Sixteen

Disposal of a decomposing human body would never be part of the O.W.L.s curriculum, though it would have come in handy, thought Severus Snape rather sardonically as he dragged the heavy body down the stairs.

Don't think about the O.W.Ls, he hissed at himself as his stomach turned and threatened to retch. Think about something else, like how to get this monstrosity down the stairs. Let alone get rid of it.

The rickety stairs creaked with each step. The body had already left a trail of slime on the unpolished wooden floor, and the boots clanked against the steps as he heaved it down echoing up and down the stairwell. The smell was overwhelming, assaulting his nostrils, sealing his lungs. It could be described as a pungent mixture of dead fish, rubbish and unwashed bodies but none of them accurately describe the smell -- it smelled exactly like a dead body.

People are slobs, he decided when he finally reached the landing, letting go of the arms and thumping the body down in exhaustion, letting it crumpled into a heap. The exertion had winded him up and he leaned against the wall, panting while the dead man's open eyes simply stared at him.

The eyes were oddly out of sync: one eye rolled so far to the bottom that its pupil was barely visible while the other stared straight up at the ceiling, as though announcing their owner's recent demise. The dead man had dark, reddish hair. There was blood in it but not much, most of it had dried up already. He probably had cracked his head open as he fell. Bugs and maggots ran over his pallid face and scurried in and out of the collar of his robes. Feeling a tickle on the back of his forearms, Snape checked the sleeves of his robes to make sure none had made their way down his arms. He had rubbed protection cream on himself but it could have worn off already. It was only sweat.

In any other places, a rotting corpse would cause a scene: Aurors would be called in and the whole area would be sealed off. But Knockturn Alley was not any other place; it was the official community of outcasts and the Ministry turned a blind eye as long as no outsiders were involved.

Snape wondered what kind of person would have died in an abandoned house and left rotting there. Perhaps he was homeless or a drug addict unable to pay his debts. Snape had seen plenty of those in the street - always asking for money, mumbling and bumbling, waiting for death. Certainly someone nobody cared about to notice missing, let alone taking the trouble of finding ... someone who had nobody to rely on when they're down, someone utterly and completely alone in this world.

A mixture of great sadness and horror suddenly engulfed him, like the ubiquitous summer heat, pricking away at his skin. His stomach churned unpleasantly again but this time it had nothing to do with the smell or the thoughts of O.W.Ls.

He shook away the terrible thought and yanked the body down, as quickly as his fatigued body allowed him, towards the backdoor. He had no intention of spending the entire day with a half-rotten corpse, contemplating about life and universe, especially not when he had to clean up the whole house by the end of the week just to get paid.

He flung open the door, poking his head out to check for traffic. Even though everyone in the neighbourhood had seen dead bodies before, it still looked highly suspicious if he just hauled a corpse down the main street and parked it next to a rubbish bin.

It was moments like this when Snape was seriously tempted to do magic, even though the rules banned all magic in the summer. If only he could just transform the corpse into something else - something tiny and wouldn't stink, then he could just put it in his pocket. He wouldn't be caught: no Ministry officials ever dare to venture inside Knockturn, not for violating the under-age magic decree anyway.

Snape took out his wand. He bet that everybody violates the decree anyway. Why should he be the only one suffering? They made an exception for 'urgent and emergency situations', don't they? This was an emergency - he needed the money and it was urgent - he was going to throw up soon if he didn't get rid of this stinking mess soon.

But as he raised his wand, Snape felt a dull pain in his chest. The fact remained that if he was caught, he would definitely be thrown out of Hogwarts and Hogwarts was everything. Everything that he needed to make something of himself, to get out of this place. That was the Plan, and Snape was a firm believer in plans: everything in a plan would work out in the end if you planned carefully enough, if you worked hard enough, if you were smart enough. Most of all, though, you had to follow the rules, the rules that governed the Plan. He had carried each step cautiously up to now, toeing the line when other wouldn't because it was part of the Plan, and the Plan was the only thing that made sense in his life. He couldn't let one little spell ruin it.

He lowered his wand and covered the body with a large plastic bag, then took out a handkerchief from his inner pocket and tied it round his nose. He probably had to throw away his robes by the end of the week, even if he couldn't afford to.

Snape checked the street again, then lugged the big plastic bag out, towards the open sewer at the south end of Knockturn. By tomorrow, the body would end up in the sea, together with the trash and the rats.

Sweats dripped down from his forehead. It was a very hot day and Snape was sure that the sun was shining elsewhere. But the sky in Knockturn, as always, was dull grey, covered by a heavy blanket of clouds. The plastic bag rustled and the noise echoed loudly in the empty alleyway.

As he stopped to stifle the noise and find another way to carry the bag, he heard a distinct faint pop, like the sound of Apparation.

'What are you doing, kid?' said a grave voice behind him.

He was caught.

He spun around, wand held at the ready reflexively. Yet, as he raised his wand, doubt already lingered in his mind, slowing his movement: there was no way he could out-duel an adult; his opponent's curse would hit him before he cast his, and even if he won, there would be two bodies to deal with instead of one. He wondered when they would let him out of Azkaban.

'Want some help?' said the stranger again. 'That looks pretty heavy.'

'That's none of your business,' said Snape, catching his breath and surveyed the new-comer. He was a sleek and slight fellow with greying, shoulder length hair. His eyes hesitated between blue and grey. Snape guessed he was in his mid-fifties but he could easily pass for forty. His right hand was thrust into his pocket and Snape tensed again, his wand pointed straight at the stranger.

'Easy, kid,' said the stranger, his eyes darting from the wand to the plastic bag. 'Put the wand down. I don't have anything in my pocket. Just trying to help.' He pulled his hand out slowly and raised it above his head. 'See? Nothing here.'

The stranger was holding nothing but the sight was enough to make Snape gasped. The man's right hand didn't resemble anybody's idea of a hand. It was as though the hand has been put a furnace, melted, hammered and twisted, then put back together. All the fingers were crooked and knotted, fused together, with webs between them.

'Don't worry about it, kid. Got hit by a really bad curse a long time ago,' said the stranger, putting the knotted hand on his shoulder. 'They never did find the counter-curse, if one existed.'

'Well, I've got to go now,' said Snape, pocketing his own wand. Hang around with a corpse by his side and talk about the weather with a cripple was not his idea of efficient use of time. 'I don't have time to waste.'

'There's a quick way to do this, you know, if you're in a hurry,' said the stranger enigmatically, his eyebrows raised. He held his wand with his left hand and drew so quickly that Snape didn't even see how he drew it. It almost made Snape reached for his wand again.

'Infinite incendio!' A sharp blue light buzzed past Snape and the plastic bag burst into flames immediately. The stranger pocketed his wand. 'The perpetual burning spell. It would continue to burn until there's nothing left. Handy little spell to have.'

'Err... thanks,' said Snape. He felt awkward, as he did every time he had to talk to a new acquaintance.

'My pleasure.'

'You're not from around here, are you?' blurted Snape. His manner was smooth and Knockturn was definitely not known for its smoothness.

'No, I have been abroad. Just came back recently. Catching up with old friends,' he shrugged. 'Business to take care of.'

'How are you finding it?' asked Snape, figured that would be what people usually say in such circumstances.

'Things really have changed in this country. For the worse, I must say,' said the man. 'The Ministry has no respect for traditions and no vision for the future. But I mustn't bore you with the rambling of a grumpy old man.'

'Not at all, sir.' No respect for traditions and no vision for the future, thought Snape. That just sums it up, doesn't it?

'By the way, I haven't introduced myself yet,' the man extended his hand. 'Horatio Hawick.'

'Severus,' said Snape. 'Severus Snape.'

'What did you say your name was again?' demanded the stranger sharply as Snape was about to turn. There was a frightful stillness about him, as though shocked. 'What's your name?' he repeated with urgency. 'Did you say Snape? Are you related to Pertinax Snape?'

Snape didn't have to wait for Hawick to finish his sentence - only one type of people would look for his father - loan shark muscles. That stupid excuse of a man must have somehow convinced this man to give him credit, and Hawick might as well have thrown the money down the sewer because he would never get paid.

'He's my father. Why are you looking for him?' he asked casually, while slipping his wand down the sleeve of his robes. He had done this plenty of times before when he was cornered by Potter and his gang but this was the first time he had done this to an adult.

As Hawick opened his mouth to reply, Snape seized his chances and pointed his wand at the still burning plastic bag.

'Reducto!'

The effect was stunning: flaming debris flying off, heavy, possibly toxic fume swirling and breaking up as it rose to the overcast sky, making his eyes itched. He ducked and saw through the fume distorted figure of Hawick stepping forward, reaching for him. Taking him by surprise, he charged forward through the heavy smoke, pushing Hawick aside and ran out of the alley, as fast as his legs could take him.

***

Snape slowed down as soon as he had shook Hawick off his trail. Panting heavily, he leaned against the rough stone wall, feeling his knees buckling under him from the exertion. Now he had to find a place to hide, at least until sundown. His father won't be happy if Hawick had followed him home, not that he's ever happy anyway. Many others would be delighted to take Hawick to his father; the man seemed to have a natural talent in accumulating enemies.

But he needed to get home. He didn't care about what Hawick would do his father, but all his money was still in the house, under the floorboard. He had to get his things out of the house before Hawick. Otherwise, he could forget about getting any textbooks this year, let alone a new set of robes. He couldn't imagine what Potter and Black were going to say if he turned up at school without one single book in his trunk, if he had a trunk left at all.

Snape shrugged wearily and with his shoulders hunched, walked back home.

He tried to open the door as quietly as possible. Without looking, he knew that his father would be on the couch because that where he had been since the beginning of the summer, getting up only to get his supply of liquor when he couldn't get his son to fetch it for him. The front of his robes would be stained with spilled beers and vomits; his hairs matted.

There was a time when his father screamed at him, hit him in a drunken rage, making a racket down the pub when he was thrown out by the bouncers but over the last year, his father had turned into a wreck that could barely lift his own finger. The sight annoyed Snape; he felt cheated.

When he was younger, Snape always dreamed that he would get back at his father when he finally learned enough spells and curses. In his dreams, he would out-duel his father, then stood over him while the old man cowered in a corner. Snape would make his father listened to his words for once, then take his mother away from this squalid flat forever. They would start a new, quiet life in a small red brick cottage in the country, somewhere out of his father's reach.

As Severus Snape learned early in life, Reality was a pompous brat with a twisted sense of irony.

Here was reality: when Snape could finally curse his father into smithereens, his father thwarted him once again by turning into this pathetic, dying man who spent all day on the couch. And his mother had fled last year, without his son's aid. She left behind a note, saying how she had only stayed with her husband because of her son, implying that had Severus been any less pathetic, she would have been long gone. Snape had not heard from her since.

'Where've you been?' came the mumble from the couch.

'Out,' was Snape's monosyllabic answer. A year ago, his father would have killed him for this act of insolence, but nowadays, he merely responded with a grunt and sank back to the couch.

'Pertinax.'

Snape turned around and saw Horatio Hawick standing behind him, his slight frame leaning against the doorway. He had checked his back dozen of times before going to the flat but Hawick had somehow managed to follow him.

'Hawick,' said his father, standing for the first time since Snape came home for the summer. 'Horatio Hawick. You were supposed to be dead.'

'Sometimes they come back, don't they?' said Hawick, offering his hand. His father simply stared.

'Go to your room, boy,' growled his father, his old self suddenly sprang to life again. 'Now!'

***

His father always forgot how noises had always permeated through the thin wall of Severus's room, and now just by sitting next to the door, Snape was able to listen in.

'I wasn't able to convince them I wasn't involved but they couldn't prove anything either. So after much fanfare, the Ministry just told me to behave myself and let me go.'

'Have you been behaving then, Pertinax?'

'I haven't done any serious magic since the war ended. They keep a very close eye on people like me.'

'I'm surprised they haven't come for you already though. You were brilliant in the last war and nobody knows more about Dark Arts than you do. They must have known that.'

'Hawick, the war ended thirty years ago. Those bureaucrats probably lost the file,' said his father heavily. 'And flattery won't get you anywhere.'

'So how did you end up with a wife and a kid?'

'Haven't got a wife anymore, in case you haven't figured that out,' said his father shortly. 'I thought you're supposed to be smart.'

'Left you?'

'I think you better shut up now,' snarled his father, and Snape heard chair scraping against the rough stone floor, then a loud bang as it crashed.

'I was never as smart as you were, Pertinax,' said Hawick deprecatingly. 'You've always told me I asked too many questions.'

Snape heard a soft chuckle. 'Yes, you've always talked too much,' said his father suddenly. 'So get to the point, Hawick.'

'A chance to continue your research. We would give you unlimited resources and manpower. Some tactical planning, if you want. You would be one of the top people. You don't have to take order from anybody, me included.'

'Except from him.'

'Obviously.'

There was a silence.

'You must be doing quite well then, if you are able to make me this offer,' his father resumed. There was a calculating tone in his voice, something that Snape had never heard before: as far as he remembered, his father either snarled or sunk in prolonged silence. 'You do know that my knowledge of the Dark Arts is at least thirty years out of date, and I would probably get myself killed in the first duel.'

'We are interested in Ancient Magic. They never get out of date,' replied Hawick. 'You know, I still can't believe that you would let your son go to Hogwarts.'

'The brat annoys me. I want to get him out of my sight.'

'To Hogwarts?' Hawick asked merrily but Snape had the feeling that this was a very important question. 'I thought you dislike all things Hogwarts.'

'That's why I sent him there. Thought he would fit right in. He's a bloody do-gooder. Damn surprise when he got sorted into Slytherin. Always thought he would be dim enough for Gryffindor.'

'Gryffindor aren't stupid. They are supposed to be brave,' Hawick corrected him.

'Stupidity by any other name.'

The truth was, the Sorting Hat did want to put him in Gryffindor, saying he would meet his true friends there. Having seen Potter and Black getting sorted into that house, he had some idea what kind of 'friends' he would meet. The past five years only served to confirm his initial suspicion.

When Snape picked up the thread of their conversations again, his father and Hawick had moved on to a different topic.

'You wouldn't happen to have a few files on you still, would you?' asked Hawick. 'It would be of great help if we can have a look at them. The Ministry seemed to have lost them, a bit like how your files were lost.'

'What makes you think I have them?'

'The Ministry haven't got them and we don't want them to fall into the wrong hands. Perhaps you can do us a favour.'

'I don't have them,' his father said firmly. 'And if you are as smart as I think you are, you will not want me anywhere near a wand.'

'That's your final decision. Very well then, I've always told him not everyone can be his followers,' said Hawick. It sounded as though he was preparing to leave. 'Now, how about a drink? We have so much catching up to do.'

Snape snickered. Hawick would find it hard to find a pub in the entire London that hadn't banned his father.

'Goodbye, Hawick. And next time you decide to come back to live, don't bother to call.'

From the jarred door, Snape saw his father standing in the middle of the room, his expression vacant, still stared at the spot where Hawick had stood before he Disapparated.

***

That evening, when Snape finally figured it was safe to venture out of his room, he saw his father sitting in the couch again. But this time, his father sat upright with his hand supporting his chin. His face, shadowed by an oil lamp on the dining table, was hard to read. He had not moved a muscle when Snape walked past him. In fact, he had shown no sign of knowing Snape had entered the room.

Snape would like to think the old man was in shock, and was glad to be ignored, for he had much work to do. However, he was proven wrong later the evening, when he noticed his father watching him intently as he poured through his textbooks. As Snape looked up, his lips slowly formed into a sneer, and his eyes became malicious, full of bitterness and hatred. Snape instinctively braced himself, even though he knew his father could no longer hurt him.

'Working hard, are you?' he whispered. 'Think you can work your way out of this dump, huh? I know what you are thinking: you won't be like me, you are going to make something of yourself. Tell you what, Severus. You won't get anywhere because you are exactly like me, in every single way. You can't get away from it. It's in your blood. You hear me, it's in your blood. You are a scumbag from Knockturn, and its filthy water flows in your veins.'

Caution would have advised Snape to ignore his father diatribe but as always, his father had hit his sore spot. 'I won't be like you. I am better than you.'

His father snorted derisively. He was standing up now, with a mad smile spread right across his face. As he approached, Snape grabbed his wand and pointed at his chest.

'You are better than me? Is that what you think?' his face came within inches of Snape's wand. 'Yes, you are right. You are nothing like me. You are not even half the man I am.' Then, to Snape's relief, he walked back to his couch.

But the damage was done. His father's criticism, like so many before it, had been burned into Snape's mind. As he returned to his books, he found the words blurred and he struggled to blink back his childish tears.

End of Chapter One