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asgardmeridiem2013-12-04 02:53 am
albuquerque) wrote in asgardmeridiem2013-12-04 02:53 am
Fading sun, what have I done
Who: Severus Snape and closed threads to: Alice Liddell, Barty Crouch Jr., Voldemort, Hermione. Otherwise OPEN TO EVERYONE.
What: The aftermath of Mirror Verse
When: Days 365 through to 367-ish (up to and including the earthquake)!
Where: Various places around the city
Rating: PG for now, though there will be some violence at some point.
[Upon returning to the real Asgard, upon realising with sick dread that he's returned without Lily, Severus goes into hiding for the following two days. It's the only thing he can do while war is still waging outside. He's so bone-weary, feels so physically and mentally broken, that he can't face another moment of devastation and destruction and terror. He can't bare to think about Lily still being trapped there, unsafe, lost, her life horribly in danger.
He's failed her. Again. Seems that's the curse he has to live with: always failing the very woman he secretly, desperately, longingly loves with every wretched fibre of his being.
Despite how sore he is, how much he's aching in his muscles and deep in his bones, how heavily lost in a murky depressed fog he is, he throws himself into working on school schedules and doing what he can to organise school matters from the privacy and safety of his own place. It gives him purpose. Gives him focus. And when the explosion of heat suddenly sweeps across the city, Severus is safe enough to have to only duck down with a scramble under his desk, although the heat that settles heavy and oppressive in every nook and cranny is like being trapped inside a burning oven; very soon, he's scrabbling and tearing at his clothes, desperate to get them off and away from his perspiring skin.
In fact, it's the heat itself - and the apparent end of warring giants that's followed in its wake - that prompts Severus to eventually decide to venture out onto the streets. The heat is blazing, hotter than any heatwave he can remember ever hitting Britain; with very few clothes to call his own save those he arrived in Asgard with all those months ago, he has no choice but to don only his black slacks and white shirt, lest he faint from heat exhaustion.
Though he desperately wants to roll his sleeves up, he doesn't - his Mark has faded back to a faint reddish outline, dead and dormant, but he doesn't want to see it, doesn't want anyone else to see it. He'd rather swelter than ever let his shameful Mark see the light of day. His shirt clings wetly to his back with pit stains under his arms; his black hair clings in sweaty strands to the back of his neck while his forehead is bathed with perspiration. His face, however, despite being ruddy with the heat, is pale, withdrawn, pinched with a deeply repressed bitterness that's dangerously simmering beneath the surface.
It's not just the heat that's getting to him - it's the stubbornly unspoken thoughts and even more stubbornly ignored feelings about the previous several days bottling up inside him. Waiting to explode. Like a ticking time-bomb.
He will be found frequenting the Great Library and the school building he's bought, traversing between the two at regular intervals while he moves everything across to his new office. And in between his trips to the library or to the school, he can also be found making stops at cafes and shops for a much needed drink. Or he can sometimes be found stopping by a fountain or crouching down by a running tap, splashing cool water over his face. Or he can sometimes be found sitting on a bench in the street when he's too overcome by the heat to be able to stay on his feet any longer, broodily staring at the ground or down at his hands.
Anyone is free to stop him, although they may find themselves on the unpleasant receiving end of Severus' very short fuse. One should only approach him at one's own risk.]
[[ooc: Snape will mostly be around Odin district, however feel free to have your character bump into him anywhere, really. Feel free to also have your character bump into Snape post-earthquake on day 367. Prose or action tags are both fine with me! I'll match whatever you reply with. c:]]
What: The aftermath of Mirror Verse
When: Days 365 through to 367-ish (up to and including the earthquake)!
Where: Various places around the city
Rating: PG for now, though there will be some violence at some point.
[Upon returning to the real Asgard, upon realising with sick dread that he's returned without Lily, Severus goes into hiding for the following two days. It's the only thing he can do while war is still waging outside. He's so bone-weary, feels so physically and mentally broken, that he can't face another moment of devastation and destruction and terror. He can't bare to think about Lily still being trapped there, unsafe, lost, her life horribly in danger.
He's failed her. Again. Seems that's the curse he has to live with: always failing the very woman he secretly, desperately, longingly loves with every wretched fibre of his being.
Despite how sore he is, how much he's aching in his muscles and deep in his bones, how heavily lost in a murky depressed fog he is, he throws himself into working on school schedules and doing what he can to organise school matters from the privacy and safety of his own place. It gives him purpose. Gives him focus. And when the explosion of heat suddenly sweeps across the city, Severus is safe enough to have to only duck down with a scramble under his desk, although the heat that settles heavy and oppressive in every nook and cranny is like being trapped inside a burning oven; very soon, he's scrabbling and tearing at his clothes, desperate to get them off and away from his perspiring skin.
In fact, it's the heat itself - and the apparent end of warring giants that's followed in its wake - that prompts Severus to eventually decide to venture out onto the streets. The heat is blazing, hotter than any heatwave he can remember ever hitting Britain; with very few clothes to call his own save those he arrived in Asgard with all those months ago, he has no choice but to don only his black slacks and white shirt, lest he faint from heat exhaustion.
Though he desperately wants to roll his sleeves up, he doesn't - his Mark has faded back to a faint reddish outline, dead and dormant, but he doesn't want to see it, doesn't want anyone else to see it. He'd rather swelter than ever let his shameful Mark see the light of day. His shirt clings wetly to his back with pit stains under his arms; his black hair clings in sweaty strands to the back of his neck while his forehead is bathed with perspiration. His face, however, despite being ruddy with the heat, is pale, withdrawn, pinched with a deeply repressed bitterness that's dangerously simmering beneath the surface.
It's not just the heat that's getting to him - it's the stubbornly unspoken thoughts and even more stubbornly ignored feelings about the previous several days bottling up inside him. Waiting to explode. Like a ticking time-bomb.
He will be found frequenting the Great Library and the school building he's bought, traversing between the two at regular intervals while he moves everything across to his new office. And in between his trips to the library or to the school, he can also be found making stops at cafes and shops for a much needed drink. Or he can sometimes be found stopping by a fountain or crouching down by a running tap, splashing cool water over his face. Or he can sometimes be found sitting on a bench in the street when he's too overcome by the heat to be able to stay on his feet any longer, broodily staring at the ground or down at his hands.
Anyone is free to stop him, although they may find themselves on the unpleasant receiving end of Severus' very short fuse. One should only approach him at one's own risk.]
[[ooc: Snape will mostly be around Odin district, however feel free to have your character bump into him anywhere, really. Feel free to also have your character bump into Snape post-earthquake on day 367. Prose or action tags are both fine with me! I'll match whatever you reply with. c:]]
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Uncomfortable herself, she shifts in her chair before putting the barrier back up again. Her words come out with a bit of spite, though they aren't directed at Snape. "Nah, my biggest problem is keeping everyone outta jail, and fed, and going to school, and making sure my dad doesn't steal the money we kept hid under the floorboards. But property tax is kinda more fun to talk about, y'know?" At least they have a house.
She shakes her head, that came out all wrong. It's not even connected to the original idea, though she can see the connection in her mind: She doesn't have to pay rent, or for food, or even work if she doesn't want to, here.
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And Merlin, the argument that had ensued between Tobias and his mother. Money - muggle money, that was - that his mother had painstakingly attempted to save from slaving away at the rundown Cokeworth chippery: gone in the blink of an eye and spent on alcohol when his father had discovered it hidden in a rusty can, tucked away in the back of one of the musty kitchen cupboards--
'That was supposed to be money to go towards feeding our SON, Tobias!' Eileen had screamed, her voice shrill and cracking with anger.
''ow was I sh'posed t'know that?' came Tobias' slurred bellow. 'Weren't like yer labelled the bleedin' thing.'
'You bloody SELFISH pig--!'
From the sitting room, where Severus was hearing the fight unfold, he heard his mother let out a shriek of pain, followed by a pleading babble of, 'Let me go! You're hurting me!', followed by the crash of something falling against the table and chairs, their legs scratching across the kitchen floor.
'Don't you DARE call me selfish, ya fuckin' selfish bitch. Do I gotta remind yer how many hours I work down at that factory for you an' that freak of a son of ours? I DESERVE to 'ave a li'tle drink 'ere an' there.'
Severus stared blankly down at the book he was reading, trying to shut everything out, a cold ball of stony misery forming in the pit of his chest, while the sound of his mother's sobs began wracking through the house--
Severus quickly straightens his shoulders. Mentally shakes the memory from his mind as he sweeps the rest of the broken mugs into his palm and takes it across to the rubbish bin.
"Sounds positively miserable," he says, equal parts snide and serious. Serious because he finds himself actually understanding what Miss Gallagher is talking about in his own way; and snide because, well, it's a defensive mechanism. Not to mention the fact that he finds himself identifying with a muggle. That doesn't sit too well with him, not while thinking about memories of his father.
Returning to the counter, he takes down two mugs that haven't smashed, puts them down, reaches for a teabag. "How do you have your coffee, then?"
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"Oh, lots've cream and sugar, if you got any." He seems like a coffee, black kinda guy.
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He turns to look at her. "Cream? What do you mean by that? Actual cream?"
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She peers over to where Snape's standing, expression confused. "Cream? Milk? Y'know, half'n half?" What the hell do they call it in England?
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His home back in Cokeworth, for example. It was only with waterproofing magic that he managed to keep the place dry and to stop it from rotting, otherwise mould and mildew would have grown in the corners of the ceilings, in cupboards, in the bathroom, in the kitchen, from months of incessant rain eating into the roofing and the foundations. Miserable, dirty place that Cokeworth was. Much like Britain itself, although Severus will always hold a great deal of fondness for his home regardless how miserable and dreary it can be.
As for the matter of 'cream', though... Or 'half-and'half', as she's also named it... How many names do Americans have for it? "We keep things simple in England, and the rest of Britain for that matter, and simply call it 'milk'."
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"What is a star buck?" Is that some kind of muggle term for a prized male deer?
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Star bucks, he thinks to himself. What a strange name, especially seeing it apparently concerns coffee and nothing to do with astronomy, astrology or, indeed, bucks.
"Anyway, what do you mean, 'one percent'? Or 'two percent'? One percent of what?"
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"It's, uh, the fat content. Skim is milk without fat, two percent only has two percent fat..." She rolls her wrist, a nonverbal et cetera, et cetera. You're a smart guy, Snape, you get it, right?
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It doesn't help that he's picking up amusement in her tone. As though she thinks all of this is terribly funny but is trying to pretend to the contrary. Or is he just imagining it?
He narrows his eyes at her scantily. "I see," he replies. He grasps what she means about the milk. "Seems like nothing but a great deal of useless bother to me."
Giving her a final glance over, almost a dirty look at her suggesting wizarding England is a different country, he turns away to resume making the tea. And, for her, coffee.
"Wizarding England is not another country. It is the very same country, just as wizarding America is the same as America itself. It is simply hidden from the world of non-wizarding folk."
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No need to cry over it, though. She leans back with a shrug. "Well, yeah. I mean, that's the point. You overcharge for something rich people make a big deal out of. Tell me that doesn't happen in Wizarding England." Said with perhaps the smallest amount of skepticism.
"So, it's a part of England just for Wizards?" Fiona is pretty sure that'd get you sued in America, but as they've just abundantly covered, England and America are different.
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"The wizarding world exists coextensively with the non-magical world on a global scale, Miss Gallagher. The magical world exists coextensively in Britain, in America, Australia, the Middle East, Africa, any country you can think of. Just as non-magical folk inhabit the earth, so do witches and wizards."
And goblins and giants and elves and unicorns and centaurs... But he's going to keep this simple for Miss Gallagher. He doesn't have the patience to go beyond simple when it comes to explaining his world to a muggle.
And while he's telling her this, he spoons a teaspoon of coffee into her mug, pours a generous splash of milk into the mug, along with a teaspoon of sugar, and begins stirring it quickly. A little trick of basic chemistry where coffee reacts better to dissolving in cold liquids rather than hot.
"What I don't understand," he continues, standing the spoon in the mug to reach for the kettle, "is why you are still so skeptical after everything that happened in the mirror world." And by 'everything', he specifically means that which she saw and experienced him doing with his magic.
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"What I saw in the other Asgard," she says, with an edge of aggression that may mask the fact that this is how the explains complex concepts to children, "was people using magic, so I believe that in other places, people use magic. Excuse me for not eating up everything else I hear about it with a spoon."
Snape is a weird guy, and Fiona trusts him with her life, but not much else. And that's not a choice so much as a statement of fact; clearly, for whatever reason, he'll still protect her if he has to, and he's clearly capable. She trusts him to do what it's obvious he already does. She has yet to see if he's a liar.
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"A wise way of approaching things," he says of her not eating up everything she hears on a spoon, and he delivers the statement in a rather nondescript tone - neither approving nor strictly condescending. He does, after all, approve of that response, though he doesn't really want her knowing that he approves.
He faces back to the coffee and gives it a quick stir before moving onto making his tea. Black, no sugar, a twist of lemon. And for her response, he decides to afford her a little more explanation.
"The reason our world is unknown is because it is not only hidden by means of charms and spells, but we, the global wizarding community, are bound by law to not reveal any aspect of our world to the non-magic community. The International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy forbids us to speak of it. Breach of the Statute can result in punishment as severe as imprisonment."
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(It doesn't.)
"Well," Fiona takes the coffee with a sort of false daintiness, pinky out. It's meant to signify that her next comment is a joke: "I won't tell if you don't."
It's good coffee, and she gives a little nod of approval and thanks, before continuing. "Why's it secret, though? I mean, if it can just make water from nowhere, it could really help some-" Fiona gets, suddenly, the vivid image of what her father would do with himself in a world of magic and wonder. "Actually, y'know, maybe it's a good idea to keep it a secret. I mean, you guys'd know best."
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Damn, but he misses being able to sneak his way into his people's minds. He can only guess Miss Gallagher's would be very easy to sneak into - as much as she maintains as much a front of control, he strikes her as quite emotional. Emotional people are the easiest minds to penetrate.
"Are you at all familiar with the Salem witch trials, Miss Gallagher?" he asks. "Surely you are, being American."
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"I dunno, I mean, I saw what you did in the other place," She's still a little impressed and horrified by it, and honestly, selfishly glad for her own sake that he doesn't have such powers here. "You versus a bunch of New Englanders in pilgrim costumes?" She scoffs, and drinks her tea. The subject is light, and she considers the conversation light as well. She's not trying to argue any point, really.
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"Contrary to what you seem to be implying, I was a child of the 1960s, not the 1600s."
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"I mean, I saw what you can do. I got a pretty good demonstration." That memory kills the smile; it's hard for her to hold onto ire, but she doesn't enjoy being zapped, or recalling the sensation. "I think you could probably take a bunch of guys with pitchforks from Salem without breaking a sweat."
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"And yet, had I been a child of the 1600s," he replies, and he does actually agree with her, that he'd be able to take on mere muggles from a rather primitive era in time, "I, along with my family and anyone known to be associated with me, just like many wizards and witches of the time, would have been captured and executed. Muggles suspected of practicing witchcraft were also imprisoned and put to death. All because of fear of magic; fear of that which Muggles - those belonging to the non-magical community - did not understand."
He pauses to take another sip of his tea. "So, of course, something had to be done. The International Confederation of Wizards - I believe the Muggle equivalent is known as United... Nations? Something along those lines - banded together in 1692 to form the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. The moment it was imposed and made law, every wizard and witch throughout the world went into hiding, and it's been law ever since to keep our world hidden from the non-magical world. To avoid any such atrocities from occurring again."
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But still, this is all over Fiona's head, far out of the realm of her experience; to compensate, she equates it to something she knows: "Shouldn't you be, like, out and proud?"
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But of course, he supposes that doesn't truly matter anymore, not here in Asgard. Still. Old habits die hard.
"Tell me, Miss Gallagher, were we not in Asgard and had you not experienced that which took place in the mirror world, were we having this conversation while sitting around, say, your kitchen table, how do you suppose you would react to me being 'out and proud'?"
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In her imagination, Lip slips Ian a fiver.
"I'd tell you you should have been cut off sooner." And she'd know he hadn't gone to the Alibi, because Kev is a better bartender than that, to let someone get so wasted they think they're a fucking wizard. "And then you'd probably turn me into a frog and win the argument."
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