In fiction? Always.
Madam Rosmerta has been looking out of her window. She has not joined the people of Hogsmeade, who have all run to Hogwarts to fight in the battle. She suddenly sees strange lights flashing from the now broken windows of the Shrieking Shack. Strangely, there are no shouts or indeed shrieks coming from it. There is, instead, an eerie silence.
She doesn’t know what is going on, whether the battle is lost or won. But she fears the worst. She decides that, after all, she does not want to live under Voldemort’s tyranny. If she has to die, the sooner the better, and better still to die fighting than cornered in her own house. There is no one shrieking in the Shack, so she knows Bellatrix and the Carrows aren’t there, but she cannot be sure who else might be. Whoever they are, she’d better be prepared. Wand, and of course, some healing remedies. What witch does not carry some magical herbs and potions about her?
There is no one left in the village, friend or foe. She walks to the Shack, unnoticed. The door is open, broken, and there is no sound at all. Just silence. She inspects the ruined rooms, treading carefully on the debris. There, lying on the floor, lies the body of a man. He is not moving at all, head fallen to one side.
“Lumos”.
She can see clearly now. The fallen man is the Headmaster of Hogwarts, the hated Death Eater, the man who killed Dumbledore. He’s dead now. Or maybe just half dead? Carefully, she approaches him, wand ready just in case he happens to be half dead - which would mean, of course, that he’s half alive. The man does not move.
Rosmerta checks carefully. The wound on his neck looks awful, there is still a trickle of blood gushing from it. She checks for a heartbeat. Nothing… wait, there is something. Faint, feeble, but unmistakable a heartbeat. The man is, after all, almost dead, but not quite. But he deserves to die, doesn’t he?
No. No one deserves to die like this, not even him. Dumbledore wouldn’t have left anyone to die like this, he wouldn’t.
Kneeling by his side, she examines his wounds. First thing first: the wound on his neck looks like a bite. Poisonous? Maybe. Poison… Dittany of Crete works with some poisonous bites and seals wounds. Yes, she’s got it. Star grass salve will also help. Every witch worth her wand knows about herbs and healing potions, or she isn’t a witch. She empties the small vial of Dittany on his neck, and applies the salve for good measure. She can’t leave him there, though, but Levitation charms aren’t that difficult. She takes him home as fast as she can. She picks up his wand as well. The streets are still deserted, the silence overwhelming.
She carries him to her room and lays him on her bed. Now she can remove his bloody clothes, and check for more injuries. There are none. His heart is still beating feebly. Rosmerta washes the dried blood from his face, his hands, his body. She looks at him. Too thin, too pale, mauve shadows under his long black lashes, white hands with long fingers immobile on her flowered bedspread. He doesn’t look dangerous at all. He looks as if no one has cared for him for a long, long time.
She can do no more. The silence has been broken. The battle has started again. She had not wished to join the battle before, and she has no wish to join it now. She focuses on the wounded man instead. She pulls off the now dirty, wet bedspread. She dresses him up in one of her husband’s old shirts, wraps a quilt around him, lights the fire. She must keep him warm, his skin had felt far too cold and clammy. She decides to stay and check that he is as comfortable a she can manage. The man sighs now and then, but does not regain consciousness.
The dawn brings her neighbours back, singing and exultant: You Know Who has been defeated, the Death Eaters are either dead or captured. She comes down, opens her door, and listens to the stories about the great victory. The prisoners will be sent to Azkaban, and the Ministry has decreed that Voldemort’s hardcore Death Eaters will receive the Dementor’s kiss. She has one of them upstairs in her room. She should turn him in and let him face Azkaban, with the rest of the rabble.
She goes up to her room and looks at the man. He is so pale that he seems to have no blood left in him. Yet he is still breathing, slowly, painfully, weakly. She decides to keep quiet, no one is looking for him. She shudders at the thought of a Dementor sucking up his soul. There is no way she is going to allow anyone, not even him, to receive a Dementor’s kiss.
But the wounded man still hasn’t moved, and his face is still deadly white. She needs… she needs healing magic, not homemade remedies, if she wants to help him. She realises, with a start, that she does want to help him. The easiest way to get what she wants is volunteering to help Madam Pomfrey take care of the wounded.
She makes sure her room is quite warm, double locks her door and goes to Madam Pomfrey, who is glad to get some help, and explains to Rosmerta what is needed for which wounds, side effects of curses, poisonous bites.
“That snake bit several of our students, Rosmerta. We are quite fortunate Dumbledore left with us a goblet filled with Phoenix’ tears. We have, of course, antidote for common poisons, but we wanted to make sure. Just two drops on every bite will be enough.
There are some who have lost a lot of blood, they have to take Blood Replenishing Potion. Two spoonfuls three times a day.
The ones on the left have suffered personal losses, they should rest. A measure of Dreamless Sleep Potion will suffice.
The ones on the far left have already been unconscious for too long; it’s better to give them a spoonful of Revive Potion”.
The rest of the injured and wounded, I will take care of them myself”.
Rosmerta soon proves to be quite an asset, and she also proves to be quite deft at taking small quantities of what she thinks she needs without Madam Pomfrey’s noticing. A vial of Blood Replenishing Potion. A vial of Dreamless Sleep Potion. A small bottle of Revive Potion. And she also manages to get some drops of the very powerful, very rare and extremely valuable Phoenix tears.
Back home, everything is the same. The man is somewhat warmer, but his breathing seems worse than when she left. She quickly drops the Phoenix tears on the still not quite sealed wound. When she sees that the unhealthy look is vanishing, leaving only a very faint scar, she is overjoyed. Now she has to decide what to do next. The Revive Potion to awaken the unconscious man and then the Blood Replenishing Potion seem a good choice.
She holds him up and manages to pour some drops of Revive Potion into his mouth, praying that he is able to swallow it. Soon his fingers begin to twitch, and he opens his eyes. He looks around without curiosity or wonder. His black eyes have a weary, tired look. His back is resting against a woman’s warm body, a woman who is holding him tight, but he is too weak to move.
- Here, Professor Snape, you have to take this. Two spoonfuls. You have lost too much blood”.
Hs recognises the voice.
- “Ros..?” he says, hoarsely. Every word is an effort. “How?”
- “I brought you home. Now take this. It’s Blood Replenishing Potion, I’m not trying to poison you, truly. You will feel better soon, and we’ll talk then. Later. I promise”.
The man swallows his two spoonfuls, and Rosmerta lays him back on the pillows. He soon falls asleep, but it’s a troubled sleep; Rosmerta is worried, she’s not sure how potions work together, and she can’t risk anything else; he doesn’t seem worse, though; he’s just thrashing and talking in his sleep. Rosmerta tries to restrain him, holding his hands, and then she realises what he’s saying. She listens with surprise first, then horror and repugnance. Not at what the man has done, but at what was done to him.
She dares not use the Awake Potion again, but there is something she can do. The remedy has worked for centuries. She takes off her clothes and slips into the bed. She holds him tightly, and speaks softly, trying to calm him down, brushing his hair off his face, tracing the lines of his eyebrows with her fingers. After a while, the man seems to relax, though he still mutters softly now and then. She, finally, falls asleep as well.
She opens her eyes when a wandering ray of sun touches her face. The man is still asleep, his breathing easier, his face still pale but his colour slightly better, the mauve shadows under his eyes are not as dark as they were. He is lying on his side, his face next to hers, one arm thrown carelessly over her waist, the other trapped between the pillow and her neck. She doesn’t want to wake him up. Instead, she lets her eyes wander over his white face, white chest, white shoulders. Black hair, black eyebrows, black lashes. Snow and midnight. A faint, zig-zagging scar can still be seen on the side of his neck.
The man finally wakes up. His eyes meet her gaze, and hold it. There is no hatred in Rosmerta’s warm, vibrant, brilliant blue eyes. He has seen nothing but hatred and derision for a long time, everywhere he looked. Then he realises that he is actually holding her body.
-“I’m… sorry”.
-“Don’t, Professor Snape. Everything’s all right. You’ve been very sick; I’ll bring you something to eat, and you’ll feel better. Oh, and you will need two more spoonfuls of the Blood Replenishing Potion, I think”.
She disentangles herself, throws a shawl over her body and returns with a bowl of the traditional remedy for people recovering from an illness, magical or not: chicken broth. She puts the tray on the bed, and makes sure he finishes it, then gives him two more spoonfuls of the Potion. He really has lost far too much blood, but he looks slightly better. At least he doesn’t look like death. Just very, very pale and very, very tired.
-“Ros….? “
-“Yes?”
- “I need to know. Is the battle lost?”
-“We’ve won. He who must not be named is dead. Truly dead. The Death Eaters are being sent to Azkaban”.
-“Why am I here, then?”
-“I found you in the Shrieking Shack. I brought you home, and I’ve been taking care of you. You were badly hurt.”
-“But why? Why did you do it? I’m a Death Eater.”
-“At first, because I couldn’t let you die there, alone. I wouldn’t have let a dog die like that. Now, because I know all about you. You worked for Dumbledore. Yet he let them hate you, hit you, hurt you, kill you, they wanted to kill you. It was your nightmare, wasn’t it? A long nightmare”.
-“What do you mean?”
-“You talk in your dreams, didn’t you know? And I can listen. I know what you did, and I know who you really are.”
The man looks at the now empty tray and does not know what to say. He is so used to hide behind a mask that this is disconcerting. He looks up again. Pity is the last thing he wants. But there’s no trace of pity in her eyes; there is warmth, kindness, understanding. The whole universe is a brilliant, glowing blue.
Then he looks at himself.
-“What the hell am I wearing, Ros?”
-“It’s one of my husband’s old shirts. I had to burn your clothes. White suits you better than black, anyway.”
Rosmerta takes away the tray and returns to the room. She sits on the bed, and takes his hand in both of hers. Her touch is warm. Warmth. When has anyone shown him any warmth? When has anyone given him everything, and demanded nothing in return?. Someone who has not criticised him, has not judged him, has not doubted him. No one.
-“Would you prefer to be alone?”
-“No, not really. Stay”.
They look at each other, and Rosmerta is slowly drawn towards the man who is reclining against the pillows, till there is no distance between them, their eyes still locked. Then she kisses his mouth, lightly, sweetly, almost expecting to be rejected. But there is no rejection. His free hand touches her hair and draws her nearer.
It takes several days more for the man to recover; physical wounds heal fast, but stress, anguish and trauma are not so easily healed. He has time to think when Rosmerta isn’t keeping him company, and he can see clearly he can’t stay, well, he does want to stay just a little bit longer, but he must go away, and soon. Damn. The Wizardly World is quite busy mourning their dead, judging and condemning, celebrating the victory of the Boy Who Lived Twice. No one has remembered him yet; no one but Potter knows what happened, and he knows very well the depth of the hatred Potter has always felt for him.
Anyway, it’s good to talk with someone. For once in his life he has nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of; there is no point, as Ros has seen both his naked body and his naked soul. She’s seen him as he is, and she accepts him as he is. And he truly enjoys her company, her stories about her life, the antics of her clients, a life he’s never been part of. It feels wonderful.
But nothing lasts forever, and he must go.
-“Ros, I can’t stay here, it’s dangerous for you. I won’t let you risk your life for me. I am a wanted man. I am tired of lying and I will always be surrounded by suspicion and hatred if I stay. It always tasted like poison. I don’t want to taste this poison ever again. I have to go”.
-“You don’t have to…”.
-“I do, Ros, can’t you see?”
-“I meant you don’t have to go alone. I will go with you.”
-“Ros… I can’t offer you anything, Ros.”
-“But I don’t want anything. Just you. If you want me.”
-“Want you? Want you? I do, don’t you know I do? But we can’t get married. No wizard can marry us, and no Muggle can marry us. Would you accept to live with me, as husband and wife, with no marriage vows?”
-“I would. We can write our own vows, and that will be enough.”
Soon after, in the middle of the night, a man silently Disapparates and Apparates again near Spinner’s End. The house is empty, the Ministry has been through it, and all his books and magical implements have been taken away. But the Ministry officers aren’t smart enough to find Muggle hidden places. His passport, his mother’s passport, his Muggle money, documents and clothes are still where he left them. Rosmerta, meanwhile, advertises that The Three Broomsticks is for sale.
Now he only needs a little magic to change his passport, and a little more magic to change his mother’s passport for Ros to use. They are leaving as Muggles. They need new names, because the old ones could be traced by the Ministry officers, damn that Big Brother is watching you thing.
They have to decide the names that will appear on their passports.
-“I quite like Ros, you know. But it’s not really a name. And Rosmerta is not a Muggle name, is it?”
-“What do you say to Rosemary? It means “remembrance”. Or Roxana, if you like to keep a witch’s name.”
-“Rosemary. I’d rather be remembered. Now you. You can’t keep Severus either. Are there Muggle names beginning with Sev? Rus?”
-“Not Sev. It was a name used by somebody that I used to know. Besides I can only think of Sebastian, which I don’t like much. Russell, though… Russ and Ros?
The both laugh at the idea, but it’s not really that bad. They’re Muggle enough, and similar enough to their original ones. Rosemary and Russell, and a new surname. It doesn’t take long. Prince is a Muggle surname as well as a magical surname. Ros finds quite funny the fact that the photo on her passport does not move. But there’s still one other thing.
-“Your hair.”
-“What’s wrong with my hair? It’s always been like this.”
-“Your hair, my dear, is as telling as your nose. You need an haircut. Don’t look so horrified, it’s only your hair I’m cutting. All right, just a little bit.”
The Three Broomsticks is sold; Ros has a week to pack her things and leave the premises. She has to say goodbye to her neighbours, and tells them that she’s going to live with some Irish cousins. Her neighbours and clients will miss her, or rather they will miss her mead, but understand her desire to go away.
And now… they only have to leave. Russell Prince has his few belongings packed in a backpack, including his wand, his Muggle money and both passports. He is leaving at midnight; he is catching a bus from Dufftown to Aberdeen, and then a flight to London-Gatwick. Aurors know he can fly, but they lack imagination. A wizard wouldn’t choose leaving on a jet plane. Unconceivable. He looks like the average tourist. Jeans, white shirt, jacket.
Rosemary Prince will leave on the Knight Bus; she has to go to Diagon Alley to change all her galleons into Muggle money. Her bags are packed, but she’s not taking much, either.
-“Remember, Ros. I can’t be seen near the Leaky Cauldron. Muggle world is not that difficult; once you leave, just follow Charing Cross road till you find a taxi, and tell the driver to take you to Saint Paul’s Cathedral. I’ll be there, waiting for you.”
-“And I’ll be there, looking for you.”
Goblins don’t ask questions, so Ros has no trouble at all getting her money changed; she has no trouble either finding a taxi, they are clearly marked with a “TAXI” sign. At the entrance of Saint Paul’s Cathedral, Russ is waiting for her. They leave their bags at the small Bed & Breakfast where Russ has already reserved a room, and they go back to the cathedral.
There, in the Chapel of St. Dunstan, quite deserted this early in the morning, holding hands, they make their quite unusual vows.
-“I, Severus, want to be in the warm hold of your loving mind. To feel you all around me, and to take your hand along my path. I want to hide behind your smile, and, anywhere I’ll look, your eyes find. I want you near me to kill my fears, to help me to leave all my blues behind. For standing in your heart is where I want to be, and long to be, forever.”
-“I, Rosmerta, will never leave you or turn back from following you; for wherever you go, I will go, and wherever you live, I will live. Your people shall be my people and your God, my God. Wherever you die, I will die, and there I will be buried, by your side, so not even Death can do us part.”
They return to the Bed & Breakfast, where there is indeed breakfast and a bed. They can rest for a while, even if some hanky-panky does take place. Mostly panky, to be frank. Their flight from Heathrow to Charles de Gaulle isn’t scheduled till early morning. Next day, they fly from Orly to Venice. Changing airports, changing airlines, and no magic. Ros is thrilled to discover a world she has never seen.
Honeymooning in Venice, they have to decide where to go, and where to live. It’s a hard decision, but they finally settle for a city filled with magic, and whose Ministry of Magic has had a quite strained relationship with the British Ministry of Magic over a matter of Flying Carpets.
They have, quite successfully, disappeared from the British Wizardly world. When the Aurors decide to recover the Headmaster’s corpse from the Shrieking Shack, they find nothing except dried blood and rags. But no clues. He is nowhere to be found, and no one sees him again.
NINETEEN YEARS AFTER
Ginny and Ron convince their spouses to travel to Egypt, the land that had so impressed them so many years before, but that Harry and Hermione haven’t still visited. The children are in school, little Hugo is left with the Grangers, little Lily with the Weasleys, and September is a good time to visit Egypt.
They agree that Saqqara, the wizard Imhotep’s most celebrated work, is a must. They have just entered the site when they see a small boy jump from one of the columns, launch himself skywards, laughing, and instead of crumpling on the dusty road, soar like a trapeze artist through the air, quite literally flying, staying up far too long, and landing far too lightly just in front of them, still laughing.
Harry has the uncanny feeling that he has seen this before, somewhere. He looks carefully at the obviously magical little boy, who looks back with a smile so full of mischief and confidence that he has to smile back.
- “Hello”, he says, tentatively, not sure if the child can understand English or not.
- “Oh, hullo. Did you come to see the hero.. the hieroglyphs too?”
He has long black hair parted in curtains around a face that would have been white if it wasn’t covered in red dust, and startlingly brilliant blue eyes. His black Whitesnake tee shirt, jeans and trainers are as covered in dust as his face. Whatever he’s been doing, he seems to have been thoroughly enjoying himself.
- “Yes, we have. Did you see them all?”
- “Some. But I really want to see the mummies. Aydin said there are lots and lots of mummies at Tuna el-Gebel. I want to see them all. Mummies are cool”.
Ron joins in the conversation, highly amused, if slightly confused. The child is obviously British, but he can’t figure out who he is. He can’t recall anyone with a child like this, though he’s sure he’s seen him somewhere.
-“Hello, I’m Ron, this is Harry here, Hermione and Ginny. So, what’s your name?”
-“Julian. Mum wanted to name me after a Roman warl.. warrior, but dad said that one old warl… warrior name was more than enough in the family. She does call me Jules, though”.
The four tourists exchange a look.
-“How old are you, Julian?”
-“Nine”
-“Shouldn’t you be at school?”
The boy looks horrified at the thought.
- “School? Who wants to be locked up in a filthy school?”
-“So, no school for you, then?”
- “Nah, my dad teaches us at home. Me and Nuriye and Aydin. History and herbs and mag… Maths. Yeah, Maths.” He looks quite satisfied, and brushes a black strand of hair off his eyes. “He knows loads of stuff, my dad”.
Hermione and Ginny exchange another look. Hermione is quite concerned because this boy has obviously been told about the International Statute of Secrecy, but the importance of “secrecy” has not been quite reinforced. Ginny is concerned that the child appears to be alone, and no one seems to have told him not to talk to strangers.
-“Is your father a teacher, then?”
-“He was, before we came home. It was a very old school, but he didn’t like it much. He says it was always cold there. I don’t like the cold, either. Do you?”.
-“Not much. So, do you live here now?”
-“Uh, no, we’re touristing a bit”. He points, quite accurately, to the North-East. “Our home’s up there. My dad says we live in the most magical city in the world”.
And there it is, clear as crystal. Magical. Hermione is getting really angry. This is against all rules and regulations. This child can be seen by Muggles, and is unafraid to speak freely with people. The Statute of Secrecy is International, for Merlin’s sake, no matter where he lives, his parents have to make sure he is not seen or heard. She steps in.
-“Why have your parents left you alone, Julian?”
The child, surprised, turns his brilliant blue eyes on her.
-“They haven’t. They’re over there”.
Hermione and the rest look past the columns. In the shade, not far away, there is a couple holding hands. The woman is wearing a deep red silk kaftan embroidered in gold, so beautiful that both Ginny and Hermione make a mental note to buy one of those as soon as they can. Her long, curly blond hair is tied with a gold and red scarf, and she has lost none of the beauty that had so bewitched Ron so many years before. The child has his mother’s eyes, and she is looking at them with defiance. Her tall, thin husband isn’t looking at them at all, he seems not to have noticed they’re there, or, if he has, he does not care. He has long black hair, a streak of silver on one side, parted in curtains around a slightly tanned face, and his black eyes never leave his son. He’s wearing a cotton white shirt over his jeans; only his trainers are the same black colour as his son’s.
Harry has trouble recognising the man he had hated for so long. He has the same black hair, same hooked nose, the same… but… the eyes he remembers did not shine with love, pride and joy, and the grimace he remembers is actually a smile, and the smile is tender. He realises that he had always looked at him through a veil of hatred, like Sirius, like James. Now he’s seeing him objectively for the first time.
-“Jules”, calls the mother. “We’re leaving. You need a really good bath before dinner:”
-“A bath? But I already had a bath yesterday! I’m clean!”
He looks at his clothes, at his hands, at Ginny.
-“Do I need a bath?”
-“You do, you don’t want to go to bed covered in dust, do you?”
-“I s’ppose not. I’d better go. Bye.”
The child waves and runs to his parents, his feet hardly touching the ground. He takes his father’s hand and begins to talk excitedly as they walk towards the exit.
The woman looks at them with her bright blue eyes. She has obviously recognised them. She stares at each one for an instant, pride and defiance in her gaze, nods and walks on. The man doesn’t look at them at all; He’s telling his son that he does have to take a bath because, if he doesn’t, the caretaker will take him for a mummy and lock him up in the cave with the rest of the mummies, and that he is sorely tempted to leave him there. They hear the child’s delighted laugh as they walk away.
They never look back.
nobodysuspectsthebutterfly
