Matryoshka Vignettes
A Gilded Cage
By Jeconais
Severus Snape - Fri, October 23rd 1998, 11:15am
I am dead.
Oh, I still breathe. I still have a heartbeat. I still eat and sleep.
But all the same, I am dead.
Death isn’t so bad, really, and I have a sneaking admiration for the way they killed me. I’d never tell them that, but then, they probably know.
And you know the really strange thing?
I’m happy being dead.
Well, almost.
If I had someone to insult, I would be happy.
As it is, I guess content is the correct word.
And I would have never thought you would be able to use that word to describe me. But I suppose I should explain why I am here, dead, before going into that?
It all started when I woke up from an endless sleep. Or rather, was woken up. Harry Bloody Potter and Daphne Greengrass had cleverly forced me to create my own doom and I thought that was it — sleep 'til death.
Not a bad way to go, really, considering that I had always thought that I would go screaming in agony at the whim of Voldemort.
So I woke up, and felt like groaning. Neville Bloody Longbottom, of all people. I wasn’t thinking straight, and when he stood up to me, rather than smack him as should have, I agreed to his silly demands.
Or rather, their silly demands, because he was obviously coached by a Slytherin.
I didn’t think through these silly demands; I couldn’t, I was not awake yet. Something Greengrass, and probably Potter, would have known, but not something that Longbottom would have.
They must have plans for him, as they’re making him grow up. Something I can approve of, really.
So he bought me here. To heaven.
Or at least, what originally seemed my idea of heaven.
The potions chamber was obviously designed by an expert, and even more obviously with a lot of money involved.
I know exactly how much most of this stuff costs. I had it all priced out when I still worked at Hogwarts, and was trying to save for my retirement from dealing with the annoying insects that were there for a poor mockery of an education.
Potions were the only subject where the students learnt anything that would be of use in the outside world: discipline and how to think. Unlike the other pointless classes, I never gave the idiots the correct answer (well, unless they had a rich father I wanted something from). They had to work it out for themselves.
So, while they ruined ingredients supplied by the lowest-bidding potions supplier, I sat at my desk and planned out how much money I would need.
It was far more than I was ever going to earn, sadly.
And then it was handed to me on a plate. And — Salazar is probably rolling in his grave at the moment — I just accepted it. I didn’t ask the questions I should have.
And I didn’t even notice for a few months, maybe more.
When you finally have access to Powdered Griffin Claw, you want to actually use it, not worry about other unimportant things.
Oh, the potions I was now able to create. So beautiful, so perfect, and with Fried Banshee Blood, they were even tasty.
And so I did.
I cured the werewolves — properly, this time. I was promised ownership, and I wanted it, more than I hate werewolves.
I cured Longbottom’s parents, stupid Aurors; they’ll probably want to go back to insanity when they wake up. Oh, your kid? Now a useless grown up. Welcome back!
And Greengrass and Potter kept their side of the bargain. I received ownership papers and my wand. These items appeared like my food does. I walk into a room, and something is there, waiting for me.
There was also a request for a new potion with the ownership papers, but I ignored it. I was going to go and rub my new-found wealth in Lucius Malfoy’s face.
I knew what had happened to him, I get the Prophet every day. It’s my connection to the outside world.
He was now a pauper, working for anyone that would hire him. Narcissa tried to divorce him, but he managed to successfully fight it — after all, he was still a pureblood. And they now had a small apartment they shared.
And to finish off the humiliation, Malfoy Manor is now an orphanage for half-bloods and Mudbloods.
When Daphne and Harry Potter hate, they hate with style.
But I never drew the parallel.
I Apparated to Diagon Alley — or at least I tried.
And couldn’t.
I tried again.
And still couldn’t.
So I walked out of the small castle, down to the gates, and couldn’t get through them.
That’s when; finally, I drew the parallel.
Harry and Daphne gave me exactly what I wanted: potions ingredients I used to dream about and nobody to annoy me. And then they locked the door.
Ironic, isn’t it? I own my own glorified mausoleum.
Well, I did lose my temper. I ranted and raved, unsure if they could hear me, and I even destroyed some of the other rooms — not my potions chamber, never that — in the hope that it would get their attention.
Well it did. I guess.
Because when I woke up, everything was fixed, as if it had never happened.
So I sulked.
For a week.
And that got me nowhere at all. Except for the fact that I didn’t get any new potion supplies.
Behaviour management? Oh yes.
If I’m a good boy, I get what I want. If I’m a bad boy, I don’t.
I’m a slave, a prisoner.
But it’s not too bad, really. Oh, I know I should do something, but what?
Kill myself? I don’t think so.
Escape? How? Can’t Apparate, can’t create Portkeys, I have no Floo, and the shields around this place are better than anything I can do with stupid wand waving. They were no doubt designed by the best Slytherin.
Oh yes, I call her the best Slytherin, because she did what the rest of them dreamed about doing. She took a chance, found someone powerful, and then took control. By whatever measure you want to take use, she’s the best.
Riches? Her fortune, plus Potter’s, plus the money that is coming in from the partnership with the Weasley twins, plus the money my potions must be making them. That is some serious wealth.
Power? When she talks, people listen, and listen closely. It might not be official, like the Minister of Magic, but her suggestions are nearly always acted on.
Happiness? Not something most Slytherins will admit to wanting, but what’s the point of the first two without the happiness? And that’s something she seems to have down as well. I might disagree with her choice — Harry Bloody Potter — but she seems happy about it.
That was when I gave up and accepted my situation. Then they visited me.
They just appeared in my living room one day, completely at ease. They were both wearing Muggle clothing, as if they were going out for the evening, and had stopped by as to enquire about my health.
Which is just peachy. Thanks for asking.
"Afternoon, Severus," she said calmly, her voice changed from when I had last heard it — at the funeral. It was content now.
"Daphne," I nodded, and then looked at him. "Potter."
He grinned at me, that damnable grin that could almost be his father’s, if it wasn’t clearly his own.
"How are you?" she asked, sitting down near me. He was leaning against the fireplace, with the sort of casual elegance that I tried so hard for when I was young, and still cared about that sort of thing.
"All things considered, not bad," I remarked. If she wanted casual, I’ll give her that.
"Is there anything you need?"
"Freedom?"
Harry laughed under his breath.
"I’m afraid not, Severus," Daphne said politely. "You’re here for life."
"As your slave."
"If you want to think of it like that, yes. You always taught us the benefits of revenge, and we merely applied them to you."
"It was quite Slytherin," I grunted. "So why should I continue to work for you?"
"You don’t have to," she said. "You are now the master of your own destiny. To a degree."
Qualified freedom if I’ve ever heard it.
"Oh?" I sneered.
She looked at me with pity, and I felt embarrassed. I guessed face saving sneering isn’t a good idea when you have nothing left to save. "It’s totally up to you, you can work on potions, or not."
"But?"
"No buts, Severus. You work with us, and you will continue to get the ingredients you love. You don’t, and you will be able to do what you like, inside the grounds of your home. You will continue to be fed, and there is an extensive library — well, without any Dark Arts books."
"What if someone finds me?" I asked, changing tactics, trying to surprise an answer out of her.
She smiles gently at me. "You’re under the Fidelius Charm."
She told me. I didn’t trick it out of her.
"Who’s the secret keeper?" I asked, looking at Harry.
"Why, you are, my dear Professor," Harry said politely.
I froze and then slowly clapped my hands. How very Slytherin. The only person who could tell, can’t tell. I am, in effect, my own jailer.
Daphne smiled again. "You wanted an interesting retirement. You can have that here. We will supply you with work that will test the limits of your ability, and the ingredients to do it."
I nodded. I know when I am beaten. This isn’t the posturing of Voldemort, or the cloying sentimentality of Dumbledore. These are people who have planned, who have executed those plans, arranging all the pieces to the point where fighting them simply isn’t worth it.
Daphne stood, and moved over to Potter, who placed his arm around her. She nodded at me, and they vanished, leaving me alone.
Alone, once more, in my gilded cage.
I picked up the paper with their request on it, and walked into my chamber.
On the worktable was the crystallised Dragon’s Breath I was going to need.
Being dead really isn’t so bad.