Snapetober Day 2: Cemetery
flowers wilted in the palm of your hand
general. pre-hp series. first wizarding war compliant. eileen snape & severus snape. 1.8k word count. implied suicidal ideation there's a macabre sort of comfort to meeting someone at a cemetery. the main reason, being, they can't leave you a second time.
He’s not entirely sure how he got here.
The wrought iron fence that surrounds the small town cemetery is rusted in places and the front gate is missing a hinge, creaking slightly as it sways with the wind, as if beckoning visitors with each gentle swing. The sight before him is almost picturesque - the rows of crumbling headstones covered with soft moss; the overgrown weeping willows; the wilting flower arrangements; the blooming perennials that break up the silent landscape, resilient in their growth.
It all speaks of loneliness.
There’s a strange sensation in his head, like his skull has been stuffed with cotton, and it makes thinking rather difficult. There’s stone beneath his feet and he blinks slowly at it, wondering when it changed from the grass that made up the castle grounds and into sidewalk, and how. Apparating makes the most sense, but you can’t apparate within Hogwarts.
He’s not even sure he’s allowed to leave Hogwarts.
There’s a chill in the November air, the early morning sunlight not quite strong enough to provide any warmth - or maybe that’s just him; maybe he’s just devoid of warmth now - that causes Severus to tighten his traveling cloak over his shoulders as he slips through the broken gate.
It’s been many years since he was last here, but he follows the overgrown path easily enough, paying little mind to the faded names he passes. There’s a distinct tinge to the air, an unpleasant sort of oiliness that permeates all of Spinner’s End. It mingles with the earthiness of damp soil and the floral sweetness coming off the planted geraniums.
The smell is familiar, but Severus isn’t sure if he means that in a good way or not.
There’s no one else around yet, but that’s a good thing. He isn’t very good company to keep these days - never has been - but the quiet brokenness inside him is desperate enough to finally reach out, to come to a place he isn’t even sure he’s welcome at. But, there’s a macabre sort of comfort to meeting someone at a cemetery. The main reason, being, that they can’t leave you a second time.
“It’s been a while.”
His voice sounds hoarse, when he finally finds who he’s searching for. He pulls his lips back into a semblance of a smile, but it feels wrong. He feels wrong. Like he’s wearing someone else’s skin and going through the motions of being alive.
“I need help.” Severus admits in a tiny whisper.
Unsurprisingly, the headstone at his feet remains silent.
It looks rather good, despite the time and the obvious lack of maintenance to the grounds. The edges of the stone are smooth, eroded down slightly from falling rain, and the letters carefully carved in front are legible. There’s a bit of moss clinging to a crack along the side that wasn’t there before, but it’s mostly hidden behind the tall grass and wild thyme.
Eileen Snape.
He sticks his hands into the pockets of his muggle coat and frowns, teeth worrying over chapped lips as he wonders how to explain. It’s been five - six? - years, since he was last here and perhaps he should feel guilty for that, but the truth is, he hates her.
He hates Eileen like he now hates Lily.
There’s something sharp lodged in his throat he can’t swallow down and it tears at him from the inside, makes it hard to breathe as he glares at the slightly wonky lettering until it blurs and he can’t make out the E from the L. He blinks and ignores the water droplet that falls down his face, refuses to even acknowledge it.
“I’m only here because there’s no one else.”
Part of him wonders if he makes her mad enough, if she’ll appear behind him just to tell him off. He isn’t sure that’s what he wants, but he can’t seem to stop the venom that seeps into his tone as he mutters to the dust filled box buried underneath his feet, “I’m a professor now, you know. Not that it’s of any interest to you. If you cared about my future, you wouldn’t be here.”
There’s a noticeable lack of flowers around her grave and he can’t help the bitter satisfaction that flashes through him at the realization. He doesn’t care if it makes him a monster. She doesn’t deserve flowers.
“This isn’t a social call.” Severus kicks a stray pebble with the toe of his boot. “Do you remember Lily?” the name gets caught in his throat and the edges of the word feel like razorblades. “She’s dead too. But you probably already knew that.”
He doesn’t know if he believes that.
He’s never really considered the afterlife, has never really cared to theorize. He hopes there’s nothing. He wants - needs - it to be nothing. The thought of his miserable existence continuing in some other form fills him with nothing short of abject horror.
Minutes pass.
“I have nowhere else to go.”
The silence he’s met with is comforting; consistent and - if he lets himself lose his inhibitions enough - empathetic. The silhouette of the mill is visible just over the tree line, but other than that, it’s almost as if the cemetery exists in a liminal space far outside of Cokeworth. For now, no one knows where he is. For now, he doesn’t have to pretend to be anybody else. For now, he doesn’t have to exist.
“I didn’t lie, when I said I was a professor.” Severus began, finally sitting down. The grass is softer than he expected, and only slightly damp. “I haven’t exactly taught a class yet, but I will soon. I don’t think I’m cut out for it.” He digs his fingers into the ground. “Dumbledore said I could ask Slughorn for help with lesson plans, but I don’t believe that’s a good idea. It’s positively foolish, if you ask me. Everything that’s happening and he wants me to ask about lesson plans?”
There’s a small pile of grass he’s uprooted in his hand. He closes his fist around it gently and lets his magic dance between his fingertips; wordless, wandless.
“Lily really is dead too.” Severus’ voice is even smaller. “She died a few weeks ago. Two weeks ago, really.” He shudders a breath. “I left out the part where I killed her.”
There’s a breeze blowing in his direction now and it ruffles his hair the slightest bit.
He tries not to lean into it.
“I’m trying to make up for what I did.”
Minutes pass again.
“I just don’t think it’s enough.”
He opens his hand up and stares at the newly formed blossom. Transfiguration was never his best subject, not the way potions and defense and arithmancy was, but he’s fairly sure the flower isn’t supposed to be already dead. The petals are wilted, stained with an awful shade of goldenrod; withered and falling apart.
“Dumbledore took pity on me. I must have looked exceptionally pathetic.” He crushes the poor flower between his fingers, scowling at the honey sweet fragrance that spills into the air from the exposed nectar. “I don’t know how I ended up here. I should be dead. He should have killed me the second he saw me. I. . . made some really stupid decisions. I’d show you, but I don’t think you’d understand.”
He lets the damaged petals fall to the ground and brings his right hand to his left sleeve, tracing a curved line against his covered forearm. This is after her time. There’s no point subjecting his temporary haven to something no one here will comprehend.
“There’s no one to blame here but me.” Severus continues. “I knew what I was doing. There’s no unfortunate sob story, no tricky spellcasting or manipulation. I did what I did and I became what I became with no remorse. I wanted to see the world burn.”
The breeze returns and Severus shakes his head when it messes up his hair again.
“I don’t think I can be forgiven.”
“Better yet.” he takes a shaky breath, embarrassment coloring his cheeks at how soft his voice is, how shattered. “I don’t think I deserve to be.”
He smiles grimly and he wonders if his eyes are as empty as he feels. “Part of me thinks I should die for this, but another part believes I have to suffer.” There’s an awful, broken sound that disrupts the early morning peace and it takes him a second to realize it’s coming from his own chest. Severus isn’t sure whether it was a laugh or a sob, isn’t sure he cares enough to figure it out. “I really don’t have anywhere else to go. The others. . . they’re far worse than me only because they still believe in what they’re doing; have always believed in it. They’ll kill me if they find out I’ve turned traitor and Dumbledore tells me I’m more useless dead. I think it’s the only reason he let me live."
“I don’t know how teaching is going to go.” Severus picks up the withered petals one by one. “I don’t think anyone knows what I am. I think Professor McGonagall does, if the way she looks at me is any indication. I don’t know how much longer that will last. I’m playing the part of a double agent at twenty-one because I have nowhere else to go.
No one else to trust.
“You don’t really get a say in the matter.” He laughs wetly and stares at the contents of his palm. “You’re my mother.” he finally acknowledges, adding fresh blades of grass to his decrepit pile. “This is, quite literally, your job.”
Eileen remains silent, as expected, but the lack of breeze makes something in his stomach twist. Perhaps he had deluded himself for a minute there.
Foolish.
The only thing he could trust was himself and his sincerity.
“I don’t really know why I’m here.”
Tendrils of magic shimmer down his fingers again and he stares at them in concentration. This time, when he opens his hand, there’s a fresh cut flower waiting for him. It’s a pink carnation, of all things, and he stares at it in wonder. He sets it down gently against the headstone and watches as the tips of the petal fade into a satiny white.
Unconditionally.
He refuses to indulge the delusion.
“I think I just wanted someone to listen.” Severus stands up, brushing the extra grass clippings off his lap and adjusting his cloak. He’s dressed fairly normally today, in trousers and a buttoned up brown jacket, but the cloak is a small comfort he can’t deny himself. “I think I had also planned to. . . stay.”
He puts his hands back in his pockets, a mirror image to how he looked when he first arrived.
“I still don’t think what I’m doing is enough, but maybe. . . maybe it’ll change something. Save someone else. Maybe none of this is really worth it. But I don’t think it’s about me anymore.” He looks away, back towards the gate. “I don’t think I’ll come back.”
A gentle breeze touches his cheek.
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a/n: okay i actually really love this one 🥺
pink carnations represent a mother's love and white carnations in particular, represent an unconditional love. whether or not eileen was actually there or the flower was just a manifestation of what severus desired is open to interpretation
