Shadows of the Endless Day

Shadows of the Endless Day

The Prophetic Beaker

Severus Snape scowled into his glass; he knew better than to openly show his irritation. Straining his facial muscles back into a presentable expression, he lowered his glass. The entirety of his future happiness could hinge on his behaviour now. Definitions of "presentable" differed, but most seem to agree that it didn't include painfully removing any parts of the guest's anatomy with a large, blunt spoon.

Funny, that.

Severus wasn't exactly antisocial. He just didn't like people very much: their vile little minds hopping from one presumption to another, all snugly wrapped up in their own self-righteousness; effusive in their congratulations, with contemptuous words and sneers behind loosely-fanned, shielding fingers.

He didn't like attention much, either. All those beady eyes staring at him, weighing him on their weighted scales. Eyes flickered nervously at him, eyes that dared to challenge his glare, eyes that lingered on his greasy hair before turning away and the undercurrent of twittering resumed. Eyes that winked knowingly and elbows that nudged each other subtly as their owners attempted to look inconspicuous.

And weddings.

The yards and yards of fabric festooned overhead, all enchanted to shimmer in a myriad of sickly, pastel colours; the cacophonous mixture of wildly jarring scents: all the Savage Strawberries mixing with the Bewitching Blue Blossoms and the Luscious Lime; the music edulcorated the air with saccharine love songs that unashamedly crooned "baby" repeatedly; the cake, a towering confection of white icing, silver ribbons, white sugar pillars and "crystal" sugar balls, was topped by a pair of tiny figures dressed in black robes and a pointy black hat.

Severus definitely didn't like weddings. Especially his own.

He had no excuse not to eat the wedding cake; the treacly taste still clung to the walls of his mouth. He couldn't hide in the toilets and hope the guests would just forget about him since his initials were intertwined with hers everywhere from the borders napkins to becoming the centrepiece of the draperies. People stared at him expectantly, as though waiting for him to do something.

When he had first climbed up those rickety stairs and ascended into her cramped incense-wreathed attic, he had thought they had an understanding. Dumbledore had subtly hinted for him to "keep an eye" on Professor Trelawney in case she stumbled on another real prophecy. In real terms, that meant spending every moment of his spare time with the old fraud.

After peering at him through her arthropodal glasses, she had told him she had foreseen his coming with her Inner Eye with that airy voice of hers. She gestured vaguely, making her many bangles jinglejangled up and down her arms. She had bid him sit down and proceeded to make him a cup of tea with that ridiculously mismatched tea-set of hers.

"Green? Herbal? Black? Red? In a bag?"

"Black," he had replied curtly.

"Are you partial to any blend?"

"No."

"Caffeine-free? or just normal?"

"Normal."

"How dark do you like your tea?"

"Dark."

"Ice?"

"No."

"Milk?"

"No."

"Cream?"

"No."

"Brown sugar? Demerara?"

"Neither."

"White sugar? Beet, cane or corn?"

"No."

"Sure? There's granulated sugar, icing sugar, castor sugar..."

"No."

"Maple sugar? Caramel?"

He shook his head.

"Honey?"

He shook his head again.

"Aspartame? Saccharin?"

He shook his head yet again.

And all the time during their farcically long conversation about tea, her eyes sparkled with secrecy behind her glasses, flaunting some secret knowledge that he was not privy to. It had made him grind his teeth in frustration.

It was quite a while later that he found out that the secret shining in her eyes that day was that the kitchen was serving pumpkin pie instead of cauldron cakes for tea that day. It had cost him a whole afternoon of futile bush-beating, tea-sipping and eye-rolling.

The next few days they spent together dabbling with the tarot. It was strangely addictive. Perhaps it was the way in which Sibyll predicted nasty things would befall upon everyone in Hogwarts. Her predictions only occasionally came true but it was enough to satisfy the part time sadist inside him. Undeniably the mental image of Harry Potter stuck at the bottom of a deep, dry well where he was attacked by rabid frogs was very satisfying. Of course, he didn't really want anything horrible to happen to the boy, but he appreciated Sibyll's creativity.

Sibyll floated up to him with that irritating smile on her lips and that look in her eyes again. Her robes looked no different than her normal ones. After all that trouble she had dragged him through to organise the occasion, she had somehow not seen it fit to wear something special. The only difference in her attire was that her earrings were platinum instead of silver and she had four more bangles on than usual, two of which he had given her for Christmas. (He had bought them from the London farm market along with a pirated cauldron, it was another one of those buy-a-cauldron-get-bangles-free offers.)

"Now that we're married, dearest," he said, generously swabbing venom onto the endearment. "It would be nice if you shared some of those secrets of yours."

"The guest list was slightly longer than you thought," she said, sipping chrysanthemum tea. Various guests made snide remarks about how unseemly it was for one to drink chrysanthemum tea from lead crystal champagne flute; Severus personally saw nothing wrong with it. It was a rather endearing eccentricity - not that it was endearing to him, naturally. A few daggered glares soon silenced the mussitating.

"You mean you invited Hagrid? I noticed that," he said. "One would have to be blind not to notice that-"

"Actually the blind would notice Hagrid. One would have to be blind and deaf to be wholly unaware." She always took whatever he said on face value. Perhaps she truly was oblivious to sarcasm, but she used it a little too often on him for him to be completely unsuspicious.

"So... What's the big secret?"

"Harry's here."

"Potter? What's he doing here?"

"I invited him."

"Why?" Severus dropped his voice to a silkily dangerously half-hiss.

"Be nice, dear. Just say 'hi', he'll be trampled by a crowd of centaurs shortly." Sibyll smiled and inclined her head towards where Potter presumably was.

"Really?" He tried not to sound too hopeful; "hopeful" and "dangerous" don't mix.

"Only metaphorically, dear." Sibyll smiled. "And do warn him about the White Phantom, I see it hovering somewhere in his past."

Taking deep breath to calm his frustration, Severus marched over to where Sibyll had indicated. After a bit discreet elbowing the sea of guests parted for him.

Potter was indeed there. He was no longer the scrawny teenager Severus had terrorized in his schooldays, but still recognisable by his mop of unruly black hair. He looked very much like his father: black hair, round glasses and all. Severus' lips curled into a snarl at the memory. It was generally considered ungracious to think badly of the dead, but he had abandoned chivalry too long ago to care of such petty little details of etiquette. Still, the resemblance between the two Potters was slightly unnerving.

He stood amongst his friends. Another of the flame-haired freckle-dappled Weasleys (Severus wasn't sure which one) and that ex-Ravenclaw, Lovegood. He had no particular recollection of her save for her involvement with Potter's pathetic attempt at an insurrection and later the Order, but there was no one else in the Wizarding world who would dangle Muggle milk caps from her earrings. He didn't seem to remember inviting them, then again, he didn't seem to remember inviting most of the people who are jostling each other in this vast room right now.

In fact, he remembered starting out with a very long guest list of acquaintances and relations which he laboriously whittled down to about three names. Sibyll must have been slipping in names again without his knowledge. Really, after all that trouble he went to in finding reasons not to invite all those people and constructing such reasonable arguments to convince her, she could at least have pared down the numbers a little. Admittedly, "I don't like people who wear sandals," is a bit feeble, but she could at least put that down as part of the dress code.

"Where is she?" came Potter's voice, harsh with anger. The undercurrent of loosely-fettered emotional magic in his words was enough to char the hair off one's skin. "She said-"

"Did you hear? Ron and I got married." Lovegood sounded much too cheerful, as though obliviously unaware of Harry's latent anger. She gave her stomach a conspiratorial pat.

"Yes-"

"Do you still read the Quibbler? I write for it now."

"Where is she-"

Before he could tactfully interrupt their conversation, he was accosted by Pomona Sprout and Alastor Moody.

"Congratulations, Severus," cried Pomona jovially, waving her goblet at him. The Head of Hufflepuff house looked characteristically happy; Severus didn't like happy people. It was another of the reasons why he didn't like weddings. Perhaps he could blame the cake; it had so caramelised his mind that all higher brain functions were put on hold and he was systematically listing all the things he disliked. Or perhaps it was just that there was so much to dislike about this gathering.

Pomona wore a pair of fluffy, pink earmuffs around her neck. Perhaps she had simply forgotten to take them off after working in the greenhouse, though considering the relatively clean state of her Prussian blue robes, it seemed unlikely that she had been trawling through dirt for the hours immediately prior to the party. Alastor too wore earmuffs around his neck, though his were powder blue and equally fluffy. The rest of his attire was a lot less like Pomona's: his hair seemed to have been burnt off with a candle and his grey robes had the look of that which had been propped up and used as a tent in a thunderstorm for week. He seemed to have lost a good chunk of his left ear since Severus had last seen him six months ago, but body parts was something rather touchy subject to bring up with Alastor and the story he would force mangled from the ex-Auror's lips would hardly be worth his time. It was probably another accident with the rabbits.

Severus nodded briskly. He didn't like pleasantries much, even at the best of times, which this particular moment definitely doesn't qualify.

"Are you finally going to talk with us?" snapped a distinctly irate voice, anything but quiet, rising above the general chatter. "Or are you just going to keep talking at us?"

"Never guessed," exclaimed Pomona, "Would never have guessed it would be you and Sibyll. I was all confused when I received the invitation. It was a good thing Alastor was nearby, else I'd have never made it back from the Amazon in time for th-"

Alastor grunted proudly.

"You're not the only one who cares-" that voice cut through Potter's protests.

"I reckon someone's trying to kill you, Severus," said Alastor. His eerie blue eye rolled stared fixedly at him.

Severus could label that voice - Weasley. There was only anger, albeit a lot of it, in the voice. No magic tightly coiled and ready to strike. He breathed a mental sigh of relief; it takes two to duel. He could still taste Potter's anger in the air, cold, bitter and metallic at the back of his throat, just beyond the reach of his tongue.

Alastor gesticulated with his cake-speared fork and growled, "Think about it: your cake was the only slice without raisins. Given how much I don't like raisins, I make an effort to-"

"I suppose," said Severus, distractedly. He vaguely noted the raisin-studded cake that was impaled on Alastor's fork.

"Play nice, Ron. Harr-" broke in Lovegood's voice, sounding surprisingly sane in comparison to Potter's irrational anger.

"I hope you remember watering the Arcanum Arundinaria gigantean I gave you last Christmas-"

"Of course, Pomona," murmured Severus. He remembered that present well. It was possibly the only time he was glad the Herbology professor had bestowed upon him a living plant. He was, after all, a Potions Master, which meant he liked his plants desiccated, stripped, sliced, powdered and preferably uprooted, thank you very much.

That Christmas Sibyll had foreseen exotic greenery; he needed some desperately. Re-potting the Arcanum Arundinaria gigantean was time consuming (the pot that Pomona chose was a tasteless dull brown) but there was distinct satisfaction in seeing Sibyll happy, or rather, not try to send the furies after him in the form of rampaging Thestrals. She was quite pleased with her present, even if it was only cane reed.

"I just want to know where she-" hissed Potter.

"Dumbledore wanted to ask if Sibyll has Seen anything. He's getting concerned."

"She said that the price of tea was probably going to go up quite a bit next year, so stock up. Especially those odd pyramid-shaped teabags. There would be a disaster at the workshop that makes them."

Alastor's cough sounded a little too much like the word conspiracy. Pomona nodded sagely.

People seem to take Sibyll's prophecies so much more seriously after that incident with the kelpie up north.

"And she mentioned something about the fluidity of time, but I wasn't really paying attention."

"What could possibly be so important that you could forget to take down a prophecy?"

Severus said nothing, gave a deep nod and turned away from the two. This was not the time to even think about what had happened that night - at least, not in front of people.

A space was clearing around Potter and his two friends. Not everyone would be sensitive to the galvanic magic surrounding Potter - it is surprisingly difficult to sense the actual current of magic as opposed to manipulating it with one's wand - but most were probably sufficiently aware to feel uncomfortable. That and the fact that the rather irritated someone probably has enough power in him to reduce most of the county to a funny-shaped crater for future tourists (and still be alive at the end of it) should have scared off the rest of the on-lookers.

He really should ask Potter to be angry more often at his weddings (not that he really intended to have any more), that boy seemed to have a rather positive effect on the guests, namely, to dissipate them.

"...you know where she is. Tell-"

"I have no reason to, stranger-"

A translucent ghost floated up to him, carrying a rather large brown-paper-and-string package under one arm.

"I thought you were dead, Professor."

"I resent that term," said Binns lackadaisically. The dead in general have a habit of taking their time with things. Must come from the fact that they don't have mortality chasing at their heels anymore. "Just because I am mortally disadvantaged doesn't mean I can't attend wedding celebrations. I just thought I'd come to congratulate you and your illustrious wife-"

"...then disappear!"

It was Weasley again. Severus could seem the flame-haired man gesticulating vigorously through the limpid Professor Binns. The melodrama of the situation was almost amusing. "Were we ever friends, Harry? Or was I just-"

"Did I ever tell you how much this events reminds me very much of the time during the Goblin Revolts of-"

"Really?" muttered Severus.

"For you and your wife."

Severus looked dubiously at the mangled package Binns had just given him. It was heavy, blocky and reeked of old paper. He knew exactly what it was. "I already have a copy of your book."

"New edition. Extended Appendix," said the ghost enthusiastically. "And an excerpt at the back from my next book discussing the myth of King Arthur and the history behind it. The some possible locations for excavation. The records we have are frightfully confused, but I believe I may have discovered the key-"

"So says the writer of romance novels."

Binns shrugged nonchalantly. "That was back when I was alive, before I even taught at Hogwarts."

Most people didn't know the dead professor used to write romance novels, penny-paperbacks that were sold like so many doses of escapism over the drugstore counter in the Muggle world. Among the many historical tomes that sat on Binn's shelves, there were pink-spined paperbacks with watercolour covers and titles like Boots in her Bedroom and Husband for a Week.

"Professor Snape!" Lovegood waved wildly. Mad or not, she had an excellent sense of timing.

"If you'll excuse me, Binns, I'll see you back at Hogwarts," said Severus hurriedly, walking over to where Lovegood, Potter and Weasley stood. His eyes flickered down to Lovegood's feet. From underneath her dirty scarlet robes, peeked leather sandals.

"Lovegood."

"It's Weasley now, Professor."

"My congratulations. Which one?"

"Ronald," she confirmed, taking his question purely on face value. "Though, I write under my maiden name. And do tell your new wife I did enjoy the article she wrote last week about the irregularities in the brightness of Mars."

"Mr. Harry Potter."

The enraged man spun round to face Severus. Green flame flickered behind his glasses and the air suddenly smelt of burning.

"Snape." The word was spat out as a curse.

"Potter. Hi."

There. Done. Severus ticked the imaginary box next to his mental checklist of errands Sibyll had asked him to run. Irritating as it was, he was determined to keep his little Seer happy today. After all, it would be more than slightly embarrassing to not be doing anything on the night of their wedding.

"Sibyll told me to tell you to beware the White Phantom." Severus turned to leave. He hazily heard Potter shout questions at him and splutter some sort of wordless confusion, but his mind was too far away to notice.

Finished. Sibyll would be happy. Or to be precise, ecstatic.