The Liar and the Auror: Part III

[lebateleur]

Okay, three parts. This thing is really big, isn't it?



The Liar and the Auror
by Trismegistus

Part III

They made the trek into town at a leisurely pace. Snape was not enjoying Potter's company per se, but the knowledge of what he was about to do increased his appreciation of the boy’s presence greatly. He was smiling a not particularly nice smile of anticipation, which only widened when Potter noticed it.

Finally they reached the broad shopping alley the Muggles referred to as the 'strip mall.' Snape waited until he had Potter's full attention and then reached into the breast pocket of his coat and retrieved a folded piece of paper and a leather wallet full of Muggle 'bills.' He handed both to Potter, who accepted them automatically.

"Well, then," he said.

"Well then, what, Snape?" Potter said, and for once Snape was actually able to enjoy his thickheadedness.

It finally dawned on Potter to open the sheet of paper in his hand. His eyes narrowed as he read.

"You can't be serious," Potter said.

"I am indeed," he responded silkily. "As long as you are a...guest...in my house, you might as well put yourself to good use. You will find enough money in the wallet to purchase the items I've listed, as well as rather considerable sum which you may choose to spend as you wish."

"Right," said Potter through gritted teeth. "Let's get on with it then."

"We," Snape inquired?

"Yes, we," said Potter irritably. "Unless you had other plans?"

"I do, as it so happens."

"And they would be?" Potter said tightly.

"Waiting for you to return with the necessary items." This was turning out to be a most amusing exercise indeed.

He tried a different tack. "I don't live here, Snape. I don't know where anything is."

"Then you had best begin to familiarise yourself."

"You're going to be waiting a damn long time," Potter threatened.

"I am a most patient man," he assured him.

"I'm an Auror, Snape!" Potter exploded, then reddened at the curious glances of the passersby.

Snape was silent for a moment, savouring Potter's anger and the fact that the boy had to struggle to hide it. "Aurors have to eat as well," he informed him in his most condescending tones.

"You bastard!" Potter spat. "You're enjoying this!"

"Immensely," Snape assured him, and enjoyed himself even more.

Potter sent him a final, scathing glare before stalking into the nearest shop.

It did take the boy a great deal of time to make his purchases, although not as much as it had taken Snape during his first years as a Muggle. Snape reminded himself, however, that the boy had been raised as a Muggle and would of course be better at Muggle shopping than had Snape, and so Potter's ability did not needle him as it would have otherwise.

And it was rather delightful that Potter had to return to the bench where Snape awaited him two or three times, as there were too many items on the list for him to carry at once.

Unfortunately, this meant that Snape had to help Potter carry the day's shopping back home, but he did not really mind. It was late afternoon, sunlight slanting through the low grey clouds so that they walked through patches of light and dark as they made their way home.

"How the hell did you manage this on your own?" Potter grumbled under his breath, struggling to resettle one of the heavier bags with his knee.

"By never letting the stores in my pantry fall to such dire levels."

Potter jumped slightly; he hadn't been expecting an answer.

"You couldn't take the bus, or something?" he asked irritably. "Or are you afraid of it, like you are cars?"

Now it was Snape's turn for surprise. Potter's uncharacteristic moments of perceptiveness continued to catch him off guard.

"I have ridden the Knight Bus," he responded, rather irritably himself.

"Then it's all the more irrational," Potter shot back, and readjusted his parcels yet again.

"On the contrary, as Muggle buses are driven with one-tenth of Prang's remarkable lack of skill, my reaction is quite rational indeed."

As if to prove his point, a metro bus came careening around the corner, spattering them both with mud as it raced the streetlight to the intersection. Snape regarded the hem of his angora coat critically.

"And as you will notice, objects do not move out of the way for the Muggle version," he said dryly.

Potter was silent for a long moment. "I see your point."

They left the subject at that, and Snape was rather surprised to find that he was glad it hadn't degenerated into another pissing match. He was still relishing having made Potter do the shopping, but even so, he had to admit that life was easier when he was ignoring Potter, as opposed to goading him into an argument.

Between the two of them they managed to get the door open with a minimum of parcels left on the doorstep, and then trooped to the kitchen where they deposited the first load onto the kitchen table.

Snape flung open the pantry doors and began to replenish its shelves in his normal fashion; grains and breads on the lowest shelf, canned goods above them, and root vegetables and spices on the highest shelves.

He'd fully intended to make as much use of Potter as possible during this exercise, but the boy had managed to make that a chore instead of a delight.

"Good gods," he said finally, "Enough!"

Potter froze where he stood, hand half-outstretched to the middle cupboard, where he had been about to deposit a box of cereal. A look of utter incomprehension was plastered on his face.

Snape buried his head in his hands for a brief moment. "You are making an absolute mess of my kitchen," he told Potter. "Out!"

When Potter did not move, Snape advanced on him and snatched the offending article from his hands. "The cereal does not go in there," he said, removing it to its correct location on the shelf above the gas range.

Potter's brow furrowed. "Snape, you're treating this as if it was--" He cut himself off and exited the kitchen, a bemused smile on his face.

Snape's unpacking went a great deal faster once the boy was no longer there to throw it into disorder. And Potter did make himself useful after all, carrying the few remaining bags in from the doorstep to the kitchen.

Potter brought the last of the parcels in and then did not return, so Snape unpacked Potter's items as well. The difference between their purchases was most enlightening. Snape's list had consisted of raw ingredients - fruits, vegetables, cheeses, broths. Potter's shopping consisted of microwave trays, instant noodles, and an assortment of cereals containing garishly-coloured, sugar-coated oats and petrified marshmallows.

It was also clear by their paucity that Potter had not spent all of his money on food. He was most likely planning on stealing more of Snape's leftover cooking. Very well, he thought. I shall make smaller portions.

He was able to attend to his potion-brewing with renewed concentration that evening, no doubt owing to his triumph over Potter, and so when it came time for dinner he saw fit to treat himself.

Potter emerged into the kitchen two hours later. "Are you finished?" he demanded.

Fork poised over the pot, Snape opened his mouth to ask Potter what exactly he was on about, and then understood. They had tacitly observed a bathing and dining schedule ever since Potter had arrived at his house, and tonight he'd deviated from that schedule by a few hours, extending 'his' time in the kitchen.

Potter was probably very hungry. Well, it couldn't be helped.

"I'll finish shortly," he said, and returned to his meal. But instead of retreating into the living-room, Potter seated himself across the table from Snape.

"What on earth are you doing?" he asked. "Is this your meal?"

"Yes," Snape said, spearing a bit of apple and dipping it.

"What is it?" asked Potter.

"Fondue," he said shortly, and began chewing. Eating in front of Potter was an unsettling experience, but he wasn't about to let the Bunsen go out while waiting for the boy's exit.

"That's it?" asked Potter. "Just dipping things in cheese."

"Your acumen for noting the obvious is peerless," Snape answered, selecting a cube of whole wheat.

To his ever increasing discomfort, Potter laughed. "You must truly miss being a wizard."

"And how have we reached that conclusion?" He chose a slice of pear next.

Potter's green eyes twinkled. "Look at yourself," he said. This little pot with the cheese - it's just like a miniature cauldron. And the skewer--"

"Fork," said Snape around a mouthful of strawberry.

"Fork," Potter repeated smoothly. "It's like a surrogate wand. And you've laid all the food out as if it were potions ingredients."

The boy's conclusions were patently ridiculous. Still, Snape found Potter's enthusiasm for them to be most irksome.

"It is a meal, Potter, not a potion."

"You don't believe me," Potter said needlessly. "But it's true. I noticed earlier this afternoon when we were putting away the groceries. You were treating your shelves like potions cabinets."

His face took on a far away quality. "You always used to get so angry at Neville when he put things in the wrong cabinets. Made him scrub all the classroom cauldrons."

This conversation had gone far enough. Snape found that he was no longer hungry.

"Very well," he said peevishly, rising from the table. "As you made a most horrendous mess of my kitchen cabinets this afternoon, you may wash the dishes."

He abandoned the kitchen to Potter and stalked upstairs to prepare for bed.

When he returned to the kitchen for breakfast the next morning, he was shocked to find those same dishes neatly lined in the drying rack by the sink. Potter had washed the dishes, though this was not Hogwarts, though he had not dirtied them himself, though Snape had no authority by which to compel him to do so. It was baffling, but the idiot had been willing to do the chore, and Snape was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He heard Potter clomp down the stairs as he was eating his toast and jam and prepared himself for some outburst of surliness over the previous evening's events. But to his surprise, Potter never even came to the kitchen.

Snape set his toast down on his plate very carefully and directed all his attention to the living-room. His caution was a wasted effort; judging by the various shufflings, thuds, and other assorted noises, Potter was making no attempt to conceal his activities. Or perhaps he was making every effort that Snape hear them.

So this was to be Potter's revenge - wiping Snape's nose in the fact that he was an Auror and could do what he wished whilst in Snape's home. During the past few weeks he had almost allowed himself to forget that this was Potter invading his house, and that the boy had come here to fulfil a vendetta.

So it was back to more 'inspections.' Very well. It wasn't as though Snape had anything to hide. He knew it, Potter knew it. And now Potter was using that fact to attack Snape, invading his private affairs when he knew Snape was doing nothing wrong.

It had been so easy to let his guard down. Knowing that he was engaged in no Dark activity, he had continued with his life as if Potter had not been there at all. Now he would pay for his credulity.

He stared darkly at the white linoleum of the floor and pondered his idiocy.

"What the--"

He half jumped from his chair at Potter's exclamation. Silence descended for the space of a moment, and then he could just make out Potter muttering beneath his breath.

Very well, he thought crossly. I'll take the bait. And with that he strode into the living-room to find Potter stretched out on the floor in the corner, head and torso wedged between the wall and the television cabinet.

"I assure you I have no contraband items hidden therein," he said to Potter's feet.

"I know." Potter's words were strangely distorted by the corner and the back of the cabinet. The Auror writhed about on the floor, managing to jar his hip against the cabinet in the process.

"Ouch!" His legs flailed about, knocking over a stack of small boxes he'd apparently brought into the room with him. Snape wondered fleetingly what they were; he'd never seen Aurors use anything of their like before.

His musings were interrupted by Potter's indignant snort. "Snape, you haven't even got it plugged in!"

"Pray tell, Potter, what 'it' would be."

"The television!" Potter said, as if this fact should have been glaringly obvious. The boy's grunts and twists were this time accompanied by a violent rattling. Potter muttered a few curses, the rattling ceased, and then the boy extracted himself from behind the cabinet.

"Don't tell me you unplug it every time you use it," he said, rubbing his hip, face flushed from his recent exertions. "It's too tight a fit, even for me."

"Of course not. It has never been plugged in in the first place."

"Then how on earth do you use it?"

"I have never used it."

Potter stared at him in stunned silence. "You've never used it before?"

"I have no idea how to go about doing so."

Potter flicked his fringe out of his eyes and gave Snape a long, suspicious stare. "Getting you to explain something," he said only half under his breath, "is like trying to take Galleons from a Niffler. Why even bother with a television if you aren't going to use it?"

"Because experience has taught me that Muggles are deeply suspicious of anyone who does not own one of the useless contraptions."

"You've had Muggles over?"

He rolled his eyes heavenward. "That would be necessary in order for them to discover my lack of a television, yes."

"You've had Muggles over," Potter repeated. "To your house?"

"Never if I could avoid it, but yes. It has, on the rarest of occasions, happened."

Potter blinked owlishly. "Oh," he said. "Well, now you can turn it on when they do visit."

"You have no doubt rendered me a great service," he said dryly.

Potter grinned and motioned to the boxes at his side. "Care to watch a film?"

Snape made a noncommittal grunt and returned to his breakfast in the kitchen. When he reemerged into the living-room he found Potter curled up on the floor, head propped on one of the sofa pillows, watching his 'film,' which was utterly unremarkable save for its frequent showy explosions.

Snape snorted and pulled a volume of Crowley from the shelf nearest the desk.

"You can't tell me it isn't exciting," Potter said, twisting awkwardly to look at Snape.

Snape cocked an eyebrow without lifting his gaze from his book. "Any desire I might once have possessed to witness 'exciting' explosions was more than cured by seventeen years as a potions master."

Without looking, he could tell that Potter's attention had shifted entirely from the film to his face.

"Why did you leave, Snape?"

"Have we not engaged in this conversation previously? I have no wish to discuss it further."

"You wouldn't answer me then, either."

"Potter, I cannot be held accountable for your faulty memory."

Potter extinguished the television and stood, shoulders squared. "I won't leave off until you tell me what happened."

Snape shut his eyes and placed his book carefully on the desk. "As I told you before, I was run out of my job by a rabid pack of your supporters--"

"That's not true," Potter whispered.

"By a rabid pack of your supporters who felt that I had outlived my usefulness after the Dark Lord's demise--"

"No." Potter's voice rose dangerously.

"They had me removed from my position at Hogwarts and then did nothing to halt the rumours that I was in league with the Dark, though they knew full well that I was not.

"As," he added, heart racing, "I am sure you already know." Was Potter so obsessed with revenge, that he wouldn't rest until he'd forced Snape to say this out loud?

"And I told you before that no one knew!"

"And you are LYING!"

"No!" shouted Potter, and Snape did look at him then. "No," he said more softly. "I'm not. All right. Maybe the Order knew, maybe it didn't. Maybe the Ministry knew, maybe not. But I never knew until now."

That couldn't be...sympathy in Potter's gaze, so what was it? It wasn't possible that Harry Potter, the man who had it all, could find any point of similarity between himself and Snape, any point over which to commiserate. And yet, what was that look in his eyes? Certainly not the triumph and condescension Snape had anticipated.

Potter was still staring. "Look," the boy said, brining a hand halfway to his face and then dropping it helplessly, "I didn't know. Believe me if you like, or don't, but that's the truth.

"All I knew is that you'd disappeared. And given the rumours that you'd gone Dark, I didn't care to ask beyond that."

He paused and then continued, "I know you haven't gone Dark."

Snape shut his eyes again. His head was pounding and he felt ill. Why had Potter come here at all?

"Tell me one thing," he said at last.

"Yes."

"Did you believe the rumours?"

Silence.

"Did you believe the rumours?"

"That's not fair," Potter whispered.

"Did you believe them, Potter?"

"Who wouldn't have!"

And there it was, out in the open, though he'd known it all along. He turned to leave the room, to go...somewhere. Potter's voice stopped him.

"Look... Snape, who wouldn't have?"

"Who indeed?" he said softly.

"Snape." The voice was closer this time, as though Potter had approached him. Or perhaps it was just that the buzzing in Snape's ears was beginning to subside.

Snape could tell that Potter had selected his next words carefully. "It just... Everyone was worried. Nobody could believe Voldemort was truly gone. And then you disappeared, and--"

"Those rumours began long before my disappearance."

Potter was silent.

"Tell me something else," he said. "Did Dumbledore ever publicly acknowledge the part I played in the Dark Lord's fall?"

"No," said Potter softly.

"Did any members of the Order?"

"No."

He nodded once, without turning around. "Thank you."

The sound of Potter's film carried faintly through the ventilation ducts so that Snape heard the occasional explosion or scream from his bedroom. Eventually the film ended, or Potter extinguished it, and Snape heard nothing but the sound of his own breathing, the whir of the furnace and the moan of the wind about his windows.

But the initial rush of vindication soon wore off, leaving a passionless disappointment in its wake. He had known full well the assumptions the wizarding world must have made after his disappearance; it wasn't as though Potter's words had come as any sort of shock. Was he to sit here, locked away in his room like a sulking adolescent? Had he fallen this far? The possibility was disgusting.

He returned downstairs to find the living-room blessedly empty. He had no desire to read, and even less to play with Potter's beloved television, so he found himself staring out the window, across the front garden and street.

The sun slowly worked its way across the sky, five o'clock came and went, cars rushing past as their occupants returned from work. The street lay deserted as families disappeared indoors to have their dinners, then a few children emerged to play on the lawns of the houses across the street. Several bicyclists passed. And elderly couple took their dogs for a walk.

Night fell and lights were switched on in the neighbourhood's houses, creating a patchwork of golden squares on the ground outside. Potter gave a bitter laugh.

"We look the same, from this perspective."

Snape was too tired to be startled by the Auror's sudden appearance. His focus shifted from the street outside to the windowpane, where his reflection, dark haired, pale, and hollow-eyed, did indeed look a twin to Potter's.

Potter's next words were startling. "What's the 'Albus,' Snape?"

"Where did you hear of that?"

"You were muttering about it in the ambulance. I thought you were talking about Dumbledore..."

"But you've since realised I wasn't."

"Yes."

How charitable of you. A few years ago-- A few days ago, he would have easily been able to spit the retort out, dripping venom and malice, but now... He wondered if Potter hadn't spent the last twenty years learning how to slowly, surely, wear his ability to resist down to nothing.

"The Albus was one of the Dark Lord's more ingenious curses," he began slowly, letting his gaze shift back to the darkened street outside. "It basic function is similar to that of the Imperius - replacing the victim's own consciousness with that of the caster's. Only instead of bending the victim to the caster's will, the Albus alters his very perception of reality."

"Go on," said Potter.

"Those under the effects of the Albus perceive themselves as being trapped in an endless white desert. They are able to speak, to walk, to eat, but are unaware that they yet exist in the reality you and I share. Once the victims were completely under the effects of the curse, the Dark Lord would introduce all manner of hallucinations to make them believe they stood a chance of escaping. Some of the illusions were quite inventive.

"At any rate," he continued, aware that he was rambling, "he especially liked to employ it after the Cruciatus curse; said it was the icing on the cake. He named it the Albus, obviously, to needle Dumbledore."

"And that's what you thought had happened to you when you opened your eyes in the hospital--"

"And saw nothing but the white ceiling, yes," he finished.

Potter was silent for a long moment, thinking. "But I've never heard of it, so it couldn't possibly be as bad as the Unforgivable Curses."

"No, Potter, it is far worse. If cast successfully, the effects of the curse are instantaneous, and the illusion is so complete that even when the curse itself wears off, most of its victims still believe themselves to be under its influence. They refuse to believe that they've been returned to reality, no matter what evidence they're offered to the contrary.

"It was one of the Dark Lord's most clever ideas - because he tormented the victims with illusions of escape, when returned to reality, they believe it to be yet another illusion, and operate under that assumption."

“Neville's Mum.” Potter’s voice echoed to the very corners of the room.

“Yes,” he said finally.

"But why does no one know about it?"

"Use your head, Potter!" He was surprised to find that he still felt so strongly about this, even after so many years. "You of all people should know that the Ministry is more than willing to disavow knowledge of any situation that might cause it to lose face. The existence of a fourth, incurable curse, of the same magnitude as the Unforgivables, certainly falls into that category.

"A group within the Department of the Mysteries has been searching for a countercurse for years, all to no avail. Outside of that consortium, few are even aware of its existence."

Potter fell silent again, and for such a long period of time that Snape finally searched his reflection in the window for any hint as to the man's thoughts.

When Potter finally spoke his voice was cold. "How do you know all of this, then, Snape?"

It was his turn for silence. When the words finally came, they did not come easily. "The Dark Lord perfected all of his curses on his Death Eaters."

The accusation was gone from Potter's voice as if it had never been there at all. "He cast it on you?"

"Yes, and on many other Death Eaters besides. Oh, never with as much intent as he did with his enemies," he continued at Potter's incredulous silence. "That would have been counterproductive. But as you are aware, he was not above insuring allegiance through fear."

"That's why you wanted out."

"Among other reasons, yes."

Potter swallowed; Snape watched the shadowy bob of his adam's apple in the windowpane. "Did you ever cast it, Snape?"

"Do you really want to know this, Potter?"

"No. But I have to anyway." His voice shook with quiet despair.

"On occasion. But never particularly skilfully. My personality is not suited to achieving the mindset necessary for casting such a curse."

"Oh, don't give me that, Snape. You're a spiteful, sarcastic bastard."

"Yes, Potter, it is a well known fact that I do not suffer fools gladly. But sarcasm and spite are a far cry from abject sadism."

Potter swallowed again. "Sorry," he said, so softly Snape barely heard him.

"As am I, Potter."

Hd retreated once more to his bedroom, where he sat on his bed, hands between his knees, and stared blankly out the window. Not that the view was terribly different from that on the ground floor.

He felt... absolutely empty. His body was drained, hollowed, an empty husk. His thoughts slid from him like water through a sieve, so that he finally stopped attempting to think at all and let his mind go smooth and blank.

He could not be sure how much time had passed when Potter knocked on the door, though he knew it must be late in the evening.

He didn't bother to tell the Auror to come in; he was sure to do so regardless of Snape's wishes.

It was quite a surprise when Potter knocked again after a few minutes, and then again, after another few.

He rested his head in his hands, then stared out the window once more. "Come in."

Potter opened the door quietly. A shaft of light arced out from the doorway, falling just behind Snape on the bed.

"Are you going to use the kitchen tonight?"

"No." What on earth was Potter after?

"Oh. I'm hungry."

He sighed. "Are you making this fact known for any particular reason?"

"It's just that... I'm out of food, so I thought I'd ask you before eating yours."

It was difficult to bite back the wave of hysteric laughter that threatened to overwhelm him. "Pray tell why your conscience has waited this long to plague you over eating my food."

Potter shifted his weight from foot to foot, making the shaft of light dance across the bedspread. "Of course you'd choose now to talk about my conscience," he said, completely nonsensically.

Ah, of course. Of course. Potter had not found any current connections to the Dark, so now he was doing his best to unearth them in Snape's past. Aurors were skilled at employing mind games to keep their subjects off-balance, to induce confessions, to gain the upper hand.

He might as well play along. He stood and brushed passed Potter through the doorway. "Come along, then," he tossed over his shoulder. "I'll not have you eating my food without being present to supervise."

Potter trailed obediently after him into the kitchen, and stood quietly in the doorway while Snape pulled an assortment of vegetables, cans of broth, and seasonings from the pantry and cabinets.

"We will make a vegetable soup," he announced to the wall over the gas range. "It can be refrigerated, so that you can eat it for the remainder of the week."

"Oh," said Potter.

He turned finally, to face the man. "Potter, you do realise that you are going to aid me in this endeavour?"

The boy shrugged. "Can't. I don't know how Muggles cook."

Snape looked at him. "Do you know how Muggles chop vegetables?" He turned back to the counter and began measuring hot water for buillion. "The theory and practice of food preparation is very similar to that of potion-brewing. As you studied the latter for seven years, your skills will be sufficient for Muggle cooking."

"I was always disastrous at potions," Potter offered hopefully.

"And I am grateful," Snape responded, "that two decades later, Providence has seen fit to grant me an opportunity to correct that misfortune."

Potter blinked owlishly at him before emitting a whoop of laughter and grabbing the nearest knife from the rack. "Soup, then," he said.

Potter maintained a steady stream of inane chatter as they prepared the soup, broken only by pauses in which he listened to Snape's directions. Snape had never realised that Potter was capable of such continuous mindless nattering, but he was obscurely grateful for it, all the same. It kept his mind off of earlier events.

And as the soup warmed in the pot over the burner, its aroma slowly filling the kitchen, his appetite did return so that when it was ready, he sat down at the table across from Potter and ate two bowls himself.

The meal did wonders to improve his mood, and he felt well enough by its end to look over some Arabic medicinal texts before going to bed.

True to form, Potter trailed after him into the living-room.

Snape selected a volume from the shelf nearest the window and then seated himself in his usual spot on the sofa. Potter cleared his throat and Snape ignored him, giving his full attention to his book. It was his signal to the boy to leave. Potter resolutely ignored it, although he did let Snape work his way through five pages before speaking.

"Really, Snape. Why do you have all these books?"

He sighed and carefully placed his book upon his knee. "Because I enjoy reading them, Potter."

"Just because you enjoy them?"

"Yes," he said soothingly. And then, switching to his most biting tones, "I have heard it referred to as 'pleasure reading.' You might even try it yourself at some point during your lifetime." That would get rid of him.

But to his surprise, Potter stalked into the room and grabbed a volume at random off of the nearest shelf. He snapped it open, collapsed into one of Snape's large, overstuffed chairs, and glared at Snape over the top of its pages.

Snape arched an eyebrow before returning to his Arabic.

Potter would most likely turn restive after a few minutes, and he wanted to immerse himself as deeply as possible in the text so that the inevitable distraction would not be as disruptive as it might otherwise be. Yet twenty minutes later, Potter had not even uttered as much as a single word. In fact, he continued reading long after Snape had retired to the first floor to prepare for bed. Snape could still see the glow of the living-room lamps as he crossed the hallway to his bedroom.

He was certain when he woke the next morning that Potter had been putting him on. Snape was no stranger to the boy's blockheaded stubbornness, and he could easily imagine Potter staring at the volume for hours, just to prove a point.

So it was to his enduring surprise that when Potter joined him in the living-room after dinner that night he came with book in hand. Snape was ensconced in his usual seat on the couch when Potter came slinking into the room and deposited himself in the wingchair as discretely as possible.

Snape wasn't about to encourage the boy, and honestly, didn't Potter realise that he'd made his point already? Continuing this sham into a second evening was overkill.

Yet aside from the crinkle of a turned page, Potter was absolutely silent. He didn't even fidget. Perversely, Snape found the boy's serenity hugely distracting. After twenty minutes, he had had all he could take of this charade.

"Potter," he said, laying his book down on his knee and rubbing his hand over his eyes, "you need not waste your time pretending to read. Please, for the love of god, go off and amuse yourself."

"I'm not pretending!" Potter seemed genuinely surprised by Snape's accusation.

"You cannot mean to tell me that you are actually reading--" He paused until Potter lifted the book so its spine was visible. "The Book of Going Forth By Day?"

"I am!" Potter insisted. And then at Snape's continued look of incredulity, "I had no idea how fascinating this was - the way Muggles try to invent magic."

"By god, we've had a breakthrough," he muttered.

Potter shot him a lopsided grin.

And so Potter, the boy who had rarely touched his schoolbooks, began systematically working his way through Snape's library. On the one hand, it was fascinating to watch the boy discover the value of the volumes Snape had amassed.

On the other, Snape had little chance to read himself, as he now spent a good deal of time discussing his books with Potter every evening. And while Snape certainly knew more about the history and development of Muggle experiments with 'magic,' Potter, now that he was becoming familiar with its sources, began to regale Snape with tales of how those experiments had entered popular Muggle culture. Snape even deigned to sit through a few Muggle films Potter had rented to demonstrate its influence.

It was...pleasant to have a discussion partner after twenty years of reading as a solitary exercise. Potter was certainly a lively debate partner, and their conversations often lasted far into the morning.

The debate as to whether Crowley or Waite's methodology more closely resembled bona fide magical theory was especially intense, so that it was well past three o'clock when Snape finally crawled into bed. When he opened his eyes again it was late morning and Potter was beating ill-naturedly on his door. Snape remained on his back for a long moment, staring blindly at the ceiling. Then he got out of bed, stalked over to the door and flung it open while Potter continued to flail away at it.

Potter was having at it with such fury that he was unable to check himself when the door was opened, and ended up thumping Snape squarely in the chest.

At least he had the decency to look sheepish. "Oh," he mumbled. "'Morning. Sorry."

"There are no words, Potter."

Potter removed his hand - rather belatedly, Snape thought - from Snape's chest, where it had been resting.

"And what has occasioned this little wake up call?"

"I want to take a shower," said Potter.

"Potter, I know your mental faculties leave much to be desired, but I am certain you are more than capable of bathing yourself."

"Hah hah," said Potter, looking slightly cross. "I was going to ask if I could use your shampoo, since I'm out, but since you're being so polite about it--"

"You're welcome to it," Snape interjected, "so long as you let me return to bed in peace."

"Deal," said Potter, and then, "Where is it?"

"In the bathroom." This was like pulling teeth.

If possible, Potter looked even more sheepish; no mean feat for a forty-year old wizard.

"Couldn't find it this morning," he said. "'S why I'm asking, actually. Care to show me?"

The little bastard. "Oh, very well."

He marched Potter into the bathroom and selected a fluted glass bottle from the shelf above the toilet.

"That?" said Potter.

"Potter, at any other time I would enjoy a chance to mislead you for its own sake, but as I am most eager to return to bed, I am indeed showing you my rinse."

"That's not shampoo!"

He sighed. "No, it isn't. What it is is a vinegar rinse of my own preparation. It will leave your hair as clean as any Muggle product, have no fear of that."

Potter stood for a moment, sputtering. "Why don't you use normal shampoo like every other human being?"

"Because I have no wish to walk about smelling like a flower."

There was a moment's shocked silence before Potter erupted in a deafening peal of laughter. Snape stood by the door to the bathroom, arms crossed, and waited with as much dignity as he could muster for Potter's paroxysms of mirth to subside.

"Have you quite finished?" he demanded at last.

"Oh," Potter gasped. "Oh, Merlin, that- Oh, ow, it hurts." He leaned against the doorjamb, arms clutching his stomach protectively and looked at Snape, face flushed with laughter.

Snape regarded him wordlessly.

Something flashed in the depths of Potter's eyes and then he was off on a second gale of laughter.

"I fail to see the humour in this situation," Snape said at last, wishing for nothing more than to be rid of Potter, but feeling that any attempt to evacuate now would leave his dignity in shreds.

"Oh, god," Potter gasped, slowly shaking his head. "Snape." And then he stood up and brushed past Snape as he headed down the hallway. He paused at the head of the stairs and turned to address Snape. "Come on," he said. "Let's go."

"Go where, Potter?" he asked wearily. It was exhausting, trying to read the man's moods.

"To the supermarket, obviously," said Potter. The corners of his mouth twitched. "I want to smell like a lily."

Snape did indeed accompany Potter, as it was either that or face another tedious morning of die-casting. When he thought about it, it was rather alarming how he'd come to depend on the boy's company as an excuse to avoid doing the tasks he should have been doing.

"Was it hard learning to be a Muggle?" Potter asked on the walk back home.

He glanced sidelong at the boy. "Have you any particular reason to be interested?"

Potter considered for a moment. "Not really. Just curious, is all."

"Well, in that case I shall tell you. It was the most horrific experience of my life."

"Worse than the Death Eaters?" The imp was actually smiling.

"Oh, by far. At least the Death Eaters went about things sensibly. Muggles invent all sorts of horrid detours to perform tasks that could easily be accomplished through magic, had they any of the stuff in them." He was smiling too.

Potter performed a sort of half-skipping step. "Name the worst."

He thought about it for several moments. "You're asking the impossible. The little joys of Muggle life are literally without number."

Potter snorted. "Fine," he said. "In that case, I'll settle for knowing about the most useless."

"Muggle photography springs instantly to mind. The creatures are fascinated with how 'lifelike' the pictures their cameras produce look."

"They do look lifelike," Potter said. "I don't see why you think that's useless."

"Muggle photographs look real, but you still can't ask them anything."

Potter shot him a quizzical expression.

"What's the use," he said, "of recording someone's likeness if it remains static? A photograph captures its subject, does it not? But the Muggle version is a still picture. Its subject frozen in a specific moment in time, unable to interact, or even leave the photograph at all.

"I imagine it would be rather like being imprisoned."

"There isn't actually anyone in Muggle photographs!" Potter said. "They're just light and chemicals."

Well, that was something he hadn't known. He wasn't entirely certain he believed it. "But if that is the case, Muggle photography becomes all the more useless. What can one second frozen in time have to offer viewers?"

Potter shrugged. "Quite a bit, I think." He stopped quite suddenly in the middle of the pavement and turned to stare at Snape.

"Are you saying," he said slowly, "that there's actually someone in magical photographs?"

Really. For someone supposedly possessed of a great deal of talent and intelligence - and an Auror no less - the boy lacked the most basic magical education.

"Yes, of course," he said. "How else would you expect the photograph's inhabitants to so accurately portray the likenesses of their subjects?"

"Never gave it much thought," said Potter. "How does it work?"

Snape resumed the trek home before he started speaking; otherwise, he'd be standing on the pavement all evening answering the boy's questions. "Each photograph captures a small portion of its subject's soul," he explained.

Potter seemed genuinely surprised by his answer. He wondered briefly how the boy had thought it worked. He was about to ask, but Potter posed a question of his own first.

"But wouldn't that, I don't know, drain the people being photographed?"

He sighed. "The portion is infinitesimal, Potter, so small as to be negligent. And yet using that infinitesimal portion, magical photography is able to create an animate, miniscule replica of its subject. Something that Muggles, for all their boasts of 'high technology' have never even come close to mastering with their so-called photography."

Potter made a low sort of whistling sound through his teeth. "I had no idea," he said to himself. And then, "But how is it that I've seen portraits that did little more than wave at me, and then there's others where the people walk about, and talk to each other, or even leave the picture?"

"Some of that has to do with advances in magical photography, certainly. But for the most part, it depends on what grade of camera imp one uses."

"Like grades of film!" Potter said, as if this explained everything.

He sniffed. "I've no idea."

"Just trust me on this one," Potter said, and shot Snape his lopsided grin.

It was enough to induce him to continue the conversation. And he was actually enjoying this rarest of chances to actually teach Potter something, without the brat carrying on about bias and questioning his methodology. "Of course, if you want the likeness to be fully functional - capable of speech, for instance - you had best get a portrait made," he said. "They are much more taxing on painter and sitter both, but a skilfully rendered portrait will capture its subject so well that the likeness is all but indistinguishable from its original.

"So you see, Potter," he finished, "How your precious Muggle cinema pales in comparison to technology the magical world has possessed for centuries. Muggle films may seem lifelike, but people contained in them are unable to do anything aside from that which they were doing when the film was created."

"You make it sound like Muggle photography has no redeeming characteristics!"

"Oh, not entirely. Take your godfather's mother, for example. Her portrait would have been much improved had it been limited to repeating the same actions time and again, unable to respond to any external stimulus. Although," he mused, "I doubt the overall effect would have been noticeably different."

Potter was silent for a long moment. Then he chuckled. "No, probably not," he said.

The conversation turned to other topics and they reached the house as the last evening sunlight was giving way to dusk. "Why don't we have pizza tonight?" Potter said as he waited for Snape to unlock the door.

Snape looked at him askance. "I've no idea how to go about preparing something like that," he informed Potter.

The boy would not be dissuaded. "'S simple enough," he said. "And you've got all the ingredients."

He stopped halfway through the door. "Are you suggesting that I let you prepare dinner?" he said slowly.

"More or less," Potter said, and squeezed past him. "Or you could just go ahead and cook for both of us. Probably taste better that way." He breezed down the hallway into the kitchen.

Little bastard. "You might as well try your hand at it," he shouted after the boy. "Though I most likely won't approve of the result."

Nonetheless, Potter's pizza was actually quite good, in a banal sort of fashion.

"What do you think?" Potter asked as Snape reached to take another slice from the tray.

"It isn't inedible," he said. "Though it could do with more seasoning."

"Well, you can take care of that next time." Potter’s eyes twinkled behind the glasses.

They ate slowly and washed the dishes immediately after dinner, so that it was quite late in the evening before they made it into the living-room. Potter appeared to have exhausted his conversational repertoire during their expedition into town, and for once Snape was actually getting a good deal of reading done.

His choice that evening was Dee's Hieroglyphic Monad. The book fascinated Snape no matter how many readings he put it through. The secondary literature on the man referred to him as either as a charlatan or madman, and yet Dee's descriptions of his experiences bordered on the magical as often as not. Snape frequently wondered if Dee had really been a Muggle-born wizard whose birth had somehow gone overlooked by his wizarding contemporaries. It would have been a fascinating subject for an academic paper, had he still lived in the magical world, and possessed the time and inclination to conduct the research.

"I'm not here with the Ministry, you know," Potter said in a conversational tone of voice.

"Is that so?" Snape murmured, not bothering to look up from his book.

"I'm serious," Potter said.

"Of course you are," he soothed, and returned to his reading.

Thankfully, Potter let the subject drop.

So the boy still suffered from the odd twinge of conscience. Potter knew beyond a doubt that Snape was not involved in the Dark Arts, and had started neglecting his Observation of Snape as a result. He still apparently felt obligated to make an occasional token effort to trick Snape into a confession, although the ease with which he‘d abandoned his attempt indicated that he knew full well Snape wouldn‘t be taken in by his attempts to unnerve him.

Another week or so passed, with nothing of note occurring. Potter still made the occasional odd comment about the Ministry, but Snape was used to this and paid them little attention.

"Is it really your birthday today?" Potter asked over breakfast one morning.

Snape choked on his cereal. "How in Merlin's name did you know that?" he gasped when he could manage it.

"Was on your driver's licence," Potter said around a mouthful of toast.

"And you remembered that?"

Potter looked apologetic. "Well, I was Observing you," he said a little defensively. "It's part of my job to remember."

"Ah, of course." Snape paused, thought, and continued. "For what little it's worth, it is indeed my birthday. Although, having seen it on the licence, why you bothered to ask is beyond me."

"Well, I thought it might actually be your father's birthday."

Snape raised his eyebrows. The boy could be quite analytical when it suited him. "I used his name, yes, but beyond that, all the details on my identification are my own. After all, it is far easier to lie when the lie is kept simple."

Potter nodded. "You should know. You’ve had a lot of practice."

He laid his spoon on the table with a loud clunk. "In the future, Potter, please abstain from insulting me in the most obvious way possible."

"No, that's not what I meant!" Potter looked hurt, of all things.

"Then pray tell what you did intend to convey by that statement."

"Only that you spied on Voldemort for over a decade, and that had to involve a lot of lying."

He'd almost forgotten how nettling the boy's sense of moral superiority could be. "What would you have had me do, Potter? It was a necessary evil."

Potter trailed his spoon through his cereal, eyes lowered. "Yeah, it was," he said softly. "I'm glad you did it."

"Thank you," said Snape, and felt almost contrite for having snapped at him.

"Well," said Potter after a moment, brightening visibly. "Since it is your birthday, we should do something special."

"Good heavens, why?"

Potter's face evinced a queer mixture of surprise and affront. "Because it’s your birthday!"

He had no choice but to smile. "Potter," he said, "I am a middle-aged, solitary former wizard. Why on earth should I commemorate the day at all?"

"Because that's what people do on birthdays!"

He shook his head and reached for the toast.

“Only," Potter continued, shoving his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, "You haven’t had anyone who’ll celebrate with you here, and I know I was so happy when it finally happened for me. People celebrating my birthday, I mean.” His face took on a wistful quality. “Hagrid gave me a cake. Little squashed, but still, my first real present."

"Well, you were a good deal younger...twelve, I believe, when you received your first presents? Sixty is a good deal removed from that age."

Potter blinked. "You've never got a birthday present?"

"No," he said. "Of course not. My family was of the opinion that they are a foolish indulgence, and I agree."

Potter was staring.

"Stop that," he snapped. "Your cereal will go soggy."

Potter shook his head as if emerging from a long sleep. "We need to get you a birthday present," he said.

This continued harping on the idea of birthday presents was ridiculous. "And what on earth do you suggest? Flowers? Tarts? A pet?"

Potter propped his chin on one hand and actually appeared to consider. "No," he said slowly. "You wouldn't like any of those."

He snorted, but said nothing.

"I know!" Potter brightened. "Books!"

It was patently ridiculous, but his interest was piqued, if only a very little. "You can't be serious."

"Why not?" Potter said. "I know you like them, after all." His smile widened. "And you are interested."

"What books?" he said cautiously.

"Whatever you like. We'll go into town and look."

Well.

Well.

It was an offer of free books.

"Oh, very well," he said, and tried to look cross.

So noon found them strolling into town. Before Potter's arrival, he'd made the excursion once a month, twice, perhaps, if he was meeting a client. He'd come to make the trip with alarming frequency these past few weeks.

Although, it was not entirely unpleasant with someone to talk to on the way. Not that he would ever have admitted such to Potter. It would, Snape mused, be most unadvisable to do so. Potter kept up a constant stream of chatter while labouring under the impression that Snape didn't approve of it. He could only imagine how Potter would go on if he were to find that Snape actually appreciated his nattering.

It was a pleasant afternoon, cool and breezy, though the low clouds promised rain later that evening. They took their time walking, so that nearly an hour passed before they arrived at Barnes and Nobles Booksellers.

It was a weekday afternoon, but a surprising number of people were in the shop nevertheless. Snape made a beeline for the mediaeval history shelves, having long ago learnt that the 'Occult' section contained nothing save rubbish, and soon had his nose buried in a possible selection.

Still, he looked up from time to time to keep an eye on Potter, an effort which was surprisingly difficult. With his shoulder-length hair, thick glasses, and shabby, unkempt clothing, Potter very much resembled the fashionable Muggle youth who frequented the bookseller, and Snape would easily have lost him in the crowd if he hadn't remained suitably attentive to the boy's whereabouts.

He was sorely, sorely tempted to present Potter with the dozen or so books he was considering for purchase, just too see the look on the boy's face when he realised the importance of never extending open-ended invitations, but decided against it in the end. After all, were he to come into possession of everything he happened to want at this moment, what else would there be for him to anticipate?

At any rate, Potter appeared content to let a few hours pass while Snape weighed the merits of his choices. When Potter did collect him he'd pared his selections down to three volumes, which Potter seemed more than happy to purchase.

Snape even managed an awkward thank you.

"Don't worry about it," Potter said, grinning. "You do realise I'll read them all once you're finished with them." And with that they set out for home.

It was close to five o'clock before they returned. They had a light meal of sandwiches before Potter, yawning hugely, announced that he was heading upstairs for a nap.

"Didn't sleep so well last night," he said, and now that he mentioned it, Snape could see the dark circles ringing his eyes and the unnatural grey cast to his skin.

He declined Potter’s offer to help wash the dishes and sent the boy on his way. Still, it didn’t take Snape long to finish the task on his own - in fact, it was over all the sooner for Potter not being there to distract him with conversation while he worked. With all the dishes set in the drying rack, he wandered into the living-room. He'd just settled down to read one of his purchases when the first crack of thunder sounded in the distance. So the storm was coming. Well, he'd known that even without the thunder; ozone lay thick in the air.

Good. He'd always found storms relaxing.

And yet, even with the relaxing staccato of rain against the window, Snape couldn't concentrate on the words. It's my birthday, his mind kept telling him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd even bothered to mark the day at all; trust Potter to bring these sorts of things to mind. Since his arrival the boy had done nothing but remind Snape of all the things he'd rather not remember at all.

Well, attempting to read anything was pointless excercise while he was in this state. Snape closed the book and carefully shelved it next to some obscure Chinese herbals. It would hold until he was fit enough to pay it proper attention.

He headed upstairs to prepare for bed, but it seemed such a waste to retire so early, especially when he had the house to himself. The idea struck as he stood irresolutely in the hallway. He listened carefully for any telling rustle or sound of movement from Potter's room, but there was only silence behind the door, not even a solitary creak of bedsprings. They boy was truly asleep.

That settled it. Snape turned and stepped back to the landing, then stretching himself to his full height, reached above his head and caught - just barely - the latch to the attic. He tugged and the hatch opened, ladder descending in its wake. Snape ascended cautiously - the rungs were thin and not terribly sturdy - and then shut the hatch quietly behind him.

The rain pattered soothingly against the roof of the attic, which was really not a proper attic at all, but rather a sort of space between the first floor ceiling and the roof above. It hadn’t even been floored, although the previous Muggle owners had laid wooden boards over the rafters to make a platform of sorts. They’d used the space for storage, but as Snape had little in the way to store, there was plenty of room for him.

He’d made use of the area on countless nights such as this before Potter’s arrival had thrown his life into disarray. After the Auror's appearance he hadn’t dared come up here, no matter how badly he’d desired the solitude - wizardry had a long tradition of performing magic in tower areas, and he hadn’t wanted Potter to suspect him of attempting Dark incantations in the attic.

Even after he’d realised that Potter no longer posed any real threat, he’d been strangely reluctant to alert Potter to the attic’s existence. It was his place, and as pleasant as the boy’s company could be on occasion, this was still his house, and he didn’t want Potter everywhere in it.

He stretched himself on his back atop one of the boards, shut his eyes and for a long while thought about nothing save the sound of the rain on the shingles above. Yet eventually reality began to intrude, whether he willed it or no.

He opened his eyes and stared at the eaves above, dimly illuminated by the single small window in the far wall. His sixtieth birthday. As of today, half his life was gone, and what had he accomplished with it thus far? It was easy to be honest with himself here, in the dark, with nothing but the gentle drumming of the rain for company.

Precious little. He was, as Potter had said those weeks ago, a second rate wizard. He had helped to overthrow the Dark Lord, but then so had many others besides him. In fact, precious few knew of or cared what part he’d played in the War. He’d spent fully one third of his life in exile on this magic-barren continent, far from everything he‘d known.

He’d made a living for himself, but he was a charlatan whose living depended on deception - no great change there, all things considered. He had no legacy, no family, no friends.

And the delicious irony of it was that Potter, of all people, had come as close to becoming his friend as had anyone else in his life. But Potter had only been thrown here by circumstance, and would no doubt be returning to England shortly, his mission completed. So no, he was not Snape’s friend, although he still fitted the description better than most.

And if the Snape of a quarter-century ago could have known of that... He laughed, not entirely bitterly, his voice echoing weirdly off of the eaves.

“....you are!” Potter’s voice travelled faintly from somewhere in the hallway below him.

There were a few resounding thuds before a beam of light shafted into the attic as Potter pulled the hatch down. He shut his eyes against the blinding illumination, and when he opened them again, it was to find Potter standing on the ladder, his head and neck just peaking above the hatch mouth.

“So this is where you’ve been all evening,” he said, squinting around at the attic. And then, “What are you doing here, Snape?”

He turned away from Potter and stared at the ceiling. The shaft of light did not disappear, so Potter's upper bits were presumably still invading his sanctum.

"If you are standing here waiting for me to commence Dark incantations, you will be sorely disappointed."

“We both know you aren’t about to start doing that, Snape.” Potter’s voice was faintly accusatory.

“Yes,” he sighed, not removing his eyes from the ceiling. “We do know that.”

“So what are you doing here?”

“I often come here to listen to the rain.”

“You haven’t since I’ve been here,” Potter said.

“No, I haven’t.”

“So why’ve you started now?”

“Because I have resolved to cease concealing my myriad eccentricities from you. You may feel free to make a full report of them to the Ministry upon your return.” He did turn then to look at Potter.

Potter’s face was carefully blank, but the wounded look in eyes spoke volumes. “I wish you wouldn’t say those things,” he said softly. “I’ve told you I’m not going back to the Ministry.”

“Potter, you have tried using this tactic before, and it has yet to yield results. Why you persist is--”

“Anyway, I’ve made tea, although it’s probably steeped too long by now.” Potter tried for a smile, but it looked forced and one-dimensional. “Care to come down?”

Snape sighed and examined a knot in the rafter above him before answering. “I might as well,” he said at last.

これで以上です。