Warning: Rated MA+ (17 Years of Age and over--Mature Situations;
Slash (Severus/Ron)
Third in the series of stories begun with A New Country--
This is the Night Mail crossing the Border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner, the girl next door.
And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart.
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?
-- "Night Mail" by W. H. Auden
It was, after all, the traditional habitation of the House most likely to produce reprobates and tyrants; a dwelling place of the miserable, the cruel and the amoral; the home of the school bullies; the current abode of the most hated teacher.
In short, the absolute domicile of everything sinister.
So it was proverbial that the dungeons were always dank, cold, cheerless and immersed in merciless gloom, and that the people down there preferred it that way.
But nothing is ever absolute.
Salazar, for one, had not been at all fond of the cold and dark. Nor had be enjoyed living in a place where one couldn't tell day from night. It was he who placed the original diurnal charms and it was he who created the sumptuary wards that governed them.
Nevertheless, the current Head of House activated the enchantments only rarely and never during school term.
Slytherin, after all, did have a reputation to keep up.
So it was with the utterance of a brief incantation that bright daylight tumbled from above to cascade through the empty classroom, its intensity stripping the murkiest corners bare. In the light, it was evident that the ancient oak bookcases and shelves of ingredients and compounds had been tidied and cleared of dust, and the freshly washed floor was shining, the moist flagstones giving off a rich earthy smell. All of the room's benches had been pushed aside into a corner and row upon row of student worktables stood like battered soldiers, their worn and rutted tops glistening with cleaning solution that gave off grey wisps of steam as it neutralised the last of the year's spilled brews.
After all, it was impossible to properly clean anything in the dark. And cleanliness had to be an absolute rule if cross-contamination was to be avoided.
The soft tapping of bootheels on the stone floor echoed off the walls as a solitary figure made for the storage cabinet with the last of the student glassware.
Finally, some peace and quiet, he thought.
The last of the benighted brats was betrained and gone, and another summer holiday season was finally underway. The little horrors were off to spread panic and fear in the places that they were from, and for the first time in years no students were boarding over for summer. There would be blessed calm in the hallowed halls for a few all-too-short months. Nothing was more welcome than that, especially after such a trying term.
Of course, the school year had brought the usual spate of hormonally-induced acting-out behaviours, schoolgirl crushes, exploding cauldrons, destroyed robes, misdirected hexes and night-crawling miscreants; but the single most vexing challenge he'd been forced to confront was the Weasley issue.
Yes.
It was, indeed, Weasley's issue--not his.
He placed the equipment on a top shelf and glanced up to see if the cleansing process on the desks was completed. Most were still steaming, issuing forth errant little puffs of water vapor as the purifying process continued. They would soon be safe to touch with bare hands, though, and so he removed the leather gloves and apothecary's apron that he had donned as protection against the caustic cleaning substance.
He stowed the apron and gloves and went over to the instructor's podium.
There, he removed a thin silver case from a drawer and took out a cigarette.
His lips quirked when he considered how far he had come (if one could call
it progress)
from the crudely rolled joints Lucius had taught him to make to the
DeDampkring product he now held. He tapped the fag against its case for a
moment, pausing to think that Albus would not find his little habit the least
bit amusing, but what the hell anyway. He rarely indulged during the school
year and it had been one hell of a term. He was entitled. He summoned a
small fire, lit up and took a long slow drag.
As he waited for the first lazy, mellow haze to hit, his mind drifted back to that one specific event of the past year.
Oddly enough, upon recall of the Yuletide incident, he now realized that he had somehow seen it coming. For at least a month prior to the strange episode, he had been feeling the sort of sharp mental prickles that seem to warn one that something important was going to happen.
--He breathed out and took another toke, as the acrid smell of cannabis drifted out into the room. --
At the time, he didn't know whether the anticipated thing would be good or bad; but based on past experience, he had expected that he would once again be on the receiving end of some dire circumstance or other. The events of his life had taught him the most painful lesson of all; namely, that catastrophe could strike from myriad directions and in diverse ways. After all, the nature of the universe, and of his life, seemed to tend toward entropy.
And, he supposed, a slip toward disorder was exactly what happened.
In a moment of blind faith and idiocy his world had turned upside down as he allowed himself to be caught up in the emotional notion that there could be something between himself and the boy; he had even allowed a kiss.
Allowed, nothing. The boy took that kiss. Took it as if he was entitled to it . . . and at the last, I wanted him to-. . .
The remembered sensation of how the boy's mouth flowered open against his, the taste, the enveloping perfection of that moment, still made him shudder.
Right after the Christmas feast, however, he had salvaged the remains of his commonsense and had gone to the Headmaster.
He had been fully prepared to resign his teaching post right then, but
Dumbledore only sat there blank-faced as he confessed his blunder.
Afterward, instead of being reprimanded, he had been plied with cinnamon tea
as the entire conversation was diverted to the topic of Weasley. All talk
of his quitting
had been ignored.
The old man had banged on as to how surprising it was that Weasley had turned
out to be a true Seer, and how Weasley had grown into such a fine young man,
and how the Weasleys in general were an old and honourable family; all while
gazing at him with that damnable twinkle. It had seemed as if Albus were
playing the matchmaker in this. Finally, the Headmaster had simply smiled
brightly at his protestations and dismissed him with a 'Happy Christmas,' and
a wave, and a reminder that he was to be the warden of that ludicrous 'first-
foot' custom again.
--He took a third pull and put the smouldering cigarette down in a mortar that was sitting on the side of the desk, his eyes lingering on the rising smoke. --
So, he had been left up to his own devices to settle the Weasley issue.
Settle. What a joke that had become, he thought as he leaned back against the podium and stared out into the classroom.
Weasley's self-assured manner that night had made it quite plain that the gift of foresight had ended any revulsion or residual apprehension. To fall back on the proven tactics of bitter recriminations and sarcastic insults would have accomplished nothing. Weasley would have let him have the rant out and then ignore everything he said. He had found this the most unsettling thing of all because the brief contact they shared did leave him with a pretty good idea of what Weasley had seen that would have triggered such a paradigm shift. He also considered the resolute way in which the young man had taken control of the situation, all but telling him to 'belt up,' however gently, while leading him into the fateful kiss.
It was this consideration that had made him incapable of even looking at the boy without wondering about the ideas burgeoning beneath that shock of ginger hair.
And I gave in to that temptation, to his persuasion. What was I thinking? Where was my control?
The net result was that he had been thrown into a state of emotional turmoil
resembling something like a full-scale war; the rational part of him actively
fighting the notion that the boy might have been thinking fervently of him,
not wanting to even know what Weasley was imagining, while the little -
something- within the center of him actually championed the hope that Weasley
was harboring ardent designs. He had found his every errant thought
increasingly pervaded with fantasies of what such designs might entail.
The rational side, though, won out.
First and foremost of all, he had reminded himself that he was the boy's teacher.
Then he allowed his automatic aversion to emotional attachment to take full sway and had so determined to avoid the young man whenever possible, limiting all interactions, even within the Potions classroom.
At first, there were a few times when he would look up from the stack of papers and open books on the instructor's pulpit to find the boy looking back at him in that open-faced Weasley-way, with an admixture of dejection and doubt on his face. It was those times that he had to work doubly hard to squelch the little voice within that kept insisting that he hold the boy after class for a little 'talk.'
He stuck with his plan to discourage further fraternization, though, and the boy seemed to have gotten the message and understood that further dealings of an intimate nature were not desired. His work during the term had been superior and it had not been necessary to bestow any detentions. There had been no doe-eyed glances in the classroom, no awkward efforts at flirtation, no attempts at amorous ambush in the corridors, no furtive midnight visits or pleas for admission to his rooms.
Even amid the mawkish sentimental displays exhibited by the seventh-years at the Leaving Feast, Weasley had made no attempt at further contact.
Which was a good thing. All for the best, and all that sort of thing.
Why then did this continue to worry him?
Without a single backward glance, the young man had left on the train with the rest of the students. Weasley wouldn't be back; he was leaving the country for specialized Auror training.
Once again, the rational part of him honestly hoped that Weasley would be distracted by someone his own age.
But his spirit unmistakably mourned a loss.
The boy didn't even grant me the courtesy of a simple 'good-bye'.
Within minutes of Weasley's exit Snape had found himself standing outside on a hillock overlooking Hogsmeade, watching the departing train with a discomfort bordering on physical pain, seized with the sudden and desperate notion that he should apparate to King's Cross.
It only took a few minutes for reason to trample that absurd impulse into the dust. What would the boy's friends and family think, seeing him waiting on the station platform?
It was really quite a foolish notion, indeed, to ever imagine deserving the fancy of any other person, much less anyone like Ronald Weasley. After all, what could he offer? Nothing at all.
Nothing, especially, to give to one who is becoming an Auror.
He sighed, and lifted the cigarette to his lips once again.
Perhaps, this year, I'll go to Venice. Yes. A change of scenes would do a world of good. A season among the fleshpots of Europe will take my mind off all of this. . .
At the moment, though, he needed a mental reset and work was a ready cure for woolgathering. Smoking the junk wasn't helping matters either.
So he decided to busy his mind with a review of the syllabus for the upcoming term and the preparation of an inventory list of supplies that would need to be purchased.
He crushed the butt out in the mortar and left the classroom for his office.
After taking a scroll of parchment and his dicto-quill from a side drawer, he opened his lesson plan and his copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, and reached for Moste Potente Potions. The book was missing. He looked up, scrutinizing the bookshelves and then the room itself, searching for the book. He finally located the tome, which was sitting atop one of the stacks beside an armchair.
With another windy sigh, he crossed the room and snatched the book from the pile.
A parchment which had been underneath the book fluttered to the floor and he reflexively scooped it up. It was a note written in a familiar crabbed script.
5th June 1998
Dear Professor:
Do you know what this is? It's an anniversary letter; sort of,
I suppose. Anyway, it's been pretty close to a year since I started
thinking of you as someone other than my Potions teacher. I have so very
many things to say to you, none of them the word 'goodbye.' I was
going to speak to you directly last night, but my courage failed.
Funny that, courage failure in a Gryffindor; and one who is going off to become an Auror, of all things. You may call me a coward if you want. I don't mind, really, because it is true. At least, about this sort of thing I am. Actually I've been a coward about this for months. Strange that it was easier for me to approach you last Christmas with my dreams than now with this letter. Maybe what I am most afraid of is that you will try to talk me out of this. I don't want to be talked out of it. What I do fancy is another kiss.
All right. That last bit was uncalled for. But I just couldn't help saying it.
For months, you have refused to speak to me or even admit this thing between us. Sometimes I even think that you have started hating me again. My visions tell me otherwise, though.
You are right. We are as different as night and day. I do understand your reasons for doubting what I told you. I am twenty years younger than you. We did spend the better part of seven years not really liking each other. There are lots of things you don't know about me and lots of things that you think I don't know about you. And you still think that I have some growing up yet to do. I can accept all of this. I am willing to give this 'something' between us time. I just want you to give it some time too. Time will prove that I am right. Please don't ever feel that my being apart from you will make me grow distant from you. Please don't forget what I told you. What I mean is, I know we must be separate to be sure about things-to try and find some insight on all of this-but I still hope we can communicate. Please write to me so we can get to know each other better. I know that the one thing we do have is time.
Well, I know that you are probably very busy right now. I have to go anyway. I have to pack up everything. Then there's the morning train to take, and then another train, and then a portkey to Melbourne. Letters can be sent to me care of the MoM/Law Enforcement Office. We have been assured of security, but you may use obscuring charms if that makes you feel better. Please owl as often as you can. I miss you already.
Yours very truly,
Ron
He slumped into the armchair, the potions text forgotten, his heart
thundering in his chest. So the boy had decided not to let matters rest
peacefully between them. He read the letter a second time, and wrestled with
a renewed desire to go and meet Weasley's train, his friends and relatives be
damned. After all,
the young man wasn't a student or a child any longer.
Again, his mind reeled back to that evening in this very office, back to the moment when the young man had knelt before him and linked their hands together. Tendrils of familiar longing laced through him, and despite all, he felt his lips curl into a smile, some of his long-denied disappointment lifting. The boy was indeed daring and witty all in one; he had somehow slipped past the wards to get into the office and leave this note. Moreover, the boy had had the bravado to propose that they begin a courtship.
And once again, he found his mind and heart-yes heart resuming the battle over what he should do about this new development.
This time, his heart won.
How very strange that something that only happened for just a
few short minutes could turn into a defining landmark of one's life, a
delineating point marking a 'before' and 'after'
'Before,' he'd been the least liked teacher at Hogwarts; 'after,' the object
of a young man's fancy.
And he did, strangely enough, feel as if he could easily fancy the young man in question.
"Damnable child," he murmured as he rose and walked back to his writing table. He dropped the textbook onto a corner of the desk and sat for a few moments, thoughtfully smoothing the little note flat with both hands. Then he cut a foot of parchment from the scroll that he had intended to use for the inventory list and took up his eagle-feather quill.
6th June 1998
Mr Weasley:
Just when I have determined myself free from interfering brats for another summer, I stumble across proof that one of them has been trespassing in my office. Despite having attained chronological adulthood, you remain as childishly Gryffindor as ever. It is too bad that I cannot take points for your impudence.
Brazen boy! I will be the judge of what is or is not uncalled for!
Do not trouble yourself with the bother of replying in legible script. I have nothing better to do with my time than to spend the empty hours of it in fruitless attempts at deciphering the cuneiform that passes for your handwriting.
Sincerely, Severus Snape
All thoughts of the inventory list gone, Professor Snape folded the parchment into an envelope and left his office for the Owlery.
"It's colder than a brass monkey's bum out there."
"That's good, Harry. For I moment, I thought you were going to say 'colder than a witch's breast.' I've heard that muggles actually say that, and since you lived with muggles for so many years. . ."
"Very funny, Ron. I wouldn't say that, especially since the witches I know have nice, warm, round. . ."
Ron laughed. "Enough. I get the picture."
"I know that it's the cool season here, but who'd reckon that they ever got winter like this in Australia?" Harry's face and ears were red with the chill as he removed his cloak and tossed it onto the sofa. He stood in front of the fireplace, arms extended, warming his hands.
Ron, who was occupying one end of the sofa in question, looked up from his reading. "That is exactly why I didn't go out tonight. The Wireless says that this is some sort of freak cold spell."
"-Freak- is an understatement. -Evil-, more like." Harry went into the kitchenette and started rifling through cupboards. "It just seems so unfair to miss an entire summer. Where did you put the tea?"
"In the cabinet to the right of the stove, second shelf. And we aren't missing summer. It's still July," Ron responded.
"Precisely," Harry insisted as he filled the kettle and set it on the hob, "it's July. There's supposed to be sunshine and warmth, and maybe a trip to Brighton or something else that involves walking about in swim trunks. Makes me wonder why in the worlds we couldn't have been trained back home. "
"Well, mate, training here is probably safer than training at home, under the circumstances. Besides, we do have teachers here who are expert at a whole different range of DADA. We'll certainly need the specialized training what with You-Know-Who escalating the war and all. "
"If we don't freeze to death in the process. Do you want a cup?" Harry asked.
"Yes, please. Well, did you have a good time anyway?"
Harry looked up from arranging the mugs and some biscuits on a tray and grinned. "I guess I did. Speaking of places where one walks about in swim wear, and speaking of witches, there were some trainees from Hawaii at the gathering." He paused for a second. "Now that I think about it, being there -was- worth freezing my arse off. I am definitely going to Hawaii for my next holiday. You really should have gone along."
"Maybe so. But you know how threadbare my cloak is. It's embarrassing, really. I've written to Fred and George to see if they'll loan me some money for a new one. Besides, I do have the reading to finish." Ron waved his copy of Effective Entrenchment: Military Enchantment and Geomancy for emphasis.
"You know," Harry said earnestly, "I could loan you the money."
"No thanks. Since mum is still holding your Gringotts key, borrowing from you would mean writing her. And that would involve her and shopping, which is always a bad combination. I don't want to be stuck with any more monstrosities from the second-hand store."
"Oh, that reminds me," Harry rustled about in the pocket of his discarded robe and handed a brown envelope to Ron, "I picked this up for you from the front desk downstairs. It got past the wards all right, so I suppose its okay. Can't imagine who it's from though."
Ron glanced at the handwriting of the address and tucked the letter into the back leaves of the book he was reading. "Thanks."
"It's not from Hermione or the twins or your mum, because you would have piped right up if it were," Harry pried.
Ron gave a little shrug.
"You aren't going to tell me who it's from, are you?"
"Not yet, Harry. I will, eventually. In fact, you'll be the first to know."
Harry sighed and went back to the kitchenette to finish fixing the tea. Ron leaned back on the sofa and opened his letter. A quick murmured charm and a light tap of his wand, and the Daily Prophet article on the Chudley Cannons' latest victory transfigured into something much more interesting.