Spinner’s End — 15th July, 1998

A scrawny man, his drab clothes blending into the dirty greys of the streets, trudged up a narrow alley as night fell, heading for the last house in Spinner’s End. He was sick, from the last three days’ lack of sleep and from the months before that: desperate months of trying to disappear into Muggle crowds, fleeing the notice of anyone who might possibly be an Auror, or any wizard willing to capture a traitor. There was no wind in the cramped maze of abandoned row houses, and although the sun had set at last, the cobbled streets still radiated heat. The man’s skin itched under a layer of sweat and grime, and his hair hung in greasy hanks around his face. The stifling heat, the dank stench of the river, the crushing feeling of being surrounded by thousands of Muggles made his spine crawl.

The man had been careful, more than careful to leave no record of this place at the Ministry or the Order, so there should have been no reason to worry. Yet he knew that nowhere was safe for him, not any more. Not for long. If the Ministry and Harry Potter wanted to find him, then sooner or later, they would: it was as simple and as final as that. He planned to stay there another day and then move on. Where? He had not yet decided; he knew that the longer in advance plans are made, the greater their chances of being discovered, anticipated, thwarted.

Something flickered, pale against the darkening sky. Instinctively he ducked into the dubious shelter of a boarded-up front door. He clung to the shadows, his bony shoulder-blades grinding against the brick of the niche as he stared out. What was it? False alarm? His gaze flicked from one possible place of concealment to the next, but he saw no one. Not that that meant anything. His palm was slick with cold sweat as he whipped his wand out of his sleeve and traced a wide circle around him, frantically muttering his own modification of the Foe-glass charm under his breath. The charm would see through Invisibility cloaks and Disillusionment charms to alert him to the presence of any who wished him ill... yet still, all was quiet.

Another glint of white. A snowy owl was circling past the streetlamps and the low roofs. It glided lower and lower. The man shrank back into the shadows, his wand clutched in a grip tight enough to betray the tremor in his hands, as he scanned again and again for the Aurors or the Hit Wizards or the Order, who he knew now must be closing in on him.

There was no mistaking that owl. Somewhere nearby Potter was laughing at him, sending his bird to hunt him down, as a distraction, as a prophecy of what was to come: silent wings spectre-white against the gloom, an omen of retribution and death. The Aurors used owls to track down criminals during the Dark Times, just by sending them a letter. He had hidden himself long ago from such simple methods of detection; he knew he had. But somehow Potter had found him all the same, and death could not be far behind.

The owl swooped down, its spread wings spanning the narrow doorway. It landed with an impact like a punch to his shoulder, dropping its letter which fell at his feet. But he spared owl and note not a glance, not even when the owl changed its stance on his shoulder so that it too was facing out into the street, and shook out its feathers as if settling down for a long stay.

Anytime now... he concentrated and faced the inevitable. Silence lingered, stretched, until the suspense was a torment all its own. His breathing grew louder and louder and his tremors spread from his wand hand through his whole weary body as he waited for his long-delayed doom to arrive.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

At long last, he was almost sure that the owl hadn’t brought attackers or even its master with it.

His mouth twitched in a parody of a smirk as he realised that this hour – huddled in the doorway of the abandoned row house, trembling with desperate weariness and the terror of imminent death – wasn’t even the worst hour of his relatively-short existence.

All along, the persistent bird had sat on his shoulder. For the first time, the man had leisure to feel grateful that he had worn his coat, despite the heat; if he hadn’t, those talons would no doubt have gouged holes in his shoulder by now. He twitched said shoulder irritably; the owl only gripped tighter, giving an equally irritable shriek and glaring pointedly at the letter it had dropped. Instinctively he followed the direction of its gaze. The letter could hardly be called that: there was no envelope or address. It was a single page ripped out of a book and folded into a triangle, and in a space bare of type was scrawled a single word: Snape.

Snape pointed his wand at the bit of paper, hitting it with a barrage of charms aimed at detecting all the curses, hexes, jinxes, potions, poisons and tracking charms he knew, but test after test drew a total blank. At last he turned his head, exchanging an almost beak-to-beak glare with the owl still sitting on his shoulder.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” he inquired sardonically. When the owl still wouldn’t budge, he bent to snatch up the letter with such suddenness that he unbalanced the bird, which flapped off with a speed that suggested it was glad to go. He stood and watched the gleam of white wings, circling over the alley and finally heading north. Only when the owl had disappeared into the darkness, did he finish the walk down the length of the alley. He unlocked the door to the very last house, slipping inside and shutting out the night with locks both magical and mundane.

He unfolded the yellowed page in the light of a single candle, and at once he knew which book it had come from: his mother’s Advanced Potion-Making textbook that he had used as his research diary in sixth year. The page contained one of his usual sarcastic observations penned in the obsessively cramped script of his schooldays: this one was on the trifling potions and charms which were the closest analogues to the dreaded Morsmordre. The cheap ink had faded; some of his words had gone grey with time. But there were also new lines, scrawled hastily at the top of the page in fresh ink. Lines in a hand that, though he hadn’t seen it for quite a while, he recognised well enough.


The added message conveyed interesting news, to be sure, but it was the Thanks. that Snape saw first. He stared down at the note in his hand, stunned. There was no signature, but Snape didn’t need one. There was no other person who could’ve written this.

Potter, he thought. At least this means the nitwit kept my textbook after all; kept it and used it. It also means that there just might be a glorious absence of Aurors and Hit Wizards in my immediate future. Perhaps Dumbledore’s pensieve survived, and they’ve finally managed to lift the charm securing it, now that the Dark Lord is gone. Or perhaps the Order has finally put two and two together and for once hasn’t come up with five.

Frankly, Snape didn’t care one way or the other. Not right then. All he cared about was that, at the moment, he was apparently safe. Potter had clearly known where he was, and had done nothing to him. For the first time in longer than he cared to remember, he didn’t have to watch his back and hide from every suspicious stranger. Without thinking or wondering any more about the letter, he toppled onto his narrow bed like a felled tree.

Finally, some peace.

He was asleep before the smoke of the blown-out candle had time to dissipate into the humid, dusty air.

He didn’t wake until noon the next day.