THE BIRD'S EYE

Summary:

In the aftermath of Halloween 1981, Severus Snape rails against the twists of fate, struggles to find a new purpose in life, and learns that magic is not nearly as useful as he had always thought.

Author's Note:

Rated T for some violence and mature themes. Trigger warning for contemplation of suicide.

Regarding canon compliance, I go with the books.

To my friends and followers in the BBC "Sherlock" fandom - thank you for your patience while I complete this detour into the magical world.

As always, this story is already written except for some minor final editing, and will not be abandoned. Expect an update every couple of days.

I treasure all feedback.

Prologue - February 1979

Kyra

The call had come just before the start of the rehearsal. The porter of the Conservatoire had edged quietly through the maze of music stands to whisper to Kyra, who was in her accustomed place in the student orchestra and busy tuning, that she was wanted on the phone. She could tell from the unusually serious look on his face that the news was both urgent and grave.

Half an hour and some hasty excuses later, Kyra was waiting outside the Conservatoire with her cello case by her side when her aunt Theresa pulled up in her car. She got out and immediately put her arms around her niece.

"I'm so sorry, pet," she muttered into Kyra's cloud of dark hair, and Kyra had simply let herself be held, like Theresa had held her so many times since she had taken the place of the mother who barely ever had.

Kyra couldn't bring herself to feign more emotion than she truly felt at the news. It left her numb rather than anything. But she was genuinely grateful to her aunt for taking charge of the practical side of things. She told Theresa as much when they were back in the car together, the cello safely stowed on the back seat.

"I feel like I should be doing something," Kyra said when they had left the city behind, and Theresa had given her all the details she had, many of which Kyra would have preferred to unknow straight away.

"You can find me my gloves," Theresa suggested. "It's even colder than I thought."

"I don't mean that," Kyra elaborated while retrieving her aunt's gloves from her handbag. "I mean, I'm twenty-three, and it's my mother, so I should - "

"Nonsense," said Theresa curtly. "I'm used to sorting out my brother's messes. One more won't make a difference."

"Well, you sorted me out all right," Kyra conceded drily.

"You know, pet," Theresa said, taking her left hand off the steering wheel to pat Kyra's knee affectionately, "that's actually my greatest pride." The two women glanced at each other and both smiled.

"Have you told - " Kyra began when they had travelled for a while in silence.

"No, of course not." The warmth was gone from Theresa's voice. "How would I? I've no address and no phone number, and I assume neither have you."

"No... but I feel like we should try and find out."

"If you think so, by all means do." Theresa had her eyes firmly on the road, but Kyra could tell that if she wanted to pursue this, she was on her own. Her aunt had her lips set in that hard line that Kyra knew meant further argument was futile. In fact, Kyra suspected that people close to herself knew that expression equally well. Intransigence ran in the family, and so did impatience with the advocates of lost causes.

From her own bag, Kyra dug out a pencil and a pad of music paper, which was all she had on her to write on.

The familiar chimney, looming large out of the smog, was in view by the time she had finished her letter. As they passed under the railway viaduct into the town, she folded the paper up and, for lack of an envelope, wrote the name of the recipient on the outside.

It had been a surprisingly difficult task, not least because Kyra barely knew whom she was writing to.

Theresa had arranged for them to meet the funeral director at the house. When they pulled up in the narrow cobbled street, they saw a little man in a black suit and coat standing there by the front door, in conversation with two others. His attire was solemn, as the occasion required, but he was talking so animatedly to his two companions that he gave the impression of an unusually cheerful nature, given his profession.

They got out of the car, and for the first time in many years, Kyra breathed in the smell of the street, of smoke mingling with the sharp cold air. The touch of rotting vegetation from the banks of the nearby river would be much stronger in the summer, though – it was barely perceptible at this time of the year. Smells, Kyra noticed, had a curious way of evoking memories, and she shut them away quickly.

The funeral director saw the two women approach and smiled at them amiably. He was either a consummate actor, or he was indeed one of those unflappable people who managed to see good in everything. No mean feat, Kyra acknowledged. He must deal with a lot of ugliness, working this job in this town. A woman lying dead in her house for days on end was probably not the worst thing he had ever seen. Although, Kyra supposed, not every of those cases also featured a deranged husband, passed out in an alcoholic coma on the rubbish dump downstairs that had once been a living room, too far gone to call for help even for himself, let alone her, and discovered only when the neighbours began noticing the stench.

They shook hands. Kyra only mumbled her name, happy to let Theresa do the rest of the talking. Meanwhile, she glanced at the two other men, who had stayed politely in the background. One of them was as short as the funeral director, but not nearly as rotund – an elderly man, stooped and wizened. He was in a shabby trench coat that barely seemed to keep him warm, and carried an equally shabby briefcase. The other was thin and tall and much younger, thirty at best. He wore horn-rimmed spectacles and a fur cap with ear flaps that clashed strangely with both his navy-blue pea jacket and his presumably hand-knitted woollen scarf.

Kyra was sure that she had never seen either of them before, but the haphazard way they were dressed was disturbingly familiar, just like the smell that perpetually hung over this place, instantly recognisable even after years. Kyra felt a sensation rise inside her that she remembered only too well, too - a sense of foreboding and of heightened alertness, a hot tingling under her skin, her throat constricting.

They can't know. Nobody can know. The thought presented itself unbidden, but with the same urgency as it used to when Kyra had still been a child. Browbeaten into compliance by the terrifying tales of what happened to those who were too careless or too generous with the truth, the law of absolute secrecy had become second nature to her even though she had inwardly bristled at it every time. The secret was, after all, not even her own.

Deeply ingrained habit made her check with a nervous glance whether her aunt and the friendly funeral director were unduly intrigued by the strangers' unorthodox appearance. It hurt especially because Kyra had always hated lying to Theresa most, and it had been so many years now that she had last been obliged to.

The funeral director noticed her unease, but luckily misread it. "Oh, I'm very sorry," he interrupted himself, indicating the two strangers with his hand. "These gentlemen are from the shire council. They, er – they say they had to do an inspection of the house, to make sure… health and hygiene regulations, you understand..." He spread his hands apologetically. "But nothing more to worry about now, they tell me. All clear."

The two other men nodded earnestly. Theresa, unsuspecting, thanked them politely for their trouble. Kyra's eyes, however, went to the briefcase in the older stranger's hand. It wasn't very large, and it didn't bulge. Whatever telltale evidence they had been sent to secure upon this death of one of their own, there couldn't have been much left.

"We've taken care of everything, ma'am," the younger of the two assured Kyra in a mild voice, as if he had read her thoughts. He turned to his colleague. "Well, Perkins, that's our job done then, isn't it?" He doffed his fur cap to the two women, revealing flaming red but already thinning hair, and after a quick exchange of condolatory formalities, the two strangers started to walk away. Kyra quickly made up her mind, and hurried after them.

"Excuse me," she called, pulling the folded music paper from her pocket. They turned back to her in surprise. "I - sorry, I was just wondering whether you might be able to post this letter for me." She held it out to the older man. He took it, read the name on it, and immediately exchanged a pointed look with his colleague, eyebrows raised.

"You can do that, even without a proper address, can't you?" Kyra asked anxiously. Their hesitation didn't bode well, but this was her only chance.

"We'll be happy to post it for you, ma'am," the older man said at length, and pocketed the letter carefully.

Relieved, Kyra watched them walk off down the street together. She could have sworn that they disappeared even before they rounded the corner.

Four people came to the funeral of Eileen Snape, née Prince, whom Kyra was not surprised to see there: the vicar, who valiantly tried to disguise the fact that he had barely known the deceased; the man who had sat idly by as she died, neither knowing nor caring that it was happening; a nurse from the care home he had been taken to afterwards, pushing him along in his wheelchair; and Aunt Theresa, as solid and reliable at Kyra's side as she had always been since the day Kyra had run away from home to her place, aged eleven.

There were also four unexpected attendants there in the churchyard, three men and one woman, strangers all, wearing long cloaks that billowed in the cold wind like sails. They spoke to no one and kept a respectful distance, forming a loose circle around the tiny congregation by the graveside, silent and watchful.

But the one person that Kyra had truly hoped would be there was not.

TBC