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AUTHOR: Josan
PAIRING: SS/??
RATING: PG-13
DATE: August, 2003
FEEDBACK: leave a comment or jmann@pobox.mondenet.com
DISCLAIMER: Severus Snape and other Potter-characters mentioned belong
to J. K. Rowling. Others are all mine but I do owe some of the names to Laura Joh Rowland.
SUMMARY: The War is over, and things change in the name of "Progress".
NOTES: Part of the Severus Snape Fuh-Q Fest: Second Wave {Scenario
#60: after the defeat of the Dark Lord, Severus questions his future.}
BETAS: The tolerant and incomparable Rhys. Thanks for the redirection on the clothing. The Lady Mondegreen, who caught the joke.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Rhys has indicated to me that some of the characters
which appear in this story may not be known to all. (Scandalized gasp!)
According to FANTASTIC BEASTS & WHERE TO FIND THEM by Newt
Scamander, a KNEAZLE is "a small cat-like creature with flecked, speckled or
spotted fur, outsized ears and a tail like a lion's" (Page 24) and a CRUP
"closely resembles a Jack Russell terrier, except for the forked tail...which
crup owners are legally obliged to remove...with a painless Severing Charm"
(pages 8,9).
Both of these animals are incredibly loyal to the wizard of their choice.
Kneazles have the added ability of being able "to detect unsavoury or
suspicious characters" (page 24).
So now you all know!
Oh, yes. WARNING: this is another of those experiments.
________________________________________
The small house was as he remembered it from his childhood, his
grandfather's retreat from the world when he needed time away from his
argumentative family. He'd come up here several times with the old wizard
whose hobby had been Muggle-style fishing. Snape had not liked the
activity, but he had found the barren hills appealing.
The house had been left to him specifically when the old man had died; since
no one in the family had wanted to visit the back of beyond, they had not
contested that part of the will.
He had pretty much forgotten the existence of the property, let alone that
he owned it, until he was going through his papers and found his copy of the
property deed.
He had been going through his papers because he had been fired. Point
blank. Told by the newest Headmaster that his teaching "style" was not
acceptable. That in today's world, students had to be encouraged to learn at
their own rate rather than have learning forced into their heads. That things
had changed in the ten years since Voldemort's defeat.
One by one, the old staff had retired. He was the last hold out, believing
that someone at the Ministry would finally clue in to the fact that lower
standards of education meant a lower standard of wizard. He had ignored
the "hints" that it was time for him to move on to new challenges, to widen
his horizons, etc., until he had been told that, with the new term, his
services would no longer be required.
Told by one of those pimply, self-satisfied American-trained Ministry-arse-
kissing golden boys who had nothing but disdain for the "old ways".
"You were given several opportunities to adjust to modern pedagogy and
you refuse to understand that today's young witches and wizards must learn
at their own rate, that they absorb information by osmosis, not by being
forced to learn by rote. That they..."
That they couldn't put a decent potion together because the colour was
displeasing to them, or because certain ingredients stank and offended their
sensitive little noses. Who grumbled and whined to their parents, who in
turn grumbled and whined to whichever Headmaster was around that there
was no reason for learning the *old* ways of brewing potions, not when the
Ministry's new line of instant portions sachets – "Just add water and stir
while casting a spell to ensure a lump-free texture!" – were so much easier
to use. (Not to mention the fact that such potions were inferior to the real
thing, which point, however, did not put galleons into Ministry coffers.)
He had never been popular, even after all that he had done to help in the
victory against Voldemort had been openly acknowledged. Oh, he had been
given the requisite awards and medals, but always with a sense of
reluctance. They had wanted his help, had needed it far more than they had
liked, and they had resented the fact that *he* of all wizards had been
among the survivors.
He had known that there would be no one at the Ministry to challenge his
firing and so he had packed his workshops, taken all of his ingredients...
The final insult. A member of the Ministry had accompanied him in what had
been his rooms as he packed, verifying that he didn't take anything for
which he had no receipt. The pompous bureaucrat had been irritated – and
then livid – to discover that Snape had kept all of his receipts going back to
the first day of his being hired as Potions Instructor, and that the rare potion
ingredients the Ministry had its eye on were in fact unequivocally – *legally*
– his. As was the entire content of his library.
And so it was that he had come across the property deed for the small farm
near a trout stream in the Northwest Highlands.
And now here he was, his possessions all around him, staring at the small
two storey house of gray stone with its even smaller attached barn.
The interior was as his grandfather had left it all those years ago, warded
with a Protection Charm. Nothing grand, and yet there was something
soothing about the slight familiarity of the place.
He took over his grandfather's bedroom with its huge four poster (he had
been a large man), hanging his robes, suits and shirts in the wardrobe next
to those the old man had left behind. He turned the parlour into his library,
the overflow going into the small second bedroom he had used as a child.
The kitchen... He shrugged; even though his Potions mastery assured that
he was not incompetent in that environment, he *was* fairly unimaginative.
His wand would have to suffice.
In the barn, he found his grandfather's fishing equipment – still in perfect
condition due not only to the charms cast on it, but also from the hours that
his grandfather had spent maintaining it by hand – and moved it out of
harm's way to the unused pantry in the kitchen. The barn became his
workshop. He put up special wards on both buildings, having lost whatever
trust he once had towards the Ministry.
He forced himself to walk the hills every day, no matter the weather, telling
himself that it was necessary to know the territory. Gradually, the anger,
the disillusionment, the insults he carried in him dissipated and he
discovered that he enjoyed these walks over his land for their own sake.
And, gradually, it also dawned on him that, for the first time in far too many
years, he had only himself to look after. No living a double life on the edge.
No House arguments to settle. No mouthy, disrespectful students to try and
instruct. No "modern" administrators to deal with. His time was his own.
He could work uninterrupted on perfecting old potions in the *traditional*
manner for however long he wanted and experiment to his heart's content
on new ones.
He had been in what he termed exile for five months when the owl arrived.
He looked at the invitation he received every year to attend the
International Potions Masters Convention and tossed it aside. He never had
the time...
He stopped and picked it up again.
He *did* have the time. He'd always had to turn the invitation down
because it arrived in the middle of term, but this year he had no
commitments to hold him back.
He looked to see where it was being held. Japan. He had never been to
Japan.
He liked Japan.
Oh, at first he was slightly uncomfortable. It was a foreign land and he was
worried that he might inadvertently place a foot wrong – he seemed to have
done far too much of that in past years! – because he didn't know local
traditions and customs. Never mind the language!
But the organizers were well prepared. They cast a Language Translation
Spell on each attendee as he or she arrived and, even if the sentence
structures were sometimes a little weird, those attending could understand
each other. For the presentations there were official translators so that
nuances would not be missed.
Moreover they had asked for local wizards and witches to volunteer as
guides so that those visiting could see some of the attractions away from the
site, even a bit of the country. Some of the locals went so far as to invite
the visitors into their homes for a traditional meal. Snape discovered in
Sano Ichiro a fellow Potions Master with not only an excellent grasp of the
English language, but also a man as interested in experimentation as he
was. After the conference, they became faithful correspondents.
At the conference, Snape was surprised to learn that he had a reputation
among his fellow Potion Masters. Wizards and witches were pleased to meet
him. They wanted his opinion on matters, sought his counsel with some of
the problems they were having with potions. He found the fact that he was
a traditionalist, now a dirty word back home, something that others here
respected. He was suddenly far more at ease than he had ever thought he
could be in an environment that was not familiar to him.
He was taken aback when the organizers approached him and asked if he
would be willing to give a talk on the Wolfsbane Potion he had developed.
And though he hadn't expected more than one or two wizards to show up at
his impromptu presentation, they had to move him into one of the larger
halls to so that everyone who signed up could have a seat.
He apparated back to his farm with a restored sense of self-worth and a
colourful man's kimono – black with gold and red dragons – that had been
presented to him by the organizers. Next year's conference was to be held
in New Zealand and he would be one of the official presenters.
________________________________________
And then, one day, his household grew. By one.
The house elf came out of nowhere. Trembling with fear and nervousness,
eyes larger than the norm in his far too thin face.
Snape was coming back from a walk when he spied something in the high
grasses that surrounded his house. Wand at the ready, he challenged,
"Come out or I'll blast you."
A house elf, wringing his hands, emerged in front of him.
Snape didn't lower his wand right away. He looked over the elf who was
wearing a torn tea towel and one sock. It took him a moment to realize the
tea towel had the Hogwarts emblem on it, faded to almost invisibility.
"Your name?" growled Snape, wondering if this was a trap of some kind.
Why would the elf be wearing both the tea towel and a sock?
"Struy, Mas...Sir." Tears suddenly streamed down the elf's face.
"Who gave you the sock, Struy?"
The tears increased and the elf's voice broke.
"The...Mast...sirs...Hog...warts...cut-b
Snape lowered his wand. Another victim of modernization, he thought.
"You'd better come in and calm yourself."
Over a cup of tea, Struy explained that he had not wanted to leave Hogwarts
but had been forced to accept the sock and thereby his freedom. He'd tried
to find others to serve, but since he'd been socked... He sniffed, tears
dripping into his mug of cooling tea. He finally had no place to go other than
home, a disgrace to his family, to learn that someone else from Hogwarts
had settled in the area.
"Please, take Struy's sock from him. Struy will serve you well."
"Struy..." Snape looked at the desolate house elf.
"Family not want Struy back. Hogwarts was for bragging. Now Struy has
sock and family ashamed."
Well, thought Snape, he could use someone to do his laundry, and to clean
up. But more importantly...
"Struy, what position did you hold at Hogwarts?"
The elf straightened his shoulders and held himself with pride. "Struy
kitchen elf." Then he seemed to deflate in on himself. Tears began once
more and he wrapped his hands in the bottom on his tea towel, twisting the
badly worn material.
Snape stood up. Maybe the world was progressing ahead into new realms,
but there were still those who belonged in the old one. Like himself. Like
Struy.
"Give me that sock, Struy."
The elf stopped weeping. His mouth dropped open.
"You understand that if you obey me in this, Struy, that you will belong to
me. To this house. If that is what you want, then give me the sock. Of
your own free will."
Snape stored the sock safely away, along with the faded tea towel. Struy
bustled about his duties, smiling, happy, garbed in a heather-coloured
flannel pillow case. He often hummed some silly refrain, which once would
have irritated Snape to no end, but which now only seemed to belong to the
house.
The next members of the household also came out of the high grasses. Not
the ones around the house. Struy saw that there was now a cleared area
around the front and sides so that it didn't look so desolate. Snape even
granted him permission to replant some heather as a sort of a garden along
the gray stone walls.
No, these came out after one of his fishing sessions. Snape had been drawn
to the gear Struy had stored in a corner of the parlour when he claimed the
pantry for himself. One day, he had taken it out along with the well-read
fishing book from the drawer of the night table in his bedroom – his
grandfather's copy of THE COMPLEAT ANGLER by Izaak Walton, a witch who
was the first published compiler of such lore. He had discovered that there
was something very soothing in tossing out a line and waiting to see what
might happen. Snape found he was acquiring a certain skill and a healthy
respect for his grandfather's ability, as well as an appreciation of fresh trout
served as Struy prepared it.
He was on his way back from what was becoming his favourite spot when he
heard rustling in the high grasses to either side of the path. He paused,
listening. Silence. He went on and the rustling began again. Yes, definitely
from both sides of the path. So he was prepared for the attack when it
came, just not the source of it.
He turned, wand ready to be used for any spell, including the Unforgivable
ones. By the time he understood that his wand had been aimed too high, his
creel was being dragged off his shoulder by one assailant while the second
was trying to bring him down by gnawing at his ankles.
A quick immobility spell and there they were: a kneazle and a crup. Snape
didn't know what startled him the most: that they had attacked him or that
they seemed to be working together. Kneazles and crups got along as well
as...as modernists and traditionalists.
One good look at them showed why they had attacked. They were small and
thin, ribs showing on both. With a sigh, Snape rescued his creel, slung it
over his shoulder, then picked up the two animals and brought them home.
Struy prepared a bowl of milk with bread and Snape mobilized them again.
The animals were terrified but drawn by the food. Side by side, teeth bared,
growling, they made their way to the bowl where they took turns eating
while the other kept watch on the Potions Master and his house elf.
"Well, not only getting along, but working as a team. I wonder how that
came about?"
But since they didn't speak, Snape never did find out how it had come to
pass that a kneazle and a crup had bonded the way they had. They took
over a corner in the kitchen by the stove and watched intently whenever
anyone came near them. They ate together, went out to the yard together
and at night cautiously, as though afraid of being kicked or having the door
slammed in their faces, together returned to their corner.
As they became more confident, they inspected the whole of the house,
eventually the barn, and gave every indication of staying. They made
themselves useful. Any pest which might have been thinking of invading
either house or workshop thought twice when it became known that a
kneazle and a crup took special exception to such plans.
Still, thought Snape, if they were joining the household, he would need to
have a license for both of them, according to the rules of the Department for
the Regulation and the Control of Magical Creatures.
Easier said than done. The idiots at the Department kept insisting he could
have a license for one or the other, but not both. One correspondent went
so far as to call Snape's sanity into question with his insistence that he
wanted a license for both. Finally, one of these new type of lower level
bureaucrats with delusions of importance insisted on seeing for himself.
Snape had barely finished reading the letter when the man apparated into
his yard.
"Really, Snape," the intruder sneered. "Just because you are mentioned in a
*footnote* of the most recent edition of THE HISTORY OF MAGIC, you seem
to think that the rules concerning Magical Creatures do not apply to you.
There is no recorded case of a wizard or witch being licensed for both a
kneazle and a crup. They are mutually exclusive. It just does not occur."
While he had been talking, the kneazle and the crup had slowly come out of
the house – Snape had refused to allow the twit inside – and waited until the
man had taken notice of them.
"You've spelled them somehow. *That* is strictly again the law! I shall have
to report this to the..."
But the bureaucrat didn't have time to say any more. The animals, sensing
that their saviour was being attacked, that the man did not belong in this
place, went on the offensive, teeth bared and claws unsheathed. The
kneazle leapt up onto the man's shoulders and dug in at the same time as
the crup aimed for his ankles. While the kneazle tore at the man's head, the
crup slipped under his robe and went for his genitals.
Snape had to transport the Ministry man back under the Trasporto Spell as
he was a blathering shambles by the time Snape managed – albeit very
slowly – to get the animals off him. As was their nature, the two had been
doing their best to eliminate what they saw as a threat to their master.
Snape got his licenses as well as a letter from the Department for the
Improper Use of Magic indicating that the incident was being added to his
dossier. Snape was not surprised to learn that he had a dossier. He knew
that there were many who still thought he should have been sent to Azkaban
instead of rewarded after the War was over. In their minds, once a Death
Eater, always a Death Eater.
They all congregated in the parlour after he had sent the Ministry man back.
He sat in his favourite chair by the fire; Struy, cross-legged on his pillow on
the window sill. The animals were in front of the fire, busy cleaning the
blood off themselves and each other.
"Well, since you seem to have made yourselves at home, you really do need
names."
Two heads looked up from their grooming as though they understood him.
They glanced at each other, sat up and waited.
In the weeks they had been part of the household, they had gained weight,
grown a few inches – although they would always be smaller than the norm
– and allowed some of their personalities to show. That they were loyal to
Snape was without question. And through him, to Struy. That they were
well behaved indoors was also without dispute. After that first inspection,
neither would enter the workshop, so that was not a concern. But once
outdoors, well, nothing was safe, whether it be gnome, knarl, or bird. Or
laundry. Snape had to create a platform for Struy out of a second storey
window from which to hang the clothes so that they would be out of the
reach of sharp teeth.
Snape suddenly chuckled to himself. Why not? He pointed to the kneazle.
"Your name is Fred." And then to the crup, "Yours is George."
The animals seemed to think that over and then, nodding as though with
acceptance, went back to cleaning themselves. George liked to sleep at the
foot of Snape's bed while Fred preferred the pillow next to Snape's.
Before leaving for New Zealand, Snape taught Struy how to send him a
message using floo powder and the fireplace. Just in case the Ministry
thought it should interfere in Snape's business.
New Zealand was a success. Once more he found himself sought out and
listened to. He was thrilled – though he didn't show it – when a publisher
approached him, wanting Snape to produce a manual on the brewing of
simple, traditional potions.
To his surprise, the book sold well.
Certain factions within the Ministry were not pleased with this popularization
of old-fashioned potion making. Snape received a letter from a
representative of the Ministry wondering if he understood that modern ways
were replacing those of older times and did he not think that this tome of his
was hindering the advancement of wizarding? (There was no mention made
of the Ministry's line of instant potions.)
Over the next five years, his books were translated into seventeen
languages, the one on exotic potions even going so far as to sit at number
one for seven weeks on the New York Review of Wizarding Books best seller
list.
Though he did not again hear directly from the Ministry, he knew that he
was followed at all the conferences he attended. Each of his books usually
garnered negative reviews in the Ministry-supporting wizard papers and
journals. But since his publisher was non-Isle-based, there was little the
Ministry could do. It couldn't ban his books outright, as this went against
their official policy of tolerance and non-censorship, but there were many
aggressive and even belligerent challenges to his philosophy of potions
during conference question-and-answer sessions. After the third such
occurrence, Snape merely refused to do a presentation at any conference
taking place in a country without a strong traditional culture.
"Have you thought of moving away?" asked Sano Ichiro, now Potions Master
to the Imperial Court of Japan. "In the Isles, you are barely tolerated, my
friend. Some other country would be honoured to have you."
They were sitting on a patio under some palm trees on a South Pacific island,
the location of this year's conference.
Snape frowned. "I have a house elf to consider and two creatures who are
attached to me. Not to mention a workshop and thousands of books."
Ichiro shrugged. "Not insurmountable. Yes, it would mean giving up the
familiar, Severus, but the familiar is unfriendly towards you at this time and
growing more so with the success of each of your books. They are afraid of
you."
Snape looked up from his fruit drink, eyebrows raised high in incredulity.
"Afraid? Of me? Sano, why would they be afraid of me?"
Ichiro shook his head slightly. "They have thrown out the old ways for many
reasons. But mainly because the old ways remind them that, because of
their inaction, they almost allowed the darkest of the Dark Lords to vanquish
them. That without you and others like you, he would have been the victor.
Their past embarrasses them and they would like to pretend that time never
happened. They fear that one day someone like yourself will want to write
their memoirs, and then all that they have struggled to bury will rise from
the grave to haunt them.
"Think about it, my friend. I have more than enough space on my land for
one small stone house and workshop."
Snape didn't want to believe him except that, one day, on a shopping trip to
Diagon Alley, someone tried to kill him. Fred, draped around his neck like a
fur collar, suddenly growled and Snape turned in time to avoid the green ray
of a distinctive spell. The rebound killed the sender and the authorities
merely shrugged it off as a robbery attempt.
"Probably had been following you about, Snape. The stuff you were buying
doesn't come cheap. Maybe," the voice of the representative from the
Ministry took on an ominous tone, "next time, you should be more careful of
what you're buying."
Back home, Snape thought a few days then held a meeting with his
household. The next time a Ministry spy tried to see what Snape was up to,
all he found was a hole in the ground where the house and workshop had
been.
on to the next part
