A Cloud Before the Moon

Chapter 42

30 November

Dear Severus:

Yesterday, Anjana took me to St. Mungo's to see my mother. It is so frustrating - I understand that she is my mother, but do not remember her at all. She, on the other hand, has fond memories of her young daughter Letha, and repeatedly asked me to bring the girl to see her. I, of course, was a complete stranger to her. All in all, it was a very touching, emotional reunion - two batty women with no connection except the happenstance of blood.

I can't help wondering - given my current condition, which may well be permanent, and my unfortunate family history - tell me honestly, Severus - have you concluded that you want nothing to do with me because of that? I would understand if that were the case; I would just like to know.

In truth, I no longer expect a response from you, but I will ask you this question anyway: were you ever a Deatheater? (I would not be surprised if you were - you seem to have a knack for inflicting torture most exquisite - on me, at least.) I would prefer an answer from you rather than from any other source.

Love,

Letha

Later on, Letha regretted sending this particular letter, or more particularly, its ridiculous parenthetical. She was embarrassed to think that she had spoken of the Deatheaters, and of their abhorrent crimes, in such a flippant manner. She did not know that the letter had joined a growing pile that sat unopened in a drawer in Severus Snape's bedroom. He had stopped reading them; it was too frustrating. Besides, he had other things to think about, and could not waste his time dwelling on that over which he had no control.

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Lol Plunkett drained his glass. "'E 'ates us - it's's simple as that!" he opined.

"No, he don't. I think he's just outta sorts cause he got chewed out about his reports," countered Tommy McTigue.

"'He don't look outta sorts to me, an' I know him better than either a you two lunkheads. Tell the truth, I think he looks pretty cheerful, much as a bassett hound can look cheerful. He's been avoidin' us, alright - but I think he's up ta somethin'".

"Maybe you're right, Emmet. So what is it ya think 'e's up to?"

Emmet Harris took a thoughtful sip from his glass and grinned conspiratorially. "I think he's got a girl."

McTigue's eyes widened. "Adams? Oh God, tell me it ain't Annie the Witch."

"Nah - if it was Annie, he'd already've been back here. 'Fact, he'd'a probably moved in here by now, I'd wager. Drownin' himself in a bottle. No, gen'lemen, I think Davy Adams's been havin' secret rondy-voos with - Marilyn Monroe."

The other two men looked at Harris as if he were insane. Then Plunkett guffawed. "Figgers - a dead chick. That pickle-faced stringbean look 'alf-dead 'imself mosta the time."

Harris reprimanded him sternly. "Hey, watch what you say 'bout that pickle-faced stringbean. He's my best friend."

"So, what are you prattlin' about?" asked McTigue

"Couple months ago - this bird - she calls herself Marilyn Monroe - - no, no that's wrong." He smacked the side of his head with the palm of his hand, then jabbed his index finger in the air. "Norma Jean, that was her name. Damned if she di'n't come in here to meet me. So - I get up to take a leak, an' when I get back, she's throwin' herself at ol' Davy. He was just sittin' there, blushin' 'n' grinnin' like a schoolgirl, he was. Completely moonstruck! I bet it's her what's keepin' him busy."

McTigue pounded his fist on the table good-naturedly. "Good for him! I hope he's bangin' her brain's out."

"Ah, Tommy, you have such an eloquent way with words! But I do concur with your sentiments," laughed Harris.

The three men would have been utterly perplexed and enthralled (in a horrified sort of way) to have discovered that their friend and colleague was not passing the time tete-a-tete with a young lady. Instead, he was, at that very moment, batting his eyelashes flirtatiously at the man with whom the aforesaid 'Norma Jean' was and inexplicably had long been, enamored.

With great exasperation, Snape had informed Adams that, no, he would not be required to wear a lavender sequined dress or anything even vaguely of the sort. Nor would he be obliged to dance, kiss, fondle or do anything else on Adams' list of things he refused to do "no way, no how". Snape rather sensibly pointed out that (a) most of the behaviors which concerned Mr. Adams were of an inappropriate nature for a formal social function, no matter the gender of the participants, and (b) any overt actions that might hint of a romantic liaison between Madame Malfoy's cousin and another man would be strictly verboten. They were to express their mutual ardor through the subtlest of gestures - a tender glance, a nearly-imperceptible brush of the hand. This resulted in an initial tendency to a sort of vampy burlesque, at least on Adams' part, but after he'd been admonished rather menacingly by Snape several times, and had overcome his initial embarrassment, he began to act the part more convincingly.

On a more practical note, Snape was obliged to instruct his Muggle counterpart in all manner of wizarding essentials - dress, conversation, behavior - and to provide some basic information about wizard society, government and quidditch (of course) - so as to (hopefully) create a plausible illusion. One of the most important skills Adams was required to learn was the art of 'wand-waving', as Snape referred to it. Clearly, he could not perform magic on his own, but Mr. Ollivander had, with some apprehension, provided a valuable resource. The wand Snape had borrowed from him was an unusual item called an echo-wand. It could be 'preloaded' with three or four simple spells or charms; thereafter, if any bearer of the wand should properly speak the words and perform the required motions, the spell would be perfectly reproduced.

This particular wand that Snape had borrowed from Ollivander was unique, and known of by very few people. It was only because he had a penchant for reading arcane and esoteric material that Snape had learned of its existence. Its first owner, a hopeless squib, had commissioned the wand so he might appear to be a competent wizard. It had only served to get him killed when he had foolishly believed that he could perform a levitating spell on his own ability. Instead of getting out of the way of the large rock that came hurtling down at him, the idiot had waved his wand grandiosely and confidently intoned "Wingardium leviosa". Unfortunately, he had already used up his supply of pre-loaded spells, and the force of gravity took its natural course. Snape had no intention of enlightening his coconspirator as to the wand's morbid history.

If he had been aware of the unfortunate demise of the wand's prior user, it would have been unlikely to dissuade David Adams. What could be more exciting than actually learning how to cast a magical spell, even if it was only an echo-spell? Snape made Adams practice the spells until his arm ached, and did not spare the criticism of imperfections he characterized variously as 'glaring', 'idiotic', 'moronic', 'incompetent' and, of most concern to his pupil, 'likely to get us both killed'. He not only insisted on perfect technique, but he required Adams to develop a style of his own. "You are not a child", Snape explained impatiently. "It must not seem as if you are showing off some new talent you have just acquired." Which, of course, was exactly what he was doing. All in all, however, Adams was a fast learner, undeniably matching quick intelligence with ardent enthusiasm.

Not that Snape would have admitted it.

3 December

Severus:

I have had a disturbing dream. I fear it may be more than a dream - it may be a memory. As much as I have eagerly sought to recall even a fleeting moment of my past, I cannot say I find any pleasure in this memory - if that is what it is.

I have dreamt of a sultry summer day on which you saw fit to disturb my repose and the innocence of childhood with a callousness and cruelty of which I could not bear to think you capable. Without corroboration, I am loathe to assign to a dream any more credence than it deserves, and thus I will not attribute to you such contemptible behavior. However, I am told that you are a man who cannot be trusted, who may very well be one of a society of dark wizards who committed crimes beyond comprehension until the destruction of its leader sent his cowardly servants scrambling for cover under rocks, in piles of offal, and in some cases, directly into the welcoming arms of the Ministry of Magic. Were you such a one? I cannot presume to guess, but I anticipate that I may soon have at my disposal the means by which to answer that question, and thereby, to discover the likelihood of truth behind my unwelcome dream.

The prospect that you might be a man of such deplorable character is one that lies heavy on my heart and utterly contradicts the impression that you made upon me. It seemed, perhaps mistakenly, that love could not possibly bloom as quickly as mine did for you, that it was there all along, lying dormant, waiting to be exposed to the proper nutrients, which only you could supply. Now I recognize that it was far more likely a mere infatuation, which my befuddled mind mistook for something more. Should it be true that you are not the man I have thought you to be, I will have no choice but to tear my affection for you from my heart, by the very roots. Should I allow it to grow, this tenacious weed threatens to become impossible to rout.

On the other hand, should I come to ascertain that you are the man I have believed you to be, I will rejoice in that knowledge, and allow my love for you to take root and bear seed as it may. In that case, I hope you will accept my most profound apologies.

L.