Slythies! - The Slytherin Revolution...A Musical

CHAPTER TWO - The Letter

"Severus, what are you thinking about?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you mind joining the rest of us for breakfast, which is being held in the land of the living? I know you aren't very fond of socialising, but if it isn't too much of a trial for you..."

The proper response would probably have been something along the lines of, "Actually, Minerva, I don't think I will join you...and frankly, you Scottish relic, I'm surprised that you've lingered for so long in the so-called 'land of the living.'" However, it was early, and Severus Snape was still too deeply immersed in his own thoughts to bother voicing such a comment. Instead, he took up his fork and began to prod at the contents of his plate with an obvious agitation that contradicted his adopted air of nonchalance.

That bloody dream again...he thought, giving what only looked like a fried mushroom an especially aggressive jab. That means it's come nearly every night for the past week, and it's the same thing every time.

Is she doing this?

"Don't find the kitchen elves' latest attempt at breakfast particularly satisfying, Professor Snape?"

"Sorry?" Snape glanced to his left and saw Professor Sprout smiling at him in a pleasant manner that made him feel somewhat put-upon. "Er...no. No, I do not. Find it satisfying. Not particularly. No."

"No, indeed. Quite disappointing." Sprout nodded firmly, but nevertheless speared a substantial clump of an unidentifiable food (which may or may not have uttered a tiny cry of protest as it went to its doom - Snape couldn't tell) and shovelled it down with what seemed to border on gusto.

Snape turned his attentions back to his own private thoughts, his belief in the necessity of Herbology as a class not greatly restored. That got him to thinking about the new term, and about the sorry state that his own class would be in if he didn't get rid of these dreams. They were costing him sleep, and even when he was awake, he couldn't seem to concentrate. The images from the dream were just too vivid, too arresting...

Too familiar.

This is definitely her doing. She's trying to tell me something. Is this her only way of communicating from out there, wherever it is? By now, she's probably back in Azkaban...

"On the contrary, Professor Sprout," said Professor Flitwick in his usual cheerful manner, "I find the bacon vastly improved. At least, when one takes into account the efforts of yesterday morning."

"Ah, yes," Professor Sinistra put in, nodding, "I noticed that as well."

"Vastly improved."

"Yes, vastly improved."

"It is indeed very good bacon."

"Ah, professors, now I disagree..."

If the Dark Lord burst in through a window right this second and began cursing the entire hall into oblivion, thought Snape rather uncharitably, I can safely say that I would just crouch down beneath the table and let him get on with it.

He cast a quick glance around the Great Hall, as though imagining how it would look if such a scenario were to occur, and in doing so got a good look at the crop of first-year students that would be Hogwarts' newest burden in the coming months. The Sorting Ceremony had occurred about a fortnight earlier, roughly a week before the dreams had started, and Snape remembered that, at the time, the whole affair had proved rather depressing. It had seemed that every other student had approached the hat with the usual apprehension (though there was no blaming them for that - the thing sang, after all), but come away moments later with a euphoric grin. And the reason? Nothing other than the fact that the hat had announced said student's suitability as a Gryffindor.

Gryffindor. What was so pleasing about being in Gryffin-bloody-dor? Did it take an exceptional level of intelligence to be admitted into Gryffindor? No. You just needed to be "valiant of heart," or "great of courage," or something equally saintly. Bravery was fine, but any beast could be said to possess such a quality. It was strength of intellect that mattered in the end, for it was cunning that would get you through life more than the ability to charge into a conflict, only to emerge beaten and having lost more than you have gained.

Why so many Gryffindors, though? Snape had a theory: at this age, children were inclined to follow the popular idea, and what could be a more popular idea than being in the same house as "The Boy Who Lived?" Sure enough, once the newly Sorted Gryffindors had found their house table, the first to clap them on the back and welcome them to the fold was none other than Harry Potter. By no means remarkable in appearance or in personality, it was a wonder that the boy inspired such loyalty and basked in such popularity among his peers.

Potter probably took it all for granted, though. Typical Gryffindor.

Snape hazarded a sip from the goblet beside his plate, and wasn't surprised to taste pumpkin. For years he had put up with this truly detestable beverage, and it suddenly struck him as a little bit funny that he had never had the heart (or the gall) to tell Dumbledore that he actually hated pumpkin juice.

I wonder if anyone has ever done such a thing. I expect not...disliking pumpkin juice is probably grounds for immediate expulsion.

From his place at the table, Dumbledore was tucking into his own breakfast with the same benign enthusiasm that marked most of his activities. Sometimes, it was a wonder that this was the wizard commonly recognised as the most powerful to ever utter an incantation. The headmaster was a gentle soul with a whimsical sort of manner, and there were times when he even seemed to be quite out of his wits.

Lycorisa always liked him. After all, she put him in the dream. Yes...I know she's the one who sent it, for the simple fact that she's the only person who could possibly know any of that, and perhaps the only person who could send it to me in such a way. It also explains the images that I'm seeing. Everything in the dream is as it was fifteen years ago: Dumbledore, Lycorisa herself, even me...

The memory of that made him smile a little. He had almost forgotten what his twenty-one-year-old self had looked like...that face had been gone for a long time. Instead, a different one had taken its place - one that made him rather disinclined to seek out a mirror. He looked his age, and while thirty-six years of life certainly didn't make one old, he knew that he had lost forever any chance of being considered good-looking. Well, it wasn't as though he cared about such things...but in his youth, those close to him had reassured him time and time again that he was "undeniably handsome."

Lycorisa used to tell me that I was attractive, but I could tell that she was trying to keep me from slipping into some ridiculous juvenile depression. Besides, what does she know about attraction? She dated Gryffindors!

But then again, who am I to judge when it comes to romantic dealings?

Lycorisa was like all of the others. Ask anyone about poor young Severus, and they'd say that I had "low self-esteem." They'd say that that was the reason for my supposedly antisocial behaviour. Does there always have to be a reason for antisocial behaviour? Did they ever consider that maybe I just didn't like anyone?

He smirked at that, once more finding himself filled with a strange contentment at having the freedom to openly dislike those around him. While he almost always observed a sort of cold courtesy when addressing his peers, Snape believed that it was the right of every human being to be able to cast a dark glare in the direction of those that displeased him, and the Potions master enjoyed that right as much now as he had when he was younger. Such an approach to relationships had the desired effect: no relationship. He'd never put too much stock in friendships...

Well, perhaps "never" was not entirely correct. After all, twenty years ago, some time before she'd even left...

No. That time is dead. They are dead, except for her, and she might as well be, for all the contact that we've had. Until now, that is...well, a dream is hardly contact, is it? How can I possibly reply to a dream?

At any rate, it was killing him to sit here thinking about it while the argument about the quality of the house-elves' bacon raged on in the background.

"Forgive me, please," he muttered, setting down his fork and rising from his chair, "I, er...feel it would be better to spend the remainder of the hour in my quarters."

The breakfast discussion trailed off, and Snape found himself the target of several rather perplexed stares as the participants of the heated debate found themselves momentarily interrupted.

"Are you ill, Severus?" Dumbledore inquired, pausing in his current task of buttering a piece of toast. "If you are feeling a little under the weather, I am sure that Poppy would be only too glad to escort you to the hospital wing..."

Madam Pomfrey, in the middle of her own breakfast, took her cue and rose from her seat, but Snape made a dismissive motion with his hand.

"No, don't trouble yourself," he said shortly, "I am quite well, thank you. I simply desire some time in which to prepare for today's lessons. So..."

Without waiting for further reply, Snape turned and swept away with a distinct air of preoccupation that was not lost on any of his fellow staff members. Madam Pomfrey settled down in her seat once more, perhaps relieved that she wouldn't have to contend with the poor health of a famously uncooperative patient; after all, she had been through all of that mess before, and she wasn't anxious to repeat the experience.

"That was unusually polite of him," she muttered, returning to her meal.

"What was all that about?" wondered Flitwick, reaching across the table (with some difficulty) to seize another strip of the overanalysed bacon.

"Who knows?" replied Sprout, shrugging. "Never know with that one. Now, Flitwick, while I am prepared to concede that the bacon is suitably above average this morning, I do not believe that the same could be said for the eggs."

"Ah, yes, madam. The eggs are indeed another matter entirely..."

As the discussion group recommenced, McGonagall turned to Dumbledore, who had resumed buttering his toast. She spoke in a fairly low voice, keeping her eye on Snape as he departed.

"Albus," she said, nudging the headmaster gently, "As much as I hate to admit this, I am a trifle worried about him."

"About Severus?" Dumbledore smiled. "Well, this is unexpected. Do you fear for Professor Snape, Minerva?"

"No..." responded McGonagall uneasily, "It isn't exactly that. I mean, I don't worry for him. He's a grown man, and he's demonstrated time and time again that he can take care of his own troubles."

She paused, tapping her finger on the rim of her goblet as she contemplated her own words. Against her will, she found herself reliving memories that had their origins in events from over twenty years earlier, in which Severus Snape had not been a grown man and had sometimes not been able to take care of his own troubles. At least...not been able to take care of them in a manner that would have been considered healthy.

In many ways, the teenaged boy that she had known then had changed as he grew up...and in some other ways, he hadn't. He was still a difficult person to get close to - not that she'd ever felt an overwhelming urge to do so - and an absolute nightmare of a co-worker. He was not a nurturing teacher by any means, he verbally abused those students that he disliked, and he turned a blind eye to the appalling behaviour of his Slytherin students.

He only permits that misconduct if the students in question are Slytherins, of course. He's never really gotten over his prejudice against the other houses, thought McGonagall, shaking her head. Especially regarding Gryffindor. Such a shame.

"Would you like some eggs, Professor McGonagall?"

"Eh?" McGonagall came back to attention. "Yes, what?"

"Would you like some eggs, Professor McGonagall?" Flitwick repeated, indicating the plate in question with a jab of his spoon.

"Are they nice?"

"Well, we've come to the conclusion," said Sprout, "That they are neither 'stellar' nor 'abysmal,' so I suppose that that puts them somewhere in the realm of 'mediocre.'"

"Good enough for me."

* * * * *

Once Snape reached his office, he made sure that the door was shut properly, that he had locked it tight, and that the security spell attached was at its strongest. As soon as that was done, he made his way slowly to his desk, which was showing the ill effects that the dreams were having on the professional aspects of his life. All was in disarray: loose paper and scrolls strewn about without any regard to order, broken quills, vials and beakers filled with fermenting concoctions - it was disgraceful.

And amidst it all...an envelope.

What? Snape cast a wary glare in the direction of this foreign object. What in unendurable hell is this? Agh - now I'm even using her expressions!

What was this? He had retreated to the seclusion of his office to be alone, to think...now there was suddenly an envelope from an unknown sender, refusing to be ignored. It lay there, feigning innocence, an intruder upon the solitude that he had grown to expect and to depend on.

Envelopes were not, in themselves, such terrible things. It was what they concealed - letters - that were so dangerous. Letters had always had a habit of dredging up a great deal of past business that should have remained past business, but of course became the troubles of the present once they were brought up. It was like waking a spirit from its grave; it was and easy spell to do, but damned near impossible to take back.

I will not walk over to the desk, Snape told himself with determination. I will not walk over to the desk. I will NOT walk over to the...wait. Why am I suddenly standing at the desk? So much for willpower.

The envelope appeared white at first, but on closer inspection, it actually proved to be a pale silvery colour, made of a certain sort of paper that shone faintly in the dim light. On the front was a seal of green wax, imprinted with what looked like the Slytherin crest...

Oh, no...

Snape turned the envelope over; on the back, as expected, were his name and the proper address of Hogwarts, written out in sparkling emerald-green ink...

Oh, no...

He recognised the sweeping, heavily embellished handwriting, having seen it in countless letters and Christmas cards before. It was written with the same shimmering green ink as in the address on the envelope.

Oh, no. Hands, I'm ordering you, now...don't open the envelope. Don't open the envelope...

But a treacherous duo of finger and thumb had already torn into the delicate, shining paper, sending a folded sheet of parchment fluttering down to the desk. Snape caught it in mid-air, opened it, and discarded the empty envelope, accomplishing all this in what was almost a single half-frenzied movement. He lowered his eyes to the page, focused on the first line, and began to read...

Dear Severus,

It's funny, but I almost wrote "Sev" instead. You haven't picked up that old nickname again, have you? It would easier if you did; when you try typing out "Severus" on a word processor, it tries to change it to say "sever us." At least, that's what Adrian says it does, and I'll have to take his word for it. You'd hate Muggle technology - I think I'm starting to. I tried typing this out at first, just praying that the typing course I took when I was little would pay off, but I just got sick of it and decided to write this out by hand. Excuse any misspellings or anything like that. You can guess how hard it is for me, despite having Adrian here to help me out.

First of all, I'm going to clear up any confusion by saying that I had a servant bring the letter to your office. Don't ask how he got in, because to tell you the truth, I don't get it myself. I hoped you wouldn't be in your office when I sent him, but don't worry - even if you had been there, he wasn't hungry.

Also, by now, you'll have noticed that you've been having recurring dreams. Sorry, but that's just a new skill I've been trying out - wicked, huh? I think dreams have got so much more initial impact than a letter, though I've had to send this letter because dreams, frankly, aren't that good for conveying literal details.

So, how are you doing? The last I heard, you were teaching the next batch of delinquents back at Hogwarts. From the address on this letter, I'm guessing that hasn't changed. It's great if you've found an occupation you like, even if it isn't the one you wanted when we were kids. If you had pursued your original career choice, I still think you would have put Laurence Olivier to shame (Muggle actor). But I've often thought you'd make a good teacher - you've got a way with people. I doubt that's changed.

I bet I do know what's different there: I bet there aren't so many spontaneous musical numbers going on. No...I think that that stuff went out with our crowd. A shame - nothing like a Slytherin sing-along. Remember? I bet you try not to.

Things are pretty much the same around here. Adrian's been helpful, just as he's been helpful for the past fifteen years (what a love - Darius would've been so proud of him). He's been helping me clean the flat, though I've been trying to convince him that I know my way around it, even without the Second Sight spell to guide me. In his spare time, he's entered into a new relationship with someone he met down at the library. He seems to think it's too soon to be up to that stuff, but it's been nearly sixteen years, hasn't it?

That reminds me - I hope you haven't done something silly like staying single all these years. I mean, you're young, you're intelligent, you're talented...does teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts demand all of your time? That is your job, right? I haven't completely lost my mind, have I?

Well, I'm rambling, so I 'll just get down to business...

Break out the chocolate frogs - I'm coming to visit! Yes, that's right. Professor Dumbledore (darling that he is) has hired me on for a brand-new position at Hogwarts. I'm going be a guidance counsellor! That could just be a Muggle term, but it means that I get to listen to students' problems and offer my advice. I get to make a job out of sitting on my backside all day and gossiping with teenagers! I feel seventeen again! Hmm...how dangerous.

How is this possible? Well, Azkaban simply doesn't need me for a while, even though I am essentially the "Lord (Lady?) High Executioner." Hey, that gets me to thinking about Gilbert and Sullivan (Muggle lyricist and composer, respectively). I once tried to stage an all-prisoner production of "The Mikado", just to liven things up. Did not go well.

Anyway, I'm coming, and that's that. I'd love it if you could maybe, possibly, please please please please pick me from my flat? I'd go by broom, but given my condition, that's a rather stupid idea. I could get clothes-lined by a tree branch or hit a mountain or something. Also, I'd go by train, only whenever I do public transportation within the wizarding world, people tend to get...upset by my presence. God knows how they figure it all out - I mean, who's ever heard of a dementor wearing a mini-skirt? That's a Muggle article of clothing, of course, but you must remember that (think Cyrus).

I'm set to arrive at Hogwarts on the thirteenth, so would you mind coming by at around nine? I realise that you hate going out in the Muggle world, but it would really help to have someone that I know and trust guiding me. So would you? If you don't want to, or if you're too busy, Dumbledore will send someone else. I've already cleared it with him, of course.

Look forward to seeing you (well, I won't really see you, but you get it).

Love, hugs, and absolutely no kisses,

Lycorisa

Snape read the letter once...then again...then again. With each rereading, certain key sentences became more defined, made deeper impressions. Some were amusing, such as the idea of him having "a way with people," or the doubly ridiculous idea that he may be too busy teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts (ha!) to have much time for a love life.

Well, that's not entirely fair, he conceded. After all, I gave every indication that I wanted to go into teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts - perhaps because I actually do want to - and I've not been able to contact her to tell her that I really teach Potions. Then again, whose fault is it that we haven't had any correspondence for fifteen years? Not mine. She left, not me. Wait a minute - why am I acting like there's been a betrayal? Lycorisa had a duty, and so did I. After all, what were we, lovers? Of course not! There was no bad blood between us; she just left because it was the right thing to do at the time. She has the right to go wherever and whenever she chooses. But why did she have to...?

Snape quickly resolved to forget that he had just had that thought, just as he resolved to forget that this letter had arrived and to forget what it had said. He preferred not to get involved in this. There was no way to take back things that had been said, or to undo things that had been done, and though no disagreement had occurred between himself and the woman who had written that letter, the Potions master preferred to keep that part of his past safely locked away. It wasn't that it was particularly incriminating, especially compared to other aspects of his past actions and dealings, but it was, well...rather undignified.

Yes, I remember. "Spontaneous musical numbers" is disgustingly accurate...what were we thinking? No self-respecting Slytherin would ever really break out into song just to prove a point! I can't see young Malfoy suddenly leaping up onto a table during breakfast and leading the whole house in a rousing chorus of "We Are the Champions..."

Although it was quite a thrill when I did it. Damned infectious Muggle music! Every time my father caught us at it, he'd come that much closer to a fatal aneurysm...

Snape suddenly felt an unexpected surge of affection for the damned infectious Muggle music.

But it hardly matters now...I resolved to put it all behind me, and that's what I've done. It's a matter of pride. I've kept silent about it for fifteen years, and I'm not about to drag up all of those ridiculous old memories for the sake of...wait.

He hadn't noticed it before, but there was a post-script at the bottom of the page, written far smaller than the rest of the letter; it was almost a strain to make it out...

P.S. By the way, I really hope you remember this: "It's my life, I'm tellin' you, it's now or never, and I ain't gonna live forever..."

Oh...bugger it all!

Snape tossed the letter away as though it had suddenly burst into flame...but too late. The damage was done.

There was no stopping it now - this final cue was easily enough to trigger an involuntary trip down an embarrassingly musical, glitter-strewn memory lane...

"'It's my life...'" Severus Snape muttered, shaking his head. "Well, it was..."