by Cobweb
Disclaimer: Everything contained herein that is also contained in the canon Harry Potter universe is property of J.K. Rowling, and I am making no profit from it. Transcends through all future chapters of the story as well. Rosaline Rosebridge (who, as far as I can tell, is not nor will she turn out to be a Mary Sue; she scored a five on the litmus test. But if she is in fact grotesquely unoriginal, please let me know) and all other original things within are mine. The title is taken from a k's Choice song of the same name.
Rating: PG-13; will most likely rise in future chapters.
A/N: This is an alternate universe story, a semi-rewrite of Chamber of Secrets, and though the main events of that book will remain unchanged, there will be some alterations towards the end. It's sort of a CoS sub-plot, and will revolve for the most part around Severus Snape and a new History of Magic professor, and the anguished spirits of two of the Hogwarts Founders (it's not difficult to guess who). If Snape/OC stories aren't your cup of tea...why did you click on this?
This is my first fic, and reviews and constructive criticism are very welcome and appreciated, as are flames, as long as they consist of something more substantial than a transient case of mouth-to-keyboard Tourette's and more exclamation points than I can shake a stick at.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Where, except in the present, can the Eternal be met?
---C.S. Lewis, "Historicism"
Chapter 1 - In Shadows
I think I'm going to be sick.
The thought jabbed lightly against the inside of her skull as she stood in response to the introduction Dumbledore had so generously given her following the Sorting. She swallowed with some difficulty, hoping she wouldn't be expected to speak, or open her mouth for any reason other than to gulp down a glass or ten of wine when she sat down again. She abhorred being the centre of attention, which might lead one to wonder why on Earth she had entered her chosen profession of teaching. "I'm a masochist" was her usual answer to the question. Most people took the remark as an example of flippant sarcasm from a somewhat disgruntled young woman. St. Mungo's had accredited it to a severe case of clinical depression. Either reason suited her fine. She only hoped she would be all right at the front of a classroom. She really did enjoy teaching; it was her calling, and she had been instinctively drawn to it for reasons she had never contemplated long enough to figure out. And she adored her subject.
Rosaline Rosebridge was, to the best of her knowledge, the youngest staff member at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, at twenty-eight years old. Up until now, she had been nothing more than a tutor to the offspring of various pure-blood families, normally working with no more than two, perhaps three children at once. But this...this was a thousand different names and faces to learn, two thousand eyes focused on her right now in the Great Hall. She'd forgotten how huge the school was, and couldn't for the life of her fathom why she had ever accepted this position. Why did Binns have to go and request an exorcism? Had he been as bored by his afterlife as much as his students were usually bored by his lectures? She remembered being the only rapt pupil in his class barely ten years ago...
Oh gods, I am going to be sick...
Luckily, she escaped with a nod and a small sigh of relief before the headmaster moved on to the other new addition to the Hogwarts faculty sitting next to her, the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Gilderoy Lockhart. Supposedly, he was quite renowned, though Rosaline had never read any of his books, having not purchased anything published within the last century for nearly a decade now. Lockhart was good-looking to the point of being repellent, almost like a wax statue of stereotypical handsomeness that could walk and talk and, from his brilliant smile and grandiose bow, he rarely spoke of anything not relating to himself.
Now, now, Rosaline. Remember what Mummy dearest told you: Never judge a book by its cover.
Of course, she mightn't have read Lockhart's books, but she had certainly seen them. Pictures of himself on every cover, winking and smiling in the sort of charming way that could never really be interpreted as sincere. Shallow eyes in every photograph. The other professors seemed as unimpressed as she, though many of the female students appeared to be very taken with him. O, the green hearts of youth...
She took a long sip of her wine and lowered her eyes to her empty plate, her body taking offence to the sights and smells of the delicious food that surrounded her. Inwardly, she berated herself for always being so nervous. She stored all of her anxiety and stress in her stomach, something which had been having an adverse effect on her health since she could remember. Tall, pale and thin, with perpetual dark half-circles beneath gloomy blue eyes, her appearance was unflattering in its reflection of her sickly condition, once a constant annoyance that she had eventually ceased to care about. Something of a hypochondriac, Rosaline had a knack for convincing herself she was ill, and even in a spell of relatively good health, often times this was enough to bring about a physical manifestation of her worries. Cold sweats, uncontrollable shivers, fainting, nausea; none of these symptoms were strangers to her. She hated such "episodes," as she had come to call them, but nevertheless could not help dwelling on them.
"Not hungry, dear?" said a voice from beside her, and Rosaline suddenly felt like Little Miss Muffet as she shook herself free from her reveries and turned to regard the short, aging wizard seated to her left on a stack of cushions and books.
"Oh, no, Professor," she murmured quietly, managing a small smile. "I'm feeling a bit too overwhelmed to eat anything."
"Filius, please," Flitwick pleasantly corrected her. "I haven't been your professor for quite some time now. And don't fret over tomorrow; I'm sure you'll do splendidly. When I first began teaching here, I often found it made things easier to imagine myself as a student again. The first-years are all as frightened as you are, and if you survived what they're currently going through, than teaching them seems a much smaller obstacle to overcome."
"I'll try to keep that in mind, thank you."
Flitwick smiled warmly and patted her hand, slipping back into the surrogate father role that was all but second nature to him by now after serving for so long as Ravenclaw's head of house. Rosaline remembered fondly the parties held in the blue- and bronze-bedecked common room brought to a gentle end by the tiny but formidable wizard when she had been one of his charges. His diminutive stature was cause for others to severely underestimate him, and he had enjoyed showing some of the more...rambunctious...students precisely how he had become a world-class duelling champion, always with a chuckle, letting them know that there was no malice in his efforts and winning their respect, but never their fear. Rosaline secretly hoped to one day have that sort of effect on people. Naturally, she would first have to overcome her phobia of them, but it was still a hope.
Her surreptitious admiration of her former head of house was interrupted by a dark figure sweeping dramatically through the doors of the Great Hall and up to the High Table, his sallow face a cold, cynical mask. Obsidian eyes glanced briefly in Rosaline's direction, a slight frown twitching at the corners of the man's mouth as he approached the headmaster and deputy headmistress, as though he were disappointed with her presence.
She studied him as he spoke in muted tones to Dumbledore and McGonagall, catching the word "Potter" and something about the Whomping Willow on the southeast lawn of the school. He was tall, though he probably had no more than two or three inches on her, and looked to be a rather unpleasant individual. Greasy hair hung like a black curtain over his shoulders, half-obscuring his face in shadow, which was marred with lines of discontent, as if he were used to scowling. Yes, this was a man well acquainted with the more disagreeable emotions. A brow often creased with a frown, eyes familiar with narrowing in jealousy and suspicion, and a mouth that looked like it had never been touched by a genuine smile. Rosaline would have bet ten Galleons he was a Slytherin.
"Oh dear," Flitwick sighed as McGonagall's mouth thinned, and her eyes became slits of acute disapproval. Both she and Dumbledore (his own expression grave) rose to follow the dark man out of the dining hall. "It appears as though young Messrs. Potter and Weasley have arrived at last. Minerva's not going to be happy with them."
"Potter?" asked Rosaline. "Harry Potter? What's he done?"
The Charms professor slid a copy of the Daily Prophet in her direction. "He missed the train."
Rosaline glanced down at the newspaper, her eyes skimming quickly over the headline. "Flying Ford Anglia mystifies Muggles," she read aloud, then echoed Flitwick's earlier sentiment of "Oh dear."
"Quite."
"Do you think she's going to expel them?"
The short wizard gave a small shrug and took a drink of his pumpkin juice before replying. "Oh, most likely not, though I don't doubt she'd be tempted to, if Mr. Potter's safety wasn't such a large concern for her. For all of us, really."
Rosaline nodded, and was about to ask something more when Gilderoy Lockhart's theatrical voice cut into their conversation.
"Oh, pish-tosh," the blond man scoffed with a fluttery wave of one well manicured hand. "Young Potter should be sleeping like a baby under my own protection. And the protection of the other fine educators here," he added as an afterthought. "Mark my words, there isn't a safer place in the world, now that Gilderoy Lockhart has arrived!"
A few of the female students seated near the High Table swooned. Flitwick deflated somewhat in his seat at the Defence Against the Dark Art's professor's declaration, and Rosaline fought the urge to roll her eyes, suddenly feeling more off colour than she had before. Excusing herself, she stood and left the table, heading for the huge doors that would lead her to the Entrance Hall of the castle.
She was just stepping off of the short staircase that led up to the dining hall with her eyes downcast as she turned sharply left and then collided with a wall of black cloth. Spindly hands came up to grip her arms, then released her almost immediately as if burnt.
"Watch where you're going!" a livid voice hissed, and she mumbled an apology as she raised her gaze, finding herself staring into the same obsidian pools that had caught her eyes not a few minutes earlier. They were visibly angrier now, flashing with impatience and disgust, and not only at her.
"Severus," Dumbledore reprimanded the dark man from behind, "that's hardly the way to make a new acquaintance. Miss Rosebridge, I'd like to introduce Severus Snape, Hogwarts' Potions master and head of Slytherin House. Severus, this is Rosaline Rosebridge. She'll be taking Professor Binns' place as our new History of Magic professor."
Snape ground his teeth together, and willed his mouth to curl back into an insincere sneer. "Pleased to meet you," he spat out the words, which formed a rather obvious lie. "I apologise for my previous discourtesy."
"I-it's all right," Rosaline stammered, simply wanting to get out of there as soon as possible. Something about the Potions master made her feel exceedingly uneasy.
"Retiring for the night already?" Dumbledore queried, a curious twinkle in his eye. "It's early yet."
"Oh, yes. I...I want to be well rested for tomorrow." Extremely well rested. Dead, even. Perhaps if I was a ghost as Binns was, I wouldn't find this job so daunting...
The old wizard nodded understandingly. "Very well, then. Good-night, Miss Rosebridge."
Rosaline whispered a short good-night to the two men and continued swiftly on her way to the first of a few staircases that would take her up to her rooms near Ravenclaw Tower. Once she had disappeared from sight, Snape turned to the headmaster and arched a sceptical eyebrow.
"Another Quirrel, Albus? Have you forgotten how the last one turned out?"
Dumbledore smiled minutely. "Ah, Severus. I have every confidence in Professor Rosebridge's teaching capabilities---and her trustworthiness as well. Give her a chance; I'm certain she will prove herself before the year is up."
Snape gave a short grunt of acceptance, though he was still clearly unconvinced. "And your excuse for Lockhart?"
At this, the headmaster chortled cheerily. "Never underestimate the teaching power of laughter---and incompetence," he winked.
A devout believer that nothing positive ever came from incompetence, the Potions master failed to find the humour in this. He also knew when further argument would be an exercise in futility, and merely shook his head with a half weary, half disgusted sigh.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Rosaline sagged against the door within her rooms, her breathing somewhat laboured after making such haste up the seven flights of stairs that had seemed so much easier to climb ten years ago. After a few moments, she pushed off the heavy oak door and made her way towards one of the three trunks containing her personal possessions that she had yet to unpack. Always one to take advantage of procrastination whenever possible, she had managed to put off her arrival at the school until a scant two hours ago, only just before the students themselves were delivered by train.
She relaxed considerably as the seconds ticked by, much more comfortable here, with her solitude and privacy, than in the company of others, especially Severus Snape. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but there was something about the irascible man that caused her stomach to tighten and her throat to close up. Something akin to familiarity, though she was almost certain she had never seen him before in her life. He didn't look very old; perhaps they had been students around the same time, but if that were the case then she was sure she would have remembered anything significant enough about him to provoke such a reaction from her.
She frowned as she rummaged through the first trunk with aid of her wand, directing random garments and everything else onto the large four-poster bed that jutted out from one of the walls. The room was decorated in inoffensive navy blue with a few bronze accents here and there, a silent reminder that pride in one's House was meant to last well beyond one's adolescence. It would have suited her even she hadn't been Sorted into Ravenclaw House---blue was her favourite colour. It was calm, tranquil, everything that she felt she was not and never would be.
"Good evening, Professor Rosebridge."
Rosaline jumped at the wispy foreign voice, her wand falling from her fingers and landing with a soft clatter on the floor. She spun around, one hand flying to her heart in relief at who the intruder was.
"Oh, Lady Jane, you gave me a fright!" she exclaimed. A small, embarrassed smile formed on the Grey Lady's silvery mouth, and she blushed a deep pewter.
"So sorry, my dear. I merely wanted to see how you were settling in. If you would rather I left---"
"No," said Rosaline, quickly. "Please stay. I...it's lovely to see you again. How have you been?"
"Oh, still quite dead," the spectre sighed, the faintest trace of melancholy apparent in her voice as she fingered the dark grey ribbon tied tightly around her throat. Rosaline slumped down on her bed and leaned forward, folding her arms and resting them on her thighs.
"Trade you?" she pleadingly asked the ghost. The Grey Lady smirked and floated over to hover halfway within the living woman's bed.
"I highly advise against it. Being beheaded isn't as glamorous as you might think."
"It doesn't have to be glamorous; it just has to be effective," Rosaline retorted, then shivered when one of the ghost's hands came to rest lightly on her shoulder. She looked up into the spectre's face, contorted into a translucent frown of concern.
"Rosaline, whatever is the cause for so morbid a mood?"
The History of Magic professor shrugged and tucked an errant strand of dark hair behind her ear. "It's this job. I've had a knot in my stomach for two days now worrying about it."
"You're not apprehensive about your teaching abilities, are you? I overheard the Fat Friar and Sir Nicholas saying you were a governess; surely you're not lacking in knowledge of your subject, if well-to-do families are paying you to instruct their children."
Rosaline shook her head. "No, it's not that. It's...it's this place. Hogwarts. Like someone bottled the past and put a cork in it."
"Well, that's not entirely untrue," the Grey Lady pointed out, gesturing to herself with a delicate wave of her hand. Rosaline was silent for a few moments, her gaze engrossed in the floor.
"Sometimes I think I already am a ghost," she murmured softly. "I want to be here, I truly do, but I can't help but feel trapped at the same time, like...like this is my home, and it will always be my home, but it feels more like a prison than anything else. I feel like...I feel like I haunt these halls, rather than walk them. Like I'm drifting aimlessly." She chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully, then glanced up at the Ravenclaw House ghost, whose expression was unreadable. "Does that sound strange to you?"
"How can it?" the Grey Lady enquired, a small, sad smile slowly curving on her lips. "It's much too familiar a story to sound strange to me."
~*~*~*~*~*~
The first fortnight of term slipped by like sand through an hourglass that had ensnared her within its crystal borstal, pouring time gradually around her in steadily growing puddles at her feet. Rosaline's odd feeling of entrapment had not faded in the least, though she had found some semblance of relief through her classes, which had surprised her in their simplicity. On the blackboard, she would draw up an outline of the historical period each class was studying, have the students copy it down and then go over the more in-depth aspects of the lesson, lecturing and asking them questions. They had been remarkably well behaved, but she had credited that to their curiosity of Rosaline herself rather than anything actually astonishing and ground-breaking in the way she conducted class. They were used to sleeping through Binns' classes, and thus their expectations for her were relatively low---an enormous weight off her shoulders.
She knew there was a bit of favouritism on her part with the Ravenclaws, whom she especially enjoyed teaching, much more at ease with her own kind than with the methodical but fairly plain-minded Hufflepuffs, extroverted Gryffindors and ever-sneering Slytherins. Another high point of the week had been her successful avoidance of the latter's head of house, whose presence never failed to leave her tense and inexplicably perturbed. He didn't appear to have any interest in speaking with her, either (granted, he didn't appear to have any interest in speaking with any of the faculty members, but she was grateful for his indifference regardless).
At meals, she found herself eating a little more every day, progressively becoming re-accustomed to her surroundings and more composed than she had been upon her arrival. (She had yet to be physically ill, which was something of a blessing.) She began to settle into a routine of seclusion, quietly conversing with Filius Flitwick and the Grey Lady for the most part, though she had had a pleasant discussion with Hypatia Vector on the numerological relevance of the dates of various important historical events, and Dumbledore had come to see how she was settling in on the previous Wednesday evening.
It was her third Monday afternoon at the school, and Rosaline was on her way to the Charms classroom to meet Filius for tea. When she entered the room, she found the tiny old wizard peering into a small mirror and prodding at a large green boil throbbing right between his eyes with the tip of his wand. Rosaline couldn't stifle a chuckle at the sight, and quickly covered her mouth with her hand when her former head of house looked away from his task to glance up at her curiously.
"Ah, Rosaline, excellent. Just let me fix this and I'll tend to the kettle..."
"I can manage the kettle," she offered, tapping her wand on the pot of the white China tea set decorated with pretty blue periwinkles already set out on one of the desks. "How on Earth did you manage to acquire that?" she asked, indicating the boil with a vague motion to her eyes.
Flitwick sighed, but smiled in amusement. "Young Ronald Weasley's wand attacked me of its own volition. Apparently, it was broken in the battle with the Whomping Willow during the start-of-term feast, and Spellotape was the best he could come up with to patch it. And they say it's the wizards, not the wands, that harm..."
Rosaline chuckled again, silently this time, her shoulders shaking as she hid a grin behind her hand.
"Oh, go ahead and laugh," Flitwick relented, chortling a bit himself, "it's the first time you've done so since you arrived."
She did as she was told, sobering only after the Charms professor had successfully rid himself of the boil and the tea was properly steeped and ready to serve. They sat opposite each other, and as Flitwick poured, Rosaline helped herself to a shortbread biscuit, nibbling on the treat as if it were the only thing she would be permitted to eat all day.
"Consider yourself lucky," said Flitwick as he plopped two sugar lumps into her teacup. "Out of all of the subjects offered at Hogwarts, I'd say yours has one of the lowest mortality rates. Milk?"
"No, thank you. And that depends on your point of view. I doubt Professor Binns would agree, were he still here. Besides, history is, for all intents and purposes, the study of ghosts."
"Touché, Professor Rosebridge, touché. Is that why you and Lady Jane often consort together?"
Rosaline tilted her head contemplatively, and answered after a few moments, "...no, I don't think so. When I attended school here, I was a something of an insomniac---I still am---I'd be up most of the night in the common room. Reading, mostly. Lady Jane would sometimes float in and keep me company," she explained. "Old habits die hard, I suppose."
"You know," said Flitwick, poking at the slice of lemon bobbing at the surface of his tea, "most Muggle children fear the dark because of ghosts. It is a curious opposite for a magical child to look forward to the night for the same reason."
"Perhaps Muggle ghosts differ from magical ghosts."
Flitwick raised one bushy white eyebrow. "A tormented soul is a tormented soul, Rosaline, in life and in death, with or without the presence of magic."
The History of Magic professor gave a small nod of concession and peered pensively into her cup. "Hogwarts has many restless spirits," she murmured softly. "Why do you suppose that is?"
The little wizard thought for a moment, then shrugged. "Hogwarts is a very old school. Over a thousand years' worth of emotion are contained within its halls, both positive and negative. Not everyone's years here were the best of their lives. Some people are simply destined to be unhappy; it's not a pleasant thought, but it is a statistical fact."
"Hypatia Vector cornered you recently, didn't she?" Rosaline smirked wryly. Flitwick breathed a weary sigh.
"Directly after lunch. Today's topic was on the affects of wrist angles and the dimensions of one's wand on duelling. I believe Professor Lockhart put the idea into her head; he's been prattling on about starting up the Duelling Club again for days now. Heaven only knows why---he was atrocious at everything but Memory Charms in his school days."
"Mm, yes," Rosaline agreed, taking another nibble of shortbread. "I've overheard a few of my students discussing his...lessons---why does that word sound almost dirty used in relation to Lockhart?---the girls are normally enraptured by him. The boys find him utterly ridiculous. I'm just glad I haven't had to deal with him one-on-one yet. Any history text that doesn't have his name written in it somewhere is of no interest to him, apparently."
Flitwick finished off his tea and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. "I expect him to approach me on the subject of the Duelling Club soon enough. I will, of course, hex him all the way from here to the Entrance Hall in response." He winked, and Rosaline laughed---it still felt a little bizarre to be openly conversing with the man who had once been both teacher and part-time mentor to her. She was certain he would never say such things about Lockhart in the company of his charges, and she felt almost privileged to now be allowed to view him in this more informal light.
"It's almost a point of shame to Slytherin House," the Charms professor continued, "that he's currently one of their most celebrated alumni, though he was never satisfied with his Sorting. Felt he belonged in Gryffindor, but the hat would have none of it. He all but denounced his own House in favour of Gryffindors---thought they were better. Normally, that would be a cardinal sin to Slytherins, but they seemed more than happy encourage his disloyalty. To sever all ties with the black sheep of the family, so to speak."
"How curious," Rosaline commented, her eyes narrowed in new suspicion of the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. "He seems to have acquired a lot of glory for a turncoat."
"Well..." Flitwick lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper as he leaned forward, "there are some who believe that the glory was not originally his."
The witch arched an eyebrow. "He stole it?" she hissed, getting a transient thrill out of the little mystery. "How?"
"Oh, but I really shouldn't speak ill of my colleagues," Flitwick smiled, feigning reluctance. "He was merely a boy who was very adept at Memory Charms."
Rosaline caught on quickly, a sly smirk slipping over her face. "Of course. Just because he's famous now after having accomplished so many unbelievable feats of bravery and intelligence doesn't mean a thing."
"Quite right, my dear, quite right." He released a hoot of laughter he'd been holding inside, clutching his sides and nearly doubling over. It took him a few minutes to finally calm down, and when he did he wiped tears of mirth from his eyes and let out a lengthy sigh. "I must say, I wouldn't mind hearing Severus' thoughts on the matter, if only for a good chuckle."
Rosaline stiffened slightly at the Potions master's name. Flitwick, being of a very perceptive mind, noticed her attempt to hide her disquiet by gulping down the last of her tea after a few moments' humourless staring at the top of the desk.
"I'm sensing an air of agitation," he noted, his demeanour shifting quickly from friendly acquaintance to protective head of house nigh instantaneously. "Have you not gotten on well with Professor Snape?"
The History of Magic professor averted her gaze to the floor as her stomach knotted up at the subject matter. Inwardly, she cursed herself, and resolved to develop more emotional stealth in the future. As it was, she knew from having spent seven years under the tiny wizard's watchfulness that once he detected a problem with one of his students---or former students, as the case may have been---there was no getting out of disclosing her vexations to him. The Ravenclaw trait of perfectionism and attention to detail made sure of that.
"Truth be told," she began in a quiet voice, "we haven't gotten on much at all. We've only ever spoken once, when the headmaster introduced us as I was leaving the Great Hall at the start-of-term feast. I don't really know him, I just...I just get this strange feeling whenever he's around. It's almost residual, something not quite familiar, but not quite...not. Am I making any sense?"
Flitwick frowned. "Not yet, but do go on."
She shifted in her seat and chewed meditatively on her bottom lip as she tried to place the words in the right order in her mind before she spoke again. "He gives me the creeps is all, like some great bat that swoops down out of the shadows just for the sake of frightening people."
"Some great familiar bat, as though he's 'swooped down', as you said, and frightened you before?"
"Precisely. Like déjà vu. I don't like it; it makes my skin crawl. If I ever did know him, with a feeling like that I certainly have no desire to again."
Flitwick hummed and stroked his beard ponderingly, his frown deepening. "How very peculiar...however I don't think you need to worry about Severus swooping down on you. He does have something of a dark past, but he is, I believe, a good man at heart, if a little...prickly. Perhaps this feeling will pass with time?"
"Perhaps," Rosaline acquiesced, though an uncomfortable sinking feeling in her stomach had her doubting the old wizard's assumptions.
~*~*~*~*~*~
His footfalls echoed light, rhythmic thuds as Severus Snape strode down the empty, shadowy corridor that would take him to the staffroom, where he had left one of the books he was reading, an advanced study on the applications of Transfigurations to various potions and their ingredients. He was not normally so absent-minded as to leave his things---even the relatively harmless ones---lying about for anyone to look through or make off with. Lately, however...lately she had been making what was usually habitual for him into what he had to struggle to remember, whenever she was around.
He'd not spoken a word to Rosaline Rosebridge since their introduction three weeks previous, and had already decided that he would strive to uphold that silence. There was something about that woman, something infuriating that he couldn't quite place, couldn't quite put his finger on. Her mere presence was enough to make him bristle with suspicion and distrust, as though she were some old enemy of his rather than a relatively new acquaintance. He would have watched her like a hawk, if he only could have stood to look at her for more than a few seconds without shivering from some perplexing apprehension.
That, on top of the endless annoyance that was Gilderoy Lockhart, and Minerva McGonagall's far too merciful punishment of Potter and Weasley following the incident with the Ford Anglia and the Whomping Willow (though Mrs. Weasley's Howler had been an amusing, if fleeting, distraction), had Snape feeling distinctly sour, even more so than usual. A constant headache had plagued him for the last two weeks, and now, as his temples throbbed in time with his footsteps, its chances of making it to three weeks looked exasperatingly high. Tension headaches had a notoriously great resistance to curative potions; there was nothing else for it but sleep and relaxation. Unfortunately for Snape, he had earned the title of insomniac well before the age of eleven.
Having never considered himself one of the luckiest individuals on the planet, it should have been no surprise for him to discover that he was not the only one awake and interested in the staffroom at the hour of twelve that night, and even less of a surprise as to who else it was who occupied it. His jaw clenched painfully after he'd opened the staffroom door and found none other than the new History of Magic professor lounging in one of the high-backed chairs near the fireplace, which was lit and crackling, the only light in the room, casting a dim orange glow over her figure as she sipped from a teacup and turned the page of the book she was reading. A book that looked suspiciously like the one he had come to retrieve.
Of course, he thought to himself, his inner monologue tinged with distaste, a Ravenclaw would read anything that came within his or her line of sight, regardless of ownership.
She glanced up at him briefly, her eyes wide and startled like a deer caught in the headlights of a Muggle car. Snape himself seemed rooted to his spot in the threshold, and for what could have been an hour or only a moment, their stares were locked together in an ephemeral separation from space and time.
Rosaline was the first to move, closing the book guiltily and gesturing at it with a slightly shaking hand.
"I-is...is this yours?" she asked him, looking mildly annoyed with herself as she swallowed down her stutter. "I found it on the table in the back of the room. It's very interesting."
At last, Snape found his voice lurking shadily within his suddenly dry throat, and nodded once, an irate scowl etched deeply into his features. "I know. Hence my desire to have it back," he growled shortly.
The witch held the book out for him to take with a barely audible "I'm sorry." She flinched when Snape stalked over and snatched it out of her hand.
Is she afraid of me? he wondered, and found himself pleased by the notion, a cold sneer twisting his mouth. "Good-night, Professor Rosebridge," he silkily hissed, bowing tersely and eliciting another cringe from the young woman.
"Good-night," she whispered, tearing her eyes away from him to study the warm orange pops and sizzles of the fire.
Snape turned and sauntered back towards the door, and had only just opened it when something small and white sailed past his head to crash against the wall with the sound of shattering China. He spun around in alarm---Rosaline was on her feet and glaring at him, looking grief-stricken and enraged. Snape realised vaguely that she had just attempted to accost him with her teacup, but hardly had time to be confused before she was shouting at him with a volume he would never have guessed her to possess.
"No! You cannot leave! I will not let you leave me!"
"Miss Rosebridge!" Snape barked after a stunned moment, amazed his voice had not left him again. "Would you kindly explain to me what the hell it is you're on about?"
A sudden chill passed through the staffroom like a wave of ice water, there one second and gone the next, ebbing just as quickly as it had come. Snape shuddered involuntarily and shut his eyes to push the feeling away. When he opened them again, he found that Rosaline had not moved from her place, though her expression had changed. Her face had blanched white, and she was staring at him with large, astonished eyes, her mouth parted as if she wished to speak, but could not find her words.
"Miss Rosebridge?" he ventured again, his voice quieter now, more puzzled than angry. He was beginning to wonder if she had somehow managed to perform a full body-bind on herself when at last she moved, walking quickly toward him, then pushing past him and into the hall, where she broke out into a run, her pale robes whipping back behind her.
Snape watched her go until she reached the end of the corridor and turned a fast left, presumably heading for her rooms. He frowned deeply and shivered once more as a final ripple of the icy presence passed through him. What had just happened?
"Leave it to Albus to always hire the most qualified and least sane," he muttered to himself, though the words sounded hollow. More disturbing than Rosaline's hysterical outburst was his own transitory and eerily foreign urge to chase after her, like mental shove in her direction. He shook his head, willing the more familiar feeling of aggravation to slowly flood back into his mind.
He resolved to see Dumbledore if something akin to this...whatever it had been, happened again. He was certain he would shed no tears over Rosaline's departure if he could indeed prove her mentally unfit to be teaching children and adolescents. Such unfounded flarings of temper were most disconcerting, nearly as disconcerting as his own momentary compassion for her. Not concern, per say; more like...remorse? Regret? Guilt?
Snape drove the thought away in disgust, extinguished the fire in the fireplace with a wave of his wand, and left the scene of the crime for his dungeons, where the cold air would only further his annoyance as it reminded him of what he rebelled against acknowledging.
~*~*~*~*~*~
The door to her private chambers slammed loudly shut behind her, making her ears ring. Her face burned with embarrassment, fear, and lingering fury and hurt that she had no reason to feel.
She'd been frozen, paralysed, and most definitely not in control of herself. What had possessed her to say those things, and to him, no less?
Rosaline suddenly felt as though she might retch, and went into her bathroom to splash her face with cool water that felt nonetheless warm against her clammy skin. He thought her mad---he had to---she thought herself mad!
Weakly, she braced herself against the sink and stared at her moonlit reflection in the mirror. Droplets of water crept along her skin, running little trails down her neck and into the collar of her robes like tears. Her eyes looked strangely bloodshot, as if she'd been crying, and yet she was certain she had not, though the harsh, enduring ache in her chest felt like it might soon fix that.
"Damn it," she breathed to her likeness, tightening her grip on the edges of the sink until her knuckles turned waxen to stave off the tremors strumming through her body as if she were a string in a harp being plucked and played. "What is wrong with you?"
"Nothing's wrong with me," her reflection replied, "but you'll catch your death of cold if you don't dry off and get some rest."
Rosaline exhaled slowly and straightened up---her large bed with its thick down coverings did look rather inviting, though she sincerely doubted she would be able to get so much as a wink of sleep tonight. Deciding to take the cheeky mirror's advice, she patted her face and neck dry with a towel before returning to her bedroom to unlace and remove her boots.
After crawling beneath the covers, she nestled herself into the overstuffed pillows near the headboard, curling around them, making a sort of nest for herself, a habit she'd retained since childhood. Closing her eyes, she tried to picture everything but the events she had just fled from. Flitwick's boil, Lockhart's pompous declarations, her conversations with the Grey Lady...
No, not the Grey Lady. The thought of the ghost's chilly hand on her shoulder brought back the smothering feeling of the odd episode in the staffroom.
How queer that the two things would feel so similar... Rosaline mused, cocooning herself more tightly within the covers. I will speak with her about it tomorrow. I only hope she doesn't believe me to be as mad as I do...