The Confession of Miss Price
Chapter 6: Giving In
By Polexia Aphrodite
Rating: T
--
As expected, the encroaching winter brought an influx of students into the ward. The reports of the increasingly frequent Death Eater attacks brought something I hadn't expected. Distressed students, the children of the injured and dead I'd read about in the Prophet, would trickle in throughout the following months. I thought a lot about the patients I'd had at St. Mungo's during the last year. The thought that one of them could have been a parent to one of the tiny first years sent to the hospital wing for crying in class made a painful lump in my throat.
I received a surprising amount of relief from such musings by the periodic visits of Professor Snape. If he saw that there were no students in the ward, he would occasionally come in, leaning against a wall while I sat at Poppy's vacated desk in the corner. At first he would stay quiet, as he always had, though sometimes he interrogated me with the demanding, imperious air he adopted from time to time. His visits weren't frequent, and I got the distinct impression that they were, to him, simply a way to quell boredom. But I didn't mind.
I had little doubt that, though his life was less exciting than it had been when I had first known him, it was still as lonely as it had seemed then. In staff meetings and meals in the Great Hall, despite his new position, he seemed even more ostracized and ignored by those sitting around him. Even the students, with the exception of the Slytherins, seemed more anxious around him than usual. He seemed to accept this alienation with the same quiet resignation I had seen from him before I had left two years ago.
It wasn't that I pitied him. The other professors and students who looked the other way when Professor Snape walked in a room may have had their reasons. But I had the feeling that I knew something they didn't, or at least I had noticed what they hadn't.
The first evening I arrived at his office hopefully carrying a tray with a pot of hot tea and two cups, he had been noticeably flustered. Though it was late and dinner had already finished, I'd known I would find him there. He had complained once about late nights spent filling out paperwork and I, with my damnably foolproof memory for all things related to him, had remembered. It had taken some cajoling, but somehow I managed to distract him from a stack of ministry forms long enough to have a cup. I sat in the chairs opposite his desk as he, at my insistence, confessed some of the more amusing student mishaps that had occurred in his classroom. I'd never heard him talk at such length and I left two hours later, the rush of adrenaline I often felt around him bubbling in my chest.
Over the next few months, my chances to see him either through my visits to him or his to me remained infrequent and irregular, but, whether out of boredom or loneliness or curiosity, he began to speak to me more freely. Though some of my questions, mainly any about his time at Hogwarts or his family were answered with noncommittal shrugs, he willingly talked about nearly anything else. Neither of us ever brought up what had happened on the night of Dumbledore's death. I hardly knew how to even introduce the subject in conversation. Yet I can't begin to count the number of nights I found myself sleepless, clutching the sheets, with the memory of the weight of his hands on my waist, his body warm against mine rising unbidden but welcome.
I didn't wonder if he thought about it. At least I tried very sincerely not to. It was in early January that I learned that my efforts had been unnecessary.
--
The day had begun with an enlightening conversation with Poppy in the hospital wing.
"You'll want to keep away from Professor Snape today. It's more likely than not you won't see him 'round here today anyway," she had told me as she reorganized the potions cabinet. Her lips pressed into a thin line. She had never approved of Snape's visits.
"Why?" I asked, pushing away a twinge of disappointment and trying to sound innocent.
"Didn't he tell you?" she turned, taking in my blank expression, "No, I suppose he wouldn't have. Today's his birthday and Albus always--" Her face froze, the back of her hand pressed against her mouth. I stood motionless, not daring to breathe, wondering for a horrified moment if she was about to cry.
"Well," she resumed after a moment, "Albus used to try to make a big deal out of it."
I exhaled slowly, unimaginably relieved that I hadn't had to struggle through comforting the older healer. I didn't press her further.
--
While I had always respected Poppy for her abilities as a healer and the dedication of her work, I had never found myself inclined to rely on her for personal advice. As such, I felt little remorse about flouting her earlier warning when arrived at the door to Snape's chambers a few hours after dinner.
"Yes, Miss Price?" came the expected answer as the heavy wooden door opened.
"I heard it was your birthday," the words rushed out, guilty and hopeful, "So I thought I ought to come 'round and say 'Happy Birthday.'"
His eyes narrowed. I optimistically raised the bottle of elf-made wine I had been hiding behind my back (and couldn't really afford on my healer's assistant's salary) and gave an expectant, if nervous, smile. He blinked, furrowed his brow, and seemed to be searching for the best way to send me off.
"Aren't you going to invite me in?" I offered, determined not to give him the chance, something in me was made desperate by the idea that he should be alone, especially tonight. Seeing the decidedly more opulent Headmaster's quarters behind him, it dawned on me that Dumbledore must have felt the same way.
He pursed his lips, sighed, and stepped aside. Grateful and a little surprised that he had consented, I hurried in.
--
Another two hours found us sitting opposite each other in his parlor, he in his threadbare armchair, which he had imported from his quarters as Slytherin Head of House, while I sat on the velvety, green sofa. A fire burned in the fireplace. Having already covered the topics of how miserably his day had gone, the latest student to nearly set the potions classroom on fire, and the incompetence of at least three former Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers (whom Snape could rail against for hours if no one checked him).
A silence settled on the room. Professor Snape seemed intently interested in the contents of his glass, gently swirling the dark liquid. I, on the other hand, had already finished my second glass and was already feeling its effects acutely.
"Can I tell you something?" I felt myself ask.
His eyes raised, "What is it, Miss Price?"
Our eyes met. My brow furrowed and I felt myself growing almost meditative as I stared into his dark gaze that seemed at once challenging, curious, and terrified at what I might say next.
"I like you. That's all. And…I'm glad we're friends," I almost laughed then, "That sounds a bit cheesy, doesn't it? But there it is. I mean, things would be bloody boring without you. Most of the time Poppy's not much to talk to, you know. Unless you fancy a chat about the possible unknown healing advantages of bobotuber pus or something."
"Perhaps you've had a bit too much wine, Miss Price," he began quietly, his eyes darting away from mine, "You should return to your rooms."
He rose and moved towards the door. I followed slowly, he turned to face me, his hand on the doorknob. We seemed so terribly close and, whether as a result of the wine or my nearness to him, my head swam against my control. I felt his presence so strongly; I had the feeling that if I closed my eyes, I would still be able to calculate the exact distance between us.
"I…I hope you had a good birthday," my hand, refusing to obey the orders of my common sense, lifted and touched one of the buttons on the front of his coat.
He looked down at my hand, which looked even paler against the dark fabric, but made no movement to brush me aside. He frowned.
"Why did you come back, Miss Price?" there was a ragged tone to his voice, his breathing was carefully measured, "Why aren't you in London? At St. Mungo's? Surely there are better opportunities for you there. You didn't have to answer my letter."
He was staring at me intently. The questions had come to him so easily, I wondered how long he had been waiting to ask them.
I hesitated, trying to fabricate some harmless excuse. And then, though the alcohol still threatened to dull my senses, I was struck by an intense clarity in which I knew, almost innately, that that exact and precise moment, itself the product of so many other moments, was not made for reservations and cowardice, but for courage and honesty.
"Because of you," it seemed so simple to finally say it.
He was absolutely motionless. His eyes no longer met mine. I was barely breathing. His expression read as a mixture of shock, confusion, and what I thought might be hope. Then I saw it: that resignation that I had seen so often from him over the past few months.
"You're drunk," he sneered slightly and turned again to the door.
"Don't," my voice was quiet. I could hear my own desperation as I moved forward to close the now-larger gap between us and reached for his left hand, "Don't say that."
Another endless moment passed. I moved slowly, feeling as though any quick movements might be enough to rouse the stern professorial side of him that would no doubt shove me out the door. I placed his hand on the side of my waist, above my right hip. I took his other hand and placed it on the other side. I had thought so often about how it had felt to have his hands on me again, had so often tried to put my own hands where his had been to see if I could mimic how it had felt on that night so long ago. I couldn't believe how insufficient my imitation had been.
My hands left his and traced up his arms to his shoulders. One hand slid behind his neck, wanting to draw him closer. Only a few inches separated us. I ached to press against him.
"Why are you doing this?"
I didn't answer. Not because I didn't know the answer or out of any fear of saying it, I just didn't. Instead I moved closer, feeling my eyelids grow heavy. His eyes were dark with what I hoped was desire. We were so close then, I could feel heat radiating from him even through his heavy robes. It would have been so easy to just tilt my face a little farther, to move just a little closer, but my courage was spent and I felt alarmingly sober. It seemed, however, that my courage was no longer needed.
He hesitated for a long moment. Then, with a slight turn of his head, his lips were on mine. This time was still as dark and intense as the first, but there was an unexpected tenderness present as his hands moved across my back.
Every nerve in my body exploded as my arms tightened around his shoulders. That familiar rush of adrenaline rose in my chest, making me want to laugh or cry or scream with joy and relief. His hands on my back pulled me closer, his chest pressed against mine.
His mouth drifted to my jaw and down to my throat. His lips pressed hotly to a spot of neck under my left ear and I moaned involuntarily, wondering if a person could die from happiness.
He pulled away then, pulling my arms from around his shoulders and stepping back. He looked stricken, flushed, his breathing uneven. He raked a hand though his dark hair.
"What--" I began, my brow furrowing, trying to calm my own ragged breath.
"Go" he said simply, his hand groping for the doorknob.
I opened my mouth to protest but he had grabbed my arm roughly and pulled the door open.
"But--" I finally managed to interject.
"That's enough, Miss Price," his tone was furious but his eyes were lifeless, "Enough."
A moment later I stood in the hall, facing his closed door. My heart pounded, anger, shock, hope, frustration and confusion coursed through my veins.
Perhaps I should have knocked on his door, pleaded with him to let me in again. But I didn't. My mind was worn and exhausted. Away from the warmth of his fireplace, I realized how impossibly cold it was in the drafty, stone halls of the ancient castle. I wrapped my arms around my torso and quietly began the long trek back to my own rooms.