"sous les paves, la plage" - drabble request #5

For switchknife | Snape | I promise to write you something more Snape-y in the future & a bit of explanation

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Three days after the Muggle Protection Act of 2004 is passed, the Wand-Snapping Decree goes into effect and so Severus Snape stands in line with the other British wizards and witches who were in his year, the Hogwarts class of 1971, ladies & gentlemen, Death Eaters and Order operatives and Aurors all coughing and shuffling and glaring next to one another, at the mercy of the alphabet. Straight off the Hogwarts rolls. The Downing Street spokesman even promised that Lord Voldemort would be called up as Riddle, Tom Marvolo as if the intervening years between the orphan boy and Dark Lord never happened. A little glitch in the universe that they’ve ironed out.

Nothing has changed.

They even call out the names of the dead.

“Avery, Wallace.”

A cold pause as the second Government official looks up from his tally list.

“Avery, Wallace. Deceased. Next.”

No marriages or new identities, the class of 1971 fresh out of Hogwarts.

Nothing has changed.

Indeed.

Severus smiles thinly; it is almost worth it just to see Bellatrix and Sirius in line next to each other. Their lips are both cut into sneers, and with the cold reddening their cheeks and lips and the looks of disgust plastered onto each of their faces they look far more alike than either of them would like to admit.

Severus is towards the end of the line with a scarf over his lips, holding his wand in shivering fingers. He’s not wearing gloves and the tips are alternately white-and-blue, but there’s still some feeling in his hands, the wood of his wand hums underneath his touch. He flinches every time someone is called forward; the one-two-three beat as they climb the three stairs to the makeshift altar capped by the harsh slithering snap of the wand.

All this to protect the Muggles.



“Black, Bellatrix.”

Of course, Bellatrix won’t go quite as easily as all that. She holds out her wand straight in front of her like she’s holding a fencing sword and raises her eyebrow and says, “Come for me, then” with that flair for the dramatic that made her so popular among the Death Eaters.

And they do, four men who clamp their filthy Muggle hands on her body and twist twist until the wand drops out of her fingers and she’s left limply clutching her arm. Her hair hangs over her face and she snarls. “Animals! Vermin!”

One of the Muggles slaps her around the face, but she opens her mouth ever so slightly and his knuckles scrape her teeth. She spits the blood from her mouth at the feet of the Government official with the list in his hands. “The Muggles will kill you all” she pronounces to the crowd, like a half-mad half-divine prophet. An ancient priestess who has lost her God. They push her up the stairs and hold her neck up so that she can watch as her wand is broken into two. They do not hand the pieces back to her.

“Black, Bellatrix. Check. Next.”

The list rustles.

“Black, Sirius.”

Severus watches as Sirius climbs the stairs and holds out his wand and bows his mangy head until the official reaches for his wand and then he snarls. The wand his at the man’s throat before he can speak and Sirius is pressing, pressing and whispering something like, “you can take my wand, but I could kill you with my bare hands”. That flair for the dramatic that made Sirius so popular with the Gryffindors.

Severus thinks: in this and many things they are brother and sister.

He wonders whether Sirius kisses like Bellatrix.

Cold and unforgiving, all teeth and wandering hands.

Fucker.

Severus’s fingers have gone numb; he cannot feel the wand resting against his palm. He tightens his grip and presses his thumb down on the tip, harder, harder until he smells rather than feels the blood drip down the length of wood. He presses his lips together and they form a pale white line against his paler face.

Sirius, being the impulsive fool that he is, makes the mistake of trying to cast a jinx, but the Dampening Spell that hangs in the air like a fog throws the magic back at him and he’s lying on the floor twitching and whimpering.

The Government official picks up his list with shaking fingers and leans over to his colleague. He forgets that there is a microphone clipped to his lapel and so the entire crowd hears the word as he whispers it, feels a chill run through them. “Azkaban,” he says, and Sirius writhes against the guards. Bellatrix lifts her head just a little higher but Severus fancies that her eyes are glistening. But perhaps it is just the light.

His colleague nods. “Azkaban,” he agrees.

The Muggles have always been so adept at taking what they need from Wizarding culture.

They put handcuffs on Bellatrix and Sirius; the police car arrives ten, maybe fifteen minutes later.

The Muggles lead them out just as the man shuffles his papers and calls out, “Evans, Lily.”

Sirius turns his head to search the crowd, looking for Lupin, perhaps, but instead he finds Severus. The stare at each other for a cold, even moment.

“Evans, Lily. Deceased. Next.”

Nothing has changed.

The policeman shoves Sirius roughly towards the car.

The wand is slippery in Severus’s hands.

He wonders what he will do when his name is called.



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