Chapter Text
It was early morning on the outskirts of the quiet town of Vézaley, in France, and the sky was the clearest and palest blue. Soft sunlight filtered through lofty beech trees and bathed a sprawling farmstead in a golden glow. Its driveway was set back from the main road and quite unremarkable. The eyes of those passing by seemed to slide over and instantly forget it, as though by magic. Which it surely is, mused the man now surveying the property with an appreciative eye.
He was a tall man in his fifties, with a strong jaw and a Roman nose. His short, silver-streaked hair was tousled suddenly by the breeze and he lifted a long, slender finger to brush it out of his eyes. Blue eyes, but they shouldn’t have been. They were as much a part of the glamour as the pale, unpuckered skin of his neck.
Tension tightened in his shoulders, and he tried to shake it off. He had weighed the risks of travelling here, they were relatively low, but decades of looking over his shoulder made relaxing impossible. Focusing his mind on the birdsong and rustling leaves above him, he allowed himself a sigh. There was a comforting pull to this place, this little bookshop masquerading as a private residence to those without magic in their veins. He had only recently learned of its existence while queuing to renew his Potions licence and work permit at the Australian Ministry. Two American wizards behind him had been discussing a rare fifth century codex they’d purchased from a small publishing house in France. They were complaining loudly that the proprietor had printed a limited run of the text, thus drawing (in their opinion) the unwanted attention of potential competitors. He’d wanted to turn around and lay into them – ready to point out that for two people desperate for secrecy, discussing their research at full volume in a packed visa office was particularly dunderheaded, especially as, from what little he’d overheard, their central premise was flawed anyway – but he bit his tongue. As a rule, he interacted with the public as little as possible and these idiots were not worth the breath it would take to cut them down to size. Instead, he had begun to make plans to visit the shop himself, in the hope of finding an obscure alchemical text which had eluded him for over a decade. He had searched everywhere else, after all, why not there?
Oh, I don’t know, perhaps because you vowed never to return to Europe? his conscience suggested spitefully. Because you’re a wanted man? Because you’ve done things that can never be forgiven? Because if someone were to recognise you–
He set his jaw and brushed the concerns aside. He was a coward, he knew that; it was his daily refrain for the past nineteen years. And yet, remorseful though he was, he couldn’t find the will to voluntarily hand himself over to languish in Azkaban for the rest of his days. So, he had done the only thing a sensible Slytherin would in the face of such a prospect: he had fled. Fled the country, fled the continent, never to return. He’d traded the name Snape for Aspen, developed a convincing glamour for the few days a year he had to tolerate human interaction and otherwise laid low. Until now. This new lead would bring him the closest he’d been yet to the scene of his crimes but, he rationalised, he barely had any acquaintances in France and from what he could gather, the shop was miles from any wizarding communities. It will be worth it for the book.
He walked down the gravel path to a courtyard filled with flowers. In the centre, there was a black wrought iron bench and a flagstone with an inscription in Latin. He paused to translate: in loving memory of those lost. Flicking his eyes across the buildings surrounding the square, he identified his destination. The stone barn had been renovated to house a bright and spacious bookshop. He pushed the door open and relaxed despite himself. Merlin, but he loved the quiet hush of bookshops. Light streamed in through gloriously gigantic windows and illuminated the soft white interior. The bookshelves along the walls were double height, with rolling ladders to reach the uppermost ledges. The aisles were wide and welcoming, punctuated with neat armchairs and the occasional potted fern. A fireplace and a couch were situated to his furthest right and to his left, a spiral staircase leading to a mezzanine level thick with protective spells.
The shop was empty save for a young man in his teens who sat perched on a stool behind a counter in the centre of the vast room. He had heard the bell tinkling moments before but didn’t look up immediately, still reading as he stretched the book away from himself and reached for a pen to mark his place. Finally dragging his eyes up from the page, he stood. An easy smile graced his face and he leaned on the pale wooden worktop as his customer approached.
“Bienvenue,” he said, “Publier ou acheter?”
“Bonjour. Acheter, s’il vous plait.” Snape reached into his overcoat and pulled out a slip of parchment, sliding it across the space between them. “Je cherche ça.”
The bookseller read the title, written in spidery script, and raised an eyebrow. “Une minute,” he said, walking to a door behind him marked Raven Press Publishing House and opening it to reveal a long corridor. “Hero? Have you got a minute?”
“Go on then,” came the muffled reply.
“Do you know if Cheirokmeta is here or off on crusade?”
“The Zosimos? Gone with mum, I think.” It was a female voice. “Yes, almost sure it is!”
He grimaced and returned to his post. “Monsieur –” he began, but was cut off.
“You’re British?”
“You as well? Gosh, your pronunciation is excellent, I couldn’t tell!” He beamed. “I’m Sal, by the way. Salvador. We don’t get many Brits arriving in person, most just place an owl order. How’s the weather?”
“I couldn’t tell you; I haven’t lived there in almost two decades.” Snape’s deep voice rumbled with amusement – it had been a long time since he’d politely discussed the weather with a fellow Englishman – and he held out his hand. “Mr. Aspen.”
“Pleasure! Well, we have the text you’re after, but it’s dashed bad luck, sir.” Sal ran a hand through his short black curls. “It’s not actually going to be on the premises for another two weeks.”
“Because it’s ‘gone on crusade’…?” Snape said, conceding a hint of curiosity.
Laughing, the younger man explained, “That’s just what we call it. Copyright crusade! We specialise in reprinting valuable texts that are either impossible to find, or afford, or both. But we’ve got to have the rights first. Or the closest thing to them. Our fearless leader has gone to procure the clearance needed for our next round of reprints… hopefully.”
Snape gave a small smile upon hearing the clarification. “But you possess it? And it is available to purchase – in two weeks’ time? I must admit, I have been searching for it for quite a while.”
“Yes, you can purchase the original, but I’ve got to warn you, you’re looking at several thousand Galleons at least. We have the only copy in Europe, that we’re aware of. Took mum years to get a hold of it. On the bright side, if you can wait three weeks, you can buy a reprint for about ten. Galleons, that is.”
“Quite the enterprise.”
“You’d be surprised how much demand there is. That entire mezzanine is our rare texts collection. You’re welcome to peruse them, but they’re under stasis, so you’d need to call one of us over if you wanted to look inside.”
“I may just do that.” He gave a curt nod of thanks.
The boy was already returning to his book, but added helpfully, “If it’s got green tape on the spine, there’s already a reprint.”
“Thank you.”
Sometime later, from his vantage point on the mezzanine, Snape stopped browsing to observe the young man who had helped him. Sal, he’d called himself. The teen was reading again, but had a scroll draped over the counter beside him and appeared to stop to dictate notes to his ballpoint pen every so often.
There was something about him, about his manner, that was strangely familiar. And he’s from the UK, he winced inwardly. So, I’ve probably taught one or both of his parents. He would have to be careful. This was his first return to Europe since the war ended. He couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself, especially not from those with ties to England. Really, if he was being honest with himself, he should leave. He could owl order the book at a later date. After years of waiting, a few weeks wouldn’t be impossible to bear. It would be reckless to linger.
But a whole collection of rare books, his curiosity countered, in a beautiful bookshop, practically deserted! And the boy said the owner was away…
His curiosity did get the better of him, as he knew it would, and soon an hour had passed, spent contentedly perusing titles.
“Find anything?” Sal was grinning up at him.
“Yes, thank you. More than my vaults would allow me to indulge in, as a matter of fact. I jotted down three titles in particular that – while not relevant to my current research – intrigued me enough to merit further investigation. May I…?” He gestured toward the shelves and the young man vaulted the counter, wand in hand.
“’Course. Do you have the list there?” Sal was up the stairs in a flash. He took the parchment and Summoned the three thin tomes to a reading desk, releasing them from their protected state with a few tricky wand movements.
The table glowed slightly, a shimmering gold along the surface. “It’s enchanted,” the boy offered. “Keeps the pages oil-free and prevents any spills or tears and so on.”
Snape was only half listening. He had reverently picked up the al-Razi diary, a translation spell already forming on his tongue.
When he next looked up, three hours had passed.
Sal was hovering. “Can I ask what your research is on, Mr Aspen? Not to pry too much, if it’s hush-hush, but I’m fascinated by the legacy of Zosimos’ distilling apparatus on modern potioneering myself and I’d love to know your thoughts…?”
Snape gawped at him, a novel experience for a man rarely surprised. “How old are you, exactly?” he finally managed to ask.
“Eighteen,” Sal said. “Just graduated last month.”
“Hogwarts or Beauxbatons?”
“Hogwarts, thank Merlin!”
“In that case, the syllabus in Hogwarts must’ve undergone considerable change since my time,” said Snape, recovering somewhat. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone under forty who has read pre-Paracelsus alchemy texts.”
“You haven’t met our mother then! She’d tell us tales of the ancients as bedtime stories. Proudly raising us to be ‘insufferable know-it-alls’!” He laughed, missing the second look of shock that flittered across Snape’s face, and went on. “She home-schooled us until we were old enough for Hogwarts, and there’s not a lot to do in the French countryside, so we’ve read a good chunk of what’s here… Only problem is, I’ve read so much now that I can’t narrow down what to specialise in.”
Snape regarded him. “A challenge indeed, but not insurmountable,” he said. "You are fortunate to have found so many academic interests worthy of pursuit."
Sal tried and failed to sound nonchalant. “How did you choose Alchemy, sir? If you don’t mind the question?”
Snape tried to keep his expression from revealing that he would rather bolt over the balcony railing than discuss his own experiences.
“I had… less options available to me,” he prevaricated. The boy waited – he was obviously looking for more of an answer than that – so he went on, a slight note of weariness in his voice. “All I can offer is the advice I wish I’d had: whatever path you choose, know that it is not fixed. All experience is valuable, and what you do in these coming years need not be the template for your whole future. You could undertake four consecutive apprenticeships in completely distinct specialties and upon finishing the last, you would not yet be out of your thirtieth year. You are a free agent, Salvador. Do not allow your mind to tie you to one future.” He rubbed his face and gave the teen an apologetic smile. “A more philosophical answer than you were looking for, I’m sure.”
“No, that – that was really helpful, actually.”
Sal was looking at him strangely, so he decided to move the conversation along. “And as to your original question, I am researching the use of alchemy in… in soul magic. It’s early days and may yet come to nothing, but I am… hopeful.”
“When you say ‘soul magic’…?”
“Most of the wizarding world understands magic to be either light or dark. In reality, the magic we use on a daily basis would be better described as neutral. Truly light magic is extremely rare, as is documentation of its use throughout history. In the records I have unearthed, it appears to manifest as a burst of accidental magic, of which the caster was not consciously in control.” He took a breath and tried to stop himself from reverting to his old lecturing style. “Zosimos wrote of a brewable compound that could cleanse the soul, but only fragments of his writing remain, many of which were completely garbled by Muggle interpreters who didn’t understand what they had discovered.”
Sal’s eyes widened. “And you are searching for evidence of this – this compound?”
“As I said, my research is in the most preliminary stage.”
The teen was clearly running through all of the implications of such a potion in his mind. “Could an unrepentant soul, corrupted by dark magic, still–?”
A twitch of the lips was the only indication that the young man had impressed the researcher. “A valid concern, but no. As with all magic, intent is central. Light magic is an exercise in altruism. It is impossible to use it to improve one’s own life. I could never cast or brew my own redemption, for instance… but theoretically I could extend my own magic to do so for another, if my intent and my will were great enough.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Indeed.”
This topic of conversation had the distracting effect he was hoping for: Sal had a dozen follow up questions and the pair settled into a lively discussion of alchemy that lasted all afternoon.
As the sun started to slip in the sky, Snape seemed to realise that the day had disappeared. “My apologies, Salvador. I have monopolised too much of your time. I wonder if I might ask one more favour: can you direct me to a nearby inn?”
“There’s nothing wizard-owned…” Sal looked at him for a few seconds, then seemed to come to a decision and stood up. “I’ll be right back.”
When he returned, he had a witch by his side. “This is my sister, Hero. We had a chat about it and... you can stay here for the night, if you like. We have two writer-in-residence studios, those outbuildings across the yard. Hardly ever used in summer.”
The young witch was appraising him, Snape realised. He arched an eyebrow and appraised her right back. She was tall, though not quite as tall as her brother. She had a wild mop of the same black curls, scooped up and held in place by her wand. And where Sal had a relaxed, trusting manner, hers was distinctly more calculating. But otherwise, they were extremely similar. Twins, if he wasn’t mistaken.
“A pleasure to meet you.” He gave a slight bow. “Salvador and… Hero? Interesting names.”
“What can you do?” Her voice was light, but he felt that he was still under assessment. “We were named in honour of a war hero no longer with us. Can’t get much better than that.”
“Quite.” he said stiffly. “Well, I am very grateful for your offer. I had arranged an international portkey for three p.m. this afternoon but as you see by my continued presence, I found myself rather distracted by your book collection.”
“It is wonderfully distracting.” She smiled, and he wondered if his appreciation of books had redeemed him. “Come with me, I’ll reset the wards for you.”
An hour later, he found himself in a small but comfortable apartment, sitting down to a plate of chicken sandwiches and a large bowl of soup, courtesy of Sal.
From his chair, he could see across the yard to the kitchen window of the main house. Sal appeared to be singing into a spatula, and Hero was throwing popcorn at him, laughing. He stared for a few minutes, until they moved out of sight.
While he ate, he looked over his notes from earlier in the day, which included a few of Sal’s observations. The boy could hold his own, he thought, still surprised by his age. He put his head in his hands and tried to remind himself that he was relieved to no longer be surrounded by hordes of dunderheaded teenagers. Pull yourself together, man! His guard was down, dangerously so. More worryingly still, his mind was more interested in arranging another conversation with his hosts for the next day than obtaining a replacement Portkey.