The wind and rain outside grew increasingly fierce.
In his home on Spinner's End, Snape closed a small window, blocking out the driving rain. He slowly sipped his cold tea, gazing through yellowed glass at the little courtyard he'd carved out with magic.
For some reason, his thoughts drifted inexplicably back to two years ago...
Back then, this courtyard wasn't as barren as now—just bare earth—nor was the air so deathly still—
Fresh green everywhere, Chinese Chomping Cabbages snapping at everything... unusually plump and healthy cattle, sheep, and chickens... constantly escaping, tunnel-digging Nifflers...
They'd transformed the originally silent, lifeless Spinner's End into something remarkably noisy—even cacophonous.
He'd nearly exhausted his patience dealing with them, and after the chief culprit left, he'd even felt relieved—finally, that little ancestor was gone.
But somehow, now, he found himself oddly missing that chaos.
Perhaps it was because he was now mired deep in darkness, the boulder called the Dark Lord crushing down upon him... shackles of love and guilt around his neck...
Death's shadow clung to him like a bone maggot, keeping his nerves perpetually taut...
Only in these rare moments of leisure did his mind conjure scenes that made his mouth unconsciously curve upward.
But this peaceful image lasted mere seconds before rustling from the hidden stair door yanked him back to reality.
It was one of his most despised people—Peter Pettigrew.
His existence was like a sharp thorn lodged in Snape's throat, sand in his eyes, constantly making him nauseous.
But he had to endure it all... It was the Dark Lord's warning, surveillance, suspicion...
He didn't know what lay ahead, only that under endless pain, guilt, and hatred, he lacked the strength to sort through his emotions.
He'd always despised the weakness of those ruled by sentiment. He excelled at controlling his feelings, making his disguise flawless and watertight—
Sometimes he even felt he couldn't be called human, but rather some strange creature capable only of mechanical thought, moving between enemies.
Yet beneath his expressionless, cold exterior, love and hatred surged so violently.
—Especially when sharing a roof with Wormtail.
Snape sneered, striding from the room and firing a curse at the hidden door beneath the stairs!
"Aaah—!"
A rat-like, shrill shriek accompanied the crash as Wormtail's weaselly face appeared, eyes darting evasively:
"You... you attacked... the Master sent me to help you... you attacked your assistant..."
Snape looked down at him contemptuously, mocking:
"An assistant's duty is not to disturb my rest. I informed you when you arrived, Wormtail—you must remain quiet at night."
"If you can't manage that, I'm afraid I'll have to dose you with Draught of Living Death. After all, unconscious people don't speak."
Wormtail shrank back, gingerly touching the hole where his ear had been sliced off by Sectumsempra, suppressing his hateful gaze as he limped upstairs.
The room returned to that deathly silence—barren and cold.
...
Snape returned to his room, lips curved in a mocking smile, preparing to use Occlumency to enter sleep.
When in doubt, beat up Wormtail first—his only current method of finding joy in suffering.
But lying on his back in bed, his thoughts continued their restless churning—
He knew what the Dark Lord was planning next:
He wanted to reclaim his own wand... infiltrating the Ministry... seeking information about that wand...
He wanted to become more powerful... not just feeding on his followers' blood and flesh... but craving enemies' blood... using Death Eaters' children to ambush Hogwarts...
He had to pass intelligence very carefully to avoid exposing himself.
But he understood—the Dark Lord had never truly trusted him. He trusted no one, merely confident that Snape wouldn't dare betray him.
And Wormtail's arrangement as "assistant" but really surveillance was precisely evidence of that suspicion.
He needed an opportunity to temporarily dispel suspicion... an excuse...
Snape lay staring at the ceiling, contemplating his next move.
He should clear his mind before sleep, avoiding overly heavy thoughts to let Occlumency function properly.
But no measures could grant him peaceful rest.
His memories were too oppressive—weight that even a Pensieve couldn't bear.
As memories and emotions were gradually suppressed by Occlumency, he felt his consciousness drifting... as if everything was unrelated to him...
But loneliness gradually surfaced—not harmful, yet like a splinter on his finger, distinctly and persistently painful.
Snape began to dream.
In the dream, he'd returned to two summers ago, the same Spinner's End, the same wall of books... but different company.
He was running a PowerPoint—what Jane called a "PPT"—and they were engaged in heated debate over bezoars and Gamp's Third Law.
Perhaps it was nostalgia, but he found this scene oddly warm... worthy of missing.
But this nostalgic image lasted only seconds before his sentimental value plummeted to zero.
Because dreams were brief, but chaos was abundant.
First a cow chewing his herbs, a sheep gnawing his books...
Then chickens running wild, defecating everywhere, and hordes of Chinese Chomping Cabbages devouring his robes...
Worse yet, swarming Nifflers began tunneling, dedicated to giving his home comprehensive hollow renovation—
The poor old professor felt furious enough to burst into song about being combustible and explosive!
He roared Jane's name, chasing Nifflers everywhere.
But his excellent student specialized in selective hearing, grabbing her wand to add to his battle-damaged décor!
He felt that hammering sound like chisels striking his forehead, those crashing bricks landing on his heart!
And from the distance came his student's passionate shouts of "Eighty!" "Eighty!"
Fortunately, that entire summer's ordeal had made him expertly familiar—he instinctively waved his wand to cast a Silencing Charm—
But his wand suddenly froze.
This timing... clanging hammering and construction sounds?
Were those really human voices shouting "Eighty!" "Forty!"?
Snape jolted awake from his dream, instinctively letting out a suppressed roar:
"Jane Yu! It's you again!"
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