Where Do I Go From Here?

Having someone believe in him brought a renewed sense of belonging and perseverance to Severus Snape. Aberforth Dumbledore was at present his only living connection to the Order of the Phoenix, and Albus Dumbledore's brother insisted that they not be too hasty in their approach toward the Order and what to do next.

"First things first," Aberforth had said, casting a somewhat disgusted look at Snape, "when was the last time you looked in a mirror?"

Snape had glowered at the old man, for he had just regarded his reflection earlier that day. He didn't need reminding that he looked like hell run over by a herd of hippogriffs.

"I suggest you take a couple of days to try and get yourself back on course, Severus. If you intend not to scare the other members of the Order away when they see you again, I would clean up a bit if I were you. Sleep deprivation and malnutrition have never helped the mind think coherently, either, and your mind will need to be as sharp as ever if you are to be of any use to us."

"Perhaps I intend to scare them," Snape had muttered, walking away, assuming he was dismissed from the ever-growing insufferable man.

Now, he was back in the room he had been occupying these past few days at the inn. Snape had never been one to pride himself on physical attractiveness and honestly didn't cater to being overly concerned with trying to somehow look better than he truly did, and this wasn't just outwardly. He had grown accustomed to constantly assuming a guise, pretending to be someone else in the presence of two masters and their respective sides. From time to time, when he reflected on just who the bloody hell he was (and not who he was "supposed to be"), he felt lost.

Shoving all thoughts into the rear recesses of his overly-self-analyzing mind, Snape figured that the first thing he needed was a long, refreshing shower. Removing his soiled clothing, he glared at the pile of black robes on the floor. Picking them up, he promptly threw them into the fire, further fueling the burning mass of logs.

Stepping into the shower, a half-hopeful thought of figuratively shedding his old clothing and acquiring new garments, of cleansing himself of old filth, and of maybe even starting over in a way crossed his mind.

No, you fool, he told himself harshly. Do not pretend to hold onto false hope. Albus is gone, and now you must pick up the pieces of anything possibly worthwhile about yourself that you've shattered.

The shower felt good, plain and simple, and now that he was away from the dank confines of the dungeons, his hair would actually stay clean longer. Those old jokes the Marauders (and others) used to pass around about his greasy hair were cruel, to be sure, but there had been some truth to it. How was he supposed to help it that, as a teenager, his hormones had resulted in oilier than normal hair, and then as an adult, for his living arrangements and profession of being bent over a cauldron most of the day to have not helped matters any where his hair was concerned?

All that aside, Snape was now finished in the shower. He wrapped himself immediately in a towel, not desiring to look down at his nude body any longer than necessary. He knew of the scars that covered much of his chest and back - remembered how he had come to acquire each one, in fact. He didn't need reminding of the torture he had endured countless times at the Dark Lord's hands. Nor did he need or want to look upon his far too thin frame and the pale, sickly-colored skin that covered it.

Dressed in a simple black robe (hardly surprising, considering who is being written about here), Snape performed a drying charm on his hair and finally looked at himself in the mirror, face-to-face with his reflection. His hair fell in soft, silky curtains around his face, and he was tempted to leave it like that and continue to hide from himself and the world that way.

But no, today was to be a new beginning. Pushing the long hair back from his face, he took them time to really look himself in the eyes. The children he had taught always imagined his eyes being purely black and never-ending, afraid they would become forever-lost if they dared gaze into those unfathomable eyes, but his eyes were not truly that way. Just a very dark brown. And in them, what desperation and confusion, and if anyone were lost, it was Snape himself. He saw tiny reflections of himself mirrored back in his own eyes, watching as the surfaces glossed over as if covered in glass, and then he blinked and realized that tears had been forming unknowingly in his eyes.

He berated himself for what he believed an apparate weakness and proceeded with his grooming. Taking his wand, he used it to trim off about an inch at the bottom of his hair. Even though his hair was now longer than his shoulders by a few inches, he decided he rather liked it that way and left it alone for the most part. As for the circles around his eyes, he knew he needed sleep, so to the bed he went.

That night, Snape dreamt of Dumbledore. The wise wizard was telling him to smile for once, telling them that maybe then he would see the beauty within himself.

"If only you would smile, Severus, my dear boy," Dumbledore kept saying, almost in a pleading-like manner.

"But I have forgotten how to smile," Snape replied over and over again, just as desperately. "I have nothing to smile for."

"Oh, but that is where you are wrong, my child. I can only tell you, but you must choose whether or not to believe."

Snape felt a rush of something sweep through his hair, and he thought Dumbledore had reached out to him with a gentle gesture, but when he opened his eyes, he realized all too suddenly that he had left the window open, and it was nothing more than the wind.

Annoying as ever, aren't you, Albus? You can't even leave me alone in your afterlife.

Snape paused in his thoughts and strode back to the bed and listened intently to his surroundings. Far off in the distance, beyond the walls within himself and the walls of the tavern, he thought he heard a phoenix's song.

"I must be delirious," he muttered, shaking his head and returning to the bed. As he pulled the covers back over himself, a part of him believed that Dumbledore truly had spoken to him that night.

Once morning came, there was a knock at the door. Never one to enjoy the mornings for what they could be worth, Snape groggily left the bed and glanced through the peephole. It was Aberforth.

To be sure, Snape asked the security question. "What is your favorite animal?"

"A goat. Who is your favorite Muggle author?"

"Poe."

Assured that it was really Aberforth on the other side of that door, Snape opened it. Aberforth was carrying a tray of breakfast foods, which smelled heavenly delicious. Setting the tray down on a small table between two armchairs near the fireplace, Aberforth said, "You look like you could use a good, decent meal or two."

"Thanks," Snape muttered, a mixture of sarcasm and gratitude in his voice. Sarcasm because he didn't need reminding of his thinness and gratitude because he was thankful for the food.

"I trust you slept well," Aberforth stated. Not awaiting an answer, for Snape was perusing the food in front of him, the older man continued, "What do you know about horcruxes, Severus?"

Snape frowned in consternation, searching his mind for any semblance of a memory in which he had heard that word uttered. Nothing.

"What are horcruxes?" Snape asked.

"Then that is where I shall begin," Aberforth said by way of explanation.