Candlelight and firelight cast long, flickering shadows on the wall as Severus Snape sat alone in his office, contemplating the glass of firewhiskey in front of him as the fire crackled quietly in the hearth. His dark eyes were even blacker than usual, his sallow face twisted in a thoughtful frown as he stared into the amber liquid.
His thoughts were on the young witch who had met him at the gate, Potter trailing behind her, sulky and late for the Great Feast welcoming the students to yet another year at Hogwarts.
Thinks he can get away with anything. Snape scowled at the thought of the cocksure Potter, strutting up to the gate as if it was his right to saunter in whenever the mood struck him. Completely above the rules, beyond discipline – just like his father. His face twisted into a sneer as he considered the term ahead. Potter may have thought he was above reproach, particularly in the realm of Defense Against the Dark Arts, but this year…Snape took a swig of firewhiskey, feeling the liquid burn a path down his throat and settling warm in his belly, a complete contrast to the chill he felt down to his bones at what the year ahead held for he himself.
What was most disturbing to him at the moment, however, was the thought of Nymphadora Tonks.
He wiped a hand across his mouth, lips pinched together as he thought of her standing, so small and fragile she could have been made of porcelain, her hair mousy brown and hanging limply in her face. Normally, the thought of the young Auror brought about a wave of annoyance and irritation, her god-awful bright pink hair making him wish on more than one occasion that he had brought sunshades to the latest Order meeting. She was a clumsy, outspoken disaster waiting to happen, with a questionable at best fashion sense. But instead of the irritation that normally boiled to the surface when he saw her, tonight there had been something else lurking there in the recesses of his mind, something far more foreign and disturbing to him than any level of annoyance could have produced.
Pity.
Where there had been pink, there was brown – her hair, her clothes, even her aura had changed to a mousy shade that made her look sickly and a tad bit desperate. And there was only one person in this world that could make her feel that way, cause such a drastic change in her appearance and character.
His name was Remus Lupin.
They may have thought they were being subtle, but Snape had seen it from the moment he walked into the first Order meeting last summer. The quick, furtive glances, pink cheeks, and knowing smiles. Anyone with half a brain would have known something was there. Snape was not a romantic by any means – in fact, quite the opposite – but the sexual tension had not gone unnoticed, even by him. Especially by him, since every time he looked at that damn witch unwanted thoughts leapt to the foremost of his mind. Thoughts involving her, wearing very little, lying helpless in his bed. Grabbing her and kissing her hard enough to leave her lips bruised and red. Exploring every crevice of her body like an eager excavator searching for treasure. All the things he did not, could not, allow himself to fantasize over.
Annoyance and aggravation warred with desire every time he saw her, but he had learned to tame the latter with extra helpings of the former. And by the way she looked at him, disdain and equal irritation written across her all-too-readable features, it seemed to be working quite well. The pangs of desire and frustration had ebbed over time, and now when he looked at her, he simply saw a young, infuriating witch who could not seem to make it past the troll leg umbrella stand without falling on her face. The dull ache of lust was easy enough to control when she made such a bloody fool of herself.
But tonight…Snape downed the rest of his whiskey at the thought of her empty eyes and slumped form. What angered him most in hindsight, though, what had driven him to come here and drown in a bottle of firewhiskey, was the silvery form that had greeted him in the front hall before she and Harry had arrived, mocking him by its very existence.
That damn wolf.
He could not say he wasn't surprised at the form her Patronus had taken. She didn't strike him as the type to moon over someone who so obviously had rejected her, left her to live with his own kind. But there she was, looking so lost and hollow and broken that he wanted to scream at her, make her see that Remus Lupin wasn't worth falling apart over.
The anger bubbled up again as Snape lurched out of his chair, pacing back and forth in front of the fire with his glass still clutched tightly in his hand. He could kill that damn half-breed for what he had done to Tonks. He could kill her for letting him do it. He could kill himself for not saving her from it.
At this last thought, so sudden and unexpected and not entirely unwanted, he turned sharply and threw his glass at the fireplace, watching with grim satisfaction as the glass hit the mantle and shattered into a thousand pieces. As the tinkle of the falling shards dissipated, Snape let out a breath and ran his hands through his hair, gripping it by the roots and pulling it painfully in frustration. He could not let himself feel this way. It was imperative that he separate himself from these people, from this life that was far from perfect but at least until now livable.
All that would change in the next few months. What stood before him was overshadowing, overwhelming, necessary. For the future of wizardkind, he could not fail. He brought his hand down over where the dark mark had scalded itself, as if the touch alone would remind him of what he had to do, what he might have to sacrifice. There wasn't room for anything – anyone – else. Any thoughts, hopes, dreams of what could be, what could have been, had to be pushed aside.
Nymphadora would simply have to take care of herself. That's all any of them could do now.