who's sneaking now?

A wonderful, talented still-anonymous author at hoggywartyxmas has written a fabulous post-DH Snape/Slughorn -- with my name on it! I can't even begin to describe how very lucky and humbled and grateful I feel to have received such a splendid gift.

Aristophanes and Aesop has really made my (otherwise very depressing) day. Allow me tell you why:

Even if Snape/Slughorn sounds awful to you (which it shouldn't, not if you've read delphi's The Courtship of Benjamin Jink, which converted me to the pairing with force) it certainly won't after you've read this story. It not only contains one of the most original solutions to Snape's survival I have ever encountered, but also a Slughorn with an entirely plausible, dare I even say sympathetic inner voice. His methods to rouse Severus out of a post-war depressive funk are positively Slytherin at first, and -- typical for Slughorn -- involve a certain amount of psychological repression, but progressively and realistically both Horace and Severus begin to bond and heal and redeem themselves in a way that, in hindsight, seems entirely natural: over good food and wine and experimentation with both.

The author appears to have also had supernatural powers, for she knew exactly what sorts of European delicacies I secretly love to read about (the result of having great-grandparents who were fine pastry cooks in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, of having grown up with a great-grandmother who played Die Fledermaus constantly and told us in a hushed voice of her late husband's travels across the world, making ice sculptures for President Teddy Roosevelt in Egypt and studying at Rumpelmeyer's in Paris and opening up a now-gone, but then well-known konditorei right across the street from the Budapest opera; the result of living in Germany surrounded by foodies and a French snob who adored her foie gras and once even shared her bottle of Château d'Yquem . . .) The story manages to capture the glamour -- the magic -- of late 19th-century imperalist culture without the imperalism and -- most important -- without nostalgia. Horace simply lives this magical life; in his world, it still exists and is very costly, to be sure, but is nonetheless not categorically closed off to Severus, that depressed, guilt-ridden, impoverished half-blood. For, as Horace discovers, there is something magical about showing and giving Severus that kind of pleasure. There is no pity involved here; simply the joy of excess, of indulgence, of self-indulgence. (The joy of poetry.)

I think it's this generosity of Horace's that ultimately (alongside the lucious descriptions of both the food and Severus himself) took my breath away. So often Horace is portrayed as a greedy collector of students who will only give if he receives. Here, we have a Horace who, yes, has something of an ulterior motive, but ultimately does what he does for Severus out of the pure pleasure of giving, because he enjoys Severus' company and Severus comes to enjoy his.

The story also adeptly deals with a question I've always had about Severus, the question of adaptation. It seems to me that Severus, in his youth, struggled both in his attempts to be accepted and to be brilliantly different; that in a way he attempted to conform (through the Death Eaters) and yet in other ways attempted to remain firmly himself (his notebooks, his greasy hair, etc.). In this story, Severus is taken under someone's wing for perhaps the first time in his life, and as a result, begins, in subtle ways, to become more like Horace (in his interests and outlook) while at the same time remaining uniquely himself (in his tastes, in his wit, in his suspicions and sarcasm). I think there is something quite profound about that, something I have to think more about, and I would be very interested to hear your thoughts at some point.

Now that I have babbled long enough, here's an excerpt from this glorious story:

Slowly, Severus drew his wand from his sleeve. He closed his eyes, looking for all the world sure and peaceful, and incanted the familiar words. As a supple, silvery frog coalesced in light and hopped about them, he turned to Horace. There was such trust, and hope, and attraction - gods, yes, it was attraction - in his eyes that Horace's heart at once did somersaults and plummeted in his chest at the secret he had been keeping.

In that awful split second, Horace considered his options. The Slughorn of yore would always have taken the easy route: say nothing, let him assume, avoid confrontation - and he had to admit it; that voice was strong.

However, he had grown. He had fought, he had been grateful, and he had vowed, no more guilty secrets. -And it was with that spirit that Horace opened his mouth to put off the wonderful young man who had just come to his bedroom, even though he wanted him more than he could imagine wanting anything else. "Now, Severus, you really mustn't think that-"

(Apologies for any typos; I only have smartphone internet at present and am not very adept at typing on a phone.)

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