He threshes you to make you naked.
December 14th, 1814
I had the strangest dream last night. I dreamt that I was on a stretch of road. I am sure I haven't ever been in such a place before, but it sang sweetly of old memories I could not quite reach. It was almost as though I were looking into someone else's remembrances.
I was quite afraid and alone, dressed only in my thin evening gown, and it was snowing quite heavily. There was no shelter and I could not see how I might escape. Then Severus appeared and I could feel his emotions as though they were my own. It seems absurd to even write this in the privacy of my own chambers. He felt apprehension, attempting to hurry, hunting—searching for me. I cannot begin to communicate my relief, perhaps the strongest assuagement of panic that I have ever known. What happened next I am unsure, but it bears thinking about: He disappeared, dropping me, for he had me cradled against his chest, and vanished from the landscape. I have never been so petrified.
When he returned, he did not match the scenery, for his face was lit with a different light and I saw him as though from a distance: it was as if I remained in the cold landscape and he was in a room with a golden-orange fire. He was so tender to me that even the memory of it makes me feel as though I must still be dreaming. He held me so closely and securely I could not—I am considerably—I can hardly—I am undone. I long, indecently, to repeat such an experience in the light of day.
This morning I woke in my bed, with no memory of how I made my way there, my feet dressed in stockings that I did not recognize but which appeared very masculine.
It seems foolish to wonder if we might have met in a dream. I think I may write to Minerva to see if she has any recourse on dreams, the meaning and interpretation and whether they can be shared.
Later: I am at a loss to understand him. This has become my constant refrain. One moment he was almost smiling at me over his teacup and the next he was gazing down at me with the fiercest of looks. I have analyzed my conduct during our outing to Diagon Alley over and over and I am at a loss to understand his sudden coldness. I wonder if Minerva noticed and could tell me what went amiss. I am positively miserable.
December 15th, 1814
He has left all of those splendid, expensive, magnificent, thick Arithmancy books scattered about my adopted corner of the library. I have no idea why he would trust such expensive tomes out with the cousins rushing about. But I ought not to complain, since I am able to devour them without compunction.
His attitude has shifted. He watches me without shame, or scruple. His eyes are so dark, as a still pool into which I could fall, drowning. Several times he has opened his mouth, seeming ready to speak, but changing his mind and turning away. Is he still upset with me? Might he dissolve our strange entanglement and leave me here alone?
I long to have this thing: our engagement, finalized between us. We behave in so many ways as though we might be engaged already, he has given me gifts and we have traveled in a carriage unchaperoned (although no one but his driver knows of that), and sit in rooms alone together conversing privately. Although his conduct says we are engaged, upon reflection I realize that he has not yet had the necessary conversations.
This uncertainty of his intentions hangs heavy and unspoken on my mind, separating us, shadowing our interactions and coloring our attitudes. I know why he is here, of course, but he has yet to speak to me about the subject in any way. I long to marry him. There, all my indecency is written out unavoidably, black and white for anyone to see. I desire for there to be nothing between us—no more of the social restraints that keep us from genuine conversation, no false politeness, no more uncertainty. He is all that is brilliant and desirable, my own knight, protecting me from the machinations of my family and providing such safety and comfort that I have never known.
I am nearly sick with anxiety. Whatever is on his mind, let him speak quickly. Let him not censure or despise me.
Edited for grammar, capitalization, punctuation & spelling on July 25h, 2013 [courtesy of renaid, who knew what this chapter was missing].