Sixteen

Sixteen

by MMM

Chapter 2

After Hawick's visit, the rest of July was uneventful: his father went back to his stupor, and Snape went back to his summer job. Luckily, though it was still unpleasant, there were no more corpses to clear out. But by the end of the month, the job had ended and he still didn't have enough to money for next year.

It was a struggle every year. Before his mother had left, he had always managed to scrape through at the last minute. His mother would find some old family heirlooms from the bottom of the drawer to sell (though he had no idea which family she had come from), and it would be just enough to send him back to Hogwarts. Yes, in old robes, second-hand books, and with questionable potions ingredients but together, they would always manage somehow. He didn't blame her for leaving, but still ...

Occasionally, when he wasn't busy worrying about his O.W.L. results or money, he did think about the exchange between Hawick and his father. Hawick's request was clear enough; what surprised Snape was that his father had had a life before turning to this human train wreck, and destroying anyone coming close to him. He wondered what his father had done in the last war; as far as he knew, his father had spent his entire life in this alley. As a child, before he had discovered that his father was nothing but an ordinary drunk, Snape had imagined his father leading a double life, a life both terrible and heroic. But this was absurd: he would have certainly blurted out information during any of his drunken rampages.

Snape was getting increasingly desperate as time progressed. By sauntering in and out of shops, he began to realise that apart from burglary and aggravated assaults, there weren't any jobs available. The neighbourhood wasn't just in recession, it was frozen.

'Hey, Snape. I've heard you are looking for work,' said Blodget, his beady little eyes rolling up and down, stopping Snape as he walked out from yet another workshop without a job. He was a very old man and like a leech, he was impossible to get rid of once he attached himself to you.

'Did those in-breeds finally discover their mistake and kick you out, Snape?'

'Just for the summer,' said Snape. 'What've you got?'

But Blodget didn't answer immediately. Instead, Snape was treated to a wide-ranging commentary on education ('Useless, writing is over-rated.'), the latest conspiracy theory, gossip about prominent pure-blood families and Quidditch stars: basically anything Blodget had read or heard in the last two weeks. By the time he had finished, Snape had been bombarded with so much misinformation he swore he would never read the Daily Prophet again.

'It's at Trenton Estate. They are looking for a kitchen boy. Denise's brother works there and he chopped off three of his fingers. He's still in St. Mungo's. Denise said they are throwing a big Quidditch Championship party next week,' said Blodget. 'So you would need to get there by yesterday.'

Snape couldn't care less whether it was Quidditch or a cake-decorating competition. Merlin and his beard were in Heaven, and the larks were singing. He could fly and with all his heart, he thanked the Trenton Estate, the Quidditch Championship, Denise, Denise's brother and, last by not the least, the knife that chopped off his fingers.

***

Snape had only known the Trenton Estate by reputation, and judging by first impression, the grounds more than lived up to it: a graceful country house of round, river stone columns and oak beams, large but not imposing, built on smooth green lawn sloping towards the lake.

'You're of age, right?' asked Mr. Brown, the butler, as they descended down to the basement. 'I don't want to be caught employing under-age wizards, Price.'

Snape shook his head. He had given his name as Edward Price, a ridiculous name, but it was the best alias he could come up with.

'Sutton is the head chef and he will be in charge. The rules are simple enough and I expect even blockheads from Knockturn can follow them. No stealing, no drinking, no smoking, no fighting and no swearing. Mr. Trenton wants his staff to be professional and as kitchen boy, you are not to leave the basement without permission,' the butler said shortly and opened a pair of greasy wooden door, leading to a large room with numerous pots and cooking utensils. With virtually no ventilation, the heat was unbearable. Standing on the threshold, Snape could already feel himself sweating.

'Sutton. The new help you wanted,' Mr. Brown shouted over the roar of fire, and a large burly man turned around. There were only four or five people, and strangely enough, no house elves. He continued as Snape put his sack in the corner: 'A bit of an idiot but you will have to sort it out yourself.' He then turned to leave.

'What's your name, kid?' Sutton wiped his left hand on the side of his robes. His face and red hair were greasy and he smelt of grilled meat. There was a look of satisfaction, as though Sutton had been waiting for him to turn up for hours.

'Price, sir. Edward Price.'

'There are only a few of us, so I expect you to do your work quickly. Don't hold up the rest of us and we won't bother you. Other than that, you can disregard whatever rules you've just been told. I couldn't care less whether you smoke, drink or steal, as long as you do your job.'

'Yes, sir,' Snape wondered where the house elves were. A house this size should have at least half a dozen.

'I know what you are looking for, Price. There are no house elves in the estate. Mr. Trenton regards slavery as barbaric,' Sutton gave a wry smile and went back to the sink. 'Now get to work and start on those potatoes.'

Slavery is barbaric but paying minimum wage to fellow human beings is perfectly acceptable, thought Snape bitterly as he put on the apron. It was like serving detention with Professor Bannockburn, his Potions teacher, except the dungeons were a lot cooler and peeling potatoes was a lot less interesting than peeling monkshood roots. He was so bored that he even noticed Sutton was left handed.

***

Over the next few days, Snape's day had settled into a routine. The tasks were repetitive and his day long, even though most were done by magic. He was out of bed before dawn to prepare breakfast, then took a short break at about nine. Then, it would be lunch, usually consisting of soups, bread and cold cuts, unless the Trentons were entertaining, which was about every other day. Another short break, then afternoon tea of sandwiches and muffins. As soon the dishes were done, they would prepare dinner again. Snape rarely went to bed before eleven. He had not seen the Trentons, but in his mind, they were round and fat and each weighed about three hundred pounds.

He avoided his co-workers as much as possible, fearing his charade would be discovered with a few quick questions; and having worked together for a long time, the other kitchen boys regarded him as an intruder, and welcomed him coldly. Snape resented it but had learned to hide his feelings.

Sutton, however, seemed to take a keen interest in him, and insisted that he and Snape have their meals together most evenings. Snape had to hide his panic when Sutton commented on how precise his vegetable cutting was, that they looked almost like he was preparing potion ingredients.

One day, exactly one week after he arrived at Trenton Estate, there was a sudden commotion. For the first time in a week, Mr. Brown had descended down to the basement and made a great show of inspecting the kitchen, running his finger along the bench top. Sutton adopted a patronising manner, which the butler mistook for diffidence. Snape couldn't help but snigger when Brown finally went upstairs. He swore Sutton was winking at him.

'Are we expecting guests, sir?' Snape asked.

'You're quick, aren't you?'

Sutton beckoned the rest of the kitchen boys: 'Brown told us to prepare for a party of over fifty guests staying for the next five days, first guest arriving late this evening. So you all know the drill: no sleep for a week and work till you drop.' He paused, enjoying the shocked look on everyone's face: they were already over-worked. 'I know, I know, but it's only five days. I promise I'll let you all have a holiday after this.'

The rest of the day just went on and on. Snape swore he could feel his brain wasting away. He knew very well that if he didn't go to Hogwarts, this was the kind of life a boy from his background would have to settle for: dull manual jobs with no future to speak of. The realisation made him feel better.

Sutton let them off early that evening. Snape was about to turn in when he saw everyone running upstairs, even though they were strictly forbidden to leave the basement. Curious, he followed the crowd, most of them stood outside the service entrance. Snape pushed his way to the front.

An elegant carriage, pulled by two great black winged horses, was flying through the darkness and descending into the driveway. Lights lined the edge of the path and the blank, white, shining eyes of the horses were growing larger, shining through the mist rising from the ground. The carriage was the same style as the ones at Hogwarts. He could almost make out the dragonish faces ...

'I wonder what's pulling it,' someone behind him whispered.

Snape knew exactly what was pulling it. According to Hogwarts, a History, there is only one place in the entire world that has Thestrals-drawn carriages -- Hogwarts. There was no need to wait for the occupants to step out either, since by the silver of his hairs, Snape already knew who was inside: Professor Albus Dumbledore.

He ran, as fast as he could, back down the stairs, cursing his luck. Of all the estates in the whole of England, this was the one Dumbledore had chosen to descend upon; the one Snape was working in illegally. For one wild moment, he even swore the Headmaster was here to pursue him. This was turning out to be a very bad summer, even by his usual standard.

And if it wasn't bad enough, he received his O.W.L. results that night. An 'Acceptable' for Defence against the Dark Arts. Professor Olsen had already told him that he would need nothing short of an Outstanding.

***

Like many wizard's children, Snape was familiar with the many legends surrounding the life of Headmaster Dumbledore even before he started at Hogwarts, though most of his knowledge came from the back of the Chocolate Frog's card. Throughout the last five years, without Dumbledore's knowledge, this had developed into an almost fervent devotion. He treasured the smallest praise which by chance fell from Dumbledore's lips, and whenever he had the chance to talk to the Headmaster, he kept his eyes fixed on Professor Dumbledore's bright blue eyes, his head thrust forward to make sure he did not miss one gesture, though he was careful to hide his admiration from the rest of the Slytherins.

So he was elated when last May, the Headmaster was the Slytherins Career Advisor instead of Professor Perkins, the Head of Slytherins, who had taken a mysterious leave of absence.

'Mr. Snape, please take a seat,' said Dumbledore while Snape gaped at the beautiful circular room. It was the first time he had ever been in Dumbledore's office since Snape had never been in enough trouble to be sent here.

Now he was here, he suddenly felt stupid. He had not thought about what he wanted for a career. The Plan didn't stretch that far ahead - he had always assumed if he'd done well in NEWTs, everything would work out automatically.

'So, had you thought about what you would do after Hogwarts?' asked Professor Dumbledore. Snape was acutely aware how dim he would seem in Dumbledore's eyes. 'I know it seems very distant for you now.' He looked at pieces of parchments. 'Now, Professor Bannockburn said you are one of her very best students ever. Have you thought of a career in apothecary? Healer, perhaps? It's just a suggestion. Your grades are good enough for it. It would be hard work. They wouldn't take anybody without at least four Outstandings in NEWTs and O.W.L. level. There will be four more years of study, then two years as an apprentice. But it is a good career and you can make a real difference.'

'What about Aurors?' said Snape. He didn't even know why he asked.

Dumbledore stopped dead and suddenly looked solemn. He took off his glasses and started polishing them with the front of his robes, then looked intently at Snape.

'You are aware, Mr. Snape, that Aurors have an average life expectancy of thirty-two years and most of them do not live past their fifth year on the job, if they are lucky.'

Snape wasn't aware of that but then, Dumbledore's bright blue eyes gave a small, almost sad smile. 'I am glad you would consider that for a career.' He paused and paced towards the window. 'We live in dark times and there's no telling when all of it will end. From what I've heard, you certainly have the sort of mind the Aurors would need, and I assure you that if this is your goal, I will help you in every way I can.'

Now, Snape didn't even know whether he would be at Hogwarts in three weeks time, and he could definitely forget about becoming an Auror. There was no way Professor Olsen would let him into NEWT Defence against the Dark Arts, not least because Olsen hated him. And if Snape was to name one person, other than Potter and Black, to feed to a dragon, it would be Olsen. The image of Olsen being mauled by a Hungarian Horntail cheered him up a little but one look at his O.W.L. results brought him back to reality.

Think, he forced himself to calm down, he needed to keep his nerve. Think. One thing at a time. I can deal with this.

He fought the immediate urge to pack his bag and run like hell -- it would just attract unwanted attention. He would keep his head down for next week, and if he stayed downstairs, there was no discernable reason he and Dumbledore would meet.

He picked up his O.W.L. results again. The word Acceptable seemed incredibly large on the parchment. He turned it over and read the fine print carefully.

'...should the candidate wish to apply for a remark, they should do so no later than the 15^th of August. They should outline how circumstances had affected their performances, accompanied with a letter from their subject teacher. This, together with the coursework, would be evaluated by the Examiners. Please note that significant change in grades is most unlikely as all Ordinary Wizarding Level exams have been carefully marked by experienced examiners.'

He took out a piece of parchment and uncapped his ink bottle. Dear Sir/Madam, he wrote and stared at the page for a while.

Or should it be Dear Sir or Madam.

He examined his quill. It was a little battered and definitely need sharpening. He took out his knife and cut the tip with slow, deliberate movements. Having finished that, he polished the pen knife with a cloth to a gleam. He thought he should probably clean the cloth as well ... anything to avoid putting the humiliation he suffered into words, onto the parchment.

He crumpled the parchment in a fit of rage and threw it across the room. This tiny, enclosed space with its suffocating walls suddenly seemed to symbolise everything that was wrong with his life. He hated this wall, this life, this crushingly unfair world. For a moment, Snape held his wand and just wanted to use the Reducto curse to destroy the room, to burst out, and only a soft pattering of Sutton's footsteps on the other side of the door held him back.

End of Chapter 2