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Breeding Lilacs out of Dead Land.	By : mbassan Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 17891 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
- 6
Please read the following note before continuing any further into the story.

If you find attempts to emphasize the similarity between JKR's Wizarding World and the twentieth century's thirties Nazi Germany, unnecessary or unpleasant, then please do not continue. If the notion of the Holocaust being portrayed in any way on fanfiction revolts you- please, do not go on reading - this fic isn't for you either.

If you still wish to continue to chapter 4, I will state now that the concept of Snape's mother being a Holocaust survivor is an idea burrowed from Ramos's wonderful "Hinge of Fate". All of you who have read Ramos's story will also recognize the circumstances which led to Snape's parents' marriage.

Chapter 4 - Your Golden Hair Margarete, Your Ashen hair Shulamith.

He woke with a splitting headache. No wonder, after turning straight to the vodka. In normal circumstances, Severus Snape was a whiskey drinker. Drink that was refined and precise; a sharp stab of taste and smell. An intellectual stimulation of the senses, if you liked. Vodka was a bad habit he had picked up from a Russian fellow-student at university. Snape often found that it suited his darker moods. Vodka, especially the cheap types, was strong, brutal and mean. It knocked out the senses, burned the throat and diffused itself from one's pores leaving a heady scent of alcohol-absorbed sweat and bitter defilement. Not to mention a bloody hangover. He was now entertaining one.

Last night, which began with Baudeliare and a Jameson, ended up with vodka and Bukowski. What degradation. The book lay abandoned on the floor, face down, with few of the pages crushed under its weight. Snape could blurrily remember himself throwing away the book, ridiculously pained by the words. He returned to Hogwarts, already slightly drunk, and skipped dinner. Alone in his rooms, he could drown peacefully in the wavering abyss of his self-conjured despair. Bukowski too. An intoxicating dive under the collective skin of sweating humanity, fighting to breathe as the beautifully spun words wound around his windpipe, suffocating him. He came back to his senses smelly, sweating alcohol and poetry, and hung over. Of course.

Snape rose slowly, fighting a wave of nausea as he pushed his bed covers aside. The stench of Vodka was everywhere. He closed his eyes. Behind his eyelids were the words. The young Dolores Haze � Bloody hell. He really had to stop reading Muggle literature � then the young Granger child. And her mother. The insinuation made him slightly sick. Damn Muggle authors. Damn the Muggle born. Wand� on the night table. Lucky he was so meticulous. Spying made it necessary, though he was already a neat person by nature. Snape grasped his wand. �Accio hangover potion!�

The vial landed on his bedcovers. He uncorked it, gulping the bitter liquid. The substance had magically flooded his system with H2O, melting away the residues of the alcohol. The room still smelled of Vodka, and Snape was still somewhat dizzy, but the awful headache was gone, and so was the dryness in his mouth. He rose to his feet, shedding whatever clothes he still wore, and walked straight to the bathroom. The suite of rooms he had in the dungeons was equipped with an impressive bathtub, which Snape kept ignoring. Today was no exception. He stepped into the shower; turned on the hot water and let it scorch him back to sanity. Hot. Boiling water. Agony. Pain blossomed where the heat met his skin. This was reality. This was sanity.

Out of the shower, he stared at his blurred reflection in the mirror. Vicious stains of black and white against the glass. He found himself reaching for the mist-covered surface, fingers trailing along the coagulated vapour.

the blackbirds are rough today
like
ingrown toenails
in an overnight
---

4

5

6

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Breeding Lilacs out of Dead Land.