Mist and Vapors

Somewhere, a dark figure huddled in front of a dim fire that barely gave off any heat. Staring into the flickering flames, he thought bitterly about the ugliness of the last few months. It all had ended so suddenly, so unexpectedly - his plans come to nothing, his visions of grandeur destroyed, his dreams shattered like glass. They had died along with the One in whom he had put all his hopes for the future. The One who had promised him a better life, had waved before him visions of fame, greatness, and glory as the just compensation for fealty. Oh, the dreams he had dreamt.

It was nightmares, now, instead. All that was left was the bitterness of defeat. Always on the run, chased by Aurors, and heaven help him if they found him. Too late had he seen the traitor in their midst. That one. His heart convulsed with hate. He had trusted him, had thought he was on their side, had even looked up to him. Yet all along he had fooled him. Betrayed him, betrayed his Lord, betrayed them all.

The Dark Lord was vanquished, and yet that one lived. That wasn't right, was it? He should have to pay for what he did, shouldn't he? Yes, indeed, he should. But how? Simple death was not enough. He would have to figure out something special, some way to not just kill him, but destroy him, a painful and slow end...

- -

As the Hogwarts staff waited for the last stragglers to arrive, Professor Severus Snape absentmindedly tapped the tip of his quill on the parchment in front of him. The final staff meeting of the year was about to commence. After this, there would be blessed freedom - freedom from students, teaching, meetings, lesson plans, and preparation.

There already was freedom from more than one thing - Lord Voldemort was dead, his Death Eaters either in Azkaban, or scattered and in hiding. The last of the by now obligatory crises had passed - what was that now, seven years in a row? - and he was free, free of the Dark Lord, and free of Harry Potter.

By all that was right, he should have been rid of the boy two years ago. Everyone knew that he only accepted students with no less than an 'O' on their Potions O.W.L. into his N.E.W.T. class. But no, as always, there had been special treatment given to the Potter boy - Dumbledore had called Severus into his office, and mildly 'requested' that he allow at least 'E' students as well, insinuating that his standards were unreasonably high. Strangely enough, the Headmaster had never complained about that in any of the previous years.

Well, that was over and done with, water under the bridge, and the fact that the Potter boy was finally gone for good from his life put the Potions master in a much more charitable mood. In just a few more minutes, he would be free to go and do what he wanted - a whole summer at his disposal. His presence would be required neither by the Order, nor among the Death Eaters; his time was finally his own again. Free. He cautiously tried to get his mind around the word. The thought was almost disconcerting. It had been so long.

- -

He looked up as Albus Dumbledore rose and cleared his throat.

"First of all, I want to thank you all for a successful year. In view of all that happened, it is nothing short of a miracle that we managed to finish the school year as planned. All of you have shown outstanding commitment and ability, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Before I dismiss you for the summer, let me just touch on a couple of points. Several staff members have brought to my attention that the composition skills of the lower Years have been steadfastly declining."

The Potions master snorted softly. The lack of mastery many of the students displayed concerning grammar, structure, and spelling was completely unacceptable. He had let the Headmaster know in no uncertain terms that he could not be expected to teach basic English in addition to drumming the finer points of potion preparation into the dunderheads' skulls. Seemingly, he hadn't been the only one. It was unreasonable to expect the students to progress on their own in writing skills after entering Hogwarts at the age of eleven. Instruction in the magical arts was certainly paramount, but instilling the ability to write a coherent sentence should not be underestimated, in Snape's opinion.

"...I am delighted to inform you that next school year we will create a new staff position that will add an hour of English Composition to the students' schedules," Dumbledore continued. "I assume you all will be pleased with that?"

He looked straight at Severus with that infernal twinkle in his eyes as a smattering of applause broke out across the room. "Please let me know if you know of any candidate suitable for the position. Other than that, there will be no changes; I am overjoyed to report that all the rest of the staff will be returning next year. Please get your supply lists to me no later than August first, and Professor McGonagall will have the new class schedules to you no later than the middle of that month. If that is all then? Any questions?" He paused for a moment with raised eyebrows. "No? Well, then all that is left for me to do is wish you a great summer. Enjoy your time off, you have earned it."

A murmur filled the room as teachers and staff stood up, gathered papers and quills, and started shaking hands and saying good-bye to friends and colleagues.

So all the staff would be returning - Severus Snape realized with a bitter smirk that that meant his application for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position must have been rejected yet again. Dumbledore hadn't even had the decency to tell him. He sent an icy glare over towards Remus Lupin, who had filled that position for the last two years. So Lupin would get the job for another year, and as a consolation price, Severus would again get to spend several extra hours in the dungeon every month, whipping up Wolfsbane potion. And fill in occasionally when the werewolf was indisposed. Terrific.

He stood up with a sigh, gathered his belongings, and said some curt good-byes to those he passed on his way out the door. He let out a deep breath - finished, over, done; finally. One more unpleasant obligation to get out of the way and he would be free for the summer. Free...

*****************

Severus Snape paused for a moment to look up at the dilapidated house. Once, it must have been impressive, but it had been many, many years now since neglect and time had reduced it to its present depressing state. He could not remember ever having seen it any other way, with peeling paint, a sagging roofline, and gardens gone to seed generations ago. He unconsciously squared his shoulders before walking up to the massive door. How he hated this place.

"Hello, Mother." Severus Snape allowed himself to be pulled into an embrace by the small woman who had opened the door. "Is he here?"

"I'm afraid so," she said apologetically, looking over her shoulder with uneasiness.

The muscles in the Potion master's face tightened, but he stepped through the doorway. The only reason he came to this house was to see his mother, and he limited his visits to one per year. It was all he could bring himself to do.

Saeran Snape followed her son into the dark, overstuffed parlor. A long time ago she had been a beauty, with the black hair and fair skin tone of her Welsh ancestors. That beauty had long since fled, leaving behind a faded woman with ashen skin.

"Sit. I'll get some tea on."

He gingerly sat down on the large chintz sofa. Like everything else in the house, it had seen better days. The arms were so worn they were threadbare, a fact that the mistress of the house unsuccessfully tried to disguise by covering them with dingy antimacassars, yellowed with age.

"So how are you doing?" The conversation, as always, was stiff and awkward.

"Fine, fine. And you?"

"Quite well." There was a pause as both were trying to find something else to say.

"You look well," Saeran said, and meant it. He did look better than the last time she had seen him, better rested.

They made small talk, the kind of stilted conversation of no consequence that people make in hospitals when they are waiting for someone to arrive who will bring bad news.

A door opened somewhere in the house, and the sound made both of them look up in apprehension.

"I think I better check on the kettle," Saeran said hurriedly, and bolted into the kitchen.

"Hello, Sev." A swarthy, stocky man stood in the doorframe of the corridor which connected the parlor with the rest of the house. "Fancy seeing you here." Augustus Snape's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Hello, Father," Severus answered reservedly.

The look on Augustus' face spoke of contempt and derision. "I am surprised that you would dare show your face around here."

"I came to see mother." Not you. The implication was clear.

"As if she would want to see you, after the way you embarrassed us. Do you have any idea what you did to me and your mother?"

"May I remind you that if I hadn't gotten you safely out of the way of the Ministry, you would be rotting in Azkaban right now?" Snape-the-younger spoke through clenched teeth.

"If it hadn't been for you, dear son, I would right now be in a place of honor at the Dark Lord's side instead of not being able to show my face in polite society." Augustus Snape spat the words at his offspring.

"You would not be in a place of honor anywhere," Severus said coldly, dismissively "The only reason I could spare mother the humiliation of seeing you sent to Azkaban is the fact that as a Dark Wizard, you were every bit as inconsequential and negligible as you have been at anything you have ever done."

It had always been a thorn in Augustus Snape's side that unlike his son, he had never been able to penetrate into Voldemort's Inner Circle. He didn't appreciate being reminded of it. His face was turning an alarming shade of red.

"How dare you?" he roared. "If I think of where we could be right now... the Dark Lord trusted you. We could have restored this House to honor, to greatness. The Snapes could have been a name to be reckoned with once more. But no, you had to throw in your lot with Dumbledore and his rag-tag, mudblood bunch. Merlin, what a waste." Augustus Snape strode over and stood in front of his son with fists clenched in front of his chest.

"You miserable little spy. Dumbledore's sock puppet. You are a fine one to speak of success. You have been repaid well for selling out your friends, have you? Was it worth it, being humiliated in front of the Wizengamot? What did he do, buy you a nice shiny new cauldron for your dungeon?" The sneer on his face would have been instantly recognizable to any of Severus' students. "You could have done so much better."

Severus pressed his lips together so tightly they seemed bloodless. Swiftly, he rose and looked down on his father. It had always been a source of secret satisfaction to him that he stood several inches taller. Augustus took a couple of steps back.

"I think maybe I better leave."

"First thing I have heard you say that makes any sense. Yes, leave," Augustus said jeeringly. "And stay gone. "

"My mother still lives here. I will come as I please," Severus said, his eyes narrowing.

"This is my house. You are not welcome here any more."

"And how exactly are you going to stop me?" Severus said almost pleasantly. He had stopped being afraid of his father sometime during his Seventh Year when he realized that the elder Snape could not beat him in a duel any more if his life depended on it. The day Augustus had come to the same realization had not been a pleasant one. Severus had never let him forget, either.

"Would anyone like some tea?" said a quavering voice from the kitchen door. Saeran Snape stood white faced, with trembling hands holding onto the tea pot.

"I am afraid Sev was just leaving," Augustus said, half-choked with anger, not taking his eyes off his son.

Severus looked as if he was about to say something, but then changed his mind.

He turned decisively, and walked over to Saeran. "I am sorry, Mother," he said softly. "It's alright," she said with a quiver in her voice. She put her hand against his cheek. "It was good to see you." Severus kissed her on the forehead, and left without another word or look.