Of Myth and Magic

Chapter Sixteen: Snape's Worst Memory

Chapter Sixteen

Snape's Worst Memory

Hermione braved the dark kitchen to make tea whilst Snape went to the corner shop for milk. She was still there when he arrived back — which he would have teased her about, in any other situation besides this one.

She looked very grave sitting by the fire, her cheeks flushed the same red as her cabled jumper, her stocking feet (new socks, bright blue) tucked beneath her knees as she made herself comfortable in his favourite chair. For the first time in weeks, the warmth of the fire actually seemed to permeate rather than radiate. Snape sunk into the sofa across from her, tea in hand, and waited for her to speak.

"Who did it?" she asked after a long, stabbing silence. She shifted; her jeans squeaked against the fabric of the chair. "The paint on the door."

"The locals hate me," Snape replied. "Being in the news just gave them an opportunity to show me how much. You missed the fantastic etch-work in the front window."

Hermione twisted around in her seat, settled back once she realised she wouldn't be able to see the scratches with the curtains shut. "What have you done to them?" she asked. Snape raised his eyebrows and she gripped her knees in her hands. "I mean...I went to the library," she said. "Well, the National Archives. To read about you."

"Oh?" Snape said. He took a sip of his tea, his gaze fixed on the hottest part of the flame.

"Your indictment," Hermione said.

She stopped, apparently waiting for him to speak. He said nothing.

"I don't see where 'pervert' comes in," she said, her face thankfully unmoved as she spoke the word aloud. "The indictment said you killed someone."

"Did I," Snape said dryly.

"That's what it said."

"It said I was convicted of killing someone," Snape replied.

"Yes," Hermione agreed.

"There is a difference."

"I'm aware." She slid her fingers down the trim lines of her shins. Her shoes lay at the foot of the chair — she had delayed prying them off as long as possible, as though she had been prepared to run. What had he said to make her trust him now?

"Did you see that I appealed?" he asked.

"Yes. It didn't give the outcome."

Snape made a noise and Hermione frowned at him.

"Why is that funny?" she asked, sounding hurt.

"You'll understand when I tell you," he said.

"Then tell me."

"Okay," he replied. He set his tea aside. She was watching him with the largest eyes, the most open expression. In that moment he thought, most intently, that he would lay out the very contents of his soul for her if she asked. Cut it open, pin it in place so she could look inside and examine every corner, know him so well he wouldn't have to say a word.

"I will."

Tobias Snape was not a good man. It was not a matter of opinion; it was fact. His wife knew, his neighbours knew, his son's teachers knew — it would be hard not to, the way Mrs Snape draped herself in scarves and heavy, long-sleeved jumpers year-round, and how the boy could often be seen playing alone at the park, lurking in the depths of the city library, or loitering near the shops in town long after dark. But the son was not much-loved, being too slight, too unkempt, too intense, and where other children might be ushered into the warm bosom of social services, the boy was ignored with silent hopes that one day, he'd either stand up to his father and show the old man what it was like to be on the receiving end of such abuse, or finally gather the courage to leave and never turn back.