Chapter One :: Eggsaltation Sunday 2 May 1999 The ale was almost as flat as his mood, but truthfully, Harry Potter was a bit beyond caring. Oh, he had quite a lovely glow going on somewhere between his numb ears, but he'd yet to reach that uninhibited happy state which would allow him to freely celebrate with his friends. Like his dart game earlier, he kept missing the bullseye. His friends had blamed his horrid aim on the ale. It seemed only yesterday he'd faced He Who Still Must Not Be Named, but the calendar, not to mention the Daily Prophet, insisted it was a year ago today, an occasion marked as much by who was missing as by who was attending. Of the Weasleys, only two were present. Ron because Hermione insisted they needed to move on, and Ginny, who'd come because she'd already moved on; he admired that. There'd been others from Hogwarts as well, but none of the staff. He didn't know why that surprised him so much. Come to think of it, the wild revelry he'd half-expected had proven rather tame. People had come and gone, there'd been hugs and a few misty eyes, but, other than a raucously loud darts tournament, it had been night of fairly quiet drinking. Not much of a celebration, really. He looked around the empty table. Where had everyone gone? Oh, right, then. He hazily recalled Hermione mentioning something about Ginny and visiting the witches' room. Ron must have gone, too, only to the wizards' room, of course, or maybe he was at the bar. Had it been his round this time? He blamed his lack of observation on the ale. Ginny. Now there was something, or someone, he supposed, he should think about. He loved her and wanted to eventually marry her, but he was tired of everyone pushing him to do so. Why was it everyone assumed he'd bend his knee as soon as she finished Hogwarts? He didn't even know what he wanted to do with his own life, let alone muck about with someone else's. And had anyone other than him bothered to ask Ginny what she wanted? Would being Mrs Potter hinder her dream of playing professional Quidditch? He couldn't help but think it would, so why would she want to tie herself to him so quickly, so soon? Then there was all the flotsam that came from dating someone. He wasn't exactly the randiest bloke on the block, but, hell, she was only seventeen and, beyond kissing and a bit of petting, he'd not touched her. Shame that, really, but he didn't know her all that well, not marrying well, anyway. And what did that mean? 'Know me well.' Could anyone really claim his acquaintance through a photo on the front page of the Daily Prophet? Who else, beyond Hermione, or Ron, or Ginny, could even claim they 'knew him well'? Why would they want to? He blamed his irritation on the ale as well. "Oi, Earth to Harry." Ron's cheerful face swam into focus. "Brought you another pint, mate." Hermione soon followed and, as Ron slid the tankard to him across the table, they both sat down across from him. "Where's Ginny?" he asked, taking a cautious sip. Nope, not him. The ale was definitely flat right out of the tap. Ron looked anxiously around the room, but Hermione wouldn't meet his eyes. Tapping his finger on the back of her hand, he asked, "Well?" Hermione sighed. "You were supposed to have taken her home by curfew, remember? When you didn't, she left." Harry looked at his watch. "That was two hours ago," he exclaimed. "Why didn't she say something?" And why had Ginny mentioned she could stay as late as she wanted if she had a curfew? The answer floated somewhere in his head, and, knowing he probably wasn't going to like it, he decided he wasn't going to ask that particular question in front of her brother. "You were in the middle of your match, and she didn't want to bother you," Hermione explained. "Don't worry, I walked her back to the castle and made certain she got safely inside." "So that's where you went," Ron said, taking a deep draw on his bitters. It was after eleven, the ale was flat, he was half-soused and getting sleepy from it. He set his drink aside and was about to request they go home, when Ron beat him to it. "Sorry, Harry." As if being here was his idea? "Have to report for training first thing tomorrow morning." He drained his glass. "And Hermione needs her beauty sleep." Harry grinned as Hermione smacked Ron on the arm. "Yeah, I'm more than ready to go home," he said, pulling on his cloak. It was damned cold for May in Hogsmeade. They said good-night to Madam Rosmerta and left, pulling their collars around their ears. After leaving Ron at the Burrow, Hermione silently accompanied Harry to his flat. "You want to come in?" he asked, half-hoping she'd say no. He got his wish. "No, Harry. I have classes tomorrow." She studied the tops of her shoes. "I just wanted you to know, I made Ginny go home tonight. I knew she'd got special permission to join us, but when it came time for curfew and she'd not said anything, I asked her what was going on." She raised her eyes and held his gaze. "She said she planned on coming back here with you for the night, and when I found out you knew nothing about it, I told her that wasn't playing fair with either you, or McGonagall, and she should go home." Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "Um, thanks. I'm not ready for that with her yet, I'm thinking." "I know, which is why I threatened to tell Ron if she didn't cooperate." He chuckled. "Well, that certainly would have put a damper on the evening." Not that there weren't other things to have done so as well. "Well, yes." Hermione started to say something, but stopped, her cheeks rosy from more than the cold. Harry thought he understood. "Look, it's really all right," he stammered, glad Ron was on the other side of England. "She's too young, and I'm... and when we do... I want us both to be sure because it's... it's special, you know?" Hermione patted Harry on the shoulder and gave him a one-armed hug. "You're a good man, Harry, and you'll someday make her a good husband." She moved far enough away to Apparate, her last words, "I truly hope she realises just how much so," barely reaching him before she popped away. * A tapping at the window roused him. Every muscle aching from the odd position he'd occupied on the sofa, he blearily peered outside and found himself face to face with an irate owl bearing a large package. He opened the window and it flew in, settling on the back of the only chair in the room. He untied its burden, signed the receipt held out for him from someone called Benson and Sons, and before he could return from the kitchen with a treat, the owl was gone. The package had fallen in the seat of the chair. He started the fire again and, after casting several detection and warding spells, turned the parcel over in his hands until he could see a bit of writing on one side. Calling forth light from his wand, he saw there was a letter stuck to the plain wrapper that read:
He shrugged. All right. He pulled the letter off and broke the seal.
Harry shivered as if Albus' and Severus' ghosts had passed through him. He held the package in his hands, glancing at the clock. Seven minutes to twelve; he'd better hurry. As he stripped the plain paper from the outside, he couldn't explain why he was doing this without question, nor did he once doubt the package's authenticity; perhaps that, more than anything, explained everything. Beneath the paper was dragonhide. Layers and layers of the stuff, he soon found, as he unravelled the bundle. At two minutes to twelve, he finally came to a pale green egg about the size of his fist and marked with the runes, 'AD 1'. Making the fire blaze with his wand, he held the egg in the end of the hide and gently set it in the fire. He sat back in his chair just as the clock struck midnight, and he waited. * Sunday 2 May 1999 The war is over, the dead have been buried. Why in the hell am I still here? On the first anniversary of that momentous victory, he sat alone in his tiny home, a rug across his lap, a half-full tumbler of cognac held loosely from the top by long thin fingers. Drinking the last bit of his false courage, he wondered whether this was a good night to finish the bottle. He idly fingered the thick, heavy neck cloth from long habit, so much so, the tattered ends looked like long, grey fringe. He never seemed to find the energy to do more than his simple daily activities and some days not even those. Food that could not be torn off a loaf or dished from a tin and warmed by wand was sometimes not worth the bother. Bathing was optional, exercised only when he couldn't stand the itching, or when the postal owls delivering his necessities wouldn't come near enough to allow him to remove their burdens. What was the point? He couldn't sell his potions because he had no reputation, no name except the one on his empty tombstone. While his foresight in planning this alternate life, just in case, proved to be prudent, he'd not laid enough by for more than a year or two. He'd never imagined he'd be dead, at least not like this. Even with thrift, and barring any catastrophes, he'd only be able to stretch his funds for perhaps another year. Staring morosely at the waning fire, he'd just decided that, if he could gather enough ambition to fetch it, the blue potion would be easier, when he heard something tapping at his window. He grabbed the wand lying on the table beside him and cast a detection spell. He relaxed; it was just a postal owl. Despite the late hour, it wasn't unusual to receive packages at this time of night. The tapping continued and he reached for the cane leaning against the side of the chair. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he rasped. Slowly, painfully, he worked himself out of the chair, half-pushing on the cane, half-pulling on the chair's arm. Both hands on the cane's head to steady it, he pulled, then pushed himself upright, the series of ensuing pops in his hip as unpleasant as they sounded. And still the owl tapped. "Idiot bird," he shouted, hobbling to the window. As he'd thought a thousand times since his accident, he really should get a real cane, not some windfall with a hook on the end he'd found in his garden. He snorted. Just like he should get real food, real ingredients, and a host of other real things to populate his surreal existence. He finally reached the window and opened it. Burdened with a heavy package, an eagle owl all but fell into the room. Straining, it flew to the chair he'd just abandoned. Leaning heavily on the cane, he winced and limped his way back to it, muttering, "So help me Merlin, if you move even a feather, I'll Avada you and have roast owl for dinner." The bird, however, didn't seem overly concerned, nor did it move an inch. Upon reaching it, he untied the package, but when the bird held out a receipt, he snarled, "I am not signing anything. You just tell your master you delivered it." The owl turned its head and continued to hold the parchment out. In a contest of wills, bird and man stared at each other. "I've never had owl before," he stated softly, his wand inches from the bird's chest. "Are you tasty?" Man won as, with a squawk, the owl flew off. Chuckling wickedly, he set the package on the table and waved his wand, hoping to close the window, but it wouldn't budge. Muttering something about fixing that some day and knowing he wouldn't, he made the painful trip to close it. Soon after, collapsed in his chair, he picked up the package and, with no distractions, knew in a heartbeat it was from Albus. He closed his eyes against the flood of memories, but for the first time in years, they brought only a twinge of sorrow, not the horrors to which he was more accustomed. For this surcease alone, he turned the package in his hand and stopped cold when he saw the name on the address change from the one he now used to his real name, Severus Snape. How in the hell...? He shook his head. He should have known better by now; Albus did whatever Albus did with no man the wiser as to how he'd done it. However, Severus recognised the firm from which the package originated and was well-pleased: Benson and Sons, Attorneys At Law, a fine old firm with a sterling reputation of iron-clad discretion. Per the instructions on the envelope, he opened the letter first, the salutation as fresh in his head as though he'd heard it that morning at a staff meeting.
Well, that certainly had proven true, all of it. Against all odds and his own fears, Potter had done what needed to be done. He couldn't fault him for that.
"Heart's ease, old man? You always were overly optimistic that I even possessed one," he scoffed, his voice rough with only a hint of its former honey.
He blinked. The room seemed a bit smoky. He really must remember to clean the flue.
An egg in the fire? He removed the outer packaging to reveal something wrapped in dragonhide. He glanced at the clock. It was eleven, and he had to decide what to do with this sudden largesse. If he were smart, he'd throw the whole mess in the bin without opening it, then he'd fetch that bottle of blue potion and be done with it. All of it and, perhaps, collect that dram of gratitude from the old man in person. Nevertheless, he didn't discard the package or the note, his hands holding both carefully, eyes staring first at a bookcase bearing a framed picture, waving and twinkling at him, and back to the bundle in his lap, studiously ignoring the photo standing next to the one of the old twinkler of a fourteen year-old boy flying rings around a Hungarian Horntail. He contemplated the costly wrappings. With any luck he could salvage it for later use, or perhaps even sell it if there were sufficient length; dragonhide of any quantity was dear enough he could eke another careful year out of it. He came close to throwing the egg away, but at twelve to midnight he succumbed to his two greatest banes: curiosity and an unswerving faith in Albus Dumbledore. Carefully, he unwrapped the single length of hide until he reached the prize in the centre, a pale red egg about the size of his fist. The warmth pulsing in his hand decided him, and he set the egg and wrapping aside on the table and once again worked himself out of the chair. The hide protecting his hands, he carefully set the egg into the embers. He stepped back and flicked his wand to raise the fire until it roared in the grate. Given his difficulties with the damn chair, Severus levitated a pouffe close to the fireplace, directly in front of the egg. He lowered himself carefully onto its cushioned surface, knowing he would regret this tomorrow, but it was better than struggling out of his chair should something go wrong. Stretching his bad leg out to the side, he set the cane on the floor, his wand beside it, and waited, wondering what the runic 'AD 2' written on the side of the egg could possibly mean. And what the hell was in the egg? His first thought had been a phoenix, but it was too large and too pale for it, not to mention, too cool. One did not handle a phoenix egg with one's bare hands. A snake maybe? How fitting for a Slytherin. There were several which were semi-sentient, rare, but not impossible to obtain; the egg was the right size as well. A firedrake? No, even Albus wasn't that insane, nor that wealthy. Or perhaps the final joke, a basilisk to send him into the hereafter, rendering his blue potion redundant. He shrugged. No matter, he would find out soon enough. The deeper his thoughts delved, the lower his lids fell, and soon he lightly dozed by the warmth of the fire, jerking awake every now and again as his head dipped, or some sap popped, or the logs shifted and crackled. In his few lucid moments, he realised his hip fared surprisingly well. Perhaps he should sit on the pouffe more often. Nearer to dawn than not, a loud crack, followed by a sharp cry woke him fully. The egg had split and was spilling onto the hearth! Startled, he caught something small in his cupped hands as it fell out of the half-shell rolling off the raised hearth. Opening his hands cautiously, he at first thought it a tiny, crimson lizard about eight inches long from tip to tail, that is, until it unfurled broad, almost transparent wings still wet from the egg. A drake? Albus had given him a firedrake? What an ineffable gift, or so he thought until the hissing creature bit his thumb. Then there were plenty of words to say as the blood welled in the tiny bites, but none he could utter aloud. Indescribable were the sensations as the tiny beast licked the wound clean, taking the pain away and leaving in its wake a dazzling feeling of warmth and hope and a sense of well-being so strong, it vanquished the despair under which he had recently fallen. Heart's ease, indeed. Golden eyes blinked up at him and he raised his hand so they were at a level. The long forked tongue flicked out and tasted his nose. Without a doubt, he knew her gender. Chloë, he would name her Chloë. "Do you like that, little one?" he whispered. "Do you like the name, Chloë?" She rubbed her head against his thumb in approval. How he stood he might never remember, but the awkward, lurching trip to the chair, a hand hovering possessively over his new companion, would stay forever etched in his memory, if only because of the soft croons of encouragement she gave him. Once settled in his seat, his hand upturned and snug against his chest, Chloë carefully extended her wings to let them completely dry, her tail curled for balance. The tiny claws on her three-toed feet tickled his palms, but he knew as she grew older, he would have to protect skin and clothing from them, especially the front ones in which the third toe (or would that be a finger?) was set like a prehensile thumb, allowing her to grasp things like a hand. Which skill she promptly demonstrated by suddenly leaping an inch into the air, catching a moth in a two-paw clasp. Holding it still, she ravenously dispatched it in four messy bites. Beyond tired, he watched her lick her paws clean, her miniscule teeth biting at the claws. Obviously satisfied with her grooming, she waddled across his palm and, flipping her now-dried wings securely against her back and haunches, she crawled into the sleeve of his robe, turning about so her snout faced his wrist. He was surprised at how warm she was. With a yawn, she gave his wrist a little lick and laid her head across his pulse point. Eyes closed, she was soon asleep. Afraid he would drop her, he tried to stay awake, but his exhaustion soon convinced him otherwise. And he didn't dream. * <<< PREV :: NEXT >>> |