Postal

POSTAL

(A Severus Snape fanfiction in postcard installments)

By A.L. de Sauveterre

NINE

When Sirius spoke, his voice was low and gruff, almost a growl. "You’re an even bigger fool than I thought you were, Severus, for bringing her here."

Snape’s eyes flew open, as if jolted, and he swung round, noticing Sirius for the first time. "YOU!" Snape drew himself up to his full height. Harry suddenly wondered if it had been a good idea to let Sirius come with them. A tense silence followed as Snape and Sirius glowered at each other, pacing the circumference of the little room, like two wolves preparing to fight.

It was Snape who spoke first. The usual silk had gone from his voice. It was controlled. But only just. "This is of no concern to you, Black. Leave others to their own business."

Harry saw Sirius’s eyes flash. He laughed sardonically. "What—like you did by interfering in the Shrieking Shack? Letting Pettigrew escape?"

"I didn’t let Pettigrew escape, Black," Snape growled. "I was unconscious." His black eyes flickered accusingly at Harry, Ron and Hermione who shifted a little guiltily at the side of the room (although Harry and Ron were trying not to smile).

But Sirius continued, not listening. "Or by following us round the school and at night, snooping into our private affairs, hoping to get me or James or Remus expelled? Or could it all be due to your overbearing arrogance or some pathetic loneliness that you can portkey a Ministry spy-in-hiding to satisfy A WHIM?!—"

Harry, Ron and Hermione exchanged nervous glances. They hadn’t discussed with Sirius their conclusions about Snape’s relationship to the woman. Harry’s eyes swiveled toward Snape. Normally, Snape would have been shouting derangedly by now. Or brandishing his wand. Or something. This meeting was definitely not going the way they had planned. Sirius was not so much taking charge as charging.

"—Have you gone mad!" he snarled, whipping his wand at a glaring Snape. "Did you know that that woman is DUMBLEDORE’S SECRET KEEPER?! If Voldemort manages to extract the information he needs, she’s as good as dead! DEAD!—THAT OCCURRED TO YOU, DID IT?! Or perhaps, you don’t care about Dumbledore’s secrets any more than you cared about Lupin’s! And your arrogance proves you sure as hell don’t care about HER LIFE!!"

"GET OUT!" spat Snape. The Potions Master was shaking with rage now, his fingers tightly gripping his wand, so that Harry was sure it would break at any moment.

But Sirius’s eyes had a fire in them that Harry had not seen since his confrontation with Snape in the Shrieking Shack. His tone was that of thinly veiled loathing.

"Not until I’m ready. You. Selfish. Interfering. Prat. How could you, after knowing how this could jeopardize all our efforts in the war and her life and Dumbledore’s as well?! What were you thinking, just because of some schoolboy crush and you thought she stood you up for Remus—"

Three mouths dropped open in surprise, unnoticed by either Snape or Sirius.

"—YOU SAD, SELFISH, PRESUMPTUOUS BASTARD," he continued. "WHAT GIVES YOU THE RIGHT—"

"She’s my wife," said Snape quietly. Making that four open mouths.

TEN

Severus Snape paced the length of his chambers, crossing from the book-laden desk to the cold stone hearth. Unconsciously, his impatient fingers raked through his tangled raven hair, taking care to avoid the nasty welt where he had failed to dodge Black’s fist. For the first—no, he corrected himself—the second time in his life, he felt completely and utterly helpless. And he had no one to blame but himself for her disappearance. They had to find her soon. If only Dumbledore hadn’t appeared when he did, her life wouldn’t be in Black’s hands. His fist pounded the wall beside him.

Could he really trust Black? And that mockery of a reconnaissance team, he thought wryly—Potter, Granger and Weasley. They were just children. Oh, Merlin—he tugged more fiercely at his hair now, shaking his head despondently—she’s as good as gone.

"Severus, you know as well as I that negative thoughts only serve to weaken the spirit and have no utilitarian value." Snape jumped nearly three feet to the side. In the hearth, Dumbledore’s head had appeared again, the long white beard fading somewhere in the direction of the ashes. The Headmaster had impeccable timing. Snape had always suspected that Dumbledore knew more or less all the goings on at Hogwarts. But recently, the Headmaster’s synchronicity with his own thoughts had been staggeringly accurate.

Severus quickly recovered. He drew himself up, immediately letting the words spill forth. "Sir, you must let me go. Let me help them, at least. It was my fault that she—"

"It was through no fault of yours that Esmerelda was captured. No fault," repeated Dumbledore, fixing Severus with a firm glare through the glinting half-moon spectacles. "You must understand that."

Snape’s gaunt face, paler and even more drawn than in the previous nights, turned away. He couldn’t bring himself to let Dumbledore see the anger in his face, and the despair. He felt trapped at Hogwarts, not being able to leave unless his departure was necessitated by being called to Voldemort’s side. He felt for the Dark Mark on the inside of his left arm. He knew it was there, but it was no longer burning as it ought to have been for a summoning. Not even the merest tingle. And there was nothing he could do to alleviate his worry—and not a drop of wormwood or asphodel in his supply cupboard to brew his most effective sleeping potion. If he didn’t do something, he was sure to go mad. Maybe if he were to slip out for a walk to the Forest after dinner—

"—and you know full well that it would be… unwise to try and find Esmerelda on your own." Dumbledore’s head sighed and looked down, vaguely in the direction of the slate floor. "Ah, but you always had a bit of the Gryffindor in you, Severus."

Snape started, whipping round to the fireplace, frankly shocked at the suggestion. As if Dumbledore had said he was somehow related to Sirius Black.

Dumbledore’s beard twitched and his eyes, tinged faintly green from the fire, twinkled in amusement. "Oh, don’t look so surprised. You have demonstrated more than adequately your own bravery and loyalty. It is only too natural that you should feel the need to rescue her." The Headmaster’s eyes turned gravely toward Snape. "Unfortunately, that is precisely what Voldemort wants. Only your presence can complete the Dark Knight Spell."

The spell. Veniat Eques Malus. Severus heaved a leaden sigh; he wished he hadn’t had that idea in the first place. Wished moreover that he hadn’t let Esmerelda convince him to involve her. But he knew he’d been weak where she was concerned. He always had been.

Snape frowned, pulling back his sleeve to gaze at the pale imprint of the skull on his arm. "And what if I should be called?"

Dumbledore paused, but only for a moment. "We will have time to discuss that after you have completed your task"—eyebrows raised, Severus blinked at the Headmaster curiously—"should you choose to accept it."

"Task?"

"Peppermint imp, Severus?" A hand popped through the flames, holding out a small tin of little extra spicy red mints.

"No, thank you," he snapped, somewhat impatiently and was rewarded only with a twinge of guilt. He knew it was wrong of him to take any of his frustration out on the Headmaster. Only Dumbledore knew his true history with Esmerelda, and Snape knew he only meant to help.

Dumbledore sighed and the hand recoiled, disappearing from view.

"I have received this morning a communication from Cornelius Fudge. The Ministry need you to locate and bring back one of Voldemort’s special attachés who is currently posing as a member of the Muggle community and whom we believe has been responsible for the disappearances of several Muggles in the past six months. If he is not apprehended soon, there is a risk that he will again be called into the service of Voldemort’s army. If that were to happen, I cannot tell you how devastating that would be to us and the Order."

"Why me?" he asked. "Why not Moody or… someone else?… Black, perhaps?" he offered, almost hopefully.

Dumbledore shook his head. "Believe me, Severus, I argued against them choosing you, knowing what you must have on your mind at this time. But the Council has agreed that you would be the logical choice since you may be more familiar with him than anyone on our side."

Snape looked grave. "Who is it?"

"Callum Rosier."

The hairs on Snape’s arms suddenly stood on end. Rosier. Yes, he knew him. In Voldemort’s first reign, who didn’t. A quarter giant to Hagrid’s half, but easily twenty times more ruthless, cruel, and blood hungry. He preferred first, not just to break, but to utterly destroy one’s spirit and torture the mind, before slowly putting his victims through even lengthier physical suffering that he somehow managed to convince them they deserved. Next to Rosier, an army of Dementors looked like a Muggle parish garden party.

With a jolt, he recalled Potter’s voice from the other night. Professor Snape, there’s someone in your rooms. Not Esmerelda Plofufnik. I mean, not just her, sir. Callum Rosier, Alphonso Wilkes and Lucius Malfoy.

Snape gave Dumbledore a controlled nod, trying not to look as savage as he felt. "Tell me where he is."

ELEVEN

The tall, dark figure emerged from the wide arced steel mouth that marked the entrance to Underground station. A stream of Muggle businessmen and women clad almost uniformly in dark blue, black or charcoal elbowed past him, apparently too self-absorbed to notice the man standing on the pavement in the heavy, black cloak over billowing black robes. Only one or two construction workers tipped back their hard hats to peer curiously at him, only to be forced to look away from the feral glare that met their glances.

Snape looked up at the towering edifice and checked the slip of parchment Fudge’s owl had sent earlier that morning. He had grabbed the instructions, his wand and his sneakoscope and Apparated immediately to find himself in the middle of what he had once read of as being a Muggle "rush hour." Muggles, all dressed in the same sober tones strode past. Some muttered to colleagues. Others walked distractedly while speaking in loud tones clasping small objects to their ears. They looked ridiculous.

A loud, startling horn jolted him backwards as a vehicle flew past, nearly knocking him to the side. The middle-aged Muggle drove off, with his arm out the window flapping in an unfamiliar, but unmistakably vulgar gesture. Resisting the urge to draw his wand and hex the man’s vehicle full of Pixies, Severus crossed the street and toward the building. He stopped at the sight of its revolving glass doors, marveling wryly to himself that the disorganized nature of the average Muggle necessitated the use of revolving doors to regulate the flow of traffic in and out of a building. Thinking of Esmerelda, Severus hastily pushed that thought out of his head. Given the side he had chosen and the mission he had just undertaken, those thoughts informed by the old bigotry were wholly inappropriate. In fact, he thought, taking a mental about-face, considering the boisterous, undignified entry of the students into the Potions lab, a revolving door might not be a bad idea.

Drawing his thoughts back to the task at hand, he reached into his robes and pulled out a small plastic card with a photograph of a blond bespectacled young man in a shirt and tie. J. W. Reid.

"’Morning," said the security guard as he checked Snape’s identification before letting him through to the lifts.

Everything was as Fudge and Moody said it would be. No one seemed to notice his attire; in fact, they saw instead another charcoal pinstriped suit and tie. He peered closely at the Muggle photograph of the charmed ID card now dangling from his neck by a flimsy aluminum chain. Then he discreetly observed the Muggles in the crowded lift, some holding a steaming liquid in white and brown paper cups. A couple of the women smiled broadly at him. This only confirmed to Severus that his disguise was complete; they were looking at the cheery-looking, mild-mannered lawyer who worked at Overbeck Brúckheimer Pratt LLP.

The doors opened on the 28^th Floor into a large, empty atrium lined with other lift doors. He felt a shove from behind as someone said, "Hey, Jimmy. Wake up, dude, that’s us."

Startled, he stepped forward into the atrium. A tall young man with prematurely greying hair, clapped him congenially on the back again as the lift door thunked closed followed by a beep. "Don’t forget, squash at 2:30. We are gonna hose them today!" He jocularly pointed a finger at a confounded-looking Snape as he jauntily receded to the doors opposite. Severus stared at him horrified. The man dropped his hand and swore loudly before turning back to Snape.

"Jimbo, lemme use your card. ‘Left mine at Amy’s." With a wink, he plucked the card from Snape’s hand and swiped it through a groove beside the heavy metal doors. A red button lit along the adjacent steel panel and the man swore again, this time stopping to examine the card.

"This one’s no good," he said.

Snape’s froze. "It’s… not working?"

"Nah." The man shook his head. "Weren’t you here yesterday? Name’s changed? The merger, remember? The Trunchbull had the cards reissued for security reasons."

Snape blinked helplessly. Trunchbull?

"Don’t worry," the man said, pressing the lowest button on the panel. "If you weren’t here yesterday, reception’ll have it."

Severus had barely opened his mouth when the door opened and they came face to face with a young woman in a navy blue suit. She looked at them vaguely and let them in before crossing the expansive lobby to the desk at the far wall. The man took him to the desk and exchanged the old card for a new one, the only difference in which was the name of the firm. It now read: "Schweinkopf Overbeck Fink Brúckheimer Pratt LLP."

Severus stood at the desk for a moment, taking in the artwork on the walls, some of which he was surprised to recognize from his long ago Muggle Studies lectures as a third year. Behind the reception desk was a particularly dramatic painting of a swirling blood red sunset. In the foreground was a person standing at the end of a dock with his hands grasping the sides of his face, his features set in a silent, painful scream. Snape’s face was grim. He knew what that felt like.

"Hel-lo? Earth to Jim." Severus was annoyed to see the fingers of a hand wave irritatingly into his face and snap twice. "Oi! Quit gawping." The man cocked a knowing brow. "Didn’t make your Starbucks run today, eh." Snape glowered at him. Did nothing this man say make any sense? But he was already disappearing down a long grey corridor. The receptionist ("Vicky," said her nametag) raised her dull blue eyes from the computer screen, blinking at him curiously and frowning. She opened her mouth to ask him something, but Severus had shrewdly decided to stride off, albeit more confidently than he felt, down the corridor, vaguely hoping someone would appear and point him to his desk.

Severus walked to the end of the hall, passing door after door, until he had circled the entire floor twice. Several Muggles, mostly female, peered at him over their cubicle walls, intrigued. He was annoyed to find a small group of them by a makeshift kitchen casting furtive glances at him and giggling. At first he was irritated, and then alarmed as they sauntered by, one by one, leaving in their wake a variety of heady scents. A dark-haired one passed him, grinning wickedly over her shoulder and fingering the collar of her blouse. The next, a blonde in a short black suit stopped him with a hand on his chest and he stared at her with increasing horror as she ostensibly fiddled with the knot of his tie before walking away. And another, with unnaturally tinted red hair sashayed past, giving his arm an intimate squeeze. He gave her a withering look and… she giggled. Confused and disconcerted, Severus found himself flushing furiously and wondering if it would register on this poor James Reid’s face. Seeing his pale reflection on a kitchen cabinet, he decided it did and set off down the hall again, feeling utterly ridiculous.

But there were nameplates on the doors! He roundly cursed himself for having failed to take note of this earlier. So much for former Death Eater stealth.

Proceeding more confidently down the narrow, box-laden corridor, he paused every so often, peering at the door plates, hoping to find "J.W. Reid." A few heads bobbed up disinterestedly before dropping back down to mounds of paper. Some rooms, he discovered, were positively strewn with them, as if Hinkypunks had been responsible for the décor.

A tall young woman in a slim black trousersuit crossed in front of him, glancing at him and muttering as she passed.

"Nice robes."

Severus stopped in mid-step, turning his head to follow where she had slipped through one of the doors. She was sitting behind a neatly arranged, almost bare desk, gesturing at him to an empty chair in front.

"Come on in, Jimmy," she said in a louder-than-normal voice that was sure to carry down the corridor. Pressing a button on a device on her desk she leaned forward and said, "Louise, if anyone calls, tell them I’m in a meeting with Reid until my 1:00. Put them all through to voicemail. Okay?" ("Fine," replied a disembodied voice.) Then, without missing a beat she addressed Severus at her previous volume. "Well, don’t just stand there, Jimmy. Get in here. You can’t be late again for the conference call! Now, shut the door."

She grinned—maddeningly, he thought—and waved Severus inside, still wearing his stunned expression. Not really knowing why, he closed the door behind him with a click. She patiently gave him a moment to settle into a chair as she sat back, steepled her fingers and continued to smile disarmingly. At last, he found his voice.

"What did you say?"

"When?" Her eyebrows rose. "I said shut the door."

"No," he shook his head. "In the corridor, before."

"Oh," she grinned. "Right. Nice robes. I like the buttons, too. Very… (she bit her lip girlishly, searching for the word) militaristic." She paused, resting her chin in one hand. "Although, I’d say in some parts you could be mistaken for a vicar. By the way, Professor, your wand is sticking out."

Snape was flabbergasted. A playful smile etched its way across her face as he fidgeted with the pocket of his robes.

"How did you--? How--?" he stammered. "You know who I am?"

"Of course. I’ve been expecting you."

"You?" Snape half-laughed, half-growled, his eyes narrowing at the girl.

"I’m the one who brought you here," she said, "in a manner of speaking… The person you are looking for is here."

"Here."

"In this firm," she nodded. "Has been for several months now." She lowered her voice. "But if he’s not placed in the Ministry’s custody, he will join the Dark Army. It’s only a matter of time. He’s already been negotiating the details with Voldemort." As she said this, she swiveled in her chair to stand, holding a bottle of mineral water. He watched her pour it into a large flower pot by the big window.

Snape’s dark eyes flickered at the mention of the Dark Lord’s name. "How do you know all this?"

She sat back down, tossing the empty bottle into the waste bin under the desk. "Because I’m drafting the contract." Pushing an errant wave from her forehead, she reached into an accordion file on her desk and pulled out a dog-eared, tea-stained copy of a thick document entitled "Share Purchase Agreement between Warner Brothers, Inc. and Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes".

"Ooops! Wrong one," she said, snatching it back and quickly substituting it for a thicker one covered in annotations in loopy writing that read: "Provision of Services Agreement between Callum S. Rosier and Tom M. Riddle."

"They’re still quibbling over the warranties on Unforgivable Curse Performance, but it should all be finalized by the day after tomorrow. That doesn’t give you much time."

She reached under the desk. "Here. Study these." She pulled some Muggle snapshots from her briefcase. The first depicted a small group of children and in the others, more people, some of whom he had seen in the surrounding offices. Like a huge, leering shadow, Rosier, the same ox-like man Severus had once seen apply the Cruciatus Curse while sipping a Butterbeer, was standing behind all of them with a plastic smile.

Snape leaned forward and laid the photographs on the desk between them. "Who are these people? His family?"

"Family? Miss Trunchbull?" She smiled wryly, but her green eyes remained grave. "They’re not his family, Severus. They’re his dinner."

Severus must have looked predictably horrified, because she said, "That’s right. Now that Voldemort is back, he’s doing it again."

At that moment, a buzzing sound interrupted them. The woman reached across her desk and pressed the same button. "Yes, Louise?"

"Sorry, but the Parkinsons are here. They’re in Conference Room 3," replied the disembodied voice.

"Tell them I’ll be right there." She looked at her watch. "And ask reception to order lunch. Coffee, fruit, sandwiches—but no Branston pickle. Mrs. Parkinson hates that."

"Okay." The voice disappeared with a click.

Snape watched her pull together some files, snapping them into her briefcase. "Sorry, I’ve got a meeting. But it was nice to finally meet you, Severus." She rose and shook his reluctant hand. She pushed the Rosier/Riddle contract across the desk, stopping to gaze steadily at him, a dark wisp falling from her chignon as she cocked her head to one side. Severus suddenly felt slightly uncomfortable, as if she were appraising him. With Herculean effort, he resisted the urge to shift his feet.

"Hmm," she said, almost to herself, "even better than Audrey said you’d be."

Severus, unfortunately, had very good ears. Snape’s mouth dropped open, affronted. "Wait! Just one second."

She turned to look back at him from the open door, clasping her briefcase, her eyebrows raised. He struggled to regain the same composure he normally exhibited in his own Potions classroom, but found it impossible with her looking at him like that. "Who are you?"

"Jimmy, surely you can read?" She tapped at the plate outside the doorframe. Then, leaning into the room, she pointed to her right with a writing instrument and whispered. "By the way, your office is that way."

Her brisk footsteps faded before he managed to step outside and peer at the nameplate.

"A.L. de Sauveterre."