Novel Full Chapter 319: Big People, Small People [bonus]
Chapter 319: Chapter 319: Big People, Small People [bonus]
Christmas on Spinner’s End was gray. Brick, coal soot, the dust drifting down from the factory chimney, all of it mixed together and smeared across the windowpanes, and no matter how you scrubbed it never came clean.
The street sat on the eastern edge of Cokeworth, hard against the abandoned textile mill.
Spinner’s End wasn’t long. Two rows of red-brick terraced houses pressed in on a narrow road, the flagstones cracked in several places, withered weeds growing yellow in the seams.
The numbers ran from one to twenty-one, odds on the left, evens on the right.
The Snape house was the last one in, the number no longer legible, a rusted iron plate hanging on the doorframe with nothing left but a crooked shadow.
The other houses had hung some scrap of Christmas decoration, a string of cheap colored lights, a plastic wreath, a fake tree twenty centimeters high on a windowsill.
The Snape house had nothing.
Most of the paint had peeled from the door, baring the gray wood beneath. The handle was brass, oxidized to a greenish black.
Inside it was cold too. The fire wasn’t lit, and on the sitting room table a few empty bottles lay on their sides, left where they fell.
Snoring came from upstairs, heavy and broken, a few muffled coughs threaded between.
Tobias Snape lay in his bed, drunk by Christmas morning, or drunk from the night before and not yet woken.
Snape dug half a loaf of yesterday’s bread out of the kitchen, hard enough to knock against the table. He broke off a piece, put it in his mouth, chewed a long time before he swallowed.
Half a cup of cold water stood at his elbow. He washed the bread down with two mouthfuls.
He wore an old dark gray jumper a size too big, the collar slack, the shoulder seams sliding down, the sleeves running long past his hands. He’d rolled the cuffs twice.
Cup in hand, he went into his room and shut the door.
It was a small room, a single bed against the wall, the blanket folded crooked, the pillow yellowed to near black.
The window stood open a crack, cold air sliding through and bellying the curtain out a little.
Beneath the window sat an old writing desk, worn with years, a few scratches on the top, one drawer pull come loose and bound back on with wire.
A small glass bottle stood at the corner of the desk, a single flower set in it.
A white lily, the petals already wilting, the edges starting to curl, but the heart of it still a bright clear yellow.
He sat down at the desk, finished the bread, finished the water, and rested his hands on the wood, his eyes going to the window.
Beyond it lay the back alley of Spinner’s End, a moldering brick wall, a few bins heaped against its base, one of them tipped over, rubbish strewn across the ground.
Today was Christmas.
Lily was at home, at the other end of Cokeworth.
She’d get a lot of presents today.
He knew Black would send something. He’d sent something last year, a pouch with a space charm on it, and Lily had treasured it like nothing else, carried it everywhere she went.
What would he send this year?
Snape didn’t know, and didn’t want to.
He pulled his eyes from the window and let them drop back to the desk.
The lily swayed faintly in its bottle. The draft.
Two beats of wings.
The tip of an owl’s wing pushed through the gap in the window and struck the frame, twice.
Snape frowned, stood, and pushed the window wider.
Two owls flew in, one behind the other.
A gray-brown Barn Owl, not large, its wings tucked, and behind it a darker bird, a long-eared owl, a size up on the first.
The two landed on the desk almost together, each loosing a letter from its talons onto the surface, then drew back to the desk’s edge and watched him.
Snape looked at the two letters and didn’t reach for them.
Two letters, arriving at the same moment.
No one wrote to him, except for the Hogwarts book lists.
Neither of these was a book list. The envelopes were wrong, the thickness wrong.
And the two owls had come together, which meant it was no coincidence. They’d come from the same place.
A name flickered through his mind.
Last time in the common room, when he’d handed over that vial of potion, Black had said the brewing was well done, and then walked off.
No promise, no refusal.
Later still, he’d sunk Rabastan Lestrange for Black.
Work done meant a return owed.
He’d had a taste of Black’s fairness. That Christmas gift last year, a potion recipe and a sheet of parchment with a piece of dark magic on it, had been the payment. Plain price tag, not a fraction more or less.
This time the return might run larger, because the thing he’d done ran larger.
He’d waited for this moment. But two at once?
He picked up the one on the left. The envelope was black, the paper heavy. He turned it over to look at the back, where a crest was pressed into the wax seal.
His breath caught.
He knew that crest. It came from a shop in Diagon Alley. Silvermoon Apothecary.
He’d watched that shop for a long time.
Since his first year, every time he went to Diagon Alley he stopped in front of it a while.
The window held finished potions of every kind, healing to supportive to experimental, each vial’s seal cut with the standard potioneer’s runes, the label spelling out effect and grade in plain terms.
When he stood there staring at those bottles, one thought filled his head and no other. He could brew better.
Silvermoon Apothecary was a holding of the Black family. He knew that.
Of the several potion shops in Diagon Alley it wasn’t the largest, but the quality held steady, the reputation was good, the clientele leaned toward the upper-middle. The goods cost dear, and everyone reckoned them worth it.
He opened the envelope and drew out the parchment inside, the formal letterhead of Silvermoon Apothecary printed at the top, the typeface a standard business hand, the wording precise.
To Mr. Severus Snape:
Silvermoon Apothecary hereby submits the following proposal regarding the procurement of potions.
Having assessed your work, we find the quality of your potion-making has reached the standard for commercial circulation. Silvermoon Apothecary wishes to discuss the following three modes of cooperation, of which you may select one:
Option One, Commissioned Brewing:
Silvermoon Apothecary supplies all raw materials and recipe specifications. You brew the finished potions to order, and upon delivery our shop inspects and verifies them. Once a batch passes inspection, payment is rendered per item. Reasonable losses of raw material are borne by the shop.
Option Two, Independent Supply:
You provide finished potions on your own. Silvermoon Apothecary provides shelf display and a sales channel. You arrange your own procurement of raw materials, and the pricing of finished goods is set by mutual agreement. The shop takes fifteen percent of sales as a fee for shelf use and channel. Quality standards are set by the shop’s inspection; goods that fail are returned at no extra charge.
Option Three, Long-Term Profit-Sharing:
The two parties establish a long-term relationship. Silvermoon Apothecary issues purchase orders monthly and may advance raw materials on your behalf, the cost deducted from sales returns. Once goods are sold, revenue is split fifty-five percent to the shop and forty-five percent to you. The term runs by the school year, settled at the end of each year, and either party may give notice of termination on the settlement date.
All options proceed on principles of equal commerce. You are free to choose according to your own circumstances. Should you wish to proceed, please reply to confirm within thirty days of receiving this letter.
Sincerely,
Management, Silvermoon Apothecary
The shop’s formal seal was stamped at the foot of the letter. No personal signature anywhere.
Snape read it twice, word by word.
A commercial contract, standard form, the wording cold as iron, like any cooperation letter a potion shop might send a supplier.
No pleasantries, no hint of in view of your special relationship with so-and-so, not one line to make him feel it was charity.
Three options, each a step deeper than the last.
The first was the safest. He didn’t have to manage a thing, only put out the work, paid per item, like a hired hand.
The second gave him more freedom. He’d control the range and the output himself, but the materials fell to him, the cost on his shoulders.
The third bound him tightest. Advanced materials meant credit, and credit meant a relationship of trust. The fifty-five to forty-five split wasn’t harsh, but the clause settling by the school year said this was a long-term contract, and to sign it was to go on the books inside Black’s system.
Snape set the letter down and picked up the one on the right.