Better to Ask Forgiveness Than Permission

Better To Ask Forgiveness Than Permission

Summary: An afternoon in the life of young Severus Snape, set in the "unkown years" of his life, several months before he returned to Hogwarts to teach.

This story fits entirely within Canon (does not conflict with Canon) but includes original material/ideas which are exclusively my own... unless you 'count' SeverusSnape-Muse's whispered tale-telling.

The characters are Canon - Madame Malkin and our favorite Potions Master, and the characters mentioned or referred to are also Canon.

      Soon he'd be able to step outside, where the chilly air of early spring would be a relief. He'd been brewing for hours; the steamy heat made his heavy layers of clothing stick to him and his hair stick to his sweaty face. He never could do much with his hair, even at the best of times, he reflected fleetingly before his attention was drawn back to the contents of the small cauldron. There! The steam rising off of the potion was beginning to spiral. Any moment now, it would take on its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen. He knew he'd brewed it correctly.

      His attention was divided: Part of his mind took note of the shimmering surface of the potion as it took on the sheen it was supposed to have, but another part of his mind had returned to wondering how much profit he might see from the apothecary who had approached him last week seeking 'most freshly-brewed' Amortentia. The apothecary insisted that it was for a very special regular client of his and that it must be 'exceptionally potent'... as if Amortentia - even that which could be purchased at Slug & Jiggers - wasn't already extremely potent! He knew what it sold for normally, but could he get double the usual price for his batch? Or triple, even?

      Ah. It was finished. He saw through the spirals of steam that it shimmered just like mother-of-pearl. He muttered the counter-charm to banish the flame underneath the cauldron, and left the potion to cool.

      While he cleaned up his workspace, he considered how likely he was to be able to keep all of the money he was paid for his work. It was very likely that this apothecary in Knockturn Alley would pay triple the regular market price, but in addition to the cost of the ingredients - which he had to owl away for, in the interests of secrecy - he had to consider the fact that he was still an apprentice, and would be for another few months at least, and his master would rightfully take three-quarters of his earnings if this transaction was discovered. After all this hard work and the bother of maintaining secrecy, it would be a shame to actually end up losing money because of lack of planning after the deed was done and the potion and money had exchanged hands!

      The next chance he would have to stand before the Potions Guild and demand another mastery exam would not be until July. He did not pass his last exam, but he knew that it was his own fault that he'd prematurely requested the congregated masters to examine him so soon. As determined as he was to be recognized as a master in his own right, and free himself of the virtual slavery of his apprenticeship, he knew deep down that his wasn't a master who was nearly so rough to serve as some were. Granted, he didn't serve the easiest master, but he knew what to expect when he requested an apprenticeship from the guild immediately after leaving Hogwarts. It had been centuries since any man had been accepted to apprenticeship as young as seventeen years old, and no one had ever become a master before the age of thirty. If he passed his exam this summer (and he had no doubts that he could do it) he would be a potions master at the age of twenty! Even if the masters of the guild refused to examine him for another year just on the principle of the idea that anyone under twenty-one could not possibly be ready for examination, he would still become the youngest potions master in history at twenty-one years old... but he wanted his freedom to pursue his life as he saw fit and didn't want to wait any longer. He was well aware that he was going to have to demand an examination, this time; last time, he requested it and the only reason that the masters agreed to examination was because they knew that they were not going to confer a mastery upon anyone as young as he - no matter how well he answered their questions or brewed whatever potions they demanded of him. He knew that he had answered all questions put to him correctly last month, and he brewed each of the potions they'd required of him, but he also knew that there was some truth to what they'd told him when they said that his replies were spoken rather shakily - too shakily, so they claimed.

      It was just a case of nerves, he knew this and was aware that his knowledge was quite sufficient; he was unused to standing before a large group and speaking, much less brewing so publicly. He had to find a way to remain calm when he stood before the guild, this time. He knew that his master should have begun to put him in front of smaller groups to speak, to publicly brew, for just this purpose, but his master was not yet ready to face losing his lucrative apprentice in a mere three years, and probably planned to continue to withhold this particular experience from his apprentice for at least two years... and perhaps three. He needed to figure out how to remain calm when rapid-fire questions were shot at him with virtually no time to answer them in his usual slow and rather didactic manner. He had to wrest control from the assembled masters, and hold it, without letting them realize he was doing so. He also must learn not to display his nervousness when forced to brew right in front of them all, while they watched every move he made. It made him feel so awkward, like he had just few short years ago. He knew that it wasn't too likely that he could avoid feeling this way, and really - what he felt was irrelevant. It was what he showed them that mattered. He had to discover a way to make himself appear to be calm and sure of himself, like any good master ought to be in front of his peers. He deserved his mastery; he merely had to make them acknowledge this truth!

      Merlin! How long had he been standing there, having already cleaned up, lost in his musings? Amortentia should be cooled before bottling, but it ought not to be stone-cold! This particular batch could not be left to grow entirely cold, either, since it was supposed to be more potent than most.

      He hurried across the room to transfer the potion into the beautiful decanter with which he had been supplied. It was rock crystal, etched ornately, with a heavily engraved silver band at its neck. The intricate pattern of hearts and scrollwork on the silver looked as if it might well be many centuries old. The crystal was etched on either side of its belly with fleurs-de-lis. He didn't think it was goblin-wrought, but it was still clearly quite valuable. He replaced the crystal stopper carefully. His long slender fingers held the bottled potion up to the light for a few moments, as he reflected that the intended buyer obviously had plenty of money if he or she owned this kind of decanter, before his pale hands slipped it into a secure inner pocket of his robes. He would wager a lot that it was medieval - not a fancy replica.

      He swiftly withdrew his wand from another pocket, and, with a short flourish he waved it over the cauldron with a harshly whispered, "Scourgify!"

      After pocketing his wand, and inspecting the pewter cauldron briefly, he picked it up and carried it back to its proper place on the top shelf of the cauldron cupboard.

      A last look about the lab assured him that all was in order, and he'd left no telltale signs for his master to find that would suggest he had been brewing. It was best to rid himself of any proof of having brewed a potion for sale behind his master's back as soon as possible. He left the house, securely warding the door, and Apparated to the dimly-lit cobblestone street just outside the dark, cramped apothecary in Knockturn Alley to deliver the potion.

=====

      "Fifty Galleons," the old apothecary exclaimed disbelievingly, "I could have bought four times as much Amortentia just around the corner for that kind of money! Perhaps five times as much, in Hogsmeade!"

      "Yes," hissed the young man, "but you could never get such potent Amortentia at Slug & Jiggers for anywhere near the price I'm asking - and you can't get anything so potent as this at all in Hogsmeade, not for any price."

      His stress on the word 'never' was almost a drawl, it was so drawn out.

      The old man was clearly wavering. It showed in his eyes. The younger man realized how much the apothecary wanted the potion, but also recognized that the old man was unwilling to share any of the profits from the sale of it with its brewer.

      The young man disliked bargaining, and he knew just how to push the older man to the point of giving in. Watching carefully for just the right moment, he finally spoke again, as if voicing an afterthought.

      "Besides, you'd have to concoct some detailed explanations as to why you want Amortentia at all... never mind so potent a potion as this one. I'm certain your client wouldn't wish for this particular purchase to become known."

      "Very well, fifty Galleons then," said the Apothecary with a crestfallen expression on his lined face, "and my client shall have to pay me seventy Galleons. It's a bit more than she will have expected, but --"

      "But she shall have what she wants, and there's enough here to last her for many, many months."

      "Indeed, there is," the old man sighed, "and she shall."

=====

      Severus Snape stalked out of Knockturn Alley fifty Galleons richer, and feeling as though finally things were looking better for him. He would be a Potions master before the upcoming year at Hogwarts had begun, and as such he could command a higher salary, since Headmaster Dumbledore had just agreed to hire him to teach Potions there.

      As usual with Snape, one bright good thought or memory led to several dark and miserable ones. He suspected that the only reason why Albus Dumbledore had hired a mere apprentice with a scant three years of experience beyond school - and none of it in teaching - rather than either a master or a teacher with more experience, in the first place, was because doing so would gain the Headmaster three things with one person. Professor Slughorn wanted to retire - that was no secret - and he was not only the Potions teacher, but he also was Head of Slytherin House. No other teacher currently at Hogwarts possessed the qualifications along with the willingness to do the extra work of shepherding the Slytherins. Perhaps the best consequence of hiring Snape was that it also provided Dumbledore with a spy within the Dark ranks. Never before had the old man had a spy within the Death Eaters, someone who could inform him reliably as to what the Dark Lord was up to! The only thing which the Headmaster needed to do to obtain his spy was agree to protect the Potters from the Dark Lord's plan to murder them - something which, Snape strongly suspected, the old man would have done anyway. He would still have had to pay someone to teach Potions after Slughorn retired, and he quite possibly would also have had to pay yet another person to be Head of Slytherin House as well.

      While Snape had never had the sightest wish to teach, he wanted - more than he desired anything else - Dumbledore to protect Lily against the Dark Lord; if working with dunderheaded children was what it took to accomplish that, then despite Snape's great discomfort at the very thought of spending the rest of his life teaching children who more or less had little interest in learning anything about brewing potions - he would teach. He had't been asked to enjoy teaching, but he knew himself to be willing to do anything to would ensure that kind of protection for Lily. He would willingly die for her! It was just a shame that the old Headmaster hadn't been willing to protect Lily alone, and let Potter die along with his brat, as Snape had first asked... but even as he'd asked that of the old man, Snape had known that Dumbledore would never agree to that. Still - he'd had to try.

      His thoughts took an even blacker turn as he realized that the awful horror of being a Death Eater was never going to fade as he had hoped when he first came to Dumbledore to beg for help. Nor would his abject guilt evaporate at having been the instrument - albeit unintendedly - of Lily's endangerment. Deep in his icy heart, he knew that he would never forgive himself for having put Lily's life in jeopardy, even though it had been an accidental consequence of spying and reporting to the Dark Lord what he - Snape - had managed to overhear at the Hog's Head Tavern last year on that fateful winter's evening. Although Dumbledore had told Snape several times that it was not possible for him to have known ahead of time just what the actual consequences of the act of informing the Dark Lord of the prophecy would be, Snape knew all too well - as did any Slytherin - that one always ran the risk, when carrying out underhanded acts, that doing so could lead to unforseen consequences that might turn out to be undesireable. This time, he had been stung badly by just such a possibility, and the potential for this particular consequence was terrifying indeed. He could not release himself from any of the deep-rooted guilt that oppressed him, nor could he rid himself of the horrifying fear that his beloved Lily might die due to his own actions.

      Never mind the events he'd been pondering. There was no use in crying over spilt pumpkin juice, was there? He shook himself free of his dark memories much like a dog shakes water off it's coat, and strode down the street to Madame Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

      He needed teaching robes and he now had the wherewithal to buy them. While it was true that Madame Malkin's robes cost more than most others, it was also worth the extra money (if one had it) to buy robes from her shop, as they were all both self-pressing and self-repairing. And, for a few Galleons more apiece, they would also be self-cleaning. Having grown up in poverty, he was unused to having house elves around, and he would very much prefer it if he didn't need to endure them popping in and out of his private quarters daily to retrieve and deliver freshly-laundered clothing to him. He only needed a couple of sets each of lighter-weight and heavier-weight robes. If he chose carefully, he could probably buy his entire wardrobe of teaching robes without spending a Sickle over the money he'd just earned, and he wouldn't be out of pocket a single Knut. Not that he ever had much money in his pockets at any given time...

=====

      As soon as he entered Madam Malkin's, the squat witch herself smiled at him in a friendly manner, and asked, "How may I help you on this fine day, sir?"

      He was immediately put off by the witch's cheerfulness, but he'd heard that it was just the way she was. It was probably good for her business. Thank the gods he himself didn't have to work in retail, he knew he would probably hit someone with the killing curse just for asking a silly question, before he even realized what he'd done. He was aware that teaching was not likelier to be any easier for him, but he knew he could at least punish his students when he saw fit, if not with an Unforgiveable curse.

      "I need basic robes suitable for teaching," he began hesitantly, "Nothing fancy, just plain decent-quality robes."

      As an afterthought, he added, "I want them to be full of cut, so they will... drape... nicely."

      He'd almost said 'swirl'. That was all he needed to do to thoroughly embarrass himself, to tell Madame Malkin that he wanted his robes to be full enough to swirl when he spun on his heel. Merlin's beard! That would have been utterly humiliating! He might as well admit to her that he'd been practicing sharp swirling turns and trying to perfect a stalk to cause full robes to billow so that he'd look properly menacing to his students, many of whom knew him when he was still a student and might not - he feared - show him proper respect for his new authority. Why not just tell the woman, who was a stranger to him since he'd never had enough money to buy in her shop before, that he was so insecure about the job he was about to begin in a few short months that he could only quell his panic by prancing before a full-length mirror when no one was around to see him?

      "And black. They must be black. I won't wear anything but black," he said sharply.

      Fortunately, the witch seemed to know just what he wanted... or perhaps she simply showed him what he - a very thin man - would look best in. She brought him several similar styles of mid-weight and heavy-weight robes, cut so they tapered at the waist and were quite full the rest of the way down to the floor - all inky black. Some were silk-wool blends and others were heavier woolens, and some were heavy linen while others were linen of a finer hand. All were, she said, self-pressing and self-mending, and she indicated which were also self-repairing.

      "Are you sure," she asked hesitantly, "that you don't want to try on some color, sir? I have a set of robes just your size in a beautiful brick red... "

      She saw him cringe, and added quickly, "And a very nice dark blue - a midnight blue..."

      She saw that was little better and tried again, "What about forest green? That's a color that would look very nice on you. Or perhaps you'd consider a lovely dark mustard gold - "

      "No! No midnight blue, no forest, and ABSOLUTELY NO MUSTARD - just plain black, if you please," he snapped rudely, "I am not eating bangers, I am buying basic black robes!"

      The witch was taken aback at the vehemence with which he addressed her, and she tried to sooth him immediately.

      "Very well, then, sir - basic black it shall be. I recommend the woolens for winter wear. Do you prefer the silk blend or linen for warmer weather?"

      He'd never been confronted with such a choice before. He had no idea.

      "I... I..." he stammered.

      Feeling confident once again, Madame Malkin explained kindly that linen more or less perpetually wrinkles when worn even though it's one of the most comfortable and sturdy of fabrics and while the linen robes were in fact self-pressing, they would still wrinkle on the body while they were worn. Silk-wool blends don't show wrinkles much. On the other hand, the softest of the linens that she had were much nicer to the touch, she pointed out to him.

      Forgoing the self-gratification of the feel of soft linen, he chose the more practical silk-wool for his light-weight robes. He didn't need comfort so much and was, in fact, not used to it anyway - but he did want his new robes to look impressive, thereby making him look impressive. And it wasn't a matter of having to choose robes unpleasant to his touch - the silk in the blend made the lightweight wool much nicer than any robes he'd ever worn before.

      After his new robes were hemmed to the proper length for him, and he'd paid, he withdrew a small vial of Shrinking Potion from his pocket and dropped two tiny drops on the garments in their bags. Despite Madame Malkin's frown at such treatment of new clothes, he palmed them and left her shop.

      He would go home to practice moving about in his new robes before his mirror, so he could work on the turn-and-swirl motion and the billowing stride that he had been trying so hard to adopt ... after a quick stop next door in Flourish & Blotts, simply because Severus Snape could never pass up a bookshop without at least browsing.

~ finite fabulum ~

Author's Notes: Any Slytherin who is aware of the Muggle saying "it's better to ask for forgiveness than for permission" will agree that, Muggle or not - it's a very Slytherin mindset. It's a basic tenant of life for Slytherins because it's often the only practical way to operate, and, after all... the end justifies the means.

Severus Snape's tales, as he whispers them into my ear, are told rather dryly - more like a verbal essay than a work of fiction designed to fascinate the reader sufficiently to maintain his/her interest in continuing to read the story. He needs a good fiction writer to "pretty up" his account, to turn his raw material into an easily readable yarn. I've tried my best to remain in his mind, and speak with his voice, yet tell his story well and as if it were good fiction rather than his biographical memoirs.   ~ Spirit of Severus Snape ~