Old Sins, Long Shadows

Ay, There's the Rub

Severus walked home in the rain. His black Italian boots slapped the wet pavement. He flipped up the collar of his black Mackintosh as the rain came down harder. His umbrella charm was barely holding its own against Mother Nature's onslaught.

He wondered why it rained so much in England. His thoughts drifted to his home in Turin. Warm Summers, sunshine. Even Winters were not too bad with the temperature rarely dipping below freezing in the city. Snow staying mainly in the mountains making for a picture postcard view.

A clap of thunder brought his mind back to London and that soaking rain. It was one of those cold heavy rains England was so famous for, covering London and everything in it with a grey wash. A grey wet cold downpour that could turn a person into a dishrag in one sloppy swoosh.

His meeting at Headquarters had run interminably long with all the haggling over a partner. The last train had left Victoria station an hour ago. He could have taken a bus but London buses after midnight were usually availed of drunks vomiting their day's ingestion over unwitting travelers who dared to sit within a two meter radius of the hapless sots. One such bus trip had put him off curry for over a year.

His flat in Millbank, just off the Vauxhall Bridge, was courtesy of Her Majesty's Secret Service. It was only a twenty minute walk across that bridge from the Security building. Normally a nice enough stroll on a fair day.

He could have flown the short distance across the Thames but unaided flight and apparition took too much energy. Maybe earlier in the day he would have felt more energetic. He was feeling older than he used to, beaten down by Time and timeline, and energy was one thing he didn't have much of at the moment having only just recovered from his last assignment for Queen and Country.

Taking out a vainglorious fascist upstart in Prague resulted in a bullet in the upper chest. It succeeded in collapsing his left lung but at least it didn't kill him. Bullets and knocks to the head are troublesome for wizards. His quick reflexes and slicing spell probably saved his life. But that's another story.

Light-posts stood every few meters across the bridge, their lamps haloed in the downpour giving off an eerie yellow glow. Light, shadow, then light again. Light casting shadows. His steps seemed to quicken through the dark spots, hurrying him back into the light.

Shadows of his past followed him everywhere but presented themselves more often in the darkness. 'Old sins cast long shadows', wasn't that the saying? The shadows usually kept their distance while he was awake, preferring to haunt him in his dreams. The operative word being usually.

He turned right off the bridge. His flat was just past the Morpeth Arms public house. A typical London pub with a loyal patronage, the Morpeth Arms pub was originally used as a prison and transfer facility for the old Millbank penitentiary. He thought that an appropriate housing choice.

A notable feature of the pub was its 'Spying Room', located on the second floor. Its windows, which just so happened to look out upon the British Intelligence Service building across the water, were adorned with binoculars so pub patrons can spy on the spies. MI6 to Interpol to CIA, and everyone in between, were said to stop by the bar for a pint from time to time. Severus was one of them.

He passed up a quick drink there before Last Orders and turned down a quiet street lined with 20th century townhome conversions. Clean pavement and manicured window boxes complimented the well-maintained ivory coloured facades of the buildings. He walked past several black doors before arriving at the entrance to his series of apartments.

His 'quarters' was up four flights of stairs. Good exercise unless you had a rough day at work that left you in hospital for a couple weeks. The elevator had a sign tacked to the doors, Out of Service,