Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Love On The Rock	By : sheherazade Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Het - Male/Female Views: 7112 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of his heirs or successors or anything to do with him. I earn nothing from this story.

Chapter List
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Author's Note: I wrote this in 2007, before Deathly Hallows, so at the time I was speculating on Snape possibly having to hide out after the death of Dumbledore. I was dead surprised when he turned out to be headmaster of Hogwarts instead. Ah well.
“Oi, you! Gough!”
Yet again I am mistaken for this fellow Gough, or Goff, or whoever he might be, by the oddly-garbed little group of young ne’er-do-wells who congregate in Eastern Square Park of an evening. This is the third time I have made this journey, and the third time they have scowled at me from underneath their hoods, brandishing their cans of Superstrength Lager, and addressed me by this mistaken moniker.
Much as I would prefer to avoid the little group slouching on the wall, I draw level with them and am once more assaulted with cries of “Gough!” and even, in one case, “Sad old Gough”. While I can’t account for the age or emotional state of this person, I can at least convince them that I am a victim of mistaken identity.
I halt beside them and address the pockmarked youth I presume to be their leader. “I do not know this Gough of whom you speak,” I tell him. “My name is Snape.” Having cleared up this confusion, I continue on my journey, aware of bellows of laughter from the wall behind me. “Snape!” “’Is name’s Snape!” they chortle, as if this were the epitome of wit. Gods, this place is tedious.
*
The walk from the Rock Island Employment Agency to my furnished rooms is a long and bracing one. Once I am past the small settlement of Eastern Park, I walk for more than a mile along a dusty road lined with stone quarries, pondering the frustrating afternoon I have endured.
I find I am not adjusting to Muggle life as easily as I had assumed I would. The technology baffles me and the way of life is mystifying. I cannot communicate with them; even as simple a task as the purchase of groceries is an ordeal to dread until it becomes inevitable. Lord Voldemort acquired a property for me to hide in until such time as I am no longer a fugitive, but I do think he might have shopped around a bit before settling on this barren treeless rock. I understand that it is isolated and relatively safe from wizards passing through – for nobody passes through here – but I am hemmed in by its relentless parochialism and drabness. It reminds me of Spinners End. And that is not a good thing.
I have decided that I need some assistance with the mundane business of living as a Muggle, so I paid a visit to the aforementioned Employment Agency. I was enormously tempted to scourgify the thick layer of dust from the cheese plant in their cheerless office, but of course, I resisted the urge. For almost an hour I sat opposite a woman of sub-Hufflepuff intelligence, explaining with my customary patience what my requirements were and the kind of person I expected to be able to fulfil them.
“So…you want, like, a PA then?”
“A…PA?”
“Yeah, Personal Assistant, you know. But who’ll do cleaning and shopping and cooking and stuff.”
“Is there a specific job title for such a thing?”
“General dogsbody?”
“That is not a particularly attractive description. Perhaps a….Man or Woman Friday.”
“You what?” She goggled at me. Don’t Muggles read their own literature any more?
“Call it what you will. Do you have any appropriate candidates on your books?”
“Er…I’ll take a look at our files, Mr Snape. And I’ll get back to you. I’ll call you. What’s your number?”
“I don’t have a telephone.”
“You don’t….” She tailed off. “What about your mobile then?”
“My…mobile?”
She looked on the verge of breaking into laughter, glancing over at a colleague as if to ask ‘Are you listening to this?’ Insolent baggage.
“Yeah. Your mobile.”
“I am incommunicado.”
“You’re what?”
I quelled an urge to lower my forehead and bang it repeatedly on her desktop.
“Just send your candidates around to my address for interview. If you would be so kind. I will be available all day tomorrow.”
“Oh right. I’ll do that. Thanks, Mr Snape.” She stood up and offered me a sweaty paw to shake, smiling ingratiatingly. I was reminded of Dolores Umbridge, my offended gorge rising in complaint.
“Good afternoon.” I gave her a formal bow of the head and left the stifling office with some relief.
*
At length I reach the end of the quarries and begin to descend the steep hill that leads to the foot of the rock. The view from this path is one of the few pleasures to be gleaned from living here, on the rare days when drizzly mist does not veil the island, and today I can follow the curving sweep of the beach that connects it to the mainland all the way around the bay almost as far as Devon.
Passing a derelict bus shelter, I notice the usual semi-sentient gaggle of young people sitting listlessly on the wall. Unlike their counterparts in Eastern Square Park, these are both male and female, and dressed mainly in tatty black outfits, many sporting a quantity of facial ironmongery. As I pass, one of the girls produces a cigarette and asks me if I have a light.
“I do not smoke,” I inform her. She is small with a shock of white-blonde hair. She might be pretty if her mode of comportment and appearance did not foster serious doubts about her standards of personal hygiene. I wonder if she ever removes that ring of kohl around her eyes?
“Oh right.” I walk on, but she persists. “Are you local?” she calls out to my retreating back.
I swing around to face her anew. “I am temporarily resident here,” I reply, not sure how this information is of any import to her.
“Do you ever go to the Alternative Night at the Lodge?” she asks. I think she might be batting her false eyelashes at me, though I could be mistaken. It’s been a long dry spell.
What on earth is an alternative night? A night that is not dark? A night with no moon? I am intrigued despite myself.
“I have not heard of this Alternative Night,” I tell her.
“You should come down some time,” she enjoins enthusiastically. “It’s from nine on Fridays. You know the Lodge? Down by the old dockyard?”
I nod faintly. It is a building which appears to be an inn of some disrepute; I have frequently observed vomiting and fisticuffs in its environs.
“So I might see you there then?” She appears to be propositioning me. I look at her more closely. Definitely pretty, though not much older than nineteen or twenty. Although I have no intention of patronising this Lodge, I incline my head in her direction before taking the final few yards of my journey home.
When I say ‘home’ I am probably dignifying the place beyond its desserts. It is a rickety flat conversion above the Hari Curry Takeaway. When I moved in, it was disgusting beyond words, having carpets tacked up with food, drink and, no doubt, all forms of bodily emission, not to mention the layers of black dirt on every peeling surface. Despite the Dark Lord’s insistence that I use magic only in emergency conditions, I indulged in an evening of scourgifying and now, if not perfect, the place is at least habitable.
I make a cheese sandwich the Muggle way, using a knife, and pour myself a glass of wine, which is quite decent even though they don’t have Elf vintners. I move through to the main room at the front, frowning at the quantity of boxes full of Muggle technological items that have yet to be unpacked and properly examined, then I head upstairs, where the room I spend most of my time in is located. I have turned the bedroom into a lab. My best copper cauldron is here, and a good stock of essential Potions ingredients. While I am here, I need a project, and I am working on an antidote to Veritaserum, commissioned by Lord Voldemort. Research is going slowly, and I will need couriers from the magical side to bring me certain ingredients, but I am hopeful of a good result.
I move back downstairs, to the main room in which I now sleep, amongst the boxes and my desk, on a folding bed arrangement. I finish the wine. I read a few pages of The Potioneer. I go to bed.
*
Every morning I follow a similar ritual. I take a bath – marvelling, as ever, that Muggles have to wait so long for the tub to fill with water – and dress in the nearest approximation to non-wizarding garb I possess. Clearly robes are out of the question, but my black trousers and white shirt are close enough to the mark. I am considering replacing the black frock coat I wear out of doors, however, as it seems to draw attention. I have not seen a Muggle in a similar item of attire. But I am unsure of what to replace it with. The local market specialises in garments called ‘hoodies’ and ‘fleeces’, but neither of these seem quite…well…me. Perhaps my new assistant will be able to help in this regard.
Having eaten my usual breakfast of cereal – I have yet to fathom the workings of Muggle cooking equipment – I find my morning is taken up with interviewing the most unprepossessing set of timewasters it is possible to imagine. Those who are not convicts are either infirm, monosyllabic or patently missing a brain hemisphere. Or two.
As I shut the door on the sixth, I take a moment to lean against it and contemplate the stairway to my abode. It is not yet noon, and the entryway already reeks of onion and the sweaty-sock aroma of cumin. Everything I can lay my eyes on screams ‘temporary’. But how temporary is it? I have no idea how long I will be here. I have no idea when the war will end, or who will win. Most galling of all is Voldemort’s yearning to ‘take care’ of his ‘faithful servant’. I am useless here. I have never known such frustration.
My gloomy train of thought is halted by a rap at the door. Another one of society’s rejects for my assessment, no doubt. I open it. It is a girl. I recognise her…the girl with the cigarette. She looks taken aback to see me, so it isn’t a social call. Pity.
“Oh…are you…Mr Snape?” she asks, looking up at me with those panda-ringed eyes.
“Indeed I am,” I tell her.
“I’ve come about the job. Is this…your office?” She looks about her, confused.
“I don’t tend to conduct my business in the hallway. Would you care to follow me upstairs.”
She ascends in my wake, twittering as she goes. “I thought this place was a squat. Jim Barley died of an overdose here…last year, I think it was. There were rumours it wasn’t an accident…”
“Fascinated as I am by the history of this illustrious building,” I interrupt, standing in the frame of the front door, “I believe, as interviewer, I ask the questions.”
“Oh. Yes. Sorry.” Excellent. She is easily intimidated. And pretty. I think the job might be in the bag. I usher her into the main room. She appears to find the boxes of white goods interesting and peers into a few before we seat ourselves on either side of the desk.
I appraise her visually before embarking on my cross-examination. Petite, slender, hair that might be appealing if it weren’t stiff with styling products, huge blue eyes (pity about the kohl), pale skin, some kind of jewelled gimcrack in her nose – that will have to go – and full, plump lips, also disfigured by a cheap metal ring. She is dressed like some kind of overgrown Dark fairy in a tattered net ballet skirt, stripy tights, clumpy boots and a shirt proclaiming her to be a ‘Supervixen’. Every movement she makes precipitates a symphony of jangling at her wrists from the inordinate number of metal bangles she is wearing. She reeks of patchouli and cigarette smoke. She looks unhealthy, uncared-for. She does not look employable. Or at least… not yet.
She appears uncomfortable under the force of my gaze – which is normal – and squirms slightly in her chair. I decide to relieve her tension with a question.
“Do you know what this job involves? Have you been fully briefed by the agency?”
“They said you needed someone to help around the place. Like a PA.”
“And have you fulfilled this kind of role before?”
“No. I… This would be my first real job.”
“Really? How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“So you have been in full-time education instead?”
“No.” She looks a little shifty and sighs.
“You’ve been in prison?”
“No!” she cries emphatically. I quirk an eyebrow. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice. I’ve been away…not in prison, though. My record is clean.”
I consider this for a while. She’s been ‘away’. Considering the pile of old flannel I am going to have to feed her as a cover story, it seems hypocritical to press the issue. Perhaps I will come back to it if the rest of the interview is unsatisfactory.
“Very well. Are you pregnant?”
Her eyes widen and she stares disbelievingly at me. What? It’s a fair question, surely!
“No,” she says, with a suppressed smile. “And I’m not planning to be either.”
“Good. Are you married?”
“No.”
“Where do you live?”
“Lindenlea Road.” Ah, I’ve heard of this place. A small municipal housing estate with a very bad reputation, in the shadow of the grey slab walls of the prison. I pause to digest this information. “It’s not as bad as it’s made out,” she says defensively.
“Did I say it was? Do you have any educational qualifications?”
“I have eleven GCSEs, all As and Bs.” I am surprised. She seems overqualified. I wonder why she didn’t continue her education? Because she was ‘away’ of course. Perhaps it’s time to further instruct her in her duties.
“I see. That’s quite impressive, Miss….”
“O’Riordan. Ruby.”
“Well, Ruby. If you will make me a cup of coffee, I will enlighten you on the tasks you will be undertaking if successful in your endeavours.”
She looks hesitant, so I point in the general direction of the kitchen. What is she waiting for? My look seems to persuade her that she should do as directed, and she scurries off, leaving a poorly-typed curriculum vitae on the desk.
She returns bearing a mug containing a hot beverage. She can operate the kettle; good start. Though even I can do that. I take a sip and splutter. “This is disgusting. Far too weak.”
“Sorry,” she says helplessly, spreading her arms wide in supplication. I like that. “I don’t know how you like it.”
“You’ll learn soon enough,” I purr, leaning towards her with a smile. Quite a louche one at that. “Miss O’Riordan…Ruby. We have something in common. Like you, I have been away…for a long time. I was brought up in an environment where technology was forbidden.”
“Really?” She is agog. “What like…the Plymouth Brethren? We had one of those at school; they weren’t allowed to do ICT.”
I’ve no idea what she means, but I nod. “Yes, Ruby, just like that. It was a religious cult, if you like. I have decided to break away from the strictures of my past, Ruby, and live a…normal….life. But I need help with it. There is a great deal I don’t understand.”
“Oh!” Ruby’s eyes are shining, as if this is the most exciting thing she has ever heard. “How fascinating! Is that why you always dress in black then? Religious reasons? I just thought you were a Goth, like me.”
“Who…is…this…Gough?” I grind out, irritated beyond reason by the recurrence of this word in my life.
She giggles. “You really have been away. It’s, like, a youth culture type thing. Dressing in black, listening to certain music, having certain interests.”
“Ah.” I am intrigued that I have been mistaken for a purveyor of a youth culture. Indeed, at nearly forty, I’m quite flattered. “Well, I am not a Goth. I am a scientist. I conduct my experimental work in the room upstairs, to which access is strictly and unconditionally forbidden to any other than myself. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“Sir.”
She catches her breath and flutters fearfully at me. “Yes, Sir.”
“Your job description here is to do as I tell you at all times. I may require you to manage my technological needs, to type up my research notes, to cook, to shop, to clean…the remit is broad, but the critical element is very simple. I tell you what to do and you do it. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir,” she breathes.
“Are you still interested in the position?”
“Oh, yes, Mr Snape.”
“You may call me Professor Snape,” I say severely. Might as well be clear from the start.
“Professor? You aren’t old enough.”
“I am.”
“Sorry.” She giggles. “I just thought all Professors were old with massive white beards.” Does she know Dumbledore? I blink at her.
“I am offering you the job, Miss O’Riordan. I expect to see you here tomorrow morning at nine o’clock sharp in clothing rather more suitable for the workplace than your current get-up. Can you manage that?”
“Oh, I’m sure I can,” she…simpers. She likes the commanding approach, I sense. Despite myself, I am interested in her. I feel we can…work together.
I stand and offer a hand for her to shake, which she takes reverently. I reward her with one of my rare genuine smiles before she hops back down my stairs and away to wherever she goes.
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Love On The Rock