Sixteen

Sixteen

by

MMM

Chapter 3

Snape tried to push his dismal OWL results to the back of his mind, and concentrating on his work instead. But the humiliation he had suffered last June kept resurfacing: the derisive laughter from the crowd, the dismissive disgust on Potter and Black's faces, but the most of all, it was Potter's words...

It's more the fact he exists, if you know what I mean.

'Price, I want them diced, not minced,' snapped one of the older kitchen boys. Like Potter, he had dark, messy hair. Snape glared at him, knife in hand, and wondered what it would feel like to thrust the sharp tip into his shoulder, or better yet, Potter's.

'What are you doing? Watch where you point that knife,' said the older boy. He was burly and much bigger than Snape, however the panic in his voice was unmistakable. There was something in Snape's expression that frightened him.

'Nothing,' Snape shrugged but maintained the glare. 'Scared of sharp knives, are we?' He would pay for this later but the taste of having someone at his mercy for once was powerfully addictive.

'What's going on here?' yelled Sutton, who had uncanny ability to spot trouble. He put his silver hip flask down and came over.

'He's trying to kill me,' squealed the older boy, giving Snape a sharp push in the chest, forcing him to the wall. He was pulled back by Sutton.

'I'm just dicing the beef, like he told me to,' said Snape. 'I can't help it if he's delusional. He probably forgot his headgear the last time he played Quidditch.'

The older boy lunged forward but Sutton pushed him back. 'Price, I'm giving you an hour break. Go and calm yourself down. Take a walk. I want this incident forgiven and forgotten by the time you come back.'

Snape was about to protest they were forbidden to venture outside. However, the glares from the others told him that he had no other options. He sauntered out, intensely aware of the long night ahead, when the light was out and Sutton out of sight: there was no doubt he would pay for his insolence, and he prayed they would only break his leg. Good one, Severus. Now you may not even make it out of Trenton Estate alive. Great solution to our current predicament, isn't it?

Sometimes, he wondered if he were not in fact suicidal.

He pushed the door open and let himself out. Deciding he would not wait for the butler to catch him loitering, he did exactly what Sutton told him to and set off for the woods on his left.

Despite his foul mood, he could still appreciate a beautiful summer day: a squirrel scampering out of his way, his feet crunching on fallen branches, and a cool, cleansing wind blowing from the south. Even though the Trentons might be too fat to walk, their park was still well-maintained. If he were rich, he would definitely buy himself a mansion. Somewhere faraway and isolated, with a park where he could walk all day long without meeting anyone. He would have a proper study or a library. Better yet, he would have both a study and a library. Why not, since he was dreaming anyway...

He was still treading along the uneven path when he heard two very familiar, unwelcome voices ahead of him. He instinctively dived behind the thorny woods, his fingers curling around his wand tightly. His day couldn't get any worse, surely.

'Don't worry about it, Padfoot,' said James Potter, passing right in front of the woods. 'You can stay with us for a while. Dad won't mind.'

'Thanks, Prong. I know I can count on you,' said Sirius Black. 'I'm done with that family for good. I don't care if they disown me. Money doesn't mean anything to me,' Black's shoulders sagged as though bearing invisible weights and he was thinner when Snape last saw him.

It's more the fact he exists, if you know what I mean.

I will make sure you know the reason, Potter. I exist so you will get your comeuppance.

A blanket of black hate had descended upon Snape and he knew he couldn't hold back. No more than his father could hold himself back when he was in one of his horrible rampages. He couldn't care less whether they would kick him out of Hogwarts afterwards. He didn't even want to use curses. All he wanted was to hurt Potter as much as possible, to get a good grip on the bastard's hair and ram his head against a rock, again and again. He wanted to watch Potter bleed, hear his bones crack. But most of all, he wanted him to plead for his life, plead for Snape's forgiveness.

But Dumbledore was here. In his mind, he could already see the disappointment on the old wizard's face, looking from Potter's lifeless body to Snape's bloodied hands, and in that instant, Snape knew he couldn't do it. He was still trembling with rage but the thought of letting Dumbledore down had brought him back to his senses.

And when Snape looked up again, Potter and Black were out of range. Snape hissed and closed his eyes, taking deep breaths to calm himself down. He hated himself for his impotency. He knew Potter and Black wouldn't just sit here and let him walk past. No way. Snape got to his feet, not caring the thorny vine was cutting his arms and face. Why didn't he curse them?

He told himself they were not worth it but deep inside, he suspected he didn't act because he was weak, like his father had always told him. He envied the complete moral certainty Potter and Black must feel, never doubting themselves for one second. They were the chosen ones; they never needed to reflect on their actions. They were sure they were right, even when they were completely wrong. What's more, the world always agreed with them. If they had suddenly decided black were white, the world would have agreed.

It's more the fact he exists, if you know what I mean.

And what the hell were James Potter and Sirius Black doing here anyway? Snape knew their families were old and rich, as Bellatrix Black had repeatedly reminded everybody. It was conceivable that they were somehow related to the Trentons and were just here for holidays. Snape dismissed that theory at once: whatever it was, the Trentons were certainly not holding a Quidditch Championship party. Potter's father was Deputy Minister of Magic, and everybody knew Dumbledore was fighting the Dark Lord tirelessly ...

Snape wandered along the path, with no fixed idea of where his feet were taking him, aware of nothing except the deep desire to trade places with Potter and Black, whose power and wealth came as a birthright, whose life had no obstacles. He had nothing but contempt for them.

***

When Snape stepped back into the gruelling heat of the basement kitchen, an odd hush descended amongst the other boys. A few of them glanced at him but they turned away quickly as soon as Snape caught their eyes. The murderous stares were gone, replaced by an ingratiating diffidence. They gave him a wide berth as he put his apron on. Sutton was nowhere to be seen.

When he asked for work, he was told to proof-read the menu. And when he put the evening's menu down and picked up the dirty dishes, he was beaten to it by a small fat boy, who reminded him of Peter Pettigrew, particularly his sycophantic smile.

'Where's Mr. Sutton?' Snape asked, finally sick of the stares and elbow nudges. The boys looked at each other, trading glances conspiratorially. For a moment, Snape thought he was about to be ambushed but his experience told him they were no longer a threat.

'He's in his quarters, Mr. Price,' one of the boys said meekly.

Mr. Price? What the heck did Sutton say to them?

Snape decided to seek Sutton out. He left the kitchen without a word, and could hear the sigh of relief as the door closed behind him.

***

Sutton lived in the senior staff quarters. Unlike Snape's room, the senior staff's quarters were above ground, and adjacent to the main house itself, though careful planting had concealed it from view. Snape had been there several times, mainly to read as Sutton happened to have Moste Potente Potions in his library.

He knocked on the door, but there was no answer. He was about to leave when he saw the maid, grumpily marching towards him. It was too late to get out of sight as she had already seen him - best to act nonchalant and buff his way out.

'Is John in?' the maid asked carelessly. She was very young, not much older than Snape and probably quite pretty, if she hadn't been puffing her cheeks out. She said quickly, blushing: 'I really need to give this room a good clean. He hasn't let me in for weeks.'

'Don't you have the key to his room? You could just go in. I'm sure he wouldn't mind,' said Snape, avoiding the girl's eyes. Her green eyes were beautiful, too.

'Why would I want to go into his room?' the maid snapped, twirling her brown hair absent-mindedly. 'I just need to do some cleaning.'

Snape frowned. She wasn't making any sense. Didn't she just say she needed to go into the room to clean? Why else would she want to go into Sutton's room for?

'Besides, my key is useless. He put a ward up and nobody can get into his room. The last time I tried to open the door, the key melted,' the maid continued animatedly, waving a twisted knob of metal from her set of keys. Snape felt she was in the middle of a monologue and he was getting far too much information. Girls belonged to an entirely different species. Period.

'Do you know where he is?' Snape asked, still unable to look the girl in the eye, but wondered whether she would like to have a drink with him. He felt his cheeks getting hot.

'Why would I be asking you if I knew?' the girl said irritably. 'Don't you have work to do? Or did you set the kitchen on fire?'

'That's none of your business,' snapped Snape. May be he should ask her name. He plucked up the courage to lift his head and look at her. His hair had partially obscured his view. He tried to push it away from his face.

'May be he's in the main house. He goes up there a lot,' said the girl lightly, still playing with her keys. 'There's a passageway from here to the house. Maybe you can wait for him here.' She pointed to an arched doorway along the corridor. She was rather taller than Snape. If only he had grown another foot or so ...

As Snape opened his mouth to speak, the girl finally caught his eyes. She looked at him full in the face, staring back with indignation, and then stormed away without another word.

Damn. Girls are so annoying.

Snape clenched his teeth and turned to the doorway leading to the main house. He wondered where it led to: the exit would definitely be well-concealed, since the Trentons had invested so much energy to make sure the servants were invisible. It wouldn't hurt to have a peek ... it would be interesting to see what they were up to.

A seriously uninteresting idea, Severus, if you get caught, said a small voice in his head. It occurred to him that mumbling to oneself is the distinctively trait of a freak, as one James Potter had pointed out to an admiring crowd a few months ago. Potter and Black would definitely know what the Trentons and Dumbledore were up to, and there's little doubt they would talk about it superciliously once school starts.

The thought of Potter and Black having their meals together with Dumbledore, laughing and drinking and discussing great plans, while he slaved away in the basement inspired another stream of painful jealousy. He found himself irresistibly drawn to the low archway and as he pushed against the heavy oak door, the reckless urge was so great that he feared the door may have been cursed.

It opened soundlessly, and as Snape breathed a sigh of relief, he realised that his fear was, in reality, hope, and hope that his desire to find out what's going on would be thwarted by circumstances.

Not a chance.

It is said that moths flying into fire would experience sudden moments of elation, and that their demise is, in fact, liberation. Snape was seized by the same feeling as he tramped up the stairs, his wand held at the ready. The passage was well-lit and Snape had no place to hide should anyone come his way. Yet, he had never felt this satisfied with himself, like he was on the verge of a momentous event in his life. He couldn't put a finger on why.

Soon, he found himself facing another door, identical to the one he had just come through. He grasped at the handle firmly and turned it slowly, peeking through the gap. From what he could see, it was a dark deserted space, full of dusty robes and cloaks and it had a musty smell of a disused closet.

'Lumos!' he whispered, and the tip of his wand cast out a faint yellow glow. As Snape struggled to untangle himself from the fabric, he noticed the wood- panelled ceiling above him. There was also a door on his left, which should lead to the main house. He tried it, found it locked and didn't dare to use any charms on it -- it was likely to be protected by password.

He looked up at the ceiling again. There was an odd small panel of a different shade from the rest of the ceiling. He jumped, grasped at the bar where the robes were hung, and pulled himself up. As he sat on the bar, it sagged and wobbled but didn't break. He shifted his weight and cast a fortifying charm on the screws holding the bar in place, then reached up to examine the ceiling. The panel slid open with surprising ease. Climbing up again, he found himself in a small attic with barely enough space to stand in. Two tiny streams of yellow light floated in, illuminating the dust floating in the air. The floor creaked slightly as he shifted but the room was empty, except for an old quill and a stack of parchment in one corner. If this was where the clerk was supposed to work, then he had it even worse than the kitchen staff.

Curious, he peered through the holes where the two tiny beams of lights shone from and found himself staring down at a great banquet hall from above, not as large as the ones at Hogwarts but more ostentatiously decorated. The staff was laying out the table for the evening and the many silver utensils glittered harshly under the glare. The attic must be very close to the ceiling of the Banquet Hall as his eyes were almost level with the brightly lit chandeliers and at least twenty feet above the ground.

'I'm sorry, James. I don't know how you found out about the Order of the Phoenix but I can't allow you to come. Tonight's dinner is for Over-age wizards and witches only,' said a voice somewhere right beneath Snape's position.

'But, Dad,' Potter protested in a whiny, little boy voice.

'No more, James. I have a lot of work to do. Why don't you and Sirius play outside?' Potter's father said dismissively.

'Dad, I'm sixteen. I don't play,' said Potter.

'Yeah, why don't you and your little playmate go play outside like your father tells you? There's a sandbox just for you two,' Snape whispered in the same high-pitched voice Potter had used as he turned to leave, presumably to go out and not play. Harold Potter, Snape recalled from the deep recess of his memory, Deputy Minister of Magic, recipient of the Order of the Merlin, First Class and widely credited as the person holding the magical government together by the sheer force of his will. With a father like that, who wouldn't do well at school, play excellent Quidditch and have enough time on his hands to pick on whoever happens to cross his path?

Snape was gripped by clenching panic when Harold Potter took several steps back and continued his gaze upwards, his eyes rolling up and down and around to examine Snape's hiding place. There was very little resemblance between the elder Potter and his son, though both wore glasses. Instead of his son's childish arrogance, the elder Potter had a contemplative air about him, as though deep in thoughts and right now, he looked as though he was thinking of a way to break into Snape's hideout. He didn't dare to move.

Snape didn't know how long he had been standing there, with Potter's father staring straight at him but the trance was finally broken when a thin man with thinning hair tapped Harold Potter on the shoulder. He was followed by the long silver hair of one Albus Dumbledore.

'There you are, Minister,' said the new-comer, who had a booming voice despite his flimsy frame. 'Professor Dumbledore has been looking for you, Minister Potter. Amazing picture, isn't it? You do have impeccable taste, Minister.'

Snape thought it amazing that he had managed to use the word Minister three times in as many seconds.

'I'm here on an unofficial basis, Mr. Trenton. Anyhow, the Minister of Magic would not be pleased to hear that I have given myself a promotion,' said Harold Potter gently. Trenton chuckled nervously. Snape breathed a sigh of relief: the attic was cleverly concealed behind a picture, probably a giant portrait with the pupils cut out to allow the occupier to spy on the banquet hall.

'Has this picture been in your family for long?' asked Potter, clearly trying to change the topic.

Trenton, thankful for the respite, launched into a mini-art history lecture from the Middle ages onwards, with all the interesting bits taken out. Both Potter and Dumbledore nodded and smiled politely at intervals and Snape thought he should take the chance to leave.

Sliding the trapdoor open again, Snape halted as the silent but frantic scratching of quill against parchment caught his eyes. They were there before but with all the excitement, he just hadn't noticed they had come to life. Snape crawled closer to examine the small writing in dim light and couldn't help but utter a string of expletives: the Quill recorded every word Snape had heard, including his own whispered comment to Potter, with the helpful words Severus Snape right in front of the sentence.

Muttering to himself is definitely one bad habit he would have to break.

He snatched the offending parchment and the quill, which kept wiggling, trying to write in thin air. He waited until Trenton had paused for air, then put the quill back down quickly. It pounced upright and resumed its dance on the parchment as Trenton began to speak again. Snape hoped that no one would think it strange that Trenton was suddenly giving a lecture on 17th century Dutch art.

He jumped down into the closet and scrambled, as quickly as he could, back down the passageway. He wondered why Trenton would want to spy on himself.

End of Chapter 3