perfect. Snapping up the nearest sheet of paper ornamented with the word “IMPORTANT” stamped in red letters along the top margin; he wiped off his fingers and the quill. Presentable once more, he graciously returned the letter to its appropriate stack and settled more comfortably into his chair.
“Albus?” He queried.
“Yes, yes, dear boy. Do help yourself to more.” Dumbledore blindly pushed the tray of sweets towards his guest.
“Not even under the Imperius curse.” Snape’s words unfurled from his mouth like waves of the finest Italian silk. His every syllable was a creation far richer and more seductive than any piece of chocolate. Captivated, Dumbledore paused in mid-bite. Snape wondered for a moment whether it was advisable to tell the Headmaster that the Dark Lord exhibited a similar response to his vocal stratagems. It was a delicious thought, but no, he would save that slice of irony for another day. “Albus?”
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled from behind his half-moon glasses. The left corner of Snape’s mouth rose in an alluring smirk. The twinkling intensified. “Yes, my dear child?”
Snape revealed the crossword puzzle. “Albus, would you be so kind as to assist me with this poser?”
Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose, betraying his confusion, but the warmth in his voice remained undiminished. “Severus, I am always happy to assist you in any of your endeavors.”
“Of course you are.” Snape would have sworn in court that the headmaster purred in reply to his fictitious assertion. Slightly unnerved by the response, he cleared his throat and continued smoothly. “What five letter word, beginning with a “P”, can describe a disagreeable or contemptible person while also serving as a vulgar term for the word penis?”
There was a pregnant pause. The orange dragons on Dumbledore’s robe sputtered in mid-leap and then collided violently with all the grace of a muggle car crash.
“Prick, did you say, Albus?” Snape leaned forward, his eyebrow rising in mild inquiry. The continued silence acted as a balm for his battered ego. The hardening of the old man’s jaw accompanied by a precipitous drop in the twinkle population served as an added bonus. The dragons were now quivering with laughter, fountains of purple smoke gushing from their flared nostrils and gaping mouths. “Ah, right you are. Thank you, Albus. Where would I be without you?” Snape scratched the word in a random set of blocks.
“Severus, I have some good news for you.” Dumbledore smiled. A cold chill tap-danced down Snape’s spine one vertebra at a time. In his mind, he could hear the drums pounding ominously in the background. He could see the Auror Firing Squad assembling into a straight line across from him as they raised their wands. The Boy-Who-Lived-Only-To-Drive-Him-Barking-Mad appeared bearing a cigarette and a blindfold.
“Oh, and what might that be?” Snape refused the cigarette. He didn’t smoke.
“I have hired a new Potions master.”
“And?” Being expelled from the teaching profession didn’t even qualify as a minor annoyance. Obviously a more dire threat lurked behind that innocuous statement. Snape blindfolded Potter and then hexed the brat into the next millennium with a joyous heart.
“You, dear child,” the headmaster’s use of sarcasm did not flatter the old man’s character, “shall be the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.”
Snape's face remained as blank as ever, but his heart withered. Bugger. And so it goes. The tradition of the tea-time ritual lives on.
Rated: M (a bit of strong language, rating probably too harsh)
Summary: Severus Snape receives some bad news. The story has gone through some changes since it first appeared in the 2003 Severus Snape FuhQ Fest.
PreSlash. SS/HP
Fair servings of both humour and angst. Complete.
Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns all of it. I can only admire Severus and Harry from a respectful distance. No money is being made from this work. (Trust me, I'm broke.) No copyright infringement is intended.
ONE MORE NIBBLE
Albus Dumbledore nibbled the fluted, chocolate edge of his coconut cream cup. The man's dedication reminded Severus Snape of a caterpillar consuming a tasty leaf. Each dainty bite followed a spiral pattern as the candy spun at a snail’s pace between the headmaster’s right thumb and forefinger. One more nibble and I swear you are a dead man. After almost an hour of ingesting chocolate brownies, cockroach clusters, and raspberry creams, each morsel enhanced by an inane story featuring one of the duller inhabitants of Hogwarts, death was too kind a fate for Professor de Sade.
Dumbledore rattled on, blissfully unaware of his impending demise. His latest tale featured the colossal blister currently residing on the bum of Professor Sprout’s third cousin twice removed. An image of the headmaster’s nude figure bodysurfing through Hogsmeade on a tidal wave of pus assaulted Snape’s consciousness. His initial feelings of shocked horror transformed into an acute sense of desperation via intense revulsion. He couldn’t remember if Dementors made house calls upon request. But perhaps, if he were to appear at the gates of Azkaban with lips puckered, an obliging Dementor would accept a walk-in client. Almost anything, including the Dementor’s Kiss, would be an improvement over this candy-coated tenth circle of the Inferno.
Snape followed the trail of chocolate smudges. They began on the shimmering, brown tips of Dumbledore’s fingers and continued across the gleaming surface of his desk and the piles of urgent correspondence from the Ministry of Magic. In silent testimony to the old coot’s eccentric sense of humor, wayward globs of chocolate now decorated the noses of several portraits on the wall. The former headmasters dozed on uninterrupted by their successor’s spontaneous display of artistic license. Their enthusiastic snoring rattled the ornate silver frames. Naturally, Dumbledore’s avalanche of snowy white hair and beard remained pristine. For the fourth time in less than twenty minutes, Snape, with the utmost discretion, crossed his eyes, ever so slightly, and peered down at his nose. The tempting canvas was still clean thanks be to Merlin.
Bloody hell. His muscles were starting to tense up again. The throbbing pain at the base of his skull was becoming more acute. If not for the pair of sunglasses perched upon his nose, appropriated from a seventh year Ravenclaw at the end of last term, Snape would have throttled Dumbledore right at the start. He glared at the wanker's garment of choice, a plaid monstrosity of lime and magenta. Flocks of embroidered orange dragons played leapfrog in a circle around Dumbledore’s wide collar, cuffs, and belt. On each jump, their flapping wings kept them briefly suspended in the air. When the scaly beasts returned to “solid ground,” there was a rude noise indicating a possible surplus of baked beans on toast in their diets. The headmaster loved baked beans on toast. However, thank heaven, the scent of cloves and cinnamon hovered in a permanent cloud above Dumbledore. It prevented Snape from being able to confirm his suspicions. Each one of the absurd creatures glared back at him. Their forked tongues fluttered in Snape’s direction.
Focus on your mantra. Yes, that’s better. Choke. Choke. Choke. Oh, if only he would.
“Severus, did you hear that Hagrid has a new recipe for treacle fudge?”
“Fortunately, I had not.” If Snape squinted and tilted his head slightly to the left, he could almost pretend that chocolate tentacles were bursting out of the wretched brownies. He watched them slither across the desk. They curled around the headmaster’s wrists, chest (fully clothed) and throat. One accommodating tentacle stuffed a very large cockroach cluster into Dumbledore’s mouth. It blocked out the man’s incessant droning. Snape could see the insects’ antennae wiggling madly before the lips were clamped shut. Then the bands of vindictive confectionary began to squeeze.
“No? Well, let me tell you all about it then, dear boy.” The tentacles disappeared in a puff of wishful thinking. “Have another sweet, aren’t they marvelous?”
“I have yet to consume the first one.” Snape’s words were tart, but his expression remained inscrutable. His fingers twitched once, itching to massage away the headache that had migrated to his temples.
“Do try one of these. They’re a new favorite of mine.” A small square packet with an offensive orange wrapper sailed through the air and dropped into Snape’s lap. “The Americans can be so clever at times. I wish Honeydukes would stock them. Maybe I should make a subtle suggestion. What do you think?”
“Subtle suggestions never seem to work on you.” Snape placed the package on the arm of the chair and, without a moment’s consideration, ignored it.
“So, as I was saying, Hagrid has a fascinating new recipe for treacle fudge.”
Snape took a sip of his cold tea. Even the most vigorous warming spell eventually waned and he couldn’t summon the heart to recast it. The news is going to be nasty, very nasty indeed.
Dumbledore reached for another coconut cream cup. His fuzzy face possessed an orgasmic expression bordering on religious ecstasy. It brought to mind the dining habits practiced by Snape’s roommate Machiavelli Borgia. Eyes constricted to narrow slits of pleasure and lips curled upward with a hedonistic grace were attractive on a two-month-old kitten. Regrettably the same could not be said for the ancient headmaster of Hogwarts.
Snape watched him with distain. Another nibble, another turn of the caloric wheel, another choreographed step in an intricate tea-time ritual, all plotted, crafted, and implemented by that sadistic bastard with a death wish. After years of painful experience, Snape understood the rules according to the Universal Law of Albus Dumbledore. The length and complexity of the tea-time ritual was in direct proportion to the nastiness of its purpose. And its purpose, without fail, was to impart a piece of news that was catastrophic.
With no hints (of substance) forthcoming, Snape elected to guess. He thought of his parents. What could be worse than being married? I shall be compelled to marry Voldemort in a desperate, but brilliant gamble to save the wizarding world and to redeem my irredeemable soul. Snape performed a mental snort accompanied by an invisible roll of the eyes. As if my soul needs atoning. Despite persistent rumors to the contrary, I have no such concerns for my soul, thank you very much. All those "holier than thou" gits who think otherwise can just sod off.
The tea-time ritual to announce the selection of Remus (I-Am-So-Desperate-For-Friends-That-I-Will-Allow-Said-Friends-To-Use-Me, A-Flea-And-Tick-Ridden-Cock-Sucking-Werewolf, As-An-Instrument-To-Murder-You-Without-Raising-So-Much-As-An-Eyebrow-In-Protest) Lupin as the new Defense Against Dark Arts instructor had stretched on for over an hour before Dumbledore finally dropped the other wand and confessed his choice.
I shall be compelled to marry Harry (My-Brain-Really-Is-Smaller-Than-A-Golden-Snitch) Potter in a desperate, but brilliant gamble to save the wizarding world and redeem my irredeemable soul.
Snape picked restlessly at his jacket before catching the unguarded movement. Once again, he smoothed out the wrinkles in the ebony fabric that flowed down over the length of his thigh. Without thinking, his fingers, in a well-practiced and deliberately inconspicuous gesture, inspected the chain of buttons running from just under his chin to his waist. They ensured that each one was securely closed. Dumbledore poured another cup of tea. Snape consulted his watch. The arrow pointed to the phrase “You’re doomed.”
Sirius (He-Didn’t-Die-An-Instant-Too-Soon, The-Fucking-Murderous-Arsehole) Black, a recent and most unwelcome immigrant from the great beyond, will be the new Defense Against Dark Arts professor. Upon his acceptance of the post, I shall be compelled to marry the (Fill-In-The-Blank-With-A-Vile-Word) ghost in a desperate, but brilliant gamble to save the wizarding world and redeem my irredeemable soul.
That last idea plucked at his nerves with the skill of a classical guitarist. Snape’s long thin fingers tightened around his teacup. He was weary of being teased, weary of being the punch line for someone else’s foolish joke, the victim of yet another innocent prank. But Severus, it’s harmless. It’s for your own good. You exist therefore you deserve to be tormented. Snape stared into his cup with vague hope. Perhaps, the green tea leaves clustered at its bottom would reveal an escape route. As of that moment, the Dementor’s Kiss may have been unobtainable, but he would have graciously accepted a raging case of insanity and the resulting lifetime vacation in St. Mungo's as a consolation prize.
The garish orange candy wrapper crouching on the arm of the chair caught his attention. “Reeces” the large yellow letters all but screamed. Below, in a less obtrusive font, were the words, “two peanut butter cups,” peanut butter? Snape neatly pulled open the end of the wrapper and took a hesitant sniff. The chocolate smelled atrocious, but the scent of peanuts offered a less strenuous and more aesthetically pleasing alternative to first-degree murder. The knots in his muscles untied for the first time since that morning at breakfast when Dumbledore had commanded him to appear at four o’clock tea. Hanging metaphysical “out to lunch” signs over each eye; he abandoned his intellectual and emotional moorings to the here and now.
Submerged in a memory, Snape feels as if he were watching a Muggle film. He sees himself as a boy not much older than six. He is huddled inside his bedroom closet. Long black hair covers his tear stained face. Painful looking red splotches mar his pale complexion. The stagnant air inside the closet threatens to suffocate him. Feeling feverish, he presses his forehead against the cool wood of the shut door.
The periods of silence are worse than the growled threats and curses, the crisp sound of open-handed slaps and tight-fisted punches. Would his mother’s eyes ever open? Was she still breathing? Father had promised not to kill “the bitch” if Severus did as he was told and kept his stories to himself. The house is quiet like a tomb. “Mummy, mummy please, please, please mummy, please, don’t go, please, mummy,” he begs in a high-pitched whisper. A voice inside his head admonishes him to stop his whimpering or else his father will come, but he can’t contain his panic as his uncertainty evolves into a keening lamentation. The door of his room creaks open. Swallowing air in ragged gulps, Snape frantically wipes his eyes and nose with the cuff of his sleeve. “I’m sorry, father. I know crying is wrong,” he stutters. “Please don’t be angry with me, please.”
“Raven?” His mother is alive! “Where is mummy’s sweet Raven?”
For a moment he is too stunned to speak and then he cries, “Mummy, mummy, I’m here, I’m in here!” The closet door swings open and he collapses into her arms. “Mummy, mummy, don’t go, please, don’t go.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Raven,” she says, her voice light and musical to his ear. “I won’t leave you.” Her embrace is his safe place, a paradise filled with warm skin, soft cotton, and the hint of flowers. She presses kisses on the top of his head and then gently wipes his face with a wet cloth. Looking up at his mother for the first time, he sees the ugly bruise spreading across her cheek, the reddened skin gradually turning to mottled shades of brown and blue. Again tears sting his eyes and he clings to her arm. “It doesn’t hurt me, Raven. Nothing can hurt me when I’m with you.” She bends down and kisses his damp eyelids. “I love you.”
He stares at his mother in awe, worshiping her pale, strained face, sad, ebony eyes and the stray curls of chestnut hair that had escaped from her tortoise-shell combs. “I love you too, mummy.”
She hugs him. “That’s my sweet Raven.” His mother kisses his ear. “He’s gone for the whole day. Shall we go downstairs and have our treat, then?” He nods and buries his nose in her hair, becoming lost in a field of fragrant blossoms. Holding his hand, she leads him downstairs to the kitchen. He sits on a chair at the worn oak table. Soon he is drinking cold milk and helping her to make a sandwich. Whenever he was frightened, his mother always rescued him and then together they sit and talk over peanut butter and blueberry jam sandwiches. “Don’t forget to give yourself plenty of jam, dear. I know how much you like those blueberries.”
His mother smiles at him and he grins in return. She reaches over to brush her fingers against his cheek and suddenly he has to struggle to sit still. He desperately wants to jerk his head back, to push away her hand, to scream at the top of his lungs, but he forces himself to accept her touch. Biting his tongue, he tastes blood. It's so much easier when he's hysterical with dread, when he doesn't have the opportunity to think. Then he can sink into her embrace and forget everything else.
“Raven, look at me,” she says, pressing her palm to his cheek. “Not all touches are bad, my love. Don’t ever forget that. You won’t be here forever. In a few short years you’ll be a student at Hogwarts and then you’ll have so much fun.” He watches her expression brighten just with the thought of her son attending the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It is as if someone had cast a Lumos spell. “Once you’re there life will be different, Raven. You’ll have friends to play with and you’ll learn all kinds of wonderful magic.” She leans over and kisses the tip of his nose, not allowing his involuntary wince to discourage her. Her lips shift to his temple. “When you graduate, you’ll be free. You can fly away from here and never return. You can forget.”
Repressing his timidity, he caresses her dark bruise with trembling fingers. “You’ll fly away too, won’t you mummy?”
She kisses his forehead and replied, “Someday, Raven, someday I’ll fly away too.”
Snape returned to his untenable reality with a craving for peanut butter and a newfound determination to end Dumbledore’s tea-time farce. Abandoning all pretenses, he sat his teacup on the corner of the desk, removed his sunglasses, and retrieved the Daily Prophet from his leather satchel. With a serene frown that bordered on being not quite pleased, he flipped through the pages of the publication until he reached the crossword puzzle. Helping himself to one of Dumbledore’s quills, Snape cringed when a smear of chocolate invaded his personal territory. Disgraceful, disgusting, inevitable, ah, perfect. Snapping up the nearest sheet of paper ornamented with the word “IMPORTANT” stamped in red letters along the top margin; he wiped off his fingers and the quill. Presentable once more, he graciously returned the letter to its appropriate stack and settled more comfortably into his chair.
“Albus?” He queried.
“Yes, yes, dear boy. Do help yourself to more.” Dumbledore blindly pushed the tray of sweets towards his guest.
“Not even under the Imperius curse.” Snape’s words unfurled from his mouth like waves of the finest Italian silk. His every syllable was a creation far richer and more seductive than any piece of chocolate. Captivated, Dumbledore paused in mid-bite. Snape wondered for a moment whether it was advisable to tell the Headmaster that the Dark Lord exhibited a similar response to his vocal stratagems. It was a delicious thought, but no, he would save that slice of irony for another day. “Albus?”
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled from behind his half-moon glasses. The left corner of Snape’s mouth rose in an alluring smirk. The twinkling intensified. “Yes, my dear child?”
Snape revealed the crossword puzzle. “Albus, would you be so kind as to assist me with this poser?”
Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose, betraying his confusion, but the warmth in his voice remained undiminished. “Severus, I am always happy to assist you in any of your endeavors.”
“Of course you are.” Snape would have sworn in court that the headmaster purred in reply to his fictitious assertion. Slightly unnerved by the response, he cleared his throat and continued smoothly. “What five letter word, beginning with a “P”, can describe a disagreeable or contemptible person while also serving as a vulgar term for the word penis?”
There was a pregnant pause. The orange dragons on Dumbledore’s robe sputtered in mid-leap and then collided violently with all the grace of a muggle car crash.
“Prick, did you say, Albus?” Snape leaned forward, his eyebrow rising in mild inquiry. The continued silence acted as a balm for his battered ego. The hardening of the old man’s jaw accompanied by a precipitous drop in the twinkle population served as an added bonus. The dragons were now quivering with laughter, fountains of purple smoke gushing from their flared nostrils and gaping mouths. “Ah, right you are. Thank you, Albus. Where would I be without you?” Snape scratched the word in a random set of blocks.
“Severus, I have some good news for you.” Dumbledore smiled. A cold chill tap-danced down Snape’s spine one vertebra at a time. In his mind, he could hear the drums pounding ominously in the background. He could see the Auror Firing Squad assembling into a straight line across from him as they raised their wands. The Boy-Who-Lived-Only-To-Drive-Him-Barking-Mad appeared bearing a cigarette and a blindfold.
“Oh, and what might that be?” Snape refused the cigarette. He didn’t smoke.
“I have hired a new Potions master.”
“And?” Being expelled from the teaching profession didn’t even qualify as a minor annoyance. Obviously a more dire threat lurked behind that innocuous statement. Snape blindfolded Potter and then hexed the brat into the next millennium with a joyous heart.
“You, dear child,” the headmaster’s use of sarcasm did not flatter the old man’s character, “shall be the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.”
Snape's face remained as blank as ever, but his heart withered. Bugger. And so it goes. The tradition of the tea-time ritual lives on.