What The Thunder Said

The evening had been hot and close, and so they'd decided that ice cream would be an ideal way to send their meals along. It had been so marvelous, so like old times: lunch at the Leaky Cauldron, perhaps a bit too heavy for the weather and certainly a pint too many on the side, but it didn't matter-— they were together again, the three of them.

How distinguished Hermione looked, tendrils of her coarse hair – now more gray than brown – trailing free of the French braid. And Ron, as bald as his father now, but still with that artless (some would say gormless) little-boy smile, still amazed as ever at the woman who shared his house and life, if not his name. (It would be Ms. Granger and nothing else until the day she died.)

How they had laughed! How long and how loud! As if all the trials of their youth – their losses and triumphs, the horrors of that final battle against the Dark – had been nothing but the makings of a hilarious tale to be told years hence under the pink umbrellas of Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour.

How Harry had missed them both, his dear old friends.

So deep were they in frivolity that at first Harry didn't recognize Snape. He'd simply been distracted by the spectacle of the man coming up the street, an old man wearing a slouch hat and a heavy black cloak on this, the hottest day of the year. Harry was about to turn to his friends and say something comical about the dark figure moving slowly their way, but then he looked again and saw.

It was Snape, no mistake. But changed, so very changed. Aged beyond his years, the hair beneath his hat was white, and it fluttered feathery and brittle in the limp afternoon breeze. His skin was also white, and dry as paper. That nose of his seemed to have doubled in size, or perhaps the face around it had shrunk, carved away by all those nights of terror until nothing but a bony brow and a snarl of mouth remained. And the eyes. Oh those eyes haven't changed at all, Harry thought as Snape approached them dark and swift, like a thunderhead in midsummer.

They all rose from their table to greet him because they couldn't think what else to do. Harry felt obligated; the years had softened his hate for his old teacher just as they'd softened the memories of the Last War. All over, all done, like a bad dream. Yet he could not help but feel a twist in his over-full stomach as the figure of Snape grew large in the golden afternoon, like ink spilled across a beautiful picture. Here was a man who, even though he still lived, had never recovered. What mirth he might have had, Voldemort had poisoned, years and years ago.

For a moment it seemed as though Snape would not acknowledge them, even though they stood directly in his path. That thunderclap gaze was turned inward; he seemed lost within himself. But then, just as Harry was about to open his mouth and venture a tentative salutation, Snape's grim mouth fell open and he barked,

"Out of my way, Potter!"

Harry jumped aside as the old Potions Master blew past him, redolent of formaldehyde, vinegar, and smoke. The Boy Who Lived was on the verge of sending a cheery insult at the departing professor when suddenly Snape stopped and span around, his cloak whirling about him like bad weather.

Louring black eyes regarded Hermione now, and as they did, the mouth below them acquired flexibility enough to twist into something that was not quite a smile, but not quite a sneer either. It opened a fraction and out came a voice more unctuous than Snape’s complexion had been at the worst of times.

"Miss Granger," he purred, lifting his hat from his drooping white hair.

Then the hat came down again and Snape turned around. He walked away from them, weaving through the crowd, a black cloud vanishing silent and swift among the bright colours of summer.