Scotland - January 1, 1995 - The Capricorn Man
Scotland - January 1, 1995 - The Capricorn Man
The staff lounge was unusually lively that evening. The remnants of the New Year’s feast still clung to the castle air—roast meats, spiced puddings, and the faintest trace of mulled wine. Severus Snape, as a rule, found such revelry tedious. The concept of celebrating the arbitrary shift from one year to the next was as pointless to him as believing a love potion could replace genuine affection. However, he had allowed himself to be lured here by Minerva, who had insisted that "for once in your miserable life, Severus, you might attempt to enjoy an evening in pleasant company."
Pleasant company, indeed.
Across the room, Sybill Trelawney was swaying precariously in her seat, a half-empty glass of sherry clasped in her bony fingers. Her enormous spectacles magnified her eyes to an unnerving degree, making her look even more owl-like than usual. She had taken it upon herself to act as the evening’s oracle, dispensing fortunes and astrological insights to anyone unfortunate enough to catch her gaze.
Severus had made it nearly to the far side of the room, intending to pour himself a cup of tea—strong, black, and entirely free of any celebratory nonsense—when Minerva intercepted him, an unmistakable gleam in her eyes. Snape was just about to retire to his dungeons, but Minerva McGonagall arched an eyebrow and gestured pointedly toward the lounge.
“Come, Severus,” she had said in that infuriatingly knowing tone of hers. “Surely you can spare an hour for a little socialization?”
And so he found himself here, in the dimly lit lounge, surrounded by a handful of his colleagues, watching with equal parts amusement and disdain as Sybill Trelawney swayed precariously in her chair, clearly drunk.
“Ah, Severus,” she trilled, pushing her oversized spectacles up the bridge of her nose. “Such dark energy clings to you tonight. It is—” she paused, closing her eyes in a dramatic flourish, “—a night of omens, I fear.”
“Isn’t every night an omen in your eyes, Sybill?” He gave her a flat look
“Sit and let her be” McGonagall ordered, gesturing to the chair beside her. The worn velvet upholstery had seen better days, but it was at least positioned far enough from Trelawney to avoid immediate danger.
The staff had somehow procured a deck of enchanted playing cards, and a game of Wizard’s Poker was well underway. Flitwick was animatedly explaining a particularly complicated maneuver to a bemused Sprout, while Vector and Sinistra argued over the ethics of using Arithmancy in gambling. Minerva, however, was focused solely on Severus.
“I propose a wager…” she said, shuffling the cards with nimble fingers. “If I win this round, you answer a question of my choosing. If you win, well—let’s just say I’ll owe you a favour.”
“You assume I find your favours desirable.” Severus arched his brow.
“Oh, I think you’ll find this one rather intriguing.” Minerva smirked.
Intriguing or not, Severus knew better than to underestimate Minerva McGonagall in a game of strategy. He settled into his seat, his fingers tapping lightly against the worn wood of the table.
“Very well. But don’t expect me to go easy on you.”
The game progressed swiftly. Severus played with the same sharp precision he applied to brewing a particularly volatile potion—calculating, deliberate, and utterly ruthless. Minerva, however, was no amateur. By the time they reached the final hand, she was wearing the satisfied expression of a cat who knew the mouse was already trapped.
Halfway through the game, Trelawney leaned in conspiratorially, her breath heavy with the scent of alcohol.
“Tell me, Severus,” she slurred, her large eyes magnified comically behind her lenses. “What’s your sign?”
“Sybill— don't distract me. ” Minerva let out a quiet chuckle, and Snape barely suppressed a groan.
“No, no, it’s important! The stars reveal all!” She waggled a long, ring-adorned finger at him. “Let me see… You were born in early January, were you not?”
“Regrettably.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Ah-ha! A Capricorn! No wonder you are so dreadfully serious all the time,” she giggled. “A practical man, ambitious, hardworking—yet burdened by the past.”
“Fascinating.” he said dryly. “You’ve described every miserable sod over the age of thirty.”
“And you, my dear?” Undeterred, she turned to Minerva.
“Libra.” Minerva answered, dealing another round. “And no, before you ask, I don’t require a reading.”
“Oh, but you see, it’s already written!” Sybill waved her hands as if conjuring fate from the air itself. “This year shall bring… an unexpected challenge.”
“So, another year of teaching, then.” Minerva exhaled heavily.
Trelawney moved on, going around the table, muttering star charts and planetary alignments with exaggerated flair.
McGonagall, on the other hand, with a triumphant flick of her wand, her final card settled onto the table, sealing her victory. Severus exhaled through his nose, already regretting his decision.
“Now then…” Minerva said, leaning forward with a glint of satisfaction. “Tell me about this mysterious woman of yours, the one that with whom exchanges so many letters.”
Several heads turned at that, but none as eagerly as Trelawney’s. She gasped, clutching at her beads.
“A woman?” she echoed, swaying slightly. “Oh, but the stars foretold this!”
“This is precisely why I avoid these gatherings.” Severus pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Oh, come now,” Minerva prodded. “Out with it.”
Severus considered his options. Denying the claim outright would only encourage more prying. Instead, he opted for deflection.
“I fail to see why my personal affairs are of any interest to the staff.”
Trelawney, however, was already peering at him with unsettling intensity.
“She's a Cancer woman” she murmured, her voice hushed with the weight of prophecy. “Yes… I see it clearly… The alignment of Mars and Venus… A woman born under the sign of Cancer, with the light of the moon in her eyes. She will bring forth your firstborn—”
“Merlin’s beard, someone take the whisky away from her.” Severus let out an incredulous bark of laughter.
The table erupted into chuckles, though Minerva shot him a knowing look. He ignored it, focusing instead on his tea, willing the conversation to shift elsewhere. But as he sat back, his mind betrayed him.
A Cancer woman.
It was absurd. He did not believe in Divination, let alone Sybill Trelawney’s drunken ramblings. And yet...
The date drifted unbidden into his thoughts.
July 4th.
Katya’s birthday.
He took a slow sip of his tea, schooling his expression into practiced indifference. It was, of course, merely a coincidence. Nothing more.
And yet, as the game resumed and the conversation moved on, the words lingered in his mind, refusing to be dismissed so easily.
The days trickled by, one blending seamlessly into the next, the cold January air settling into the castle's very bones. Snow draped over the towers and turrets of Hogwarts, muffling the sounds of students trudging from lesson to lesson. The lingering scent of holiday feasts had long since faded from the Great Hall, replaced now with the scent of old parchment and ink, the quiet hum of academic routine returning in full force.
But this year, the air was thick with something more than just the usual post-holiday fatigue. The Triwizard Tournament loomed over the school like an ominous cloud, its presence marked by the arrival of foreign students around the corridors. Severus found their presence an irritation, a disruption to the order he preferred. Worse still was the meddling of Rita Skeeter, whose poison-laced quill had already caused its first casualty of the year—Hagrid, humiliated in print for his giant heritage. Severus had little patience for gossip, but even he felt a flare of irritation at the way the oaf had been so publicly shamed.
Snape found himself falling into his own rhythms as well—preparing potions lessons, patrolling the corridors, docking points from errant Gryffindors who dared test his patience. But there was something different in the way the days unfolded now, a subtle anticipation beneath the monotony. His thoughts wandered more often than he would have liked to a certain woman, to the moments stolen in dimly lit rooms, to the way her fingers traced lazy patterns against his skin after they had both been thoroughly spent.
Their rendezvous had settled into an unspoken routine. They would meet at The Three Broomsticks, order drinks they barely touched, retreat to the room above the tavern, and let instinct take over. Yet, the moments after—the quiet, the murmured conversations—were becoming as enticing as the act itself.
It was on such an evening, with the firelight casting flickering shadows across the walls, that Katya shifted against him, propped on one elbow, her expression unreadable.
“You should take a day off.” she murmured, running her fingers through his hair, which had fallen loose from its usual severe arrangement.
“A ridiculous notion.” He snorted, eyes still closed.
“And yet, not an impossible one.” She hummed in amusement.
“Do you have a reason for this sudden concern about my schedule?” Snape cracked one eye open, meeting her blue gaze.
“Your birthday is coming up.” A slow, knowing smile curved her lips. “And this time, I'm here, physically here, to celebrate with you”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. He had actually forgotten about it. He never liked his birthday. Birthdays were for those who enjoyed attention, who had people eager to celebrate their existence. Severus Snape had never been one of those people until he met Kat, who always sended him gifts by owl, or in her position, an eagle.
Katya seemed unfazed by his lack of response. She continued, her tone light but laced with intent.
“Take the day off, Severus. Come to Mayfair. I might have a surprise for you.”
“I have responsibilities.” He exhaled through his nose, tilting his head back against the pillow.
“You have one day.” she countered smoothly. “One day where you allow yourself something other than work, than duty.”
His dark eyes studied her, searching for a trap, for mockery, for anything other than the sincerity he found. It unsettled him.
“I don’t like surprises.” he said finally.
“That’s because you’ve never let yourself enjoy them.” Katya smirked.
He scoffed but did not refute her. She traced a finger down his arm, her touch featherlight. “Come, Severus. Let me give you something that isn't an obligation or expectation. Just something for you.”
The idea of it—of leaving Hogwarts, of stepping out of the meticulously constructed barriers he had built—made his skin itch. But there was something in the way she looked at him, something in the offer itself, that made him hesitate.
He should say no.
Instead, he found himself saying, “Mayfair?”
Her smile widened, victorious. “Mayfair.”
As she pressed a lingering kiss to his jaw, Severus closed his eyes, already wondering what, exactly, he had just agreed to.
The morning of January 9th arrived with an uncharacteristic stillness. For the first time in years—in two years, really—Severus Snape had taken a day off. The notion still sat uncomfortably in his mind, gnawing at the edges of his well-worn discipline, but the promise had been made. At precisely 10 AM, he stepped out of the shadows of an alleyway in Mayfair, the crack of apparition barely audible in the sleepy morning hum of London.
The air was brisk, sharp against his skin, but Severus barely noticed. His dark eyes immediately sought out Katya’s building, a familiar presence in an unfamiliar setting. He had no idea what she had planned—only that she had insisted upon this, and, inexplicably, he had agreed.
He exhaled slowly, adjusting the collar of his coat, and strode forward. Before he could reach the entrance, however, something caught his eye. Parked directly in front of the building was a gleaming red convertible—a Jaguar E-Type Series 1, an immaculate model from the 1960s.
Severus stopped short, his breath hitching.
Katya stepped out onto the pavement, watching him with a satisfied smirk. “You recognize it, don’t you?”
He did. He had written about it, once, years ago, in the ink-stained letters they had exchanged—letters that had long since been tucked away, forgotten by all but her, apparently. As a boy, before the weight of the world had fully settled onto his shoulders, he had dreamt of doing something foolish and reckless like manage to drive and feel the powerful engine of convertible Jaguar beneath him, just like in the movies. He had dreamt about the wind rushing past, the illusion of freedom, even if just for a moment.
“This…” His voice was quieter than he intended. “You rented this?”
“I did.” She leaned against the driver’s side door, tilting her head. “A little extravagant, I admit, but… you only turn thirty-five once.”
His lips parted slightly, but the words refused to form. He had expected nothing—had wanted nothing, truly. And yet, here it was. A relic of an old dream, given shape and form simply because she had remembered.
“Are you getting in,” Katya prompted, “or should I take a victory lap without you?”
Snape let out a slow exhale, shaking his head as he moved toward the car. “If you wreck this thing, I’m not responsible.”
She grinned as he slid into the passenger seat, the leather cool beneath him. The engine rumbled to life beneath Katya’s expert hands, and as they pulled away from the curb, she glanced at him expectantly. “Choose something.”
He blinked. “What?”
She gestured toward the small collection of cassette tapes she had set aside. “You’re picking the soundtrack.”
He rolled his eyes but reached for the selection nonetheless. His fingers brushed over several titles before settling on one—The Division Bell by Pink Floyd. Without hesitation, he inserted the tape, letting the opening notes of High Hopes fill the cabin.
The haunting melody, the steady build of the song, the echo of something both melancholic and grand—it fit, somehow. He watched as Katya maneuvered the Jaguar with an effortless confidence, her hands firm on the wheel, her sharp profile illuminated in the winter light. The wind played through her hair, tangling the strands in a way that should have been unruly but somehow only made her look more striking. It was absurd, really, how easily she fit into this picture—like she had stepped straight out of some untold fantasy of his youth, one he had since abandoned as foolish.
She had remembered. Not just some offhand comment, but something he had written in the reckless honesty of ink and parchment years ago. The weight of that realization settled somewhere deep in his chest, heavier than expected.
As London blurred past them, as the cold air rushed around them, Severus allowed himself, just for a moment, to believe that the past could remain where it belonged.
Just for today.