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The Mourner by Daphne Dunham [Reviews - 11]

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The Mourner
By Daphne Dunham

A child, more than all other gifts
That earth can offer to declining man,
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts.

~ Wordsworth

* * * * * * *

Chapter 2: The Bravest Man He Ever Knew

“Well go on, Silas—do it,” prods the stout boy impatiently.

The boy called Silas stares at the twig in his hand in disbelief, as if it is an alien thing, a hateful thing, a Dark thing. He closes his eyes a moment, hoping that he’ll somehow be able to blink the stick away. However, his heart thumps heavier in his chest when he opens his eyes once more: No such luck; the twig is still there. He swallows hard and glances around at the contents of the palms of the four other boys hovering around him, hoping that he is somehow mistaken, but he is not: He’s done it this time—he’s drawn the shortest twig.

“I triple troll dare you,” the larger boy challenges further, his eyes narrowing to smug slits as he folds his arms across his chest.

At the mention of a triple troll dare, the mood intensifies. There are wide eyes all around the circle, the boys exchanging awed, horrified glances with one another before fixing their stares on Silas. The latter glances anxiously over his shoulder. For weeks, he’s partaken of this Friday afternoon ritual—the lingering at the roadside in front of the small, strange cottage, drawing lots to see whose turn it would be to venture up that long, overgrown walkway. Silas has watched his friends one-by-one fall victim to the luck of the twigs—first Godfrey, most recently William. Each has had varying degrees of success: Dunstan achieving the most, having made it as far as the dilapidated crab apple tree by the door before becoming too frightened to go further. He’d managed to inflict his damage, nonetheless—hurled a nearby stone through the dusty window, shattering the glass, before racing away back down the hill, back down the walkway to the safety of the street. Indeed, Dunstan’s accomplishment has been a fine one, the model to which they have all aspired; surpassing it seems nearly impossible to Silas.

“Ease up, Eliot—I’m going,” Silas snaps, turning back to the group.

With a pretense of cool self-assurance, he thrusts the tiny twig back at Eliot. Then, wiping his palms, sweaty with anxiety, on the sides of his robes, Silas turns away from his friends. Suppressing a nervous sigh, he starts up the walkway, the hesitancy in his stride betraying his lack of confidence. Even several steps up the path, he can still hear the snickering from the group of boys he’s left behind him on the roadside.

“Bet you five knuts that he runs away before he even reaches the door,” William says.

“A sickle for him wetting himself when he sees Master Snape,” chimes in Bryce.

Two sickles Snape cuts him up and boils him in his cauldron,” adds the significantly more malicious Dunstan.

Then, Silas hears nothing—just his heart beating wildly and the crunch of his footsteps on the dust and gravel of the narrow, winding walkway. It’s a precarious path—steep and weedy, with roots and rocks protruding from beneath, waiting to ensnare. Silas trips over a decaying log; it crumbles from the force of his kick, moldy wood and ants spewing from it like vomit. He makes a feeble attempt to catch himself as he falls but only finds himself sprawled, face-down on the front step of the cottage at the top of the hill. Dusting dirt off his robes and trying to ignore the sting of the scrapes on his hands, the boy stands up, trembling.

Silas has lived in Hogsmeade his entire life and cannot recall a time when Raveloe Cottage has looked any different than it does now. A Tudor-style arrangement of rooms with an irregular roofline hovering in the shadows of Hogwarts castle, it smacks of peculiarity and disuse. The lawn looks as though it hasn’t been cut in months; several shingles are missing, and much of the timber looks splintered. Even the window Dunstan had broken weeks ago is still in a state of disrepair. The only signs of life, in fact, come from the chimney, which smokes lazily—and the hothouse, partly shielded by the crab apple tree on the side of the property and apparently the home of some rare and menacing-looking plants.

Despite the fact that it has been many months since the peculiar man rumored to be Master Snape has come to live here, there has been little, if any, progress made in improving the property. The man’s reluctance to be seen in town—despite the fact that he is said to be single-handedly responsible for keeping Applewither’s Apothecary well stocked for the aging proprietor—has only added to the mystery of his existence. And the fact that he is rumored to have gone slightly mad since the War has made him a target of schoolboys’ fear and mischief.

It is that same fear and mischief which fills Silas now. He takes a deep breath in attempt to calm himself as he stares at the weather-beaten wooden door before him. He knows his mother has told him numerous times to leave poor Master Snape—if indeed it is him—alone, that he’s a hero who has earned his peace, even if he does choose to live it out in a strange fashion. But his friends are on the street below watching, daring, betting against him. He can practically hear Dunstan mocking his cowardice and gloating how he is still the bravest of them all, having ventured the farthest into the domain of the recluse. Hand trembling, Silas reaches out toward the door. He knocks on it quickly, pounding his fist against it urgently; then he dashes away behind the corner of the house, barely breathing.

A moment later, the cottage door opens with a creak. A sallow, hook-nosed man peers around the frame of the door. He’s frowning, dour-faced, as he scans the yard to see who has summoned him. Finding no one outside, the man mutters something incoherent yet distinctly irritated under his breath, then disappears back inside and slams the door closed once more. Silas waits a few moments, then repeats the process again: emerges from around the corner of the house, knocks, hides, and waits—and again, the pale man opens the door, surveys his stoop, and grumpily stalks back inside. The third time he does it, Silas can hear the giggles rising up the hill from the boys watching at the roadside as he takes his place out of sight by the side of the house. He hears the man open the door, then waits for the swearing and the slamming that follows. It’s taking longer than usual this time. Curious, he steps out of the shadows, wondering what the cause of the change in ritual could be.

“So we think we are amusing do we?” seethes a cold, silky voice suddenly.

There is a jolt in which Silas barely realizes what is happening—he’s only sure that there is a rough hand at his neck, pushing him forward, toward the path and off the property. Terrified, the boy kicks and cries against his captor, struggling to free himself.

“Never show your face here again!” Each syllable is punctuated with ice. Then, the man abruptly lets go, thrusting the intruder away with such force that the boy trips and stumbles over the same decaying log he had encountered on his way up the hill.

Silas scrambles to his feet, panting insipid apologies. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—didn’t—mean—any—harm!”

But as he races away, he doesn’t dare look back at the man to see if he is the same person he’d seen on the front page of the Daily Prophet—he doesn’t care if he accomplishes the task he’d set out to do. Instead, Silas can only think of the safety to be obtained by reaching the roadside and how grateful he’ll be when this encounter becomes nothing but a memory he’ll laugh at over an icy glass of pumpkin juice with his friends.

* * *


With a sudden pop, Harry Potter finds himself standing in front of the crooked, wooden sign. The paint is chipped slightly, but the words are clear enough: Raveloe Cottage. He pauses, skeptical, as he stares up the gnarled path, up the hill, up to the strange Tudor home above. It had probably once been a charming place, this cottage, he thinks—all it needs is some straightening up. And some weeding. And a garden—lilies, perhaps, would be fitting. Either way, it seems like an unlikely home for a hero. Then, Harry glances down the road, where a pack of pre-adolescent boys are laughing and slapping the skinniest among them on the back in a congratulatory fashion; they walk away quickly, back toward the village. At once, Harry is sure he’s at the right place.

“No…” Harry whispers to himself, his heart suddenly heavy. He thinks of a memory that isn’t his—that he had witnessed in a Pensieve three years ago: Snape’s worst memory—the way his father, flanked by his friends, had tormented the stringy, greasy-haired young Snape after O.W.L.s. Now, the scene of a gang of boys walking away from the adult Snape with laughter and haughty airs evokes similar visions in Harry’s mind, and at once, the young man can guess what has happened here, what those boys must have been doing in such an otherwise secluded area of Hogsmeade.

“Oi!” he calls after them, planning to shout, to scold, to tell them who it is that they’re harassing: a former Death Eater, a former spy, a former Hogwarts headmaster—the bravest man Harry Potter himself has ever met. And respect is most certainly in order. But it’s too late. The pack have made their way out of hearing distance, have disappeared around a bend in the road, and Harry can only shake his head slowly and turn back to the forlorn Raveloe Cottage with a sigh. It never ends for Snape, he thinks sadly.

As he starts up the tangled walkway to the house dangling precariously on the hill above, there is a heaviness in his heart—a melancholic empathy that just mere months ago, Harry never imagined he could feel for the cold, cruel man who had been his professor. Even as he walks, a part of him doesn’t believe he’s doing this—never thought he actually would find himself wanting to talk to Severus Snape. However, as Harry raises his hand and knocks on the door, he can scarcely wait for the hook-nosed wizard he had once loathed to appear on the other side and let him in.

There’s no answer at first, even though Harry feels quite certain he sees a shifting light through the dusky window—candles or the flames of a cauldron. Only when he lifts his hand and knocks again—more forcefully this time, nearly getting a splinter in his knuckles—does he receive a response.

“I told you never to show your face around here again,” hisses a voice from within the cottage.

Harry hesitates, his suspicions regarding the boys on the roadside seemingly confirmed. He persists, though, knocking on the door again in courtesy. “Professor?” he says as his hand finds the knob. He turns it slowly.

Very narrowly, Harry misses it: the beaker hurtling through the air toward him, aimed fairly well at the center of his head—a gift intended for one of the nuisance boys he’d seen on the way here, he assumes. He ducks, and the vial soars over him, smashing on the now-ajar doorframe in a torrent of glass. It’s not the first time he’s had Snape’s potion-making equipment hurled at him, and Harry moves forward cautiously. He peers around the door to see his attacker; his trainers make crunching sounds as he walks, the glass underfoot grinding into the wooden floor with each step. “Professor?” he repeats.

The central living space of the cottage is mostly open, one room divided into many purposes. In the corner is a small kitchenette, tidy except for the dusty remains of a broken window sitting on the floor in front of the sink; across from it is a fireplace, flames blazing at the hearth, dancing happily over the logs with a mirth the rest of the area does not exude. There is the tiny sitting area nestled in front of the fire, complete with a matching sofa and wingback chair and guarded by a swarm of brimming bookshelves. Tucked in the far corner is a staircase, some spindles missing; it must lead upstairs—to a bedroom or two, perhaps. Finally, in the center of the room—a midpoint between the fire and the doorway and the stairs—is a workstation, a long wooden table on which there seems to be all manner of things Harry remembers seeing in Snape’s Potions classroom: vials and beakers, liquids and slimes, fleshy specimens in flasks. And, nestled in the center of it all, a cauldron.

Severus Snape stands at the workstation, his black-clad figure hovering over it like a bat, like a grim reaper. He looks up sharply at the intruder, his dark eyes flickering dangerously. He had known Harry would come to see him—maybe not today, of course—but eventually. After all, Severus had gotten the boy’s letters; they arrived nearly every week, bearing with them the usual inane news and questions: Harry was going back to school, and wouldn’t he reconsider doing the same? Harry wanted to talk to him about his parents; couldn’t his former professor please spare a bit of time? The Ministry was holding a ceremony to honor the dead and the heroes of the Battle of Hogwarts; would Severus be attending? It seemed only a matter of time before Harry gave up on relying on unanswered letters and came in person instead.

“Potter,” Severus says tersely in greeting, sizing the boy—the young man, rather—up. He can’t say he’s particularly pleased to see his former student: arrogantly strutting through his front door uninvited, as though expecting to be closely connected, their history together conveniently forgotten in a sudden wave of sentimentality.

For a moment, all the two wizards do is stare at one another: Severus at Harry and Harry at Severus. For Harry, it is like he is looking at the sallow-skinned, hook-nosed wizard for another first time, a first time very different from the day he’d spotted him at the staff table before his Sorting when he started at Hogwarts. Those cavernous eyes, greasy curtains of hair, and thin frame are not so dissimilar from his, Harry realizes. After all, the two of them have so much in common: the loss, the suffering, the marginalization, the love, the bravery. They are not so unalike as he had once wanted them to be, he and Snape—Harry sees this now.

There is so much to say that the words Harry has been planning suddenly seem inadequate; they pour over him in a deluge of regret, rendering him speechless. Harry wants to apologize for the years of fury and wrongs—he wants to ask Snape about his mother—he wants to tell him about his conversation with Dumbledore at King’s Cross, that the headmaster expressed remorse for what happened to him. Mostly, though, Harry wants to tell him that he’s grateful, wants to thank Snape for his selflessness, his courage, the depths of which he can only begin to fathom.

“I’m not talking about Lily, and you would be wise not to ask,” Severus says finally, coldly, sensing—as always—Harry’s thoughts and intentions. Severus’ voice seems to carry on the mist rising from the cauldron before him. Then, with a wave of his wand, the steam vanishes and the fire beneath it is extinguished; the cauldron is empty.

Harry’s face falls slightly, disappointed. He watches, trying to recover, as Severus crosses the room and sits, back to him, by the fire. The older wizard’s air is impassive, and he avoids looking at Harry; it’s as though the young man is something unsightly. Nonetheless, Harry steps forward, emboldened by the fact that there have been no more objects hurled at him and no insistence that he leave. He moves closer to the fire, closer to Severus—though not brazen enough to sit beside him.

“I was hoping you’d have attended the ceremony at the Ministry this afternoon,” Harry tells him. “Didn’t you receive the invitation—or any of my letters?”

“I did,” Severus replies simply.

Harry struggles against his already mounting exasperation; he doesn’t want to loathe Severus Snape anymore. “And…?” he prompts.

“And nothing,” Severus informs him. “I received the letters—” He pauses to nod in the direction of the fireplace, toward an intricately carved rectangular wooden box that lies on the mantle. “—However, they were nothing of consequence to me.”

Color floods Harry’s cheeks at the implication of the Potions Master’s words—and a bit of the familiar bile he’s used to experiencing in Severus’ company is threatening to rise in him once more: As he looks toward the box, he sees an envelope—still unopened, unread—sitting on top of it, waiting to accompany its brothers within. Harry recognizes the seal on the fold: HJP pressed into Gryffindor-crimson wax; it’s his own seal—his own letter, the one he’d sent yesterday.

“Those letters are of every consequence to you,” Harry blurts, almost accusatorily, at the revelation. He stops speaking abruptly, then tries to swallow the bile and force calm on himself. “You can’t shut the world out,” he adds. There’s an urgent, almost begging quality to his tone.

“Yes, what a great pity it would be if I did,” Severus snaps. “The wizarding community would certainly be lost if not for my great contributions to it.”

The words hang acridly in the air, leaving Harry open-mouthed, stunned. It’s an ironic choice of words for a man who has just been awarded the highest honor possible in the wizarding world—even if he refused to receive his medal in person. “I think the Ministry feels differently, Professor,” he says.

The firelight glints off the medal as Harry withdraws it from his trousers’ pocket. For the first time, Severus looks up, looks at him. He takes the proffered token, turning it over in his hand. The medal is cold to the touch, hard—a harsh conflict in textures when compared to the vine of rich, soft, navy velvet looped through the tiny hole at its top. Severus runs his finger over the engraving of the famous ancient wizard’s likeness, then reads its inscription slowly. Order of Merlin, First Class. Severus T. Snape. For valor, wisdom, and skill in the face of danger.

“I accepted it on your behalf at the ceremony today,” Harry explains. “I thought you might like to keep it.”

An iceberg—a frozen, impassible mass—blockades Severus’ throat as he looks at the medal. Then, his eyes grow steely and cold, like iron. And his face whitens, pale and sour like old milk—and his body tenses, jaw to joints, rigid, uncomfortable. Another man may have treasured this honor, but to Severus Snape, the medal is nothing more than a reminder of the horrors he has seen and done, of his mistakes and his repentance. He doesn’t see Merlin’s face in the medal, doesn’t read his name. Instead, he sees Lily Potter, sees Albus Dumbledore, sees Muggles whose names he never knew. Apparently, it’s an honor to be a traitor and a murderer these days, Severus thinks darkly.

“Professor, I—”

Harry’s about to say something maudlin, something profound, something that will feebly attempt to make everything right again—Severus can sense it, and he can’t bear the humiliation of being exposed to it. Before the young man can continue, Severus snaps his hand hurriedly closed over the medal in his palm, like a door slamming or a clam in its shell.

“I’m not your professor anymore, Potter,” he interjects brusquely in attempt to avoid a scene. “In case you’ve forgotten, I abandoned my post.”

“You had no choice but to abandon your post—you would’ve been killed if you’d stayed,” Harry reminds him emphatically. “In fact, Professor McGonagall and I have already asked the Board of Governors to override the enchantments at Hogwarts. You’ll have a portrait in the headmaster’s office when the time comes. Beside Dumbledore’s.”

The hook-nosed wizard smirks. “And I suppose I’ll be fortunate enough to have my face on a Chocolate Frog card as well?” he adds sardonically. “Surely there is no higher honor than that.”

Harry sighs. He swallows hard, then makes a final attempt at peace. “Look, I can’t undo the past. I can’t make it so my dad never married my mum. And I can’t take back all the times I didn’t trust you,” he tells him strongly, in a mixture of pleading and frustration. “But I’ve done what I can to try to make it up to you—to thank you—and to apologize.”

There is nothing but silence from the Potions Master—the slow, dull, heavy kind; it moves through the room like a glacier, like a lead anchor to the bottom of the sea. Seeing the futility of his efforts, Harry turns to go.

“You’re not a coward,” he says suddenly, quietly. He stands, one foot on the threshold, the other on the stony walkway, and the memory of the last, horrible, accusatory words he had spoken to Severus Snape before today—while racing across the Hogwarts grounds shortly after Dumbledore’s death nearly two years ago—replaying in his mind. “Far from it. You’re the bravest man I’ve ever met. And my mum… she would’ve been so proud of you.”

But the clumsy quiet only persists despite Harry’s words, that mixture of simultaneous forgiveness and apology that had cost him so much pride to admit. It’s all Harry can do to restrain himself from slamming the door as he turns from it and closes it behind him.

What Harry doesn’t know is that, as he turns to head down the narrow walkway toward the street—toward Hogsmeade, toward anywhere but his former loathsome professor’s melancholic cottage—the man he’s left behind is still sitting, silent, in his chair by the fire. There are tears in Severus Snape’s eyes; they well so high against his dark, dark pupils that he dares not move or speak or do more than barely breathe for fear of spilling them.

* * * * * * *


A/N: I gratefully acknowledge that this story is loosely based on George Eliot’s Silas Marner. To be continued…


The Mourner by Daphne Dunham [Reviews - 11]

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